okay so this used to exclusively be a fic recommendation page, but i've started publishing my own fics, so here are the links to various posts until i decide that i need to make a dedicated masterlist.
FIC REC. MASTERPOST
my writing:
Blame ~ Astarion x Reader/Tav
"A grievous injury leaves Tav incapacitated, and as the party struggles to heal her, Astarion blames himself for her pain."
Long Day ~ Astarion x Reader
"Reader and their companions return from a long day in the city. Astarion is there to make sure they get the rest they need!"
the left-behinds ☆ kang yeosang/choi jongho/reader
★★★★★
☆ female 9th member reader/jongho/yeosang (poly)
☆ chapter 3 of 3 // 16.3k words // read chapter 1 here // also on ao3
☆ summary // Ever since everyone else in the group paired off to be stupidly in love, you and your best friends Jongho and Yeosang are often left to your own devices. You’re not jealous that the others all have their person. You’re not. You have your friends. They’re everything you need. So why is it that when you find out Yeosang and Jongho have been hooking up behind your back, it feels like the end of the world?
☆ tags from chapter 1 still apply // MINORS DNI i'm serious there is smut here // chapter-specific tags: referenced homophobia, more implied aro-spectrum reader, mentions of vomiting, explicit sexual content, dominant jongho (he's a switch but in this scene he is mostly dominant), switch yeosang, submissive yeosang, switch reader, oral sex, praise kink, anal fingering, vaginal sex, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (i mentioned reader is on birth control in ch2 but still)
<< chapter 2
★★★★★
Even after dark, it’s still too warm for a jacket. You put it on anyway and tug the hood up for anonymity. There’s a disposable face mask in the pocket, and you pull that on, too, although it’s clearly been worn before. You nearly snatch both off when you register that this is Yeosang’s zip-up hoodie, imbued with the citrus notes of his cologne, and that the mask had once been pressed up snug against his skin.
You walk nowhere in particular for a while, sweating under the borrowed jacket, the mask ricocheting your humid breath against your face. It isn’t until you wander into a GS25 for a drink that you notice you don’t have your phone or wallet. Just the mask, the hoodie, and the crumpled tissue (unused, you hope) in its pocket.
Drinkless, you return outside and keep walking. Some vicious part of you likes the idea of being unreachable and untrackable—the same part that’s enjoying how no one in the store looked twice at you. Like this, you’re no one, free of expectations and scrutiny.
With nothing to do aside from putting one foot in front of the other and monitoring street signs so you don’t get lost, your traitorous mind circles back to the conversation you’d just run from, no matter how much you wish it wouldn’t.
What would you do, hm?
Going from a theoretical they’ll probably get together one day to a factual they’ve been sleeping together for over a month is a hard leap for you to make. You had been certain you knew everything about them, could map the lines of their every emotion through the specific shift of their eyes and the tension in their shoulders.
You suppose it’s a testament to how well they know you that they were able to hide it for so long. They have to know exactly what you will do and think in order to navigate around you the way they have. You hate the small comfort that brings you.
If she were here?
Here, in the aftermath, you reconsider your knee-jerk reaction. If they only said they want you to placate your fear of being left behind, why would Jongho be talking like that to Yeosang when he didn’t know you were there?
Then maybe they weren’t lying? Which puts your reaction in a different light. You’d thought it cruel for them to say that. Your refusal to believe it might be crueler.
Go on, hyung.
Six weeks. Six weeks since the two of them started…whatever they’re calling it. You hadn’t asked. Are they only sleeping together? Are they boyfriends? Do they know?
Six weeks, during which neither of them spoke up. Then you remember Yeosang’s confusion when he’d asked, Since when do you date?
Oh. Well, fuck. Some of this may be more your fault than you’d realized. It wasn’t like you’d announced it when you stopped caring about intentionally dating. You didn’t explain to them or to anyone else your shift into the ambivalent mindset of ‘if I happen to find romantic love at some point, great; if I never do, also great.’
To them it probably looks like you don’t want anything at all, ever, and that it might make you uncomfortable if they tried to make a move.
Tell me like you did last time.
You had no idea they thought of you that way. It stutters the breath in your throat. You don’t hate it, not even a little, not at all.
You remember the lesson shoved at you when you were a trainee. Obviously, you cannot be with any of them. The scalpel, the careful excision of your desire, the locked box, the high shelf in the attic of your mind where you could forget about its existence.
On a random street where no one knows your name, you return to that attic for the first time since you were seventeen. You climb the dusty ladder and open the door, anticipating that the unlocking and unpacking of your boxed-up desire will be a slow, piecemeal process.
It’s not. The room is a complete wreck. The raw want you had stowed tidily away all that time ago has exploded out of its box. It layers the floor. It drips from the walls, bloody and viscous.
Wait, you think, terrified by the enormity and pervasiveness of your desire, which had been so small and easily excised when you’d first set it aside. Wait, I’m not ready. I didn’t think it would be like this.
You scramble away and slam the door on it.
★☆★☆★
There’s only one person in whom you want to seek refuge, and it is not the person who answers your knock.
“You don’t live here,” you say stupidly.
“I sure don’t,” Wooyoung answers, gleeful in a punchable way.
“Where’s Seonghwa-oppa?”
“He’s in the—Hold on, have you been crying?”
“No.” A lie. Kind of. You had been when you’d fled the building however long ago, and you assumed the evidence would have since faded.
Wooyoung’s lips thin into a displeased line. “Come in. Hyung was just getting us a snack.”
You toe off your shoes in the entryway. Although you’re warm from walking several miles in the humidity, you don’t take off Yeosang’s jacket. The big collar and slightly oversized fit of it give you the illusion of a place to hide, armor against the inspection Wooyoung is currently giving you and the one Seonghwa is about to.
In the kitchen, Seonghwa stands at the counter, chopping fruit. Before you can speak, Wooyoung sails by to go sit on the barstool opposite him, declaring, “Something’s wrong with ____, hyung.”
“Oh?” He sets the knife down and gives you a concerned once-over as you multitask scowling at Wooyoung and helping yourself to a glass of water. “What’s up?”
You drain the glass, refill it, sip again. “Why is Wooyoung over? Is anyone else here?”
Seonghwa hesitantly picks up the knife. He has the demeanor of someone handling a spooked stray cat: he doesn’t want to press until he’s confident you won’t scamper off and hide in a storm drain. “Just us and San. Wooyoung’s staying the night, but San went to bed early. Yunho came over for dinner but he and Mingi left a while ago. I think they went over to yours. Did you see them?”
You filch a strawberry quarter off the cutting board. “I only saw Yunho earlier, I don’t think he and Mingi were there yet when I got home. That was…I don’t know, eight? I probably just missed them.”
“Home from what?”
You let yourself be cornered because being cornered into admitting this is far easier than admitting the reason you spent the last two hours—a glance at the oven clock tells you it’s nearly ten o’clock—wandering around after dark and showed up here disheveled in the aftermath of tears. “My date.”
Wooyoung gasps and nearly leaps over the counter. “That was tonight? Was he why you’re crying? I’ll kill that guy, I swear to—”
“No, no killing necessary,” you placate. “It was fine. He was nice. I ended it early because I wasn’t feeling it and he was cool about it.”
Wooyoung sinks back into his seat. Then his eyebrow creases. “You wore sweatpants and…Yeosang’s hoodie on a date? Not that I’m judging, but, like…”
“Obviously I changed,” you say on a sigh, and steal another berry.
Seonghwa pauses chopping and leans one hip into the counter. “You ended the date early, got back around eight, and changed. I would assume you’d been sitting at home until you came over here, but you don’t know if Yunho and Mingi are at your dorm. You also said you ‘probably just missed them,’ implying that you left right after you got back from the date. So where have you been for the last couple hours?”
“Oooooh,” Wooyoung intones. “Private Investigator Park Seonghwa is clocked in.”
Your stomach drops. A tiny smirk curls at the edges of Seonghwa’s lips. For someone so cute and sweet, he’s a clever fucker when he wants to be. “I went for a walk.”
“A walk?” Seonghwa’s gaze is innocent, but you sense you’re on very thin ice. “To where? How far?”
“Nowhere specific. I don’t know how far.”
“The health app on your phone should have tracked your steps.”
Great. You came here to avoid confrontation at home, and now you’re about to be read the entirety of the Riot Act and then some. “I didn’t have my phone.”
“____!” he scolds. “You were walking around by yourself at night and you didn’t even have your phone?”
“We live in a safe area. I was fine.”
“That doesn’t matter. What if something happened?”
“Well, nothing did.”
“Clearly something did or you wouldn’t have been crying,” Wooyoung puts in. You nearly jump the counter to throttle him, until you realize that his lightly teasing tone belies genuine concern.
“I went on the walk because something happened,” you say before you can think better of it.
Wooyoung points at you. “So you admit something happened.”
You close your eyes, searching for patience in that brief, personal darkness. When you open them, you’re no less reluctant to explain. You should’ve risked going home, where you’d have the privacy of a locked bedroom instead of two friends who know you better than you care to admit.
“I fought with Yeosang and Jongho.”
Seonghwa lets the ensuing pause stretch while he pulls out three sets of chopsticks and scrapes the cut fruit into a bowl, which he sets in the middle of the counter. When you still don’t elaborate, he prompts, “About what?”
You hesitate. There is no way to explain without outing Jongho and Yeosang, which is the last thing you want to do.
Wooyoung says, “Did you find out they’ve been secretly fucking?”
It’s a good thing you hadn’t taken another bite, because if you had, one of them would’ve needed to give you the Heimlich. As it stands, you choke on your own spit, nearly lose a lung from coughing, and by the time you recover enough to speak, your voice comes out raspy. “How did you find out? They said no one else knew.”
He does a goofy little victory dance without getting out of his seat. “I didn’t know, but I do now! I called it. I knew Sangie was hiding something from me.”
“Wooyoung-ah,” you say, still gravelly, gravely serious, “you can’t tell anyone else. I’m mean it. I wouldn’t think they want everyone knowing if they didn’t even want me to know.”
“I won’t, I won’t.” He waves a dismissive hand. “That’s their business. And yours, I guess.”
“Not even San,” you insist, not comforted by his airiness. “No gossipping, Youngie.”
His face pinches with hurt. “I would never, ____. Not about this.” Then his lips purse into a dramatic pout. “Why doesn’t hyung get the no-gossip warning?”
“Because your hyung spent three years whining to me about how down bad he was over Hongjoong-oppa. I know he can keep his mouth shut.”
Clearly eager for a topic change, Seonghwa hurriedly says, “Was that really why you fought? You found out about them?”
“Yeah.” A half truth; you can’t stomach telling these two what Yeosang and Jongho had confessed by the end. “I’m not mad about them. I’m mad they hid it from me.”
“Why would they do that?” he wonders aloud.
“They were doing it to keep me from getting butthurt over all eight of you being paired up, grossly in love, and, in the case of Yunho and Mingi, having loud sex where I can hear.”
“If you think they’re loud, you should be grateful you don’t live with me or San.” Wooyoung spears a pineapple chunk without acknowledging the appalled scrunch of your nose. “Hm. I would ask if that was why you wanted me to set you up on that date, but that was before you found out about those two.”
“I was trying to prepare for them to figure it out in the near future, not realizing that ship had sailed six weeks before.”
“Did they expect to keep it from you forever?” Seonghwa says. “They had to know you’d find out eventually.”
“Maybe they didn’t think it would become a long-term thing?” Wooyoung offers.
“They had to know it wouldn’t have changed your friendship with them,” Seonghwa muses. “Unless…”
You inspect the fruit bowl, avoiding eye contact and making a show of poking around for another strawberry. They might be getting more out of you than you had planned to share, but they couldn’t waterboard the ‘we want you’ part out of you right now.
“You aren’t telling us everything,” says Wooyoung.
“I don’t know what you mean,” you reply evenly.
He stabs his chopsticks in your direction. “You are so annoying to talk to sometimes.”
You give him a flat look.
“Were they right to think you would be upset about all of us being in relationships with each other?” Seonghwa asks, gentle.
Wooyoung lights up. “Do we need to set you up on another date?”
“I don’t need a date, I need people to put their friendships on equal footing with their romantic partners,” you snap. “Look, even if I did have a partner of my own, I’d still feel like this. Partners come first. That’s just how it is. I wish it wasn’t, but it is. Them being together will inherently change our friendship even if they don’t think it’ll happen.”
Seonghwa shifts his weight uneasily. “I didn’t realize you felt that way.”
You give him a helpless shrug. It’s not fair for you to make him or the others feel bad when not only did they all have their pathetic pining phases, they also have to hide that they’re with men. “That’s just how it is,” you say again.
“You say it’ll inherently change your friendship, and yet they’ve been together for six weeks and you didn’t notice,” Wooyoung points out.
You don’t have an answer for that.
He puts down his chopsticks and leans back in his chair, looking thoughtful in a way that makes you cold with dread. “I have a theory.”
Done eating, you lob your chopsticks into the sink. “Whatever it is, I don’t think I’m ready to hear it. I need to go take a long shower and lay down in a dark room for the next twenty-four hours.”
“We’re filming the dance practice video in less than twelve hours,” Seonghwa reminds you.
You press your head against the cold edge of the counter. Having a job when you’re in the middle of a crisis is so inconvenient. “Not if you take me out back and put me out of my misery first.”
★☆★☆★
Seonghwa—shockingly—does not agree to put you out of your misery. Consequently, the next several days are an exercise in avoidance.
You wait for the second car in the morning even though there’s space for you in the first because Jongho’s in the back row and Yeosang’s in the middle row. During breaks for dance practice, you escape to the bathroom or plant yourself between San and Wooyoung (to San’s confusion). You arrive five minutes late for your vocal lesson—bringing a coffee for the instructor to apologize—so as not to cross paths with Jongho, whose session was immediately prior to yours.
You check the shared calendar to verify you and Yeosang won’t be home at the same time during waking hours, and if you are, then you invent reasons to leave: going for walks, haunting the Seonghwa-San-Mingi dorm, working extra hours in the studio with Hongjoong due to what he thinks is a sudden obsession with learning about production. (When he looks at you sideways, you fumble for an excuse and come up with, “Wouldn’t it be cool if our next album wasn’t just written by you, me, and Mingi, but produced entirely by us, too?”)
The most difficult part is avoiding them during group schedules. Given that there are six other people to use as buffers, even that isn’t terribly complicated—except for when the staff have you sit between the two of them. It’s a quick filming, intended to be a two-minute video, just some filler content for social media. The staff give each member a situation and have them choose which members they’d pick to do it with them.
When asked who he would like to have with him on a deserted island, Hongjoong answers Seonghwa and San. When asked who he’d take as sous-chefs on a cooking show, Seonghwa answers Wooyoung and Yunho.
For your turn, you’re asked about ideal road trip companions. Normally you’d name your two best friends, no question. You can feel both of them watching you when you answer, “Mingi and Wooyoung.” Luckily, that it’s for a short video means you don’t have to explain for the cameras.
If asked, you can’t say what situations the others who went after you are given or what they answer. You have enough experience with masking that you make it through the remainder of the filming without appearing outwardly perturbed, but the moment the staff call cut, your placid smile drops.
You have thirty free minutes before you’re scheduled to meet Hongjoong in his studio after this. The others start discussing a group coffee order, but you’re jittery enough without caffeine today. Too busy attempting to vacate the room before Jongho and Yeosang can try to talk to you, you don’t notice Wooyoung following you until you’re out in the hallway and he yanks your arm to pull you to a stop.
“What are you not telling me?” he demands. “What you told me and Seonghwa the other night—it’s not the only reason you’re fighting with Yeosang and Jongho, is it?”
You don’t verbally respond, but your dodging of eye contact and the tension in your jaw are answer enough.
“Is it?” he says again.
“No,” you relent.
“And?” he prompts when you don’t elaborate.
You look up at him, your mouth open, but the words don’t come.
Wooyoung heaves a deep breath. “Getting things out of you requires, like, a crowbar. Ugh. I’m getting Seonghwa-hyung.”
“What? Why?”
One hand on the doorknob, Wooyoung sends you a grim smile. “He’s my crowbar.”
He disappears into the room you’d both just left. Against your better judgment, you wait for him, although it would be so easy to hide.
Before long, Wooyoung returns, Seonghwa in tow. Seonghwa is holding a company phone and a ring light—apparently, a manager was looking for volunteers to film a few dance challenges and skits to trending audios. It means that, though the three of you have an excuse to sequester yourself in a private room, you have to actually take the videos first, which feels ridiculous with the conversation looming over you.
“Okay,” Seonghwa says when you’re finally done, you three sitting cross-legged on the floor in a lopsided triangle. “What’s going on?”
You cover your face with both hands and bite the bullet. “My fight with Yeosang and Jongho was partly because they also told me they’re interested in me. Like, both of them.”
“‘Interested’? As in, romantically? Sexually?” says Seonghwa.
You let your hands slide down your face and drop into your lap. “I assume both. The exact phrasing was ‘we want you.’”
Wooyoung stage whispers, “Crowbar.”
Seonghwa squints, puzzled, at Wooyoung, but when Wooyoung doesn’t bother explaining, he turns back to you. “Alright,” he says delicately. “Do you want them back?”
“I don’t know. Why do neither of you seem surprised?”
“...Because it’s been obvious for forever?” Wooyoung says. “Is that a real question?”
“You guys are different about each other,” Seonghwa agrees.
It’s one thing for your best friends to confess to you. It’s another, entirely unique beast to know that people on the outside had seen it coming.
“They’re my best friends. Of course I’m different about them,” you say.
“Yeah, but—Let me ask you this, then,” says Seonghwa. “Would you kiss them?”
“I…guess?”
“Hey, so if they ask you, don’t respond like that,” Wooyoung advises.
Ignoring him, Seonghwa continues, “Do you want to kiss any of us? Me? Wooyoung? Yunho?”
“Ew. No.”
Wooyoung pouts. “No need to be mean about it.”
“Maybe think on that,” Seonghwa says. “It’s an immediate no for us but not for Yeosang or Jongho.”
“Have you considered that you’ve liked them for way longer than you realize but you’re just repressed as hell?” Wooyoung says, fluttering his eyelashes.
“Wooyoung-ah,” Seonghwa sighs.
“No,” you say, desert dry, “I had not considered that, but I will be doing so now.”
“Are you ready to hear my theory from the other night?” asks Wooyoung.
“Fine.”
“Your friendship didn’t change even after Jongho and Yeosang started fucking because you three are basically in a relationship already. The only thing is missing is they aren’t having sex with you.”
And, well. You have no idea what to do with that, especially when you know deep down it’s pretty much the truth. Rather than tell Wooyoung as much, you slump backward until your back meets the dirty tile of the floor. The ceiling is far easier to look at than the knowing in Wooyoung’s expression or the sympathy in Seonghwa’s.
★☆★☆★
JONGHO
Are you going to ignore us forever, noona?
YOU
no
JONGHO
It sure seems like you’re going to try
YOU
not forever but i’m not ready to talk to you guys about it yet
YEOSANG
did we make you uncomfortable
do you hate us
YOU
no and no
YEOSANG
ok good. because we weren’t lying
about liking you
YOU
i know
i’m sorry i thought you were
JONGHO
I know I’m supposed to tell you to take as long as you need to think
But I miss you
Come back soon, ok?
I want you in my life no matter in what way
YEOSANG
wow Jjong. unexpectedly poetic
but I agree
would you really road trip with Mingi and Woo over us? :(
YOU
no
★☆★☆★
The storm comes on fast and unrelenting. Truly, you should have seen it coming, but you had chosen to ignore the dark swirl on the horizon when you left the apartment for another evening walk.
This time you do have your phone, assuming it’s not getting water-damaged in your soaked pocket. Although you could hypothetically call a car to take you home, when you look around you realize you’re not far from the KQ building. It says a lot that you find going back to work after you’d clocked out for the day preferable to trudging home where you might run into Yeosang.
You show up at Hongjoong’s studio for the second time that day rainsoaked and shivering in the air conditioning. Hongjoong, who hasn’t moved from the spot you left him in two hours ago, swivels in his chair to appraise you with horror.
“____? What are you doing? Did you walk here? Someone would’ve driven you—agh, you’re dripping all over the carpet, come here, let me…”
It’s sweet when he gets all fussy. You don’t protest when he comes at you with a wad of paper towels and makes you pull off your wet hoodie and replace it with his sweatshirt. He parks you on the couch and wraps you in the blanket draped over the back, then stands back with his hands on his hips and a big old frown.
“Are you crazy?” he demands.
You shrug expansively.
Hongjoong blows out a slow breath and collapses into his desk chair. “What is going on with you? You spent half the day in here with me already, now you’re walking back over in the middle of a storm?”
“I’m not trying to work more. I was out for a walk. This was closer than going all the way back home.”
He studies your face. “I know something’s wrong. You haven’t been yourself the past couple days. But I also know you won’t spit it out unless it’s on your own terms.”
He lets that settle between you, expectant but not demanding.
Unnerved by his astuteness, you toy with his sweatshirt sleeves. There’s ink on the right cuff from how he toys with his pen when he’s thinking, and you run a thumb over the darkest streak. “How did you know you liked Seonghwa as not a friend?”
A beat of surprised silence. Hongjoong runs a hand through his hair and says, “Actually, I didn’t understand it at first, but everything felt different with him. Heightened, I guess. I wanted him to like me. I wanted him to think I was cool and well-spoken and put together. Whenever I wrote anything, I cared the most what he thought of it. I would’ve done anything to make sure his eyes were on me. I would find excuses to touch him—little nudges, a hand on his waist, leaning on his shoulder. I didn’t know why I felt like that until I realized the thought of seeing him in love with someone who wasn’t me made me want to burn down the whole world.”
He tends to be awkward about his own feelings, but the more he speaks, the more starry-eyed he gets. It’s cute.
“Do you want to tell me what this is about?” he adds softly.
“Seonghwa hasn’t said anything?”
“Not if you didn’t want him to.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Should I be hurt that you went to him instead of me? I thought I was your favorite oppa?”
Not dignifying that with an answer, you reply, “I just thought you might’ve heard—between him and Wooyoung and probably Yunho, I assume Yeosang’s told him at least part of it since I haven’t been home all week, which means Mingi probably knows something too. It’s like everyone else already knows and is just waiting for me to realize I’m in love with them.”
A surprised beat passes. “Them meaning Jongho and Yeosang?”
When you nod, sinking further into your blanket cocoon, Hongjoong hums thoughtfully. “Ah. That’s unexpected. I assumed you were fighting.”
“We are.”
“Are you in love with them?”
“I love them. How am I supposed to know the difference between loving them and being in love?”
“A little like what I said before. The way you feel about them is elevated. You look for them in a crowd first. They’re the first person you reach for when something goes wrong, and the first person you reach for when something goes right. You would sit there and watch them fold laundry or brush their teeth or write a grocery list, it wouldn’t matter how mundane, as long as you get to be with them.”
“Isn’t all of that true for best friends, though? Hence, best?”
Hongjoong tips his head to either side as he weighs this. “Yes, but it’s also…okay, here: You don’t want to do that mundane stuff with anyone else in the world. You think, I only want to be with this person—er, people—and you only want them to be with you. I mean, I guess the two of them can be with each other too. I’m sorry. I’ve never been in love with more than one person at once. I kind of don’t know how to say this. Yah, stop laughing at me. See if I ever give you advice again.”
You hide the tail end of your snickering behind your hand. “No, Hongjoongie-oppa, wait, I’m sorry. This is actually helping a lot. Really.”
His eyes narrow in suspicion. When you gesture for him to continue, he eventually relents. “There’s also, ah. The physical aspect.”
Your eyebrows lift. “If you can’t say the word ‘sex,’ I’m not too sure you should be having it.”
“I can say it! It’s just weird with you. Feels like talking about it with my hyung.”
You won’t subject him to a verbal parsing out of if you want to have sex with two other people who Hongjoong likely also couldn’t say the word ‘sex’ in front of. Especially since the answer is yes.
Huh, you think, taken aback by how easily you arrived at that answer.
“Alright, fine. Say I understand the difference, and say I conclude that yes, I am in love with them in a romantic way. I’m still not—allowed.”
Hongjoong frowns. “What do you mean?”
“That was, like, lesson number one after the company decided to let me stay: no hooking up with or dating any of you. If I do and they find out, they’ll…how did they put it? Drop me like a something. I don’t remember the exact wording.”
“____.”
When it’s clear he isn’t going to say anything else and is going to keep looking at you like you’re stupid, you shake your head. “What?”
“The same goes for all of us. Do you think any of us thought it was a good idea to not only date within the group, but date men? We might not have gotten a whole lesson when we were trainees the way you did, but we know how this works. While I’m not sure if the company would ‘drop’ any of us at this stage, you can’t let them rule every aspect of your life. They already take so much of us.”
You sink down in your seat. He really wasn’t wrong to look at you like you’re stupid. You are.
He continues, not unkindly, “None of us will be able to go public. But it doesn’t mean you have to let that dictate what you do in your private life. You would never, ever tell me I’m not allowed to be with Seonghwa, and you’d fight anyone who would even suggest that. Extend the same courtesy to yourself.”
“Oh,” you say, feeling very small. Over the last eight years, you’d made too many decisions out of the fear that everything you had worked for, everything you wanted so badly it sometimes hurt to look at, would be torn out of your grasping hands. To be given permission to just be shouldn’t be this much of a revelation when you’re nearly twenty-seven years old.
“Good ‘oh’?”
“Yes, Captain,” you say, a touch mocking; there’s only so much vulnerability either of you can handle in one day.
“Good. Now,” Hongjoong says with an air of authoritative finality. “I’m going to text a manager to take you home. While you wait, I need your opinion on this song.”
“Noooo,” you plead. “I’m clocked out for the day.”
“Should’ve thought about that before you showed up at work,” he says, shoving a pair of headphones at you. Evil, evil man. “Come listen to this outro.”
★☆★☆★
WOOYOUNG
hey can one of you come over pls
i think jongho is sick but he won’t let me or hyung help
you know how he is
YEOSANG
and you think he’ll let either of us?
WOOYOUNG
literally yes
YEOSANG
I’ll come over. give me 5 min
WOOYOUNG
front door is unlocked. his bedroom is locked but he’ll prob open it if it’s you
YOU
cold sick or throw up sick?
WOOYOUNG
throw up
YOU
sangie are you sure you want to go
you’re a known sympathy vomiter
WOOYOUNG
he’s already here
guess you’ll have to come too
what a shame
YOU
jung wooyoung you suck
be there in a few
★☆★☆★
Given that he is now aware of the situation, you wouldn’t put it past Wooyoung to lie about Jongho’s health just to get you, him, and Yeosang in the same room. But true to his word, when you arrive, Jongho is in the bathroom, Yeosang, Hongjoong, and Wooyoung himself hovering outside of the locked door.
“He won’t let any of us in,” Hongjoong says by way of greeting, over the whir of the bathroom fan. “Not even Yeosang. He said he isn’t allowed because he knows Yeosang will throw up too.”
You nudge Yeosang out of the way and knock. “Jongho-ya? Please will you let me in?”
No immediate response. You’re torn between asking more insistently and telling Wooyoung I don’t really know what you expected, when to everyone’s surprise, the doorknob clicks as Jongho undoes the lock without opening the door.
“Fine,” he says. “But just you, noona.”
Hongjoong gives you a meaningful look. “The first person you reach for.”
Yeosang and Wooyoung blink confusedly at him. You twist the knob and slip inside before Hongjoong can see the realization cross your face—or before the smell of sick reaches them outside.
Inside, Jongho is kind of exactly where you expected him to be: hunched over the toilet with his arms wrapped around himself in poor facsimile of a hug. His normally golden skin is somehow both pale and flushed at the same time.
“Hey,” you say, hovering uncertainly by the door.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Don’t feel good.”
“I know, Jjongie. What can I do?”
Most of the time, an unknowing stranger would be hard-pressed to name Jongho as the youngest of the group. This is not one of those times.
“Make it stop,” he whimpers, his head drooping until his cheek presses against the toilet seat. “I can’t throw up anymore but I still feel nauseous and I don’t know what to do and the hyungs won’t stop hovering and I have schedules tomorrow but my voice is going to be all messed up from puking and my stomach hurts and I want you to hug me but I don’t know how to ask for it since you aren’t talking to me right now. Can you fix all of that? That’s what you can do.”
Not all of it, but some. You spring into motion, grateful to be given tasks to accomplish. It’s far easier to check items like ‘find anti-nausea medicine in the cabinet’ and ‘yell at Hongjoong through the door to tell a manager to reschedule Jongho’s Wednesday’ off of a mental list than it is to confront the nebulous uncertainty you feel at being alone with him for the first time in five days.
You sit down on the floor beside Jongho and stay close while he tentatively sips water and tests if it and the pills will stay down.
“You shouldn’t get too close,” he warns. “I don’t know what this is or if it’s contagious.”
“You asked for a hug, Jongho-ya. I can’t make you stop hurting but I can do that.” You scoot forward and wrap him in your arms. He’ll deny it to his grave, but part of him loves being taken care of. “You were perfectly fine when I saw you a couple hours ago. If it came on this fast, it was probably something you ate. You’ll sleep it off and be fine by tomorrow.”
“Okay, Doctor ____,” he mumbles into your shoulder. You can feel the slight flush of a low fever where his cheek is pressed against your bare neck. “Thanks for coming even though it’s late and you’re mad at me. I didn’t tell Wooyoung-hyung to call you.”
“I’m not mad at you, Jongho-ya.”
“Whatever you want to call it, then.”
You squeeze him tighter and run a gentle hand over his hair. “I’ll always come if you need me. No matter how ‘whatever you want to call it’ we are with each other.”
You feel more than hear him let out a long breath as you brush a hand up and down his back. It takes a few moments, but eventually his body goes lax, trusting you with more and more of his weight. He must really not be feeling well, if he’s falling asleep sitting up on a freezing tile floor.
“____?” Hongjoong calls from outside. “Does Jongho need to go to the doctor?”
Mutely, Jongho shakes his head against your shoulder.
“No,” you relay to Hongjoong.
“I got him a sick day tomorrow. Hopefully he won’t need more than that, but if he does, I’ll figure it out. Wooyoung and I are going to bed, but wake us up if you need us. Yeosang is going to stay out here in case you need help getting Jongho into bed.”
“What do you think, Jongho-ya?” you ask, once you’ve thanked Hongjoong and said goodnight. “Can we get you up and into bed?”
He makes a weak sound of protest.
“Think of how much better you’ll feel in clean pajamas, with a blanket and a pillow,” you coax. “You can’t be comfortable like this.”
“You’re very comfortable, noona,” he counters, but pulls back regardless. Even unwell, he looks cute—there’s something particularly disarming about the sleepy squint to his eyes, the childish pout on his lips, and the fact that he trusts you enough to let you see him like this.
You both get up. Jongho sways tiredly on his feet, but you jerk your chin at the sink before he can go for the door. “Brush your teeth first.”
He groans. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“You’ll thank me when you don’t wake up with puke breath.”
Grumbling, he picks up his toothbrush. You open the door and peer out to find Yeosang sitting on the floor outside, staring at the opposite wall.
“Sang-ah, could you grab clean pajamas for Jongho? He needs to change before he goes in his room, because I think once he sits down it’ll be game over.”
Jongho makes an indignant sound around the toothpaste foam in his mouth. Yeosang pushes to his feet with a nod and vanishes down the hallway.
You and Yeosang wait outside the bathroom while Jongho changes, and once he emerges, the three of you file into his bedroom. As you’d suspected, Jongho collapses on top of his bed the moment he’s through the door. Together, Yeosang and you wrangle the comforter out from under him. When you finally manage to pull it up over him, he lets out a drowsy noise of gratitude.
“Do you want one of us to stay until you’re asleep, Jongho-ya?” Yeosang asks. A nice sentiment, but you aren’t sure how much it’ll matter when Jongho seems halfway to knocked out even with the lights still on.
“Yes.”
You try to share a look with Yeosang, but he won’t meet your eyes. “Who?”
A brief pause. “Both.”
Yeosang blanches. You don’t move.
“Please?” Jongho says into his pillow.
And when he asks like that, looking all cuddly and vulnerable and cute, neither you nor Yeosang stand a chance. Without further discussion, Yeosang crawls into the space beside Jongho, sitting up against the headboard and permitting Jongho to fist a hand in the loose fabric of his pants. You cross the room to turn out the lights and crack the door to let a slice of light from the hall inside so you and Yeosang don’t have to navigate a pitch black room when leaving. There isn’t room for you to lean against the headboard too; you sit at the foot of the bed, facing Yeosang, who has to bend his legs to give you room.
It doesn’t take long for Jongho to start snoring. Even after several minutes pass of him remaining solidly asleep, you and Yeosang still don’t move to go.
When you glance up from peeling the polish off your fingernails, Yeosang is looking at you for the first time all night, his gaze unerring even in the low light.
“Do you hate us?” he asks softly.
“Never.”
“It didn’t feel nice. For me to tell you what I told you and then hear you say it couldn’t be true and then not talk to us for almost a week.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t…I had never let myself think about you that way. To hear that you had been thinking about me as anything other than a friend, and for way longer than I realized—it caught me off guard. It scared me.”
Yeosang ghosts a thumb over Jongho’s knuckles where they’re clutching his pants. “I don’t know if this is going to scare you more. But we’ve been talking about you being included in what he and I have since the first time it happened. And I’ve been thinking about it for even longer.”
Abruptly, you’re finding it hard to swallow or breathe or blink or do anything other than sink into the warmth of his attention. “Oh,” you say.
He doesn’t seem aware that what he’d said had switched your body to operate on manual. You hope that in the half-light he can’t see the pink in your cheeks. “Do you hate us now?” he checks again.
“No, Yeosangie,” you say, terribly fond. “I like you very much.”
Finally, he looks away, unable to hide his pleased smile. God. For someone who hates being called cute, there is no better way to describe the embarrassed, full-body squirm he does in spite of that smile.
I’d like to kiss it off his face. The thought sidles up behind you, taps you on the shoulder, and punches you in the gut when you turn to meet it. It’s the first time you’ve considered it, or at the very least, the first time you acknowledged the want rather than shoving it in the attic where it couldn’t touch you.
But you shouldn’t kiss anything off of his face yet. Not on Jongho’s bed while Jongho is sleeping off what you’re guessing is mild food poisoning. Not while you three still have to talk beyond brief apologies and reassurances that you don’t hate them.
As you sit there, listening to the rumble of Jongho’s breathing and watching Yeosang’s eyelids begin to flutter shut, it sweeps over you with the swift inevitability of the storm you got caught in the other day. You stare at them, these two who are the first ones you reach for when something goes wrong or when something goes right, who you would watch fold laundry and brush their teeth and write grocery lists a thousand times over, and you love them, and you can’t believe you were somehow the last to know.
You’re on Jongho’s bed but you’re also in that attic in your head, surrounded by four walls covered in the bloodred shame of the desire you’d refused to acknowledge. It doesn’t look so scary this time around. You walk further inside, close your eyes, let yourself sit in the feeling of wanting. Of being wanted back.
Yeosang has slumped over, finally succumbing to sleep, his head nearly touching Jongho’s. Jongho has shifted so his forehead is pressed against the side of Yeosang’s thigh.
I didn’t know. I’m in love with you, I’m sorry, I’m in love with you, I’m sorry I didn’t know.
★☆★☆★
JONGHO
Thank you both for helping me last night
Noona you were right, I woke up basically fine
…Don’t tell Hongjoong hyung though
YOU
choi jongho are you FAKING SICK to get a free day off???
JONGHO
Hey I puked my way into this day off fair and square
Plus I am very tired and my throat is sore. After I rest more I’m sure I’ll be back to 100%
YEOSANG
____ what time did you end up leaving?
and why didn’t you wake me up?? I didn’t mean to sleep there! I didn’t have an alarm set or anything
I would’ve missed my Japanese lesson if Wooyoung hadn’t come in to check on Jongho
YOU
i didn’t want to disturb you
you guys looked so cute and cozy
i left around midnight? i think?
even if i’d wanted to stay there wasn’t room. y’all were starfishing like crazy
if us sharing a bed is going to become a habit we’ll need to do something about that
YEOSANG
HELLO?
JONGHO
What do you mean by that? 🤨
YOU
no comment
assuming your day of rest fixes you, jjong, can we all talk tonight?
JONGHO
Yes please
YEOSANG
my room? I’ll tell Yunho to get lost
JONGHO
What do YOU mean by THAT? 🤨
YEOSANG
oh um I didn’t mean it like that I just meant I don’t want him eavesdropping
but also I sorta didn’t NOT mean it like that?
JONGHO
🤨
YOU
🤨
★☆★☆★
You’re getting déjà vu.
Here you are again, in Yeosang’s doorway, looking in on him and Jongho on the bed. It’s even the same time of night, the same quality of streetlight orange coming through the half-pulled curtains. The same hesitance overtakes you for a beat, until Yeosang—who is not on top of Jongho this time around, but sitting across from him and playing a puzzle game on his phone—sees you hovering ghostlike and beckons you inside.
“Sorry I’m late,” you say, although no one had set a time other than an imprecise ‘whenever we’re all done with work.’ “Hongjoong-oppa, Mingi, and I were kind of in a groove and it took us a while to get to a good stopping point.”
Privately, you’ll admit that was your fault. You hadn’t exactly been in a rush to get home knowing what awaited you there. So maybe you’d given Hongjoong a push here and Mingi a push there to send all three of you down a minor rabbit hole of what if we tried it this way? and, oh, would you look at that, it’s already 8:30? Wow, time flies when you’re having fun!
Your downfall had been Yunho texting Mingi from Mingi’s bedroom asking where he was. Mingi had showed you Yunho’s text saying Yeosang had kicked him out for the night and asked if you wanted to come over to game with them, figuring you were banished too.
“Uh, no,” you said. “I’m not banished.”
Mingi had shrugged it off, but Hongjoong perked up. His head had slowly turned like a demon out of a horror movie. If horror movie demons were short and gay and squirrely.
“You’re not?” he’d asked, too nonchalant for the dangerously acute glint in his eyes. “What’ll you and Yeosang be up to, just the two of you with the whole place to yourselves?”
“Not just the two of us,” you admitted, setting your jaw. “Jongho too. We’re having an overdue discussion.”
He made a show of checking the time. “You wouldn’t happen to be stalling, then, would you, ____?”
There had been no use lying. And so you’d packed up slowly and dragged your feet out to the car, wishing you could skip the conversation you knew you needed to have and fast forward to the after when everything would be squared tidily away, apologies delivered and truths admitted.
Right now, obeying Yeosang’s summons and coming over to sit on the bed with them, you find it hard to believe there will be an after. You feel like you’re going to be wading through the tide of this discussion for the rest of your life.
“All better?” you ask Jongho.
“Yeah, thanks. I slept most of the day, had some tea, and I feel fine. I haven’t had much of an appetite, though.”
“You’re not still nauseous, are you?” you say with concern.
“No, I think I wasn’t hungry because knowing we were talking tonight was making me anxious.”
Jongho’s bluntness is refreshing in comparison to Yeosang’s shyness and your reticence. You still aren’t eager to get into this, but at least with him here you can trust that all the cards will be laid on the table, rather than hidden behind backs or scattered forgotten on the floor underneath the table.
“Yeosang-hyung told me what you said last night after I fell asleep,” Jongho continues, in the same breath as his last sentence. “I’m sorry we scared you.”
“And I’m sorry I sprung it on you the way I did.” Yeosang had stopped playing the game as soon as you’d sat down and is now toying with the case on his dark-screened phone to occupy his nervous hands. He visibly winces. “I don’t feel great about how I said it, either. ‘We want you.’ I didn’t mean for it to sound…crude.”
“From what I heard, it sounded like you”—you direct this to Jongho—“wanted to tell me everything right away but you”—and this is to Yeosang—“vetoed that. Why?”
“I was completely certain you would never, ever like us the way we like you. You hadn’t dated in, what, almost three years? You didn’t seem to care about falling in love, you didn’t seem to care about sex, and even if you did, what were the chances you would like both of us? I was sure we would tell you and everything would be so awkward and our friendship would be ruined forever.”
You chew on your bottom lip. “I stopped actively dating because I was always like, you are a stranger, I met you two hours ago, and you think that because we had one meal and know a handful of facts about each other, I’m supposed to want to kiss you? And if I don’t, I’m nothing to you? It felt so shallow. They didn’t even know enough about me yet to actually want me. But I…I think about it with you, both of you, and I don’t feel like that. Because you’ve known me for almost ten years and you know me better than anyone else in the world. Because you care about me, whether or not I want to kiss you. And I do, to be clear.” You don’t give them time to respond, barreling on in a rush. “I’m sorry I was convinced you were lying to me about wanting to be with me. In the moment, it really did feel like you were just saying that.”
Jongho looks sad. “Was it so hard to believe? I’ve told you on multiple occasions you’re one of my favorite people. It’s not a big leap to make.”
“It was hard to believe because when we were trainees, I completely locked down the part of me that could’ve ever considered looking at you guys as anything other than my friends. I didn’t want to give the company a reason to boot me or the fans any more reasons to hate my guts. I assumed it went both ways. I mean, it’s not like either of you had openly showed interest in me before.”
The sadness gives way to utter disbelief. “Noona. We flirt with you all the time.”
You turn to Yeosang, lost. Surely there’s no way the patron saint of missed social cues picked up on this before you.
But Yeosang nods. “It’s true. And you might not realize you do it, but you treat us differently than the others, too.”
Your mouth opens and closes around the shape of several failed responses. Finally, you land on, “That can’t be right. There isn’t anything I do with you guys that I don’t with the others.”
They share a look that says, do you want to take this one or should I? You’re so stupefied that you nearly miss how they aren’t shutting you out of their unspoken exchanges like they had before.
Yeosang goes first. “Neither of you are big on touching but you’ll lay on each other or me with no problem.”
Then Jongho. “I’ve said before that you are the only people on the planet who don’t wear out my social battery.”
“You two can tell when I’m about to get too overstimulated and always know exactly how to help.”
“When I asked you for help picking which photos to use when we got the last photoshoot samples back, you told me you couldn’t pick because I looked too handsome in all of them.”
“And you told me I looked pretty in mine, but when Wooyoung asked about his you only said he looked ‘good’ and that the ‘stylist did their job well.’”
“And you laughed when I told you you looked perfect in your photos even though I meant it! We’re always complimenting you and you never take it seriously.”
“You’ll come lay in my bed but never in Yunho’s.”
“You let us use your bathroom even though everyone else is banned from touching it.”
“You let me sip off your water bottle all the time but the one time San drank from it you made him go scrub the entire thing.”
“Do we need to continue?” Jongho says.
Once again, you’re speechless. You had had refutations ready (you lay on them because they’re comfortable and you know they won’t make a big deal out of it; you won’t lay on Yunho’s bed because he and Mingi fuck like crazy on that thing; San didn’t ask before taking your water and it pissed you off so you had to retaliate somehow) but in the end you just say, “That’s all circumstantial. Everyone’s close in different ways, of course we’re going to be different about each other.”
Throwing his hands up, Jongho huffs out a sigh. “Alright, fine. Here’s another thing we do with each other that we don’t do with everyone else.” And he leans forward and kisses you.
The immediate intensity catches you off guard. Jongho’s frustration with your obliviousness is apparent in the hard grip he has on your waist, the sharp line of his teeth dragging over your bottom lip.
But as your initial shock burns off, you give back as good as you get. You’re the one to swipe your tongue against his and to draw an unexpectedly pretty moan from him. His hold on you turns gentler, one hand coming up to cup your face far sweeter than it would’ve when he’d first reached for you.
By the time you separate, his exasperation is gone, replaced with something softer, more permissive. “It’s always been the three of us,” he says softly, still leaned into your space so the warmth of his words curls over your face. “Why would this be any different?”
You stay there, struck dumb and tingling all over, unable to answer and knowing he’s more than a bit smug about that, and then Yeosang props his chin on your shoulder.
“Do I get a turn, too?” he says, pouty.
Yeosang is far more hesitant at first, keeping his hands folded politely in his lap and his tongue and teeth to himself. You match his rhythm, amused by how he only seemed to have confidence for the time it took to ask for a kiss and to draw you in for it before reverting to demureness.
If kissing Jongho had been an evenly-matched battle, kissing Yeosang is like taking the first strike and watching him drop his weapon and fall to his knees without bothering to fight back. You want to devour him.
You tilt your head to the side, split open the seam of his mouth with your tongue, and slide one hand into the hair at the back of his neck. He melts into you with a beautiful pliancy and lets you have him. As you press further, obsessed with the tiny, desperate sounds he makes when he exhales, one of his hands splays over your thigh, fingertips digging in hard enough to have you idly hoping they’ll bruise.
He’s breathless when you pull back, dazed in the eyes and blushing hard. You like the idea that maybe he could taste Jongho on you.
Even after you’d heard them talking about you while clearly in the leadup to sex, even after they had confessed to your face, you had studiously avoided thinking of either Yeosang or Jongho in this way. Now that you’ve started, though—now that you know firsthand how they taste—the brakes on that train of thought have been cut. You couldn’t stop even if you wanted to.
And you don’t want to.
You run your tongue over your lower lip, damp with their combined spit, and sit back to better see both of them. Yeosang doesn’t remove his hand and you don’t want him to. “You know, I never asked how you two got together in the first place.”
Yeosang’s eyes go wide, though how he’s embarrassed when his tongue was just in your mouth, you aren’t certain.
Jongho chuckles cockily. “Been thinking about us, noona?”
“…Yeah.”
“It was the weekend you went home for your cousin’s wedding.” Jongho takes the reins, because Yeosang still seems too panicked to speak. “The eight of us went out for dinner, had a few drinks. Everyone started discussing who was going to sleep where, and as soon as I heard Seonghwa-hyung and San-hyung were going to be in my dorm, I jumped ship. Your dorm was going to be quiet since Yunho-hyung was going to Mingi-hyung, so I invited myself over. Yeosang-hyung said I could take your bed, but I didn’t want to without asking, and who knew when the last time Yunho-hyung had changed his sheets was…. I tried to take the couch but hyung said it would make him sad and begged me to come cuddle with him—”
“I did not beg!”
“He begged. He was a little tipsy and very needy and who was I to say no? We stayed up talking for a while and the way he was laying, with one of his legs over mine, I could feel it on my thigh when he started getting hard.”
“What were you talking about?” you ask.
“Oh, nothing in particular,” Jongho says, obviously feigning indifference. “He brought up the dress you were wearing to the wedding—you’d sent that mirror selfie in the group chat when San-hyung asked how it was going, remember? It wasn’t anything provocative, of course, but it seemed to get Yeosang-hyung going—”
“Shut up,” Yeosang wails.
Jongho gleefully does not. “Then we started talking about clothes. Hyung let me know that he liked the suit I’d worn for the photoshoot we did earlier that week. He really liked it, in fact. I don’t know if it was because he was tired or still a bit tipsy that he didn’t realize he was trying to get himself off on my thigh.”
“Please stop talking.”
“Aw, but hyung, it was so cute.”
“Great,” Yeosang sighs. “Exactly the word I want you to use when you describe the first time we slept together.”
You say, “One last question. Yeosang said last night that you’d been wanting to include me since the first time. How did you…I mean. Did you just know because he was talking about my dress, Jongho-ya?”
Jongho cuts Yeosang a saccharine smile. “Would you like to tell her, Yeosangie-hyung? You were the one who did it, after all.”
Yeosang shakes his head frantically. “No. Nononono.”
“But you were the one who made her wonder,” Jongho goads. “What, you don’t want to tell her we had to talk about it because you were moaning both of our names even though she wasn’t touching you? Wasn’t even in the same city as us?”
You’re blushing just as much as Yeosang. Maybe more. The desire that had been building low in your stomach since you kissed both of them pulses, heightening into a raw, unignorable need.
“I ask because I…” You take a deep breath. While you’re aware you had started down this path when you’d kissed, admitting what you’re about to is crossing a line you can’t uncross.
And you don’t want to.
“Because I kind of haven’t been able to get what I heard when I walked in on you out of my head.”
Yeosang slowly unfurls from his full-body cringe, haltingly intrigued like a curious gopher poking its head out of a hole in the ground. By contrast, the immediacy with which Jongho perks up with his own intrigue is better likened to those videos of cats hearing their automatic feeder beep and tripping over their own limbs with how fast they shoot over to it.
“If you liked that, just wait until you hear what else we’ve said about you.” He sends Yeosang a meaningful look that causes Yeosang to cover his face with his hands. “Don’t get shy, hyung, normally your mouth can be so filthy.”
You can barely reconcile that with how bashful he’s being as he whimpers, embarrassed. The sound shocks straight into the growing pit of warmth at the base of your spine. You want to hear him do that again. You want to be the one to make him do it again.
This must show in your expression, since Jongho murmurs, “He tells me all the time what he wants you to do to him. What he wants to do to you. Whether he wants to be the one doing or having things done to him depends on the day.”
Yeosang keeps hiding his face.
“What were you saying the other week? About her thighs?”
Yeosang whines again, shakes his head without dropping his hands.
“Ah, hyung, don’t hide from us.” Jongho tries to pry Yeosang’s arms down, but he flops over and twists to hide in the pillows instead. “Go on, tell her.”
A pause, a pained mewl, and then, through a mouthful of pillowcase: “Iwantyoutosuffocatemewithyourthighssofuckingbad.”
“You…Oh.”
One big brown cow eye, framed by a flush that blends in with his birthmark, emerges from the pillow. “Too much?”
“No,” you say, coming to the realization in real time. “No, I just wasn’t expecting it. Yeosang-ah, you’re so cute. Do you know that?”
“Oh my god.” It comes out mumbled, as he’s shoved his face back into the pillow with a ferocity that speaks to a desire to suffocate himself in a far less enjoyable way. “I’m fighting for my life to be sexy and you think I’m cute. Someone kill me before I die of embarrassment.”
When you tug him up, he lets himself be manhandled, but his eyes are squeezed shut. You shift him into your lap, and his eyes open, startled, his hands landing instinctively on your waist before he can fall facefirst into your chest.
“Let me explain,” you tell him. “I think it’s cute how shy you’re being. I think it’s very hot that you want to suffocate between my thighs. You can be both cute and hot at once. In fact, I think both of you are very good at it. I’d like to see a demonstration of what else you’re good at, Yeosang-ah.”
“I don’t know if I’d say I’m good. I’ve never—I mean, not with a girl…”
“He’s very good with his mouth,” Jongho supplies. “I bet he’d learn fast. I can teach you, hyung.”
Yeosang blinks slowly at Jongho. You anticipate another cringe, a deepening of his blush, but a resolved determination settles over his delicate features. “Yes. Please.”
The thing about being with two people at once, you discover, is that it provides perfect opportunities to gang up on one person. Case in point: when you pull Yeosang into another kiss, Jongho slides in next to him to press wet, openmouthed kisses down his throat. You have to separate to allow Jongho to rid Yeosang of his shirt, and you use that pause to remove your own in solidarity.
At the sound of your shirt thumping to the carpet, Jongho lifts his head from where he’d been skimming his tongue along the line of Yeosang’s collarbone. For a moment you regret not changing into a nicer bra than the plain one you’d thrown on that morning—it’s not as if you’d anticipated ending up here when you got dressed for the day—but Jongho smiles softly and says, “Pretty. Isn’t she pretty, hyung?”
“Stop,” you grumble, and come closer to capture his lips with yours before he can say anything else with such knee-weakening sincerity.
But Jongho curls back, affectionately displeased. “What? I can’t compliment you?”
“What you can do is take this off,” you say, tugging at the collar of his button-up shirt. “Equal exchange.”
“Go on, then.” He holds out his arms in equal parts invitation and taunt.
Rolling your eyes, you bend to the task, starting from the bottom with full intentions of kissing him when you reach the top. Yeosang beats you to it. You fumble with the middle buttons at the sound: the slick slide of their mouths, the affected hitches in their breathing.
They don’t need to break apart for you to slip the shirt off Jongho’s shoulders. But his undershirt does need to go over his head, which, judging from how far his tongue is in Yeosang’s mouth, isn’t happening right this second.
Still, since Jongho lives in high-collared shirts and zipped-up hoodies, you rarely, if ever, see much below the swell of his Adam’s apple. The exposed expanse of his forearms and the sharp jut of his clavicle feel scandalous. You can’t stop from licking a long stripe on the column of his golden neck from the collar of his undershirt up to the curve of his jaw.
He makes a “mmmfph,” noise against Yeosang’s lips and looks down at you like you’re crazy. Yeosang dissolves into giggles.
Without removing your attention from Jongho’s stunned face, you say, “Isn’t he pretty, Sang-ah?”
Jongho’s eyes narrow. He pulls off his own undershirt, perfunctory, and does not allow you a chance to touch or even truly look before he’s kissing you again, hard and with intent. One finger gently tilts your head to the side, and you let him maneuver you without understanding why until you feel Yeosang press his lips to the sensitive part of your neck. How elegantly you’ve been cornered.
The thing about being with two people at once is that it provides perfect opportunities to gang up on one person. This is significantly more nerve-wracking when you are the one being ganged up on.
They work together with a nonverbal communication that speaks to experience and years of friendship. You end up reclined against Yeosang’s mountain of pillows, Jongho sucking lightly at your shoulder in a way you hope won’t bruise, and Yeosang kissing his way down your stomach. When he gets low enough you cut him some slack and shove off your own pants so he doesn’t have to stumble through asking—and maybe you’re getting a little impatient, sue you—and he immediately presses his lips to the soft inside of your thigh.
You’ve sunk into the feeling of both of their mouths warm and wet on you that you aren’t able to bite back the gasp that escapes you when Yeosang kisses your clit through the thin fabric of your underwear.
Jongho, who had migrated to kissing the tops of your breasts where they’re spilling out of your bra and was likely considering unclasping that next, glances down at Yeosang, eyebrows raised. “I thought you wanted me to teach you?”
Yeosang looks only a little sheepish. And you’re more than a little conflicted over how to feel about how cute this is while he’s shirtless between your bare legs. “I know how to kiss, Jongho-ya. I still need your help with everything after.”
“Okay, hyung,” Jongho says indulgently as he moves down to join Yeosang.
The hand Yeosang has on your right thigh prevents you from fully closing your legs, but your left one folds in instinctively. Seemingly sensing your nerves at having their undivided attention on you, Jongho doesn’t lie down next to Yeosang and begin the lesson immediately. Instead he gifts Yeosang with another kiss, one hand on Yeosang’s cheek in a touch contrastingly innocent to how his right hand nudges your other thigh until your legs part again.
You hold your breath, waiting, but they don’t turn to you yet, giving you a moment to collect yourself. You’re so distracted by the brief flashes of tongue visible in the scant space between them that you barely notice Jongho’s hand sliding up to push your panties aside. His fingers ghost over your folds, tantalizing in that he’s exactly where you want him but not applying enough pressure to do anything. He drags down into the wetness building around your hole and then further up to spread you open.
A whimper punches out of you, a sound you’ve never heard yourself make, and never would make again if you had any say in the matter. It gets Jongho and Yeosang to separate and finally gaze down at you. If you felt exposed before it’s nothing compared to now, under the dual weight of their stares—Yeosang’s awed and disbelieving, Jongho’s molten and heavy—but you can’t close your legs with how they’re holding you.
“Cute,” Yeosang says as he shuffles down the bed to get his mouth closer to your pussy.
You cover your face. “Can someone kill me, too?”
Jongho moves his fingers just so, brushing your clit, and you hiss out a jagged breath. “No one’s dying. Hyung, why don’t you start with—”
But Yeosang has already leaned in and sucked your clit into his mouth.
All the breath in your lungs shudders out of you. The specific combination of his mouth on you while Jongho holds you open for him is driving you insane despite the tentative, uncertain swirl of Yeosang’s tongue.
“Are you sure you even need help?” Jongho says, terribly amused.
Yeosang’s already out of breath when he replies, “I liked the sound she made when you touched her there. I wanted to get her to do it again. But I…don’t know what else to do.”
“Keep doing what you were. It’s the same principle as with me, except a little more like kissing. Sometimes you want to lick, other times you want to suck. Just listen to how she sounds. And watch your teeth.”
“I’m right here,” you halfheartedly complain, although you don’t hate how they’re talking about you like you aren’t.
Yeosang sets to work again, his face scrunched adorably in concentration. Jongho was right, he is a fast learner. He alternates licking in broad stripes and sucking your clit gently into his mouth, as instructed, gazing wide-eyed up at you to gauge your reactions.
When he pulls away, you let out a sound of desperate protest you’d prefer to pretend never happened. Yeosang brushes his thumb soothingly over your hipbone. “I’m not going anywhere, ____. Just taking these off, okay?” He helps lift you up so he can slide off your underwear. They’re so soaked from your own wetness and from his saliva that you’re shocked they don’t make some gross squelching sound when they join the rest of your clothes on the floor.
You don’t even have it in you to be embarrassed—by that or by your moan when he starts lapping at you again.
Distantly, you hear Jongho say, “I have an idea for you, Yeosang-hyung. Do you want to try?” Yeosang’s affirmative hum vibrates against you, and Jongho says, “Go a little lower.”
Yeosang obeys, his tongue slipping hot through your folds all the way down to your hole. “Can I—I want—inside. Is that what I’m supposed to…Is that what you—?”
God, he sounds halfway to destroyed and he hasn’t even been touched. This might be the wettest you’ve been in your entire life, and it only multiplies when Jongho murmurs, “Go on, hyung, trust yourself,” and Yeosang plunges his tongue into you.
“Oh my—Yeosang,” you gasp.
“Do you like that, noona?” Jongho says in calm contrast to the ragged sounds you’re making and Yeosang’s inability to string together a complete sentence. With Yeosang’s mouth occupied, Jongho uses the fingers still spreading your pussy open to circle your clit, jolting sparks of pleasure across your whole body. “I thought you would. Hyung’s doing so well, isn’t he?”
Yeosang whines. It’s such a lovely sound. Before you can think of a way to make it happen again, his nose nudges your clit and you jerk up into his mouth.
“You might want to hold her down,” Jongho suggests. Obedient to the last, Yeosang’s hands come up to grip your hips. At your noise of discontent, Jongho gently shushes you.
“I want—” you start, but Yeosang interrupts.
“Let me. Please. We’ve got you.”
They keep going, spurred on by the increasingly frequent ah-ahs you’re making and your hands: one in Yeosang’s hair, the other clawing at Jongho’s thigh. Yeosang, gaining confidence, alternates between fucking into you with his tongue and dragging it up to suck at your clit, nudging Jongho’s fingers out of the way.
Your discontent at Jongho no longer touching you is quickly assuaged by him asking, “Noona, do you want hyung’s fingers?”
You can hardly breathe, let alone remember how to nod, but you jerk your head enough to get the point across.
That isn’t enough for Jongho. “Words, please.”
“Yeah, yes, please, yeah.”
“Start with one,” Jongho directs Yeosang.
“No, you can—shit—you can do two.”
Jongho raises an eyebrow. You raise one right back.
“It’s how I usually do it,” you say simply, unable to find shame given the present circumstances.
His lips part in something close to awe. “Later, we’re going to talk, in detail, about how you touch yourself.”
“We’re…we’re what now? Why would we—oh fuck.”
This is because Yeosang takes the initiative to slide two fingers into you, certain and smooth, and begins pumping them like he was born knowing how.
“She’s so wet, Jongho-ya,” he murmurs. “So nice, feels like when I do this to you.”
Based on how tonight has been going, you had assumed you had a good idea of their typical dynamic. This new information upends that completely. You’re showered with a sudden flurry of images: the two fingers curling inside of you now, inside of Jongho; Jongho’s face twisted with pleasure as Yeosang fucks recklessly into him.
Your body must react, because Yeosang smirks. “Do you like the thought of that, ____?”
A shaky moan slips through your teeth without permission. There’s so much you want; you’re starving to know what they’ve done together, what else they want to do with you. It’s like when you don’t think you’re hungry but the second you smell food you realize you’re ravenous. Greedy, you want everything, and you want it right this second.
“Please,” you gasp, not entirely sure what you’re asking for, only more. “pleaseplease.”
Yeosang isn’t the type to tease, not like Jongho. Yeosang is, you’re finding, the type to obey. He drops his mouth to your cunt and does what you asked.
You feel your orgasm approach from miles away and the intensity of it still manages to catch you off guard. Yeosang works you through it, the singular hand he has holding your hips down no longer enough to prevent you from bucking up against his mouth, but he moves with you while you get out broken syllables vaguely resembling his name.
“Oh my god,” you say, dazed. “Are you sure you’d never done that before?”
He smiles, the rounded edges of his teeth peeking out from his glistening lips. “I had a good teacher.”
Jongho kisses him while you catch your breath (something hungry in you trembles when you realize he’s tasting you on Yeosang’s lips), and then shifts up to kiss you too. “Good, noona?”
“You know it was, why do you need to ask?”
Yeosang remains where he is, his cheek soft on your thigh, his wet fingers on your hip, which should be gross but is kind of hot—and then his tongue is back on your clit.
You twitch, both confused and overwhelmed. For a moment, you think he’s giving a couple licks to tease or to see how sensitive you are, but…no, he’s not stopping.
“Sang-ah, ah, wait, I’m good. I came.” Does he not know that? If he’s never done this before, it’s not out of the question. Not that you want him to stop, but it’d be selfish to just do this all night. You want to focus on them, too, even if on the other side of this sensitivity is a bone-deep pleasure you want to fall headfirst into.
“I know. And I want you to again.” Yeosang blinks guilelessly up at you. “I need to show you and Jongho-ya that I learned well.”
How could you possibly deny him, when he asks so sweetly?
This time around, Jongho doesn’t kneel beside Yeosang to supervise. He wrangles you out of your bra, kisses down your neck, thumbing over the peaks of your nipples as Yeosang, unexpectedly relentless, slides one of your legs over his shoulders and presses a third finger into you.
“Is he making you feel good, noona?”
“Mm-hmm. B—both of you.”
“Tell him. Hyung likes it when you tell him.”
“Yeosang,” you get out on a broken exhale. “Sang-ah, feels good, so good, please don’t stop.”
It makes zero sense that the youngest of you has the most control. You can’t think, and Yeosang is whimpering so bad you almost can’t believe all that is being caused by what little friction he’s getting through his briefs from rubbing against the comforter. Jongho remains mostly composed, only betrayed by the dark voids of his pupils, the redness in his bitten lips, and the bulge in his pants.
After you come again, your heel digging into Yeosang’s back and one hand tight on Jongho’s bicep, you decide that, another time, you’d like to see how many times Yeosang can make you come like that in a row. And to see how Jongho compares to him.
While you were riding out your orgasm, Jongho has sucked the fingers Yeosang just had inside of you into his own mouth with a casualness that makes your head spin even more than it already is. You drop your head back on the pillows and fight not to beg for him to let you ride his face immediately.
Greedy, you want everything, but you can’t have it right this second. Not everything, at least.
Here’s what you can have: You beckon Jongho closer. He comes readily, and oh do you like how well he listens. Something to explore further later. For now, you cup a hand around your mouth to whisper in his ear, “I want to fucking wreck him. Will you help me?”
Jongho’s answering grin is downright devious.
Somewhere along the line, you aren’t sure when, you think sometime before your second orgasm, Yeosang had taken off his loose lounge shorts, leaving him in only his briefs. The dark grey does nothing to obscure the wet spot on the front, and when you sit forward with your eyes on it, Yeosang squirms as if trying to hide. Cute. He goes pliant when you kiss him, sinking into you as you lick the taste of yourself off of him. Hot.
“Yeosangie, you did such a good job. Made me feel so good,” you tell him, sincere but with an added pinch of sugar just to see him shiver. “Will you let us make you feel good?”
His lips part as he looks first at you and then Jongho behind you. In the ensuing quiet, Yeosang’s swallow is audible. “Please.”
“Okay. Would you like to tell us what you want?”
How he manages to redden further, you have no idea, but he’s crimson down to his chest at this point. He shakes his head.
“No you don’t want anything?” Jongho, catching onto your game, sidles up beside you and plants his chin on your shoulder. The warmth of his bare skin is distracting. “Or no you don’t want to say?”
“I don’t want to say,” Yeosang admits.
“But why, hyung? You were just being so good for us.”
He squeezes his eyes shut but surrenders. He doesn’t try to cover his face again, which you count as progress. “I want your mouth, an—and your fingers.”
“Whose?” you prompt.
Despite seeming like he’d rather explode, Yeosang takes a deep breath and elaborates. “Your mouth and Jongho’s fingers.”
“Thank you, hyung. See, it wasn’t so hard. Noona, can you get the lube from his nightstand? In the second drawer down.”
Oh. The drawer has condoms in it, too. And a vibrator. And a few other fun items. Good to know. You return to them armed with lube and more things added to your ‘for later’ list.
While you were occupied, Jongho has divested himself and Yeosang of the last of their clothing—Yeosang’s briefs and his own pants and underwear—and you have to take a deep breath. This is in part due to how Jongho has maneuvered Yeosang flat on his back with his head at the foot of the bed, and has a loose fist wrapped around Yeosang’s cock.
Passing the lube to Jongho, you kneel on Yeosang’s right side, studying the way Jongho’s hand moves to get an idea of what he likes. He’s so reactive, even the lightest touch is making him quiver, and so wet, precum shining where Jongho has spread it.
Jongho withdraws his hand and uses it to push Yeosang’s legs open, not unlike how he’d done to you. With his other hand, he flips open the lube’s cap and squeezes a glob onto his fingers. “Will you be needing a lesson too, ____-noona?” he asks playfully.
“I’ll observe. So I know what to do for later.”
Yeosang whimpers, another blurt of precum spilling from him. “____…”
“Yes, Sangie?”
“Want you to—please.”
You feign innocence. “You want me to finger you? But you already asked Jongho.”
“No, I don’t care who—just, please, touch me, I need—ah.”
His voice breaks at the end. Belatedly, you realize it’s because Jongho has pressed one slick finger into him. Not to be outdone, you lean down and lick a wide, flat path up his dick before taking as much of it into your mouth as you can.
You’ve barely gotten started when Yeosang’s litany of unraveled whines gives way to: “Wait, wait, wait.”
Unsure if you did something wrong, you freeze and pull off. “Are you okay?”
“I’m gonna come if you don’t stop,” he breathes.
“Already?” Teasing him is so much fun; hearing him whimper again turns it addictive.
“Don’t make fun of me!”
You kiss the crease of his thigh. “I wasn’t making fun of you. I think it’s—”
“Please don’t say it’s cute.” He aims for deadpan but loses all sense of dryness when Jongho fucks his finger back into him and laps lightly at his rim. “Oh, fuck, oh.”
“Come help me then, if he doesn’t want you touching his dick,” Jongho says to you.
At first you don’t understand; Jongho seems to have this down to a science. You let him show you what he wants ‘help’ with as he drizzles lube on your fingers and guides you to slide one into Yeosang beside his.
Clumsily, you both try to hit the same rhythm, the hot line of Jongho’s arm flush against yours. Yeosang is keyed up enough—and, by your guess, overwhelmed at being tag-teamed—that he doesn’t seem to mind the initial awkwardness, judging from the pleas he’s choking on. You follow Jongho’s lead, aiming for Yeosang’s prostate once the violent jerk of his body lets you know you’ve found it.
When Yeosang starts babbling, you wonder if he’s ever come untouched. You’re about to ask Jongho, but Jongho reaches up to smack Yeosang’s hand away where it’d snuck down to grab at his own cock.
“I thought you didn’t want to come yet, hyung.”
“No, no, I do, please, I can’t, I can’t.”
“Let me,” you say, echoing his words from earlier. “We’ve got you.”
With your free hand, you only have to jerk him twice before he’s coming across your knuckles and his own stomach, smothering his moans against his forearm.
“Pretty,” you say, partly because it’s true and partly to see Yeosang get shy again, but he’s too fucked out to react. You start to wipe your lube- and cum-covered hands on his sheets, and that gets a grunt of protest from him. “Calm down, they’re already nasty. You’re going to have to do laundry anyway.”
Before you can get off the remainder of Yeosang’s cum, Jongho takes your wrist and drags his tongue over your knuckles to clean them. You and Yeosang go completely still. Then he wipes his lubey hands on the sheets as well. Notably, Yeosang doesn’t make a sound.
Jongho looks up to find you both staring at him. “What?”
Your next words are hoarse from how dry your throat has gone. “It’s your turn, that’s what.”
He seems, for a beat, as if he’s going to give you instructions. That won’t do. You want to see him lose control. You want to be the reason that calm, unaffected demeanor shatters, and you doubt it will be as plainly given as Yeosang’s submission—which only makes you want it more.
“I want to ride you,” you tell him.
He smiles indulgently. “Good, because I was going to ask if you would.”
After pressing a soft kiss to Yeosang’s cheek, Jongho moves to sit where you had been before, against the head of the bed with his legs splayed out, unashamed of having his entire dick out and uncaring of the damp spot you’d left there.
Annoyed by how at ease he looks, as if he couldn’t care less whether you come sit on his cock or if he has to finish himself off, you grit your teeth and straddle his lap, purposely maneuvering so his cock slides between your folds without fully entering you. You’re rewarded with a low, shuddery moan.
He presses a thumb to the corner of your smirking mouth. “Proud of yourself?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do,” Jongho argues, shifting his hips to push the head of his cock teasingly over your clit. From what you can feel, he’s just as wet as Yeosang was. You cling onto his shoulders—sturdy with hidden muscle, tacky with sweat—to keep from collapsing. “Aren’t we past lying to each other by now?”
Whatever you might’ve said next is drowned out by your hitching gasp as he pulls you forward and you receive the dual sensations of your chests pressing together and his tip teasing at your dripping entrance.
“Hyung,” Jongho says over your shoulder, and the tremor in his voice would bring back your smirk if you weren’t so quickly devolving into desperation, “can you get a condom, please?”
“No, don’t,” you tell Yeosang without turning. “Don’t need one, just—Jongho-ya, please.”
You push closer at the same time that he cants his hips up; like this, together, you sink onto him.
“Oh, fuck,” Jongho says under his breath and presses his forehead against yours, his careful poise wavering. “Fuck, noona, you’re perfect, do you know that? Do you?”
For all your need to see his composure crack further, you can’t summon enough of your own composure to respond. The only thing you can do is fall into your instinct to move, rocking back and forth into that perfect feeling of fullness.
Jongho’s breath comes out in a series of delicious, erratic grunts. His hands drop from your waist to the space where your ass curves into your thighs, and he uses that grip to help you pull up and drop back down onto him. The slight change in angle hits just right to snag a whine out of you despite the burn in your thighs.
The mattress dips behind you and Yeosang is there, the plane of his chest hard on your back. One of his hands creeps down your stomach, then two fingers circle your clit with the expert aim only someone who’s made you climax before can have.
The hottest thing is how Yeosang’s other hand joins Jongho’s at the juncture of your upper thigh. How the pressure of their grips, layered together, keeps urging you to fuck yourself on Jongho’s cock. How you don’t have to see Yeosang to know he’s making heated eye contact with Jongho over your shoulder when you surrender the game and tip forward until your forehead meets Jongho’s collarbone. How Yeosang’s fingers keep drifting down to frame where Jongho is sliding in and out of you.
You tilt your head up and lick a line up Jongho’s sweaty, golden throat for the second time tonight.
“You have a thing for my neck or something?”
“It’s a nice neck,” you mumble, and lick it again.
“Not like you’ve never seen it.”
“Not like this, I haven’t.”
It’s your last coherent sentence before he starts fucking up into you harder and you dissolve into wrecked cries. You can hear Jongho and Yeosang kissing sloppily over your shoulder; Jongho says, into Yeosang’s mouth, “Come for me, noona.”
You clench hard around him, reveling in the choked sound it yanks from him. “You f—first.”
Maybe earlier he would have fought back, would have taunted, would have made this into some drawn-out challenge. But he doesn’t seem capable of any of that right now. Another bolt of pride surges through you. You did that.
He does come first.
You have a split second to feel victorious before the combination of his subdued yet broken groans, the hot pulse of him spilling inside you, and Yeosang flicking his fingers just right has you following right behind.
You come for the third time that night trapped between them, exactly where you want to be.
★☆★☆★
“Hold on. We never said…” Yeosang says into the quiescent dark, right when you were on the precipice of sleep. “Are we, like, official? Dating? I don’t know what word to use.”
You had migrated to your bedroom, as Yeosang’s bed was too filthy with sweat, lube, cum, and who knew what else, and no one was interested in doing a midnight load of laundry. Your mattress wasn’t made with three people in mind. You’re making it work by clinging koalalike to Jongho, who was unanimously voted into taking the middle because Yeosang flails in his sleep and you run too hot to be trapped between two bodies.
“Oh. Right,” you say. “I guess we didn’t discuss it directly.”
Your brain trips and stumbles over two separate thoughts: (1) that you’re in love with them, and (2) that you already have a mental to-do list for the next time(s) you have sex. You adamantly refuse to admit to either of these until at least twenty-four hours have passed, in the interest of retaining your dignity.
Jongho sighs heavily. “You’re both so stupid. Obviously we’re official. Dating. Together. Boyfriends and girlfriend. However you want to phrase it. Go the hell to sleep.”
“Yah, don’t speak to your elders that way.” Yeosang aims a halfhearted whack at Jongho that glances uselessly off his bicep.
“Yeah, yeah. Wait until I tell ____-noona that when you were moaning her name the first time we slept together, you kept calling her noona.”
You sit up so fast you get lightheaded. “WHAT?”
★☆★☆★
YUNHO
Good morning…
HONGJOONG
Good morning?
Since when do you send unsolicited good morning texts?
With ominous punctuation?
YUNHO
Since I discovered something
However
I don’t want to blow up anyone’s spot so I will let them come forward
WOOYOUNG
elaborate. now.
YUNHO
That’s all I’m saying
WOOYOUNG
HMMM
idk what you would have discovered between leaving mingi’s dorm and going back to yours. and i know there was nothing to discover in mingi’s dorm because san and i would have discovered it too. and you didn’t look like you had just discovered something when you left
SEONGHWA
How many times are you going to say ‘discover’ youngie
WOOYOUNG
it was yunho’s word i’m just borrowing it
MINGI
Well he didn’t tell me about any discovery before he left so it must be something in his dorm
SAN
Do we get a hint, Yunho?
YUNHO
Three of us are being real quiet in here
Is all I’m saying
WOOYOUNG
oh my god
jeong yunho what do you know
YOU
why are you putting this in the group chat, judas???
YUNHO
Because you three have been fucking up the group’s vibe crazy style for the last week and if it’s finally sorted out the people deserve to know
YOU
i know where you sleep you fucker
‘don’t want to blow up anyone’s spot’ I Am Going To Blow Up Everything You Own
SEONGHWA
Whoa! Let’s not do that please
JONGHO
It’s sorted out
I will not be explaining further
WOOYOUNG
JJONGIE MY BELOVED MAKNAE MY BEST BOY PLEASE EXPLAIN FURTHER
____ PROBABLY WON’T TELL ME I HAD TO CROWBAR THE TRUTH OUT OF HER AND SHE WON’T LET IT HAPPEN AGAIN
JONGHO
And what makes you think *I’m* telling you anything, crowbar or otherwise?
WOOYOUNG
fair point
oh yeooooosaaangggg
YEOSANG
no
WOOYOUNG
PLEASE?
come on if this is what i think it is we should all know
all of us made our announcements like right after it happened :( why are you gatekeeping :(
YEOSANG
let me commune with my advisors and see what I am permitted to say
MINGI
Brother what. Why did you turn medieval
YEOSANG
I have permission from the council to inform you that ____, Jongho, and I are in a relationship
no further questions at this time
WOOYOUNG
YYYEEESSSSSSS
SEONGHWA
💃♥️🥳!!!!!
HONGJOONG👍
SAN
Yay! 💗 Happy for you guys!
WOOYOUNG
yunho how exactly did you discover this
i need details
don’t tell me you walked in on them
YUNHO
Nothing crazy actually, I was just confused bc I got back early and Yeosang should’ve been asleep but his door was open and he wasn’t in his bed. Also there were clothes everywhere that I knew weren’t his
Then Jongho came out of ____’s room in his boxers to get a water bottle. I gasped out loud
JONGHO
Does this not count as blowing up our spot, hyung
MINGI
Wait wtf why are none of you surprised?? Did everyone know about this except for me? HOW?
YUNHO
I made Sangie tell me bc he was being suspicious about ____ going on a date with a rando
WOOYOUNG
hwa hyung and i knew bc of ____
HONGJOONG
^ Same.
SAN
Jjongie told me the absolute bare minimum and I kind of assumed the rest
YUNHO
So ____ confided in three different people…wow. Is this a parallel universe? Where am I…
YOU
Everything You Own, jeong yunho
HONGJOONG
Please refrain from bringing explosives into the building where all of us live, thank you!
And everyone, don’t forget the group schedule at 11.
Don’t bring explosives to that either, ____.
★☆★☆★
You’re at the head of the table again, watching the others pass drinks around and bicker over what meat to order. Four on either side of you, the couples sitting in pairs across from each other, Jongho to your left, Yeosang to your right.
It works itself out neatly, to sit nine people divided into two, two, two, and three like this.
It also puts a sour taste at the back of your mouth that has nothing to do with the citrus soju Mingi had poured for you.
You raise your voice enough to catch everyone’s attention, even San and Wooyoung at the far end. “Everyone get up. We’re playing musical chairs.”
Eight confused faces stare back at you. “What?” San finally says.
“We need to switch seats,” you clarify. “We’re being annoying.”
“...To who?” Wooyoung asks.
“To me.”
Yunho frowns. “How?”
“It’s…” You struggle for the right way to say it without making them feel bad. “Look, just because we’re all—” you’re in the restaurant’s private room but it feels unsafe to say aloud, so you skip the word altogether in favor of a meaningful tilt of your head “—doesn’t mean we have to be paired up at all times. I don’t want us to be like that. Like…like it’s a given that we’re going to do everything forever with whoever we’re…involved with.”
Yeosang and Jongho are acutely aware of your feelings on this subject—and they’ve only learned more since you’d explained to them how difficult it was for you to differentiate between your romantic and your platonic attraction to them. How you have never understood the need to be in love when your friends have always been more than enough.
Perhaps you should’ve thought this through more before attempting to tell your friends, ‘hey, I love you, you’re some of my favorite people ever, please don’t let that we’re all in relationships within the group change the shapes our platonic relationships take’ by declaring a game of musical chairs.
