summary: Surprising him at the last show of the tour has Noah reminding you exactly what you’ve both been missing.
note: It's been so long since I've written anything, I feel so rusty, but this was a long-awaited request in my inbox. I haven't been able to get any words out, thanks to the wonderful not life of full-time employment that has completely consumed all of my time and sanity, but today's pic of Noah got me to finish this draft. He is so fucking fine, like what the hell. ANYWAY- thank you to the anon who requested this! I'm sorry it took me so long to get out.
Also, apologies if this is repetitive, it feels a bit all over the place and boring, but I simply do not care atm and want to get out any piece of writing I can and ride this wave of inspiration. (I am desperate, lmao)
but also, I am literally drunk. So yay for repetitive chaos.
lol.
THIS IS A FANFIC ABOUT REAL PEOPLE IN FICTIONAL SCENARIOS. I AM NOT IMPLYING THIS IS HOW THESE PEOPLE ARE IRL OR THAT THIS SITUATION WOULD HAPPEN. IT IS FOR FANFIC PURPOSES ONLY!
+
13 weeks felt all but too long.
Despite the daily texts, voice notes, and half-awake calls across time zones; you still ached for him.
It was the kind of ache that settled deep and constant, something that never really went away- especially when his name lit up your screen, leaving your fingers to linger and watch the way his picture smiled back at you.
Noah had also tried to hide how much he missed you, worried you’d stress about him, about the distance, and about the exhaustion he couldn’t quite shake.
Though, he never really did a great job of it.
You could always hear it in the cracks of his voice at 3am, or in the barely-there sighs when your laugh reached him through a weak connection.
Yet, despite his exhaustion, he always asked you to “tell me again”, just to hear your voice for a little bit longer.
Just so he didn’t have to hang up quite yet.
But distance was distance, and no amount of calls could replace the weight of his hands on you, or the warmth of his breath brushing against your neck.
So when the tour finally started winding to a close, you decided to surprise him at their last show.
Bryan had let you in with a quick hug and a knowing grin before sliding onto the stage to snap some opening pictures.
You slipped in just as the house lights dropped, listening to the crowd erupting in the kind of roar that rattled your ribs.
The air hummed with bass and anticipation, the stage lit in sharp, electric flashes. You stayed close to the wings, half-hidden behind a stack of equipment carts, fingers curled into your jacket as you tried to steady your breathing.
After all the time apart, and too many nights falling asleep with a phone pressed to your ear- you couldn’t help but feel nervous that he was now just a few feet away.
The band hit the stage in a wave of sound, your chest tightening the second you saw him pounce into place.
He looked good. Unfairly good.
And it made your knees weak, reminding you exactly how long it had been since you last touched him.
You kept your gaze on him even though you knew he couldn’t see you from the stage.
Until halfway through the second song, he glanced toward the wing.
It was a quick, distracted sweep until he snapped his head again sharper, and froze.
The brunette’s mouth faltered on the lyrics, just barely, but his eyes didn’t budge.
They locked onto you as if the rest of the arena had gone silent.
He didn’t- couldn’t- look away.
Not when the lights hit him, or when Folio’s drums kicked harder. Not even when the crowd screamed louder.
Noah’s chest rose hard and rapidly, fingers gripping the mic tightly, and perhaps, it almost looked like he was trying to remember how to breathe.
Thirteen weeks.
Too long.
And the way he was staring at you from the stage?
It was definitely overdue.
Noah didn’t miss a beat after that, and if anything, he sang harder. His October eyes kept snagging on the side stage, greedy and disbelieving, drinking you in between every line he delivered to thousands of people who didn’t matter half as much as you.
You smiled when Jolly caught on by doing a dramatic double take, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at his guitar. Noah nearly collided with him on the way across the stage, feet skidding as if he couldn’t decide whether to perform or sprint straight to you.
By the time the last note of the song faded and the stage lights dipped for intermission, your pulse was already a mess.
You barely had time to exhale before someone’s hand slid around your wrist, firm, certain.
A grip so hungry it made your breath catch.
Noah didn’t say a word as he pulled you down the narrow hallway that led backstage. He just kept walking, pulling you past the crew who tossed questionable looks your way.
He didn’t stop until he had you pressed gently to a wall, his breathing harsh in the dim glow of the hallway light. His hand stayed on your wrist, thumb brushing where your pulse thundered under his touch.
Up close, he looked wrecked in the most beautiful way; his hair damp, chest rising fast, eyes scanning your face to memorize it all over again.
“What are you doing here?” he whispered, voice warm and low against your cheek.
And then a grin split across his face, wide and giddy as his fingers twitched at your waist; hovering lightly to avoid pulling you in, knowing he wouldn’t be able to pull away.
“You’re-” he huffed a shaky laugh, shaking his head. “You’re actually here.”
He finally let his palm settle on your hip, and you smiled back, brushing your nose against his while gripping the back of his inked neck.
“You can’t just show up like this, beautiful,” he murmured, a shaky laugh in his throat as his forehead pressed against yours. “I almost dropped the fucking mic.”
And while steadying himself on the familiar shape of you, he leaned in to capture your lips in a greedy kiss.
He exhaled against your mouth in a breath he’d held since day one of leaving, fingers clawing into your jacket as his teeth grazed your tongue in a desperate, starving sweep.
You felt his grip tighten, grinding his forehead against yours while he swallowed a quiet, broken sound, until his name was called down the hall.
“Hey! Noah-”
Ruffilo’s voice rang through the walls, and Noah froze for a brief second, an annoyed grumble crawling from his throat.
His lips brushed yours, breath shaking while pulling away,
Noah’s hand flexed briefly on your hip as Ruffilo rounded the corner, eyes widening the moment he saw the two of you pinned against the wall.
“Oh, hey Y/N,” he blinked, backing up a half-step. “My bad. Sorry. Intermission’s almost over. Just…uh…yeah.”
He was already turned around, heading back down the hall while his fingers raked through his hair awkwardly.
Noah let out a slow exhale against your cheek.
“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered, voice low as he pressed a frustrated kiss at the corner of your mouth, eyes begging.
Gripping your chin quickly, fingers firm, he turned your face toward him to steal one more kiss- pulling a sharp inhale straight from your throat.
Noah then leaned back just enough to look at you, before stepping back half an inch. His fingers closed around your wrist in reflex.
“You,” he breathed, the word sounding like a warning, before sliding his hand away, forcing distance with visible pain on his face.
“Meet me in the dressing room,” he said firmly. “I can’t have you looking at me like that from side stage.”
He swallowed hard, jaw clenching, eyes dragging down your body before breathing heavily.
“You’re gonna ruin me out there,” he added under his breath, taking another step backward and walking away reluctantly, “And I’ve still got half a set left.”
“Well, good luck out there, rock star,” you teased, and his eyes didn’t leave you until the very last second before he turned the corner.
+
You waited patiently in the dressing room, perched on the edge of the couch, watching someone’s livestream of the concert. Noah was clearly distracted, missing words and constantly looking past the screaming fans towards the side stage, just in case you didn’t listen to him.
When the final note of dethrone rang through the stadium, he was gone, and it wasn’t long until you heard heavy, quick footsteps marching down the hall.
The dressing room door flew open, slamming against the wall as Noah stumbled inside, hair wet, sweat shining down the strong line of his throat, chest rising in sharp, needy pulls.
He ignored the call of his name as he kicked the door shut, sliding the lock into place with a shaky hand.
“Noah-” You began, pushing up from the couch until he crashed into you with a kiss so fierce it knocked you back into the furniture.
One of his inked hands tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip to anchor himself.
“I have missed you so fucking much,” he breathed against your mouth between hungry pulls.
He fumbled blindly with your coat, never breaking the kiss until his lips dragged along your jaw, then your cheek, and back to your mouth.
“We’re not leaving-” he muttered as he pressed you into the couch, bracing himself above you with shaking arms, “-until I’ve had you everywhere I’ve been missing you.”
He dipped his head, teeth grazing your throat, a low, frustrated sound rumbling out of him as your fingers brushed the back of his neck.
“Thirteen weeks,” he whispered against your skin, hot and trembling. “Too fucking long.”
He slid his hand under the hem of your shirt, palm spreading flat over your stomach, moving upward in slow, torturous inches with a kind of claim that sent heat pooling low in your body.
His forehead pressed into you again, his breath mixing with yours as he hovered there, overwhelmed.
“Tell me I can touch you,” he rasped, desperate fingers tugging at the hem of your jeans. “Please.”
His nose brushed your cheek, lips barely missing yours as he groaned softly, the sound vibrating against your throat. You couldn’t help the soft laugh that slipped from you, your fingers curling into the fabric of his damp black t-shirt while his hips pressed forward, shameless and searching, letting you feel just how much he wanted you.
“I’m losing my mind,” he breathed, thumb hooking into your waistband before easing your zipper down with shaky determination. “I need you. I need to feel your pussy wrapped around me.”
His hand tightened on your hip, pulling you flush against him, dragging another soft sound from your lips as he swallowed with a hungry look.
“Say yes to me taking you right here,” he whispered, frayed, “Baby…say yes so I don’t have to pretend I’m fine anymore.”
Your breath hitched low in your throat, the scrape of his thumb under your waistband sparking pleasure that radiated out in warm waves.
With your pulse jumping in your neck, you gave a slow nod against his temple, voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes," you murmured, sliding a hand up from his neck to the strands of his hair.
He let out a feverous sound as his head dropped against your shoulder, grinding his teeth on his bottom lip in an attempt to hold back.
He parted his legs farther on either side of you, the hard lines of his black slacks straining against the pressure.
Swallowing the hunger that surged up his throat, Noah unbuckled his belt before undressing you with a steadiness that contrasted the trembling of his hands.
Your jeans were barely pulled below the line of your hips before he spat onto his hand, coating your arousal in his saliva.
“When we get home, I’m going to take my time with you,” He promised, relishing in the way your head fell back onto the couch as his slim fingers traced the shape of you. “I want to feel you on my tongue. Taste the way you cream along my cock.”
Noah slid his fingers inside, stretching your walls before passing his thumb along your clit. “But I can’t wait another second. I need you wrapped around me.”
His breath caught when your hands moved to help him tug his pants down swiftly, exposing the length of him beneath his boxers.
He cursed when you licked your fingers before coating his cock; and his hips jerked forward, the contact enough to make him shudder.
"Noah," you whimpered, your own fingers gripping the sides of his face. His brows furrowed in desperation as he pushed into your hand, throwing his head back as he swallowed hard.
"Fuck, baby," he groaned, hooded eyes growing focused as he guided himself to your entrance. The tip of his cock pressed against you, teasing slowly and deliberately.
"Tell me again," he whispered against your ear, voice shaking with urgency, echoing the words he'd muttered over countless phone calls, but this time, the intimacy of it made your heart race.
"Yes," you gasped, “Please just fuck me.”
With the rustling fabric of clothes between heavy breaths and soft moans, Noah buried himself deep inside you with a groan that vibrated against your collarbone. His hips stuttered, pulling back only to thrust forward, plunging deeper each time.
And with a harsh, shuddering breath, he began to lose himself, his world tilting with each hard thrust. He ignored the pain when he bit down on his lip, the taste of iron mingling with the salty beads of sweat cascading down his forehead, the sensation of you wrapped around him making him dizzy.
You looked up at him briefly, catching the sly tilt of his smile before his lips found the way to your neck, tongue tracing the lines of your collarbone.
You felt him tremble, jaw clenched, breath coming hard as he buried himself deep again; his hips rocking in a sharp rhythm that made your back arch off the couch.
The pace was relentless; raw and needy as your cries rang between the dressing room walls.
“Holy, fucking, shit,” He groaned between thrusts, fingers clawing at your torso, hips, arms- anything he could grab onto.
His pace switched into a mix of slow, deep thrusts, ensuring you felt the entire length of him filling you up, sinking into the missing space.
“You feel like heaven. I don’t wanna pull out, baby. I don’t wanna leave.”
Pulling your legs back to your chest, you watched the way his eyes refused to leave your own.
“Then don’t,” you gasped, “Cum inside me, please.”
His grip slipped under your thigh, pushing you down and angling just right so he could slide even deeper, the wet sounds of your bodies crashing together loud and shameless in the echo of the small room.
“Say it again,” he panted against your throat. “Say yes again. Say it like you mean it.”
“Cum inside me,” you begged, raking your fingers up his shirt and down his back. “It’s been so long.”
Noah leaned down and bit your shoulder gently, his hips stuttering as one hand tangled in the couch cushion behind your head to brace himself, thrusts becoming frantic to feel his release.
Your plea echoed in his ears, the rush of possession it stirred within him courtesy of your surrender and trust; a lethal cocktail that pushed him closer to the edge.
"Noah," you gasped his name in prayer again, the sound of your voice, your hands in his hair, your legs tightening around him, sending shivers down his spine.
Sweat dripped from his brow, mixing with the hot flush of your body, and you reached up to brush the strands of his hair away from his face.
The simple act slowed his movements for a split second, his eyes meeting yours. His heart pounded against his ribs, hammering in sync with the rhythm of his body, caught between wanting to prolong the moment and filling you again and again, and then he let go.
His body shook as he spilled himself inside you, his shouts swallowed by the frantic beat of your heart. With a final, shuddering groan, he stiffened, then collapsed onto you with a heavy sigh.
You let your fingers trail up and down his back, tracing the familiar tattoos you had missed so much.
"God, I’ve missed you," he murmured against your neck, fingers delicately drawing patterns on your hip.
"Believe me," you whispered, threading your hand through his tousled hair, "I've felt every day you’ve been away."
“When I get you home,” he began, one hand sliding between your bodies, his thumb dragging lazy, perfect circles over your clit again, “I’m putting you on your knees.”
Your mouth fell open, hips jolting, but he didn’t let up.
“I’m gonna taste you till you’re shaking. And then I’m gonna fuck you so slow, you cry.”
Noah’s other hand wrapped around your neck, gentle yet firm, pinning you to the couch with the kind of dominance that made your pulse leap.
“You’re not walking tomorrow.”
The words were a hiss in your ear, teeth grazing like the shell of a threat.
“So you think this was me desperate?” he snarled, grinding one last time, “You haven’t seen me obsessed.”
But even with his cock still twitching inside you, and even with his lips dragging open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, he didn’t soften.
Shivering beneath him, you held him close, chuckling into his cheek. He rolled his hips once more, slow and possessive, fucking his release back into you before swallowing your gasp with his mouth.
When he finally pulled out, your breath hitched at the mess between your thighs; his cum slick and warm, dripping onto the fabric beneath you.
He stared at it like a man possessed.
His chest heaved against yours, and you could feel his heartbeat pounding wildly under your fingertips where they curled against his spine.
As you stared at him longingly, chest heaving, his eyes lingered over your face, taking in every flushed detail lit by the dim lighting of the dressing room.
Then, with a soft moan, he caught your wrist and brought your hand to his lips.
Noah placed a kiss onto each fingertip, letting his lips linger over the delicate skin before guiding your hands away and onto his shoulders.
Your eyes were heavy, half-lidded as they watched him; his heartbeat thundering in his ears as you stared at him so intently.
And he wouldn't trade that look for anything.
“I’m so glad you’re here.” He smiled, kissing you again.
(I’m sorry but he is just so fucking fine like WHAT EVEN- LOOK AT HIM!!! BITCH WHAT THE FUCK)
SYNOPSIS: "I'm here, baby." With a gentleness so at odds with the violence moments prior, he runs a soothing hand up and down her arm. Not pulling or pushing, just grounding. "It's Jason. Look at me?"
Gingerly she raises her head and uncurls. When he takes the moment to look her over, he sincerely wishes he'd shoved the gun down that bastard's throat before pulling the trigger.
NOTE: Love protective Jason
MASTERLIST
When she'd confided in Jason about the person that came to her little cafe just to seemingly stare at her, her boyfriend's eyes had immediately narrowed. It's not jealously, both of them have known each other long enough for that to be a petty thing of the past, but the way his stance shifts into something more protective tells her it was the right decision to ask for help.
"He tries to talk to me sometimes." She admits, running a hand through his hair, letting her nails scrape gently across his scalp. "It's nothing forward, but it's just...something about him."
"Trusting your intuition is the most fullproof way to keep out of trouble." Jason had said, looking up from where his head was on her lap. "Does he try and touch you?"
"No, I'm always behind the counter." She tips her head back to rest on the couch cushion. "But he's always staring, you know? He just sits at the table by the window and stares at me most of the time. I think he took a photo once." The frown on her face doesn't belong there, neither does the stressed furrow in her brow.
"Fucking creep." Jason breathes. "Want me to take care of it?"
"'Take care' as in like...put him down or-?"
"Jesus-" He snorts. "No. I mean, I guess if you want?" A gentle, admonishing tug to his hair makes him roll his eyes.
"I don't want him dead. Just want him to stop creeping me out." He grabs her hand, brings it to rest over his heart and tangles their fingers together.
"Sure." His lips press against her knuckles affectionately. Simple and promised. He's a man of his word.
And that's that.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The plan works better than expected, honestly. An hour after she opened the store, her stalker was there an hour later like clockwork.
She meets Jason's eye from across the counter, tilts her head towards the table in question and watches her boyfriend stand to his full height and crack his neck before approaching.
From the outside it looks harmless enough, the way Jason takes a seat opposite the man, blocking her view from him. The line of his shoulders is straight, but relaxed and in control. She can see him crossing his arms, leaning closer to say something in a dropped octave that makes his companion go pale.
It's a second later that he's scurrying away, coffee cup forgotten on the table. Jason watches him leave the entire time, takes note of the car's licence plate. He doesn't interrupt her work, doesn't pull her aside and make a big deal of it.
They share a look while the person at the register is busy looking at the menu options. When she offers him a grateful smile, he nods with a small one of his own before tucking his jacket under his arm and taking his leave, the promise to come back to walk her home already a familiar routine between them.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Sometimes she hates her shitty luck.
They'd run out of vanilla syrup, and the grocery store was only a few minutes away. In hindsight, she should have trusted the uneasy gut feeling that had followed her ever since she stepped out of her store, but she figured it was the lingering unease from this morning.
She turns to cut through an alley, the usual route she takes, when the sound of boots walking a bit too fast behind her makes her slow down. Startled, she whips around, and takes a second too long to react before someone grabs her and shoves her hard against the alley wall.
"What the fuck-" She's cut off by a hand closing around her throat, a body pressed harshly against her to keep her still.
"You think it's funny to send your fucking attack dog after me?" The man from the cafe sneers, pressing her into the wall harder. "Can't just take the fucking compliment, can you?"
Shit. It's the same beady black eyes that send chills down her spine when her back is turned that glare at her now. He's pissed, and she can't decide if it's better or worse that she knows why.
"Nothing's a compliment when it comes from a creep." She snaps, gasping as the hand around her throat tightens, the grip crushing. Panicked, she claws at his forearm, leaving deep, red scratches on bare skin. The pressure doesn't let us, desperation intensifying as dizziness sets in.
"Creep?!" He hisses, and she can smell his rancid breath. "Entitled women like you give everyone else a bad name! You liked the attention, I know you did-"
She swings a fist and catches him in his right ear.
The rest of his bullshit is choked off in a startled cry as the man stumbles back, ear ringing, momentarily disorientated from the blow. The minute his hand are off her, she crumples to the ground, gasping in a lungful of air. Scrambling to find her feet, she breaks into a clumsy run for the end of the alley. If she can make it out and into the public eye, someone would see her, her cafe wasn't too far from here either-
Something slams into her so hard she topples over onto the dirty ground. Her shriek is cut off with a hand clamped over her mouth. She's pinned down, and the cold fury in the man's expression makes her blood run cold.
"You bitch." He spits. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" He's shouting at her, inches away from her face. Fear makes itself at home in her heart, right next to the boiling anger. The two co-exist, melding into an odd reaction of neither fight nor flight.
His hands are cold and cruel, pressed too tight into her skin for her to try and bite his fingers off, arms pinned by his other one, lower body immobile by the way he's sitting on her. The bastard was heavy. He's speaking, spitting at her, promising threats she can only hear the tail end of over the rush of blood in her ear, and her heartbeat thumping hard against her chest. Still, she doesn't look away, doesn't squeeze her eyes shut or let the prickle of tears win over. If he's going to hurt her, he'll do it looking at the hatred in her eyes, the disgust and loathing that cover up the fright.
A crunch and a rustle snaps his attention away. Teeth bared, he casts a look over his shoulder. The distraction prompts her to kickstart struggling again, and she squirms and thrashes.
"Stop that!" He snaps his head back and hisses, squeezes her wrists together tighter. "I won't-"
The crunch of bone echoes off the alley wall, and the weight is abruptly pulled off her.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Rage has always been his companion.
Sometimes an ally, sometimes an instigator, it's always nipping at his heels. He's doing better now, now that there's not as much to be bitter about, not as much to look at and wish it were different. Hate and distrust are seeds sowed so deep inside him, it's taken years to dig their roots back out into something more manageable.
The honest truth of it all is that sometimes Jason's grateful he's never been able to banish the entirety of it. His rage is explosive, it's burning red and eats everything in its path. Sometimes he can sharpen it and make it a deadly sort of quiet, the kind you'll never notice until it's too late. Other times it's sudden, explosive, loud and demanding attention.
Either way, it is never let loose without intention.
Breaking that man's nose does little to calm what's boiling though him. Nor does the crack of the man's skull against brick. Neither does the way he kicks at his leg so hard he hears the tibia snap.
Jason slams the fucker that had his hands on his girl into the wall again, towers over him, drags him up till his feet are dangling an inch off the floor. "Nothing to say?" He says lowly. There's no amusement, just a low growl that makes grown men shiver. "You loved talkin' a minute ago. I wanna hear it again."
When the guy opens his mouth, Jason shifts his grip to press his forearm against his neck, crushing it until all the sound that comes out is a weak rasp. Scoffing, he grinds his foot into the part of his broken leg. "Should've taken the fucking hint back then."
The asshole crumples to the ground when Jason pulls him from the wall and tosses him like he weighs nothing. He registers somewhere in the back of his mind that she's still here, that she's watching him slip into a place he only lets himself into when he's wearing a mask.
The other part of him snarls in vicious satisfaction, the need to reassure her that she's safe. Jason would put two bullets into himself before he lets this slimy motherfucker breathe in the same vicinity as her again.
With a grace that should not befall a man of his stature, he crouches next to the pathetic lump of a man. The metal of his gun clinks softly against it's holster as he pulls it out.
"Sorry." The man chokes out when the barrel is pressed to his shoulder. "'m sorry man-"
"Thought you could get away with that shit, huh?" Jason says quietly. There's no need to raise his voice to make this point. "You think you're tough shit?" The cold metal moves from his shoulder to the center of his neck. He leans down, stops right beside the man's ear.
"I should blow your fucking larynx out." He whispers. "But I guess you're lucky I'm 'reformed'." The gun shifts.
He pulls the trigger.
Two shots ring out, the ringing mixed with strangled screams. Jason watches for a moments, lets the carnage center himself before pulling himself to stand.
The tattered remains of the man's blown off right hand make him wrinkle his nose in disgust, and Jason steps over it nonchalantly to get to his real objective.
She has her back pressed to the farthest wall, knees tucked to her chest, head tipped down into her arms. Just because she could hear it happen doesn't necessarily mean that she wanted to see it herself. Jason understands. He always does.
Quickly, he kneels in front of her, calling out her name softly and pulling her arms away from her-
She flinches, pulling tighter into herself.
Jason takes a deep breath. She needs him now, going to finish off that fucker won't help with anything but his anger.
"It's okay." He says instead, pitches his voice soft in a way only she ever gets to hear. "I'm here, baby." With a gentleness so at odds with the violence moments prior, he runs a soothing hand up and down her arm. Not pulling or pushing, just grounding. "It's Jason. Look at me?"
Gingerly she raises her head and uncurls. When he takes the moment to look her over, he sincerely wishes he'd shoved the gun down that bastard's throat before pulling the trigger.
A ring of dark bruising covers her throat, with distinct fingerprint shapes scattered here and there. Her wrists and upper arms are in the same same shape.
He curses softly, and this time when he reaches out to gather her into his arms, she responds quickly, melting into him. "I've got you." He mumbles into her hair. "Shouldn't have left you there."
"You couldn't have known." And the way she rasps the words out sounds like it hurts. Jason's grip tightens for just a moment.
"I should've."
She shakes her head, presses her face into his shoulder, and he wisely doesn't bring up the wetness he can feel seep into the cotton. Fingers tangle into her hair to press her closer.
