blessmehachu¹²⁷

ೀ ‧₊˚ two owners 🦋🫧 #1 czennies ! ♡

[blessmehachu]

𓈒 ˖ ࣪ 𝜗𝜚 .. ☁️ 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀

֢ 🦢‌ࣳ stella

• she/her

• nct, enha, riize, exo, nwjns, aespa, gfriend, h2h

• loves neo rotting & baking

• infj

֢ 🦢‌ࣳ alzeah

• she/her

• enha, loona, nct, aespa, zb1, ive, dreamcatcher

• loves reading & anime

• infj

basic dni ! 🤍

♡ and ↻ .ᐟ

[blessmehachu]

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 ݁₊⊹ lee jeno

PART THREE

֢

﹒⟢ STARRING—ceo!jeno, fem!reader

﹒⟢ GENRE—modern!au, work!au, fluff, drabble

﹒⟢ CAUTION—profanity, nsfw etc

﹒⟢ W.C—1.6K

⤷ MUSIC: together — DREAMCATCHER

escape from la — THE WEEKND

✉️ an: alzeah - i apologise for all the time-skips lol

֢

𝒀/𝑵 𝑳/𝑵

the nerve of him.

you scoff, shaking your head as heat rises up your neck. without another word, you spin on your heel, storming down the sidewalk. the click of your heels is sharp, furious, and you don’t dare glance back, even though you can feel his eyes on you the entire way.

by the time you finally slide into the backseat of your car, your pulse is still racing. you toss your bag aside and sink back against the leather, trying to steady your breathing. the city lights blur past the window as the driver pulls away.

your phone buzzes.

[1 new message: jeno]

i like when you get mad. it suits you.

you glare at the screen, thumbs hovering before you finally type back.

don’t text me like this. i’m your intern, remember?

three dots appear instantly, then vanish. appear again. he’s deliberately taking his time.

funny. you didn’t seem so concerned about titles when you were in my bed.

your jaw drops. you lock the phone, shove it face down on the seat beside you. but of course, you can’t resist. less than a minute later, you pick it back up.

unbelievable.

what’s unbelievable? that you liked it? or that you want me to prove you still do?

you huff, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

i’m not playing this game with you. goodnight, ceo.

the little “read” receipt pops up instantly. for a second you think he’ll leave it at that. but no—

goodnight, intern. don’t be late tomorrow. i have… work for you.

you groan, throwing your head back against the seat. part of you wants to block his number entirely. the other part? well, that part is already wondering what exactly “work” means when it comes out of his mouth.

the worst part is—you can’t tell which side of you is winning.

֢

morning comes far too quickly. your alarm feels cruel, your body still heavy from last night’s mess of emotions and texts you’re trying not to reread. you shower, dress, and force yourself into something formal enough to look like you belong in a corporate building: a fitted skirt, blouse tucked in, heels clicking with purpose—even if your confidence hasn’t caught up yet.

by the time you make it into the office, it’s a blur of chatter, ringing phones, and the faint smell of coffee. you swipe your badge, clutch your notebook like a lifeline, and remind yourself that you’re here to work.

that’s it.

you barely make it two steps past reception before a voice stops you. low. familiar.

“you’re late, again.”

jeno is leaning against the corner of the hallway, navy tie perfectly knotted, jacket draped effortlessly over his shoulders. his eyes drag over you once, slow enough to make your stomach tighten.

you glance at your watch—it’s 7:05. “by like five minutes,” you mutter. “it’s not exactly a felony.”

he pushes off the wall, closing the space between you in an unhurried stride. “for everyone else, maybe. for you?” his gaze dips briefly to the notebook clutched to your chest. “five minutes is long enough to miss an opportunity.”

your mouth opens, ready to argue, but then he reaches out. his hand brushes yours as he plucks the pen from your notebook. he twirls it once between his fingers before leaning in—so close you can feel the faint warmth of his breath against your temple—and tucking it neatly behind your ear.

your pulse spikes.

he didn’t need to do that. he could’ve just handed it to you. why the hell did he—

“there,” he murmurs, his voice dipping so low only you can hear. “don’t lose it again.”

your throat goes dry. “i didn’t lose it—”

he cuts you off with the faintest smirk, already walking past you and leaving you standing stiff in the middle of the hallway with your heart trying to claw its way out of your ribs.

the day crawls by in a blur of tasks—emails, files, notes—but every moment feels shadowed by him. every meeting, you can feel his presence, his gaze flicking toward you, checking if you’re paying attention. every time he leans over your chair to glance at your notes, you swear he’s close enough for his cologne to sink into your skin.

he’s doing this on purpose, you tell yourself, dragging your pen harder against the paper. he’s pushing, testing, waiting for you to break first.

֢

by late evening, most of the office has cleared out. your desk is a mess of papers, your eyes heavy, your back aching. you tell yourself you’ll finish this last set of notes and then go home.

you don’t hear him until he speaks.

“still here?”

you jolt, snapping your head up. jeno’s leaning against your desk now, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, veins in his forearms catching the fluorescent light. he looks tired but put-together, like even exhaustion bows down to him.

“just finishing up,” you mumble, eyes dropping back to your notes. you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing your face heat up.

“dedicated,” he says softly, almost like praise. then he crouches slightly, just enough to be level with you. his hand rests on the desk, inches from your wrist. “or maybe avoiding me.”

you look at him then, and your throat tightens. his eyes are steady, unreadable, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking and is daring you to admit it.

gosh, why is it so hard to breathe when he looks at me like that?

“i’m working,” you say flatly. “not everything revolves around you.”

“funny,” he says, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “because every time i look over, your attention finds its way back to me.”

your chest tightens, fury and something else you refuse to name tangling inside you.

you slam your pen down, pushing your chair back abruptly. “do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?”

for a moment, silence. then his smirk deepens, slow and deliberate. “only when you stop answering.”

the words hang between you, smug and heavy. you swallow, trying to force down the lump in your throat, and shove your notebook into your bag.

“lucky for you, i’m done for the day,” you mutter, standing up a little too fast. your chair scrapes against the floor, drawing a few stares from the cleaning staff in the distance. you ignore them, focusing only on the desperate need to get out of this office, out of his orbit.

but he moves first.

jeno straightens, his hand catching the strap of your bag before you can swing it over your shoulder. his grip isn’t tight—just enough to make you freeze.

“i’ll drive you,” he says simply. no question, no hesitation.

you stare at him, incredulous. “you? drive me? that’s not necessary. i have my car.”

“and it’s parked in the far lot, isn’t it?” he counters easily, finally letting go of your bag. “dark corners, empty spaces… do you really think that’s safe? especially after the dinner last night. people noticed you.”

his tone isn’t mocking anymore—it’s careful, low, threaded with something that sounds dangerously close to concern. and it makes your stomach twist because you don’t know what to do with that.

he’s manipulative, you remind yourself. he always has a reason. always an angle.

but the image of walking alone through that dark lot flashes in your head, and you hate that part of you agrees with him.

“fine,” you say through gritted teeth, brushing past him. “but only because it’s late.”

the ride is suffocatingly quiet at first. his car smells like leather and faint cologne, the low hum of the engine filling the silence. you keep your gaze glued to the passing streetlights, arms crossed tight over your chest.

“do you always get this defensive?” he says suddenly, breaking the silence. his voice is calm, like he’s making an observation rather than a provocation.

you whip your head toward him. “defensive? you corner me in the office, at dinner, everywhere—and i’m the defensive one?”

his lips twitch, almost a smile. “because if you really hated it, you’d stop showing up.”

you gape at him, speechless, as your pulse kicks into overdrive.

he’s infuriating. absolutely, insufferably—

you snap your head forward again, deciding silence is safer.

he doesn’t push this time. instead, his hand casually rests against the gearshift, fingers tapping lightly. every now and then, his gaze flicks toward you, like he’s amused at your refusal to look at him.

the car slows, turning into your street. he pulls up neatly in front of your apartment building and shifts the car into park.

for a moment, neither of you move.

then he leans back against his seat, eyes fixed on you. “seven a.m. again tomorrow. don’t make me wait.”

you reach for the door handle, your hand shaking slightly, though you pray he doesn’t notice. “i didn’t agree to—”

your phone buzzes in your lap. when you glance down, there’s already a new message from him. just an address.