“I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal,” Yunho says. “You’ve never said anything about this before.”
“Yes, I did,” you sigh. “And I was accused of jealousy every time. Which isn’t an argument you can make anymore.”
Wooyoung has the grace to look chastened.
You swallow. “I know everyone is going to put their partner first, that isn’t unique to us. But can we make an effort to not always do everything all the time in pairs?”
“Isn’t it a trio, in your case?” Mingi says hesitantly.
The strange tension that had settled over the room fractures. You roll your eyes.
Hongjoong has been giving you a long look—something about the combination of his role as leader and that he’s known you longest gives him the uncanny ability to see right through you. “You heard her,” he says. “Everyone grab a new seat.”
You can tell the others are humoring you by the way San salutes and shoots to his feet while Wooyoung says, “Yes, Captain!” But you don’t care if they don’t completely understand. So long as they try.
A few minutes of chaos ensue as chairs are exchanged, personal belongings are moved, and drinks are misplaced. You end up sandwiched between Mingi and Seonghwa. Jongho has taken your old seat at the head of the table; you can feel him trying to catch your eye, but you don’t let it happen. If he has something to say, he can say it later, when you and him and Yeosang have each other all to yourselves in the private hours of night.
Right now, Mingi is roping you into his bickering with Hongjoong about how it doesn’t matter that he ‘doesn’t like green,’ he is a grown ass man who needs to eat his damn vegetables, and you let yourself be dragged into the argument willingly, wry and amused, loving and loved.
summary: Six months after disappearing, you're alone in a remote cabin in Norway, slowly becoming something not entirely human. Meanwhile, Bucky tears through the universe trying to find a cure because aftr everything you've gone through, Bucky refuses to believe your story ends in separation. And this time, he's not letting you go.
word count: 10.7 k
warnings: +18 MDNI smut, established relationship, hurt/comfort, isolation, near death expriences, panic/grief, lots of crying. angst with a happy ending(yay), mutual pining, canon divergence, fluff, a lot of cameos.
a/n: so, after binge watching the infinity saga + black panther + wakanda forever I finally came here with this resolution for the angstiest story I've ever written. I hope you all enjoy it and that it makes sense :) also big thank you for @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysdecaflove & @kileyking for beta reading this ꨄ︎ you have a big place in my heart! | dividers by @strangergraphics
read in AO3
Six months later.
The cabin is so remote that supply drops only come once a month.
You chose Norway because the cold helps. Something about extreme temperatures stabilizes the radiation — makes the constant hum under your skin almost bearable.
The cabin is small. One room, actually. A bed you rarely sleep in, a kitchenette you barely use, and a desk completely buried under research materials. Quantum physics textbooks in three languages, compound's database you stole before disappearing, including Bruce's notes.
Your hands hover over an equation, and they're glowing again. Faint purple light seeping through your skin like bioluminescence. You've learned to control it somewhat— channel it into small bursts of energy manipulation. You can move objects now without touching them, create shields, sense energy fields within a hundred-meter radius.
But it doesn't matter. None of it matters, because you're alone.
The dog tags hang heavy around your neck, you haven't taken them off once in six months. Sometimes you hold them when you sleep and pretend there's still a heartbeat behind them.
You wonder if he's given up looking yet. You wonder if Steve finally convinced him to let you go, if he started healing, started living, started forgetting—
Your hands flare bright purple and the coffee mug on the desk shatters.
"Shit." Your voice sounds strange. You haven't spoken out loud in three days, maybe four.
You clean up the ceramic shards with your bare hands, not bothering with the broom. The cuts heal almost instantly now, another side effect you discovered in the past weeks: accelerated healing, enhanced strength, and a bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of sleep can touch.
The latest book you've read is about quantum entanglement. The theory that particles can remain connected across any distance, that what affects one affects the other instantaneously. You'd laughed when you first read it, because of course that's what you are now. Quantumly entangled with Bucky across whatever distance you've put between you, feeling the ache of separation like a physical wound.
Your notes are getting more desperate, the handwriting sloppier. Margins filled with half-formed theories and crossed out equations. What if you could reverse the cellular integration? What if you could extract the energy signature? What if, what if, what if—
You slam the book shut and stand up too fast, the chair scrapes against the wooden floor, loud in the oppressive silence.
Outside, it's snowing again. You pull on your jacket—his jacket, actually, one of the things you took when you came here— and step out into the blizzard. The cold hits like a slap, but you welcome it. The wind screams, and you scream back, your voice low in the howl of the storm.
"TAKE IT BACK!"
Your hands are blazing now, purple energy crackling between your fingers like lightning. The snow around you melts in a perfect circle, steam rising as radiation meets ice.
"YOU GAVE THIS TO ME, SO TAKE IT BACK!" You're on your knees now, hands pressed into the snow, and where your palms touch the ground, the energy pulses outward in waves. "I DON'T WANT IT ANYMORE! I DON'T WANT ANY OF IT!"
The universe doesn't answer. It never does.
You collapse forward, forehead pressed against the frozen ground, and the sobs come like they always do: violent, wrenching and endless. Your fingers dig into the snow until they hit permafrost, and the dog tags swing forward, cold metal against your neck.
"Please," you whisper to no one, to nothing. "Please just let me go, let me fade… let me disappear. I can't do this anymore."
The wind howls.
You stay there until hypothermia starts to set in—which takes longer than it should, because apparently, cosmic radiation makes you resistant to temperature extremes too. When you finally drag yourself back inside, there's a perfect circle of dead earth where you'd been kneeling. Nothing will grow there for years.
You don't bother changing out of your wet clothes, you just curl up on the bed, still wearing his jacket, clutching his dog tags and stare at the wall. You probably should sleep, but instead, you reach for your phone.
You know you shouldn't do this, you've promised yourself every night you won't do this again, but you do it anyway.
The folder is called DO NOT OPEN and you've opened it 180 times, once for every night since you've been gone. Your finger hovers over one video for just one moment—one last chance for saving yourself— before you press play.
The screen fills with Bucky's face, and your heart immediately shatters. He's in bed, hair messy from sleep, early morning light streaming through the window behind him. This was recorded four months before everything went wrong. Before you knew that touching him could kill him.
"Stop recording me," video-Bucky mumbles, but he's smiling. That real, genuine smile he only ever gave you. The one that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.
"Never," your own voice responds from behind the camera, playful and so fucking happy it hurts to hear. "You're too pretty in the morning, it's unfair."
"I'm not pretty, I'm rugged."
"You're pretty and rugged, that's a dangerous combination."
He reaches for the camera—for you— and the frame shakes as you dodge away, laughing. God, your laugh sounds so carefree, like you didn't know that in four months, you'd be alone in a frozen cabin listening to this laugh and wanting to die.
"Come back to bed," video-Bucky says, and his voice is rough with sleep and affection and want. "It's too early for this."
"It's 10 AM."
"Exactly, too early." He props himself up on one elbow, and the sheet slips down to his waist. You remember this moment, remember thinking he looked like something out of a dream. "Put the phone down and come here."
"Make me."
His grin turns wicked. "Is that a challenge?"
"Maybe."
What happens next is blur—he's suddenly lunging forward, the camera spins wildly, and then you're both laughing, breathless and so in love it radiates from every frame. The video stabilizes eventually. Now you're both in frame, squeezed together in a selfie angle. His arm is around your shoulders and your head is tucked against his chest.
"Say hi to future us," you say to the camera.
"Hi future us," Bucky obliges, then he looks down at you, and his expression goes soft. "Hope you're having a good day."
"Hope we're still this happy," you add quietly.
He kisses the top of your head. "We will be, I promise."
The video ends.
You're sobbing before the screen even goes dark. It comes out in ragged, gasping waves—the kind of crying that feels like it's tearing you apart from the inside out. You curl tighter round the phone, pressing it against your chest like you can somehow press yourself back into that moment. Back when you were warm and safe.
"I'm sorry," you choke out to the empty room. To the ghost of him in the video. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't keep us that happy, I couldn't—"
Your voice breaks completely.
You replay the video again.
And again.
And again.
Then you close your eyes and try to sleep, knowing you'll dream of him. Knowing you'll wake up reaching for someone who isn't there. Knowing tomorrow night you'll watch the video again. Because it hurts, but it's all you have.
AVENGERS COMPOUND, month 2 since you left.
Bucky hasn't slept in thirty-six hours.
Steve finds him in the lab at 3 AM surrounded by data pads and holographic displays, Carol Danvers' contact information pulled up on the main screen.
"Buck—"
"She's out there somewhere, completely alone, probably thinking she saved me." Bucky doesn't look up from the screen, his metal fingers tap against the desk in an arrhythmic pattern that betrays his agitation. "She's got cosmic radiation tearing her apart from the inside and she's alone, Steve."
"You don't know that she's—"
"Yes, I do." Now Bucky looks up, and Steve flinches at what he sees in his eyes. "I know her, she took every piece of research she could carry. She's trying to fix herself, trying to find a cure so she can come back."
Steve sits down heavily. "Or she's trying to accept that there isn't one."
"No," the word comes out flat. "I don't accept that. Carol Danvers survived direct exposure to an Infinity Stone, so did Peter Quill and his entire team. Wanda got his powers from the mind stone. There are precedents, Steve, there are options."
"Bruce already—"
"Bruce doesn't know everything." Bucky pulls up a new file—Carol's SHIELD profile, her encounter with the tesseract. "Carol Danvers absorbs energy, that's her entire power set. What if she could absorb the radiation from—"
"Bucky, you're grasping at straws."
"I'm following leads," Bucky's jaw tightens. "There's a difference."
Steve watches his best friend for a long moment. The shadows under Bucky's eyes, the tension in his shoulder, the way his flesh hand keeps reaching for something that isn't there—your hand, probably. The habit is so ingrained that he doesn't even notice he's doing it anymore.
"If you find her," Steve says quietly, "and there's no cure… what then?"
Bucky's smile is sharp and humorless. "Then I'll find one anyway, I'll search every corner of this universe and the next if I have to."
"Buck—"
"She gave everything to save me, Steve. She walked away from me—the person she loved the most— because she thought it was the only way to keep me alive." Bucky stands, gathering his research into a neat stack. "So yeah, I'm gonna find a cure, and then I'm gonna find her. And then we're gonna have the forever she didn't think we could have."
"You sound pretty certain."
"I am certain," Bucky's smile heads for the door, pausing a the threshold. "I didn't survive seventy years of HYDRA just to lose her to bad luck and cosmic radiation. I'm getting her back, Steve. That's not a question. The only question is how long it will take."
He's gone before he can respond.
Month 3: Carol Danvers.
Turns out finding Carol Danvers is harder than expected. She's off-world more than she's on it, handling emergencies across multiple galaxies. Bucky makes a bunch of favors to Nick Fury so he can let him borrow his pager.
He waits patiently for one week until Carol materializes in a flash of gold light, landing in the empty field where Bucky's been waiting.
"You're Bucky."
He stands his ground. "Yeah, thanks for meeting me."
"Fury said you needed help with an Infinity Stone problem." Carol crosses her arms. "I'm listening."
So Bucky tells her everything. The mission to Morag, the power stone, the way you grabbed it to save everyone and the radiation poisoning that followed. Carol listens without interrupting, when he's done, she's quiet for a long moment.
"She grabbed the Power Stone with her bare hands," Carol says finally, "and survived."
"Barely."
"No, you don't get it." Carol shakes her head. "She should be dead. The fact that she's alive at all means her body did something right, it adapted somehow."
"But she's still emitting radiation—"
"Because her body doesn't know what to do with the energy it absorbed. It's trying to expel something it should be integrating." Carol starts pacing thinking out loud. "When I absorbed the Tesseract energy, my cells restructured at a molecular level, the energy became part of me. Your girlfriend's body is stuck in limbo—it absorbed the energy but can't process it."
Bucky's heart rate picks up. "Do you think… you can help her?"
"Maybe." Carol turns to face him. "I can absorb energy, it's literally what I do. If she's emitting Infinity Stone radiation, I might be able to pull it out of her system."
"Might?"
"I've never tried to absorb Infinity Stone energy from another person before," Carol's expression is serious. "But I'm willing to try. Where is she?"
And there it is… the question Bucky's been dreading.
"I don't know," he admits. "She disappeared three months ago, I've been trying to find her, but—"
"But she doesn't want to be found." Carol's expression softens slightly. "Smart girl."
"I need to find her first," Bucky says. "But when I do, will you help?"
Carol studies him for a moment and sees the desperation he's trying to hide, the determination, the love.
"Yeah," she says finally. "I'll help. But Barnes— even if I can absorb some of the radiation, it might not be enough. Infinity Stone exposure on this scale… there might not be a complete cure."
"Then I'll find one anyway."
Carol almost smiles. "Stubborn."
"You have no idea."
"Actually, I think I do." She pulls out a pager that looks exactly like Fury's. "Here. If you find her, call me and I'll come as soon as I can."
Bucky takes it carefully. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Carol's eyes glow faint gold. "Just find her, and when you do tell her Carol Danvers said she's a bad ass for surviving this long."
She's gone in a flash of light.
Month 4: Peter Quill.
The Guardians are harder to track down than Carol was. They don't exactly have an Earth address, they don't check in with any planetary authorities. They're mercenaries, pirates, heroes—depending on who you ask—and they move through the galaxy like ghosts.
Bucky has to call in a favor from Thor's old contacts. Has to promise things to people he'd rather shoot and has to follow a trail of bar fights and unpaid tabs halfway across the galaxy in a borrowed ship.
He finds them on Knowhere, of all places, in a dive bar that smells like engine fuel. Peter Quill is drunk… not falling-down drunk, but close.
Bucky slides into the seat across from him without asking. Quill looks up, squinting
"Do I know you?"
"I'm Bucky Barnes, I'm—"
"Yeah, yeah, I know, Steve Rogers' boyfriend or whatever." Quill waves a hand vaguely. "What do you want? We're not taking any jobs right now."
"I'm not here to hire you," Bucky pushes a data pad across the table. "I'm here because you survived direct exposure to the Power Stone."
That gets Quill's attention. He straightens up, suddenly more sober. "Why do you want to know about that?"
"Because someone I love is sort of dying from the same thing."
The words hang in the air between them.
Quill's expression changes. "Tell me," he says quietly.
So Bucky does, again. The whole story. By the time he's finished, Quill has ordered another drink.
"She grabbed it to save you," Quill says.
"To save everyone on the mission."
"But mostly you."
Bucky doesn't deny it.
Quill stares into his glass. "Gamora died because of a Soul Stone, because Thanos—" He cuts himself off, jaw tight. "I know what it's like, losing someone like that. Having to keep going when the only person you want is gone."
"I'm sorry," Bucky says, and means it.
"Yeah, me too." Quill drains his drink. "The only reason I survived the Power Stone was because my team shared the load—and because of my celestial DNA, without that, I'd be dead. Your girl doesn't have either of those things."
"But she survived."
"She did," Quill leans forward. "Which means her body did something extraordinary. The human body shouldn't be able to process Infinity Stone energy, but if she's alive, if she's still walking around, that means she's adapted somehow."
"Carol said the same thing."
"Carol's right. Your girlfriend is basically a living Infinity Stone battery at this point." Quill pauses. "The question is whether that's killing her or making her stronger."
"It's killing me," Bucky says flatly. "The radiation makes me sick, my body reads it as a threat."
"Because of that knockoff serum running through your veins, it's trying to protect you from what it thinks is a toxin." Quill drums his fingers on the table. "But what if it's not a toxin? What if it's just… power? Raw, uncontrolled, cosmic power that her body doesn't know how to use yet?"
Bucky's mind is racing. "You think she needs to integrate it, not expel it."
"I think she needs to stop fighting it, yeah." Quill meets his eyes. "When I held the Power Stone, I could feel it trying to tear me apart, but the moment I stopped resisting that's when it clicked. I could hold it and channel it. You need to find her and tell her to stop fighting it."
There's a long silence.
"I lost the person I loved most," Quill says finally. "I didn't get a choice, she was just… gone. But you've got a chance. Your girl is out there somewhere, alive. Don't waste it, don't let her think she has to do this alone."
"She left because being near me was killing me."
"So find a way to fix that part," Quill pulls up a holographic display. "I'll give you my genetic profile, the medical scans, all of it. Maybe it'll help."
"Why?" Bucky asks. "You don't know me."
Quill's smile is sad. "Because if I could go back, if I could save Gamora… I'd do anything, absolutely anything." He slides the data chip across the table. "So go save yours."
Bucky takes the chip carefully. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me, just—" Quill's voice cracks slightly. "Just get her back. And when you do, don't let go. Not for anything."
"I won't," Bucky promises.
Three hours later, Rocket corners Bucky in the cargo bay.
"So," Rocket says, eyeing Bucky's metal arm with barely concealed interest. "That arm of yours, if you happen to not need it anymore—"
"No."
"I'm just saying—"
"Rocket, I swear—"
"That thing is wasted on you! Do you even know what I could do with tech like that? The upgrades I could—"
"I am Groot," Groot interrupts gently.
"Fine! Fine, I'll stop asking." Rocket huffs. "But when you get yourself killed doing something stupid for your girlfriend, I call dibs."
Despite everything, Bucky almost laughed.
"If I die," he says, "you can have it."
Rocket's eyes light up. "Really?"
"No, not really. Stop asking."
"You're no fun."
But when Bucky lies down that night in the spare quarters they've given him, staring at the ceiling of an alien ship somewhere in deep space, he pulls out the locket and opens it. Stares at your face in the small photograph.
"I'm getting closer," he whispers to the image. "I'm gonna solve this and then I'm gonna find you."
The photo doesn't answer, but he keeps talking anyway.
"I know you think you saved me by leaving, and maybe you did—maybe I would've killed myself trying to get more time with you. But you gotta know, I'm not surviving without you, I'm just existing."
His thumb traces the edge of the locket.
"So I'm coming for you, and I'm bringing a cure. And then you're never leaving my side again."
He closes the locket and presses it against his chest. "Hold on a little longer."
Month 5: Wakanda.
Shuri doesn't look up when Bucky enters her lab. She's surrounded by holographic displays—genetic sequences spinning in mid-air, cellular structures rotating slowly, data streams flowing faster than he can follow.
"Sergeant Barnes," she says, still focused on her work. "I've been expecting you."
"You have?"
"Oh please, quit the innocent act. Captain Danvers contacted me three weeks ago, Peter Quill's genetic data arrived last Tuesday. I've been running simulations since then."
Bucky's heart jumps. "And?"
"It's fascinating," Shuri waves her hand and the displays reorganize themselves. "Your girlfriend grabbed the Power Stone with her bare hands and survived, do you understand how extraordinary that is?"
"I know she should be dead—"
"No, you don't understand." Shuri pulls up an image—a cellular structure that seems half-familiar. "These are her cells, or at least, what I'm projecting they look like based on the radiation signature Bruce detected. See these markers here?" She points to glowing purple threads woven through the DNA. "That's Infinity Stone radiation, not just touching her cells, but integrated into them. Part of her genetic code now."
Bucky stares at the image. "How is that possible?"
"The same way Carol Danvers survived Tesseract exposure, the same way Wanda Maximoff gained powers from the Mind Stone. The same way Vision was created." Shuri's expression turns serious. "When I was trying to remove the Mind Stone from Vision, I was working with approximately three million neurons, trying separate the Stone's influence from his neural pathways without destroying what made him… him."
"You didn't have time to finish."
"No," pain flickers across Shuri's face. "But I learned something important: you can't just rip Infinity Stone energy out of living tissue, it's woven too deeply. The only way forward is reintegration."
"I don't understand."
Shuri pulls up another display—this time showing Quill's genetic structure next to your projected one. "Peter Quill's Celestial DNA allowed him to hold the Power Stone temporarily because his cells could process that level of energy. Carol Danvers' cells restructured to absorb and metabolize cosmic energy. Your girlfriend's cells are trying to do the same thing—but they're stuck halfway."
"Bruce said her body was rejecting it."
"Because it doesn't know how to accept it." Shuri starts pulling up more data—complex equations, cellular models, energy flow diagrams. "Think of it like an organ transplant. Her body absorbed this foreign energy, but her immune system is treating it as an invader. It's trying to expel something that's already part of her."
Bucky's mind is racing. "So what do we do?"
"We teach her cells to stop fighting." Shuri's smile is sharp. "We program her DNA to recognize the energy as native rather than foreign. Molecular reintegration."
"Is that possible?"
"I did it with Vision's neurons. This is the same principle, just… broader scope." Shuri pulls up a simulation—cells reorganizing, energy pathways forming, the purple glow gradually fading from threat to integration. " If I can map her complete structure, I can design a recoding sequence. Nanobots that rewrite her cellular programming one cell at a time, teaching her body to metabolize the radiation."
"How long would that take?"
"The procedure itself? Six to eight hours. Full integration? Three to four weeks as the nanobots work through her system." Shuri meets his eyes. "But there's a complication."
Of course there is.
"The radiation levels are too high right now," Shuri continues. "If I try to recode her cells while she's emitting that much energy, the nanobots will burn out before they can complete the process. We need to reduce her baseline radiation first."
"Carol can absorb it."
"Exactly," Shuri nods. "Captain Danvers reduces the radiation to manageable levels—say, twenty to thirty percent of current output, then I perform the molecular reintegration. Her cells learn to process the remaining energy naturally."
"And then?"
"And then she stops being a walking radiation source. She'll still have powers—the energy is part of her now, that's not changing. But her body will know how to control it, contain it, use it… she won't be toxic to you anymore."
Bucky can barely breathe. "And you think it'll work?"
"I ran the simulation eight hundred and forty-seven times," Shuri pulls up the success rate. "Ninety-two percent success rate. The eight percent failure scenarios all involve variables I can control for with proper preparation."
"Ninety-two percent."
"Better odds than we usually get." Shuri closes the displays with a gesture. "There's one more thing. The reintegration works best when the subject is willing. When they stop fighting the energy and accept it as part of themselves."
Bucky remembers Quill's words: The moment I stopped resisting, that's when it clicked.
"We were trying to fight it the whole time," he says quietly. "She's probably out there trying to do the same thing."
"Then you'll need to convince her to stop." Shuri's gaze is steady. "This won't work if she's still trying to expel the energy. She needs to embrace it, accept that this is who she is now."
"She will," Bucky says with certainty. "Once she knows there's a way back she'll do whatever it takes."
"Good," Shuri starts compiling the data. "I'll need her here in Wakanda for the procedure. The lab has shielding that can protect you during the process. And Barnes—" She pauses. "I'll need a complete genetic sample. Blood work, cellular scans, the full profile. Which means you'll need to find her first."
"I'm working on it."
"Well, work faster. I've seen psychological profiles on prolonged isolation. Five months alone with that kind of power… it changes people. Find her soon."
"I will."
Finding you takes another four weeks.
Steve and Bruce work the digital angle—reading financial footprints, energy signatures, satellite anomalies. Tony's AI runs pattern recognition on global power fluctuations. But it's Sam who finds the real lead.
"Supply drops," he says, dropping a folder on the table in front of Bucky. "Remote locations, extreme climates. Someone's been ordering very specific brand of snacks to a location in Northern Norway, among other interesting things…"
Bucky's hands are shaking as he opens the folder. Shipping manifests. Your favorite brand of cookies, quantum physics textbooks. The deliveries stop at a drop point fifty kilometers from the nearest settlement.
"It's her," he breathes.
"Probably," Sam agrees. "But Buck—you can't be the one to approach her."
"Like hell I can't—"
"Think about it." Steve's voice is quiet. "She left to protect you. If you show up before we can implement the cure, she'll run. She'll think you're being reckless, that you're going to hurt yourself trying to be near her."
Bucky knows he's right. Hates it, but he knows it.
"I'll go," Bruce offers. "With Steve. We'll explain about Carol, about Shuri's procedure. We'll convince her to come back."
"She won't believe it's real," Bucky says roughly. "She'll think it's a trap, or false hope, or—"
"Then we'll show her the data." Bruce is already pulling up Shuri's simulations on his tablet. "The success rate, the genetic models, everything. She's a scientist, Bucky, she'll understand the evidence."
"And what if she doesn't want to come back?"
Steve's hand lands on his shoulder. "Then we'll keep trying until she does. But Buck—we need to move fast. Every day she's out there alone…"
He doesn't finish, doesn't have to.
"Okay," Bucky's voice is hoarse. "Okay, you go. But I'm coming with you. I'll stay in the jet, I won't approach her, but I need to be there."
"Bucky—"
"I need to see her, Steve. Even if it's from a distance, even if she doesn't know I'm there." His hand clenches into a fist. "I haven't seen her face in six months. Please."
Steve and Bruce exchange a look.
"The jet has radiation shielding." Bruce says slowly. "If you stay inside, behind the barrier."
"I will, I promise."
"Alright," Steve nods. "We leave in an hour."
You're halfway through a complex equation when you feel it—two energy signatures getting closer.
Your hands flare purple instinctively, defensive. Your supplies came two days ago, so no one should be out here.
You're at the window when you see them: Steve and Bruce, hiking through the snow toward your cabin. They're not wearing tactical gear, no weapons visible. Just two men in winter coats, looking like they're out for a walk.
No.
They can't be here. You were so careful, you covered your tracks, you—
They're fifty meters away now, close enough that you can see Steve's concerned expression. Close enough that Bruce is checking some kind of device in his hand—probably measuring your radiation output.
You grab your go-bag. You can run. There's a back exit, you can be gone before they get here. But Steve holds up his hands, as a universal sign of 'we come in peace' and you hesitate.
Bruce pulls out a tablet, holds it up so you can see the screen from this distance. It's still too far away to see it clearly, but looks like genetic sequences, cellular models and something about Wakandan technology you remember from Shuri's lab.
Your hands are shaking now. Slowly, carefully, you open the door.
"Don't come any closer," you call out. Your voice sounds strange after weeks of disuse. "I mean it, Steve. You know what I can do."
"We're here to help you." Steve calls back.
"There is no help. I've been researching for six months, I've read everything—"
"To find a cure," Bruce interrupts. "But that's not the right approach… we found an alternative."
"What?"
"Can we come in?" Bruce asks. "I'll show you the data, all of it. The procedure, the success rate, everything."
You should say no. You should run. This is exactly what you were afraid of—them finding you, giving you false hope, convincing you to come back when nothing has changed.
But god, you're so tired of being alone.
"Stay on that side of the room," you say, stepping back. "Don't get closer than five feet."
They enter slowly, Bruce immediately starts setting up the tablet on your desk, pulling up files and simulations, Steve stays by the door, watching you with that expression you know too well—the one that says he's trying to figure out if you're okay.
You're not okay. You haven't been okay in six months.
"Carol Danvers can absorb energy," Bruce starts without preamble. "She's agreed to reduce your radiation output by sixty to seventy percent. Then Shuri performs a molecular reintegration procedure—essentially reprogramming your cells to metabolize the Infinity Stone energy instead of expelling it."
You stare at the data, there are some cellular models showing the integration process, and there's a timeline—six to eight hours for the procedure, three to four weeks for full integration, the success rate is 92%.
"This is real?" Your voice cracks.
"It's real," Steve says quietly. "Shuri's been working on it for weeks. She's ready whenever you are."
"And Bucky—" You can't finish the question.
"He's been searching for this since the day you left," Bruce says. "Carol, Peter Quill, Shuri—he tracked down everyone who's ever survived Infinity Stone exposure. This solution exists because he refused to give up."
Your eyes are burning at this point. "Is he…"
"He's alive. He's okay." Steve's voice is gentle. "He wants to see you."
"No." The word comes out panicked. "No, he can't—the radiation—"
"He's not here," Bruce says quickly. "He's in the jet, behind shielding. He promised not to approach until after the procedure."
The relief and disappointment war in your chest.
"Can I—" You swallow hard. "Can I see him? From a distance?"
Steve and Bruce exchange a glance.
"The jet has observation windows," Steve says. "You'd be separated, but—"
"I don't care." You're already moving toward the door. "Please."
They set it up in the cargo hold.
A wall of reinforced glass, the kind designed to contain gamma radiation. You on one side, Bucky on the other. Five feet of separation plus a barrier that could probably withstand a nuclear blast.
It's not enough, but it's the closest you've been to him in six months. Bruce and Steve step back, giving you privacy. You can barely breathe as you walk toward the glass, your hands trembling, your heart racing so fast you think it might burst.
And then you see him.
He's thinner. There are shadows under his eyes that weren't there before. His hair is longer, tied back in a knot. He's wearing the jacket you bought him for his birthday last year—the one he claimed he didn't like but wore constantly anyway.
He looks like he hasn't slept in weeks.
But he still looks beautiful.
"Hi," you whisper, even though he can't possibly hear you through the glass.
But his lips move, forming the same word: Hi.
Your hand comes up, pressing against the glass. His mirrors it on the other side, flesh palm to your purple-veined one, separated by three inches of reinforced barrier.
"You found me," you say.
He nods, his eyes are red.
"I'm sorry." The words tumble out. "I'm so sorry, I thought I was saving you, I thought—"
He shakes his head sharply and pulls out his phone, types something and then he holds it up to the glass:
Don't apologize, you did save me. Now it's my turn to save us.
Your breath hitches. "Is it real? Bruce showed me the data, but—"
He types again: 92% success rate. Shuri's ready, Carol's ready. We just need you there.
"What if I'm part of the 8%?"
Then we find another way, but you won't be. I know you won't be.
You're crying now, tears running down your face. "I missed you so much."
I know, me too.
"I still love you, I never stopped, I—"
He's typing again, but his other hand is pressed so hard against the glass you can see his knuckles turning white: I never stopped either, not even for a second.
"I wear your dog tags every day." You pull them out from under your shirt, hold them up so he can see.
His face crumbles, he touches the locket around his neck.
You both stand there, hands pressed to opposite sides of the glass, crying, trying to get closer to each other through sheer force of will.
"After the procedure," you whisper. "How long until we can—"
He understands immediately and types again: Three to four weeks for full integration. But Bruce thinks maybe partial contact earlier. An hour, maybe two. We build up slowly.
"I can do that. I can wait." Your voice is steadier now. "I waited six months, I can wait a few more weeks if it means forever after that. When do we start?"
He looks over his shoulder—probably at Steve or Bruce. Then he looks back at you and types: Whenever you're ready. We can go to Wakanda right now. Carol's on standby.
You take a shaky breath and look down at your hands—still glowing faintly purple, still dangerous. Then you look at him, the man who crossed the galaxy to find a solution and refused to give up even when you'd given up on yourself.
"I'm ready."
The medical bay is unlike anything you've ever seen. Shuri's designed it specifically for this—a surgical theater surrounded by energy dampening fields, radiation shielding, and enough monitoring equipment to track every cell in your body simultaneously. Carol Danvers stands to one side, warming up like an athlete before a marathon.
You're in the center, sitting on the examination table in a medical gown, trying not to think about the 8% failure rate.
"Okay," Shuri says, circling you with a scanner. "Here's how this works. First, Carol absorbs as much of the excess radiation as she can. This will hurt—I'm not going to lie to you. It's going to feel like she's pulling your insides out. But it's necessary to get your levels down to where the nanobots can work."
"How long?"
"Ten to fifteen minutes, depending on how much energy she can safely absorb." Shuri meets your eyes. "You need to say conscious through it. If you pass out, your body might instinctively fight back, and we can't risk that."
You nod, even though your hands are shaking.
"After Carol's done, I'll inject the nanobots. They'll start the recoding process immediately—you'll feel that too. Warmth, tingling, maybe some discomfort as your cells restructure. The initial programming takes six to eight hours. You'll be sedated for most of it."
"And then?"
"Then we wait. Three to four weeks for full integration. But if everything goes right, you should be able to tolerate brief contact within a week. We'll build up slowly."
Brief contact. A week. You can do this.
"Where's Bucky?"
Shuri gestures to the observation room—a wall of glass where you can see him pacing like a caged animal. Steve's there too, one hand on Bucky's shoulder, probably the only thing keeping him from breaking through the barrier.
Your eyes meet across the distance. He presses his hand to the glass. You mirror the gesture, even though he's too far away to really see.
"He'll be there the whole time," Shuri promises. "Every second. Ready?"
No. Not even a little bit.
"Yes," you say anyway.
Carol steps forward and her eyes are glowing now, fully gold, power radiating off her in waves. "I need you to lower your defenses," she says. "Stop fighting the energy, let it flow naturally. Can you do that?"
"I can do that."
"Good," Carol's hands hover over your shoulders, not quite touching. "On three. One—"
She doesn't get to three.
The pain is immediate and absolute. It feels like she's reached inside your chest and grabbed your heart, except is not your heart, it's the energy, the purple lightning that's been living in your veins for six months, and she's pulling it out thread by thread. Your back arches, your hands grip the table hard enough to dent the metal and you can't breathe, can't think, can't—
"Stay with me!" Carol's voice cuts through the agony. "I know it hurts, but you need to stay conscious. Focus on something!"
You focus on the observation window.
On Bucky, who's pressed against the glass now, both hands flat against it, his mouth moving in words you can't hear but can read on his lips: You can do this, stay with me.
The energy streams from your body to Carol's in visible waves—purple light flowing into gold. Your veins are still glowing but fainter now, the spiderweb patterns starting to fade. Carol's gritting her teeth, absorbing more and more, her whole body incandescent.
"You're at your limit, any more and you'll destabilize."
Carol pulls back reluctantly, and the sudden absence of pressure makes you gasp. You collapse forward, would have fallen off the table if Shuri hadn't caught you.
"I've got you. Deep breaths, you did so well."
Your whole body is trembling. When you look down at your hands, the purple glow is still there, but it's so much fainter now. Almost translucent.
"Seventy-four percent reduction," Shuri reports, checking her scanners. "That's even better than projected. How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck," you manage.
Carol's leaning against the wall, breathing hard, her skin still glowing. "That was intense," she says. "The Power stone is no joke."
"Thank you," you whisper.
"Thank me when you get your happy ending," Carol straightens up with visible effort. "Shuri, she's all yours."
Shuri's already preparing the injection—a syringe full of silver liquid that seems to move on its own. Nanobots. Millions of them, ready to rewrite your genetic code.
"This is it," Shuri says. "Last chance to back out."
You look at the observation window again. Bucky hasn't moved. He's still there, watching, waiting, believing.
"Do it," you say.
The injection is almost anticlimactic—a small pinch in your arm. For a moment, nothing happens.
Then the warmth starts.
It begins at the injection site and spreads—through your arm, across your chest, down through your core. It's not painful exactly, more like your cells are waking up, reorganizing, learning a new language. You can feel the nanobots working, tiny machines rewriting your DNA one base pair at a time.
"Cellular restructuring has begun," Shuri announces. "Vitals are stable, neural activity normal. So far so good."
The warmth intensifies. Your hands start glowing brighter—not purple now, but silver-white as the nanobots flood your system. It's beautiful and terrifying at the same time.
"I'm going to sedate you now," Shuri says gently. "When you wake up, the primary recoding will be complete. Okay?"
You nod, already feeling drowsy as she administers the sedative.
The last thing you see before your eyes close is Bucky in the observation window, his hand still pressed to the glass.
Hold on, you think. Just a little longer.
Then darkness.
You wake up to Shuri's face hovering over you, concerned.
"Welcome back," she says. "How do you feel?"
You take inventory. Your body feels… different. Not wrong, just different. Like you've been taken apart and put back together in a slightly new configuration. The constant hum of energy under your skin is still there, but it's quieter now… more controlled.
"Weird," you say. "But okay?"
"Better than okay," Shuri helps you sit up slowly. "The primary recoding is complete. Ninety-seven percent of your cells have been successfully reprogrammed. The remaining three percent should finish integrating over the next few days."
"And the radiation?"
"Almost completely internalized. You're still emitting trace amounts, but we're talking background levels now—barely detectable." Shuri can't quite hide her smile. "We did it, it worked."
You look down at your hands. The purple veins are gone. Your skin looks normal… human. When you concentrate, you can feel the energy still there, coiled deep inside, but it's not fighting to get out anymore. It's part of you now.
"Bucky—"
"Right here."
Your head snaps toward the door. He's there, still on the other side of the glass barrier, but closer now. Close enough that you can see the tears on his face.
"The levels are low enough for brief contact," Shuri says carefully. "Emphasis on brief. We're taking five minutes, maybe ten. And I want you both in the shielded room so I can monitor his vitals."
"I'll take it," you say immediately.
"Me too," Bucky echoes.
Shuri looks between you both and shakes her head fondly. "You two are impossible. Give me ten minutes to set up the monitoring equipment."
She leaves to prepare. You and Bucky stay separated by the glass, just looking at each other. He looks exhausted, like he hasn't slept since you started the procedure.
"You were here the whole time," you say. He nods. "Eight hours standing there?"
A small smile. "I've done longer stakeouts."
"Bucky—"
"I wasn't leaving." His voice is rough. "Not when I just got you back."
Your chest tightens. "Five minutes isn't much."
"It's more than we had yesterday." His hand comes up to the glass again. "And tomorrow it'll be ten, then twenty, then an hour. We'll get there."
"You're really patient about this."
His laugh is sharp. "I'm really not. I'm dying to touch you, but I'm also not risking your health or mine by rushing. We do this right."
"When did you become so responsible?"
"When I almost lost you." His expression goes serious. "I'm not screwing this up. We're following Shuri's protocol exactly. Even if it kills me."
"Don't say that—"
"Figure of speech." He softens. "I'm okay, I promise. Just… eager."
"Me too."
Shuri returns with enough monitoring equipment to stock a small hospital. She sets it up in a side room—smaller, more intimate, with a chair for each of you and about six feet of space between them.
"Okay," she says, attaching heart rate monitors to both of you. "Five minutes. You can sit close, but no extended contact yet. If Bucky shows any symptoms—nausea, dizziness, elevated heart rate beyond normal excitement—we stop immediately. Understood?"
"Understood," you both say in unison.
Shuri gives you one more look, then steps out. "I'll be right outside. The system will alert me if anything goes wrong."
The door closes.
You're alone with Bucky for the first time in six months.
He's in the chair across from you, three feet away, close enough to touch, but not touching. His hands are gripping his knees so hard his knuckles are white.
"Hi," you whisper.
"Hey beautiful." His voice cracks.
"I don't know what to say."
"Me neither," he swallows hard. "I had a whole speech planned, had it memorized and everything. But now you're here, and I can't remember any of it."
"Try anyway."
He takes a shaky breath. "I missed you. Every second of every day. I missed the way you hum when you're concentrating, when you steal the covers in the middle of the night, the way you laugh at everyone's jokes even when they're terrible… I missed waking up next to you, I missed you so much it felt like dying."
Your eyes are burning. "I've missed you too. I missed everything about you. Even how you still pretend you don't like modern music but I've seen your Spotify wrapped—"
He huffs a laugh. "Busted."
"I'm sorry I left."
"Don't be." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You did what you had to do to save my life."
"I should've trusted that we could find another way—"
"Hey," his voice is gentle. "We found it. We're here now, that's what matters."
You nod, wiping your eyes. "Can I— can I move closer?"
"Please."
You shift your chair forward, then again, until you're right in front of him, knees almost touching. Close enough to see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes. Close enough to count his lashes. Close enough to reach out and—
"Two more minutes," FRIDAY announces.
You both freeze.
"That went fast," you say.
"Yeah." Bucky's staring at you like he's trying to memorize every detail. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," you agree. "And the day after, and the day after that."
"Every day until you're sick of me."
"So never."
He smiles—real and genuine. "Never sounds good."
"One minute," FRIDAY says.
"I love you," you blurt out. "I know I said it through the glass, but I need to say it again. I love you. I never stopped, not for one second."
"I love you too." His eyes are bright. "So fucking much. And when we get through this, when we don't have to count minutes anymore, I'm never letting you out of my sight again."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Time's up," FRIDAY announces.
Neither of you move.
"We should—" you start.
"Yeah," he agrees.
But you still don't move.
Finally, Shuri's voice comes through the intercom. "I will come in there and separate you myself if necessary."
That breaks the spell. You both laugh, standing up reluctantly.
"Tomorrow," Bucky says again.
"Tomorrow," you confirm.
As you leave the room, you look back one more time. He's watching you go, one hand raised in a small wave.
You wave back.
It's only five minutes, but it's a start.
Week one: Ten minutes a day.
Day 1: You talk about the mission that started everything. About Morag, and the temple and the moment the orb split open.
Day 2: He tells you about tracking down Carol, about Quill and the Gamora parallel. You cry.
Day 3: You share your research notes. He's impressed by how far you got on your own.
Day 4: You sit in comfortable silence, just existing in the same space.
Day 5: He brings you a book. You each read quiet, occasionally reading passages aloud to each other.
Day 6: You almost hold hands. Get within an inch. Pull back at the last second.
Day 7: Shuri increases your time to fifteen minutes. You both cheer.
Week two: thirty minutes a day.
Day 8: First accidental touch—his knee bumps yours. You both freeze, wait for symptoms. Nothing happens and you both cry from relief.
Day 9: Intentional touch—fingers brushing, just for a second. His skin is warm.
Day 10: You hold hands for sixty seconds. It's the longest minute of your life.
Day 11: He brings your favorite snacks. You eat together, knees touching the whole time.
Day 12: You fall asleep during your sessions. Wake up to find him watching you with the softest expression.
Day 13: First argument—he wants to push the limits, you want to follow the protocol. You barely win.
Day 14: Shuri increases your time to forty-five minutes. His vitals stay perfect the entire session.
Week three: two hours a day.
Day 15: You watch a movie, sit on the same couch. His arm around your shoulders for the last twenty minutes.
Day 16: You talk about the future. About what happens after you're cleared. Where you'll live. If you'll go back to the team.
Day 17: He braids your hair. You've forgotten how good his hands feel.
Day 18: You meet his lips for the first time—just a quick press, barely three seconds. You both shake afterwards.
Day 19: Longer kiss. Ten seconds. His hand cups your face and you lean into it.
Day 20: You make out like teenagers on Shuri's medical couch. She threatens to separate you, but neither of you care.
Day 21: Shuri runs final tests and declares you ninety-nine percent integrated. Clears you for normal contact with monitoring.
Week four.
Shuri gives you a room. Not a medical bay, not a shielded facility. Just a regular room in the residential wing of the Wakandan complex. A bed, a bathroom, a window overlooking the city.
"You're cleared for overnight contact," she says. "But I want you both wearing monitors, if anything feels off, even a little bit, you come find me immediately."
"We will," you promise.
"I mean it. No being heroes, no pushing through symptoms."
"We won't," Bucky adds.
Shuri looks between you both, then sighs. "You're going to push through symptoms, aren't you?"
"Absolutely not," you both lie in unison.
She shakes her head fondly. "At least try to be safe about it, and for the love of Bast, use protection. I don't need any radioactive super-babies running around my lab."
You turn bright red. Bucky coughs.
"I'm a scientist," Shuri says drily. "I know what you're planning to do the second I leave this room. Just be smart about it."
She leaves.
You and Bucky stand there, suddenly awkward.
"So," you say.
"So," he echoes.
"We have all night."
"Yeah."
"No timers."
"Nope."
You take step toward him. Then another. Close enough to touch.
"I don't know how to do this anymore," you admit quietly. "Without counting minutes. Without watching the clock."
"Me neither." His hand comes up slowly, carefully, and cups your face. His thumb strokes across your cheekbone. "Guess we'll figure it out together."
You lean into his touch, eyes closing. Just feeling his warmth, his calluses. The way his breath hitches when you turn your head and press a kiss to his palm.
"I'm nervous," you whisper.
"Me too."
"What if—" you stop. "What if something goes wrong?"
"Then we stop." He steps closer, forehead resting against yours. "But nothing's going to go wrong, we've been building up to this for weeks. Your levels are stable, my body's adjusted. We're okay."
"You sound pretty confident about that."
"I'm confident." His other hand finds your waist. "I'm confident that I love you, that I want you. I've waited six months and four weeks for this. And I'm confident that we're going to be just fine."
"When did you get so wise?"
"When I married you."
You huff a laugh against his mouth. "You didn't marry me. We're not—"
"Technicality." He kisses you softly. "We will be. Soon as we're home, I'm gonna marry you properly."
"Is that a proposal?"
"That's a promise." You kiss him again, deeper this time, and his arms tighten around you. "Now, can I take you to bed?"
You nod and both move together slowly, carefully. He sits on the edge of the bed, pulls you between his legs. His hands settle on your hips, toying with the hem of your shirt.
"I'm going to make love to you now."
Your breath catches. "Okay…"
"And it's probably going to be emotional and messy, and we're probably both going to cry."
"That's okay too."
"And we're going to check the monitors every five minutes like paranoid people."
That makes you laugh. "Probably every two minutes."
"FRIDAY's going to think we're ridiculous."
"It's an AI… but it probably already thinks we're ridiculous."
His smile is so soft and so full of love it makes your chest ache. "Come here."
You climb into his lap, straddling him, and for a moment you just stay like that, your foreheads touching, breathing each other's air. His hands slide under your shirt, warm skin and cool vibranium against your skin.
"You're shaking," he murmurs.
"I'm nervous."
"We don't have to—"
"I want to." You pull back enough to look at him. "I really, really want to. I just— it's been so long. And I'm scared it's going to feel different. That we're going to be different."
"We are different," he says gently. "We've been through hell, we've been apart. We've had to rebuild everything from scratch. But—" His hand comes up to cup your face. "But I still love you the exact same way. And I still want you the exact same way. And when I touch you—" His hand slides down your neck, across your collarbone, "—it still feels like coming home."
"Bucky—" Your voice breaks.
"Let me show you," he whispers. "Let me show you that we're still us. That nothing's changed where it matters."
You kiss him in answer. Deep and slow and full of six months of longing.
His hands slide under your shirt, fingertips tracing patterns on your ribs. You arch into the touch, and he makes this low sound in his chest that you've missed so much.
He pauses, a question in his eyes. You nod, and your shirt comes off slowly, carefully, like he's unwrapping something precious. It gets tossed somewhere neither of you care about. His hands immediately return to your skin, mapping territory he knows by heart.
You tug at his shirt in answer. It joins yours on the floor, and then it's skin against skin and you both go very still. His eyes find yours for a second, you check the monitors on both your wrists, heart rates elevated but stable.
He kisses you again, and this time there's more heat behind it. His hands slide down your thighs, and he lifts you easily turning to lay you back on the bed.
He hovers over you for a moment, just looking. Making sure you're real. You reach up, trace his bottom lip with your thumb. He catches your hand, presses a kiss to your palm, then your wrist, then the inside of your elbow, working his way up your arm with gentle, deliberate kisses.
He continues his exploration, kissing every inch of exposed skin. Your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, the space between your breasts. When he reaches your ribs—where the purple veins used to be, now faded to nothing—he pauses and looks at you with so much tenderness it hurts. Then he kisses every faded mark, tender kiss across your chest and your arms. Everywhere the purple light used to shimmer.
You're crying before he's halfway done.
He kisses the tears from your cheeks, settles his weight more fully against you.
"I love you," you whisper. "I love you so much."
"I love you too," his voice is rough. "So much. So fucking much."
You kiss him hard, desperately, and he responds in kind. The gentleness gives way to need, to six months of missing each other, to all the times you thought you'd never get to do this again. Clothes come off—the rest of yours, all of his— and then it's just skin and heat and hands trying to touch everywhere at once.
You reach for the monitors, checking. He does the same. Both elevated, but still stable.
He kisses down your body again, this time with clear intent. You thread your fingers through his hair as he works, building you up until you're shaking and desperate. When he kisses his way back up your body, you're both trembling. He reaches for the nightstand and pauses to look at you.
The first moment he slides into you, you both go completely still. Your breath catches. His forehead drops to your shoulder. For a long moment, neither of you move—just feeling. Being connected again.
He lifts his head to look at you, and his eyes are bright with unshed tears. You cup his face with both hands, and he leans into the touch. Then he starts to move, slow and careful, and you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
It's perfect.
Not in a perfect movie way—there are awkward position adjustments and a moment where the bed squeaks really loudly and you both pause, half-laughing. But it's perfect in your own way.
The pace gradually builds. He's hitting all the right spots, finding the rhythm you both remember. When you finally come apart, it's together—him buried deep inside you, your name on his lips, your hands clutched in his hair. The pleasure crashes through you like a wave and you feel him follow seconds later, his whole body shuddering.
After, he doesn't pull out immediately, just stays there, face buried in your neck, both of you breathing hard. You check the monitors one more time. All vitals stable. No warnings.
"We're okay," you whisper, and your voice cracks. "We're really okay."
He nods against your neck, and you feel wetness—tears. He's crying. You're both crying.
He finally pulls back enough to look at you, and you're both a mess—tears streaming, smiling through them.
"I love you," you say quietly. "I love you so much."
"I love you too," he carefully pulls out, disposes of the condom and immediately pulls you back into his arms. "God, I love you."
You curl into his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling his warmth. His hand runs through your hair in long, soothing strokes. There's a long, comfortable silence.
Then: "FRIDAY, are you monitoring us right now?"
FRIDAY's voice fills the room: "I am monitoring your vital signs, as requested by Princess Shuri. I am not, however, recording or observing. Your privacy is assured."
"Thank you, FRIDAY." Bucky says.
"You're welcome, sergeant Barnes. And congratulations. Your vital signs remained stable throughout your… activity."
You burst out laughing . "Oh my god."
"FRIDAY just congratulated us on sex," Bucky says, grinning.
"I congratulated you on maintaining stable vital signs during intimate contact," FRIDAY corrects primly. "The sex is your own business."
You're both laughing now, that slightly hysterical post-emotional-sex laughter.
His hand trails down your spine, a silent question. You shift closer in answer.
You make love twice more that night—once slow and lazy, once with a little more urgency. Each time, you check the monitors wordlessly, a quick glance and a nod before continuing.
You talk in between rounds. About everything and nothing. About the future. About where you'll live when you get officially cleared. About all the mundane, beautiful things you get to plan now that you have forever.
"I want to marry you," he says at some point. "For real, proper wedding, all of our friends. You in a white dress walking to me, making me cry."
"I'd really like that."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You kiss his chest. "Let's get married. Let's have the life we were supposed to have before everything went wrong."
"Nothing went wrong," he says quietly. "It was just… a detour. We took the long way around, but we're here now."
"We're here now," you agree.
You fall asleep like that. Tangled together. No monitors alarming, no timers counting down. Just you and him and the whole future stretched out before you.
When you wake you in the morning, his arms are still around you. And when you check the monitors—because old habits die hard—they're still perfectly stable.
You really are free.
A few hours later, Shuri finds you both in the dining hall, looking thoroughly rumpled and impossibly happy.
"Good morning," she says with a knowing smirk. "I trust you slept well?"
"Very well," Bucky says innocently.
"Mmhmm." She pulls data on her tablet. "Your vitals were stable all night. Eight hours of contact with zero adverse reactions. I'd say we can officially declare you're safe to be around each other."
You and Bucky look at each other.
"We're really safe," you whisper.
"We really are"
Shuri's expression softens. "You're free. No more restrictions, no more monitoring. You can go and live your lives."
"Thank you," you say. "Shuri, thank you for everything. For saving us, for—"
"For giving us our lives back," Bucky finishes.
"You're welcome." She closes the tablet. "Now go home, get married, be disgustingly happy. And please, do not name your first child after me."
"No promises," you say grinning.
She shakes her head fondly. "Impossible, you're both impossible."
But she's smiling. And so are you.
Because you're free. You have your whole lives ahead of you. And you're going to spend every single second of it together.
You get married in a small ceremony two months after. It's just the team and a handful of close friends on the grounds of the compound, under an arch decorated with simple white flowers. Steve officiates it. Sam cries more than anyone expected. Maria Hill catches the bouquet and immediately tries to give it back.
The retirement conversation happens on your honeymoon. You're in Greece, watching the sunset paint the sea in shades of gold and pink, and Bucky says quietly "What if we didn't go back?" So you call Steve from a café in Santorini and he takes it exactly as you'd hoped. You promise to come help them if something Thanos-level happens again.
Finding a perfect house takes three months. You look at a dozen places before you find it—a modest two-story in a quiet town upstate, with a front porch and a backyard and a garage that makes Bucky's eyes light up. The neighborhood is the kind where people know their neighbors' names, where kids play in yards, where nothing exciting happens. It takes you two weeks to move in and you spend the first month turning the house into your home.
You find work teaching physics at the local university. Your students are bright and curious and have absolutely no idea their professor used to save the world. You love teaching, love the routine of it, the normalcy, the way your biggest challenge is explaining quantum mechanics to undergrads instead of fighting cosmic threats.
Bucky starts small, fixing the neighbor's lawn mower, then someone's car. Word spreads, and soon he's running a modest auto repair business out of the garage, specializing in vintage cars and motorcycles. On the weekends, he volunteers at the VA, running support groups for veterans. He doesn't talk much about those sessions, but you can see how much it means to him. How much it helps. He's found his purpose outside of being a soldier.
Your life becomes beautifully ordinary. Morning coffees and breakfast routines, coming home to each other every evening, grocery shopping on Saturdays, movie nights on Fridays, Sunday mornings in bed with nowhere to be and nothing to do but exist together.
Two years into retirement, you're on the back porch with coffee going cold in your hands. Bucky's next to you on the swing, his arm around your shoulders, both of you watch the neighborhood slowly wake up.
"I've been thinking about having a baby," you say quietly.
Bucky's thumb stills on your shoulder for just a moment, then continues its gentle movement. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He doesn't ask if you're sure. He just holds you a little closer and lets the words settle between you. His arm wrap around you fully, and you sit together in the golden morning light, thinking about what comes next. A family. The next chapter of this improbable, beautiful life.
It won't be simple. Nothing about you has ever been simple, there will be complications, uncertainties, moments of fear. You'll need to call Shuri, get answers, make plans… but you've survived worse than uncertainty.
You've survived impossible. And you'll survive this too, together.
"Should we call her?" Bucky asks quietly. "Shuri?"
You nod against his chest. "Soon. Let's just— let's sit here a little longer first."
"Okay."
So you do. You sit on your back porch on a Sunday morning, holding each other, remembering everything it took to get here, and choosing together what comes next.
Jeong Yunho is the human equivalent of a system crash. A 6’2” wreck of stuttered sentences, fogged-up glasses, and nerves he can’t outgrow. He has spent his first year of college trying to be invisible. He’s a tactical genius on screen, but on campus, he can barely survive a three-word greeting without his voice cracking. He tries to start a Gaming Club in a basement that smells like dust and dump.
When a pack of “Mean Girls” turns his recruitment drive into a public execution, you step in. You lie. You improvise. You claim you’re his pro-tier controller—his star recruit.
Now you learn the hard way: Rule #1 of saving a cute nerd from bullies is this—don’t claim you’re an expert in a game you’ve never played.
➢ gamer!yunho x fem!reader | ➢ collage au, romance, strangers to lovers, slice of life | ➢ mdni, bullying, emotional manipulation & deception, substance use | ➢ ~21k | ➢ this is my humble contribution to LIVE ALIVE! collab, dear @sungbeam thank you for letting me be a part of this! ♡ | ➢ disclaimer: i am not a gamer!! i played Valorant like three times so please bare with any mistakes!! after all it’s just for fun!! | ➢ part one out of three
The floorboards groaned under Yunho’s socks as he carved a frantic circle into the small room. He looked frayed—ashy blonde strands of hair standing up in jagged peaks where he’d clawed at them for the last half an hour. His tall shadow flickered across the wall, momentarily eclipsing Seonghwa, who lay sprawled like a discarded coat across the duvet. “We have to jump on this, hyung,” Yunho snapped, his voice tight, vibrating with a caffeine-edge. “The internship panel won’t even look at me if the ‘Extracurricular’ section is a desert. High marks don’t mean a thing when everyone else is out here saving the world on weekends.”
Seonghwa didn’t move, save for the rhythmic motion of his jaw. He was focused on a bag of mango jellies, the scent of artificial fruit heavy in the stuffy air of Yunho’s bedroom. He popped another one into his mouth, the plastic crinkling like a slow-burning fire. “I hear you, Yunnie. I really do.” Seonghwa’s voice was muffled by the gummy candy. He stared at the ceiling, eyes tracking a hairline crack in the plaster. “But what’s the pitch? We’re ghosts on this campus. We don’t have a network, and you can’t exactly launch a club with two guys and a half-empty bag of sweets.”
Yunho stopped mid-stride, his chest heaving. He looked down at his best friend, his hands twitching at his sides. “We don’t need a network yet. We just need like... five names and a mission statement.”
Seonghwa finally looked at Yunho, his expression skeptical as he swallowed. “You’re visibly shaking, sit down before you go through the floor.”
Yunho’s socks hissed against the wooden floor with every sharp turn of his pacing. “We don’t need a crowd. We need a list. Five names only and a faculty advisor who’s too tired to read the fine print.” Yunho stopped, his reflection flickering in the darkened window. He looked gaunt in the yellow light of the desk lamp, his fingers digging into his scalp again. “Professor Shin said my resume looks like a blank sheet of printer paper. ‘Technically functional, but nobody wants to hire a void,’ he told me. A void!”
Seonghwa sat up, the plastic bag of jellies crinkling. He swallowed, the sugar coating scratching his throat. “So you want to start a... what? A hiking club? We both hate stairs. A film circle? You fall asleep during the opening credits.”
“A— ” Yunho tripped over his own tongue, the momentum of his panic outstripping his vocabulary. He lunged toward the bed, knees hitting the mattress with a heavy thud that sent Seonghwa’s phone sliding toward the crack between the wall.
The door to the room creaked open, the rusted hinge screaming. Mingi stood there, one headphone hanging off his ear, a half-eaten convenience store kimbap in his hand. He looked between Yunho’s frantic posture and Seonghwa’s sugar-dazed expression. “Are you starting a cult?”
Yunho spun around, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, slick with a fine sheen of nervous sweat. “Mingi. You’re exactly the third person I was looking for.”
The navy haired boy took a slow, cautious bite of his kimbap, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. “I feel like I should leave.”
“No, no, stay!” Yunho blurted, the words tripping over each other and coming out in a jagged, high-pitched heap. He lunged forward, grabbing the hem of Mingi’s red hoodie with white-knuckled intensity. The fabric felt rough and smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. “You’re perfect! You’re… you’re non-affiliated!”
Mingi’s deep hum of confusion was a rumble that seemed to settle in the very marrow of Yunho’s bones. He stared at Yunho’s hand on his sleeve, then back at Yunho’s face, his eyes tracking the frantic twitch of the taller boy’s eyelid. “Man, your eye is doing that thing again. The glitchy thing.”
“I’m not glitching, I’m innovating!” Yunho squeaked, his voice cracking like dry parchment.
Seonghwa groaned, the sound muffled as he shoved another mango jelly into his mouth. “He’s lost it, Mingi. The internship panel broke him. He wants to invent a personality before Monday so he doesn’t have to put ‘Good at Valorant’ as his primary life skill.” Seonghwa sat up fully then, his brown fringe a mess around his face. He looked at Mingi, his eyes softening with a weary, beautiful sort of pity.
Mingi shifted his weight, his heavy boots clunking against the floor. He looked down at his kimbap, then back at the duo. “A club for what?” he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. The wood groaned under his weight. “I’m not doing anything that involves physical labor or... talking to girls. Or boys. Or people in general.”
Yunho’s chest puffed out, his spine straightening until he was a full, looming 6’2” of confidence. He adjusted his glasses with one trembling finger, the plastic clicking against the bridge of his nose. “It’s... The E-Sports and Strategic Digital Coordination Union.”
Seonghwa paused, a mango jelly halfway to his lips. “That’s just a fancy word for a gaming club.”
“It’s a prestigious organisation, hyung!” Yunho’s hands began to fly, sketching invisible monitors in the stagnant air. “I’m talking high-level tactical analysis. We provide a space for competitive excellence. The university will see ‘Leadership’ and ‘Team Management’ on my resume. They’ll see a Captain!”
Mingi let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-choke, the scent of the kimbap’s sesame oil wafting through the air as he doubled over. “A gaming club? Yun, we’re in university, not fifth grade. Are we gonna have juice boxes and snack time after we lose a round of Roblox?”
“I am a Radiant rank! I have a sixty-percent win rate!” Yunho’s voice cracked on the last syllable, a sharp sound that betrayed his nerves. He lunged to his computer on the desk, the fans whirring to life like a jet engine. The glow of the RGB keyboard splashed neon violets and electric blues across his pale face, making his eyes look wide and manic. “Look! Look at the stats! I’m literally Top 200, I’ve spent 4,000 hours mastering utility lineups and macro-rotations. If I can IGL four randoms against pro players, I can lead a campus organisation!” He turned back to Mingi, his expression pleading, his fingers twitching. “Please. Just let me put your name down. I’ll buy you the deluxe kimbap for a month. The one with the double tuna.”
Mingi paused, his jaw working as he chewed, the saltiness of the dried seaweed sharp on his tongue. He looked at the frantic, giant nerd in front of him, then at Seonghwa, who was now slowly licking sugar off his fingers with a look of utter resignation. “Double tuna?” he finally stepped fully into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made the air feel suddenly heavy.
Seonghwa finally sat up, the blanket sliding off his shoulders to reveal a rumpled oversized sweater and grey sweats. “I don’t even know what ‘utility lineups and macro-rotations’ are,” Seonghwa said softly, his voice a smooth, grounding contrast to Yunho’s frantic energy. “The last time I played with you, I spent the entire round following you around and shooting at… whatever was moving. And then my gun started making that sad click noise, so I assumed it was tired.”
Yunho’s head snapped up. “That’s—hyung, that’s because you ran out of bullets. Guns don’t have infinite ammo!”
“They do not.” Yunho jabbed a shaking finger at the screen like it had personally betrayed him. “You sprayed thirty rounds into a wall because the wall ‘looked suspicious’ and then, mid-fight, you started panic-staring at the floor like the bullets were going to grow back.”
“I thought it was like… Mario Kart,” Seonghwa said carefully, as if trying not to offend the concept of ammunition. “Like you just keep going.”
“It’s not Mario Kart!” Yunho hissed. “So then you picked up some random gun off the ground—because you had to—and you asked me if it was the ‘loud one’ or the ‘pointy one.’”
Seonghwa’s expression stayed serenely blank. “Well, they all look like… gun-shaped.”
“They are all gun-shaped,” the words were filled with nothing but pain. “But they’re different guns. Different fire rates. Different recoil. Different—”
Seonghwa waved a hand. “I didn’t want to be picky. I just grabbed the first one that fell out of a man.”
Yunho made a strangled sound. “And then your aim—hyung, your crosshair was doing figure eights. You were shooting walls. You were shooting the sky. You were shooting me. Repeatedly.”
“By mistake! I was trying to be supportive,” Seonghwa said, utterly unbothered. “In Animal Crossing, when someone looks stressed, I give them a gift. I thought I was giving you… covering fire.”
“YOU BLINDED ME,” Yunho snapped, eyes wide. “You hit me with your ‘blue ice balls’—”
“They’re pretty,” Seonghwa offered.
“They’re called Slow Orbs! And you used them like confetti!” Yunho’s hands flew up. “You threw one at spike. You threw one at a door we weren’t even pushing. You threw one at the ceiling because you said you wanted it to feel ‘wintery.’ And then you asked why you couldn’t throw more.”
Seonghwa frowned, offended on a philosophical level. “Because it should come back. It’s my power.”
“It doesn’t come back in the same round!” Yunho said, voice cracking. “Most abilities are one-time use, and you have to buy them before the round starts. You forgot to buy them. Half the game you were just—just a guy with a gun and no abilities because you spent all your credits on a ‘pretty’ pistol and then abandoned it in a corner because it clashed with your gloves!”
“It was clashing,” Seonghwa tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Fashion is a form of leadership, too.”
“And the agent you picked—” Yunho continued, clearly spiralling, “—you didn’t even know what they did. You used your ultimate because you said the button looked ‘important’ and then you immediately walked away because you got distracted by a plant texture.”
Seonghwa considered that. “It was a very nice plant.”
Yunho’s voice jumped an octave. “Then you found the Spike—”
“The beeping backpack,” Seonghwa corrected immediately.
“—and carried it to spawn to ‘meditate’ because it sounded anxious!” Yunho screamed, burying his face in his glowing keyboard. A series of random ASDFGH keys appeared on his screen. “That wasn’t a backpack! That was the objective! We lost the game because you were roleplaying a pacifist florist!”
Seonghwa shrugged, a tiny, elegant smile playing on his lips. “I just don’t think you should be in charge of an organisation if you can’t handle a little ice and some flowers, Radiant Rank.”
Yunho froze, his forehead still pressed against the keys. The mechanical switches clicked rhythmically under the weight of his head. Slowly, he peeled his face off the keyboard, a faint grid pattern from the keycaps imprinted on his cheek. “A… pacifist… florist…” Yunho whispered, his voice dangerously low. “Hyung, they have guns! They have knives! They have limited ammo. They have economy management. There is no ‘meditation’ in Valorant. There is only the grind.”
Seonghwa hummed a soft, melodic tune—the Wii Shop theme, Yunho realized with a jolt of horror—and reached for his Nintendo Switch on the nightstand. “If you say so. But while you were ‘grinding,’ I actually managed to cross-breed a gold rose today. It took a lot of discipline. Far more than clicking on heads.”
Yunho stared at him, his mouth hanging open. “You’re comparing a Top 200 Radiant peak performance to… to gardening?”
“I’m just saying,” Seonghwa said, his screen lighting up with the cheerful jingle of Animal Crossing. He didn’t even look up as he delivered the killing blow. “In my game, everyone likes me and the island is thriving. In your game, you just spent ten minutes screaming at the screen about a backpack and explaining to your Vice President that bullets are finite. Who’s the real leader here?”
Yunho let out a sound that wasn’t quite a scream and wasn’t quite a sob. He abruptly spun his chair around, slammed his headset on, and aggressively queued for a match. “I’m going in,” Yunho barked, his eyes narrowing as the MATCH FOUND sound boomed through the room. “I’m going to IGL this team into the dirt. I’m going to show you leadership!”
“Don’t forget to hydrate,” Seonghwa chirped, his thumbs happily clicking away at his Joy-Cons. “And try not to get mad at the ice balls this time. It’s just a game, Yunnie.”
“IT’S NOT A GAME, IT’S A CAREER!” Yunho roared, just as the loading screen popped.
Seonghwa only sighed, tilting his head. “So dramatic. He’d never survive a Bowser level in Super Mario.”
The room was a cacophony of clashing digital worlds. On one side, the high-octane thwip-thwip of tactical utility and the aggressive, metallic clack of Yunho’s mechanical keyboard; on the other, the soft, whimsical tinkling of Seonghwa’s island paradise. Mingi stood frozen by the doorway, his half-eaten kimbap forgotten in his hand. He looked like he’d walked into a glitch in the simulation. His eyes darted from Yunho—who was currently whispering into his mic with the intensity of a bomb squad technician—to Seonghwa, who was humming while digging a hole for a digital tree.
“I... I think I’m having a stroke,” Mingi finally said, his voice sounding too dramatic, cutting through the Animal Crossing theme. “I am standing in a room with a 6 ’2” tactical mastermind, and a man who just admitted to committing international digital terrorism because the bomb was ‘anxious.’ What is happening? Why are we even like... alive right now?” He gasped loudly, then finally dropped onto the edge of Yunho’s bed, the springs groaning in protest. He buried his face in his free hand, his silver rings catching the neon glow of the keyboard. “Yun, look at me,” Mingi pleaded, his voice dripping with theatrical despair. “Look at your life! You’re queuing for a match at 11 PM on a Tuesday to prove a point to a guy who thinks a tactical shooter is a fashion show! You’re Radiant! You’re the 1%! Why are you letting the ‘Pacifist Florist’ over there get under your skin?”
“Because he’s wrong!” Yunho barked, not taking his eyes off the screen. His glasses were fogged up at the edges from his own heated breath. “He’s fundamentally undermining the integrity of the competitive ladder! He’s—SHOOT HIM, JETT! SHOOT HIM!”
Seonghwa didn’t even flinch at the shouting. He just tilted his Switch screen toward Mingi, a serene smile on his face. “Look, Mingi-ya. I got a new hat. It has a little sprout on top. Doesn’t it make me look approachable?”
Mingi stared at the tiny, pixelated sprout. Then he looked at Yunho, who was currently biting his lower lip so hard it was turning white as he clutched his mouse. “You guys are insane,” Mingi whispered, his drama levels reaching a fever pitch. He flopped backward onto the bed, limbs flailing, nearly kicking the empty bag of jellies onto the floor. “I’m the only normal person in this circle! I’m the only one seriously worried about the charter! We can’t start a gaming club if the Vice President thinks the objective is a Zen garden and the President is a hair’s breadth away from a literal cardiac arrest!” He sat up abruptly, his eyes wide. “Wait. If we start this club... do I have to play? Because I swear to god, Yunho, if you put me in a match and Seonghwa throws a ‘gift’ at me, I’m going to throw myself off the campus library roof. It’ll be a whole scene. I’ll make it very aesthetic and tragic.”
Yunho somehow died in-game—a crisp headshot that echoed through his headset. He slumped in his chair, the neon light making his ashy hair look like a halo. He slowly turned his head to look at Mingi, his expression completely hollow. “Mingi,” Yunho whispered, his voice cracking. “The Jett just told me I have ‘no rizz’ and muted me.”
Mingi snatched the headset, the plastic frame creaking in his large grip. He didn’t put it on; instead, he held it out like it was a piece of contaminated evidence. The muffled, tinny sound of a teenager screaming about “utility” leaked into the room, a sharp contrast to the peaceful clink-clonk of Seonghwa’s shovel. “No rizz?” Mingi looked at Yunho, who was currently trying to disappear into the mesh of his gaming chair, his ears a glowing, fiery red. “I’ve seen you trip over your own feet while standing still. I’ve heard you say ‘you too’ to a vending machine. But I will not let a twelve-year-old on the internet say you have no rizz!”
“I was just—the comms were cluttered!” Yunho squeaked, his hands fluttering toward his fogged-up glasses. He looked like he wanted to crawl into his own PC tower and live among the wires. “I’m a tactical leader! I don’t need ‘rizz’!”
Mingi tossed the headset back onto the desk with a heavy clatter. He stood up, stretching his long limbs until his knuckles brushed the ceiling. A smirk, sharp and teasing, pulled at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at the wreckage of the two “leaders” before him. “Right. Good luck with that, Captain,” he chuckled mockingly. He reached out and ruffled Yunho’s hair, intentionally messing up the peaks Yunho had been stressing over. “You’re a genius behind a screen, but out there? In the hallway? You can’t even look the librarian in the eye without your voice doing that little flip.”
“It’s—it’s an efficiency tactic!” Yunho stammered, his face heating up until it felt like his skin was going to melt his glasses. “Minimal eye contact saves... saves social energy!”
“Sure it does.” Mingi turned toward the door, pausing to point a finger at Seonghwa, who was still happily planting bushes in his digital paradise. “And you. Vice President of Flowers. If you’re going to be the ‘face’ of this club, try not to tell people about the ‘anxious bombs.’ It’s bad for the brand.”
Seonghwa blew him a distracted kiss, his eyes never leaving his Switch. “The brand is empathy, Mingi-ya. You should try it sometime.”
Mingi let out a sharp laugh and pulled the door open. The rusted hinges gave one last, dying scream as he stepped out, “You guys still need two more names for that charter,” he called back, his voice echoing. “Two more people who are willing to be led by a guy who glitches in public and a florist who commits war crimes. Good luck finding those unicorns! I’ll be at the convenience store if you decide to give up and just become full-time losers!” The door clicked shut, leaving the room in a heavy, neon-blue silence.
“He’s right,” Yunho whispered, the “system crash” finally reaching its peak. “Hyung... who else is weird enough to join us?”
Seonghwa finally put his Switch down, his expression turning thoughtful as he looked at the door. “Well... I did see a guy in the library yesterday who was trying to fight a printer. He looked pretty motivated.”
Yunho groaned, his head hitting the desk with a soft thump.
The library didn’t smell like books; it smelled like a dozen overheating processors and approaching deadlines. Yunho marched toward the printer bay with his spine fused into a rigid, trembling line, clutching his flash drive like it was the last hope for humanity. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes were darting—left, right, checking the corners of the stacks—expecting a flank from a disgruntled librarian or, worse, a peer who might actually make eye contact. He reached the printer. Every shuffle of a sneaker against the floor sounded like a gunshot in his ears. His palms were so damp the flash drive nearly squirted out of his grip like a wet soap bar. “Focus, Yunho,” he hissed under his breath, a whisper that barely escaped his throat. “Check the angle. Execute the print. Clear the site.” He slid the drive into the port. The computer let out a cheerful ding that felt like a flash bang to his frayed nerves. On the screen, “his recruitment asset” bloomed in neon violets and electric blues—a masterpiece of digital authority. It looked like the login screen for a professional tournament. It looked like someone who had their life together.
Then, he clicked Print.
The machine didn’t hum. It choked. A wet, mechanical gurgle echoed through the quiet of the library, followed by the shrill, rhythmic scream of a red light.
[PAPER JAM. OPEN TRAY 2.]
Yunho froze. His breath hitched, fogging his glasses into two opaque white discs. He was blind, trapped in a public space, and the hardware had just staged a coup.
“Uh… excuse me?” The voice was smooth, casual, and utterly terrifying. Yunho spun around so fast his neck made a sound like a dry twig snapping. A student stood there, hip cocked, holding a stack of neatly stapled essays. They looked... functional. They looked like they had never felt the cold sweat of a botched social interaction in their entire life.
Yunho’s throat didn't just lock; it welded itself shut. He stared at the student, his 6’2” frame looming over them like a skyscraper that was about to be demolished. He tried to summon a word—any word—but his internal server was timing out. “I— I’m—” He produced a sound that was less a syllable and more the noise a laptop makes when it’s overheating. His hands tightened around the creased, jammed poster that was slowly being spit out of the machine’s maw like a piece of chewed gum.
“It’s jammed,” the student said, their voice dripping with a pity so sharp it felt like a knife-edge to Yunho’s chest. They reached past him—their arm brushing his sleeve, a contact that sent a literal jolt of electricity through his nervous system—and yanked the paper free. The poster was ruined. A jagged, diagonal scar ran through the word Coordination. It looked less like a prestige organisation and more like a ransom note.
“Thank you,” Yunho croaked. The student lingered. They were waiting. This was it. The perfect time for mission recruitment.
“Do you play games?” his brain shouted. “I think I’m dying,” his mouth felt.
“Do you…” Yunho began, and then his voice did a spectacular, triple-axel flip into a high-pitched squeak.
The student’s eyebrows shot up. “Do I…?”
The printer saved him from the final blow by letting out a long, mournful beep.
[OUT OF PAPER.]
Yunho didn’t just flinch; he practically performed a crouch. “Yes. Paper. Right. Objective. I mean—sorry!” He turned and fled. He didn’t walk; he pathfound the quickest route to the exit, clutching his mangled poster to his chest like a shield. His phone buzzed. A lifeline from the only other person on the planet who understood his specific brand of insanity.
Hwa Hyung: Did you die? Also I bought more mango jellies.
Yunho stared at the screen, his vision blurring. He was the human equivalent of a blue-screen error, standing in the middle of a library while students swirled around him.
Yunho: Not dead. Printer jam. No recruits. Emergency.
He hit send. And then, because his motor functions were officially offline, his fingers turned into wet noodles. The phone slipped. It didn’t just fall; it performed a graceful, mocking arc before slamming into the tile floor with a sound that echoed through the quiet library like a thunderclap.
A dozen heads turned.
Yunho stood there, 6’2” of pure system failure, looking down at his cracked screen.
“Reset,” he whispered to the floor. “Please... just... reset.”
The library’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a persistent, droning hummmm that matched the static frequency currently vibrating through Yunho’s skull. He hadn’t moved. Not an inch. His sneakers were practically fused to the linoleum, and his phone—his poor, shattered lifeline—lay face-down on the floor like a fallen soldier.
An hour.
The sun had shifted outside the high, narrow windows, casting long, mocking shadows across the room. Students had ebbed and flowed around him like a tide, some casting confused glances at the towering, blonde statue clutching a mangled piece of paper, others just assuming he was part of some niche performance art piece. Yunho’s eyes were fixed on a specific scuff mark on the floor, his breathing shallow, his internal processor stuck at 99% completion on a task titled: Recover_Dignity.exe. His glasses had long since cleared of fog, leaving his vision sharp enough to see the microscopic dust motes dancing in the air. He felt like he was floating in a void, a soul trapped in a high-refresh-rate nightmare where the “Exit Game” button was grayed out.
The silence of his catatonia was suddenly shattered by the rhythmic, elegant click-clack of loafers. The scent of artificial mango and lavender fabric softener hit the air before the person even spoke. “Well,” a smooth, melodic voice sighed, vibrating with a mix of genuine concern and a hint of suppressed laughter. “I see the recruitment mission went... exactly as predicted.” Seonghwa stepped into Yunho’s vision. He looked like he’d just stepped off a runway, his hair perfectly swept back, his oversized knit sweater hanging off one shoulder with devastating grace. He looked down at the shattered phone, then up at Yunho’s frozen, pale face. “Yunho-ya,” Seonghwa said softly, reaching out. His cool fingers brushed against Yunho’s wrist. “The library is closing soon. Unless you’re planning on becoming the ghost of the printer bay, we should probably move.”
Yunho’s eyes slowly flickered. The “system crash” began to resolve, but the hardware was still glitching. He blinked once, twice, and then his head creaked toward Seonghwa like a rusted hinge. “Hyung,” Yunho whispered, his voice a dry, jagged husk of its former self. “The... the printer... it was a trap.”
“I know, Yunnie. Technology is a cruel mistress,” Seonghwa cooed, bending down with agonisingly slow grace to retrieve the broken phone. He inspected the spiderweb of cracks on the screen. “You really did a number on this. It looks like it’s been through a fight.” Seonghwa tucked the phone into his pocket and took the crumpled, scarred poster from Yunho’s death-grip. He looked at the neon gradient and the diagonal crease. “It’s actually quite aesthetic. Very... post-apocalyptic.” He moved to stand directly in front of his friend, taking both of the younger boy’s hands in his. “Mingi is waiting at the cafe across the street,” Seonghwa lied—Mingi was actually currently complaining about Yunho’s “dramatic disappearance” while eating a second blueberry muffin, but Yunho didn’t need to know that. “He says if you don’t show up in ten minutes, he’s going to register the club himself and name it ‘The Yunho Stutters a Lot Society.’”
