#will happen again and again cause you and i will always be back then)

[nephynes]

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

• minors do not interact

• pairing: schizophrenic concert pianist!heeseung x afab reader

• wc: 28k

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

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

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

nsfw tags under the cut

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're late."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Empty.

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

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

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

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

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

Your mouth goes dry.

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

*•*•*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. "You read my last submission?"

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

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

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

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

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

The sunshine doesn't feel quite so cold.

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

You answer.

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

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

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

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

You frown. "A freak?"

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

Your throat dries.

"How many days?"

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

You really, really do.

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

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

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

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

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

Figures.

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

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

Your phone buzzes again just before the elevator doors open.

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

You stare at the screen.

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

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

You step out.

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

Unlocked.

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

Just clean and leave. Do not go upstairs.

You hold your breath and step inside.

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

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

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

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

Don't go upstairs.

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

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

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

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

You pause in front of it.

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

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

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

So you sit.

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

You click your pen open and start writing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you're broke. So you move

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

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

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

This is job number two.

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

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

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

Jesus.

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

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

You wonder what he sounds like.

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

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

You stop typing.

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

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

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

The apartment is clean. Spotless even.

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

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

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

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

You stare. "You what?"

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

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

Just different.

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

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

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

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

"I'm sorry."

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

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

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

And the bathroom is yours again.

*•*•*

The next morning wakes you gently.

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

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

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

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

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

And it tastes like actual heaven.

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

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

"I missed this."

You glance up.

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

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

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

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

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

Cee: Well done. Keep it up.

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

You show her the screen.

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

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

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

"It's not—!"

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

You snort.

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

"Us?"

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

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

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

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

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

Penthouse access. Floor 45.

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

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

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

A man is walking out.

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

Okay.

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

Movement. Light.

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

So, not Heeseung.

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

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

There's a note.

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

You folded the towels wrong.

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

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

And then you catch yourself.

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

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

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

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

And like last time, you finish early.

3:26.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then... it happens again.

Your eyes flick to the closet door.

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

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

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

You exhale, slow, and turn the knob.

The door creaks open.

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

Not bodies. Not bones.

Photos.

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

You blink, stepping in cautiously.

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

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

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

Heeseung.

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

LEE HEESEUNG

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

You stare at it for a long moment.

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

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

He must've been a concert pianist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Old man, then."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shut up."

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

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

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

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

Her jaw drops.

"And?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smack her arm. "Focus."

She scrolls again—and then pauses.

You feel her go still beside you.

Her thumb hovers over the next headline.

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

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

"Holy shit," she whispers.

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

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

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

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

A violent slam of the keys.

The audience flinches.

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

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

"That's why," you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The quiet hits fast.

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

You freeze.

Your fingers reach the bottom of the bag.

You check again.

Then again.

Your journal's not there.

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

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

Your breath quickens. Your pulse starts to speed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*•*•*

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

Faded.

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

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

The door opens.

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

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

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

There.

On the counter.

Your journal.

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

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

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

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

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

you have no idea.

Your throat goes dry.

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

He read it. He read it.

And not just read it—responded.

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

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

"You have no idea."

You don't.

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

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

You don't sign it.

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

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

*•*•*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*•*•*

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

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

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

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

Shirtless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn't flinch either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's still watching you, expression still unreadable.

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

"I figured."

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

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

That makes your stomach turn.

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

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

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

That word again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks.

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

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

He doesn't answer right away.

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

It's almost clipped, controlled.

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

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

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

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

Your throat feels a little dry.

"You mean the doctor?" you ask carefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

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

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

And you believe him.

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

You don't answer.

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

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

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

But you hear it.

And it feels like your ribcage cracks clean in half.

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

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

You barely nod, fully facing him now, bewildered.

"Then you should go."

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

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

He just watches you go.

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

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

Then she turns. She sees you.

And she freezes.

The music doesn't. But she grabs her phone and hits pause mid-chorus, eyebrows already pulled together in the way they do when she's bracing herself for gossip. "You look... feral."

You blink. "What?"

"Your face," she says, pointing a wooden spoon at you. "It's giving war-torn romantic heroine. What happened?"

You close the door behind you. You walk inside. You don't know where to begin.

So you say the first thing that spills from your mouth.

"I saw him."

She doesn't need clarification. "Him?"

You nod.

"Lee Heeseung?"

You nod again.

She gasps so loud the spoon hits the floor.

You don't laugh. You can't.

"He was shirtless," you add quietly, like it's something illegal.

Jiyoon makes a noise so high-pitched only the dead could hear it.

"No. No. No," she says, rushing over and grabbing both your arms like she's checking for a pulse. "You have to tell me everything. And I mean everything. Did he talk to you? Did he breathe near you? Did he smell good? Does he look weird? Did you black out? Are you still alive? Blink twice if you need CPR."

You let out a long breath, barely a laugh. "He was laughing with some man. A doctor, I think. He was barefoot. Just jeans, low. He didn't even look at me at first. Just kind of... existed."

You don't realize how tightly you're gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles start to ache.

"Then he did see me later when he came back down, I was sitting. In that chair I said I always journal in. And he just... stared. Then he disappeared into that hallway closet with all the photos and came back out without something, and I watched him the whole time like a creep." Jiyoon looks winded. "This is already the best thing I've ever heard."

"He asked me if I always sit in his chair when I psychoanalyze him in my journal." Her eyes explode. "No."

You nod. "Yes."

"What did you say?"

"I told him he had no right to read it."

"Did he deny it?" You shake your head slowly. "He said—and I quote—'you wouldn't read a strange book you found in your house?'" Jiyoon puts her whole body on the counter, like gravity's too much. "This is sick. This is sick. I can't believe you're living out the plot of the exact kind of emotionally unstable literature you always say you hate." You let your head fall next to hers. "I'm going to have to switch some of my classes."

She lifts her face, blinking. "Wait, what?"

"I can't keep going in the mornings. Not if I'm cleaning for him every day. The only opening left in my schedule is evening sections and some online ones, and I'll probably miss my favorite professors class."

"You love that class."

"I know."

"I don't know if you can tell but you're kind of acting like it's worth it"

*•*•*

You wake up feeling weirdly... eager. Which is insane in your opinion. It's cleaning. You're going to clean for six hours in a house where the walls are silent and the air feels kind of tight, and maybe—maybe—he'll come down again. Maybe he won't. You tell yourself it doesn't matter. You dress in your usual oversized tee and leggings, but you switch your sneakers for the cleaner pair, the ones without scuff marks. You spend longer on your face than necessary. Just moisturizer, a little concealer—nothing obvious. Just in case. You tell yourself it's just habit. You tell yourself a lot of things.

You get there at 9:57. By 10:02, your coat is hung up and the cleaning supplies are laid out in their usual corners. The house is quiet—same as always—but now it's a different kind of quiet. Now you know who it's holding and it makes you all irrationally aware of everything.

You start with the mirrors.

Not because they're dirty. They're not.

But because they reflect the hallway, and every time you glance up, you can see the top of the stairs.

By 11:17, you've vacuumed every rug on the main floor. Nothing.

By 12:04, you've re-organized the kitchen drawers. Again. Not that he'd notice. You don't even know if he uses them.

By 12:58, you're dusting frames that don't need dusting, glancing at the ceiling like footsteps might fall out of it.

By 1:45, you've convinced yourself he's not coming down. That yesterday was a one-off. That he's upstairs doing whatever rich, complicated people do—brooding maybe, like some Austenian shut-in. You try to laugh at yourself for even caring but it sits low in your chest. He's just a man, you only even met him once.

So why does it feel this weird? You're so distracted you almost forget to check the pantry. You always check the pantry. And when you finally do, you find it's already been stocked. Someone else did it.

Maybe him.

Your stomach turns and don't know why. By 3:50, you're packing your things, fingers slow on the zipper of your bag. By 3:56, you're glancing around the room like it might give you a reason to stay longer. By 3:58, you hear it.

Footsteps that make you freeze. And there he is.

Heeseung. Descending the stairs like it's nothing. Like he didn't make you wait all day without knowing you were waiting. He's wearing another linen shirt—this one in charcoal—and it's loose over his frame, the top two buttons undone. His hair is a little messy, like he's been lying down or pulling his fingers through it and, he's barefoot again. He smiles.

"Hey," he says, voice warm in that slow, easy way. "You're still here." You swallow. "Not for long."

He steps down the last stair. "How was your day?" You blink at him. It takes a second for your voice to catch up. "I spent it here. You tell me." His brows lift a little. Not offended—more amused. He shifts his weight and leans against the banister.

"I missed my favorite class."

"You're a student? And you missed a class? Because of this?" You glance down at your hands. They're still a little red from scrubbing tile. "Yeah."

He's quiet for a second. "Have you had dinner?" You start to say no—but your stomach betrays you before your mouth can lie. It growls. Audibly. Your eyes go wide and he laughs at your expression. "Sit," he says, already turning toward the kitchen. "I'll make something."

You blink. "What? No, that's not—" He turns to look at you over his shoulder. "Sit." And there's something in the way he says it that has you obeying, hesitantly still. The counter's cool beneath your palms as you lower yourself into the chair, eyes tracking his every movement. He moves so naturally in the kitchen—opens the fridge with one hand, pulls down a skillet with the other, all casual familiarity and soft clattering sounds. It smells like garlic again. Butter. Something fresh.

"What are you making?" you ask.

He shrugs. "Something edible. Hopefully."

Heeseung's cutting vegetables like he's done it a thousand times. He slices a tomato without looking down, throws it into a pan, then adds something else from a jar. The sizzle is instant.

You lean forward. "Do you cook for all your maids?"

He pauses, halfway to the sink. Then he glances at you, a slow grin spreading across his mouth. "You're barely a maid."

"Excuse me?"

He shrugs again, that same lazy charm. "Have you seen the state of the guest bathroom?"

You laugh—actually laugh, the sound startling even to you but you catch yourself wondering why you're not offended he just insulted your cleaning skills. You watch his smile grow wider and somehow, in the scent of sautéing herbs and low music playing from the speaker he must've turned on when you weren't looking, it feels normal. Almost. Except not at all. Because when he sets the plate down in front of you, you look up to thank him—and he's already watching you. Eyes soft and focused.

And for the first time all day, your chest doesn't feel so tight.

You dig in and it's stupidly delicious, making your eyes go wide again, mouth still full. "Okay.

That's insane."

Heeseung chuckles, taking a bite of his own.

You point your fork at him. "You made this? Just now?"

He nods, watching you intently. It doesn't take long before the plates are empty—yours cleaned down to the sauce, his barely touched—and there's music playing from somewhere in the house, something soft and unfamiliar, all instrumentals and quiet piano.

You're both still sitting at the counter, opposite ends, your elbows propped up, legs curled beneath the stool. He's lounging with his long body twisted toward you, shirt sleeves rolled up, one hand holding a wine glass he hasn't taken a sip from yet.

The conversation has slowed into something looser now—easier. He asked what books you've been reading lately. You asked if he's always this good at cooking. He pretended to be modest and then very much wasn't.

And then you ask, "Why every day?"

He looks at you. "Why did you suddenly want me to come clean every day?" There's a beat of silence. Heeseung's gaze drops to the rim of his glass, the edge of his thumb skimming around it once, twice.

"When I saw your note," he says finally, voice lower now, "I didn't know what to do with it." He lifts his eyes, meets yours.

"I knew you weren't going to come again until the day after next. And it made me... restless. Waiting for a reply. Not being able to ask."

You inhale, slow and careful.

"And then I read your journal."

You stiffen a little, but he doesn't apologize. He doesn't even flinch.

"I didn't read all of it," he adds, leaning forward, closer. "I swear. Just some pages. A few entries. And one poem."

You stare at him.

He sets the glass down. Both elbows on the counter now. His fingers lace together.

"I read this line—" he begins, eyes on yours, "Your silence filled the house louder than your voice ever did."

You're stunned like your brain can't comprehend he's reciting your poem word for word.

He doesn't even blink. "I memorized the gaps in your sentences like scripture. I waited for the ending, but all you left was air."

Your mouth opens—just barely—but you can't speak.

"There's still a teacup on the windowsill. There's still a sweater on the hook. There's still a ghost in the shape of you that lives in the room where you never said goodbye."

You whisper the final two lines without thinking.

"And I still set the table for two, like a fool. Like you might remember that you left me starving."

His lips part—just slightly. Your voice had gone soft at the end, cracking a little, like it didn't want to be said out loud. And maybe it didn't. Maybe it never was.

You didn't even think it was that good. You wrote it half-asleep. You'd forgotten you even. "I needed to know," he says, not looking away, "who could write something like that."

You're quiet for a long time. "You shouldn't have read it."

"I know."

"I didn't write it for anyone to—"

"I know," he says again, voice quiet now. "But I couldn't help it. I wanted to meet the person behind it. I wanted to see if you'd look at me the way your words did."

The room is suddenly very still.

You don't know what to say. You don't know if there's even language for the way your body is reacting. There's heat in your throat, under your skin, behind your ribs. You should leave. You really should but instead you ask, "Do I?"

His brow creases. "Do you what?"

"Do I look at you that way?"

He doesn't answer your question, not with words anyway. Just studies you with that same unreadable stare, something flickering behind his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.

And then, as if someone's pressed fast-forward on the moment, he shifts his weight back and clears his throat softly. "Do you play any instruments?" he asks, voice casual, like he didn't just memorize one of the most vulnerable things you've ever written.

You blink. "What?"

He shrugs, gaze dropping to the counter. "You write. I assumed you like music."

"I do," you say carefully. "I like listening more than anything. I used to sing."

He hums, smiling faintly. "Used to?"

You sigh, deflecting. "It's different when people are watching. When you're older. The recorder was more forgiving."

That gets a real laugh out of him. He tilts his head, grinning. "The recorder?"

"Yes, and I was a prodigy. First chair in third grade." You press a hand to your chest dramatically. "The youngest to ever play Hot Cross Buns with such emotional depth."

He snorts and leans closer like he's about to say something else, but the next thing you know, he's not across the counter anymore—he's beside you.

You don't know exactly when he moved, maybe it was when he stood up from the stool to put the plates in the sink, still laughing about the recorder joke.

His elbow brushes yours. His shoulder is an inch from yours. You feel his presence like heat—radiating and dangerous in the best possible way.

And somehow, you're still laughing. You're still talking about childhood instruments and music you like and whether jazz is romantic or just sad in a pretty way. He teases you for not knowing any Miles Davis and you tease him back for quoting poetry like a teenage girl with a Tumblr account.

It's light. Easy. It's so different from the static in the air earlier this week, from the careful distance you both tried to maintain. But now...

Now his hand brushes the counter beside yours. And your breathing changes. And the silence feels like a held breath.

You don't look at each other—you're still talking, kind of. But your voices are softer now. Lower. A little slower.

And then it happens.

Your eyes meet.

His face tilts just slightly toward yours, making your breath catch.

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you and doesn't. His eyes drop to your lips. He leans in, just a little—just enough that the space between you crackles—and you feel yourself tilting too, breath hitching, mouth parting.

And then he pulls back, all too quick and 

sudden. He clears his throat, looks away, stepping back so abruptly he almost knocks over the stool that was next to you.

You flinch at the sound.

"I—" he starts, then shakes his head, jaw tight. "You should go."

Your stomach drops.

"I didn't mean to—" he breathes out, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You don't have to come tomorrow. Go to your class. I'll tell your manager."

You stay frozen for a second, eyes wide, lips still tingling with something that didn't happen.

And then you nod, slow. Trying not to show how much you're shaking. "Okay."

He doesn't say anything else.

You leave quietly.

But your pulse pounds in your ears all the way home and in the haze of it all you don't take the bus home.

You don't want the rush of it—the closed windows and stale air and elbows brushing yours. You want air, real air, the kind that cools your skin and cuts through the confusion curling heavy in your chest. The heels of your sneakers hit the sidewalk harder than usual. You don't notice until your toes ache.

You can still feel it. The almost of his mouth on yours. His voice whispering poetry that used to belong to no one but you. The way he looked at you right before he pulled back—like he could drown and not care.

You don't realize how far you've walked until your phone rings, sharp in the quiet. You check the screen and it's Cee. You sigh, thumb swiping across the glass.

"Hello?"

"Hey. Where are you right now?"

You blink. "Uh... on my way home. I finished cleaning—he told me not to come tomorrow, so—"

"Yeah, well, change of plans," he cuts in, voice tight, clipped. "He called. Wants you in tomorrow."

You stop walking. "What?"

"That's what I said. Twenty minutes ago, he told me you weren't coming. Five minutes ago, he said make sure you do."

Your grip tightens around your phone. You glance down at the pavement, cracked and worn, your shadow stretched long in the streetlight. "That... doesn't make sense."

"Welcome to my fucking week."

You don't know what to say. You try to remember exactly how he said it. You don't have to come tomorrow. You can take your class.

He said it like a kindness. Like a favor.

Or maybe—maybe it was a trick. A test. Maybe you failed.

The line is quiet for a moment. Then, softer—softer than you're used to from him, like he has to chew it first before he can let it out—your manager says:

"Hey. Is everything okay over there?"

Your breath catches.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." A pause. "He hasn't done anything weird, right? Or tried something? You'd tell me, yeah?"

You blink again, hard. It feels like stepping off a curb you didn't see. Your lips part, your heart kicks—because no, he hasn't. But he almost did and you're starting to think maybe it would've been fine if he did. Maybe it would've been more than fine.

"No," you say quickly. "Nothing like that. He's... he's not like that."

"You sure?"

"Yes." You don't hesitate. "I don't want to quit."

There's silence on the line. You can hear him exhale.

"Alright," he says finally. "You're there again at ten. Don't be late."

You nod, even though he can't see you. "Okay."

He hangs up.

You just stand there. A low breeze rustles through the trees, brushes cool fingers against your neck.

He asked for you. After almost kissing you and pulling away—after telling you not to come tomorrow—he called and asked for you. Your pulse flickers hot beneath your skin as your mind raced with questions.

Was he testing you?

Did he think you wouldn't come back?

You suddenly realize your mouth is dry, your throat tight. The stars feel too bright above you. Your phone buzzes in your palm, a silent reminder that something has shifted, again.

And for better or worse, you'll be seeing him tomorrow.

You don't even bother to take your shoes off when you get in the door.

The front door slams behind you harder than you mean it to, and Jiyoon—sweet, perceptive, too-curious Jiyoon—is immediately shouting from the kitchen, "Is that you? Are you okay? You've been gone forever, I was about to—"

"I'm fine!" you yell back, already halfway down the hall. Your voice cracks halfway through the word. You don't even try to fix it.

"Wait—" Jiyoon appears around the corner, wooden spoon still in hand, some ridiculous song playing from the speaker behind her. "Wait, wait, what happened? Did you see him again?"

You keep walking.

"Did he—?"

"I'm fine," you repeat, softer this time but not gentler. "He said I don't have to come in tomorrow, so I'll probably go to my class."

"Oh my god, what does that mean?" she laughs, stepping after you. "Did you finally tell him off or did he—?"

"I'm tired, Jiyoon," you mumble, hand on your doorknob. "So tired."

She crosses her arms. "You look like you just made out with someone in a Jane Austen novel."

Your face goes hot.

"I love you," you say, deadpan. "But I need to be alone right now."

She gasps dramatically, "You're hiding something! You always say I love you when you're hiding something—"

You shut the door in her face.

Lock it.

Lean back against it.

Your heart is still thudding too loud in your ears.

You sink down to the floor, journal already in your hands before you even realize you've moved. Your fingers tremble when you unscrew the cap of your pen. You press it to the page.

And for a moment, you just sit there, not even writing.

Just breathing.

You write, He said I write beautifully.

Then, slower, He said he felt restless about not getting a response.

And then, He pulled away.

The ink smudges beneath your fingers. You don't wipe it away. You just keep writing, your handwriting more frantic than usual, trailing across the page in swooping spirals and crooked curves. You write about the way he looked at you—so real and intense it felt like it burned. About how close he was, how you could feel the heat of him.

About the poem.

How he remembered every word.

How you finished it together.

And when you're done, you stare at the page—like maybe it'll give you answers. Like maybe it'll tell you what it means when a man like Heeseung tells you not to come, then calls your manager like he can't bear not seeing you.

You close your journal.

And press it to your chest.

You crawl into bed, still in your jeans, feet hanging off the edge, journal clutched to your chest like a heartbeat you don't trust to stay steady on its own.

It takes everything in you to peel yourself away, toss the journal aside, and dig out your laptop from where it's tangled in yesterday's laundry on the floor. You log into your evening class with exactly thirty seconds to spare, camera off, mic muted, chin propped against the heel of your palm.

The professor's voice starts droning through your headphones—soft, monotone, familiar—and for a second you think maybe you can do this.

And then your eyelids get heavy.

You blink hard.

You scribble your name into the attendance chat and pretend like you're absorbing something, anything, while your mind floats right back to—

That linen shirt hanging open just enough to see his collarbones. His voice, low and steady, reciting your words back to you like scripture. The smell of garlic and rosemary from his cooking still clinging to your hair. The way he moved closer without you even realizing. The moment before the kiss that never happened—the way your heart caught on the edge of it.

You shake your head violently, try to refocus. The slide on your screen says something about semiotic theory. You don't know what that means. You don't care what that means.

You're so screwed.

Your professor's voice fades into a low buzz, and you press your palm to your cheek harder, like maybe pressure can keep you conscious. It can't.

The laptop screen glares into your face. The chat scrolls with questions you don't have the energy to fake-read. You close your eyes just for a second.

You tell yourself it's only for a second.

Just one.

Just—

You jolt awake six minutes later to your professor asking, "And how might this apply to authorial intent, Y/N?"

You blink, brain empty.

You type in the chat: Sorry, my mic's not working.

And you thank every god that ever existed for mute buttons.

*•*•*

You find yourself hovering just outside the penthouse door, hesitating.

Your fingers are curled in a loose fist, suspended midair like they've forgotten how to move. You've stood in this exact spot every day for about a week now, but this time—this time you're unsure. The same polished floor under your shoes, the same towering door with its sleek gold handle and silent weight, but something about today feels different. You feel different.

You almost turn around.

Almost.

But then—voices. Muffled, low but distinct, curling around the edges of the thick door.

You lean in without meaning to, breath held as if your body knows this is a moment you're not meant to be part of. You recognize his voice first, Heeseung's—light, teasing, a tone you've come to know well, though it still unsettles you how easily it affects you. The other voice is lower, older maybe, with clipped words and a sternness that makes your stomach tighten. It must be the doctor from the other day.

"No," the doctor says, firm and quiet. "Now isn't the time to have a new person around every day. You know that."

There's a pause. You hear something creak—maybe a chair.

"It's fine," Heeseung replies, far too casually. "Nothing's happened. She's just cleaning. It's fine."

"She's not just cleaning."

There's silence. A long one. And then—Heeseung's voice again, softer. "Maybe she's good for me."

You freeze. You don't know what they're talking about exactly, not in full, but the heat that rushes to your face is impossible to fight. Good for him? What the hell does that mean? And why does it make your chest feel like it's caving in? Before you can hear anything else, the door swings open, making you stumble back just in time, blinking up at the man who steps through—tall, with sharp eyes that land on you and skim over every inch of your body like you're being scanned. He doesn't say hello, he doesn't smile just like last time. Instead, he mutters something—so low you barely catch it but the edge is there, sharp enough to wound. Something about "distractions" and "too young" and "another mistake."

You step aside without responding, your mouth suddenly too dry to speak. He walks past you with a slight shake of his head and a long sigh, like your very existence is a burden.

And then—

"Didn't think you'd come."

You turn back around.

Heeseung's standing in the doorway, barefoot again, hair still damp like he just showered, dressed in a loose gray shirt and soft black pants that cling to his hips in a way that makes your head fog. He's smiling—nothing too wide, just soft, like a secret meant only for you. Like he's genuinely happy to see you.

You open your mouth to say something, anything—but he's already speaking again.

"About yesterday," he says, stepping aside so you can walk in. "I'm sorry. I overstepped."

And the whiplash? It's instant. Because wasn't he the one who told you not to come today? All quiet and serious and guilt-stricken after nearly kissing you in his kitchen? Now he's soft again, familiar again, and it throws you completely off.

"You don't need to apologize," you say quickly, almost defensively, as you walk inside.

"I do," he says, just as fast. "I really—"

"No, Heeseung." You stop and turn to face him, heart in your throat. "You really don't need to apologize."

He opens his mouth again, brows furrowing, about to insist—but your voice cuts through the air before you can stop yourself.

Quiet. Barely a whisper.

"You didn't have to stop either."

Silence, all heavy and immediate. Heeseung just stares at you. Still and looking stunned. His lips parted like he wants to speak but the words haven't caught up to his brain. His eyes search your face slowly, like he's not sure if he heard you right—or if you meant to say it out loud.

And maybe you didn't.

But you did.

And there's no taking it back.

The door clicks shut behind you before you can even remember stepping inside.

Heeseung doesn't move at first. Just stares at you like he's not entirely sure you're real. Like maybe he conjured you up somehow. His eyes stay on your mouth a little too long, and you try not to notice the way his chest rises and falls, slow and controlled, as if he's reminding himself how to breathe.

Then you say it again. Softer this time.

"You didn't have to stop."

It hangs in the air between you. Heavy, reckless and unapologetic.

Heeseung blinks once. His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes shutters. He exhales through his nose—shaky—and drags a hand through his hair, the curls still slightly messy from sleep or stress or something in between.

"That's inappropriate," he says, not unkindly. More like he's trying to draw a boundary he doesn't even believe in.

And the words sting. Maybe more than they should. Maybe because you were just beginning to feel something real stirring between the two of you—something outside of your job, your journal, your blurring lines. You freeze. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out at first, and it's too late anyway. He's already turning from you.

The confused hurt in your eyes stops him in his tracks, but only for a second. He looks back at you—and really looks. Something passes behind his eyes, quiet and aching. Regret maybe or worse, restraint. You watch his jaw flex, as if he's chewing on something bitter, swallowing all the things he'll never allow himself to say.

Then he's stepping away. A slow, deliberate retreat. His footsteps are soft against the stairs as he disappears up them without another word.

And just like that, you're alone. Again.

The silence is incredibly deafening.

Your hands are still trembling.

They have been ever since you left his place. You could barely wipe the kitchen counters without your fingers missing the edge. The dishes were spotless before you even realized you'd scrubbed them twice. Your head was everywhere but here, rerunning that moment—that look in his eyes, the cold withdrawal of his body after your quiet, desperate confession.

And he never came back down.

You didn't know what you expected, but it wasn't this.

The day drags, and when the clock finally blinks 4:00, you practically flee. Your phone's already to your ear by the time you hit the elevator.

"I can't do this anymore," you say as soon as Cee picks up.

He sounds startled. "Do what? Are you—what happened? Are you okay?"

"Nothing happened. I just—" You press your fingers to your temple. The weight of everything suddenly lands all at once. "I don't want to clean for him anymore."

He's quiet for a second. Then, softer, "Did he do something?"

"No. I just..." You sigh. "It's better this way."

And you think that's the end of it.

But the second you step into the building's reception, the front desk clerk—neatly pressed shirt, neutral expression, his name tag slightly askew—glances up from his computer. "Miss," he says, "Mr. Lee is asking for you upstairs."

You freeze.

Your mouth goes dry. "I—I was just up there."

He nods once, polite. "He asked me to let you know."

You hesitate.

Everything inside you says don't go. That this is how it always begins—with soft invitations and good intentions and doors that don't close fast enough behind you.

But your feet are already moving.

The elevator ride is silent, save the rush of your pulse in your ears. And when you push the door open, Heeseung is there, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. Waiting.

You can't read his expression.

"I figured you'd quit," he says. Not accusing. Not even upset. Just matter-of-fact, like he'd already prepared for it.

"I am," you say. "I think it's for the best."

There's a beat.

"I don't want that."

You scoff before you can help it, stepping inside, letting the door close behind you with a soft hiss. "I'm not even sure you know what you want."

You don't even realize you're walking until you're standing in front of him, so close you could count the lashes framing his eyes if you weren't too scared to look directly into them. There's something in his face—some falter in his composure—that makes your chest feel too tight.

He doesn't move.

So you do.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, your heart hammers, and then—you're kissing him.

It's a mess of a thing. Sudden. Brash. Tipped forward on hope and recklessness. Your lips crash into his like a question you don't want answered and—

Nothing.

He doesn't move.

Your lips are on his, but he's frozen. Unresponsive.

The rejection burns so fast it chokes you, and you start to pull back, humiliated—but something in you makes you whisper to him, "Please," you almost sound broken. "Please kiss me back, Heeseung."

That's all it takes.

The air leaves his lungs like he's been sucker-punched. His hands are on your face instantly, his mouth catching yours like he's been starving for it. Like the moment he tasted you, he remembered how badly he wanted.

And this time, he answers the question

His mouth is on yours like he's finally allowed himself to breathe. You're not sure who moves first after that—him or you—but the space between you disappears completely. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, gripping your hips like he needs the reminder that you're real and here and kissing him back just as desperately.

And when he pulls away to look at you—face flushed, eyes dark and confused—you whisper again, barely audible, "Heeseung..."

That does it for him because you can swear you see the moment something in him breaks. Suddenly he's not hesitating anymore, like the sound of your voice cracked through whatever restraint he'd been clinging to, and now it was all unraveling.

He's swallowing the soft sounds you make, capturing every gasp, every whimper, like he needs to devour them, and his mouth is hot and insistent as it trails down your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing the delicate skin like he's trying to mark the moment there.

You gasp when he lifts you without warning, your thighs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your arms around his neck. You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. It's erratic—wild—matching yours nearly beat for beat.

He sets you down on the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing, the cool marble biting at the backs of your thighs through your jeans. His lips return to yours before they begin their descent again, brushing over your collarbone, down the slope of your chest. His fingers find the hem of your top and pause, glancing up, breath hitching.

You nod.

That's all he needs.

He peels it off gently—too gently for the look in his eyes—and when your bra joins the growing pile of fabric, he's silent for a second. Just watching you. Then he exhales something like a curse and leans in, pressing slow, reverent kisses down your sternum, the curve of your breasts, dragging his teeth lightly, sucking your nipple into his mouth, making you shiver and arch into him.

