(Extremely heavy themes — read carefully)
⚠️ Contains explicit sexual content, voyeuristic masturbation, stalking, home invasion, obsessive/delusional behavior, physical violence, drugging/forced unconsciousness, kidnapping
he loves you. he loves you. why don't you understand?
You don’t know you’ve met him yet.
Late afternoon, grocery aisles humming soft with compressors and a radio that only plays choruses. The fluorescents bleach everything a little—your neck, the paper list you’ve folded in half, the peaches you press your thumb into to test for give. You move like you have somewhere to be. You always do.
He watches the way your mouth tucks when you read a label. The way your fingers worry a loose thread at the cuff of your sleeve. The way you never stand quite in the center of a space—always an inch to the left, as if you’re leaving room for someone else.
As if you were leaving room for him.
Hyunjin stands two aisles over with a basket he doesn’t need and a jar of honey he’ll never open. When you pause at the endcap of pasta, he ghosts past the reflection in the chrome paneling, raises his phone chest-high, clicks—just once. Your profile, the slope of your nose, the soft intent in your eyes. When you reach for linguine, he catches a second shot of your wrist, tendons shifting beneath skin. He breathes in through his mouth.
“Hello,” he says without speaking, lips barely moving. “You took so long today.”
You tilt your head toward the olive oil. In his head, you answer him. I had class.
He smiles. Of course. He knew that.
You don’t see him in the checkout line. He likes it like that. He wants you to feel safe, ordinary, the way he will keep you. Outside, you step into the wash of late sun and cross against the light with a little, impulsive jog. He takes the back route, two car-lengths behind, phone tucked into his sleeve now, camera peeking past the cuff. A blur of your braid. The inside of your elbow as you adjust your bag strap. Your shadow, long on the pavement, intersecting with his.
At the corner, you answer your phone. You laugh at something that doesn’t deserve it. He catalogues the sound.
He doesn’t follow you to your door. He stops three buildings before and watches you vanish. The air holds you for a second longer than the sight of you does; he inhales and tastes citrus and soap and the ghost of your shampoo, or the idea of it, which is the same thing.
Home is a studio stacked with paintings and one narrow bed. The table is scarred with old X-Acto cuts, dotted with ink stains and the white freckles of dried gesso. He dumps the honey on the counter, forgets it exists. Prints three of the newest photos on the little dye-sub printer he keeps for you: your wrist near the pasta, your reflection bent in the convex of a freezer door, the perfect oval of your mouth as you say “oh” to no one in particular.
He tapes them to the wall above the low stool where he sits to sketch. There are others already there—hundreds. A constellation of you in every imagined mood.
He flips open a fresh pad. The paper sighs.
“Hi,” he murmurs, pencil hovering, then touching, the first curve finding your cheekbone without effort. “I missed you.”
You’ve never been still for him—not the way you are in his head. But he knows how your lip will soften if he asks nicely, how your lashes will lower, how your breath will hitch when his fingers slide into your hair. The graphite catches all of it: the light under your eyes, the vulnerable line of your throat when you tilt your head back for him, the notch at the base of your neck where he will put his mouth when you let him.
He draws your mouth open.
The heat at the base of his spine climbs. He shifts on the stool, exhale turning shaky, sweat gathering in the hollows of his collarbones. He doesn’t touch himself yet. He never does until he’s done.
He draws your hand next, spread over your own ribs, fingers splayed the way he likes when he tells you to hold yourself open for him. He gives you his hoodie in the sketch and nothing else. Your knees press together, thighs glossy with the shine he puts there.
“Good girl,” he says softly, pencil working, the dull thud of his pulse in his ears. “You waited for me.”
When he finally reaches for himself, it’s with his left hand, the one that isn’t dusted in graphite. He palms himself over sweats, a light test that makes his head drop back against the wall. He’s already leaking, damp spot growing. He presses his thumb there and circles, slow, gathering the wet to make the fabric slide. The little gasp he lets out is embarrassed and purely delighted.
“Look at you,” he tells you. You’re all eyes, in his head, as if you’ve been watching patiently from the grocery store to here, as if you sat down cross-legged on the paint-splattered floor and waited for him to take the hint. “You wanted this all day.”
He pushes waistband down and frees himself, breath catching when the cooler air hits. He’s thick in his own fist, flushed dark at the crown, a slick bead clinging and threatening to fall. He blinks, slow. He won’t let it. He tips his hips and catches the bead with his thumb, smears it down the underside where he’s sensitive, the wet sound as obscene as a kiss in a church.
“Come closer,” he whispers, shifting the pad to his knee, angling the drawing so the mouth he made for you lines up with his line of sight. “Let me see you.”
His hand moves in a lazy stroke from base to tip, twisting just enough at the top to make his stomach jump. He breathes you in through his teeth and lets the exhale stutter out, again, again. His thighs tense; the stool creaks.
He doesn’t rush. The first few minutes are meditation—pressure, release, the greased slide of his fist, the way his body preens into the rhythm like a cat into a palm. He murmurs nonsense: thank you, there you are, keep your eyes on me—pleases, like you’re being good for him, like you could ever be anything else.
When he opens his eyes again, he’s already flushed, chest heaving lightly, a line of sweat at his hairline. He wipes it away with his wrist, leaves a smear of graphite across his temple. The drawing of your mouth looks wet now because he’s decided it is.
He leans forward.
He drags his next stroke slower, meaner, knuckles skimming the aching head, thumb pausing to circle the slit until his knees threaten to jerk. He squeezes the base, holds, breathes through it—a learned denial that brings the pleasure up tight and makes it burn brighter when he lets it move again.
“Shy today?” he asks, eyes on the cock-hard shine of the tip, on the twitch his own hand draws out of himself. “It’s okay. I’ll do the work.”
