enter the void.

sera | 20s | she/her mdni!

[enhalush]

my blog is still a mess omg guys i promise i know how to use tumblr....

[heejamas]

MANCHILD

➢ pairing: cowboy!jake x fem!reader … ﹒cowboy au, strangers to lovers, smut \\ ➢ synopsis: you’re trouble, and jake sim knows it. you flirt like it’s your job, wear sin like perfume, and make men beg without even trying. he’s the only cowboy who doesn’t chase you. so naturally, he’s the only one you want. a small-town, slow-burn, filthy little game of who breaks first. ➢ word count: 9.5k

➢ warnings: smut!! minors dni. oral sex (f and m receiveing), unprotected sex (dont do it!!), public-ish sex, dirty talk, possessive!jake, softdom!jake, bratty!reader, spanking, cum eating, praise and degradation, cowboy kink™, jake is a menace but so are you, yeehaw but make it slutty

you’re wiping down the counter when you say it, voice low and lazy, like it’s just another tuesday night and not the kind of sentence that rearranges a man’s brain chemistry.

“i like my boys playing hard to get.”

you don’t mean it to land anywhere in particular. you’re just talking, tossing it out there between gossip, your voice sweet, meant only for the girl beside you. so she laughs, nudges you with her hip. “you mean the ones who ghost you after three days?”

“no,” you sigh, stretching like a cat behind the bar. “i mean the ones who pretend they don’t care. the ones too proud to beg. makes it more fun when they do.”

you say it like it’s a joke, but you mean every word. and across the room, jake sim hears you.

he hadn’t meant to. hadn’t even realized he was eavesdropping until the words tangled around him. he’s not the type to pay attention to chatter. he’s been coming to this place for years, knows how to tune out the flirting and the country drawls and the clink of empty glasses. but your voice is different. and he’s seen you around, of course. everyone has.

you’re the kind of girl people build myths around. the kind they write country songs about, because you have a laugh that could ruin a man. and every guy in town’s tried his luck. most ended up a little poorer, a little dumber, and twice as obsessed. and you never even blinked.

so when you breeze past his table, tray balanced on your palm, perfume trailing like a challenge, jake doesn’t move. doesn’t shift, doesn’t look up from his drink. not obviously, at least. he doesn’t give you the satisfaction. and you notice. oh, you notice. because you’re used to stares, to whistles and clumsy compliments and boys who fall over themselves to hand you things you never asked for. you’re used to the way they sit up straighter when you walk by, the way their words fumble out of their mouths like dropped coins.

but this one? this one just sits there. quiet and unmoved.

you catch him watching only once, just once, when you lean forward to grab a bottle from the bottom shelf, and when your eyes flick up, his are already somewhere else. not pretending, not faking it, just gone. and it pisses you off more than it should.

you don’t say anything. you just toss your hair over your shoulder and smile at the other girl again, louder this time. “i like my men all incompetent,” you declare, tucking a dollar into your apron, “and i swear they choose me, i’m not choosing them.”

jake lifts his beer to his lips, slow. doesn’t smile. doesn’t even smirk. and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel in control of the game. you hate that, but you also love that.

but you definitely hate rodeos.

too loud and sweaty. too many men with too little brain and too much cologne. it’s just the same loop every time—horses, hats, hollering, and someone calling you “sweet cheeks” like that’s supposed to make you blush instead of gag. normally, you stay far away. but tonight’s different. because you heard jake sim was riding.

so you show up. late, of course, on purpose. your boots crunch over dirt and beer cans as you make your way through the crowd, hips swinging just enough to remind everyone you don’t walk, you arrive. every man you pass straightens his spine like you might look at him if he behaves, and every woman rolls her eyes in that half-jealous way they always do.

but you don’t care. you’re not here for them. you’re here for the man on the horse.

and when you spot him, out in the pen, one hand gripping the reins, the other resting light against his thigh, you feel that slow, low flutter in your stomach that tastes a little like trouble. because he’s wearing that stupid hat again, the same beat-up one that sits just low enough to make his eyes a mystery and his mouth a promise. his shirt’s rolled up to the elbows, collar unbuttoned, forearms dusted with dirt and sin. he looks like sin. he rides like sin.

you lean against the fence, pop a piece of gum into your mouth, and pretend you’re not watching. but you are, everyone is. but he doesn’t look into the crowd, not once. he doesn’t wave, doesn’t show off, doesn’t even smile. he just focuses—on the gate, on the bull, on the seconds ticking down before the chaos. there’s something precise about it, almost like he’s not here to perform, just to win.

and you hate how hot that is.

when the gate finally opens and he bursts out, body moving like he’s part of the beast beneath him, the whole crowd goes wild. people scream, hats fly, beer spills. but you just chew your gum and watch. he holds on longer than anyone else that night. and when he lands, smooth and sharp and smug, your stomach does a traitorous little flip.

he still doesn’t look at you. not even when he walks past, later, towel slung over his shoulder, shirt sticking to his back, sweat dripping down his neck like something out of a country girl’s fantasy.

you’re standing by the concession stand now, pretending to look at overpriced chili fries when he walks right past you again. and for the first time, maybe in ever, you don’t know what to do with that. because everyone looks at you. everyone wants something from you.

but jake sim? jake sim doesn’t even blink.

you pop your gum again, louder than necessary. he still doesn’t turn. bastard. so you lick your lips, tilt your head, and mutter just loud enough for the girl next to you to hear—just loud enough for him to maybe hear, too— “god, i hate cowboys.”

except you don’t. you really, really don’t.

so you decide to wear red on saturday. not a soft red. not a muted, tasteful, wine-country red. no, this is bright, dangerous, stop-sign red. the kind that glitters when you walk and blasphemes when you bend. you slip it on slow, knowing exactly what it does to your body and your ego. it’s the kind of dress that starts fights and finishes them.

you don’t wear it for him, not technically. but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t check your lipstick twice before heading to the bar, or if you hadn’t spent a good three minutes wondering if jake sim was the type of man who noticed sequins.

(it turns out—he isn’t.)

he’s already there when you walk in, sitting in his usual corner like a piece of furniture carved from patience and denim. same hat, same shirt, same maddeningly blank expression. he doesn’t flinch when you walk by. doesn’t scan your legs like every other man. doesn’t lean over to whisper something to his friend and then laugh too loud. he just looks. once. and then looks away.

you could scream. instead, you smile. you spend the next hour putting on a show—not for him, of course, never that. just for… the atmosphere. you take extra time leaning over the bar. you laugh a little louder, let your fingers trail longer. you flirt, you twirl, you dance like you’re made of sugar and smoke.

and he just sits there. solid. steady and stoic in the face of sin.

when the jukebox shifts to something slow and sweaty, your friend pulls you out from behind the bar and spins you onto the floor. you go willingly, you always do. you dance with her, and then with some other guy, who’s a terrible flirt but a decent dancer. you laugh as you move, hips swaying, hands up, hair stuck to your neck. people cheer, whistles echo. someone shouts your name.

and still, jake sim doesn’t look. he sits there, beer untouched, fingers drumming slowly against the table. his eyes are on the wall, or the floor, or nowhere at all. you want to throw a chair at him. instead, you press your body just a little closer, let your head tip back, your laughter bubble out like champagne. 

and for half a second, just half, you swear you can feel his gaze. but by the time you glance over, it’s gone.

you finish the dance anyway, cheeks flushed from effort or ego or something worse, and when you walk past jake’s table again, you pause. just enough. he still doesn’t say anything. but his knuckles are white around the bottle, and that’s something.

and ​​you’re not much of a smoker, not really. it’s more about the image. the ritual of it—door swinging shut behind you, the hum of the saloon dulling into background noise, a lighter flicked slowly. you like the weight of the cigarette between your fingers, the way it makes your mouth look meaner. you especially like the way people look at you when you do it.

on sunday, though, the sidewalk is mostly empty. the neon sign above the door buzzes like it’s dying, and your heels click against the pavement. you’re alone, almost. because he’s there. leaning against his truck—of course it’s a truck, stupid and long and matte black— arms crossed, hat low, chewing on a toothpick like he was placed there by god.

you try not to look. but of course you fail.

“you always stand like that,” you say, taking a drag and blowing smoke sideways, “or is this a special occasion?”

he doesn’t turn, god, he doesn’t even smile. “like what?” he asks, voice low and scratchy, like he only uses it when necessary.

you flick ash toward the gravel and shift your weight, one hip out, just enough to suggest: i am here and i am wearing very little. so you say: “like you’re being painted,” you say. “by someone too obsessed with denim.”

that gets a reaction, barely—a twitch at the corner of his mouth. nothing close to a smile, but you count it anyway. “you don’t like denim?” he asks.

“i like it just fine,” you say, letting your eyes travel up and down. “i just think it likes you a lot.”

he hums, quiet and unfazed. the toothpick shifts from one side of his mouth to the other with devastating nonchalance. “you always flirt like that?” he asks finally, and it’s almost cruel, the way he says it—like he’s calling you out without even looking at you.

you tilt your head. “like what?”

“like you’re bored.”

you take another drag, slower this time. it buys you a second. maybe two. “i’m not bored,” you say. “i’m offended.”

he finally looks at you then. really looks. not a glance, not a flick of the eyes, but a slow, full scan that starts at your boots and ends at your mouth. “offended?”

“yeah,” you say. “you’re the first man in town who hasn’t tried to get a shot with me.”

he raises an eyebrow. your breath hitches, and you curse yourself for it. because god damn it. he pushes off the truck, and he steps forward, just one step, just close enough for you to smell him. smoke and leather and desert heat. “that why you came out here?” he asks. “to collect another admirer?”

“no,” you say, a little too quickly. “i came out to smoke.”

he nods, glances at your cigarette. “you’re holding it backwards.”

you look down, you are. shit.

he walks past you then, amused and infuriatingly tall, back toward the saloon. and just before the door swings shut behind him, he tosses the toothpick into the dirt and says, without looking: “you’ll have better luck with someone who gives a damn, sweetheart.”

you stand there for a minute, blinking smoke out of your eyes, lips parted in disbelief, cigarette still backwards in your hand. you don’t know whether to chase him or marry him. probably both.

the annual summer festival happens a week later, and the whole town’s lost its damn mind. kids run wild, drunk uncles argue, and there’s a man singing country ballads off-key on the main.

and you look stunning, obviously.  short dress, boots too clean to be from here, a pair of sunglasses you don’t need but wear anyway. you walk through the crowd like you’re not sweating like everyone else. and your arm? it’s linked tightly through lee heeseung’s. the sheriff’s son. walking cologne bottle. he thinks calling women “sugar tits” is flirtation and not a felony. you smile like he’s the most charming thing this town’s ever coughed up. and across the lot, jake sees everything.

he’s standing near the fence, drink in hand, chewing on his pride. he looks like a warning sign, his arms crossed so tight his biceps look like they’re planning a mutiny. he doesn’t blink, he doesn’t even pretend not to be watching. you glance at him once, and once is enough.

you laugh louder. lean closer to heeseung, who’s talking about god-knows-what—his truck, his workout, his daddy’s badge—and you nod like you care. every move is calculated. every smile is a weapon. because you know exactly what you’re doing. so you excuse yourself after a while, muttering something about needing another drink, slipping away from heeseung before he can say something else that’ll make your ears bleed. you walk through the back, your boots clicking fast.

you’re halfway to the bar when you feel a heat at your back. 

“fun night?” his voice is behind you. dry and quiet. 

you don’t turn around right away. you let the moment hang. and then you say, “depends,” running a hand through your hair like it’s not dripping down your neck. “you havin’ fun watching?”

he steps in closer. you feel him before you see him, his chest just a breath away from your shoulder. “you always hang off men you don’t like?” he asks, voice low enough to make your knees consider collapsing.

you shrug. “what makes you think i don’t like him?”

“you’re bored. i know what you look like when you’re havin’ fun.”

you hate how that line makes your stomach twist. hate it more that he’s right. so you finally turn to face him, hands on your hips, head tilted with mock sweetness. “what, jealous?”

he laughs. it’s short and dark. “of lee heeseung?” he scoffs. “sweetheart, i’m jealous of his dog before i’m jealous of him.”

you bite your lip to hide the smile, and you fail. “then why are you here?” you ask, eyes locking onto his. 

he leans in, just enough to make you dizzy. his gaze dips—down your lips, down your throat, down your dress—and lingers there, shameless. he looks like he wants to say more. or do more. and you kind of wish he would. but instead, he straightens up, steps back, and lets the space between you fill with heat again.

“because, darling, next time you wanna get under someone’s skin,” he says, “maybe pick a man who ain’t wearin’ daddy’s badge.”

and just like that, he turns and walks off. no touch. not even a goddamn smirk. you’re left standing there, pulse racing, drink forgotten, mouth parted like a woman halfway to disaster.

you fan yourself with your hand, mutter to no one, “fuck my life.”

and over the next few weeks, jake sim makes a habit out of losing his mind quietly.

he tells himself he’s just thirsty. that’s the only reason he keeps showing up to the saloon. he tells himself that every night he parks that stupid truck in the same stupid spot and walks through the same door into the same bar where you’re working, and where you, lately, won’t even look at him.

and that’s what kills him. because you used to look. all big eyes and evil little smiles, like you were constantly cooking up something sinful and he was the poor bastard about to taste it.

but now? now you barely glance in his direction. you walk past him like he’s just another part of the furniture. take other tables. pour drinks with your back to him. laugh at other men’s jokes.

and jake watches silently. desperately. he tries not to, he really does. but his eyes betray him every time. they flick to you the second you walk by—legs bare, hair pulled back with a pen, lips glossed to hell. you smell like vanilla and cigarette smoke, and it’s infuriating how much he wants to bite that smell off your throat.

and the worst part is that he knows you’re doing it on purpose. because sometimes, just sometimes, he catches the way your mouth twitches when you pass his table. the way you shift your weight a little slower, lean over a little further when you’re grabbing something. and when he doesn’t look up—when he pretends not to notice—you bite your lip like you’re trying not to laugh.

you’re playing hard to get. which is adorable, really. but it works. fuck, it works.

jake sim, who’s spent most of his adult life being aggressively unbothered, now sits at this bar like a man possessed. he sips beer and imagines things he shouldn’t. he watches your mouth wrap around straws and thinks about how it’d look wrapped around something else entirely. he stares at your hands pouring drinks and thinks about them fisting in his shirt, pressed against his belt, sliding down—

he coughs. shifts in his seat. takes another sip and pretends like he’s not half hard just because you leaned against the fridge five minutes ago.

he doesn’t talk to you. hasn’t, since the festival. because that would mean giving in. and if there’s one thing jake sim is worse at than feelings, it’s losing. but god, the way you walk? the way you smile at the wrong people? the way you drop the occasional “cowboy” into a sentence like it’s not meant to ruin him?

