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⟢ trixie ⟡ she/her, filam, bi ⟡ '95
hi! you can call me trix or trixie! i'm in the pst timezone. i'm mostly here for btsvt, but i casually listen to and follow a ton of groups so i'm happy to talk about whatever! i'm mainly using this blog for fem!reader fic. to read my member x member fics, visit my ao3 (need an account to view/read)!
networks: @studiosvt, @thediamondlifenetwork
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PRIME (teaser)
🧬 Brought to you by @studiosvt's Cyberpunk: Reload Collab
Six years ago, you unknowingly changed the course of Arcadian Prime forever. Five years ago, you erased your own existence and went into hiding. And approximately half an hour ago, the very first image of you—the city-state's most wanted fugitive—went online. Now… now, you run.
PAIRING: cyborg!jun x fem!reader
TEASER WC: 1,050
TAGS (FULL FIC): angst, dystopia of the cyberpunk variety, smut
WARNINGS (TEASER): AI antagonist, puppeteering, violence, guns, brief mention of kidnapping, brief mention of mutilation to install cybernetics (body horror adjacent), rebellion/war, death
A/N: this is part of @studiosvt's cyberpunk: reload collab! join the tag list so you can read all of our fics!!!
The two of you are a flurry of fists and feet, neither of you landing a hit for several moments.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" you grunt as you block a kick to the side and throw a fist at Junhui's face.
He blocks that too. He'd like to ask you the same. What is wrong with you and why aren't you running? You should be taking this weird window the AI has afforded you and escape. Instead, the two of you are locked in a dance, so evenly matched, Junhui wonders if his captor is pulling his punches or if you're just that good that you're able to hold your own against a Letheon Unit. It feels like fighting himself… it feels like fighting someone who learned how to from Aegis.
The idea crosses his mind just as you bring your leg up to connect with the side of his head, and although Junhui doesn't feel it, the way his system flashes tells him you're definitely not pulling your strikes.
Contusions sustained to the head, his display warns him, highlighting his head on the tiny diagram of his body on his display. Possible concussion.
He can't pay it much attention because you take the opportunity to launch yourself at him, using his thigh as a makeshift stepping stool, nimbly lifting yourself onto his shoulders, and wrapping your legs around his head and squeezing.
Activating oxygen preservation protocol, his system announces as you attempt to suffocate him. You must know that won't work on a Lethe, though, because you also bring your fist down against the top of his head repeatedly, grunting as you do.
Contusion sustained. Contusion sustained. Con—
Oh my god, shut the fuck up, Junhui thinks as the AI continues to panic through its directive. At some point, you graduate to throwing your elbow into his head, prompting his system to graduate to: Minor concussion sustained.
And when you've finally had enough of the AI refusing to truly harm you, you twist your body, throw your weight to the side, and force Junhui to fall into the dirt.
His display lights his elbow up on the diagram now, where he caught himself on the ground. Contusion sustained. He has no idea why Aegis thought it would be helpful to have the system announce every little bruise he was going to collect. His missions are all covert and high-priority. Of course he's going to walk away with dozens of bruises.
You scramble away from him, and when he looks up, he finds you fumbling with your neural gun, that odd attachment clinging to the top of it.
Junhui is on his knees quickly, lunging forward, catching your ankle just as you right yourself, and dragging you to him easily.
You grunt and instead of kicking at him like both he and the AI assumed you would, you lean into his hold, wrap your other leg around his arm, grab his wrist, and yank up with more strength than he's anticipating, your knee colliding with his face as he's jerked toward you.
Minor contusions sustained to the face, his system warns him again. He'd roll his eyes if he could.
With his arm pinned, his body follows as you roll yours, shoving him face down into the dirt until you're straddling his back. The AI finally—and pathetically—allows a single shot of hardlight to escape the wrist you're holding hostage, the beam uselessly shooting the opposite way from you and dissolving into the night. It doesn't even have what he assumes was the desired effect—startling you off of him. You stay planted with your thighs on either side of his ribs, unbothered as you pull the arm you have behind him until it pops right out of his socket. He doesn't feel anything.
Shoulder dislocated. Protocol in place. Please correct your arm to allow repositioning of joint. He has never been so annoyed with the unwelcome voice in his head.
"Please stop fighting," it pleads, Junhui's voice muffled by the ground. "You are to return—"
"It's you, isn't it," you grunt, your lips suddenly at his ear. "Do you remember me? Is that it?"
Junhui feels the system buffering again. Curiously, his display wavers and brief flashes of code replace it. Does it remember you from somewhere? Is this glitch really, truly hesitation?
"You are to—"
"No," you hiss. Junhui feels the barrel of your gun against his back, and he realizes this is very much it.
You are going to kill him. This should've been fairly easy, but the AI's reluctance at every turn is about to get him killed, and Junhui finds he doesn't mind it. Allowing a rebel with a Priority Index like yours to escape unharmed is probably a good thing to die for, he thinks. At least in death, his mind will finally rest. In death, he'll reunite with sleep. And he's so tired.
He wishes he could close his eyes now, let the world quiet down, and savor this moment a little more. Instead, he stays alert, the intruder in his body very obviously unsure of its next step.
"Tell them to send me all the Lethes they have. I'll kill every single one," you say, speaking directly to the AI.
Junhui can only spare half a thought to ruminate on the unfairness of that. This is a Lethe's life: kidnapped off the streets, butchered beyond recognition, and killed by the very people they would fight for if they could. But he's always been a pragmatic person, even when he was still in Phlegethon. It's either you kill the Lethes or they kill you. He supposes if your survival means the end of the Letheon program altogether, then he'll have to accept that he and all the other units are necessary collateral damage, devastating as it is.
"Tell them…" you practically growl into his ear, your lips grazing the shell of it as you speak. "I'm coming for fucking everything."
The barrel of your gun presses harder against his back, and he feels his soul perk in anticipation.
Wen Junhui, Wen Junhui, Wen Junhui. You are Wen Junhui, and you are about to be freed.
Death, it turns out, is agonizing. And for once, Wen Junhui feels it all.
🧬 Full fic releasing in July! Sign up for the tag list here.
The neon of this megalopolis is blinding, the tower of its buildings is dizzying. The urban city lights and its breathing forms are sprinting and breaking down, make your mark before it's too late; dystopia does not wait.
Connect now and begin your download of Cyberpunk: Reload.
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📂 Case File: anamnesis by @woncheolisms
🔦Administrators: Choi Seungcheol x reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: five years ago, your company became a big enough threat to the existing tech ecosystem to cause an attack on your life. five years ago, said attack killed your husband. after spending so long picking up the pieces, you are quickly racing to the top again, which means your life is threatened once more. but the assassin sent your way is a little too familiar, even if he’s not exactly the same as the day he got “killed”.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: VOID by @hannieoftheyear
🔦Administrators: Yoon Jeonghan x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: Everything humanity has ever wanted is now at reach with the touch of a button, yet, the world is as empty as ever. Most prefer to live their lives in the digital reality, where you can be cities away in the blink of an eye and where the sun shines uninterrupted. The only ones left are those who first developed the idea, stuck in an abandoned world and cursed to watch as their families deteriorate inside machines. When a malfunction opens up the possibility to break the system, they seize the opportunity to make those who used a falling city as the stepping stone for their empire pay once and for all.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: systematic error by @straylightdream
🔦Administrators: Joshua Hong x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: it’s not unusual for artificially intelligent robots to blend in seamlessly to society. many years ago you found a android and upgraded his programming. As time passed you often forget he’s not a human, unfortunately he can’t escape the feelings and tainted thoughts that he’s just an android. after falling in love, you’ve become companions as you navigate the dark neon city together, and attempt to take down the biggest corporation.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: PRIME by @joshujin
🔦Administrators: Wen Junhui x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: Six years ago, you unknowingly changed the course of Arcadian Prime forever. Five years ago, you erased your own existence and went into hiding. And approximately half an hour ago, the very first image of you, the city-state's most wanted fugitive, went online. Now… now, you run.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: The Ground by @mylovesstuffs
🔦Administrators: Kwon Soonyoung x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: on the ground, the poor starve. in the sky, the rich live like gods. six months of playing the clumsy, star struck girl from the slums boils down to a single night in a luxury penthouse. to avenge and save her father from their misery, she has to trap the elite’s most untouchable corporate heir, hoshi, in a game of her own making— and then betray him.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: The Shadow District by @thestraybunny
🔦Administrators: Jeon Wonwoo x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: Skyfall Industries is taking over the city, where the rich will benefit while the poor will suffer. With body modifications, sex, drugs, and alcohol there to help numb people from reality of it all. Your world is small, and is just getting smaller. So, when Skyfall Inds is finally at your door and threatening your home, you and Wonwoo will have a choice to make.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: PROJECT: KILL SWITCH by @callisrecords
🔦Administrators: Lee Jihoon x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: On a trip to the Wastelands, you don't expect to find much that's intact. Definitely not an escape pod or a man still inside it. Lee Jihoon seems to be unregistered, unchipped and jarringly not from this century. In a city held together by a network no one can escape, he is the only thing it cannot read, cannot follow, and cannot override.
As details about a mission that predates everything you’ve ever known begin to surface, you realise Jihoon’s existence is more than just an anomaly. Somewhere within the structure of the megacorp that controls the city lies a failsafe: a kill switch tied to an authority long believed dead. Except maybe it isn’t.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: through the haze by @aeristudios
🔦Administrators: Lee Seokmin x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: You're the star of Neo City Nights, the hottest nightclub in the city. Your voice brings in people from all over, including the handsome stranger Seokmin who you can't stay away from. Too bad you don't remember him from your past life, before the accident that happened, which changed your life forever.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: butterfly by @sailorsoons
🔦Administrators: Kim Mingyu x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: In a city where technology makes it possible to shed your body as easily as changing clothes, Mingyu has built his reputation hunting criminals who disappear behind new faces. So when you become the prime suspect in a brutal string of serial murders, he should have no trouble closing the case. Except... the more he investigates you, the less he's convinced you're guilty.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: REMNANT by @wheeboo
🔦Administrators: Xu Minghao x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: In the year 2197, Xu Minghao works as a government shadow operative, hired to hunt down political dissidents. After surviving a catastrophic accident that should have ended his life, his body had been rewired to become nothing more than a living weapon solely engineered for one purpose: obedience. You live a different kind of double life. By day, a reclusive digital artist curating an elite art gallery; by night, a ghost hacker where you siphon secrets from the city’s corrupt core. But when your latest hack uncovers an unsettling truth, a target is painted on your back—and Minghao is assigned to terminate you.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: synapse//ZERO by @cheollollipop
🔦Administrators: Boo Seungkwan x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: when Synapse//ZERO launches, thousands of players eagerly enter the world's first fully immersive neural VR game. hours later, they're trapped. with her younger brother and best friend seungkwan among them, YN enters the game's sprawling cyberpunk metropolis, determined to bring them home. but in a world where the system adapts, remembers, and watches, escaping may not be enough. inspired by sword art online!
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: kingslayer by @100vern
🔦Administrators: Chwe Hansol x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: it's been years since you worked for the ministry of welfare. since you were partnered with hansol as a rookie inspector in the criminal investigation unit. since the two of you were assigned to a case so devastating it cost hansol his freedom and sent you into hiding. it's been years, but there's no time limit on vengeance—and there's nothing you wouldn't do to protect hansol.
The Malware 🚫 The Code
📂 Case File: got you (in my sights) by @minisugakoobies
🔦Administrators: Lee Chan x f!reader
⚡️The Ghostchase: when a job goes bad, elite assassin lee chan ends up the victim of a botched memory wipe. lost on the streets of new seoul and in need of help, he turns to the only person he can remember - just a face, a name, and a feeling. you have no idea why a rival assassin is begging on your doorstep, but agree to help him, thinking it will be an opportunity to steal his clients. but when the client who ordered the memory hit learns he hasn't been wiped, they target you both. can you trust chan enough to work together to save yourselves? or will you lose more than your memories?
🔞 18+, minors do not interact • masterlist • submit a request
🚨 minors and blank blogs will be blocked
after a career drought full of dead end positions, you finally land a job you can be proud to include on your resume—prestigious company, room for growth, and most importantly, a salary that will allow you and your boyfriend, soonyoung, to breathe a little easier. what you don’t expect is the discrimination and vitriol you’re met with on the job. as office life gets harder and harder for you, soonyoung finds it increasingly impossible to sit back and watch you repeatedly get hurt like this. so he dusts off a mask he never thought he’d use again, and when your colleagues start dropping dead one by one… well, that’s none of his business.
♫ i did something bad taylor swift
pairing: ghostface!soonyoung x fem!reader
wc: 23k 🤨
tags: horror fic (kinda not really), scream fic, established relationship, alternating povs, normal (used loosely lol) lovers to crazy psycho lovers, screenwriter!soonyoung, corporate slave!reader, “he hates everyone but her” trope except make it “he hates and brutally murders everyone but her” ┐(￣ヘ￣;)┌
a/n: the platinum blonde spiky hair ghostface soonyoung brain rot had me in a chokehold. this all started just bc i saw a gifset of him looking soooo early 00s fuck boy pop star and immediately my brain was like “ghostface hoshi.” so here we are. i do watch horror but like. i’m here for a good time not a critical time LOL. i am no expert on horror movies! i just like watching the more digestible ones, and if there are inconsistencies with the reasoning for becoming a killer or the relationship between killer and lover of killer or how realistically easy it would be to catch the killer… well, just pretend there aren’t :) i’m just trying to eradicate this ghostface hoshi brainworm :) so enjoy it :) or don’t :) this is more for me than anyone else :)
warnings READ ALL OF THEM!
content: murder… obviously (it won’t be overly gory, but it is described, so be careful. it won’t be anyone in svt), he’s a psychopath (again… obviously), blood, knives/stabbing, torture, domestic violence (not between mcs), traumatic brain injury, misogyny, daddy issues, eh mommy issues too why not, male use of the word “whore” and “bitch” against a woman, workplace harassment (bullying, hazing, finance tech red pill bro culture), sexual harassment in the workplace (inappropriate comments, sexualization of reader by male coworkers, etc. but no physical sexual assault takes place), no physical description of reader but she’s called a diversity hire by her harassers (whatever makes her diverse can be up to you), murdered people could possibly share names with idols idk but if they do, that’s a coincidence bc these are just random names, protectiveness to insane levels, possessiveness, codependency, jealousy, toxic and unhealthy relationship, reader is also crazy
smut: marked at beginning and end if you’d like to avoid, unprotected piv, creampie, roleplaying (kinda? like, is it roleplaying if they’re roleplaying as themselves but one of them doesn’t realize it’s themselves?), squirting, kink exploration, mentions of bondage, mentions of blindfolding, mentions of choking, mentions of degradation, mentions of knife play, light breeding kink, shower sex, oral (both receiving), face fucking, fingering, spitting, uh horniness supercharged by murder so… whatever tag that is, dirty talk except make it about murder, honestly don’t look at me
🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
IN AN APARTMENT
a man (jake) dressed in a disheveled suit returns home late at night presumably from work, though from his mannerisms, he seems drunk.
he takes his jacket off and lets it fall to the floor. he is grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge when his phone rings. the number is private. he declines it. when it rings again, he fumbles to hit the right button for several seconds but eventually answers, swaying drunkenly as he does.
JAKE hello? (he hears loud breathing) hello? (no answer) who is this? (hangs up and mutters to himself) fucking weirdos.
his phone rings again, and he watches his cell vibrate on the counter. he closes the fridge door and answers the phone, obviously ready to yell at whoever it is, but he is cut off by a raspy male voice.
PHONE STRANGER hi, jake.
jake freezes, too flustered to speak.
PHONE STRANGER oh come on, don’t be rude. where are your manners? this is where you say hi back. go on, try it.
JAKE who is this?
PHONE STRANGER that’s too easy, don’t you think? and too easy is never any fun.
jake seems to deflate, his exhaustion too potent to argue with a stranger. he hangs up once more. the phone rings again. he answers it in an almost violent fashion.
JAKE leave me alone!
PHONE STRANGER hang up on me again and i’ll take that pretty, little butcher knife (jake’s eyes dart to the knife block on his kitchen island. camera changes focus to knives) and run it down the entirety of your torso until the floor is slick with your blood and organs.
jake looks around the apartment, understanding there is a large chance he is being watched.
camera angle changes to a shaky shot farther away from around the corner in a dark hallway, suggesting whoever is watching is already in the apartment with him. goes back to jake in kitchen.
jake inches forward, wrapping his fingers around the very same knife he was just threatened with.
PHONE STRANGER hiding it won’t help you, jake. and neither will using it. i promise.
jake’s fingers immediately let go and he takes several steps back in horror as he realizes he is definitely being watched.
PHONE STRANGER good boy! (sounds genuinely excited) so you do listen after all. now. let’s start over. hi, jake.
JAKE hi. (voice cracks, clears his throat) what do you want?
stranger clicks tongue in disapproval.
PHONE STRANGER jake, jake, jake. didn’t we talk about manners already? (jake inches toward the front door, stranger laughs) eh, i probably wouldn’t go that way if i were you. (jake freezes, eyes flitting around the room wildly) what do you want to try next?
camera briefly shifts to a dark corner closer to jake now. goes back to kitchen.
JAKE who are you?
PHONE STRANGER my name is hoshi. (jake is very obviously surprised) didn’t expect me to tell you my name, did you? thought i’d keep that a secret? you don’t have to ask either; that’s my real name.
JAKE why?
HOSHI why what?
JAKE why are you telling me your name?
HOSHI well, it doesn’t matter if i tell you my name. it’s going to die with you anyway.
jake quickly takes the phone away from his ear and begins to dial the police. being drunk, he mistypes several times.
HOSHI i won’t try to talk you out of that. someone needs to find your body after all. i do want people to know you’re dead. i want her to know you’re dead. that you’re never going to hurt her ever again. so by all means, call the police. but i assure you. they won’t come in time.
JAKE (in a shaky voice) yes they will.
HOSHI no. they won’t. and you know how i know?
jake finally gets the call going, phone automatically putting hoshi on hold.
HOSHI i know because you’re a dumb ass and you never even put me on speaker.
camera focuses on jake’s face front on as his eyes widen and he freezes. audience hears dispatcher answer the line.
DISPATCH what is your emergency?
hoshi appears behind jake in a white mask, face contorted into a permanent scream, and a black tattered robe. audience hears a squelch as jake’s mouth falls open in pain and he stumbles. his phone falls out of his hand, ending the call.
camera angle switches to side view, where audience can see a hunter knife buried in the middle of jake’s back. hoshi slowly slides the knife out of him, letting him fall to the floor, where he’s immediately crawling away.
hoshi makes no move to follow him yet. simply watches him kick and struggle to stand.
HOSHI i knew you were dumb, but i didn’t realize you were this dumb.
he slowly walks after him, watching as jake pathetically tries to make it to the front door, blood trailing behind him. he crashes into most of his furniture as he stumbles past.
hoshi reaches him and kicks him in his stab wound, causing jake to fall back to the floor, screaming in agony.
JAKE god, why?! WHY?!
HOSHI question of the night, huh?
JAKE (sobbing, turns over and pulls himself away enough until he’s slouched up against the back of his couch) i don’t even know who you are!
hoshi squats down in front of him, forearms on knees, eye level. he keeps his bloody knife threateningly close to jake’s face.
HOSHI but i know who you are. oh man, i know exactly who you are. i’ve heard all about you, jake. more than i should’ve ever had to hear about you.
jake sobs harder as hoshi runs his knife gently across his neck, leaving his own blood on his skin.
HOSHI you couldn’t just be the quiet coworker who came to work, minded his own goddamn business, and went home, huh? you had to be the red pill loser.
JAKE (weakly) what…? i don’t… huh?
HOSHI you hurt her, jake. and when you hurt her… well frankly, you hurt me. and i don’t let anyone get away with hurting me.
JAKE who’s “her”?! who are you?! i don’t even know what you’re talking about, dude. please! please! i promise i won’t tell anyone! i’ll do whatever you want! i’ll give you whatever you want—just let me live!
hoshi doesn’t say anything for several seconds. resembles predator watching prey. when jake starts blubbering and begging, he sighs.
HOSHI what if what i want… (tilts his head menacingly at him) is for you to die… (wipes his knife along the length of his sleeve, cleaning it of blood) an incredibly slow and painful death? hm? what if that’s what i want? will you still give it to me, jake?
JAKE i don’t get it, please, i don’t get it. who are you? what do you want?
HOSHI god you’re a fucking moron, i literally just told you what i fucking want.
he drives his knife into jake’s thigh. when he screams, hoshi backhands him to shut him up.
several seconds pass as jake tries to catch his breath.
JAKE why are you doing this?
hoshi removes his knife from his thigh, just to plunge it into his abdomen. jake doubles over, blood spilling past his lips.
hoshi lets go of the knife, leaving it buried inside jake. he tries to reach up and remove it, but hoshi gently presses a single finger to the hilt. jake screams and lets his hands fall away. hoshi removes his finger.
HOSHI (casually) honestly, it’s kind of futile explaining this to an idiot who gets off of shitting on women.
jake’s breathing is labored as his screams subside.
HOSHI (comically scratches his head) like, how do i even explain love to a greasy little incel like you?
JAKE (incredulously, while stuttering) love?
HOSHI yes, jake. love. you know, it’s so funny. i really, really hated that word for most of my life, and then… one day that just… changed, i guess.
JAKE you’re killing me because… you love… me?
HOSHI (sputters/laughs) what?! are you fucking—what?! (backhands him again) i can’t even fathom how fucking stupid you are! what the fuck? (jake groans) no, you jackass, how could anybody love you? you’re like shit on the bottom of my shoe. (mutters again) what the fuck?
JAKE i don’t get it.
HOSHI (sighs) i know you don’t, dimwit. that’s why i’m not going to bother explaining why you’ll die tonight. you’ll never understand what it’s like to love someone the way i love her. i fucking adore her.
he watches jake carefully, head tilting to the other side like he’s studying his looming death. or enjoying it.
HOSHI and jake (just barely skims one finger from where the blade disappears into flesh, up the hilt of the knife) one thing about me?
jake’s eyes go up to meet the black holes in the mask, breathing coming out in short gasps now.
HOSHI my adoration is killer.
without warning, hoshi grabs his knife once more, other hand holding jake’s shoulder down as he pulls the knife up his torso with alarming force. he makes good on his promise to cover his floors with his own blood and organs.
your life has become a sad routine of miserably crying monday through friday, suffering an emotional hangover on saturdays, and spending the entirety of sunday shaking with anxiety over the mere thought of having to go back to work and do it all over again the next day.
your job, for the most part, is predictable. you expect to come in and endure catcalls, unprovoked insults, glares, and lewd gestures all before you even reach your desk. you expect to have your work—as flawless as you know it is—ridiculed and mocked, just for someone else to copy it word for word, claim it as his own, and receive endless praise for it. you expect your boss to sheepishly shrug and tell you boys will be boys and to be a “team player.” you expect to be told you’re useless, you’re just a diversity hire, and all you’re good for is something nice to look at.
as the only woman on an all-male, all-asshole team, you expect pure torment.
what you don’t expect is to be corralled into the company auditorium with hundreds of other employees first thing in the morning, where you’re all informed that jay, the psychopath you share a cubicle with, was not just playing hooky and skipping work like you and all his buddies assumed, but that he “tragically” passed away earlier this week. you’re in a daze as they tell everyone grief counseling is available and that those close to jay can take bereavement effective immediately if they have to.
what you also don’t expect is to return to your desk, google his obituary, and be met with several articles detailing a gruesome murder that took place in his apartment building. jay isn’t directly named, but you don’t need him to be to know it’s him. the executives were too dodgy about the announcement of his death for this to be about anybody else.
your eyes scan over words like “stabbed,” “bloodied,” “screams,” “ripped,” and “spilled.” the journalist describes it as the most grisly homicide to take place since the “prank call killings”—even goes as far to make connections between jay’s murder and the string of deaths that took place years ago, in a small town not far from where you are.
both involved victims with multiple stab wounds.
both were indicative of a frighteningly large hunting knife with unique serrations used as the weapon.
both ended with the torsos being carelessly cut open down the middle—while the victim was still alive.
the one difference is that police found no evidence of calls made to jay’s phone before his death.
this begs the question: after nearly a decade, has the prank call killer made their return, or has a copycat ascended their throne?
the closing line sends a chill down your spine, but you’re not sure it feels bad.
in fact, there’s one last thing you don’t expect that comes of today: as you turn in your seat to look at jay’s desk, exactly how he left it, you find that you don’t feel horrified about his death. contrarily, you find yourself feeling relieved. elated, even. and that’s what horrifies you.
as the team that housed jay, your boss releases you all from work for the rest of the day, some for the whole week. not you, though—never you. you are expected to return first thing in the morning to begin sorting through jay’s work and figure out where you can fill in and what you can split amongst your coworkers. but you know that won’t be happening; no one on your team would lift a pinkie to help you even if you were on the floor dying. everything jay left behind will be your responsibility now, not that that’s much of an issue. the man was already pawning all his work to you anyway.
“baby?”
soonyoung’s voice filters through the noise of the coffee machine as you close and lock the door behind you. a head of blonde, spiky hair pokes out from around the corner. your boyfriend’s eyebrows are raised, mouth puckered into a cute, surprised o.
“hey, what are you doing back?” he asks as he completely exits the kitchen and walks around the corner. his hands are immediately pressed against your forehead and neck when he reaches you, eyes running up and down your body like he’s checking for injuries. “are you okay? do you have a fever? are you sick?”
you don’t even have the energy to playfully slap him away and roll your eyes like you normally would at his overly worried behavior. you just shake your head slowly.
“what’s wrong?” he mutters, letting his hands fall to snake around your waist. soonyoung watches you so closely and so attentively, you almost swoon enough to forget why you’re so distraught.
“i…”
soonyoung doesn’t urge you to speak, patiently waiting for you to find the words you want to use. you shake your head again.
“jay’s… jay is dead?” you announce, sounding unsure and confused even though it’s literally just a fact now.
soonyoung snorts. “that would be a dream. how would he die? what’s the most satisfying way to imagine it? hit by a bus? fell into an open manhole? choked on a—”
“no,” you interject, gripping his forearms and squeezing. he moves to let go of you but you keep him where he is. “he’s actually dead, soonyoung. like… dead dead.”
he raises an eyebrow, still obviously hesitating. “okay, i want to say you’re joking… but your use of my government name is telling me you’re not…?”
“i’m not!” you insist, slapping his arms away now.
“hey.” he pouts.
“why else would i be home right now?!” you point out. “park told us to take the day off.” you toe off your shoes and push past soonyoung, further into the home you share. “something about grieving.”
you go straight to the couch, flopping onto it face down.
“oh my god?” your boyfriend murmurs in a daze as he follows you, brows furrowed into a deep frown.
he sits on the small sliver of couch you’re not occupying, automatically arranging you so that you’re laying face up against him between his legs. his arms find your waist once more.
“what… what happened…?” he asks, obviously trying to tread the topic carefully. he knows how much you hated jay—hell, as your biggest supporter, he hated him too. but for him to die? you’re full of complicated feelings. “is that why he’s been skipping work?”
you nod. “and it’s not just that… park and the other execs didn’t say this, but… i looked up his name to see if i could read the obituary.”
“mmm,” he hums, nodding. “tracks for a nosy girl like you.”
“not the time!” you whine, already pulling away. he tightens his arms around you, keeping you from moving.
“okay, okay! sorry! i’ll be serious—i swear! i’m sorry!”
you huff and relax against him once more.
“so you looked up his obituary…” he encourages you to continue, voice lower as he tries to be serious—a feat for him, honestly.
“i… i think jay was murdered.”
you whisper the words without meaning to, like you’re scared of giving life to them. like if you say them loud enough, the prank call killer—or their copycat—will come bursting through the door and shred you and the love of your life into ribbons of blood and flesh.
soonyoung remains quiet and you can almost hear the gears in his head turning as he tries to find the correct thing to say. you bet he’s trying to scour his brain for anything that isn’t an inappropriate joke.
“murdered…?” he asks in a small voice. “why… how…?”
you rest your hands over his on your stomach, pressing even further into him as you retell what you read.
a victim was found in his own apartment, stab wounds to his back and left thigh. it was clear he was attacked in his kitchen and that his assailant let him make it halfway to his front door… before they cornered him against his own couch. then, they gutted him—from lower abdomen to sternum, where his bones wouldn’t give any more way for the knife. they didn’t name him. they didn’t even describe his appearance. all they said was that he was 28, and he lived alone.
but you knew, and from the way you spoke, you were confident soonyoung wouldn’t question you about it. he was good at trusting you and believing in you.
“that’s… fucking barbaric…” he breathes out after you recount the story. “i mean, the guy was a fucking asshole, but… that’s… i mean, it’s… i—”
“i feel happy.” you blurt out the words that have been brewing in your head since you left the office.
to his credit, your boyfriend has taken most of this information well despite the poorly timed jokes. but at this new revelation, his entire body tenses against yours, and you immediately regret being honest.
“you think i’m a monster, don’t you?” you ask quietly, ready for him to gently remove you from him. to admonish you. maybe even leave. “you think—”
“i don’t think you’re a monster.”
he says it with so much conviction, you believe it the first time he says it. soonyoung repeats it anyway.
“i don’t think you’re a monster, baby. please don’t say that. i’m just… surprised. i mean i’m definitely not mourning the guy, but i know how these kinds of things can upset you.”
you know he’s referring to all the times news headlines made you cry, or the times bleak documentaries pushed you into a weird episode of feeling like there was no meaning to life and everything was pointless. you’ve always been easily affected by the world around you, so it’s fair for him to be surprised that being this close in proximity to a victim of such inexplicable violence doesn’t send you straight into a panic attack.
“he just… he made my life so hard, soonie,” you say, not expecting the tears that fill your eyes. your voice cracks on your boyfriend’s name and he immediately rests his lips against the crown of your head and whispers his love for you.
“i know,” he says after he’s told you he loves you at least a dozen times. “trust me, i know.”
soonyoung actually knows best because he’s the one who’s picking up the pieces when you come home broken and inconsolable. he’s the one who calms you down enough to explain what happened this time.
jay purposefully knocked your coffee over a report that took you a week. jay took credit for a project you were forced to collaborate with him on—a project you ended up doing all by yourself. jay was telling everyone you were a ditzy bimbo that couldn’t do her job right. jay went out drinking with the boss and spent the whole night talking shit about you. jay wouldn’t stop trying to convince you you were only hired because you had a pair of tits. that those tits are all you’re ever going to be worth.
he’s the entire reason the team is the way they are around you now. he’s the one who emboldened them to treat you the way they do.
and day after day, week after week, for almost a year now, soonyoung has had to endure all your rants—rants that were exactly the same because you didn’t know how to stand up for yourself. the only thing you knew how to do was “be a team player” in the hopes that you could find a promotion into another team or even better, a new job altogether.
being the best boyfriend there is, soonyoung never complained about your venting. even on nights he had to abandon the latest script he was working on, even on days he had to call in sick to the writers’ room because he had insisted on staying up until the sun rose, consoling you—he never complained or even hinted that he was tired of you. not once.
even more meaningful to you, he never chastised you for being unable to find the strength to speak back or enforce your boundaries, something you were already plenty embarrassed about. he never made you feel less than; he knew you already had enough of that from the men in your work life.
soonyoung was the gentleness and softness you craved and needed so desperately in your life. he was safety and love and warmth and he was what continuously healed you as your job tried over and over again to break you.
he knew all of this. he knew how much you hated it and how much you hated jay, and it comforts you to know that he doesn’t think you’re a monster for being happy he’s dead. it gives you the courage to be even more honest with him.
“i’m relieved,” you tell him, wiping away your tears. “i’m so relieved he’s gone, and that it’s over. that maybe now… maybe now, i’ll be safe.”
his hold on you tightens and he leaves more kisses in your hair.
“and… i feel like a terrible person saying this…”
“whatever it is, you’re not. so don’t.”
it’s the push you need.
“i’m glad he suffered,” you admit, feeling lighter as soon as it’s out of your mouth. “i’m not just happy he died… i’m glad he died in the most heinous way. and i’m glad his killer made it hurt.”
once the words are out, you can’t take them back. and soonyoung doesn’t make you feel like you should. after a few seconds of silence, he just sighs and leans forward to kiss your cheek.
“then i am too, baby. if you’re happy, then i’m happy.”
he says it like you didn’t just tell him the grossest thing you’ve ever said in your life. and when you look up and catch his reflection in the window opposite of you, unbeknownst to him, you find him smiling into your hair almost like he’s pleased with you. you believe that he really is happy when you’re happy.
and honestly, you love him even more for it.
“i love you, soonie.”
“i adore you,” he says, his favorite way to express his affection for you—even moreso than “love,” though he learned to return the four-letter word once you expressed how important it was to you. “endlessly.” he pauses briefly before promising: “i’ll love you forever.”
it takes just one week, when everyone returns from their bereavement, for you to realize you aren’t safe—that jay’s death just put his friends on edge and made them more dangerous than ever. that for some fucked up reason, they felt that torturing you was the best way they could keep their sick friend’s memory alive.
and it makes you wish they were all dead too.
🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
as hoshi stands over his bed, clean of the blood he shed just hours ago and watching his girlfriend sleep, a montage of traumatic events from hoshi’s childhood begins flashing—switching between his memories and their bedroom until his memories win out.
FLASHBACK
a very young hoshi screams as he throws his tiny body against his father’s uselessly. his father has his hands around his mother’s neck, choking her mercilessly.
YOUNG HOSHI stop it! stop! get off my mommy! (begins punching but makes no headway) stop! please!
DAD you think i wouldn’t hear about you coming around to that dead beat’s house under the guise of asking for sugar, you fucking whore?!
YOUNG HOSHI please! mommy!
hoshi’s father removes one hand from his wife’s neck to shove his son aside. hoshi stumbles several steps before falling and hitting his head on the corner of the table and blacking out.
memory moves to hoshi’s recovery, when he is back home with a bandage around his head. blood blooms on the back of it. he is freshly woken up, in his pajamas, and his mother is changing the dressing on his injury.
there is something eerily blank about his face.
MOM (in a hoarse voice) let me know if it hurts, sweetheart.
YOUNG HOSHI okay. (pauses in what seems to be thought, though his expression does not change) will you let me know if it hurts too?
camera follows his gaze, focusing on the bruises around her neck. his mother’s hands still on his head before she continues in silence.
hoshi does not urge her to answer him, his eyes almost glazing over as he stares at her bruises. his mother finishes up changing the bandaging.
MOM you don’t worry your cute, little head about mommy, okay? in fact—
she pauses to put the medical supplies away into the first aid kit resting on the nightstand and smooths her dress before crouching in front of hoshi’s bed. she takes his hands in hers.
MOM mommy doesn’t want you interfering like that ever again, okay? (hoshi’s face remains blank as he meets her eyes now) when you hear daddy or mommy shouting, i want you to stay right here, in your bed, with the door shut and locked, and i don’t want you to come out until i come get you, alright?
YOUNG HOSHI am i in trouble?
MOM no, no sweetie. you’re not in trouble. but daddy will be home soon. in the next day or so. and mommy needs you to be safe and healthy, so will you promise me that you’ll stay out of it?
YOUNG HOSHI why does daddy hurt you?
MOM daddy is… he’s sick, sweetheart.
YOUNG HOSHI if someone is sick, is it okay for us to let them hurt us?
despite hoshi’s blank stare, his mother recognizes this will be a pivotal moment that informs the way her son sees the world. she blinks rapidly as her thoughts go into overdrive and she tries not to cry.
MOM (whispers) no. (she pauses, shaking her head and quickly wiping away her tears before returning her hand to hoshi’s) no, it’s not okay. you don’t let anybody hurt you, sweetheart. not you. no one hurts you.
YOUNG HOSHI why do you let daddy hurt you?
MOM i… i love him, hoshi. i love your father. and he loved me once too. maybe he will again. but either way, i will still love him. he gave me you.
hoshi’s blank stare breaks at this, like the idea of any part of him being from his father bothers him. like he realizes he might be the only reason his mother stays with his father.
YOUNG HOSHI you love him… (his mother nods) i never want to love someone then.
memory moves years forward, when hoshi is 17. they remain in the same home, but messier and much sadder. colors are cooler than the past warmer memories audience has seen before.
hoshi is seated on the edge of a bigger bed now, in the same position as the previous memory, this time without his mom.
hands grip the comforter tensely. works his jaw anxiously as he stares, expressionless, at the door.
sound is muffled as camera zooms in on door. audience hears high-pitched whining sound as shots quickly flash between the door, hoshi on the bed, and the blood that spread on the floor from his head injury when he was young.
the whining gets louder as all the memories that flash now focus on young hoshi’s traumatic brain injury (blood, his mother screaming, blood, cops, stitches, bandages, blood, blood, blood).
the sound comes back full volume as the flashing comes back and stops on his closed room door.
MOM i’m sorry! i’m—
his mother’s pleas are cut off with her own scream as the walls shake and boom with the force of her body being thrown against them.
hoshi relaxes his fingers and smooths the comforter where he wrinkled it. he stands calmly, making his way to the door. his hand hovers over the locked handle.
flashes back to his conversation with his mom.
MOM will you promise me that you’ll stay out of it?
young hoshi’s face is blank but the way his eyes search his mother’s face in a way audience did not see before now implies that he possibly could’ve been weighing his options, even as a child.
YOUNG HOSHI why does daddy hurt you?
back to 17-year-old hoshi.
HOSHI (mutters to himself) you never promised.
audience sees he made it to the kitchen during the flashback. he faces the doorway from the kitchen to the living room.
camera focuses on door. mother is thrown across the living room, father stalks after her. the sounds of punching are heard but they’re beginning to muffle again.
flashes back.
MOM you don’t let anybody hurt you, sweetheart. not you. no one hurts you.
flashes back to memory from beginning of film.
MOM (both sprawled across grass on a sunny day) you and i, we’re one, hosh. you’re made of me, and i’m made of you!
YOUNG HOSHI i’m you and you’re me?
MOM hm. not quite but sure, yes! and we’ll always have each other.
flashes to conversation after brain injury.
YOUNG HOSHI why do you let daddy hurt you?
MOM i… i love him, hoshi.
we come back to teen hoshi in the kitchen. his mother’s voice is still there, but as muffled as the rest of the sounds are.
he walks forward and calmly retrieves the biggest knife from the block on the counter.
MOM (muffled voiceover) i love your father. and he loved me once too.
he weighs the knife in his hand and flips it so he’s holding it blade up. he holds it like someone who’s practiced this before.
he turns back toward the living room, walking to the doorway that separates it from the kitchen.
MOM (muffled voiceover) maybe he will again.
he watches as his father punches his mother wherever she can’t block him. as he takes a step forward, the high-pitched whining returns, the camera begins to shake, and the house seemingly starts to crumble around him as he walks forward.
scenes once again flash between hoshi approaching his father, the conversation on the bed, and the blood pooling from his brain injury.
MOM (voiceover, warped by the whining) but either way, i will still love him.
the scenes flashing now show bits of hoshi reaching his father amongst the rubble of their home, grabbing him by the shoulder and yanking him off his mother and onto his feet.
whining and shaking reaches a fever pitch before going eerily silent and the scene shows sunlight filtering through leaves.
MOM (clear voice) he gave me you.
camera comes back to hoshi and his mother sprawled across the grass. the memory is different this time.
MOM (said less warmly, more an order now) you and i, we’re one, hosh. you’re made of me, and i’m made of you.
as dialogue progresses, sun disappears, covered by dark clouds. hoshi sits up and narrows his eyes at the sky. when he turns toward his mom, he sees they are now both in the living room, the house completely in tact again, and she’s holding his small body—the younger version of him, limp in her arms as he watches from across the room. she’s covered in his blood, and so is the floor and coffee table.
MOM (blankly with no urgency) you and i. we’re one. someone hurts me, they hurt you. and what did i tell you?
HOSHI (voiceover as camera begins to follow the trail of blood gushing from young hoshi’s head) no one hurts me.
complete silence, camera still following young hoshi’s blood as it flows across the hardwood floor.
the flow joins the massive pool around two pairs of shoes, both facing each other. camera stays there for a few moments, before his mother’s screams pierce the silence.
camera slowly travels up hoshi’s legs from behind, until it reaches his head, where it looks like his dad is embracing him.
something heavy falls into the blood (presumably organs), creating a splashing noise, and shortly after that, hoshi shoves his father. it’s clear he had simply died and collapsed onto him.
his mother starts screaming and sobbing over his body for several minutes, but hoshi finds that he feels relieved, his face breaking out into the smallest smile for the first time since he hit his head.
when his mother gains her senses, she grabs his face between her hands, her own face bloody, puffy, and bruised.
MOM go! you have to go! they won’t understand, they’ll take you to jail, hoshi! you have to leave!
HOSHI (frowning) but we’re safe now.
his mother freezes.
HOSHI he’s gone. we’re safe now.
MOM (she swallows and nods shakily) we are. but i can’t let them take you to prison, sweetheart.
his mom begins leading him through the house, quickly forcing him to change out of his blood-soaked clothes, gathering important belongings and food, finding years’ worth of hidden emergency cash she never found the courage to use, stuffing it into his backpack.
HOSHI mom… what… i…
his mother brings him to the back door, weaving his arms through the backpack and smiling unconvincingly. she takes his face in her hands once more and kisses both cheeks as her tears start to fall.
MOM you be safe, okay?
HOSHI are you mad at me? do you hate me?
MOM what? no, no, sweetie. no. (said forcefully. pauses to think) i’ve only ever felt adoration for you, hoshi. adoration and nothing else. i’m sorry i let this happen. i’m sorry i subjected you to this.
HOSHI mom—
MOM but you need to go now, okay? the neighbors will have heard all the screaming. take the cash, go far away, and whatever you do, don’t come back.
HOSHI but—
MOM go!
she all but shoves him out of the door. she lingers there for a moment, trying her best to let the last memory of his mom be one of her smiling. she whispers an i love you before slamming the door shut.
PRESENT
we return to present-day hoshi, who is now seated on the edge of his girlfriend’s side of their bed. he strokes her hair away from her face as she breathes softly, still asleep.
he smiles, obviously, genuinely in love.
HOSHI (whispers) adoration.
you’re back at work the next day, much to soonyoung’s chagrin. he had been hoping you’d get the rest of the week off, and maybe he could get out of going into the writers’ room and keep you company at home. but he knows that was wishful thinking, especially with how set your team has been on not only working you to the bone, but ruining your life. but at least you enjoy the rest of the week since no one else is there to bother you.
for the first time since jay entered your life, you start to look light again. you start to smile more freely, joke more, and come home with bright eyes. it brings him hope that this is how it will be now—that he did the right thing.
though, he already knows for a fact he did the right thing.
soonyoung can’t describe the pure ecstasy that ran through his veins the moment you admitted you were happy that jay was dead—not only that you were happy he was gone, but that you were glad the killer made it hurt. you didn’t say it, but he heard it loud and clear.
you were proud of him for what he did. you adored him for the way he punished jay, and he would do it again. no matter how many times it took—how many lives it took—he would spill gallons and gallons of blood for you, and he would do it happily. no one would ever hurt you again. not with him around, and he planned to be around until you were both buried six feet deep.
there wasn’t anything that could beat this feeling, he had decided the moment you bared your heart to him—so naked and vulnerable, and still trusting him to hold it gently. you weren’t horrified by his means of protection. you weren’t running the other direction. you were grateful. and he doesn’t know why he thought you would be any other way. there’s a reason he’s with you, after all.
if there’s anything even remotely similar to a soulmate, that’s what you are. you’re meant to be his—made to be his. and he was made to be yours—to serve you, to keep you safe, to kill for you. it doesn’t matter that his habit started long before he ever even met you; now, his talents are only reserved for you.
and it made excitement bubble under the surface of his skin knowing you liked it. you didn’t even know he was jay’s murderer—hell, you didn’t even know he was the prank call killer—and you still admired his work anyway.
“what are you smiling at?”
he startles and looks up to see jihoon peering at his laptop screen, still only half a page full although they’ve been in the writers’ room the whole day. his colleague and friend frowns.
soonyoung sighs. “just daydreaming, man,” he says. it’s not dishonest. he shuts his laptop and stretches in his seat before standing and drawing the attention of the small handful of writers left. “going to head out now, everyone. got a pretty lady waiting for me at home. don’t stay too late, okay?”
he gets the usual playful eye rolls and smiles and cooing from the others as he slaps jihoon on the back and promises to get dinner with him soon. at work, he’s only known for three things: the exceptional writing that got him his lead position on the show, his fixation on horror movies, and his “obsession” with you. he liked it—the idea that when people thought of him, they immediately thought of you too. they know you belong to each other, and that’s exactly how he wants it.
soonyoung barely has the car started and in reverse when you call. he answers immediately.
“hey, baby, i’m just lea—”
“soonyoung?”
his heart stops at the sound of your voice. it’s clear you’ve been crying. for how long, he doesn’t know, but your words are still thick with tears. you sound exhausted and broken and worst of all, defeated. you sound like the day you came home and he decided he was going to kill jay—the first person he’s killed since he graduated college almost 10 years ago.
he puts the car back into park, clenching his jaw for a moment so that his first response to you isn’t tell me his name and i’ll have his head in front of you in an hour.
“soonie?” you whimper. “are you there? i’m sorry to call, i know you’re at work. i—”
“y/n, where are you?” he asks as calmly as he can.
“i’m home,” you answer, voice so small, it makes his rage burn hotter.
the fact that you’re home gives him at least some relief.
“i was hoping you’d be here,” you tell him, voice shaky. “i just need someone to talk to. i had…” you whisper your next words like if you’re any louder, you’ll completely break down. “i thought work would be better. fuck, soonie, i thought work was going to be better.” your words devolve into devastated sobs as you repeat yourself.
soonyoung’s instinct is to race to you, to hold you until your tears stop, and to put you to bed and make sure that every time you wake up from a nightmare, he’s still there, arms tight around you, unyielding. protecting you and in turn, protecting himself.
but his mask, robe, and knife are still in the trunk from his visit to jay’s last week, and right now, he thinks that paying a visit to whichever idiot you’re going to tell him about is the best way he can help.
he forces himself to turn the engine off.
“tell me everything,” he says softly, though his body feels so tense, he thinks he might pop a blood vessel.
“you’re not busy, are you?” you hiccup through your tears. “i can wait until you—”
“i’m not busy, love,” he says, eye inadvertently twitching from using the word.
soonyoung still struggles with it. he tries not to because it’s an affection that makes you feel comforted and, well, loved, and he’ll do anything to make you feel that way. still, he doesn’t know how to keep it from feeling like an insult to you.
love was what his father gave his mom. love was what made his mom stay with a monster. what he has for you isn’t the same; it’s leagues beyond it. he doesn’t think there’s a word for what he feels for you at all.
“go on,” he encourages you. “i’m listening. tell me.”
and you do.
soonyoung used to think he never had a control issue with his habit. it wasn’t something he craved or thought about the way he read that other serial killers did. no, his murderous tendencies only ever reared its ugly, useful head when he needed a solution for an ugly, useless lowlife.
the first was his father. something about cutting his stomach wide open, feeling the warmth of him rush over his hands, hearing the sound of him fall to his feet in pieces—he decided that would be the way it happened each time. he wanted to see a man who didn’t know how to treat a person right—and he wanted to feel the life flow right out of him. without meaning to, it became his M.O.
he found himself hopping city to city after being forced from his home, and there was no shortage of men who needed correction—or, eradication. it was simple at first; he’d see a horrible interaction between lovers or a father and a child or classmates or even strangers, he’d follow the offender until they were alone, and he’d gut them like a pig. he didn’t think about hiding or burying the body, leaving it in plain sight to humiliate his victims further. he didn’t even have his mask yet, and in retrospect, he’s not sure how he didn’t get caught because he was careless in those early days.
he took it as a sign from the universe that he was doing exactly what he was supposed to.
soonyoung was smart with the money his mom left him and picked up part-time jobs until he had enough to put himself through school. university was crawling with losers begging to be killed, but he was a little older and a little wiser, and he knew a serial killer on campus would draw too much attention. so he forced himself to focus on the worst of the worst. and that was when he realized his M.O. was evolving.
it started with a frat president rumored to drug and take advantage of girls at their house parties. soonyoung watched him for a whole semester, taking note of his schedule, his routes, his haunts, his friends. then, he started calling him. nothing more than heavy breathing at first. but when he could hear the man’s nerves fraying—and that didn’t take long—he started talking to him. he found that he liked psychologically torturing him as much as he’d tortured the girls he’d hurt.
hi, allen.
who i am isn’t important.
i hear you can’t get a woman to consent to having sex with you. what’s the problem? is it small? well, even if it is, that isn’t really an issue—just gotta know what to do with it, right?
well, i mean, why else would you resort to drugging and assaulting women?
don’t lie to me. i see everything.
one night, weeks after he’d started calling allen, soonyoung had one last phone conversation with him, one where he was no longer bluffing. he actually was seeing everything, standing in the dark corners of the kitchen in their fraternity house—this time in full disguise—while allen and his brothers got drunk in the backyard.
oh, allen, it’s a bad night to be drunk, buddy.
why? because i’m going to free this campus of you tonight. gonna cleanse the floors of this horrid fucking house with your blood.
it’s too late for “sorry,” allen. besides, i’m not the one who needs to hear it.
the frat president tried to stay with at least one person at all times after the call, but as his brothers got drunker and drunker and started stumbling off to bed or passing out, allen found himself alone. and in the morning, his brothers found him the same way, except this time, with his insides all over the outside.
soonyoung killed two more people while in college, and even though they were far enough apart, he still got dubbed the prank call killer, a name he found childish and dumb. besides, he didn’t want a name; he wanted men to be scared. at least scared enough to try to be decent.
then, college ended, he packed up to follow the shows he wanted to write for, and it led him to you. and he didn’t have time to think about anybody else, let alone plot their demise. soonyoung was occupied by you, your smile, your laugh, your scent, the way you made him feel normal—the way you made him feel at all, something he struggled with since his accident as a child. and once he actually had you? it was over. he knew there was no possible way he’d ever be able to let go of you ever again.
and the killing just… stopped. with you, he learned how to make friends—made a ton of them. he learned to enjoy other people and their company. he learned how to love, even if it sometimes made him want to plunge a knife into his own stomach. but he did it for you because he adored you, and nothing was more important than you.
so no, he didn’t think he had a control issue. it was largely easy minding his own business and refraining from stabbing men left and right when he had you next to him.
but then, you started this stupid fucking job. you met jay and all his little cronies, and soonyoung realized it wasn’t a matter of his control; it was a matter of your safety and happiness. because now that you were the center of his universe, you two were one. if someone hurt you, they were hurting him.
and the way he sees it, his only job is to make sure no one hurts him. no one messes with what’s his.
it’s not about control. he has none now. it’s about you.
by the time you finish telling him everything that happened that day, he has a strange calmness about him he hasn’t felt since before you. he can’t do anything but stare blankly forward, watching as employees of the studio walk to their cars and pull away.
“i’m so over it,” you grunt, having passed from sad to angry fairly quickly. “i don’t think i can do this anymore, soonie. i know money would be tight and i don’t want to put that stress on us but—”
“no, don’t be silly,” he says, feeling like he’s on autopilot. “please quit, baby. i’ve wanted you to quit since the first day; i just… didn’t want to be that boyfriend.” he means every word and yet, he can’t feel any of them as they leave his mouth. “we’ll figure it out. please quit.”
there’s a heavy silence between the lines until you sigh deeply. “okay, love. i will. i’ll do it.”
he thinks he should feel relieved. he doesn’t and he knows he won’t until he kills them. “yeah? you will?” he asks, hoping he sounds excited enough. “you promise?”
your smile is loud and clear as you speak. “yes, i promise, soonie. i’m going to march in there tomorrow and quit without notice, and i’ll tell them i hope they all drop dead—no!”
you gasp and correct yourself.
“i’ll tell them i hope the prank call killer comes for them just like they did for jay!”
soonyoung feels something then. he doesn’t know what; he can’t define it, but it quickly grows into something bigger the more you speak. it pulls both his spirits and the corners of his lips up. it kisses him and fills him with light. it makes him feel alive, more than a shell for a soul he isn’t even sure he has.
“i don’t even know if any of them realize what really happened,” you think aloud before sighing like you’re daydreaming. “ugh, what i wouldn’t pay to see them on the news like that. ‘grisliest murders since prank call killings plague corporate hell’! that would be nice, huh?”
soonyoung smirks. that, he can deliver.
“yeah, baby. it would. a headline like that… i’d die happy.”
“me too,” you agree before telling him: “no one gets me like you do, soonie.”
his heart soars.
🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
after he’s done gagging howard—so tightly, the fabric is cutting into his skin, a punishment for the earlier kick to the head—hoshi stands in front of the two men, leaning up against the pool table and watching them.
they both have cuts and bruises on their faces, from the struggle to get them into the dining chairs, but hoshi’s knife is still nowhere in sight.
HOSHI (begins mindlessly and slowly pacing in front of them) i bet you want to ask me who i am… what i want… why i’m doing this, right?
howard glares at him but chris is already crying.
HOSHI and usually, i’d entertain the questions because prolonging the hope that you’re going to survive makes this more fun for me, but… (stops facing away from them) i’m tired. and i think i’m beyond having fun tonight. (turns head toward them and chris flinches at the mask) i think… (fully turns toward them with hunting knife in hand, catching the light) i just want to wipe you two off the face of this earth and be done with it.
howard’s glare falters and chris urinates on himself. hoshi snorts.
HOSHI (walks up to chris, who cringes away from him) chris, right? (leans down so chris is face to face with his mask) i asked you a question.
chris nods obediently and quickly, gag soaked in his own tears.
HOSHI so you’re the one who called my girl a bitch, hm? (chris frowns but he doesn’t seem to know exactly who hoshi is yet) called her a bitch in front of the whole office… told her she’d be better sucking your dick under the desk than trying to assign you work?
howard’s eyes widen as he realizes exactly who hoshi is talking about. chris starts sobbing loudly, begging for his life incoherently through the gag.
HOSHI (looks down at chris’s soiled lap, points his knife at his crotch) you want her to suck this dick?
chris’s begging becomes more desperate, thrashing in his seat as he realizes what’s about to happen.
HOSHI (looks up at chris briefly and huffs a single laugh) what dick?
he shoves his knife into chris’s crotch. chris screams in muffled agony and howard starts shrieking and flailing in an attempt to scoot his chair away from the other two.
camera is focused on hoshi’s upper half and audience can see his arm jerking quickly back and forth as chris’s screams continue and howard finally starts crying. then, there’s a dull thud on the floor, and hoshi straightens back up and takes a step away, knife disappearing in his robes as he tilts his head and views his work.
HOSHI looks like there isn’t a dick to suck there, chris. shame.
chris’s wailing continues as hoshi looks to howard now, who begins shaking his head and crying through his gag.
HOSHI and you, you annoying little fuck. (crouches in front of howard) it wasn’t enough that you’re making her life a living hell, you wanted to piss me off even more and kick me in the head, huh?
hoshi rips his mask off, revealing his face to howard. there’s already a bruise spreading across the top of his left cheek. he smirks.
HOSHI my name is hoshi, if you’re wondering. and yeah. i’m her boyfriend. and as her boyfriend, she tells me all kinds of things. i’m sure you can imagine.
he stands up and walks back to the pool table, resting his mask against the felt before turning, leaning up against it once more, and crossing his arms.
HOSHI and today, she had a lot to tell me. she told me that jake’s two closest idiot friends were trying to continue his legacy as biggest asshole in the office. do you know how jake died, howard? won’t bother asking mr. no-dick, over there. seems busy.
camera goes to chris, who keeps fading in and out of consciousness, face soaked with sweat, tears, and drool slipping out of his open mouth.
HOSHI no guesses? (a gagged howard looks at him incredulously) okay, fine, fine, i’ll tell you. i killed him.
even though his tone sounds prideful as he speaks, his face is blank. he stares at howard with soulless eyes, and it unnerves him further.
HOSHI i snuck into his apartment while he was out drinking with you guys. (howard makes a noise of surprise) yeah, that’s right. you two were the last people to see that moron alive. i should probably thank you. (tilts his head up at the ceiling like he’s reliving the memory) his inebriated state made it a lot easier to tease and kill him. not a lot of fight in that one. surprising, don’t you think? (head remains tilted at ceiling, but eyes flash down to meet howard’s) that someone who tormented a woman’s life the way he did would die so easily… so quietly… so… pathetically.
chris regains consciousness and starts screaming and sobbing again, head hung over where his member used to be
HOSHI (brings his head down and looks at chris now) how will you two die? (eyes slide over to howard) will you beg for your life the way jake did? will you… offer me meaningless apologies and promises? will you… tell me that you’ll give me whatever i want?
he brings out his knife again and wipes it against howard’s pool table, smearing chris’s blood against the green felt. he inspects it like he’s making sure it’s sharp enough. camera focuses on hoshi’s reflection in the blade.
HOSHI (shrugs, puts knife down) i guess we’ll see in a few moments—how similar you are to jake. i will say, (pushes off the pool table, taking his mask with him) you two seem to be even worse than that deadbeat. do you agree, chris?
chris screams at the mere mention of his name, convulsing as hoshi walks closer to both of them. he stops just a couple of steps away from them, right in between the two.
HOSHI jake was a demeaning, narcissistic misogynist. and i tore him wide fucking open. let his intestines spill all over his own floor. made his living room a shallow sea of red.
both howard and chris beg through their gags.
HOSHI can you imagine what i’ll do to you if i think you’re even worse? (puts his mask back on and looks at howard) can you imagine what i’ll do to the man who told the whole office that he was gonna fuck the ambition and fight out of my girl, whether she liked it or not? what do you think i’ll do to that man if i made a massacre out of the dumbass who said a few mean things?
howard desperately shrieks excuses against his gag, no success in saying even one understandable word.
HOSHI (sighs like he’s come to a decision) yeah, i’m beyond having fun tonight. (quickly slashes chris’s throat, shallow enough that it will take a long time for him to bleed out. howard screams) at least with him. but with you? (crouches in front of howard again) the night has only started for you, howard.
IN THEIR HOME
TV NEWS ANCHOR authorities are doing their best to calm increasingly panicked citizens as fears that a serial killer is rampant on our streets spread. last week, 29-year-old jake lee was found brutally murdered in his downtown apartment (camera view switches to hoshi’s girlfriend as she tidies up around their living room. she looks pleased upon hearing that sentence), stabbed multiple times. last night, police answered multiple calls to 911 reporting the screams of a man in their high-rise apartment.
she stops tidying, turning to look at the news broadcast from where she stands. her eyes are wide and her mouth hangs open in surprise.
TV NEWS ANCHOR upon entering, they found 27-year-old howard wang and 25-year-old chris vu’s bodies in the former’s apartment. authorities have not yet released details of the crime, but sources report that the nature of their deaths is comparable to that of jake lee’s. we have maya on the scene, reporting.
the tv turns off as she sinks into the couch, obviously in a dazed shock. the camera focuses on her from straight ahead, slowly zooming in on her for several, silent seconds until only the lower half of her face is visible. after a few more moments, she smiles.
you watch soonyoung carefully as he washes the dishes, something he insisted on doing since you cooked tonight. you think it’s the least you can do for the sole earner of the household now that you’re unemployed, but he refused to let you do it yourself.
from where you stand, you have a clear view of his sharp profile. the bruise he says he got from falling down the stairs at work earlier this week has become a deep purple, spreading across his cheekbone and toward his jawline. you suppose he could’ve gotten that in a fall. a fall that took place the same night hayden and charles were murdered. the same night you told him you wished jay’s killer would come for them next.
you want to say your boyfriend would never do something that insane. you want to say your boyfriend doesn’t have the kind of temperament required to commit vengeful crimes like these. but after almost ten years together, you think there have been enough signs to make you take pause.
soonyoung almost never got visibly jealous—never paid any attention to men who looked at you a little too long or sent the server to deliver you a drink. he was confident in his trust in you. it should’ve been comforting how unbothered he was by the attention you received, but sometimes, you felt offended that he wasn’t at least a little bit jealous.
these thoughts were vanquished immediately when one night, someone grabbed you at a bar. it wasn’t even inappropriate; the man just took you by your forearm and yanked you toward him in an attempt to keep you from getting crushed by a drunken patron who had zero spatial awareness.
you’ll never forget the rage you saw in soonyoung’s eyes when they landed on the stranger’s hold on your arm. he didn’t do anything—simply threw the hand off you and led you away, but the look stayed with you. it was a raw, all-consuming, unadulterated, and unchecked rage you don’t think you’ve ever seen with your own eyes before.
the kind of rage you think could be capable of murder, given the right circumstances.
it should’ve scared you. just like the idea of soonyoung murdering your coworkers one by one should scare you. but it didn’t, and it doesn’t now. exactly like back then, it gets you wetter faster than foreplay itself.
soonyoung turns the faucet off and wipes his hands on the towel. when he turns, he’s so startled to find you standing so close to him, he stumbles back.
“oh shit,” he breathes, laughing a little. “i didn’t realize you were so close. you move so quietly.” he notices the way you stare at him intently. like it’s second-nature, he wraps himself around you and pulls you into his chest. “what’s up, baby?”
“i want to try something,” you say softly, a little hesitantly.
you know what you’re about to ask for is depraved and worrisome and… inhumane. but you can’t bring yourself to care right now, not when your panties are this soaked at the thoughts flying wildly around your head.
“okay,” soonyoung says, laughing a little. “can you be more specific?”
“i want… to roleplay a little,” you say, gaze going down to soonyoung’s neck, then his chest. your fingers trace the edges and dips of his collarbones and his pecs.
his grip on you tightens. “is that right?” he says, smirking. “and who do you want us to pretend to be? are we strangers in a bar?”
you shake your head. “no, not strangers in a bar.”
“okay,” he acquiesces easily.
soonyoung is always eager to give you whatever you want, and it bolsters your confidence to ask this of him. he leans down to graze your ear with his lips.
“am i your sexy sidepiece you’re cheating on your boring ass husband with?” he whispers, running his hands down to your ass and gently squeezing, pressing your hips against his so you can feel him already hardening from this conversation alone.
you smile, eyes fluttering closed as he nips at your lobe. “nope, not that either.”
“tell me who you want me to be, and i’ll be whatever it is, baby.” he subtly grinds into you and you try not to moan.
“you promise you won’t judge me?” you whisper.
“i would never,” he promises, leaving open-mouthed kisses down your neck now.
“i want you to be him,” you say as he starts to bite and suck. “i want you to be the prank call killer.”
he completely freezes in your arms, mouth still against your skin. for a horrifying minute, you think you’ve crossed the line. of course soonyoung is going to think you’re a freak for asking something so debauched and immoral of him. you have little to no evidence that he would ever enjoy something like this.
you’re about to push him away and start groveling for forgiveness and promising to seek therapy, when he grabs you by the face with both hands and envelopes your lips roughly with his own. his kisses are hot and wet and his tongue is in your mouth before you can ask if this means “yes.”
he presses you up against the kitchen island, and you can feel his entire length against your thigh, fully hard now and begging to be inside you. you groan just thinking about it—thinking about the murderer that took your tormentors off the street fucking into you viciously and relentlessly.
“and who are you?” he asks, breaking away from the kiss and lifting you so that you’re sitting on the counter.
soonyoung’s voice is rough and raspy with desire you haven’t heard from him quite like this before, and you feel the wetness between your legs grow knowing he’s willing to do this for you.
“i’m exactly who i am right now,” you say, feeling a little shy, but when he moans at your words, you feel bold enough to be honest with your fantasy. “i’m your girlfriend,” you inform him, hands diving under his shirt and caressing the muscles there. “and you’re going around killing all the losers i fucking hate because you adore me so much.”
“fuck, you’re so goddamn hot,” he mutters as he takes both hands and rips your blouse open, buttons popping and fabric ripping. you gasp and he smirks at the sound, slipping the ruined piece of clothing off you. “shhh, don’t be scared, baby. you’re the one person in this world i would never hurt.”
the sentence undoes you.
“oh god,” you breathe, diving forward and capturing his lips again.
soonyoung makes quick work of your bra, throwing it somewhere behind him once it’s off. he massages your breast for a few moments before taking your nipple between his fingers and tugging.
you break the kiss to tilt your head back and groan, and he takes the opportunity to bite and suck at the space where your neck meets your shoulder.
“rougher,” you breathe. “c’mon, you’re a murderer.”
soonyoung laughs a little at that, his love bites turning into gentle pecks up and down your neck.
“and you think this killer… he’d be rough with you?”
your eyes blink open a few times, staring at the ceiling and losing yourself in thought. in the days following your colleagues’ deaths and your own resignation from work, you’ve had a lot of time to think—and touch—about this. when you envisioned soonyoung as your murderous protector, you saw him as vicious and wrathful and cruel. but when it came to you… his need was desperate and carnal, but always softer. gentler.
you realize it’s probably not so different from the way soonyoung already likes to fuck you: like you’re the only person in the world he cares about.
“how about…” soonyoung presses one last kiss to your neck before his hands are suddenly up your skirt. he pushes your panties aside and abruptly plunges his middle finger into your heat. your body jerks into his in response. “you let me take the lead here, and if you don’t like something, you just let me know, hm?”
every word you’ve ever known escapes you as he fucks you with just one finger, the wet sounds of your arousal embarrassingly loud as he moves in and out. his thumb lands on your clit when you let out a particularly filthy moan for him, and you lean back on your hands and open your legs wider for him for better access. he gives you another finger as reward.
“oh, soonie,” you breathe. “yes.”
“so warm, so wet,” he rasps, other hand landing on your chest and flicking your nipple. “so beautiful.”
“babe,” you whine, rolling your hips onto his fingers in frenzied movements. “tell me… tell me about—oh my god!”
“hm?” he hums before the sound of more fabric ripping fills the kitchen.
you frown and look down in time to see soonyoung bringing your panties to his nose. you have half a mind to scream at him to stop but his fingers are still inside you, rendering you absolutely speechless as he presses the lace against his face and inhales deeply. your instinct is to feel self conscious—to snap your legs closed and grab your ruined underwear back. but you watch as his eyes roll back into his head and his lips twitch up against the black lace, and you realize he loves it. he breathes in again, and this time, you feel the excitement it causes through his fingers. they move with renewed fervor, like they’re thanking you for the gift you’ve given soonyoung.
“smell so fucking delicious,” he all but growls as he balls the panties up and pockets them.
before you can say anything back, he’s bending down to let his tongue taste your clit briefly before pressing his thumb back against you. your hips jerk and you can’t help when your elbows give, making you collapse and lay all the way down on the counter.
his fingers pump in and out of you faster now, and he completely replaces his thumb with his tongue, guzzling and drinking you up so intensely, his face quickly becomes covered with the stickiness of you.
“taste perfect,” he moans into you, tongue lapping you up eagerly. “tastes like mine.”
it pushes you over the edge quickly, and your back is arching off the island counter as your orgasm seizes you. the room is filled with your boyfriend’s name as you ride out the pleasure on his fingers.
“what do you want me to tell you about?” soonyoung asks once you come down, thumb going back to your clit. he keeps his face close to your pussy as he speaks, nose occasionally slipping between your folds and inhaling as he does. “should i tell you about how i disembowelled that ugly, little douchebag, jay?”
your cunt spasms at the words and soonyoung huffs a laugh when he feels you clench around his fingers. he curls them inside you, easily finding the spongy spot he’s been purposely avoiding up until now. he slows his movements, rubbing you patiently and carefully.
you sigh at the sensation, unsure if it’s because you feel so good or because you’re frustrated he’s eased up.
“i ran my knife up his body until his bones wouldn’t let me butcher him any further,” he whispers, moving so that his mouth is over your stomach, tongue slipping out to trace patterns on your skin between words. “and i made him bleed, baby. fuck, i made him bleed so much.”
“soonie.”
“i made him bleed for looking at you, for breathing near you, for ever thinking he could make someone as perfect as you bend to his will,” he whispers, breath hot as it fans over your skin, fingers still working you to a second orgasm. “i painted his apartment red. and i made it hurt. i made sure to make it hurt. just… for… you.”
he pushes roughly at your spot as he says that last word, eliciting a lewd moan as the beginnings of your next orgasm start to settle over you. soonyoung smirks against your skin.
“as for charles, i cut his fucking cock off,” he tells you.
you gasp at that even though you know he’s just making shit up for the sake of roleplaying. still, you find it in yourself to hate how much you love the idea of soonyoung doing that to someone who told you to get on your knees and suck his dick. someone who wasn’t your boyfriend.
“he cried like a bitch,” he says, kissing your clit before straightening back up so he can properly watch you writhe under him. “cried all the way up until i slit his throat.”
you smile at soonyoung then, reaching for his free hand—the one not currently buried two fingers deep inside you—and bringing it over your tit and holding it there. he looks at you like you’re the reason he’s alive. like you’re the only good thing in the world.
he massages you, just as gently as he did when this first started.
“but my favorite…” he says, eyes heavy-lidded as he takes you in. all his. all the time. until the end of time.
he removes his hand from your chest and shoves his sweatpants down just enough for his cock to spring out. your hips immediately start to buck at the sight, but all soonyoung has to do is shake his head at you once for you to immediately stop moving. there’s something so demanding and powerful about his presence right now that you’re not willing to push the limits of his patience. the pleased look on his face makes your emptiness feel worth it. he takes himself in his fist, pumping a few times as he speaks.
