synopsis: Noeul insists on a “normal” date to prove she’s not as intense as you think. But under the facade of sweetness, her possessiveness boils over. A spiked drink turns the evening into a game of control, where your desperation becomes her favorite entertainment - and a reminder that you’re hers, forever…
genre: smut college au, yandere/obsession, established relationship/toxic obsession
You shouldn’t have agreed to it. A “normal” date, Noeul called it. Dinner at a quiet Italian place off nampus. No stalking, no polaroids slipped under your door, no whispered threats disguised as affection. Just two girls grabbing pasta and pretending the last four months of twisted obsession hadn’t happened.
But you knew better. The way she texted you details - Wear that black dress I like. The one that shows your collarbones. For me. - already carried the weight of ownership. When she picked you up from your dorm, her gaze dragged over you like she was claiming territory all over again, a small smile curling her lips as she tucked a stray hair behind your ear.
“Mine.” She murmured, too low for anyone else to hear. Her fingers lingered on your neck, thumb pressing just hard enough to feel your pulse. “You look perfect for me.”
The restaurant was cozy, low lights, soft music, but the corner booth felt like a trap. Noeul sat across from you, but her knees brushed yours under the table. She wore her usual oversized sweater, the one that reeked of cedar and vanilla, and her scent already clung to you from the car ride over. She ordered for the both of you, your favorite pasta with extra sauce, because she knew. She always knew.
Then the drinks arrived. A black coffee for her, bitter and plain. A fruity mocktail for you, sweet and innocent. She slid your glass closer, fingers grazing yours. “Drink up, baby. You seem tense.”
When you took a sip, it tasted sweeter than usual, a cloying edge sticking to your tongue. You grimaced, but Noeul kept watch, so you drank again.
Fifteen minutes later the heat crept in. A slow, prickling flush rose up your chest and settled heavy between your thighs. Your skin felt too sensitive, every nerve laid bare. You shifted in your seat, and your thighs clenched without permission.
Noeul noticed immediately. Her eyes darkened, a predatory gleam flickering as she leaned back and sipped her coffee slowly. “Something wrong, love?”
You shook your head, but your voice came out breathy. “I feel… weird.”
“Weird how?” She tilted her head, all feigned concern. “Hot? Achy?… Wet?”
Your face burned. You glanced around - the restaurant was half full of people laughing and clinking glasses, but no one was looking at your booth. Yet.
Under the table, Noeul’s foot gently nudged yours before sliding higher. The toe of her boot traced the inside of your calf.
“Tell me what you want.” She whispered.
You swallowed. Your mouth was dry even though you’d just been drinking. “I need… I need to leave.”
“Mm. Beg a little prettier.”
The aphrodisiac - because what else could it be? - only hit harder then. Your nipples tightened against the thin fabric of your dress, embarrassingly obvious. Your panties were soaked, the slightest shift dragging friction that made you whimper under your breath. Every glance from the waiter, every laugh from nearby tables, felt like eyes crawling over your flushed, unraveling body.
Noeul just laughed at you, low and cruel.
“Look at you, baby. Falling apart in public. Is it that bad already?” Her foot slid up your calf beneath the table, then pressed between your knees to force them apart. “Spread for me. Good girl.”
You obeyed before you could think, thighs parting as her boot nudged higher. The pressure against your inner thigh was torture. Close, but never enough. “Noeul… please.”
“Please what?” She twirled her fork casually, like nothing was happening. “Use your words. Or do you want everyone to hear how needy you are, my sweet little obsession?”
The word obsession hit you like a drug itself. Your pulse was thundering now, heat pooling relentlessly. You glanced around. The couple at the next table chatted obliviously, but you were sure the waiter had looked twice. “I needed to go. Take me home. Please, I can’t-”
She leaned in, voice a harsh whisper. “Beg properly. Tell me you’re mine, and maybe I’ll considered it.” Her gaze dropped to your heaving chest, then lower. “God, you’re dripping, weren’t you? I can smell it...”
Tears pricked your eyes from the overwhelming mix of humiliation and need. “I’m yours. Only yours. Please, Noeul, get me out of here. I’ll do anything.”
Her laugh turned darker, satisfied. “Anything? Remember that.” She stood abruptly, tossing more than enough cash onto the table, like money meant nothing next to owning you, and offered her hand. When you took it, she yanked you close, arm snaking around your waist in a possessive hold.
“Walk straight.” She murmured against your ear as you left. “If you stumble, everyone will know what a fucking slut you are.”
The cool night air hit your overheated skin like fire. Every step was agony, your clit throbbing with the motion, slick trailing down your thighs. Noeul’s grip tightened, fingers digging into your hip like she was branding you through fabric.
She didn’t lead you to the car. Instead she veered into the shadowed alley beside the restaurant.
“Can’t wait.” She growled, shoving you against the rough brick. The impact jarred you, but the pain twisted into the ache, dragging a broken moan from your throat.
Her hand slid under your dress immediately, fingers shoving your soaked panties aside. “Jesus, you’re a fucking mess. All because of a little drink?”
Two fingers plunged in without warning, curling deep. You cried out, and she clamped her free hand over your mouth.
“Shut it.” She hissed, eyes wild with possession. “This is mine. Your body, your pleasure, it’s mine to give or take.”
She thrust harder, thumb circling your clit without mercy. The aphrodisiac amplified everything, turning every stroke into lightning, building you toward the edge too fast.
But she stopped.
She pulled her fingers free right as you teetered, leaving you clenching around nothing. You sobbed against her palm, hips bucking desperately.
“Not yet.” She licked her fingers clean, eyes locked on yours as she savored you like a price. “You won’t come until I say. Not until you admit that you’d never look at anyone else like this, that you’d never leave me.”
“I wouldn’t!” You gasped, tears streaming. “I’m yours. Forever. Please-”
She choked you lightly then, hand around your throat as she kissed you bruisingly. “Good. Now walk.”
The trek back to your dorm was pure torment. She made you lead, shadowing you the whole way, whispering degradations. “Such a pretty wreck. Bet you’d let me fuck you right here on the sidewalk if I asked.”
By the time you stumbled through the door you were shaking, begging incoherently. Noeul locked it behind her, with the key she copied months ago, and pushed you onto the bed.
“Date night’s just getting started, baby…” She purred, stripping slowly while you writhed on the bed beneath her gaze. Her scent filled the room, thick and inescapable. “I’m going to edge you until you break. Then I’m going to fill you with the strap, breed you like I promised. And tomorrow? You’ll wake up marked, mine inside and out.”
She crawled over you, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the small folding knife she always carried. The blade flicked open with a soft click that made your breath hitch, then she used it to trace the skin of your collarbone - not cutting, just promising, watching your pulse jump underneath. “Say it again. Who did you belong to?”
“You.” You whispered, arching into her touch.
She leaned back just enough to look at you, dress clung to your sweat damp skin, chest heaving, thighs slick and trembling. Her eyes darkened further, pupils blown wide with hunger.
“Arms up.” She whispered.
You obeyed, lifting them shakily while her free hand gathered the hem of your dress. She dragged the fabric up inch by inch, exposing your thighs, your hips, your stomach. When the dress bunched around your waist she leaned back slightly, her knife glinting in the low light of your bedside lamp.
“Hold still, baby. I don’t want to ruin the dress… too much.”
She hooked the blade under the neckline and carefully sliced down the front. The fabric parted with a soft ripping sound, cool air hitting your heated skin. She kept going, cutting through the center until the dress fell open like a book, hanging off your shoulders in ruined halves.
You laid there, exposed and trembling, aphrodisiac still burning through your veins while Noeul’s gaze devoured you.
She leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Look how beautiful you are like this. All mine to ruin.”
Her free hand slid between your thighs without preamble, two fingers plunging inside and curling deep. You moaned, hips jerking up into her touch.
Noeul pressed the flat of the knife against your throat, just enough pressure to remind you it was there, while your eyes locked with hers. Hers were dark, intense, almost reverent.
“Don’t look away.” She whispered. “I want to see every second of this.”
She fucked you slowly with her fingers, thumb circling your clit in lazy, torturous strokes. The knife never left your skin, trailing down from your throat to your collarbone, pressing just hard enough to leave faint white lines that faded almost immediately.
Your breathing came in short, desperate pants. The aphrodisiac made every sensation unbearable: the slow drag of her fingers, the cold steel against your skin, the way her eyes never left yours.
Until her gaze dropped to the knife. Slowly, she began to trail it lower, down the center of your chest, between your breasts, over your ribs, down your stomach. The blade left a thin, cool path that made you shiver violently.
She stopped just above your mound, the tip resting lightly against your skin.
You froze, breath caught in your throat.
Her voice came out soft, almost tender. “This is mine. I own you.”
She pulled her fingers out suddenly, and you whined at the loss, hips lifting instinctively and searching for friction.
“Noeul-?” Confusion laced your voice, thick and whiny with need. “What are you-?”
She didn’t answer right away. Both of you breathed heavily in the quiet room, chests rising and falling in sync. Noeul stared at the knife pressed against your skin, eyes distant… contemplative.
You shivered beneath her, every nerve screaming for release, for her, for anything.
Then, finally, she moved.
The blade pressed into your skin, sharp. You gasped at the sting as she carved a tiny, perfect ‘N’ just above your mound. You hissed at the sting, but your hips bucked up involuntarily, your traitorous body already associating the pain with her pleasure. The cut was shallow, controlled, but the sight of your own blood welling up made your head spin.
A moment later she tossed the knife aside with a dull clatter and lowered her head immediately, lips brushing the fresh mark. She kissed it softly, then dragged her tongue over the tiny beads of blood, licking them away with slow, worshipful strokes.
The copper tang mixed with the cedar vanilla scent of her hair as she nuzzled against your skin.
“Mine.” She murmured against the brand. “Forever.”
Then she moved lower.
Her hands spread your thighs wide as she settled between them, eyes flicking up to meet yours one last time, dark and possessive, yet achingly adoring.
She didn’t tease this time.
Her mouth closed over you, hot and wet relentless. She laid her tongue flat against your clit first, then switched to flicking, circling, sucking, everything she could to make you fall apart. Her fingers slid back inside, three this time, curling hard against the spot that made you weak in the knees.
You cried out, hands fisting the sheets. The aphrodisiac had you so close already, and every lick, every thrust, was pushing you higher.
She ate you like an animal, growling against your cunt, the vibrations sending shockwaves through you. All while the brand from her knife throbbed faintly, a sharp reminder of what she’d just done - what she’d just claimed.
You shattered.
Your orgasm ripped through you, back arching off the bed, a broken moan tearing from your throat. Noeul kept licking and sucking, fingers pumping through every aftershock until you were shaking and whimpering, tears streaming down your cheeks. Only then did she pull away with glistening lips, eyes glazed with sick satisfaction.
She crawled up your body, kissing the brand again, then your collarbone, your throat, your lips, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.
“Mine.” She whispered against your mouth. “I’m never letting you go.”
And you knew - this wasn’t a date. It was a claim.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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warnings: intense obsession, stalking, non-consensual photography, voyeurism, nsfw at the bottom (you can skip it!), praise/degradation mix, fingering (reader receiving), vibrator mention, mild breeding kink, strap on use, edging, overstimulation, scissoring, choking
a/n: these headcanons are based off of her character in my Match My Freak series, but it’s not required reading :3
a/n 2: requested by anon
︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶
Once you’re officially dating, her obsession only amplifies
She’s the type to memorize every detail of your routine, showing up “coincidentally” at your favorite spots with your preferred drink or snack in hand
It’s sweet at first, but soon you notice how she anticipates your needs before you even voice them, like having pain meds ready the day before your period starts because she’s already tracking it
Even when you’re official, she can’t resist watching you from afar
She “studies” in the library across from you, snapping sneaky photos or videos for her private collection
At night, if you’re not together, she might linger outside your window, listening to your breathing or watching your silhouette
Her phone is full of apps tracking your location, your social media, even your health data if she can access it
She’ll “surprise” you by knowing about a bad day before you tell her, having seen your stressed posts or overheard conversations
This extends to hacking into your accounts “for your safety,” even deleting messages from others and monitoring your chats
She’s hyper vigilant about anyone who gets too close to you
If a friend hugs you a second too long or a classmate flirts or teases innocently, she’ll give them a chilling stare from across the room
Later, she might “casually” mention digging into their background, and reveal embarrassing things about them
Her jealousy manifests in sabotage, like anonymously posting rumors or embarrassing photos online about potential threats
Noeul LOVES leaving her signature cedar and vanilla scent in every little corner of your life
She “borrows” your clothes to wear them briefly, then returns them infused with her cologne
Your bed, your backpack, even your lecture notes carry traces of her, a constant reminder that she’s always with you
If you’re apart for too long, she sprays her cologne on your pillows or leaves a hoodie draped over your chair
Even if you’ve only been apart for one lecture, Noeul greets you like you’ve been gone for years
She pulls you into a crushing hug the second you’re in range, burying her face in your neck and inhaling deeply
“I missed your scent,” she mumbles against your skin, “I missed your voice. I missed you…”
Then she refuses to let go for at least five full minutes, swaying gently like she’s recharging from your presence
She treats your menstrual cycle like sacred knowledge
During your period, she’s attentive with heating pads, chocolate, and gentle massages, whispering how beautiful you are even when you’re cramping
She thrives on a power imbalance, confessing bits of her past stalking to gauge your reaction and framing it as “proof of love” to normalize it
If you push back, she’ll gaslight subtly, saying you’re overreacting or that it’s mutual since you “let” her in
Deep down, she ensures you’re hooked by being the best girlfriend in public, charming and supportive, while keeping the darker side private
In the dead of night, when you’re half asleep in her arms and she’s tracing soft patterns on your skin, she speaks in the softest yet most terrifying voice
“If anyone ever tries to take you from me, I’ll make them disappear. If you ever stop loving me… I’ll make sure you remember why you started. You’re mine in this life and the next.”