it’s almost sweet, the way you’re trying to get under his skin. but also: it’s working. and he thinks, not for the first time, that if you asked—if you looked at him a certain way—he’d let you wreck his entire life. you could tie him to the back of his own truck, spit on his mouth, call him useless in front of god and the sheriff, and he’d probably thank you. 

but you don’t look at him anymore. you just brush past him one more time, close enough for your skirt to kiss his knee, and say to no one in particular, real sweet: “why so sexy if so dumb?”

and jake swears to god he’s gonna start a bar fight just to calm down.

but the moment you step onto the dirt lot of the fairgrounds, sundress fluttering and sunglasses perched high on your nose, his brain short-circuits. ​​he sees you the second you walk in. he pretends not to, of course. jake sim has made an olympic sport out of pretending you don’t exist. but you’re here, again. and he’s fucked. 

he’s in the chute, adjusting his gloves, boots already caked in dust, chest strapped down tight like it might explode. he tells himself to focus on the ride, on the bull, on anything but the way your thighs are peeking out from under that goddamn dress.

you shouldn’t be here. he was hoping you’d show up, obviously, but now that you’re actually here, it feels like a setup. like god’s decided to make him fail in front of everyone and look good doing it. so he refuses to look directly at you. not while you’re standing near the fence, leaning against the railing like you’re modeling for the “ruin a man” calendar. not while you’re laughing at something some poor bastard just said, tossing your hair over your shoulder. and certainly not when you suck on that red snow cone.

he adjusts his hat lower. counts backward from ten. tries to remember how to breathe.

he’s still got it under control—mostly—until the moment he’s mounting the bull and glances toward the crowd just once. just a peek. and there you are, watching, with your lip between your teeth and a look that could sterilize holy water.

he slips. just a little. just enough for one boot to miss its mark and his hand to falter on the rope. no one notices. not really. but he does.

the ride still goes fine. better than fine, actually. he makes it the full eight seconds, lands smooth, wipes the sweat off his brow like he’s not a mess on the inside. like he didn’t almost fall off a 1,500-pound animal because you were licking syrup off your finger.

later, after the noise dies down, after the dust settles and the crowd starts dispersing into beer and music and gossip, you find him. he’s near the back of the stables, away from the noise. hat off, hair damp, shirt sticking to his back in places that make your hands twitch.

you lean against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted. he sees you coming. of course he does.

you don’t say anything right away. just look him over like you’re checking for bruises. “didn’t fall this time,” you say.

“not for lack of tryin’,” he mutters.

you raise an eyebrow. “the bull or me?”

he doesn’t answer. you take that as a win. so you step closer, slow. toe the dirt with your boot, pretend to be casual. but everything about you tonight is a performance, and he knows it. the cherry lip gloss. the dress with buttons that strain when you breathe. the way you keep shifting your weight like your thighs are begging for attention. you’re trying to get to him, and you are. but he’ll die before he admits it.

“you always ride that well,” you say, voice syrupy and cruel, “or was that just for me?”

“don’t flatter yourself, darlin’.”

“too late,” you grin. “flattered myself the whole way here.”

he laughs at that, but he still doesn’t move. you take another step. now you’re in front of him, barely a breath of air between your bodies. the tension crackles, like something’s about to snap. he looks down at you, his jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. you could kiss him, you could push him. you could drop to your knees and he wouldn’t stop you. but he stays still. and you know what that means. he’s losing it. slowly and deliciously.

so you just smile, all teeth and trouble, and say: “you gonna say thank you for coming, or do i gotta leave and come back so you can do it right?”

he looks down at you and decides—fuck it. if this is a game, he’s gonna play. so his hand lifts. two fingers hook lazily in your belt in your dress, just enough to make your breath hitch and your knees forget how to behave. he doesn’t pull, doesn’t tug, just lets it sit there. you blink up at him like you weren’t expecting him to do this. because you weren't.

“thought you came to watch the ride,” he says, voice like gravel and heat. “didn’t know you were hopin’ to start one.”

you’re stunned for a second, flustered. but you recover fast. your hand comes up, trailing a single finger down the buttons of his shirt, slowly. and you giggle. you say nothing, you only giggle and smile. then you step back, leaving him standing there with nothing but the smell of your perfume and a growing problem in his jeans. he blinks once. twice. and you’re already gone.

a few days later, he sees you again at the gas station. you’re sitting on the hood of your car. your car is pink, of course it’s pink. girly in that deadly way. floral air freshener, fuzzy dice, a sparkly steering wheel cover and a bumper sticker that probably says something like “yee-haw, bitch.”

you’re licking a cherry lollipop. wearing the tiniest pair of shorts known to mankind and a tank top that does nothing to hide your agenda. your legs are crossed, one foot bouncing lazily in the air like you have nowhere to be and every intention of being stared at. and people are staring. two guys walk by, heads snapping so fast they nearly sprain something. an old man in a tractor cap gives a long, disapproving look that lasts until he crashes into a trash can.

you? you smile sweetly. wave. keep sucking on that lollipop like you’re not ruining lives. and jake watches from the far pump, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying so hard not to enjoy the sight of you doing exactly what you do best.

and then, just like you’ve sensed him from across the lot, you slide off the hood, sway your hips across the concrete, and approach him with the most dangerous sentence in your arsenal: “cowboy,” you say, “i think i got a flat.”

he raises an eyebrow. looks at your car. no flat. you grin like the liar you are. “could you check for me?” you ask, voice all syrup and fake innocence. “i’d do it myself, but—” you shrug, twisting a strand of hair around your finger. “i don’t wanna chip a nail.”

he stares at you and you stare back. he knows what this is. you want him on his knees. and god help him—he’s thinking about it.

“you sure?” he says, tone dry. “seems like you’re the type to pop a tire just to see what crawls out the woodwork.”

“you caught me,” you beam. 

he sighs, but he walks over anyway. you trail behind, delighted, watching him crouch down in front of your car, like he is your personal cowboy-themed thirst trap come to life. he’s in front of you, all strong hands and dirty jeans, touching your tires like it’s a performance.

you lean back against the hood. cross your legs the other way. suck louder on the lollipop, just to be mean. and jake knows the tire’s fine, he also knows he’s losing. and when he looks up—sweat on his brow, eyes half-lidded, gaze landing right between your crossed legs—you don’t say a word. you just smile and keep chewing. you got what you wanted: him on his knees.

and it happens on a thursday. the saloon’s half-full, sticky with the usual noise, and you’ve got a tray in one hand. you spot him before he sees you. or maybe he lets you think that. he’s sitting at the bar, same stool as always. sipping something dark with his hat tipped low and one leg stretched out like the floor belongs to him. he’s talking to someone, a girl you don’t recognize, leaning in just enough to make your stomach twist.

he’s smiling. he never smiles, at least not like that. and that’s when it hits you: he’s doing it on purpose.

your first instinct is to roll your eyes. your second is to walk over there and ruin both their nights. instead, you drop off your tray at the counter, smooth your skirt, and remind yourself that you’re not bothered. not even a little. so you circle around the bar, busy yourself with orders. chat with a guy in a cowboy hat, laugh too loud, lean too close. and eventually, you feel that static buzz that only comes from being watched.

you turn your head, and of course he’s looking. not just looking, jake is devouring. his eyes trail down your legs, up your hips, pause at your chest like he’s making a list of crimes he’d commit if the sheriff weren’t his boss’s daddy. and your heart stutters, your mouth dries. you take a step toward him before you even realize it.

but then he gets up and walks past you, doesn’t say a word. and you think, what the hell?

but then his hand brushes yours, just barely. like an accident that wasn’t an accident. you whip around to say something sharp, but he’s already halfway to the door. and you follow. you don’t mean to, really, but you do. you catch him near the back hallway, one hand braced against the wall, like he knew you’d come after him.

you open your mouth to say something clever, but he steps in real close. close enough that your back hits the wall and your knees almost collapse. “somethin’ wrong, darlin’?” he asks, voice all silk.

“what was that?” you hiss, trying not to stare at his mouth. “flirting with that girl like i wasn’t in the room?”

he smirks. smirks. “didn’t know i needed permission.”

you cross your arms. push your chest up just enough to be annoying. “you’re playing games.”

he shrugs. “so are you.” his hand lifts, not to touch you (the bastard’s too good for that), but to brush a piece of lint off your shoulder. “you looked a little jealous,” he murmurs, voice dipped in sin. “cute look on you.”

your pulse stutters, but you refuse to show it. “you’re gonna die alone,” you say, breathier than intended.

“probably,” he says. “but not before i ruin you first.”

you suck in a breath. his face is right there, close enough that if you leaned forward, you’d taste the whiskey on his lips. you think he might do it, you think maybe this is it. but he doesn’t kiss you. instead, he leans in slow, his breath hot against your cheek, then presses a kiss right there, soft and warm and maddening. the kind of kiss that doesn’t take anything but still leaves you ruined.

then he pulls back. smirking, so smug and infuriating. “goodnight, sweetheart,” he says. and then he walks away, like he didn’t just light a fire in your chest and leave it burning.

and there’s a party on the edge of town on that week—somebody’s cousin’s birthday or maybe just an excuse to drink next to a fire. there’s music blasting out of speakers in the back of a lifted truck, people doing shots, and you’re there, of course, making every poor bastard lose his mind just by existing.

you’re wearing denim shorts and a little white top that ties in the front, and jake sim wants to fight the concept of clothing for making something that looks that illegal.

he sees you before you see him. and he sees heeseung before you do. pretty boy with too-white teeth and too many opinions about his own biceps. he’s been in love with you since high school and never got the hint. but tonight, you’re letting him talk. you’re laughing, you’re standing close. and you don’t even have to look across the fire to know jake’s watching.

you toss your hair over your shoulder. heeseung says something about his new truck and how it “purrs like a mountain cat,” which isn’t a thing, but you smile anyway. you’re about to make some flirty comment just to push it further when a hand wraps around your arm.

not rough, not mean, just firm. you whip around and there he is. jake. his face is unreadable. calm, almost. but his grip says something else entirely.

you blink. “well, hey there, cowboy—”

“walk,” he says.

you try to act annoyed, dramatic. “what if i don’t feel like—”

“walk.”

so you do. he leads you away from the fire, away from the crowd, toward the gravel lot where his truck is. you expect him to say something, yell, maybe. accuse you of something dramatic and delicious. but instead, he spins you around and presses you up against the passenger door.

his hand is still on your arm. the other braces beside your head. his body doesn’t touch yours, not really, but he’s close enough that you can feel the heat off his skin and the tension coiled under it. you blink up at him, wide-eyed and fake-innocent. “is this how you treat all your women, cowboy? dragging them into parking lots and pinning them to cars?”

“no,” he says. “just the ones who know better.”

you gasp softly, it’s almost a laugh. “oh, so now you’re mad?”

he leans in, mouth inches from yours, eyes dark and hungry. “you wore that top on purpose.”

you smirk. “maybe i was hot.”

he looks down, pointedly. “you are. and you know what you’re doin’.”

“do i?”

he exhales sharp through his nose, like he’s trying not to combust. and when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “you really want him to touch you? that what you’re lookin’ for?”

you blink slow and wet your lips. “maybe i just want somebody who actually does it.”

the look on his face shifts just slightly. then he leans in. you think this time it’ll happen, finally, the kiss, the collapse. the moment the game ends. but instead, his lips graze your jaw, not your mouth. his hand dips low, fingers brushing the hem of your shorts like he’s thinking about it.

“you don’t want ‘somebody,’” he whispers. “you want me.” you’re not breathing. he pulls back again, just enough to leave you gasping in the space between what was almost and what still isn’t. “but you’ll have to beg, sweetheart,” he adds, smirking. “and i don’t think you’re ready to do that yet.”

he turns like he’s going to walk away again, like that’s the last word. like he didn’t just light a match and drop it between your legs. but this time, you don’t let him. your hand shoots out fast and grabs his belt loop. he pauses and stills, and slowly, turns his head back toward you.

“you think i won’t?” you ask, voice low and deadly sweet.

he looks down at your hand, still fisted in his jeans like a challenge. then his eyes flick back up to yours—dark, wild, curious. he steps closer, just one step. then another. until he’s right in front of you again, and this time there’s no space. no teasing, no gaps. just you, caught between a truck door and the worst mistake you want to make.

he leans in. both hands come to rest on either side of your head. caging you in and claiming the air between you. “careful now,” he murmurs, voice rough. “you’re not the only one who likes to play.”

and then his knee presses forward, between your legs. you gasp. it’s not subtle, not even a little. he fits it there, deliberate and slow, until your thighs part just enough to make room for the solid weight of him. his thigh is strong and warm. your breath catches and your fingers twitch where they’re tangled in his shirt.

he’s watching your face. watching your mouth, like he’s trying to memorize the exact second you lose composure. but you don’t, you smile. then, slow and wicked, you roll your hips just a little against his thigh—enough to make him grunt, low in his throat, like he wasn’t ready for it. “you started it,” you say, feigning innocence. “don’t get shy now, cowboy.”

he exhales sharp. one of his hands drops and wraps tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him. your shorts ride up. the pressure of his thigh against you gets sharper, filthier, almost unbearable. “you think this is a joke?” he growls.

“no,” you breathe. “i think it’s foreplay.”

his hand tightens. he shifts his thigh just barely upward, grinding it between your legs, and you have to bite your lip to keep the sound in. he leans in, mouth ghosting over your ear. “i could make you come like this,” he says, voice like a sin you want to confess over and over. “right here, against my truck, with nothin’ but my thigh between your legs.”

you shiver, but you smile. “you talk a big game,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw. “but so far all you’ve done is flex in tight jeans and give me blue balls.”

he lets out a sharp laugh, dangerous. then his hands drop to your hips, grip possessive, and he rolls you against his thigh again. this time harder and filthier. like he wants to see how far you’ll let it go. your knees almost buckle. your head hits the truck window. but your hands are in his hair now, pulling, tugging, dragging his face closer.

and still he doesn’t kiss you. you pant, flushed and desperate and mad as hell. he just smirks. “look at you,” he says. “makin’ a mess on me and i haven’t even touched you proper.”

you glare at him and your lip curls in frustration. “maybe you’re scared.”

he arches a brow. “of what?”