“my favorite was hayden. do you know why, baby?” he asks, moaning when you start playing with your nipple and breathing his name. “can you imagine the shit i did to the loser who thought he could fuck what’s mine?”
“i am,” you sigh, nodding desperately. “i’m yours.”
soonyoung pumps even faster now, but his fingers never falter inside you, intent on getting you to another high. and it’s close. you can feel it building almost painfully in your lower abdomen.
“i cut that ugly tongue of his out of his fucking mouth,” he grunts. you clench hard around his fingers. “and i started chopping him to fucking pieces—”
“soonyoung, i’m going to cum!” you half-shout, twisting under him uncontrollably.
“i cut him up, and the entire time, i only thought of you,” he fucks into his fist harder as you start to lose yourself to your climax.
“soonyoung!”
“and i thought that i’d kill the entire fucking world if i had to… just to keep you mine.”
you cum harder than you ever have in your life, near-screaming as you squirt all over soonyoung’s hand. the feeling reaches every, single corner of your body, making you convulse with pleasure.
“holy shit,” you hear from somewhere above you.
you don’t have time to gather your senses, though, because immediately, your body is being dragged down to the edge of the counter until you’re flying right off it. your boyfriend catches you, standing you up and kissing you full on the lips as he shoves your skirt down enough for it to slip off you and pool at your feet. you take the opportunity to tug his shirt off too, hands all over his naked torso once it is.
“let me cum in you?” he asks without leaving your lips.
“god, please,” you whine, feeling the wetness soonyoung caused sliding down your thighs.
he wastes no time after that, turning you around so that your hips are flush against the kitchen counter. you feel the fabric of his sweatpants glide down the back of your thighs as he removes them, and that’s the last thing you remember before the darkness overcomes you.
your eyes squeeze shut as soonyoung slams into you in one go, giving you zero time to adjust as he starts to immediately rut into you from behind. it burns and hurts so delectably, having him stretch you like this. usually, he takes even more time than he did tonight, making his way up to four fingers sometimes, but having him fuck you like this—like if he waits even a second longer, it’ll be his ruin—it threatens to violently shove you into an abyss of pleasure you fear you’ll never get out of.
soonyoung makes sure to hold you up, one arm across your chest with his hand on your breast, the other on your neck, forcing you to tilt your head back and rest on his shoulder.
you feel his eyes on you, his breath fanning your cheek as his gaze rakes you top to bottom, and you know he looks like a god, but you can’t open your eyes to save your life right now. you think if you do, you might explode into a million little pieces, forever disappearing into the ether.
you feel his lips rest against your ear as he sloppily whispers, “do you like it? knowing i’d do anything for you?” his voice is hoarse as he fucks you rougher than he ever has, the debased sound of skin slapping against each other filling the kitchen. “that i’d kill anyone without a second thought if it meant keeping you forever?”
you moan loudly, eyes pathetically rolling when you attempt to open them. you give up, keeping them shut as you reach up and grab soonyoung’s hair. he groans as you tug.
“soonie,” you sigh, shoving your hips back to meet his and making him curse. “i love it. i love it so much.”
you don’t know that you’re playing a role anymore. the idea that soonyoung would do any of this for you is so titillating, you feel drunk off it.
“feel so safe with you,” you say in broken gasps, your boyfriend’s rhythm making it impossible to say more than two words smoothly. “know you’ll always protect me, soonie.”
soonyoung curses loudly and bites into your neck to keep from getting any louder. his hips snap to yours at an increasingly unforgivable pace.
“and i’ll always protect you too,” you tell him.
you don’t care if this is something you wouldn’t be able to double down on when his cock isn’t buried to the hilt inside of you; it feels like the right thing to say. it feels exactly like what you want to do for him too: everything and anything. just to keep him yours.
“i would do anything for you, soonie,” you whisper.
without warning, there’s a burst of warmth inside your cunt, and soonyoung’s hand briefly tightens against your throat before immediately relaxing again, nothing but his moans and your name taking up the air in the room. he comes inside you hard, hips gluing to your ass like he’s trying to keep every, tiny drop inside you.
the feeling of his dick pulsing against your walls, pushing his seed into you, claiming you as his—it pushes you to your third orgasm, a slow and rolling one, not as intense as the others, but impossibly more satisfying. because this one not only brings you pleasure and an endless well of love for soonyoung; it brings you clarity.
because as you finally open your eyes moments later, soonyoung whispering sweet affirmations, vows, and affections in your ear as he keeps his softening cock warm inside you, you realize with startling lucidity that it wasn’t just a little fantasy.
the idea of soonyoung covered in blood and gore on your behalf was the stuff made of your dreams—or, arguably, nightmares. the idea that you had someone who adored you so deeply, he would play god like that made your heart grow tenfold. and now that soonyoung has fucked the fantasy deep into places inside you you couldn’t reach, you didn’t have it in you to feel ashamed about it.
you’re happy those three are dead.
and you’ll be even happier when the rest of them are too.
🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
HOSHI (leaning forward on the table) what’s your favorite scary movie?
YOUR ALIAS hmmm… (she buys herself time by taking a sip of her coffee) maybe… “saw”? why? are you big on scary movies?
HOSHI (shrugs) i like ‘em. probably more than other genres, yeah. (laughs nervously) what, um, do you like about “saw”?
she looks at him like she’s endeared by his nervousness.
YOUR ALIAS i mean, it was a really lengthy and roundabout way of doing things, but i guess i just enjoyed the idea of someone delivering retribution to people who deserved it but escaped it, not that i agreed all the victims chosen should’ve been chosen at all. just enjoyed seeing a few assholes die.
HOSHI (nods slowly) you like karma.
YOUR ALIAS (pauses with coffee at lips. she nods, maintaining eye contact) i do. (sips coffee) what’s your favorite scary movie?
HOSHI i like any slasher movie with a good final girl. if i had to pick, i’d probably say “halloween.”
YOUR ALIAS ahh, laurie, the final girl of all final girls.
hoshi visibly lights up at the comment, smiling widely at her.
HOSHI you know more about horror than you let on.
she nods, smiling back.
YOUR ALIAS just a little. i wouldn’t say i’m knowledgeable but i’ve watched a lot of the classics at least once. i’d call it a green flag that you root for the final girls. laurie’s a good one.
HOSHI i’ll take it. (obviously pleased) but humor me. why is it a green flag?
YOUR ALIAS (shrugs) when done correctly, final girls are the perfect mix of vulnerability—
scene suddenly and almost startlingly flashes to memories of hoshi’s mother for a brief second, accompanied by what sounds like a loud gust of wind. the memories are happy ones between hoshi and his mom.
YOUR ALIAS —and strength—
the memories become times his mother endured his father’s beatings.
YOUR ALIAS —and don’t subscribe to traditional gender roles and ideals. i’m not a huge fan of some films making it so that a lot of final girls are, like… holier than thou virgins, but i think the trope has come a long way.
hoshi nods, seemingly satisfied with her answer. she laughs and adds:
YOUR ALIAS unless you like final girls because you like to see a woman struggling against a violent serial killer. then red flag.
hoshi forces a laugh and shakes his head, looking down at his coffee and tracing the mouth of his mug.
HOSHI no, no. definitely more in line with the first one. i, uh… (looks up at her and seems to search for something in her eyes. whatever it is, he finds it and has the strength to be vulnerable for the first time in his life) my dad was abusive. with my mom.
her face falls and reaches forward to hold hoshi’s hand. the feeling is foreign and odd but he lets her hold it, even curling his own fingers closed around hers.
YOUR ALIAS i’m so sorry.
HOSHI she made me get out. she forced me to leave and never come back so i don’t really know what happened to her. i guess i just hope she’s a final girl.
she takes her second hand and closes it over the top of his and rubs it comfortingly.
YOUR ALIAS she must have loved you so much. (hoshi visibly bristles at that but doesn’t pull away) to be able to give you a better chance at life even if it meant never seeing you again… she absolutely is the final girl.
HOSHI (smiles) i like the way you described it. vulnerability, strength.
YOUR ALIAS (smiles back) tell me more about her.
the two talk until the cafe closes and kicks them out, and the audience sees a montage of the couple going on their second date, third date, until they are moving in together, and planning a future together. hoshi is the happiest the audience has ever seen him, and it seems the side of him that kills has been quieted, though we know that to be untrue from the murders happening present-day.
the montage moves into a scene where she comes home from work in tears. hoshi consoles her, but eventually, that same blank stare we first saw after his head injury comes back.
once she’s asleep, hoshi visits a storage unit he rents a few miles away. he reels up the door, revealing just one trunk in the unit. he walks up to it and opens it.
inside, is a mask, a robe, and a knife.
sex with you after that night in the kitchen has become twice as intense as it ever used to be, and soonyoung knows it’s because a big part of him isn’t holding back anymore—he’s bringing his whole self into bed with you, not bothering to pretend he isn’t completely eviscerating anyone who even looks at you funny in his spare time.
he tells you everything you want to hear, which funnily enough, is just the truth.
two more deaths to add to the list at your office, and he tells you exactly how he did it. he tells you what they said, how they begged, how he made them pay with their lives. between all of that, he never forgets to tell you he would do it time and time and again for you. he would do anything for you. kill anyone for you.
and the way you moan and gasp and cum at his words every time without fail is so goddamn addicting, he thinks he might die whenever he’s not inside you.
it’s dangerous, he knows that. as you start to tell him more stories you didn’t bother to when you were still working there, the itch to go annihilate that entire office becomes overwhelming, and he knows if he doesn’t control it soon, it’s bound to draw unwanted attention; he doesn’t know how it hasn’t already, with five dead bodies—all on the same team at the same company.
so for a few weeks, he doesn’t do anything about the mental list of names he has in his head, letting the headlines and panic die down.
you go out interviewing for jobs, he goes to work, you both come home and fuck each other’s brains out, and he stifles the voice in his head telling him to go murder every last person on that team.
but then, you ask for something terrifying.
you’ve been exploring your kinks ever since you first asked him to roleplay, and you’ve found the things you like and dislike—all things he agrees with so far. you like being tied up, you like blindfolding him, you don’t like calling him daddy (he absolutely fucking hated trying that one), you loved when he spit in your mouth, and he loved when you spit in his.
and while he was open to all your suggestions, there were some things he hesitated with. you asked him to choke you and though he initially agreed, he couldn’t, immediately getting soft when he tried to. you asked him to degrade you—call you a bitch, a slut, a whore—and he figured it was your way of coming to terms with what you experienced at your nightmare of a job. that maybe if it came from someone you loved and felt safe with instead of the asshole in the next cubicle, you’d slowly chip away at your trauma. but he couldn’t do that either.
you always handled his rejections gracefully, assuring him that you could do missionary with zero kinks involved for the rest of your life, and you’d be “on your knees thanking him for blessing you with his dick either way.” and you do your best to prove that to him, taking kinks off the table for a while and seemingly giving him a break. the only thing that stays constant is the “roleplaying,” though that’s probably more at soonyoung’s insistence than anything else. the intimacy he experiences from being himself in bed with you—truly himself—is unparalleled.
until one night, you ask him to use a knife on you during sex, and the panic attack it incites—the first soonyoung has ever experienced—is so massive, you almost call 911. he calms down enough to convince you not to, and the rest of the night is spent in your arms as you cry and apologize profusely for suggesting something like that when you know how his parents raised him. he tries to find the strength to tell you it’s okay, and that he understands, and that there’s no harm in asking, but each time he tries, nothing comes out of his mouth. he spends that entire time staring at the wall, and for the very first time, he experiences it: an undeniable thirst to plunge his knife into someone.
soonyoung isn’t sure why, especially since he just suffered the most exhausting mental breakdown over the measly idea of even holding a knife anywhere near your vicinity. maybe it’s to take his mind off the gruesome, nauseating thoughts of his hunting knife sinking into your flesh—images that flooded his mind against his will the moment you asked that of him. maybe it’s a need to recalibrate his brain, like if he kills another one of your tormentors, it will remind him of his devotion to you.
whatever it is, it nags at him day and night for the rest of the week until he accepts it’s something he needs to give into, no matter how callous and unwise it might be. in an attempt to convince himself it’s okay, he says this will be the last one; regardless of the handful of names left, he’ll do this last one, and he’ll move on. as such, he makes his last victim the one person who could’ve put an end to all of this from the start: your boss.
daniel park is a man of routine, soonyoung learns over the next few weeks. he leaves his home at a sharp 7 a.m., stopping by the same coffeeshop near his obnoxiously large house in the suburbs. he gets to the office around 8 a.m., a full hour after he required you (and no one else) to be in the office when you were still his employee. now that you’re gone, park is usually the first of his team in the office. he locks himself up inside his corner office doing fuck all while everyone else does his work for eight hours. he leaves the office exactly at 4 p.m., and from there, he either goes out for dinner and drinks with his team (something you were never invited to), meets equally old and ugly buddies for drinks, or goes to a bar alone for drinks. either way, the man is drunk by 6 p.m. every day.
then, around 10 p.m., he’ll make his sorry way home—driving drunk while at it—and he’ll stumble into his home, paying no mind to his already sleeping wife, who took care of the home and their child the entire day with no help from him.
soonyoung decides to be reckless one more time. it’s his last one, anyway. he wants this one to matter. he wants this one to be the one you think about for the rest of your life—enough to hold you over even if he never kills again.
he waits for a night when park drinks alone, usually around wednesday or thursday, when he’s gotten tired of his team and wants time alone with whatever stupid thoughts he has. soonyoung watches him from a corner booth at the bar, knocking back whiskey after whiskey like they’re shots. and when he stumbles out of the establishment, he easily guides him to his own car instead of park’s with little protest from the drunk.
he drives him right back to the office building that took so much energy and life out of you, using his badge to get them into the floor. he’s patient with park, letting the man nod off for an hour as he ties him up and prepares for the rest of the night.
when park finally blinks his eyes open, soonyoung is fully dressed in his usual disguise and standing before him in the darkness, only the moonlight filtering in from the windows to his left illuminating his shape. the way your boss startles so violently is deeply satisfying, and it takes everything in soonyoung to refrain from laughing in his face. park jerks his limbs, horrified to find them tightly bound to his own chair, wheeled out of his office and brought to the front of the team floor, where park keeps a whiteboard for their daily stand-ups.
“good morning, sunshine,” soonyoung says from beneath his mask.
“who are you?! what kind of sick joke is this?!”
“none of you were raised with manners, huh?” he grumbles. “all of you skip straight to your stupid questions. why don’t any of you know how to greet a fellow human being?”
he stills in the seat. “‘all of us’?”
soonyoung nods slowly, taking his knife out of his robes, freshly cleaned and polished the way it is before and after every single death. he feels a jolt of dread twist in his stomach when he looks at the blade, picturing it buried in your stomach. he shakes his head to free himself of the thoughts, and thankfully, park doesn’t notice, too busy blabbering all kinds of questions.
“shhh, shhh!” soonyoung shushes him, waving his hands erratically. “quiet, shut up, i’m irritable tonight and if you piss me off on top of that, i’ll make this ten times slower than it needs to be.”
his mouth clamps shut at that and he presses himself back into his seat.
soonyoung usually pretends to inspect his knife at this point just to intimidate his victims, but he couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t throw up looking at his own weapon right now, so he lets the arm holding it simply fall to his side.
“all of you,” he repeats. “jay… charles… hayden.” he walks to park slowly, menacingly. “leo, ian.”
your boss’s eyes widen as he hears all the names of his slain employees from the last several months.
“daniel,” soonyoung finishes his list. “you.”
“wh… what…?” he sputters, shaking his head in confusion. his words slur and this close, soonyoung can smell the alcohol on his breath even from under his mask. “you were actually targeting this office?!”
soongyoung scoffs. “well, yes. the only victims have been from this office.”
“b-but authorities! they said there have been a few others that could’ve been—”
park cuts himself off with his own scream as soonyoung’s knife pins his hand to the arm of his chair.
“oh my god!” he screams at the top of his lungs, entire body jerking against his restraints. “oh my god, you stabbed me! you fucking stabbed me! oh my god!”
“i told you to be quiet, right?” he reminds him. “are you going to be quiet… or not?”
your boss stops screaming, though his whimpering and sobbing is almost just as loud. he does his best not to look at his own hand like it helps him pretend it didn’t just happen. he stares up at the ceiling, taking shallow breaths.
“do you know what all of you have in common?” soonyoung asks.
“no,” park breathes, still blinking furiously at the ceiling.
“y/n,” he states easily. “that’s what you have in common.”
park’s eyes come down to soonyoung’s mask, wide and filled with tears.
“yeah, you know exactly why i’m here, don’t you?”
“i—i—” his mouth opens and closes several times before he says, “i’m sorry.”
“whatever for?” soonyoung asks sarcastically, pulling someone’s chair out from their cubicle.
he notices a light blanket on it, yanking it off and throwing it over his shoulder before he sits down. he slouches, bringing one ankle to rest up on his knee and cradling his chin in his hand, elbow on the armrest. he tilts his head in mock interest.
“for it all!” he shrieks. “i swear, i’m sorry, i know i should’ve done more! i’m sorry! i’m a fucking coward, okay?! please! i know what they did to her was horrible!”
“do you? know that?”
“yes, yes! i swear!”
“name them.”
“what?”
“if you can name everything they said and did to her,” soonyoung says, watching the way his blood drips from the armrest and stains the carpet below. “maybe i’ll make this quick. stab you in the heart and be done with it.”
“what?!” he protests. “what about you let me live?”
soonyoung scoffs exaggeratedly. “oh no, daniel. no. that’s cute, but no. the only way you’re coming out of this building is in a body bag. it really is just a matter of whether or not this will be quick and painless or… well, y’know… the alternative.”
he’s bluffing. he already knows exactly what he’s doing with park. he just likes giving him the illusion of control. when he rips it away from him, it’ll be all the more gratifying.
“you have a minute. i’d start listing if i were you.”
“they, uh, they bullied her!”
soonyoung rolls his eyes beneath his mask.
“they catcalled her! they took credit for her work! they made her do all of their reports! they, uh… they—”
“tick tock.”
“they made sexual jokes about her! talked shit about her during dinners! uh, they—um, they spread rumors about her!”
“okay,” soonyoung says, waving a hand and nodding. “good run.” park seems to sigh with relief. “how about you, though?”
“what?”
“how about you?” soonyoung repeats himself, and even though he’s still slouched casually in his seat, his change of tone makes your boss flinch. “what are some things you said and did to her?”
“i… i didn’t…”
“uh-uh,” he laughs, wagging a finger at him. “i already know everything, daniel. don’t try to lie to me.”
it’s another bluff. you told soonyoung you told him everything, but something about the way you said it never convinced him. he knew you were leaving something out, and if this was his last time with any of your vile colleagues, he might as well try to see what it was you were hiding.
“what’s it going to be, boss man? are we going slow or are we making it painless?”
“i passed her up for every promotion!” he shouts immediately, wincing when his enthusiasm jostles his hand against the knife. “she was the most qualified and i passed her up every time!”
soonyoung motions with his hand boredly. “okay… and?”
“i told her to suck it up! that boys will be boys! i told her if she wanted to move up, she needed to get used to it!”
soonyoung glares at him from beneath his mask.
“i—” he swallows hard, tears flowing down his face.
soonyoung sits up, sensing the revelation he’s waiting for on the horizon. he plants both feet on the ground, stands, and stalks over to park until he’s towering right over him. he whips the blanket off his shoulder, balling it in his fist before he rests his hands on your boss’s forearms and leans forward to meet his eyes, ignoring the way he gasps at the pain the movement causes.
“you what?” he asks calmly.
“i… oh god, i…” he swallows nothing again. “i’m sorry…”
“what are you sorry for, daniel?”
“i… i told her if she did want a promotion… she could do me some favors.”
soonyoung’s blood runs cold in his veins. that’s not something you ever mentioned to him, and he can imagine why. he wouldn’t have just gone on a murderous rampage; he would’ve blown this entire building up. he thinks he might break his own teeth from how hard he clenches his jaw. after a few moments, he forces himself to release the tension and open his mouth once more.
“what kind of favors, daniel?” he asks quietly.
“oh god, please don’t make me sa—SEXUAL!” he bellows when soonyoung presses a hand to the hilt of his knife, pushing down another inch. “SEXUAL FAVORS!”
“ah, there it is,” he grunts, nodding.
he stands back up. soonyoung unceremoniously yanks the knife out of park’s hand, flips it so that it’s blade up once more, and without hesitating, he brings the sharp side down on all four of park’s fingers. before the man has a chance to scream, he shoves the blanket into his open mouth, muffling any noise he planned on making.
“shhh,” soonyoung mutters almost soothingly. “shhh, you’re fine. it’s just a few fingers. you don’t need them where you’re going anyway.”
he pats park’s head condescendingly two times before hitting the same spot with the blunt end of his knife.
“you’re all just fucking assholes, aren’t you?” he asks as blood starts running down your boss’s temple. “is that on the job listing? ‘requirements: must be a misogynistic pervert’?”
he grabs a fistful of park’s hair, yanking back so that all he could see was the ceiling.
“i’m sure you know exactly what happened to the others,” soonyoung says, speaking so close to him, his mask presses up against the side of his face that isn’t bleeding. “i’m sure you know all about what i did to them.”
park sobs through the blanket, drool escaping the corners of his lips the harder he tries to speak through the makeshift gag.
“i bet you didn’t count on her having someone who adored her like this, did you?” he asks, voice low. “didn’t think someone would come punish you for hurting the person they love most in this stupid fucking world?”
“no. he didn’t.”
soonyoung freezes at the female voice that cuts through the floor from behind him. your boss starts to thrash with renewed hope that someone has caught him red-handed. his fist tightens around his hair, yanking to shut him up. painstakingly slowly, and without letting park go, soonyoung cranes his neck to look behind him, heart stopping when he sees you there, standing in the moonlight looking as breathtaking as ever.
he doesn’t dare say a word. under his mask, soonyoung frantically searches your face for any sign that you’ll run screaming from him, leaving him alone, never to see you again. he doesn’t find anything other than your usual, soft smile—“resting lovely face” he would call it on his especially sappy days.
you’ve pretended to be a murderer’s girlfriend dozens of times by now, but soonyoung had no reason to believe you thought any of it was real—that you suspected him of all the heinous crimes he’s committed for you. as you let the large bag hanging on your shoulder slip off and fall to the floor and you start walking toward them, he weighs his options.
he could run, but then what? leave you with a crime scene you’ll take the blame for? absolutely not. he could throw himself to the floor begging you for forgiveness, begging you to not turn him in but more importantly, begging you to stay with him. there’s a tiny, ugly voice that suggests he could also kill you. he shudders, shaking the thought away. if he resorted to that, he would have to follow right after. that had to be his last option.
you reach them, and soonyoung knows he’s run out of time. whatever you do or say next will dictate the rest of your lives.
when he forces himself to meet your gaze, though, he sees nothing there but absolute fondness and veneration. you rest a palm against his back as he continues leaning over your former boss.
“mr. park,” you say, turning your attention to the man bound to the chair now. soonyoung follows your gaze back to the man, who’s still being forced to stare at the ceiling. he releases his grip on him, allowing him to look at you. his eyes widen in what soonyoung suspects is fear. “nice to see you again under these circumstances. really nice.”
soonyoung feels his heart skip a beat. he straightens up to his full height now, eyes on you as you continue speaking. your hand snakes from his back to his arm, and down, down, down, until your fingers are intertwined with his.
“have you met my better half?” you ask him. “this is kwon soonyoung.”
he feels like his heart jumps into his throat at that moment, and he fights to keep from choking on nothing. you must feel the way he stills in your hold because you bring his gloved hand to your lips and kiss it gently.
your boss starts sobbing twice as hard, throwing what looks to be a restrained tantrum.
“i’m sorry,” you say, faking a wince. “you must have thought i was here to help you, huh?”
soonyoung’s mouth twists into what he’s sure is the largest, most insane smile he’s ever had the pleasure of smiling in his life. the adrenaline and dopamine that suddenly releases in his system makes him feel invincible in a way he never has before. because if you, the adoration of his goddamn life, know who and what he is and you still love him… then nothing will ever be able to stop him ever again. nothing stands between him and the entire world now.
“my bad,” you sigh. “i’m just here to watch you die.”
soonyoung takes that as his cue, lifting his knife toward park. but before he can do anything, your hand comes to his forearm, stopping him. he looks down at you, tilting his head in question. you look up and shake your head.
“i want to do it,” you whisper.
he doesn’t know why he doesn’t want to talk to you while his mask is on. whatever it is, he can’t say anything as you try to take the knife in your own hand.
sensing his hesitation, you smile and nod. “you’ve done so much for me, soonie. will you let me be my own final girl now?”
without a second thought, the tension in his arm dissipates immediately, completely surrendering his weapon to you. you hold his knife in your hand, and seeing it in your grip demolishes whatever last walls he had up between the two of you. you stare down at it like you’re holding a relic, and it takes him a moment to realize you’re imagining the men he’s killed in your name with it.
he reaches out, wrapping his hand around yours and tightening your grip on the hilt. your gaze flick up to him and his other hand briefly caresses your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, smile widening for a short moment. when your eyes open, there’s a fire in them he’s seeing for the first time, and he knows that whoever he walks out of here with is going to be a completely different person than the one he woke up next to this morning.
you give him a small nod before turning away from his hold and facing the man who’s made your life a living hell this entire time.
soonyoung decides he doesn’t want to watch park’s face as the light leaves his eyes. instead, he walks around the chair behind him, holding it from behind to keep it still for you, his eyes trained on your face and only your face.
the smirk that graces it now is glorious, and it takes everything in him to keep from falling to his knees and kissing the ground you walk on.
“sorry, nothing personal,” you say, obviously reciting something he’s said to you before. “girls will be girls, right?”
soonyoung barely hears the muffled screams that follow. all he can hear is his heart singing as he watches the life, light, and joy this job stole from you come back to you all at once. he’s never been more in love. and he thinks he understands now. this. this is love.
it was clear to you that something was escalating inside soonyoung for the last few weeks, and you knew he was gearing up to commit his last crime—you were sure of it.
you had your suspicions when you asked him to roleplay with you, but it was the week after that you became confident in your intuition. the week after, when authorities finally released the circumstances under which hayden and charles died.
you shouldn’t have been surprised when you read the dirty talk soonyoung used to get you to cum over and over again practically word for word in the article that detailed their murders. there was no way he would have been able to know all this information before the public did, and lucky guesses were out of the question, especially when every, last thing he told you was listed.
after that, two more of your ex-coworkers died, ones that made particularly lewd comments at you, something you noticed angered soonyoung more intensely than any other kind of offense. it made you feel more flattered than it should have—how possessive and jealous he got because of these assholes who thought they had any kind of entitlement to you or your body.
soonyoung had ruined you for anybody else long before you knew this truth about him; he had no reason to feel jealous. still, it made you feel so special, and you didn’t stop to question the toxicity and unhealthiness of everything you’ve been feeling in the last weeks—in the last year.
for the first time in so long, you felt good and you felt safe, and you had no intentions of changing that. you’ve been all in on soonyoung since your first date. this changed nothing.
so as he started escalating, you started watching. instead of attending job interviews like you claimed to be, you were following him. most of the time, it was just to the writers’ room, but a few times a week, it was to watch him tailing your ex boss.
between following him around and snooping through his things, it didn’t take long for you to piece together what he was planning, and with how erratic soonyoung’s behavior had gotten since you made the stupid, thoughtless, grave mistake of suggesting knife play in the bedroom, you knew he was going to be prone to mistakes. so you started preparing right alongside him.
when his gear disappeared from the creaky floorboard he kept it hidden under, you knew it would be time to act soon. then, today, as your boyfriend kissed you goodbye in the morning, he told you not to wait up; the writers room was going to run late to meet deadlines for next week’s episode.
you’ll give it to him; soonyoung was a really good liar. after all, he has kept this secret from you for a good amount of time. and if he’s so comfortable doing this, you imagine it isn’t his first time killing either. who knows how long he’s been lying to you?
but now that you were looking for the signs, it was easy to tell. he maintained eye contact too well, like he was actively telling himself to refrain from looking away and seeming suspicious. he smiled a little too hard. offered one too many details if you asked a simple follow-up question.
“oh okay, what time do you think you’ll be home?”
“fuck, not sure, this episode has a lot of rewrites because one of the actors is throwing a bitch fit about his lines, and they want us back at the drawing board—well, writing board—with, like, three new options for this asshole by tomorrow morning, so. who knows how long that will take. i’ll text you when i’m on my way, though, okay? i love you.”
as soon as he was out the door, you were moving.
you made a trip to your old workplace under the guise of needing a copy of your last paystub from HR, which happened to work right next to your team. while you were there, you made sure you were seen on every camera in the lobby, made sure to say hi to several people—even if some of those people were assholes you wish soonyoung would waste too. you allowed stray hairs to fall from your travel hairbrush. you scratched wildly at your skin. you coughed openly. you gave a valid and proper excuse for your DNA—and trace amounts of soonyoung’s DNA—to end up here other than for a murder.
and when no one was looking, you helped yourself to a jay minion’s cubicle while he was away from it. alex. you pocketed his badge, which he had a bad habit of walking around without, and you scheduled an email from his account addressed to your former boss, knowing full well that a lazy idiot like him would not be noticing a scheduled message in his account.
if soonyoung couldn’t kill him, life in prison was a good alternative.
once you were done with your part, you went home, dropped your phone off so that it couldn’t be tracked anywhere but home tonight, and packed a bag of extra clothes. then, you followed your doting boyfriend from his job, and once you saw him tuck your drunken former boss into his own car, you raced back to the office, where you were 99.9 percent sure he would be bringing him back. you scanned in using alex’s badge through the backdoor, where there were no cameras, you made your way to your team’s floor, and you waited.
not long after, when a tall, lean person dressed in the gear you’d found under your boyfriend’s creaky floorboard, walked onto the floor, practically carrying park on his shoulder, it took everything to keep from shrieking and giggling at how well you knew your own boyfriend.
you watched as he methodically and carefully tied him to his chair, rolled him to the exact spot he wanted him. you watched as he polished an already incredibly clean knife, shuddering uncomfortably a few times as he did. you wondered if it still bothered him—taking life. if maybe he wasn’t as seasoned as you thought, and the act still took something precious from him.
you hated the idea that something as generous as ridding the world of vermin like your ex-teammates could affect soonyoung like that.
what you hated even more was how turned on you were watching as he walked back and forth in his disguise, the muscles of his arms and his back still prominent through the tattered robes. but before you could debate jumping out of the shadows and convincing him to just leave and go home with you so you could ride him until dawn, your dumbass boss was waking up again.
you honestly didn’t know when you were supposed to step out, but the more soonyoung’s love for you shown—the clearer he made it that he truly would do anything for you, the less you cared about staying hidden.
and before you knew it, you were holding soonyoung’s very own knife, standing in front of a very dead daniel park, covered in his blood and laughing so hard, you thought maybe your nervous system was broken. but when the giggles died down and you didn’t burst into tears the way you expected you would, you knew you were perfectly fine. better than fine. you were thrilled.
“finally,” you breathe, reaching forward to yank the blanket out of your boss’s mouth, wiping the knife on a cleaner corner. “here you go.”
you hand it over hilt first toward your boyfriend, who’s still standing behind park, splatters of blood all over him too. he gently takes the weapon from you, tucking it somewhere within his robes. you watch him carefully, wondering what his face looks like, wondering what he’s thinking. instead, all you get is that permanent scream on his mask as it stares blankly back at you.
does he think i’m crazy? does it turn him off? would he rather be the one doing the saving?
you don’t voice any of your insecurities, though. you’re far too happy and relieved to ruin this moment with those thoughts. instead, you take the blanket you’re still holding and you dip it in one of park’s stab wounds until it’s soaked in his blood. you walk to the whiteboard behind his body and swipe at it in broad strokes, stepping back to view your work when you’re done.
you look back to your boyfriend to see him looking at the whiteboard.
FINAL
not for park or any of the other men soonyoung obliterated like a hurricane passing through, but for you. the final person standing, with the help of a man who loved you enough to make sure it ended this way. you hope he gets it and that he’s appreciating it the way you are.
while he continues staring at the board, you take the time to reach into the pocket of park’s jacket, fishing his phone out of it. because he treated you like his executive assistant, you knew most of his passwords, and you were banking on it being the same.
when his phone unlocks, you breathe a sigh of relief. you navigate to his email, pleased to find alex’s email in his inbox just like you planned for it to be.
to: [email protected]
from: [email protected]
subject: ! emergency situation, action needed
body: mr. park, we have a dire situation at the office that requires your attention. a few of the other team members and i will be working late into the night to remedy this; please stop by the office when you can to discuss next steps.
once you’re sure the message is marked read, you wipe the phone free of your prints with the blanket before tucking it back into his pocket. when you’re done, you let the blanket fall to the ground, eyes going back to your boyfriend, whose gaze is back on you now.
soonyoung still doesn’t say anything, simply walking to the duffle he left in the far corner. he removes his shoes, replacing them with a disposable shoe cover on each foot, before removing yours and doing the same for you, an act that feels so intimate, you’re tempted to take him right here, in the middle of this gore, effectively ruining all your efforts to keep him from getting caught.
he puts the shoes into spare trash bags and tucks them into his duffle before standing and holding his hand out for you to take. your fears that he’s mad you came here dissolve, and you take his gloved hand in yours.
he leads you away, picking up your own bag off the floor for you as you pass it. you think he’s leading you out of the building, but instead, you both end up in the showers, an amenity usually meant for commuters or people who went to the gym and worked out in the middle of their work day.
soonyoung sets both of your bags down on one of the benches in the locker room before nodding toward the showers. you follow him wordlessly, heat pooling in your stomach as you do.
he leads you into a shower stall, turning on the hot water and letting the water hit the both of you fully clothed. he turns around to face you, his mask wet with blood and water as it stares down at you. you hesitantly lift a hand up to rest on the jaw of it. you look up into the black holes of its eyes, hoping he understands you’re asking if you can remove it for him.
when he doesn’t stop you, you push up on the mask, lifting it completely off his head. the first thing you notice is that soonyoung’s platinum blonde hair is matted to his forehead with sweat, all of his visible skin slick with it. and when you meet his eyes, you’re immediately rooted to the spot, robbed of all air. his pupils are blown, making his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them as they bore into yours. his mouth is parted, chest heaving as he breathes like he’s been running for hours.
without giving you a chance to think of your next move, he grabs the mask and chucks it somewhere behind you before wrapping his hand around the back of your neck and roughly pulling you to him. he cranes down to envelope your lips with his, wasting no time parting them and fervently shoving his tongue into your mouth.
it doesn’t take long for him to get the both of you naked; you’re not even really sure when it happens, but suddenly, he’s kicking your soiled clothes away from the both of you, his hands going from cradling your face to softly running across your shoulders, your back, your ass, and you realize he’s rinsing the death off of you, all while peppering you with feather light kisses as he does.
you hang your head, resting it against his shoulder as you watch red swirl down the drain, until it’s pink, until it’s clear. you sigh deeply at the sensation of the water pelting your skin and soonyoung’s fingertips dancing across every part of you. he presses his erection in between your thighs at the sound of your breath, and it quickly turns into a moan.
you reach to grip his cock in your hand, fisting it tightly. his breath hitches, and you decide it’s time to thank him for everything he’s done for you these last few months. you lift your head up off his shoulder and reach up to press your lips to his once more, gentle and chaste.
“thank you,” you whisper. he runs a hand across his face to get water out of his eyes.
“for what?” he asks, voice husky around the first words he’s said to you since the night started.
“for loving me like this,” you answer, pumping your first slowly as you speak. “for doing all of this for me… and for letting me be a part of it too.”
soonyoung closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours, nothing but the sound of the water and his labored breaths as you stroke him filling the room.
“i love you, y/n,” he says in a voice you haven’t heard from him before. it sounds small, vulnerable, and emotional, and when he opens his eyes, you aren’t surprised to see tears gathered there. “i love you so fucking much.”
you don’t think he’s ever said that to you like this. getting him to even use the word “love” was like pulling teeth in the beginning of your relationship. now, he says it like he’s free of the trauma he’s tied to the word over the years of his childhood. you tiptoe to kiss the tears out of his eyes.
“i love you,” you return. “and i adore you. forever. now… let me show you.”
you kiss every bit of skin you can on your way down his body, until you’re on your knees. you look up at him one, last time, melting a little at the affection he stares at you with.
“don’t hold back, okay?”
he curses under his breath before nodding. he reaches one arm across the shower, planting a palm on the wall behind you to steady himself as you take his entire length into your mouth.
“fuck.”
you hollow your cheeks as you slide away, tongue swirling on the underside of his shaft and dragging across the veins of his cock. you wrap one hand at the base tightly before sliding him back in, knowing that taking his entire monster length wasn’t going to be sustainable for you or your throat. you blow him like this—pumping and twisting at the bottom of his shaft with your hand, your other one massaging his balls—for only a few moments before soonyoung absolutely loses it.
and ever eager to please you, he follows your instructions and holds nothing back. he palms the back of your head with his free hand and without warning, starts fucking into your mouth roughly. tears stream down your face, mixing with the hot water of the shower and the precum leaking out of soonyoung. the back of your throat starts to burn early on, but still, you want more.
your hands grab soonyoung’s ass, bringing him impossibly further into your throat on every thrust. he groans loudly, cursing in between shouts of your name.
“y/n,” he breathes, slowing his movements after a few minutes until his hips stutter to a full stop. you frown, looking up at him when he pops his cock out of your mouth. “i don’t want to cum in your mouth, baby.”
“why not?” you ask dumbly.
he laughs, obviously not expecting the question. instead of answering, he pulls you up and onto your feet, steadying you when you realize they’ve fallen asleep from the lack of blood flow. he presses you against the wall, caging you in and pressing his thigh between your legs to keep you standing as you regain the feeling in your legs. you gasp when his quad rests against your clit.
“there are better places to cum,” he finally answers, just barely moving his thigh against you.
the tiny movement is enough to coax another moan out of you, though. his fingers come down to dive in between your folds and trace your slit teasingly back and forth, gathering your arousal. he brings his fingers up to his mouth, shamelessly taking them in and tasting the way he makes you feel. his eyes close as he savors the taste.
“mmm,” he hums fondly like your lust is a five star meal. he opens his eyes, smirking at the way you’re staring at him. “want to taste?”
you nod eagerly. at this point, you’d take whatever he wanted to give you. you reach forward to kiss him, but he pins your shoulder to the wall with a hand, making you squeak in surprise, and when his other hand comes up your neck and grabs your jaw, tilting it up toward him and forcing your mouth open, you realize what he means and what he wants.
you fight your own smirk as you open your mouth wider, letting your tongue hang out as far as it will go. he presses his cock against you at the sight, cursing before he takes your face in both his hands, leans over you, and aims, spitting straight into your mouth. you whine pathetically when you feel it hit the back of your throat, immediately grasping both his arms and grinding down against his thigh while it’s still pressed between your legs.
“soonie, please,” you mewl, desperately and messily grabbing at whatever you can at this point just to get him closer to getting inside you, including his hair, his neck, his arms, his hips—anything.
he grabs your wrists when you won’t stop, holding them tightly in between your bodies with one hand, the other cupping your ass and guiding one leg to wrap around his waist, the tip of his cock already teasing your hole.
“behave,” he hisses, squeezing your wrists until they hurt. you don’t dare wriggle against his hold. “are you going to be good?” you nod. he immediately releases you, guiding one hand to his shoulder to keep yourself steady.
when both of your hands are wrapped around his shoulders, he takes your other leg and wraps it around his waist too, lifting you up and pinning you between him and the wall. he kisses you harshly and recklessly, tongue wrapping itself around yours as his cock starts to push into you.
he doesn’t wait until he’s fully buried in you the way he usually does. no, tonight, he can’t seem to help himself when he breaks away from you to remind you: “you’re mine.”
you nod, resting your head back against the wall, nails digging into his shoulders as he pushes in further. “yours,” you gasp. “always.”
“god, i love you,” he says for the third time tonight, making the burn feel all the better as he bottoms out. “you’re so perfect,” he breathes, adjusting to the feeling of your cunt around him. “so fucking tight.”
“fuck me, baby” is all you have the energy to whisper. and he delivers.
he easily bounces you on his dick in time with his own thrusts, the corded muscles of his arms hard, wet, and glistening as he holds you up against the wall. you don’t care how loud you are, letting your screams out as they come. at this point, you’re not sure you even care if the police catch you like this and arrest you.
all that matters is how soonyoung feels inside of you, how his mouth burns everywhere they press against you, how his fingertips dig into your flesh so hard, you think it’ll bruise. he rests his forehead against yours, holding unwavering eye contact with you as he fucks you like it’s simultaneously the first and last time.
“marry me,” he whispers suddenly. “fuck. marry me, y/n.”
you gasp as he thrusts hard, tip kissing your cervix. “a-are you s-seriously asking right now?”
he smirks, kissing you quickly before thrusting even faster and harder. the sounds that come out of your mouth are a pitch higher and nastier. “i’ve had a ring for a year. i can’t fucking wait anymore. marry me. god, please marry me.”
you don’t have to think twice. “yes,” you half moan. “yes, soonyoung. yes, i’ll—fuck! i’ll marry you!”
the thought does something to the both of you at the same, exact time, and you’re both shouting warnings at each other as you reach your highs. his teeth sink into your collarbone as he comes inside you, your fist closing around the hair at the nape of his neck as you reach your own climax on his dick too.
you stay in the same position for a few moments, both trying and failing to catch your breaths.
when you finally do, you tap soonyoung’s shoulder to let you down, but he refuses, stubbornly staying inside of you. you frown.
“what are you doing? we should shower and leave,” you point out, remembering there’s an incredibly deceased man outside.
“the longer i stay here, the longer my cum stays inside you, and the greater the chances i just got you pregnant,” he says cheekily.
you glare at him. “soonyoung, i’m on birth control.”
he glares right back.
“okay, fine,” you relent, laughing. the sensation makes soonyoung wince as you clench around his overstimulated cock a little. “kinda hot, though—you wanting to get me pregnant.”
he raises an eyebrow at you. “oh? another kink of yours?”
you blush, knowing you’ve been somewhat of a sex fiend since discovering your fantasy of having a murderous boyfriend—your reality now, you suppose. “maybe,” you murmur.
soonyong grins, kissing the pout away from your lips. “good. i’m going to keep trying.”
“okay, well, maybe we should try when we’re not in active danger of going to prison for life?”
“right.”
you both shower quickly, bagging the soiled clothes and changing into the outfits you both packed separately. you watch in awe as soonyoung takes out a blacklight and some kind of cleaning agent to get rid of any blood you both tracked into the shower. most of the evidence, it turns out, is right there in the stall, where his cum leaked out of you.
when he’s done cleaning, you both head to your cars, each parked in different lots, agreeing to meet at home after you pick up drive-thru dinner and he goes back to work to pick up his phone. and when you do get home, you find that soonyoung beat you there, the apartment dark save for a handful of candles. he’s on one knee when you enter, a small box open and turned toward you, the ring he claimed he got a year ago right there, staring you in the face.
“i love you,” he says. “i’ll spend the rest of my days loving you the way you deserve to be. adoring you with everything i have. will you allow me the honor of doing that as your husband?”
you don’t know how many times you scream yes at him as you drop the bags of fast food and throw yourself into his arms, the two of you collapsing into a pile of giggles and kisses.
TOP STORY • 2 MIN READ
Copycat serial killer sentenced to life in prison on three counts of torture, six counts of first degree murder
By Gale Weathers
Police investigating the torture and murder of Daniel Park, senior vice president of marketing at Loomis, Inc. two years ago.
Two years after a spree of murders rocked the local community, Alex Cho, former Loomis, Inc. employee, has been sentenced to life in prison, despite pleading not guilty to all charges.
Dubbed the "copycat prank call killer" for the similarities in mutilation amongst victims, Cho was found guilty on all counts of torture and first degree murder for the deaths of six fellow Loomis, Inc. employees, including his boss, Daniel Park, former senior vice president of marketing. Arrested just days after Park's murder, Cho was the authorities' main suspect since day one, according to a statement made by Police Chief Macher following the sentencing.
"Cho's name was on the board since the tragic murder of our first victim, Jay Lang," said Macher, "but as his spree escalated and became more frenzied, he became careless. The evidence against him became insurmountable after the death of Daniel Park."
Though evidence left behind by Cho at the previous murders still has not been disclosed by authorities to this day, his involvement in Park's torture and murder is clear. On the night of Park's death, Cho lured him to the office after-hours under the guise of a work emergency. Once there, Cho ambushed and tortured his boss before stabbing him almost 30 times and leaving his body to be found by other employees the next morning.
Police were able to arrest Cho early on, thanks to his email trail and the use of his badge at the Loomis, Inc. headquarters, just minutes before Park entered the building himself.
When asked about the sentencing of their former employee, a Loomis, Inc. representative told TOP STORY:
"Even two years on, we continue to mourn our tragically lost employees. As such, Loomis offers all our associates ongoing mental health resources and grief counseling. We also honor these victims with annual donations to various campaigns, including cancer research, LGBT support, and anti-bullying—all causes our former SVP of marketing Daniel Park championed. As for the sentenced individual, Loomis declines to comment, but ensures you that we are taking extra precautions and measures to vet all new employees, with annual mental evaluations of all existing employees. We are committed to the safety of our people, our clients, and all of our stakeholders."
As far as his "copycat" reputation goes, Cho denies drawing inspiration from the "prank call killer," though he continues to deny his involvement in the crimes at all. As of the publication of this article, the "prank call killer" remains an at-large, inactive serial killer, with the last victim dating back over 10 years ago.
Cho will be transferred to a maximum state prison later this month, where he will serve his life sentence with no chance of parole.
────
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🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
HOSHI (clicks out of video news story of andrew's arrest) i can't believe you did all that for me.
YOUR ALIAS (smiles, scratching his scalp comfortingly with her left hand, eyes admiring the ring on her finger as she does) i told you, i would do anything for you. you protect me, i protect you, right?
HOSHI (smiles, leaning forward to press his lips to hers) always.
fades into black. credits roll.
...
POST-CREDITS SCENE
a long while later, audience finds hoshi and his wife in the kitchen of a much larger home now, seemingly as in love and as playful as they always were. they are interrupted by their teen daughter running into the room, with her backpack still on, screaming and crying. both of them immediately tend to her.
YOUR ALIAS baby, what's wrong? what happened?
DAUGHTER (shrieks) it's tiffany! she's going around telling everybody i'm sleeping with the entire baseball team! i've never even had my first kiss and she knows that!
hoshi stills, face becoming eerily blank. you both exchange a look.
YOUR ALIAS you're only 15... why on earth are they talking about those kinds of things?
DAUGHTER (throws mom an incredulous look) all of them have already lost their virginities, mom!
YOUR ALIAS (pinching the bridge of her nose) dear god.
DAUGHTER she gave my number to a bunch of dudes and now they're calling and texting and blowing up my phone asking me when i'm free to do... gross things! (wails)
YOUR ALIAS we'll change your number, baby, don't worry. and i'll meet with your principal and make sure she knows we won't tolerate this behavior, okay? are you alright if i talk to tiffany's mom?
DAUGHTER no, please don't, she's so vindictive. i know it'll just get worse.
hoshi exhales slowly.
HOSHI okay, we won't do anything you aren't comfortable with, but... you're also not going to let her treat you like that, do you hear me?
it's clear their daughter is a daddy's girl when her crying immediately stops and she nods.
HOSHI no one hurts you, understand?
YOUR ALIAS nobody.
DAUGHTER (whispers, still sniffling) nobody.
HOSHI if you won't let us talk to tiffany's parents, we're going to have to show you how to defend yourself, baby. how to stand up for yourself.
YOUR ALIAS (smiles) your daddy is really good at that. you'll let him help, right? (daughter nods) good, go get cleaned up and i'll order whatever takeout you want.
DAUGHTER (immediately) thai.
YOUR ALIAS thai it is. go on.
their daughter retreats from the kitchen, still sniffling as she goes up to her bedroom.
YOUR ALIAS we aren't going to stoop so low as to kill a teenager, are we?
HOSHI (snorts, wraps one arm around her waist) no, we aren't. but kids like that only learn behavior like that from one place.
YOUR ALIAS their parents.
HOSHI mhm.
YOUR ALIAS you have the key to the storage unit?
HOSHI mhm. (plants one kiss on her cheek before grinning and nodding to the front door) i'll drive.
cuts to black with the sound of a piercing scream.
a/n: credit for the news story photo goes to unsplash. all other photos taken from pinterest, ctto. okay bye, i don't want to talk about how crazy i feel LMFAO.
i'd probably still adore you with your hands around my neck; or i did, last time i checked.
★ FEATURING; joshua x afab!reader
★ WORD COUNT; 3.4k words
★ TAGS; coworkers au, friends with benefits, typical gentleman in the streets sexual deviant in the sheets joshua, a hint of pining if you squint, slight angst?, smut (MINORS DNI)
★ NOTES; this specific picture of shua is years old but it incited the most visceral reaction out of me anyway so here we are with another short oneshot that sidetracked me from the monster that i'm SUPPOSED to be writing :| this also turned out a bit more emotional(?) than i originally intended, so heads up on that i guess
★ SMUT TAGS; unprotected sex, shower sex, oral (f receiving), choking, slight dumbification (i'm sorry, i normally have more dignity than this but i miss him so so dearly)
Joshua arrives five minutes after the first clap of thunder and ten minutes after the rain started pouring outside.
You hear him before you see him. The automatic lock of the hotel room turns as he scans the spare keycard from outside — one that you made sure to leave with the receptionist in the lobby when he told you he'll be running a little late. When the door swings open, light spills from outside and he greets you with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle and your heart stutter.
It's the same look that makes your female coworkers swoon and giggle to themselves in the office pantry — talk about Joshua's adorable eye smile never straying too far from your ears.
If they knew what kind of person he was past the usual pleasantries, would they still engage in that kind of fanfare?
Joshua is soaked all over when he enters, having tracked rainwater all over the carpeted hallway and into the floor of Room 505. He doesn't seem all too fazed by it though — quickly shrugging off his coat before hanging it behind the flimsy plastic hooks screwed to the back of the door. He shuts it behind him with a kick, sighing through his teeth as he loosens the coil of a sushi-patterned necktie around his collar.
You got that one for him as an exchange gift for last year's Christmas party. Joshua uses it a lot more frequently than you expected him to. In fact, he always wears it during casual Fridays. You're not sure if he actually likes the stupid necktie or he's just trying to get a reaction out of you, but his choice to wear it isn't lost on you either way.
"Team dinners are really something else," Joshua chuckles as he tosses the flimsy material atop the complimentary dining table. He cards his fingers through his damp hair and you try not to think of how good he looks as he does it.
"You should've come with us. It's not often that you see Manager Yoon convince Jihoon to down a shot of soju. Oh, Seungkwan also got his ass handed to him at karaoke with the girls from sales. I had no idea Jihyo could hold her high notes like she means business."
You don't take a bite at his feeble attempt at small talk. He knows damn well why you don't show up to any of Jeonghan's team dinners, but you tell yourself that Joshua's just being polite — still thinking of the outcast of the marketing department despite the fact that you do not want anything to do with the people you work with.
...Although there are some exceptions here and there.
"Really? You're just going to give me the silent treatment all night?" Joshua sighs dramatically as he unbuttons his dress shirt — baring his rain-beaded chest to your unwitting gaze. "Well, if you need a bit more time, I'll go hop in the shower first. You're free to join me if you'd like."
He knows you won't, so you find it strange that he offers each and every time anyway.
You let your gaze wander to the full length mirror attached to the cabinets once the door to the bathroom clicks shut. There's nothing remotely special about your getup tonight. You're still donned in your work clothes — brick gray pencil skirt with a brick gray blazer to match. Apart from the heels sitting on the rack near the door, you're pretty much still in uniform.
You had half the mind to go home and change when Joshua said he's going to dinner and karaoke with your boss and some other colleagues, but that would mean you actually cared about what you looked like in front of him.
Which, for the record, you don't.
You can hear Joshua singing a familiar song in the bathroom — one that he always belts out in the most annoying way possible every time he showers. You wonder if he even knows any other song apart from that, but tell yourself you don't really have any business asking.
As the near-silence persists, however, your thoughts start to wander. Did he also sing this song when he was at karaoke earlier? Did he get to duet the high notes with Jihyo? You wouldn't put it past either of them to do so — being two of the company's renowned social butterflies.
That train of thought brings forth the same question you've been asking ever since the first night you shared this hotel room with Joshua and found him still lying beside you in the morning:
Why'd he choose you?
You're an in by nine and out by five unless there's paid overtime kind of employee. You never bothered establishing any worthwhile friendships in the workspace because you know better than to trust the backstabbing fiends in the corporate ladder. You're perfectly aware of what other people say about your individualistic behavior — how you're the worst team player in your department — but you never really cared.
Not until Joshua Hong inserted himself into your life.
To put it in the easiest way possible, he's the epitome of a perfect coworker. He's the guy that greets you every morning with an charming smile. The guy who drops by your cubicle to give you a coffee he made himself before saying you're doing a great job with that report you're putting together. The guy that everyone just adores simply because he's always been likable from the get-go.
That's the kind of person Joshua is — the exact opposite of you. Surely the jury won't condemn you for always questioning how you wound up spending your Friday nights fucking the man your entire department is basically in love with when you're so unlovable yourself.
Every time you try to recall how your transactional relationship with the company's unofficial sweetheart happened in the first place, your brain simply refuses to cooperate — memories muddled by a few pints of beer too many and an eye-crinkling smile that you're better off not rationalizing.
Besides, it's not like Joshua kisses and tells. Whatever happens in Room 505 stays in Room 505, and that's one of the many reasons why you haven't deigned to walk away from the setup altogether.
You meet up, he makes you feel good — makes you feel wanted — he cycles through whatever aftercare you might need, you fall a little more in love with him, then you both decide if you want to sleep in for a couple more hours or —
Wait.
Did you just admit you're in love with him?
"Hm? Didn't think you'd actually hop in with me today."
Joshua's voice is clearly laced with amusement as you shut the door to the bathroom — cheeks hot with both the steam billowing from the shower and the embarrassment cloying in your chest. You had the foresight to take off your uniform at least, leaving you in an unassuming set of cotton underwear that makes Joshua lick his lips with anticipation.
You make a show of stripping the rest of your clothing before him — nothing but the glass door to the shower separating the both of you. It's nothing sensual, nothing grandiose. You simply take off everything that's keeping your body hidden from your nighttime lover's hungry eyes.
When you step into the warm drizzle of the showerhead, Joshua hums before reaching for a bottle of shampoo — squeezing just the right amount into his palm as he lathers the product into your scalp.
The gentleness weighted into his actions startles you a little — not having expected him to do something so...domestic. You came in here with the full intention of getting fucked against the bathroom wall, but the way he massages your scalp so tenderly makes you reconsider your course of action.
But no matter how much of a gentleman he acts around you, not even Joshua can do anything about his own body's physiological reactions.
You feel the length of his cock nestled against your ass, hips rocking back and forth as he stimulates himself into full hardness. A soft moan tumbles out of your lips when he squeezes some of the hotel-provided body wash all over your chest — large hands lathering the soap across your body all while paying special attention to your tits.
"You finally snapped out of it, sweetheart?" Joshua sighs before latching his mouth onto the thrum of your pulse, biting down for only a moment to get your attention. "Ready to take my cock like a good girl?"
The way he murmurs those last few words along the column of your throat makes your legs feel like they'll disintegrate at any moment. Joshua continues to murmur sweet nothings into your ear, helping you clean up properly first before actually trying anything.
You're not sure if you should be pissed off or endeared by his stalling, but by the time he's finally rinsed out all the suds from your heated bodies, you're more or less ripe for the taking.
"Brace your palms against the wall, pretty girl. Yeah, just like that." Joshua chuckles softly as he presses a kiss to your nape, lips traveling down the length of your spine until he's eye-level with your sopping cunt.
"God, I'll never get tired of looking at this pretty pussy. Been thinking about sinking my cock into you all fucking week," he practically growls. "You really knew what you were doing with that cute maroon skirt you wore the other day, weren't you? The one that kept riding up your thighs when you reached for something from the high shelves? Little fucking minx."
You mewl helplessly when you feel Joshua's tongue prodding your soaked folds — forcing you to press your cheek against the cold tile as he massages your ass gingerly.
Joshua does his best to keep you anchored, making sure you won't accidentally slip as he laves at the slick between your thighs. He has no problem doing just that — driving you to near insanity with how his tongue sucks and slurps at your cunt like it's the first meal he's had in days.
"S-Shua," you whimper pathetically, pushing your ass out for more friction. "You're eating me so good..."
Had you not been so quickly drowned in this haze of arousal, you would've exercised more restraint. Joshua normally has a hard time getting you to be more vocal whenever he makes you feel good, but you suppose that there's just something in the air tonight that makes it so easy to just surrender yourself to him.
You can feel the vibrations of his laughter along the millions of nerve endings on your clit as he traces it with the tip of his tongue — further incapacitating you from coherent thought. When he slips in a finger into your awaiting heat, you all but gasp into the steamy air of the hotel bathroom.
"You're so cute when you start calling me that," he coos without halting his ministrations — that sinful tongue darting out to tease and lick and stimulate as he eases in another thick finger into your gummy walls. "Wanna eat you out underneath your desk someday... Would you act as cute as you're acting right now if I did that?"
The prospect of having sweet, gentlemanly Joshua Hong on his knees for you under your work desk makes you tighten conspicuously around his fingers. From the sordid chuckle that leaves his lips, you're fairly certain that he's noticed.
"You like that, huh? You like it when I put my mouth on you? Make you feel so good, you forget about everything else?" he chuckles darkly, rising back to his full height without taking his fingers out of your needy cunt. "But we both know this is hardly enough for you, right sweetheart?"
You hate how he knows you so well.
Joshua spends about one minute max towel drying both of your bodies before he quite literally sweeps you off your feet. You let out a surprised shriek as he princess-carries you onto the bed — gently laying you on the undisturbed sheets before crawling on top of you like a predator circling its next meal.
"Wanna tell me why you were so out of it earlier?" Joshua murmurs as he nips at your jaw, the words followed by a crackle of thunder in the distance. He chuckles when you jolt in surprise before peppering your face with a collection of kisses that ends at the tip of your nose. "It's not the weather, is it? I remember that I literally fucked you in the middle of a storm last month."
"Quit running your mouth and just fuck me," you mumble, lacing your fingers around his nape before grinding up against his leaking cock. "I've waited for you long enough."
"Ahhh," he drawls with resounding epiphany, as if he'd just figured out some ancient secret. "So you were sulking because I took too long to get here? Don't worry, sweet thing, it won't happen again."
When Joshua leans close to your ear, his hot breath fans against your flesh — making your toes curl with quiet anticipation.
"The next time we meet in this room, I'll have you mounted on my cock the moment you come through the door."
Joshua doesn't bother with foreplay or any sort of preamble. He simply guides his cock into the give of your entrance, sinking his length so deep, you can feel him in your stomach.
"Fuck," you whimper, fingernails seeking purchase across the rippling muscles of Joshua's back. He doesn't quite move yet — letting you get used to the stretch like he always does.
"Pretty pussy's so fucking tight around me," he groans. "Did you need me this badly? 'm sorry for making you wait so long, sweetheart. If I had known, I would've ditched karaoke and made you feel good as soon as I could."
Empty words uttered in the throes of passion — you're well aware that's all they are. Yet Joshua has no trouble making your heart flutter with the sentiment anyway.
"J-Joshua," you manage to gasp as you feel his girth throb inside you. "Please move... Need it. Need it so bad, please."
You're on the brink of tears with how desperate you are for mind-numbing release, but amidst your mounting delirium, Joshua sighs a little too endearingly before pressing a long, hard kiss on your lips.
"Anything for you, pretty girl."
He eases himself into you slowly at first — making sure you feel every ridge of his cock dragging along your tight walls. Joshua particularly feels smug when your eyes roll to the back of your head, addicted to the way his cock is splitting you open.
It's only when you start to loosen up that he picks up the pace, strong hands gripping your thighs as he pounds into you. The squelch of your arousal echoes within the walls secluding you from the rest of the world.
When Joshua hoists your hips higher before hooking the back of your knees across his shoulders, you knew it was all over for you.
Admittedly, you don't remember the first time you've had sex with him anymore. Or the second. Or the third. You've had each other so many times in so many ways that every instance kind of just blends into the next — painting a messy caricature of all the illicit meetings you've had with your nighttime lover.
But you don't care if it's messy. You don't care if it's strange. At the end of the day, you're comforted by the fact that all these experiences you shared with him are irrevocably yours.
Even if you can't really say the same for Joshua himself.
He stirs the pot of your arousal with practiced ease. Joshua stares at you like you're the most precious thing he's laid eyes on before letting one of your legs fall back on the mattress.
Your lover trades the depth of his thrusts for enough leeway to flatten his thick fingers across your throat — making you bleat with expectation as he presses down just enough to make you feel lightheaded. He hisses when he feels your velvet walls clamp tighter around his cock, further informing him that he's on the right track.
"Fuck, sweetheart," he laughs breathlessly — his gorgeous face the only thing you can see. "You'll let me do anything to you, won't you? All I gotta do is fuck you stupid and you'll take everything I give."
At this point, you're too far gone to even deny a word he says. "Mmmm... Your cock feels too good, Shua. 'M so close already. You'll finish inside me, won't you? Make both of us feel good?"
"Dumb little princess couldn't even answer my question," Joshua chuckles before making a particularly harsh thrust that jostles you further up the mattress. "Of course I'll finish inside this pretty pussy. It's all mine, isn't it?"
"Uh-huh," you mewl as Joshua's fingers tighten around your throat again, making your toes curl with unadulterated glee. "My pussy's all yours, Joshua. All fucking yours."
He chuckles again, fingers climbing up to your jaw until Joshua is able to prod his thumb against your bottom lip. You respond in earnest, suckling at the digit as he rails you into the mattress. There's no longer any room for intelligible thoughts — lost in the sea of pleasure that Joshua choose to drown you in every time you come together like this.
"Close, close, close," you practically sob, thighs winding around his hips as you bring him impossibly closer to you. "Shua, I'm gonna cum. Please, I need to cum. I need you—"
"You already have me, sweetheart," he laughs breathlessly yet full of intent that you're too fucked out to notice.
"You'll always have me."
That's what does you in. That's what always does you in — his sweet words, his tender gaze.
As much as the pleasure he gives with each drive of his cock into your battered cunt sends you to cloud nine, nothing makes you fall apart harder than the thought that maybe Joshua Hong is capable of loving you back.
Because how can he stare at you with so much adoration in his eyes if he doesn't actually love you at all? How can he keep meeting you like this in secret if there's no hidden agenda behind it?
But when all's said and done, you come back to your senses. Your rose-tinted gaze fades back into the darkness of Room 505.
Joshua is still beaming at you like you're the only person that matters to him on this entire earth. But you know damn well that he'd never smile at you the same way once you're out of the four corners of this room.
That's just the way things are.
As you pick off your clothes from the floor of the bedroom and the bathroom alike, Joshua stirs from where he momentarily passed out on the mattress — bleary eyes observing your every move as his brows furrow together.
"You're leaving?" he murmurs sleepily. "But it's raining outside. We should stay until it stops at least."
Hesitating for a moment, you stare at the bundle of rumpled clothes in your arms as Joshua practically tells you to go back to bed.
You know it's for the best if you don't lay back down beside him. The distance keeps you grounded — anchored to the truth that beyond these weekly trysts you share together, you and Joshua are nothing but civil colleagues at most.
He isn't your lover. He isn't even your friend.
But a stubborn part of you believes that maybe if he breaks you apart and puts you back together again, you'll be a different person. Someone who can keep up with his outgoing lifestyle. Someone he'll have no problem showing off to his friends and fellow coworkers.
But, really, when have things ever turned up daisies when it comes to you and Joshua Hong?
"Fine," you mumble, dropping your clothes in a heap next to the sushi necktie that looks more worn out now that you're seeing it up close.
You make a mental note to buy him a few more once the Christmas sales start coming around again.
"You coming to cuddle before we sleep or what?"
Joshua stares at you sleepily and expectantly from the bed, even patting the vacant space between him for added effect. If only those girls swooning at him in the office pantry could see him now...
Too bad what happens in Room 505 stays in Room 505.
⟢ end notes: finished this at 3:05 am with zero proofreading dedicated to it <3 if you spot any mistakes, they're not really mistakes since they're all crucial contenders in the creation process <333
PAIRING: Choi Seungcheol x f. reader
SUMMARY: Choi Seungcheol has never been the type to commit to relationships - casual is more his thing. You’re fine with that - except you and Seungcheol seem to be terrible at casual when it comes to one another.
WC: 11,920
GENRE: Friends with benefits to lovers
AU: Smut, Angst if you squint
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Recreational drinking, mild jealousy from both reader and Cheol, themes of self doubt/relationship doubt, light depictions of anxiety regarding ambiguous relationships, explicit language, Cheol and reader are both idiots, explicit sexual content including oral (f. and m. receiving), vaginal fingering, nipple stim, breath play if you squint, unprotected vaginal sex, a lot of bodily fluids like spit and cum, multiple smut scenes, hair pulling, light spanking, sub-space adjacent feelings, being a lil silly goofy during sex sometimes, stupid ass nicknames at the end because I’m a millennial and I’m cringe sometimes.
A/N: This fic was posted on my original blog which has been deleted. I am now reposting it. I hope it does half as well as it did when I originally posted this story - thank you to everyone who left amazing feedback the first time. It genuinely made me so happy and I am so sorry that it got sent to the moon where I can no longer read it.
A/N 2: Thank you @yoongukie-ff for sending me your original reblog of this to pull the summary information from. I appreciate you and I love you!
A/N 3: This fic contains multiple smut scenes. If you don't like reading smut, this fic will be complicated to understand if you skip multiple smut scenes.
MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAG LIST | ASK | PLAYLIST
DAY ONE
YOU'RE A GONER AS SOON AS YOU LAY EYES ON HIM. You know it before Jeonghan properly introduces you, shouting over the rock music that is blaring in the dive bar you like to hang out at on Friday nights. The neon from the sign creates a blue silhouette around Seungcheol as he smiles and holds a hand out to you. You can barely pull yourself together to shake his hand - warm, firm - too busy staring at his face.
Choi Seungcheol is what your best friend Vin likes to call pretty motherfuckin handsome. He’s got dark, warm eyes that light up playfully when they meet yours, full lips the color of crushed rose petals, a square, firm jawline and silky dark hair that falls in his eyes when he tilts his face down to hide a smile at something Jeonghan says.
Crushed against the wall of the booth, you feel the cold glass of your beer warm against your palms as you steal glances at Seungcheol. He’s directly across from you, angling his broad shoulders to fit snug into the corner of the booth, lounging backward as he observes the argument brewing between Joshua and Jeonghan.
He even dresses well. Fitted t-shirt paired with light wash jeans and boots, a fancy watch reflecting the burning neon on the wall next to him, delicate chain necklaces tucked into the collar of his shirt.
It’s the way he wears them that speaks to you, though.
“Do they do this often?” his deep voice drags you from your reverie. You blink, gathering yourself when you realize he’s leaning forward a little, addressing you. He sips his beer before tilting the tip of the bottle toward Jeonghan and Joshua. “It’s like they're married.”
“You have no idea. Wait until game night.”
“Oh yeah. Jeonghan told me about game night.” Seungcheol’s mouth twitches in a smile. “You’ll be there?”
“Every Sunday. Do you like games?”
Something about the glint in his eye makes your stomach flip. You sip your beer just to give you something to do, feeling more drunk off the easy confidence he exudes as he shrugs. “Depends on the game. I’m competitive.”
“So am I.”
He grins. “I look forward to it, then.”
Warming up to Seungcheol is easy. He’s the new hire at Jeonghan and Wonwoo’s office, and they both felt confident enough to bring him into the fold. You can see why - he’s kind and funny, and there’s a charm to him that draws the people around him like moths to a flame. Even with just the four of you sitting in the booth, you feel the magnetism.
Friday nights at Rusty’s has been a tradition with Jeonghan and Joshua since you had been in college, filling yourself on five dollar wings, three dollar beers and occasionally lukewarm mozzarella sticks. Normally Vin, Wonwoo and Mingyu would be around, but tonight it’s just the smaller group.
Jeonghan and Joshua slide out of the booth to play darts, shoving one another back and forth, the drink in their step making them a little off balance. You smile fondly as you pluck another beer out of the bucket of ice, struggling to pop the top, your wet hands sliding against the metal cap.
Wordlessly, Seungcheol holds his hand out. Flushing from the neck down, you hand it over to him with a silent thank you. He pops the top easily, bicep flexing for a moment before he passes it back over, shooting you an award winning grin.
“Wow, so strong.”
He pouts and you swear you see stars. “Hey, I am strong.”
“No, no, you are. Thank you.”
“You shouldn’t tease me. I’m new.”
“Huh.” You sip your beer, letting the cool liquid slide down your throat. It does nothing to soothe the heat spreading over your skin under the sole attention of Seungcheol. “I don’t remember that being a rule.”
“I never was one to play by the rules anyway.”
“Oh, so you’re saying you cheat at games like Jeonghan does.”
“I like winning.”
You roll your eyes. From the edge of your vision, you see people leave the pool table. Eager to stand up and stretch your legs, you start to slide out of the booth, the wood grain scratching against your jeans as you do.
