tags: martin x f!reader, college au, oc! reader's bsf
synopsis: you and martin team up to discreetly matchmake your bestfriends, but while you and martin were playing cupid, cupid might have been playing the two of you.
YOU SEEM PRETTY SAD FOR A GIRL SO IN LOVE - unknown crossed paths
series
in which you try and move on from the catastrophe that happened in your second last year of high school with stupid martin edwards and his girl best friend, he just can't seem to let you go.
- for someone that broke your heart into a million pieces and in return you broke his at a party, he sure has the confidence.
word count: 400+
the weekend and two school weeks quickly went past as you began talking to seonghyeon every day, both text and in the real life. you didn’t always have the same classes as seonghyeon but the random paths crossed in the hallways during the last two weeks made your heart waver a little. even though he had only been to the school less than a month, he was so sweet and funny.
stella and hyein were enjoying seeing the grin on your face during your late night hang outs when seonghyeon would text you out of nowhere, practically seeing the happiness in your eyes form again.
it broke them to see you after what martin did, to leave you to the point where you drunkenly told him you didn’t love him anymore - that he drove you out of your love.
you didn’t just only stay inside your room all day hurdled up in your pink blankets, you also snuck out until dawn - partying your feelings away, talking to other guys, forgetting his name. the girls did everything they could to support you.
“ oh, hey y/n.” you look up from the mirror you were using to check yourself out to see eom seonghyeon standing nearby, closing your lip gloss back up. he was probably just coming out of his sports class with the way he was a little out of breath and sweaty.
“ oh hey sean.” sending him a teasing smile. “ what are you doing out of class?”
the boy raised his eyebrow, “ what about you?”
“ boring class, i was gonna go find hanni and bounce.” his eyes light up. you shrugged your shoulders, it was only art class anyways - miss hwang was a friend of your mother’s, she didn’t care that much.
“ well keonho and i were gonna leave school early today too because of a doctor’s appointment. our moms are that close so they seriously booked us an appointment right after each other.”
it was intriguing to find out how keonho and sean were best friends, they sometimes even looked like each other.
“ wait, do you guys wanna hang with hanni and i?” you asked.
“ i mean sure?” seonghyeon grinned back, “ i can always reschedule, i’m not feeling a flu shot today. but what about your other girls?” he asked, knowing you were always causing a ruckus in the hallways with ian, hanni, hyein and stella. on the other hand, seonghyeon didn’t mention his new friends like you did - he was always listening to your rants.
you liked that about him.
“ hyein, ian and stella got detention, they got caught cheating on a test.” you snorted, knowing the girls probably would just snore the entire detention. it even surprised you that they went sometimes.
“ oh shit.” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “ well let me grab keon, and we’ll go.” you grin back, nodding your head before texting hanni to meet you near her car.
𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀 : for seven years, you've been almost everything — almost chosen, almost debuted, almost enough. long after your mother's death, long after friends left and opportunities disappeared, the only thing that remained was the stubborn refusal to quit. then a last-minute decision places you in CORTIS, a group built without you in mind, and suddenly the future you've spent years chasing is within reach. but resentment has a way of lingering in crowded rooms, and belonging isn't something that can be assigned by a company. especially when you're the sixth chair at a table set for five.
𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲 : contemporary fiction, idol Industry, drama, coming-of-age, found family, slow burn, miscommunication, slightly character driven, comedic at times
𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 (chapter) : description of burn out, dissociation, anxiety, grief of a parent — literally blink and it's gone, depictions of exhaustion, depictions of pressure within the industry, for more in depth warnings of the series visit the master list linked above, SHAKESPEARE!!
𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 : comment or dm to be added.
cherry 🍒 speaks : my laptop officially has some hidden agenda against me. this chapter is boring I'll warn you. pretty short chapter, slow paced mostly inside mcs head, I would love to hear what stands out to you, comments, reblogs are all appreciated. show some love and don't be a silent reader!
"You'd be perfect if you were just a little luckier."
The manager probably meant it as a compliment. That's the funny thing about compliments. Sometimes they stay longer with you than insults.
You don't even remember his face anymore. Only the sentence. Human memory is a landfill. It discards entire beings and preserves fragments. Like the color of a stranger's umbrella glimpsed through the rain. A melody leaking from a convenience store radio. A sentence spoken carelessly by a man who probably forgot it before the meeting ended.
"You'd be perfect if you were just a little luckier."
As though luck were a skill. Something measurable. As if you could spend another hour in the studio and emerge with better odds.
The memory followed you into consciousness. It arrived before the sunlight.
Before the ache in your neck.
Before the familiar weight beneath your ribs.
By the time you opened your eyes, the room had already begun to brighten.
The dorm was suspended in that uncertain hour between night and morning, when the darkness had retreated but the day had not yet committed to arriving. The walls were washed in a weak grey. Your hoodie lay where you dropped it yesterday. Or the day before. A water bottle rested beside the desk, half-empty. Or half-full.
You suppose optimism has always been a matter of perspective.
The air tasted stale. The window had been shut for so long you couldn't remember opening it.
For a moment, you stayed exactly where you are. One arm was numb. Your cheek was creased from the pillow. Your mouth was dry in the particular way only mornings seem capable of achieving and the teeth felt fuzzy. Neither dirty nor clean. Just coated in the residue of being alive. It was disgusting when you thought about it.
Sleep was supposed to make you feel better. Most mornings it felt more like an intermission.
The mattress shifted beneath your weight. The springs complained—a tired metallic groan. You knew that noise. You had known it for years.
The same way you knew the stain on the ceiling looked like a non-existent continent.
Knowledge accumulated not through affection but repetition. Knowledge accumulated the way a river accumulates sediment. Slowly. Without permission.
Most people imagined their lives were built from grand moments. The triumphs and the tragedies. The turning points that split existence into before and after. But perhaps people were really assembled from smaller things. The details repeated so often they became part of the architecture of the self.
The room smelled faintly of detergent. The cheap kind the company bought in bulk. Sharp and artificial. Trying far too hard to smell clean.
You knew that smell too. But suddenly that felt unbearable. Not because there was anything wrong with the room. But because you had become fluent in it.
Every nook and cranny. Every smell and stubborn imperfection. As though the dorm had memorized you. Or worse — as though you had memorized it.
A laugh died somewhere behind your teeth. You had spent years trying to become unforgettable. Only to end up knowing the exact sound a cheap mattress made when you sat up too quickly.
There should have been a word for this. For dedicating years of your life to something and still feeling like a guest inside it. For standing in the middle of a dream you had spent so long chasing and realizing it fitted someone else better than you. Perhaps there was.
You dragged a hand down your face.
The digital clock read 7:12.
Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed. Someone laughed. Another swore.
Life continued with the stubborn persistence of a weed breaking through concrete. You considered staying in bed.
Not seriously. Just long enough to imagine it.
People thought quitting arrived like lightning. Most days it was only a passing thought. Gone before you had finished brushing your teeth.
You wondered how many times you had almost quit. Not enough, apparently.
A line surfaced from somewhere in the back of your mind.
Shakespeare.
"I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition."
You had always thought ambition was misunderstood. People talked about it like it was a virtue. Something polished or admirable. A shining thing. Most of the time it felt more like an old injury. The kind that healed incorrectly. You learned to move around it. You forgot it was there. Until someone brushed against it. Until someone said the wrong thing.
Then suddenly the ache returned.
"You'd be perfect if you were just a little luckier."
The worst part was that he hadn't been entirely wrong. You hated that. Almost as much as you hated the fact that part of you still cared.
The thought lingered longer than it should have. Then vanished faster than it felt.
One moment you were staring at a dormitory ceiling, feeling the thoughts turn in your head like gears. The next—your lungs were burning and the hands on your wristwatch pointed to 10 something.
The practice room mirrors glared back at you from every angle, merciless in their honesty. Overhead lights flooded the room in sterile white. Sweat trickled down the back of your neck.
For a second, you just stood there. Blinking. Panting in rapid and loud breaths.
Your towel hung around your shoulders, damp and heavy. Your shirt clung unpleasantly to your skin. Music reverberated through the floor beneath your feet, bass vibrating through bone.
Someone was speaking. You realized, belatedly, that they were speaking to you (well mostly).
"…and then he told me to shut up. Like the audacity!"
Sharp laughter erupted somewhere to your right. Several people groaned. You wiped your face with the edge of the towel.
"Huh?" It was like the room paused.
The girl, Chae-hwa, stared at you with an unreadable look in her eyes. "Damn."
"What?" you repeated, hands clutching the towel at the sudden attention, the dense loopy fiber suddenly felt course to you
"I've been talking for, like, three minutes." You considered apologizing. Then decided against it.
"Sounds important," you said, turning away from the other trainees with a sigh.
"It wasn't." A beat passed. "That's not the point."
You weren't entirely sure what the point was anymore.
A water bottle arced through the air. You caught it without looking. The movement happened before thought could reach it. Muscle memory.
Most of your life seemed to operate that way those days. The choreography. The schedules. The monthly evaluations—you name it.
The endless cycle of wanting something badly enough that it became indistinguishable from obligation.
You twisted the cap open. The water was uncomfortably warm. The kind of tepid drink that did not quench your thirst after hours of physical exertion. You drank it anyway.
Across the room, someone changed the music. The opening beat rattled through the speakers. Conversation died instantly.
Bodies shifted.
Everyone returned to their places. Like a flock startled into flight. Feet moving to find their marks. Hands lifting. Entire sequences unfolded without permission, as though some quieter version of themselves had taken the wheel.
Including you. Especially you.
Your body obeyed before your mind did.
Burial. Layer after layer of practice pressed beneath your skin until it became instinct.
Left. Turn. Step. Again. And again.
The strange thing about exhaustion was that eventually it stopped feeling like tiredness. It settled deeper than that. Into muscle and habit. Into the space between thought and movement.
Which meant that when the lines blurred, you would realize that you had simply forgotten how to stop.
The music ended mid-beat, and silence rushed in to occupy the space it left behind.
A collective groan followed. Someone collapsed dramatically onto the floor.
You hooked the towel around your neck, offering your throat to the air as you slid down the mirror wall, pulling your knees up to your chest. Your lungs were still trying to negotiate with the rest of your body. You grunted, the sound low, hollow, and utterly spent.
Sweat slid down the side of your face. The mirrors blurred beneath the harsh lights. Or maybe your vision did. It was hard to tell anymore.
"Sunbae." You glanced over.
One of the newer trainees stood nearby. He was tall and looked polite.
The look of a kid who apologized when somebody else stepped on his foot.
"Yeah?" He shifted his weight. He sat down beside you while maintaining a strangely respectful distance. The sort of space anyone barely gave regardless of age these days.
He looked strangely nervous. Then:
"I was just curious about how long you've been here," he asked softly. It didn't hurt. It was just familiar. Like touching a bruise to see whether it still throbbed. A small pause later he added, "it's just that the others said you are the oldest here." Your eyes trailed the maladroit explanation that was demonstrated by alot of hand movement. After a few moments of silence, you replied.
"Six years and a few months. Give or take." His eyes widened slightly. Right on cue. You looked away toward the mirror before it arrived. Because it always arrived.
"But—given your reputation," he paused, as if wondering if he should continue, "given how talented you are, shouldn't you—" He cut himself off, scratching his nape awkwardly.
"Yeah, well, that's impressive." Even more awkward laughter followed. The kind people used to patch over a conversation they had accidentally damaged. Because silence had a way of making people uncomfortable, and you had just handed him plenty of it.
You could almost hear the questions forming behind his eyes.
Persistent. Dedicated. Look how young she is. She spent her entire childhood here?
Nobody said it. Nobody ever did. They let the sentence die before it reached their lips. As though mercy existed in omission.
It didn't make it any gentler. A blade doesn't become less sharp simply because nobody names it.
Your phone vibrated. The screen lit up. For a moment, you only stared at the name
Your tongue darted out to wet your lips—a nervous tic that you had developed over the years. You didn't particularly dislike the sender, but some names became associated with places. Conference rooms. Evaluations. Plastic water bottles arranged neatly across long tables. The slow erosion of expectation.
Your thumb hesitated. Then tapped on it.
Come see me after practice.
Nothing else. No explanation. No urgency. One ordinary sentence.
Your pulse stumbled uncomfortably anyway. The body remembers things the mind grows tired of carrying.
"Everything okay?" The question came from the new trainee, whom you just noticed was still sitting beside you.
You locked your phone. "Probably." Too quick. Too automatic. As though good news had ever arrived in a message that shorT.
Around you, conversation resumed. Life continued with the confidence of people who still believed tomorrow belonged to them. You stared at your reflection. Sweat-darkened shirt. Hair stuck to your forehead.
A face made familiar by repetition. A face you had seen in dressing-room mirrors and bathroom mirrors and practice-room mirrors and elevator mirrors.
A face that suddenly felt temporary.