What if he'd been too late, he thinks, and the thought terrifies him to his core. He knew something was off even before he reached the cafe to walk home with her. Jason should have known, he's a vigilante for fucks' sake. He knows the streets, he knows what people are like. It's just that that fucker ran with his tail tucked between his legs so quickly, Jason honestly did not think he'd ever come back, let alone pull something like this.
He got here, he reminds himself. She's safe. She'll be alright. Everything would be alright. He'd take her home, take care of her and the bruising, and make damn sure nothing like this ever happened again.
"I wanna go home." Her voice cracks, muffled by the fabric.
"Yeah." Immediately, he's sliding a strong arm under her and picking her up, because like hell is he letting her walk in that state. Having her so close soothes both of them, the reassurance of each other's presence.
She feels safe, so safe in his arms. The familiar cologne, the scent of his skin and clothes, the way his body feels familiar pressed against hers. The soothing timbre of his voice calms her racing heart a bit, until she can find it in herself to peer over his shoulder.
Jason merely shifts to obscure her vision.
"Don't worry about that." He mumbles, pressing a kiss to her temple. "He won't fuck with you again."
Human brains are weird. I feel a migraine creeping on. They used to just be that silver-black you see when you look at a light too long. Now, that proceeds pain. I took meds. Let's see if they work, I guess.
SYNOPSIS: "You're not listening!" A bloody hand shoots out to clutch at the front of his tunic, fisting the fabric tight enough to make her knuckles white. "You know it's not possible, if you try to save me you could die!"
"Then I shall die trying!" He snarls, the break in composure startles her into silence, eyes wide.
NOTE: He's aged up obviously
MASTERLIST
The red flashing light around his wrist echoes the quick pace of his heartbeat.
When her distress beacon had lit up, he'd abandoned his patrol route and shot off towards her location immediately. Damian had sworn he felt his heart pounding in his ears when she stopped responding over her earpiece.
"Where is she?" He demands the moment he touches down on the building adjacent to the abandoned apartment complex. The tightness of his father's jaw, the furrow in Nightwing's brow, the twitchiness of Hood's fingers along the trigger of his pistols: none of it works favourably to calm his thoughts.
It's a moment before anyone speaks.
"Still inside." Says the gravel in Batman's voice.
Instead of pushing for why none of them are mid-extraction, Damian scowl and turns his attention to the building. It's always quicker to do his own deductions, and frankly, he's in no mood for anybody's stuttered attempts to explain. It looks still from the outside, no lights shining through the cracks in the bricks or the broken windows, but silence does not always mean inoccupation.
There is an art to nothingness, to maintaining the illusion of it. One can fool the eyes and the ears, but never the ironclad intuition of the mind.
Shadows. They are there, invisible but present. He only recognises it because it is the same sort of suspense he grew up with, had been trained to replicate. Make yourself invisible until it is time to strike. Efficient, cold, and a distinct lack of detachment.
"I fail to see why grandfather's men prove to be enough of a hurdle that hinders our extraction procedures." He says tightly, running the pad of thumb over the hilt of his sheathed katana. A self-soothing gesture he would never have normally indulged in.
"That place is crawling with assassins, Robin." Nightwing says, running a stressed hand through his hair. "I did a sweep around the building earlier. I've never seen this many in one place."
"I dunno what you did, but it looks like you really pissed Ra's the fuck off." Jason chimes in, and promptly goes ignored by Damian.
"We're working on clearing an entry point." Batman says. "She confirmed the inside was overrun before her comms cut out. We need to play this smart." Damian grips his weapon in frustration. "Spoiler in en route as backup, Red Robin is conferring with Oracle over the building's blueprints."
The thing is, Damian believes them. He knows his family adores her, knows that they are equally as frustration and impatient by the little tells they show, but he is certain none of them feel the cold dread that's been an iron band around his chest since he found out about the situation.
Damian knew he should have accompanied her, knew he should have argued harder when she'd insisted she'd be fine on her own. Not as a slight against her own skills, but purely because something had felt off about the entire thing. Much too simple, much to easy. They should have seen the ambush coming from a mile away, he should have seen it.
This wasn't the usual hostage situation or a negotiation. Damian knows what Ra's is capable of, knows that the assassin's will not leave until they complete their mission, whatever the hell that may be. The building is only so big, there are only so many places to retreat to. What if his love is injured? What if she's incapacitated somewhere and they've already gotten to her?
What if Damian is too late?
In hindsight, there was nothing that could have stopped him from slipping away. Everyone else could plan all they liked, but he would not wait around idly when she was inside, condition unknown.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Stupid fucking Ra's and his stupid fucking assassins, and their stupid sharp fucking blades. She grits her teeth, knuckles white against the bathroom sink. The faucet trembles with her arm, the effort it takes to lower herself down onto the ground nearly makes her black out.
The gushing wound across her right thigh doesn't make life any easier.
"Fuck." She whispers hoarsely, peeling back the torn fabric to look at it under the dingy moonlight. It's deep and jagged, a gag tears out her throat at the flash of bone beneath the bubbling blood spilling out onto the floor under her.
A simple intel gathering assignment gone awry, she had barely managed to press the distress beacon programmed into her comm link and say a few words before it had been destroyed by Ra's men with a crack to the side of the head. She'd managed to take down two of them before the third had materialised out of nowhere and carved her up. The only reason she'd managed to slip away with an injury of this calibre had been the smoke pellets she'd had on her.
She was going to die in this stupid, dirty bathroom tucked away in some nameless person's abandoned apartment. There were worse way to go, but this fucking sucked. There was always the chance of casualties in the field, but something about it always made her a bit invincible. There's no glamour in what any of them do, but she'd always felt a bit invincible flying from rooftop to rooftop with the others.
The others.
They'd try to piece together a plan, she knows they won't give up. The protectiveness of her partners, the way they're all grit and determination when it comes to the people they care about, there's no world in which they wouldn't try to help her, but this? Them, even as strong as resilant and resourseful as they are?
They cannot hope to take on a small army on their own and reach her before she bleeds out. It's the truth, it sinks like a stone in her gut. Knowledge is power, but ignorance is bliss, and for once she wishes that she had the same endless optimism that some of the other had.
Jason would be pissed, Bruce and Dick would be devastated. She's sure Tim and Barbara would run themselves ragged trying to find a way to have prevented the tragedy, Cass and Duke would receded into themselves.
Damian...
She blinks back the burn of tears.
It's childish, but she's never wanted to see him more. Their goodbye that night had been rushed under the guise of more time. Nobody thinks theirs will run out until it does. She wants to see him so badly, wants the comforting touch of his hands that have proven themselves of gentleness and warmth when needed. She wants to hear his half-hearted scoffs and the way he whispers endearments against her skin when he thinks she's asleep.
The sleeve of her tunic ripping is a crack in the silence. Clammy hands clumsily wrap the wound, trying to apply some semblance of first aid to a wound that definitely will not be helped with the meagre supplies she has on hand.
Despite the inevitability of it, she's not going to actively participate in quickening her death. Her harsh pants are the only sound in the room for now, but it'll only a few minutes until she's found-
The window clicks.
Hackled raises through the spinning in her head, her hand feels around frantically for a weapon that's not there. Squinting her eyes, she can make out a figure slipping into the room, silhouetted against the moonlight. It's a man by the looks of it, and she's haflway through the motion of pushing herself to her feet, blood loss be damned when he speaks.
"Do not move." The man says, and her breath hitches.
It must be a trick of the light, or she might already be halfway in the grave because Damain kneels beside her, sharp eyes surveying the scene, drinking her in like it's the first time he's seen her. Too in shock to say anything, she watches in disbelief as he seems to gather himself together, the bob of his adam's apple as he swallows.
"Damian..." She breathes, afraid to reach out and touch him lest he dissipates.
"Beloved." He murmurs, eyes flickering up to meet hers before dropping down to her thigh. His brows pull together, and for a moment she swears she sees a hint of panic before those iron doors slam shut and leave him composed once again. "We must get you out. I'll be able to treat you better in the cave."
The mention of the cave and his hands pressing around her wound snap her out of her daze.
"Why are you here?" She hisses, head dropping back in pain as he pulls on the binding to make it tighter, cutting off the blood flow. Her hand jerks out to squeeze his arm in pain. He barely flinches.
"You thought I would be content waiting outside for the rest of them to scope out a viable escape route?" He quirks a brow, tension lining his shoulders.
"This was clearly a trap." She grits her teeth. "None of us knew Ra's was here, and because you snuck in, they have to rescue both of us now." Despite her words, her grip on him remain tight, unwilling to let go.
"Hush." He says quietly. "Do not concern yourself with me, I'll either find a way to get us out, or my family will break in and assist us."
"They won't, not before I bleed out. I know you can tell." She pants, voice cracking halfway through. "And you can't fight if you're carrying me and...and you know there's too many of them. Dami, please go back out without me-"
"This is not a discussion."
"It's not worth the gamble-"
"Do not utter such foolishness again"
"You're not listening!" A bloody hand shoots out to clutch at the front of his tunic, fisting the fabric tight enough to make her knuckles white. "You know it's not possible, if you try to save me you could die!"
"Then I shall die trying!" He snarls, the break in composure startles her into silence, eyes wide. For a moment, none of that cool, collected exterior is there. There's pain in his eyes, desperation nipping at his heels and a wild look to him that she's never seen before.
The hands on her thigh tremble.
Damian knows how bad the situation is. He had not...part of him had been convinced that he'd find her whole and they'd figure it out from there, but this? The sheer amount of blood pooling beneath his knees, soaking through his pants...it's a miracle she's still conscious. any unnecessary movements will only speed up the process.
He breathes deep, trying to reign himself in before he unravels at the seams. Damian will not allow either of them to entertain the thought that they might not make it out of here alive. In front of him is the only person who has showed him what it feels like to be so wholly understood and loved, someone who has fought for him when he had deemed himself unsalvageable. She had looked at the rotten parts of him and seen something worthy of saving.
Again and again she has pulled him back from the sludge of his own mind, molded him into a man that is not defined by the black mark of his past. It is common sense that she should know, then, that not even the throes of death would ever be enough to strip his loyalty away.
If he were a smaller man, he'd have said this moment is repayment for all the times she's saved him. A lesser man he is not: his loyalty does not come any strings. He tips his forehead down, presses it against hers. As intimate as the moment allows.
In a moment of desperation that shows just how shaken up he must be, Damian smooths a hand over her hair, lets it cup her cheek for a second and makes her look him in the eye.
"Ya Rouhi, I would not turn my back on you even if my demise was to be destined by your hand." He whispers fiercely.
Her face crumples, the mask of bravery shattered
"I don't want to die." The admission is shaky, makes Damian's heart squeeze with pain.
"You will not." He says, eyes flashing. "I swear it, on my life, you will wake up tomorrow and have whatever god forsaken, tooth-rotting concoction you may please for breakfast."
She sniffles out a breathy, pained laugh. There's no struggle when he slides his arms under her and hoists her against his chest. The shift tears a gasp out of her throat, vision blacking out for a moment as the gash in her thigh radiates unbearable pain.
Both of them know better than to rely on the sound of footsteps. Ra's trains his own in silence better than that, and though it pains her to make the comparison, she thinks of the way she can only hear Damian coming up behind her in their apartment if he wishes for it and makes his footsteps intentionally noisier.
The corridors are eerily quiet, the type of suspended silence where you're bracing for something to jump out at you. They encounter...nothing. There's nothing for a good few minutes, a stalk contrast to the relentless onslaught she'd been facing before.
Damian is not naive enough to believe they've retreated. He knows his presence must be a variable unaccounted for, something worth pulling back to analyse and plan for.
He is also not arrogant enough to believe it will be enough to keep them away for long.
Damian's arms tighten around her as he peers over his shoulder, then around a corner. It's clear.
He frowns.
"Something's wrong." He hears her whisper. It's akin to a prayer answered. not one moment after the words pass her lips, the hair on the back of his neck stand up and he ducks.
A shiny dagger embeds itself into the wall behind him right where his throat would have been. A curse pushes past his lips, but there's no franticness in the way he looks over his shoulder. The empty hallway holds three assassins halfway down. In front of them appear another four.
They're outnumbered, and Damian's mind scrambles to connect the dots into a semblance of a plan. There's only one he can think of right now, but he cannot fight freely without worrying about one of their foes harming her, lunging to finish the job. Green eyes flicker across the environment, the floors and the ceilings, their opponents and the exit he'd planned to slip out of just a few feet away.
There are no grates on the floor, and the ceilings are too high to jump to for access to any ventilation shafts. Both ways are blocked. Something cool and metal digs into his back as he takes a step backwards. Damian stiffens, chances a glance behind him.
Oh.
Good enough.
"You must trust me." He mumbles, low enough for her to hear. With a flick of his wrist, he sends three knives flying this way and that, and uses his momentum to turn and yank the doorknob behind him open.
Damian pushes her down and into the small supply closet, slamming the door shut, drawing his katana out. He kicks the doorknob until the handle is crumpled, unusable from the outside. Nothing can get in through his side, and he doubts she's in any shape to stand and open the door from hers.
The cry of his name, the repeated thud of a body against the door goes ignored in favour of widening his stance. Protectiveness hardens every line in his body, eyes narrowed and sharp. He is centered, he is calm.
Damian is not a killer anymore.
He is a protector.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Blood smears on the wood from the effort of her clawing. The handle won't move, jammed from the outside, there's no strength in her left to stand and try to break down the door.
"Damian!" She shouts frantically, scratching at the door uselessly. Her fingertips are caked with blood, skin ripped and embedded with splinters. "Let me out! Damian!"
Fuck him, fuck his stupid self sacrificial self, when they got out of this she's going to strangle him herself for this. The clang of metal on metal, fist on flesh and cloth is faint but there. As long as it's noisy, that's good, it means he's still alive and fighting, she thinks a little hysterically.
Back to the door, she drops her head in her hands, willing herself to focus and listen, to fight the heaviness dragging her down. Her blood has soaked through the makeshift wrap, dripping onto the floor. The wooziness catches up to her, and eventually the lightheadedness wins out.
Her last thought before the she's freefalling into the dark is about the cat they were going to adopt together next week. An elderly calico with a missing eye.
She goes limp against the door.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
"-on. Open your eyes. Please. Please come back to me." The words are faint, slipping like sand away from her. It's as though she's floating somewhere far, untethered and detached, void of an anchor or a lighthouse.
It's...it hurts. To listen. It sounds so heartbroken. Hoarse and desperate in a way she hasn't ever heard before. Someone's begging. She knows that voice, knows him in a way that tugs at her very soul. Oud and leather, tinged with something metallic. The scent wraps around her, comforting and familiar.
She can't listen to the devastation in his voice anymore. Slowly, so slowly it feels like pulling herself out of a vat of thick mud, she opens her eyes.
Damian chokes, squeezing her to his chest tightly. He's mumbling something with a broken voice that hitches every so often, face buried in her hair. "Hayati," He gasps, a prayer against her temple. He pulls back frantically. "I love you. Do not leave me like this. I love you."
She's only half there, but still registers the glassy sheen over his eyes, the redness around them as he drinks her like he's trying to memorise her.
He looks horrible, cuts and bruises across the visible skin, the left side of his face is coated with blood, a cut just blow his right eye trickles crimson down his cheek. He's favouring one of his sides, and his breathing isn't as deep as it should be, indicators of potential broken ribs.
But he's here.
He's here, and real and alive. Her hand twitches, curls on top of one of his and is immediately enveloped.
The beginnings of a question try to pass her lips, but the words die on her tongue, too tired and in pain to push them outside. Instead she tilts her head to the side ever so slightly to get a view of outside the closet.
Bodies litter the floor. At least two dozen assassins, still and unconscious, bleeding and wounded.
A small smile pulls at her lips. Of course he won. He shifts to block her view, and if she had anything left in her she would've snorted in amusement at the show of concern.
Lips press against her forehead. "Stay awake." He orders shakily against her skin. "The others are retrieving the batmobile to get you out." The words are pained, breathing laboured.
The most she can manage is a weak hum. They stay like that, her half in Damian's lap, the both of them pressed together as close as possible, breathing and trying to reassure themselves of the others presence.
It's only when Nightwing and Red Hood run into the room, pale but steady that Damian lets go. His shoulders drop at the sight of his brothers. He sways, and after pushing out one last mumble, slumps over her body, passing out.
"You're alright."
A death grip still on him, it's not long before she follows.
hockey boy!noah x fem!reader series masterpost || MDNI 18+
Babysitting your little brother at his hockey tournament was supposed to be boring- until the quiet, older hockey boy at the pool started watching you like he had all weekend to get you where he wanted… and see how far you’d let him go.
general warnings: 18+, slow burn, smut, Noah’s cocky and confident lol, bro loves eye contact and tension, teasing, lots of flirting
THIS IS A FANFIC ABOUT REAL PEOPLE IN FICTIONAL SCENARIOS. I AM NOT IMPLYING THIS IS HOW THESE PEOPLE ARE IRL OR THAT THIS SITUATION WOULD HAPPEN. IT IS FOR FANFIC PURPOSES ONLY!
chapter one || chapter two || chapter three || chapter four || chapter five || chapter six || chapter seven || epilogue || epilogue 2
SYNOPSIS: "Listen." He grabs her chin, tilts her face to meet his eyes. "Listen to me." The three gunshots are cracks of lightening in the enclosed space. make her flinch, eyes widening as her fingers clutch onto his jacket. "You didn't kill him. I did." Jason says, turning her face to the body. ""Your hands are still clean." He steps back in her line of view, eyes serious and fierce.
NOTE: I'm semi happy with this I fear
MASTERLIST
It was an accident. It was an accident. It was an accident!
She didn't mean it, she would never, it's just...just that she was scared, and she acted on instinct, and-and Jason had told her what to do in situations like this, times when she might be in trouble on the off chance that he wasn't around to handle it.
Her knowledge of the human body is limited, but even she can tell that the bloody knife clutched in her right hand nicked something important. The man at her feet should not be bleeding that much, red trickled out in spurts and nightmarish wet gurgles.
Shaky hands fumble with her phone, fingers slick with blood trying to type in the passcode. A sob punches out of her chest as the liquid makes her thumb harder to register. The blurriness from the tears don't do anything to help her vision either.
A groan comes from somewhere to her right, the sound tightening the band across her chest. The alley walls are too close, the air is too thick and she can't breathe.
Crimson smears her cheek when she presses the phone to her ear, hyperventilating.
"Hey, what's up, baby?"
He picks up on the third ring, and she collapses against the grimy brick wall. She latches onto the voice, lets it ground her enough to find her voice.
"Jason." She sobs out. The knife clatters on the alley floor, a punch of noise in the sudden silence. "Jay..."
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
His spine straightens at the noise, hands stilling with the wrench still in hand. Immediately, he's sliding himself out from under the car he's working on and wiping his hands clean, phone pressed to ear instead of on speaker.
"What's wrong? Fuck, are you hurt?" He demands immediately. Icy dread creeps around him when all he gets as a response is something incomprehensible, and quick, small gasps. "Breathe, angel." He says, pulling up her location. Jason's brow furrows when it shows her in some random alley. There's nothing else to think about because the next moment he's grabbing his helmet, swinging a leg over his bike and kicking off.
"I'm coming, all right? Just need you to stay on the line with me." He tries to keep his voice as steady as possible, biting back the fear and the hint of green rage creeping along the edges of his vision. Someone had made her sound like that and he wasn't there. "Are you safe?" He asks, and the silence that follows nearly makes his heart stop.
"I think." A wobbly voice whispers hoarsely. "It's...it's over, Jay. I didn't..." Her voice breaks and he curses out loud, mind racing. Jason pushes his panic down and hones it into that sharp focus he only ever reaches for when he's on patrol, stepping on the accelerator.
'It's over'
The words play in his head like a broken record as he talks to her, coaxing her to breathe, reassuring her the best as possible while possibilities wreck havoc on his judgement. If someone touched her, if they so much as breathed on her, he swears. No kill room be damned, Jason would cut their fucking hands off.
The bike finally swerves into the alley, and he's off of it before it even fully stops, one hand on his holster, eyes scanning the alley with a desperation he's not felt in forever. There's no active threat, none that he can make out.
Jason doesn't give the body on the ground a moment's glance, instead hones into the figure curled up into herself against the wall a few steps to the side.
"I'm here." He says lowly, immediately crouching next to her. Large, warm hands find her shoulders, prying her upright from how she's curled into herself. He cups her cheeks, frantically looking her over. His thumb wipes away the smear of blood on her face, and the caged, thrashing leash of his anger settles down marginally when he sees no wound under the gore.
The wounded noise she makes makes his throat close up, and he hates himself a little as he tightens his grip to keep her in place against the wall when she tries to lurch forward in his arms.
"I've got you, baby. One minute." He assures, taking a few seconds to smooth a hand over the rest of her body, just to be extra sure. When he doesn't find an injury, he exhales and crushes her against him, chest to chest. Fingers tangle in her hair, rubbing soothingly down her spine. "You're okay, I'm here." His voice is fierce.
A few moments pass, but instead of calming down, her breathing seems to quicken again much to his confusion. "Tell me what's wrong." He finally says, firm but gentle. "What happened? Someone attack you?" When she pulls back, he lets her, still keeping her within arms length.
"Jay." Her breath hitches, shaking her head, eyes drifting to the body close by. Her face twists up again and Jason is quick to start connecting the dots.
"Did he do something?" He keeps his eyes on her.
"He tried." She finally says. "But I...you taught me if it happened to- but he wouldn't let me run-" She gasps, and Jason lets her talk, rubs her arms up and down, brow pinched in worry. "I panicked and he had a gun- and I-..." Her eyes flicker off to the side.
Jason follows her gaze to the bloody knife.
Her initials engraved in the hilt.
Jason had scratched them himself before gifting it to her 'just in case', a couple months ago.
"Fuck." He breathes, as everything clicks. "Shit, baby, it's-"
"I killed him." The sob that heaves out of her is gut-wrenching, and Jason's pulling her to his chest immediately. "I killed him!" She gasps wetly. "I didn't mean to, I...I didn't want to!"
He takes a deep breath, tilting his head back to look up at the sky for a second. Taking a life was never easy, it didn't matter whether it was in self defence or not.
Jason still remembers his first. A hungry kid roaming the streets years ago, shivering from the cold and picking through one of the dumpsters behind a run down movie theatre. He remembers the owners coming out and yelling at him, lunging in anger when Jason lashed out. He remembers pushing. He remembers the crack of a skull against the metal lid. He remembers staring transfixed before vomiting what little he'd managed to scrounge that day.
He presses her tighter against him. She wasn't like him, wasn't like any of them. His girl was no killer, not with how soft hearted she was, and Jason would never want this life for her in any world.
Exhaling slowly, he surveys the scene beside them once more...and does a double take. The artery the knife nicked looks fatal, there's no way anybody was getting that man to a hospital before he bled out, but the way his chest moved in small, marginal gasps said there was still some life in him.
There's something about the life he lives that hardens you, takes away your optimism and fragility. It's why Jason is able to make the decision he does so easily.
He stands slowly, pulling her up with him and twisting her to face the gory scene. "You didn't kill him." He says, squeezing her against his side.
"I did." She says, and Jason knows if she doesn't calm down soon she's going to pass out.
"Listen." He grabs her chin, tilts her face to meet his eyes. "Listen to me." In one smooth motion, he pulls out his gun from the holster around his hip and clicks the safety off.
The three gunshots are cracks of lightening in the enclosed space. make her flinch, eyes widening as her fingers clutch onto his jacket. There's a groan, and then it cuts off.
"You didn't kill him. I did." Jason says, turning her face to the body. It's still, no movement, dead eyes staring up at the cloudy sky. He steps back in her line of view, eyes serious and fierce.
"No- that...but I-"
He interrupts. "Your hands are clean. I killed him. Not you." His voice softens as she starts shaking again, burying her face into his chest. "Understand?"
After a few moments, she nods against his chest, still unsteady, but less shaky than before.
Lips press to the crown of her head, firm and grounding. "I've got you. I'll take care of it." He mutters against her hairline, slowly guiding her away from the scene.
When her hands shake, he's there to hold them steady. When she wakes up with a cry during the night, he's there to hold her back to sleep.