“Come on then, cheater. Let’s play pool.”
“I’m down.”
Seungcheol follows you. Your fingers grip the glass of your drink tight, knuckles straining. You move around tables and duck around other patrons, hyper aware of the way Seungcheol keeps close to you, the heat of him against your back.
Next to the rows of dart boards are two pool tables, the felt a faded green with beer stains and other mysterious smudges on the surface. You grab a cue from the rack on the wall, spin it in your hands, and hand it over to Seungcheol. He eyes it, running his fingers along the splintered and dented wood.
Grabbing your cue in one hand and the triangle rack and set it on the table while he collects the balls from the table and the pockets, rolling them over to you. A few feet away, Joshua is already accusing Jeonghan of cheating. You don’t know how you cheat in darts, but you do know if there is a will, Jeonghan will find a way.
“Dangerous to let them have sharp objects,” Seungcheol notes, sliding the last ball over to you. You huff out a laugh, rolling the rack of billiard balls back and forth to set them. “You’re not going to get violent with me, right?”
“I don’t know, are you going to cheat?”
His smile is wicked. “Me? Definitely not.”
“Hmm. Not convincing.”
Seungcheol presses the flat of his palm over his chest, drawing your eyes to how thick he is in the chest area. You swallow thickly as he says, “Cross my heart.”
“Whatever you say. What are we playing for?”
“What will you give me?”
You look up at the shift in his tone. Dark. Flirty. He leans against the pool table, resting his hip casually as he crosses his arms over his chest. You ignore the way his arms flex, totally focused on the way his eyes are only for you. Intent. Meaningful.
A warning goes off in your head. You already feel the pull to him, the innate attraction that has your heart hammering. You should brush off the flirtation, move on to other things. Relationships aren’t really your thing, but there’s something about him that makes you know you’ll want more.
You already do want more.
“What do you want?” you ask softly, ignoring your better judgment.
When Seungcheol smiles, you know you’d give him anything. Everything.
“I can think of something, I think.”
-
DAY SEVEN
“I like this,” Seungcheol says, voice rough from use. He buttons his jeans, looking over at you. You’re still half-alive on your bed, a sheen of sweat covering your body. The sheets stick to you when you roll to look at him. “Are you good with casual?”
You’re only half listening, too distracted by his flexing abs. “Hmm?”
Seungcheol looks good tonight. He looks good every night, but tonight he’s in dark jeans and a white sweater. The sweater looks soft like his hair, which has grown longer and hangs in his eyes as he looks down to slip on his shoes.
“I’m not really looking for a relationship at the moment but this,” he answers, flicking his fingers between the two of you. “It’s good.”
“Agreed. I’m good with casual. I’m a little too busy for anything more.”
It’s not a lie. You are too busy to really commit to someone. Again, a warning goes off in your mind like that first night you met him, screaming danger. You ignore it, not ready to give up Seungcheol just yet.
He grins, pulling his short back over his head. “Cool. If you ever don’t want to or whatever though, let me know, yeah?”
“You too.”
-
DAY TEN
Seungcheol [2:06 AM]: Come home with me
You [2:06 AM]: Everyone would notice
Seungcheol [2:07 AM]: Tell them where you’re going who caaaares
Seungcheol [2:08 AM]: Unless you don’t want to tell them then that’s ok
Seungcheol [2:08 AM]: I personally don’t care if they know I’m rearranging your guts most nights :)
You [2:10 AM]: CHEOL
You [2:10 AM]: Fine pls hold my hand while I do this. They’re going to roast me
Seungcheol [2:08 AM]: Holding your hand sooo tight
Seungcheol [2:08 AM]: But from like over here tho
You [2:19 AM]: That was so embarrassing. Where did you go
Seungcheol [2:19 AM]: She’s so brave, she’s well behaved
Seungcheol [2:19 AM]: Standing outside hurry it's cold as dick out here
Seungcheol [4:38 AM]: Don’t forget to text me when you make it home
You [4:52 AM]: Home safe!
-
DAY TWENTY THREE
You [11:10 PM]: Wyd
Seungcheol [11:34 PM]: Need it that bad?
You [11:39 PM]: Wow goodnight!!!!!
Seungcheol [11:39 PM]: Nah come back
Seungcheol [11:43 PM]: COME BACK
Seungcheol [11:43 PM]: Omw. Unlock the door
You [11:45 PM]: Need it that bad?
Seungcheol [11:45 PM]: Yes actually :)
-
DAY THIRTY
You slide your finger across the phone, curious as you pick up Seungcheol’s phone call. “Hello?”
“Are you hungry?”
You look at your watch. It’s almost one in the afternoon, your stomach growling as it realizes that yeah you are kind of hungry. “Actually yeah. Why?”
“I had to run errands and I’m by your place and starving. Wanna get lunch?”
Your lips twitch in a smile. Leaning against the counter, you press the phone against you a little closer. “Sure, what did you have in mind?”
“Do you like Greek?” You hum in assent, chewing on your fingernail nervously. You can hear him get into his car, pausing momentarily as he starts it and curses at how hot it is. You can’t help but laugh. “Alright, pick you up in ten?”
“Alright.”
-
DAY FORTY THREE
He’s not yours. You tell yourself that over and over again as you try not to look across the bar where Seungcheol is sitting for the nth time. You’d noticed him immediately when you and Vin walked in, clocking his wide frame and familiar laugh with a precision that makes you curse yourself.
Now, Seungcheol is leaning against a high top, talking to a pretty girl sitting on a stool next to him. He’d waved at you earlier and shot you a smile and a wink, but he’s with friends you’re unfamiliar with tonight, and hasn’t come over.
Not that you expect him to. He isn’t yours and the casual thing you’ve got going means he can do whatever he wants, no strings attached.
So why is your heart in your throat as you glance over to see the girl laughing at something he’s said? They’re not alone but somehow that isn’t comforting at all. You pick at the varnish on the table to distract yourself, suddenly interested in the splinters and not the man across the bar from you.
Finishing the rest of your beer, you pull out another, hoping that the hoppy taste erases the icky feeling that settles on your skin. You’re not participating in conversation much, but if your friends notice, they have the decency not to call you out.
At least Vin knows what’s up, checking on you every once in a while. Thankfully she doesn’t say anything, occasionally giving you a squeeze instead. She knows the deal, understanding the irrationality between wanting to control something that isn’t yours to control.
Halfway through your beer, your phone vibrates. You flip it over and your heart starts pounding when you see Seungcheol’s name come across the screen, a message waiting to be read. With a shaky hand, you slide your thumb across the screen to unlock it, the message popping up.
Seungcheol [12:13 AM]: Wanna come back to mine?
Surprised, you look up from your phone to where he’s still at the high top. His phone is in his hands and he’s looking right at you, flashing a grin when you meet his eyes. The girl is still sitting next to him, but his attention is entirely on you now, pinning you to the spot.
Your phone vibrates again and you glance down, your phone’s brightness stark in the gloom of the bar.
Seungcheol [12:13 AM]: You’re cute when you’re surprised
You [12:14 AM]: What, the girl you were talking to said no?
Seungcheol [12:14 AM]: I didn’t ask her. I asked you
Seungcheol [12:14 AM]: Omg wait are you jealous??
You [12:14 AM]: No
You [12:14 AM]: Definitely not
Seungcheol [12:17 AM]: Hateful to me is Hades for a liar or whatever
You [12:17 AM]: Hateful to me as the gates of Hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another, loser
Seungcheol [12:18 AM]: Same thing
Seungcheol [12:18 AM]: But seriously, I have no interest in her. I’m asking YOU
Seungcheol [12:18 AM]: Will beg from my knees in this bar
Seungcheol [12:19 AM]: Even tho the floor is kind of gross
You [12:20 AM]: I mean, if you’re offering to get on your knees…
You’re not sure if you trust his answer about not being interested in the other girl, but it doesn’t matter. You still end up leaning against him in an Uber, his hand squeezing your thigh playfully as he leans his forehead on the window, eyes closed to enjoy the cool glass.
He is so handsome, face glowing red as the car stops at a stoplight. You examine him closely, eyes dragging from the soft curve of his mouth to his impossibly silk lashes. You’d told him once that most girls would kill for those lashes, and now he likes to bat them at you every time he wants something.
The car starts moving and you look away from him, taking in a deep breath. Seungcheol isn’t yours, but you’re starting to think you want him to be.
DAY FIFTY TWO
“Is it weird if I bring a bag of shit to stay?” Seungcheol’s voice is shy over the receiver. You grip your phone tighter, biting your bottom lip to hide your smile as you roll onto your side in bed, snuggling into the pillow more. It smells like him, bergamot and cedarwood. “You can tell me if that’s weird.”
“Not weird at all,” you say carefully, too nervous to scare him off. “You usually end up sleeping here anyway.”
Usually really means always. He’s been doing that more recently, crashing at your apartment after coming over and vice versa. You’ve gone from Uber rides home at dawn to waking up curled into his back. He’s the first person you’ve ever let loiter in your space as much as he has, but you try not to think about it too much, as though just the acknowledgement might spook him.
Whatever thing between you feels fragile, a rare, glass menagerie set that can shatter if handled wrong. Friends with benefits is what you call it, but you’re not quite sure if that’s what it is.
“Okay cool. Waking up at the ass crack of dawn to go back to my place and shower sucks.”
“I do have a shower.”
“Oh I’m aware. It’s one of my favorite places in your apartment.”
Your stomach flutters and you clench your thighs together. Looking at the clock on your nightstand, you realize it’s getting late. “Better hurry,” you murmur. “I might be too tired for a shower when you get here.”
His chuckle is deep. Throaty. “I’ll speed, then.”
After hanging up, you toss your phone to the end of your bed and stare at the ceiling. Outside, the city hums beyond the window of your apartment. The lights in your home are mostly turned off, a single lamp providing low light in the living room so Seungcheol can see when he comes in, and a flickering candle on your nightstand and in the bathroom.
Your bed is warm and you do feel sleepy, but the excitement of seeing Seungcheol keeps you awake well enough. You try not to think of that too much, either. He was just there a few nights prior, and already he’s on his way back. Like it’s common. Routine.
And it sort of is, you guess. You hangout with Seungcheol almost more than you see Vin and Jeonghan these days, and you’re almost always spending the night together. You know his favorite late night snacks, you know the type of coffee he likes to make in the morning before work, and you know about his family, his stresses at work. What makes him tick.
It’s more than you ever thought you’d know about him when you agreed to keep your sex life with him casual and at a distance. He is anything but at a distance.
Seungcheol must speed, because it feels like hardly any time has passed when you hear your apartment door open and shut, the sound of the deadbolt clicking. You lift yourself up to lean on your elbows, watching from your bed as he enters your line of vision, a backpack over one shoulder.
He’s dressed in a long t-shirt and sweats, cozy and warm and still unbelievably good looking. He grins when he sees you, eyes creasing at the corners as he enters your room and drops his bag by your door.
Without saying anything, Seungcheol crawls onto your bed, the mattress sinking under his weight as he inches up over you. Falling backward onto the mattress, you let him loom over you. Heat radiates from his body, warming you up. Your heart thuds as he ducks down, his hands bracketing your head as he cages you in. He brushes his nose against yours and you feel sparks, trying to regulate your breathing.
“Hi,” he whispers.
“Hi,” you whisper back, reaching your hands up to rest on his hips. He reacts, pressing his waist into yours a little, making you bear his weight. “Ugh, heavy.”
“Too bad.”
Seungcheol’s teeth nip your jaw, making your hips twitch upward. You can feel the smirk against your skin as he presses a wet kiss under your ear, moving his way to your neck.
“I was promised a shower.”
“Maybe I’m too tired,” You murmur.
He hums, leaning more of his weight into you. It’s comforting, not crushing, and you can feel the way his heart is beating wildly in his chest, in tune with yours. You smell bergamot and cedarwood, making your thoughts dizzy and scattered while he whispers, “I’ll wash your hair.”
“Hmmm. I’m listening.”
He presses a wet kiss to your pulse point, tongue laving against your skin. Your fingers twist in his shirt, your muscles tensing as you fight off a shiver. You can hear his soft breath, the way the sheets shift under the two of you, the way your heart hammers.
“I’ll massage your shoulders…”
“Hmm.”
His teeth scrape against your throat and you sigh, arching up into him, eyes closed. “I’ll eat you out.”
Fuck. You’re putty in his hands. Seungcheol could get you to do anything he asked. You don’t know if he knows - you’re too afraid to show him, to let him in on the secret out of fear of what it would mean to him. If it was too much, too deep.
But like this, it’s hard not to hide it. Especially when his filthy mouth hits a weak point in you, turning you thoughtless as you nod your head in response, nails digging into his hip bones through the fabric of his shirt. He makes a noise in response, leaning up off of you reluctantly but pulling you with him.
Dropping his hands, you head to the bathroom, feeling uneven. Seungcheol whines and grabs you to pull you back toward him. He wraps his arms around you, squeezing tightly.
“You haven’t even given me a kiss,” he pouts, looking down at you through long, dark lashes. “I want a kiss.”
This is the problem with Seungcheol. He says things like this when you’re supposed to be casual, something easy and without feelings and without strings. But this feels like something, it feels like there's a thread connecting you, tugging your mouth to his because of course you indulge him.
You always do.
Seungcheol’s lips are soft and taste faintly of his cherry chapstick. You smile into the kiss, standing on your tiptoes to press closer to him. He kisses you back eagerly, slotting his lips against yours and humming with delight. When you pull away, he’s smug, grinning happily.
“Come on,” he urges, now leading the charge as he pulls you by the hand toward your bathroom.
Instead of turning on the light, Seungcheol uses the glow of the burning candle on the counter to navigate. He drops your hand to open up the cabinets and pulls out two towels as you trail to the shower, opening the glass door to lean in and turn it on.
Steam starts to fill the room as you close the shower door and turn to him. He sets the towels on the counter, not bothering to shut the door to the bedroom. Instead, he grips the bottom of his shirt and peels it upward and over his head, revealing all toned muscle and tan skin.
He momentarily distracts you. Seungcheol is a work of art, equal parts rippling muscle and soft skin. You slide your shorts down, distracted by the way he looks in the golden shroud of the candle light, sliding his sweatpants down his legs.
Sensing your eyes, he lifts his head as he kicks off his sweats, briefs slung low on his hips. “Admiring me?”
“Shut up.”
Looking away, you take off your shirt, feeling the heat flush from your cheeks down to your neck. He chuckles, peeling off his briefs before kicking them toward the sink and striding toward the shower. He stops to kiss you on the cheek as he pulls open the door.
“I don’t mind,” he teases. “I like it.”
It’s true. Seungcheol has always had the easy confidence of someone who is comfortable in their skin. You admire that about him - and envy him a little. Seungcheol never seems to worry what others think of him, nor does he seem embarrassed or concerned about making the wrong move. Saying the wrong thing.
Steam hits you full on as you step into the shower. Seungcheol is already standing under the spray of water, his back turned toward you. For a moment you admire him again, watching the way the water sluices down his broad back and narrow waist.
Your eyes drift to the tattoo at his neck, the branches of the tree stretching toward his shoulders. You’ve traced that tree with the tips of your fingers and tongue over and over again, fascinated about the way the ink flexes when he moves.
A chill catches you, making you shiver and step toward the heat of the water. He senses your approach, turning his head to the side to look at you over his shoulder. He grins, reaching a hand back toward you to pull you close. You lace your fingers, letting him pull you into him as he turns.
Hot water hits your skin, immediately soothing. You sigh, leaning into the firmness of him, Seungcheol’s arms wrapping around you. He catches your mouth again, your eyes fluttering shut as he kisses you slowly, tongue lazy as he licks into your mouth.
Seungcheol’s hands spread across your back, fingers digging in a little as he starts to explore, one hand surging up and the other down. You moan into his mouth as the hand that drifts down grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing a little. His mouth curves into the kiss and you feel his teeth pull at your bottom lip, something he knows you love.
As always, you’re a goner. You don’t stand a chance with him. Not that first night and not now when he kisses you like something more. Not when he slides his hand around to your front, pressed between your bodies to run his fingers up the wet folds of your pussy.
He groans into the kiss that has turned sloppy, hungry. “Fucking wet.”
“We’re in the shower.”
He growls and pulls his mouth from you to attach to your neck, biting and sucking harshly. You let out a breathy sound, head tilting back heavily as you feel his tongue lick the water from your skin. “Don’t take away my credit.”
“The only crime is pride.”
The pads of his fingers press into your clit, making your knees knock together and the breath leave your lungs. He smiles against your neck, humming. “Which classic are you quoting at me today?”
“Antigone by Sophocles.”
“What’s that one about?”
Finding words is nearly impossible. The heat of the shower has you flushed and distracted, the steam making it harder to breathe, thoughts sticky as Seungcheol continues to tease you, fingers dragging down to your clenching entrance to press his fingers in slightly before dragging them back up.
Your nails bite into the back of his neck, clinging to him for life as he holds you up, one arm looped around your back to press you to him while the other makes all your thoughts scattered.
“Come on,” he urges gently, bringing his face to yours. He brushes his nose against yours, nudging. “Tell me.”
“She was a tragic character in a play written by Sophocles,” you sigh. “She was the daughter of Oedipus.”
“The guy who fucked his mom?”
Your laughter bubbles out of you. He laughs too, his hold tightening. “Yeah, Cheol. The guy who fucked his mom.”
“Craaazy family.”
“Do you really want to talk about Greek tragedy incest right now?”
“Nope,” he says happily. “I do want to eat this pussy though.”
Seungcheol flips gears so quickly that it’s hard to keep up. He swings you toward the glass wall of the shower, pressing your chest against it. You moan loudly, startled by the cool glass against your hard nipples. The contrast of hot water and the cool glass feels good, your eyes fluttering shut as Seungcheol drops to his knees behind you. He gently presses the inside of your knees, urging you to spread your legs.
“Just like that,” he encourages, hands ghosting upward to squeeze your ass. He pulls your hips away from the glass and toward him, groaning as he comes face level to your cunt. “Fuck.”
Your breath fogs the glass. It’s cold when you press your palms against it, holding yourself up as Seungcheol dips forward, running the flat of his tongue down your slit. You let out a pathetic sound and he laughs, fingers squeezing your flesh.
Everything feels like an exposed nerve. You melt, knees shaking and unsteady as Seungcheols tongue leisurely explores your folds, dipping into your entrance before dragging up to circle your clit.
One of your hands leaves the glass to reach back, sinking into the wet strands of his hair and holding him to you. He grunts in pleasure, the buzz of his mouth adding to the simulation as he fastens his lips to you, sucking gently.
Seungcheol’s mouth is a weapon. You fall apart under the warmth of his lips, the softness of his tongue. He sucks at your core, greedy and pleased, fingers digging into you as he presses in further. He can never get enough, the wet sounds of his hunger making your toes curl.
“Feels so good,” you pant against the glass. Your nails scrape against his scalp and he moans loudly, muffled by your cunt. “Your fucking mouth.”
“Mmm. Love you like this.” His tongue flicks expertly across your clit and you feel your thighs clench, legs shaking as your orgasm spools inside of you. “God this shower hurts my fucking knees though.”
“You wanted to eat me out in the shower.”
A hand cracks across your ass cheek, making you arch against the glass. He chuckles, tongue diving back, words slurred as he mutters, “And I’d do it again.”
Seungcheol’s mouth feels divine. You go quiet as he sucks at you, focused on the warmth spreading through you and the way your breath starts to stutter, limbs locking up.
When you come, you go boneless. Seungcheol holds you up, pressing you against the glass as he licks you through your orgasm. You twitch against him, nails dragging in his hair, your other hand sliding against the glass as you fight to grip anything to ground you.
Breathing raggedly, you sag when he pulls his face from you and stands. He groans and you grin, knowing his knees hurt from the tile of the shower. He doesn’t care, though. He crowds you in, cock pressed against your backside as his arms loop around you.
“Kiss me.” His voice is soft, needy.
Turning your face over your shoulder, you let him catch his mouth with yours, all tongue and cum and spit. You don’t care, pushing into him. One of his hands slides down between your legs, making you whimper into his mouth as he slides his fingers through your sticky folds to press two of them into your entrance.
Seungcheol is a giver. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve slept together or had brief, fast encounters, he always makes it a point to please you. To go out of his way to make you shake against him, like he needs it.
He keeps your mouth melded to his as his fingers fuck you slowly. You clench around his fingers, moaning his name as he presses them against the soft spot inside of you. You see stars, panting into his mouth as he strings you along, dragging you toward another orgasm.
It’s slow. Intimate. His mouth is hot and wet, sucking at biting at your bottom lip. His other hand snakes up to your throat, not applying pressure but gripping you, holding you to him. If he didn’t have you so tightly pressed to the glass, you think you’d collapse.
“You won’t fall,” he breathes into your mouth, reading your mind. “I’ve got you.”
“My knees are fucking useless right now.”
“You’re tough. Come on, I know you can give me more.”
You’ll give him anything he asks. You feel your heart slamming in your chest as he works you up again, feel the ragged breathing until you momentarily stop, everything tense and suspended as you clench around his fingers, shuddering violently as you come.
“Knew it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
A whine leaves you at the praise, head shaking back and forth a little as the oversensitivity makes you squirm. He works you through it, mouth pressed to your ear, whispering to breathe, baby as he strokes you gently until you’re leaning against him heavily.
Seungcheol removes his hand but keeps holding you up, letting you catch your breath. He peppers innocent kisses along your shoulder, lips brushing your skin tenderly. When you stand up with more strength, he pats you on the hip, gentle.
“Good?”
“Mhmm.” Craning over your shoulder, you catch his chin with your mouth, kissing softly. You press your ass into him, feeling his straining cock. “Come on.”
“Yeah?”
“All good.”
“Thank fuck. Thought I lost you.”
“I’ve had worse,” you grin, a little tired.
He kisses you, patting you approvingly before he grinds the tip of his cock between your legs. He groans deep in his chest, grip on you tightening for a moment. You reach behind you, gripping the base of his cock firmly, stroking gently before lining him up with your entrance.
Seungcheol pushes in, both of you whining in harmony at the feeling. It feels good, your pussy throbbing around him as he presses in slowly, letting you feel the stretch. He clings to you, trying to keep it together as you flutter around him.
“Yeah,” he whispers, more to himself than you. “Shit.”
Gently, Seungcheol starts to fuck you against the glass, strokes deep and slow. It’s mind-numbingly good, your cheek cool and pressed against the shower wall, Seungcheol’s face buried in your neck, breath puffing against your skin.
He holds you reverently, both hands on your hips to keep you where he wants you. You reach one hand behind your head, holding the back of his neck, nails digging into his skin. He hums happily, always pleased when you bite and scratch him.
That had been a surprise. You always thought he wouldn’t want you to mark him, that he wouldn’t want evidence of your time spent together. Seungcheol is the opposite though, urging you to rake your nails across soft skin, to bite at him and bruise him.
Your feet slide apart a little as he strengthens his thrusts. You squeal, hand smacking the glass to hold yourself up. He lets out a loud laugh, pausing to let you fix your stance. He taps your thigh in question and you nod, lifting your leg a little to let him slide a hand under your thigh to press it against the shower wall for better grip.
When he rolls his hips into you this time, it’s deeper, making you tremble against the glass. A groan drips from Seungcheol’s mouth as he sets his pace, pinning you between him and the glass with nothing to do but to take what he gives you.
“Can you do another?” he asks, breath shaky. His fingers squeeze your thigh for emphasis, the snap of his hips getting stronger. You nod, unable to answer verbally. He huffs, half laughter, half something else. “Yeah you can.”
And you can. Seungcheol can pull pleasure out of you like thread from a loom, his skilled hands guiding you where he wants you to go. It’s easy for him, the way he knows your body so acute and familiar that the thought alone makes you unravel a little, your whines muted by the glass.
He makes you come like that, stuck between his warmth and the cold, the two contrasts keeping you suspended as you seize up around him. He grunts at the feeling, hips sloppy, losing their rhythm until he clenches up, growling your name into your neck as he tips over the edge after you.
For a few moments, you remain melded together, panting in time. Seungcheol makes no rush of peeling himself away from you. Instead, he’s content to mouth at your shoulder and neck, running his nose along your throat. You squirm and laugh, ticklish.
Grinning, he does it again, nuzzling into you and making you laugh, sound echoing in the shower. “Seungcheol!”
“It’s cute.”
“Come on,” you urge. “You said you’d wash my hair.”
He steals a kiss. “Alright, alright. Pass me the shampoo.”
-
DAY FIFTY SEVEN
“Who is that?” Seungcheol asks, jerking his head toward the bar. You turn and follow his gaze to see Seokmin standing at the bar, ordering drinks. “Never seen him before.”
“Jealous?” You tease, leaning forward and batting your eyelashes at him. Seokmin is just a coworker, but it doesn’t mean you can’t poke Seungcheol a little. Except Seungcheol doesn’t laugh, leveling you with a stare, lips turning downward. “Wait, you actually are.”
“Don’t push it. It was just a question.”
“We work together,” you clarify, immediately turning off the charm when you recognize he’s not amused. “Actually I think he sort of has a thing for Vin, which is why he’s here.”
Seungcheol hums, sipping his beer and looking away from you. Licking your lips, you reach out a hand and touch his gently, bringing his dark eyes back to you. He looks serious - more serious than you’ve ever seen him, face blank, eyes unreadable.
“I mean it.” You squeeze his hand, trying to comfort him. “We’re just friends.”
“Alright.”
“I feel like you’re mad at me.”
“Why would I be mad?”
You shrug, struggling to articulate. He still has that expression you can’t read, something stark and closed off. “Just seems like it.”
He shakes his head again, but you don’t think he’s telling the truth, watching the way his eyes shift to watch Seokmin approach. “Just tired, I think I might head out.”
Panic grips you and you say the first thing you can think of, throwing caution to the wind. “Want to come over?”
That gives him pause. He studies you. You feel a tightness in your throat under his scrutiny. His mouth twitches and he nods. “Alright,” he says softly. “If you want me to.”
“I do.” You squeeze his hand again. “Really.”
-
DAY SEVENTY EIGHT
“Want to do me a huge favor?”
You look up from your spot on your couch. Seungcheol is in your kitchen, using his hip to close the door to the fridge. He lifts the lid on the package of grapes, plastic cracking loudly as he does. Leaning against the counter, he pops one into his mouth, crunching happily.
“Besides giving you my grapes?” you ask, deadpan. He grins around them shrugging happily as he eats another. You roll your eyes, turning back to the laptop carefully balanced on your knee. “What’s the favor?”
“We have this giant New Years Eve party at work in two weeks and I need a date.”
That gives you pause. You stare at the computer screen but you can’t make out anything on the screen. You don’t dare to turn and look at Seungcheol, fearful that the feelings his question brings out will be right on the surface of your expression.
Date. It’s a scary word. You and Seungcheol sort of go on dates all the time, but they’re not really dates. At least, not from your perspective. If you were to ask Jeonghan, he would launch into another lecture that you should just put a goddamn title on this thing. Vin happily agrees, both of them hammering you on calling the thing between you and Seuncheol what it is.
But it’s friends with benefits. Friends go out to eat meals together and go shopping together - they hangout. The benefits are the sex. It’s the pressing you against your mattress as he maps your body with his mouth, it’s the way you sink to your knees for him after he’s had a bad day at work, taking him into the heat of your mouth to make him forget.
So yes, you’ve gone places together alone and as a friend date. But somehow this feels different, and you don’t think it’s supposed to.
Carefully, you ask, “Your date, huh?”
“Mhmm. Free drinks and apps, and it’s at the top of that fancy new hotel. We can stay the night so we don’t have to pay for an expensive as fuck Uber”
Not for the first time, you find yourself unsure where the line is with Seungcheol. You’ve agreed multiple times that this is just casual, a shared benefit between friends. And yet every time you feel confident in what you are, the line blurs.
You’re as guilty as he is, you know. On more than one occasion you’re the one who has crossed the line, messing up the clear boundary the two of you have had in place for weeks. Somehow, you both manage to be utterly terrible at casual, but you’re too afraid to say something about it. Too afraid to ruin it.
“I suppose I can be convinced.”
“Oh? What can I do to convince you?”
You look up as his tone turns to velvet, that voice he uses when he’s coaxing you into his lap, or when he’s-
“It’s really hard to be sexy when there’s grape juice running down your chin, Cheol.”
He pouts, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the lower half of his face as you laugh. He’s cute, pink lips downturned and eyes round as he sulks. “Don’t make fun of me. Just say yes to being my date.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll go.”
His grin is burnished gold, the sun breaking for first light over the horizon. “Thank you.”
“Mhmm.” He crunches into another grape and you scowl. “Stop eating all my fucking grapes!”
-
DAY NINETY TWO
“Holy shit,” Seungcheol mutters when you step out of the hotel bedroom. He feels his heart start to pound in his chest from where he stands in the kitchenette, fingers squeezing the glass of whiskey he poured himself earlier. “You look unreal.”
And you do. You always do. It was one of the first things he noticed about you when Jeonghan and Joshua introduced the two of you that first night at that shitty bar you like to go to on Fridays. The real kicker had been your personality, though. Warm, kind, quick wit. A bit of a history nerd, which is his favorite thing.
Honestly, he loves a lot of things about you. He knows that he has to do something about that. Knows that this stopped being casual a long time ago. Seungcheol has no problem with casual hookups and keeping people in a rotation, but when it comes to you… he just wants you.
It’s like he has no idea how to keep his distance, how to keep his feelings out of it. He doesn’t mind, but he needs to figure out how to tell you. How to take that next step and move you from friends to more - if that’s what you want, anyway.
“You’re not so bad yourself,” you say back neutrally. He can see the way your eyes linger on him though, your gaze betraying the calmness of your voice, as always.
You don’t get it, though. Seungcheol cannot keep his eyes off you, dragging them from top to bottom. The black dress is snug on your frame, his eyes tracing the swells of your breasts, the dip of your hips, the curve of your ass and thighs.
Dragging his eyes back up, he meets your gaze. That is one of his favorite things. Your eyes, full of light and depth and thoughts that he always wants to fall into. There is so much simmering under the surface that you don’t say and he’s never asked.
He wants to.
Knocking back the rest of his drink, Seungcheol leaves the glass on the counter and walks over to you. You shift from foot to foot, eyes darting up to examine the ceiling. He smirks, feeling the nerves radiating from you as he approaches.
When he reaches out, you don’t step away from him. You let him skim his hands up your sides, going until he’s running them over your shoulders and on either side of your neck so he can cradle your face. He turns your gaze back to him and you stare up at him through your lashes.
He was a goner on day one. How ridiculous to think he’s not just made this real, told you how he doesn’t want a single thing to be casual and superficial between you.
Instead of stealing a searing kiss and pushing you back into the bedroom like he wants to, Seungcheol presses a short kiss to the corner of your mouth. He’s too afraid that if he starts something that you won’t make it downstairs.
Now isn’t the time for that, though. There’s a party upstairs and free drinks and he wants to spend time with his friends. Spend time with you.
The Seungcheol that existed before you is a stranger to him. He barely remembers what it was like to have people he wasn’t genuinely interested in, what it was like to show up alone at parties and take someone home. Hardly recalls pushing people away when they wanted too much.
All it took was meeting you.
“Come on,” he urges gently, leading you from the room and to the elevator.
Seungcheol slides his phone from his pocket in the elevator. You press close against him, your arm brushing against his as it fills up with people. He notes where Wonwoo tells him to meet and puts his phone back in his pocket, leaning into you a little.
You let him, making his mouth twitch upward. You always let him do what he wants, and when you don’t, an easy pout gets his way. He’s wrapped around your finger, too. He doesn’t know if you realize it, but he would give you anything you wanted without a moment's hesitation.
When the elevator doors open, Seungcheol takes your hand. You let him pull you into the party teeming with people, the sound of music swelling over the dull roar of the crowd. You stick closer to him, fingers squeezing him tightly as the pair of you walk toward the check-in table.
“This is beautiful,” you murmur to him.
His first instinct is to look at you because you are beautiful. You’re not looking at him, your neck craned to sweep over the party. He smiles at you, watching the glow of your side profile, eyes wide with wonder.
Dragging his eyes from your face, he glances around the party. It is gorgeous, with views of the entire city glittering beneath the building like a bed of stars, shimmering decorations reflecting the golden lights, a giant clock to show the time, and massive flower arrangements.
“It’s nice,” he agrees, shuffling to the table where he gives his name. “Choi Seungcheol.”
“Perfect, thanks.” The person working the table peels two wristbands and gestures for you both to hold out your wrists. You let go of his hand to do so, letting the attendant wrap your arm in a blue band. “Have a great night, Mr. and Mrs. Choi.”
Both of you blink in surprise. You open and close your mouth as if you’re unsure how to correct them and Seungcheol laughs, shrugging as he takes your hand and leads you out of the line and into the party proper this time.
“This way, wifey.”
You roll your eyes but grin anyway, looping your arm through his offered one and tugging him close. He’s satisfied, leading you through the tight crowd of people toward the south bar that Wonwoo had said their friends were waiting at.
Joshua spots you and waves you both over, making room at the bar for you to join. Jeonghan’s eyes flick to where your arm is looped through Seungcheol to Seungcheol himself, raising a brow. Seungcheol glares at him, urging him to shut up and Jeonghan grins, turning to order drinks at the bar.
Wonwoo claps Seungcheol on the back in greeting before kissing you on both cheeks and letting you sit on the only barstool available. Seungcheol moves with you pressed to your back as he leans an elbow on the bar, keeping you close. You lean into him, earning a shy smile that he tries to hide behind the rim of the champagne glass that Jeonghan hands him.
He likes this. He likes being with his friends. He likes the way you laugh and lean back further into him when you do. He likes that his friends don’t bother the two of you about being attached at the hip. And he likes the way your face lights up every time he jokingly calls you wifey.
Seungcheol wants this.
He doesn’t recall the last time he wanted a relationship the way he wants with you. It doesn’t matter anyway. Everything before you is gone and forgotten, and what matters now are the things that are post-meeting-you.
Plied with lots of champagne and your laughter, Seungcheol lets you drag him onto the dance floor, wrapping your arms around him as he spins you. He doesn’t know what has him more drunk, the alcohol or you. He thinks it might be you.
The DJ announces that it’s one minute until midnight, making Seungcheol spin and look up at the clock. The partygoers cheer, clustering together to press toward the clock to count down. Seungcheol wraps an arm around your waist, keeping you close in the tight crowd.
His heart flutters as he watches the numbers countdown, realizing he gets to kiss you at midnight. He’s kissed you over a hundred times by now, but the prospect makes him giddy. His heart races as the numbers drop and he looks at you from the corner of your eye.
You’re watching the clock, uncontrolled happiness on your face as you yell with the rest of the crowd, counting each number as it passes by.
When the clock strikes midnight, you peer up at him, suddenly unsure. He can’t believe you don’t see it, that you’d doubt for one second that he wants you to be his first kiss of the year. His heart seizes, dipping down with a smile to press his lips to yours.
Your mouth is warm and champagne-sweet, making him groan in the back of his throat. Your fingers cling to his hip, holding him by the waist as he slips a hand up to the back of your neck to hold you in place, deepening the kiss.
When you pull your mouth away, he makes up his mind. Fuck everything he said about keeping it casual - he doesn’t want to go another minute without you knowing what he wants.
-
DAY NINETY THREE
“Be my girlfriend.”
The words that come from Seungcheol’s lips catch you off guard. A giggle bursts to your lips and you lean back, trying to examine him from a little farther away. You feel the glitter of champagne in your veins and the same buzz that comes with being near Seungcheol, wondering if maybe he’s had too much to drink.
“What?” you ask, examining his face. He’s flushed, lips pink and smiling, but his eyes are dark and serious.
“Be my girlfriend,” he says again, this time quieter. He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath fans your face, warm and sweetened by champagne. “I know we agreed to be casual so if you don’t want more, that’s fine. But there is nothing casual about the way I feel about you.”
Heart thundering, you laugh and cling to him a little tighter. He nudges you with his head, as though asking what’s so funny. You don’t know how to put into words that you’ve wanted to be not casual for a long time, that you are dizzy with the prospect of being something more, that he’s just made the first minute of your year perfect.
Instead of trying to string together the words to tell him, you kiss him. His mouth turns upward, letting you press your palms to the sides of his face, holding him to your lips. There’s no one else but just the two of you, entirely in your own bubble on the rooftop.
Relief mixed with euphoria floods your system. It’s a weight lifted off your shoulders, realizing that you’re not crazy, that nothing you feel about Seungcheol is casual and that’s okay. That he feels it too.
Your fingers slide into the hair at the back of his neck, pulling slightly. He groans, separating your mouths to peer down at you, his lashes fanning when he blinks, dazed.
“Don’t do that,” he whispers. “This is a work party. I’ll fold right here.”
“So take me somewhere that isn’t here and fold.”
His gummy smile is blinding, your heart soaring. “Alright, wifey.”
“Gonna need a ring pop at a minimum if you’re gonna keep saying that shit.”
He links your fingers together, stepping away from you. He tugs you after him and you follow. “Deal. What flavor?”
“Strawberry. I kind of want to suck something else right now, though.”
Seungcheol groans and you laugh, loving the way he visibly struggles as your words land. He walks faster, a new pep in his step as you make your way toward the elevator. He shouts Wonwoo’s name as he goes, waving his hand to tell him that you’re leaving.
Wonwoo’s grin is all-knowing as he throws two thumbs up, cheering happily. You tingle with a little bit of embarrassment, scurrying toward the closing elevator door to catch it. It opens again and you both slip inside, alone and buzzing from the party and your newfound status.
The door closes and Seungcheol pushes in close. You press against the wall, looking up at his sharp grin, his nose nudging yours. His lips are almost on yours, the heat of them against your mouth making you dizzy and the heavy weight of his body against yours making your thoughts sticky.
“Gonna suck something else, huh?”
“Uh huh.”
“Wanna do it right here in the elevator?”
“Huh?”
He bursts into laughter at your wide gaze, tapping the underside of your chin with his knuckle in jest. “I’m kidding. Unless…”
You shove him away and he starts laughing again, bending over with the force of it. You can’t be annoyed by his teasing, loving the way his eyes crease at the corner and how he laughs with the full force of his body.
“You’re so annoying.”
“You should have seen your face, though.”
“I mean I’ll do it right now, if you want.”
His smile drops and he opens his mouth a little, shocked. “Wait, really?”
“No, but you should have seen your face.”
The elevator arriving at the appropriate floor saves him from answering. He scowls at you and you giggle, grabbing him and pushing him into the hall and toward your room. He turns on his heel, falling into step with you and fishing the room key out of his pocket.
It’s cold in the room when you enter. Seungcheol had booked a one bedroom suite with a small living room and kitchenette. It was more than what you needed for the night, but it feels nice, like your own private getaway.
Taking you by the hand, he walks backward toward the bedroom, pulling you along. His smile is beautiful and you wear a matching one. A thrill shoots through you when you realize that Seungcheol is yours. Really yours.
Sitting on the bed, he pulls you into his lap. Your knees sink in the mattress on either side of his hips, ass resting on his thighs. Leaning over him, you link your hands behind the back of his neck, threading your fingers through the silky hair there.
Seungcheol tilts his face up toward you, eyes fluttering as you play with his hair. His arms loop around your waist, squeezing you.
“Hi,” he breathes.
“Hi.”
Leaning down, you slot your mouth against his. He tastes like champagne, mouth warm. Kissing him takes your breath away, thoughts guttering out as he licks into your mouth hungrily. You lose yourself in the feeling of him, feeling like you’re on fire.
Seungcheol falls backward on the bed. His lips are swollen and pink, eyes heavy-lidded as he stares up at you. He reaches for you but you give him a coy smile and slip from his lap, crouching to the floor and running your hands along his thighs, feeling them flex beneath your touch.
You love Seungcheol’s thighs. Your nails drag across the fabric and he lets out a breathy sound. His muscles twitch as you reach to brush your fingers over his zipper, making sure to press into his cock. His hips jerk upward at the barest hint of stimulation and you grin.
“It’s no elevator,” you tease. “But will this do?”
“Fucking anywhere will do.”
Seungcheol has always been sensitive. He’s easy to rile, cock already firm by the time you’re undoing his belt and he’s helping you pull his dress pants down his thighs. You eye the dark patch in his briefs, proud that with just a little bit of kissing and some light touching he’s already leaking at the tip.
Sitting high on your knees, you lean forward, tongue pressing wetly to the tip of his cock through the fabric. A hand shoots to the back of your head, his fingers gripping you firmly as you laugh, tongue still pressed to him and soaking through his briefs.
“Don’t you dare tease me tonight,” he warns, voice shaky. “That is not wifey behavior.”
You remove your tongue, pouting and moving to press a kiss to his thigh. “You never let me tease you.”
“I’m not patient.” Your teeth scrape the softness of his flesh and his legs twitch, knees knocking your shoulder. “Baby, I am so serious.”
Biting your bottom lip to hide a smile, you give in. You know with certainty he’d let you drag this out if you really wanted to. Seungcheol is impatient and greedy and demanding, but he also lets you do what you want when it comes down to it.
Instead of testing his grace, you peel his briefs down, freeing his cock. Your mouth waters at his thick length, your hand automatically reaching up to grab him. You swipe your thumb through the precum gathered, using it to slide down the full length of his shaft.
Seungcheol’s hips buck. You grip him properly, working him slowly as you shuffle closer on your knees. They already hurt, hotel carpet digging into them but you ignore it in favor of watching the way his fingers slowly undo the button of his shirt, needing to shuck the fabric off.
“You’re pretty,” you note absently. His stomach flexes when he sits up to slide his shirt off of his shoulders. He looks down at you, pupils dilated. “Very, very pretty.”
“You’re a work of art yourself.”
Instead of laying back down flat, he leans back on his palms, letting his head fall back. Seungcheol shuts his eyes, face tilted up at the ceiling as though in prayer. “Feels good.”
Humming happily, you lean forward and slowly run the flat of your tongue up the base of his shaft. That draws a low moan out of him, his chest rising and falling as he pants. You’re fascinated by his reactions, watching his face and body language carefully as you swirl your tongue around the crown of his cock.
He’s responsive, fingers digging into the sheets in an effort not to grab your head and take control. He’s testing his patience, letting you bring him into the wet heat of your mouth at your pace, sucking lazily.
“Fuck,” he groans. You hum around him and he shakes his head, shivering. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Good you think, setting a proper place as you swallow him down, letting your spit pool to help make the glide easier. It’s messy and wet, just the way Seungcheol likes it, his moans backtracking the slick sounds coming from your mouth.
What you can’t fit in your mouth properly, you cover with your hand, squeezing periodically as you stroke upward, meeting your stretched lips.
“God,” Seungcheol whispers. “You know how to suck cock.”
Pulling off of him with a wet pop, you grin, feeling the sting in your mouth from the stretch. Your lips are cum and spit-slicked, sticky as you continue to stroke him.
“Thanks,” you laugh. “I heard I’m wifey material.”
“Fucking, shit, yeah a little bit. Fuckkkk, mouth please.”
You comply, sucking him back into your mouth. He’s putty underneath you, hips twitching off the bed a little as soft sounds drip from his mouth. You watch, totally hypnotized by the way he moved, the way his hairline gets a little sweaty as he nods, encouraging you.
Biting his lip, he lifts a hand from the bed to grab at you, pulling you off of him. “Come here,” he growls, opening his.
Seungcheol pulls you to him, not caring that your mouth is a mess. His tongue delves in, exploring the mixed taste of champagne and precum, hands pulling at your dress to peel it off of you.
“Let me sit against the headboard,” he pants, breaking the kiss to scoot backward. You peel your underwear off and toss them, following him across the mattress as he settles. He pats his lap and reaches for you. “Come here, baby.”
You settle into his lap again, mouth melding to his. His hands explore you, gripping your ass, squeezing your waist, running up your front to pinch at your nipples. You moan into his mouth, carding your fingers in his hair and pulling at the stimulation, your head tilting back a little.
He takes the opportunity to attach his lips to your throat, biting sharply and soothing the sting with his tongue. Sinking a little lower, you feel your pussy brush against his cock and you sigh, gently rolling your hips to slide your sticky folds up his shaft.
Seungcheol groans against you, mouth feverish against your skin. He maps your throat, kissing and biting his way to your chest, where he steals a pert nipple into his mouth to give a harsh suck. You squeal and he grins, plucking at your sensitive bud with his teeth.
Holding onto him, you let him lavish attention to your tits the way he wants, hands squeezing, tongue flicking. It feels good. Aflame, you continue to roll your hips shallowly in his waist, just giving the barest of stimulation to you both.
A hand slides between your legs, his fingers finding your swelling clit, pressing against it. You whine loudly, fighting off a violent shiver. He grins where he has your breast in his mouth, sucking generously as he lazily circles your clit with his fingers.
“Cheol,” you whisper-whine. “You said no teasing.”
“I said no teasing me.” His fingers slide backward and dip into your entrance teasingly. You clench around nothing, aching for him to do something. “Flustered, huh?”
“Please give me something.”
He presses his lips against the side of your jaw, grinning. “Fine.” He sinks a single finger into you and you sigh in immediate relief. It isn’t enough but it’s something, your hips rocking to take him in deeper. “Better?”
“I can take more.”
“Of course you can.” He pushes in another finger, the stretch so good. “You’re my girl. You can take what I give you.”
Dropping your head to his shoulder, you nod. You hide your face in his flushed skin, riding his fingers as he slowly slides them home, working you gently. They press against your sensitive spot and you curse, gripping him a little tighter.
Impatient and needing more, you grind yourself forward, fucking his hand properly. He laughs, letting you take what you need, cupping you fully so the heel of his palm grinds into your clit. Your movements are frenzied, driven by the desire for him, the feeling curling inside you.
“Just like that,” he encourages. “Fuck yourself on my fingers just like that.”
You do, thighs aching and body shaking. The sheets stick to your legs as you work yourself up, sweaty palms sliding against Seungcheol’s shoulders. He whispers in your ear, voice low and scratchy, adding to the building mania inside of you.
“Shit,” you hiss, feeling the tightness in your stomach start to boil over.
“Come on, come around my fingers. You got it.”
His gentle voice pushes you over all the way and you clench around his fingers, coming undone. Your hips stop moving and your legs squeeze around his as you seize up. Seungcheol is having none of it, taking the lead to drive his fingers up into you as you flutter around him.
“Oh,” you gasp as he finer fucks you through the rest of your orgasm, sucking at a tender spot on your neck until you’re trembling and a mess. “Okay, okay, okay.”
Seungcheol takes it easy on you, pulling his fingers from between your legs with a slick noise. You heave against him, catching your breath while he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks obnoxiously.
“Mmm.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He smacks your ass and you squeak. “Ride my cock like that?”
Huffing, you extend to your full height on your knees. He grabs the base of his shaft, eyes fixed on the mess between your legs as you sink down slowly. His tip breaches you, both of you letting out a sound as you keep going, holding your breath as he stretches you open.
Seungcheol taps your waist. “Breathe.”
You do, inhaling a breath as you nestle in his lap, seated fully, clenching around him. “Thanks.”
“Mhmm.”
Seungcheol’s hands move up your sides, his eyes drinking in every inch of you. This time, you know the look in his eye is real. His gaze is covetous, looking at you like you’re his because you are.
You catch his hands with yours, linking your finger and squeezing. He smiles, looking up at you with dark locks of hair in his face. You smile back, starting to roll your hips, using his hands to steady yourself.
Everything feels like an exposed nerve. The cool air of the hotel room brushes across your back, making you shiver. The mattress dips under your movement, your thighs flexing to keep your balance steady, Seungcheol’s grip on you helping.
“You’re so perfect,” Seungcheol mutters, using your linked hands to pull you toward him. Your hands slip from him, going to the headboard to help lift you instead. His grip finds your waist, aiding in your movement while his mouth finds your breasts. “God these tits.”
An ache settles in your thighs but you ignore it, chasing an orgasm. You tremble in his hold, breath punching out of you as he mumbles your name, watching you with fucked out eyes and lips parted, like you’re giving him everything he ever wanted.
You kind of feel that way. The way he looks at you isn’t that different from before, but now you’re confident in it, realizing that everything with Seungcheol felt too intimate because it was. Casual was never the right name for it, neither of you having any idea how to really be no strings attached.
“My fucking legs hurt,” you admit, panting. “Can you take over?”
“Mhmm.” Seungcheol surges forward, knocking you backward onto the bed. You laugh, bouncing a little as he pulls out and helps maneuver you. “Turn around for me.”
With shaking arms, you follow his instruction. The sheets cling to you as you roll, making you huff and swat at them. He chuckles, peeling them away from your sweaty skin while you settle on your stomach, arching your ass a little.
He palms your left cheek, groaning and dragging his blunt nails down the curve to your hip where he grabs you. “Unreal,” he whispers, to either you or himself.
You gasp when he thrusts pack in, punching the air from your lungs as he sets a sharp pace. You jostle on the bed, grabbing the sheets and knotting your hands in them to keep you in place, a stream of whimpers leaving you.
A hand slips up your spine, pressing flat between your shoulder blades, pushing you down further into the bed. You gasp and nod, Seungcheol taking it as a sign to put more weight into it, angling his hips so he’s fucking down into you.
It’s hard to breathe, the dizziness taking over as your skin starts to turn to static, orgasm so close that you can feel the buzz between your legs. He keeps going like that, pinning you hard to the bed as his hips crash into yours.
His name leaves your mouth in a cry as you squeeze around him, letting loose. He curses, picking up his pace, ignoring the wet squelch as he does, palm pressing you harder into the bed as you come.
You think you might disintegrate, unable to do anything but make broken sounds as he chases his orgasm. Just when you think you might not get another breath, he comes, the pressure on your back lifting a little. You gasp for air, feeling the room tilt as his thrusts slow, becoming gentle.
Seungcheol’s hands are soothing on your back, fingers dancing up and down your spine, delicate. He’s muttering something to you but you can’t hear him, the pounding of your heart far too loud, pulse rattling in your ears.
When his hips are still, his hands keep moving. He leans over you, careful not to put his weight on you, mouth kissing across your shoulders. Your cheek is pressed flat against the sheet as you pant, coming down from a fever pitch.
“You okay if I get up and get you water?” the question is whispered across your cheek, where Seungcheol presses a tender kiss. You nod and he kisses you again before peeling away from you.
Laying in the bed, you drift, listening to him shuffle around to the kitchen. You’re sleepy but more aware now. When the bed dips again, you crack your eye open, watching as he navigates carefully on his knees, two glasses of water in hand.
“Can you sit up or do you need help?” You shake your head and muster the strength you have left to sit up. Your muscles spasm as you do, a groan leaving your mouth as the room spins from the change in perspective. “You okay?”
“Thirsty,” you rasp, reaching for the glass he offers. Gulping down the cool water, you’re aware of his eyes on you, watching you drain the glass as he sips his. “Thank you.”
He takes the empty glass and kisses your lips. “Mhmm. Need more?”
“No, I’m good. I just need to sleep for five hundred years, no big deal.”
“Damn, five hundred goes crazy. Do you think we’ll have flying cars by then?”
Seungcheol puts both glasses on the nightstand and peels back the covers of the bed. He slips under them, patting the spot next to him. You crawl over, limbs heavy and uncoordinated. He laughs at you and you scowl, but manage to clamber in next to him, warm beneath the blankets and tucked into his chest.
“Yes, definitely. And like giant sexy holograms advertising porn, probably.”
“That’s the first thing you think of in the future? Porn?”
“Listen,” you huff, laying your head against his chest and closing your eyes. “I’m still a little champagne buzzed and you just fucked me until I couldn’t breathe for a while. Cut me slack.”
“Sure thing, wifey.”
“Ugh. Is that our thing now?”
“Mhmm. Everything pre-relationship has henceforth been replaced with the relationship-only era. Pretend you have amnesia.”
A huff of laughter leaves you. “Sure thing.”
“I mean I feel like I have amnesia.” You give him a questioning look. He’s contemplative, staring with unseeing eyes as he plays with your fingers. “I had an entire life and habits before you, and I swear it’s like sometimes my memory actually starts with that first night at the bar.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. You’re just around a lot and I like to think it’s always been that way. And I’m kind of sorry for taking so long to admit nothing about this was casual for me.”
You smile. “Wasn’t for me either.”
“Good.” He snuggles into you, settling in silence for a few moments. “Thanks for letting me win pool that first night.”
“I did not let you win that game, oh my god.”
“Just admit it! You wanted to taste my goodies and you let me win.”
“I’m gonna give you some damn amnesia,” you mutter, but grin as he hugs you tight.
PAIRING: Ares!Soonyoung x Priestess!Reader
SUMMARY: For years, you’ve been the lone mortal tending to the forsaken altar of Ares. When war befalls your city and the Temple of the Gods, you refuse to flee, blade in hand, and your defiance in the face of death summons the very god others were too afraid to serve.
WC: 15,776
AU: Mythological
GENRE: Smut, Romance
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Some angst, reader is an outcast at her temple, people being mean/indifferent to her, some violence when a temple is attacked by soldiers, depictions of blood and murder, a single scene where the murder is a bit graphic but not overly so, depictions of terror and soldiers making references to making reader their war prize, lots of things on fire idk they're being attacked, some ambiguous belief in the gods on reader's part, explicit language, explicit sexual content including oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, virgin reader implications, unprotected sex, I think thats it.
A/N: This is a piece for the 13 Gods of Olympus collab hosted by @aeristudios and @wooahaeproductions! Special thanks to Aeris for reaching out to see if I would be interested in doing this for our shared husband.
A/N 2: This is not beta read :/ sorry!
MAIN MASTERLIST | ASK | 13 GODS OF OLYMPUS COLLAB
THE TEMPLE OF THE GODS IS ALWAYS QUIETEST IN THE MORNING. The temple breathes around you, vast and ancient. Stone sweats beneath your palms, the lower levels of the temple always a little cooler, a little wetter. Oil lamps burn low along the corridors, their flames casting flickering light against the marble columns. Incense hangs heavy in the air, smoky and sweet.
Your tunic is damp at the hem, darkened with water and ash. The cloth in your hand catches on the grooves carved into the altar, the stone worn smooth under your hands. The stains never really fade, the rust-colored shadows lingering after years of neglect. It doesn’t matter how many times you scrub or how many times you return with fresh water and salt - the stone does not budge.
You scrub anyway. It’s all you know how to do.
Murmurs of worship reach you at a distance. The sound of voices is never heavy around you - never around you. Here, the air is different. Quieter. Heavier. No one likes to come to this part of the hall with wine to leave or flower petals to place at the foot of the altar. It’s just you and the soft scratch of your scrubbing, day in and day out.
You kneel before the altar of Ares, knees pressed to marble that never warms, even in the summer. Your tunic clings to your thighs, making you shiver. You can’t remember the last time you felt warm while tending to Ares altar, but you’re used to it now.
No one else bothers with the altar. You are its single caretaker, its single worshiper, the only person brave enough to tend to a God of War during a time of peace. Most people think it’s bad luck, an invitation for violence, a foolish temptation of fate.
So they leave his altar to you, an orphan with no patron god, no family name to throw around to get better assignments. It’s you and the cold altar, as it has been for three years.
Candles burn down to the wick. You scrape away at their wax. It’s your own fault - you’re the only one who lights candles for Ares. It feels wrong not to, the lonely altar a little sadder without the flickering flame. It’s also practical, the small flames giving you better light to work with than the oil lamps that are farther down the row.
Standing, you knock your head on the hilt of a sword. You curse, rubbing the back of your hand as you move away from it. The sword is the only part of the altar that's not stone. It’s laid perfectly straight across the upturned palms of Ares, the edges dulled by disuse but free from rust. It is the only thing on the altar not damaged. The statue is cracked and chipped and worn with time, but the sword is eternal. Unchanging.
“Sorry,” you mutter, pausing to adjust it, nudging the hilt back into perfect line on Ares hands. “Didn’t mean to do that.”
Your voice feels small in this space, swallowed by stone and shadow. You don’t typically speak to the god - you’re not sure if he ever listens. But sometimes you do, making quiet observations or muttering small complaints about your day - things you’d never say aloud anywhere else but the silence of solitude.
You finish adjusting the sword, fingertips lingering for a moment on the cool metal. The blade seems to drink in the candlelight rather than reflect it, the edges holding shadows. A faint vibration hums beneath your palm, and an eerie sensation that you've felt before. You remove your hand, the thrum leaving a strange, static sensation on your hand. It never frightens you when it happens, but the lingering feeling makes you uneasy.
Exhaling, you step back, looking at the altar. It looks almost the same as when you arrived this morning. It's still stained and lonely, but the candles burn a little brighter now, the wax pooling neatly instead of spilling over the edges. You gather the damp cloth, the bucket of gray water, the small brush worn down to bristles, and turn away. The corridor swallows your footsteps. Behind you, the hum fades gradually until it is only the memory of pressure against your skin.
The stairs to the upper levels are narrow and steep, worn smooth by centuries of sandaled feet. You climb carefully, bucket sloshing against your hip. The air changes as you ascend, the cool dampness giving way to warmer drafts and the faint sweetness of myrrh.
You emerge into the great colonnade, afternoon light slicing through the eastern windows. Priestesses in white move like ghosts between the upstairs altars, arranging fresh laurels on Apollo's shrine, replenishing oil in Demeter's lamps, spreading petals around Aphrodite's feet. A young visitor kneels before Hermes, lips moving in rapid, fervent prayer.
No one pays you any mind as you walk.
A cluster of three priestesses near Athena’s statue pauses mid-conversation when your shadow falls across their path. Their eyes flick toward you, brief and dismissive. They resume speaking, voices dropping half an octave, words too soft to catch. You keep walking.
Further along, an older priest with a grey beard steps aside as you pass. Not quickly, not rudely, just enough that your elbow does not brush his robe. He nods once, the barest dip of his chin, then continues toward the inner sanctum without a word. You have long since stopped expecting more.
Outside, the sky has turned to molten bronze. You toss the bucket of water outside on the rocky outcrop that the temple stands on, pausing to look down from the mountainside. Below, the city unspools in winding streets of stone and blue-tiled buildings. The sea breathes beyond, blue and churning, the salt heavy in the air with a mix of fig.
Once you've returned your cleaning supplies to their proper place, you head toward the central courtyard. A massive fig tree stands dark against the growing twilight sky, its branches turning from silver to gold as Apollo drags the sun down so his sister can drag the moon upward.
Tables scatter the courtyard, full of priestesses and a handful of priests that sit in loose circles, breaking bread and passing claw bowls of olives and yogurt thinned with honey, speaking in soft murmurs. You ignore them in favor of sitting at your usual place at the end of the furthest bench, right against the cool bark of the fig tree.
Carefully, you lean over to pluck flatbread, cheese and a handful of figs from the center of the table. No one pays you much mind as you do. It's better that way. When you'd first come here, an orphan looking for anything to do in exchange for shelter, they hadn't been so nice. Pretending you're not there is a better alternative to the scathing comments and looks you'd used to receive.
Murmurs drift around you like smoke. You listen as the fig in your hand bleeds red juice down your fingers, frowning at what you hear. Mentions of raiders sighted along the northern pass, border temples burning. Ares walking the streets.
His name lands like a stone dropped in silver water. You glance up to see people casting sidelong looks your way, frowning. As if it was you who had mentioned the God of War. You look back down at the table, biting into the fig, the juice filling your mouth.
When your plate is empty you rise without hurry, stack the clay dish neatly, and walk past the tables. Conversation stutters, then resumes behind you. It is the way of things here when you're the only person foolish enough to tend to a cruel god. An unneeded god.
Your quarters are tucked behind the grain stores on the lowest level of the temples, down a side passage that few people ever use. The Temple of the Gods is complex, built onto the top of the hill and winding deep into it, the hallways and subterranean rooms serving as its roots. Not everyone lives in the temple like you do - most people have homes.
You don't.
The inside of your room is small. It's barely wider than your outstretched arms and smells faintly of cypress and lemon. A narrow pallet rests against one wall, covered with a single wool blanket dyed the color of rust. A low table holds the few possessions you have: a comb that's missing two teeth, a single extra tunic that's folded, and balm for burns when you knock over candles or when your fingers dip into wax.
Every day is the same routine. Chores in the morning that go through until early afternoon, followed by tending to Ares altar, followed by dinner and bed. You follow that routine now, peeling off the wet tunic and putting it aside to dry. Your shift underneath does nothing to keep the chill of the room out, goosebumps rising on your arms until you climb under the woolen blanket.
You draw your knees up, curl onto your side, and stare at the faint crack of moonlight beneath the door. Somewhere above you, the temple settles into its night rhythm. You listen until the sounds blur into silence, eyes heavy, limbs sore.
Tomorrow you will rise before dawn, go about your chores, and kneel before the altar. Always the same labor, always the same silence.
You breathe in, breathe out, and let the darkness take you.
-
Oil lamps flicker as you descend the narrow stairs, same as every day before you. Your palm stings where the rope of the bucket digs into your palms, water sloshing over as you walk. Dawn always feels heaviest in the temple, as though it's just you and the gods. You feel the press of something around you as you get closer to Ares' altar, something you can't see but you can feel, always just out of sight when you turn your head.
You've noticed that over the years, the way something seems to buzz when you're near the God of War's statue, just beyond your reach. It's one of those small observations you keep to yourself. No one would care what you had to say anyway. They have their own gods to whisper to, ones that promise harvest and safe travels or wisdom, not the bloody blade of conflict.
You set the bucket down with a soft thunk, the water inside rippling faintly. The altar of Ares waits in its alcove, unchanged and unchanging, the statue's broad shoulders casting a long shadow. You kneel, dipping the cloth into the cool water, and begin the ritual scrubbing. The stains are stubborn today, rust-brown flecks that flake under your nails but never fully yield. It's been this way since you first took the task years ago.
That time feels distant, nearly impossible to reach. You'd arrived at the temple an orphan with dirt-streaked clothes and a hollow ache in your stomach that no amount of rotten bread could fill. The high priestess had looked you over and simply told you it was Ares' altar or nothing. You'd taken it in stride. And why wouldn't you? You had no family to warn you of bad omens, no village tales to fill your head with dread. It was just a job, a way to earn your keep in a world that had already shown you its teeth.
The cloth rasps against the stone, a steady rhythm that echoes your thoughts. You've watched the others over the years, clustering around Zeus' grand pedestal upstairs, leaving offerings of wind and cheese. Watched them leave bowls of rosewater and ripe figs for Aphrodite, whispering to find them love and passion, to bless them with a fulfilling marriage.
Fear shapes their world. You learned it long ago - fear of failure, fear of not being pretty enough, fear of not being brave enough, fear of not climbing high enough. Fear is the lens through which they experience Ares, a monstrous god that threatens to ruin everything they've ever worked for, a name only prayed to when the world is on fire and the air choked in smoke.
There hasn't been war for a long time. The priestesses believe it's because no one prays to Ares anymore, so he has no power here, no way to keep a foothold in this world. But there's you. Tending to him as you always have, his sole patron, the only one who occasionally murmurs about your day to a stone face who cannot hear you, a pleasant buzz at the back of your neck when you do.
Footsteps echo down the corridor, light and hurried. You pause, glancing up to see two priestesses coming your way. You recognize them both - they're sisters. Elara is the taller of the two and older, her tan skin golden in the lamplight. Thalia trails behind her, shorter and rounder in the face, but beautiful enough to have the lords of the city asking for her at the temple gates.
They've never spoken to you directly before, especially not in the dim underbelly of the temple. It makes you straighten slightly, water dripping from your cloth onto the stone, pooling at your knees.
"Why are you doing that?" Elara asks, stopping a few yards away near the closest lantern. You can tell she doesn't want to come any closer to Ares gloom, her grey eyes flickering toward the statue looming over you.
"Tending the altar," you answer slowly. "As I always have."
"Look around, fool," Elara hisses. "The scouts bring word of armies marching, raiders at the border. War's breath is down our necks, and you have the gall to come polish the sword of our would be destroyer?"
Thalia peers around her sister, face like thunder. "You should leave his statue. You're inviting him in."
"Maybe that's what she wants," Elara notes. "She came here scavenging for a place like a rat in the granary - perhaps she clings to him because he's the only one she can have. But we know the truth. Your devotion has called him down."
You say nothing at first, your gaze drifting back to the statue. The sword lies still in his palms, eternal. You've thought about how strange the people of this world think sometimes. Thought it odd, how people carve meaning from chaos by blaming others, how they assign treachery because fear prods at them, a spear to the back of the neck.
An orphan is easy to blame in a place like this. You don't command armies, you don't know how to hold a shield, or burn down a village, and yet only you could be the root of war. The fire starter. There is no logic here, no rhyme or reason. Only fear nipping at their heels like hellhounds.
"War comes from the greed of men," you mutter, turning away from them to resume your scrubbing. "Not from scrubbed stone."
"Selfish," Thalia mutters. "You should abandon this place. Walk away. Then he will sleep again."
"I command no armies, nor do I command the God of War." You scrub at the stains that never move. "Perhaps you should pray to your gods to stop him."
Elara spits at your feet, the glob landing wet on the marble. "When the fires come, I hope they come for you first."
Thalia laughs and they turn as one, footsteps retreading up the stairs to leave you in the dim. You sit back on your heels, cloth in your hand, watching them leave you alone at the foot of the altar. The stone presses cold against your skin, unyielding. The hum returns faintly, a pulse under your knees.
You sit there for a long time after their footsteps fade, the spit drying slowly on the marble in a small, darkening spot near your knee. The lamps have burned lower, the shadows extending farther. Your cloth lies forgotten in your lap, water soaking through the fabric in cold patches. The hum beneath your knees has quieted to almost nothing, a faint tremor you might mistake for exhaustion if you didn't know better.
Slowly, you lift your head to peer at the statue looming above you. The marble is cracked in places, fine spiderwebs spreading from the left cheekbone. There's a deep fissure running down the right forearm where time or some earthquake long ago tried to claim it, but the face remains mostly untouched. You've studied the face of Ares thousands of times, and yet with Elara's threat hanging in the air, the lamplight finds new angles.
The statue of Areas has high cheekbones that catch the flicker of the flame, casting hollows beneath them that make his expression both stern and almost wear. His jaw is strong, and his mouth is full and set in a firm, unreadable line. The eyes have always captured you, fierce in stone, the sculptor leaving the pupils as bare pockets of shadows instead of inlaid with lapis lazuli like Zeus.
Hair falls in carved waves from beneath a crested helm long since broken away at the edges, strands curling against his broad forehead and brushing the strong column of his neck. There’s a faint scar etched across one brow, though you're unsure if it's accidental or deliberate.
You’ve never thought of the statue as beautiful before. Not in the soft, inviting way Aphrodite’s likeness is beautiful, or the serene way Apollo’s is. Ares is different - arresting in a way that is almost uncomfortable, like looking at someone who sees you and immediately knows every fear, every secret.
Tonight, with the accusations still ringing in your ears and the temple settling into uneasy quiet above you, the face feels less like cold stone and more like a witness.
“I don’t know if you’re listening,” you whisper, feeling a little silly as you pick up the cloth to begin scrubbing again. "But I never really believed you were. Not the way the others believe in their gods. Sorry if that offends you."
You pause, fingers aching. "They're stupid. I know I shouldn't say so, but they are. To think that I alone could be the reason border temples burn or call down war like ringing a bell is insanity." A small, dry laugh escapes you, more breath than sound. "If I could command a god, I wouldn't be here. I would be somewhere else. Maybe somewhere warm, and near the ocean. Somewhere there's a lot of fruit and I could have as much as I want. Somewhere I could learn to read, maybe. To have purpose. If I could command a god, I wouldn't be here."
The statue doesn’t answer. Of course it doesn’t. But the lamplight shifts, and for a heartbeat the carved eyes seem to sharpen, as though the shadows themselves are paying attention. Your heart spikes and you lean forward, pressing your forehead down until it nearly brushes the base of the plinth.
"Sorry." You murmur. "That was rude. If you're listening, anyway."
No one answers, but as you resume your scrubbing, the lamps behind you gutter once, the hum under your knees steady as ever.
-
The warning bells wrench you from your sleep with jagged nails. At first, they blend with the remnants of your dreams, the distant roll of thunder blurring to deep, tolling bells of the city guard. You realize with sharp terror that you're not dreaming and you bolt upright on the narrow pallet, your blanket tangling around your tangles as you kick it free. Your night shift clings to your skin, damp with sweat as your heart begins to hammer.
Screams tear through the silence. Panic floods your veins like ice water, sharp and breathtaking. You scramble, forgetting all about your tunic as you fumble with the bronze latch on the door, handles shaking. The door sticks for a single, agonizing moment before it swings free and opens into the Underworld.
At least, you think it's the Underworld for a moment. Chaos reigns supreme in the hall, smoke rolling down from the upper levels in thick waves, stinging your eyes. An orange glow beckons at the end of the hall and screams echo from above, frantic under the heavy thunder of boots. Someone's voice cuts off mid-plea and your heart lurches as you plunge into the smoke, covering your mouth, eyes watering.
You climb the stairs two at a time until you're spilling into the main landing of the temple, sliding to a halt. Heat slams into you, the air turning to ash and fire. Flames devour the eastern wing, roaring up the tall wooden beams, eating at the roof that has sheltered you from rain and wind for years. The fig tree in the courtyard is aflame, bark peeling in curling sheets as it burns.