That did it. The mention of Mingi’s chaotic interference acted like a hard-reset. Yunho’s spine snapped back into its 6’2” glory, and his eyes regained a flicker of that Radiant-rank focus. “He wouldn’t,” Yunho gasped, his voice finally returning to its normal frequency. “He doesn’t have the paperwork. He probably doesn’t even have his student ID on him!”
“He has a pen and a dream, don’t test him,” Seonghwa tugged Yunho toward the exit. As they walked—Yunho stumbling slightly like a newborn giraffe whose legs were still being calibrated—he looked down at Seonghwa. The older boy was smiling, that tiny, serene smile that always made Yunho feel like the world wasn’t actually ending, even if his “no rizz” status was now officially campus legend.
“Hyung?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Can we... Can we go the back way? So nobody sees the guy who stood in the library for an hour?”
Seonghwa squeezed his hand, his eyes sparkling under the library’s dimming lights. “Of course.”
The sun was a warm, heavy weight against your eyelids, the kind of heat that made the world feel blurry and kind. After a winter that had felt like an endless loop of grey slush and biting winds, the spring air was a gift—smelling of damp earth and the faint, sweet drift of cherry blossoms from the quad. You were sprawled across the wooden slats of the bench, your head tilted back, letting the Vitamin D sink deep into your skin until your bones felt soft.
The distant hum of the campus was just background noise—until it wasn’t. The rhythmic, frantic thump-thump-thump of heavy sneakers hitting the pavement began to override the chirping of the birds. It was followed by a sharp, melodic sigh that sounded far too elegant.
“Yunho, please, your legs are three miles long. Slow down before you break the sound barrier!”
You cracked one eye open, the sudden light stinging after the blissful darkness. Two figures were silhouetted against the blinding afternoon sun. One was slight, moving with a fluid, feline grace, his oversized knit sweater catching the breeze. But it was the other one who caught your attention. He was massive—a 6’2” wreck of ashy blond hair and frantic energy. He was clutching a piece of paper to his chest like it was a sacred relic, his glasses sliding so far down his nose they were barely hanging on.
“I have to find a spot, Hwa!” the tall one barked, his voice cracking mid-sentence. “A high-traffic area with low-judgmental density! If I don’t post this in the next five minutes, the momentum is gone!” He stopped abruptly, right in front of your bench. His shadow fell over you, instantly stealing your warmth. You looked up, squinting. From this angle, he looked even taller, a looming skyscraper of nerves. He was staring at the bulletin board directly behind your head, but as his eyes traveled down, they landed right on you. He froze. It was like watching a computer program hit a fatal error in real-time. His pupils dilated behind his fogged lenses, and his mouth fell open just enough for you to see his bottom lip tremble. He looked like he wanted to bolt, but his feet seemed to have forgotten how to function.
The shorter one in a beige sweater stopped beside him, crossing his arms like he needed the pressure to keep himself from dissolving. “Oh. Hi,” he said, and then immediately cleared his throat like the word had gotten stuck on the way out. “Sorry to interrupt your... nap.”
The tall blonde boy let out a sound like a strangled bird. “I—uh—we—post!” He thrust the paper toward the board, but his hand was shaking so hard the flyer was blurring when you looked at it. It was a neon-violet mess with a giant, jagged crease running through the middle. Before he could pin it, a gust of wind snatched it from his trembling fingers. The paper fluttered through the air, performing a mocking, graceful arc, before landing right on your lap.
You looked down at the flyer. It was covered in aggressive, messy handwriting in the margins that definitely wasn’t part of the original design.
“LEADER HAS NO RIZZ BUT IS GOOD AT CLICKING HEADS. JOIN OR HE WILL CRY. - M”
You looked back up at the tall boy. He was now a shade of red that you didn’t think was biologically possible. He looked like he was about to spontaneously combust right there on the path. “I’m—I’m—I’m—” he stammered, his voice doing a spectacular, agonising flip.
You didn’t just look at the flyer; you took your time, your thumb smoothing over the crease that ran through the words Strategic Digital Coordination. Then, your eyes drifted to the margin. To the messy, black-inked betrayal of someone’s handwriting. “Leader has no rizz but is good at clicking heads...” You felt the heat of the sun on your skin, but the heat radiating off the boy in front of you was ten times more intense. You slowly looked up, the paper crinkling in your hand. You didn’t say a word. You just tapped your finger against the “no rizz” comment and raised a single, questioning eyebrow.
It happened in stages. First, the taller boy’s eyes widened until the whites were visible all the way around his irises, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks behind his glasses. Then, his mouth, which had been hung open in a frozen “O,” began to twitch. The vivid crimson of his cheeks didn’t just stay on his face—it surged downward, staining his neck, disappearing under the collar of his hoodie, and rising up to the very tips of his ears. He looked like a pressure cooker seconds away from a catastrophic failure. “I—it—he—Mingi—that’s—not—” He produced a series of choked noises that weren’t even syllables anymore. He tried to reach for the flyer, but his arm stopped halfway there, his hand spasming in mid-air before he jerked it back to his side as if he’d been burned.
The shorter boy made the mistake of meeting your eyes for a second. His expression did that same tiny, fatal stutter—like a screen trying to load a page on bad Wi‑Fi. The amusement drained right out of him, replaced by a polite, blank panic. His ears flushed pink. He opened his mouth like he had a line ready. Nothing came out. “Oh dear,” he managed finally, but it came out too soft, like he was apologising to the air. He stepped back half a pace, shoulders lifting as if he could physically make himself smaller. His fingers twitched at the hem of his sweater, an idle, nervous fidget. “I think he’s reached his limit. Yunho-ya? Are you still with us?”
Yunho clearly wasn’t. The 6’2” tactical genius had officially left the chat. His knees buckled just a fraction, his height dropping by an inch as his entire posture slumped. His glasses chose that exact moment to finally lose their battle with gravity, sliding down the bridge of his nose and hanging precariously off the tip. He didn’t even push them back up. He just stared at you, his eyes glazed over, his brain having successfully completed a total system shutdown to protect itself from further trauma. He was a statue of defeat, looming over your bench in the warm spring sun.
The Hwa guy, or whatever the tall one, Yunho, called him, stared at the flyer like it had personally attacked him. He reached down to pick it up, then hesitated, like touching it would make the situation more real. When he finally took it from your lap, his fingers brushed yours for the briefest second, and he flinched like he’d been hit with a static shock. “Um.” He swallowed. His throat bobbed. “So.” Another pause. His eyes darted anywhere but your face: the bulletin board, the path, the sky, the violent amount of sunlight. “If you… if you don’t mind.” He cleared his throat again, the sound too loud in the open air. “Do you play games? You don’t have to. That’s not— it’s not mandatory. This is— it’s just a club.” He shoved the flyer toward the board with a jerky motion, like he was trying to pin his own dignity up there with it. “And if you don’t, that’s fine too,” he added quickly, words tumbling over each other. “We can— we can find someone else. Or we can disband. Immediately. Right now. We can pretend this never happened.”
Before you could even open your mouth, they retreated. Yunho made a strangled noise—half apology, half evacuation order—already stepping backward like the ground in front of your bench was wired to explode. “S-sorry. Sorry for— for being here. Bye.” The word came out too fast, too high, and then he was turning, shoulders hunched like he could fold his frame into something invisible.
The other boy didn’t let it get any worse. His hand snapped around Yunho’s wrist with gentle, practiced efficiency, and he tugged. “Sorry,” he echoed, the syllable soft and polished, like it had been ironed. He didn’t look at you for more than a heartbeat. “Have a nice day.” And then he dragged stumbling Yunho away down the path.
The air felt suddenly, jarringly still after the frantic energy of them vanished. The click-clack of loafers and the clumsy scuff-thud of retreating sneakers faded into the distance, leaving only the scent of expensive, floral cologne and the lingering warmth of the sun. You sat still for a second, your fingers still tingling from where the brown haired boy hand had brushed yours. You looked down at your lap, expecting to find the flyer, but then remembered he had pinned it—or rather, shoved it—onto the board behind you.
The quad was back to its normal, sleepy spring rhythm. A couple of students walked by, laughing about a lecture, completely oblivious to the fact that the human equivalent of a system crash had just suffered a total hardware failure right on this very spot. You felt a strange, fluttering curiosity in your chest. They were so... much. Absolutely, catastrophically weird.
You stood up, your joints popping after being sprawled on the bench for so long. You turned around to face the bulletin board, squinting against the glare of the sun reflecting off the glass casing.
There it was. It was pinned lopsidedly, one corner already fluttering in the breeze because Hwa had been too flustered to line it up properly. The flyer looked even more tragic up close. The giant crease across the middle made it look like it had survived a war, and the aggressive handwriting was shouting at everyone who walked by.
“LEADER HAS NO RIZZ BUT IS GOOD AT CLICKING HEADS. JOIN OR HE WILL CRY. - M”
Beneath it, in neat, technical print, was a Discord handle for an interest meeting that was scheduled in two days.
Your eyes trailed down to the bottom of the board. There, lying in the grass beneath the pins, was something they’d dropped in their frantic retreat. It was a small, plastic bag, still half-full of yellow, translucent squares. Mango jellies. You picked up the bag. It was warm from the sun, smelling cloyingly sweet and artificial. You looked down the path where they had disappeared. They were long gone, probably hiding in some dark corner of the student lounge trying to figure out how to change their identities and move to a different country.
You looked back at the flyer. “Need 5 names,” it said. They didn’t just need a member. They needed a miracle. Or at least someone who could hold a conversation without blue-screening.
The air was crisp, that biting spring wind nipping at your skin, but you didn’t mind. You leaned against the cold stone of the terrace wall, the familiar scent of tobacco smoke swirling around your head before being swept away by the breeze. You watched the quad through a hazy veil, your eyes narrowed. Down by the main path, you noticed the tall boy from a few days ago—Yunho, was it? He’d set up a rickety card table, his flyer taped to the front with too much Scotch tape. From up here, he looked like a giant trying to hide behind a blade of grass.
Then, you saw them. They didn’t walk; they prowled. A trio of girls whose coordinated outfits were as sharp as the insults they dealt. You felt a wave of cold disgust wash over you. You had the misfortune of sharing a few classes with them. They were—to say the least— annoying, mean in that practiced, effortless way—the kind of people who looked for blood everywhere. You watched as they circled the table. The leader, Seoyun, a girl with hair so polished it looked like she just left a hair salon, plucked a flyer up and laughed. The sound was high and brittle, carrying across the quad like a physical strike. Yunho’s reaction was visceral. You saw his shoulders hike up toward his ears, his frame trying to fold itself into a smaller, less noticeable shape. He reached up, his fingers trembling as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table, the plastic groaning under his weight.
“Wait, is this for real?” Seoyun sneered, her voice loud enough to make a passing group of freshmen stop and stare. “The ‘Strategic Coordination Union’? Is that a fancy name for ‘I have no friends and my breath smells like energy drinks’?”
Yunho’s head bowed. He tried to speak—you saw his jaw move, saw the frantic way he swallowed—but the system crash was in full effect. “I-it’s… it’s a p-professional… we have a r-ranking…”
“Oh my god, it stutters,” another girl, whose name you couldn’t remember, giggled, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. She leaned over the table, poking at a small figure Yunho had placed there for decoration. “Do you think if we keep talking, he’ll actually burst into tears? That would be such a vibe for my story.”
The disgust in your chest boiled over into a sharp, white-hot heat. You took another drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing bright, before walking down the stairs.
“‘Strategic Digital Coordination’?” the third girl drawled, her laughter a high, brittle sound that made your jaw ache. “Is that what we’re calling it now? It’s a gaming club for losers who can’t hold a conversation. It’s actually embarrassing.”
Yunho’s head dropped, his chin hitting his chest. He looked like he was trying to implode.
“It’s tragic, honestly,” the leader interrupted, her voice dropping into a register of fake, disgusting pity. She looked him up and down, a predatory glint in her eyes. “Look at you. You’re, what, six-two? And still managing to look like you’re asking permission to exist. You can’t even say one full sentence. Do you practice being embarrassing, or does it come naturally?” The other two girls erupted into giggles, the sound echoing off the walls. Yunho’s face didn't just turn red; it went a deep, bruised purple. He looked like he’d been slapped. His hands began to shake so violently the table rattled, and he squeezed his eyes shut behind his fogged-up glasses, his entire frame trembling with the effort not to cry. Seoyun stepped toward the rickety table. She reached out, her manicured fingers snagging the collar of Yunho’s oversized flannel. She yanked him forward, forcing his frame to hunch awkwardly over the plastic table. The legs of the table groaned, a sharp, plastic screeech that set your teeth on edge. “Six-two and you’re trembling because a girl touched your shirt?,” she hissed, her voice loud enough to draw a crowd of whispering onlookers. “It’s pathetic. You’re so useless.” She leaned in, her voice dropping into a register that made your skin crawl. “All that height, all that potential... and no one is ever going to fuck you. Not even for a pity fuck. Who would want to deal with a guy who probably stutters in bed as much as he does in the hallway? You’re a waste of space.”
Yunho looked like he was physically choking on his own shame. He tried to pull back, but his motor functions had completely stalled.
Then, Seoyun took it too far. With a lightning-fast motion, she reached up and snatched the glasses right off his face.
“Hey! Give them—!” Yunho’s voice broke, a high, desperate sound. Without his lenses, his eyes looked wide, glassy, and utterly terrified.
“Oh, look,” she mocked, holding the glasses high above her head like a trophy while her friends giggled. “The gamer is blind now. What are you gonna do, hm? Cry? Or are you just gonna stand there like a statue while I—” She didn’t finish. With a cruel, casual flick of her wrist, she dropped them. The glasses clattered across the pavement, the lenses hitting the concrete with a sickening clink that felt like a bullet to your chest.
Yunho let out a sound that wasn’t even a word—just a raw, strangled sob of pure humiliation—and started to sink to his knees to find them, his hands groping blindly at the dirty ground.
The heavy soles of your Dr. Martens hit the pavement with a rhythmic, menacing thud-thud-thud, each step echoing the white-hot rhythm of the pulse in your neck. You took one last, deep drag of your cigarette, the smoke hot and biting in your lungs, and flicked the butt directly at Seoyun’s feet. It sparked against the concrete, a tiny explosion of orange embers that matched the fire behind your eyes.
You didn’t just intervene. You crashed into their little circle like a wrecking ball.
When the glasses hit the ground with that sickening sound, you saw Yunho’s soul shatter along with them. He was folding, collapsing into himself, his large hands trembling as they looked for the glasses. Seoyun reached out to kick the glasses away, her mouth open to deliver another filth-ridden insult about “pity fucks,” but you were faster. You stepped into her personal space, the scent of well-worn leather and stale smoke drowning out her sugary perfume. Without a word, you brought your hand up and slammed it into her shoulder. You didn’t just shove her; you launched her. She flew back a good three feet, her heels skidding on the pavement until she hit the dirt, her two friends shrieking as they scrambled to get out of your way.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you pathetic, bottom-feeding bitch?” Your voice wasn’t quiet; it was a roar that silenced the entire quad. You stepped over the table, your fishnets snagging slightly on the plastic edge, and loomed over her. You flexed your fingers, your long black nails catching the sunlight. “You think because he’s quiet, he’s a target? You think because you’ve got a high-end concealer on, no one can see how fucking ugly you are on the inside?”
“You’re—you’re assaulting me!” Seoyun shrieked from the ground.
“I’m teaching you a fucking lesson,” you barked, leaning down until you were inches from her nose, your heavy eyeliner making your gaze look even angrier. “Touch him again. Say one more goddamn word about what he does or who would fuck him. I dare you. I will drag you across this campus by your fake-ass extensions until there’s nothing left but a grease stain. Pick up the glasses. NOW.”
She scrambled. It was a frantic, undignified crawl. She snatched the cracked frames from the dirt and thrust them toward you, her whole body shaking. You grabbed them, the metal cold against your skin, and stood up straight, your leather jacket creaking as you squared your shoulders. “Get the fuck out of my sight,” you snapped.
They didn’t wait. A click of heels cut through the heavy silence of the quad. But Seoyun hadn’t gotten far. She’d turned back, her ego unable to swallow the humiliation of being shoved in public. Her friends hovered behind her, waiting for her lead. She tipped her chin up, her eyes raking over your Dr. Martens, your fishnets, and your heavy eyeliner with a sneer that was more defensive than dominant. “Whatever,” she spat, her voice trembling just enough to betray her. “You’re the same kind of loser he is. You just wear it louder.”
You didn’t flinch. You took one slow, deliberate step forward, the leather of your jacket creaking like a warning. “Wrong,” you said, your voice a low, razor-clean growl that seemed to vibrate in the space between you. Without breaking eye contact, you jabbed a thumb toward the 6’2” wreck of a boy behind you. “I’m his star. You heard me.”
Seoyun’s mouth curled into something ugly. “Oh my god. What, are you his girlfriend now? Is that the only way a freak like him gets a pity-save?”
You let out a laugh—a sound that had no humour in it, only teeth. “No,” you said, leaning in until you were close enough to watch her pupils shrink. “I’m his pro-tier controller. His star recruit. The kind of player who doesn’t just win games—I end careers.” You let the silence hang for a heartbeat, watching the sweat break on her forehead. “And if you ever touch him again,” you continued, your voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal purr, “or if you even think about opening that mouth to say that shit again, I will drag you so hard across this campus they’ll think you got hit by a fucking truck. I’ll make sure the only thing people remember about you is the way you looked when I was done with you.” The girl’s expression didn’t just flicker; it collapsed. The “mean girl” mask shattered, leaving nothing but a terrified student who realized she had finally stepped in front of a real monster. “Go,” you said, the word flat and final. “Before I change my mind and make this genuinely embarrassing for you.” She didn’t wait for a second invitation. Seoyun turned on her heel, her “backup” stumbling over each other to follow.
The adrenaline was still humming in your veins, making your hands itch for another fight. You stood motionless for a second, chest heaving, watching the retreating backs of those three girls until they were nothing but a bad memory and a faint scent of perfume. Slowly, you turned back to the wreckage of the recruitment table. Yunho was still frozen. He was standing there in pure shock, his hands still hovering in the air where he’d been trying to shield himself. Without his glasses, his eyes were wide, blinking rapidly, looking incredibly soft and vulnerable against the harsh sunlight. He looked at you—at your scuffed boots, your leather jacket, the unapologetic sneer still ghosting on your lips—and he didn’t say a word. You stepped closer, the leather of your jacket creaking. You reached out, your long black nails glinting as you held out the cracked glasses. “Here,” you said, your voice still rough and low with leftover rage. “One of the lenses is fucked, but they’re still in one piece.”
Yunho’s hand shook as he reached for them, his fingers brushing against yours. The contact was like a live wire. He flinched, his face turning a shade of red that looked physically painful. He slid the glasses back on, the spiderweb crack bisecting his vision, and finally looked at you properly. “You...” He choked on the word, his voice cracking spectacularly. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Y-you... just... you shoved her.”
“She deserved a lot worse than a shove,” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest. You kicked at a fallen flyer with the toe of your Martens. “You just gonna stand there and let those bottom-feeders talk to you like that? You’re twice their size, for fuck’s sake.”
Yunho flinched again, his shoulders hunching as he looked down at his boots. “I-I... I don’t... I’m not good at... people. T-talking. It’s hard.” He looked back up at you, his eyes shimmering with a mix of terror and absolute, unfiltered awe. “N-no one has ever... done that for me. Ever.” He looked at the rickety table, then back at you, his expression shifting into something frantic and desperate. He lunged for a crumpled clipboard that had survived the scuffle, holding it against his chest like a shield. “I—I’m Yunho,” he squeaked, the word coming out an octave too high. He was shaking now, a tremor running through his massive frame. You introduced yourself without breaking the eye contact. “I’m starting... a club. For... for gaming. Competitive gaming.” He looked at your heavy eyeliner, your fishnets, and your “don’t fuck with me” aura, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to run away. But then, he stayed. He planted his feet, his jaw tightening even as his hands continued to shake. “You’re... you’re really cool,” he whispered. “And... and I think you dropped this.” He reached down, picking up your lighter that must have fallen from your pocket. He held it out to you, his fingers trembling, his eyes searching yours behind his broken lenses.
You took the lighter from his shaking fingers, your black nails grazing his palm. You tucked it into your pocket, eyes narrowing as you watched him.
It was starting to sink in. The word Pro-tier was echoing in his head, overriding his fear, his shyness, and the humiliation of the last minutes. “You—you really…” Yunho gripped the clipboard so hard the plastic groaned. “You said you’re a controller… You said it to her face.” He took a step toward you, his frame finally unfolding. He was still blushing, still stammering, but his eyes were suddenly burning with an intensity you wouldn’t expect from him. ”What—what’s your rank? Are you Radiant?” he squeaked, his words starting to tumble out faster and faster, a waterfall of gamer-jargon fuelled by pure adrenaline. “I—I’ve been looking for someone for my team with that kind of... of aggressive spacing! Did you see how you took that space? You cleared the site! You didn’t even hesitate, you just—you just executed!” He began to pace in a small, frantic circle around the broken table, his hands gesturing wildly as if he was explaining a map strategy to a ghost. “If you’re a controller... if you can click heads like you just shoved her... oh my god.” He stopped, looming over you again, his breath coming in short, excited huffs. “Do you play on high-sens? You look like a high-sens player. Your movements are so—so flick-heavy! Please tell me you have a decent headshot percentage.” He thrust the pen at you, nearly poking your chest in his excitement. He was a mess—a gorgeous, stuttering, 6’2” mess—but for the first time, he wasn’t looking at the floor. He was looking at you like you were the final piece of a puzzle. “Sign it!” he pleaded, a manic sort of grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sign the charter. I don’t care if you’re scary. I don’t care if you smoke! Mingi smokes too! If you can play like that... we’re going to be unstoppable. We’ll make them all eat their words. Please. Just tell me... who’s your main?”
You looked at the pen, then at the “Member 4” slot on the crumpled charter. Behind that spiderweb crack in his glasses, Yunho’s eyes were wide and shining—not with tears anymore, but with a frantic worship. To him, you weren’t just the girl who had dog-walked his bullies; you were the legendary player who was going to save his failing dream.
Yunho kept looking at you like an excited puppy who’d just seen a leash, all trembling hands and too-bright eyes, like he might start wagging his entire body if you gave him one more second of attention. You should have told him the truth. You should have said you didn’t even have the game installed, that you only knew the words coming out of his mouth because your roommate, Wooyoung, treated Valorant like a religion and wouldn’t shut up about it. But Yunho was holding the pen out like it was a lifeline, and after what those girls had said to him, you couldn’t bring yourself to cut him down with something as small and stupid as honesty.
Viper.
The second the name left your lips, you wanted to swallow it back down along with the smoke still stinging your throat. You hadn’t even thought about it. It was just a memory of Wooyoung screaming at his monitor at 3:00 AM, something about “toxic screens” and “lineups” while you pounded on the wall telling him to shut the hell up. You bit down on your lower lip, your eyeliner masking the “oh shit” moment happening behind your eyes.
The reaction from Yunho was visceral. He didn’t just freeze—he looked like he’d been struck by lightning. His mouth fell open, and for a second, the stuttering stopped completely. Then, he let out a sound that was less a word and more of a high-pitched, strangled whistle. “A... a Viper main?” he squeaked. His voice didn’t just flip; it broke into a dozen different pieces. He looked down at your long black nails, and you watched him swallow so hard his Adam’s apple practically did a backflip. In the game, Viper was a cold, commanding scientist in a skin-tight suit. Looking at you in your leather jacket, looking like you’d just come from a riot, the resemblance was... unfortunate for his heart rate. “You... you play the chemist?” he clutching that clipboard to his chest like it was a shield against his own feelings. “She’s—she’s one of the hardest agents! She’s... sophisticated. D-dangerous. You have to be so... in control to play her.”
Oh, I’m in so much trouble.
Internally, your brain wasn’t just panicking; it was a full-blown room on fire. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, you screamed at yourself behind your cool, “unbothered” expression. Who is she?! you frantically demanded of your memory, trying to scrape together every late-night rant you’d ever heard from your roommate. Wooyoung—that loud, chaotic menace—usually spent his nights screaming at his dual monitors while you tried to study. Think, think! You remembered him yelling something about “Mommy Viper” while slamming a peach flavoured Red Bull. You remembered him complaining about a “poison cloud” and something called a “snake bite” that apparently didn’t involve actual snakes. Most importantly, you remembered him mooning over her voice—how she sounded like she was bored of everyone’s existence but would also kill them without blinking.
“I—I have a lot of... respect for Viper mains,” Yunho stammered, his ears glowing a luminous pink. “I mean, I think her kit is... very balanced. And her—her voice lines are—I mean, her strategy is very... intense.” He was lying through his teeth about the “strategy part.” Everyone on the server knew Yunho’s desktop wallpaper was a high-res fanart of Viper looking down at the camera. And here you were, smelling like smoke and looking like you were ready to decay anyone who crossed you.
“She’s the Queen of the Pit, you don’t understand!” Wooyoung had wailed once while you were trying to sleep. “She’s scary, she’s smart, and she makes everyone feel like they’re suffocating!” And now, looking at Yunho—who was literally staring at you like you’d just cured every known disease—you realized you’d accidentally stepped into the most dangerous role of your life.
“Please,” he pleaded, his voice soft and desperate. “Sign it. We need a Viper. I need a Viper.” You looked at the clipboard, but all you could think about was the absolute, ruinous devotion in Yunho’s eyes. He wasn’t just recruiting a teammate; he was recruiting his literal idol.
The pen felt heavy in your hand, like a weapon you didn’t know how to safety-check. Your brain immediately started screaming. What was the line? Ugh, Wooyoung would always say it was the hottest thing any agent ever said—he’d rant about it for hours while his neon-green keyboard light bathed the dorm. And then it hit you, clean and sharp, like a bullet you didn’t see coming.
With a sharp, aggressive flourish, you scrawled your name. The ink was dark and bold, cutting into the paper just like you’d cut through those bullies. You handed the clipboard back, fingers lingering against his for a second too long, and leaned in. “They call me a monster,” you purred, the words vibrating low in your throat, mimicking that bored, lethal rasp you’d heard coming from Wooyoung’s speakers a thousand times. You tilted your head, your smirk growing razor-sharp as you looked at him through the spiderwebbed crack in his glasses. “Shall I prove them right?” You almost cringed at yourself, the internal embarrassment hot enough to melt your make-up, but you forced your face to stay ice-cold. If you were going to commit to this lie, you had to commit all the way. You couldn’t just be the girl who saved him; you had to be the chemist he was currently daydreaming about. Keep it together, you told yourself. Don’t blink. Don’t apologise. What would a ‘monster’ do? You let a slow, icy smirk crawl across your lips, even as your stomach did a nauseating somersault.
Yunho didn’t just freeze; he looked like his soul had been physically yanked out of his chest and replaced with high-voltage electricity. His eyes blew wide, his pupils dilating until they nearly swallowed the brown of his irises. The crimson flush didn’t just stay on his cheeks—it raced down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his T-shirt. He let out a sound that wasn’t even human—a tiny, strangled wheeze that sounded like a tea kettle reaching its breaking point. “V-Viper...” the word was barely a breath. He was trembling so hard the clipboard rattled in his hands. The “Gamer Persona” was fighting a losing battle against the “Massive Fanboy,” and the fanboy was currently screaming in a language only gods and nerds understood. To him, the pixels had just stepped out of the screen, put on a leather jacket, and threatened him with a good time.
Holy shit, it worked, your brain hissed, even as your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. He actually thinks I’m her. I’m going to hell. I’m literally going to hell for this. You didn’t give him time to recover. You reached out, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw for a split second—a touch so brief it could have been a hallucination, but it made him flinch like he’d been burned. It was the final killing blow. Yunho practically jumped out of his own skin. He looked down at you, his chest heaving, his breath hitching in a way that made it clear he’d forgotten how to use his lungs for anything other than worship.
“I—I—” he fumbled with the clipboard, nearly dropping it twice before he managed to pin it against his chest. “Discord! I need—we need—to coordinate the... the lobby! The server! I have a private channel for the SCU—the Strategic Coordination Union—and I... I need to...” He stopped, blinking rapidly. He looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe, let alone how to operate a smartphone. “I don’t have... I mean, I have a QR code! Somewhere!” He began frantically patting down the pockets of his jeans. He looked like a giant puppy trying to find a lost bone while on a sugar high. “Wait, no, it’s—it’s on the flyer! The one those girls... they...” He looked at the ground where the crumpled, dirty flyers lay, and his face fell for a split second, a flicker of that earlier hurt returning. But then he looked back at you—at Viper who had just claimed him—and the panic returned tenfold. “Just—just tell me!” he squeaked, holding his phone out with both hands as if he were offering you a sacred relic. His hands were shaking so hard the screen was a blur. “What’s your username? I’ll—I’ll add you! I’ll make you an Admin! I’ll give you a custom role! It’ll be neon green! Like—like your... like the pit!”
The username. Your brain went into a full-blown emergency lockdown. What the fuck is my Discord username?! You usually only used it to send Wooyoung memes or tell him to turn his volume down. You blurted it out, praying to every god of gaming that it was correct. Yunho’s thumbs flew across the screen, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in sheer concentration. He hit ‘Send Friend Request’ with a flourish that was almost cinematic. When his phone chirped with the confirmation, he let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-whimper. “I'll send you the link at 8:00 PM. We’ll run a warm-up.” He was beaming now, the trauma of the bullying completely overwritten by the sheer, geeky ecstasy of having a Pro Viper on his team.
“Don't be late,” you warned, putting on your best cold-voice one last time as you began to back away. “I have a very low tolerance for... technical difficulties.”
“I’ll be early!” Yunho shouted after you, waving his phone in the air as you walked away. “I’ll be there at 7:30! I’ll be there forever!”
The second you turned the corner and hit the shade of the wall, you collapsed against the brick, your lungs finally burning with the air you’d been holding. Your hands were shaking so hard you almost dropped your phone.
“Wooyoung,” you hissed into a voice note, your voice trembling with pure panic. “You have four hours. If you don’t teach me how to play your game and be a ‘toxic scientist’ Viper by dinner, I am telling everyone you still sleep with a nightlight!”
Your phone buzzed against your hand with such violence you nearly jumped out of your skin.
[1] New Discord MentionServer: Strategic Digital Coordination (PROVISIONAL)
Channel: #general-tactics
Golden_Retriever_Yunho: GUYS WE HAVE 4TH MEMBER! SHE SIGNED IT!!! I’M LITERALLY SHAKING. SHE CALLED HERSELF A MONSTER. MINGI, SHUT UP, SHE’S GOING TO BE OUR VIPER AND IF YOU ANNOY HER I WILL PERSONALLY UNINSTALL YOUR LIFE.
FixOn_Mingi: lol. i’m scared but also... i’m sat.
“Oh, I’m so dead,” you whispered, sliding down the brick wall until your thighs hit the gravel. “I am a dead person. I’m a corpse.”
Your phone erupted. Wooyoung wasn’t just replying; he was calling. The second you hit ‘accept,’ his voice blasted through the speaker. “A VIPER MAIN?!” Wooyoung screeched, and you could practically hear him falling off his gaming chair. “YOU? YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE THE WASD KEYS ARE! YOU ACCIDENTALLY OPENED THE CALCULATOR THREE TIMES THE LAST TIME YOU TRIED TO PLAY MINESWEEPER!”
“Shut up!” you hissed, clutching the phone to your ear like a weapon. “I had to! He was getting bullied by those three girls, they broke his glasses, and he looked like a kicked puppy. Then I signed the charter and—oh god—I did the voice—the monster line I always hear from your speakers!”
“Wait, wait, wait—hold on. Pause. Full stop,” Wooyoung’s voice dropped from a screech into a sharp, nosy hiss, like he’d just smelled drama in the air. You could hear the frantic squeak of his gaming chair as he scooted closer to the mic. “Who are we even talking about? Since when do you care about the general public? Last week you said men were a ‘distraction from your sleep schedule’ and you meant it with your whole chest.”
You squeezed your eyes shut so hard you saw stars. “It wasn’t about caring. It was about him getting publicly mauled like a wounded deer, and me being biologically allergic to injustice.”
“Uh-huh,” Wooyoung said, drawing the syllable out like he was tasting it for poison. “So you shoved his bullies into a different zip code, lied about being a Viper main, and then role-played a femme fatale voice line at a campus nerd. On purpose?”
You opened your mouth to defend your honour.
He cut you off immediately, his voice climbing an octave. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Are you actually… ovulating right now? Because the last time your hormones hit that level of insane, you tried to hit on me and I am still severely traumatised! I still see your ‘come hither’ eyes in my nightmares, and let me tell you, they were terrifying! Are you literally in heat for a nerd right now or what is actually happening?!”
“I was NOT in heat!” you snapped, your face turning a shade of red that rivalled Yunho’s earlier meltdown. “And I did NOT hit on you, I was just being—"
“You were being a menace to society!” Wooyoung shouted, deeply offended. “You looked at me like I was a snack-sized bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and I had to lock myself in the bathroom for two hours! And now? Now you’re out here in the wild, using ‘Mommy Voice’ on a nerd who probably looks like he’s never even seen a woman before! It’s predatory! It’s shameless! I’m reporting you to the campus authorities!”
“I was saving him from bullies!”
“By claiming his soul?!” Wooyoung cackled, the sound of his keyboard clacking like a machine gun in the background. “Girl, you didn’t save him, you claimed him. You hit him with the Viper line! That poor boy is probably currently writing your name in his notebook with little hearts around it while he shakes like a leaf. You’ve ruined his life, and frankly? I’m proud. But also, I’m calling a priest.”
“He’s… tall,” you said, the word coming out like a confession of a crime.
Wooyoung gasped so violently he actually smacked his mic. “TALL? Oh my god. Of course. Your type is ‘could carry me to safety’ even though you literally bite people when they try to help you.”
“I do NOT bite people!”
“You bite the air when you’re mad, it counts! Okay. Tall. Glasses. Nervous. Is he rich? Is he sad? Does he look like he needs a hug? Because that’s your kryptonite. You see one pathetic little tremble and suddenly you’re Mother Teresa in heavy eyeliner and a leather jacket.”
“I wasn’t being Mother Teresa!” you hissed, pushing off the brick and starting to pace. Gravel crunched under your boots, sounding like it was being punished for your sins. “They took his glasses, Woo. Like cartoon villains. And he just… stopped. Like his body got unplugged.” There was a beat of silence. Not the teasing kind. The rare, dangerous kind where Wooyoung’s actual brain engaged.
“Okay,” he said, his voice dropping. “Yeah. That’s… actually trash. I’d have kicked them too.” The softness lasted exactly two seconds. “But also,” he added immediately, “you should still be arrested for what you did. ‘They call me a monster’?” He made a choking, gagging sound. “WHO ARE YOU? A Wattpad villain? EXO member? I’m calling the police. The crime is terminal cringe.”
“Shut up!” you yelped, mortified all over again. “It just came out of my mouth! Like vomit! Like a demon possessing my vocal cords!”
“A demon named Mommy Viper,” Wooyoung sang, his voice dripping with glee.
You groaned, dragging a hand down your face, feeling the cold metal of your rings against your skin. “I don’t even know what she does, Woo. I just remembered you screaming about her at 3 AM.”
Wooyoung’s inhale was sharp and delighted. “Oh, baby. This is my Super Bowl. This is my villain origin story.” In the background, you heard the familiar click-clack of his mechanical keyboard, the aggressive thunk of his desk drawer opening, and then—like he was summoning a ritual—an energy drink cracked open. Tshhh. “Step one,” Wooyoung’s voice suddenly calmed in a way that made your skin prickle. “You are going to stop pacing like you’re about to fight God. Step two, you have four hours. Four hours to become a toxic scientist with commitment issues. And you’re going to do it because I refuse to let you die of embarrassment on a Discord server.”
You made a strangled noise. “It’s called ‘Strategic Digital Coordination (PROVISIONAL).’”
“Everything about this is provisional. Your self-control. Your dignity. Your ability to keep a straight face when you see him again.”
“Woo,” you said quietly, staring at the notification on your screen like it was a live grenade. “He’s going to want to… play. With me.”
Wooyoung’s voice softened, just a fraction. Not gentle—he didn’t do gentle—but less jagged. “Then we make you good enough to not get exposed in the first round.”
“And if I do?”
“Oh, you will,” Wooyoung said cheerfully. “But you’re going to get exposed later, after you’ve already emotionally imprinted on the tall nerd boy and he’s already given you a custom neon-green role. We’re playing the long con, Viper.”
“What if he’s… like… actually nice?” you muttered.
Wooyoung made a loud, wet gagging sound. “Oh my god. You’re in heat. I’m hanging up. I’m calling a vet.”
“Don’t you dare—”
“Too late! I’m already Googling the nearest 24-hour animal hospital!” Wooyoung was fully committed to the bit now. “I’ll tell them I have a rabid Viper main who needs to be tranquillised and put in a cage before she flirts a 6’2” puppy into a coma!”
“I am going to actually murder you!” you hissed, finally reaching a bus stop, your travel card trembling as you tapped it on the reader. “I’m coming in. If I see one TikTok of a golden retriever on your screen, I’m snapping your keyboard in half.”
“Oh, you’re so scary when you’re feral,” he cooed, his voice dripping with mock-terror. “Listen, I’m sending you a link. Click it. It’s the ‘Viper Voice Lines’ compilation. Listen to it until you can say ‘Come here’ in a way that makes me want to file a restraining order. And for the love of God, stop blushing! I can hear your face getting hot!”
“I’m hanging up now,” you muttered, leaning your forehead against the cool glass of the window.
“Wait! One more thing!” Wooyoung’s voice turned deathly serious, dropping into a dramatic whisper. “If he asks about your ‘lineups,’ just look him dead in the eye and say ‘I don’t need a map to know where to strike.’ It means absolutely nothing and it’s a total lie, but he’ll probably fall to his knees and offer you his firstborn son.”
“You are a menace to society,” you breathed, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your throat.
“I am your only hope, Monster,” Wooyoung sang. “Now get in here. We have a reputation to build and a tall boy to accidentally-on-purpose traumatize.” The line went dead, leaving you seated with the hum of the bus ringing in your ears and your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You looked down at your phone one last time. A new message was sitting there, glowing in the dim light.
Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Hi. Sorry. I forgot to ask. Do you... do you prefer the Phantom or the Vandal? I want to make sure I buy the right skins for you to use when we swap.
You stared at the message. You didn’t even know what a Phantom was. It sounded like a car. Or a ghost from the opera.
You: Surprise me.
You sent it, your thumb trembling. It was the only “Viper-coded” thing you could think of.
The apartment was no longer a living space; it was a high-stakes command centre for two men who had completely lost their grip on reality. Yunho was practically glowing. He was standing in the middle of the kitchenette, staring at a piece of toast as if it held the secrets to Viper’s heart. “She’s real, Viper is real,” Yunho breathed, his voice swinging wildly between a reverent whisper and a panicked squeak. “She’s real. She’s not just a collection of pixels and voice lines. She wears Dr. Martens. She smells like tobacco and—and justice. She shoved that girl so hard!”
Seonghwa was sitting on the edge of the sofa, a microfibre cloth in one hand and a bottle of lens cleaner in the other. He looked like he’d aged five years in the last hour. He was meticulously trying to polish the smudge off Yunho’s broken glasses, but his eyes were narrowed in deep suspicion. “Yunho, she smells like smoke,” Seonghwa muttered, his voice full of protective fret. “And she was aggressive. From what you just said she’d probably been in a street fight. And I still remember her eyeliner from the other day... It was so heavy. How can you trust someone whose eyes you can’t even see properly? And look at these frames! They’re spiderwebbed! We have to go to the optometrist or you’re going to get a migraine.”
“I don’t need eyes where we’re going!” Yunho shouted, throwing his arms out. “She’s a pro-tier! She’s a Viper main! Do you know what she said to me? She looked me dead in the eye—the broken lens side—and she said, ‘Shall I prove them right?’ I nearly died. I actually felt my soul leave my body.”
From the corner of the room, a loud, muffled thud sounded. Mingi, who had been sprawled across his gaming chair with his headset on, suddenly ripped his ears off. He spun around, his jaw practically hitting his knees. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were wide with a very specific, very desperate brand of terror. “Wait, back up. Did you just say... a Viper main? Who quoted the ‘Monster’ line?”
“Yes!” Yunho beamed, tripping over a stray power cord in his excitement.
Mingi’s face went completely pale. He looked at his second monitor, where a high-res wallpaper of Viper stood in her emerald-green gas. Then he looked at Yunho. Then he looked at the door as if he expected you to kick it down right now. “No way,” he whispered, “No. Way. That’s—that’s the dream! Yun, if she’s actually a pro Viper... I’m trash. I’m literally garbage beneath her boots. You realise she’s going to eat us alive, right?”
“I want her to!” Yunho yelled, completely unhinged. “I mean—tactically! I want her to lead!”
Seonghwa stood up, holding the cracked glasses out like a peace offering, though his face was a mask of pure worry. “This is a disaster. You’re both in love with a girl who sounds like she’s going to set the apartment on fire. Yunnie, please, put these on. At least see the girl clearly before you give her your social security number.”
“I don't need to see!” Yunho cheered, grabbing the glasses and sliding them on, the crack splitting his vision of the room into fragments. “8:00 PM, boys! The Queen is coming to the Pit, and I haven’t even vacuumed!”
Mingi scrambled to his feet, suddenly frantic. “Vacuum? Screw the vacuum! Hyung, help me find my good jersey! The one that makes my shoulders look broad!”
Seonghwa just sank back onto the couch, buried his face in his hands, and whispered a silent prayer for their sanity—and their internet bandwidth.
“I’m going to marry her,” Yunho announced proudly, his voice reaching a frequency that made the nearby windows rattle. “I don’t care if she’s a monster. I’ll be her monster-husband. We’ll have a green-themed wedding. Everyone will have to wear gas masks. It’ll be aesthetic.”
“You met her an hour ago! She shoved a girl! She threatened to drag someone across the pavement! She probably has a criminal record!”
“She has a vision!” Yunho lunged for a notebook and began scribbling frantically. “I need to know her favourite map. If it’s Bind, we’re honeymooning in Morocco. If it’s Icebox, I’m buying a puffer jacket. I’m already looking at engagement rings—do they make them with miniature poison canisters? Is that a thing? Mingi, look it up!”
Mingi wasn’t looking anything up. He was currently having a spiritual experience in his gaming chair. He had draped a green hoodie over his head like a cowl and was staring at his reflection in his darkened monitor. “I’ve decided,” he whispered, his voice deep, gravelly, and entirely delusional. “I’m going to be her loyal guard dog. I’ll be the one who dies for her. Every round. I’ll run into the line of fire just so she can get one extra kill. We’re going to be a power couple, Yunho! You, me, and the Goddess of the Pit!” Mingi yelled, spinning his chair around.
“That’s a throuple! That’s a completely different team comp!”
Seonghwa could hear the sound of his own blood pressure rising. “She is a girl with a cigarette and a bad attitude,” he moaned into his palms. “She is going to join the server, realise you two are barking like stray dogs, and she’s going to delete us. She’s going to delete our whole lives.”
“She’s a pro-tier!” Yunho squeaked, ignoring his hyung entirely as he started practicing his ‘cool gamer voice’ in the microwave door reflection. “‘Welcome to the team, Viper-nim. I’ve prepared three different site-executes and a bouquet of black roses.’ No, that’s too much. ‘Hey, Queen. Ready to decay?’ Yes. That’s the one.”
Mingi started doing push-ups in the middle of the living room. “I have to be in peak physical condition,” he gasped between reps. “What if she wants to 1v1 me? I have to have the stamina to lose gracefully!”
“THE GAME IS PLAYED WITH YOUR HANDS, SONG MINGI!” Seonghwa screamed, finally snapping. “PUT YOUR DAMN COMPUTER GLASSES BACK ON, SIT DOWN, AND PRAY SHE DOESN’T REALISE WE’RE ALL IDIOTS!”
But it was too late. The delusion had taken root. In their minds, the wedding bells were already ringing.
You slammed the door behind you with a force that made the pictures on the wall rattle, your boots thudding against the hardwood as you sprinted toward the living room. The apartment smelled like spicy ramen and Red Bull. “WOOYOUNG!” you bellowed, the panic finally boiling over. You rounded the corner into the living room, and the sight stopped you dead. Wooyoung was slumped in his $500 ergonomic gaming chair, back-lit by the neon violet and acid-green glow of his dual monitors. He was wearing his oversized hoodie, his black hair a chaotic mess where he’d clearly been tugging at it in anticipation. He didn’t even turn around; he just held up a single, dramatic finger while his other hand flew across the mechanical keyboard in a blur of click-clack-clack-clack.
“Don’t speak,” he commanded, his voice tight with focus. “I’m in the middle of a clutch. If I die now, it’s a bad omen for your entire fake career.” A second later, a loud, metallic SHINK sounded from the speakers, followed by a frantic cheering noise. Wooyoung threw his hands up, spun the chair around with a violent kick of his heels, and levelled a look at you that could have withered a cactus. “You,” he said, pointing a half-eaten pocky stick at your face. “You are the harbinger of my demise. Look at you. You’re practically glowing. You look like you just committed a felony and enjoyed it.”
“I’m in a crisis!” You collapsed onto the beanbag next to his desk, burying your face in your hands. “He’s... he’s so earnest. He’s 6’2” and earnest and I’m a liar!”
Wooyoung leaned back in that stupidly expensive chair, one knee bouncing with rhythmic, caffeinated energy. The neon from his monitors carved hard edges into his face, making him look like he’d been rendered in the same high-stakes engine you were about to embarrass yourself in. He looked you up and down, a slow, theatrical scan that felt like a character inspection. “Oh,” he said, his voice syrupy with a judgment so thick you could drown in it. “So this is what we’re doing tonight. We’re doing panic-romance cosplay. We’re really committing to the bit.”
You dragged your hands down your face, the cold metal of your rings dragging against your skin, and made a noise that was half groan, half prayer. “It wasn’t romance. It was—it was triage. Battlefield medicine, Woo.”
“Sure.” He clicked his tongue, his eyes glittering with delight. “Medical emergency. You had to administer CPR with your mouth. On his self-esteem. Very heroic.”
“I didn’t—” you snapped up, then immediately deflated. “I didn’t administer anything.”
Wooyoung raised his brows, his grin stretching wide enough to show teeth. “You literally said, in your best ‘Mommy Viper’ voice—” he deepened his tone into a velvety, gravelly imitation that made your skin crawl, “They call me a monster. Shall I prove them right?”
You grabbed a throw pillow off the beanbag and hurled it at him. It hit his shoulder with a soft whump and fell to the floor like it was ashamed to be involved. He didn’t even flinch. He just smiled wider, like you’d fed him exactly what he wanted. “Don’t do that,” you hissed. “Don’t repeat it. It sounds worse when someone else says it.”
“It sounded like a war crime when you said it, too,” he corrected. “Okay. Tell me everything again. From the top. But this time, don’t downplay it. I want the unedited director’s cut. I want the part where the 6’2” puppy looks at you like you’re his owner.”
You folded your arms so tight your leather jacket creaked. “I am not doing this.”
“Then I’m not teaching you how to use a Snake Bite,” he said, instantly businesslike. He spun his chair back to the screen. “Good luck telling Mr. Golden Retriever that your ‘toxic screens’ are actually just you running into walls.”
The silence lasted exactly two beats before your pride crumbled. “…He looked at me like a puppy,” you muttered, the confession tasting like ash.
Wooyoung slammed a palm on his desk like he’d just won the lottery. “YES! That’s the juice! Okay. Continue.”
You glared. “He was getting bullied. They took his glasses. Like cartoon villains.”
Wooyoung’s expression sharpened for half a second—real irritation, real disgust—before the chaos reasserted itself. “Okay, no. That’s actually vile. That’s ‘getting shoved into a locker in a 90s movie’ behaviour. I’d have bit them too.”
“I didn’t bite them. I shoved one of them. And then,” you prompted yourself, your voice going small, “he looked at me like I was a limited edition collectible that just dropped.”
“The tall nerd looked at you like you were a limited-time mythic skin,” Wooyoung corrected, then pointed at you like a prosecutor. “And then you lied. You lied right to his face. You said you main Viper. You, a woman who thinks a ‘ping’ is the sound a microwave makes.”
“It just—came out!” you said miserably. “It was either that or admit I didn’t play and then he’d feel stupid for asking, and he’d already had his glasses broken!”
“Ah.” Wooyoung’s tone went mock-soft. “So you committed identity fraud out of compassion. You’re a saint. A saint in a push-up bra and combat boots.” He sat back, hands behind his head, looking blissful as the green light from the monitor bathed him in a villainous glow. “God, you’re so insane. I love this for us.”
“You’re not helping.”
“No, I am helping,” he corrected. “I’m helping by bullying you into competence. That boy has already gotten attached to you. If you load into a game and stand there staring at the floor like a baby deer with a concussion, he’s going to lose it. You’ll kill him. His heart will actually stop.”
“I don’t stare at the floor!”
Wooyoung’s eyes widened with fake offence. “You stare at the floor professionally! Last month you walked into a door because you were mad and refused to look at your surroundings!”
“That door started it.”
“It was a push door, you psycho!” Wooyoung exhaled through his nose, trying to keep it together. He failed. His laugh cracked out sharp and loud, and he actually had to wipe his eyes. Then he snapped his fingers and spun back to his monitors, suddenly all business. “Alright, Monster,” he announced, opening Valorant with the gravitas of a general. “Sit. Hands on keyboard. No, not like you’re about to perform surgery. Like you’re about to commit a felony.” You slid onto the floor beside his desk, back against the sofa, and eyed the keyboard like it might bite. “Stop looking like that. WASD won’t hurt you.”
“The last time I tried, I opened fourteen menus and a calculator.”
“That was iconic,” he said warmly.
You groaned. “I hate this.”
“You love this! You’re in your little ‘I did something stupid and now I’m emotionally invested’ era.”
“I’m not emotionally invested.”
He turned slowly in his chair. The silence was lethal.
“…He asked what skin I wanted,” you confessed, your voice barely a whisper.
Wooyoung’s face did something violent. He clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “HE ASKED ABOUT SKINS? ON DAY ONE?”
“Yes,” you snapped, defensive. “Isn’t that a normal thing you gamer people ask?”
“That’s not ‘normal,’ that’s a dowry!” Wooyoung shouted. “That’s offering you resources! That’s—oh my god—he’s nesting! He’s building you a little green toxic pit to live in!”
“It’s not like that!”
Wooyoung stared at you, deadpan. “What did you say?”
You froze. “I told him to surprise me.”
He pointed at you again, his finger inches from your nose. “You. Told. Him. To. Surprise. You. That is the Viper equivalent of saying ‘I’m yours, do what you want with me.’”
“I PANICKED.”
“You didn’t panic,” he said, voice dripping with delight. “You purred through text.” You made a sound that could’ve been a scream if you had any dignity left. You shoved your face into your knees. “Look at me,” Wooyoung ordered. You peeked out. He held up two fingers. “How many brain cells do you have left?”
“None. They’ve all evaporated.”
“Correct.” He patted your cheek twice. “Okay. We do not have time for shame. Shame is for people who don’t have a Discord match at eight. Now, hit me with the line. In your Viper voice. Like you’re bored. Like you’ve never once apologised in your entire life.”
You swallowed. “This is stupid.”
“Say it.”
You inhaled, forced your shoulders down, forced your face into ice-cold stillness. “They call me a monster.”
Wooyoung’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Wait. Okay. That was—unfortunately—very good.”
“Shall I prove them right?” you added, your voice dropping into that lethal, bored rasp.
Wooyoung made a noise like someone witnessing a masterpiece. “Oh my god. You’re actually evil. And now? Now we’re going to learn how to throw a smoke so you can be evil with evidence!” He clicked into the practice range. The screen filled with targets. “Alright, W-A-S-D. Try not to hit my desk like it owes you money. You’re Viper. You slither. You don’t stomp.” You set your fingers down. You pressed W. Your character lurched forward like a drunk baby. Wooyoung slapped his desk and cackled. “YES! That’s it! That’s my girl! That’s my pro-tier controller! Look at you go!”
“STOP,” you snapped, trying to correct. You slammed into a wall.
Wooyoung wheezed. “A NATURAL. A GODDESS. THE QUEEN OF THE PIT HAS ARRIVED AND SHE IS CURRENTLY STUCK IN A CORNER.”
“Wait.” You froze, your character currently spinning in circles on the screen because you’d accidentally sat on the mouse. “Wooyoung. Look at me.”
Wooyoung stopped cackling long enough to wipe a tear from his eye. “I’m looking, but I don’t see a pro-player. I see a girl who just tried to ‘shoot’ a tree.”
“You’re going to play,” you said, the realisation finally coming to you. “I’ll be on the Discord call. I’ll have my mic on. But the screen? The gameplay? That’s all you.”
Wooyoung’s eyes widened. A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face, radiating pure, unholy energy. “A Ratatouille play? You want me to be the little mouse under your leather jacket pulling the strings?” He slammed his hands together. “Y/N, that is diabolical. That is fraud. That is... the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Can you do it?” you asked, leaning in. “Can you play on your PC while I talk to them on my laptop?”
“Can I?” Wooyoung scoffed, “I can play Viper with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back. I’ll make you look like a god. I’ll hit shots so clean Yunho will think he’s hallucinating!” He paused, pointing a finger at you. “But you? You have to keep the act up. If I get a Triple Kill, you don’t cheer. You don’t giggle. You stay cold. You stay... bored.”
“I can do bored,” you whispered, trying to channel the ice in your veins.
“And,” Wooyoung added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss, “if I clutch a 1v4, you have to say something so toxic it makes their toes curl. None of that ‘good job team’ trash. I want ‘Don’t get in my way again.’”
[Voice Channel] Strategic Digital...
Golden_Retriever_Yunho is in the channel.
StarHwa_04 is in the channel.
FixOn_Mingi is in the channel.
“They’re in,” you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs. You put on your headset, adjusting the mic until it was hovering right by your lips.
Wooyoung settled into his chair, his expression going dead-serious. He cracked his knuckles, the glow of the monitor reflecting in his dark eyes. “Alright, Monster. Hide your screen. Open your mic. Let’s go make a puppy fall in love with a lie.”
You clicked ‘Join.’ The silence in the channel was immediate. You could practically hear the collective sharp intake of breath on the other end.
“...Hello?” Yunho’s voice came through, sounding of pure, unadulterated nerves. “V-Viper? Are you there?”
You looked at Wooyoung. He gave you a sharp nod, his fingers already dancing over the keys as he loaded into the lobby. You leaned back, hooded your eyes, and let out a long, slow sigh—the sound of someone who had better things to do than exist. “I’m here,” you rasped, the tone low and dangerous. “Don’t make me regret it.”
On the other end of the line, you heard a muffled thump—the distinct sound of Yunho’s forehead hitting his desk—and a faint, wheezing moan from Mingi.
“She’s here,” Mingi whispered, sounding terrified and delighted. “Hyung, she’s actually here. I think I’m going to faint.”
Wooyoung’s fingers moved like they were possessed—clean, lazy arcs on the mouse, taps that sounded bored even when they were lethal. He loaded you into a custom lobby with the practiced ease of a magician making a coin disappear: fast enough that no one could see the trick, but smooth enough to feel like an insult.
Yunho, on the other end, made a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a prayer. “O-okay. Great. Custom. Yes. Uh—what map do you want?”
You leaned closer to the mic, letting your voice go low, flat, and unimpressed. “Anything.” The silence that followed was immediate and devotional.
“Anything,” Mingi repeated, his voice hushed like he was standing in a cathedral. “She said anything. Hwa, she’s literally the main character.”
Seonghwa cleared his throat, the sound tiny and careful. “Yunho-ya. Pick one. Before you actually pass out.”
Yunho’s laugh came out strangled. “Right. Yes. I’m—sorry. I’m picking. I’m fine.” You could hear the lie cracking over. On screen, Viper stood in the agent preview, all sleek confidence and emerald poison. Wooyoung selected her with a flick that looked like pure contempt. Yunho’s voice went even quieter. “You’re… actually locking Viper.”
“Obviously,” you said.
Mingi made a low, wounded noise. “I would die for you.”
“Don’t say that,” Seonghwa snapped immediately.
“I’m not saying it like a threat!” Mingi rushed, his voice jumping an octave. “I’m saying it like—like… a service. Like customer support. I am at your disposal, Queen.”
Wooyoung’s laughter hit the mic by accident—a short, sharp cough of amusement that was far too masculine to be yours.
Yunho froze. You could hear the sudden stillness in his breathing. “Who was that?” Your spine went rigid, Wooyoung stopped moving so abruptly even Viper’s idle animation looked like it was waiting for permission to breathe.
Seonghwa’s voice slid in, quick and protective. “Yunho. Don’t be weird.”
But Yunho didn’t back off. He never did when the strategy felt off. “It sounded like… a guy,” he said, the words measured and dangerous. He was holding an angle now, his mental crosshair trained right on the centre of your lie. “Is someone there with you, Viper?”
You let the pause stretch. One beat. Two. Long enough for the panic to rise. Then you said, bored to the bone, “My roommate. He’s not involved.”
A long, shaky inhale on Yunho’s mic. Then, quieter: “Okay.” He sounded like he was pretending not to care, but the air in the call had shifted. The ‘Golden Retriever’ had just tilted his head, sensing a stranger in the yard.
Mingi, trying desperately to stop the server from imploding, blurted, “Yeah, okay, cool! Roommates are normal! I have roommates! Like… Seonghwa and Yunho. And shadows. And my own crippling student debt!”
“Please stop talking,” Seonghwa muttered.
Wooyoung started the warm-up. The first shot cracked. A headshot. Clean.
Yunho inhaled so hard it whistled. “Oh my god.” Another headshot. Another. A string of taps that sounded like an execution.
Mingi’s voice went reverent again. “She’s farming. She’s actually harvesting their souls.”
Wooyoung leaned closer to your shoulder, his eyes bright with unholy chaos, and mouthed: Say something toxic. Now. Your mouth went dry. You forced the voice back into place. Cold. Controlled. “Keep up.”
There was a small, broken sound from Yunho’s mic—the sound of someone trying to swallow their own heart. “Y-yes,” he breathed, immediate and automatic.
“I’m going to throw up,” Mingi whispered.
“Great,” you said, flat. “Do it off-mic.”
The match was pure chaos. Wooyoung was playing like a possessed demon, flicking the mouse so fast the screen was a blur of green smoke and headshots. Meanwhile, you were leaning into the mic, delivering lines that made Yunho and Mingi lose their minds. Your eyes were glazed over, staring at a monitor that had become a fever dream. You watched a tiny digital woman in a gas mask sprint while the world exploded around her. Wooyoung was a frantic, blur-motion mess next to you. His fingers were dancing over the mechanical keys like he was playing a Mozart concerto at 2x speed. Every time he clicked, a loud CRACK echoed, followed by a little skull icon popping up. You had no idea what was happening.
The round timer bled out in the corner of the screen, but Wooyoung was bleeding the bots out faster. His fingers were a blur of violent, efficient motion—the only sound in the room was the rhythmic, aggressive clack-clack-clack of his mechanical keyboard.
“Last one,” Yunho said, his voice tight with a mix of awe and pure adrenaline. You could hear the desperation in his mouse-hand through the mic, the way he was trying to sound captain-like and failing miserably under the weight of his own crush. “We’ll—uh—we’ll run one more execute. A-site. I’ll entry, you wall, Mingi trades. Seonghwa… Seonghwa, you just… vibe.”
“Strategic contribution: vibes,” Seonghwa echoed flatly, sounding like a man who had already accepted his fate.
Mingi made a strangled noise. “I’m contributing my life insurance policy. I think my heart just did a backflip and died.”
Wooyoung’s fingers hovered over the keys, his eyes darting to you with a manic grin. You leaned closer to the mic, hooding your eyes, and let your voice go low, flat, and lethally bored. “Stop talking,” you rasped. “Start moving.”
Yunho’s sharp inhale hit the channel like a stun grenade. “Y-yes, ma’am.”
On Wooyoung’s screen, the world was an emerald blur. A wall cut vision. A cloud bloomed with the lazy precision of someone who had done this a thousand times and hated everyone involved. Yunho tried to follow the plan. Mingi tried to follow Yunho. Seonghwa tried to follow the minimap, walked into a corner, sighed, and corrected himself like the wall had offended him personally.
Then, Wooyoung swung. Tap. Tap. Two skulls flashed on the screen. A third followed instantly. The kill banner hissed.
“Holy—” Mingi’s voice cut off into a breathy, hysterical wheeze. “She’s—she’s—Yunho, I’m going to file a formal complaint with God. This isn’t fair.”
Yunho’s mic crackled with the sound of frantic movement. “I—okay—okay, we’re up! Site is clear! Plant, plant, plant!” You watched the spike go down. You watched the last bot step into the poison like it owed you money. Wooyoung ended it with a flick so fast it barely looked real.
VICTORY.
Silence reigned in the Discord. It was the kind of silence usually reserved for witnessing a miracle or a car crash.
Then Yunho spoke, his voice sounding like it had been ripped out of a very small, terrified body. “That was… perfect.”
Seonghwa cleared his throat, the sound of a man trying to reboot the universe. “Yunho-ya. You are being weird again. Your breathing is audible.”
“I’m not being weird!” Yunho protested immediately—the verbal equivalent of tripping on a flat surface. “I’m being… appreciative. Professional. Captain-like!”
Mingi whispered, his voice thick with reverence. “Captain-like. Sure, buddy.”
Wooyoung elbowed you lightly, a silent, chaotic go on. You made your voice colder. Sharper. The kind of tone that made people sit up straighter even through cheap headsets. “If you’re done worshipping,” you said, “schedule the meeting. Get your five names. And fix the comms. I don’t work with amateurs.”
Yunho choked on air, and the sound of him hitting his forehead against his desk filled your ears. “Y-yes. Yes. We’ll do that. Absolutely. Tonight.” A frantic, high-stakes pause. “Also—uh—do you… want to queue? Like, an actual game? Not customs. If you’re… if you’re not busy. If you’re not going to—you know—delete us from your life.”
Mingi exhaled like a man walking toward a guillotine. “Queueing with her is how people die, Yunho. I’m not ready to meet my maker.”
Seonghwa’s voice went soft, a warning. “Yunho. Don’t push it.”
You glanced at Wooyoung. His grin was pure criminal intent, his fingers already hovering over the ‘Queue’ button. You turned back to the mic, leaned in, and let the lie take its throne. “Queue,” you said, your voice a silken threat. “One.”
Yunho made a sound that was half victory-yelp and half cardiac event. “O-okay! Okay! One! One is good! One is—yes! Loading now!”
The lobby clicked. Match Found.
On the other end of the line, Yunho whispered like he was praying to a Goddess he didn't quite understand. “Welcome to the team.”
The campus cafe was a circle of hell. It smelled of burnt espresso and the metallic tang of wet umbrellas, the air thick and humid from too many students crammed into a space designed for half their number. You sat in the corner booth—the only quiet spot you’d managed to snag by sheer intimidation—and stared down your third cup of coffee. It was lukewarm, the surface of the liquid filmed over with a depressing sheen. You hated lukewarm things; they felt like indecision.
That was when you saw him. Jeong Yunho was impossible to miss. He moved through the crowd like a lighthouse in a storm, a head taller than everyone else, his blonde hair a messy, ashy halo where he’d clearly been stressing at his scalp. He looked like a deer caught in high-beams, clutching a paper bag and a volume of manga tucked tightly under his bicep.
His eyes scanned the room, desperate for a square inch of table space, until they landed on you. For a split second, the tactical genius who led your group through the trenches of the server—glimmered in his gaze. Then, reality hit. His eyes widened behind the spiderweb crack in his glasses, his ears turned a vivid, violent shade of pink, and he immediately whipped his head toward a ‘No Smoking’ sign, staring at it like it contained the secrets of the universe.
You rolled your eyes, the movement sharp and impatient. On the server, he was a frantic, commanding presence. Here? He looked like he wanted to phase through the drywall. “Jeong Yunho!” The name didn’t just leave your mouth; it cut through the cafe’s roar like a sniper round. A few freshmen at the next table jumped, nearly sloshing their lattes.
Yunho froze mid-step, his shoulders hiking up to his ears as he squeezed the paper bag until it crinkled. Slowly, like a man walking toward a guillotine, he turned back. “Oh! Hi—hey. Is it ‘hi’ or ‘hey’?” His voice cracked, pitching higher than anything remotely “Captain-like.” He stumbled forward, long limbs suddenly clumsy in the cramped space. “I didn’t... I didn’t see you there, Viper. I mean—Member Four. I mean... Hi. Or hey. Whatever you prefer.”
“Liar,” you said flatly. You didn’t move your bag from the seat; you just gestured with a sharp tilt of your chin. “Sit. Before someone else tries to take this table, and I have to bite them.”
He slid into the booth, his knees immediately knocking against yours under the small table. The contact was electric—the heat of his jeans searing against your skin. He recoiled as if he’d been hit with a taser, a frantic, “Sorry, sorry, so sorry,” tumbling out of his mouth as he tried to tuck his frame into the tiny space.
“What’s in the bag?”
He blinked, his long lashes fluttering behind his lenses, then slowly pulled out a bagel. A plain bagel. No cream cheese, no golden toasted edges, no life. Just a beige circle of misery. “A bagel,” he stated.
You stared at the dry bread, then up at him, your eyes narrowing. “A plain bagel? No toppings? Are you a Victorian orphan or a psychopath?”
Yunho let out a small, startled laugh—the sound was rich and warm, the first glimpse of the boy you actually knew from the server. “It’s efficient!” he defended, a spark of playfulness dancing in his eyes. He lifted the book slightly. “I don't have to worry about getting cream cheese on my manga. And it‘s... it’s comforting. Quiet. Like a reset for my brain.”
“You’re weird,” you muttered, but you took a long, judgmental sip of your coffee to hide the fact that your pulse was starting to sync up with the frantic rhythm of his.
“And you’re addicted to caffeine,” he countered, voice dropping an octave, gaining a sliver of that server confidence as he leaned in just a fraction. He noticed the two empty cups, and his gaze softened, trailing up to the dark circles under your eyes. “Are you okay? You look like you’re ready to delete the entire campus if someone breathes too loud.”
“I might,” you said, the corner of your mouth twitching despite your best efforts. You leaned forward, bracing your chin on your hand, letting the Viper mask slip just enough to let a predatory, teasing light into your eyes. “But honestly? It’s hard to stay grumpy when you’re sitting there looking like an adorable puppy in a cute sweater.”
Yunho had just shoved a massive, ambitious hunk of dry bagel into his mouth. Then, he froze. His eyes blew wide, the pupils expanding until they nearly swallowed the iris. For a heartbeat, there was total silence. Then, his lungs remembered they needed oxygen, and his throat remembered it was currently occupied by a dense ball of un-toasted dough. “—Guh?!” He started hacking, a frantic, wet wheeze that sounded like a vacuum cleaner sucking up a sock.
“Oh my god,” you deadpanned, watching as he flailed, his long arms nearly knocking over your third coffee cup. “Don’t die. The Captain dying of a bagel-related injury is not the lore I signed up for!”
“I—cough—I’m—wheeze—” Yunho grabbed his water bottle, his fingers fumbling so hard he nearly dropped it into his lap. He took a desperate, undignified gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically. He finally managed to swallow, letting out a sound that was half-sob, half-gasp. “You...” his eyes watered behind his cracked lenses. “You can’t just... deploy compliments like that! That’s a violation of the Geneva Convention!”
“It was just an observation,” you said, your voice dropping back into that silken purr, though your heart was currently doing a drum solo against your ribs. “You do have a very... symmetrical face. Even with the broken glasses.”
Yunho looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. He leaned back so hard the back of the booth groaned in protest. “Symmetrical? Symmetrical is for geometry! I’m—I’m a mess! I have bread crumbs on my One Piece!” He frantically brushed at the pages of his book, his movements jerky and chaotic. “You’re doing this on purpose. You’re trying to destabilise my mental state so I’ll miss my skill shots tonight.”
“Is it working?” you asked, tilting your head.
Yunho went quiet, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he looked at the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention from the industrial lighting. “Why are you being nice to me?” he asked, and the humour was suddenly gone.
You didn’t answer immediately. Your eyes were locked on his hand—the one pointing at you with that trembling, accusatory finger. Up close, without the barrier of a glowing monitor, his hands were… ruinous. They were massive, his long, elegant fingers spanning half the width of the table. You could see the faint, rhythmic pulse in the blue veins tracing paths over his knuckles, stretching taut under his pale skin. His hand was shaking—just a fraction—a sign of the absolute system crash you were causing him. It made your stomach do a slow, heavy roll. You wanted to see if those hands felt as warm as they looked. You wanted to see if they’d go still if you covered them with yours. You wanted to fell them against your—
Your stomach dropped.
No, not metaphorically. Not the cute little flutter people wrote poems about. This was a full, violent plunge like your organs had missed a step on the stairs and decided to take the rest of you with them. Heat rolled up your throat, sharp and humiliating, and for one terrifying second you couldn’t tell if it was adrenaline or nausea or something worse—something soft—curling in your ribs. Get it together. You weren’t supposed to feel anything. You were supposed to be the cold thing. The monster voice. The leather jacket. The girl who could shove a bully three feet and keep walking. But the way his fingers shook and the way his voice went honest on that single question—Why are you being nice to me?—hit you so clean it made your brain stutter. Oh no. Oh no. This was the exact moment you realized you weren’t playing a bit anymore. Your body had already made a decision without asking you. And now you were sitting here, staring at his hands like a starving person, while panic clawed up the inside of your chest because wanting things was a liability and you were suddenly, catastrophically aware of how much you wanted this one.
“Nice?” You finally spoke, your voice dropping into that low register that usually sent Mingi into a panic. You reached out, slow and deliberate, and used your index finger to gently, slowly push his trembling hand down until his palm was flat against the cold laminate of the table. His skin was like a furnace. The contact sent a jolt of pure static through your fingertips. “I’m not being nice, Yunho,” you whispered, leaning in until you could see the way his pupils flared, swallowing the honey-brown of his irises. “I’m being observant. There’s a difference.”
Yunho’s breath hitched but he didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, his fingers twitched under yours, his large palm instinctively trying to cup your smaller hand. “It feels…” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that was distractingly masculine. His voice was now, a voice of a man who was very, very aware of the girl sitting across from him. “It feels like a trap. Like you’re waiting for my guard to drop so you can… delete me.” His eyes darted to the coffee-stained napkins. “I mean… girls don’t usually… talk to me. Not like this. I mean—it’s not like I don’t like girls! I do! I really do! It’s just—the efficiency—the social energy—it’s just—” He cut himself off with a strangled noise.
You stared at him for a long, flat second. The cafe’s humidity seemed to condense right in the space between you, making your skin feel tight and your coffee-fuelled heart thrum. “Breathe.”
He did not. His lips parted, but no sound followed. His gaze flicked to your hand—where your fingers were still casually draped over his—like it was a grenade with the pin pulled. Then his eyes jumped to your mouth, then away so fast the movement bordered on physical pain. His shoulders hiked another inch, his massive frame trying to crawl into the sanctuary of his oversized hoodie and vanish into the cotton.
“Oh,” you muttered, unimpressed, though your own pulse was starting to hammer against your ribs. “So that’s where we’re at.” Yunho’s throat worked, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically. A tiny, pathetic noise—something between a wheeze and a whimper—escaped him. You leaned back in the booth, crossing your free arm over your chest, your expression carved into something bored and sharp. The Viper mask settled over your face like a habit. Like armour. Like a bad decision you kept making on purpose because the alternative—being vulnerable—was a “Game Over” you weren’t ready for. “You don’t have to deliver a presentation,” you said, your tone dropping into that lethal, low-register rasp. “Just breathe.”
His fingers twitched under yours. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the faint, rhythmic tremor of his large knuckles. “D-do you—” he started, then immediately failed. His voice snapped up an octave, betrayed him, and then vanished entirely into the steam of the espresso machine.
You sighed, slow and dramatic, like his software was personally inconveniencing your day. “Captain. Your brain just alt-tabbed.” The effect was instant. Yunho made a sound that should not have come out of a human being—a high-pitched glitch of a gasp. His mouth opened. Nothing. He shut it. Opened it again. You watched him quietly implode, chin propped in your palm, observing him. “Mmm,” you hummed, deadpan. “It still runs on the ‘Captain’ trigger. Good to know.” His hand finally jerked—too fast, too clumsy—trying to pull away from the contact, but your finger pinned him down with casual, precise pressure. You dug your nail slightly into the skin of his wrist, right where his pulse was thumping. He froze, his breath hitching so hard his chest hit the edge of the table. You leaned in just enough to make the air between you feel electric. “You’re allowed to like girls,” you said, sounding almost bored, though you were tracking the way his pupils flared. “You’re also allowed to talk. Without apologising for existing every three seconds.” Yunho swallowed hard, his eyes dropping to the table as if the wood grain could save him. You clicked your tongue, “Look at me.”
He tried. It was the saddest, most beautiful attempt at bravery you’d ever seen. His long lashes fluttered, his gaze landing somewhere near your shoulder before drifting toward your eyes like it had to cross a literal battlefield to get there. “I’m—”
You lifted a brow, your thumb starting a slow, ruinous circle over the back of his hand, feeling the prominent veins under his skin. “If you say ‘sorry,’ I’m going to bite your bagel.”
His head snapped up, genuine horror masking the blush for a split second. “D-don’t—! It’s dry! You’ll choke!”
You let the corner of your mouth twitch. Not a smile—just a crack in the ice. “Efficient.”
Yunho stared at your mouth like it had committed a federal crime. His fingers—still trapped under yours—curled involuntarily, his large palm seeking yours, wanting to hold on even as his brain told him to run. “I… I do like you,” he blurted. He looked like he wanted to eject his soul from his body and haunt the cafe instead. “Not like— I mean— as a person— and also— the utility— and—” He stopped as he realized he was rambling.
You tilted your head, eyes narrowed, voice dry as his sad bread. “Pick one sentence and finish it, Captain.”
Yunho’s throat bobbed. He took a breath, his shoulders dropping just a fraction as he finally met your eyes. “I like you,” he said again. Smaller. Realer. Without the stutter.
You held his gaze, your expression still grumpy, still sharp. But your thumb did something traitorous—it dragged, once, slowly, over the edge of his knuckle like you owned the right to touch him. “Yeah,” you said finally, as if it didn’t matter. As if it wasn’t making your heart feel three sizes too big for your chest. “I figured.” You leaned in further, so close the scent of his woodsy cologne mingled with your stale coffee. “And for the record? If I wanted to delete you, Yunho, I would’ve done it already.” You let your gaze drop to his mouth for one, lethal second. “So stop flinching like you’re about to get patched out of existence. It’s annoying.”
Yunho didn’t just smile; he beamed. It was like someone had flicked a switch and flooded the dark cafe with pure, unadulterated sunlight. His entire body seemed to expand, his shoulders dropping from his ears as he let out a shaky, relieved laugh. “Copy that, Member Four,” he chirped, the stutter completely gone, replaced by the giddy energy of a man who’d just secured a legendary drop. He grabbed his dry bagel and took a massive, triumphant bite, looking like he’d just won the World Championship.
You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag and standing up. The Viper mask was back on, sharp and cold, but as you turned to walk away, you stopped. “Enjoy your bread, Captain,” you called out over your shoulder.
You were slumped on the sofa, a condensation-slicked bottle of beer dangling from your fingertips.
“You’re doing it again,” Wooyoung was sprawled in the armchair opposite you, his legs draped over the side. He popped the cap off his second bottle with his teeth—a move that was 100% for drama—and leveled you with a look that was way too sharp for someone three beers in.
“Doing what?” you muttered, taking a long, defensive swig of your beer.
“The stare. You’re looking at that bottle like you’re calculating its trajectory into someone’s skull.” Wooyoung leaned forward, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. His dark eyes glittered with the kind of mischief that usually ended in a campus-wide scandal. “Is it the Captain? Did the Golden Retriever finally trip over his own oversized paws?”
You let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. “Woo,” you said, your voice cracking just enough to be pathetic. “I’m fucked.”
Wooyoung’s entire aura shifted. He didn’t offer a platitude. He didn’t say it would be okay. He let out a cackle—that loud, high-pitched, signature siren-wail that echoed off the kitchen tiles. “I KNEW IT!” He practically teleported to the sofa, shoving your legs aside to claim the spot next to you. “Tell me everything. Did he cry? Did he stutter? Did he do that thing where he looks like he’s trying to swallow his own tongue because you breathed in his general direction?”
“He bought a plain bagel, Woo. A plain bagel.” You stared into the amber liquid of your bottle, feeling the heat of the memory creeping up your neck. “And I touched his hand. To pin him down. And his pulse… It was frantic. And he said he liked me.”
Wooyoung gasped so loud it was practically a theatrical performance. He grabbed your shoulders, shaking you until your teeth rattled. “He confessed?! On campus?! In broad daylight?! My son! My giant, clumsy son finally levelled up!”
“It was not a confession!” you shrieked, your face heating up so fast you were worried you’d trigger the apartment’s smoke alarm. You clutched your beer bottle like a weapon. “He just! He likes—he didn’t mean it like that! It’s the team dynamic! It’s... it’s professional respect!”
Wooyoung didn’t even blink. He just stared at you, one eyebrow arched so high it was practically receding into his hairline. He took a slow sip of his beer, then let out a dry, mocking pop of his lips. “Professional respect,” he repeated, his voice dripping with enough sarcasm to drown the entire campus. “Right. Because nothing screams ‘HR-approved professional boundaries’ like pinning a 6’2” man to a cafe table and making him swallow a dry bagel whole.”
“I was stabilising the situation!”
“You were mark-marking your territory!” Wooyoung barked a laugh, slamming his bottle onto the coffee table. He leaned in, his eyes narrowed into twin slits of pure malice. Wooyoung’s cackle didn’t fade—it echoed, like he was trying to make the universe itself understand how right he’d been. “You’re fucked,” he repeated, delighted, dragging the words out like he was tasting them. “Monumentally. Astronomically. Biblically.”
You tightened your grip on the bottle until it slicked your palm. “Shut up.”
“Oh, I will not,” he was far too happy, pointing at you like you were a whiteboard in a lecture he’d been waiting to teach all semester. “I knew this was coming. I smelled it. I felt a disturbance in the force. The second you said ‘he bought a plain bagel,’ I knew your brain was doing that thing it does when you see something pathetic and your maternal instincts wake up like a sleeper agent.”