He spits into his palm—quick and efficient, a slick thread that strings to his fist and snaps. The sound he makes when he returns to himself is unguarded and low. He starts a steadier pace, each stroke long and deliberate, wrist flexing, fingers choking up just enough to pinch at the head without hurting. His hips answer. He pictures the way your tongue would flatten at the first taste, the way your throat would tense around him if he slid deeper, the surprised little cough when your nose kissed his abdomen.
His free hand drifts to the drawing without thought. His fingertips skim the paper where he darkened the corner of your smile. He rubs lightly, smudging the graphite so it looks like you’ve kissed back. His breath shakes.
“You’re so pretty,” he says, voice frayed. “You’re always—so—look at me, baby. You love me. You do.”
He edges himself and backs off, edges again. The second time, his eyes roll and his mouth goes open and soft; he holds at the base, counts heartbeat after heartbeat until the trembling settles into a clean ache. He’s slick now; even a whisper of pressure slips. He grips tighter, cruder, the heel of his palm pressing against himself in a way that makes his thighs jolt.
He looks up at the photographs. The freezer-door reflection catches him, that curve of your cheek, the shine over the stainless. He sees you seeing him. Relief floods him so hot he almost comes right there.
“Yeah,” he pants, smiling, not quite sane. “I know. I know. You’re so brave.”
He speeds up. The room narrows around the rhythm—the wet shuck of his hand, the small animal sounds he can’t stifle anymore, the tiny jerks of his hips as he fucks up into his fist. He tips his head to give the fantasy more room: you on your knees between his spread thighs on this stupid paint-splattered floor; your fingers splayed on his knees; your eyes patient and worship-bright, a string of spit falling from your lip to the head of him, breaking, reforming, breaking.
“Take me,” he whispers fiercely, and his pace turns ruthless. “C’mon, take me—don’t run, don’t run, open up—good girl—”
He can feel the heat sprinting up his spine now, a grabbed electrical wire of a feeling that climbs with every slide. He doesn’t fight it this time. He drops his head, braces his heel, fucks his fist like it can bruise him from the inside. The wet sound of his palm sliding across the length of him gets messy, slick, perfect.
When he breaks, he does it with a sound he’d be embarrassed to make anywhere else. It rips up from the bottom of him, a shocked, grateful thing, and his whole body locks. The first thick pulse hits his knuckles, hot enough to startle, and he drags his fist away just in time to paint the drawing.
It hits your mouth first—the one he drew—and then lower, a line of white across his hoodie he drew you in, a wet shine over the graphite shadow he put at your sternum. More follows, pulsing, spilling, striping the edge of one of the photos, catching the corner and bleeding into the paper like milk into coffee.
He rides it hard, chasing the last little flashes with a few shaky strokes that make him groan, softer, helpless. When it tapers off, he leans forward and lets his forehead thump to the table, breath coming like he’s been pulled out of deep water.
“God,” he laughs, wrecked and happy, the sound breaking into a sigh. “Good. So good.”
He opens his eyes, dazed. The drawing is ruined and holy.
He touches the wet at your mouth with two fingers. Spreads it a little. Makes a thumbprint on your cheek like a claim. He will not wipe this away. He will fix it with spray, let the gloss dry hard, catch light the way your skin does when you’ve just kissed him and you’re trying not to smile.
“Mine,” he says, tender, certain. He presses his lips to two knuckles. “You’re so good to me.”
He cleans his hand with an old shirt and forgets to throw it toward the laundry hamper. He props the sketchpad against the wall to dry, right in the line of sight from his pillow. The photos drip at the corners; he doesn’t mind the warping. It makes them more real.
On the bed, he lies on his back, one forearm over his eyes, his mouth tilted up like he’s still kissing you. Calm spreads out in him in slow, warm rings.
Tomorrow, he’ll sit two tables over at the café and you’ll check your messages and stir sugar into your drink and know, in the way that matters, that he is there. He’ll show you the newest page if you ask. He’ll hide it if you’re shy. He’ll wait, as long as you need, because waiting is the same as having when you already belong to him.
He falls asleep like that for a minute, lulled by the hum of the fridge and the faint paint-smell; when he wakes, he rolls to his side and looks at your mouth again. The gloss has begun to dry. It catches the evening light in a way that makes his chest ache.
“Soon,” he murmurs, eyes soft, the promise an easy, lethal thing. “I’ll bring you home soon.”
You talk to him for the first time a week later.
It’s nothing.
You’re at the crosswalk outside the art store he sometimes uses for brushes, juggling a tote bag and what looks like a portfolio tube. You’re trying to balance it all while you dig in your pocket for your headphones. The pedestrian signal chirps; people surge around you.
Someone bumps into you from behind. Your tube slips. The strap catches, jerking your shoulder.
“Sorry,” you say automatically, breathless.
The man grunts and moves on.
You don’t even look back.
Hyunjin does. The guy is twice his size and already halfway down the block. It takes everything in him not to follow, not to tap him on the shoulder and ask if he’s always so careless with priceless things.
“You okay?” he says under his breath, watching the way you shake your arm out, roll your shoulder once.
He imagines you saying, Yeah. I’m okay. I’ve got it.
The light changes. The crowd moves. You step forward, caught in the river of bodies.
Your portfolio tube slips again. This time, the strap snags the edge of your coat; you stumble, foot catching on the curb.
Hyunjin’s hand is on your elbow before he thinks about it.
It’s instinct. That’s what he tells himself later. Reflex.
You jerk, head whipping toward him. For one bright, shocked second, your eyes meet.
His world goes silent.
Up close, you’re all the specifics his drawings have been missing. Tiny freckle at the corner of your left eye. Faint line where your bottom lip is a bit drier than the rest. A tiny, irritated flush just beneath your jaw from the weight of the strap.
“I’ve got it,” you say, recovering your balance. Your voice is straighter than he expected, less soft. “Thanks.”
You pull your elbow free. He lets you. You don’t look at him longer than the courtesy demands; your gaze skips once over his face, uncomprehending, and then you’re angling away, crossing the street, phone already in your hand.