Priests and priestesses scatter in every direction, white tunics covered in blood and soot, face streaked in tears and ash. One of them stumbles toward you, clutching a bleeding arm, her eyes wide and glassy with shock. A soldier in leather armor and dented bronze grabs her before she can reach you, yanking her hair backward. She screams only once before his sword flashes down. You flinch as blood sprays in a bright arch, spattering the marble floors.
Your breath comes in shallow, panicked bursts. This is the end of everything you’ve known - the altar, the scrubbing, the cold water and heavy bucket - all of it burned to whatever war this is, whoever's army has come here to pillage and burn and slaughter. Burning.
A soldier spots you standing frozen in the chaos. His eyes light with interest and he shouts something at you, pointing with a bloodied sword. Two other soldiers turn, grins splitting their face as they start toward you, boots crunching over broken pottery stained with blood.
Terror surges inside of you, more primal and absolute than you have ever known. You spin and bolt toward the inner corridors, your body taking you to the only path you can think of in the fiery hell scape of the temple. The lower levels call to you, cool and dark and comforting - but what calls to you more is the sword upon Ares alter, the only weapon you can think of to fight back, to save yourself.
Laughter chases you and the soldiers jeer as they start to run after you. You're quick on the steps, flying down them as their boots pound down the corridor behind you. Your lungs scream as you dive into the dark halls of the lower temple, the oil lamps burning low, the altars here untouched as you fly by them, running for the last halo of gold light where Ares stands.
You burst into the alcove, skidding on marble now warm from rising heat. The statue of Ares looms in the flickering gloom, larger and more imposing than ever as shadows dance across its cracked features. The sword rests in those upturned marble hands, eternal and waiting.
Your hands shake violently as you reach up on tiptoe and wrap your fingers around the hilt of the sword. It's heavier than you expected, but as you pull it free the weight adjusts, turning from heavy to perfect, like the grip was shaped for you and you alone. The leather grip is cool against your skin and the dull metal of the blade catches the low lamplight in a dull gleam.
The hum you've felt for years surges through you, stronger now than ever, a roaring vibration that travels from the sword up your arm and into your chest, syncing with the frantic pounding of your heartbeat until it feels like your pulse is a living thing connected to the sword.
You spin to face the corridor, raising the sword in both hands. Your stance is all wrong and the weapon feels awkward in your grip, but the weapon steadies you as the soldiers round the corner. It's just the three of them, faces flushed with violence and glee as they look at you, stalking down the hallway.
"Look at the little mouse," the one at the lead says, grin spreading. "Drop it, little mouse, before you poke yourself. I can give you a sword to play with."
One of the men behind him licks his lips, eyes raking over you. “She’ll make a fine prize after we finish here.”
Your arms tremble, but you don’t lower the blade. The hum thrums louder, almost deafening in your ears, drowning out the distant roar of flames. Sweat stings your eyes. The temple groans overhead, beams cracking and shifting as it gives way in sections to the raging inferno.
"Come here, little mouse," the leader coos. He steps into the lamp light of Ares alter, eyes shining. "Let me have a taste."
No sooner than he steps into the ring of light, the world shatters around you.
A deafening crack splits the air, like thunder ripping through the temple. You scream, nearly dropping the sword as you cower, ears ringing. The stone floor shudders beneath your feet and a blinding white-gold flare erupts in the air, like a seam in reality shredding open. You throw one arm over your eyes to hide from it, the sword shaking in your other hand as you step back.
Heat washes over you as the light vanishes and you're left blinking, fading streaks of light fading as your vision adjusts, spots swimming in your peripheral vision.
A figure stands between you and the three men.
He's taller than any mortal you've ever seen, armored in blackened bronze that seems to drink the light from the oil lamps. A crested helm of horsehair and iron shadows his face, his armor shoulders broad, stance lethal. In his right hand is a long spear, its haft made of dark wood bounded with glowing gold, the tip of the weapon gleaming with a sharpness that seems to cut the air itself. In his left hand is a sword that looks exactly like the one in your hand, runes pulsing faintly along the metal.
Ares.
You realize it at the same time as the soldiers do. They stumble backward from him, murmuring his name in awe as they stare, wide-eyed and terrified.
The God of War says nothing. He simply moves - faster than you thought possible, faster than any mortal has the right to. His spear juts forward in a flash of movement, piercing the leader's chest with a wet, crunching sound. The man is lifted off his feet, skewered like a boar before the god tosses him aside. The body crashes against the wall, blood spraying as Ares advances.
Screams of terror rip through the hall from the remaining two men. They lift their swords but they can do nothing against a god. You watch in mute terror as Ares parries without looking and drives his own blade upward in a single, brutal stroke. You hear a gurgle before you realize Ares has cut the man open throat to ear, the crimson surging as the man buckles.
The third turns to flee, but Ares hurls the spear, arm snapping forward like an adder. The weapon punches through the man's armor, sending him forward to the ground as he collapses. He jerks once - twice - then goes still, hanging on the weapon like a trophy of war.
Silence crashes in, broken only by the crackle of distant flames and your own ragged breathing.
Ares turns toward you and your knees nearly give out.
The face underneath the helm is the statue you've tended to for years made flesh. His high cheekbones are hollowed by shadow and the growing firelight at the end of the hall, his jaw clenched in fury that terrifies you. His eyes burn red, the ancient weight of them pressing against you and pinning you in place. Dark hair spills against his forehead, one of his brows interrupted by the same crack on his statue.
He sheaths his sword and lowers himself to a knee before you. You blink, watching as he removes his helm. His hair is dark, the sides and underneath cropped shorter in an undercut. He is devastatingly beautiful in a way that terrifies you, the anger in his face softening to something you can't read.
"You," he murmurs. "Are the one who came to me in darkness. Who scrubbed the stains that time could not remove when others refused. Who lit candles for a god no one else would name. For years I have felt your hands at my altar, and heard your words in what otherwise would have been silence. In a temple that feared me, only you showed me kindness."
Awe crashes over you, mingling with terror and grief until you can barely breathe. Your fingers tighten on the sword - his sword. So he had been listening. All that time - all those years, spent on your knees at the foot of his altar, tending to him and muttering about your day. About your little complaints or observations. The hum you'd felt then hadn't been an illusion or madness. It had been him - real and present.
“Lord Ares,” you manage, voice cracking. You drop to your knees, ducking your head. "Please don't let us burn."
"You do not bow to me." He rises and takes a step toward you. You look up, chest heaving as he approaches you slowly, as though he's afraid to startle you. "I cannot save this place. War is not a hound I call to heel. To halt it here would only shift the slaughter elsewhere - war is inevitable and a wheel that is always turning. I simply honor the wheel - I cannot bend fate for mercy alone."
The ceiling groans overhead, a deep, ominous crack splitting the stone. Embers rain down from the ceiling, red and glowing. You see smoke curling behind him, the fire crawling closer and closer. The heat is relentless now, pressing in.
"But you," Ares murmurs. "You who asked nothing, who gave when others only took. You will not die here."
He reaches out toward you. You let him, his callused palm cupping your chin, thumb brushing feather light over your jaw. You shiver, eyes fluttering as he looks down at you, expression soft, almost reverent. More embers fall, haloing him in firelight as his eyes drink you in.
"Sleep," he whispers. "When you wake, you will know peace."
The world tilts, and darkness swallows you whole.
-
The sound of crackling flames has been replaced by the sound of water. You groan, rolling over. It's not just the sound of water, you realize - it's the sound waves, the rhythmic hush of them retreating and returning. You inhale and you don't smell smoke. Rather, you smell the clean and cool scent of growing things, of salt and brine, of driftwood.
Your eyes flutter open slowly to see light filtering through palm fronds overhead, soft and golden. You lie on a soft bed with a thin blanket of undyed linen that feels softer than anything you've ever known. A low ceiling of thatch stretches above you, open at the sides so the breeze can drift through.
You try to sit up and a gentle ache rolls through you. You glance down and realize you're free from soot and sweat, a new and proper tunic of white and red replacing the night shift you'd been in at the temple.
A shadow shifts nearby, snagging your attention. Ares sits cross-legged on the sand just outside the small shelter's open wall, his back to the endless sea of blue behind him, facing you. The armor is replaced by a simple tunic of deep crimson linen belted at the waist. His helm is absent, dark hair shining in the sunlight, damp like he's just come up from the water.
Swallowing, you sit up fully. The sword from the altar rests beside you. You remember the temple in flashes, the burning ceiling, the fire eating the fig tree, the blood of the priestess as she ran toward you - him, slaughtering the men who chased you to his altar, the sudden violence of it.
"Lord Ares," you whisper.
He tilts his head and a faint smile touches the corner of his mouth. "I've had many names across centuries and places. Ares. Enyalios. Resheph. Montu. Men have called me destroyer, protector, madness, courage. But here, please call me Soonyoung."
The name settles over you like warm sand. Simple. Human. "Soonyoung."
"I like the sound of the name on your tongue."
A flush crawls up your neck. You look around again, taking in the details you missed at first. There's a small fire pit nearby, the embers still glowing beneath a flat stone. There's a basket holding figs and pomegranates, and a few pots with lids on them. You turn, and in the distance of the island, you see a small building, nondescript and built from driftwood, nestled in lush greenery.
"How long has it been?" You ask him, glancing at him nervously. "Since the temple?"
"Two days. You slept rather deeply. The journey here took a lot from you."
"You saved me."
"I would not leave you to the fire." His gaze drops briefly to the sand between his knees, his fingers tracing idle patterns. "Not you."
"The temple?"
"Gone," he says quietly. "The raiders burned what they could not carry. Some survived. Many did not. War took what it always takes."
You nod once, the grief sharp but distant. You had known, somewhere beneath the panic, that there would be no saving it. Still, hearing it aloud makes your chest ache. Even if the people there had not been kind to you, it had been your home.
Soonyoung rises smoothly, brushing sand from his palms. He grabs a pomegranate and splits it open with his thumbs, the red juice running over his fingers. He offers you half, the seeds gleaming like rubies inside.
"Eat," he says. "Your strength needs rebuilding."
You take it, the fruit cool against your palm. The first seed bursts between your teeth, tart and sweet, juice spilling down your chin. You wipe it away with the back of your hand, suddenly self-conscious under his steady regard. He seems amused as he sits again, this time a little closer. You feel the heat of him as you eat in silence, both of you watching the water of the beach below and the wind through the palms.
As you chew, you glance toward the building in the distance again, the walls catching the slanting sunlight.
"It's mine," he says, noticing you looking. "Built long ago when this island was a sanctuary for me after long periods of war. I find the peace of this place a necessity for myself."
"Is this place real?"
He hums and nods. "Yes, but no mortal could stumble upon it - save perhaps someone particularly unlucky like Odysseus." He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “Tell me about yourself.”
You blink, startled. No one has ever asked before. He smirks like he knows this, but he says nothing, chewing on seeds as he watches you with dark eyes. His eyes are no longer red - they're dark and fathomless, warm in a way you don't expect.
"There isn't much to tell," you admit. "I found the temple when I was small. No name, no family. The high priestess took me in because there were chores to be done and an unattended altar that needed scrubbing. Everyone was afraid of you. I wasn't."
A faint smile flickers across his face again. "I know. I listened to you."
"You did?"
"Every word. Every muttered curse when the wax spilled. Every quiet breath when you knelt and thought no one was listening.” He sets the pomegranate rind aside, wipes his hands on his chiton. “You were the only voice in three years that did not ask me for victory, or vengeance, or protection from enemies. You simply existed. I thought it was nice."
“I didn’t know what else to do. It was my place to ask for anything."
"And now? You would still ask nothing of me?"
You look out at the sea, the depth bluer than anything you've ever known. You don't know what you would ask for - can't think of anything, really. Though you know Ares has no connection to the sea, you think he's rather similar - endless, beautiful, stormy.
"I would ask nothing of you," you say eventually.
He hums thoughtfully. "This island is mine. Far from mortal shores and far from the path of armies. No war reaches here unless I will it, and I do not will it. I offer you this place, though you don't ask for it. I don't offer it to you as a worshiper or a servant, but as a guardian. Tend the fire if you wish, watch the horizon. Keep the silence for me. Sleep inside or beneath the stars out there."
The offer hangs in the air between you, his words making your heart skip a beat. You've never had someone offer you to stay somewhere without an obligation, to exist without the weight of survival pressing down on you.
For a moment, you stare at him, the pomegranate half forgotten in your hands, the juice sticky on your fingers. You wonder what it would be like not to exist in the shadowed hallways of the temples, whispers following you as you pass. To live without averted eyes or people treating you like a curse made flesh.
Here, on this island, there would be no one to tell you what to do. No one to chastise you. No one to force you to eat alone in a courtyard of people. A refuge, not a rejection. But beneath the relief simmers doubt, a familiar shadow that has dogged you since childhood. Who are you to accept such a gift? An orphan with no name, no lineage, no skills beyond scrubbing stains that never truly fade. What if this is pity, disguised as kindness? A god's whim, fleeting as the sea foam that dissolves on the shore?
"War isn't always battle," Soonyoung murmurs, watching you mull it over. "Sometimes war is with oneself. Or with others, mental and years long. Sometimes war is survival to a life you were born to, but perhaps don't deserve. It is rest and respite I'm offering. Not pity or amusement."
"Can you read my thoughts?"
"No, but I can read your face." You flush and he grins. "You've tended to me for years and I've listened to you. Perhaps you don't know me, but I know you."
Gratitude sparks in your chest, overwhelming and raw. He saved you - not the temple or the others, but you. Knelt before you in blood and fire, the person who gave him company when no one else did. And now he sees right to the heart of you, to the very wound you knew was there but never had a name for.
You draw a breath, steadying yourself and you meet his gaze. "I accept."
Something brightens in his eyes - relief, you think. His shoulders ease, a tension you hadn't realized was there fading, and he smiles at you, eyes crinkling. He rises and offers you a hand. You set the rind of the pomegranate aside and take it, letting him help you to your feet.
"Come," he tells you. "Let me give you a tour."
You follow Soonyoung, your bare feet sinking into the warm sand. It's soft and fine beneath your soles, shifting with each step. The beach curves downward gently to a crescent of white edged by turquoise shallows that foam as the waves meet the shore. The air feels alive as you step onto damp sand, charged with an undercurrent of energy that feels like static on your skin.
Soonyoung walks beside you, his stride confident and unhurried, but there's an energy to him that crackles like lightning on the verge of striking. He doesn't touch you again, but his presence is a tangible force, goosebumps lining your arms that you tell yourself is from the cool ocean breeze.
"This beach is the heart of the island," Soonyoung tells you, spreading his arms. "The sand here never erodes, and the waves bring shells and driftwood as gifts from my uncle when he sees fit."
He gestures ahead where the tide laps lazily, depositing a cluster of iridescent conch shells that gleam in the sunlight. You grin and stop to pick one up. Its surface is cool to the touch, humming faintly under your fingers.
"Bring it to your ear," he urges gently, grinning.
You press it to your ear, and instead of the ocean's roar, you hear a soft melody, like distant flutes weaving through whispers of wind. You turn to him, delighted and he laughs. The sound is so rich you forget all about the shell, watching him as he closes his eyes and tilts his head toward the sky, sun-kissed and happy.
He seems so different from the god who appeared the night in the temple, reigning fury down on your attackers. You wonder if this is the version of Ares only the island gets, the hidden side of war that needs rest, that needs respite and happiness to fuel the rage and the violence.
As you walk, the sand gives way to low dunes tufted with sea grasses that sway, their blades tipped with dew. Wildflowers bloom in random clusters, vibrant explosions of gold and red. Soonyoung bends down to pluck a bloom and tuck it behind your ear casually with no regard for the way it makes your heart slam in your chest, startled.
"These grow year-round," he explains. "There are no seasons here to wither them. The island provides - fruits ripen eternally, herbs grow, and animals thrive. You'll never hunger or want for anything." His tone is happy, almost boyish in its excitement. "I shaped this place with the help of some of my siblings. I desired a place where life persists, defiant against decay."
"It's beautiful," you admit. "Not what I expected."
He nods. "It cannot be war all the time. Even I need peace."
The path curves inland, away from the beach's gentle slope, into a grove of olive and fig trees that form a natural canopy overhead. Sunlight filters through in golden shafts, illuminating leaves. The ground underfoot turns to mossy earth, cool and springy, dotted with fallen figs that split open. Birds flit between branches, their feathers flashing jewel tones you've never seen.
Deeper into the grove, a narrow stream emerges, its waters crystal-clear and bubbling over smooth pebbles. He crouches to cup water in his hand and drinks. You do the same, dipping your hands into the cool water. When you bring it to your lips, the crispness of it startles you. It's the cleanest water you've ever tasted, cool and clear, a shiver rippling down your spine. He grins and splashes a bit of water toward you, the droplets landing cool and tingling on your skin.
The grove opens to a gentle rise, leading toward the house you glimpsed earlier. It's a driftwood house, sun bleached and reflecting the sun's glow. Terracotta tiles crown the flat roof, with vines of blooming wisteria cascading down one side in waves swaying in the breeze. A columned portico faces the sea, supported by pillars carved with small shields. Wooden shutters frame wide windows, open now to let in the breeze, revealing glimpses of the interior.
Soonyoung pushes open the heavy oak door and ushers you inside with a sweep of his arm, his grin eager. The main room is open and spacious, the floor covered in woven rugs of deep crimsons and earth tones. A hearth dominates one wall, a small fire crackling inside.
On another side, a kitchen alcove gleams with copper pots and shelves laden with jars of fruits and spices. A low table nearby is set with clay bowls and ewers of water. He leads you to a short hall into a room, pushing open the door to reveal a room with a wide bed draped in linens and pillows. The windows in the room overlook a small herb garden, bees humming lazily among blooms of lavender.
He leads you to a back terrace, shaded by a pergola overgrown with grapevines heavy with clusters of ripe fruit. You're amazed at how lush everything here, every fruit swelling with ripeness, every ounce of water clear and cool. From here, the view sweeps across the island. You can see the beach below and the grove's verdant sprawl, distant cliffs rising with goats.
Soonyoung leans against a pillar of the pergola, crossing his arms over his chest to turn his eyes on you. He seems nervous, almost, chewing the corner of his lips as he watches you take in the view.
"This is the most beautiful place I've ever seen," you admit. "I still feel like I'm dreaming."
"I assure you, Wonwoo - Hypnos - is not here." Soonyoung grins when you look at him, wide-eyed. "Do you think I don't know the others?"
"You just talk about them so casually."
"They're my family. We might spite one another and occasionally fight, but they're family nonetheless."
"I've never had a family."
Soonyoung softens, pushing off the column to drift toward you. He lifts his hand as though to brush it against you, but thinks better of it, dropping it at his side. Instead, he tells you, "Rest. Eat. Drink. I'll leave you to it."
"You're not staying?" You hate the instant panic, the way your heart flares. His smile is fond. "I'll be here as often as you wish. Occasionally I've got some things to address, like now. But I won't abandon you here, so long as you want my company."
Soonyoung lingers for a moment longer on the terrace, the late-afternoon light catching the edges of his dark hair and turning the crimson of his tunic to something almost molten. He watches you with that same quiet intensity he’s carried since the temple, sending a shiver down your spine. The wind moves through the grapevines overhead, rustling leaves and sending a few loose tendrils curling toward the floor.
“I’ll leave you to settle,” he says at last, voice low but carrying the same easy confidence he’s shown all afternoon. “The house knows what you need. If you’re hungry, the kitchen will have what you want. If you’re tired, the bed will be warm. If you want the stars tonight, the mats where you woke up remain there, a sort of bed under the stars. I’ll be nearby. Not far. Call if you need me."
You nod, throat tight. The words feel inadequate, but they’re all you have. “Thank you.”
He smiles, small and genuine, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes the scar on his brow lift slightly. “No thanks necessary. You’re home now.”
Home.
He turns then, stepping off the terrace with that same fluid grace, bare feet silent on the warm stone path. You watch his back until he disappears around the curve of the grove, swallowed by olive branches and golden light. You stand there a long time after he leaves, arms wrapped loosely around yourself, the borrowed tunic soft against your skin. The fabric smells faintly of sun-dried linen and something like myrrh.
You step back inside the house, moving slowly, half-expecting the walls to shift or the floor to vanish beneath you like a dream. But the floor stays firm beneath you as you re-enter the sleeping chamber and head toward the wide bed. You sink onto its edge, palms pressing into the mattress. IT gives beneath you, softer than anything you've ever slept on. The constant tension that lived between your shoulder blades finally bleeds out, the ache of release blooming across your back.
Tears come then, sudden and quiet. Not sobs - not grief, because you don't grieve the temple, not exactly. But relief, sharp and bright, cutting through the haze of exhaustion. There's a hint of sorrow for the life you lost, even if it was never truly kind, but the utter relief of realizing where you sit now, in a house built by a god, surrounded by things that never stain, that never corrode, is overwhelming.
You're home now.
Soonyoung's words echo. The phrase feels foreign. Home has always been temporary until the temple, and even then, a storage closet in a corner of a world that you'd carved out for yourself or a spot at the farthest bed during meals never really felt like home. You had duty and silence, and you had the hum of an altar no one else but you would touch, but never a home.
Your fingers curl into the linens. Gratitude swells again, so large it hurts. Not just for the rescue, not just for the island, but for the way he saw the war inside of you. The silence battle, not bloody or gory but just as violent. He'd heard your complaints for years, your mindless commentary, and kept watch. Saved you when you needed it.
Lying back slowly, you stare up at the beamed ceiling. Late sunlight slants across the room in long golden bars, painting stripes of warmth across your body. Outside, the waves keep their steady rhythm. Somewhere distant, a bird calls, a clear note that echoes over the water.
For the first time in years, you don't feel watched, but you don't feel invisible either. You just… feel present.
You breathe in, breathe out. And for once, drift into a comfortable sleep.
-
Waking up on the island is unlike most days. Instead of opening your eyes to dim, cool darkness, you're greeted by warm air, the blankets around you soft and scented slightly with something woody. Sunlight filters through the open window, panting the bed in warm shafts. You sigh, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, peering around the room to find the sound that pulled you from sleep.
Soft footsteps pad across the floor somewhere beyond the bedroom door. Your heart quickens, a remnant of the temple's chaos flashing through your mind: boots thundering down corridors, screams echoing off marble. But there's no smoke here, no heat of flames pressing in. Only the distant hush of waves and the nearer hum of bees in the herb garden.
Sitting up carefully, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet warm against the rug. You pad toward the door, curiosity driving you out into the main room, which is bathed in morning light. You pause when you see Soonyoung, his back to you as he stands at the low table in the kitchen. He's dressed simply again, in a loose tunic of undyed linen that hangs open at the neck, revealing the strong lines of his collarbone and the faint scar that traces across it. His hair is tousled, still damp from what might have been an early swim, and he moves with that same coiled grace.
He turns at the sound of your approach, his dark eyes lighting with that boyish excitement you saw yesterday while he gave you a tour of the small island. "You're awake! Good, I thought you might sleep longer."
You hesitate in the doorway, fingers curling against the frame. The sight of him here, domestic and unarmored, stirs something unfamiliar in your chest, a flutter that you dismiss. You can't help but stare at him, hypnotized by the way the light catches the planes of his face, highlighting the sharp jaw and the faint scare on his brow. You immediately chide yourself - he's a god, not something for you to stare at like a starstruck priestess.
"I didn't mean to intrude," you murmur, voice rough from sleep."
He waves a hand dismissively. "No intrusion. I was gathering breakfast. The fruits are at their best in the morning. Join me on the terrace? The view is unmatched at this hour."
You nod, following him as he lifts a platter laden with fruit in one hand as he leads the way through the back door. The stone underfoot is warm from the sun, and beyond the low wall, the island unfolds in a tapestry of green and blue. The seat glitters under the climbing sun. No smoke on the horizon. No distant bells tolling alarm. Just the island and the cool breeze.
Soonyoung sets the platter on the low table between two cushioned benches, then settles onto one with a fluid motion, stretching his legs out as if the world bends to his comfort. You take the opposite bench, looking at the platter of fruit. Figs bleed red juice onto the clay, grapes swollen and deep purple. Honey gleams golden in a small jar, and Soonyoung tears a piece of flatbread and dips it into the honey, offering it to you.
"Eat," he murmurs, voice soft but insistent. "The food here will mend the spirit."
You take the bread, the honey sticky and sweet on your tongue, mingling with the warm, yeasty flavor. It's richer than anything from the temple, and you sigh, letting it melt in your mouth. Soonyoung watches you as you chew, like he's gauging your reaction. His eyes meet yours, dark and warm, and a spark jumps in your chest, unbidden. You look away quickly, focusing on a grape you pluck from the bunch, a nervous flush warming your neck.
"How did you sleep?" he asks, breaking the silence as he selects a fig, splitting it open with his thumbs. Juice runs over his fingers, and he licks it away absently, the gesture distracting you.
"Deeply," you answer after a beat too long. "Better than I have in years, honestly."
"The island attunes to you. If you prefer the stars, the shelter by the beach is yours too. Sometimes I like to sleep there." He pauses, popping a grape into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Did dreams come? Or just peace?"
"Peace. Honestly, it was strange to wake without the immediate sense of monotony."
"Mhm."
"Better than the dread I felt waking up that night."
"Dread is war's shadow." He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "Speaking of that night - you picked up my sword and faced those men with no training and without fear."
"I was plenty afraid."
"Perhaps, but you were brave enough to defeat the fear. That's no small thing. I rarely see that even in battle-hardened warriors. You don't know how challenging it is to look certain death in the face and decide to fight it anyway, even if it's inevitable."
You think for a second, nibbling on a piece of cheese. "I just did what felt right. I knew the way to the altar - knew the sword was there. It was just instinct."
He tilts his head, studying you with that penetrating gaze. "Have you ever thought of learning? Properly, I mean. Not because you'll need to - war doesn't touch this place. But it could be something for you to do, to embrace that strength."
The question hangs between you, laced with possibility. Your pulse quickens. Learning to use a sword never occurred to you - why would it? Women didn't wield swords to begin with, but certainly not those who served a temple of the gods. The idea, however absurd, makes you grin, looking up at him. He smiles like he knows your answer already, chewing thoughtfully on a grape.
"I think I'd like that," you say.
"Excellent!" He shoots to his feet, startling you. Energy crackles around him, making you lean back. He offers you a hand, a grin splitting his face. "Let's start now. Basics first. Come with me, the beach has good footing."
You can't help but laugh. He pulls you up to your feet and drops your hand, leading you down the path to the beach from the terrace. Birds trill in the trees as you pass, the air full of scents of blooming fruit and salt spray. You reach the beach easily, the sand firm and damp near the water's edge, waves lapping gently.
Soonyoung turns to you and holds out a hand. You blink in surprise as the air ripples for a second, like heat waves disrupting reality in the distance, and the sword from the altar appears. Your mouth pops open a little, shocked. You shouldn't be, you suppose. He's a god with powers beyond your understanding at his finger tips, the ability to command armies and summon weapons barely scratching the surface with what he's able to do.
He holds the sword out to you and you stare at it, unsure. He smirks, tilting his head to the side. "Take it. It's yours."
Similar to the first time you picked it up, the sword is heavy for a single moment before it balances itself. You marvel at it in the sunlight, watching the way the sun glints off the edge, now sharped and polished to perfection. It's the perfect size and weight in your hand, and when you give it a gentle test swing, Soonyoung's smile is so warm that you feel yourself grin back.
"First lesson," Soonyoung says, voice shifting from playful to commanding. "Discipline. War isn't mindless fury. It's control over your body, your breath, you fear. Control over your enemy, their goals."
He strides toward you and gently reaches out, tapping you on the wrist to lift your sword hand. His touch is electric and you stare at his hands as they adjust your grip on the handle of the sword, fingers callused and precise as he squeezes your fist briefly.
"Looser here," he murmurs, thumb pressing lightly on your knuckle. "Yes, like that."
The sun highlights the muscles rippling in Soonyoung's forearm as he steps to the side, dropping your hand in favor of showing you how to take your stance, bent at the knees, legs firmly planted, not too far apart. You stare at him, watching the way the sun catches the lighter threads of his hair, haloing him in gold.
You swallow, focusing on the sword in your hand as you try to ignore the way your heart races, reminding yourself that Soonyoung is a god - Ares specifically, the God of War - Miaephonus, Thouros - to many. Soonyoung had said he wears hundreds of names, and you know it to be true as he leads you through basic forms, his tone steady, the command threading through his voice though he never raises it.
Soonyoung is a patient teacher, each correction gentle but direct. Sweat beads on your brow but you find the work exhilarating. Never before did you imagine you could hold a sword, never before did you think you might find yourself on the beach with the sun reaching its zenith, learning from the god who makes art of the sword and spear.
As he drills you, you realize Soonyoung is right. There is a discipline to the way he teaches you, a logic to the moves and the steps that is less rage and chaos and more control. More purpose. You think it reminds you of him, fierce but contained, like that night in the temple when his rage had been a controlled vehicle for violence.
Soonyoung laughs and stops you after a particularly clumsy swing on your part, the sword tipping too far forward. He grins, eyes twinkling as he strides forward and summons another weapon. You watch as he holds it loosely, turning his hand to display the grip.
"You're still gripping it too hard," he tells you. He demonstrates again before twirling the blade in a showy arc, winking at you. His grin grows when you glower. "Fighting has a flow to it. If you're too rigid, you'll break. If you're too loose, you'll fall. You need to be the perfect combination of both to flow."
You try to mimic the motion, but your arm wobbles, the sword dipping awkwardly. Laughter bubbles up unbidden. It surprises you to hear yourself laugh. His grin is fierce and he steps toward you, steadying your elbow gently.
"You have a beautiful laugh," he tells you before stepping away again before saying, "Again."
You nod, breathing deeply as he instructed, inhaling the salt air to center yourself. The sand shifts under your feet, forcing you to adjust, to find balance in the unpredictability. You swing again, this time with more intent, the hum in the sword vibrating in harmony with your movements. Soonyoung claps in delight, nodding as he has you do it again and again.
You keep going until your arms tremble and the sun sits high overhead. Sweat slicks your skin, your tunic clinging in damp patches, but the ache in your muscles feels good. Soonyoung watches every movement with that blend of fierce focus and boyish delight, correcting your stance with quick taps of his blade or a murmured instruction.
"Alright, that's enough for now," he declares as the sun dips into the afternoon. "Not bad, honestly."
You lower the blade, chest heaving, and wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The hum in the sword has settled to a gentle thrum against your palm. "Why does the sword hum?"
"It hums?"
"Yes. Like a vibration."
"Ha!" He claps his hands, delighted. "It's my energy. Didn't expect a mortal to feel it. I should have known you'd sense it."
"I sensed it at your altar too."
"Is that so?" Soonyoung cocks his head and his grin sharpens. "Virago."
"Virago?"
"A woman of great strength and tenacity, a warrior, even if only in spirit and not practice. Athena would like you."
The compliment makes you avert your eyes. You don't know what to make of his words. Thankfully, he doesn't wait for you to respond, summoning you to lunch as he charges up the path that leads toward the little refuge you woke up in yesterday.
You follow him in the white stand, the tide higher now as it laps closer to the dunes. The simple thatch roof comes into view, mat still spread where you slept. The fire pit smolders low, embers glowing under a flat cooking stone. A fresh basket waits beside it, overflowing with more fruit, a round loaf of bread steaming slightly, and a clay jug beaded with condensation.
Soonyoung drops to one knee beside the pit, coaxing the embers back to life with a few dry twigs and a breath that carries the faint scent of smoke and myrrh. Flames lick upward almost eagerly, as though the fire recognizes him.
He glances at you over his shoulder, playful glint returning. “Sit. The island’s hospitality is better than any feast hall in Olympus.”
You settle onto one of the thin mats, legs tucked beneath you. You watch as he slices the bread with a small knife before passing you a thick piece that he slathers with honey. You accept it, biting into the bread. It's warm and sweet, melting on your tongue and you sigh contentedly, earning a grin from him as he slices another piece for himself.
For a while you eat in comfortable silence, the only sounds are the crackle of the fire, the rhythmic hush of waves, and the occasional cry of a seabird wheeling overhead. Every bite of bread and fruit is sweet, and when he passes you water from the clay jar, it's cold and refreshing, chasing away the day's heat immediately.
"Will you tell me about Troy?" You ask, sucking juice from your fingers.
Soonyoung pauses mid-bite, brows lifting in surprise. Then he leans back on one elbow, stretching his legs toward the fire, and grins. "You want war stories? Most people beg me to stop once I start."
"I want your stories," you correct. "I've never left the mountain the temple sits on. Never seen a city larger than the one that burned. Your world is bigger than mine could ever be. I want to experience it through you."
Something shifts in his expression. You think it's pleasure, unguarded and bright as he sits a little straighter, dark eyes gleaming. "Alright. Troy, then."
He tells you about the walls first - tall as mountains, white stone gleaming under the sun, built by gods and men together. He describes the sound, the metallic ring of bronze on bronze, the way the ground shook as thousands of Greek chariots charged across the plains of Troy.
Soonyoung tells you about the silent parts, too. About the moment he watched Hector laugh with his son on the ramparts, the way Paris sometimes played the lyre at dusk to chase away the sorrow of the sentries, to make them less afraid.
You listen as he mentions Achilles, the best of the Greeks - not with hatred, like you might have thought, but with a kind of reluctant respect. You listen with rapt attention, leaning forward as he tells you of the battle, of the chaos of war.
"Did you really walk among them?" You murmur. "During the battle?"
"Of course, though oftentimes mortals don't recognize us. We seem to them a great warrior or a brother in arms, perhaps. But we are there, fighting alongside those who honor us at altars and whisper our names."
"Is that why you came for me? Because I tended your altar?"
"I would not know you otherwise."
You nod. It makes sense. "I suppose if war never came to me, you'd have no reason to appear?" He nods, watching you with a careful expression, like the topic of war makes him nervous, somehow. You think of the way the others in your temple feared him, the way they were so worried that tending to his statue would summon him. "I didn't summon you, right?"
He cocks his head. "How do you mean?"
"By tending to your altar did I… did I invite war in?"
"No. War is necessary." He sighs and leans back, looking up at the blue sky. He closes his eyes, basking in the sun like a cat. "It's not right nor is it wrong… it's simply the balance to peace. War has its own logic. I don't choose the winners, though I try to make the fight fair."
"And after? When war is over?"
"I come here. Sometimes for short periods of time, sometimes for long times. But men always create war and I am summoned often." He opens his eyes, glancing your direction. "You're the first person I've ever brought here, though."
You meet his gaze, heart doing that unsteady flutter again. He holds your eyes a beat longer than necessary, something unspoken flickering between you. Then he clears his throat and stands, brushing sand from his tunic.
“Keep practicing while I’m gone,” he says, voice brisk again, though the warmth lingers in his eyes. “Forms one through four, slow and deliberate. Feel the purpose in each one. I’ll be back for dinner.”
Before you can answer, he steps back, the air around him shimmering like heat over stone. One moment he’s standing there, sunlit and solid. In the next, he's gone, leaving only the faint scent of wood and salt in his wake.
You sit for a long minute staring at the place where he vanished. The fire pops softly. Waves sigh against the shore. You rise, pick up the sword where it rests against the shelter pole, and walk back down to the firm sand near the water. The sun is past zenith now, light slanting golden across the beach. You take your stance, and you practice as he says, each movement deliberate.
You practice until your arms burn and sweat drips from your brow. Until the light turns amber and the first stars prick the deepening blue overhead.
-
Days on the island begin to fold into one another like the gentle turn of waves against the shore. The first week feels like a dream you’re afraid to wake from, but the second week you realize this is your new reality, something that won't be taken away from you. It's not borrowed or temporary, it's yours.
Mornings arrive with light spilling through the open window of the bedroom, always warm. You wake without the jolt of bells or dread, body unfolding slowly from the soft linens. Some days you linger in bed, listening to the island breathe. Other mornings you rise earlier, drawn outside by the soft pink light that precedes sunrise. You walk the beach barefoot, sand still cool from the night, collecting shells that hum faintly when you hold them to your ear like Soonyoung taught you.
Breakfast is always abundant. It isn't just Soonyoung who seems to serve you - it's the kitchen, too. Fresh bread and figs appear even when Soonyoung isn't there, yogurt and honey cakes waiting for you when you stumble in. On days Soonyoung is absent, you eat alone on the terrace, legs dangling over the low wall, watching the sea change color from steel to turquoise as the sun climbs.
On the days Soonyoung is there, the routine shifts to include him. He arrives without announcement, footsteps soft on the path toward the house or simply appearing at the edge of the grove with that faint shimmer of his. Breakfast is always shared side by side on the terrace on those days, legs brushing occasionally.
Soonyoung likes to talk, and you like to listen. He tells you stories of distant wars, of siblings who bicker like mortals, of the first time he tasted honey and decided mortals weren't so bad after all. He answers every question that spills out of you, that same fond patience of his bleeding through when he smiles at you no matter how ridiculous the question feels.
“You’re relentless,” he says once, laughing, but there’s pride in it, not mockery. “No one’s asked me that since the fall of Mycenae.”
When he's gone, you practice the sword forms he taught you. The blade feels more familiar each day, less like a foreign object and more like an extension of your arm. You move through the sequences slowly and deliberately, breathing with each strike.
On the afternoons you don't practice, you wander. You trace the grove's paths until you know every twist and turn. You sit at the spring sometimes too, hands in the cool water, letting it soothe the stinging calluses forming on your palms.
Evenings depend on whether he returns. When he does, you eat dinner on the terrace underneath the torchlight and the stares, biting into grilled fish and olives stuffed with feta. You both like to look up at the sky after dinner, Soonyoung telling you about the constellations while you listen. you tell him the smaller details of your life, and though they feel insignificant, he listens like they matter, like your small life is worth the same attention of the sack of Troy.
When he’s absent, you eat alone. You take the platter to the beach shelter, lie back on the mats under the open sky, and watch the stars emerge one by one.
You miss him when he's gone, though. Not because you feel lonely - you've been alone your entire life, even in crowded rooms of people. You miss him because your affection for him has taken root in your heart and grown in increments, like the vines creeping up the columns of the house.
It's hard not to feel something for him, but you can't help the way your chest tightens when he appears after a long absence, your relief so sharp it startles you. You can't help it when your gaze lingers when he laughs, warm and unguarded, head thrown back as though the sky itself amuses him.
You know it's foolish. He's Ares - a god. He is ancient and vast, a concept that is only occasionally made flesh, someone you could never truly hope to understand. So many mortals have loved gods and fallen to tragedy because of it, but now that you've felt the warmth of his palm and heard the depth of his laughter, you cannot blame them for falling.
The gap between you is not bridgeable. You tell yourself this daily, sternly, whenever your fingers brush his while passing a cup, whenever he smiles at you like you’ve said something clever, whenever he watches you practice forms with quiet pride.
And yet.
And yet and yet and yet.
The comfort of him settles deep. When he is near, the world feels steadier. When he is gone, you miss the steadiness. You don't dare name it, though. You barely acknowledge it. It feels like a dangerous thing, whatever it is, so you keep it buried. Knowing him is enough.
It has to be enough.
On nights like tonight, it's more than enough. The air carries the smell of salt and sweet smoke from the small fire crackling on the beach, embers popping and drifting toward the sky. The small shelter stands behind you, but you've dragged the mat out onto the sand near the waterline, close enough that the occasional wave licks at your feet before retreating.
Above, the sky is a vast blanket strewn with stars, brighter than anything you've ever seen. Soonyoung lies on his back next to you, hands tucked behind his head, the gold light from the fire flickering over the faint scar in his eyebrow and the curve of his smile.
"I think I envy the stars," Soonyoung murmurs, staring up at the sky.
You turn toward him, perplexed. "Envy?"
"They're never alone. Even when the world tears itself apart, they have each other. I've had centuries of company. Siblings who tolerate me. Mortals who loved me and shared my bed." He blows out a slow sigh. "But most eventually curse my name when war comes. Company is rarely the same as understanding."
"People are afraid of war."
"War is duty," he murmurs. "Always has been. I am the swing of the blade that protects the hearth and the fury that defends the weak. They thank Athena for wisdom in battle and yet fear the fury that shields them. When they thank me, it's with averted eyes, as though saying my name will summon conflict."
Soonyoung's words sink in. You think about the others in the temple, how the sisters - probably dead, now - told you they believed as much. They had believed that tending to Soonyoung's - Ares' - altar would summon him, that being kind to him would call him down and destroy everything.
You watch him, his profile sharp against the night. His gaze seems distant, like he's lost in thought. You don't know how to comfort a god, but you try anyway.
"People are often afraid of the things and people they don't understand," you murmur. "Logic fails in the presence of fear."
"Well said." His mouth twitches a little. "Even among the gods it's the same. The gods hate to be compared to mortals, and yet we're so similar. They crave peace yet fear the one who makes it possible. Peace is only beautiful because it follows wrath."
"That sounds lonely."
He finally turns his head to meet your eyes. The firelight turns his irises molten, soft in a way that steals your breath.
“You never asked me to be anything other than what I am," Soonyoung notes. "You lit candles no one else would touch, and spoke to me like I was listening even if you weren't sure. It brought me comfort."
You sit up slowly, drawing your knees toward your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. His eyes follow the movement, impossibly dark. Your heart stutters as he looks up at you, face softer and more vulnerable than you ever thought a god of war could look.
"I was never afraid of you," you tell him softly. "Not even when the temple burned and you appeared and killed those men. Only for a moment I was afraid - but not of you. Most of all, I was just relieved."
He smiles. "Still not afraid?"
"No. You've given me what others couldn't - time and attention. A life. Something to do. You're kind and you teach me how to fight though most would find it improper. You listen when I tell you about nothing important. You ask questions even if you know the answers just to make me feel heard. It brings me comfort."
His smile deepens, soft and aching, eyes shining in the firelight. For a moment the space between you feels alive, humming with the same vibration you’ve felt from the sword, from his altar, from him. The air thickens. Your breath catches as his gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then lifts again, searching.
You feel your heart rate spike as you avert your eyes, the panic that he'll see the affection just simmering beneath the surface of your skin. You cannot love him - he's a god. He's vast and ancient, and you're a mortal. Whatever feelings you have for him is too fragile and impossible, and if you name it, you know it'll break.
"Anyway," you say, throat tight. "I envy the stars too. They are far more beautiful than anything us mortals have managed to conjure up."
Soonyoung blinks, surprised at your change of topic. Your heart pounds as you silently beg him not to press the issue, to not keep the conversation so close to the feeling stuck in your chest. Then he exhales, something that's almost a laugh. He leans back on his hands, gazing upward again.
"You've never been more wrong, Virago."
-
The sun is a merciless coin of heat and light in the sky, turning the beach into a sheet of pale fire. Sweat slicks down your spine, your tunic clinging in damp patches that dark against your back. The sword in your hand feels alive, less of an object and more of an extension of your arm. You no longer think about how to move - you just do.
Soonyoung circles you barefoot, sand dusting the tops of his feet. His own linen tunic is sleeveless today, the fabric gathered at the shoulders with glinting bronze pins. His sculpted arms flex as he moves, beads of sweat tracing down each curve of muscle. He holds his sword loosely in his right hand, tip lowered, watching you with that predatory patience you've come to know.
"Again," he says. "Don't hint at the move."
You nod once, breath steady despite the burn in your shoulders and arms. You step forward, the blade rising in a clean arc. Steel meets steel with a bright clang that startles the gulls from the dunes. Soonyoung parries without effort, guiding your momentum past him so you stumble a half step.
"Too much shoulder," he murmurs near your ear, stepping close to catch your wrist in his hand to correct you. "Use the hips. Let the turn carry the force."
He doesn’t release you immediately. Instead he rotates your wrist a fraction, showing the angle, then slides his palm up to cup your elbow, lifting and adjusting until your form feels perfect. His fingers linger there, calluses rasping lightly against your skin. You can feel the heat radiating from his chest, inches away.
You swallow. “Like this?”
“Exactly like that.”
He steps back, but the space between you feels smaller than before, your breath shakier as you try to shove down the awareness of him.
The next hour passes in a blur of controlled violence. Disarming lessons are your least favorite - they draw him too close, his forearm brushing yours, his knee nudging the inside of your thigh to correct your stance. When you overextend, he catches you around the waist with one arm to steady you, palm flat against your ribs until your balance returns.
It's utterly maddening. He's gentle, despite the coiled strength in every single one of his movements. You know his hands have killed thousands - you've seen him throw a spear that skewered a man through. And yet he handles you with gentle confidence, like handling glass.
"You're not hesitating anymore," Soonyoung notes after you parry his strike in earnest. He grins. "Not even when I come at you fast. Most men would cower."
"I trust you won't hurt me."
"Good," he says quietly. "Come at me. Full intent, no holding back. Try to take my weapon."
You hesitate only a heartbeat. Then you lunge.
Steel rings as your swords meet. Soonyoung lets you drive him back two steps, giving ground deliberately. You feel the shift in his balance - the tiny tell in his leading shoulder - and you act on instinct, driving your blade high as you slide your weapon against his and twist hard.
Soonyoung's sword flies free as you spin into his grasp. Your balance is off again, the momentum carrying you into him as he pulls you toward him, both of you toppling. You yelp and let your sword fall, afraid to hurt him as the two of you land in the sand, your palms barely catching your weight in the sand.
Laughter bursts from him, bright and unrestrained. The sound vibrates through where you're pressed chest to chest, and you can't help but laugh too for a second, surprised and a little embarrassed.
Your noses are an inch apart, his eyes molten brown with lighter flecks of almost gold. You can feel the rapid rise and fall of his breath against you. Sweat has darkened the hair at his temples, sand dusting him as he looks up at you. His hand at your back hasn't moved as his laughter quiets, eyes sharpening.
Licking your lips, you start to pull away, heart slamming so hard against your ribs you're sure he can feel it. His grip tightens though, just enough to hold you still.
"Why do you always pull back?" He asks, voice so low it's almost a whisper.
For a second, the ocean is the only sound. You can feel your pulse thundering in your ears, your breath shaky. Terror grips at you - not of him, but of the lingering feeling you've been hiding from him for months now.
"Tell me," he murmurs.
You nod, swallowing thickly. "Because I'm afraid. Not of you, but what I feel for you. Of what it means. You're ancient and endless and I'm…" Your throat closes for a second. "I don't want to fall and shatter. I'm only mortal."
For a long moment he says nothing. You close your eyes, feeling the heat of shame and sting of tears, realizing that you shouldn't have said anything. Then he rolls you over and you suck in a gasp, world spinning as he pins you to the sand.
Soonyoung looms over you, weight braced on his forearms. His breath is warm against your lips, his eyes dark as he drinks you in, pupils expanding. He's close enough that when he speaks, his lips almost brush yours.
"Then fall. I've been waiting to catch you, you know?" His eyes drop down to your mouth. "Since the first time you lit my candle. Since the first time you spoke to stone because no one else would listen."
Soonyoung leans down and your breath catches. His nose brushes against yours and his eyelids flutter shut as he breathes you in, salt and sweat.
"I am war," he admits. "I am rage and ruin, but I'm still Soonyoung. I can be still and gentle. I can want things I haven't in centuries. So fall, my Virago. I will never let you break."
Trembling, your hands come up to slide into his hair, fingers threading through damp strands at the nape of his neck. You feel the tremor that moves through him at the touch, the way his breath hitches, the way his eyes flutter half-closed. When he doesn't move, you tug him down to close the last fraction of distance between you.
The kiss is hungry. It's years of silence and candlelight, the hum of his sword that has lived in you since the moment you honored his altar. It's the relief of finally naming the ache that has lived beneath your ribs since the first time he smiled at you, the relief of being heard.
He kisses you like a man who has waited lifetimes, tongue sweeping in to press against yours, warm and wet. The kiss deepens, a slow unraveling that pulls you under. He tastes like salt and honeyed figs, a faint sweetness lingering from breakfast. He lefts a hand to cradle the back of your neck, tilting you to deepen the kiss.
You melt into him and he lowers himself a fraction, his hips pressing against yours. The want is sharp and sweet, making your breath hitch as his teeth graze your lower lip gently, tugging just enough to draw a soft whimper from you.
Soonyoung draws back a little, his eyes blown as he looks down at you. "Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs, voice rough. "We only go as far as you want."
You shake your head, fingers tightening in his hair. "I want you. All of you."
A low sound rumbles in his chest, somewhere between a groan and a growl. He kisses you again, slower this time. His weight pins you down, his hand roaming to trace the lines of your body - the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips - until you're arching into his touch.
"Beautiful," he mutters, brushing his lips against your throat. His tongue darts out to press against your pulse point and you moan, head pressing back into the sand, lashes fluttering. "Wanted you for so long."
His mouth trails lower, nipping softly at your collarbone as his fingers gather the hem of your tunic, inching it upward. Cool sea air kisses your newly exposed skin, raising goosebumps that he soothes away with warm palms. You lift your hips instinctively, helping him slide the fabric higher, until it's bunched at your waist, leaving your lower body bare to him as he pushes up to his knees.
"Look at you," he breathes. "Perfect for me."
He shifts downward, broad shoulders nudging your thighs apart as he settles between them. The first kiss he presses to your inner thigh is feather-light, a tease that makes you gasp. His hands hold your legs open gently but firmly, thumbs stroking the soft flesh of your thighs. Heat pools between your legs, a slick ache building as anticipation coils tight in your core.
"Soonyoung," you whisper, voice breaking.
"I've got you," he soothes, meeting your eyes from below. "Let me make you feel good, my Virago."
His mouth descends then, warm and deliberate, lips parting to taste you. The first swipe of his tongue is slow and flat against your folds. A jolt of pleasure makes you arch your back off the sand. His mouth is wet and hot, tongue tracing upward to circle your clit gently. A shaky moan escapes you as your fingers dig into the sand.
He hums against you, the vibration sending sparks through your nerves, and you feel yourself clench around nothing. A shiver ripples through you and he groans again, tongue sweeping in broad strokes.
"That's it," he murmurs, words muffled against your skin. "So sweet for me. Let me hear you."
You melt. Soonyoung alternates between long, languid licks that make your thighs tremble and gentle sucks against your clit until stars explode behind your eyes. You shiver, a warm flush spreading from your core outward, each stroke of his tongue coaxing you higher.
Your hips buck instinctively seeking more, and he hums in delight. A hand slides under your ass to lift you toward his mouth, encouraging you to grind against his face as he sucks at you noisily, tongue circling your entrance.
When his fingers join his mouth, you nearly die. One digit circles your entrance, gathering your arousal before pressing in slowly, just the tip at first. You tense at the unfamiliar stretch, gasping. He pauses immediately, lifting his head to watch your face.
"Breathe for me," he murmurs. "You're doing so well. Relax, yeah?"
You nod, exhaling shakily, and he rewards you as his finger slides deeper, inch by inch, the intrusion turning from strange to exquisite as he curls it upward, brushing a spot inside you that makes your vision blur.
Soonyoung works you slowly like that, his tongue rolling in lazy circles around your clit. Your thighs close around his head and he doesn't care, happily tonguing you half to madness as another finger presses in. He scissors them gently, stretching you open as he sucks on your clit in time with each stroke of his fingers.
"So tight," he whispers against you, mouth hot against you. "So fucking wet."
The words send a fresh wave of heat through you, and suddenly it's too much. The tension snaps, orgasm crashing into you without warning. You arch against him, pussy clenching on his fingers as he groans. His tongue keeps moving, flicking over you until you're trembling and oversensitive.
Only then does he ease his fingers out, pressing wet kisses to your thighs as you pant, sagging against the sand. He laughs, nipping your thighs and making your legs twitch as you glance at him where he's grinning up at you.
"I could do that all day," he admits.
"I think I might let you."
You reach for him, tugging at his tunic, and he understands, shedding it swiftly. His body is a masterpiece of muscled under sun-kissed skin, scars faint and silver. He shivers underneath your touch, kicking away at his tunic. His cock is heavy and long, flushed and beading with precum and want.
A flicker of nerves returns, but he chases it away as he leans down to kiss you, his mouth still tasting like you.
"We'll go slow," he promises, settling between your thighs. "You're in control. Tell me if you need to stop."
He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your slick pussy. The first press stretches you wide and you gasp, clutching at his shoulder. It feels like heaven and hell, both too much and not enough. You can barely breath as he ducks his head to press wet, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.
"Breathe," he whispers. "Let yourself open up."
You nod and he presses his mouth to yours as he presses in inch by inch, the slide eased by the mess he's already made. The fullness is staggering as he fills you completely, hips flush to yours. He stills, giving you time to adjust, peppering your face with kisses.
"Doing okay?" He asks, one hand stroking your hand.
"Don't stop," you gasp. "Please move."
"You're doing so good, my Virago," he praises, starting a slow rock of his hips.
The motion is gentle at first, his thrusts shallow that let you feel every inch of his cock, the friction addicting. The initial burn fades and is replaced by a liquid heat that spreads through your veins, each drag of him against your walls stoking the fire burning in your gut.
He keeps the pace unhurried, a soft rhythm that makes your eyes roll back and press your hips closer to him, seeking more. One of his hands gathers yours and pins them above your head, fingers laced as his eyes darken, watching your face for every reaction.
"Feel so good," he murmurs, rolling his hips. You whimper and he grins, nodding. "I know. So tight around me, like you were made for me."
You clench around him and he groans, pace picking up as he drives his cock harder into you. It punches the air from your lungs and you squirm under him, feeling the need to orgasm again, toes curling, that coil tightening all over again. You roll your hips to meet his, seeking more friction, hungry for it.
"That's it," he encourages. "Move with me. My hungry Virago."
You do, hips rising to meet his, the new angle deepening his thrusts. He catches your mouth again, more tongue and teeth as your second orgasm breaks, your cunt pulsing around him as you cry out against his mouth.
Soonyoung fucks you through it, thrusts slowing but not stopping until you're breathless. The hunger for him isn't gone though, and you surge forward, rolling the two of you until you have him pinned beneath you.
The shift makes you gasp, his cock hitting deeper. Your hands brace on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your fingers. He grips your hips and guides you with gentle hands, a slow grind that makes you dizzy.
"Yeah?" He asks. "Gonna take what you want? Come on, baby. Ride me."
Your moves are tentative at first, finding a rhythm. The slide up and down his length is intoxicating and you chase it, hips rolling as your head tilts back. His hands roam, cupping your breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples and earning a broken sound from you.
"Just like that," he growls. "So fucking good."
Fatigue burns in your thighs, but the building orgasm drives you on, faster now, breaths mingling as you lean down to kiss him. When it hits, you collapse forward, trembling, walls clenching in waves that pull a guttural moan from him. He thrusts up gently through your aftershocks, then stills, holding you close as his own release follows.
Both of you lay like that, panting in the heat and clinging to one another. The sun dips lower, spilling molten gold across the two of you. He cradles your head, pressing your cheek to his chest, the steady hammering of his heart comforting.
Neither of you move, his arms wrapped around you, fingers tracing idly against your bag. Your legs are tangled with his, and every so often, a small tremor runs through you and he smirks.
Behind you, the sea breathes in and out. You feel the slow rise and fall of his breaths, the warmth of his skin against yours, the faint salt-and-myrrh scent that seems to belong only to him. For the first time in your life, your body knows complete quiet instead of the tense silence of temple corridors.
“I’ve spent lifetimes watching people run from me,” Soonyoung says, breaking the silence. "Thank you for not running, Virago."
You turn your face into his skin, pressing a kiss to the place above his heart. He exhales and pulls you tighter, tucking your head beneath his chin. His legs shift, drawing yours more securely between his until there is no space left where you are not touching.
"Sleep, woman of strength," he chuckles, voice soft. "Woman of fire. Woman of my heart. My Virago."
PAIRING: F.Reader x ot13
PACK MEMBER FOCUS: Soonyoung
PACK MEETING: Soonyoung is an irritable mess and no one can figure it out until he wanders in your room in the middle of the night.
REQUESTED BY: ANON
REQUEST: soonyoung got his rut earlier than expected and everyone has been wondering why hes so snappy these days, and it was answered when soonyoung goes to the omega’s room and yeah u know it lol
GENRE: Fluff, smut, mild angst
AU: Omegaverse
WC: 9,867
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It may contain explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
PACK WARNINGS: Some mild angst and fighting among members, Soonyoung is picking fights with everyone that are petty and stupid, lots of frustration, a single moment between Soonyoung and Mingyu where Soonyoung almost turns things physical but reader diffuses, some awkwardness because reader is still relatively new to the pack, lots of hormones and body chemistry, Soonyoung having some anxiety about spending a rut with reader, explicit language, explicit sexual content including unprotected sex, mild biting, some scenting, teasing, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, very very light dirty talk, Soonyoung being possessive, and a moment of Soonyoung being territorial to another member at the end briefly.
SMUT NOTICE: This chapter is centered around smut and shout be skipped if you don't like reading smut - it makes little sense to read without.
A/N: This does not lean into rut dynamics a ton nor does it lean toooo heavily into omegaverse smut dynamics because I wanted to lean into the idea that this is the first time since reader has joined the pack that she's helping with someone's rut and thus the dynamic is entirely different and slower/more personal than it typically would be among seasoned rut partners.
A/N 2: As usual this is not beta read this because I'm impatient and just wanna post these as I finish writing them. Also Hali stick to under 5k challenge failed again.
HOUSE RULES M. LIST | MAIN M. LIST | ASK
SOONYOUNG IS AN EASY ALPHA TO READ. As someone who wears his heart on his sleeve and his emotions on his face, you rarely have a problem reading him now that you know him well enough. Plus, whatever isn't on his face or in his tone is usually coming directly from the source himself, never the one to shy away from communicating exactly what he thinks of something.
So it's unusual when you realize on a Friday afternoon that something is wrong with Soonyoung but you don't quite know what that something is.
The sun is slanting through the western windows of the house, turning the floors honey-warm and catching the dust motes floating lazily through the air. You're curled into the corner of the sectional - a spot that has become yours over the last few weeks - with a book in your lap. It's some novel that Wonwoo recommended and that you're half paying attention to because Mingyu keeps singing off-key in the kitchen where he's baking and because there's base thrumming from Jihoon's studio basement, vibrating up through the couch into your spine.
It's the kind of afternoon that's calm but doesn't exactly leave space for reading, especially when Chan flops down on the couch next to you, immediately pushing into your side to nuzzle close and lay his head in your lap.
"Hi," he sighs dreamily, tilting his head back to look up at you. "This okay?"
You grin, running your fingers through his hair. "Of course it is."
He nearly purrs under your touch, melting into your lap as he settles, his dark hair soft against your fingers as he gets comfortable with one arm draped over his stomach and the other hanging off the edge of the couch. He smells like the laundry detergent the pack uses, warm and clean and the distinct lavender and sea salt smell that is so him.
Putting the book down, you continue to stroke his hair, feeling him relax into your lap, heavy and solid. You smile. You like this - you're glad that you finally have figured this out, the intimacy that's both physical and mental, both casual and sexual. Now that you've finally settled and figured them out, this kind of contact is easy. Welcome. Craved.
The afternoon light catches the side of Chan's face and you notice the faint freckles across his nose, the way his face is soft, eyes closed and content as he drifts. It's moments like this that make you understand why the pack works and why fourteen people in one house don't feel chaotic and feel like this instead.
Soonyoung's voice is what cuts through the silence, reminding you that the pack has its bad days too. You turn to look over the back of the couch the way his voice is coming, cutting through the ambient noise like a knife. Chan shifts too, the beta making an unhappy noise as he cracks an eye open.
"I said I would handle it, Seokmin," Soonyoung snaps somewhere. You straighten, the alpha's voice rigid and more severe than you're used to hearing. "So stop."
"I'm just trying to help." Seokmin's calmer voice barely reaches you, careful and placating. You can hear his confusion even without seeing his face. "If you'd just listen-"
"I don't need to listen."
Footsteps keep your attention pinned to the entryway from the hall. Soonyoung rounds the corner into the living room and the sight of him makes something in your chest clench. His jaw is tight, muscle twitching beneath the skin, and his shoulders are drawn up and rigid. There's something wild in his eyes that make your instincts prickle, a warning bell going off in the back of your head that's telling you there's an alpha in distress.
Seokmin trails behind him with his hands raised in a gesture of peace, his expression caught somewhere between apologetic and frustrated. He's still in his work clothes, dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tie loosened around his neck, but the tension in his neck has nothing to do with Soonyoung.
Your book is long forgotten. Chan's head is turned in your lap, watching as Soonyoung storms into the room, Seokmin behind him. Seokmin looks at you before his eyes dart meaningfully between you and Chan, a silent request. You understand immediately and pat Chan gently. The beta stirs immediately, unfolding from your lap with a quick kiss to your forehead before he heads toward Seokmin.
"Help me with something in the kitchen?" Chan asks Seokmin, reaching for him.
"Sure," Seokmin sighs, moving toward the hallway. He shoots you one last look, mouthing thank you as he follows Chan out of the room, leaving you alone on the couch.
The moment they're gone, Soonyoung is moving toward you, his agitation evaporating. He falls onto the couch, settling against you instantly, head finding the curve where your shoulder meets your neck, his arms wrapping around you as he breathes you in.
"Hi," he says quietly, voice muffled as he presses in closer. "You smell good."
His scent washes over you as he burrows closer, deep teakwood with an undercurrent of warmth that you've come to associate with him, though there's something slightly off about it now. Something sharp and acidic underneath. It makes your nose wrinkle slightly even as your omega instincts purr at his proximity.
"Hi," you murmur, tugging him further into you.
"What are you reading?"
"Something Wonwoo recommended."
He hums, a low sound in the back of his throat, and leans even closer to peer at the cover. You can feel the heat of him along your side, can see the way his hair falls into his eyes as he tilts his head. "Is it good?"
"It's okay. It's a little slow."
"Do you want company? I can sit with you."
There's something almost desperate in the offer, something that makes your chest tight. You study his face, trying to understand what just happened, trying to reconcile the alpha who just snapped at Seokmin with the one who's looking at you now like he might die if you say no. You'd never say no, though, so you smile and nod.
"Always," you say softly, and watch the way relief floods his expression like sunrise breaking over water. “Just keep the teeth away, yeah?”
He nods and shifts, adjusting his position so he's lying more fully against you, his head pillowed on your thigh where Chan had been moments before. The weight of him is different, heavier and more solid, radiating a heat that seems to seep through the fabric of your leggings and into your skin. One of his arms wraps around your leg, holding on like you might disappear if he doesn't anchor himself to you.
Without thinking, you card your fingers through his hair, and the effect is immediate. He melts. There's no other word for it as the tension that had been coiled through his shoulders and jaw just dissolves under your touch, his whole body going soft and pliant against you. A sound escapes him, something between a sigh and a groan, and he presses his face harder against your thigh.
"That feels nice," he mumbles. "Don't stop doing that."
You smile, continuing the gentle motion, your fingers sliding through the dark strands. His hair is softer than you expected, still slightly mussed from where he'd been running his hands through it earlier, and you work through the tangles with careful attention. Each pass of your fingers seems to pull more tension from him, until he's practically boneless against you, his breathing evening out into something slow and deep.
The afternoon light has shifted, no longer streaming directly through the windows but casting everything in a softer, golden glow. That's when you notice it again. That off note in his scent. It's subtle, easy to miss if you weren't paying attention, but it's there, sharp and acidic beneath the familiar teakwood warmth, like something fermented or turned. It makes your nose wrinkle slightly, your omega instincts prickling with a vague sense of concern. You've never smelled him like this before. Usually his scent is all warmth and depth, grounding and steady, but this is different.
You frown slightly, your fingers pausing in his hair as you try to place what it reminds you of. Your first thought is rut, that sharp, aggressive edge that alphas get when their biology starts to take over, but you dismiss it almost immediately. You've been with the pack long enough now to know everyone's schedules, the careful tracking system they use to make sure no one's caught off guard. Soonyoung isn't due for a rut for at least another three weeks. You'd know. Seungcheol keeps a calendar, and you've seen it enough times to have most of the dates memorized.
So it's not that. Maybe he's just stressed? The thought settles uneasily in your chest. He has been more on edge lately, more irritable with the others, though you'd chalked it up to work or pack dynamics or any of the hundred other things that can make an alpha tense. Maybe it's manifesting in his scent, some kind of stress response you're not familiar with yet.
You let it go, resuming the gentle motion of your fingers through his hair. Whatever it is, he clearly needs this and you're not about to pull away because of some vague concern you can't even properly articulate. If it's serious, someone else will notice. Seungcheol will notice.
Soonyoung makes another one of those soft sounds and you feel your heart do something complicated in your chest. You smile, thinking about how much you like him. The realization isn't new - you like all of them. But it hits you fresh at this moment, with him soft and sleepy against you.
"You're really good at that," he murmurs, his voice drowsy and content. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed. "Like, unfairly good."
"Just scratching your head," you say, but you're smiling, your fingers finding that spot behind his ear that makes him practically purr.
"Mm, no. It's more than that." He shifts slightly, tilting his head to look up at you, and the expression on his face makes your breath catch. There's something raw in his eyes, something open and honest that he usually keeps hidden behind jokes and easy grins. "You make everything feel easier."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He reaches up, his hand finding yours where it's resting against his temple, and he threads your fingers together. His palm is warm, slightly rough, and the gesture feels impossibly intimate. "I really like being close to you. Is that okay? To say that?"
"Of course it is. I like being close to you too."
His smile is small but genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Good. Because I don't think I could stop even if you told me to."
You laugh quietly, resuming the gentle motion through his hair with your free hand while he keeps the other one captive, his thumb tracing absent patterns against your knuckles. His touch is comforting and you can feel the way his body has gone completely relaxed against you as the house settles around you, the sound of pack life continuing in other rooms.
You don't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light to shift again, the golden glow deepening toward amber. Long enough for your legs to start going numb under his weight, though you don't mention it. Long enough for you to memorize the exact shade of his hair in this light, the pattern of freckles across his nose, the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he closes his eyes.
"Thank you," he says eventually, so quiet you almost miss it.
"For what?"
"For not asking questions. For just letting me be here."
You want to tell him he never has to thank you for that, but the words feel too big, too revealing, so instead you just squeeze his hand and keep running your fingers through his hair, and hope he understands anyway.
He seems to. His eyes drift closed again, his breathing evening out. And despite that lingering concern about his scent, despite the confusion about what happened with Seokmin, despite everything, you let yourself have this, relaxing against the couch as Soonyoung dozes in your lap.
-
The second time you notice something off with Soonyoung is worse.
It's Saturday morning and the kitchen is alive with the weekend chaos you've come to expect now that you eat breakfast at more reasonable hours. Mingyu is at the stove making what smells like pancakes while Vernon sits at the island with his laptop and a cup of coffee that you think has gone cold. Joshua hums as he sets the table in the dining room while morning light streams through the windows, coffee and the scent of bodies filling the room.
You're standing at the counter making tea, watching the kettle when you hear the commotion start somewhere just outside the kitchen.
"I'm just saying," Junhui says, his voice measured and calm in a way that suggests he is trying very hard to be patient. "If you'd communicated better, it would-"
"I don't need you to tell me how to communicate, Jun." Soonyoung's voice cuts through the morning peace like a knife, sharp enough that you see Mingyu's shoulders tense at the stove, see Vernon's fingers still on his keyboard.
Your hands tighten on the edge of the counter, your whole body going alert. Not again. Please not again. You glance at Mingyu who winces and shrugs his shoulders before turning back to stare intensely at his pancakes, preferring to let the alphas argue it out.
"I'm not telling you how to do anything." Junhui's voice is still calm but you can hear the edge creeping in, can hear the alpha authority starting to bleed through. "I'm just saying that if you'd communicated better, we wouldn't have had the conflict with-"
"Right, so it's my fault."
"That isn't what I said-"
"It's what you meant!"
You turn your attention back to the kettle, listening with half an ear as the argument continues. It's not the first time you've heard pack members disagree, and it probably won't be the last. The whistle is building now, getting louder, and you're reaching for your mug when you hear a crash loud enough that you jerk your hand.
The kettle wobbles but you catch it, steadying it with both hands as you let out a breath. Your heart kicks up for a moment before settling back down. Just an argument. Just pack dynamics working themselves out.
Mingyu has turned from the stove, spatula still in hand, his expression somewhere between concerned and resigned. Vernon has closed his laptop, watching the doorway.
"Soonyoung." Junhui's voice is harder now, carrying that alpha command that says stand down. "You need to calm down."
"Don't tell me to calm down."
There's a beat of tense silence, and then footsteps, quick and purposeful before Soonyoung appears in the kitchen doorway. He looks wound tight, his chest heavy slightly, his eyes bright and a flush high on his cheeks that tells you he's stressed. His hair is a mess like he's been running his hands through it, and his t-shirt is rumpled, twisted slightly to one side. For a second he just stands there, breathing hard, his gaze sweeping the kitchen like he's looking for something.
Then his eyes land on you, and everything changes.
The tension bleeds out of his shoulders and his expression softens immediately, the wild edge in his eyes gentling into something warm. He crosses the kitchen in a few long strides, and before you can say anything, he’s pressing into your side like he needs the physical contact to breathe.
"Hi," he says quietly, his voice rough but softer than it was seconds ago. One of his arms wraps around your waist, and he leans into you, his forehead coming to rest against your temple. "You making tea?"
"Yeah." You can feel the heat of him along your entire side, can smell that sharp acidic edge underneath his usual teakwood warmth. It's more pronounced than it was yesterday. "Want some?"
"No. Just want to be here."
"Alright."