“what’s this?” you ask, suspicious.

“coffee shop down the street,” he says smoothly, like he’d planned it all along. “we’ll talk there before work. consider it… extra training.”

you let out a sharp laugh, disbelieving. “you really don’t hear the word no, do you?”

he tilts his head, smirk tugging at his lips. “not from you.”

before you can fire back, you slam the door shut behind you, the cool night air rushing against your face as you storm toward your apartment. but even as you climb the stairs, your phone buzzes again.

another text.

don’t be late.

[blessmehachu]

so excited for taste that i might write an angsty haechan oneshot just to keep myself busy 😭 … #thinking

[blessmehachu]

what would you guys like next? 😚

spidermark

jaehyun lovers to enemies trope

Voting ended onSep 2, 2025

[blessmehachu]

the ending for after hours part 2 felt kinda abrupt if i’m being honest! it felt as though there should be more to it considering the plot, like some sort of a ‘happy ending’ after the back and forth between them. however i hope it doesn’t stretch out too many chapters either, probably just another part would hit the sweet spot 🫶🏻

that’s because it wasn’t the full ending, rather the ending of that part/chapter! it’s meant to be abrupt as i plan to write more parts for after hours until i feel as though it should come to an end.

[blessmehachu]

just wanted to remind you guys that we are completely open to commissions/requests! feel free to send in whatever tropes or stories that you guys want us to write 🤍🤍

[blessmehachu]

how many parts is after hours suppose to have?

it was only ever meant to have one! i never knew that people would like it so much but then again i don’t mind writing even more chapters if that’s what you guys want <3

[blessmehachu]

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 ݁₊⊹ lee jeno

PART TWO

֢

﹒⟢ STARRING—ceo!jeno, fem!reader, co-worker!haechan, friend!yunjin, friend!ryujin, friend!jungwoo, co-worker!doyoung, friend!mark, co-worker!nayeon, co-worker!jaemin

﹒⟢ GENRE—modern!au, work!au, fluff, drabble

﹒⟢ CAUTION—profanity, nsfw

﹒⟢ W.C—3.3K

⤷ MUSIC: best lover — BIBI

tempo — EXO

cotton candy — LOOSSEMBLE

𓈒 ˖ ࣪ 𝜗𝜚 . ݁₊ ⊹ ౨ৎ . ݁₊ ⊹ 𓈒 ˖ ࣪ 𝜗𝜚 . ݁₊ ⊹ ౨ৎ . ݁₊ ⊹ 𓈒 ˖ ࣪ 𝜗𝜚 . ݁₊ ⊹ ౨ৎ . ݁

YOU twirl your phone around your fingers, lying with your head pressed softly into the pillow, eyes fixated on the message jeno sent you last night.

be here by 7am.

no smiley face. no punctuation. just three words, sharp and commanding—like everything else about him.

you let out a groan, dragging your hands down your face. what kind of boss texts like that? worse, what kind of man you’ve already slept with once gets to be your boss now?

still, you can’t deny the way your stomach twists, half nerves, half something you don’t even want to name.

by the time you’ve dressed in your most professional fit—silk blouse, fitted skirt, blazer sharp enough to slice—you’re rehearsing lines in the mirror.

“good morning, mr. lee.”

“yes, i’ll get right on that, mr. lee.”

absolutely not: “remember that night, mr. lee?”

you shake the thought out of your head and grab your bag.

the drive to the office feels quicker than yesterday, but your pulse only quickens as you step into the building again. the receptionist, seulgi, gives you a knowing smile. “good luck,” she says sweetly, like she knows you’ll need it.

you mutter a thanks and head toward the office, each step making your heels echo louder against the marble floor.

jeno’s door is cracked open. you push it slightly, peeking in, and there he is. navy tie, crisp shirt, silver hair catching the morning light. head bent over a folder, pen in hand.

“you’re late,” he says, without even glancing up.

your brows knit. “it’s 6:58.”

finally, his eyes lift to yours. slow, deliberate. his gaze trails from your heels up to your face, and he smirks like you just proved his point for him.

“late,” he repeats.

you open your mouth to argue, but he’s already standing, walking over to you in that maddeningly calm way. before you can stop him, his fingers brush against your collarbone as he adjusts your blazer, tugging it into place like it belongs to him.

your breath catches, but you don’t move.

“better,” he says, almost to himself, before stepping back. “don’t make me repeat myself next time.”

your jaw tightens, but all you manage is, “yes, mr. lee.”

jeno chuckles, low and satisfied, before returning to his desk. “good girl. now, let’s see if you can keep up.” he pushes a stack of files toward you without another word.

you stare at them, then back at him.

day one, and you already know this is going to be hell. the kind of hell you might secretly like.

֢

you eye the stack of files on his desk like they’re your sworn enemy. contracts, reports, proposals—you can already tell. it looks like something meant for a whole team, not one brand-new intern who barely got through the door this morning.

“start with these,” jeno says smoothly, sipping his coffee like he hasn’t just handed you a death sentence. “highlight everything that doesn’t make sense. i’ll check your notes later.”

you blink. “you want me to read all of these? today?”

he doesn’t even look up. “was i unclear?”

you grit your teeth. “no, mr. lee.”

for the next hour, you sit across from him at a smaller desk in the corner of his office, drowning in paperwork while he makes calls in that low, commanding tone that fills the room. every so often, you catch him watching you—just a flicker of silver eyes when you tuck hair behind your ear, or bite your lip in concentration.

you try to ignore it. but you fail, miserably.

֢

by midday, you’ve sat in on two meetings. you take notes as fast as your hand will allow, but mostly you’re distracted by the way jeno commands the room. calm. precise. never raising his voice, yet somehow everyone listens. you’re almost impressed—until he leans over mid-discussion to murmur, “fix your pen grip, you’re holding it like a child.”

you choke on air, cheeks heating, and he grins before returning to business like nothing happened.

the rest of the day is more of the same. calls, meetings, paperwork. you run files to other departments, get coffee (black, two sugars, extra hot), and somehow find yourself adjusting faster than you thought. still, by the time six o’clock rolls around, your head is pounding and your legs ache from those damn heels.

jeno dismisses you with nothing more than a casual, “don’t be late tomorrow.”

you don’t even dignify him with a reply—you just grab your bag and bolt.

the moment you sink into the driver’s seat of your ford, relief washes over you. exhaustion presses heavy on your bones, and all you want is a shower, food, and sleep.

then your phone buzzes.

jeno.

your thumb hovers over decline, but you hesitate and swipe accept instead. “hello?”

his voice is smooth, annoyingly calm. “there’s a company dinner tonight. you should come.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose. “i’m so exhausted—”

“great, i’ll see you there.”

the line clicks dead before you can protest.

your screen lights up again—this time with a text. a pinned location. a five-star restaurant downtown.

you let out a long sigh, forehead dropping against the steering wheel.

day one, and already he’s dragging you into his orbit again.

֢

by the time you make it back to your apartment, every nerve in your body is screaming at you to collapse face-first into bed. you toss your birkin onto the couch, peel off your blazer, and beeline for the shower.

the hot water works like a miracle. it melts away the ache in your muscles, rinses off the stress of the day, and when you finally step out, steam clinging to your skin, you almost feel human again.

almost.

you wrap yourself in a robe and pace your closet, gnawing your lip as you scroll back to jeno’s message. five-star restaurant. company dinner. half of you wants to ignore it, the other half knows he’ll make tomorrow a living hell if you don’t show.

so you compromise—if you’re going to drag yourself out again, you’ll at least look good doing it.

you slip into a sleek black dress that hugs your figure in all the right ways, a little more daring than you’d usually wear, but something tells you jeno deserves the headache. your heels click as you move back and forth, layering gold jewelry, styling your hair until it falls effortlessly, and sweeping just enough makeup across your face to bring everything together.

when you finally grab your bag and catch your reflection in the mirror, you allow yourself a small smirk. you looked gorgeous. untouchable. exactly the energy you need to walk into a room with him.