Every time you whimper, he presses closer.

Every time you moan, he groans softly against your skin, like your sounds undo him.

And just when you think your legs might give out from how tightly your body is wound, he lifts you again. Not onto the floor—but down, off the counter, and turns you gently, pressing you forward. You gasp softly as your hands meet the marble again, your heart stuttering.

Your jeans are tugged down with unhurried hands. Your underwear follows. You're so exposed. Breathless. And behind you, Heeseung lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost like a prayer.

One of his hands smooths over your lower back. The other grips your hip. "God forgive me," he whispers.

You don't know how to stay quiet—not when his mouth is trailing behind you, kissing the backs of your thighs, the curve of you, everywhere—and when he finally leans in, when you feel the first sweep of his tongue, your entire body jolts forward like he's short-circuited something deep inside you.

"Heeseung—" It leaves your mouth like a sob.

He groans in response, tightening his grip around your thighs, but his pace doesn't falter.

And all you can do is press your cheek against the cool counter, eyes fluttering shut, biting down on your own hand as he ruins you slowly.

Intimately.

He watches you unravel with so much intensity from beneath you, it's like he's trying to imprint every detail into memory. His tongue maps out every inch of you, teasing and tasting places you never realized could make you feel this way—until he finds your clit again. Instinct takes over; your hips roll down against his mouth, and he responds with a low hum, gripping your thighs to hold them open just enough to tilt his head and drag his tongue lower once more. "Spread your legs for me baby" He whispers it in a way that has you thinking you'll do anything he says, as long as he says it in that voice.

Suddenly and surprisingly, he shoves his tongue deep inside you while using his fingers to rub tight circles against your clit. "Hee—Ah!" You're moaning and whimpering so uncontrollably, the whole thing has your legs trembling where you're stood. You're convinced if he wasn't holding you up himself you'll collapse from the pleasure and pressure of it all.

His tongue is incredibly relentless, slurping you up, not even caring that he's drooling down his chin with your essence, "Wait! W-Wait!" You cry out suddenly.

"What? What? What's wrong? Did I hu—" His words cut through to you as he gets up off his knees where he was, but you're cutting him off and pulling him for another deep kiss, hopping yourself up on the counter again. Heeseung kisses you back like he's starving—like you're the first thing he's ever been allowed to want.

Your hands are in motion before you can think. Clumsy, eager, pulling his shirt halfway out from where it's tucked into his sweats, feeling the heat of his stomach beneath your palms. You moan into his mouth and his hands squeeze your thighs in response, hard enough to leave a mark.

He doesn't stop you when your fingers find the waistband of his sweatpants. If anything, he kisses you harder. His tongue sweeps into your mouth like he owns it—owns you—and you're letting him. Begging for more.

Your hands are shaking when you fumble at the button of his slacks, but you manage to get it undone, your fingers brushing the trail of skin that dips below the waistband. Heeseung lets out a sharp, broken sound against your mouth—fuck—his head tipping forward, forehead resting against yours as you palm him through the fabric.

You weren't ready for how hard and heavy he would be in your hand. It was like the length of him just went on and on.

You feel the twitch beneath your palm and gasp, and his breath stutters like he's seconds from losing it.

"Jesus—" heeseung grits, his voice deep and wrecked. His head tips back, neck exposed, throat bobbing, you've never seen someone come undone like this.

He's panting now, hips shifting forward like he needs the friction, like your hand is the only thing anchoring him.

"Is this okay?" you whisper, breathless, your voice barely steady as you trace him again, bolder this time.

His eyes find yours, blown wide and unreadable, lips parted. "You're gonna kill me," he breathes, but he nods. "Don't stop. Please take it out, please."

Your hand moves again, more confidently now, doing as he says, and his mouth crashes into yours mid-moan—swallowing it whole, like he can't bear the sound of his own unraveling.

And when he groans into you, deep and guttural and feral, you feel it between your legs—hot and pulsing and near unbearable.

He grips your hips like he's trying to anchor himself—like you're the only thing holding him together. He's dragging you to the edge of the counter and pinning your hand behind you, it has you feeling dizzy—the way he has you pinned there, at his mercy.

Before you can pull away to look down at where you have your hand wrapped around him, he's picking you up off the counter yet again, carrying you and setting you down on the couch, ever so gently.

Heeseung is panting into your mouth, your bodies pressed flush—his chest against yours, your legs wrapped around his waist. The fabric between you is suffocating. His sweats are halfway down his hips, your jeans are already abandoned on the kitchen floor, along with your panties, your composure, and any shred of dignity you once clung to when it came to him.

He's got you caged between his body and the couch. One arm braced beside your head, the other skimming down your side until his fingers are slipping between your legs again. You jolt, gasping against his lips, forehead pressed to his as his fingers slide through the mess he's made of you.

"Fuck—" you whisper, clutching at the back of his neck.

"So wet for me," he murmurs, his voice nothing but gravel and smoke, his thumb teasing your clit in slow, deliberate circles that make your spine curl. "You're perfect like this...I knew you'd come back."

You moan again, louder, desperate, rocking against his hand—your whole body begging for him.

His mouth finds yours again, kisses sloppier now, and then he's gripping himself, lining up with your entrance, breath hot and uneven against your cheek.

And then—

"Rina," he breathes.

You freeze for half a second.

It's soft—tender as a whispered prayer, effortless as a breath, a name escaping his lips before he even realizes it.

But your brain doesn't quite catch it—not fully. You're too far gone. Too overwhelmed by the stretch of him nudging at your entrance, by the unbearable heat of his body, the quiet, feral groan rumbling from his chest.

You blink, dazed. "What...?"

But the next second, he's pushing in.

And everything else disappears.

Your body arches, mouth falling open around a choked cry as he fills you in one slow, devastating thrust.

The stretch burns in the best way, and Heeseung moans something guttural, animalistic, like the moment he's inside you he's forgotten his own name too.

"So tight," he groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as he holds himself there, buried to the hilt. "Fucking heaven."

Your fingers claw at his back, your mouth finding the shell of his ear.

"Heeseung—move. Please—"

He pulls back, just enough to slam into you again, and you swear the stars tilt. His rhythm is brutal, relentless, every thrust stealing the breath from your lungs, and you're sobbing now—moaning into his mouth like you've lost your mind. Maybe you have.

Maybe he has.

Because he's whispering things you can't quite understand—fragmented pieces of something almost sweet, almost unhinged.

"My perfect girl... only mine... waited so long—so long—Rina..."

You hear it again. Clearer now, but you're too gone to stop. Too full of him to question it. Your body writhes beneath his like it's what it was made for—like he's been carved into your DNA.

And you don't know what he means but something about the way he's holding you—possessive, reverent, frantic like he'll die without you—sends a chill up your spine even as you're unraveling around him.

Where they meet—the madness and the need—you don't know where you end and he begins. But you're already lifting your hips to meet his just to chase your high. You're pretty sure you're drooling now and by the way he looks down at you a smiles you know he likes what he seeing "You're so beautiful" "So tight wrapped aroun—" He keeps silencing himself with strangled moans, pulling back and sitting up, too overwhelmed to even remember he hasn't apologized for already being on the edge.

"I'm gonna c—" "Oh fuck fuck fuuuuckkk" He drawls on and on, you can feel your release coming too, in fact it almost feel like you're going to pee. "Don't stop! Heeseung! Fuck!" You moan loudly, yanking him down into a sloppy kiss before pushing his hips back, his cock slipping wet and twitching from your cunt. Without pause, your fingers find your clit, working it in savage, relentless circles, each one followed by a sharp slap that makes your thighs jolt. "Fuck—shit!" you cry out, body arching as a hot stream shoots from you, splattering across his stomach and chest.

His breath catches—eyes blown wide, chest heaving—watching you lose control all over him "You're so sexy". You haven't even caught your breath when he suddenly takes over again, letting the mess spill from you as if your trembling doesn't matter, pushing you down and driving himself deep into the pulsing aftermath still rippling through your body.

"Cum on my cock again, please" "Need you to, Rina—Fuck! I'm so close!" He's mumbling half incoherent half desperate and your overstimulated self doesn't seem to hear the alarm bells ringing in your head at the name he just called you again.  You're already on the brink again, trembling and aching for it, and when it finally crashes through you, it's because Heeseung drags it out with no mercy. He pulls out, cock dripping, and fists it furiously as he paints your stomach—but he doesn't let your cunt stay empty. Two fingers slam back into your soaked hole, curling deep and fast, forcing you to squirt all over his wrist as he talks you through it with a low, filthy grin.

You're both trembling.

Sweaty skin pressed to sweaty skin. Harsh breathing. The deep, ragged quiet of two people who forgot where they were, who they were, what any of this even meant. He slumps forward, collapsing into you with a half-groan, half-laugh, and you let your fingers drift up his spine, your body humming with aftershocks.

You don't say anything and neither does he, not for a long, long moment.

Then he pushes up, slowly, gently—his hands sliding beneath your thighs as he lifts you off the couch. You whimper softly from the sensitivity, clinging to his shoulders.

"Come on," he says, voice raw and low. "Shower."

Your limbs feel like water, but you nod, letting him carry you. He walks the both of you to the massive bathroom like you weigh nothing—like you're still something precious in his arms—and sets you down on the warm tile floor. The shower clicks on, hot water spraying against his hand as he checks the temperature, then guides you under it with him.

The moment the water hits you, you shiver—more from the way he's looking at you than the heat. His gaze doesn't drop once. Not when he's rubbing gentle soap over your skin, not when he's rinsing between your legs with careful fingers, not when he presses a kiss to your shoulder like an apology he's too afraid to say aloud.

He doesn't speak until you're both out, towel-wrapped and damp.

"You okay?" he asks quietly, toweling off your hair with surprising tenderness.

You nod. And you don't stop him when he pulls one of his T-shirts over your head—soft and oversized, falling to your mid-thigh. You don't stop him when he pulls on a pair of boxers for you either, or when he leads you to the guest bedroom, the sheets cool and clean beneath your bare legs as you crawl under them.

He climbs in next to you, his body warm beside yours, and without a word, he pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your waist like it's muscle memory.

There's no more heat. No more tension. Just his heartbeat against your back, his breath slow and steady in your ear and you fall asleep like that, in his clothes, in his bed, in his arms. Not thining about the name he whispered.

*•*•*

You wake up before Heeseung does.

There's no buzzing alarm, no sunlight breaking through the blackout curtains, but your body jolts upright anyway—like your soul remembered what your mind didn't.

Panic grips you first.

Jiyoon. She's definitely called. Probably texted. Maybe even filed a missing person's report.

You twist in the sheets, trying not to disturb the weight draped over your waist. Heeseung's arm. Heavy, possessive, warm. His hand is splayed over your hip like it belongs there.

You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat.

What did I do?

Your heart's racing as you carefully, carefully peel his arm off of you, shimmying toward the edge of the bed. You manage to get one leg off, then another, tiptoeing like a thief in the early morning hush—

"Why are you sneaking out?"

You squeak.

Spinning around, your hands instinctively fly to your chest, but you're still wearing his shirt. You breathe a little but then freeze again when you see him. Heeseung is propped up on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes half-lidded and heavy with sleep. His voice is low and scratchy—one of those voices that somehow sounds like velvet and gravel all at once.

You stare. And then it hits you—like a freight train right between the ribs. Everything he did to you. Every moan he pulled from your lips. The way he tasted. The way he touched you like you were something sacred and sinful at the same time. You gasp, clapping a hand over your mouth like you can trap the memory there.

His brow lifts just slightly, eyes crinkling with amusement. "What am I gonna do with you?" he mutters, flipping back onto the bed with a sigh, one arm flung over his eyes. "You're trouble."

"I have to go," you say quickly, eyes darting to the door. "My friend is probably freaking out, she didn't know where I was—"

"Okay," he murmurs, voice muffled beneath his forearm. "But can I get a kiss?" You blink, feeling your heart stutter. Then, slowly, you cross the room again, padding back to the side of the bed. His arm lowers just enough to watch you. When you lean down, brushing your lips to his, he hums—like he's been waiting for that exact moment.

But just as you try to pull away, he grabs you. You yelp, landing on top of him with a soft thud as his hands anchor you by the hips. "Heeseung—" He kisses you again and t's not a chaste goodbye kiss this time. It's deeper, hotter—his lips moving slow and sure against yours, like he has all the time in the world. His tongue licks into your mouth, and you melt against him without thinking, your fingers clutching the soft fabric of his T-shirt over his chest.

You whine into his mouth. "I have to go..." He nips at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with a soft kiss before pulling back just enough to breathe. "Come back," he whispers. "Tonight. Seven o'clock."

You're blinking at him, breathless. "To... clean?" He shakes his head once, lips twitching. "No. I'll cook." You can't help it. You smile. It's shy and warm and completely helpless. "Okay," you whisper.

He lets you go then, but not before placing one last kiss on your cheek, right beneath your eye. "Don't be late."

You close the door to the guest bedroom behind you, twisting the handle slowly so it doesn't make a sound, like he might stir just from the click, not that he could even be asleep again. Your heart's still thudding, though softer now, your body still warm from how he held you—not just last night, but moments ago. You feel him on your skin. Between your thighs. In your mouth, even. You pad into the hallway, feet silent against the floor, and the penthouse feels even bigger in the morning, stretching out wide and echoey. Sunlight slips in through the tall windows of the living room, golden and faint, catching dust in the air.

Your clothes are everywhere. A trail—your bra laying on the kitchen floor with your jeans close by, your shirt hanging from the edge of a barstool like some kind of white flag.

You sigh.

You gather them quickly, cradling the bundle to your chest. But when you unfold your shirt—well, what's left of it—you remember the exact moment he took it off, how he looked at you like you were some forbidden fruit he'd gone too long without, you hadn't even realized he had ripped it. It's unsalvageable.

So you just... don't put it on. You slip your bra back on, then shrug his black shirt over it. It swallows you, soft and warm from sleep. You wiggle into your jeans next, the ones he peeled off of you. Your hands tremble as you do the button up.

Last thing—your phone. You search the couch. Nothing. Under the cushions. Still nothing. You check the kitchen counter, the bar, even crouch down to peek under the sofa. "Come on, come on..." Then finally, mercifully, you spot it near the edge of the carpet, half-tucked under the dining chair. You dive for it like it's oxygen and fumble to unlock it.

Ten missed calls. Three voicemails. Twenty-two messages.

All from one name. You don't even get a word out when you hit call—Jiyoon answers on the first ring. "You bitch." You wince. "Oh my god," she cackles. "You bitch. Where were you? Don't tell me—no, no actually, tell me everything right now."

"Ji—"

"You slept with him, didn't you? You fucking whore. You got that psycho dick, didn't you?! Tell me. Was it good? Was it crazy?!"

You cover your face with your hand, crouching down behind the kitchen island like you're trying to hide from the embarrassment sinking into your bones. "I'm coming home," you say weakly, voice still raspy from sleep and... everything else.

"Oh," Jiyoon says, tone shifting slightly. "I'm not home right now. I'm covering a shift for my lazy coworker. But I'll be back later—wait, wait, is he still there? Are you still there? What's he doing?"

"Jiyoon."

"What?"

"Bye."

You hang up.

Still pink-faced and hot, you shove your phone in your pocket, tug on your sneakers, and walk to the elevator with your head ducked low—like the doors might open and the walls themselves would whisper what happened between them. You're not sure how to feel. Still floating. Still wrecked. But you know you'll be back by 7.

*•*•*

You unlock the door to your apartment with shaking fingers, pushing it open slowly like you might find the night before still waiting for you on the other side. But it's empty, cause there's no Heeseung here. No soft piano notes echoing from hidden corners. No whispered "be back by seven." Just your little apartment, lived-in and warm and smelling faintly of vanilla from the candle Jiyoon must've lit last night. You step inside, close the door behind you, and lean back against it for a second. Just to breathe. Your body aches so deliciously and shamefully. Your lips are sore. Your thighs. Your heart.

You change into something soft and oversized before dropping onto your desk chair and logging into your online class, the kind of class that requires so much effort to focus on even when you haven't just had... whatever that was. The screen lights up. A professor you don't care about is already talking, already droning on about something you're not registering. You blink at the slides. The bullet points. You try. Really, you do. But your brain?

It's busy. Because it won't stop showing you his face in the dark. The way he hovered over you, lips parted, skin burning hot against yours. The way he touched you like you were something he needed to know. Memorize.

The way he whispered—low and wrecked—"Rina." You flinch.

It hits you all at once. You'd been so caught up in the moment, too far gone to process it then. But now? Now it loops. The way he said it. Like a prayer. Like a confession. Rina.

Who the hell is Rina? You shift in your seat, open a new tab, and hesitate. Your heart is racing again—not the good kind this time, as your hands tremble over the keyboard. Then you type it in regardless,

Lee Heeseung Rina

The search bar blinks at you. You hit enter. And there it is.

The very first result is a glossy thumbnail from three years ago. Heeseung in an interview, seated on a sleek navy couch, wearing black slacks and a gray button up sweater and a white shirt beneath it. He's smiling. That breathtaking smile you've only seen a few times up close, so effortless and disarming. You click the video.

The host laughs and leans forward. "Come on, Heeseung. Everyone wants to know. Who's Rina?" Heeseung chuckles, mouth tugging up at one side. You sit a little straighter.

"She's my first love," he says. "And probably the only one I'll ever love like that." The crowd awwws and your heart cracks like glass under pressure, you have pause the video. So she was real. A real woman.Someone he loved so deeply he admitted it on camera—publicly, permanently. Your throat closes up. Your chest tightens. He called you that name. Did he think of her while he was—. You don't even finish the thought. Instead, you search harder. Scroll deeper. You need to know what she looks like. If you look like her. If this is some messed up ghost-of-an-ex situation.

Another video pops up—this one titled "Behind the Scenes | Seoul Symphony Ensemble (ft. Lee Heeseung)"

You click it. The footage is candid, grainy. Heeseung's younger here, maybe only twenty or twenty-one, still too beautiful for it to be fair. The camera follows him backstage as he leads a film crew through the dim corridors of a concert hall. Then he stops, turns to the camera. "Come here," he says with a quiet laugh, gesturing to the next room. "You have to meet her." The camera jostles slightly as they follow. Heeseung walks up to a sleek, glossy black grand piano and runs his fingers across the keys. "This is Rina," he says, like he's introducing a person. His voice is reverent. Almost loving. "She's been with me since I was thirteen. She's...kind of everything to me."

You freeze.

The camera zooms in slightly. Heeseung brushes dust from the piano's surface with his sleeve, smiling at it so softly it hurts. "She's my first love." You sit there, staring, mind blank and full all at once.

Rina's not a person.

Rina's a piano.

A fucking piano. A part of you wants to laugh at your delusion but you don't, instead you just sit there.  Eyes glued to the screen. To him. To the way he's speaking—not to the camera, not even to the crew—but to the piano, like it's something alive. Like it's someone he's missed. Someone he still longs for in the softest, most ruined parts of himself. And that name—Rina—sits different now in your head. Not like a rival. Not like someone he's still in love with. But like... a memory. A feeling. Something that made him whole when the world couldn't.

Rina is his piano.

You let the video run, sound turned low, just watching him—barely twenty two, still beautiful, still broken. The way he presses one key gently and listens. How he says, she's been with me since I was thirteen. How he adds, she's my first love like it's a secret and a confession all at once. Your heart folds in on itself. Because in a way it makes sense now. The way he said your name last night, the way he whispered Rina instead—like he couldn't tell the difference. Like in his mind, in that haze of need and obsession and closeness, you had become something sacred. Something he hadn't let himself love in years. Something he used to play like music. And he'd touched you the same way—with reverence and hunger, as if trying to figure out where you end and he begins. You press your palm to your chest, like maybe you can settle your heartbeat if you hold it hard enough.

He doesn't see you as a replacement. You're not her. But in that moment, you think he felt something he hadn't in a long time. Something pure. Something familiar. Something maybe even terrifying. Heeseung, in his fractured, beautiful, obsessive mind, didn't just mistake you for his piano, he associated the moment—you—with what he once felt when he played Rina. And maybe he's so far gone he doesn't even realize he did it. And maybe you should be scared, but all you feel is this deep, warm ache in your ribs that won't go away. You close the laptop, completely forgetting about your class, and press your fingers to your lips. They still tingle from kissing him and you feel your stomach turn with excitement for the night to come.

*•*•*

You hear it before you see her. The clatter of her keys on the counter. The heavy sigh. And then, sharp—like a bullet of disbelief,  "YOU BITCH." "OH MY GOD." You don't even turn. Just let your eyes flutter shut and mentally brace for it. "You absolute filthy little minx," Jiyoon hisses, storming into the hallway in her work flats and crumpled apron, "Don't even try to deny it—I know you did it." "I'm not denying anything," you mumble, turning slowly to face her. She's halfway through unzipping her jacket, eyes wide, expression scandalized.

Your entire face bursts into flames. "Jiyoon—" "Oh my God, you did sleep with him." She points at you like she's witnessing a war crime. "You have sex hair. You're literally glowing. What the hell is that shirt? Wait—don't tell me." She takes a dramatic step back. "Is that his shirt?" You tug the hem instinctively. "It's just... something I had to wear. Mine got—um. Ripped." She stares at you. Blinks once. Twice. Then screams. "Oh my GOD. He ripped your clothes off? That's—like—that's premium movie-level sexy violence."

You bury your face in your hands. "Please lower your voice." "You didn't even text me last night!" she cries. "Do you know how worried I was? I thought he locked you in a cage or something!"

"I was busy," you say, voice strangled. "You were BUSY getting ravenously destroyed," she says, flopping onto the couch like the dramatics are too heavy for her legs. "Okay. Tell me everything. Don't leave out any of the details. Did he talk? Was it intense? Slow burn? Did he like—say your name all rough and gravelly or was he like, all quiet and crazy about it?" You hesitate.

You want to tell her and you almost do, but something about that moment—about everything that happened last night, the hazy weight of his body pressed against yours, his breath in your ear, how he held you like you were a prayer and a ghost all at once—feels too delicate. Too personal. You can't even begin to explain the shift you felt inside yourself, let alone the strange ache in your chest when he said that name. You swallow, keeping your voice light. "It was... really good."

Jiyoon lifts a brow. "That's it? Good?" You shoot her a look. "I'm not giving you a full play-by-play." She gasps. "So it was insane." "I'm gonna be late," you deflect, brushing past her to grab your phone. "I told him I'd be there at seven." "Ugh. Seven is such a romantic time."

"What does that even mean?" "Like. Not too early, not too late. Right in the middle. Candlelight o'clock." She wiggles her eyebrows. "You gonna let him feed you and then fuck you again?""Jiyoon."

"You are. Oh my God. Are you shaving again or are we doing stubble and surrender tonight?" You groan. "I can't talk to you about this." "Yes, you can," she says, pulling her hair into a bun. "We signed a roommate agreement, remember? Emotional nudity clause." You smile despite yourself. "Just wish me luck, okay?" She softens then, eyes scanning your face. "You like him." You hesitate, fingers pausing on your necklace clasp. "I don't know what I feel," you say truthfully. "It's... fast. Messy." "You don't do messy."

"Exactly." Jiyoon walks over, squeezes your shoulder. "That shirt looks hot on you, by the way. Like dangerously I-was-just-fucked-by-a-mentally-ill-man hot." "Thanks, I think."

"Be safe. Don't let him tie you to anything unless there's a safe word. Call me if he tries to perform an exorcism." You laugh, heading for the bathroom door. "You're gonna fall for him," she calls behind you. "You already are, huh?" But you don't answer, because you don't know that yet, and if you do, you're not ready to say it out loud.

You check the time again when it's 6:38 PM. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror stares back at you—doe-eyed, glossed lips parted slightly, a tiny knot of nerves cinched beneath your ribs. You smooth your hands down your dress for the fifth time, whispering to yourself under your breath like it might change something. "Okay," you murmur. "Just dinner. It's just... dinner." With Heeseung. At his penthouse. In a dress you specifically picked to walk the very fine line between I wanted to look nice for you and I definitely didn't spend two hours trying on everything I own. A dress that clings at your waist and floats at your knees and makes you feel pretty but also exposed. Not in a bad way, just... in a way that makes your skin feel watched. Known.

You hesitate in the doorway, staring down the hallway toward the stairs. And then you groan. "Nope. No way I'm taking the bus." You can already see it—you standing sandwiched between strangers, one arm clutching the overhead bar, the other yanking at your skirt, trying not to breathe too loud. You can feel the wrinkles forming just thinking about it. You'd show up looking like a disheveled little sandwich and Heeseung—Heeseung with his white linen shirts and leather watchbands—would tilt his head and maybe smile and maybe not say anything, but you'd know. You open your phone and call a cab.

It feels ridiculous. Extravagant even. But the moment you sink into the backseat, cool leather beneath your thighs and the city lights blinking past your window like slow breaths, something quiet settles inside you. You take a long, shaky inhale. Heeseung's face comes to mind. The way he looked last night—flushed and breathless and so terribly hungry for you, like you were the first and last thing he'd ever wanted. The way he whispered your name. Except—it wasn't your name. Not the first time. Your fingers tighten slightly on your bag and you push the thought away. You already made peace with it—told yourself it didn't mean anything. Not really. You'd seen the videos. You know what Rina is. And in some strange, abstract way, you think maybe you understand what happened better than you should.

Maybe he sees things in fragments—maybe he feels things in them too. Maybe last night, you reminded him of something he loved once so deeply he carved a home for it in his bones. And maybe tonight, you want him to start carving space for you instead. You glance atthe time on your phone, 6:53. Your stomach flutters. Are you nervous?

God—yes. Your knees won't stop bouncing, and your fingers keep picking at the edge of your dress. But you're also... excited.You don't know what's waiting for you on the other side of this ride—don't know if dinner will be awkward or sweet or laced with something heavier—but it feels like something real. Something different. And that terrifies you. Because you've never been looked at the way he looked at you last night. Not like you were music.

The cab pulls up to the building. You pay with shaky hands, thank the driver too softly, and walk inside. The elevator ride is a blur of breath-holding. The ding at the top floor even sends a jolt through your chest. And then you're standing in front of his penthouse door, your hand hovering, not sure whether to knock or just—. It's not locked. The knob turns and you step inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click, and you're met with... silence. You take one hesitant step forward into the quiet space. It's too quiet. The air feels still in a way it didn't the last time you were here—when it was thick with the scent of his skin, his hands, your gasps and moans echoing off the walls like confessions. Now it's like the space is holding its breath again.

"Heeseung?" you call, your voice barely above a whisper. You glance at the clock on the wall, 7:01. You chew on your lip, glancing around. The kitchen looks untouched. There's no trace of movement, no clatter of pans or scent of dinner in the air. There's a single light on in the far corner by the bookshelves, casting golden shadows across the couch where he held you just hours ago, his mouth in your hair and his arms locked around your waist like he was afraid you'd disappear. You exhale softly. "Heeseung?" you try again, louder this time, taking cautious steps farther in. Still nothing.

And then it hits you—you don't even have his number. You came here like some wide-eyed idiot with your heart between your teeth, expecting him to just be there, waiting, arms outstretched. It hadn't occurred to you that he might not hear the door, or might be upstairs, or might have changed his mind entirely.

God. You sink down onto the arm of the couch and try not to panic. You won't text Jiyoon—not yet. She'd tease you mercilessly and then probably tell you to go snoop in case he was sleeping with other people or something absurd. You don't want to snoop. You just want to see him. You shift in your seat, smoothing your dress again, tugging at the edge of it and check the time again, 7:06. You blink, already feeling defeated and ready to leave but then a sharp loud sound echoes from upstairs that has you snapping your head towards the stairs. There's another thud—louder this time—followed by a crash that sends a sharp jolt through your chest. Something shattered. And then, unmistakably, screaming. Blood-curdling. Ragged. Like pain clawing itself out of a throat too raw to hold it anymore.

Your breath snags. Your heart kicks into high gear. Your body's moving before your mind can catch up, instinct overriding hesitation as you bolt through the living room, past the grand piano, toward the stairs. Breaking every rule you were given when you first started working here, but that's the last thing on your mind.

He's upstairs. That's him—him screaming.You take the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, fingers scrambling against the banister. When you reach the top, there's only one door that makes sense—tall and black, you sprint to it, chest heaving, and try the handle.

Locked.

Your fist slams against it before you can think. "Heeseung?!" There's no response—just another crash, something metallic this time, like a stand being thrown, maybe a chair. Your knuckles are pulsing against the wood. "Heeseung, open the door! Please!" Still no answer. Just a chorus of garbled words—frenzied, nonsensical, frantic.

"They changed the notes—don't you hear it? It's all wrong, out of key, they're inside the piano! Stop watching me! The rhythm's bleeding, I can't—" Another crash. "It's too loud in here, too loud in my head, make it stop!" Your blood runs cold. Something primal flickers inside you—panic morphing into something sharper, braver. You back up, brace your shoulder against the frame, and throw yourself forward.

Once. Twice—

CRACK.

The door flies open, and you stumble into the absolute chaos, the first thing you see is the floor, and at the center of it all; a piano or what's left of one. Splintered wood. Torn wires. Ivory keys cracked like teeth knocked from a skull. You recognize it instantly. Rina.

There more glass and splintered wood than floor beneath her. Crumpled sheet music. A chair lying on its side. Blood. Blood like paint streaked across the wooden floor, thin trails leading to—

Him. Heeseung.

Standing in the center of it all like a broken monument. There's a deep gash across his forearm, blood still dripping sluggishly onto his hand and down his knuckles. His chest rises and falls too fast, ribs pushing sharply beneath skin that gleams with sweat. His hair sticks to his face. His eyes—wide, unseeing, glazed with something far away and chaotic and terrifying—don't register you at first. He's breathing like he's drowning.

You try to speak, to talk to him, but your throat won't open. He moves before you can. Quick, jerky. Like his body's not entirely his own. He spins, stares at the wall like it's speaking to him, fingers twitching at his sides. "They changed the notes," he mutters. "They changed the fucking notes." His voice is shredded. Raw. Like he's been screaming for hours. Maybe he has. You take one step closer, and your heel lands on a snapped piano key. It clicks beneath your foot like a trigger. He whips around, eyes on you now, all wild, unhinged and unfocused. "Who are you?" he rasps.