“of me.” you press down hard against his thigh again—your move now, your game—and you feel him tense. feel him curse under his breath like you’ve just won a round he didn’t even know he was playing. you lean in and whisper against his mouth: “i could ruin you.”

he inhales sharp. you swear you hear him mutter fuck. but still, still he doesn’t kiss you. he pulls back, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile.

and then he steps away. leaves you there. aching and panting. blinking like you just came out of a trance. “one of these days, sweetheart,” he says, adjusting his belt like he needs a minute. “you’re gonna be the one beggin’.”

and then he climbs into the driver’s seat and drives away. you stare after him, thighs trembling, heart racing, and mutter:

“i’m gonna set his truck on fire.”

and jake sim spends the week trying not to think about you. which is stupid, because you’re everywhere. in his sheets, in his hands, in his mouth when he mutters fuck at two in the morning and fists his hair like it’ll shake you out of his head.

he sees you in the curve of a beer bottle. in the red of a stoplight. in the fucking grocery store, standing in front of a watermelon display like you invented sin.

he can’t focus. can’t sleep. can’t work. every time he bends over a fence or climbs into the truck, he hears your voice in his ear: i could ruin you. every time he closes his eyes, he sees your thighs wrapped around his fucking leg. he’s losing it. actually, clinically losing it.

and the worst part is that he let it happen. he swore he wouldn’t. told himself he wasn’t like the rest of them—the boys who lined up for your attention like fools in heat. he used to watch you tease and twist and toy with every man in town and laugh. not because he didn’t get it, because he did. but now he’s just another name on your list. and he hates it.

he’s a grown man. a cowboy, for christ’s sake. he should be immune to lip gloss and flirty banter and skirts short enough to send him to jail. but he’s not. and the worst part is that you know, you know what you’re doing. you know exactly how to stand, how to talk, how to glance up with that little tilt of your head like oops, did i break you again?

and he’s fucking gone. he’s a freak for it. a perv. he thinks about your mouth at church. he imagines your legs wrapped around his waist when he’s driving. he’s so far gone it’s pathetic.

so on thursday, when the thought of you cleaning up at the saloon alone hits him like a truck, he doesn’t fight it. he gets in the truck, drives like the devil’s chasing him. when he gets there, the bar is dark, empty. just the faint sound of clinking glasses and a broom dragging across the floor.

you’re behind the counter. sweaty and tired. loose hair falling around your face. still the hottest thing he’s ever fucking seen.

the door creaks open. you don’t look up. “we’re closed,” you call out, distracted.

then you lift your head, and you pause. your lips part. 

his boots hit the floor. he doesn’t say a word. just crosses the room in four heavy steps, reaches for your wrist, and pulls you in like he needs you to breathe. and then— he kisses you.

not sweet. not shy, not teasing. hot, open and filthy.

he groans when your mouth opens under his, when your fingers clutch his shirt like you’ve been waiting for this just as long. his hands are everywhere, your waist, jaw, the small of your back. he kisses like he’s mad about it, like this is a punishment.

your back hits the counter. your teeth knock. a glass falls off. and still, he kisses you like he’s trying to erase the space between you. 

he pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your cheek. “you win,” he mutters. “is that what you wanna hear?”

you’re panting, flushed. “not yet,” you whisper. “i like my man playing real hard to get,” you whisper, breath ghosting his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to tease.

and that’s the moment he snaps. his hands come up, cup your jaw like he’s trying to memorize it, and he kisses you hard, messy and desperate. and you moan, you can’t help it. he tastes like whiskey and salt and everything you’ve been dreaming about at three in the morning.

his hips press forward, tight against yours, grinding you back into the edge of the counter like he wants to leave a dent in your spine. and you grin against his lips. you reach back blindly, “you gonna keep kissing me like a saint,” you pant, pulling back, “or you gonna bend me over something, cowboy?”

his eyes go dark. “oh, you wanna act like a brat now?” he growls.

you smirk. “what gave it away?”

he grabs you, lifts you right off the floor and sets you down on a table like you weigh nothing. your legs part without hesitation and he steps between them, his hips hard against yours, and his hands gripping your thighs like he’s trying to decide which one he wants to ruin first. “look at you,” he mutters, eyes trailing down your body. “pretty little mouth, dirty little attitude.”

you tilt your head, all fake innocence. “you like it.”

he leans in close, mouth against your ear. “i’m gonna fuckin’ break you.”

your breath vanishes. his fingers trail up your thigh, slow, teasing, maddening. he doesn’t go where you want him, but just next to it, brushing the edges, watching you squirm. “i know what you need,” he murmurs. “you need someone to shut that mouth. teach you some fuckin’ manners.”

you wrap your legs around his waist. “you volunteering?”

he laughs, low and filthy. “baby, i’ve been applying for that job all month.” then he grinds forward, slow and mean, dragging a moan out of you that echoes across the empty bar. you gasp and clutch at his shoulders. he grabs your hips, presses them down, holds you there. “no running now,” he mutters. “you been beggin’ for this.”

you roll your hips up into his. “you liked it.”

he groans, kissing down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp again. “liked it so much i nearly wrecked my truck thinkin’ about you.” his hand slips under your top. calloused fingers on your skin, rough and reverent all at once. he palms your chest like he’s claiming it. like he’s mad you let anyone else look. you arch into him, moaning. “so impatient,” he teases, voice a growl. “what happened to makin’ me beg, sweetheart?”

“shut up and fuck me.”

he smirks against your throat. “say please.”

you groan, kick your heels against his ass. “cowboy—”

“say it.”

you hiss, then lean in and bite his lip. “please.”

he pulls back just enough to smirk, breath hot against your lips. “please what?” he asks, voice low, gravel rough.

you glare at him, or at least, you try to. but your legs are wrapped around his waist, your hips aching for friction, and his hand is already creeping up your thigh like he’s got nowhere to be but inside you. so you say it, no shame. no power left to pretend. “please, fuck me, jakey.”

he groans loudly, like the words physically hit him. then he mutters something that sounds like jesus fucking christ, and crashes his mouth into yours. and this kiss is different. it is hungry and starving. he grinds against you, slow and hard, pressing you down into the table with the full weight of his body. your shirt rides up. your back arches. the wood creaks underneath like it might give out, and honestly—if it breaks, let it. you’ll thank it for its service.

his hands are everywhere. palming your thighs, squeezing your ass, gripping your waist like he owns it. “look at you,” he rasps, lips trailing down your throat. “fuckin’ dream girl of the county. all these poor bastards lining up for a smile, and here you are—legs open for me.”

you gasp and whimper and dig your nails into his shoulders. he presses his hips harder, grinds right against where you need him most. your head drops back, your moan echoes. “you love this,” he says, panting now. “bein’ up here where anyone could walk in. where anyone could see you gettin’ ruined by me.” you don’t answer, you can’t. “what happened to that bratty mouth, huh?” he growls, dragging his teeth along your jaw. “where’s all that sass now?”

“shut up,” you breathe. “just—please.”

“beggin’ again?” he taunts. “thought you didn’t do that.”

“i’m making an exception.”

he laughs, dark and hot, and grabs your hips tighter, pulling you to the edge of the table. “you should see yourself right now,” he mutters, undoing his belt with one hand. “look so fuckin’ pretty like this. so desperate.”

“you’re the one that came after me.”

“yeah,” he admits, lining himself up, voice breaking a little, “because i’m a goddamn fool for you.”

and then he pulls back. his hand wraps around your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face up to look at him. he’s flushed and panting. pupils blown wide. and his voice, when he speaks, is low and dangerous and thick with control he’s barely holding. “get on your knees.”

your heart stops and your grin widens. “you asking or telling me, cowboy?”

he presses his thumb into your cheek, leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth like he’s being nice before doing something awful. “i’m tellin’ you,” he mutters, “be a good girl and make me feel good.”

you blink slow, mouth open, pretending to think about it. “what’s in it for me?”

his hand slips down, fingers wrapping around your throat just enough to make you feel it—not choking, just owning. “my cock in your mouth,” he growls. “and maybe if you do it right, i’ll let you come later.”

your knees buckle, but your pride doesn’t. you hum, all fake sweetness. “guess i could use something to suck on.” you drop to the floor, knees hitting the sticky saloon wood like you belong there. he watches you, chest heaving and jaw tight. trying not to come just from the sight of you looking so cute on your knees for him. you look up at him, eyes wide, lips parted. “you nervous?” you tease.

he barks a laugh. “just waitin’ to see if the mouth that talks so much can finally do something useful.”

you pout. then reach for his belt, slow and dramatic, undoing it like it’s the last gift under a christmas tree. and when his cock springs free, hard, flushed, huge, your mouth waters. you glance up again. “you been thinkin’ about this, haven’t you?”

he hisses as you wrap your hand around him, thumb brushing the tip. “every fuckin’ night,” he admits, voice ragged. “jesus, i’d wake up hard just rememberin’ how you looked struttin’ around in those little shorts behind the bar.”

you stroke him once, twice, slow and sweet. then you lean forward, kiss the tip. just a whisper of a touch. he groans. his hand finds your hair, pulling it already. you drag your tongue along the underside, all the way down, then back up again. he swears, low and filthy. “look at you,” he rasps. “knees on the fuckin’ floor, pretty mouth full of me. you know how many men in this town would give their right hand for this?”

you hum around him. smile with your eyes, because you do know. and you love that it’s you doing this to him. so you take more of him in, then more. until he’s deep in your throat, and he’s gripping the edge of the table so tight you think he might snap it in half. “fuck,” he moans. “that’s it, sweetheart. just like that. takin’ me so fuckin’ good.”

his hips twitch forward. just a little, just enough to make you gag—on purpose, and he loves that. he loves the sound. he loves how messy your mouth is for him. so he starts to move in shallow thrusts. hand in your hair, not rough, but claiming. “you gonna let me come in your mouth, baby?” he groans. “gonna swallow it all, show me how good you are?”

you nod and moan, sucking harder, and that’s it. he gasps, his hips snap forward. his whole body shudders. he comes hard, hot and thick on your tongue, fingers tangled in your hair, voice wrecked. you swallow it all, slowly. wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, like a brat.

you’re still on your knees, lips wet, tongue peeking out in satisfaction like you just finished dessert and might go back for seconds. he looks down at you, utterly wrecked. and then he laughs breathless and disbelieving. “jesus christ,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair like you just short-circuited every last nerve. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you grin, smug as sin. but then he leans down, and his strong arms slide under your shoulders, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you squeal, half-laughing, hands flying to grip his shirt. “hey—!”

“shut up,” he breathes. “my turn.”

he sets you down on the table again, right where you were before. but this time, he doesn’t kiss you yet. doesn’t even touch you. he just steps back, eyes dark and hungry. and says, “spread.”

you blink, chest rising. “what?”

he tilts his head, steps back in, hands firm on your knees. “you heard me, sweetheart. open up. now i’m gonna make you feel good.”

you part your thighs slow, watching his eyes drop, watching his breath hitch. you lean back on your elbows, head tilted, and he glances at the wet mark through your shorts. he drops to his knees, his hands grip your thighs, dragging you to the edge like he’s pulling you into hell with him. he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, slow and reverent, like you’re a prayer and a sin at the same time.

“you wet for me already?” he murmurs, hot breath brushing your core through your shorts.

you nod, breathless. “since you walked in.”

he grins. bites the soft skin just above your knee. “should’ve told me. i’d’ve come sooner.”

he yanks your shorts and panties down fast, like he’s impatient. because he probably is. so then—finally—he licks you. one long, slow stroke that makes your back arch off the table. you gasp. grab the edge and moan his name so soft it sounds like a confession.

and he devours you. not gentle, not slow. just hungry and precise, like he’s got something to prove. his tongue works you open, circles and flicks and drives you fucking wild. he hums when you buck your hips, groans when you moan. his grip on your thighs bruises. his tongue never stops. “so fuckin’ sweet,” he mumbles against you. “no wonder they all wanna taste.”

you whimper. he slides a finger in, then another. crooks them just right. your whole body tightens. your breath catches. “that’s it, baby,” he whispers. “ride my face. let go. give it to me.”

you do. you shatter, legs trembling, back arched, voice gone. you’re gasping his name, tugging his hair, begging him to stop or keep going—you don’t even know. he doesn’t stop. not until your whole body is shaking. not until your thighs twitch and your breathing turns ragged and your hand slaps the table in surrender.

then finally he pulls back with his mouth glistening with you. his smile is wrecked, his eyes wide and wild. he looks up at you like you just handed him the goddamn meaning of life. “holy fuck,” he whispers, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “you came so good for me, angel.”

you try to glare, you really do. but your limbs don’t work. your knees are jelly. your stomach’s still twitching in aftershocks. and then he stands, towering. glowing like he just found religion between your legs. and then he leans down, kisses your jaw, and says—soft and cocky— “think you can take one more?”

your eyes flutter open, you blink at him. “you’re insane.”

he grins and kisses the corner of your mouth. “that ain’t a no.”

you roll your eyes. but you’re already lifting your hips, already turning. and then his hands are on your waist, firm and steady, spinning you around until you’re bent over the table. your cheek presses to the cool wood. your arms stretch forward. “fuck,” you whisper.

he hums behind you, hands sliding up your back, bunching your shirt at your ribs. “look at you,” he mutters. “so goddamn ready. still drippin’ for me.” he leans over you, chest to your back, mouth at your ear. “tell me you want it.”

you inhale shakily. “i want it.”

his hand slides between your thighs. fingers glide through your wetness. “tell me who’s gonna make you come again.”

you gasp. “you are.”

“say my name, sweetheart.”

“you, jakey.”

he groans. lines himself up. and then he pushes in. you gasp, you arch and whimper. his hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, controlling the pace. his hips move slow and deep, dragging a moan out of you every time he bottoms out. “so tight,” he pants. “like you’re fuckin’ made for me.”

you moan his name again, cheek still to the table, one hand reaching back to grab at his wrist. he laughs low and feral. “no runnin’ now,” he growls. “you said you could take one more.”

his thrusts get faster and harder. the table starts to creak. your moans start to sound like pleas. and he’s loving every second. he leans in, bites your shoulder, mutters against your skin, “gonna fuck you so dumb you forget how to sass.” you gasp and grin. you push back against him just to be a brat. he grabs your hips, pulls you back onto him hard. “jesus,” he hisses. “you like this, don’t you? bein’ used like this.”