Then she kisses you like it’s a seal on a contract written in blood
NSFW
In intimate moments, she’s a master of contrast
One minute she’s degrading you for being “such a needy slut” who craves her attention, the next she’s praising how perfectly you submit to her
Sex almost always starts with her watching you masturbate
Sometimes she makes you do it while she films from the corner of the room, silent and staring
Then she “can’t help herself” and joins, crawling over you, replacing your fingers with hers, or her tongue or strap
It always ends with her on top, using you until you’re oversensitive and shaking
She treats sex like documentation
She keeps a hidden folder labeled something innocuous like “notes” full of videos and photos of you mid orgasm, your thighs shaking around her strap, your neck bruised with her teeth marks
Sometimes during the act she stops just to take a close up of where she’s buried inside you, murmuring “Look how perfectly you take me… this is mine now, forever”
Afterwards she forces you to watch the footage together while she fingers you again, whispering “See? You were made for for me”
Gifts start innocent at first, like polaroids of you looking beautiful in candid moments, but they escalate quickly to more intimate items
A necklace with a hidden tracker, lingerie she “imagined” you’d look perfect in (based on photos she’s taken without your knowledge), or a bluetooth vibrator she controls via an app during class
Each gift comes with a note that’s equal parts loving and possessive, like “Mine to admire, mine to touch”
When you’re ovulating, her yandere side peaks
She’s all about breeding fantasies, using toys or straps with an intensity that borders on ritualistic
She edges you until you’re begging, then overstimulates you to “ensure” it feels real
She almost always tops when you trib/scissor
She’ll straddle your thigh, grind her soaked cunt against yours with bruising force, hands locked around your throat or digging into your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints
She loves being able to look down at you while she controls the rhythm, slow rolls turning into desperate, sloppy thrusts until you’re both dripping and trembling
Her hand around your throat is practically a love language
She squeezes just enough to make your head fuzzy, eyes locked on yours while she fingers you open or fucks you with her strap
“You’re so pathetic when you’re this wet for me… can’t even breathe right without asking permission first”
The second you start whimpering she softens the grip and kisses the marks, then chokes you again harder when you’re close
Even after the roughest sessions, aftercare with Noeul is intense
She cleans you meticulously with a warm cloth between your thighs, kissing every single bruise she left
She’ll spoon you from behind, holding you tight and close protectively, whispering “You did so good letting me ruin you… my perfect girl”
You fall asleep with her heartbeat against your back and her low murmur of “Never leaving you… ever”
Sex isn’t just physical to her, it’s ritualistic
It’s proof that you’re really hers, body and soul, down to the last trembling aftershock
And the worst (best?) part? You’re starting to need the intensity just as much as she does
How to Confess Your Love by Knocking Your Bag on the Floor
Noeul x fem!reader
synopsis: You and Noeul have spent an entire school year convinced the other is a brooding, untouchable goddess. In reality you’re both complete awkward disasters running covert ops just to stare at each other from across the library. When a group project finally gets you together, sketchbooks are spilled, strawberry milk is weaponized, twenty dollars disappears into a claw machine, and the bravest thing either of you can manage to say out loud is “Can I… hold your hand?” Spoiler: she says yes…
genre: high school au, slow burn, mutual pining, absolute tooth rotting fluff
word count: 3k
a/n: requested by anon
︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶
The first time you really noticed Kang Noeul was in sophomore homeroom, when the teacher made everyone stand and say one “fun fact” about themselves.
Everyone else said things like “I have three dogs” or “I can play guitar.” Noeul, her voice barely above a whisper, said, “I… like to draw,” and then immediately sat down like she’d just confessed to arson.
It was the cutest thing you’d ever heard. You also thought she was the prettiest human being alive and therefore completely unattainable, so you filed the moment under “things I will think about at 2am for the next three years” and moved on.
Little did you know how wrong you were about the “unattainable” part. Turns out you and Noeul were just two painfully shy, awkward, gay disasters who spent months thinking the other was brutally out of their league.
Junior year, you discovered the library table on the second floor that had the perfect diagonal sightline to where Noeul always sat. You told yourself you were strictly there to study.
You were not there to study.
You were there to watch the way she tucked her hair behind her ear with the end of her pencil, or how she bit her lip when she was concentrating, or how she sometimes fell asleep on her folded arms and her eyelashes cast little shadows on her cheeks. You got approximately zero work done every time.
Noeul, meanwhile, had rerouted her entire existence around you. She took the long hallway past your locker to class even when it made her late. She started drinking strawberry milk every day because that’s what the vending machine outside the science wing sold and that’s where you inexplicably lingered every lunch period, pretending to text while your heart tried to punch through your ribcage. She began timing her water fountain visits down to the second. She was, without question, the world’s worst spy.
You both thought the other was brooding, mysterious, and devastatingly cool. You both also had seventeen tabs open about “how to tell if your crush likes you back without spontaneously combusting.”
The staring was constant. Every time your eyes met (0.2 seconds max), you both snapped away so fast it was a miracle no one got whiplash. You convinced yourself she was looking past you. She convinced herself you were looking at someone behind her. You both went home and screamed into your pillows.
One Tuesday in March, you were in class doing your usual routine: glance at Noeul → panic any time she shifted → pretend to write notes → glance again. She was sketching in her notebook, like always, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth. You were so busy swooning that you didn’t notice her look up.
Your eyes locked.
You flung your gaze down to your paper and began scribbling the word “photosynthesis” nine times in a row even though this was history, your face on fire. When you risked a peek again, she was still looking, then she wasn’t. She was suddenly very interested in her pencil case.
After the bell, both of you packed at the speed of a continental drift. You were staring at your shoes, trying to will yourself invisible, when the softest voice in the universe spoke, “Um… what was the homework again?”
When you looked up, Noeul was clutching her notebook to her chest like a shield, cheeks pink.
You stuttered out the page numbers. She nodded too fast, mumbled “thanks,” and practically sprinted away.
That night you replayed the interaction on loop until 4am. Noeul did the same. You both fell asleep smiling like losers.
The next day Noeul decided in a fit of bravery (and sleep deprivation) to smile at you in the hallway. You locked eyes for one whole second and her lips curved nervously.
Your eyes went comically wide. You immediately looked at the ceiling, the lockers, the floor - anywhere but her - and speed walked away as fast as you could, like an absolute idiot.
Noeul died a little inside. Obviously you hated her. Obviously the smile was too much. She spent the rest of the day hiding in bathroom stalls.
You on the other hand spent the rest of the day floating. She smiled at me. She smiled at me. Oh my god she smiled at me.
That’s when you decided your next move: the joint art-and-literature project. The following afternoon, your English teacher clapped her hands. “Alright, find a partner for the project. Go!”
Your stomach dropped through the floor.
This was it, the moment you spent all morning rehearsing in the bathroom mirror: casual, normal, totally not creepy. “Hey, Noeul, wanna work together?” Simple. Easy. You would not combust.
You turned around too fast, heart hammering. Noeul was staring down at her desk, fingers twisting the drawstring of her hoodie, shoulders curved inward like she was trying to disappear.
You took one step. Then another. Your knees felt like sponge cake.
“Um… hi.” You managed when you were close enough. Your voice cracked on the second syllable. Great start.
Noeul’s head snapped up. Her eyes were huge behind the fringe, dark brown and panicked. She looked like a startled deer, and it was so cute you wanted to die.
“H-hi.” She whispered back. It was so soft you almost missed it.
You both stood there. The room kept moving around you, but the two of you were frozen.
Say the thing. Say it.
“W-would you… maybe… want to-” You gestured vaguely at nothing, words failing you spectacularly.
Noeul’s cheeks went pink. Then red. Then practically glowing. She nodded before you finished the sentence, tiny, frantic nods like her neck was spring loaded.
“Yes.” She said, a bit loud, then winced. “I-I mean. Yes. Please.”
Please. You didn’t expect please. Your brain short circuited.
“Cool!” You blurted. “That’s… cool. Really cool.”
Noeul gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment and hid behind her hair again.
The teacher clapped to get everyone’s attention and began explaining the project: one illustrated book of poetry, two people per team, due in three weeks. You both nodded along without hearing a word.
After class you lingered by the door, clutching your books to your chest like a shield. Noeul began packing her bag with the speed of someone trying to escape a fire. You panicked.
“Um, do you… Do you maybe… wanna meet in the library after school?” You asked, facing her back. “To plan?”
She froze, and slowly turned to face you. Her ears were red now too.
“Okay.” She said to the floor.
“Okay.” You echoed.
You both left in opposite directions without saying goodbye.
That evening in the library, the awkwardness reached new, previously undiscovered heights. You sat across from each other, both opened your textbooks, both closed them again. Then you both pretended to read the same page for twenty minutes.
Silence stretched, the only sound in the room the clock ticking.
You tried first. “So… poetry. Do you, um… like poetry?”
Noeul nodded, then realized that wouldn’t be enough and forced words out. “I… like Ee Cummings.”
“Oh! I-me too.” You had never read Ee Cummings in your life.
Another excruciating pause.
Noeul cleared her throat. “I could-um… illustrate. If you write.”
“I-I’m not good at writing.” You admitted quietly.
“I’m not good at… people.” She mumbled.
You both laughed. It was small and shaky and mortified, but it was real, and something loosened in your chest. After that it was still awkward, but every word mumbled from one of you softened the air.
At one point Noeul reached for her water bottle and knocked her entire bag off the table. Everything spilled. Pencils, headphones, strawberry milk… everything.
Everything, including her sketchbook. The sketchbook that lived in the front pocket of her backpack like a guilty secret.
She never showed her drawings to anyone. Not her mom, not the art teacher who kept begging to see her portfolio, and definitely not you. Especially not you.
Except right now the copy was flipped open and landed on a painstakingly detailed drawing… of you.
It was you in the library, head resting on your hand, window light catching in your hair. There was a smaller one in the corner of you by the vending machine, shyly smiling down at your phone. Another of you in the hallway, mid laugh.
Noeul made a strangled noise and dived for the book, but you were faster. You picked it up with trembling fingers, flipping through more pages. More of you. So many of you. Some were quick doodles, some looked like they took hours. One had little hearts around your head in chibi style.
“No, no, no, don’t look, I’m so sorry-” Noeul was bright red, trying to grab it back, voice cracking. “I just-I like to draw pretty things, that’s all. I’m not weird, I swear-”
You looked up slowly. Your own face was burning, but you couldn’t stop the grin spreading across it.
“You think I’m pretty?”
She froze. Her mouth opened, then closed. She looked like she was about to cry or bolt or both.
You slid the sketchbook back to her gently, but kept your fingers resting on the page with the chibi hearts.
“I think you’re pretty too.” You whispered. “Like… really pretty. Like, the prettiest person I’ve ever seen.“
Noeul’s eyes went wide and watery. She let out the tiniest, most incredulous laugh, like she couldn’t believe this is real. You were both blushing so hard now it should have been deemed a public health risk.
After a long, long moment, she hid her face in her hands and mumbled into her palms, voice muffled but unmistakably giddy. “…Do you wanna, like… I don’t know… do something after this?”
You laughed, soft, relieved, hopelessly fond.
“Yeah.” You said. “Definitely.”
The silence after your answer stretched just long enough to be painful.
Noeul’s hands were still covering her face, but her ears were so red they were practically glowing. Then her fingers parted just enough for one eye to peek through, and when she saw you were still smiling - soft, not laughing at her - she made this tiny groan and hid again.