The thought arrived so quietly it almost slipped past unnoticed. Maybe this is it. Seven years is the pathetic end of the line.
Long enough for seasons to change. Long enough for entire trainee generations to come and go. Long enough for potential to become a question instead of a promise. The idea should have terrified you. Instead—relief. Small, sharp, and sudden, hits. Gone almost immediately.
There was the possibility of an ending. The possibility of putting down something you had carried for so long that you had forgotten what it weighed. Guilt followed a second later, as predictable as gravity.
For those who weren't first in this continuous and endless race, burnout waited at the finish line—if they even reached it, that was. Raw and immovable. Even the most successful ones didn't get the warmth of commemoration nor caresses.
After practice ended, you remained where you were. Still enough for a passerby to think that you were trying to count the droplets of sweat that dripped down from your face to the floor. Your phone felt heavier in your pocket. Five words. Not many people could ruin an afternoon in five words. You sighed, you do that a lot these days.
Moving toward something had always made it harder to pretend it wasn't real.
The hallway outside was colder than the practice room. The glass panels threw your reflection back at you. You looked past it.
The walk should have taken two minutes. You made it take seven. Then eight.
At one point, you stopped to check your phone. Nothing.
No new messages or missed calls. You stared at the screen anyway. Wishing that another notification might appear and spare you from the first.
Halfway down the corridor, a thought caught you off guard.
If they terminate my contract today—who do I tell?
Your footsteps faltered. The answer arrived immediately.
Nobody. Nobody cares.
The words landed with a dull sort of finality. Years ago, there would've been another answer.
Your mother. Before every evaluation. Every showcase. Both of the almost-debuts—those frantic weeks where you had tried on stage outfits, only to pack them back into suitcases when the groups dissolved before the first teasers could even drop. Every tiny victory inflated by excitement into something enormous. You would've called her first
Like a hand withdrawing from a flame, out of motor reflex, you shoved that thought down.
Your thumb hovered over your contacts. Names. Phone numbers. People you cared about. People who probably cared about you. Friends. Former trainees. Some mentors. A dozen conversations waiting to be resumed. People already carrying enough weight. Enough that adding to it made your chest feel heavy.
Yet none of them felt like the person you would call when a life ended. Because that is what this would be. Not your life exactly, just the version of it you had been constructing since you were ten years old. Brick by brick. Practice by practice. Evaluation by evaluation.
You wondered what happened to dreams after they were declared dead. Whether they got buried somewhere. Whether there was a ceremony. Flowers. A eulogy. A polished plaque engraved with something respectable.
'Here lies Potential.'
The thought should have been funny. It wasn't.
You kept walking while the building hummed around you. Managers carrying coffee and employees carrying laptops. People who were all pretending to know what they were doing. You used to think adulthood came with certainty.
Now you suspected everyone was improvising. Some were simply better at hiding it.
The conference room waited at the end of the corridor. The door was closed. You stopped in front of it, and suddenly the hallway felt very quiet. For a moment, all you could hear was your own breathing. Seven years distilled into a closed door and a trembling hand. It was ridiculous.
You curled your fingers toward the wood. But just before your knuckles met it—the handle turned first. The door swung inward. You stepped back automatically. The person emerging did the same.
A near-collision with a man tall enough to classify as a pole. Silky brown hair was pushed back from his forehead with a hairband, and rimless glasses hung from his nose, looking one careless nod away from falling off. He had a black folder tucked beneath one arm.
There was a particular look people wore after spending years chasing something. You had the ability to recognize it immediately.
After all, it was knowledge accumulated not through affection but repetition. You recognized it because you saw it in the surface of every mirror you stood in front of.
The exhaustion sat differently on everyone. On some people, it sags. On others, it hardens. His had settled somewhere behind his eyes.
His gaze landed on you. Briefly. Not long enough to become rude. Not short enough to be accidental. A flicker of recognition passed between strangers who had occupied the same building for too many years. The ecosystem of people perpetually waiting for permission to begin their lives. Perhaps something adjacent to familiarity.
The moment slipped away. He shifted to the side. You noticed the distance he left. Just a few inches. Enough. The space reserved for strangers. Or for people carrying fragile things, there was no in between. His eyes were still on you. Assessing carefully.
"Sorry." His voice was rough around the edges. Overused. Like he had spent hours arguing with someone.
Despite the fact that it was nothing but a careless apology thrown at a stranger, to you, it felt oddly heavy.
You nodded once. The universal language of people who had no intention of having a conversation. The exchange ended there. He continued down the corridor. Long strides. Head lowered slightly. The folder (now lowered) tapped gently against his leg with every step. Then he disappeared around the corner.
The silence returned. You stared after him for a moment. There was something oddly comforting about seeing another person leave a room you were terrified to enter. Proof that survival remained possible.
The conference room waited. The open door revealed only a sliver of the interior. Small plants littered the brightly lit room. They all looked vaguely like plastic.
The office was smaller than you had expected. Not cramped. Just ordinary. A desk. A few chairs. A framed platinum record hanging slightly crooked on the wall. The sort of room where futures were discussed in the same tone people used to discuss lunch.
The man behind the desk looked up when you entered. Mr. Choi. He smiled, motioning for you to sit down.
With your lips in between your teeth, and legs dragging behind you like wet blankets, you did.
He slid a folder toward you, it was yellow. At that moment, you weren't sure why that bothered you so much.
Maybe because yellow was the colour of summer. Children's drawings pinned to refrigerator doors. Bright and happy. This yellow looked tired. Muted by lighting and fingerprints. The color of something handled too many times. The front page read :
CORTIS. An acronym for 'Color outside the lines'.
The words landed softly. That was somehow worse.
You stared at the folder, unblinking, as if maybe by looking long enough, you would wake up from this dream. It felt cold and the bristly texture irritated the tip of your finger.
You had always imagined this moment in your head. Not often.
The future had been dangerous territory when you were a trainee. Most people learned not to visit it too frequently.
Still—sometimes when it was late at night. On the walk back to the dorm. Or perhaps during evaluations.
You had imagined hearing the word debut. You had imagined relief. Excitement. Vindication. The sudden certainty that all those years had been building toward something.
Instead, all you felt was strangely disconnected from your own body. As though the room had shifted half an inch to the left. As though reality had made a decision without consulting you.
The manager continued speaking. Schedules and preparations and training adjustments—you name it. But the words all drifted past. All meaningless.
The manager noticed your expression. "You've worked very hard," he said, then nodded as if he were satisfied with the words of encouragement he had offered. As if they would be the medicine to the sickness that plagued your mind right then.
CORTIS. Everybody knew CORTIS. Not officially. Companies loved pretending secrets remained secret.
A debut rumored to be weeks away. A lineup polished so thoroughly it had practically become fact.
Your gaze lingered on the pages. The concept sketches, recording schedules, and the styling notes; the promo ideas and, of course, the lineup.
Every page told the same story.
Five boys standing shoulder to shoulder. Five shadows cast in the same direction. Five pieces cut to fit together.
Five. Five. Five.
Five boys. CORTIS wasn't a mixed group. It was a pathetic testament to how much effort people were willing to spend making sure everything fit together.
A completed shape.
Your name sat at the edge of it now. New ink on an old blueprint. The realization settled somewhere beneath your ribs. Nothing inside this folder felt new. Except you.
Companies were capable of astonishing things. Apparently, common sense rarely ranked among them those days.
Mr. Choi called your name. You looked up.
"Do you have any questions?" Thousands. None of them useful. None that could be satisfied with whatever answer he would offer.
You thought of the brunette trainee leaving the room. The folder beneath his arm.
The careful distance he had left between the two of you.
The split second of recognition which you had labeled as 'something adjacent to familiarity' You were wrong. Terribly so. The apology made more sense now.
A strange pressure unfurled beneath your ribs.
Your excitement (not really) folded in on itself. Collapsing like a star at the end of its life. The feeling of arriving late to your own life. Because for seven years you had imagined a door opening. You had never imagined walking through it and finding people already seated.
Already comfortable. Already belonging to one another. For years, the future had been simple.
Someday. Everything lived inside someday.
Someday you would debut.
Someday things would make sense.
Someday all the sacrifices would line up neatly beside the reward and balance the equation.
Now someday sat inside a folder with the names of five boys.
Printed and scheduled and painfully real.
The strange feeling stretched further and further into the shape of a question.
One sharp enough to draw blood.
How do you join a future that already learned how to exist without you?
''there is no righteousness in suffering alone and isolating yourself from everything is never the answer because you'll eventually start to lose sense of who you are as you spiral further into depression and suicidal ideation this is why you need to let people help you and allow yourself to believe in a better future even if it feels impossible at times''
well shit. it does have a good plot
edit: yes i know this is the theme not the plot. i wrote plot, you still get the point. deal with it
❝james never gets a second of peace, because he always wants to be devoured by you.❞
WARNING⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ mdni, nsfw, bf!james, he is a flex, lol mention, dry humping, degradation, dirty talk, kissing, unprotected sex, rough sex, cumming inside, cum eating, choking, big dick!james. 3K
— Love?
It’s the first thing you say when you walk through the door after a long day with your friends, but you get nothing back.
— James? — you call again, kicking off your shoes, already thrown by how quiet the house is. — Babe?
Nothing. The only sound is tools clinking in the game room, already telling you your boyfriend is in his element. You pad across the floor until the noise gets louder, and there he is, bent over the coffee table, fixing the monitor from his gaming setup that had died earlier that morning—according to the text he’d sent you.
His freshly blond hair falls lightly over a forehead damp with sweat, framed by the glasses he never takes off, not even now, while his sharp eyes stay locked on the wires and boards he’s working on.
He’s shirtless, wearing only an old pair of jeans he saves for getting dirty. He hasn’t even noticed you standing there, completely absorbed while you watch him work. Sweat gleams greedily across his pale skin, sliding down a defined chest that didn’t come from a gym but from late nights in old boxing rings with his friends, or hauling massive boxes of comics and outdated consoles from place to place.
Holy shit, you think.
It wasn’t news that your libido ran high, but your fertile window had hit early and at this point there was no holding back.
You stop in the doorway, biting your lip, not even trying to hide how turned on you are. He looks so masculine like that, veins standing out on his strong arms as he grips the screwdriver firmly, turning it with precision. The muscles in his shoulders flex with every movement, and the sweat traces irregular lines down his abdomen, highlighting the ridges you already knew so well.
— This board’s fried. — He mutters something about the wiring, completely focused, oblivious to the world. — Fuck.
You’re frozen in place, trembling a little. Your legs almost carry you straight to him in a messy mix of filthy desire and pure missing him. Yeah—less than two minutes. After all, it was no secret that James being a know-it-all nerd was basically one of your kinks.
Especially when that nerd is in the middle of the living room, half on a stepladder, breathing hard like there’s no tomorrow over a single broken monitor.
You can’t take it anymore. You let out a soft huff and let yourself imagine. The day had been suffocating without him, and seeing him like this—focused and sweaty—lights something primal in you. You want his attention. And you want it now.
Without a word you come up behind him, sliding your hands over his bare waist. He jumps, glasses slipping a little down his nose, and turns his head toward you, surprised.
— What— oh, you’re home, love. — He smiles. That warm smile that always melts you. But you don’t give him time to talk. You press your body against his back, feeling the heat of his sweaty skin soak through your clothes—which, conveniently, aren’t many.
— Baby… you look so fucking hot like this. — you whisper against his ear, brushing your lips over the lobe full of piercings, loving the cool metal on your tongue. — I think I just had a visual orgasm.
He laughs quietly, almost under his breath, which does nothing to help your situation, trying to turn his attention back to the monitor.
— Just a second, love… I’m almost done here. — he asks gently, almost coaxing, glancing at the pout on your face for being turned down the first time.
But you’re stubborn. You don’t stop. You’re determined to get what you want, so you slide your hands higher, tracing the pulsing veins on his arms, feeling the hardness of the muscles tensing under your touch.
— Baby…
— Don’t even start. — he answers without looking at you. — Last time I told you I’d only fuck you again when you played League of Legends with me.
— James!
He doesn’t listen, still in the steady rhythm of tightening and swapping screws, being deliberately difficult.
— Come on, love. We could use couple skins, you know? It won’t kill you.
— Mhm.
You pretend to agree, and he shivers lightly at your breath. The sticky skin makes it easy for your fingers to glide. You press your thighs against his, slowly rubbing against his ass, using one hand to cup the half-hard cock through the jeans from behind, feeling the volume grow.
— No, baby. I want it now. — your voice is needy, breathing soft when you press against his ass again, but the firm bite you leave on his shoulder says something else entirely. And he knows it. — Nobody told you to put on a show in the middle of the living room.
James drops the tool, breathing deep, glasses fogging a little from the heat he’s feeling.