He stands on the curb, fingers tingling where your warmth was, heart pounding so hard it feels like it’s rattling his ribs.
You spoke to him.
You.
Spoke.
To him.
You thanked him.
You let him touch you.
You didn’t pull away until you were steady.
He replays all three seconds as you walk away, as you turn the corner, as you vanish. Every blink, every shift of your weight, every syllable.
“Thanks,” he mimics quietly.
You were nervous. That’s why you didn’t hold his gaze. That’s why your elbow twitched when he steadied you. You’re not used to being taken care of. You don’t know how to trust it yet.
You will.
He walks home in a daze.
That night, he doesn’t need photos.
He sits cross-legged on the floor instead, sketchbook braced on his thighs, lamp tilted low. He draws from memory: your shoulders hunched over the laptop, the deep fatigue carved under your eyes.
He redraws it differently.
In his version, your shoulders are still tired, but they’re wrapped in his clothes. Your jaw is soft because you’re half-asleep, cheek pressed to his thigh while he combs his fingers through your hair and tells you you’re not allowed to stay up all night alone anymore.
He jerks off once, slow and thorough, to the thought of your mouth slack and drooling a little on his leg while he talks on the phone about something that doesn’t matter. He finishes smeared over the curve of your cheek on the page. He laughs, breathless and fond, and writes mine over the stain before it dries.
The shift happens on a Wednesday.
You’re at the bookshop, tucked behind the register with a textbook open flat on the counter. It’s a slow hour; the bell above the door hasn’t chimed in thirty minutes. You chew the end of your pen and frown down at a paragraph, utterly unaware that the chewing is going to haunt him later.
He pretends to browse.
He’s good at it now, letting his fingers skate over spines he won’t remember, tilting covers to catch the light. He hovers two aisles away, close enough to watch you reflected in the little round mirror above the bargain table. Your eyes flit across the lines. Your knee bounces under the counter. You don’t look up.
He loves you so much he could scream.
The bell chimes.
He glances over in time to see a guy in a hoodie and ballcap walk in, head down, scrolling his phone. He’s about Hyunjin’s height, stockier, hands tucked into his pockets.
He goes straight to you.
You look up, startled, then smile when you recognize him. Hyunjin’s hand tightens automatically around the spine of a book.
“Hey,” you say. Your voice does a different little thing, lighter, sweeter. “You’re early.”
Hyunjin’s vision tunnels.
The guy leans on the counter, grinning. “Got out of practice quick. Coach wasn’t in the mood to torture us today.”
You laugh. “Can you get him to talk to my professors?”
“Please, your professors probably love you.”
“Debatable.”
The guy reaches across the counter and flicks your pen out of your hand. You grab for it, smack his wrist. You’re still smiling.
“Stop,” you say, mock-annoyed. “I’m trying to actually learn something for once.”
“You can learn after dinner,” he says. “I’m starving.”
“Then go eat,” you say. “I still have half an hour.”
He pouts. “Can’t we just go now? No one’s here.”
“I’m still on the clock,” you say. “My manager will murder me.”
“He won’t know,” he wheedles.
Hyunjin closes the book very carefully before he crushes the cover.
This is new.
This is wrong.
You don’t have a boyfriend. You don’t even flirt. He would know. He’s watched you for months. He’s heard every conversation, heard every phone call you’ve answered in public. There hasn’t been anyone.
Except now there is this.
“Seriously, go sit,” you say, jerking your chin toward the little café corner at the back. “I’ll be off in a bit. I’m not getting fired because you’re hungry.”
“Fine,” the guy sighs, but he’s smiling. He grabs your pen again, pockets it this time. “I’m stealing this.”
“No, you’re not,” you protest, reaching over the counter. He leans in and you end up half sprawled across the wood, laughing, fingers grappling with his.
“I’ll trade,” he says.
“For what?”
“For this.”
He dips in and kisses you.
It’s quick. Barely more than a brush of mouths. But you soften into it after the initial shock, hand fisting gently in the front of his hoodie. When he pulls back, you’re flushed in a way Hyunjin has never seen before.
“Idiot,” you mumble, but you’re smiling. You don’t ask for the pen back.
The guy ruffles your hair and retreats to the café with a last, soft look. Your eyes trail him for a second before you snap back to your textbook, face taut in a way that says you’ll overthink that kiss for the rest of the shift.
Hyunjin stands frozen in the aisle, hands empty.
There’s a high, whining sound in his ears.
No. No, this isn’t—this isn’t real. This is a blip. A trial run. People make mistakes. You’re tired. You’re overworked. You don’t mean it. This is a phase. A detail. A smudge he can rub out.
He could go home and draw this version: your hand tangled in someone else’s shirt. He could watch the line of your mouth curve for the wrong person and fix it on paper, erase the hoodie, replace the jaw, make it his.
He doesn’t.
But he does leave.
He doesn’t remember getting out of the shop, doesn’t remember the bell, doesn’t remember the air between the door and the sidewalk. He finds himself three blocks away, back pressed to a brick wall, hands shaking.
He laughs once, breathless and incredulous.
“Okay,” he whispers, more to the sky than to himself. “Okay. I get it. You’re mad at me.”
He’s been greedy. He knows that. Keeping you all to himself, hoarding your words, your images, your little quirks like they belong in his chest instead of your own life. Letting months pass without giving you the chance to meet him properly. It’s understandable that you’d… drift. That you’d be lonely. That you’d accept the first idiot who put his mouth on you like you were available.
His stomach rolls.
He presses his palms to his eyes until stars bloom.
“You don’t know,” he tells himself quietly. “You don’t know. You don’t know any better yet.”
The thought steadies him.
The real firsts don’t count when they’re with the wrong people. Everyone knows that. You’re practicing. That’s all. You’re killing time with some guy whose name he’ll forget as soon as this is fixed. You’ll look back from where you’re supposed to be—his bed, his arms, his life—and you’ll laugh at yourself, at how desperate you were back then to feel anything.
