Hello, welcome to my Empire. You can address me as Simurgh, although it is not my real name, its better than calling me by my long as user and profile name lol. I read in many fandoms. I write in whatever fandom i wish, i'm literally everywhere.
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I UPDATE WITH MY OWN PACE, NOT YOURS TYVM.
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Some anime/etc. links may lead to AO3 simply because they are older stories that I did not publish to Tumblr...
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: "It's my request. That in this night that is here, come into my arms and forget the world." - Arijit Singh and Sunidhi Chauhan, Darkhaast
As a captain, you are assigned to some of the toughest cases known to criminal investigation but, it all works out in the end because you have your best friend—Lee Seokmin—as your partner. But what happens when people you know start dying around you? When old ghosts are revived? When a serial killer who brands his victims starts targeting your past?
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𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): nsfw, murder, blood, torture, serial killings, manipulation?, the murderer is kinda crazy, mentions of past SA, references to suicide, explicit sexual content, emotional intimacy, manhandling?, kissing, marking, worship, breast play, oral (f. rec), nose riding?, unprotected piv sex (wrap it up bitches), creampie, morally grey, inaccurate detective stuff, seokmin is a sweetheart and our dear protector
𝐀/𝐍: PLS DONT TURN AWAY JUST CUZ THE TITLE IS IN ANOTHER LANGUAGE!! the reader has no physical descriptions other than afab, this song has been stuck imh that is the only reason its titled this way. Inspired by SAW.
“Officials state that the homicide was performed around 03:17 a.m…”
The anchor’s voice drones on, a polished veneer of professional horror masking a carefully neutral tone. On the wall-mounted monitors, grainy footage flickers beneath a scrolling scarlet headline.
You watch from the Bureau bullpen, sitting on top of your desk. Your eyes are half-lidded, stinging with exhaustion, as the steam stops rising from the ceramic mug gripped between your palms. The coffee is stone cold.
You take a bitter sip and sigh, the liquid coating your tongue like ink.
This isn’t just another case; this is the crescendo. For months, the city has bled in small, erratic bursts—killings that feel like rehearsals, messy and hesitant. But the footage on the screen shows a gruesome precision. Whoever is behind the blade has stopped testing the waters; they have finally dived into the deep end.
“You’re here early, sunshine.”
The voice cuts through the low, mechanical hum of the office like a sudden burst of warmth into a winter frost.
Lee Seokmin.
He is your partner, the steady pulse of light in your otherwise shadowed world, and—above all else—your best friend.
You don't turn immediately, listening instead to the familiar, domestic rhythm of his arrival: the soft thud of his briefcase on the desk, the rhythmic rustle of fabric as he rolls up his sleeves. When you finally glance over your shoulder, you catch the sight of his bare forearms and the tired, genuine smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes—the one that always manages to tug at your heartstrings.
“Yeah,” you murmur, lifting your cup in a lazy, mocking salute. “What a night.”
He steps into your space, his gaze flicking briefly to the gruesome imagery on the TV before softening as it lands back on you. “Did you sleep at all?”
“Define sleep.”
He huffs, a sound of fond exasperation, and loops an arm around your waist to pull you flush against his side. His lips press against your temple, warm and lingering, grounding you. “You know you get better sleep at my place. At least for my sake, stop being stubborn and just come over.”
You let yourself slump into his embrace, the tension in your shoulders finally snapping as you lean into his heat. "You're right," you admit, your voice muffled against his shoulder. "Mind if I come over tonight?”
He lets out a low, melodic laugh that vibrates against your chest. “The fact that you’re even asking makes me a little sad. You have my keys for a reason. You’re always welcome, and you know it.”
The moment is shattered by the heavy stomp of combat boots. The bullpen goes stiff as the Chief marches in, his presence demanding the air in the room.
“Break it up, lovebirds,” the Chief barks, though there is no real bite in it. He tosses a heavy manila folder onto the desk between you. “This one’s yours, captain.”
You flip it open. The crime scene photos are still glossy, the ink barely dry. It is the murder from the morning news.
“We’re assuming this is the opening act,” the Chief says, leaning over the desk. “Which means the encore is coming as well.”
Seokmin runs a hand through his hair, a heavy sigh escaping him. “Come on, boss. We just closed the books on that money laundering sting. Give us a minute to breathe.”
“I’d love to, Seokmin, but you two are my best,” the Chief replies, clapping his hands together with a finality that echoes off the cubicle walls. “I need the sharpest eyes on this. No exceptions.”
You close the file, the weight of the investigation settling into your bones. You look at Seokmin, then at the Chief, and stand up straight.
“We’ll take it.”
The morning air is thick with the smell of exhaust and cheap street-vendor grease, but as the black sedan pulls up to the school’s curb, the atmosphere shifts.
Seokmin parks with a sharp turn of the wheel. He doesn’t get out immediately. Instead, he reaches over, his hand covering yours where it rests on the gear shift. His thumb traces a soothing circle over your knuckles.
“Let me know if you get too tired," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, losing the playful lilt he uses in the office. "You look like you're carrying the weight of the whole world today."
"I'm fine, Minnie," you lie, the sweet nickname feeling like a shield. "Let's just see what we're dealing with."
You step out of the car, heading inside the gymnasium full of memories. You step under the tape. On the gym floor, the body lies arranged, not dumped.
As you draw closer, the familiar face of the victim becomes clear to you. You stop dead. Your heart does a slow, painful roll in your chest.
Even through the grime and the trauma on him, you recognize the face. The heavy brow, the jagged scar on the chin. It’s Park Jaewon. The man who made your high school years a living hell—the one who cornered you in the halls and left bruises that took weeks to fade.
"Hey," Seokmin’s voice is right at your ear, steadying you. “You alright?”
"He... he went to my school," you whisper, your voice sounding far away. “He’s the guy I told you about.”
Seokmin’s eyes darken, a flash of something unreadable passing through them as he looked at the body. He doesn't look horrified; he looks evaluative. He steps forward, snapping on his latex gloves with a sharp pop.
"Look at the shoulder," Seokmin directs, his tone clinical.
He peels back the shredded fabric of the victim's shirt. There, seared into the skin with terrifying precision, is the brand: a long, elegant broadsword pointed downward.
“A medieval sword,” you snort. “I vote for calling this case ‘Excalibur’ and the perp ‘Arthur.’"
Seokmin chuckles, a knowing smirk appearing on his face at the reference.
He turns back to you, the floodlights casting half his face in shadow while the other half remains the handsome, comforting partner you know. He steps over the evidence markers, closing the distance until he is shielding you from the sight of the body.
“If this makes you uncomfortable, I'm dropping the case for us,” he says, taking off the gloves.
“Don’t you dare, Seokmin,” you exclaim. “This could help us go up the ranks even more, and I have to become Chief’s successor.”
He sighs, reaching up to brush a stray hair from your forehead. His touch is electric, a stark contrast to the cold death surrounding you. “My ambitious girl.”
You blush at that.
Seokmin and your relationship from an outside perspective is usually seen to be a romantic one. People often misunderstand. Which makes sense because you have spent your entire career life, including your schooling years, with him. You stay at his place and he stays at yours. Sometimes you come into work together after a sleepover. He knows you like the back of his hand and you know him the same. And you would trust him with your life, that is no doubt. But being surrounded by so much work and such harsh conditions makes telling your feelings to him much harder.
"Let's get what we need and get out of here," you say, your voice regaining its lead authority. "We need to find out who else is on this 'King Arthur’s' list before the next blade falls."
Seokmin nods, his smile returning, "Whatever you say, sunshine. I'm right behind you. Always."
You stare at the autopsy photos until the glossy edges of the crime scene blur into the sterile white of the board. Two weeks have passed since Jaewon was found, and the "Arthur" board in your private investigation office has become a grim shrine to the Excalibur case.
Seokmin leans against the edge of your desk, a pen tucked behind his ear as he scrolls through the victim's digital footprint. The blue light of the screen reflects in his dark eyes.
“Shit. Jaewon has a hell of a record,” Seokmin mutters, his voice low. “Theft, battery, multiple assaults... his online footprint is just as foul. But with a family like his, money ensures justice never even gets to the front door.”
“I know I shouldn’t say this—for the sake of being professional—but frankly?” You don't look away from the board. “I think he is getting exactly what he deserves.”
Seokmin turns toward you, his lips pulling into a slight, thoughtful pout. “That’s dark, sunshine. Now, I’m not saying he doesn't need to be punished, but come on. He was beaten, bruised, and branded. Whoever is doing this is no less of a monster.”
Seokmin is the empathetic pulse of your partnership. He is kind, gentle, and deeply affected by the violence you see daily. It is a necessary balance to your own nature—critical, logical, and increasingly hardened. While you look at the mechanics of the crime, Seokmin looks at the soul of it, and cases this visceral always leave him raw.
“You’re right,” you sigh, finally rubbing your tired eyes. “Arthur is the one who deserves the harsher sentence. He starts with those 'test-kills' and now he’s confidently branding his targets. Sure, the other victims are no better than Jaewon, but a murder is still a murder.”
As you speak, a cold realization settles in your gut. It isn't just Jaewon. Even the earlier "test" subjects are faces you vaguely recognize from your own life. One is a man who tried to grope you during a late-night ice cream run with Seokmin months ago. Another is a guy who harassed you at a club, calling your outfit "slutty" before Seokmin stepped in and leveled him with a single punch.
The heavy glass doors of the bullpen swing open with a violent bang, shattering the quiet tension. A young patrol officer, face ashen and chest heaving, scrambles toward your desk.
“Detectives!” he pants, clutching a tablet with trembling hands. “It is happening again. Highway 405, under the overpass by the construction zone. We’ve got another Excalibur.”
The overpass at Highway 405 acts like a concrete ribcage, trapping the sound of the wind and the rhythmic, hollow drip of fluid onto the asphalt. The air is thick with the scent of gas and burnt rubber.
As you step under the construction scaffolding, your flashlight beam cuts through the dark, landing on a silver sedan that has been forced into a support pillar. But this isn't a simple collision. A heavy-duty winch system, anchored to the overhead beams, has been used to drag the vehicle sideways, pinning it with mechanical ruthlessness.
Seokmin is a shadow at your side, his breathing shallow. "Watch your step. There’s glass everywhere."
You approach the driver’s side. The man within is held upright by a gruesome contraption—a series of wire cables threaded through the headrest, keeping his chin tilted up toward the ceiling.
It’s Choi Myunghwan.
Your heart doesn't race; it goes cold. This is the man who chased you for three terrifying miles in a fit of blind road rage, repeatedly ramming your bumper until you spun into a ditch. He laughed in court when his high-priced lawyer got the charges dropped to a mere "reckless driving" misdemeanor. Even though you are a renowned detective, his money took the win.
"Y/N," Seokmin whispers, his hand coming up to hover just inches from your shoulder, not quite touching you but offering a protective barrier. "Look."
He uses a gloved finger to tilt the victim's blood-stained collar. There it is: the sword. The Excalibur brand is seared deep into the shoulder, the skin around it puckered and angry. It is larger this time, more prominent, as if the killer is growing bolder with every strike.
“Fuck,” you breathe. The word slips out before you can police it. “Seokmin… you know who this guy is, right?”
He turns to you slowly, jaw tightening as recognition settles in. “Choi,” he says flatly. “That little shit who almost killed you.”
“Yeah.” You shudder. “Go talk with forensics, I'll take some notes.”
Seokmin moves away to speak with forensics, his presence peeling off like a protective layer you haven’t realized you are leaning on. You stay behind, standing too close to the body, eyes tracing details you already know will haunt you later.
This can’t be a coincidence.
It is too clean. Too perfect.
Whoever is committing these killings is out for justice. Or is it something else?
You are afraid. All these people are connected to you, and you are afraid that someone close to you could be next. Someone like Seokmin, or even yourself.
The fatigue finally hits you then—a bone-deep weariness that makes the flashlight tremble in your hand. You stare at the man who tried to kill you, now dead by another's hand, and feel a terrifying chill.
You don’t hear Seokmin return.
One moment you are alone with the body and your thoughts, the next his hand is wrapping firmly around your wrist, steadying the shake before it can become a fall. He takes the flashlight from your fingers and clicks it off.
“No,” he says quietly, with a finality that brooks no argument. “That’s enough.”
You blink up at him. His eyes are sharp with concern, scanning your face like evidence he doesn’t like.
"You're gray in the face. We're not going back to the office, we're going home. My home. You're not spending another night alone with these thoughts."
“Min, I’m perfectly okay,” you start, out of habit more than conviction.
“No, you are not,” he cuts in, already shrugging out of his gloves. “And I’m not debating you.”
His hand finds the small of your back, grounding, protective without being possessive. A silent promise presses into your spine.
“Let’s go.”
You don’t argue again.
His apartment feels like a sanctuary—the air smells of sandalwood and clean laundry, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of the highway overpass.
The next few hours are spent in a deliberate attempt to scrub the day off your skin. You take a long, scalding shower, letting the steam pull the tension from your muscles, before emerging to find Seokmin has laid out one of his hoodies for you along with underwear you keep at his place and some comfy shorts.
After a quiet meal of takeout—comfort food eaten mostly in a companionable silence—he pulls out a deck of cards. For an hour, the world is small, reduced to the light of the floor lamp and Seokmin’s competitive laughter as he teases you for losing your focus.
But eventually, the games end. The silence of the city outside begins to press in, and the reality of Excalibur creeps back into your mind.
Seokmin pours two glasses of deep red wine and leads you into the kitchen. You lean against the cool granite of the counter, the glass cold in your hand but the wine does little to settle the churning in your gut.
"I’m scared, Seokmin," you whisper, your voice cracking for the first time. "It’s not just a coincidence anymore. Every name on that board is a name from my life. Jaewon. Myunghwan. They aren't just random people. They’re my people. My ghosts."
You look up at him, your eyes glassy with a mix of fatigue and a growing, primal fear.
"If Arthur is following my life like a map... what happens when he reaches the end of the road? What if I’m the final victim? What if this is all a twisted game to get to me?"
Seokmin doesn’t answer immediately. He sets his wine glass down on the counter with a sharp click and steps into your space. He doesn't just stand near you; he surrounds you, his presence a warm, solid weight that blocks out the rest of the apartment.
He reaches out, his hands sliding under your thighs, and in one fluid motion, he lifts you onto the counter. You gasp softly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he pulls you flush against his chest.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice a low, vibrating growl of absolute certainty. He cups your face in his large, warm hands, forcing your gaze to meet his. You don't see the bright partner who is the happy virus of the bullpen. You see something fierce, something territorial and ancient.
"You are not the finale," he whispers, his forehead leaning against yours. He steps between your knees, his thumbs brushing away the moisture at the corners of your eyes. "And you are not alone in this. I don't care if this 'Arthur' thinks he’s a king or a god. To get to you, he has to go through me."
His thumbs trace the line of your jaw, his touch possessive and grounding. "You are my entire world," he whispers, the confession raw and aching. "I have spent years keeping you safe, watching your back, making sure you come home every night. Do you really think I’d let some shadow with a branding iron take that away? I would burn this city to the ground before I let a single hair on your head be touched."
The sheer weight of his devotion hits you harder than the fatigue ever can. The underlying feelings that have been simmering between you for years finally boil over. You don't want to think about cases, or brands, or the dead men in your past.
You just want him. You just want your best friend. You just want Seokmin.
You reach out, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him in. When your lips meet, it isn't the soft, hesitant kiss of the first time—it is desperate, a collision of two people who have survived too much darkness and are finally reaching for the light.
Seokmin groans low in his throat, his heavy arms wrapping around you like iron bands, pulling you flush against his chest as if he can merge your heartbeats into one. In that kitchen, surrounded by the shadows of a city that wants to break you, he is the only thing that feels real.
As you deepen the kiss, Seokmin's hands roam your body with a hunger that matches your own. His touch is electric, igniting a fire that burns away the chill of the night and the horrors of the day. You can feel his heart racing against your chest, a steady drumbeat of desire and devotion.
"Sunshine," he murmurs against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. "You're everything to me. You always have been."
You gasp as his hands slide under your (his) hoodie, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist. "Seokmin," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "I need you. I need to feel you."
He pulls back slightly, his eyes dark with passion and something deeper, something that speaks of a love that has been waiting to be acknowledged. "Are you sure," he asks, his voice a low growl. "We don’t have to go all the way."
“Please,” you beg. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”
With a swift movement, he lifts you off the counter, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you to his room.
He lays you gently on the bed, his body covering yours as he captures your lips in a fierce kiss. Your hands explore his back, feeling the muscles tense and relaxing under your touch. He breaks away, his breath ragged as he looks into your eyes.
"I love you," he whispers, his voice raw with emotion. "I've loved you for so long, and I can't keep it inside anymore."
Tears well up in your eyes, a mix of joy and relief. "I love you too, Seokmin. More than anything."
He kisses you again, taking off your hoodie and leaving your upper body bare. You arch into his touch, your body aching for more. He trails kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, sending shivers down your spine.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your skin.
You reach up, cupping his face in your hands. “I want you to love me. Love me, such that I'll never be able to forget it.”
He groans, his body pressing against yours, the bulge of his cock straining against his sweatpants indicating his desire. “I promise. You’ll never forget my love.”
He leans down, capturing one nipple in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the peak, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You gasp, your hands tangling in his hair, urging him on. He moves to the other breast, his teeth grazing your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You can feel the heat building between your legs, your body throbbing with need.
“S-Seokmin,” you whine. “I want you naked right now.”
He giggles, releasing your nipple with a pop, “Is that an order, Captain?”
You bite your lower lip gently and smile, nodding your head.
He slips off his shirt and yanks off his sweatpants.
Fuck.
No wonder you could feel him so well. He had gone commando.
Your eyes widen at the sight of him and you reach down, wanting to give his throbbing cock some form of release but Seokmin grabs your wrist.
“Later, sunshine. Right now, I want to savour every inch of you.”
In a flash, he removes your shorts along with your underwear. He trails kisses down your stomach, his hands pushing your legs apart, exposing you to his hungry gaze. You shiver, anticipation coiling in your belly as he settles between your thighs.
His tongue finds your clit, circling it with expert precision, sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. You buck against his mouth, your hands gripping the sheets, your body on fire.
"Oh god, Seokmin," you cry out, your voice a mix of pleasure and desperation. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He doesn't.
His tongue fucks you with such intensity that you can't help but grind against him. Your clit rubs against his sharp nose and he just keeps going and going. You stroke his pretty black hair and he hums at the touch, sending vibrations up your heat.
You can feel the pressure building, your body coiling tighter and tighter, ready to snap.
Just as you are about to fall over the edge, he pulls back, a wicked grin on his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Sorry, sunshine," he says, his voice a low rumble. ”I need to feel you come around me, milking every last drop from my cock."
“Detective Lee Seokmin, stop teasing and fuck me,” you groan, kissing his lips and pulling him closer.
“Yes ma’am.” He chuckles, kissing you back.
He positions himself at your entrance, his cock hard and ready. He pumps himself at the sight of your wet pussy before swiftly thrusting in.
You squeal, the size of him stretching your walls, the sensation of fullness almost too much to bear.
He begins to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that drives you wild. You meet his thrusts, your bodies slapping together, the sound of flesh on flesh filling the room. The pleasure is intense, a burning inferno that consumes you both.
“Fuck. Y/N. You feel so good, sunshine.” he whines. “Wanna leave marks on you. Can I, baby? Please?”
You wrap your legs around him, pushing him even deeper inside you. “I’m all yours, Minnie. Adorn your touch on my body, such that even the rain can't wash it away.”
His mouth descends on your neck, biting and sucking, making his way to your chest. His thrusts don't stop, he fucks deeper and deeper.
The tight feeling in your lower body keeps intensifying as he hits that spot inside you. And you claw at his muscular back, leaving designs on his tan skin.
“Yeah?,” he whispers, fondling the fat on your hips. “Me too baby.”
His hand slips between the two of you, making its way to your clit. He rubs in fast circles, and you feel the world shatter around you. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing and clenching around him as you cry out his name.
"Seokmin! Oh god, Seokmin!" You scream, your nails digging into his back, leaving red welts in their wake.
He groans, his body tensing as he feels you come undone around him. “Where do you want me baby?”
“Inside!,” you cry. “I’m on the pill, Seokmin please cum inside.”
With a final, deep thrust, he joins you, his cock pulsing as he fills you with his release. He collapses on top of you, still inside, body slick with sweat, his breath ragged against your neck.
"Sunshine," he whispers, his voice hoarse with emotion. "God. I love you so much. You're my everything. My world. My life. My Y/N."
You wrap your arms around him, holding him close, your hearts beating in sync. “I love you too. My happy virus. I don't know how I'd survive without you.”
He chuckles, slowly pulling out of your warm heat and admiring the sight of his cum leaking from it. “I’d burn the world down before ever even thinking of leaving you.”
Seokmin's fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, his touch gentle and loving. You sigh, a sound of pure contentment, and snuggle closer to him, your head resting on his chest.
"Seokmin," you murmur after a long moment of silence, your voice quiet and sleepy. "Do you think Arthur is going to strike soon?"
He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening around you. "I want you to stop worrying about this right now. It's my request. That in this night that is here, come into my arms and forget the world.”
Your eyes droop and sleep takes over your body, the last thing you remember is a warm towel cleaning you up and a kiss on your lips that speaks a thousand words of devotion.
The cursor blinks on the monitor, a rhythmic, mocking pulse in the stillness of your apartment. You’ve scrubbed through the surveillance footage for the umpteenth time, your eyes tracing the grainy, pixilated periphery of the highway rest stop.
Then, you see it.
A hooded figure, shifting in the shadows of a parked hauler. The frame lingers—just a fraction of a second too long—before the figure dissolves into the dark. Most would scroll right past; it is a ghost in the static. But you aren't "most" detectives. You play it back again, and again, until the image burns into your retinas. A knot of cold dread tightens in your stomach, heavy and absolute.
Your hand drifts toward your phone, the screen casting a pale, ghostly light across your desk. Seokmin’s contact is a single tap away. He will come without question, driven by that unflinching, terrifying loyalty that makes him your greatest strength and, in this moment, your greatest liability.
You stare at the name. You imagine that jagged sword brand, the Excalibur mark, seared into his skin. The thought makes the air in the room feel thin, unbreathable. You lock the phone with a sharp, final click.
Just this once. The lie tastes like ash, but you swallow it. You tell yourself you are building a shield, that you are keeping him in the light by walking into the dark alone. You’ll confirm the lead, clean it up, and bring it to him as a finished puzzle.
But as you sit in the silence, a quiet, insistent voice whispers in the back of your mind: Secrets between partners are never small things. They are seeds. They don't stay buried; they grow teeth.
The next morning, Seokmin leans against your desk. When he looks at you, his eyes are soft, searching for the truth.
“Anything new on the footage?” he asks, his voice a low, melodic contrast to the clatter of keyboards.
You look at him, forcing your expression into a mask of weary frustration, and give a slow, measured shake of your head.
“Nothing solid yet,” you say.
And for the first time since becoming his partner, you lie to him.
The lead bleeds you dry, dragging you through the city’s forgotten veins until you stand before the skeleton of a high-rise—a jagged silhouette of rusted rebar and shattered glass against the bruised purple of the night sky.
Inside, the air tastes of wet concrete and stagnant dust. Every footfall is a gunshot in the silence, your boots hammering rhythmically against the buckled floorboards as you track the shadow ahead. He moves with a predatory grace, leading you deeper into the labyrinth. You catch glimpses of his coat but, by the time you reach it, there is only the hollow groan of the building settling around you.
“Police! Drop the weapon!” The demand tears from your throat, raw and sharp, yet it lacks the weight of certainty. You know he won't stop. You know this is exactly where he wants you.
The corridor pinches into a throat of shadow. You round a corner, your pulse drumming a frantic beat against your eardrums, and spill into a cavernous central hall. A single bulb dangles from the rafters, swaying on a fraying wire, casting long, nauseating arcs of yellow light that make the peeling paint on the walls seem to writhe.
“It’s over,” you call out. Your voice lacks its usual steel, fracturing as it echoes across the vast, hollow space.
The silence that follows is heavy, pressurised. Then, a laugh blooms. Not from the darkness in front of you, but from the void directly behind your shoulder.
You spin, muscles coiling to strike, but the air is already displaced by a sudden, violent weight. A hard, unyielding force slams into the base of your skull. Your vision fractures into a thousand jagged shards of light, and the world tilts violently on its axis.
Darkness folds over you, erasing the room, the light, in a single, suffocating curtain.
Your wrists burn against the coarse hemp rope binding you to the heavy wooden chair.
The room is bathed in the harsh, singular glare of a spotlight, leaving the rest of it a suffocating, pitch-black void. The second thing you notice is the man kneeling in the center of the room.
Your stomach goes still.
He’s strapped into a contraption of metal bars and locks, panic already flooding his face as he struggles against it. You know that face. You would recognise it anywhere. The case that never made it, the one that slipped from your hands. The one which made you a detective, so that no girl would have to face the same fate that you did.
The man who assaulted you. The one who the law failed to punish.
He is struggling, his muffled screams muffled further by thick duct tape. He looks at you but fails to recognise, you are much older now.
Then, a figure steps into the light. The mask he wears—a stylized, cold depiction of a knight—glints under the harsh bulbs. He moves with a precision that is terrifyingly familiar. He doesn't speak; he simply adjusts the mechanisms surrounding the victim, a series of weighted pulleys and tensioned wires that make the man’s panic skyrocket.
“Let him go.” You strain against the ropes.
When the figure finally turns to you, the heavy, metallic silence is absolute. You sit tall, your chin lifted, staring straight into the hollow eyes of the mask.
“This man destroyed lives, yours among them. The law did nothing so why dare stop me?” he says quietly. “When justice fails to right the wrong, vengeance takes the gavel and does the job.”
“This isn't your fight!” You struggle against the binds. “It’s mine.”
Arthur hums, “It may be. But I cannot sit and let a criminal like him walk around free. You weren't the only one who suffered a terrible fate by his hands. Another girl after you did so too. But unlike you, she didn't survive. She committed suicide.”
Your breath hitches.
“Detectives like you who leave jobs half done and lie to your partners are not the standard, are they now?” He says, walking closer to you.
You struggle and kick against the binds. Arthur tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
"If you dare lay a hand on me," you say, your voice steady and echoing in the theater, "my partner will give you a worse death than you have given any of your victims."
The figure pauses. A low, vibrating sound emanates from behind the mask—a chuckle that doesn't sound like a stranger. "Would he now? And how can I do that to myself, sunshine?"
The air leaves your lungs. The nickname hits you harder than a physical blow. The figure reaches up, his fingers steady, and unlatches the back of the mask. As it slides away, Seokmin’s face is revealed—the same face that you smother in kisses, the same hands that hold you as if you are his entire world.
The revelation should ignite a firestorm of betrayal. You have been deceived. You always thought he was the empathetic one. The one who had strict morals. You should feel the walls closing in, the hatred bubbling up. Instead, there is only a strange, jagged alignment. You look at him—your partner, your protector, your executioner—and see your saviour in him. saw your saviour in him.
“I want you to watch him, Y/N. I want you to watch as this devil gets what he deserves for what he did to you and others.”