“i like you like this,” you pant. “all obsessed.”

he grunts, and slaps your ass with a sting that makes your knees wobble. you yelp. and then he laughs, breathless, wicked. “i’m not lettin’ anyone else touch you again,” he mutters, voice cracked open, raw in your ear. his hand comes down to your hip, gripping. “this?” he growls, grinding into you harder, deeper. “this fuckin’ mouth, these thighs, this perfect little pussy— all mine.”

you moan, loud and shameless. he leans in, mouth hot on your neck, and his hand slips around you, fingers finding your clit like they never forgot it. he rubs in tight, fast circles, exactly how your body begs for. “come for me again, baby,” he pants. “show me how fuckin’ pretty you fall apart.”

and you do. you break, and your cry punches through the empty bar, your walls clenching so tight around him it nearly knocks the air from his lungs. your hands scrabble for the edge of the table, your face buried, your voice gone, just moans, sobs, his name like a prayer you can’t stop saying. and then—still shaking, still high on it— you whisper, broken and filthy: “inside. jake. please—come inside.”

he fucking loses it. his hips stutter, his breath catches, his hand grabs your ass roughly. “fuck, baby—” his head drops to your back. his rhythm falters, he’s right there. “you want me to fill you up?” he growls, desperate. “want me leavin’ you dripping with me?”

you nod, frantic. “yes—yes, please—i want it, i want all of it—”

he groans, loud. his thrusts go messy. erratic. wild. “goddamn, you’re gonna ruin me,” he gasps. and then he comes, deep and hard. body shuddering as he spills inside you, hips pressed tight, your name falling from his lips like a sin he’s finally ready to be forgiven for.

his hand stays in your hips. his forehead pressed to your back. both of you panting. shaking. wrecked. and you smile, eyes closed, face against the table, voice barely above a whisper:

“told you you were obsessed.”

he laughs—hoarse, drunk on you—and kisses your spine. “shut up,” he murmurs. “you fuckin’ love it.”

after, at your place, after he wrecked you in every possible way, you watch him fall asleep beside you, arm slung across your waits like he is still trying to stake a claim. cowboy hat on the floor. love bite on his throat. your lipstick on his chest.

you smile to yourself. “i like my men playing hard to get,” you whisper.

lucky for you, he never stood a chance.

author’s note: soooo i saw this edit of jake in full cowboy mode and lost every functioning brain cell i had left. then i watched manchild by sabrina carpenter and went wait what if… so this fic accidentally became the most porn-with-plot thing i’ve ever written. but i regret nothing. cowboy jake has a chokehold on me and the saloon girl in my brain wouldn’t shut up until he was wrecked and begging. anyway, yee-fucking-haw 🤠

my masterlist // perma taglist: @rairaiblog @nqdirr @iyoonjh @saeris-world @jayparked @solonenova

© all rights reserved @/heejamas — do not repost, copy, translate, or modify my works without explicit permission. these are works of fiction and are not meant to represent real-life actions, thoughts, or personalities of any public figures

[dollhoonki]

disembodied ♱ park jongseong

pairing: cult follower!jay x fem!reader

word count: 5.1k

tags/warnings: explicit content (smut - do not interact), mentions of being in a cult, religious themes (guilt), fic partially told from jay's perspective (still 3rd person), cheating/infidelity (reader is engaged to jungwon), dom!jay (he is NAWT a good person here, i'm sorry😭) anal, degradation/humiliation, creampie, public risk, objectification, petnames (sweetheart, good girl, princess), pussy slapping, dub con undertones, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it!). please let me know if anything else is missing!

summary: jay cannot for the life of him forget the events of that fateful night. it consumes every thought of his mind that isn't occupied by your nearing wedding date. the consequences of that night leave much unsaid and even more undesired. with a week to go, jay decides to clear the air, hoping that even if he may not always have you, there will be a moment in time when he can.

notes: so...😭 i genuinely wasn't going to write any more for intact, but @spaceport-alpha left a comment, along with others that not only made me grateful for how much they enjoyed the story, but gave me inspiration for what could come next. to be honest, there are a few more ideas/avenues to explore with this storyline, but for the time being, this is my thanks for unexpected support for intact and 100 followers (what the flip). i hope you enjoy, much luvvvvvv! <333

part i ♱

There aren’t many things that make Jay stray.

Discipline - the backbone of everything he does, instilled in him before he could spell the word. Never slouching, shining his humble leather shoes everyday and smiling even when it’s hard. The community would respect it, his father would say, the fruits of his unsung labour and his humility smile that came with its eventual acknowledgement. It’d take him places his father couldn’t reach and despite Jay’s reluctance, he pulls up his socks and does as he’s told, his father’s prophecy filling itself soon after Jay completes his formal education.

Though his work in public welfare isn’t anything flashy, it fills him with a sense of fulfilment. Assessing the needs of their community, detailing intervention and program plans, ensuring all this goes to address issues like disease spread, crop-related issues and the likes. He can lay his head down at the end of a hard day, knowing he forges his own needs to serve his community.

Even if it’s a half-truth.

Truth be told, a few years ago, one of your commune’s treasurers promised him a bright future in finance and resource-allocation. Despite the insignificance preached in your religion about money, the job offered double what he makes now, more days-off and a cosier social-standing amongst the spiritual leaders that run the commune. It’s a position that makes his humility facade crack, its crumble inevitable. What stops him from the easiest yes he could say is you. Internal servants like him and yourself cross paths, especially now an engagement band rests around your finger. Pieces of his imagination become reality, words exchanged between you two with your eyes meeting in the process.

Jay looks away first, a chilled shiver coming over him at the thought of you knowing. Having acquired knowledge of the years long crush he’s had on you, manifesting from times of hopscotch and scraped knees. He’d catch glimpses of you in framed family portraits lining leadership building hallways, your smile to your ears with a touch of awkwardness tugging amusement at his lip corners. You’re beautiful, Jay thinks every time he sees you in pictures and in real life, your quiet presence occupying all space in his mind. You’re disarming, reservation minimising your actions and keeping your eyes to the floor, but your kindness speaks for itself. Townspeople carry a quiet admiration for you and so does Jay, even when he catches word of Jungwon courting you. It’s a sin, how much he prays for you to leave Jungwon for him, but this is the thing about straying. It leads him down a dangerous path, one where nothing like forgiveness resides, only self-destruction.

Unbeknownst to him, the time-bomb ticks away as the months turn to years, when courtship turns to engagement. He can’t let it go, no matter how pure his intentions are when he courts others in your place. Because as soon as night falls, he revisits moments of you. The flutter of your lashes, the crack of your fingers with hands you don’t know what to do with, the look in your eyes. It’s so special when they meet, your eyes on his as the world dulls to a murmur. You exist in a time where his prayers are answered, love and happiness the bread and butter of years stretching into the horizon, trademarked by milestones in marriage and family. He can kiss the base of your neck, easing the tension that hikes your shoulders up, hold your waist on slow Sundays hallmarked by the smell of pancakes and syrup, peel back the layers of you to reveal what hangs in the back of your gaze. A secret that whispers sweet nothings in his ear, promising him you’re from the same rotten bunch, making you shameless in the face of your true desires.

Jay has no proof of such, but he still obsesses over it. Conjures pictures late into the night that peel back his sanity, but most of all, reduces him to the unforgiving filth he is. A man not worth your presence, yet he stills longs for it. Yearns for every close proximity second, committing your features to memory and wishing he didn’t have to, because your interactions would exceed the premise of colleagues.

It’s something Jay tries to remind himself of, especially at an occasion as well-spelled out as this. For the selfless contributions internal servants make to bettering your community, leadership throws a humble party in thanks, a hundred-odd people packed into a leadership building offering refreshments, snacks and live acoustic music that Jay taps his foot to. Gratitude extends to the labourers that support to the village’s micro-economy (if Jay can call it that), a rustic theme entailing bundles of hay, pitchforks and more cowboy boots than Jay’s ever seen in his lifetime, including on himself.

“You should talk to ‘er,” Jake, his close friend, supplies over the rim of his drink.

Jay shakes out of his aimless daze, raising his eyebrows in search. “To who?”

“Jiwoo - she’s been stealing looks at you all night. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed.”

Jay sighs. “Just had a lot on my mind lately.”

Like that night a month ago. Chill in the air, heat bubbling beneath his skin. What starts off the makings of his worst-nightmare turns into an unlikely opportunity. Seeing your layers peeled back, nothing against your skin except see-through underwear Jay still thinks about. Jay must be pathetic, pathetic enough for Jungwon to propose such a peculiar situation, knowing that he’d go along with it. Have you in any capacity because the closer your wedding day draws, the harder he wants to fight for you. He isn't going to, because he can't cause you more distress alongside severe social consequences, but it doesn't stop from him wanting to. And look where that weakness got him, watching you come on another man’s fingers.

That’s what's been on his mind lately.

“Come on, Jay,” Jake has the decency to not roll his eyes at this redundancy. “She’s been with Jungwon since the dawn of time, their wedding’s in a week. I think you should spare yourself some heartache.”

“It’s not that easy.” Jay bites over the buzz of conversation, spying you in a sea full of people. It’s automatic, watching you from afar as you make polite chatter with a a colleague she sees you with often, your hand extended to showcase your ring. If it doesn’t leave a bitter taste in his mouth, Jungwon’s low hand on the small of your back does the trick.

“You haven’t talked to her for longer than five minutes. I’d understand if you knew her, but that doesn’t apply here.”

If only he knew. If only Jake knew Jay knows what your figure looks like in lowlight. He knows how your jaw lapses as you come apart, moans pouring out of you as you crash and burn. Maybe then he wouldn’t be pouring salt in Jay’s wounds.

“I’m not having this conversation.” Jay answers, the sear of his stare turning your head towards him.

It’s the first time your eyes have met since. You’ve - understandably - have made yourself scarce in the aftermath of that night, rushed words and averted eyes your mannerisms when you’re forced to interact. Jay doesn’t push. He himself shares embarrassment for how weak his resolve to leave was, let alone jerking off right in front of you. Oh! And how could he forget spilling come all over your quivering stomach? Just the icing on top of the cake, wasn’t it?

In spite the horror of his actions, he does want to rectify himself in your eyes. Not for his own sake, but for yours because even if you agreed to everything that happened in that room, it didn't you fully understood the gravity of its consequences. The awkwardness that dictates your interactions, the alarm in your eyes like now as your head whips away, a feigned smile breaking out amongst your frozen features as you mumble a parting excuse.

Jake’s hand against his chest stops him from taking another step, warm lighting catching the shine of his hair. “Fine by me, but what conversation you will have is with Jiwoo. She’s headed this way.”

“Talking to her beyond the bounds of courtship? You’re looking to get me in trouble.”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Yeah, if we were fifteen. Things are different now - time’s ticking.”

Doesn’t Jay know it. It bleeds into all facets of his life, the question he gets most asked not revolving around his career but when was he going to get married.

He’s been so closed-off to the idea, but with chatter of your wedding intertwining with the musical notes, maybe he needs to reconsider things.

Talking to Jiwoo is a good start.

How ever good you may have felt then, does not compare to the mortification you feel now.

You blame the overstimulation of your brain - amongst other parts - for your rash decision that by by the following morning, your eyes fly open in fear. No one is supposed to know, not a soul is meant to relay the wicked roots of your body and impulses. Even letting Jungwon know took time and effort, only for you to give it up real easy to the worst person you could have.

Not because of his character, but because you know he likes you. You are complicit in feeding a fantasy that has no basis in reality and when Jay discovers that, there’s no telling what he’ll do. His word doesn’t triumph over yours, but you could be the hot topic of town gossip. People would respect you less, the cookie-cutter life you envisioned for yourself disintegrating in the palm of your hands. All because you couldn't think a rational thought.

No matter how much assurance Jungwon gives you, it’s not enough to alleviate your guilt, the queasy feeling amplifying tenfold when you caught that look in Jay’s eyes. Still so enamoured by you - something you truly could not handle another second of. You excuse yourself from conversation, managing to give Jungwon a rusty nod when his eyes ask if you’re okay. Far from it, but you’ll be better once given some time alone to breathe, venturing off into lonely hallways where you find yourself in an unlocked storage room furthest away from the gathering. Boxes scatter across the dust-covered floor, cobwebs woven in every corner as possessions from long before live in the memories of that time.

You crack open blinds to the single small window in the room, letting moonlight stream near an ancient couch you collapse onto, half covered by boxes as you gather your thoughts. Maybe it’s worth speaking to Jay about things, since it bothers you this much. Then again, you can barely find the words to explain yourself to Jungwon, how much more Jay? Maybe Jungwon could talk to him for you? You’re not sure he could deliver the message with the same care, but perhaps that’s what’s necessary - a firm hand. After all, it is Jungwon with your hand in marriage.

“You’re actually here.”

Only a sick comedian could write this predicament: the very person you're running from in the room with you now, figure haloed by the minimal stale lighting of the deserted hallways. Like this, the slopes of his face are all you see, the throttle of your heart alarming you.

You can’t find the words. Neither can he, subjecting you two to eternal doom as a moment of hesitance seals your fate as he closes the door behind him, cowboy boots resonating through the walls of the room and your mind. It doesn't help when he takes a seat next to you, forcing this conversation happen here and now.

“Listen-”

“I’m sorry.” It needs to be said first. Before anything else comes out your mouth, fingers cracking ones on your other hand. You can’t meet his eyes, not even in the darkness. “I…that night wasn’t meant to happen. Even if you didn’t leave the room, I had no right subjecting you to that. I should’ve said something, I should have-”

“I couldn’t have left if I tried,” is Jay’s response.

Your head lifts, the plane of his back and side profile highlighted by streaking moonlight. It pains you to see how resigned yet beautiful he is.

“You were never meant to know, but I don’t think I did a good job of hiding my feelings,” his chuckle rings with self-depreciation. “I’ve spent an obscene amount of time praying that you would be mine, praying that you’d leave him - and I guess that was my karma. Watching you fall apart before my very eyes, by someone that’s not me.”

All you can do is put your head in your hands, rendered speechless at the truth of it all. Thoughts and feelings regarding a matter spanning over years confirmed in the last two minutes.

Out your peripheral, his head turns, yours following seconds later. If there’s a look to describe bittersweet, it’s Jay's current expression.

“So, don’t beat yourself up about it. If there’s anything I regret about liking you, it’s the fact that I’ve put you in an uncomfortable position. Especially that night,” he supplies. “Like you said, just because I didn’t leave the room, doesn’t mean I…uhm, should’ve done the things I did.”

Oh.

You’ve been so wrapped up in roping him into discomfort that details have escaped you, namely him jerking off to you. Or him coming on you.

You cross your legs, the familiar inklings of past guilt based in desires meant to be unexplored.

“No, I-it’s just-” you groan into your hands, incapable of nothing but self-loathing. Amongst other emotions. “It’s okay, heat of the moment thing. I understand. I should understand because…”

“Your brain turns to mush at some attention?”

The silence is deafening.

Tucked away in this capsule of time, your two figures still, a matter of a few words throwing you off your axis’ violently. It’s just like then, when Jungwon winked at you amongst that crowd of people, the thundering of your heart and the jumble of unsaid thoughts. Ideas clash, images fabricate and in the midst of all, a beast is born.

“I’m sorry, that was highly inappropriate. I don’t know what came over me-”

“Don’t apologize for the truth.”

Another silence follows, hesitation rich in a room overflowing with tension. The kind of tension, in the shadows of the night, lead to temptation.

Your hands drop from your flaming face, finding the apprehension on Jay’s face.

“It’s the reason why he does those…checks,” your gaze scatters, seeking comfort in cracking knuckles. “Not that I ever would, because my heart lies with him but I think he deals with competition in a certain way.”

Jay blinks, baffled. “Meaning?”