֢

the restaurant is buzzing when you arrive, fifteen minutes late. soft jazz hums from the speakers, waiters float between tables carrying glasses of champagne, and every head seems to turn when you step through the door.

jeno’s head is the first.

he’s already seated at the long polished table near the center, navy tie loosened around his neck, wine glass in hand. his expression doesn’t falter—cool, unreadable—but his eyes follow you all the way to the table.

“so nice of you to finally join us,” he murmurs as you slide into the empty seat beside him. his tone is laced with something—mockery, maybe, but you catch the flicker of his gaze as it drags over your dress before he looks away.

“sorry,” you say sweetly, reaching for the menu. “some of us actually needed to shower after working all day.”

you hear someone snicker across the table—your coworker haechan, probably.

“shower or not,” jungwoo chimes in smoothly from two seats down, “you look really good tonight. seriously—are we sure you’re an intern? feels like you should be the face of the company.”

your cheeks warm despite yourself, and you laugh lightly. “thanks. i’ll take that as a compliment.”

jeno’s glass hits the table a little too sharply. “her position is already decided,” he says flatly, cutting his eyes at jungwoo. “she’s here to work. not be the face of anything.”

jungwoo just grins, unbothered. “work and beauty aren’t mutually exclusive.”

you nearly choke on your water at the tension.

jeno leans back in his chair, arm brushing against the back of yours, his voice low enough that only you catch it. “don’t entertain him.”

you blink at him, lips parting. “excuse me?”

“you heard me,” he mutters, eyes trained on his plate though his jaw is tight. “you’re mine to deal with.”

your pulse skips. heat creeps up your neck—not entirely from embarrassment.

jaemin cracks a joke to break the moment, yunjin and ryujin dive into their own conversation, and doyoung raises a glass to toast something about new beginnings. the group laughs, the atmosphere loosens, but jeno never once removes his arm from behind your chair.

jungwoo suddenly tilts his head at you, his smile charming in a way that makes you a little nervous. “so, y/n, what do you do for fun? hobbies? besides… you know, filing contracts all day.”

you laugh softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “hm… mostly reading, sometimes sketching when i actually have time.”

jungwoo’s eyes light up. “no way, i sketch too. maybe we should compare sometime—”

jeno’s arm shifts behind you, the edge of his fingers brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. “she won’t have time for that,” he cuts in, voice cool. “her schedule’s already full.”

you whip your head toward him, brows knitting. “jeno—”

“mr. lee,” he corrects smoothly, taking another sip of his wine without sparing you a glance.

you force a smile back at jungwoo, trying not to let your irritation show. “maybe i’ll find time anyway.”

jeno’s glass sets down again, heavier this time. “doubt it.”

your jaw tightens. “what the fuck is your problem?” you whisper sharply under your breath, leaning slightly toward him.

he finally turns to look at you then, and his smirk is infuriating. “just keeping my intern in check. that’s my job, isn’t it?”

you let out a humorless laugh. “funny. because it feels a lot more like babysitting rather than managing.”

mark, who’s unfortunately close enough to overhear, nearly chokes on his drink. haechan starts wheezing, and even nayeon hides a smile behind her champagne glass.

jeno’s eyes narrow just a fraction, but then he leans in closer, voice dropping so low only you can hear. “careful. you don’t want me to actually start treating you like a brat.”

your breath catches—whether from anger or something else, you’re not sure.

you straighten up, biting back a retort, and plaster on your brightest smile for jungwoo. “so. you were saying about sketching?”

jungwoo chuckles, clearly entertained by the silent sparring match happening right beside him.

jeno doesn’t interrupt this time. he just sits back, jaw tight, one hand draped behind your chair like you’ve already been claimed.

the table is buzzing with chatter, laughter spilling over glasses of red wine and plates of half-eaten appetizers. you can still feel the weight of jeno’s arm stretched lazily behind your chair, not quite touching you but close enough to make your skin tingle. it’s infuriating—he’s been half-ignoring you, half-staking a claim on you all night.

“okay, serious question,” haechan says, leaning forward like he’s about to deliver a groundbreaking theory. “if you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

“pizza,” mark says immediately.

“boring,” ryujin cuts in, rolling her eyes. “at least pick something creative.”

“cream cheese bread,” doyoung answers calmly, swirling the wine in his glass like he’s been waiting all evening for someone to ask him that exact question.

“iced americano,” yunjin adds with a laugh, and half the table groans.

the conversation spirals from there, everyone tossing in their favorites, debating sauces versus sides, while you sip your drink quietly, feeling a little more comfortable now that the attention isn’t squarely on you.

jungwoo leans closer, lowering his voice so only you hear, “you didn’t answer. what about you?”

you hum, tilting your head in thought. “probably… pasta. simple, but you can never really get tired of it.”

“ah, classic.” his smile widens, and there’s a spark in his eyes. “you’ll have to sketch it for me sometime. you know, since you mentioned drawing earlier.”

jeno’s hand twitches against the back of your chair.

jungwoo’s grin only deepens when he notices your hesitation. “actually—” he pulls out his phone, screen lighting up the table, “why don’t i get your number? then you can send me one of your sketches and i’ll send you mine.”

the table quiets just a little at his boldness. jaemin whistles under his breath.

jeno’s arm finally drops, his hand brushing deliberately against your shoulder as he leans forward. “she’s not here to network,” he says smoothly, his voice edged with steel. “she’s here as my intern.”

you blink at him. “jeno—”

“mr. lee,” he corrects again, his eyes flashing at you before flicking back to jungwoo. “and my intern doesn’t give out her number to just anyone.”

jungwoo raises his brows, amused. “just anyone? i thought i was your friend.”

jeno’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “friends don’t mix business with pleasure.”

the words hang heavy between the three of you, sharp enough that even haechan stops mid-joke.

your chest tightens with irritation. you grab your wine glass, taking a long sip before setting it down with a soft clink. “i can actually speak for myself, you know.”

jeno turns his head slowly toward you, his smirk infuriatingly calm. “can you?”

heat rushes to your cheeks—not from embarrassment, but from sheer frustration. you force a tight smile, ignoring him completely as you look at jungwoo. “maybe later. we’ll see.”

jungwoo just chuckles, clearly entertained, before leaning back in his chair.

jeno doesn’t say another word, but you feel his hand slide beneath the tablecloth, his fingers brushing against your thigh under the table, a warning disguised as casual contact.

you shift in your seat, trying to brush him off without drawing attention, but he doesn’t move.

instead, he leans back in his chair, voice smooth as he joins the group conversation again—like nothing’s happening beneath the tablecloth.

“yunjin, you’re seriously telling me you’d survive the rest of your life on iced americanos?” jeno says, lips twitching into a grin. “that’s not even food.”

everyone laughs, and you force a polite smile, though you can barely focus. his hand is still there, casual yet deliberate, like he’s testing how far he can push you.

“at least it’s consistent,” yunjin shoots back.

“more consistent than mark’s love life,” haechan chimes in, sending the table into chaos.

mark groans. “dude, no one asked you.”

the laughter swells again, and for a moment you almost relax—until jungwoo speaks up once more.

“so, y/n,” jungwoo says, leaning on his elbow with that same easy smile. “if pasta’s your comfort food, maybe i should take you to my favorite spot sometime . . . it’s the best pasta in seoul.”

jeno’s fingers tighten against your thigh, his smirk fading as his jaw clenches.

“or maybe not,” jungwoo adds teasingly, “since apparently i need ceo approval for that too.”

the jab lands, and everyone at the table ooo’s in unison, feeding off the tension. haechan even mutters, “someone’s gonna get punched tonight.”

your face heats. you slam your napkin onto the table and push your chair back, the screech of metal against tile silencing the whole group.

“you know what?” your voice comes out sharper than you intended. “i don’t need this right now.”

jeno’s eyes widen, just slightly, but he doesn’t move.

you snatch your bag, ignoring the way everyone stares as you stand. “thanks for dinner,” you bite out, though your gratitude is directed more at the food than at him.

without waiting for a response, you spin on your heel and storm toward the door, your heels clicking angrily against the floor.

behind you, you can hear haechan whispering, “damn, she’s a badass,” before someone—probably doyoung—hisses at him to shut up.

but you don’t look back. not once.