He peels off the wall and walks fast.
There’s only one place he wants to be now and that's with you. He has to make his move. Before it’s too late.
You don’t notice anything wrong at first.
You’re too tired, for one. The kind of tired that makes the hallway blur—the elevator ride a soft, humming blank between the bookshop and your floor. Your shoulder still remembers the weight of a hand that shouldn’t mean as much as it does. Your mouth still tingles where he kissed you.
Stupid, you think, as you dig for your keys. You’re going to overthink that for a week.
The hall outside your apartment is the same as always: ugly carpet, buzzing overhead light, someone’s package leaned against the wall waiting to be stolen. You shift your bag higher on your shoulder and fumble the key into the lock. It sticks, like it always does. You jiggle up then left. The deadbolt thunks back.
You push the door with your hip.
Darkness, at first. The familiar kind. Your curtains are closed; the city outside is a smear through cheap fabric. You toe your shoes off by muscle memory, one, two, heel pressed to heel. Your bag drops onto the little entry table with a tired thud. Keys in the dish. Phone on top of them.
You don’t turn the light on right away. You never do. You like the pause—the exhale in dimness before the apartment fully exists, before you see the dishes in the sink or the laundry you forgot or the emails you don’t want to open.
You stand there a second, listening to yourself breathe.
The quiet is wrong.
It takes your brain a beat to decide that.
The building’s noises are there—the distant plumbing, someone’s TV muffled through two walls—but your apartment has its own soundscape: the tick of the cheap clock over the stove, the faint hum of the fridge, the sigh of the old window when the wind hits just right.
You hear the fridge. You don’t hear the clock.
You left it running this morning. You remember complaining about it to yourself when you were hunting for your other shoe. You don’t remember… stopping it.
You frown into the dark, hand feeling for the light switch.
You don’t flip it.
Your fingers brush the plastic and then freeze, some animal part of you suddenly, painfully awake. The hair on your arms lifts. A current runs underneath your skin, a low electric hum that has nothing to do with the wiring.
If someone’s in here, you think, wild and flat at the same time, hitting the lights just tells them exactly where you are.
You swallow. Your mouth is dry.
“Hello?” you call.
It sounds stupid the second it leaves your lips. This is exactly what gets people killed in all those horror films you’ve watched.
The apartment doesn’t answer.
Your eyes start to adjust. Shapes resolve: the couch as a hulking rectangle, the cluttered low shelf under the TV, the half-full laundry basket by the hallway. Everything is where you left it and wrong anyway, like someone has picked your life up and put it down a centimeter to the left.
You step out of your shoes and onto the cool wood. Your feet are silent. Your heart is not.
“Okay,” you mutter, for yourself. “Okay. You’re being weird. It’s fine.”
You reach again for the switch.
A breath answers you.
Not yours.
It’s soft, caught, the kind someone makes when they forget to hide it. It comes from deeper in, not the main room. Somewhere down the short hallway that leads to your bathroom and bedroom.
Every muscle in your body locks.
You stand there, hand hovering over the switch, fingers shaking now.
“Who’s there?” you say.
This time your voice cracks. You hate that.
Silence again. Long enough that you start to doubt your own ears. Long enough that you think, hysterically, Maybe it was the building settling, maybe it was a pipe, maybe it was—
“Hey,” a voice says.
You jump.
It’s not loud. Not threatening. You know loud; you grew up in a house where anger broke the sound barrier. This is… gentle. A little hoarse, like its owner hasn’t used it in hours. The sound threads down the hall and into your chest.
“I didn’t want to scare you,” he adds.
You flick the light on.
The apartment snaps into being. Couch, shelf, laundry, your jacket thrown over the back of a chair. The cheap art print over the TV. The kitchen counter with two mugs by the sink, one clean, one not. Everything, everywhere, too bright.
There’s a man sitting on your couch.
You know two things at once: you have never seen him before in your life, and yet you have seen him a thousand times.
Long legs spread just enough to brace on the floor. Dark hair pulled back in a loose half-tie, a few strands falling around his face. Black jeans, black t-shirt speckled with what looks like old paint. Hands folded carefully between his knees, like he’s trying to look nonthreatening.
“Hi,” he says, almost shy. “You’re home.”
Your body reacts before your brain catches up. You stumble back, shoulder slamming into the door. Your hand scrabbles blindly for the lock, the knob, anything.
“How the—” Your voice comes out thin. You swallow, try again. “Who are you? Get out. Get out or I’m calling the police.”
He flinches at police like other people flinch at gunshots. It’s small, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but you see it. His hands tighten once and then loosen again. He doesn’t stand.
“I know this looks bad,” he says.
You laugh. It’s a horrible sound, high and too loud. “You’re in my apartment.”
“I know.” He nods, earnest. “I was going to be gone before you got back, but you left work early and—” He breaks off, shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel unsafe.”
“You broke into my apartment,” you repeat, as if maybe he missed that part. “You’re in my apartment. There’s no version of this where I don’t feel unsafe.”
“I didn’t break anything,” he says quickly. “The lock’s cheap. It sticks if you push up, then left. You know that.”
Your stomach drops.
“How do you know that?” you whisper.
He blinks. For the first time, something like uncertainty ghosts across his expression. Like he thought you were further along in this conversation than you are.
“We can talk about that,” he says. “Just—can you close the door?”
The door is still cracked from when you slammed into it. A thin slice of hallway, empty and humming, shows through.
Every instinct you have screams to yank it open and run.
His eyes flick to the gap, then back to you.
If you turn and bolt, he’ll be on you. You know that without knowing how you know. He hasn’t moved, but there’s something in the line of his body, in the casual bend of his knees, that says coiled, ready.
You don’t move.