You reach up to run your fingers through his hair, scraping the blunt edge of your nails against his scalp. He hums, chest vibrating against you as his eyes flutter, scent blooming warm and rich, the acidic note vanishing. The kettle is whistling properly now, so you pour the water one-handed, Soonyoung still plastered to your side like he has no intention of moving. He doesn't say anything, just stands there with his arm around you, his breathing evening out as you finish making your tea.
Behind you, you can hear Mingyu returning to the pancakes, the quiet sizzle of batter hitting the pan. Vernon has reopened his laptop but you can feel his attention still on the two of you. Joshua appears in the doorway, takes one look at Soonyoung wrapped around you, and just nods to himself before heading back to finish setting the table.
"Breakfast is almost ready," Mingyu says after a moment, his voice carefully neutral. "If you guys want to sit down."
Soonyoung makes a noncommittal sound against your hair but doesn't move. You smile, wrapping both hands around your mug now that it's ready, and lean back into him slightly.
"Come on," you murmur. "Let's go sit."
He follows you without question, his hand sliding from your waist to tangle with your free hand, keeping you connected as you move into the dining room. The table is set thanks to Joshua, who looks between you and Soonyoung before winking.
You choose a seat near the middle of the table and Soonyoung immediately claims the chair right next to you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours when he sits. His hand finds your knee under the table, his thumb rubbing small circles against the fabric of your leggings, and you can feel the way he's still wound tight despite the softness in his expression.
Junhui appears in the doorway a moment later, and you watch as his eyes land on Soonyoung pressed up against your side. Something complicated crosses his face - frustration, maybe, but also understanding, and what looks like relief. He lets out a long breath, his shoulders dropping slightly, and when he meets your eyes there's gratitude there.
Thanks, he mouths silently and you nod.
He takes a seat across the table, his posture still tense but no longer aggressive. The argument isn't resolved, the set of his jaw and the tension in his hands making that much obvious, but it's set aside for now for when Soonyoung isn't whatever this is right now.
Soon, the table fills out with the rest of the pack and loud conversation backtracked by the sound of silverware on plates. Soonyoung serves you first, putting pancakes on your plate before his own, his hand never leaving your knee. He eats one-handed, the other staying firmly on you like he needs the anchor despite Seungkwan poking fun at him.
Soonyoung gradually relaxes against your side. His scent is still off, but his breathing has evened out, and the tension in his shoulders has eased. He's not talking much, just listening to the conversation around him, but every so often he glances at you like he's checking that you're still there.
Across the table, Junhui catches your eye again and gives you a small nod. The message is clear: Whatever you're doing, keep doing it.
So you do. You finish your tea and eat your pancakes and let Soonyoung stay pressed against your side for as long as he needs, and you try not to think too hard about what it is that's bothering him, ready to wait him out and let him come to you.
-
By Sunday, Soonyoung's tension has been noticed by everyone.
It's the kind of afternoon where the house has that lazy, syrupy feeling of the weekend as people scatter across the estate with their routines. You can hear Seungkwan's laugh coming through an open window, backtracked by someone playing music.
Sun bakes down on the top of your head as you stretch, sweaty skin sticky against the cloth of the cabana seating. Mingyu is tucked next to you, the smell of his clean, floral musk and sunscreen soothing.
The afternoon sun turns the pool surface into liquid gold, the light dancing and refracting in patterns that shift with every ripple. The air smells like chlorine and sunscreen and the jasmine that grows wild along the fence line, music playing from the speaker next to Mingyu softly while the two of you lounge
He's stretched out next to you in swim shorts that are slung low on his hips, his long legs crossed at the ankle, a book open in his lap that he's been so called reading for the past twenty minutes despite the fact he hasn't turned a page in at least ten. His chest is bare, shoulders already warming to a golden tan, and there's a faint sheen of sunscreen on his skin that catches the light.
You are definitely not reading your book. Instead, you're acutely aware of the way Mingyu's chest rises and falls with each one of his breaths, every defined line of his abs, and the way his muscles in his shoulders flex when he shifts his position. Your eyes drift from his collarbones to his sternum to the dip of his waist where his swim shorts sit low on his hips, and you have to physically force your gaze back to your book.
When you glance sideways, you catch the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He knows. Of course he knows. Mingyu always knows when you're looking.
Footsteps draw your attention on the pool deck. Soonyoung is approaching, jaw tight and shoulders tense. You frown and his scent hits you a moment later as the wind shifts, sharp and acrid. You shift and Mingyu notices, glancing at you from behind his sunglasses before he realizes Soonyoung is there.
"Mingyu," Soonyoung says, voice clipped. He stops at the edge of the cabana, his eyes locked on Mingyu with something that makes the beta tense. "You left the fridge door open this morning. Again."
Mingyu blinks. "What?"
"Yeah."
"Soonyoung, I made breakfast at seven. It's been hours." Mingyu shields his eyes, looking up at Soonyoung, his tone more bewildered than defensive. "What even is-"
"And yesterday," Soonyoung continues, "You left stuff all over the kitchen counter. It's rude and messy."
You watch as Mingyu's expression shifts from confusion to something closer to exasperation. "I cleaned that up. Wonwoo saw me clean it up."
"Not very well, apparently." Soonyoung's voice is sharp. "And you were making noise in the kitchen at like six in the morning. Some of us were trying to sleep."
"You were literally in the gym at six." Mingyu closes his book deliberately and sets it on the small table next to the cabana. When he looks up at Soonyoung, his expression is guarded, not angry. "What's your actual problem Soonyoung? Spit it out."
"I don't have a problem. I just think it would be nice if people actually thought about the shared spaces instead of just doing whatever they want."
"Nobody's doing whatever they want."
Mingyu stands now so he's facing Soonyoung directly. He's a beta, but he's not small. He towers over Soonyoung, imposing in a way that makes your instincts flare, feeling the shift of tension between the two.
"You're picking a fight," Mingyu says, softer than before.
"I'm not picking a fight."
"Soonyoung, you're-" Mingyu cuts himself off and sighs. You can see him trying to control his temper, trying to figure out what Soonyoung is actually mad about. "You know what, whatever. You're right."
He turns to leave, his movements sharp and frustrated, stepping away from the cabana toward the pool deck. The afternoon sun hits him full-force, turning his skin golden, and for a moment you think maybe that's it. But then Soonyoung's hand darts out, wrapping around Mingyu's arm just above the elbow, fingers digging in hard enough to dimple Mingyu's skin.
"Don't walk away from me," Soonyoung growls, teeth flashing.
"Okay, enough."
Your voice cuts through the tension, sharp and commanding in a way that surprises even you. You're on your feet before you've consciously decided to move, a frustrated growling rippling through you at their bickering and Soonyoung's obvious struggle with something.
The effect is immediate and absolute. Soonyoung's hand drops from Mingyu's arm like he's been burned, his eyes going wide as they snap to you. Mingyu takes a step back, his posture immediately shifting from defensive to something closer to chastened. They're both staring at you now, and you can see the moment they register your expression.
"I don't know what's going on with you," you say, your gaze locked on Soonyoung, "but I am tired of watching you pick fights with everyone in this house. And Mingyu, you know it sets him off when you walk away like that."
"I wasn't-" Mingyu starts, but you hold up a hand and he stops immediately, his mouth closing.
"I don't want to hear it. Not from either of you. Soonyoung, put the teeth away."
The afternoon sun is hot on your shoulders, the chlorine smell sharp in your nose as a beat of silence passes. Soonyoung looks like he's been slapped, his expression crumbling from aggressive to something that looks almost like shame. His shoulders drop, his hands unclenching, and you can see the way his whole body seems to deflate.
"I'm sorry," he says, voice smaller than you've ever heard it.
"I know, Soonyoung." Your voice softens a fraction. "But you need to figure out what's going on with you, because this isn't okay. Mingyu didn't deserve that."
Soonyoung glances at Mingyu. "I'm sorry."
Mingyu is rubbing his arm where Soonyoung grabbed him, and you can see the red marks already forming, can see the shape of fingers pressed into his skin. His expression is a mix of anger and hurt, and you can tell he's struggling to not let his temper flare again. He takes a deep breath and nods, the frustration melting out of him in the way that betas are always good at.
"You need to talk to Seungcheol," Mingyu says, his voice much calmer now. "Today."
"I know."
Mingyu doesn't seem convinced. "I'm serious."
"I know. I'm going to."
For a second, Mingyu hesitates. Then he nods and glances at you, tilting his head toward Soonyoung subtly. You nod and Mingyu backs up a few paces, keeping his eyes on you until he's sure that you'll be fine with Soonyoung before he turns, sulky and irritated but knowing that Soonyoung needs space and recently, you're the only one who can reason with him.
Soonyoung looks wrecked, his expression apologetic. He's trembling a little, hands flexing at his sides like he wants to reach for you but can't or won't, his scent a mess. His pupils are blown wide, somewhere between fighting whatever instinct is making him so cagey and panic that he's upset you - he hates upsetting anyone, but most of all he hates when you're mad.
"Can I…?" He drifts off and gestures vaguely in your direction.
He's asking permission, deferring to you completely, and you can see in his eyes that he'll accept whatever answer you give. That he knows he just got put in his place and he's not going to push.
You let out a breath, some of the tension leaving your shoulders. "Yeah. Come here.
He crosses the distance between you in two quick strides, but when he reaches you, he's careful, his arms coming around you slowly enough to give you time to pull away. You don't and instead let him pull you close so he can bury his face in your neck, breathing you in and scenting you enough to make you both dizzy and clinging to one another. Your lashes flutter, a rush going through you as he brushes his nose against the softness of your neck, blood turning molten.
"I'm sorry," he whispers against your skin, and his voice is broken. "I'm sorry. You're right. I'm sorry."
Your hands come up automatically, one sliding into his hair, the other pressing flat against his back. You can feel the knobs of his spine through his shirt, can feel the way his muscles are locked tight with tension.
"I know you are," you murmur. "But you need to figure out what's wrong. This isn't like you."
You can feel the way he's trying to calm himself down, trying to match his breathing to yours, trying to use your presence to anchor himself. You feel a pang in your chest, hugging him a little tighter. Soonyoung is always hard on himself - harder than he needs to be - and he hates fighting with anyone, especially Mingyu. Especially in front of you.
You guide him back to the loungers, settling onto one and pulling him down beside you. He goes willingly, curling into your side like he's trying to make himself smaller, his head resting on your shoulder. The afternoon sun has shifted, the shade of the cabana stretching longer across the pool deck, and the water has gone still and mirror-smooth in the absence of any breeze.
"You should talk to Cheol," you murmur.
Soonyoung nods against you. "Okay."
You run your fingers through his hair, feeling the way he relaxes incrementally with each pass, the tension in his shoulders easing degree by degree. The strands are soft, slightly damp from the heat and humidity, and you work your fingers through them slowly, deliberately, the way you know he likes. His scent is still sharp underneath, still carrying that acidic edge that speaks to whatever is happening inside his body, but it levels out now, teakwood baked under sun.
"Better?" you ask softly.
He makes a small sound of agreement, his arm tightening around your waist. "Yeah."
-
Someone knocking on your door pulls you from sleep. You squint at the clock on the nightstand, the blurry numbers telling you it's well past three am. Your bed is warm, blankets tangled around you and the faint smell of Jeonghan lingering from the hoodie of his you have shoved under your pillow. You sit up, rubbing your eyes as you get your bearings.
"Come in," you croak.
Before the door even opens, you know who it is. You can smell Soonyoung before the door fully opens, but when it does, it hits you like a physical force. It's his normal warm, woody smell but there's something new now, something hot and thick and almost overwhelming. It makes your mouth water, omega instincts kicking in, warmth pooling low in your belly.
Soonyoung steps into your room and closes the door behind him with a soft click, and in the dim light filtering through your curtains from the streetlamp outside, you can see that something is very, very wrong. Or right, by the smell of him.
He's shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose sleep pants that hang low on his hips, skin gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat despite how cold the house is at night. You can see the way his chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow. His hair is a mess like he's been pulling at it again, and when he looks at you, his eyes are dark and dilated, pupils blown so wide there's barely any iris left.
"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is rough, wrecked. "I know it's late."
You push the blankets aside and shift to the edge of your bed, feet finding the cool hardwood floor to stand. "What's wrong?"
His entire body reacts to the sound of your voice. He sways slightly toward you, nostril flaring as he scents you, a shiver rippling through him. You take a step toward him and he makes a pitiful sound, looking entirely at war with himself.
"I feel like I'm burning up," he mumbles. "Feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin if I don't see you."
"Come here."
It's a command - softly given, but a command none the less. He listens like it's instinctual, crossing the room to you in three strides. You feel the heat radiating off of him when he stops in front of you and you reach up without thinking, pressing your palm to his chest. He's fever-hot under your touch, his heart hammering in his chest.
"You're burning up," you say softly, frowning.
"I know." His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing your palm harder against his chest like he needs the contact, needs the pressure. His eyes close and he takes a shuddering breath. "You smell so good. You always smell good but right now it's maddening."
Something clicks into place in your mind. The aggression. The clinginess. The way his scent has been getting sharper and hotter for days. The fever. The way he's looking at you right now like you're the only thing in the world that matters.
"Soonyoung," you say slowly, carefully. "Are you in rut?"
His eyes snap open, meeting yours, and for a long moment he just stares at you. You can see him processing the question, see the moment the realization hits him. His expression shifts from confusion to understanding to something that looks almost like relief.
"Oh. Um. It does feel like that."
"But it's early, isn't it?" You keep your hand on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palm. "You're not supposed to go into a rut for another few weeks."
"Right." He seems to think about something and he makes a small sound, leaning into your touch. "I've never had an omega in the house though."
"Oh."
"I think having you here made my body kind of freak out and decide it was time even if it wasn't."
You can feel your own body responding to his proximity, to the thick, heady scent of him in rut. Your omega instincts are screaming at you to help, to soothe, to give him what he needs. But more than that, you want to. You want to pull him into your bed, want to feel his fever-hot skin against yours, want to take care of him the way every cell in your body is telling you to.
"Let me help you," you say, and your voice comes out softer than you intended, almost pleading.
His eyes go wide. "What?"
"Let me help you through it." You slide your hand up from his chest to cup his jaw, feeling the way he leans into your touch like he can't help himself. "You don't have to do this alone. You don't have to suffer through it."
"I can't ask you to do that. You haven't been here that long and haven't been through one…"
"It's pretty instinctual. I'll be okay."
He's trembling now, and you can't tell if it's from the fever or from nerves or from the effort of holding himself back. "What if I hurt you? What if I can't control myself?"
"Soonyoung, you won't hurt me."
"You don't know that." But even as he says it, he's leaning closer, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. His breath is hot against your lips, coming in short, uneven pants. "You don't know what it's like. What I'm feeling right now."
"Then take it," you whisper. "Take what you need."
He makes a sound low in his throat, something between a whimper and a growl, and his hands come up to grip your waist. His fingers dig in, not quite hard enough to hurt but firm enough that you can feel the desperation in his touch.
"But what if-"
You cut him off by kissing him.
It's soft at first, just a gentle press of your lips against his to turn off his spinning thoughts, but the moment you make contact, something in him breaks. He makes a desperate sound against your mouth and kisses you back like he's drowning and you're air. His lips are fever-hot and slightly chapped, and he tastes like mint toothpaste and something underneath that's purely him, purely alpha, purely Soonyoung.
His hands tighten on your waist and he pulls you closer, eliminating the last few inches of space between you. Your chest presses against his and you can feel the heat of him even through your thin sleep shirt, can feel the way his heart is racing, can feel the slight tremor in his muscles as he holds himself back from taking more than you're offering.
But you want him to take more. You want him to let go.
You part your lips and he groans, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes heat pool low in your belly. The kiss deepens, turns hungry, and you can feel the moment his control starts to slip. His hands slide from your waist to your hips to grip your ass, pulling you flush against him. You can feel him harden against your stomach, the way he's already straining against the low slung sweat pants.
Knowing he wants you this much makes your head spin. You omega preens and you shiver, sucking his tongue into your mouth greedily, driven by a more powerful want than you have ever felt in your life. He responds in kind, walking you backward toward the bed, feet tangling until you're falling backward and he's caging you in.
For a moment, he just hovers over you, his arms bracketing your head, his chest heaving as he stares down at you with those dark, dilated eyes. You reach up and trace his jawline and he leans into the touch, eyes fluttering. You've always thought he had the prettiest eyes, dark and hungry and so full of life. Right now they're burning with something hotter than you've ever seen and it makes you sing.
"You're so beautiful," he says, and his voice is wrecked. "I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you for so long."
"Then have me," you whisper. "Take me."
"Okay," he whispers. "Okay."
He kisses you again, slower this time, his lips moving against you with gentle purpose like he's memorizing the shape of your mouth. His hands start to wander, sliding up your sides, pushing your sleep shirt up inch by inch until his palms are pressed against your bare skin.
The contact makes you both gasp. His hands are so hot they're almost burning, and everywhere he touches feels like it's on fire. He explores slowly, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your ribs, the soft swell of your breasts.
"Can I?" He asks, twisting a fistfull of your shirt in his hand. You nod and he grins.
He sits back on his heels and helps you pull the shirt over your head, and the moment it's gone, his eyes go even darker. He stares at you like he's never seen anything more beautiful, his gaze tracking over every inch of exposed skin.
"Fuck," he breathes. "You're perfect. You're so fucking perfect."
He leans down and presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another to the swell of your breast, then another to your stomach. His lips are hot and soft, and every place he kisses feels like it's been branded. He works his way down slowly, kissing and licking and occasionally scraping his teeth gently against your skin in a way that makes you arch up into him, his name broken and shaky on your lips.
Soonyoung's sounds are equally as needy, groaning low in his throat in a way that makes your thighs close around his waist, the ache between your legs growing despite the way his hips pin yours to the bed. Friction. You need friction but any thoughts of asking for it vanish from your head when he leans down and takes a nipple into his mouth, the heat and wet slide of his tongue making you cry out.
Your hands fly to his hair, threading through the messy strands, holding him against you as he sucks and licks and occasionally scrapes his teeth gently across the sensitive bud. The sensation is overwhelming, almost too much, and you can feel yourself getting wetter with every pass of his tongue.
"So responsive," he murmurs, almost to himself. "So perfect for me."
He gives the same attention to your other breast, his hand coming up to play with the one his mouth just left, and the dual sensation makes your head spin. You're panting now, your hips shifting restlessly against the mattress, seeking friction that you need so badly.
"Soonyoung," you gasp. "Please."
"Please what?" He lifts his head to look at you, and his lips are wet and swollen, his eyes dark with hunger. "Tell me what you need."
"Touch me. Please touch me."
His hand slides down your stomach, his fingers light and maddening. When he reaches the waistband of your shorts, he pauses again, waiting for permission. You lift your hips in answer, and he hooks his fingers into both your shorts and underwear, pulling them down your legs in one smooth motion.
Cool air hits your overheated pussy and you whine. Soonyoung growls in response, looking down where your thighs threaten to shut. He keeps you pressed open, his hands firm on your thighs as he makes an appreciative sound low in his chest, almost a purr.
"You're so wet," he says, his voice rough. "Is this all for me?"
"Yes," you breathe. "All for you."
He stays kneeled there on the bed, his hand tracing down your thigh until he’s sliding his fingers through your sticky, heated folds. He explores slowly, the drag of his fingers making you tremble, thighs twitching until he presses gently against your clit and you let out a high-pitched sound, the contact sending a bloom of warmth spreading through you.
"There?" He asks and you can hear the smile in his voice, smug.
"Yes. Please."
Soonyoung obeys, circling your clit slowly, increasing the pressure as you buck under him. You feel yourself dripping, a wet mess as he plays with you, making little appreciative sounds as his slick fingers work you higher until you're tangling your hands in the bed and writhing under him.
When he slides one finger inside you, you cry out, your hands fisting in the blankets beneath you. It feels good but you want more, immediately asking him for more, mumbling and messy and lightheaded and overwhelmed with the thick scent of him and the heat of his finger pressing against your front wall.
"Yeah?" He asks. "You can take another?"
"Yes. Please. More."
He adds a second finger and the stretch is delicious, perfect. He curls them inside you, searching, and when he finds that spot that makes you see stars, you nearly sob with relief.
"There," you gasp. "Right there. Oh god, Soonyoung, right there."
He works you with single-minded focus, his fingers curling and stroking while his thumb circles your clit, and you can feel yourself getting close, the pleasure building higher and higher until you're teetering right on the edge.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice low and rough. "Come for me. Let me see you come."
You turn your head to the side, pressing it into the mattress as your hips roll toward his hand, letting him fuck his fingers into you until you're coming around them, clamping down hard on his fingers. He moans with you, pumping his fingers through it as you squeeze and squeeze and squeeze, the pleasure so hot you stop breathing for a second.
"Too much," you gasp, and he immediately gentles, his fingers slipping out of you carefully.
He brings his hand to his mouth and sucks his fingers clean, his eyes closing as he hums in delight. You stare at him, panting and sweaty, sheets sticky against your skin as he opens his eyes, the moon reflecting off them.
"Taste so fucking good," he growls. "Bet you taste better from the source, but if I don't fuck you right now I might lose my mind."
"Please," you beg. "Want it so bad."
He makes a desperate sound and reaches for his sleep pants, shoving them down his hips. His cock springs free, hard and flushed and leaking, and the sight of it makes your mouth water. He's thick and throbbing, and you watch like you're hypnotized as he grips himself, stroking slowly a few times as he settles on the bed between your legs.
Soonyoung leans forward, one hand braced beside your head, the other guiding himself to your wet cunt where he pauses, swiping the head of his cock through your slick folds. You whine and he grins, clearly loving the effect he has on you.
"You sure?" He asks after a minute, the head of his cock notching on your entrance but not pushing in. "We can stop."
"I want you," you assure him, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Please, alpha."
Your words have an immediate effect. He shivers, a ripple going through him as he growls low in his throat and presses in. You're wet enough that he slides in smoothly, but you can still feel every inch of him, can feel the way your body has to adjust to accommodate his girth. The drag of him against your walls enough to make you gasp.
"Fuck," he breaths, pressing in until he bottoms out. "You feel incredible. So tight. So perfect." He rolls his hips experimentally, grinding deep, and the pressure against that spot inside you makes you cry out. "Yeah, there it is. I can feel you clenching around me already."
You can feel the fever-heat of his skin, the way his muscles are taut with restraint. His scent wraps around you, that deep teakwood gone sharp and heady with rut, overwhelming your senses until all you can smell is him. It makes your head spin, makes you want to pull him closer, to drown in it.
"Soonyoung," you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Move. Please move."
"Impatient," he says with a grin, but there's heat in his eyes.
He pulls out so slowly that you can feel every ridge and vein of his cock, all the way until just the head of him is inside of you before he snaps his hips forward, driving deep in one smooth thrust, and the sudden fullness makes you cry out. He doesn't give you time to adjust before he's pulling out and driving in again, setting a rhythm that's deep and steady and absolutely devastating. Each thrust hits that perfect spot inside you, sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine.
"Oh fuck," you groan, going tight around him. "Fuck fuck fuck."
The sounds of the wet slide of him fucking into you fills the room backtracked by his breathing, ragged and uneven as he groans everytime you clench around him. You dig your nails in, scraping down his back to his waist where you urge him faster, your fingers sliding against his sweaty skin.
"That's fucking it," he pants. "Taking my cock so well, huh? Were you made to take it?"
You nod, his words making heat flood through you, making you clench around him involuntarily. He feels it and grins, that cocky, confident smile that makes your heart race.
"You like that?" he asks, his pace never faltering. "Like hearing how perfect you are? How good you feel wrapped around me?"
"Yes," you gasp as he thrusts hard, jostling you up the bed. "Fuck. Yes, Soonyoung."
He shifts the angle slightly, pressing deeper, and suddenly every thrust is dragging against your g-spot with devastating precision. The pleasure builds rapidly, a tight coil of heat low in your belly that winds tighter with each movement. He reaches between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with just the right speed.
"I can feel you getting close," he says, and there's satisfaction in his voice. "Can feel the way this perfect pussy is clenching. You gonna come for me?"
"Yes!"
You can feel yourself climbing higher, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak, your cunt clenching hard, breath hitching as you start to shake. He drives in harder, finger speeding up until you're standing on the edge of your orgasm, breath held, waiting to dive over.
"Come on," he murmurs, leaning down to nip your heard. "Come for me, baby."
You do, the orgasm hitting you hard. It steals your breath and your entire body locks up as you cry out his name, your pussy clamping down on him. His rhythm stutters immediately as he groans, but he doesn't stop, working you through it until you're shaking and feeling like you're going to come apart again, unsure if your orgasm has stopped or if it's another one starting.
"I can't-"
"You can," he urges, breath hot against your ear. "You're going to give me another one, baby."
He pulls out suddenly, and the loss makes you whimper. But before you can protest, he's flipping you over onto your stomach, his hands gripping your hips and pulling them up.
"On your knees," he commands, and the authority in his voice makes you obey without thinking.
When he slides in from behind, the new angle makes him feel deeper. You can feel him everywhere, the stretch, the fullness, the way he's pressed against every single spot inside of you. His hands grip your hips hard enough to dimple the skin, holding you exactly where he wants you as he fucks you in earnest, hips snapping and bed hitting the wall.
"Fuck, look at you," he groans. "Taking me so deep. You're perfect. So fucking perfect."
One of his hands slides up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades, and you let yourself collapse forward onto your forearms. The change in angle makes him hit even deeper, makes you cry out with the intensity of it.
"Too much?" he asks, but there's a teasing edge to his voice. He knows it's not too much. He knows you can take it.
"No," you gasp. "More. Please, more."
"Greedy," he says with a laugh, but he gives you what you want.
His pace increases, his thrusts getting harder, faster, and you can feel another orgasm building already. It's different this time, deeper and more intense, starting low in your stomach and spreading outward like fire.
His hand slides around to find your clit again, and the added stimulation makes you sob with pleasure. You're so sensitive, so overwhelmed, but you don't want him to stop. You never want him to stop.
"Come on," he urges, his voice strained now. "Give me another one. Want to feel you come apart on my cock again."
The orgasm builds and builds, the pressure almost unbearable, and when it finally breaks you scream into the pillow. Your whole body shakes with it, your inner walls clenching around him so hard you can feel him groan, can feel the way his rhythm falters.
"Fuck," he gasps. "Fuck, you feel so good."
His hips stutter, his grip on your hips tightening almost painfully, and then he's coming with a groan that sounds like it's torn from his chest. You can feel the heat of him spilling inside you, can feel the pulse of his cock, and the sensation triggers another small aftershock that makes you whimper.
He collapses over you, his chest pressed against your back, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You can feel his heart racing against your spine, can feel the way he's trembling slightly, can feel his breath hot and uneven against your shoulder.
For a second, the two of you lay there like that, hearts pounding in sync, the messy slide of your bodies warm and comforting, his scent blooming around you as the mess between your thighs runs down your legs and onto the mattress. You don't care, going near catatonic as Soonyoung presses closer to your scent gland, his tongue darting out to taste you. It makes you moan and push back into him, wanting more and he laughs.
He shifts slightly, starting to pull out, but you make a sound of protest. "Not yet. Stay."
"I'm crushing you," he points out, but he doesn't move.
"Don't care," you say. "Want to feel you."
He makes a soft sound and settles more comfortably against you, his arms wrapping around your waist. He's still inside you, softening but not pulling out, and there's something intimate about it that makes your chest feel tight.
You lie there in the darkness, your bodies cooling, your breathing gradually evening out. You can feel the way his scent is already starting to shift, still hot and thick with rut, but not quite as sharp, not quite as overwhelming.
"How long do ruts usually last?" you ask quietly.
"Three days, usually. Sometimes four." He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "But I don't know if this one will be normal. Everything about it has been weird so far."
"We'll figure it out," you tell him.
He's quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is soft, vulnerable. "Thank you. For this. For helping me. For not being scared of me."
"I would never be afraid of you."
"Even after the past few days?"
"Especially after the past few days." You turn your head to look at him over your shoulder, and even in the dim light, you can see the uncertainty in his eyes. "You were in pre-rut and you were still gentle with me. You were still asking permission. You were still you. That tells me everything I need to know."
He closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath, and when he opens them again, they're suspiciously bright. "I don't deserve you."
"Shut up," you say, but there's no heat in it. "You deserve everything good. And I'm going to make sure you get it."
He kisses your shoulder, soft and sweet and perfect. When he pulls back, you can hear the smile in his voice.
"Round two?" he asks, and you can already feel him starting to harden again inside you.
You laugh, the sound surprised and delighted. "Already?"
"Rut," he says, rolling his hips experimentally and making you gasp. "Told you it was going to be intense. Think you can keep up?"
"Is that a challenge?"
"Maybe. Think you can handle it?"
"I can handle anything you give me," you tell him, and you mean it.
"Good," he says, his voice dropping to that low, commanding tone that makes heat pool in your belly. "Because I'm not done with you yet. Not even close."
"Prove it."
"Oh, I will," he promises. "We've got all night. And all day tomorrow. And the day after that."
"Good," you tell him, rolling your hips and feeling the way he's already fully hard again inside you. "Because I'm not letting you go."
-
The knock comes around late morning, soft but insistent.
You're half-awake when you hear it, drifting in that comfortable space between sleep and consciousness where everything feels warm and syrupy. Soonyoung is sprawled across your chest, his head tucked under your chin, one arm thrown over your waist. His breathing is deep and even, his body finally relaxed after taking you four more times throughout the night on and off. There's an ache between your legs but it feels good, feels right. Like you're right where you should be, pressed against a member of your pack, scents twisted together.
The knock comes again, a little louder this time.
"Come in," you call quietly, not wanting to startle Soonyoung awake too abruptly.
The door opens and Jeonghan steps inside, cradling bottles of water and bowls of rice and chicken. You realize it's what you both need to sustain yourself through Soonyoung's rut and you're immediately grateful, shooting Jeonghan a tired smile. He smirks in response, trailing toward where you and Soonyoung are tangled on the bed.
Soonyoung senses Jeonghan's presence, eyes snapping open. He's up on his elbows in an instant, his body going rigid, and a low growl rumbles from deep in his chest. His lips pull back from his teeth in a snarl that's pure territorial aggression, his pupils dilating as he positions himself between you and Jeonghan like a shield.
Jeonghan doesn't even flinch. Instead, he sets the food and water down on the dresser and turns to Soonyoung, face calm and placid before his face shifts, lips pulling back to bare his teeth at Soonyoung in kind. There's no anger in it, but rather a reminder to Soonyoung that Jeonghan is number two in this pack and Soonyoung's senior and he is not intimidated.
Soonyoung's growl falters. You can feel the moment he recognizes the dynamic, the moment his rut-addled brain processes the hierarchy and accepts it. His teeth retract, his lips closing over them, and he settles back down slightly, though his arm never leaves your waist.
"Keep the teeth away," Jeonghan snorts, walking toward the door. "Congrats on finally figuring it out. You cannot imagine the relief I felt seeing you crawl up here last night."
He turns and exits the room without another word, closing the door quietly behind him.
For a moment, there's silence. You can feel Soonyoung's heart still racing, but his anger is immediately replaced with a sheepish laugh and him awkwardly scratching the back of his head, looking at you.
"Sorry," he laughs. "I've never done that before."
"It's okay," you tell him, reaching back to run your fingers through his hair. "It was cute."
"Cute?" He scoffs. "I'm not cute. I'm tough. I have teeth."
"Uh huh." You lay back on the bed, looking up at him, grinning. "Use those big teeth on me then."
"Yeah?" he asks, his voice dropping to something low and hungry. "You want me to?"
"Yes."
That's all the invitation he needs. He moves fast, rolling you onto your back and pinning you to the mattress in one fluid motion. His hands find your wrists, pressing them gently but firmly into the pillows on either side of your head. His body settles over yours, his weight pressing you down into the bed, and you can feel him already hardening against your thigh.
His teeth find the sensitive skin of your neck, just below your ear, and he bites down gently, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough that you feel it, hard enough that it sends a spike of heat straight through you. He works his way down your neck, marking you with his teeth, and every bite is followed by a soothing lick of his tongue.
"I'll show you teeth," he mutters, scraping them over the curve of your breast.
You grin, arching into him, finally feeling settled and feeling home.
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after a career drought full of dead end positions, you finally land a job you can be proud to include on your resume—prestigious company, room for growth, and most importantly, a salary that will allow you and your boyfriend, soonyoung, to breathe a little easier. what you don’t expect is the discrimination and vitriol you’re met with on the job. as office life gets harder and harder for you, soonyoung finds it increasingly impossible to sit back and watch you repeatedly get hurt like this. so he dusts off a mask he never thought he’d use again, and when your colleagues start dropping dead one by one… well, that’s none of his business.
♫ i did something bad taylor swift
pairing: ghostface!soonyoung x fem!reader
wc: 23k 🤨
tags: horror fic (kinda not really), scream fic, established relationship, alternating povs, normal (used loosely lol) lovers to crazy psycho lovers, screenwriter!soonyoung, corporate slave!reader, “he hates everyone but her” trope except make it “he hates and brutally murders everyone but her” ┐(￣ヘ￣;)┌
a/n: the platinum blonde spiky hair ghostface soonyoung brain rot had me in a chokehold. this all started just bc i saw a gifset of him looking soooo early 00s fuck boy pop star and immediately my brain was like “ghostface hoshi.” so here we are. i do watch horror but like. i’m here for a good time not a critical time LOL. i am no expert on horror movies! i just like watching the more digestible ones, and if there are inconsistencies with the reasoning for becoming a killer or the relationship between killer and lover of killer or how realistically easy it would be to catch the killer… well, just pretend there aren’t :) i’m just trying to eradicate this ghostface hoshi brainworm :) so enjoy it :) or don’t :) this is more for me than anyone else :)
warnings READ ALL OF THEM!
content: murder… obviously (it won’t be overly gory, but it is described, so be careful. it won’t be anyone in svt), he’s a psychopath (again… obviously), blood, knives/stabbing, torture, domestic violence (not between mcs), traumatic brain injury, misogyny, daddy issues, eh mommy issues too why not, male use of the word “whore” and “bitch” against a woman, workplace harassment (bullying, hazing, finance tech red pill bro culture), sexual harassment in the workplace (inappropriate comments, sexualization of reader by male coworkers, etc. but no physical sexual assault takes place), no physical description of reader but she’s called a diversity hire by her harassers (whatever makes her diverse can be up to you), murdered people could possibly share names with idols idk but if they do, that’s a coincidence bc these are just random names, protectiveness to insane levels, possessiveness, codependency, jealousy, toxic and unhealthy relationship, reader is also crazy
smut: marked at beginning and end if you’d like to avoid, unprotected piv, creampie, roleplaying (kinda? like, is it roleplaying if they’re roleplaying as themselves but one of them doesn’t realize it’s themselves?), squirting, kink exploration, mentions of bondage, mentions of blindfolding, mentions of choking, mentions of degradation, mentions of knife play, light breeding kink, shower sex, oral (both receiving), face fucking, fingering, spitting, uh horniness supercharged by murder so… whatever tag that is, dirty talk except make it about murder, honestly don’t look at me
🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
IN AN APARTMENT
a man (jake) dressed in a disheveled suit returns home late at night presumably from work, though from his mannerisms, he seems drunk.
he takes his jacket off and lets it fall to the floor. he is grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge when his phone rings. the number is private. he declines it. when it rings again, he fumbles to hit the right button for several seconds but eventually answers, swaying drunkenly as he does.
JAKE hello? (he hears loud breathing) hello? (no answer) who is this? (hangs up and mutters to himself) fucking weirdos.
his phone rings again, and he watches his cell vibrate on the counter. he closes the fridge door and answers the phone, obviously ready to yell at whoever it is, but he is cut off by a raspy male voice.
PHONE STRANGER hi, jake.
jake freezes, too flustered to speak.
PHONE STRANGER oh come on, don’t be rude. where are your manners? this is where you say hi back. go on, try it.
JAKE who is this?
PHONE STRANGER that’s too easy, don’t you think? and too easy is never any fun.
jake seems to deflate, his exhaustion too potent to argue with a stranger. he hangs up once more. the phone rings again. he answers it in an almost violent fashion.
JAKE leave me alone!
PHONE STRANGER hang up on me again and i’ll take that pretty, little butcher knife (jake’s eyes dart to the knife block on his kitchen island. camera changes focus to knives) and run it down the entirety of your torso until the floor is slick with your blood and organs.
jake looks around the apartment, understanding there is a large chance he is being watched.
camera angle changes to a shaky shot farther away from around the corner in a dark hallway, suggesting whoever is watching is already in the apartment with him. goes back to jake in kitchen.
jake inches forward, wrapping his fingers around the very same knife he was just threatened with.
PHONE STRANGER hiding it won’t help you, jake. and neither will using it. i promise.
jake’s fingers immediately let go and he takes several steps back in horror as he realizes he is definitely being watched.
PHONE STRANGER good boy! (sounds genuinely excited) so you do listen after all. now. let’s start over. hi, jake.
JAKE hi. (voice cracks, clears his throat) what do you want?
stranger clicks tongue in disapproval.
PHONE STRANGER jake, jake, jake. didn’t we talk about manners already? (jake inches toward the front door, stranger laughs) eh, i probably wouldn’t go that way if i were you. (jake freezes, eyes flitting around the room wildly) what do you want to try next?
camera briefly shifts to a dark corner closer to jake now. goes back to kitchen.
JAKE who are you?
PHONE STRANGER my name is hoshi. (jake is very obviously surprised) didn’t expect me to tell you my name, did you? thought i’d keep that a secret? you don’t have to ask either; that’s my real name.
JAKE why?
HOSHI why what?
JAKE why are you telling me your name?
HOSHI well, it doesn’t matter if i tell you my name. it’s going to die with you anyway.
jake quickly takes the phone away from his ear and begins to dial the police. being drunk, he mistypes several times.
HOSHI i won’t try to talk you out of that. someone needs to find your body after all. i do want people to know you’re dead. i want her to know you’re dead. that you’re never going to hurt her ever again. so by all means, call the police. but i assure you. they won’t come in time.
JAKE (in a shaky voice) yes they will.
HOSHI no. they won’t. and you know how i know?
jake finally gets the call going, phone automatically putting hoshi on hold.
HOSHI i know because you’re a dumb ass and you never even put me on speaker.
camera focuses on jake’s face front on as his eyes widen and he freezes. audience hears dispatcher answer the line.
DISPATCH what is your emergency?
hoshi appears behind jake in a white mask, face contorted into a permanent scream, and a black tattered robe. audience hears a squelch as jake’s mouth falls open in pain and he stumbles. his phone falls out of his hand, ending the call.
camera angle switches to side view, where audience can see a hunter knife buried in the middle of jake’s back. hoshi slowly slides the knife out of him, letting him fall to the floor, where he’s immediately crawling away.
hoshi makes no move to follow him yet. simply watches him kick and struggle to stand.
HOSHI i knew you were dumb, but i didn’t realize you were this dumb.
he slowly walks after him, watching as jake pathetically tries to make it to the front door, blood trailing behind him. he crashes into most of his furniture as he stumbles past.
hoshi reaches him and kicks him in his stab wound, causing jake to fall back to the floor, screaming in agony.
JAKE god, why?! WHY?!
HOSHI question of the night, huh?
JAKE (sobbing, turns over and pulls himself away enough until he’s slouched up against the back of his couch) i don’t even know who you are!
hoshi squats down in front of him, forearms on knees, eye level. he keeps his bloody knife threateningly close to jake’s face.
HOSHI but i know who you are. oh man, i know exactly who you are. i’ve heard all about you, jake. more than i should’ve ever had to hear about you.
jake sobs harder as hoshi runs his knife gently across his neck, leaving his own blood on his skin.
HOSHI you couldn’t just be the quiet coworker who came to work, minded his own goddamn business, and went home, huh? you had to be the red pill loser.
JAKE (weakly) what…? i don’t… huh?
HOSHI you hurt her, jake. and when you hurt her… well frankly, you hurt me. and i don’t let anyone get away with hurting me.
JAKE who’s “her”?! who are you?! i don’t even know what you’re talking about, dude. please! please! i promise i won’t tell anyone! i’ll do whatever you want! i’ll give you whatever you want—just let me live!
hoshi doesn’t say anything for several seconds. resembles predator watching prey. when jake starts blubbering and begging, he sighs.
HOSHI what if what i want… (tilts his head menacingly at him) is for you to die… (wipes his knife along the length of his sleeve, cleaning it of blood) an incredibly slow and painful death? hm? what if that’s what i want? will you still give it to me, jake?
JAKE i don’t get it, please, i don’t get it. who are you? what do you want?
HOSHI god you’re a fucking moron, i literally just told you what i fucking want.
he drives his knife into jake’s thigh. when he screams, hoshi backhands him to shut him up.
several seconds pass as jake tries to catch his breath.
JAKE why are you doing this?
hoshi removes his knife from his thigh, just to plunge it into his abdomen. jake doubles over, blood spilling past his lips.
hoshi lets go of the knife, leaving it buried inside jake. he tries to reach up and remove it, but hoshi gently presses a single finger to the hilt. jake screams and lets his hands fall away. hoshi removes his finger.
HOSHI (casually) honestly, it’s kind of futile explaining this to an idiot who gets off of shitting on women.
jake’s breathing is labored as his screams subside.
HOSHI (comically scratches his head) like, how do i even explain love to a greasy little incel like you?
JAKE (incredulously, while stuttering) love?
HOSHI yes, jake. love. you know, it’s so funny. i really, really hated that word for most of my life, and then… one day that just… changed, i guess.
JAKE you’re killing me because… you love… me?
HOSHI (sputters/laughs) what?! are you fucking—what?! (backhands him again) i can’t even fathom how fucking stupid you are! what the fuck? (jake groans) no, you jackass, how could anybody love you? you’re like shit on the bottom of my shoe. (mutters again) what the fuck?
JAKE i don’t get it.
HOSHI (sighs) i know you don’t, dimwit. that’s why i’m not going to bother explaining why you’ll die tonight. you’ll never understand what it’s like to love someone the way i love her. i fucking adore her.
he watches jake carefully, head tilting to the other side like he’s studying his looming death. or enjoying it.
HOSHI and jake (just barely skims one finger from where the blade disappears into flesh, up the hilt of the knife) one thing about me?
jake’s eyes go up to meet the black holes in the mask, breathing coming out in short gasps now.
HOSHI my adoration is killer.
without warning, hoshi grabs his knife once more, other hand holding jake’s shoulder down as he pulls the knife up his torso with alarming force. he makes good on his promise to cover his floors with his own blood and organs.
your life has become a sad routine of miserably crying monday through friday, suffering an emotional hangover on saturdays, and spending the entirety of sunday shaking with anxiety over the mere thought of having to go back to work and do it all over again the next day.
your job, for the most part, is predictable. you expect to come in and endure catcalls, unprovoked insults, glares, and lewd gestures all before you even reach your desk. you expect to have your work—as flawless as you know it is—ridiculed and mocked, just for someone else to copy it word for word, claim it as his own, and receive endless praise for it. you expect your boss to sheepishly shrug and tell you boys will be boys and to be a “team player.” you expect to be told you’re useless, you’re just a diversity hire, and all you’re good for is something nice to look at.
as the only woman on an all-male, all-asshole team, you expect pure torment.
what you don’t expect is to be corralled into the company auditorium with hundreds of other employees first thing in the morning, where you’re all informed that jay, the psychopath you share a cubicle with, was not just playing hooky and skipping work like you and all his buddies assumed, but that he “tragically” passed away earlier this week. you’re in a daze as they tell everyone grief counseling is available and that those close to jay can take bereavement effective immediately if they have to.
what you also don’t expect is to return to your desk, google his obituary, and be met with several articles detailing a gruesome murder that took place in his apartment building. jay isn’t directly named, but you don’t need him to be to know it’s him. the executives were too dodgy about the announcement of his death for this to be about anybody else.
your eyes scan over words like “stabbed,” “bloodied,” “screams,” “ripped,” and “spilled.” the journalist describes it as the most grisly homicide to take place since the “prank call killings”—even goes as far to make connections between jay’s murder and the string of deaths that took place years ago, in a small town not far from where you are.
both involved victims with multiple stab wounds.
both were indicative of a frighteningly large hunting knife with unique serrations used as the weapon.
both ended with the torsos being carelessly cut open down the middle—while the victim was still alive.
the one difference is that police found no evidence of calls made to jay’s phone before his death.
this begs the question: after nearly a decade, has the prank call killer made their return, or has a copycat ascended their throne?
the closing line sends a chill down your spine, but you’re not sure it feels bad.
in fact, there’s one last thing you don’t expect that comes of today: as you turn in your seat to look at jay’s desk, exactly how he left it, you find that you don’t feel horrified about his death. contrarily, you find yourself feeling relieved. elated, even. and that’s what horrifies you.
as the team that housed jay, your boss releases you all from work for the rest of the day, some for the whole week. not you, though—never you. you are expected to return first thing in the morning to begin sorting through jay’s work and figure out where you can fill in and what you can split amongst your coworkers. but you know that won’t be happening; no one on your team would lift a pinkie to help you even if you were on the floor dying. everything jay left behind will be your responsibility now, not that that’s much of an issue. the man was already pawning all his work to you anyway.
“baby?”
soonyoung’s voice filters through the noise of the coffee machine as you close and lock the door behind you. a head of blonde, spiky hair pokes out from around the corner. your boyfriend’s eyebrows are raised, mouth puckered into a cute, surprised o.
“hey, what are you doing back?” he asks as he completely exits the kitchen and walks around the corner. his hands are immediately pressed against your forehead and neck when he reaches you, eyes running up and down your body like he’s checking for injuries. “are you okay? do you have a fever? are you sick?”
you don’t even have the energy to playfully slap him away and roll your eyes like you normally would at his overly worried behavior. you just shake your head slowly.
“what’s wrong?” he mutters, letting his hands fall to snake around your waist. soonyoung watches you so closely and so attentively, you almost swoon enough to forget why you’re so distraught.
“i…”
soonyoung doesn’t urge you to speak, patiently waiting for you to find the words you want to use. you shake your head again.
“jay’s… jay is dead?” you announce, sounding unsure and confused even though it’s literally just a fact now.
soonyoung snorts. “that would be a dream. how would he die? what’s the most satisfying way to imagine it? hit by a bus? fell into an open manhole? choked on a—”
“no,” you interject, gripping his forearms and squeezing. he moves to let go of you but you keep him where he is. “he’s actually dead, soonyoung. like… dead dead.”
he raises an eyebrow, still obviously hesitating. “okay, i want to say you’re joking… but your use of my government name is telling me you’re not…?”
“i’m not!” you insist, slapping his arms away now.
“hey.” he pouts.
“why else would i be home right now?!” you point out. “park told us to take the day off.” you toe off your shoes and push past soonyoung, further into the home you share. “something about grieving.”
you go straight to the couch, flopping onto it face down.
“oh my god?” your boyfriend murmurs in a daze as he follows you, brows furrowed into a deep frown.
he sits on the small sliver of couch you’re not occupying, automatically arranging you so that you’re laying face up against him between his legs. his arms find your waist once more.
“what… what happened…?” he asks, obviously trying to tread the topic carefully. he knows how much you hated jay—hell, as your biggest supporter, he hated him too. but for him to die? you’re full of complicated feelings. “is that why he’s been skipping work?”
you nod. “and it’s not just that… park and the other execs didn’t say this, but… i looked up his name to see if i could read the obituary.”
“mmm,” he hums, nodding. “tracks for a nosy girl like you.”
“not the time!” you whine, already pulling away. he tightens his arms around you, keeping you from moving.
“okay, okay! sorry! i’ll be serious—i swear! i’m sorry!”
you huff and relax against him once more.
“so you looked up his obituary…” he encourages you to continue, voice lower as he tries to be serious—a feat for him, honestly.
“i… i think jay was murdered.”
you whisper the words without meaning to, like you’re scared of giving life to them. like if you say them loud enough, the prank call killer—or their copycat—will come bursting through the door and shred you and the love of your life into ribbons of blood and flesh.
soonyoung remains quiet and you can almost hear the gears in his head turning as he tries to find the correct thing to say. you bet he’s trying to scour his brain for anything that isn’t an inappropriate joke.
“murdered…?” he asks in a small voice. “why… how…?”
you rest your hands over his on your stomach, pressing even further into him as you retell what you read.
a victim was found in his own apartment, stab wounds to his back and left thigh. it was clear he was attacked in his kitchen and that his assailant let him make it halfway to his front door… before they cornered him against his own couch. then, they gutted him—from lower abdomen to sternum, where his bones wouldn’t give any more way for the knife. they didn’t name him. they didn’t even describe his appearance. all they said was that he was 28, and he lived alone.
but you knew, and from the way you spoke, you were confident soonyoung wouldn’t question you about it. he was good at trusting you and believing in you.
“that’s… fucking barbaric…” he breathes out after you recount the story. “i mean, the guy was a fucking asshole, but… that’s… i mean, it’s… i—”
“i feel happy.” you blurt out the words that have been brewing in your head since you left the office.
to his credit, your boyfriend has taken most of this information well despite the poorly timed jokes. but at this new revelation, his entire body tenses against yours, and you immediately regret being honest.
“you think i’m a monster, don’t you?” you ask quietly, ready for him to gently remove you from him. to admonish you. maybe even leave. “you think—”
“i don’t think you’re a monster.”
he says it with so much conviction, you believe it the first time he says it. soonyoung repeats it anyway.
“i don’t think you’re a monster, baby. please don’t say that. i’m just… surprised. i mean i’m definitely not mourning the guy, but i know how these kinds of things can upset you.”
you know he’s referring to all the times news headlines made you cry, or the times bleak documentaries pushed you into a weird episode of feeling like there was no meaning to life and everything was pointless. you’ve always been easily affected by the world around you, so it’s fair for him to be surprised that being this close in proximity to a victim of such inexplicable violence doesn’t send you straight into a panic attack.
“he just… he made my life so hard, soonie,” you say, not expecting the tears that fill your eyes. your voice cracks on your boyfriend’s name and he immediately rests his lips against the crown of your head and whispers his love for you.
“i know,” he says after he’s told you he loves you at least a dozen times. “trust me, i know.”
soonyoung actually knows best because he’s the one who’s picking up the pieces when you come home broken and inconsolable. he’s the one who calms you down enough to explain what happened this time.
jay purposefully knocked your coffee over a report that took you a week. jay took credit for a project you were forced to collaborate with him on—a project you ended up doing all by yourself. jay was telling everyone you were a ditzy bimbo that couldn’t do her job right. jay went out drinking with the boss and spent the whole night talking shit about you. jay wouldn’t stop trying to convince you you were only hired because you had a pair of tits. that those tits are all you’re ever going to be worth.
he’s the entire reason the team is the way they are around you now. he’s the one who emboldened them to treat you the way they do.
and day after day, week after week, for almost a year now, soonyoung has had to endure all your rants—rants that were exactly the same because you didn’t know how to stand up for yourself. the only thing you knew how to do was “be a team player” in the hopes that you could find a promotion into another team or even better, a new job altogether.
being the best boyfriend there is, soonyoung never complained about your venting. even on nights he had to abandon the latest script he was working on, even on days he had to call in sick to the writers’ room because he had insisted on staying up until the sun rose, consoling you—he never complained or even hinted that he was tired of you. not once.
even more meaningful to you, he never chastised you for being unable to find the strength to speak back or enforce your boundaries, something you were already plenty embarrassed about. he never made you feel less than; he knew you already had enough of that from the men in your work life.
soonyoung was the gentleness and softness you craved and needed so desperately in your life. he was safety and love and warmth and he was what continuously healed you as your job tried over and over again to break you.
he knew all of this. he knew how much you hated it and how much you hated jay, and it comforts you to know that he doesn’t think you’re a monster for being happy he’s dead. it gives you the courage to be even more honest with him.
“i’m relieved,” you tell him, wiping away your tears. “i’m so relieved he’s gone, and that it’s over. that maybe now… maybe now, i’ll be safe.”
his hold on you tightens and he leaves more kisses in your hair.
“and… i feel like a terrible person saying this…”
“whatever it is, you’re not. so don’t.”
it’s the push you need.
“i’m glad he suffered,” you admit, feeling lighter as soon as it’s out of your mouth. “i’m not just happy he died… i’m glad he died in the most heinous way. and i’m glad his killer made it hurt.”
once the words are out, you can’t take them back. and soonyoung doesn’t make you feel like you should. after a few seconds of silence, he just sighs and leans forward to kiss your cheek.
“then i am too, baby. if you’re happy, then i’m happy.”
he says it like you didn’t just tell him the grossest thing you’ve ever said in your life. and when you look up and catch his reflection in the window opposite of you, unbeknownst to him, you find him smiling into your hair almost like he’s pleased with you. you believe that he really is happy when you’re happy.
and honestly, you love him even more for it.
“i love you, soonie.”
“i adore you,” he says, his favorite way to express his affection for you—even moreso than “love,” though he learned to return the four-letter word once you expressed how important it was to you. “endlessly.” he pauses briefly before promising: “i’ll love you forever.”
it takes just one week, when everyone returns from their bereavement, for you to realize you aren’t safe—that jay’s death just put his friends on edge and made them more dangerous than ever. that for some fucked up reason, they felt that torturing you was the best way they could keep their sick friend’s memory alive.
and it makes you wish they were all dead too.
🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
as hoshi stands over his bed, clean of the blood he shed just hours ago and watching his girlfriend sleep, a montage of traumatic events from hoshi’s childhood begins flashing—switching between his memories and their bedroom until his memories win out.
FLASHBACK
a very young hoshi screams as he throws his tiny body against his father’s uselessly. his father has his hands around his mother’s neck, choking her mercilessly.
YOUNG HOSHI stop it! stop! get off my mommy! (begins punching but makes no headway) stop! please!
DAD you think i wouldn’t hear about you coming around to that dead beat’s house under the guise of asking for sugar, you fucking whore?!
YOUNG HOSHI please! mommy!
hoshi’s father removes one hand from his wife’s neck to shove his son aside. hoshi stumbles several steps before falling and hitting his head on the corner of the table and blacking out.
memory moves to hoshi’s recovery, when he is back home with a bandage around his head. blood blooms on the back of it. he is freshly woken up, in his pajamas, and his mother is changing the dressing on his injury.
there is something eerily blank about his face.
MOM (in a hoarse voice) let me know if it hurts, sweetheart.
YOUNG HOSHI okay. (pauses in what seems to be thought, though his expression does not change) will you let me know if it hurts too?
camera follows his gaze, focusing on the bruises around her neck. his mother’s hands still on his head before she continues in silence.
hoshi does not urge her to answer him, his eyes almost glazing over as he stares at her bruises. his mother finishes up changing the bandaging.
MOM you don’t worry your cute, little head about mommy, okay? in fact—
she pauses to put the medical supplies away into the first aid kit resting on the nightstand and smooths her dress before crouching in front of hoshi’s bed. she takes his hands in hers.
MOM mommy doesn’t want you interfering like that ever again, okay? (hoshi’s face remains blank as he meets her eyes now) when you hear daddy or mommy shouting, i want you to stay right here, in your bed, with the door shut and locked, and i don’t want you to come out until i come get you, alright?
YOUNG HOSHI am i in trouble?
MOM no, no sweetie. you’re not in trouble. but daddy will be home soon. in the next day or so. and mommy needs you to be safe and healthy, so will you promise me that you’ll stay out of it?
YOUNG HOSHI why does daddy hurt you?
MOM daddy is… he’s sick, sweetheart.
YOUNG HOSHI if someone is sick, is it okay for us to let them hurt us?
despite hoshi’s blank stare, his mother recognizes this will be a pivotal moment that informs the way her son sees the world. she blinks rapidly as her thoughts go into overdrive and she tries not to cry.
MOM (whispers) no. (she pauses, shaking her head and quickly wiping away her tears before returning her hand to hoshi’s) no, it’s not okay. you don’t let anybody hurt you, sweetheart. not you. no one hurts you.
YOUNG HOSHI why do you let daddy hurt you?
MOM i… i love him, hoshi. i love your father. and he loved me once too. maybe he will again. but either way, i will still love him. he gave me you.
hoshi’s blank stare breaks at this, like the idea of any part of him being from his father bothers him. like he realizes he might be the only reason his mother stays with his father.
YOUNG HOSHI you love him… (his mother nods) i never want to love someone then.
memory moves years forward, when hoshi is 17. they remain in the same home, but messier and much sadder. colors are cooler than the past warmer memories audience has seen before.
hoshi is seated on the edge of a bigger bed now, in the same position as the previous memory, this time without his mom.
hands grip the comforter tensely. works his jaw anxiously as he stares, expressionless, at the door.
sound is muffled as camera zooms in on door. audience hears high-pitched whining sound as shots quickly flash between the door, hoshi on the bed, and the blood that spread on the floor from his head injury when he was young.
the whining gets louder as all the memories that flash now focus on young hoshi’s traumatic brain injury (blood, his mother screaming, blood, cops, stitches, bandages, blood, blood, blood).
the sound comes back full volume as the flashing comes back and stops on his closed room door.
MOM i’m sorry! i’m—
his mother’s pleas are cut off with her own scream as the walls shake and boom with the force of her body being thrown against them.
hoshi relaxes his fingers and smooths the comforter where he wrinkled it. he stands calmly, making his way to the door. his hand hovers over the locked handle.
flashes back to his conversation with his mom.
MOM will you promise me that you’ll stay out of it?
young hoshi’s face is blank but the way his eyes search his mother’s face in a way audience did not see before now implies that he possibly could’ve been weighing his options, even as a child.
YOUNG HOSHI why does daddy hurt you?
back to 17-year-old hoshi.
HOSHI (mutters to himself) you never promised.
audience sees he made it to the kitchen during the flashback. he faces the doorway from the kitchen to the living room.
camera focuses on door. mother is thrown across the living room, father stalks after her. the sounds of punching are heard but they’re beginning to muffle again.
flashes back.
MOM you don’t let anybody hurt you, sweetheart. not you. no one hurts you.
flashes back to memory from beginning of film.
MOM (both sprawled across grass on a sunny day) you and i, we’re one, hosh. you’re made of me, and i’m made of you!
YOUNG HOSHI i’m you and you’re me?
MOM hm. not quite but sure, yes! and we’ll always have each other.
flashes to conversation after brain injury.
YOUNG HOSHI why do you let daddy hurt you?
MOM i… i love him, hoshi.
we come back to teen hoshi in the kitchen. his mother’s voice is still there, but as muffled as the rest of the sounds are.
he walks forward and calmly retrieves the biggest knife from the block on the counter.
MOM (muffled voiceover) i love your father. and he loved me once too.
he weighs the knife in his hand and flips it so he’s holding it blade up. he holds it like someone who’s practiced this before.
he turns back toward the living room, walking to the doorway that separates it from the kitchen.
MOM (muffled voiceover) maybe he will again.
he watches as his father punches his mother wherever she can’t block him. as he takes a step forward, the high-pitched whining returns, the camera begins to shake, and the house seemingly starts to crumble around him as he walks forward.
scenes once again flash between hoshi approaching his father, the conversation on the bed, and the blood pooling from his brain injury.
MOM (voiceover, warped by the whining) but either way, i will still love him.
the scenes flashing now show bits of hoshi reaching his father amongst the rubble of their home, grabbing him by the shoulder and yanking him off his mother and onto his feet.
whining and shaking reaches a fever pitch before going eerily silent and the scene shows sunlight filtering through leaves.
MOM (clear voice) he gave me you.
camera comes back to hoshi and his mother sprawled across the grass. the memory is different this time.
MOM (said less warmly, more an order now) you and i, we’re one, hosh. you’re made of me, and i’m made of you.
as dialogue progresses, sun disappears, covered by dark clouds. hoshi sits up and narrows his eyes at the sky. when he turns toward his mom, he sees they are now both in the living room, the house completely in tact again, and she’s holding his small body—the younger version of him, limp in her arms as he watches from across the room. she’s covered in his blood, and so is the floor and coffee table.
MOM (blankly with no urgency) you and i. we’re one. someone hurts me, they hurt you. and what did i tell you?
HOSHI (voiceover as camera begins to follow the trail of blood gushing from young hoshi’s head) no one hurts me.
complete silence, camera still following young hoshi’s blood as it flows across the hardwood floor.
the flow joins the massive pool around two pairs of shoes, both facing each other. camera stays there for a few moments, before his mother’s screams pierce the silence.
camera slowly travels up hoshi’s legs from behind, until it reaches his head, where it looks like his dad is embracing him.
something heavy falls into the blood (presumably organs), creating a splashing noise, and shortly after that, hoshi shoves his father. it’s clear he had simply died and collapsed onto him.
his mother starts screaming and sobbing over his body for several minutes, but hoshi finds that he feels relieved, his face breaking out into the smallest smile for the first time since he hit his head.
when his mother gains her senses, she grabs his face between her hands, her own face bloody, puffy, and bruised.
MOM go! you have to go! they won’t understand, they’ll take you to jail, hoshi! you have to leave!
HOSHI (frowning) but we’re safe now.
his mother freezes.
HOSHI he’s gone. we’re safe now.
MOM (she swallows and nods shakily) we are. but i can’t let them take you to prison, sweetheart.
his mom begins leading him through the house, quickly forcing him to change out of his blood-soaked clothes, gathering important belongings and food, finding years’ worth of hidden emergency cash she never found the courage to use, stuffing it into his backpack.
HOSHI mom… what… i…
his mother brings him to the back door, weaving his arms through the backpack and smiling unconvincingly. she takes his face in her hands once more and kisses both cheeks as her tears start to fall.
MOM you be safe, okay?
HOSHI are you mad at me? do you hate me?
MOM what? no, no, sweetie. no. (said forcefully. pauses to think) i’ve only ever felt adoration for you, hoshi. adoration and nothing else. i’m sorry i let this happen. i’m sorry i subjected you to this.
HOSHI mom—
MOM but you need to go now, okay? the neighbors will have heard all the screaming. take the cash, go far away, and whatever you do, don’t come back.
HOSHI but—
MOM go!
she all but shoves him out of the door. she lingers there for a moment, trying her best to let the last memory of his mom be one of her smiling. she whispers an i love you before slamming the door shut.
PRESENT
we return to present-day hoshi, who is now seated on the edge of his girlfriend’s side of their bed. he strokes her hair away from her face as she breathes softly, still asleep.
he smiles, obviously, genuinely in love.
HOSHI (whispers) adoration.
you’re back at work the next day, much to soonyoung’s chagrin. he had been hoping you’d get the rest of the week off, and maybe he could get out of going into the writers’ room and keep you company at home. but he knows that was wishful thinking, especially with how set your team has been on not only working you to the bone, but ruining your life. but at least you enjoy the rest of the week since no one else is there to bother you.
for the first time since jay entered your life, you start to look light again. you start to smile more freely, joke more, and come home with bright eyes. it brings him hope that this is how it will be now—that he did the right thing.
though, he already knows for a fact he did the right thing.
soonyoung can’t describe the pure ecstasy that ran through his veins the moment you admitted you were happy that jay was dead—not only that you were happy he was gone, but that you were glad the killer made it hurt. you didn’t say it, but he heard it loud and clear.
you were proud of him for what he did. you adored him for the way he punished jay, and he would do it again. no matter how many times it took—how many lives it took—he would spill gallons and gallons of blood for you, and he would do it happily. no one would ever hurt you again. not with him around, and he planned to be around until you were both buried six feet deep.
there wasn’t anything that could beat this feeling, he had decided the moment you bared your heart to him—so naked and vulnerable, and still trusting him to hold it gently. you weren’t horrified by his means of protection. you weren’t running the other direction. you were grateful. and he doesn’t know why he thought you would be any other way. there’s a reason he’s with you, after all.
if there’s anything even remotely similar to a soulmate, that’s what you are. you’re meant to be his—made to be his. and he was made to be yours—to serve you, to keep you safe, to kill for you. it doesn’t matter that his habit started long before he ever even met you; now, his talents are only reserved for you.
and it made excitement bubble under the surface of his skin knowing you liked it. you didn’t even know he was jay’s murderer—hell, you didn’t even know he was the prank call killer—and you still admired his work anyway.
“what are you smiling at?”
he startles and looks up to see jihoon peering at his laptop screen, still only half a page full although they’ve been in the writers’ room the whole day. his colleague and friend frowns.
soonyoung sighs. “just daydreaming, man,” he says. it’s not dishonest. he shuts his laptop and stretches in his seat before standing and drawing the attention of the small handful of writers left. “going to head out now, everyone. got a pretty lady waiting for me at home. don’t stay too late, okay?”
he gets the usual playful eye rolls and smiles and cooing from the others as he slaps jihoon on the back and promises to get dinner with him soon. at work, he’s only known for three things: the exceptional writing that got him his lead position on the show, his fixation on horror movies, and his “obsession” with you. he liked it—the idea that when people thought of him, they immediately thought of you too. they know you belong to each other, and that’s exactly how he wants it.
soonyoung barely has the car started and in reverse when you call. he answers immediately.
“hey, baby, i’m just lea—”
“soonyoung?”
his heart stops at the sound of your voice. it’s clear you’ve been crying. for how long, he doesn’t know, but your words are still thick with tears. you sound exhausted and broken and worst of all, defeated. you sound like the day you came home and he decided he was going to kill jay—the first person he’s killed since he graduated college almost 10 years ago.
he puts the car back into park, clenching his jaw for a moment so that his first response to you isn’t tell me his name and i’ll have his head in front of you in an hour.
“soonie?” you whimper. “are you there? i’m sorry to call, i know you’re at work. i—”
“y/n, where are you?” he asks as calmly as he can.
“i’m home,” you answer, voice so small, it makes his rage burn hotter.
the fact that you’re home gives him at least some relief.
“i was hoping you’d be here,” you tell him, voice shaky. “i just need someone to talk to. i had…” you whisper your next words like if you’re any louder, you’ll completely break down. “i thought work would be better. fuck, soonie, i thought work was going to be better.” your words devolve into devastated sobs as you repeat yourself.
soonyoung’s instinct is to race to you, to hold you until your tears stop, and to put you to bed and make sure that every time you wake up from a nightmare, he’s still there, arms tight around you, unyielding. protecting you and in turn, protecting himself.
but his mask, robe, and knife are still in the trunk from his visit to jay’s last week, and right now, he thinks that paying a visit to whichever idiot you’re going to tell him about is the best way he can help.
he forces himself to turn the engine off.
“tell me everything,” he says softly, though his body feels so tense, he thinks he might pop a blood vessel.
“you’re not busy, are you?” you hiccup through your tears. “i can wait until you—”
“i’m not busy, love,” he says, eye inadvertently twitching from using the word.
soonyoung still struggles with it. he tries not to because it’s an affection that makes you feel comforted and, well, loved, and he’ll do anything to make you feel that way. still, he doesn’t know how to keep it from feeling like an insult to you.
love was what his father gave his mom. love was what made his mom stay with a monster. what he has for you isn’t the same; it’s leagues beyond it. he doesn’t think there’s a word for what he feels for you at all.
“go on,” he encourages you. “i’m listening. tell me.”
and you do.
soonyoung used to think he never had a control issue with his habit. it wasn’t something he craved or thought about the way he read that other serial killers did. no, his murderous tendencies only ever reared its ugly, useful head when he needed a solution for an ugly, useless lowlife.
the first was his father. something about cutting his stomach wide open, feeling the warmth of him rush over his hands, hearing the sound of him fall to his feet in pieces—he decided that would be the way it happened each time. he wanted to see a man who didn’t know how to treat a person right—and he wanted to feel the life flow right out of him. without meaning to, it became his M.O.
he found himself hopping city to city after being forced from his home, and there was no shortage of men who needed correction—or, eradication. it was simple at first; he’d see a horrible interaction between lovers or a father and a child or classmates or even strangers, he’d follow the offender until they were alone, and he’d gut them like a pig. he didn’t think about hiding or burying the body, leaving it in plain sight to humiliate his victims further. he didn’t even have his mask yet, and in retrospect, he’s not sure how he didn’t get caught because he was careless in those early days.
he took it as a sign from the universe that he was doing exactly what he was supposed to.
soonyoung was smart with the money his mom left him and picked up part-time jobs until he had enough to put himself through school. university was crawling with losers begging to be killed, but he was a little older and a little wiser, and he knew a serial killer on campus would draw too much attention. so he forced himself to focus on the worst of the worst. and that was when he realized his M.O. was evolving.
it started with a frat president rumored to drug and take advantage of girls at their house parties. soonyoung watched him for a whole semester, taking note of his schedule, his routes, his haunts, his friends. then, he started calling him. nothing more than heavy breathing at first. but when he could hear the man’s nerves fraying—and that didn’t take long—he started talking to him. he found that he liked psychologically torturing him as much as he’d tortured the girls he’d hurt.
hi, allen.
who i am isn’t important.
i hear you can’t get a woman to consent to having sex with you. what’s the problem? is it small? well, even if it is, that isn’t really an issue—just gotta know what to do with it, right?
well, i mean, why else would you resort to drugging and assaulting women?
don’t lie to me. i see everything.
one night, weeks after he’d started calling allen, soonyoung had one last phone conversation with him, one where he was no longer bluffing. he actually was seeing everything, standing in the dark corners of the kitchen in their fraternity house—this time in full disguise—while allen and his brothers got drunk in the backyard.
oh, allen, it’s a bad night to be drunk, buddy.
why? because i’m going to free this campus of you tonight. gonna cleanse the floors of this horrid fucking house with your blood.
it’s too late for “sorry,” allen. besides, i’m not the one who needs to hear it.
the frat president tried to stay with at least one person at all times after the call, but as his brothers got drunker and drunker and started stumbling off to bed or passing out, allen found himself alone. and in the morning, his brothers found him the same way, except this time, with his insides all over the outside.
soonyoung killed two more people while in college, and even though they were far enough apart, he still got dubbed the prank call killer, a name he found childish and dumb. besides, he didn’t want a name; he wanted men to be scared. at least scared enough to try to be decent.
then, college ended, he packed up to follow the shows he wanted to write for, and it led him to you. and he didn’t have time to think about anybody else, let alone plot their demise. soonyoung was occupied by you, your smile, your laugh, your scent, the way you made him feel normal—the way you made him feel at all, something he struggled with since his accident as a child. and once he actually had you? it was over. he knew there was no possible way he’d ever be able to let go of you ever again.
and the killing just… stopped. with you, he learned how to make friends—made a ton of them. he learned to enjoy other people and their company. he learned how to love, even if it sometimes made him want to plunge a knife into his own stomach. but he did it for you because he adored you, and nothing was more important than you.
so no, he didn’t think he had a control issue. it was largely easy minding his own business and refraining from stabbing men left and right when he had you next to him.
but then, you started this stupid fucking job. you met jay and all his little cronies, and soonyoung realized it wasn’t a matter of his control; it was a matter of your safety and happiness. because now that you were the center of his universe, you two were one. if someone hurt you, they were hurting him.
and the way he sees it, his only job is to make sure no one hurts him. no one messes with what’s his.
it’s not about control. he has none now. it’s about you.
by the time you finish telling him everything that happened that day, he has a strange calmness about him he hasn’t felt since before you. he can’t do anything but stare blankly forward, watching as employees of the studio walk to their cars and pull away.