“I don’t have maternal instincts,” you snapped.
Wooyoung leaned back, propping his feet on the coffee table with the confidence of a man who had never once experienced shame. “Right. Sure. You just have… what do we call it… feral spring hormones and a violent allergy to tall men who apologise to a mailbox.” You made a strangled noise and took another sip, purely to have something to do with your mouth other than confessing crimes. Wooyoung watched you over the rim of his beer like a predator with a PhD. “Oh my god,” he breathed, eyes widening with theatrical awe. “Look at you. You’re doing it!”
“Doing what,” you said flatly, even though you already knew you were losing.
“The defensive drinking,” he nodded like a disappointed coach. “The ‘if I swallow enough beer, my feelings will dissolve’ technique.” You flicked a glance at him, trying to weaponise boredom. It didn’t work. He looked like he’d been waiting his whole life for you to glance at him so he could start a powerpoint. “Okay. Timeline. You touch his hand—”
“I didn’t touch his hand,” you cut in. “I—pinned it. For emphasis.”
Wooyoung’s mouth fell open in a silent scream of joy. He slapped his knee once, hard. “FOR EMPHASIS,” he repeated, losing his mind. “Oh my god. That’s worse. That’s not casual. That’s not ‘haha friendly.’ That’s dominance. That’s territorial. That’s you going—” he deepened his voice into an obnoxious, smoky imitation, “—no. stay. be still.”
“Don’t,” you warned, staring at your beer like it might provide an emergency exit.
He did it anyway, because he hated you in the way best friends do. “And then,” he continued, relentlessly, “he said he liked you.”
“He didn’t say it like—” you began.
Wooyoung held up a finger. “No. Don’t. Don’t you start that ‘professional respect’ propaganda again. I’ve seen you be professionally respected. You don’t spiral for hours and drink like you’re trying to erase a memory.”
You swallowed, jaw tight. “I’m not spiralling.”
“You are spiralling,” he said gently, and somehow that made it worse. Then his face snapped right back into menace. “And you know what the root cause is?” You didn’t answer. You just stared at him, because silence was safer than whatever his mouth was about to do. Wooyoung pointed at you, triumph blooming. “Female hormones.”
“Oh my god.”
“OH MY GOD, YES,” he exclaimed, thrilled. “You’re in your ovulation-phase villain era or whatever. Your body’s like, ‘Find tall mate. Acquire golden retriever. Bite anyone who interferes.’”
“I’m not in anything-phase,” you hissed.
Wooyoung leaned in, whispering like he was telling you government secrets. “You’re in the ‘I’m going to pretend I’m above romance while actively aching for it’ phase.” You kicked at the coffee table. His boots didn’t move. Neither did his confidence. He took another sip, eyes never leaving yours. “Listen. You can deny it all you want, but I have evidence.”
“What evidence,” you said, instantly regretting giving him a prompt.
Wooyoung started counting on his fingers with nauseating precision. “One: you saved him. In public. Two: you lied to protect his feelings. Three: you role-played a voice line at him. Four: you touched him. Five: you’re sitting here drinking and saying you’re ‘fucked’ like he’s a disease and not a boy who bought bread and looked at you with sad eyes.” You went still, bottle halfway to your lips. Wooyoung’s expression softened for half a beat—something sharp and sincere under all the mischief. “He’s nice,” he said, quieter. “And you’re not used to that. You’re used to loud. You’re used to mean. You’re used to people who swing first so you can justify swinging back.” Your throat tightened. You hated that he could do that—drop one line that hit clean, then immediately go back to being insufferable. Because he did. He sat up straighter, the softness evaporating like it had never existed. “But,” he said brightly, “the good news is: if this is hormones, it’ll pass.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s the good news?”
“The bad news,” he continued, grinning wider, “is if it’s not hormones, then you’re actually catching feelings, and I’ll have to watch you become… domestic.”
“I will not become domestic,” you said, disgusted.
Wooyoung gasped. “You’re right. Sorry. Not domestic. Just… compromised.” You made a noise like you wanted to throw the bottle at his head but cared about the deposit. Wooyoung leaned back again, smug as sin. “Oh. You’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re literally overheating,” he said. “You look like an Internet Explorer running twelve tabs and a guilt complex.”
You covered your face with your free hand. “Wooyoung.”
“Yes?” he said sweetly.
“I’m going to kill you.”
He hummed, pleased. “That’s fine. But first you’re going to tell me if the Captain’s ‘I like you’ sounded like ‘I like you as a teammate’ or like ‘I like you and I’m about to implode because you exist’.”
Silence.
Wooyoung’s grin sharpened. “Ohhhhh.” You lowered your hand just enough to glare at him. He didn’t gloat. He glimmered. “It was the second one,” he whispered, like he’d just uncovered buried treasure. “It was the second one and now you’re panicking because you can’t decide if you want to run or bite.”
“I don’t bite,” you muttered.
Wooyoung looked you dead in the eye. “You bite emotionally.” You just stared at him. He stared back, unflinching, then lifted his beer in a tiny toast. “Welcome to being a person,” he said, mean and fond at the same time. “It’s disgusting. You’re going to hate it.”
You took another sip. “I already do.”
Wooyoung nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now drink your beer, God knows you need it if you’re going to keep up the scary act while he’s being a literal ray of sunshine. I’m all ears, tell me everything. And if you leave out details, I’m calling him ‘your boyfriend’ until you combust!”
Married off to a feared king to secure peace, you expect cruelty. What they find instead is distance.
He does not touch you.
He does not claim you.
He barely even looks at you.
But in a palace full of watching eyes and quiet betrayal, you begin to realize something unsettling he has been protecting you all along.
Pairing: Choi Jongho x Reader
Genre: Royal AU, Political Drama, Slow Burn Romance, Emotional Angst
Tropes: Arranged Marriage, He falls first, Cold x Observant, Only soft for her (eventually), Misunderstood Male Lead, Court Intrigue / Hidden Enemies
Featuring: all of ATEEZ
Main Masterlist | Jonghos Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
This is Part 1
They dressed her in silence.
No laughter. No hushed excitement. No lingering hands adjusting fabric for the sake of admiration. The women moved around her like shadows with purpose, their expressions neutral, their voices low and restrained when they spoke at all. It felt less like preparation and more like ritual.
Like something inevitable.
The gown was heavier than she had imagined.
Gold thread stitched into layers of pale fabric that caught the candlelight and reflected it in muted glimmers. The sleeves fell long over her wrists, the bodice fitted too tightly for comfort, pressing against her ribs in a way that made it harder to breathe deeply. Each added ornament seemed unnecessary, excessive, as though the weight of it all was meant to remind her of something she was not allowed to forget.
She did not belong to herself anymore.
One of the maidens adjusted the collar, careful fingers brushing against her throat. The touch lingered just a moment too long, as if checking for a pulse.
She resisted the urge to pull away.
“Lift your chin,” the woman said softly.
She obeyed.
The room smelled faintly of oil and dried flowers. The windows had been opened earlier in the morning, but the air that drifted in carried no familiarity. Even the breeze felt foreign here, colder somehow, sharper against her skin.
A week.
She had been here for a week and still everything felt wrong.
The castle was too vast, its corridors stretching endlessly, lined with guards who did not speak unless spoken to. The servants kept their eyes lowered. The nobles she had glimpsed from a distance watched her with quiet calculation, as though assessing something that had yet to prove its worth.
She had not seen him. Not once.
The king of this land. The man she was to marry.
She had been received by officials, guided through formalities, instructed on customs she was expected to follow. Every step had been carefully controlled, every interaction measured. Even the meals were delivered to her chambers rather than taken in the grand hall.
She was not a guest.
She was a transaction.
“Turn.”
She turned slowly as instructed, the skirts of her gown shifting with a soft, dragging sound across the stone floor.
One of the maidens stepped back, studying her work. “It will do.”
It will do.
The words settled somewhere deep in her chest, heavy and unyielding.
She caught her reflection in the polished surface of a tall mirror across the room. For a moment, she did not recognize the person staring back.
The girl in the mirror looked composed. Regal, even. The gown fit her perfectly, the delicate embroidery framing her figure with deliberate elegance. Her hair had been arranged carefully, pinned and woven with small gold accents that shimmered faintly.
There was no trace of the girl who had left her home.
No trace of the warmth of familiar halls, of laughter echoing through corridors she had known since childhood. No trace of the friends who had clung to her hands in the days before her departure, their voices filled with forced optimism.
“He might not be as bad as they say.”
“You’ll be safe. That’s what matters.”
“You’re saving all of us.”
She had smiled for them then. She had told them she understood. She had told them she would be fine.
Now, standing in a room that did not belong to her, dressed for a ceremony that felt more like surrender than union, she wondered if they had believed their own words.
Or if they had simply needed her to believe them.
“Princess.”
The voice came from behind her.
She turned.
A guard stood at the doorway, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed somewhere just past her shoulder. “It is time.”
Of course it was.
She nodded once.
The maidens stepped aside without another word, their task complete.
No one offered comfort. No one wished her well.
There was nothing to say.
The walk to the great hall felt longer than it should have.
Her footsteps echoed softly against the stone, swallowed by the vastness of the corridors. The guard led the way, his pace steady, unhurried. Two others followed behind her, their presence close enough to be felt without needing to turn and confirm it.
She was not walking toward something.
She was being delivered.
The thought settled coldly in her mind, uninvited but impossible to ignore.
Like a pig being led to slaughter.
The image was vivid, unwelcome. She could almost hear the distant sounds of it, the quiet murmurs, the final stillness before the inevitable.
Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her gown.
She forced herself to breathe evenly.
This was her choice. No one had forced her.
The agreement had been laid before her kingdom, the terms clear and unyielding. Peace in exchange for union. Stability in exchange for sacrifice.
She had stepped forward before anyone else could speak.
Before her father could hesitate. Before her advisors could argue.
She had known what it meant.
She had known what she was offering.
Her life for theirs.
Her future for their safety.
The memory of that moment flickered through her mind as they approached the towering doors of the great hall.
The way the room had fallen silent when she spoke.
The way her father had looked at her, something breaking behind his carefully maintained composure.
“You do not have to do this.”
“I do.”
There had been no doubt in her voice then.
There was no room for it now.
The doors opened.
The great hall was filled.
The first thing she noticed was the sound.
Low murmurs, shifting fabrics, the quiet rustle of movement as heads turned toward her. The weight of attention settled over her instantly, pressing down in a way that made it difficult to focus on anything else.
She stepped forward.
Each step felt deliberate, measured.
The aisle stretched before her, lined with nobles whose faces blurred together in a sea of unfamiliar expressions. Some watched with open curiosity, others with thinly veiled disdain. A few looked almost amused.
No one looked kind.
The air was colder here.
Or perhaps it only felt that way.
Her gaze remained forward, fixed on the figure standing at the far end of the hall.
The king.
For a moment, everything else faded.
The whispers. The watching eyes. The suffocating weight of the room.
All of it became distant as she focused on him.
He was not what she had expected.
That realization came quietly, but it struck deeper than anything else.
He was younger.
Not a boy, not by any means, but younger than the image she had built in her mind. The rumors had painted him as something almost untouchable, a figure carved from cruelty and authority, hardened by years of ruling with an iron hand.
The man standing before her did not fit that image.
He stood tall, his posture straight, his presence commanding in a way that did not rely on movement or expression. His features were sharp, defined, his face composed to the point of stillness.
Handsome.
The word surfaced before she could stop it.
It felt misplaced.
Irrelevant.
His expression did not change as she approached.
There was no flicker of curiosity. No hint of interest.
Nothing.
His gaze was steady, fixed on her with a calm that bordered on indifference.
It was not cruelty she saw there.
It was something colder.
Control.
Complete, unwavering control.
Her steps slowed slightly as she neared him.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Enough for her to feel it.
This was the man she had been given to.
This was the man who held her fate in his hands.
She stopped beside him.
Up close, the details became sharper.
The way his jaw was set, not tightly, but firmly. The stillness of his shoulders. The absence of any unnecessary movement.
He did not look at her the way men often did when presented with something meant to be admired.
He looked at her as though assessing.
As though measuring something unseen.
The officiant began to speak.
His voice carried through the hall, formal and practiced, reciting words that had been spoken countless times before in ceremonies just like this one.
She barely heard them.
Her awareness remained fixed on the man beside her.
Choi Jongho.
The name settled in her mind with a strange weight.
She had heard it before, of course.
In whispers.
In warnings.
“He does not hesitate.”
“They say he executed his own advisor for treason without a second thought.”
“He has no mercy.”
Her friends’ voices echoed faintly in her memory, their expressions caught somewhere between fear and fascination as they repeated the rumors they had heard.
She had listened. She had accepted it. She had prepared herself for cruelty.
For anger. For arrogance. For something she could understand, even if she could not accept it.
This… was different.
There was no anger in him.
No visible cruelty.
Only distance.
A distance so complete it felt impenetrable.
“Do you accept this union?”
The question pulled her back.
Her gaze shifted forward. “I do.”
Her voice did not waver.
She did not look at him as she spoke.
She did not need to.
The same question was directed at him.
There was a brief pause.
Not long enough to draw attention.
Long enough for her to notice.
“I do.”
His voice was low.
There was no emotion in it.
No hesitation.
The words were spoken with the same precision as everything else about him.
Like a statement of fact. Not a choice.
The ceremony continued.
Words were exchanged. Vows spoken. Rings placed.
Each action felt distant, like something happening around her rather than something she was part of.
Until it was done.
Until the final words were spoken.
Until the murmurs rose again, louder now, filling the space that had been held in tense silence.
She turned slightly, uncertain of what was expected next.
Jongho moved first.
Not toward her.
But toward one of the nobles who had stepped forward.
A man she did not recognize.
The noble began to speak, his tone polite but edged with something sharper beneath the surface. “Your Majesty, I trust this alliance will prove… beneficial to both parties.”
There was something in the way he said it.
A subtle implication.
A challenge, perhaps.
Jongho’s gaze shifted to him.
It was a small movement.
Barely noticeable.
And yet the effect was immediate.
The noble’s expression faltered.
Only for a second.
“It will,” Jongho said.
Nothing more.
No elaboration.
No reassurance.
The conversation ended there.
The noble stepped back.
Silenced.
She watched it happen.
Watched the way the room seemed to adjust around him, the subtle shift in tension, the quiet acknowledgment of authority that required no force.
It was not loud.
It was not overt.
But it was absolute.
Her attention returned to him.
He had not looked at her again.
Not since the vows.
Not since the moment she had stood beside him and tried to reconcile the man before her with the stories she had been told.
A flicker of something stirred in her chest.
Not fear.
Something sharper.
Something that felt dangerously close to curiosity.
And beneath it, quieter but persistent.
Surprise.
Because this was not what she had expected.
Not at all.
The celebration began before she could prepare for it.
Music filled the great hall, softer than she expected, but constant. A steady presence beneath the layered voices of nobles and courtiers who seemed far more at ease now that the formalities had passed. Servants moved between them with practiced precision, offering wine, arranging dishes, adjusting anything that needed tending without drawing attention to themselves.
She sat beside the king. Her husband.
The word felt unfamiliar. It settled uneasily in her thoughts, like something that did not quite belong.
Jongho had not spoken to her.
Not after the ceremony. Not when they had been led to the long table at the front of the hall. Not even when he had taken his seat beside her, his presence close enough to be felt without ever truly acknowledging hers.
He had not looked at her either.
At least, not that she had noticed.
His attention remained on the room, on the people moving within it, on conversations that did not include her. When others approached him, he answered. When they spoke, he listened. Every response he gave was measured, precise, leaving no room for interpretation or unnecessary familiarity.
He ruled even in silence.
And she sat beside him like an ornament.
Still. Composed. Silent.
Exactly what they expected.
Her hands rested in her lap, fingers lightly intertwined, the fabric of her gown pooling around her like something meant to anchor her in place. She kept her posture straight, her expression neutral, her gaze drifting just enough to avoid staring at any one person for too long.
No one spoke to her.
She felt their attention, though.
The subtle glances. The quiet assessments. The curiosity that lingered just beneath the surface of polite indifference.
She was new. Unknown.
A variable in a place that did not tolerate uncertainty.
A servant placed a glass before her.
She did not reach for it.
The music continued.
The conversations flowed.
And still, she sat.
Detached.
Like she was watching something unfold from a distance rather than being part of it.
It would have been easier if Jongho had been cruel.
If he had dismissed her openly, spoken harshly, given her something tangible to react to. Something she could understand, even if she did not accept it.
This quiet distance felt worse.
Because it left her with nothing.
Nothing to push against.
Nothing to define him beyond the rumors she had carried with her.
Until someone took the seat beside her.
“I was beginning to think they would not allow me the chance to meet you.”
The voice was warm.
Too warm.
It cut through the steady rhythm of the hall in a way that immediately drew her attention.
She turned slightly.
The man beside her did not look away.
He was smiling.
Not broadly, not in a way that could be called friendly without question. There was something sharper beneath it, something observant, calculating.
“Kim Hongjoong,” he said, inclining his head just enough to acknowledge her status without diminishing his own. “Advisor to the king.”
A pause. “And, on occasion, his friend.”
She studied him.
He did not lower his gaze. He did not soften under her attention.
If anything, his expression seemed to sharpen, as though her silence was something to be examined rather than respected.
“You have been here for a week,” he continued, his tone conversational, almost light. “And yet we have not crossed paths.”
“That was not my decision.”
The words left her before she could reconsider them.
His smile widened. “Of course not.”
There it was.
Interest.
Measured, deliberate interest.
She felt it then.
The purpose behind his presence.
He had not come to welcome her.
He had come to assess her.
To determine what she was.
What she might become.
What threat she could pose.
Her fingers tightened slightly against her gown.
“And what should we make of you?” he asked, tilting his head just slightly, his gaze never leaving her face. “A princess from a rival kingdom, now seated beside our king. A symbol of peace, perhaps.”
Perhaps.
The word lingered between them.
She met his gaze fully then.
If he wanted to see, she would let him.
“You can be relieved,” she said.
His brows lifted slightly.
A flicker of curiosity.
“The only thing I want is to be safe,” she continued, her voice steady, controlled in a way that mirrored the man seated on her other side. “And for my people to be safe.”
Hongjoong said nothing.
He listened.
She continued.
“I will be a good wife,” she said. “A quiet one.”
There was a shift in her tone then.
Subtle. Sharp.
“I will sit where I am told. Speak when I am spoken to. Smile when it is expected.” Her lips curved faintly, but there was no warmth in it. “I will look pretty and do nothing at all. Certainly nothing that would require using my head.”
The words settled between them like something fragile.
And then Hongjoong laughed.
Loudly.
It cut through the surrounding conversations, sharp enough to draw attention from those nearby.
She did not flinch.
His laughter did not feel mocking.
It felt… genuine.
“I like you,” he said, still smiling as he leaned back slightly in his seat.
Then he turned his head.
Toward Jongho.
“There is more here than we were led to believe,” Hongjoong added, his tone shifting into something unmistakably smug. “You will have quite the handful to deal with.”
For the first time since she had sat down Jongho reacted.
It was small.
Barely anything.
But it was there.
He turned his head.
His gaze landed on her.
There was no anger in it.
No clear emotion at all.
But there was something new.
Something she had not seen before.
Attention.
And, for a brief moment surprise.
“Haha.”
The word left him flatly.
Completely devoid of amusement.
It was not a laugh.
It was a dismissal.
Hongjoong only seemed more entertained by it.
Y/n sat very still.
Her gaze shifted between them.
Confusion settled slowly in her chest.
Because she did not understand what had just happened.
Not fully.
Not the way Hongjoong seemed to.
Not the way Jongho had reacted.
It felt like she had stepped into something she could not yet see.
A conversation beneath the one that had just taken place.
And she had been part of it without knowing the rules.
The music continued.
The hall remained filled with voices.
But something had shifted.
Even if she could not name it.
The celebration lasted longer than she had expected.
Long enough for the candles to burn lower, their light softer, more uneven. Long enough for the conversations to grow louder in some corners and quieter in others. Long enough for the weight of the day to settle fully into her bones.
By the time she was led away, the hall no longer felt suffocating.
Just distant.
Like something already fading.
The corridors were quieter now.
The sounds of the celebration did not reach this far.
Only the echo of her own footsteps remained.
She did not ask where they were taking her.
She already knew.
The maidens were waiting.
The same ones from earlier.
They moved around her with the same efficiency, the same silence, removing the heavy layers of her gown piece by piece until the weight of it was gone.
It should have felt like relief.
It did not.
They dressed her again.
This time in something lighter.
Something that did not hide as much.
The fabric was thin.
It fell loosely against her body, sheer enough that she could see the faint outline of her own skin beneath it. The sleeves slipped from her shoulders too easily, the neckline lower than anything she had worn before.
She did not comment.
There was no point.
This, too, was expected.
When they were done, they stepped back.
Just like before.
She did not look at herself this time.
The room was quiet.
Larger than the one she had been given during the past week. Warmer, though that might have been the candles placed carefully around the space, their light steady and soft.
The bed stood at the center.
She sat at ist edge.
The fabric beneath her hands was smooth, unfamiliar.
She folded her fingers together, resting them in her lap.
Her posture remained straight.
Her thoughts did not race.
They did not scatter or spiral.
She knew what would happen.
This, too, had been part of the agreement.
Part of the unspoken understanding that came with everything else.
Her gaze lowered slightly.
She focused on the faint patterns in the fabric beneath her hands.
The door opened.
She did not look up immediately.
She heard his steps.
The door closed behind him.
Silence followed.
She lifted her gaze then.
Jongho stood near the entrance.
For a moment, he did not move.
His eyes settled on her.
Took in her appearance.
The thin fabric. The way she sat. The stillness of her posture.
There was no visible reaction.
No shift in expression.
Nothing that betrayed what he thought of it.
Then he looked away.
He moved past her.
He reached for the fastening of his outer garments, removing them with practiced ease, his movements precise, efficient. Each layer was set aside without carelessness, without hesitation.
He did not look at her again.
Not once.
She watched him.
She could not help it.
The way he moved.
The way he carried himself even in something as simple as undressing.
When he was done, he crossed to the bed.
He lifted the blanket.
And lay down.
Turning his back to her.
The space beside him remained untouched.
Her breath caught.
Only slightly.
She had expected…she did not know what she had expected.
Not this.
“Sleep,” he said.
The word was simple. Firm.
“That is all that is required tonight.”
She did not move.
Her fingers tightened slightly against the fabric beneath her.
Silence stretched.
“I will not touch a woman,” he continued, his voice just as steady as before, “who did not choose this herself.”
The words settled over her slowly.
Carefully.
As if they needed time to be understood.
She stared at his back.
At the line of his shoulders beneath the fabric.
At the distance he had placed between them.
The mattress dipped slightly as she moved, lifting the blanket and slipping beneath it. The space was warm, though that might have been from the candles rather than him.
She lay down.
Facing him.
Or rather facing his back.
She studied it.
The shape of him.
The stillness.
The absence of any tension that might suggest expectation or impatience.
He was not waiting.
He was not pretending.
He meant it.
Her thoughts shifted again.
Not as heavy this time.
Not as certain.
Because this did not fit.
Not with the rumors.
Not with the man she had prepared herself to meet.
Her gaze lingered.
She did not realize how long she had been looking until the quiet stretched into something softer.
Something almost… calm.
He was…The thought came uninvited…surprisingly attractive.
It felt misplaced.
Unnecessary.
And yet she did not look away.
Not immediately.
Because for the first time since she had arrived, she did not feel like she was waiting for something inevitable to happen.
She simply existed.
In the quiet.
Beside a man she did not understand.
And that, more than anything else, unsettled her.
She woke to silence.
It was the first thing she noticed, even before she opened her eyes. The quiet sat differently in this room compared to the one she had been given during her first week. It was deeper, more settled, as though the walls themselves were accustomed to holding it.
For a moment, she did not move.
The events of the night before returned slowly, not in sharp fragments but in a steady, almost reluctant awareness. The ceremony. The hall. The way Jongho had turned his back to her without hesitation.
The way he had told her to sleep.
Her fingers shifted slightly against the sheets.
They were cool.
Her eyes opened.
The space beside her was empty.
The blankets had been disturbed, but only slightly. There was no lingering warmth, no sign of how long he had been gone. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours.
She pushed herself up slowly, the thin fabric of her nightgown settling against her skin as she moved. The room was still lit by the pale light of morning filtering through the tall windows, soft and almost indifferent.
Her gaze drifted to the small table beside the bed.
A folded piece of parchment rested there.
She stared at it for a moment before reaching for it.
The paper was smooth beneath her fingers, the edges clean, deliberate. When she unfolded it, the handwriting was precise, almost rigid in its neatness.
You may take your meals in your chambers or in the dining hall, as you prefer.
A maid has been assigned to you.
You are free to spend your time as you wish.
Nothing more.
No greeting.
No name.
And yet, she knew it was from him.
She read it again.
The words were simple, almost detached, but there was something beneath them that she could not quite place. Not kindness. Not exactly.
Consideration, perhaps.
Or obligation.
She set the note back down.
Her gaze lingered on it a moment longer than necessary before she turned away.
A knock came at the door.
Soft. Measured.
“Enter.”
The door opened carefully, just enough for a young woman to step inside. She carried a tray balanced steadily in her hands, her posture straight but not stiff, her gaze lowered in quiet respect.
“Good morning, my lady,” she said, her voice gentle.
She set the tray down on a small table near the window, arranging it with practiced ease before stepping back.
“I am Hana. I have been assigned as your personal maid.”
Y/n studied her.
She looked young. Not much older than herself. There was something calm about her presence, something that did not feel as distant as the others she had encountered since arriving.
“Hana,” she repeated.
The name felt grounding in a way she had not expected.
“Yes, my lady.”
There was a pause.
It stretched slightly longer than necessary, filled with something unfamiliar.
Opportunity.
Y/n rose from the bed, moving slowly, still adjusting to the quiet weight of the morning.
“You may speak freely,” she said.
Hana hesitated.
Only briefly.
Then she nodded.
“Thank you, my lady.”
Y/n moved to the table, her gaze drifting over the food laid out before her. It was simple but carefully prepared. Bread, fruit, something warm that still carried the faint scent of herbs.
She sat.
For the first time since arriving here, she was not alone.
The realization settled quietly, but it shifted something inside her.
She reached for a piece of fruit, turning it slightly in her fingers before speaking.
“How is the king?”
The question felt strange on her tongue.
Hana blinked.
Surprised.
Not by the question itself, but by the fact that it had been asked so directly.
“The king…” she began carefully, choosing her words with thought rather than fear. “He is kind.”
Y/n’s fingers stilled.
Kind.
It was not the word she had expected.
“He is not… easily understood,” Hana continued. “Many believe him to be cold. Distant. But he is not unfeeling.”
Y/n listened.
“He keeps himself apart,” Hana added. “But there are those he trusts.”
“How many?”
“Seven.”
The number came without hesitation.
“Seven advisors,” Hana said. “They are closest to him. The only ones he truly allows near.”
Y/n considered that.
Seven people in an entire kingdom.
Seven people who had managed to reach him.
“And his friends?” she asked.
Hana’s lips curved faintly.
“They are the same.”
That made sense.
Her gaze lowered briefly to the table before lifting again.
“Kim Hongjoong.”
Hana’s reaction was immediate.
Her eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across her expression before she could hide it.
“You know his name?”
Y/n shrugged lightly.
“He introduced himself yesterday.”
Hana exhaled softly, something close to relief slipping into her posture.
“That is… not unusual for him,” she admitted. “He is curious. Always watching.”
That, at least, matched what she had seen.
“He is one of the seven?”
“Yes.”
Y/n nodded slowly.
It fit.
Everything about him had suggested it.
The confidence. The way he had spoken to Jongho without hesitation. The ease with which he had occupied the space beside her.
The days that followed blurred together. Not entirely.
But enough that time lost its sharp edges.
She explored.
At first cautiously, guided by corridors that still felt too vast, too unfamiliar. The castle revealed itself slowly, not all at once, as though it required patience to understand its shape.
Gardens hidden behind stone archways.
Quiet courtyards where the air felt lighter.
Libraries filled with shelves that stretched higher than she could reach.
No one stopped her.
No one questioned her presence.
The freedom Jongho had given her in that note remained unchallenged.
She could go where she wished.
Do what she wished.
And yet she always returned to the same place.
His chambers.
Their chambers.
Night after night.
The pattern formed without discussion.
Without agreement.
He would come late.
Always after her.
She would already be there, seated or lying quietly, her thoughts settled into the familiar rhythm of waiting.
He would enter.
A glance.
Brief. Acknowledging.
Nothing more.
He would undress with the same controlled precision, set his garments aside, and take his place in the bed.
Turning away.
“Sleep.”
The word became routine.
Expected.
She did not argue.
Not at first.
She slipped beneath the covers beside him, leaving the same careful distance between them. Close enough to share the space. Far enough to respect the boundary he had drawn.
Days turned into weeks.
Nothing changed.
He did not touch her.
He did not speak beyond what was necessary.
He did not treat her with cruelty.
But he did not treat her as a wife either.
She existed beside him.
That was all.
At first, she accepted it.
It was easier that way.
There was no fear. No uncertainty about what would happen when night came.
No obligation forced upon her without her consent.
She told herself that was enough.
More than enough.
But acceptance did not last.
It shifted.
Slowly.
Subtly.
Until it became something else.
Frustration.
It began as a quiet thought.
A question she did not voice.
Then it grew.
Each night adding to it.
Each morning reinforcing it.
Because she did not understand.
Not him.
Not his reasons.
Not the distance he maintained with such unwavering consistency.
If he had been cruel, she could have resisted.
If he had been indifferent, she could have ignored him.
This careful restraint it unsettled her in a way she could not ignore.
A month passed.
And she had enough.
She did not plan it.
She should have waited.
That thought crossed her mind the moment she stepped into the room. But it was already too late to retreat without drawing attention.
Jongho stood at the table, one hand resting against the edge, the other holding a document he had clearly stopped reading the moment she entered. Around him, the room was occupied. Men she had only heard about until now.
The seven.
Their presence filled the space in a way that made it feel smaller, sharper. Every gaze turned toward her, measuring, curious.
Hongjoong leaned casually against the side of the table, his expression already shifting into something dangerously entertained.
Y/n felt it all.
And ignored it.
Her focus stayed on Jongho.
“You’re busy,” she said.
It was not a question.
His gaze held hers, steady, unreadable.
“I am.”
The answer was simple. Dismissive in ist calm.
It should have ended there.
It didn’t.
“Then I won’t take long.”
Something in the room shifted at that.
Subtle. Not enough to interrupt. Enough to be noticed.
Jongho set the document down.
His attention remained fixed on her, as though waiting to see how far she intended to go.
“And what is it that cannot wait?” he asked.
His tone was even.
It irritated her more than if he had sounded annoyed.
She took a step closer.
Not enough to close the distance completely, but enough to make it clear she was not backing down.
“You,” she said.
A pause.
His expression did not change.
“Be more specific.”
The words were quiet.
There was something beneath them now. Not emotion, something sharper than before.
She felt it.
And pushed anyway.
“It has been over a month.”
Her voice was steady, but there was tension beneath it now, threading through every word.
“I spend my days alone, wandering halls that do not belong to me, surrounded by people who watch but never speak.” She took another step forward. “And every night, I return to a husband who does not even acknowledge me beyond telling me to sleep.”
The room had gone completely still.
No one interrupted.
No one moved.
Jongho’s gaze did not waver.
“You are given freedom,” he said.
“I was given space,” she corrected immediately. “There is a difference.”
Silence stretched.
He tilted his head slightly.
A small movement.
Barely anything.
“You prefer otherwise?”
The question landed heavier than it should have.
Because there was something in the way he said it.
Something that suggested he already knew the answer.
Her frustration sharpened.
“I prefer understanding what this is,” she said. “Because it is certainly not a marriage.”
That did it.
Something in his expression shifted.
Not much.
But enough.
“You knew what this arrangement was before you agreed to it.”
“And I accepted it,” she replied. “I did not expect affection. I did not expect warmth.” Her voice tightened, just slightly. “But I did expect you to treat me as something more than a stranger who happens to share your bed.”
A quiet breath moved through the room.
Someone shifted.
Hongjoong, perhaps.
She didn’t look.
Jongho’s gaze hardened…not in anger, but in something more contained.
“You are treated with respect,” he said.
The calm in his voice made something in her snap.
“Respect?” she repeated, a short, sharp sound leaving her that almost resembled a laugh. “You do not speak to me. You do not look at me. You do not touch me.”
There it was.
The word settled between them.
“And yet,” she continued, stepping closer still, closing the distance enough that the tension between them became something tangible, “you expect me to sit quietly and accept it.”
His jaw tightened.
Just slightly.
“You are not being forced into anything.”
“That is not the point.”
“Then what is?”
The question came faster this time.
Sharper.
It was the first time he had stepped toward her, closing the space she had already begun to erase.
They stood closer now.
Too close for the room they were in.
Too close for the audience they had.
She could feel it.
The shift.
The way the air changed.
Her pulse quickened.
Not from fear.
From something else entirely.
“I am your wife,” she said.
The words were quieter now.
But they carried more weight.
“And yet you treat me like I am not even worth the dirt under your shoes.”
His gaze dropped.
Just for a moment.
To her lips.
Then back to her eyes.
It was brief.
So brief she almost thought she imagined it.
Almost.
“You are not owed effort,” he said.
The words landed harder than anything else he had said so far.
Something inside her flared.
Hot and immediate.
“Then what am I owed?” she demanded.
He did not answer.
That was it.
That was what broke whatever restraint she had left.
“Fine,” she said, her voice rising despite herself. “Then I will say it clearly since you seem determined to avoid it.”
She did not care about the room anymore.
About the men watching.
About the consequences.
“I will not sit around all day married to a king who cannot even take my virginity properly.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
It crashed down over the room, heavy and suffocating.
She realized it then.
Fully.
What she had just said.
Heat rushed to her face, sharp and immediate.
Too late.
Far too late.
For a fraction of a second, no one moved.
“Leave.”
Jongho’s voice cut through the silence.
Low.
Commanding.
Not loud.
It did not need to be.
The men moved immediately.
No hesitation.
No lingering comments.
Even Hongjoong, though slower than the others, pushed himself off the table with clear reluctance, his gaze flickering between them with poorly concealed interest before he finally turned and followed the rest out.
The door closed.
The room felt different now.
Smaller.
More dangerous.
Y/n stood frozen.
Jongho moved toward her.
Each step was measured.
But there was something else beneath it now.
Something that had not been there before.
He stopped in front of her.
Close.
Closer than he had ever allowed himself to be.
Her breath caught.
She did not step back.
Could not.
“You think that is what you want?” he asked.
His voice was lower now.
Quieter.
It did not need volume to hold weight.
Her pulse pounded.
She held his gaze.
“I—”
The word faltered.
Because she did not know how to answer.
Not like this.
Not with him standing this close.
Not with the way he was looking at her now.
Something in his expression had changed.
“You wouldn’t,” he said.
Not a question.
A statement.
His gaze flickered over her face, searching, assessing in a way that felt different from before.
More personal.
More dangerous.
“You are not attracted to me.”
The words were calm.
Too calm.
Her breath hitched.
Because that was not entirely true.
And she hated that he had said it like it was.
He stepped back.
Just slightly.
The distance returning, but not completely.
Not the same as before.
“I will not touch someone who does not want me,” he continued. “Not because it is expected. Not because it is required.”
There was something firm in that.
Her frustration returned, but it tangled now with something else.
Something she did not want to examine too closely.
“Then what am I supposed to do?” she asked, quieter now.
“Leave.”
The word came without hesitation.
Not harsh.
Not raised.
But absolute.
She stared at him.
For a moment, she thought about arguing again.
Pushing further.
But something in his expression stopped her.
Not anger.
Not dismissal.
Something heavier.
Something that made it clear, this was not a conversation she would win tonight.
Her jaw tightened.
She turned.
This time more controlled.
More deliberate.
And walked out.
She did not remember the walk back.
Only fragments remained. The echo of her own footsteps. The way the corridors seemed longer than before. The faint sting still burning in her chest, refusing to settle into anything she could name.
By the time she reached their chambers, the silence had returned.
Heavy.
Unforgiving.
She closed the door behind her more carefully than necessary, as though even the smallest sound might shatter whatever thin control she had managed to regain.
It didn’t.
Nothing did.
Her gaze drifted across the room, landing on the bed for only a moment before she looked away again.
She could not lie there tonight.
The thought came without hesitation.
The space felt different now. Not unfamiliar, but… unbearable. As if the distance he had always kept between them had finally taken shape, something real enough that she could no longer ignore it.
Her steps carried her instead toward the sofa near the window.
It was smaller. Less comfortable. Not meant for sleep.
It did not matter.
She sat first, her hands resting loosely in her lap, her thoughts still moving too quickly, too sharply. The remnants of their argument replayed without mercy, each word sharper in memory than it had been in the moment.
You are not owed effort.
Her fingers curled slightly.
A slow breath left her.
She leaned back.
Then, eventually, she lay down.
The fabric of her nightgown clung lightly to her skin, too thin to offer warmth, too sheer to offer comfort. She had not thought to bring anything with her. Had not thought at all, beyond the need to put distance between herself and that bed.
Between herself and him.
The sofa was narrow. The cushion beneath her unforgiving.
Her back faced the room.
She curled slightly, more from instinct than intention, her arms drawing closer to herself as though that might make the space feel less vast.
It didn’t.
The quiet stretched.
And then the tears came.
They slipped free slowly, steadily, tracing warm lines across her skin before disappearing into the fabric beneath her. She did not try to stop them.
There was no one here to see.
No one to hear.
Her breathing remained even, though it felt tighter now, each inhale catching just slightly before settling again.
She did not sob.
She did not make a sound.
The frustration sat deeper than that.
Heavier.
Because she did not understand him.
Because he refused to let her.
Because every time she thought she had found something to hold onto, something solid, it slipped away again.
She pressed her lips together, her eyes closing.
The tears did not stop.
Time passed.
She did not know how long.
Long enough for the room to grow colder. Long enough for the quiet to settle back into something almost still again.
Then the door opened.
She froze.
Instinct.
Her breathing steadied immediately, controlled, measured. She did not move, did not shift, did not give any indication that she was awake.
She listened.
Jongho’s steps were familiar now.
Even. Unhurried.
He entered the room, the door closing quietly behind him.
Silence followed.
She could feel it.
His presence.
It settled into the space differently than anyone else’s ever had. Not loud. Not overwhelming.
But undeniable.
He stopped.
She could tell without looking.
There was a pause.
Long enough that it felt deliberate.
As though he had noticed.
Her position.
The sofa.
The absence of her presence in the bed.
Her pulse picked up.
Just slightly.
She kept her eyes closed.
Kept her breathing steady.
Waiting.
Then movement.
Each step measured.
He stopped near her.
The distance between them narrowed to almost nothing.
For a moment, nothing happened.
The silence stretched again.
But this time it felt different.
Not empty.
Heavy.
She felt it before she understood it.
The hesitation.
It lingered in the air, quiet but unmistakable.
The faint sound of fabric.
And suddenly warmth.
A blanket settled over her.
It covered her shoulders first, then the rest of her, the weight of it grounding in a way she had not expected. The cold that had settled into her skin eased almost immediately.
Her breath nearly faltered.
She forced it steady.
As though she truly slept.
A quiet exhale followed.
Not quite a sigh.
But close enough.
He stepped back.
She heard him move across the room, the familiar rhythm of him undressing returning, each movement precise even now. There was no hesitation in it anymore, no pause like the one he had allowed himself at her side.
The bed shifted as he lay down.
The mattress dipped slightly under his weight.
Then stillness.
The room returned to quiet once more.
Y/n kept her eyes closed.
The blanket remained wrapped around her, warm, grounding, impossible to ignore.
Her thoughts did not settle easily.
They moved, slower now, heavier, circling something she did not want to name.
Because it would be easier.
So much easier, if he were cruel.
If he had been what she had expected from the beginning.
Cold in a way that hurt.
Distant in a way that made sense.
Someone she could hate.
Her fingers curled slightly beneath the blanket.
Her breath softened.
Because this quiet consideration.
This restraint.
This distance that still somehow made room for something else. It left her with nothing to hold onto.
Nothing to fight.
And nothing to hate.
And that, more than anything else, made him impossible to understand.
i’m still a little overwhelmed (in the best way) by all the love the san story has been getting… 🥹
i genuinely didn’t expect this at all. every comment, every reblog, every sweet message. i’ve seen them and they mean so much to me. thank you for loving this story the way you do 💓
now that things have calmed down a bit, i’ve been planning my next fic… and i really want to write a jongho story next.
the problem is: i have way too many ideas and can’t choose 😭
so… you’re deciding for me 🤭
here are the options:
1. ♡ gamer x “touch grass” girl | streaming/college au
jongho is a low-viewed streamer. awkward on camera, talking more to himself than chat, getting flustered over every single donation.
y/n randomly joins his stream and becomes a regular, teasing him nonstop. he panics every time she appears in chat and suddenly forgets how to function, but slowly starts opening up to her off-stream.
2. ♡ former losers glow-up | high school → college
they went to the same high school. both quiet, awkward, lowkey bullied and never spoke, even though they noticed each other.
years later, they meet again in college. both attractive now, both more confident… but still just as awkward underneath. and both are convinced the other is way out of their league.
3. ♡ one night stand → project partners | college au
at a party, jongho wants to make his ex jealous. y/n just wants to finally have her first time, convinced no one would ever actually choose her. they hook up. no expectations.
later, they’re forced into a joint project. him in civil engineering, her in environmental science. jongho starts to genuinely like and respect her, while y/n keeps her distance, thinking it meant nothing and it would never be.
4. ♡ time loop | fantasy / tragedy
y/n is stuck reliving the same day. the day jongho dies. every reset, she tries something new to save him. he starts noticing small inconsistencies, their bond deepens… until one day he remembers everything.
5. ♡ arranged marriage | royalty au
jongho is a feared crown prince, known for his cold logic and brutal decisions. to secure peace, he’s forced into an arranged marriage with y/n from a rival kingdom. she expects cruelty but finds someone distant, controlled, and deeply lonely.
she challenges him, he softens only around her… while political tension rises and betrayal brews in the palace. and all along, he’s been protecting her... even from his own people.
vote for your favorite and decide my next emotional breakdown while writing 🫶
You were supposed to tell him that night. You had practiced it a hundred times in your head, soft and careful and full of hope. But he didn’t even let you speak.
One fight. One sentence. One moment where everything broke. And just like that, you left.
Five years later, you come back with a life he knows nothing about. A daughter he has never met and a past that was never really over.
Pairing: Choi San x Reader (Y/N)
Tropes: idol au, secret child, second chance (but painful), lovers to strangers to…?, miscommunication (heavy), unresolved feelings, accidental reunion, angst with eventual healing
Genre: angst (primary), romance, drama, slice of life
Featuring: ATEEZ, Heewa (as mini San 🥲), original side character
Main Masterlist | Sans Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
This is Part 2
He should have been paying attention.
That was the first thing San realized, though it didn’t stop his thoughts from drifting anyway.
The conference room at the company building was quiet in a controlled, professional way. Not silent, but contained. Papers shifting. Chairs adjusting. Low voices moving in and out of conversation like background noise.
Across from him, a representative from the brand was explaining something about product positioning. Something about image. Something about how they wanted to be perceived.
San nodded at the right moments.
Or at least, he thought he did.
Beside him Hongjoong was speaking. His tone calm and focused as he asked a question about the campaign direction. Always composed. Always present.
San envied that sometimes.
The ability to stay grounded.
To keep his mind exactly where it needed to be.
Because his wasn’t.
Not today.
Not when…“…and we believe your group’s image aligns well with that,” the representative finished.
Hongjoong nodded slightly. “That makes sense.”
San leaned back in his chair just a little, letting his gaze drift for a second.
Beauty brand.
He didn’t even know why that was enough.
Why something that simple had been enough to pull his thoughts somewhere else entirely.
But it had.
Because the moment they mentioned the name, he thought of her. Y/N.
It wasn’t even intentional.
It never was.
It just… happened.
Like muscle memory. Like something ingrained too deeply to ignore.
She used to love this brand.
That was the first thing that came to mind.
Not the fights.
Not the way things ended.
Just something small. Simple.
The way she used to line up her skincare on the bathroom counter, always in the same order. The way she would complain when she ran out of one product and couldn’t replace it immediately. The way she would try to get him to use it too, insisting it would “fix his skin” even when he didn’t care.
A faint smile almost tugged at his lips.
Then it disappeared just as quickly.
Because the next thought came right after.
What happened to her?
Five years.
It had been five years.
And he still didn’t have an answer.
Not a real one. Not one that made sense.
He shifted slightly in his seat, jaw tightening just a little.
Because no matter how many times he tried to move past it, the same questions always came back.
Why did she leave like that?
Why didn’t she say anything?
Why didn’t she even give him the chance to…
He stopped that thought.
Because it never went anywhere good.
Across the table, someone was still talking.
Something about timelines now.
San barely registered it.
His mind had already gone somewhere else.
Back to that night.
It always went back to that night.
The way everything shifted in a matter of minutes.
He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair.
He had said something he shouldn’t have.
He knew that.
He had known it almost immediately after the words left his mouth.
Maybe we should just break up.
It hadn’t even sounded real at the time.
Just something thrown into the air out of frustration.
Something he didn’t actually mean.
Something he thought they would fight through, like everything else.
Because they always did.
They always came back to each other.
Until they didn’t.
His fingers curled slightly against the armrest.
Because what stayed with him wasn’t even the argument.
It was what came after.
The silence.
The way she went quiet.
Not the usual kind.
Not the kind that meant she was still there, still feeling, still fighting.
This had been different.
And he hadn’t understood it at the time.
Hadn’t realized what it meant until it was already too late.
“She’ll calm down,” he had told himself that night.
“She just needs space.”
That was what he believed.
That was what made sense.
Because she had left before.
Stormed out. Needed time. Needed distance.
But she always came back.
Always.
Until she didn’t.
San’s jaw tightened.
Because the memory shifted.
From that night, to the next day.
The apartment too quiet. Too empty.
Her things gone.
At first, he thought it was temporary.
It had to be.
She wouldn’t just leave like that.
Not without saying something.
Not without explaining.
He had called her.
Once.
Twice.
Ten times.
No answer.
He had texted.
Simple at first.
Where are you?
Can we talk?
Y/N, please.
Then less simple.
Longer messages.
Frustration slipping in.
Confusion.
What is this?
You can’t just disappear like this.
At least tell me what’s going on.
Still nothing.
The silence stretched.
Days.
Weeks.
And then blocked.
Just like that.
No explanation.
No closure.
Nothing.
San swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the table in front of him.
That had been the worst part.
Not the fight.
Not even the breakup.
It was the way she just… erased him.
Like he didn’t deserve to know.
Like everything they had built over five years meant nothing in the end.
A flicker of irritation stirred in his chest.
Because no matter how much time passed, that part never fully went away.
The part of him that was still frustrated.
Still angry.
Because she didn’t even try.
Didn’t reach out.
Didn’t give him anything to hold onto.
Just… left.
Even now, he didn’t know why.
“What are you thinking about?”
The voice pulled him back.
San blinked, looking up.
Mingi was watching him, one brow slightly raised. “You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m listening,” San replied automatically.
Mingi didn’t look convinced.
Neither did the others.
Beside him, Wooyoung leaned forward slightly, a small smirk tugging at his lips.
“No, you’re not.”
San shot him a look. “I am.”
“You’ve been staring at the same spot for the last five minutes.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not listening.”
“It kind of does.”
San exhaled quietly, leaning back again. “I’m fine.”
A pause.
“…Does this have something to do with her?”
The question came from Park Seonghwa this time, his tone calm, but knowing.
San stiffened slightly. “No.”
It came too quickly.
And everyone in the room knew it.
Wooyoung let out a quiet laugh. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
San frowned. “Can you drop it?”
“Not when it’s this obvious.”
“It’s not obvious.”
“It is,” Mingi added, leaning forward slightly now. “It’s always the same. You hear something that reminds you of her and suddenly you’re gone.”
San didn’t respond immediately.
Because they weren’t wrong.
That was the problem.
They were never wrong when it came to this.
“It’s been five years,” Jongho said quietly.
San’s jaw tightened. “I know.”
“Then why does it still—”
“It doesn’t,” San cut him off.
Another lie.
Another one they didn’t believe.
Hongjoong finally spoke again, his voice steady.
“You never got closure.”
San’s gaze flickered to him. “That’s not—”
“You didn’t,” Hongjoong repeated calmly. “She left. You never got an explanation. That kind of thing doesn’t just disappear.”
Silence.
Because there wasn’t really anything to argue with there.
San looked away.
Running a hand over his face.
“I’m fine,” he said again, quieter this time.
Wooyoung huffed softly. “You’ve been saying that for five years.”
“And I’ve been fine for five years.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
San didn’t answer.
Because again, they weren’t wrong.
And that was the part he hated the most.
The meeting room was already set up when they entered, in the marketing company.
Everything about it felt more… polished.
More structured.
San followed the others inside, his expression neutral again, the earlier conversation pushed to the back of his mind.
Or at least he tried.
He took his seat.
Adjusted slightly.
Let his gaze move over the room out of habit more than interest.
The door opened.
He didn’t think anything of it at first.
Just another person entering.
Another part of the team.
His attention shifted automatically and then stopped.
Because it was her.
Y/N.
For a second, his mind went blank.
Like it refused to process what he was seeing.
Because that didn’t make sense.
Not here.
Not now.
“Y/N?”
Her name left his mouth before he could stop it.
Before he could think.
Before he could remember where he was.
The room went quiet.
He didn’t notice.
Couldn’t.
Because she was standing there.
Right there.
Real.
Not a memory.
Not something his mind had pulled out of nowhere.
Actually there.
And she looked different.
But the same.
She had always been beautiful.
He knew that.
He had known it better than anyone.
But this was something else.
Something quieter.
More composed.
More… distant.
Her expression didn’t change much.
Didn’t show shock the way his did.
Didn’t show anything at all, really.
Just calm.
Like this wasn’t anything unusual.
Like he wasn’t sitting right in front of her after five years of silence.
“What are you doing here?”
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
Too direct.
Too personal.
Too much.
And still she didn’t react the way he expected.
She moved.
Stepped further into the room.
Set her things down.
“I work here.”
Three words.
Simple. Cold.
And they hit harder than anything else.
San stared at her.
Still trying to catch up.
Still trying to understand how this was even real.
Around him, the others had gone quiet.
Because they recognized her too.
Of course they did.
They had known her almost as long as he had.
Had seen her with him.
Had seen what they were.
And now she was sitting across from them like none of that had ever happened.
Like they were just… strangers.
San’s fingers curled slightly against the table.
Irritation flickered again.
Because she was ignoring it.
All of it.
Like it didn’t matter.
Like he didn’t matter.
Like those five years didn’t exist.
His chest tightened.
Because how could she just…
“Shall we begin?”
Her voice cut through the tension.
Like she was the only one in the room who wasn’t completely thrown off.
San stared at her.
Now she was right in front of him again.
Whether he was ready for it or not.
He didn’t hear a single word.
San sat there, hands loosely folded in front of him, gaze fixed somewhere in the middle of the table, and still… he didn’t register anything that was actually being said.
Because she was there.
Right in front of him.
Not a memory. Not a thought he couldn’t control. Not something that faded when he forced himself to focus.
Existing in the same space as him after five years of nothing.
And it threw everything off.
“…so we were thinking of focusing on a more natural concept—”
Someone was talking.
One of the marketing people.
Maybe her.
He didn’t know.
He couldn’t focus long enough to tell.
Because every time his eyes shifted, even slightly, they found her again.
Y/N.
Sitting across from him like this was normal.
Like they hadn’t shared five years of their lives.
Like she hadn’t disappeared without a word.
Like he hadn’t spent years wondering what the hell happened.
Her posture was straight.
Composed.
Her expression calm, focused on the presentation in front of her.
She spoke when she needed to.
Listened when others spoke.
Took notes.
Nodded.
Everything about her screamed professionalism.
And it irritated him.
More than it should.
Because how could she just sit there like that?
Like none of this mattered?
Like he didn’t matter?
His jaw tightened.
His fingers pressing slightly into the table.
And then a voice beside her.
Kim Jisoo.
San hadn’t paid much attention to him at first.
Just another employee.
Another part of the team.
Until he noticed the way he leaned slightly closer when Y/N spoke.
The way his tone shifted just a little when he addressed her.
Lighter. Almost teasing.
“Good point,” Jisoo said, glancing at her with a small smile. “I think that direction could work really well.”
Y/N nodded. “It would fit the brand’s image.”
“You are a genius,” he added.
She didn’t react much.
Just a small nod.
But San noticed.
Of course he did.
And something in his chest tightened again.
He shifted in his seat slightly, trying to ignore it.
Trying to focus on something else.
Anything else.
But it kept happening.
Small things.
Jisoo handing her a pen before she could reach for one.
Leaning closer to point something out on her notes.
A quiet comment that made her lips curve just slightly.
Enough for it to get under his skin in a way he didn’t understand.
Why did it bother him?
It shouldn’t.
Five years.
She had every right to move on.
To meet someone.
His jaw clenched and looked away.
Forced his attention somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
But his mind didn’t cooperate.
Because every time he tried to focus, the same thoughts came back.
She looks the same.
That wasn’t true.
She didn’t.
She looked… older.
Not in a bad way.
In a way that felt grounded.
Like she had lived through something and come out the other side stronger.
More certain.
More… distant.
That was the part that stayed with him.
The distance.
The way she didn’t look at him unless she had to.
The way she spoke like he was just another client.
Like he was nothing more than a name on a contract.
It didn’t make sense.
None of it did.
Because five years didn’t erase everything.
It couldn’t.
At least it hadn’t for him.
“…San?”
He blinked.
The room came back into focus.
Everyone was looking at him.
Hongjoong.
The staff.
Her.
San straightened slightly, realizing someone had asked him something.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Can you repeat that?”
There was a brief pause.
Then the question came again.
Something about preferences.
Concept direction.
He answered.
Automatically.
Muscle memory taking over where his mind couldn’t.
And then the meeting continued.
Like nothing had happened.
Like everything was normal.
Except it wasn’t.
Not for him.
Not when every second felt like he was sitting in the middle of something unfinished.
Something unresolved.
Something he never got the chance to understand.
By the time the meeting ended, his head felt heavy.
Not physically.
Just… full.
Too many thoughts.
Too many questions.
Too many things he didn’t know what to do with.
Chairs shifted.
Papers were gathered.
People started standing up.
She moved with them.
Something in his chest snapped.
He stood up immediately.
“Y/N.”
Her name came out sharper than he intended.
She paused.
Just for a second.
Then turned to him.
And for a moment he saw it.
Something in her expression.
Not surprise.
Not exactly.
Something softer.
Something that didn’t quite reach the surface.
Then it was gone.
Replaced by that same calm composure.
“Yes?”
That was it.
Just… yes.
His hands curled slightly at his sides.
“You can’t just leave again.”
The words came out before he could soften them.
Before he could think them through.
Her expression shifted.
Something sad flickering through her eyes.
Something that made his chest tighten in a way he wasn’t prepared for.
“I’m not leaving,” she said quietly. “I’m going back to work.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t pretend like you don’t.”
There was a brief silence.
The room had mostly emptied by now.
The others lingering just enough to notice.
To watch.
To understand that something was happening here.
Between them.
San took a step closer.
“You don’t get to do that again,” he said, his voice lower now, but still firm. “You don’t get to just walk away without explaining anything.”
Her gaze held his.
Steady.
And then ahe smiled.
Soft. Sad.
And it caught him off guard completely.
“I can understand why you feel that way,” she said.
That wasn’t what he expected.
Not anger.
Not defensiveness.
Just… understanding.
It threw him off.
“You left,” he said, frustration creeping back in. “You blocked me. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t—”
“I know.”
“Then explain it.”
She looked at him for a long moment.
And when she spoke again, her voice was still calm.
But there was something underneath it now.
Something heavier.
“I left because you never listened to me.”
The words landed quietly.
San frowned slightly.
“That’s not—”
“It is,” she said gently, not raising her voice, not interrupting harshly. Just… stating it.
“For over a year,” she continued, “I tried to talk to you. About how I felt. About how things were changing. And every time… you pushed me away.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
Because something about the way she said it…
It didn’t feel like an accusation.
It felt like a fact.
“I was always the problem,” she went on. “Always too emotional. Always bringing things up at the wrong time. Always making things harder for you.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“I know.”
Again.
That same quiet understanding.
And it made it worse.
Because she wasn’t angry.
She wasn’t blaming him.
She was just… explaining.
“And I couldn’t do it anymore,” she finished softly. “I couldn’t keep trying to be heard when you had already decided I was too much.”
“I didn’t—”
“I had something important to tell you that night.”
The words stopped him completely.
His breath caught.
Something important.
That night.
The pieces didn’t fit.
They never had.
Now it felt like they almost could.
“What?” he asked, the word coming out quieter than he expected.
She shook her head slightly.
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“It does to me.”
She looked at him.
And there it was again.
That sadness.
“That’s the thing,” she said softly. “It didn’t, back then.”
That hit harder than anything else.
Because he didn’t have a way to argue with it.
Not when he knew how he had been.
The pressure.
The frustration.
The constant exhaustion.
He had been difficult.
Short-tempered.
Distant.
He knew that.
He just didn’t think it had been enough to drive her away.
“I decided to leave,” she continued, her voice steady again now. “And I want to keep it that way.”
Silence.
San stared at her.
Trying to process.
Trying to understand.
Trying to figure out what he was supposed to say to that.
But nothing came.
Nothing that made sense.
Nothing that felt right.
Because suddenly, everything felt… different.
Not just confusing.
Not just frustrating.
Wrong.
Like he had missed something important.
Something he should have known.
Something that could have changed everything.
Now it was too late.
She gave him one last look.
Then turned away.
The ride back to the dorm was quiet.
Too quiet.
No one spoke at first.
Not even Wooyoung.
Not even Mingi.
And that said a lot.
San sat by the window, his gaze fixed somewhere outside, though he wasn’t really seeing anything.
His mind was still in that room.
Still stuck on her words.
I had something important to tell you that night.
His chest tightened.
Because that didn’t make sense.
Why didn’t she say it then?
Why didn’t she just…
No.
He knew why.
Because he hadn’t listened.
Because he had shut her down before she even had the chance.
Because he had assumed.
Again.
Silence stretched.
“What actually happened?”
Hongjoong’s voice.
San didn’t respond immediately.
“What do you mean?”
“You never told us,” Hongjoong continued. “Not really. Just that you broke up.”
San’s jaw tightened slightly.
“That’s what happened.”
“That’s not all that happened,” Seonghwa added quietly.
San exhaled slowly.
Leaning back slightly.
For a moment, he considered brushing it off.
Saying it didn’t matter.
That it was in the past.
It didn’t feel like the past anymore.
Not after today.
Not after seeing her again.
“Fine,” he muttered.
Silence settled again.
He spoke.
“It wasn’t just one fight,” he said slowly.
His gaze dropped.
Memories surfacing.
Clearer than they had been in a long time.
“We had been arguing for months.”
Not arguing.
Not really.
It had been something else.
Something quieter.
More exhausting.
“She kept saying she felt… alone,” he continued. “That I wasn’t there. That things were changing.”
He let out a quiet breath.
“And I kept telling her I was just busy.”
Because he was.
That had been true.
But it hadn’t been the whole truth.
“I was stressed,” he admitted. “All the time. Everything felt like too much. The pressure, the schedules… I couldn’t deal with anything else on top of that.”
Including her.
He swallowed.
“She would try to talk to me,” he said. “And I would just… shut it down. Because I didn’t have the energy for it.”
The words felt heavier now.
Looking back.
“I thought she would understand,” he added quietly.
Silence.
Because they all knew that wasn’t enough.
“And then that night…” he trailed off.
His hands clenched slightly.
“She was waiting for me when I got home,” he said. “I didn’t even ask why. I just assumed it was another argument.”
Because it always had been.
“I told her I didn’t have the energy for it,” he continued. “Before she even said anything.”
His chest tightened.
“She tried to talk anyway,” he said. “And I… got frustrated.”
Understatement.
“I said things I shouldn’t have.”
Like always.
“And then…”
He hesitated.
“I told her maybe we should just break up.”
“And you didn’t mean it,” Mingi said quietly.
“No,” San admitted. “I didn’t.”
He had never meant it.
Not for a second.
“But she took it seriously.”
Of course she did.
“She went quiet,” he said. “And then she just… agreed.”
That had been the part that threw him off the most.
Not anger.
Not yelling.
Just… acceptance.
“I thought she would calm down,” he added. “That she would come back.”
“I had a ring,” he said. “Hidden. I was just waiting for the right moment.”
A humorless smile tugged at his lips.
“Which never came.”
Because he had been too busy.
Too stressed.
Too caught up in everything else.
“And then she left.”
And that was it.
No proposal.
No closure.
No explanation.
Just…Nothing.
San leaned his head back slightly, closing his eyes for a brief moment.
“And now she’s back,” he muttered.
But everything between them still felt unfinished.
The week didn’t go the way she expected.
That was the simplest way to put it.
After that first meeting, something had shifted in a way she couldn’t ignore, no matter how much she tried to act like nothing had happened.
Because it hadn’t just been unexpected.
It had been… destabilizing.
Y/N stood by the window of her apartment that morning, her arms loosely wrapped around herself, staring out at the quiet street below. Seoul was already awake, the city moving at ist usual pace, but for once she felt… out of sync with it.
Her thoughts kept circling back.
To the meeting.
To him.
To the way he had said her name.
To the way everything she had carefully kept separate had suddenly collided without warning.
She closed her eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly.
You handled it well.
That was what she told herself.
And it was true.
She had stayed calm. Professional. Distant.
Exactly how she needed to be.
“Mama?”
Her eyes opened immediately.
Heewa stood in the doorway, still in her pajamas, rubbing her eyes slightly as she looked at her.
“You’re awake early,” Y/N said softly, forcing a small smile.
“I had a dream.”
“Oh?” She crouched down slightly. “Was it a good one?”
Heewa nodded. “I dreamed I had a puppy.”
“That does sound like a good dream.”
“It was.”
The little girl stepped closer, wrapping her arms around Y/N’s waist without hesitation.
And just like that, the tension in her chest eased.
A little.
Y/N rested her chin lightly on top of Heewa’s head, holding her for a moment longer than usual.
“…Mama?”
“Hmm?”
“You feel weird.”
Y/N stilled.
Just slightly.
“Do I?”
Heewa nodded against her. “A little.”
Y/N swallowed.
Because children noticed everything.
Even the things she tried to hide.
“I’m okay,” she said gently, pulling back just enough to look at her. “Just thinking about work.”
Heewa studied her for a second.
Then…“Okay.”
And just like that, she accepted it.
But she didn’t let go.
If anything, she clung a little tighter.
And Y/N felt it.
That quiet understanding.
That instinctive closeness.
And something in her chest ached.
The following days at work were… different.
Subtle.
But noticeable.
Her colleagues weren’t blind.
Of course they weren’t.
They had seen it.
The tension.
The way San had reacted.
The way she had responded.
The way the air in the room had shifted in a way that had nothing to do with business.
She tried to brush it off.
“We‘re just old acquaintances.”
That was what she said.
Simple.
Neutral.
Nothing more.
And most of them accepted it.
Or at least pretended to.
But the atmosphere had changed.
Just enough that she noticed.
Just enough that she started avoiding the meetings.
Not all of them.
Just… most.
She focused on her work instead.
On things she could control.
On things that didn’t involve sitting across from him and pretending like five years hadn’t happened.
It was easier that way.
Safer.
The call came early.
Too early.
“Mama?”
Heewa’s voice was confused, still half-asleep as Y/N pulled her phone away from her ear.
“The kindergarten is closed today,” Y/N said, trying to keep her tone calm.
“Closed?”
“All the teachers are sick.”
Heewa blinked. “So… no school?”
“No school.”
A pause.
“That’s amazing.”
Y/N let out a quiet breath, pinching the bridge of her nose slightly.
Right.
Amazing for her.
Less amazing for Y/N.
Because she still had work.
And no one to watch her.
She glanced at the clock.
Then at her phone.
She dialed her boss.
The call didn’t last long.
“I can take a sick day,” Y/N offered, already feeling guilty about it. “I’m really sorry for the short notice—”
“Don’t worry about it,” her boss cut in easily. “Actually, you can just bring her.”
Y/N blinked.
“…What?”
“It’s fine,” he continued. “It’s a small office. We’re not that strict. As long as she doesn’t cause trouble.”
Y/N hesitated.
Because that felt unexpected.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Of course. It’s just one day.”
She hesitated for a second longer.
“Okay. Thank you.”
When she hung up, Heewa was already watching her with wide eyes.
“Can I come to your work?”
Y/N sighed softly.
“Yes.”
Heewa’s face lit up immediately.
“Really?”
“Yes. But—”
She crouched down, her expression turning slightly more serious.
“You have to behave, okay?”
“I will!”
“You have to stay quiet when I’m working.”
“I can do that.”
“And no running around.”
“…No running.”
Y/N raised a brow slightly.
“…Okay, maybe a little running.”
“Heewa.”
“Okay, no running.”
Y/N smiled faintly.
“We’ll see.”
The office reacted exactly how she expected.
Which was to say they loved her immediately.
“She’s adorable.”
“That’s your daughter?”
“She looks just like—”
The sentence trailed off.
Because someone caught themselves.
But Y/N noticed.
Of course she did.
Because it wasn’t just her.
It was obvious.
It always had been.
Heewa looked like him.
Not in a subtle way.
Not in a way that could be overlooked.
In a way that made it impossible not to notice.
The same eyes.
The same shape.
The same expressions.
Even the way she smiled.
It was all there.
Y/N forced herself not to think about it too much.
Because she didn’t have the energy for that today.
Instead she focused on work.
On keeping Heewa occupied.
On maintaining the balance she had built.
And for a while it worked.
Heewa sat at an empty desk, happily drawing, occasionally looking up to show Y/N something new.
Her colleagues came by, chatting with her, laughing at her stories, completely charmed.
Even Jisoo.
Especially Jisoo.
“Well, hello,” he said with a grin, crouching slightly beside her desk. “And who are you?”
“I’m Heewa.”
“That’s a beautiful name.”
“My mama picked it.”
“Then your mama has good taste.”
He glanced up briefly, meeting Y/N’s gaze.
And there it was again.
That subtle warmth.
That easy interest.
It didn’t make her uncomfortable.
It just… was.
“Do you draw a lot?” he asked Heewa.
“Yes!”
“Can you draw me?”
Heewa gasped. “Yes!”
And just like that, she was fully occupied.
Y/N watched them for a moment.
Then shook her head slightly, returning to her work.
For a brief moment, It felt… normal.
Like everything had settled again. Like maybe this really could work. Like she could balance all of it.
Her job. Her daughter.
Her past staying exactly where it belonged.
“Y/N?”
She looked up.
Her boss stood nearby.
“Can you come to the meeting room?”
Her stomach dropped slightly.
“Now?”
“Yes. Just a quick follow-up.”
Her mind immediately jumped to the worst possibility.
No.
ATEEZ wasn’t supposed to come today.
The schedule had been clear.
This was just internal.
Just work.
She nodded slowly.
“Of course.”
Then she glanced at Heewa.
“Can she stay here?”
Her boss hesitated.
“She can come,” Jisoo cut in easily. “It’s fine.”
Y/N looked at him.
Then at her boss. “…Are you sure?”
“It’s okay,” her boss said. “Just this once.”
Y/N hesitated.
Then nodded.
“Alright.”
She crouched down in front of Heewa.
“Okay, listen to me,” she said gently. “This is important.”
Heewa straightened immediately.
Serious.
“I know.”
“You have to be very well-behaved.”
“I will.”
“No talking unless someone talks to you first.”
“Okay.”
“And stay close to me.”
“I will.”
Y/N smiled softly.
“Good.”
She stood.
Took her hand.
And walked toward the meeting room.
The door opened.
And everything stopped.
Her breath.
Her thoughts.
Her sense of control.
Because they were there.
ATEEZ
All of them.
Sitting exactly where they had been the first time.
Like nothing had changed.
Like this was just another meeting.
But it wasn’t.
Not this time.
Not with…“Mama?”
Heewa’s voice was quiet.
Uncertain.
Because she felt it too.
The shift.
The tension.
Y/N tightened her grip on her hand slightly.
“It’s okay,” she murmured.
But it wasn’t.
Not even close.
“Ah,” Jisoo stepped forward slightly, breaking the silence. “We have a small addition today.”
He smiled lightly.
“Our colleague’s daughter is here because her kindergarten is closed.”
Every eye shifted.
Toward them.
Toward her.
Toward Heewa.
And then it happened.
The moment she had feared without even realizing it.
Because the resemblance it was impossible to ignore.
Y/N felt it.
The shift in the room.
The subtle tension.
The way attention sharpened.
San.
He wasn’t looking at her.
Not this time.
His focus was entirely somewhere else.
On her daughter. Their daughter.
Like he couldn’t process what he was seeing.
Like his mind was trying to catch up to something it wasn’t ready for.
“Mama?”
Heewa tugged lightly on her hand.
Y/N crouched down slightly.
“It’s okay,” she whispered.
But her heart was beating too fast.
Because she knew.
She knew what he was seeing.
What everyone was seeing.
Before she could say anything else, Heewa stepped forward slightly.
“I’m going to be a big girl,” she announced, her voice small but determined.
Silence.
Soft.
Heavy.
“And I can draw for you,” she added, looking at the group.
You were supposed to tell him that night. You had practiced it a hundred times in your head, soft and careful and full of hope. But he didn’t even let you speak.
One fight. One sentence. One moment where everything broke. And just like that, you left.
Five years later, you come back with a life he knows nothing about. A daughter he has never met and a past that was never really over.
Pairing: Choi San x Reader (Y/N)
Tropes: idol au, secret child, second chance (but painful), lovers to strangers to…?, miscommunication (heavy), unresolved feelings, accidental reunion, angst with eventual healing
Genre: angst (primary), romance, drama, slice of life
Featuring: ATEEZ, Heewa (as mini San 🥲), original side character
Main Masterlist | Sans Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
This is Part 1
She remembers the waiting more than anything else.
Not the fight. Not even the words that came later and carved themselves into her bones. It was the waiting that stayed with her. The kind that stretched time into something unbearable, where every second felt too loud, too slow, too aware of itself.
The apartment was too quiet.
It always was when he wasn’t there.
Y/N sat on the edge of the couch, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Fingers pressing into each other hard enough to hurt. She had been sitting like that for longer than she could tell. Minutes had stopped meaning anything. The only thing she could track was the ticking clock on the wall and the way her chest rose and fell a little too fast, a little too shallow.
She had tried to distract herself earlier.
Tried cleaning. Tried scrolling through her phone. Tried watching something meaningless just to fill the silence.
None of it worked.
Because everything kept coming back to the same thought.
I have to tell him.
Her hand moved almost unconsciously, resting lightly against her stomach. It wasn’t something visible. There was no difference from the outside. Nothing that would give it away.
But she knew.
And that was enough to change everything.
A week.
It had been one week since she found out.
Seven days of carrying something that felt too big for her alone. Seven days of rehearsing conversations in her head. Seven days of imagining his reaction, over and over again. Until every version blurred into something she could no longer trust.
At first, she had been scared.
Then overwhelmed.
Then… hopeful.
Because maybe this could fix things.
Maybe this would be the thing that pulled them back together. The thing that reminded him of who they used to be before everything became so complicated, so strained, so exhausting.
Before every conversation felt like it was one wrong word away from turning into a fight.
She exhaled slowly, closing her eyes for a moment.
Five years.
They had been together for five years.
Before the fame. Before the stage lights. Before anyone knew his name beyond a small circle of people who believed in him and his dream.
She had been there when it was just that. A dream.
Late nights in cramped rooms. Music playing too loudly through cheap speakers. Him pacing back and forth, frustrated and determined in the same breath. Her sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching him with quiet admiration as he tried to shape something out of nothing.
Back then, things had been simple.
Not easy, but simple.
He used to come to her after long days and collapse beside her, head falling against her shoulder like he could finally breathe again.
He used to look at her like she was something steady in a world that never stopped moving.
And she had believed him when he said they would get through everything together.
She swallowed hard.
Because somewhere along the way, that changed.
The last year had been… different.
Not in one sudden, obvious way. It didn’t happen overnight. It was slower than that. Subtle enough that she hadn’t noticed at first. Or maybe she had, and she just didn’t want to admit it.
It started with small things.
Cancelled plans.
Late replies.
“I’m busy” turning into “I’ll call you later” turning into nothing at all.
She had told herself it was normal.
Of course it was. His life had changed. Everything had changed. He was working harder than ever, chasing something he had wanted for so long.
She wanted to be understanding.
She tried to be.
But understanding didn’t stop the feeling that had slowly settled into her chest.
The feeling of being… left behind.
It wasn’t just that he wasn’t there.
It was that when he was there, it didn’t feel the same anymore.
Conversations that used to flow easily now felt forced. Silences stretched too long. And when she tried to talk about it, really talk about it, it always ended the same way.
With both of them frustrated.
With both of them saying things they didn’t mean.
With both of them walking away feeling worse than before.
She shifted slightly on the couch, her gaze drifting toward the door.
He was late.
Again.
Her fingers tightened together.
She shouldn’t be surprised. She wasn’t. It had become something she expected now, even if a part of her still hoped, every time, that maybe today would be different.
That maybe today he would come home, see her, and just… be happy to see her.
She let out a quiet breath, leaning back slightly, her head resting against the couch.
Tonight will be different.
It had to be.
Because tonight, she wasn’t going to argue. She wasn’t going to bring up everything that had been building for months. She wasn’t going to let it turn into another exhausting cycle of raised voices and half-finished sentences.
She just needed to tell him.
That was all.
And then maybe… they could find their way back.
The sound of the door unlocking made her sit up immediately.
Her heart jumped, her body going tense without her meaning it to.
For a brief second, something soft flickered through her chest.
Relief.
He was home.
The door opened, and Choi San stepped inside.
He looked tired.
His shoulders were slightly slumped, movements slower than usual. His hair was still styled from whatever schedule he had just come from. But it was slightly messy now, like he had run his hands through it too many times. His eyes looked heavy, shadows faint beneath them.
He kicked off his shoes absentmindedly, stepping further into the apartment.
Then he saw her.
And everything shifted.
It was subtle, but she saw it immediately.
The way his posture stiffened.
The way his expression changed.
Not surprise.
Not relief.
Something else.
Something that made her chest tighten.
“Y/N?”
There was a pause.
She opened her mouth, a small, nervous smile forming on her lips.
“I was waiting for you.”
She tried to keep her voice soft. Careful. Like she was approaching something fragile.
For a split second, she thought maybe it would be okay.
Maybe...
He sighed.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Enough to make something in her stomach drop.
He ran a hand through his hair, eyes closing briefly as if he was already bracing himself.
“Can this not be another argument right now?”
The words landed before she could even process them.
Her smile faltered.
“What?”
“I just got back,” he continued, his voice tired, strained. “I had a long day. I really don’t have the energy for this tonight.”
For this.
She stared at him, something like disbelief flickering across her face.
“I didn’t even say anything yet.”
He let out a quiet, humorless breath, like that didn’t matter.
“Y/N, please. Every time we talk lately it turns into something.”
Something.
That was what it was to him now.
Not a conversation.
Not her feelings.
Just… something.
She felt her fingers curl slightly against her palms.
“I just wanted to talk to you.”
“And I’m telling you I’m tired.”
His tone wasn’t loud. That almost made it worse.
It was flat. Dismissive.
Like he had already decided how this was going to go before she even had a chance to say anything.
Her chest tightened.
“I’ve been waiting all day.”
“I didn’t ask you to wait.”
That one hit.
She blinked, taken aback for a moment, like she wasn’t sure if she had heard him right.
“I know you didn’t,” she said slowly. “I wanted to.”
“Then don’t get upset about it.”
Something cracked.
It was small.
But it was there.
“I’m not upset about waiting,” she said, her voice a little sharper now despite her effort to keep it steady. “I just… I wanted to see you.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
Because yes.
He was here.
But it didn’t feel like it.
The silence that followed was thick, uncomfortable.
He moved past her, dropping his bag onto the chair, rubbing his face with both hands like he was trying to shake off the day.
She watched him.
And suddenly, the words she had been holding onto all week felt… fragile.
Like they didn’t belong in this moment anymore.
But she couldn’t just not say them.
Not after everything.
“San…”
Her voice was softer now.
Careful again.
He stilled slightly at the sound of his name, but he didn’t turn around.
“What?”
There was something about the way he said it.
Short.
Impatient.
Like she was already asking for too much.
She swallowed.
“I need you to listen to me for a second.”
“I am listening.”
“You’re not even looking at me.”
He exhaled sharply, turning around then, his expression already edged with frustration.
“Okay. I’m looking. What is it?”
Her heart was beating too fast.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
She had imagined this moment so many times.
None of those versions looked like this.
She hesitated.
Just for a second.
And that was enough.
“Is this about me being busy again?” he asked, his voice tightening. “Because I already told you I can’t just drop everything...”
“It’s not just that,” she interrupted, a little more urgently than she meant to.
“Then what is it?” he shot back. “Because it’s always something lately.”
The words settled between them like something heavy.
Her breath caught.
Always something.
She looked at him, really looked at him, and for a moment, she didn’t recognize the way he was looking back at her.
Like this was a burden.
Like she was.
Her fingers trembled slightly where they rested in her lap.
“I’m not trying to start a fight.”
“It feels like you are.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why does it always end like this?”
“Because you don’t listen to me,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Silence.
Sharp.
Immediate.
His expression hardened.
“I am listening.”
“You’re not hearing me.”
“What do you want me to hear?” he asked, his voice rising just slightly now. “That I’m not doing enough? That I’m not here enough? I know that already.”
“That’s not what I’m saying—”
“Then what are you saying?”
Her chest felt tight.
Too tight.
“I just feel like I don’t matter anymore.”
The words were quiet.
But they hit.
He stared at her.
For a second, something flickered in his eyes.
Something softer.
Something that almost looked like guilt.
And then it was gone.
Replaced by frustration.
“Why does it always come back to this?” he asked, running a hand through his hair again. “You know how much pressure I’m under right now. You know how hard this is.”