You cleared your throat, mostly to remind yourself how words work. “Sooo… what do you usually like to do after school?”
Noeul lowered her hands an inch. Her voice was muffled against her palms, barely audible. “The… The arcade. I-I know it’s kinda lame, I’m such a nerd. It’s fine if you think it’s stupid-”
“Let’s do that then!”
She dropped her hands completely. Her eyes were huge. “…Really?”
You nodded, already shoving books into your bag so you didn’t have to look directly at her and combust from the cuteness. “Yeah. Really.”
Noeul whispered the softest, most stunned “okay” you’d ever heard.
The walk to the arcade was quiet in the way only two painfully shy people can manage: shoulders brushing every few steps, both of you pretending to be extremely interested in cracks in the sidewalk, the sky, the streetlights, literally anything except the fact that you were walking next to each other.
Inside, the arcade was a comforting chaos of 8-bit music and neon. Noeul visibly relaxed the second the doors shut behind you. She knew this place. She beelined for the rhythm games first, then the claw machines, then, after three failed attempts and a tiny embarrassed groan, handed you the controls to the two player shooter cabinet.
You both sucked at it, but you sucked together. You kept accidentally stealing each other’s power ups and apologizing in unison. Every time one of you died, the other dramatically avenged them. By the fourth continue, you were laughing so hard your ribs hurt.
She won you a tiny plush cat from a claw machine on her twelfth try. She spent almost twenty dollars, but tried to play it off like it was nothing. Her proud little smile when she handed it over was brighter than all the arcade lights combined.
You traded tickets for matching keychains shaped like little pixel strawberries. Neither of you said it was because you both drink strawberry milk. You just… did it.
When it was time to leave, the sky had gone indigo. The air was cool, and the streets were mostly empty now. You walked side by side again, slower this time. The plush cat was tucked safely in your bag. The strawberry charm on your keys kept clinking softly against your phone.
Half a block from where your paths split, Noeul suddenly stopped.
You stopped too.
She was staring very hard at her shoes, hands twisted together in front of her. “…Um.”
You waited, heart doing its best to escape your chest.
Noeul took the tiniest step closer. Her voice was barely a breath. “Can I… hold your hand?”
The question was so careful, like she was scared the words themselves might break.
You didn’t answer with words, just reached out and slid your fingers between hers. Her palm was warm and a little damp and trembling, and it was the most perfect thing you’d ever felt.
She let out the shakiest exhale, like she’d been holding her breath for years. She squeezed once, gentle, testing. When you squeezed back, her shoulders dropped in relief and she started to walk again.
You didn’t let go the entire way home.
The corner where your paths had to split felt like the edge of the world. Streetlight pooled over both of you, soft gold on Noeul’s flushed cheeks and the tiny strawberry charm swinging from your keys. Neither of you had let go of the other’s hand yet. Your fingers were still laced, palms sweaty, hearts loud enough that you were half sure the other could hear.
Noeul swallowed. Her thumb nervously stroked the back of your hand once, twice, like she was checking it was real.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“…Uhh.” Her voice cracked. “Can I… can I have your number?”
The question came out so small and hopeful it nearly broke you. You stared at her for a full three seconds, brain short circuiting.
You had already had seventeen different daydreams about this exact moment and none of them prepared you for how shy and soft and terrified she would look right now.
“Y-yeah!” You blurted, too loud. You tried again, quieter. “I mean-yes. Please.”
Noeul fumbled her phone out of her pocket with her free hand and nearly dropped it. You had to let go of her other hand to take your own phone out, and the second your hands separated you both felt the loss like a physical thing.
You stood there on the sidewalk, two feet apart, heads ducked, thumbs hovering uselessly.
Noeul cleared her throat. “I’ll… I’ll type mine into yours?”
You nodded fast, thrusting your phone at her like it was on fire. She took it with both hands, cradling it like something precious. Her fingers were shaking so badly she had to restart her name twice.
n o e u l → n o e u l → noeul 🌱
She hesitated over the little sprout emoji, then left it because deleting it felt scarier than not.
You were doing the exact same thing in her phone.
You started with just your name, added a tiny pink heart, panicked, deleted the heart, added a strawberry instead, panicked again, left the strawberry.
When you swapped back, neither of you looked at the new contact immediately. You just clutched your phones to your chests like you’d been entrusted with state secrets.
Noeul risked a tiny glance at her screen. Her eyes went wide when she saw the strawberry. The corners of her mouth twitched, then bloomed into the shyest, happiest smile you’d ever seen.
You peeked at yours. The little sprout next to her name made your chest feel small.
Another long, perfect silence.
You both spoke at once:
“Goodnight-”
“Text me when-”
You stopped, laughing, the nervous kind that sounds more like breathing. Noeul tucked her hair behind her ear, phone still pressed over her heart.
“Text me when you get home?” She whispered.
“I will.” You promised. “First thing.”
She nodded, biting her lip. She took one tiny step backward, then another, eyes never leaving yours. You mirrored her, walking backwards, waving with your free hand like complete dorks.
Five minutes later, the first messages came through at exactly the same second.
💬 noeul 🌱: im home ♡
💬 you 🍓: im home!
The rest of the night felt like floating. Her hand still lived in yours like a phantom limb, her laugh kept looping behind your eyes, and every time the strawberry keychain brushed your phone, you smiled like an idiot.
At 11:54pm, your phone buzzed.
💬 noeul 🌱: um
💬 noeul 🌱: you awake?
💬 you 🍓: yep. in bed. lights off. definitely not sleeping tho
💬 noeul🌱: same. brain’s too loud
💬 you 🍓: also this guy is hogging half my pillow now
💬 you 🍓: [photo attached: you in dim lamplight, hair messy, cheek squished against the tiny gray plush cat so both of you are looking at the camera.]
💬 you 🍓: he says hi
💬 noeul 🌱: typing…
💬 noeul 🌱: typing…
💬 noeul 🌱: oh my god
💬 noeul 🌱: you’re so cute
💬 noeul 🌱: i just kissed my phone
💬 noeul 🌱: wait pretend you didn’t read that
💬 you 🍓: ohmygod
💬 you 🍓: too late
💬 you 🍓: i read it approximately ninety seven times
💬 you 🍓: pretty sure i ascended
💬 noeul 🌱: …………………
💬 noeul 🌱: deleting my entire existence now
💬 noeul 🌱: goodnight
💬 you 🍓: wait no come back
💬 you 🍓: i liked it
💬 you 🍓: a lot
💬 noeul 🌱: really?
💬 you 🍓: really really
💬 you 🍓: feel free to kiss your phone again. i support women’s rights and wrongs
💬 noeul 🌱: 🫣
💬 noeul 🌱: maybe… tomorrow
💬 noeul 🌱: in person instead?
💬 you 🍓: typing…
💬 you 🍓: typing…
💬 you 🍓: tomorrow sounds good
💬 you 🍓: like… really good
💬 noeul 🌱: okay ♡
💬 noeul 🌱: night for real this time
💬 you 🍓: night noeul ❤️
Neither of you let go of your phone.
Both of you lay in the dark, clutching screens to racing hearts, grinning so wide your cheeks hurt.
synopsis: Desperate to dodge your family’s matchmaking at the Christmas reunion, you enlist your mysterious coworker as your “girlfriend” for the weekend. Cue scripted smiles, awkward hand holding, and one too many mistletoe ambushes - until the act starts feeling dangerously real…
The office holiday party is in full swing: string lights dangling from cubicle walls, Mariah Carey wailing from someone’s speaker, and the faint scent of gingerbread cookies wafting from the break room. You’re three eggnogs deep, hiding by the punch bowl, when your phone buzzes with a dreaded text:
💬 Mom: Can’t wait to meet Noeul at the family Christmas reunion! Aunt Linda’s just bought a stocking with her name on it 🎄❤️
You nearly choke.
That lie slipped out last month, with your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder while you juggled takeout and cheap wine. Mom’s voice had crackled, relentless:
“…and you have to bring your girlfriend to the cabin, honey. Aunt Linda’s already planning the photo backdrop. Snowy arch, fairy lights, the whole thing.”
You froze, fork halfway to your mouth. Girlfriend. The word landed like a trap.
You’d told her you were seeing someone, just to dodge another setup with your cousin’s “nice accountant friend.” But the reunion loomed, and you had no girlfriend. Fake or otherwise.
“Uh-”
“Come on, you’ve been so cagey! It’s about time we met her! What’s her name?”
Your eyes landed on the work files strewn across the counter., and the office printer flashed in your mind, jammed for the third time that week. The printer from hell. And her… The one who fixed it at midnight without a word.
“Noeul.” You blurted. “Her name’s Noeul.”
Silence. Then, Mom squealed so loud you had to pull the phone away. “Perfect! Can’t wait to meet her!”
You hung up, staring at the ceiling, and groaned.
You just had to pick the office ice queen.
Noeul is an enigma: brilliant at her job, zero small talk. The kind of person who makes silence feel intimidating.
A few weeks ago you were back at the office late, hunting for a file you forgot. The floor was dim, only the emergency lights and the glow of the printer station.
Noeul was there. Alone.
She was crouched in front of the ancient machine, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hair in a low knot, a flashlight balanced between her teeth. The paper tray was open like a gutted fish, toner dust streaking her forearm.
You lingered in the doorway, watching. She seemed so composed, like the chaos doesn’t touch her. The rest of the team would’ve kicked the thing and left, but she seemed… methodical. Calm.
The flashlight shifted, and her eyes flicked up, catching yours for half a second. There was no nod, no smile. Just acknowledgment. Then back to the printer.
You retreated, heart thudding.
The following week you were microwaving sad lasagna in the break room when Noeul slipped in for coffee - black, no sugar, same as always. She leaned against the counter, scrolling her phone.
You tried for casual. “Printer still alive?”
She didn’t look up. “For now.”
You nodded like that was a full conversation, and she left.
Right now, she’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the party like it’s a nature documentary. Her dark hair is tucked behind one ear, and she’s wearing a simple black sweater with exactly zero holiday cheer. She’s not chatting with anyone, just observing, like always.
Desperation makes heroes of us all… You march over, eggnog sloshing in your cup.
“Hey, Noeul. Hypothetical question: How do you feel about Christmas?”
She arches a brow, her dark eyes flicking to you. “It’s… fine. Why?”
“Perfect. Want to be my fake girlfriend for the weekend?”
The words tumble out before you can stop them. You explain the family pressure, the lie, the reunion at your parents’ snowy cabin upstate.
“It’s just two days. Hand holding, smiling for photos, maybe some light PDA to sell it. I’ll owe you forever. Coffee for a month, cover your shifts, whatever you want.”
Noeul stares at you for a long beat, unblinking.
“Why me?” She finally asks. “You barely know me.”
You swallow. “You’re… reliable. You fixed the printer at midnight without complaining. And you’re…” You gesture vaguely. “Intimidating. They’ll buy it.”
She tilts her head. “Intimidating.”
“In a good way!”
She stares, and you brace for rejection. Instead, she lifts off the wall.
“Trial run.” She says. “In the parking lot. Now.”
The air outside is sharp with December. You stand between two sedans, breath fogging.
“Hand.” She says.
You offer yours. She takes it, fingers cool, grip firm. She doesn’t squeeze, just holds.
“Too stiff.” She decides. “Loosen your thumb.”
You adjust and she nods.
“Again.”
You try. She steps closer, adjusts your wrist angle like she’s aligning a design grid.
“Better.” There’s a pause before she speaks again. “No surprises. I hate surprises.”
“Got it.”
She drops your hand. “I’ll think about it.”
Your phone buzzes at 11:03pm.
💬 Noeul: fine. but rules: no surprises. no pet names. minimal pda. coffee for a month. - N
You stare at the screen, heart racing.
💬 you: deal. thank you. seriously.
💬 Noeul: don’t make it weird.
You exhale, fogging the dark.
This is going to be the longest weekend of your life.
The drive to the cabin is… interesting. You pick Noeul up at 7am at her apartment (a sleek, minimalist place with zero holiday decorations - shocking). She slides into the passenger seat in a red plaid scarf and coat, looking like she belongs in a winter catalog. You blast festive playlists to fill the silence; she tolerates it with occasional eye rolls.
“So, backstory.” You say, merging onto the highway. “We met at work, bonded over hating the office printer. You’ve been ‘dating’ me for two months. Your favorite color is black and your pet peeve is people who chew loudly.”
Noeul smirks, and it’s the first real expression you’ve seen from her. “Accurate. Add that I like quiet mornings and hate surprises.”
“Got it. And I’m the bubbly one who drags you to holiday markets.”
She glances at you. “Typecast much?”