“I’ll scream,” you say instead. “My neighbors will hear.”
He nods like that’s reasonable. “Okay.”
He doesn’t sound worried.
You fumble for your phone on the table without taking your eyes off him. Your fingers close on empty wood.
Your keys are in the dish.
Your phone is not.
Cold slips down your spine, joint by joint.
“Looking for this?” he asks softly.
He lifts your phone from the cushion beside him, like a magician producing a rabbit. Your screen is dark. His thumb rests a hair’s breadth from the side button.
“I didn’t go through it,” he says. “I promised myself I wouldn’t. That felt like… too much. Like stealing. I’ve just been holding it.”
He says it like that should be a comfort.
You stare at the phone, then at him.
“Get out,” you say again. Your voice is steadier now. Anger is easier than fear; it gives your words weight. “Leave my phone and get out, or I swear to god—”
“Y/N.”
The sound of your name in his mouth almost knocks you over.
He says it gently, carefully, like he’s practiced getting the weight of the syllables right. Like he likes the shape of it.
Every nerve you have lights up.
“Don’t,” you say. It comes out too quiet. “Don’t call me that. You don’t know me.”
He smiles, small and bewildered, like you’ve said something mildly funny.
“I know you,” he says.
You shake your head. Your heart is a painful, frantic drum. “No. You don’t. I have never seen you before. How did you get in here?”
He exhales, a little sigh through his nose. You get the sense he’s having a different argument in his head and you’re losing it without even being told the rules.
“The super’s careless,” he says. “He leaves the spare keys in the office drawer with the door open. It took a while to figure out which one was yours, but…” His shoulders lift in a tiny shrug. “Worth it.”
Your stomach flips.
“How long,” you ask, each word measured, “have you been doing that?”
The smile fades.
“You were really stressed during midterms,” he says instead of answering. “You kept falling asleep at your desk. I hated that. Your neck is going to be a problem in ten years if you keep doing that.”
You feel nauseous.
You think about all the nights you’ve dragged yourself home, tossed your bag, face-planted into your textbooks. The mornings you woke up with a blanket over your shoulders you didn’t remember pulling down from the couch. The days you told yourself you just forgot you’d done that.
Your skin crawls.
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “Oh my god.”
He sees it land. His expression crumples in slow motion.
“No,” he says quickly. “No, don’t—hey, don’t look at me like that. I never hurt you. I would never—”
“You were here,” you snap. “In my apartment. While I was sleeping.”
“I was making sure you were okay,” he says, as if that should have been obvious. “You don’t take care of yourself. You forget to eat, you fall asleep sitting up, you walk home with your headphones in and your keys between your fingers like that would stop anyone—”
“You were watching me?” you say, voice rising. “How long?”
He hesitates.
“Hyunjin,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
“My name,” he says. “It’s Hyunjin.”
He says it like that answers anything.
“I don’t care what your name is,” you spit. “Get. Out.”
He winces, a quick, wounded flick around his eyes, but his body doesn’t move. If anything, he looks heavier in the room now, like the air has decided to arrange itself around him.
“I know you’re scared,” he says softly. “I know this is sudden. I thought we’d have more time. That’s on me. I waited too long.”
“You didn’t wait at all,” you say. “You—what, you just picked me and… and decided we’re what, friends? Dating? Is that it? Is that what this is?”
His eyes brighten like you’ve given him a gift.
“See?” he says quietly. “You do know.”
“I don’t know anything,” you snap. Your hand gropes along the wall behind you, searching for something, anything—a sharp edge, a heavy object—but there’s nothing within reach but the smooth paint and the useless little framed print you hung there sophomore year. “You’re a stranger. You are in my apartment. You need to leave.”
“No,” he says.
The word is still soft. It lands like a locked door.
Something in you frays.
“Then I’ll leave,” you say, pushing off the door. Your body wants to shake; you don’t let it. You put one foot in front of the other, edging toward the gap.
He stands.
It’s slow, unhurried, but somehow he’s taller than you thought he was when he does it. The room feels smaller with him upright. He doesn’t lunge. He doesn’t have to. Two steps and he’s between you and the door, hands loose at his sides, not touching you.
“Move,” you say.
“Just…” He swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs. “Can you sit down? Please? We can talk. You’ll feel better when you understand.”
“There’s nothing to understand,” you say. Your throat burns. “You’re a stalker and a freak and you broke into my home. That’s it. That’s all there is.”
He flinches at freak like you slapped him.
A flicker of something ugly slips through his expression and is gone so fast you almost think you imagined it.
“Don’t call me that,” he says, very quietly.
Your pulse stutters.
You press your back harder into the wall, as if you could sink through it. His body blocks the only exit. The window behind the couch is a death drop onto an alley. You think, distantly, about your neighbor across the hall, about whether she’s home, about how loud you would have to scream for her to knock.
Hyunjin takes a breath, lets it out slow.
“You’re tired,” he says. “You’ve had a long day. You’re upset about the boy from the shop—”
“Don’t,” you snap. “Don’t talk about him.”
“You’re not yourself right now,” he continues, as if you haven’t spoken. “You’re scared. I get it. I’d be scared too, if I thought I was alone and then I wasn’t. But you’ve never been alone, Y/N.”
Your name again, threaded through the sentence like an anchor.
You shake your head. “You need to stop saying my name like that.”
“Like what?” he asks, genuinely puzzled.
“Like you own it,” you choke.
He tilts his head. His gaze drags over your face, searching. Cataloguing. You feel it everywhere it touches, like fingers.
“It’s yours,” he says eventually. “I just… like holding it.”
You almost laugh. It comes out broken on the edges.
“You’re insane,” you say.
He thinks about that for a beat.
“Probably,” he says. “But I’m not wrong.”
You don’t know what to do with that.
“Move,” you say again, last try. “Please. Just—let me leave. You can stay here and be crazy or whatever, and I’ll go outside and call the cops and you can run, but I am not staying in here with you.”