֢

the night air outside is sharp against your skin as you step onto the street, your chest heaving. you don’t even know where you’re going—you just need to get away. away from him, away from the suffocating tension, away from the way his touch made your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

your phone buzzes in your hand before you’ve even flagged a cab.

jeno.

you hit decline, jaw tight.

seconds later, it buzzes again. a text this time.

come back.

you scoff, shoving the phone into your bag and walking faster—ignoring the stares from pedestrians.

your bag bounces against your hip as your heels click faster against the pavement. the cool night air does nothing to calm the heat burning through your chest.

just as you reach your car, a shadow falls across the sidewalk.

“going somewhere?”

you freeze, your stomach twisting. he’s there. jeno. navy suit jacket slightly unbuttoned, tie loosened, hair falling perfectly even though he’s been in that same restaurant. his presence is impossible to ignore—dominant, magnetic, infuriating.

“jeno—” you start, exasperated, but he cuts you off with a raised hand.

“don’t start. i followed you.”

“why?” you snap, trying to keep your voice steady despite the way your pulse spikes.

his lips curl into that smirk you’ve learned to hate. “because i don’t like watching you walk away.”

you step around him, but he moves, closing the space. he’s too fast, too precise, and suddenly the street feels too small for the both of you.

“you can’t just… follow me,” you hiss, finally spinning to face him. “this is ridiculous.”

“ridiculous?” he echoes, voice low, almost teasing. his thumb brushes against your jaw lightly, tilting your face up. “i think this is the most honest thing i’ve done all night.”

your heart is hammering in your chest, a mix of fury and something else you refuse to name. “honest? it’s… possessive, that’s what it is.” you pause, catching your breath, fingers tightening on your bag. “we slept with each other once. that… that doesn’t give you the right to—”

he chuckles, low and dark, eyes glinting with amusement. “once? and yet, somehow, you’re still standing here. i’d say that counts for something.”

you roll your eyes, trying to shove past him again, but he grabs your hand—not roughly, just enough to stop you. “don’t run from me,” he says, thumb brushing your knuckles. “i told you at dinner—you’re not giving your number to anyone else. and i meant it.”

you yank your hand back, hands on your hips, cheeks heating. “i don’t need you babysitting me!”

“oh, i’m not babysitting,” he murmurs, stepping closer so that his chest nearly brushes yours. “i’m… claiming.”

your mouth drops open, but before you can respond, he tilts his head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “and yes, that includes keeping jungwoo’s hands—and everyone else’s—off you.”

you groan, exasperated and flustered, and shove at his chest lightly. “you are impossible.”

his smirk softens just a fraction, eyes warming.

you groan again, exasperation mixing with the heat crawling up your spine. “i hate you so fucking much.”

he leans in, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, voice dropping. “oh… i don’t think you hate me. not really.”

and just like that, the street fades away. it’s just the two of you, standing in the night, tense and too close.

your phone buzzes again—probably another message from work, another reminder of reality—but for a heartbeat, neither of you cares.

until finally, you rip your gaze from him, shove your hands into your bag, and mutter, “get out of my way, jeno.”

jeno doesn’t move immediately. he just watches you, smirk lingering, like he already knows he’ll see you again. and maybe, just maybe, he wants you to.

[blessmehachu]

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 ݁₊⊹ lee jeno

֢

⟢ SYNOPSIS—the stranger you slept with last night is your new boss.

⟢ STARRING—ceo!jeno, fem!reader, idol!aespa, manager!kun, worker!seulgi, idol!nctwish

⟢ GENRE—fluff, modern!au, drabble

⟢ CAUTION—profanity, nsfw

⟢ W.C—2.4k words

⤷ MUSIC: love talk — WAYV

house of cards — BTS

meddle about — CHASE ATLANTIC

✉️ (pls read!) - since this story is a little more explicit than the other’s i just wanted to preface that it is strictly a work of fiction inspired by real people. all the events, dialogues, and characterisation’s have been created for storytelling purposes and do not reflect real-life actions or personalities of anyone mentioned in this fic.

֢

𝐘/𝐍 𝐋/𝐍

you wake up to an unfamiliar ceiling.

soft daylight filters through curtains that definitely aren’t yours, casting a warm glow over sheets that smell expensive—and like someone else. your nose crinkles at the scent, some mix of cologne and sex, clinging to your skin like regret.

your body feels warm. too warm.

when you glance to your right, the reason becomes clear.

there’s a man beside you. silver hair tousled against the pillow, lips parted slightly, one strong arm draped lazily over your waist. his chest rises and falls steadily. peaceful. content. like he didn’t just blow your entire life off track.

your heart sinks.

memories come rushing in all at once—flashes of a bar, laughter, his mouth on your neck, your legs wrapped around his waist, whispered things that made your stomach flutter. and then… nothing. until now.

you sit up, careful not to wake him. what the hell were you thinking? scratch that—you weren’t thinking. you don’t even know his name. you don’t know why you let him talk you into coming back to this hotel. and worst of all? you don’t know why the sex was good enough to make you forget all of that.

you sigh and peel his arm off you, his fingers twitching slightly in his sleep. slipping out of bed, you pad across the room and start scanning the floor for your clothes. your chrome hearts jeans are crumpled by the foot of the bed, your shirt half-tangled in them.

you yank your jeans on, shimmying them up your hips as quietly as possible. but of course, nothing ever goes your way.

a low voice breaks through the silence. rough. groggy. annoyingly sexy.

“what are you doing?”

you freeze, hands still on your waistband. turning your head slowly, you meet his gaze—half-lidded, hazy, but focused entirely on you. his voice alone sends a shiver down your spine and you hate that.

“leaving,” you mutter.

without thinking, you toss your shirt at him like a distraction. he catches it with one hand, confused, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

he stares at it. then at you.

“seriously?” he asks, sitting up against the headboard, the blanket pooling low around his hips. his torso is all smooth skin and sharp lines, abs you definitely remember running your hands over last night. his arms flex as he leans back, muscles moving under skin like sin incarnate.

you snatch your shirt from his hand with a scoff. “don’t act surprised. you knew what this was.”

his jaw clenches. “i thought we had something.”

“we had tequila,” you snap, dragging your shirt over your head. “and a lapse in judgment.”

he raises a brow. “a lapse? princess, if that was a lapse, you need to make more mistakes like that.”

you groan. your head is spinning, not from the hangover, but from the idiocy.

“i have a job interview in less than two hours,” you bite, zipping up your jeans. “i don’t have time for this.”

he shrugs, eyes still glued to you like he owns the air you breathe. “then don’t go . . . stay.”

you pause mid-step, slowly turning to face him.

“what?” you deadpan.

he smirks, the cocky kind that makes your fists twitch. “i said, fuck the interview. stay with me instead.”

your jaw drops.

“are you insane?” you shout. “do you not get that some of us actually have lives? responsibilities? goals?”

“yeah,” he drawls, sliding out of bed, now shirtless and smug. “but your goal last night seemed to be getting me to fuck you senseless. and i’d say we nailed that.”

rage flares in your chest like a lit match. “you arrogant prick—!”

you grab the nearest pillow and hurl it at his head. he dodges it with a laugh.

then the lamp. he catches that one—barely.

“seriously?” he chuckles, clearly enjoying this.

“you’re infuriating!” you scream. “i don’t even know your fucking name!”

he tilts his head, still smirking. “it’s jeno.”

“i don’t care,” you hiss, stalking toward him with arms crossed tightly over your chest, trying not to glance at the way his abs flex with every move. “you could be the boss of the fucking world and i’d still walk out that door.”

“good to know,” he murmurs. “i’ll make sure your résumé gets lost.”

you blink. pause.

“what?”

he grins. “nothing.”

you shake your head furiously. “i’m not risking my future for a random hookup—no matter how good his dick game is.”

“thank you for the review,” he says smugly.

you let out a strangled sound, grab your purse, and stomp toward the door.

“hope you enjoyed the one-night experience,” you call out, voice laced with venom. “because next time, i’m taking your damn clothes with me.”

with one final glare, you swing the door open and disappear down the hall—heart racing, fists clenched, and cheeks burning for so many reasons.