The rest of the drive goes by in a hush of tires on slush and the occasional crackle of holiday static, windows fogging with your breath. Noeul traces a tiny star in the condensation, then erases it before you can comment. When the cabin’s lights finally blink into view, she exhales once - soft, almost relieved.
“Here we go.” She says, and the words settle between you like the first real snow of the season.
The cabin appears as snow starts to fall: a cozy log house with a wraparound porch, twinkling lights strung along the eaves, and a massive Christmas tree visible through the window. Your family swarms the car before you even park - Mom with hugs that nearly lift you off the ground, Dad offering to haul the luggage, aunt Linda waving her camera like a paparazzo on a red carpet stakeout.
“Introduce us!” Your mom squeals, pulling you both inside by the arms. The warmth hits like a hug, a roaring fire in the stone hearth.
You loop your arm through Noeul’s on instinct, steadying her as much as yourself. “Well, this is Noeul. My girlfriend.”
The word feels electric on your tongue, but Noeul plays along flawlessly - polite nods, a soft “Nice to meet you” that makes your cousins swoon. But her hand in yours? Warm. Steady. A little too real.
Then the swarm splits you. Mom drags you toward the kitchen to “help with the mulled wine”, while aunt Linda and two cousins corner Noeul by the tree, peppering her with questions about her job, her hometown, her “adorable scarf.” You glance back just in time to catch Noeul’s eyes - wide, a little panicked, screaming Save me in that silent way only she can. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold (or maybe the interrogation), and you can’t help the private smile that tugs at your lips. She looks… human. Flustered. It’s endearing.
You’re stirring cinnamon sticks into the wine when your little cousin Mia - four years old, gap toothed, and shy around strangers - tugs at Noeul’s sleeve by the fireplace. You overhear from the kitchen doorway: Mia whispering something about her elf doll needing a name. Noeul crouches to her level, voice low and patient.
“What about Cookie? Elves love cookies.”
Mia giggles, delighted, and Noeul actually smiles - small, but real. Your chest does a weird flip. She’s good with kids? Who knew?
Mom sidles up beside you, following your gaze. “She’s lovely, sweetheart. Quiet, but there’s something steady about her. Like she listens.”
“Yeah.” You murmur, watching Noeul hand Mia a candy cane with grave seriousness. “She does.”
A few minutes later, you’re back in the living room when Noeul materializes at your side, exhaling a relieved sigh that ruffles the hair by your ear. “Your aunt’s intense. Hold my hand. Now.”
It’s not a question. Her fingers slide into yours, deliberate, charged but still safely platonic. A lifeline. You squeeze once, and she doesn’t let go.
Dinner is chaos: a long wooden table groaning under turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce that jiggles like it’s alive. Questions fly like snowflakes.
“So, Noeul, what do you do at the company?” Uncle Ted booms.
“Graphic design.” She answers smoothly, passing the gravy. “I make things look less ugly.”
Laughter ripples. Under the table, your foot brushes hers. It’s accidental, both of you reaching for the same leg room, but neither of you moves away. Soon there’s another brush. Then her socked toe nudges your ankle, playful and testing. You nudge back. It’s silly, secret, a morse code of I’m still here.
Mia’s plate slides toward Noeul with a hopeful look. “Can you cut my turkey?”
Noeul doesn’t hesitate, her knife and fork precise, portioning bite sized pieces with the same focus she gives her designs. Your heart warms again, a slow melt. Who is this woman?
Bedtime comes too soon. Mom winks as she shows you to the guest room: twin beds pushed together under a festive quilt, one lamp glowing amber.
“Oops, must’ve bumped them!” She says, not sorry at all.
You and Noeul stand there, awkward.
“We can… push them apart.” You offer.
“Yeah.” She helps, muscles flexing under her sweater as you shove the beds to opposite walls, until a chasm of three feet yawns between you. Safe. Platonic.
You change in the bathroom, emerging in flannel pajamas. Noeul’s already under her covers, back turned, dark hair spilling across the pillow. You slide into your bed, the sheets cool.
“Sorry about the interrogation.” You whisper into the quiet.
“It’s fine.” A pause. “They’re… nice. Loud, but nice.”
“High praise from you.”
She huffs a laugh, quiet but genuine, and you find yourself smiling in the dark.
Snow taps the window. The fire downstairs crackles faintly through the floorboards. You listen to Noeul’s breathing slow, evening out as she settles into sleep, and it’s the most intimate sound you’ve ever shared with anyone. Not romantic, just… aware. Her presence fills the room like warm light, and you fall asleep with your back to her, heart beating a little faster than usual.
When the morning light filters through the lace curtains, pale and wintry, you wake to Noeul already up. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, hair slightly tousled, scrolling her phone with one thumb. The three foot gap between the beds feels like a canyon and a whisper at the same time.
“Morning.” You croak.
She glances over and nods once. “Bathroom’s free.”
You grab your toiletry bag and shuffle past. The door clicks shut behind you, then immediately opens again. Noeul’s there, toothbrush in hand, realizing too late you’re both aiming for the sink.
“Shared custody.” She mutters, stepping in anyway.
The bathroom is tiny: porcelain sink, one mirror, steam already fogging from the radiator. You brush side by side, elbows bumping. She spits; you rinse. She reaches for the hand towel at the exact moment you do, and your fingers brush. You both freeze.
“Sorry…” You mumble.
“It’s fine.” She hands you the towel first. Her voice is gravelly with sleep, softer than you’ve ever heard it.
You trade places at the mirror. She combs her hair with her fingers, and you try not to stare at the way the morning light catches the strands at her temple. When you lean to spit, your hip nudges hers. She doesn’t move away.
Back in the room, you both dress in silence - her in a charcoal sweater, you in a ridiculous reindeer jumper your mom left on the dresser. She eyes it, lips twitching. “Cute.”
“Shut up.”
Downstairs, the dining table has been turned into a war zone of sugar and chaos. Bowls of royal icing in every color sit like landmines, sprinkles scattered like confetti shrapnel. Your mom has declared a Christmas cookie decorating contest. Winner gets bragging rights and Mia’s handmade paper crown, a glitter crusted monstrosity that looks like it survived a craft tornado.
Noeul claims the far end of the table like it’s her personal design studio, rolling out her dough into a perfect rectangle, edges ruler straight. A cookie cutter presses down with surgical precision, a regiment of identical stars lining across the flour dusted wood. She pipes white icing in thin, flawless lines, building delicate snowflake patterns that look like they belong in a magazine.
You, meanwhile, are wrist deep in green sludge. Your “tree” cookies are lopsided blobs with icing oozing over the edges like radioactive moss. One has three trunks because you sneezed mid pipe.
Noeul glances over, one brow arched. “This looks like the printer jam all over again.”
You gasp, clutching a deformed star to your chest. “It’s avant garde.”
“It’s a crime scene.” She doesn’t even look up, switching to red icing for perfect holly berries. The piping bag moves in her hand like an extension of her fingers - steady, controlled, annoyingly perfect.
“You’re so serious.” You tease, nudging her elbow with yours. “It’s cookies, Noeul. Not a client pitch.”
She turns to you, deadpan, her expression carved from ice. Then - swipe - her finger dips into a bowl of vanilla frosting and dots it right on the tip of your nose.
You freeze, mouth open. “Did you just-”
Mia, perched on her booster seat with icing smeared across her cheeks like war paint, bursts into giggles. The sound cracks Noeul’s facade, and her mouth curves, slow and reluctant, into a smile that makes your stomach flip.
You swipe the frosting with one finger, lick it. “It’s actually good.”
Noeul’s eyes track the motion. Without breaking eye contact, she reaches out again, gentle this time, and wipes a remaining smudge from the bridge of your nose. She brings it to her own lips, humming low and thoughtful.
“Mm. Needs more vanilla.”
Your face is on fire. She turns back to her cookies like she didn’t just set your nervous system ablaze.
Mia claps her sticky hands. “Time to judge!”
Everyone’s cookies are lined up: your swamp monsters, Mom’s lumpy Santas, uncle Ted’s burnt gingerbread men that look like they’ve seen war. Mia toddles down the row, tongue poking out in concentration. She stops in front of Noeul’s perfect stars, eyes wide.
“These ones!” She declares, grabbing the paper crown. Noeul crouches so Mia can plop it on her head crookedly, glitter shedding onto her dark hair. Mia whispers something in Noeul’s ear, cupping her hands like it’s top secret. Noeul’s smile widens, soft around the edges, and she whispers back. Mia dissolves into giggles, nearly falling off her chair.
You watch, chest tight with that same warmth, steady and spreading, impossible to ignore. Noeul catches your eye over Mia’s head. The paper crown sits lopsided on her head like a halo made of chaos, and for a second, she looks young. Unguarded.
She mouths, Told you mine were better.
You flip her a subtle middle finger behind a cookie tray, and she smirks. Mom snaps a photo and Noeul groans, but she’s still smiling. You sneak a blob of icing onto the edge of one of her perfect stars when she’s distracted, and she notices immediately, eyes narrowing.
“War?” She asks, voice low.
“War.” You confirm.
She grabs the piping bag like a weapon. You squeal and duck behind Mia, who shrieks with delight.
The cookie decorating contest is officially over, but the flirting has just begun.
Later when it’s time for ice skating, the two of you make your way down to the pond behind the cabin with your family. The water is a mirror of ice, ringed by snow topped pines and the faint echo of Christmas music drifting from passing cars. You wobble at the edge in borrowed skates that pinch your toes, gripping the wooden railing your dad hammered together last winter.
Noeul is already on the ice, gliding in a slow, lazy circle. Her plaid scarf flutters behind her like a red flag. She looks unfairly at home - ankles steady, knees loose, the way people do when they’ve done this a hundred times before.
“Come on.” She calls, voice carrying over the crunch of snow. “It’s not that hard.”
You push off. One foot, then the other. The blades hiss, and your arms windmill. The railing is three feet away and receding fast.
“Noeul, I-”
Your left skate catches an invisible ridge and the world tilts. You pitch forward, arms flailing for balance that isn’t there.
She’s there in a heartbeat - boots scraping ice, hands snapping to your waist like she’s done this drill in her sleep. Your chest collides with hers, and her grip is iron through your puffy coat, fingers splayed wide across your hips.
“Easy.” She murmurs. For a moment, neither of you moves. Breath fogs between your faces, and you swear you can feel the rapid thud of her heart - or maybe it’s yours. Her eyes are wide, dark and startled. A flush climbs her throat, staining her cheeks pink against the cold.
Then she recovers.
“You,” she starts, voice a little rough, “look like a baby reindeer learning to walk.”
You laugh, but it’s shaky. “Romantic.”
“Accurate.” Her thumbs press once, reassuring, then loosen. “Okay. Knees bent. Weight forward. Like you’re sitting back into a chair.”
She doesn’t let go yet. Instead, she skates backward, pulling you with her in slow, deliberate glides. Her hands stay on your waist, guiding the sway of your hips. You clutch her forearms, knuckles white.
“Trust the blades.” She murmurs. “They’ll hold if you let them.”
You try. One tentative push. Then another. The ice hisses beneath you. Her grip steadies, then eases by degrees - first one hand, then the other, until her fingertips barely brush your coat. You’re moving. Actually moving.
“I’m doing it!” The words burst out of you, giddy.
She lets go completely and you glide - wobbly, arms out like a tightrope walker, but forward. Three feet. Five. A full circle around a patch of undisturbed snow. You spin back to face her, grinning so wide your cheeks ache.
She stands where you left her, hands at her side. You catch the soft melt in her expression - pride, unguarded and warm, eyes crinkled at the corners. For a moment she looks younger, softer, the paper crown from earlier replaced by wind tousled hair and snowflakes catching in her lashes.
Then she realizes you’re staring, and the pride shutters behind a smirk. She looks away, kicking at the ice with the toe of her skate.
“Show off.” She mutters, but she’s still smiling.
Later you return to the cabin, only to be greeted by… mistletoe. It’s everywhere - doorways, arches, even the kitchen entry.
“It’s tradition!” Dad bellows.
The first trap hits you and Noeul during gift wrapping. You kneel opposite each other across a low coffee table, wrestling with a box that refuses to fit its lid. Mia darts between legs like a sugar fueled hummingbird.
“Up!” She squeals, pointing with a sticky finger. “Mistletoe!”
You glance up, and sure enough, dad’s handiwork dangles from the ceiling beam - green sprig, red ribbon, smug as a cat. You both tilt your heads back in unison.
You laugh first, nervous. “Guess we’re kinda obligated.”
Noeul shrugs, already leaning. It’s quick - a soft press of lips, barely contact, more air than anything. Heat floods your cheeks anyway.
