RINA

&TEAMのために— she/her

[huwmou]

린아RINA — 18 — SHE/HER/HERS — 🇷🇺

MASTERLIST — MOOTS

FAV SONG

THIS AUTHOR DOES NOT SUPPORT R@C1SM, N@ZISM, POL1T(CS, P3DOPH1LI@, V1OL3NCE, UNPROTECTED SEX AND OTHER BAD THINGS. THIS CONTENT IS EXCLUSIVELY FRIENDLY AND CREATIVE!

REQS ARE OPEN!

[huwmou]

I DONT HAVE IDEAS WHAT TO WRITE FUCK MY LIFE💔

[uncertainlys]

MY FINGERS BARELY EVEN TOUCHED YOUR STUPID FUCKING AD STOP REDIRECTING ME TO THE APP STORE

[bbychnlee]

CHROME KNIGHT, kwon ohyul

pairing. knight!ohyul x princess!fem!reader

when a newly crowned, isolated princess is assigned a cold-hearted knight. | 2026 ©bbychnlee

genre. one shot, angst, slow burn, fluff, cold ohyul, jealous ohyul, protective ohyul, masked ohyul, strangers to lovers.

warnings. mention of killing

notes. song recommendations ! golden brown by the stranglers – army dreamers by kate bush

you were lying on your stomach on your bed, a book in hand that was supposed to be interesting, but that you found unbearably boring. it was quite ironic, for it had taken you weeks of begging the king – your father – to order his most loyal guards to search far and wide to obtain it for you.

you could hear the birds singing through your window. some nightingales did not hesitate to slip through the small opening you had left to let the air in, coming to lull your ears with their song.

you had been named princess of the kingdom, and the dream life your protective father had promised you turned out to be entirely false. you had become a princess and yet, you had a list as long as your chamber of prohibitions that you were forced to follow strictly, otherwise you would be reprimanded.

forbidden to leave the castle without armed escort, to open doors yourself to strangers, to approach certain towers or abandoned wings, to leave the royal grounds without the king’s permission, to choose your own acquaintances, let alone form romantic attachments, to enter the secret library where the family archives were sealed, and the list was still very long.

since your mother’s passing, you were living through a true ordeal. your father had completely withdrawn into himself, guilt and grief slowly consuming him.

you knew it because you had broken one of the most important rules: not leaving your chamber at a certain hour. you had done it, you had taken a candle and walked down the freezing stairs barefoot, making sure not to make any sound while crossing the entire castle, only to see him in tears as he emptied your alcohol cabinet into your late mother’s old tableware.

that night, when you returned to your chamber, you had not been able to sleep at all.

someone knocked softly at the door, uncertain whether you were awake or not. it could only be rosa, your maid.

she had served the king since your birth and you shared a very particular bond with her, one that had only grown stronger after your mother’s passing.

“lady y/n ? are you awake ?”

“yes rosa, you may come in.” you placed your book not far from you and sat up on your bed.

rosa opened the door and you caught sight of her silhouette in the doorway, your breakfast tray in her hands. she gave you a gentle, almost maternal smile, which you returned.

“i have brought your breakfast, my lady. your father has also ordered me to inform you that he is waiting for you in the main hall, it would seem he is accompanied by a guest… it would be best if you dressed quickly so as not to keep him waiting.”

“a guest ? it has been months since we received anyone at the castle. what did he look like ?” you asked, intrigued and excited at the same time to see a new face.

“i knew you would ask me that, my lady. unfortunately i could not see anything, he was wearing armor.” she placed the tray on your bedside table before raising her arms, frustrated that she could not give you the information she herself would have wished to know.

“i suppose i shall have to discover it myself… thank you rosa, i will eat later. i must prepare quickly or father will scold me again.”

the maid nodded before closing the door. you opened your wardrobe in order to choose a gown. you chose the dress from your coronation, a white gown sewn by hand, adorned with golden details and patterns carefully embroidered into the fabric. you put on a modest pair of heels, along with your diamond crown, before hurrying to your vanity.

sometimes, when your gaze lingered on your reflection, you had the impression that all of this was false, that you were not the guardian of your own soul and that one day you would wake up in the body of an ordinary peasant. but that day never came. you were y/n, daughter of the king and of the former queen of scotland. you were the only child, the one who would have to carry on the lineage.

once everything was in place, you left your room. it took you nearly ten minutes on foot – which said much about the immense size of the castle in which you lived – before you finally reached the main hall.

on each side stood two lines of guards facing one another. at the end of the corridor they formed, your father stood beside the guest. rosa had not lied, the guest was dressed in silver armor, his closed helmet concealing his face. the only thing you could tell was that he was much taller than you.

you walked toward your father under the gaze of the other knights.

“good morning, father.” you bowed before him, glancing briefly at the guest, not even knowing if he was looking at you beneath his helmet.

“good morning, my daughter. today, we welcome an important guest.”

he paused before turning slightly toward the tall man at his side.

“i present to you knight kwon ohyul, formerly in service of the corenthien king, who from this day forth shall become your appointed protector, with the agreement of his kingdom, sealed by the alliance that binds us. to belong to the royal lineage requires many sacrifices, as well as a succession of duties, as you already know. it is now time for you to learn to stand on your own. i can no longer protect you as I once did… ohyul shall do so in my stead. he will accompany you on missions whenever you are required to leave the kingdom.”

the silence was such that your father’s words echoed through the hall. one could almost hear your breathing grow unsteady.

you did not understand why your father had chosen a knight from another kingdom, it was not as though guards were lacking in the castle. they were present everywhere, in every possible corner.

“does this mean i shall soon have to leave the kingdom, father ?”

“i do not know yet, but i am inclined to believe so. you must prepare yourself for the outside world, y/n.”

you nodded, lowering your gaze slightly.

“ohyul, would you escort my daughter back to her chamber ?” asked your father – but it was more of an order than anything else, coming from a king to his knight.

“yes, your majesty.”

a deep voice reached your ears, followed by the metallic sound of his sword as he adjusted it against his armor.

you both left the hall, you walking ahead and him following closely behind, like a shadow that refused to leave your side. his presence felt almost unnecessary, and you could not help but think that your father was abusing his authority.

ohyul was not only your appointed protector, you were convinced that your father had engaged him because he no longer had the time to watch over you as he had when you were younger.

it was his way of making you believe that you were about to bear great responsibilities and that you absolutely needed someone to defend you, when in truth – it was not so, at least, that was what you believed deep down.

you went up the stairs, walked through corridors, opened doors, observed the paintings in each room before finally arriving in front of your chamber. your appointed knight had hardly spoken a word, and you had done nothing to break the silence either.

you had not even been given the opportunity to introduce yourself to him, and neither had he, since your father had done all the speaking.

you opened your door and turned back before murmuring a “thank you”, to which he did not bother to respond. you cast him one last glance before closing the door, yet you could feel ohyul standing still in front of your chamber, his posture straight, watching over your every move without fail.

the hours passed, you had finished the breakfast brought by Rosa earlier that morning and you had remained in your chamber for one hour, two hours, three hours.

through your window, you could observe the blooming garden stretching across several hectares. there was a corner where tall bushes formed a labyrinth, your father used to take you there often when you were little, you loved getting lost within it, running headlong while he tried to catch you, in vain.

night had fallen, revealing a sky covered in small stars. ohyul, under the king’s orders, remained motionless in front of your door, even if you could not hear a single sound, you could feel his presence.

you decided to open the wooden door, it echoed through the long corridor. you almost let out a cry at the sight of his dark silhouette, his armor was very imposing and almost frightened you, especially at night.

as you had expected, not a single word left his lips.

you slowly approached him with a mischievous look and stood on the tips of your toes in order to reach his face. you could feel his breath through the small openings in his helmet.

“i wish to take a walk, ohyul.” you whispered near where you assumed his ear to be, still standing on your toes.

he shook his head from right to left, indicating a firm refusal.

“i am princess y/n, daughter of the king and the queen of scotland, as my father has surely told you. i said that i wish to take a walk. you cannot go against my will.”

“this request goes against the rules his majesty, your father, has given me upon my arrival.” he replied coldly, anchoring his dark gaze into yours. it was the first time your eyes truly met, you had not noticed it.

“yet the word of a newly crowned princess is worth just as much as that of a king. you are my appointed guard, i am in no danger. we would only go to the garden.”

“and if I chose not to fulfill my duty and left you alone in the face of danger ?”

“i do not know what my father has told you, but i do not need you. i am capable of managing on my own, ohyul.”

“your father did not inform me that he had given life to a capricious and arrogant princess, taking every opportunity to break the very rules he himself established within his own castle.”

“not everything is meant to be said.” you rolled your eyes.

you closed your chamber door and began walking along the corridor. ohyul followed you, sword in hand, a faint smile on his lips, satisfied by your audacious nature.

he did not stop you, for you were right, he had nothing to say, he was bound to the commands of the royal family, and if by misfortune anything were to happen to you, it would be his duty to protect you.

you led him toward a secret passage, which led directly to the garden. the path was almost inaccessible, the overgrown weeds reaching nearly half your height, this part of the castle had been completely left in ruins.

ohyul moved in front of you and, with a swift motion, cut down the weeds that blocked your way with his sword, clearing the path for you.

you continued your way toward the very labyrinth you had cherished during your youth. you removed your chamber shoes and began to run in order to escape ohyul, a playful expression on your face. you knew this labyrinth by heart from having observed it so often from the top of your tower, so you took advantage of it to lose him.

“princess y/n !” he put his sword back behind his armor before starting to run after you, but you had already slipped between the bushes.

the sounds of animals and creatures of the night blended with the sound of your footsteps, at times you felt as though he was right behind you, at others his footsteps seemed distant.

your little game lasted for about ten minutes before you took a turn and your head collided straight into his armor.

he grabbed your arms with a firm hand to prevent you from escaping him once again. you lifted your head, your face flushed, your hair completely disheveled and your breathing uneven.

ohyul had only one desire, to scold you and lecture you, but he chose to lock his gaze into yours once more. you understood that your knight was not the playful kind.

“this is where i used to play with mother and father… before she passed.” you explained, trying to justify the childish side of you that sometimes resurfaced.

“as long as you are under my protection, i ask you to not move away from me as you have just done.”

ohyul released his hold on you gently. the moonlight struck his armor, making it almost painful to look at from how brightly the metal reflected the light. you could not help but wonder what kind of face was hidden behind that helmet.

“why do you not remove your helmet ?” your delicate fingers came to rest against it. you traced every detail with unmatched softness. ohyul did not move, but his heart was beating fast.

“his majesty the king has ordered me to keep it on at all times.”

“and i order you to remove it. now.”

“it would not be wise…” he murmured, his cheeks slightly flushed.

at the very moment you were about to lift the helmet with ohyul’s consent, you noticed a point of light, most likely from a lantern not far from the garden, drawing dangerously closer to the labyrinth.

your father ordered the guards to patrol the garden, the forest and the castle every evening.

“we should return to my chamber. the guards have begun their rounds. follow me, i know this labyrinth by heart.”

you began to run toward the castle, followed by your protective knight. with remarkable discretion, you reached your chamber in record time, without raising any suspicion.

“are you not going to rest ?”

“i must watch over you, in case you decide to run out of your chamber as you did earlier.” he replied in a neutral tone, which amused you.

“i am more clever than you might think.”

it felt good to escape and break the rules for once, even if ohyul was not particularly talkative. you remained confined in your chamber constantly, and on top of that, your father had forbidden you from making friends.

the only people you spent time with were your maid rosa and certain members of your family during important banquets. you finally felt alive, if only for an evening, even if it was a short one.

you were about to close the door, but deep down, you did not wish to go to sleep, so you delayed the moment for as long as possible before finally retiring, leaving ohyul in the dim corridor, barely lit by a candle set into the wall.

a few weeks passed and you had grown accustomed to the presence of your appointed knight, he too, even if he did not express it in the same way. he accompanied you everywhere, under your father’s approval, feeding the horses, reading books in the castle library.

your father had begun to grow more lenient with certain rules. indeed, over time, the king had carefully observed ohyul and had come to the conclusion that he posed no danger to you nor to him. he trusted him entirely, which had a great impact on your freedom, something you had regained, much to your delight.

in two weeks, you had still not discovered the face of your protector. the more you grew attached to him, the more the desire to remove his helmet echoed in your mind and fortunately – or unfortunately for him – you were not willing to give up.

you had dressed and styled your hair in a humble manner. your father had an announcement of the utmost importance to deliver to you, rosa had told you herself, as she did every morning while bringing your breakfast.

ohyul was not present in front of your door, much to your surprise. he was most likely with your father or on a mission with the other guards, you assumed.

you made your way to the kitchen accompanied by rosa, where you could see all the dishes carefully laid out, along with an incalculable number of ingredients scattered everywhere; fresh vegetables from the market, fresh meat hunted early that morning judging by the deep red color of the flesh.

“good morning, father. what are we going to do with all this food ? we could feed an entire kingdom with it.” you could not take your eyes off the abundance before you.

your father approached you and offered you a warm smile.

“good morning, my dear daughter.” he placed a kiss upon your forehead while taking both of your hands. “we are hosting a ball this evening in honor of the arrival of king edward, queen margareth, and their son, prince alistair, who has recently been crowned just as you have. we shall also welcome members of both our families. do you already possess the attire required, my daughter ? or shall i ask rosa to place an order with the tailor ?”

“i thank you, father, but everything is already prepared. however, allow me to ask… i know king edward and queen margareth, as well as their son. from which kingdom do they come ?”

“they rule over the kingdom of england.”

the king, your father, paused briefly, as though weighing his words.

“our relations have long been complex. but times are changing, and this alliance must be maintained. their presence this evening is proof of that. as for their son, alistair, he has only just been crowned. a meeting between you was therefore inevitable.”

you knew your father, you knew he had not arranged this ball without ulterior motives. perhaps he wished to marry you to prince alistair ? at the mere thought, a feeling of discomfort spread through your body.

“i understand better.” your hands slipped away from the king’s. “father, where is ohyul ?”

“i sent him to ride around the estate in order to identify any potential dangers. he should not be long. why ? do you require an escort somewhere ?”

you shook your head, offering a faint smile. he was not far, and that reassured you.

“no, i was just curious… i shall return to my chamber, father, i will begin to prepare my attire for this evening.”

you returned to your chamber and to your great surprise, ohyul stood motionless in the corridor. at the sound of your footsteps, he, who had been leaning slightly against the wall, straightened at once.

you quickened your pace, a wide smile upon your lips.

“ohyul, i’ve been looking for you ! my father is organizing a ball tonight with king edward, queen margareth, as well as prince alistair. there will be so much food, and then… there will be classical music, and it will be a wonderful evening !”

you took his hands and began to spin around him, looking delighted.

one detail – just one – had caught the attention of your personal guard, who, as usual, seemed to pay very little attention to whatever you told him.

“prince alistair ?” he repeated while fixing you with an intense stare.

“yes. father told me he has just been crowned, like me, and that this meeting is meant to be unavoidable. i must find a beautiful outfit, the most beautiful of all. please help me.”

“why should I help you ?”

“do not make me remind you of your duties as my sworn knight.”

you forced him toward your bedroom, but he did not take a single step to follow you. you tried in vain to push him – no effect at all.

ohyul was much taller than you, and his armor made him even heavier, so whenever he decided to disobey, you had no real hold over him.

“i am not allowed to enter here. the king was very clear about that.”

“he won’t know. i need an objective opinion to choose my outfit.” you replied, trying to give him your best pleading look, which failed completely.

“do we even speak the same language, you and i ?”

“i believe we do.”

“then what part of ‘i cannot enter’ did you not understand ? and you could always ask Rosa instead.”

“no, it is not the same. you are a man. i want you to see it through prince alistair’s eyes.”

behind his helmet, ohyul frowned so deeply it look like it could have carved lines into his forehead despite his young age.

he despised this hierarchy with every part of his being, the inability to speak his mind freely, the constant need to keep his head down.

the idea of you getting closer to the prince did not please him in the slightest. even if he was not used to openly expressing what he felt, he would certainly not choose his words carefully today.

“please stop comparing me to that prince. he and I have nothing in common.” he replied sharply before entering your room of his own accord.

“would you not happen to be jealous of dear alistair, by any chance ?”

you watched him step inside your bedroom and sit on your bed, a wide smile stretched across your face, happy that your exchanges were finally gaining some momentum.

“i have nothing to envy him for.”

“why are you speaking to me like that ?”

“please hurry up, i do not have all day.” he said, attempting to dodge your question about his sudden change in attitude.

“be careful with the language you use toward me.”

“and if i am not ? would you have the courage to dismiss me ?”

you did not answer and raised a brow, grumbling inwardly. he knew it – and you knew it – you would never dare complain to your father. ohyul was part of your routine now.

with a delicate movement, you began to slip off the straps of your dressing gown. the fabric slid slowly down your skin before pooling at your feet, revealing your lace lingerie soft powder-pink bra and matching panties.

from the mirror, you could see ohyul watching you. his eyes were fixed on you, and he did not look away for a single second, taking in every curve of your body as though his gaze had turned into a scanner.

unlike him, who had suddenly grown more confident, all the boldness you had managed to gather over the past weeks evaporated in a fraction of a second.

you walked toward your wardrobe, sliding hangers one by one along the rail, murmuring inaudible comments, when you felt a presence position itself behind you.

you froze instantly and turned around, only to find yourself face to face with ohyul’s chest.

“what are you doing ?” you asked, barely daring to lift your eyes to meet him.

with a gentle, almost instinctive motion, he took your chin between his fingers. the contact of your skin against the cold enamel of his armor sent a subtle shiver through you. he made you look up at him.

“why are you embarrassed ? i thought we had already learned enough about each other by now.”

“i am not.” you shot back, looking away but each time he guided your chin back toward him.

“liar.”

he bent down slightly so your heads were level. he leaned in, and your eyes intertwined.