֢

you don’t even remember the drive home—just the blur of city streets, your foot heavy on the gas, and your jaw clenched so tightly that it hurt.

once you’re inside your apartment, you toss your keys onto the counter and make a beeline for the bathroom, stripping off your clothes as you go. the hot water stings against your skin, but you welcome the burn. you scrub harder than necessary, trying to wash off the smell of expensive cologne and regret.

you should’ve left last night. you should’ve never gone with him in the first place.

but no.

you stayed.

and now you’re spiraling in the shower over a stranger with silver hair and a stupidly good jawline.

when you’re done, you wrap yourself in a towel and march straight to your closet. you pull out a baby pink miu miu set—cropped blazer, matching mini skirt. it makes you look polished and put-together even if you feel like screaming. you slip on a pair of white ralph lauren heels and swipe on a glowy makeup base.

with your birkin slung over your shoulder, you pull the door shut behind you—hard enough to rattle the frame—and make your way down the stairs, the sharp tap of your heels echoing in the empty hallway.

your car waits outside like it knows you’re running late. you slide into the driver’s seat, throw your bag onto the passenger side, and catch a glimpse of the time on your dash.

9:17.

your stomach knots.

you grip the steering wheel, jaw tight, and pull out of the lot. the roads feel slower than they should be—too many lights, too many people in your way. your fingers drum restlessly on the leather as buildings blur past the windows, none of them the one you’re racing toward.

every second that ticks by feels like it’s pressing into your spine.

you’re still buzzing from this morning. not from the rush, not from adrenaline—from him. from his voice, his hands, the smirk you can’t scrub from your memory no matter how hard you try.

you shake it off. try to focus.

and then you see it.

a glass giant in the middle of the city. sunlight reflects off the building like it’s showing off. the letters neo culture technology stretch bold and proud across the front—professional and untouchable.

your breath catches, just for a second.

you pull into a space near the entrance and kill the engine.

a moment passes.

sighing, you adjust your blazer and smooth down your skirt. you also take a second to check your reflection in the mirror and whisper a string of affirmations under your breath.

get it together. don’t let one random stranger ruin your entire morning.

you step out of the car, head high, heels clicking with purpose.

and you walk straight into chaos.

paparazzi crowd the sidewalk, shouting over each other, camera flashes bursting through the sunlight. at first you think they’re here for someone famous—and you’re right.

four girls walk past you, dressed like they belong on magazine covers. one of them flips her hair, completely unfazed by the crowd. another flashes a peace sign.

“giselle! giselle, over here!” a cameraman shouts.

you can’t help but laugh softly when she sticks her tongue out in response.

but before you can process anything else, the noise shifts. it gets louder.

“the boss is coming!” someone yells.

you glance up just in time to see a man in a perfectly tailored navy-suit, step out of a sleek black car.

it was as though the air had suddenly shifted and the camera’s seemed to click even louder.

even women on the sidewalk turned to stare.

you do too—if only for a second. but your gut tells you to look away.

so you do.

you keep your head high, stride toward the entrance, and walk in behind him, careful to keep your distance.

inside, the lobby is massive—high ceilings, marble floors, glass walls that stretch forever.

you head silently toward the front desk where a woman with a sharp bob and perfect eyeliner is typing something on a screen.

her name tag reads seulgi.

she looks up and greets you with a smile. “hi there! how can i help you today?”

you clear your throat and try to sound put-together, “i’m here for a job interview,”

“name?” she asks sweetly.

“y/n l/n.”

her fingers click quickly across the keyboard before she nods. “you’re in room 127, fifth floor. elevators are to the right.”

you thank her and turn to head toward the elevators.

as you get closer, the doors slide open to reveal a group of six guys. they’re chatting, laughing, and clearly in the middle of some inside joke. one of them—the one with a bag covered in keychains—grins at you as they pass.

“i like your green star thing,” you say with a small smile.

he lights up. “thanks!”

as they walk away, you hear a burst of laughter.

“yo! she called wichu a green star thing!”

your cheeks burn as the elevator doors close behind you. you bury your face in your hands for a second, then laugh it off.

it’s fine. nothing you can’t survive.

a soft ding announces the fifth floor, and you step out into a quiet hallway. your nerves come back full force. your fingers twitch as you walk, nails digging into your palm with every step.

you stop in front of a glass door labeled 127. behind it, you see a large conference room—long table, high-backed chairs, neutral walls.

you swallow hard and push the door open.

inside, a man looks up from his tablet. late twenties, sharp features, polite expression. you vaguely remember the name kun from your email thread, but at this point, you’re not sure if your brain can be trusted.

“good morning, l/n,” he says, gesturing to the opposite seat. “you can sit there.”

you nod and walk across the room, trying not to wobble in your heels.

the silence stretches just a second too long.

“the interview will begin as soon as the ceo arrives,” kun says, checking his watch. “he should be here in about—”

the sliding door opens with a whisper.

you don’t need to look up. your whole body knows who it is.

but you do anyway . . . and your stomach lurches.

jeno.

silver hair swept back. navy suit hugging his frame like it was made for him—which, honestly, it probably was.

abruptly, he meets your eyes—and smirks.

your jaw tightens.

“sorry i’m late,” he says smoothly, settling into the seat at the head of the table.

your mouth is dry and your hands feel uncontrollably numb.

your one-night stand is the ceo of neo culture technology. the same man who told you to skip your interview and stay in bed with him.

he doesn’t even look at you—at least, not directly. but when your eyes meet for the briefest second, there’s something there. recognition. amusement. heat.

he knows.

and he’s enjoying this.

you look back at the other guy—kun, was it?—and try not to panic.

“shall we begin?” he says, adjusting his blazer.

jeno gives you a look. “yes, let’s begin.”

֢

kun starts asking standard questions—your experience’s, your goals, your interest in the position. you try to focus, answering as best as you can without choking on the panic rising in your throat—but you can still feel jeno watching you.

finally, kun leans back in his chair and glances at jeno. “would you like to ask her anything, sir?”

jeno leans forward slightly, folding his hands together. “do you have any… reservations about joining our team?” he asks.

you hesitate. “i mean . . . i do have one concern.”

kun tilts his head. “which is?”

you glance quickly at jeno. he’s staring straight at you, unblinking.

“i just think…” you start carefully, “…sometimes it’s hard to stay… professional if you’ve had a previous interaction with someone on the team. especially one that’s… complicated.”

there’s a silence.

kun looks confused, but jeno’s lips twitch slightly.

“understood.” kun nods.

jeno clears his throat. “well, i think we can work around that. you’re clearly competent. and we’re severely short on interns right now.”

you open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off, his gaze sharp.

“two-hundred dollars an hour,”

you blink. “excuse me?”

“two-hundred an hour, flexible schedule. full access to the executive suite. you’ll be assisting me directly.”

your mouth opens, but no words come out.

jeno leans back in his chair, folding his arms.

“you need the money,” he says quietly. “and we both know you’re more than qualified.”

he tilts his head, that smirk of his still evident on his face. “so, what’s it gonna be?”

you stare at him. at the man who slept with you, and now wants to hire you.

kun watches the two of you curiously, unaware of the firestorm happening beneath the surface.

you pause.

then, finally—reluctantly—you mutter, “fine.”

jeno smiles.

but it’s not a friendly smile.

“great,” he says coolly.

kun grimaces, rising from his seat. “welcome to the team, l/n.”

you plaster on a polite beam as he exits the room, leaving you two alone.

just you. and jeno.

the door slides shut.

and in the sudden silence, jeno speaks again—his voice lower, rougher, real.

“so… still think it was a mistake?”

you don’t answer.

you just grab your bag and stand.

but not before you catch the look on his face.

like he’s already planning what he’s going to do with you next.

[blessmehachu]

𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐋 𝐈 𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐔𝐓 ݁₊⊹ l.hs

“ONLY A VAMPIRE CAN LOVE YOU FOREVER.”

֢

⟢ SYNOPSIS—heeseung’s untameable desire for you outweighs the consequences he faces every time he touches you.

⟢ STARRING—vampire!heeseung, fem!reader, vampire!jay, bsf!sunoo

⟢ GENRE—fluff, modern!au

⟢ CAUTION!—profanity, mentions of blood, mentions of injury, viewer discretion is advised.