And she lets him, leaning on her boyfriend and letting him mutter soothing nonsense, soft and gentle in a way he only ever is with her.
tw: dom!noah/sub!reader dynamic, dry humping, fingering, orgasm control/denial, dirty talk, consensual power play, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, marker kink, tattoo kink(?), praise kink, slightly restraining and nipple play. (I hope that's it)
A/N: I’ve been completely obsessed with this idea ever since I saw this trend on Pinterest (the urge to get “mine” in his handwriting tattooed on my thigh) and combined it with the thought of coloring Noah’s tattoos with markers, because it’s something I think about way too often lol. So if you like soft intimacy mixed with possessive smut and sweet aftercare: this one’s for you. Also, I tried my best to describe his tattoos as I understand them, which, let’s be real, is a challenge when he’s beautifully covered in messy drawings, so if anything feels off I apologize.
Please reblog, comment and/or scream into my ask box if you like it: I'd love to hear your thoughts about this delusional piece! 🥹🥹🥹
✨ This is a fictional fanwork featuring real people in imagined scenarios. It’s not meant to portray anyone’s real personality or life. Just a creative piece for fun and entertainment. ✨
Severance murmured in the background while Noah was sunk into the couch, one leg up, arms lazily splayed, finally home after one of his brutal weeks. The kind of homecoming where his brain could finally go quiet, no calls or drums echoing through his skull, just earned rest.
His hair was still damp from the shower, a little longer now and pushed back in that messy way he always did when it got in his eyes, the strands curling slightly at the ends clinging to his neck and temples. He hadn’t even bothered to put on real clothes, just that old Lord of the Rings shirt you loved, paired with some all-black Bad Omens shorts from an old merch drop, and naruto socks contrasting so perfectly with the tattoos and the intensity.
You padded in like you were about to start trouble, literally hiding something up your sleeve. He immediately noticed the bunch of markers in your long sleeve shirt, and the way you bit your lip like you were trying to hold in a smirk. He caught you in his peripheral and raised a brow.
“Uh… what are you planning, exactly?”
You didn’t answer, just gave him a little smile, then sank onto the edge of the couch without asking and gently took his wrist like it was already yours, studying the blackwork ink in his forearm in your hands.
“…You know I can see you, right?” he murmured, voice low, eyes still half-glued to the screen, and you could tell he tried to look annoyed just to tease you. But for him it was just too much fun seeing the way you snuck around him like some crime mastermind pulling off the world's softest heist.
You leaned in, the tip of a purple marker hovering near the mandala on the back of his hand. “You didn’t say no,” you whispered smug and calm, thinking the whole situation had already been decided in your favor.
“Mm. Bold of you.” Noah hummed deep in his chest but he didn’t move. Of course he didn’t move… He was already enjoying this as much as you.
He let you test one little stroke in the middle of the flower’s petal… watching it fill with purple ink, just like that. And when you glanced up to see if he’d scold you, he only raised a lazy brow.
“Guess I’m your coloring book now.”
“Just keep watching your show and let me work.” you muttered completely in your zone now and he almost snorted by your bossy tone, like you actually thought you were in charge all of the sudden. God, you were gonna make this so fun for him later.
You kept going quiet and focused, lips pressing together while you guided soft color into the negative space of his skin. Pink here and blue there, being careful not to go outside the lines and avoiding red, since some of those shades were already inked into him. Your fingers were gentle, feathering across sensitive spots but he twitched every time the marker grazed a little longer.
“Stop moving,” you said with voice tight in concentration, filling the little house tattooed on his finger with green right after.
“That tickles.” he shot back, grinning now. “And maybe I like distracting you.”
Ignoring him, you finished that section a few minutes later, clearly satisfied with your work, thumb brushing his hand as you leaned back to admire your skills. Then your eyes scanned higher… and your fingers slipped under the hem of his shirt like it was nothing.
His arm already had the cherry waves and so many filled spaces of black-and-grey that you only had a rough idea of where your next stroke would even go. Or maybe you were just using this excuse to keep your hands on him a little longer.
You pushed the fabric up slowly, past the “Desolate” script and the heat still clinging to his skin from the shower, still not saying anything about it making this a silent challenge. Noah smirked and shifted forward, lifting his arms just enough to let you slide the shirt off over his head.
“Careful, I might start associating markers with foreplay.” he murmured playfully and you shot him a look, the kind that said really? But that only revealed what you both already knew: he wasn’t watching Severance anymore.
You straddled his lap without hesitation, settling your weight on his thighs like you’d always belonged there. Took a red marker from the pile since his chest didn’t have red and acted like this was just a job that needed to be done.
But you took your time first, tracing your fingers lightly over the apple on his throat…then the snake, winding downward to the green leaves curling below his ear. He exhaled slow, watching you through half-lidded eyes, breathing in the scent of your skin when you leaned in closer… Feeling the weight and warmth of your body pressed just right against his lap.
Your palm dragged across his chest with purpose, hovering over the framed piece near his heart: the woman’s side profile and the skull in the top hat framed by flowers like some twisted romantic fable.
You tried not to stare, but your eyes kept dragging over his chest. The tattoos looked too good on him, and it was starting to mess with your head. It turned you on way more than you'd like to admit, so much that was stupid how something like that could get to you without him even touching you. But he noticed. He always fucking noticed.
Your thighs shifted softly over his, barely noticeable if he wasn’t paying so much attention but he was watching every move and breath you took, feeling every flick of your wrist while you colored the edges of the skull’s top hat in soft, calculated lines. You were acting focused, pretending this was just a casual evening couple craft project and not a slow, deliberate way to sit in his lap, legs spread around his waist, body pressed right over the ache building beneath his shorts.
And he let you keep going, staying still for you because he liked watching you try to keep up the act as you played innocent like you didn't get wet just by sitting on his lap. Your marker dragged along the flowers right under his collarbone, and you whispered something under your breath about shading the petals, so calm and serious.
But then you shifted again, just a little, enough for your hips to press into his. That’s when his hands moved.
Noah let his fingers slip over your thighs, slowly dragging up from the curve of your knees to the top seam of your shorts. His hands were warm, claiming every inch they passed over like he had all the time in the world. He didn't interrupt you, just let them settle there, gripping gently at first but firmer as the seconds gone by. His thumbs brushed the crease where your thighs met your hips, teasing at the edge of your waistband. And then one palm slid lower, curving around to grab a handful of your ass through the thin fabric of your shorts. He squeezed once just to feel the way you shifted against him. Not rough yet, just enough to make your breath catch and your thighs twitch against his.
“You sure you’re still working?” he murmured, voice lower now, lazy and dangerous at the edges. “You’re starting to squirm, baby.”
You glanced up with parted lips and wide eyes but still tried to keep your composure for the fun of it. “I’m just getting a better angle,” you said trying not to smirk.
A better angle, he thought… Sitting directly on his cock and wiggling like it was a fucking accident.
Noah chuckled under his breath, the sound low and rough being like music to your ears. “Right…”
Your marker touched down again, trying to color the outline of the unfinished drawing right below his ribs. And while your hand moved, his slid further up… Thumbs brushing the inside of your thighs now, teasing dangerously close to where your heat was already building.
He leaned in, just slightly… close enough that his breath grazed your cheek.
“Should I pick the color when it’s my turn to mark you in?” he murmured, voice dark against your skin. “Or are we going to keep pretending this is just your little art project?”
You shivered, but didn’t stop, maybe because of pride… Or because you liked to drive him insane. Moving to his belly, you kept trying to color the light beams under the reaper’s lantern with yellow, your hand shaking just slightly. But the second you tried to shift your hips again to stay “steady,” his fingers pressed down full firm and controlling, making you bite back a moan.
“Alright,” he rasped, grip tightening by the second. “Here’s what’s gonna happen… I’ll let you finish,” he dragged his mouth just barely over the edge of your jaw, giving one small open kiss there. “But you better move real careful now ‘cause I'm losing my patience.”
The heat between you was unbearable now. Noah could feel all of it, through the thin layers of cotton and sweat. Your weight pressing down on him, your scent filling his lungs with the slow, desperate drag of your body over his hardening cock.
You kept trying to color, marker still in hand, but your grip had turned tense, your breaths came shorter and uneven now. And he knew exactly what he was doing… letting you straddle him like that, letting your fingers skim his ink while his hands crept higher with every shift. You thought you were the one in control still, focused, working playfully. But the way your body and thighs moved proved what he already knew: you were completely at his mercy.
He grinned into your neck just before his lips brushed your ear, breath hot and heavy now, patience fraying at the edges. “Better finish fast,” he growled, and then his mouth dragged down the column of your throat, warm and open-mouthed. He kissed you there, just beneath your jaw, then lower… lips parting to suck softly at the pulse under your skin like he needed to taste how fast your heart was racing. His teeth scraped lightly before he pulled back with a breathless sound that was half a warning, half a promise.
Both of his big hands were gripping your ass again, palms squeezing hard, like he couldn’t decide whether to hold you in place or make you ride his lap until you gave up the game. “Fuck, when I get my hands all the way on you…” his voice dropped to a growl, low and rough against your skin “I can't wait to ruin that pretty concentration face.”
His hands moved way past innocent now. One slid up your thigh slow and possessive, slipping under the hem of your shorts. His fingertips dragged across bare skin and settled high, too high, pressing right up against your core.
You gasped, the marker stuttering against his chest.
“Keep going,” he said, eyes locked on your face tracking every blink, every twitch of your lips, like he was memorizing the way he affected you. His voice came rough, lips ghosting along your neck, breathing you in.
Your breath hitched the second his fingers pressed flush against the front of your panties, already wet just from his hands, his voice and the weight of him under you. He groaned deep and ragged, the sound vibrating right against your jaw. His other hand gripped your waist, steadying you when your hips instinctively tried to jerk forward.
“No grinding,” he warned, dark and strict in your ear. “You don’t get to chase it. You want it, you stay still.”
You whimpered, fingers shaking as you desperately tried to keep coloring the last section of ink. He dragged two long fingers along your slit through the thin fabric. Up… then down. Featherlight, just enough to make your thighs twitch in frustration.
“That marker’s slipping,” he murmured, lips brushing your cheek. “Better fix that line, pretty girl. Or do I need to remind you what happens when you make a mess?”
Your hand shook again, trying to steady, but your body was betraying you, tensing around him, thighs squeezing, back arching, little sounds escaping your lips without you controlling. He slid his fingers under the fabric and breathed low and broken when he finally felt your bare, hot and wet. Already pulsing for him with so little.
He dragged his middle finger through your folds, slow as hell, spreading you open with two fingers before circling your clit with maddening pressure, enough to tease you almost painfully.
“You’re dripping on me,” he whispered, tongue licking a slow line up your neck. “You gonna keep pretending you’re focused… or you gonna finally drop that marker and beg me to touch you the way you need it?”
“Fuck—okay, okay, I need you,” you whimpered again, desperate now, and the marker finally slipped from your hand, hitting the floor with a soft clack.
That was all he needed.
“Good fucking girl” he growled, and in one swift movement, he shoved your panties to the side and finally pushed those two long inked fingers deep inside you… tight and soaked for him.
Your head fell back with a loud cry as he started fucking you slow and hard with his hand. His thick middle and index fingers stretching you open, filling you like they were made for it. His thumb dragged tight, steady circles over your clit with each thrust, the pressure relentless. It was effortless for him, his whole hand working you like he knew exactly how to make you crazy, and fuck, he really did.
“Look at you,” he muttered, voice all heat and low praise, his mouth brushing the corner of yours. “So pretty on my lap, taking it like this... making a mess on my fingers.”
He bit down gently on your bottom lip, holding it between his teeth before letting it snap back. “You love it, don’t you? Being my good girl and a fucking tease all at once. But baby…” His grip on your hip tightened, eyes dark. “Think I’m not gonna flip you over this couch and make you take it for real?”
Your answer was a wrecked moan, hands clawing at his shoulders, hips twitching into every movement. “Shhh… stay still,” he smirked, fingers curling deep inside you. “You don’t come till I say. Think just because I let you touch me, you get to take control? You'll learn how to obey first.” He curled his fingers hitting your g-spot making your body jump, eyes fluttering shut as your breath caught in your throat.
“You ready to come just from my fingers, aren’t you?” he whispered, voice thick with filth. You nodded, frantic: eyes glazed, lips parted, almost falling apart for him. And right when you hit that edge… he stopped, making you protest instantly.
He pulled his fingers out so slow, slick and glistening with everything you gave him, and brought them to his mouth, keeping his intense gaze on you. He sucked them in, tongue dragging between the knuckles, tasting you like he was starving. A deep, low groan of approval rumbled in his chest. “Fuck… you taste like you were made for me.” He smiled darkly.
Then he pulled you off his lap, laying you back into the cushions, body flushed and wrecked already, his own bare chest looming over you. The colors still in his hand, now smeared slightly from the heat between you.
He leaned in, his lips ghosting over yours for a beat too long before he finally crashed into yous, mouth hot and demanding, tasting the need he’d pulled from your body with every teasing touch.
“Now it’s my turn to use your perfect little body.” he murmured, voice like smoke curling around your throat now. His stare locked on yours, sharp and unreadable. “Lie back,” he said softly, almost sweet. “Let me make something filthy out of you.” He reached down, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and easing them down your thighs, slow enough to make you squirm. His touch lingered at the hem, knuckles grazing your skin in a silent promise.
You were already wrecked, spread out across the couch, panties twisted at your thighs, breath coming in sharp, ragged little whimpers as you tried to recover from what he’d just denied you.
But he had no intention of making this easy for you.
In one slow motion, he tugged your shirt up and over your head, tossing it aside, no bra beneath, just flushed skin and nipples taut from the cool air clashing with your heat. Then he slid your panties the rest of the way off, dragging them down your legs as his eyes drank you in, hungry and unblinking.
He leaned forward, bare chest brushing yours, skin damp from heat and sweat and the ache building between you both. His weight pressed you deeper into the cushions, holding you there like he owned the space between your breaths. One hand reached down beside you, fingers curling around the red marker you dropped.
He twisted the cap off slowly with his teeth, his gaze never leaving yours with that dazed and messy look he only wore for you.
“You had your turn, baby,” he said, voice low and thick, almost like a warning. “Now it’s only fair I write something on you.”
You whimpered when he pushed your legs further apart: spreading you wide open with no shame, exposing every dripping inch of you on display, throbbing from the edge he refused to let you fall over.
He bent low, hot breath fanning over your skin, and dragged the cold tip of the marker across the top of your inner thigh.
Your curiosity burned hotter than the air between you so you lifted onto your elbows, every nerve ending burning as your eyes followed the red ink across your skin: one slow, possessive stroke at a time writing “mine” in his messy handwriting.
Your hips jumped when he underlined it, the tip grazing just close enough to your core to make your thighs tremble… but not touching.
“You could get this tattooed, I'd love to see it later,” he growled, voice darker now. “In the mirror. In the shower. Every fucking time you open your legs, I want you to remember who put this here.”
The marker hit the floor behind him, but he didn’t even watch it land.
He hummed low the second his tongue touched your pussy, as if just your taste could undo him. He licked a long, slow stripe up your folds, savoring it, letting his tongue part you in a way that made your whole body arch. Then he circled your clit with his tongue in maddening pressure, so precise it made your toes curl, eating you like a man driven by instinct, like the only thing that mattered in the world was breaking you open on his tongue.
Your hands flew to his hair, trying to pull him closer, but he caught your wrists easily and pinned them down to your stomach with one arm, restraining you while he licked, sucked and fucked you with his mouth claiming every inch of you.
“Uh-uh, you’re not gonna move,” he rasped right against your core, tongue flicking in quick, punishing strokes. “You’re gonna take everything I give you. All of it.”
You cried out, legs shaking, back arching, hips bucking against his mouth. He sucked your clit hard, his tongue never breaking rhythm, while his fingers dug into your thighs - right over the fresh red ink he’d written you with, pressing it deeper into your skin.
Two inked fingers slid into you again without warning, curling deep. They stretched you open, knuckles brushing that spot that made your vision blur. He didn’t pause, just filled you like he was meant to in a filthy pace.
You were close, so close, and he felt it: The way you clenched around his fingers, the rising pitch of your cries, the way your whole body braced for the inevitable snap.
“Not yet,” he warned again, voice a dangerous rasp and you protested by cursing his name out loud, feeling desperate to break free but held tight by his control.
When he pulled back, his mouth was slick, lips swollen, pupils blown wide with heat. He crawled up over you, chest heaving, eyes locked on your face. You looked at him like you were high on him, caught between the ache of needing him and the sharp sting of being denied.
He pushed his shorts down just enough to free his cock, letting it spring into his palm - thick and hard, already leaking for you. He stroked it once, watching your eyes darken, your lips part like you needed to taste him. He knew exactly what that image did to you. The way your thighs twitched, the way your breath caught, the way your hands clenched into the cushions like you were already preparing for him.
Then he was between your thighs one more time, not wasting a second, dragging the thick head of his cock through your folds, slick with arousal, teasing your entrance, coating himself in your juices. His bare chest hovered just above yours, desire radiating between every breathless inch.
He leaned in, his lips brushing lightly over the shell of your ear, voice low and ruined from the sound of your moans. His breath was hot on your skin, his words a growl, a promise, a threat you were begging to be made real.
"Keep still, baby. I’m about to show you what it means to be mine."
He had you spread across the couch, your thigh marked in red with the word mine - a little more smudged now from where his fingers had gripped too tight, from where his mouth had pressed too deep and still, you were so ready for more.
He felt it in the way your hips rolled up to meet him, wordless and needy, grinding your soaked cunt against the tip of his cock as he hovered over you… teasing and completely in control.
He didn’t say a word.
Just dragged the head of his cock slowly through your folds, rubbing right over your clit just to hear you whimper. Then finally pressed forward, pushing inside you inch by inch, until you were full.
Your back arched under him like your body was trying to run from the stretch or chase your own pleasure faster than he’d allow.
“No, no…” he growled, grabbing your thighs and pinning them wide. His fingers dug into the soft skin, right over where he’d written on you. The red ink was blurring now into fingerprints and sweat.
“Don’t fucking move. Stay open for me.”
You moaned loud and wrecked, loving the way he took control of your body.
He started to move, slow and deep at first. Letting you feel the drag and how he owned every inch of you. Your voice was already falling apart, his name on your lips, raw and half-broken. The air was thick with skin, breath, and the obscene sound of him fucking in and out of you, relentless and filthy.
“You feel how full you are?” he muttered, fucking you harder now. “That tight, aching stretch? That’s mine, baby. You are mine.”
You nodded, choking on your moans, your hands clawing at his inked arms, nails digging into skin as your hips lifted to chase every thrust.
He leaned down, kissed your throat, your collarbone, dragged his tongue over the sheen of sweat there before dipping lower. He took his time with your boobs now, kissing along the curve before sucking one nipple into his mouth, his teeth grazed it lightly, then bit down just enough to make you gasp, making your back arch off the cushions.
“F-Fuck, Noah…” you whimpered, hands flying to his hair, tangling in it as he licked over the sting, soothing it with his tongue before switching to the other side giving your other nipple the same treatment until it was swollen and slick and you were panting beneath him, hips writhing for more.
Only then he glance up at you through heavy lashes, lips shiny from your skin. “Such a perfect mess,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked.
Then he looked down between you, watching his cock fuck into you so deep you could barely breathe, your thighs trembling. The red mine slightly blurred but enough to make him pulse inside you.
And he grinned.
“Look what you did,” he murmured, hand sliding down to rub tight, messy circles over your clit. “You ruined my mark, baby.”
You cried out his name again more like a prayer now, feeling so close, and thank God he wasn't stopping.
He kept fucking you harder, faster, his thumb working your clit until you were right on the edge again… your whole body shaking, clenching down around him so good you couldn’t hold it back anymore.
“I said don’t come till I say,” he growled, voice low and hot against your ear. “You think just 'cause you’re dripping down my cock I’m gonna let you finish without begging?”
You nodded desperate, tears brimming in your eyes.
“Please, Noah… please, I can’t…”
“Please what?.”
“Please let me come,” you sobbed, wrecked and trembling. “Please, I’m yours… please.”
He growled deep in his chest and buried himself to the hilt one last time. “Then come for me, baby. Let me feel it.”
You shattered under him, thighs squeezing tight around his hips, body convulsing around his cock as you came so fucking hard after all the edging… He couldn’t bear the feeling. The way you clenched around him, the way you moaned his name just broke him. He groaned deep, head falling to your shoulder as he emptied himself hot and deep into you, giving in to the pleasure you pulled from him without even trying.
For a long moment, everything was still. Your body limp beneath his, breath hitching and your skin burning. He pressed a kiss to your jaw now, then to your shoulder, the inside of your thigh after. He looked down again at the red ink: smudged and almost gone.
“I guess I’ll have to rewrite it.” he whispered with a smirk on his face, brushing his thumb gently over your skin. “But next time, I'm using a permanent marker.”
Severance still hummed softly from the speakers, nearly drowned now by the sound of your breathing, still catching up to the storm he’d pulled from your body.
Noah hadn’t moved much. He was still above you, weight heavy but comforting, his chest rising and falling against yours with the kind of rhythm that only came after being completely shattered. His lips were at your temple now, peppering slow, open-mouthed kisses there while one hand traced gentle circles across your thigh. Right over the blurred ink of mine.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice soft in contrast to everything he’d just done to you, brushing some sweat-matted hair out of your face. His thumb lingered on your cheek. “Too much?” he asked giving a quick kiss on your lips.
You shook your head still breathless, but your fingers were already curling around his forearm, needing him closer. “No… not too much.”
With a grunt, he shifted off you slowly, careful not to pull away too fast. His hands smoothed down your sides as he settled back against the couch, pulling you with him until your cheek was tucked into the center of his chest. His skin was hot, slick, still buzzing with adrenaline, but he didn’t say a word about the mess between your thighs or the way his cock twitched again just from the closeness of you.
One long arm looped behind your back, hand splayed protectively, like he had to make sure you weren’t going anywhere. His other hand played lazily with the ends of your hair while his chin rested on top of your head.
For a while, that was enough. The air still smelled faintly of sweat, sex, and his cologne clinging to your skin like it belonged there. His legs were still spread out, couch blankets rumpled and twisted beneath you both. The red marker rolled somewhere under the coffee table now, completely forgotten.
You shifted slightly, just enough to press a lazy kiss over the tattoo on his chest, lingering your lips there.
“We might have ruined all my artwork on your tattoos” you whispered, voice raw and sweet from everything he’d pulled out of you.
Noah let out a quiet, tired laugh through his nose. “Don't worry, angel. A long steamy shower with you is the perfect way to fix any ruined artwork…” he teased, then tilted his head down, brushing his lips along your forehead.
You nuzzled into his chest with a little chuckle, and he curled around you tighter, protectively, like instinct, knowing how you needed to be held after being touched like that.
He stayed quiet for another beat, then asked softly, “You sore?” Your response was a low hum, the kind that meant maybe a little, but not in a bad way.
He pulled a throw blanket from the end of the couch and tugged it up around you both, then reached for the pack of wet wipes he always kept on the side table - more out of habit from tour than anything else. He grabbed one and gently shifted to clean you up without making a show of it, slow and careful, eyes darting to yours every few seconds to check if it was okay.
When he was done, he tossed it in the little trash bin and laid back again, guiding your leg to drape across his thigh while he tucked your body into his side.
“I really like when you color on me,” he murmured after a while, voice thick with sleep and softness. “Even when you use it as an excuse to dry hump me with markers.”
You laughed into his chest, a sleepy sound muffled by his heartbeat, loving his broken sense of humor.
“And I liked seeing your handwriting on me…” you muttered against his skin. “Maybe you’re right about getting tattooed.”
Noah chuckled, nose buried in your hair now. “Yeah?” he whispered. “Better write mine across your back, your ribs, your hips… everywhere I can put my hands on.” his fingers traced small touches over each spot he mentioned in a sweet promise. “But honestly, nothing needs to be written on you for you to look perfect.”
His words made your whole body soften again, like your bones had melted into his. You nodded into his chest, too sleepy and full to form words, but he felt it… he always felt it.
The TV kept playing, but neither of you paid it much attention. His hand never stopped tracing you, memorizing the dip of your waist and the slow rise and fall of your breath. And when your eyes finally fluttered shut, safe and tucked beneath his arm, he whispered one last thing before drifting off with you.
“Sleep, pretty girl. I got you.”
You didn’t remember when sleep took you, only that at some point, Noah’s fingers had slowed to a stop on your waist, and the weight of his arm became a steady, grounding presence over your middle. A storm outside had started up somewhere in the early hours, soft rolls of thunder threading through the silence like a lullaby you barely registered. The glow of the TV had long since dimmed, leaving just the occasional flicker against the walls, casting faint light over his tattoos and your tangled bodies.