You sigh, twisting your engagement ring against your finger. “He knows he has me, but he likes to see how far people go with their…advances to validate his own feelings.”

“Like an ego thing?” You can only nod. “Who the hell are you marrying?”

Laughter strikes between the two of you, this entire scenario so far removed from anything you had in mind for what today would bring.

“Someone I’ve come to know,” is your mindful answer, eyes on your hands. “And someone who knows me.”

“I know you.”

Your gaze falls to your lap, frigid against the large hand against your thigh, fingers long enough to breach your inner thigh. Alarm bells ring, conflict brewing from within.

“I should go find Jung-”

“Don’t say his name with me,” his gravel voice grinds through the chaos of your mind, stealing your breath with it.

An eclipse crosses his eyes, darkened by something you’ve only ever seen in the worst parts of yourself. Jay turns his head before you can run with the idea, a drawn out thud echoing through the hollow of your body.

“Five years I’ve asked myself this question - it’s time to put it to rest,” he explains, his grip firmer against your thigh as he begins to knead at it. “Would it have been me? If I asked first?”

“Jay, that’s irrelevant.”

“It’s a yes or no answer.”

You shake your head, willing this to not happen. “Jay-”

“Would the attention have turned your head? Would you only think of me late at night?”

“Jay, please.”

“Answer my question.”

Confused doesn’t even begin to describe how scattered your brain is. “I can’t-I can’t think.”

You’re too feverish, too high-strung, maintaining a facade that Jay’s questions chip at, your nervous system reducing you to nothing but your greatest sins.

“Such a helpless little thing,” Jay comments, close and low in your ear, blowing a cold breeze against it. How you shudder tells him everything he needs to know. “Can’t bring yourself to admit what you’ve known this entire time,”

“Bet it makes you wet too - so weak against your own desire. Should we check?”

It’s a question that needs no answer, the party a muffled, distant thought existing in a space and time that moulds from the depths of desire with the burn of hell. His heavy hand slotting into the opening of your dress, flimsy fabric separating him from what he knows best. Spent nights thinking about.

“Ah, it’s just sitting in my lap, isn’t it?” Jay hums, moving his fingers against you in a way that makes your hips want to buck. “Come on, princess. Grind against it, you’re aching for it, aren’t you?”

Your body betrays you, complying to his words with a mewl you muffle against folded lips.

“That’s it, give into sin,” Jay whispers. “It’ll set you free.”

You only catch onto fragments of this slow-moving train crash, your clothes discarded to dusty floors and bodies coming together on the abandoned couch that serves as evidence of your sin. You hesitate despite your quiet compliance, the look in your eyes catching Jay’s as you get on all fours.

“Will you give in?”

You can’t vocalize your answer, only show that your body is ready to be given to him. To freefall into all the sin your mind could construct.

The silence is enough to send chills down your goosebump-ridden skin, back arched in full complicity. You’re going to hell for this - there is no amount of redemption for what your body aches for, that sensation coursing through you at the soft clink of Jay’s belt clattering to the floor. Your lungs freeze with the sharp intake of your lungs, the heavy weight of Jay against your tensed hole drawing a mewl from you, hot precome gliding against it.

Heat blankets your back, sweet musk filling your nose as a chaste kiss presses against your shoulder, Jay’s fingers slotting between the webs of yours. “Let me in, princess. Let me show you how good you can really feel.”

His words open you like a blooming flower, his tip pushing in slow and steady, lighting a sharp blend of pain and unfamiliar. It’s an odd mix in your stomach, a push and pull of desire as he stretches you further, fingers squeezing against his.

“H-hurts,” you choke out.

“It’s nothing you can’t handle,” his lips pepper kisses against the underside of your ear, nose cold against sizzling skin. “All you know how to do is chase pleasure, right?”

Your body writhes at his words, his dark smirk meeting your ears as he continues inching, the burn of the generous stretch turning your restless body to stone under all the tension. Jay takes as much as you can give with the kind of pulse running through him that doubles your heart rate. Your features pinch together, lower eyeline gathering water with pants push out your chest, body waiting for when this turns to Jay’s promise. His body no longer blankets yours, bruising grip perched on your hip that twitches until his hips still, buried in you.

“Holy sh-” he interrupts himself with a hiss, cold hands splaying against the small of your hips. “You really are greedy. Squeezing me like you never want me to leave.”

Something sinister boils in the pit of your stomach, a separate entity from any sentiment crafted in the walls of your beloved. There’s hurt and resentment, a punishment of sorts for not choosing who Jay thinks you should be with, but underneath it, there’s some care. The same care that dictates the slow roll of his hips, testing your limits as your knees shiver with anticipation.

“You’re tense,” his cold fingertip runs down your sweat-film covered back, a helpless moan echoing out your chapped lips. “Breath for me, princess. Surrender.”

He’s in your ear again, breath caressing the shell of your ear as his flexed arm brackets yours, other hand finding its way between your spread legs, massaging concentrated circles against your clit. It only accommodates him further. “Atta girl. There’s my good girl.”

His encouragement extends beyond his words, his hand accidentally slapping down on your clit. The action catches you off-guard, body jolting with the dull simmer of contact. Jay’s mouth works to mumble an apology, only to be stopped by your hips chasing his hand.

“Did you-” he huffs out amusement, “Did you like that?”

Your lips are sealed, humiliation prickling your skin.

A dissatisfied hum vibrates against your back, another strike against your cunt - harder this time - giving him the answer he needs.

It’s not the answer he wants, however.

“I want you to tell me you like it,” Jay whispers, lips ghosting along the column of your throat. His calloused fingertips, drenched in your slick, rubs lazy circles against your throbbing clit, hungry for harder contact. “Doesn’t it feel like heaven, pretty thing?”

You’re nodding your head, grinding your cunt against his hovering hand. Iron spills over your tastebuds, canines vanishing into the plumpness of your bottom lip.

“So say it.”

“I like it,” it crawls out your throat, restraint your vice. “I like it when you slap my-”

The smacks come down harder, echoing whiny moans out of you as the sting sizzles to a point of pleasure, your brain so caught up in the feeling that miss Jay starting to move behind you.

“Knew you liked it, princess,” he kisses just below your earlobe, a few smacks of the hand for good measure. You keening high in your throat each time. “You like anything I give you because that's the kind of sin you are."

Coils knot in your stomach, the shift of his hips filling your body in a warm beam of pleasure and pain. You’ve never experienced anything like this, something so foreign you don't know how to react. All it can do is sink into the feeling, succumb to the tight circles Jay’s fingers rub against your aching clit as you let the new sensation take you. Your breathless whines start to draw out at the drag of all his inches, mouth forming an O shape as moans communicate feelings you can’t put into words.

“I think,” Jay heaves, enjoyment lacing in his breaths. “You can take it a bit harder. What you say, sweetheart?”

Your voice strangles out affirmation, Jay taking his cue to reach into the deepest parts of you, the obscene smack of your bodies bowing your back in shame with your moans sounding anything but.

“Your wedding’s in a week and here you are, moaning on my cock,” it’s dizzying how sweet his tone is when he says such awful words. Even so, you still melt into the frayed fabric of the couch, using his words to crash and burn. “You sure you’re marrying the right man?”

“I don’t-mhm - I don’t know.” You don’t know much, it seems. Now more so than ever.

“Doesn’t that feel good to admit, sweetheart?” The indents of his grip bruising against your hips as he comes down harder against you, memorizing the sight of where you two meet. “To to be my one and only?”

Jay unearths something unholy in you, a part made dormant with your position in society. Leadership’s prized daughter, shy but with such a giving heart - the standard for ladies who want their white picket fence dream of a loving husband and beautiful children. You rejected it all now, giving yourself fully to Jay, the man who infiltrates your thoughts and prayers more often than you bring yourself to admit.

The twist of a door handle stops your heartbeat, limbs running ice cold as they freeze, Jay’s thrusts coming to a grinding halt as light trickles into the dark storage room, figures hovering by the doorway.

“Hello?”

Blood drains from you, neither of you daring to move at the presence of others.

“Looking for your fiancee?” A voice you recognize from scripture study asks. Jiwoo is her name.

“Yeah, we separated a bit ago,” Jungwon’s voice carries across the entire room, dotting your skin in goosebumps at the absolute horror of your circumstances. If not for the towering boxes and ancient belongings clustered together, you would’ve been found out. “I wanted to check on her…”

“Funny you say that because I’m looking for Jay,” what gaze you had directed to the unwoven stringed fabric of the couch directs itself to Jay, his bracketing arm close enough to cover your dropped jaw, unsure whether you should breath or screech. “He went off a while ago. You think they’re together?”

“I’d hope not,” is a sentence that only reaches your ears, ears tuned to every decibel of Jungwon’s voice.

“Sorry? I didn’t catch that.”

“Never said anything.”

A calculating hum tremors through the ancient walls of the storage room, more light streaking into the room as he opens the door further. Your body bundles in fear of exposure, the weight of Jay’s body bearing more against your cowering one, shielding from detection. You’ve never been so scared than you are right now, shoulders hunched to your ears as you burrow into yourself, saying a silent prayer as Jay throbs inside you.

In the twitch of a tired muscle, the couch shows its age, spring hissing under the weight of you two. A sweat droplet runs down your forehead, blending into the red and gold fabric as Jay’s hand holds your shivering body to his.

“What was that?”

“Sounded like a spring…” Jungwon trails.

You clamp your eyes shut, teeth burying into flesh of Jay’s hand as his other one makes the smallest circles against your throbbing, enough for your slick not to echo, but enough to pull desperate of oxygen through your nose, the end so near it curls your toes..

A sound of recognition calls from Jiwoo. “Must be one of the leader’s sacred couches. Not all of them have been displayed yet.”

Jay twitches in you, hot and thick in your body that bends to his will, eyes rolling at the impurity of this all. Jungwon doesn’t humour the girl, preoccupied with taking further steps into the room, the proximity of him unleashing inhibition of your body’s movements, the tremor of your body intensifying as the pressure in your stomach builds.

“What are you doing? There are rats in there!” shrieks Jiwoo.

“I’m not sure that’s how you’re meant to speak to leadership, no?” Jungwon’s words cut through the room, enveloping it in ice.

Jiwoo sputters, more surprised than you are. “Terribly sorry. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“You’d better not. I’ve got more than enough on my plate,”

His footsteps retreat, venturing further and further away before his shadow lingers at the doorway, larger than life against a nearby wall. “Guess I’ll have to look elsewhere.”

The door hisses as it draws closed, more force with Jay’s fingers and thrust prying a muffled moan against his hand, only hitting the ears of those inside the room.

If the intrusion throws him off, you can’t tell because Jay’s pistoning his hips into like your fiancee isn’t mere steps away, the pressure of his hand spattering your thighs in your slick.

“You know what I think?” Jay croaks, voice laced in sin. “I think you’re just as sick as me. I think that when your so-called fiancee came here, you would’ve clenched around my fingers if they were in you,”

A guttural groan emits from you, out for prying ears the minute Jay removes his hand from your lips.

“Because your other hole did the exact same thing.”

You don’t recognize the man speaking, polluting your brain with sin and falsehoods because you know you’re committed to Jungwon, right? He is the one your heart longs for.

You won’t regret marrying him…right?

These questions show up in fragments, blurring around their edges as Jay consumes the little of your working thoughts, the slam of his hips fueling the burn of shame and want engulfing you whole.

“Why don’t you moan louder? Have your husband-to-be come running back here to find me ruining you,” Jay grunts, thrusts punishing as your movement echo through the room like thunder. “How’d you think he’d feel knowing you were mine all along?”

“Oh god,”

“Oh sweetheart,” he notches himself furthest than anyone’s ever been, knees buckling in torture and delight as he whispers in your ear. “You’re gonna need a lot more than God to help you.”

Your cries go unheard except for the man behind you savouring them all, your body burning beneath his gaze that etches into every cell of your body, singing his praises as the coil in your stomach builds to its limit. Despite the scramble of your brain, it picks out things to savour too. The soft musk of his cologne, the cold press of his religion chain down your back, the stretch of him that should be so brutal, but mixed in with his tender words, brings you that much closer to euphoria, a feeling he knows all too well what you’ll do with.

“Are you-” you can’t believe you’re asking this. “Are you close?”

“So close, princess. Fuck, know you are too,” your body’s an open book after all, twitching with anticipation of a dream so close. “Let’s come together, hm?”

He’s already learned the tells of your body, a month not long enough for him to forget as his hand comes down against your clit, pouring pleas out your mouth that with one last jerk of his hips, sends you over the edge. Tension snaps through you, body frozen in time as relief, shame and ecstasy rushes over you like water, your hand curling with his intertwined with yours.

In the low wreck of your voice, you manage to whisper out Jay’s name, like it’s something sacred before a deep moan tears out his throat, ropes of come spilling into you that fills you in his cock’s place. Nothing but pants circle through the aged room, solace running over Jay’s back as he blinks back to reality, eyes finding your intertwined fingers in something that feels final.

His alarm clock blares, pulling a gasp from his heaving chest as he jolts awake, a desperate grip against his duvet covers. He blinks again and again, heart plummeting to his acidic stomach that slides as he sits up, ears ringing enough to make his head spin.

A dream.

Of course it was. Because that’s his karma - never being able to be with you. No matter how long his heart yearned.

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[enhalush]

DEITY ── .✦ park sunghoon

Kicked out of your apartment and out of options, a grad student in Seoul prays at a half-forgotten mountain shrine. Something answers — a fox god with too much pride and nowhere left to go. Bound by accident and resentment, you must learn to survive each other — and the things that feed on sorrow.

CHAPTER 1

starring ⋆ f!reader x park sunghoon

this chapters contains ⋆ no smut (sorry), infidelity, ex boyfriend jungwon, mentions of suicide,, fl and sunghoon are essentially strangers at this point, sunghoon is kind of a dick, lots of exposition

length ⋆ multi chapter ⸻ chapter 1: 8.8k words

author's note ⋆ inspired by kamisama kiss, one of my all time favorite shoujo anime's. i have adjusted the folklore to be traditionally korean as opposed to japanese. enjoy hoon as tomue, aka a gorgeous gumiho with a taste for pretty girls

On the morning of your eviction, Seoul is gray under storms. The rain comes hard—miserable, merciless—turning the air to mist and the streets to mirror. The city feels half-erased, like someone has smudged the day with a wet thumb.

Your aunt stays dry spot in the doorway, barricading you from the inside like a bouncer.  Behind her, the flat—your home until this morning—already feels out of your reach. You stand in the corridor, pressed against the railing. Rainwater slides down your neck, cold enough to make you flinch.

“I’ve let you scam me for too long, girl. You’re just like your father,” she snaps. She shoves an old suitcase toward you. “Lazy. Good for nothing. A brat.”

“I’m sorry,” you manage, your gaze lowered. 