“you did not answer me earlier. would you dare complain about me to your father, to have me sent back to my kingdom ?”

you remained silent while ohyul continued to close the distance between you. you were only a few millimetres apart now, your nose brushed against his helmet, and the scent of metal filled the small space between you.

your body was caught in a tension you had never felt before. your eyelids began to lower, and you stopped paying attention to his armor altogether. your mind imagined a man standing in front of you – dark hair, raven-black eyes, a gentle, almost angelic face.

you froze, as if preparing for a possible kiss from your knight.

ohyul watched you with a faint smirk, then stepped back after seeing your vulnerability.

“i think i have my answer,” his rough voice snapped you out of your little dream.

you opened your eyes, completely flushed and flustered.

ohyul had already rushed out of your room, satisfied with the little game he had started after you had pressured him about prince alistair.

now he was certain of one thing, he had absolutely nothing to envy in that prince.

you were near the buffet, picking at a few starters, watching the crowd of people chatting amongst themselves. your father was speaking with cousins and elders of the family lineage.

guards were stationed at every entrance leading into the grand ballroom, ready to draw their swords in case of any breach within the castle.

soft melodies from tchaikovsky’s waltz of the flowers echoed through the vast hall and into your ears, sometimes forcing guests to lean closer to one another just to properly hear each other properly.

you were dressed in an emerald gown with a long train – one your father had likely paid a fortune for – which had earned you a hundred compliments in just a few minutes from various guests.

you had met the king and queen of england as well as their son, the prince. the conversations had revolved around your respective coronations, life as young royals, and various past conflicts with other kingdoms.

it did not interest you, so you had pretended to step away, promising to return, but it had already been a good ten minutes since you broke that promise.

you looked away and noticed a tall figure dressed in a shimmering suit, the same shade as your dress, approaching you. the prince had made his way through the crowd and found you.

“well… are our conversations not of interest to you ?” he asked, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, already knowing the answer you were thinking but would not admit.

“of course they are, but…”

“i assure you, there is no need to lie about it. i understand you. i would probably be better off in my room as well.”

you lowered your head slightly and returned a shy but sincere smile.

in truth, you also dreamed of returning to your room and locking yourself away until dawn. but it was impossible, you were stuck here for an indefinite amount of time. your father had gone through great effort for this evening; it was out of the question to leave, even for the smallest fraction of a second.

“thank you,” you said softly. “thank you for understanding.”

“we can agree on one thing, your father certainly went all out. do you know everyone here ?”

the prince shifted beside you, leaning lightly against the buffet table in a relaxed posture. it was his way of putting you at ease, and perhaps showing you that with him, there was no need to be overly formal or rigid.

“not really. some of them have been present since my birth, and yet i swear i have never seen them before…”

“that is strange, though i do not recall ever seeing you in my life either.”

“my father is quite strict. i rarely leave the kingdom,” you admitted, which did not fail to make the prince laugh.

he took a glass of champagne from the buffet table. you watched each of his movements, elegant yet effortless. the way he held his glass left no doubt, even if the prince had adopted a relaxed demeanor earlier to earn your trust, the king and queen had clearly instilled discipline and manners in him, and it showed in his aura.

“that is surprising. and you have never thought of rebelling ?”

you stepped closer to him and placed a hand on the back of his neck, gently pressing so he would lean down slightly to your level.

“if i told you, how do i know you would not repeat it to my father ?” you whispered.

and the two of you laughed together, as if you had always known each other.

on his side, ohyul was still standing guard at the castle’s main gates. at times, he watched the moon spilling its light over the castle and the surrounding grounds, or the bridge in front of him that led toward a vast forest and beyond that, his former kingdom.

a guard eventually approached him to take over his shift, pulling him abruptly out of his drifting thoughts.

he made his way back toward the main hall, now alive with music and movement, and was immediately faced with a vast crowd. taking position in a corner of the room, he spotted you.

you were in your emerald gown, accompanied by alistair, both of you dancing to the rhythm of the classical music. your hands were intertwined, your steps perfectly synchronized, and every gaze in the room was drawn to you.

even though everyone had their own partner, no pair could rival yours. there was a real chemistry between you, ohyul had recognized it instantly.

his brows furrowed behind his helmet. the only thing he could do was clench his fists or try to look away to calm himself, but his eyes, like everyone else’s in the room, refused to be spared.

he was fixated on this perfectly executed dance, as though he had just been forced to witness something intimate being taken from him.

you did not spare him a single glance. your thoughts were occupied by the prince, and truthfully, you had not once questioned your knight’s presence.

after long minutes of graceful dancing, the music began to fade, signaling the end of your first dance. only then, over the prince’s shoulder, did you see him standing still.

you could feel ohyul’s eyes locked onto you.

you did not know exactly when he had arrived or how long he had been there, but clearly long enough to decide to leave on his own, his mind completely eaten away by jealousy and frustration at having been unable to intervene.

you bowed politely to the prince to thank him. he tried to hold you back by the arm, but you broke free from his grip with a firm motion before rushing toward one of the exits to follow your knight, under the surprised gaze of alistair and several guests who had witnessed the scene.

you tried to catch up to him. you had even taken off your shoes and gathered your dress in one hand to avoid falling, but ohyul managed to keep his distance.

despite your calls, your knight, who was meant to obey you, did not answer.

you had reached the top of the castle, near the bell tower. the wind lifted your carefully styled hair, but you did not slow down.

ohyul still kept that unbearable distance between you, as though he were running away from you.

he had reached the edge of a narrow balcony, still turned away from you, gazing at the landscape stretching out before him from the height of the tower. the ancient balustrade looked far too fragile to support anything, and yet it was there that he had chosen to stand.

the vast, endless sky unfolded above you. the radiant moon bathed ohyul in a pale light, making the reflections on his armor shimmer and emphasizing the cold distance he was placing between you.

the wind whistled softly between the stone columns, lifting your dress slightly as you approached cautiously, like a child who had done something wrong.

when you tried to place a hand on him, he turned as if he had predicted your movement and grabbed your wrist, immediately breaking the contact you had tried to create.

“ohyul…?”

“do not touch me.”

“why are you so upset ?”

he released your grip and stared down at the ground in silence. you took the opportunity to lift his head with the tips of your fingers.

“you should return to the prince and the guests. you are expected.”

“so that is why you left ? seeing me with the prince puts you in such a state ?”

“stop playing. this is not a game.”

“we are past the age of being childish fools. my father has always told me—”

ohyul cut you off sharply, his voice suddenly authoritative.

“do you truly want to know what is wrong with me ?!”

he stepped closer, but you backed away, horrified to see him losing control, him, who was usually so calm.

“i am not who you think i am. i never wanted to be here ! i was forced into this under threat of imprisonment. your father forbade me from forming any bond with you because i am a murderer.”

he paused. his breathing steadied, as did his anger.

“there was a knight… who did terrible things, but the king appointed him as his sworn protector. he trusted him greatly. unfortunately, i could not allow him to continue what he was doing, so i killed him one night while we were both on duty at the same post. that is why your father strictly forbade me from removing my helmet. he did not want you to be confronted with the face of a man capable of killing in cold blood or to be reminded that such a man stands at your side.”

you stood frozen, speechless in front of ohyul’s confession.

a flood of questions rushed through your mind, yet no sound left your lips. you felt betrayed, angry that he had not told you sooner, but a part of you also understood his suffering and the obligations weighing on him, under the threat of your father’s punishment.

he had already revealed what he had done. so revealing who he was now felt like the least of his confessions.

ohyul took a deep breath, a shiver running through his body. he knew what he was about to do marked a point of no return, but he had nothing left to lose.

slowly, almost reluctantly, he raised his hand towards his helmet.

“look at me.”

you heart skipped a beat.

and, in a slow motion, he removed it.

moonlight slid across his face like a revelation. everything you had imagined – and secretly hoped for without ever daring to admit it – was there, and even more beautiful than you could have expected.

his features were hauntingly harmonious, almost unreal. his eyes, the only part of him you had ever seen through the helmet, were dark and tired, carrying a weight you could never fully understand.

ohyul looked like an angel. and you could not believe that the man in front of you had committed a murder in his former kingdom. it felt unreal, impossible.

“ohyul… i… i do not know what to think.”

he placed his hands at your waist and gently pulled you closer. his medium-length dark hair was slightly damp, falling softly over his eyes.

you blushed. a wave of warmth flooded your body. your exchanges had been brief, but you both knew deep down that your desire was mutual.

he lowered his head slightly before pressing his lips against yours.

a kiss that had started soft quickly turned into something more intense, sensual, tormented. you placed your hands behind his neck, deepening it. you wanted to give yourself completely to him, but it was impossible, so you simply made the moment last.

your fingers tangled in his raven-black hair, and he did not hesitate to trail kisses down your neck before returning to your lips.

your mouths eventually separated, and your eyes devoured each other without noticing that prince alistair stood a little further away, watching the scene unfold.

he had spent the rest of the evening searching for you throughout the castle until he found you there, near the bell, on that balcony.

the prince, burning with jealousy, tried to maintain composure by adjusting imaginary folds in his shimmering suit.

you saw ohyul’s gaze shift slightly. his dark eyes were now fixed on something – or someone – behind you. you turned and saw the prince behind a half-collapsed ivy-covered column.

you gave ohyul one last look as your sworn knight began to put his grey chrome helmet back on.

“my apologies.”

ohyul bowed to you and watched your silhouette fade into the distance as you returned to the prince’s side.

after that ball, you never saw your knight again.

he remained nowhere to be found within the castle. despite your minimal attempts to search and the information you tried to gather from court ladies, none of them seemed to know anything – or if they did, they said nothing. one thing was certain, ohyul had become a taboo subject within the castle.

even your father, the king, assigned you a new knight without explaining such a sudden change.

what you did not know was that prince alistair had, of course, gone to the king the very next day after your kiss with ohyul, reporting your obvious closeness and what he had witnessed. his pride had driven him to hurt you, how could a princess prefer a simple knight over him ? he thought.

ohyul had broken the oath he had sworn to the king – not to reveal himself, and not to develop feelings for his only daughter, the royal princess.

however, you had not lost hope. you tried to contact him despite your father’s strict prohibition. you did not care. ohyul was your first love, and you did everything in your power to see him again, even if it meant turning your back on your family.

you believed that the tears you shed every night while watching the stars would eventually be answered.

every day, you sent a new letter to every nearby kingdom, expressing your love for him and how unbearable your days had become without his presence, hoping one day to wake up to a reply, but nothing ever came.

rosa, your maid, bore witness to your sorrow and shared it with you.

ohyul had completely disappeared, and you were forced to live on, with only the memories of your time in the castle – and the angelic face you would most likely never see again.

[jynx-raven]

[seurtis]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤֺ ॱ   * · 　̩̩͙̼̩̩͙ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤOn peut y arriver si on essaie.

[eu1joo]

— office hours (18+) | byun euijoo

synopsis | your university's hot literature professor has made it his mission to make your life hell, and you're determined to find out why.

details | professor!euijoo x female!reader, reader is a teaching assistant & consenting adult, gendered terms (ma'am, girl, etc.), 18+ SMUT MINORS DNI, bff!yuma, exhibitionism, masturbation, reader is a bit of a peeping tom, muppets mention, cursing, you might actually learn something from this, horny poetry, soft dom!joo, thigh riding, finger sucking, oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v, unprotected sex (WRAP IT WRAP IT WRAP IT), creampie, no use of y/n, lowercase intended

wc | 12.2k

from the author | who else is excited to stop Hearing about this

“could you hand me that pen?” 

you didnt even realize you were zoning out; it was just so boring. as a teaching assistant, you’d already taken this introductory seminar and several like it. and the classrooms were all the same, set up auditorium-style with mounted desks on risers that went so far back that you couldn’t even tell if the students were awake or not. nine times out of ten, they were not. it felt like the backrooms, an endless stretch of repeating white brick and gray carpet. add on the bright white flash of the projector casting the bottom left corner of the screen directly into your eyes and there you had it: a recipe for zoning the fuck out for three hours. 

but when you looked up, professor byun had his hand outstretched to you, a patient smile etched onto his face. that’s really all it took to snap you back into yourself. the pen seemed to turn to liquid as you grabbed for it, fumbling over your own fingers. silence settled over the lecture hall like fog, the shrill scraping of the pen’s plastic casing on your wooden desk the only sound louder than your heartbeat climbing to your ears. you handed it to him, finally, mouthing sorry as he plucked it from your fingertips. it was quite literally your only job to hand him pens or paper or whatever he might need while he was teaching. that was the job description, but you’d had the longest week of your life, and professor byun’s 8 am literary studies seminar was the tired, dreary cherry on top. 

one thing you could always appreciate about your supervisor, or mentor as he so graciously asked you to call him, was his grace. he was incredibly young, only a few years older than you, so he still knew how draining it was to be in your position. you’d applied to graduate school with the hopes of being in professor byun’s exact same position one day, droning on and on about your favorite subject matter and forcing forty-ish people to listen, or at least pretend to listen, to you ramble for three hours twice a week. so, he was very open to taking you under his wing as his teaching assistant at the beginning of the semester. you didn’t account for how distracting it would be from your studies, though, to work alongside a hot literature nerd. 

byun euijoo was a sight for sore, tired eyes. he loomed over almost everyone, shoulders broad and accentuated most days by a padded blazer. he wore thin framed glasses on the slope of his nose, the tops of which were covered, usually, by a wisped veil of brown hair, ends curling and flipping up at the base of his neck. everything about him was good; his face was sweet and soft, especially when he would smile, accentuating the supple curve of his cheeks. not to mention the warmth of his eyes, round and inviting. yet, it was so difficult to maintain eye contact with him for too long, his gaze too expectant, too hopeful. it made you sick. even when he grabbed the pen from you under the judgemental stares of his students, his stare was forgiving. dont sweat it, he scrunched his eyes in a subtle smile, brows furrowed, understanding. 

the lecture wrapped up after what felt like days. the past two weeks had been dedicated to different literary critics, which was simply old news to you. there was no harm in a refresher course in post-structuralism, but, unfortunately, not even byun euijoo could have made that class interesting. you had already been grappling with your own instability. and apparently it was evident. 

“are you doing alright?” professor byun asked as the last of the students filed out of the lecture hall. their conversations buzzed until the chatter fizzled out into a dull silence. you had started shoving your own belongings into your bag, noticing the pen you handed him earlier roll across the table, gradually slowing to a halt as he added, “you seemed a bit out of it today.” 

even as he leaned, casually, against the desk, you felt like the room was closing in on you. he had traded his blazer for a light, knit cardigan that draped over his shoulders, held closed by two buttons in the center. he looked effortlessly casual, stark next to your half-assed attempts at professional attire. everyday was a struggle to look twenty something, having had too many students call you “ma’am” when you handed them their graded papers back. somehow only byun euijoo, highly regarded literature professor, could wear jeans and a cardigan and still look like the most respected person in the room. 

“oh, yeah. sorry,” you slipped your bag onto your shoulder, using the heaving motion to put some space between the two of you. it was rare that he lingered post-lecture, usually running off to another class or do whatever in his office from noon to dusk. you’d never seen office hours run an entire afternoon, but apparently that’s what happened when people cared about your opinion and actually wanted to meet with you; you just had to sit in your office for an entire day. no wonder he was sticking around today. “i’m just tired. i’m pretty sure my roommate is conducting unauthorized sleep studies on me for a project.”

like in a dream, he raised both eyebrows at your theory, lips pressing into a thin smile. you didn’t need to tell him all of that, but he seemed to appreciate the honesty. he nodded, “yeah, that,” he laughed, “that sounds less than ideal.”

“but it’s due soon,” you quickly added, “so i should be back in action later this week. up and at ‘em. ready to, you know, hand you the pen and stuff.” if there were ever a perfect time to stop talking, it would have been thirty-five seconds ago. it actually would have been several minutes ago, immediately following his simple and polite, “yes” or “no” question. there was no version of that conversation that ended with embarrassment. i’m just stressed, you should have said, thanks. because what graduate student wasn’t stressed? 

professor byun nodded, the motion tousling his hair over his forehead. “well, good,” he feigned a serious, stern expression, “i need my pen.” you could’t help but smile, just a tad, as he was so damn charismatic. he pushed himself off the table in a swift, smooth motion and held his hand up, hesitating for a moment like he was going to clap you on the shoulder. a reassuring gesture, surely, but instead of following through, he flipped his arm over, checking his watch. he pushed his glasses up on his nose, scrunching it awkwardly. “let me know if i can do anything for you, okay? i mean it.”

“sure,” you gave him a small smile as he slipped through the gap between you and the whiteboard behind you. his cologne wafted over you in a swift gust, sweet and warm. “thank you, professor byun.” 

he suddenly stopped in his path to the door, broad shoulders slumping. he reminded you, urged you, “i told you not to call me that. call me euijoo, please.” 

euijoo. the name was sweet, like him. or at least the version of him you made up; the one that sipped his coffee at the boiling point in a graphic t-shirt every morning; the one that preferred cats despite wanting a dog, a big one with scary, human-like eyes; the one that practiced eye contact in the mirror while he brushed his teeth because no one was naturally that attentive. sure, you could call him that. you could call him by his name, informally, no problem. you were essentially equals; he was only a few years older than you, but it always felt kind of weird to refer to him as professor, especially since he wasn’t even your professor. you always erred on the side of caution, though, careful not to offend or insult him. 

“oh, one more thing!” before you could confirm or deny his request, he spoke again, this time raking a hand down the side of his hair, smoothing it awkardly, “could you get those exams from last week graded?” 

“sure thing,” no, i have a life, “I’ve already started them,” i havent touched them, “I’ll drop them off later during your office hours, if that’s okay?” im going to disappear and then youll never know that half your students dont know the difference between feminist and queer theory. 

“yeah,” euijoo breathed, unsure. he adjusted his glasses again, glancing at his watch before nodding, “yeah, that should be fine. i’ll be in a meeting until 2, but you can stop by any time after that.” 

almost too eagerly, you agreed, “you got it!” 

and as euijoo left the lecture hall, you realized just how much shit you had to do. you wiped down the whiteboard, which euijoo never did before he ended class, simply content with leaving his little notes and concept headings scribbled for the next professor to deal with. but you had some respect for other people’s time. you logged him out of the room’s computer, turning off the projector in the process, and shut all the lights down before leaving the lecture hall yourself. the stack of fifty-something ungraded exams pulled you down, a weight on your shoulder and your mind.