You should tell him to stop. You want him to stop this. To simply hand him over to the law. But what he said was right. When justice fails to right the wrong, vengeance takes the gavel and does the job.
So you watch. You watch as your lover walks up to him and activates the mechanism. You watch the metal snap over his body, you hear his screams, the blood spraying the walls, and the life leaving his eyes.
When he falls silent, you finally breathe. You don't feel disgusted, or guilty, you feel at peace. Happy even, that the one final thread that always wrapped around your throat, was snapped.
Seokmin leans down from behind you, kissing your temple, your ears, your tear-stained cheeks, “I love you, and I'm sorry for all of this.When you told me what happened to you, I couldn't sit and watch you slowly succumb under pain. I vowed to protect you from anything and everything, including your past.”
Your eyes flick toward the body across the room and you feel free. You can’t hate Seokmin. You could never.
Seokmin exhales, tension finally leaking out of his shoulders. “I’m done now,” he says. “This was the last one. I’ll turn myself in, Captain.”
“You will do no such thing.” You look up at him, your eyes lock onto his. “You think I watched all of this just so you could throw your life away?” you continue, voice sharpening. “You think I’m letting them cage you for doing what the system never would?”
"Y/N, I'm a killer—"
"You're my partner, You are my strongest soldier. You are my indestructible shield in a never-ending battlefield." you interrupt. "And we are going to finish this properly."
Then slowly, carefully, he says, “What are you suggesting?”
A plan begins to form, cold and calculated. You thought of the corrupt lieutenant in the unit, the man who had climbed over Seokmin’s back to secure a promotion he hadn't earned, the man who has been skimming from the evidence locker for years. He is the perfect ghost to haunt this case.
"We have the evidence," you say, your voice dropping to a whisper that cuts through the room's stillness. "We have the branding tools, the blueprints, the digital trail. We’re going to move it all to his office tonight. We’re going to frame him as the mastermind."
Seokmin stares at you, his expression shifting from resignation to a dark, burgeoning awe.
"The department isn't looking for accuracy right now," you continue, your mind racing through the logistics of the framing. "They want a win. They don't care if the evidence is manufactured, as long as it looks like justice. The people have their eyes on us, demanding an end to these ‘killings’. The public wants an answer so let's give them one."
You look at the ropes binding you, then back at him. "Cut me loose, Seokmin. We have a crime scene to clean up."
The bullpen finally settles into a dull, manageable hum. The Lieutenant is gone—erased from the narrative you and Seokmin have carefully crafted—and the "Excalibur" board is cleared of its red string and glossy photos.
You sit at your desk, the silence feeling almost foreign after weeks of mounting tension. A soft clink sounds beside you as a ceramic mug is placed gently on your coaster.
You look up. Seokmin is standing there, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, that familiar, genuine smile crinkling his eyes. It isn't the dark, protective look he wears when he is hunting shadows; it is the soft, boyish grin that first pulled your heartstrings years ago.
"The Chief is signing off on the paperwork," he says softly, leaning his hip against your desk. "We’re officially off the clock for the rest of the day and the month. He says we 'earned a long break.'"
You let out a breath you feel like you’ve been holding for an eternity. "A break. I think I’ve forgotten what that feels like."
Seokmin reaches out, his hand covering yours. His palm is warm, solid, and incredibly grounding. "I know a place. A quiet cabin near a lake. We can finally catch up on that sleep you’ve been avoiding."
He leans to whisper in your ear, “Maybe even have some fun in the water—preferably naked.”
You slap his arm gently, “Lee Seokmin!”
He chuckles and rolls your chair away from the table.
You stand up, the chair scraping against the floor, and step into his space. The distance between you vanishes. With the weight of the secrets you now share—the heavy, permanent bond of your complicity—the air feels different. It is cleaner. You aren't just partners in the eyes of the law anymore; you are partners in crime.
“You gon’ take me away?" you tease, though your heart is light.
"I’m taking us away," he corrects, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is entirely devoted. “Just want some time together. Me and you.”
You smile, the kind that reaches your eyes for the first time in months. "I’d like that. I’d like that a lot."
He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours with a familiar, easy confidence. As you walk toward the exit together, leaving the sterile fluorescent lights of the Bureau behind, the city outside is bathed in the golden, honeyed light of late afternoon.
The threats from your past have been silenced, the ledger is balanced, and for the first time, you aren't looking over your shoulder. You are looking ahead, toward a horizon that is finally, truly yours.
"Ready?" he asks at the door, holding it open for you with a small, private wink.
"Lead the way," you reply.
And together, you step out into the warmth, disappearing into the city that is no longer a cage, but a canvas.
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: psychologymajor!Jeonghan x astrophysicsmajor!Reader
𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: college au, fluff, annoyance to lover, smut
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: "Like sugar on my tongue, your body is so sweet, invite me if you come, it's all I want to eat." - Tyler the Creator, Sugar On My Tongue
Out of your entire friend group, Yoon Jeonghan was the least expected person you thought would become your grounding. He was an annoyance but most importantly, your annoyance. One assignment, a dead roman poet, and astrophysics led the two of you through a journey that the stars carefully planned. One, that they etched into the night skies.
———————
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): yoon jeonghan, he calls her "angel," explicit sexual content, kissing, cursing, masturbation, oral (m. & f. rec.), praise, fingering, riding, forced? voyeurism, bondage, unprotected piv sex (wrap it up hoe), switch!jeonghan, switch!reader, mentions of alcohol
𝐀/𝐍: the banner makes it look like its dark romance lol nah, he's just a bit freaky... the thing in the bottom left corner is an anklet and it's uhh lets just say well integrated into the story, i had to represent part of my ethnicity hehe (the reader is not ethnic to any group tho fyi)
Art and science had always known how to find each other.
They met in the quiet places first. In margins. In footnotes. In the spaces between equations and poetry. For you, the stars had spoken long before you learned how to name them, and literature had followed close behind, offering language where numbers fell short. You liked to think they were not opposites at all, but twin ways of asking the same questions.
Jihoon and Wonwoo entered your life through that shared curiosity. Long nights in libraries turned into shared coffees, then inside jokes, then an unspoken rule that wherever they went, you were pulled along with them. Their friend group expanded naturally around you, orbiting in familiar, easy paths.
You grew close to all of them.
Except Yoon Jeonghan.
He was not absent, exactly. He knew your name. He spoke to you. He teased you with the same lazy ease he gave everyone else. He had nothing against you, and yet there was something in the way his presence pressed against your awareness that unsettled you. An undefinable sensation. Like standing too close to the edge of something vast without knowing whether it would invite you in or push you away.
Jeonghan was a constant you never quite learned how to calculate.
When Jihoon convinced you to take analytical literature as an elective alongside your astrophysics degree, you agreed without hesitation. You trusted his taste. You liked the idea of balancing stellar physics with poetry, of letting your mind stretch in both directions.
You only regretted it on the first day of lecture when Yoon Jeonghan walked through the threshold.
He noticed you at the exact same moment, his gaze flicking up with lazy recognition before he decided, without asking, that the empty seat beside you was his. He dropped into it like it had always been his place, long legs stretched out, posture relaxed to the point of insolence.
As it turned out, he was an easy tablemate. He kept mostly to himself, scribbling notes in the margins of his textbook, tapping his pen impatiently against the desk when the professor lingered too long on a point he found obvious. But he teased you constantly, quietly, like it was a reflex rather than an intention.
He asked you simple questions like if you were coming to brunch with the boys later or you were joining a spontaneous sleepover. You had made your way into their lives and most importantly, unbeknownst you, into his.
It annoyed you more than it should have.
He was the one who spoke to you the least, yet somehow observed you the most. He noticed how you chewed on the end of your pencil when thinking. How your foot bounced when you were restless. How you adjusted your glasses before asking a question, as if bracing yourself for impact.
You are deep in thought over a quantum physics paper when a sharp tap jolts you back to the room.
A pencil nudges your side.
You slap his hand away on instinct and shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. Jeonghan only smirks, unbothered, and points toward the screen at the front of the lecture hall.
The professor has just finished assigning the term project.
An analysis of Horace’s odes.
In pairs.
Your name appears beside Jeonghan’s.
You groan softly and slide your fingers under your glasses, pressing the cool tips against your closed eyes. Your elbow finds the desk, chin sinking into your palm as dread settles comfortably in your chest. You hide your face behind your hands like it might shield you from fate.
“Great,” you mutter.
“Hate me that much?” Jeonghan asks, amusement lacing his voice.
You peek at him through your fingers, turning your head just enough to meet his gaze. Your voice comes out muffled, sincere. “No. I don’t hate you.”
You drop your hands and pout, expression exaggerated on purpose. “But you being at my place for the next few weeks is going to kill me.”
He laughed, the sound warm and infuriatingly pleased. “Then we better get started now,” he said easily, leaning closer, eyes glinting with challenge. “Might as well ease your suffering.”
And just like that, the stars shine just a little brighter, as if smiling at the plan fate sets into place.
Your apartment smells faintly of coffee and chalk from your blackboard, a combination that feels like soul. Bookshelves line the walls in uneven harmony, physics texts pressed shoulder to shoulder with annotated paperbacks and dog-eared poetry collections.
Jeonghan notices everything. He is, of course, a psychology major, it's in his nature.
He leans against your kitchen counter like he belongs there, eyes wandering with open curiosity as you clear space at the dining table. His gaze lingers on the chalkboard that is full of math and models of physics applied to the solar system.
You work in companionable silence at first. Horace’s Odes lie open between you, the Latin dense and unyielding, daring you to misstep. You trace the lines with your finger as you read, murmuring translations under your breath. Jeonghan watches, chin resting on his hand, eyes flicking between the text and your face.
You reach the middle of the passage and pause.
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
You lean back in your chair, exhaling slowly. “There it is. Sweet and proper it is to die for one’s country. The great old lie.”
Jeonghan straightens. “Wilfred Owen.”
You hum in acknowledgment.
You tap the page. “Everyone quotes it like it’s noble. Like it’s clean.”
“But?” he prompts.
“Horace is complicated,” you say, clicking and unclicking your pen. “He’s glorifying death but also conditioning humanity. A way to make fear sound honorable.”
Jeonghan’s smile fades into something more thoughtful. “So it’s not just about dying.”
“No,” you say softly. “It’s about persuading people to stop living. There’s a difference when applied to context, especially war.”
Silence settles again, thicker this time. Jeonghan leans closer, elbows on the table, gaze intent. “That’s… actually unsettling.”
You glance at him, surprised. “You get it.”
He scoffs lightly. “I’m a psychology major, remember? Making suffering sound meaningful is kind of humanity’s favorite trick.”
You smile at that, before catching yourself and looking back at your notes.
As the evening stretches on, the air grows warmer. Your anklets chime faintly every time you shift, a soft, accidental rhythm. Jeonghan notices that too. His eyes dip under the table, once, twice, then return to the text like he hasn’t noticed them.
Breaking the silence, Jeonghan leans back. “You know, your apartment feels like you.”
You pause typing mid-sentence. “That’s a strange thing to say.”
He simply points at your notebook then at your chalkboard. “You mix metaphors with equations,” he says. “No wonder this poem got assigned to us.”
You huff. “Huh? How does dying for one’s country have anything to do with that?”
“No, I’m saying,” he replies, eyes flicking up to meet yours, “that just the words dulce et decorum est fit you more than they should.”
You frown. “How?”
He leans back, crossing his arms. “Because the mixture of science and art is one of the most inevitable collisions to happen in life. And you handle it beautifully. So, sweet and proper it is of you.”
For a moment, the room feels smaller. Or maybe fuller.
You swallow and break eye contact, clearing your throat. “Let’s… let’s write the thesis statement.”
Jeonghan grins. “Running already, angel?”
You throw a pen at him and he catches it effortlessly, laughing and setting his eyes back on the laptop. You work into the night until your eyes start drooping and you fall asleep on the table.
When you wake up, you are in your bed and Jeonghan is nowhere to be seen, just a note left on your bedside table.
“You snore :P”
The café near your apartment is your abode of peace and caffeine.
Jihoon sits across from you, methodically stirring his drink, and Soonyoung bounces in his seat beside him, energy spilling over the edges of his cup before he even takes a sip.
You’ve just finished complaining about Horace. It has been a couple of weeks after the project was assigned, Jeonghan has become second nature to your home. Even staying over once when it gets later than expected. He has learned so much about you and you have done the same. It is safe to say that the two of you have finally become friends.
“I swear,” you say, pressing your thumb into the cardboard sleeve, “if one more poet tries to convince me that suffering builds character, I’m transferring classes."
Jihoon hums. “You say that every semester.”
“And every semester I mean it.”
Soonyoung leans forward, eyes bright. “Speaking of suffering,” he says cheerfully, “beach trip, for Chan’s birthday.”
You blink. “No, Soonyoung. How many times do I have to tell you.”
“Come on!” He whines.
“No,” you repeat, firmer this time. “I don’t do sand. Or crowds.”
“It’s a beach,” Soonyoung argues. “That’s the whole point. And besides, Chan wants you to be there, we all do!”
Jihoon tilts his head, watching you over the rim of his cup. “We booked a cabin for after the beach. It’s secluded,” he says casually.
You hesitate.
“And,” he adds, like it is an afterthought, “the skies are incredible. No city light pollution. You can see all the dim constellations and stars with the naked eye if the clouds cooperate.”
That does it.
Your resistance folds instantly, almost embarrassingly so. You perk up a little, eyes sharpening with interest. “Secluded, how secluded?”
Soonyoung groans, slumping over, hiding his face in his arms. “Oh no. We lost her.”
Jihoon smiles, victorious. “Middle of nowhere. You’d love it.”
You lean back. “Fine,” you say. “But I’m bringing my telescope.”
Soonyoung jumps back up with animation. “The expensive one?”
You nod. “The very expensive one.”
Jihoon laughs softly. “You’re trusting us with that?”
“You should be honored,” you reply. “I don’t let just anyone touch it.”
Soonyoung slaps the table. “Everyone is going to lose their minds.”
You smile into your coffee, warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the drink. The weekend has just rewritten itself.
The sound of waves crashing against the shore fills the air, mingled with the laughter and chatter of your friends. You stand near the volleyball area, your halter-neck black corset-style one-piece with an attached skirt hugging your curves perfectly. The outfit is a stark contrast to the vibrant beach scene, making you stand out even more.
Mingyu notices you immediately and, with his charming grin, he is by your side, his eyes sparkling with admiration.
"I can't take my eyes off you," he says, his voice low and teasing. "Are you sure you're not the very stars you study? Because you're shining brighter than any constellation out there."
You playfully nudge him with your elbow, a smirk playing on your lips. “You’re not too bad yourself, handsome.”
Mingyu chuckles, his hand finding yours. "Please come to the beach more often. I need to see you like this."
You laugh, shaking your head. "You're incorrigible, Mingyu. But I love you all the same.”
Mingyu and you have a kind of flirting that never lingers too long or cuts too deep. You both know the boundaries, and neither of you tries to cross them, which makes your friendship with him so perfect.
From beneath an umbrella a short distance away, Jeonghan watches.
He sits beside Minghao, sunglasses pushed low on his nose, expression carefully unreadable. He doesn’t join the volleyball game and doesn’t step into the water. He just observes, jaw tightening every time Mingyu laughs a little too loudly at something you say or touches you in any way.
You eventually retreat to the shade yourself, sinking down beneath another umbrella, fingers absently sifting through sand. The grains slip between your fingers like time you can’t quite hold onto. Your anklets chime softly with every shift of your feet.
You are so lost in thought that you don’t hear him approach.
“What are you beating your head up over?” Jeonghan asks.
You look up, startled, then relax when you see him standing there, hands in his pockets. “Nothing,” you lie.
He raises a brow and sits down anyway. “That’s never true.”
You huff, brushing sand from your palm. “It’s just been a while since I’ve come to the beach.”
“And?”
You hesitate, then sigh. “When I was younger, I learned there are more stars in the universe than grains of sand on Earth.”
Jeonghan turns toward you fully now. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”
“Not really.” You smile faintly. “It made me feel small.”
Jeonghan's eyebrows furrow slightly, intrigued. "Explain that to me."
A genuine smile spreads across your face, a rare sight that Jeonghan seems to cherish. “There are around 7.5 sextillion grains of sand on all the beaches and deserts on Earth,” you say, voice soft but steady. “And at least 70 septillion stars in the observable universe. That’s just what we can see.”
You gesture upward. “Imagine how many more there are.”
Jeonghan listens intently, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Sometimes,” you continue, “I feel meaningless. Like studying something that vast is… pointless. Or worse, terrifying.”
He smiles then, gentle and certain. “That analogy just proves the opposite.”
You frown. “How?”
“There are countless stars and galaxies,” he says. “And somehow, out of all that was created, so were you. And you’re here, studying it. Trying to understand it. That’s not meaningless.”
He tilts his head and smiles. “That is honourable.”
Your throat tightens.
“No matter how much you hate me for teasing you, I'm telling you this as a friend. I respect you and your determination. Especially when you beat your head up over differential equations.”
You search his face. “How do you know?”
He chuckles. “That one night when you thought I was asleep on the sofa. I saw you working on the chalkboard. Sometimes I wonder if what you write even counts as math. There are more letters than numbers.”
You laugh loudly, and if Yoon Jeonghan could capture that sound and turn it into a star, he would devote himself to the night skies for the rest of his life.
Just then, Chan runs over, his eyes bright with excitement. "Y/N, come over here! We need you in the water. We’re playing sharks and minnows and you're the shark!"
You hesitate, looking back at Jeonghan and standing. "I can't deny the birthday boy, can I?"
Jeonghan reaches out, stopping you. “Where are you going without sunscreen, Dr. L/N?”
You look down at him and raise an eyebrow. "Doctor?"
He winks. "Gotta practice for when you do become one and win that Nobel Prize in Physics."
You can't stop laughing as you apply the sunscreen, but when you reach your back, you hesitate. "Can you help me with this?"
You sit back down on the towel and move your braid over your shoulder, handing him the bottle.
He takes it without hesitation. Jeonghan's fingers brush against your skin as he gently spreads the lotion. He pauses, his touch lingering on the deep, engraved white stretch marks that adorn your lower back.
"What are you doing, Mr. Yoon?" you ask, a playful smile on your lips.
He blushes, quickly moving away. "S-sorry. It's just that they're very interesting."
You turn to face him, your smile warm. “Yeah. I used to hate them. Then Soonyoung said they looked like tiger stripes and told me he was jealous.”
Jeonghan smiles. “That tracks.”
As you stand up to join the others in the water, Jeonghan slowly realizes and calls out, “Hey, how does that little shit know about them?”
You don’t answer.
You just laugh and run, anklets ringing like distant bells, leaving him smiling in the sand.
Laughter leaks into the cabin and you feel at home with your friends. Seungkwan has connected a speaker, karaoke echoing off the wooden walls, voices cracking with enthusiasm no matter how good they are. The Mafia game dissolves into chaos almost immediately, accusations flying, Mingyu dramatically “dying” at least twice, Soonyoung, of course, being the accuser.
Chan’s cake is cut amid off-key singing and frosting smeared where it doesn’t belong. He beams like the universe has aligned itself specifically for him, and that day, it has.
The night quiets down and the sound of your friends' snores and the occasional crackle of the fireplace creates a soothing lullaby. You slip out of the main room, drawn to the quiet solitude of the night sky. Your telescope, your most precious companion, is set up on the porch, awaiting your gaze.
As you peer through the lens, the vast expanse of Jupiter and its moons unfolds before you, each moon a whisper of the universe's secrets. You lose yourself in the cosmic dance, the familiar comfort of the night sky enveloping you. Suddenly, a soft footstep behind you breaks your reverie.
Jeonghan stands there, hair in a low ponytail, his silhouette framed by the moonlight. He approaches quietly, his eyes reflecting the starlight. "Can I join you?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
You nod, stepping aside to make room for him. He stands close, his shoulder brushing against yours as he looks through the telescope. The warmth of his presence is comforting, and for a moment, you forget the vastness of the universe, lost in the intimacy of the moment.
“…Wow.”
You hum. “Told you.”
He smiles, looking through the telescope, then moves back, his eyes on you. He looks at you as if you are more beautiful than what he just saw and it sends a flutter across your heart.
“Y/N, can I be honest with you?” he asks, hesitation in his voice.
You smile and nod your head, urging him to continue.
"As a psychology major, I tend to see every side of people. But with you, I can't figure you out. You are a puzzle I can’t solve, and it drives me crazy."
You chuckle, your eyes sparkling with amusement. "And that's why you tease me so much?"
He nods, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "It hit me later that I—” He takes a deep breath in, preparing himself for what he is about to reveal to you. “That I am hopelessly in love with you. And it is the sweetest, most proper thing, falling for you, who challenges me to see the world in a new light.”
Shit.
Your eyes well with tears as you step closer, your hand lifting instinctively to his face. You caress his cheek, thumb brushing gently over the mole beneath his eye. His pretty lashes flutter at your touch.
“I feel no differently than you do, Jeonghan,” you say softly. “I fell in love with you because of your annoyance, but most importantly, because you were the first person to listen to me nerd out without judging. You saw me, all of me, and you didn't run."
His eyes soften immediately. He closes them as a tear slips free, and when he opens them again, he sees you in a similar predicament and smiles. His hand comes to wrap around your waist, drawing you closer, the other moving to your glasses to take them off, to see you completely. He sets them on a table stand and wipes the tears from your cheeks. His soft lips make their way to your eyes, kissing the tears away.
Your hands fist into the collar of his shirt, holding him close, afraid to let go. He kisses all over your face until he finally reaches your lips.
He pauses there, breath warm against yours.
You open your eyes and he simply asks, “May I?”
And with one quick nod from you, Jeonghan leans in, his lips settling against yours. The kiss is soft, tender, a promise of more. You melt into his embrace, the world fading away until there is only the two of you, lost in each other's arms.
As the night deepens, you lead him inside, your hands entwined. The cabin, once filled with the sounds of laughter, now holds a different kind of magic. You lie down together, your bodies pressed close, and you drift off to sleep, the stars above your only witnesses.
A few weeks later, it is no longer a question.
You are dating Yoon Jeonghan.
Your relationship with Jeonghan has blossomed into something beautiful and profound. You find yourself navigating a new world, one where love and passion intertwine with the vast mysteries of the universe. Tonight, however, you are stepping out of your comfort zone.
Mingyu has thrown a party at a bustling club to celebrate his acceptance into an architecture program. Despite your aversion to clubs and alcohol, Mingyu is one of your oldest friends, the one who talks about architecture the way you talk about astrophysics—you can’t miss this.
The music pulses through the air, a relentless beat that seems to demand your attention. You all have cut the cake, engaged in light dancing, and celebrated Mingyu. After a while, you stand at the bar with Jeonghan, Vernon, Wonwoo, and Jihoon, engaged in an interesting conversation about Vernon's biochemistry paper.
Mingyu approaches with a mischievous grin. "Come on, Y/N! Let's show these people how to have fun!" he shouts over the music, grabbing your hand and pulling you onto the dance floor.
You laugh and wave goodbye to the three; Wonwoo raises his glass in a gesture of good luck.
You find yourself caught up in the rhythm, your body moving instinctively. Mingyu's hands find your hips, and you both start to grind, the music and the moment taking over. You feel safe with him and you know he has no other intentions, so when he grabs your chin lightly from behind you and tilts your neck back to meet his eyes, you are a bit confused.
“Gyu?” you ask, your hand resting on top of his above your hips.
“Relax,” he simply says, lips brushing your forehead. He lets go of your chin, and you face toward the bar area. Jeonghan is watching you, his palm gripping his whiskey tight, his eyes set on your body up against his friend. Mingyu leans down to your ear. “It’s a gift.”
“A gift?”
“For all the years you listened to me ramble about buildings, for when you believed in me when no one else did.” His eyes flick briefly toward the edge of the floor, where Jeonghan stands watching, jaw tight. “You’re gonna thank me for what happens after this.”
Jeonghan, who has been watching from the sidelines, can’t take it anymore. He storms onto the dance floor, his eyes blazing with a mix of jealousy and desire.
“Sorry to cut this short, Gyu. It's getting late, and we have to head to class early in the morning.”
Mingyu lets go of your hips, smiles, and says his goodbye to Jeonghan, tapping your lower back as if reminding you about what he said earlier.
Jeonghan grabs you, pulling you away from Mingyu, and leads you out of the club.
He doesn’t say a word on the ride back home.
The silence is heavy, electric. By the time the door to your apartment closes behind you, restraint snaps.
Jeonghan turns to you, his breath ragged, and kisses you aggressively, his hands roaming your body with a hunger that matches your own. You push him back gently but firmly, guiding him toward the couch. He looks taken aback.
“Sit,” you say.
He does.
“Hands to yourself. If you don’t comply, I’ll tie you up.” You reach out, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, your fingers brushing against his skin. He shivers under your touch, breath hitching as you slide the shirt off his shoulders.
Next, you kneel before him, your hands on his belt. You unbuckle it, the sound of the leather sliding through the loops filling the silence. You pull his pants down, your eyes lock on his, and he lifts his hips to help you. You can feel the heat radiating from his body, the tension between you almost palpable.
You sit down on his lap, pulling him into a wet, messy kiss. Your tongues slip together and he nibbles on your lips, inciting a moan from you. You roll your hips against his and Jeonghan groans at the feeling of your wet panties from under your short dress, hitting his covered length.
His hands move up to cup your breasts and you pull away. His pink, swollen lips pout as his eyes beg for more.
“What did I just say, huh?” you warn.
“Angel, please.” He begs. But you simply get up off him and head to the dining table, grabbing a chair and placing it in front of the couch.
He tries to move, tries to get up, but you simply press your stilettos against his chest, pushing him back down, the jingling of your anklets a soft, sensual sound. You bend down to grab his belt and tie his wrists together. You know he is okay with this; the two of you have spoken about intimate details before, so you are excited to finally try something new.
Jeonghan's eyes are dark with desire, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. You lean down, your lips brushing against his ear. “Now,” you whisper, your voice low and teasing. “You’re going to find out how desperately I want you. And you're going to watch.”
You sit down on the chair, lift your legs, bend your knees, and spread them apart to give Jeonghan a perfect view of your wet and wanting pussy.
“Fuck,” he whispers, his eyes set on your fingers that slip into your panties. “Baby, let me see you.”
You allow him, hooking your panties to the side with one hand while the other explores your sticky folds. He watches, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his cock straining against the confines of his pants.
“Please,” he begs, his voice a mix of whimper and plea. “Let me touch you. Let me taste you.”
You smile, a slow, knowing curve of your lips, and shake your head. “Not yet,” you murmur, your fingers moving with deliberate slowness. “I want to see you suffer a little longer.”
Jeonghan's eyes roll back, a low moan escaping his lips as you plunge two fingers inside you. You use your thumb to toy with your clit and throw your head back in pleasure.
You are almost there, the fast pace of your fingers and the sight of Jeonghan in front of you being enough, until Jeonghan asks you to stop.
“Angel, I need you to cum on my face, please baby don’t do this.”
You can feel the heat building, the pleasure coiling in your belly, but you hold back, denying yourself the release you crave, for the sake of Jeonghan’s request.