You woke first with the warmth of his breath against your shoulder. His mouth was still slightly parted, eyelashes fanned dark against his cheeks, one hand tucked beneath your body and the other splayed low on your hip, fingers twitching every now and then like he was dreaming about you.
The blanket had slipped down around your waist so you leaned forward to grab his Lord of the Rings shirt off the floor, pulling it up to cover your bare chest before going back to place. Noah was completely sprawled out beneath you, one thigh crooked between your legs like he didn’t even notice he was still holding you in place.
Your eyes traced over his chest slowly, touching the red smudges still faint from the marker incident and lower… just under the curve of your own thigh, you could still see part of the word he’d written in red across your skin. Mine. It was almost faded now but still was completely true.
Your fingers moved before you thought about it, brushing lightly over his stomach, following a little trail in the “Desolate” words in his inked skin. You didn’t mean to wake him, but Noah’s body responded even before his eyes opened…his stomach tightening beneath your touch, hips shifting, jaw clenching in the softest of reflexes.
“Mmm…” he hummed sleepily. His voice was hoarse and broken from sleep and last night’s dirty talk. “Still tracing me like a fucking coloring book?”
You smiled guilty. “You’re warm. I like touching you when you’re quiet.”
He didn’t answer for a second, just pressed his face into your neck, breathing deep like you were something to hold onto. Then he shifted a little, moving his hand up to the curve of your back, dragging his fingers slowly beneath the hem of your shirt—his shirt, technically.
“You okay?” he whispered, almost shy in the morning quiet. “Wasn’t too rough last night?”
You shook your head, rubbing your cheek along his collarbone. “It was perfect.”
He exhaled hard like he’d been holding that breath all night.
“Good.” His lips pressed to your shoulder, soft and warm. “You were perfect. Every second.”
You didn’t say anything to that, not with words anyway. Instead, you shifted on top of him, pulling yourself up until your chest was flush against his and your mouth could find his easily. It was a slow kiss. Not heated this time, just grateful. His arms curled around you tighter, keeping you close as you sighed into his mouth.
It was quiet like that for a while. You ended up half on top of him, half beside him, fingers idly drawing over his bicep while he traced tiny circles into the dip of your spine. His voice was raspier in the morning, deeper, lazier. The kind of voice that melted into your bones.
“I ever tell you how good you looked in my lap?” he murmured near your ear.
You smiled against his chest. “Pretty sure you said you were gonna ruin my concentration face.”
He chuckled, mouth dragging over your hairline. “Still want to.”
You felt sore, in the best way. Your thighs ached, your core still tingled faintly when you shifted, and yet somehow, you felt lighter. Like being taken apart by him had stripped all the stress from your body.
Noah’s hand suddenly moved again, down your side, resting on your thigh. His fingers brushed over the faint ink of his mark and he looked down, squinting.
“Ah, fucked up my masterpiece,” he said, teasing but affectionate.
You snorted. “Didn’t last long, did it?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he whispered, grabbing a nearby black marker from the pile that had somehow migrated to the couch cushions. “We can do it all again. Might even add my signature this time.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Noah…”
He grinned and popped the cap off. “C’mon. Let me rewrite it.”
“Baby, I need coffee first,” you laughed, squirming beneath him.
“I’ll make you coffee,” he said, dragging the tip gently across your skin again. “But this time, I’m signing both thighs. You’ve earned the matching set.”
You groaned, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he wrote the word again: mine—in the exact same spot, black and fresh and not even pretending to be subtle. The tip of the marker tickled slightly, but the way he whispered good girl as he finished it made your skin burn warmer than the ink ever could.
When he was done, he kissed over it once.
“Now,” he said, gently nudging you off of him and grabbing the blanket to wrap around your waist, “stay right there. I’m making coffee.”
You blinked at him. “You… making coffee? Like, willingly?”
He shot you a look over his shoulder as he padded into the kitchen shirtless, tattoos everywhere, sleep still clinging to his steps.
“You just let me write on your thighs and didn’t stab me with a marker,” he muttered. “Least I can do is make you a fucking latte.”
You laughed, leaning back into the couch, your body buzzing with soreness, warmth, and the feel of being completely his. Every part of you, colored in, marked, and held.
Even with the storm outside still raging, this was the greatest peace you could ever find.
She ran from the life they forced on her, but she never escaped the one who let her go. Ten years after walking away from her family’s empire, Y/N has carved out a quiet life of pastries and peace — until a ghost from her past returns in the form of the boy she once loved… now one of the most feared names in the underworld and wanting her as leverage for something her father did.
But he’s not the monster the world says he is.
And she’s not the girl he remembers.
Pairing: Kim Hongjoong (ATEEZ) × Reader
Genre: Mafia AU, Romance / Angst / Soft Domestic Fluff, Slow Burn with emotional explosions, Found Family
Tropes: Enemies to lovers, Childhood friends → strangers → lovers again, Forced reunion, Slow Healing, Mafia Found Family Energy
Featuring: The Rest of Ateez and OCs
Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
This is Part 3
The door closed behind her with a dull click.
She stood there for a heartbeat, barely breathing, barely holding herself together — then her knees buckled.
She wasn’t sure how she made it back to her room. Maybe she ran. Maybe she floated. Maybe her body moved without her.
All she knew was the second the door shut behind her, she collapsed onto the bed.
Jisoo sat up instantly, startled. “Y/N? What happened—?”
Y/N couldn’t speak.
The tears came first.
Hot. Fast. Terrifying.
She dropped the wine bottle to the floor, hands shaking, shoulders collapsing in on herself as she sobbed harder than she had in years.
“Hey—hey—what’s wrong?” Jisoo slid across the bed, arms wrapping around her tightly, gently. “Did someone hurt you?”
“Yes,” Y/N gasped. “No. I don’t know. God, I don’t know.”
She cried into Jisoo’s shoulder, letting go of everything — the kiss, the rage, the wine, the years of silence.
She couldn’t hold it anymore.
“I hate him,” she choked. “I hate him so much.”
“Who?” Jisoo whispered.
Y/N didn’t answer at first.
Just kept crying.
“I hate him,” she said again. “But I still— I still—”
Her voice cracked like glass.
“I still love him.”
Jisoo’s arms tightened. “Hongjoong?”
Y/N nodded helplessly.
“I kissed him,” she whispered. “He kissed me. And I wanted to scream and hit him and break everything but I— I couldn’t stop.”
Jisoo stayed quiet. Just held her.
Y/N shook. “He used to be mine. He used to be kind. I don’t know who that man is anymore.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know either.”
Y/N let out a weak laugh through the tears. “Don’t go soft on me now.”
“I’m not,” Jisoo said gently. “I’m just saying… you don’t cry like this over someone you stopped caring about.”
“I didn’t want to cry at all.”
“But you did.”
Y/N leaned into her best friend, hiding her face in her shoulder.
It was all too much.
The past, the kiss, the ache of what she lost.
And the terrifying truth of what still remained.
He stood in the hall for a long time after she left.
The silence stretched around him, thick and suffocating. His hands were still shaking.
One rested at his side.
The other — against his mouth.
Like he could still taste her.
He could.
Her voice echoed in his head.
“I hate you.”
“I hate you.”
“I hate you.”
But her lips hadn’t stopped.
And neither had his.
His eyes closed slowly.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to forget or remember.
He turned away from the door and walked down the corridor, his footsteps oddly heavy, like his body didn’t belong to him.
He didn’t go far.
Just out onto the balcony, into the night air, where the cold could bite him back.
He stared up at the moon.
She used to say it looked lonely. He used to say it looked strong.
Now he wasn’t sure which of them was right.
Seven Years Ago
— Age 20
It was autumn.
The kind of day that didn’t know if it wanted to be warm or cold — caught between seasons, caught between moments.
He walked with his hands in his pockets, hoodie pulled up over his head, hair longer than it used to be.
Seonghwa and the others were waiting at the warehouse. Another meeting. Another territory. Another loose end in the empire they were trying to dismantle.
The day his father died, he made a vow:
No more boys being raised to kill. No more daughters being traded like contracts. No more monsters pretending to be men.
He thought of her when he made that vow.
He always thought of her.
And then, like a curse being answered — he saw her.
Y/N.
Across the street. Standing outside a crumbling storefront with paint swatches in one hand and a coffee in the other.
Laughing.
Laughing with a girl he didn’t know — short, sharp smile, holding a box of pastries and waving her hands dramatically.
It took him a full ten seconds to realize she wasn’t a hallucination.
She was real.
She was here.
His feet moved on instinct. A step forward. Another.
But then—
He stopped.
She had flour on her cheek.
And light in her eyes.
And no shadows chasing her.
And for the first time since she ran, she looked free.
He stepped back.
His heart felt like it was being torn in half.
He couldn’t do it.
He couldn’t take that from her.
He turned.
Walked away.
Didn’t stop until he reached the river, until the wind howled in his ears, until his throat ached from holding everything back.
He pulled out his phone and texted Seonghwa.
“We don’t touch this part of the city. Ever.”
“No surveillance. No interference.”
He deleted the number after that.
He still remembered that day better than most.
Because it was the day he swore to forget her.
But she never left him.
And now she was back — in his house, in his space, in his arms.
And she hated him.
He closed his eyes and leaned forward, hands gripping the balcony rail.
“I hate you.”
Her voice again.
Cracked and breaking.
And somehow… still the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.
He hated himself more than she ever could.
But it didn’t make the ache go away.
It didn’t change the truth he’d buried for years.
He could only ever love her.
And he didn’t know if she’d ever let him try again.
He didn’t flinch when Yeosang greeted him. Didn’t respond when San raised an eyebrow. Didn’t react when Seonghwa passed him a cup of black coffee like it was a peace offering.
But the moment Wooyoung slid into the chair beside him, smirking like a cat with a secret—
“So,” he drawled. “Anything you wanna share with the class?”
Hongjoong didn’t even blink. “No.”
“Oh, come on,” Wooyoung groaned. “You were brooding on the balcony all night and she’s been hiding in her room for three days, then she stormed in like a hurricane and you kicked us all out? What am I supposed to do with that information? Let it go?”
“You just answered your own question.”
Wooyoung threw his head back. “You’re the worst.”
Seonghwa, ever the buffer, stepped in calmly. “Let it go, Wooyoung. If there’s something to know, we’ll know.”
“You guys are no fun.”
Hongjoong sipped his coffee.
Not a muscle moved in his face.
But inside?
Chaos.
The kiss replayed again. And again. And again.
The desperation in her hands, the taste of her anger, the sound of her voice breaking between those three words:
“I hate you.”
He’d heard it a thousand times since.
He still hadn’t stopped wanting to kiss her again.
He stayed in the common room longer than he needed to. Call it penance. Call it self-control.
He knew she’d come downstairs eventually.
She was too proud to hide forever.
When she did appear, it was like a weight dropped in his chest.
Same tired eyes. Same stubborn jaw. Same mouth that once spoke all her secrets to him like prayers.
He looked up.
She didn’t look at him.
She headed toward the kitchen, Jisoo trailing behind her.
But she paused.
Just for a second.
Then — without even turning around — she said it.
“You can relax. I won’t mistake one mistake for a change of heart.”
The room went still.
The words were laced in venom, casual and cruel, dropped like a stone in a glass lake.
She kept walking.
Wooyoung whispered, “Yikes.”
Jongho winced.
Hongjoong’s hand clenched on the armrest.
He could’ve let it go.
He should’ve.
But then she came back — a croissant in one hand, a blank expression on her face — and made the mistake of glancing in his direction.
And something inside him cracked.
“Interesting,” he said coldly. “You say you hate this world, but you’re starting to look very comfortable in it.”
Her eyebrows lifted, croissant halfway to her mouth. “Well, I figured since I’m stuck here with you, I might as well enjoy the food.”
A few of the guys exchanged glances.
Yunho cleared his throat. “Maybe now’s not—”
But Hongjoong stood up.
“Funny,” he said. “You used to flinch when your father spoke like that. Now you wear the same weapon in your mouth.”
That did it.
Y/N stared at him. “You think I’m like him?”
“Sometimes,” he said, too honest. “When you talk like this. When you pretend the world didn’t burn while you walked away.”
“I was seventeen,” she snapped. “was i supposed to know better?”
“I did,” he said. “That’s why I let you go.”
Silence.
Her jaw tensed. “Don’t you dare rewrite that.”
He stepped closer. “You were never just collateral to me.”
“Then why did you treat me like it?”
“Because if I didn’t,” he said, voice raising, “I would’ve begged you to stay. And I knew I’d lose you anyway.”
She swallowed hard.
And for a second, the mask slipped.
Not just his.
Hers, too.
Pain flickered across her face like lightning behind her eyes. And then it vanished.
She tossed the croissant onto the table like it meant nothing and walked away.
Again.
Jisoo scurried after her, casting one awkward glance over her shoulder.
The room stayed silent.
Until Seonghwa, softly, said, “That didn’t look like nothing.”
Hongjoong didn’t respond.
Just stared at the door she left through and wondered how many more times he’d have to watch her walk away before it finally destroyed him.
She walked away again.
This time, with the last word on her tongue and fire in her step. Croissant forgotten, shoulders squared, venom trailing behind her like perfume.
And Hongjoong stood there, heart pounding, chest tight.
Everything burned.
Her words. Her voice. Her eyes when she said nothing at all.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
The mask cracked.
He followed.
He found her in one of the side hallways, pacing, fists clenched like she didn’t know whether to scream or cry.
She heard his footsteps. Turned on him like a storm.
“Are you here to finish the humiliation?” she snapped. “Or just check if your ego survived?”
“Don’t do this.”
“No,” she said, stepping closer. “You don’t do this. You don’t get to act like nothing happened, like I’m some liability you regret letting in.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
His voice tightened. “You came into my house and acted like you still owned pieces of me you abandoned.”
“You let me go.”
“I had to.”
“You didn’t even try to stop me!”
“I wanted you safe!”
“Bullshit,” she spat. “You wanted me gone because you were too much of a coward to love me and this life at the same time.”
He flinched. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” she seethed. “You let me believe I didn’t matter. You didn’t fight for me. And now you’re standing here trying to act like it wasn’t your choice.”
“It wasn’t that simple!”
“It was to me.”
Her voice cracked, but she didn’t back down. Not this time.
“I would’ve stayed,” she whispered, trembling. “If you’d asked. If you’d given me a reason. But you just stood there.”
He stepped forward. “And what? Drag you down with me?”
“I didn’t need you to save me, Hongjoong. I needed you to choose me.”
Silence.
Breathless. Heavy. Dangerous.
“I hated you,” she said. “I hated you every day for not showing up. For disappearing. For becoming this cold, distant… thing.”
He met her eyes, his voice like gravel. “You think I wanted to become this?”
“You never came back,” she whispered. “You let me go and never looked for me again.”
“I did.”
She froze.
“What?”
“I found you,” he said. “Three years after you left. You were painting some shop with a girl, laughing with flour on your cheek. I stood there and watched you smile like the world had finally given you peace.”
Her lips parted. She stopped breathing.
“And I walked away,” he said quietly, “because I didn’t want to ruin it.”
The silence that followed was louder than any scream.
“I didn’t want to take your peace,” he said. “Even if it destroyed mine.”
Her voice shook. “You still destroyed me.”
“I never stopped loving you.”
“You have a terrible way of showing it.”
She turned away, hand trembling against the wall. Her back rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths.
And then—
“Fuck it,” he muttered.
He stepped forward and grabbed her.
Spun her around.
And kissed her.
Hard.
She shoved at him, but not to escape.
Her hands balled in his shirt, pulling him closer even as she cursed into his mouth.
He pushed her against the wall.
Their mouths clashed like a battle. Teeth, tongue, heat.
She bit his lip. He groaned, barely holding himself back.
“You’re a bastard,” she hissed.
“I know.”
“I hate you.”
“Then hate me harder.”
She kissed him again — harder, angrier, more desperate.
His hands gripped her waist, pinning her between him and the cold wall.
She gasped, arched into him.
They were fire and gasoline. Destruction and desire.
“I should never have come here,” she said breathlessly.
“You didn’t have a choice.”
“I always have a choice.”
“Then why are you still kissing me?”
She froze.
So did he.
For one second, the anger quieted — just long enough for truth to crawl in.
Her hands softened in his shirt.
His forehead leaned into hers.
Their breaths came fast, shallow, synced like they always had been.
“Because I can’t help it,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes.
“Neither can I.”
But neither of them moved.
They just stood there.
Pressed together. Bruised by memory. Breathing the same air.
Still broken. Still burning.
And far from okay.
It started with yelling.
Loud yelling.
Wooyoung froze mid-bite of a croissant, eyes flicking toward the hallway. “Uh… tell me that isn’t who I think it is.”
San leaned back on the couch, smirking. “Oh, it’s them.”
“Shh,” Yeosang said flatly, without looking up from his book. “This is better than TV.”
The walls weren’t thin, exactly, but Hongjoong and Y/N’s voices carried — sharp, furious, impossible to ignore. Every word dripped with ten years of anger, accusations, pain.
Seonghwa pinched the bridge of his nose. “We shouldn’t be listening.”
“Then stop listening,” Wooyoung whispered. He leaned forward like a gossiping aunt at a family reunion. “Because I am absolutely listening.”
Jongho’s cheeks were already pink. “This feels… wrong. We shouldn’t—”
“Shh!” San and Mingi hissed at the same time.
The voices escalated.
“You didn’t fight for me!”
“I was trying to protect you!”
“Don’t you dare rewrite that—”
And then—
Silence.
Heavy. Loaded. Dangerous.
The group stared at each other.
Wooyoung mouthed, what just happened?
Nobody moved.
And then it came.
A muffled sound. Not shouting. Not words.
A moan.
Low. Sharp. Unmistakable.
The entire room erupted.
“No way!” Wooyoung practically shrieked. “No actual way!”
Mingi’s jaw dropped. “Wait, did they—? That was a—? Oh my god.”
San slapped his knee. “Finally!”
Jongho covered his ears. “Nope. Nope. I didn’t hear that.”
Yeosang calmly turned a page in his book. “And here we are. Act two of a very predictable drama.”
Wooyoung grabbed Yeosang’s arm. “Did you hear that? Tell me you heard that.”
“I have ears,” Yeosang said. “Unfortunately.”
Seonghwa groaned, leaning back against the chair like he carried the weight of their collective stupidity. “We are not talking about this.”
“We are definitely talking about this,” Wooyoung countered. “Did you hear the way she—”
“Wooyoung!” Seonghwa snapped.
Wooyoung raised his hands innocently. “What? I didn’t say anything specific. I was just… appreciating the acoustics.”
San wheezed with laughter. “The acoustics!”
The door to the hallway creaked. Everyone froze.
Jisoo appeared — wide-eyed, hair a little messy, looking like she’d just walked in on a crime scene.
They all stared.
She stared back.
And then she blurted out:
“They’re not fighting anymore. They’re… they’re trying to kill each other with their mouths.”
Dead silence.
Wooyoung collapsed sideways onto the couch, clutching his stomach with laughter. “OH MY GOD.”
Mingi slapped the armrest so hard the cup of tea rattled. “Hate-kissing! They’re hate-kissing!”
San fell backward onto the rug, howling. “I’m actually crying—”
Yeosang closed his book, deadpan as ever. “Disturbing but expected.”
Jongho covered his entire face with his hands. “I need bleach for my brain.”
Seonghwa exhaled like a man questioning every life choice that brought him here. “This is… this is not how a mafia syndicate should operate.”
“Oh, come on,” Wooyoung wheezed. “You have to admit, it’s kind of hot.”
“No!” Jongho cried. “No one admit that!”
“Too late,” San said, grinning ear to ear. “I admit it.”
Mingi raised a hand. “Seconded.”
Yeosang: “Noted. Disturbing. Moving on.”
The laughter finally died down — mostly. Wooyoung was still giggling every thirty seconds. Jisoo sat down in an armchair like she needed to recover from what her poor eyes had witnessed.
“They’re insane,” she muttered. “Both of them.”
“No,” Yeosang corrected calmly. “They’re doomed.”
Mingi grinned. “Same thing.”
San leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief. “Okay but seriously… who had money on this happening before the end of the week?”
Wooyoung raised his hand immediately. “Me.”
“Figures,” Seonghwa muttered.
Jongho groaned again. “Can we please never talk about this again?”
“Oh, we are definitely talking about this again,” Wooyoung said gleefully. “For the rest of Hongjoong’s life.”
And when footsteps finally echoed from down the hall, the entire room went still again.
No one breathed.
But it wasn’t Hongjoong. Not yet.
Just silence stretching heavy in the air, broken only by Wooyoung whispering, far too smugly:
“Well… Mister Ice Prince finally melted.”
Hongjoong’s lips collided with Y/N’s in a standing clash that ignited the air between them, his body pressing her against the cool wall of the dimly lit hallway. No floor met her back—only the unyielding surface behind her as his hands gripped her hips, pulling her flush against him. His tongue plunged into her mouth with savage intensity, tasting the decade of longing and fury he’d suppressed. Every stroke was a release: the regret of her flight, the anger at the silence, the love that had simmered into obsession. She matched him, fingers clutching his shirt, nails digging into his chest as their breaths mingled in heated gasps.
„You vanished,“ he snarled against her mouth, the words laced with venom and vulnerability. But words weren’t enough. His arms hooked under her thighs, lifting her effortlessly as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He carried her the short distance to his office door, kicking it open with a thud that echoed their turmoil. The room enveloped them—dark paneling, a sprawling desk cluttered with maps and weapons, the faint aroma of leather and smoke marking his territory.
He didn’t set her down gently. Instead, he pinned her against the desk’s edge, their kiss unbroken as he devoured her like a storm breaking. His teeth grazed her lip, drawing a sharp inhale from her, while his fingers tore at her blouse, sending buttons flying. Fabric ripped, exposing her bra, and he yanked the cups down to free her breasts, his mouth descending to suck a nipple hard, teeth scraping just enough to make her arch into him. The emotions poured out—search parties in the dead of night, the betrayal of her family’s grip, the ache of loving someone who’d slipped away. His hand shoved her skirt higher, ripping her panties to the side with a growl.
Dropping to his knees, he hauled her hips forward, spreading her thighs wide. His tongue dove straight into her dripping pussy, lapping at her folds with ravenous hunger. Y/N’s hands fisted his hair, head tilting back as he sucked her clit between his lips, flicking it relentlessly. Stubble rasped against her sensitive skin, and he thrust two fingers inside her, curling them to stroke her inner walls while his mouth worked her over. She rocked against his face, moans spilling free as he ate her out like it was punishment and salvation, his free hand bruising her thigh to keep her open. The pressure built fast, her body tensing until she shattered, flooding his tongue with her release, her cries bouncing off the walls.
He stood, eyes dark with unresolved fire, wiping her essence from his chin. His belt clinked open, pants dropping to reveal his rigid cock, thick and leaking pre-cum. „On your knees,“ he ordered, voice a low rumble. She sank down willingly, the rug soft under her as she gripped his base, guiding the swollen head past her lips. Her tongue swirled around him, savoring the musky taste, before she took him deeper, sucking with steady pulls. Hongjoong’s fingers wove into her hair, not guiding at first—just holding, until the need overtook him. He thrust forward, forcing more of his length into her mouth, hitting the back of her throat. She gagged lightly, eyes watering, but relaxed to accommodate him, her hands on his hips as he fucked her mouth with deliberate pushes. Saliva trailed down her chin, mixing with his arousal, as he held her steady, the pull on her scalp a sharp thrill. „Swallow it all,“ he demanded, voice strained, watching her take him like she was made for it—the sight twisting his heart with that buried affection amid the rage.
With a final deep plunge that made her choke softly, he pulled out, hauling her up for a fierce kiss, sharing the taste of them both. „Not enough,“ he muttered, lifting her again. He carried her across the office to the connecting door beside the desk—a heavy panel that swung open to his bedroom. The space was intimate, all deep shadows and a massive bed draped in black silk, lit by a single lamp that cast golden hues over the rumpled sheets.
He tossed her onto the mattress, stripping swiftly to bare his inked torso and scarred frame, the marks of their violent world. Climbing over her, he shredded the remnants of her clothes, leaving her naked and exposed. His hand pinned her wrists overhead, cock nudging her soaked entrance. „You think ten years just fade?“ he hissed, rubbing his tip through her slickness, teasing her clit before slamming home. The stretch burned deliciously as he filled her pussy in one brutal stroke, bottoming out against her depths.