“hi, professor byun. im having some problems understanding the material for the upcoming exam. what’s the main difference between derrida and barthes’ concepts of post structuralism?” 

your sandwich remained neglected in its plastic container next to you, accompanied only by the fountain drink you’d treated yourself to. condensation trickled down the cup in steady rivulets and pooled around the base in a ring. when you picked it up to take a sip, water dribbled across your laptop's keyboard. you wiped it clean with your shirt sleeve as you finished reading the email from one of the students in the literary seminar. you asked, “what do i even say to this? read the textbook, review the slides, make it up? you can basically just make it up.” 

“yeah, i dont know what the fuck any of that means,” yuma took an obnoxious bite of his lunch, doing absolutely nothing to console you in your stressed state, which, according to what you told euijoo, was completely his fault. he agreed to meet you for lunch, even offering to pay for your sandwich, under the condition that you would look over his lab report- the sleep study. “sounds like something i’d ask if i were really distracted during class and wanted some extra help.” 

yuma punctuated his statement with a concerning number of eyebrow raises, his tongue poking out from a mischievous grin. you rolled your eyes, “funny.” you should have known better than to ask yuma any kind of serious question. you’d been friends with him long enough to know that he would explode if he missed the opportunity to turn a pressing situation into a punchline for a dirty joke. and you had lived with him long enough to know that his flirty personality worked very well for him. but you couldn’t entertain his shenanigans. not today. “what’s worse is i dont even think he covered that this week. is that even supposed to be on the exam?” 

the campus dining hall was starting to get crowded, undergraduate students getting out of their noon classes and coming straight to fuel their brains. everything that wasnt fast food was grotesquely overpriced, so you were thankful for yuma’s wallet. you dreaded having to look over his paper, though, the title page mocking you atop the stack of exams you had yet to grade. it was as though it had eyes, staring right through you. the last thing you needed was to know what your body did while you were sleeping. that was, quite frankly, none of your business. in hindsight, it wasn’t yuma’s either. you hated the idea of him standing at the foot of your bed with a clipboard throughout the night, marking when you snored, taking your pulse with two clammy fingers, and shining his phone flashlight in your eyes. research is research. 

“do you think he knows he’s hot?” yuma asked, pushing the last of his lunch around in the bottom of his cardboard to-go box. you had tried for many years to learn the way yuma’s brain worked, but it became clear very quickly that there would never be any way to predict what he would say next. he was genuinely curious, and, honestly, so were you. you thought back to that morning, the frantic apologies he muttered every time the computer buffered and took longer than anticipated to load whatever he was projecting onto the board. he was a little bit late, and none of the students even looked up from their phones when he walked through the door- only you did that. 

“definitely not,” you closed your laptop, having sent a reply to the student’s email that just said, in typical, effortless byun euijoo fashion, please refer to the class notes. you shoved the device into your bag and scooted the stack of papers toward you. “hes got, like, clark kent vibes, and clark was famously not hot. it was his whole thing.” 

only clark kent, much like euijoo, was hot; he was just awkward, hunching over and diminishing himself to blend in. you wondered if euijoo was doing that, too, if euijoo was hiding something, like a superpower. or a secret. 

“you just have a thing for cardigans. a hot nerd in a cardigan is gonna do it for you every time,” yuma shrugged before reaching his hands across the table, gently taking your hand between his, “its sick. you need to talk to someone, seriously.” you pulled your hand away and swatted at him, narrowing your eyes. yuma put his hands up, palms out defensively, “i’m just saying, damn.” 

“i can’t even joke with you right now, yuma,” you pressed your fingers to your temples, blocking him out in every possible way as you squeezed your eyes closed, “i have so much to do.” 

yuma flipped through the corner of the stack of papers, as if he were counting all fifty of them. he raised his brows, whistling for effect, “yeah, dr. murata just makes me click the slides for him and grab his shit from the printer.” 

like you, yuma was a teaching assistant, only his supervising faculty member for the psychology program’s introductory seminar was more experienced, less hands on with his mentoring. in some ways, you were grateful that euijoo was giving you some genuine experience with planning and grading rather than just leading discussions. yuma wasn’t getting any of that. in fact, it seemed as though your dynamic with euijoo was similar to yuma’s with dr. murata, only inverted. you constructed the lesson plans, graded the exams, took attendance, handed out supplemental lecture materials, recorded discussion participation, and answered all of the emails about the class, all while professor byun stood in all his professional glory behind the computer and clicked away. slide 1, slide 2, could you hand me that pen?

but, it was fine; you signed up for this, for running errands and buying him water from the vending machine and grabbing his shit from the printer. it would make you a better educator in the future, surely. 

you had just flipped open yuma’s draft and began glancing over the introductory section when yuma reached back over the table and snatched it from the top of the stack. “don’t waste your time with this,” he sighed, giving you a pitiful look, “i wrote it, so its gotta be good. this,” yuma motioned to you, just in general, blinking rapidly, “this is bad.” 

“well, thanks,” you furrowed your eyebrows, glancing at him once, then twice, just to see if he would backtrack at all. as expected, he did not. instead, he shrugged his bag onto his shoulders, crumbling his napkin from lunch up in his fist and stuffing it into his pocket. yuma kissed his fingertips and cast the gesture toward you- a blessing. 

“see you at home,” he shouted over his shoulder as he left the dining hall, as he left you with euijoo’s papers and euijoo’s emails and your uneaten sandwich and your very, very wet cup of soda. 

it took you all of three hours to finish grading the stack of exams, complete with marginal feedback and brief comments on the essay questions at the end of each test. you were already exhausted, but the repetitive marking and circling and scribbling nice! next to every half-assed analysis sucked the rest of your energy out of you through a short straw. you had wanted to drop the stack off in euijoo’s office, just as he asked, and go straight home. maybe yuma would have started cooking something, and maybe he would have even saved you a plate knowing how miserable you were earlier. maybe. but none of that mattered when euijoo asked you, “did you bring the lesson plans for next unit?”

you stood, confused, in the middle of his office. you’d been in there a dozen times, always observant of which books were missing from his shelves, which books were strewn about on his desk and stuffed full of sticky notes and highlighter ink. you wondered how he could even see in the dim lighting, the only source the small table lamp on his desk. he was a collector of things, memories, like the stack of receipts he would use as bookmarks. 

you furrowed your eyebrows, reaching into your bag aimlessly, “sorry, i don’t remember you asking for those yet.” 

“hm, i must have forgot,” euijoo leaned back in his chair, one of those really nice, vintage leather ones. he crossed his arms over his chest, the fabric of his cardigan pulling taut against his forearms, riding up to reveal the delicate skin of his wrist. you thought about what yuma had said. you really did have a problem. he worked his lips into a fine line, thinking as he studied the obvious hesitance on your face. he sat up straight, clearing off a space on his desk in front of him, “you know what? don’t even worry about it.” 

“are you sure?” you blinked back your surprise. the smile he gave you was laced with something, you were sure of it. euijoo shrugged it off, as if doing his work that he was paid to do was somehow a favor to you. it felt like it, though. it also felt like a test, like a trial you were supposed to overcome.  

“positive,” he asserted, said as if there were no other obvious option, “you should go home and get some sleep, yeah?” 

yeah, you should have done that. you should have agreed with a nod, turned heel, and went directly home. but there was something about him that kept pulling you in against all rationale, against all reasoning. you noticed that his eyes dragged a little too far down your face when you spoke, tracing your lips. sometimes his gaze kept going, falling down your neck and further. you chocked it up as being a product of yuma’s delusions; you were imagining things because yuma kept giving you things to imagine. he’s testing your boundaries, yuma had mentioned, its his way of seeing how far you’ll let him go. and in some ways, that made sense. euijoo just kept adding extra duties to your workload. how far would he take it? how far would you let him? 

evidently, the limit did not exist. because you went straight from his office, where he looked you up and down and gave you the evening off, to the library, where you opened up a template and began constructing the lesson plans for next unit that he didnt ask you to do but pretty much wanted you to do. and you were nothing if not a people pleaser, an overachiever, and an ass kisser.  and you were kissing his ass big time. you had curled up in the corner of the library for an additional two hours, racing the sunlight so as to not be traipsing around on campus after dark but to no avail. the streetlamps on the sidewalk corners stirred to life as soon as you collected the lesson plans from the library printer, peering in at you through the windows. they were taunting you, mocking your attempt to earn brownie points with euijoo. all for what? a letter of recommendation? was he even qualified to write those? 

the walk back to his office was the same as before, just with slightly more dread involved and less daylight to reveal the jagged cracks and dips in the sidewalk. the staircase was just as humid. the hallway that housed the faculty offices was dim, too. the department professors and staff had already packed up and went home for the evening. like you should have. their doors were closed, little personalized signs and posters and corkboards adorning them. as you shuffled down the tight tunnel of a hall, you noticed that euijoo’s door was now closed, when earlier it had been propped wide open to reveal his somewhat messy but nonetheless impressively organized bookshelves and desk. the papers grew heavy in your hands, the ink no doubt smearing under the pads of your clammy fingers, as you stopped in front of his office door. 

byun euijoo, the little black plaque stared back at you, assistant professor. and beneath it, scrawled on a notecard and taped haphazardly to the dark oak: please knock!  

it was worth a try; if he wasn’t in, you’d simply bring everything with you to his class next week, or you’d try again tomorrow. embarrassment flooded your cheeks at the idea of knocking on a door to an empty room. you couldnt decide if you wanted him to be in there or not, if it would be less humiliating to present the lesson plans a few days later rather than a few hours. the latter screamed, hey, im desperate for your approval and i think youre weirdly hot! maybe not the second part, but certainly the first. perhaps he would find it endearing that you dedicated your entire thursday to doing his job for him. wait, was byun euijoo an asshole? 

surely, not, right? 

there was only one way to find out, to really know what boundaries he had silently set for your workload. there was only one way to know if he would appreciate your hard work or think you were a freak, or a loser, or just desperate. or some pathetic combination of all three, which was honestly the most likely option. regardless, you lifted your hand, tucking your thumb into your fist for maximum knocking efficiency. the plan was three solid raps, loud enough for him to hear but not loud enough to disturb anyone who might still be lingering, but your knuckles never made it to the door, frozen in mid air and still balled up. you heard something on the other side. and you tried not to make a habit of eavesdropping, but sometimes the situation called for it.

this was one of those situations, and “eavesdropping” is a generous term, for what you were doing was not eavesdropping but merely standing on the other side of a closed door, acutely aware of your surroundings and attentive to every movement and sound around you, including the noises seeping from beneath euijoo’s office door: a hiss through closed teeth, an uneven rustling of cloth, the fervent but faint creaking of a desk chair- it sounded like he had knocked over a cup of fresh, hot coffee, the liquid searing into his skin.  

“fuck,” he dragged, barely under his breath, voice low but not low enough. either the coffee was really hot, or you were hearing something you were never meant to, something private, something you had shamefully imagined a few times when your mind would wander while he lectured. you’d watched his slender fingers coil around the whiteboard markers, scrawling who-knows-what in unreadable handwriting, tendons flexing, wrist stiff. now, you could hear the slick, ceaseless movement of his hand, coiled around his cock instead. 

your face grew hot, blood pumping from your racing heart. you hated the way your mouth watered, how your neck angled your head just enough to press your ear closer to the door. you were close enough to hear the stifled moans that lodged behind his lips, escaping only in sighs and grunts, as if he were clearing his throat. it could have sounded ordinary if not for the occasional hum or hiss, the kind only someone drunk on their own pleasure would let slip. you imagined him, head thrown back and resting on the leather of his chair, his throat working as he gulped down his whines and curses like a steady trickle of water. you imagined him, chest rising and rarely falling in the dim light of the room as his hand dragged the length of his cock in desperate strokes, until he couldnt take it anymore. his breathing grew faster, and your clammy hands grew weaker, and you should have known this would happen to you. 

you should have known the paper on the bottom of the stack of lesson plans you were holding would slip right out of your hands and sweep, incriminatingly, through the inch of space between the vintage flooring and the door to his office, which was closed for a reason. there was no denying yourself, now. so, you knocked, rapidly and perhaps too eagerly to compensate for the cold sweep of dread that mixed with the hot pool of shame in your gut, like the start of a summer storm. shit, shit, shit, the voice in your head chanted while every part of your body burned, trembling as you heard him scramble on the other side of the door. 

there was a stillness followed by a choked, startled noise. he cleared his throat, for real this time, and shouted, “coming! er- i mean. one second!” there was a breathless quality to his voice that, unfortunately for you, made your thighs clench and your face heat up. you should have just turned and left, and you probably would have if not for the incriminating paper on the other side of the door. he would have known that you were there, and leaving would only be more suspicious. at least now you could defend yourself. no, professor byun. i wasn’t eavesdropping on you beating your shit crazy style. i would never, ever, ever even consider doing that. but as you heard the buckling of a belt, the shifting of his chair, and the deep, recovering sigh, it was nearly explicit what you had been doing. 

the door swung open, the gust rustling the paper on the floor behind him and blowing loose pieces of his hair, no longer carefully arranged to look naturally messy but genuinely messy. he had abandoned his cardigan, leaving only a faintly wrinkled white tee clinging to his shoulders. his face and neck were flushed dark pink, veins pulsing on the side of his throat. euijoo gulped when he saw you standing there, clutching the paper close to your chest. you knew you looked guilty; you could tell by the way his ears stayed red as he asked you, “what… what are you doing here?” 

“lesson plans,” you held them out, arms straight, “i went ahead and did them and, uh, thought i’d drop them off.” 

“oh,” euijoo wiped his hands on the front of his pants, quickly and inconspicuously, before taking the stack from you and holding them comfortably in one hand, “i thought i said i would do them, hm?” euijoo feathered through the papers, looking over them, inspecting them. 

no, you wanted to say, you said ‘dont worry about it,’ meaning i’d be doing them next week anyway. but instead, you feigned an innocent confusion, quirking an eyebrow all the way to the ceiling, “did you? i guess i misheard you. plus, i had the time! it was no trouble at all.” your smile was sweet, convincing. 

but euijoo’s wasn’t either of those things. in fact, it was barely a smile, bordering on a smirk, one that said he knew everything. he held your gaze for a beat too long, maybe to gauge you, to see if you were really standing there long enough to hear or know anything. but he knew you weren’t stupid. his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth before darting across his bottom lip, still bitten and glistening form having it tucked between his teeth while he-

“well, then, uh,” he sucked his teeth, still breathless, raising the stack of papers and meeting your eyes one final time, “thanks. i appreciate it.” 

“how horny do you have to be to jack off in an office?” 

yuma had completely ignored everything else you told him, including that the last three weeks had been absolute hell for you. after your encounter, euijoo piled the tasks on without remorse. suddenly, there were more papers, midterm tests turned into midterm papers, and more quizzes were being given in class, seemingly for the sole purpose that you would need to grade them. and euijoo grew cold, toward everyone but especially you. it was as though all of his charm had sloughed off overnight, like he had molted and evolved into some brooding asshole with a pen behind his ear. 

“that’s what stuck? not the unbearable stress i’m under? or my misery?” you prodded his side on the couch, the show he was watching dissolving into static background noise at the sudden dump of gossip you provided, “yuma, think about my misery.” 

“you’ve been in misery this whole time,” yuma rolled his eyes, muttering, “only difference is that it’s at least interesting now.” 

“interesting for you,” you covered your face with your hands, sighing deeply. “horrible for me. he won’t even look at me, and i didn’t even do anything.” 

the class was the definition of tense following the incident. your lesson plans were thorough, yes, but they were not nearly as packed with papers and assignments and groupwork as euijoo was enacting. you felt bad for the students, mostly, that your eager-to-please nature had tripled their final courseload. but then you felt bad for euijoo, and yuma scolded you for that. he said, “he’s a grown man. frankly, he needs to just get over it.” but you knew what it felt like to be embarrassed. granted, you dealt with it a little differently, with a conversation or just ignoring it completely. euijoo was confronting you with his embarrassment every single day, sliding stacks of ungraded papers across your table toward you at the end of class and leaving without a word. you’d been grading them at home and just bringing them to class to avoid another encounter in his office. even during office hours, you felt like it would only bring up ill feelings. or other feelings.

“here’s what i think,” yuma stood up from the couch beside you, ignoring your displeased grunt as you slumped over into the warmth of his empty cushion. he clapped his hands together in a righteous, all-knowing fashion, as if he had stepped into the shoes of a scholar. one who studies unfortunate tension between awkward individuals and inappropriate work relationships. he announced, “i think professor big-dick has the hots for his TA, and i mean you if thats not clear. and i think he has poor emotional processing skills and a very high sex drive. and no, that’s not a headcanon or personal fantasy- just the truth. and i think the combination of all of those things has left him very confused and, if i might assign vulnerability to a male figure of authority, scared.” 

you knew yuma had a wild imagination, but this was beyond your expectations for whatever he was about to tell you. the inside of your mouth was bone dry from how long you jaw had been flat on the floor. you couldn’t believe what he was implying. yet, you fiddled with the hem of your shirt like you knew there was some truth to it. “no,” you shook your head, rubbing your eyes, “don’t suggest it’s my fault somehow that he’s fucking my entire life over.” 

“not your fault, babe,” yuma flicked his hair from his face with his fingertips, “you’re hot and smart. and now he knows you’re a sick little voyeur-” 

“yuma!” you threw a pillow at him, and he didnt even budge when it smacked into his chest, still standing in an overconfident pose, “you would’ve done the same thing!” 