With a final gasp, you pull your fingers away, glistening with your arousal. Jeonghan's eyes follow your movement, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. You step forward, your fingers brushing against his mouth, and he parts his lips, taking them inside.
He sucks and licks, his eyes closed in ecstasy, tasting you with a hunger that matches your own. You can feel the vibration of his moan against your fingers, the sound of his pleasure sending shivers down your spine.
You pull away, your fingers leaving his mouth with a soft pop. Jeonghan's eyes open, dark and desperate, and you kneel before him, your hands reaching for the waistband of his boxers and pulling them down and off. You free him, his flushed-pink cock springing into your hand, hard and ready.
You take him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head, your hand pumping the base in time with your movements. Jeonghan's hips buck, his hands fisting in your hair as he guides your movements, his breath coming in harsh gasps, whining your name.
“You're so good at that, angel,” he groans, his body tensing as you take him deeper. “So fucking good.”
You can feel him swelling, his body coiling tight, and you increase your pace, your hand and mouth working in tandem. With a final cry, he comes, his cum spilling into your mouth, and you swallow, savoring the taste of him.
You sit back, a satisfied smirk on your lips, and reach up, untying his wrists. Jeonghan lunges, his arms wrapping around you as he tackles you to the floor, his lips finding yours in a fierce, passionate kiss.
“You are so in for it you little minx,” he growls, and you giggle against his lips.
He carries you to the bedroom, his steps hurried, his breath ragged. He throws you onto the bed, his hands finding the hem of your dress, pulling it off in one swift movement. He rips your panties from your hips and you gasp at his desperation. Your heels follow, clattering to the floor, and you lie before him, bare and exposed, with only your anklets on.
Jeonghan's eyes roam over your body, his gaze hungry and intense. He kneels between your legs, his hands spreading you wide, and he leans down, his tongue finding your clit in one swift movement. You cry out, your hips bucking as he licks and sucks, his tongue a tormenting tease.
“Been waiting to do this for so fucking long, angel, you have no idea,” he says as he kisses your clit. “You’re like sugar on my tongue and it’s all I want to eat..”
You smirk, “Sweet and proper, am I?”
He growls against your heat, your body trembling as he brings you to the edge, only to pull back, leaving you aching and needy. “You had your fun,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips. “Now it’s my turn.”
He slides two fingers inside you, his tongue finds your clit again, and he fucks his fingers into you with a slow, deliberate pace, his eyes locked on yours. You can feel the pleasure building, your body coiling tight, and you beg, your voice a desperate plea. Your hands sift through his long black hair, gripping each time you feel the high coming.
But he doesn’t give it to you. He takes you to the edge and pulls you back, once, twice, thrice, until you lose count and become a crying, babbling mess, clawing at his arms for release.
“Please,” you whine. “Please, Jeonghan. I need you. I need your cock.”
He smiles, a slow, knowing curve of his lips, and he positions himself at your entrance, his cock hard and ready. “Yeah? You want this, angel?” He teases, tapping his tip against your swollen clit.
“Hannie, please,” you cry.
And that sweet nickname of his coming out of your mouth is enough. He switches positions so easily and places you down on his cock, filling you completely, and you cry out, your body stretching to accommodate him. Your thighs clench around his hips as you bounce on his length.
Jeonghan bites his lower lip, places his hands on your hips, and watches as his cock thrusts in and out of your sweet cunt. “Fuck, baby, you’re taking me so well.”
You can’t do this for long, your thighs burn and your pace slows. Jeonghan takes notice of this and simply lifts your hips up and down on his length. He plants his feet against the mattress and fucks up into you. You scream and claw at his chest, his cock sliding even deeper, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. You mewl and release all over his cock, coming to a slow halt from the heavy riding.
His eyes stay on you the entire time, watching as you throw your head back and how your tits bounce.
He wants to see it again.
As long as he sees your cute face reaching heaven, Jeonghan could care less about his own pleasure.
“Can you do that for me one more time, angel?” he asks, kissing your palm.
You hum, “My thighs are tired, Hannie. Need you to fuck me.”
He curses and flips you over, his body covering yours. He bends your knees fully and folds you into a press. He takes no time to waste and slides his cock back into your wet and puffy pussy. His cock reaches even deeper, hitting your cervix with each thrust. You cry out, your body convulsing as he fucks you with a fierce, unrelenting pace, his hips slapping against yours, the sound of your anklets a soft, sensual jingle.
“Shit,” he groans, kissing your ankle, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “I love the sound of your anklets. You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to fold and fuck you like this, so I could get a closer listen to the pretty song.”
“Hannie, more, baby,” you cry out.
He chuckles, “This isn’t enough?” He halts and adjusts his angle. “Come on, my needy girl.”
He sets a faster pace, the squelching sound of your pussy reverberates through your bedroom walls, your whines turn into straight pornographic moans as Jeonghan just thrusts and thrusts and thrusts. The harder and faster he goes, the louder your anklets sing, and Jeonghan loves it.
He reaches down, his fingers finding your clit, and he rubs in time with his thrusts, his body coiling tight, his breath coming in harsh gasps.
You can feel him, his body tensing, and you cry out, “Hannie!” Your orgasm crashes over you, your walls clenching around his cock.
Jeonghan follows, his body shuddering as he comes, the whines of your name leaving his body, his hot seed spilling into you, filling you completely. He collapses on top of you, his body slick with sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Jeonghan rolls off you, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you close. He kisses you, a soft, tender press of his lips, and you smile, a contented, sated smile.
He pulls you to the bathroom and the two of you shower together, Jeonghan sneaking one more from you, pressing you against the shower wall with his mouth on your sensitive heat. He takes care of you so gently, and you can just imagine yourself doing this with him for the rest of your life.
You snuggle up to him under the blanket and Jeonghan looks at you, his eyes serious, and he says, “I never want to see you near Mingyu again.”
You laugh, playing with the damp strands of his long hair. “You should be thanking him. Getting you riled up was his idea all along.”
Jeonghan looks taken aback, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Now who’s the trickster?” he asks, his eyes sparkling with amusement and affection.
You shrug, settling your head against his chest. “Guess I learned from the best.”
He pulls you closer, chin resting atop your head. Wrapped in quiet and shared laughter, it feels like you’ve found the right orbit at last.
The next day, the classroom feels different.
Maybe it is the way Jeonghan’s knee brushes yours beneath the desk, unintentional but familiar. Or the way your notes are already intertwined, margins filled with shared handwriting. Whatever it is, the room where everything between the two of you began no longer felt like a beginning.
The professor steps up to the podium, a stack of papers in his hand, and begins to call out the pairs and their scores. You listen, your heart pounding in your chest, as the professor works his way through the list. And then, finally, your names are called.
“Yoon Jeonghan and… Y/N L/N. Perfect score.”
A collective gasp echoes through the room, and you turn to Jeonghan, your eyes wide with disbelief and joy. He grins, his thumb brushing against the back of your hand, and you lean into him, a soft laugh escaping your lips.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to read that ode the same way again,” you whisper.
He laughs softly, leaning in just enough to press a kiss to your temple. “Good,” he says. “I hope it only ever reminds you of us. A symbol etched our history.”
You chuckle, warmth blooming in your chest as you lace your fingers through his. Together, you gather your things and head out, the world waiting just beyond the classroom doors.
Somewhere above, the stars smile, happy that their plan brought their little scientist, joy of all joys.
fin.
𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: once again inspired by my literature class, atp I should be thanking my teacher for the random inspiration i get...
i am never going to wear my payals the same again, i'm only going to remember yjh....i set myself up AND mine jingle a lot too...so...ma desi girlz this one's for us
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: EldritchBeing!Wonwoo x GothicLitMajor!Reader
𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: Horror, gothic, smut
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: “The taste of the divine. You've got my body, flesh, and bone.” - Sleep Token, The Summoning
We all grew up fearing the monster under our bed, the one that wanted to devour us. But what happens when that fear evolves—when the monster no longer seeks to eat you, but to claim you, to worship you as though you were a tear fallen from divinity’s eye?
—————
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): nsfw, explicit sexual content, kissing, oral (f.rec), fingering, slight!dubcon?, corruption (reader is very young, WW is more than 500 years older than her), explicit language, piv sex, worship, possessiveness, abduction, manipulation/threats, creepy, pet names (little one/human, my scholar, my beloved), fangs, monsterfucking atp ngl, saliva as an aphrodisiac, slight!choking, blood, biting, classic vamp/goth/monster smut tags
𝐀/𝐍: its my birthdayyy so here's a little something for you guys!
You don't feel safe in your room anymore.
What once used to be your haven for bedrotting, late-night movie binging and loud karaoke was now just a shroud of your end. Or so you claimed.
Tucked into the sterile comfort of a modern house that feels too bright, too clean, too far removed from the rotting castles and candlelit corridors you bury yourself in through your Gothic texts. White walls and glass windows, the low hum of the refrigerator at night, it's all safe, familiar even. Yet there’s recently something uncanny about how the shadows pool in the corners when the lights go out, how the silence sometimes seems to hold its breath, waiting.
You’ve been here long enough to know the soundscape of the house by heart: how the aircon sounds when it sighs, the sound of ice falling in the freezer, the settling attic’s occasional groan when the weather shifts into winter, the whisper of cars outside. Although lately, something else has joined the nightly chorus.
At first, you tell yourself it’s nothing. A loose-pipe, one of your family members late night footsteps, your tired brain misfiring from lack of sleep. You’re a first-year English major at an esteemed university, after all, and already drowning in coursework. Your professors speak like they expect you to have read entire libraries and stitched together a thesis in the span of days. Gothic literature is your chosen focus and yet, the deeper you sink into their worlds of crypts and monsters, the harder it becomes to separate fiction from the strange thrum of your own life. Your friends and family keep asking you what your plan is for your 19th birthday, but this winter you’re focusing entirely on the book you wish to write.
Speaking of books.
That book.
It sits on your desk, worn out, its cover warped and unmarked by any publisher’s logo or library barcode. You hadn’t meant to steal it, you’d only meant to study it. You found it tucked away in the farthest aisle of your campus library’s Gothic section, the thing had practically begged to be taken. Its pages were filled with archaic script, a language that shifted out of recognition, curling in on itself like smoke. You remember running your finger down one page in particular, lips shaping syllables you’d never learned.
You don’t remember finishing the phrase but you do remember the shiver that cut down your spine. At first it was nothing more than a faint scrape beneath your bed, claw on wood. You froze when you heard it the first time, your hands stopped typing on the laptop and you gazed up with a ‘what the fuck was that’ kind of expression.
Rational, you told yourself. It had to be something explained rationally. Either a floorboard settling, the bed frame creaking or maybe even pressure releasing but when you bent down to see what it was, all you found was darkness.
Too much darkness.
It gaped like a black hole, like it could swallow the light if you stared too long. An abyss so deep that if you gazed into it long enough, it’d gaze into you too. You shut off the lamp that night with a hesitation you hated yourself for. How could you start to fear the dark in which you found solace in?
But the noises didn’t stop, they grew. Whispers began curling in the edges of your hearing. A dip in the mattress beside your hip when you were certain you were alone. The faintest drag of nails across your sheets whenever you forget yourself and let a foot hang lazily over the edge.
You told your sister, she’s the next best logical reassurance after you. The words spilled out late one night when you couldn’t bear the thickness of your own shadows anymore. She’d only frowned at you, the kind of look older sisters perfect early in life.
“You’re exhausted,” she said. “All you do is study and write. You don't even watch any movies or tv shows anymore. You live in those horror books and you’re letting it get to you. Your stress is manifesting itself as hallucinations, kid.”
You’d protested, swore it was real, swore you heard it. So, she offered to switch rooms for the night and you awaited the result but when morning came, she yawned with drool stained cheeks and shrugged. “Nothing. I didn’t hear a thing. Slept like a baby actually.”
Am I going mad? You asked yourself.
You wanted to believe her. You wanted to believe it was just stress from your professors piling work on you, your own desperate attempts to write, to prove yourself. But when you slipped into bed the next night, the same nightmare revealed itself to you.
It was louder this time, as if it was mocking you.
You groaned in frustration face down into the plush of your pillow. “Are you shitting my dick right now?!”
Great, another night of cautious sleep.
The night your life changed for good began quietly enough.
Your sister is gone for the evening with her boyfriend. The house is too large without her, every surface gleaming with silence, every clock tick far too loud. You tell yourself you’ll be productive, that you’ll read, maybe even write, but your thoughts are muddy, sluggish, sinking beneath the weight of a week’s worth of unease and shitty sleep.
The grimoire sits open on your desk and its pages curl upward like they’re breathing. You turn away from it, try to bury yourself in your notes instead, analysing Frankenstein for what seems to be the umpteenth time.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
You almost shat your pjs right then and there. Holy fuck.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
There it is again.
That sound, something sharp against the wood beneath your bed. It’s way louder than ever before, calculated in its rhythm. It’s a sound created with clear intent.
Your pen stutters across the page. You tell yourself to ignore it, to be rational, to not feed the paranoia but the noise doesn’t stop. It comes again, closer, followed by a faint thump, as though something has shifted its weight. Your skin prickles with fear.
Fuck it we ball. You exclaim, shove your chair back with a hammering heart, and force yourself to look. Your knees hit the carpet as you crouch down, fingers gripping the edge of your bedframe. You lower your head and gaze into the abyss.
Two eyes stare back at you.
Not human eyes. They are gold, slit-pupiled, luminous in the shadows like a predator’s caught in torchlight. They don’t blink. They only widen, fixed on you.
The high-pitched squeal that leaves you is sharp and humiliating. You lurch backward so fast you nearly bang your head on the leg of your desk. You scramble onto your mattress like a child, yanking the blanket up and over your head as if it could shield you from the thing beneath. Your chest heaves, lungs clawing for air and you shut your eyes as tight as possible, praying to the god you don't believe in to protect you.
With terrifying suddenness, the blanket is ripped away from your body and you almost get pulled along with it if it weren't for your tight grip on the duvet.
The cold rush of air hits you before the sight does a tall, lean, figure unfolding from the shadows. Black hair falling into his face, mouth curved in something too sharp to be a smile, fangs flashing in the dim light. His skin holds the pallor of something that has not seen the sun in centuries, and those eyes—the same golden ones—pin you to the bed as easily as claws. You immediately sit up and push yourself against the wall behind the bed.
“You shouldn’t have done that.” His voice is low and deep, vibrating through your bones.
Your throat works, but no words come. Finally, you croak out. “W-what do you want?”
He chuckles, that deep sound sends chills down your back and maybe even a little warmth towards your pelvis. He was beautiful. Terrifying, yes. But beautiful.
“What do I want? Oh, dear scholar, the question should be directed to you. The summoning came from you after all.”
You’re frozen there on the mattress, knees drawn up without realizing, your fists clutched tight in the sheets like a child warding off nightmares. But this isn’t a nightmare; nightmares end when you wake up. You don't understand his words, what he's calming, so you do the best possible action in that moment.
“P–please…” The word slips out before you can stop it, more a gasp than a plea.
His head tilts, black strands of hair slide against his eyes as he studies you, curious rather than cruel, though there’s no comfort in that distinction. “Please,” he echoes softly, tasting it like the syllables are foreign to him. Then, a curl of his lips. “You think pleading works, little one?”
Your stomach twists. He’s not human, everything about him screams it. He carries with him the weight of centuries, yet he stands here, in your modern bedroom, in your carefully ordered world, as though it’s his by right.
The forgotten book sits on your desk, still open, still waiting. Your eyes flick toward it for the briefest moment, and he follows your gaze, grin stretching wider. “Ah. You remember.”
He leans forward suddenly, so close that you can feel his cold breath on your bare arms. His voice drops, “Do you know how long I’ve waited in that dark?” His breath is cold, not warm, and it ghosts over your skin like a draft from a crypt. “Do you know how sweet you sounded, speaking my name in the ancient tongue back into this world again?”
You shake your head hard, tears prickling your eyes though you refuse to let them fall. “I didn’t– I didn’t mean to–”
His finger, sharp at the tip, presses against your lips. “Intentions mean nothing but actions sure do. You called, and I came.”
For a moment, he simply holds you there in silence until you feel crushed beneath it. Then he draws back like a predator choosing not to strike.
“I’ll give you this one mercy, little one.” His eyes gleam in the dark. “I won’t tear into you tonight.”
The word tonight sits heavy in the air.
You’re shaking, clutching at your sheets, but he only chuckles and takes a single step back. Shadows cling to him, licking up his frame until it seems they’ll swallow him whole. His teeth flash once more, a wicked parting gift.
“Sleep well,” he says softly. “I’ll be here when you wake.”
He’s gone, vanishing into the darkness beneath your bed as though he’d never been there at all, except the shredded fabric at your side proves otherwise.
You’re left trembling, staring at the empty space, listening to the silence that no longer feels like silence at all.
You think that night in your bedroom was the end of it. That he would go back into the abyss and no longer show his full form but the monster—or Wonwoo as he stated—kept close to you and his constant presence caused you to cease feeling the terror of him and start getting accustomed to an eldritch being in your daily life.
In the days that follow, you begin to notice him in the strangest places. A flicker of movement in the corner of your eye during lecture, the faint brush of cold against your wrist when your pencil skitters across the page. A laugh, low and dark, when you mutter curses under your breath at your laptop for crashing again. Then you start seeing him completely, to the point that you can touch and feel him when others can’t.
In the reflection of the full length mirror you were adjusting your clothes in before heading to class, his tall and broad frame stands right behind you.
You don’t scream this time, you don’t even gasp. You simply raise your gaze calmly, “You’re seriously following me?”
He answers smugly. “Of course. You summoned me, little one. Where you go, I go. Whatever you do I follow in protection.”
Your heart trips over itself at the idea of a terrifyingly handsome monster following and protecting you and your lips twitch. “Great. I’ve got a stalker ghost.”
His dangerous laugh slips against the back of your neck. “Ghost. How quaint.”
Just as promised he’s always there now. You’ve tried ignoring him, but he has a knack for appearing at the worst possible times. Leaning lazily against your closet door while you’re changing (you threw a lamp remote at his head which he wasn't fast enough to slip through and he never dared to repeat that again), perching at the edge of your desk during an online lecture, or when you’re doing your eyeliner.
It becomes a constant.
Mornings blur with his low and sardonic voice as you stumble through your routine. You stand in front of the bathroom mirror, toothbrush dangling from your mouth, when he drifts into the doorway with a scowl.
“You willingly put foaming poison in your mouth every sunrise and sunset?”
You nearly spit toothpaste all over the sink. “It’s toothpaste. It keeps your teeth clean.”
His gaze flicks to your mouth, sharp fangs just catching the light as he smirks. “Do you think I need that?”
You point at him with the toothbrush, foam threatening to drip down your chin. “I’ve seen your teeth, buddy. If anyone needs it, it’s you.”
He laughs deeply, startling enough that you nearly swallow the paste whole. It rolls through the air like thunder, warm despite the chill he carries. “You’ve got bite, little one,” he murmurs, and leaves you standing in the mirror with your heart racing and your face burning.
Days bleed into weeks, and you stop wondering if anyone else sees him. You already know the answer. You’ll be walking across campus, shivering against the cold, and his impossibly heavy coat, woven of some dark fabric you don’t recognize, suddenly drapes across your shoulders. To everyone else, it looks like nothing at all.
“You’ll catch sick otherwise,” he mutters, tone brusque, as though embarrassed to be caught in kindness.
And when you thank him, when you smile up at him, his expression falters, caught between smug and something softer he doesn’t let linger long. It takes longer than you’d like to admit before the fear fades. You start catching yourself waiting for his voice in quiet rooms. Start realizing that the sound of his laugh gives you a form of peace.
And Wonwoo, for his part, seems fascinated by everything.
“Why,” he asks one night, crouched by your desk, claws tapping the corner of your laptop, “does your writing-table glow like that? Is it a mirror? A trap?”
“It’s a screen,” you mutter, trying not to laugh. “A computer. It’s where I write essays.”
He squints at it like it’s an ancient enemy. “Its aura hums like a cursed thing. Shall I kill it for you?”
You nearly choke on your tea. “No! God, you’re insane.”
“Says the one who picked up a random book and summoned an eldritch being,” he says, perfectly straight-faced. “What does that make you?”
And somehow, you’re laughing then, clutching your coffee mug while this ‘man’ sits on your floor glowering at a MacBook like it’s the devil himself.
He learns your habits, your moods, the way your voice deepens when you’re frustrated. Sometimes he teases you mercilessly. Other times, he’s quiet. Sitting with you in the corner of your room while you write, golden eyes fixed on your moving hand. You think he likes the sound of your pen scratching against paper. When in truth he just likes the entirety of you.
You begin to notice how protective he is, too.
When you’re walking home and a stranger’s gaze lingers too long, Wonwoo’s shadow spills across the pavement, blotting out the streetlights.The man turns away within seconds, muttering, clutching his jacket like he’s been grazed by a sudden chill.
When your sister teases you too harshly, he stiffens in the corner. You scold him every time, but part of you… part of you thrills at it. At the idea of someone—something—so completely yours.
And somewhere along the line, your hesitance turns into something deeper, more powerful.
He’s still monstrous, still all claws and fangs but you find yourself leaning into him now, whispering to him in the back of your classroom and even asking for help analysing a piece of literature. You find yourself smiling when he corrects your translations in the book, his accent dripping with centuries. You study him the way you study novels: looking for patterns, themes, the soft humanity hidden beneath monstrous form.
He starts teasing you for your Gothic obsession, too.
“You drown yourself in those little novels,” he says one evening, sprawled across your bed like a cat, black hair spilling against your pillow. “None of them ever get it right.”
“Oh yeah?” you murmur, typing half-heartedly at your essay. “And what would you know?”
Golden eyes glint. “I am what they write about, little one.” His grin is sharp, fanged. “And you still choose to read the copies instead of listening to the original.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t hide your smile. “Cocky much?”
“Truth is not cocky.” He leans closer, voice dropping, every syllable dragging heat through you. “And I've seen the way you heavily analyse the intimate scenes of these books. Let me know if you ever want a demonstration.” He salaciously smirks, gliding his tongue over his fangs in an attempt to tease you.
Your fingers freeze on the keyboard, your heart pounding in your throat. You don’t answer, but you don’t push him away, either.
Beneath the banter, his obsession with you grows and your curiosity of his nature does too. When you study him, ask of his anatomy he notices your thirst for knowledge.
His eyes glow faintly in the dark as he whispers, “Be mine for eternity, little one. I’ll promise you all the knowledge, all the beauty, and all the luxuries you desire.”
The temptation curls through your veins like smoke. You know it’s dangerous, know it’s everything you should refuse but in those late hours, it’s hard to remember why you should.
You whisper back, almost without meaning to. “And if it’s only you I want? What then, Wonwoo?”
He stills, then smiles. “Then you shall have me. Mind, body, and damned soul.”
You don’t sleep after that. Not because you’re afraid but because you can’t stop thinking about what it would mean if he kept his word.
It’s late. Your manuscript sits unfinished on your, ink bleeding where your hand slipped from exhaustion. You’ve been at it for hours, your spine aching, eyelids heavy.
And then, like always, he’s there.
Wonwoo emerges from beneath the bed, his form dragging the shadows with him.
“You’re falling apart,” he murmurs. His claw brushes the edge of your paper, careful not to tear. “Why torture yourself so?”
“I have deadlines,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “Essays, drafts, chapters…literature waits for no one.”
His lips curl, equal parts amused and disbelieving. “Why not take your time?”
You glare at him through bleary eyes. “Some of us don’t have eternity.”
For a moment, silence. Then, softly, almost cautiously he whispers. “You could.”
Your stomach flips, your pulse stutters. You push away from the desk, stumbling toward the bed, “Don’t start with that again.”
He follows and the bed dips as he sits at the edge, the fabric of his coat spilling like ink across your sheets.
“You fear my words, yet you crave my company,” he says, tilting his head, studying you as you bundle up in your blanket. “Why hide beneath fabric and paper shields, my Y/N? Do you think them stronger than me?”
You swallow, pressing your knees to your chest. “Blankets are protective, Wonu.”
He chuckles, a low, decadent sound that makes the room colder. “Protective,” he echoes, tasting the word. His claws graze the hem of your blanket, catching, tugging it down inch by inch. “This thin cloth? Against me?”
You squeak, clutching the fabric tighter. “Yes. It's a monster, vampyre, demon repeller, so don't touch it.”
Then he leans in. Close enough that his breath brushes your cheek, close enough that you can see the faint shimmer of his fangs beneath his lips. His voice is nothing but hunger wrapped in silk.
“The more you pull away, the more I want you. Be the smart girl you are and give in…”
Your pulse hammers in your throat. You don’t answer. You can’t.
His hand lifts, claws curling, but his touch is achingly gentle as he brushes your hair from your face. For the briefest moment, his knuckles graze your skin. The chill of him is shocking, still your body leans toward it before your mind can stop you.
Wonwoo’s gaze flickers to your lips, then back to your pleading eyes. And for one suspended second, the world stops.
But he doesn’t kiss you.
Instead, he exhales, sharp and frustrated, pulling back as if retreating costs him more than conquest. He rises, shadow folding back beneath the bed, but his voice lingers like smoke.
“Call me monster. Call me vampyre. Call me eldritch or call me demon. I have no care. The only thing I wish to be defined as…” His eyes catch yours one last time, warm and desperate. “Is yours.”
And then he’s gone, back into the abyss you’ve become friends with. You sit awake for hours, clutching the blanket like it really can save you.
You can't sleep after Wonwoo’s declaration so you grab your laptop and start working again. The night is quieter than usual. No scratching noises, no shadows shifting under your bed, just you sitting cross-legged with your laptop glowing faintly in the dark.
Wonwoo doesn’t crawl out this time, he rises. His body spills from shadow to form, stretching tall until he’s standing over you, eclipsing the light. His coat pools like liquid ink on your floorboards, his golden eyes fixed only on you.
“Why do you still resist sleep?” he asks softly.
“I could ask you the same,” you whisper back, staring at the faint gleam of his fangs.
“I do not sleep,” he answers. “I watch.”
Your pulse jumps. “Creepy.”
“Devoted,” he corrects, stepping closer. The mattress dips as he sits beside you, his presence impossibly cold and heavy. “Do you not see, my beloved? You’ve become… the axis of my eternity.”
Your throat tightens. It’s one thing to hear him call you little one or my Y/N in passing, but this—this sounds like worship. Worship laced with hunger.
You should tell him to stop. You should roll away but when his hand brushes yours, claws grazing your skin without breaking it, you don’t move.
“Wonwoo,” you breathe, uncertain whether it’s a warning or a plea.
His eyes soften, molten gold dimmed by something almost human. He leans in, close enough that his breath chills your lips, close enough that you can see his beautiful lashes. His self-control fractures and his mouth presses to yours.
The kiss is not gentle. It’s hungry, centuries of ache spilling into the shape of you. His lips are cold but demanding, and when his fangs catch the corner of your mouth, you gasp and he drinks it. His hand cradles the back of your head, claws tangled in your hair, holding you still as if afraid you’ll vanish.
You melt before you realize you’ve leaned forward, fists curled into the fabric of his coat. The taste of him is iron and smoke and something darker, something endless.