You freeze. The question slices clean through you. Your mouth opens, but your voice won't come. Heeseung stares, pupils blown so wide you can barely see the brown. His hands curl and uncurl like he's not sure if he wants to reach for you or strangle you. "Who are you?" he repeats. "Why are you watching me? Are you one of them?"

Them? Your heart stutters. "Heeseung..." you whisper, finally finding your voice. "It's me." But he flinches like you've struck him. You take another step and watch as he instinctively steps back. "No," he whispers. "No—Rina? I'm so sorry. I hurt you. You were perfect and I ruined you. My perfect girl. Please forgive me." Your breath catches.

"It's okay, it's okay." You don't know where it comes from. Maybe instinct. Maybe desperation. Maybe the way his voice cracks like the word is a wound. "I forgive you," you say, voice steadier this time. "I came back for you." His mouth parts and his whole body stills. You can see the thought slotting into place behind his eyes, crooked and trembling and fragile. But it settles. "...Rina?" You nod. "I'm here."

He walks toward you slowly. So slow. Like every step might set him off again. And still, you don't move. His bloodied hand lifts, fingers brushing your cheek—his touch clumsy and too hard at first, like he doesn't remember how to be gentle. But then it softens. His palm cups your jaw, and he leans in so close his breath skates across your lips. "I knew you'd come back," he murmurs. Your throat tightens and swallow around the ache, allowing him to press his forehead against yours. "I'm here now."

"Don't leave," he breathes. "Please don't leave me again. The music stops when you're gone. It stops and I can't breathe, I can't—"

"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper. He leans back just enough to look at you. The way he's looking now—it breaks you, because there's no rage or wildness. Just pure, shivering exhaustion. He's unraveling at the seams, and you're the only thread keeping him together. "I want to play," he says softly. "Let me play you."

You nod. And when he tugs you toward the mangled piano, you follow. It's barely standing. The legs are cracked. One pedal's missing. The keys are uneven—some bloodied, some broken. It shouldn't work. It shouldn't sound. But he sits on the shattered bench, breath hitching, and gently pulls you onto his lap.

You settle there, straddling him, your dress bunching slightly against the rough edge of the wood. Your hands brace on his shoulders. His arms wrap around you, drawing you closer. And then—fingers trembling—Heeseung presses his hands to the keys. The sound is... haunting. Off. Warped. But he plays anyway. A melody, jagged and soft. A lullaby with broken bones. The piano cries beneath his touch, but he keeps playing. For you, because of you, it all makes your chest ache for him, you even feel your eyes sting. And all you can do is hold him, let him pour whatever's left of himself into the broken body of his piano—into you.

Because right now, in this room thick with blood and chaos and ghosts, you're the only thing anchoring him to earth. The music tumbles out of him in discordant bursts, crooked and aching like his mind, like his body—like whatever this is between you. And you swear, you'd let him play you forever. But then his fingers slip, not from the broken keys, but because your breath stutters against his jaw. He stills, drifting one hand away from the piano to find your waist instead, the other continues to play, the curve of your back—and then he's holding you so tight you feel the blood from his arm soak warm through your dress.

You don't flinch.

He tilts his face up, searching yours. Your lips part, not for words, but for the way his mouth captures yours the second you breathe in. It's so so desperate. A kiss that tastes like iron and sweat and the kind of madness that wants to be known, wants to be seen.

You whimper into him, clutching at the front of his shirt, and his hands are already moving—shaky, hurried, needing—grabbing at your dress, dragging it up your thighs as if he doesn't care it's stained now, doesn't care it's soft and new and something you wore for him.The keys beneath you clatter with each shift of your hips, and his fingers fumble at the zipper on your side like it's fighting him. He groans low in his throat, kissing you harder, tongue sliding hot against yours as if he's trying to crawl inside of you—trying to disappear there, to lose the noise in his head.

"You came back," he gasps against your mouth. "You really came back—" You nod, breathless, eyes wet, thighs tightening around his waist. "I told you I would." He tugs the dress down your shoulders, hands smeared with red, smearing it onto you, painting you with it. It sticks to your collarbones, your arms, a fever-warm trail of devotion and ruin, but you don't stop him.

He's kissing you like he needs this to survive, like he'll lose his mind all over again if you pull away. Your fingers thread through his hair, and he groans at the way you pull, his mouth moving from your lips to your neck, your jaw, your shoulder—biting, tasting his blood smeared there, claiming. You tremble. And then his hand is between your legs, cupping you through your panties, a low, reverent moan tearing from his chest when he feels the heat there. "For me," he mutters, delirious. "You're like this for me."

"Yes," you breathe, rolling your hips into his hand, nails clawing at his back through his shirt. "Only for you." He groans again, like the words unmake him.

Your dress is halfway down your body, straps hanging off your arms, and you're so tangled together that it's hard to tell whose limbs are whose. He continues kissing you then like a vow. Like salvation. And everything else—the broken piano, the screaming from earlier, the sharp pain in your back from the cracked lid—fades to nothing. The music stutters beneath you—sharp, erratic keystrokes like a hymn being pulled apart at the seams.

But he doesn't stop playing. Even as his bloody fingers slip over the ivories, even as his other hand bunches your dress up around your hips, even as you gasp into his mouth and his teeth catch your bottom lip hard enough to sting. You're still straddling him, thighs trembling on either side of his lap, and he's shifting beneath you like he can't get close enough, like the distance between your bodies is an insult to the devotion he's shaking with.

"Heeseung," you whisper, breath hitching as his hand slides between your legs, the fabric of your panties clinging to you wet and ruined. "Please—" "Shh," he hushes, mouth dragging down your neck, blood and spit slick on your skin. "It's okay, it's okay—I got you, baby, I got you—" His fingers tremble as he pushes the fabric aside, clumsy and rushed, and you flinch when his knuckles brush over you. He groans against your throat, hand gripping your hip like he might break it, like it's the only anchor he has.

"Fuck, you're so warm—" he pants, "—I missed you so much, I missed you—" You don't know if he's talking to you or to her, to Rina, to whatever memory he's tangled you up with—but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when he's freeing himself beneath you with frantic hands, moaning under his breath as he fumbles himself through his sweats, panting into your collarbone like he's on the verge of falling apart. And then he's there. Thick, flushed, already so hard it makes your head spin. He grips your thighs, pulling you up just enough—just enough to align—and then sinks you down onto him in one ragged, choking breath.

You cry out, clenching around him, thighs shaking. Heeseung's head snaps back, a guttural sound ripping from his throat, and his hands clamp down on your hips like he's afraid you'll vanish again. "Oh my God—" he gasps, "—move, baby, please, come on—come on—"

He's twitching inside you already, so sensitive, so overwhelmed, but he's begging for more. Encouraging you, pushing up into you while his hands guide your hips, while his fingers—still stained with his blood—return to the keys beneath him, pressing out that same broken melody. You try to move—hips rising, sinking—but it's messy. Desperate. Your thighs burn, your breath hitches, and your forehead presses to his as he whispers, "Just like that, just like that—don't stop—don't stop—" The piano groans beneath you both. His legs tremble. Your panties are barely hanging on, twisted and soaked, caught somewhere between you, and still—still—he keeps playing.

Keeps playing through the rise and fall of your bodies, through the wet slap of your hips, through the breathless moans and the ache and the madness. He's shaking beneath you. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sobs, blood smearing from his wrist to your waist as he holds you tighter—deeper—closer.

"I knew you'd come back," he whispers, forehead to yours. "You always come back to me." You can't answer. You can only cry out his name, again and again, as the notes beneath you unravel into chaos and crescendo Your fingers claw at his shoulders as you rock against him, pace faltering with every thick thrust. The bench groans beneath your bodies, protesting under the weight of it all, but you don't stop. Neither of you could if you tried.

His hands are all over you—up your back, into your hair, clawing at your waist like he doesn't know where to hold, just that he has to hold somewhere.

The piano is completely forgotten now. The keys he was so desperate to press—abandoned mid-chord, half-played notes frozen under bloodied fingertips. But Heeseung's mouth is moving and he's moaning something. At first it's a whisper, hoarse and uneven, barely above the wet sound of your bodies meeting again and again. But then—clearer, louder— "Y/N... oh my god, Y/N—" You halt for a second. Barely. Just long enough to catch your breath. To hear him. Your name—your name, not his pianos—spilling from his lips like prayer, like apology, like it's the only thing anchoring him to reality.

Heeseung's head drops to your shoulder, and he's panting your name again, so sweet and unguarded it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. "Y/N," he gasps, "you feel so good, baby—fuck—so good—" It's like he sees you now. Really sees you. And his hands are softer now, less frantic, still trembling but reverent in how they hold you—his thumb brushing your waist, his other hand cradling your jaw as he lifts your face to his.

Your noses bump. His eyes search yours like he's never seen anything more precious. "It's you," he whispers, almost awed. "It's really you..."He leans in, kissing you like the world's finally slowed down, like he's finally returned to it. To you. And when you move again—hips grinding, slow now, deeper—he moans your name into your mouth, over and over like it's his undoing. Each syllable spills from him shakily, soaked with disbelief and want and something that almost sounds like worship.

Your hands find his cheeks, thumbs stroking where the dried tears have clung to his skin, and when you whisper his name back, soft and breathless, he shudders. Heeseung's forehead presses to yours. You feel him twitch inside you, thighs clenching around him as you both near that terrible, beautiful edge again, and he breathes your name one last time— "Y/N, I'm—fuck—I'm gonna cum, baby, please—stay with me—stay—" Your hips stutter. His hands seize. And then everything splinters—. Your name tears from his throat in a ragged moan, your own lips parted in soundless release as your body collapses forward, curling into his chest like instinct.

Heeseung's arms close around you immediately. One low on your spine, the other twisted into your hair, as if he can press you into him hard enough to keep you there forever. Your pulse throbs everywhere. Between your legs, in your throat, under your tongue. Heeseung is trembling beneath you, arms loose but shaking, chest heaving like he's run for miles and only now stopped to breathe.

He's still inside you. Still in you, cradled and connected and caught in the softness of what just happened. No piano. No ghosts. Just this.You shift slightly, just to catch your breath, and he shudders around you with a hoarse gasp. His head drops to your shoulder, face buried in the crook of your neck. You stay there a while. No words. No need. Just the sound of the wind against the high windows, the echo of your breathing, and the quiet creak of a broken piano bench holding two too-lost people.

Eventually, his fingers twitch against your waist. "Y/N," he breathes, voice scratchy and soft. You hum, stroking the sweaty strands of hair back from his temple. Your touch is gentle, slow, grounding. He lifts his head—eyes glassy, wide and wet around the edges. You watch them drop down, settle on the stains between you, the faint blood still smudged across his hands and chest. He catches your wrist.Brings your fingers—still trembling—to the mess of red streaked across his ribs. The open cuts from earlier have mostly clotted, but the wounds are still fresh, angry-looking, like they're still listening to the madness that tore them open. He presses your palm there, over his heart.

"This body..." he whispers, eyes still downcast. "It belongs to too many ghosts." Your chest tightens, but you don't pull away. Instead, your fingers spread gently over the damp skin of his chest, pressing softly, reverently. You guide his gaze up to meet yours. "It belongs to me tonight," you murmur, voice quiet but sure. "It's okay, Heeseung. I've got you."

He blinks hard and for a second, something in him flickers. Something soft. Almost boyish and safe. Then his forehead presses against yours again. He leans into the cradle of your hands like he's never been touched this way before—like he doesn't know what to do with it. "...Don't let go yet," he whispers. "I won't," you promise. "Not tonight." Heeseung's head is resting against yours, your hand still pressed to his chest, when he whispers it. So faint, it's nearly lost in your breathing.

"...Call her." You pull back a little, brushing your nose against his cheek. "Hm?" He blinks slowly, like the exhaustion is hitting him all at once. "Phone's somewhere here, on the shelf by the metronome. Just—tell her it's bad, she'll come." You stare back into his eyes cluelessly,

"My nurse".

You nod, slipping gently off his lap. He groans softly at the loss of you but doesn't stop you. Doesn't move at all, really—just tilts his head back against the edge of the bench, hair damp with blood sweat and tears. You find the phone where he said it would be, swipe up, and call the nurse. She picks up after one ring. You tell her to come and you don't have to say much more—she must be used to these calls by now. And as you're hanging up, you hear him say it behind you, low and soft, "Thanks... for coming upstairs."

You turn, heart squeezing. He's still sitting there, shirtless and smeared in blood, legs parted like he couldn't stand if he tried. But he's looking at you—really looking—and something about it makes your breath catch in your throat.

You walk over. Kiss his forehead. Then slip into the bathroom for towels, water, and cleaner. By the time the nurse arrives, you're back upstairs, on your knees by the piano, gently gathering the shattered ivory keys and splintered wood into a pile. You've scrubbed some of the blood from the floor, though the stains are stubborn. The piano looks gutted—her insides exposed, wires torn and twisted like veins. Your heart aches again. Not for the piano. But for him.

Heeseung, who stayed downstairs. Who let someone else tend to him while you tried to do what you could for the mess he left behind. You hear footsteps coming up the stairs, then his voice—calmer now, hoarse, but steady. "Leave it." You glance over your shoulder. He's standing there, freshly bandaged, a clean shirt half-buttoned and hanging loose on his frame. The nurse must have left quietly.

"I'm still your cleaner, remember?" you say lightly, trying to ease the air. "Let me do my job." His lips twitch. But there's something softer in his eyes now—something closer to sorrow than amusement.

"You're more than that." You pause and look down at the broken keys in your hands. "I know."

And he comes to you—sinks down beside you on the floor, still moving slowly like he's holding his bones together by sheer will—and rests his forehead to yours again. Neither of you says anything else, you just sit in the wreckage of something beautiful. Together.

*•*•*

It's hard to say how much time has passed. Days, maybe. Weeks. The kind that blur together, quiet and golden at the edges, like light filtered through gauze. The scar on Heeseung's arm is healing well—just a thin red seam now, barely visible when he rolls his sleeves up. He doesn't try to hide it anymore.

You're downstairs today. The sun is dipping low and warm across the windows, lighting up the dust motes dancing in the air. The piano stands rebuilt, restored—not the same one from upstairs, but something new. Something you picked out together.

You're sitting beside him on the bench, your knees touching. Heeseung's hands are guiding yours across the keys with quiet patience.

"No, baby, focus" he murmurs, laughing when you hit the wrong note again. "That's an A, not a G."

"I am focused," you argue, shoulders tensing in mock defense. "I just—I forgot which finger goes where." He leans closer, brushing his lips against your temple. "The one I showed you. Your third finger. C'mon. Try again." You exhale, pouting a little as you reposition your hands. Heeseung watches you with a softness that folds itself into the corners of his smile.

You press the keys again. It's still wrong. You groan dramatically. "Ugh, why is this so hard?" And he can't help it—he grabs your chin and kisses you mid-pout. Quick and warm. The kind of kiss that says you're the most precious thing I've ever ruined myself for.

Your lips curve into a grin beneath his. He chuckles. "You know what I think?"

"Hm?"

"I think you just like messing up so I'll kiss you."

You nudge him with your shoulder. "Maybe." Heeseung leans in again. A little slower this time. A little deeper. Then his hands return to the keys. And so do yours.

You sit like that a while—two shadows against the shine of the piano, laughter and missed notes echoing softly in the room. And if someone were to peek in just then, they might think it's a simple thing. A boy and a girl, and a piano between them. But it's not. It's an anchor. A promise. A world rebuilt from ash and ghosts and broken music.

And maybe you never learned to play perfectly, but he never stopped telling you you were the most beautiful song he'd ever heard.

══════════════════════════

•taglist-

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

[ironwoman18]

The Inner Thoughts

"Where were you yesterday between nine and midnight?" Asked Detective Smith.

"At home, watching the football game" you said calmly but your heart was pounding on your chest because of the awkward situation, you have no idea what happened.

"Who can confirm that?" Asked the man in a threatening way.

"About ten more people. My family and some friends from work" you answer without a doubt.

He nodded, he already asked them and they said the same, you never left the house, you never held your phone from the table and you never looked suspicious about anything outside of the match.

"Did you have troubles with Damian Miller?" He asked.

"The usual... He hated when my dog or my kids ran in his front yard, he threatened to put poison if my dog dared to eat his flowers... My dog never did that but he blamed him anyway... He's an American Pitbull so... Of course he must be responsible..." You rolled your eyes.

"Did he ever hurt your dog or kid?" You shook your head "did he ever hurt other dogs or kids?"

"No idea, but he wasn't loved in our neighborhood" the police sighed.

"You may go" you left the room, confused but glad they didn't seem to be interested in you.

You are a good neighbor, never bother others, also saying good morning, good afternoon, good evening; always kind with the old ladies and good with animals.

Not like Miller, so whatever happened, he deserved it.

When you arrived home and discovered what happened. Apparently, he ate some kind of seafood that poisoned him and ended up dying. Good, no one will miss him, you thought.

Weeks passes and your bully coworker dies in an unexpected accident. He was working on a building, checking a few small details when he lost his balance and fell off a tenth floor, dying instantly.

Since he was always annoying you, you were the first one to be interrogated... Again... But as before you weren't near the place of the accident.

In fact you were miles away from the accident and one hundred people, workers of the construction company you work for, could testify it.

The detective was suspicious but all the proofs were there. You weren't near the accident or the dead body but he was someone who was tied to you somehow.

You were also a little worried, why those two had died in stranger situations and why them? Why did Daniel, the bully, die just as you imagined a thousand times? Why did Miller die after you wish the clamps get him sick?

Then... The realization hit you... Your thoughts killed them... No... It can't be... It's a coincidence...

So you made an experiment. You thought of a bad politician in your community. He stole thousands of dollars that were meant for the community. You imagine his car falling off a cliff and dying.

You turned on the TV but nothing happens "I'm an idiot... I need to stop watching those animes..."

You went to the kitchen and cook your lunch and an hour later there was a headline.

The Side Hill Community Leader died when his car fell off a cliff.

Your face was white as a ghost and you felt dizzy. It happened, just like you imagine. But, how? You don't know but you have to be careful.

You spend months trying to have happy thoughts, not wishing anyone's any harm and when you do, it was a minor event like a twisted ankle or a broken arm and it happened.

You were scared of thinking the worst things and causing a tragedy.

But... One day your partner was fighting you and, in rage you had the worst thoughts, the worst dead your mortal mind could ever imagine.

When you realize it... It was too late, your mind already imagined all the details and you can't back it up... It was a matter of time...

You just sentence to death the love of your life...

Your harassing neighbor dies. Then a bullying coworker dies in a crash. Within a month, people you’ve had bad blood with start dying. The police are watching you closely—but you haven’t done anything… at least, not that you know of.

[strawberry-bubblef]

Just found your blog after seeing the Overblot students reacting to causing serious harm to the reader/their partner and oof the angst is strong there! Excellent stuff all around and the way that several of them have symbolic injuries suited to each is fitting-

Like Vil pointed out the irony that his attack blinded them (likely disfiguring too)

Leona missing the arm that never hesitated to reach out for him.

Jamil making his S/O unable to stand without them, needing his support.

For some reason, it all reminded me of the Jekyll and Hyde musical (not at all accurate to the original work but the music is pretty good) particularly the Confrontation song, where Jekyll and Hyde have a musical number ripping into the other.

Imagine if the Overblot guys (whether merely haunted by their memories of the event or tying into your original post about permanent injuries inflicted to the person they loved most) have nightmares confronting those versions of themselves especially in regards to the harm that could have (or did) happen to their S/O. Only to get hit with “can’t you see were the same” but maybe the OB’s are mild yanderes towards the S/O or point out easier it is to keep them by his side, that he’s willing to take the risks to keep them around unlike the “good boy” persona some of them keep up.

OB students having nightmares of themselves after hurting their s/o

Part 1: Ob student unintentionally hurting their s/o

Aww! Thanks for the sweet words 🥲🫶 I'm glade you liked it !

Riddle Rosehearts

The halls of Heartslabyul are silent after curfew. Moonlight cuts silver through the tall windows, casting the checkered floor in sharp, cold contrast. It’s late, but Riddle isn’t sleeping. Not really. Not anymore.

He jolts awake again, breath shallow, red eyes wide. He stares at the ceiling, but all he sees is the moment he can never take back.

Your voice, cracking as you tried to reach him.

The way the vines coiled around you, cruel and tight,his vines.

How you cried out.

And the silence after. The absolute silence.

He’s by your side now, and you’ve forgiven him. You told him as much, your voice gentle, your hand on his. But that forgiveness tastes like ash when he remembers the look on your face back then,not fear, not anger, but disbelief. As if you couldn't quite believe he was the one hurting you.

It clings to him like a second skin.

And every night, the dream returns.

The maze is dead now. No more vibrant red blooms or the sweet scent of petals. Only twisted thorns and rotting leaves, the sky above a bruised, stormy purple. The air is heavy with guilt and magic.

In the center of it all sits his throne.

That version of him is waiting, legs crossed elegantly, sipping black tea that stains the porcelain cup like ink.

“You're late,” the Overblot says. “But I suppose shame slows the feet.”

Riddle takes a breath. “I’m not here for your games.”

“Ah, but we’ve played such lovely ones, haven’t we? Tea parties and rules and hearts cut clean in half.”

He steps closer, circling Riddle like a cat. “Do you remember how quiet they became after we were done? No more backtalk. No more chaos. They obeyed. Isn't that what you wanted?”

Riddle flinches.

The Overblot leans in, voice silken and low. “You wrapped yourself in rules because your mother left you no room to breathe. So you did the same to them because love is terrifying when it’s free, isn’t it?”

“I was wrong,” Riddle says. “That wasn’t love.”

“Then what do you call it?” the other hisses, the smile gone. “You think your bouquet of apologies rewrites what you did? You think gentle words and shared tea make up for the way they screamed?”

Riddle’s hands tremble. He can’t meet his own eyes,those cruel red eyes staring out of a mirror cracked by power and pain.

“I didn't mean to hurt them.”

“But you did.” The Overblot’s voice turns almost tender, almost sad. “And I-we will always live with that.”

Silence falls like snow.

And then: “But at least I was honest. At least I did what had to be done to keep them close. You fear they’ll leave. I made it impossible. Maybe you should be thanking me.”

Riddle recoils. “You turned them into something fragile.”

“I turned them into something ours. They stay because of you, but they flinch because of me.”

A pause.

“Can’t you see?” he whispers. “We’re the same.”

The dream ends with Riddle reaching for his collar, choking on petals that pour from his mouth,crimson, velvet, suffocating.

He wakes with a cry.

It’s still night, the room quiet. He reaches for you instinctively, but the sheets are cool, the space beside him empty. Panic strikes fast and cold.

He finds you on the balcony, bathed in moonlight. Wrapped in a soft robe, you’re gazing at the stars. Your arm is wrapped, supported. Some movements are slower now. But your eyes are bright as ever.

You turn as he approaches.

“Another nightmare?”

Riddle says nothing. He only stands behind you and hesitantly slide his hand into yours. His grip is tight,not crushing, never again but desperate in its quiet plea.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.

“You don’t get to decide that alone,” you reply softly, placing yourhand over his. “You made a mistake. A terrible one. But you changed. You’re trying. That matters.”

“I see him every time I close my eyes,” Riddle admits. “He says we’re the same.”

You turn, gently cupping his face with the only hand that you have left. “Then prove him wrong.”

He leans into your touch like a drowning man, clinging to the only solid thing in a storm. In your eyes, there’s still pain. Still healing. But also,somehow hope.

He’s terrified he’ll always be at war with that version of himself.

But if you’re willing to walk beside him through the thorns, maybe, just maybe, there’s a path forward.

Leona Kingscholar

The desert wind howls in his ears.

Leona stands on the edge of a dry, cracked savannah where nothing grows, under a sunless sky. The ground is stained with soot and ash, grass burned to cinders. In the distance, a pride stone crumbles into dust.

And there,at the center of the destruction,is himself.

Or at least, what’s left of him.

His Overblot form sits lazily upon a throne of twisted bone and stone, smoke curling from his mane like incense from an open flame. Those glowing eyes burn, full of mirthless amusement.

“Took you long enough,” the Overblot drawls. “What, couldn’t face me sooner? Or were you too busy watching them struggle to tie their shoes with the wrong damn hand?”

Leona's jaw tightens. “Shut up.”

“Hit a nerve?” His other self stretches, claws dragging over the arms of the throne. “I’m not the one who tore it from them. You are. We are.”

“I never meant–”

“Don’t insult both of us. You knew what that spell could do. You were angry. Jealous. Tired of always coming second. So you struck. And you didn’t stop.”

Leona’s fists clench. He can still remember the heat, the way magic surged through him like wildfire, untamed and wild. The look on your face when you collapsed, your dominant arm crushed under a landslide of sand and force.

He remembers how still you were. How you didn’t reach for him. Couldn’t.

And how the silence that followed was louder than any roar.

“They can’t write like they used to,” his Overblot murmurs. “Can’t lift a box. Can’t sketch, or braid your damn hair. All the things they used to do so easily,gone. Because of you.”

“I know !” Leona snaps. “I live with it every day.”

“Do you?” The Overblot tilts his head. “Then why haven’t you left? Why not let them go and find someone better for them? Someone whole?”

Leona’s voice drops to a growl. “Because I love them.”

The other version smiles, sharp and cruel. “No. You need them. And they need you now, don’t they? You made sure of that. No one else understands them like you. No one else will want them like this.”

Leona stares, disgust tightening in his throat.

“Come on,” the Overblot purrs. “Admit it. Part of you is relieved. Because now they’ll stay.”

“No.”

“They’ll never leave you.”

“NO!”

The Overblot lunges, claws out, but Leona doesn’t move.

Because he knows the truth: this isn’t about physical pain. This is about guilt, about possession, about fear.

And about how love can rot if left to fester.

He wakes up leaning against a tree in Savanaclaw. It's still dark, the early morning stars just beginning to fade. His hands are buried in the dirt, sweat soaking the back of his shirt. His heart thunders in his chest like it’s trying to dig out.

The scent of jasmine reaches him first. Then your voice.

“Bad dream?”

Leona looks up.

You’re seated nearby, wrapped in a blanket, watching the horizon. Your sleeve is pinned up neatly, your right side turned toward him. The scarred place where your arm used to be is hidden, but he knows its shape by memory now.

He sits beside you wordlessly. You lean into him, letting his warmth chase away the morning chill.

“It’s always the same dream,” he mutters. “Me. Him. You.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “Do you still hate yourself?”

He doesn’t answer.

His grip tightens ever so slightly. “I wish it had been me instead.”

You reach for his hand with your remaining one and lace your fingers together.

“I would’ve still stayed,” you say. “Even if it had been you who got hurt. Even if it was your arm.”

Silence stretches, heavy and honest.

Leona leans into you then, pressing his forehead to your temple.

“I’m trying,” he whispers.

“I know.”

And for once, the guilt doesn’t scream quite so loud.

Azul Ashengrotto

The sea is too still.

No current, no light,only the inky abyss stretching endlessly in every direction. Azul floats weightlessly in the dark, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed as if sleep could shield him from what he knows is coming.

No light,only the inky abyss stretching endlessly in every direction. Azul floats weightlessly in the dark, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed as if sleep could shield him from what he knows is coming.

And then it starts.

The water shifts.

A shadow coils in the deep like smoke in water,and from it emerges himself,not in his human form, not even in his merman body. No, it’s the Overblot: bloated and grandiose, tentacles stretching into the black like roots through rot. His grin is razor-sharp, filled with oil-slick malice.

“Still pretending to be human?” it coos. “Still clinging to the mask of the poor little businessman?”

Azul doesn’t look at it.

“Did you think success would make you good?” the Overblot hisses, gliding around him like a serpent. “That if you just worked hard enough, they’d love you? Respect you?”

Azul breathes slowly, deliberately. “Shut up.”

“Oh, touchy.” “You weren’t nearly so quiet when you were begging them not to leave you. Not when they were lying there,bleeding, gasping because you made them part of your deal.”

Azul flinches.

He sees it again: the whirlpool, the crashing debris, the spell cast in desperation and greed. The way you fell,your leg crushed under the magical pressure, twisted unnaturally before he could stop it.

Before he cared to stop it.

“You used them,” the Overblot sings. “Because deep down, you thought: if they depend on me, they won’t leave me.”

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” it snarls. “You saw them shine and you thought: I want that. You dragged them into your schemes, into your world. And now?”

A cruel smile stretches over its face.

“Now they can’t even dance.”

Azul’s fists curl.

“They limp through the halls, leaning on a cane or your arm, and every step is a reminder. And yet, they still smile at you. Still tell you it’s not your fault.”

The Overblot leans in close, eyes glowing.

“But it is.”

Azul screams,no sound leaves his throat, only bubbles but he surges forward, trying to claw at the thing wearing his face, only for it to melt away into nothing.

Leaving him alone in the silent sea.

He jolts awake in a cold sweat.

The lounge is dark, only the soft glow of enchanted lamps illuminating the drapes. Azul sits on the couch, disheveled,, breath caught halfway in his throat.

A small noise draws his attention.

You're at the window, adjusting your prosthetic leg,carefully, patiently. You don’t notice him watching, or maybe you do, and you choose not to look.

He swallows.

You always do things quietly now. No complaints. No bitter remarks. But you also don’t hum anymore when you walk. You don’t twirl in the water like you used to.

Azul lowers his eyes.

He hears the soft tap of your cane as you make your way over, the familiar pattern of your gait now etched into his memory.

You sit beside him, brushing your hand against his.

“You dreamt about it again.”

He nods, shame burning behind his eyes.

“I see him in the mirror sometimes,” he murmurs. “The one I was. I wonder if I’m still him.”

You shake your head. “He would’ve run from this. You didn’t.”

Azul hesitates before reaching for your hand. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”

“Maybe not,” you whisper, “but you’re trying. And that counts more than you think.”

He leans in slowly, resting his forehead against the side of your head. “If I could give you that leg back…”

“I wouldn’t take it.”