— Fuck, you’re impossible today. — He turns, grabbing your waist firmly and pulling you close, lips crashing into yours in a hungry kiss with no patience. His tongue plays with yours in a perfect rhythm, sharing a wet affection that goes deeper than just sex hunger, waking up every already-sensitive part of your body. Your hands explore his bare skin, lightly scratching the exposed back, tracing the almost discreet abs, encouraging you to push one knee between his legs while he presses you against the table, approving the stimulation with a rough moan against your mouth.
The friction between your bodies grows more intense. You rise onto your toes, now grinding the center of your legs against his erection, feeling his cock throb through the fabric, hearing that little dirty chuckle of his.
— Look what you do to me, baby. — he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, blond hair messy and falling into his eyes behind the glasses. — Feel that? Hard as fuck, just for you.
You moan, nodding, and he spins you around, bending you quickly over the table next to the half-disassembled monitor. His hands slide up under your skirt, yanking your panties down in one pull, too desperate for any teasing.
— Already so wet? Such a filthy little slut. — He gives your ass a light slap, the sound echoing in the room, followed by another, firmer one that makes the skin sting deliciously. — Got turned on just from watching me work, huh? Bet you could only think with your pussy. — You arch your back, excited by the filthy talk, unable to form words, only asking for more, and he laughs, breathing hard. — Want me to fuck you hard, don’t you? With this cock you can’t go a single day without.
— Fuck, James. — you murmur weakly, using your own hands to pinch the hard peaks of your nipples, the sensation as painful as it is pleasurable, pulsing the same way your already-neglected clit is.
He finally unbuttons his jeans, freeing his thick, throbbing cock, so hard it aches, breathing out in satisfaction once it’s free of the fabric. It was no secret James was a little above average—big enough that the thought of taking him in your mouth alone could make you choke.
It had taken a lot of practice to ride him without being sore afterward.
— Spread your legs. Come on. — His voice is thick now. The words come out a little slurred with how turned on he is.
Without long preliminaries he pushes into you slowly at first, stretching you gradually, careful, using his hips to roll gently against your pussy, fitting himself in without hurting you. The glasses are still perfectly in place when he tilts his head to look down at you, flashing those white teeth in a filthy smile that makes you flutter around him, getting you even wetter so he can slide in easier.
— Fuck, this pussy feels so good. — He furrows his brow in a desperate moan, using both hands to grip your warm skin, sinking even deeper into you, addicted to the filthy way you squeeze him. — So fucking warm… Squeeze for me? I know you like it. — You moan loudly, hands now braced on the table, feeling every inch of him thrusting in and out hard, no mercy, fluids dripping down your thighs every time his damp hair brushes your skin.
Suddenly he stops the thrusts for a moment, pulling you up by the hair with one hand, rough, forcing you to arch your back more while the other arm wraps possessively around your waist, fingers digging into the skin like he’s claiming territory.
— Ah, love… thought I forgot? — he growls in your ear, voice low and dominant, glasses still perfect on his sweaty face, sliding down his prominent nose, feeding that imposing air.
James turns you to face him in one quick, unthinking move, lifting you into the air like you’re a doll and throwing you onto your back on the table again, scattering the tools aside.
His eyes shine behind the lenses as he pins your wrists above your head with one hand, immobilizing you while the other slides down to grip your thigh hard, then slaps your exposed pussy, covering the entire vulva with just his palm.
— You’re my whore, aren’t you? Mine, to use however I want. — he reaffirms, rough. — Say it for me, slut. — He whispers, wicked, pushing back into the hole already used to him, deeper. His hot body pressed to yours, damp hair falling as he bites your neck, leaving mark after mark, pulling more moans from you.
Your mouths meet again, greedily sharing each other’s taste, moaning in unison when your tongues tangle. The kiss is wet, rough, messy—just like the sex between you.
— Hold on to me. — He’s quick, not giving you much time to think about anything except obeying, then looking at the stepladder he was using earlier. He smiles maliciously, eyes reflecting a dangerous lust behind the thin lenses.
— You… James! — you laugh in disbelief, not feeling even a little of your arousal fade, biting your lower lip, tempted.
— I think you’d better hold on.
Your boyfriend pulls you up with skill, positioning you on the ladder. You’re facing away from him, gripping the higher rungs with your legs spread wide and your ass pushed out toward him. James climbs up behind you, smoothing his hands over your skin with fascination, admiring the view for a few seconds, almost worshipping it in silence before pushing into you again from behind, the unstable position adding an extra shot of adrenaline to every thrust.
Each stroke makes the ladder sway slightly, but James keeps it steady enough to fuck you without problems. Your hands go to his thighs in pure desperation, occasionally squeezing one of his cheeks, calling for your boyfriend like a little slut, mind completely fogged. You can’t even think about stopping.
James wraps one hand around your throat, squeezing just enough to make you see stars but without truly hurting you, cutting off your air for a few good seconds, mixing it with the overstimulation of your own fingers on your hard clit, making your eyes roll back from the pleasure.
— Breathe slow… that’s it. Feels good, doesn’t it? — James sounds wrecked, as high as you are or more, sucking air through his teeth, almost vibrating inside you.
You can’t form thoughts, only taking that cock like it’s the first wonder of the world. You feel closer to the edge than ever, confused by the pleasures flooding you, addicted to the loud sound of his full balls slapping against your skin, lost in the intoxicating feeling James always manages to give you every time you fuck.
The rhythm picks up, thrusts deeper and faster, the sound of skin against skin mixing with his moans. And you love it—love how he never holds back his sounds, how he always shows how much he loves you and loves fucking you, how much pleasure he takes in seeing you so completely given over to him. He is fucking obsessed with you.
And you with him.
— You’re mine, fuck… Shit, baby, look how I fill you up completely. — He gives more slaps to your ass, alternating with rough caresses, trying not to push past your limits. You feel the climax approaching, your body going softer and softer against him, but he doesn’t stop. — Come on my cock, love.
As if obeying him, the orgasm hits you almost violently, whimpering softly while the sensation stretches out, taking you out of yourself for a few seconds.
That’s because right after James turns you, still on the ladder, making you step down one rung so you’re at the perfect height for what he wants.
— I’m so close, princess… Suck me a little? — You nod slowly, not holding back when his cock throbs right in front of your eyes, opening your mouth in a desperate attempt to take him in, pulling another little smile from him.
And you do. Swallowing as much of the length as you can, sliding your tongue and licking from base to tip, tasting the salty mix of accumulated sweat and pre-cum, sucking hard, all while he holds your hair, guiding the rhythm, not hiding how much he loves the filthy little sounds you make when you choke on his cock. — Just like that… just like that. Swallow it all, little slut. — He bites the corner of his lip trying to hold back the needy moan that escapes, coming hard in your mouth with gusto.
Gently, he lifts you by the elbows, pulling your body against his in a hug, giving a light squeeze to your waist, tilting his face to leave a soft little kiss right in the valley of your breasts—a cute habit he has to finish by saying “I love you.”
— Sorry about your monitor, love. — you say softly once he looks back at you with tenderness.
— It’s fine. — he pretends to be casual, sighing like it’s no big deal. — Just… you’re gonna have to be the Katarina to my Garen in League, love.
i’m writing this story that maybe i’ll publish, but it’s more of a passion project. so i’ll give you two options on the dynamic between some of the characters. For context, they all go to the same university.
just a note: this is NOT a dark romance. it’s a drama and is never ever meant to validate “love” like this. trust, i’m not trying to romanticize these types of toxic dynamics. They’re harmful and are definitely NOT an appropriate representation of what love is.
•••
option 1) character A had a crush on character B, and slowly fell in love with him. they didn’t know each other that well, but character B later learns about this love, and takes advantage of it. he doesn’t love character A back, but he likes that A is pretty and easily submits to him. so he slowly starts manipulating him and eventually gets A to commit some actions that can later be used to black mail him. this forces A to obey B’s requests and obviously A loses the rose-colored glasses but still tries to convince himself that he obeys out of love, and not fear, just so that he still feels like he has some control.
so that’s option 1.
option 2) character A is in love with his friend, character C. somehow, character B learns of this and uses it to trick character A into committing an action that B later uses as blackmail. Now, A is at the mercy of B. This is fueled by his love for C. Basically, B threatens to show C all that A has done and to also hurt C. So A just never fights B and always submits to B.
both are kinda interesting plot lines that would be hard to write but also entertaining. Idk which one to pick so I made the poll.
i’m writing this story that maybe i’ll publish, but it’s more of a passion project. so i’ll give you two options on the dynamic between some of the characters. For context, they all go to the same university.
just a note: this is NOT a dark romance. it’s a drama and is never ever meant to validate “love” like this. trust, i’m not trying to romanticize these types of toxic dynamics. They’re harmful and are definitely NOT an appropriate representation of what love is.
•••
option 1) character A had a crush on character B, and slowly fell in love with him. they didn’t know each other that well, but character B later learns about this love, and takes advantage of it. he doesn’t love character A back, but he likes that A is pretty and easily submits to him. so he slowly starts manipulating him and eventually gets A to commit some actions that can later be used to black mail him. this forces A to obey B’s requests and obviously A loses the rose-colored glasses but still tries to convince himself that he obeys out of love, and not fear, just so that he still feels like he has some control.
so that’s option 1.
option 2) character A is in love with his friend, character C. somehow, character B learns of this and uses it to trick character A into committing an action that B later uses as blackmail. Now, A is at the mercy of B. This is fueled by his love for C. Basically, B threatens to show C all that A has done and to also hurt C. So A just never fights B and always submits to B.
both are kinda interesting plot lines that would be hard to write but also entertaining. Idk which one to pick so I made the poll.
IT’S JUST A SHAME, THAT’S ALL — THROUGH THE LENS FROM OUTSIDE
➪ pairing : ot5 cortis x 6th member reader
➪ summary : a continuation to part one , part two , and part three. life's been different without you but what a loss is to a family, it's a new job for someone else.
➪ other notes : if the last part drove me insane, this one demolished me. i hope you guys like it because i really did try my best. creds to @/norvixa6 on tiktok for the analog horror imagery. also this is barely edited it's like 4 am but i tried my very best to check any typos.
“how has it been two months already and still the same information since the first week ?!” your mother screams, hands slamming down on the table. “ma’am please calm down,” officer park tries to deescalate the situation. “no, my daughter went missing two months ago and all any of you do is twiddlƒe with your thumbs instead of looking for her !” your mom cries. “we are doing everything in our power to find y/n, not a day goes by when we aren’t.”
tears start running down your mom’s face, there hasn’t been a single day where she’s had a moment in peace. her whole life halted by your disappearance. “i promise you, we will find y/n,” officer park gently pats your mom on the back, handing her a box of tissues. “we have a new detective working on the case, we are not giving up.” from a few feet away, your brother watches in silence. he’s grown used to how your mom constantly cries.
the car ride home is uncomfortably silent, your brother’s become the chauffeur of the family. your mom hasn’t been able to drive since you disappeared. home isn’t any louder. your shoes are still by the door, slowly collecting dust. your jacket still hangs over a chair, one your mom forgot to move when you forgot it after your last visit. now no one moves anything, how can they ? “mom go lie down for a bit, dinner is on me,” he says, mimicking the same soft tone she used on both of you as children.
“how about we get thai takeout instead ?” she suggests, a lump forms in your brother’s throat. “…yeah of course, whatever you want, i’ll let you know when it gets here,” he forces a smile, nodding. your mom makes her way upstairs before calling out, “oh and chul, if there’s anything new, let me know please.” chul nods, “yeah i will.” but he knows deep inside that there won’t be any updates, it’s just a waiting game with no prize to win.
chul spends most of his days like he did before everything. he attends his classes at his university, works as a cashier afterwards, and goes home to sleep. nothing about his routine has changed yet it feels 10 times more tiring. he can distract himself from thoughts about you during the day but as soon as night falls, everything hits him like a truck. he doesn’t cry, but he’s lucky if he gets three hours of sleep. he hates himself for just thinking of this but a part of him has grown to resent you.
not because you ran away, no that would have been easier because at least you would have told someone. but what is he supposed to think when you suddenly disappear ? he knows what the company said, but he doesn’t care. he knows you, he knows his sister, you would’ve never left. though he knows that making a claim against a multimillionaire company with no proof would only result in loss, financial and emotional.
and with the way finances are going, he’d rather not start anything. almost immediately after you disappeared, the company cut off any source of income, claiming that you had breached the contract. royalties you had been receiving for years even before debut were all cut off. with a mix of mom’s medicine, her medical bills, mortgage, groceries, and miscellaneous bills, chul tried his best to pick up as many shifts as possible.
not because they’re about to go completely broke, but because life was starting to become less comfortable. it’s weird to think that the youngest person in the family was the one responsible for most finances. when mom stopped working after her chronic pain became worse, you told her not to worry about it, that you’d take care of it. now instead of just worrying about his tuition payments, he has to make sure expenses don’t fall through the roof.
one night, chul stares at your bedroom door before opening it. he winces at the creak, remembering how you’d complain that he never oiled the hinges. he walks in, closing the door behind him. he doesn’t bother turning on the light, just sits on the floor next to your bed, letting his back feel the plushness against your mattress. even though you hadn’t lived at home in a long time, your room still looks the same as it did years ago.
the only difference now is that you’re not coming home at all. his hands dig into his hoodie pocket, revealing three things. nicotine gum, nicotine patches, and cigarettes. before you even debuted, chul had the habit of smoking cigarettes on a weekly basis. it helped with his stress as much as he didn’t want to admit he was addicted to it. you’d immediately cover your nose when he walked by, harshly scolding him. “you’re so disgusting chul,” he’d just roll his eyes, “well it’s a good thing you’re not the one doing it huh ?”
it would always end in an argument, until one day when he stopped altogether. “you know, second hand smoking is also bad, how am i supposed to sing if i’m breathing in your smoke ?” chul raised his eyebrows in confusion. “i smoke with the window open, what the hell are you talking about ?” “that doesn’t matter, that shit penetrates the walls !” you stomped your foot in frustration. “you won’t even live here in a month, you’re moving to the dorms.”