“yeah,” he shrugged, “only he wasn’t thinking about me, idiot. i’d just be a creep.” 

you couldnt help but feel as though you’d crossed a line somehow, albeit accidentally. but crossed nonetheless. it seemed as though you’d never be able to go back to the lighthearted, supportive, non-complicated relationship you’d had with euijoo only three weeks prior. he’d checked in on you then, at least, begged for informalities. now, he expected your complete surrender to his every wish without a second thought for your own studies beyond your duties as his assistant. you had papers to write rather than grade. you had your own exams to study for, but you were too focused on making study guides for the final exam in euijoo’s class to even worry about how much of your own degree was being swept under the rug. 

so, you kept what yuma said in the back of your mind: confused and scared.

the next time you saw him, it was a tuesday. there were only a few classes left until finals week. and until your mentorship with euijoo would expire, hopefully with a letter of recommendation to show for it. if you were lucky, you’d remain amicable and disregard all the unnecessary tension he’d created and you’d tried desperately to dissolve. it wasn’t explicitly sexual, but yuma was so sure that you began to suspect it, too. 

euijoo was still charming, you’d noticed, even when he was clearly stressed out. there was something extra alluring about the throbbing vein in his neck, the way his glasses slid down his nose as he buried his face in his computer at the front podium. this class period was a dedicated work day for the students to finalize their presentation scripts and slides, so you and euijoo were basically useless, lingering silently mere feet from each other for three hours. his shoulders hunched over as he typed away, the faint click of his keyboard breaking through the soft chatter of the class. it was all you could hear, the mechanical tapping only muted by the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. 

and when the class was over, you weren’t as prompt leaving as you had been for the last month. usually, you had your laptop stuffed into your bag before the first student left the room, ready to bolt. but today, you stuck around a moment too long, and euijoo was already standing next to you when you closed your laptop. you could feel his eyes on the top of your head, tracing the side of your face. you’d be lying if you said your heart didn’t stutter in your chest. instead of looking up at him, instead of meeting his eyes in this perfectly planned display of power, you stood up from your chair and met his gaze that way. he was taller than you, so you weren’t eye-level with him, but it felt like enough to tilt your chin up and roll your shoulders back. euijoo tilted his head at your boldness, his tongue prodding the inside of his cheek, like he was neutralizing a smirk. you narrowed your eyes into his, fighting the pull to get completely lost in them. his glasses made you think of an aquarium, his eyes swirling like tepid water. there was a part of you that wanted to tap on the glass, like a kid, if only to see if he would flinch like a fish or push back, like a wave. 

you got your answer. euijoo broke eye contact with you to reach into his bag and pull out a stack of papers. he gently placed them on the table between you and, with four fingers flat on the top, slid the stack as close to you as he could, closing the distance between you with one confident stride. you softly gasped, and you hoped he didnt hear. 

“thursday,” euijoo said as he leaned down, just enough to make sure you could hear him. his breath tickled the cusp of your ear and, then, he left, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. you stood there, frozen. there was an unfamiliar feeling in your chest, one that tasted like lust but hit like anger. 

your feet were moving before you could think about what to do next, dragging you out of the empty seminar room, down the hall, and into the faculty office corridor. you scanned the names on the doors like you didnt know exactly where you were going. and when you got there, he was peacefully sat at his desk, book spread open before him and a pen in hand. you marched right through his door, propped open with a rubber wedge, which you swiftly kicked out of the way to let the door close behind you. 

as you charged into the room, euijoo dog-eared his page, sighing like you had inconvenienced him, “i have a meeting in-”

“no, you fucking don’t,” you countered, punctuating your statement with the stack of papers, slamming the stack on the corner of his desk unoccupied by whatever hipster shit he decided to display that week, “and i’d know because i’d have to put it in your google calendar.” 

“you’re upset,” euijoo raised his eyebrows as he observed your behavior, like a scientist and his test subject. it felt like he was studying you, even now, and, honestly, you were kind of sick of being the center of so many experiments without your permission. 

“yeah,” you smiled, half in disbelief and half just to keep yourself together, “yeah, i’m upset.”

“would you like a break this week?” he asked, like it was the most obvious question in the world. he closed his book, tucking it away somewhere off to the side of his desk. “it’s almost finals, so i understand if you don’t feel like working.” 

“that-” you stopped, taking a deep breath. if byun euijoo had one thing, it was the nerve. it was the confidence to say whatever he wanted without repercussion. you wondered, between flashes of red, how long he had been like this and you had been too naive, too distracted by his cute-ass cardigans and fluffy hair to notice just how much of a dickhead he was. you thought back to The Day, before you stumbled into the most awkward situation of your life, even before you got lunch with yuma. you thought back to the class, when he had asked you if you were alright. he couldn’t even reach one foot in front of him to grab a pen from the table, only asking you if you were alright because you failed to obey him immediately. was that all you were good for? “that is so gracious of you, euijoo, really. because i’ve been working so, so much for the last month. i’d even go so far to say ive been doing nothing but working. wouldnt you?” 

“you’ve been very helpful, if that’s what you mean,” he crossed his arms over his chest, “but i can see how i might have… overloaded you.” 

“yeah, if by ‘overloaded’ you mean i’ve been doing your fucking job for you,” your voice was coming out harsher by the second, but there was no guarantee you’d be able to get this off your chest again with the way he’d been avoiding you.

“i wouldn’t say that.”

“i would,” you bit back, “im grading all the papers, making the lesson plans, answering all your fucking emails.” you reached a shaking hand out to count your tasks on bent fingers. “i’m putting tests together, scheduling your meetings, compiling study guides. i’m pulling all nighters so often, i don’t even know what day it is until i look at your emails and see students asking about ‘class tomorrow.’ none of this is going to fucking matter if i fail out of all my classes because you cant spare an hour to grade your own shitty assignments. i’m doing everything, and what are you doing besides jacking off in your office like a pervert?” 

the silence was thick. you swore you could taste it settling flat on your tongue, tangy with remorse but just barely. it was sweet more than anything and heavy like honey. your chest felt lighter despite how hard it was to breathe, your lungs manually inflating, compressing, inflating- all as shallow as you felt throwing that at him. you weren’t normally this way, and he could see that. you saw him realize that, his eyes darkening as he visibly gulped back anything he thought about saying in response. instead, euijoo, prodded the inside of his cheek with his tongue, eyes half-lidded and jaw clenched. he kept his posture disengaged, his arms crossed firmly over his chest, although his fist clenched tighter under his bicep. he directed, finally doing one part of his job, “i think you should watch how you talk to me.” 

“i think you should watch how you look at me.” 

euijoo breathed a laugh, dumbfounded. he shook his head, like you had just told him something he knew was so far-fetched it could not possibly be true. like you’d said kermit was the hottest muppet; that’s how he laughed, like he knew it was really gonzo. he moved to stand up, extending his hand to the door behind you, “you should leave. i’m incredibly busy with things you dont know about, if you can believe it.” 

“i’m sure you are now, considering i just returned every last one of your ungraded assignments,” you were the one to cross your arms now, standing firm in your place. you nodded vaguely toward the tower of stapled papers on the corner of the desk, “most of these aren’t even for the intro seminar. i can check credit or no credit for a multiple choice quiz, but i dont know how to grade your shakespearean analyses or your goddamn poetry explications. i mean, i could figure it out, but-” 

“want me to show you?” 

you nearly laughed, thinking euijoo was mocking your ignorance, until you met his eyes, dark and narrowed. he held your gaze as he sat back in his chair, aligning his posture with the leather backing and firmly planting his feet, an inverse of the relaxed stature he sported when you came crashing in. he was completely serious about showing you how to do everything you mentioned, this you knew, but you weren’t stupid. there was an undertone, a silky venom under that first word- want. did you want him to show you? did you want him? the line had already been crossed. the two of you knew this and had known it for weeks, and, instead of calling it quits, you dragged it out. and now you had to decide; did you want euijoo to show you? 

you could basically feel yuma’s spirit in the room with you, grabby hands pushing you forward and snickering like a teenage girl, as you took two cautious steps around the corner of the desk. you had been closer to him before, like half an hour ago when he handed you the mismatched stack of papers and ghosted his breath on the shell of your ear, when he let his chest graze your shoulder. but it felt murky, now, as you stood next to him, arms still crossed as he fished a few poetry papers from the stack. he thumbed through them, looking for the perfect example, and, when he found it, he glanced briefly at you over his shoulder. 

“alright, so,” euijoo’s hands firmly pinched the edges of the paper, “you know poetry is all about choices. diction, imagery, meter, line breaks- the works; an explication magnifies those choices in the context of the poem, yeah? it makes the implicit explicit.” 

you nodded, but you were not listening. you were entirely focused on the flex of his fingers as he spoke, the curve of his wrist and the soft skin that disappeared under the sleeve of his blazer. you watched the tip of his nose move with his lips, the silver frame of his glasses glinting against the dim light of the lamp in the corner. implicit, explicit- it felt more pertinent to your situation than you’d cared to admit. 

“are you listening?” euijoo asked, not bothering to turn to look at you this time, “i asked if you’ve read this poem before.”

“oh, uh,” you cleared your throat, “no, sorry. i dont read a lot of poetry.” 

“that’s too bad,” euijoo sighed, swiveling around to angle his body toward you. it was all too much, really, the confrontation followed by the accusations and now the lesson? on a poem you’d never read for a class you didn’t plan on taking to grade a paper that wasn’t your responsibility. and he was sitting there, thighs spread enough to make him look even broader than he was, thighs carved under brown slacks. “would you like to read it?” 

“hm?” you eyed him, cautiously, eyebrows raised as if you still didnt hear him. you mouthed, oh, and reached out your hand, waiting for him to give you the poem. how else would you read it? but instead, he wrapped his fingers around your wrist, gently, moving in short, calculated motions. euijoo tugged your wrist toward him, a subtle gesture as though he were waiting for you to move on your own accord. this was the line, you realized, everything else was just poor timing and yuma’s imagination feeding your delusions. regardless of the ethics, the mental gymnastics you would need to do later to justify it all, you let your body succumb to his gravity. you followed the lead of his hand as he guided you to him, onto his lap, onto one thigh. you couldnt bite back your gasp as you settled onto his leg. yours were awkwardly situated off to the side, but you couldn’t care, not with the full heat of euijoos body pressed flat behind you. you could feel the muscles of his thigh, flexing under the swell of your ass. his hand had abandoned your wrist and settled instead on the sensitive skin on the back of your arms, his fingertips grazed the curve of your waist with every intoxicating drag of his knuckles to your elbows. it was exactly like striking steel on stone only slowly, tenderly as if it were a matter of intent. the fire would start, eventually.

he leaned back in his seat, relaxing in a way that made your rigid stance all the more noticeable, as conspicuous as the goosebumps prickling every visible part of your body. euijoo breathed deep. “go on,” he said, “read it aloud if you want.” 

you reached forward with obvious, shaking hands and scooted the paper toward you, stapled in the corner and heavy on only that side. you didn’t read aloud, afraid of what your voice would do if you even tried to speak in your current situation, but you felt euijoo’s eyes on you as you read. the writing was gorgeous, a tightly quilted cacophony of jarring but vivid images. you didn’t fully understand it, but that was the point. it drew your face into a point, one euijoo mirrored as he followed your eyes on the page, reading it alongside you. “beautiful,” he murmured, slipping his foot between yours and maneuvering your legs open, until you were straddling his thigh. and as you steadied your palms on the edge of his desk, adjusting to your new, sinful position, euijoo said, “now, in an explication, it’s all about making connections. consider the poem’s speaker, its meaning,” he slipped his fingertips under the hem of your shirt, grazing your waist with cold, nimble fingers, calloused from turning the page, from holding the pen, from gripping the leash of the dog you made up in your head. this was real, though, and you leaned back into his touch more than you should have, desperate for some kind of contact beyond his knuckles on your arm and, now, the press of his leg into your pulsing core. he walked his hands up your sides, stopping right under your ribs. his thumbs seared their own paths along your spine, pressing deliciously into your delicate skin. “remember what i said earlier about choices? an explication connects a poem’s meaning to things like meter and enjambment, or it considers the perspective of the poem’s speaker and the poet’s diction, imagery, rhythm.” 

euijoo’s hands slid to your hips, squeezing tentatively before pushing you down on the peak of his thigh. the sudden pressure, the final flick of steel on flint, pulled a moan from your throat that should have made you feel embarrassed but didn’t, not with euijoo guiding your hips back and forth over him, flexing his thigh deliciously under your clothed, aching core. he dragged you in short, slow motions, letting you work with him, letting you roll your hips over the taut muscles. you could hear his breathing grow uneven with every push and pull, every surrender to the urges he’d fought back the entire semester with you. you could feel him holding back, dipping his fingertips just beneath the waist of your pants and pressing into your flesh. you angled your hips back, just barely, and euijoo jolted under you as your ass brushed the evident, growing bulge in his slacks, his sudden movement eliciting another sound from you. and as the two of you groaned, together, you realized how easily someone could walk by the closed door, how someone could knock, or rather how they could not. 

and you realized how concerning it was that you didn’t really care. not at that moment, as euijoo sat up straight behind you, pulling your back flat against his heaving chest. you felt his heartbeat between your shoulderblades. he ground you down onto his leg once again, forcing sparks against your throbbing clit, even through the layers of clothing. you felt euijoo move your hair away from your neck and press a soft kiss to the back of your neck. wet, open-mouthed, and his tongue lingered at the tail-end, dragging a warm stripe up to your ear. “do you understand, now?” his lips grazed the shell of your ear. 

you hummed, almost drunk on him. but not drunk enough. “do you?” you smirked, rolling your hips against him once again, reveling in the friction as long as he would allow it, “i could have googled that.” 

one hand abandoned your waist and came up to your chin, holding your jaw. euijoo turned your face, gently, to look at him. his eyes glinted, dark, behind his glasses. his hand was so big, obvious against the curve of your cheek. he scanned your eyes for any sign of remorse, any inkling of regret, or fear, and found nothing but fire. pure heat. he licked his lips, “then why didnt you, hm? had to come in here and make a scene instead.” you placed your hand on his, just long enough to lift and slip his thumb between your lips, humming around his digit as he pushed it further inside. his own mouth fell open as you smoothed your tongue over the pad of his finger, urging him deeper until your lips were sealed up to his knuckle. euijoo groaned softly, pressing down on your tongue as you continued to rock your hips against him. “fuck,” he dragged, “you wanted this, too, hm? didnt you, doll?” euijoo watched as you hollowed your cheeks, his own tongue poking from the side of his mouth. “so desperate, grinding on me. go on and get yourself off on my thigh, pretty girl. you can do it.” he snaked his free hand from your hip around to your stomach, fingers still looped under your pants, teasing, “been feeling your needy cunt on me this whole time. you can make yourself come, can’t you, darling?” 

you whimpered around his thumb, rutting against his leg. you steadied yourself with one hand on the desk and wrapped the other around his wrist, keeping his fingers close to your mouth. your body was so, so close, your core burning white hot. but it wasnt enough. too many layers, too little friction without him pushing you down or flexing his thigh. you wanted more; you needed more.you needed him- his fingers, his mouth, his cock. you shook your head. 

“no?” euijoo furrowed his brows, tilting his head in a pout, “first, you can’t do something as simple as read a poem, grade a paper. and now you cant make yourself come? do you need my help with that, too, baby? want me to show you how?” 

you nodded, eagerly and without hesitation, but euijoo slid his thumb from your lips, smearing your spit over them like gloss, dragging it up your burning cheek. he cradled your head in his hand, tilting your head to look into his eyes, dark and round, amplified behind glass. he whispered, “i need you to say it for me, beautiful.”

“yes, euijoo,” your voice was low, quiet enough for him to hear and no one else, since you were painfully aware of how easily sound traveled through closed doors, “i want you.” 

it was true. you did have a thing for hot nerds in cardigans. and it was sick how you were willing to do anything he asked you. more than willing. in any other universe, the two of you would have crossed paths at the supermarket, where you’d have given him a terrible pasta recipe you’d made up on the spot to impress him, or at a bar, where maybe he’d have bought you a drink and his phone number. instead, your current paths were horribly complicated but crossing nonetheless, intertwining like two steel, barbed wires. like a chainlink fence. 

euijoo leaned in first, connecting your lips softer than you’d anticipated, like he was savoring you. in all honesty, you didn’t expect him to kiss you at all, but his lips were plush, warm, and they nestled between yours almost perfectly. he tasted as sweet as he smelled, moved as gentle as he looked. you melted into him, sighing against his lips, moving so meticulously against your own. he moved his hands to your ass, pulling you closer until you were straddling him. this taste of control made your head spin. you deepened the kiss, sliding your tongue past his lips. he hummed into the kiss, squeezing the flesh of your ass and pulling you down against him, just enough to grind up into you. you were both whining, groaning messes against one another, the kiss growing desperate with every grind of your hips, teeth grazing and noses clashing. 

“euijoo,” you mumbled, “touch me.” 

“hmm,” he disconnected your lips, pulling back only far enough to scan your face, “might need to google it first.” 

oh, and he was cheeky, too. great. you were taken aback by the unexpected humor but satisfied with the way he matched your wit. you let a smile bleed through the cool exterior you were trying desperately to maintain, “go ahead. i bet you can figure it out, though,” you smirked, testing the waters, “you touch yourself just fine.” 

euijoo let his head hang forward, breathing a laugh. “fair,” he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose, “you’re good.” 

“mhm,” you shifted in his lap, “i’m also- what all did you say? desperate, needy?” you leaned back down into him, pulling the collar of his coat away from his neck. you dusted a featherlight kiss right on his pulse, feeling it spike beneath your lips. he sucked in a quick breath, a gasp, and slid his hands over your thighs, squeezing the bulk of them before inching his fingers closer to the button of your pants. 