“I know,” she said quickly. “I’m not saying it’s not—”
“Then why can’t you just understand that I can’t always be here?”
“I’m not asking you to be here all the time!”
“Then what are you asking for?”
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Because suddenly, she didn’t know how to explain it in a way he would understand.
“I just… I miss you,” she said finally.
And for a moment, everything stilled.
But instead of softening, something in him seemed to snap.
“I’m right here.”
“No,” she said, her voice breaking slightly. “You’re not.”
That did it.
Something in his expression shifted completely.
Frustration turning into something sharper.
“I don’t have the energy for this,” he said, his voice colder now. “I just got back, and this is the first thing you bring up?”
“I wasn’t trying to fight...”
“Then what is it?” he snapped, frustration finally breaking through. “Because it’s always the same lately. You’re upset, I’m not doing enough, I’m not here enough...”
“That’s not what I’m saying...”
“Then what are you saying?” he cut in, his voice sharper now, tiredness turning into something harsher. “Because I can’t keep dealing with you every time I come home.”
She froze slightly at that. “Dealing with me?”
“Yes,” he gestured vaguely toward her, his expression strained. “Your mood swings. One day you’re fine, the next you’re distant, then suddenly everything’s a problem again. I don’t know what you want from me.”
The words landed harder than he intended.
Her fingers tightened at her sides. “My mood swings?”
“I didn’t mean it like that...”
“But you said it.”
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I just...if you’re this unhappy with me all the time, then what are we even doing?”
She stared at him.
And then he said it.
Quiet, but clear.
“Maybe we should just break up.”
The words rang in the air.
Too loud.
Too harsh.
She flinched.
Just slightly.
But he saw it.
And for a split second, he hesitated.
But it was already too late.
Her eyes dropped for a moment, her breathing uneven.
And then she went quiet.
Not the kind of quiet they were used to.
Not the tense, waiting kind.
This was different.
Still.
Final.
She looked back up at him.
And something in her expression had changed.
“I see.”
Her voice was calm.
Too calm.
He frowned slightly.
“What does that mean?”
She shook her head a little.
“Nothing.”
“That doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s clearly not...”
“I said it’s fine.”
He stared at her.
Confused now.
Thrown off.
Because this wasn’t how it usually went.
She wasn’t arguing.
She wasn’t pushing back.
She wasn’t trying to make him understand.
She was just… stopping.
And that unsettled him more than anything else.
“Y/N…”
She stood up.
Her movements were quiet, controlled.
“I think you’re right.”
His brows furrowed.
“About what?”
She looked at him.
And for the first time, there was distance in her eyes.
Real distance.
“Maybe this isn’t working anymore.”
The words hit harder than anything else that had been said that night.
His expression shifted immediately.
“What?”
“I mean it,” she continued, her voice steady despite the way her chest felt like it was caving in. “I don’t think we’re good for each other right now.”
“Where is this coming from?” he asked, taking a step toward her. “We just...this is just another argument. We’ve had worse.”
“That’s the problem.”
“What?”
“We’ve had worse,” she repeated softly. “And we keep having worse.”
“That doesn’t mean we just...what are you saying right now?”
“I’m saying I think we should stop.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
“No.”
The word came out immediately.
Firm.
Shaken.
“No, we’re not doing that.”
She looked at him, something aching in her chest.
“I am.”
“Y/N—”
“I’m tired, San.”
Her voice cracked slightly on his name.
“I’m so tired of feeling like this.”
“We can fix this.”
“We’ve been saying that for a year.”
“That doesn’t mean we give up.”
“I’m not giving up,” she said quietly. “I’m letting go.”
He shook his head, stepping closer.
“No. No, you don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“You’re just upset right now. You know I didn't mean it.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why now?” he asked, his voice breaking slightly. “Why like this?”
Because you didn’t even let me speak.
Because I was going to tell you something that would’ve changed everything.
Because you already decided I was a problem before I could even open my mouth.
The words stayed in her throat.
She couldn’t say them.
Not anymore.
Because suddenly… they didn’t feel safe there.
“I just know I can’t keep doing this,” she said instead.
He stared at her like he didn’t recognize her.
“Don’t do this.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I am.”
“Y/N—”
“I’ll come back for the rest of my things later.”
And that was when it really hit him.
“You’re serious.”
She nodded.
And something in his chest dropped.
“No,” he said again, softer this time. “No, we’re not ending this over one fight.”
“It’s not one fight.”
“Then we’ll fix it.”
“We tried.”
“We can try again.”
She shook her head.
“I don’t have it in me anymore.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
“Then I’ll try harder,” he said quickly. “I will. I swear. Just...don’t do this. Don't leave me, please.”
Her eyes softened for a second.
Because part of her wanted to believe him.
Part of her always would.
But another part… the part that had been hurting for so long… knew better.
“I needed you to listen tonight,” she said quietly.
“I’m listening now.”
She smiled faintly.
“It’s too late.”
And then she turned away.
He reached for her.
“Y/N, wait—”
But she stepped back.
Just enough.
“I’m sorry.”
And then she walked past him.
Toward the door.
Toward the end of something that had once meant everything.
Her hand brushed against her stomach as she reached for the handle.
A small, instinctive movement.
One he didn’t notice.
She paused for just a second.
Just one.
And in that moment, she almost turned around.
Almost told him.
Almost gave him the chance to know.
But then his words echoed in her head.
I can’t keep doing this with you.
Her grip tightened.
And then she opened the door.
And left.
Without ever telling him… that he wasn’t just losing her.
The city felt different.
Y/N noticed it the moment she stepped out of the subway that morning, her daughter’s small hand wrapped tightly around her fingers. Seoul had always been loud, fast, restless in a way that never truly allowed anyone to stand still. Five years ago, it had swallowed her whole. Back then, it felt overwhelming, unpredictable, almost suffocating.
Now, it felt… steady.
Or maybe she was the one who had changed.
“Heewa, slow down.”
The little girl beside her was practically bouncing with excitement, her free hand swinging as she tried to keep up with her own enthusiasm more than with her mother’s pace.
“But we’re gonna be late,” Heewa insisted, her voice bright and slightly breathless as she half-skipped over a crack in the pavement.
“We’re not late,” Y/N replied, smiling despite herself. “We’re early.”
“That’s basically the same thing.”
Y/N let out a quiet laugh under her breath, shaking her head. “It really isn’t.”
Heewa huffed softly, though there was no real frustration behind it. Her attention was already drifting, dark eyes widening as she took in everything around her like it was all new, even though they had been walking this same route for two months now.
Two months.
It still felt strange to think about.
Two months since she moved back.
Two months since she stepped into a life that was entirely her own.
For years, she had stayed in her hometown, tucked away in something quieter, something safer. Living with her parents had been the right decision back then. She had needed the support, the stability, the extra set of hands when everything felt like too much.
Especially in the beginning.
Her grip on Heewa’s hand tightened slightly without her noticing.
Those first months had been the hardest.
Learning how to be a mother while still trying to hold herself together. Nights where sleep didn’t come, where the silence felt heavier than anything else. Days where she questioned every decision she had made.
And through all of it, one thought had lingered quietly in the background.
Should I have told him?
Even now, it still came back sometimes.
Uninvited. Unwanted.
She pushed it away like she always did.
Because no matter how much it lingered, the answer never really changed.
No.
It had been the best decision.
It had to be.
He was living a completely different life now.
A life that didn’t have space for something like this.
For her.
For… them.
Her gaze shifted slightly, settling on the little girl beside her.
Heewa was still talking, something about a new friend she hoped would be in her class today, her words spilling over each other in a way that made it hard to follow every detail.
Y/N listened anyway.
She always did.
Because this… this was her life now.
And despite everything, despite the past that still lingered at the edges of her thoughts, she had built something good.
Something steady.
Something real.
They reached the kindergarten a few minutes later, the familiar building coming into view. Bright colors, small decorations near the entrance, the sound of children already playing somewhere inside.
Heewa’s grip tightened excitedly.
“Can I go now?”
Y/N laughed softly. “You still have to say goodbye to me first.”
The girl turned to her immediately, her expression suddenly serious as she stepped closer. “Okay.”
Y/N crouched down in front of her, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her daughter’s face.
And for a moment, she just… looked at her.
It still caught her off guard sometimes.
How much Heewa looked like him.
It wasn’t just one feature.
It was everything.
The shape of her eyes. The way they curved slightly when she smiled. The dark color of them, bright and expressive in a way that felt so familiar it almost hurt.
Even the way she tilted her head sometimes, just slightly, when she was curious about something.
A small, unintentional mirror of someone she hadn’t seen in five years.
Y/N swallowed the thought before it could settle too deeply.
“You’re going to have fun today, okay?” she said gently.
Heewa nodded eagerly. “I will.”
“And you’ll listen to your teacher?”
“Yes.”
“And be nice to the other kids?”
“I’m always nice.”
Y/N raised a brow slightly. “Always?”
Heewa hesitated.
“…Most of the time.”
“That’s better.”
They both smiled.
Then Heewa leaned forward, wrapping her arms around Y/N’s neck in a quick, tight hug.
“I’ll tell you everything later,” she promised.
“I’m counting on it.”
The girl pulled back, already turning toward the entrance before Y/N could say anything else.
“Bye, Mama!”
“Bye, sweetheart.”
Y/N watched her go, the small figure disappearing inside with a burst of energy that made her chest feel warm.
And just a little heavy.
She stayed there for a moment longer than necessary.
Then she stood, exhaling quietly before turning away.
There was work to do.
And for the first time in a long time… she didn’t dread it.
The office was small.
That had been one of the reasons she felt comfortable accepting the job.
A small marketing firm, nothing too overwhelming, nothing too demanding in a way that would pull her back into the kind of life she had deliberately stepped away from.
It was enough.
Enough to give her structure. Enough to give her purpose.
Enough to remind her that she was more than just… surviving.
“Good morning.”
“Morning.”
She greeted her coworkers as she stepped inside, setting her bag down at her desk, already slipping into a routine that had become familiar over the past two months.
There was something grounding about it.
The quiet hum of computers. The low conversations. The soft clatter of keyboards.
It was simple.
And she liked that.
“Y/N.”
She looked up at the sound of her name, her boss standing near her desk with a folder in hand.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Of course.”
She stood, stepping closer as he handed her the file.
“We’ve got a new assignment,” he explained. “It’s a short-term campaign. Starts tomorrow.”
She nodded, flipping the folder open, scanning the first few pages.
“A brand collaboration?” she asked.
“Exactly. They want something fresh. A new angle. You’ll be working on the initial concept.”
“Got it.”
Her eyes moved over the details, taking in the scope of the project.
It wasn’t small.
But it wasn’t overwhelming either.
Just… interesting.
“A K-pop group?” she noted, glancing up briefly.
“Yeah. Probably not one of the huge ones, so don’t worry,” he added with a small smile. “We wouldn’t get that kind of contract anyway. We didn't get a lot information yet.”
She let out a quiet laugh.
“Right.”
That made sense.
This firm wasn’t big enough for something like that.
So there was no reason to worry.
No reason to overthink.
She looked back down at the file, her mind already shifting into focus.
“Alright,” she said, nodding slightly. “I’ll start working on some ideas today.”
“Perfect. I’ll check in later.”
He walked off, leaving her with the folder and a sense of something… new.
Excitement, maybe.
Or just… purpose.
She sat back down, opening her laptop, the familiar rhythm of work settling in quickly.
Ideas came easier than she expected.
She let herself get lost in it.
Concepts. Visual directions. Messaging angles.
Time passed without her noticing.
And for once, her mind didn’t drift back to the past.
Didn’t linger on things she couldn’t change.
It stayed here.
Present.
Focused.
Alive in a way that felt unfamiliar, but welcome.
Maybe this was what it felt like to move forward.
By the time she left work, the sky had already started to dim.
She checked the time as she stepped outside, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.
Right on schedule.
The walk to the kindergarten felt shorter this time.
Or maybe she was just more tired.
Either way, by the time she reached the familiar building, the last of the children were already being picked up.
She spotted Heewa almost immediately.
Sitting on a small bench near the entrance, legs swinging slightly as she waited.
The moment she saw Y/N, her face lit up.
“Mama!”
She jumped up, running toward her without hesitation.
Y/N barely had time to brace herself before she was wrapped in a hug.
“Hey,” she murmured softly, returning it just as tightly. “Did you have a good day?”
“The best day.”
“That sounds serious.”
“It is.”
Y/N smiled, pulling back slightly. “Tell me everything.”
And Heewa did.
The entire walk home.
Every detail.
Every new friend. Every game. Every small moment that felt important in her world.
Y/N listened.
She always did.
Because these were the moments she didn’t want to miss.
Dinner was simple.
Nothing complicated. Just something warm, something easy after a long day.
They sat across from each other at the small table in their apartment, the soft glow of the kitchen light filling the space.
Heewa swung her legs slightly under the chair, still talking between bites.
And for a while, everything felt… normal.
Comfortable.
Safe.
“Mama?”
Y/N looked up.
“Hmm?”
Heewa hesitated.
Just slightly.
“Do I have a dad? The other kids have one.”
The question was soft.
Careful.
But it landed harder than anything else that day.
Y/N’s hand stilled for a moment.
Just a moment.
Then she set her chopsticks down gently.
She had known this would come eventually.
It wasn’t the first time.
And it wouldn’t be the last.
She looked at her daughter.
Really looked at her.
At the familiar eyes. The familiar expression.
The quiet curiosity.
And something in her chest tightened.
“You do,” she said softly.
Heewa blinked. “Where is he?”
Y/N swallowed.
Carefully.
Choosing her words the way she always did.
“He lives far away.”
“Why?”
Because I left.
Because I didn’t tell him.
Because I thought it was the right thing to do.
“Because… our lives are different,” she said instead.
Heewa frowned slightly. “Does he know me?”
The question lingered.
Heavy.
Y/N felt something twist in her chest.
But her expression stayed gentle.
“He would like you very much,” she said quietly.
That wasn’t a lie.
It never was.
Heewa seemed to think about that, her expression softening slightly.
“Is he nice?”
Y/N smiled.
A real one this time.
“Yes,” she said. “He is.”
And that, more than anything, was the truth she held onto.
No matter what had happened.
No matter how things ended.
She would never take that away from him.
Or from her.
Heewa nodded slowly, satisfied enough with the answer for now.
“Okay.”
She went back to eating.
And the moment passed.
But Y/N stayed still for a second longer.
Her gaze drifting slightly.
Unfocused.
Because even after five years…
Some things never really left.
They just became quieter.
Easier to carry.
Until moments like this reminded her that they were still there.
Still waiting.
Still part of her.
She exhaled slowly.
Then picked up her chopsticks again.
“Eat your vegetables,” she said gently.
Heewa groaned dramatically.
And just like that life continued.
Morning came too fast.
Y/N barely noticed how her alarm blended into the quiet hum of the apartment, her body already used to waking before it even rang. For a moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft breathing beside her.
Heewa had climbed into her bed sometime during the night.
She always did that on days when she had something exciting coming up.
Y/N turned her head slightly, watching the small rise and fall of her daughter’s chest, the way her hair was spread messily across the pillow. There was something grounding about moments like this. Something that made everything else feel… manageable.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” she murmured softly, brushing her fingers gently through Heewa’s hair.
A small groan.
“No…”
Y/N smiled faintly. “You said you wanted to be early again today.”
One eye opened.
“…I did?”
“You did.”
Heewa blinked slowly, then suddenly sat up, fully awake.
“I did!”
Y/N laughed quietly, pushing herself up as well. “Come on. Get ready.”
The morning passed in small, familiar steps.
Getting dressed. Packing her bag. Making sure she had everything she needed. Listening to Heewa talk about something that made very little sense this early in the morning, but still nodding along like it was the most important story in the world.
It was easy.
Simple.
And for the most part… peaceful.
The walk to the kindergarten felt lighter than the day before. Maybe because her mind was already half at work, running through ideas, plans, the outline of the presentation she had been building since yesterday.
She had stayed up a little later than usual, refining it.
Not because she had to.
Because she wanted to.
That still felt new.
At the entrance, Heewa turned to her, bouncing slightly on her heels.
“Can I show you my drawing later, Mama?”
“Of course,” Y/N said, crouching down in front of her. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“It’s really good.”
“I’m sure it is.”
A quick hug.
A bright smile.
And then she was gone again, disappearing into the building with the same energy as always.
Y/N watched her for a moment.
Then stood, exhaling quietly before turning away.
Work.
The office felt busier than usual.
Not in a loud way. Just… a little more focused. A little more alert.
She noticed it as soon as she stepped in.
Something about the energy had shifted.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
She greeted a few people as she walked to her desk, setting her bag down before pulling out the folder from yesterday.
The K-pop assignment.
Her eyes moved over the notes again, even though she already knew them.
She sat down, opening her laptop, going over her slides one last time.
Everything was ready.
Exactly how it should be.
“Big day?”
She looked up at the voice, blinking slightly.
Standing beside her desk was someone she hadn’t expected to see this early.
Kim Jisoo.
Not the one most people would think of.
Different department.
Different floor.
Someone who technically had no reason to be hovering around her desk this often.
“Something like that,” she replied, offering a small smile.
Jisoo leaned slightly against the edge of her desk, casual as always.
He was… attractive.
That was the simplest way to put it.
Sharp features, neatly styled hair, the kind of confidence that came naturally rather than forced. The kind that made people pay attention when he walked into a room.
He always dressed well.
Always spoke smoothly.
And he always… lingered.
“I heard you got the K-pop assignment,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “That’s a good one.”
“It seems interesting,” Y/N replied.
“That’s one way to put it.”
She raised a brow slightly. “You don’t think so?”
“I think it’s more than interesting,” he said with a small smile. “Especially for a smaller firm like ours.”
She shrugged lightly. “It’s still just work.”
“And you’re still taking it very seriously,” he noted.
“That’s my job.”
“And you’re good at it.”
She paused for a second.
“Thank you.”
There was a brief silence.
Not uncomfortable.
Just… there.
“I’m actually on that project too.”
Y/N blinked.
“You are?”
“Mm.” He nodded. “Different angle, but same campaign.”
She hadn’t expected that.
“Oh.”
“Surprised?”
“A little.”
“I’ll try not to be a distraction then.”
There was something in the way he said it.
Light.
Playful.
Familiar.
Y/N let out a small breath, shaking her head slightly. “I think I’ll manage.”
“I’m sure you will.”
Another pause.
“What time’s the meeting?”
“Ten.”
He checked his watch. “Perfect.”
She frowned slightly. “Perfect?”
“Gives me enough time to walk with you.”
She huffed quietly. “You don’t even know if I was planning to go now.”
“You were.”
“And how would you know that?”
“Because you’re prepared,” he said simply. “And people who are prepared don’t wait until the last minute.”
She stared at him for a second.
Then shook her head.
“…You’re not wrong.”
“I usually’m not.”
She rolled her eyes slightly, standing up, grabbing her folder.
“Come on then.”
He smiled.
The walk to the meeting room was short.
Too short, in a way.
Because Jisoo didn’t stop talking.
Not in an annoying way.
In a way that made the silence feel lighter.
Easier.
“So,” he said as they reached the door, glancing at her briefly. “You busy this weekend?”
Y/N paused slightly.
There it was.
She had expected it.
Eventually.
“I have a daughter,” she said carefully. “So… yes.”
“I know.”
That made her look at him.
“I still asked.”
She hesitated.
Because that wasn’t something she heard often.
Not like this.
Not… uncomplicated.
“We could work around that,” he added, pushing the door open slightly but not stepping in yet. “Coffee. Lunch. Something simple.”
Y/N studied him for a second.
He wasn’t pushy.
Wasn’t trying too hard.
Just… offering.
And for a moment, something in her chest shifted.
Because it had been a long time since she allowed herself to even consider something like this.
A long time since she thought about anything beyond work and Heewa.
“…Maybe,” she said slowly.
His expression brightened just slightly.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I didn’t say yes.”
“You didn’t say no.”
She sighed quietly.
“…Fine. Maybe coffee.”
“That sounds like a yes.”
“It’s a maybe.”
“I’ll take it.”
She shook her head, a small smile slipping through despite herself.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Ready.”
And stepped inside.
The room was already occupied.
That was the first thing she noticed.
Several people seated.
Some she recognized.
Some she didn’t.
Her attention moved quickly, professionally, taking in the space, the setup.
She froze.
It happened in an instant.
Like the air had been knocked out of her lungs without warning.
Because sitting across the table was ATEEZ.
All of them.
Every single one.
And for a second, her mind refused to catch up.
Refused to process what she was seeing.
Because that didn’t make sense.
This wasn’t supposed to be...
Her grip on the folder tightened.
Her heartbeat loud.
Too loud.
His eyes met hers.
Choi San
Shock.
Pure, unfiltered shock.
It was written all over his face.
Not hidden.
Not controlled.
Just… there.
“Y/N?”
Her name.
Spoken like it had been pulled out of him without permission.
The room went quiet.
Too quiet.
Every head turned.
Every gaze shifting between them.
Y/N felt it.
All of it.
But she didn’t move.
Didn’t react.
Not the way she wanted to.
Because years of holding herself together didn’t just disappear in a moment.
She swallowed.
Forced her expression into something neutral.
Professional.
And stepped further into the room like nothing had happened.
“Good morning,” she said calmly.
Like her world hadn’t just tilted off ist axis.
Like she hadn’t spent five years building a life that didn’t include him.
Like he wasn’t sitting right there.
Staring at her like she had just walked out of a memory he never got to finish.
“Sorry for being late,” she continued, moving to the empty seat across from them.
Beside her, Jisoo had gone quiet.
San hadn’t.
“What are you doing here?”
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
Too direct.
Too personal.
Too much.
Y/N didn’t look at him immediately.
She set her folder down.
Opened it.
Adjusted her posture.
And only then ahe lifted her gaze.
Meeting his eyes with something controlled.
Something distant.
“I work here,” she said simply.
And the tension in the room shifted.
Subtle.
But noticeable.
Because this wasn’t just a normal meeting anymore.
This was something else.
Something none of them were prepared for.
San stared at her.
Still trying to process.
Still trying to understand.
And around him, the other members watched quietly.
Because they knew her too.
Knew exactly who she was.
And exactly what this meant.
And Y/N...she just sat there.
Back straight.
Hands steady.
Expression calm.
Like her heart wasn’t beating too fast.
Like her past hadn’t just walked back into her life without warning.
Like she hadn’t just agreed to coffee with someone else moments before stepping into a room she never thought she’d see again.
She inhaled slowly.
Then looked at the rest of the table.
“Shall we begin?”
And just like that, she forced the world to keep moving.
A door appears where it should not. And a girl steps through it.
In a kingdom that grows rich from gold, y/n is forced to turn straw into something more, while slowly losing her memories.
Years later, when the castle falls, she is found in a forgotten room.
Without a name.
Without a past.
And without knowing what she has lost.
Pairing: Kim Hongjoong x Reader (y/n)
Genre: Dark Fantasy, Angst, Fairytale Retelling, Romance (slow burn)
Tropes: Rumpelstiltskin retelling, Memory loss / identity loss, Imprisoned heroine, Broken / empty FMC, Soft vs cruel world contrast, Found family, Slow healing romance
Fairytale Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Hongjoong Masterlist
Intro | HJ | SH | YH | YS | SN | MG | WY | JH
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |
This is Part 1
There was a kind of happiness that did not announce itself in her life.
It did not arrive loudly, did not demand attention or leave anyone breathless. It lived in the small things of her life. In routines that felt familiar rather than dull. In laughter that came easily, without effort or expectation.
That was the kind of happiness she had.
It settled into her life quietly and stayed.
Mornings began with light slipping through the curtains in soft, golden lines that warmed the edge of her bed. She rarely woke up immediately. Instead, she lingered in that half-state between sleep and awareness, listening.
To the faint hum of the city waking. To the distant roll of traffic. To the quiet buzz of her phone vibrating against the nightstand.
She would reach for it without opening her eyes, thumb brushing across the screen until it lit up.
A message.
Good morning, sleepy.
Sometimes followed by something softer. Something teasing. Something that made her smile before she was even fully awake.
She would press the phone closer to her face, squinting slightly. Then type back something equally simple. Nothing poetic. Nothing grand. Just something that meant she was there. That she was seen. That she was loved in the quiet ways that mattered most.
Her apartment was small, but it held her life.
There were plants on the windowsill that she sometimes forgot to water, though they somehow survived her inconsistency. A blanket draped over the couch that carried the faint scent of laundry detergent and evenings spent curled up with a movie she had already seen twice. A shelf filled with books she kept meaning to reread, though she rarely found the time.
It was not perfect.
But it was hers.
She moved through it with ease.
Mornings blurred into workdays that were steady, predictable. Her job was not something she dreamed about, but it was something she was good at. Numbers, structures, small problems that had clear solutions if you looked long enough.
She liked that. She liked knowing there was an answer somewhere.
Even if it took time.
Her coworkers were kind in the way people often were when life had not asked too much of them. There were shared lunches, quiet jokes, the occasional complaint about deadlines that never truly overwhelmed them.
She was not alone. She had never been alone.
And in the evenings, the world softened again.
Sometimes she met friends. Sometimes she stayed in. Sometimes she sat across from someone who knew her so well that silence felt like conversation.
He had a habit of tracing shapes into her palm.
Absentminded. Gentle.
“What is that supposed to be?” she had asked once, watching him with quiet amusement.
“I don’t know,” he had admitted, smiling slightly. “Maybe if I keep going, it’ll turn into something.”
“It already is something.”
He had looked at her then.
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess it is.”
It was not a grand love story.
It did not need to be.
It was steady.
And she was happy.
Truly.
That evening, she stayed late again.
Not because she had to.
Because she wanted to.
The office felt different when everyone else had left. The air seemed less crowded, the silence more forgiving. No conversations overlapping, no footsteps passing by her desk, no expectations pressing in from all sides.
Just her.
And the soft glow of her screen.
She leaned back in her chair at some point, rubbing her eyes as the numbers began to blur together. The clock in the corner of her screen told her it was later than she expected.
“Okay,” she murmured to herself. “Time to go.”
Her voice sounded small in the empty space.
She gathered her things slowly, taking her time as she shut everything down. There was no rush waiting for her outside. No urgency.
Just the quiet promise of home.
When she stepped outside, the air greeted her.
Cool and fresh.
The rain had already passed, but it left ist mark behind. The pavement shimmered, catching the glow of streetlights and stretching it into long, trembling reflections.
For a moment, she simply stood there.
Breathing.
Letting the city settle around her again.
Cars moved steadily along the street. A bus passed, ist windows glowing warmly. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed. The sound carried, soft and fleeting.
She adjusted her coat, pulling it tighter around herself as she started walking.
Her thoughts were simple.
A warm drink. A shower.
Maybe a call. Maybe nothing at all.
She did not need much. She never had.
She almost missed it.
It stood where it should not have been.
In the middle of the sidewalk.
A door.
Painted the deep blue of twilight just before the first star wakes.
She slowed, faltered and then stopped entirely.
Her brows drew together slightly. “That’s new,” she murmured.
No walls framed it.
No building stood behind it.
It simply rose from the pavement as though it had always belonged there.
People walked past it.
Unbothered. Unseeing.
She glanced at them, confusion flickering across her face.
A man passed right beside it without so much as a glance.
A woman stepped around it absentmindedly, her attention fixed on her phone.
It was as if the door did not exist.
Except to her.
A strange feeling settled in her chest.
Something that felt like being called without hearing a voice.
She stepped closer.
As though approaching something that might disappear if she moved too quickly.
The handle gleamed.
Gold. Not dull or worn, but bright. Almost too bright for the dim light of the street.
She tilted her head slightly, studying it.
Her reflection stared back at her.
Soft. Distorted. Uncertain.
“This is weird,” she whispered, though there was no one there to answer.
The air shifted.
It carried something faint.
Spun sugar.
And something else beneath it.
Smoke maybe.
Her breath caught.
For a moment, she hesitated.
She thought of home.
Of warmth. Of the life waiting just a few streets away.
She could leave. She should leave.
But her hand lifted anyway.
Paused.
Hovered over the handle.
“Just a look,” she said quietly, as though she needed to justify it. “That’s all.”
Her fingers closed around the gold.
Warm. Warmer than it should have been.
The world seemed to hold ist breath.
A soft sound followed.
A sigh.
The lock gave way.
Her heart stuttered. And before she could think, before she could question, before she could turn back, the door opened.
Not outward.
Inward.
As though it was breathing.
Light spilled through the gap.
Endless.
It curled around her wrists like ribbon, soft and unyielding at once.
The ground beneath her feet felt distant. Unstable.
And then the rhyme came.
Not from the door.
From everywhere.
“Threads of straw to gold be spun,
But every gift is dearly won.
Name the price and name it true,
Lest fate lay heavier claims on you.”
Her breath caught. “What…?”
The word never finished.
The world tilted.
The street vanished.
Time loosened ist careful stitching.
She fell.
Light wrapped around her.
Pulled her.
Consumed her.
And then she hit the ground.
Hard.
Air rushed from her lungs in a sharp, broken sound as pain bloomed through her body. For a moment, she could not move. Could not think. Could not understand what had just happened.
The air was wrong.
That was the first thing she noticed.
Too warm. Too thick.
Carrying scents she did not recognize.
Wax. Fire. Metal.
Voices.
So many voices.
They echoed above her, layered and loud, filled with confusion, curiosity, something sharper.
She forced herself to breathe.
In.
Out.
Her fingers pressed against the ground. Tryint to focus on anything physical.
Slowly, she pushed herself up.
Her head spun.
Her vision blurred for a moment before it steadied.
And then she looked up.
The world was no longer hers.
A vast hall stretched before her, ceilings impossibly high, banners hanging like silent flames along the walls. Candlelight flickered from above, casting everything in gold and shadow.
People stood everywhere.
Watching.
Rows of them.
Dressed in fabrics that shimmered, heavy and rich, colors deep and unfamiliar.
Almost like Nobles from another timeline.
The thought came uninvited.
A murmur spread through the hall.
“Where did she come from?”
“Did you see that?”
“She appeared out of nothing.”
“Magic…”
Her heart began to race.
“I…” she started, her voice trembling. “I think I’m in the wrong place.”
No one answered.
No one moved to help her.
They only stared.
Her chest tightened.
She turned slightly, searching for something familiar.
Anything.
“There was a door,” she said, a little louder now. “I was just outside, I was walking home and then I saw it and I…”
Her words faltered. No one was listening.
At the far end of the hall, elevated above the rest, a throne stood.
And upon it sat a man. A crown on his head.
His gaze was fixed on her.
The king maybe.
Realization hit her slowly.
Then all at once.
This wasn’t a set.
This wasn’t a dream.
This wasn’t anything she understood.
“I don’t… I don’t belong here,” she said, softer now, her voice breaking slightly. “I just want to go home.”
The hall remained silent.
The king leaned forward.
And for the first time, she felt it.
Something cold.
Something that made her stomach drop.
Interest.
Her fingers curled slightly against the stone.
Her breath came uneven.
“I think there’s been a mistake,” she tried again.
But the words felt small.
Lost.
Swallowed by the space around her.
By the people watching.
By the world that was no longer hers.
For a moment, no one moved.
And suddenly, the life she had left behind felt very far away.
The hall remained suspended in something fragile, like the breath before a storm breaks. The nobles whispered among themselves, their voices low but restless, curiosity flickering into something sharper with every passing second.
She stayed where she had landed.
On the cold stone floor.
Her hands pressed against it, trembling slightly, as though she could steady herself if she just held on tightly enough.
This is not real.
The thought came quickly.
Desperately.
It has to be a dream.
But the air did not feel like a dream.
It was too thick in her lungs. Too warm against her skin. Too real in the way it carried scent and sound and weight.
Her heart was racing.
Too fast.
Too loud.
She swallowed hard, her throat dry as she forced herself to sit up properly. The movement felt distant, like her body belonged to someone else and she was only watching it happen.
“I… I think there’s been a mistake,” she said again, her voice quieter this time.
It echoed.
But her voice still Too small.
No one answered.
Her gaze darted from face to face, searching for something familiar. Something kind. Someone who might step forward and tell her this was confusion, a misunderstanding, something that could be fixed with the right explanation.
But all she found were eyes.
Watching.
Measuring.
Some curious.
Some amused.
Some already calculating.
Her chest tightened.
She pulled her hands closer to herself without thinking, fingers curling slightly as though she could hide them from the attention.
That was when she felt it.
Her breath hitched.
Slowly, she looked down.
At first, she did not understand what she was seeing.
Light clung to her skin.
It moved.
It gathered at the tips of her fingers, thickening, deepening in color until it became something heavier.
Gold.
It slid over her skin like molten sunlight, slow and deliberate, dripping from her fingertips in soft, heavy drops that fell to the stone below.
Each drop landed with a quiet sound.
Solid.
Real.
Her vision blurred. “No…”
The word left her before she could stop it.
Her hands shook.
More gold.
It kept coming.
“I didn’t… I didn’t do this,” she said, panic rising quickly now, her voice trembling as she tried to wipe it away.
But it did not smear.
It did not disappear.
It only continued.
“Please,” she whispered, though she did not know who she was speaking to. “Please make it stop.”
A ripple moved through the hall.
The whispers grew louder.
More urgent.
“Gold…”
“She’s making gold…”
“Is this some kind of blessing?”
“A curse…”
Her ears rang. Her breath came too fast now, too shallow.
She pressed her hands against her dress as though she could hide what was happening, but the gold only spread, streaking against the fabric, catching the candlelight in a way that made everything feel unreal.
She lifted her gaze.
The king had risen from his throne.
He was looking at her.
With hunger.
Her stomach dropped.
“No,” she whispered again, the word breaking this time. “No, no, no…”
“Bring her here,” the king said.
His voice was calm.
Controlled.
Certain.
The command cut through the noise of the hall instantly.
The whispers died.
The movement that followed was immediate.
Guards stepped forward.
She flinched instinctively.
“Wait,” she said quickly, scrambling back slightly on the floor. “Please, I didn’t do anything, I don’t even know what’s happening, I just got here, I…”
Hands grabbed her arms.
Rough.
She gasped as they pulled her up.
“Let go,” she cried, her voice breaking fully now as panic surged through her chest. “You’re hurting me, please, I don’t understand, I didn’t do anything wrong.”
They did not listen.
They dragged her forward.
Her feet stumbled against the stone, barely keeping up as they pulled her through the hall. The gold continued to drip from her hands, leaving a trail behind her, each step marking her presence in something she could not escape.
“I just want to go home,” she pleaded, her voice smaller now, shaking with something deeper than fear.
Desperation.
No one answered.
No one stopped them.
She was brought before the king.
Forced down.
Her knees hit the stone hard enough to send pain through her legs, but she barely felt it.
Her attention was fixed on him.
On the way he looked at her.
Like she was no longer a person.
Like she was something else entirely.
She shook her head quickly, tears already gathering in her eyes.
“Please,” she said, her voice soft, breaking. “I don’t belong here. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know why this is happening.”
The gold slipped from her fingers again.
The king stepped closer.
Then he crouched in front of her.
Close enough that she could see the detail in his expression.
The interest. The calculation. The satisfaction.
He reached out.
She flinched again. But his hand did not strike.
It settled against her face.
Holding her still.
Her breath hitched.
“You don’t know what you are,” he said quietly.
It was not a question.
Her lips trembled. “I don’t,” she whispered. “I swear, I don’t. I was just… I was just walking home, and there was a door, and I…”
Her voice faltered under his gaze.
He studied her.
Not unkindly. But not kindly either.
As one might study something rare.
Something valuable.
Something that belonged to them the moment they laid claim to it.
“How fortunate,” he murmured.
Her chest tightened.
“What?” she breathed.
His grip on her face tightened slightly.
Not enough to hurt but enough to control.
“You will not be wasted,” he said.
Her stomach dropped.
“I don’t understand…”
“You will,” he replied calmly. “In time.”
Fear flooded her.
“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head as much as his hold allowed. “No, please, I don’t want this, I don’t want whatever this is, I just want to go home, I won’t tell anyone, I swear, I’ll just leave, please just let me go.”
He smiled softly.
And that was worse.
“You misunderstand,” he said.
His thumb brushed lightly against her cheek, almost gentle.
“You are home now.”
Something inside her cracked.
“No,” she whispered, tears slipping free. “No, I’m not.”
His gaze shifted briefly to her hands.
To the gold.
Then back to her.
“You will be my greatest fortune,” he said quietly. “My own gold manufacture.”
Her breath stopped.
The words did not make sense at first.
Then they did.
And when they did, something deep and instinctive recoiled.
“No,” she said again, louder now, panic breaking through completely. “No, I can’t, I don’t know how to control it, I don’t even know what it is, please, you can’t do this, please don’t do this.”
He stood.
The warmth of his hand left her face.
It felt like something had been taken with it.
“Take her,” he said.
The guards moved immediately.
She struggled.
Not enough to break free.
Enough to show she was still there.
“Please,” she cried, her voice raw now. “Please don’t lock me away, I’ll do anything else, I’ll work, I’ll help, I’ll…”
Her words broke into sobs.
No one answered.
No one listened.
She was dragged away.
And the gold followed.
The chamber was not meant for living.
That was the first thing she understood.
It was too large. Too empty.
The walls were bare stone, cold and unwelcoming, the single window set high enough that she could not reach it, ist light thin and distant.
Straw filled the room.
Piled in corners.
Stacked against the walls. Endless.
The door closed behind her with a heavy sound that echoed through the space.
The lock followed.
She stood in the center of it.
Breathing too fast.
Her chest rising and falling unevenly.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered to herself.
Her voice sounded small.
She turned slowly, taking in the room again as though seeing it might make it make sense.
Held her hands tightly against herself as though she could trap the gold inside her skin.
“I won’t do it,” she whispered. “I won’t.”
But they came.
Every time.
Guards.
And when the room did not change, when the straw remained straw, they reminded her.
Not with words.
With force.
With consequences she learned quickly.
So she did it.
The first time, she cried the entire way through it.
Her hands trembled as she reached for the straw, fear twisting tightly in her chest as the gold formed again, unstoppable.
“I don’t want this,” she whispered again and again, like a prayer that went unanswered.
But the straw turned to gold.
Every piece. Every strand.
Until the room shimmered with something she could not escape.
Days blurred.
Gold. Everywhere.
Then weeks.
Time lost ist edges.
There was no morning.
No night.
Only light and dark that meant nothing.
She tried to hold onto things.
Small things.
Memories.
Her apartment. The windows and the way the light fell across her bed.
The sound of laughter. The feeling of someone’s hand tracing shapes into her palm.
She held onto that one the longest. She did not remember his face clearly after a while. But she remembered the feeling.
“What was his name?” she whispered once, sitting on the floor, her hands resting uselessly in her lap.
The gold glimmered faintly.
“I knew it,” she said softly. “I know I did.”
But the name did not come back.
It slipped. Just out of reach.
Like something she had forgotten in another room.
She tried to follow it.
To grasp it.
But it was gone.
The more she used the gold, the more she lost.
At first, it was small.
A detail. A color. A taste.
Then it grew.
A memory. A moment. A feeling.
She noticed at the beginning.
She cried over each one. “I don’t remember,” she whispered once, her voice hollow. “I don’t remember what my home looked like.”
The realization had come suddenly.
Without warning.
One moment, it was there.
The next, it was not.
Gone.
As though it had never existed.
Her chest had ached with it.
A deep, hollow ache that she could not fill.
“I don’t remember,” she repeated.
No one answered. No one ever did.
Months passed.
Or years.
She stopped trying to count.
It did not matter. Nothing mattered.
The room did not change.
The straw did not change.
She did.
Piece by piece.
Her movements became slower.
Her reactions duller.
Her voice softer.
Less used. Less needed.
She spoke less. Thought less. Felt less.
It was easier that way.
Easier than holding onto things that would only disappear.
Easier than remembering what she had already lost.
One day, she tried to say her name.
The thought came suddenly.
She sat up slightly, her hands still, her gaze unfocused as she searched for it.
“My name is…” she began.
The words lingered.
Her breath hitched.
“I…”
Nothing.
There was nothing there.
Her chest tightened.
“My name is…” she tried again, more urgently this time.
Still nothing.
Her hands trembled.
Gold slipped from her fingers again.
She did not react.
“My name is…” she whispered.
The words faded. Meaningless.
She lowered her head slowly.
“I don’t know,” she said.
Her voice was calm.
Too calm.
As though the loss had already settled.
As though it had been gone longer than she could remember.
Time continued.
She stopped asking questions.
Stopped pleading.
Stopped hoping.
There was nothing left to hope for.
Nothing left to return to.
The memories had faded. All of them.
Herself replaced by something emptier.
She still moved. Still worked. Still turned straw into gold.
But there was no resistance in it anymore.
Only repetition.
Only silence.
Sometimes, she would sit still for long periods of time.
Just existing.
Her hands resting in her lap.
Gold faintly clinging to her skin like something that had always been there.
Like something that would never leave.
She did not remember when it started.
She did not remember when it became all she was.
She only knew that there had been something before.
Something that felt like light.
But it was gone now.
And in ist place…there was nothing.
And somewhere deep inside her, in a place she could no longer reach, something small and quiet still whispered.
You had a name.
But she did not remember it.
The war had ended faster than expected.
Not anymore.
That was what unsettled Hongjoong the most.
He had prepared for resistance. For drawn-out battles. For a kingdom that would fight desperately to protect the wealth it had gathered so unnaturally over the years.
Instead, it had collapsed.
Too quickly.
The outer defenses had been strong enough to suggest pride, but not strong enough to hold. The soldiers had fought, but not with conviction. There had been hesitation in their movements, fractures in their formation, something hollow beneath the discipline they tried to maintain.
And when Hongjoong had reached the throne room, when he had stood face to face with the king who had demanded war against his people, it had taken only a single strike to end him.
The man had not even looked surprised.
Only angry.
As though the world had failed to obey him.
Hongjoong had expected relief when it was over.
Instead, there was something else.
A quiet unease that had settled deep in his chest and refused to leave.
Now, hours later, he walked through the castle that had once belonged to that man.
Or rather, what remained of it.
“This is absurd,” Wooyoung muttered under his breath, running his fingers along a pillar as they moved through the corridor. “Look at this.”
Hongjoong did not need to look.
He had already seen.
The castle gleamed.
Not with polished stone or carefully maintained marble, but with something heavier. Warmer. Wrong in a way that made the air feel thick.
Gold.
Everywhere.
Columns that should have been carved from stone now shimmered faintly. Decorative trims caught the light unnaturally. Even the doors held a sheen that did not belong to wood.
It was too much.
Not elegance.
It was Excess.
“Who builds like this?” San asked, his voice low as he glanced around, his hand resting near the hilt of his weapon out of habit.
“No one sane,” Yunho answered quietly.
Mingi let out a short breath, shaking his head slightly. “This isn’t just wealth. This is obsession.”
Hongjoong said nothing.
He walked ahead of them, his steps measured, his gaze moving slowly across everything they passed.
He had seen rich courts before.
Lavish halls.
Kings who decorated their power in gold to remind others of their place.
But this was different.
This was not decoration.
It was saturation.
As though the castle itself had been consumed.
“Five years,” Jongho said, his voice cutting cleanly through the quiet. “That’s what we were told, right?”
Hongjoong nodded slightly.
“Their rise in wealth started about five years ago,” Yeosang added, his tone thoughtful. “Before that, they were… average. Stable, but nothing remarkable.”
“And then suddenly they could fund a war,” Seonghwa said.
“Not just fund it,” Wooyoung corrected, glancing over his shoulder. “Push for it.”
A silence followed.
Unspoken thoughts settling between them.
Hongjoong slowed slightly.
His gaze lingered on the walls again.
At the gold everywhere.
“Something isn’t right,” he said finally.
San gave a small, humorless smile. “That’s putting it lightly.”
They continued.
Deeper into the castle.
Past the grand halls that had already been cleared. Past the rooms that had been looted by fear long before they had arrived. Past the chambers where servants had hidden and nobles had tried to bargain for safety.
The further they went, the quieter it became.
The air changed.
As though this part of the castle had been left behind long before the war had reached ist end.
“Has anyone checked this side?” Mingi asked.
Hongjoong shook his head slightly. “Not yet.”
“Strange,” Yunho murmured. “You’d think something this large wouldn’t just… stop being used.”
They turned into a narrower corridor.
The gold was less prominent here.
Faded.
Uneven.
The walls returned to stone in patches, though streaks of gold still clung to them in places, like something that had once spread and then been abandoned halfway through.
The torches along the walls burned lower. Dimmer.
The silence deepened.
Wooyoung frowned slightly. “I don’t like this.”
“No one asked you to,” San muttered, though his tone lacked ist usual bite.
Hongjoong slowed.
There was something ahead.
A shift.
Not sound.
Not movement.
Something else.
He raised a hand slightly.
The others stopped.
“What is it?” Seonghwa asked quietly.
Hongjoong did not answer immediately.
He stepped forward.
Carefully.
Then he saw it.
A door.
Reinforced.
Heavy.
Out of place.
Two bodies lay in front of it.
Soldiers, long dead.
Their armor marked them as part of the former king’s guard.
Jongho crouched beside one of them, examining quickly. “They’ve been dead for a while.”
“How long?” Hongjoong asked.
“A few days. Maybe longer.”
San’s gaze moved to the door. “So they weren’t killed in the battle.”
“No,” Yeosang said softly. “They were guarding something.”
Silence settled again.
Thicker now.
Hongjoong stepped closer.
The door was locked.
But not recently.
The metal showed signs of wear, of repeated use, of something that had been opened and closed too many times.
He reached out, brushing his fingers lightly against the surface.
“Break it,” he said.
Mingi and Yunho stepped forward immediately.
It did not take long.
The lock gave way with a sharp crack, the door shifting under the force before slowly creaking open.
The sound echoed.
As though it disturbed something that had long been left undisturbed.
The air inside the room was different.
Still. Heavy.
Hongjoong stepped in first and stopped.
For a moment, the others behind him fell silent as well.
The room was large.
Almost simple in comparison to the rest of the castle. Almost Bare.
A single window at the far end allowed light to slip in, pale and distant.
And in front of it…She sat.
On a chair.
Her back slightly turned, her gaze fixed on something beyond the window.
Her dress caught the light first.
Gold and Sheer. Outlining her small body perfectly.
It draped over her frame like something delicate, almost unreal, clinging softly to her form as though it had been made to reflect the very thing that filled this place.
For a moment, Hongjoong did not think.
He simply looked.
She was…Beautiful.
That was the first thought.
The kind of beauty that lingered.
But it was not what held him there.
It was the stillness.
The way she sat.
The way the light touched her and did not seem to reach her.
The way the room felt empty despite her presence.
Lonely.
That was the second thought.
And far more unsettling.
Behind him, someone exhaled quietly.
“There’s… someone here?” Wooyoung said, disbelief threading through his voice.
“Who is she?” Yunho asked.
No one answered.
Hongjoong stepped closer.
Carefully.
“Hey,” he said. His voice was gentle.
Measured.
It felt strange in the silence of the room.
She did not react immediately.
For a moment, he thought she had not heard him.
Then, slowly… She turned her head.
Her gaze found them.
And something in Hongjoong’s chest tightened.
Her eyes were empty.
Not dull. Not tired.
Completely Empty.
Like a place where something had once lived and no longer did.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
The question felt inadequate the moment it left him.
She blinked once.
As though processing the words took effort.
Then she spoke.
Her voice was soft. Almost fragile.
“Are you here to end it?”
The room went still.
Hongjoong frowned slightly. “End what?”
Her gaze did not change.
“Me,” she said simply.
A silence followed.
Uncomfortable.
“If you are,” she continued, her tone unchanged, “then please do it quickly.”
Something shifted in Hongjoong’s chest.
A sharp, unexpected pull.
Shock.
Not at the words.
At how easily she said them.
Like they meant nothing.
Like they were no more than a simple request.
He stepped closer immediately, lowering himself slightly so he was closer to her level.
“No,” he said. “We’re not here to hurt you.”
She watched him.
Without reaction.
“You’re safe,” he added, softer now.
The word felt foreign in the room.
Safe.
She tilted her head slightly.
As though the concept did not make sense.
He swallowed.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Her gaze shifted.
Searching.
For something.
Seconds passed.
Then longer.
Finally, she spoke again. “I don’t remember.”
The words were quiet.
But they landed heavily.
Hongjoong’s brows drew together slightly.
“You don’t remember your name?”
She shook her head.
A small movement.
“I don’t remember anything,” she said.
There was no frustration in her voice.
No sadness.
Only a simple statement.
Like she was telling him the sky was gray.
Wooyoung let out a quiet, disbelieving breath behind him.
“What do you mean you don’t remember anything?” he asked.
She did not look at him.
Her gaze stayed on Hongjoong.
As though he was the only one who had spoken.
“I know words,” she said slowly. “I know how to speak. I know what things are.”
A pause.
“But I don’t know me.”
The words settled heavily into the room.
Hongjoong felt it again.
That pull.
Stronger now.
He crouched fully in front of her.
“You must remember something,” he said gently. “Anything. Where you’re from. How you got here.”
Her expression did not change.
“They called me things,” she said instead.
His chest tightened slightly.
“Who?”
“The soldiers,” she replied.
Her gaze drifted for a moment.
Not quite distant.
Just unfocused.
“As if I needed a name.”
Something cold settled in his stomach.
“What did they call you?” he asked quietly.
She blinked once.
Then answered.
“Golden whore.”
The words landed flat.
Emotionless.
“Slave.”
A breath passed.
“Gold spinner.”
Behind him, someone shifted sharply.
A quiet curse slipped from San under his breath.
Hongjoong did not react outwardly.
But something inside him hardened.
He reached out slightly, then stopped himself.
“Those are not your name,” he said.
She looked at him again.
As though trying to understand.
“Then what is?” she asked.
He did not have an answer.
His gaze dropped briefly.
And that was when he saw it.
Her hands.
Resting loosely in her lap.
Too still.
Her fingers were…Gold.
The tips shimmered faintly, catching the light in a way that made his breath still.
Realization settled slowly.
Then all at once.
The gold.
The castle.
The wealth.
Five years.
His jaw tightened slightly.
Of course.
Of course.
He looked back at her.
At the empty gaze.
At the stillness.
At what remained.
“You did this,” he said quietly.
Not accusing. Understanding.
Her head tilted slightly.
“I do things,” she said. “They bring straw.”
Her voice did not change. “I touch it.”
A pause.
“It becomes gold.”
Behind him, no one spoke.
They did not need to.
The truth was already there.
Written into everything around them.
Hongjoong exhaled slowly.
Then met her gaze again.
“You don’t have to do that anymore,” he said.
The words felt fragile.
But he meant them.
“I’m going to get you out of here.”
She watched him.
For a long moment.
Then asked, very simply: “From what?”
The question caught him off guard.
Not because he did not understand it.
Because she didn’t.
“You were imprisoned,” he said carefully. “Forced to do something you didn’t choose.”
She blinked.
“Ah okay,” she replied.
Just stating.
Hongjoong frowned slightly. “You’re free now,” he tried again.
The word felt heavier this time.
She looked at him.
Really looked.
For the first time.
And there was something there.
Not emotion.
Not quite.
Something close to confusion.
“I don’t know what that means,” she said. At that he subconciously reached for her.
The words settled between them.
And for the first time since entering the room, Hongjoong felt something close to helplessness.
Not because he did not know what to do.
But because he did not know how to reach her.
Before he could respond, movement cut through the stillness.
A figure stepped forward from the shadows near the wall.
Hongjoong turned immediately.
A boy. Young.
Fifteen, maybe.
Thin, but tense with something fierce.
A knife clutched tightly in his hand.
He positioned himself between them and the woman in an instant.
“Don’t touch her.”
His voice shook.
Not with weakness.
With fury.
Fear.
Protectiveness.
“If you do anything to her, I’ll kill you.”
The threat hung in the air.
Behind Hongjoong, weapons shifted.
But he raised a hand slightly. Stopping them.
His gaze stayed on the boy.
“You’ve been here with her?” he asked.
The boy did not lower the knife.
Did not move. “Yes.”
Hongjoong nodded slowly.
“Then you’ve been protecting her.”
The boy’s grip tightened.
“I won’t let you take her.”
Hongjoong exhaled quietly.
Something in his chest easing slightly.
Not because the situation was simple.
But because, finally, there was something in this room that still felt alive.
“I’m not here to hurt her,” he said.
The boy did not believe him.
That much was clear.
“No one comes here for nothing,” he snapped.
Hongjoong held his gaze.
“You’re right,” he said.
A pause.
Then, quieter: “I came because something was wrong.”
The boy hesitated.
Just for a second.
Behind him, the woman remained still.
Her gaze drifting back toward the window.
As though the conversation no longer concerned her.
As though nothing did.
And that…
That was what stayed with Hongjoong the most.
Not the gold.
Not the war.
Not the truth of what had been done here.
But the way she sat there.
Like someone who had already disappeared.
And had simply forgotten to leave.
Fairytale Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Hongjoong Masterlist
genre: a/b/o au, idol au, omegaverse, fated mates au, soulmates au, omega!reader, alpha!hongjoong, beta!seonghwa, beta!yunho, alpha!yeosang, beta!san, alpha!mingi, alpha!wooyoung, alpha!jongho, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive, mentions of verbal abuse from parents, reader finds it difficult and the boys try really hard to make her feel safe
wc: 3.5k
summary: you never cared too much about the idea of 'fated mates', the wolf designed by the moon especially for you. now that you've met them, you're not sure if you can be their omega. but you promise to try and the ATEEZ pack aren't quite ready to let you go without a fight.
a/n: I had the worst anxiety spin and unfortunately, writing this chapter began s l o w going. hopefully this is a good one and you enjoy the fluffy feels! it's a yunho centric chapter!
Your phone vibrated for the fourth time in fifteen minutes and you were struck by the question of just what idols did during the day. It couldn't actually be any type of work, you thought, when they had to have time to search for the memes to inundate you with.
Still, every time their names appeared on your home screen, you felt irrationally happy. You were trying to dwell in that feeling, trying to let it chase the discomfort that reared to remind you not to feel too happy.
It still felt too new, your friendship with the ATEEZ pack, too easy to fall apart. The group chat had been set up by Yunho - a new one, he’d explained, for all of us. It felt good that he considered you with them as something new for them all, rather than an addition to an established group.
You’d flushed into your phone, head ducked to hide your delight. You tried to remember that feeling in the periods where your anxiety clouded your judgement. On those days, you’d mute the chat and hide your phone in the depths of your bag. They never called you on your disappearance though they must have felt it. The messages just continued as normal - Mingi sending jokes that Wooyoung and Seonghwa would try to one up; San sharing random photos of his day; Hongjoong linking a song that had taken his interest. You appreciated that too.
Today, luckily, was a good day. In every lull at work, you’d grasp at your phone like a lifeline, greedy in how you consumed their affections. It made your omega hum in contentment. If she was able to roll over and bare her belly, you were sure she would.
Yeosangie: Have you eaten dinner darling?
The pet name made you feel gooey in the middle. After the hot pot dinner, Hongjoong had approached the topic of boundaries and pet names had come up. Your ears had burned pink as you admitted you didn’t mind too much. That had been a green light if nothing else as each had bestowed you with a new title.
You glanced at the digital clock on the computer before replying. Not yet. Still another half an hour. We’re waiting for my friend to get back from work.
San: 🙁
Seonghwa: make sure you eat enough.
You rolled your lips to hide your smile. I will, I promise Hwa
Jongho shared a gif of Kirby inhaling a meal.
Wooyoung: why did you take a video of yourself eating?
The chat, predictably, exploded into chaos. Jongho, you’d learnt, was even faster typing than he was verbally. They’d be at that for a while and there would no doubt be casualties. You laughed to yourself, warm by the amusement curling within you.
It was cut off by a throw pillow bouncing against your arm. You yelped in surprise and when you looked up, Hajong forced a frown at you, even as amusement danced in her eyes. She was perched on the other end of the long sofa, legs tucked underneath her. On the television screen, a drama you were supposed to be watching together was paused.
“It’s girl time,” she objected, “no talking to mates for the next 25 minutes.”
That had become something of a routine when you began living together - in the hour between you and Dokyeom getting home, you sat with Hajong to binge whatever drama caught your fancy.
You flushed in embarrassment. Your phone was still vibrating when you clicked it off. “Sorry,” you murmured.
Her lips twitched. “You have one date and now you're attached from your phone,” she teased.
“It wasn’t a date,” you said instinctively. Your screen lit up in your hand. “They’re...nice.”
Hajong looked so pleased for you. “That’s good,” she encouraged gently.
You hadn’t really spoken to her too much about your dinner, only that it went well and you were trying. It still felt so new and private, you wanted to keep it for yourself just a little while long. At the back of your mind, you recalled the last time and how quickly you’d shown off the world and perhaps that was another reason. Still, Hajong had squealed like you were divulging the greatest of secrets.
On the screen, Hongjoong had sent a message to remind them to keep their argument out of the group chat.
“They just check in,” you continued, “Share parts of their life. I like it.”
Hajong scooted closer to you on the sofa. She rested her head against your arm and you rolled your head to rest on hers. “Do you think you’ll see them again soon?”
Irrationally, panic does seize you at the idea, at suddenly having pressure and expectations. Maybe Hajong felt it because her hand absentmindedly reached for yours and squeezed it, offering something to ground you in the moment. You squeeze back thankfully.
“They haven’t asked,” you said.
“Do you think they want to?”
You knew they did. Hongjoong had made it clear that they would all move at your pace, follow any boundaries that you set. “I just want to be certain you know upfront,” he said, “we have the intention of taking you as our omega. I don’t want you to think we don’t but you have a choice here. We’ll follow your lead.”
The surety had been both comforting and terrifying. You weren’t sure if you would have preferred ignorance but you knew that would have led to you questioning the truth behind everything.
You nodded your head, and Hajong asked, “do you want to see them again?”
A difficult answer, in all honesty. Your omega, of course, wanted nothing more than to bask in their attention and scent. Their care through the phone was enough to sate her for now but you knew it wouldn’t last for too long, she’d want a more physical connection soon. The rest of you were split between curiosity to find out more and the fear that came with.
But this was about not letting being scared hold you back so -
“I do,” you admitted.
Hajong squeezed your hand again. “Maybe they’re waiting on your call,” she mused. “Maybe you’ve got to keep making the first move.”
The thought had come to mind before, on those days where courage was bubbling inside of you. You’d wonder what San’s drink of choice was at the coffee shop. You’d wonder whether Jongho would hold you close when the nightmares got too much. You’d wonder if Hongjoong was still up recording something and would answer the phone if you called when sleep wouldn’t come to you.
But then you’d opened the group chat, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and you’d chicken out. You worried you were breaking some boundary and the rejection would be swift or, maybe even worse, they’d agree and actually come to you.
Hajong squeezed your hand again. “Start simple,” she suggested, “Pick the one you feel is the least threatening in an enclosed space and ask him for something. Dinner, a walk, to run an errand.”
“Least threatening?” you said, amused.
“You know, the one less likely to bite,” she wiggled her eyebrows pointedly.
You snorted and nudged her shoulder. “Easier said than done,” you sighed.
“Whenever you feel ready babes,” Hajong assured. “Now, phone in your pocket - I want to find out what Gu Won is going to do next.”
“You’ve watched this one before,” you pointed out.
Hajong hushed you good naturedly and clicked play. You let yourself relax into the sofa cushions, under the familiar presence of your friend. When Dokyeom finally arrived, tiredness from the day disappearing from his eyes the moment he made eye contact with his mate, you let yourself bask in the urge to reach out to your mates.
Dokyeom brought takeaway and you snapped a photo of your plate to share with the group chat. I hope you’ve eaten well too.
In the end, you reached out to Yunho.
To start with he’s not an alpha, so the initial fear wouldn’t be there. As a beta in a pack, he was the mediator amongst ego driven posturing. He was the tallest of them all, you remembered, but slimmer, all legs and wiry limbs, yet he hadn’t tried to fill your space. You also remembered his smile, a curve of lips that lit up his pretty face, and the way his laugh had made you feel warm, even as he hit it behind his hand.
You sent the message early on a Friday morning, before your work hours started. Yunho, would you want to get breakfast tomorrow? And then you quickly add, only if your schedule allows for it.
Your plan was that you can put your phone away and forget about it, lost in the endless to-do list of your day to day job. It didn’t quite work like that, your heart thudding in your ears and mind drifting to different panicked stages. You resisted though, until it was time for your first break. You scrambled to grip your phone in an anxious haze, heart leaping into your throat when you saw a reply.
You didn’t notice it came almost immediately after you sent yours until later. At the time, all you could focus on is the typed words sitting in the messaging app.
Yunho: for you, i’d make time.
-
Yunho tried not to be smug.
No, smug isn’t the right word.
Unbearably excited was more accurate.
He tried not to be unbearably excited. It was hard though, the way his body thrummed with excitement, the way his beta was running laps inside his head. He could barely follow a trail of conversation and his leg kept bouncing wildly, until even the most patient of his pack, Seonghwa, told him to go for a run.
“You’re drowning us in your scent,” he explained, “and if you shake this table one more time, I won’t be responsible for my actions. Please, for all our sanity.”
Yunho just couldn’t help it. The first meeting, initiated by you, had been amazing but this? You, reaching out to him in particular, asking as if he wouldn’t immediately jump at the chance to spend even a second of time together. He had nearly flung his phone across the room in his eagerness to reply.
Wooyoung laughed.
Yunho looked at him with wide eyes and announced, “she wants breakfast. With me. She wants to go to breakfast with me.”
Later, he’d recognise the way that Wooyoung’s expression flattened for a moment before brightening again. Wooyoung would be the one to recommend a place near the company and Yunho excitedly sent the address to you.
Your acceptance was almost better than a kiss.
Almost.
He held Wooyoung close in the quiet moments and scented him, whispering reassurances. The alpha was more sensitive to the current events than he was letting anyone know. You’d come to them all, he’d said, we just need to give her time.
So standing outside the cafe that morning felt like the start of something. Or hoped to be.
You looked so pretty in your spring dress, cheeks flushed from the wind. You smiled shyly at him, tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and Yunho so wanted to brush it back himself.
“Hi,” he said, unexpectedly breathless.
“Hello,” you murmured. You shifted awkwardly from foot to foot before saying, “Thank you for coming.”
“Don’t thank me,” Yunho shook his head, “I’d go anywhere you want me too.”
And your blush? He’d die happy if he got to keep looking at it.
“Shall we?” he pulled open the door, gesturing you through. Your scent sweetened at the action and made his beta preen in delight.
Yunho had been on dates with his mates before, in groups and individually. He still remembered his first date with Mingi - the alpha had punched his drink off the table while talking with his hands - and the first one with Jongho, the younger member had been so determined to win some dog plushie from a grab machine that he’d had to go to the cash machine to take more money out. He did win it in the end, and Tyudeongi had pride of place above his gaming set up.
But with you, he didn’t think anything too dramatic would happen. Yunho didn’t think you were a person who thrived on chaos and, frankly, that was a refreshing change. Maybe that was why you were fated to be with them, he wondered - a peaceful omega for their fiery pack.
“It’s pretty here,” you mused as you lowered yourself into a chair.
Yunho agreed. It was clear that Wooyoung knew what he was doing when he recommended this place. It was small but quiet, decorated with fake flowers in pastel colours hanging from the ceiling. Each table was placed behind a foldable divider, letting each customer feel like they were the lone visitors to this place.
Yunho had requested a table away from the window and it was only when the waitress stepped away to give them some time to decide on what to eat that Yunho took off his face mask.
He thought to say something cheesy like not as pretty as you but he didn’t want to push his luck.
Instead he said, “Wooyoung thought you’d like it here.”
A look of surprise flashed across your face. “He picked it for me?”
He watched you hesitate, bite down your bottom lip as indecision crossed your expression. Your scent, so sweet, soured and Yunho wanted to eat his words.
“You don’t have-” he started but you interrupted.
“No, it’s fine,” you assured, your smile twisting into something bittersweet, “It’s sweet. Really sweet. I’m...happy. No one has ever done that before.”
There was clearly someone behind that ‘no one’. They had figured out what much from what you’d told them before. They could only speculate on details, of course but what was absolutely certain was that you had some negative relationship experience, something that made you recoil away from any joy the connection between fated mates were supposed to find. Yunho tried not to dwell too much - to just remind himself that you’re here now, that your experiences have made you who you are, but still, his wolf snarled at the idea that there was something he couldn’t protect you from.
Instinctively, Yunho pumped out his scent - pine wood mixed with the vanilla they all had - to soothe your discomfort. “There will be more in the future,” he stated, “We want you to be happy with us. We want you to want to be with us.”
You looked startled, overwhelmed. If you’d already had your first touch, he would have reached across to grab your hand, thumb soothing over your pulse point, a subtle scenting. Instead, Yunho hoped you could read that all in this look and in his scent.
“No pressure, no timeline,” he said, “we just want you, however you want us.”
-
Yunho was a good choice, you thought.
Betas were always known to be the peacemakers - calmer than omega and alphas combined with an innate ability to put others at ease. Maybe it was just a biological stereotype, but the betas you’d met seemed calmer, less intense than alphas seemed to be. Yunho was, at least, soft even for the hard edges of his jawline. His eyes were wide and earnest; his smile almost sickening in its sweetness and each word he spoke seemed especially designed to make your omega whine bashfully.
You’d learnt a lot about him and the ATEEZ pack - how they’d found each other one by one, slowly built around their pack alpha and a promise of musical success; how they were ego driven teenagers with no real understanding of what it meant to be a pack and they nearly teared themselves apart at the seams at the beginning; how they had carved space for each other in every way possible.
“And,” he said honestly, “have already started making space for you.”
“Even though I still don’t know?” you pushed.
You were terrified of the answer, to be honest, but Yunho gave a small shrug. “Maybe we’re too hopeful,” he mused, “maybe it’ll hurt in the end, but I think that’ll be okay.”
“You want to be hurt?” you asked.
“Of course not,” Yunho shook his head, “but I’d hate to have never had the chance to know you, in whatever way you allow us too.”
“Are you sure I’m worth it?” you said it like a joke, even as the truth twisted within you.
He always made you feel like you weren’t. He always made you feel wrecked in your own clothes, made you question your words, made you distrust your feelings. In the hardest times, it was easy to hear his venomous words echoing around your head.
Yunho’s eyes flashed in a way that made you feel like he could hear them. “Everyone is worth it,” he sounded so sure, “but especially you. Our omega.”
The way that he said ‘our’ twisted around you in the best way. Your wolf panted and keened in delight. The tips of your ears burnt red but you ducked your head - to hide your smile or the tears gathering at the corner of your eyes, you weren’t sure.
If Yunho noticed, he didn’t comment on it. He merely held out his fork to you, smiled softly and told you, “try this. The pancakes are really good.”
You let him feed you as your heart lurched in embarrassment and affection. He smiled so fondly at you when you did and brightened even more, if that were possible, when you hummed your agreement.
It was strange, you thought, to not feel on edge under Yunho’s warm gaze. You still weren’t used to how calm you found yourself, how happy your omega seemed to be. When you did, negative thoughts would rise and spiral, just enough for you to start to feel that familiar nauseous feeling in the pit of your stomach. But then Yunho would ask something about you, genuine interest in his voice, and your thin voice would get more confident as you kept speaking.
It had been the same that one time you were altogether - the surrounding bodies and scents should have been enough to send you into a spiral but it didn’t. In fact, it was so easy to let yourself trust them.
A terrifying thought as much as it was a comforting one.
Maybe it was that idea that made you feel brave and had the words tumbling over your pancake crumbled lips. “Would you do this again?” you asked hurriedly, “with me?”
Yunho blinked once. “Without a question.”
You squirmed in your seat. “Would...the others?”
“If you want them too,” Yunho confirmed. “They’d honestly be excited for any time you want to spend with them.”
“I want to, I’m just...” you trailed off.
“Uncertain,” Yunho supplied.
“Scared,” you finished lamely.
For a moment, it looked like Yunho wanted to reach for you but he caught himself, hand splayed up on the table. “We’ll go at your pace,” he murmured, “whatever you need, we’ll try out best. Want to just meet for breakfast? That’s fine with us. Want to see us one at a time? That’s fine too. Just...keep telling us, ya know? We don’t want to overstep or make you uncomfortable.”
They don’t want you to run from them, you thought, not again.
You glanced around the restaurant for a moment. The waitress hadn’t approached you for a while, not since she brought your orders over. Beyond you, there were murmured voices of other customers but they seemed so far away. You and Yunho were practically alone and perhaps that, and his words, made you feel a rush of bravery.
Your hand shook as you reached for him, letting your fingers rest in the space just in front of his. Yunho’s eyebrows rose, lips parting in a sharp intake. Part of you expected him to move, to grasp at your hand desperately in his, but he didn’t. It was like he froze - he wasn’t even breathing, just watching you. Waiting.
One twitch and you’d touch skin on skin.
“You don’t...” Yunho’s voice broke. He stopped and licked his lips before continuing, “We don’t have to...”
“I know,” you whispered. Part of you wanted to rear across, to slip your fingers between his. His hands looked so much bigger compared to yours. They would dwarf you and your omega whined at the idea of being surrounded, held, protected.
You couldn’t say how long you sat like that, wondering what it would feel like but not quite touching. You wanted to, god you did, but it felt like so much, your anxiety making you second guess.
“Next time,” you vowed quietly, “I’m going to hold your hand.”
Yunho curled his fingers into his palm as he breathed out a laugh. “Next time, I’ll let you.”
⋆ ˚｡𖦹 SMUT 18+ MDNI, they’re mean like mean as hell, size kink like ‘tiny’ as a name take it however u want, like a few lines of daddy kink, mxm action but just kissing rly, threesome, wet n’ fuckin’ messy, no more spoilers that’s all u get
⋆ ˚｡𖦹 wc 7.7k
⋆ ˚｡𖦹 a/n this was a commission!! thank u to the lovely yestodayys cult member who let me run with her idea and well. create this! i had SO MUCH FUN and i'm glad u love it and now u all get to read it too <3
The bar has been refurbished since the last time you came here.
The overall layout is still generally the same; during your search for your friends, you’ve looked in the ladies’ room - still to the left of the bar, cramped, only two stalls, line way too long, though it isn’t the hospital powder pink it once was - and in the smoking area, thus far. The latter looks pretty much the same, although you admit they can’t really change that much; beneath your denim jacket, you’re still only wearing a minidress and boots and it’s fucking cold.
Escaping back inside seems the best idea. Realistically, if they’re not there or in the restroom or here, in the main room with the bar, you may as well just get over it. There’s no signal in this place for you to text them either - there never has been - and you don’t want to leave this early. You can still have a good night. You undoubtedly know some of the people here anyway - hell, maybe you’ll find a man.
It’s the overall vibe that’s changed more than anything else; you think they must be going for some sort of seventies concept now, while before it was largely unthemed. It seems to bring more customers like this - the place is packed full on a tacky illuminated dancefloor, no one dressed the part, though beneath the flashing lights and disco ball you can't really tell. It’s flashy, somewhat exciting; it’s why you decided to wear your vintage denim jacket, even if no one else was going to play along.
The drink you’ve been nursing is still over half full, so you bypass the bar and go straight to the dancefloor. The music doesn’t match the vibe either, but you’re not bothered, swaying in your spot to the random dance song they have playing and taking a generous gulp of the liquid to ease yourself in.
Okay, it definitely feels like a better time now. Perhaps the rebrand has had some effect. You move your hips, jacket falling down your bare shoulders before catching on the strap of your bag.
Lost in your own world, you almost miss it as you turn around to look amongst the crowd; but no, clear as day, tall and attractive enough to make your heart stop - two men, one in baggy clothes and an obnoxious fur coat and one in tighter, flared jeans, long sleeve tight across a toned, broad chest, sipping on their drinks, staring at you like a pint of water in the middle of a desert.
You see them after they see you. You’re not sure how long they’ve been looking at you, these two men, but god they’re fixated and it makes you stop too. They can’t look away, both of their gazes trailing down your body as you move and sway with your drink in your hand, and your breath catches in your throat - not that you’re complaining, though. They’re handsome, though you assume they came together and will be leaving together too, judging by the way they’re glued to each other’s sides.
The taller one seems to have more of a grip on the situation than the other man, but they’re both intimidating, domineering. He whispers something in the other man’s ear, long fingers brushing at his neck. Their eyes still don't leave you though, and the shorter’s plump lips break into a grin, leering, too satisfied for someone who hasn’t even spoken to you - let alone touched you. He must’ve said something he likes.
You can’t help yourself. You smile back, and he flicks a few dark blue strands out of his forehead, taking a sip of the liquid he’s got in his glass before he slams it down on the table decisively. He says something else to the other man, something you can’t even try to lip read because he turns his back to you. He gives him a cheeky smile, almost like he’s doing something wrong, and begins to push through the crowd on the dancefloor. You stand dead still.
You wonder about the situation between them. Clearly, they’re more than friends, and it seems like the taller is the one in control, but - what’s this? The shorter man is approaching you, his too-large brown fur coat seeming ridiculous in the heat of the bar, but you see as he gets closer that he’s got nothing but a waistcoat and baggy trousers underneath. He shoots a few amused looks back at the other man, who looks less than pleased at his misbehaving, but it doesn’t sway him - once he’s at you, he pulls you into him so your back is pressed against his front and whispers in your ear just loud enough for you to hear him.
“Wanna dance?”
Do you? Fuck yeah, you do - and with his partner too, if he’s up for grabs. For now though, you suppose one will have to do, because as you smile flirtatiously in response and the DJ changes the music to something else - something sultry, heavy, with a solid beat - the man starts to grind his hips so sensually you forget everything else. He’s good at this, angling you with a firm palm on the plush of your tummy, fingers wrapping in the fabric of your minidress so that your hips grind back against him.
The fur of his coat is expensive, you can tell just by feeling it when your hands go back to grip on his arms, and his teeth bite into his bottom lip when you grab at him.He lets you balance yourself with your hold, his own hand moving up to your chest, both of you moving in a sinuous movement that has you realising how good he’d be in bed if he dances like this.
Just before you forget, ring-clad knuckles come to the bottom of your chin and angle your head towards where you were previously looking. He’s still there, the other man, and this time he looks positively engrossed, arms folding over his chest - his eyes don’t leave the two of you, a smirk playing at his lips like he can’t quite believe it. It’s as if you’re performing for him, the two of you, nowhere near in control of the situation; you wonder what it is, this situation, and if it’ll end in you getting fucked by both of them.
The man next to you chuckles before fully humping into the curve of your ass, unashamed; the line of his cock presses against you, half hard, fat and steadily growing like you’re doing a lot more than just grinding on each other in a packed bar. You gasp, muffled by the music but he seems to have heard it despite the noise - he nudges his nose into your neck, impatient.
“We came together, me and him,” he says, tone casual though he has to shout a little to be heard. The words say everything despite being so few, but you don’t falter, hoping that you’re moving against him in a way that’s still inconspicuous enough to be passed off as a dance. “That okay?”
You shrug as casually as you can, skin starting to feel a little heated. This is the jackpot, you think. “I don’t mind taking two.”
“I bet you fuckin’ don’t.” He huffs out a laugh. “Don’t mind putting on a show either, do you? I’m Mingi, by the way.”
“Mm, hi Mingi,” you giggle, and Mingi shakes his head, disbelieving, a smile pulling at his lips. You can’t believe it either, quite frankly, how well the night’s turned out, and your head lolls back against his broad shoulder as you move, fur coat soft under your head, a grounding presence. The other man is still looking, and you find yourself drawn to his eyes, holding eye contact with him as you manage your next question, “what’s your boyfriend’s name?”
A hum, and then plump lips press a gentle kiss to your jaw. A shiver wracks through you, straight down your spine, and he does it again a few times just to watch the effect it has on you. “Yunho,” he breathes, “his name is Yunho. Shake this ass on me, let him see it.”
“He likes to watch, huh?” You say, as if you have any problem with it whatsoever. The song changes, a dance track with an even dirtier beat now and you do as he says - you’re shaking your hips to the rhythm before you can feel embarrassed about it, everyone around you too occupied with their own dancing or flirting.
“That’s a good fuckin’ girl,” he hums, hand moving from your front to your hips, fingers ghosting over the curve of your asscheeks where your hips get plusher and move into your thighs. Hands dig into flesh, and he groans, rutting against you once, twice, enough to have you squirming, starting to worry someone might notice. “Fuck, look at that. Shit, should we just take you back now? I wanna tear this ass apart.”
You can’t help it - you laugh again, hand coming to Mingi’s jaw to pull him forwards, his cheek pressed against yours. Yunho rolls his neck, tongue poking over his bottom lip before he’s placing his drink down and you think he’s made the decision for all three of you.
“And him?” You murmur.
Mingi’s nose brushes against your cheek. “He’ll tear you apart too. Might even be nastier than me.”
“I find that hard to believe.” His hips hit you just right, slow, to the beat, and you breathe heavily when he spins you around to face him like he’s going to kiss you. He’s pretty up close, sharp nose and dark blue hair and plump lips that form a predatory smile. “Fuck, Mingi, take me home.”
“Eager girl.” His head drops down, kissing you chastely square on the lips once, then twice. His lips are buttery soft and you chase them when he pulls away. He doesn’t care that you’re in public, so neither do you - you press yourself against him harder, arms wrapping around his shoulders. “We need to talk to Yunho.”
“No need.” Another voice, and another set of big, big hands that wrap around your waist and pull you back into him. You’re trapped between them now, because despite being unfamiliar with them you know who’s just gripped you and gotten involved. “She’s right, we should take her home. You’re an aching little thing, hm?”
Fingers dip up under the hem of your minidress where it hangs around your thighs, nails scratching against your skin, teasing. You’re not sure who it is this time, but the touch is so close to your panties that you whimper, the sound so broken that Yunho’s head dips into the other crook of your neck with a deep sigh, mirroring where Mingi continues to bite at you the other side. “P-please, I can’t take this anymore, I want you both, can we-”
“Fine,” Yunho breathes, exasperated, and a firm, guiding grip comes to rest on the back of your neck. “Let’s get you home, tiny.”
“On your knees.” A firm hand pushes on your shoulder, forcing you down before you can decide to obey; you drop to your knees in your pretty dress, your legs bare, their carpet scratching against your skin. Like this, they’re looming over you in a different way than before, and all you can see is long, long legs in baggy jeans and firm torsos heaving - they’re waiting, perceiving you, seeing if you’ll do anything else. Yunho’s the first to speak again, grin wide when he turns to his partner, “that’s it. She’s pretty like this, isn’t she? Quiet, so needy she’ll do anything, waiting for us to just say.”