“okay then if it’s only a few weeks until i leave, quit for now and then you can continue ruining your lungs,” you crossed your arms. “are you worried about your lungs or mine ? make up your mind.” “i’m worried about all of us ! you know mommy can’t be breathing it in either,” you stated, flailing your arms. chul hummed, you made a good argument. so he finally made the decision to go cold turkey.
“okay, just until you leave, i’ll stop smoking and i promise that any future smoking will be done outside, how does that sound ?” chul smooshes his cigarette into his ash tray. you blink at him before smiling brightly, “really ?!” chul rolled his eyes, “yes really.” you immediately wrapped your arms around him, squeezing him tightly. “i knew you loved me !” your voice muffled against his shirt. “don’t get ahead of yourself,” he awkwardly patted your back.
it’s been almost three years since that conversation and since then, chul hadn’t smoked. the first two weeks without smoking were absolute hell, just the aspect of not having anything to wind down after a hard long day sent cold shivers down his spine. yet, he kept his promise, doing everything to fill that void. his oral fixation was satisfied when he shoved a chapstick between his lips, a little gross but it sufficed.
after you left, he challenged himself to try one more month of not smoking, just to prove to himself and to you that he wasn’t addicted. eventually that challenge became his lifestyle, clean lungs and no lingering smoke smell on his clothes. but now chul looks down at the floor in front of him. “fuck,” he curses to himself, biting his cheek hard enough to make it bleed. he just needs something real, anything to make that ache go away.
he picks up the gum packet, reading the instructions on the back, effective in 10-15 minutes. “who the hell waits that long ?” he drops them on the floor again before grabbing the patches, turning it over, effective in 2-4 hours. “are these fuckers trying to kill me or something ?” he scoffs, throwing them on the floor, this time with more force. he sighs, turning his gaze to the pack of cigarettes. he can’t, he can’t just give it all up right now…but he needs it.
“just one,” a wobbly smile forms on his face, shaky hands ripping off the plastic wrapping. then- BUZZZZ. “shit,” chul jolts, dropping the pack. he reaches again into his pocket, now pulling out his phone. it’s an unknown number listed under the police department. he immediately answers, “hello ?” an unfamiliar voice speaks, “good evening, is this chul l/n ?” chul sits up straight, reaching for the nicotine gum. “yes, this is him.”
“my name is detective kang hyeok-jin, i was assigned to your sister’s case about a week ago,” detective kang introduces himself. “i know it can be very frustrating and repetitive to answer the same questions but i’d like to get some details about y/n so i can understand her disappearance as best as i can.” chul shoves three nicotine gums into his mouth, face contorting in disgust. “yeah of course, i’ll answer anything if it helps you guys find my sister.”
across town, a sleep deprived hyeok-jin asks chul several questions. he writes them down in messy handwriting, just enough for him to understand. “thank you mr. l/n, this was very helpful. i’ll dedicate myself to finding your sister,” hyeok-jin grips the phone tighter. “you’re not the first one to say that…but i hope that you’ll actually help,” chul sighs into the phone, obviously tired out by these two past months.
“i’m sorry to hear that, i know it hasn’t been easy for your family, i’ll do everything i can to get her back,” hyeok-jin sets his pen down. a small pause comes from the other line “yeah…thank you for calling anyway.” even though they aren’t face to face, hyeok-jin can sense the hesitation and defeat in chul’s voice. “i’ll let you rest then, i’ll keep you updated on anything and everything, please save my number into your phone, and have a goodnight.”
“alright, thank you, goodnight,” without another beat, the line is cut. hyeok-jin lays his phone face flat onto his desk, rubbing his hands over his face. he’s been looking over this case for only a week and he’s beyond confused. everything that should be there is there but your case file is small to say the least. the longest document is the company’s statement and proof that you breached your contract and could even be sued.
everything else is just…there. “hey boy, you should head home, you’ve been here two hours overtime,” lieutenant baek sun-woo calls out to him. “i’ll go home soon ! i was just reviewing the case you gave me,” hyeok-jin gives his supervisor a tired smile. “don’t you have a wife and a kid to get home to ?” the lieutenant asks. “i actually don’t have a girlfriend sir,” that statement is immediately welcomed with an up and down stare, “well that explains a lot.”
hyeok-jin tilts his head in confusion, but doesn’t have enough time to reply before lieutenant baek bids his goodbye. “go home before any chance of having a girlfriend disappears completely.” hyeok-jin forces out a laugh, “yes sir !” a few minutes later, the office falls completely silent, the only sound coming from the light over his head. hyeok-jin looks back down at your case, furrowing his eyebrows. missing person report. photos of the cctv footage. company statement. lack of witness statements.
the more he thinks, the more he’s confused. he flips through the interviews of different people you were close with, your family, your members, even workers from your favorite stores. they all said the same thing : you would have never left out of your own will. except for one person. when asked by the police if it seems likely that you’d run away, edwards martin stated “i would like to say no but y/n has always been a complicated person, so i’m unsure.”
hyeok-jin leans back in his chair, it would’ve made sense if everyone or most people had the same idea of you but to only have one person, specifically the last person that saw you ? “hey you’re not heading out yet ?” a familiar voice grabs his attention, it’s officer kim. “i’m about to leave, was just looking over some things,” he smiles at her. “good, don’t overwork yourself,” she nods, walking closer to him. “actually since you’re here, were you at the scene during the investigation with that one idol ?” he asks, pushing the case file to his friend.
“no, i was off that day but i did hear some things about it, why ?” she flips through it. “it just seems weird, almost like it wasn’t…thoroughly investigated, everything is so short,” he hesitates on his words, not wanting to overstep a line. “i can’t say much about it honestly, missing person cases are always weird to handle especially when her company is contradicting it as a whole,” officer kim frowns. “yeah…i’ll look more into that, thanks though,” hyeok-jin sighs, grabbing the file from her.
“also, shouldn’t you also be going home too ?” he asks officer kim. “normally yes but they changed me to night shift, just until one of the guys gets back from paternity leave,” she shakes her head. “oh i see, well make sure to stock up on energy drinks and coffee,” he cracks a joke making officer kim snort. “will do, thanks, now go home and sleep before your brain gives out,” she clears her throat, giving him a small wave. “thanks, have a good shift !” once left alone again, hyeok-jin exhales. he’s tired and confused but he does know something, tomorrow’s a new day.
when chul wakes up, he groans in pain. how did you even sleep on your bed every night when you were little if it’s harder than a rock ?! your unicorn plushie is directly under his neck, your lion plushie is tucked between his armpit. he sits up, rubbing his eyes. on your nightstand is his nicotine products, unopened patches, opened gums, and half unwrapped cigarettes. he looks around your room now that the sun is peeking beyond the curtains. it almost makes him sick, he hates being here during the day where he can see the remnants of your memory as a child.
almost immediately, he fixes your bed before grabbing his things and leaving the room. he thinks he’ll die if he stays in there for another minute. when he goes downstairs, he sees mom, buttoning up her bright pink vest. “mom you’re already leaving ?” he asks, grabbing her purse. “early bird gets the worm honey,” she smiles, looking at him. “seeing you go out like this every day worries me,” chul expresses his discomfort.
“not knowing where your sister is worries me,” she ends his argument. “please be safe then, and don’t stand or walk for too long,” hyeok-jin gives the older woman a tight hug. “walking is good for me, you know that,” she shrugs him off, walking to the front door. mom’s been avoidant lately, less affectionate and more sad, not on purpose but because her mind is clouded by worrying about you. he wishes everything could be normal again.
when lieutenant baek invites hyeok-jin out for lunch, he almost refused. it was weird, not in a suspicious way but he had never had a supervisor buy him lunch. yet here he is, stuffing his mouth with meat. “so hyeok-jin, you came from jeju island right ?” lieutenant baek asks him. hyeok-jin nods, swallowing his food. “how come you came to seoul ? i’d die to live on jeju,” the lieutenant chuckles, sipping a bit of his soup.
“i heard seoul is a good place for detectives to grow,” he replies, awkwardly smiling. “really ? i heard there was a lot of crime there,” he shakes his head at his superior’s words. “no, we just have a lot of tourists and most of them are respectful but there’s a handful that just ruin it for everyone. and even then a lot of the crimes are straight forward, a little burglary here, a little fight there, it’s all very simple,” he sighs.
“no wonder you’re going all in for this missing girl case,” the older man chuckles. hyeok-jin places his chopsticks down, wiping his mouth with a napkin “actually i wanted to talk to you about that.” the lieutenant looks at him, eyebrow raised. “why…did you put me on y/n l/n’s case ? i appreciate it of course, it’s an honor but it’s a big case for a newcomer no ?” he asks, looking off to the side. lieutenant baek hesitates to answer before exhaling.
“it’s a big case but it’s also a dead end.” hyeok-jin’s puzzled by his answer. “what do you mean ?” “you know how you had simple cases in jeju ? it’s similar to this one…whether her family and friends want to admit it or not, the girl probably ran away. there’s no proof otherwise and it’d be hard for her company to fake something like that so boldly.” lieutenant baek explains his thinking, it’s clear by now that he’s set on this idea.
hyeok-jin shifts uncomfortably in his seat, unsure of what to say. “when you have your children, you’ll understand that this is the type of things teenagers do when they’re pent up,” his superior attempts to reassure him. “it doesn’t make sense though-” “please don’t think too much about it kid, digging into it will only waste your time.” hyeok-jin shuts his mouth, beginning to become irritated.
“besides let’s say worst case scenario, the company was involved since apparently that’s folks favorite theory, she’s probably living a good life down low. i mean, think about it, people do a lot for money, money talks and money runs the world.” the older man waves off the situation. instead of arguing and possibly losing his job, hyeok-jin calms himself down “if you say so…”
chul’s day was uneventful to say the least, the same long and boring routine. school and work, nothing to celebrate but nothing to complain about. that is until he had to pick up mom’s medicine. he walked in and out of the pharmacy three separate times, waiting for his check for that week to hit his bank account. when it finally does, he’s only left with a few thousand won afterwards, even with the coupon the pharmacist offered.
as fucked up as it sounds, he’s glad that only a few people know that he’s your brother. he can’t imagine the looks of pity and people whispering under their breath “poor guy, it must suck being him” or even “wow he’s an idol’s brother but he could barely afford medicine.” he’d probably die out of the embarrassment. when he reaches home, the sun’s already gone down.
he’s about to reach for his keys, but having the habit of checking if the door is unlocked gets to him first. surprisingly, it’s open. chul furrows his eyebrows, did mom forget to lock it ? he quietly steps inside, just in case something’s happening. “i wouldn’t possibly be able to accept that,” chul hears mom talking in the kitchen. “it’s really okay don’t worry, you’re basically my second mom,” oh it’s martin.
chul stands outside of the kitchen, listening quietly to the conversation. “y/n isn’t here but i know she would have wanted me to help,” martin tries to persuade mom on something. “but it’s so much money…” mom sighs. “exactly, and i’m guessing chul’s been paying for your medicine, so think about it like this : i’m not only helping you, i’m also helping him,” so that’s what this is about, mom’s medicine.
chul remembers the first time you met martin. it was during a hot summer day in august, both of you were sweaty in boiling heat. martin had approached you, offering to push you on the swing after seeing you fail to get momentum which later led into a game of tag. it was cute and wholesome. what chul didn’t expect was for this to blossom into a friendship, the kind every kid desires to have.
as years passed and both of you grew, martin still chased after you, almost like a person running alongside a butterfly. wherever you went, martin soon followed. he liked martin for the most part, especially because you also never had a bad thing to say about him. when chul found out you’d be in the same group, he was relieved you’d have a best friend beside you and also someone he trusts fully.
chul steps back when he hears footsteps approach the doorway. martin is startled back when he sees chul, “you scared me sorry,” he laughs, a smile forming on his face. “nice to see you too,” chul nods, leading him to the front door. “oh by the way,” chul stops martin just as he’s about to leave. “the police assigned a new detective to y/n’s case.” martin doesn’t turn around, he pauses for a second.