His jaw tightens.
“You’re not calling the cops,” he says. There’s no bluster in it. No threat. Just certainty. “You wouldn’t do that to me.”
“I don’t even know you,” you say.
“You do,” he says. “You just haven’t caught up yet.”
You stare at each other.
You’ve been tired all day, but whatever fog you were walking around in has burned off, replaced with a sharp, painful clarity. Every sense is painfully open. You can smell the faint oil paint on his shirt, the trace of your own detergent in the room, the metallic tang of your own fear at the back of your tongue.
He looks at you like you’re a painting he’s been working on for months that finally came into focus.
“I’m going to scream,” you say.
His eyes soften, which is the last thing you expect.
“You can,” he says. “If you really want to. But then they’ll come, and you’ll have to explain why you didn’t notice any of the other times I was here. Why you didn’t wake up. Why you slept with the door unlocked that one week. Why you walked home alone in the dark so many nights after that. They’ll ask a lot of questions, and you’re so tired, baby. You don’t want that.”
Your stomach lurches at baby.
“I’ll tell them everything,” you say, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat. “I’ll tell them I didn’t know, because I didn’t, and they will drag you out of here in handcuffs and I will never have to see you again.”
His mouth curves, almost fond.
“You really think,” he says, quiet, “I’d let them take you away from me now?”
A pulse beats hard at your temple. You feel lightheaded.
“You mean take you away,” you say.
He shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “I meant what I said.”
He takes one slow step closer. You flatten against the wall. Your hands curl into fists at your sides to stop them from shaking.
“I love you,” he says.
It hits you like a blow.
The room tilts. You grab for air.
“You don’t even know my favorite color,” you say, because that’s what comes out, because your brain is doing triage with nonsense.
“Blue,” he answers, without hesitation. “Not the bright one, the soft one you wear in your hair sometimes. You drink iced coffee even when it’s cold. You hate leaving emails unread but do it anyway when they scare you. You only call your mom on Sundays because you need the mental buffer. You crack your knuckles when you’re about to lie. You think nobody notices.”
Your hands uncurl. Your knuckles ache.
“Stop,” you whisper.
“You apologize too much,” he says softly. “You cry at car commercials and then pretend you have something in your eye. You take naps with your mouth open. You drool. It’s cute. You hate being called cute.”
You feel sick.
“This isn’t love,” you say. “This is—this is you spying on me and pretending it’s a personality quiz. This is you building some fucked up little shrine and deciding I’m your main character.”
His gaze flicks, just once, to the hallway that leads to your bedroom.
“Yeah,” you say, voice shaking now. “Yeah, I know you’ve been in there. What did you do? Take photos? Steal my underwear? Go through my journal? Did you like the part where I wrote about wanting to claw my own skin off? Did that turn you on?”
He flinches like you slapped him.
“I would never read something you didn’t want me to,” he says, low. “I’m not a monster.”
You laugh, sharp and ugly.
“You’re in my apartment,” you say for the third time. “You let yourself in with my keys. You watched me sleep. You watched me shower? Did you? Did you stand in the hallway and listen—”
“No,” he snaps, sudden and sharp. Anger flashes bright across his face, then shutters. “No. I give you privacy. I’m not—” He cuts himself off, breath coming fast. “I just make sure you’re safe.”
“You’re the thing I need to be safe from,” you say.
He looks at you for a long moment.
Then he sighs.
“I knew you were going to say that,” he murmurs. “I was hoping we’d get there slower.”
He lifts your phone, turning it over in his hand once, twice. His thumb presses the side button. Your lock screen flares to life—time, missed notifications, the last photo you took at the café. He studies it, expression unreadable, then clicks it dark again.
“I’m not leaving,” he says. “And you’re not either.”
The words slot into place with all the quiet inevitability of gravity.
You realize, belatedly, that he hasn’t stepped between you and the door by accident. That he has your phone, your keys, your routine, your whole small life in his hands, and he honestly believes that’s the same thing as care.
Your heart hammers once, twice, like it’s trying to punch through your ribs.
The hallway behind him stretches toward your bedroom, where the window sticks and the fire escape is rusted and the lock is a joke. You don’t know yet which way you’re going to run.
You just know you’re done standing still.
You don’t decide so much as your body does.
One second you’re pinned in place by his stare, the next something in you snaps like an overstretched rubber band. Your vision tunnels; the edges of the room fuzz. Fight or flight stops being a theory and becomes a command.
You smile.
It feels wrong on your face. Too bright. Too sharp. But you watch his shoulders slip the tiniest fraction, something hopeful flickering at the corners of his mouth.
“Okay,” you say.
Your voice doesn’t sound like yours. It sounds higher, sweeter. You push your hands away from your sides, fingers uncurled, palms empty.
“Okay,” you repeat. “Fine. You want to… talk? We can talk. Just—” You force a little laugh. “Can we do it sitting down? My legs are killing me.”
He studies you.
You keep your gaze loose, your shoulders slouched, like the adrenaline isn’t making your fingertips tingle.
Please be stupid, you think. Please be exactly as stupid as you look.
Hyunjin’s head tips, birdlike. His eyes soften again.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah. That’s fair.”
He steps sideways, opening a slim corridor between you and the living room.
He doesn’t step far enough to clear the door.
You don’t go for the door.
You go left.
The kitchen is three strides away. You hit the tile too fast, socked feet sliding. Your hand shoots out for the counter to steady yourself; your hip clips the edge hard enough to bruise. You don’t feel it. You’re already reaching for the knife block.
There’s nothing in it.
Your fingers close on empty slots, wood smooth and mocking under your palm.
For a heartbeat, your brain just… blanks.
No. You did dishes yesterday. You put them back. You remember the clack of blade against wood, the way you shoved the biggest knife in too hard and had to wiggle it free and try again. You are not crazy. You are not misremembering.
You look at the block properly.