He stiffens, shocked.

You turn to him with quiet intensity. “Because then maybe you’d still be pretending to be someone you’re not. I don’t need perfection. I need you.”

Azul doesn’t reply,he can’t. But he holds you a little tighter, breathing in the proof that somehow, some way… you’re still here.

And maybe that's enough.

Jamil Viper

The chains rattle again.

He doesn’t know where he is,some room, always dark, always humid. The smell of sweat and ash lingers like incense from an old nightmare. Stone walls stretch in every direction, but there’s no exit. No sky. Just that mirror on the wall.

He doesn’t look at it.

Not yet.

He knows who’s waiting on the other side.

But he turns anyway.

And there he i. The Overblot version of himself smiles cruelly, slouching in that confident, arrogant way Jamil hates to admit he once wished he could embody.

“You look exhausted,” the Overblot drawls. “Not sleeping well, Jamil?”

“I’m not here to talk to you,” Jamil hisses.

“Oh, but I’m here to talk to you.” The reflection slinks closer. “How’s our darling doing, by the way? Still limping around because of you?”

Jamil’s stomach churns.

The sound of bones snapping, of the ground cracking during that awful moment,when magic surged out of control, when the pressure pinned you down, the illusion spells fraying as your foot was crushed beneath falling debris he summoned. Not even intentionally. Not really.

But he knew you were nearby.

And he still didn’t care.

He had finally taken the reins of his life and you were collateral.

“I didn’t mean-” Jamil starts, voice strained.

“You didn’t stop,” the Overblot cuts in, venomous. “You didn’t hesitate. You knew they were watching. And still you used your magic. Still you twisted their mind until they collapsed.”

Jamil’s voice is a whisper. “I didn't want to hurt them.”

“You wanted control.”

Silence.

“You wanted them to stop pitying you. To see you,not the servant, not the background character, but the powerful one. And when you had it, even just for a moment…”

The Overblot tilts his head.

“…you liked it.”

Jamil clenches his fists. “I hate you.”

“No,” it says, baring fangs. “You hate that I’m you. You hate that some part of you thought, ‘If I can just keep them dependent… they’ll never leave.’”

The words sting like poison.

“Now look at them,” the Overblot murmurs. “They used to dance barefoot on sunlit floors. Now every step is calculated. Controlled. Like you wanted everything else to be.”

Jamil shuts his eyes tight.

When he opens them again, the mirror is empty.

He’s alone again.

But the silence is louder than before.

He wakes up in a sweat.

The room is dim, lit by the flicker of a candle. The warmth of the dorm blankets does little to soothe him, especially not when he sees the empty spot in the bed beside him.

You're by the window.

Adjusting the supportive brace over your ankle,what's left of it. Your balance is careful, practiced. Your fingers are deft. Jamil sits up quietly, heart aching.

You glance over your shoulder. “Nightmare?”

He nods, slow.

You limp over to him, footsteps padded by the soft cloth of your wrap. You don’t say anything at first,you just press your forehead to his, fingers tangling with his.

“I see him,” Jamil says. “The version of me who… who didn't care. Who thought being loved wasn’t as important as being obeyed.”

You don’t flinch. You already know.

“I hate him,” he whispers.

“But he’s not you,” you murmur back.

Jamil’s eyes glint with unshed tears.

“I almost made you another chain.”

You shake your head, taking his hand and placing it against your heartbeat. “But you let go. You let me go. You helped me stand again.”

His voice is raw. “You should’ve run from me.”

“I didn’t want to,” you reply. “I wanted to walk beside you. Even if I had to relearn how.”

He exhales shakily.

And when he kisses your knuckles, it’s soft. Tentative. Like he’s still trying to prove to himself that you’re real,that this, what he has now, is real.

Even after all he’s done.

Vil Schoenheit

The mirror doesn’t lie. That’s the curse.

He can’t hide from it. Not from the face that stares back at him,twisted, blot-streaked, gleaming with hatred and pride. His Overblot self grins through cracked lipstick and bleeding glamour.

“Ah. Come to scold me again, Schoenheit?”

Vil doesn’t answer. He already knows how this goes.

Every night, it’s the same: the same confrontation, the same voice that sounds too much like his own, the same sickening echo of violet light bursting from his fingertips, burning away the world and everything he held dear.

Especially you.

“Still pretending you didn’t enjoy it?” the Overblot version sneers. “You always thought beauty was everything. Until you became the monster.”

Vil’s voice is cold. “I wanted the world to see me. Not them.”

“And now they can’t see anything at all.” A cruel chuckle. “Isn’t that poetic?”

His throat tightens.

He remembers the scent of magic in the air, the searing heat, the flash of light as your scream tore through him. The way you clutched your face, blood slipping between your fingers. The panic that followed. The silence. The way your eyes never found him again.

“I didn’t mean to hurt them.”

“But you did.” The Overblot tilts his head mockingly. “You wanted to be seen. So you made sure they never would be seen again. You took that from them. You, who worshipped beauty like a god.”

Vil’s hands tremble at his sides.

“You knew what your magic could do. You chose to use it anyway.”

“I thought I could control it.”

“You were wrong.”

Silence.

Then:

“They still call your name,” the Overblot whispers. “Even now. Still reach for you. Still smile in your direction. And doesn’t that make it worse?”

Vil turns away.

“All they know is the echo of your voice and the feel of your touch. And you cling to that, don’t you? Because if they saw you as you were... they would’ve run.”

The mirror cracks.

Not from magic but from the way Vil slams his fist into it, fury rippling through every bone.

And when he opens his eyes again, he's awake.

The bedroom is quiet, curtains drawn open just enough to let in moonlight. You’re seated on the bed, fingers moving expertly as you read a Braille book Vil had custom,made for you. Your head tilts slightly when you hear him stir.

“Another dream?” you ask gently.

Vil’s voice is hoarse. “Yes.”

You set the book down. “Was it him again?”

“…Yes.”

You pat the space beside you, and he comes willingly. Sits beside you. Lets you touch his face. You always do that now,run your fingertips along his cheekbones, brush over the curve of his lips, like you’re memorizing him all over again.

“I hate what I did to you,” he whispers. “I took the stars from your eyes.”

“And still I find light in your voice.” you say softly.

Vil swallows. “You don’t hate me?”

“I miss what I lost,” you admit. “But I don’t miss you. Because you’re still here.”

He presses your hand to his chest. “It should’ve been me.”

“No,” you whisper. “You came back to me. That’s enough.”

Sometimes, he still dreams of mirrors.

But these days, when he wakes,he’s holding your hand.

And somehow, that makes all the difference.

Idia Shroud

That’s how the nightmare always starts.

Blue flame dances along the walls, scorching consoles, melting cables, and setting off a chorus of alarms. Everything is chaos.Except for him. Except for the Overblot.

It rises from the flames like a ghost made of rage and sorrow, hair wilder, cloak billowing like smoke. It grins, bearing rows of flame-slicked teeth.

“Guess what, Idia,” it sing-songs. “You’re the villain in your own tragic visual novel. Bad End unlocked!”

Idia curls inward, arms around himself. “I didn’t want to hurt them.”

“You did more than hurt them,” it hisses. “You burned them. Because you wanted to keep them close. You wanted them safe.”

“I lost control. The magic-”

“You thought locking them in the Underworld was safer than letting them leave you. And when they reached out for you..” The Overblot snaps its fingers.

The scent of scorched flesh.

The sound of your cry.

Idia covers his ears, but it’s no use.

“You destroyed the very hands that held you. Four fingers. Gone. Just like that. Do you know how many times they tried to play your games after that? Tried to cook? Draw? Hold a pen?”

“I didn’t mean to-!”

“But you did.” The voice is ice now. “And you know what the worst part is?”

Silence.

“They still forgive you.”

Idia lifts his head slowly, shame thick in his eyes.

“They still smile when you fumble with words. Still wrap what’s left of their hand around yours. Still kiss your cheek and say it’s okay. It’s not okay.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I know it’s not.”

“Then why do you stay?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then-q

“…Because they asked me to. Because they didn’t want to lose me too.”

The Overblot’s grin fades.

Idia steps closer to it. For once, he doesn’t flinch.

“I am a coward. I am broken. But I’m trying. Every day. I can’t fix what I did… but I can be here now. And that’s what they asked of me.”

The flames flicker.

“You don’t deserve them,” it spits.

“I know,” Idia says. “But they still choose me. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of that.”

He wakes up gasping.

Your hand is in his,smaller now, missing parts of what once was, wrapped in soft bandages and healing cream. But warm. Still warm.

You stir beside him. “Another one?”

He nods.

You squeeze. “You’re still here.”

“…Yeah.”

You rest your forehead against his. “Then I’m okay.”

He doesn’t cry, but he holds your hand tighter.

And for the first time, the nightmare fades into silence.

Malleus Draconia

The castle is quiet. Too quiet.

He wanders its halls alone in the dream. The stone is grey, cracked with age. Thorny vines have grown wild over every door, every window. The sky outside is eternally twilight, like the world itself is holding its breath. Time doesn’t move here. It hasn’t for centuries.

He knows where you are.

He always knows.

Your chamber lies behind an arch of briars, untouched by rot or dust. Enchanted sleep preserved you, peaceful and unmoving, lips barely parted as if frozen mid-sigh.

He crosses the threshold slowly, reverently. His footsteps don’t echo anymore.

You lies there still.

Because of him.

“Malleus.”

The voice that greets him isn’t yours.

It’s his but deeper, weightless, echoing with ancient magic.

The Overblot.

It steps into view like a reflection peeled from his shadow. A smile too gentle to be anything but cruel.

“You saved her,” it says. “She was going to leave. Be taken away. You stopped it.”

“I imprisoned her,” Malleus whispers.

“You protected her. In eternal sleep, she couldn’t be harmed. Couldn’t abandon you. Couldn’t be taken away by time or fate or death.”

Malleus walks toward the bed. Your skin is still warm beneath the spell, magic thrumming softly with every breath. So many years have passed. More than he dares count.

“And yet she wept in her dreams,” he murmurs. “I heard it. Even through the spell.”

“Dreams are nothing,” the Overblot croons. “She’s safe. Isn’t that all you ever wanted?”

His hands tremble.

“I wanted to be with her,” Malleus says, voice breaking. “Not without her. Not like this.”

The Overblot’s smile fades. It regards him like a disappointed parent. “You are a king .You could have have eternity together.”

“No. I forced eternity upon her. I robbed her of choice… of time… of life.”

A silence falls.

Then-

“But she’s awake now.”

That voice. Yours.

He turns.

You're standing in the doorway. Older than you should be, touched by the centuries but beautiful still. Eyes full of sorrow and kindness both.

“I’m awake, Malleus.”

He stares, breathless. “This isn’t real.”

“It could be,” you say, stepping forward. “If you let go of the guilt. If you come back to me.”

“But I hurt you. I stole your future.”

“And yet I chose to wake up.”

You reach out.

He takes your hand in both of his, kneeling as if in penance.

“I will never forgive myself,” he whispers.

“Then let me forgive you instead,” you say. “You’re here now. And I waited because I believed you’d come back.”

He wakes in your arms, forehead against your shoulder, breath shaky.

You cradle his head gently, fingers weaving through his hair.

“You dreamt it again,” you murmur.

He nods, silent.

“I’m still here,” you remind him. “Still choosing you.”

And he holds you tighter, as though centuries could slip between his fingers once more.

But this time, he’ll never let go.

English is not my first language !

[my-castles-crumbling]

funeral - @wolfstarmicrofic - tw: canon compliant, mentions of abuse - word count: 334

Remus sat still as a statue in the back of the building, trying not to focus on the way his skin was crawling. He’d always hated funerals. The quiet, the expectations, the mourning of many over someone most of them only thought they knew. And the staring…this wasn’t the first funeral he’d attended where he’d gotten the distinct feeling he wasn’t completely welcome by everyone in attendance. There were very few people in attendance, sure, but the attitude was still clear.

But despite the discomfort and staring, he wanted to do this, wanted to be here. He was here for Sirius, the Sirius he’d known at sixteen, and that was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“So sad. One can only hope that we all will see each other again someday. Did you know the deceased well?” He turned to see the person who had performed the ceremony standing nearby, regarding his multiple scars and tattoos and haggard appearance with intense hesitation.

“I….” he started. How was he supposed to answer that, especially to this man, while so close to so many enemies? He didn’t want to cause trouble…

But then he realized that it didn’t matter. What had happened had happened, and nobody had anybody left to protect. Maybe now, he just needed to focus on being truthful for the people who were still left free and living.

He took a deep breath.

“No,” he answered casually, turning and looking the young man dead in the eye. “But my husband did. She frequently beat the shit out of him, her son, for being with me. Or being queer. Or not being a bigoted idiot. Or…thinking,” he said. “Of course, she got her way in the end, because now…” he choked up, and couldn’t finish his sentence. “Well, now I’ll probably never see him again, but at least I know I’ll never see her again, not where she’s going.”

And with that, he marched out of Walburga Black’s funeral, never looking back.

[zombolouge]

I had a pain management therapist once, and I, like many patients with chronic pain, expressed a common fear. I was worried that because they were having trouble diagnosing the issue, and treating the issue, that the pain was "all in my head". My therapist, who was a damn good one on this topic, responded with something that blew my mind.

"Zom. The pain is always in your head. That's where you are. That's where you perceive things. There is no pain that doesn't start in your head."

We went on to discuss something that this experiment does a great job of illustrating: psychosomatic pain, or pain that does not otherwise have an identifiable or physical source, is just as real as any other pain. Your brain is giving you signals that pain is happening, and you are experiencing that pain whether you know what's causing it or not. The pain is always real.

This past weekend, I had flank pain that felt like another kidney stone. It did turn out to be a small stone (minor, and already passed), but I had an interesting discussion with the doctor because I made a joke about not wanting to come in because I didn't think it was possible to have a stone so soon after my last one, and thinking I was "hallucinating" the symptoms, including the pain. He basically told me that there was a reason that they usually distributed the pain medication before sending patients back for a scan. Even though they haven't confirmed that there is a stone in there, the pain a patient is presenting with is real. People that have had kidney stones in the past will sometimes experience that level of pain over small disturbances in the kidney. In this case, my stone had basically already passed, but I was experiencing pain as though it was just starting/getting impacted. My brain was receiving signals that it was happening again and was preparing accordingly, and so I experienced the pain at that level.

Which is all to say that this video is a GREAT example of why you should never discount your pain just because you don't know the cause. There's no such thing as pain that doesn't need to be treated because it's "in your head". Pain is pain, and yes sometimes it gets better as soon as you identify the cause - like when he pulled his real hand back and looked at it, the pain signals dissipated, and he was just left with the shaky aftermath. And sometimes you can reason your way out of feeling pain - explaining what's happening to yourself or showing your brain that you're okay, making it recede. But that doesn't change the fact that the pain, for the time when your brain believes you're being harmed by something, is extremely real and tangible.

this is insaaaane, our brains are so fucking weird

[dannyriccsystem]

Hiii can we have No.3 and 50 for Lando? Thank youuu

I DON’T WANT TO LIE, I’VE BEEN RELYING ON YOU.

1K SPECIAL - LN4

Soft make out session + “I want your hands on me. You won’t break me, I promise.”

SUMMARY: Lando needs some help when it comes to touching you.

WORD COUNT: 1.1K

WARNINGS: Suggestive, fluff, slight comfort

FEATURING: Lando Norris x Reader

IT WAS A MINOR MISHAP. Not even something you thought twice about, but Lando’s been carrying it like a heavy weight on his shoulders. During an act of intimacy, your body had frightened him, bleeding upon penetration. You quickly explained it was a normal thing, but Lando politely excused himself and the night was over before it even started.

Your feelings weren’t hurt then, because you could understand being a little bit shaken, especially if you didn’t know that was something that happened from time to time. He was under the assumption he did something wrong— That he hurt you. So no, it didn’t make you feel bad, but the following days certainly did.

You could tell he was avoiding being too touchy with you again. It was a stark contrast in comparison to the way your relationship worked before. He used to always have his hands on you, desperate for your attention and praise. Now, he seemed distant, and it was really frustrating. It started to feel less like concern and more like disgust, and that wasn’t fair to you. You didn’t get to control things like that.

Your breaking point was during movie night. Every Tuesday, on his weeks off, you both stayed in to watch a movie of one of your’s choosing, alternating each week who got to pick. This week it was your decision. The lights were dimmed, the couch covered in blankets and pillows for extra comfort. You subconsciously threw your legs over his lap, not even thinking about it.

Normally he’d put one hand on your calf and rub slow circles into you. It was a comforting sensation, having him constantly and carefully caressing you. But tonight you felt him tense up and shift with discomfort, his hands lifting to rest on the back of the couch. He was acting like a goddamn virgin.

“Lando,” You snapped firmly as you pulled your legs back, sitting up on your knees. He jolted, making eye contact with you, his gaze uncertain. It wasn’t fair that he always looked so pretty, because you were meant to be scolding him when all you wanted to do was kiss his stupid face. You were deprived of his love. “What’s going on with you? Is this about the other night?”

He blinked slowly and you could practically see the gears turning in his head, looking to churn up some sort of excuse or dismissive answer. “What are you talking about?” Just like that, yep.

“You’ve clearly been avoiding me. Deny it all you want but there’s something different about you, and it’s making me feel shitty. You won’t touch me, you won’t kiss me, you barely hug me anymore.” You took a deep breath, needing some air after spouting all of that word vomit. “I just- Is it something I did?”

He softened, his hypothetical tail tucked between his legs. His hands were clasped over his lap while he gently twiddled his thumbs. “No,” He started with a huff. He broke apart his hold on himself, his right hand running through his hair while the left pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, you didn’t do anything.”

“Then what is causing this?”

“I’m just scared of hurting you,” He admitted quietly— Vulnerably. You could see the uncertainty in his eyes, and your cold exterior melted away to harbor some sympathy. “I know it was natural, but I got to thinking about how rough I’ve been, and about how- how I could easily hurt you without meaning to, and that’s just…” He trailed off.

“Scary?” You finished for him. He looked at you, finally looked at you like he was actually listening, and he nodded. “It’s okay to be scared. You’re meant to trust me like I trust you.” You grabbed his calloused hand, smoothing it out with both of yours. He squeezed your palm. “But I know you’re not going to hurt me, and if you do, I know it’s not intentional. This was one little slip up— And, I mean, it wasn’t even really that.” You looked down at his hand in yours. “I don’t want things to stop because of that.”

Lando always felt like he wasn’t allowed to be weak around you. Around anyone, for that matter. He always had the media on his back, reminding him time and time again that he shouldn’t be so frail mentally. He needed to toughen up to have that champion mindset, but he couldn’t help the way his brain was constantly tearing itself apart.

But right now, it was a breakthrough moment. You were too sweet and too genuine, because the way you looked at him, like he hung the moon and the stars for you, made his heart thunder in his chest at a nearly concerning rate. Not even racing kicked up his adrenaline this fast.

“Then… Will you show me how?” His query was vague. You tilted your head and that prompted him to follow up, “Show me how to love you.”

You grinned, and it sent that sinking feeling in his chest packing. With that beautiful smile of yours, it was impossible for him not to mirror it. “Of course I will.” You pushed yourself up, climbing over onto his lap. He was still tense, and it was obvious, but you figured it would melt away as you went on.

You placed his hands on your own hips, firmly pressing them down to let him know you were fine. His fingers curled in slightly, hot palms pressed against your shirt. “Good,” You praised softly. You leaned in for a kiss, your lips connecting in a sensual peck. That’s how it began, a series of one peck after another, followed by noisy ‘smooches’.

But it started to develop further, where he’d have to pull back to gasp for air before diving back against your mouth for more. His hands had fallen back, and his actions were still extra tender. There was a barrier between you two, and it was obvious. Longer kisses didn’t equate to passion.

“Touch me, Lan,” You muttered against his plush lips whilst grabbing his wrists, almost aggressively. You placed his hands right on your ass, holding them there. “You’re not gonna hurt me— I’m not fragile.”

When you looked at him, you could tell he wanted to argue his insecurities again. So instead you just didn’t give him the opportunity to. You crashed into osculation again, releasing your hold on him. This time he kept his hands there, firmly gripping your backside.

“I love you,” he mumbled between kisses, replacing his air with words. He was smiling against you, the passion in his words evident.

You ran your fingers through his curls, gripping the soft locks to pull him further into you. He chuckled at your desperation, making your cheeks flush with warmth. Yes, this was what it should have been like. “I love you too,” You mused, shortly followed by, “I hope it stays that way forever.”

[legrzybek]

finished ts shit finally omg. um. im nervous

AZURETIME HURT/COMFORT FLUFF FIC THING ^_^

in case you're not familiar with my prior posts, it's abt my own post-forsaken au versions of them :D soo theres a bunch of my hcs involved here,,,, most notably two time being referred to as breeze instead

tw for a brief mention of s/h !! but other than that it's mainly silly soft tickles and cuddles bc i need them to be happy ong

mb if it sounds kinda off and repetitive i tried my best 💔 i suck ass at wording LMFAO this is just smth i wrote for fun & comfort anyways soo it's not meant to be smth super amazing but i hope its enjoyable regardless bleeh

quick random bonus doodle to get ur attention bc im nefarious like that

okaY read it under the cut if u want fire emoji

What did they feel?

Nothing?

Everything?

They could not tell at this point. They could not grasp it. All they knew is that it did not feel good. Not at all.

Why? Just why? The same question kept rotating in their mind. Earlier, they were fine. Content. So why are they like this now? Why?

Everything feels wrong. So wrong. They hated this. Hated this strange uneasiness that came to them out of the blue. Subtle enough to feel like they're just faking, just imagining it... yet prominent enough to crave for it to stop. It only caused their mind to spiral all over again. To sink deeper and deeper into things they'd rather not remember. The things they've done. Maybe this was their punishment? They deserved this.

They would never stop blaming themselves.

Because they hated themselves more than anything.

They didn't even register someone had entered. Not until they heard that familiar, echoing voice.

"...Breeze?"

He recieved no response. They sat hunched over on their shared bed, arms tightly crossed, nails digging into their skin... Eyes unfocused, staring blankly at nothing. Their whole body completely unmoving. Frozen in place.

Immediately alarmed by the sight, he hastily approached closer. He sat down directly in front of them, resting his body on the mattress. The four vine-tentacles which protruded from his back drooped down around him, highly alert, just in case he had to stop them from any dangerous behavior...

"Breeze... Hey... Look at me."

His worried tone had a slight hint of demand to it. He was very familiar with situations like this by now, but... it always pained him the same to see them in a state like this. He had to get through to them.

"Talk to me, please... Are you not feeling well? Did anything happen?"

Their mind raced. It's him. Why did he even care at this point? They're nothing but a burden that he would be better off without. Not deserving of the care he insists on providing them with. Not after what they've done to him. It's all their fault. He should just leave them alone.

"No... nothing...I don't- urgh...no...I don't know...I-I don't-I don't know- okay?!"

Frustrated, they snapped back at him. That... seemed to pull them back into reality. They immediately felt horrible. He's only trying to help, and they start talking to him like this...? They did not deserve him. Not one bit. They couldn't look at him, pulling their legs closer to their chest, burying their head further in-between. They wanted nothing more than to disappear altogether...

But... Azure didn't take any offense to their tone or mannerisms, no... it only made him even more determined. He knew they didn't mean for it to come out so aggressively... they were simply not in the right state of mind.

"Nonono...shh, shh...It's okay... Don't agitate yourself further..."

He moved one of his flower-covered vines closer to them, making it carefully pet their back, trying to see if they're fine with being touched right now. Their anxious breathing slowed down a bit... They seemed content with it... good. He already had an idea in mind as to what could help with their current state. They really needed a distraction, something for their mind to focus on instead... Something that yielded a great result everytime he'd previously done it. He swiftly rearranged a few pillows, before trying to console them, get them to sit up again...

"Breezy... my nightshade... I'm not mad at you, not at all...shh... I understand your frustration, you're evidently not feeling well... I'd like to help you with that, okay?"

He patiently coaxed them to reveal themselves again. They avoided any eye contact, staring down at their knees.

"...I-I'm...No...I'm...I'm sorry...I'm sorry..."

The weak, hushed voice they spoke in... How shaky they were, how they felt guilt for even such a small thing... It made his heart ache so bad.

"Sweetie, no... Hush now, it's okay... it's okay... don't apologize. There's no sorries needed. Just follow me now, alright?"

He guided them to lay down on their back - to his relief, they obliged without issue, even if he noticed their hesitation. He adjusted the cushions a bit further to ensure the environment was as cozy as it could be. Next, he wrapped a tentacle around their legs, gently binding them together to prevent any accidental harm that might come from their usual, happy kicks. He loved seeing them, it's just... they were quite strong. And sudden. He scooted closer, his much taller frame carefully sitting down on their snuggled up legs, facing them directly.

They could already guess what he'll do, feeling their heart beat even faster, seemingly getting a bit nervous just thinking about it... Why did he still want to do this? Even after they acted awful like that...?

"Ah, I... think you know what's coming already, hehe...

You need this right now. It's okay."

Azure kept reassuring them, knowing how much self-doubt and hatred plagued them in moments like these - exactly why he was dead-set on his goal right now. He gave them a loving headpat before speaking up once more.

"I won't prolong this then. Is it alright to start now? All comfy?"

He tilted his head to the side while asking, softly smiling at them with his zipped mouth. His gentle, purple eyes looked at them with immense care. Even his hat had a fond, yet slightly saddened expression on it... Following a brief moment of waiting, he recieved a quick, shy nod in response. They couldn't stop their tail from swishing around impatiently... That told him everything he needs to know.

"Got it, sweetheart... Just relax now... It'll do you good, I promise.

As always, if it becomes overwhelming or unpleasant at any point, just say the word, okay?"

As he finished speaking, the tip of the vine that hugged their legs, along with another free one, started softly brushing against their soles, occasionally shifting to a more scratching motion. It felt...nice... He knew they liked the unique feel and texture of his extra 'arms', often clinging onto or idly playing around with them whenever they were near him. And they seemed to like it now, too...

"Aah...h-hm... he...hehe..."

Along with a tiny gasp, some stifled giggles were already earned by that first move. At the same time, he carefully lifted their shirt up, just enough to place his claws on their stomach. Despite how they may look at first glance, they were not very sharp, making them essentially perfect for this... His fingers glided over their skin like a serene breeze... a familiar, soothing feeling. They really tried to hold back, but...

"Pfft...aaw...eheh- h-hahah- o-oh my...aaahahaha- oh my Spaaawn- nuuh-heehehe...!!!"

They just... couldn't help it anymore. Even if they still had their doubt on whether they really deserve this affection, those thoughts were starting to slip away. They already broke into a soft, quiet laughter that warmed Azure's heart... He felt their body tense up involuntarily to even the lightest touch, before relaxing and giving into it over and over again. Any of their involuntary kicks were negated by the vine that kept their legs wrapped up, along with his own weight.

"That's a lot better..."

He spoke warmly, relief washing over him upon observing their reactions. He knew this would work like a charm, help them let go of the stress they felt... Continuing the motions, he kept a watchful eye on them - their eyes were closed akin to a content kitty's, their free arms placed over their chest, fidgeting around, not even trying to pry his away... and most importantly, that growing, genuine smile...

"Gosh, hehe... do you even know how adorable you are...?"

With awe, he uttered that sweet phrase that ran through his mind everytime he managed to put them in this state. It was a sight he'd never get tired of. And he only just started...

"Nooooo- I'm-ah-hehehe- noo-nohohohot..."

Lightheartedly, they tried to dismiss his comment. It made them even more flustered than they already were... And yet, he was quick to make his point clear again.

"Nono, hush now... you absolutely are, my nightshade."

Almost as if he wanted to prove it, he proceeded to ramp up the 'attack', now tickling gently at their sides as well. To keep them engaged, he constantly alternated between different movements - sometimes slowly running his fingers up and down, sometimes scribbling around in a more unpredictable way... even softly squeezing them. He could feel how much healthier in shape they've become when he did that. How they gained more weight compared to early days... it made him proud. He moved up a bit, trying to feel their ribs... less prominent, too. Their tail kept excitedly moving from side to side, a lot less stiff than how it used to be.

"Nuuuuhuuuuh- hehee...nooohohoooo...!!!!! Azuu-uehehee-Azuureeeheheh- aahaha-"

"Awh, shh... don't you hide that pretty smile now. No need to be ashamed, sunshine..."

They were enjoying this a lot, having fully given in... he was having lots of fun, too. He found it so sweet how even amidst their silly laugh, they still wanted to call out his name. He himself couldn't keep a sincere smile off of his face right now... Breeze tried to cover theirs up, though, making him shake his head in playful disapproval. He took ahold of their hands, effortlessly pulling their arms off to the side, holding them up in the air, before speaking up in order to reassure them.

The pause in the affection on their waist gave them some room to breathe, yet it left them a little disappointed... that didn't last long, however. Two more of Azure's tentacles hovered closer, beginning to run along their underarms, back and forth... Still holding their smaller hands in his, he felt how their grip on them tightened in response to the tickles...

"You're doing so well, hehe..."

He chuckled, gently rubbing their hands with his thumbs, observing intently... He couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness whenever he saw those scars which littered their arms, even if majority of them were healed by now. They still inflicted that upon themselves. And... he never wanted that. Heavy regret washed over him... Wishing he could've been there for them sooner. Or even... prevented everything altogether... If only he pried further, learned the truth about their 'ascension'... he could've saved both of them. But why? Why didn't he...?

"Awwh- awwhahaha- ehehe- Ahahazuu- Azuuureeehehe-!!!!"

...Their laughter snapped him out of that train of thought. No... he needs to focus on the present. On them. They're here now, safe and sound with him. That's what matters.

"...Yes, dear? Is something wrong?"

Perhaps influenced by his previous thoughts, a sudden bit of concern grew in him, wondering why they were calling his name again... Did they want to tell him something? Was this too much...?

"Nooohoho- aaahehe- I...I lo-ooho- I loove yooou...!!! Ehehee-"

...Quickly enough, those words lifted that weight off his chest, soothing his slight worry. It was a pleasant surprise to hear, filling his heart with so much pride and joy... He leaned down to give them a little kiss on the forehead, making them let out another giggle.