When he finally pulls back, you’re trembling, your lips tingling, your breath shallow.
“You taste like divinity,” he whispers, voice unsteady, like he’s the one undone. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you, little one?”
Your heart thrashes. You can’t answer. You can only look at him—this monster, this shadow, this impossible thing—and realize you don’t want to look away.
He lingers a moment longer, eyes devouring, before slipping back into the dark, leaving you against the sheets with the ghost of his kiss burning on your mouth.
It doesn’t leave you.
Not the press of his cold lips, not the scrape of fangs against your mouth, not the way he whispered divinity like it was a secret meant for no one but him. You replay it every time you’re alone, every time you close your eyes. The taste lingers on your tongue. You try to write, but your pen stutters across the page, the words coming out wrong.
You curse yourself. You curse him. But the blank page doesn’t care.
He, of course, notices.
“Distracted?” Wonwoo drawls, his voice curling from the corner of your room as you chew on the cap of your pen. He’s stretched across your bed like he owns it, head propped on one arm, watching you fumble.
“I’m fine,” you snap, stabbing at your notes.
“Mhm.” His smile is knife-sharp. “Your hands tremble every time you touch your lips. You bite them as though remembering… something.”
Heat floods your face. “Shut up.”
“Say it.” His voice dips low, dangerous. “Say my name when you think of it.”
You slam your pen down, glaring at him, but the smirk doesn’t fade. If anything, his eyes glitter brighter, with amusement and something darker, something possessive.
At school, he’s even more unbearable.
You’re sitting in the library, pretending to focus on your Gothic lit essay, when you feel him lean over your shoulder, his cold breath brushing your ear.
“Every time you whisper a line from your books, I imagine your lips on mine again,” he murmurs, unseen to anyone else.
You shiver, clutching your pen like a lifeline. “You’re distracting me, Wonwoo.”
“Good,” he says simply, and then kisses you behind your ear, delighted by the way you nearly drop your pen.
You shift in your seat, cheeks flaming. No one spares a glance at you. They don’t know there’s a monster pressed against your chair, shadow curling around your legs like smoke, whispering in your ear like sin incarnate.
There are soft moments too.
Late at night, when exhaustion bends your spine, he tucks your blanket higher around your shoulders. Sometimes you catch him reading over your manuscript, his claws ghosting the margin like he wants to annotate.
“You will outwrite them all one day. Your professors, your peers. Even the poets buried in the dirt will envy you.”
It steals your breath more than the kiss ever did.
But the ache doesn’t ease.
Every time you’re alone, you press your fingertips to your lips, remembering the weight of him, the hunger, the restraint. You tell yourself you don’t want it again, that you’re human, he’s… not. Yet your body betrays you, burning at the thought of his mouth, his hands, his voice wrapping around you like shadowed chains.
The more you pull away, the closer he seems to get. Watching, waiting.
On a rainy afternoon you're drowned in stress with papers scattered across your desk, drafts rejected in red ink, exhaustion grinding at your bones.
Your sister barges into your room without knocking, as usual, holding the blouse you ‘borrowed’ two days ago.
“I told you not to take my stuff without asking, Y/N!”
“Oh my god, you’re so dramatic,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “It’s just a blouse.”
“It's my blouse that I bought. With my money.”
The air sharpens, your frustration spilling over days of sleepless nights and golden-eyed interruptions. She mutters something under her breath, and when you snap back, her patience breaks.
The smack lands sharp against your head, harder than she meant, enough to sting and ring through your skull, enough to echo in the silence after.
You freeze. She looks at you, wide-eyed, already opening her mouth to explain and apologise for her heavy hand.
But you're more focused on the shadow that clusters behind her. And then she yelps, stumbling back as a sharp red line blooms across her shoulder. Thin, shallow, but unmistakable. Like something unseen had dragged claws across her skin.
“Ouch what the fuck!” She yelps, holding the impacted area. “How did you—you know what never mind!” She storms out a moment later, muttering about stress, about your ‘weird vibes,’ slamming her door behind her. The house falls quiet again.
You spin toward the corner, fury rising through your chest. “You scratched her? You attacked my sister?!”
And then his voice drips from the shadows, dark and unrepentant. “She hurt you. She dared touch you.”
“Sisters fight all the time!” You retaliate trying to explain the modernity of relationships. “You can’t just–” Your voice cracks. “You can’t hurt people just because you feel like it!”
He steps closer, slow and deliberate, shadows following him like smoke. “I do not feel like it, little one. I protect what is mine.”
“I’m not yours!” The words tear out of you before you can stop them.
Silence.
Wonwoo stills, his expression unreadable, his eyes glowing sharper. “Y/N I–”
“Save it!
The silence that follows is suffocating.
Wonwoo’s eyes glow brighter, his jaw clenches, sharp fangs peeking as though restraining words he doesn’t know how to shape. The shadows coil tighter around him, restless, like they’re an extension of his fury.
You shrink back, the adrenaline still coursing through you, your chest heaving. “Save it,” you repeat, softer this time, though your voice trembles.
He stares at you. Just stares. And then he fades, vanishing back into the dark under your bed, leaving you trembling on top of it with nothing but your own pounding heartbeat.
You plop down on your bed and curl under the blanket, gripping it like a shield, tears stinging your eyes. You hate yourself for feeling guilty. You hate him more for making you feel this. For being everywhere, inside everything, until you don’t know where your fear ends and where your longing begins.
The house has long since gone quiet.
You sit hunched on the bed, the blanket cocooned tight around you, back pressed to the headboard, laptop on the bed. Wonwoo’s voice drifts in and out of the silence—sometimes sharp, sometimes coaxing, sometimes so soft you almost imagine it.
But you don’t answer. You don’t move.
You fix your eyes on the faint glow of the screen, focusing on the archetype analysis paper in front of you.
When the numbers finally show 3:17, your eyelids sag with exhaustion. Your chest aches from holding in too much anger, too much fear, too much of him. You set aside your laptop on the side table, shake out your blanket and lay down, waiting for slumber to claim you. But you are halted by the feeling of something pulling your feet down to the edge of the bed.
You jolt, clutching the blanket, heart thundering as shadows unfurl across your sheets. Wonwoo rises slowly from the dark beneath your bed, unfolding like smoke given form. His coat drags the floor, his hair spills into his eyes, and those eyes fix on you with something hungry.
“Little one,” he says, voice quiet but firm, “enough.”
The room shifts when he speaks, air thickening, shadows curling tighter around the corners. He shrugs off his heavy overcoat and it dissipates into the dark as if it were smoke, devoured instantly. What’s left of him is sharper, leaner, unbearably close. His gaze softens, though it still burns with that golden fire that never lets you go.
“Wonwoo, leave me alone.” Your throat closes as you force the words out, but they tremble. His desperation sits heavy in the room, pulling at you, making you think thoughts you’ve never dared to before.
He doesn’t move back. Instead, his clawed hands seize the blanket and rip it away, tossing it to the floor with a low growl of frustration. Cold air prickles your skin, your nipples perk through your nightgown in response. He yanks your ankle, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed.
And then he kneels. “I'm sorry I hurt you my erudite scholar, I promise to never maim your beautiful heart again. Let me make it up to you. Please.” The desperation in his voice sent a chill running down your spine.
The sight itself steals your breath: the monster on the carpet, lowering himself in front of you, his clawed fingers sliding slowly and deliberate up your soft thighs. The satin of your silver nightgown rides higher with his touch, pushed up to mid-thigh before you realize what’s happening.
“Wait Wonwoo–stop, what–what are you doing?” Your voice quivers. Panic and heat coil in your gut. “I’m not wearing anything under–”
“I know.” His interruption is a low snarl, his words hot against your skin. His claws flex against the plush of your thighs as if anchoring himself, holding back more than you can see. “And it’s been killing me,” he confesses, voice breaking into something ragged. “Seeing your beautiful form barely covered by this sorry excuse of fabric.”
He leans forward, his mouth dragging lower, his fangs grazing the satin edge before his teeth tug. The nightgown inches upward under his insistence. You gasp, you know he can see your bare cunt from his angle and your body shakes as cool air kisses more and more of your bare skin.
“Wonwoo–stop,” you try again, weaker this time, your breath catching when his lips brush the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “This isn’t right–”
But he doesn’t listen.
His hunger eclipses everything. In one swift, merciless motion, he hikes the nightgown to your navel and buries his face between your thighs.
You screech and try to pull back but his claws dig into your thighs and keep you in place. The stroke of his tongue is slow, dragging from base to tip as though he’s tasting something holy. He glides against your folds slicking you up, he doesn't pay attention to your clit just yet.
You take your hands and push at his head trying to get him to pull away, “Wonwoo stop–no I can’t–I mean I’ve never–”
Tendrils of darkness burst from his form and two grasp your wrists tightly, pinning you down to the bed. The others wrap around your body, around your neck, some teasing your breasts through the fabric. He hums into your dripping pussy sending vibrations of pleasure up your body, you whine and grind against his mouth.
For some reason you keep getting more sensitive under his mouth and then you realise that his saliva acts as an aphrodisiac in certain cases. Oh hell. He’s out to get you tonight isn't he?
Your breath hitches, your thighs trembling against his grip. You want to keep protesting that this isn’t right but the words dissolve when he flicks his tongue against your clit, sharp and deliberate. A gasp breaks out of you, high and helpless.
“Wonwoo—” you whine.
He hums low, satisfied at the sound, and the vibration sends another shockwave through your body. His fangs nip at the tender flesh of your thigh, just enough to sting, before his mouth closes around you again. His tongue works with sinful precision—long, slow drags followed by quick, teasing flicks, each one pulling another sound out of your unwilling lips.
Your stomach flips violently at the feeling of him prodding at your hole. He gazes up at you and smirks at your furrowed eyebrows and sweat sheened neck, his head dips back down before you can even think, tongue delving deep into you now, fucking you with steady, relentless strokes. Your body arches against the mattress, hands gripping the duvet as he devours you like a man starved.
Every time your hips twitch, he growls in approval, dragging you closer to his mouth so he can press even deeper. His tongue curls, his lips seal around your clit, and the world narrows to nothing but his mouth and your unraveling body.
“Wonwoo, stop–please–I can’t–” you gasp, but it’s useless. He’s merciless, every sound you make only spurring him on.
“You can,” he rasps against you, voice drenched in hunger and reverence alike. “And you will.”
The first wave of pleasure slams into you, white-hot and overwhelming, your cry muffled by your lips clenching, trying to stay quiet to not get caught by your sister. Wonwoo growls in satisfaction, drinking in your release as though it’s the only sustenance he’s ever needed.
When you finally collapse back against the bed, trembling and spent, his face rises slowly from between your thighs. His lips are wet, glistening, his fangs peeking through the most devastatingly beautiful smile you’ve ever seen. His tendrils—those shadowy wisps that coil when his hunger is high—slither back into the corners of the room, retreating now that he’s tasted you.
“Wonu~” you whisper, voice weak, doe-like eyes tracing the ruin of him.
He wipes nothing away. He lets you see all of it—all of you, dripping from his mouth, glistening on his tongue, claimed by a creature no human has ever touched.
“You—” you breathe, trying to collect yourself, the word breaking on your lips, “you absolute monster.”
He chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating straight through your chest as he leans over you. His claw brushes hair gently from your damp face, a shocking tenderness after his feral devotion. “Your monster.”
The words crack something in you. You fist the lapels of his shirt and yank him forward, crashing your lips against his. He growls low in his throat, a deep, hungry sound, as his hand slides up, wrapping firmly around your throat. He doesn’t choke, not yet—just anchors you, forces you closer, until you’re gasping into his mouth.
He shifts onto the bed, seated now, and you scramble into his lap without thinking. The moment your bare, wet core presses against him, you freeze.
Fuck.
He’s hard. Thick. The blunt weight of him pushes up against you even through his trousers, and there’s no mistaking it—he’s big. Definitely inhuman.
Your gasp breaks the kiss, your lips red and swollen, spit shining between you. His fangs peek out as he smirks, golden eyes darkening as if feeding on your realization. You reach up with trembling thumbs, brushing along the sharp points of his fangs, mesmerized. A giggle escapes your throat at how cat-like he looks.
And then you slip. The pad of your thumb pricks against the razor edge.
Blood wells.
Wonwoo growls—hungry, guttural—and in an instant, his mouth closes over the wound. His tongue laps, his lips sealing against your thumb, drinking greedily. The sensation shoots straight to your core, a dizzying mix of pain and heat.
When he pulls back, his voice is ruined with reverence. “Divine as ever.”
“Wonwoo…” Your breath shudders, pupils blown wide. His saliva tingles against your wound, warmth spreading, sliding down into your body like liquid fire. The aphrodisiac burns through your veins until your thighs tremble, wetness dripping down onto him shamelessly. “I want more.”
His eyes flare at the admission and his hand curls around your throat, holding you steady, but his voice is soft, almost aching.
“I will not take you like this.” He presses his forehead to yours, his lips brushing your trembling mouth. “You deserve to be worshipped on a throne made for your excellence.”
And before you can answer, the room unravels.
Shadows peel from the walls, swallowing the modern furniture whole. The air grows thick, heavy with incense and something darker. When your eyes snap open again, you’re no longer in your bedroom.
You’re in a Gothic castle. His home, at least before you summoned him.
The ceiling arches impossibly high above, black stone glistening with candlelight. Blood-red drapes sway without wind. A sprawling bed, enormous and carved in dark wood, waits in the center—piled high with velvet and silk, a decadent nest fit for a queen. For you.
Velvet yields beneath your back, the weight of the castle pressing in on all sides. The candles flicker as though they, too, breathe with anticipation. Wonwoo hovers above you, golden eyes laced with hunger, claws dragging trails of fire along your thighs.
Your satin nightgown is the last flimsy shield between you and him, and he treats it as if it’s offended him merely by existing. His claws snag the fabric, slicing it effortlessly until it falls away in shredded ribbons. The cold air of the chamber crashes against your bare skin, making you shiver, though the heat between your legs burns hotter than ever.
You shiver as his claws trace up your bare thighs, deliberate and slow, carving invisible sigils into your skin.
He lowers his mouth to your throat, lips brushing your pulse. You hold your breath, half-afraid, half-desperate. His fangs graze, teasing. “Do you know what I see when I look at you, little one?” His voice rumbles low, every word vibrating against your neck. “A mortal made to break me. To unmake me.”
You can’t answer. Your hips twitch helplessly beneath him, the ache unbearable now. His saliva burns through your veins, making your skin hypersensitive, every touch a spark.
“Please,” you whisper.
He grins wickedly, “Look at you,” he murmurs, his lips dragging across your jaw, his fangs scraping lightly. “Spread before me like an offering.”
His clothes melt into darkness and his pale, moonlit skin bares itself to you for the first time.
He’s beautiful. His broad shoulders, toned stomach, and the subtle ridges of muscle along his arms make your breath catch. He moves with an otherworldly grace, each shift of his weight deliberate, predatory, yet hypnotically tender. His claws retract, leaving behind human-like hands that glide against your naked form in worship.
Your legs tremble as he pushes them wider, settling between them. You feel him—thick, hard, heavy—pressing against your wetness through the last barrier of his trousers. Even that muted contact steals your breath. You know without doubt he’s inhumanly big; your body clenches at the thought of him stretching you open.
He notices. Of course he notices.
“You’re shaking,” he says with a low chuckle, fangs glinting. “Do you fear me still? Or do you fear how much you want me?”
You can’t answer. Not when his trousers disappear into the darkness and he wraps his hand around his cock.Your eyes widen when you see it—thick, veined, the tip glistening, flushed a deep shade that makes your stomach flip.
“Wonwoo I— I don't think I can—”
“You can, Y/N. You're my strong girl.”
You gasp when his hand slides down, fingers tracing fire along your stomach before finding the slick heat between your thighs. He groans the moment he feels you, head dropping against your neck. “So wet,” he mutters, fingers circling lazily over your clit. “So ready to be ruined.”
He thrusts two fingers inside your wet cavern. The intrusion makes you cry out, your walls gripping tightly around the thickness of him. He groans at the feel, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “Fuck. So tight… tighter than I dreamed.” His eyes snap open again, glowing, pinning you in place. “You lied to me, little one. You're beyond ready for me.”
Wonwoo doesn't curse. His ancient self never found cursing pleasant but you, sweet little you had him forgetting himself.
You whimper, your nails digging into the velvet beneath you. The stretch burns—he’s thicker than your fingers ever were, unyielding—but the pain twists into something sharp and sweet as he curls his finger, stroking that tender spot inside you.
“Ah fuck ohh baby please!” you whine out into the castle.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, watching your face contort with each thrust of his fingers. “Cry my name. Let me hear how beautifully you break.”
By the time he slides a third finger in, your walls are trembling, dripping around him, the sheets beneath you damp with your arousal. The pain is sharper now, your breath catching, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
“It’s too much—”
He presses his forehead to yours, voice wrecked with restraint. “Endure, my beloved. Let me stretch you, prepare you. I will not hurt you more than you can bear.
He takes his time working you open with slow, steady thrusts of his fingers, scissoring, curling, until the pain ebbs into aching fullness. Every moan he pulls from you makes his cock twitch against your thigh, straining, desperate.
When he finally pulls his hand away, you feel empty, bereft. The loss makes you whimper, your thighs trembling.
He groans at the sound, stroking his cock, the thick, veined length glistening at the tip. “Look at you,” he says hoarsely. “My human, dripping for me, begging without even knowing. Do you know how perfect you are? How I will worship every inch of you as I ruin you?”
You gasp when the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance, impossibly thick, hot and heavy. Even through the haze of lust, you glance down and falter. “Wonwoo, wait—”
“Relax,” he growls, golden eyes burning. “You were made to take me. To take all of me.” His tongue slides into your mouth, laced with the same aphrodisiac that already has you dripping for him. His hand tightens around your throat, not enough to cut off air, but enough to remind you he holds every piece of you now.
As he pulls back a string of saliva connects your lips and he gazes down to where your bodies are almost connected. He pushes in slow at first, agonisingly slow, until the stretch steals every thought from your mind.
“Ohh~!—”
“Shh,” he murmurs, voice strained as he buries his face in your neck. “It’s me. Just me. Let your body open for me, little one.”
Your walls burn, straining around his sheer size, tears pricking at your eyes from the fullness. He buries himself deeper and deeper, unrelenting, until you swear you’ll break apart.
“Fuck,” he snarls, his control fraying, golden eyes flashing brighter as he bottoms out. His forehead presses to yours, his chest heaving. Your nails dig into his shoulders, clinging as inch by inch, he sinks into you. He groans gutturally, head falling to your shoulder. “Fuck… little human… you’re taking me so well.”
Your nails dig into his back, dragging down his pale skin, leaving angry red trails. The pain mingles with a flicker of pleasure, your body adjusting, reshaping around the sheer immensity of him.
When he bottoms out, buried to the hilt, you cry out at the overwhelming fullness.
He groans like he’s been set on fire and his fangs snap down into your shoulder, drinking, his saliva flooding your veins again, dulling the pain into dizzy, liquid heat.
You gasp, the burn fading into pulsing, desperate need. His hands grip your hips, holding you still as his cock throbs deep inside.
“Oh Wonwoo I—I'm so full! Fuck, feels so good my love please move, I—I need you to move!”
“That’s it,” he growls against your skin. “There she is.”
He pulls back, then slams forward, the force shaking the bed-frame. The sound of your wetness fills the chamber, obscene and echoing. Your hole flutters each time he pulls out completely and he groans at the sight. His pace is slow, but brutal each time he thrusts he drives against that tender spot inside you, tearing cries from your throat.
“Fuck—” he snarls, his voice breaking. “Your cunt was made for me wasn't it?”
Yes. Yes. Yes. You whisper. Your moans grow louder, helpless, echoing in the vast stone chamber. His hand curls around on your throat, cutting off just enough air to make your vision blur, your body clench tighter around him.
“You feel that?” he pants, pounding into you. “That’s me—splitting you open, filling you, claiming you as mine for all eternity.”
A cry rips from your throat as his thrusts grow brutal, each one hitting so deep you see stars. Your body shakes under him, every nerve alight. You bite the back of your hand to keep your embarrassing sounds from slipping out but one of Wonwoo's tendrils yank your wrists up, back into the same position, restraining you.
He kisses at your throat, dangerously close to your pulse. “I want to hear every little noise you make when I fuck you, little human. You dare hold back, and I swear to the dark ones—I won’t let you go until you’re dripping with my seed, until you can’t feel your body from the waist down, until all that spills from your mouth is my name.”
His hand slips between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in devastating patterns. The pressure builds sharp and hot until you’re sobbing, hips bucking against him despite the overwhelming size. Your so fucking wet to the point that your dripping on to the sheets. Your back arches against the bed and your tits push out into Wonwoo's face. The sight of them bouncing with each thrust has Wonwoo enchanted and he can't help himself but latch on. His tongue glides against the sensitive peak and his lips suckle at the skin. The feeling of his fangs pushing against the fat of your breasts just incites even more pleasure.
“Wonu~ I can't—I’m gonna cum—shit I’m gonna cum please baby let me cum!”
He unlatches his lips, and one of his shadowy tendrils slides between your thighs, cold and deliberate, replacing his fingers. The sensation on your red, sensitive clit has you jolting, breath hitching uncontrollably. It rubs in fast, teasing circles, inching you closer and closer to release.
“Cum for me, my beloved. Let go,” he murmurs, his voice a velvet growl that vibrates straight through your chest.
The orgasm crashes into you, tearing a scream from your chest. Your walls spasm violently around him, milking him, pulling him deeper. Wonwoo groans both at the feeling of your pussy clenching down on him and the nails you dig into his back.
“Wonwoo!” You gasp.
His cock swells inside you and you can feel him growing but take it perfectly. He lifts your hips even closer to his pelvis and quickens his pace fucking himself so deep into your cunt that you can feel him hit your cervix. But lord, it feels so good and you just want more and more and more.
With a final, guttural snarl, he spills, hot, endless, spilling deep inside you until it drips down your thighs, his body shuddering as he groans your name like a prayer.
At last, he collapses over you, still sheathed deep inside, his breath ragged, his mouth wet with your blood. His hands cradle your face, holding you delicately as though he might break you otherwise. He nuzzles against you, lips brushing your temple, his voice soft but urgent.
“I love you.”
Your eyes widen at his words but deep down, you know it’s the truth. It doesn’t matter that he is an ancient being, a creature of shadows and darkness. When your eyes meet his, the weight of the moment settles between you, and you tell him as well.
“I love you too, Wonwoo.”
And that is all that matters when he pulls you into a slow, lingering kiss, the world narrowing to just the two of you, your hearts pounding together in silent agreement.
He slowly pulls out of you and his thick hot seed spills from your hole onto the black velvet sheets. He thumbs at your folds and spreads them apart watching the globs of his cum seep out, it sticks to your lips and dirties up your innocence and he fucking loves it. Wonwoo almost whines at the scene but holds himself back in composure, whispering a quiet curse into the air.
He glides down to your pelvis and you can feel his breath on your sore and dripping cunt. “You think you can give me one more?” he asks, voice darkly playful.
“Wonwoo, I—shit, I don’t know,” you gasp, trembling.
“Hmm. Let's see.” His mouth is on you again and you’re just so fucking sensitive that you buck into his face, whining and he takes it all in, lapping both his and your seed. Tongue flicking against your clit, playing with your folds and he has you cumming again in no time.
“Ahh Wonwoo no more baby please.” You push at his head.
He chuckles softly, lips tracing a slow path up your thighs, kissing over your navel, along your stomach, and finally to the valley between your breasts, where your heart beats wild beneath his touch. A claim of his love.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he whispers, finally easing his weight off you, letting the warmth of the sheets and the calm of the room wrap around you both.
From that night on you sleep in his castle at night. Wonwoo holds you close, his claws gently tracing patterns along your back, his breath warm and steady against your hair. Every shiver that wracks your body is soothed by his presence, a paradox of danger and safety you’ve come to crave. The shadows around him curl lazily, no longer menacing towards you but protective and submissive, as though the darkness itself bows to you now.
Days, weeks, months pass, and your life in the modern world resumes its rhythm. Classes, assignments, Gothic literature, late-night study sessions, graduation, your sister's wedding and so much more. And all that time, he's there watching, waiting, guarding, longing.
In the daylight world, your body grows, years pass, and the mundane pulls at you with every obligation, every fleeting human concern. You age, change, and the world moves on but in his realm you are always young, always radiant, untouched by time, your heart and body preserved in the perfection of his domain.
And then the inevitable comes: in the modern world, your body falters, your life reaches its natural end. But it is not death, not truly. It's the final summoning. As you close your eyes in the daylight, Wonwoo’s presence envelops you. He draws you across the veil, carrying you into his world, a place where mortal time is meaningless and where his love is eternal.
You awaken in his arms, forever young, forever strong. Your heart beats with the same shadows as Wonwoo’s, the same hunger, the same fire. Outside, the world has mourned you as the girl who lived her life in solitude—or so they thought—but here, in the dark expanse of his kingdom, you are accompanied in every sense.
“Welcome home, little one,” Wonwoo murmurs, brushing a lock of hair from your face.
And you know, in that infinite darkness, that you are his and he is yours—heart, body, and soul—and will remain so, through centuries, through worlds, and through eternity.
𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: me and jww broad shoulder gang 😋
in my lit class and my teacher mentioned the monster under the bed archetype who wants to eat you. i said to myself "or a monster under your bed that wants to eat you in another way..." it didn't help that Fear was playing in my airpods and wonwoo looks like a vamp in the mv... also inspired partially by a dream cuz wonwoo is the only svt member who comes in my dreams at least 2x a week which is hella weird ngl pls help.
𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: Yandere, Angst, Smut, Dark Romance, non!idol but shinee mentioned cuz i'm also a shawol
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: "I'm creepin' in your heart, babe. I’ll flip you over, break you down and swallow you up. I’ll steal you and indulge in you. I’m going to mess you up. I’m engraved in your heart. So even if I die, I'll live forever." - EXO, Monster
Death doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints; it takes, and it takes, and it takes. But what happens when Death itself falls in love with a human?
—————
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): nsfw, death (GRAPHIC), suicide scene (please seek help if you are ever feeling low, i do not condone this act), grief and loss, psychological manipulation, obsession, possessive relationship dynamics, coercion, sexual content, dark themes in general, sex as a distraction/manipulation tactic, Chan calls everyone 'hyung' in this cuz he's my lil baby. Vernon is Hansol cuz no idol AU. REMINDER: this work is FICTION and it in no-way represents any of my doing or views!
𝐀/𝐍: i am so tired of seeing the male love interest be the crazy one, its time for a change (again lol. those who have been w me since Her Saviour, yall know i love writing psycho women).
Your job as Death was simple. Orchestrate. Watch. Repeat.
Many claimed they didn’t fear you. Some wished to defeat you. The rest trembled at the thought of you. Yes, there were those who dared call you beautiful but that was a lie they told themselves, a fragile shield to ease their terror. You were beyond beautiful. You were cruel, when cruelty was required, deceptive, when fate demanded it but you were also gentle where kindness could serve a purpose.
And then, you met him.
Choi Seungcheol.