Y/N cried out, legs spreading wider instinctively, but he gave no mercy. He pulled back and drove in again, hips pistoning with raw power, each thrust a vent for the hatred—the abandonment, the empty years. His free hand cracked against her ass, the slap echoing as her skin reddened under his palm. She gasped, clenching around him, the pain sparking pleasure that made her push back. „Tell me you hated leaving,“ he growled, spanking her harder, alternating cheeks until they stung hotly. She nodded, breathless, her own fury rising as she raked claws down his arms, urging him on.
Releasing her wrists, he tangled fingers in her hair, jerking her head to the side to latch his mouth on her neck, biting down as he fucked her deeper. The rhythm built, relentless—long, grinding strokes that dragged his cock along her walls, then short, punishing jabs that hit her g-spot. Sweat beaded on his brow, dripping onto her as he shifted, hooking her legs over his shoulders to angle even steeper. His hand slid to her throat, thumb and fingers pressing lightly, restricting her air just enough to heighten every sensation, her pulse thundering under his touch. „You’re mine now—no running,“ he rasped, pounding into her with ferocity, the bedframe groaning in protest.
The roughness blurred into something more; his eyes flickered with the love he’d masked, softening the edges of his dominance. He spanked her thigh sharply, then soothed the spot with a knead of his palm, only to pull her hair again, arching her back for better access. Y/N’s body betrayed her resistance, walls fluttering as the coil tightened. She met his thrusts, grinding her clit against his pelvis, the friction building her toward the edge. „Hongjoong… harder,“ she demanded, voice hoarse from the chokehold, her hands exploring his chest, tracing old scars that mirrored her own regrets.
He obliged, flipping her onto her stomach without withdrawing, his cock still buried deep as he yanked her hips up. From behind, he rutted into her like an animal, one hand fisting her hair to bow her back, the other delivering firm spanks to her ass that jiggled with each impact. The new position let him reach deeper, his balls slapping against her clit with every plunge. He leaned over her, breath hot on her ear, fingers returning to her neck from the side—squeezing rhythmically as he whispered broken confessions. „I searched everywhere… hated you for it… love you still.“ The words fueled his pace, thrusts erratic now, chasing the peak.
Y/N pushed back, meeting his aggression, her pussy gripping him tighter as waves crashed closer. The spanking continued, lighter now but insistent, marking her as his claim. His hand left her throat to pinch her nipples, twisting them roughly before sliding down to rub her swollen clit in firm circles. The dual assault shattered her—orgasm ripping through, her walls convulsing around his shaft, milking him as she sobbed his name into the pillows.
Hongjoong followed seconds later, burying himself to the root with a roar, hot spurts of cum painting her insides. He collapsed over her, still twitching inside, their bodies slick and spent. The anger ebbed into quiet, his arms wrapping around her in a hold that spoke of possession and protection. In the hush, the fractures of their past began to mend, one heated breath at a time.
The room was quiet now. The kind of silence that followed destruction — thick, still, and full of echoes.
Y/N was curled beneath the sheets, her breathing slow and even, lashes casting soft shadows on her cheeks. The same mouth that had just spit rage and kissed him like he was salvation was now slightly parted in sleep. Her skin still glowed with the warmth of what they’d done, and her thigh lay over his like it belonged there.
Hongjoong’s fingers skimmed across her shoulder as gently as he could manage. She didn’t stir. She’d fallen asleep moments after he cleaned her up, barely coherent as he wiped the sweat from her body and pulled the blanket over them both. Now, with her pressed against him like this, he couldn’t stop looking at her.
God, she was beautiful.
Not in the way she had been when they were seventeen — sharp and bright like sunlight off broken glass — but in the quiet, steady way that made his chest ache. More mature. More grounded. Still fierce, still stubborn as hell. But softer, too. Like she'd carved peace for herself out of all that chaos.
And he was going to let her go.
His throat tightened, but he didn’t let himself look away from her. Not yet.
When they were kids, he used to imagine what their future might look like. In secret, of course — never out loud, never where their fathers could hear. But in the quiet spaces between chaos, when she'd sneak him a bite of lemon tart or poke fun at his brooding silence, he'd let himself picture it.
Maybe a bakery like the one she'd dreamed of. Maybe a small place in the countryside. Maybe just freedom.
He never imagined this.
He brushed her hair away from her forehead and leaned in, pressing a kiss there — so light, so fleeting, he barely felt it himself. It was all he could give her now.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice so low even the shadows didn’t seem to hear it. “For not stopping you. For letting you walk away.”
For still loving you like this.
It hadn’t mattered how many years had passed. How much he’d bled or killed or lost trying to change the world they were born into. The second he saw her again, standing in that hallway with fire in her eyes, every carefully stacked brick of his self-control crumbled.
He hadn’t planned any of this. Not her. Not the kiss. Not the sex.
But what he had planned — what he had sworn to himself the day he learned what her father was trying to do — was to never let her be used again.
The arranged marriage. The Han family. That smug, cruel bastard they wanted to marry her off to.
He'd known the moment he overheard the offer that her father would trade her away like currency. And that was something he could stop.
So he did.
He made a deal with devils to protect her. Promised favors to old enemies. Risked every fragile alliance he’d built over the past five years to get the information he needed.
And then he’d let her family believe he wanted her.
Let them deliver her to him like an object. Let them think they were putting her in his control, when in reality—
He was building her a way out.
She stirred slightly in her sleep, a small frown pulling at her brow. Hongjoong stilled. Her hand, warm and limp, was still resting on his chest. He covered it gently with his own.
“I’m getting you out,” he whispered.
His voice broke on the last word, but he didn’t let it matter.
“You’re going to have a new name. A new life. No one will touch you again.”
You’ll never have to see me again.
He didn’t deserve her.
Not after the things he’d done. Not after the way he’d acted — cold, cruel, distant. It wasn’t a lie, the way he ruled his world. He was a mafia boss now. A king of ashes. But under all of it, there were still burning pieces of the boy who used to look at her like she hung the moon.
And that boy... was still in love.
But he couldn’t keep her here.
If she stayed, she’d rot in the same fire that consumed them both once already. He could see it in her eyes — the way she looked at him like he was a stranger in the skin of someone she used to trust.
He couldn’t live with her hate. But he couldn’t live knowing she was forced into something worse.
So he’d do the only thing he could still offer her.
Freedom.
He reached for the phone on the nightstand and opened a locked contact list. There were only a few names in there. Trusted men. Quiet ones. Ones that owed him favors.
By tomorrow, he’d have everything in place. A new passport. A place to go. Cash. Papers. A new ID that no scanner in the country could trace.
She would be able to walk away from this life and never look back.
And he—
He would stay behind. Just like he always did.
She murmured something in her sleep, fingers twitching lightly against his chest. His eyes dropped to her face again, memorizing every inch.
“Sleep, jagi,” he whispered, though he doubted she'd hear.
It was a lie.
She was safe because he was keeping her in this cage a little longer.
But when the time came — when the pieces were ready — she’d walk out of this world for the last time.
And this time, he would be the one letting go.
Y/N woke to cold sheets.
The spot beside her — where he’d been, warm and solid just hours ago — was empty. She blinked into the morning light seeping through the curtains, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling. The ache between her legs and the imprint of him still on her skin made it all real.
And the silence confirmed it.
He was gone.
She sat up slowly, the blanket slipping from her bare shoulders. Her body still hummed with the memory of his touch. The tenderness of how he’d cleaned her up, tucked the blanket around her like she mattered. He’d kissed her forehead.
That had to mean something… right?
A quiet knock at the door broke her thoughts.
Then it opened — without waiting.
He stepped inside. Dressed. Composed. All hard lines and unreadable eyes.
He didn’t look at her.
“Get up,” Hongjoong said, his voice flat. “You should eat something.”
Just like that.
Like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t touched her like she was the only thing keeping him breathing.
“Hongjoong,” she whispered, heart climbing into her throat. “Wait—”
He turned, already halfway out the door.
“I said what I needed to say,” he replied, still avoiding her gaze. “There’s food in the kitchen.”
“No,” she said, sharper this time. Her voice trembled, but her spine stayed straight. “You don’t get to act like this. Not after last night.”
He froze.
And finally — finally — he looked at her.
Her chest cracked open.
“I never stopped loving you,” she said, the words tearing from her like splinters. “I thought I could. I tried. But I never could.”
He didn’t move.
She stepped out of the bed, pulling the sheet tighter around her.
“I never committed to anyone,” she whispered, “because deep down, I think I was waiting for you. For a chance that maybe… we’d find each other again.”
He flinched.
His mask cracked — just barely — but it was enough.
She took one more step, close enough to see the storm in his eyes.
“So why?” she asked, softer now. “Why are you pretending this meant nothing? Why are you looking at me like I’m just another deal you regret making?”
His jaw clenched.
And then — he said it.
“I don’t feel the same.”
Four words. Clean. Precise. Lethal.
Like he’d practiced them.
Y/N’s breath caught. She stared at him. At the man she knew like her own heartbeat. At the man who had once kissed her scraped knees and told her lemon tartes could fix anything.
“You’re lying,” she said.
He didn’t answer.
“You’re putting on a mask,” she said again, voice rising. “I saw it the second I walked back into your life. You looked at me like you still loved me. Like it hurt to look at me.”
Still — no answer.
Only silence.
Only him, standing there like marble, like steel, like the boy she once loved had been burned away and only the ghost remained.
Tears blurred her vision.
“Say something,” she whispered.
But he didn’t.
And that silence was her answer.
She yanked open one of the drawers by the wall, grabbed the first shirt she saw — one of his, oversized and smelling like him — and pulled it over her head. Her fingers trembled as she tugged it down over her bare skin.
She didn’t look at him as she stormed out.
The hallway was empty.
But the sound of voices pulled her toward the living room — low, easy, familiar. Laughter. Coffee cups clinking. She stepped through the archway—
And froze.
All of them were there.
Wooyoung was halfway through a joke, waving his arms around. Yeosang was nursing coffee. San was still yawning. Mingi and Jongho were arguing over who made better eggs. Seonghwa was calmly ignoring them all.
Then they saw her.
The laughter died instantly.
Wooyoung’s mouth opened. “Well, good morning to you too,” he said playfully. “You guys were kind of loud last ni—”
He stopped.
Because they all saw it.
Her red-rimmed eyes. The tear tracks drying on her cheeks. The way her shoulders shook — not from embarrassment, but from something deeper. Cracking open and spilling in front of them.
The kind of heartbreak you couldn’t hide.
“Y/N…” Seonghwa rose from the couch, brows drawn together. “What—?”
But she was already walking.
Straight through the room.
No apology. No glance back.
Just silence.
And the lingering scent of lemon on her skin.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Y/N didn’t even make it to the bed. She collapsed onto the floor, knees pulled to her chest, her breath hitching so hard it made her ribs ache.
Jisoo sat across the room, still in pajamas, eyes wide with concern. She’d watched Y/N storm in wearing one of Hongjoong’s shirts, mascara smudged under her eyes and heartbreak practically carved into her skin.
“Y/N…” Jisoo’s voice was soft, hesitant.
Y/N shook her head, shoulders trembling.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
“You’re not.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Jisoo didn’t press. She simply crossed the room and sat beside her, silent for a moment before wrapping an arm gently around Y/N’s shoulders.
That was all it took.
Y/N broke.
Tears spilled over, and her voice cracked open with them. “I slept with him.”
Jisoo didn’t react — didn’t flinch, didn’t gasp. Just let her talk.
“I thought… I thought maybe it meant something. He cleaned me up after. He tucked me in. He kissed my forehead.”
Jisoo stayed quiet, listening.
“And then this morning, he just— he looked right through me like I was nothing.” Y/N wiped angrily at her cheeks. “He told me he doesn’t feel the same.”
“Do you believe him?”
“No,” Y/N said, voice trembling. “God, no. He’s lying. I know him. I saw it in his eyes — for a second, I saw him. And then it was gone.”
She laughed bitterly, breath shaking.
“I never stopped loving him, Jisoo. Not even after I left. I think part of me was always waiting for him to find me. To— I don’t know. Choose me.”
Jisoo looked at her gently. “You think he did all this… for what? To hurt you?”
Y/N blinked. “What do you mean?”
“He got you out of an arranged marriage. Pulled strings, scared your father, made a deal with him — all that, just to bring you here. And now he’s pushing you away?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Maybe it’s not about what he said. Maybe it’s about what he did.”
Just then, the hallway creaked — a floorboard just outside their door. But neither of them noticed.
Yunho leaned against the opposite wall, heart sinking into his stomach.
He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He’d just gone to knock — maybe bring some tea, a dumb joke, something to soften the tension in the house.
But he heard it.
All of it.
The heartbreak in her voice. The confession. The years of waiting. The pain.
And it shattered something in him.
He turned and walked back down the hall, each step slower than the last.
“…so then he pretended to be asleep,” Wooyoung was saying, half-laughing over his mug of coffee. “I swear to God, Hwa, if you snore one more ti—”
The door opened.
Yunho walked in. Quiet. Serious.
Everyone looked up.
“What happened?” San asked immediately.
Yunho didn’t answer right away. He just sank into the couch, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I overheard something,” he said finally. “Y/N… she still loves him.”
The room stilled.
“She told Jisoo she never stopped,” Yunho continued, voice low. “That she waited. That she thought last night meant something.”
Wooyoung sat up straighter. “Wait, they—?”
“They did,” Yunho confirmed.
“And Joong just left her this morning?”
Yunho nodded. “Said he doesn’t feel the same.”
“That’s bull,” Mingi muttered. “I’ve seen how he looks at her.”
They all had.
And none of them were buying it anymore.
He was already in the study when the others found him.
Sitting behind his desk. One hand cradling a glass of whiskey. The other flipping through the files he’d pretended to care about all morning.
The door creaked open.
He didn’t look up.
“Joong.”
Seonghwa’s voice. Calm, but firm.
“I don’t want company.”
“Tough.”
The others filtered in behind him — quiet but unyielding.
Yunho closed the door.
Hongjoong sighed. “I’m busy.”
“Are you also too busy to tell us what the hell is going on?” San asked, arms crossed. “Because Y/N looked like her soul left her body this morning.”
“She told Jisoo everything,” Yunho added. “She still loves you.”
Something flickered in Hongjoong’s expression — then vanished.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Like hell it doesn’t.”
He finally looked up. “I never planned to keep her here.”
That stopped them.
“What?”
“My goal,” he said, slower now, “was never to bring her back into this life. It was to get her out for good.”
They stared.
“I made a deal with her father. Took her under the pretense of using her as leverage so he’d leave her alone. Made sure the Han family would back off. She’ll be safe now.”
“So what’s your plan?” Yeosang asked, voice quieter. “Just lie to her forever?”
“No.” Hongjoong took a long sip of his drink. “I’m setting up new IDs. Fake documents. Enough cash to disappear. For her and her friend.”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes hard.
“She’ll leave here free. For good. Away from her family. Away from the mafia. Away from me.”
“And does she want that?” Mingi asked.
“She doesn’t know.”
“That’s the problem,” Seonghwa said.
“She’ll thank me one day.”
“No,” Yunho said, finally stepping forward. “She won’t. Because she’s going to think you never loved her back.”
Hongjoong looked away.
“Tell her the truth,” Yeosang said.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer.
POV: Y/N – Hallway
She didn’t mean to hear.
She really didn’t.
She and Jisoo had only wanted to go to the kitchen. Get water. Maybe something sweet to take her mind off everything.
But as they passed the study, voices filtered through the door.
Then the words.
Fake documents. A new life. Away from me.
Y/N stopped in her tracks, eyes wide.
Jisoo gripped her hand.
“He—he was planning to let us go?” Jisoo whispered.
Y/N didn’t respond.
She couldn’t.
Her legs were frozen. Her lungs too tight. Her heart — she didn’t even know where it was anymore. Maybe somewhere in that room. Maybe still in his hands.
He did love her.
He was just trying to protect her.
And he was going to let her go without ever saying it.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
She didn’t knock.
Didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate, didn’t give herself even a second to rethink it.
Y/N slammed the study door open with one sharp push — and the conversation inside died immediately.
Eight heads turned toward her. The room went still.
Hongjoong froze.
For a moment, no one said a word. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. His expression — carefully blank all morning — shattered at the sight of her. Completely. All masks gone. Just wide, vulnerable eyes and parted lips, like her presence had knocked the air from his lungs.
And she didn’t wait.
“You were just going to let me go?” she demanded, voice steady but trembling underneath. “Without telling me anything? Without even saying goodbye?”
Silence.
Hongjoong stood slowly from his chair, but didn’t step closer.
Y/N crossed her arms.
“Fake identities. New life. Clean break,” she listed, her gaze pinned to him. “That was your plan?”
“I did it to protect you.”
Her laugh cracked in the middle. “You lied to me.”
“I was keeping you safe—”
“No,” she snapped. “You were pushing me away. Just like before. Just like you always do.”
He flinched.
And that’s when her voice softened, raw and aching. “I don’t care, Hongjoong.”
He blinked.
She stepped forward, past the others — straight to him. She didn’t care that the rest of ATEEZ were there. Didn’t care that her heart was already breaking in real time.
“I don’t care that you’re a mafia boss,” she whispered. “I don’t care what you’ve done. What you’ve had to do. If you’ve killed, if you’ve lied, if the world looks at you like a monster— I. Don’t. Care.”
Her hands clenched at her sides.
“I love you.”
The words echoed like gunfire.
Hongjoong stared at her like she’d just ripped the floor out from beneath him.
She swallowed. “You can lie to them. You can lie to me. But I know you. And I know you still love me.”
Still — he said nothing.
The silence was unbearable.
Then, from the couch:
“Well,” Yeosang said casually, sipping his tea. “Might as well tell her the rest while we’re at it.”
Y/N blinked, confused. “The rest?”
Hongjoong’s jaw clenched.
“Tell her,” Yeosang said again, nonchalantly. “You’ve already ripped your chest open. Might as well let her see the heart you keep hidden behind your ribs.”
“Yeosang—” Hongjoong warned.
But another voice cut in.
“Joong.” Seonghwa stood from his seat, stepping forward. His tone was calm but firm. “Enough.”
Hongjoong turned toward him, something desperate in his eyes.
“Be honest,” Seonghwa said, quieter now. “With her. And with yourself.”
Y/N was still staring at him. The room had gone silent again after Seonghwa’s gentle but brutal prompt — “Be honest. With her. And with yourself.”
Hongjoong’s throat was dry. His hands trembled slightly as he sat back down on the edge of his desk, whiskey glass long forgotten beside him.
He didn’t look at anyone else.
Only her.
“Close the door,” he said.
Yeosang got up and shut it behind her without a word. The others moved to leave, but Y/N shook her head once — sharp, determined.
“No,” she said. “If they already know… I want to hear everything. I deserve to.”
Hongjoong gave a bitter smile. “You always did.”
He exhaled slowly, then let go.
Of the lie. Of the walls. Of the mask.
Everything.
“I was nineteen when my father died,” he began, voice low but even. “He was shot in the middle of a negotiation that went south. Someone from the Han family. I don’t even remember the guy’s name. But I remember the blood. I remember what it felt like to have everyone look at me afterward — like I was the next in line. Like I had to become what he was.”
He met her eyes, and something inside him broke.
“I hated it,” he whispered. “I hated what we were. What our families did to people. I didn’t want it. But I didn’t know how to escape it either.”
His hands clenched into fists in his lap.
“That’s when I met them. The others.”
He glanced toward the closed door — where behind it, he knew his brothers waited.
“Seonghwa was the first. His family was involved too, but he wanted out. He had this idea — this insane, ridiculous idea — that maybe the mafia could be used to… undo some of the damage. That maybe we could help people leave the life.”
Hongjoong gave a soft, humorless laugh.
“I thought he was crazy. But I followed him anyway.”
Then came the others — Yeosang, who’d hacked his way into Hongjoong’s servers one night just to make a point. Wooyoung and San, who arrived together like chaos and light wrapped in trauma. Mingi, who knew every street like the back of his hand. Jongho, who refused to let anyone his age carry a gun. Yunho, who’d smiled like he didn’t have scars under his shirt.
“I found a family,” Hongjoong said softly. “A real one. Not one built on fear, but on choice.”
He looked at Y/N again.
“And I thought… maybe that could be enough.”
“But it wasn’t,” he went on, voice cracking at the edges. “Because I still thought about you. Every day. Every goddamn day, Y/N.”
She blinked, breath caught in her throat.
“When you left, I was angry,” he admitted. “Not at you. At myself. I should’ve gone with you. But I was scared. I was seventeen and my father had just died and I didn’t think I had the right to be free. You asked me to leave with you, and I—” He broke off.
“I let you walk away.”
Silence.
Then:
“I never forgave myself for that.”
She didn’t move. Not a sound.
“I tried to forget you,” he said. “Tried to bury you in work and blood and missions. Tried to pretend you didn’t still live in my head.”
His hand reached up — almost unconsciously — to touch his chest.
“But then I heard your father was looking for you. Sending people out. Quietly. Hiring trackers. Spies. I knew what he wanted. I knew who he wanted to sell you to.”
Y/N’s breath hitched. “Han.”
“Yeah. Their heir. You don’t know what he’s like, Y/N. What he’s done. That bastard…” Hongjoong’s jaw clenched. “I couldn’t let him have you. I couldn’t let your father throw you to someone like that.”
He leaned forward on the desk, elbows on his knees.
“So I planned. Watched you for months. Made sure you were safe. Waited for the right moment.”
His eyes found hers again — darker now, softer.
“When I showed up again, I knew exactly what I was doing. I let your family believe I wanted you for leverage — that I’d make your father suffer if he didn’t comply. But it was all bullshit. Just smoke.”
He sat back, tired.
“I didn’t want revenge. I didn’t want leverage. I just wanted you out.”
He paused, letting the weight of it all hang in the air.
“And then you looked at me again,” he said, voice almost broken. “After all those years. And everything I’d buried came back like a wave.”
He stood slowly and walked over to her.
She didn’t flinch.
“I wanted to tell you everything,” he said. “I swear. But I thought… if I kept you at arm’s length, it would be easier when the time came.”
She whispered, “The time to let me go.”
Hongjoong nodded.
“I was going to give you and Jisoo new names. New passports. Enough money to start a new life. Somewhere warm. Somewhere peaceful. Somewhere I’m not.”
He reached up — gently, reverently — and tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.
“I thought it would be a mercy.”
His hand cupped her cheek.
“I thought if I pushed you away hard enough, maybe you’d stop loving me.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“But I couldn’t,” he said. “I never could. I still love you. Every piece of you. Every memory. Every regret.”
She stared at him, breath shaking.
“I would’ve burned the world to keep you safe,” he whispered. “And I still will.”
Then, with pain in every word: “But I’ll let you go if you ask me to.”
She didn’t answer.
She didn’t cry.
She just leaned in — slow, deliberate — and kissed him.
Not like before.
Not desperate or hateful or angry.
But soft. Cracked open. Full of everything unsaid.
He kissed her back, hands tangling in her hair, and it felt like breathing for the first time in years.
When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his.
“I don’t want to be anywhere else,” she whispered. “Not without you.”
They sat together in the quiet of Hongjoong’s office, no longer tense, no longer angry — just two people peeling away the years between them.
The air was still thick, but not with unspoken words anymore.
With truth.
And that was when the questions started tumbling from her lips.
“You watched me for months,” she said softly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Hongjoong looked at her, the edge of his mouth curling upward — not smug, not ironic. Just… warm.
A real smile.
The kind he used to give her before the world cracked open.
“I thought lying to myself was easier,” he admitted. “If I kept pretending I didn’t love you… I wouldn’t be tempted to drag you back in.”
She blinked.
“Did it work?”
He laughed under his breath. “Not for a second.”
Y/N’s hand found his.
She had more questions, and he let her ask them all.
“Why did you threaten my little sister?” Her voice wasn’t sharp — just tired. Hurt.
Hongjoong didn’t flinch.
“I didn’t want to,” he said. “But Jun and her — they’re the only cards your father hasn’t played yet. He’s lost standing since you disappeared, and your siblings are his last bargaining chips.”
“Leverage.”
“Exactly. To marry off. Or raise as new heirs. Keep the illusion of control.”
Y/N frowned. “You’re talking like they’re pawns.”
Hongjoong nodded slowly. “That’s what they are to him. And if I didn’t act like I saw them the same way… your father never would’ve believed me.”
She processed it.
“And my father still doesn’t know how I hid so well, does he?”
Hongjoong’s mouth twitched again — not quite a smile this time. More like grim amusement.
“He’s furious. You hid in plain sight, and he never saw you. That kind of humiliation doesn’t fade.”
She sat back, letting all of it soak into her.
Then, quietly: “Jun doesn’t want this life either. Neither does our sister.”