"Awwh, Breezy... I love you lots, too... More than anything in the world, hehe..."

He decided to let their arms down and move onto the next spot. The two tendrils now made their way towards their neck area, wiggling gently against their skin, trying to get to all the nooks and crannies... Breeze hugged onto them while being taken care of, feeling their slight squishiness that they liked so much. They instinctively tensed up their shoulders, as if trying to protect themselves... even if they didn't actually want this to stop. The soft nightshade petals that coated his vines provided an additional, light sensation to the mix...albeit unintentional.

By now, all their previous horrible thoughts turned to mush, washed far, far away by the waves of comfort that their partner's affection brought upon them. Exactly what he intended from the start. They trusted him so much in order to allow him to even do this, caress them all over like that... they would not react well if anyone else tried. Being a heavily touch-repulsed person, contact always caused them mild annoyance at best, intense discomfort at worst. He was well aware of that fact, but... he was a major exception to it. His physical closeness brought them much needed relief from their troubled mind. Even if they sometimes struggled accepting it, believing themselves not worthy... they really do crave it. They craved it all this time, missed his presence beyond measure... Azure felt the same way about them, unbelievably grateful he could hold them again... Help them heal after everything they had to endure.

He cupped their cheeks in his hands, his thumbs repeatedly brushing over them, knowing they were ticklish even here... Feeling them lean into the touch, he continued to poke around.

"You're beautiful, sweetheart..."

He uttered that with honest adoration, wholeheartedly taking in the sight of their features, their delighted expression... he can't get enough of it. When he placed another soft kiss on their nose, they only responded with more endearing giggles.

Soon, Azure deemed the job done for this side. He aided them with turning over, their body now entirely flipped around, laying on their stomach instead. Their arms held onto the pillow they rested their head on, reflexively hugging it tighter once he resumed his tender loving care...

The open-back shirt they were currently wearing undeniably gave easy access to that area... a canvas for him to paint on. He began lightly scratching all over it, drawing various patterns and shapes with his clawed fingertips. One vine slowly slid up and down their spine... from the back of their neck, all the way to the base of their bony tail. They momentarily flinched upon feeling the touch there, though not out of pain - it was simply extremely sensitive, along with the spots where their spawn wings sprouted from. He always made sure to be extra careful with those places, as too much force applied could feel unpleasant for them... However, if done just right, it proved to be very beneficial and soothing instead. Taking care of them was important due to the chronic ache and itchiness they still felt there... having your flesh and bone contort into new appendages isn't something the body gets used to easily. The countless times he had to witness their transformation back in that hellhole... not a pleasant sight at all to remember. But he shook off that thought. Again, he had to focus on the present.

He shifted his attention to their shoulders, relieving the tension they still held in their muscles by providing a gentle massage, occasionally catching them off guard by switching to a more ticklish motion for a brief moment. Proceeding to move further down, he finally reached the wings. Very lightly and methodically, he started rubbing the areas with just the right amount of pressure, tracing slow, lazy circles on them... With the tentacle, he did the same for their tail, which ceased its prior wagging, now resting off to the side in relaxation.

"Aaaw...hm... mmmhm... h...hehe...aawww..."

Their laugh shifted into a bunch of sweet, content hums. It felt incredible... If they could purr, they'd be whirring like a car engine right now. It's as if he was pouring out his love for them through every move, every touch... and they could feel it.

He thought his heart was about to burst from the overwhelming fondness he felt for them. They were just too adorable, too precious... He couldn't help himself anymore, deciding to deliver one final 'attack'. He took his hat off, thus losing his ability to speak, patting her as he settled her down. He shifted his position, practically laying down on top of Breeze - holding himself up a bit using his tentacles, though... in order to not crush them with his full weight. With his claws, he reached for their sides and gently scribbled on them again, simultaneously peppering little kisses all over their back... The zipper attached to his mouth unintentionally tapped against their skin with each quick peck. The long braids and hair made of vines did the same, shifting everytime he moved his head around.

"Aaweeheheee- Azuu...ueheheee- Azuuure- whaahaha- whaaahahat are yooou- uuahah- dooohohoing...!!! Daawww... aawwhahah...hehe..."

They burst out into another stream of happy giggles and coos... Azure only hummed and chuckled quietly in response. He nuzzled his head against them, his hands now changing their method to soft kneading. They melted into a little puddle of pure joy in his arms, barely even able to form a coherent thought anymore... He repeated the motions for a little while longer, before deciding to finally let them get some rest, feeling them grow a bit tired now. After all, cuddles are in order after such a thorough session of affection...

He made a change in his position again, resting on his side... Breeze was soon pulled close to him, encircled by his arms. They locked eyes with him - those slow blinks signaling how comfortable they felt right now - before curling up, snuggling their head against his chest. Once they settled in, his tentacles closed in, gently cocooning them... the feeling akin to being wrapped up in a living, weighted blanket. They disappeared near entirely in their beloved's embrace, only their head poking out... it was unbelievably cozy. He was well aware how much they loved this, how therapeutic this - and everything prior - was for them.

The room was quiet and peaceful... One of Azure's vines repeatedly pet their head, idly playing around with their fluffy, messy locks. Without words, the silent lullaby hummed by him communicated that it's okay - even encouraged - to take a nap right now, if they so desire. And so they obliged, shutting their eyes... It didn't take long for weariness to start taking over... The conditions were ideal for it. Their beloved's coziness that enveloped them was lulling them into a state of full relaxation, their breath turning slower and steadier, slowly drifting off into their well-deserved rest... In this moment, their tortured soul was at complete peace. Something they once thought they would never get to experience again... yet here they are, proven wrong.

Even as everything became hazy... one final thought still echoed in their mind.

Maybe, just maybe...

This was the true blessing they were meant to recieve.

♡

i die of death now. bye

also info ion thinj i have revealed on this blog yet. azure's hat has a name in this au, peony 🔥 it/she pronouns because why the fuck not

[moorlandwitch]

I always get asked “Why do you do what you do?” At every event, radio show, conference, article I write and podcast I film.

This inspired me to finally tell my story like I’m spilling tea in a nursing home. The good, the bad, the ugly and the destructive. So, let’s go…

At 16 I knew something was wrong with my brain and body. Coordination became harder. Balance was fading. My mind was a constant hamster wheel of anxiety that wouldn’t shut up. Hamsters don’t live long, but this little fucker did!

I was gaslit by hospitals and doctors. The very people that were meant to help me were as useful as a chocolate teapot.

Professionals now telling 18 year old me that if the final tests they were running came back clear, I was to be sectioned as a danger to myself as it was all in my head.

Hint: it wasn’t.

At 19 I was diagnosed with a rare disability that only 15 thousand people have worldwide called Friedreichs Ataxia.

Never heard of it? Me neither. I was handed a pamphlet and sent on my way! A three sided piece of paper that told me the worst things possible. By 20, I’d lose the use of my legs. 25, I’d be unable to speak. 30, I’d develop heart problems. 35, death!

So, it was good news. My life was over! Dramatic? Yes. True? No. But to my 19 year old brain it was very true.

By 20 I had totally sunk into depression and anxiety. Letting my demons play ping pong with the dark thoughts. I used every vice to numb my brain. Alcohol and drugs. Forgetting just for a second who I was. I didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to be me.

I needed to grieve the death of me. Who I thought I’d be and who I was. 2 funerals that was only happening to me.

Or so I thought.

It honestly takes a village. My family, friends and the disabled community showed me patience and love I didn’t feel like I deserved.

I was truly ashamed of who I’d become. Didn’t leave my house for two years! Just wanted to disappear.

Until the disabled community embraced me regardless. Showed me that they had been there too. I wasn’t alone.

All of a sudden I felt like I’d been found from being stranded in the wilderness. Spoken to with such understanding. Relatability. Reality. Truth.

What I thought disability looked like; the toxic, stereotypical, media representation couldn’t be much further from the truth. All these wonderful people weren’t meek, uneducated, monoliths with child like mentalities. Becoming an asexual object in society. Like a lamp. We are smart, confident, strong, opinionated, beautiful, accomplished, sexy human beings! Deserving of the exact same things abled bodied people are.

Now, my disability is very real. The timing is not!

I’m 28 with no speech issues or heart issues. And even though I chose to be a wheelchair user for my independence, my legs still work. My brain still works.

Perhaps too well. Anxiety, depression and ADHD still impact my life. My disability means I’ve learnt to listen to my body. Brain included. Meaning I’ve become more in tuned to knowing when my anxiety, depression, ADHD take hold. No matter where and when. I used to have panic attacks every day before university.

ADHD would (and still do) cause burn outs. Forgetting to eat, drink and sleep due to hyper focus. But it’s not what happens to you, it’s how you react to it. And I learnt patience, understanding, acceptance and love of myself. That was and still is the hardest one of all.

Love really is the strongest superpower in the world. Love changed my life. I have done things I never thought I would. Living alone, independently and doing creative projects I adore. I am proud to look in the mirror again.

Insecurities and imperfections happen. We’re human. But I love what makes a person imperfect. That’s beautiful to me. I would not take back the last 12 years because I don’t know who I’d be without them.

My podcast and the guests that I have on every episode prove to me and keep the message going that it gets better!

I need to get that on a shirt. The motto of my life. But it’s true!

Life isn’t fair and no one makes it off this world unscathed. That’s why I do what I do! Everyone’s got a story. Everyone’s got a journey to tell. To reach out to someone going through the same things, showing them love and hope.

If I can reach out, help one person feeling lost. The way I did. If I can walk them out into the light, then I’ve done what I was put on this earth for.

“That’s why I do what I do.”

No one’s alone and every person is loved and worth it!

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

Guilt and Shame:

A few months ago I wrote the below post on my journey of sobriety. Making my sobriety public was never what I had envisioned when I went crawling into AA defeated. I’ve been thinking a lot recently on my journey as a human being on this planet. It’s a beautiful thing. I’ve been thinking a lot on guilt and shame surrounding my slip up and I suppose I wanted to share with you more on that.

I have been invited to a recovery house in America to help them raise awareness and money for their charity. I of course jumped at the chance, after all, giving back is what we are lead to do. I would be lying though if I said I wasn’t terrified. 

The fear of admitting fault of feeling like I let down those around me. Writing this is terrifying but I’m trying to push myself out of my comfort zone and become more attune with me and what my higher power want’s me to do.

I suppose ultimately I want to share this with you as I’ve already opened the door to this part of my life and it seems vital that I continue to do so.

Fear is at the root cause of so many issues regarding addiction in my experience. 

I still have anxiety, yesterday I took the tube to see some friends and had to leave half way through my journey due to the overwhelming feeling that I may at any second pass out. Even at dinner this feeling was hard to shake. It’s hard to describe. I walk out on to a stage to talk with you all or play music or act and I feel little of this, however in daily life it can creep in so quickly. 

Whilst my consumption of marajuana wasn’t what I would call habitual I recognize that it was a poor attempt at controlling my own feelings, anxiety’s and stressors. Which is backwards because it wasn’t exactly helping with those things either as they still were there regardless.

Living the life I am fortunate enough to live now I recognize those things and how I respond to them now is with choice. 

I suppose writing this is an exercise in digging in, in recognizing the feelings of guilt and shame, in owning up to myself and to my world. 

The last thing I ever want to be doing is walking out in to my world with a lie. 

It’s hard to know how to end this post. I suppose a thank you would be appropriate, I have a deep love for the world and for people in it. I have a love for my world and my higher power and I was very much moved to write this.

With love.

Jamie

[silens-oro]

Well Enough Alone: Part VIII

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader (nicknamed Hawk) Prologue Cut the Loss (companion piece) Part I Part II Chicken Hawk (companion piece) Part III Part IV Trespassing (companion piece) Part V Part VI Slowly We Unfurl (companion piece) Hold on to the Thread (companion piece) But I'll Always Remember (pre-WEA companion piece)

Masterlist Pope Cody Playlist GirlDad!Pope Baby AU Masterlist

General Synopsis: Pope's acting up and Hawk is acting out. Word Count: 4.3k Content Warning: typical animal kingdom warnings AN: It's been a hot minute since my last update on this fic. I've been stuck in the baby au because this timeline is the bad place and I have been avoiding it like the plague lmao. As always, thank you to everyone who has reached out in some way or another about this fic and the baby au! please comment & reblog :)

“I don’t care what you have to do, Smurf, but you need to fucking fix this!” Pope demanded through gritted teeth at Smurf, inches from her face, as he held her against the kitchen counter. “Whatever bullshit that caused this, it gets fixed or so help me-”

“So help you what, Andrew?” Smurf sneered. “You watch how you speak to me. You are still my son,” Pope pushed his nose into hers, making Smurf take a step back. “And you forget just what I am trying to hold together here.”

“Three people almost got murdered last night -all for shit that happened twenty years ago that you tried to sweep under the rug. Fix. It.” He spat through gritted teeth. 

“I uh, god this is embarrassing.” Hawk started her false tale of how she got the wounds that covered her from head to toe. 

“You want to tell me what happened?” The doctor at the urgent care Hawk went to the next morning prodded at her brutally bruised rib cage. He kept glancing up at her, trying to gauge the situation as he assessed the extent of her injuries. 

“Got in a fight at a bar last night. I was sober, mind you, and I still lost,” Hawk winced when he poked at a particularly tender spot. 

“You sure did,” He said offhandedly. “You definitely have some fractures here, but we’ll need to take some X-rays to see what we’re working with exactly. And as far as the bruising on your face goes, that should settle down in the next couple of weeks.” He snapped his gloves off, tossing them in the bin before sitting on the rolling stool and sliding it closer to her. “And the nose should heal as is, too. Just try not to jostle it. Or get into anymore bar fights. 

“Believe me, I won’t be stepping foot in a bar again so long as I live.” Hawk could tell he didn’t fully believe her. She wouldn’t believe her, and he probably saw cases of DV coming in and out of here all the time, so when he asked his follow-up question, she wasn’t surprised. 

“I know the nurse asked you this before I came in, but are you safe at home?” 

“Yeah, I’m single and live alone.” She lied. “This isn’t domestic, just the consequences of some bad choices that I’ve definitely learned my lesson from.” 

Hawk was sent on her way after some X-rays that showed four fractured ribs. Nothing was chipped or floating, so that was good, but she was still in a world of pain so the doctor gave her a prescription for some painkillers and a pamphlet about resources for domestic abuse. She took both without a comment, other than a polite ‘thank you’.

Pope was waiting for her diligently outside, fingers tapping on the wheel anxiously, wishing he could be inside with Hawk, but knew the cops would be called expeditiously before he was given a chance to defend himself. Still, it irked him. 

He pulled up to the curb when he saw Hawk walk out of the automatic doors and got out of the SUV to help her get in. Pope opened the passenger door and was about to put his hand on her waist to stabilize her, but Hawk held a hand up to stop him. 

“I got it,” She snapped. It wasn’t his fault, not really, but she had so much pent up bullshit that any little thing was going to set her off. 

“Alright,” Pope breathed out, his hands waiting to catch her if she stumbled. It took her a minute or two, but Hawk got herself situated enough for him to gently close the door. He stared at her from the outside for a moment, watching as she attempted to put her seatbelt on before the belt slipped from her hands and clanged against the door from the inside. Hawk closed her eyes in frustration before trying again, then she sighed and sat back. 

Pope circled around the front of the car, anxiety still gnawing at him. He tried not to take Hawk’s response to him personally, but it was very hard not to -especially when he just wanted to help. He swallowed thickly when he got settled in the driver’s seat, looking over tomahawk, but she kept her eyes closed. 

“I love you.” Pope spoke softly, begging Hawk to open her eyes and look at him. Her hands were clenched into fists on her lap and he saw her nod just as tears broke free from under her lashes. 

Hawk wasn’t cut out for this life, not as a kid and definitely not as an adult. The inherent violence that surrounded the Cody family was part of the reason why she kept herself at a distance for so long, why she didn’t want to know anything about what they did. But now that she had Pope, there was bound to be some overlapping -she just never guessed that this is what it would result in. 

Pope never felt as selfish as he did in that moment, watching Hawk’s inevitable breakdown in the car and still wanting to hold onto her for as long as she’d let him. Hawk swallowed a sob, nodding almost frantically in acknowledgment. Her eyes still hadn’t opened but she unclenched her left fist and held her hand between them as an offering to Pope to show she wasn’t mad at him, just at the situation as a whole. 

“I love you, too, Pope.” Hawk whispered, finally opening her eyes to look at him. Pope placed his hand in hers, squeezing it to keep her grounded, as he pulled out of the parking lot. A heaviness settled between them on the ride home, neither knowing what to say, just that something needed to be said. 

It took until Pope pulled into their driveway before Hawk spoke up. 

“He would’ve killed her if she was there.” Pope glanced over to her as she huddled herself against the door, finding comfort in the solidity of the door against her back. “I don’t know what Smurf did to him, but the hatred he had, Andy…you don’t feel that without getting burned by someone. And as much as I hate to say it because she’s your mother, J and I both got burned by her because of this. I’m beyond angry. I’m beyond hurt. I’m never forgiving Smurf for this.” 

“You shouldn’t. What happened to you and J…” 

“I am.” She stressed. “Smurf can’t keep getting away with this, Andy. How many more people does she need to hurt? How many of us need to die before she gets put down?”

“We’ll deal with Javi, and then we’ll deal with Smurf. They’ll both pay for this, I promise you.” 

“I know you want to go after him. Believe me, I want that piece of shit and his cronies dead, but I can’t lose you if this goes sideways, Pope. Lena can’t lose you.” 

“J wants to go after them.”

“He can’t. You need to make sure he doesn’t.” Pope nodded slowly. “This is Smurf’s bullshit that she started. She deals with it or they deal with her. Either way, I never want to so much as look at her again, Pope. I mean it. I won’t hold myself back.” 

“You don’t gotta tell me twice.”

“Javi’ll get what’s coming to him, I know that much, but I’m not stupid enough to go back to prison on murder charges. Not when I have you and Lena to think about.”

Hawk spent the next week locked inside the house. She explained the situation to Jane, not the whole story, but enough to let her know she wasn’t going to be in the shop for the next week or two. She’d have Pope stop by if she needed anything, but Hawk was going to lay low for the time being. 

Pope had been distancing himself mentally from Hawk since the incident with Javi and she couldn’t put her finger on why exactly. He took care of her, nursing her back to health for the first two weeks until she was able to go back to work on light duty. He kept Lena out of the house at Hawk’s request for that first week -Hawk didn’t want to freak the poor girl out with how she looked, so Pope took Lena out and about, but she always ended up back at Baz’s. 

“You can’t hide from her forever.” Pope was becoming irritable with the fact that he had to keep Lena from the house. Did Auntie Hawk leave like mommy? Nearly threw Pope headfirst into the mental spiral he was trying to avoid. “She’s worried about you. She misses you.”

“I know,” Hawk sighed. The bruising had gone down and she was just dealing with soreness in her healing ribs and the remnants of a scab that was giving way to a scar on her upper lip that glared at her every time she had the courage to look at herself in the mirror. “I’m just…I’m struggling.” Hawk’s voice broke. “Mentally, I’m still under the water, fighting my way up but I don’t know where up is.” Pope tilted Hawk’s face up to look at him. His eyes were troubled and his shoulders sagged like he carried the weight of the world on them. 

“It’s handled.” Pope reassured Hawk, his thumbs ghosting over her cheeks affectionately. “He’s gone.”

“Doesn't make this any easier to deal with.” He nodded. 

Pope was sleeping less and staying out until all hours of the night. Hawk was usually awake when he crawled into bed with her, kept awake by nightmares of being held under, the phantom sloshing of water shooting her straight up in the bed when she did close her eyes. She never let on that she was awake, that she didn’t contemplate why he was out and where he was going just so she wouldn’t fall asleep again. 

Pope’s thumbs moved to the circles that weighed her under eyes down. Both of them were hanging on by a thread, each of them attached to one fraying end and eventually, one would drop. 

“Bring her tonight.” Hawk nuzzled her cheek against Pope’s palm. “She’s probably losing her mind with Baz.” 

Recovery was slow, but Hawk seemed to push through the worst of it. Lena was back at the house for most of the time now, and everything seemed to settle back into the way it was before the Javi debacle.

As promised, Hawk did not see or speak to Smurf. Her number was blocked and she didn’t answer the door anytime she stopped by. Hawk wasn’t sure what Pope told Smurf the last time she tried to brush her way past him into the house, but Smurf didn’t try coming over again. 

Tonight, Hawk had the house to herself. Lena was with Baz and Pope had been MIA for the better part of ten hours. To say she was on edge was putting it lightly. Pope started getting up earlier than he usually did and was gone by the time Hawk even cracked her eyes open. He didn’t answer her calls, and would respond with one or two words when she texted him, so she knew he was alive. 

Hawk’s nails were chewed down to the quick. They were sore, but that didn’t stop her from continuously gnawing on them nervously before she yanked them away, shaking her hands in irritation. 

It had been a week of this and Hawk was absolutely sick of it. Sick of the silence. Sick of the secrecy. Sick of not knowing. He’d usually turn up at two or three in the morning without a single word, would undress, then crawl into bed for a few hours before he’d get up and do it all over again. 

Something was very wrong with Pope. 

Hawk was startled awake by her ringtone as it blasted next to her ear. She was sprawled out on the sofa, her hand holding her cell near her face where she had fallen asleep. She sat up, rubbing her squinting eyes as she looked at the right screen before answering. 

“What?” Hawk sighed into the phone. 

“Is Pope with you?” Baz’s voice sounded front the other end. Hawk rolled her eyes as she stood from the sofa to go grab something to drink from the kitchen. 

“No he’s not, but if you hear from him, tell him he can stay at Smurf’s tonight.” She hung up the phone, eyeing a bottle of wine in the wine chiller before ultimately going for a glass of water. If Pope did drinks his way home that night, the last thing Hawk needed to be was drunk. 

For the second time that night, Hawk was awoken by a phone call. Her arm swung to the other side of the bed and was met with cold, undisturbed blankets. 

“Hawk?” J’s voice shouted over what sounded like a party. “Hawk, can you hear me?”

“J? Where the hell are you?” She pulled her phone away from her face and saw that it was nearing one in the morning. 

“Smurf’s! Listen, I have no idea where Baz is and Lena’s here-” at the mention of Lena, Hawk was up and moving through the house to the front door to grab her keys, her purse, and slip on a pair of shoes. Her pajamas left little to the imagination, but that was the last thing on her mind. 

“What do you mean Lena’s there? What the hell is going on, J? Is there a party at the house? Is Pope there?” Hawk knew the odds were probably that he was not, if the noise on J’s end was any indication, but she still hadn’t heard from him. 

“Baz threw a party. I don’t know why, but now he’s missing and Lena had a little accident. She’s fine!” He stressed. “Can you please come get her, though? I’d drive her to your place, but I’ve already been drinking and I think I’m the most sober person here which is troubling.” Hawk did not doubt that. 

“Yeah,” She sighed, trying to push away the headache that was already brewing as she locked her front door. “I’m on my way now. Keep her away from any crazy shit, please?” Hawk hung up and stared down at her phone. She still hadn’t gotten a response to any of the texts or calls she sent him since his last text at 1:47 that afternoon and it was worrying her more than she cared to admit. 

Hawk got angrier and angrier the further she got into Smurf’s house. The house had been turned into a palace of debauchery and every sweaty, inebriated body that bumped into her was one more inch she was pushed to losing it on the next person who touched her. 

“J!” Hawk shouted when she saw him passing through the kitchen back outside with Lena in tow, but her voice wasn’t loud enough to reach him before he was gone in the crowd. 

“Hawk?” She spun around to see Deran looking at her like she was a goddamn unicorn. “What are you doing here?”

“What the hell is this, Deran?” He winced at her tone, but tried to shove his beer into her hand. Hawk gently pushed it away. Her relationship with Deran wasn’t as cut and dry as it was with Baz, or even with Craig. Deran was jaded in a way only the youngest sibling could be, and while he had his hang ups, they generally got along -especially now that he had also cut (most) ties with Smurf to branch out and do his own thing. Now that he was a business owner, they now had one major thing in common. They weren’t close by any means, but they understood each other in a way that Baz and Craig didn’t. 

“Baz threw a party,” He said with a shrug, bringing the bottle back up to his lips. “If you're looking for Pope, he’s not here.”

“Lena’s here.” Hawk stated, anger brushing her expression. “Where’s Baz?” 

“He’s around here somewhere,” Deran did a glance around. 

“And Smurf?” He shrugged again. 

“Out of town. Didn’t say why, but Baz took it upon himself to do this. Stay for a while. Have a drink. Relax,” Deran drew out the last word before patting her on the shoulder. 

“I gotta get the kid out of here, Deran.” Hawk brushed past the youngest Cody brother, irritation permeating off of her. Moans caught Hawk’s attention and her head snapped to the left. Her feet took her down the hall and stopped in the doorway to the den. She couldn’t count how many naked bodies were gyrating and thrusting, moaning and screaming as the orgy before her very eyes took place. 

Hawk needed to grab Lena and get out now. She pushed her way out to the backyard, the sounds of screams and splashing water made her spine go rigid and her pulse quicken. Hawk’s breathing came out sporadically and she twitched every time someone jumped into the pool. 

Hawk pulled out her phone and called J as she continued to push past drunk party goers, praying he could feel or hear his phone in this mess. Something that sounded like ceramic shattered from inside the kitchen and Hawk closed her eyes, counting to five before heading outside before she started knocking heads together. 

“Hey!” J answered. 

“I’m in the backyard. Where are you? Is Lena alright?” 

“We’re in the driveway. She’s got a few scrapes, but she’s fine.” Hawk didn’t answer him as she stormed through the side gate and jogged back to the front of the house. 

Get to the driveway

Get to the driveway

Get to the driveway

Nicky and Lena were sitting on the brick wall that lined the driveway while J was checking out the scrapes on Lena’s leg. 

“Lena,” Hawk called out, her hands shaking as she reached for the young girl. Lena hopped down to the ground and sprinted towards Hawk. She wrapped her hands around Hawk’s hips and buried her face in her stomach. “Are you alright?” Lena looked up at Hawk as she brushed Lena’s hair out of her face with her fingers. 

“He tackled me,” Hawk’s eyes widened. 

“Who tackled you?”

“The man,” Hawk looked at J with fire dancing in her eyes. 

“What is she talking about, J?” 

“There was a car.” Lena answered before J could. “A man tackled me so I wouldn’t get hit.” Every single one of the adults in this house was going to be in for a very rude awakening when this all cleared up. 

“I’m just very happy you’re okay, sweetpea.” Hawk kissed the top of Lena’s head, holding to her stomach as Lena’s grip tightened around her.. 

“Why is she here?” J winced at the tone. “And where the fuck is Baz?”

“I don’t know, but Pope is on his way. I told him you were coming for Lena, but he said to stay here until he got back.” Hawk bristled at the mention of Pope. J saw the pinched look on Hawk’s face and knew she was beyond pissed. Her presence sobered him up instantly and he made the wise choice to be helpful instead of a hindrance. “Let’s go back inside. I’ll make sure a room’s clear for her and she can lay down, alright?” Hawk took a deep breath, looking between him and a guilty looking Nicky, before nodding. 

Hawk sat at the edge of the spare bed as Lena slept. How the kid slept soundly through the chaos outside of the door was beyond her, but it was best she wasn’t awake for the reckoning her father was going to get if he showed back up. 

The door burst open and Pope came through like a raging bull, making Hawk jump up in reaction. 

“Is she alright?” He kept his voice low, as if that would be the thing to wake her up. Hawk nodded. “Stay in here.” She didn’t question it, just nodded once more. Within moments, Hawk heard people stampeding through the house and when it finally quieted down, she stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her. 

The house was completely trashed. Food and alcohol covered every surface, anything breakable was broken, and it looked like a bomb had gone off in inside. Smurf was going to have every single one of their asses when she came back. 

Hawk wandered out to the backyard with purpose. She came across Baz as he was coming through the open gate that led to the pool area before Pope did and she laid into him without a second thought. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Pope appeared behind Hawk and grabbed her arm before she threw herself into a full falcon punch at Baz. She wasn’t the type to get physically violent, but he didn’t trust what her body language was saying at that current moment to put it past her.

“Coming in hot, Hawk.” Baz put his hands up, taking a step back.

“You left Lena by herself in the middle of all this shit?” Pope asked, looking around at the destruction left in the party’s wake.

“She was not by herself,” Baz motioned to J and Nicky. J shook his head, silently warning Baz. 

“Where were you?” Pope demanded, shotgun hanging in his free hand. 

“I was out looking for you.” Baz pointed to Pope. 

“Lena almost got hit by a fucking car, Baz! She’s scraped up and it could’ve been so much worse! What if someone tried to hurt her? There were a hundred people here, all of them strangers to her. There was an orgy in the den! What kind of fucked up Father of the Year award are you trying to go for here?” Hawk spat at him.

“Save it, Hawk. I don’t need parenting advice from you of all people.” Hawk huffed out a laugh, and Pope tightened his hold on her. 

“I’ve only raised kids whose parents couldn’t do their fucking job to begin with, Baz, yours included in case you’re forgetting that bit. I know a thing or two about the right and wrong way to do this. She had no business being here.” 

“Enough! I don’t need to listen to this shit from you, alright?” Baz raised his voice, trying to intimidate her into backing down -just like he used to do with Cath when he didn't want to talk about things. But what Baz failed to realize was that Hawk wasn't Cath, and she backed down from no one -Baz least of all. 

“Then be a fucking father, Berry.” Hawk ground out. Everyone that remained at the house watched the back and forth that finally came to a head between the two. “These are the traumatic memories that’ll be seared into her brain for the rest of her life. You don’t get a do over when you realize how much you’ve damaged your kid!”

“Are you speaking from experience with your star pupil over there?” He nodded to J, who narrowed his eyes at Baz. Nicky put her hand on his arm to stop him from advancing and making the situation worse. 