“gotta get these off, yeah?” euijoo breathed as you continued to work kisses up his neck, his jaw, and back to his mouth. before you could connect your lips to his, as you hovered impatiently over him, he pulled his face away, just an inch or two. he watched you fall forward, chasing him. a smirk tugged at his mouth as he whispered, “i want you on my desk.”  

you’d barely stepped out of your pants when euijoo hoisted you up, settling you on the edge of the wooden table but only after swiping his books and pens and trinkets out of the way. the pens rolled, a metallic rumbling punctuated by several clinking thuds as they teetered off the edge, and the books remained in tall stacks. the corners prodded your side, but it was a shadow of a sensation the moment euijoo sank to his knees and latched his mouth onto your inner thigh, fingers splayed on the plush flesh, pushing them wider.  

the idea used to make your thighs clench, the fleeting and hazy daydream of euijoo between your legs. it had felt intrusive before, like you’d needed something to get through the endless hours of his boring lectures and he was the closest object for your strange affection. and now that it was real, now that you could feel his breath fanning over the damp patch in your underwear, it was still hazy, like you had overindulged, like you had been greedy and you still wanted more. 

euijoo looped his fingers around the waist of your underwear, watching as the soaked fabric lifted away from your pussy, only to be quickly replaced with the flat of his tongue. he groaned, lapping up the arousal you’d worked so hard for, remnants of a distant and futile orgasm. his sharp tongue slipped through your folds, prodding at your clit with every slow, upward drag. the pace pulled a sigh from your chest, but every torturous flick of his tongue manifested in a stifled mewl. he was calculated, memorizing your reactions to pressures and patterns, but each movement was so agonizingly slow. you could hardly stand it. you rolled your hips to meet his rhythm, to maybe gain a fraction of speed, but it only made him lag behind his already languid pace. 

“please,” you gripped at the edge of the desk to hold yourself back from grabbing his hair and riding his face the way you’d imagined a hundred times, “more, euijoo.” 

part of you craved the slow, deliberate pleasure, wanted to savor the dreamy caress of his fingers dragging lightly down the outside of your thighs; another part of you recognized the risk of it all, the thin walls and thinner doors, the effort to swallow the sounds he was pulling from you almost distracting from the feeling itself. 

“more?” euijoo grazed your clit with his teeth, smirking against you as your hips jerked involuntarily. he circled your dripping entrance with his fingertip, relishing in the way your body curled toward him as he pushed it inside, slow and even, long and slender. the stretch was subtle at first, and inward, his fingertip grazing the depths of you. you gasped, softly, as he pumped once, twice, and then you gasped, a little less softly, as he reattached his lips to your clit, working every part of your cunt with a fixed precision. euijoo peered up at you, his glasses crooked on his nose as his tongue flicked swift swipes over your aching bud, pleasure burning low in your core. 

he added another finger, slipping it in smoothly with the first and curling them at a devastating angle. your moans were stifled, barely more than breath, but they were there, and so were euijoo’s. he hummed against your cunt, lips engulfing your clit to send the vibrations straight through you. he pressed your hips down with his other palm, keeping you still for him as your release crept closer and closer, winding tightly in your core and threatening to snap at any moment. you attempted to roll your hips to amplify the movements of his fingers, chasing your high, but he didn’t stop you this time. instead, he loosened his grip, digging his fingers into your hip but not preventing you from moving, and pressed his tongue flat against you. “take it, baby,” he mumbled, “take what you need.” 

and you did, threading your hand in his hair and grinding helplessly on his face as euijoo pumped his fingers relentlessly into you, plucking the taut string until it snapped. your orgasm washed over you, silently and all at once, your pussy fluttering around his fingers. he stilled his tongue against you, feeling the pulse of your heat and catching your release as it leaked around his digits. “that’s it. come all over my fingers, pretty girl.” he slid his fingers out of you before watching them disappear in your sensitive cunt one final time. he brought them to his lips, slurping your juices from his skin, his own lips glistening with a combination of your wetness and his own drool. he was intoxicating- a vision. he squeezed your thigh one final time, whispering, “you’re even sweeter than i imagined.”  

imagined. the word made you come back down, your core still pulsing but craving more. you reached out for him, pulling him up to meet your lips in a frenzied, hungry kiss. you let your tongue slip into him immediately, savoring your own flavor on his tongue. he groaned into you, pressing his hips flush to yours; his dick was straining against the front of his pants, twitching against your bare core as your tongues melted against each other. you pulled away first, just enough to ask, “and what else did you imagine?” 

euijoo breathed a laugh, casting his eyes away from you like he was embarrassed, scanning the shelves on the wall behind you. his tongue darted out before he slipped his bottom lip between his teeth. he slipped his hands beneath your shirt again, dragging his fingertips up your sides, “i imagined your mouth on my cock,” he said as his gaze fell on your lips, like he were imagining it then, too. he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your jaw, working his way down your neck, “i imagined your throat, bruised and sore after i’ve fucked it raw.” 

you couldnt help the way you moaned as euijoo nipped at your skin, soothing the tender area with his tongue. every part of your body was on fire. you slid your hands to the front of his pants, innocently looping your fingers through his belt loops. “and that day, when you thought you were alone,” you pulled the tent of his cock closer, brushing it against your sensitive core, and you felt him moan against your neck, “what did you imagine, then?” 

“bending you over my desk,” euijoo hissed into your ear, answering like it was obvious, before smoothing his tongue over the shell of it, “and stuffing you full of my cum.” he pushed his hips closer, grinding up into you in a slow and controlled movement, and growled, lowly, “over and over and over.” 

before you could even think, you were shoving his blazer off his shoulders and running your palms over the broad slopes of hidden muscle. beneath, he was clad only in a button up with the sleeves rolled a precise three times to his forearms. he watched you unbutton the top two plastic discs sewn to his shirt and stop, satisfied with the slight reveal of flushed skin. the only thing you had it worse for than a hot nerd in a cardigan was a hot nerd in a slutty little button up. “you have a vivid imagination, euijoo,” you whispered, bringing your hands back down to his belt and toying with the worn metal fixtures, “lots of time to daydream when you have someone else doing your work for you, hm?” 

euijoo rolled his eyes, mirroring your smirk as you worked at his belt. he pushed your hands out of the way and swiftly unbuckled the leather strap, unbuttoning his slacks but hesitating to push them down. instead, he scanned your face again, this time really looking at you. he studied the creases of your eyes, the arch of your brow, the plush curve of your lips, red and swollen from being lodged between your teeth to smother your moans. you tilted your head, curious, having never been able to read him in any situation but especially this one. you felt exposed under his gaze, and not only because you were, still nude from the waist down, but because he was too silent. it was like you tripped a wire. he chewed the inside of his cheek, his hand falling to caress the outside of your bare thigh once again. the goosebumps rose as he whispered, “can i admit something?”

“no,” you whispered back, dragging your fingers down his clothed chest, gently passing over the toned slopes of his stomach until you reached the zipper of his slacks. you caught the metal tab between your fingers and pulled it, slowly, over the grinding metal teeth until there was enough space to slip your hand in and press your palm against him, “tell me after you’ve fucked me.” 

euijoo choked back a groan, lowering his head to your shoulder as his hips bucked into your hand. his teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your neck, sharp pecks along your collarbones growing more intense with every squeeze of your hand, every jolt of pressure. “fuck,” euijoo cursed against your neck, his breathing erratic, like he could have came from this alone, “deal.” he pushed his slacks down enough for his cock to spring free, the tip red and impatient, flushed and frustrated just like his face. and just as pretty. as was the case with any daydream, any fantasy, you’d imagined he would be huge, inhumanly girthy, but the reality was not disappointing; he was average in bulk but long and slightly curved. your mouth watered as your fingers wrapped around him instinctively. your mouth felt suddenly hollow, throat aching to be, what was it, bruised and sore? but, frankly, so was your pussy, dripping with greed all over his desk in a way that should have embarrassed you but only turned you on more. he squeezed his eyes shut as you stroked him, agonizingly slow, feeling the pulsing vein that ran along the underside. he held your hand still as a silent plea before pulling you off him completely, holding both of your hands in his as he urged you off the desk. 

a gentleman, at last. 

but as soon as you were standing on two feet, he spun you around with a steady hand on your hip and bent you, directly at the waist, over his desk. you gasped at the contrast, soft palms with calloused fingers pushing the small of your back until your stomach was level with the wooden surface. it was all very confusing, the way you had to bite back a moan at the force and, then, a smile as he reached around you, opening a book from the top of its stack and placing it below your face. a cushion of sorts, which you happily nestled your cheek against, the pages loved and soft. 

and then you felt it- the heavy tip of his cock as euijoo pushed himself over your entrance and through your folds in slow, maddening strokes, coating himself in you and driving you up the wall in one go. he bumped your clit with every drag, hands kneading the plush of your ass as you arched into him. “still so fucking wet,” he mumbled, hissing as he made another long drag through your leaking cunt, “i’m gonna fuck you now, baby. let me know if its too much and i’ll stop, yeah? say it for me.” 

“y-yes,” you breathed, the air rustling the raw edge of the page beneath your cheek. euijoo squeezed your hip, thumb pressing into your flesh as he breached your entrance at an agonizing pace, stretching and searing. your jaw went slack, hanging open with a silent cry as he slid, inch by inch, deeper inside of you, until you were sure there was no more left. and then he kept going. you reached for anything to hold onto as he split you directly in two, “fuck, yes. fuck- euijoo-” 

“that’s it, baby,” he stroked the curve of your back as he bottomed out inside of you, “not so bad, was it? pretty pussy sucked me right in.” and you felt every inch of him, kissing your walls and sparking your nerves with that familiar stone-fueled fire. euijoo ground his hips against your ass, as if he could possibly go any deeper, and whined, soft and high, yet another contrast to the firm press of his hand on your hip. experimentally, you copied his movement, rolling your hips slightly, pulling forward and pushing back onto him in one short, slow stroke. 

“so fucking impatient,” euijoo mumbled, sliding out of you almost entirely, leaving you empty for only a second before pushing back in, watching himself disappear between your folds, “so fucking eager.” you sank your teeth into your fist to muffle your moans, the scrape of his cock along your insides begging you to break, coaxing the most pathetic sounds out of you. and they only got worse as he snapped his hips faster, driving his cock into you in short, rapid thrusts. 

“squeezing the hell out of me, doll,” he grunted, “so fucking tight, so perfect.” you clenched around him at the praise, wishing the circumstances were different and that you could hear him, really hear him. the soft grunts and gentle whines were only a fraction of what he could really give you. he was spearing into you, fingers walking up your spine and smoothing over your skin with featherlight touches. his pace was becoming relentless, as fast as he could go without the obscene sound of skin-on-skin permeating the room, but it was the firm pressure of his fingertips circling your clit that made tears prick your eyes. “feel good, baby?” he mocked you with a honey-sweet voice, “crying all over the page, smearing my ink?” 

you felt the wetness roll out of the corners of your eyes and trickle into a puddle under your cheek. he didn’t even mention the drool that had accumulated from the side of your lips, fucked dumb on his desk, lurching toward his hips with every thrust to get yourself closer. “so fucking good,” you whispered, clawing at the edges of the desk to give yourself leverage, “please don’t stop, euijoo. gonna come for you.” 

“come all over my cock, pretty girl,” he mumbled, pressing on your back and rubbing intense circles around your throbbing clit. his thrusts were growing sloppy, and you knew he was close, too, ready for your orgasm to milk him dry. you arched your back just right, feeling his tip swipe that perfect spot in your core over and over, like a cellist plucking the lowest note, the thickest string. you felt your second orgasm rain over you, the wire finally snapping and sending a wave tremors through your body, your legs trembling below you, jaw slack with a silent cry lodged in your throat. euijoo buried himself to the hilt inside of you, letting your fluttering pussy work his own release out of him, the warmth spreading low into your stomach. he pumped himself into you once, then twice, forcing his cum deeper into you, groaning quietly and kneading the curve of your ass. he breathed, “holy shit,” and unsheathed his softening dick from your aching cunt, leaving you empty and cold as his seed leaked down your thighs. 

all you could do was lay there, just for a few minutes, catching your breath as he grabbed tissues from his desk drawer and tenderly scooped the trails of cum from your skin. he tossed the tissues into the trash and rested his hand, delicately, on the back of your head, petting your hair. you hummed, pleased with the contact, a sincere gesture. euijoo cleared his throat, tucking a strand of hair behind your ears, “i’m going to tell you this now because i feel like you’re too tired to be pissed at me.” 

you felt your breath catch in your throat as he admitted, “half of those assignments i gave you weren’t even real; the papers just smelled like you when you brought them back to me.” 

from the corner of your eye, you saw the stack of papers that brought you in here in the first place, stapled neatly on every corner and wrinkled on the edges from how tightly you clutched them to your chest as you stormed into his office. you thought about the hours wasted grading, the excess of tasks, the nights slipping away while you were stressed out of your mind. you sighed, still spent, “fuck you, euijoo.” 

“promise?”

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

@wenomakiluvr @guliexe @cheolscherries1812 @jungwonsgff @heesoulnotes @kjjupilled @xionvlog @ikigaijo @0wisewisdoom @minhosimthings

@luperque @ikeuholica @nichozzystuffs @s3ungh4nsgf @zzniya @livelaughloveseventeen @purrplegyuu @yuuniversezx

[huwmou]

FUCK THIS DISTANCE (18+)

pairing: bf!idol!maki x fem!reader

warnings: smut (MDNI!), oral (f receiving), established relationship, nipple play, dirty talk (if i forgot something let me know!)

word count: 750

notes: this is my first smut work... i don't know how to write smut, so i'm sorry if it turned out boring! english isn’t my first language so please forgive any mistakes!

Dating Maki was an interesting idea. Like... he's handsome, strong, funny, kind. But there was a slight problem with dating him.

Maki was often absent from work. There was really no point in denying it. Your schedules weren't even close. He could disappear for months, reducing your communication to texts like "good morning" and "good night."

You missed him terribly. The bed felt enormous without him, the silence deafening without his voice, and his scent was gradually fading from the apartment. And of course, you missed his touch.

Just the sight of Maki on stage made you go crazy with longing. Your pussy literally gushed just from the sight of photos of his biceps, let alone when he suddenly decided to flirt with the camera.

You tried to help yourself, but it was no use. Your fingers weren't his. You wanted him. You needed him.

So, as soon as your apartment door opened and the guy walked in, you didn't even wait. You practically pounced on him, cupping his face in your hands, pulling him into a heated, intense kiss. At first, he was shocked, the bag he was holding falling to the floor, but soon his response was immediate: he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and his arms (oh, those arms) wrapped around your waist, pulling you close. The kiss was desperate, filled with love, longing, and the need you'd been harboring throughout his long absence.

You didn't even realize how you'd found yourself in the bedroom, his body practically pressing you into the mattress. His hands roamed your body, absorbing every dip and every unevenness in your body, as if he were doing it for the first time. His lips slid down your neck, nipping and sucking at the soft skin, causing you to let out a soft sigh. Your fingers tangled in his hair, gently gripping it and pulling him closer.

Maki pulled back just long enough to gently pull his hoodie off you, revealing your breasts, already ablaze with the desire to feel his touch. Your nipples stood proudly in the light draft seeping through the window. Damn, he would come just from this sight. He looked at you, as if asking for permission with his eyes. You looked up at him, swallowing as his eyes darkened. A slight nod, and his lips cupped one nub, sucking it with deliberate slowness, as if teasing. One of his hands covered your other breast, gently kneading it. A soft sigh left your lips, your back arching from the sensation. How you'd missed this.

His mouth trailed down your stomach, leaving a trail of wet, hot kisses until his breath fanned your clothed pussy. He looked up at you, as if asking, "Can I?" with his eyes. The look in your eyes was enough for him to make your pajama shorts and panties fall off your thighs, landing somewhere on the floor.

"Fuck, are you so wet already, baby?" Maki asked, kissing the inside of your thighs, pushing your hips closer to him.

"Riki... please..." The plea escaped you almost uncontrollably, so quietly it was barely audible, causing him to squeeze your hips harder, pressing his hips into the mattress to ease the ache in his erection.

His face lowered between your legs, his tongue tracing a long stripe between your folds, collecting your wetness. A soft moan escaped your lips, your hips jerked, and the hand in his hair tightened. He let out a guttural groan at the taste of you, practically sucking on your swollen bud. Your soft moans filled the silence of the bedroom. His tongue worked relentlessly, confidently, teasing your clit while two of his fingers gently entered your entrance, rubbing your walls and stretching you. Your body shook from the stimulation, your hips moving toward him, pressing harder against his face. You clenched around his fingers, painting his face, fingers, and tongue with your juices. He took it all in, continuing to gently thrust in and out of you as you rode out your orgasm.

You fell back against the pillows, breathing heavily. His fingers left your entrance, causing your pussy to clench around the void. His lips found your body again, slowly moving up your stomach, chest, and neck to your lips, capturing them in a passionate, slow kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. When he pulled away, he looked at your face, smiling softly.

"Is that how much you missed me? Don't fall asleep, we're not done yet, baby~"

2026 | do NOT use this without permission, thanks!

[huwmou]

70 already, the fuck?😧

[bellaalinaa]

@strmieto tagged me!!

Rules: when you get this, make a new post, list 5 of your favorite songs, publish, and tag some of your favorite mutuals!

1. Vodka Cranberry - Conan Gray

2. Goddess - Laufey

3. All I Did Was Dream of You - beabadoobee, the Marias

4. Your Best American Girl - Mitski

5. Moths - Conan Gray

now for my moots!

@secretlifeofsombr @evendeathhasaheart @doraisawda @motel88 @creativityinmadness

[doraisawda]

Both Sides - NCT JNJM

As We Are - Seungmin

Chamak Chalom

Kala Chashma

Balam Pichkari

@christh3weirdo @ali3n-st4r-zz @maplekae @aleks-is-dead + open tags

[maplekae]

Sesame Syrup (Cigarettes after Sex)

Catch Catch (YENA)

REDRED (CORTIS)

Trust Fund Baby (Why Don’t We)

Deja Vu (TXT)

( @tempus-sunday @liminavita @mccnset @kcookiez @neilayay @c3lestial-angel @cinnamon-bliss-blog @x-kangelkawaiii-x @roachesandbugs @luverdolly )

[mccnset]

TYYY FOR THE TAG <33

midnight fiction - illit

twenty - kickflip

moonstruck - enhypen

tweak - girlset

unethical - faouzia

(THIS WAS SO HARD bcs i have too many favourites ok)

if any of u guys wanna joinn @clsondnd @hwastcr @catinabin @fxreverzora @gyuyurie @dazedjuhoon @mintyykk @chaengiibf @hyejusprunki @somethingsomethingsparkles @stxrsforrosie @etheralfawnette + anyone else i missedd!