That made Hongjoong pause.
“He always played the part so well,” he murmured.
Y/N gave a humorless smile. “He’s just as good at deception as you.”
That finally made Hongjoong laugh.
It was low, surprised, and warm — like he hadn’t let himself laugh for years.
Y/N leaned into his side.
“I missed this,” she whispered. “I missed you.”
He went quiet again.
Then, his arm moved, wrapping around her waist and pulling her close.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough. “I should’ve come with you. I should’ve told you everything the moment you walked back into my life.”
She didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.
Because when she turned her face to his, her eyes said everything.
And then, softly: “I still love you.”
That broke something in him.
He held her tighter, forehead against hers. “If you stay… I’ll protect you. Both of you. Always.”
She closed her eyes. “I want to stay. But only if Jisoo’s safe too.”
“She is,” Hongjoong said. “Promise.”
Then, a beat of quiet.
“…Though you might want to tell her Yeosang knows about the mole on her lip.”
Y/N blinked, then burst into startled laughter. “Wait—what?”
Hongjoong shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching again. “He talks too much. Pretends he’s indifferent, but honestly? The man’s obsessed.”
She grinned, heart lighter than it had been in years.
“Poor Jisoo,” she whispered. “She has no idea what she walked into.”
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
Hongjoong’s fingers laced with hers as he walked her back into the main room.
It was quiet at first.
Eight sets of eyes snapped toward them — the air thick, a dozen unspoken questions swirling in the space between them.
But Hongjoong didn’t flinch.
Instead, he turned toward his brothers, still holding Y/N’s hand.
“I told her everything.”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Then Seonghwa exhaled — long, deep, like he’d been holding his breath for a week.
“Finally,” Yunho muttered, leaning back into the couch with exaggerated relief.
Mingi groaned and flopped over the backrest dramatically. “Do you know how exhausting it is pretending to be the villain when all I want is to make dumplings and talk about trauma bonding?”
Wooyoung laughed. “Speak for yourself. I make a hot villain.”
San nudged him with a grin. “You cried watching Spirited Away last night.”
“It’s an emotional masterpiece!”
Y/N blinked at all of them, stunned — then laughed, softly, the tension finally bleeding out of her shoulders.
The shift in the room was palpable. The posturing was gone. The stiffness. The masks. All of it dissolved like sugar in tea.
She looked up at Hongjoong, who was watching the chaos unfold with a small, real smile.
Then, quietly, he turned toward her and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
And then another, to her lips.
It was gentle.
Nothing rushed or desperate. Just… soft.
The kind of kiss that said I see you. I choose you. I’ll keep choosing you.
She leaned into it, letting the warmth of it settle in her chest.
Then a voice piped up beside them:
“Uh—hi? I’m still confused,” Jisoo said, wide-eyed. “You just left me with the mafia and now we’re kissing?”
Y/N choked back a laugh. “Right. Sorry.”
She turned to Hongjoong. “We’re going to my room. I owe her about a thousand explanations.”
He nodded. “Take your time.”
They made it halfway out of the room when—
“Do you guys also think violet is her color?” Yeosang said casually.
Everything stopped.
“What?” San asked slowly.
Yeosang tilted his head like it was obvious. “The hairpin,” he said, not looking up from his phone. “It suits her.”
Silence.
Then chaos.
“Oh my God,” Wooyoung groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “It’s happening.”
“What is?” Yeosang asked, still playing dumb.
“He’s in denial,” Yunho stage-whispered.
Seonghwa smirked. “You noticed her hairpin, Yeosang?”
“It was very… purple,” he said blandly.
“Oh, we’re gone,” Mingi muttered.
“That’s it. The cold assassin has fallen,” San declared.
“Guess he has a thing for bakery girls,” Wooyoung added, grinning.
“Shut up,” Yeosang said calmly, but the tips of his ears were pink.
“And you,” Jongho turned to Hongjoong, crossing his arms. “Finally got your dream girl back and managed to remove the steel rod from your ass.”
“Progress,” Yunho agreed, nodding sagely.
Y/N smirked as she and Jisoo walked away, the door to their room closing behind them just as Hongjoong muttered:
“I’ll kill you all before breakfast.”
The sound of the front door clicking shut echoed faintly down the hallway.
Hongjoong stood in the war room, arms crossed behind his back, as the soft buzz of surveillance monitors flickered around him. His face was unreadable — calm, cold — but inside, the pieces were moving faster than ever.
The Hans knew.
They finally knew.
A courier had delivered a single silver envelope this morning — no return mark, no seal, just the sharp black scrawl of his name on the front.
Inside, a photo.
Y/N.
Walking beside Wooyoung and Seonghwa.
Happy.
Alive.
The message underneath was brief.
“You’re making enemies you can’t protect her from.”
The Han heir always had a flair for dramatics.
Hongjoong tore the note in half and dropped it in the trash.
“Let’s begin,” he said.
The others filtered into the room one by one. Seonghwa. Yeosang. Mingi. San. Wooyoung. Yunho. Jongho. All sharp-eyed, all silent.
Y/N entered last, lingering near the wall, arms crossed. She didn’t interrupt — just listened.
A large table stood in the middle, projections flickering above it like a chessboard built of real cities. Seoul. Busan. Incheon. Networks. Lines of loyalty. Points of pressure.
“The Hans are losing favor,” Hongjoong began. “Three of their western allies are already under investigation. Seonghwa’s contact in the finance ministry confirmed their shell accounts are being flagged.”
Seonghwa nodded, stepping forward. “That’s thanks to Yeosang. He planted the triggers when we hit their safehouse last month. It was only a matter of time.”
Yeosang’s expression didn’t change. “They’ll burn their own bridges trying to cover it.”
“And we’ve been… encouraging that,” Wooyoung said with a grin. “A few whispers here, a few fake leaks there. Nothing like feeding a snake ist own tail.”
Yunho shifted beside him, voice more grounded. “Han’s people will get desperate. If they realize Y/N is under our protection—”
“They already have,” Hongjoong cut in. “And they’re trying to bait us.”
The room stilled.
Jongho’s voice was low. “What’s the play?”
Hongjoong pulled up a new hologram — this time focusing on the Han estate.
“We fracture them from the inside.”
The plan had been building for months. Ever since Hongjoong caught wind of the Han heir’s intentions — and of Y/N’s father making quiet inquiries, desperate to regain favor.
Step by step, they’d been chipping away at the foundation.
Financial exposure
Silent takedowns of key allies
Undermining blackmail and power trades
Redirecting internal loyalty within the syndicates
And most importantly: ensuring escape paths for Jun and Y/N’s younger sister.
“I’ve been in contact with someone inside,” Hongjoong said. “One of the Han’s security captains. He’s ready to switch sides once we pull the trigger. That opens the door for Jun.”
At the name, Y/N straightened.
“You’re helping my brother?” she asked softly.
Hongjoong turned to her, expression unreadable. “You said he doesn’t want this life either.”
She nodded. “He doesn’t. He was born into it, like us. But he’s not… like them.”
“I believe you,” he said simply. “And your sister?”
“She’s young. Scared. Loyal to Jun, not our father. If he leaves, she’ll follow.”
Yeosang spoke up. “Then we extract both. Same night. Coordinated breach.”
Seonghwa added, “I can organize the secure transport. Same route we used to get the Daehyun twins out last spring.”
Yunho leaned forward. “We’ll need a distraction to draw eyes off the estate.”
“I’ll handle that,” Wooyoung grinned. “Nothing like a little firework show on the docks.”
San smirked. “Just don’t blow anything up too early this time.”
Mingi rolled his eyes. “Once. It happened once.”
Y/N stepped closer to the table now, eyes wide as she watched the plan unfold in real-time.
“You… already had all of this?” she asked, breath catching.
Hongjoong’s eyes met hers.
“I’ve been building it since the day I found you again,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t going to let them touch you. Or the people you love.”
There was something raw in her gaze.
“You should’ve told me.”
“I didn’t want to give you hope unless I knew it would work.”
She was silent for a beat.
Then she reached out — not for his hand, but for the projection itself, tracing the lines of the plan.
“Let’s make sure it does.”
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The Han estate fell without fire.
No explosions, no chaos — just silence. Legal notices. Frozen accounts. High-profile allies suddenly walking away. And then one by one, the doors closed on them. Forever.
The Han heir vanished into exile.
And their father… said nothing.
Y/N stood on the balcony of Hongjoong’s estate, watching dawn stretch itself over the city. The sky was blushed with pale gold. Quiet. Still.
And in that silence, everything changed.
They rescued Jun and her little sister two nights ago.
It had gone exactly as planned: Yeosang’s contact inside the Han security team got them through the south wing. Wooyoung’s diversion at the docks pulled attention off the estate. Seonghwa’s extraction team — cold, clean, efficient — moved in and out like smoke.
By the time sunrise broke over Seoul, the Han dynasty was gone.
Her siblings were safe.
And their father… had let them go.
Y/N remembered the moment Jun arrived.
He stepped out of the car cautiously, his hand around their sister’s shoulder. She was crying, not from fear — from relief. Her hair was shorter than Y/N remembered, her frame thinner, but her eyes were still the same.
Jun looked older.
Worn, but not broken.
Y/N had run to them both. They didn’t speak at first. They didn’t need to.
They just held on.
Now they were here — rebuilding.
Jun was across the courtyard, seated with Seonghwa and Jongho, discussing relocation options. Somewhere quieter, outside Seoul. Somewhere safe. Somewhere new.
Their little sister — Suri — was curled on the couch with Yunho and Mingi, who were showing her how to plant seeds in repurposed coffee cans. She laughed every time they made up flower names.
Y/N smiled.
She didn’t know what tomorrow looked like. But today? Today was gentle.
The news of their father’s response had arrived yesterday.
A single call.
No message for his children. No demand for them to return.
Just a statement, delivered through one of his lieutenants:
“They are not mine anymore.”
Y/N didn’t cry. She didn’t even flinch.
Jun had nodded slowly when he heard it. “I figured,” he said. “He was never really ours either.”
And Suri, after a beat of silence, had only whispered, “Good.”
Y/N stood from the balcony and stepped down into the main hall.
Jun was waiting for her.
He smiled faintly when she approached — eyes softer now than they’d ever been.
“She wants to go by her middle name from now on,” he said, nodding toward their sister. “Suri. Not… whatever he called her.”
Y/N blinked, heart squeezing. “Suri.”
“She says it feels like something she chose for herself.”
They were quiet a moment, then Jun said, “I forgot what that felt like — choosing for myself.”
Y/N reached for his hand.
“Then let’s never forget again.”
Later that evening, when the sun dipped and dinner buzzed through the kitchen, Hongjoong found her sitting on the steps outside, legs curled beneath her, face tilted toward the sky.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
She nodded. “They’re safe.”
“You kept your promise.”
He sat beside her, their shoulders touching.
“I had help,” he said.
She smiled. “Yeah. From your entire army.”
He turned to look at her.
“No,” he said. “From you. You reminded me what we were fighting for.”
She leaned into him.
And this time, when he wrapped his arm around her, there was no hesitation.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
The bell above the bakery door chimed like a giggle.
“Smells like heaven,” Wooyoung declared, arms wide as he burst through the entrance. “Or diabetes. Either way, I’m staying.”
Y/N didn’t look up from the tray of almond croissants she was glazing. “You always say that,” she replied, brushing on the final layer of syrup. “And yet somehow, you never stay to mop.”
Behind him, San ducked in, already tying on an apron like he belonged there. “I’ll help. I still want to learn how to make the lemon tartes.”
Jisoo peeked out from the back kitchen. “They’re in the fridge, but not set yet. Give them an hour.”
Yeosang followed, arms full of fresh-cut flowers he’d brought from the street market.
“They’re for the front window,” he said, placing them down near the counter. Then, in a softer voice, to Jisoo: “Thought the violets matched your hairpin from last week.”
Jisoo blinked. “Oh? I thought it was navy…”
Y/N covered her laugh with a cough.
Yeosang looked like he was buffering.
By midday, the place was full of warmth and flour dust. Seonghwa was helping Jisoo reorganize the display pastries with almost militant precision, while Yunho and Jongho stacked delivery boxes in the back.
The café smelled like cinnamon and citrus. There was jazz playing softly through the speakers. Every so often, laughter bubbled up from the prep room like champagne.
Y/N moved through it all like sunlight — checking ovens, nudging Wooyoung’s fingers away from the cooling rack, tossing San a wink when he tried to sneak a bite of raw dough.
She was glowing. Not with something loud or performative — but with peace.
Real, quiet peace.
“You always did look beautiful covered in flour,” a low voice murmured behind her.
She turned — heart already recognizing the timbre before her brain did.
Hongjoong.
He leaned on the side of the doorway, suit jacket open, black shirt rolled at the sleeves. His eyes weren’t just on her — they were drinking her in.
Y/N’s smile softened. “Careful,” she teased, dusting flour off her apron. “You’ll get roped into folding pastry.”
“Maybe I want to be kneaded.”
She snorted. “Did Wooyoung write that line for you?”
He walked over, touched her waist gently — just enough to say I’m here, I missed you, you’re mine. Not too much. Not in front of everyone. But enough.
Y/N leaned into the touch. “Stay for lunch?”
“Only if you’re on the menu.”
From across the room, San gagged loudly. “Okay! That’s it. Gross. Someone hand me a lemon tart before I lose my appetite.”
The bakery quieted after the lunch rush.
The others stayed behind, lounging in the closed café, sipping leftover espresso and munching on broken cookies. San tried to convince Jongho to enter a baking competition. Yunho taught Suri — now living full-time with Jun — how to braid challah dough.
Jisoo wiped her hands on her apron and sat next to Yeosang on the front steps, sharing bites of a peach crumble. She was talking about something — probably TV — but Yeosang’s eyes were on her the whole time, nodding even when she wasn’t looking at him.
“She’s still not getting it,” Y/N murmured beside Hongjoong, watching from the counter.
“She will,” he said. “He’s too obvious.”
“She’s too oblivious.”
“Match made in heaven.”
Y/N smiled. “Like us?”
His gaze turned, locked with hers.
“Not heaven,” he said. “Something warmer.”
The others trickled out around sunset.
Yeosang lingered just long enough to hold the door for Jisoo, who thanked him sweetly, still utterly unaware that the man was ten seconds away from writing poetry about her elbows.
Y/N shook her head as she flipped the Closed sign.
And then it was quiet again.
Just the two of them.
They sat in the prep kitchen, two mugs of warm tea between them, legs tangled under the table.
“You did good here,” Hongjoong said softly. “It suits you.”
Y/N brushed a thumb along the rim of her cup. “I thought it would be harder,” she admitted. “Starting over.”
“It was. You just make it look easy.”
They sat in silence for a moment. The kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled.
Then he said, “I used to think marriage wasn’t for people like us.”
Y/N looked up.
Hongjoong wasn’t looking at her. He was staring into his tea like it might reveal something.
“I thought… commitment like that wasn’t possible. Not in our world. Not for someone who’s done the things I’ve done.”
She reached out, covering his hand with hers.
“But then?”
He looked at her. Really looked.
“Then I saw you again. And I couldn’t imagine anyone else ever calling you theirs.”
The world narrowed.
Y/N’s voice was soft. “Are you asking?”
He chuckled, thumb brushing her wrist. “Not yet. But maybe I’m warming up to the idea.”
“Warming up?”
“I have to make sure you’d say yes.”
She leaned over, kissed him once — sweet and slow and certain.
“You idiot,” she whispered. “Of course I’d say yes."
Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
An: To everyone who voted for Hongjoong. I hope this story lived up to what you were hoping for.
Writing this mafia AU has been an absolute journey: heartbreak, healing, lemon tartes, desk tension, and soft found-family fluff all tangled together.
I poured so much love into every sentence, and even when the characters were fighting or falling apart, I knew they’d find their way back.
I just want to say thank you — truly — for reading, messaging, reblogging, screaming in the tags, and supporting this story. Your encouragement means everything and I can’t wait to hear your thoughts.
Lost in Translation: Stray Kids' reaction to their SO's native language
A/N: italicized words -> you speaking in your native language
Bang Chan
The studio was warm with energy. Changbin and Han bounced ideas back and forth, their voices layering over each other while Chris leaned over his laptop, frowning in concentration. You sat curled up on the couch a few feet away, a quiet observer to their chaos.
Your phone buzzed, and when you saw the name – your childhood friend from back home – your face lit up. The two of you had been planning their visit to you for quite a while now. Without thinking, you answered. “Hi~”
Instantly, three sets of eyes – Chris’, Changbin’s, and Han’s – snapped towards you.
You hesitated, heat rising in your cheeks, and turned slightly away, though you could still feel their gazes burning into your back. “Um… yeah, we’ll figure out how to get you from the airport to my place,” you murmured into the phone, then added with a quiet laugh, “I think I should tell you… three very curious sets of eyes are staring at me right now.”
You looked over to them, knowing they wouldn’t understand, but your tone and glaze was enough to make them realize that you were talking about them.
Changbin arched his brows, mouthing, “What did she say?”
Han leaned forward, stage-whispering, “It sounded serious. Is she talking about us?”
Your voice faltered, and you glanced at Chris. He wasn’t saying anything, just watched you with a small, proud smile tugging at his lips. His smile softened as he watched you, pride flickering in his glance. It was subtle, but it made you stumble over your words nevertheless.
When you finally hung up, you exhaled. “Sorry,” you said quickly. “That was my friend from home.”
Chris tilted his head, eyes crinkling. “Don’t be sorry. I liked hearing you talk like that.”
“Hyung!” Han groaned. “Don’t just say that—what did she say?!”
Chris leaned back, smirking. “How would I know?”
“You do know! You always know!”
Lee Know
Minho and you wandered past a row of little cafés and shops when a man approached, looking around with wide, uncertain eyes. He stammered in broken Korean, clutching a crumpled map.
“E-excuse me… subway… station?” he tried.
Before Minho could answer, you caught the familiar lilt of his accent. It tugged at something deep inside you. Instinctively, you switched into your native language.
The man’s eyes went wide with relief. “Oh, thank goodness!” he exclaimed, instantly launching into a flurry of questions.
You smiled, tracing routes on his map, pointing out cafés and street names and offering quick reassurances. The conversation flowed easily, and for a few moments, it felt like you’d been transported back to your childhood streets.
Beside you, Minho had fallen strangely silent. Hands buried in his pockets, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his sharp eyes darting between you and the tourist even though he didn’t understand a single word. His usual calm confidence seemed to flicker, replaced by something smaller, something oddly vulnerable.
You finally sent the man off with a smile and a polite farewell, watching him disappear down the street. When you turned back, Minho was still there, lips pressed into a thin line.
“What?” you asked, a little amused by his expression.
He blinked, then let out a soft huff, the corner of his mouth twitching. “So…” he muttered, tilting his head, “that’s what you sound like when you’re scolding me in your head, huh?”
You swatted at him, laughing.
But then his tone dropped, sincere. “It’s… really attractive. Don’t hide it from me, okay?”
You laughed lightly, trying to shake off the sudden weight in his words. “It’s just my first language, Minho. Not a secret personality.”
“Still,” he said, glancing back at you with that familiar, infuriating half-smile. “you seemed different.”
You rolled your eyes, tugging his sleeve as you started walking again. “You’re imagining things.”
He followed easily, his stride matching yours, voice low and teasing. “Am I? Because you’re blushing right now. Or am I just imagining that too, huh?”
Changbin
One careless step and your toe slammed into the coffee table. Pain shot up your leg, and before you could stop yourself, a string of colorful words flew out in your native language – sharp, fast, and definitely not polite.
Changbin, who had been flipping through his phone on the couch, shot upright like he’d just witnessed a crime. “Wait—WHAT was that?”
You were too busy hopping on one foot, clutching your poor toe like it might fall off, to respond properly. “Nothing!” you wheezed.
His eyes went wide, but a grin was already tugging at his lips. “No, no, no—don’t hide it! That sounded powerful. Like… dangerous—Wait, are you ok?”
“I’m great”, you breathed out through your teeth and dropped onto the couch beside him, still nursing your toe. “That was a bad word.”
“A bad word, huh?” His grin widened. “That sounded so intense! What did you say? Was it like… a level 10 of swear?”
Rolling your eyes, you muttered, “Something like that.”
“Teach me!” Changbin leaned closer, his voice dropping to a playful whine. “Come on, I wanna sound fierce too!”
You hesitated, already picturing him shouting the word in the middle of a conversation or even in public.
“Come on~,” he sing-songed, eyes pleading like an overexcited puppy.
“Fine,” you said, pointing a stern finger at him, “But you cannot — cannot — say it around other people.”
“Of course,” his grin only grew. “I would never.”
Hyunjin
You were curled up on the couch, the warm aroma of food from your hometown filling the living room. The scent was pure nostalgia – savory, sweet, comforting – the kind of smell that made you close your eyes and feel, just for a moment, like you were a little kid in your mother's kitchen again.
Hyunjin wandered over, hair still damp from his shower, and tilted his head curiously. “What’s that smell?” he asked, eyes already darting to the bowl in your lap.
You smiled, picking up a bite. “It’s called [food name],” you explained, the syllables rolling off your tongue naturally in your native language.
Hyunjin froze. “Wait—say that again.” he said, moving closer.
You chuckled but humored him, repeating it slower this time.
Something about the way you spoke your language had his face softening instantly. “You sound… different when you speak your language,” he admitted, sitting beside you and resting his chin on your shoulder. “Like softer? Or maybe it’s just—you sound really pretty.”
His eyes flicked down to the food again. “Can I try?”
You lifted a piece towards him, holding it out playfully. “Here, open up.”
He took the piece and chewed thoughtfully, then his eyes lit up. “Mmm—it’s good! What did you call it again?”
You repeated the name, watching him squint as he tried to copy your pronunciation.
“Foo…brr… no, wait. Fbl— okay, I’m close!”
“Not even a little,” you giggled.
He tried again, tripping over the sounds but determined. His pronunciation was clumsy, but the way he scrunched his nose and tried again made your heart melt.
“Your language is conspiring against me.”
You brushed his hair back from his forehead. “You’re adorable. But maybe stick to eating for now.”
“Fine,” he pouted dramatically, then leaned in, eyes mischievous. “Gimmie more?”
Han
Han’s dorm room was quiet, the air softened by the warm glow of a desk lamp across the room. Shadows stretched lazily along the walls, giving everything a hushed, intimate feel.
You were sprawled across his bed, head nestled into one of his pillows that smelled faintly of his cologne. Your thumb idly scrolled down your phone screen, half-paying attention, half just enjoying being there while Han sat across from you – knees tucked up, messy hair falling into his eyes as he scribbled lyric fragments in a notebook that he probably wouldn’t revisit until tomorrow.
Without really thinking, you started to hum. It was low, gentle, the kind of sound that melted perfectly into the quiet. The hum turned into half-formed words of a song in your native language, quiet and unguarded.
Han’s pen froze mid-air.
For a second, there was silence – then the scratch of the chair as he spun around so fast his notebook nearly fell to the floor.
“Wait—” he blinked, almost as if he wasn’t sure he heard you right. “What was that…?”
You froze, thumb hovering over your phone screen. “Oh—yeah, sorry. Just…habit, I guess.”
“Don’t say sorry!” His voice was soft but eager, his smile stretching wider as he slid off his chair and crossed the short distance to the bed. “That wasn’t Korean. That was your language, right?”
You nodded, feeling heat bloom in your cheeks. “Yeah.”
Han’s eyes softened, but there was excitement flickering behind them. “You’ve never sung in your language before… it’s so beautiful. Can you sing it all the way for me, baby?”
He plopped down beside you and added a pleading pout that he knew you couldn’t say ‘no’ to. “Please?”
Felix
The living room was quiet except for the soft hum of the TV and the sound of Felix’s steady breathing against your hair as you were curled up together on the couch.
Half-dreaming, you nuzzled closer and mumbled a word from your native language, a tender little pet name you’d grown up hearing older couples use, the kind that always made you smile.
Felix stiffened. His head lifted with his eyes wide in surprise. “Wait—wait, what did you just call me?”
Your cheeks warmed immediately. “It’s… um… just a nickname. Like a cute one couples use where I’m from.” You buried your face against his chest, half-giggling, half-embarrassed. “Forget I said it.”
“But seriously, that’s cute. No, seriously—adorable.” He gently tilted your cheek up, his accent soft as he repeated the word, trying it on his tongue.
“Did I say it right?” he asked, eyes glinting with mischief. “That’s me now, yeah?”
You groaned, laughing. “You’re going to butcher it.”