“She’s beautiful,” Mingi says, fingers pulling your hair backwards to force you to look up at them properly. “Slutty, too.”
You whimper, squirming in his grip, though not enough to be told off for it. You wonder if they’re hard already, fat lengths trapped in the confines of their pants, but you don’t have long to think about it - Yunho’s long fingers start working at his belt, and before long the leather is pulled out from the prongs and his button is being pushed open.
It exposes his black boxers, and you realise you’re not even looking at him anymore. Fixated on his crotch, you wait, mouth open and spit pooling at your bottom lip like a drooling dog. They both sound amused, but they don’t make you wait, Yunho pushing down his boxers and revealing his tan shaft.
Thick, long and veiny, it springs against his stomach. It curves upwards, tip a darker shade and swollen, but not leaking just yet. The moan leaves your throat before you can help it. If Yunho’s is like this, you can’t imagine the other man - but fingers tighten in your hair and redirect you back before you can even turn to try and get a lot.
“Mm, no,” Yunho murmurs, and you look back up at him. He looks pleased by how enthralled you are, a smile pulling at his lips, and his hand comes down to slap his shaft against your cheek once, twice. You shiver. “You can show her yours too, Mingi, really get the slut going. She wants two at once, after all, don’t you?”
“I do, I want both.” You nod dumbly, pathetically; Mingi’s resulting groan is delighted, low in his throat. His tongue licks at his teeth as he works at his own belt, and his baggy jeans drop with a rustling noise at his ankles, unashamed. Yunho has tucked his boxers underneath his balls but Mingi’s less reserved, shunning his boxers as quick as he can as Yunho starts slowly stroking half of his shaft inches away from your face.
Fuck.
Mingi’s big too, a little shorter but thicker again and his tip is leaking like a fucking faucet. If he’d left his boxers on a little longer you’d have seen the drops beading upon the fabric but he’s too impatient for that, already stroking his cock quicker than Yunho, moving hip to hip with the other man.
“You want both?” He smacks his cock against your other cheek, laughing delightedly when you moan, nodding eagerly. “Open your mouth then, there’s a good whore.”
You blink, in a daze. “I- I can’t fit both-”
“Obviously,” Yunho scoffs. “Use your hand for the other. Are you stupid?”
Oh. Something must show on your face, a wordless reaction to his words because Yunho’s grin turns predatory then, and when he grips your hair now it’s harsher, firmer than his boyfriend had done. You scramble to say something to quell this harshness, stammering, “N-not stupid, I’ve just never…”
Yunho bursts out laughing. Your gut clenches and your pussy burns in your panties, so slick and needy that you try to rut down the floor, to no avail. “Never had two cocks at once? We all know that’s a fucking lie, baby. I think you need to stop talking.”
He’s forcing you down on his cock before you can retort.
You still try to splutter something out despite your lips being wrapped taut, barely fitting just half his length into your mouth though he tries to fuck past the resistance of your throat anyway. Your words die in your throat, replaced by a strangled whine; Mingi grabs your hand himself, impatient and wraps your fingers around his cock - putting you to use.
He’s wet from his precum already, soaked and sticky and veiny and it makes a slick noise when you start to move your fingers. It’s hard to concentrate on both but thankfully you don’t have to do much thinking; Yunho fucks himself into your mouth for you, skin salty with his own precum. Unable to do anything more than just be a ragdoll for them, you allow yourself to slump a little, mouth wrapped tight around one and hand around the other, hips just barely squirming where you’re sat. A noise leaves your throat when Yunho fucks into the resistance a few times, a deep groan leaving his own mouth.
“Tight fucking throat, hm? How tight is that cunt gonna be?”
Mingi groans, and his fingertips press at your cheeks, feeling the thickness of Yunho’s cock through your skin. He manages to move you over to him, and his shaft burns when it stretches your lips apart, thicker, wetter - you start to drool with tears biting at your eyes and he chuckles breathlessly at the sight of you.
“You like it mean, huh?” He doesn’t expect a response, voice gravelly as he starts to fuck your mouth. He’s sloppier than Yunho, a little more careless, and the strangled noise you make is embarrassing when he forces his cock all the way down. It hurts your throat but he presses your nose into the tuft of his pubes like he doesn’t really care, grinding his hips against your jaw, fingers pressing at your throat where he now bulges it instead.
When you manage to look up through a glassy gaze, you see them both together. Mingi captures Yunho’s lips with his own, one hand leaving you to cup the other man’s jaw, their tongues intertwining messily between spit-slick lips. They both groan, deep and from their chests like they’ve been waiting for this all night - your whine is louder though, nails scratching at their thighs because you’ve wanted to see it since you saw them together on the dancefloor. It forces saliva to bubble down your occupied lips, dripping over your chin and down to your throat, over Mingi’s rings.
If they’re amused by your reaction, they don’t separate for long enough to show it. Yunho tugs you to him again without even glancing your way, long fingers in your hair, and this time you’re able to get a momentum. Your mouth sinks down on him before he has time to force you there, your other hand coming to grasp Mingi’s slippery length, the saliva giving more than enough lubricant when you start to pump.
Like this - not being yanked around - you’re able to focus, and you can’t help the noises that spill from your chest; your pussy is wet, drooling and dumb already, and they continue to make out above your head like it’s nothing that should affect you. Your gut burns, wrenching with need and want and something embarrassing because all you’ve done is suck their cocks and you’re this desperate, but it doesn’t stop you trying to get their attention.
Tongue digging into the underside of Yunho’s tip, you pool spit into your mouth and it bubbles over your lips messily, letting you sink back down on him with a wetter, tighter suction. He’s still too big to take too much comfortably but you force your mouth down, jaw be damned, hand occupied with another cock that you think you’re doing a decent rhythm with, and on the upwards stroke you press your tongue into his piss slit and suck hard.
It works. You hear the sharp inhale of breath, and he pulls away sharply from Mingi, lips parting in a louder noise just as the blue haired man moves to messily press open-mouthed kisses against his neck. He doesn’t stop him, one hand going to his head to hold him there.
“Dirty girl, knew you had it in you,” he murmurs, before his jaw goes slack in a groan, head rolling back where Mingi kisses him. Your hand has paused on the other man but if he’s annoyed, he doesn’t show it, shaft bobbing uselessly as he bites at the curvature of Yunho’s neck with his eyes on you, where you’re kneeling below them. “Bet she’s all gooey down there from sucking cock, too. Little hole clenching around nothing, slicking up her thighs, clit all swollen and hard.”
Mingi grunts, a primal noise. “Can’t wait to look. Taste it, too. I know it’s fuckin’ pretty, all soaked and tight and- ah, fuck this, I gotta-”
Two hands underneath your armpits, and you’re thrown chest first onto the comfortable bed by a very strong grip. You have enough space left in your brain for the moment to present yourself, pushing up onto your knees and letting your front lay flat to curve your spine - Mingi groans in appreciation, wasting no time before he’s pulling your dress up to your waist and your panties down to your knees.
The cold air hits your cunt and you moan, trying to turn your head to the side to have a look at what he’s about to do to you before someone - you’re unsure who - pins it right back down, flat, suffocating.
“Let me have a look,” Mingi coos, and two thumbs come to pull your sticky folds apart. You’re soaked, you can feel it - it’s smeared up to your asshole from how you’ve pooled in your panties, and though you hope he hasn’t noticed it, hasn’t gotten any ideas, a deeper part of you hopes he ignores your pussy and eats that hole instead. “She’s so fuckin’ messy. Fat little cunt too. When did you start leaking like a virgin, baby? When you were on your knees in front of our cocks, us stood above you like we fuckin’ own you?”
You can’t reply - again, you don’t think he wants you to. Is he even talking to you, or is he talking to her?
It was Yunho that pushed you down, you realise, because it’s the same second pair of hands that slide the straps of your dress down over your shoulders. Nudging the fabric down so that it all bunches at your waist, he scratches his fingernails over your spine on the way down, leaving you bare but feeling quite like something animalistic.
“Mm, actually…” A nose nudges at your core and then a tongue, fat and steady, is sliding through your folds and humming when he tastes your arousal, smacking his lips messily like he’s eating a good meal. “You’ve been wet even longer, haven’t you? Since we danced in the bar. Oh, that’s something. How pent up are you, sweetheart?”
You whine. There’s no way he could know that, not really, and you know he’s just teasing you but he’s right - you were.
He continues, wet tongue moving to lick circles over your clit as he slurs. “Can’t blame you, ‘m desperate for this too.”
“Stop talking and eat.” Yunho sounds amused. “Poor thing looks like she’s gonna die if she doesn’t get something.”
At least it makes Mingi move, his lips smacking wet over your pussy before his tongue slides through the plush of your folds. The bridge of his nose is sharp when it bumps into your perineum, his tongue tracing your hole before it pushes inside and he savours your arousal from the inside with a deep, gravelly moan, something that ricochets through you and makes you finally beg.
“Yuyu,” You sound broken, too needy to think, and you feel it too - your head spins and you know you haven’t done well verbalising it but Yunho somehow knows what you need, sliding two long fingers past your lips for you to suck on. It doesn’t help, Mingi’s plush lips kissing down to your clit and making a home there, tongue darting underneath the hood to rub over you so intimately that you would never be able to stop the way you buck. Your hips fuck back onto his face but his strong forearm hooks around your tummy to keep you steady, your eyebrows furrowing in a subdued keen.
Yunho smiles, fucking his fingers into your mouth, watching the way you suck earnestly like it’s a cock - can you even tell the difference right now? It’s like you can see the wonder on his face before he speaks, cock half hard against his thigh, “Do you need something inside, honey?”
Your resulting noise is loud, deep from your chest - you’d forgotten that was an option with the way his boyfriend’s lips are working over you, but before you can beg properly the man grunts, lips leaving you for a moment.
“I’m gettin’ her ready for you, babe. She can wait.”
“Mm.” Yunho raises an eyebrow, confused, although his fingers leave your lips and brush over the base of his tummy almost instantly. “You don’t wanna go first? You were desperate a second ago-”
“Are you kidding me?” Mingi grins, all teeth that nip into your thigh as an afterthought, making you squeak. He ignores you, continuing like you can’t hear him, “a pussy like this is even better when it’s been nutted in already. I love me some sloppy seconds.”
Before you can raise any kind of objection to being talked about like that, right over you while he’s between your legs, Mingi’s tongue dives back between your folds. He licks up your arousal and drools onto your heat, pushing further up, where his hands spread your cheeks and expose the smaller hole, the one that makes your face flush and gut wrench in embarrassment.
“Bet you’d let us fuck this too,” he grumbles, and you nod, squirming in your place, as much as you can with the way his boyfriend’s pushing you down. “How fucking filthy. You just met us and you’d already let us fuck your asshole open. God, you’re amazing, might be fuckin’ made for us.”
Something bubbles in your gut, something so needy that you can’t help the garbled wail you let out. It’s incoherent at first, but Yunho lets your head move just enough to verbalise what you need to, “Want you both, anything, please, please, give me cock-”
“Give me cock,” Yunho giggles, shaking his head in disbelief. “What a bimbo. Fine, I’ll give you cock, honey. Mingi, lemme move her.”
Mingi obeys instantly, pulling away from your slick cunt and thighs, letting you be manhandled again by the taller man onto your side. You know this one, deep in your lust-muddled brain, and you let one leg slide forward to display your core as he slides behind you, chest to your back. He’s fully naked now - you’re not sure when this happened - and the palm he smooths your hair down with grounds you a little, other hand moving secure on your tummy.
“Y’want it?” He murmurs, and you see Mingi moving next to you, naked, muscled, distracting - your mouth waters. His eyes move down your body, over your flushed cheeks, teary eyes and down to your nipples, the curve of your tummy and the swell of your thighs; his hand moves to his cock, and you see his gaze move down Yunho, too, before he finally grips the base and starts to move up the vast length. Yunho’s fingers tighten in your hair a little, bringing your attention back to him. “Don’t get distracted, tiny. Talk to me. Do you want it?”
He moves his cock to the mess between your legs, pushing through arousal to get to your folds and at the resistance of your hole. The weight of it makes you gasp wetly, but he doesn’t let you squirm away when you try, only pulling you back into it.
“S-So big, Yunho, I want it, please.”
“There you go, good little slut,” He coos, satisfied, and pushes just the first inch in. Your hole clenches tight from the stretch, almost pushing him back out and he groans, using his grip on your thigh to pull you back onto it. “Let me in, baby.”
“C-Can’t help it, ah-“
Something shifts in him then, and the next thrust of his cock is stronger, meaner, something that makes your walls give way to more of him, accompanied by a sharp bite to your neck. It hurts a little but it feels so good; your eyes roll back in your head with a keen, and Mingi huffs out a breath.
“Oh, little bitch is so fuckin’ tight,” he moans, one palm coming to push your leg upwards, against your side, trying to open you up further. It doesn’t help - he’s just far too big, your pussy tightening in protest despite how bad you fucking want it. “Do I have to split your hole open to get inside? Funny, ‘cause it’s fucking drooling around me like it can’t get enough.”
One of his hands comes to rest on your breast, idle but firm, and his thumb swipes over your nipple just to make you gasp. You try to fuck yourself downwards but he really is too big, cockhead already hitting your cervix and it knocks the wind out of you. Mingi’s hand tightens on an upwards stroke of his shaft and he smiles, amused, eyes flicking between you and his boyfriend.
“Let him in, sweetheart. He’ll make it hurt.”
You try your best; squirming and whining in Yunho’s hold you manage to slack your gummy walls enough for him to push more of his cock inside but it makes you squeal, too much all of a sudden, and his fingers move from your chest to your clit. His nails dig into it and you gasp, writhing away before his grip pulls your back to his chest again.
“What the fuck is this for if I can’t fuck it? Useless little cunt otherwise, hm? Maybe I should just pull out, leave you-”
“No, nonono, please, Yunho,” You babble, moving around enough that it forces more of his length in. This time he seems to push past something that allows him to sink in balls deep, and it’s so far inside, pressing at your cervix and you think you might cum already.
Yunho huffs, placated now that you’ve let him in, yanking you backwards by your ass, letting the plumpness of it rock him into a bounce. It works, and he starts to fuck you steady, slow at first, letting you get used to it - his knuckles graze at your nipple before he pinches meanly, a breathless, chuckle of pleasure leaving him at your jolt.
“Fu-uck, ‘s so- need more, more, please-”
“More?” He asks, like he didn’t know, and you nod dumbly. You’re shocked by Mingi responding, not Yunho; walking on his knees towards you, his fingers come to your clit and roll it between his fingertips. It’s too much all of a sudden, and Yunho starts to speed up, his long, ridged shaft cutting into your gummy walls. Mingi’s ministrations make your pussy easier, more slack, and Yunho’s able to fuck quicker, cock not prohibited by how tight you’re squeezing around him. “That’s it. There you go, Min, cocksleeve’s gushing like a little whore now.”
“Mm, can feel it,” The man in question murmurs, eyes fixated on you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen. Your eyebrows knit in pleasure, lips parting in a squeal when his thumb rubs over your bud firmly, and this time you feel it, the slick, sticky gush of your pussy with every thrust. It leaks over Mingi’s fingers and further down, to your thighs, Yunho’s balls and his own lithe legs.
You feel dumb with it all, and you’re not even halfway through taking one.
“Feels nice like that, doesn’t it?” Yunho sounds unaffected, and you whimper, nodding, “I can tell. Dirty cunt gushing like that, I’d swear you came already.”
Mingi leans down on the bed, distracting you momentarily before there’s something wet pressing at your clit. It’s his tongue, you realise, and you can’t control the hand that goes to that dark blue hair - he moans at the feeling of your fingers tightening, tugging, and you force his mouth closer, wet lips mouthing over your pussy until he hits Yunho’s cock.
Mingi’s tongue moves over you again, licking over the intrusion of his boyfriend inside of you. It doesn’t stop his movement, his cock still pistoning in and out while you’re forced to take, take, take, and when the shorter man’s lips purse and suck on your bud you writhe away, pleasure all-consuming.
Your orgasm hits you hard, beginning in the base of your tummy and making your thighs shake. One hand holds Mingi steady, and the other moves to Yunho’s side, anchoring you through it, but your pussy clenches dumbly in a rhythm that makes the man inside grunt and bite your neck sharply. Your own noises are abused, loud and too incriminating, but neither men make a move to quiet you.
“Ride it out, c’mon,” Yunho says, voice hoarse, and you find it in your static body to fuck yourself on both men while your legs lock and your toes curl. “Good girl. There you go, that’s it.”
It helps, quelling the strong climax into something steadier, nicer, and Mingi’s tongue flicks over your clit just enough for you to come down from it.
The kiss the older man gives you is controlled, a little awkward from the angle but it tells you everything you need to know. You’re safe, you’re looked after and it’s exactly what you need after an orgasm that strong - his nose bumps your cheek when he kisses you deeper, giving you a few pecks as he pulls away; it makes you want more, but he’s already moving.
You realise too late that Yunho still hasn’t finished, and he pushes you onto your front, leg still slightly raised from the way he had you. His hips hit your ass as he bottoms out again, and you gasp - it’s so deep, so much that you want him to cum soon, hope he’ll cum soon and fill you up, and you remember you have another one to take after this. The realisation makes your pussy clench as he fucks inside and he lets out a stuttered breath against your shoulder, bumpy nose nudging at your jaw.
“You’re okay,” He soothes you, and you nod, whimper soft. “I’m gonna cum soon, baby. Gonna make you take it, ‘kay? Then Mingi’s gonna fuck it back into you.”
“Y-yeah,” you nod, and when Yunho starts to thrust again, punishing, Mingi seals your lips with his and swallows your noises. He kisses messy, teeth nipping at your bottom lip and he lets you suck on his tongue when you need something in your mouth again, not minding at all that your hands scramble at his broad shoulders for purchase.
You feel Yunho pull backwards, hands on the small of your back to hold you down, and it’s the sight of you and his boyfriend kissing that does him in. He gasps, letting out a shaky breath as he presses his hips tight to the plush of your ass, cockhead fucked so deep that it makes you try to squirm away again; Mingi keeps you still, giving you dirty, open-mouthed kisses and licking over your teeth.
Between your legs, you feel thoroughly used - when Yunho pulls out, cock softening a little, your pussy gushes fresh cum and as if it’s his queue, Mingi’s already moving over.
Yunho slaps your ass as he moves away from you, “Atta girl. She’s ready for you, Min.”
Fingers prod at your swollen hole, messy, creamy rivulets slicking down to Mingi’s rings as he spreads it open and inspects. If you had anything left in you, you’d feel embarrassed at the way he’s looking at you so intimately but well, he’s already done it once and you’re still horny. You shift back on the bed and chase his touch when he moves away, although you don’t have long to be disappointed because the feeling of a blunt cockhead against you makes you push your hips up, front going slack again.
“Look at that. Dumb slut knows how to present for a cock,” Mingi chuckles, although there’s no real bite to his words - his breath is shaky as he shuffles towards you, and seconds later there’s inches of fat cock spearing you open because he can’t wait himself at this point.
“O-oh,” You stutter, head raising and knocking back. You see Yunho, in front of you now, face so close to yours but it’s comforting rather than threatening. “Fuck, it’s-”
“Ssh, just feel it,” Yunho murmurs, stroking your cheek with one, big hand, and your eyes roll back into your head when he starts to thrust. His movements are deep and slow at first, letting you feel all of it, every vein and ridge and you swear you feel him leaking inside, too, when he pushes deep and pulls you flush against him like he isn’t fucking your pussy open in front of his boyfriend.
Mingi whines, sharp, “Tiny little pussy, so small, fuck-” his fingers hook around your shoulders, pulling you back onto him, “how are you still so fucking tight?” Your own hands scramble in the sheets until your fingers hook into them for leverage, and you writhe, moaning so viscerally that Yunho pets your hair to calm you down. Mingi’s thicker than him so despite taking the older man first, the stretch of your hole to accommodate him has your eyes watering, his hips stuttering into the creamy mess of a hole that his boyfriend left. “Can I- fuck, I can’t, I can’t, can’t play anymore-“
“Mingi,” Yunho warns, but it’s softened by the grin curling his lips, fond.
“Can’t, fuck, baby, I love your pussy,” Mingi babbles, and his hands move to your asscheeks, spreading them further, watching where his cock disappears into you. It’s slick when he starts to move, a creamy ring around the base of his cock, wet plaps echoing around the bedroom when his balls begin to hit your clit steadily. “Love- love it, love it everytime- I love you.”
Something dawns on you. You’re not playing anymore, not really, not the elaborate scene Yunho came up with late at night before you headed out to the bar you three met at - and your back bows towards the bed, curling away from your boyfriends,
“Mmgh- I love you too,” You whimper, scrambling on the sheets for your third, your other boy. Fingers intertwine with yours immediately and he kisses your hairline, your nose, your lips; you cry out, head lolling against his. “Yunho- Yuyu, Yuyu, love you-“
“I love both of you, although you’re both fucking pathetic,” Yunho laughs, smoothing your hair. “Can’t even roleplay properly. Both of you cry like virgins as soon as I let him get inside of you.”
Mingi’s head drops to your shoulder, his weight pinning you down when he collapses atop of you. You’re separated from Yunho but you don’t mind at all when he starts to drill you properly - this is his favourite position, after all, it didn’t matter if it was you or Yunho underneath him.
His hips don’t stop moving, pistoning into your cunt where you’re flat on the bed, his lips parting in a deep groan, “Pussy’s too good to think. Sorry, Yunho, p-promise it was hot.”
He’s not sorry at all, you all know that. Yunho scoffs. “I know it was. You two acting like sluts on that fuckin’ dancefloor, just like you were all those years ago. Hard, leaking, wet in your pants looking at me. I could see how horny you were.”
“Mmhm,” Mingi nods, delirious. You’re not able to respond, chest clenching in pathetic wails every time he pushes deep, fucking the noises out of you, and his hand moves to your back, soothing over your spine until he slaps your ass hard just for the sake of it. “G-Good little toy, that’s right, don’t have to speak, just take it. Good girl.”
He’s babbling again, nonsensical, praises and degradation into one - he’s always the same, and it always makes you gush easy for him. Yunho slides your hair out of your face, exposing flushed cheeks and spit slick lips, your eyes crossed with pleasure. The sight of you makes them both groan, and the older man plants a gentle slap on your cheek, gripping your jaw when you gasp.
“Fucked dumb,” He muses. “How pretty. Why don’t you cry a little for him, hm? You know he loves that.”
“It’s so much,” you manage, and he nods, cooing at you. It’s that which finally breaks you, and your chest bubbles with a sob, ripped harshly from you. “‘S so much, I can’t- can’t take it, daddy, please!”
They laugh at you again, you hear them, though Mingi’s is a lot more in awe than the other man’s.
“Who’s your daddy, baby?” Yunho’s asking you, and it’s something he asks you often but it feels like you’re trying to move across clouds to respond to him. Everything’s so soft, comforting but your pussy continues to get rammed, overwhelmed, and you squeal, legs knocking together when you feel his thrusts start to get harsher but staggered.
“B-both of you.” You slur. “Both- daddy, fill me up too-”
It ignites something in Mingi - he pulls out, gripping himself at the creamy base and flipping you over by your waist again. You’re on your back now, able to see them both, your boys; Yunho has that cheeky glint in his eyes that you love, looming over you with a half-hard cock and tousled, boyish hair - if you didn’t know him, you would trust him.
Mingi distracts you, crowding into your space with furrowed eyebrows, thick thighs knocking your legs apart again before he sinks back inside. Yunho laughs at his impatience, hand smoothing over the younger man’s back as he starts to fuck you again and you know he’s really gonna cum now, moving so fast and hard that you both get knocked up the mattress a little.
You keen, “Fucking- oh, oh, that’s-“
“Language,” Yunho’s hand moves and pinches your thigh, and you wince, legs locking around Mingi. He pins you back down and then moves his focus to your clit, rolling it between his fingers; it’s so wet that it feels too good too quickly. “Gonna cum, aren’t you, baby?”
Your eyes roll back into your head when his fingers move over you instead, firmer, rubbing circles that make you heave, trying to catch your breath. Unable to answer him again, he hums, displeased.
That’s right, you almost forgot. He lets you get away with some things earlier but you don’t act like that around him, not really, only when you’re pretending like you don’t know them. Now, you know them, and there are rules - that also means you beg to cum, and you thank whatever higher powers there be because you remember before you fall off the edge.
“Please,” You struggle, nails scratching at both of them again, their arms this time, “please, please let me cum. Daddy, daddy, please-“
Mingi growls, fixated, “I’m gonna fuckin’ cum, you better cum with me, tiny.”
“There you go, honey. Your daddy said you can,” Yunho says, almost too sweet for you to believe but no, they did say that, and you’re squealing from it before they can take it back.
You gush again, fluttering and writhing where you lay and halfway through it, Mingi nudges the dark haired man’s head to press his cheek against yours at an angle and kisses you both.
Barely knowing what to do in your haze, they hold you still, tongues both messily sliding over yours, over each other - the man inside of you whimpers, thrusting harshly one last time, gasping against your mouths before he fills you with a fresh wave of cum. His cock throbs with it, pumping into you and when he can’t take it anymore he collapses, head on your chest, full weight a little overwhelming.
Yunho kisses you a few times, fingertips moving to rub soft circles into your shoulders, your upper arms, before moving across your boyfriend’s scalp, massaging him too. He moans gratefully, exhausted, and you feel the same - your limbs are stiff and you groan when Mingi finally rolls off, slumping next to you in the wet sheets.
“I’ll just be cleaning you up, honey.” Yunho’s voice is gentler, and you hum, a smile creeping on your face - there he is, always in control. Mingi mumbles something that you don’t quite catch, arm hooking around your tummy, but your boyfriend hears him, chuckling, “That was referring to you, too.”
You want to laugh. “Don’t tell me he was trying to move.”
Yunho shifts closer, wet towel suddenly soft against your skin, and when you finally open your eyes he’s there, still naked, cock soft against his thigh and you wonder if he came again, sometime during it all. “Like I said, both of you fuck like virgins. Dead afterwards. Perished, even.”
You can’t argue. You’re not planning on moving any time soon; although the sheets are ruined, you’re exhausted after all that. The boys’ roleplay ideas are always crazy but well, there’s some that get a bit out of hand, like recreating the night you all met.
For the second time, Mingi grumbles nonsensically next to you. Yunho kisses the mole on the younger man’s cheek before kissing your hairline again.
“Speaking of perished,” He murmurs, eyes shifting down to you playfully, putting on a dramatic voice, “I still think the next scene should be me, as Spider-Man, saving you and Min from possible perish-“
“Enough,” You grumble, kicking him softly with your foot. “Go to sleep.”
His laugh is so loud it makes Mingi kick him too, half-asleep, but then he really does settle, towel discarded on the floor. As if he was waiting for his presence to drop off properly, the younger man squirms closer on the mattress and reaches over you to tug Yunho in, pulling you into a pile, legs intertwined and a little sticky. It’s soothing though, naked and cuddling with your men, and Mingi starts to snore almost instantly.
The man plastered to your back sighs, though you know he’s not really bothered. “Sleep? With that?”
You huff, “Then just talk to me, duh.”
“Duh. You can actually just watch me play video games, if you want. Remember, my new monitor came yesterday, it’s curved and sexy and it’ll show you everything in-“
You fall asleep before he’s anywhere near finished.
“Tell me again. Tell me you want another man’s hands on you after what we did.”
Three months ago, you and your best friend called it a mistake and buried it under silence. Tonight, one stranger gets too close and Mingi finally says the part you’ve both been choking on. Now the only question is whether you can survive the version of Mingi that’s done waiting.
Genre: smut with plot, angst-ish(?)
Trigger Warnings: (spoilers ahead) alcohol use, arguments, anger, manipulation, guilt-tripping, explicit language, jealousy and possessiveness, physical violence, sexual explicit content (mdni) , rough/nasty sex, hard/mean dom! mingi, degradation, humiliation, name-calling (slut), breath play, hand on throat (not fully choking), biting, marking, hair pulling, semi-public sex/risk of being caught (car, taxi, elevator), unsafe sex, manhandling, big dick mingi, p in v, oral sex (m! receiving), throat fucking, a lot of cum (everywhere), cream pie, cum eating, multiple orgasms, dacryphilia, face slapping, spanking, breasts play, breeding kink-ish, masturbation, squirting
WC: 19.6k
Mon’s Note: for my darling @minkieater!! thank you for trusting me with this request and for pushing me to write mingi in a way i don’t usually do. i must say it was a challenge but nonetheless i enjoyed it a lot! hopefully it turned out the way you imagined, sweetheart 🫶🏻 have fun with it!!
The bass rattled through your molars, a rhythmic thud that drowned out the pulse in your own neck. The air in the middle of the floor was a soup of expensive cologne, salt-slicked skin, and the heavy scent of smoke. Behind you, the guy you’d been grinding against for the last three songs shifted his weight, his palms damp where they gripped the curve of your waist. He was a good dancer but the friction was starting to feel less like a release and more like a chore. You peeled his hands away with a practiced, apologetic tilt of your head, the neon blue light catching the sweat on your collarbone. He said something, but the words were swallowed by a remix of a track you didn’t recognise. You just pointed toward the booths, offering a non-committal wave before weaving through the thicket of bodies.
Mingi was exactly where you’d left him, though the rest of the group had long since scattered into the chaos. He was leaning against the high mahogany table. The new blonde of his hair was tucked haphazardly behind his ears, the strands glowing every time the strobe swept past. He wasn’t looking at the crowd. He wasn’t looking at his phone.
He was looking at you.
His chocolate eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide enough to swallow the iris, tracking your progress across the floor with a heavy, unblinking focus. He didn’t look like he was having fun. He looked like he was vibrating at a frequency that might shatter the glass in his hand.
“You look like you’re at a funeral,” you hiked your voice to reach him, sliding into the narrow gap between his body and the table. The heat radiating off him was different from the dance floor—dryer, more concentrated. Mingi didn’t move back to give you space. He stayed still, his height forcing you to crane your neck, his shadow swallowing you whole.
“Do I?” His voice was a low rumble that you felt in your chest more than you heard in your ears. He didn’t smile. He just watched the way your chest rose and fell with your heavy breathing.
“Yeah. Serious. Grumpy.” You reached out, your fingers brushing against the cold, condensation-slicked glass of the beer bottle he was white-knuckling. “You’re bringing the vibe down, Min. You need to get laid or get drunk. Preferably both.” You didn’t wait for an invitation. You wrapped your hand over his—your skin stinging at the contact of his frozen knuckles—and tilted the beer bottle toward your mouth. You took a long, stinging swallow, the bitter amber liquid cutting through the coat of sugar on your tongue from the cocktails earlier. When you pulled away, a stray drop of foam lingered on your lower lip. You didn’t miss the way Mingi’s gaze dropped to it, his jaw muscle jumping as he ground his teeth together.
“That’s mine,” he muttered.
“Everything of yours is mine,” you countered, leaning your hip into his thigh to steady yourself as a group of drunks stumbled past. “Since when do we care about germs? We’ve shared everything.”
Mingi let out a sharp, jagged breath through his nose. He took the bottle back, but he didn’t drink. He just held it, his thumb stroking the neck of the glass in a rhythmic motion. “The guy,” Mingi said, his voice dropping an octave, rasping against the music. “He had his hands all over you.”
“That’s usually how dancing works,” you teased, reaching up to flick a stray blonde hair away from his forehead. Your fingers lingered for a second too long against his skin—he was burning up, a stark contrast to the ice-cold beer. “He was fine. Boring, but fine.”
Mingi leaned down, his face inches from yours. The smell of him suddenly outweighed the scent of the club. His eyes searched yours, intense and frantic. “You’re sweat-soaked,” he noted, his free hand came up, not to touch you, but to hover just an inch from your waist, the heat of his palm seeping through your clothes. “You should sit down. Get some air.”
“I don’t want air,” you said, feeling a strange, tight coil of tension pull in your gut. You reached out, grabbing the material of his shirt to pull him a fraction closer. “I want you to stop acting like a bodyguard and start acting like my best friend. Drink. Dance. Find a girl. I’ll even vet her for you.”
Mingi’s hand finally closed the distance, his fingers splaying wide over the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. The movement was sudden, knocking the breath right out of your lungs. “I don’t want a girl,” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear as he lowered his head.
You leaned back just enough to catch the dark, honeyed shift of his eyes, the sticky heat of the club rushing into the inch of space between your chests. You let out a huff of a laugh, your hand still at his shoulder for balance while the floor tilted slightly under your shoes. “You better change your mind then,” you teased, your voice bright and irreverent over the thumping music. You didn’t lower your volume; the crudeness felt natural between you, a byproduct of years of shared secrets and unfiltered bullshit. “Your dick needs a good sucking, Min. You’re wound so tight I can practically hear your gears grinding from here. Go find a victim.” You flashed him a grin—the one that usually got him to stop brooding—and reached for the beer again, taking another long, unhurried swallow. The cold liquid slid down your throat, a sharp contrast to the humid air pressing against your skin.
Mingi didn’t laugh. He didn’t even crack a self-deprecating smirk. Instead, his fingers, still splayed across the small of your back, twitched. The fabric of your dress bunched under his palm as his grip tightened, drawing you a fraction closer until your thighs brushed his. He was tracking the way your throat moved as you swallowed, his jaw locked in a hard, protruding line. “Is that what you think?”
“I know it is,” you patted his chest, the muscle beneath his shirt felt like carved stone. “I’ve seen you when you’re stressed. You’re a menace. Go. I’ll be fine. I might even go find that guy again—he had a nice rhythm.”
Mingi’s jaw tightened so hard you heard the faint click of his teeth over the sub-bass. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. He just stared at you, then, without a word, he tilted his head back. You watched the column of his throat work as he downed the rest of the beer in several heavy, aggressive gulps. The glass rattled against his teeth. When he pulled the bottle away, a single trail of amber liquid escaped the corner of his mouth, glistening in the strobe light before he wiped it away with the back of a shaking hand.
“Okay,” he said. The word was clipped, stripped of any warmth. It wasn’t the voice of the best friend; it was the voice of a man who had reached a very specific, very dangerous limit. He set the empty bottle on the table with a sharp clack and turned away. He didn’t look back. Not once. He didn’t check to see if you were following, didn’t offer a “see you later,” didn’t even spare you a final glance. He simply melted into the shifting sea of limbs on the dance floor, his blonde head bobbing through the neon haze like a signal fire being swallowed by the dark.
You blinked, the sudden absence of his heat leaving a strange, chilly vacuum against your front. “Well,” you muttered to yourself, the word lost to a sudden surge in the music’s volume. “Ask and you shall receive, I guess.” You shifted your weight, the floor sticky beneath your boots. You’d gotten what you wanted—Mingi was finally out there, hopefully looking for someone to help him sweat out that foul mood—but the air felt thinner without him hovering over you. You shook the feeling off, rolling your shoulders to loosen the tension that had settled there.
Time to find Mr. Rhythm.
You scanned the crowd, squinting against the blinding flashes of violet and white. The club was a kaleidoscope of blurred faces and grinding hips. You spotted the VIP section, where a group was spraying champagne, the fine mist catching the light like diamonds. You looked toward the bar, then back toward the floor where you’d been earlier. There. About twenty feet away, near the speakers, you caught the back of a familiar head—the guy from before. He was already back at it, his hands on the hips of a girl in a red dress, moving with that same fluid, easy confidence.
You felt a sharp, unexpected prick of annoyance in your chest. That was fast.
You turned your head, searching for Mingi instead. You found him almost instantly. He wasn’t hard to miss. He was standing near the edge of the floor, and he wasn’t alone. A girl with long, dark hair had already gravitated toward him, her hand resting brazenly on his bicep as she shouted something into his ear. Mingi was leaning down, his ear inches from her lips, his expression unreadable. From this distance, he looked like a different person.
You stood there for a moment, glued to the edge of the mahogany table, your fingers tracing the ring of condensation Mingi had left behind.
You couldn’t take your eyes off him. His hair was catching every flicker of the neon lights. The girl with the dark hair was closer now, her fingers hooked into the belt loop of his jeans, pulling herself into the narrow orbit of his space. Mingi didn’t push her away. He didn’t lean in, either. He just stood there, tall and terrifyingly still, his head tilted back as he looked down at her with an expression that was cold, and entirely unrecognisable. It felt like watching a stranger wear your best friend’s skin. The knot in your stomach tightened, a dull ache that had nothing to do with the alcohol you had.
“You look like you’re waiting for a crash.” The voice was slick, cutting through the electronic roar of the track. You turned your head, blinking against a sudden burst of violet light. A man was standing beside you, leaning one elbow on the table. He was older than the guy you’d been dancing with, wearing a crisp black button-down and a heavy silver signet ring on his pinky. He held two glasses—crystal tumblers filled with an amber liquid and a single, oversized cube of ice.
“I’m just watching the show,” you said, your voice raspy from the smoke and the shouting.
“That tall, blonde guy?” The stranger followed your gaze, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t wait for an answer before sliding one of the tumblers across the wood toward you. “He looks like he’s trying to set the room on fire. You look like you’re wondering if you should call the fire department.”
You looked at the drink. “I don’t take drinks from people I don’t know,” you said, though your hand moved toward the glass of its own accord. Your throat felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper.
“I’m Seongmin,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone that didn’t need to strain against the music. He took a sip of his own drink, his eyes never leaving yours. “Now you know me. Drink it. It’s better than that bottom-shelf lager the blonde guy was chugging.”
You reached out, your fingers brushing his as you took the glass. The condensation was biting, a shock of cold against your palm. You took a sip—it was a peaty, expensive Scotch that burned all the way down, lighting a small fire in your belly.
“Better?” he asked, stepping a fraction closer. He smelled of peppermint gum and expensive leather.
“Stronger,” you countered.
Seongmin leaned in, “Strong is what you look like you need,” he reached out, his movements fluid and deliberate, and tucked a damp lock of hair behind your ear. His fingertips were warm—dry and steady—lingering against the sensitive skin of your temple. “Relax.”
“I am relaxed,” you lied.
“Your shoulders are up to your ears.” He let his hand slide down, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw before his palm settled heavily on the nape of your neck. It was a grounding weight, firm enough to make you still. “There. Better.”
Across the room, the violet strobe cut through the dark, illuminating Mingi. He wasn’t paying attention to the girl grinding on him anymore. He was looking straight at you. Even from twenty feet away, the intensity of his stare felt like a physical shove.
Seongmin noticed. He didn’t turn around to look, but his eyes narrowed as they tracked yours. A slow, predatory smile pulled at his mouth. “He’s very protective, isn’t he? Your... friend.”
“He’s just moody,” you snapped, turning your back on the dance floor to face Seongmin fully. The movement brought you deep into his space, the scent of leather and peppermint thickening. “He needs to mind his own business.”
“I agree.” Seongmin’s hand shifted from your neck to your waist, pulling you an inch closer. “You’re much too vibrant to be watched over like a child.” He took the glass from your hand, setting it behind him without breaking eye contact. Then, he took your wrist. He didn’t ask. He simply guided your hand up until your palm was flat against his chest, right over the slow, rhythmic thud of his heart. The silk of his black shirt was cool, but the body beneath it was searing. “Dance with me.” It wasn’t a question, your legs were already moving as he backed away, leading you by the wrist toward a darker corner of the floor, away from the main crush but directly into Mingi’s line of sight.
The music shifted—the aggressive EDM fading into a R&B track with a bass line that felt like velvet. Seongmin didn’t waste time with distance. He stepped into you, his thighs slotting between yours, his hands sliding down to rest low on your hips. He moved with a slow, grinding confidence that made the previous guy look like an amateur. He surged forward, forcing you to take a half-step back until your spine hit the padded velvet of a pillar. He followed, pinning you there with the weight of his body. His hands didn’t stay still; they wandered, one sliding up to bunch the fabric at your waist, the other reaching up to cup your face, his thumb pressing firmly into your lower lip.
“You have a very loud mouth,” he said, his voice a dark, amused rumble. “I wonder if it tastes as sharp as it sounds.”
You felt the heat of him everywhere. You reached up, your fingers tangling in the collar of his black shirt, intending to pull him closer. He tilted his head, his lips grazing the corner of yours—a dry, searing contact that sent a jolt of static electricity straight to your toes. You felt the heavy silver of his ring press into the soft skin behind your ear, a cold touch as he began to claim the space you’d so carelessly offered. His tongue flicked out, a ghost of a touch against the seam of your lips, tasting the salt and the lingering amber of the drink he’d given you.
Seongmin’s thumb didn’t just rest on your lip; it hooked into the corner of your mouth, dragging the sensitive skin downward to expose the damp gleam of your teeth. The bass of the R&B track vibrated through the velvet-padded pillar behind you, rattling your ribcage and syncing with the heavy, insistent thud of his heart against your palm.
He shifted his weight, his thigh high and hard between yours, pressing upward with a slow, agonizing deliberation. The friction of his suit trousers against your thinner fabric was a dry heat that made your breath hitch, hitching again when he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against your knuckles.
“Not so loud now,” he murmured. He leaned in, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. He didn't close the distance to your lips. Instead, he tilted his head, his nose grazing yours, trailing down to the sensitive dip of your cupid’s bow. He inhaled sharply, a ragged sound that vibrated in his chest.
“Your friend is burning a hole in the back of your head,” Seongmin whispered, his breath ghosting over your damp lips, tasting of the same amber liquor. “Do you care? Or are you too busy feeling me?”
His hand at your waist tightened, fingers digging into the soft flesh above your hip bone, pulling you flush against the rigid line of his belt. He began to move—a slow, rhythmic grind that was less about the music and more about the friction. Each roll of his hips was a calculated invasion, forcing you to arch your back against the pillar, your fingers twitching where they were trapped between your chests.
You tried to pull him closer by the collar, the silk bunching in your fist, but he resisted, holding his head just an inch back. He wanted you reaching. He wanted you strained. His tongue flicked out again, tracing the very edge of your upper lip, a teasing, wet velvet that left you shivering.
“Answer me,” he commanded, the ‘s’ lingering into a hiss. He punctuated the demand with a sudden, sharper surge of his hips.
The air in the corner was thick, stripped of oxygen and replaced by the scent of him and the heat of the crowd a few feet away. You could hear the muffled clink of glasses and the roar of the party, but here, pinned under his shadow, the only thing that mattered was the way his thumb was now sliding inside your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, claiming the silence you’d finally fallen into.
He watched your eyes blow wide, his own dark and heavy-lidded, tracking the way your throat worked as you swallowed around him.
Then, a shadow fell over both of you.
“Get your fucking hands off her,” Mingi looked feral, his blonde hair damp and sticking to his temples, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. “She’s done.”
Seongmin didn’t let go. He didn’t even flinch. He just tilted his head, his thumb still depressing your bottom lip, exposing the pink dampness of the inside. “She looks like she’s just starting, actually. Maybe you should take the hint, kid. You’re the only one here who’s uncomfortable.”
Mingi stepped forward, his hand lashing out to grip Seongmin’s wrist. He didn’t just pull it away; he twisted, a low growl vibrating in his throat that was purely animal. “I said,” Mingi rasped, his face inches from Seongmin’s, his knuckles white where he held the older man’s wrist, “she’s done”. He didn’t look at you—he couldn’t. If he looked at you, he’d see the flush on your neck and the way your mouth was still parted from Seongmin’s touch, and he knew he’d lose the last thread of his sanity.
“I’m not finished,” you managed to get out, your voice sounding thin and breathy even to your own ears. The adrenaline was pulsing in your blood, caught between the slick, practiced heat of Seongmin and the raw, bleeding energy radiating off Mingi.
Mingi’s other hand found your waist, his fingers digging into your hip with a bruising force that made you gasp. He yanked you toward him, stumbling you out from between Seongmin and the pillar, tucking you firmly under the line of his shoulder. He was shaking—hard enough that you could feel the tremors through his clothes.
“Mingi, stop,” you hissed, grabbing his forearm. “You’re making a scene.”
“We’re leaving,” Mingi stated. “Now.”
Seongmin stepped forward again, ignoring Mingi’s posturing. He reached out, his fingers skimming down the line of your arm, just inches away from where Mingi was holding you. “If you want to finish,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours, ignoring the blonde man entirely, “I’ll be at the bar. Don’t let the noise hold you back.” He winked and turned on his heel, disappearing into the neon haze with a grace that made the rest of the club look clumsy.
The silence between you and Mingi was a living thing, more deafening than the music screaming from the rafters. He didn’t let go of you. He started walking, his pace aggressive, dragging you through the thicket of bodies. He didn’t care if he bumped into people; his shoulders were set in a hard, uncompromising line.
Mingi’s hand didn’t just stay on your wrist; he hiked it up, forcing your arm between your chests as he crowded you back against the mahogany bar. The wood bit into the small of your back. Around you, the club blurred into a frantic smear of neon, but Mingi was the only thing in high-definition—the sweat beading on his upper lip, the raw, dilated heat of his pupils.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped, his voice jagged and loud enough to pierce the music. “Folding for some suit who looks like he’s scouting for a second wife? Are you actually that dense?”
You didn’t shrink away. You stepped into the suffocating radius of his space, poking a finger hard into his chest, right over his thundering heart. “I was just having fun until you decided to play the caveman!”
Mingi let out a harsh, mocking bark of a laugh that had no humour in it. He leaned down, his face so close you could see the frantic, rhythmic pulse in his temple. “Oh, I’m the caveman? You’re the one standing here wagging your tail for any guy with a silver ring and a line of bullshit.” He sneered, his eyes raking over you with a disdain that stung worse than any insult. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, you know that? You told me to go get laid, telling me I’m ‘wound too tight’—but look at you.” He reached out, his hand moving too fast to track, his fingers hooking into the hair at the nape of your neck and tugging, just enough to force your chin up. His touch was electric and furious. “Look at you,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration that bypassed your ears and settled deep in your gut. “You’re practically begging for it. You’re flushed, you’re panting, and you’ve got his damn thumb-prints all over your face. Is that what you wanted? To see how long it would take for me to lose it?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” you hissed, your breath hitching as his thumb swiped across your lower lip—hard, as if he were trying to scrub Seongmin’s touch right off your skin. “You don’t get to act like this.”
“I get to act however the fuck I want when I’m watching you throw yourself at a predator,” he growled. He stepped even closer, his thigh forcing its way between yours, pinning you firmly against the table. The friction of his denim against your skin was a shock. “You think he wanted to talk? You think he wanted to hear your ‘witty banter’? He wanted to see how easy it would be to get you into a car. And you were making it real damn easy for him.”
“He was a better dancer than you’ve been all night,” you taunted, the words slipping out before you could filter them, fuelled by the sting of his grip.
Mingi’s expression shifted—the anger didn’t fade, but it sharpened into something dark and concentrated. He didn’t yell this time. He leaned in until his lips were brushing the shell of your ear, his chest heaving against yours. “A better dancer? Is that what this is? You want to be handled? You want someone to stop being ‘nice’ and just take what they want?”
His hand slid from your neck down to your waist, his fingers digging into the soft skin there, pulling you so flush against him. He wasn’t acting like a bodyguard anymore. He was acting like a man who had finally stopped pretending he didn’t want to break you.
“Tell me,” he rasped, his teeth grazing your earlobe. “Do you want me to be like him? Do you want me to stop being your ‘best friend’ and start being the guy who puts his hands wherever he wants? Because I can be that guy, Y/N.” The neon light overhead flickered, casting a sickly violet strobing across Mingi’s face, turning his features into a series of jagged, angry shadows. He looked like he was vibrating, the sheer force of his irritation radiating off his skin in waves of dry heat.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that! You don’t own me!” you snarled, the words tasting like the peat and fire of cocktails and Scotch. Your pulse was a frantic hammer against your ribs. “You’ve been acting like this all night—like you have some kind of divine right to be pissed off just because I’m breathing the same air as other men.”
“I have every right!” Mingi barked, the sound cutting through the synth-heavy beat of the music. He didn’t flinch as a group of clubbers squeezed past, his world narrowed down to the few inches of charged air between your faces. His blonde hair was a ruined mess, damp strands clinging to his forehead, and his eyes were wild—blown wide and dark, searching yours for a shred of the loyalty he thought he possessed.
“Based on what?” you challenged, stepping into him until your chest heaved against the solid, unyielding plane of his. “Based on a decade of friendship? Friends don’t act like this! Friends don’t suffocate each other! They don’t play the jealous watchdog every time someone looks my way!”
Mingi’s laugh was a jagged, ugly sound that started deep in his throat and ended in a sneer. He let go of you, but any hope of space vanished as he slammed both palms onto the mahogany table behind you. The wood groaned under the impact. He leaned in, his large frame creating a cage of heat and muscle, effectively pinning you against the bar.
“Friends?” the word dripped with a bitter, metallic irony that made your stomach flip. “Is that what we’re sticking with? Is that what we were three months ago?” He lowered his head, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot and smelling of the beer he’d used to try and drown his temper. His eyes dropped to your mouth, tracking the frantic movement of your breathing with a terrifying, singular focus. “Was I just a ‘friend’ when you spent three hours screaming my name in my apartment because you couldn’t get enough of me? When you had your nails buried in my back, begging me not to stop?”
The air left your lungs in a silent rush. The memory hit you—the smell of rain on his skin that night, the way the floorboards had groaned under the weight of the two of you, the desperate, fumbling heat of a “mistake” you’d both agreed to bury under a mountain of “it was just the drinks” and “we’re fine.”
“Oh, you’re going to bring that up now?” you breathed, your hands coming up to his chest to push him back, but your fingers only curled into the damp fabric of his shirt. “We agreed, Mingi! We sat on your living room floor and promised it was a mistake! We shook on it! You don’t get to keep that in your back pocket like a fucking weapon just because you’re having a bad night! So shut the fuck up!”
“I won’t,” he growled, his hand moving from the table to catch your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into the hinge of your bone. It wasn’t a gentle touch. “You don’t get to go back to ‘friends’ because it’s convenient! You think I can just watch that suit touch you and not want to rip his hands off?” His grip on your jaw tightened just a fraction, his eyes dark with a desperate, starving hunger.
“We said that didn’t count! We agreed. It was a one-time thing. It was a slip-up!”
“You call the way you clutched at my back a ‘slip-up’? The way you begged me not to stop? That’s a hell of a lot of effort for a ‘slip-up,’ baby.”
“Don’t call me that!” You hissed, your vision blurring with a mix of heat and pure, unadulterated rage. “You’re just pissed because you can’t control me. You’re acting like I’m some prize you won three months ago and now you’re mad someone else is looking at the trophy.”
Mingi’s hand slammed against the table next to your hip, the wood groaning under the impact. The sound was a gunshot in the dark. “I don’t want a fucking trophy! It’s not the first time I call you ‘baby’, and you damn well know it wasn’t just a ‘slip-up’ for me.” Mingi roared, his composure finally snapping. “It’s been three months of me watching you pretend it never happened! Three months of me watching you smile at other guys while I can still feel the way your skin felt under my hands.” He was shaking now, his hands white-knuckled against the mahogany. The subtext was gone; the ugly, beautiful truth was laid bare between you, more neon and loud than anything in the club.
“You want me to go get laid?” he barked, his voice a jagged, ugly thing. “Fine. Give me a name, Y/N. Who should I go fuck tonight to make you feel better about being a coward? Should I find some random bitch at the bar who doesn’t mind being seen in public with me? Someone who isn’t busy playing ‘best friend’ while she’s still got the ghost of my hand on her thigh?”
He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his eyes bloodshot and burning with a terrifying, charcoal-dark intensity.
“Because that’s what this is, right? A game?” He let out a harsh, mocking bark of a laugh. “You have the fucking audacity to tell me to go find another girl. Like I can just turn it off. Like I haven’t spent every goddamn night remembering exactly how you taste.”
“Mingi, stop—”
“Stop what? Telling the truth?” He slammed his hand against the table next to your hip, the wood groaning. “You’re pathetic. You’re so scared of what we are that you’d rather see me balls-deep in some stranger than admit you belong to me. Is that it? Does it make you feel ‘safe’ to think of me with someone else?”
He grabbed the edge of the bar, pinning you in, his breath hot and smelling of bitter resentment.
“Maybe I’ll do it. Maybe I’ll go back down there, find the loudest girl in the club, and fuck the memory of you right out of my head. I’ll tell her to scream your name so I don’t forget who I’m trying to replace. Would you like that? Should I give you a play-by-play tomorrow morning while we’re having our ‘friendly’ coffee? Should I tell you if she’s tighter than you were?”
The words were a physical assault, a cruel, calculated attempt to draw blood. He was weaponising the intimacy you’d shared, dragging it through the dirt just to see you flinch.
“You’re a fucking liar,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a low, venomous crawl. “You’re a liar and a coward, and you’re so desperate to keep this ‘friendship’ alive that you’re willing to watch me bleed out right in front of you.”
The slap wasn’t a choice; it was an explosion.
Your palm connected with his cheek with a violent, stinging crack that seemed to suck the air out of the room. The force of it snapped his head to the side, his blonde hair falling over his eyes as he went deathly still.
Silence stretched between you, a taut, vibrating wire.
Slowly, Mingi turned his face back to you. The imprint of your fingers was blooming a dark, angry red against his pale skin. He didn’t look hurt. He looked unhinged. A dark, terrifying smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth—the look of a man who had finally stopped trying to be the “good friend.”
“I was wondering when you’d stop pretending to be ‘fine’.”
The air in the club was suddenly too thick to breathe, a humid soup of Mingi’s possessiveness and the ghost of a memory you’d both tried to bury under layers of “best friends” bullshit.
“Now, tell me again. Tell me to go find someone else. Look me in the eye and tell me you want another man’s hands on you after what we did.”
You shoved at his chest—hard—and this time he let you, his hands sliding off the mahogany with a jagged scrape. You didn’t say a word. You turned and bolted for the exit, the heavy bass chasing you like a heartbeat until the steel doors hissed shut behind you.
The parking lot was lit by the buzzing, sickly orange glow of lamps. The air was bitingly cold, snapping at the sweat on your skin, but it wasn’t enough to cool the furnace in your blood. You were halfway to the taxi zone when the heavy thud of the club doors swinging open again echoed off the asphalt.
“Don’t you fucking walk away from me!” Mingi’s voice cracked the silence of the night.
You spun around, your heels clicking sharply against the oil-stained ground. “Or what, Mingi? What the fuck are you going to do? Pin me against another table? Remind me again how I sounded three months ago?” Your voice rose, trembling with a mix of fury and the terrifying realisation that the walls you’d built were crumbling. “You don’t get to use that! That was—that was a mistake! We said it was a mistake!”
Mingi didn’t stop. He ate up the distance between you with rushed strides. He reached you in seconds, his hand lashing out to catch your upper arm, spinning you around so hard you stumbled into the side of a parked SUV. The metal was freezing against your shoulder blades.
“A mistake?” He threw the word back at you like a slur. He slammed his hand against the car next to your head, the thump of palm on metal loud enough to make you flinch. “Is that what you call it when I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you? Is it a ‘mistake’ that I can’t look at another woman without wishing she had your eyes?”
“Stop,” you breathed, but your hands weren’t pushing him away anymore.
“No,” he rasped, his face dropping until his nose was buried in the crook of your neck, his breath a searing brand against your skin. “You want me to act like I don’t give a shit who touches you? I can’t do it. I’m fucking done pretending.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were no longer chocolate; they were charcoal, burning with a hunger that made Seongmin’s interest look like a polite suggestion. “Tell me it was a mistake again,” he challenged, “Tell me you didn’t feel the way my hands were on you. Tell me you want that suit back here instead of me.” His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. He didn’t wait for your answer. He leaned in, his mouth hovering a fraction of an inch from yours, the tension so thick it felt like it would shatter the glass in the windows around you. “Say it,” he whispered against your lips. “Lie to me.”
“You have no right to be this angry! You agreed to the silence! You looked me in the eye over coffee the next morning and said, ‘Let’s just be us again’ It’s you who lied!”
“I didn’t lie! I tried! I tried to be ‘us’ again. I tried to watch movies with you and not think about the way we kissed. I tried to listen to you talk about work and not remember the way you moaned when I was inside you!” He let out a harsh, guttural breath, his eyes wild and shimmering with a frustrated heat. “But then you walk into a club looking like that. You spend the whole night grinding against some strangers, looking back at me like you’re daring me to say something. And then you have the fucking nerve to tell me I need to get laid? Like I haven’t been starving for three months because I’m stuck in ‘best friend’ purgatory?”
“I didn’t ask you to wait!” your voice trembled with a mix of fury and a terrifying, rising ache in your chest. “If you wanted me, you should have said something! You should have stopped me from leaving that morning! But you just fucking sat there and let me walk out!”
“Because I was terrified! I was terrified that if I reached for you, I’d lose the only person who actually knows me. I thought I could handle being your friend. I thought I could watch you date and smile and be happy. But tonight? Seeing his hands on you?” He leaned down, his forehead thumping against yours with a dull, desperate thud. His breath was hot, smelling of malt and obsession. “It felt like someone was ripping my ribs out of my chest,” he whispered, the anger turning into something far more dangerous—honesty. “I’m done, baby. I’m done pretending. I’m a fucking wreck. Are you happy now? Is this the ‘fun’ you wanted me to have?”
You felt the heat of him radiating through your clothes, the violent rhythm of his heart drumming against your own ribs. Your hands, which had been balled into fists against his chest, slowly unfurled, your fingers clutching at the damp fabric of his shirt.
The silence of the parking lot was heavy, broken only by the distant, rhythmic hum of the club and the ragged hitch of Mingi’s breath against your mouth. The cold air nipped at your damp skin, but where your bodies pressed together, the heat was suffocating.
“I’m not happy,” you whispered, your voice cracking as the last of your defensive anger dissolved into a jagged, aching vulnerability. “I'm exhausted, Mingi. I’ve been waiting for you to say something. Anything.”
Mingi’s hands, which had been bruising your hips, suddenly shifted. One slid up the curve of your spine, his palm flat and searing, while the other tangled deep into the hair at the base of your skull, tilting your head back until you were forced to meet the raw, unmasked hunger in his eyes. He didn’t look like your best friend anymore.
“You want me to say it?” he rasped, his lips brushing yours with every word, a torture of near-contact. “I want you. I’ve wanted you since the second I woke up that morning and saw you curled by my side. I wanted to pull you closer and never let the sun come up.” He leaned in, his nose sliding against yours, his grip tightening until you were fused to the cold metal of the SUV. “I don’t want to be your ‘friend’ tonight, I don’t want to be the guy who vets your dates or buys you a beer while you dance with someone else. I want to be the reason you can’t walk tomorrow. I want to be the only name you can remember.”
He paused, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his touch heavy and possessive. “Tell me to stop. Right now. Tell me you want the ‘best friend’ back, and I’ll walk away. I’ll go find that girl. I’ll do exactly what you told me to do.”
You looked at him—at the damp platinum hair, the red mark of your palm still burning on his cheek, the intensity of his stare—and felt the last of your resolve shatter. You couldn’t tell him to stop.
Instead, you arched your back, pulling his hips flush against yours, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders. “Don’t go.”
Mingi didn’t give you a chance to change your mind. He crashed his mouth against yours, the contact violent and desperate, a collision of three months of starved silence. It wasn’t a gentle kiss; it was a reclamation. His tongue demanding entry as he groaned deep in his throat—a sound of pure relief.
His hands were everywhere—clutching your waist, hiking up the hem of your dress, his skin a brand against yours. He backed you harder into the car, the suspension creaking under the weight of his aggression. He kissed you like he was trying to breathe you in, like he was trying to erase the ghost of every other hand that had touched you. It was messy, teeth clashing, the salt of your sweat mixing as he tilted your head back at a sharp angle to get deeper, hungrier. You didn’t fight him. You were kissing him back with the same pent-up rage. Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in those blonde, sweat-damp strands, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a molecule of air left between your bodies.
“Min—” you whimpered into his mouth, the name broken and small.
His large hand slid down from your face, his fingers pug your dress higher, knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of your tight. He broke the kiss to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his breath scalding your skin. He bit—not a nip, but a sharp, possessive mark, making you arch your back and cry out into the empty parking lot. His hands were everywhere now, frantic and heavy, mapping the curves he’d spent days trying to forget.
“Mine,” he muttered against your skin, his voice a dark, fractured thing. “You’re mine.”
The metal of the SUV groaned as Mingi surged forward, his body crushing you into the side of the car. He didn’t just hold your leg; he hiked it higher, his forearm hooking under the crook of your knee to pull you flush against the hard, frantic line of his hips. The friction of his denim against your bare inner thigh was a jolt of pure electricity, a rough, grounding contrast to the slick, desperate heat of his mouth. Mingi’s grip on your thighs tightened until his knuckles went white, his fingers sinking into your skin with a bruising, territorial force that made you let out a sharp, jagged gasp. He didn’t care about the bruises he was leaving; he wanted you to feel every ounce of hunger he’d been choking back.
“Say it,” he growled, his voice vibrating against the sensitive cord of your neck. He didn’t wait for you to speak, his teeth grazing the skin he’d just bitten, soothing and then stinging again. “Tell me you’re mine before I lose my fucking mind.” His free hand, the one not holding your leg, didn’t stay still. It slid upward, the tips of his fingers dragging over the silk of your dress, bunching the fabric until he found the damp, heated skin of your waist. He didn’t stop there. He pushed the material higher, his palm sliding over your ribs with a possessive, heavy pressure that made your breath hitch in a series of broken stammers. He moved his hand from your waist, his fingers fumbling with the button of his own jeans with a frantic, clumsy desperation. He broke away from your neck, his face flushed, his eyes dark and blown out with a hunger that was terrifyingly beautiful.
“Say it,” he growled again, his voice dropping into a guttural, terrifying register as he ground his hips into yours. You felt the hard, insistent length of his cock through his clothes. The friction was a white-hot spark against your core, the heavy, rigid length of him pressing through the thin silk of your dress with an uncompromising demand. “I want to hear you admit what a fucking liar you’ve been. Tell me you’re mine before I fuck the memory of that other prick out of your head right here on the street.”
Your head thrashed back against the cold glass of the car window, a low, desperate whine vibrating in your throat. “Min… Please… It’s you. I promise it’s you.”
“That’s not what I asked,” he hissed, his mouth crashing onto the sensitive junction of your neck and shoulder. He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his pupils so dilated they swallowed the gold of his irises. “I don’t want ‘it’s you.’ I want you to say the words. Tell me you’re my slut. Tell me you’ve been sitting across from me for months dreaming about me pinning you down like this.”
He didn’t wait for your answer. He let go of one of your legs, his hand diving between your bodies to finish what he’d started with his jeans. You heard the harsh, metallic zip of his fly—a sound that felt like a death knell for your dignity. He didn’t think about a condom; he didn’t even slow down. He grabbed his own length, his other hand bluntly and impatiently pulling the lace of your panties to the side.
Mingi guided himself to the soaking, frantic heat of your entrance. The feel of him—thick, hot, and uncompromisingly hard—pressing against your opening made your vision spark. He wasn’t entering you yet, but he was right there, the blunt head of him sliding through the slickness you’d made for him, teasing the very edge of the abyss.
“Look at you,” he taunted, his breath hitching as he felt how ready you were. “Leaking like a fucking sink for me while you were telling yourself we were ‘just friends’ ten minutes ago. You’re so desperate for me you don’t even care who sees.” He hiked your leg higher, his forearm pressing into the glass behind your head to steady himself. He leaned in until his nose was brushing yours. “I’m going to stretch you out so wide you won’t be able to walk back into that club,” he promised, his hips twitching in a slow, shallow thrust that tested your limits. “I’m going to fill you with so much of me that you’ll smell like me for a week. Now, tell me who you belong to before I take it.”
“Min, someone... someone might—”
“Let them fucking look,” he rasped, his voice a jagged edge. He didn’t care about the yellow wash of the street lamps or the muffled, rhythmic thump of the club doors.
“Min… stop,” you gasped, your fingers trembling as you shoved against the hard wall of his chest, trying to find a single inch of air. “Not here. Take me… take me home. Please.”
He didn’t let go. If anything, he pressed closer. “Take you home?” he leaned in until his lips were grazing yours, his teeth bared in a jagged sneer. “What, you worried that suit might walk out and see you getting exactly what you’ve been begging for? You want to be a lady now?”
"No, I just— Not here,” you gasped, “Mingi, please... not on the street. Take me home. Just—get me home.” You were breathless, your voice a ragged thread of sound that broke against his lips. You didn’t pull away; instead, you buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the salt, the expensive cologne, and the raw, terrifying heat of him. You bit down on the corded tendon of his shoulder, a sharp, desperate nip that was less about pain and more a wordless, frantic plea.
Mingi let out a sound that was half-groan, half-growl, his forehead thumping against the car window with a dull thud as he fought the urge to just sink into you right there. He stayed pinned against you for a heartbeat, his chest heaving in sync with yours.
The silence of the alleyway seemed to roar in his ears.
Slowly, the haze in his eyes cleared just enough for him to see the way you were shaking in his arms—not just from the cold, but from the sheer, overwhelming weight of him. With a sharp, frustrated exhale, he snapped. He pulled back abruptly, his hands leaving your skin so suddenly you nearly stumbled. “Home,” he nodded slowly, the word sounding like a vow.
He didn’t drop you gently. He slid you down the side of the car, his hands never leaving your waist, his thumbs digging into your hip bones to keep you steady as your heels hit the pavement. His eyes were dark, almost black in the orange glow of the streetlamp, tracking the way your chest rose and fell. He reached out, his fingers trembling as he jerked your dress back down, smoothing the fabric over your thighs with a possessive, territorial rough-handedness.
“Don’t move,” he stepped back just far enough to fumble with his zipper, his movements jagged and impatient. He didn’t look toward the club; he looked toward the street, his arm shooting up the second he spotted the yellow glow of a taxi rounding the corner two blocks away.
He didn’t wait for it to reach you. He started walking toward the edge of the curb, his hand locked around your wrist, pulling you behind him with a singular, focused gravity. He was a different person—harder, faster, his shoulders set in a line that warned the world to stay the hell away. The taxi screeched to a halt, the driver barely having time to put it in park before Mingi yanked the back door open. He practically folded you into the seat, his body following yours so closely that you were pinned against the far door before he’d even slammed the car shut.
“Where to?” the driver asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.
Mingi gave his address, his voice dropping an octave, his hand already finding your thigh under the cover of the shadows. He didn’t care about the driver. He didn’t care about the neon lights of the city blurring past the window. He leaned over you, his hand sliding up your leg to bunch the fabric of your dress back toward your hips, his eyes fixed on yours with a terrifying, beautiful promise.
The interior of the taxi was a cramped, vinyl-scented capsule, the orange glow of the street lamps strobing across Mingi’s face in rhythmic, violent flashes. The driver hummed some mindless radio tune, oblivious to the fact that the air in the backseat was thick enough to choke on.
Mingi didn’t waste a second. He shifted, pinning you against the far door, his thigh slotting between yours to keep them spread. He looked out the window, his jaw set in a hard, protruding line of feigned indifference for the driver’s benefit, but his hand was doing something entirely different. His fingers hooked into the hem of your dress, the fabric sliding up your skin with a dry, rasping sound. He didn’t stop until his knuckles bumped against the damp lace of your underwear. You let out a soft, broken hitch of a breath, your head falling back against the window as the cool glass met your burning skin.
“Mingi,” you breathed, a warning and a plea rolled into one.
“Shh,” he rasped, finally turning his head to look at you. “You wanted to go home. We’re going. But I’m not stopping.”
He slid his hand beneath the lace, his palm cupping you with a sudden, bruising heat. You buckled against him, your fingers digging into the denim of his thighs. The taxi hit a pothole, jouncing the cabin, and Mingi used the momentum to drive his palm harder against you. He didn’t just slide his fingers in; he paused at the threshold, the tips of his fingers merely fluttering against the soaked silk of your underwear. He began to stroke you—just a feather-light touch at first, a torturous promise—before his fingers dipped lower, finding the slick, aching heat you’d been hiding all night. Your head hit the headrest, a choked-back moan dying in your throat. You could feel the vibration of the car’s engine beneath you, but it was nothing compared to the violent thrumming of Mingi’s heart against your shoulder.
“Look at this,” he whispered, his voice thick with a terrifying sort of triumph. He shifted his hand, bringing his damp fingers up between your faces so you could see the shimmer of yourself on his skin in the passing glow of a streetlamp. “All that talk about being ‘friends’ and ‘slip-ups,’ and you’re leaking for me in the back of a fucking taxi.” He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his scent—sharp, masculine, and intoxicating—filling your head. He slid one finger in, just past the first knuckle, hooking it upward. You let out a strangled, high-pitched whimper, your hips jerking upward in a desperate search for friction. “You wanted me to put these hands on a stranger? To make her feel like this?” He pulled his finger back out until he was barely there. He did it again. And again. A rhythmic, shallow teasing that was ten times worse than the frantic grinding in the parking lot. He was reclaiming you, inch by agonising inch.
“You like that?” he rasped, his thumb catching your clit and pinning it with a heavy, steady pressure that made your vision go white at the edges. “I bet that suit didn’t even get close enough to know how sensitive you are right here. He didn’t know that if I press just like this, you start shaking, did he?” He began to move in a slow, torturous rhythm—not fast enough to bring you to the edge, but deep enough to keep the ache in your lower belly twisting into a tight knot. Every time you tried to buck against him to speed him up, he’d still his hand, or pull back entirely until you were whimpering for him to continue.
“Please,” you sobbed into his neck, your fingers digging so hard into his shoulders you were sure you’d leave marks.
“Please what, baby? Please stop?” He nipped at the skin of your throat, his fingers stretching you open as he added a second digit, sliding it in alongside the first with a deliberate, slow friction. “Or please don’t stop because you’ve been thinking about this as much as I have? Tell me the truth. While you were dancing with him, were you wondering if he’d touch you like this? Were you wondering if he knew how to make you fall apart?” He increased the pace just a fraction, his knuckles rubbing against your inner thigh, the heavy silver of his rings a cold, hard contrast to the blistering heat of your body.
You were melting, your breath coming in shallow, frantic hitches as the pressure built, centring right where his thumb was grinding.
“You aren’t finishing in the back of a Prius. You’re going to wait until we’re home. You’re going to wait until I can hear you moaning my name,” he looked out the window as the taxi pulled up to the curb of his apartment building. He didn’t move his hand until the car came to a full stop. Then, with one final, deep thrust that drew a sob from your throat, he withdrew, the sudden loss of heat and pressure making you feel dizzy. He wiped his fingers on the seat beside him—or perhaps your dress, you couldn’t tell—payed the driver, and leaned over to open the door, his eyes burning with a promise that made the taxi ride feel like a mere appetiser.
“Out,” he ordered, his eyes dark with a promise that made your knees feel like water. “I’m done teasing.”
The lobby was a blur of marble and hushed silence, a stark contrast to the war zone in the back of the taxi. Mingi didn’t let go of your wrist, his stride long and jagged as he hauled you toward the elevators. His knuckles were still damp, the scent of you clinging to his skin, and he didn’t even try to hide the way his gaze devoured the curve of your throat.
The chime of the elevator felt like a starter pistol. The doors slid shut with a heavy, mechanical sigh, sealing the two of you into a mirrored box of brushed steel. Mingi slammed his palm against the button for the 12th floor and then immediately pivoted, his arm lashing out to pin you against the handrail. The elevator jolted upward, the sudden gravity pulling your stomach into your throat, but Mingi’s weight was the only thing keeping you upright.
“Twelve floors,” he rasped, his voice a low, vibrating growl that echoed off the metal walls. “You have exactly twelve floors before I have you behind a locked door.”
His hand slid up from your waist, his palm flat and heavy against your ribs. His fingers splayed wide as he reached the underside of your breast. He squeezed—not a gentle caress, but a firm, possessive claim that made you gasp, your head thumping back against the mirrored wall. He leaned down, his teeth nipping at the sensitive junction where your neck met your shoulder, his tongue licking the sting away a second later.
His other hand dived low, his fingers hooking into the hem of your dress and yanking it up to your hips. He didn’t care about the security camera in the corner. He shoved his knee between your thighs, forcing them apart, his hand sliding over the silk of your underwear to find the heat he’d left behind in the taxi. He began to rub, a slow, heavy friction that made your knees buckle. “Look at yourself,” he commanded, nodding toward the mirrors.
You looked and saw the wreckage of your hair, the flush climbing up your chest, and Mingi—towering over you, his blonde hair a mess, his large hand disappearing between your legs.
“Floor six,” he whispered against your ear, his breath scalding. His thumb find your nipple through the dress and pinched, a sharp bolt of pleasure-pain that made you cry out. He caught the sound in his own mouth, kissing you with a bruising, desperate hunger that tasted of beer and obsession. His hands were a frantic map, sliding from the swell of your breasts down to the soft meat of your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin.
“Floor nine,” he groaned into the hollow of your throat, his hand sliding back down to grip your thigh, hitching it up around his waist so he could grind his dressed hardness against your core. The friction was a slow-motion torture that had you sobbing his name into the quiet hum of the elevator.
The chime for the 12th floor was the loudest sound you’d ever heard. The doors slid open. Mingi didn’t let you down. He kept your leg hooked around his hip, his arm a steel band around your waist as he practically carried you down the hall, his keys already out and jingling with a frantic, metallic rhythm.
He fumbled with the keys, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches that rattled in his chest. The lock clicked and he kicked the door open, dragging you inside into the pitch-black entryway. He didn’t turn on the lights and slammed the door shut behind you, the boom echoing through the empty apartment, and in the same motion, he shoved you back against it. The wood was solid and unforgiving against your spine, a cold shock that lasted only a second before Mingi’s heat incinerated it. He dropped his weight into you, his forearms slamming against the door on either side of your head, pinning you in the narrow dark. The only light came from the city skyline bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, casting his silhouette in a jagged, silver outline. He didn’t give you a chance to breathe. He reached down, his hands catching the hem of your dress and yanking it up past your hips, the fabric bunching around your waist in a frantic, messy pile. His palms were scorching, his skin a brand against your thighs as he hiked your legs up, his strong arms hooking under your knees to lift you off the floor.
You let out a broken gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders, your fingers digging into the material of his shirt for balance. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your heels locking behind his back, pulling him flush against the aching, empty core. He buried his face in the crook of your neck. He didn’t kiss you; he claimed you.
“I’ve spent three months staring at this door, remembering the way you looked when you walked through it the last time. I’m not letting you go until I’ve had every fucking inch of you.”
He shifted his grip, one hand staying under your thigh while the other moved to his jeans, the metallic rasp of his zipper sounding like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. He was shaking—you could feel the tremors in his muscles, the raw, unhinged desperation of a man who had reached his absolute limit. When he adjusted his grip on your thighs and surged forward, the air didn’t just leave your lungs—it was stolen.
His cock was massive. A blunt, heavy intrusion that felt like he was rearranging the very architecture of your body. The initial stretch was a sharp, searing sting, a fire that made your eyes snap wide and your breath hitch into a tight, jagged sob. It was too much; it was the physical manifestation of ninety days of starved silence suddenly demanding entry all at once.
“Mingi—wait,” you wheezed, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, your knuckles white as you tried to find your bearings.
“No,” he growled, the word a dark, guttural vibration against the sensitive cord of your throat. He didn’t pull back. He stayed buried deep to the absolute hilt, his forehead thumping against the door next to your ear as he fought the urge to just cum right then. His muscles were coiling like overwound springs, his skin radiator-hot against yours. “Don’t you dare tell me to wait,” his teeth grazed your earlobe with a threatening pressure. “You’ve made me wait for three fucking months. So now, you’re going to take every bit of this.”
He didn’t ease you into it. He began to move—a shallow, punishing rhythm that forced your head back against the wood. Every strike was a blunt-force, pleasure and pain, the sting began to dull into a heavy, throbbing ache, a fullness that radiated from your core to your toes.
You let out a long, shaky moan, your hips tilting instinctively to take more of him. Your hands, frantic and clumsy with adrenaline, fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, your fingernails grazing the damp, hard heat of his chest. You needed him closer. You needed the barrier of the fabric gone. As the shirt fell open, you pressed your palms against his bare skin, feeling the violent gallop of his heart.
“Take it off,” you whimpered into the hollow of his neck, your teeth catching on his skin. “Min, please.”
He let out a sound that was purely animal. He didn’t take the shirt off; he simply ripped it back, the buttons popping and skittering across the hardwood floor like hail. He caught your face in his hand, his thumb digging into your cheek as he kissed you—a messy, desperate collision of tongues and teeth that tasted of salt and obsession.
He hammered into you, his thrusts deep and punishing, pinning you against the door with a force that made the hinges groan. Every impact sent a shockwave through your frame, your head knocking back against the wood in time with his movements. The pain was gone, incinerated by a white-hot friction that made your vision blur into streaks.
Mingi pulled back just an inch, his eyes raking over the silk fabric of your dress. He didn’t reach for a zipper at the side. He didn’t look for a seam. He hooked his large fingers into the delicate neckline and pulled. The sound of the silk shredding was a sharp, violent protest in the quiet hallway. He hauled the fabric down, the material bunching around your waist and then falling to the floor in a ruined, expensive heap. He didn’t stop until you were completely exposed to the cool air of the apartment, your skin pale and shivering under the harsh focus of his gaze. He grabbed your waist again, his thumbs digging into your hip bones as he slammed you back against the door. Without the silk as a barrier, the contact was electric.
“You’re so tight,” he rasped, the words broken and guttural, hissed into the sensitive shell of your ear. “Fucking killing me... how much you want this.” His hand moved to your breast, his palm heavy and possessive, thumb catching your sensitive nipple and rolling it with a bruising pressure that made you cry out. Mingi couldn’t care less about the noise. He didn’t care about the neighbours or the world outside. He was focused entirely on the way you were breaking around him, the way your legs were locked around his waist, your heels drumming against the small of his back.
His pace became frantic, a blurring, heavy friction that pushed you toward a ledge you weren’t ready for. He was growling now, his breath coming in ragged, wet hitches, his mouth against your cheek as he felt the first tremors of your climax begin to ripple through you.
“Look at me.” You opened your eyes, your vision swimming with tears and pleasure. Even in the dark, his eyes were burning, fixed on yours with a terrifying, singular focus. “Tell me,” he gasped, his pace quickening, his chest heaving against yours until you could feel the frantic gallop of his heart. “Tell me who’s inside you. Say the name.”