[lalalooooopsyll]

OMG TYSM FOR THE TAG ( ˶˘ ³˘)♡

1. the chase - h2h

2. not cute anymore - illit

3. downpour - chaeyoung

4. delulu - kiiikiii

5. using you - mars argo

@sugarsunooo @jlssss088

(i don’t have any other moots (ᵕ—ᴗ—))

[sugarsunooo]

tysmmm for the tag mwah mwah

1.forfeit - 2hollis

2.my satisfaction - ive

3.backseat - lngshot

4.mamihlapinatapai - illit

5.iffy iffy - le sserafim

(they are not in order btwww)

@prettyangelgirlie143 @ddeonutt @emahypen

[ddeonutt]

THANK YOU FOR THE TAGGGG ☆〜（ゝ。∂）

1. your eyes only - enhypen

2. ketchup & lemonade - ningning (aespa)

3. blue - keshi

4. gone girl - yves

5. superstitious - no na

and some moots to join… (if you want!) @cookiesandsparklez @yanedoe @boy2kz @007chan + anyone else who wants to join (..◜ᴗ◝..)

[boyttde]

TYY for the tag @ddeonutt !!

(i’m doing this based off songs i’ve hyperfixated on and still replay to this day otherwise i couldn’t choose just 5 😭)

1. no air — the boyz

2. replay — nct 127 (this is MYY SONG of all time, drop is so good 🗣️)

3. body talks — hotshot

4. all i need — idntt

5. automatic — chancellor

tags: @ikigaijo @lqccnt0 @kyunyu3

[ikigaijo]

thank u for the tagggg @boy2kz

1. how to pretend - lucy bedroque

2. say more - 82major (i’ve listened to this about 350 times this month)

3. start over - tiffany day

4. all about our love - sade

5. howlin’ 404 - dean

tags! - @kwnnies @preachersdaughterx @stxrrymarsz @sunmoonnie @nichozzystuffs @makizdoll (no pressure :p)

[sunmoonnie]

thx for the tag beautiful @ikigaijo

i have waaaay more than five but at this moment

1. stealer - enhypen

2. take me to nirvana - tomorrow x together

3. 663mistrust - akiaura

4. dust, flower - the neighbourhood

5. extraordinary day - &team

tags : @sunnyinwonderland @7yataki @wenoswhore - no pressure to do this <3

[wenoswhore]

thank u for the tag sweetie ꨄ︎₊⊹

1. Illumination - &team

2. Feel complete- pinkpantheress

3. Love on the floor - nct 127

4. Electric hearts - wayv

5. Only time - enya

hm: magic hour by &team

tags: @huwmou @bambigals @d3adg1rlie @minhosimthings

[huwmou]

thank you so much for the tag loml!

1. grimes - artangels

2. buckshot, fakemink - fever

3. crystal castles - suffocation

4. snow strippers - under your spell

5. sidewalks and skeletons - goth

and ofc im obsessed with &team music 😛

tags: @astroyosei @xiangxiangsstuff @nichozzystuffs @fumabun @danisofair @minhosimthings @v4mpnicho @luneilyyyy

[minhosimthings]

The Hunger for Skin || WYX

Starvation: To kill with the hunger for something unattainable.

Pairing: Nicholas x fem!reader

Warnings: hurt/comfort, descriptions of starvation, MENTION OF SCARS AND SELF HARM, sensitive topics, reader is extremely touch starved

A/N: This one is for all my darlings who need to be hugged, kissed and held. It's a bit (a lot) self indulgent. And i hope all my nicho babies love this too, he just felt like the best person to write this for idk why lol. As always, enjoy, my darlings!

Word Count: 6.5k (of what I hope is poetic writing)

Please do not read if you are not comfortable with self harm or allusions to suicide as this fic is heavy on those themes.

“May I touch you?”

The word ‘starvation’ comes from the old english word ‘sterven’ which means to cease to exist. Starvation refers to a severe deficiency in the needed energy intake, below the level needed to maintain an organism's life. Starvation was also a way to torture or punish individuals throughout history.

So why did they call it that?

Touch-starved.

The symptoms of starvation are as follows:

1. A wasted immune system. You know the usual slow wound healing and increased permeability to infection. The scrape on your knee did heal rather sluggishly last month but you blamed it on the fact that you kept touching it again and again and again to feel the sharp sting bring you back to the real world. 

2. Changes in behaviour. Most commonly including depression, heightened anxiety, easily distracted, mood swings and fatigue. What hope is there in a world that treated all of the above as evils? As things some great man in the sky created in order to punish? To whip his ‘children’? 

3. Weakness. 

What a word it is. Weakness—commonly used as a synonym for many things, such as fragility, powerlessness, flaw, blemish, insecurity, inability, a skill gap, passion, penchant, inclination.

Love. 

And we end up here yet again. And we, as the time-tested humanity we are, will always end up with the root of the problem—love. Ridiculous idea it is, the fault for the poor earth being so burdened.

But back to starvation, and the idea of being starved of touch. 

It had always amused you ever since you’d learnt in second grade that the word touch could also be used as an abstract noun. How could anybody be malnourished due to something that does not even exist? Preposterous!

The first time you’d noticed it was also your first lesson in jealousy—the old ugly emotion that had brought empires to their knees and women to their forceful submission throughout history. 

A girl of saccharinely naive seven, you’d seen your classmate run up to her mother who’d picked her up and twirled her around in the air as all mothers did. You’d gone home and shyly crept up to your own mother on the couch and she’d done nothing but brushed you off, preferring to take her phone call somewhere else, all the whilst complaining about how her daughter had become too ‘clingy’.

You’d looked up the definition of the word later in the dictionary and you couldn't comprehend why your mother hadn’t wanted your love (which you’d realise later was the root of the problem). 

The second time you noticed it was during the last day of high school. Everybody was hugging each other and laughing and there were a lot of tears involved too because in a few months everybody there would be absolute strangers to each other, akin to seas and deserts, but yet they kept their youthful foolishness that they’d be friends forever. You’d been off to the side (as always), and one of your friends—someone you barely actually knew, someone who had friends of her own—had sauntered up, excitedly asking about your plans for the summer. 

After a few mumbled words and nervous glances to the side, she’d said her goodbyes and before leaving, she’d thrown her arms around you and you’d just stood there, arms stiff at your sides, unsure where to place them, how tightly to hold, when to let go. By the time you thought to respond, she had already pulled away, smiling in a way that suggested the moment had meant more to her than it had to you. You left early that day, the noise of laughter and goodbyes fading behind you.

Later you’d seen the group picture of your class, in which you were an unnoticeable absence and you’d decided that you liked jazz and rock more than poetry. 

The third time was when your boss had hugged you—a simple, congratulatory squeeze after a project well done. You’d smiled stiffly, your arms hanging at your sides like dead things. You went home that evening feeling scraped-out and hollow, as if the hug had dislodged something inside you that was never meant to move.

You spent the evening naked, drinking cheap wine straight from the bottle, standing before the open window. The city air was thick with summer and exhaust, but you willed it to be a clean, cold mountain wind. 

You closed your eyes and let it slide over your skin—a poor imitation of a touch, but a touch nonetheless, a silent, desperate baptism. You were trying to feel the memory of the hug, to parse its code, to understand why a gesture so mundane had left you feeling so strangely haunted.

A wasted immune system—every slight, every coldness, every passing loneliness infected you more deeply than it seemed to infect others. 

A friend's cancelled plan would fester for days, a stranger's brush on the subway felt like a wound, both painful and precious. How you wished to reach out to that stranger and tell them you liked the fabric of their sleeve and how your favourite flowers had died last week at the neighbourhood park and how you loved to spill your words all over when it was allowed to open your mouth for once. 

Changes in behaviour—you became a curator of distances, mastering the art of the step-back during conversations, the folded-arm pose, the calculated perch on the far end of a shared couch. Your moods swung on a pendulum between a quiet, watchful anxiety and a fatigued numbness. In this perfect world—you were the flaw in the great man’s design and everyday he looked at you and wept at his mistake.

Weakness—the word echoed in the hollow of you. It was your synonym for everything now, your fragility when a cashier's fingers grazed yours handing back change, your powerlessness to ask for what you needed, the flaw in your social circuitry, the blemish on your otherwise functional life, your insecurity, a vast and silent ocean, your inability to bridge the gap between your skin and the world.

Your penchant for watching crowded streets from your quiet window, your inclination to mistake any kindness for a prelude to love.

And love—yes, we end here again, at the root of the burdensome problem. You were not starved for sex, or romance, not in any simple way. You were starved for the foundational grammar of care: a hand on a shoulder, a head leaned against another in a car, the absent-minded stroke of a thumb over a knuckle. The language that said, You are here and I am here with you.

It was preposterous, to be malnourished by an absence, to hunger for a ghost. Yet your body kept its ledger. Your skin felt both too tight and too vast, a dry canvas waiting for a brushstroke of human warmth. You moved through the world like a library of closed books, each one yearning, silently, to be held.

So you found your solution. 

Oh how sweet a blade could feel.

You found your solution in the silver kiss of a blade. It was not a decision, not really. It was a conclusion, arrived at with the same cold, logical inevitability as a mathematical proof. If the world would not provide the punctuation of touch, you would write it upon yourself.

The first time was less an act of harm and more an act of creation. Genesis.

Probably a Tuesday (you didn’t really have any memories anymore, what memories could an empty shell have?), and the silence in your apartment had grown teeth, gnawing at the edges of the room, feeding on the hum of the refrigerator. You had been staring at your own forearm for an hour, tracing the highways of veins beneath the skin—a map to a place you could not go. The emptiness was a hollow bell ringing between your ribs.

You fetched the single-edge razor blade, the one kept for precise, practical things. You sat on the edge of the bathtub, the cold porcelain a shock through your thin pajamas. You pressed the corner of the blade, just so, into the skin of your inner wrist. And there it was.

A sharp, clean, undeniable feeling, a damn signal flare in the sensory void. The pain was bright and specific, a concentrated point of here. It felt more like waking up than it did hurting. 

As the thin red line welled up, beading into perfect, trembling rubies, you watched, mesmerized. This was a touch you could control, a touch that could not reject you. It was a dialogue where you were both speaker and listener. You touched the warm, wet line with a fingertip, and the sting sang back to you, a duet of presence. You were, for the first time that week, undeniably real.

The second time was an act of translation.

It was after the office party, a vortex of forced laughter and perfume, of backs clapped and air-kisses aimed at cheeks. You had stood like a statue while a colleague, emboldened by gin, had thrown an arm around your shoulders, his touch a heavy, hot, foreign weight. You had frozen, a rabbit in the snare of camaraderie and when he moved on, the ghost of his arm remained, a phantom limb of discomfort.

At home, shaking and raw as a wound, the memory of that touch was a stain you couldn’t scrub off. Your skin crawled with the echo of it. 

This time, it was on your thigh. Three parallel lines, drawn with a tense rhythm. The pain was different—a hot, cleansing fire. It didn't just say here; it said mine. 

As you watched the angry red paths rise to the surface, you felt the crawling sensation subside, burned away by this sharper, purer sensation. You had translated an oppressive, external touch into a definitive, internal one. 

The blood was just a byproduct, the real sacrament was in the sensation. The blade did not love you, but hey it spoke your language. It was a terrible grammar, and in the silence of your starvation, it was the only conversation you could have.

“May I touch you?” He’d said.

Oftentimes your brain didn’t let you believe that Nicholas was yours. 

It was a mathematical impossibility, a paradox your starvation could not resolve. Nicholas, who was a spill of sunlight in human form, who walked into a room and the very air seemed to warm and soften.

He thought he looked scary—with his sharp jaw, the faint scar on his arm, the way his eyes could go dark and still when he was thinking. He’d mutter about his “resting battle face,” and you’d watch, mystified, as people sometimes did step slightly aside for him on the sidewalk. 

But to you, he was translucent. You saw the nervous flutter in his throat before he spoke in a meeting. You saw the gentle, clumsy way he rescued spiders from the sink. You saw the sun inside him—a subterranean glow, like light through fig honey.

And he was touch. 

He was a lexicon of casual contact, a hand on a friend’s back guiding them through a door, a nudge of his shoulder against yours when you walked. His fingers, always moving, drumming on tables, twisting a pen, sketching shapes in the air as he talked. He hated people touching his hair—a crown he was oddly vain about—but every other part of him seemed to speak in physical punctuation.

You were his perfect, devastating contrast. Where he was open, you were a closed circuit. Where he offered touch as easily as a breath, you treated yours like a limited resource. You’d built a life in the negative space, and he was a living positive. He painted in broad, warm strokes; you were a finely etched drawing in cold ink.

You didn’t think you were deserving of his love. How could you be? 

Your love was a hidden, furtive thing, practiced in secrecy on your own skin. Your tenderness was a silver edge and a crimson bead and his love was offered in daylight—in a mug of tea made just how you liked it, left silently on your desk, in the way he remembered your childhood fear of earthquakes and always, always put the sturdiest glassware on the lower shelf after he’d done the dishes at your place.

To be loved by Nicholas felt like being given a feast when all you’d ever known was the meticulous counting of crumbs. It was too much. So much more than you knew and were used to. 

It was a language you’d only read about in fragments, and now here was a native speaker, offering you a full conversation. Your tongue, trained only in the sharp grammar of a knife, felt clumsy and mute.

When Nicholas asked, “May I touch you?”, in that deep soothing voice of his, he was offering to bridge a canyon you’d spent a lifetime digging.

And the most terrifying part was the potential of his touch meaning something. It was the risk that this touch, unlike all the others, wouldn't be a wound or a ghost, but a seed. And you were no longer sure if the barren soil of you could bear anything alive without destroying it.

And for your beloved in question?

Nicholas thought he loved you more than he loved air. Nicholas thought he’d combust every damn time he was in your presence. Nicholas wanted to give you the universe. 

It had begun with a series of quiet, almost invisible fractures in your armor.

The first was an accident. You were both in his kitchen, reaching for the jar of honey at the same time. His warm, calloused fingers brushed the back of your hand—a spark of unexpected contact in the mundane. A jolt, clean and electric, shot up your arm. 

You didn't mean to, but your eyes fluttered closed for a single, humming second. It was instinct, pure and animal—to savor the sudden, shocking warmth, to hold the sensation against the dark backdrop of your memory. When you opened them, he was looking at you, a faint, puzzled crease between his brows. He’d seen it. 

But he brushed it off, offering a soft, "Sorry, you first," as if he'd merely bumped into a piece of furniture. He filed the moment away, a curious data point in the mystery of you.

The second was a test, and you failed it. Nicholas had been telling a story, his hands painting pictures in the air as they always did, your beloved was quite the animated man. He reached out, meaning to gently tap your knee for emphasis, a gesture he used with everyone. 

But he saw your posture shift a half-second before he made contact—a subtle lockdown. Your breath hitched, your shoulders went rigid, your gaze fixed on a point beyond him. You didn't flinch away; you simply froze, a mongoose playing dead in the presence of a bear. 

He withdrew his hand as if burned, the rest of his story dying on his lips. "Sorry," he murmured, his voice softer now, carrying a new, careful weight. "I'm just…..a handsy person. Forget it." He didn't try again that night. He learned the shape of your boundaries by walking into them, softly.

The third, Nicholas discovered in secret. It was laundry day at his place. You’d left a stray t-shirt, one of his old ones you’d stolen, in the dryer. He went to fold it, and as he shook it out, the hem caught the light just so. There, on the inside of the fabric, was a faint, rust-colored smudge, a ghost of a transfer. His heart stalled. 

Nicholas simply folded the shirt with trembling hands, his mind piecing together other clues: the long sleeves you wore even in summer, your flinch from certain angles of light, the way you’d sometimes press your forearm absently against the edge of a table, as if testing a bruise. He carried the knowledge like a secret of his own, a heavy, aching stone in his pocket. 

He wanted you to tell him. He needed you to trust him with your wounds, not for him to have stolen the sight of them. In sickness and in health as they said. 

And he noticed the showers too. The way, after a difficult day or a crowded event, you would disappear into the bathroom, and the sound of the water would become a roaring, volcanic hiss. Steam would seep under the door, smelling of your body wash. You’d emerge later, fingertips wrinkled beyond recognition, your eyes glazed and distant. He understood, though you never said a word.  

Because how on earth could you even begin to explain to him? The fact that making use of the near scalding water was a way to stimulate the sense of touch; to overwrite every impression left upon your skin, to feel a sensation so total and overwhelming it blotted out all others. It was another form of translation, another desperate conversation with your own nerves.

Nicholas hadn’t meant to stumble upon the article. He had just been waiting in the car to pick you up from work (an offer you’d finally accepted after months of convincing you that it wasn’t ruining his own schedule), and he’d been scrolling away when he came across it.

The headline was unassuming, almost clinical: The Anatomy of Touch-Starvation: When the Skin Becomes a Border. He almost scrolled past, but his curiosity took over.

He read about the nervous system fraying like old rope and the behavioral poetry of it—how the starved might flinch from a hug yet crave the weight of a blanket, might feel phantom touches or recoil from real ones. 

Preposterous, he thought at first, a defensive heat rising in his chest. This wasn’t you, you were just….particular, reserved. You had your rhythms.

Then the passenger door opened, and a swirl of cool air followed you in.

“I’m so sorry, Nicholas, the meeting ran over, and then my bag strap broke, and I know you have better things to do, I’m so sorry, I’ll make it up to you, I—”

The words tumbled out in a frantic, brittle stream. You were folded in on yourself, hands clenched in your lap, staring straight ahead as if braced for impact. You weren’t just apologizing for being late. You were apologizing for existing in his space, for taking up his time, for the simple, human fact of your need.

And in that moment, under the sickly yellow of the streetlight, Nicholas understood.

The article wasn't just words on a screen to him anymore. It was the way you held your coffee mug with both hands, as if anchoring yourself to earth. It was the flinch he’d witnessed, the scalding showers, the rust-colored ghost on his t-shirt. It was this—this profound, aching apology for the space your body occupied.