⟢ W.C—3.1k words

⤷ MUSIC: until i bleed out — THE WEEKND

valerie — THE WEEKND

bambi — BAEKHYUN

✉️ alzeah - it’s always been a rlly big aspiration of mine to write a vampire ff and after listening to until i bleed out for days on end i finally got the perfect idea for it! ofc i had to make it about an enha member so naturally heeseung was the first person that came to my mind, i hope u guys enjoy !! <3

֢

𝑳𝑬𝑬 𝑯𝑬𝑬𝑺𝑬𝑼𝑵𝑮

It was happening again.

He couldn't move.

He couldn't blink.

He couldn't even feel.

The only thing anchoring him to reality was the relentless rush of blood surging through his veins, a deafening pulse that left him incapable of forming a single coherent thought.

Collapsed on the cold floor of his apartment, his hand instinctively clutched at his chest—as if holding himself together could somehow ward off the agony of facing the truth he refused to accept.

"Fuckkk . . ." He choked out, gritting his teeth in anguish. His lungs burned with the effort to breathe, tightening so sharply it felt like they might explode at any second.

It felt as though the world was caving in on him, deliberately punishing him for denying the existence of his true nature.

His patience was wearing dangerously thin. He could feel it slithering with every passing second. He knew what was coming for him—he could almost taste it.

Enduring it, surviving it, was the real battle.

And then, it hit.

The crimson that once belonged safely within his heart was now slipping away in torrents, pouring through his trembling fingers.

Desperately, Heeseung tore his hand back—only to be met with endless pools of dark, heavy red.

There was blood....so much blood.

The sharp, metallic stench clung to the tip of his nose, leaving him frozen and speechless at the sight before him. If he'd had the strength, he would have doubled over and gagged.

The blood wouldn't stop. It gushed from him in relentless waves, spilling onto the floor, soaking into his clothes, staining everything it touched.

It filled his mouth, thick and telltale, until he was choking on it—coughing and gasping as the taste of iron overwhelmed his senses.

No matter how hard he fought to breathe, it kept pouring out, unstoppable, as if his body was desperate to empty itself completely.

He would never get used to this.

Tittering between the borders of life and death simply because he refused to feed on the likes of a human?

The thought alone was enough to send a surge of inescapable fury rippling through him. But what shattered him even more—what truly drove him to the brink—was the cruel reality that these violent withdrawals only ever happened after he touched her.

He was losing himself, piece by piece, every time she came near.

It wasn't just a simple obsession. It was an all-consuming hunger, a craving so fierce it hollowed him out from the inside. He was infatuated with her in every way a person could possibly be—mind, body, soul. She was carved into him, stitched into every corner of his being, poisoning his sanity with a sweetness he could neither escape nor resist.

He yearned for her in ways he didn't know were humanly possible—in ways that left him raw and trembling, desperate for the mere brush of her skin, the sound of her voice, the ghost of her scent lingering in the air.

And even as his body screamed in protest, even as every touch sent him hurtling deeper into madness, he knew one brutal, inescapable truth:

He would never, could never, stop wanting her.

֢

"Dude, wake up!" A voice barked, dragging Heeseung out of the heavy fog of unconsciousness. "This is the fifth bucket of water I've dumped on you—my arms are about to fall off."

Heeseung groaned, dragging himself upright with a slow, shaky breath. His lashes fluttered weakly as he struggled to adjust to the harsh reality around him. His vision blurred, then sharpened, revealing the cracked, stained ceiling above him... and the bathtub he was slumped in, slick with his own blood

He blinked hard, chest tightening at the sight.

Turning his head sluggishly, he found Jay standing at the edge of the tub, soaked, scowling, and looking like he'd seen this disaster one too many times.

"You touched her again, didn't you?" Jay muttered, more exhausted than angry.

Heeseung didn't bother answering. He just sighed, the sound heavy and broken, as he sank deeper into the freezing mess he'd made.

"You need to get your shit together, man." Jay scoffed, pursing his lips. "One of these days, I'm not gonna be around to haul your half-dead ass off the floor, you know."

"You don't get it," Heeseung rasped, his voice barely holding itself together. "I can't fucking stay away from her—I don't know how—I don't even want to."

His hand tore through his hair, trembling, desperate, as if he could rip the madness out by force.

But it was too late.

She was in him—under his skin, in the marrow of his bones, carved into every breath he took.

Just thinking about her made his vision blur, made his chest tighten until he could barely tell where the pain ended and the hunger began.

It wasn't love.

It wasn't even obsession anymore.

It was annihilation—slow, sweet, unstoppable.

Heeseung was a man unraveling, and she was the knife he welcomed at his throat.

To her, he had come undone.

"And if I hadn't made it in time? Then what?" Jay snapped, his fangs flashing for half a second. "You would've let yourself die cause' one girl batted her eyelashes at you?"

Heeseung looked away, jaw tight. "You already know my answer."

Jay could only stare at his friend, blankly, helplessly, like he was watching a slow-motion car crash he had no way of stopping. He exhaled harshly, running a hand through his soaked hair. "Yeah, you're fucking doomed, bro."

Without another word, he vanished from the room in a blur of speed, nothing but a rush of air and the faint sound of footsteps echoing behind him.

From down the hall, his voice called back teasingly. "We're going hunting tomorrow! Don't bleed out before then!"

The sound of Jay's footsteps faded into the distance, leaving Heeseung alone in the silence of the bathroom.

He slumped back against the wall, the weight of Jay's words sinking into him like a heavy stone.

He was doomed.

He could feel it—the hunger, the obsession, clawing at him from the inside out. It wasn't just the blood, the craving for her touch, the rush of her scent. No, it was something darker, something deeper. Every moment he spent away from her twisted him further. And that was something he couldn't control.

He took a slow, shuddering breath, his fangs almost itching to sink into something. The thirst was always there now—always burning, gnawing at him, stronger than any of the bloodlust from hunting.

He didn't need to feed, not in the way his body demanded. What he needed... was her. And it made him sick.

He stood up, pacing around the room, trying to fight the restlessness.

Get it together, he told himself. You've been through worse. But nothing had ever felt like this.

It was different.

She was different.

He couldn't explain it, couldn't rationalize it. She was a danger to him, and yet... he couldn't stop. He knew it was only a matter of time before he completely spiraled.

With a frustrated growl, Heeseung flicked his finger and any trace of blood left on him had vanished.

He then quickly grabbed his jacket and stormed out of the room. He didn't want to go hunting, didn't want to do anything. But if he stayed here in the apartment, alone with his thoughts, he might just fall apart completely.

He barely registered the passing time, his vampire senses too dulled by his obsession to notice the usual rhythms of nightfall. But the sudden burst of fresh air when he stepped outside jolted him back.

His instincts told him that it was a night for hunting, for blood and adrenaline—and yet all he could feel was the aching absence of her.

As he moved through the dark streets, his thoughts were a whirlwind of jagged edges.

Jay was right.

He was spiralling, and there was no way out.

Maybe the hunt would help. The blood would help.

But she was the one thing that could pull him back from the edge—or drive him over it.

֢

𝒀/𝑵 𝑳/𝑵

You sank back onto the couch, your phone lying uselessly in your hands. You stared at the screen, willing it to light up with a message from him. But the silence was suffocating.

"Sunoo," You sighed, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don't get it. Every time things finally feel like they're going right... he pulls away. I think we're getting somewhere, and then he disappears. It's like he can't stay, not even when it feels like we're finally... real."

Sunoo looked up from his book, his eyes soft with understanding but tinged with concern. "You've talked to him about this, right? About how it makes you feel?"

You ran a frustrated hand through your hair. "I've tried. But every time I ask, he just shuts down. It's like there's this wall around him, and no matter what I do, I can't get through."

Sunoo didn't say anything for a moment, just watching you, as if weighing his words carefully. "Maybe... maybe he's scared. Scared of letting you in. Scared of what's happening between you two."

"But why?" Your voice cracked, the question raw with emotion. "I don't understand. If he wants this too, why does he keep running?"

Sunoo's gaze softened, and he leaned forward, placing a hand gently on hers. "I don't know, Y/N. But maybe he doesn't even understand why. Sometimes people push others away because they're afraid of how much they need them. Or how much they might need you. It's not always about you... sometimes it's about him."