Even Death needed caffeine now and then. The Diamond Bean was your usual haunt; a quiet little café tucked between city streets. That evening, near closing time, a group of thirteen filled the space with easy laughter and conversation. They were loud, but not obnoxious; comfortable, as only those who’d bled and fought and lived together could be.
You barely glanced up at first. Humans didn’t interest you until it was time for them to die. But he caught your eye.
He carried himself with a quiet strength, his presence commanding without effort. There was an air of dominance about him. Subtle, but impossible to ignore. When his gaze swept the room and met yours, even you, the one who owns the end, felt your breath hitch.
And then he spoke and the words that spilled from his mouth sealed his fate to yours.
“Death is terrifying. But it’s that very fear that makes me want to live. To keep searching, to keep fighting for something. So rather than thinking of death as scary, I think it’s beautiful.”
No ulterior motive, no empty flattery. Just the truth. Your lips curved into the faintest smile. His heart was clean, unclouded by greed or arrogance. He saw beauty in you and it wasn't to soothe his conscience, he meant it.
You met his eyes once more, let the moment burn itself into your memory. Then, carefully, you reached into the fragile threads of their minds—his, and the other twelve. You erased their memory of you, of this fleeting encounter.
Because from this moment on, their remembrance of your face would only be a hindrance to the plan you were already weaving.
He would be yours.
It started, as these things always did, with something small.
A flicker of a streetlight at the wrong time. A car engine that didn’t turn over when it should have. A single misplaced step.
Jeonghan’s time had come but he didn’t know it. None of them did.
The group had been out late, celebrating a promotion of Jeonghan’s. Another night of promises that the world belonged to them, that their dawn was hotter than day. They spilled into the street, loud with joy, oblivious to the quiet eyes of Death watching from the shadows.
Seungcheol’s arm was slung around Jeonghan’s shoulders, their laughter mingling in the cool night air.
And then, the sequence began.
A loose bolt on a scaffolding high above the sidewalk gave way, unnoticed by anyone. A steel beam shifted; slow, almost lazy. You were teasing them, trying to get them to notice, but as usual, humans never do.
Jeonghan, poor drunk Jeonghan ran ahead of everyone, about to give a grand speech. He paused beneath it, turning to say something over his shoulder, grinning wide.
Seungcheol’s laughter died in his throat.
“Jeonghan—!”
But it was too late.
The beam struck and the sound of impact echoed like thunder.
You watched as Seungcheol dropped to his knees beside his friend’s broken body, hands trembling, voice cracking as he called Jeonghan’s name again and again and again. You despised the view of your beloved crying, screaming and tearing himself apart but it was needed for your plan to work.
The others stood frozen, shock stealing their voices. Jihoon was already calling for help. Minghao couldn’t watch so he turned away and tucked himself into Junhui’s shoulder.
And you stepped forward, unseen by all but the soul you came to collect.
Jeonghan’s spirit hovered in the stillness, blinking in confusion. He looked at you, recognizing at once what you were.
“Is this it?” he asked quietly, sadness flickering in his eyes as he glanced down at the scene below.
You nodded. “It is. I need to take you all away from him so he can be mine.”
He hesitated, gaze drifting to Seungcheol, who clutched at him—his body—running a bloodied hand over his cheeks, caressing him for the last time.
“Whatever you do, just please…take care of him,” Jeonghan whispered.
A strange request from a man you just took the life of but you nodded again.
And you took Jeonghan for yourself.
It rained at Jeonghan’s funeral. The cliché kind, the one you always see in movies. Of course; the dramatic Jeonghan would want a dramatic end. Each drop mirrored the tears of the twelve left behind.
You stood at a distance, your long black coat blending into the crowd, even though you weren't seen by the living.
Beside you, Jeonghan’s spirit lingered. His ghostly presence flickered softly at your side, looking… peaceful but not without sorrow. He was quiet as he watched his friends huddle together under black umbrellas. Seungcheol stood in front of the others, fingers white around the edges of a folded paper he never looked down at; he decided to speak from his heart. His hair was soaked, clothes clinging to him, he looked beautiful.
His speech was coming to an end so you moved closer to listen to the last lines.
“I don’t know how to move forward without him,” he said, voice cracking slightly, “but I know he’d hate it if we let this destroy us. Hell, he’d laugh in our faces if he saw us standing here, all puffy-eyed and swollen from crying.”
A few chuckles broke through the silence. Beside you, Jeonghan smirked, eyes never leaving his best friend. He nodded, as if to say he’s right.
“Maybe,” Seungcheol continued, swallowing thickly, “if we had more time… I would’ve told him how I felt. How something was changing between us.”
He looked up at Joshua, whose gentle encouragement had clearly brought this confession to light.
Oh. Next target acquired. Dear Joshua Hong, you shouldn't have done so.
If Jeonghan had working lungs, they’d have seized. If he had a beating heart, it would’ve broken. Instead, his soul simply wavered. Wide-eyed, stunned, and aching with all the words never said.
You saw it clearly. The truth of what they could’ve been. Which is exactly why you took him first. To ensure that Seungcheol had no one.
No one but you.
Seungcheol blinked against the rain, drawing a shaking breath. “Jeonghan was home. He was my north star, my laughter on the worst days, the one who always saw through me and he was loved. By me. By all of us.” His eyes scanned the faces around him.
He stepped back from the podium and the twelve of them closed in around him.
“He really loved me,” Jeonghan whispered.
You looked at him from the sides of your eye, his demeanour had changed. It was now full of regret. You watched as they lowered his casket into the ground and even the strongest two, Mingyu and Seungcheol, trembled as they held Jeonghan.
As the last fist of soil fell and the umbrellas drifted away like ghosts into the downpour, you watched them vanish; all but one. Most of them had left but Seungcheol stood still in front of Jeonghan’s grave, rain soaking him to the bone.You walked toward him and Jeonghan followed, hovering behind you.
You leaned in close; your lips near his ear, your voice soft as silk and sharp as knives.
He couldn’t see you but he could hear you. A whisper crawling into the corners of his mind. He thought it was his conscience speaking to him; something clawing out from inside him. Little did he know it was Death; it was you.
“Thirteen threads were woven together,” you said. “Now they fray. One by one.”
Seungcheol’s jaw tensed. “I’ll stop it,” he muttered to himself.
You smiled. “No. You’ll survive it and that is the difference.”
He shivered and turned his face away from Jeonghan’s name etched in stone. A final goodbye.
You turned to Jeonghan and he looked at you, eyes full of longing, full of the might-have-beens he was never meant to live but you knew better than to let a soul linger. Especially one that could interfere. One that still loved.
So you reached out, brushing your hand through his spirit and took him.
One soul down. Eleven to go.
It had been a week since Jeonghan’s funeral. A week of whispered condolences and quiet grief. A week of Seungcheol wallowing in darkness.
The group had spent the last week in and out of each other’s apartments, shoulder to shoulder, too many tears and too few words exchanged. Joshua, ever the quiet warmth among them, had taken it upon himself to look after Seungcheol, refusing to let him spiral too deep into isolation. He brought food when Seungcheol didn’t eat, he lingered long after others left. He reminded him to rest, to hydrate, to grieve in pieces, not in collapse.
Slowly but surely, things were looking up. That meant one thing. It was time for you to step in.
And it was Joshua Hong’s caring nature that led to his own demise.
It was another day of picking up some pastries and coffee to bring to Seungcheol before taking him to the office; a now common occurrence. The rain had stopped, the sky was clear and everything felt normal.
But that’s always how it begins, doesn’t it?
So you added an anomaly, a driver who was too distracted on his phone. Eyes not on the road, thumbs moving too fast, too carelessly. Joshua stepped off the curb when the signal turned green for pedestrians. Smiling softly, the drink tray balanced in one hand as he walked.
He didn’t see the car and the driver didn’t see him. Metal met flesh with a crunch. The coffees burst open like veins. Pastries crushed beneath glass, steel and blood. Joshua’s body hit the pavement and didn’t move again.
This time the sky was clear and it was sunny, not a cloud in sight. Joshua wouldn’t allow that gloomy atmosphere at his funeral. His casket was covered in the daisies he loved and a soft white cloth. The others stood in disbelief. They had just started healing and now another one of them had passed and his death broke something in them they hadn’t had time to rebuild.
You watched from a distance once again, dressed in black, invisible to the world of the living.
Beside you, Joshua’s spirit flickered. He was warm, golden, and gentle. He looked down at his friends, lips pressed together.
“Jeonghan… he didn’t deserve to die,” he whispered. He glanced at you then, something like understanding creeping across his features. “You. You’re taking us.”
You looked at him and smirked. His eyes widened in fear. This was not the gentle death his faith had taught him. This was a cruel monster.
Seungcheol didn’t give a speech. He stood behind Mingyu, hands fisted, head bowed into Mingyu’s shoulder but you didn’t need to hear his voice to know what he was thinking. The doubt was there and the cracks were spreading. You didn’t approach Seungcheol this time. You didn’t whisper into his thoughts or nudge fate forward with words. You simply watched.
Seungcheol remained until the end again, the others lingering nearby but giving him space. His lips moved at the grave, but no sound came out. Maybe it was a prayer, maybe it was Joshua’s name.
You didn’t care. You were already looking toward the next one.
Two down. Ten to go.
A few weeks after Joshua’s funeral Seungkwan had insisted they all get away just for a couple of days—rent a cabin near the river, drink, play cards, sit around a fire like they used to in college. No phones, no social media, just each other to rely on.
Seungcheol didn’t want to go but Seokmin and Chan practically dragged him there. Jihoon had agreed only on the condition that he’d be allowed to bring his guitar and sit on the porch in silence if he wanted.
They arrived just before dusk. The cabin was nestled at the foot of a sloped hill that overlooked a long, winding river. It was beautiful, remote and most importantly peaceful.
Too peaceful.
The group scattered, half of them inside arguing about who got the bigger bed, others wandering the woods with cans of beer in hand, drowning themselves in drinks rather than grief.
Soonyoung had challenged himself to chop firewood—shirtless, of course—and Jihoon leaned against the porch rail, guitar resting in his raised thigh, offering sarcastic commentary between quiet strums.
Soonyoung turned around and glared at Jihoon. “I’ll be fine. I did this once at my uncle’s place, remember?.”
“Was that before or after you pulled your hamstring dancing to SHINee?”
“You’re just mad that I look hot doing this,” Soonyoung grinned and winked, raising the axe dramatically.
He brought it down with too much force. The blade stuck deep into the log, wedging itself so firmly it couldn’t be pulled free.
“Shit.”
Jihoon rolled his eyes and pushed off the railing to help, his guitar still in one hand. Together, they yanked at the axe, bickering quietly about how and where to pull. Neither of them noticed the slight incline of the hill behind them.
Or…the two large kayaks, stacked carelessly on a rack beside the cabin, one of them loosened by the wind.
It happened in a blink.
The top kayak, caught by a sudden gust, slipped from the rack. It rolled, picked up speed, crashed into the second one and sent both tumbling down the slope toward the two boys.
Soonyoung heard the scrape of plastic, turned just in time to shout. “Jihoon, move—!”
The kayaks struck them full force.
The axe slipped. The log rolled. The first kayak hit Soonyoung’s temple with a sickening crack; the second knocked Jihoon backward, straight into the axe blade they had just dislodged.
There were no screams, just silence. Blood spilled on to the dirt, the wood, and made its way to the porch. A guitar slipping from numb fingers and landing with a dull twang. By the time the others had rushed outside after listening to the guitar and Soonyoung’s frantic cry, it was too late. Your sword had already struck.
Seungcheol stood frozen, his eyes looked at the scene before him in utter horror.
The ones who had wandered into the woods—Chan, Minghao, and Hansol—returned expecting laughter by the fire pit, teasing remarks about Mingyu’s domestic instincts, and maybe the smell of half-burned samgyeopsal.
What they didn’t expect was the blood. So much blood.
It painted the earth beneath their feet, dark and wet and glistening beneath the porch light like spilled wine.
Chan’s voice tore through the trees. “Hyung!”
His knees buckled before anyone could stop him. There, on the ground, lay Soonyoung and Jihoon still, twisted, lifeless.
Oh. Oh.
Chan’s dearest Soonyoung, his forever-hyung. Gone.
You stood beneath a cypress tree, just close enough to see their faces. You watched Seokmin hug Seungkwan so tightly it looked like he might snap him in half. Hansol clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, his eyes were full of sorrow and rage. Rage that you took another one of his brothers.
And you saw Chan. Sweet, bright Chan—sitting, in the dirt, in the blood, cradling the broken bodies like he could somehow stitch them back together with his tears alone. He screamed, cried, begged any god who was listening to give them back.
But there were no gods. Only you. And this wasn’t a prayer you would answer.
Across the clearing, Seungcheol collapsed to his knees, hands in his hair, chest heaving with a grief too deep to be sound. You didn’t approach because you didn’t need to anymore. The fear was already sinking into their bones, silently slithering in.
You cast one last glance at your beloved Seungcheol, broken and beautiful beneath the tears before turning away just as Wonwoo scrambled for his phone, dialing with tears on his fingers and panic in his voice. The spirits of Soonyoung and Jihoon stayed at the cabin until everyone had left. You collected your toll at a later time, their funeral.
Four down. Eight to go.
Soonyoung and Jihoon were buried a couple of days ago.
No one really spoke about what had happened. They called it a tragic accident, the police said the kayak rack wasn’t secure enough, that the axe was misplaced, that no one was at fault. No one wanted to be alone anymore. Especially Seungcheol, who was now holding on to each of his brothers, trying to stop you from taking them. But who can stop Death?
They had been gathered at Mingyu’s house for 5 days—all nine of them, curled into corners of his spacious living room, avoiding the quiet like it might swallow them whole. Hansol put on a movie, Seokmin cooked for everyone; not before Chan triple-checked every gas valve and electric cord in the house before sitting five feet away from any furniture with sharp edges.
“I’m not paranoid,” he snapped when Seungkwan raised an eyebrow. “I’m just being careful.”
Minghao scoffed while painting his nails. “It was an accident, Chan. You think there’s some curse on us or something?”
Chan didn't answer but Wonwoo was listening.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t press. He just sat beside Seungcheol, who kept his head on Wonwoo’s shoulder. His eyes flickered often to the windows, to the door, to each of their faces. Something didn’t sit right with him but he didn’t know how to put it into words yet.
Later that night, when most of the others were half-asleep on the floor or arguing about what snacks to make, Mingyu and Seokmin offered to run to the store for more ice cream.
“You guys sure?” Seungcheol asked, eyes heavy.
“Yeah,” Mingyu smiled. “We’ll be back, don't worry and don’t burn the place down.”
It wasn’t until past midnight that someone broke the silence.
‘Your call has been forwarded to voicemail,’ Jun’s phone said.
No texts. No call back. Seungcheol started to pace, chewing on his thumbnail. He just wanted his little brothers back.
Wonwoo kept staring out the window. He knew. He just didn’t want to say it.
Then, just before 1 a.m., the news broke.
“Two young men were found dead tonight on the West Loop near downtown. Witnesses say a cargo truck carrying construction materials lost control at the overpass and tipped. Police report the victims were crushed beneath an iron slate before they could even react—”
Click.
Minghao turned the TV off.
~~
The drive to the morgue was silent, Wonwoo kept his eyes on the road and gripped the steering wheel tight. Seungcheol—the two’s emergency contact—was called in to identify and say goodbye to the bodies but he couldn't fathom doing it alone, he needed someone strong with him.
When they reached, the officers handed them two things.
Mingyu’s bright smile with his fangs was still frozen in his license photo, staring back at him like a ghost. Seokmin’s wallet had been in his hoodie pocket, and the little pin Jeonghan gave him to put on the wallet was covered in blood.
They died instantly, at least, that's what they were told.
Seungcheol stared at the metal table where two of his brothers now lay, and for the first time since this all began, his lips parted. “What the fuck is happening to us?”
You watched from the corner of the cold room, unseen once again. A warm feeling spread through your primordial form, one you only felt when the purest of souls passed. A whisper behind you. It was Mingyu’s soul, still confused, still warm and full of light.
“Is this real?” he asked, voice trembling. “I was just driving—Seokmin was laughing about some stupid joke I made—I didn’t even see—”
Seokmin appeared at the mention of his name, the same golden warmth seeping from his soul too. He stumbled beside Mingyu, disoriented, his shirt still marked with the phantom imprint of the iron that had taken his breath. With a flick of your hand you removed the trace of the accident on their clothes.
“Mingyu.” He whispered to the gentle giant next to him, his eyebrows scrunched in sadness as he gazed at his friend.
He looked between you, Mingyu, and the table where his body lay.
“…Why?” he asked, voice trembling. “We were just on our way back. We were supposed to come home, Seungcheol-hyung was waiting for us..”
You stepped forward and reached out to the two of them. With your right hand, you cupped the side of Seokmin’s face, thumb brushing just beneath his eye, where his mole was, where tears would have fallen if he were still alive. With your left, you touched Mingyu’s cheek, steadying him where he swayed. Their spirits leaned into you like children clinging to the last warmth of the world. You kissed Mingyu’s forehead first, your lips cool and ethereal against his skin. Then you kissed Seokmin’s exactly the same. Still gentle, still holding the promise of an end.
“You were loved,” you whispered to them both. “And now, you are mine.”
They didn’t resist and took one last look at Seungcheol and Wonwoo before letting go.
Together. Like they always were, even in the end.
You cradled their essence as it dissolved into you, their souls folding into silence like the last breath of a song.
Six down. Six to go.
It didn’t feel real anymore. Soonyoung’s scream. Jihoon's body curled in the dirt. The iron slate that crushed Mingyu’s car like it was made of paper. Seokmin’s name on the death certificate Seungcheol had to sign with a shaking hand. It all blurred together now; grief so thick it had weight. It lived in his chest, in his spine, in the back of his throat where he never quite swallowed it all.
He sat on the floor of the balcony of Mingyu’s house which was now under his name from the will, long after everyone else had gone to bed. The city stretched below him, still alive, still blinking, still breathing, as if the world hadn’t noticed what it had taken from him.
Six. Six of them were gone.
He whispered their names into the dark. “Jeonghan. Joshua. Soonyoung. Jihoon. Mingyu. Seokmin…”
He curled his hands into fists. He needed something to hit, or scream at, or destroy but he just sat there, empty. Too tired to be angry, too numb to cry. Inside the house, he heard movement. It was probably Chan pacing again, checking every plug, every window lock. Maybe Seungkwan was tossing in his sleep, maybe Wonwoo was not sleeping at all.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the wrinkled speech he’d written for Jeonghan’s funeral. The one he didn't say. The ink was smudged at the corners from rain and tears, but one line stood out, written in bold:
“I’ll keep them safe for you Jeonghan.”
What a joke. He was failing them. Seungcheol, the oldest one of all, was failing them. He rubbed his face with both hands and leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes burning holes into the night sky.
“Why them?” he asked no one. “Why not me?”
You looked at him from the other side of the balcony and spoke into the night. You didn’t let him hear you this time. “Because you’re the one meant to survive, my love.”
No one, nothing responded to Seungcheol. It was just him, the dark, the wind and the weight of six graves in his heart.
He stayed on that balcony until the sun crept over the rooftops. And when it did, it cast light over an empty room behind him—not exactly empty, but with only seven of them there it felt empty. The space where his brothers used to laugh, where a family used to feel whole was now just a cage of loss.
Jun and Minghao were headed home. Or that was the idea, anyway.
They thought they could escape Death by simply going to another country? They thought wrong.
Seungkwan had begged them to stay and Hansol offered to book a later flight but Minghao just smiled that quiet smile of his and said, “We’ll be okay. We need the air. We need home.”
And Jun? He didn’t say much. Just squeezed Seungcheol’s shoulder on the way out and whispered a goodbye. Chan didn’t let them leave before hugging them tightly, letting them know he is grateful for having older brothers like them. The two of them smiled and kissed the top of the youngest’s head.
They should have known better.
You were already waiting on the plane. Not in the cockpit, not in the engine. No—you sat in the seat right behind them, your ring of Roman numerals spinning slowly on your finger.
I. II. III. IV. V. VI.
Etched on to the silver ring, you added one each time you took a soul from Seungcheol’s life. A reminder of your plan.
They spoke to each other in soft tones as the cabin lights dimmed. Jun slapped Minghao’s hand gently when he teased him for ordering tomato juice again, Minghao laughed. They both leaned back into their seats, shoulders pressed close, hearts finally steadying after weeks of terror.
But you knew better. You were the one orchestrating it after all. This was mercy. This was the softest way they could go.
There was a sound—not an explosion, not yet at least—but a nauseating shudder through the fuselage. The plane flew into turbulence mode immediately. The oxygen masks dropped seconds too late and the passengers screamed.
Minghao grabbed Jun’s hand and his fingers shook in pure terror.
“Junhui—”
“I’m here,” Jun whispered, gripping tighter.
They never let go of each other’s hands, not even when the rescue team came to retrieve the bodies.
~~
You met them at the edge of the wreckage.
The mountain air was sharp, the smoke rising slowly from the broken plane like incense to the gods. Their souls stood just outside what was left of their bodies, still holding hands, still catching their breath.
Minghao spoke first. “You. You are the end?”
Jun closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at you. “You were kind,” he said, not as a compliment, but as an observation. “You didn’t let us feel a thing. Did you do that for my brothers too?”
You nodded and stepped forward, black heeled boots printing into the snow, cloak brushing the mist. You reached for their joined hands and brought them up to your lips and the two souls dissipated into the mist and drifted into your hands.
You looked down at the ring.
VII. VIII.
Eight down. Four to go.
And far away, in a house full of silence, Seungcheol dropped a glass of water and stared at the television, his chest hollowing out as the breaking news scrolled across the screen:
“Chinese plane crash—97 dead.”
He didn’t need names. He already knew.
It was too quiet in the house, too big for five people. They couldn’t even attend Jun and Minghao’s last rites.
The living room lights were off, but no one was sleeping. They sat around the dining table—if you could call it sitting. Hansol leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Chan was pacing again, hands buried in his hair. Wonwoo sat rigid at the head of the table, notebook open in front of him, as if logic could somehow fix what grief had shattered. Seungkwan was cleaning up the dishes in the kitchen.
Only Seungcheol looked remotely grounded, elbows on the table, fingers steepled under his chin, holding himself together because he was the oldest.
It was Wonwoo who finally broke the silence. “It’s not random.”
Wonwoo didn’t look at him, his gaze was set on the notebook. “Seungkwan please. First Jeonghan, then Joshua, then Soonyoung and Jihoon, Mingyu and Seokmin, now a plane crash? Every death is escalating, getting bolder. Someone’s behind this.”
“Like… an assassin?” Hansol asked, voice low. “A hit list?”
Chan stopped pacing. “No, no, no—” he shook his head rapidly, “—this is punishment. We’re cursed. This is what it feels like to be hunted by something not human.”
Bingo. Lee Chan, you clever boy.
Seungkwan stood up so quickly his chair scraped back hard.
“Shut up. All of you.” His voice cracked. “Every time we talk about this shit, someone else dies. Are you hearing yourselves? An assassin? A curse? It’s— It’s just… It’s just life. Tragedy. We were in the wrong places, at the wrong times—”
“But we weren’t,” Wonwoo snapped, voice sharper than usual. “You know better than that.”
“Stop.” Seungcheol’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. He stood slowly, placing a steadying hand on Seungkwan’s shoulder. “This isn’t helping.”
Seungkwan shrugged his hand off. “You think I don’t notice you losing sleep? You think I don’t hear you whisper their names to yourself at night? You’re breaking, hyung. We all are. And this—” he gestured at the group, trembling— “this fear? It’s going to kill us faster than whatever the hell you think is out there.”
“Then maybe we stop running from it and look it in the eye,” Wonwoo muttered.
It was nearing midnight when Seungkwan finally left the argument behind.
The house was dim except for the kitchen light, casting long shadows through the hall. He couldn't take their voices anymore—the paranoia, the fear, the refusal to accept what couldn’t be controlled. It was eating at them, and worse, it was eating at him. So he snuck out quietly, leaving a text in the group chat that read:
"Just need air. Be back in a bit. Don’t freak out."
He grabbed his coat, slipped on his sneakers, and walked to the nearby dock. The one by the lake that Soonyoung used to talk about loving during late-night drives. The one Jeonghan once suggested they take group pictures on, but they never did.
It was cold and there was not a single ripple on the surface of the water. He sat at the edge of the dock, legs dangling, phone still in his hand. He stayed like that for a while, sang to himself and drowned in tears before fixing himself up and heading back to Mingyu’s house.
A voice note was half-recorded, meant for Seungcheol. Something about how sorry he was for the way he'd snapped earlier but he didn’t finish it because you were already there.
You stood just beyond the trees of Mingyu’s porch. A veil of shadow wrapped around your figure like fog. He felt it. The silence pressing in too tightly, the sudden stillness of nature that made even the insects stop humming.
Death. You were here.
His breath fogged up in front of him. Then not at all.
His eyes blinked slowly as his heart struggled. It wasn't a heart attack. Just a quiet failure of the body, like something inside him simply gave up. A gentle pull from the thread of life, snipped so delicately he didn’t even realize it was happening until his vision blurred.
He thought of Hansol. Of Chan’s laugh. Of how Jeonghan once called him his baby Boo.
And as the cold crept into his limbs, his head slowly leaned against the door in front of him, his body curling up slightly like he was just… tired. Falling asleep on the porch like he’d done once years ago during a road trip with the others.
You stepped forward now. Still invisible to the living, but not the ones close to death. You reached down and knelt beside him. His spirit was still fading from his body.
“You were the epitome of love,” you whispered, and ran your fingers through his soft hair, gently lulling him to the end. “That’s why it had to be you.”
He looked up at you, as if understanding, though he didn’t smile. There was grief in his spirit too but no fight left. You took his soul in your arms, and when you rose, he was gone.
The ring vibrated around your finger.
IX.
Nine down. Three to go.
~~
The next morning the boys woke up and Hansol opened the front door to get some morning sunlight.
He screamed.
Hansol fell to his knees and held his best friend in his arms, crying and gently caressing his face that looked in peace. The other three ran downstairs and gasped at the sight in front of them.
Wonwoo didn’t even speak, he just sat beside Hansol, holding his shoulder. His fingers were covered in ink after hours of trying to understand what was happening to them.
And Chan… collapsed. Because if the cheerful ones were dying now, the ones who made life bearable, then maybe there really was something chasing them.
Something inevitable.
After Seungkwan’s passing, things had shifted permanently. The warmth was gone, the laughter that used to rebound off the walls was now just an echo no one dared to chase. Seungcheol tried to hold them together, but Wonwoo could see the way his eyes kept drifting off. The way he avoided looking at empty chairs.
But Wonwoo and Hansol? They were done mourning in ignorance.
They were sure now—positive—that none of this was random.
And they were going to find the truth.
And so, past midnight, when most of the house had gone to bed, Wonwoo and Hansol stayed awake in the den which was behind Mingyu’s house—a little into the woods, the smell of cold coffee and tension thick around them.
Wonwoo muttered, tapping the timeline they’d been building with a pencil, “I can’t see a pattern. At first I thought it was age order but that would mean Seungcheol would have been first.”