Noeul straightens, unfazed. But then she grabs a spool of silver ribbon, and starts winding it around her fingers - tight, tighter, until the plastic squeaks. She doesn’t look at you, but the ribbon keeps twisting, betraying her.
Mia claps. “Again!”
“Later.” Noeul mutters, voice steady.
The ribbon snaps.
When lunch is over, the house hums with post meal naps and football commentary. You slip outside with two mugs of cocoa, steam curling in the cold, and Noeul follows without a word, scarf pulled high.
You sit on the top step, snow muffling everything except the creak of wood and the faint jingle of wind chimes. The sky is a deep indigo bowl, stars sharp enough to cut.
“I wasn’t kidding about surprises.” She says suddenly, voice low. “Hate them.”
You wait.
“Ex planned a ‘surprise’ birthday thing. Invited my entire toxic family I hadn’t seen in years. I walked in, turned around, and left. Haven’t spoken to half of them since.”
You nod. “Predictability then, got it. Next year I’ll send an itinerary. 7:03pm: kiss under mistletoe. 7:04: cocoa. 7:05: stare at sky in silence.”
A huff of laughter fogs the air. “This…” She gestures between you, the porch, the quiet. “Feels easier than it should.”
Your shoulder brushes hers. Neither of you moves away.
The second mistletoe ambush comes late in the afternoon. Aunt Linda barrels around the corner with a tray of shortbread, camera swinging from her wrist like a weapon when she points over your head. “Mistletoe! Pucker up, lovebirds!”
Another sprig, over the doorframe this time. You’re trapped between wallpaper roses and Linda’s perfume cloud.
Noeul sighs, but her hand finds your cheek first, her thumb grazing the corner of your mouth. The kiss is firmer, deliberate, your lips parting just enough for warmth to pass between you. When she pulls back, her pupils are wide.
She shrugs, whispering casually. “That wasn’t bad.”
Your heart ricochets against your ribs. Is she still acting? The question loops louder than aunt Linda’s shutter click.
By evening, the house settles into a gentle lull. You’re in the laundry nook off the kitchen, folding a mountain of flannel pajamas and mismatched socks.
Through the open doorway, you catch glimpses: Noeul flat on her stomach by the coffee table, chin propped on one hand, the other guiding Mia’s little fingers around a red crayon. They’re drawing a lopsided Christmas tree together on butcher paper, Mia’s side a chaotic scribble of green spirals, Noeul’s a tidy trunk with perfectly spaced branches.
“Ornaments go here.” Noeul says, tapping a spot, then lets Mia slap a yellow star so crooked it’s practically sideways. Noeul doesn’t fix it. Instead, she grabs a blue crayon and draws a wobbly stick figure beneath the tree, with two dots for eyes and a wide grin.
“That’s you.” She tells Mia, who giggles and adds a crown. Noeul laughs, and for a second she’s the kid - crayon smudged on her cheek, tongue poking out in concentration as she helps Mia sign both their names in shaky capitals.
Your mom appears at your elbow, arms full of towels. She follows your gaze, voice low. “She’s a keeper, huh? The way she looks at you… it’s real.”
You glance back. Noeul lifts her head, catching your eye through the doorway, and holds up the drawing like a trophy, pride flickering across her face before she ducks back to Mia’s giggling demands.
Your mom’s words echo in your head. “It’s real.” Is it?
The final mistletoe strike comes late, when you and Noeul are on clean up duty. She’s at the sink, sleeves rolled, suds to her elbows. You dry beside her, shoulder brushing hers every time you reach for a glass. The kitchen is quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional laugh from the living room.
You reach for a high shelf, and there it is: a sprig dangling from the chandelier, red ribbon fluttering like a heartbeat.
“Again?” You groan, laughing.
Noeul turns, spotting it. Instead of awkwardness, she dries her hands, setting down the towel and stepping closer. “One more for the road?”
Your heart pounds as you nod.
This time, it’s slow.
Her hands find your waist first, thumbs pressing gently through your sweater. You tilt your head, and she meets you halfway, lips soft and warm. The kiss deepens, with no audience, no rush. Your fingers curl into her scarf, pulling her in, and she makes a small sound in her throat, almost a sigh, sliding her arms fully around and embracing you. The world narrows to the taste of cocoa on her tongue, the scent of pine in her hair, the steady thump of her heart against yours.
When you break apart, foreheads touching, she whispers. “This stopped being pretend somewhere around the third cookie.”
You grin. “The skating rink. When you caught me.”
She smiles, full and rare and dazzling. “Knew it.”
The next morning is crisp and bright, snow crunching under boots as the family gathers on the porch to wave you off. Bags are loaded, hugs exchanged, aunt Linda snapping one last flurry of photos. Your mom presses a tupperware of leftover cookies into your hands with a knowing wink. Dad claps Noeul on the shoulder, gruff but sincere. “Come back anytime, kid.”
Mia lingers by the car, lower lip wobbling. She’s clutching the paper crown from yesterday, now crumpled and glitter shedding. When Noeul kneels to zip her coat, Mia flings her arms around Noeul’s neck, face buried in the red plaid scarf.
“I don’t want you to go.” She sniffles. Noeul’s arms come around her automatically, steady and gentle.
“Hey, none of that.” She pulls back just enough to unwind the scarf from her own neck and drape it over Mia’s smaller shoulders. The fabric pools around the girl like a cape. “Keep this safe for me, okay? I’ll need it next year.”
Mia’s eyes go wide. “Next year?”
“Promise.” Noeul taps the tip of Mia’s nose, then stands. Your heart thuds hard against your ribs. Next year - a future spoken aloud, casual and certain.
You buckle into the driver’s seat and Noeul slides in beside you, the engine humming to life. In the rearview mirror, the family waves until the cabin shrinks to a postcard of twinkling lights and smoke curling from the chimney.
Snow starts to fall again, soft and unhurried, dusting the windshield in lazy spirals. The playlist is off, the only sounds tires on slush and the occasional click of the heater. Your fingers drum the wheel as Noeul watches the pines slide by, one hand resting on her thigh.
The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid.
You clear your throat. “So…”
Noeul turns, her eyes warm and unguarded, full of that same softness you saw when she watched you skate. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
“Real dating?” You ask, voice smaller than you meant.
She laughs once, quiet and fond before she nods. Tongue pressing to the inside of her cheek, she reaches over. Her hand settles on your thigh, palm warm through your jeans. A gentle squeeze. “Real dating.”
Snowflakes melt against the glass. She leans across the console, breath brushing your ear. “Merry Christmas, girlfriend.”
You grin so wide it hurts. “Merry Christmas, girlfriend.”
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synopsis: Three months into dating, Noeul’s lingering shyness is killing you both. She stares at your chest like it’s forbidden, she lets her hands wander during makeouts, but she panics and flees the second things get serious. She’s aching, you’re aching, but the words stay stuck. One lazy evening in her dorm, you finally call her out. You take her trembling hands, and guide them exactly where she’s been too shy to ask…
genre: established relationship, soft smut, fluff at the end, college au
The first lingering glance happens in the laundry room of your dorm building, two weeks after your first kiss.
You’re folding a load of hoodies, Noeul perched on the dryer beside you, legs swinging, skateboard propped against the wall. She’s telling you about the new deck grip tape she ordered, voice soft, words tumbling faster when she’s excited, when you bend to grab a shirt from the basket. The neck of your shirt dips, exposing the lines of your cleavage.
Her sentence cuts off mid word. You look up, catching her eyes glued to the curve of your breasts before they snap to the spinning washer like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Pink floods her cheeks.
“You okay, babe?” You tease, bumping her knee with yours.
“Y-yeah! Just… remembered I left my, um, socks. In the dryer. Last week.” She hops down, busying herself with an already empty machine.
You let it slide, but the glances keep building.
In the library, she traces the neckline of your sweater with her gaze while you highlight notes, then pretends to be absorbed in her textbook when you look up.
During movie nights in her dorm, she’ll cuddle into your side, hand resting innocently on your thigh, until a makeout session heats up and her fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, tracing your ribs. The second you arch into her touch, she yanks her hand back like she’s been burned, muttering about needing the bathroom and disappearing for five full minutes.
You give her space. You know shyness is woven into her like the frayed laces on her vans. But god, the want in her eyes when she thinks you’re not looking? It’s a slow burning fire you’re both circling.
The hands wandering happens in increments.
The first time, you’re sprawled on her bed studying, her head in your lap. You’re absentmindedly carding fingers through her hair when she turns and presses a kiss to your stomach through your shirt. It’s sweet, until her lips linger, nose brushing the fabric, and her hand slides up your side, thumb grazing the underwire of your bra. You hum in approval; she freezes, then bolts upright.
“Bathroom.” She chokes, and the door slams.
You stare at the ceiling, equal parts amused and turned on. Soon, you think. She’ll get there.
By month three, the makeouts are heavier - tongues lazy and exploratory, her hoodie discarded, your hands in her hair. She’ll straddle your lap on the couch, hips rolling instinctively, but the second you tug at her belt loop she’s off you like a spooked cat, cheeks flaming.
“I-I’m sorry, I just-need a sec-”
You cup her face, kissing her forehead. “No rush, skater girl.”
But inside, she’s aching. You see it in the way she bites her lip raw when you change in front of her, eyes flicking to the wall the instant your shirt lifts. You see it in the dreams she accidentally mumbles about when she falls asleep on your chest: your name, breathless, paired with her own soft moan.
The tipping point comes on the on the first warm Saturday of May. You drag Noeul to the campus pool with you, and she immediately realizes she’s made a mistake by agreeing to come.
You’re in a red bikini because the laundry Gods hate you and every one piece is MIA. Noeul looks skate park practical in a rash guard and board shorts. The second you cannonball in, she forgets how to doggy paddle.
You surface, laughing, water streaming off your lashes. “Race you to the deep end?”
Noeul’s mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Her gaze is locked somewhere south of your collarbones. The wet fabric clings, the sun turning every droplet into a spotlight.
You swim closer. “Earth to Noeul.”
She startles, sinks to her chin. “S-sorry. You’re just-” She gestures vaguely at all of you, then dunks herself entirely.
You count twelve separate incidents that day:
1. Ladder stare.
2. Snack bar stare.
3. Sunscreen application stare (you ask her to do your back; her hands shake so hard the bottle squirts across the concrete).
4–12. Every time you float on your back like a smug otter.
By 4pm she’s tomato red and it’s not from sunburn.
Evening finds you cross legged on her dorm bed, AC humming, the chili pepper lights twinkling like nosy fireflies. Noeul’s in an oversized tee and shorts, hair still damp from the shower. She’s calm, actually calm, fiddling with the wheels on her board, spinning one with her thumb.
You pounce.
“So.” You straddle the foot of the bed, knees bumping hers. “Twelve times, skater girl.”
The wheel stops. “Twelve what?”
“Times you stared at my tits today like they owed you money.”
Her jaw drops. The board clatters to the rug. “I d- I did NOT-”
“Did too. Ladder. Snack bar. That thing with the sunscreen-”
“I was checking for even coverage!”
“-and every single time I floated. Your pupils were practically heart shaped.”
Noeul makes a strangled noise, flops backward, and yanks her beanie over her eyes. “Kill me.”
You crawl forward and peel the beanie away. Her cheeks are scarlet, but her eyes stay on yours, brave for once.
“Noeul, I’m your girlfriend.” You sit back on your heels, gripping the hem of your tank. “I’d be worried if you didn’t show interest in my tits.”
Before she can combust, you whisk the shirt over your head. The red bikini top from earlier is gone, now you’re in a plain black bra, nothing fancy. Still, Noeul’s breath hitches like you’ve stripped to lingerie in the vatican.
“Oh God- um…” Her gaze darts to the floor, the ceiling, your left elbow, anywhere but center mass.
You straddle her lap properly, knees bracketing her hips. The beanie is a lost cause; her hands hover in the air like she’s forgotten what limbs are for.
“Look at me.” You say softly.
She does. Slowly. The blush is nuclear, but her eyes darken, pupils blown wide.
“Like what you see?”
A nod, barely perceptible.
“Words, baby.”
“Y-yeah.” It’s a whisper. “A lot.”
You take her trembling hands and guide them to your waist. Her palms are calloused from grip tape, warm. “You can touch. I want you to.”
Her thumbs sweep in tiny arcs, testing. You lean in and kiss the corner of her mouth, then the cut on her cheek that’s now just a faint pink line. She exhales shakily against your lips.
“Tell me if it’s too much.” You murmur.
She shakes her head. “Not too much. Just… new.”
You reach behind your back, hooking a finger in the clasp. “This okay?”