“Mingi,” you sobbed, the name a shattered, breathless thing as you gripped his hair, pulling his face closer. You couldn’t even think; the sheer, thick volume of him was filling every corner of your consciousness, stretching you until you felt like you might split apart from the pleasure of it. “It’s you.”
He didn’t stop. His pace was a heavy, wet rhythm that echoed through the apartment. Each thrust was a blunt-force, pinning you so hard against the door that the wood vibrated against your shoulder blades. “Say it again,” he growled, his teeth bared, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose onto your cheek. “Tell me whose you are.”
“Yours,” you moaned, your hips buckling, chasing the friction as the pressure behind your navel tightened. “Mingi, I’m yours. Please—I’m close. I’m so close.”
His breath hitched, a jagged, guttural sound as his own control finally disintegrated. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his muscles corded like steel cables under your palms. He was trembling violently, his thrusts reaching a shallow speed that told you he was right on the precipice. “Where?” he rasped, the word barely a whisper, thick with a desperate urgency. He gripped your hips so hard his fingers left white imprints on your skin. “Where do you want it? Tell me where, baby, before I lose it.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in as if you could pull him into your very soul. “Inside,” you choked out, your voice dropping to a raw, pleading whimper. “Inside me, give it all to me. Fill me up.”
The permission was the final blow. Mingi let out a low, primal roar that vibrated through your entire chest cavity. He surged forward one last time, burying himself to the absolute hilt, and stalled there. His entire body locked up, his head snapping back as he came, the sheer force of it pulsing through him in heavy, rhythmic waves. You felt the blistering heat of him flooding you—a thick, relentless spill that made your own walls contract in a violent, cascading climax. You cried out, your voice dying in your throat as your vision sparked with silver, your body sagging against him as the world tilted and dissolved.
For a long minute, the only sound in the entryway was the ragged, sobbing hitch of your combined breathing. Mingi stayed buried inside you, his forehead resting against the door, his chest heaving as if he’d just survived a wreck. He didn’t move, holding you up as the mess of him began to trickle down your skin.
Slowly, he pulled his head back, his eyes searching yours in the dim silver light. He kissed you, his lips lingering as he let your legs slide down his body until your feet touched the floor.
Your legs were liquid, useless stalks of flax that buckled the moment your heels touched the hardwood. You would have crumpled right there in the entryway, amidst the ruins of your dress, his shirt and the lingering scent of sex. But Mingi didn’t let you fall. He caught you, his large hands clamping under your armpits with a strength that felt more like a crane than a caress.
He didn’t lead you. He hauled you up, his arm hooking under your knees and his other hand bracing your back. You were a dead weight against his bare, sweat-slicked chest, your head lolling against his shoulder as the hallway blurred past.
He reached the threshold of the bedroom and tossed you. You hit the mattress with a heavy whump, the air huffing out of your lungs as you bounced once, twice, before settling into the tangled, dark sheets. The bed smelled faintly of him but it was quickly being overwhelmed by the scent of the two of you, salt and sex.
Mingi didn’t join you immediately. He stood at the foot of the bed, a dark silhouette against the moonlight, his chest heaving as he stared down at you. He looked like a man who had just won a war and didn’t know what to do with the prisoner.
He kicked off his boots, the heavy thuds echoing like stones hitting a grave, and then his hands went to his jeans.
“You think that was it?” he stripped the rest of his clothes off with a violent, impatient efficiency, throwing them toward the corner without looking. “You think I’m just going to let you sleep after what you did tonight?”
He reached out, his hand wrapping around your ankle with a grip that felt like an iron shackle. He unbuckled the delicate straps of your heels and tossed them aside like they were trash. Then, he crawled onto the bed, the mattress dipping dangerously under his weight. He didn’t come at you from the side; he moved over you like a shadow, his knees pinning your thighs down, his hands catching your wrists and pinning them above your head.
He was still hard—viciously so—the evidence of his release in the hallway still glistening on his skin. He looked down at you, his blonde hair falling over his eyes, his expression stripped of every ounce of the “best friend” mask.
“I’m going to make you stay awake until you can’t even remember that prick’s name,” he hissed, his face dropping until his nose was an inch from yours. “I'm going to mark every inch of skin he even thought about looking at.”
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your lace panties—the ones that were a soaked from your slick and his cum, a ripped mess from how he pushed them aside in the hallway with too much force. Mingi didn’t slide them down your legs. He buried his knuckles into your hip bones and ripped them. The sound of the lace tearing was a sharp, final punctuation. He shredded the fabric, pulling the scraps away and throwing them into the dark behind him.
He dived down, his mouth catching your breast with a hunger that was borderline painful, his tongue swirling around the peak while his other hand slid down, his fingers spreading your folds open with a rough focus. You were still sensitive, still pulsing, and the sudden, heavy contact made you cry out, your hips jerking upward in a frantic, uncoordinated search for release.
“Min, please—”
“I told you,” he growled, his voice vibrating against your skin. “Don’t fucking ‘Min’ me. You wanted this version of me? You wanted the guy who needs to ‘get laid’? You’ve got him. At the club you had a lot of advice for me, didn’t you? You told me I was ‘wound too tight.’ You told me exactly what I needed to fix my mood.”
He let out a low, dark chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes.
“What were the words, baby? ‘Your dick needs a good sucking’?” He threw the phrase back at you like a slur, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw before hooking into your mouth, forcing your lips open. “You were so worried about my stress levels. So eager to find me a ‘victim’ to take care of it,” he hissed. “Well, the victim’s right here, and I’m still wound pretty fucking tight. So, since you’re such an expert on what I need, why don’t you show me? No more talk. Do exactly what you said I needed.”
He didn’t wait for you to move on your own. He grabbed your waist and hauled you off the bed, his movements jerky and impatient. “On your knees, use that fucking mouth for something other than lying to me,” he commanded, “I want to hear you choke on every word you said tonight.”
Mingi didn’t sit back to enjoy the view. He stood over you, his legs braced wide. His hand didn’t just rest on your head; it clamped into your hair, his knuckles scraping against your scalp as he forced your face forward. “Do it,” he hissed, the word a serrated edge in the quiet room. “Show me exactly how you’d take care of a stranger. Show me what you were going to offer that suit.”
When you finally took his cock into your mouth, the sheer, thick volume of him was shocking. Your jaw ached instantly, the muscles straining to accommodate the heavy, pulsing heat of him. You started slow, your tongue swirling around the tip, tasting the salt and the lingering, raw scent of the night, but Mingi wasn’t interested in a slow burn. He groaned—a low, guttural vibration that you felt in your teeth—and his grip in your hair tightened until your eyes watered. You leaned in further, your nose brushing against the coarse hair at the base of him, the scent of his skin—musk, sweat, and adrenaline—filling your lungs until you were lightheaded. You were drooling, the slick moisture running down your chin and dripping, but you didn’t pull away.
“Suck it,” he commanded, his voice dropping into a dark, demeaning rasp. “Like you’ve been starving for it.”
He didn’t wait for you to find a rhythm. He began to move his hips, a slow, rhythmic surge that forced you to swallow him deeper. Every time you tried to pull back for air, his hand at the back of your head became a vice, slamming you back forward. He was fucking your throat, his thrusts reaching a shallow speed that triggered your gag reflex, making your chest heave against his thighs. You were choking, a muffled, wet sound dying in your throat, but Mingi didn’t ease up. He liked the sound. He liked the way your eyes were wide and shimmering with tears, fixed on his as he looked down at you with a cold, predatory triumph.
“That’s it,” he growled, his breath coming in ragged, animalistic hitches. “Choke on it, baby. Let me feel how much you hate that you love this. Tell me again how I’m just your ‘best friend’ while you’re down there on your knees like a fucking dog.”
He increased the pace, his hands moving from your hair to your shoulders, pinning you down so you couldn’t move an inch. He was relentless, his cock sliding past the point of comfort, hitting the back of your throat with a blunt, rhythmic force.
“You’re so pathetic,” he taunted, his thumb reaching down to rub a drop of moisture from your lip before smearing it on your cheek. “Acting all high and mighty at the bar, and now you’re desperate. You’re shaking.” He wasn’t close to being done. He was using you to vent every ounce of the ninety days of silence, every second of the jealousy that had been eating him alive. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look up at him as he continued to drive into your mouth. “Is this ‘fun’ enough for you?” he groaned, his voice breaking with the effort of his control. “Is this what you wanted to see? The version of me that doesn’t give a fuck about your feelings?”
Mingi hauled you back up by the roots of your hair, your head snapping back as he forced you to sit on your heels. You were a wreck—makeup smudged into dark halos around your eyes, your lips swollen and slick, a string of saliva trailing down to the curve of your collarbone. You looked exactly how he’d imagined you, and the sight of it seemed to strip the last of the humanity from his expression.
Mingi’s hand was a heavy at the base of your skull, his fingers deep in your hair as he set a rhythm that was purely for his own satisfaction. Every time he drove deep, the world blurred into a haze of white noise and the suffocating scent of him, your throat working desperately around the thick, relentless intrusion of his length. You were drowning in him, your senses overloaded by the friction and the raw, guttural sounds he was making above you.
Unable to stay still, your hand drifted downward, your fingers seeking the slick, aching heat between your thighs. The moment you touched yourself, the sensation was a violent electric shock; you were so sensitive, so over-sensitised by the rough treatment and the crushing fullness in your throat, that the slightest pressure felt like an explosion. You were a drenched, pulsing mess, your fingers sliding through the excessive wetness you’d made for him as you began to work yourself in sync with his thrusts.
The sight of it—the way you were frantically helping yourself while he used your mouth—sent Mingi straight to the edge. He watched your eyes roll back, your hips twitching in a desperate, uncoordinated rhythm, and he felt the frantic, wet heat of your throat tightening around him in response.
“Fuck, you’re so close,” he choked out, his voice a fractured wreck. He could feel the pressure building behind his eyes, a searing, white-hot tension that told him he was seconds away from losing control completely. “Three months of acting like you were too good for this. Three months of playing the ‘best friend’ while you were probably dreaming about being exactly where you are right now.”
He didn’t want to finish in your mouth; he wanted to see the mess he’d made. Mingi didn’t let go of your hair as he pulled out, the sudden rush of air into your lungs making you let out a broken, wheezing sob. He watched your hand move frantically between your legs. You were too far gone to stop; the friction of his throat-fucking had left you on a razor’s edge, and the sight of him—hard, twitching, and lethal—was the final shove you needed.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a jagged, guttural snap. “Don’t you dare close your eyes. Watch what you’re doing to yourself for me.”
You obeyed, your eyes wide and glazed with a terrifying level of pleasure as you worked your fingers against your swollen core. You were drenched, the sound of the wet friction loud in the quiet room. Mingi’s hand moved to his own length, his grip blunt and punishing as he matched your frantic pace. He was snarling now, his teeth bared, his eyes fixed on the way your hips were jerking, the way your inner thighs were trembling.
“That's it,” he rasped, his own rhythm turning into a blur of motion. “Come for me, you slut. Show me how much you want it.”
The world fractured. You hit your peak with a high, shattered scream that echoed off the walls, your body arching off the floor as your muscles convulsed in a violent, rhythmic release. Right as you shattered, Mingi let out a low, animalistic roar, his own body locking up as he finally let go. The first splash of his cum hit your cheek, a searing, thick contrast to the cool air of the room. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut for a second before you forced them open, watching him as he came. It was a heavy, relentless release, painting your skin—the bridge of your nose, the corner of your mouth, your other cheek. Mingi didn’t stop until he was spent, his breath coming in sobbing, jagged bursts. You were still twitching from your own orgasm, your breath coming in sobbing hitches, when the final, hot spray landed against your forehead.
He looked down at the wreckage of your face with a mix of hunger and a terrifying, dazed possessiveness. “You’re nothing but a little cum slut, aren’t you?” He whispered, his voice a broken thread of sound. “Now you look right. Now you look like you belong to me.”
Slowly, your fingers traced the heavy, warm smear on your cheek, dragging the heat toward the corner of your mouth. When your tongue flicked out, catching the stray, salt-sharp drop from your lip, the sound that left Mingi’s throat wasn’t human. It was a low groan—a guttural vibration that started deep in his chest and broke against his teeth.
“Fuck,” he rasped, leaning closer, his shadow swallowing you as he watched you swallow him.
You tasted the raw, metallic tang of him. You didn’t just take it; you looked him dead in the eye, your tongue tracing the seam of your lips to make sure you didn’t miss a single drop. You were a mess—covered in his cum, your face flushed and ruined—and you were offering it back to him as a final, absolute surrender.
“You like it, don’t you?” his thumb slid into your mouth, dragging across your tongue. He let out another fractured, breathless groan. “You’re sitting here, looking like a fucking angel with my mess on your face, and you’re asking for more.” He grabbed your jaw, his fingers digging into your skin with a territorial, bruising intensity that made your breath hitch. He wasn’t just satisfied; he was re-ignited. The sight of your total lack of shame—the way you were devouring the evidence of his claim—was the final match in the powder keg of his restraint.
You reached up, your fingers trembling as you gripped his wrist, pulling his hand just far enough from your lips so you could speak. You were trembling, your chest heaving with a desperate, frantic need that hadn’t been satisfied yet. “Say it again,” you whimpered, the words sliding out in a high, desperate whine. “Please... Call me that again.”
Mingi froze, his muscles locking up under your touch. “Say what?”
“What you called me,” you sobbed, the desperation finally breaking through. You looked up at him, your eyes blown out and shimmering with tears, the salt of his release still stinging your cheeks. “Call me that again. Call me your slut. I want to hear it while you’re looking at me. I want to know that’s all I am to you tonight.”
A dark, visceral shudder ran through Mingi’s entire frame. He let out a sound that was half-choke, half-growl, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling deep in your hair to force your head back. He leaned down until his lips were a hair’s breadth from yours, his breath searing. “You want to hear it?” he hissed, his voice dropping into that terrifying, guttural frequency that made your insides turn to liquid. “You want me to remind you how pathetic you are? How you’re sitting here on the floor, covered in my cum?”
“Yes,” you breathed, your hips reflexively hitching toward him. “Please, tell me.”
“You’re a slut,” he didn’t say it with kindness; he said it with the raw, territorial hunger of a man who had finally claimed his prize. “You’re my little slut. My lying, beautiful, desperate slut who’s finally exactly where she belongs.”
He watched the way the words made you shatter, the way your eyes rolled back and a high, broken moan tore from your throat. “You’re pathetic,” he rasped, his hand coming down to catch your jaw again. “A mess. Look at you, begging for it.”
“I am,” a small, broken sound. You leaned your face into his palm, your skin stinging where the stubble on his thumb caught. “I want... I want you to make me feel it. Slap me, Min. Do it.”
Mingi’s hand stilled against your jaw, his fingers curling into your hair as he stared at you with an expression that was both horrified and hungry. “What did you say?”
“I want... I want you to make me feel it,” you whispered, your voice a broken, jagged thread of sound. “I want you to make me understand. Slap me. Do it. Show me exactly what you think of me.”
A dark, visceral shudder ran through his frame. He didn’t hesitate. The sound of his palm connecting with your cheek was a sharp, heavy crack that echoed through the empty apartment. Your head snapped to the side, the force of it making your vision spark white for a split second. The sting was immediate—a white-hot, throbbing heat that radiated from your cheek down to your throat, making you moan.
Mingi didn’t let you pull away. He grabbed your jaw, his fingers digging into the bone to force your face back toward his. He was shaking, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a mile, his nostrils flared. “Is that what you want?” he hissed, his voice a jagged edge of pure, unadulterated menace. “You want me to treat you like a toy? You want me to leave marks so everyone knows what you’ve been doing behind closed doors?”
“Yes,” you sobbed, the word breaking against his lips. “Yes, please.”
He hit you again—shorter, sharper this time, the sound punctuated by the desperate, high-pitched whine that tore from your throat. He grabbed the back of your head, forcing you to look up at him. “You want me to treat you like you’re nothing? Like you’re just a place for me to put my dick in?”
He hadn’t even fully come down from the first two rounds before the sight of you, messy and pleading on your knees, had his dick surging back to life. “All fours. Now. I want your ass up and your head down.” His hand moved from your head to your shoulder, pulling you up only to shove you toward the mattress.
You scrambled to obey, your limbs heavy and uncoordinated, your knees dragging against the sheets. You pushed yourself up, your back arching as you lowered your chest to the pillows, leaving your hips elevated and exposed. The cool air hit your damp skin, making you shiver. Behind you, Mingi grabbed your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with a bruising intensity that marked his territory. He positioned himself at your entrance.
“Don’t you dare move,” he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating threat against your spine. He surged forward, a deep, uncompromising thrust that felt like it reached all the way to your ribs. You let out a loud, echoing moan, your forehead thumping into the pillow as the sheer, thick volume of him filled you to the absolute limit, your walls contracting in a desperate welcome.He wasn’t being careful. He immediately started hammering into you, the sound of skin hitting skin a rhythmic, wet slapping that filled the room. He reached forward, his hand finding your hair again and pulling, forcing your head up so you had to see your own reflection in the mirrored closet doors across the room.
“Look at yourself,” he hissed, his breath hot and ragged against your ear. “Look at what a mess you are for me. Tell me you’re my slut. Say it while I’m fucking the life out of you.”
“I’m yours,” you sobbed, your voice breaking as he hit that one spot deep inside, over and over, with a relentless, territorial precision. “I’m your slut, Mingi... please, don’t ever stop.”
He let out a low, primal roar, his thrusts becoming shallow and frantic as he reached the precipice. Mingi’s palm slammed into the soft meat of your ass with a stinging, heavy crack that echoed louder than your own frantic breathing. The impact made your spine whip into a sharp arch, your chest pressing so hard into the pillows that the air was forced out of your lungs in a jagged, high-pitched sob.
He reached forward, his hand sliding under your jaw and clamping around your throat. He didn’t cut off your air, but the weight of his palm was a heavy, suffocating collar that forced your head back at a punishing angle.
He leaned over your back, his bare chest a wall of heat against your spine. He didn’t kiss you; he sank his teeth into the sensitive skin of your shoulder, a sharp, jagged bite that drew a muffled, pained cry from your throat. He held it there, his teeth grinding into your skin until you felt the sting turn into a white-hot, throbbing ache that radiated down to your toes.
He let go of your neck only to grab both of your wrists, pinning them into the small of your back with one massive hand while his other hand found your ass again, spanking it with a territorial, bruising intensity. “Is it too much for you? Is the ‘best friend’ being too mean? Tell me to stop, slut.”
“No,” you sobbed, the word a broken, pathetic whine that was lost to the rhythmic, wet slapping of his hips against yours. You were a mess—your skin slick with sweat and the evidence of his earlier release, your vision sparking with every deep, uncompromising strike. “Mingi... please... don’t stop. I’m yours. Only yours.”
“Good,” he growled, the vibration of the word traveling through your body. He increased the pace, his thrusts reaching brutal speed that made the bed frame rattle against the wall. He was hammering into you, his knuckles rubbing against your inner thigh, his thumb finding that one specific spot he remembered and grinding into it with a relentless, heavy pressure.
You were breaking. The walls you’d built over the last three months weren’t just crumbling; they were on fire. You were a moaning, begging, sobbing wreck under him, your hips stuttering in a frantic, uncoordinated dance as you tried to keep up with his aggression. Every time you tried to pull away from the intensity, he’d yank your hair or tighten, forcing you to take every inch of him.
“Look at yourself,” he shoved his fingers into your mouth, tasting the salt of your tears as he forced you to choke on them. “Ninety days I sat across from you and acted like I didn’t want to do exactly this. Ninety days of you pretending you didn’t need this. And now look at you. You’re pathetic. You’re shaking for me.”
He suddenly released your wrists, but before you could even bring your hands forward to brace yourself, he grabbed your waist and hauled your hips upward, his fingers hooking into the front of your hip bones and pulling you back so hard you thought you might snap. He dived deep, his cock hitting the back of you with a blunt-force that made your vision go black for a split second.
“Mine,” he roared, the word a primal, guttural sound that tore from his throat. He was close—you could feel the tremors in his muscles, the way his breath was coming in ragged, wet hitches that rattled in his chest.
“I’m coming,” he hissed, his voice a fractured thread of sound. “And I’m going to fill you so full you won’t be able to think about another man for the rest of your fucking life.”
He surged forward one last time, his entire body locking up as he came. He let out a low groan, his forehead thumping against your back as he flooded you with a thick, relentless heat.
Mingi didn’t move, he stayed buried inside you, his heavy weight pinning you into the sheets, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. The silence that followed his release was suffocating, broken only by the ragged, wet sound of Mingi’s lungs fighting for air against your spine. He was a dead weight, his chest heaving, his skin slick and sticking to yours as the heat of him pooled inside you. But for you, the world hadn’t stopped. The friction, the bites, and the deep, territorial hammering had wound you into a tight, screaming knot of nerves that was now vibrating with fire.
You tried to shift, to grind your hips back against him in a desperate search for the friction he’d just stolen away, but he was too heavy. You were pinned, your face buried in the damp pillow, the salt of your tears stinging the raw skin of your cheeks.
“Mingi,” you whimpered, the name coming out as a broken, high-pitched sob. “Mingi, please... I can’t—I need to cum.”
He let out a low, vibrating grunt against your shoulder blade, his fingers still curled loosely into the hair at the base of your skull. The lack of response made the ache in your lower belly sharpen into a physical pain. You began to thrash weakly, your knees scraping against the sheets as you tried to find the ledge he’d just pushed you off.
“Please!” you cried out, your voice cracking, raw and whiny. “It hurts, Min. I’ve been so fucking good... I did everything. I let you... I let you do everything.”
The memory of the hallway, the cold door, the floor, and the taste of him flooded back, making your pulse hammer in your throat. You were a mess—covered in him, marked by him, and utterly unraveled.
“I need it,” you sobbed into the pillow, your hips bucking in a pathetic, uncoordinated jerk. “Please, don’t leave me like this. I was so good for you. Call me whatever you want, just—please, Mingi, make me cum.”
You felt him shift then. It wasn’t a gentle movement. He let out a dark, weary chuckle that sounded more like a growl, his head lifting from your back. He didn’t pull out; instead, he gripped your waist again, his fingers sinking into the bruises he’d already made.
“You’re still talking?” he rasped, his voice a jagged, exhausted thread. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath searing. “You’re still demanding things?”
“I have to,” you wailed, your hands clawing at the headboard, your knuckles white. “I’m going to die if you don’t... please, Min... I was your slut, wasn’t I? Take care of your slut.”
The word seemed to spark the last of the embers in him. He didn’t rise back up to his feet, but he shifted his weight, reaching one large hand down between your bodies. When he found the slick, swollen clit—drenched in the evidence of his own release—you let out a scream that was muffled by the bedding.
“You were good,” he muttered, his thumb finding that sensitive peak and pinning it with a brutal, heavy pressure. He began to move, a slow, torturous circle that made your vision go white. “So fucking good.”
He increased the pressure, his other hand coming around to catch your throat again, holding you still as you began to shatter.
The moment his thumb ground into that hyper-sensitive peak, the tension that had been coiling in your gut for didn’t just snap—it exploded. Your back arched so violently your spine felt like it might crack, a sharp, broken scream tearing from your throat as the first wave hit. It wasn’t a quiet release; it was a violent one. You felt the sudden, hot deluge as you squirted, the fluid drenching his hand and splashing against the sheets and his own thighs in a frantic, uncontrollable flood.
“Fuck!” you wailed, your head thrashing against the pillow, your vision blurring into white static.
Mingi let out a dark, guttural sound—half-laugh, half-growl—as he felt the heat of you soaking the bed beneath him. He didn’t pull back. He didn’t give you a second to breathe or let your heart rate settle. Instead, the sight of you finally breaking, drowning in your own pleasure and his mess, seemed to snap the last of his restraint.
“Look at this,” he watched the fluid soak into the dark fabric of the sheets. “Look at what a fucking mess I made of you. You’re soaking my bed, baby. You’re practically drowning in it.”
He didn’t wait for the tremors in your thighs to stop. He gripped your hips again, and surged forward. He was still semi-soft from his release, but the sheer, friction-heavy contact of your contractions squeezing him, combined with the sight of your total undoing, had him hardening inside you again with a terrifying, rapid gravity.
“We’re not done,” he hissed, his teeth grazing the back of your neck. “You wanted to be my slut? You wanted to stay on your knees? Then stay there. I’m going to make sure you’re still twitching when the sun comes up.”
He grabbed your waist, his strength uncompromising as he forced you to shift. He hauled you around until you were flat on your back, your hair fanned out against the cushions. The transition was jarring, the cool air hitting your drenched skin and making your nipples peak instantly.
Mingi loomed over you, his knees bracketing your hips, his chest heaving. From this angle, he looked even more massive, his shadow swallowing you whole. He reached down, grabbing your ankles and shoving your knees back toward your chest, pinning you wide open in a position that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
The sight of you—flushed, trembling, and still glistening from your own climax—sent a fresh wave of heat through him. He looked down at your face, seeing the red mark on your cheek and the dazed, broken look in your eyes, and his jaw tightened.
“I want to see your face when I do this,” his hand slid down to guide his rigid, pulsing length back to your entrance. He was already heavy and leaking again. “I want to see your eyes roll back when you realise you’re never going to be empty again.”
He leaned forward, his weight crushing you into the bed, and began to sink back in. It was a slow deep stretch, his eyes locked onto yours as he watched the exact moment the air left your lungs.
He began to move again, but the rhythm was different now—slower, heavier, and even more punishing. Every thrust was a wet, sliding impact, the sound of skin hitting skin loud and rhythmic in the quiet room. Because of how wet you were, he was sliding deep, hitting your cervix with a blunt force that made you sob, your hands clutching the sheets as you tried to keep your balance.
Mingi watched your face with a predatory stillness, his eyes tracking every flicker of sensation that crossed your features. He didn’t move fast. He didn’t give you the frantic pace. Instead, he began a slow, deep grind, his hips rotating in a way that forced you to feel every single ridge, every throb of his pulse against your internal walls.
“Does that hurt?” he whispered, his voice a low, vibrating hum that seemed to resonate inside your very bones. “Or does it just ache? Tell me how it feels to have me taking up every inch of you while you’re still coming down.”
He pulled back so slowly it was a torture of its own, the slick friction of his withdrawal making your breath hitch in a series of broken, stuttering hitches. Just as you thought he was going to leave you empty, he surged back in, a heavy, deliberate thrust that bottomed out with a wet, visceral thud.
“I can’t... Min, I can’t,” the words dissolved into a series of broken moans. You were a sobbing, twitching, mess under him, your body no longer your own, entirely at his mercy.
Mingi reached down, his hand clamping around your throat—not enough to choke, but enough to hold you still, his thumb pressing firmly into the hinge of your jaw to force your mouth open.
“You’re clenching around me so tight,” he groaned, his forehead thumping against yours. “It’s like your body is trying to trap me inside. Is that what you want? To keep me here until the sun comes up?”
He moved again—a torturous, dragging slide that hit your G-spot with a precision that made your toes curl and your fingers dig into his forearms. Your hips reflexively tried to chase the rhythm he was denying you. Every time you tried to buck upward to meet him, he used his hands to pin you back further, keeping you wide, and exposed.
“Don’t rush me,” he hissed, his teeth grazing your jaw. “You’re going to feel every single second of this.”
He leaned down, his tongue catching a stray tear on your cheek before his mouth hovered over yours.
The slowness was stripping your nerves bare. Every time he dragged himself out, you felt a hollow, frantic grief, and every time he pushed back in with that heavy, unhurried deliberation, your vision swam with a desperate need. You were reaching for a peak that he was moving further away with every torturous rotation of his hips.
“Please... please,” your fingers were clawing at his biceps, trying to pull him down, trying to force a friction that would finally break you. “Not like this. Don’t... don’t be slow. I can’t take it.”
“You want me to stop being gentle?” he gripped your hair, tilting your head back until your throat was exposed and your eyes were locked on his. “You want me to treat you like the slut you are? To drive you into the bed until you can’t remember your own name?”
“Yes!” the word was a shattered, frantic plea.
“Damn right.”
He didn’t ease into it. He surged forward with a sudden, violent velocity that knocked the air out of your lungs in a sharp ungh. He began to drive into you with a rhythmic, bruising ferocity, his hips hitting yours with a sound like a physical assault. He leaned down, his chest crushing yours, his mouth on yours in a kiss that tasted of salt, desperation, and total victory. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them beside your head, his fingers interlacing with yours in a grip that felt like a permanent brand. Every thrust was deeper than the last, his hips slamming against yours with a wet, heavy sound that filled the room. He was watching you—watching the way your lips parted, the way your eyes rolled back, the way you were completely, utterly coming apart under him. He liked the mess. He liked that he was the one who had reduced you to a whimpering, begging slut.
“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” he muttered against your lips, his breathing coming in jagged, animalistic bursts. “Broken. Messy. Mine.”
He shifted his grip, one hand leaving your wrist to slide down, his thumb finding your hyper-sensitive clit again, grinding into it even as he hammered into you. The dual assault was too much. You felt the scream building in your throat, your entire body coiling into a tight wire.
“I’m—I’m going to—Fuuuck—”
“Go then,” he roared, his own pace reaching a blurring, frantic speed. “I want to feel every bit of it.”
As you shattered, your walls clamping around him in a violent rhythm, Mingi let out a low moan. He drove into you one last time, his entire body locking as he flooded you again, his forehead thumping against yours.
Mingi collapsed on top of you, his full weight crushing you into the bed, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he sobbed for air. He was shaking—truly shaking—the adrenaline finally leaving his system and leaving him hollowed out and spent.
The room fell into a heavy, ringing silence, broken only by the wet, rhythmic hitch of your combined breathing. Mingi didn’t pull away; he stayed buried deep, his forehead pressed against yours, his skin slick and fused to yours by a layer of salt and heat.
The bedroom felt different now—thicker, charged with the heaviness of the storm that had finally spent itself. The ‘best friend’ facade hadn’t just been cracked; it had been ground into the floorboards along with the buttons of his shirt.
Slowly, Mingi let out a long, shuddering breath that fanned across your neck. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes hooded and dark, searching your face in the dim silver light. He looked at the smear of himself on your face, the bruises blooming on your neck, and the way your lips were swollen and parted as you struggled for air.
He didn’t look sorry. He looked settled.
“Don’t even think about it,” he whispered, his voice still a fractured rasp. His hand moved from the pillow to your hair, his fingers gently—finally gently—tucking a damp strand behind your ear. “Don’t think about the morning. Don’t think about how you’re going to try to take this back tomorrow over coffee. It’s done.”
You let out a small, tired whimper, your fingers curling weakly into the muscles of his forearms. Your body felt like it had been hollowed out, replaced by a warm, heavy liquid. “I can’t take it back, Min. I don’t think I can even walk.”
A ghost of a smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth—the first glimpse of the Mingi you knew. “Good. You’re staying right here.”
As Mingi finally began to withdraw, the sensation was a slow, heavy drag that felt like he was peeling himself away from your very soul. The air in the room hit your raw skin, but the cold didn’t last long. Without the solid plug of him holding it back, the sheer, excessive volume of what he’d left inside you began to yield to gravity.
You felt a thick, warm rush—a heavy, creamy spill that leaked from your core and pooled in the dip of your thighs. It was a visceral, sliding heat, a pearly mess of his release mixed with your own frantic fluid, painting a stark, white map against the dark sheets.
Mingi stayed close, his knees still bracketed around you as he watched the evidence of his reclamation coat your skin. He reached down, his large hand following the path of the spill, his fingers dragging through the cream and smearing it across your hip in a slow circle. He wanted to see it; he wanted to see exactly how much of himself he had forced you to carry.
“I told you,” he rasped, his voice dropping into a dark, satisfied hum as he watched the slow drip hit the mattress. “I told you I was going to fill you up. I told you I’d make sure you felt me for the next days.” He didn’t reach for a tissue. He didn’t try to clean you. Instead, he leaned down and licked a stray drop from your inner thigh, his tongue rough and hot, before looking back up at you with a predatory glint still simmering in his eyes. “That's exactly where it belongs,” he whispered. “Right inside you. Marking you so that every time you take a step tomorrow, you feel me sliding out of you and remember exactly what happened.”
The adrenaline was finally receding, leaving behind a heavy, aching lethargy. Mingi pulled you flush against his side, his skin still damp and radiator-hot against yours.
He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. The harsh, territorial side of him had softened, though his eyes still held a dazed, singular focus. He reached out, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lower lip before he leaned down for a kiss. It wasn’t like the others. There was no bruising pressure, no desperation—just a slow, deep, and devastatingly passionate press of his mouth against yours. It tasted of salt and total surrender.
When he pulled back, his forehead lingered against yours, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. “I love you,” he whispered.
The words hit you harder than any of the impacts against the door. You froze, your heart skipping a beat before hammering against your ribs. Your eyes were wide, searching the sharp, damp angles of his face for a smirk, a sneer, or the dark, demeaning glint he’d worn all night. You were looking for the punchline—the part where he told you that you were just a convenient place to dump three months of frustration. But his gaze was steady.
“What?” you breathed, your voice a fractured wreck. “What are you talking about? Min… I thought…” You swallowed hard, a sudden, stinging heat rising behind your eyes. “I thought I was just… a good fuck. I thought this was you finally getting me out of your system so you could stop hating me.”
Mingi flinched, his expression crumbling into genuine, hurt surprise. He let out a dry, huffed laugh, his hand sliding from your jaw to tangle deeply in your hair. “A good fuck?” he repeated, his voice thick with disbelief. “You think I’d turn into a fucking animal like that for just anyone? You think I’ve been sitting across from you for three months, dying a little bit, because I wanted a fuck?” He shook his head, his eyes burning with a raw honesty that made your throat tight. “I’ve loved you since we were eighteen, you idiot,” he rasped, his thumb brushing a fresh tear from your cheek. “Every thing I did, every time I stayed over to watch movies, every time I walked you home... it was because I couldn’t stand being away from you. Tonight wasn’t just about sex. It was because I was terrified I was actually losing you.”
The air left your lungs in a long, shaky sob. All the walls you’d kept up, the “friendship” you’d tried to protect while your own heart was breaking, finally shattered for good. You surged upward, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in the crook of his shoulder.
“I love you too,” you choked out, your voice muffled by his skin. “I’ve loved you forever, Min. I just thought... I thought you only saw me as one of the guys. I thought tonight was just... yet another mistake you’d regret in the morning.”
Mingi let out a long, shuddering breath, his arms tightening around you until you were practically a part of him. He rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of him so your heart was beating directly against his. “Never a mistake,” he promised, his voice dipping into that protective, low hum. “And you’re never going back to being ‘just a friend.’ You’re mine now. I’m not letting you go again.”
He began to stroke your back, his large hand moving in slow, rhythmic circles that chased away the lingering tremors in your muscles. He leaned up, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, before hovering over your lips. “I love you, you beautiful, stubborn girl. But don’t think for a second that means I’m going to be any less greedy with you.”
Mingi let out a long, heavy sigh—the kind that sounded like a man who had finally laid down a hundred-pound weight he’d been carrying for years. He looked around the room, his eyes landing on the wreckage of your dress near the door and the literal state of his floor, and he let out a dry, breathy chuckle.
“Well,” he rasped, his voice still a bit wrecked. “I’m definitely going to need to hire a professional cleaning crew. And you’re definitely getting a bill for my dignity.”
You let out a weak, tired laugh, burying your face back into the crook of his neck. “Your dignity? You’re the one who turned into a feral animal because I wore a dress with a slit, Song Mingi.”
“A slit that went to your armpit,” he corrected, his hand sliding down to give your hip a playful, much gentler squeeze. “And don't act like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. You’ve been a brat for years, Y/N. I was just finally fulfilling my civic duty to shut you up.”
“My legs are actually jelly,” you whispered, resting your forehead against his. “I hope you’re prepared to carry me everywhere for the next business week.”
“A business week? Please. With the way you were begging? You’re lucky if I let you walk by next Christmas,” he teased, his eyes sparkling with that familiar, mischievous glint you’d loved since you were teenagers. “And for the record, you were always a terrible ‘just a friend.’ You’re much better as a ‘terrifyingly loud girlfriend.’”
“I wasn’t that loud,” you defended, though your face flushed a deep crimson.
“The neighbours three floors down would disagree, but sure,” he kissed your forehead with a gentleness that felt like a secret, followed by a soft, lingering kiss to your nose. “We need to shower. But if you think I’m washing your hair without making fun of your taste in men—specifically that suit-wearing prick—you’ve got another thing coming.”
You rolled your eyes, “I love you, you idiot.”
The corner of his mouth twitched into a real, soft smile—the one he only ever saved for you. “I love you too, baby. Now let’s get in the shower before I decide I’m not actually as tired as I thought I was.”
Summary: All the almosts finally collapse. Neither of you holds back.
Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction and does NOT represent the written member in any way. This is just for fun, nothing more. You are responsible for the content you consume.
Warnings/Ratings: 18+ MDNI!! THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SMUT. Cussing, violence, mention of weapons (guns, knives, etc), threats, toxic behavior (from y/n’s father), kidnapping, reader gets held captive, use of pet names, multiple orgasms, praise, oral (both give and receive), aftercare. I think I’ve got them all! Please let me know if I missed anything.
AN: yalllll I am NAWT SANE after writing this😫 my bestie asked me if I was okay when I told her the word count of just the smut half (it’s 5.5k words) tbh over half of this chapter is smut— I absolutely hope yall enjoy it. Lowkey I think this is the best I’ve written🙂↔️ okayy I’ll shut up now, enjoyyy💗😙
Morning finds you tangled together.
Hongjoong’s arm rests heavy across your waist, his hand curled like it learned the shape of you in its sleep and refused to forget. Your back presses to his chest, the slow rhythm of his breathing warm through the thin fabric between you.
He stirs first but doesn’t move. After a moment, your breathing falls into the same quiet rhythm.
You tell him what you decided while he slept. Soft. Careful. Not dramatic.
He doesn’t interrupt. Just tightens his hold once, a silent acknowledgment that lands deeper than words. His forehead presses briefly to the back of your shoulder, grounding himself there.
“I’ll go wherever you go,” he says into your skin.
It isn’t a vow. It’s a fact.
───
In the kitchen, flour dusts the counter like snowfall.
You bake because it gives your hands something to do. Because it feels domestic in a way that still surprises you. Hongjoong leans against the counter, sleeves rolled, watching you measure and pour with quiet attention.
At some point he steps closer to help, reaching past you for a bowl and never quite moving away.
Your hips brush once. Then again.
Neither of you says anything.
He steadies the bowl while you stir, fingers grazing yours by accident. You don’t pull back. The bond hums low and steady, like a held breath.
When Seonghwa appears, it’s almost a relief. The moment stretches too thin otherwise.
He talks logistics. Safe houses. Timing. Layers of disappearance. You nod, listening, but your attention keeps drifting back to the warmth behind you, the way Hongjoong’s hand rests just above your hip like he’s reminding himself where you are.
When Seonghwa leaves, the space he occupied feels abruptly empty.
Hongjoong clears his throat. “We should… probably clean up.”
“Probably,” you agree.
Neither of you move right away.
───
The dance room is quiet when you slip inside later, sun slanting low through tall windows.
You stretch instinctively, testing how much your body remembers. Hongjoong stays near the wall at first, respectful, careful. But when you stumble slightly on a turn, he’s there instantly, hands warm and sure on your arms.
“You’ve got it,” he murmurs.
You look up at him. Close. Too close.
Your hand curls into his shirt, just to steady yourself. His breath stutters. For a heartbeat, neither of you moves, the bond flaring hot between you.
He lets you go first.
Barely.
───
By evening, the air feels thinner.
You sit on the couch with your knees drawn up, Hongjoong close enough that his presence presses warm into your side. His thumb traces slow circles over your wrist, right where the bond pulses, like he’s grounding himself through you. You tilt your hand without thinking, offering more skin.
The contact deepens. Quiet. Intimate.
When he finally looks at you, there’s something feral and careful in his eyes, desire leashed so tightly it almost hums.
“This is going to get harder,” he says under his breath.
You lean in, just enough that your lips nearly brush his cheek. “I know.”
His hand slides to your jaw, steady but reverent, and when his mouth finds yours, it’s slow and deliberate, tasting like a promise held back far too long. You breathe him in, fingers curling into his shirt.
Then—
“Wow,” Jongho’s voice cuts in, flat and unimpressed. “Should I apologize or pretend I didn’t see that?”
You jolt apart.
Yeosang stands beside him, already halfway into the room, holding a blanket and blinking like he stepped into the wrong timeline. “I said we should knock,” he mutters, not sounding sorry at all.
Heat floods your face. Hongjoong clears his throat, hand dropping from your jaw like it burned.
Jongho’s gaze flicks between the two of you, sharp and knowing. “Movie night?” he offers, far too innocent.
Yeosang raises the blanket slightly. “I already picked one.”
There’s a beat. Then another.
Hongjoong exhales, long and controlled, and glances at you. A silent question. A shared decision.
You nod.
“Yeah,” you say, voice steadier than you feel. “Movie night sounds… good.”
Restraint, chosen.
They pile onto the couch in an easy sprawl, Jongho claiming the far left, Yeosang curling into a few spaces near him. Hongjoong stays beside you, close but careful, thigh warm against yours, arm stretched behind you instead of around.
The movie starts. Something loud and ridiculous. None of you are really watching.
Your pinky brushes his.
He doesn’t move it away.
Under the noise and laughter and shared space, the wanting doesn’t disappear. It just waits. Quiet and patient. And somehow, that makes it burn even hotter.
The movie barely makes it twenty minutes before the room fills again.
“Why is everyone already here?” Wooyoung’s voice carries down the hall, followed by San’s laughter and the unmistakable clatter of someone nearly tripping over the coffee table.
“Because,” Seonghwa says calmly as he appears in the doorway, eyes flicking once to you and Hongjoong before moving on like he’s cataloging furniture, “apparently this is where the gravity is tonight.”
Mingi follows last, holding a bag of snacks like a peace offering. “I smelled popcorn,” he explains, as if that justifies everything.
The couch becomes a negotiation. Bodies rearrange. Someone steals Yeosang’s blanket immediately. Jongho complains loudly and then settles anyway. The movie keeps playing, now fully ignored, dialogue drowned out by commentary and inside jokes.
Hongjoong stays exactly where he is. His knee presses into yours when he laughs. His arm still rests behind you, close enough that you can feel the tension coiled there, restraint held together by choice and witnesses.
At some point, Wooyoung groans. “I’m starving.”
San perks up instantly. “Dinner?”
Mingi looks between the kitchen and the group. “We could cook.”
Jongho squints. “Last time you ‘cooked,’ the smoke alarm declared war.”
Seonghwa chuckles lowly, already moving toward the kitchen. “I’ll supervise.”
That’s all it takes.
The living room empties in a shuffle of limbs and noise. Music gets turned on. Someone hands you a knife. Someone else steals ingredients. Flour appears on the counter like a threat.
You end up beside Hongjoong at the island, shoulders brushing as you work in parallel. He passes you something without looking. You hand it back the same way. Familiar. Easy. Dangerous in a quieter way.
Seonghwa watches from across the room, a small smile ghosting his mouth, like this is exactly what he hoped would happen without ever saying it out loud.
Eventually dinner lands on the table in mismatched plates and stolen bowls, forks clinking, laughter spilling across the table. The aroma of the meal you all cooked drifts through the room, comforting and domestic.
“Okay,” Wooyoung says, taking his first bite and immediately pointing his chopsticks at Mingi. “This is good. Which means you definitely didn’t touch it.”
Mingi scoffs. “I chopped vegetables.”
Seonghwa doesn’t look up. “You dropped three of them on the floor.”
“They were spiritually fine.”
Yunho hums thoughtfully as he eats. “I watched him rinse one and put it back.”
“That’s called sustainability,” Mingi argues.
Jongho snorts. “That’s called how you get banned from the kitchen.”
Laughter ripples around the table, easy and familiar. Someone reaches across you for salt. Someone else steals a bite off San’s plate and pays for it with a yelp.
Hongjoong sits close. Close enough that his elbow bumps yours when he gestures, close enough that you feel it whenever he laughs. When he leans in to speak, his voice drops low, like the space between you belongs only to the two of you.
Wooyoung hums, leaning back, “you two have been really quiet tonight. Suspiciously quiet.”
Your cheeks heat, and you shift closer to Hongjoong, subtlety. He responds, hand brushing yours across the table, but just barely.
Jongho smirks, elbowing Yeosang. “Quiet, huh?”
Yeosang quirks a brow.
“We might’ve caught a little… show earlier,” Jongho admits, grin spreading. “Couch. Kiss. You know… the works.”
Your jaw drops. Hongjoong’s hand freezes mid-reach for the salad, eyes darkening with a mix of amusement and mock threat.
Wooyoung chokes on his drink. “Wait— what?”
“You heard me,” Jongho says, unapologetic. “It was impressive, actually. Almost artistic.”
Heat floods your face. Hongjoong clears his throat, muttering something low, the corner of his lips twitching despite himself.
Seonghwa raises an eyebrow, calm as ever. “Did I miss something?”
“Not technically,” Jongho says, leaning back in his chair. “Technically, yes. But yes, you missed it.”
The table erupts into laughter. Wooyoung teases mercilessly, Yeosang rolls his eyes, and the rest of the group shakes their heads with smirks and chuckles.
You and Hongjoong exchange a glance under the table, hands brushing subtly, a silent truce.
Still, the teasing lingers, playful, full of meaning. Every glance, every accidental touch under the table is charged. The tension hums quietly alongside the laughter and conversation.
Even as plates are cleared and dessert is passed around, the energy between you two pulses just beneath the surface.
───
The house settles into quiet. Voices fade, footsteps retreat down the hall, doors clicking closed one by one until only the low hum of the place remains, settling into itself.
You linger near the sink, fingers tracing the edge of the counter as Hongjoong dries the last plate beside you. Neither of you speaks— you don’t need to. The air has been taut all evening, stretched by glances, restraint, and the way he never quite touched you where he wanted.
You walk down the hall slowly, Hongjoong a few steps behind, the silence pressing heavier than any words could.
When you reach your door, you pause.
He stops too.
For a second, you think he might turn away. Give you space. Be careful, like he’s been all day.
Instead, you open the door and step aside.
He follows.
The door clicks shut behind him. Before you can step further, his hand closes around your wrist— firm enough to stop you, gentle enough to ask. He turns you toward him slowly, stretching the moment, letting you feel every heartbeat between you.
“Tell me if this isn’t okay,” he murmurs, low and steady, bracing for your answer. You step closer, letting your body speak for you.
The bond hums instantly, flaring bright and warm. When he exhales, something loosens in him. His hand slides to your waist, resting there, grounding you as if afraid you might drift. When his mouth finds yours this time, nothing is held back.
This kiss is deeper than before, hunger threaded with restraint snapping clean in his chest. The kind of kiss built on hours of tension, days of almosts. You feel it everywhere— in the flex of his fingers against your skin, in the way your breath stutters when he tilts his head, taking his time.
You moan into him, tugging him closer, palms flattening against his chest, feeling his heartbeat hard beneath your hands.
“Been wanting this all day,” he admits quietly, like speaking it costs him something.
You smile, soft and a little unsteady. “I know. So have I.”
That does something to him.
His mouth traces along your jaw and down your throat, slow enough to make your breath hitch, reverent enough to feel almost unfair. Every touch is deliberate. Every pause a question you answer by arching into him, threading your fingers into his hair.
His hands find the buttons of your sweater, pausing just long enough for you to notice. Impatient, breath shallow, you tug it open before he can speak.
He lets out a quiet, warm laugh. “Slow down, angel. We have all night.” His hand covers yours briefly, stilling it before returning to the sweater. “May I?” he asks, voice low.
You nod without thinking.
He clicks his tongue softly, shaking his head with a smile. “Use your words.”
“Yes,” you say quickly, then softer, “please.”
He slips the sweater from your shoulders with practiced ease, letting it fall with a muted thud. His hands linger briefly before moving behind you to unfasten your bra, removing it as if it were something sacred. His gaze never leaves yours, dark and reverent, drinking you in beneath the dim light.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, like the thought just occurred and struck hard.
Then his mouth claims yours again, stealing your breath. His lips trace your jaw and neck, leaving heat behind before reaching your breast, sucking softly. Your breath stutters, legs threatening to give out beneath you.
His hands rest at your hips, grounding you as he leans lower. His thumbs hook lightly at your waistband, a silent question.
“Please,” you breathe. “Take them off.”
His mouth curves into a small, dangerous smile. He doesn’t answer immediately. Methodically, he unbuttons your jeans, letting the zipper follow, easing the denim down your hips before sinking to his knees. His gaze never wavers.
His intense gaze makes your breath hitch, warmth pooling low. His hands linger along your thighs, steady and grounding.
“I’ve wanted you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough with honesty. “Not just tonight. For a long time now.”
The weight of his words settles over you. Being looked at like this, held with both desire and care, feels almost overwhelming.
“I’ve been holding back too,” you admit, the words barely louder than a breath. Your fingers curl into his hair, not urging, just anchoring. “Because wanting you like this feels… terrifying. And right.”
Something in Hongjoong softens. He exhales slowly before leaning down to press a gentle kiss to one thigh, then the other. Unhurried. Reverent.
You laugh under your breath at the feather-light touch. His kisses climb, warmer and more deliberate, as if memorizing you instead of claiming. His hands remain steady at your hips while his mouth traces a slow path upward, making your pulse stumble.
When he finally looks up at you, there’s something open in his eyes. Not hunger alone. Trust.
“Let me take care of you,” he says quietly.
Not a promise of what he’ll do, but of how carefully he’ll do it— asking to be trusted with something fragile.
You nod immediately, fingers still tangled in his hair.
“Words, angel. Use them.”
“I— please— touch me,” you murmur, impatient and needy.
Hongjoong hums against you, amused, teasing. Then he presses one more kiss to your inner thigh, slower this time, lingering, before his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties. He eases them down, helping you step out, never rushing, watching your face the whole time.
He pulls his hoodie over his head next, tossing it aside, then returns his hands to your hips, guiding you back until your knees hit the bed. Only then does he settle between your legs, sealing your lips in a kiss that leaves you dizzy and breathless.
“So perfect,” he breathes, lips tracing your neck before drifting down, mapping your skin.
His hands slide down to your thighs, easing them apart. The sound he makes is low and unguarded, like he’s lost the ability to pretend restraint ever existed.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough with feeling. “Baby, you’re dripping.”
Hongjoong doesn’t give you a chance to respond, mouth descending with purpose. He licks you firmly from your entrance to your clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue. A sharp cry slips from you at the sudden pleasure, bucking your hips against his mouth. He pulls you closer, dragging your thighs up onto his shoulders.
Every movement is unhurried, like he wants to memorize the way you react, the way your breathing falters and your hips tilt toward him instinctively.
“Hongjoong—“ A broken sound slips past your lips as your back arches without permission.
He groans into you, at the taste of you, his tongue swirling with deliberate precision.
You grind your hips down against his mouth, chasing more. Your voice cracks on a moan as he grips your thighs tighter, holding you in place while he feasts on you like his life depends on it.
You ride his tongue with reckless desperation, thighs trembling around his head as he brings you closer.
“Oh god,” you whimper. “Please, don’t stop”
He answers with a quiet sound against your skin. His mouth slides up, tongue flattening against you, lips sucking as two fingers slide inside, thrusting and curling immediately into your sweet spot. A few steady pumps of his fingers are all it takes to unravel you. You cry out as pleasure hits, hard and blinding. Your body shaking beneath his grip. You clutch at him, gasping his name, and he holds you through every aftershock, pressing quiet kisses to your skin.
When the tremors finally soften, he lifts his head slowly.
His lips are swollen, breathing still unsteady, but it’s his eyes that steal yours. They’re dark, yes, but lit from somewhere deeper. Not just desire. Something possessive in the most vulnerable way. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real. Like watching you fall apart for him shook something loose in him too.
He brushes a strand of hair from your face, knuckles grazing your cheek.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says quietly, voice rough.
You swallow, heart kicking back to life.
“Show me,” you whisper.
Something in his expression snaps. He leans over you again, capturing your mouth in a deep kiss. His hand slides up your waist, fingers splaying against your ribs like he needs to feel the rise of your chest beneath his palm.
He pulls back just barely, his forehead resting against yours.
“You’re not just a want,” he says softly. “You’re everything I’ve been trying not to need.”
Your chest tightens at that.
“Then need me,” you breathe.
His hand tightens at your waist, not harsh, but steady. He presses you fully into the mattress, his body a warm, solid weight above yours. His gaze darkens as it drags over your face.
“You don’t get to say things like that,” he says quietly, “and expect me to stay calm.”
Your pulse jumps.
He captures your mouth again, not frantic this time, but commanding. Intentional. Like he’s proving something with the slow press of his lips against yours.
One hand slips from your waist, sliding down his own body. Without breaking the kiss, he pushes his sweatpants down and steps out of them, careless about where they land. The movement is easy, confident. Like he knows you’re too lost in him to notice anything but the way he’s touching you.
When he settles back between your legs, his hands return to your thigh, guiding it higher, adjusting you with quiet certainty because he already knows you’ll let him.
“You trust me?” he asks against your lips.
“Yes.”
The answer is immediate.
That’s all he needs.
His lips trail down your neck again, slower this time, deliberate in every kiss. His fingers settle at your hips, steady enough to remind you who’s setting the pace, gentle enough to keep you steady. He keeps you exactly where he wants you, holding you open beneath him.
You feel the warmth of him between your thighs, the slow press of his body against yours. He grinds against you, coating himself with your slick, a quiet groan escaping him at the feeling.
“You’re so responsive,” he breathes, almost to himself. “Every little thing I do…”
“Look at me,” he says gently.
You do.
His thumb traces along your jaw, tilting your face just enough to keep your eyes locked on his. The intensity in his expression makes your stomach tighten all over again.
“Good girl,” he breathes, the words warm and grounding. “Stay right there.”
You swallow but don’t look away.
Slowly, he sinks into you. The feeling pulls a broken sound from both of you, a shared gasp that hangs in the air between your mouths. He stills after, forehead brushing yours, giving you a moment to adjust, to steady yourself, to feel him.
“You’re doing so well.”
The praise sinks deep, deeper than the stretch, deeper than the heat. Your breathing falters, your cunt instinctively softening around him, and he notices. Of course he does.
A faint smile touches his mouth.
“You like that, don’t you?” he asks, brushing his lips over yours before pulling back just enough to watch you. He begins to move, measured and controlled. “Like when I tell you how perfect you are for me.”
Heat pools low in your belly as a quiet sound slips from your throat. Your fingers tighten against his shoulders, not resisting, just holding on.
“So responsive,” he whispers, almost in awe. “Every sound… you give it to me.”
His hand slides to your hip, steady and grounding, keeping you exactly where he wants you. He sets the rhythm unhurried, like he wants you to feel every shift, every glide of him. The pace is measured, deliberate enough to make every movement overwhelming.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, softer now but no less certain. “Look at you.”
Your cheeks burn under his gaze. “Don’t,” you whisper, even as you arch into him.
“Don’t what?” he asks gently, thumb brushing your jaw as he guides your face back to his.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmur, your voice unsteady. “Like I’m… everything.”
His expression shifts, something raw flickering there.
“You are,” he says quietly.
The certainty in his voice leaves you momentarily speechless.
He doesn’t look away this time. Doesn’t soften it. His gaze drags over your face like he’s trying to memorize every reaction, every flicker of pleasure.
“You feel that?” he murmurs.
You nod, chest rising unevenly.
“Words.”
“Yes,” you whimper. “I feel you.”
His jaw tightens at the sound of your voice. Vulnerable. Open.
“Good,” he says, firmer now.
His hand slides from your jaw down to your throat, not squeezing, simply resting there, thumb brushing lightly over your pulse. His hips rock deeper, more purposeful, drawing another broken sound from you.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Don’t hide from me.”
The pace shifts, not frantic but heavier. Focused.
Each thrust designed to pull something from you. Your hands clutch at him, nails grazing down his back, and the quiet control he’s been holding fractures at the edges.
“Look at you,” he says, almost stunned. “Taking me so well.”
You react instantly to the praise, tightening around him, and he lets out a rough, wrecked sound that he doesn’t even try to swallow this time.
“Fuck,” he mutters, forehead pressing to yours. “I won’t last much longer if you keep doing that.”
“I can’t-“
He cuts you off with a deep kiss, swallowing the rest of the sentence. His rhythm falters for a split second, composure slipping again.
“You feel so good,” he admits against your mouth.
“So perfect,” he murmurs, voice rough. “So good for me. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough.”
You see it then.
The way his control hangs by a thread.
Your hands slide from his shoulders to his face, forcing him to look at you fully. His rhythm stumbles for half a second, just enough to show you how close he is.
“Joong,” you whisper.
The sound of his name like that nearly breaks him.
You roll your hips up deliberately, meeting him instead of just taking him. The shift is subtle, but he feels it immediately.
A shudder runs through him.
“Don’t,” he warns, but it’s weak. Unsteady.
You hold his gaze.
“I want you. All of you,” you say, steady despite the tremble in your voice. “Stop holding back. I can take it.”
His composure splinters.
A broken sound tears from his chest as his forehead drops to yours. His hand tightens at your hip.
“Baby, you have no idea what you’re asking,” he mutters.
The way you move with him after that, matching his pace and meeting every thrust with your own subtle lift, undoes him completely. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling just enough to draw a rough groan from his lips.
“That’s it,” you whisper, echoing his earlier praise. “You feel so good. I love when you look at me like that.”
His eyes snap to yours, dark and blown wide.
“Like what?” he demands, barely steady.
“Like you need me.”
That’s the final thread.
Before you can recover his hand slides down and captures both of yours. He laces his fingers through them slowly, as if giving you time to realize what he’s doing.
Then he lifts your hands above your head and presses them into the mattress. The movement isn’t rough. It’s controlled. Precise. And it sends a jolt through you.
He pins your wrists there with one hand, fingers still intertwined with yours, holding you open beneath him. His other hand slides down your body, squeezing at your hip.
“What am I going to do with you?” he growls, voice rough and strained with something he’s been holding back. “Saying things like that… testing me like this.”
You tilt your head, bold, letting your gaze meet his. “I meant it,” you whisper, your voice unsteady but firm.
“I know you did,” he admits, but the single word carries a tremor. A flicker of dark, raw need crosses his eyes, and it makes your pulse spike.
Your lips curve faintly, bold despite the way he has you pinned. “Yet you’re still holding back,” you murmur, holding his gaze. “And here I am… still waiting for you to ruin me.”
His jaw tightens, and for a heartbeat his composure slips. Then a low, guttural laugh rumbles from his chest, unrestrained.
“Oh, angel…” he breathes, the words frayed at the edges. “You’re so fucking desperate for me… you’re driving me insane.”
His grip on your wrists firms just slightly. Just enough to anchor both of you in the intensity of the moment. His other hand presses firmly at your hip, rolling you just enough to meet every thrust he delivers.
The heat rolling off him, the tremor in his hands, the crack in his voice where his control used to be, hits you like a current.
A broken sound slips from your throat as your eyes squeeze shut, fingers tightening instinctively where they’re still tangled with his above your head.
He clicks his tongue softly.
His hand leaves your hip just long enough to catch your chin, guiding your face back toward him.
“Eyes on me, angel,” he murmurs.
Your lashes flutter, but you force them open again when his thumb brushes along your jaw.
He studies your face for a moment, breathing unevenly now, like he’s trying to hold onto the last pieces of his restraint.
A slow, dangerous smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
“Good girl,” he whispers.
His forehead dips close to yours, voice rough and unsteady now.
“You wanted this so badly…”
A beat passes.
“Fine.”
His thumb presses lightly against your chin, holding your gaze steady.
“Watch me ruin you.”
The words send a sharp wave through you.
Your eyes drag helplessly over his face, the tension in his jaw, the darkness burning in his gaze. For a split second your attention dips lower, caught by the way your bodies move together.
The shift pulls a startled gasp from you before you can stop it.
“Fu—Joong—” the sound breaks out of you, breathless and shaken.
You try to bite it back, but the next moan slips free anyway, soft and helpless.
His reaction is immediate.
Another rough laugh escapes him, low and disbelieving, like the sound alone might undo him.
“Yeah?” he mutters under his breath, voice thick. “Right here?”
His palm settles back at your hip, grip firm now, as he slows his hips, rolling devastatingly deep into your sweet spot.
Your reaction hits him harder than you realize.
“Fuck…” he breathes, almost to himself.
His forehead presses against yours for a moment, breath uneven, before he lifts his head again to look at you.
And the look on his face makes your stomach twist.
“You hear yourself?” he murmurs, voice rough.
Your fingers tighten instinctively in his where they’re still tangled above your head.
“I—” you try to answer, but the words dissolve into another breathless sound when he rolls his hips again.
That sound pulls a low groan from him.
“There it is,” he says quietly, the words trembling somewhere between possessive and awed, gaze dark, hooded with want. “Every look, every breath… it’s all for me.”
You gasp, rolling your hips harder into him, giving him exactly what he craves. Every glance, every quiver, every shiver.
Hongjoong’s hand leaves your hip, drifting over your breast before sliding lower to stop just beneath your navel. His palm lingers there, warm and steady, before he presses down gently. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to deepen the sensation.
Your stomach tightens.
“You feel how deep I am?” he murmurs.
You nod immediately, the movement small and shaky, words momentarily out of reach.
His gaze lifts to yours again, dark and searching, like he’s making sure you’re still with him, still present in the moment.
“S-so deep,” you manage finally, the words slipping out before you can even think about them. Your voice sounds softer than you expect, a little breathless. The feeling has scattered every coherent thought you had.
The corner of his mouth lifts faintly, but there’s nothing smug about it. If anything, he looks a little wrecked by you— he is wrecked by you.
“So responsive for me,” he mutters, almost to himself.
His hand lingers there, feeling the way your body reacts beneath his palm.
A soft sound escapes you before you can stop it.
“Joong… please,” you breathe, the word slipping out without thought.
Your fingers tighten in his again as your gaze finds his, glassy with sensation.
“More.”
“Yeah? You want more?” he asks quietly, studying your face.
You nod immediately, breath still uneven. “Please… don’t stop.”
The words come out softer than you intended, but the way his eyes darken tells you he heard every bit of it.
His hand presses lightly at your stomach again, watching the way your breath stutters.
Another soft sound slips from you before you can catch it. His gaze drags over your face again, drinking in every reaction.
“Look at you… so needy for me.” His voice softens again but the intensity in his eyes doesn’t fade.
Instead of looking away this time, your gaze stays locked on his.
“Yes,” you whisper, the answer slipping out without hesitation.
His brows draw together slightly, like he didn’t expect you to admit it so easily.
You swallow, chest still rising unevenly, but you don’t break eye contact.
“It’s only for you,” you murmur. The quiet confidence lands harder than any plea.
A low sound leaves his chest, almost frustrated.
“Jesus…” he mutters under his breath. His hand tightens slightly over yours again, like he suddenly needs something to hold onto.
“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” he murmurs, voice rough but tinged with awe.
A faint smile curves your lips despite the breathlessness.
“You told me to keep my eyes on you…” you whisper, breath shaky but daring, letting the words hang between you.
You let your gaze linger, tracing the intensity in his expression while your fingers drift over his chest, teasing him with each brush.
His jaw tightens, pupils darkening, breath hitching at the deliberate confidence in your tone. A low, guttural growl rumbles deep in his throat.
“You… you’re unreal,” he murmurs, voice rough and trembling at the edges. “So bold… so perfect for me.”
You bite your lip softly, whispering back, “Only for you.”
The words hit him like fire, shattering what little composure he had left.
The way he moves after that is different. Still deliberate, but deeper. Hungrier. Every motion earned. Every breath shared.
Your hands remain intertwined above your head, his grip firm but trembling. The control he’s been clinging to finally snaps, and you feel it in the way his hips lose all careful restraint.
You tighten around him, a high, broken cry escaping your lips.
“Just like that,” he pants, voice ragged with need. “Fucking take it.”
Your gaze never wavers, even as the pressure inside builds, each thrust winding the tension tighter until your body can barely contain it.
“Joong— please,” you breathe, voice breaking as your fingers tighten around his. “I can’t hold it—”
“I know,” he murmurs, forehead pressing to yours. “You’re squeezing me.”
His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “I’ve got you, angel.”
Your breath shudders as his gaze locks with yours again, steady and unyielding.
“Don’t fight it,” he whispers, voice rough but reassuring. “Let go for me.”
His pace falters for a second, then quickens, more urgent but still deliciously deep. The hand holding yours tightens in shared desperation.
“Cum with me, baby,” he says, the words barely steady.
The words send the final wave crashing through you.
The command isn’t sharp. It’s pleading.
The intensity snaps all at once.
Your back arches into him, his name falling from your lips as everything crashes through you, bright and overwhelming.
His grip firms instinctively, anchoring you as tears streak your cheeks.
“That’s it,” he murmurs softly near your ear, the praise warm and breathless. “Just like that.”
A rough groan escapes him as he reaches his own peak, burying himself deep with stuttering thrusts, breath hitching against your skin.
His hold on your hands doesn’t loosen, fingers still laced with yours like he needs the contact just as much.
For a moment, there’s nothing but warmth, trembling, and the quiet rhythm of each other’s breathing.
He slowly lowers your hands from above your head but doesn’t release them. Instead, he brings them down between you, pressing your knuckles to his lips.
Hongjoong shifts beside you, careful not to crush you beneath the weight of his body as he settles. His forehead rests against yours, breathing still uneven, fingers brushing through your hair like he’s memorizing the texture. His thumb sweeps lightly beneath your eye, catching the last trace of moisture there.
You curl slightly into him, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. The bond hums softly between you, warm and insistent, echoing everything you just shared.
“You holding up?” he murmurs, voice rough but gentle.
You nod, though words feel unnecessary. Instead, you trace lazy circles over his shoulder, leaning into the quiet comfort of his warmth.
He presses a soft kiss to your temple, then another along your cheek, each one steadying.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Always.”
You breathe out softly against him. “I know… I feel it,” you murmur, letting the words settle between you.
For a long while, you stay like that, tangled together beneath the sheets. His hands drift slowly over your back and arms in absentminded reassurance while your legs tangle with his instinctively.
“You’re perfect,” he murmurs after a while. Not in the heated, commanding way from before, but softer now. A gentle truth. “Every part of you.”
You press a small kiss to his collarbone, lingering there for a moment.
“You’re mine,” you whisper.
A quiet breath leaves him at that, his forehead resting against yours again.
“And you’re mine,” he murmurs back, voice barely above a breath.
“Forever,” you murmur, nestling closer against him.
Genre: Enemies(?) to lover, dark fantasy, medieval au, adventure, slowburn, knight x princess, angst, eventual fluff, very very slight (if you squint) suggestive wording
She fled a kingdom that wanted her blood. He fled a crown he refused to kneel to. Their paths weren't meant to cross... but fate wanted a different story. The kingdom wanted her dead. The knight wanted nothing to do with her. But the moment she saw the eyes beneath his helm... she stopped running from danger, and started running towards him.
The forest thins slowly, reluctantly, as though the trees themselves are hesitant to reveal what lies beyond them.
Mingi pushes forward regardless.
Branches snap beneath the force of his blade as he cuts through the last of the dense undergrowth, steel flashing in short, efficient movements that betray long years of training. Twigs and leaves fall around his boots, scattering across the damp earth while he forces a narrow passage through the final curtain of green.
Then the trees open. He steps out onto a rise overlooking a clearing so vast that for a moment even he pauses.
Below him stretches the resistance encampment.
It sprawls across the wide basin like a living thing, vibrant and restless beneath the late afternoon light. Tents of deep red and sun-faded yellow rise in neat rows, their pointed tops swaying gently in the breeze like a field of strange, colourful spears. Some are small enough for a single occupant, while others stretch wide enough to shelter entire groups, their canvas walls patched and reinforced with mismatched cloth gathered from a hundred different places.
Fires burn throughout the camp, their smoke rising in thin grey ribbons that twist lazily into the sky. The scent of woodsmoke drifts across the clearing, mingling with the sharp tang of iron and sweat.
Near the centre of the camp, several blacksmiths work tirelessly at crude but effective forges, hammering glowing metal against anvils with ringing strikes that echo through the valley. Sparks leap into the air with every blow, scattering like angry fireflies as weapons begin to take shape beneath their skilled hands.
A narrow river winds its way through the encampment, its cool water glinting as it curls around clusters of tents before disappearing again into the surrounding forest. Fighters kneel along its banks to wash blood from blades or refill battered canteens, their voices low but constant as plans and rumours travel between them.
At the far end of the camp stands a single structure larger than the rest.
A massive command tent rises upon a wooden platform raised above the surrounding ground, its reinforced frame bound tightly with rope and heavy timber beams. Guards move in and out of it with quiet urgency, suggesting that whatever decisions are being made inside will shape the fate of everyone gathered below.
But it is not the structures that truly hold Mingi’s attention.
It is the people… or rather, the beings.
They move through the camp in numbers that would make most kingdoms fall into panic if they saw them gathered in one place.
Centaurs stride confidently between the tents, their powerful hooves striking the earth with steady rhythm as they carry bundles of arrows and supplies. Slender figures with shimmering wings- fae, unmistakably- hover above the campfires, their faint laughter occasionally drifting through the air as they exchange quiet conversations with cloaked figures who bear the unmistakable markings of forest elves.
Humans move among them as well, though their armour is rougher, mismatched pieces gathered from battlefields rather than forged for ceremony.
Beyond them stand creatures that most kingdoms insist no longer exist.
Massive orcs with thick grey skin sharpen brutal axes beside wizened wizards whose robes trail through the dirt as they mutter over glowing runes etched into the ground. A towering creature with bark-like skin, some distant cousin of the forest itself, lumbers past carrying an entire cart of supplies as though it weighs nothing at all.
Everywhere Mingi looks, different races work together with quiet purpose.
Not hidden. Not extinct. Alive.
A slow understanding settles over him as he studies the camp below.
The kingdoms had always described the forest as dangerous, a cursed place crawling with beasts and monsters that would tear apart anyone foolish enough to enter it. But standing here now, watching an entire civilisation thrive beneath the shelter of ancient trees, the truth becomes painfully obvious. The forest was never dangerous because of what lived within it. It was dangerous because the kingdoms never wanted anyone to discover that these creatures had survived at all.
A dry, amused voice drifts up beside him.
“Well,” Mr Bramble says, flicking his bushy tail as he peers over the edge of the rise, “if there were ever a place where you might blend in, this would be it.”
Mingi exhales through his nose, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a restrained growl.
The fox continues anyway, of course.
“Look at them,” Bramble goes on, tilting his head thoughtfully while his sharp eyes roam across the encampment below. “Half the kingdoms would faint dead away if they saw this gathering. Orcs beside elves, fae dancing above the campfires, and a knight who abandoned his crown standing right in the middle of it all. You, my friend, are practically one of them already.”
Mingi says nothing. He simply tightens his grip around the hilt of his sword before beginning the descent down the slope, his heavy boots pressing flattened paths through the tall grass as he makes his way toward the sprawling camp below.
Mr Bramble trots after him, weaving easily between stones and roots. “Try not to get yourself killed in the first five minutes,” the fox adds lightly. “It would be terribly inconvenient after all the effort it took to get you here.”
Mingi glances down at him briefly. “Stay close,” he mutters.
Bramble’s ears perk with mild surprise. “Worried about me?”
“No,” Mingi replies flatly as he continues walking. “Worried about what happens if they decide you’re dinner.”
The fox snorts. “Charming.”
As they approach the outer edge of the encampment, the sounds of activity grow louder. The ring of hammer against metal carries sharply through the air, mingling with low voices, the crackle of firewood, and the restless shifting of creatures who have learned to live with one eye always watching the dark edges of the forest.
And watch they do. Heads begin to turn as Mingi steps fully into view. Conversations falter. Movements slow. Eyes follow him immediately. Suspicious eyes. Curious ones. Some openly hostile.
The gleam of his palace-forged armour does not go unnoticed among the rough leathers and mismatched battle gear worn by the resistance fighters. It catches the firelight too cleanly, too perfectly maintained, marking him instantly as someone who once belonged to the very systems that hunted many of them into hiding.
A large orc near one of the forges lets out a low huff as Mingi passes. A pair of elves exchange quiet words between themselves.
Further down the path, a centaur pauses mid-step, watching the knight with open distrust.
The weight of those stares presses in from every direction as Mingi walks deeper into the camp.
He does not slow. He does not acknowledge them. But the tension thickens with every step.
Eventually, someone moves.
A broad-shouldered man steps into his path, planting himself firmly in the dirt with a sneer curling across his scarred face. His armour is battered and mismatched, pieces clearly salvaged from different battles, and a jagged axe rests loosely in one hand.
His gaze travels slowly over Mingi’s polished armour. “Lost, palace boy?” the man says, his voice thick with disdain. “You don’t look like you belong here.”
Mr Bramble mutters quietly behind him. “Oh good. It took longer than I expected for someone to try that.”
Mingi stops. For a moment, neither of them move. Then the knight speaks, his voice calm and even. “I’m looking for whoever leads this camp.”
The man’s lip curls further. “That so?”
A few nearby fighters begin to drift closer, drawn by the rising tension. Orcs straighten from their work. A fae hovering nearby goes silent. Even the centaur from earlier turns fully toward the scene.
The challenger rolls his shoulders slowly. “And you think you can just walk in here,” he continues, tapping the blunt side of his axe against his palm, “dressed like one of their pretty soldiers, and demand an audience?”
Mingi says nothing. His silence only fuels the man’s anger.
The fighter’s expression darkens as he steps forward, raising the axe slightly. “Wrong answer.” With a sudden roar, he charges.
Steel meets steel with a sharp crack that echoes through the nearby tents.
The charging man’s axe comes down with brutal force, but Mingi moves before the full weight of the strike can land. His sword rises in a clean arc, catching the blow with practiced precision, the impact shuddering briefly through his arm before he shifts his footing and pushes the weapon aside.
The man staggers half a step as his momentum carries him forward.
Mingi does not waste the opening.
In one fluid movement he draws his blade fully, the metal flashing as it clears the sheath with a quiet, deadly whisper. The sword settles easily into his grip, as though it has been waiting there the entire time.
Around them, the growing crowd leans in.
The man recovers quickly, baring his teeth as he swings again, this time aiming low in a brutal sideways strike meant to break bone rather than simply disarm. Mingi pivots out of the path of the axe, the blade of his own weapon snapping forward to intercept it once more.
Their weapons clash again. And again.
Each strike grows faster, heavier, sparks snapping into the air where metal scrapes against metal. The man fights with brute strength, his blows powerful enough to crush a weaker opponent outright, but Mingi meets every attack with the controlled efficiency of someone who has been trained for war since childhood.
He does not overreach. He does not rush. He simply waits. Watching. Learning.
The axe whistles toward his shoulder, and this time Mingi turns the strike aside so sharply that the weapon bites uselessly into the dirt beside his boot. Before the man can wrench it free, Mingi’s sword is already at his throat.
The camp falls silent. Not even the wind seems to move.
The man freezes where he stands, his breathing heavy, eyes flicking between the blade pressed lightly against his skin and the unreadable helm staring back at him.
Behind them, Mr Bramble quietly sidesteps out of the widening circle of fighters.
“Yes,” the fox mutters under his breath as he retreats a safe distance. “Let’s all swing extremely large weapons while I stand directly in the middle. Brilliant plan.”
The tension stretches like a drawn bowstring.
And then- A voice cuts through the camp.
“Enough.”
The single word rolls across the clearing like distant thunder.
Both men pause instantly. Slowly, the crowd begins to part.
High above them, standing at the entrance of the raised command tent, is the largest centaur Mingi has ever seen.
The creature’s upper body is broad and powerful, his arms thick with muscle and crossed calmly over his chest, while the massive body of the horse beneath him shifts with quiet authority. His dark mane falls down his back like a storm cloud, and the heavy armour strapped across his torso gleams faintly beneath the firelight.
His sharp eyes sweep across the gathered fighters below. Displeasure radiates from him without a single shout.
The centaur begins to descend from the platform. Each step down the wooden ramp is slow, deliberate, and by the time he reaches the ground, the crowd has already opened a wide path before him.
No one blocks his way. No one dares.
He approaches the standoff, his gaze moving first to the axe-wielding man, then to the knight standing calmly with his sword still raised.
“What,” the centaur asks evenly, “is going on here?”
The man immediately lowers his weapon. “He’s an intruder,” the fighter answers, jerking his chin toward Mingi. “Walked straight into camp wearing palace steel.”
The centaur’s gaze shifts to Mingi. For a moment, the two simply study one another. Then the centaur speaks again. “Did you come alone?”
Mingi lowers his blade but does not sheath it. “It’s just me,” he replies, nodding slightly toward the fox now sitting several paces away, tail wrapped neatly around his paws. “And him.”
The centaur glances briefly at Mr Bramble, who offers a polite little dip of his head. “Charmed,” the fox says.
The centaur looks back to Mingi. Another moment passes as he seems to weigh something silently.
Then he turns away. “Follow me,” he says simply.
Without waiting for a response, the centaur begins walking toward the raised command tent, the crowd parting once again to clear his path as murmurs ripple through the gathered fighters.
After a brief pause, Mingi sheathes his sword. And follows.
The inside of the command tent feels far larger than it appeared from the outside.
As Mingi steps beneath the thick canvas entrance, the space opens around him in a wide circular chamber supported by enormous beams of dark timber driven deep into the ground. The wood is rough and scarred, clearly hauled straight from the surrounding forest, their bark still clinging stubbornly to the trunks as though the trees themselves have been drafted into service.
The air inside carries the warm scent of smoke and leather.
Lantern light glows softly above them, cast from a great iron fixture hanging from the centre beam. Eight candles burn within the circular frame, their flames swaying gently with every shift of the canvas walls, throwing long shadows that dance across maps, weapons, and supply crates arranged around the room.
But the chamber does not end there.
Several openings branch off from the main space, their canvas flaps pulled aside to reveal smaller rooms beyond- private quarters perhaps, or strategy chambers where quieter discussions take place away from the constant movement of the camp outside.
For a moment, the only sound is the faint crackle of candle wicks.
Then the centaur turns. His towering form nearly fills the space even beneath the high canvas ceiling. From this close, Mingi can see the thick leather armour wrapped across the creature’s chest and shoulders, marked by deep scratches and stains from battles long past.