Hansol, hunched over beside him, nodded. “At least we know it’s not fate or an accident. Or a curse like Chan insists. This shit is deliberate.”
Wonwoo stared down at the page. “Someone’s doing this. An assassin like I said, maybe. Picking us off.”
Hansol rubbed his face. “I hate that an assassin makes more sense than a curse.”
Neither of them noticed how the shadows along the wall began to stretch. Or how the breeze that was drifting in from the window faded.
Then, you stepped forward from the shadows. Long black coat, kohl-lined eyes, a presence that made the room feel ten degrees colder.
You clapped. Slowly.
“I must say. You two are really into this assassin gig. But I am afraid that Chan is the closest to the right answer.” A smile stretched your lips.
“Who are you?” Hansol asked, voice sharp. “How did you get in?”
Wonwoo was already rising from his chair, hands tense. “If you’re the one behind this—”
The window’s shut and some of the lights in the den burst. A chill took over the two of them.
“Ah. You feel it don't you. Life flashing in front of your eyes. Goosebumps littering your skin. Fear seeping into your bones. The primal instinct to run, taking over your body. You know me Jeon Wonwoo, Chwe Hansol. You. Know. Me.”
Wonwoo’s breath hitched, there was only one answer. “You’re no assassin. You’re—”
“Death,” you answered simply. “And I don’t mean it metaphorically or rhetorically or poetically or theoretically or any other fancy way. I’m Death. Straight up.”
Wonwoo froze in place and Hansol’s stature staggered whilst you stepped closer, hands at your side, expression unreadable.
“Why?” Hansol whispered. “Why us?”
“Because you’re his,” you said. “I couldn’t have you all standing in the way.”
Hansol’s eyes flicked toward the house, towards Seungcheol, and the truth dawned like ice down his spine.
“You’re doing this for him, you want him for yourself don’t you?”
There was no denial, silence was your answer and the scene that was to follow. The room shifted again, the air grew thick, sharp and Hansol’s hand flew to his nose.
“Do you smell that?” he asked, eyes wide.
Wonwoo took one inhale and froze. “Gas.”
The leak had started while they were distracted. From the kitchen, a forgotten stovetop valve left twisted just slightly open. Just enough to fill the room with an invisible hand of fate.
Wonwoo moved to open a window, but staggered and Hansol’s knees buckled a second later.
“You don’t have to fight it,” you whispered, stepping forward as their bodies weakened, vision hazy, lungs rebelling. “I gave the others a death they couldn’t feel.”
Hansol’s lips parted, maybe to scream, maybe to cry but nothing came out. You reached up, pressing your hand to his chest, then to Wonwoo’s. One by one, their eyes dimmed and you caught them both.
The two of them fell into your shoulders, you caressed the back of their heads as if they were children being put to sleep.
“Rest,” you whispered, hands still gently running through their hair. “You’ve done enough.”
You held them in the dark and let their last memories be of each other and not you. And when they exhaled for the last time, you caught both souls in the quiet. They faded like mist between your fingers.
X. XI.
Eleven down. One to go.
Chan had barely slept. He’d heard movement in the night of low voices, floorboards creaking and knew it had been Hansol and Wonwoo again. He thought about going to them, but his chest was still sore from crying. His eyes wouldn’t stay dry when he walked past Seungkwan’s room. He knew the two of them were in the den behind the house. They had been going there more and more to get peace of mind.
Now it was just after dawn, light out, and he padded softly through the hallway in his socks, yawning, his fingers raking back his hair. Chan put on his slippers and headed outside to the small woods where the den awaited him.
But he stopped in front of the door. The door was almost shut, just barely ajar, the sliver of space inviting yet ominous. He reached for the knob, hesitant.
“Hyung?” he called out softly. “Wonwoo hyung? Hansol…?”
No answer.
His voice shook a little as he pushed the door open with the side of his hand, trying to smile as if it was just another morning and not the ninth circle of hell he was about to walk into.
The smell of gas burned through the den and he ran to the stove top to turn it off and when he exited the kitchen from the other side—the side that led to the common area—the sight that beheld him became his breaking point.
Their bodies slumped beside the old couch, as if they’d simply dozed off and never woke up. But their skin was pale, too pale, and their lips were tinged blue. Wonwoo’s hand was resting on Hansol’s chest, as if they were holding on to each other even in their last moments.
“No…” Chan whispered, dropping the mug he didn’t even realize he’d brought with him. It shattered near his foot, ceramic and coffee soaking into the rug like blood.
“Hyung—”
He stepped forward in a daze, his knees giving way as he dropped beside them.
“Hyung wake up. Please,” he whispered, shaking Wonwoo’s arm with trembling fingers. “Please wake up.”
No one moved.
A hollow, animalistic sound tore from his throat as he sank to the floor between their bodies, one hand reaching for Wonwoo’s cold cheek, the other pulling Hansol into a loose, trembling hug.
“Seungcheol-hyung!!”
The scream echoed through the den like a bell toll. Chan scrambled for his phone and called him immediately.
Seungcheol answered on the second ring. “Chan?”
“They’re gone,” Chan said, voice cracking like glass. “Wonwoo hyung and Hansol hyung— they’re dead.”
~~
Seungcheol was there in minutes.
He didn’t speak when he found them, didn’t scream or curse or shake his fists at the ceiling. He just dropped to his knees, his arms reaching instinctively for Chan. And Chan collapsed into him.
“Hyung, I—I don’t know what’s happening anymore,” he sobbed into Seungcheol’s chest. “Why is this happening to us?”
Seungcheol stayed silent. He only held him tighter, letting his own tears fall quietly into Chan’s hair. His hand never stopped rubbing soothing circles into Chan’s back, even when his knuckles were white from clenching too tightly.
“I’m not letting you go anywhere,” Seungcheol murmured after a long time, voice hoarse. “Not even to the damn mailbox, you hear me?”
Chan nodded silently. He meant it, too. At least in that moment, he meant it.
It had been 5 hours since the morticians had taken Wonwoo and Hansol.
For hours, they didn’t leave each other’s side. They turned the TV on but didn't watch, food was delivered but barely touched. Seungcheol wouldn’t even let Chan walk to the bathroom alone. There were too many names to mourn, and too little left to hold onto.
By early evening, the air in the house felt stale, like grief had sucked all the oxygen out of it.
“I’m gonna shower,” Seungcheol said softly. “Just five minutes. That’s all. You’ll stay right here?”
Chan nodded from the couch, curled beneath the throw blanket, eyes red but dry. “I promise.”
Seungcheol leaned over, pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, and whispered, “I won’t be long.”
He left up the stairs and Chan waited until he heard the bathroom door shut. Until the water began to run.
Then he got up slowly. Like his body already knew what to do.
Chan stood still in the middle of the kitchen, the silence swallowing him whole. He couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t breathe without hearing their voices and replays of memories in his head. Couldn’t take the guilt of being the last one left. Couldn't bear to be a reminder of everything Seungcheol had lost.
A knife glinted from the drying rack near the sink, its handle half-damp. He stared at it. The silence closed in around him like a noose.
Chan didn’t want to watch his oldest die next, even though he didn't know that the oldest was claimed for something else. Sweet Chan just wanted the pain to end.
The knife didn’t even shake in his hand.
He just closed his eyes and whispered, “I’m sorry, hyung.”
Chan slit his wrists.
~~
You weren't watching because you weren't meant to. Chan was not on the schedule yet, he wasn’t supposed to go. Not like this at least.
By the time you arrived, the blood had now spilled everywhere on the wood-tile kitchen floor. You stood in the kitchen doorway, your fists clenched, black coat dusting the floor. You called forward Chan’s spirit.
He appeared.
“Lee Chan, you promised him you would be there when he came back. How dare you.”
His eyes were full of grief as he looked at his own body.
“I just— I was so tired.”
“You were supposed to have a death that you could not feel just like the other eleven and yet you chose this torture! Do you have any idea what Seungcheol would do if he found you like this? Did you even think of that?” You released your clenched fists. “I don’t like being disobeyed.”
Chan understood now, he was always quick to understand. You were Death. Chan’s spirit fell to his knees.
This was a soul taken too early, by choice, by panic, by human despair.
You sighed and sank to your knees beside him, your black-gloved fingers brushing through his hair like a mother grieving her child. You pulled him into a hug, and he hid himself in the crook of your neck.
“Rest now, little one,” you whispered gently. “Your brothers await you.”
And you took Lee Chan, the last, for yourself.
XII.
You stood again, and just as Seungcheol stepped into the hallway upstairs—towel in his hands, hair wet, face fresh for the first time in days. You reached for him.
Not physically. No, he still couldn’t see you. But you pressed yourself into his consciousness like a blade. His vision blurred, the hallway spun. He blinked, trying to focus, but sleep rushed over him like a wave crashing down and his legs folded before he could catch himself.
Death caught him before he hit the ground.
You cradled him like a lover, carrying him to his bed, placing him gently on the sheets, tucking the blanket to his chin.
“I can’t let you see him like that, the guilt would kill you too,” you whispered, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. “I’m sorry Seungcheol, but I needed you to feel the loss of everyone so that my plan could work. Printing false memories in your mind is easy, but emotions hold power. I needed you to feel the loss so that what follows in its stead holds up to its worth.”
Downstairs, the kitchen light flickered softly and the house exhaled.
All that remained of Seungcheol’s world was silence.
You had removed every trace of their deaths from the home and now stood in front of Seungcheol's sleeping form. It had been two days since the last of them had passed and you allowed your dearest to rest.
You stood in the wreckage of his soul and now, it was time to stitch a new story, one that involved you.
You took their memories from the world—cleanly, precisely. Anyone who ever loved them, who might have remembered the real story of how they died, now remembered something else: a tragic bus accident. A trip they were all taking; thirteen boys and a few others, a celebratory getaway after too many long years of hard work.
Only two had survived the crash.
Choi Seungcheol.
And you.
In the fabricated memory, it was fire and twisted steel. He was pinned under metal, blood in his mouth, vision blurred. You had crawled toward him through the smoke. He reached for your hand, and you took it tightly, like salvation.
You placed memories of pain, grief, recovery. Long hospital days. He remembered crying with you. Remembered how his body healed faster than his heart. How you never left his side. He remembered the funeral being closed-casket for all twelve. He remembered inheriting Mingyu’s house. Alone.
But what made it so believable was that you created that bus accident in real life. You actually caused the death of many, but just placed Seungcheol and the other twelve in there too. So that if he were to go and search up the incident, his, yours and their names would be there.
And he remembered you, the only person in the world who understood.
It was done. Now the dominoes just had to fall in place.
The Diamond Bean hadn’t changed.
Same soft jazz humming through the speakers. Same tired-looking ivy drooping from hanging baskets. Same creaky wood floors that groaned when the sun hit them just right.
But for Seungcheol, everything felt different.
He stood just inside the door, and the barista gave him a polite nod, but he barely noticed. His eyes had locked onto you before he even realized it. You, at a corner table near the window, sunlight painting your hair in amber, holding a book you were pretending to read, a paper cup cradled between your hands and another on the table in front of you.
You looked up, you knew he was there even before your eyes met his. Seungcheol didn’t move at first, he just stared, stunned into stillness. He had a sense of deja vu, as if he’d seen you before in this cafe, but with more people, he shrugged it off.
You looked beautiful.
You were adorned in soft gold jewelry, a very light pastel yellow dress flowed across your body. You looked nothing like death.
You smiled at him, soft, bittersweet, you both knew something the world didn’t.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again, Y/N” he finally murmured, walking slowly over and sitting down in front of you.
“I was hoping I would,” you replied, pushing the untouched cup across the table. “I’m a coffee addict, I always get two.”
He laughed lightly. “You would give it away to me?”
“Only to you, Seungcheol.”
He smiled, his cherry lips finally giving another emotion than just despair. For a long while, neither of you said anything. You let the silence bloom. The weight of grief always needed space to breathe, and you gave it to him like an old friend. Seungcheol looked older now, less in age, more in soul. There were new shadows under his eyes. His hands shook just slightly when he lifted the cup.
“I keep having these dreams,” he said at last, not meeting your eyes. “Nightmares. About the crash.”
You leaned forward a little, just enough to show you were listening. “What do you see?”
“Twisted metal, flames, screaming. My frie—family.” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “But not just them. I see… hands. Reaching for each other. Mine and yours. You’re always there.”
“I was,” you said softly. “I remember. You held my hand.”
“I didn’t want to let go,” he admitted, finally meeting your gaze. “Even after they pulled us out, I didn’t want to stop holding on.”
You reached across the table, your fingers found him; he held on.
“You don’t have to,” you said. “I’m still here.”
And he looked at you like he didn’t know whether to cry or thank you.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I wonder if it was all real. If we really survived. If… they really died.”
“It was real,” you said, voice as calm and unshakeable as the grave. “They’re gone and we’re still here. We have to acknowledge that.”
He stayed silent but the way he squeezed your hand said enough.
~~
Later, you walked with him. Neither of you had anywhere else to be, and he didn’t want to go home to that house full of absence. So you wandered past the park, past the bookstore Minghao used to haunt, past the ramen shop where Soonyoung once dared Jihoon to eat six levels of spice and nearly died laughing. He didn't speak of those memories but you knew exactly what he was thinking about.
You knew what importance each building held in his memory, and how your silence made it easier for him to keep breathing. When you reached the edge of the river, he stopped walking and leaned against the railing.
“You ever think about why we survived?” he asked, voice hoarse. “Like, out of everyone. Why us?”
You stood beside him, close enough for your shoulder to brush his.
“Maybe we were meant to,” you said.
He was quiet for a minute. But then he whispered, “Maybe we were meant to survive together.”
That simple sentence made you smile. It wasn’t the cold, distanced smile you were used to giving. This one was genuine—the kind you didn't even know you were still capable of producing.
“You believe in fate?”
“I didn’t.” He turned to you. “But… what else could explain this? You and me. After everything.”
You sighed, “We can’t let survivors' guilt hold us back. I am sure that the ones we lost would want us to keep fighting, to keep searching for what completes us.”
Seungcheol didn't want to say it yet, but you were what completed him. “The way you speak just brings in light I didn't know could make its way to me, Y/N.”
You just reached up, gently brushing his hair from his forehead, letting your fingers linger. His eyes fluttered shut and when they opened again, there was something softer in them, something almost holy. Or maybe full of love.
And it was then you knew. The last thread had been woven anew and joined to yours.
You didn’t have to be cruel anymore. There was no one left to take from Seungcheol’s life.
There was only him. Only you.
A few weeks passed and Seungcheol had asked you to move in with him.
They were strange, slow days, ones that crept by like fog, the sharp pain of grief slowly dulling into something more livable. The house didn’t feel so empty anymore. Your shoes were near the door, your scent lingered on the pillow beside him, your humming filled the quiet. Your toothbrush sat next to his in the bathroom, your sweaters hung beside his coats in the front closet. There was a plant you insisted on trying to revive sitting on the windowsill, and even though Seungcheol had no hope in it, he watered it every morning because it made you smile.
And just like that, Death lived in Mingyu’s former house.
You two had fallen into a rhythm. You made breakfast most mornings, he washed the dishes. You curled up beside him on the couch when his nightmares clawed at his sleep, letting him breathe with his face buried against your chest. He didn’t question how your heartbeat always sounded just a little too steady.
Some days he woke up with tears on his face, but they dried quicker now. His steps didn’t feel quite so heavy and every time he reached for you, you were already there.
You were his anchor. You were his calm.
And he loved you. He hadn't said it yet, not out loud at least but he felt it in every glance, every accidental brush of hands, every moment his gaze lingered on your lips.
One late afternoon, golden hour pilled through the kitchen windows like honey. He stood at the stove, stirring ramen, while you leaned against the counter with your arms crossed, watching him with that quiet, amused smile.
“You cook too much,” you teased softly.
He shrugged, not looking away from the pot. “You don’t eat enough.”
“I eat just fine, Cheol.”
“You pick at food.”
“I’m mysterious like that, it's that aura farming or whatever kids call it nowadays.”
He chuckled under his breath, then turned and slid a bowl across the counter towards you.
“Eat.”
You looked down at the bowl, steam curled upward between you. “You always take care of me,” you murmured.
“You took care of me first,” he replied, and the simplicity of his voice made your heart flutter. “I wouldn’t be breathing right now if you hadn’t walked back into my life.”
You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you stepped closer, wrapped your arms around his waist, and pressed your cheek against his chest and felt the steady thump of a heart you spared. The only one you spared.
“I don't want you hurting, Cheolie.” you whispered.
He pulled you tighter into him.
“With you I could never be hurt, Y/N,” he said.
Seungcheol was falling for you. Deeper and deeper and deeper. And now there was nothing, no one in your way that could stop him from becoming yours.
The windows are fogged from the rain, and the house is warm only after weeks of shared grief, healing, and pretending the past isn’t whispering through the walls. You’re curled up with him on the couch, legs tangled, your head resting on his chest. His heartbeat is slow, his fingers threading through your hair in lazy, aimless strokes.
He sighs. Not sad. Just... content.
You wait.
You’ve learned to wait. That’s all you’ve ever done—across centuries, lifetimes, eras where love meant nothing to you. Until now. Until him.
“Hey,” he murmurs, barely louder than the storm outside.
You hum in acknowledgment, not lifting your head.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
There it is.
It lands between your ribs like a blade and a kiss all at once. He says it so quietly, without fanfare or drama, like it’s always been true and he’s only now realizing it. You tilt your head just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes are honest, open and unafraid.
“I think I’m in love with you too,” you whisper.
He smiles, a soft smile that folds at the edges and makes your chest ache. You never deserved something so gentle. Not when the weight of his love is balanced on a throne made of twelve graves.
But he doesn’t know that. And that makes it perfect.
“I’ve been afraid to say it,” he admits. “Like maybe it’s too fast. Or I’m clinging to you because I’ve lost everything else.”
Your fingers graze his jaw and your thumb brushes his cheek.
“You’re not clinging, Seungcheol” you say. “You’re surviving, you're living. And that is enough.”
And then you kiss him.
He pulls you into his lap, arms around you, fingers tangled in your shirt like he never wants to let go again. And he won’t. You won’t let him. When he pulls back, he says it again, breathless against your lips.
“I love you.”
You smile, and for the first time, you tell a human that you love him too.
A few months of dating Seungcheol came with everything you dreamed of and planned for since the start. But your control over his emotions was starting to fray and he was hurting again due to the ‘bus accident’.
The house is quiet when you come home. Only the soft hum of the AC and the distant traffic below. You toe off your heels at the door and pad toward the bedroom, already sensing him before you see him.
Seungcheol applied for a new job, one that made him take naps after coming home due to the diligence he put in. To blend into human life, you also picked up a job; a professor of forensic science at a well-esteemed university. Funny. Death teaching humans about death.
It started happening more lately, afternoon naps that end in a cold sweat, the sheets tangled around his legs, his chest heaving with gasps he doesn’t remember taking.
You open the door gently, careful not to startle him. Seungcheol is shifting under the covers, forehead lined with distress, hands clenching the blanket. You move to his side, settling on the edge of the bed and brushing the damp hair from his thick brows. His eyes flutter open and for a moment he looks so disoriented, so heartbreakingly lost.
“Shhh,” you whisper. “It’s okay, love. It was just a dream.”
“A bad one,” he mumbles, voice rough. “Again.”
You press a kiss to his temple. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
“It’s always the bus, Y/N. Always the blood, the sounds, the fire. I can feel the heat. I can see Jeonghan and the others. Your hand in mine.”
You exhale through your nose and gently guide him to sit up. He leans into you automatically, head resting on your shoulder.
“I hate seeing you like this,” you murmur against his hair. “Let me distract you, Cheol.”
“No,” he replies, almost too fast. “I don’t want to use you like that.”
You pull back slightly, looking at him. “You’re not using me Cheol. I’m yours. Let me take care of you.”
He hesitates, jaw tightening, but when your lips find his, he melts. One kiss. That’s all it takes. One kiss, and his hands are already on your waist, tugging you into his lap like he’s been starving for you.
Your fingers thread into his hair as you grind down on him, both of you still fully clothed, but the heat builds fast between your bodies. You can feel him getting hard under his sweats and he kisses all over your face, worshipping you. As your lips find each other again, he moans into your mouth and you feel him start to tremble underneath you.
You pull away just enough to whisper, “Tell me what you need.”
“You, Y/N,” he breathes. “I need you.”
Your hands trail down his chest, fingers slipping beneath his shirt as you guide it upward. He lifts his arms and lets you undress him, his skin warm beneath your touch. You take a moment to look at him, all of him. The faint scars, the tense but strong muscles, the tremble in his breath, the plush of his stomach, the trail leading to his heat. He’s so alive, so beautifully breakable.
“I’ve got you,” you whisper, pushing him back against the pillows.
You strip yourself of your button down, slacks and panties but before you could take off your bra, Seungcheol slips his hand behind you and unhooks it. His thumb gently caresses your perk nipple and you moan at the sensitive feeling.
“Lord, how can you be so beautiful.” He groans, taking in the entirety of your naked form.
You chuckle. He exhales shakily as you straddle his thighs again, your fingers going to the drawstring of his sweats. You can feel how hard he is underneath; twitching against the fabric, begging for attention. You palm him through it, slowly, teasingly, and he lets out a breathy groan.
“Please, Y/N,” he whispers.
You lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth. “Please what?”
“I need to feel you, baby. All of you.”
His sweatpants and boxers come off piece by piece, until your bare skin presses to his and nothing separates you anymore. His hands move to your hips, thumbs stroking slow circles as you line yourself up with him. He’s huge.
“Y/N, love I need to prep you—you can’t—”
You cut him off without using any words and sink onto him inch by inch, and he watches you with dark, hungry eyes, his lips parted in pleasure. His thick eyebrows furrow in ecstasy at the feeling of your walls clenching around him. You both exhale at the same time, and he lets his head fall back against the pillow.
“Shit,” he groans. “You feel so—”
You start to move slowly. His cock reaches places in you that no human has ever dared to feel and the pressure of his tip brushing your cervix with each bounce makes you tremble above him.
“Cheolie, baby fuckk you're stretching me out so good~”
Seungcheol’s hands dig into the meat of your hips and he lifts you up and down on his cock. “You’re doing so well for me, baby,” he groans. “Taking me so deep.”
Your thighs flex as you ride him, tits bouncing; you see his cock disappearing in your body. Seungcheol’s hands play around with your breasts, teasingly flicking your nipples and kneading the flesh. His hands slide up your back, one tangling in your hair as he pulls you down for another kiss. It’s messier this time, needy, open-mouthed, full of breath and heat.
He thrusts up into you, harder now, matching your rhythm, eyes locked on yours. “I love you,” he gasps between moans. “God, I love you.”
“I love you too Cheolie,” you whisper against his lips. “I’m never gonna stop loving you.”
Your pace quickens, the tension coiling tight inside both of you. You ride him harder, your moans mixing with his, echoing in the room like a symphony made just for the two of you. He lifts himself up so that now the two of you are chest-to-chest. Then his hands suddenly grip your hips, hard, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you deeper, rougher, panting against your neck.
“Cheolie!” You scream at the abrupt feeling. This angle had you seeing stars, who knew that the man you claimed for yourself could fuck so good.
“I wanna fill you up,” he whispers against your neck, voice ragged. “Wanna make you mine.”
You shiver at the sound of it, the desperation, the possessiveness in his voice you had never heard and you nod, breathless.“Then do it Choi Seungcheol. Make me yours.”
That's all it takes for Seungheol to flip you on to your back and push your knees up to your chest. His lips find your throat, your collarbone, then your chest, leaving slow, reverent kisses that contrast the way his hands explore with urgency. He pulls out completely and thrusts into you again, taking you in even closer to him. His hands hold your outer thighs keeping you steady as he thrusts and thrusts and thrusts.
“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Fuck, I wanna see you dripping with me.”
“Keep going Cheolie please!”
His thumb finds its way to your clit, rubbing circles against it with each thrust; heightening the feeling of your incoming release.
“Cheol—Seungcheol oh my—right there!”
His thrusts grow frantic, ragged and you come with him—the wave of it ripping through you like a storm, crying out his name as your body writhes beneath him. Seungcheol pulses deep inside you, spilling so much you feel the heat of it pool and drip between your thighs. He moans your name like a sacred mantra.
The room echoes of your panting and the heartbeat hammering in his chest where it’s pressed to yours. He doesn’t pull out, he lifts you up and just holds you, his arms wrapped tight around your waist, his lips ghosting kisses over your shoulder and neck.
“I love you,” he says again, gazing deeply into your eyes. “I really fucking love you Y/N L/N.”
You smile into his hair, eyes half-lidded, satisfied and content. “I know baby, and I love you too.
After that day, Seungcheol never had a nightmare about that accident ever again.
You have him. Mind, body and soul.
Forever.
Time passed like breath on glass; visible only for a moment before it faded, and in that time, you gave Seungcheol everything. Laughter over coffee, quiet mornings with your fingers in his hair. Nights where he held you like a lifeline, nights where he fucked you into oblivion. You became his compass, his memory, his future.
And eventually… his wife.
The ceremony was small, private. It was just the two of you on a cliffside overlooking the sea. The wind carried your vows into the horizon, and he kissed you like you were something to be worshiped.
But you were not alone on that cliff. Behind the veil of time, hidden from mortal eyes, twelve shadows stood. The twelve you took, the twelve who loved him as much as you did.
Jeonghan, serene and smiling, leaned into Joshua’s side. Soonyoung rested his head on Jihoon’s shoulder, fingers laced like they had been in the firelight long ago. Mingyu’s arm was slung around Seokmin, both boys glowing with gentle pride. Jun and Minghao stood together, peaceful as the sea they once flew over. Wonwoo and Hansol, quiet and sharp-eyed, nodded to each other knowingly. Seungkwan stood at the center, eyes glassy but full of joy. And Chan—sweet, brave Chan—held his hands together in front of him and whispered, ‘he looks so happy.’
They felt it; the love Seungcheol radiated, the peace that had returned to him. You had taken everything from them, but you gave him a life.
And for that, they forgave you.
Even in death, they loved him too much to wish for anything else. When the time would come, they’d be waiting. In the field beyond the veil, in the light beyond the dark. One day, he’d find them again, running toward them with open arms, laughter echoing in the wind.
But not yet. For now, he lives.
And they watched from the other side, smiling, whispering their blessings.
Let him live. Let him love. Let him be whole.
And you—Death—held his hand tighter, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, smiling softly at the ring that adorned his finger and promised him a long life.
Until his last moments, you would ‘age’ with him.
And when the end would come, you’d take him too.You would become Choi Seungcheol’s final destination.
𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: survivors of a tragic incident have a tendency to lean towards and find solace in each other, seungcheol was no exception...
lol the puss in boots reference hehe, i acc do have a ring that spins and it has 12 roman numerals.....
remember that this is fiction lol, i love ot13 so much and i've written and am planning to write more of each of them.
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bfs!boo seungkwan, lee seokmin, kwon soonyoung x gf!reader
𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: smut.
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: "You can hit while they watch." - Doja Cat, Agora Hills
Having 3 boyfriends always has its perks. Triple the gifts, triple the dates, triple the love. Triple the sex...