Her eyes flick down, then back up. The darkness in them deepens; the shyness doesn’t vanish, but it makes room for something hungry. A slow, deliberate nod.
You unhook the bra, letting it slide off your shoulders slowly. Noeul’s inhale is audible. Her hands freeze at your waist.
“Go ahead.” You encourage, voice soft.
She lifts one hand like it’s made of glass, then cups the underside of your breast, feather light. Her thumb brushes your nipple, and you both jolt. You press her hands higher, until she’s cupping you fully, thumbs brushing your nipples. The contact draws a shaky exhale from you both.
“Fuck.” She whispers, in awe. “You’re… soft. And… mine?”
“All yours.” You roll your hips once, just to watch her eyes flutter. “Keep going.”
Emboldened, she traces the weight of you, experimental, learning the way you fit in her hands. When her thumbs circle your nipples again, firmer this time, you moan softly, and her confidence spikes. She leans in, pressing open mouthed kisses along your collarbone, down to the swell of your breast. Her tongue flicks out, tasting skin, and you thread fingers through her hair.
“Good girl.” You breathe. “Just like that.”
She whines against you, hips bucking involuntarily. You can feel how wet she is through her shorts, soaking into yours.
You rock forward, just enough pressure against her lap to make her groan. “Noeul.”
Her name seems to ground her. She looks up, eyes glassy.
“I want-” She swallows. “I want everything. With you. I just… don’t know how to ask.”
“You’re doing it right now.” You kiss her properly, slow and deep, until her hands tighten and her hips lift involuntarily.
When you pull back, her lips are swollen, eyes dazed.
“Can we…?” She gestures between you, helpless.
“Words, love.”
She squeezes her eyes shut.
“Can we have… sex? Like… all of it? I’m nervous I’ll suck but I want you so bad it hurts.”
The raw honesty cracks your chest open. You kiss her again, softer.
“You won’t suck. And even if you do, we just laugh and try again. Deal?”
“Deal.” She whispers.
Clothes come off in stages, punctuated by giggles and shy apologies.
Her t shirt gets caught in her elbows; you peel it like a second skin. She’s all lean muscle and faint tan lines, with a small constellation of freckles across her collarbones you’ve never seen up close. You kiss each one until she’s squirming.
Her sports bra follows - simple black, no frills - and you take a moment to admire the sight of her bare underneath you. She’s breathless, arms half covering herself until you gently pull them away.
“Hey. You’re beautiful.” You kiss her slow, filthy, until she’s melting. “Want more?”
She nods, frantic.
Her shorts come off next. You hook your thumbs in the waistband; she lifts her hips to help, then immediately tries to cover herself with both hands.
“Hey.” You tug her wrists away gently. “Let me see my pretty girlfriend.”
The word still makes her light up. She lets you look. You trace the sharp cut of her hipbones, the soft trail of hair below her navel. She’s flushed from chest to thighs, cocky skater confidence nowhere to be found.
You shimmy out of your own shorts and kick them off the bed. Now it’s just underwear, yours lacy, hers plain cotton with a tiny dino print because of course.
Noeul stares like she’s memorizing the sight of you.
“You’re so…” She can’t finish.
You straddle her again, skin to skin except for the last barriers. The heat of her against your core makes you both moan. “Still with me?”
She nods again, eyes wide. “Please don’t stop.”
You roll your hips once, slow. Her head falls back against the pillow, throat exposed. You mouth along her jaw, her neck, down to the small, perfect curve of her breast. When you close your lips around her nipple, she arches so hard the bed creaks.
Her hands find your ass, gripping like she’s afraid you’ll vanish. You grind down harder; the friction through cotton is maddening.
“Off.” You pant, tugging at her waistband.
She lifts, and you drag the fabric down her legs. Now she’s bare, glistening, and the sight punches the air from your lungs.
Noeul covers her face. “Don’t stare, it’s-”
“Perfect.” You finish. You kiss the inside of her knee, her thigh, working inward until she’s trembling. “Noeul, look at me, baby.”
She does, brown eyes wide and trusting. You press a kiss to her inner thigh. “Still good?”
“So good.” She rasps.
You settle between her legs, shoulders nudging her thighs wider. When you lick a slow stripe up her center, her back arches off the bed. She tastes tangy sweet, arousal slick on your tongue. You take your time, teasing circles around her clit, sliding one finger inside when she starts babbling your name. She’s tight, clenching around you, hips rolling in tiny, desperate thrusts.
When her thighs clamp around your head, you pin one down with your free hand, humming approval. You suck her clit gently, and her orgasm hits with a broken cry, whole body shaking, fingers digging into your scalp.
You ease up her body and flop beside her, both of you breathing hard. Her eyes are half lidded, lips parted, cheeks still burning. She curls into you instinctively, hiding her face against your neck like she always does when she’s overwhelmed.
For a long minute there’s only the hum of the AC and the sound of her trying to calm her breathing.
Then, so quietly you almost miss it, she speaks against your skin, barely a breath.
“…Can I… try… with you?”
You turn your head, not sure you heard right. “Hm?”
She doesn’t lift her face. Her fingers twist nervously in the sheet between you.
“I… I wanna…” Her voice cracks, dropping to the tiniest whisper. “I wanna do it to you too… if that’s okay… I just… don’t wanna be bad at it…”
The words are so soft they’re almost lost in the space between your bodies.
You shift so you can see her better. She still won’t look at you, eyes fixed on the pillow, lashes trembling.
You brush her hair back gently. “Baby. Look at me.”
It takes her a second, but she peeks up, cheeks scarlet, bottom lip caught between her teeth.
“You don’t have to do anything.” You say, low and careful. “I’m serious. I’m already so happy I could cry. There’s no pressure, ever.”
She searches your face, anxious, then gives the smallest smile.
“I… want to.” She murmurs, voice still feather quiet. “I really, really want to. I’m just… scared I’ll mess up.”
You smile, soft and warm, and press a kiss to her forehead.
“You won’t mess up. And even if it’s awkward, we laugh and keep going. Okay?”
Another tiny nod. She swallows, then whispers. “…Okay.”
She fumbles with your lace panties, cursing under her breath when they catch on your ankle. You laugh; she silences you with a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation.
Her mouth charts a path down your body - collarbone, sternum, the slope of your breast. She spends forever on your nipples, licking and sucking until you’re writhing.
Before her courage can fade, she scoots downward, slow and shaky, settling between your legs like she’s afraid the bed might disappear. Her hands hover over your thighs, trembling. You lace your fingers with hers and give a gentle squeeze.
“I’ve got you.” You whisper. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Her breath trembles out of her. She keeps her eyes down at first, like she’s afraid looking directly at you will make the moment vanish. Her free hand settles on your thigh hesitantly, fingertips barely grazing skin at first, then slowly spreading, palm flattening, as if she’s only just now realizing she’s allowed to do this. She traces upward, feather light, following the soft curve where your leg meets hip, and a tiny, awed sound escapes her.
“…So pretty.” She breathes, so quietly it’s almost just air.
Her thumb brushes the crease of your thigh, then higher, tracing the edge of you like she’s mapping sacred ground. She’s shaking, but her touch is careful, worshipful. When her fingers finally glide through your wetness, testing, exploring, she freezes for a second, eyes widening.
A hushed, shaky laugh slips out of her. “You’re… really wet. Is that… because of me?”
“All because of you.” You answer, voice soft.
That seems to undo something inside her. The last of her hesitation crumbles.
She lowers herself slowly, elbows sinking into the mattress, and presses the gentlest kiss to the inside of your thigh once, then twice, like she’s thanking you for letting her be here. Then another, closer. Her breath fans warm over you, trembling.
She looks up one last time, eyes huge, glassy, asking without words. You nod, threading your fingers through her hair. “I’m yours, baby.”
She closes her eyes, exhales shakily… and finally leans in.
The first tentative swipe of her tongue is so careful it almost tickles. The second is surer. By the third she’s melted into it, soft little hums vibrating against you as she tastes you like she’s been starving for you her entire life.
You’re trying to stay quiet so you can hear her, those tiny, desperate sounds she makes every time you move, but it’s getting harder. Your fingers tighten in her hair, not guiding, just anchoring. She hums at the tug, the vibration rolling straight through you.
“Fuck-Noeul…” It comes out shaky.
She pulls off just long enough to whisper, voice hoarse and wrecked. “Tell me… please… I wanna get it right.”
“You’re perfect.” You gasp. “Just-don’t stop doing that thing with your tongue-”
She dives back in like you’ve just handed her the key to the universe. The next swirl is firmer, exactly where you need it, and your hips jerk hard enough that she has to press one forearm across your lower stomach to keep you still. The gentle weight of it undoes you.
Your breathing turns ragged. She can feel it, the way your thighs start trembling against her cheeks, the way your abs keep fluttering under her arm. She doubles down, tongue moving faster now, steady and relentless, the same quiet focus she gives to landing tricks she’s terrified of.
You’re close, so close, and she knows. She makes this soft, encouraging sound, almost a whine, and sucks your clit gently between her lips, flicking the tip of her tongue in quick, perfect pulses.
That’s it.
The orgasm hits hard and sudden, rolling up your spine like a wave you didn’t see coming. Your back arches off the bed, her name ripping from you over and over, like it’s the only word you remember. Your thighs clamp around her head; she doesn’t flinch, just moans into you, riding it out, tongue still moving in slow, soothing strokes until the last shudder leaves your body.
When it’s over you’re trembling, chest heaving, fingers tangled so tightly in her hair you’re half worried you’ve hurt her. You loosen your grip immediately.
She doesn’t move right away. She stays there, forehead resting against your thigh, breathing hard like she’s the one who just came apart. Little aftershocks ripple through you every time her lips brush your skin.
Eventually she presses one last soft, reverent kiss just above your clit, almost shy again now that the urgency has passed, then crawls up the bed on shaky arms. Her cheeks are flushed crimson, lips swollen and glistening, eyes wide and a little dazed.
She collapses half on top of you, burying her face in your neck again. You can feel her heart hammering against your ribs.
After a long moment she whispers, voice small. “Was that… okay?”
You laugh, breathless and wrecked, and wrap your arms around her so tightly she squeaks.
“Baby,” you say into her hair, “I’m pretty sure I just left the planet for a minute.”
She makes the tiniest, happiest sound, and hides her smile against your collarbone. You kiss the top of her head, still catching your breath.
The room is quiet for a while except for the low hum of the AC and the soft rustle of sheets when one of you shifts. Noeul is tucked against your side, head on your chest, one leg thrown over yours, her fingers drawing invisible patterns on your stomach. She’s glowing - literally - in the red-orange-green flicker of her chili pepper lights, lips curved into the tiniest, most self satisfied smile you’ve ever seen on her.
You can feel it radiating off her: the quiet, shy happiness mixed with something deliciously smug. You tilt your head down, catching her eye, and raise an eyebrow.
“Proud of yourself, are you?” You ask, voice low and teasing.
She freezes. Her finger stops mid circle. For half a second the shyness tries to rush back in; pink floods her cheeks and she ducks her chin like she’s been caught red handed stealing cookies. But then the smile wins, slow, crooked, and unstoppable.
“…Maybe a little.” She mumbles, barely audible.
You snort. “A little?”
She peeks up again, biting her lip, and the cockiness slips through the cracks.
“Okay, a lot.” She admits, voice still soft but sparkling. “I mean… I just-” She gestures vaguely toward your lower half, then immediately hides her face against your shoulder with a muffled groan. “I made you… orgasm. With my mouth. I’m allowed to be a tiny bit proud.”
You laugh, bright and fond, and roll so you’re hovering over her just enough to see her properly. “A tiny bit?”
Her ears are scarlet, but her eyes are shining.
“I feel like a sex God.” She whispers, like she’s confessing a secret. “I’ve ascended.”
You drop your forehead to hers, grinning so wide it hurts. “Ascended, huh?”
“Mhmm.” She nods solemnly, then ruins it by laughing. “I’m never coming back down to earth. The population of my new religion is one extremely satisfied girlfriend who definitely screamed my name at least three times.”
“Four.” You correct, kissing the tip of her nose. “You missed the whimper at the end.”
Her jaw actually drops. “There was a fourth?!”
You nod, mock serious. “Very devotional. I’m considering building you a shrine.”
Noeul groans and hides her face in the pillow, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. When she emerges, she’s biting her lip so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t cut.
“I’m never gonna shut up about this.” She says, voice small but triumphant. “Every time you look at me from now on I’m just gonna be thinking: yeah, I did that. I’m the reason she can’t walk straight tomorrow.”
Your heart feels too big for your ribcage. You cup her warm, flushed cheeks and kiss her slow and sweet.