“is that so ?” he asks in a low voice. “yeah,” “that’s good,” martin nods, “let me know if they say anything new.” chul hums, “i will don’t worry, goodnight martin,” with nothing more to say, martin opens the front door and leaves. chul doesn’t blame martin for acting weird, everyone handles bad situations differently. he knows it’s been hard on martin, he can only hope the members are all united on this.
it’s been a month since lieutenant baek took hyeok-jin for lunch. over three months since you’ve been gone. hyeok-jin knows that his lieutenant told him not to dig around but can he just stay still ? unfortunately however, hybe and bighit have not cooperated whatsoever. not outright refusing, rather just not responding at all. phone calls to higher ups in the company lead to an hour wait only for the call to suddenly hang up.
he doesn’t have any luck getting paperwork from them either despite the multiple attempts of contact. public records were extremely shortened and difficult to find. it’s just been a full month of frustration and lack of response. he crumbles up a piece of paper, throwing it into the trash can next to his desk. “why even have a phone number if no one fucking answers,” he grumbles to himself. he leans his head against his hands, letting out an exasperated sigh.
hyeok-jin thinks of the lunch with his lieutenant, trying to remember every word from that conversation. he doesn’t think lieutenant baek meant any harm, but the conversation still bothered him. he thinks of something the lieutenant said at the end of their conversation. “money talks.” he doesn’t have anything else to go off of, just hopes and dreams. his fingers tap against his desk, eyes landing on his computer.
he remembers something his professor said years ago “if you can’t follow people, follow the money.” so he leans forward, clicking through different government sites. “if no one wants to talk to me or answer my questions, i guess i’ll ask the numbers.” it’s his very last hunch, otherwise he’d be just like the past detectives that were handed this case. he can’t give up this easily without checking every end of a clue, he promised your brother that he’d try his best.
chul’s morning started off extremely rough. he was already late for his class, one which he had a test for. mom screamed at him for no reason other than the fact that it’s officially been three months since you went missing. he doesn’t blame her or argue back, he just wishes that she could see he’s also struggling just as much as she is. “i’m sorry mom,” he apologizes even though he has no reason to.
mom cries, “just go to school, i want to be alone,” she sniffles. “okay, i love you,” he leaves before she can say anything else. he runs the fastest he can to his university, missing the first half of his class. he apologizes to the professor, earning a harsh scolding. “i’m so sorry, can i still do the exam please ?” “it’s your time, not mine,” she rolls her eyes, handing him a copy of the test and a scantron. he exhales in relief, sitting down at his seat. he takes a deep breath, putting his pencil to the paper.
grades are put into the system almost as soon as class ends. chul fails the test horribly. not barely, horribly. he got a 15 on it, the worst he’s ever done on anything. it’s so bad he even agrees to have lunch with his friends, anything to try and cheer himself up. but all his friends seem to ask him about is how his family is doing. before you debuted, he had commented to his friends that his little sister was going to be in a kpop group, a mistake he now realizes.
“we’re fine,” chul bites into his sandwich, one his friend had bought him a few minutes ago. “bro if you ever need our help, we’re here for you,” his friend with glasses says as the others nod. “have you, you know, been online lately ?” his other friend with dyed hair asks, earning a shove from chul’s favorite gym bro. “i don’t like reading any of that shit, just jobless nobodies saying shit about my sister,” chul shakes his head.
“that’s good man, i seen a lot of shit a-and i don’t think your sister was like that but like i don’t know people be talking,” dyed hair rambles on. chul ignores him, not wanting to continue talking about you. “do you think talking about her will do you some good ?” glasses asks in a softer tone. “if he doesn’t want to talk about her then let’s not force him,” gym bro comes to chul’s defense. chul gives him a small smile before looking back at his sandwich.
quiet fills the table until dyed hair breaks it with a scoff. “i’m sorry but i have to talk about it, your mom’s out there protesting that nothing is being done for your missing sister but you don’t want to talk about it ? instead of defending her ? do you know what people are saying about her ? that she ran away, not to mention they’re also saying she was the yoko ono of the group-” chul stands up, chair scraping against the floor.
“shut your fucking mouth.” chul warns his friend, the others shocked by his sudden demeanor. “just because your girlfriend goes out and fucks a new guy every weekend doesn’t mean my sister was like that. what do you want me to say huh ? oh i think my sister got kidnapped ! oh i think my sister might have been trafficked ! oh i think my sister might be dead ! it’s been three fucking months and i know nothing, she’s all i think about !” chul’s voice breaks at the end.
“and from what it seems, you don’t know anything about me, let alone my sister so the next time you say anything about her, i’ll beat you to a pulp,” chul warned dyed hair before grabbing his backpack and leaving the cafeteria. no one calls out for him or chases to stop him, not that he was expecting that to begin with. he soon leaves campus, jittery and overwhelmed. chul can feel tears brim his eyes, vision becoming blurry.
as soon as he’s off school grounds, he dumps his backpack out. pencils, notebooks, folders, even his laptop falling onto concrete ground. he frantically reaches his hand into his bag, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. he’s hyperventilating at this point, on the brink of having a panic attack. fuck being sober, fuck anything and everything. he puts the cigarette between his lips, lighter shaking in his hand as he lights it.
the first drag burns his lungs, almost like the first time he smoked. in 10 seconds, his heart rate and breathing slow down. but even when chul releases the smoke from his mouth, the ache in his soul and tears in his eyes don’t disappear, it only makes things worse. he thinks of you and how angry you would be at him right now. he reaches for his phone, trembling fingers scrolling through his contacts, pressing to call.
“martin,” chul’s voice is wobbly as the younger boy answers the phone almost immediately. “hey what’s wrong ?” martin asks, hearing quiet sniffling on the other hand. “i know that you might be busy but i really need to talk to you,” chul cries into the phone. “i’m on break, i have to go back soon but what happened ?” “today’s y/n’s three months since she went missing and everyone’s just talking about her like she’s gone forever and i don’t know what to do anymore, i just fucking smoked after quitting for three years,” he sobs, cigarette burning between his fingers.
“and you of all people know y/n wouldn’t have ran away,” he continues tethering between anger and heartbreak. when chul allows martin to talk, martin is silent to the point where chul think the call ended. “hello ?” “i’m sorry chul, i…i can’t say much, i…” chul doesn’t know why martin is responding so weirdly. “what are you saying ?” “i-i’m saying that i don’t know, everything’s just so…confusing- i’m sorry i have to go, i need to get back to practice,” martin cuts the conversation short.
“what ?” chul asks, softly hiccuping. “i put in the money for your mom’s medication, i’m sorry i can’t say anymore, bye,” before chul can respond, martin hangs up. chul looks down at his phone, “thanks anyway,” he mumbles to himself, tears running down his face. this isn’t the boy you talked so positively about. this isn’t the boy he’s known since martin was 12. chul can’t recognize martin anymore, the real martin would have fought for you.
that night, hyeok-jin stares at the papers in front of him, heart thumping against his ribs. the numbers didn’t add up. mixing or falsified tax records. training expenses that never existed or seemed exaggerated. payments to shell companies. contracts rewritten after signatures had been made. he was right, there was more than what meets the eyes, there’s years of fraud. how has no one noticed this ? …did they ever notice this ? his discovery is soon cut short when he hears running footsteps down the hall.
he snaps his head to the side, seeing multiple officers dashing. “detective kang !” officer kim sprints into the room. “you need to come with us right now,” she looks completely out of breath. “what happened, what’s going on ?!” his stomach drops as he gets up from his seat. “one of the cortis members…he had an accident,” she struggles to catch her breath. hyeok-jin’s confused, what does that have to do with him ?
“i mean is he okay ? but i’m not a cop so why do i-” “that’s not the reason why you have to come along,” she interrupts him. “we found y/n.” hyeok-jin freezes, eyes widening, “found ?” his friend nods. so many thoughts cross his mind yet he can only ask one question. “is she alive ?” his voice comes out quieter than intended. officer kim looks at him, her parted lips let out an exhale before pressing into a thin line.
in which you; an abuse survivor haunted by trauma meet James— a gentle man who slowly becomes your devoted lover. Through patient courtship and deep emotional trust; he helps you heal by showing you that intimacy can be tender, consensual, and beautiful rather than violent. 5k
༝ 赵雨凡 ༝ 𝒙 f!reader ethel cain / western gothic
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT heavy tw: ⚠︎ grape (no graphic description but still tw), religious trauma and guilt, western gothic, self hatred, intimacy, PTSD, emotional distress and angst, fully consensual gentle sex, mild alcohol use, intense emotional vulnerability. SMUT : gentle sex, praising lots of praising, softness, oral, piv unprotected, comfort, extensive verbal consent, fingering, creampie (discussed and consensual), aftercare, multiple orgasms, body worship.
a/n : please, no hate on this, i’m only human, this is fiction, please don’t come at me for writing this— when people quite literally romanticize rape on here. this was something i needed to write, i don’t want to get hate for it because it’s incredibly vulnerable so please give me a break im tired, take in consideration that this is purely a form of art. That being said, take care of yourself, if you can relate (which i hope you don’t.) please please please don’t let a monster dictate your life.
“HE GAVE IN TO TEMPTATION. Men are weak, you shouldn’t let one moment define the rest of his life.”
The priest’s voice drifted through the dim confessional like dust motes in a shaft of stained-glass light— heavy with the scent of old incense and mildew. Father Elias sat on the other side of the latticed screen, his silhouette hunched like a weathered gravestone in the small-town church.
The building itself was a relic— cracked plaster saints with peeling paint, wooden pews worn smooth by generations of sinners, a rusty crucifix hanging crooked above the altar as if even God had grown tired of holding it straight. Outside, the wind moaned across the empty plains, carrying the faint howl of coyotes circling the bones of dead cattle.
You knelt on the hard wooden step, knees aching, fingers twisting the hem of your thin cotton dress; the fabric clung to your sweat-damp skin, faded like everything else in this godforsaken stretch of America.
Your body felt foreign, animal.
The violence had stripped the softness from you and left something feral in its place: a wild thing with bared teeth and trembling flanks, hiding in tall grass, ready to bolt or bite at the slightest shadow.
Sleep came in fitful snatches, curled tight like a wounded deer, muscles locked against phantom hands. Hunger gnawed but food tasted of ash. Touch— any touch—sent you spiraling into that dark place where flesh became meat- where your own body betrayed you with memories of tearing and bruising.
You had come to the church seeking absolution for your anger— but Father Elias offered counsel for the sinner instead.
“You have to remember that forgiveness is for everyone, even the man who hurt you,” he continued, voice soft as grave dirt. The words landed like stones in still water, rippling through your chest.
You swallowed hard, throat raw— the confessional smelled of candle wax and old sins and through the screen, you could see the outline of his clasped hands, knuckles white. Everything was so detailed yet so distant.
“Father… he didn’t just hurt me. He took. I said no. I begged. And he laughed.”
The memory surged, brutal: gravel digging into your back like the teeth of the earth itself, his breath hot and sour like cheap whiskey and damnation, hands pinning your wrists as if nailing you to some profane cross. Your dress torn like fucking temple veil.
Afterward, you crawled into the ditch like an animal fleeing the slaughterhouse— limbs shaking, throbbing with violation, soul leaking out onto the dirt.
Days blurred into weeks of hiding in motel rooms, washing blood from your undergarments in sink basins, staring at your reflection until the girl looking back became something hunted and hollow-eyed.
The pain had animalized you: instincts sharpened to survival, trust evaporated like morning dew on the sagebrush. You flinched at footsteps, bared metaphorical teeth at kindness, fucked up your own attempts at connection because intimacy now smelled like violence.
A prey animal wearing human skin, yearning for a shepherd who wouldn’t lead you to slaughter.
Father Elias sighed, the sound heavy with centuries of doctrine. “Holding on to anger only gives the devil another victory, my child. Let it go before it festers into something that damns you both.”
You pressed your forehead against the cool wood, tears slipping silent down your cheeks. The church creaked around you, wind rattling the loose panes like bones in a shallow grave.
Outside, the vast western sky stretched merciless, highways cutting through it like veins opened for bloodletting. You thought of the man—your executioner —sitting somewhere in this same county, perhaps lighting candles in this very church, confessing to the same priest.
Forgiven by God while you carried the carcass of what he left behind.
“He has confessed his sins before God,” the priest said gently, almost pleading. “Perhaps it’s time for you to let this go.”
The words carved into you. Let it go.
As if pain were a coat you could shrug off on the porch step.