———————
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): booseoksoon... explicit sexual content, FMMM, unprotected (birth control mentioned), rough sex, double penetration (anal, and in one hole), fingerfucking, creampies, light BDSM (tying up, dom/sub dynamics), oral (f. & m. rec.), voyeurism, degradation, use of lube, videotaping, mentions of loss of virginity, polyamory, jealousy, punishment, seokmin is a giver, soonyoung is a freak, and seungkwan gets turned into a freak.
𝐀/𝐍: holy my freak got turned on.... welp.... by idiots i don't mean they are dumb, i just mean that they are chaotic idiots lol
There’s not a night when you’re fucking your boyfriends that you don’t feel full.
No literally.
Boo Seungkwan. Lee Seokmin. Kwon Soonyoung.
Three idiots.
They always prioritize your pleasure over theirs—though they can’t resist indulging in your giving nature every now and then. That’s mostly when you’re sucking off Soonyoung or Seungkwan.
At first, Seokmin hated the idea of you on your knees for him. His pleasure was always in feeling your slick on his tongue. He was pussydrunk, plain and simple. And you knew that because he came untouched just from eating you out. Seokmin had a tendency to focus entirely on your hole, plunging his tongue into your wet heat while his sharp nose nudged your clit. And though no one could deny he had the most beautiful hands, he never even needed them to unravel you; just his mouth.
But that didn’t mean you didn’t try to blow him. You grabbed at every opportunity you could. The chance never came until one day, sick and tired of his antics, you tied him up and sucked him dry.
“Baby, wait—ah, fuck—slow down, I can’t—” Seokmin whined, wrists straining against the ropes.
“You never slowed down for me,” you smirked, taking him deeper, “so now you’re gonna take it.”
The sounds that spilled from him were almost prettier than his singing voice. That’s when you realized why he never let you give him head because the second your lips wrapped around him, he was ruined. The same way you were whenever his tongue was on you.
Seungkwan, meanwhile, was shy about the idea of joining in with the others. The gentleman in him thought it would trample your self-respect. You had to show him otherwise.
How?
Well.
You sat him down in the chair in your room and made him watch. Watch as Seokmin fucked you from behind while Soonyoung’s cock filled your mouth.
“Don’t be shy, Kwannie,” you teased, lips stretching around Soonyoung as you glanced at him. “Look at me.”
“I… I– shit baby you look so good,” Seungkwan whined, breathless.
At that moment Boo Seungkwan knew one thing, he wanted to join in. Slowly but surely, he did. And when he did, he didn’t disappoint.
The first time he joined in, he took your ass. Mind you, he was the first ever, and that boosted his ego so much.
Soonyoung was buried deep into your pussy as you were on top of him and he simply spread your asscheeks, looking at Seungkwan’s lust blown eyes and said, “She’s not an innocent angel Kwan, take her ass.”
You whined, beckoning Seungkwan closer. “Please, Kwannie… I want you.”
Seokmin knew it was your first time and he helped you loosen up, grabbing the lube from the bedside drawer and plunging two fingers into your rim. The feeling was invasive but later became addictive, adding to the pleasure of Soonyoung already filling your cunt.
So, sweet and gentle Boo Seungkwan, listened to your call and fucked you with a fervour never before seen by him. While Soonyoung moved opposite to his rhythm, thrusting in, when Seungkwan pulled out, never letting you feel empty.
Kwon Soonyoung, though—he was something else. A beast. A self-proclaimed tiger. Perverted? No. Obsessed? Definitely. The man had probably fucked you on every surface of your shared apartment—even the balcony, where anyone could’ve seen. He was obsessed with the idea of breeding you. I mean, come on. This is the same man who said he wanted 11 kids. But of course he respected your boundaries and made sure you took your pills and kept up with your health.
During sex, though? He was not so nice.
Manhandle galore.
Missionary, doggy, 69, mating press, lotus, against the wall, bent over the desk—he’d run through them all in a single night. He was a voyeur too, demanding videos whenever he couldn’t come home. Especially videos of their cum seeping out of your hole. Your stomach and thighs, covered with the essence of Seungkwan and Seokmin. That was what drove him wild. And when he finally did come home, he’d slip into bed quietly… only to wake you the next morning with his mouth on your pussy.
Seokmin was the biggest out of all of them, your hands couldn’t even wrap around the entirety of him, so of course you were scared when he first took you.
In fact he was the first to take you ever.
But your sunshine took care of you perfectly. He made you cum on his fingers, then his tongue, had you ride his thick thigh, then stretched you open one more time with his fingers, coaxing you open. Until finally—finally you welcomed him in, gently, reverently, as if he had all the time in the world. He promised to pull out the moment you felt pain or wanted to stop but you didn't. By the time he was fully sheathed inside, you were overflowing with him, overwhelmed and craving more.
So he did what he loved doing best; he gave.
Soft thrusts at first, until your nails dug into his back and begged him faster. Then he moved harder. The squelch of your cunt, the slap of him against your ass, the whines and whorish moans that came out of your mouth painted the silence in your room. Seokmin whined as your tight pussy clenched around him, the two of you crying out together in perfect harmony.
~
One night when you were out partying with them—in addition to Chan, Joshua and Jihoon—you decided to mess with your boyfriends and the other 3 for shits and giggles. A trait you shared with your best friend Jeonghan.
You wore your tightest black dress, smoky eyes, and red bottoms that had the crowd hypnotized by your energy. At the pool table, you bent over just enough to draw Chan’s eyes to the cute lace set you were wearing beneath. When speaking with Jihoon about his music class, you pressed the cue stick between your breasts. And while dancing with Joshua, you let his hands rest possessively on your hips as you swayed, teasing and tempting without a second thought.
Your boyfriends were fuming and the fun hadn’t even begun yet.
“You wanna rile up our youngest, huh? Grind on Shua-hyung and shove your tits in Jihoonie-hyung’s face like a little whore?” Seokmin growled into your neck, tugging at your hair in the back of Soonyoung’s car on the way home.
Did I mention his fingers were buried deep inside you, pulling back every time you teetered on the edge? Yeah…
You had never seen this side of Seokmin. You had never heard him degrade you. But you fucking loved it. You loved it when Soonyoung did it, and you loved it even more when your sweet Seokmin did.
“Don’t let her cum just yet, hyung,” Seungkwan warned from the passenger seat, multitasking between Seokmin’s skilled fingers and Soonyoung, who was speeding down the road with his cursed lead foot. “She’s in for it when we get home.”
And when you did reach home… well. Let’s just say you were occupied for hours.
You were thrown around so much, pounded into the bed, flipped face down ass up, crying into the sheets. Sitting on one of their faces, while the other claimed your mouth, pressed back against Seungkwan’s chest as he held your thighs open—letting Seokmin and Soonyoung feast their eyes—and mercilessly fingerfucked until you squirted onto the sheets.
They took you one by one, savouring the sight of you coming undone differently under each of them.
Then, they took you all at once.
But instead of Seungkwan taking your ass—which he was obsessed with, mind you—he slipped into your pussy, which was already occupied with Seokmin. The stretch was intense, almost otherworldly, but it felt impossibly right. On your knees atop the bed, sandwiched between men bigger than you, being fucked into oblivion was a sight in itself. Soonyoung couldn’t resist pulling out his phone, recording your body shaking, stuffed and undone, tears streaking your flushed cheeks.
He made sure to not only videotape you, Seokmin and Seungkwan, but also your fucked-out cunt. When the three of you were reaching your highs, Soonyoung’s hand slid to your clit, teasing with precise, relentless skill, leading you to one of the highest orgasms of your life. The clenching of your walls made the men inside you to spurt their hot seeds deep into your womb, and when they pulled out…god. It was so much. Seungkwan was already a heavy loader but with the combination of Seokmin, the sheets were beyond soaked.
You wanted Soonyoung to take you too. He was afraid that you would be in pain, but you assured him you wanted more. Gently, Soonyoung, rolled his hips into you and filled you up too, and you came once and finally for your 3rd boyfriend—passing out while doing so.
When you woke up, you were sitting, leaning against Seokmin in the bath tub while Soonyoung cleaned and lathered you up with soap. Seungkwan was on bedsheet duty and was tidying up his room so the four of you could crash there. He even made sure you peed before sleeping, muttering about UTIs like the mother hen he secretly was.
Later that night, curled against your three boyfriends, you knew they loved you equally, deeply, endlessly. They worshiped the ground you walked on and they spoke your name like prayer.
And you loved them the same.
It was just youth, happiness, you and BooSeokSoon.
Your three idiots.
𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: i swear i think i'm shadowbanned....
not me giving hoshi lead foot (we've all seen that ttt episode lmfao), title taken from the movie cuz im desi
s.coups, hoshi, jeonghan, joshua, wonwoo - new ffs coming soon
ifyk, horangi in the game, reminds me of hoshi only cuz of the name tho. so i have this crazy idea and you just gotta see it tbh.
and i mean what a better time than now cuz our mans is in the troops oh soonyoung, how i miss u 😞. (don't even get me started on jihoon, him leaving is like watching a part of my soul die. bring back my 4/4 '96line)
now someone gotta write a hoshi x cod ff.... tag me if u do hehehe.
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: "There's the beehive, let's attack at dinner time. Honey, gather it all. Sweetie, night, suck your vein." - P1Harmony (Intak & Jongseob), WASP
In a city rotting from within, heroes aren’t what they seem and neither are you. When the threat of the WASPS come knocking on your honeycomb, will you fight the pull… or give in and become theirs?
—————
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): nsfw explicit sexual content, threesome (m/f/m), domsub dynamics, lil power play, use of nicknames, oral sex (m. & f. rec.), recording/voyeurism, semi-public sex, explicit language, rough sex. ot6 x reader mentioned. all in all i didn't really make this my best smut but its still good lol
𝐀/𝐍: yeah ik p1h have a hero concept, but i like villains. inspired by WASP lyrics, a quick lil dystopian smut cuz we boredd
The city is sick.
What used to be a golden skyline now flickers with neon decay. Towering monuments of so-called justice rot from the inside out, cracked by the very corruption they were built to withstand.
The Hero Committee was supposed to be something the people could believe in. A beacon in the dark. But now? It’s just a lie engineered by fat, old businessmen feeding off fear, squeezing profit from the unfortunate.
But you didn’t know that. Not when you joined the academy and definitely not when you wore your suit with pride. You thought you were training alongside your future family; six classmates who bled and bruised with you.
Keeho. Taeyang. Jiung. Intak. Shota. Jongseob.
You never expected betrayal. Not from them. Not from the people you trusted most in this world. The ones who laughed with you during late-night drills, snuck snacks into training, held you when the nightmares came. The ones who swore you’d all be heroes together.
But they vanished and when they reappeared, it wasn’t as your teammates. It was as villains.
They didn’t take you with them. Said you “weren’t ready.”
Ironic. Because you are sure as hell ready now.
The Hero Committee has labeled you defective. They unleashed their mechanical dogs the moment you went off-script. All because you found out the truth. That the "specimen" you recovered wasn’t meant to heal the city; it was going to poison it. Biological warfare disguised as salvation. You burned every note, every formula, every digital print of the recipe.
And now they want your head.
Your wings tremble every time you lift off, aching and overused. The last of your venom pulses weakly in your bloodstream, not nearly enough to take out another drone. Your antennae buzz with static. You’re falling apart and gods, you're so tired. You want someone — anyone — to find you. To hold you up, tell you it's going to be okay. But when you stumble into the half-collapsed skeleton of a once-grand building, dragging yourself through crumbling concrete and glass, you feel something else entirely.
You're not alone. Two voices echo through the walls, ones you could recognise even in your sleep.
The WASPS.
Rumours always said Intak and Jongseob were ruthless. That they didn’t take prisoners, that they didn’t hesitate to strike where it hurt most. And still, some part of you hoped that maybe they were still yours. You hoped that the boys who once worshipped the ground you walked on would not burn it.
You press yourself into the shadows of the ruined building, chest rising in shallow, frantic breaths. Your wings twitch uselessly behind you, tattered and trembling. The city groans around you, metal bending under its own decay.
For a moment — just a moment — you remember them in soft light. Intak with a crooked grin and dirt on his cheek, Jongseob muttering under his breath as he patched up your scraped knuckles. You remember how they used to circle you like orbiting stars, tugging at your gravity. Always a little too close, always wanting.
But this isn't the academy and you're not kids anymore.
Boots crunch over broken glass.
You turn, barely able to lift your head, and there they are, stepping through a collapsed entryway like shadows made flesh. Moonlight catches on their suits which are sleek, armored and striped with venomous yellow.
Intak tilts his head and smiles.
“Jongseob, look at this,” his voice echoes through the shadows, smooth and taunting.
From the shadows behind him, Jongseob steps forward, unhurried. His movements are silent, almost feline, his head tilting slightly as he surveys you; the trembling hero collapsed against a cracked pillar, wings twitching weakly behind her.
“Oh my,” Jongseob hums, “look at this one indeed. No fear?”
Intak clicks his tongue, pacing slowly in a circle around you, eyes dragging over your form with lazy amusement. “I’m so starving,” he mutters, almost to himself. “And right in front of me… there’s a pretty little beehive.”
Jongseob crouches in front of you, resting his arms on his knees like you’re nothing more than a wounded animal he’s deciding whether or not to gut. But his voice says otherwise, always gentle for you and you only.
“What do you say?” he asks Intak, not taking his eyes off you. “Should we gather all her honey?”
Your eyes widen at their meaning and you try to move, try to crawl back, but Intak’s hand is already on your shoulder.
“Oh, little honeybee…” he murmurs, dragging the words out like a promise, like a threat, “we’re gonna suck your veins dry.”
You tremble not just from fear, but adrenaline. Your body’s thrumming and your instincts scream at you to strike or surrender. But deep down… part of you doesn’t know if you want to run anymore.
“Intak…Jongseob…what are you doing?” You whisper as Jongseob pushes you towards the worn out wooden table behind you.
“What we should have done years ago, Y/N.” His eyes meet yours and they are full of undeniable lust; predatory and possessive. “Make you ours.”
You barely have time to catch your breath before Intak’s hands are on your hips, shoving you forward so your stomach hits the edge of a broken, splintered table. Dust rises around you, and the sound of your panting fills the warehouse.
“Intak!” You try to protest, but he cuts you off.
“Quiet. You’re gonna take everything we give you tonight like a good girl. Is that understood?” He growls.
Your lips part to argue but you betray yourself once again. Maybe it's the heat that's been simmering beneath the surface for years. Maybe it’s the way they look at you like they’ve already claimed you. That darker part of you, the one that’s tired of resisting — wins.
So you nod.
Behind you, Intak lets out a low chuckle and runs his fingers down your spine, slow enough that the cold kiss of his rings sends shivers through your body. Your wings flutter at the sensation and your antennae perk up.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire. “So pretty when you tremble.”
“Intak please~”
“Please what, little honeybee?” He smirks, already knowing, but making you say it anyway. “You’ve gotta be more clear with me here.”
“He’s right, Y/N,” Jongseob adds, his voice like silk wrapped around a blade. He’s in front of you now, close enough that you can see the hard length bulging from his pants in front of your face. He reaches down and strokes your cheek with his thumb. “Come on, baby. Tell us what you need.”
You want him in your mouth so bad.
A flush creeps up your neck and sirens go off in your head that you should stop, that you shouldn't be begging like this. But fuck that. You want them. You want both of them.
“Please… fuck me,” you whisper, trying to hide your face behind your hair, but Jongseob laughs, soft and dark, and grabs your chin, forcing your gaze back up.
“There she is.”
Behind you, Intak wastes no time. He strips your pants off with one swift motion, letting them fall to the floor as he kicks your legs apart. The cold air from the window rushes in, making your thighs quiver. You gasp, hips instinctively arching backward when he trails his fingers over your soaking folds.
“God,” he growls, rubbing slow, lazy circles against your clit. “You’re soaked. Dripping like a honeybee in heat, huh? I could just fuck you all night long, couldnt I?”
You moan, rocking back against his hand, eyes fluttering shut.
Jongseob watches you intently, eyes flicking down to where your lips part in anticipation. “As tempting as that sounds,” he says, unbuttoning his belt with deliberate slowness, “Keeho gave us a time limit. We shouldn’t keep him waiting too long.”
“Then I better make it worth every second,” Intak murmurs.
He’s sinking to his knees behind you, large hands gripping your thighs as he lowers his mouth to your core. The first drag of his tongue through your folds makes your knees buckle, and Jongseob catches you by the shoulders, steadying you with a firm grip. Intak eats you out like a man starved. Long, slow licks that make your head spin. He groans into your pussy, the vibrations shooting straight through your spine. His hands grip your hips tightly, spreading you open for his mouth as he devours you, every flick, every suck, calculated to bring you closer and closer to the precipice.
You moan, loudly this time, unable to stop it and your thighs tremble violently.
But then, right when you’re about to fall apart, he pulls away. You cry out, the denial hitting like a slap.
Intak stands behind you, his mouth slick with your wetness, his eyes blown wide with lust. “You don’t come unless I’m inside you,” he growls.
“Seobie~” You whine. The nickname flutters into his heart and he smiles, thinking of the times you used to call him that. Jongseob chuckles, dragging his cock out of his pants in front of you, thick and leaking. “I’m sorry but you heard him, baby.”
Intak sinks into you slowly, inch by devastating inch, until he’s fully seated inside you, stretching you open in a way that makes you almost blackout. You gasp, fingers scrambling for purchase against the rough surface of the table. Your wings twitch and flutter helplessly behind you as Intak groans, low and guttural.
“Shit,” he breathes, holding you there, buried to the hilt. “Theo was right when he said every part of you is perfect.”
Ah. Taeyang. The man you gave your first to when in the academy, an inexperienced time back then. But the man behind you? He knows exactly how to get you going and he’s definitely not nice with it.
You look to the man in front of you, “Jongseob please, I need you in my mouth.”
He tilts his head like a predator, his lips spread to a grin, one where you can see his cute snaggletooth.
“Open,” he commands.
You obey without hesitation, lips parting as he guides himself in, his fingers holding your head steady. The first inch has your eyes fluttering shut, and by the time he's halfway in, tears prick the corners of your eyes.
“Shit,” Jongseob hisses, hips rocking forward just a little deeper. “Your mouth’s a fucking dream.”
You moan around Jongseob’s cock, and the vibration pulls a groan from his throat. “Fuckk.”
Your lips stretch wide around him, tongue curling under his shaft, tears streaking your cheeks as he thrusts into your throat in shallow, controlled strokes. You gag slightly, but your hands grip his thighs to keep him close.
“Oh honeybee,” Jongseob breathes, fingers threading through your hair. “Look at you taking me so well. Let me record this baby please.”
Your eyes widen slightly, but there’s no fear, only want. A thrill runs through you at the thought of being captured like this: used, dripping, obedient, and stuffed full of both of them. The idea of being seen—not just these two but the other four as well– seeing you this ruined and willing—it makes your thighs shake.
Jongseob pulls out of your mouth and he strokes your cheek softly, gaze still locked on yours. “Only if you want it, Y/N. You say no, and I won’t even think twice.”
You swallow thickly, lips brushing the tip of his cock as you nod slowly. “Do it,” you whisper. “I want you to.”
Intak groans behind you. “Fuck, she’s perfect.”
Jongseob reaches into his pocket with one hand, never fully pulling away from you, and quickly unlocks his phone. He lifts it up, camera pointed down toward your flushed, tear-streaked face, lips parted and glossy, breath still heavy.
“Look up for me,” he murmurs.
You lift your gaze to the camera lens, mouth open, tongue just barely peeking out. You feel beautiful and filthy under moonlight, your wings limp behind you, your hair wild from their hands.
Jongseob strokes himself slowly with one hand, the other steady with the phone. “Come on, pretty thing. Let’s give the camera what it wants.”
You moan softly, lips parting, tongue flattening as he guides himself back into your mouth—slowly this time, letting the camera capture the stretch, the shine, the hunger in your eyes as you take him.
“God damn,” he breathes, watching the screen. “You look like heaven, baby. Mouth so full, eyes so fucked-out.”
Behind you, Intak slams into you, grunting. “If you don’t send that in the group chat later, I’ll kill you.”
Intak’s thrusts start slow but deliberate, hips slamming into your ass with a rhythm that makes your legs shake. Every time he bottoms out, your walls clench around him, the wet sound of your pussy only turning him on more.
You sob around Jongseob’s cock, the sensations overwhelming—one of them in your mouth, the other inside your core, every inch of you claimed. You try to respond, try to say something, but your throat is stuffed full and your mind is spiraling. Pleasure builds at every nerve ending, your body rocking back and forth between their hips, completely at their mercy.
Jongseob growls, fucking your mouth just a little faster. “She loves this, don’t you baby?”
You nod the best you can, throat stuffed, face flushed, tears streaking down your cheeks as your own arousal trickles down your thighs. Intak slaps your ass hard, the sting making your back arch. You moan, muffled and raw, as Jongseob grips your head tighter, using your mouth now with reckless need.
“Fucking beautiful,” he growls. “You gonna let us fill you up, sweetheart?”
You gag and gasp, but nod, voice muffled around him: “Mmhm…”
“That’s it,” Intak hisses, picking up speed. His cock slams into you again and again, and your body trembles with the building pressure—too full, too stretched, and somehow, not enough. Your vision swims and you’re spiraling down into something primal, something dark and addictive.
“Touch yourself,” Intak growls, voice wrecked. “Rub that little clit for us, baby. Show us how bad you want to come.”
Your shaking hand obeys, slipping beneath your stomach, fingers working your swollen clit as Intak fucks you deeper. Your legs start to give out as pressure builds impossibly high.
“You’re gonna come, aren’t you?” Jongseob pants.
“Come for us,” Intak growls. “Right now. While we’re both inside you.”
Your body explodes. It hits you so hard your vision goes white. Your walls clamp down around him as your scream is swallowed around Jongseob’s cock. The orgasm tears through you, your whole body wracked with tremors as you finally fall over the edge they’ve held you against for so long.
They chase their own highs moments later — Intak spilling deep inside you with a snarl, Jongseob’s release flooding your mouth as he holds you there, trembling. The warehouse is filled with the sound of panting, sweat-slick skin, and your own ragged breath.
You collapse forward, trembling, body utterly spent. You shake, your mouth slack and wet as Jongseob finally eases out of you with a soft groan. Behind you, Intak gently pulls back too, his grip on your hips loosening.
“Fuck,” Jongseob mutters, still holding the phone in one hand. His voice is lower now, a little breathless, tinged with awe. “You’re unreal.”
He hits stop on the recording, the little red light blinking out, and tucks the phone away. Then he kneels in front of you, his hands immediately on your face, gentle now. His thumb wipes at the wetness around your mouth and cheeks, not just saliva but tears too. “You okay, honey?”
You nod slowly, lips parted as your breath comes in shallow waves. “Y-Yeah,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “I… I needed that.”
Jongseob smiles, softly.
You barely register Intak stepping back until you feel his hands on your waist again. He leans over you, voice rough but quiet. “Breathe, baby. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
He presses a kiss between your shoulder blades, as his hands help guide you up from the table. Your legs almost give out, but Jongseob catches you, wrapping an arm around your waist before you can fall.
“I’ve got her,” he says, glancing at Intak.
“I wasn’t gonna let her hit the floor,” Intak mutters, but there’s a note of fondness in it.
Together, they lift you gently. Your legs are wobbly, your whole body sore in the best way but they’re both there, holding you, brushing your hair back, helping you catch your breath.
Intak grabs your discarded pants and underwear from the floor and crouches in front of you. “Lift for me,” he murmurs, sliding the fabric up your thighs slowly, carefully.
You do, wordless, leaning into Jongseob’s chest as he strokes your back. “You did so well,” Jongseob whispers against your hair. “We should have taken you earlier."
You let out a tiny, shaky laugh. “You better send me that video, I know you sent it to those four idiots, I want it too.”
“All yours, honeybee.”
Jongseob lets you rest against him as they guide you down the rusted stairwell, Intak keeping close at your side. Your legs are still trembling, your clothes barely put together, but neither of them seem in a rush. If anything, they walk slowly.
“They’re waiting,” Jongseob says as he opens the door and helps you in.
Intak slides in next to you. “You sure you’re ready?”
You give a breathless, bitter little laugh. “I just let you two ruin me over a table in an abandoned warehouse. I think ‘ready’ stopped mattering a long time ago.”
When you step out of the car, the others are already waiting at their base.
Keeho stands in the center like a king in black, arms folded, expression unreadable. To his left, Jiung leans casually against a rusted column, chewing on a toothpick like he’s trying to hide the way his jaw clenches. Theo’s hands are shoved deep in his pockets, but his eyes rake over you with slow intensity. And Soul—quiet, watchful Soul—just tilts his head slightly, his gaze cool but… hungry.
Your thighs are still sticky. You feel the way Intak’s and Jongseob’s marks linger on your skin, fingertips, teeth, tongue. And judging by the way they’re all looking at you, they know it.
Jongseob doesn’t bother following you out of the car. He sits on the roof of it with that same cocky grin he wore while he filmed you. Intak does step out, though. Not far, just enough to let the others know he’s standing behind you, with you.
Keeho’s voice cuts through the silence, low and dry. “Had your fun?”
It’s directed at Jongseob and Intak, but you cut in before either can answer.
“You’re asking the wrong people, Kyo.” You tilt your head, voice smooth and laced with challenge. “But to answer your question—I did.”
Keeho raises a brow, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Ah, the Sting still stings.” He steps closer. “You didn’t sound so mouthy when you were on your knees for me in that safehouse back then.”
Your gaze sharpens. “That was a long time ago, Keeho. Funny how you remember that now… but not once in the years between.”
“You weren’t ready, Y/N.” His voice softens. “Still too deep in their lies. Too loyal to the Committee.”
He glances briefly toward Jongseob and Intak. “Why do you think I sent them the moment I found out you went rogue?”
Jiung finally spits the toothpick out. “I’m sure our wasps had their fun,” he mutters, his voice laced with a smirk, eyes dragging down your body, like he wants a taste too. “But this isn’t about that.”
He steps forward, his presence heavier now, serious.
“We need you, Y/N. Now.”
“Our plan is finally in motion,” Theo adds quietly, his tone all restraint and none of his expression. “But it’s not enough without your speed. Your precision, your venom, your super strength. You’re the last p1ece to our puzzle.”
“We’ve been waiting for you...” Soul adds.
“But,” Jiung says, voice dropping, “if you say yes, you’re ours now. No going back.”
Keeho lifts his hand, palm open.
You glance down at it. Your heart pounds in your chest from the sheer heat burning beneath your skin. The way Soul’s gaze trails down your thighs like he’s already picturing himself between them. From Keeho’s eyes, unapologetically undressing you, daring you to try and act innocent. The way Theo’s jaw flexes, fists clenched in his pockets like he’s remembering the sounds you made for him. The way Jiung watches you like he’s daring you to say no, just so he has an excuse to fuck it out of you later. You can feel it: they all want you. They all think they deserve their p1ece.
And you want them too. Years of training together, sharing shy kisses and first times was long gone. Now in front of them stood the most powerful woman in the city, not just for her gifts, but also for her will, diligence and ambition—you.
You step forward. You do not falter. You do not yield.