“Please don’t ever shut up about it.” You murmur against her lips. “I want cocky little sex God Noeul tattooed on my forehead.”
She beams shy and proud, and wraps her arms around your neck, pulling you back down into the blankets.
After a quiet moment she adds, voice muffled against your collarbone. “…Round two in fifteen minutes? Just to make sure the legend stays accurate…”
You laugh into her hair, holding her tighter, and the answer has never been more obvious.
“Fifteen minutes.” You agree. “But only if the deity promises to sign autographs after.”
synopsis: Noeul’s been tracking your cycle, and when your period arrives like clockwork, her devotion turns worshipful. Ten days later you’re ovulating, and she’s determined to make her favorite fantasy feel as real as possible…
genre: yandere/obsession, college au, period hurt/comfort, established relationship/toxic obsession, smut
warnings: mentions of period blood & pain, intense obsession, fingering & oral (reader receiving), strap on (reader receiving), breeding kink, edging, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, squirting, mildly rough sex
word count: 1.9k
a/n: requested by anon… i’m becoming obsessed w this series
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It’d been four months since Noeul crawled into your life and never left.
She still had her own dorm two buildings over. Technically.
But her toothbrush stayed in your bathroom cup. Her hoodies lived in your room. Her scent, cedar and vanilla and something darker now, had soaked so deeply into your pillows that you couldn’t fall asleep without it anymore.
You let her think she was still sneaking. You let her believe the key she copied was still a secret. You let her track your cycle in that little black app on her phone, the one with the discreet red dot that appeared every 28 days like clockwork.
Today the dot turned crimson.
She knew before you did.
You woke to sticky thighs and an ache low in your belly, and there she was. She sat at the foot of your bed in an oversized shirt, knees drawn up, watching you with unblinking cat eyes.
The sheets beneath you were a crime scene: deep red blooming across the white cotton, soaking through to the mattress. You didn’t even have to look to know it was bad; the metallic scent hung heavy in the air.
“Morning, baby.” She whispered, voice syrupy. “You’re bleeding.”
You groaned, rolling onto your stomach and immediately regretting it when the wet warmth smeared across your skin. “I’m aware, creep.”
Noeul was off the bed in a heartbeat. Instead of her usual predatory crawl, she moved like someone handling fragile glass. She knelt beside you, brushing damp hair from your forehead with reverent fingers.
“My poor girl.” She cooed, pressing a kiss to your temple. “First day is always the worst for you, isn’t it?”
You hated how accurately she knew that.
She disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a warm, wet cloth, painkillers, and the heating pad she bought specifically for this. She peeled the ruined sheets from under you with practiced care, rolling you gently onto a towel she’d already laid out. The cloth was soft against your thighs as she wiped the blood away, slow and worshipful, like she was cleaning an altar.
Every touch was tender, almost humiliating in its devotion. She kissed the inside of each knee when she was done, then your lower belly right over the ache.
“I’ve got you.” She murmured, plugging in the heating pad and settling it against your stomach before curling around you from behind. “I’ll take care of everything.”
You let her. You always did.
She spent the whole day like that: feeding you chocolate, rubbing slow circles on your back, fetching fresh pads before you even asked. When the cramps twisted through you she slid her hand under the waistband of your sweats and pressed two fingers deep inside you, massaging your walls until the pain melted into a different kind of ache. She whispered praises against your neck the entire time - my perfect girl, my bleeding little goddess, let me make it better.
By nightfall the worst had passed, and she carried you to a bath she’d drawn, rose petals floating on the surface because of course she did that. She washed your hair, kissing the bite marks she left last week, and told you over and over how beautiful you looked painted in red.
Ten days later you woke to the soft click of your bedroom door locking and the faint rustle of Noeul climbing onto the bed. She’d already stripped down to nothing but black lace panties, hair loose and wild, eyes glowing in the morning light like she hadn’t slept (because she hadn’t; she’d been watching the app like a hawk).
She didn’t pounce. Not yet.
Instead she crawled over you slow, deliberate, knees bracketing your hips but keeping her weight off you. Her palms slid up your bare thighs, pushing your oversized sleep shirt higher and higher until it bunched under your arms.
“Morning, my love.” She whispered, voice velvet and dangerous. “Guess what day it is.”
You swallowed; you already knew. Your body had been humming since yesterday, a low, insistent ache between your legs that no amount of pretending could ignore.
She leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re ovulating. Right now. Your little womb is begging to be filled.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. “Noeul…”
“Shh.” She kissed your throat, open mouthed and wet. “I’m gonna take my time with you today.”
She spent what felt like hours just touching, mapping every inch of you like she was memorizing this exact moment you were most fertile. Her fingertips traced the faint silver lines on your hips, the soft curve of your lower belly. She mouthed at your breasts until your nipples were swollen and aching, then dragged her tongue down the center of your stomach and stopped just above your clit.
You were already soaked. She hadn’t even really touched you there yet and you were dripping.
“Look at you.” She breathed, spreading your thighs wider. “So ready for me. So empty.”
She slid one finger through your folds, slow, collecting your slick and spreading it up to your clit in lazy circles that made your hips jerk.
“Tell me what you want.” She murmured against your inner thigh, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.
You shook your head, stubborn even as your body betrayed you.
Noeul smiled, sharp and fond. “Okay. We’ll play it your way.”
She kept you on that knife’s edge for ages. One finger became two, scissoring gently, curling just enough to make you gasp but never enough to let you tip over. Every time you got close she pulled back entirely, blowing cool air over your clit until you were whining and writhing.
“Please.” You finally sobbed, fists clenching in the sheets.
“Please what, baby?” She crawled back up your body, settling between your legs so the lace of her panties rubbed against your bare cunt. “Use your words.”
You turned your face into the pillow and she grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at her. Her pupils were blown wide, lips swollen from kissing you everywhere except where you needed it most.
“Say it.” She whispered, grinding slow and filthy against you. “Tell me you want me to breed you.”
Your breath hitched.
She stopped moving entirely.
“Say it, or I’ll stop right now and leave you like this until tomorrow.”
The threat hung in the air, cruel and perfect. You knew she’d do it. She’d edged you for twelve hours straight before.
You broke.
“I want you to breed me.” You choked out, voice cracking. “I want-fuck-I want you to put a baby in me, Noeul, please-”
The sound she made was inhuman.
She surged forward, kissing you bruisingly deep, tongue fucking your mouth like she was trying to claim every breath. When she pulled back her eyes were feral. “That’s my good girl.”
She shoved two fingers into you without warning, curling hard and fast. Your back arched off the bed.
“Fuck, you’re so ripe.” She breathed, worshipful. “If I had a cock I’d put a baby in you so fast.”
You moaned, loud and broken. She said it every cycle, but today, God, today you believed it. Today you wanted it so badly your legs shook.
She bit your shoulder hard enough to bruise. “You want that, don’t you? Want me to breed your pretty pussy until it takes.”
“That’s not-” You started, but she shoved another finger inside, and your protest died in a broken gasp.
“Shh. I know, sweetheart. Doesn’t mean I can’t dream.” She curled her fingers, stroking the spot that made your thighs shake. “Doesn’t mean I can’t fill you up until you’re dripping for days.”
She added a fourth finger, stretching you open with slow, deliberate thrusts while her thumb grinded against your clit.
“Gonna fill you up so good.” She growled against your neck. “Gonna fuck you every day this week until you’re dripping with me. Until your body has no choice but to keep it.”
You were sobbing now, hips rocking desperately into her hand. She suddenly pulled out, and you cried at the loss, until you heard the nightstand drawer and the clink of the harness.
The thick silicone cock she strapped on was your favorite shade of flushed pink, veiny and obscene. She slicked it with lube and your own arousal, making sure you watched every stroke.
“Look at it.” She said, fisting the base. “This is what’s gonna knock you up today.”
She lined it up and pushed in slow, inch by inch, letting you feel every ridge. When she bottomed out she stayed there, grinding deep, the head pressed right against your cervix.
“Feel that?” She whispered, voice shaking with restraint. “Right where it needs to go.”
You nodded frantically, nails digging into her back.
She started moving, long, deep strokes that dragged over every sensitive spot inside you. One hand braced beside your head, the other slid down to rest possessively over your lower belly.
“Right here.” She panted, pressing down to feel the bulge of the toy moving inside you. “This is where my baby would grow.”
You came just from that, clenching so hard around the silicone she had to fight to keep thrusting.
She didn’t stop.
She flipped you onto your stomach, yanking your hips up and slamming back in. The new angle made you scream into the pillow.
“Please Noeul, it’s too much-”
“You’ll take it.” She growled, pounding into you hard enough to make the bedframe rattle. “You’ll take everything I give you until you’re so full of me there’s no room for anything else.”
You clawed at the sheets, drooling into the pillow. Every thrust shoved you up the bed until she banded an arm under your chest and hauled you back against her.
“Say it.” She hissed against your neck. “Tell me you want my babies.”
“I want-” A sharp thrust cut you off with a cry. “I want your babies, Noeul!”
She groaned, as if she was the one getting fucked and sped up, hips snapping hard enough to bruise. One hand snaked down to rub tight circles on your clit.
She reached underneath and rubbed your clit in brutal circles until you were squirting around the toy, soaking the sheets, her thighs, everything. Only then did she let herself go, grinding deep, spilling nothing, but still shuddering like she did.
When it was over she collapsed on top of you, both of you trembling and gasping for air. She pressed soft kisses along your spine, your shoulder blades, the nape of your neck, tender now, like she didn’t just wreck you completely.
“I ordered ovulation tests.” She murmured against your sweat stained skin. “The expensive ones. Next month we’ll know the exact hour.”
You laughed, breathless and ruined. “You’re insane.”
She nuzzled into you, palm sliding down to cup your belly again.
“And you’re mine.” She whispered. “All mine.”
Later, she ran a bath and washed you gently, fingers careful around the bruises she left. She changed the sheets while you dozed on your desk chair, then lifted you into bed gently.
Just before you drifted off, you felt her slip something cold and metal around your wrist: a thin silver chain with a tiny red charm, catching the low light like a drop of fresh blood.
“For when you’re fertile.” She whispered, kissing the inside of your wrist. “So I always know when my baby needs to be bred.”
You fell asleep to the sound of her humming, her palm spread possessively over your belly as if she really did plant her seed there.
this is part 2 of Match My Freak! i strongly suggest reading part 1 first~
synopsis: The obsession deepens. You know she’s watching, and you crave it just as much. When a gift appears on your bed, the game grows into something dangerously intimate…
genre: smut, college au, yandere/obsession, freaky aftercare
The weeks after that charged confrontation in your dorm blurred into a haze of unspoken tension. You and Noeul barely exchanged words, maybe a fleeting glance in the hallway or a brush of shoulders in the crowded campus cafe, but her presence was a constant shadow wrapping around you like a second skin. And she knew you were aware; you caught the way her eyes lingered a fraction too long, the subtle tilt of her head when she thought you weren’t looking. And you? You reveled in it.
Every time you felt her gaze burning into your back during a lecture, a secret smirk tugged at your lips. Polaroids started appearing on your desk, snapped from afar, capturing you mid laugh with friends or lost in thought at the library. They were left like offerings, anonymous yet screaming her name. The faint scent of cedar and vanilla clung to your clothes, your sheets, even the air in your room after you’d been out. It was invasive, twisted, and God, it made your pulse race.
And you were just as fucked up as she was. The realization hit you one night while staring at the ceiling, fingers slick between your thighs for the third time that day. Your sex drive had skyrocketed since that night, since her stalking turned from coincidence to deliberate pursuit. You craved the thrill of being watched, the power in knowing she was out there, aching for you. It was sick. You loved it.
Masturbation became your ritual. Quick sessions in the shower, drawn out ones in bed with your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the moans. One afternoon, sprawled on your bed with your laptop, you scrolled through online shops, hovering over a vibrator that promised mind blowing intensity. But the price glared back at you, way out of your student budget. With a frustrated sigh, you closed the tab and flopped back, already plotting your next solo fix.
A few nights later you emerged from the shower, skin damp and flushed, a towel knotted loosely around your body. The dorm was quiet, the hallway empty as you slipped into your room and clicked the door shut. You immediately noticed the window cracked open, cool air slipping in alongside that telltale scent - cedar and vanilla, thick and intoxicating. Your stomach twisted, not with dread, but with a rush of heat that pooled low in your belly. She was out there. Watching.
Your eyes darted to the bed and there it was, the exact vibrator you’d been eyeing online, pristine in its packaging, a small pink bow stuck to the side like a perverse present. You glanced at the window, then back to the toy, then down at your towel.