“You’re twenty-three, Y/N,” she scoffs, unmoved. “Either pay up- or get out.”

You glance at the suitcase, it’s fabric darkening with water. You’d packed it weeks ago: a few shirts, two pairs of jeans, your interview outfit. One notebook. A charger. A toothbrush. The bare minimum in case you had to move suddenly.

You’ve lived under the threat of eviction for months. Now that it's finally happening, the whole thing almost feels practiced. You know what comes next. Still, the words slip out, soft and foolish. “I’ll have it by next month. Please.”

An echo. A force of habit. You remain desperate even when you know better.

“Tch,” she scoffs. “You said that last month. Spare me. Come back when you can pay, you worthless child.”

Behind her, the wallpaper curls from the damp walls. The kitchen counter holds a small TV that blares the morning news—sirens, traffic, something about a storm warning. The apartment is cramped, overheated, a little sick with age.  Thick with the smell of moth balls and old fabric softener. She guards it like even this is too much of a treasure for someone like you.

You exhale. 

“Fine.” 

There’s nothing left to argue. You’re not losing much—just a room that smelled like mold and reheated soup. You would figure it out- you had the most practice. Surviving bad luck was the driving force of your life.

Still, as you stand there, you feel a small and stupid grief for it all—the dent in the wall where your mirror once leaned, the framed photo of your father by the door, the flicker of the TV through the thin partition. It wasn’t home, not really. But it was a place where the lock worked, and for you, that counted.

The rain swallows the city below, and for a moment, you wonder where a person goes when they’ve run out of places. Then, you begin to drag the suitcase to the stairwell. You barely register your aunt’s parting insult, or the door slamming shut behind you. It all folds into the sound of the rain—loud, relentless, swallowing everything. 

You take the stairs two at a time, suitcase thudding against your leg, shoes slipping on wet concrete. Somewhere in this mess, you still have to make it to class. You’ll figure out the housing later.

When you reach Gireum Station, the card reader flashes red—Insufficient balance. You freeze, brain blank for a second, rain dripping off your sleeves onto the scanner. The machine beeps again, loud and cruel, and someone behind you sighs. Of course. Of course this would happen.

The commuter behind you sighs again, impatient—a girl that looks to be around your age, dressed in a spotless trench coat, perfectly dry. You step aside, clutching your wet suitcase handle, lips drawn into a thin line. She doesn’t look at you.

The exhaustion presses tighter, like the air itself has turned to glass around you. You can feel the panic flicker, but it’s muted, muffled—just another feeling you ignore to get through a bad day.

You check your balance: twenty won. Enough for now. You load the minimum onto your T-card, ignoring the sinking feeling in your stomach. Through the gate, water dripping from your sleeves, you begin to repeat it to yourself like a mantra.

It’s fine. You’ve been here before—in the gap between what you owe and what you have. You always find a way to keep moving.

You have to.

The train feels even slower when you’re late as you are, and you hate how you must bear it. The train, crawling to a stop, every 5 minutes or so, unhurried in it’s journey towards Hyehwa Station.

By the time you reach campus, your sneakers squelch against the tile floors, leaving a trail of dark footprints behind you. You’re thirty minutes late. Maybe more.

Was it even worth coming? You’d already racked up forty absences.

Still, you go. God. Your professor was going to kill you.

When you push open the door, the noise in the lecture hall dips for half a second. The professor looks up mid-sentence—brows raised, and then lowered, followed by a tsk.

“Sit down,” he says.

“Sorry,” you mumble, sliding into a seat in the back. Your notebook clings to your wet palms, pages damp at the corners. He glances your way once before returning to the board, his voice blending with the steady hiss of rain outside.

The room is overheated, fluorescent, heavy with the smell of damp coats and old coffee. A girl beside you scrolls through her phone beneath the desk; someone coughs into a sleeve. You plug in your laptop, ungraceful.

“As I was saying,” your professor continued, turning back to the class “Folklore is a compelling cinematic tool. It allows screenwriters to define the laws of a world by borrowing from customs that have already captivated the literature."

Your filmmaking program was dense- it was difficult for you to determine where in the syllabus the class was at. Folklore- was that unit 4? 5?

"When you use a creature from mythology, you’re not just invoking fear — you are applying it’s contextual history, belief, morality. Establishing cause and consequence.”

Your professor paces slowly across the front of the room, his shoes tapping against the tile. The projector hums, light spilling over his notes.

“This is something found especially in Korean cinema,” he continues. “Western films often invent their monsters — things created to further new horror or spectacle. Norman Bates. Frankenstein. But in our stories, the monsters come from tradition. We inherit them. The gumiho, dokkaebi, imugi, gwishin — they aren’t villains so much as vessels. They carry our grief, our rage, our longing. They carry han (한).”

“Persistent national sorrow," he continues. "The emotion that never dies — only changes form.”

You should probably be taking notes, but your pen sits idle. What good would notes be at this point? If you started diligently writing down every word, you think your professor would certainly laugh at you.

Listening was enough. The topic was interesting, which helped. Persistent sorrow. That sounded a bit like your life.

Did you have feelings that unrelenting? Hard to say. You hadn’t felt much of anything lately—just the usual fatigue dressed up as purpose.

Your professor keeps talking — about The Wailing, A Tale of Two Sisters, movies using old legends to blur the line between guilt and punishment. He keeps talking, explaining how every culture’s spirits serve a purpose—some to warn, some to comfort, some to punish. In Korean stories, spirits tend to remember. 

His words start to drift. You scroll through job listings on your laptop—part-time shifts, unpaid internships, “opportunities for exposure.” Occasionally, you stare at the slide of a gwishin projected on the wall: a pale woman in white, hair loose, eyes hollow.

 “These myths endure because they make emotion visible. Fear. Regret. Longing. Han.”

You shift in your seat, pulling your sleeves down over your hands. The word hangs in the air a little too long, and then he clears his throat.

“If you can’t explain a myth in one line,” he says finally, gesturing toward the screen, “you don’t understand it. For example: ‘A fox who wants to be human.’ Which myth is that?”

You answer before you even think about it. “Gumiho.”

He presses his lips together. “Precisely.”

-

After class, your professor calls your name before you can reach the door.

“Y/N. Please stay."

You close your eyes, cursing your fate. The day has been long enough without this conversation.

Arms crossed, your professor takes in the sight of you. Gaze averted. “Y/N. You’ve missed several sessions in a row.”

“I know,” you start, the words tumbling out too quickly. “I know, and I’m sorry—there’s been a lot going on and—”

“One more,” he cuts in. “One more, and I’ll have to remove you from the program.”

You falter. “Wait—remove me?”

He frowns, adjusting his glasses. “I’ve already extended your attendance leniency. But the department has rules. I can’t keep excusing absences, not with the others noticing.”

“I’m passing,” you say, as if it matters. “My grades are fine. I can catch up—”

“It’s not about grades.” His tone is firm, but not cruel. “You are talented, Y/N. You have genuine talent as a screenwriter. But talent doesn’t mean anything if you stop showing up. There is nothing I can do.”

You open your mouth but words fail to materialize. The silence between you stretches thin, filled only by the hum of the projector cooling behind him.

He softens slightly. “I’m saying this so you have a chance to fix it. Don’t waste it.”

The words land with a dull thud. You nod miserably. It’s just another thing slipping out of reach, like the rest of your life lately. “Okay,” you lie. “I’ll fix it.”

He studies you for a moment, then gives a short nod before turning away. “I hope so.”

In the hallway, the fluorescent lights hum faintly above you. The air still smells like wet coats and cafeteria broth. Your stomach tightens with hunger.

You check your phone: no messages, no calls, no reply from the gym where you’d interviewed to film short videos. Just one text from Jungwon.

hey, when are you getting your stuff?

You stare at it until the screen dims.

There was a time when hearing from him might have made you feel better—given the day some shape. Now it only makes you feel like shit.

-

You met Jungwon two years ago, at a mutual friend’s party. A small apartment, too many people, music leaking from someone’s laptop speakers.

He wasn’t part of your usual crowd. An economics major surrounded, for reasons unknown, by film students. He floated easily between groups — girls, guys, anyone who laughed at his jokes. Jungwon was one of those people who seemed to know everyone, and for a while, it felt like everyone wanted to know him.

His hair was long when you met, hands always running through it to keep it out of his eyes. He was doing just that while paying attention to your half drunk ramble about a movie with a smile on his face. Someone introduced you, and you said hello without much thought.

You were mid-conversation about some must-watch picture  when he started asking you questions. He listened to you that night. Really listened. Maybe that was what caught you — or what caught him. You spoke about movies like they mattered, as if cinema explained how people worked. He liked that you seemed to know what you were talking about. He liked that you knew what you wanted.

He told you later he found you fascinating. You made things feel alive, like you could see the threads running through everything — art, politics, grief, love. So different from him. Jungwon’s world was measured — graphs, boring theory, clean conclusions. Yours was subjective, inconsistent, full of theory and intuition.

He admired that. You thought admiration was enough. Too young to notice the difference between being understood and being idealized.

You’d always known Jungwon’s idea of you was dramatic, but it was easy to embrace the illusion. He saw you as brilliant, self-possessed — someone worth admiring. Being adored like that felt good, especially when it came from someone like him. Jungwon was stable, handsome, and generous. He said he’d take care of you, and maybe it was nice to believe him. Just once.

If things had lasted, of course, he wouldn’t be texting you now, asking when you planned to collect your things.

It started with the jobs. You were always working, always broke, barely keeping ahead of rent. At first, he called it admirable. Then he called it unnecessary.

He’d offer to help — paying for dinner, slipping cash into your hand “just in case.” Sometimes he’d cook for you, all confidence and charm, as if affection could replace autonomy. You’d try to refuse, but it was hard to argue when he was already at the register, or when his mouth was already on yours. He loved you. You believed that.

Still, the comments came. Light at first.

“You never let me spoil you.”

Then sharper.

“You never even offer to pay.”

It stung, but what could you say? He wasn’t wrong.

“If you can’t afford dinner,” he said once, “maybe take a semester off. Figure things out. I don’t mind helping, you know that. I just thought you’d have a plan by now.”

So you worked harder. Longer hours, smaller paychecks. You wanted to prove you could match him, that you weren’t just another problem to solve. But the harder you tried, the more distance opened between you. Soon you couldn’t keep up with his world.

Every passing week, the gap widen. On the other side were the parties, the weekend trips, the friends with internships that actually paid. Like a desert mirage, more an illusion than reality for you. He’d ask why you never came out anymore, and you’d tell him the truth: you had work.

But did that make the way things ended any less humiliating?

You only found out about the cheating by accident. Jungwon eventually became careless — caught kissing some twenty-year-old at a party. Not even discreet about it.

When you confront him, he just shrugs. “You’ve been distant,” he says, bitter. “It was going to happen.”

As if your exhaustion excused his betrayal.

You don’t cry. You just go still — like your body’s waiting for the rest of you to catch up. He isn’t even apologizing.

“You didn’t even ask if I was okay,” you say.

He looks at you for a moment, brows furrowed. “I knew you weren’t. But I couldn’t fix it. What was I supposed to do?”

That’s what breaks you. Not the cheating — the casualness. The way he frames your pain as an inconvenience.

Still, you don’t leave. Not right away. You promise breakfast tomorrow. You needed a little more time to accept that the person you loved didn’t like you anymore.

The next morning, you forget your wallet. Maybe on purpose. Maybe just to see what he'll do.

At the café counter, he sighs. 

“Of course you forgot it.”

You snap before you can stop yourself. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m tired,” he snaps. “Of taking care of someone who can’t get her life together.”

It goes quiet after that. The kind of silence that makes your ears ring. You feel humiliated — not shocked. You’d known he was drifting toward cruelty; you just didn’t know he’d crossed the line already.

“I’ll pay you back for everything,” you tell him.

He laughs. Not kindly. 

“It’s not about money,” he says. “You just drain people.”

-

You exhale- half laugh, half sobbing at the awful memory of your relationship ending. The rain has turned violent, hammering the pavement until it glitters like metal. In the glass door separating the lobby from the rain, a stranger looks back at you — eyes rimmed red, hair stringy and dark against her cheeks. 

Your next class starts in fifteen minutes. Fuck it. You’re not going.

You shove the door open. The cold air hits like a slap. For a moment, you just stand there, the wind threading through your wet clothes, your breath ghosting white. Then you sit on the concrete steps, rain spilling down your back, gathering in your shoes.

It’s easier to stay still than to pretend you have somewhere to be. Class? What worth was class if you were going to get kicked out anyways?

Should I end my life? you wonder. The words arrive the way intrusive thoughts always do — dry, absurd, strangely calm. You don’t know if you’re actually considering it or not.

It would certainly be a neat solution. There would be no one to miss you. The only hurdle was your own cowardice, but that could certainly be changed over time.

A voice interrupts you. “Are you alright?”

You look up.

A man stands near the base of the hill behind the media building, close to a narrow path that disappears into the trees behind campus. He waves, as if you’re acquaintances who’ve just spotted each other in the rain.

At first, you think he’s just another student. He looks your age—or ageless, really—with the kind of beauty that makes him immediately look trustworthy. His pale skin glows under the gray sky. Hair a shade too fair to be natural, dark at the roots, damp and sticking to his forehead. His clothes are simple—white shirt, loose trousers—but they look untouched by the rain, as if the air refuses to touch him.

When he smiles, it’s small and deliberate. There’s a stillness about him, something un-modern, like he’s been standing there for a very long time and only now remembered how to move.

He tilts his head at you. “Poor thing. You look worn out. You want to be taken care of, don’t you?”

You swallow. The rain is so loud it almost drowns him out.

He smiles, faint and knowing. “Try praying. There’s a shrine up that path. Might help.”

Before you can answer, he turns and walks away, vanishing into the gray.

You stand, more out of instinct than choice, and follow the incline. The path winds behind the vending machines, slick with moss, the air thick with petrichor and something older.

The traffic fades first, then the chatter of the student, until all that’s left is the rain and the rustling of the trees. You wonder why you keep walking. Did you really believe that handsome stranger at the foot of the mountain?

No, not really. In truth, you keep walking only because going back feels worse. The idea of sitting in another class you're failing, seeing Jungwon to pick up your belongings, sleeping in some sauna like a trransient... all of these caused a familiar feeling of bile to rise in your throat. You couldn't do it. You would much rather disappear in this mountain, into the treeline forever.

Your legs ache. Your fingers are numb. You press your palms to your thighs and keep going, though the path keeps narrowing — a thin ribbon of mud winding upward through fog.

By the time the ground evens out, you’re breathing hard. The rain has softened again, a fine mist that beads on your eyelashes. The world is quiet. Too quiet. For the first time, you realize how far you’ve come.