As if your body could forget the way it was split open under moonlight, turned from temple to battlefield.
You had become the wounded lamb limping through the valley of shadow, but no rod or staff comforted you. Instead, rage simmered beneath the fear—a wild, gnashing thing that made you want to burn the fields, to scream at the indifferent heavens until they cracked.
“We all fall into sin,” Father Elias murmured, finality in his tone. “His happened to hurt you. But grace is for the fallen. Pray on it, daughter. Seek the light.”
You left the confessional on unsteady legs, the animal inside you snarling low. The church nave stretched long and empty, dust dancing in beams of colored light from windows depicting martyred saints pierced and bleeding. You genuflected out of habit, the motion mechanical, then slipped out into the blazing afternoon sun.
The dirt parking lot was empty save for your old pickup, paint sun-bleached and rust-eaten. You drove the back roads with windows down, wind whipping your hair like a scourge. Fields of dying wheat rolled by, golden and rotten at the roots, scarecrows standing sentinel like crucified sinners.
Home was the crumbling farmhouse on the outskirts— the same one that would later shelter you and James. For now, it stood lonely, porch sagging under the weight of unspoken prayers.
You stripped in the dim bedroom, standing naked before the cracked mirror.
Your reflection showed the thing you had become: ribs faintly visible from weeks of barely eating, bruises long faded to yellow ghosts on your hips and thighs, eyes too wide and haunted. Scratches from your own nails where you had clawed at your skin in nightmares, trying to scrub him out. Breasts that once felt soft and inviting now seemed like burdens, cunt a site of trauma rather than pleasure.
You touched yourself experimentally, fingers tracing the folds that had been forced open, and flinched at the echo of pain.
No wetness, only dryness and dread.
The yearning was there, buried deep— a desperate hunger for tenderness that felt like blasphemy in this landscape of judgment.
Nights were the worst. You lay on the iron bed, sheets tangled like restraints, listening to the coyotes sing their hymns. Dreams came feral: running endless highways, hooves instead of feet, the executioner’s truck always gaining, his hands turning into claws. You woke gasping, body slick with sweat that smelled of fear.
Masturbation brought no relief— only fragmented attempts that ended in tears, fingers too rough in mimicry of violence, leaving you emptier.
The animal in you paced, wounded and wanting, craving a touch that healed rather than hunted.
Days passed in ritual. You worked odd jobs at the roadside diner, pouring coffee for truckers whose eyes lingered too long, making your skin crawl with animal wariness.
You avoided the church after that confession, but the priest’s words haunted the empty rooms like ghosts.
Forgiveness. Grace. Letting go.
They clashed with the truth etched in your flesh: some sins left teeth marks that no prayer could erase.
You read old Bibles by lamplight, tracing passages about redemption, but they felt hollow.
The God of this land seemed distant, more interested in forgiving the wolf than binding the lamb’s wounds.
One evening, storm clouds gathered low on the horizon, turning the sky the color of bruised flesh. You sat on the porch with a bottle of cheap wine, the animal inside restless. Thunder rumbled like distant judgment.
You thought of the man who hurt you— perhaps he slept easy now, absolved, while you carried the weight of his temptation.
Anger rose, hot and righteous, but so did the exhaustion of holding it.
The priest was right about one thing: it was poisoning you, turning you more feral, more isolated. But forgiveness felt like dying all over again.
So you drove to the edge of town as lightning split the sky, pulling over at an old crossroads where faded signs pointed toward forgotten places. The rain came sudden and violent, washing the dust from your windshield as tears from a penitent’s face.
You stepped out into it, dress clinging transparent, arms spread as if inviting the heavens to strike. Water mixed with salt on your cheeks.
“Why?” you screamed into the gale- to no one in particular. “Why why why why.”
That night, back at the farmhouse, you lit candles around the bedroom, mimicking some half-remembered ritual. Naked again before the mirror, you traced the lines of your body with trembling fingers, trying to reclaim it.
“This is mine,” you whispered to the reflection. But the touch stirred only echoes.
The yearning deepened into ache: for hands that asked, for a body that sheltered rather than invaded, for intimacy slow as desert twilight and tender as a mother’s lullaby.
Longing twisted with carnal hunger. You wanted to be laid on an altar of flesh and worshipped, not sacrificed.
Sleep claimed you eventually, curled fetal like a creature in its den. Dreams shifted slightly— a figure on the horizon, boots kicking up dust, eyes like moss after rain.
A lover, perhaps.
A man who understood the animal and gentled it without breaking.
Morning brought pale light filtering through threadbare curtains. You rose, body stiff but the feral edge slightly dulled by the storm’s catharsis.
The priest’s words lingered, but so did your truth.
Forgiveness might come later, or never. For now, survival meant seeking the light he spoke of, even if it led down uncertain roads.
You packed a small bag— few belongings, a worn Bible, a change of clothes—and climbed into the truck. The engine coughed to life and highways stretched before you, endless blacktop cutting through golden decay, telephone poles like crucifixes.
You didn’t know where you were going, only that staying meant becoming more of a beast.
The priest’s counsel echoed: forgiveness for all. But your body remembered the violence, and it demanded proof of another way. Proof that flesh could sing hallelujah instead of screaming damnation.
Proof that a man’s weakness didn’t have to mean your destruction.
The desert swallowed your taillights, stars wheeling overhead like indifferent witnesses.
You passed abandoned farms and rusted water towers, relics of dreams long dead. Each mile peeled back another layer of th armor— fear giving way, inch by painful inch, to the fragile wish for connection.
By the time the sun bled orange across the plains, exhaustion and something like grace settled over you. The farmhouse waited somewhere ahead, empty and beckoning, its porch light a distant votive in your mind’s eye.
You pulled over once more, killing the engine under a sky turning violet. Sitting on the hood, legs dangling, you let the cooling metal warm your thighs. Hands pressed to your stomach, you breathed deep the scent of creosote and possibility.
The rape had made you feral, yes— quick to run, slow to trust, body a battlefield of phantom pains and instinctive snarls. But beneath it, the girl who once believed in tenderness still flickered, a candle in the ruins of faith.
“Forgiveness,” you whispered to the wind, tasting the word like bitter sacrament.
Not for him.
Not yet.
But perhaps space for something new.
For hands that built instead of broke.
For a lover who would kneel in the dirt and kiss the wounds without demanding you forget they existed.
Night fell fully as you resumed driving. The radio crackled with a faint Jeff Buckley melody— your heart beat in time, animal and human entwined, carrying you toward the farmhouse where dust settled on empty rooms, waiting for the man who would finally answer the prayer.
In the days that followed, solitude wrapped you like a shroud. You cleaned the old place with ritualistic care: sweeping floors that groaned like penitent knees, hanging faded curtains, placing wildflowers in cracked jars on the windowsill.
Each task was an act of reclamation, pushing back against the wildness. Yet at night the memories returned— visceral torrents.
The weight pinning you.
The grunt of conquest.
The way your voice had cracked on “please” until it became whimper.
You woke clawing at sheets, nails leaving red crescents on your arms, body slick with the sweat of prey.
One afternoon, you found an old rosary in a drawer, beads worn smooth. You held it, running fingers over the cross, and whispered fragmented prayers.
Not for the executioner’s soul, but for your own. For the feral thing inside to find rest.
The priest’s words returned unbidden: “We all fall into sin. His happened to hurt you.” They stung less sharply now, tempered by distance, but still you rejected the easy absolution.
Your hurt was not collateral. It was a ravine carved through your life, deep enough to echo.
You began walking the back fields at dusk, boots kicking up red dust, dress trailing like a robe. Coyotes watched from the treeline, recognizing kin in your wary stride.
One evening, a storm threatened again. You stood in the open, arms raised, letting the first fat drops hit your upturned face. Rain soaked through fabric, outlining the curves the executioner had claimed, but this time you did not flinch.
Instead, you imagined different hands— gentle ones tracing the same paths with reverence. The yearning intensified, a deep ache between your legs that was desire and fear braided together.
You slipped fingers under the wet hem right there in the field, touching tentatively. Slow circles on your core, breath hitching not with trauma but with tentative want.
The animal watched, curious rather than terrified.
You did not come, but the act felt like small sacrament— reclaiming the altar of your body one raindrop at a time.
Returning to the house drenched, you stripped and stood before the mirror once more. Water beaded on skin marked by faded lines.
You spoke aloud to the reflection: “You are more than what he made you.”
The animal inside softened its hackles, curling tighter but no longer snapping.
Letters arrived sporadically— distant family, concerned friends— but you answered little. Isolation was both cage and sanctuary.
In the quiet, you read from the worn Bible and secular books scavenged from thrift stores: stories of fallen women finding grace on the road, of bodies remade through love.
The longing evolved from vague hunger to specific prayer.
You wanted eyes that saw the scars and kissed them anyway. A voice that praised instead of degraded. A sex that filled with consent and care, slow as the turning of seasons.
The priest’s final counsel lingered during a return visit to the church weeks later. You did not enter the confessional this time but sat in a back pew as Father Elias prepared for evening mass. He noticed you, offered a nod heavy with unspoken words.
After the sparse service— a handful of elderly parishioners murmuring responses—you approached him in the vestibule.
“Father,” you said, voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. “I heard your words. About forgiveness. About sin.”
He clasped your shoulder lightly, a fatherly touch that did not trigger flight. “The Lord’s mercy is infinite, child. Even for the weakest among us.”
You met his gaze. “I’m trying. But the animal he left in me… it doesn’t forget easily. I’m learning to walk again. To want again.”
He smiled sadly, the lines on his face deep as arroyos. “That is the beginning of grace. Go in peace.”
You left lighter, though not healed. The drive back felt like pilgrimage. The farmhouse appeared on the horizon, its lights (you had left one burning) like a beacon.
Inside, you prepared simple food, ate at the wooden table, then bathed by lamplight. The water caressed your skin, warm and forgiving.
Fingers explored again, slower, imagining a future lover’s mouth replacing them. Soft moans escaped, echoing off tiled walls— sounds of tentative healing.
That night, sleep came deeper. Dreams featured open roads and a man walking toward you, hands open, voice like gravel and honey. James, though you did not yet know his name.
The animal in you perked its ears, in recognition.
The road finally delivered you to him on a night when the sky hung low and bruised, thunderheads rolling across the plains like the wrath of an old testament God.
You had pulled into the gravel lot of a half-forgotten roadside bar on the outskirts of another nowhere town. The air smelled of spilled beer, cigarette ash, and the metallic promise of rain.
Inside, the jukebox wept low country songs, and he was leaning against the scarred wooden bar when you entered, a silhouette carved from the very dust and decay of this land.
James.
Tall and lean as a fence post left too long in the sun, shoulders broad from years of hauling lumber and laying rebar on half-built churches that never quite got finished.
His dark hair fell across his forehead in careless waves, streaked with blond like moonlight on barbed wire.
A faded tattoo of a thorn-crowned cross peeked from the open collar of his shirt, ink blurred by time and penance. Scars traced his knuckles and the line of his jaw— road stories, bar fights, nights spent wrestling with angels and losing.
He was no savior in white robes.
James was a sinner with callused hands and a quiet faith.
A drifter architect of sorts, he built things that stood against the wind: barns for widows, shelters for runaways, sometimes just temporary altars out of scrap wood.
Men whispered he had blood on his ledger from a youth spent running moonshine and worse, but the women who knew him spoke of gentle strength— the way he held doors and held silences, never rushing, never taking.
A man who had buried his own ghosts under desert highways and risen with dirt still under his nails.
Your eyes met across the hazy room.
Something ancient stirred in your chest— the feral animal inside you paused its pacing, ears pricking not in flight but in wary recognition.
He didn’t approach like the others, with hungry grins and grasping hands.
James simply nodded once, a slow tip of his chin, and slid a glass of whiskey down the bar toward you when the bartender asked your order.
“Looks like you’ve been driving through hell’s back forty,” he said, voice low and gravel-rough, laced with that slow southern drawl that wrapped around broken things and tried to mend them. “the name’s James.”
You talked that night in careful fragments, perched on stools while lightning flashed outside. He listened like a confessor who had never betrayed a secret, black eyes steady as you skirted the edges of your story without spilling the blood yet.
He spoke of his own wanderings: building in dying towns, laying hands on structures and souls alike, searching for something real amid the rot.
“I don’t pretend to fix what’s broken,” he murmured. “But I know how to hold it gentle. The world’s got enough violence already.”
He didnt come inside the farmhouse that first night. Instead, he walked you to the door, hat in hand, rain dripping from the brim.
“If you ever want company that don’t demand nothing, I’m staying at the old Miller place down the road. No pressure, pretty.”
Days turned to weeks.
James became a presence rather than a conquest. He appeared with fresh-cut wildflowers for the sagging porch, helped patch the leaking roof without being asked, his hammer strikes rhythmic as prayer.