“No, Baz, I’m not. I can say, without a shred of a fucking doubt, that I did a stellar job raising J because I was present. I didn't drop him off to go run off with my boyfriends, or mistresses in your case. The absolute disrespect you have for your own fucking child for bringing her," Hawk pointed directly at Lucy, who was standing back from the group, watching intently with her arms crossed over her chest. "-around while Lena still cries herself to sleep wishing her mom was still here. It’s you and Smurf who’ve undone a decade and a half of work that I’ve put in, so let's not get that fucking twisted.” Hawk was fuming, seething, as she let out every bit of frustration she had been feeling. The look Baz gave her was lethal, deadly, and she knew that he knew she was right.

“Pope fall into that category? If I remember right, he’s the one who got J tied up in all of this so I hope you’re holding him to the same standard as the rest of us.” Hawk wanted to wipe the smug look right off of his face, and if Pope wasn't holding her back, she would've.

“Don’t go there, Baz.” J spoke up, keeping his anger in check. Hawk pulled her arm away from Pope’s hold.

"Enough." Pope's voice boomed with authority. He brought his attention back to Baz. "Where's Smurf?"

“Smurf’s in jail.” Baz finally admitted. Everyone stared at him like he just grew three heads. 

“What?” Pope questioned, not believing what he was hearing.

“Yeah, jail.” Baz repeated it like he couldn’t believe his own words. 

“I’m taking Lena for the night.” Hawk said, not leaving any room for argument from Baz. “Pick her up when you’ve figured your shit out.” With that, she stormed back into the house. J ushered Nicky to follow her and she did without question.

please comment & reblog :)

[m-jelly]

Helllooo, Idk if u still do nsfw but can i request Levi x Reader smut? 😏(But mix it with fluff)

Levi and Reader have been dating in secret like nobody in the survey corps knew about them dating. Then Reader and Levi had smexyyy time at Levi's office then Hange accidentally bust the door open revealing the two couple and Hange squels in happiness because they ship Levi and Reader for so long and then Hange spread the knews like a wild fire xD (you decide the ending)

Shocking lover

Levi x fem reader

Canon world, smut, fluff, being a couple, being caught, angry and protective Levi.

While having a very intimate time with Levi on his desk, Hange unlocks Levi's door and lets herself in. She interrupts the two of you causing Levi to go into protective mode of you.

Your nails dragged over Levi's back as his cock pounded into your pussy. Your toes squeezed tightly as you felt blinded by pleasure. You pushed your fingers into Levi's hair and tugged a little. Seeing the Captain of the scouts fuck you speechless made your heart race. This strong man worshipped the ground you walked on and after you took his virginity, he was an unstoppable beast when it came to sex and lovemaking.

Levi yanked you closer to him before crashing his lips against yours. He moaned against your lips as his heart fluttered in his chest. He gripped your hips tightly as he bucked into you on his desk. The desk creaked and groaned under the power of his thrusts, it even began scraping across the floor and leaving marks.

You leaned your head back pulling from Levi's lips as you moaned out loud. "F-Fuck, Levi."

Levi attacked your neck with bites and kisses; your name was a sweet song on his lips. "I love you." He grunted as your walls clenched him. "I love you."

You shivered as you felt a pop and a trickle of an orgasm wash over you. "A-Ah, Levi. Mm, I love you too."

He panted and lay you back on his desk, your head hanging over the edge a little. "Shit, you look like a goddess." He eyed your breasts falling out of your bra and your shirt yanked open. He flicked his gaze to his cock pressed into you, he dragged himself out a little to see he was glistening with your arousal. "Tch, fuck that looks good."

You ran your fingers down his chest. You gripped his open shirt and yanked him down to you. "You always look good."

Levi blushed as he panted. "Tch, I still don't understand how I managed to get you as mine."

You smiled. "You were sweet, kind, funny, sexy and handsome." You cupped his face. "So cute." You hummed a laugh. "I can't believe you wanted me. I'm not much."

"You are the most perfect and stunning woman I've ever met. I adore you." He turned his head and kissed your hand. "I love you."

You massaged your fingers in his hair. "Levi, I love you so much. Now, please cum inside me."

He blushed hard. "Tch, yes miss." He dove for your breasts and began sucking and biting while he snapped his hips against yours. "Mm."

You tugged on his hair as you wrapped your legs around him. "A-Ah."

"Holy. Shit."

Levi slowly lifted his head from your chest, his hips stilled as he stared at his office door to see Hange standing there. "Tch, how the FUCK did you get in!? My office was LOCKED!"

She grinned. "Key."

He yanked you against him protecting you from her gaze. He held you close as he stood up. "You're supposed to fucking knock!"

"Sorry, but this is amazing! I knew you two were the perfect couple. I have to tell everyone!"

Levi stared as she slammed the door and left you both alone again. He released you a little and looked down at your flustered and embarrassed face. "I'm so sorry." He caressed your cheek. "That shouldn't have happened. I locked that door." He dragged himself out of you and checked you over. "I'm really sorry. I'll make it up to you."

You smiled a little. "It's okay. It was bound to happen someday."

"I shouldn't have." He fixed the shirt for you. "Let me get you to the bath to clean up and I'll go murder Hange."

You hummed a laugh as Levi carried you to his bathroom. "No murdering."

"Bit of murder?"

"No."

He hummed. "Tiny bit?"

You laughed. "You're cute."

He helped you into the bath and handed you some cleaning things. "Thank you." He kissed your forehead and cleaned up quickly. "I'll be back later, my darling love, okay?"

You gripped the edge of the bath and leaned closer to him. "Don't hurt Hange too much, okay?"

He stared at you for a bit. "I can't promise that." He knelt and took your hand before showering it with kisses. "I loved you and I need to protect you. What Hange did to us was fucked up and wrong. You're incredibly important to me, so I need to put my foot down on her repeatedly."

You snorted a laugh. "Report it to Erwin. As a sorry we might get some leave, which means time together."

He gasped a little, delighted by your news. "Oh, you're right. I'll do that, but first I gotta kick her."

You patted his cheek. "Don't be too long, I want cuddles and you promised to cum in me."

Levi's pupils enlarged as arousal bubbled inside him. "I'll be fast."

@ladycheesington @levisbrat25 @nyxiieluna @li-anne @galactict3a @youre-ackermine @thebobaprincess @2moth-anon2 @cypidity @nbinairyn @bts-spnlvr12 @darkstarlight82 @emilyyyy-08 @levistealeaf @pelicanpizza @hideandgopeep @notgoodforlife @demonic-bird @searriously @dreamerofthewest @abiatackerman @minminroie

[bruisedboys]

Bucky who’s really good at calming u from bad dreams cause he gets them all the time himself🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ he knows all the tricks

aerial u literally sent this in yesterday and I already wrote it .. um I may have gotten a lil excited oops

bucky barnes x fem!reader, 1.1k words

Bucky has had his fair share of nightmares. For years he suffered through them alone — every night without fail, he’d wake trembling and sweating, swallowed up in the pitch black, his heart thudding so loud it was all he could hear. He’d either stay awake until morning or force himself back to sleep only to relive it all over again.

These days he has you, and it’s better. The nightmares haven’t ceased, though they’ve lessened significantly. And on the nights when he does wake up with his heart in his throat, you’re always there, either peacefully asleep next to him or half awake, reaching for him in the dark like you can read his mind. Sometimes you’re awake enough to rub his back or give him a half asleep hug. It helps more than Bucky would ever admit to you.

Tonight’s different. Bucky wakes up not to his own trembling, but to yours instead. You’re sitting up in bed, stiff as a board but shaking like a leaf. Bucky, a light sleeper at the best of times, is on you like a hawk.

He says your name and rushes to sit up, giving himself a wave of vertigo for a few seconds. He blinks it away, eyelids heavy and body heavier. His hand finds your back in the dark. “Honey, are you okay?”

It’s a dumb question. You’re shaking all over and he thinks he can hear you crying, though he can’t properly see your face. He feels you turn towards him and manages to find your arm, wrapping his hand around it.

“Sorry,” you whisper. Your voice trembles, too. It splits Bucky’s heart clean in half.

“What’re you sorry for?” He murmurs, not expecting an answer. He rubs your arm, not harsh but rough enough to help with your shakes. He gives your bicep a squeeze. “Bad dream?”

Your silhouette nods. “Yeah,” you say thickly.

Bucky hums. “Okay,” he says softly. The quiet fear in your voice panics him, but he keeps his head for your sake. “You’re okay, I’m here. Do you want to talk about it?”

He’s pretty sure talking about it helps, or at least it has for him, though he knows the feeling of wanting to forget the dream ever happened, rather than having to relive it by talking about it. He lets you decide.

“Um,” you swallow hard and scrub at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Not right now?”

Bucky wants badly to take your face in both hands and wipe your tears for you, but his other arm is on the dresser across the room, the dim moonlight reflecting on the smooth metal. He doesn’t feel like getting up, not when you’re this upset. Instead he pushes his good hand over the hill of your shoulder and finds your jaw.

His thumb slips over the apple of your cheek where he pushes away a few rogue tears. “Okay, that’s alright, doll. Do you want a hug?”

You nod viciously. “Yeah, please.”

Bucky gets his hand on your shoulder and tugs you towards him, pulling you into his chest. You push your arms around his waist, screwing your hands into his shirt like he’s your lifeline. He sure tries to be.

You press your cheek to his collar and mumble something that sounds like, “Thanks.” Bucky would ask what on earth you’re thanking him for, but you’re still trembling and he’d rather deal with that first.

He rubs your back diligently. Up, down, and up again, over and over until you’re not shaking anymore. It doesn’t take long — by now he knows exactly how to calm you down, knows exactly what works best. He slots his chin over the top of your head and holds you tight to his chest.

He’s completely willing to stay like this all night, until dawn slips through the gap in the curtains if that’s what you want, but it’s only a few minutes before you’ve stopped trembling. He’s about to ask if you want some water when you speak up.

“It was the same as always,” you say, so quiet he barely hears you.

Bucky guessed as much. Your nightmares nearly always consist of the same thing and they all revolve around him — he gets hurt, he dies, somebody comes to take him away, he disappears and you can’t find him anywhere. He hates that your brain is cruel enough to conjure up such scenarios, hates that it scares you so much, and hates that there’s nothing he can do about it.

He rubs your back some more.

“Yeah? M’sorry, honey.” He untangles himself from you and gets his hand on your jaw again, cupping your cheek. He studies your face though it’s partly obscured in shadows. You’re still beautiful even half swallowed up by the dark.

“Nothing’s happened to me,” he tells you firmly. “Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’m safe.”

You nod like you’re trying to convince yourself. “I know,” you say feebly.

The fear still lingering in your voice makes Bucky’s chest ache. He strokes your cheek, still damp with tears. “I promise, okay?”

He doesn’t know how many times he’s promised the same thing, more than he can count, but he intends to keep his promise. Nothing’s going to happen to him (or you for that matter), he intends to stick around as long as he can.

You nod around his hand, “Okay.”

Bucky pushes his fingers up into the space behind your ear and tugs you forward, palm to your pulse point. He ducks his head to press his mouth to your forehead and holds you there for a moment, breathing you in. He can smell your apple shampoo and the soapy laundry detergent scent that clings to your pillows. You take a deep, shuddering breath under him and then your shoulders go lax.

“Do you want some water?” Bucky asks after a long beat of silence, still half-kissing your hairline.

You shake your head no. “Just wanna go back to sleep. Will you keep hugging me?”

Bucky’s heart gives a tug, not unfamiliar but it aches anyway.

“Of course, doll.” He encourages you back into bed with him, laying down with your head on his shoulder and your arm draped over his stomach.

You curl into him, so close he can feel your heartbeat where your chest is pressed to his arm.

“Sorry for waking you,” you whisper, tilting your face up towards his neck.

“Don’t,” he murmurs. Sleep is overrated. Plus, he wants to be woken up when you need him. He’d rather lose sleep than know you’re suffering alone. “Nothing to be sorry for, doll.”

He pulls his arm round your waist and dips his head to kiss your hair again. You fall silent, and not long after, your breathing turns steady. Bucky stays up for a little longer, watching you in case you have another nightmare, though he won’t tell you that in the morning.

-

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed 🤍

[coolwyous]

┈─★ 𝙎𝙋𝙀𝙀𝘿. [ch 1: the stupid red mustang]

   ➴ wc + a/n: 4.4k. didn't mean to make the first chapter this long but y'all know how i get <3 hope you enjoy the lil prologue moment!

   ➴ taglist: @urmom2314 @iisayfa @s-p-e-c-t-r-e-s @mei2yok @xochitlisbest

   ➴ prev. masterlist. next.

you can pinpoint, with expert precision, when it was that your entire life began to fall apart. to figure out how it might end, you have to start from the beginning, and a part of you wonders if it was always going to be daniela avanzini that ruined everything for you.

your last few weeks before high school, and you’re stuck in detention. it had all started with a morning full of inconveniences. 

to begin, you usually carpooled with your neighbor, who happens to be your best friend, but she’s been hauled off to some stupid detention center after getting caught with weed, again, leaving you alone for the second half of senior year. friendless, aimless, and useless behind the wheel of a car as you drive yourself every morning, lucky to make it out of that chaotic parking lot alive.

the morning you got detention, you’re already running late, made all the more inconvenient when you’re cut off in the middle of the parking lot by a cherry red mustang. you lay on the horn to let her know she’s cut you off, but the boom of insanely loud rap music blaring out from the windows makes you think the driver isn’t listening.

“fucking idiot,” you snarl, your grip tightening around the steering wheel. the red mustang swings around recklessly to steal the parking spot you were eyeing. perfect. 

the new girl, who had transferred into your grade just after winter break, swings out of the car and heads into the building, unbothered by the interaction. you’re stuck seeking out another parking spot, only adding to your stress of being late again.

you try to make it to your homeroom on time, but you hear the disappointed tisk of your principal’s voice as soon as you think you’re in the clear.

“y/ln, this is the third time this week,” he had told you, writing something on a slip and handing it to you. “you know this means detention, and the next one is a truancy call, right?”

you grit your teeth and send a text to your parents that you’ll be home late. definitely not ideal.

you’d rather be anywhere but this empty classroom, embarrassed to be stuck under the hawk-eyed gaze of the dean. it’s you and a few other kids you recognize from fights or from skipping class. you try to keep to yourself, after all, being late doesn’t exactly fit into what the rest of these troublemakers get up to, but your hopes of focusing on your homework are shattered when you feel someone kick your desk.

then again, then again. you realize the person is bouncing their leg, and it’s causing your chair to shake with every movement.

“avanzini, another speeding ticket in the parking lot or what?” one of the guys grins, to which the dean quickly hushes everyone. you realize he’s talking to the girl behind you, the one shaking your desk. the new girl— avanzini, or whatever her name is. you’re perfectly happy with a small friend group, and hadn't made it a point to introduce yourself to her since she transferred, but judging by the fact that she seems to be a regular detention attendee, maybe that’s for the best.

nearly a half hour passes, but she’s relentless. her leg doesn’t stop bouncing, even once, rocking your chair the entire time. the dean steps out to take a phone call. you’re sick of her incessant kicking against the back of your desk, and finally spin around to snap at her.

“can you please cut that out?”

your eyes meet, and you feel a jolt through your entire body. the way she grins at you, her hazel eyes lighting up, is nothing short of absolutely dangerous.

“i gotta be somewhere real quick. vouch for me?”

“why would i do that?” you ask quickly, shocked by audacity.

all she does is lean in, flashing those bright white teeth at you, unafraid of being in your personal bubble, as if she has no boundaries. “i’ll owe you.”

“i’ll get in trouble,” you state the obvious.

“i’ll owe you a massive favor,” she presses on, and it’s painfully obvious she’s not the type who is used to being told no. 

“just go,” you shake your head. she doesn’t seem like the type you can reason with, this avanzini girl. 

you expect her to leave through the front door, so to your surprise, she bolts towards the window and messes with the hinges for a few moments before she manages to get it open. way too quickly, she slips out of the window without a second look back. you’re almost annoyed, that she sneaks out without so much as a thank you, but maybe she’s not worth the effort to stress over being annoyed with. 

a few minutes pass by, and the dean steps back in. he takes count quickly of the bodies in the room, and notices the spot behind you obviously empty. 

“where’s avanzini?”

“bathroom,” you lie quickly. the other students shoot you approving looks, but you’d rather disappear than to have them acknowledging you. the fact that you’re in this position because of this girl has you even more frustrated than the whole chair-kicking thing. 

the dean steps out once more to search the hallways, and within moments, the girl is tumbling back into the classroom, chest heaving. she’s breathing heavily as if she’s been running, or maybe something had scared her, or even both. she slips back into her chair, dropping her head onto the desk for a quick moment before lifting up to meet your eyes with her own. there’s something so intense in her eyes, something so mischievous and alluring at once, that you feel your pulse quicken.

“i owe you,” she says simply, flashing you a smile, before dropping her head back onto the desk for the rest of the hour. 

after that day, you see the red mustang in your school parking lot, but never cross paths with the girl again.

your best friend misses graduation, and you feel suffocated by the weight of another summer in your city alone, wasting your days trying to keep busy. you disappear once the summer ends, college taking over your life, the city forgotten for the next year until you’re back a summer later. same house, same routine, now a year older and a year wiser, hoping you can make it through the boredom of the summer before you head back to school.

your parents had kept your room exactly how you left it in high school, but there’s something very lame about being stuck a whole summer again in your parents house after a taste of freedom your first year in college. you know it’s only 3 months, and you’re lucky to have a place to come back to, but it’s still fair to be annoyed by, isn’t it?

you had just finished unpacking the last of your suitcases when you hear the thud of something against your window, a few taps in a specific pattern against the glass. living on the first floor, you there’s only one person who would be in your backyard, tapping against your window like that. you gasp and swing the window open, just like how you had done almost every day for the past 13 years.

and slipping into your bedroom is your best friend since you were 6 years old, smiling at you in a way that makes everything feel like it’ll be okay.

“heard you’re back in town,” she says nonchalantly, but you’re already scooping her up in a hug before she can ruin the moment. 

“megan,” your heart thuds at the sight of her. pink bangs covering her tired eyes, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, she’s exactly like you last remembered her. ”i thought i’d be stuck all summer without you.”

“you know, i was almost scared they wouldn’t let me out. good thing the judge was feeling super chill about bail,” megan grins, giving you a squeeze back, pointing down to the ankle monitor around her leg. “did you miss me, nerd?”

“you’re a whole ass adult now, idiot. this isn’t just juvie upgraded,” you laugh. “how’ve you been?”

“oh you know,” she shrugs. she digs around your nightstand and finds the secret book the two of you had hollowed out to hide your weed from your nosy family, a few pre-rolled joints hiding. she pulls a lighter out from the fold of her beanie, lighting the joint for the both of you. “remember how i told you i moved out after graduation? i have a spot in front of the shop that my boss rents out to me. it’s not too bad. you should come check it out. we can throw a party or something while you’re here.”

“ugh, i’m not gonna know how to act without you as my neighbor,” you groan and throw your head back, reaching for the joint as she takes a few hits and passes it to you. “you’re finally back and you won’t even be next door any more. i might actually miss you, loser.”

“i’ll miss you too. you kept me out of trouble,” she laughs. “my mom was so mad when you moved away for school. knew i was gonna end up doing stupid shit.”

“well, you’ve got me for 3 months, stay out of trouble until then?” you plead. “can’t go losing you. maybe i’ll have to keep an eye on you.”

you and megan had always joked about the curse that had followed her around— this beacon of bad luck, if something can go wrong for her, it usually would. you’ve tried to argue that she’d have better luck if she stopped making all these dumb decisions, but megan’s pretty set in her ways, and even if you worry about her, you know she’s scrappy enough to figure her way out of anything.

“you can come hang out with me at work. it’s slow,” she offers, taking the joint back from you. you watch as she inhales and holds it, doing silly little tricks with the smoke. “the other guys bring their friends all the time when the shop isn’t busy.”

“i won’t annoy you?” you ask. you know the job she’s talking about— megan, who had always been too hyper for any job that didn’t keep her constantly moving, got hired to work at some shady mechanic shop downtown through some burnout friends of hers. this was perfect for your best friend, who was always fidgeting with things, breaking them down, putting them back together, and the owner had even taken her under his wing and looked the other way with her track record. between the shop job and selling weed, megan kept herself decently afloat. 

you wonder if she’d ever be able to channel that energy into something more, but you know that’s a conversation she won’t want to hear.

“hell, you might even make some money. my boss is hiring— he wants a front desk person,” she tells you, nudging your shoulder. “i’ll put in a good word for you.”

“you want to be coworkers?” you question. “what, like we’re friends or something?”

megan pretends to gag, and the two of you laugh and pass the joint between yourselves for the rest of the night, chatting about her night in jail, comparing it to her months spent in juvie as a teenager. you tell her about college, about the friends you’ve made, and you take comfort in knowing that if you’re stuck back home for a summer, at least you get to be stuck with megan too. 

the next day, you’re at velocity automotives, painfully overdressed, talking to the owner and wondering how the hell this place hasn’t gotten shut down yet. it’s messy, tools strewn everywhere, and there’s no clear organization to how anything is set up. without a doubt in your mind, the messiness suits megan, who you see underneath a car in her navy blue coveralls as you talk to her boss about this job she’s setting you up with.

“all you have to do is take phone calls and book the appointments. i’ll handle the rest,” the guy says. he had introduced himself as viper, and at first, you thought he was joking— that is, until literally everyone there keeps calling him “viper,” and you realize he’s dead serious.

“you won’t be here?” you ask.

“i have other businesses in the city. i own apartments, laundromats, storage units.” he squints at you. “can’t be on desk duty the whole time.”

you nod, and hear a clanging noise somewhere behind you that makes you flinch. viper seems completely unbothered and keeps talking.

“it’s an easy job, so don’t expect to be a millionaire.” he goes on. “and the guys will probably hit on you. just ignore them.”

you grimace, but the pay is decent, and the job is easy enough, plus anything that keeps you busy while letting you spend time with your best friend sounds like a huge win. 

“there’s one more thing,” he says. “i need you to stay in the apartment, above the shop.”

the request catches you insanely off guard. “why?”

“some bullshit from the city,” he gripes. “i have to prove it’s a residence or else they’ll make me pay taxes on it as part of the business.”

“you’re offering me a job and a place to stay?” you question. “what’s the catch?”

“didn’t think you’d sound so eager. you’ve got grit, kid. maybe you are skeindiel’s friend after all,” he grins, before issuing another warning. “it’s not luxurious, and those motorheads get loud at night.”

“um, i grew up on sleepovers with megan. that girl snores like she’s dying,” you reassure him. the arrangement is almost too good to be true.

“how soon can you start?” he asks.

“how soon can i move in?” you counter.

viper smiles once more, a gold tooth shining in his grin. “welcome to velocity. i think you’ll fit right in.”

“why the hell are you dodging all my calls?” megan asks you after you finally pick up after her 6th call of the night. she sounds exasperated, and sure, you could have used her help lugging the few suitcases of your belongings up the stairs, but the surprise you’re about to give her is worth the evasion.

“look outside,” you tell her simply, pulling back the blinds on your window.

“what exactly am i looking for?” she asks, and you can see her nose wrinkle confusedly over the facetime call. this is one of the things you love about megan, her simplicity, her occasional cluelessness— hell, she was so focused on working on that damn car from today, she didn’t notice you slipping in and out of the door as she worked, moving all your stuff into the building literally right over her head as she tinkered away.

“hi neighbor,” you grin out your window.

“no way.” megan flashes a bright smile at you from her window as she spins around, her eyes meeting yours. your places are just a block away from each other, and you’re able to see her through the window, clear as day.

“this is so cool,” you say, admiring the place. sure, it’s just as dingy as viper had warned you, but for a studio, it beat a dorm room, and it way beat living with your parents for another summer. “we should go thrift furniture together. my place is empty as hell.”

“did you get a mattress up the stairs by yourself?” she asks.

“uh, no. there was one in there,” you answer awkwardly.

“y/n, fuck no, sleep on the couch or something,” megan’s eyes nearly bug out of her head on screen, making you laugh. “who knows what’s been done on that mattress.”

“okay, like the couch is gonna be any cleaner,” you roll your eyes, but you make a mental note to prioritize a new bed. “hey, what’s viper’s real name?

megan shrugs. “i dunno. never asked. just assumed his mom loved him enough to name him something badass like that.”

“you’re so dumb,” you laugh.

“wanna come over?” she offers, and you hear the flick of a lighter. it’s the megan you know, constantly smoking, to the point that the sound brings you comfort. “you can spend the night, we can get you a blow up mattress or something tomorrow.”

“and watch you play grand theft auto while you hotbox me out?” you laugh, gathering a few of your things into a backpack. “fine, i guess. see you in a sec, neighbor.”

your first week on the job goes mostly without a hitch.

part of that is mostly thanks to megan, who’s made it her personal mission to make sure you don’t quit within a week, and that starts with making sure all her coworkers leave you the fuck alone. 

“how long til you let the first one of us hit?” one of the younger guys asked, tapping his fingers against your desk, knocking the cup of pens off the table with the vibrations. 

“aw bro, if she already let viper hit to get this job, i don’t wanna get in on his sloppy seconds.” the other one eggs on, and you grit your teeth trying to ignore them both as you clean up the spilled pens. you’re hoping the silent treatment will be enough of a hint to leave you alone, but thankfully, you don’t have to wait around and find out. 

megan is slinking through in front of your desk, shoulder checking the first guy out of her way and reaching to grab the second one by his collar. her grease-smeared fingers grip tightly onto his shirt as she yanks him towards her, and you can see the surprise in everyone’s faces at how fast she’s turned this into something bigger.

“talk to her like that again and i’ll crush you under the fucking car jack,” megan threatens, her voice cold and even, her head lazily rolling back and forth to stare between the two of them. 

“damn bro, relax,” the guy holds his hands up, trying to prove he’s no threat. “didn’t know you were sober enough to be listening, skiendiel.”

“wish i could be high enough to tune your annoying ass out,” she grits irritatedly. she drops her grip on his shirt, and by that point, half the shop is busy staring at you, but she clearly isn’t bothered. “if anyone else pisses off y/n again, we’re going to have a fucking problem.” 

“i can fend for myself,” you tell her, mildly frustrated. if she’d just let you ignore them—

“i know,” she says simply, scooping your pens all back into the cup and handing them back to you. “but i made a promise.”

“we were like, 12, meg,” you remind her.

she shrugs, reaching behind you to grab another key off the keyring, starting on her next car. “promise is a promise.”

you shake your head, but leave it at that. you’ll unpack that night another time, your promise with megan to always look out for each other, but for now, you’ll be secretly grateful— the other guys in the shop leave you alone from that day on.

you haven’t figured out the mattress situation, but it isn’t the worst thing in the world. between naps on your couch and crashing at megan’s, you’ve gotten into a cozy enough routine that makes you think your time back home might not be all that bad. sure, viper was unfortunately right about the noise, but you’ve learned to predict the patterns of when the cars will pull up and disrupt your night.

megan’s usually too high to care, or she’ll be too busy playing video games to be bothered, but she’s never really batted an eye at the revving, claiming the noise calms her. you’ll peek out the window just to keep an eye on things, and you’re starting to pick up on a pattern. in the parking lot of the autobody shop, usually around 9pm, you’ll see a bunch of cars pull in and circle around each other.

among them, a bright red mustang.

“hi, thanks for visiting velocity automotives.” your line is too easy at this point, after nearly two weeks of the job being steady and predictable. “what services are you looking for?”

usually, it’s tune ups and oil changes, maybe a tire rotation or a trouble shoot, but about a week after you started, you start to hear the phrase: “i’m here to see megan.”

and that’s it. viper told you that for any appointment where they ask for megan, take down their info, and open the “special schedule.” it’s weird that he’s having you start this, and he changes megan’s schedule while he’s at it, but she doesn’t seem to bothered. it almost starts to feel like it’s code for something, i’m here to see megan, but the girl herself isn’t raising any flags for you.

“what exactly is it that you do?” you ask, hanging back one day to join her for one of those evening sessions. “and how come you only take appointments after 6pm? isn’t it kinda random that you’re the only person that has to work a night shift?”

“i like motorcycles better, honestly,” she tells you, her tongue poking out from her lips in focus as she leans over the hood of her current project, tinkering with the engine.  “i’m just good at mods. viper thinks it makes more sense for me to work nights and do only mods instead of waste time doing oil changes. leave the easy stuff to the idiots.”

“‘cause you’re just that good or what?” you tease.

“i’m just that good,” she grins back. “and he’s paying me good shit too. not a bad deal, honestly.”

“all to make people’s cars look cooler?” you question, watching as she gets into the driver’s seat and cranks the key. the engine rumbles, and then revs like a creature coming to life. megan’s eyes light up like a kid at christmas at the sound.

“make them look cooler, sound louder, drive faster. you’d get it if you cared about cars, y/n, but i guess you’ve always been a loser,” she teases, giving the engine another rev. 

“i’ll leave the car shit to you,” you laugh.

you hear the ring of the door opening, and the response comes out like you’re on autopilot. you’re too busy trying to decipher viper’s weird ass text about ordering more parts (since when was that part of your job?) to bother looking up.

“hi, thanks for visiting velocity automotives,” you say quickly. 

“you.”

the voice is familiar, strangely so. you finally look up, and piercing into you is none other than that intense, sharp hazel stare. she’s grinning, wider and wider the longer the two of you lock eyes. her tongue peeks out quickly to swipe along her bottom teeth, the gesture cocky and eager all at once. 

“and here i was heartbroken thinking i’d never see your face again,” she smirks, leaning over the countertop to tilt her head down and meet your gaze. her keychain dangles from the tip of her finger, inches away from your face. you feel paralyzed, and that stare, confident and unbreaking, makes it even harder to form a coherent thought. 

“service?” you finally breathe.

you remember her clear as day, even with it being over a year now since your detention together. avanzini, with the red mustang and that dangerous crooked smile. 

“i’m here for megan,” she says easily, pointing behind you at the mechanics hard at work within the shop. 

“she’ll only take mods after 6 pm,” you inform her. 

avanzini raises her eyebrow, a perfect arched brow. she gives you a quick once-over, and you feel exposed under her gaze. “will you be there?”