“i’m so over it,” you grunt, having passed from sad to angry fairly quickly. “i don’t think i can do this anymore, soonie. i know money would be tight and i don’t want to put that stress on us but—”
“no, don’t be silly,” he says, feeling like he’s on autopilot. “please quit, baby. i’ve wanted you to quit since the first day; i just… didn’t want to be that boyfriend.” he means every word and yet, he can’t feel any of them as they leave his mouth. “we’ll figure it out. please quit.”
there’s a heavy silence between the lines until you sigh deeply. “okay, love. i will. i’ll do it.”
he thinks he should feel relieved. he doesn’t and he knows he won’t until he kills them. “yeah? you will?” he asks, hoping he sounds excited enough. “you promise?”
your smile is loud and clear as you speak. “yes, i promise, soonie. i’m going to march in there tomorrow and quit without notice, and i’ll tell them i hope they all drop dead—no!”
you gasp and correct yourself.
“i’ll tell them i hope the prank call killer comes for them just like they did for jay!”
soonyoung feels something then. he doesn’t know what; he can’t define it, but it quickly grows into something bigger the more you speak. it pulls both his spirits and the corners of his lips up. it kisses him and fills him with light. it makes him feel alive, more than a shell for a soul he isn’t even sure he has.
“i don’t even know if any of them realize what really happened,” you think aloud before sighing like you’re daydreaming. “ugh, what i wouldn’t pay to see them on the news like that. ‘grisliest murders since prank call killings plague corporate hell’! that would be nice, huh?”
soonyoung smirks. that, he can deliver.
“yeah, baby. it would. a headline like that… i’d die happy.”
“me too,” you agree before telling him: “no one gets me like you do, soonie.”
his heart soars.
🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
after he’s done gagging howard—so tightly, the fabric is cutting into his skin, a punishment for the earlier kick to the head—hoshi stands in front of the two men, leaning up against the pool table and watching them.
they both have cuts and bruises on their faces, from the struggle to get them into the dining chairs, but hoshi’s knife is still nowhere in sight.
HOSHI (begins mindlessly and slowly pacing in front of them) i bet you want to ask me who i am… what i want… why i’m doing this, right?
howard glares at him but chris is already crying.
HOSHI and usually, i’d entertain the questions because prolonging the hope that you’re going to survive makes this more fun for me, but… (stops facing away from them) i’m tired. and i think i’m beyond having fun tonight. (turns head toward them and chris flinches at the mask) i think… (fully turns toward them with hunting knife in hand, catching the light) i just want to wipe you two off the face of this earth and be done with it.
howard’s glare falters and chris urinates on himself. hoshi snorts.
HOSHI (walks up to chris, who cringes away from him) chris, right? (leans down so chris is face to face with his mask) i asked you a question.
chris nods obediently and quickly, gag soaked in his own tears.
HOSHI so you’re the one who called my girl a bitch, hm? (chris frowns but he doesn’t seem to know exactly who hoshi is yet) called her a bitch in front of the whole office… told her she’d be better sucking your dick under the desk than trying to assign you work?
howard’s eyes widen as he realizes exactly who hoshi is talking about. chris starts sobbing loudly, begging for his life incoherently through the gag.
HOSHI (looks down at chris’s soiled lap, points his knife at his crotch) you want her to suck this dick?
chris’s begging becomes more desperate, thrashing in his seat as he realizes what’s about to happen.
HOSHI (looks up at chris briefly and huffs a single laugh) what dick?
he shoves his knife into chris’s crotch. chris screams in muffled agony and howard starts shrieking and flailing in an attempt to scoot his chair away from the other two.
camera is focused on hoshi’s upper half and audience can see his arm jerking quickly back and forth as chris’s screams continue and howard finally starts crying. then, there’s a dull thud on the floor, and hoshi straightens back up and takes a step away, knife disappearing in his robes as he tilts his head and views his work.
HOSHI looks like there isn’t a dick to suck there, chris. shame.
chris’s wailing continues as hoshi looks to howard now, who begins shaking his head and crying through his gag.
HOSHI and you, you annoying little fuck. (crouches in front of howard) it wasn’t enough that you’re making her life a living hell, you wanted to piss me off even more and kick me in the head, huh?
hoshi rips his mask off, revealing his face to howard. there’s already a bruise spreading across the top of his left cheek. he smirks.
HOSHI my name is hoshi, if you’re wondering. and yeah. i’m her boyfriend. and as her boyfriend, she tells me all kinds of things. i’m sure you can imagine.
he stands up and walks back to the pool table, resting his mask against the felt before turning, leaning up against it once more, and crossing his arms.
HOSHI and today, she had a lot to tell me. she told me that jake’s two closest idiot friends were trying to continue his legacy as biggest asshole in the office. do you know how jake died, howard? won’t bother asking mr. no-dick, over there. seems busy.
camera goes to chris, who keeps fading in and out of consciousness, face soaked with sweat, tears, and drool slipping out of his open mouth.
HOSHI no guesses? (a gagged howard looks at him incredulously) okay, fine, fine, i’ll tell you. i killed him.
even though his tone sounds prideful as he speaks, his face is blank. he stares at howard with soulless eyes, and it unnerves him further.
HOSHI i snuck into his apartment while he was out drinking with you guys. (howard makes a noise of surprise) yeah, that’s right. you two were the last people to see that moron alive. i should probably thank you. (tilts his head up at the ceiling like he’s reliving the memory) his inebriated state made it a lot easier to tease and kill him. not a lot of fight in that one. surprising, don’t you think? (head remains tilted at ceiling, but eyes flash down to meet howard’s) that someone who tormented a woman’s life the way he did would die so easily… so quietly… so… pathetically.
chris regains consciousness and starts screaming and sobbing again, head hung over where his member used to be
HOSHI (brings his head down and looks at chris now) how will you two die? (eyes slide over to howard) will you beg for your life the way jake did? will you… offer me meaningless apologies and promises? will you… tell me that you’ll give me whatever i want?
he brings out his knife again and wipes it against howard’s pool table, smearing chris’s blood against the green felt. he inspects it like he’s making sure it’s sharp enough. camera focuses on hoshi’s reflection in the blade.
HOSHI (shrugs, puts knife down) i guess we’ll see in a few moments—how similar you are to jake. i will say, (pushes off the pool table, taking his mask with him) you two seem to be even worse than that deadbeat. do you agree, chris?
chris screams at the mere mention of his name, convulsing as hoshi walks closer to both of them. he stops just a couple of steps away from them, right in between the two.
HOSHI jake was a demeaning, narcissistic misogynist. and i tore him wide fucking open. let his intestines spill all over his own floor. made his living room a shallow sea of red.
both howard and chris beg through their gags.
HOSHI can you imagine what i’ll do to you if i think you’re even worse? (puts his mask back on and looks at howard) can you imagine what i’ll do to the man who told the whole office that he was gonna fuck the ambition and fight out of my girl, whether she liked it or not? what do you think i’ll do to that man if i made a massacre out of the dumbass who said a few mean things?
howard desperately shrieks excuses against his gag, no success in saying even one understandable word.
HOSHI (sighs like he’s come to a decision) yeah, i’m beyond having fun tonight. (quickly slashes chris’s throat, shallow enough that it will take a long time for him to bleed out. howard screams) at least with him. but with you? (crouches in front of howard again) the night has only started for you, howard.
IN THEIR HOME
TV NEWS ANCHOR authorities are doing their best to calm increasingly panicked citizens as fears that a serial killer is rampant on our streets spread. last week, 29-year-old jake lee was found brutally murdered in his downtown apartment (camera view switches to hoshi’s girlfriend as she tidies up around their living room. she looks pleased upon hearing that sentence), stabbed multiple times. last night, police answered multiple calls to 911 reporting the screams of a man in their high-rise apartment.
she stops tidying, turning to look at the news broadcast from where she stands. her eyes are wide and her mouth hangs open in surprise.
TV NEWS ANCHOR upon entering, they found 27-year-old howard wang and 25-year-old chris vu’s bodies in the former’s apartment. authorities have not yet released details of the crime, but sources report that the nature of their deaths is comparable to that of jake lee’s. we have maya on the scene, reporting.
the tv turns off as she sinks into the couch, obviously in a dazed shock. the camera focuses on her from straight ahead, slowly zooming in on her for several, silent seconds until only the lower half of her face is visible. after a few more moments, she smiles.
you watch soonyoung carefully as he washes the dishes, something he insisted on doing since you cooked tonight. you think it’s the least you can do for the sole earner of the household now that you’re unemployed, but he refused to let you do it yourself.
from where you stand, you have a clear view of his sharp profile. the bruise he says he got from falling down the stairs at work earlier this week has become a deep purple, spreading across his cheekbone and toward his jawline. you suppose he could’ve gotten that in a fall. a fall that took place the same night hayden and charles were murdered. the same night you told him you wished jay’s killer would come for them next.
you want to say your boyfriend would never do something that insane. you want to say your boyfriend doesn’t have the kind of temperament required to commit vengeful crimes like these. but after almost ten years together, you think there have been enough signs to make you take pause.
soonyoung almost never got visibly jealous—never paid any attention to men who looked at you a little too long or sent the server to deliver you a drink. he was confident in his trust in you. it should’ve been comforting how unbothered he was by the attention you received, but sometimes, you felt offended that he wasn’t at least a little bit jealous.
these thoughts were vanquished immediately when one night, someone grabbed you at a bar. it wasn’t even inappropriate; the man just took you by your forearm and yanked you toward him in an attempt to keep you from getting crushed by a drunken patron who had zero spatial awareness.
you’ll never forget the rage you saw in soonyoung’s eyes when they landed on the stranger’s hold on your arm. he didn’t do anything—simply threw the hand off you and led you away, but the look stayed with you. it was a raw, all-consuming, unadulterated, and unchecked rage you don’t think you’ve ever seen with your own eyes before.
the kind of rage you think could be capable of murder, given the right circumstances.
it should’ve scared you. just like the idea of soonyoung murdering your coworkers one by one should scare you. but it didn’t, and it doesn’t now. exactly like back then, it gets you wetter faster than foreplay itself.
soonyoung turns the faucet off and wipes his hands on the towel. when he turns, he’s so startled to find you standing so close to him, he stumbles back.
“oh shit,” he breathes, laughing a little. “i didn’t realize you were so close. you move so quietly.” he notices the way you stare at him intently. like it’s second-nature, he wraps himself around you and pulls you into his chest. “what’s up, baby?”
“i want to try something,” you say softly, a little hesitantly.
you know what you’re about to ask for is depraved and worrisome and… inhumane. but you can’t bring yourself to care right now, not when your panties are this soaked at the thoughts flying wildly around your head.
“okay,” soonyoung says, laughing a little. “can you be more specific?”
“i want… to roleplay a little,” you say, gaze going down to soonyoung’s neck, then his chest. your fingers trace the edges and dips of his collarbones and his pecs.
his grip on you tightens. “is that right?” he says, smirking. “and who do you want us to pretend to be? are we strangers in a bar?”
you shake your head. “no, not strangers in a bar.”
“okay,” he acquiesces easily.
soonyoung is always eager to give you whatever you want, and it bolsters your confidence to ask this of him. he leans down to graze your ear with his lips.
“am i your sexy sidepiece you’re cheating on your boring ass husband with?” he whispers, running his hands down to your ass and gently squeezing, pressing your hips against his so you can feel him already hardening from this conversation alone.
you smile, eyes fluttering closed as he nips at your lobe. “nope, not that either.”
“tell me who you want me to be, and i’ll be whatever it is, baby.” he subtly grinds into you and you try not to moan.
“you promise you won’t judge me?” you whisper.
“i would never,” he promises, leaving open-mouthed kisses down your neck now.
“i want you to be him,” you say as he starts to bite and suck. “i want you to be the prank call killer.”
he completely freezes in your arms, mouth still against your skin. for a horrifying minute, you think you’ve crossed the line. of course soonyoung is going to think you’re a freak for asking something so debauched and immoral of him. you have little to no evidence that he would ever enjoy something like this.
you’re about to push him away and start groveling for forgiveness and promising to seek therapy, when he grabs you by the face with both hands and envelopes your lips roughly with his own. his kisses are hot and wet and his tongue is in your mouth before you can ask if this means “yes.”
he presses you up against the kitchen island, and you can feel his entire length against your thigh, fully hard now and begging to be inside you. you groan just thinking about it—thinking about the murderer that took your tormentors off the street fucking into you viciously and relentlessly.
“and who are you?” he asks, breaking away from the kiss and lifting you so that you’re sitting on the counter.
soonyoung’s voice is rough and raspy with desire you haven’t heard from him quite like this before, and you feel the wetness between your legs grow knowing he’s willing to do this for you.
“i’m exactly who i am right now,” you say, feeling a little shy, but when he moans at your words, you feel bold enough to be honest with your fantasy. “i’m your girlfriend,” you inform him, hands diving under his shirt and caressing the muscles there. “and you’re going around killing all the losers i fucking hate because you adore me so much.”
“fuck, you’re so goddamn hot,” he mutters as he takes both hands and rips your blouse open, buttons popping and fabric ripping. you gasp and he smirks at the sound, slipping the ruined piece of clothing off you. “shhh, don’t be scared, baby. you’re the one person in this world i would never hurt.”
the sentence undoes you.
“oh god,” you breathe, diving forward and capturing his lips again.
soonyoung makes quick work of your bra, throwing it somewhere behind him once it’s off. he massages your breast for a few moments before taking your nipple between his fingers and tugging.
you break the kiss to tilt your head back and groan, and he takes the opportunity to bite and suck at the space where your neck meets your shoulder.
“rougher,” you breathe. “c’mon, you’re a murderer.”
soonyoung laughs a little at that, his love bites turning into gentle pecks up and down your neck.
“and you think this killer… he’d be rough with you?”
your eyes blink open a few times, staring at the ceiling and losing yourself in thought. in the days following your colleagues’ deaths and your own resignation from work, you’ve had a lot of time to think—and touch—about this. when you envisioned soonyoung as your murderous protector, you saw him as vicious and wrathful and cruel. but when it came to you… his need was desperate and carnal, but always softer. gentler.
you realize it’s probably not so different from the way soonyoung already likes to fuck you: like you’re the only person in the world he cares about.
“how about…” soonyoung presses one last kiss to your neck before his hands are suddenly up your skirt. he pushes your panties aside and abruptly plunges his middle finger into your heat. your body jerks into his in response. “you let me take the lead here, and if you don’t like something, you just let me know, hm?”
every word you’ve ever known escapes you as he fucks you with just one finger, the wet sounds of your arousal embarrassingly loud as he moves in and out. his thumb lands on your clit when you let out a particularly filthy moan for him, and you lean back on your hands and open your legs wider for him for better access. he gives you another finger as reward.
“oh, soonie,” you breathe. “yes.”
“so warm, so wet,” he rasps, other hand landing on your chest and flicking your nipple. “so beautiful.”
“babe,” you whine, rolling your hips onto his fingers in frenzied movements. “tell me… tell me about—oh my god!”
“hm?” he hums before the sound of more fabric ripping fills the kitchen.
you frown and look down in time to see soonyoung bringing your panties to his nose. you have half a mind to scream at him to stop but his fingers are still inside you, rendering you absolutely speechless as he presses the lace against his face and inhales deeply. your instinct is to feel self conscious—to snap your legs closed and grab your ruined underwear back. but you watch as his eyes roll back into his head and his lips twitch up against the black lace, and you realize he loves it. he breathes in again, and this time, you feel the excitement it causes through his fingers. they move with renewed fervor, like they’re thanking you for the gift you’ve given soonyoung.
“smell so fucking delicious,” he all but growls as he balls the panties up and pockets them.
before you can say anything back, he’s bending down to let his tongue taste your clit briefly before pressing his thumb back against you. your hips jerk and you can’t help when your elbows give, making you collapse and lay all the way down on the counter.
his fingers pump in and out of you faster now, and he completely replaces his thumb with his tongue, guzzling and drinking you up so intensely, his face quickly becomes covered with the stickiness of you.
“taste perfect,” he moans into you, tongue lapping you up eagerly. “tastes like mine.”
it pushes you over the edge quickly, and your back is arching off the island counter as your orgasm seizes you. the room is filled with your boyfriend’s name as you ride out the pleasure on his fingers.
“what do you want me to tell you about?” soonyoung asks once you come down, thumb going back to your clit. he keeps his face close to your pussy as he speaks, nose occasionally slipping between your folds and inhaling as he does. “should i tell you about how i disembowelled that ugly, little douchebag, jay?”
your cunt spasms at the words and soonyoung huffs a laugh when he feels you clench around his fingers. he curls them inside you, easily finding the spongy spot he’s been purposely avoiding up until now. he slows his movements, rubbing you patiently and carefully.
you sigh at the sensation, unsure if it’s because you feel so good or because you’re frustrated he’s eased up.
“i ran my knife up his body until his bones wouldn’t let me butcher him any further,” he whispers, moving so that his mouth is over your stomach, tongue slipping out to trace patterns on your skin between words. “and i made him bleed, baby. fuck, i made him bleed so much.”
“soonie.”
“i made him bleed for looking at you, for breathing near you, for ever thinking he could make someone as perfect as you bend to his will,” he whispers, breath hot as it fans over your skin, fingers still working you to a second orgasm. “i painted his apartment red. and i made it hurt. i made sure to make it hurt. just… for… you.”
he pushes roughly at your spot as he says that last word, eliciting a lewd moan as the beginnings of your next orgasm start to settle over you. soonyoung smirks against your skin.
“as for charles, i cut his fucking cock off,” he tells you.
you gasp at that even though you know he’s just making shit up for the sake of roleplaying. still, you find it in yourself to hate how much you love the idea of soonyoung doing that to someone who told you to get on your knees and suck his dick. someone who wasn’t your boyfriend.
“he cried like a bitch,” he says, kissing your clit before straightening back up so he can properly watch you writhe under him. “cried all the way up until i slit his throat.”
you smile at soonyoung then, reaching for his free hand—the one not currently buried two fingers deep inside you—and bringing it over your tit and holding it there. he looks at you like you’re the reason he’s alive. like you’re the only good thing in the world.
he massages you, just as gently as he did when this first started.
“but my favorite…” he says, eyes heavy-lidded as he takes you in. all his. all the time. until the end of time.
he removes his hand from your chest and shoves his sweatpants down just enough for his cock to spring out. your hips immediately start to buck at the sight, but all soonyoung has to do is shake his head at you once for you to immediately stop moving. there’s something so demanding and powerful about his presence right now that you’re not willing to push the limits of his patience. the pleased look on his face makes your emptiness feel worth it. he takes himself in his fist, pumping a few times as he speaks.
“my favorite was hayden. do you know why, baby?” he asks, moaning when you start playing with your nipple and breathing his name. “can you imagine the shit i did to the loser who thought he could fuck what’s mine?”
“i am,” you sigh, nodding desperately. “i’m yours.”
soonyoung pumps even faster now, but his fingers never falter inside you, intent on getting you to another high. and it’s close. you can feel it building almost painfully in your lower abdomen.
“i cut that ugly tongue of his out of his fucking mouth,” he grunts. you clench hard around his fingers. “and i started chopping him to fucking pieces—”
“soonyoung, i’m going to cum!” you half-shout, twisting under him uncontrollably.
“i cut him up, and the entire time, i only thought of you,” he fucks into his fist harder as you start to lose yourself to your climax.
“soonyoung!”
“and i thought that i’d kill the entire fucking world if i had to… just to keep you mine.”
you cum harder than you ever have in your life, near-screaming as you squirt all over soonyoung’s hand. the feeling reaches every, single corner of your body, making you convulse with pleasure.
“holy shit,” you hear from somewhere above you.
you don’t have time to gather your senses, though, because immediately, your body is being dragged down to the edge of the counter until you’re flying right off it. your boyfriend catches you, standing you up and kissing you full on the lips as he shoves your skirt down enough for it to slip off you and pool at your feet. you take the opportunity to tug his shirt off too, hands all over his naked torso once it is.
“let me cum in you?” he asks without leaving your lips.
“god, please,” you whine, feeling the wetness soonyoung caused sliding down your thighs.
he wastes no time after that, turning you around so that your hips are flush against the kitchen counter. you feel the fabric of his sweatpants glide down the back of your thighs as he removes them, and that’s the last thing you remember before the darkness overcomes you.
your eyes squeeze shut as soonyoung slams into you in one go, giving you zero time to adjust as he starts to immediately rut into you from behind. it burns and hurts so delectably, having him stretch you like this. usually, he takes even more time than he did tonight, making his way up to four fingers sometimes, but having him fuck you like this—like if he waits even a second longer, it’ll be his ruin—it threatens to violently shove you into an abyss of pleasure you fear you’ll never get out of.
soonyoung makes sure to hold you up, one arm across your chest with his hand on your breast, the other on your neck, forcing you to tilt your head back and rest on his shoulder.
you feel his eyes on you, his breath fanning your cheek as his gaze rakes you top to bottom, and you know he looks like a god, but you can’t open your eyes to save your life right now. you think if you do, you might explode into a million little pieces, forever disappearing into the ether.
you feel his lips rest against your ear as he sloppily whispers, “do you like it? knowing i’d do anything for you?” his voice is hoarse as he fucks you rougher than he ever has, the debased sound of skin slapping against each other filling the kitchen. “that i’d kill anyone without a second thought if it meant keeping you forever?”
you moan loudly, eyes pathetically rolling when you attempt to open them. you give up, keeping them shut as you reach up and grab soonyoung’s hair. he groans as you tug.
“soonie,” you sigh, shoving your hips back to meet his and making him curse. “i love it. i love it so much.”
you don’t know that you’re playing a role anymore. the idea that soonyoung would do any of this for you is so titillating, you feel drunk off it.
“feel so safe with you,” you say in broken gasps, your boyfriend’s rhythm making it impossible to say more than two words smoothly. “know you’ll always protect me, soonie.”
soonyoung curses loudly and bites into your neck to keep from getting any louder. his hips snap to yours at an increasingly unforgivable pace.
“and i’ll always protect you too,” you tell him.
you don’t care if this is something you wouldn’t be able to double down on when his cock isn’t buried to the hilt inside of you; it feels like the right thing to say. it feels exactly like what you want to do for him too: everything and anything. just to keep him yours.
“i would do anything for you, soonie,” you whisper.
without warning, there’s a burst of warmth inside your cunt, and soonyoung’s hand briefly tightens against your throat before immediately relaxing again, nothing but his moans and your name taking up the air in the room. he comes inside you hard, hips gluing to your ass like he’s trying to keep every, tiny drop inside you.
the feeling of his dick pulsing against your walls, pushing his seed into you, claiming you as his—it pushes you to your third orgasm, a slow and rolling one, not as intense as the others, but impossibly more satisfying. because this one not only brings you pleasure and an endless well of love for soonyoung; it brings you clarity.
because as you finally open your eyes moments later, soonyoung whispering sweet affirmations, vows, and affections in your ear as he keeps his softening cock warm inside you, you realize with startling lucidity that it wasn’t just a little fantasy.
the idea of soonyoung covered in blood and gore on your behalf was the stuff made of your dreams—or, arguably, nightmares. the idea that you had someone who adored you so deeply, he would play god like that made your heart grow tenfold. and now that soonyoung has fucked the fantasy deep into places inside you you couldn’t reach, you didn’t have it in you to feel ashamed about it.
you’re happy those three are dead.
and you’ll be even happier when the rest of them are too.
🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
HOSHI (leaning forward on the table) what’s your favorite scary movie?
YOUR ALIAS hmmm… (she buys herself time by taking a sip of her coffee) maybe… “saw”? why? are you big on scary movies?
HOSHI (shrugs) i like ‘em. probably more than other genres, yeah. (laughs nervously) what, um, do you like about “saw”?
she looks at him like she’s endeared by his nervousness.
YOUR ALIAS i mean, it was a really lengthy and roundabout way of doing things, but i guess i just enjoyed the idea of someone delivering retribution to people who deserved it but escaped it, not that i agreed all the victims chosen should’ve been chosen at all. just enjoyed seeing a few assholes die.
HOSHI (nods slowly) you like karma.
YOUR ALIAS (pauses with coffee at lips. she nods, maintaining eye contact) i do. (sips coffee) what’s your favorite scary movie?
HOSHI i like any slasher movie with a good final girl. if i had to pick, i’d probably say “halloween.”
YOUR ALIAS ahh, laurie, the final girl of all final girls.
hoshi visibly lights up at the comment, smiling widely at her.
HOSHI you know more about horror than you let on.
she nods, smiling back.
YOUR ALIAS just a little. i wouldn’t say i’m knowledgeable but i’ve watched a lot of the classics at least once. i’d call it a green flag that you root for the final girls. laurie’s a good one.
HOSHI i’ll take it. (obviously pleased) but humor me. why is it a green flag?
YOUR ALIAS (shrugs) when done correctly, final girls are the perfect mix of vulnerability—
scene suddenly and almost startlingly flashes to memories of hoshi’s mother for a brief second, accompanied by what sounds like a loud gust of wind. the memories are happy ones between hoshi and his mom.
YOUR ALIAS —and strength—
the memories become times his mother endured his father’s beatings.
YOUR ALIAS —and don’t subscribe to traditional gender roles and ideals. i’m not a huge fan of some films making it so that a lot of final girls are, like… holier than thou virgins, but i think the trope has come a long way.
hoshi nods, seemingly satisfied with her answer. she laughs and adds:
YOUR ALIAS unless you like final girls because you like to see a woman struggling against a violent serial killer. then red flag.
hoshi forces a laugh and shakes his head, looking down at his coffee and tracing the mouth of his mug.
HOSHI no, no. definitely more in line with the first one. i, uh… (looks up at her and seems to search for something in her eyes. whatever it is, he finds it and has the strength to be vulnerable for the first time in his life) my dad was abusive. with my mom.
her face falls and reaches forward to hold hoshi’s hand. the feeling is foreign and odd but he lets her hold it, even curling his own fingers closed around hers.
YOUR ALIAS i’m so sorry.
HOSHI she made me get out. she forced me to leave and never come back so i don’t really know what happened to her. i guess i just hope she’s a final girl.
she takes her second hand and closes it over the top of his and rubs it comfortingly.
YOUR ALIAS she must have loved you so much. (hoshi visibly bristles at that but doesn’t pull away) to be able to give you a better chance at life even if it meant never seeing you again… she absolutely is the final girl.
HOSHI (smiles) i like the way you described it. vulnerability, strength.
YOUR ALIAS (smiles back) tell me more about her.
the two talk until the cafe closes and kicks them out, and the audience sees a montage of the couple going on their second date, third date, until they are moving in together, and planning a future together. hoshi is the happiest the audience has ever seen him, and it seems the side of him that kills has been quieted, though we know that to be untrue from the murders happening present-day.
the montage moves into a scene where she comes home from work in tears. hoshi consoles her, but eventually, that same blank stare we first saw after his head injury comes back.
once she’s asleep, hoshi visits a storage unit he rents a few miles away. he reels up the door, revealing just one trunk in the unit. he walks up to it and opens it.
inside, is a mask, a robe, and a knife.
sex with you after that night in the kitchen has become twice as intense as it ever used to be, and soonyoung knows it’s because a big part of him isn’t holding back anymore—he’s bringing his whole self into bed with you, not bothering to pretend he isn’t completely eviscerating anyone who even looks at you funny in his spare time.
he tells you everything you want to hear, which funnily enough, is just the truth.
two more deaths to add to the list at your office, and he tells you exactly how he did it. he tells you what they said, how they begged, how he made them pay with their lives. between all of that, he never forgets to tell you he would do it time and time and again for you. he would do anything for you. kill anyone for you.
and the way you moan and gasp and cum at his words every time without fail is so goddamn addicting, he thinks he might die whenever he’s not inside you.
it’s dangerous, he knows that. as you start to tell him more stories you didn’t bother to when you were still working there, the itch to go annihilate that entire office becomes overwhelming, and he knows if he doesn’t control it soon, it’s bound to draw unwanted attention; he doesn’t know how it hasn’t already, with five dead bodies—all on the same team at the same company.
so for a few weeks, he doesn’t do anything about the mental list of names he has in his head, letting the headlines and panic die down.
you go out interviewing for jobs, he goes to work, you both come home and fuck each other’s brains out, and he stifles the voice in his head telling him to go murder every last person on that team.
but then, you ask for something terrifying.
you’ve been exploring your kinks ever since you first asked him to roleplay, and you’ve found the things you like and dislike—all things he agrees with so far. you like being tied up, you like blindfolding him, you don’t like calling him daddy (he absolutely fucking hated trying that one), you loved when he spit in your mouth, and he loved when you spit in his.
and while he was open to all your suggestions, there were some things he hesitated with. you asked him to choke you and though he initially agreed, he couldn’t, immediately getting soft when he tried to. you asked him to degrade you—call you a bitch, a slut, a whore—and he figured it was your way of coming to terms with what you experienced at your nightmare of a job. that maybe if it came from someone you loved and felt safe with instead of the asshole in the next cubicle, you’d slowly chip away at your trauma. but he couldn’t do that either.
you always handled his rejections gracefully, assuring him that you could do missionary with zero kinks involved for the rest of your life, and you’d be “on your knees thanking him for blessing you with his dick either way.” and you do your best to prove that to him, taking kinks off the table for a while and seemingly giving him a break. the only thing that stays constant is the “roleplaying,” though that’s probably more at soonyoung’s insistence than anything else. the intimacy he experiences from being himself in bed with you—truly himself—is unparalleled.
until one night, you ask him to use a knife on you during sex, and the panic attack it incites—the first soonyoung has ever experienced—is so massive, you almost call 911. he calms down enough to convince you not to, and the rest of the night is spent in your arms as you cry and apologize profusely for suggesting something like that when you know how his parents raised him. he tries to find the strength to tell you it’s okay, and that he understands, and that there’s no harm in asking, but each time he tries, nothing comes out of his mouth. he spends that entire time staring at the wall, and for the very first time, he experiences it: an undeniable thirst to plunge his knife into someone.
soonyoung isn’t sure why, especially since he just suffered the most exhausting mental breakdown over the measly idea of even holding a knife anywhere near your vicinity. maybe it’s to take his mind off the gruesome, nauseating thoughts of his hunting knife sinking into your flesh—images that flooded his mind against his will the moment you asked that of him. maybe it’s a need to recalibrate his brain, like if he kills another one of your tormentors, it will remind him of his devotion to you.
whatever it is, it nags at him day and night for the rest of the week until he accepts it’s something he needs to give into, no matter how callous and unwise it might be. in an attempt to convince himself it’s okay, he says this will be the last one; regardless of the handful of names left, he’ll do this last one, and he’ll move on. as such, he makes his last victim the one person who could’ve put an end to all of this from the start: your boss.
daniel park is a man of routine, soonyoung learns over the next few weeks. he leaves his home at a sharp 7 a.m., stopping by the same coffeeshop near his obnoxiously large house in the suburbs. he gets to the office around 8 a.m., a full hour after he required you (and no one else) to be in the office when you were still his employee. now that you’re gone, park is usually the first of his team in the office. he locks himself up inside his corner office doing fuck all while everyone else does his work for eight hours. he leaves the office exactly at 4 p.m., and from there, he either goes out for dinner and drinks with his team (something you were never invited to), meets equally old and ugly buddies for drinks, or goes to a bar alone for drinks. either way, the man is drunk by 6 p.m. every day.
then, around 10 p.m., he’ll make his sorry way home—driving drunk while at it—and he’ll stumble into his home, paying no mind to his already sleeping wife, who took care of the home and their child the entire day with no help from him.
soonyoung decides to be reckless one more time. it’s his last one, anyway. he wants this one to matter. he wants this one to be the one you think about for the rest of your life—enough to hold you over even if he never kills again.
he waits for a night when park drinks alone, usually around wednesday or thursday, when he’s gotten tired of his team and wants time alone with whatever stupid thoughts he has. soonyoung watches him from a corner booth at the bar, knocking back whiskey after whiskey like they’re shots. and when he stumbles out of the establishment, he easily guides him to his own car instead of park’s with little protest from the drunk.
he drives him right back to the office building that took so much energy and life out of you, using his badge to get them into the floor. he’s patient with park, letting the man nod off for an hour as he ties him up and prepares for the rest of the night.
when park finally blinks his eyes open, soonyoung is fully dressed in his usual disguise and standing before him in the darkness, only the moonlight filtering in from the windows to his left illuminating his shape. the way your boss startles so violently is deeply satisfying, and it takes everything in soonyoung to refrain from laughing in his face. park jerks his limbs, horrified to find them tightly bound to his own chair, wheeled out of his office and brought to the front of the team floor, where park keeps a whiteboard for their daily stand-ups.
“good morning, sunshine,” soonyoung says from beneath his mask.
“who are you?! what kind of sick joke is this?!”
“none of you were raised with manners, huh?” he grumbles. “all of you skip straight to your stupid questions. why don’t any of you know how to greet a fellow human being?”
he stills in the seat. “‘all of us’?”
soonyoung nods slowly, taking his knife out of his robes, freshly cleaned and polished the way it is before and after every single death. he feels a jolt of dread twist in his stomach when he looks at the blade, picturing it buried in your stomach. he shakes his head to free himself of the thoughts, and thankfully, park doesn’t notice, too busy blabbering all kinds of questions.
“shhh, shhh!” soonyoung shushes him, waving his hands erratically. “quiet, shut up, i’m irritable tonight and if you piss me off on top of that, i’ll make this ten times slower than it needs to be.”
his mouth clamps shut at that and he presses himself back into his seat.
soonyoung usually pretends to inspect his knife at this point just to intimidate his victims, but he couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t throw up looking at his own weapon right now, so he lets the arm holding it simply fall to his side.
“all of you,” he repeats. “jay… charles… hayden.” he walks to park slowly, menacingly. “leo, ian.”
your boss’s eyes widen as he hears all the names of his slain employees from the last several months.
“daniel,” soonyoung finishes his list. “you.”
“wh… what…?” he sputters, shaking his head in confusion. his words slur and this close, soonyoung can smell the alcohol on his breath even from under his mask. “you were actually targeting this office?!”
soongyoung scoffs. “well, yes. the only victims have been from this office.”
“b-but authorities! they said there have been a few others that could’ve been—”
park cuts himself off with his own scream as soonyoung’s knife pins his hand to the arm of his chair.
“oh my god!” he screams at the top of his lungs, entire body jerking against his restraints. “oh my god, you stabbed me! you fucking stabbed me! oh my god!”
“i told you to be quiet, right?” he reminds him. “are you going to be quiet… or not?”
your boss stops screaming, though his whimpering and sobbing is almost just as loud. he does his best not to look at his own hand like it helps him pretend it didn’t just happen. he stares up at the ceiling, taking shallow breaths.
“do you know what all of you have in common?” soonyoung asks.
“no,” park breathes, still blinking furiously at the ceiling.
“y/n,” he states easily. “that’s what you have in common.”
park’s eyes come down to soonyoung’s mask, wide and filled with tears.
“yeah, you know exactly why i’m here, don’t you?”
“i—i—” his mouth opens and closes several times before he says, “i’m sorry.”
“whatever for?” soonyoung asks sarcastically, pulling someone’s chair out from their cubicle.
he notices a light blanket on it, yanking it off and throwing it over his shoulder before he sits down. he slouches, bringing one ankle to rest up on his knee and cradling his chin in his hand, elbow on the armrest. he tilts his head in mock interest.
“for it all!” he shrieks. “i swear, i’m sorry, i know i should’ve done more! i’m sorry! i’m a fucking coward, okay?! please! i know what they did to her was horrible!”
“do you? know that?”
“yes, yes! i swear!”
“name them.”
“what?”
“if you can name everything they said and did to her,” soonyoung says, watching the way his blood drips from the armrest and stains the carpet below. “maybe i’ll make this quick. stab you in the heart and be done with it.”
“what?!” he protests. “what about you let me live?”
soonyoung scoffs exaggeratedly. “oh no, daniel. no. that’s cute, but no. the only way you’re coming out of this building is in a body bag. it really is just a matter of whether or not this will be quick and painless or… well, y’know… the alternative.”
he’s bluffing. he already knows exactly what he’s doing with park. he just likes giving him the illusion of control. when he rips it away from him, it’ll be all the more gratifying.
“you have a minute. i’d start listing if i were you.”
“they, uh, they bullied her!”
soonyoung rolls his eyes beneath his mask.
“they catcalled her! they took credit for her work! they made her do all of their reports! they, uh… they—”
“tick tock.”
“they made sexual jokes about her! talked shit about her during dinners! uh, they—um, they spread rumors about her!”
“okay,” soonyoung says, waving a hand and nodding. “good run.” park seems to sigh with relief. “how about you, though?”
“what?”
“how about you?” soonyoung repeats himself, and even though he’s still slouched casually in his seat, his change of tone makes your boss flinch. “what are some things you said and did to her?”
“i… i didn’t…”
“uh-uh,” he laughs, wagging a finger at him. “i already know everything, daniel. don’t try to lie to me.”
it’s another bluff. you told soonyoung you told him everything, but something about the way you said it never convinced him. he knew you were leaving something out, and if this was his last time with any of your vile colleagues, he might as well try to see what it was you were hiding.
“what’s it going to be, boss man? are we going slow or are we making it painless?”
“i passed her up for every promotion!” he shouts immediately, wincing when his enthusiasm jostles his hand against the knife. “she was the most qualified and i passed her up every time!”
soonyoung motions with his hand boredly. “okay… and?”
“i told her to suck it up! that boys will be boys! i told her if she wanted to move up, she needed to get used to it!”
soonyoung glares at him from beneath his mask.
“i—” he swallows hard, tears flowing down his face.
soonyoung sits up, sensing the revelation he’s waiting for on the horizon. he plants both feet on the ground, stands, and stalks over to park until he’s towering right over him. he whips the blanket off his shoulder, balling it in his fist before he rests his hands on your boss’s forearms and leans forward to meet his eyes, ignoring the way he gasps at the pain the movement causes.
“you what?” he asks calmly.
“i… oh god, i…” he swallows nothing again. “i’m sorry…”
“what are you sorry for, daniel?”
“i… i told her if she did want a promotion… she could do me some favors.”
soonyoung’s blood runs cold in his veins. that’s not something you ever mentioned to him, and he can imagine why. he wouldn’t have just gone on a murderous rampage; he would’ve blown this entire building up. he thinks he might break his own teeth from how hard he clenches his jaw. after a few moments, he forces himself to release the tension and open his mouth once more.
“what kind of favors, daniel?” he asks quietly.
“oh god, please don’t make me sa—SEXUAL!” he bellows when soonyoung presses a hand to the hilt of his knife, pushing down another inch. “SEXUAL FAVORS!”
“ah, there it is,” he grunts, nodding.
he stands back up. soonyoung unceremoniously yanks the knife out of park’s hand, flips it so that it’s blade up once more, and without hesitating, he brings the sharp side down on all four of park’s fingers. before the man has a chance to scream, he shoves the blanket into his open mouth, muffling any noise he planned on making.
“shhh,” soonyoung mutters almost soothingly. “shhh, you’re fine. it’s just a few fingers. you don’t need them where you’re going anyway.”
he pats park’s head condescendingly two times before hitting the same spot with the blunt end of his knife.
“you’re all just fucking assholes, aren’t you?” he asks as blood starts running down your boss’s temple. “is that on the job listing? ‘requirements: must be a misogynistic pervert’?”
he grabs a fistful of park’s hair, yanking back so that all he could see was the ceiling.
“i’m sure you know exactly what happened to the others,” soonyoung says, speaking so close to him, his mask presses up against the side of his face that isn’t bleeding. “i’m sure you know all about what i did to them.”
park sobs through the blanket, drool escaping the corners of his lips the harder he tries to speak through the makeshift gag.
“i bet you didn’t count on her having someone who adored her like this, did you?” he asks, voice low. “didn’t think someone would come punish you for hurting the person they love most in this stupid fucking world?”
“no. he didn’t.”
soonyoung freezes at the female voice that cuts through the floor from behind him. your boss starts to thrash with renewed hope that someone has caught him red-handed. his fist tightens around his hair, yanking to shut him up. painstakingly slowly, and without letting park go, soonyoung cranes his neck to look behind him, heart stopping when he sees you there, standing in the moonlight looking as breathtaking as ever.
he doesn’t dare say a word. under his mask, soonyoung frantically searches your face for any sign that you’ll run screaming from him, leaving him alone, never to see you again. he doesn’t find anything other than your usual, soft smile—“resting lovely face” he would call it on his especially sappy days.
you’ve pretended to be a murderer’s girlfriend dozens of times by now, but soonyoung had no reason to believe you thought any of it was real—that you suspected him of all the heinous crimes he’s committed for you. as you let the large bag hanging on your shoulder slip off and fall to the floor and you start walking toward them, he weighs his options.
he could run, but then what? leave you with a crime scene you’ll take the blame for? absolutely not. he could throw himself to the floor begging you for forgiveness, begging you to not turn him in but more importantly, begging you to stay with him. there’s a tiny, ugly voice that suggests he could also kill you. he shudders, shaking the thought away. if he resorted to that, he would have to follow right after. that had to be his last option.
you reach them, and soonyoung knows he’s run out of time. whatever you do or say next will dictate the rest of your lives.
when he forces himself to meet your gaze, though, he sees nothing there but absolute fondness and veneration. you rest a palm against his back as he continues leaning over your former boss.
“mr. park,” you say, turning your attention to the man bound to the chair now. soonyoung follows your gaze back to the man, who’s still being forced to stare at the ceiling. he releases his grip on him, allowing him to look at you. his eyes widen in what soonyoung suspects is fear. “nice to see you again under these circumstances. really nice.”
soonyoung feels his heart skip a beat. he straightens up to his full height now, eyes on you as you continue speaking. your hand snakes from his back to his arm, and down, down, down, until your fingers are intertwined with his.
“have you met my better half?” you ask him. “this is kwon soonyoung.”
he feels like his heart jumps into his throat at that moment, and he fights to keep from choking on nothing. you must feel the way he stills in your hold because you bring his gloved hand to your lips and kiss it gently.
your boss starts sobbing twice as hard, throwing what looks to be a restrained tantrum.
“i’m sorry,” you say, faking a wince. “you must have thought i was here to help you, huh?”
soonyoung’s mouth twists into what he’s sure is the largest, most insane smile he’s ever had the pleasure of smiling in his life. the adrenaline and dopamine that suddenly releases in his system makes him feel invincible in a way he never has before. because if you, the adoration of his goddamn life, know who and what he is and you still love him… then nothing will ever be able to stop him ever again. nothing stands between him and the entire world now.
“my bad,” you sigh. “i’m just here to watch you die.”
soonyoung takes that as his cue, lifting his knife toward park. but before he can do anything, your hand comes to his forearm, stopping him. he looks down at you, tilting his head in question. you look up and shake your head.
“i want to do it,” you whisper.
he doesn’t know why he doesn’t want to talk to you while his mask is on. whatever it is, he can’t say anything as you try to take the knife in your own hand.
sensing his hesitation, you smile and nod. “you’ve done so much for me, soonie. will you let me be my own final girl now?”
without a second thought, the tension in his arm dissipates immediately, completely surrendering his weapon to you. you hold his knife in your hand, and seeing it in your grip demolishes whatever last walls he had up between the two of you. you stare down at it like you’re holding a relic, and it takes him a moment to realize you’re imagining the men he’s killed in your name with it.
he reaches out, wrapping his hand around yours and tightening your grip on the hilt. your gaze flick up to him and his other hand briefly caresses your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, smile widening for a short moment. when your eyes open, there’s a fire in them he’s seeing for the first time, and he knows that whoever he walks out of here with is going to be a completely different person than the one he woke up next to this morning.
you give him a small nod before turning away from his hold and facing the man who’s made your life a living hell this entire time.
soonyoung decides he doesn’t want to watch park’s face as the light leaves his eyes. instead, he walks around the chair behind him, holding it from behind to keep it still for you, his eyes trained on your face and only your face.
the smirk that graces it now is glorious, and it takes everything in him to keep from falling to his knees and kissing the ground you walk on.
“sorry, nothing personal,” you say, obviously reciting something he’s said to you before. “girls will be girls, right?”
soonyoung barely hears the muffled screams that follow. all he can hear is his heart singing as he watches the life, light, and joy this job stole from you come back to you all at once. he’s never been more in love. and he thinks he understands now. this. this is love.
it was clear to you that something was escalating inside soonyoung for the last few weeks, and you knew he was gearing up to commit his last crime—you were sure of it.
you had your suspicions when you asked him to roleplay with you, but it was the week after that you became confident in your intuition. the week after, when authorities finally released the circumstances under which hayden and charles died.
you shouldn’t have been surprised when you read the dirty talk soonyoung used to get you to cum over and over again practically word for word in the article that detailed their murders. there was no way he would have been able to know all this information before the public did, and lucky guesses were out of the question, especially when every, last thing he told you was listed.
after that, two more of your ex-coworkers died, ones that made particularly lewd comments at you, something you noticed angered soonyoung more intensely than any other kind of offense. it made you feel more flattered than it should have—how possessive and jealous he got because of these assholes who thought they had any kind of entitlement to you or your body.
soonyoung had ruined you for anybody else long before you knew this truth about him; he had no reason to feel jealous. still, it made you feel so special, and you didn’t stop to question the toxicity and unhealthiness of everything you’ve been feeling in the last weeks—in the last year.
for the first time in so long, you felt good and you felt safe, and you had no intentions of changing that. you’ve been all in on soonyoung since your first date. this changed nothing.
so as he started escalating, you started watching. instead of attending job interviews like you claimed to be, you were following him. most of the time, it was just to the writers’ room, but a few times a week, it was to watch him tailing your ex boss.
between following him around and snooping through his things, it didn’t take long for you to piece together what he was planning, and with how erratic soonyoung’s behavior had gotten since you made the stupid, thoughtless, grave mistake of suggesting knife play in the bedroom, you knew he was going to be prone to mistakes. so you started preparing right alongside him.
when his gear disappeared from the creaky floorboard he kept it hidden under, you knew it would be time to act soon. then, today, as your boyfriend kissed you goodbye in the morning, he told you not to wait up; the writers room was going to run late to meet deadlines for next week’s episode.
you’ll give it to him; soonyoung was a really good liar. after all, he has kept this secret from you for a good amount of time. and if he’s so comfortable doing this, you imagine it isn’t his first time killing either. who knows how long he’s been lying to you?
but now that you were looking for the signs, it was easy to tell. he maintained eye contact too well, like he was actively telling himself to refrain from looking away and seeming suspicious. he smiled a little too hard. offered one too many details if you asked a simple follow-up question.
“oh okay, what time do you think you’ll be home?”
“fuck, not sure, this episode has a lot of rewrites because one of the actors is throwing a bitch fit about his lines, and they want us back at the drawing board—well, writing board—with, like, three new options for this asshole by tomorrow morning, so. who knows how long that will take. i’ll text you when i’m on my way, though, okay? i love you.”
as soon as he was out the door, you were moving.
you made a trip to your old workplace under the guise of needing a copy of your last paystub from HR, which happened to work right next to your team. while you were there, you made sure you were seen on every camera in the lobby, made sure to say hi to several people—even if some of those people were assholes you wish soonyoung would waste too. you allowed stray hairs to fall from your travel hairbrush. you scratched wildly at your skin. you coughed openly. you gave a valid and proper excuse for your DNA—and trace amounts of soonyoung’s DNA—to end up here other than for a murder.
and when no one was looking, you helped yourself to a jay minion’s cubicle while he was away from it. alex. you pocketed his badge, which he had a bad habit of walking around without, and you scheduled an email from his account addressed to your former boss, knowing full well that a lazy idiot like him would not be noticing a scheduled message in his account.
if soonyoung couldn’t kill him, life in prison was a good alternative.
once you were done with your part, you went home, dropped your phone off so that it couldn’t be tracked anywhere but home tonight, and packed a bag of extra clothes. then, you followed your doting boyfriend from his job, and once you saw him tuck your drunken former boss into his own car, you raced back to the office, where you were 99.9 percent sure he would be bringing him back. you scanned in using alex’s badge through the backdoor, where there were no cameras, you made your way to your team’s floor, and you waited.
not long after, when a tall, lean person dressed in the gear you’d found under your boyfriend’s creaky floorboard, walked onto the floor, practically carrying park on his shoulder, it took everything to keep from shrieking and giggling at how well you knew your own boyfriend.
you watched as he methodically and carefully tied him to his chair, rolled him to the exact spot he wanted him. you watched as he polished an already incredibly clean knife, shuddering uncomfortably a few times as he did. you wondered if it still bothered him—taking life. if maybe he wasn’t as seasoned as you thought, and the act still took something precious from him.
you hated the idea that something as generous as ridding the world of vermin like your ex-teammates could affect soonyoung like that.
what you hated even more was how turned on you were watching as he walked back and forth in his disguise, the muscles of his arms and his back still prominent through the tattered robes. but before you could debate jumping out of the shadows and convincing him to just leave and go home with you so you could ride him until dawn, your dumbass boss was waking up again.
you honestly didn’t know when you were supposed to step out, but the more soonyoung’s love for you shown—the clearer he made it that he truly would do anything for you, the less you cared about staying hidden.
and before you knew it, you were holding soonyoung’s very own knife, standing in front of a very dead daniel park, covered in his blood and laughing so hard, you thought maybe your nervous system was broken. but when the giggles died down and you didn’t burst into tears the way you expected you would, you knew you were perfectly fine. better than fine. you were thrilled.
“finally,” you breathe, reaching forward to yank the blanket out of your boss’s mouth, wiping the knife on a cleaner corner. “here you go.”
you hand it over hilt first toward your boyfriend, who’s still standing behind park, splatters of blood all over him too. he gently takes the weapon from you, tucking it somewhere within his robes. you watch him carefully, wondering what his face looks like, wondering what he’s thinking. instead, all you get is that permanent scream on his mask as it stares blankly back at you.
does he think i’m crazy? does it turn him off? would he rather be the one doing the saving?
you don’t voice any of your insecurities, though. you’re far too happy and relieved to ruin this moment with those thoughts. instead, you take the blanket you’re still holding and you dip it in one of park’s stab wounds until it’s soaked in his blood. you walk to the whiteboard behind his body and swipe at it in broad strokes, stepping back to view your work when you’re done.
you look back to your boyfriend to see him looking at the whiteboard.
FINAL
not for park or any of the other men soonyoung obliterated like a hurricane passing through, but for you. the final person standing, with the help of a man who loved you enough to make sure it ended this way. you hope he gets it and that he’s appreciating it the way you are.
while he continues staring at the board, you take the time to reach into the pocket of park’s jacket, fishing his phone out of it. because he treated you like his executive assistant, you knew most of his passwords, and you were banking on it being the same.
when his phone unlocks, you breathe a sigh of relief. you navigate to his email, pleased to find alex’s email in his inbox just like you planned for it to be.
to: [email protected]
from: [email protected]
subject: ! emergency situation, action needed
body: mr. park, we have a dire situation at the office that requires your attention. a few of the other team members and i will be working late into the night to remedy this; please stop by the office when you can to discuss next steps.
once you’re sure the message is marked read, you wipe the phone free of your prints with the blanket before tucking it back into his pocket. when you’re done, you let the blanket fall to the ground, eyes going back to your boyfriend, whose gaze is back on you now.
soonyoung still doesn’t say anything, simply walking to the duffle he left in the far corner. he removes his shoes, replacing them with a disposable shoe cover on each foot, before removing yours and doing the same for you, an act that feels so intimate, you’re tempted to take him right here, in the middle of this gore, effectively ruining all your efforts to keep him from getting caught.
he puts the shoes into spare trash bags and tucks them into his duffle before standing and holding his hand out for you to take. your fears that he’s mad you came here dissolve, and you take his gloved hand in yours.
he leads you away, picking up your own bag off the floor for you as you pass it. you think he’s leading you out of the building, but instead, you both end up in the showers, an amenity usually meant for commuters or people who went to the gym and worked out in the middle of their work day.
soonyoung sets both of your bags down on one of the benches in the locker room before nodding toward the showers. you follow him wordlessly, heat pooling in your stomach as you do.
he leads you into a shower stall, turning on the hot water and letting the water hit the both of you fully clothed. he turns around to face you, his mask wet with blood and water as it stares down at you. you hesitantly lift a hand up to rest on the jaw of it. you look up into the black holes of its eyes, hoping he understands you’re asking if you can remove it for him.
when he doesn’t stop you, you push up on the mask, lifting it completely off his head. the first thing you notice is that soonyoung’s platinum blonde hair is matted to his forehead with sweat, all of his visible skin slick with it. and when you meet his eyes, you’re immediately rooted to the spot, robbed of all air. his pupils are blown, making his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them as they bore into yours. his mouth is parted, chest heaving as he breathes like he’s been running for hours.
without giving you a chance to think of your next move, he grabs the mask and chucks it somewhere behind you before wrapping his hand around the back of your neck and roughly pulling you to him. he cranes down to envelope your lips with his, wasting no time parting them and fervently shoving his tongue into your mouth.
it doesn’t take long for him to get the both of you naked; you’re not even really sure when it happens, but suddenly, he’s kicking your soiled clothes away from the both of you, his hands going from cradling your face to softly running across your shoulders, your back, your ass, and you realize he’s rinsing the death off of you, all while peppering you with feather light kisses as he does.
you hang your head, resting it against his shoulder as you watch red swirl down the drain, until it’s pink, until it’s clear. you sigh deeply at the sensation of the water pelting your skin and soonyoung’s fingertips dancing across every part of you. he presses his erection in between your thighs at the sound of your breath, and it quickly turns into a moan.
you reach to grip his cock in your hand, fisting it tightly. his breath hitches, and you decide it’s time to thank him for everything he’s done for you these last few months. you lift your head up off his shoulder and reach up to press your lips to his once more, gentle and chaste.
“thank you,” you whisper. he runs a hand across his face to get water out of his eyes.
“for what?” he asks, voice husky around the first words he’s said to you since the night started.
“for loving me like this,” you answer, pumping your first slowly as you speak. “for doing all of this for me… and for letting me be a part of it too.”
soonyoung closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours, nothing but the sound of the water and his labored breaths as you stroke him filling the room.
“i love you, y/n,” he says in a voice you haven’t heard from him before. it sounds small, vulnerable, and emotional, and when he opens his eyes, you aren’t surprised to see tears gathered there. “i love you so fucking much.”
you don’t think he’s ever said that to you like this. getting him to even use the word “love” was like pulling teeth in the beginning of your relationship. now, he says it like he’s free of the trauma he’s tied to the word over the years of his childhood. you tiptoe to kiss the tears out of his eyes.
“i love you,” you return. “and i adore you. forever. now… let me show you.”
you kiss every bit of skin you can on your way down his body, until you’re on your knees. you look up at him one, last time, melting a little at the affection he stares at you with.
“don’t hold back, okay?”
he curses under his breath before nodding. he reaches one arm across the shower, planting a palm on the wall behind you to steady himself as you take his entire length into your mouth.
“fuck.”
you hollow your cheeks as you slide away, tongue swirling on the underside of his shaft and dragging across the veins of his cock. you wrap one hand at the base tightly before sliding him back in, knowing that taking his entire monster length wasn’t going to be sustainable for you or your throat. you blow him like this—pumping and twisting at the bottom of his shaft with your hand, your other one massaging his balls—for only a few moments before soonyoung absolutely loses it.
and ever eager to please you, he follows your instructions and holds nothing back. he palms the back of your head with his free hand and without warning, starts fucking into your mouth roughly. tears stream down your face, mixing with the hot water of the shower and the precum leaking out of soonyoung. the back of your throat starts to burn early on, but still, you want more.
your hands grab soonyoung’s ass, bringing him impossibly further into your throat on every thrust. he groans loudly, cursing in between shouts of your name.
“y/n,” he breathes, slowing his movements after a few minutes until his hips stutter to a full stop. you frown, looking up at him when he pops his cock out of your mouth. “i don’t want to cum in your mouth, baby.”
“why not?” you ask dumbly.
he laughs, obviously not expecting the question. instead of answering, he pulls you up and onto your feet, steadying you when you realize they’ve fallen asleep from the lack of blood flow. he presses you against the wall, caging you in and pressing his thigh between your legs to keep you standing as you regain the feeling in your legs. you gasp when his quad rests against your clit.
“there are better places to cum,” he finally answers, just barely moving his thigh against you.
the tiny movement is enough to coax another moan out of you, though. his fingers come down to dive in between your folds and trace your slit teasingly back and forth, gathering your arousal. he brings his fingers up to his mouth, shamelessly taking them in and tasting the way he makes you feel. his eyes close as he savors the taste.
“mmm,” he hums fondly like your lust is a five star meal. he opens his eyes, smirking at the way you’re staring at him. “want to taste?”
you nod eagerly. at this point, you’d take whatever he wanted to give you. you reach forward to kiss him, but he pins your shoulder to the wall with a hand, making you squeak in surprise, and when his other hand comes up your neck and grabs your jaw, tilting it up toward him and forcing your mouth open, you realize what he means and what he wants.
you fight your own smirk as you open your mouth wider, letting your tongue hang out as far as it will go. he presses his cock against you at the sight, cursing before he takes your face in both his hands, leans over you, and aims, spitting straight into your mouth. you whine pathetically when you feel it hit the back of your throat, immediately grasping both his arms and grinding down against his thigh while it’s still pressed between your legs.
“soonie, please,” you mewl, desperately and messily grabbing at whatever you can at this point just to get him closer to getting inside you, including his hair, his neck, his arms, his hips—anything.
he grabs your wrists when you won’t stop, holding them tightly in between your bodies with one hand, the other cupping your ass and guiding one leg to wrap around his waist, the tip of his cock already teasing your hole.
“behave,” he hisses, squeezing your wrists until they hurt. you don’t dare wriggle against his hold. “are you going to be good?” you nod. he immediately releases you, guiding one hand to his shoulder to keep yourself steady.
when both of your hands are wrapped around his shoulders, he takes your other leg and wraps it around his waist too, lifting you up and pinning you between him and the wall. he kisses you harshly and recklessly, tongue wrapping itself around yours as his cock starts to push into you.
he doesn’t wait until he’s fully buried in you the way he usually does. no, tonight, he can’t seem to help himself when he breaks away from you to remind you: “you’re mine.”
you nod, resting your head back against the wall, nails digging into his shoulders as he pushes in further. “yours,” you gasp. “always.”
“god, i love you,” he says for the third time tonight, making the burn feel all the better as he bottoms out. “you’re so perfect,” he breathes, adjusting to the feeling of your cunt around him. “so fucking tight.”
“fuck me, baby” is all you have the energy to whisper. and he delivers.
he easily bounces you on his dick in time with his own thrusts, the corded muscles of his arms hard, wet, and glistening as he holds you up against the wall. you don’t care how loud you are, letting your screams out as they come. at this point, you’re not sure you even care if the police catch you like this and arrest you.
all that matters is how soonyoung feels inside of you, how his mouth burns everywhere they press against you, how his fingertips dig into your flesh so hard, you think it’ll bruise. he rests his forehead against yours, holding unwavering eye contact with you as he fucks you like it’s simultaneously the first and last time.
“marry me,” he whispers suddenly. “fuck. marry me, y/n.”
you gasp as he thrusts hard, tip kissing your cervix. “a-are you s-seriously asking right now?”
he smirks, kissing you quickly before thrusting even faster and harder. the sounds that come out of your mouth are a pitch higher and nastier. “i’ve had a ring for a year. i can’t fucking wait anymore. marry me. god, please marry me.”
you don’t have to think twice. “yes,” you half moan. “yes, soonyoung. yes, i’ll—fuck! i’ll marry you!”
the thought does something to the both of you at the same, exact time, and you’re both shouting warnings at each other as you reach your highs. his teeth sink into your collarbone as he comes inside you, your fist closing around the hair at the nape of his neck as you reach your own climax on his dick too.
you stay in the same position for a few moments, both trying and failing to catch your breaths.
when you finally do, you tap soonyoung’s shoulder to let you down, but he refuses, stubbornly staying inside of you. you frown.
“what are you doing? we should shower and leave,” you point out, remembering there’s an incredibly deceased man outside.
“the longer i stay here, the longer my cum stays inside you, and the greater the chances i just got you pregnant,” he says cheekily.
you glare at him. “soonyoung, i’m on birth control.”
he glares right back.
“okay, fine,” you relent, laughing. the sensation makes soonyoung wince as you clench around his overstimulated cock a little. “kinda hot, though—you wanting to get me pregnant.”
he raises an eyebrow at you. “oh? another kink of yours?”
you blush, knowing you’ve been somewhat of a sex fiend since discovering your fantasy of having a murderous boyfriend—your reality now, you suppose. “maybe,” you murmur.
soonyong grins, kissing the pout away from your lips. “good. i’m going to keep trying.”
“okay, well, maybe we should try when we’re not in active danger of going to prison for life?”
“right.”
you both shower quickly, bagging the soiled clothes and changing into the outfits you both packed separately. you watch in awe as soonyoung takes out a blacklight and some kind of cleaning agent to get rid of any blood you both tracked into the shower. most of the evidence, it turns out, is right there in the stall, where his cum leaked out of you.
when he’s done cleaning, you both head to your cars, each parked in different lots, agreeing to meet at home after you pick up drive-thru dinner and he goes back to work to pick up his phone. and when you do get home, you find that soonyoung beat you there, the apartment dark save for a handful of candles. he’s on one knee when you enter, a small box open and turned toward you, the ring he claimed he got a year ago right there, staring you in the face.
“i love you,” he says. “i’ll spend the rest of my days loving you the way you deserve to be. adoring you with everything i have. will you allow me the honor of doing that as your husband?”
you don’t know how many times you scream yes at him as you drop the bags of fast food and throw yourself into his arms, the two of you collapsing into a pile of giggles and kisses.
TOP STORY • 2 MIN READ
Copycat serial killer sentenced to life in prison on three counts of torture, six counts of first degree murder
By Gale Weathers
Police investigating the torture and murder of Daniel Park, senior vice president of marketing at Loomis, Inc. two years ago.
Two years after a spree of murders rocked the local community, Alex Cho, former Loomis, Inc. employee, has been sentenced to life in prison, despite pleading not guilty to all charges.
Dubbed the "copycat prank call killer" for the similarities in mutilation amongst victims, Cho was found guilty on all counts of torture and first degree murder for the deaths of six fellow Loomis, Inc. employees, including his boss, Daniel Park, former senior vice president of marketing. Arrested just days after Park's murder, Cho was the authorities' main suspect since day one, according to a statement made by Police Chief Macher following the sentencing.
"Cho's name was on the board since the tragic murder of our first victim, Jay Lang," said Macher, "but as his spree escalated and became more frenzied, he became careless. The evidence against him became insurmountable after the death of Daniel Park."
Though evidence left behind by Cho at the previous murders still has not been disclosed by authorities to this day, his involvement in Park's torture and murder is clear. On the night of Park's death, Cho lured him to the office after-hours under the guise of a work emergency. Once there, Cho ambushed and tortured his boss before stabbing him almost 30 times and leaving his body to be found by other employees the next morning.
Police were able to arrest Cho early on, thanks to his email trail and the use of his badge at the Loomis, Inc. headquarters, just minutes before Park entered the building himself.
When asked about the sentencing of their former employee, a Loomis, Inc. representative told TOP STORY:
"Even two years on, we continue to mourn our tragically lost employees. As such, Loomis offers all our associates ongoing mental health resources and grief counseling. We also honor these victims with annual donations to various campaigns, including cancer research, LGBT support, and anti-bullying—all causes our former SVP of marketing Daniel Park championed. As for the sentenced individual, Loomis declines to comment, but ensures you that we are taking extra precautions and measures to vet all new employees, with annual mental evaluations of all existing employees. We are committed to the safety of our people, our clients, and all of our stakeholders."
As far as his "copycat" reputation goes, Cho denies drawing inspiration from the "prank call killer," though he continues to deny his involvement in the crimes at all. As of the publication of this article, the "prank call killer" remains an at-large, inactive serial killer, with the last victim dating back over 10 years ago.
Cho will be transferred to a maximum state prison later this month, where he will serve his life sentence with no chance of parole.
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🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
HOSHI (clicks out of video news story of andrew's arrest) i can't believe you did all that for me.
YOUR ALIAS (smiles, scratching his scalp comfortingly with her left hand, eyes admiring the ring on her finger as she does) i told you, i would do anything for you. you protect me, i protect you, right?
HOSHI (smiles, leaning forward to press his lips to hers) always.
fades into black. credits roll.
...
POST-CREDITS SCENE
a long while later, audience finds hoshi and his wife in the kitchen of a much larger home now, seemingly as in love and as playful as they always were. they are interrupted by their teen daughter running into the room, with her backpack still on, screaming and crying. both of them immediately tend to her.
YOUR ALIAS baby, what's wrong? what happened?
DAUGHTER (shrieks) it's tiffany! she's going around telling everybody i'm sleeping with the entire baseball team! i've never even had my first kiss and she knows that!
hoshi stills, face becoming eerily blank. you both exchange a look.
YOUR ALIAS you're only 15... why on earth are they talking about those kinds of things?
DAUGHTER (throws mom an incredulous look) all of them have already lost their virginities, mom!
YOUR ALIAS (pinching the bridge of her nose) dear god.
DAUGHTER she gave my number to a bunch of dudes and now they're calling and texting and blowing up my phone asking me when i'm free to do... gross things! (wails)
YOUR ALIAS we'll change your number, baby, don't worry. and i'll meet with your principal and make sure she knows we won't tolerate this behavior, okay? are you alright if i talk to tiffany's mom?
DAUGHTER no, please don't, she's so vindictive. i know it'll just get worse.
hoshi exhales slowly.
HOSHI okay, we won't do anything you aren't comfortable with, but... you're also not going to let her treat you like that, do you hear me?
it's clear their daughter is a daddy's girl when her crying immediately stops and she nods.
HOSHI no one hurts you, understand?
YOUR ALIAS nobody.
DAUGHTER (whispers, still sniffling) nobody.
HOSHI if you won't let us talk to tiffany's parents, we're going to have to show you how to defend yourself, baby. how to stand up for yourself.
YOUR ALIAS (smiles) your daddy is really good at that. you'll let him help, right? (daughter nods) good, go get cleaned up and i'll order whatever takeout you want.
DAUGHTER (immediately) thai.
YOUR ALIAS thai it is. go on.
their daughter retreats from the kitchen, still sniffling as she goes up to her bedroom.
YOUR ALIAS we aren't going to stoop so low as to kill a teenager, are we?
HOSHI (snorts, wraps one arm around her waist) no, we aren't. but kids like that only learn behavior like that from one place.
YOUR ALIAS their parents.
HOSHI mhm.
YOUR ALIAS you have the key to the storage unit?
HOSHI mhm. (plants one kiss on her cheek before grinning and nodding to the front door) i'll drive.
cuts to black with the sound of a piercing scream.
a/n: credit for the news story photo goes to unsplash. all other photos taken from pinterest, ctto. okay bye, i don't want to talk about how crazy i feel LMFAO.
🔞 18+, minors do not interact • masterlist • submit a request
your pov • soonyoung’s pov ⇣
soonyoung has been best friends with you for 10 years now—in love with you for almost all of that time. one way or another, those 10 years end tonight.