The drive home was quiet, but the silence had changed, no longer a comfortable space between you; it was a chamber filling with a truth he could no longer un-know. Nicholas  just drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting palm-up on the console between you—an open invitation.

Later, in the soft light of your living room, he tried a different approach. He sat beside you, not too close, and spoke to the air between you.

“I read something today,” he said, voice low and careful, as if speaking to a child. “About people who….don’t get enough touch.”

You went perfectly still, a rabbit sensing a shift in the wind. And then you laughed—too quick, too sharp. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I thought so too.”

Silence stretched, the ceiling fan humming lazily above, the faint glow of a streetlamp filtering in through the curtains, cutting the room into soft shadows.

“They said it messes with you,” he went on. “Makes everything feel wrong. Like…..like your body doesn’t trust anything anymore.” He had no idea where he was getting to, but at least it was a start. 

“Stop.” Your voice cut in, thin but urgent. “Nicholas, please don’t—don’t do that thing where you think you’ve figured me out.”

“I haven’t,” he said immediately. “I don’t think I ever will. I just—” He exhaled slowly. “I don’t want to ignore what’s right in front of me either.”

You turned your head finally, eyes sharp. “And what is that?”

“You.” He met your gaze, steady. “Struggling.”

“I’m not struggling,” you snapped. “I’m functioning. I go to work, I—I exist just fine. This isn’t—” Your voice faltered, then hardened. “This isn’t a problem.”

“Okay.” Nicholas nodded once, as if filing that away. The agreement felt like a betrayal and made something deep in your chest bloom hot. Anger. The only emotion you knew like the back of your hand.

“Don’t just say okay,” you shot back, frantic and hot. “If you think something’s wrong, just say it. Don’t—don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m…” You swallowed, the word refusing to come out. Breakable? Wrong?  Less than? 

Unlovable?

His hand shifted, but only slightly, still not touching you. “Like I care?”

That did it. The air in your lungs hitched, caught, refused to move properly. You were that same child again, begging for love like it was scraps of food to somebody who hadn’t eaten in days.

“You shouldn’t,” you said, and it came out too fast, too desperate. “You don’t—you don’t know what you’re signing up for.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t.” Your hands clenched in your lap, nails biting into skin. “There’s nothing to tell. This is just how I am. It’s not….fixable.”

“I didn’t say it needed fixing.”

“It does.” The word tore out of you. “Everything about me does.” Nicholas went very still at your words. 

And then, softer than before, “Who told you that?”

“No one had to.” You let out something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “It’s obvious.”

“Not to me.”

“Then you’re not looking properly!” Your voice cracked, rising despite yourself. “You don’t see it—how I can’t even—” You gestured vaguely, helplessly. “Normal people don’t have to think about where to put their hands when someone hugs them. They don’t freeze. They don’t feel like their skin is—” You stopped, breath stuttering.

“Like what?” he asked gently.

“Wrong.” The word came out as a whisper. “Like it doesn’t belong to them. Like it’s either too much or not enough and you can’t ever—” Your voice splintered. “You can’t ever get it right.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty anymore. It was full—too full—pressing in on you from all sides, the walls suddenly too close, the room too quiet. It felt like drowning in a sinking ship in a glass bottom bottle. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said, quieter now. “I don’t know how to let people close without feeling like I’m about to disappear.” Nicholas didn’t interrupt, just sat in silence, watching you with those beautiful eyes full of…..pity? Empathy? Whatever they called love? 

“I want to,” you added. “I want to so badly it feels like it’s eating me alive. And then when it actually happens, when someone touches me, I—” You shook your head, tears spilling now, unchecked. “I either feel nothing or everything at once and I don’t know which is worse.” Your breath hitched again, sharper this time.

“I’m so tired,” you whispered. “I’m so tired of not knowing what’s wrong with me.”

Something shifted beside you. Slowly—slowly enough that you could stop him if you wanted—Nicholas moved his hand. He just let his fingers rest, light as a question, against the back of your hand.

You froze. Every instinct screamed at once—pull away, shut down, survive—but beneath it, quieter, something else stirred. An instinct you could only name as ‘hope’ for the time being. 

Stay.

Stay with him. 

The contact was so slight it was almost nothing and yet it was everything. He was real, this was real, and this was warm and oh…..warmth felt good.

Your breath broke. A sob tore out of you, sudden and uncontrollable, like something long-buried finally forcing its way to the surface.

“It hurts,” you choked, the words collapsing in on themselves. “It just—it hurts all the time and I don’t even know why anymore.”

Nicholas’s fingers didn’t tighten, he didn’t try to anchor you in place. He just stayed there.

“I know,” he said softly.

“I don’t want to be like this,” you cried, the words tumbling over each other now, messy and unfiltered. “I don’t want to feel like this all the time, like I’m missing something everyone else just…..has. Like I’m—broken or empty or—” Your voice dissolved into another sob.

“You’re not empty.”

“Then why does it feel like it?” you shot back, almost angry through the tears. “Why does everything feel like it’s either too much or nothing at all?”

He didn’t answer right away. Because there wasn’t a clean answer. Instead, he shifted just enough that his hand turned under yours, giving you the choice. 

Touch.

I am here and so are you and there is air between us we can swallow. 

Just touch. 

“I’m here,” he said quietly. “That’s all I’ve got right now. Just here.”

Your fingers trembled. For a second, you thought you might pull away. Instead—hesitantly and unevenly—you let your hand fall into his. The contact was clumsy and imperfect. But you didn’t let go and neither did he.

“Please.” You begged, your eyes meeting his, wide with a desperation that shattered him. “Please, Nicho, can you make it go away? Can you just…make it stop?” Your voice was raw, like a naive child who had experienced her first scrape on the knee.

Nicholas took in a shaky breath. You weren’t asking for a solution, you were asking for a miracle. You were handing him the broken, starving creature of yourself and begging him to heal it with a touch he now knew you feared more than anything.

And he knew, in that moment, that he couldn’t make the pain go away. But maybe he could finally, finally begin to speak its name.

Nicholas did not lie to you. That was the first mercy.

Nicholas did not act like he could make it all go away with one flick of a wand. He did not gather you into something overwhelming or flood you with the very thing your body did not yet know how to hold. He only held your hand.     

“I can’t make it disappear,” he said, voice steady despite the fracture in it. “But I can stay while it hurts.”

It was a smaller promise than you had begged for. It was also the only one that did not break. And so it began there—not with a cure or some grand, sweeping act of love, but with a quiet, painstaking transition.

Nicholas knew he couldn't build a bridge in a day. He couldn't fill a canyon with words that were unfamiliar. So he began with the smallest possible stones.

The first rule was distance.

Not absence—never that, sworn over his grave—but he stopped reaching without asking. 

Even the smallest gestures—brushing past you in the kitchen or handing you a cup became softened, announced in the subtle shift of his body, the pause that gave you time to prepare.

“Here,” he would say, placing things near you instead of into your hands.

“I’m going to sit here,” he’d murmur, lowering himself onto the far end of the couch, never closing the space unless you did first.

Nicholas would sit beside you on the couch, a careful inch closer than he used to and read a book. He’d let his knee rest against yours, a point of warmth through two layers of denim, and he wouldn't move it for an hour. He was teaching your nervous system a new fact: Contact can be static and it can be quiet. It does not have to demand anything. A sort of….gravity? Science was always a hard one.  

“Your hair is in your eyes,” he’d murmur, his voice low and even. “I’m going to move it.” And then he would, with a single, feather-light brush of his fingertips against your temple. 

He was building a lexicon of safe and predictable contact, a hand on your lower back to guide you through a doorway, preceded by a soft, “Coming through.” The press of his shoulder against yours while watching a movie, after a simple, “Shifting over.”

The first major test was a cold night. 

You were shivering, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself. Your beloved didn’t offer a hug, instead, he stood up, fetched the heaviest blanket he owned, and draped it over your shoulders. Then he sat back down. 

“Too much?” he asked. You shook your head, mute, pulling the wool tighter. A few minutes later, you let the edge of the blanket fall over his legs too. 

Weeks passed, then, one evening, walking back from a cafe, a cyclist veered too close on the sidewalk. It was nothing, a blur of motion, but your whole body jolted sideways in a panic. And before thought could intervene—before the old fear could lock your joints—your hand shot out and grabbed his and Nicholas froze mid-step.

You realized what you’d done a second later, your face flooding with heat, and you tried to pull away. But his hand turned, gently enveloping yours, holding on just firmly enough to say I’ve got you, but loosely enough that you could slip free if you needed to.

You didn’t.

You walked the remaining two blocks home hand-in-hand. He didn’t comment on it, but later that night, alone, he pressed his face into his hands and let out a laugh that was half relief, half something dangerously close to joy. You know that feeling when newborns speak their first word? That warm balloon in one’s chest hearing that babbling in their native tongue? 

This was the first sentence you’d ever spoken to him in his native tongue.

The second rule was constancy.

Your beloved Nicholas did not disappear on difficult days.

When you retreated into yourself, when your words thinned out and your body folded inward like a closing book, he did not try to pry you open. He would sit nearby, sometimes speaking, sometimes not, his presence an unintrusive weight in the room.

There were evenings where the two of you occupied the same space without a single word exchanged, the television murmuring softly, the faint clink of a spoon against a mug. Him, existing and you, allowed to exist beside him without performance.

How lovely it felt, to let your cells feel what it feels like to be hungry for more.

The third rule was to understand the fact that progress was not linear.

There were days you recoiled from even the ghost of proximity, your skin a live wire of contradiction, aching and averse all at once. There were moments you snapped at him, your frustration turning outward, sharp and misdirected.

Nicholas took it with a patience that did not condescend, much like the shore taking all the hits the sea gave. Or how the moon refuses to stop coming up in people’s memories even as she stays away from the night sky. 

“I’m not leaving,” he would say, when you tried to push him away with words you did not mean, and then he would give you space.

And you could feel your body start to feel like a pomegranate—red rubies inside, spilling out at the harshest touch. But god his gentle harshness felt so beautiful and you were alright with the bad blood emptying out from you like some algae-infested reservoir. 

The trust built, brick by fragile brick and with it came the courage for the next confession.

There was no dramatic crescendo of a solo violin the day you showed him your scars. Just a quiet Sunday, grey light filtering through the curtains, dust suspended in the air like something holy.

You were sitting beside him. Close now, closer than you ever would have allowed before. The world was soft and empathetic outside the windows and your hands were steady.

The strangest part of all. 

You were both on the floor, backs against the couch, a comfortable silence between you. The scars on your inner wrist, usually hidden under a sweater or a watch, were exposed. You’d been tracing the faint lines absently with your thumb. You felt his gaze on them.

“Would you like to know?” You said meekly, “About them.” 

Nicholas looked on, drawing a breath. The marks were not fresh, you’d been clean for a lot of time now. Now they just sat there on your skin—a history written in a language you had once believed only you could read.

“Tell me.” He said, tilting his head and softly smiling. 

Taking a breath that shuddered all the way down to your bones, you slowly turned your arm, offering the pale map of your past to the dim light.

“This one,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the rain, “was the first time I believed I was real again.” 

And you went on, telling the story of each and every single one, as if they deserved that respect. You braced for pity, for horror, for the distance that often follows a truth too sharp.

Nicholas didn’t reach for your wrist. He didn’t even look at the scars for long. He looked at your face, at the terror and defiance warring in your eyes. 

Then, with infinite slowness, he brought his own wrist next to yours, just resting it beside yours like two peas in a pod. On his skin was the old, faded scar, a childhood relic of a different kind of pain.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “For showing me.” 

Nicholas did not kiss your scars that day, he didn’t need to. The act of witnessing them, of accepting their story without flinching, was a touch more profound than any physical contact. 

He was saying, I see you, all of you. And I am still here.

It was the moment the translation truly began—not from his language to yours, but into a new tongue, one you were slowly, painfully, beautifully learning to speak together.

They say there are three phases of starvation.

Phase one, the victim can be saved easily as the body keeps using the glucose stores it kept as an emergency reserve. 

Phase two, the body uses its stored fat for energy, slowing down the breakdown of integral proteins.

Phase three, everything is gone. The muscles, the bones, every single hair on every single organ. One becomes a hollow shell, physically this time (we may skip the metaphor sometimes). Even though they may feel hunger, people in the final stage of starvation usually cannot eat enough food to recover without significant medical intervention.

You felt that sometimes. You’d gotten so used to touch now that you wanted it all times.

It began subtly—a brush of your shoulder against his arm as you passed in the hallway, lingering a second too long, your head finding its way to his chest during a movie, not because he pulled you in, but because you leaned. You started reaching for his hand first, in the car, on the couch, in the quiet moments before sleep.

Then came the hunger.

It was a new, bewildering kind of ache. After a lifetime of famine, your body had tasted nourishment and decided it wanted a feast. The quiet contact he had so carefully cultivated wasn't enough anymore. 

You craved the pressure of his arms around you, the solidity of his back against your chest in sleep, the constant reassurance of skin on skin. You wanted to be held, anchored, known through touch. It felt like  starvation in reverse—your body, realizing it could finally metabolize this essential nutrient, began to devour it ravenously.

You’d find yourself clinging a little too tightly after a hug, reluctant to let go. You’d press into his space, seeking contact even when he was focused on something else, like cooking or reading. The very thing you once feared was becoming a compulsion.

And Nicholas, who had navigated the desert of your aversion with such infinite care, now had to navigate the floodwaters of your newfound need. He never pushed you away. But he began to gently, lovingly, build a boat.

He would hold you until you relaxed, and then, with a soft kiss to your temple, he’d murmur, “I’m just going to grab a glass of water,” breaking the contact before it became a cage for either of you. 

When you’d wrap yourself around him from behind while he washed dishes, he’d lean back into you for a moment, sighing contentedly, then say, “You’re going to make me drop this plate, love. Give me two minutes.” 

He started reintroducing the old vocabulary. “Coming through,” he’d say, his hand a brief, warm press on your lower back as he passed, reminding you that touch could be transient and still be meaningful. 

He’d sit beside you and let a single point of contact—a shoulder, a hip—be enough, resisting the pull to tangle limbs completely, teaching you that presence didn’t require fusion.

One night, you’d had a bad day, a hollow day where the old ghost of emptiness whispered that none of this was real. You’d practically crawled into his lap, arms locked around his neck, face buried against his collarbone, shaking. You were trying to press yourself into him, to disappear into the safety of his body.

He held you, his hands rubbing slow, firm circles on your back. But after a long while, his voice was soft in your ear. 

“You’re here,” he said. “You’re right here. You don’t have to disappear to be safe. I can feel you. I see you.”

Nicholas wasn’t asking you to let go; he was asking you to be there, in your own skin, beside him. Not consumed.

Nicholas hadn’t cured you because there was no magical fix. The scars were still there, pale stories on your skin and you still had days where the thought of a crowd made your throat close. 

But he had stayed. He had loved you not in spite of your starvation, but through it. He had learned the terrible grammar of your wounds and had not looked away. He had met your ravenous hunger not with an endless feast that would make you sick, but with a sustainable nourishment.

And honestly? 

You couldn’t have asked for anything else. 

He never cured you because that was never the story. Nicholas had only stayed, and you learned, piece by fragile piece, that touch did not have to be a wound. That it could be something quieter, something patient, something that did not demand you disappear to make space for it.

Once, you believed love was a language for the already-fed, a dialect you could never learn. Now you know the truth: the deepest love does not begin when the hunger ends. 

It begins in the heart of the famine. 

It is the hand that does not offer to fill you, but to sit with you in the hunger, until the two of you, together, can finally name it.

And you?

You decide to name it home.

fin. 

A/N: did i perhaps try to Mike Flannagan my way with this one? Well of course I did. Some of the things are maaayybbeee based on my own experiences but i hope anybody else who'd gone through similar stuff can find solace in this. I really do love the idea of touch starvation and how integral touch is to us humans. Remind myself of that sometimes whenever life gets too dreary.

Also, just giving a shout to everybody out there who has those dark thoughts sometimes. I know it's hard to let go of it and it's even harder to heal, but I need everybody to know that you've got this and no matter how much time it takes or even if you only heal half of it, I will always be so proud of you guys. If anyone ever needs to talk, my dms are always open!

Divider by @olenvasynyt

&team taglist: @eu1joo @kwnnies @nichozzystuffs @blueuijoo @pglpblm @ikigaijo @antonh0lic @dearvampyr @riri4andy @tokunodoll @sunsoomi @makizdoll +Shoot me an ask or comment to be added!

[huwmou]

this is so beautiful!

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[minhosimthings]

Should I be concerned with how many of these i ticked off 💀💀

Ninety perfect of my fics are song titles and yeah long comments fucking rock

Tagging some of my writer moots! @wichujunseo @kwnnies @nichozzystuffs @frenchkisstheabyss @smidare @eu1joo @your-local-lune @fumabun @huwmou @heedimples @jaehyp @stxrrywoo

[nichozzystuffs]

ouuu i like this one

(is this how you do it?)

anyways tagging: @kwnnies @aquas-heart @blueuijoo @beomtomie @fuwajima @huwmou @ikigaijo @rikunotfound @sunmoonnie @your-local-lune

[huwmou]

yeahhhhhhh

lovely babies: @nichozzystuffs @minhosimthings @astroyosei @xiangxiangsstuff @danisofair @wenoswhore @v4mpnicho @fumabun @luneilyyyy

[nichozzystuffs]

y'all keep saying that the we on fire mv the concept teasers, and then the story teasers are AI generated and yes okay idk about the mv but the company that made the teasers literally showed the evidences that those arent AI??

Y'all did the same thing with Go in Blind saying its AI. Japan is a country that is famous for Anime and editing, and here y'all go complaining.

And also, if the mv is AI generated, then ofc i wont support it but y'all can't just look at it and be like "ohh that's AI".

And then "We on fire is so ew give us something like back to life". Yes i agree they went from 10/10 to 9/10 with the music video but the song is so good too? Just appreciate their work omg? Appreciate the acting?? the way they portrayed the sorrow of losing someone and then the hatred towards their enemies??