Evenings found you on the porch swing, sharing silence and then stories. He told you of the churches he restored, of laying bricks like laying down sins, of praying over foundations that might outlast him.
You spoke haltingly of the animal the rape had left behind— the flinch at sudden movement, the nights curled like a wounded coyote, the way your body had become a locked tabernacle no one was allowed to enter.
James never pushed.
Touches came slow: a hand steadying your elbow on uneven steps, fingers brushing yours when passing a mug of coffee. Each one asked permission with its gentleness.
“You set the pace,” he would say quietly, eyes on the horizon. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”
Over months, he became your lover in the truest sense— not through claiming, but through presence. Shared meals at the scarred kitchen table. Walks along the dust roads where he matched your stride, never leading. Nights sitting close on the couch, his arm around you only when you leaned in first, thumb tracing soothing circles on your shoulder.
The animal in you learned his scent— sandalwood, sweat, and honest earth —and stopped baring teeth. Trust bloomed tentative.
One evening, as summer faded into golden, you sat together on the porch steps. James turned to you, voice soft as grave dirt.
“I see everything you carry, darlin’. The way that bastard tried to make you into something broken. I hate it down to my bones. But I see you too— my girl, still reaching for light. When you’re ready, if you’re ever ready, I want to show you that touch can be different. Yours to command.”
Your heart ached with the weight of it.
Here was the man who had become your lover through patience and quiet devotion, not force. The wanderer with boba eyes and callused redeemer’s hands, ready to kneel at whatever altar you offered.
The farmhouse waited behind you, oil lamps glowing soft, the longing had grown into something ready. James waited too— steady, reverent—until you took his hand and led him inside, the threshold crossing like the first true breath after long suffocation.
Pleasure wasn’t punishment.
Pleasure. isn’t. punishment.
James’ fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face, gentle as evening vespers. “You look like you’re carrying the whole damn county on your shoulders tonight, pretty.” he murmured. “Let me take that weight off you.”
His breath hitched, thhose dark eyes, shadowed by the brim of his worn hat, filled with a sorrow so deep it mirrored the dry riverbeds outside.
He pulled you against his chest, heart thudding steady beneath faded cotton. “Christ, baby. It tears me up inside knowing someone laid violent hands on you. Made you think love had to hurt. I’d burn the whole fucking town down if it’d erase that night for you.” He kissed your temple, slow and lingering. “But I can’t undo it. All I can do is prove different. Every damn time you let me.”
The wrought-iron bed dominated your room, sheets worn soft from years of strangers’ dreams. You sat on the edge of the bed, knees together, vulnerable as a sinner at the altar.
James knelt before you, large hands resting on your thighs but not gripping. Never gripping unless you asked.
“Tell me what you need tonight,” he said, thumbs stroking circles that sent warmth pooling low in your belly. “We go as slow as you need. You say stop, I stop. You say more, I give you everything.”
“I need you close,” you whispered, voice cracking like parched earth.
All of you. Skin and soul. Show me tenderness, Make love to me like I’m something sacred.
James rose and undressed first, shedding flannel and jeans with unhurried grace. His body was lean muscle and scars— road life etched into him: a knife fight in El Paso, a crash outside Tulsa.
You reached out, tracing the tattoo over his heart— he shivered under your fingers but stayed still, letting you map him.
“Your turn, if you want,” he said softly.
You nodded.
He helped peel the flannelj from your shoulders, reverent as disrobing a saint. Cool air kissed your bare skin, nipples pebbling. His gaze drank you in—hungry but holy.
“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed. “Beautiful. So beautiful. I’m so lucky.”
Tears stung your eyes and he cupped your face, thumbs wiping them away.
“None of that shame, darlin’. Not with me. You’re allowed to want this— to need it slow and deep and loving.”
James laid you back against the pillows, the mattress dipping under his weight as he stretched beside you.
Skin met skin— warmth against warmth. His hand traced your collarbone, down the valley between your breasts, over the soft plane of your stomach. Every touch asked permission.
“Here?” he’d murmur.
You’d nod or whisper yes, and he’d continue.
You kissed him first, desperate for connection. His mouth tasted of smoke and salt, slow and devouring in the gentlest way, tongues slid together.
He groaned into you, a low rumble that vibrated through your chest. “So sweet,” he praised against your lips. “So pretty.”
Your hands roamed his back, feeling the flex of muscle, the raised lines of old scars. He rolled partially over you, careful to keep weight distributed, one thigh pressing gently between yours.
The pressure against your core made you gasp— slick heat building already, arousal a slow, sacred burn rather than frantic fear.
“Feel that?” he whispered, grinding softly, deliberately. “Your body’s getting ready for me, baby. So wet already. Does it feel good?”
“Yes,” you moaned, hips tilting up to meet him. “Don’t stop touching me.”
James worshipped downward— mouth latching onto a nipple, tongue circling with wet heat while his hand kneaded the other breast. Sensation bloomed: sparks shooting to your cunt, thighs parting wider of their own accord.
The old fear flickered— rough hands, forced entry—but James’s voice anchored you.
He moved lower, kissing the dip of your navel, the crease of your hip. Pausing at the apex of your thighs, breath ghosting over glistening folds. “Can I taste you?”
You threaded fingers through his dark hair, tugging lightly. “Please, James.”
His tongue was heaven and hell— broad, flat strokes from entrance to clit, then tight circles that had you keening. He hummed in pleasure, the vibration pulling a curse from your lips, “Fuck—yes, right there.”
James drank from you like communion wine.
Two fingers pressed at your entrance, circling, waiting. “Inside?” he asked, voice muffled against your flesh.
“God, yes. Slow.”
He slid them in, curling against that spongy spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. The stretch was perfect, full without pain.
Pleasure wasn’t punishment.
He worked you open with patient devotion, mouth never leaving your clit. Pleasure coiled tight, intensse —body as altar, his tongue as prayer.
You came with a broken sob, thighs trembling around his head, walls fluttering around his fingers.
He licked you through it, murmuring, “That’s my girl. So good, coming so pretty for me. Let it all out.”
Aftershocks rippled as he crawled back up, kissing the tears from your cheeks. His cock rested heavy and hot against your thigh, leaking. You wrapped a hand around him, stroking the length.
“I want you inside,” you said, vulnerable and raw.
All the way. Skin to skin. Fill the places that hurt.
James’s eyes darkened with emotion. “You sure? We can wait. I’d wait forever for you.”
“I’m sure.“
James positioned himself between your spread thighs, rubbing the thick head through your slickness. Teasing your clit until you whimpered. “Eyes on me,” he commanded gently. “Breathe with me. If it’s too much, we stop.”
The first push was exquisite pressure. Inch by inch, he sank into you, groaning deep in his chest.
“Holy fuck— you’re tight. So perfect, swallowing me like you were made for me.” Fully seated, he stilled, forehead pressed to yours. Sweat beaded on his skin. The fullness was overwhelming—stretching, claiming, but chosen. “Talk to me, baby. How does it feel?”
“Full— fuck… safe.” Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back. “Move. Please”
He did. Long, rolling thrusts, each withdrawal dragging against every nerve, each return grounding deep. The wet sounds of your joining filled the room— obscene. His hand slipped between you, thumb circling your clit in lazy spirals.
“Look how well you take me. So fucking strong. Brave girl, letting me in like this. I love you.”
Emotions crashed through the pleasure. You clung to him, nails scoring his shoulders lightly.
James adjusted, hips undulating in deep, grinding circles rather than pounding. The head of his cock kissed that spot inside with every motion, sweat slickin your bodies, sliding skin on skin.
The scent was heady— sex and sage and his musk. You tasted salt on his neck when you licked him.
He whispered praises like scripture: “Am so lucky, so fucking lucky….”
Tears slipped from both of you now, mingling-/ his pace never rushed, even as your second orgasm built.
“Come for me again,” he urged, voice cracking. “Let me feel that pretty pussy squeeze me. I’m yours. All yours.”
It hit you like revelation— waves of ecstasy rolling from core outward, cunt pulsing around his thick cock. You cried out, and James followed soon after, burying deep with a guttural moan, spilling hot and thick inside you. Pulse after pulse, marking you with love instead of violence.
He stayed buried, collapsing carefully to the side and pulling you atop him so you rested on his chest.
For long minutes, only breathing and the creak of the old house. His hand stroked your back in long sweeps. “You okay? Any pain?”
“None,” you whispered, tracing the tattoo on his chest. “Just full.”
He kissed your hair. “Good girl. You were so good. So beautiful. I’m so lucky.”
The night stretched on. You talked in the afterglow, voices soft as he told you stories of the road— lost highways where he’d prayed for something real.
You shared fragments of the trauma, how it felt like God had turned his face away. James held you tighter.
“Maybe he sent me instead. A sinner to love a saint.”
Later, desire stirred again. You rode him this time, slow and deliberate, hands braced on his chest, he looked up at you like you hung the stars outside.
“Ride me however feels good, pretty’. Use me”
His hands rested on your hips, guiding but never forcing; you ground down, taking him deep, clit rubbing against his pelvis.
Curses fell from your lips —“Fuck, James, you’re so deep”— mixed with his praises: “Beautiful. Take what you need.”
Orgasm claimed you both again, slower, sweeter.
Afterward, he drew a bath in the clawfoot tub down the hall, lukewarm water from th pipes. He washed you with careful hands, soaping every inch, rinsing with cupped palms.
Then you did the same for him, kneeling between his legs, mouth eventually finding his spent cock to coax it back to life with tender sucks and licks. He came down your throat with gentle hands in your hair, whispering, “I love you.”
Days blurred into this rhythm in the farmhouse. Mornings where he woke you with his mouth between your legs, tongue tracing on your clit until you shattered.
Afternoons on the porch swing, his fingers inside you under a thin blanket while cicadas sang.
Nights of full union— missionary with eyes locked, spooning with his hand cupping your breast, against the wall with one leg wrapped around him, always slow, always checking.
One stormy evening, lightning illuminating the rusted cross outside, vulnerability peaked.
You broke down mid-act, old memories surfacing as he moved inside you. James stopped instantly, slipping free, pulling you into his lap.
“Hey, hey. I got you. We don’t have to.” He rocked you through sobs, kissing tears, murmuring, “That bastard doesn’t get this part of you. Only I do, and only when it’s love.”
You eventually asked him back in, needing the reclamation. He entered you again like returning to prayer, movements even slower, foreheads pressed. “You’re safe, you hear me?”
James proved it time and again— intimacy wasn’t the violence of the past. It was slow unraveling, ecstasy in the flesh. You found peace in the decay —in the creaking bed, the flickering lamp, the man who loved you like the last honest prayer in a godless land.
And in his arms, the truth finally settled over your bones like warm rain on parched earth: you were never guilty.
Not for a single second.
The violence done to you was not divine punishment, not the wages of some imagined sin, not a lesson carved into your flesh by a cruel God. It was cruelty, plain and merciless, enacted by a weak man who chose evil.
You carried no stain. You owed no penance. The blood and the breaking had never been yours to atone for.
⠀⠀⠀warnings𐙚tags ⋆ pure fluff, humor, super clingy martin, endless pet names (princess, sweetheart, baby, my love) soft kisses & tight hugs, curse!
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𐙚wc ⋆ ~1.2k ♡
‧₊˚ ⋅ ☁️ — headcanons below ! ♡
• Every time you walk through the door, Martin stops whatever he’s doing, crosses the room in three big steps, and pulls you into the tightest hug. “Fuck, I missed you, my love,” he mumbles into your hair like you were gone for weeks instead of hours
• He’s clingy in the softest way, if you’re working or studying at home, he’ll drag a chair right next to yours so your legs can touch while he quietly plays on his phone or reads. Every few minutes he leans over to press a kiss to your temple.
• Martin keeps a little “you” playlist on his phone. He adds songs that make him think of you and plays it when you’re in the car together, singing the cheesy parts dramatically just to make you laugh.
• Random soft compliments hit you out of nowhere. You’re brushing your teeth? “How the hell are you this cute even with toothpaste everywhere?” You’re doing laundry? “My love looks unreal folding socks, what the fuck.”
• Movie nights always end with him wrapped around you like a vine. If you try to move he whines, “Don’t you dare, I just got comfortable. Stay with your man.”
• Martin keeps a photo of you as his lockscreen and wallpaper. When his friends tease him he just shrugs “She’s the best thing in my life, why wouldn’t I look at her every chance I get?”
• He loves holding your face in both hands before kissing you, slow, deep, and a little bit desperate like he still can’t believe you’re his.
• Late at night when you’re both half asleep, he’ll trace “I love you” on your skin with his finger over and over until you fall asleep smiling.
• If you’re ever cold, he immediately shrugs off his jacket or hoodie and wraps you in it, then pulls you into his lap to warm you up properly. “Can’t have my baby freezing on me.”