“no,” you say quickly. 

“damn shame,” she clicks her teeth, tapping her fingers on the counter. “set me up for her next opening. please.”

“she can fit you in tomorrow,” you offer, checking the off-hours schedule.

“what’s your name?” she pivots quickly, as if she didn’t even hear your question. her eyes are so, so intense scanning over you, like some sort of predator sizing you up. “you never told me, that day, you know.”

“y/n,” you yield quickly, almost hoping the conversation can end now. “do you want that appointment or not?”

“why won’t you be there?” she presses on, leaning in further again. it reminds you of your first meeting, the way she invades your bubble as if she has no concept of personal space.

“uh, i don’t spend all my time at work,” you state, as if it’s obvious.

“so then what are you doing tonight?” she asks quickly, arching a brow.

“um-” you’re not fast enough to come up with a response before she’s jumping in, cutting you off again, tapping her fingertips inches away from yours to get your attention. 

“come to a car show. by the amusement park next to the pier,” she tells you quickly, one more glance up and down. “dress up. they’ll have drinks and music, and a shit ton of cool cars.”

you don’t know what possesses you to even consider it, but your brain goes foggy with how close she is to you, the pure magnetic pull she exudes. the words leave your mouth before you can even think to catch up with your mouth.

“will you be there?” 

she grins, tongue poking out from behind those perfect white teeth. “of course i’ll be there.”

“i’ll think about it,” you say simply.

“don’t break my heart, okay?” she puts a hand to her chest, pouting exaggeratedly at you. “i’m counting on you. don’t think i forgot about what i owe you. i’m good on my word, alright?”

realizing you only know her by her last name, your next words slip out just as quickly as your first one had.

“what’s your name?” 

“you know my name,” she responds too easily, and your chest pounds in response. 

there’s a beat of silence between the two of you, as she keeps eyeing you, and you wonder what could possibly left of you that she’s looking for. she grins one last time, pushing off the countertop to finally get out of your bubble. 

“daniela. you can put me down for tomorrow, 7pm,” she adds. she swings the keychain one last time on the first knuckle of her index finger, before catching it in her hand and slinking out the door, like a shadow slipping back into the night. “but i’ll see you, tonight, y/n.”

you feel your heart race. if that smile is enough to go off of, trouble might just have found you.

[howiswhatawhy]

WYD Now? - Bucky Barnes x reader

Pairing: childhood bestfriend! Bucky x singer! reader

A/N: I love him so much your honor. Literally can't stop writing for him. This is based on WYD Now? by Sadie Jean. It's such a beautiful song, I couldn't stop listening to it ever since I rediscovered my Bucky playlist. I put more thoughts into this than the last fic and I hope you like it<3

Playlist in question: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5A4PA2qyqdiJJibwfeaojl?si=236b0a08fd0f4670

Summary: You think you see Bucky watching your show after years of no contact. It's probably just your imagination, so why can't you shake off this ache in your chest? Word Count: 2.9k Warnings: fuckboy bucky, whole lotta angst + much more longing, childhood bestfriends to strangers to lovers. not proofread (again)

I saw you in the back of my show last night

Standing underneath the exit sign

I know it wasn't really you though

'Cause you were always in the front row

The stage light shines almost blindingly. You’re used to it now, though. There was a time when it was overwhelming, almost daunting, to be in the eyes of so many people. Back then, Bucky was your rock. The anchor that kept you grounded. The calm in a world full of storms. 

But now, the thrill excites you, the heat of the spotlight feels like home. You’re not sure which you crave more, the rapt attention of a thousand strangers or the careful, loving gaze of just one person. Your person. Bucky. But if you just let yourself really listen to your heart, you’re almost sure you’d choose the latter. 

Almost.

Your gaze drifts beyond the crowd, past the stage lights and into the shadows at the edge of the room. That’s when you see him. Leaning against the wall beneath the dull red glow of the exit sign, arms crossed, eyes on you like he never left. Like he never broke you.

And then, he’s gone.

You’re probably just imagining it. Bucky wouldn’t be here, he had better things to do than to haunt your show like a ghost. There was a time where Bucky would be at every front row seat of your shows. Granted, the venues were small, maybe three rows total, but he was there. Always.

You don’t really know what happened. It doesn’t matter anyways. How could anything matter that much—enough to cost you him? But what’s done is done. There’s no taking it back. No turning back the time.

So now, you focus on the moment. Focus on performing. Because that’s what you do best. Perform. In front of thousands of eyes. In front of no one. In front of the mirror. You perform. Pretending to be okay.

——

And I've been looking for love online

And maybe some of them are real good guys

They're never gonna be like you though

You set the bar above the moon so

It’s not like men are all bad. It’s just that they’re worse, comparatively, when your bar was set by Bucky Barnes. And you did try to find love. Tried to move on. Tried everything just to feel something. But nothing you did ever came close. Close to the way he made you feel when he held you when you thought the world was against you. Close to the way he made you feel when he accidentally brushed his hands against yours, and it felt like lightning had just struck you both. Close to the way he made you feel just by looking at you, like you’re the only damn person in this Earth. And to him, that was true. It is true. At the very least, you’re the only person that ever mattered to him. You were his world. His safe place.

But none of it matters now.

Because even as you stand here, surrounded by the lights and the crowd, that feeling is gone. All that’s left is the echo of it. A memory of what once was, and the ache of never finding it again. 

You try to move on, to pretend you don’t still hear his voice in your head, whispering that you’re not alone, that everything will be okay. But the truth is, no one has ever made you feel the way he did. 

No one ever will.

——

Now that you finally got the job you like

I'm making money off the songs I write

I know you said that I could call you

I wonder if you wanna call too

Someone said he was doing well. That he finally got into that company he wanted and he finally escaped the hellhole. You heard it through a friend of a friend, like a whisper in the wind. You wonder if he’s really happy. You hope he is. You really really do.

You’re doing alright too. In a way better place than you were before. Sometimes it all feels like a dream, a mixture of your worst nightmare and the version of your life you used to write about in your journal when you were fifteen. He said you could call. You remember the way he looked at you that night — tired, unsure, but still trying. “You know, whatever happens… you could always call me, right?” You nodded back then. Maybe even believed it. But people say a lot of things they don't mean. Still, some nights your fingers hover over his name. Just in case. Just in case he meant it. Just in case he still would pick up.

——

Now that the future doesn't feel so far

It doesn't seem as wrong to want what's ours

And after everything that's happened

I wanna put it in the past tense

People grow. They grow and they change and nothing is ever constant. You knew that. You knew that better than anyone else. Even if sometimes you felt like you might forget about it, the constant ache—the ache your father left when he walked out the door—never truly let you. It sat there, quiet but insistent, like a low hum beneath every laugh, every moment of joy, every silence. 

That didn’t stop the teenage you from hoping, though. It didn’t stop you from looking at Bucky like he was the exception to every rule, like maybe he’d be the one to stay. You held onto that hope with both hands, white-knuckled and desperate, because something about him made you believe in forever, even when you knew better.

You and Bucky stopped being friends three years ago. Though if we’re being honest, you and Bucky stopped being friends long before that. Not if you count the longing you carried like a secret, folded tight in the corners of your heart. Friends don’t look at each other that way. 

And he looked at you too. God, he did. In the way his gaze lingered when you talked, in the way he remembered things you said in passing like they meant everything. But Bucky Barnes was a walking contradiction. He flirted with everyone, kissed girls at parties like it didn’t mean anything, and smiled at you like you were the one exception. You never knew if you were special or just stupid.

And you were both too proud—too scared—to ask.

The night everything fell apart, it wasn’t a fight so much as a slow, sharp unraveling. You watched him leave that party with someone else. Again. And for once, you didn’t pretend it didn’t hurt. You didn’t smile through it or wait up or brush it off when he stumbled back into your life a week later with a half-assed apology and tired eyes.

You didn’t say anything at all.

Then, something shifted. You stopped answering his texts right away. Stopped showing up to places just because you thought he might be there. You started saying no when he called late at night, asking if you were up, like he hadn’t just spent the evening with someone else. You weren’t cruel, you never could be, not with him, but you were distant. Careful. Like someone learning not to touch fire, even if it still called to you.

Bucky noticed. Of course he did. You saw it in the crease between his brows when you laughed a little too loudly at someone else’s joke, felt it in the way he started watching you from across the room like maybe you were slipping out of his reach. And you were.

He tried, in his own way.

Cornered you in the kitchen at Sam’s birthday party, leaning against the counter like it wasn’t taking everything in you not to look at him. Like he hadn’t been circling you all night, waiting for a moment when you weren’t surrounded by other people. Other distractions.

“Did I do something wrong, baby?” he asked, soft and unsure in a way that didn’t match his usual confidence.

Baby.

There’s that word again. Your heart stuttered, traitor that it was.

But you didn’t show it. Just shrugged, cool and quiet, like the sound of that word didn’t carve straight through you.

He called everyone that. Baby. Sweetheart. Doll. It didn’t mean anything. At least, that’s what you told yourself. That’s what you clung to when your throat got tight and you couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

“No,” you said finally, voice calm. Distant. “You didn’t do anything.”

But your chest ached with everything you didn’t say.

You wanted to scream yes. Yes, you did. You made me feel like I mattered and then reminded me I didn’t. You made me believe in something, and then left me to carry it alone. But instead, you stayed quiet. Because if you said any of it out loud, you weren’t sure you’d survive hearing his answer.

He stood there a moment longer, waiting. Watching. Maybe hoping.

Then he nodded, pushed off the counter with a quiet sigh, and left you there with your silence.

And eventually… he stopped trying.

But some things don’t end just because you stop talking.

The wanting never really left you. It dulled, maybe. It muted itself into something quieter, more manageable. Something you could pack away between polite smiles and half-meant goodbyes. But it never died.

Because every time you hear his name, your heart still flinches. Every time someone mentions him in passing, you feel your pulse skip like it used to. You still remember the sound of his laugh, the shape of his mouth around your name, the way it used to feel like you were the only two people in the world.

And you’re tired. Tired of feeling like nothing could ever compare. Tired of longing for the ghost of him. No, not the ghost of him. Tired of longing for him. The real him. You’re tired of pretending it was only ever a phase. A crush. A moment you’ve outgrown.

It’s been 3 years of missing him and many more years of longing for him. So you decided you had enough of it. You tried getting rid of the wanting, but it didn’t work. You tried distracting yourself, that only made you miss him more. You tried being mad, really mad. Told yourself he didn’t deserve that kind of space in your chest. That if he wanted you, he would’ve said something. Done something. Chosen you. And that just left you feeling unwanted.

But there’s one thing you haven’t tried: talking to him.

So you do.

You don’t think. Don’t overanalyze or rehearse a speech in your head. You just pick up your phone and press his name before you can talk yourself out of it. Before fear and pride and all the years between you can pull you back under.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

“Hello?”

Fuck. dontcrydontcrydontcrydontcry.

“Doll, you okay?”

And you just sob.

——

‘Cause I don’t wanna be 20-something

And still in my head about

17 in my bedroom talking

It took Bucky exactly 9 minutes to get to your place. You didn’t even tell him where you were. Didn’t need to. The moment he heard your sob, he didn’t hesitate. 

“I’m on my way. Stay on the phone with me, okay?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t, not with the lump in your throat and the way everything you had been holding in was spilling out. But you stayed on the line, the sound of your shaky breaths mixing with his muffled voice on the other side.

You barely remember the time passing. You only know the next thing you hear is the sound of your doorbell ringing—quick, urgent.

Bucky.

You rush to the door, barely pulling it open before he’s already there, eyes wide with concern. His face is soft, but there’s something tense in the way he looks at you.

This brings you back to when you were 17. Crying in your room over something small that happened. Bucky would hold you and wipe your tears away. Then he would try to talk about everything and nothing at the same time, to get you out of your head. And it worked. Every problem felt small when you have your Bucky Barnes next to you.

But you’re not 17 anymore. And it’s hard for Bucky to comfort you when he’s the reason for your broken heart at the first place. 

“Tell me what’s on your pretty mind, sweetheart,” Bucky tries.

He says it like it’s still easy. Like no time has passed. Like you haven’t spent the last three years trying to forget the way his voice used to sound wrapped around your name.

You blink at him, eyes glassy, heart pounding so loud you swear it fills the whole room. You want to yell at him. Kiss him. Tell him to leave. Beg him to stay. You want to do everything and nothing at the same time.

“You,” you whisper. It’s all you can manage at first. “You’re what’s on my mind.”

His face shifts. Like the words punch the air out of his lungs.

“All the time,” you add, voice breaking. “You’ve been on my mind for years, Bucky. And I tried—God, I tried so hard to forget. To move on. But it always comes back to you. It’s always you.”

He steps forward, cautiously, like you’re made of something fragile and he’s finally figured out he’s been the one cracking you all along.

“I didn’t know,” he says, voice low. “I swear, doll, I didn’t know it hurt you that much. I thought…” He trails off, jaw clenched like he can’t bring himself to finish the thought. “I thought you didn’t want me.”

You laugh, bitter though you don’t mean it to be. “I wanted you so much it hurt.”

And maybe that’s all it takes. For everything to unravel. For the silence to finally shatter. Because when he reaches for you again, you don’t pull away.

——

You said that by now we’d

Paint the walls of our shared apartment

You’re still everything I want and

I think we can work it out

“I used to picture it, you know,” he says, voice low. “What it’d be like if we ever figured it out.”

“Our place,” he says. “Some shitty apartment with a leaky faucet and bad lighting. But we’d paint the walls. Together. You’d pick the palette, I’d botch the corners.”

The image of it burns your brain. God knows what you would give to have that. The sheer domesticity of it all.

Bucky had been everything you’d ever wanted. He is everything you’ve ever dreamed of. And maybe that’s the problem. Dreams aren’t built to last in real light. Not when they’re made of “almosts” and “what ifs.”

But he’s sitting next to you now, limbs tangled and his thumb is brushing your cheek. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks next. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice barely more than breath. “For the way I hurt you.”

Your eyes stay on him, even as his stay fixed on the floor. His thumb stills against your skin.

“I didn’t mean to. I just... I didn’t know how to stay when things got hard. Didn’t know how to hold something good without breaking it.”

He’s quiet for a long beat, thumb stilling against your cheek. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, like it’s scraped against something sharp on the way out.

“I thought you didn’t want me,” he says. “Back then, I really believed that. I thought you were done. So I didn’t push. Just let you leave and followed you around like a shadow, watching from the edges, never able to find the courage to fix what we had."

You blink, caught between disbelief and the ache that’s never quite left.

“I should’ve asked. Should’ve fought harder,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper. “But I didn’t know how. And maybe I was scared too. Scared that if I looked too closely, I’d find out I was the only one who felt everything I felt.”

You take a shaky breath. It feels like the first real one you’ve taken in years. “I wanted you,” you say quietly. “I still do.”

His eyes flicker down to your mouth, then back up again, searching your face like he’s making sure this is real. Like he’s afraid to ruin it by wanting too much.

“You still do?” he whispers, almost disbelieving. You nod, just once. “Yeah.”

That’s all it takes.

He leans in slowly, carefully, giving you time to pull away, to say no, but you don’t want to. Not when it’s everything you’ve been wishing for all your life. You tilt your face toward his, eyes fluttering closed just as his lips brush against yours. It’s not rushed or desperate. It’s quiet. Careful. Reverent.

His hand slips from your cheek to the back of your neck, cradling you gently as he deepens the kiss, just slightly, just enough to feel like home. And when he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. “I missed you,” he murmurs. And you allow yourself to dream once again, a much more real and grounded dream. Maybe we could work it out this time. He leans back a little, studying you with that half-grin that used to undo you. “So,” he murmurs, like he’s trying not to smile too much, “what are you doing now?”

[starkeyslibrary]

CHASING MAYBE

pairing: bsf!reader x rafe

word count: 3.1k

authors note: i had two similair requests in my inbox and decided to combine them! hope you don’t mind!! 🙈thanks for the requests! <3

The party was already packed when you and your friend strolled in – loud music shaking the windows, neon lights spilling across sweaty bodies, and someone already yelling about running out of White Claws.

You roll your eyes. “Five bucks says that’s JJ.”

Bri laughed beside you, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Ten bucks says he drank them all himself.”

“Fair.” You said, grinning as you linked arms with both Bri and Lex. “Now, ladies – remember the mission. Free drinks, good lighting and no catching feelings.”

Lex wiggled her brows. “Too late for you, babe. Someone’s already staring.”

You didn’t have to ask who. You already knew. Rafe Cameron, over by the pool table, was watching you like you hung the damn moon – same cocky smirk, same slightly tilted head like he was trying to figure you out.

You arched a brow. “Let him look. Doesn’t mean he gets to touch.”

You made your way through the crowd, laughing at nothing, catching attention like a walking power trio. Inside the kitchen, you grabbed a red solo cup and poured yourself something strong.

“Cheers to bad ideas,” Bri said, lifting her cup.

“To being the problem, not the plan,” Lex added

“To not catching feelings,” You said, clinking their cup.

Half an hour later, you were leaned against the counter, cup still in hand, while your friends danced in the living room. You were mid-scroll through your phone when you caught the stare. Again. This time, shameless.

“You keep staring, Rafey, I’m gonna start charging you,” you called over your shoulder without turning.

Rafe smirked, sauntering towards you with that damn smug walk like he’d just scored the game-winning shot.

“You wearing that just for me, sweetheart?” he asked, eyes dragging down your fit.

“Please,” you scoffed. “This is for me. You’re just collateral damage.”

He grinned. “Yeah? Funny, because you’ve been looking at me like you wanna cause some.”

“Only to your ego,” you fired back with a sharp smile. “It’s gotten dangerously swollen lately.”

Topper whooped from the background, and Rafe just shook his head, sipping from his own cup as he leaned a little too close.

This was your thing — banter with teeth, glances that lingered, touches that almost crossed a line. But it was always safe, always wrapped up in a joke. Neither of you pushed it. Yet.

Your gaze flicked to the sliding doors leading outside. “I need air. Try not to miss me too much.”

You didn’t wait for his answer — just walked out, letting the warm night air wrap around you. The backyard was dimly lit, the glow of the bonfire at the beach barely visible beyond the dunes. You took a deep breath and leaned against the porch railing, letting the music fade into background noise.

Behind you, right on cue — came his voice.

“You know I can’t let you have a dramatic exit without me,” Rafe’s voice came from behind you, smooth like sin and summer.

You didn’t turn around. “Not dramatic. Just needed space. Some of us don’t have a god complex that requires being at the center of every room.”

He stepped up beside you, looking out over the yard with a smirk. “I like your space better.”

That earned him a tiny smirk from you, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning fully. “Don’t get cute, Cameron.”

“Too late.”

You stood like that for a beat — close, the air between them humming with that something you never talked about. Rafe glanced over, studying your profile like he was memorizing it.

“You ever think about it?” he asked.

You finally turned to him. “About what?”

He was close now — closer than he should’ve been. “Us. You know… what’d happen if we stopped pretending.”

You blinked, heartbeat stuttering for half a second — not because you were shocked, but because finally. You tilted your head.

“That almost sounds like you want something serious, Rafe. Which would be cute if I didn’t know you better.”

His grin faltered just barely. “Maybe I want you.”

You laughed softly. “You want the chase, baby. And you’re good at it. But I don’t fall for pretty lies.”

You turned to walk down the porch steps when—

“Y/N—” he said, just a little rougher.

You stopped.

And then he was there again, closing the space, hand reaching gently for your wrist, spinning you to face him. He looked at you like you were fire and he was tired of being cold.

You stood like that — eyes locked, lips a breath apart, the air buzzing around them. His hand cupped your cheek this time, hesitant but wanting.

You didn’t pull away.

He leaned in slowly, eyes flicking to your mouth—

“RAFE! Yo, Rafe! Get your ass over here, man!”

Topper.

You pulled back fast like you’d been slapped. Rafe blinked, visibly torn for one second — and then, just like that, the mask slipped back on.

He stepped away. Shrugged.

“I’ll be right back.”

And just like that, he walked off — no sorry, no explanation. Gone.

You stood frozen for a second, chest tight, eyes narrowed.

Then you scoffed under your breath and turned back toward the street.

He wasn't gonna play you like that again.

Not this time.

You texted Bri.

“I’m done. Catch an Uber?”

You didn’t text him the next morning.

You didn’t snap him back. Didn’t like his dumb story of him and Kelce trying to fix a golf cart either.

And when he called once, then twice, you declined the second one and didn’t bother replying to the “u good?” that followed.

You were good. Just not with him.

Instead, you were at Bri’s place, legs tangled with yours on the couch, a greasy slice of pizza in one hand and Lex painting your nails a dangerously sharp red on the other.

“I’m just saying,” Lex said, blowing on your nails, “if he wanted to kiss you, he would’ve. And if he didn’t want to be an ass about it… well, same logic.”

You snorted. “Amen.”

Bri reached for her water, slumped on the floor. “I never liked him anyway. His jaw is too perfect. Feels like a trap.”

“It is a trap,” you muttered, staring at your phone lighting up again with his name. You silenced it. No reply. Again.

Lex raised a brow. “Still trying?”

“Three missed calls and a ‘u good?’ text,” you said with a fake-sweet smile. “Very emotionally intelligent.”

Bri made a gagging noise.

Rafe was unravelling.

It took him less than 24 hours to realize something was off — and even less time to get pissed about it.

You had been nothing but cold, collected and absolutely untouchable. So when he saw you at the dock two days later he pulled up next to your Jeep, window down, Ray-Bans perched low on his nose.

“You avoiding me?” he asked through his car window, voice all lazy confidence. But his grip on the steering wheel? White-knuckled.

You didn’t even look up from your phone. “That depends — are you used to girls waiting around after you ditch them mid-moment?”

Rafe blinked, caught off guard. “Okay, damn. You’re still mad about that?”

“Oh, still mad?” you snapped, shoving your phone in your bag. “Didn’t know there was an expiration date on being disrespected.”

He grinned, trying to defuse — or distract. “Babe, you’re dramatic.”

“And you’re exhausting,” you fired, standing up. “You don’t get to flirt with me like that, act like you want something real for half a second, and then just walk away like it didn’t happen.”

He leaned out the window a little, face hardening. “It’s not that deep.”

“Then maybe you should find someone who floats.”

You didn’t wait for a reply, you turned just in time for your friends to pull up in Bri’s Mazda, blasting SZA and waving dramatically out the windows.

Rafe watched as you slid into the passenger seat without another glance his way.

Lex flipped Rafe off with a grin when Bri peeled out of the lot.

Rafe just sat there, blinking, while you threw your head back and laughed with your girls, loud and unbothered.

That night, Rafe didn’t go to the usual bonfire. Neither did you.

But the next one? He was there early. Already sipping a beer, eyes scanning the crowd every five seconds.

You looked incredible. Dress, silky, short and painted with a bold floral print – clung in all the right places and dipped daringly low at the neckline. You stepped onto the beach like the main event — glowing, confident, and completely unbothered.

Rafe’s jaw practically hit the sand.

You saw him.

And walked right past.

Every time he tried to talk to you, Lex intercepted, or Bri pulled you into some fake emergency — “I need your opinion on this guy’s shoes, it’s life or death.” Rafe wasn’t used to working this hard. He wasn’t used to being ignored.

Rafe found you alone, near the edge of the party where the music didn’t quite reach. Just like before.

He approached slower this time. No swagger. No stupid grin.

“Y/N.”

You didn’t turn. “Didn’t Topper call your name again?”

He exhaled a laugh, but it came out a little bitter this time. “Okay. I deserved that.”

“No, Rafe. You deserved worse. But I’m tired.” Your voice dropped just slightly — not sad, just... done. “I’m not playing this game with you anymore.”

“I wasn’t trying to play,” he said, stepping closer. “I just— I panicked, alright? You kissed me back.”

“No,” you said sharply, eyes finally on his. “You almost kissed me. Then you left. Don’t twist it.”

He looked at you, jaw ticking, searching for something in your face. “So what? You’re done with me?”

“I’m done waiting for you to decide if you mean anything you say.” You paused. “You want me? Prove it. You want to joke around and run back to your boys every time things get real? Then stay out of my way.”

And with that, you walked away again — this time, not with bitterness, but with clarity.

Rafe stood there alone, mouth tight, heart pounding.

Rafe didn’t text. He didn’t call.

He showed up.

Unannounced, mid-afternoon, while you and your girls were poolside at Lex’s — laughing, lounging, and collectively trying to forget boys existed.

You spotted him before anyone else. You knew that shape, that posture — shoulders tense, chin tilted like he had something to prove.

“Is that Rafe?” Bri muttered.

Lex sat up, shielding her eyes. “Wow. Man really wants to be humiliated in broad daylight.”

You took a slow sip of your drink. “He’s already halfway there.”

But you stood up anyway.

Because no matter how furious you was, how much he hurt you, he wasn’t just some guy.

He was Rafe. Your Rafe. Your best friend. The one who used to sneak you snacks during detention and swore you’d never catch feelings for each other.

And now here you were.

“You really have the audacity,” you said flatly, meeting him at the gate.

Rafe looked at you like you still hung the moon. Like he didn’t remember you used to tell him exactly when to stop flirting so you wouldn’t fall for him. Like he hadn’t just made the dumbest choice of his life two nights ago.

“I had to see you,” he said.

“You had to ditch me mid-kiss first.”

“That wasn’t— I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

“You didn’t mean to? Rafe, you and I have been best friends since we were kids. You think I don’t know when you’re lying to yourself?”

“You pulled away like you were embarrassed,” you went on, voice quiet but cutting. “Like I was just another drunk mistake.”

“You are not a mistake.”

“Then why’d you leave like one?”

Rafe ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I panicked, okay? I didn’t expect it to feel that real.”

“We’ve always been real,” you snapped. “You just finally couldn’t hide it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve been sorry since the second I walked away.”

You crossed your arms. “And now what? You think one apology’s gonna fix a broken friendship and the fact that you shattered something that might’ve been more?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to fix it,” he said.

You tilted your head. “You better, Rafe. Because this isn’t just about flirting anymore. You don’t just lose me as a maybe. You lose me as your person.”

He stood there, quiet.

And when you walked back through the gate — back to your girls, your peace, your new boundary — Rafe didn’t follow.

He finally understood this time, he’d have to earn you back.

Rafe didn’t come back the next day. Or the day after that.

And you? You didn’t chase. You said your piece. You had nothing to prove. Let him sit with the silence — with everything they almost were.

But on Friday night, something shifted.

You were heading home from Bri’s when her phone buzzed. A text.

“Come to the dock. Just you.”

No name. Didn’t need one.

You almost didn’t go.

But curiosity is a dangerous thing — especially when it’s tangled in history and heartbreak and a boy who once made you believe forever could exist between best friends.

The dock was quiet. Moonlit. The water still.

And there he was. Hoodie, hands in his pockets, heart practically written across his face.

You didn’t say anything as you stepped onto the wood.

He didn’t speak either — just gestured to the blanket he’d laid out. Two drinks. A box of your favorite cookies. And something else sitting next to it.

A photo. The one from that dumb Halloween party freshman year — you in fairy wings, Rafe in devil horns, both of you grinning like idiots.

“I found it in my drawer,” he said quietly. “Been sitting there for years. I look at it sometimes. Always thought we were just… messing around. Having fun.”

You folded your arms, guarded but listening.

“But looking at it now?” His voice cracked slightly. “I was gone for you. Even back then.”

You didn’t respond. You waited.

“I messed up, I know that,” he said. “But I didn’t come here to ask for things to go back to normal. Because they can’t. And I don’t want them to.”

You raised a brow. “What do you want, then?”

Rafe stepped forward.

“I want more. I want us. No more games. No more pulling away when it gets real. I want to be someone you trust again. Someone who shows up.”

He hesitated. “And I know I lost that right. But if there’s even a piece of you that still wants this... I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give. Just—don’t shut the door all the way. Please.”

Silence stretched.

The water lapped gently against the wood.

Then—softly, finally—you spoke.

“You don’t get to come back just because you finally figured out what you want.”

Rafe’s jaw tensed. “I know.”

You stepped closer. “But you came back anyway. That’s a start.”

For a long moment, you both just stood there.

And then, for the first time in what felt like forever—you let your guard down. Just a little.

Rafe looked at you. “So… we good?”

You smirked. “We’ll see.”

Then like always, he smiled back, cocky and warm and yours in all the ways he never admitted before.

Two weeks later

“You’re seriously wearing that?” You asked, brows arched behind your sunglasses as you stared Rafe down in the Target parking lot.

He looked down at his plain white T-shirt and black athletic shorts, then at you — black cropped tank top hugging your figure, light-washed denim shorts and gold hoops shining in the sun.  “What’s wrong with this?”

“You look like you jogged here and forgot it was a date.” You popped the trunk of his car. “Get the bags. We’re doing a picnic and you’re not embarrassing me in front of the ducks.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rafe muttered, grinning as he grabbed the cooler. He didn't argue. He never argued anymore. Not with you.

You laid out the blanket under a willow tree at the park, spread out the snacks like a curated charcuterie board, and even lit one of those tiny portable candles from your purse. Rafe just watched you, utterly gone, leaning back on his elbows while you cut strawberries like it was an artform.

“You’re smiling,” you said, glancing over.

“I like watching you boss me around,” he said, deadpan. “It’s hot.”

You snorted and tossed a grape at his face. “You’re such a simp now.”

“I was before. Now I’m just allowed to show it.”

Later, they lay side by side under the tree, your head resting on his chest, one leg thrown over his like you owned him — which, arguably, you did.

“You still scared?” you asked quietly, fingers tracing shapes on his bicep.

“Terrified,” Rafe replied, voice low. “But it’s worth it.”

You leaned up slightly, eyes searching his. “Why?”

“Because I’m not just your best friend anymore.” His hand found you waist. “I get to kiss you now.”

You grinned, lips brushing his jaw. “Damn right you do.”

So he did.

Slow, warm, nothing rushed — just mouths pressed together like they had all the time in the world. You tasted like lip balm and peach lemonade. He tasted like want and sunscreen.

“Still afraid?” you murmured when they broke apart.