♫ darl+ing svt
pairing: soonyoung x fem!reader
word count: 11.6k (i don't want to talk about it)
tags: best friends to lovers, idiots in love, a lil miscommunication, angst, happy ending, soonyoung pov, flashbacks
cw: smut - possessiveness, unprotected piv (pull-out method. v irresponsible piv. don't be like these two), reader loses virginity, spit, oral f. receiving, fingering, mention of choking, mention of masturbating, soft vanilla smut, probably a little hornier than the other pov bc this is a MAN after all
a/n: happy @citruscheol birth!!! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و to celebrate this momentous occasion, i ofc had to honor her request for a soonyoung pov of we can be all we need. you don’t really need to read that before this one; after all, they are essentially the same fic. BUT! i recommend you do bc it will make this version more enjoyable + easier to understand. and y’know what, i literally had to drive myself bat shit crazy and completely alter my brain chemistry to write this. like. there isn’t enough grass in the world that i can touch to return back to normal. and idk if i can ever look at hoshi the same ever again, so the least you can do is read both ok ㅠㅠㅠㅠ kidding ofc pls do what you want haha. either way, i think you’ll enjoy whichever one you want to read! as far as smut goes, same thing as last time: i marked where the smut starts and ends, but this courtesy is for adults who don’t want to read explicit material. minors should not be interacting at all pls!
soonyoung has been avoiding you. he knows you know it because you’ve asked him multiple times now if anything was wrong, and every time, he’s lied to you and told you everything was fine. everything wasn’t fine. it hardly felt like anything was fine, actually.
because you just blew out your candles, you’re 30 now, and his time has officially run out. he can’t blame anyone other than himself, though, and he knows it. he had seven whole years to tell you, and instead, he foolishly thought if he just continued to love you the way he’s always loved you, you would simply see it yourself. you would see how hopelessly in love with you he is.
you didn’t. for whatever reason, his showering you with lavish gifts, vacations, and fancy meals didn’t strike you as odd for a friend. or the way he was constantly wrapped around you or leaving kisses on your forehead whenever he had the chance. or the fact that it’s been nine fucking years since he went on a date or slept with anyone. he’s fucking priestly at this point.
and he doesn’t do it just so you’ll get the hint. he does it because that’s how he loves you and that’s how he’s always loved you. but maybe that’s the issue: you think this is just how he is as a friend because he’s been this way ever since he met you. but you couldn’t be more wrong.
soonyoung has never even felt inclined to treat anyone outside of his family the way he treats you. as far as he’s concerned, everything he does for you are just things he watched his dad do for his mom his whole life. you’re not even aware that the way he loves you is supposed to be reserved for whoever becomes his wife.
and he’s been so happy to give you all of that even if it meant you never saw him the way he longed for you to. it fills him with pride to know that your expectations are higher because he’s loved you so well—that you know exactly what you deserve because he’s always tried to give you exactly that.
at least, up until a few weeks ago, when the horror of the truth really started settling into his bones: you weren’t going to fall in love with him by the time you turn 30. and without even really realizing it, he started distancing himself from you, deluded into thinking it would be easier to let go if he just put a little space between the two of you. he knew it was hurting you just as much as it was hurting him, and he knew you didn’t deserve it.
it’s against his hardwiring to do anything that hurts you, and it’s reflected in how terrible his life has become in just a handful of weeks. his apartment has been filthy; the only reason it was ready for your party was because he paid the housekeeper double to come even though he wasn’t scheduled to clean for another week. his work is fortunately still fine, but he spends whole days with horrible brain fog, hardly understanding or even hearing anything anyone says to him. he hasn’t seen any friends—mutual or otherwise—because he spends all his free time in bed or drinking himself into a sobbing mess.
that’s all he can seem to do these days, is cry over you.
soonyoung steps out into the balcony attached to his bedroom, leaning against the sliding door once it’s closed. he cranes his neck to look up toward the midnight sky, and takes a deep breath. it doesn’t help keep the tears at bay. he keeps his head tilted up.
he knows you don’t deserve this. he knows you’re hurting and that you feel him slipping away. he saw it. just now, just before you blew your candles out, he saw the way the joy and life immediately fled your eyes when they landed on him. he wonders what you saw. did you see the apathy he was desperately forcing? did you see how sad he was at all?
because he is. he’s the saddest he’s felt since you told him you would rather be on vacation with someone you were in love with seven years ago. someone who wasn’t him. maybe he’s even sadder now. at least back then, he was foolish enough to hope you would change your mind. at least back then, he had time on his side.
now, it’s over, and now, it’s time to give himself a fair chance to move on. you don’t deserve what he’s putting you through, and it’s true for him too. he doesn’t deserve what he’s put himself through for the last decade.
countless nights you fell asleep at his place, countless times he wished he could gather you up in his arms and carry you into a bed you shared. all the times you told him you loved him and he desperately wanted to beg you to repeat it, even if it was just so he could pretend you meant it the way he needed you to mean it. whole weeks spent overseas on all kinds of vacations, time he spent daydreaming that this was what a honeymoon with you could feel like.
it all adds up to a decade of putting his heart on the backburner so he could allow himself to continue loving you.
soonyoung scoffs at himself when the tears refuse to stop welling in his eyes. he shakes his head and steps forward, resting his forearms against his railing and staring at the blackness in front of him.
part of him hates the version of himself from seven years ago that thought making this stupid promise was a good idea. what good can come from not loving you? but the reason he’s stuck to pulling away and holding you at arm’s distance is because that version of himself somehow knew the pain would grow more and more, year after year.
he can’t do this for the rest of his life—can’t just keep making room for more heartache the older he gets. you’re 30 now, and even though you insist you’re fine and have no desire to date, he knows you’ll get restless soon. and when he thinks of you finally deciding you want to have a boyfriend, he wants to vomit. when he thinks of some other asshole’s hands on you, his lips on yours—when he thinks of you sighing anyone’s name but his, he gets near homicidal over something that isn’t even real. at least not yet.
soonyoung doesn’t want to wait for that to happen. he doesn’t want to wait for you to hate him for being unable to share you—and he won’t be able to share you. he also doesn’t want you to have to face the pressure of having to choose between a best friend and a boyfriend.
instead, he’d rather you start to hate him slowly, over time. he’d rather you allow him his space and not even realize you hate him for slipping away and leaving you behind—not until it’s years later, when you hear his name in passing, and you think, he just left, and you tell yourself it’s fine because your life is better without him anyway.
it hurts you now, but it’ll hurt less later. it’ll hurt less for both of you to endure this silence now, rather than fight until there’s nothing but resentment.
the door behind soonyoung slides open forcefully and slams closed a moment later. he flinches, looking over his shoulder to see who entered his room and ready to tell them to get out. when he sees you, though, he turns back away, trying to discreetly wipe his eyes.
“what are you doing?”
he quietly clears his throat, hoping he doesn’t sound too worn when he speaks. “just needed some air.”
“no.”
you say it in that tone that always scared him a little. it’s when he knew you were about to get your way. he wasn’t interested in doing the whole fighting thing with you; he just gave you whatever you wanted the moment this voice came out of your mouth. it always drew a smile out of you and it made his life easier.
this is about to be the one and only time he can’t let you have your way.
“what are you doing?”
soonyoung squeezes his eyes shut, like that will help him brace himself against the conversation he has to have with you.
this was coming, he tells himself. you knew this was coming. she was never just going to let you go without an explanation.
“why are you ignoring me?” you ask, voice cracking. it takes everything in him to stay where he stands and keep from wrapping his arms around you, apologizing, and begging you to stop crying. “why are you avoiding me? why are you acting like i’m not your best friend?”
soonyoung opens his eyes and almost laughs. best friend. he doesn’t know when the term became so derogatory to him. anyone would be lucky to be in your life, let alone be your best friend. he hates it anyway.
he’s your best friend. you’re not his. he would never dream of calling you that—at least not without calling you the love of his life first. his most beloved. the woman he would give anything to marry. on the totem pole of things he wants to call you, best friend is at the bottom.
“because you’re not,” he says honestly. he immediately regrets it when he hears the small whimper that escapes you. “at least, i don’t want you to be,” he adds, hoping it will soften the blow of what he just said.
“what are you saying?”
soonyoung feels so tired and sad and heartbroken. he hangs his head a little as he takes a deep breath.
“what are you saying, soonyoung?” you repeat when he doesn’t answer immediately. patience was never your strong suit.
when he’s sure he’s not going to start sobbing upon turning, he finally faces you, and even then, he can’t bring himself to look you in the eye. if he does, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to do this.
“do you remember your 23rd birthday?” he asks, gaze fixed on the stain on his balcony where you dropped a smoothie and he insisted you leave it instead of cleaning it. he forgot to do it himself and now he has a permanent reminder of how whipped he is for you.
“siquijor,” you basically spit at him. he feels your walls coming up. he feels your defenses getting ready, and he knows you’re aware of what he’s about to do. “what about it?”
siquijor. the best and worst trip of his life.
“i think i’m drunk,” you announced, words slurring so badly, soonyoung was convinced anyone else wouldn’t be able to understand what you were saying.
“what?” he asked sarcastically. “no way. what makes you say that?”
soonyoung loved being sober when you were drunk like this. he loved hearing and seeing all the silly shit you’d never say or do sober. most of all, he loved taking care of you. he loved pretending he meant something more to you and this was just another boyfriend duty of his—making sure his drunk girlfriend was happy and hydrated and safe, and that when she woke up, she had a lineup of hangover cures at her disposal.
you answered with the gnarliest burp. he burst into loud laughter, grateful the beach was far enough away from any rooms that the two of you weren’t disturbing anyone.
after a few moments, he realized you weren’t laughing along, simply leaning back on your elbows in the sand, smiling softly at him. he did what he does best: he pretended. he pretended you were just a lovesick girl staring at someone she yearned for. he pretended you wanted him just as badly as he needed you. he pretended you were in love.
“penny for your thoughts, you drunkard?”
you giggled, slipping off of your elbows and laying all the way down. he joined you, both of you looking up at the sky. it was different here than it was back home. it was quiet and warm and there was no light to disrupt the view of the stars. he loved that he was seeing something like this for the first time with you.
“my thoughts are worth more than a penny.”
he snorted. even drunk, you were a brat. “nickel?”
“nice try. a hundred bucks, buddy.”
“ha!” he shouted. “never mind, keep your thoughts to yourself.”
“soonie!” you half whined, half burped. he made a face of disgust at you. he thought he did a good job of hiding how endeared he was.
“gross.” soonyoung sighed, turning back to the sky. “fifty.”
you giggled. “deal.” there was no way in hell you were going to remember he owed you $50. “i’m thinking… i am having the best time of my life.”
his heart swelled knowing he did well for your birthday celebration.
he let his head loll to the side, watching you. you had your hands folded politely over your ribs and your legs were crossed at the ankles, your feet swaying side to side like there was a song playing that only you could hear. if soonyoung concentrated hard enough, he thought he could hear it too. it sounded like what he imagined his love for you would if it were a song.
you smiled at the stars like you were talking to them.
“i’m so happy,” you said. “best birthday ever, soonyoung. best month ever. thank you. i love you so much.”
“you’re welcome, y/n,” he said, voice coming out barely above a whisper. “i love you too.” so god damn much.
you turned to look at him when he said that, your smile fading naturally the longer you looked at him. “i…” you trailed off, frowning a little before you continued. “i think… i think i feel lonely, though.”
he mirrored your frown, immediately bringing his body closer to yours. he rested a hand on top of yours. “what’s wrong?”
you opened your mouth but before you could start speaking, you were suddenly crying.
“y/n?” he sat up, bringing you up with him. “what’s wrong, baby?” his eyes widened at the slip-up, but you were too drunk to notice, frantically wiping the tears that kept streaming down your face.
“i’m so happy,” you breathed, hand still in his. “this is everything i’ve ever wanted. this is everything i could ever dream of having.”
your words were still slurred and with the addition of the crying to your inebriated state, you’re hiccuping badly as you speak.
“then why are you crying?” he asked. “why do you feel lonely?”
“this is what i want from y—from…” you hiccuped again. “this is everything i want from someone i’m in love with.”
he felt his heart drop into his stomach, and he couldn’t help the way his hand stiffened in yours. he pulled away.
“oh” was all he could bring himself to say.
what else was he supposed to say to that?
“i’m in love with you. please let me be the one that gets to give this to you.”
“please love me.”
“please don’t break my heart like this.”
he couldn’t say any of it.
“i want you to want… i want…” you kept hiccuping, and despite feeling like his heart was breaking into smithereens, soonyoung found it in himself to rub your back comfortingly. “i want—” you cut yourself off with another hiccup.
“shhh.” it came out in a daze. the sky looked darker. the stars looked duller. the water wasn’t as bright anymore. “it’s okay. it’s okay.” he didn’t know if he was telling you or himself. “it’s okay.”
soonyoung pulled you into his arms, still rubbing your back as he tucked your head under his chin. he didn’t bother trying to find the right words to tell you; he knew you probably wouldn’t remember any of this. so he allowed himself to feel heartbroken as you wept and hiccuped until eventually, you fell asleep.
and when you did, it was his turn. he silently cried until the sun came up, and when it did, soonyoung gathered you up in his arms and carried you back—only as a friend, to a bed you’d never share.
“it hurt,” he says, tears finally beginning to stream down his face.
soonyoung never shied away from crying in front of you; he did it kind of often. but there’s something especially humiliating about it now. he’s wrapped up in his sadness, and it’s suffocating him, making it hard to speak. he thinks if he does, he might choke on his grief.
“it hurt more than anything i’ve ever felt, y/n,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. he isn’t sure if you heard him, but he can’t bring himself to repeat it.
your hands close over his, where they hold the lapel of his jacket around your shoulders. he doesn’t even know when he took it off to put it on you. loving you was exactly like that—an instinct he didn’t have to think twice about. loving you was just something that happened without his knowledge or permission.
“soonyoung,” you call his name, high and desperate. your defenses have come down. you’re not using that scary voice on him anymore. you’re not bracing yourself. he thinks you should be. “that’s not what i meant. i—”
“it’s okay,” he breathes, so many tears in his eyes, he can barely make out the shape of you. he blinks rapidly to expel them. “i’ve had time to—”
“but if you would just let me ex—”
“there’s nothing to explain,” he interjects softly, eyes coming to you now that he can properly see past his tears. “i stayed around, didn’t i?”
your fight falters and you stop trying to talk over him.
“i stayed for seven more years. if i needed you to explain, i would’ve asked the second you woke up sober.”
your shoulders fall and he knows the rest of your fight has dissipated into the night. the next question you ask almost breaks his resolve. “only seven?”
the question comes out small and quiet and defeated, and soonyoung feels his lips tremble. he rolls them between his teeth to stop himself from telling you something he doesn’t want to say: no, of course not only seven. you’ll have me wrapped around your finger until the day i die.
he takes his hands back from under your hold once he’s absolutely sure he won’t say something that would disappoint the version of him that sat on that beach in siquijor, swearing that he wouldn’t let himself feel that heartbroken in the next decade of his life.
“i didn’t mind waiting seven more years to see if you would ever return my feelings,” he says instead of answering you, fully aware of how badly his voice wavers as he speaks. “my friends, they told me i was insane for letting my 20s go to waste like that. but to me… if i still got to be around you, still give you experiences and love that made you feel like that’s what you deserved from someone you actually were in love with, then… i can’t see the issue in that. i’d happily wait seven more years. because even if it was seven years of the same longing—and even if it was seven years leading to nothing more, it was still seven years of me being able to show you how well i could…”
he swallows the lump in his throat and fails. he shakes his head and just says what he should’ve told you seven years ago.
“how well i could love you. how much i do love you.”
you look dumbfounded, and if this were any other situation—if soonyoung didn’t feel like he was actually fucking dying—he thinks he’d make fun of you. your eyes are the widest he’s ever seen them, and your mouth is parted like you’re poised to say something but you don’t even know what.
“soonie—” you start.
he doesn’t let you finish. he can’t. he’s so close to ending this—to doing the worst thing he’s ever going to have to do—and if he lets you finish, he’ll lose the courage to walk away.
“i told myself… while you slept in my lap on that beach in siquijor, that if by the time you turned 30, we still hadn’t moved past… this…” he can’t stand the look of horror on your face as you start to process what he’s saying. he looks at the sky behind your head instead. “then, i wouldn’t spend my 30s torturing myself anymore. i’d let you go.”
you don’t let even a millisecond pass before you practically scream: “i don’t want you to let me go!” at him so forcefully, he flinches. “i don’t want you to let me go, you stupid idiot! if that’s what you’ve been doing the last, few weeks, ‘letting me go’—” you make exaggerated air quotes with your fingers and a face that tells him you think he’s ridiculous. it catches him so off-guard, he almost laughs. “—then knock it off!”
you slap his chest to each word to punctuate your point.
“wh—?” he brings his arm up reflexively to defend himself.
“what i meant to tell you, it came out wrong,” you inform him. his arms slowly fall back to his side as he listens to you as closely as he can. “i didn’t even mean to tell you anything, but if drunk me outed me like that, i need you to know that’s not what i meant.”
the words came out of your mouth in a rush like you thought soonyoung wouldn’t let you say them if you took too long. when he doesn’t say anything in the brief silence, you take a deep breath, obviously trying to steady yourself.
“i was lonely. i was really lonely,” you admit, seeming to remember the feeling more than you did the actual conversation. “and yes, it was because i enjoyed that vacation so much and yes, it was because i wished i could have it with someone i was in love with, but i was having it with someone i was in love with!”
everything in soonyoung’s body tenses, like his own defenses are coming up—like this is some kind of joke and his body is preparing to be laughed at. because you just said you were on vacation with someone you were in love with in the philippines… but you were on vacation with him in the philippines…
his body braces itself.
“i just meant i wanted it to mean more for both of us,” you continue, hands waving erratically between you to drive your point home. “i wanted to be on vacation with you!”
your brows furrow and your lips thin as you helplessly fight off a wave of tears he knows is pushing to be released. he knows that when you’re too emotional—whether it’s sadness, joy, rage—you cry, and once you do, you end up blubbering for so long, you usually end up asleep at the end of it.
but still, you bravely fight it off, obviously determined to tell soonyoung what you need to.
“but you as my boyfriend! not you as my best friend! there’s no one else i would’ve wanted to be with, soonyoung!”
he’s glad his body is stiff enough to keep his knees from immediately giving out under him. because all soonyoung wants to do now is fall to the floor and cry. cry because he never thought you’d say these words, because he felt like he was getting back something he lost on the beaches of siquijor, because the two of you wasted a decade dancing around each other instead of just fucking saying something.
“do you think i’ve been single our entire friendship for fun?!” you shriek the question through tears. “do you think it’s fun being the 30-year-old virgin who’s never even kissed anyone?! because it’s not!”
you whined about this often early on in your friendship, but eventually the complaints petered out, and he would drive himself crazy wondering if it was because that changed—if someone else had taken those firsts.
did it happen?
she would tell me.
right?
no, i’m still a dude. that’s weird, she’d probably tell a girl.
no no, i’m her stupid ass best friend. she would tell me!
oh my god, would she tell me?
what if i just die?
and so the cycle would go. he knows it wasn’t any of his business and that if you had lost those firsts to someone else, that was your prerogative, but still, he feels relieved to hear that isn’t the case.
and he knows he has no right to—not when you haven’t had the proper conversation to hash things out yet—but he suddenly feels an overwhelming possessiveness for you. because he waited for you. no one was ever going to make him stray away from you, so he waited for you—never expecting, just hoping. sorely hoping. and now he knows you waited for him too, and now… now, all he can think about is making you his. all soonyoung can think about now is giving you all the things you abstained from in the hopes you’d have it with him of all people.
it’s what you deserve, isn’t it? for waiting? and isn’t he in the business of giving you what you deserve? his hand twitches, begging him to reach for you and kiss you stupid.
“but i didn’t want anyone else! i wanted you!” you point at him almost violently, and his heart grows too big for his chest. “you waited seven years, but i waited ten! TEN, soonyoung! do you—”
his willpower can only withstand so much. at the end of the day, soonyoung is just a man who’s pathetically in love with you, and hearing you say you wanted him—hearing you confirm you waited your entire friendship just for the chance to have him and be with him and only him—it completely undoes his entire being.
soonyoung’s mouth is on yours before his brain can fully process what’s happening. he feels the shock on your lips for only a moment before you’re moving. despite it being your first kiss, you respond quickly, your body knowing exactly what to do with soonyoung’s like it’s second nature.
you taste like tears and champagne, and even with all the extravagant dinners he’s taken you on and the places around the world you’ve traveled to together, this is the best thing he’s ever tasted.
soonyoung thinks he’s happy to stand here, kissing you and tasting you and listening to your cute, little breaths against him forever. but then your hands start exploring him—his hips, his waist, his chest, before wrapping around his neck and bringing him in to kiss you even deeper. and he knows immediately that all the strength he mustered up to deal with tonight is gone. the moan that comes up his throat is loud and bordering on obscene, but you smile upon taking it into your own mouth, as if you’re feeding on his desire. as if you love the taste of it.
soonyoung doesn’t wait after that. he can’t wait after that. without letting your lips separate, he guides you back into his room, careful to keep you from tripping over the threshold and all the crap he left on the floor when he was busy having his pity parties.
he lays you in his bed gently, thankful that even though it’s unmade, he at least had the housekeeper wash his sheets. he lays on top of you, trying not to let his weight crush you, but when you wrap your arms around him, you press him to your body as close as it can possibly go, and after he releases his entire weight on you, you hold him like even that still isn’t close enough.
it’s all so much. after spending so long hoping you’d one day want him even a fraction as much as he wants you, tasting the excitement on you and feeling the adoration in your hands as they feel every surface of his body they could reach—it’s so much.
it wears down his self-restraint.
you don’t seem to mind, though, because when he runs his tongue along your lips, asking permission for more, you open your mouth immediately. and when his tongue slips in and meets yours, the moan he gets back is so loud and uninhibited and hot, he feels it in his dick.
you giggle a little, and though you recover quickly and continue trying to make out with him after that, the sound delights him enough that he stops to look at you. your makeup is tear stained and your eyes are still a little red, but you look worlds different than you did just a few minutes ago. there’s no tightness in your smile, no devastation in your eyes, no anger furrowed into your brows. when he looks at you this close, he realizes he’s never seen you this happy, this excited, or this light—like you’ve been relieved of a burden that was too heavy for you. but really, the most different thing about you now is that you just look like you’re his.
“what’s so funny, hm?” he asks, resting his forehead on yours. at the start of this night, he didn’t think he would ever hear you giggle again.
“nothing,” you claim, even though your voice still has traces of amusement somewhere in there. your hand snakes up into his hair and starts scratching his scalp. he hums at the sensation. “i love you, soonyoung.”
he lifts his forehead to look at you. it’s his millionth time hearing you say that. it’s the first time he’s hearing it in the context he’s wished to hear it for the last decade.
you love him. you love him. you love him.
“i’ve always loved you,” you announce unabashedly. “from the very start.”
in retrospect, the proper thing to do would’ve been to tell you he loved you too—so much that he didn’t even know how to process it well enough to attempt to put it into words. but instead, he pushes himself off you, slightly ashamed that your confession made his dick go from semi-hard to rock hard in record time, but insanely elated (and painfully and obviously turned on) at the idea of you having spent your entire friendship loving him just as much.
when he sits back, his pants uncomfortably pull against his erection, and he winces, glancing down at it and silently scolding it to stop embarrassing him and have some goddamn decorum.
he clears his throat and looks back at you, where you’re now propped up on your elbows, smiling at his crotch like it’s already yours. it ruins him.
soonyoung is going to tell you he loves you. and sure, you already know because he already did, but now he gets to tell you knowing you feel the same. so he’s going to tell you, and he’s going to say it over and over and over again, but once he does, he gets the feeling that he won’t want to stop at just kissing you.
he knows it’s probably a lot—to go from what you were to… this, and on top of that, lose your first kiss. and even though you made it clear that he’s the only reason you even remained a virgin, he doesn’t want to assume you’re ready to do something as big as have sex for the first time tonight too.
soonyoung wishes he could be a bigger person than the horny teenager he feels like right now. he wishes he could stop this for the both of you and insist on having a conversation first before things get any further like a proper adult would. but you want him and you love him, and it’s driving him absolutely fucking crazy, and if he gets any harder, his dick is going to start hurting.
“how far?” he asks, his voice so pathetically needy, he wants to die. “i don’t want you to feel rushed or pressured. i just…” he falters, trying to find a way to say this without making it sound like it’s all he wants from you. “we wasted so much time.” not a great start. “and i—”
“all the way,” you say, a coy smile on your lips when you interrupt him. his pants stretch even tighter.
it’s clear he was worrying for nothing; from the way you look at him, he knows you understand what he’s desperately trying to say and failing.
he watches you with heavy-lidded eyes as you lay yourself back down and wrap your legs around his torso, doing nothing when your already short dress rides all the way up to expose you.
“please,” you add on so sweetly, he groans. he won’t be lasting long at all tonight.
soonyoung rests his hands on your thighs, thumbs instinctively rubbing circles into the soft skin there as he tries to take a moment to process everything in front of him. he knows if he doesn’t, the excitement will paint over his memories with zero remorse, and all he’ll remember is that it happened—not what he said, did, or heard. and this is absolutely something he needs to remember.
he has to remember the way your knees quickly and easily fall apart and away from each other at his touch—almost like they’re sighing in relief at his arrival. he has to remember how your lower back arches and your pelvis wriggles underneath his fingertips before he’s even really done anything to you. soonyoung’s gaze rakes over your figure, taking note of every, little thing he can, when finally, they land on something that lays his fears to rest.
because there is no way he’ll ever forget the moment his eyes found the space between your legs. he stares at you now—right on the spot where your panties are already drenched with your arousal. soonyoung doesn’t care how overwhelming his excitement is right now; there is simply no possible way his brain will be able to gloss over this no matter how many years pass: the moment he saw physical evidence of just how much you craved him and needed him. how much you’ve deprived yourself of him.
and now, he gets to give you anything and everything you want from him.
his hands begin to travel up your thighs, goosebumps following the trail of his fingertips. he stops just shy of your cunt, trying to breathe deeply enough to calm his thunderous heartbeat. if he gets too lost in this, he’ll cum in his pants, and he will never forgive himself.
he stares hard at your desire, just barely able to keep from screaming when he realizes the dark spot is slowly growing the longer he sits there, unmoving. you squirm under him, and his hands involuntarily squeeze in response. your thighs are plush in his grasp, so full and beautiful, your flesh is forcing its way into the spaces between his fingers and turning white from hard he grips you.
don’t fucking cum right now, you loser, he thinks hard to himself. you cannot cum before anything happens during your first time with y/n. he exhales deeply and slowly. i will literally kill you if you cum right now.
he’s so tempted to look you in the eye just to see if you’re struggling even a fraction of the amount that he is, but he knows eye contact with you right now will just set his progress back.
when he’s mostly confident he won’t immediately finish in his pants, he has to swallow the idiotic smile that threatens to take over his entire face. finally, soonyoung gives in and he moves. just one finger, pressed against the part of your panties that sinks just a tiny bit more than the rest—right where he plans to be in the next few minutes, stuffing you full as far as he’ll go.
as soon as you feel his fingertip brush against your entrance, your hole pulses like it’s trying to clamp around something bigger than his finger that isn’t there. he feels some of the control he has on that pathetic smile of his slip, and as if it’s an avalanche, the rest of his control comes crashing down. without thinking about it, his finger sinks the tiniest bit deeper as he drags it up your slit, the wetness from your panties catching on his skin ever so slightly.
when his finger finds and presses on your clit, you begin uncontrollably writhing and gasping beneath him, and his eyes tear themselves away from your cunt long enough to finally meet your gaze. you look at him with so much lust and love and longing—all of it so loudly desperate—he completely loses track of where his finger is and what it’s doing. all he wants to do is latch his lips onto yours again and say what he should’ve at least ten times by now: that he loves you.
so instead of rubbing your clit until he teases your first orgasm out of you like he planned to, he removes his hand from your center so that he can lean forward and kiss you senseless. but as soon as his touch leaves you, a strangled whine forces its way up your throat and past your lips, making him laugh immediately.
“what?” you ask, your eyes narrowing at him. it should invoke fear in him, but he’s too endeared for that. “why are you laughing?! did i do something embarrassing?”
soonyoung scoffs as he brings himself over you. “‘embarrassing’? no, baby.” he rolls his eyes. “your neediness is not ‘embarrassing.’ it’s fucking hot.”
you turn the prettiest shade of pink. “shut up.”
he grins. “gladly.”
soonyoung kisses your nose, enjoying the shade of pink it turned under your blush. then, he kisses your lips, just for a moment so that he can lean back and look you in the eye when he says:
“i love you. i love you so god damn much, i thought i was going to die having to leave you.”
he knows it’s dramatic, but he was convinced that’s exactly what was happening to him not even an hour ago. the thought of doing life without you by his side made everything look and feel so colorless and dull and boring and ugly. dead was as good a word as any to describe what his life would look like without you.
“you’re not leaving me,” you say so matter-of-factly, the smile it brings to his face hurts his cheeks. he was so dumb to think he could; even if he had all the strength in the world to end your friendship, you would’ve never let him off the hook that easily.
“i’m not,” he says.
soonyoung gets to work covering you in as many kisses as humanly possible, his lips pressing against your mouth, jaw, neck, collarbone—wherever you have skin, his lips are all over it. your gasps and moans reach a fever pitch, and he figures it’s time to stop making you wait.
“you tell me if you want to stop, okay?” he asks, lips brushing against your ears as he speaks. “and we’ll stop, no questions asked.”
you nod so eagerly—so obediently—he can’t help but smirk. his tongue darts out to lick your lobe and bring it between his teeth to nip at before he starts kissing his way down your body.
“you sound so pretty,” he tells you as you continue to make sure he knows exactly how good you feel. all moans and groans and whispered begging. “exactly how i imagined you’d sound.” his lips graze your already hard nipples through the fabric of your dress and he earns another loud whimper. “fuck, even better actually.”
he pulls your dress down and off one shoulder to expose the breast he was just teasing, and when he sees you bare, he hangs his head, letting his forehead meet your chest as he grunts loudly.
what is my life? he thinks to himself. this is literally insane.
soonyoung flattens his tongue against your nipple, and you inhale sharply, your hips immediately bucking up. he doesn’t realize his eyes have fluttered closed until he opens them to look at you and make sure you’re okay. from the way your eyes roll into the back of your head and your mouth hangs open in dazed ecstasy, he thinks it’s safe to assume you’re okay.
“soonyoung.”
god, his name sounds so good when you say it, especially when you say it like this.
“fuck,” he grumbles against your tit. he swears his dick is throbbing from how hard you have him.
“lower! please, god, lower!” you order him.
“whatever you want,” he breathes against your skin.
but he’s not moving before he has the chance to leave a tiny, little something that can lay claim to you—something only he and you will see. he presses his hand against the side of your breast, groaning at how full you are in his palm. he leans down and bites into the flesh just above your nipple. your hips jerk up as he sucks on the spot just long enough that he knows it will stay a few days. he smiles when he releases you, the hickey already turning a beautiful purple.
“pretty,” he mutters. he wants to cover you in them. he kisses the mark gently before removing the other strap of your dress.
with the bottom of your dress completely ridden up and the top half bunched around your waist, you’re almost completely naked, and already, soonyoung can hardly refrain from jumping off his bed and running around the room screaming.
fucking breathe, bro.
he gently lifts your hips up and off the bed so that he can slip both your dress and your ruined panties off your body in one go. once he does, all the refraining he’s been doing tonight comes to a brusque end.
“oh my god!” he shouts, burying his face into your clothes and groaning into them. “i can’t believe this is my life right now, oh my god.”
soonyoung presses your clothes against his eyes so hard, he thinks he should see stars, but still, all he can see are your perfect tits and your bare, glistening cunt and the sensual look in your eyes like they’re all forever burned into his retinas. or maybe his eyes are open?
he blinks and brings your clothes down just enough to be able to take a peek at you. nope, the image of your naked body in his bed are definitely just burned into his eyeballs.
“oh my god, i really have you naked in my bed right now, oh my god oh my god oh my god.” he probably says it 20 more times. he’s not sure.
“soonyoung!” you berate his behavior the way you always do. he smiles into your dress because even as everything is literally changing before his eyes… nothing has. you’re still his best friend, pretending to get mad at him for being silly. he knows from the fond way you look at him that you aren’t mad at all. “focus! come on, you’re just teasing me now. please.”
“okay, okay!” he says, voice muffled by your dress. “i’m so sorry, i’m not trying to tease you, i swear. i just…” he stammers, unable to stop the whole bunch of nothing that comes spilling out of his mouth. “i’m—just, i—it’s just, like… what?” the question comes out as a laugh. “y’know?”
you raise an eyebrow at him and he realizes he isn’t really sure what he’s asking you.
“like, what the actual fuck?” he adds like that will help explain.
you groan. “it’s crazy how quickly you go from sex god to loser.”
soonyoung feels his face immediately fall into a glare—one you’re used to seeing whenever you two bicker. “you know…” he says, eyes narrowed at you. “my favorite thing about you has always been your patience.”
he throws your clothes aside, hands going to his shirt to begin unbuttoning it.
“good thing i have a lot of it then,” you claim. your bratty smirk falls right off your face as you watch him slowly undress.
“right.”
when he shrugs his shirt off and lets it join your clothes on the floor, your eyes widen like you’re seeing him shirtless for the first time. your eyes sweep up and down his torso, your chest heaving as you begin to breathe harder, and it almost makes him shy—almost makes him want to hug himself and jokingly tell you to stop ogling him like a piece of meat. but he also enjoys it more than anything.
so many times you’ve been half naked together, wearing swimsuits at the beach or at the pool, and although he’s relished having your eyes on him before, this feels different. you stare at him shamelessly now, making no move to avert your eyes the way you used to. this is where he would make a joke to lighten the mood—to give you an out from a situation you might feel caged in by.
this time, he just allows himself the space to revel in this feeling of being adored.
“wait,” you say suddenly when he stands up off the bed and his hands start undoing his belt. you crawl over to him, completely naked, and he thinks he might have a heart attack watching you on all fours like this.
“change your mind? it’s fine if you do,” he assures you, already fastening his belt before his dick can get any more ideas about where the night is going.
“no,” you laugh as you rest your hands on top of his. “i’m not going to change my mind, soonie.”
you sound as sure as he does about this. it relaxes him immediately. you smile at him before you press your naked body against his, tangle your hands in his hair, and bring his face down to lock lips with you again. he holds you delicately as your tongues slide against each other—different from how he’s pressed, tugged, and groped at you tonight. he forces himself to be gentler. he forces himself to slow down and enjoy the feeling of being in love with you openly.
he says as much. “i love you. oh my god, i love you. holy shit.”
“don’t start with the loser behavior again, please,” you mutter against the kiss. he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t dare leave your lips. “but i love you too.”
soonyoung doesn’t think he’ll get tired of hearing it. the past 10 years of his life have led up to this moment. it will take so much more than that for him to ever get used to the feeling of you telling him you love him.
he rests his forehead against yours and smiles. “i’m so happy.”
“me too, soonie.”
he watches as your hands leave his hair and travel down his chest, taking their time to trace every line and curve of every muscle. you finish the job of undoing his belt and unbuttoning his jeans, and that’s about all he can take before he decides it’s time to stop holding back.
before you can even touch his zipper, he grabs your face and kisses you roughly, tongue twisting with yours immediately. he kisses you like he’s held his breath for 10 years and you’re air. you kiss him back the same, exact way.
he finishes undressing, kicking his pants away and wasting no time picking you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he does. his cock twitches violently once it’s sandwiched between you and his stomach, and he has you laying back in his bed in mere seconds.
our bed, a voice in his head reminds him. a bed we can share. if you want.
when you tear yourself away from him to catch your breath, your eyes immediately go south, and he doesn’t have to follow your gaze to know what you’re gaping at.
“see something you like?”
you don’t even pretend to hear what he said. “uh, what?”
it inflates his ego to unprecedented levels, but he doesn’t gloat and annoy you the way he usually would. mostly because his laughs are cut off with your frantic begging.
“soonyoung,” you whisper so suddenly and seriously, he freezes. “put it in me.”
the order catches him by so much surprise, he laughs even harder than before. “i can’t just put it in you.”
you shove him and he pushes off the bed to put some space in between you. he looks at you, amused. “what?! what do you mean you can’t just put it in me?” you sound the most offended he’s ever heard you. “is that not how sex works? you put that in me? like… over and over again?
“baby, please,” his laughs are bordering on uncontrollable wheezing. “you’re making this so unsexy.”
“you made it unsexy first!” you complain. “put it in me, soonyoung!”
he wants to keep pretending that this is incredibly unsexy, but this exchange, however goofy, is just making him want to fuck you even more. “stop saying that!”
“why?! you keep making me wait!”
the way you complain and beg makes soonyoung briefly forget that you’re losing your virginity, and he isn’t letting that happen without proper foreplay first—without getting at least one orgasm out of you.
“pu—”
before you can tell him to put it in you again, he presses his hand against your mouth. “okay!” he says, raising his voice to drown out your muffled pleas. “okay! shhh. relax, and i will. alright?” your eyes widen and he feels a burn in his stomach when he sees the submission in them. you nod. “good girl.”
you moan into his hand and grind your hips up into his.
“oh, you like that?” he asks, smirking. all you do is squirm more.
he releases your mouth, and when you stay silent on your own accord—so willingly compliant—he thinks there are a few things he’d like to try in bed later on down the line.
soonyoung plants a wet kiss on your lips before he rests his hand against your neck, eyes watching as you swallow underneath his fingertips. he thinks you look pretty like this: bare throat adorned by his fingers. he has a passing thought to ask you if you would ever be into being choked, but there’s no fucking way he’d do that during your first time having sex. he lets the thought go, making note of it for a later time.
“so pretty,” he says, finger tapping your lower lip. when you take his finger into your mouth all the way, sucking it and releasing it with a pop, he has to spend a few moments reminding himself he can’t cum already. “jesus christ…” he sighs. he needs to move fast or he will be embarrassing himself tonight. “let me know if i do anything you don’t like, okay?”
you nod quickly—impatiently. your enthusiasm stutters when he doesn’t immediately “put it in” like you’ve been begging. you frown as he pulls away again, but when he settles with his head between your legs, your tune changes immediately.
“oh.”
soonyoung has dreamed about this moment for so long. he’s had obscene, vulgar thoughts about you—thoughts he would touch himself to. he’s spent an embarrassing amount of nights moaning your name while vigorously grinding into his fist, and all it took for him to cum was the thought of tasting you. he didn’t even have to think about fucking into your pussy or how wet you would be or how warm you would feel—all he thought about was eating you out until you came all over his face, and that would do it for him.
if he was looking to get a quick orgasm, maybe release some frustration from a day spent hanging out with you, he’d just rub one out in the shower. but if it was one of those nights he was tossing and turning, thinking about how much he loved you and how much he wanted you to be his, he’d throw his blankets off, grab a bottle of lotion, a box of tissues, and sometimes, when he was feeling especially depraved, his favorite photos he’s taken of you. there was something about looking at photos no one else has seen of you—no matter how ordinary or innocent—that turned him on.
his daydreams always started with getting you sinfully wet. yes, with your own arousal, but with his spit too. he’d massage it into your clit, mixing the both of you and your pleasures together until your hips are bucking and shoving your needy cunt in his face. then, he’d give in and lap your clit gently and the first taste would send his eyes rolling into the back of his head. he would try to stay cool and composed, but realistically, he knew tasting you would send him into a frenzy.
he’d already be close by this point in his fantasies, whining and groaning, his phone and photos of you long forgotten because he has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from coming before he could finish playing everything out in his head.
because soonyoung couldn’t cum before his favorite part: when he would imagine shoving his face as far in between your legs as he could, extending his tongue as far into you as humanly possible. you’d say his name the way no one has ever said his name. you’d pull at his hair until he was sure you were permanently damaging all of his follicles. sometimes, he’d immediately cum after this. other times, he’d be able to at least get to the part where he starts fucking you with his fingers.
on lucky days, he would reach the end of his dreams. by this time, he’d be feverishly tugging on his cock, a mess of sweat and whimpers of your name as he thought about you squirting all over his face. he would drink you up like it’s the fucking elixir of life. you would make the filthiest mess of his face—chin dripping, cheeks sticky, lips swollen and covered in you—and he would thank you for it and beg for more. of course, more would never come because he would make a mess of his own hand after that.
he always felt like a pervert after—always felt so guilty picturing his best friend like this and doing something so dirty with you in mind—but the next night would come and the next night and the next, and he couldn’t think of anything else. anyone else.
and as lewd and impure and delicious and downright euphoric as his fantasies were, nothing could have prepared him for how much fucking better the real thing would feel. how much better the real you would taste.
by the time you cum on his face, not once but twice, he knows this is something he can do for the rest of his life. he would never even need you to fuck him or blow him or give him a handjob; all he literally needs is to devour your cunt any time you’d grant him the privilege to and he’d be a happy man for the rest of his life.
you’re still panting, chest heaving from your orgasms, when soonyoung climbs up over you once more and wraps his arms around your waist, kissing, nipping, licking, and whispering i-love-yous from your collarbone and up until he reaches your lips. he kisses you lightly just in case you don’t want to put your lips on him after he just ate you out, but when you deepen the kiss and hug him even closer, he thinks you might actually like the taste of you on his mouth.
“soonie,” you eventually whisper against him.
“mmm?”
you say something that he’s been wanting to hear for a decade. you confirm something he’s been desperately searching for signs of for your entire friendship. “i want to be yours. i want to be yours so bad.”
he stops peppering you with kisses and watches you carefully, like this all might still be a hallucination that will fade if he gets too lost in the moment. but you remain where you are, looking at him with as much love as he imagines he’s always looked at you. tears gather in your eyes, some escaping the corners. he catches every single one that does, pressing it back into your skin with his finger.
when you give him a small smile to tell him you’re okay—that these are just tears of happiness—he leans in, presses his cheek to yours, and promises you, “then i’ll make you mine.”
just being inside you is enough to make soonyoung want to cry. he does his absolute fucking best not to because you already are and he doesn’t want you to think of anything other than yourself and your pleasure during your first time. but he wants to cry as he buries his face into your neck and slowly pushes into you, only moving whenever you say it’s okay to.
when he woke up today, he did it with swollen eyes from a night spent crying over you. he tortured himself all day, thinking about how every last time he had with you was the last and he didn’t even know it—the last laugh he heard, the last smile he saw, the last time you bickered with him, the last time you told him you loved him. he steeled himself to face your tears or your screaming or whatever else you did to him when he ended your friendship.
at the start of the day, soonyoung was preparing for his life to be over—for you to take every good thing he’s ever had and felt with you when he forced you to walk away.
now, he’s fully buried inside you, forehead resting against yours as you both struggle to adjust to the overwhelming feeling of each other. it’s when you tell soonyoung that after 10 years, there’s nothing that will change your mind about him, that he finally moves.
“oh fuck,” he breathes as he starts rolling his hips, cock dragging in and out of you in an astonishingly seamless fit. “your cunt is perfect.”
you bloom at the praise, and you don’t shy away from returning it, chanting his name over and over again, whispers of how good he feels wherever you can fit them in between—how good he is for you, how he was made for you.
“y/n,” he gasps. he tries to tell you that if you keep saying his name like this—like he’s yours—he’s going to cum inside you. but all that comes out is: “oh my god.”
and all you say is “soonyoung” again and again and again. he’s never put any thought into his birth-given name, but tonight, he decides it’s his favorite string of letters. he never wants to hear you say anyone else’s name. he never wants anyone other than you to say his name. it’s yours and yours alone.
at some point, he can tell you can handle even more, and he pushes up off you, using the headboard as leverage as he pounds into you harder and rougher, rhythm becoming erratic and frenzied. the noises that come out of your mouth are so nasty, he’s on the brim of losing it.
“oh my god. look at you,” he pants, his sweat dripping from his face, his neck, and his chest onto you. a drop lands on the corner of your mouth, and without hesitating, your tongue darts out to lick it up, and he groans.
it’s too much: your neediness, your obedience, your eagerness. your tits—one sporting his hickey—bouncing wildly as he fucks you at a brutal pace. your unbelievably tight cunt, sucking his cock in so desperately, near-strangling it and refusing to let him go.
“so fucking perfect,” he tells you.
you make it clear that you’re not lasting long—that your third orgasm is on the horizon. it’s a bittersweet realization; on one hand, he’s relieved because he’s been holding his own orgasm off since his tongue met your clit. on the other, he never wants to stop fucking you.
but this is just the start, he tries to remind himself. this is just the first time, and there will be so many more now—now that you’re his and he’s yours.
your voice rings loudly in his ears again. i want to be yours so bad.
his voice is hoarse when he asks, “do you feel like you’re mine yet?”
you nod frantically, pussy squeezing tightly around him like the thought is pushing you even closer to finishing. “yes, god, yes. yes!”
“say it,” he demands, eyes never leaving yours. he can’t look away when you look like you would say or do anything for him.
“i’m yours,” you say immediately. “soonie… i’m yours, soonyoung.” his name comes out in a tortured whimper.
“i never want to hear another name come out of your mouth ever again,” he declares. “ah, fuck, holy shit. you feel so fucking good, baby. just for me, huh? oh fuck.” his orgasm is begging to be released, but he refuses to let up until you reach yours. “you’re mine. and i’m yours.”
you barely finish agreeing and calling soonyoung “mine” when your pussy is suddenly and violently quivering around him, pulsing and throbbing as you ride through your third orgasm of the night. the feeling of your climax squeezing around soonyoung is unreal, and he pulls out just in time to avoid coming inside of you, painting your beautiful, soft skin with his bliss.
it feels like it lasts forever, the spurts of white splattering you. he thinks he could get hard again when you let your mouth hang open and catch some of him on your tongue.
“holy shit,” he breathes when he’s tugged himself dry, leaning back and trying to catch his breath. he feels drops of sweat sliding down his body everywhere, his muscles burning deliciously.
soonyoung looks down at you and is pleased to see you covered with him: his cum, his sweat, his spit. he made good on his promise. if you don’t look like his right now, he has no idea what you look like.
“c’mere,” you whine, reaching for him with grabby hands when you have no energy to sit up and actually take hold of him.
he smiles and leans in to kiss you, before retrieving a towel from the bathroom to clean you both up with.
for the rest of the night, you two stay tangled up in each other’s arms and talk about when you fell in love.
you: when you first met him.
him: when you first walked into the room.
neither of you know if the other is telling the truth or if you’re just trying to win the i-loved-you-first competition (you’re both telling the truth).
you talk about what the future looks like. you decide you don’t know for sure, but one thing you’re confident about is that you’ll be facing it together. one thing soonyoung is sure about is that he’ll be making you his wife.
you ask if you can make your anniversary two days from now so it doesn’t land on your birthday. soonyoung asks if you can make it two days prior so that he can forget that he was trying to leave you on your 30th birthday. you agree.
you both run through every big moment either of you can remember being so hopelessly in love with each other, it hurt and what the other person was thinking at that moment. for every memory of yours soonyoung can remember, he’s able to tell you he was suffering just as much as you were. the same is true for you. for every memory he can’t remember, he feels like a kid, giggling and kicking his feet in bed with you hearing about how you were equally, pathetically down bad for him.
your birthday party is long forgotten, traded for an intimate night getting to know each other in drastically different ways than you did as best friends. soonyoung feels like he’s meeting you for the first time again—a privilege he never thought he would be afforded ever again. aside from learning what you liked from your time in his bed tonight, he learns a lot.
like for one, you actually are very into physical affection, something soonyoung thought you didn’t like displaying since you were constantly shoving him away; you just avoided it because it exacerbated your feelings for him and blurred the lines too much for you. in fact, you stay burrowed into his side the entire night, whining any time he moved a tiny bit away, even when it was just to adjust his position or reach to turn off the lamp. you love playing with his hair and tracing little patterns on his chest (he thinks one of the things you traced was your names together). you constantly thread his fingers with yours and when you get tired of that, you still keep your pinkies linked.
he learns you love hanging out at his apartment more than you like the fancy dinners. you feel the most at home with him when you’re actually home with him. you tell him your favorite nights are when you’re in charge of placing a food delivery order at his place while he unwinds from his workday, showering and changing (and unbeknownst to you, probably jacking off in the shower to make sure he doesn’t accidentally get hard while you two hang out). you say it feels like you’re his wife and this is your home too. the sentiment is enough to make him tear up, and you, of course, tease him mercilessly once a fat teardrop lands on your head.
by the time the sun is rising, soonyoung realizes you both have rewritten siquijor in the confines of his bedroom. all the miscommunication (or absolute lack thereof) and the pain and heartbreak have been replaced. from where you two lay in bed, he watches the sun’s rays start to reach into the sky, turning it stunning shades of orange, pink, purple, and blue, and for the first time in seven years, he doesn’t cringe away from it and the feelings of loneliness it used to bring. he doesn’t feel heartbroken all over again like he used to.
this time, the sun rises, and soonyoung feels so ridiculously happy. you quietly watch the sky with him, and he thinks you know what he’s thinking of as you continuously trace hearts, one after the other, never-ending, into his skin.
“it’s a new day,” you say quietly.
“it is,” he agrees, his heart full. “it’s a new day, and i love you even more than i did yesterday.”
you hug him tighter to you even though there is literally no space between you.
“i love you, soonie.” you yawn. “is it time to say good night?”
“it’s morning, baby.”
“no, we didn’t go to sleep. it’s definitely still night.”
he grins and doesn’t bother arguing with that logic. he moves to get out of bed, but you immediately lock your arms so he can’t. he snorts. “i’m just going to pull the curtains so we can sleep.”
you sigh like it’s still an inconvenience, but you release him all the same. “fine. you should get, like, a remote for them or something. isn’t that what rich people do?”
he rolls his eyes as he gets up and closes the curtains, bidding the sunrise—the best of his life—a farewell for now. “rich people stay rich by not buying things they don’t need, baby.”
“i don’t think so,” you disagree, arms opening again for soonyoung to lay back in.
“you know what, whatever you say,” he says as you kiss all the skin you can reach from where you hug him. he preens at the feeling. “you’re always right.”
you hum, smiling against him. “good boyfriend.”
“soon-to-be husband,” he mutters before yawning.
you giggle the same way you have been every time he’s corrected you tonight. “soonie-be-husband.”
he scoffs. “boo,” he heckles you. “bad! get off the stage!” you laugh harder, and it coaxes a soft smile out of him as he watches you.
“best friend” doesn’t seem like such a bad title in this moment anymore. he thinks he gets it now that he’s able to call you even more than that; it’s such an honor to be able to be both your boyfriend and your best friend now. it’s such an honor to be able to build something more on a foundation of friendship as strong as the one he shares with you.
when the laughter subsides, you both sigh, sinking into the bed further and getting comfortable.
“good night, love of mine,” he says, kissing the top of your head.
“mine,” you repeat like you can’t get enough of the sound of it. “yours.”
soonyoung smiles and his eyes flutter closed with exhaustion, thoughts bleary but still painted with you and the last 10 years as he starts to drift off to sleep. if this is what he gets to have now, whatever pain he withstood and however much time he wasted is nothing to him—just a moot point in the story you’ll both tell for years to come.
he dreams of you two in siquijor that night, this time both of you sober and wrapped in each other and in love, with the rest of your lives ahead of you.
🔞 18+, minors do not interact • masterlist • submit a request
(っ˶˘ ᵕ ˘˶)ᐣ✎ ᝰ request from this prompt game
@studioeisa: "hey trixie i saw u rb the writing prompt thingo .. 👀 i can’t see the issue + soonyoung (or dealer's choice on any member!!!)"
soonyoung's pov • your pov ⇣
soonyoung has been pulling away from you for weeks now. it seems that tonight is the night he wipes his hands clean of you.
♫ darl+ing svt
pairing: soonyoung x fem!reader
word count: 8.7k
tags: best friends to lovers, idiots in love, a bit of miscommunication, angst for like one second, happy ending
cw: smut — unprotected piv (v irresponsible piv don’t be like these two); reader loses virginity; spit; oral f. receiving; fingering; sy likes the idea of people hearing them fucking but no one actually hears them; just really vanilla, really soft, really mushy smut tbh, vanilla pudding smut if you will lol
a/n: for the biggest-brained, funniest, most talented kae – i hope you like it <3 if you don't, just lie to me <3 • i know the request didn't include smut, but this one truly TRULY got away from me (as you can tell from this monstrous word count lol), and it kinda just wrote itself, smut included. i did mark where the scene starts and ends in case anyone doesn’t want to read it, but that's a courtesy to adults uninterested in reading explicit material. if you're a minor, pls scroll away
you look around, grinning widely as everyone sings to you. the lights are turned off in soonyoung’s apartment, the light from the thirty candles on your cake more than enough to illuminate your face. you meet each of your friends' eyes, your heart so full of love as you look at each of them.
you leave the person you want to look at most for last. finally, you meet soonyoung’s gaze. you don't mean to, but you feel your smile immediately falter.
he’s singing, but you can barely hear his voice—already uncharacteristic of him on its own. he's spent every, single one of your birthdays since you've met obnoxiously scream-singing, arms usually wrapped tightly around your neck as he bent over you, caging you in from behind. whether it was in front of a party of people (like tonight) or just you two, he was always singing like the fate of your year relied on how loud he was in those first few moments of it.
he'd always press his cheek against yours, swinging you both back and forth to a beat only you two could hear. then, after the singing was over, and after you made your wish, he would press a kiss to your temple, wish you a happy birthday once more, and he would be the first person in your life to tell you they loved you in your new age.
so this silence is painfully loud. on top of that, he also doesn’t smile back at you, a faraway look in his eyes as he mindlessly sings. it’s like you’re not even there. it’s like he’s singing to an empty seat in front of a cake that definitely counted as a fire hazard.
things with soonyoung have been weird for the last several weeks. if you were being honest, things have been hard. you, of course, continuously asked what was wrong, and he, of course, denied anything was wrong. but the writing was on the wall: he dodged your calls, rescheduled hangouts over and over until plans just completely fell through, and hardly texted back anymore. it was clear to anyone with a pulse that he was avoiding you.
and when he finally invited you over tonight to blow out your candles, and you walked in, completely surprised to find your friends all gathered to celebrate you, you thought, oh, that's what was wrong. he was just planning to surprise me
you thought the awkwardness and flighty behavior was over. the surprise went well, he kept everything a secret—didn't spoil anything—and you were grateful. but here you two were, looking at each other from across the room like you were strangers. and you weren't strangers. kwon soonyoung is the most important person in your life. he's your best friend. and you're so achingly, painfully in love with him, this distance feels like it's slowly peeling every layer of you away and letting it disintegrate into thin air.
when everyone finishes singing, you clear your throat and try to force the smile back onto your face. you lean forward, careful to keep your hair from catching any of the candles, and you close your eyes to make a wish—the same one you've been making every year for the past decade you've known soonyoung.
i wish for the courage to love soonyoung loudly.
you open your eyes and you blow hard, cheeks burning when the absurd amount of flames won't go out. people giggle, and when you stop to take a huge breath, fanning your face from the effort, seokmin and seungkwan both laugh and lean in to help. the three of you get the job done, and they immediately put you to work cutting your cake while they help plate and distribute.
you lose track of soonyoung while on cake duty, and by the time everyone has a slice, any appetite you had for dessert is completely gone. you sink back into the seat you were in while everyone was singing, and you breathe shakily, trying your best not to cry at your own party.
did you do something? is he just getting tired of you? or can he tell that your feelings extend past friendship? after 10 years, did he finally realize? is this his way of letting you down without having to really do it?
you can't help when your eyes start to well with tears. you notice someone starting to look a little too closely at you from your peripheral—probably joshua, the most observant of your friends—so you abruptly get up, blushing when the chair almost falls over behind you. you go to the only place you know you'll be left alone in this huge apartment. it's the one place soonyoung doesn't let any of his guests go, except for you.
you all but barrel into his bedroom, quickly closing the door behind you and leaning against it. you made it just in time for your tears to start flowing.
soonyoung's room looks different from the last time you saw it. he’s a generally tidy person; of the two of you, you’re the messy one. right now, the state of his room feels like a reflection of your thoughts and feelings: disheveled, chaotic, and messy. he has clothes, both clean and used, strewn all over the place—the bed, the floor, his corner chair. drawers are thrown open, their contents very clearly rummaged through. he has a pile of empty water bottles in the corner, and his nightstand is so littered with random stuff, he has no room to even set a phone down. it astounds you enough that you momentarily stop crying.
you wipe your tears away, frowning at everything that has managed to change in the weeks leading up to your 30th birthday. this was not the way you wanted to start the new decade.
you hear a muffled cough and you're panicked to realize that soonyoung had the same idea you did. he's outside on the balcony attached to his bedroom, leaning up against the railing and looking out into the black night. he hasn't noticed that anyone has entered his room, and you're about to leave when something stops you.
"you're 30 now for god's sake," you mutter. "get a fucking grip."
you're tired of wishing for the same thing every year—wishing for something that isn't even out of your grasp because you could just decide to be brave. and instead of choosing to do that, you spent the last 10 years cowering behind the excuse that you desperately needed soonyoung in your life however he would take you, even if that’s just as his friend.
but if you're losing him now anyway, you might as well lose him for the reason you feared you would for the last decade.
you turn away from where you were about to escape back into the party, and you're joining your best friend outside before you can think twice.
he startles a little, briefly glancing at you, but when he realizes who it is, he simply looks back into the night. it hurts more than just being told to go away—to be ignored like this.
"what are you doing?"
"just needed some air," he answers quietly.
"no," you say, willing your voice to stay steady even though your eyes are already filling with tears again. "what are you doing? why are you ignoring me? why are you avoiding me?" you pause, taking a deep breath. "why are you acting like i'm not your best friend?"
soonyoung lives near the damn top of his pretentiously tall apartment building, and the wind is cold and biting up here, especially with how short your dress is. it doesn't compare to what he says next.
"because you're not." he says it the way he would say that he's having a good day. or that work was tiring. or that he wants to order food delivery. he says it like it's not something that has the power to kill you. “at least, i don’t want you to be.”
"what are you saying?"
you don't hear it, but from the way his shoulders dip, you can tell soonyoung sighs deeply. and it looks so sad and so spent, you have trouble grasping that you could possibly be the cause of whatever this is that's eating at him.
"what are you saying, soonyoung?" you ask more forcefully, unable to keep the tears out of your voice this time. if he was going to end your friendship, he was going to have the balls to say it to your face. you aren't leaving until you're forced to.
he turns away from the railing, pressing his back against it to face you. he slips his hands into his pockets and stares down at the floor. his eyes are just as red-rimmed as you imagine yours are, and you hate—you hate that your first instinct is to ask him what's wrong. to hold him and comfort him when he's the one who's telling you he no longer wants to be friends.
"do you remember your 23rd birthday?" he asks, voice gravely with emotion, as if he’s spent the entirety of the last few weeks crying. your chest hurts. maybe he has.
you turned 23 in the philippines. soonyoung has always had more money than he knew what to do with, and he has always been uncomfortably generous with it—at least when it came to you. and that year, he surprised you with a month-long trip that ended the weekend of your birthday, where you both found yourselves on a beach in siquijor, sharing an alcoholic mango smoothie and a small ube cake that soonyoung had gotten for you.
you knew you loved him long before then, but you remember that birthday being one of your most miserable, solely because it was the best. and it was what you wanted with soonyoung, but you could only have it as his best friend. you had never felt so loved and so lonely at the same time.
"siquijor. what about it?" you ask, a little irritated. if you were going to have your heart stomped on the moment you turned 30, you'd rather he just get on with it.
soonyoung smiles for the first time tonight, but you hate it. it's half-assed, sad—and not just sad, but nostalgic sad—and it's being wasted on the floor.
"do you remember why you cried that morning?"
he uses the term morning loosely. it was 4 a.m., so yes, morning, but also no, not morning because you had both stayed up all night. and unfortunately, he had gotten you several more alcoholic drinks before the bar closed, and you were all but blacked out by 2 a.m. you only know that because your last selfie on your phone was time stamped just before two.
you wouldn't have believed him when he insisted you were conscious that entire time if he hadn't shown you videos of you passionately trying to convince him that in another life, he could've been a k-pop idol.
you hardly believe him now because you don't remember crying at all. and he certainly never told you that you had.
"i..." you don't know what to say.
"you don't," he confirms, sounding bitter. "it's okay. i had a feeling you didn't."
you frown, eyes falling to the spot on the floor you're sure is the same one he's been staring at. you don't realize you're shivering as violently as you are until you see soonyoung's feet step into your line of vision, his jacket slipping across your shoulders.
large hands carefully adjust the jacket around your neck and when they're done, they gently grip the lapel and hang there, dead weight against your sternum. you dare to look up and find that he still refuses to look you in the eye, instead staring at his own hands.
the wind isn't what's making you shake, and the jacket doesn't help it stop.
"you said you were lonely," he informs you quietly. he sounds as choked up as you feel, like you're both battling the same stubborn knot in your throat. "you told me that this was everything you could have ever wanted—that you were so happy and it was the best month of your life. and you told me..." he breathes deeply and sniffles before continuing. you look up and watch his eyes fill with tears. "you told me you just wish you were experiencing it with someone you were in love with instead."
you involuntarily let out a strangled noise, feeling like that knot is suddenly demanding to be let out. “i—what?”
there’s that horrible smile again. “i tried not to let it hurt me,” he admits. “i tried to be a good sport. you were drunk, you were sad about never having had a boyfriend, and i know you weren’t trying to hurt me.”
your stomach turns painfully and you’re glad you didn’t have cake, otherwise it might’ve been regurgitated all over soonyoung by now.
you never had a lack of suitors or options; you just knew it would be impossible to look at anyone else, let alone be in love with them, while you were so preoccupied with your best friend. until now, you still haven’t ever had a boyfriend, still haven’t even had your first kiss, still haven’t felt what it’s like to have someone tell you “i love you” romantically.
soonyoung takes a watery breath, lips trembling, as the first of his tears begin to streak his cheeks. “but it hurt,” he can’t speak above a whisper. “it hurt more than anything i’ve ever felt, y/n.”
your hands close over his, more out of instinct than anything else, and you hold them like it’s the only thing that will keep him from running out of your life. you hate that, among all the warring emotions inside you, you suddenly feel hope blooming over everything. saying that only would’ve hurt soonyoung if he wanted to be the person you were in love with. right?
“soonyoung.” his name comes out of your mouth with sharp, desperate edges around it. “that’s not what i meant. i—”
“it’s okay, i’ve had time to—”
“but if you would just let me ex—”
“there’s nothing to explain,” he says quietly, finally, finally meeting your gaze. “i stayed around, didn’t i?”
the question shuts you up. or maybe it’s the way his eyes are swimming with pain you realized he’s been harboring for much longer than the last few weeks.
“i stayed for seven more years. if i needed you to explain, i would’ve asked the second you woke up sober.”
your hope deflates. the way he says the number of years makes it sound like that’s all it will ever be now. seven years. the last birthday he’ll be sticking around for.
“only seven?” you ask quietly.
you feel his fists tighten around the fabric of his own jacket briefly before his hands slip away from under you, retreating back into his pockets. you feel so cold.
he doesn’t answer, and that feels like an answer in itself. “instead of throwing myself a pity party, i decided i’d wait until your 30th birthday,” he tells you. “i didn’t mind spending all of my 20s pining after my best friend.”
your heart leaps into your throat.
“i didn’t mind waiting seven more years to see if you would ever return my feelings,” he says, voice shakier and shakier as he continues. “my friends, they told me i was insane for letting my 20s go to waste like that. but to me… if i still got to be around you, still give you experiences and love that made you feel like that’s what you deserved from someone you actually were in love with, then… i can’t see the issue in that. i’d happily wait seven more years. because even if it was seven years of the same longing—and even if it was seven years leading to nothing more, it was still seven years of me being able to show you how well i could… how well i could love you. how much i do love you.”
it strikes you then that the way soonyoung looks at you isn’t a way that anybody has ever looked at you. you used to think it was the delusion of being in love with him—that your brain was tricking you into thinking he felt a certain way about you because that would be convenient for you. but standing here, pinned down by his gaze, you have no choice but to accept that it was clearly in front of you this whole time.
“soonie—”
he keeps going like if he lets you speak, he won’t ever be able to muster up the courage to say this again, and you realize you both did waste your 20s. you wasted it being afraid of just telling each other how you felt. the fact that you could’ve had soonyoung the way you’ve always wanted since you were 23 devastates you.
“but i told myself… while you slept in my lap on that beach in siquijor, that if by the time you turned 30, we still hadn’t moved past… this…” he looks away again, opting to stare at something over your head. “then, i wouldn’t spend my 30s torturing myself anymore. i’d let you go.”
“i don’t want you to let me go!” you practically shriek. he flinches at the sudden outburst, his eyes snapping back down to you. “i don’t want you to let me go, you stupid idiot!” you repeat. “if that’s what you’ve been doing the last, few weeks, ‘letting me go’—” you make exaggerated air quotes out of your fingers, clearly agitated. “—then knock it off!”
“wh—” he makes a disgruntled noise as you slap him in the chest.
“what i meant to tell you, it came out wrong. i didn’t even mean to tell you anything, but if drunk me outed me like that, i need you to know that’s not what i meant.”
all the words he kept cutting off tonight tumble out of you quickly and freely now.
“i was lonely. i was really lonely, and yes, it was because i enjoyed that vacation so much and yes, it was because i wished i could have it with someone i was in love with, but i was having it with someone i was in love with!”
his body stiffens and his eyes widen but you don’t stop.
“i just meant i wanted it to mean more for both of us,” you explain desperately. “i wanted to be on vacation with you—but you as my boyfriend! not you as my best friend! there’s no one else i would’ve wanted to be with, soonyoung!”
you feel tears on your skin now, and you try to speak even faster because you know you’re on borrowed time before you devolve into a mess of sobs that won’t let you explain anything.
“do you think i’ve been single our entire friendship for fun?! do you think it’s fun being the 30-year-old virgin who’s never even kissed anyone?! because it’s not!” you screech through tears. you can’t even muster up the energy to be mortified at how horrible you must look right now. “but i didn’t want anyone else! i wanted you! you waited seven years, but i waited ten! TEN, soonyoung! do you—”
his lips are on yours.
your mind is quiet.
the wind isn’t cold.
you taste champagne and salt.
soonyoung holds your face gently, thumb caressing your cheeks while his long fingers slide into your hair. you’ve imagined how he must kiss a million times in your head. every time he licked his lips, puckered them for a photo, pressed them against your temple in what you deluded yourself into thinking was platonic affection—you would imagine exactly this.
soft, plush lips slotted in between yours, moving like you’re the only person they were made for. and even though you didn’t imagine it would be so salty from both of your tears, it’s exactly as perfect as you wanted your first kiss to be—as perfect as you wanted your first kiss with soonyoung to be.
when you get over the shock of it, you rest your hands on his chest, exploring the planes of it. you pause for a moment, enjoying the way you can feel the erratic beat his heart before reaching up, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pulling him into an even deeper kiss. it coaxes a sound out of him that convinces you he’s really yours, and he lets go of your face to circle your waist and hold you close.
you don’t know how and you’re not even sure when, but you end up in his bed, every inch of his body deliciously pressing against yours after he walked the two of you inside without ever leaving your lips.
his tongue slips into your mouth, and the moan that escapes you does so without your permission. you feel him twitch against your thigh and you can’t help but giggle into the kiss a little.
he pulls away, mouth pink and swollen. he rests his forehead against yours and smiles.
“what’s so funny, hm?”
it’s the first time in weeks that you’ve really heard his voice—the way you know and love it. light, happy, and, now that you’re equipped with the proper information, in love with you. you hear it loud and clear. you wonder if he hears it too.
“nothing,” you breathe, threading your fingers through the long hair at the nape of his neck until your hand is resting against the buzzed part of his undercut. you scratch his scalp there and he hums in contentment. you smile. “i love you, soonyoung.”
he lifts his forehead to better look at you. his eyes soften impossibly more and he looks like he’s trying to commit every detail of your face and this moment to memory. you realize you’re doing the same.
“i’ve always loved you,” you add, wanting to erase any lingering doubts that your 23rd birthday caused. “from the very start.”
his response is to push himself up and off you so that he’s on his knees, resting between your legs. you prop yourself up on your elbows, frowning from the sudden space. it’s exactly the opposite of what you want, but you know from the look on his face that it doesn’t mean he’s going anywhere or that he’s changed his mind. it confuses you to think that he looked at you this way for most of your friendship and you never thought it meant anything. it means everything.
he clears his throat, looking down briefly before meeting your eyes again. you only notice the bulge in his pants then, and you smile knowing that you felt that react to your moans.