• He brags about you in the most casual, lover-boy way. Talking to anyone? “Yeah my partner is amazing, she put up with my clingy ass every day and still love me. I don’t deserve her.”
• Rainy days mean building a pillow fort in the living room, turning off all the lights, and spending hours talking about everything and nothing while he plays with your fingers.
• He calls you “bae” when he’s being playful, “princess” when he’s feeling soft, and “my love” when the feelings get too big for anything else and “wife” even though you’re not married yet he’s practicing.
• Whenever you achieve something, big or small, he celebrates like you won the lottery. Flowers, your favorite dessert, and the proudest hug while he repeats “That’s my baby. So fucking proud of you.”
• Morning person? Absolutely not. But he’s the clingiest when he’s half-asleep. He’ll hook an arm around your waist and drag you back into bed with a grumpy, “Five more minutes, my love."
• He keeps a little polaroid of you in his wallet. When he thinks you’re not looking, he’ll pull it out, smile like an idiot, and whisper “Lucky as fuck” to himself.
• After a long day, he loves when you let him rest his head in your lap. He’ll trace lazy circles on your thigh.
• Random “I love you”s hit you like trucks. You’ll be brushing your teeth and he’ll appear in the mirror behind you, wrap his arms around you, and go, “I’m so fucking in love with you it’s stupid.”
• Martin is dramatic as hell. If you tease him even a little, he’ll clutch his chest: “Wow. Betrayed. By my own girlfriend. In my own house. I’m filing for emotional damages.”
• He tries to cook for you sometimes and it usually ends in disaster. Smoke alarm goes off? He’s yelling “IT’S FINE, PRINCESS, THIS IS AMBIANCE” while frantically waving a towel at it.
• Inside jokes galore. He’ll randomly whisper “remember the incident” in public and both of you lose it while everyone else is confused.
• 2 a.m. conversations where he’s half on top of you, playing with your hair: “I can’t believe you chose me, man. I hit the jackpot.”
• He falls asleep fastest when you’re scratching his back or running your fingers through his hair. The second you stop he wakes up like “Hey… why’d you betray me like that?”
• Loves surprising you with little things. Random flowers, your favorite snacks restocked without you asking, or notes hidden around the house that say shit like “you make my dumbass heart do stupid flips, love you.”
•He wakes up first (barely) and just watches you sleep for a minute, then pulls you closer and presses lazy kisses all over your face until you giggle. “Five more minutes, my love. I’m not ready to share you with the world yet.”
• He’ll do the most ridiculous impressions or tell bad jokes just to hear you laugh. If you’re having a rough day he turns into a full comedian, complete with horrible dance moves, until you’re cracking up and calling him an idiot. Then he’ll scoop you up and say, “Yeah but I’m your idiot, princess.”
• Gets genuinely offended on your behalf. Someone was rude to you? He’s immediately in protective mode, muttering, “I’ll fuckin’ end them… but after I make you tea and cuddle the stress out of you, okay?”
• He’s the big spoon 90% of the time, arm locked around your waist, face buried in your hair. Sometimes he’ll whisper soft shit like “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m never letting you go, my love.”
• Date nights can be fancy or super lazy. He’s equally happy taking you out somewhere nice or building a pillow fort and watching trash reality TV while feeding you popcorn. Both end with him pulling you close and mumbling, “Best night ever. Love you so fuckin’ much.”
• Random love attacks. You’ll be scrolling on your phone and suddenly he’s peppering your face with kisses going “I just really fuckin’ love you, okay? Had to make sure you knew.”
• The softest “I love you”: When you’re both half-asleep, he’ll press a kiss to your temple and whisper it so gently it almost doesn’t sound like him. Then he’ll squeeze you tighter like he’s scared you’ll disappear.
• Soft moments hit hard when you least expect them. You’ll be reading or scrolling on your phone and suddenly feel him watching you. He cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, and whispers, “I’m so fucking gone for you, you know that?” before kissing you slow and sweet.
• Grocery shopping? His arm is slung around your shoulders the whole time. Movie theater? Hand on your thigh, playing with your fingers. If you’re out with friends he’s still glued to your side, occasionally leaning down to murmur dumb jokes or “you look so fucking cute right now” in your ear just to watch you blush.
• He loves when you lie on his chest. Runs his fingers through your hair and talks quietly about his day or random future plans that always include you. If you fall asleep first he stays awake a little longer just to watch you, occasionally muttering “I love you so damn much” under his breath.
• When you’ve had a long day, he pulls you into his lap, wraps you up completely, and just holds you. No talking needed unless you want it. He’ll press his lips to your temple and murmur, “I’ve got you, baby. Always.”
omg terra did u see the james weverse glitch 😭 he was posting the same thing a hundred times 😭 i was trying to watch the f1 belgian race and the world cup and ong it was irritating me
synopsis : as you start taking the last bus home, you notice a guy who carried around a certain trinket that you wanted to keep for yourself. it ends up as something more than just a staring hobby.
pairing : ahn keonho x f!reader ── .✦featuring : snoopy and woodstock ── .✦contains : fluff oneshot late night talks ── .✦wc : 1.1k
The first time you noticed him, it wasn't because he was handsome.
Well, maybe just a little bit.
But the main point was that he was predictable.
The last bus always arrived around 10:50 p.m. It would smell faintly of gasoline and the convenience store coffee everyone carried but never seemed to finish.
Every night without fail, he climbed aboard first.
Same oversized hoodie.
Same headphones hanging around his neck.
Same seat, third row from the back, window side.
You started taking the last bus because your shifts at the bookstore kept ending late at night.
At first he was just another familiar face.
And then familiar became expected.
You never learned his name and simply knew him as the guy with the Snoopy keychain which you secretly wanted to steal.
It hung from the zipper of his backpack. A tiny Snoopy looking up along with a heart. The paint chipped around the ears from years of being bumped against various places.
It bounced whenever the bus lurched with a slight jingle sound.
You found yourself watching it more than him. No matter how handsome someone's face may be, they are no match for Snoopy.
Sometimes you'd wonder where he'd gotten it and why does he carry it around so religiously. You'd imagine he'd won it from an arcade or that someone had given it to him.
Eventually your routine settled into something oddly comfortable where he'd board first and you'd board second.
He'd glance up just long enough to acknowledge your existence without a sound. His face would just show it in a silent way like he was saying 'Oh. You're here again.'
You'd take the seat beside him if it was empty but if someone else had claimed it, you'd sit across the aisle.
The city looked different after midnight.
Traffic lights changed for nobody as only a few vehicles were on the road.
Laundry swayed from apartment balconies and convenience stores glowed like tiny aquariums.
The bus windows reflected your faces and you'd end up staring at yourself, thinking about the things that happened throughout the day.
Sometimes the driver left the radio on low which played old songs through the speakers and occasionally interrupted by static.
Neither of you spoke as there wasn't any pressure to do so.
The silence which surrounded was shared with mutual understanding.
One rainy Thursday, the bus hit a pothole and your tote bag tipped over causing the pens and books to scatter across the floor. One of the notebooks slid near his shoes.
Before you could apologise, he bent down and helped you pick everything up.
The first time you heard his voice was when he handed you the notebook back.
"Here."
It was quieter than you expected.
"Thanks."
That was all but somehow it felt like progress.
The next night, you noticed something new. The Snoopy keychain had been joined by a tiny yellow bird.
Woodstock.
You couldn't stop yourself and ended up speaking whatever was in your head.
"He got a friend."
His eyes went from a confused stare towards you, then down to the zipper of the bag, and then back at you.
"Huh?"
"Snoopy."
He looked at the keychain again.
"Oh."
He didn't take his eyes off of it.
"My sister mailed me Woodstock."
You smiled thinking how cute it was. His sister must truly care for him. And you couldn’t help but think how sweet and quiet his voice sounds.
"I was wondering where he came from." You admitted without realising what you just said.
He stared at you for a few seconds and then, a small smile.
"You've been thinking about my keychain?"
Your face was starting to feel warm.
"Maybe."
"That's kind of funny."
Ever since that day, conversations happened accidentally between the two of you. Not every night but just enough.
"The vending machine at the station finally works."
"It wasn't working before?"
"For like, three weeks I guess."
"Oh."
──── ୨୧ ────
"That bakery closed."
"Really?"
"You look disappointed."
"I liked their melon bread."
──── ୨୧ ────
"You missed your stop?"
"I was reading."
"You've done it twice now."
"Don't tell anyone."
"I'll keep your secret."
──── ୨୧ ────
Eventually you learned his name because the driver called him out.
"Keonho! You forgot your umbrella!"
He turned around halfway down the steps.
"Thanks!"
When he climbed back aboard to grab it, you looked up from your book.
"Keonho."
A small pause between the two of you.
"Yeah?"
"I finally know your name."
"Guess you do."
"You were just 'Snoopy guy' before."
He laughed and this time it was an actual laugh.
"Honestly, sounds better than my own name."
The next night, something landed on your lap while you were in middle of reading your book.
A tiny acrylic charm of Woodstock, matching his.
He was sitting in his usual window seat and you were beside him as you looked at him.
"What's this?"
"So Snoopy isn't lonely."
"But didn’t your sister gift you this?"
"Don't worry. I already told her I'd be giving it to someone. If anything, she seemed happy because of that."
"How come you don't just carry Woodstock with you all the time too?"
"I didn't want too many charms on my bag, otherwise creeps like you would keep staring at it."
"Why are you throwing shade at me so casually?" You laughed.
"Just accept it already."
"Still, you definitely didn't have to."
"I know."
"..."
"..."
"Thanks."
He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal, then looked back out the window before you could see him smiling.
The bus became less about getting home and more about the twenty eight minutes you two shared in either a small talk or in silence.
Sometimes you'd both be scrolling through your phones.
Sometimes you'd read and he'd be watching mukbang videos on youtube.
Sometimes you'd just watch the rain race down the glass and he'd be watching you. Those were the days where he lost his window seat to you, perhaps deliberately.
The silence had changed slightly. It was still there, but much warmer now.
It was the silence of people who knew they'd be there tomorrow.
Keonho looked at your bag as your Woodstock charm swung gently from the zipper.
One night, the bus arrived nearly empty and only the two of you sat near the back. Outside, the city was shining in orange and white.
"Still got him."
You looked down at the little trinket.
"Of course."
He nodded his head and looked to the front.
"Good."
You smiled looking out the window.
"So Snoopy isn't lonely."
For a moment, neither of you looked at each other. You didn't need to.
The reflection in the bus window showed two people sitting shoulder to shoulder beneath the fluorescent lights, watching the city silently. Sometimes you'd find his eyes diverting towards you in the reflection and he'd never realise it. You smiled slightly into your hands everytime you caught him looking.
And somehow the ride home had stopped feeling like the end of the day as it had quietly become something that both of you looked forward to most.
a/n : seeing everyone love the sean fic, you know i just had to do a keonho ver 🙈 i've been thinking of keonho and snoopy for so long and finally i made it🙏 might do juhoon next since he still ain't on my master list yet🫣 i hope this was a fun read for yall😭 it's 1 am and genuinely these are the only times i am free enough to write these days💔 should i lowkey just sneak my tab into class and write from there ? 😂 (most likely not) thinking of making a perm taglist???what are yalls opinion??(idk how to make one tbh)
— ᨳଓ𝓀eonho starting his summer almost running over a ridiculously pretty girl? perfect! That ridiculously pretty girl being his new swim coaches sister? not so perfect!
warnings: reader got a lil rude, boys being dumb, reader is txt sobbing sister, cursing, TikTok ahh memes, implied asian reader
hi :3 its my first pic on this account lettuce clap! this is a multi series story im gonna have fun with so lmk if you guys like it or should I shut my ass up!
half written half smau
001 002
you can do it, you can do it
keonho repeated in his head as he sat in his driveway, hands on the steering wheel of his dads brand new SUV which only added more to his nerves, knowing he'd get his ass beat if something were to happen to his baby (the car)
he begins to back out when suddenly a figure appears in his mirror oh shit
keonho slams on the brakes and curses, hopping out the car to see a girl and a bag full of oranges spilled all over the sidewalk "What the hell dude?"
he stared at the girl who wore a dejected look on her face, the frills on her skirt suddenly looked sad too "oh uh...shit I'm sorry I wasn't looking"
"You started to drive without looking...?" you gave him a blank look
the boy who nearly ended your life and wasted your oranges wore a stupid look on his face, raising his stupidly thick eyebrows that you were lowkey jealous of
god forbid a gal walks to the market every once in a while
"It's my first time driving alone! I was nervous..." he threw his hands up as if he almost got ran over
"and I'm nervous for anyone you encounter once you make it out the driveway" you shoot him a glare and bent down to gather the oranges "I was gonna eat the fuck out of these oranges dude"
"do you want money or...are you hurt?" he scratched his head, feeling guilty he messed up the pretty girls day and her oranges