The centaur’s sharp gaze settles on him. “Drop your weapon.” The command is not shouted. It doesn’t need to be.
Mingi feels the weight of it immediately. His hand tightens slightly around the hilt of his sword as instinct flares in his chest. Every lesson drilled into him since childhood urges caution, reminding him that surrendering a weapon in unfamiliar territory can easily become a fatal mistake.
But the centaur stands nearly a full head taller than him even in his human half, the powerful body beneath him shifting with quiet strength that could crush bone without effort.
And more importantly- This is their camp. Their rules.
After a brief pause, Mingi slowly reaches for the hilt and pulls the blade free just enough to slide it fully from its sheath. The steel glints once in the candlelight. Then he lowers it carefully to the ground. The soft thud of metal against packed earth fills the silence.
The centaur watches the entire movement without blinking.
Only when Mingi steps back does the creature move again, circling slowly as his gaze travels over the knight’s armour piece by piece.
The polished steel plates. The royal insignia carved faintly into the breastplate. The unmistakable craftsmanship of a palace forge.
“You’re one of Edrea’s,” the centaur says at last. The words land like a stone dropped into still water.
For the first time since entering the tent, something sharp flashes through Mingi’s posture. A low sound escapes his throat- something dangerously close to a growl. “No,” he says.
The centaur pauses.
Mingi’s voice comes again, firmer now. “Not anymore.” His shoulders square slightly beneath the armour. “I left the moment she was announced queen.”
The centaur says nothing, but his eyes narrow slightly.
“I’ve been gone since,” Mingi continues, his tone steady despite the tension still hanging in the room. “There hasn’t been much time to find new armour.”
His gaze flicks briefly down toward the palace steel still strapped across his body. “So this,” he adds quietly, “is what I’ve got.”
For a moment the tent holds only silence, the faint flicker of candlelight moving slowly across the thick wooden beams as Kuldrane studies the knight standing before him.
Mingi does not look away. Eventually he speaks again.
“I heard there was a resistance forming,” he says, his voice carrying the rough steadiness of someone who has already made the decision long before arriving here. “An army gathering in the forest. One that intends to fight back instead of hiding from her.”
His eyes move briefly toward the entrance of the tent, where the distant sounds of the encampment drift faintly through the canvas walls- hammering metal, murmured voices, the restless movement of creatures who have been forced to carve out their survival far from the kingdoms that once hunted them.
“I came to join it.”
The centaur remains still for a long moment, the powerful muscles in his broad shoulders shifting slightly as he considers the statement. His sharp gaze moves once more across the armour, the weapon resting on the ground, the rigid stance of the man wearing it.
Then he asks quietly, “Your name.”
“Mingi.”
The centaur gives a slow nod, as though committing the name to memory. “Kuldrane,” he replies in return.
The name carries a certain weight when he says it, the sort that suggests it is known among those who fight within these woods. His deep voice settles naturally into the quiet authority he holds over the camp outside.
Kuldrane steps a little closer now, the heavy movement of his hooves against the ground sounding solid and deliberate. “And what,” he asks, “took you so long to find us, Mingi?”
A soft sound interrupts the moment. Mr Bramble lets out a low chuckle somewhere behind Mingi’s shoulder. The fox has made himself quite comfortable near the entrance of the tent, tail curled neatly around his paws while his sharp eyes gleam with amusement.
Mingi’s shoulders stiffen slightly at the sound.
“Careful,” the fox says lightly, glancing between the two of them. “That question may take a while to answer.”
Mingi shoots him a brief glare that could strip bark from a tree.
The fox only looks more pleased with himself.
Kuldrane waits.
Finally Mingi exhales slowly through his nose. “The princess,” he says simply.
The words land with surprising clarity in the quiet space.
Kuldrane’s expression shifts ever so slightly, recognition passing through his eyes as the meaning settles into place. The rumours have travelled far through the kingdoms and deeper still through the forest- whispers of the youngest princess of Eirendale accused of treachery, of a royal daughter forced to flee her own home while her sister seized the throne.
Even here, beyond the reach of the kingdoms, the story has been heard.
“You found her,” Kuldrane says. It is not quite a question.
Mingi gives a short nod.
Kuldrane studies him carefully for another moment before asking the next thing that matters. “And is she safe now?”
Something about the question causes a small tightening in Mingi’s jaw. The answer comes a moment later, rougher than before. “Yes.”
The word is clipped, controlled, though not entirely steady. “She’s in Valemere.”
Kuldrane nods again, accepting the information with the quiet understanding of someone who knows the weight of royal politics well enough not to press further.
Behind them, Mr Bramble flicks one ear thoughtfully. “Safe,” the fox repeats softly to himself, though the faint tone in his voice suggests he may not entirely agree with the certainty of the word.
Kuldrane remains quiet for a moment longer, the heavy stillness of the tent settling between them as he considers the knight standing before him.
Then his expression shifts, not into warmth exactly, but into something closer to measured approval. “I saw what happened outside,” the centaur says at last, his deep voice carrying easily through the timber-framed chamber. “The way you handled that challenge.”
His gaze drifts briefly toward the entrance of the tent, where the sounds of the encampment continue beyond the canvas walls.
“You defended yourself cleanly. No wasted movement. No unnecessary violence.”
His eyes return to Mingi. “That tells me enough.”
The centaur’s powerful body shifts slightly as he folds his arms across his broad chest. “And more importantly,” Kuldrane continues, “you abandoned a crown that demanded your loyalty.”
The words hang for a moment. “But you did not abandon your honour.”
Mingi says nothing.
Kuldrane’s gaze sharpens. “You protected the princess instead.” The simple statement lands harder than any accusation.
Every mention of her feels like a blade pressing deeper beneath Mingi’s ribs. The memory rises uninvited- the warmth of her hand against his face, the quiet steadiness of her voice, the brief brush of her lips against his cheek before she disappeared into the safety of Valemere.
He forces the thought down.
Kuldrane nods once, satisfied with whatever silent conclusions he has drawn. “You fought well,” he says. “And if what you say is true, then you’ve done more good than most soldiers who served beneath that throne.”
His eyes travel once more over the armour still strapped across Mingi’s body. That palace steel gleams even in the dim candlelight, its craftsmanship unmistakable. Kuldrane gestures toward it. “We’ll get you something better.”
Mingi tilts his head slightly. “Better?”
“Armour forged for fighters,” Kuldrane replies. “Not for royal parades.” His voice carries a faint edge of humour now. “You can remove the helm for the time being. No one here will mistake you for Edrea’s soldier once that crest disappears.”
Behind them, Mr Bramble immediately perks up. “Oh, this I’d like to see.”
The fox rises from where he’s been sitting, padding closer with obvious interest. “He never takes it off,” Bramble announces casually, circling around to inspect Mingi from the side. “Not once since I’ve known him.”
His tail swishes thoughtfully. “I don’t even know what the man looks like.”
Mingi stands still. The words settle heavier than they should.
For years the helm has been more than armour- it has been a wall, a shield between the violence he was forced to carry out and the part of himself that might have broken beneath it.
Behind the metal, he could become something else. Something less human. Something easier.
But standing here now, in a camp filled with creatures the kingdoms swore no longer existed… something about that old instinct feels less necessary.
Is this place different? Is this somewhere he can finally stop pretending?
His fingers rise slowly toward the edge of the helm. For a moment he hesitates. Then the clasps release.
The metal lifts away.
Cool air immediately brushes across his face, slipping through his dark hair and over skin that has been hidden beneath steel for far too long. The weight of the helm leaves his hands, and for the first time in what feels like years the forest wind touches him without obstruction.
Mr Bramble goes completely still. “Well,” the fox murmurs quietly.
Kuldrane watches without comment.
Mingi looks down at the helm in his hands for a moment. The crest of Eirendale gleams faintly along its surface. A symbol of a kingdom that no longer belongs to him.
He lowers it toward the ground and sets it beside the sword he surrendered earlier. Then he straightens.
“Burn it.”
Kuldrane studies him for a moment. Then the centaur nods. “You’ll have a new kit by nightfall,” he says. “Weapons. Armour. Everything you’ll need.” His voice lowers slightly as he adds,
“There will be no trace of Edrea inside this camp.”
Kuldrane does not linger long after the decision is made.
With a quiet gesture of his hand, he turns and steps back through the canvas entrance, the heavy flap swaying briefly behind him as he exits the command tent. Mingi retrieves his sword from the packed earth, though he leaves the discarded helm where it lies, its metal surface catching one last flicker of candlelight before the darkness of the tent swallows it.
Outside, the encampment hums with the same restless energy it held before.
The sky has begun to deepen toward evening now, the fading light casting long amber shadows between the rows of tents. Fires burn brighter as the sun lowers, their glow illuminating faces hardened by years of exile and quiet resistance. Conversations drift across the clearing in dozens of languages, the mixture of voices blending with the constant rhythm of hammering metal from the smithing area near the centre of camp.
Kuldrane leads the way through the narrow paths that wind between the tents.
Few speak as they pass, though more than a few pairs of eyes follow them with cautious interest. The sight of the knight walking beside the centaur leader is enough to quiet most suspicions for now, though the occasional low murmur still ripples through the crowd.
They move toward the outer edge of the encampment, where the ground slopes gently down toward the narrow river that threads its way through the clearing.
The air is cooler here.
The water glides past in a steady silver ribbon, its soft current reflecting the deepening hues of the evening sky. Tall grasses line the banks, whispering quietly whenever the breeze moves through them, and a massive oak tree spreads its thick branches above the river’s bend, its roots twisting into the earth like the knuckles of an ancient hand.
Nestled beneath that tree stands a smaller tent.
Unlike the larger ones nearer the centre of camp, this one is simple but well-kept—its canvas walls patched carefully, its ropes tied tight against the shifting winds that move through the valley.
Kuldrane slows beside it. “This will be yours,” he says, gesturing toward the tent with a slight incline of his head. “Close enough to the river for water. Far enough from the forge smoke to breathe properly.”
Mr Bramble steps ahead of Mingi immediately, padding toward the entrance with curious enthusiasm as he peers inside.
“Well,” the fox says thoughtfully after a moment, “I’ve certainly slept in worse places.”
He glances back over his shoulder with a sly flick of his tail. “Though I must say, sharing living quarters with a brooding knight was not quite how I imagined my future.”
Mingi exhales slowly. “If you keep talking,” he mutters, “I’ll turn you into a hat.”
Mr Bramble lets out a bright laugh at that. “Oh please,” the fox replies easily. “You’d miss me far too much.”
Kuldrane watches the exchange with quiet amusement flickering briefly across his otherwise stern expression.Then he turns, preparing to leave them to settle into their new place among the resistance.
But before the centaur can take more than a few steps, Mingi speaks. “Kuldrane.”
The centaur stops. Slowly, he turns back.
Mingi stands near the entrance of the tent, his posture rigid in the fading light as the river murmurs softly beside them. The evening wind stirs the dark strands of his uncovered hair now that the helm is gone, revealing the sharp line of his jaw and the faint scars that cross his skin.
There is something different in his voice now. Something heavier.
“I didn’t come here just to fight,” Mingi says.
Kuldrane studies him carefully. “What did you come for, then?”
Mingi’s gaze drifts briefly toward the distant heart of the encampment where fires burn brighter against the coming night.
Then he looks back. “I want Edrea taken down properly.”
The words leave him with quiet certainty. “Not captured.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “Not exiled.”
Kuldrane says nothing yet.
Mingi’s voice lowers. “Dead. I need her dead.” The river continues its slow current beside them.
“And when that happens,” Mingi adds, his tone sharpening with the weight of years spent serving a crown he now despises, “I want to be the one standing in front of her.”
Kuldrane’s brows rise slightly. “That is a considerable amount of hatred to carry for one person.” He studies Mingi more closely now. “Why?”
For a moment, Mingi doesn’t answer.
The words come before he can stop them. “She hurt my princess.” The sentence slips out instinctively, carried by something deeper than thought.
His princess.
The word lingers in the air longer than it should. Kuldrane hears it. Of course he does.
The centaur’s sharp eyes settle on Mingi with quiet understanding, something almost knowing flickering across his expression.
But he does not comment on it. Instead, he nods slowly.
“Ambition like that isn’t given freely here,” Kuldrane says calmly. “Not even to someone who claims they abandoned the crown.”
His gaze sharpens. “You’ll need to prove where your loyalty truly lies first.”
The centaur turns again, his powerful form already beginning to move back toward the heart of the encampment.
“We’ll speak about Edrea again when you’ve earned your place among us.”
With that, Kuldrane disappears into the growing darkness between the tents, leaving Mingi and the fox alone beside the quiet riverbank.
The tent is quiet when they step inside.
It is far simpler than the great command structure Kuldrane had brought him from, though it still carries the same practical sturdiness that seems to define everything within the encampment. The canvas walls are thick and weathered from use, pulled tight against the wooden stakes anchoring it to the earth. A small lantern hangs from a rope beam overhead, its soft amber glow casting gentle light across the modest interior.
There is not much inside.
A narrow wooden table sits to one side with a small clay jug resting upon it, likely meant for water drawn from the nearby river. Beside it stands a rough stool carved from a single block of timber. Across from that is the cot Kuldrane must have mentioned- little more than a simple wooden frame strung tightly with thick rope and covered by a folded wool blanket that has seen better days.
But compared to the open forest floor Mingi has slept on the past several nights, it may as well be luxury.
He steps fully inside and sets his sword carefully against the tent pole before lowering himself onto the cot.
The ropes creak quietly beneath his weight. For the first time since arriving at the encampment, he allows himself to breathe properly.
A slow exhale leaves him as he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms against his knees while the lingering tension in his shoulders begins to loosen. The faint sound of the river outside drifts through the canvas walls, its steady movement grounding the silence that settles inside the tent.
Mr Bramble slips in after him.
The fox takes a moment to circle the small space, inspecting it with theatrical scrutiny before eventually settling near the foot of the cot. His sharp eyes lift toward Mingi with an expression that is far too knowing for comfort.
Mingi notices immediately. “Don’t,” he says flatly.
Mr Bramble tilts his head. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
The fox’s whiskers twitch with amusement. “Well,” he replies lightly, “if you insist.”
Mingi drags a hand down his face.
Bramble chuckles quietly to himself, the sound warm rather than mocking this time. “You truly are the easiest creature in this forest to read,” the fox says after a moment.
Mingi lifts his head just enough to fix him with a hard stare. “Try me.”
Bramble’s tail sways lazily behind him. “You’re in love with her.”
The words land plainly in the small space. Mingi does not react immediately. He simply looks at the fox, his expression unreadable beneath the low lantern light.
Then, after a long moment, he speaks. “What good would that do?”
His voice is calm. Too calm.
“Nothing changes either way.” The statement carries no bitterness, only a quiet acceptance that feels heavier than anger ever could.
“I’m here,” he continues, his gaze drifting briefly toward the tent wall where the distant fires of the encampment flicker faintly through the canvas. “And she’s there.”
He exhales slowly. “Y/N is safe now.” The words settle heavily in the space between them.
For once, Mr Bramble does not immediately respond with another clever remark.
The fox watches him quietly, the usual sparkle of mischief in his eyes replaced with something softer- something closer to understanding. He knows, perhaps better than most, that some truths cannot be undone once they have taken shape.
And some choices cannot be reversed.
After a while, he finally speaks again. “You did the right thing.”
Mingi doesn’t answer.
Outside, the sounds of the encampment begin to quiet as night fully settles over the valley. The rhythmic clang of metal fades as the blacksmiths extinguish their fires one by one, and the scattered voices of fighters slowly soften into low murmurs as exhaustion overtakes the camp.
Eventually Mingi leans back against the thin pillow of the cot, staring up at the canvas roof above him.
Mr Bramble curls his tail around his paws near the foot of the bed.
Neither of them speaks again. But long after the fox’s breathing grows slow and steady with sleep, Mingi remains awake, listening to the quiet rush of the river outside while his thoughts wander somewhere far beyond the forest.
The first light of the sun creeps slowly across the forest floor, slipping between the towering trees that surround the encampment before finding its way through the small gap in the tent entrance. A thin beam of golden light stretches across the packed earth inside, warming the canvas walls with the soft glow of early day.
Mingi stirs.
For a moment he remains still, the lingering heaviness of sleep weighing down his limbs as he lies there listening to the distant sounds of the camp beginning to wake. The quiet rush of the river outside continues its steady path beside the tent, while somewhere farther off the low murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of equipment signals the slow return of activity among the fighters.
He pushes himself upright. The movement is slow at first, his muscles stiff from the unfamiliar comfort of the rope-strung cot beneath him. A hand runs briefly through his dark hair as he tries to gather his thoughts, though the fog of sleep still clings stubbornly to the edges of his mind.
He doesn’t even remember when he finally drifted off.
One moment he had been staring up at the dim lantern light above him, listening to the quiet sounds of the forest.
The next- Morning.
Before he can dwell on the strange emptiness between those moments, a familiar voice reaches him from just outside the tent.
“Well look at that,” Mr Bramble calls out with obvious delight. “You’re awake already. I was just about to start poking you with a stick.”
Mingi exhales slowly through his nose. “What.”
The fox appears in the opening of the tent, his bright eyes gleaming with amusement. “You have a delivery,” Bramble announces.
Mingi frowns slightly before swinging his legs over the edge of the cot and standing. The cool morning air brushes against his face as he steps toward the entrance and pulls the canvas flap aside.
What waits outside catches him slightly off guard.
Folded neatly upon a low wooden crate sits a fresh set of linen clothing, the pale fabric clean and sturdy in a way that immediately suggests it was made for movement rather than ceremony. The shirt is thicker than the silks worn in palace halls, the sleeves reinforced at the forearms where leather straps hold protective guards in place.
Beside the clothing rests the armour. It is unmistakably forged for battle.
The plates are darker, rougher than the polished steel of his former armour, built for endurance rather than display. Reinforced leather lines the joints for flexibility, and the breastplate carries deep scoring marks from previous use, suggesting it once belonged to another warrior before being repaired and refitted.
Next to it lies a sword. Mingi steps closer.
The weapon is beautifully balanced, its hilt wrapped in dark leather and its blade slightly broader than the one he carried before. There are no royal crests carved into the metal, no decorative flourishes meant to announce allegiance to a throne.
Nothing tying it to Eirendale. Nothing tying it to Edrea.
He lifts the sword slowly from the crate, the weight settles naturally into his grip. A faint, almost imperceptible sense of satisfaction passes through him as he tests the balance with a brief movement of his wrist.
Mr Bramble watches from a few paces away, his tail swishing thoughtfully. “Well,” the fox says after a moment, “someone has been busy making sure you don’t embarrass the resistance with palace decorations.”
Mingi glances down again at the armour. There is not a single trace of Edrea’s markings anywhere on it.
For the first time since arriving, something in his chest loosens slightly. He nods once to himself.
Mr Bramble tilts his head. “So,” the fox continues lightly, “are you going to hide that pretty face again, or are we letting the camp admire it for a few more hours?”
Mingi shoots him a flat look. Then he grabs the folded clothing and steps back into the tent. “Quiet.”
The fox chuckles softly outside.
Inside the tent, Mingi strips off the remaining pieces of his old armour with steady movements, setting each plate aside before pulling the fresh linen shirt over his shoulders. The fabric is rougher against his skin than what he once wore inside palace walls, but it feels lighter, freer, as though it belongs to someone who expects to fight rather than simply stand guard.
The new armour follows. Each piece fits well enough, though clearly forged with practicality in mind rather than elegance. The leather straps tighten firmly around his forearms and shoulders, the weight of the chestplate settling comfortably against him as he secures it in place.
Finally he picks up the helm. It is different from the one he left behind. Simpler. Darker.
Stripped of all royal insignia. He studies it briefly in his hands.
Outside, Mr Bramble’s voice drifts through the canvas again. “Well?”
Mingi exhales. Instead of placing the helm on his head, he tucks it beneath one arm and steps back toward the tent entrance.
For now… he’ll carry it.
The morning air feels sharper outside the tent.
The sun has risen fully now, its light filtering through the high canopy of trees that surround the encampment. Golden beams break through the leaves in scattered patterns, touching the riverbank and the winding paths between the tents with gentle warmth. The camp itself is already alive with activity, far more energetic than the quiet murmur of the previous night.
Fighters move between tents carrying bundles of arrows and sharpened blades. The blacksmiths near the centre of camp have already rekindled their forges, the rhythmic ring of hammer against glowing steel carrying clearly across the clearing. Smoke curls slowly upward from the fires, carrying the familiar scent of metal, ash, and pine.
Mingi steps fully into the open space beside the river, adjusting the strap of his new armour across his shoulder as he scans the activity around him.
Mr Bramble trots easily at his side, tail flicking as he observes everything with bright curiosity.
“Well,” the fox says after a moment, glancing around the camp with interest, “I must say this place looks much friendlier in daylight.”
Mingi doesn’t respond immediately. His attention is focused elsewhere.
The stares from the night before are still present, but they have changed. Where suspicion once lingered openly, there is now a quieter curiosity in the way the camp’s inhabitants observe him. Some simply glance in his direction before returning to their tasks. Others nod faintly as they pass, acknowledging him in small, subtle ways.
Kuldrane’s influence is obvious. Word has spread. The knight who arrived in palace armour is no longer considered an intruder.
As they walk further into the camp, Mingi notices something else.
Ahead of them, near one of the weapon racks, stands the man who had challenged him the previous evening.
The same broad shoulders. The same scarred face. The axe now rests against his shoulder as he speaks with another fighter, though the conversation falls silent as Mingi approaches.
For a brief moment the two men simply regard one another. Then the man gives a single nod.
Gruff. Wordless.
And turns away, continuing about his work without another glance.
Mingi returns the nod just as briefly. He understands the meaning well enough. No insult remains. No challenge lingers.
A test was given. It was answered.
In another life, beneath another banner, he likely would have done the exact same thing.
Mr Bramble notices the exchange immediately. “Well that was surprisingly civilised,” the fox murmurs, his voice low with mild surprise.
Mingi simply keeps walking.
They move deeper into the encampment now, taking in the full breadth of the place in the bright morning light. Creatures pass them in every direction- an elf carrying a bundle of fletched arrows across his back, a pair of centaurs hauling a supply cart toward the river, a young wizard muttering over a glowing charm while two small fae hover curiously above his shoulder.
The camp feels alive in a way that no royal fortress ever did. Unpredictable. Untamed. Real.
Mingi slows slightly, his eyes scanning the camp as though mapping its layout in his mind. Every instinct he possesses studies the terrain automatically- the positions of the forges, the open training ground beyond the central fire pits, the elevated command tent where Kuldrane likely already works through the morning’s plans.
Mr Bramble is about to say something else when a voice cuts across the noise of the camp.
“Well hello, stranger.” It is a woman’s voice.
Warm. Familiar.
For the briefest fraction of a second, Mingi’s heart jumps. Hope flares before he can stop it, quick and sharp as lightning.
His head turns instinctively.
But the figure approaching them through the morning light is not the one his mind had betrayed him with.
Instead, stepping confidently between two rows of tents with a faint smile tugging at her lips, is a woman he recognises immediately.
Dark red hair falls loosely around her shoulders, strands catching the sunlight as she moves. Her clothes are far simpler than the last time he saw her- practical layers of deep green and brown fabric tied at the waist with leather cords, the sleeves rolled slightly at the forearms where faint traces of soot and herbs stain the material.
Yet the familiar spark of mischief in her eyes remains exactly the same.
Kayleigh.
The witch stops a few paces away, crossing her arms casually as she looks Mingi over from head to toe.
“Well,” she says lightly, one eyebrow arching as she takes in the new armour, the uncovered face, and the helm now tucked beneath his arm, “I see someone’s finally decided to step out from behind the metal.”
Mr Bramble immediately perks up beside him. “Oh good,” the fox says with obvious delight. “Now the camp gets to meet the rest of our collection.”
Kayleigh’s gaze flicks briefly to the fox. “And you’re still following him around like a particularly sarcastic shadow, I see.”
Bramble looks deeply offended. “I prefer the term trusted companion.”
Kayleigh laughs softly. Her attention returns to Mingi. “I was wondering how long it would take you to show up here,” she adds.
And the way she says it makes it very clear- She had been expecting him all along.
Mingi forces the brief flicker of disappointment out of his expression before it can settle anywhere visible.
It had only been a moment- barely a heartbeat- but hope had crept in anyway, unwelcome and stubborn as ever. Now it fades just as quickly, replaced by a quiet confusion as he studies the woman standing before him.
Kayleigh notices the look immediately. “Don’t look so surprised,” she says with a small smirk. “I promise I’m not here to curse you.”
Mingi folds his arms loosely across his chest, the new armour shifting slightly with the movement. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
The question is not hostile, but it carries genuine curiosity. The last place he expected to see the forest witch was standing casually in the middle of a resistance camp.
Kayleigh shrugs one shoulder. “What do you think I’m doing here?” she replies, gesturing vaguely around them at the bustling encampment. “There’s a war brewing, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Her tone softens slightly. “I couldn’t exactly sit in my cottage brewing tea while the kingdoms tear each other apart.”
She glances toward the centre of the camp where several injured fighters are being helped across the clearing by two elves and a young wizard carrying a crate of supplies. “I’m not exactly the sword-swinging type,” she adds, her voice carrying a trace of humour, “but I can keep people alive long enough to swing them.”
Mingi follows her gaze briefly. “You’re one of the healers.”
Kayleigh nods. “Among other things,” she says lightly. “Turns out witches are rather useful when people are bleeding all over the place.”
Her eyes drift back to him again. “And besides,” she continues, her smile returning slightly, “I had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before you showed up here.”
Mingi frowns faintly.
Kayleigh tilts her head. “You’re not exactly the type to sit quietly while Edrea takes over the continent.”
Mr Bramble snorts softly beside him. “She’s got you there.”
Kayleigh’s attention sharpens slightly as she studies Mingi more carefully now. “And I’m guessing,” she says, her voice lowering just a little, “that you managed to get the princess where she needed to go.”
The words land harder than she probably intends. Mingi feels the familiar tightening in his chest again- the same sharp, unwelcome sensation that seems to follow every mention of her name.
He hates it. Hates how often the subject keeps circling back. Hates how impossible it seems to avoid.
All he wants is to forget. To bury those memories somewhere deep enough that they stop resurfacing every time someone opens their mouth.
But it doesn’t work like that. The memories are there anyway.
Her voice. Her laugh. Her hand against his face. It is like something has been burned beneath his skin, leaving marks no armour can hide.
He forces the thoughts away before they can go any further. “Yes,” he says simply. The answer is short. Final.
Kayleigh studies his expression for a moment longer, clearly sensing the shift in his mood, but she chooses not to push the subject any further.
Instead, Mingi redirects the conversation himself. “What about your little friend?”
Kayleigh blinks once. “My—” Then she smiles. “Oh. PJ?”
Mingi nods faintly.
Kayleigh gestures vaguely toward the deeper parts of the camp. “He’s around here somewhere.” Her lips curve with mild amusement. “Probably annoying the absolute shit out of someone as we speak.”
Mr Bramble lets out a low chuckle. “That does sound like him.”
Kayleigh nods in agreement. “He’s remarkably talented at it.” The image seems to amuse all three of them more than expected.
For the first time since stepping into the camp that morning, a small hint of something lighter passes between them. Even Mingi’s expression softens slightly at the thought.
Kayleigh studies Mingi for a moment longer, as though deciding something silently to herself.
Then she straightens and gestures toward the deeper part of the camp. “Come on,” she says. “Kuldrane’s been asking for you.”
Mingi’s brow tightens slightly, but he doesn’t question it. Instead he falls into step beside her as she leads him through the winding paths between the tents.
The camp is far busier now than when he first stepped out that morning.
Fighters move with clear purpose between different sections of the clearing. The clang of metal echoes from the smithing area as blades are tested and repaired, while farther ahead a group of warriors practice in a wide dirt circle, their weapons flashing beneath the rising sun. Several creatures he’s never seen before move among them- tall horned figures carrying spears, winged beings perched along the wooden watch towers, and a pair of heavily armoured centaurs dragging a cart loaded with shields.
This place isn’t just for surviving. It’s preparing for something bigger than all of them.
Mr Bramble trots alongside them quietly for once, his ears twitching at the constant motion around them.
Kayleigh eventually slows near a cluster of weapon racks arranged beside the riverbank.
Kuldrane stands there waiting. The centaur’s towering form is impossible to miss. He has positioned himself beside a wide wooden stand lined with weapons of every shape imaginable- swords, axes, spears, bows, and several blades that look designed for creatures much larger than humans.
Kuldrane turns as they approach. His eyes immediately settle on Mingi. “Good,” he says simply. “You’re up.”
Mingi stops a few steps away.
Kuldrane gestures toward the weapon racks with one large hand. “You said you came here to fight,” the centaur continues. “That means you’ll need to train with the rest of them.” His tone is calm, but there’s no room for argument in it.
Kuldrane moves slightly aside, revealing the wide training field behind the racks. Several groups are already practicing there- fighters sparring with wooden weapons while others test their strength against heavier steel.
“You’ll need to learn how this camp fights,” Kuldrane explains. “Not how the palace teaches its soldiers.”
Mingi glances over the weapons briefly. The collection is vast, but rougher than the polished armouries he grew up around. These blades are built for survival rather than ceremony. Many carry the marks of repair, their edges sharpened countless times.
Kuldrane nods once toward the open field. “You won’t be training alone.”
Several figures begin approaching from the far side of the clearing.
The first is a tall elf with silver-blond hair braided tightly down his back, a long curved blade resting across his shoulder. His movements are fluid and precise, his sharp eyes already studying Mingi with open curiosity.
“This is Vaelis,” Kuldrane says. “One of our fastest blades.”
Vaelis gives a short nod of greeting.
Behind him strides a broad orc with deep green skin and a scar splitting across his lower jaw. He carries two brutal axes strapped across his back and walks with the easy confidence of someone who has spent most of his life on battlefields.
“Gorak,” Kuldrane continues. The orc grunts in acknowledgment.
Next comes a young man with dark braided hair and weathered leather armour. A bow is slung across his back and several knives line the belt at his waist. His eyes flick between Mingi and the new armour he’s wearing.
“Tarin,” Kuldrane says. “Our best scout.”
Finally, a centaur slightly smaller than Kuldrane himself approaches, carrying a long spear carved with runic markings.
“Eryndor,” Kuldrane finishes.
The group gathers around with varying levels of curiosity and caution.
Kayleigh stretches her arms casually. “Well,” she says with a satisfied clap of her hands, “looks like you’ll be busy.” She glances down at Mr Bramble. “I’ll borrow the fox while you break your new soldier in.”
Mr Bramble flicks his tail. “Oh wonderful. Field trip.”
Kayleigh begins walking back toward the healer tents, the fox trotting beside her while muttering something about hoping no one sets him on fire this time.
Mingi watches them disappear briefly. Then he turns back.
Kuldrane nods toward the field. “Let’s see what you can actually do.”
Mingi lifts the helm slowly. The cool metal settles back over his head, the familiar weight sliding into place as the world narrows slightly behind the steel.
Then he steps forward. And follows them.
The training begins without ceremony.
Kuldrane does not offer a speech, nor does he explain the rules of the field. Instead, he simply gestures toward the wide clearing beyond the weapon racks, where packed earth has been worn smooth by countless drills and sparring matches. The ground is scarred with shallow trenches and footprints, evidence of months - perhaps years- of warriors learning to fight side by side.
Mingi steps forward among them.
The first few minutes are quiet observations.
Vaelis moves first, drawing his curved blade in a motion so fluid it almost looks effortless. The elf circles him lightly, testing the distance between them, his movements sharp but elegant in a way that feels completely different from the rigid discipline of palace combat.
“Let’s see if that armour is more than decoration,” Vaelis says with a faint smirk.
Their blades meet moments later. The sound of steel striking steel rings sharply across the training ground, and the spar begins in earnest. Vaelis is fast - faster than most fighters Mingi has faced before - but the knight adapts quickly. His years of training refuse to fade easily, and soon the two of them are circling one another with growing intensity.
Vaelis’ strikes are precise and agile. Mingi’s are heavier, grounded in brute efficiency.
After several exchanges the elf steps back, lowering his blade slightly with a small nod of approval. “Not bad,” Vaelis says. “You’ll survive.”
The next round is less graceful.
Gorak steps forward with both axes in hand, a low rumble of amusement vibrating in his chest as he sizes Mingi up. “Try not to break,” the orc mutters.
What follows is far less refined than the duel with Vaelis.
The clash of their weapons sends sparks flying across the dirt as Gorak’s strength crashes against Mingi’s defenses. Each strike carries the weight of a battering ram, forcing Mingi to shift constantly to avoid being overwhelmed by sheer power alone.
They trade blows for several minutes before Kuldrane finally calls the match. The orc grins, clearly pleased with the fight. “Good,” Gorak says simply.
The training continues.
Tarin - now revealed to be a sharp-eyed man with weathered features and quiet confidence - teaches him how the scouts move through the forest without leaving tracks. Eryndor introduces him to the spear formations used when fighting alongside centaurs, the techniques forcing Mingi to adjust the rhythm of his movements so that his strikes complement the longer reach of the mounted warriors.
Gradually, the stiffness in his posture fades. The camp’s fighters begin to treat him less like a stranger and more like someone who belongs among them.
They laugh. They curse. They exchange quick remarks between drills. And for the first time since leaving the kingdom behind, Mingi feels the faint sense of tension in his shoulders begin to ease.
Until the bows are brought out.
The training shifts to the far edge of the clearing where several straw targets stand planted into the earth.
Vaelis tosses him a bow. “Your turn.”
Mingi catches it automatically. The wood is well balanced in his grip.
He reaches back to pull an arrow from the quiver resting against the rack and sets it against the string. The motion is familiar.
But the moment he draws the bow- His focus slips.
For a heartbeat, the clearing disappears. Instead, another memory rises in its place.
The forest. The quiet rustle of leaves beneath their feet. The moment when she had insisted he show her how to improve her stance.
He remembers standing behind her.
Towering over her smaller frame as his hands guided her arms into position. The warmth of her back just inches from his chest. The faint scent of forest air tangled in her hair as she focused on the bowstring.
He remembers the way her breath had hitched. The way her shoulders had tensed when he moved closer to adjust her grip. At the time he had pretended not to notice.
Pretended he was too focused on the lesson to see the reaction his presence caused.
But the truth is - He noticed everything. Every shift in her breathing. Every slight tremor when his hands brushed hers.
What she never knew was that it wasn’t just her who had been affected. He remembers the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers. The way the moment lingered longer than it should have. How close they had been.
So close that for a brief, dangerous second something inside him had nearly slipped loose from the control he held so tightly over himself.
He remembers how it affected him. How for a slight, dangerous moment his body had nearly betrayed him entirely. How the closeness, the warmth, the sudden awareness of her standing beneath his hands had made something inside him snap tight with a force he had not expected.
He remembers the blood rushing somewhere unexpected. He had almost lost control.
Almost let instinct override the discipline drilled into him since childhood. And that had terrified him more than any battlefield ever had. He had stepped back immediately after, acting as though nothing had happened. But the memory still burns.
Back in the present, the bowstring creaks faintly under the tension of his grip.
“Mingi?” Vaelis’ voice pulls him back.
The clearing snaps into focus again. The targets. The watching fighters. The arrow still waiting to be released.
Mingi exhales slowly. Then lets the arrow fly. It strikes the centre of the target with a sharp thud.
The training eventually winds down as the sun climbs higher into the sky.
What had begun as careful drills and measured sparring slowly dissolves into the quieter rhythm of a camp breaking for its midday meal. Weapons are returned to racks, bows unstrung and laid aside, while the fighters gather their scattered gear from the edges of the training ground.
Mingi wipes the sweat from the back of his neck as he bends to collect the arrows he had driven deep into the target. The wood splinters slightly as he pulls them free, the familiar weight of the bow still resting comfortably in his grip.
Around him, the others do the same.
Vaelis rolls his shoulders as he slides his blade back into its sheath, the elf’s movements still fluid despite the long hours of training. Gorak stretches his thick arms above his head with a grunt before gathering his axes, while Tarin kneels to tie the straps of his quiver tighter across his back.
“You did well,” he says to Mingi as he stands again. “For someone who’s spent most of his life learning palace formations.” There’s no mockery in his tone. Only observation.
Mingi nods slightly in acknowledgment, though the compliment barely settles in his mind.
Vaelis gestures toward the heart of the camp where several fires now burn brighter beneath hanging cooking pots. “Come eat with us,” the elf offers casually. “You’ve earned it.”
Gorak grins. “Unless you prefer starving alone.”
Mingi considers for only a moment before giving a short nod.
The group begins walking together through the winding paths of the encampment, the energy of the midday break settling over the clearing. The sharp clang of metal from the forges has quieted for now, replaced by the more comforting sounds of conversation and cooking.
The smell of food drifts easily through the air. Roasted meat, boiled vegetables, and fresh bread. Simple things, but enough to make even the most hardened fighters pause.
They settle near one of the larger fire pits where several wooden benches have been dragged into a rough circle. Bowls are passed around quickly, filled with steaming stew and thick chunks of bread that disappear almost as quickly as they are handed out.
Mingi takes his portion quietly, sitting among them as the conversation begins to flow more easily now that weapons have been set aside.
Vaelis recounts a story from an earlier scouting mission, exaggerating certain details enough that even Tarin eventually rolls his eyes while listening. Gorak interrupts occasionally with loud bursts of laughter that make nearby fighters glance over in amusement.
It is… normal. Strangely so. Part of him almost forgets that every person here is preparing for war.
A flick of movement catches his eye. Mr Bramble appears moments later, trotting confidently through the rows of tents before hopping easily onto the bench beside him.
“Well?” the fox says as he settles himself comfortably. “How did the grand training go?”
Mingi looks down at the stew in his bowl. “Fine.”
Bramble waits for more. “And?”
Mingi shrugs faintly. “They’re good fighters.”
The fox narrows his eyes slightly. Something about the response feels… off.
“You’re unusually quiet, you don’t have that same… bite in you” Bramble remarks.
Mingi breaks a piece of bread and dips it into the stew, though his focus remains distant.
The image refuses to leave his mind. Her standing in front of him, the bow in her hands, and the warmth of her body so close to his. The small hitch in her breath when he leaned nearer. And the dangerous moment when his own body had nearly betrayed him.
The memory burns beneath his skin, unwelcome and persistent.
Across from him, Tarin continues speaking about the patrol routes they run along the eastern edge of the forest, though the words drift past Mingi without truly settling.
He answers only when spoken to directly. Short replies. Single words.
Mr Bramble watches him carefully for a while, his sharp fox eyes studying the subtle tension still sitting in the knight’s posture. He recognises the signs easily enough. But for once- He doesn’t say anything. No teasing remark. No clever jab.
Instead he simply curls his tail neatly around his paws and turns his attention toward the food.
The conversation around the fire continues easily among the others as bowls are refilled and laughter passes between them. And though Mingi sits among them, sharing the same fire and meal- His thoughts remain somewhere else entirely.
Far beyond the deep green shelter of the forest, where the resistance gathers in hidden valleys and winding rivers, another kingdom breathes beneath a very different sky.
Eirendale no longer resembles the place it once was. The land itself seems colder now, as though the soil has absorbed the cruelty of the crown that rules it.
Where once the kingdom’s fields stretched wide and golden beneath the sun, now the earth lies scarred and tired. Harvests are thinner, the ground worked far beyond what it was ever meant to bear. The villages that surround the towering castle are quieter than they once were, their narrow streets lined with homes whose windows stay shuttered even during daylight.
The people that once filled them are… fewer. But those who remain are not weak.
They are not kind. And they are certainly not gentle.
The old villagers- the farmers, the merchants, the quiet craftsmen who once filled the kingdom with life- have either ‘disappeared' or been pushed far beyond the kingdom’s borders. Some fled when Edrea first claimed the throne. Others were removed when they failed to meet the standards she demanded of those who served beneath her rule.
What became of many of them is something no one speaks of openly. What matters now is who remains.
The kingdom has not shrunk down in size. In fact, It has grown.
The streets of the capital are busier than ever, though the faces walking them now carry sharp expressions and colder eyes. Markets bustle again, but the goods traded are no longer simple produce and textiles. Weapons pass from hand to hand. Armour is inspected with careful scrutiny. Supplies meant for soldiers fill the carts that move through the narrow roads beneath the castle walls.
Eirendale has not been emptied. It has transformed. Edrea has reshaped it into something else entirely.
The people who remain in her kingdom are the ones who proved themselves worthy in her eyes. The strongest warriors who swore loyalty to her cause. The most intelligent strategists who saw opportunity in her rule. The most cunning survivors who understood that cruelty, when wielded correctly, could build power faster than kindness ever could.
They are all human. And there are thousands of them.
They fill the capital’s streets now with disciplined movement and quiet ambition. Every one of them watches the world with calculating eyes, each person knowing that weakness within Eirendale no longer has a place.
Above them all rises the castle. Its dark towers stretch high against the grey sky, their stone walls newly reinforced and guarded more heavily than ever before. Banners bearing Edrea’s sigil hang from every tower, their fabric snapping sharply in the cold wind that sweeps across the kingdom.
Inside those walls, decisions are made that will shape the fate of every land beyond the forest. And somewhere within those towering halls, Edrea watches it all unfold.
The throne hall of Eirendale has changed as much as the kingdom beneath it.
Where the great chamber once carried warmth and ceremony, it now feels like a place carved from something colder than stone. The vaulted ceiling rises high above the floor, its towering arches disappearing into shadow where iron braziers burn with pale blue flames. The fire gives off little warmth, yet its light casts long, shifting shapes across the polished black marble that now covers the floor.
Gone are the rich carpets and banners that once softened the room. Edrea had them removed shortly after taking the throne. She preferred the sound of footsteps echoing sharply through the chamber. It reminded everyone who entered just how small they were beneath the weight of her rule.
At the far end of the hall, raised upon a series of dark stone steps, sits the throne itself. It is no longer the carved oak seat that had belonged to the old king. That too had been replaced.
The throne now is forged from blackened steel and jagged iron, its back rising into thin spires that resemble the ribs of some enormous beast. The metal catches the light from the braziers in cold glints that reflect across the room like shards of broken glass.
Upon that throne sits Edrea.
She lounges against the sharp metal with the effortless confidence of someone who knows the room bends entirely to her will. One leg drapes lazily over the arm of the throne, her long ransaur resting across her lap like a companion rather than a weapon. The curved blade gleams faintly beneath the blue flames as her fingers trace idly along its edge.
Beside her stands Silas.
He occupies the lower step of the throne dais, positioned just behind her shoulder in the place reserved for her most trusted advisor. His posture is relaxed, though his pale blue eyes remain sharp as they scan the hall below. The two of them share the same cold colouring - light hair, pale skin, and eyes that seem to reflect the icy cruelty of the kingdom they now command.
Their voices drift quietly between them. “Numbers continue to grow,” Silas murmurs, glancing down at a parchment scroll held loosely in one hand. “Several mercenary companies arrived before dawn. More are expected by nightfall.”
Edrea smiles faintly. “Of course they are.” Her voice is smooth, almost bored. “People like opportunity, Silas. Especially when it wears a crown.”
Before he can reply, the great doors at the far end of the throne hall groan open.
The sound rolls across the marble floor like distant thunder. A line of royal guards enters first, their armour polished and identical, halberds striking the stone in perfect rhythm as they march. Between them walk the figures they have brought before the throne.
They are not nobles. Not soldiers. They are something far rougher.
Corrupted criminals with scarred faces and hardened eyes. Assassins dressed in dark leathers that still carry the scent of blood. Thugs whose thick arms and broken noses tell stories of a hundred street brawls.
Every type of dangerous man a kingdom could gather. They are pushed forward until they stand before the base of the throne steps. The guards step aside. Silence fills the chamber.
Edrea studies them slowly, her gaze travelling from one face to the next as though inspecting animals brought to market. “Well,” she says at last, her voice echoing lightly through the hall. “This is what they send me?” Her tone carries open disdain.
One of the criminals drops quickly to his knees. Then another. And another. Soon the entire group kneels before the throne, their heads bowed low against the cold marble floor.
“Your Majesty,” one of them mutters hoarsely. “We heard you were building something greater.”
Edrea leans forward slightly, resting her chin against her knuckles as she looks down at them. “Greater,” she repeats softly. The word almost sounds like a promise. “You’ve come to serve me.” It is not a question.
“No one refuses your call,” another man says quickly, pressing his forehead to the floor. “Not if they’re smart.”
A faint smile spreads across Edrea’s lips. “Good answer.” She rises slowly from the throne.
The sound of her boots against the stone echoes sharply as she descends the steps, the long blade of her ransaur dragging lightly behind her. The criminals remain frozen in place as she circles them, her gaze cool and calculating.
“You see,” she says casually, “I have very little interest in loyalty.” She stops behind one of the kneeling men. Her voice lowers. “What I value… is usefulness.”
The blade of the ransaur lifts slightly. “If you are strong, you will fight for me.” She turns slowly, letting the tip of the weapon trace a thin line across the marble floor. “If you are clever, you will plan for me.” Her eyes gleam faintly.
“And if you are neither of those things…”
The pause is long enough for the threat to settle. “Then you will die for me.” None of the men dare move.
Slowly, Edrea smiles. “Welcome to my army.”
Silas steps forward, his voice cutting cleanly through the room. “You will report to the barracks immediately,” he tells them. “You will train until you bleed, and when you can no longer stand, you will train again.”
His eyes sweep across them coldly. “You will obey every command given to you.”
Edrea’s voice follows, softer but far more dangerous. “Because every command,” she says, “comes from me.”
The criminals bow lower, their voices rising in eager praise that echoes through the hall as the guards begin dragging them back toward the doors. Outside those castle walls, an army is beginning to form.
The last of the recruits are dragged from the throne hall under the watchful gaze of the royal guard, their murmured praises fading into the vast corridors beyond the chamber doors. For a moment, the hall grows quiet again, the pale flames of the braziers flickering along the marble floor.
Edrea remains standing where she addressed them, the ransaur still loosely gripped in her hand. Her gaze lingers on the closed doors, a slow smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.
Silas watches her carefully. “Well,” he says lightly, stepping down beside her, “they certainly seem… enthusiastic.”
Edrea gives a small hum, unconcerned. “Enthusiasm is useful. It keeps people obedient.”
She turns, handing the ransaur off to one of the waiting guards without even glancing at him, before stepping away from the throne dais. Silas falls easily into step beside her as the two of them begin walking through the long hall, their footsteps echoing sharply against the stone.
Their presence alone is enough to make every servant they pass immediately step aside.
The palace corridors open out toward the outer grounds, where tall glass doors allow pale winter light to spill across the polished floors. Beyond them stretches the palace courtyard and the city that lies beneath the towering castle walls.
Edrea pushes the doors open without hesitation. Cold air greets them immediately.
Outside, the palace grounds are vast and carefully controlled. Soldiers patrol the stone walkways in disciplined rows, while banners bearing Edrea’s crest snap sharply in the wind from tall white poles. The sky above Eirendale is a dull grey, the kind of colour that presses low against the earth as though even the heavens disapprove of what now thrives beneath them.
Silas clasps his hands behind his back as they walk. “Your army grows faster than expected,” he remarks. “Soon you’ll have more soldiers than any kingdom on this side of the continent.”
Edrea glances sideways at him, amusement flickering across her expression. “Saying it like that almost sounds like admiration.”
“Oh, it is admiration,” Silas replies smoothly. “You’ve managed in months what most rulers fail to achieve in a lifetime.”
Their steps carry them down the sloping stone path that winds from the palace toward the city below. “Once the army is ready,” Silas continues thoughtfully, “no kingdom will dare challenge you.”
Edrea’s smile grows sharper. “That is the idea.”
Her gaze drifts toward the distant forests that mark the horizon. “And when the time comes,” she adds softly, “I will make sure every one of them remembers exactly who rules this world now.”
Silas looks at her then, something almost fond passing through his cold eyes. “Our future will be magnificent.”
Before she can respond- A sudden blast cuts through the air.
The sound of a horn rings loud across the city below, sharp and commanding enough to make both of them pause mid-step. Another blast follows.
Edrea’s eyes narrow slightly. “What is that?”
Down in the main village road below the palace, movement begins to stir.
Horses gallop through the streets, pulling royal carriages behind them as soldiers clear a path through the growing crowd. People spill from homes and shops, curiosity pulling them toward the centre of the road where the noise grows louder.
Edrea turns toward the city. Silas follows her gaze. “Well,” he murmurs, intrigued, “that is unusual.” Without another word, they begin descending toward the sound.
By the time they reach the lower square, a large crowd has already gathered in the centre of the street. Villagers press close together, whispering and craning their necks as soldiers attempt to hold them back from the procession that has just arrived.
At the centre of it all stands a man dressed in royal colours. A herald. His cloak bears the crest of another kingdom entirely.
He steps forward into the open space and lifts the long brass horn once more, blowing a final sharp note that cuts through the murmuring crowd. The sound echoes between the buildings, demanding silence.
Slowly, the whispers die down. The herald unrolls a scroll in his hands. His voice rises clear and formal for all to hear.
“Let it be known—”
The words carry across the square. “—that Princess Y/N, formally of Eirendale, has been welcomed into the kingdom of Valemere and is to be wed to King Aurelian.”
The crowd erupts into startled murmurs. And behind them, Edrea stands perfectly still.
Silence settles over the square in a strange, uneasy way once the herald finishes reading.
The words seem to linger in the cold air, hanging between the stone buildings like a challenge that cannot be taken back.
Princess Y/N of Eirendale. To be wed to King Aurelian of Valemere.
The crowd murmurs again, though far more quietly now, people leaning toward one another in hushed conversation. Some look confused. Others look relieved. A few even smile at the thought that perhaps the youngest princess of the fallen royal line had found refuge somewhere beyond Edrea’s reach.
But near the edge of the square, Edrea stands frozen in place.
Silas watches her closely. Her expression does not change. Not a flicker of anger, not a curl of irritation. Her posture remains perfectly composed, her pale hands resting loosely at her sides as though the announcement means nothing at all.
That, more than anything, unsettles him. He tilts his head slightly toward her. “Well,” he murmurs under his breath, his voice carefully quiet enough that the nearby villagers cannot hear him, “that’s… unexpected.”
Edrea says nothing. Her gaze remains fixed on the herald standing at the centre of the square, the man still holding the scroll as he waits for the crowd to settle.
Silas studies her for another moment before asking casually, “Shall we stop it?” There are a dozen different meanings wrapped inside that question.
He could send the guards forward now. The herald could be dragged from the street before he even finishes his proclamations. The scroll torn apart. The horses seized. The message buried before it spreads across the kingdom. It would take only seconds.
Edrea lifts a single hand. The motion is small, but decisive. Silas falls silent immediately.
“No,” she says calmly. Her voice is almost thoughtful. “I’m surprised she made it that far.”
For the first time, her eyes flicker with genuine curiosity. “Valemere,” she continues slowly, almost tasting the word. “Of all places.” It becomes clear, in that quiet moment, that this development was never part of her design.
Edrea had expected her sister to run. To hide. To wander the wilderness long enough for the hunt to catch up with her.
But to reach another kingdom… and one powerful enough to announce an engagement publicly… That changes things. Slightly.
Silas folds his arms loosely, still watching her expression. “So,” he says, raising a brow, “the princess has found herself a king.”
Edrea exhales a soft, amused breath. “Apparently.”
Down in the centre of the square, the herald begins speaking again, repeating the announcement so the message spreads clearly among the gathered crowd.
Edrea turns away from the scene. Already bored with it. “We’ll deal with it soon enough,” she says lightly.
Silas nods, falling back into step beside her as they begin walking away from the gathering crowd.
Their conversation resumes as if nothing important has happened at all. “I must admit,” Silas muses after a moment, glancing back toward the herald still shouting proclamations in the distance, “it would be quite entertaining to send them our reply.”
Edrea glances sideways at him. “Oh?”
He smirks slightly. “Perhaps an arrow through the herald’s eyebrows.” His tone is playful in the same dark way that only the two of them seem to understand. “Very formal,” he adds. “Very memorable.”
He pauses. “Just like the courtsman.” The memory of that particular execution hangs between them for a moment then Edrea laughs.
The sound is bright and sudden, echoing strangely across the cold courtyard as they walk. “Tempting,” she admits. But her smile fades quickly. Her eyes drift once more toward the distant road leading out of the city, toward the kingdoms beyond her borders.
Toward Valemere.
Her voice lowers slightly when she speaks again. “I suppose I should congratulate my dear sister.”
Silas tilts his head. “How generous of you.”
Edrea’s lips curl slowly into something far less pleasant than a smile. “Yes,” she says softly. Her eyes gleam coldly. “After all…”
She glances back toward the herald one final time. “…nothing ruins a wedding quite like a funeral.”
Dusk settles slowly over the encampment, the golden light of the sinking sun filtering through the tall trees that surround the clearing like silent guardians. The sky above shifts into deep shades of amber and violet, and the soft glow of evening begins to replace the bright energy of the day’s training.
The camp is alive, though in a calmer way now.
Fires burn in carefully tended circles across the open field, their orange flames flickering against the canvas of red and yellow tents that stretch across the grass. The river that winds along the edge of the encampment reflects the fading sky, its surface shimmering gently as it carries the sound of flowing water through the air.
After a long day of drills and sparring, the warriors of the resistance begin settling into the rhythms of night.
Some sit beside the fires polishing their armour, cloths running methodically over dented breastplates and greaves until the metal catches the firelight in dull glimmers. Others sharpen blades against whetstones, the slow scrape of steel against stone forming a quiet background rhythm beneath the hum of conversation.
Further along the clearing, a group of centaurs share a large barrel of ale while discussing battle formations, their deep voices rising occasionally in bursts of laughter. A pair of fae hover lazily above one of the fires, their soft glowing wings casting gentle blue light over the group of humans sitting beneath them.
Near the blacksmith tents, the last of the day’s hammering fades as the forges cool, sparks dying slowly in the darkening air.
For a moment, it almost feels like peace.
Mingi sits near one of the fires on a thick log that has been dragged close enough to the flames to keep the evening chill away. His new armour rests comfortably against his frame now, the metal darker and more rugged than the polished plates he once wore under Edrea’s command. Without the markings of Eirendale carved into it, the armour feels… different. Less like a chain. More like a choice.
Beside him, Mr Brambles sits curled neatly on his haunches, his bushy tail wrapped around his paws as he watches the camp with the sharp, curious eyes of a fox who has already discovered far more mischief than any creature reasonably should.
They talk quietly together, the conversation easy and slow.
“…and then the orc actually thought he could outdrink the centaur,” Brambles is saying with obvious amusement, flicking his ears toward the group further down the fireline. “I give him another ten minutes before he collapses.”
Mingi snorts quietly. “He’s not making it ten.”
The two of them fall into comfortable silence for a moment, watching the lively scene unfolding around them.
Then- A sudden shout cuts through the camp. “What in the—?!”
Heads turn immediately.
Across the firelight, an elf sits frozen in place, his elegant silver hair now dripping with dark mead that pours down his face and tunic. The tankard that had been sitting on the log beside him lies shattered on the ground, its contents now soaking the grass and his boots.
For a moment he simply stares. Then he leaps to his feet, sputtering furiously. “My drink!”
Laughter ripples through the nearby group almost instantly.
Because standing a few steps away, is PJ. Or rather- the gnome.
The small stone figure sits perched neatly on another log, its painted grin stretched wide across its permanently cheerful face. The little statue looks almost too innocent, its round cheeks and bright painted eyes making it appear harmless to anyone who doesn’t know better.
But those in the camp clearly do. Because the moment the elf spots the gnome- “PJ!”
The name explodes from his mouth like a curse. The gnome doesn’t move, of course. But the grin somehow looks even wider than before.
The surrounding warriors burst into laughter as the elf tries to wipe the sticky mead from his tunic while glaring furiously at the small statue. “Oh for the love of—!”
Back by the fire, Mingi lets out a low chuckle. The sound surprises even him.
Mr Brambles glances sideways at him immediately, ears twitching with interest. “Well,” the fox says lightly, his voice laced with amusement, “look at that.”
Mingi raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“You laughed.”
Mingi scoffs quietly, though the corner of his mouth still hints at the lingering amusement. “He deserved it.”
Across the camp, PJ’s painted grin remains fixed proudly as the elf continues complaining to anyone who will listen.
Mr Brambles watches the scene with obvious satisfaction. “Ah,” he sighs happily, “some things never change.”
The laughter from the mead incident slowly fades into the evening air, though occasional chuckles still ripple through the camp as the unfortunate elf continues grumbling while wiping sticky drink from his clothes. PJ remains exactly where he had been placed, his painted grin still stretched wide across his stone face, clearly very pleased with himself despite not moving an inch.
The camp settles again. Voices blend together with the crackle of the fires and the quiet rush of the river nearby, creating a strange kind of warmth that drifts through the clearing.
Mingi leans back slightly on the log, resting his forearms on his knees as he watches the scene before him. For a moment he simply observes the life of the encampment - warriors sharing drinks, creatures from a dozen different races talking as though they have known one another for years, the occasional burst of laughter cutting through the cool evening air.
It is… different. Different from the rigid silence of castle barracks. Different from the cold discipline of Eirendale. Here, despite the looming threat of war, people breathe a little easier.
Beside him, Mr Brambles shifts slightly, curling his tail more comfortably around his paws as the fox gazes toward the dark treeline beyond the camp. For a while they sit in companionable quiet.
Eventually Mingi glances sideways at him. “So,” he says gruffly.
Brambles flicks an ear in his direction. “So?” the fox echoes.
Mingi nudges a loose stick into the fire, sending a small spray of sparks drifting upward. “You never finished telling me,” he mutters.
“Telling you what?”
“About your home.”
Brambles tilts his head slightly. “My home.”
“The den,” Mingi clarifies. “The one she threatened.”
The fox goes quiet for a moment. The firelight flickers across his reddish fur, catching in the bright gold of his eyes as he watches the flames dance. “They’re safe,” Brambles says after a moment.
Mingi studies him. “You moved them.”
“Of course I moved them,” Brambles replies lightly. “What kind of father would I be if I didn’t?”
The word catches Mingi’s attention immediately. “Father,” he repeats slowly.
Brambles gives a small shrug. “My mate and the cubs are far from here. Hidden deeper in the wilds than any human would ever dare travel. Even Edrea’s hunters wouldn’t find them if they searched for years.”
His voice carries a quiet certainty that leaves little room for doubt. “They’re safe,” he repeats.
Mingi nods slowly. Then, after a pause - “I still can’t believe you’re a father.”
Brambles’ ears twitch. “Oh?”
Mingi gives him a sideways look. “You’re a menace.”
The fox snorts softly. “That is an outrageous accusation.”
“You steal food.”
“I borrow food.”
“You lie constantly.”
“I embellish.”
“You annoy everyone you meet.”
Brambles lifts his head proudly. “That is simply part of my charm.”
Mingi shakes his head, a faint hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Poor cubs.”
Brambles lets out an offended huff. “My cubs,” he says firmly, “will grow up clever.”
“Gods help them.”
“They’ll need it with the world they’re inheriting.” That comment pulls the conversation into a softer silence.
The fire pops quietly. Across the clearing someone begins strumming a worn lute, the gentle melody drifting across the camp as night deepens overhead.
After a moment Brambles speaks again, his voice quieter this time. “I’m here because of them.”
Mingi glances toward him.
“My mate,” Brambles continues, “she wanted me to stay. Said the cubs needed their father close.” The fox’s gaze drifts toward the stars beginning to appear between the treetops. “But if Edrea wins… there won’t be a safe place left for them anyway.”
Mingi doesn’t respond immediately. The truth in those words hangs heavy in the air.
“So I’m here,” Brambles finishes simply. “To make sure they grow up somewhere worth living in.”
Mingi studies the fox for a moment. Then he nudges the fire again with the stick in his hand. “Well,” he mutters.
Brambles looks at him.
“Guess that means we’re stuck together.”
The fox’s tail flicks happily. “Oh, we are far more than stuck together now.”
Mingi raises an eyebrow. “How so?”
Brambles grins. “I believe the phrase you’re looking for,” the fox says smugly, “is trusted companion.”
Mingi snorts. “You’re my sidekick.”
Brambles gasps in mock offence. “Sidekick?”
“Yes.”
The fox shakes his head dramatically. “I refuse that title.”
“Too late.”
Brambles sighs heavily, though there’s a spark of clear amusement in his eyes. “Well,” he says after a moment, glancing around the lively camp once more.
“If I must be someone’s sidekick…” He smirks. “I suppose I could do worse than a grumpy knight with a broken heart.”
The fire beside Mingi crackles steadily as night settles fully across the encampment. Above the clearing the sky has deepened into dark indigo, the first scattering of stars appearing between the tall trees that ring the valley. Around them the camp hums with the quiet life of evening - warriors talking over shared meals, armour being polished beside the flames, the distant melody of a lute weaving gently through the cool air.
Mingi sits forward slightly, elbows resting against his knees as he listens to Mr Brambles continue one of his long, winding observations about the nature of love.
“…and I am simply pointing out,” the fox says with exaggerated patience, “that denying it so aggressively only makes it more obvious.”
Mingi gives him a slow look. “Obvious to who?”
“Everyone.”
“That sounds like your problem, not mine.”
Brambles lets out a theatrical sigh and lowers his head onto his paws, though the glint of amusement never leaves his eyes. “You truly are exhausting.”
Before Mingi can answer, the night is suddenly torn apart by a sound so deep and powerful that it seems to shake the very air around them.
A roar.
It is not the cry of any creature the forest normally holds. This sound carries weight- age - power. It rolls across the valley like thunder breaking over the mountains, vibrating through the ground beneath their feet.
The entire encampment reacts instantly.
Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Warriors jump to their feet. Metal rings sharply as swords are drawn from their sheaths and shields are lifted from the ground. Even the musicians fall silent, the lute’s last note fading into the sudden tension.
Another roar follows, louder this time, echoing across the dark trees and the river beyond.
Mingi is already standing. His hand moves to the hilt of his sword with the instinct of someone who has survived too many battles to hesitate when danger announces itself so clearly.
Beside him, Brambles is on his feet as well, his ears flattened and tail stiff as he peers up into the sky.
Above the encampment, something enormous sweeps across the moonlight.
A vast shadow passes over the fires, stretching across tents and warriors alike. The shape circles the clearing once, its massive wings beating slowly through the air. Each movement sends a rush of wind downward that makes the flames dance wildly and the tent ropes creak under the strain.
Across the camp, Kuldrane has already moved into the centre of the clearing. The towering centaur stands tall and immovable, spear in hand as he studies the figure circling above them.
“Archers!” someone calls. Bows snap upward all around the clearing.
A volley of arrows streaks into the sky, their tips glinting briefly in the firelight before disappearing into the dark shape above.
They never come close. The creature turns easily in the air, avoiding the arrows with unsettling grace. The great wings shift again, catching the night wind as it begins to descend toward the ground.
Slowly. Deliberately.
As it lowers into the light cast by the campfires, the warriors below finally see what has come to visit them.
A dragon.
Its body is immense, far larger than any horse or beast the camp has seen. The scales covering its body appear black at first glance, but when the firelight touches them a deep violet sheen shimmers beneath the surface, as though the creature carries shadows within its own armour.
The wings fold gradually as the dragon lands just beyond the outer ring of tents. The impact sends a tremor through the ground, scattering dust and loose earth outward from the massive claws that grip the soil.
The warriors hold their ground, though many tighten their grips on their weapons.
Another volley of arrows flies toward the creature. This time the arrows strike.
The sharp points glance harmlessly off the dragon’s scales before falling to the ground like useless twigs.
The dragon exhales slowly, warm breath drifting through the clearing like a cloud of mist. Then its great head lowers toward the gathered camp, ancient eyes sweeping across the warriors standing before it.
When it speaks, the voice that emerges is deep and resonant, carrying the weight of centuries. “I mean no harm.” The words roll across the clearing with surprising clarity.
For a moment no one moves.
Some of the warriors shift uneasily, clearly unsure whether the creature’s claim should be believed. Others keep their bows drawn, their arrows ready despite the obvious futility of their earlier attempts.
Kuldrane studies the dragon carefully.
The centaur takes several slow steps forward, positioning himself between the creature and the rest of the camp. His expression remains stern, though his posture suggests careful consideration rather than immediate attack.
The dragon does not move. It simply waits.
After a long moment, Kuldrane lifts one powerful arm. “Lower your weapons.”
A ripple of uncertainty passes through the gathered fighters. Several hesitate, glancing toward one another as if unsure whether such a command can truly be wise.
Kuldrane’s voice grows firmer. “Lower them.”
One by one, swords begin to lower. Bowstrings ease, arrows returning to quivers. Shields dip toward the ground as the tension in the clearing slowly loosens.
Even Mingi allows the tip of his blade to fall slightly, though his eyes remain fixed on the enormous creature standing before them.
The dragon’s gaze sweeps across the camp once more. Ancient. Patient. And waiting to speak again.
The clearing remains tense, though the first sharp edge of panic has begun to soften into something closer to wary attention. Weapons are no longer raised, but they have not been put away either. Warriors stand in loose circles around the dragon, their eyes fixed on the enormous creature whose presence seems to swallow the firelight around him.
Kuldrane remains at the centre of it all.
The great centaur plants the butt of his spear firmly into the ground before him, his broad shoulders squared as he studies the dragon with the steady patience of a leader who has seen enough battles to know that fear rarely leads to wise decisions.
For several long seconds he says nothing. He simply looks. Then his deep voice carries across the clearing. “If you intend to speak,” Kuldrane says, “then speak clearly.”
The dragon’s great head lowers slightly, acknowledging the command without offense. The violet sheen beneath his dark scales shifts as the firelight moves, giving the creature an almost otherworldly presence among the gathered warriors.
Kuldrane’s eyes narrow slightly. “Dragons,” he continues, his tone thoughtful but edged with disbelief, “were thought to be extinct.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd behind him.
“Nothing more than old tales told to children,” he adds. “Stories meant to frighten young knights and entertain bored kings.”
The dragon watches him calmly. Then he speaks again. “My name is Mars.”
The voice is deep enough that it vibrates faintly in the ground beneath their feet, though there is no hostility in the sound.
“I am… one of the last of my kind.” That statement draws a sharper stir from the camp.
Several of the creatures gathered nearby exchange uneasy glances. Even the fae hovering above the fire drift closer together, their glowing wings dimming slightly as they listen.
Mars continues. “There are others,” he explains slowly. “A small flight that remains far from this land.”
His head turns slightly toward the distant horizon, as though he can see the place even from here. “In the mountains beyond the eastern sea.” The description carries a quiet weight. “Hidden,” he adds. “For many years.”
Kuldrane folds his arms slowly across his chest. “And yet you are here,” the centaur says.
Mars exhales softly, the warm breath drifting through the clearing like fog. “Because we are now no longer hidden.”
The murmuring among the warriors grows louder now.
Mingi, standing several paces behind Kuldrane, feels the shift ripple through the crowd. Beside him, Mr Brambles’ ears tilt forward sharply, the fox’s attention now entirely fixed on the dragon.
Kuldrane’s voice remains steady. “Explain.”
Mars lowers his head slightly, his massive eyes reflecting the scattered fires of the camp. “The queen of Eirendale has discovered us.”
The name alone stirs tension among those gathered. Edrea. Even here, deep within the forest, her reach casts a shadow.
Mars continues, his voice carrying a darker note now. “She has begun searching the mountains.”
A ripple of anger moves through the camp. “How?” someone mutters.
Mars does not look toward the speaker. His gaze remains fixed on Kuldrane. “There are rumours,” he says slowly, “that she has obtained something she should never possess.”
The dragon’s voice grows quieter. “Dark magic.” That phrase lands heavily.
The fire beside Mingi pops sharply as a log shifts within the flames.
Mars continues speaking, the ancient weariness in his voice becoming clearer. “Magic capable of harming dragons.”
A few of the warriors exchange uneasy glances. Dragons are not creatures easily threatened. The idea that something could threaten them at all sends a quiet ripple of dread through the clearing.
“I do not yet know her true intent,” Mars admits. “Whether she wishes to destroy us… or bend us to her will.” His wings shift slightly against his sides, the movement slow but powerful. “But I will not allow either.”
His gaze sweeps across the gathered resistance. “So I have come here.” The dragon’s great head lifts slightly again. “To those who also prepare to stand against her.”
For several moments after the dragon finishes speaking, the clearing remains quiet. The crackling of the fires and the distant rush of the river are the only sounds that dare move through the air.
Kuldrane studies the enormous creature before him, his expression thoughtful rather than fearful now. The centaur leader has faced enough danger in his long life to recognize when something powerful stands before him with honesty rather than threat.
At length, he gives a slow nod. “Then you are welcome here,” Kuldrane says. His deep voice carries clearly across the encampment, allowing every warrior gathered nearby to hear the decision.
A murmur passes through the camp, though it is no longer uneasy. Instead there is something closer to awe in the way many of them now stare at the dragon standing among them.
Kuldrane gestures toward the wider clearing. “You have come to the right place if you seek those willing to stand against Edrea,” he continues. “Every creature in this camp has been pushed from the kingdoms she seeks to dominate.”
His gaze lifts toward Mars again. “We would be glad to have your strength beside us.”
The dragon lowers his head slightly in acknowledgement, the motion careful and controlled despite the immense size of his body.
Kuldrane then glances toward the gathered warriors behind him. “For now,” he says, “I would speak with our guest privately.” The message is clear.
Most of the camp begins drifting back toward their fires and tents, the tension that had seized them earlier slowly dissolving into curious whispers and excited conversation. Kuldrane gestures for Mars to follow him toward the large open field near the back of the encampment.
The dragon’s massive wings shift once before he begins moving, his enormous form surprisingly graceful as he follows the centaur through the clearing. Before long the two disappear into the field, the heavy fog falling shut behind them.
Back near the fire where he had been sitting earlier, Mingi exhales quietly as the excitement settles around them. Mr Brambles watches the command tent for a moment longer before letting out a low whistle. “Well,” the fox says thoughtfully, “that is certainly something you don’t see every day.”
Mingi rubs a hand briefly across the back of his neck. “No.”
Brambles’ eyes sparkle with amusement. “You know,” he adds casually, “the princess would never believe this.”
That comment earns him a sideways look. “A dragon landing in the middle of camp?” Brambles continues, clearly entertained by the thought. “She would have loved it.”
The image seems to settle somewhere behind Mingi’s guarded expression. For a moment he says nothing. Then a small breath escapes him, the faintest ghost of a laugh hiding in the sound.
“Yeah,” he mutters quietly. “She probably would have.” The moment lingers only briefly before the night shifts again.
From somewhere beyond the outer ring of the encampment, the sharp blast of a horn suddenly cuts through the air.
The sound is unmistakable. Royal.
Several heads turn immediately toward the treeline.
Moments later, movement emerges from the darkness beyond the clearing. Horses step cautiously into the firelight, their hooves crunching against the dirt path that leads toward the camp. Behind them follow a pair of decorated carriages and a small escort of travelling officials wearing the crests of several distant kingdoms.
The encampment quiets again, though this time the tension feels different. Curious. Wary.
A man in royal colours steps forward once the horses stop at the edge of the clearing. He carries a long brass horn which he lifts again before blowing a second sharp note that echoes across the gathered camp.
All conversation dies. The man unrolls a scroll in his hand. His voice rises loudly enough for the entire encampment to hear.
“Let it be known—” The formal tone of the proclamation slices cleanly through the cool night air.
“—that Princess Y/N, formerly of Eirendale, has been welcomed into the kingdom of Valemere and is to be wed to King Aurelian.”
A ripple of murmurs spreads immediately among the gathered warriors.
The herald continues without pause. “A proposal of marriage has occurred, and a royal wedding shall commence!”
The words hang in the air for a long moment after he finishes.
Then, just as quickly as they arrived, the herald rolls the scroll closed and signals to the carriage drivers. The horses turn, wheels grinding against the dirt path as the royal messengers begin their departure toward the next kingdom waiting to hear the news.
Within moments, the procession disappears back into the dark forest. Leaving the encampment behind, and the announcement still echoing among those who heard it.
The last echoes of the herald’s horn fade into the forest, leaving behind a strange, hollow quiet across the encampment.
For most of those gathered, the moment becomes one of confusion. Low conversations begin almost immediately, warriors leaning toward one another with raised brows and curious murmurs.
“Valemere?”
“The princess made it that far?”
“Marriage?”
But Mingi hears none of it. The moment the words left the herald’s mouth, something inside him seemed to collapse inward.
His ears ring.
The sound is sharp at first, like metal struck too hard, before it deepens into a dull roar that drowns out the rest of the world. The voices around him blur together into indistinct noise, as though he has been dragged beneath the surface of deep water and the world above continues moving without him.
His chest tightens. His throat feels suddenly narrow, air dragging in and out of his lungs in heavy, uneven pulls.
Princess Y/N. To be wed. To King Aurelian.
The words ricochet through his mind again and again, striking against his thoughts like arrows that refuse to stop moving.
Married. The thought alone makes something twist violently inside his chest.
Beside him, Mr Brambles is speaking.
Mingi can see the fox’s mouth moving, can see the sharp concern in his eyes, but the words themselves arrive muffled and distant.
“…Mingi?” Nothing. “…hey.” Still nothing. “Mingi.”
The fox’s voice finally breaks through slightly, though it still sounds far away, distorted by the rushing noise filling Mingi’s head.
But even then, the knight barely hears him. All he hears is his own breathing. Heavy. Uneven.
She’s getting married. The thought slams into him again. She’s getting married. She’s gone.
The image of her rises uninvited in his mind- the way she laughed when he teased her about her bow grip, the stubborn fire in her eyes whenever she argued with him, the warmth of her hand against his face the morning they parted.
That final moment flashes through his memory like lightning.
Her voice. Her kiss against his cheek. The softness of it. The promise of something neither of them had dared name.
And now - Married. Gone. Gone from him.
His hands curl slowly into fists.
No.
The word arrives quietly at first, buried beneath the pounding of his pulse. Then it grows louder.
No.
His breathing steadies slightly as the thought takes hold. He cannot accept that.
He cannot accept that the last time he ever saw her was that moment on the edge of the forest, when he forced himself to let her walk away.
The idea of her standing beside another man - smiling, laughing, promising herself to someone else, it twists something deep inside him into something fierce and desperate.
Mr Brambles steps closer now, his voice finally cutting through the fog. “Mingi,” the fox says carefully, “talk to me.”
The knight doesn’t answer immediately. He stands there for several seconds longer, staring toward the dark trees beyond the camp as if he can somehow see Valemere through the miles of forest between them.
Then, slowly, he turns. His expression is different now. Not hollow. Not broken. Resolved.
He looks down at Bramble. “I have to go.”
The words are quiet, but there is no hesitation in them. Bramble blinks. “Go?” the fox asks. “Go where?”
But Mingi is already moving. Mingi turns away from the fire before the fox can say anything else, already beginning to move through the camp with long, determined strides.
Brambles blinks in surprise before scrambling after him. “Go?” the fox repeats. “Go where?”
Mingi doesn’t slow. He moves through the clearing like a man walking through a storm only he can feel, passing warriors who barely notice the tension radiating from him.
Brambles trots alongside him. “You can’t possibly be thinking—”
“I am.” The answer comes sharp.
The fox huffs in disbelief. “You just heard the announcement,” Brambles says. “They’re planning a royal wedding. That usually involves guards. Lots of guards.”
Mingi keeps walking. His jaw is set so tightly that the muscles along his neck stand out beneath the firelight.
“So what exactly is the plan?” Brambles continues. “You march into Valemere, interrupt the ceremony, and politely object?”
Mingi doesn’t respond at first. His mind is racing now, the earlier shock burning away into something far more dangerous. Determination. “She’s leaving,” he mutters under his breath.
Brambles glances up at him. “She’s not yours to lose.”
The words land harder than the fox intends. Mingi stops abruptly. For a moment the world seems to hold its breath.
The knight stands motionless beneath the dark canopy of trees at the edge of the camp, the distant fires casting flickering light across the hard lines of his face.
Then he speaks. “She is.” The words are quiet. But there is no hesitation in them.
Brambles studies him carefully. “You’re serious,” the fox says slowly.
Mingi’s gaze drifts toward the dark path leading out of the encampment, toward the kingdoms beyond the forest. Toward Valemere.
“I’m not letting her disappear like this,” he says.
His voice carries a fierce certainty now, something raw and stubborn that refuses to be silenced.
He steps away from the fire, boots striking the dirt with purpose as he begins marching toward the outer edge of the encampment.
“Mingi!” Brambles scrambles after him quickly, tail flicking with alarm. “Where exactly do you think you’re going?”
“Mingi—”
Mr Bramble hurries to keep pace beside him, weaving easily between the tents as the knight strides through the camp. “And what exactly is your master plan when you get there?” the fox asks incredulously. “You seriously think you can just march into a royal wedding and object?”
Mingi doesn’t slow. “If I have to.”
“That is not a plan.”
“It’s enough.”
Mr Bramble groans softly. “You can't be serious.”
Mingi’s jaw tightens. Every step feels heavier than the last, but the direction of his path never wavers. His mind is already made. “She deserves the truth,” he mutters.
“The truth?”
“That I didn’t walk away because I wanted to.”
Mr Bramble studies him carefully. “And if she chooses the king anyway?”
Mingi stops walking. For a moment he simply stands there beneath the dark canopy of trees, the quiet forest stretching out before him. Then he answers.
“Then I’ll leave.” His voice is calm now. Steady. “But I won’t let her marry him thinking I never came back.”
Mr Bramble watches him for a long moment. Then the fox sighs dramatically and trots forward again. “Well,” he says lightly, “if we’re marching into royal weddings and causing problems, I suppose someone needs to make sure you don’t get arrested before you even reach the gates.”
Mingi glances down at him. “You’re coming?”
“Of course I’m coming,” Mr Bramble replies. “You think I’m letting you attempt something this ridiculous without supervision?”
Despite everything swirling inside him, the faintest shadow of a smile flickers across Mingi’s face.
They reach the edge of the encampment together. Behind them, the fires continue burning and the camp slowly returns to its evening rhythms, unaware that one of its newest warriors has already chosen a different path for the night.
Mingi tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword. His gaze fixes firmly on the dark forest ahead.
And with quiet certainty, he says- His voice cuts quietly through the night.