Your breath caught in your throat.

You knew Sunoo was right, but that didn't make it any easier to accept.

The ache in your chest felt endless, the confusion wrapping around your heart like a vise.

"Maybe I should just move on," you blurt out, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "I don't know if I can handle any more of this back-and-forth."

Sunoo raises an eyebrow, his voice calm but probing. "Who would you even move on to? It's always been you and Heeseung."

You shrug, frustration seeping into your tone. "Maybe Sunghoon? Jake, even?"

Sunoo lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Getting with one of his friends would be a mess, Y/N. Don't even joke about that."

You roll your eyes. "Well, that's what he gets for disappearing on me—"

Before you can finish, your phone buzzes loudly, the sound slicing through the air like a sudden jolt.

"Sunoo," you gasp, wide-eyed, "Why the fuck did he just text me?!"

Sunoo leans in, his gaze sharp as he tries to catch a glimpse of your screen. "What did he say?"

Notification Center

💬 MESSAGES

23:46 PM

my bambi 💘

pick up

y/n <3

pick up what?

my bambi 💘

the phone

y/n <3

you haven't even called me

my bambi 💘

well i'm about to

y/n <3

fuck off

my bambi 💘

??

my bambi 💘

what the hell did i do now

y/n <3

you vanish whenever it's convenient for you and now you expect me to just call you and act like nothing happened?

y/n <3

are you that fucking dense

my bambi 💘

you think it's easy for me?

my bambi 💘

every second i'm not near you i feel like i'm going insane and every second i am near you i'm terrified i'll fuck it all up

my bambi 💘

i'm losing my fucking mind over you

You stare at your phone, heart pounding, your breath catching in your throat.

Losing his mind? You wanted to be angry—you should be—but the desperation of his words made your chest tighten painfully.

You type back before you can even think.

23:57 PM

y/n <3

then prove it

Seen 23:51 ✔️✔️

Not even three seconds later, your phone starts ringing.

His name flashes across the screen, the sound cutting through the tense air around you.

You freeze, thumb hovering over the answer button. Every instinct screams at you to protect yourself—to be careful—but your heart, stupid and stubborn, shoves the logic aside.

You answer.

"I'll give you some privacy," Sunoo whispers, quietly creeping his way out of the room.

There's a moment of silence, so heavy it feels like it could crush you.

And then you hear him.

Heeseung's voice, low, cracked, desperate.

"Y/n... please. Don't hang up."

You can hear the ragged breath he's struggling to control, like he had been running—or maybe just breaking down before he even hit the call button.

"I can't do this anymore. I can't keep pretending I don't need you."

You stay silent for a second too long, and it nearly destroys him. You can hear it—the way Heeseung's breathing hitches, how he swallows back whatever was clawing its way up his throat.

"Say something," he begs, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Please, Y/N. Yell at me, scream, hate me—I don't care. Just don't shut me out. I can't handle it."

You press the phone tighter against your ear, your heart thundering in your chest. You hated him for leaving you over and over again. Hated the way he made you feel like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, only to disappear like none of it was real.

But hearing him now, hearing the crack in his voice... it shattered something inside you.

"What do you want from me, Heeseung?" you whisper, your voice trembling despite how hard you tried to keep it steady.

He breathes out a broken laugh, like he can't believe you're even asking.

"Everything."

His voice drops even lower, almost unhinged, almost prayer-like. "I want everything. I want your time, your voice, your breath, your fucking heartbeat. I'm selfish when it comes to you. I don't care anymore—I need you, Y/N. I need you like I need air."

You don't realize you're crying until you feel a tear slip down your cheek.

You wipe it away quickly, trying to find your voice again, trying to say something—anything—but Heeseung speaks first.

"I'm outside," he says.

Your entire body locks up. "What—?"

"I'm outside your building," he repeats, desperation sharpening every word. "I couldn't stay away. I tried. I can't."

You rush to the window, heart slamming against your ribs, and there he is—standing on the sidewalk, looking up, drenched in the cold night air like he didn't even think to grab a jacket.

His hair is a mess, his eyes wide and crazed and so heartbreakingly full of you.

He raises his phone again to his ear, still staring up at your window.

"Let me in," he breathes. "Please. I swear, I'll never leave again."

You don't remember racing to the door.

You don't even remember unlocking it.

All you know is that the second you crack it open, Heeseung is there—so close, so real—and everything inside you threatens to break apart.

He's a mess.

Eyes rimmed red, chest rising and falling like he just ran through hell to get to you.

When his gaze lands on you—really lands on you—his entire body tenses, fists clenching at his sides like he's physically holding himself back.

"Y/N..." he breathes, stepping closer, only to freeze halfway like he remembered what happened the last time he touched you.

The air between you snaps taut, electric, suffocating.

You don't move.

You don't breathe.

You just feel—feel the way his entire soul feels like it's trying to drag itself into your arms.

"Please," he whispers, voice wrecked, "don't make me stay away from you."

You blink back the flood of emotions threatening to pour out, fingers itching to grab him—to pull him in and never let go—but somewhere deep down, you know if you touched him right now, you could break him.

Heeseung steps forward again, reckless, like he can't stop himself. His hands hover inches from your face, trembling, like he's memorizing you without daring to close the gap.

"I want to touch you so bad it's killing me," he admits, so raw it hurts to hear. "But if I do... if I do, I don't know if I'll survive it this time."

His forehead presses against your doorframe, and a broken sound leaves him, like he's crumbling right in front of you.

You reach out instinctively—not to touch him, but just to be near—your fingertips hovering in the space between you.

Heeseung's eyes flutter shut, like even the suggestion of your hand near him is enough to set his whole world on fire.

You watch him for a second, heart hammering, the ache inside you growing unbearable.

And before you can stop yourself, you whisper, "Why can't you touch me?" Your voice cracks. "Why does it hurt you?"

The second the words leave your mouth, Heeseung flinches—like the truth itself burned him.

He drags in a shaky breath, his forehead pressing harder against the doorframe, like he's fighting something primal inside him.

"I can't explain it," he says, voice fraying apart. "It's... it's something wrong with me. Not you. Never you."

You stare at him, throat tight, wanting so badly to understand, to reach out and fix whatever was breaking him apart from the inside.

And then he lifts his head—finally meeting your eyes—and there's nothing but devastation written across his face.

"I don't care if it kills me," he rasps, broken and raw. "I need you."

You can feel the war raging inside of  him—instinct versus restraint—and it pulls something deep and desperate out of you too.

So you do the only thing you can.

You lean in, so close your breaths mix, so close it almost feels like a kiss without touching—a connection deeper than skin.

"I'm right here," you whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."

And he suddenly lets out a sound that's not quite a sob, not quite a laugh.

He breathes you in like you're the only thing keeping him alive.

But he doesn't touch you.

Not yet.

Because loving you was dangerous.

And touching you could be fatal.

[blessmehachu]

just posted our very first ff! 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

[blessmehachu]

“ 𝘼𝙎 𝙇𝙊𝙉𝙂 𝘼𝙎 𝙔𝙊𝙐 𝘾𝙊𝙈𝙀 𝘽𝘼𝘾𝙆 𝘼𝙁𝙏𝙀𝙍 “ ☆

↳ pairing: spiderman!mark x fem!reader

↳ genre: drabble/oneshot

↳ warnings: profanity, mentions of blood, mentions of stabbing, mentions of injury

↳ wc: 1.7k

↳ music: 200 - minhyung’s version — MARK

DIE 4 YOU — DEAN

HER — CHASE ATLANTIC

.・。.・✭・.・✫・⋆｡✩🕸️🕷️✮⋆˙ .・。.・✭・✫・゜・。.