“Then teach me,” he said, lowering his voice playfully. “Say it again.”
You did, reluctantly, and he repeated it back – closer this time.
He tightened his arms around you, pulling you flush against him, the proudest smile lighting up his whole face. “I’m never letting you call me anything else. That’s mine now.”
And before you could protest, he peppered your temple with quick kisses, murmuring the nickname again and again like he was savoring a secret only the two of you shared.
Seungmin
Seungmin and you had just finished a late afternoon walk when a fluffy golden retriever trotted up to the two of you. Its tail wagged so enthusiastically that you couldn’t help but squat down and greet it, smiling as it leaned into your hands.
Without even thinking, the words slipped out in your native language, a cheerful sing-song of baby talk and cooing that made the dog tilt its head, ears perked with curiosity.
Behind you, Seungmin chuckled, the sound amused and teasing.
“Uh… you know,” he said, crouching down beside you, “I don’t think this dog is your nationality.” His lips curved into a grin as he watched the dog happily enjoying your pets.
You glanced up at him, cheeks warming. “It just slipped out,” you said, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “I always talked to animals like this back home.”
He watched you for a beat, his voice softer now. “It’s kinda cute. I didn’t know you sounded like that,” he admitted quietly, more to himself than to you. Then, as if catching himself, he cleared his throat. “Guess I’ll have to learn, so I can keep up.”
The dog barked happily, tail thumping against the pavement when its owner jogged towards you, breathless and apologetic. You both stood, and while the owner thanked you and clipped the leash back on, Seungmin’s stayed fixed on you – a quiet curve to his mouth.
When the dog trotted off, he mumbled softly, “You know, maybe you should talk to me in your language more often.”
You shook your head. “I’ll think about it.”
He straightened up, pretending to brush dust from his jeans. “Good. Just… not with the dog,” he said. “I’ll get jealous.”
I.N
The two of you stepped into the cozy little restaurant tucked away on a quiet street. The scent of sizzling dishes and fresh herbs filled the air. Jeongin held the menu in his hands, scanning the options.
When the waiter approached, you smiled warmly and ordered the menu in your native language, effortlessly flowing through the dishes. Jeongin blinked at you, a little wide-eyed, though he already knew you were fluent.
The waiter paused, then grinned. “Wow… your pronunciation is perfect,” he said, clearly impressed.
You laughed softly. “Thank you,” you said, and then added with a grin, “I’m actually a native speaker.”
Jeongin’s eyes went wide, his mouth opening slightly. He leaned in closer to you, mock-shocked. “Wait—what? You can speak it perfectly?”
You couldn’t help but giggle, shaking your head at him. “I told you I could speak it!”
He leaned in, eyes wide but twinkling with amusement. “I know, I know, but hearing you… it just hits differently. It’s like—whoa.” He gestured vaguely, as if the air might explain what he meant.
“Well,” you teased, “now the waiter knows too.”
Jeongin groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as his ears turned pink. “Great.”
As the waiter left with your order, Jeongin kept sneaking glances at you, his expression softening each time. “But seriously,” he said, voice quieter now, “you’re amazing.”
You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder. “You’re just saying that because I ordered for us.”
He laughed. “Maybe. But I’m also saying it because it’s true.”
Thinking about how much I use avoidance and escapism to dodge my problems or conflicts in life. Thinking about being confronted by my best friend/roommate about these things and my unwillingness to set a boundary. Thinking about how much I don't understand about being a person, and existing in the world. Thinking about how having more money would help so much in my life. Thinking about how many problems I cause them. How much stress. Thinking about how I am the problem. And thinking about how much I just, don't want to think about any of this.
Summary: Kim Hongjoong is the office saviour who helps everyone with everything, except you.
Fandom: ATEEZ
Pairing: Kim Hongjoong x Reader
Genre: Romantic Comedy, Fluff, Office AU
Warnings: None, just second-hand embarrassment and pining
A/N: Hello again 👋 I've been busy so I haven't been able to release these days. It's good to be back ₍^. .^₎⟆
====================================
The quarterly team meeting was dragging on forever, while your sister’s dating crisis was blowing up your phone under the table. When Wooyoung praised Hongjoong’s helpfulness and everyone chimed in with agreement, your phone buzzed with another dramatic text. You, unknowing to the problems it was going to cause, had rolled your eyes at the screen just as Hongjoong glanced your way.
His smile faltered. ‘She thinks I’m fake,’ he thought, watching your reaction to the praise.
And just like that... everything changed.
“Oh no, the coffee machine’s broken again,” Yeosang groaned, staring at the sputtering machine.
Within seconds, Hongjoong appeared like a caffeine fairy godmother. “Here, let me fix that.” He had the machine working in thirty seconds flat.
You approached hopefully. “Oh thank god, I really needed-”
Hongjoong instantly walked away without giving you a chance to finish your sentence.
Yunho, who witnessed the whole thing, blinked slowly. “Did… did Hongjoong just ignore you?”
“Apparently.”
“But he literally fixed my stapler yesterday. Twice.”
====================================
San was struggling with a tower of archive boxes that was so high, it was clearly blocking his sight.
“I got you!” Hongjoong swooped in, effortlessly lifting the entire stack.
“My hero,” San giggled, batting his eyelashes dramatically.
Five minutes later, you were wrestling with your own box of files, papers spilling everywhere. Hongjoong stepped over the mess like it was an abstract art installation and continued to his desk.
Mingi crouched down to help you collect the scattered papers. “Okay, that was just rude. What did you do to him?”
“I honestly have no idea.”
“Did you insult his music taste?”
“Mingi.”
“His leadership skills?”
“I’ve never even had a real conversation with him, not even once!”
====================================
Jongho was having a full breakdown over the printer. “Why won’t it print?! I’ve tried everything!”
Hongjoong materialized instantly. “Let me see.” Three button presses later, it was working perfectly.
“You’re amazing,” Jongho said, looking at Hongjoong like he’d just parted the Sea.
When your computer crashed an hour later, freezing during presentation prep, You couldn't help yourself but start complaining loudly. Hongjoong walked past your desk. Twice. You could practically feel the wind from his purposeful stride.
Wooyoung rolled over in his chair. “This is getting weird.”
“Tell me about it.”
“He organized my disaster desk yesterday. MY DESK. No offense to me but that thing was a fire hazard.”
====================================
The office watched in amazement as Hongjoong helped the notoriously cranky cafeteria lady, Mrs. Park, carry supplies upstairs.
“You’re such a sweet boy,” she cooed, actually smiling for the first time in recorded history.
Yunho leaned over to whisper, “He’s literally helping the woman who once made me cry over soup portions.”
When you dropped your entire lunch tray later, creating a spectacular mess of bibimbap across the floor, Hongjoong stepped around the chaos and sat down at the furthest possible table.
“This is personal,” Yeosang declared, watching the whole thing. “What did you DO?”
====================================
The breaking point came during the weekly team lunch. Hongjoong had just finished helping the new intern, Kyungmin, set up his entire workspace.
“Hongjoong hyung is literally perfect,” Kyungmin gushed. “He even labeled my folders!”
“Right?” Wooyoung agreed. “He brought me throat medicine when I was getting sick.”
“Fixed my chair,” added San.
“Taught me Excel shortcuts,” said Yunho.
“Organized our supply closet,” Mingi chimed in.
Jongho nodded seriously. “He’s like office Santa, but year round and with better fashion skills.”
You sat there listening to this list of saintly deeds while picking at your lunch.
“What about you?” Kyungmin asked innocently. “What nice things has Hongjoong hyung done for you?”
The table went silent. Eight pairs of eyes turned to you.
“Um.” You cleared your throat. “He… held the elevator for me once?”
“Once?” Wooyoung’s eyebrows shot up.
“That’s it?” San looked genuinely confused.
Seonghwa, who’d been quiet until now, suddenly looked up from his phone. “Wait. Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen Hongjoong help you with anything.”
“No, Seonghwa Hyung is right,” Yunho said slowly. “Remember last week when your computer crashed? He walked right past.”
“And the box incident,” Mingi added.
“And the coffee machine thing,” Yeosang recalled.
“And the lunch tray disaster,” San contributed.
Wooyoung gasped dramatically. “OH MY GOD. Hongjoong has beef with you!”
“He doesn’t have beef with me!”
“Then explain the pattern!”
“What pattern?”
Jongho started counting on his fingers. “Helped Yeosang, ignored you. Helped San, stepped over your mess. Helped me, watched your computer crash. He even helped-”
“Okay, okay, I get it!”
“This is like a social experiment,” Seonghwa mused. “Hongjoong helps literally everyone except one person. Why are you the chosen one?”
“The unlucky chosen one,” Yunho corrected.
====================================
Friday evening, 7 PM. You’d stayed late to avoid the team’s increasingly creative theories about why Hongjoong had apparently blacklisted you. The elevator doors opened to reveal your exact problem, looking just as tired as you felt.
The tension was immediate and suffocating.
Floor 3… Floor 4… Floor 5…
The elevator shuddered, made a concerning noise, and stopped.
The lights went out.
“Perfect,” you muttered.
Hongjoong’s phone flashlight illuminated the small space. “Emergency button’s not working.”
Fifteen minutes of awkward silence later, you finally snapped.
“Okay, I have to ask. Why do you hate me?”
He looked genuinely startled. “I don’t hate you.”
“Hongjoong, you help everyone. EVERYONE. Wooyoung has a conspiracy theory that you’re actually an office angel sent from corporate heaven. But me? You won’t even look at me.”
“That’s not-”
“You helped Mrs. Park carry soup cans. HER. The one who terrified everyone for three years, but you made her smile. Meanwhile, I dropped an entire presentation worth of papers, and you practically hurdled over them.”
Hongjoong was quiet for a long moment. “You think I’m fake.”
“What?”
“You know... at that quarterly team meeting. When everyone was talking about… the things I do. You rolled your eyes at it. I saw you.” His voice was small. “I know you think it’s all an act.”
You gasped at his words being at a loss of words. “Hongjoong, I was reading texts from my sister. She was having a meltdown because some guy didn’t text her back. I was rolling my eyes at HER drama, not you.”
His phone light flickered as his hand shook slightly. “What?”
You rushed to pull out your phone, scrolling to that day.
“You don't need to prove anythi-”
You cut in before he could finish. “No, look at the timestamps. She was asking if she should double text him. It was ridiculous.”
Hongjoong studied your phone screen, then looked at you with the most devastated expression you’d ever seen.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I’m an idiot.”
“We’re both idiots,” you said softly. “I should have just asked what was wrong instead of letting the office turn it into a mystery.”
“I’ve been wanting to help you since your first day,” he admitted. “But I thought you found me annoying so I didn’t want to bother you further.”
“Annoying? Hongjoong, I’ve been jealous watching you be kind to everyone else.”
The elevator lurched back to life, but neither of you moved toward the buttons.
“Would you…” Hongjoong started, then stopped. “Would you maybe want to get coffee tomorrow? Real coffee, not the office sludge.”
You smiled. “I’d love that.”
“And maybe you can tell me about your sister’s dating disasters. They sound entertaining.”
====================================
You arrived to find an iced americano on your desk with a note: ‘Sorry I’m 3 months late with this -Hongjoong’
“FINALLY!” Wooyoung shouted from across the office when he saw you. “The natural order has been restored!”
“I was about to stage an intervention,” San called out.
“We had theories,” Yunho added. “So many theories.”
Yeosang looked relieved. “I can stop feeling guilty about getting help now.”
Hongjoong appeared at your desk with a shy smile. “I have about three months of helpfulness to make up for. Hope you’re ready.”
From across the office, Seonghwa’s muttering was heard, “Finally. The office balance is restored.”
“What does that mean?” you called out.
“It means,” Jongho explained seriously, “Hongjoong can go back to being everyone’s hero instead of everyone-minus-one’s hero. It was disturbing the natural ecosystem.”
You looked at Hongjoong, who was turning red. “They really analyzed this, didn’t they?”
“Wooyoung made a chart.”
“I MADE A VERY THOROUGH CHART!” Wooyoung confirmed proudly.
And that’s how you both learned that office dynamics are serious business.
It's so fun, trying to be good at a job. And continually fucking up at every turn. I thought I had done well today. Instead, I get lectured in front of my boss, by both our boss, through text. Because I did forget something. Something he asked me specifically about, earlier in the day. This was also after I had to ask my boss to fix something I hadn't done, earlier in the day. I suck at this job. I want to be good at it. I want to do well. And I just, keep messing up.
Throw in the fact that I don't really have anyone else to talk to. My boss? Is also my friend and roommate (predating the job). They already know I fucked up. And how I continue to fuck up. They have already lectured me before. I hate this. I hate this so much.
It's so fun, trying to be good at a job. And continually fucking up at every turn. I thought I had done well today. Instead, I get lectured in front of my boss, by both our boss, through text. Because I did forget something. Something he asked me specifically about, earlier in the day. This was also after I had to ask my boss to fix something I hadn't done, earlier in the day. I suck at this job. I want to be good at it. I want to do well. And I just, keep messing up.
I have put more effort into maintaining my current friendship than I ever did my past relationship.
I am fundamentally confused on how to be a functioning member of a society, as I keep getting things wrong. People always talk about learning to mask as a child, figuring out how to act socially with other people young. I only started trying in the last few years.
Goddamn my mental health is fucking terrible. I'm glad I made it this far, but whooo buddy, am I surprised looking back.
How does one start saying no to things, whilst also not shutting everything you don't want to do, down? Especially when you can't fucking tell if the person asking is going to keep asking??? Like, I try to say no, and they get mad or just keep asking until I cave?
How does one call out someone on said behavior, when you're not sure if you're actually seeing this right?
Why am I always the one in the wrong?
How is this all so easy for other people?
Why can't everything just work out so that everyone is happy?
Y/N’s first semester in college feels like a physics experiment gone wrong—lonely, repetitive, and weighed down by expectations. But everything changes when she meets Hongjoong: the loud, eccentric art major who sketches strangers on napkins and sings Bowie at karaoke nights. He’s chaos incarnate. She’s never let herself be chaotic. Maybe it’s time she tried.
Pairing: Kim Hongjoong (ATEEZ) x Fem!Reader
Genre: College AU · Romance · Angst · Smut · Fluff
Tropes: Opposites Attract, Slow Burn with Tension, Friends-to-Lovers, Chaotic Ateez energy, Caught In The Act™
Featuring: ATEEZ as Hongjoong’s chaotic art major friends & Hana as Y/N’s hype woman roommate.
Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2
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She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t lie.
“Because I felt like I couldn’t breathe in there,” she said simply, her voice steady even though her chest felt tight. “And I didn’t want to see you flirting with someone else.”
The confession slipped out like a stone sinking straight to the bottom.
She broke eye contact, pushing herself back a little. The cool water wrapped around her shoulders as she found her footing in the shallows, putting a few feet of distance between them.
When he didn’t say anything, she forced a small, humorless laugh.
“I know it’s stupid,” she said, staring down at the ripples around her. “You don’t have to worry about it. It’s not your problem.”
But before she could retreat any further, the water shifted violently.
A hand wrapped firmly around her wrist, pulling her back with surprising strength.
Her breath caught as she collided with his chest, warm even in the cool water.
“Hongjoong—”
He didn’t let her finish.
The words had barely formed when his hand slid from her wrist to her waist, tugging her flush against him.
And then he kissed her.
It wasn’t careful.
It wasn’t soft.
It was the kind of kiss that left no space, no air, no chance for second-guessing.
Her lips parted in surprise, and he took the opening, deepening it with a low sound from his throat that vibrated against her chest.
Their naked bodies pressed together under the water, heat coiling low in his stomach as her fingers curled in his wet hair, tugging him impossibly closer.
The world narrowed to the taste of her mouth, the slide of her skin against his, the ragged sound of their breaths breaking the quiet night.
She wasn’t pulling away.
She wasn’t overthinking.
She was kissing him back with the same building urgency, like they were both realizing how much they’d been holding back.
His hands slid up her back, fingers splayed wide as if anchoring himself to her.
She gasped softly against his lips when his thumbs brushed the curve of her ribs, and the sound nearly undid him.
He broke the kiss only to press his forehead to hers, his breath coming fast.
“This… probably isn’t what you meant by an adventure,” he murmured hoarsely, his thumb brushing her cheek.
Her lips curved faintly, almost a smile. “Maybe it is.”
But before either of them could say more, he kissed her again—harder this time.
Because right now, they didn’t need words.
They just needed this.
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The dorm was quiet when they slipped inside, the sound of the door clicking shut behind them impossibly loud.
Y/N stood by the entryway, hair damp and clinging to her neck from the lake, cardigan clutched loosely in her arms.
Neither of them said anything.
They didn’t need to.
By the time he backed her against his bedroom door, their mouths were already fused together again—hot, desperate kisses that tasted like lake water and every unsaid word between them.
Her fingers tugged at his shirt, nails scraping lightly over his skin as he groaned low against her lips.
They barely made it to his bed.
Hongjoong’s hands were everywhere—her shoulders, her waist, cradling her face like she might vanish if he let go.
He laid her down gently, hovering over her as their breaths mingled in the dim light.
For a moment, he paused.
Just looked at her.
Her lips were swollen from his kisses. Her cheeks flushed, eyes wide and unreadable as they searched his.
God, he thought, you’re beautiful.
His fingers brushed the hem of her shirt. “Okay?” he murmured, his voice rougher than he expected.
She nodded, almost imperceptibly, her lips parting slightly.
That was all he needed.
As he peeled her shirt upward, his gaze followed every new inch of skin revealed—the soft curve of her stomach, the faint rise of her ribs with each breath.
When the fabric cleared her head, he let it drop to the floor and leaned back just slightly, drinking her in.
“Shit…” he whispered. “You’re… I don’t even have words.”
His hands traced her sides reverently, thumbs stroking over her warm skin.
“You have no idea what you do to me, Physics Girl,” he said hoarsely, leaning down to press a line of kisses from her collarbone to her jaw.
She shifted slightly beneath him, her fingers sliding into his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch.
“You’re so quiet,” he murmured against her neck. “Do you even know how much that drives me crazy?”
Her only response was a soft, shaky exhale.
It was enough to undo him.
His lips found hers again—harder now, more urgent—as his fingers moved to the waistband of her jeans.
He broke the kiss just long enough to look her in the eyes.
“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly. “And I will.”
But she didn’t.
She just looked back at him with a steady calm that made his chest ache.
So he kept going.
He leaned down, kissing a path across her chest, his hands kneading her breasts gently. Her soft sigh made his stomach tighten.
When his tongue flicked over a nipple, she inhaled sharply, fingers threading into his hair.
“Hongjoong …” she breathed, and the sound of his name on her lips almost undid him.
His kisses trailed lower—down her stomach, stopping at the waistband of her jeans.
He looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers.
“Tell me to stop.”
“I won’t,” she said simply.
His lips curved into a grin.
“Physics Girl… you’re going to destroy me.”
He undid her jeans, sliding them down her legs with agonizing slowness. Her panties followed, and he hissed softly at the sight of her fully bare for him.
“You’re killing me,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh.
He explored her with his fingers first—gentle, teasing strokes that had her shifting against the sheets.
“Relax,” he murmured. “Let me take care of you.”
When his thumb circled her clit and two fingers slipped inside her, her hand shot to his hair, gripping tight as she let out a shaky moan.
“Fuck—” he breathed. “You’re so wet already.”
By the time he kissed his way back up her body, she was trembling slightly under him.
“Condom?” she whispered.
“Drawer,” he said, voice rough.
She reached over and handed it to him, watching calmly as he tore it open and rolled it on.
He hovered over her, one hand cupping her jaw as his eyes searched hers.
“Still okay?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“I won’t,” she said again, and her blunt honesty made his chest clench.
When he pushed in slowly, her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping her.
“Shit—you’re so tight,” he groaned, resting his forehead against hers as he gave her time to adjust.
His hips began to move, slow and deep, savoring every inch of her heat.
She held onto his shoulders, her quiet sighs and soft moans making his pace falter.
“Fuck, Y/N… you feel so good.”
And then—
She surprised him.
Her hands pressed against his chest gently but firmly.
“Can I…?” she asked softly.
He blinked. “You want to be on top?”
She nodded.
Hongjoong’s chest tightened in the most dangerous way.
“You’re full of surprises,” he whispered, flipping them carefully so she straddled his hips.
She settled over him slowly, sinking down with a quiet exhale.
Hongjoong swore under his breath, his hands gripping her thighs.
“Fuck… Y/N…”
She moved experimentally at first—slow rolls of her hips, her hands braced on his chest.
But once she found her rhythm, her movements became more confident, more deliberate.
It was maddening.
“You’re killing me,” he gasped, his fingers digging into her hips as she rode him.
Every movement sent sparks of pleasure up his spine, his self-control unraveling thread by thread.
“God, look at you…” he murmured, his eyes drinking her in—her flushed cheeks, her parted lips, the way her hair clung damply to her neck.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous, Y/N.”
Her pace quickened, small whimpers escaping her as her nails dug into his shoulders for leverage.
Hongjoong’s hands slid up her back, pulling her down until their lips crashed together again.
The kiss was messy, desperate—just like the sounds filling the room as their bodies moved in sync.
“Joong—” her voice broke on a moan.
“I know, baby,” he whispered against her lips. “I’m close too.”
His hands gripped her hips tighter, helping her move as her body trembled above him.
When she came, her walls clenching around him, Hongjoong let go with a low, guttural groan, burying his face in her neck as he spilled into the condom.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Their breaths mingled in the dark, the sound of their racing hearts almost louder than their panting.
“You’re dangerous,” Hongjoong murmured finally, a grin tugging at his lips as he brushed damp hair from her face.
“So are you,” she said softly, surprising him again.
The room was quiet except for the sound of her soft breathing.
Y/N lay sprawled across his chest, her skin still warm against his, her hair damp where it clung to her neck.
Her arm rested lazily over his stomach, her fingers curled loosely like she’d fallen asleep mid-thought.
And she was still naked.
Completely bare. Completely unguarded.
Completely his—at least for this moment.
Hongjoong exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling as his fingers traced idle patterns over her back.
His heart was still beating too fast, but it wasn’t from the sex anymore.
It was from her.
From the way she’d looked at him earlier—calm, unflinching—as if handing him all her trust. From the way she’d surprised him again and again, unraveling his expectations one by one.
He looked down at her, unable to help himself.
The dim light from his nightstand caught the green flecks in her lashes, the faint mole on her eyelid, the slight part of her lips as she slept.
Fuck, he thought. I’m so screwed.
This wasn’t just attraction.
This wasn’t just curiosity anymore.
It was more.
He could feel it sinking in like gravity, heavy and inevitable.
He’d fallen for her.
A smile tugged at his lips—soft, almost disbelieving—as he shifted slightly to pull her closer.
Her body pressed tighter against his, her face nuzzling instinctively into the crook of his neck.
He closed his eyes, inhaling the faint scent of lake water and her shampoo.
“Physics Girl,” he whispered, his lips brushing her temple. “What are you doing to me?”
She stirred slightly in her sleep, making a soft sound that made his chest tighten painfully.
Hongjoong let out a quiet laugh, wrapping his arms tighter around her.
“Fine,” he murmured. “You win.”
And for the first time in years, he felt no need to be anywhere else.
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The first thing she registered was warmth.
Soft sheets tangled around her legs. The faint scent of citrus and paint clinging to the pillow beneath her cheek.
Her body ached faintly in ways that made her face heat as memories trickled back.
The lake.
The kiss.
The way his hands had felt against her bare skin.
The way he’d looked at her—like she was something he couldn’t stop staring at.
She shifted slightly, her eyes fluttering open.
And froze.
Hongjoong lay beside her, his chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. One arm was still draped loosely across her waist, holding her like even in sleep he wasn’t ready to let go.
For a moment, she just… looked at him.
The soft morning light caught in his hair, turning it gold at the edges. His lashes were unfairly long. His lips parted slightly as he exhaled, completely unguarded in sleep.
He’s so pretty, she thought absently, the words almost slipping out.
But then the thoughts came.
Cold. Rational. Relentless.
This probably didn’t mean anything to him.
He flirts with everyone. This was just another adventure. A story for him to tell later with a grin.
He’s an art major, Y/N. You’re not his type. You never were.
The weight in her chest grew heavier with each passing second.
She couldn’t stay.
Not if it meant waiting for him to wake up and confirm her fears with some casual, easy comment about how fun last night was.
Carefully, she lifted his arm from her waist and slipped out of bed.
She found her clothes on the floor—shirt, jeans, cardigan—pulling them on quickly, wincing as the floor creaked under her feet.