You moved slowly, facing the open window as your fingers toyed with the towel’s edge, tugging it just enough to reveal a sliver of thigh before letting it fall back. You turned slightly, giving her a profile view as you unwound it inch by inch, teasing the curve of your hip, the swell of your breasts, keeping your nipples and pussy hidden for what felt like an eternity. Finally, with a dramatic flourish, you let the towel pool at your feet.
Naked and exposed, you sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread toward the window. You peeled the bow from the vibrator and pressed it just above your mound, the sticky adhesive holding it in place like a badge of her claim. The toy buzzed to life in your hand, low and rumbling. You trailed it up your inner thigh, gasping softly for effect.
“See what you do to me, Noeul?” You murmured, voice husky, loud enough to carry into the night. “You leave me gifts… make me so fucking wet just thinking about you out there, touching yourself to the sight of me.”
You pressed the vibrator to your clit, circling slowly, hips bucking as pleasure sparked. “Bet you’re doing it right now, huh? Fingers soaked because of me. God, I love it. I love knowing you’re obsessed. Watch me fall apart for you.”
You built it up, thrusts of your hips, moans spilling freely, edging closer and closer. Your free hand pinched a nipple, tugging hard. “Fuck, Noeul… I’m gonna cum so hard from your toy-”
But you stopped. Right at the precipice, body trembling, you flicked it off and pulled away. A small, desperate whimper floated in from the bushes outside, high pitched and broken.
You smirked, voice dripping with challenge. “Come in and finish me yourself.”
The rustle was immediate and frantic. Branches snapped, leaves crunched. Not even fifteen seconds later, a sharp knock rattled your door. Heart pounding, you wrapped the towel around yourself again, loose and teasing before you opened it.
Noeul stood there, chest heaving, eyes dark and wild, lips parted. She looked wrecked already.
“What… what do you want?” You asked, feigning innocence, tilting your head with wide eyes.
Her jaw clenched, anger flashing across her face. In a blur, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a knife, small and sleek, the blade glinting under the hallway light. Your stomach dropped, a fresh gush of arousal slicking your thighs at the sight of her holding it, trembling with barely contained need.
She pointed it at you, the tip hovering inches from your throat. “Inside. Now.”
You backed up, pulse thundering, as she stepped in and kicked the door shut, locking it with a click. The knife never wavered.
“Y-you’re sick.” You whispered, but your body betrayed you, the grin splitting your face impossible to hide.
“We’re both sick, Y/N.” Noeul rasped, voice raw. “I’ve been obsessed with you since that coffee mix up. Your scent on my cup… I kept it. Jerked off with it pressed to my face that night.”
She advanced, the blade flashing. With a flick of her wrist she pressed the flat of the cold steel to your collarbone, dragging it downward in a slow, deliberate line, not cutting, but scraping, the razor edge kissing your skin with lethal promise. Gooseflesh erupted in its wake, your nipples hardening to aching points. A thin, invisible line of fire traced between your breasts, over your sternum, stopping just above the pink bow still stuck to your mound.
“Drop the towel.” She snarled.
It fell instantly.
Noeul’s breath hitched, pupils blown wide. She flipped the knife so the tip, sharp and unforgiving, hovered an inch from your left nipple. “Don’t move.”
You froze, every muscle taut, arousal dripping down your thighs. She circled your nipple slowly with the metal, teasing, threatening, then dragged the flat side across to the other breast, leaving faint red trails that bloomed like brands.
“Look at you.” She whispered, voice trembling with a mix of reverence and rage. “So fucking perfect. I could carve my name right here-” the blade dipped to the soft underside of your breast, pressing just enough to indent the skin, “-and you’d thank me for it.”
A broken moan tore from your throat. You would.
“Pick up the toy.” She ordered, voice cracking with need. “Masturbate. Slow. If you cum before I say, I’ll leave a mark you’ll never forget.”
Hands shaking, you grabbed the vibrator. She kept the knife poised at your throat now, the tip dimpling the hollow just above your collarbone as you switched on the toy and pressed it to your clit. The buzz was torture; every circle sent sparks up your spine, but the blade’s presence kept you obediently, agonizingly slow.
Noeul stood over you, knife in one hand, the other fisting at her side. She was physically shaking, tremors running through her lean frame, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Her free hand clawed at her thigh, knuckles white.
“I-I dream of you every night.” She choked, voice cracking like glass, blade trembling but never breaking skin. “I touch myself to your photos. I cum screaming your name. I followed you to that party last week and hid in the stall next to yours just to hear you pee, I-fuck, I’m drenched-”
The knife slipped lower, flat against your inner thigh now, cold steel kissing the slick heat dripping down your leg. She dragged it upward, stopping a millimeter from your folds. “Let me taste you. Let me worship you. Let me own you.”
You nodded frantically, the vibrator slipping from your fingers. “Please-”
The knife clattered away and she rushed to your desk, using a scarf to bind your wrists together and cinching it to the headboard with a tug that made the wood creak. The blade stayed within reach on the nightstand, glinting like a promise.
Only then did she descend.
She dropped to her knees between your legs, hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise.
“Mine.” She growled, before diving in.
She was ravenous, devouring you with her tongue flat and broad, then flicking sharp, then sucking your clit between her lips until your hips jerked against her face. Two fingers speared inside you, curling hard, pumping fast. The sounds of your wetness filled the room, obscene and perfect.
Her tongue was relentless, lapping at your folds, sucking your clit with desperate hunger. You cried, hips grinding against her face. She hummed, vibrations sending you spiraling, her own whimpers muffled against your pussy.
You came with a choked scream, thighs clamping around her head, wrists straining against the scarf as your body bowed off the bed. But she didn’t stop. She lapped you through the aftershocks, greedy for every single drop, until you were whimpering, oversensitive and shaking.
Only when you sagged, boneless, did she pull back. Her chin glistened. Her eyes were feral.
She stood just long enough to strip, yanking her hoodie over her head and shoving her jeans down before kicking her panties aside. Her body was lean, flushed and trembling. A dark wet spot soaked the front of her discarded underwear. She climbed back onto the bed, straddling one of your thighs.
“Open.” She ordered.
You spread your legs wider, and she slotted herself between them. One knee hooked over your hip, the other planted beside your waist until your pussies aligned, slick and swollen. The first grind made you both groan.
“Fuck… there.” She hissed.
She rolled her hips, clit dragging against yours in a slow, filthy slide. The angle was perfect - wet, hot, lethal. She gripped your bound wrists above your head with one hand, the other digging into your hip as she set a brutal rhythm of skin slapping skin, her breath hitching with every thrust.
“Look at me.” She growled.
Your eyes locked. Tears streaked her face again, but her gaze was unhinged, worship and possession in equal measure. She ground harder, circling and scissoring faster. The pressure on your clit was relentless, and your second orgasm coiled tight and fast.
“You’re mine.” She panted. “Say it.”
“Yours.” You gasped. “All yours-fuck, Noeul-”
She slammed down once, twice, then shattered with a broken cry, pussy pulsing against yours. The clench of her thighs, the flood of her release, dragged you over with her. You came again, harder, vision whiting out as you sobbed her name desperately. She collapsed forward, forehead pressed to yours, both of you slick with sweat and each other.
She didn’t untie you.
She left the scarf knotted to the headboard, wrists still tethered above your head, and simply curled into the space your body made for her. One arm snaked under your neck, the other locked across your waist. Her thigh wedged between yours, pussy still slick against your skin, and she pressed her entire weight down like a living blanket. She laid there, curled around you like a predator guarding its kill.
Then, she started with your throat.
Soft, open mouthed kisses along the faint red line the knife had left earlier, not licking the mark away, but tasting it. Then lower. The hollow of your collarbone, the slope of each breast. She lapped at the drying sweat between them, humming like it was nectar. When she reached your stomach, she paused to press her cheek there, ear over your navel, listening to the aftershocks still fluttering inside you.
“Still trembling.” She whispered, reverent. “I did that. I own every shake.”
She moved lower. Between your legs, she was gentle, agonizingly gentle. Her tongue was soft as silk, cleaning you in slow, worshipful passes. No suction, no teeth, just the flat of her tongue gathering every trace of the night and swallowing it down. When she finished, she rested her head on your lower belly, arms wrapped around your hips, and sighed like she’d found religion.
“I’ll follow you forever.” She said into your skin, voice muffled and dreamy. “Every class, every party, every breath. I’ll sleep outside your window if I have to. I’ll learn your cycle so I know when you’re fertile; I’ll track it on my phone. I’ll taste you when you’re bleeding, when you’re dry, when you’re crying. Doesn’t matter. You’re mine to worship.”
Her fingers traced the faint bruises blooming on your thighs and she smiled against you. “I’ll cut my initials here one day. Tiny. Just for us. So even when you’re eighty, you’ll feel me.”
Minutes stretched. Hours, maybe. The room was dark except for the streetlight bleeding through the blinds, striping her back in gold. She clung tighter, leg tightening over yours, arms cinching until breathing was a shared effort.
Eventually your voice cracked the silence, raw and quiet.
“Noeul… Please untie me.”
She went still.
Her head lifted slowly, hair wild, eyes blank like a doll someone had forgotten to wind. For a long second, she just stared, considering. Then she reached for the knife on the nightstand.
The blade glinted.
She didn’t saw, she sliced - one clean, practiced cut through the scarf between your wrists and the headboard. The fabric parted with a soft snip and your arms dropped, heavy and tingling. She didn’t free you completely; she left the loops around your wrists, loose now, like bracelets.
She crawled back into your space immediately, burrowing under your arm, wrapping herself around you again. The knife clattered to the floor, forgotten. Her voice was small, syrupy, absolutely devoted.
“Better?”
You nodded, throat thick.
She kissed the corner of your mouth, then your eyelid, then the pulse in your neck. “Good. Now you can hold me back.”
You did.
Your arms - still ringed in red - curled around her, pulling her impossibly closer. She melted, a low, content sound rumbling in her chest. The last thing you felt before sleep dragged you under was her breath against your skin.
When dawn leaked through the blinds in thin, surgical lines, you woke first, your wrists still circled by the frayed ends of the scarf, arms numb from being pinned under Noeul’s weight all night. She hadn’t moved. She was wrapped around you like ivy, one leg thrown over both of yours, arm locked across your chest, fingers splayed possessively over your left breast. Her face was buried in the crook of your neck, lips parted, breath warm and steady against your pulse. Every exhale stirred the fine hairs at your nape.
You shifted, just a twitch, and her grip tightened instantly. Not gentle. Territorial. A low, sleepy growl rumbled in her throat.
“Mine.” She mumbled, eyes still closed. “Don’t.”
You froze.
She nuzzled deeper, nose dragging along your throat, inhaling like she was cataloging the exact scent of your sleep. Then, she finally cracked one eye open. The pupil was blown wide, black swallowing brown.
“Morning.” She rasped. “You smell like me now… Ours.”
She untangled herself just enough to hover. Hair wild, lips swollen, the faint imprint of your shoulder still denting her cheek. She looked wrecked and starved at the same time. Her gaze raked over you, lingering on the bruises blooming across your hips, the red rings around your wrists, the dried streak of cum still glistening on your inner thigh.
“Shower with me.”
It wasn’t a request.
She slid out of bed, naked and unashamed, and picked up her knife. She used the blade to slice the remaining scarf loops from your wrists, then tossed it onto the pillow like a bookmark.
“Up.”
You obeyed, legs shaky. She watched every wobble, eyes glittering. In the bathroom, steam already fogged the mirror. She adjusted the spray, testing with her wrist like a mother checking bathwater, then pulled you under.
The water was scalding. She pressed you to the tile, hands roaming, washing you with your own body wash. Her fingers slipped between your legs, cleaning gently, then not gently. She slipped two inside just to feel you clench, then hummed when you gasped.
“Still swollen.” She murmured against your ear. “Good. Means you’ll feel me all day.”
Back in the room, she dressed you herself. She picked the tiniest lace panties from your drawer, sniffing them first with fluttering eyes, then slid them up your legs with deliberate slowness. Her thumb brushed your clit through the fabric once, before pulling away.
“Wear the skirt.” She decided. “The short one. No tights.”
Then she dressed beside you - her own clothes from last night, now wrinkled and sex stained. She tucked the knife into her boot, casual as a phone.
At the door, she crowded you against it. One hand landed on your throat, the other slipped under your skirt, cupping your pussy through the lace.
“Listen.” She whispered. “I’m walking you to class. I’ll sit three rows behind, and if you so much as look at anyone else, I’ll fucking cut them. Understand?”
You nodded, breathless.
She kissed you, and for once it was soft and sweet, sickeningly tender. Then she opened the door.
“After you, baby.” Her smile was all teeth. “I’ll be right behind you. Always.”