Theo shifts, Jiung swears under his breath and Soul’s mouth twitches at the corner. Without breaking eye contact, you place your hand into Keeho’s. His fingers tighten around yours.
“Welcome, Sting,” he says, his voice rough with satisfaction. “To our band of misfits.” He steps back, raising his gaze to the others, and smiles.
“With your induction… Project Disharmony commences now.”
𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: p.s. that scene where intak first speaks/that dynamic dialogue is actually the lyrics to WASP....
villain Y/N is ALWAYS better
the p1ece reference teehee
istg everytime i watch that mushroom live special WASP vid my freak gets activated, like damn intak's tongue and seobie's cocky smirk uhh pound me pls—WHO SAID THAT?!?!
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bestfriend!yechan & bsfolderbro!keeho x reader
𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: smut, fluff
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: "I met two [boys] in this club tonight. Tryna figure out which one I like." - DC The Don, GET NAKED
—————
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): nsfw, smut (threesome, voyeurism, mild degradation, praise, oral m. & f. rec, fingering, unprotected piv sex, masturbation), drinking, NO incest cuz ew wtf
𝐀/𝐍: i'm surprised there is not that many ffs of the yoon brothers together on here, they might be a bit ooc but who cares its fanFICTION for a reason
You’ve known Yechan since middle school, long enough for him to memorize the way your voice deepens when you get bored, or how you stare off into space when you're maladaptive daydreaming. You’re best friends. At least, that’s what you tell people when they ask why he’s always touching your waist or why you steal his hoodies like they’re yours.
But the truth is, friendship never really quite covered it.
There’s always been something simmering just under the surface. With glances that linger too long, late-night calls that stretch past the point of casual, touches that aren’t quite ‘friend-like.’ And for a while, that was enough for you.
But then came Keeho.
At first, he was just Yechan’s older brother; a presence in the background. Charming, loud, always joking but lately, he’s been different around you. His teasing has shifted, his eyes lingering just a little longer than they used to.
And it does something to you.
Because if Yechan is the epitome of comfort, safety and love then Keeho is the complete opposite. He is heat, pressure, lust and gravity.
You didn’t expect to be drawn to both but now you're standing at the edge of something you don’t fully understand. Wanting two people who are already too close, whose blood ties should make this impossible.
You weren’t planning to go. Parties were never the scene for your introverted self but Yechan had asked, all playful smiles and soft eyes, the way he always is when he wants something.
“It’ll be chill,” he promised. “Just come for me?”
So you did.
And for a while, it really is chill. You hang back, sipping on something too sweet, watching him move through the crowd, saying hi to everyone who came to his house. You stay in your little corner, hidden from everyone and turning down every man or woman who tries to hit on you. But it is getting a little boring, and Seokjoon always knows how to make things better. So when he leans in to whisper in your ear about something funny Dogyun did, you can't help but relax and fall into the rhythm of comfort. That is until you make eye contact with Yechan—who is now marching over looking…angry?
No…jealous.
“Hey Seokjoon, can I borrow Y/N for a moment?” He yells over the loud music.
Seokjoon groans, “Oh come on man I was just getting to the good part, but fine take the pretty girl.”
Yechan pulls you into the hallway, away from the noise, his hand tight around your wrist. His eyes are darker now, and when he leans in, you stop breathing.
“You’ve been driving me insane,” he murmurs, and before you can ask what he means, his mouth is on yours.
Final-fucking-ly.
It’s nothing like you imagined. It’s better.
Hungry, desperate, like he’s been holding back for years and just broke. His hands grip your hips. You melt into it and he groans against your lips, pushing you back against the wall.
“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he says, kissing down your jaw. “Always looking at me like that… walking around like you’re not mine. And then teasing me by leaning into Seokjoon? I should have done this years ago.”
You’re dizzy with it, your hands in his hair, his mouth on your neck.
And then you see him. Across the room, standing near the kitchen.
Keeho.
His eyes are locked on yours and in his hand is a lowball glass which he slowly, deliberately clenches until it shatters. Glass shards hit the floor and blood beads at his knuckles but he doesn’t look away, he doesn't even flinch.
You freeze. Yechan doesn’t notice because he’s too lost in you, still pressing kisses to your collarbone but you can’t stop looking.
Keeho’s jaw is clenched and his stare is heavy. Something about the way he’s watching you makes your stomach twist; not with fear but with something much worse.
Want.
Yechan meets you at the door with a smile and a zip-up hoodie already in hand. “Knew you’d forget yours,” he teases, pulling you inside like always, like nothing’s changed.
Monthly sleepovers at each other's place is a must between you and Yechan. While you prefer his home due to the size of it and the cool layout of his room, he prefers your apartment which is more domestic and comforting.
He leads you up the stairs, through the sleek, modern space, and into his world. Yechan’s room is the kind of place that makes you pause every time you walk in. Warm, moody lighting glows from low bedside lamps, casting soft halos against matte black walls. Large framed photographs hang with intentional symmetry, some abstract, some eerily cinematic, like stills from a noir film.
The bed dominates the space, it’s low, wide, draped in soft coffee-colored sheets and plush black pillows, the comforter rumpled like it’s always in use. The Michaelangelo plushie sits at the head of the bed, a gift you got him years ago. A thick fur-like rug spreads across the marble floor, sinking beneath your feet with every step. The staircase cuts diagonally through the room, leading to a mezzanine level above where more books, a second bed and bathroom, and personal touches are tucked away. There is a TV mounted on the wall in front of his bed.
Yechan flops onto the bed, patting the spot beside him. “You want snacks, or are you coming here first?”
You toss your bag to the floor and dive on top of him without hesitation, landing with a soft thud across his chest.
He groans dramatically at the full weight of you. “Ugh! Why are you built like a brick shithouse?”
You just grin. “Shut up, you love it.”
He retaliates immediately, hands finding your sides to tickle without mercy, and you shriek, squirming and laughing as you try to wiggle out of his grip.
“Yechan—stop—I swear to god!”
He finally relents, both of you breathless with laughter and you collapse beside him, head falling onto the pillow, still giggling. He turns to face you, smile softening, his hand coming up to gently fix a strand of hair that fell across your face.
“What do you wanna watch?” he asks, voice low now but still playful.
“Dune: Part Two,” you reply immediately.
He snorts. “Pfft. Nerd.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Hoe last time I sat through two back-to-back Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movies, Tokyo Drift and White Chicks with you. You better sit yo ass down and watch some peak science fiction.”
Yechan breaks into a full grin, eyes crinkling. “Fine, fine. Get comfy.”
He grabs the remote and starts queuing up the movie, arm draping casually around your shoulder like muscle memory. You lean into him, cheek resting against the warm plane of his chest. His fingers trail lazily up and down your arm while the opening credits roll, slow and soothing. At some point, he shifts to press a kiss to the top of your head.
The movie plays on, but his attention flickers between the screen and you. At one point, you shift to lie fully against his chest, blanket wrapped around both of you now. His fingers trace little circles along your spine.
And when the movie comes to an end, you rise up and stretch your arms out like a cat. Yechan watches you from where he’s sprawled back against the pillows, one arm tucked under his head.
“You gon’ change or just lounge in jeans all night?” he asks, eyes flicking up to yours. “Not that I mind.”
You roll your eyes, heat rising to your cheeks. “I brought stuff to sleep in.”
“Mm-hmm. Wanna gimme a show?” His lips curve into a teasing grin.
“Timothy, you better get your stanky ass in the shower before I whoop you. Laying on your bed after working out—nasty ass.”
He cackles and grabs his towel, heading to the main bathroom for a shower.
You ignore the way his words make your stomach twist, grabbing your overnight clothes and disappearing into the second bathroom upstairs in the mezzanine.
You pull out the “sleepwear” you packed. Soft dark purple lingerie, sheer in the right places, lacy in the dangerous ones. After the heated kiss you two shared, you and Yechan didn’t shy away from getting closer, so you wanted to push the boundaries of intimacy. And tonight was the night.
Your fingers tremble just slightly as you slip into it, pulling the hoodie back on over the top and zipping it, it lands just above your knees due to Yechan’s love for oversize clothes. You look like you're comfortable, safe, homey.
But under that hoodie, you’re bait.
You go back downstairs, put your jeans and shirt in your backpack and flop onto Yechan’s bed, lazily scrolling on tiktok and waiting for the water to stop running. And when it does, your plan begins.
You wait until you hear the clang of Yechan’s skin care hitting the stand and your hands go to the zipper. One tug, then another. The hoodie is completely unzipped but still hangs on your body. You’re just in the lingerie now, skin bare under the soft room light, your heart pounding harder than it should.
A soft click. You freeze and the door creaks open behind you. You whip around.
Keeho shuts the door softly—too softly. You spin on your heel, instinct kicking in, arms barely moving to cover yourself when you see him. One hand still on the knob, the other slips into his pocket. His gaze drops, slow and shameless, tracing every inch of your body in that sheer purple lace.
“Keeho—” you choke out, voice barely more than a breath.
His lips twitch. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“I—Yechan’s in the shower—he’s gonna be out soon,” you stammer, trying to break the heated tension.
Keeho steps in further, door clicking shut behind him. “Hmm.” His eyes lift to yours, dark and unreadable. “Figured I’d come say goodnight.”
You stare at him, frozen between instinct and indecision. “You can’t just come in here—”
“Why not?” he asks, quiet now. “It’s my brother’s room is it not?”
Your breath catches. You try to back up, but there’s nowhere to go, just the bed behind your knees and him in front of you, every step pulling the air from your lungs.
“I saw the way you kissed him,” Keeho says, stepping closer. “Saw the way you let him touch you like he owned you.”
You swallow hard. “He doesn’t—”
“No?” Keeho smirks, gaze flashing. “Then why do you look at me the same way?”
You gasp and that’s when he grabs you. His hand closes around your waist, pulling you against him. Your body reacts before your mind can, lips parting, heat blooming between your thighs.
“Keeho, stop, what are you doing—?”
His mouth finds your neck, hot, fast and hungry. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re his,” he murmurs against your skin. “Not when you want me too.”
You push at his chest, half-heartedly. “Yechan—he’ll—”
“Let him watch,” Keeho growls, backing you toward the bed. “Maybe then he’ll understand you’re not his alone.”
He sits on the edge and tugs you between his legs, hands sliding up your thighs. His fingers graze the hem of your lace panties, curling around your hips as he kisses down your stomach.
“You’re shaking,” he mutters, lips brushing the waistband. “That for me?”
You’re about to say something — anything — until a presence looms behind you, hot and heavy.
It’s Yechan. Towel slung low on his hips, his body still damp from the shower, jaw tight, eyes locked on yours. He doesn’t look surprised, he doesn't even look angry.
Yechan pulls you away from Keeho and turns you around to face him.
“I don’t,” he says softly. “Not if she wants both of us.”
“I—” you stammer.
Yechan closes the distance and brushes his fingers along your jaw. “You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at him?”
Keeho’s hands slide over your hips again from behind. “Why have one,” he murmurs, voice dark, possessive, “when you can have two?”
You’re trembling between them now about to say something but Yechan kisses you and Keeho takes your shoulder, biting softly down your neck. The hoodie hits the floor completely. You try to cover yourself under the heat of their eyes but Keeho stops you.
He circles you and Yechan takes his place behind you.
“Don’t be shy now,” Keeho murmurs, eyes flicking down to the lacy set barely covering you. “You wore this for him, huh?” He glances at Yechan over your shoulder. “You didn’t tell me she was this eager.”
Yechan’s hands curl around your waist. His voice is calm, but there’s something hungry in it. “I was gonna take my time with her… but I think she wants to be ruined tonight.”
Keeho lets out a low chuckle, the sound rolling through you like smoke. “She definitely does.”
You shake your head, breathless. “I wasn’t expecting… I don’t—”
“You don’t what?” Keeho leans closer, brushing his lips against yours without touching. “Want us?”
Yechan's lips press to your shoulder, slow and warm. “You can say no. We’ll stop.”
But you don’t say no.
You can’t.
Because your body’s already betraying you — heat flooding your core, thighs pressing together.
Keeho steps in again, pulling your head towards him, mouth crashing onto yours this time. It’s all tongue and teeth, bruising and possessive. His hand cups your jaw, angling you just the way he wants. Yechan's mouth is on your neck now, leaving soft open-mouthed kisses as his hands trail down to your thighs. You’re shaking, overwhelmed, breathless and most importantly drenched.
“Shit,” Yechan whispers, slipping a hand beneath your panties. “You’re soaked already?”
Keeho chuckles. “Such a slut for us. And we haven’t even touched you properly yet.”
You whimper, head tilting back against Yechan’s shoulder. “Please…”
“Oh?” Keeho grins darkly. “Please what?”
You whine, words tangled in your throat.
Yechan bites gently at your earlobe. “Don’t play dumb, baby. You wore that little set for me, but you wanted him to see it too, didn’t you?”
Your silence is the answer.
Keeho drops to his knees in front of you, dragging your panties down in one fluid motion. His mouth is on you, tongue lapping up your arousal, taking in every drop. He groans like he’s starved for it, eating you out like you’re his favorite thing in the world. You cry out, hips jerking backwards, but Yechan’s arms wrap around you from behind, holding you still.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he breathes. “Not until you cum all over his face.”
Keeho smirks up at you, licking a stripe through your folds, sharp nose brushing your clit. “Come on, princess. Let go for me.”
It doesn’t take long. Your legs are shaking, hands grasping at Yechan’s arms, head thrown back into his shoulder as your orgasm crashes through you like a wave.
But they don’t stop.
Keeho groans against you, tongue flicking faster now, and Yechan’s hand slides up your body to cup your breast through the lacey material.
Yechan just smirks from behind you, keeping you pinned against his chest, his towel dropped and you can feel his length pressing into your back. He’s letting Keeho go first this time, watching, waiting, palming himself slowly.
“She’s sensitive,” Yechan murmurs.
Keeho glances up from between your thighs, his mouth slick. “Good.” He thrusts two fingers inside you without warning and you cry out, body arching.
Yechan chuckles against your skin. “She looks so fucked out already… look at her.”
But his hands don’t stop moving, his fingers dipping between your legs, spreading you out to see how his brother is ruining you—his best friend.
Keeho watches too, licking his lips. “Fuckk look at that.”
Yechan unhooks your bra from behind and throws it to some random corner of his room, before teasing your sensitive nipples, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger. “You like being used by us, don’t you, baby?”
You nod because it’s true, and you can’t hide it anymore.
“She can’t even talk,” Keeho says, grinning. “Oh, you don’t wanna work for it, huh?” His fingers curl just right and your back arches off Yechan’s chest. “You’re a lil pillow princess, aren’t you?”
Yechan grabs your chin, forcing your dazed gaze to meet his. “What do you say, Keeho? Should we give our princess what she needs?”
He pulls his fingers out and sucks them clean with a groan. “She’s not getting a choice after teasing us with her little stunt.”
Keeho flips you over before you can protest; face down, ass up, barely breathing between gasps. You feel his hand on your back, holding you in place.
“You’re gonna take both of us tonight,” Keeho murmurs. “You’re gonna beg for it.”
Yechan is kneeling in front of you on the massive bed, he brushes your hair back gently, voice soft but commanding nonetheless. “Look at me. He’s right, Y/N. Beg.”
You meet his eyes, glassy and wrecked. “Please, Yechan… Keeho… fuck me. I’ll be good, I’ll do anything, just—please—”
Keeho slams into you in one hard stroke, the stretch makes your eyes roll back in ecstasy, he’s so fucking thick and he’s in you so deep.
“Feel that?” he growls into your ear. “That’s what you do to me. All this time I’ve wanted to wreck this sweet pussy.”
Yechan strokes himself in front of your face. “You gonna suck me off like a good girl while my brother fucks you?”
Your eyes flutter and you nod.
“Words,” Yechan says, thumb brushing your lower lip.
“Yes. Please.”
He smiles. “There’s my pretty thing.”
You open your mouth for him, and Yechan groans when you wrap your lips around his tip. Keeho thrusts deep at the same time, and the mix of fullness and heat is almost too much.
Yechan slides in, groaning when you gag around him. His hands cradle your face as he rocks into your throat, slow but firm. “Good girl… just like that… fuck, who knew my timid little friend could do this.”
“You like this, baby?” Keeho snarls. “Like being passed between brothers like a perfect little toy?”
You whimper around Yechan’s cock.
“Let her answer,” he says. “She needs to say it.”
He pulls out from your mouth. “I love it,” you gasp. “I love it—I want both of you—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”
Keeho grips your hips tighter, snapping into you harder, faster, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the room. You’re shaking again, tears streaming down your cheeks from how full and how overwhelmed you are.
And they love it.
Keeho groans behind you and reaches down, circling your clit. “That’s it. That’s our girl.”
“Cum for us, baby,” Yechan says, stroking your cheek.
And you do. Harder than before. Loud, sobbing, body convulsing between them as waves of pleasure rip through you. Keeho follows with a growl, spilling inside you with a brutal thrust. Yechan doesn’t even wait — he grabs your face, shoves his cock back between your lips, and finishes in your mouth with a broken moan, his release coating your tongue.
Yechan pulls out from your mouth, panting, eyes dark. “Switch.”
Keeho smirks. “She can barely move.”
“I was nice enough to let her have you first, she's my best friend Keeho, remember that.”
Your eyes flutter open. You nod, barely conscious, but completely needy. “Yechan please, I need you, I've been needing you.”
Yechan doesn't waste a second and moves Keeho away from between your legs and flips you over so that you're face-to-face with him.
“I wanna see my pretty girl’s face when fuck her.” He says, while pushing your knees up to your chest. He looks at your fucked out pussy and nearly busts at the sight of yours and his brothers cum seeping out.
Keeho kneels next to you, already hard, already leaking. “God, just fuck her already, she’s writhing for you.”
Yechan laughs and presses a thumb against your clit and you arch, fists clenching into his sheets. “She’s been writing for me for years, what's just a couple minutes more.”
“Yoon Timothy Yechan, I swear on all the damn gods out there if you dont fuck me right now I will strangle you with the Michaelangelo plushie behind me.”
Yechan laughs before grabbing your outer thighs, lining himself up. And then he’s pushing into you and your body arches like it’s been starved for him. He doesn’t rush it, he doesn't thrust hard. He sinks into you, like he wants you to feel every inch, memorize every second.
“You feel that?” he whispers. “That’s me. Only me.”
You nod frantically. “Yechan—fuck—”
He starts to move, hips rolling into you with love, every stroke slow and deep and devastating. His hand finds yours and threads your fingers together, pressing them into the mattress beside your head.
“You’re everything to me,” he breathes. “Always have been. Ever since we were kids.”
Your eyes flutter open, wide and watery. “Me too. Yechan, I—”
He kisses you before you can say it. Mouth hot, a little desperate, he’s trying to pour everything into you in one breath. His thrusts get rougher then, less patient.
Keeho is still watching silently. Eyes locked on where your bodies are joined. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t interrupt, he just strokes himself with slow, lazy precision, he’s content watching you unravel.
Yechan grips your thigh, pushing it up so he can get even deeper. “Fuck, baby. You take me so well.”
You nod, sobbing out moans. “Yes, Yechan please, dont fucking stop~”
“You want to cum?”
“Please!”
“Then cum. Let Keeho see how pretty you are when you break for me.”
The moment his thumb brushes your clit, you shatter.
Your body convulses beneath him, back arching off the bed as your climax bursts through you with enough force to leave you crying. Your fingers claw at the sheets, his shoulders, his back, your lips trembling as you whimper his name over and over again.
Yechan groans, losing rhythm. “Fuckk you’re milking me baby.”
He slams into you one last time and buries himself deep, spilling inside you with a broken moan, his name on your lips and love in every gasp. When he finally stills, his forehead drops to your shoulder. You lie there, both of you panting, trembling in each other’s arms.
Keeho exhales a quiet, “Shit,” from next to you. His hand is covered in his seed, the sight of you being fucked by his brother was enough to get him off, and you looked so pretty doing it too.
Yechan pulls out slowly, and you whimper from the oversensitivity. He immediately presses a kiss to your hip, to your stomach, to your chest, soothing you.
You don’t even know how long you lie there afterward. Your body is trembling, glowing, spent. Your skin still sings from every kiss, every bite, every place their hands held you down, held you close.
Yechan’s bed is a mess; tangled sheets, kicked pillows. One of your thighs is still twitching involuntarily as your breathing finally begins to steady. You're lying between them, chest rising and falling, your cheek pressed against the lean stretch of Yechan’s shoulder, one hand tangled loosely with his under the covers.
Keeho’s fingers are softly combing through your hair from behind, slow and rhythmic, as if he's lulling you back to earth. His touch is nothing like how he was just moments ago. Now, he’s quiet, gentle, and focused on you.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low.
You nod, looking back at him. He offers a soft smile. “Good.”
Yechan shifts beside you, pulling the blanket up higher over your bare chest. He presses a kiss to your temple, his hand resting protectively on your waist. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he murmurs, it’s the easiest truth he’s ever said.
You hum, flushed and wordless, still floating in the afterglow.
Keeho lets out a breath of a laugh, brushing a knuckle along your cheek. "I think we broke her.”
Yechan chuckles. “You’re one to talk, you broke before she did. You were already losing your mind watching her in my hoodie before we even touched her.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t take her right then,” Keeho mutters, but he’s smiling, tender despite the bite in his words. He leans in and kisses your shoulder gently, letting his lips linger. “Did so good for us, baby.”
Your body curls instinctively into the praise. Yechan reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand and offers it to you, helping you sit up just enough to drink. You blink at him, grateful, and he tucks a damp curl of hair behind your ear.
“We’ll clean you up in a minute,” he says. “Just rest for now.”
Keeho leans against the headboard, one arm draped lazily around your shoulders, and pulls you gently against his broad chest this time. His fingers find your waist, rubbing slow circles trying to memorize you in this softness.
“You’re ours now,” he says casually, like it’s a foregone conclusion. Like it’s always been this way.
You glance between the two of them. Yechan smiled like he’s known it forever. Keeho watches you with that hungry softness.
And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or the heat, or the comfort of their arms around you, but you don’t feel torn anymore.
You don’t have to figure out which one you like because they both claimed you.
And come on seriously, why have one when you can have two?
𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: uhh yeah....my smut era goes crazy
GET 82Major OUT OF NUGUDOM PLSSSSS
yechan's insta post? he's wearing a damn cowboy hat..... *texan author is currently screeching*
bro 82Major was 20min away from me on the 12th for the houston stop, i was crashing out cuz i couldn't go
𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: smut, romance, established relationship, drabble type
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: "When I see you, it's breathtaking." - SEVENTEEN, Pretty U
Kwon Soonyoung has always been a man of passion. Passion for his brothers, his art, and the spirit of the tiger he so proudly claims. But nothing compares to the way he loves you. Beneath heated touches he teaches you what it means to be seen. Truly seen. Even the parts you try to hide.
—————
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): nsfw, explicit sexual content, mating press, breeding kink, oral, slight praise kink, worshippp, insecurity and body image themes (handled tenderly), slight! possessiveness
𝐀/𝐍: i'm making most of hoshi and woozi rn, im too sad over the news... "hello, this is PLEDIS Entertainment" looking ahhh sybau bro sybau
If there was anything Kwon Soonyoung loved more than tigers and his beloved brothers, it was you.
So when he accidentally walked into your room while you were changing, he swore he’d just seen a goddess.
The horizontal stretch marks carved across your lower back looked so much like the stripes of the animal he claimed as his spirit—his soulmate species. And right then, something clicked deep inside him. It wasn’t just admiration or attraction. No, it was instinct. You were it. You were his. And he had to have you. Forever.
You had been dating for a while, and though affection came easy, intimacy always lingered in a quiet corner. You were soft and plush around the hips, thighs, and back. Your body was painted with hyperpigmentation from old breakouts and the scars you never wanted him to see. You loved him deeply, but the thought of baring yourself fully still terrified you. What if he didn’t find you beautiful? What if your body turned him away?
So that day, when he saw you—half-dressed, half-horrified—you tried to kick him out, shielding your chest with the shirt you’d just pulled off. But the look in his eyes stopped you cold. A dark gleam, hungry and lustful, burned through you. He didn’t flinch, didn’t apologise.
Instead, Soonyoung stepped forward like a man possessed. His eyes looked you up and down and a wicked grin spread across his mouth. His eyes, his expression meant only one thing; he was going to have you right then and there.
That night Soonyoung fucked you like an animal. As if an actual tiger had taken over his body. His tongue was fast, deep and teasing against your slick folds. And when he buried his cock inside your tight little hole, he didn’t hesitate to press your knees to your chest, putting you in a mating press. So deep, that you could feel the tip of his bulbous cock hitting your cervix with each thrust.
And that was just the first round.
When he flipped you over later that night, taking you from behind—needing to see those stripes again, something in him changed. Your stretch marks weren’t scars. They were his marks. He started calling them your “tiger stripes,” tracing them with a tenderness that made your chest ache.
He loved the sight of his cock thrusting in and out of you, and your red asscheeks, blushed from the sting of his slaps, the stretch marks he could now see perfectly. He fucking loved it. He couldn’t get enough of the sight, the texture, the way you moaned when he filled you just right.
“Gonna tattoo ‘em gold someday,” he whispered against your spine between thrusts, voice breathless, almost worshipful. “My golden tiger.”
And ever since then, he couldn’t keep his hands off you.
Don't even get him started on backless tops. Whenever the two of you went out with Seungkwan and Seokmin, his fingers were always there; brushing, grazing, tracing the grooves of your back like Braille only he could read. Every shiver, every gasp you gave, made him hard under the table, and he'd whisper promises of what he’d do to you the moment you got home.
Of course, there were nights when Soonyoung made love to you slowly, like you were something delicate. Kissing every inch of your insecurities until they bloomed into pride.
But other nights…the tiger came back.
On those nights, it wasn’t just about fucking. It was about claiming. Breeding. He’d stuff you full of cum until it leaked out around his cock, warm and wet and thick. And if it dripped down your thighs, he’d gather it with his fingers and slide it back in, fucking it deeper just to feel it all again.
Sometimes, he’d stroke himself to the sight alone—your puffy, overstimulated hole twitching as it leaked for him. And he gets even dirtier with it when he slides his cock over your sticky folds, covering himself with his and your essence. He can't help but groan at the sight.
Still, it wasn’t the sex that undid you. It was the quiet moments after. Like when he would press his forehead against your back, lips brushing over your tiger stripes as if in prayer. Or when he’d pull you onto his chest afterward, hand splayed protectively over your belly, tracing gentle patterns into your skin as if etching you into his memory.
"Do you know how beautiful you are?" he’d murmur against your temple, voice low and soft. "Your smile. Your eyes. Every inch of your body tells me I’m home, Y/N."
And that; that is what unwrapped you more than any orgasm ever could.
Because in Soonyoung's arms, tangled in sweat, love, and the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat; you felt seen. Not just desired, but cherished.
Soonyoung didn’t just love you in the heat of the moment. He loved you in every possible moment. In the way he held you like you were something rare. In the way he worshipped you as if you were a god.
You weren’t just his golden tiger.
You were his soul. His heart. His home.
𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: VERYYYY self indulgent, but i'm sad so deal w it. hoshi makes this kitty roar okay. not purr. ROAR!