How far below you the city must be now, how distant and unreal it feels. At the top sits a small shrine. The structure leans slightly, roof tiles glistening, offerings long washed away. Cigarette butts scatter the ground. Two fox statues guard the entrance, eyes dulled by weather.

You collapse at the steps, leaning your head against the stone.

"If there’s a god here, fix it. Fix all of it. Please," you whisper.

Thunder murmurs in response — low, like laughter caught in its throat. The rain starts again, harder this time. You have no choice but to huddle beneath the shrine’s eaves, arms wrapped tight around yourself, clothes clinging cold against your skin. You’re so tired you stop pretending otherwise. The sob catches before you even realize you’re crying. “Seriously?” you whisper — to the rain, to the gods, to no one at all. “It can’t keep getting worse. I’m so tired.”

Your words are faint, disappearing into the background of the storm.

Then, slowly—

The air changes.

A warmth flickers through the cold, faint at first — like the moment before lightning. The wind stills. The smell of incense thickens, sweet and old. You lift your head just as the shrine begins to glow.

Pale light spills from the altar, first a faint ray, then searing Blue flames flare to life, rippling along the roof beams, blinding. You stumble back, eyes wide, one hand raised against the light.

And then — silence.

When the brightness fades, a man stands at the center of the shrine.

He’s tall — taller than you expect — with strands of black hair plastered to his temples, long enough to brush the collar of his robe. The rain slicks through it, glinting like ink under the light. His skin is pale, almost luminescent against the storm. Sharp brows frame eyes that could cut glass.

Eyes. Yes, those eyes. Dark, attentive, edged with something not entirely human. Something in your mind thinks back to your professors lessons — the old stories that warned maidens never to meet a god’s gaze.

He’s beautiful — devastatingly so — like a Joseon era prince. Every line of his face carries that quiet arrogance of someone born to be obeyed.

And yet, his expression is pure irritation, like you’ve interrupted a deep slumber.

He was unmistakably inhuman. You, quite the opposite, had seemingly angered him.

“Pathetic," he seethes. A harsh emotion mars his otherwise serene beauty. "I’m summoned by tears now?”

You blink up at him.

Were you finally going crazy?

“Excuse me?” you say, still half-blinded by light.

He arches a brow. “You cried to the heavens so mournfully and expected what, a miracle? Congratulations. You’ve inconvenienced me instead.”

You stare. “I didn’t mean to 'summon' anyone.”

“How could you not summon something with such loud cries for help.” His tone drips with disdain. “I mean who can ignore thoughts like yours? I'll tell you right now, if you want to kill yourself you can’t do it here!”

Your face turns red. “I wasn’t planning on it!” you snap, forgetting how cold you were all of a sudden. “And if I knew how to not summon whoever the fuck you are, I would’ve done that instead.”

His expression hardens. The man looks away from you, scowling.

“This is my shrine. You can’t summon anyone but me.”

You glance at the flickering foxfire around him. The faint heat has dried your clothes without you noticing.

“I didn’t know." You close your eyes. You have to try again. This man had enough of a conscience to warm you. Perhaps he could see reaason.

"I thought I was just—” Your voice wavers halfway through. You swallow hard.

Your throat burns. It’s been such a long day. Too many surprises. Too much failure. All before noon- and now, even this stranger, this impossible man, looks at you like you’ve failed some invisible test. You blink hard, but the tears rise anyway.

“I'm sorry. I thought I was talking to myself.” This is all you can manage.

Something in his expression falters when he sees your eyes glisten, but neither of you moves. You press your sleeve to your face, angry at yourself for shaking, angry that this man—of all people—is the one to hear you beg for a break.

Before he can continue, the air ripples — a shimmer in the corner of your vision.

Something shifts behind him. Out of nowhere, two short creatures materialized, half-transparent in the mist. Your first thought is that they oddly resemble children—small bodies, oversized masks. One mask sports a single curved horn; the other with little curls of fire near the mouth.

You've seen masks like this before. In your screenwriting class. Were these—

Goblins?

The horned one squeals. “Master! She’s alive!”

The other goblin is more reserved. “Human, aren’t you? Hm. That’s not supposed to happen. She is the one that broke the seal?”

“Seal? What seal?” you say, voice pitching higher than you’d like. they ignore you.

“Lord Sunghoon,” the quiet one says, bowing in reverence. “We thought you were gone for good!”

“I was,” the man—Sunghoon—says flatly. His eyes cut toward you. “Until someone couldn’t keep her crying to herself.”

Your stomach twists. Heat rises in your face but you're too shocked to defend yourself.

“Master Sunghoon,” the serious one says, pointing at the man in front of you, “is the guardian spirit to the mountain god of this shrine. At least, he was the guardian spirit before the deity vanished. Master Sunghoon has been resting since the palace fell to ruin.”

The horned one nods solemnly, then looks at you. Even behind a mask, you get the sensation that they're smiling. “And you unsealed him!”

“How?”

“You’re a vessel,” the horned one says matter-of-factly. “Bridge between realms. You’d know all this if you weren’t—”

“Pathetic,” Sunghoon finishes for them. “She is a human, meaning she is useless-honestly, I don't think I'd have stirred at all if she didn't display such an extreme case of human insecurity with those wails.”

Your jaw trembles. “I didn’t wail. I—” You stop. “Fine. Let's say I did. It’s been a long day.”

He folds his arms, unimpressed. “Tragic. Next time, try journaling.”

The horned goblin coughs, earning a glare from Sunghoon. “Sorry, my lord, but regardless of the reason, she did unseal you. She is a likely candidate if she can manage that!"

“Candidate?” you say, struggling to follow along. “For what?”

“For the vessel,” the serious one offers impatiently. “How did you find your way here, if you don't even know that?”

“Um. Some guy told me to pray. Big smile. Soft looking. Around my age?" You try to remember more discerning details about the stranger, but meeting him feels like a memory from lifetimes ago. "He didn't look very human either, but nowhere near as scary as your Master.”

“Sounds like the Mountain God!” the horned one says encouragingly.

“Please," Sunghoon scoffs. "I haven’t seen him in months. I doubt a random mortal would be the one to pull him out hiding.”

“Ignore him,” the horned one says. “If you saw him and you unsealed Master, you are more than worthy of being a vessel! Allow us to explain.”

The goblins drift in lazy circles around you. “When a god’s will is dormant—"

"Dormant?"

"Gone. Weakened. The god has lost the will to perform his duty. It can happen after a tragedy," the horned one says. "Stop interrupting!"

"When a god's will is dormant," it resumes, "they have an option to return to heavens and choose a human vessel instead. Our god disappeared months ago- but it seems like some of him’s latched onto you. Lucky girl!”

You point at yourself. “You’re saying I’m—?”

“The vessel!” both goblins chorus.

Sunghoon pinches the bridge of his nose.

“All of those things are purely circumstantial evidence of the mountain god's supposed decision to use this girl as his vessel,” he says. “It’s probably all a coincidence. The universe has a sense of humor.”

“And why would any of this be funny?” you challenge.

“Look at you,” Sunghoon snorts. “You are not fit to be a vessel. You are human, weak minded, ready to end your life at the merest inconvenience. Praying to a god like you would be a fool's errand."

You throw up your hands. “Well, sorry for being available asshole!”

That gets his attention. His eyes flick toward you, sharp and silver in the half-light. “Watch your tone.”

“Why? Are you going to smite me? Do it. You heard me! I'm desperate to die, aren't I?”

He takes a step forward, close enough that you feel the heat radiating off him. The rain clings to his skin like glass. “You are incredibly insolent for someone who just begged the god of this shrine for help.” His voice is low. "Mind your manners."

You meet his gaze, stubborn despite the heat rising in your chest. “Yeah? Sounds like the god of this shrine isn't hear. Just you.”

The words hang there, reckless and ringing. Even the rain seems to pause. He studies you, expression complex—somewhere between anger and yes, quiet, microscopic even, but still, undeniably there.

Interest.

You are given no chance to explore further.

“You’re reckless,” he says. “And foolish. And clearly not meant for this.”

The goblins exchange glances, shifting in nervous little circles.

“Good thing she can learn!” the horned one says finally. “So that’s that, right? She’s the new vessel? Ready to talk divine contract?”

Sunghoon gives a short, cold laugh. “Hardly.”

The warmth drains from the air again, replaced by the faint scent of ozone. His eyes — bright, sharp, and faintly cruel — turn toward you.

“A mortal like you couldn’t survive a day as the mountain god's vessel. The spirit realm would overwhelm you,” he says. “You wouldn’t even last an hour.”

“I haven't even tried. Somehow I managed to conjure up the three of you. I'm sure I can figure out this spirit realm."

He looks unimpressed. “You have no power. No magic. You can’t sense the barriers between realms. You cry too easily. You’d fall apart the moment something looked at you wrong.”

You open your mouth to protest, but the words catch. The worst part is, he sounds like he believes it — not even cruelly, just as a fact. Why are you even engaging with this? Did you even want to be a vessel?

“Then what do you suggest I do?” you ask, arms crossed. “Go back to class like none of this happened?”

“That would be wise,” Sunghoon says. “Forget you ever saw me.”

He takes a single step back, and the foxfire around him brightens — flickering white, then blue. The air hums.

“Wait—”

Too late. His body dissolves into smoke, tendrils of light twisting through the air before vanishing completely. The shrine grows quiet again, the only sound the slow drip of rain from the roof.

You stare at the space where he stood. “Unbelievable.”

The horned goblin scurries forward, waving his stubby arms to appease you. “Oh, don’t worry! He's always like that. Foxes love to pretend they don’t care. Sunghoon especially.”

The fiery one huffs. “No, he means it. But he’ll come around.”

You glare. “And what makes you think that?”

“Because you’re his only option,” the fiery one says matter-of-factly. “The old contract that marked him as guardian spirit weakens daily since the mountain god vanished. Without a new vessel and a guardian, this shrine will turn into a site for demons."

"Master Sunghoon could leave," it adds, "but then he would be abandoning this place and- well, the mountain god is a dear old friend of his and gumiho's keep their promises. It is more likely for Master Sunghoon to die than abandon this shrine.”

You blink. “You’re saying he’s dying?”

“Dramatic word, dying,” the horned one says quickly. “More like… spiritually bankrupt?”

“That’s not better.”

The fiery one shakes her head “No it's not! He needs to form a divine contract! Something to root him to the living world again.”

You purse your lips. “And you really want me to do it?”

“You’re the one the bond chose,” the goblin replies simply. “We don’t question fate.”

“I do.”

“Well, maybe fate knows something you don’t!!” the horned one chirps. “This could be the answer to your prayers!”

You sit back on your heels, drenched and cold, trying to process the absurdity of it all. “This is insane.”

The horned one grins. “Oh, it’s not so bad. You’re a pretty girl. Foxes love vanity. If you find him, bat your lashes, he might even bow.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. I’ll take my chances.”

"Think of it this way!" it chirps. "As a guardian spirit with a divine contract, Sunghoon would have to obey your every command! All you would have to do is kiss him, and the contract is signed. Wouldn't that be nice?"

“Kiss him and make him obey me,” you repeat flatly. “To do...what?”

"And housing! Vessels get free housing at the Mountain God Shrine!" The fiery one drifts closer. Clearly, the more observant of the two. You cannot turn down housing after this morning's eviction. "So? Will you do it? We must hurry before he disappears again. He doesn’t like to linger in the mortal realm.”

“Fine. I’ll find him. Happy?”

The horned one beams. “Delighted!”

The fiery one looks pleased too, though their expression never quite leaves the realm of mildly annoyed. “Thank you master L/N!”

Thanks were not needed. You knew you couldn’t ignore their pleas, now that you had the additional context.

Sunghoon had a god awful personality, but the knowledge of what this shrine meant to him made it difficult for someone like you to deny helping this odd mountain family.

There was something endearing about Sunghoon caring deeply for his friendship with the mountain god, tending to his shrine so diligently. Such unwavering loyalty moved you, having never experienced anything close to it in your own life. And, well- the goblins were so cute. How could you deny them when they were asking so nicely?

“Alright now. I have located Master Sunghoon, so hold still,” the fiery one says, raising a hand. “This will feel… unpleasant.”

“Wait—what will?”

Too late.

The world ignites in blue-white foxfire. It rushes up around you like a tidal wave, swallowing air, sound, gravity. Your stomach lurches. The floor disappears. The next breath burns.

When the light fades, you’re standing somewhere entirely else.

The air is thick with the scent of incense and something sweet, cloying, unfamiliar. Everything glows—red lacquered walls, gold threads curling through silk curtains, candles dripping wax like blood. Music hums low and slow in the background, played on instruments you don’t recognize.

You realize, slowly, that you and the goblins are in a brothel.

The horned goblin claps his hands, bright as ever. “Ah, the Spirit Pavilion! Classic Master Sunghoon, that rascal! Should’ve guessed he was here!”

Ghostly courtesans drift between rooms, their movements fluid as smoke. Their faces are flawless, their laughter practiced. Mirrors line the walls, and in every reflection you catch something just slightly wrong amidst the beauty—a pair of animal ears where none should be, a tail slipping in and out of visibility, teeth a shade too sharp.

“Wow,” you murmur, dazed. “So even the spiritual realm has places like this.”

The serious goblin hisses. “Don’t speak so loud! The spirits here don’t take kindly to sarcasm, like you and Sunghoon.”

“I wasn’t mocking,” you whisper back. You are slightly humored at the idea that there is already a 'you and Sunghoon'. “Just observing, goblin.”

A woman glides by, trailing a sickly sweet perfume. Her eyes flick toward you, then widen faintly. “A human?” she whispers.

“Yes, hi,” you say, smiling. “Have you seen—”

"And a hideous one at that?" she gasps. Your dignity dives into the gutter.

“Hello Lady Spirit. Have you seen Lord Sunghoon?” the horned goblin cuts in proudly. “Guardian Spirit of the Mountain, contracted to the powerful Mountain God Kim Sunoo, sealed for three years, face like a poem—”

“Yes, yes, that one,” you interrupt. “Would you happened to know if he is here?”

The woman nods, speaking to the goblins she seems to recognize while eyeing you with suspicion. “He’s in the inner chamber. As usual.”

"Thank you!" the serious one says, bowing deeply. The woman nods, sending you one last confused stare before floating off.

The “inner chamber” turns out to be exactly what it sounds like — decadent, ridiculous, and way too warm. The door slides open with a soft click, and the scent of lotus oil hits you immediately.

There, in the center, Sunghoon lounges in a sunken bath, half submerged, steam curling around the upper half of his body in ribbons. Water beads along the curve of his adam’s apple, shining against his pale skin. His hair is spread across the floorr, where the stone meets the edge of the bath, his face sharp and languid all at once.

Beautiful handmaidens surround him, stroking his hair, pouring him tea. Sunghoon’s shoulders are loose, a relaxed smile on his face, as they bathe him. 