Every slot is empty.
Slowly, like you’re underwater, you turn your head.
Hyunjin is still by the doorway. He hasn’t moved. He just looks at you, expression almost apologetic.
“Knives are dangerous,” he says.
You throw the block.
You don’t aim. You just swing your arm and let it fly, wood leaving your hand with more force than you knew you had. It hits the wall a foot to his left, bounces off, and clatters to the floor, one corner splintering.
He flinches, but he doesn’t duck. Doesn’t even raise a hand.
“Okay,” he says, voice thin now. “Okay. I deserved that.”
You’re already moving again.
Drawer. You yank it open. Forks, spoons, chopsticks. No knives. Next one—takeout menus, batteries, dead pens. Next—towels. You slam it so hard it bounces back an inch and nearly pinches your fingers.
“Looking for a weapon?” he asks, still too calm. “Baby, do you know how easy it is to hide that kind of thing?”
“Stop calling me that,” you snarl.
Your heart is pounding so hard your vision throbs with it. You need something. Anything. Heavy, sharp, breakable—
Your eyes land on the mug by the sink. The big one with the chip in the rim.
You grab it by the handle and hurl it.
This time, you aim.
Hyunjin is closer than he was. He takes a half-step back when your arm moves, but he’s not fast enough; the mug catches his shoulder and explodes against the wall. Ceramic shards skitter across the floor, one pinging off his jaw.
He grunts, actually staggering. A darker patch blooms on the black of his shirt, near the curve of his collarbone.
Good, you think, wild and vicious. Bleed.
You don’t wait to see how bad it is. You bolt.
You don’t go for the door now—he’s too close, his body still between you and the exit. You spin past the couch instead, shoes abandoned by the entry, purse spilled, sprinting down the short hall toward your bedroom.
“Y/N,” he calls.
You don’t hear what comes after your name. You’re already in the room, slamming the door, shoving your full weight against it. Your hands fumble for the tiny lock, thumb slipping twice before it finally clicks.
Your whole body is shaking. Your lungs burn.
Okay. Okay. Breathe. Window.
You stumble to it, yank the blinds up, fingers tangling in the cheap plastic cords. The sash is down; you grab and heave. It sticks, like it always does. You grunt, shoulders straining, nails scraping paint.
“Come on,” you hiss. “Come on, come on—”
The wood gives with a shudder and jumps up an inch. Cold air knifes in. You squirm your fingers under the frame, trying to drag it higher.
Something slams into the door.
The thin wood jumps. You do too.
“Open the door,” Hyunjin says. His voice is muffled, but you can hear the strain lining it now.
“Fuck you,” you snap.
Your arms shake. The window stutters up another inch, another, shrieking in protest. It’s barely high enough to fit your torso, but you don’t need graceful. You just need through.
You wedge a knee onto the sill.
The door rattles again, harder.
“Please,” he says. “You’re going to hurt yourself. The fire escape’s rusted, it’s not safe—”
He knows the fire escape.
Of course he knows the fire escape.
You drag one leg up, sideways, thump your thigh against the sill. The metal outside is slick with old rain and god knows what else. Three floors down, the alley yawns narrow and vertical, dumpsters hulking shapes in the dark.
Your window doesn’t have a safety bar. You’ve made jokes about that. You’ve been grateful for it in summer.
Right now, it feels like a design flaw you could kiss.
The door shudders, wood starting to splinter around the knob.
Your ankle scrapes the underside of the sash; pain flares, hot and thin. You ignore it. You get one leg out, foot searching blindly for purchase. Metal screeches under your sole.
The door cracks.
You don’t see it, but you hear it: that deep, sickening pop of cheap wood giving way around the lock. The next hit sends the frame juddering; the latch tears free. The door bursts inward, slamming into the wall hard enough to dent the plaster.
“Stop,” Hyunjin pants, in the doorway now.
You don’t look back.
You get your other knee on the sill, plant your palms, and start to push yourself through.
A hand clamps around your calf.
You scream. Loud. Raw. Your throat goes hot with it.
His fingers dig into your skin, hard enough to hurt. He yanks. Your shin slams into the frame; your hip hits the edge. White pain flares along your side.
“Let go!” you shriek, kicking back with your free leg. Your heel connects with something—his chest, his shoulder, you don’t know. He grunts, but his grip doesn’t loosen.
“I said stop,” he snarls.
The word is different this time. Deeper. Something feral rattles in it.
He pulls. You grab for the fire escape railing with both hands, fingers scrabbling against rust. For a half-second, there’s a horrible stretch—your arms up, your body half out, his weight hauling you back in. It feels like you’re going to split down the middle.
“You’re going to fall,” he says, choked. “You’re going to fall—”
“Good,” you spit. “Better than this.”
He swears. It hisses through his teeth, an ugly, bitten-off sound.
His grip shifts lower, around your ankle and the back of your knee. He uses the leverage.
He yanks you back into the room.
You lose your grip on the railing. Your knuckles strip on the metal as your hands slide off; you tumble backward, crash sideways onto the floor. Your shoulder hits first, then your hip, then the back of your head. The impact knocks the breath out of you. The world goes white around the edges, then gray, then snaps back in too bright.
You lie there, lungs spasming helplessly, mouth open on nothing.
Hyunjin is over you in an instant.
His face looms into view, pale and too close, hair falling around you both like a curtain. His eyes are huge.
“Don’t move,” he gasps. “Don’t, don’t—did you hit your head? Fuck, I shouldn’t have pulled that hard, I’m so sorry—”
You swing at him.
Your fist connects with his cheekbone. It’s a horrible, satisfying feeling—bone on bone, skin on skin. Pain shoots up your hand; his head snaps sideways.
He goes very, very still.
His hair falls forward, hiding his face. A drop of blood hits your forearm. You feel it slide.
For a terrible second, you think you’ve killed him.
Then he inhales.