AGAIN the same thing with Nicho's instagram posts, Its literally the company's fault and why are we blaming the idol for it??? They gotta send them to the company and then its the company posting (at least most of the time)

literally so tired of y'all complaining about each and everythig. just enjoy the damn song bro wth??

also "dont come up with ohh you're saying this cuz you love them" no if they used AI for the mvs i will not support it ofc (them = hybe) im not "defending" them cause they're my ults im doing this cause its so annoying to see people complain over each and everything

and also im not hating anyone, i apologize if anyone felt uncomfortable with this post. (also english is not my first language, sorry if there were any mistakes)

again i do NOT support AI, and i will not support using AI

[bambistjames]

non-writers will never understand the mental illness of writing an entire conversation in your head while doing dishes and then forgetting every word the second you open a blank doc

[sunoovamp]

ℌ𝔲𝔫𝔱 𝔇𝔬𝔴𝔫

𝔐y primal instincts are awake .. @oucile

.. 𝔗his unsatisfied hunger won't fade away.

[huwmou]

nico and my grave btw.

should i make an account design with this concept? hmmmm…. IM JUST FERAL ABOUT THIS CONCEPT IM SORRY

[huwmou]

I like that most of the tumblr lunés know each other. like... we don't know each other, but we know each other. yknow what i mean🌚

[wenoswhore]

₊˚ෆ⊹.ᐟ - lycanthology | maeda riku ₊˚ p.t 1

pairing ▸ prof!riku x fem!reader

genre ▸ supernatural, forbidden love, angst, smut (p.t 2)

warnings ▸ power imbalance, teacher x student, smoking, blood, riku bites reader, petnames: sweetheart, darling

word count ▸3.3k

a/n ▸ FORGIVEME!!! uni has been kicking my ass...I literally finished this the night before two of my exams + I HAVE to split this into two parts because it got too long.

You had never thought you would be standing outside this specific classroom in your life. When you signed up for Lycanthology it had been a rebellion against your mother who had always insisted that you gained a futile degree in dentistry. Yet, here you are now, shaking inside your skin before the door that reads “Lycanthology 301.”

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe you should drown yourself in piles and piles of documents on how to maintain oral health… well, for humans, that is.

That was until you saw him.

Professor Riku.M

He’s already at the lectern when you slip inside: tall, backlit by the pale morning light pouring through the window. Dark hair brushed back but ruffled at the edges. Hands braced on the desk like claws. A low murmur dies as soon as he speaks.

“Welcome to Lycanthology,” he says, voice smooth, yet coarse like smoke curling around a matchstick. “The study of the beast within the man, and the man within the beast.”

Your breath catches. A few students giggle. You don’t. Something about his tone bubbles deep in your blood. His eyes roam around the room and latch onto yours in a heartbeat. It was like he's been waiting for you. Like he already knows your name and he couldn't wait to ruin you all over again.

You drop your gaze to the scuffed floorboards, heart hammering.

“Some of you are here for easy credits,” he continues, moving across to the front of the room like a predator testing its cage. “Some of you are here out of curiosity. But this is not mythology. This is not a fairytale. Lycanthology is not for children. It’s for those who are prepared to face what’s real.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he stops in his tracks. Right in front of your desk. For a second you could've sworn you saw a glint of yellow appear in his perfectly hazel eyes. You cringe as your mother's voice burns your ears.

"The supernatural are just imaginary fairytales for stupid little children."

You curl your fingers into your notebook, refusing to let him see you tremble.

At the end of the lecture, the room empties quickly. He stays behind, packing his papers with slow, deliberate movements. You hesitate by the door, the urge to leave battling the strange pull rooting you to the spot. Feeling tethered, you practically float towards him.

“P-Professor-” it comes out more like a question than a statement, more like a desperate plea, begging him to look at you, than a call for attention. He lifts his head slowly, like it costs him something, and for the first time you understand how tall he really is. Towering over you, one eyebrow arches. His eyes flick over you, deliberate, slow, undressing.

“You can call me Riku” he says, voice lower now, the edge of a growl buried beneath the words.

"Don't worry." He steps forward. “I won’t bite.”

The corner of his mouth curls into a smile, not wide, but wolfish. And in the dim light of the lecture hall, you swear his canines glint, sharp, mocking you.

You stand there terrified, lips parting, but nothing comes out. Clutching the straps of your bag tighter, the words spew out recklessly before you can stop yourself.

“W-well, Riku.” you brace yourself. “I saw your eyes,” you whisper. “They… changed.”

The silence was deafening. His smile doesn't falter, it only gets bigger - too wide, too knowing.

He tilts his head. "Did you now?" he states softly "Well aren't you a smart girl?" The lamp light cuts against the edge of his jaw, making his shadow look sharper, less human. "Funny. Most people don't usually see what's right in front of them"

Your stomach twists, something sinister creeps up your throat. You want to take it back, laugh at his absurd reaction, but he leans in just close enough that his voice fans your ear, his nose brushing your skin.

"Be careful what you think you see"

"I know what I sa-" Cutting you off, he straightens "Goodnight miss y/n..." Your name blisters his tongue, as it hangs in the air.

You nod mutely, afraid of what he might do if you resist. Your heart knocks violently against your ribs, as you slip from the room. The door creaks behind you and slams shut, his words sink like teeth into your skin.

By the time you reach the dorms, the corridor is nearly empty. Your pulse is still thudding, as Riku's words ring in your ear.

You try to breathe.

You try to forget.

You try to forget his intoxicating smell and the way the conundrum of his eye colour turns your brain to mush.

But then, as you turn the key through the lock, you freeze.

"Fuck" you mutter under your breath.

Your stupid notebook.

You left it in lycanthology 301.

A normal student would wait until the morning. A sensible student even, would pretend they never remembered it. But tonight you're not normal, hell, you're nowhere near sensible. You're reckless. Curious and drawn to that damn classroom and the professor it comes with.

It's too late. Your feet are already carrying you across campus, through the dark, murky courtyard lit by old street lamps that flicker often, mirroring the rapid beat of your heart.

The University building is mostly dark, but the door creakes open regardless. Your hands shake as you step inside. Your heart hammers against your ribs. The hallways feel colder at night - if that was even possible, it was always freezing during the day.

When you finally reach the lycanthology wing, you stop dead in your tracks. Light spills from beneath the door of Professor Riku's classroom. Preparing yourself, your breath hitches.

You gently press your palm to the door and push. The hinges screech, echoing through the room. And there he is. Except, Professor Riku isn’t at the lectern anymore. He’s sitting at the edge of his desk, looking completely disheveled: his shirt completely creased, tie flung half way across the room, hair pushed back with trembling fingers. A cigarette glows between them, smoke curling around his throat as he brings his lips to the tip.

You couldn’t help but think how vulnerable he looks. Nothing like the composed man from earlier. He looks like something that’s been caged for too long and was at its breaking point.

His eyes.

Holy shit.

They’re not hazel now. Not even close.

Gold, feral, ravenous.

He hears the door before he sees you, as his head snaps towards the sound with agility that no human can comprehend. For a second you swear his pupils stretch, slit-like.

He doesn’t say a word. Just stares. 

And then.

“Of course,” he spits, voice scraping the bottom of a snarl. “Of course it’s you.” 

Your throat tightens, every fibre in you screams. “GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE!!” But you push it back.

“P-professor. I-I just… I left my notebook-”

At that he laughs. Soft. Low. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” But, it’s not said with concern. A warning that he’s growing tired of giving. 

He rushes to his feet. His posture is almost animalistic - like every bone in his body has shifted an inch out of place and he’s relearning how to move. 

“That’s the problem with curious girls,” he murmurs, stepping towards you like a predator finally reaching his prey, cigarette embers glowing like his eyes. “They don’t listen.” 

You hit the desk behind you, as you back up instinctively.

His lips curl.

“Miss y/n, you say you saw my eyes change.” he continues,  “You ran your cute little mouth. And now you walk right back into my grasp at midnight?” He stops in front of you, so close that you can taste the smoke and his cologne as it wraps around your face and the scent burns your nose. 

“Tell me,” he says softly, head tilted like a wolf evaluating prey. “Are you brave?” 

He hums.

“Or just stupid?”

Your voice trembles, now on the verge of tears you shake your head profusely.

“No!” “I-I needed my notebook-”

His smile drops completely. “As if that's why you came” He steps even closer, you can practically feel the heat rolling off him. He leans down now, breathing into your ear.

“You should run.” 

You don’t. 

His jaw flexes rapidly, the muscle ticking sharp beneath the lamp. The scent of smoke and something much darker hangs between you. 

“You’re making this very, very difficult,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Because I’m not supposed to-” He stops, now breathing extremely hard. His nostrils flare like he can smell your pulse. Your notebook lies on the desk behind him. Forgotten. Just like every single rational thought.

“Turn around,”

 He growls.  “Leave. NOW!.”

But you don’t move. You can’t. Because even though fear eats away at your flesh. Something in you wants to see what happens if he finishes that sentence.

Suddenly, the air shifts. He looks down at you, chest rising and falling inhumanely, breath coming out in sharp bursts. His hands dig into the desk on either side of your hips, knuckles whitening, veins pulsating under his skin. His voice cracks when he speaks.

“Why aren’t you running?”

You can’t answer. You can’t even think. Your body has stopped obeying you.

A shudder rips through him so violently, so visceral, the cigarette drops from his fingers. It hits the floor and dies. He crushes it under his heel, with a desperate,frustrated sound that isn’t human. He drags a hand through his hair, pulling at his roots, as he snarls under his breath, pacing back and forth.

“Damn it-”

Another shudder.

“I told you to leave” He slams his hands onto the desk.  

Flinching at the sudden outburst, you swallow, throat tight.

“Please Riku-”

That was a mistake.

His head snaps towards you so fast you flinch again.

“Don’t say my name” It comes out weak, torn in between half man and monster.

“Not like that.”

He approaches you again. Predatory. Unsteady. He braces one hand beside your head, caging you in completely, breath ragged against your cheek. 

“You don’t understand what you’re doing to me.” he rasps. “You walk in here smelling like…” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching so hard his muscle spasms.

You whisper, half terrified, half intrigued. 

“Like what?”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Like you were made to be hunted.” His eyes flicker down your throat. “I haven’t wanted something this badly in-”

He stops again. This time you know it’s because he’s losing control. His other hand curls around the edge of the desk, as his back arches, bones shifting beneath his shirt like they’re begging to be let free. He lets out a low, guttural groan. 

Again, he slams his fists against the desk near the plush of your thigh, cracking the wood.

“Get out,” he growls, voice now warping.

You don’t move. You’re shaking so hard your knees nearly give in, but you still don’t move.

“Why-why are you-”. Your voice is a whisper as you let out a string of nonsense. 

“Why me?”

His chest rises sharply, like the question physically wounded him. Then his gaze darkens. 

“You really don't know” it’s more of a statement rather than a question, as it leaves his tongue. He leans in so close his plump lips brush your ear. “I knew you were mine the moment you stepped foot into my classroom”

Your breath catches. He’s not finished. 

“And I’ve been fighting the monster in me ever since.” His voice wavers. “But it wants you. I want you so, so bad. And I can’t…”

A violent tremor rips through him. His teeth sharpen right in front of you, not subtly this time, but unmistakably, irrevocably and horribly real. 

Your fear flies through the roof. And he smells it. You can see him smell it.

It drives him insane.

His hands slam onto both sides of your waist - holding himself back, barely.

“Please,” he breathes, voice ragged. “If you don’t leave right now…I won’t be able to stop”

You whimper back, terrified: 

“Then don’t.”

SIlence. Utter, deafening silence.

And then.

Very slowly.

He lets out a sound that’s not exactly a laugh, not a breath and not a growl, something primal and claiming.

“You have no idea.” he whispers, “what I want to do to you.” 

And then, before you can blink, he snaps.

He lunges.

His body slamming into yours with a brutal force, he pins you down onto his desk as his mouth finds your neck, with a motion too fast to comprehend. You feel the sharp sting before you can even register what’s happening.

His teeth. 

His fangs.

Sinking. Ripping. Into your skin.

The blood seeps down onto your chest, staining your shirt. A warm sensation drowns you as a gasp rips through your body but, before it can even form into a scream, it’s swallowed by the intensifying heat of the pain and pleasure. His grip tightens - unyielding, desperate. There’s no denying you’re trembling, your body fighting against him yet you still can’t shake the overwhelming feeling that this is where you belong.

In the arms of your hunter. 

You’re pathetic. But it feels so right.

He looks down at you with eyes pooling with regret and horror. You can see it - the guilt. How audacious of him, to feel shame after ripping a chunk out of your neck. But, he didn’t want this. Not really. Not like this. Well, that’s just what he tells himself.

His breath is ragged now. “I never wanted to hurt you. I-” But the words feel empty, half-hearted, as if the man is still caught somewhere between what he’s done and what he actually is. He towers over you, hovering in the space between rage and guilt. His hands tremble above your shoulders, digging into you, claws threatening to break the barrier of your skin. His trembling claws release you just as fast as they seized you. 

For a second, you’re frozen on his desk, chest rising and falling, blood branding your skin as it drips down your collarbone. His bite throbs. His face scrunches into a battlefield of emotion.

Rage. Guilt. Hunger.

“I-” he attempts, but the words die. His voice cracks like it’s stabbing him from inside. “I didn’t mean- I promise-”

Liar.

He wanted this.

Hell. He needed this.

And the worst part?

So did you.

Your body reacts before your brain does. You scramble back, nearly slipping off the desk, hand flying to your neck. He flinches when you touch the bite. Like it hurts him.

“Don’t-” he raps, stepping forwards. “Don’t run from me please.”

Which is exactly what you do. You bolt.

The door slams behind you, and your legs barely hold up as you sprint through the corridor, pulse hammering against the mark. 

You can hear him.

His footsteps echo down the hall.

Run.

Run.

RUN.

You shove through the front doors of the building, stumbling onto the courtyard. The campus is empty. You can feel him. Behind you. Everywhere. 

You press a hand to your neck as you run, your legs threatening to give in. 

Reaching the dorms, you’re now drenched in sweat and shaking so hard you can barely get the key into the door. Your hands are tainted with your own blood. The smell of copper and his scent burns your nose.

Once you finally get the door open, you slam it shut, practically collapsing against it.

Silence.

But not when you can still hear his words echoing through your mind. Not when you can feel him outside.

That night, you don’t sleep. You can’t. Every time your eyes threaten to shut, the bite throbs violently; hot, aching. Your breath ragged, as you try to control your breathing. And you swear you hear his.

You’re exhausted. Pale. Still trembling.

Your pulse races. Your clothes stick to your skin.

But, you feel pulled. Drawned

Like invisible threads are leading you in one direction.

Lycanthology 301

Professor Riku’s classroom.

You try to walk the other way but, your legs betray you yet again. You try to slow down. You beg yourself to stop.

You don’t.

When you step into the hallway outside his classroom, it feels as if the walls are closing in on you. Your hand hovers over the doorknob. Your brain screams: Run. But, your body craves him. You have no time to decide which one wins because before you can even touch it, the door flings open. 

And there he stands.

Staring.

Perhaps at your blown eyes or perhaps at the huge band aid plastered on your neck. 

“Come in” he growls. His voice is low, ruined.

And of course, you do.

Because despite his horrific nature, that you’re not even sure of yet - you’re so infatuated with him and likewise.

As you step foot into that dreaded classroom, it no longer feels like just a room but a pressure chamber. Or your own personal hell. The walls feel even closer inside, the light blinding, the air too heavy. Maybe it’s just him.

You’re shaking. Your hands, your breath, your entire body. And you can feel his gaze burning over your jaw, the bandage, your throat. He doesn’t even bother hiding it. He shuts the door with a soft click.

Your heart drops.

He takes a step towards you. And another. Slow, calculated, as if he’s approaching an injured animal who might run in the opposite direction again. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says. His voice is coarse. “You shouldn’t have come”

“Make your mind up!” you squeal as your back hits the edge of an empty desk. You didn’t even realise you were retreating. His eyes flash at your response. 

He stops just inches from you, chest rising rapidly.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, his glaze flicking to your neck.

You swallow the lump that had been growing in your throat.

 “Yes”

His eyes snap to your trembling hands, then back to your horrified face. Panic flashes across his expression - raw, real panic. He reaches out as if to keep you steady, then immediately pulls back like he might hurt you again.

“You’re so pale,” he mutters. “You haven’t slept. You’re shaking because-”

He stops.

Because you both already know why. Because of him.

You’re so incredibly dizzy now. Breathless. And amidst all the chaos, the question slips out. It tears free from chapped lips without permission.

“W-what are you…?”

The words hang in the air, rotting. At first, he freezes. As if your voice and the question itself had physically pinned him down. Then:

A laugh rips through his entire body.

Hearty. Disbelieving.

Not because the question is stupid. No because you are so insanely disorientated, so undone by him that you genuinely cannot comprehend what is happening.

He tilts his head. His eyes soften, with…sorrow? Perhaps awe. Or a lot closer to possession. 

“Oh sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice laced with amusement and something darker. “You truly don’t know.”

"Do you?"

He steps closer, cornering you into the wall. His hand lifts, slow and hesitant, as he cups your cheek, thumb caressing your skin. His breath is warm against it.

“You ran from me” he whispers. “I made you bleed. You didn’t sleep because of me.”

His lips brush your ear. 

“And you still came back.”

You shiver.

His lips hover over your jaw.

“You already know what I am”

Your breath hitches. “N-no. I don’t- I don’t understand, Riku.” 

His gaze drops back to your neck. The bandage and the mark laying beneath it. His claim. He smiles wide. It’s terrifying. Possessive. 

“No.” he says quietly

“No, darling. “You don’t understand.” He cradles your head in his hands, forcing you to look at him.

“Yet.”

Then:

“Surely you must know by now that…I’m not human.”

[huwmou]

read this masterpiece again and again (still waiting for pt2, ‘m your strong soldier, fawnie🫦)