Hongjoong shifted slightly, a soft sound escaping his lips.
She froze.
But his breathing evened out again.
Y/N exhaled, her hand hovering over the doorknob for a moment longer than necessary.
Then she turned it slowly, easing the door open.
And slipped out of the dorm without looking back.
The streets were almost empty as she walked home, the morning air cool against her flushed skin.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
It didn’t mean anything.
That’s what she kept telling herself.
He was probably already awake, smiling lazily to himself, filing her away as another wild story to tell his friends later.
“She was cute. Shy. I got her to skinny dip and then into my bed. End of chapter.”
It stung—more than she wanted to admit.
Her arms crossed tightly over her chest as her brain replayed every moment.
The lake.
His hands on her skin.
The way he’d kissed her like she was the only person in the world.
It had felt real. Too real.
But feelings like that were dangerous. And they didn’t belong in Hongjoong’s world—not with his easy charm, his endless adventures, his habit of pulling people in just to let them drift away again.
By the time her dorm came into view, her chest felt hollow.
Hana was curled up on the couch when Y/N slipped in, cardigan still clutched tight around her.
“Hey,” Hana said, looking up with a grin. “Where’ve you been all—”
“Don’t.”
Y/N’s voice cracked.
Hana’s smile faltered.
“Y/N…?”
“I—I don’t know what I’m doing,” Y/N whispered, her hands shaking as she hugged herself tighter. “I thought I could handle it. That it didn’t mean anything. But it—”
Her throat closed, the words catching.
And then, before she could stop herself, the tears came.
Hot, blinding, unstoppable.
Hana was off the couch in a second, wrapping her arms around Y/N and pulling her close.
“Hey, hey… what’s going on? You’re scaring me.”
But Y/N couldn’t answer.
She buried her face in Hana’s shoulder, sobs wracking her small frame as all the emotions she’d bottled up came pouring out at once.
Hana held her tighter, rubbing soothing circles on her back.
“Shhh. It’s okay. You’re okay,” she whispered.
But Y/N wasn’t sure she believed it.
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The first thing he noticed was the cold.
The sheets beside him were cool, empty.
For a moment, he thought she might’ve just shifted in her sleep. But when he rolled over, her side of the bed was untouched—no stray cardigan, no soft hair trailing over the pillow.
She was gone.
“Y/N?” he called softly, sitting up and scrubbing a hand over his face.
No answer.
His brows furrowed as he slipped out of bed, pulling on a pair of sweats.
Maybe she was in the kitchen.
Or the bathroom.
Or—something.
The living room was empty. So was the kitchen, save for a half-empty glass of water on the counter.
The bathroom door stood ajar, light off.
Nothing.
By now, his confusion had hardened into something heavier.
A quiet, unsettling ache in his chest.
She left.
“Hyung?”
Hongjoong turned to see Wooyoung blinking at him from the couch, hair sticking up at odd angles.
“Why are you walking around like a zombie at 9AM?” Wooyoung asked, rubbing his eyes.
Hongjoong opened his mouth. Closed it.
Then blurted, “Did you see Y/N leave?”
The room went still.
Seonghwa—now emerging from the hall—raised a brow.
“Y/N? As in Physics Girl?”
“Why would Y/N be here?” Yunho asked, his voice suspiciously amused.
“I—” Hongjoong rubbed the back of his neck. “She… stayed over.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then all seven of them reacted at once.
“WHAT?!”
“She stayed over?!”
“Hyung, WHAT THE HELL—”
“Oh my God, you’re blushing—look, San, he’s BLUSHING—”
“Details. Now.”
Hongjoong groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as the barrage of questions hit him.
“Guys—stop.”
“You didn’t tell us you were going out with her last night,” Jongho said, crossing his arms. “What exactly did you two do?”
“That’s none of your business,” Hongjoong shot back, his voice sharper than intended.
But when Yeosang gave him a pointed look and said, “Sounds like it is our business now,” Hongjoong let out a long breath.
“Fine,” he muttered. “We went out. One thing led to another. She stayed over. And now she’s gone.”
The room went quiet again.
“You sound… upset,” Mingi said carefully.
Hongjoong stared down at his hands.
“I am,” he admitted.
“Why?” Seonghwa asked gently.
“Because—” He stopped, his chest tightening. “Because I think I like her. Actually like her.”
There it was.
Said out loud for the first time.
The truth settled heavy in his chest, terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
He ran a hand through his hair, sighing.
“And now I don’t know what the hell to do.”
The studio was silent except for the faint scratch of his pencil on paper.
Or at least, it should’ve been.
But today, the sound grated on him. Each line felt wrong. Forced.
He dropped the pencil with a sigh, leaning back in his chair as he stared at the half-finished sketch in front of him.
It was supposed to be abstract. Bold. Chaotic.
But instead—
It was her.
Again.
For the past few weeks, it had been the same.
Every sketchbook page he turned, every canvas he touched—somehow she ended up there.
Not always obvious. Sometimes just the curve of her shoulder, the tilt of her head, the faint suggestion of her eyes.
But there.
He reached for another sketchbook, flipping through ist pages.
Bold strokes. Light washes of color. Figures half-formed.
And then—
Every third drawing, without fail—her face.
Sometimes soft and smiling.
Sometimes guarded, looking over her shoulder.
But always her eyes, catching his.
Hongjoong rubbed a hand over his mouth, exhaling shakily.
Physics Girl.
She’d crept under his skin. Into his work. Into every corner of his head.
He set the sketchbook aside and buried his face in his hands.
He wasn’t used to this.
Wanting someone this much.
Needing them in a way that went beyond hunger, beyond curiosity.
This wasn’t an adventure anymore. This was real.
And she’d run.
His fingers tightened in his hair.
“Fuck…” he whispered.
The urge to find her—right now, to make her listen—burned in his chest.
But what if he pushed too hard? What if she pulled away for gorun.ä
What if…
No.
He slammed the sketchbook closed, determination settling heavy in his gut.
He’d let her run once. He wasn’t doing it again.
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The professor’s voice droned on, a steady hum about Bernoulli’s equation and laminar flow.
Y/N sat in the third row, pen poised over her notebook, but her notes were a scattered mess—half equations, half absent doodles of curved lines that could’ve been anything.
She wasn’t really listening.
It had been days.
No texts. No calls.
Nothing from Hongjoong.
Maybe that’s all it was, she thought grimly, flipping her pen in her fingers. An impulsive night. A fun little story for him to tell later.
Still, part of her couldn’t stop wondering.
If sex was all he wanted, why had he stuck around before?
The trivia nights. The midnight graffiti. The quiet conversations where he’d looked at her like she was… more.
Don’t do this, she warned herself. Don’t overthink it.
But it was already too late.
Class ended in a blur of rustling papers and shuffling feet. Y/N packed her bag carefully, tucking her cardigan tight around her shoulders.
As she stepped into the hallway, she froze.
Hongjoong was standing by the exit.
Leaning casually against the wall, hands in his pockets, hair slightly messy in that perfectly unintentional way. His dark eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on her.
He straightened immediately.
She felt her heart stutter painfully.
And then—the walls came up.
She dropped her gaze, adjusted her bag, and walked past him like he wasn’t there.
“Y/N.”
His voice was calm, steady, but it carried easily over the chatter of students.
She ignored it.
“Y/N!”
His footsteps followed.
She walked faster, her head down.
But he didn’t stop.
“Why did you leave?”
The words hit her like a jolt.
She stopped dead in her tracks.
Around them, conversations faltered. A few students slowed, openly staring at the scene—the art student with his messy hair and ripped jeans chasing down the quiet physics major.
Hongjoong came to stand beside her, his voice lower now but no less intense.
“Why didn’t you stay, Y/N? Why’d you sneak out like it meant nothing?”
She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, her throat tight.
“This isn’t the place for this,” she muttered.
“I don’t care,” he said softly, stepping closer. “I need to know.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw two girls whispering, their eyes darting between her and Hongjoong.
She felt heat rising in her cheeks, her pulse hammering as his presence pressed in—warm, insistent, impossible to ignore.
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She was walking away again.
Head down.
Bag clutched tight to her chest.
Moving like she could outrun him, outrun what happened between them.
And something in him just—snapped.
“WHY WOULD YOU LEAVE AFTER WE HAD SEX?”
The words tore out of his throat louder than he intended, echoing down the sterile science hallway.
Conversations stopped mid-word.
A few heads turned. Then more.
Within seconds the entire hallway was staring.
Y/N froze mid-step.
The line of her shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t turn around.
“You just—left,” Hongjoong said again, his voice still too loud. “Like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.”
He didn’t care about the eyes on them. The whispers.
He cared about the ache in his chest, the way she kept slipping through his fingers no matter how tight he tried to hold on.
When she finally turned her head, her expression wasn’t shocked or embarrassed.
It was bitter.
“Why wouldn’t I leave?” she murmured, her voice low but sharp enough to cut through him. “It was just… a little adventure, right? Isn’t that what you asked me for?”
The words weren’t meant for the crowd—they were for him. Quiet. Raw.
But in the hush that had fallen over the hall, they carried.
Hongjoong’s chest tightened painfully.
“That’s what you think?” he said hoarsely.
But Y/N was already turning away, her feet carrying her fast toward the exit.
“Y/N!”
His boots squeaked against the polished floor as he followed her, ignoring the stares, ignoring the murmurs of:
“Did he just say—”
“Oh my god.”
He caught up just outside the building, his hand curling lightly around her arm to stop her.
“Do you really think this is just an adventure for me?” he asked, his voice lower now—no less intense, but laced with something rawer.
Hurt.
“Because it’s not.”
She kept her gaze fixed ahead, jaw tight.
“Let me go, Hongjoong.”
“Not until you answer me.”
She wouldn’t even look at him.
Her gaze stayed glued to the ground, her body stiff and closed off like she’d built a fortress around herself in seconds.
He could almost feel the walls going up, brick by brick.
It made something inside him snap.
“Fine,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
Before she could react, his fingers closed gently but firmly around her wrist.
“Hongjoong—”
“Come with me.”
She stumbled a little as he tugged her down the steps of the science building.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, her voice sharp with confusion.
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t trust himself to.
Through the quad. Past curious stares and whispered speculation. Up the narrow stairwell of the art building until they reached the heavy studio door.
He shoved it open and pulled her inside.
The familiar scent of turpentine and graphite hit him immediately.
Light spilled across scattered sketchbooks and canvases, unfinished projects littering every surface.
But there—on the far wall—were the ones that mattered.
He let go of her wrist and strode across the room, grabbing one sketchbook, then another.
“Hongjoong, what—”
“I was fascinated by you the first time I saw you,” he said, his voice low and tight.
He turned to face her, his hands trembling slightly as he held out the sketchbook.
“It was like peeling an onion. Every time we met, I saw a new layer. A new side. And I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop wondering what else was under there.”
One by one, he flipped through the pages.
Y/N laughing softly at trivia night.
Y/N biting her lip in concentration.
Y/N’s profile in the golden light of a streetlamp.
Her eyes. Always her eyes.
“After a while,” he said hoarsely, “it wasn’t just fascination anymore. It wasn’t curiosity. It was—”
He dropped the sketchbook and ran a hand through his hair, pacing like a man unraveling.
“The only thing on my mind was you.”
Y/N stood frozen, her lips parted slightly, her eyes wide.
“Hongjoong—”
He stepped closer, his voice breaking.
“I like you. God, I like you. I’ve never wanted someone so badly to stay with me.”
His hands hovered for a moment before he reached out, his forehead pressing gently against her shoulder.
“Please,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Don’t run from me again.”
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She couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
Hongjoong’s voice filled the studio, each word heavy and unsteady like it was costing him everything to say it.
“I like you. God, I like you,” he said, his forehead resting briefly on her shoulder before he pulled back.
“I’ve never wanted someone so badly to stay with me.”
Her hands curled tightly at her sides, her mind blank.
This wasn’t what she’d expected.
This wasn’t what she thought he’d feel—not after everything, not after she’d convinced herself it was just an adventure for him.
He stepped back then, dragging a hand through his messy hair as he started pacing.
“When I woke up and you weren’t there…” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard, shaking his head like he could chase away the memory.
“It was like—like someone had punched straight through my chest. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Wondering if I pushed too hard. Wondering if I ruined it.”
He let out a shaky laugh, one hand gripping the edge of a paint-stained table as he stared down at the floor.
“That night…” He took a deep breath. “It wasn’t just about sex. It was—it was the best night I’ve had in years. Because it was with you.”
Y/N’s throat felt tight, her chest aching with each word.
Hongjoong looked up briefly, his dark eyes glinting with raw, unguarded emotion.
“Maybe I’m delusional,” he said hoarsely. “But I thought—I thought maybe you liked me too.”
Then he turned away, his shoulders tense as he stared out the window.
The light caught on the curve of his jaw, the set of his mouth as if he was bracing for impact.
“And if you don’t…” His voice dropped to a murmur, almost too quiet to hear.
“If you don’t like me like that, that’s okay. I’ll accept it.”
His fingers curled into fists at his sides.
“But I needed to know.”
For a long, breathless moment, she just stared at him.
Hongjoong stood at the window, shoulders tense, fists clenched at his sides like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.
The words he’d said still echoed in her head.
“I needed to know.”
Her feet moved before her brain caught up.
Slow, hesitant steps that felt heavier with each one.
She stopped just behind him and lifted her hand, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against his sleeve.
A small tug.
He stiffened.
Then slowly—like he wasn’t sure he could handle what he’d see—he turned to face her.
Her chest tightened as their eyes met.
She swallowed hard.
“I left,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, “because I was scared.”
His brows drew together, his lips parting slightly.
“I thought…” She exhaled shakily. “I thought if I stayed, I’d wake up and you’d say it was fun. Just another good adventure. And I thought maybe—” Her voice caught. “Maybe if I left first, it wouldn’t hurt as much when reality came crashing down.”
Hongjoong’s expression crumpled slightly, his eyes glinting in the dim studio light.
But she wasn’t done.
“I don’t know when it happened,” she said, her fingers tightening in the fabric of his sleeve. “But I started falling for you too.”
She let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking her head.
“I don’t even know why. We’re so different. You’re chaos and I’m… me.”
Her gaze flicked up to his, steady now despite the pounding of her heart.
“But somehow… we just fit.”
For a second, the silence was deafening.
Hongjoong didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Then—
His hands shot out, cupping her face as he pulled her to him in one fluid motion.
His forehead pressed to hers, his breath hot and uneven.
“Don’t you dare run again,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Because I’m not letting you go.”
And then his lips crashed onto hers.
The confession still hung in the air like a fragile thing, ready to shatter if either of them moved too quickly.
But when Y/N’s soft lips pressed back against his, something inside him snapped.
Weeks—months—of restraint, of wondering, of wanting all unraveled at once.
His hands slid down from her face to her waist, gripping her like he was terrified she’d disappear again.
“Tell me you’re staying this time,” he murmured against her mouth.
“I’m staying,” she whispered.
It was all he needed to hear.
He backed her slowly toward the nearest work table, their kisses growing messier, hungrier. Pencils clattered to the floor as her hips hit the edge of the table.
Y/N gasped softly as he lifted her onto it, standing between her legs.
His hands roamed her thighs, her waist, like he couldn’t decide where to start.
“You drive me crazy,” he said hoarsely, pressing kisses down her neck. “Every time I think I’ve figured you out… you do something that makes me fall harder.”
Her fingers threaded into his hair, tugging slightly as she tilted her head back, giving him more space to kiss along her jaw.
“Joong,” she murmured, her voice quiet but full of need.
His lips crashed back to hers as his hands worked under her cardigan, tugging it off her shoulders. She shivered slightly in the cool studio air.
“Too many clothes,” he muttered against her skin.
He pulled her sweater over her head, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of her bra-covered chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, kissing down the valley between her breasts as his fingers deftly unclasped her bra.
When it slipped away, he froze for half a second, drinking her in.
“Fucking perfect,” he said, his voice breaking.
His mouth found her nipple, tongue circling as his other hand cupped her opposite breast. Y/N let out a soft, breathless sound, her hands gripping the edge of the table.
“Joong…”
The sound of his name on her lips went straight to his core.
He dropped to his knees, tugging her jeans and panties down in one smooth motion.
Y/N’s breath hitched as the cool air hit her bare skin, but before she could say anything, Hongjoong’s hands were spreading her thighs.
“You’re already so wet for me,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over her clit as she gasped.
“I’ve thought about this,” he admitted, his voice low. “So many times. Having you like this. Tasting you.”
And then his mouth was on her.
Y/N’s hands flew to his hair, clutching tight as his tongue flicked and sucked in a steady rhythm that had her hips twitching.
“God—Joong—”
“Don’t hold back,” he said roughly, looking up at her with blown pupils. “Let me hear you.”
It didn’t take long before she was falling apart, her thighs trembling as she came with a soft cry, her fingers still tangled in his hair.
When he stood again, his lips were glistening and his grin was wicked.
“Physics Girl… I think I’m addicted to you.”
She reached for him then, her calm focus making his chest tighten as her fingers tugged at his belt.
“Let me,” she said softly.
His breath stuttered as she undid his pants, her hand brushing over his length through his boxers.
“Fuck—”
Moments later he was bare, a condom rolled on hastily as he kissed her senseless.
“You sure?” he asked against her lips.
“Yes.”
He pushed into her slowly, watching her face for any sign of hesitation.
Her eyes fluttered shut, her lips parting in a soft gasp as he bottomed out.
“God, Y/N…” he groaned, his forehead pressing to hers. “You feel… incredible.”
Their movements started slow, his hips rolling into hers as her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper.
Her small sounds—quiet moans, soft sighs—spurred him on, his pace picking up as the table creaked beneath them.
“I can’t get enough of you,” he murmured, kissing her hard as his thrusts grew more erratic.
“Joong—faster,” she whispered, her blunt honesty wrecking him completely.
“Fuck, I love it when you talk like that.”
Her nails dug into his shoulders as her climax built again, her body tightening around him.
“Come for me,” he urged, his thumb finding her clit to push her over the edge.
She cried out softly, her body trembling as she came undone beneath him.
He followed seconds later with a low, guttural sound, burying his face in her neck as he spilled into the condom.
For a moment, the only sound in the studio was their ragged breathing.
Then Hongjoong pulled her close, pressing his lips to her temple.
“You’re mine now,” he whispered, his voice still shaking. “I’m not letting you go again.”
She was still in his lap, warm and soft and so fucking perfect.
His arms were wrapped tightly around her waist, her face tucked into his neck. He hadn’t even thought about moving—pulling out felt impossible, like he’d be leaving part of himself behind.
“Don’t ever run from me again,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her damp hair.
She only nodded faintly, her fingers tracing slow patterns on his chest.
⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹
The door creaked open.
“Joong? I brought you—”
Hongjoong’s head shot up.
Seonghwa.
Standing in the doorway. Holding a plastic bag from the café.
And staring.
“Hyung—” Hongjoong started, his voice catching in his throat.
But Seonghwa’s eyes had already dropped.
To Hongjoong’s completely bare ass.
To Y/N’s legs still wrapped around his hips.
To the undeniable fact that Hongjoong was still buried deep inside her.
Seonghwa’s mouth opened.
Then closed.
Then opened again as his entire face turned crimson.
“Oh. My. GOD.”
Y/N made a tiny, horrified noise and tried to shift away, but Hongjoong’s arms locked around her instinctively.
“Don’t move,” he hissed under his breath, fumbling for the discarded cardigan on the table to drape over her shoulders.
“Hyung—GET OUT!”
“I—I—I didn’t—” Seonghwa stammered, his eyes wide in sheer, unfiltered horror. “I just—I thought you were sulking—”
“SEONGHWA!”
“RIGHT. OKAY. LEAVING.”
He spun around so fast the takeout bag hit the doorframe with a thunk.
“I DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING!” Seonghwa yelled as he stumbled backward out of the studio. “I SWEAR I SAW NOTHING!”
The door slammed shut so hard a few sketches fluttered off the wall.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence.
Then Hongjoong let out a strangled groan, burying his face in Y/N’s shoulder.
“Kill me now,” he muttered. “Just fucking kill me.”
Y/N didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Her entire face burned as she whispered, “I’m never showing my face again.”
Hongjoong tightened his hold on her, still completely inside her, and let out a humorless laugh.
“Guess Physics Girl isn’t our little secret anymore.”
Then they laughed.
⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹
It started with San.
“Hyung,” he said between cackles, “you have to tell it again.”
Seonghwa stiffened, gripping his beer like a lifeline.
“No.”
“Come on,” Wooyoung urged, grinning wickedly. “The way you described it before? Poetry. Absolute poetry.”
Even Yeosang—normally the picture of calm—had the faintest smirk as he added, “Don’t leave out any details this time.”
“I’m serious. Drop it,” Seonghwa muttered.
But the gleam of horror in his eyes gave him away.
Hana was already leaning against Y/N’s shoulder, tears running down her face.
“This is so bad,” Y/N whispered, clutching her glass like it could make her invisible.
“It was like—” Seonghwa finally began, his voice dropping into a horrified monotone.
Hongjoong’s head snapped up.
“Don’t you fucking—”
But Seonghwa was too far gone.
“I walked in holding food for him like a good hyung,” Seonghwa said dramatically. “The door was unlocked. I thought, ‘Maybe he’s sketching. Maybe he’s sulking. I’ll cheer him up.’”
“AND THEN—” He slammed his palm on the table for emphasis, making Y/N jump.
“I saw his BARE ASS—”
Hana lost it, clutching her stomach as she howled with laughter.
“Seonghwa—please,” Hongjoong groaned, dragging a hand over his face.
“I saw Physics Girl,” Seonghwa continued, voice cracking. “Wrapped around him like—like—” His hand made an incomprehensible gesture. “AND HE WAS STILL INSIDE HER.”
The table exploded into chaos.
San was crying, Mingi nearly fell off his chair, and Wooyoung slammed his fist on the table, wheezing.
“Hyung, you make it sound like fanfiction!” Jongho cackled.
“It WAS fanfiction,” Seonghwa said darkly. “But live action.”
Y/N wanted the earth to swallow her whole.
She buried her face in her hands, whispering, “I’m going to die. This is it. I’m actually going to die.”
Across the table, Hongjoong scowled at Seonghwa.
“You’re so dead.”
“ME?!” Seonghwa yelped, pointing at him. “YOU LEFT THE DOOR UNLOCKED! I’m traumatized forever!”
Hongjoong reached for his drink, muttering under his breath.
But when Y/N peeked between her fingers, she caught the faintest curve of his lips.
He was trying not to laugh.
And for some reason, that made her stomach flip.
⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹
The night air was cool and smelled faintly of smoke and fried food as they stepped out of the bar.
Hongjoong’s hand slid easily into hers, his thumb brushing lazily over her knuckles like he’d been holding it for years instead of minutes.
She peeked up at him as they walked, still trying to calm the heat in her cheeks.
“Where are we going this time?” she asked, her voice softer than she meant it to be.
He didn’t look at her. Just kept that little grin tugging at his lips.
“My girlfriend and I are going to cuddle in bed to a movie.”
Y/N stumbled slightly.
“Your—”
“Girlfriend,” he said again, glancing down at her with a look so fond it made her stomach twist. “Unless you’re going to tell me you’re not.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
“Didn’t think so,” Hongjoong teased, his grin widening as he squeezed her hand.
By the time they reached his dorm, Y/N’s heart was pounding in a way she refused to analyze.
He led her straight to his room, flicked on the soft yellow lamp by his bed, and tugged her down onto the mattress beside him.
“Movie preference?” he asked, already scrolling through his laptop.
“Anything but horror,” she murmured, kicking off her shoes.
“Noted.“
When he finally settled back, Y/N found herself tucked under his arm, her head resting on his chest as his fingers drew lazy patterns over her shoulder.
The movie played quietly in the background, but neither of them was really watching.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he said after a while.
“Just… thinking.”
“Dangerous habit,” he teased.
She turned her head slightly, her lips brushing against the fabric of his shirt.
“About?” he pressed gently.
“That I might like being your girlfriend,” she said before she could overthink it.
Hongjoong’s chest shook with quiet laughter as he kissed the top of her head.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not planning on letting you go.”
⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹
Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2
✉️Authors Note:
This started as a “just one little scene” idea and then turned into Hongjoong being an absolute menace of a free-spirited art major who falls stupidly hard for a physics girl that overthinks everything. Expect fluff, angst, smut (yes, that studio scene 💀), and a very traumatized Seonghwa. 🫠
Likes, comments, and screaming in the tags are highly encouraged. 💌