You should look away. You don’t.

Something about him feels impossible—too composed, too luminous for this world. For no particular reason, when he glances your way through the steam, you pray he cannot see you. You press yourself against the screen door, hanging behind as the goblins enter to plead with him.

 “Master Sunghoon! We found you!"

He offers nothing but a non-commital hm.

"Please, Master Sunghoon,” you hear one goblin say. “Without a contract, the shrine will continue to fade. She’s the only hope we have had in three years.”

Sunghoon doesn’t answer. His eyes remain half-lidded, handmaidens pouring water over his shoulders. Their laughter ripples across the air like stones skipped from the shore, interrupting the stillness.

“Master Sunghoon,” the other goblin tries. “It is not too late. She’s agreed to form a contract—”

“And I've denied,” he says smoothly. “I told you, I don’t need a mortal.” 

“You can’t keep putting this off!”

Sunghoon exhales, long and bored. “You mistake this for indecision. I’ve made my decision. No.”

“Master,” the horned one begs. “You’ll vanish again if you don’t form a contract. Don’t you even care?”

He doesn’t respond. A handmaiden leans close to whisper something; he smirks, lazy and detached, as if the world beyond the bath doesn’t exist. The goblins wilt under the weight of it, exchanging helpless looks.

Your stomach twists. The words are cold enough to burn.You step out from behind the screen.

"Ah!" the fiery goblin says. "No! What are you doing? You'll only make him angrier!"

You ignore it. "Well," you say, voice shaking only a little, “sorry for interrupting your royal spa day.”

At that, he looks over his shoulder, surprised. He’s still infuriatingly beautiful but his selfishness now makes it easy for you to ignore it.

“I see you’ve recovered your voice,” he says. “Good. You’ll need it to scream when the spirit realm devours you whole.”

You stare flatly. “You are such an asshole."

The handmaidens giggle behind their hands. Sunghoon ignores them. “I told you to go home.”

“And I told you I don’t exactly have one.”

The horned goblin tries again. “My lord, please! Without a vessel, your power will unravel! The mountain will decay!”

“The mountain will survive,” Sunghoon says, voice cool. “Sunoo is not a weak god.”

The goblin floats closer to the bath. “You know that’s not true. The forest’s dying. The spirits can’t cross freely anymore. The balance is failing.”

He still doesn’t look at her. “What do I care? I am a gumiho.”

You sneer. “Great attitude for a guardian spirit. What do you guard even? Your own selfishness?”

His gaze cuts to you—slow, sharp, dangerous. “Careful, mortal.”

You take a step closer anyway, water glinting against the edge of the bath. “You act like I wanted any of this. Like I begged to be introduced to a gumiho with no apparent skill other than insulting people.”

He leans back, faintly amused now. “You think too highly of yourself. You’re a coincidence. A vessel because the universe ran out of options.”

The words sting but are ultimately powerless. Sunghoon's cruelty might have hurt more on a different day, but the humans around you have already said as much all morning. “So what if I am? I’m used to being people’s last resort.”

You swallow, voice soft but steady. “If you are finished, there's no need to come up with more cruel things to say.”

He doesn’t reply. The silence stretches until you break it yourself.

“You think I’m weak,” you say. “But strength isn’t pretending you don’t care. It’s what you do when no one else does.”

That earns his attention.

“You can call me mortal, pitiful, whatever makes you feel better,” you continue. “But I’m still here. With no energy to live for myself, I still came for you because these goblins said it was their duty. Because they asked, sincerely, for my help. That’s more than you did for anyone. That is more 'godly' than this.”

The air in the room changes—sharper, charged.

The horned goblin breaks the silence with a whisper. “Soooooo… contract?”

The fiery one elbows him. “Not now.”

Sunghoon stares at you. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

You lift your chin. “Maybe not. But you can't accuse me for giving up.”

-

You leave before anyone can see your face. Never mind that you don't know the way back without the goblins. It was just a mountain- you'll walk down until you saw the school.

The air outside the brothel hits cold and sharp, cutting through the lingering scent of incense. The path down the mountain gleams slick in the rain, lanterns flickering in and out of existence along the trail. You walk fast, not because you know where you’re going, but because stopping feels dangerous.

You tell yourself you don’t care. That he doesn’t deserve your anger. But your throat burns anyway.

The forest grows quieter the farther you go — too quiet. Even the rain seems to hesitate, held in the air like it’s waiting.

Then the cold changes. It isn’t weather anymore. It’s presence.

A whisper threads through the trees, faint as static. You freeze. The voice comes again, low and soft, echoing somewhere inside your head.

Poor thing. No one wanted you.

You turn, but there’s nothing—only mist, the suggestion of movement just beyond sight. The air bends around it, wrong and heavy.

Then you see it.

A shape pulling itself out of the darkness — human, almost, but cursed. Eyes hollow. Clawed. Mouth foaming.

A juryeong. Wandering grief.

It moves faster than you can think, the whisper turning into a chorus of every failure you’ve ever tried to forget. The words scrape at your skull, too familiar to deny.

You’re a burden. You drain people. You should’ve disappeared a long time ago.

You stumble back, slipping on the wet stones. The world narrows to teeth and shadow. It lunges.

And then—

Light splits the air. The juryeong’s scream rattles through the trees before dissolving into nothing. When the smoke clears, Sunghoon stands where it was.

Foxfire flickers along his hands, then dies out. The forest goes silent again.

You stare at him, trembling. “You—”

“Get out,” he says quietly. Not cruel, not loud—just tired. He flicks water from his sleeve, eyes cutting through the dark to you. “You don’t know what else is out there.”

You swallow hard. “I didn’t—”

He steps closer, close enough for you to see the faint gold ring around his pupils, the sharpness in his jaw, the glint of something half-alive behind the disdain.

“Get out,” he repeats. The words land like a slap. “Before something else comes for you.”

You don’t move. The rain hits harder.

You want to thank him. Or scream. Or ask why he came. But before you can speak, the air bends again and he’s gone.

You stand alone on the trail, chest heaving, heart loud against the storm.

-

By the next morning, you’re back in the city.

It doesn’t make sense — one minute you were still halfway down the mountain, soaked and shaking, and the next, you were standing outside your campus gate with your suitcase, your shoes leaving muddy prints on the pavement. You don’t remember the walk. You don’t remember sleeping. Somehow, it is the next day and all you have to remember your encounter is an echo of his voice: Get out.

Classes resume. The vending machines hum. The hallway smells faintly of wet paper and floor cleaner. Everything is the same, except for you.

You start realizing students have always known about the shrine, that it was only news to you because of how isolated you've become. You hear them whispering, near the courtyard, after classes, more so as the weather worsens.

“My friend said the mountain’s cursed. Her phone camera wouldn’t work near the shrine.”

“They say girls disappear their all the time."

"What's with the fox statues even?"

You keep walking.

The day passes in pieces. You move through it like someone half-awake. The lecture hall lights hum a little too loud. The world feels… thin, like something underneath is pressing against the surface.

When you pass a window, your reflection lags half a second behind. You blink, and it’s gone.

Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was a dream.

You touch your wrist absently, where a faint warmth still lingers — a mark you can’t see, but feel, like static under skin.

That night, you dream of the mountain again.

Always the same sequence—rain whispering against the trees, foxfire burning behind your eyes. You never see him, only the afterimage of his light: a glow that feels warm at first, then unbearably sad.

You wake every time just before dawn, breath caught in your throat, the shape of his voice still echoing somewhere in your chest. Get out. And yet, you can’t. Not from the dream. Not from whatever tethered itself to you that night.

By the third morning, you give in.

You head back towards the trail, ignoring how ridiculous it feels to be doing this again—to be walking the same route, soaked shoes and all, like a story refusing to end. Half-ashamed, half-determined, you climb.

The path looks different in daylight. The moss glows electric green. The trees hum with cicadas. You almost convince yourself it was all imagination—until you reach the clearing.

The shrine stands where it always has, roof sagging under the weight of time. The air smells of wet stone and incense.

You pause, heart hammering. Then: “Hello?”

Your voice carries through the trees, soft and uncertain. “Hello? Sunghoon?”

Nothing answers.

You try again, louder this time, stepping closer to the altar. “Hey! Goblin guys? Mr. Gumiho? Anybody?”

Only wind. Only the steady drip of rain from the roof tiles.

The place feels emptier than you remember, like something’s been drained out of it—the warmth, the noise, the trick of light. Even the fox statues look duller, their eyes clouded with moss.

For the first time, you feel the full weight of it: you might really be alone here.

You set your bag down at the steps and sit, hugging your knees. The silence presses in, thick and watchful. Somewhere deep in the woods, a crow calls, sharp and far away.

“Fine,” you mutter, voice small. “I’ll wait.”

You don’t know what you’re waiting for, the goblins, or worse, him. But the air feels charged again, like it’s listening. You are sure with enough patience, the shrine's spiritual keepers would show themselves.

Minutes pass. Then hours. The interior of the shrine darkens. You glance up, taking in the damage that has compounded over years of neglect.

The beams have begun to collapse inward, ribs of rotting wood showing through the ceiling. Dust cloaks every surface.

Then the temperature drops.

A whisper skims past your ear—thin, familiar.

Still looking for someone to save you?

You turn, and it’s there.

The juryeong, again—its shape heavier now, half-formed from the smoke seeping out of the cracks between the boards. Its eyes gleam a dim blue, its mouth stretched in something too close to human.

You stumble back. “No,” you whisper. “Come on.”

It drifts closer, feeding on your shiver. “You called me back,” it says, its voice layered with static. “So much sadness in one person. I must devour you.”

The word from class comes to mind—han. That’s what it wants. The same grief your professor lectured about. Persistent. Generational. Delicious.

Your hand shakes as you fumble through your bag, searching for anything—a charm, salt, even a pen. Instead, your fingers close around your film camera.

“Please work,” you breathe, lifting it. You glare at the juryeong. “You want light? Here.”

The flash pops, a burst of white searing through the dark. The juryeong recoils, its outline shuddering, edges melting into smoke. The light fades; it re-forms, angrier now, the whisper turning into a growl.

"Bitch," it spits at you. "I will enjoy tearing you from limb to limb after violating you. I promise, you will suffer," the juryeong smiles.

You hit the shutter again. Another flash. Another scream. The camera overheats in your grip, warning light blinking red.

You back toward the entrance, breath coming fast. “Stay away from me!”

It lunges.

You stumble, hitting the floor hard. The camera clatters beside you, its flash spent, the juryeong towering overhead—close enough that you can see the shape of your own reflection in its eyes, distorted, crying, still fighting.

You scream—the sound raw, human, desperate. The juryeong closes in. Its whisper is everywhere now—behind your eyes, in your ribs, speaking with your own voice. You always ruin things. You should have stayed gone. Filthy little whore. Pathetic little girl.

Your camera’s out of charge. The flash won’t fire. You swing it anyway, uselessly.

The thing surges forward. You think about your aunt. Jungwon. Would they miss you? Probably not you say, tears coming to your eyes.

Then, suddenly—heat.

The juryeong’s scream fractures the air. Foxfire detonates, flaring white-blue. The spirit stumbles, giving you an opening. You scramble further away, coughing, lungs burning. When your vision clears, he’s there. Just like last time.

Sunghoon.

He stands in the wreckage like something pulled out of a half-remembered dream—eyes lit from within, a faint tail of flame curling behind him, each strand of hair shimmering in the light. Power radiates off him, hot enough to warp the air.

He looks down at you, expression unreadable. “Say it.”

Your voice scrapes. “What?”

“Say you need me Y/N.”

You shake your head weakly. “You’re insane.”

He doesn't move closer, but the temperature spikes. The foxfire around him flares like it’s feeding on his anger. “You think pride will keep you alive? You called me once. You can do it again. Just ask me to help you,” he snaps

You want to—God, you want to—but you refuse to let your desperation make you worthless yet again. There had to be a way to survive, one that did not depend on you bending to yet another's person's will.

"No," you manage, through gritted teeth. "I refuse."

He closes his eyes, exhaling sharply. For the first time, his composure falters. His voice pitches high. “Stop pretending you don’t need saving. Forget your pride- anyone would require saving from a juryeong!”

You flinch. Something in you—stubborn and battered—continues to flare back. “I’ve been saving myself my whole life! I will never beg you to save me!"

“Why won’t you just—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “You’ll die if you don’t ask, you silly girl!

He’s right. You know it. You’re dizzy, blood roaring in your ears, the world thinning to light and rain.

But you can’t make yourself say it. So you do the only thing you can.

You reach for him.

The touch barely lands—your fingers ghost his sleeve—and then you kiss him. Not out of romance, not even out of faith, but because of something the goblins said. A kiss to seal a divine contract. A contract with the power to make Sunghoon obey.

For one suspended second, the world stops.

Kiss me back you think. Please kiss me back.

At first, he doesn’t move. His body goes rigid, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and outrage. Then, almost imperceptibly, something in him breaks. Sunghoon's lips move against yours, willingly. His hand finds your jaw—not rough, certain—and he leans in further. The kiss deepens. The air burns.

Foxfire erupts from the floor, surging around you both in a spiral of light. The air hums—ancient, electric, alive. The mark of the contract burns across your chest, searing and warm, a pulse that feels both foreign and familiar. The juryeong burns away like paper, no match for the heat of Sunghoon's flames. It shrieks, form unraveling into ribbons of smoke that twist once, twice, and vanish.

You break apart, gasping. Warmth pulses under your skin, syncing with your heartbeat. You didn't realize you would feel it butt you do. Underneath your skin. In your heart. As deep as your soul maybe. The feeling is dawning and heavy: you are bound to Sunghoon. A gumiho.

Sunghoon stares at you, eyes wide with disbelief. His voice is rough when he finally speaks. “You stubborn, reckless—”

“It worked," you say, still out of breath. Your chest rises and falls, like you are relearning how to breath. "Guess you’ll have to get used to it.”

The subsequent expression on his face is impossible to read—part fury, part relief, all restraint.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet. “Fine. Master.”

The word hangs in the air, soft and bitter, both an acknowledgment and an accusation.

You stare at him, throat dry. “What did you just call me?”

His jaw tightens. He looks away, the flicker of foxfire still curling along his tail before it vanishes into mist.

“Don’t make me say it twice.”

Outside, thunder rolls low across the mountains.

"Come on," he groans. "Let us find those goblins. I am sure they can't wait to see you."

_

a/n: i'll probably edit this later but yay first chapter to a new series. my very first on tumblr. please like and reblog if you enjoyed orrr if you just love kamisama kiss like i do.

[enhalush]

⟡ SYSTEM // GUIDELINES ⟡

🌫️ all works contain mature content 🫧 mostly enhypen. occasionally jjk 🩶 everything is fiction. everything is tagged.

:: CONTENT

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dark themes will be explored - read at your own discretion!

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