“fuck,” you mutter harshly under your breath, voice low and ragged as the snap of yet another pencil echoes in your room.

that’s five now.

five broken pencils scattered across your desk like leaves in the peak of autumn.

you slump deeper into your spin-chair, cushions creaking beneath you as you rub a single hand over your face.

in front of you, the half-finished sketch of your little sister stares back—kind, smiling, still on the page. you’d promised her a portrait a week ago, and she’d lit up like a kid on christmas morning. she’d even joked about framing it next to one of her baby photo’s.

you laughed at the time.

now, your throat’s too tight for laughter.

it wasn’t even the drawing itself. your sister’s face, her softness—those, you could draw in your sleep.

the real problem is your hands. they won’t stop trembling. your grip is too tight, your strokes too heavy.

every mark on the page feels forced, disconnected. as though a tether to a being that didn’t want to be found.

you’re not angry at your sister. you’re mad at everything else.

at the way today unfolded like some cruel joke, at the gnawing weight in your chest that you’ve been carrying since the morning. at the way emotions seemed to cling to you like a parasite in its most cherished habitat, daunting and suffocating—creeping into things that should bring you peace.

like this. like this drawing.

you glance back at your sister’s photo propped against your sage lamp for reference. she’s grinning in it, eyes half-lidded from laughter, head tilted slightly to the side like she always does when she’s trying to listen to better.

you exhale slowly. you owe her this portrait.

she’d asked you for it with so much excitement in her voice, and has been nothing but patient with you—but right now, the weight of your own thoughts is louder than pencil against paper.

composedly, you reach for a new one—your sixth pencil—and force your shoulders to relax.

just breathe. start again.

but to no avail.

“y/n!”

then—a beat.

“i know you’re mad at me but i just—“

you hadn’t even realised you’d stood up until the pillow left your hands, hurling across the room with all the force of your frustration.

it hit the glass with a sharp thud, the figure crouched on your windowsill flinched, barely—but enough.

mark.

your boyfriend—maybe.

your situationship—definitely.

he was draped in his signature suit of dark-red and navy that clung to his frame like a second skin.

as the wind tousled freely, his shoulder-length brown hair fell gently into his eyes.

even now, perched outside your bedroom with the city at his back and your fury at his feet, he had the audacity to look calm.

voice soft. eyes searching.

you didn’t care.

“get the fuck off my windowsill,” you scowl, “before i throw something that actually hurts.”

“i know . . . “ mark breathes, his voice hoarse. “i know you’re mad. but i—i just . . .” he trails off, eyes pleading. “i’m not here to fix things. i got hurt and i didn’t know where else to go.”

“if you’re hurt,” you bite, arms folded tight across your chest, “then why the hell would you come here?”

he meets your gaze, and for a second, it’s like something in him splinters. “because you were the first person i thought of.”

you scoff. loud and harsh. that was the last thing you wanted to hear right now.

you’re already turning away, fists clenched at your waist, when you hear him shift—his palm slapping against the glass with a heavy thump.

you freeze.

slowly, your eyes drift back to the window, and your breath catches.

crimson smears stain the glass in the shape of his hands.

and then you see it. just beneath mark’s ribs, flaming scarlet blooming through his suit, thick and spreading.

“mark . . . ” your voice drops. “you’re bleeding.”

he sways a little, gripping the frame on your window tighter. “yeah. uh . . . kinda badly.”

you curse under your breath and unlatch the window, dragging it open in one quick movement. he climbs in slowly, wincing as his boot catches on the ledge. the moment he makes it inside, he stumbles toward your bed.

“don’t—!” you say sharply, putting a hand out. “you are not bleeding all over my sheets.”

he gives a weak laugh but listens, backing away with a grimace.

you turn without another word and head toward the bathroom, not bothering to check if he’s following.

he does, of course. quietly, limping.

once inside, you fling open a drawer and pull out the small first-aid kit you keep under the sink. he hops up onto the bathroom counter with a groan, legs swinging slightly, his suit sticking to the wound like fabric glued to flesh.

“how deep is it?” you ask, already pulling out the gauze and antiseptic.

you move between his knees, unzipping the kit, hands steady even if your thoughts aren’t.

he shrugs, casual—too casual. “uhh… i got stabbed. so… probably pretty deep.”

your head jerks up. “you got stabbed?!”

he doesn’t answer. instead, his expression shifts—his voice softening. “i’m really sorry about this morning. i know you’d never get with xiaojun. i just… the way you were looking at him—”

you don’t let him finish. you press the alcohol-soaked cotton against the wound without warning.

“fuckkk—” he hisses, his entire body jerking.

“y/n . . .” his head falls back against the mirror, jaw tight. “you could’ve warned me next time.”

you don’t even flinch.

“i was going to,” you mutter coldly. “then you started talking.”

“but seriously,” mark says quietly, voice a little steadier this time, “i mean it.”

you don’t respond.

he reaches for your hand—your free one, the one not holding the gauze—and tries to intertwine his fingers with yours.

you pull it away instantly. like muscle memory.

“i’m trying to stop you from bleeding out, mark,” you mutter, not even glancing at him. “if you want me to actually stitch your wound properly, you’re gonna have to take the suit off.”

that earns a smirk.

“oh? you sure you’re not just trying to get me undressed?”

without missing a beat, you lift the alcohol-soaked cotton pad again, eyes still focused on his side.

he sees it coming and jerks backward. “okay—okay! fine! i’ll take it off. no peeking, though.”

“you wish i would,” you deadpan, already turning on your heel.

you leave the bathroom without looking back, the door clicking softly shut behind you.

there’s a beat of silence. then a muffled, “okay… i’m done.”

you re-enter a moment later to find him shirtless, the top half of the spider-man suit peeled down to his waist. his skin is streaked with blood and sweat, the gash along his side raw and angry, but your eyes don’t linger.

you set the kit down on the counter again.

“sit still,” you say, voice neutral.

he does.

but you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.

you work in silence for a while, carefully cleaning around the wound, trying to stay focused—trying being the key word.

you can still feel his eyes on you like a weight, heavy and unrelenting.

finally, you snap. “stop fucking staring.”

mark blinks, maybe once, maybe twice. “what? i can’t even look at you anymore?”

“yes,” you say flatly. “fix your staring problem, or i’m done helping you.”

he grins, shamelessly at that. “i only have a staring problem when it comes to you.”

you roll your eyes and drop whatever tool you were holding onto the counter, you were done.

without another word, you pivot sharply on your heel and start walking toward the door.

“where are you going?” he calls behind you.

“away from you.”

your fingers curl around the doorknob—but before you can turn it, a thwip slices through the air.

a web shoots out, lightning fast, and wraps tightly around your waist, yanking you backwards.

you let out a short gasp as you’re pulled right into his lap and instinctively press a hand to his shoulder to steady yourself.

his arm slips around you like he’s done it a hundred times before. like it’s natural.

you glare at him.

the side of his lip curls into that same smug, little smirk you’ve always hated. and hated that you noticed.

“looks like your plan to leave didn’t work out so well,” he says.

you freeze for a second in his lap, stunned that he actually did it.

his arm is still around your waist, firm but not forceful. you can feel the heat of his skin through the torn fabric of his suit, the curve of his bare chest pressing against your side. it sends a subtle shiver down your spine, one you hope he doesn’t notice.

you try to push up off him, flustered now, your earlier anger dissolving into something quieter, warmer—but his grip tightens, pulling you back into place.

“just… stay for a second,” he says, softer now. “please.”

you glance up at him. his eyes aren’t teasing anymore. they’re honest.

“can you just… hear me out? about this morning?”

you hesitate, but then nod.

“i was an idiot,” he says. “i know you’d never get with xiaojun. i do. but the way you looked at him—gosh, it just got in my head. i got jealous. and instead of talking to you like a normal person, i started a fight.”

you don’t say anything. you’re too busy trying not to notice how close your faces are. how his thumb brushes lightly along your side as he holds you there.

“i’m sorry,” he adds, voice low. “let me make it up to you.”

you raise an eyebrow, still not quite trusting the softness in your chest. “with what?”

“i’ll take you out,” he says immediately. “anywhere you want.”

you blink. “does taking me away from you count?”

he laughs under his breath, head tipping back slightly, and for a second, you feel the sound of it more than you hear it.

it vibrates through you.

“fine,” he says, looking back at you with that half-smile. “as long as you come back after.”

[blessmehachu]

spidermark currently in the works… 🕸️🕷✮⋆˙

[blessmehachu]

spidermark drabble coming very soon!!! 🕷️

[blessmehachu]

guys i miss jaehyun…