“how far?” he asks, his voice so coated with desire, you shiver. he doesn’t need to elaborate. “i don’t want you to feel rushed or pressured. i just… we wasted so much time, and i—”
“all the way,” you say confidently, letting yourself lay back down and slowly wrapping your legs around his middle, trying not to feel self-conscious as your dress rides up and exposes you. “please.”
soonyoung groans like he’s in pain, hands instinctively resting against your bare thighs, eyes drifting down and unable to move from the wet spot between your legs once he sees it. his hands travel painfully slow toward the apex of your thighs, eyes never leaving you. his hands torturously stop when they reach the top.
several seconds pass with you fighting everything in your body to keep from squirming. if he notices, he doesn’t show it, seemingly too mesmerized by what’s in front of him. his thumbs burrow into the shallow divot where your legs meet your torso, the rest of his fingers kneading the flesh of your thighs, hard enough that you kind of hope they’ll bruise—give you something to remind you this was real. this happened.
he moves just as you’re about to ask him what he’s thinking about.
suddenly, as if he’s giving in to a voice telling him to just take what he wants, soonyoung allows his right hand to close the distance, tracing your skin until it leads his index finger straight to the part of you that needs him the most right now. he looks downright hypnotized as his finger meets your panties at their hollow part, where your hole is. you clench around nothing and you know he can tell when he finally breaks out of his thoughts and smirks. he only presses far enough to brush against the skin of your entrance before cruelly moving on.
he slowly drags his finger up your slit with a little more pressure than he afforded your hole and you sigh into the movement, trying to move further down so you can feel him more. he squeezes your hip to keep you where you are, though, biting down on his lip as he watches you closely. if you weren’t so turned on, you’d be self-conscious under his attention.
then, finally, his finger finds the place you swear it belongs, and he’s pressed against your clit. your panties stick to you uncomfortably but you don’t have the words to properly tell him to take them off, writhing under the pressure of his finger instead.
soonyoung doesn’t move, just watching you breathe and beg incoherently in shallow gasps, and just when you think he’ll finally move his finger—that he’ll finally start giving you what you’ve wanted for so long—he takes his hand back. he laughs a little at your whine of protest, pushing down on your hip with the hand that’s resting there when you uncontrollably buck up into the space his finger just vacated.
"what?" you hiss at him. he laughs even harder, his pretty eyes turning into those narrow crescents you love so much. he crawls over you once more. "why are you laughing?!" you complain, face getting hot. "did i do something embarrassing?"
"'embarrassing'?" soonyoung repeats incredulously. he does nothing less than scoff in your face. "no, baby, your neediness is not 'embarrassing.' it's fucking hot."
your face gets even warmer. whether it's because he's being lewd or because he called you baby, you're not sure.
"shut up," you mutter. he grins down at you.
"gladly."
to your dismay, he doesn’t press himself against you like he did earlier. he hovers, planting a light kiss on your nose, then on your lips, lingering for only a moment before he leans back a little like he's trying to get a good look at your face. he brings his hand up to cradle your face, pushing the wind-tangled hair away from it.
the tiniest of smiles pull at his lips.
“i love you,” he finally returns. “i love you so god damn much, i thought i was going to die having to leave you.”
“you’re not leaving me,” you say firmly. the love you’re feeling for him is so strong, it leaves no room for doubt. you know that as long as you’ll have him, he’ll stay. and as long as he'll have you, you will too.
“i’m not,” he agrees.
he doesn’t say anything else, instead leaning down to capture your lips again. he doesn’t let it last long, though, moving from your mouth, to your jaw, your neck, and your collarbone. you’re a mess of gasps and moans as he kisses his way back up, until his lips are just barely grazing your ear.
“you tell me if you want to stop, okay?” he whispers softly. “and we’ll stop, no questions asked.”
you nod and he nips at your lobe before beginning to kiss his way back down, making you moan again. you don’t know if this is always how it feels like or if you’re just overly sensitive from being a 30-year-old virgin, but everywhere soonyoung touches feels like fire.
“you sound so pretty,” he mutters as he makes his way lower, unabashedly biting and licking wherever he wants as he goes. “exactly like how i imagined you’d sound.” you groan loudly when his lips brush over your nipple through the fabric of your dress. “fuck, even better actually.”
he reaches up and tangles a single finger around the thin strap of your dress, then gently pulls it off your shoulder. he briefly hangs his head in mock agony when he confirms you’re not wearing a bra.
you stifle another giggle, not wanting to keep laughing during something as serious as losing your virginity—to soonyoung, no less.
"what is my life?" he whispers more to himself than anyone else as he lowers his head and shamelessly envelops your bare nipple with his tongue.
the inhale you take at the sensation is sharp, and soonyoung briefly glances up without taking his mouth off of you, one eyebrow quirking as if to ask if you're okay.
you’re more than okay. you feel like your soul is about to float right out of your goddamn body, and the scary thing is he’s barely done anything to you yet. you open your mouth to try and tell him as much, but once your lips part, nothing comes out. you close your eyes, your body arching in response to soonyoung as his swirls his tongue around you, gently nipping every now and then.
“soonyoung,” you gasp.
“fuck.”
“lower,” you beg. “please, god, lower.”
you feel him smile against your chest. “whatever you want,” he whispers.
but he doesn’t leave immediately, instead cupping his hand around your breast and biting into the flesh just above your nipple. your hips jerk up against his torso but he doesn’t let go, sucking for a few seconds before he releases you with a pop.
he grins down at the blooming mark, giving it the gentlest kiss. “pretty.”
soonyoung finally makes his way back down between your legs, but not without releasing the other strap of your dress first. he must find some mercy to spare you because, without making you wait the way he has been all night, he lifts your hips up off the bed, pulls your dress down, and in one smooth move, slips both your dress and your panties off you.
“oh my god!” he groans immediately, squeezing your clothes against his eyes. before you can even wonder if something’s wrong, he says, “i can’t believe this is my life right now, oh my god.”
he brings your clothes down just enough to look at you. his eyes narrow like he’s about to cry and you immediately laugh at the idea of soonyoung crying during sex… because he absolutely would.
“oh my god, i really have you naked in my bed right now, oh my god oh my god oh my god.”
“soonyoung!” you scold him, coming up onto your elbows and bringing your legs together so your thighs squeeze him. “focus! come on, you’re just teasing me now.” you’re fully aware that you’ve never sounded whinier in your life, but you can’t bring yourself to care. “please.”
“okay, okay, i’m so sorry, i’m not trying to tease you, i swear. i just… i’m—just, i—it’s just, like… what?” he asks it so giddily, you can’t help but smile through your frustration. “y’know? like, what the actual fuck?” he babbles, very obviously just starting to process what the hell is happening right now.
you groan, glaring at the ceiling. you’re annoyed at how empty you are right now, but at the same time, you feel your affection for soonyoung growing exponentially. even when he’s about to take your virginity, he can’t help but be so aggressively him. and you love it so much.
“it’s crazy how quickly you go from sex god to loser,” you murmur, unable to stop from grinning when he glowers at you.
“y’know,” he starts, voice considerably lower. you hate how much of an effect it has on you. “my favorite thing about you has always been your patience.” you snort as he carelessly tosses your clothes aside.
“good thing i have a lot of it then,” you retort, eyes catching on his long fingers as they start to undo each button of his shirt.
he hums, narrowing his eyes at you. “right.”
the grin on your face fades fast as he finishes undoing the buttons and shrugs the shirt off. it’s nothing you haven’t seen before; after all, you spent many vacations together in nothing but swimwear the entire time. but as your eyes sweep the dips and curves of his muscles and the way his stomach flexes as he slips off the bed, you realize you’re looking at him in a way you haven’t been able to before.
you’re looking at him like he’s yours.
“wait,” you say suddenly, sitting up all the way and crawling over to the edge of the bed where he’s standing, hands frozen in the middle of removing his belt.
“change your mind? it’s fine if you do,” he assures you quickly, already starting to fasten his belt again.
you rest your hands on his to stop them. “no,” you say, laughing a little. “i’m not going to change my mind, soonie.” he visibly relaxes at the nickname.
you reach up to kiss him, hands going up and into his hair. it’s slow and tender and careful, and you feel like you’re being held with so much care, you suddenly get nervous that you might be the one that ends up crying during sex.
“i love you,” soonyoung whispers between kisses, his arms snaking around your naked waist. “oh my god, i love you, holy shit.”
“don’t start with the loser behavior again, please,” you joke against his lips. you feel him smile. you pull away and sigh, your fingers running across his chest in admiration. “but i love you too.”
he breathes deeply, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours. “i’m so happy.”
you smile softly. “me too, soonie.”
you look down and watch your hands travel down his naked torso until they meet his belt. you finish undoing it, not bothering to remove it from the loops and going straight for the button of his jeans. soonyoung’s breath hitches when you pull his zipper down. before you can shove his jeans down, he grabs your face and brings your lips to his roughly, his tongue inside your mouth in seconds. you don’t know whose moans are whose anymore as he kisses you—not like it’s the first time, but like it’s the last.
his lips get clumsy as he starts to remove his pants himself, shoving his boxer briefs down with them. you don’t get much of a chance to ogle him before his lips are on you again and he’s cupping your ass, forcing your legs to wrap around him. you revel in the feeling of him against your stomach—long, hard, and yours.
he kneels onto his bed, carrying you back to where you were laying before and setting you down gently. when you part, you suddenly understand soonyoung’s brief meltdown. because holy shit. soonyoung is in bed with you. naked. and you physically cannot stop looking down at him.
“see something you like?” he asks, his voice teasing. even with how arrogant he sounds, you can’t look away.
“uh… what?”
he laughs then, burying his face in the crook of your neck and effectively cutting off your intense eye contact with his dick.
“soonyoung, put it in me,” you whisper frantically. “hurry up!” you near shriek at him.
he only laughs harder. “i can’t just put it in you.”
“what?!” you push him away just far enough to be able to look at his face. “what do you mean you can’t just put it in me? is this not how sex works? you put that—” you widen your eyes at the monster resting against you. “—in me? like… over and over again?”
“baby, please,” he wheezes with laughter. “you’re making this so unsexy.”
“you made it unsexy first,” you pout. “put it in me, soonyoung!”
he bursts into giggles again. “stop saying that!”
“why?! you keep making me wait!” you complain. “pu—”
his hand clamps over your mouth before you can repeat yourself. “okay,” he says, laughter finally subsiding. “okay. shhh. relax… and i will, alright?” he doesn’t move so you nod. “good girl.”
you make a strangled noise against his hand at the praise and his eyebrows shoot up.
“oh, you like that?” his lips quickly curve into a smirk when your only response is to wriggle under him, hips trying their best to move his dick in the direction you need it to go.
he releases your mouth slowly and when you stay silent, his smirk deepens. he brings his hands to your face, squeezing your cheeks together and kissing your puckered lips before he rests it at the base of your neck, fingers splayed across your throat. you briefly wonder if he’d choke you during your first time if you asked. you quickly wave the idea away because you know he wouldn’t.
“so pretty,” he murmurs again, finger tapping your lower lip. you dip your head to take it into your mouth and he groans. “jesus christ.” you release him and he sighs roughly. “let me know if i do anything you don’t like, okay?”
you nod eagerly, thinking it’s finally time to get what your body has been screaming for. so when he pulls away, you make a noise of protest and watch him in confusion as he moves down your body. it isn’t until he forces your knees apart and lays back down between your legs, breath hot on your skin, that you realize what he’s planning on doing.
“oh,” you whisper pathetically.
soonyoung looks up at you and you swear he looks excited to absolutely demolish you. without breaking eye contact, he unfurls his tongue from his mouth as far as it’ll go, the tip of it just a breath away from touching your clit. you try to move but his grip on your thighs don’t let you. you watch with bated breath as his saliva slides down his tongue, dripping right where you were hoping it would.
it’s so fucking obscene, and the second you feel the warmth of his spit on you, you throw your head back and moan.
“soonie,” you mewl.
“god, i haven’t even done anything and you’re a mess—’s so fucking hot,” he tells you, letting go of one thigh to press his thumb into your clit, massaging his own spit into it. you gasp, bucking into the sensation now that one hip is free from his hold. “patience, baby,” he reminds you.
soonyoung doesn’t give you a chance to talk back because with no warning, his mouth replaces his thumb and it takes everything in you to keep from screaming. he places his hand back on your thigh just in time to keep you from reflexively caging his head in. he holds you down as he devours you, tongue flicking, sweeping, and circling around all the places no one has ever been. you could cry. you think you might already be. you can’t tell anymore.
he begins to massage where he holds you when your thighs start to tremble.
“soonyoung,” you gasp, hand diving into his hair and fisting it without your permission.
he doesn’t mind though, responding with a moan of his own, straight into your cunt. you half-sob at the vibrations of his voice against you. it doesn’t take long before his finger slips into you. then another. multiplying the pleasure tenfold. his tongue never falters as his fingers find and stimulate the small, ribbed spot inside you, pressing and pushing and rubbing to a rhythm that—as always—only you and soonyoung can hear.
“oh my god, soonyoung,” you repeat his name. you don’t know if you’re capable of saying anything else anymore. “soonie.”
“yeah, baby,” he mutters against you, kissing your sex with as much vigor as he was kissing your mouth earlier. “still okay?”
you nod wildly. “yes, yes. god, yes.”
he moans again, eyes flicking up to you as he does. “you sound so pretty, baby. be louder.”
“the…” you sigh as he gently removes his fingers, softly kissing down your slit. “the party…”
“let them hear you,” he mumbles. “let them hear how good i make you feel.”
“but…” you never finish your sentence.
he leaves one last whisper of a kiss before he suddenly takes two fingers, holds you open, and fully presses his face into you, his tongue entering you—stiff, thick, and so, so warm. you unwillingly follow orders, half-shouting and half-groaning his name. your back arches as he presses impossibly further into you, his tongue touching you in ways you only ever dreamed he would.
“soonyoung… soonyoung!” you call him, grip in his hair tightening. “i’m going to… i’m…”
“go ahead, baby,” he encourages you. “god, go ahead,” he practically begs before his tongue dives back into you.
his thumb finds your clit once more, working it harder and faster as he slips in and out of you, the sounds of him feasting on you so vulgar, you could listen to it forever. your body starts to inadvertently grind on his face the closer you get.
“soonyoung, i’m… i’m going… i’m…” you stammer, trying to pull him up by the hair. “stop, stop, i’m going to cum on your face.”
soonyoung frowns, thumb never stopping as he takes his tongue back. “that’s the point baby. i want you to cum on my face.” his eyes roll back at the thought, and he moans before seeming to shake the thoughts out of his head. “god, you better cum on my face.”
“but—”
“cum on my fucking face, y/n.”
that shuts you up and all you can do is nod quickly, allowing him to get back to what he was doing. it doesn’t take long after that. it hits you like a wall, slamming into every part of your body at once, reverberating to every corner of you over and over again. and because soonyoung is a demon and he doesn’t stop, the echoes of your orgasm ripple through you mercilessly until just mere moments later, you’re having another one.
and if the way soonyoung smirks into you is any indication, you know he’s aware of exactly what he just did to you. it could have been seconds or it could have been hours when you feel soonyoung’s arms wrapping around your middle, torso pressing into yours as he kisses your neck and makes his way up until his lips are on yours again.
you taste yourself on him and you think it should be gross, but it just makes you even wetter knowing that he took that part of you for himself—that he drank you up and he loved it.
“soonie,” you whisper, breath still coming in ragged gasps. he pushes your hair off your forehead as he looks down at you.
“mmm?” he hums, still kissing you wherever he can reach, but always coming back to your lips.
“i want to be yours,” you say. you’re not even sure that’s what you meant to say. you’re actually 90% sure you wanted to demand he put it in you again, but that’s what comes out. it’s still true—maybe even truer—so you repeat it: “i want to be yours so bad.”
soonyoung looks at you with so much love, you feel your eyes burning. he doesn’t point out your tears, simply pressing his finger against each one that escapes your eyes. he leans in, presses his cheek against yours, and he whispers: “then i'll make you mine.”
he presses against your entrance then, and you gasp.
“shhh,” he soothes you. “try to relax, okay?”
he props himself on one elbow, other hand coming to your hip and rubbing gentle circles into the skin there. his touch is comforting and grounding, and you feel your muscles relaxing even as he starts to push into you. your hand comes up to his shoulder, grasping tightly as the stretch starts to burn more and more. you squeeze your eyes shut, head turning to the side as you try to focus on relaxing enough to let soonyoung bottom out.
“slow, slow,” you breathe, even though he’s already barely moving as it is.
he plants a kiss on your temple, murmuring apologies against your skin. “i’m sorry, baby. do you feel okay?”
you nod, eyes still closed. he pauses for a minute or so, settling for peppering kisses all over you. his patience and love help—they’re everything. you adjust and that desire to be completely full comes back to you and you nod quickly at him.
“keep going, soonie.” you’re too eager to be full of him to be embarrassed at how needy you sound. he smiles, coming off his elbow to lay back on you.
you’re not sure if the kissing is a distraction, but it works. you’re so preoccupied with the things his tongue is doing with yours that by the time he’s fully sheathed inside you, it doesn’t burn anymore.
“oh my god,” he breathes, pressing his forehead against you and closing his eyes like he’s trying to concentrate. “oh shit.” he breathes deeply and evenly. “you won’t change your mind about me if i cum too fast, will you?”
you laugh but that’s a mistake because it causes you to clench a little, and soonyoung immediately groans, hand going to your shoulder and squeezing to get you to stop.
“don’t, don’t!” he says quickly. “don’t squeeze, baby.”
“sorry,” you whisper, trying not to giggle. you give him a few moments to collect himself, just like he did with you. “no, by the way,” you say. he opens his eyes and looks at you. “i won’t change my mind. it’s been 10 years. nothing will change my mind.”
the words do something to him—seem to inject some resolve into his bloodstream—because without saying anything, soonyoung starts moving. your lips part at the foreign feeling of his cock dragging against your walls. his every dip and ridge fits to your every ridge and dip, and you don’t need any more evidence to know that soonyoung was made specifically for you.
“oh fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck and kissing the skin there. “you feel so good—so fucking good,” he says, his breath hot and heavy in your ear. “your cunt is perfect.”
you let your eyes flutter closed as a mouthwatering mixture of pain and pleasure start to pool together in your lower abdomen. you don’t know when you start, but as he continues thrusting in and out of you, the deepness of his thrusts gradually increasing, you can’t stop moaning, gasping, chanting his name. it becomes a prayer to you.
soonyoung. soonyoung. soonyoung.
no, not a prayer. a wish coming true—all 10 of the birthday wishes you spent on him coming true. you were finally loving soonyoung loudly.
“y/n,” he pants, sweat dripping onto you. “oh my god.”
“soonyoung,” you answer, moans sandwiching his name.
and just when you think his thrusts are as deep as they can go—pulling all the way out before slamming right back into you—he pushes off of you, holding himself up with one arm and holding the headboard above the both of you for leverage. and somehow, he gets impossibly deeper, impossibly rougher, impossibly better, coaxing all kinds of screams and noises from you.
“oh my god, look at you,” he mumbles, eyes darting between your chest, your lips, and the place where he keeps disappearing inside you. “so—fucking—perfect.” his cock slams roughly into you with each word, easily aggravating all your pleasure points.
“‘m not gonna last long,” you breathe. “soonie… ‘m not—”
you cut yourself off with your own cry when his hips start to drive into you at an unforgivable pace. tears leak from the corners of your eyes, leaving hot streaks as you try to remember how good this moment feels—how fucking good soonyoung feels. how perfectly soonyoung fills you up.
“i’m not either, baby,” he says. he starts grinding his pelvis down on your clit roughly, making you grab his forearm in a weak attempt to ride out the overwhelming and overstimulating feeling of an orgasm building up inside you mercilessly.
he lowers himself again, closing the distance between you two and pressing his lips to yours. “i love you,” he says. “i love you so fucking much.”
“i—” you gasp as his pelvis presses down on you ruthlessly. “i love—oh my god, soonyoung,” you groan.
“do you feel like you’re mine yet?” he asks, voice raspy, hips ramming into you so hard, there’s no way you won’t be bruised tomorrow.
you nod frantically. “yes, god, yes. yes!” you shriek the last one as your orgasm approaches its summit. “yes!”
“say it,” he grunts, eyes boring into yours.
“i’m yours,” you pant. “soonie,” you whimper, eyes shutting on their own accord. “i’m yours, soonyoung.”
“i never want to hear another name come out of your mouth ever again,” he tells you, the statement followed by a string of colorful curses as his hips begin stuttering uncontrollably. you know he’s holding off as best he can for you. “you’re mine.” he moans loudly. “and i’m yours.”
“m-mine… soonyoung…” you open your eyes to find him still watching you intently. “soonyoung! i’m coming! i’m—” you grasp him as hard as humanly possible, your third orgasm of the night ripping through you.
for a few moments, soonyoung continues to thrust into you, trying to help you through your orgasm, but he doesn’t last, quickly pulling out and coming all over you, cords of white coloring your stomach, chest, even your face. you gasp, bits of it landing in your mouth. you lick the corners of your lips as you come down from your high, smiling a little when you finally get to taste soonyoung.
“holy shit…” he huffs, sitting back on his heels and throwing his head back. you try not to gawk at how beautiful he looks on his knees like this, his still semi-hard cock covered in your pleasure.
“c’mere.” speaking suddenly feels like such a chore as you realize how sleepy you are.
soonyoung half obeys, leaning forward to kiss you quickly before getting out of bed and ignoring all your protests over it. he returns from his restroom with a towel, gently wiping you both clean, even leaving kisses as he goes. it’s like he’s making up for his seven years.
“how do you feel?” he asks when he slips back into bed, pulling the covers over the both of you.
“like i’m in love,” you say, eyes closing as you curl into his chest. he laughs as he wraps his arms around you. “it was perfect. thank you, soonie.”
he kisses the top of your head. “i’m sorry about how weird i’ve been acting these last few weeks… and i’m sorry for thinking i could just… end our friendship like that.”
you open your eyes and crane your neck to look at him. “i wouldn’t have let you,” you inform him. he grins. “and i didn’t.”
“you didn’t,” he agrees. you hum. “i love you.”
“wait… do you love me?!” you ask jokingly after hearing it at least a dozen times tonight.
he rolls his eyes. “good to know our dynamic is going to be fine.”
you giggle. “i love you more.”
“whoa, fighting words.”
“ten years, soonyoung.”
“it was ten years for me too!” he protests.
you frown.
“i gave myself seven years before i forced myself to move on,” he reminds you. “i loved you long before that, you fool.”
you glare but your heart swells. you hug him even tighter. “so… what are we?’
“are you fucking kidding me?”
you laugh, burying your face in his bare chest. “yeah, i am. i’m joking.”
he pinches your side. “good. it would’ve been awkward to have to inform you you’re my wife now.”
you shriek-laugh and you know it’s infectious from the way he bursts into laughter at your reaction too. you spend the rest of the night like that, talking about the moments you knew you were in love, joking around, and planning your new decade and your new life, your birthday party long forgotten.
just before you both drift off to sleep, you exchange your last i-love-yous of the night.
“good night, love of mine,” he whispers.
“mine,” you repeat, smiling. “yours.”
you know your 30s are going to be the best years of your life.
summary: five times new york's friendly neighborhood spiderman (who is also your roommate) needs saving, plus the one time you needed it instead.
wc: 9.83k
cw/tags: spiderman!hansol, biochem major!hansol x gn nursing major!reader, reader is gn pronouns but written with fem!reader in mind, superhero!au and university!au, friends to lovers, 5+1 fic, mild angst/peril/brief whump but almost all fluff and a whole lot of crack, mutual pining, idiots in love (they're so stupid chat...SO stupid), allusions/discussions of weed and stoners (not reader or hansol), mentions of cheating and open relationships (again not reader or hansol), hansol fights the green goblin and also the lizard and a lil surprise cameo at the end hehe :), based loosely off this drabble i made a while back
note: chat i've done it again (i photoshopped a svt head onto a marvel character's body)...this is the first time i'm writing a 5+1 fic so hopefully i did it right lol. yeah this is again and especially for @noniesgummysmile love you eia and here's the spidersol you've been waiting for. hope you enjoy!
reblogs, likes, and replies are always appreciated <3
Save #1, a.k.a The Power of Empty Soup Cans
You don’t talk to Hansol for three days after he tells you–or rather, shows you–that he is Spiderman. It’s nothing against him, you tell yourself. It’s just the fact that you weren’t prepared to walk into the other room of your two bedroom apartment to find the other tenant standing…on the ceiling. The next twelve hours were the most awkward period of your entire lifetime, excluding puberty, including when you had to hold the hinges for him as he helped you reinstall the front door after you’d broken it trying to flee from your apartment. It’s totally fine, you keep trying to tell yourself. Your roommate is Spiderman. Normal. So normal.
Completely normal.
On the third night of avoiding him like the plague, you wait until you know he’s out on patrol to begin your routine of studying at the dinner table. The distant honking of New York traffic acts as your soundtrack as you settle onto one of two rickety wooden chairs and open your laptop, only for your nose to immediately wrinkle in disgust. You whirl around at the trash can and find it overflowing with garbage. Hansol, as clean of a roommate as he was, tended to forget to take out the trash until your entire apartment smelled like a subway station. Not wanting to talk to him and tell him to take it out when he got back from patrol, you make a mental note to throw it out after you finished up the assignment that was freshly on your mind. One assignment turned to two, which turned to five, which turned to reviewing for your upcoming exam until several hours had passed with you hunched over the table and muttering chemical formulas to yourself like a witch. Your hand smudges the ink of the notecard you’ve been writing on and you crumple it up to toss it in the trash.
The trash!
You curse colorfully under your breath and push away from the table, shoving the boxes of macaroni and cheese and empty soup cans down until the plastic bag is on the verge of tearing. It’s ridiculously heavy, so much so that you’re not able to tie the two bright yellow handles, and your arms are aching by the time you haul it down the stairs and into the alley with the dumpsters. At the end of the dark walkway are a handful of people that you can see throwing punches and kicking at something in the corner, and you move a little more hurriedly to toss the bag and escape back inside. It takes you a few tries to lift the bag enough to get it high enough to clear the edge of the dumpster, but something you hear down the alley makes you pause when you successfully get it hanging over the edge like a gross wet blanket.
“This is what you fucking get, you web-slinging asshole!”
“Yeah, we’re gonna beat you until you bleed the same color as your ugly-ass suit!”
Hansol. Your stomach drops and your hands are moving without thinking, reaching up to tear open the bag and allow the contents of the garbage bag to spill onto the wet asphalt. The noise catches the attention of one of the attackers, and he turns just in time for an empty can of chicken noodle to hit him square in the nose. He shouts more in anger than pain, but you’re already slinging more cans by the time he gets his buddies to turn around, too. You silently thank your local bodega for having a buy-one-get-three deal on soup cans, because you’re hurling them at the speed of a shotgun and barely into half the bag. The attackers swear in outrage and charge at you, but you keep on throwing whatever your hand grabs in the bag. The trash is light enough to be harmless but solid enough to be inconvenient; you fight the urge to laugh when the nearest guy running at you slips on a can of tomato soup and faceplants in the concrete.
As the guys that were once attacking Spiderman now approach to corner you, you scramble backward until you collide with the wall of another dumpster. One of the attacker’s hands moves in slow motion to grab the collar of your pajama shirt when he’s violently thrown to the side, a glob of webbing gluing his wrist to the opposite wall. Hansol becomes the target of aggression once more, but he leaps between the walls of the alley to avoid hits and watches in delight as his enemies roll their feet over soup cans and scramble around in a panic. Pressed against the dumpster, you stand frozen as every guy attacking Hansol is webbed up with a healthy amount over their mouth to shut them up. Only when the last attacker trips backward over a soup can and falls unconscious on the ground does your roommate turn to you, carefully kicking away any trash that might catch your slipper-covered feet.
“Are you hurt?” Hansol asks and you shake your head, staring at him in slight bewilderment. “Are you sure?” You nod slowly, still not saying a word. He sighs and winces as he places pressure on his left foot. “Can we go inside? I need to pop an Ibuprofen and explain some things.” You swallow and nod again, reaching out on instinct to catch his forearm as he stumbles. He lets you help him up the fire escape and clamber into your living room, where he finally tugs off his mask as you pull the curtains for good measure. “Can I–”
“Nope,” you interrupt shortly. “Shut up.”
“But–”
“Lay there and be quiet while I get you painkillers,” you order and he obeys, his arms flopping against the rug until he’s sprawled out like a sea star. You scrub your hands in the kitchen sink until they feel raw and surely contain no more traces of garbage. After retrieving a few pills from the medicine cabinet and a glass of tap water, you sit cross-legged on the floor next to him and hold out both. “Here. Drink.” He sits up with a groan and your hand steadies his shoulder immediately while he gulps down the medicine and places the glass on the coffee table.
“Can I apologize now?” Your eyebrows pinch.
“What do you need to apologize for?” Hansol winces and shuffles himself until he can lean up against the couch. You sit right next to him, stretching out your legs beside him and trying not to think about your bare arm brushing against the fabric of his suit.
“I realized that how I told you about,” he pauses and gestures to himself, “all of this, was not the best way I could have done it.” You shrug. A coil in your chest unwinds itself at the ease of which you can talk to your roommate again.
“I don’t know if there was any way you could have done it without me freaking out,” you admit. “You know me. Freaking out is my superpower.”
“I’d say you have other superpowers, coming from the guy who has actual superpowers,” argues Hansol. “Throwing soup cans with impeccable aim is one of them.” You snort and nudge him as gently as you can with your shoulder. “Really, though. I’m sorry I freaked you out. I know all of this is overwhelming, especially since it’s happening literally in your own home.”
“Or the alley outside of it,” you add and he nods.
“Exactly. I wouldn’t,” he sighs, gathering his words, “I wouldn’t blame you if you kicked me out.” You frown and shake your head so adamantly, your neck hurts.
“I’d never do that,” you promise. “How would I live with myself if I knew I was the one who made Spiderman homeless?” He laughs and immediately hisses in pain, grabbing his side. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. A gnarly bruise is worth it if you’re joking with me again,” Hansol says. “What can I do to make it up to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I feel like an asshole for making you uncomfortable in your own place,” he continues. “Anything, really. Just name it and let me absolve my guilt.”
“Okay, drama queen,” you scoff. You think for a moment and look at him with a soft smile that makes his ears turn pink. “Replace the bag for the trash can and we’ll call it even.”
He leaps up from the floor with a burst of speed that you’re sure is gonna bite him the ass the next day, but you can’t help but chuckle when he replaces the bag and starts making a list of all the soups that need to be restocked in your pantry.
—
Save #2, a.k.a. Masquerade Mayhem
Diamond Technical University, despite its reputation for being a school bursting with STEM freaks, knew how to throw a damn good party. That’s about all you can think about as you arrive at the expansive plaza of Carat Central, the area of campus containing the recreation center, a food court, and the bookstore. Sparsely populated during the day except for your average gym-going college student, the plaza is now swarming with students, staff, and faculty from the school of health sciences for its annual masquerade gala. Scalloped banners of fabric hang from nearby balconies, string lights glow above you, and a jazz band is tucked in the far corner. Sparkles of every color imaginable bounce off the glittering masks of the gala’s guests and you swipe a simple black mask from the registration table as you enter the fray of people, scanning for your roommate in the crowd. Hansol had texted you ten minutes ago saying he’d checked in and was gonna swipe some snacks from the refreshments table, but he was almost impossible to find in the sea of suits and masks. Almost.
“A red and blue mask is a little on the nose, don’t you think?” You tease as you find him at a standing table with a plate of cheese, meat, and crackers. His face lights up behind the mask as you join him, his eyes not-so-subtly running over your body and the nicer outfit you’d donned for tonight. You push away the way your cheeks are heating under the scratchy paper mask.
“Only if you look too far into it,” your roommate replies with a smirk playing on his lips. “How was your exam?”
“A hot load of ass,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes and popping a cracker into your mouth. “At least a third of the questions were things that weren’t in the lectures or the readings.” Hansol frowns sympathetically.
“Did you at least pass?”
“We’ll see next Wednesday, though if I don’t you might have to avoid saying ‘adenosine triphosphate’ ever again within my presence,” you conclude as nonchalantly as you’re able. You gesture around vaguely at the people milling about and avoid the eyes of professors you would recognize from ten miles away. “For now, I’m counting on this to distract me from finals.”
“You’ll be okay,” Hansol states confidently. “Sometimes you study until I come back from patrol at 4:00 in the morning. That’s not all for nothing.”
“I’m glad one of us believes in me,” you sigh and shrug half-heartedly.
“Have you asked your professors if patching up Spiderman counts as internship hours?” He asks so suddenly that you can’t help but laugh.
“Our apartment doesn’t count as a hospital, so I never bothered,” you reply and he nods.
“A shame. I bet you have more practice giving stitches than any student here,” asserts Hansol and you grimace.
“Let’s not consider that a good thing, please,” you plead and he chuckles. “Shall we do our rounds?”
“Lead the way.”
For the next couple of hours, you and Hansol move as a set as you make small talk with some classmates, wave to people from his biochemistry courses, and eavesdrop on internship opportunities opening up the following semester. At some point, your hand finds the crook of his elbow and stays there, and you try not to think about the muscles in his arm that flex every time you stray too far and he pulls you back toward him. The clock nears midnight and the party is approaching its end when the dean of the health sciences college taps the mic with a manicured finger.
“It’s that time, everybody! Please remove your masks and reveal your identities to those around you!” She announces with a blinding smile and the people around you undo the ties of their masks. Hansol unties his and tosses it over his shoulder; it disappears somewhere on the floor and words become stuck in your throat at just how good he looks in the glow of the string lights.
“Need some help?” He inquires when you just stand there, staring at him like an idiot. You stammer something that sounds like an assent and go nearly catatonic when he gently undoes the ribbon tying your mask behind your head. He pulls it off carefully and places it in your hands with a small smile, tying the ribbon around your wrist so you don’t lose it. “There. Now I can see you.”
“Aw, did you miss me?” You joke and you hope he can’t tell how your voice is shaking.
“You know it.”
“You talk a whole lot of rizz for getting no girls,” you scoff, even though those three words made something in your chest stop working for a second.
“Who said I wanted ‘em?” You don’t reply and somehow drag Hansol onto the dance floor, your arms winding around his neck as naturally as breathing. He’s a little stiff while his hands find your waist until you brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead and he nearly melts. It’s all platonic, you convince yourself. Don’t think about the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in this room.
“Something on your mind?” His soft voice pulls you from your thoughts.
“Just exams,” you fib, even though he can most definitely sense the way your heart is rattling around in your ribcage. Hansol hums.
“Anything else you wanna talk about?”
“Anything you wanna know?” You counter with a sly smile.
“I always wanna know what’s going on in there,” he says, nodding toward the top of your head. “There’s a lot, but it intrigues me.”
“If you looked in my brain, it’d be like that one episode of Spongebob where everything’s on fire and there’s filing cabinets toppled over,” you inform him seriously and he snorts.
“Sounds good to me.”
You open your mouth to reply again but are interrupted by the sensation of the floor rumbling beneath your feet. The ground is humming. Hansol’s hands are immediately on your forearms to steady you as the world shifts over and over again. The shaking becomes more violent, so much so that a few guests around you trip onto the ground and you dash to help the people nearest to you. Hansol’s hand remains on your back as you do so, his head snapping side to side to locate the source of the disturbance. As you steady a classmate you recognize from one of your ethics classes, an explosion of concrete blasts into the air with a sound that leaves your ears ringing. Something has collided with the welcome building of Carat Central a few yards away and sent debris flying in all directions. Your body automatically wraps around the person to shield them from oncoming pieces of concrete, and your breath catches when you register that Hansol is shielding you the same way. The person you helped darts away and Hansol’s grip is firm as he yanks you away from the stampede of people, all while the dean is screaming on the microphone for people to remain calm and evacuate the area.
“What the hell is happening?” You shout over the chaos once Hansol corrals you into the corner of a nearby walkway. Panicked guests knock his shoulders and run into his back, but the way his body cages yours against the corner protects you as they pass.
“I don’t know!” He yells back. “I heard someone say a professor’s turned into a lizard!” You gape at him, not sure if you understood correctly.
“A what?”
“A giant-ass lizard! Experiment gone wrong, or something!” Hansol replies, looking severely conflicted. He looks at the gargantuan green reptile emerging from the dust of the ruined building, back at you, then back at the monster that might be one of your professors. “I need to–”
“It’s okay,” you reassure him, your voice straining to be loud enough over the screaming. “Go be a hero!” He spins around to leave, but you catch his wrist at the last second. Untying the black masquerade mask that had been on your wrist, you secure the knot behind Hansol’s head and effectively hide his identity. “Please don’t die!”
“I’m not planning on it!” Hansol lingers for barely a second longer as the giant reptilian continues its warpath across the plaza, eyes searching yours. In a moment so quick you think you imagined it, his lips lean forward to brush your forehead and shoot electricity down your entire body. You freeze and watch as he disappears into the dust, webs shooting from his wrist and sending him flying toward the danger.
Your feet remain rooted in place for what feels like forever until someone grabs your arm and ushers you behind a police brigade that has been set up just outside the plaza. Dodging EMTs and trying your best not to look back at however Hansol is faring, you collapse onto the couch of your apartment several minutes later, feet aching and heart still racing. After kicking off your shoes, anxiously grabbing the first aid kit, and pacing until there’s surely a path worn into your floorboards, you wait on the fire escape for him to come back.
You’re stuck in a worried spiral with your legs swinging off the edge of the escape when the tell-tale thwip of webs finally reaches your building.
“Holy shit, you’re okay,” you breathe when he lands on the creaking metal platform. There’s countless tears and rips in his suit, scuffs on his shoes, and a cut on his left cheek, but he’s not bleeding out or in need of a hospital. You don’t bother rushing him into the apartment immediately; your arms are around his neck and pulling him close before either of you can think much of it. His breathing is heavy and there’s a slight tremble to his hands from excess adrenaline, but he makes no effort to let go until you pull away and tug off the black mask that you’d given him before you were separated. Your thumb runs over the angry red scratch and his throat bobs as he swallows. “Is the professor…?”
“He’s alive,” Hansol answers and you exhale in relief. “Some of his students raided his lab and found the antidote gas, so all I needed to do was stall and then make him sniff it.”
“Did anyone see your face?” He shakes his head.
“They didn’t, thanks to you. I was about to rush in there with no plan, no suit, and no mask.” The corner of your mouth turns down.
“Yeah, you’ve had better ideas,” you remark.
“I wasn’t thinking about Spiderman, just keeping you safe,” he reveals and your heart stutters again. “I guess thinking about you makes me a little stupid.”
“Well, I hope you don’t do it too often,” you conclude, turning and pushing open the window before you start thinking too hard about how tightly he held your hips. He follows you into the apartment after some delay, and mutters something under his breath that you think you might have hallucinated.
“Too late.”
—
Save #3, a.k.a. The Power of Persuasion (And Eavesdropping on Private Conversations)
You didn’t intend to eavesdrop, not really.
You were truly in the right place at the right time, or wrong place and wrong time depending on who you ask. As if final exam week couldn’t get any worse, the restroom located next to your classroom is under maintenance, meaning you had approximately five minutes to haul ass to the second floor bathroom, haul ass back to your classroom, hope that it’s still unlocked and your professor didn’t start on time, and mentally prepare yourself for what might be the worst test in your academic career…on top of waiting for a certain web-slinging hero to bring you your calculator. It should have been a blessing in disguise that Hansol was also in the class with you; he’s brought you stuff you’ve forgotten several times since he’s usually getting a few winks of sleep by the time you leave for campus. But now, he’s nowhere to be found five minutes before exam time, you’re calculator-less, and you need to pee so badly that your legs are shaking. What a great day to be you.
“Deborah, listen to me! It’s possible to have two soulmates, and therefore it wasn’t cheating!” You stop in your tracks as you exit the restroom, your ears picking up on a voice that sounds suspiciously like your professor that should already be in the classroom. Ducking quietly behind a vending machine, you continue to listen as your professor rants to whoever was on the phone. “No, you need to stop being in your head about this. I was involved with Debra–yes, the other woman’s name is also Debra but with a different spelling–because I believed you two would get along well. You’re the one who’s always going on about opening up the relationship.” Your jaw is hanging open while your professor tries to convince his wife that a divorce lawyer is not needed and that a family counselor (including the other Debra) was what they should get. The conversation drops to a level that has you craning your neck to hear while also staying hidden, and you nearly jump out of your skin when a message from Hansol buzzes on your phone.
| CONTACT ID: hansol ✌️|
[9:59 A.M.]
DID HE DTART YET
IM RUNNING OVER
MY ALARM DIDNTGO OFF
I COULDNT FIND YUOR CALCUALTOR
WHY DID YOU PUT IT IN THE FRIDGE
[10:00 A.M.]
DUCK
STALL FO RME PLS PLS PLS I NEED TEN MINKS
MINS
You nearly reveal your position from giggling at the prospect of your roommate being in dire need of ten ferret-like animals, but quickly remember the seriousness of the situation if you didn’t get your calculator and Hansol was locked out of the classroom for being late. Following your professor’s footsteps as he stomps down the stairs and towards the classroom, you slip into the room behind him and wedge a pencil in between the doors in the event that they lock on their own upon closing. The room is eerily silent save for some nervous coughs and the rustling of bags as everyone tucks away their phones and pulls out their pencils. Your professor, however, looks like he would rather be anywhere but there while you settle into your usual seat and stick your bag on the seat adjacent to you for Hansol.
“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” mumbles the student on your other side, Dez, who had a knack for getting the professor riled up and yapping for an ungodly portion of class time. “What do you think made him all grumpy today?” You bite your tongue and shrug, checking the clock and the classroom doors every few seconds to see if Hansol made it in.
“I don’t know, but he seems pretty pissed,” you add. “More pissed than when you had him on a tangent about the reliability of government that one time before break.” Dez smirks at the memory.
“How long did he go on for, again?”
“42 minutes and 39 seconds exactly,” you recount and he nods like a grandfather remembering his youth while sitting in a rocking chair.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” Dez asks, pointing over at the empty chair on your other side. You shoot him a look.
“He’s my roommate, not my boyfriend.” He shrugs.
“Yet.”
“Don’t get me started, Dez,” you warn and he lifts his hands in surrender.
“Sorry, professor. Didn’t mean to get you all prickly,” he apologizes and an evil idea occurs to you while you take in your professor at the front of the room still furiously texting on his phone, even though the exam should have started three minutes ago. You need to buy yourself and Hansol time, so you throw caution to the wind and drop your voice to a conspiratory volume.
“Say, Dez,” you assert. “You’re familiar with the, uh, specialty herb trade here on campus, right?” He thinks for a moment, his mouth gaping open like a fish, and then the realization of what you’re referring to hits him like lightning.
“No way,” he gasps. “Are you looking to buy?”
“No, not me. I’m just wondering how prices have been looking since campus police have been cracking down on dealers,” you hastily explain and he purses his lips in thought.
“Now that you say that, prices have been going up lately. Like, for example, I’ve got a guy that experiments with adding basil and rosemary to his shit, and–” You wave your hands and cut him off.
“Dez, I don’t care. The market is a shitshow, is it not?”
“The shittiest show,” he confirms gravely.
“Great,” you say. “30 dollars if you ask our professor what he thinks about soulmates. Or open relationships. Or both. Actually, 50 if you do both.” If all goes right, it should be enough time for Hansol to get his ass over here. Dez’s eyes go as wide as bowling balls and he grabs your hand to shake it aggressively. You would be down some dollars, but at least you could literally buy time. As your professor finally puts down his phone and steels himself to address the class, Dez’s hand shoots up.
“Professor!” He yells loud enough to make you cringe. At least a hundred eyes in the busy lecture hall turn toward you at once and you’re grateful that Dez has no sense of social anxiety. The professor at the front of the room sighs tiredly.
“Yes, Dez?”
“Do you think it’s possible for someone to have multiple soulmates, or does one person just get left out in open relationships?” You know your gamble has paid off when your professor completely dismisses the proctors of the exam and then begins recounting the entire history of his relationship with Deborah #1, his run-in with Debra #2, and the subsequent issues that followed with both women. By the time Hansol has finally dropped into his seat and slid your calculator over the desk, you’ve long realized that your bet has worked a little too well, as now he’s been talking for the last twenty minutes and shows no sign of stopping. “Do you have a preferred payment method?” Dez whispers. “I take Venmo, Cashapp, and cuts of beef. I also have payment plans. Here’s a QR code.” He procures a screenshot and you scan it, still partially in shock that this even worked.
“What’s the stoner on about?” Hansol murmurs to you as he watches you type in $50 on your phone.
“Just send me $25 when you get the chance,” you request and he nods unsurely.
“Do I even wanna know?”
“Probably not. Just don’t ever ask the professor what he thinks about open relationships.”
“I see,” Hansol says even though you know he’s far from understanding what’s going on. “Fifteen more minutes and it’ll be far past the time he can give us on the exam, so we won’t take it. If he’s still talking after fifteen minutes, wanna go grab breakfast?”
“I could fuck up a waffle right now,” you muse. “Are you paying?”
“I’ll pay for $25 worth of your food, if that’s an equal transaction.” Dez leans his head into your conversation.
“That’s like, totally a filet mignon amount. You should take the deal,” he advises. You stare at him for a long moment until he stares back longer and it unnerves you.
“Thanks Dez, I’ll take that into account.” Dez gasps like you’d just told him he was pregnant.
“Yo, are you guys going on a date? I’ve got some recommendations if you want them.” Hansol blinks at him and tries to hide his grin.
“We’re good, man, but thanks for letting us know.”
“Of course, dude. You and your sweetheart are so cute,” Dez gushes and you keep your eyes trained on the professor, though you see Hansol has gone stiff from the corner of your peripheral vision. “And hey, if you ever wanna get some good stuff, just let me know, ‘kay?”
“Sounds good, Dez,” you smile. “Enjoy the $50.”
—
Save #4, a.k.a. The Amazing Spider-Seamstress
If Hell ever froze over, you imagine it would look something like winter in New York. You’ve been running the heater in your apartment for so long that your nose is starting to feel dry, and stepping outside is like walking naked into the world’s largest Costco refrigerator. Your roommate isn’t faring much better, coming home with chattering teeth and skin that is nearly the color of the frozen lake a few blocks down from your apartment. After a heated metaphorical debate about whether spiders hibernate during winter (because why go out on patrol when it’s too cold to commit crime anyway?), you’d come to the conclusion that Hansol needed layers if he was going to survive swinging through winds that were frigid enough to leave icicles hanging from his webs.
Hansol, by virtue of being Hansol, was rather lazy at his first attempt of saving the city in warmer clothes. The week after your argument about him freezing to death in his regular Spiderman suit, you’d watched him cross the living room in his suit and throw a jacket over himself as he ducked out onto the fire escape. As you’d predicted, he came back with a torso nice and warm, but legs that each needed heat packs. The next night, he wore a jacket and sweatpants, and then lamented that his ears and his toes were going to freeze and fall off. When Friday came and you were watching the same routine from the dining room table, Hansol looked less like Spiderman and more like one of the burglars from Home Alone. He arrived back at the apartment a few hours later with snow heaped on his clothes, a hole in his beanie, and missing one of his boots.
That’s when you decided to intervene.
“What’re you doing?” He asks as you lay out his suit on the kitchen table and examine it with all the precision of a neurosurgeon.
“If you freeze to death, no one’s gonna be covering half my rent,” you decide, disappearing into your room and bringing back a stack of fabrics you’d picked up after your classes. “So, I would like permission to insulate your suit.”
“You don’t need to do that; I’ll just keep using the thermal layers,” he reasons, running his fingers over the red and blue fleece. “They’re scratchy, but they work.”
“You hate those because they make your suit not feel like skin,” you remind him. “Granted, this won’t feel like skin either, but at least it’s one less layer you need to have. Easier to swing, too. See?” You grab a corner of fabric and stretch it. “It’ll move with you. It’s not perfect, but it’s warm.”
“This is pretty soft,” he agrees. “It’s like I’m a sheep.”
“You’d be warmer than a sheep, at least for the areas that you said get the coldest. I’m not gonna put fleece around where your joints are, since those are gonna need the most flexibility.” His eyes follow your finger as you trace on the suit where you would install the fleece panels–wrapping around his arms and legs, his chest, and his neck, specifically. Hansol looks at you so softly that you forget just how close you are together, hunched over the kitchen table.
“You’d really do this for me?”
“Of course,” you confirm. “Plus, didn’t you say you’ve been wanting to design a winter version and a summer version of your suits? Let this be the winter one so you don’t freeze to death.”
“Okay, I trust you. I didn’t know you knew how to sew,” he remarks and you bite your lip.
“I know how to stitch. Everything else, I was gonna figure out as I go,” you admit sheepishly and you thank the heavens that you have a chill roommate, because he just shrugs and gives you an encouraging pat on the back.
“You got it. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with this job.”
“Well, yeah. That would require someone else to know your identity,” you point out and grin at his pout.
“Can’t you just let me compliment you?” He pokes his finger into your side and you yelp, pushing him away with a laugh.
“Fine, I surrender! Now go away and let me work,” you dismiss and drop into the dining room chair.
Turns out, sewing pieces of fleece into the inside of Hansol’s suit is easier than you thought, but takes forever to stitch by hand. On top of that, you’re trying to make sure your stitches are as secure as possible and in a straight line, if you can help it. It’s well past midnight by the time you finally finish tying off the last knot. Hansol has been quietly loitering for the past hour, watching you work and taking cat naps to the sound of your humming in lieu of being on patrol.
“Done?”
“Done,” you beam, holding up the finished suit that, to your delight, looks exactly the same. “I also stitched up a few tears and rips you had in it, just while I was in the area.” He leans over the back of your chair, his chin close enough to brush your temple, and you hope he can’t tell how much your breathing has picked up.
“You sure you actually did something to it? It looks like nothing’s there,” he comments, gently taking the suit from you and feeling around the newly insulated areas. “Oh. There it is.”
“Exactly. It should keep you a little warmer while still feeling the same as before,” you explain proudly. “Now, you don’t need to wear itchy thermals or bundle up like you’re braving a snowstorm.”
“Can I go take it for a test run?” You shrug.
“It’s your suit. Do what you want with it as long as you don’t die.” He whoops in excitement and runs into his room, reappearing a few minutes later smoothing over his arms in awe.
“This feels amazing,” he exclaims. “It’s like I’m a sheep, but also have blubber. So like a whale-sheep. Sheep-whale. Shale.”
“Perhaps a Whasheep?” You contribute, smiling.
“A whasheep,” he agrees. He stretches in the suit and does a backflip for good measure. “Feels great. I can flip so easily in this.” His legs bend in preparation to fly backward again, but you stop him with a noise of concern.
“I’m happy you’re happy, but I don’t think our downstairs neighbors will be enthused if you keep doing gymnastics over their living room,” you reason and he flinches with embarrassment.
“Right, right. I’m gonna go take it for a test run, then. Want anything from the store?”
“Hot chocolate mix, if you can,” you request, though you’re covering your mouth with a yawn.
“Dark?”
“You know it.”
“Be right back, then. I won’t be long.” True to his word, Hansol is back less than fifteen minutes later, but you’ve already migrated to the couch and curled up against the cushions, fast asleep. Something in his chest warms seeing that you’ve used the spare fleece as a scrappy blanket, not wanting to bother getting one from the closet. You barely stir as he grabs a throw blanket for you and replaces the scrap fabric with it, ultimately deciding to just scoop you up and carry you to your room. You hum contentedly during the few seconds it takes to transfer you from the couch to your bed, pulling the blanket closer as soon as you’re on the mattress.
When you murmur a sleepy love you, Hansol as he’s shutting your door, it takes him an hour to stop his heart from racing.
—
Save #5, a.k.a. The Therapeutic Properties of Cable TV
Hansol has been off for the past week. He won’t look you in the eye, he won’t answer you in more than two-word sentences, he’s been eating dinner in his room, and he’s disappeared after his classes when he usually comes straight home. You know you shouldn’t feel so affected–he might just be feeling under the weather, after all–but it’s still causing a significant disturbance to your routine. Eating dinner alone feels extra empty. Watching TV feels extra boring. Studying might as well be pointless if he’s not beside you muttering chemical formulas under his breath.
It finally reaches a breaking point when you’re awake and staring at the ceiling one night, unable to sleep. You’re awake long enough that you hear Hansol come back from patrol, close the door to his room, and open it again. You sit up and strain your ears, barely catching the sound of him creeping around the kitchen and the microwave beeping. The clock reads almost 3:00 in the morning; he should be dead asleep by now. Part of you wants to mind your own business and let him be, but the better part of you wins over and drags you out of bed and into the living room. When you settle wordlessly on the other side of the couch, wrapped in your blanket, you don’t immediately look at Hansol. Instead, you look at the steaming cup of instant ramen that he hasn’t touched, the TV remote’s faded buttons, and the piercingly bright cartoon show that’s playing at an imperceptible volume. An entire twenty-minute episode comes and goes without a word from either of you, and your eyelids are becoming heavy.
He notices.
“You should sleep,” he says so quietly that you almost don’t hear him.
“So should you,” you counter. He tenses.
“I don’t need it.”
“You say that to a nurse. Smart,” you deadpan and eye him skeptically. “You don’t need it, or you don’t want it?” His silence and clenched jaw tells you all you need to know. “If I did something to upset you, I want to know so I can apologize.” His attention snaps to you and he shakes his head with more emotion than you’ve seen from him for the past six days.
“What? No, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You’ve been avoiding me this entire week,” you insist. “That can’t be without reason.”
“I’m just tired,” he dodges and you see through it like glass.
“If you’re tired, you should be sleeping.”
“I’m fine. Can you drop it?” He snaps and your stomach sinks.
“Yeah. Sorry. Let me know if you want me to leave.”
“Do what you want. It’s your apartment,” is his cold reply and you tuck yourself even further into the corner. Your nose burns as your eyes start to water, but you force yourself to remain stoic. He’d never talked to you that way before and it made something in you unreasonably sad. After another episode and fighting the urge to cry, he sighs and turns TV off, scooting closer to you for the first time in days. “I’m sorry. That was mean.”
“Yeah, it was,” you whisper, staring at your knees tucked under the blanket. You swallow and meet his eyes like one wrong look would blow up the entire building.
“I’m sorry I hurt you, and I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you. It isn’t fair, and I don’t want to make you sad.” The urge to cry comes back like a crashing wave.
“Will you tell me what’s going on?” You manage to say. “I’m worried about you.”
“Nightmares. Every night of last week,” he reveals. “I relive all the mistakes I’ve made since becoming Spiderman. The most recent one, there was a situation where I couldn’t save everyone.” He exhales shakily and you reach to cover his hand with yours. “I couldn’t look you in the eyes for days because all I felt was guilt, even though it was all in my head. I couldn’t save you.”
“Oh.” You don’t realize you’re crying until Hansol makes a noise of alarm and brushes aside the tears that have started running down your cheeks.
“Wait, no–don’t–why are you…?”
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” you attempt to laugh, which sounds more like a sob. “I guess I was so worried about you and all this time, it’s because of me…or I guess not me. Dream-me.”
“Dream-you scared the shit out of me.”
“And you didn’t tell me any of this?” Hansol shakes his head.
“It wasn’t your problem to solve.”
“And so your solution was losing sleep and watching Spongebob until you were exhausted?” You ask incredulously through your blurry vision. “You are an idiot.”
“I know,” he acknowledges. “I know I’m an idiot. And I know I should have told you, but I guess I thought watching Spongebob would fix my issues. Therapeutic properties, you know?”
“No, you idiot. I don’t know,” you disagree. “You should be sleeping. We should be talking.” You squeeze his hand like you’re begging him to stay. “I am not going to walk out on you, no matter what shit you throw at me. I’m not leaving. Period.” Hansol’s gaze softens and his eyes are enough to make you turn to jelly. “Please don’t shut me out again.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise me?”
“I–I promise,” he vows after a fleeting moment of hesitation. He looks like he’s on the verge of saying one more thing, but shuts his mouth decisively and you nod.
“Good. Now, I’m gonna make my own cup of ramen and we’re gonna watch one more episode. Then we’re both gonna sleep, and you’re going to wake me up and talk to me if you have another nightmare.”
You end up stuck on the couch for more than one episode, primarily because you and Hansol somehow get close enough that you can rest your head on his shoulder and he can rest his head on yours. Somewhere between the third and fourth episodes, you drift off to the smell of his laundry detergent and instant ramen powder, along with the sensation of his arm securing you against his side. With you so close, for the first time in a while, Hansol isn’t afraid of letting sleep take him.
—
+1, a.k.a. The Breaking Point
“I’m going to fail and this is going to be my last semester before I go broke and disappear,” you lament, your forehead hitting the wooden table with a thud. You can hear Hansol trying to stifle his laugh from beside you.
“You’re overreacting,” he snorts. “I don’t say that about a lot of things, but this time you are.”
“Hansol, I don’t get it,” you try to emphasize. “I cannot understand calculus, therefore I can’t be a nurse, therefore I might as well just sign up to be jobless for the rest of my life.”
“And you call me a drama queen?”
“Alright, Almighty Math Biochemistry Lord,” you scoff. “You tell me how to find the solution to this.”
“It’s easy. The best way to figure out a problem is to get rid of a variable.”
“Is it that simple?” He shrugs.
“Most things are, when you think about it.”
“Get rid of a variable,” you echo thoughtfully, picking up your pencil again and hunching over your scratch paper.
“Now you’ve got it. It’s how I solve my problems all the time.”
“And what if there’s a variable you didn’t account for?” He pauses, his eyebrows pinching in thought.
“I try to get rid of it and simplify the problem.”
“Huh, maybe I should try that.”
“You should,” Hansol agrees. “It’ll make you stop worrying about things you can’t control.”
“Alright, shut up and let me work,” you laugh.
You’ve never been particularly afraid of heights, but that will definitely be changing if you live to see tomorrow.
Rough rope rubs against your wrists from where you’re tied to a segment of a massive tower crane stretching over a new skyscraper development on the other side of the city. Below you is nothing but a void of open air, and at the bottom lies the streets of New York that, from this perspective, look no larger than ant trails. Your body wants to scream, but the air whipping around you prevents you from taking a full breath. How you ended up here in the first place is foggy; you vaguely remember walking back to the apartment after your last evening class, and then the next thing you know, your entire vision goes black. Pain blooms at the back of your skull, so you must have been hit with something hard enough to knock you out.
A blur of movement below you draws your eye and your mouth goes dry as the glider of the Green Goblin hovers to a stop in front of you, close enough that you can see your reflection in the villain’s mask.
“Brave little roomie, aren’t you? Covering for the Spiderman, patching up the Spiderman,” he taunts melodically and you glare with as much loathing as you can, even as your knees are threatening to give out from fear. “Now you’ve evolved. You’re not only a friend of the Spiderman…you’re bait for him, as well.”
“What’re you gonna do? Kill him?” You hiss.
“No dear, you’re our V.I.P. for tonight, so you get first priority. Only then will it be our good friend Hansol’s turn.”
“Why bring me all the way up here? Why draw him to a place where no one would see you kill him, even if you did manage to win?” Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a single white string connecting two of the nearby buildings, then disappear. Another, carefully in the Goblin’s blindspot, then another, and another until you’re sure that Hansol is hiding behind the building next to you. “You’re never going to beat him,” you stall as your heart rate steadily increases.
“I’m entertained that you believe that. Unfortunately, we both know that he would never let you get hurt, and that is what will be his ultimate downfall. I’d advise against resisting.” He hops down from the glider and a scream tears itself from your throat as he cuts the ropes around your wrists and shoves you forward, toward the edge of the crane’s catwalk. Your feet slip and slide on the damp, rusty metal in an attempt to slow your approach to the end, but it’s no use. The Goblin has an iron grip on your arms and ends up dragging you the rest of the way, spinning you so that both your backs are facing the free fall. You’re stuck in a position where any attempt to throw him off would inevitably tug you with him, so you have no choice but to go deathly still as terror sets deep in your bones.
Seconds later, you recognize the silhouette of Hansol’s suit drop down onto the catwalk and feel your heart nearly stop as it wobbles from his landing. He looks menacing in the dim light of the top of the crane, shadows stretching from his limbs and tracing the rigid structure of his muscles. He takes no steps forward and you can’t see his face under the mask, but his body language is eerily calm–no, calculating–for someone who needed to save their roommate from falling several hundred feet from the sky.
“Let them go, Osborn. Your fight is with me,” he says.
“No can do, Mister Chwe,” the Goblin replies. “You’ve made a crucial mistake that needs correction, and I am burdened with fixing it.”
“Yeah? And what’s that?”
“Falling in love.” Your stomach flips. Hansol stretches his neck to the side and you almost laugh. I’m about to get thrown off a crane by a maniac, and you’re stretching? “A pitfall so many follow. Fortunately, I will take the responsibility off your shoulders.” The Goblin leans backward and you stumble after him with a panicked shout. Hansol takes a few steps forward and stops just short of reaching you.
“Stop!” He yells, extending his arm as if to stop you. “Just let them go. Then you can fight me however you want.”
“Hmm! No, I won’t,” the villain decides with childlike glee. “I’ve come up with a better idea.” You cry out again as you find yourself suddenly suspended over the void below, held by nothing but Norman Osborn’s grip on the collar of your shirt. Your hands instinctively grab the Goblin’s wrist to steady yourself as you dangle there, helpless.
“Let them go, Osborn,” Hansol seethes, but he isn’t listening. “I’m not asking again.”
“I’ll give you a choice. You can either attempt to capture me, or save your little love from becoming a pancake.” Dread fills your body as you realize why Hansol is being so careful. His decision not to swing around and outmaneuver the Goblin like he usually does is purposeful. One wrong move, and you’re dead and his enemy is fleeing into the night. You know Hansol, and you know he’s devised at least a dozen ways he could defeat the Green Goblin in any situation. What he didn’t account for was keeping you alive. “What do you choose, Mister Chwe?”
“Hansol,” you interject before he can reply. An idea has flickered to life in the back of your mind. It might be radically stupid, but radical was what you needed right now. “Remember what you said about simplifying a calculus problem?” You can’t see his face under his mask, but you know by the way his body language shifts that he knows exactly the moment at the dining table that you’re talking about. Get rid of a variable. “I trust you.” He nods once, slow enough for Osborn to miss. “I…I love you.”
Then, you’re tearing yourself out of the Green Goblin’s hold and plummeting into the darkness.
Freezing air rushes past you as you freefall toward the streets below, spinning you in all different directions until you can’t tell where you’re facing or how far you still have to fall. Explosions rattle the crane above you and illuminate the clouds in fire as you keep falling down, down, down, and you have no time to think about Hansol not reaching you on time because you’re preoccupied hyperventilating and tumbling every which way. Another set of explosions rock the sky and the world comes into focus again as your body rotates and you see the ground fast approaching. You squeeze your eyes shut and wait for an impact that never comes, because you’re pulled suffocatingly close to someone as you continue streaming through the air at a much more controlled velocity.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” Hansol whispers next to your ear and you wrap yourself around his body as he swings you away from the burning crane and the approaching cop cars and firetrucks. If he’s hindered by how tightly you’re holding onto him, your eyes still shut tight in the hollow of his neck, he doesn’t comment.
You land on something that feels suspiciously like the fire escape to your apartment but still can’t find the courage to let go, not that it matters as he carefully cradles your head and gets you both through the window and into the living room of your apartment. Your feet don’t touch the ground, rather Hansol scoops you up and sits you both gently on the couch with your hands still around his neck and your legs across his lap. He tears off his mask and takes a deep breath, wrapping his arms around your torso to hold you. Neither of you move for a long while until your breathing has evened out and you finally start to feel aware of your surroundings again and not just him.
“Thank you for coming for me,” you whisper.
“Of course.”
“Did you get him?”
“Of course.”
“Are you overthinking that you should leave me because you put me in danger?”
“You know me so well,” he confirms dryly. “Or did you want me to say ‘of course’ one more time to be funny?” A smile ghosts your lips.
“You know, your overthinking’s not going to work,” you declare.
“Hmm? Why not?” His cheek squishes against the top of your head, making the dull pain at the back feel a little less sharp.
“Because I told you that I love you, so now you can’t get rid of me,” you state, craning your neck to look at him.
“You just got kidnapped because of me and you still want to stick around,” Hansol summarizes in disbelief, but you catch the way his ears are becoming redder.
“That depends on if what the Goblin said was true. That you fell in love with me.” He quiets and licks his lips, his eyes flitting to yours and then looking away. “Is it true? Are you in love with me, Chwe Hansol?” A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“Hmm, I’m not sure how I want to answer,” he begins cryptically and you frown. “Do you have a good aim when throwing empty soup cans?”
“What? I–I think I do?”
“What about masquerade masks? Do you keep an extra in your room in case a certain superhero ever needs it again?” Your puzzlement increases.
“How do you know I still have that?” He ignores your question and adds more riddles.
“Or, let’s see…Is Dez going to be a stoner for the rest of his life?”
“Oh, fuck yeah,” you attest immediately and things begin to click in your head. “Yes. The answer to all those questions is yes.” Hansol’s eyes sparkle as he continues.
“Was it a bad idea for me to go out in nothing but my Spidersuit and sweatpants in below zero weather?”
“Most definitely,” you quip.
“Are the old episodes of Spongebob better than whatever new stuff they’re putting out?”
“Is that even a question?” You fire back with a grin growing on your face so wide that your cheeks hurt.
“Then you have the answer to your original query,” he concludes, his hand cupping the side of your face. You might be crying again, but you don’t care.
“You’re in love with me?”
“I am so in love with you,” Hansol smiles. “And I won’t ask you to leave, even though I know it won’t ever be safe with me.”
“I don’t care if it’s safe. I just want you,” you promise. He leans in close enough to brush your nose with his, playfully nudging your forehead.
“Can I kiss you now?”
“Are you Spiderman?” You ask in turn. “And the love of my life?” He laughs and ducks forward, muttering his answer against your lips.
“Hell yeah, I am.”
—
The Central Park cherry blossoms are officially in bloom, and Hansol has made it his mission to take you on a date there in the most romantic-comedy way possible.
“Was the picnic basket really necessary?” You laugh, swinging your arms as he takes your free hand in his while the other holds a wicker basket that you’re pretty sure he stole from one of your Pinterest boards. “I mean, the red checkered blanket is already overkill, but–”
“We’re eating tteokbboki and gimbap instead of crustless sandwiches and chips,” he interrupts. “I hope that’s unique enough.”
“I’m just saying, we could’ve used the insulated bag we have at home, and the blanket we have…at home,” you add.
“But then where’s the magic?” Hansol whines, picking a spot he deems suitable and laying out the red gingham blanket that he bought off Amazon last week. You settle down beside him and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
“It’s right here,” you reply, gesturing to the perfect view of the pink flowering trees before you. “Can’t get much more magical than this, can it?” You pull out the containers of food and eagerly break apart your chopsticks, but before you can take a bite, a shimmering noise behind you draws your attention. Hansol, already two bites deep, turns with his mouth still full. You groan, recognizing the source of the orange portal that sparks magical particles like burning coals. “I wasn’t being literal when I said it couldn’t get more magical,” you grumble.
“I apologize for interrupting your date, but the Spiderman is needed,” says the Sorcerer Supreme that has crashed your day with your boyfriend. Xu Minghao, though you’d only met him on a few occasions, intimidated you in a way only the most powerful magical being on the planet could. Wrapped in a red robe with a mind of its own and the Eye of Agamotto hanging threateningly around his neck, he looks like he’d either give you a quest or turn you into a rat. Hansol frowns, looking at you, then his plate full of food, then back at the sorcerer.
“It can’t wait?”
“The fate of the world as we know it is at stake, Hansol. I would hope you’d take this more seriously,” Minghao remarks, though you catch him eyeing the food hungrily. “Is that gimbap?”
“It is,” you answer before your boyfriend can. “Two gimbap for you and a healthy serving of tteokbboki if you let us finish our plates before whisking him away.” Minghao narrows his eyes.
“Four,” he debates.
“Three,” you shoot back.
“Fine,” the Sorcerer Supreme agrees. In the distance from wherever he’s portaling, a loud boom sounds. He exhales, exasperated, and points an accusatory finger at both of you. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“Thirty,” Hansol attempts and Minghao shoots him a look.
“Fifteen,” he decreases and your boyfriend surrenders, returning his attention to his food. “Good. See you in twenty, Spiderman.” The portal closes with a whoosh and Hansol turns to you in astonishment.
“I can’t believe you just bargained with Xu Minghao.” You shrug, leaning close to his side.
“No big deal,” you reassure him, living in the moment as much as you can before he’s taken away to save the world. “I’ve definitely had to save you from worse before.”
“You have, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
in case you didn't know: reblogging is the best way to support your favorite authors! if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi!
Why do you have to bring more new projects when you need to work on Bite?????? Readers are out here waiting for this to come off hiatus, invested in the characters and the story, and you just yank it away because something rubbed you the wrong way. You act so impatient with us!!!!! Like we have demanding too much by asking for more. You put Bite on hiatus again and it feels like straight up punishment for your readers. Like we did something wrong just by showing up and liking your stuff?? Every little comment or question and you take it so personally, turning it into this big drama in your head and it is only in your head. One person says they wish the updates were faster and we are again punished. Hiatus after hiatus because of your thin skin... it sucks. People lose interest, move on, and you wonder why no one sticks around. You are not giving us a break, you punish the fans who care enough to wait. We want to be able to keep reading but hiatus after hiatus because of your thin of skin it sucks. People lose interest, move on, and you wonder why no one sticks around. This is not giving us a break, you punish the fans who care enough to wait. Please.
What is it about me that makes y'all talk to me like this. Genuinely. Llike what makes you want to send this stuff to me? Do you think this works? Do you think I want to write Bite after reading this? I don't understand what I have done on this blog that makes any one want to talk to me this way and ruin the fun that I have here. I don't get it. With the utmost respect, this ask is fucking nuts.
how are you going to demand anything from a writer when you're trying and struggling to reach a self-imposed word count on a hate ask??? writing word hard huh :(
anyway. i hope hali starts 5 bazillion new projects that make her happy and continue to piss weirdos off <3
The first rule of fandom is have fun. The second rule of fandom is find an enabler and become an enabler. Yes you should write that fic. What if it was even hornier? What if it was angstier? What if you wrote it just for me?
