Urge to keep you | Lingorm
Lingling Sirilak Kwong was raised with silence in her veins. She doesn't shout. She doesn't ask. Her hands do the speaking-steady, exact, dangerous in a way that doesn't need to warn you twice. She leads with the kind of power that doesn't seek permission. Her world is sharp-edged and quiet, and she's made peace with being alone in it.
Orm Kornnaphat Sethratanapong lives differently-under fluorescent lights, in rooms that smell like antiseptic and the weight of responsibility. Everything about her is clean, practiced, still. Her voice is soft, but her spine never bends. People depend on her. She lets them. Because she doesn't know what it's like to be chosen instead of needed.
They met under bad lighting and worse timing.
A parking lot. A crude comment. Four men. And one voice that cut the night open:
"She told you to move."
It should've ended there. A nod. A thank you. A walk away.
But Orm didn't walk.
And Lingling didn't let her.
Now there's a thread pulled too tight between them.
Sheets. Bruises. Breathless silence.
A thousand things said with hands instead of mouths.
Lingling touches Orm like she's already hers.
Orm lets her in like she doesn't know how to say no.
It's not love.
Not yet.
But something hangs in the space they keep trying not to name.
It lingers on the tip of the tongue, right where pretending and staying start to blur.
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G!P Lingling
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