“Of you? Always.”

“Good.” You kissed him again, rougher this time. “Keeps you humble.”

EXTRA:

Rafe Cameron was sitting on a pink blanket at a Sunday morning yoga in the park class, sweating through his overpriced tank top while an instructor told him to open his heart center and “embrace the divine feminine.”

You, completely serene beside him, reached out mid-pose to fix his form.

“You’re stiff,” you whispered.

“I’m dying,” he whispered back.

You grinned and kissed his cheek. “You love it.”

“I love you,” he muttered. “This is Stockholm Syndrome.”

“Mm. That’s not what you said last night when you made me breakfast at midnight.”

He just groaned and reached for his water bottle. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

You leaned in close, lips at his ear. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you’re whipped.”

He rolled his eyes but smiled like an idiot. “I’m whipped.”

“Good boy.”

[stoobfoobnoob]

let me do this for you

You're having a bad week, and Carmy notices.

5k words

Carmy x female reader, the beef era, I have no real knowledge of how a restaurant works lol, original character towards the middle ish with Jensen Ackles in mind, Richie being Richie, Carmy gets jealous and over thinks.

Walking into The Beef with noise-canceling headphones and the usual scowl on your face wasn’t what alarmed Carmy. It wasn’t the lack of greetings or eye contact. That was normal. You usually only spoke to the others when you got to your station and got situated for service. It was the look in your eyes. It was blank. Almost empty. 

“Ay-yo, Sebastian! You owe me five bucks!” Richie yelled from the front of the house. You two were friends. Great friends. Carmy always wondered how that started, and why you guys call each other different names almost daily. Today, you were Sebastian. What are you going to call Richie today? Yesterday, he was Vanessa. 

Carmy could hear Fak from the dining area warn Richie. 

“Dude? Didn’t you learn from last time?” He said, peeking through the window.

You came in last week, and Fak and Richie started bombarding you with questions about which one of them would win Survivor. Carmy could still picture the look on your face as they yelled in your ears. Deadpan and irritated, you said, 

“If the both of you don’t get out of my fucking face in two seconds, I’m shoving my knife so far up your asses you’re gonna taste the metal in your fucking mouths.” 

Carmy laughed to himself but quickly stopped when you turned to him and glared. Tina had to come in and set everybody straight.

“For what?” You were putting things into your locker. 

Richie gave Fak one of those looks, 

“The game! Your fucking loser Giants lost!” 

Carmy found out that you were from San Francisco when you got a notification on your phone from the SF Chronicles. 

He was impressed that you had a subscription to a newspaper.

He stalked your Instagram when he came back from New York after Mikey.

“You know what, Rebecca? I’m gonna keep my five dollars 'cause I never agreed to that fuckin' bet in the first place.”

Rebecca. Richie laughed, stormed into the kitchen, leaned on the counter, and started yapping. 

“Okay, Chef’s! We’re opening in 15. Syd- Brigade, remember? Tina, I need you on vegetable prep. Ebra, you’re on meat. Marcus, I can’t have dry bread again, please. Cousin, get back to your station. Jesus. Umm, Y/N, can you come to my office real quick?”

The cooks made it feel like you were headed to the principal's office. Carmy sits in his stained office chair and runs a hand through his hair. 

“I noticed you’ve been a bit slower on dinner service.” He’s fidgeting with the cord on the phone. You’re standing in front of him, all your weight on your left hip. 

“Sorry, Chef. Won’t happen again.” You said. There was a slight tone he picked up. Tired or annoyed. He couldn’t tell. 

“You okay?” He cares for all his employees. Carmy knows late nights and early mornings in a restaurant better than anyone. 

“I’m good, Chef. Thanks. I’ll pick up the pace.” You say as you’re already out of the office. 

Richie was outside eavesdropping the whole time, 

“Cousin, you never personally ask me if I’m okay.” He pouts.

“Shut up, get back to work,” he said, walking past him.

Syd’s station was already prepped and was doing rounds. You sighed, already knowing what she was gonna say. 

“Y/N, your sauce was good yesterday, but had too much salt.” 

Technically, you’re not in charge of sauce. At your last job, you were just a regular line cook. Ever since Carmy started running things, he’s been on everyone’s asses on stations and positions. Syd is enforcing that even harder now that she’s sous chef.

“Heard, Chef.” You’d fight it like any other cook in the business most of the time, defending your cooking like it was your dying breath, but today, you didn’t. Something was wrong. 

If Richie and Carmy weren’t yelling across the room, you and Richie would be going at it. If it wasn’t Richie you were fighting, it was Ebra (most of the time, it's you making fun of him for being old). Sometimes, when Fak was there, you gave him shit. You being this quiet was worrisome for everyone.

“Mama, you been gettin’ enough sleep?” Tina worried. 

You took a deep breath, trying not to burst into flames at her asking you. 

“Yeah, I’m good. Tina, I promise.” You smiled. 

Breakfast service wasn’t typically bad or hard to get through. Unless it was busier than usual, you just couldn’t get it together. Bumping into Ebra twice, almost knocking one of the pans off the stove. 

“Sebastian! I needed those fries for #12 like yesterday!” Richie yelled. 

“Y/N, fire two more beefs.” 

“I need the sauce for #9.” 

“Behind!”

Working in a restaurant is chaotic. Everyone knew that. 

“Y/N! These aren’t cooked, what the fuck are you doing?!” Richie’s voice was starting to get on your nerves. 

You open the door to the walk-in, not listening to the noise and the constant calling of your name.

A clash vibrated through the building, and Carmy was trying to take a backseat, preparing deliveries and orders for the week. 

The stock spilled all over the walk-in, and you were soaked. 

“Jesus fucking christ.” You said defeated. 

You’re standing there covered in beef stock and pieces of onion skin stuck to your cheek. Richie was laughing and trying to get a picture when Syd yelled for everyone to return to work and scrambled to get their orders done. Marcus was trying to help you out of the walk-in without slipping, and Tina was getting paper towels, 

“Y/N, you good?” Everyone is asking you, laughing, and making jokes. 

“SHUT THE FUCK UP PLEASE! I CAN CLEAN IT UP MYSELF.” 

“Get back to work, Chefs,” Carmy intervened. 

“I got it, Chef, get yourself cleaned up.”

You just walked straight out to the back and crouched with your hands over your face, trying to keep yourself from crying. Smelling like onions and celery, you pulled a half-soaked cigarette from your pocket. 

“Y/N. If you need a day off- take it,” He crouches beside you, offering a fresh cig from his pack.

“I don’t need a day off,” you said, taking the nasty habit you picked up from Mikey to your lips. Carmy lighting it up for you.

“You’re struggling today, we can see it. We all have bad days, chef.”

“Try bad week,” You laugh. 

Carmy knows bad weeks. Bad months. Bad years. He starts getting flashbacks to his French Laundry days. The late nights and overbearing white kitchen haunt him at this very moment.

“Talk to me,” Carmy said softly.

You take a deep breath and chuckle, 

“My car is in the shop and won’t be fixed until two weeks from now. My apartment is infested with roaches, my shower isn’t draining correctly, my plants are dying, I haven’t had a meal that has any nutritional value in days, I can’t sleep, I’m overstimulated and annoyed all the time, and the only thing getting me through the day is just being here at The Beef. Still, I can’t even get anything right here either. I literally smell like beef, and I’m yapping to my boss like a baby.” 

Carmy is staring at his shoe, taking in all the information you dumped on him. There’s an uncomfortable silence. 

“How are you?” You asked, gazing up at the clear Chicago sky, desperately trying to get rid of the awkwardness.

Carmy doesn’t remember the last time he’s been asked that with a genuine intention of knowing how he’s doing. You knew exactly what he was going through; everybody did. It’s hard not to know. 

“Well, service just started, and we’re already behind. N-not because of you or anything.” He nervously tried to backtrack.

“Our shipment of meat was delayed, so the beef we have is all we have for two days-” “Not about The Beef. How are you doing?” You’re looking at him now—same tired, sad look as when you came in. 

“Me?” Why'd he say that, he thought to himself.

“Mhmm,” taking a drag from your cigarette. “I’m hanging on. Sugar wants me to go to this AA thing.”

“I miss Nat,”

He forgot that you’ve been at The Beef longer than he has. He forgets that you knew Mikey better than he did. 

“We should get back,” he said, wiping his hands on his pants as he got up. 

The rest of your shift went as smoothly as it could. Mr. Bishop (your favorite regular) came in looking for you, got his usual number 6 and coffee, and sat in his favorite booth. There was no more knocking over pots, and you managed to get all your prep done for tomorrow, too. 

Syd and Tina gave you a pep talk afterward, saying that tomorrow will be better. Ebra gave you one of those hugs only a loving father can give. Richie offered to give you a ride home despite his license being suspended, and Marcus gave you a brownie. 

Before you left for the day, Carmy walked out of the office and leaned on the door frame. 

“Let me give you a ride.” It wasn’t even 10 pm, and trains were still running. 

“I’m not taking no for an answer,” Carmy said seriously. “Heard.” You whispered.

You waited for him to get his jacket and lock up. Then, you followed him to his car a block away from the restaurant. His car was old, like, no leather seats, and old-school console type of old. You quickly typed in your address into his beat-up phone and just coasted in the silence.

“This isn’t the way to my place, Carm.” You frantically shift in the passenger seat. You’re at a Target parking lot.

“I know, I just need to get a few things.”

The fluorescent lights were blinding you. He took a shopping cart, and you reluctantly followed him around the store. 

The cart squeaked through the relatively quiet store, and when you reached the aisle where they sell shower drains, the radio played 2000s pop songs. 

He picks one up without a word, and you don’t question it. Exhausted and dissociating. He aimlessly walks to the pest aisle and grabs a bottle of roach spray. 

He grabs laundry detergent and a pack of boxers for himself. You wander into the frozen pizza aisle and grab one for yourself, and he gets a pack of beer. It feels so domestic, like you’ve both done this together before. You pay for the pizza, and he pays for everything else.

“I wanna fix your apartment, if that’s okay with you?” he says, putting the stuff into the trunk. 

“You really don’t have to, Carmy.” Protesting in exhaustion.

“I want to.” He wants to fix your apartment for you.

The drive to your apartment wasn’t awkward. It was peaceful. You’ve never been alone with him for more than five minutes, so this should be weird. 

You take the elevator to your floor and walk a short distance to your door. A welcome mat is in front of the unit, and the dead plants are just sitting out. 

“Make yourself at home, I guess,” you said, taking off your jacket and shoes. Carmy did the same and left his Birkenstocks by the door. 

“This is a great place.” You had a red thrifted couch and a big fluffy rug. Pictures of you and your friends were on the wall. A shelf covered with books and more pictures. He noticed you didn’t have a suspicious number of cookbooks like he does. Instead, it’s Penguin Classics with Post-it notes tagged throughout. Sci-fi books, fantasy, romance, and non-fiction were also on your shelf. Anthony Bourdain had his dedicated shelf (I guess those count as cookbooks). 

You had a record player and stacks of vinyl records on the floor. Your kitchen was a lot nicer than his. You had a good coffee maker but an old toaster. 

He’s sitting at the island counter while you’re in your room. He can see the posters from where he’s sitting and the mirror in the corner of your room reflecting you taking off your chef's coat. He reminds himself that he’s being a creep. 

“I appreciate you doing this, Carm. Saved me a phone call with my landlord.” 

“You’d do the same for me,” he replied.

You pop your head through the door and furrow your eyebrows, 

“Really?” you laugh. It's the first time you laughed, he notes.

You grab him a cup of water, tie your hair in a bun, and beeline to the record player. 

“Guests can pick the music,” you gesture to the albums, and he runs a hand over his face nervously. Carmy gets up from his seat and over to you, sits on the floor, and looks through your collection. 

“Why do I feel like this is a test?” He chuckles.

“Because it is,” You said while putting the previous record away.

His calloused fingers run through the aged vinyl slips and pick out Fleetwood Mac.

“Good choice.” 

Carmy silently watched as you, put the plaque on the turntable and gently put the needle onto the grooves. The song began to play. 

“I didn’t know you collected.” He said. 

“Yeah, I started when I was in middle school. It was a pain in the ass getting them here.”

Right. You’re from California. 

“Why’d you move out here?” He asks.

“Umm. I’m not really close with my family anymore, and I have friends that go to school here. I mean, I love San Francisco, but I felt like I had some growing up to do. You know,” You said getting up from the floor.

You’re rummaging through the Target bag, grabbing the frozen pizza, and prepping the oven. 

It’s funny, you’re chefs but don’t always eat the most extraordinary things. 

Carmy is just watching you, watching you in your home. He starts to second-guess why he’s there in the first place. He’s beginning to wonder why you haven’t been mean to him. 

“I’ll get started on that drain,” he said, getting up from the rug. 

You nod your head and just scramble a few plates together. 

Your bathroom had candles and orange shower curtains. There was a pumpkin-shaped bath mat, and it smelled exactly like how he imagined it to smell. Your shampoo—the one he’d been smelling for the past few months, but he couldn’t quite place what it was. Apple and Honey. He took mental note of it. 

He pulled back the curtain to see the shower, which had dried eucalyptus leaves hanging from the head. Your body wash was on the floor, and there was a pool of water. 

He knelt on the floor, put the drain tool down the drain, and started moving it. It was a lot harder than he thought. 

You stood by the door frame, watching him try to unclog your shower. You could have done it yourself, but you wouldn’t have refused free service. 

You never noticed how long Carmy’s hair was getting or how his tattoos shifted when he moved his arms. His white signature T-shirt was riding up a little bit. 

“You doin’ alright?” You finally asked. 

“Yup- I think I got most of it.” He grunted. 

He could hear you laughing at him. Now that he thinks about it, this is weird. He’s your boss. This is something a boyfriend should do, or a boy-friend—aka Richie or Fak or even Marcus. The two of you aren’t friends. 

The two of you can hear the water finally slosh its way through the drain, 

“I think it should be good now.” He wipes sweat off his face onto his shoulder. 

“Good, great! Thank you, Carm.” You pat his back hesitantly. 

It was nearing midnight. You and Carm are sitting on the red couch. You decided to open a bottle of wine, and an album that Carmy had never heard of was on. 

“You’ve been working for The Beef for four years now?” He asked, glancing over at you.

You sip your wine and nod your head, 

“Yeah, I moved here right after I graduated college. Saw a help wanted sign and applied.” 

He gave you a look like he was trying to imagine you four years ago. He wanted to ask you what it was like working with Mikey. There was something in him that he didn’t want to know. 

“How’d you and Richie become friends?” 

“You think me and Richie are friends?” you laugh. Not thinking that Carmy was serious,

“Ummm, I don’t know. He’s funny, and he makes me laugh. I used to babysit when he and Tiff were still together.” Carmy nods twice. 

You wanted to ask him to stay over, but it was almost one in the morning. You didn’t.

“Shit, I should go.” Carmy looked at his phone. Realizing he’s overstayed his welcome. 

He put his glass and plate in the sink. (That was very considerate of him.) He then slipped his jacket on, and as he was putting on his shoes, you gave him a hug. 

Carmen is frozen. His breathing stops, and without even knowing, he puts his arms around your waist. He doesn’t even remember the last time he hugged someone. Your breathing syncs, and you can feel his heartbeat, 

“Thank you, Carmen. I mean it.” You whisper. 

What is going on? His head isn’t even thinking anymore; he’s only focusing on that you’re hugging him right now. It feels like a lifetime. He’s engulfed in your scent and the warmth of your hands, making him dizzy.

“Anytime, Chef.” 

He leaves. 

When Carmy got to his apartment, it was cold—unlike yours. It was bare and colorless. He plops onto his bed and replays the night over and over again until he falls asleep at the thought of you. 

〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰

The next morning, he woke up later than he would’ve wanted. Quickly hopping into the shower, got dressed and jogged to his car. He got a whiff of your shampoo on his jacket and in his car. 

What the fuck, Carmy? She’s your employee. He thought.

When he got to The Beef, you were already there. Headphones on, tapping your foot to whatever you were listening to. 

“Carmy! I was able to get hold of another shipment; it should be here in an hour.” Syd cheerily said.

The chef quickly nods as he washes his hands, 

“Yeah, that’s great, Syd. Umm, breakfast service starts in 30 is everyone good?” 

Syd tells him that Marcus’s bread mixer isn’t working again, and Ebra will be late. Angel and Manny will also be late, and Tina has to redo her onion prep because Richie knocked it over in the walk-in. 

Carmy can feel his blood pressure rising, 

“What about Y/N?” He unconsciously asks.

Syd’s eyes grow wide, kind of shocked even to hear your name come out of his mouth, 

“Yeah, she’s good. She has everything ready to go. She can take over Ebra’s station till he gets back.”

“No, I’ll do it.” Carmy insisted.

Syd’s following him around the kitchen like a sick puppy, 

“I’ll do family, too.” He added.

A million thoughts are running through Sydney’s mind, but she doesn’t question it. 

You were feeling a hundred times better than you did yesterday. You could finally shower without having a pool of cloudy, murky water up to your calves, and you haven’t seen roaches crawl up your sink. The car shop called to say they could get your car done on the weekend, and you had a good breakfast. Your bad week is officially looking up. All because your boss came over and sorted it out for you. 

“Hey-” Carmy tapped your shoulders and pointed to your headphones. 

“Oh- right! Sorry.” You could swear there was a smile on his face just then. 

“Uh, whatcha listen’ to?” Small talk- great, Carmy was making small talk. This was basically flirting to him. Small talk with anyone who had nothing to do with food was his horrible attempt at flirting. 

“Beyonce.” Carmy was expecting some obscure band he’s never heard of, hoping he could ask you about it and talk more. Ask you if you want to go to the local record store and browse. Ask you if he could come over again. 

Shut the fuck up, Carmen.

“Cousin! Get this- so I was driving, right?” Richie bursts through the kitchen doors. 

“Isn’t your license like expired?” You question.

“Suspended, but that’s not the point. I fuckin’ saw -fuckin’ Cousin Stanley! He was walking, and I rolled down my window, called him while I was fuckin’ floorin’ it. Heh- he finally saw me, he’s fuckin’ bald as shit now, Carm.” Richie rambled.

Carmy doesn’t remember cousin Stanley. He doesn’t know why Richie is even telling this story. He’s looking at him through his brows. 

“Ew! Cousin Stanley’s bald?!” You exclaimed. 

Of course, you know who fucking Cousin Stanley is, and he doesn’t. Carmy walks away as the two of you continue talking shit about this cousin he can’t place. It doesn’t sit right with him now; you know so much of his life because of Mikey. 

The ballbreaker game is broken, and it keeps repeating the same thing over and over again. Frustrated, he pushes the front house door.

“NO!” Everyone said simultaneously.

He knows what everyone is going to say next, 

You unplug it; it won’t work again. 

Carmy pulls his phone out of his pocket to call Fak to come in and fix it for the millionth time when he feels a hand on his shoulder. 

“I know someone who can actually fix it,” You said softly.

The stressed-out, red-faced chef just nods. 

You make the call, and in 20 minutes or so, someone comes in, calling out your real name. Not the countless nicknames they call you. He is tall and has a full beard and a mullet. He wears dark double denim; it’s vintage, Carmy notes in his head, is tailored and straight cut, and he wears cowboy boots. 

“Raphy!” You practically screamed. (Raphy is Jensen Ackles)

Who the fuck is Raphy? What the fuck is a Raphy? What kind of name is Raphy? How the hell do you know this guy? He’s like 45! He’s good-looking and wearing good-quality denim. Carmy’s unexplainably jealous. 

“Carm- this is my, umm, my friend Raphael. He owns a repair business,” You’re smiling from ear to ear.

“Hi. I usually do motorcycle restorations. She’s exaggerating.” Fuck, his voice is exactly what he thought it would sound like. 

“Raphael?! My guy! Where the hell have you been?” Great- Richie knows him, too.

“Richie- good to see you, man.” Carmy hates this guy already. 

You and Raphael met through Mikey. He had a phase where he wanted to buy this old BMW R 18. Raphael helped you move into your apartment, gave you rides whenever you needed them, and introduced you to some good music. 

For some reason, he was also a perfect handyman. You fell out of touch for a bit when Mikey died. 

“Chef, I’ve done most of my prep. Is it cool if I stay out here for a bit?” You're asking him if you could be here with this Raphy guy instead of in his kitchen, where he can awkwardly stand beside you while you both work. He wants to say no, but he says yes. 

“Yeah just make sure he fixes this shit.”

“Not much of a talker?” Raphael asks. You pat his shoulder and shake your head. 

“That’s Mikey’s little brother? Doesn’t really look like him-” Richie then starts laughing. 

Carmen can hear you laugh from his office, and he can listens to that guy in his restaurant tell you how good you’ve been looking. About how you should’ve called him about your shower. Fuck him! I fixed it. I did that. Carmy thought.

“Chef, are you okay?” Sydney’s holding her clipboard to her chest, not wanting to know the answer to her question. 

“Yeah. I’m good, Chef.” He’s lying straight through his teeth. 

He really shouldn’t be bothered by this. You’re not friends. He spent one night over at your apartment to help. That’s it. He is your boss, nothing more. 

Finally, the ballbreaker song is back to normal. The clinking of Raphael’s tools stops, and you no longer giggle like a schoolgirl. Richie is back on the register. A sigh of relief washes over him when he hears the bell and the door shut. 

You walk back into the kitchen with a grin and rosier cheeks than when he saw you last. 

“Raphy was here?” Tina said, disappointed. Cool, so everyone knows this guy. 

You smile and mouth an excited ‘yeah.’

“If I wasn’t married- ooh the things I would do,” Tina says in a sing-songy way. 

Which garners a look from a very disturbed Marcus and Ebra. Syd is now curious and disappointed she didn’t look when she could. Carmy looks at you and sees you cheesing from ear to ear. 

“Me too. ME TOO.” Tina laughs at your comment. “Yo, David! Keep it in your pants, wouldya?” Richie said.

“Oh, please! Like you wouldn’t do him too if you were a girl??!” You replied.

Carmy leaves and takes a much-needed smoke break. Does Sugar know him? He wants to ask Tina who this guy is and why everyone but him knows him. He doesn't. He takes one last drag, throws it on the floor, and stomps on it.

The commotion over the hot motorcycle restorer has died down. The normal ebb and flow of a Chicago kitchen is back in motion, and everyone gets back to work.

Nothing shitty or unusual happens for the rest of service and Carmy is making everyone scrub the interior with toothbrushes and sponges.

Some random playlist is on, and you can feel everyone's exhaustion radiating off them like sweat.

Sweeps breaks the ice.

"It was good seeing Raphael again, huh?" Awesome. Carmy had temporarily forgotten about him while scrubbing the buildup on the stove's vent.

"He looks good. Healthy." Ebra adds.

"Who is he?" Carmy finally asks.

"Me and Mikey's other best friend. We were like two peas in a pod!" Richie snorts.

"Shouldn't it be the three musketeers?" Syd's eyeballs him.

Best friend? Mikey has other best friends who didn't always linger around the family?

"Yeah?" he replies.

"They met at this thing- a flea market?" Tina inquires.

"Estate sale." You say without missing a beat.

"I went with Mikey. He was obsessed with finding vintage shirts. Raphy was there looking for umm, what was it? Boots! Cowboy boots." You remember.

"You have a crush on em?" His intrusive thoughts got the better of him. Richie purses his lips together and does a lock and key motion.

"No! I mean, he's hot, but dude, come on?" Carmy hates that—the word hot coming out of your mouth in any other context than pots and stoves.

"I think you have a crush on him, or at least had a crush on him," Syd said.

"I remember the next day Mikey came in and started making fun of you cause you were basically drooling over him." Marcus laughs from across the room.

"I remember that too!" Sweeps adds.

"Wouldn't stop talking about him," Manny replies from the back.

You didn't mind everyone making fun of you; it was a silly moment in your life. It would have been even worse if Mikey had been there in person to reenact everything.

"He's not married?" Syd asks.

Please be married. Please be married with 4 kids. Please be in a loving happy marriage with his high school sweetheart. Carmen begged.

"He is uh- widowed." You said emphasizing the widow.

Fuck.

The rest of the night consisted of anecdotes of Mikey's life that Carmy would never have heard of otherwise. Tina's the first one to clock out, then the dishwashers, then Sweeps, and Marcus, Richie says his goodbyes, Syd punches out, and so does Ebra.

You stayed back. Sweeping the floor one last time, Carmy walked into the office. His head was hurting. Maybe it was from dehydration? Hunger? The chemicals he poured over the entire kitchen in an attempt to get the gunk off the tile?

"I'm gonna head out." You yell out from the lockers. Carmy walks out and leans against the doorframe.

"Do you have anything in your apartment I could fix?" You're joking, but not really.

He bobs his head down and gives you a tight smile, he didn't have anything to share. Everything in his apartment worked, he didn't have relics of his past to showcase and tell stories about.

The chef shook his head, crossed his arms, and stood stoically.

"That's a shame: goodnight, Carmen. See you tomorrow," you punch your card.

"Wait!" He doesn't know what he's doing. He has nothing to talk about. There's a sour taste in his mouth still from learning about Raphael. A bitter one because evidently, you knew his brother better than him.

You look at him, anticipating,

"Are you free?" He asks.

“Right now?” You reply.

He runs a hand through his hair.

"Carm, we have work tomorrow." You remind him.

"Yeah- right. No, umm, this Saturday. Are you free?" He's shaking inside.

"I should be. Why? Did you want us to come in or?" "There's this record store downtown. I was wondering if you wanted to go, " he blurted.

You kind of just stand there for a little bit. Shunned. Carmy's asking you to hang out outside of a work day? What's happening?

"Sure! I've been dying to do something other than cook, clean, repeat." You smile, which makes him smile.

"See you tomorrow, Chef." He says and lets you leave for the night.

Carmy couldn't stop thinking about all the things he wanted to do on your unofficial date on Saturday. His mind was reeling, and his stomach filled with butterflies he hadn't felt in so long. This consumed his every waking moment to the point that he had to force himself to sleep.

Saturday couldn't have come any slower.

[prettieangel]

hi, pretty! (hope the nickname is okay, feel free to tell me if it makes you uncomfortable!)

english is not my first language so please don't pay too much mind to any spelling mistakes or weird wording. </3 (also i know this came out long af but it's a thought request, not fic)

i seem to be unable to stop thinking about swimmer!anton and swimmer!reader. i imagine them as being from opposite teams, which would explain the constant competition between them.

and as a swimmer, the reader has definitely had experiences of sexual harrasment, wether it was from their own teammates or fellow competitors. but anton wasn't like that, he seemed so nice and so dedicated to the sport, always so charming and friendly whenever your teams crossed paths.

the reader really thought he was different. :(

that was until they both signed up for a mixed gender competition and ended up swimming against each other. maybe anton had never treated her badly because he had never seen the reader as a threat before. and now that he did, now that she won, he wanted to show her he could be just as threatening as her.

she should fear him, not the other way around, and she would.

he'd purposefully engage in conversation with the reader as soon as she won, distracting her from heading to the showers just so that when she finally did, no one would be there. and that's what happened, by the time she left the shower the dressing room was empty but not for long, 'cause soon he came in.

he'd be so mean to her, using his strength to rip the bathing suit off of her, groping her body and claiming it as his own throphy since the reader stole the one from the competition from him.

he'd slut shame her so much, whispering such degrading words as he forced himself into her, slapping her around and manhandling her while she tried to fight back. by the time he was done (and he took his time) she was nothing but an used set of holes thrown on the dressing room floor. :(((

p.s: can i be 🩰 anon? 👀

thank you so much for this ask.. i’m so serious when I say this changed my life <33 also yes yes, you can be 🩰 anonnn <3 i LOVEEE the nickname :> (please guys give me more 🙏🏾 also i’m so sorry for the delay 💔💔)

warnings: noncon, mention of sexual assault, mentions of bullying, name calling (bitch and slut), slapping, degradation, anton is so big in every way mhm mhm :((

he was so sweet at first, always striking up a conversation and being friendly whenever your team and his crossed paths with each other <33 he was different from all the other people you encountered, whether they were bullying you to bring you down because of your top spot on the team, or even sexually assaulting you when you winded up alone with them ;((

but anton wasn’t like that at all! he was just dedicated to the sport and a total sweetheart! or that was until you won one of the biggest swim competitions, snatching first place for yourself. anton could’ve won. and and he was so sooo close to doing so :(( but you took it from him. you embarrassed him and practically took the trophy that he deserved right from his hands..

he didn’t find you threatening before. you’re an okay swimmer, sure, but you weren’t better and never would be better than him. luck was just simply on your side.

you should be scared of him, you should fear him, not the other way around. and he was gonna make sure that happened! ^-^

after the competition, he stopped you to tell you congratulations <3 to tell you that you did great and that he couldn’t wait to swim with you again :> he made sure to distract you, finding other things to talk about while the other swimmers showered and got dressed in the locker room, finally letting you go once everyone was gone, when it was only just the both of you.

you couldn’t even begin to take off your swimwear before he walked in a while after you :( his hands were quick, big, strong, easily tearing it off for you instead. he had you all to himself. and you couldn’t call for help. who would hear you? who would care? no one did beforeee <33

he’s so fucked up, so mean, pressing his larger body against yours on the slightly wet locker room bench as he continuously pushed his huge cock into you ;( and it hurt, his thrusts rough, deep, though not fast, which somehow made it more painful. you tried, you really really tried to push him away, to fight against him, but you simply couldn’t. he so much bigger than you in every way, and it didn’t help that he he was treating you like a ragdoll, slapping you around to keep you still, manhandling your smaller body into different positions <//3

“you’re such a dumb fucking slut,” he’d say while flipping you onto your knees and pressing your face onto the bench. “think you can win and get away with it? bitches like you are useless. you just got lucky.” his words cut sharpppp :( somehow worse than what others say, despite him saying so little, mainly focusing on taking what he wanted from you, only going harder with every pained cry you let out :<

once he was done with using you, making sure each surface of the locker room was used and each one of your holes was stuffed at least twice, he leaves you to deal with yourself <3 ass in the air as you lay slumped on the cold and wet floor, dripping his cum and nothing but a pathetic used set of holes ^v^