It’s slow. Deep. His shoulders rise and fall with it.
When he looks back at you, there’s blood on his lip and a blooming red mark along his cheek. His eyes are shining.
“You hit me,” he says, almost wonderingly.
You bare your teeth. “I’ll do worse.”
He laughs.
“That’s good,” he says hoarsely. “That’s really… that’s good. You’re fighting.That’s better than giving up.”
“You’re fucking insane,” you rasp.
He nods. “Maybe.”
You try to scramble backward, heels skidding on the floor. Your shoulder throbs; your head rings. He moves with you, one hand catching your wrist, the other flattening on the floor by your hip, caging you without quite touching.
“Let go,” you snarl, twisting your arm. You manage to dig your nails into his skin; you feel them bite. You hope they leave marks. You hope they scar.
His fingers tighten around your wrist, not enough to break, but enough to hold.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says. His voice is thin, pleading. “You keep— you keep making me choose between letting you go and letting you get hurt, and I can’t do either of those things. You understand that, right?”
You spit at him.
It lands on his chin, mixed with his own blood. He flinches, eyes squeezing shut, then opens them again, slower.
“You’re mad,” he says. “I get it. You’re allowed.”
He lets go of your wrist.
You don’t trust it. You try to jerk your hand away anyway, roll to your side, push up—
His weight hits your hips, pinning you.
He doesn’t straddle your waist. He sits lower, across your thighs, shins braced on either side of your legs. It’s an ugly, practical position, all leverage and no romance. His hands close around your wrists again and slam them above your head, into the floor.
You buck, hard. Pain screams down your bad shoulder. His grip doesn’t waver.
“Stop,” he says, breathless. “You’re going to dislocate something.”
“Good,” you bite out. “Then I can sue you.”
“Baby,” he says.
You snarl, writhing, trying to knee him, to twist your wrists out of his grip. He just leans more of his weight into you, not crushing, but enough. You feel how much stronger he is. All the adrenaline in the world can’t make up the difference.
“Don’t,” you gasp. “Don’t call me that—”
“Okay,” he says quickly. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m going too fast.”
He sounds sincere and wrecked and completely deranged.
“Let me go,” you say. Your voice breaks. You hate it.
“I can’t,” he says.
You look up at him. At the blood from the split in his lip—your doing. At the broken skin across his cheek where you hit him. At the smear of red on his shoulder from the mug. At the faint crescents beading on his wrist where your nails dug in.
He looks like a painting someone attacked.
And he still looks at you like you hung the fucking moon.
“Please,” you whisper.
Something in his expression crumples.
He lets go of one of your wrists.
Your brain barely has time to register the slack, to think this is my chance, before his free hand disappears briefly from your field of vision.
A second later, something cold bites into the skin of your wrist.
You jerk instinctively. Plastic scrapes; the sound is unmistakable.
Zip tie.
He threads it through the other one in a quick, practiced motion, cinching it tight. Your hands slam back together above your head. You twist, panic spiking hot and immediate; the plastic only digs deeper.
“What the— Hyunjin, what the fuck—”
“I told myself I wasn’t going to use these,” he says, more to himself than to you. “I really thought you’d listen. That’s on me. I keep overestimating how safe you feel.”
“You planned this,” you breathe.
He meets your eyes.
“Yes,” he says simply.
You laugh, high and wild. Tears burn behind your eyes, furious and humiliated. You blink them away; they just make everything swim.
“You brought zip ties to my apartment,” you say. “Do you hear yourself?”
“I brought them to the building,” he corrects. “I didn’t want to walk around with them in my hands. That would be weird.”
You stare at him.
“Oh,” you say faintly. “That would be weird.”
He winces again, like you’re twisting a knife in him without meaning to.
“I know how this looks,” he says.
“You keep saying that,” you snap. “And then it keeps looking worse.”
He shifts off your legs, careful, like he’s afraid of hurting you. Your knees feel weightless without him; pins and needles shoot down your calves. Your wrists burn where the plastic bites.
You try to sit up. He presses a hand, gentle but firm, to your shoulder.
“Don’t,” he says. “You’re going to make them cut into your skin.”
“They’re already cutting into my skin,” you hiss. “That’s what restraints do.”
He swallows.
“You’re shaking,” he says quietly. “You need to breathe.”
“I need you to get the fuck out of my apartment.”
He shakes his head.
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls something out—small, white, folded. For a second, your brain doesn’t name it. Then it does.
A cloth.
Your pulse slams.
“No,” you say.
He pauses. Looks down at it. Back at you.
“It’s just going to help you sleep,” he says softly. “You’re exhausted. You said so yourself. You’re not… thinking clearly. You’re going to hurt yourself trying to get away from me, and I can’t watch that.”
Your lungs seize.
“Hyunjin,” you say. “Hyunjin, don’t. Please. Please, don’t put anything on my face, I swear to god—”
He hesitates. For a heartbeat, for two, you think he might actually listen.
Then he looks at your wrists. At the angry red grooves there, skin already swelling around the plastic.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
You suck in a breath to scream.
His hand is faster.
The cloth covers your mouth and nose in one smooth, practiced motion. His palm presses over it, long fingers splayed across your cheek, holding you steady. One of his knees pins your hip; his other hand cradles the back of your head so it doesn’t slam the floor when you buck.
You thrash anyway.
Your legs kick uselessly against the floor. You try to twist your neck, to pull your face away, to catch his fingers with your teeth, but the angle is bad and he’s braced perfectly. You can’t get leverage. Your nails scrape his wrist; he doesn’t flinch.
The scent hits you.
Sharp. Chemical. Sweet around the edges.
You jerk, lungs spasming, instinct screaming not to breathe.
“Shh,” he murmurs. “I know. I know it’s scary. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
You try to hold your breath.
Dizziness blooms behind your eyes anyway, fueled by panic and the leftover hit to your head and the fact that you haven’t really breathed since you opened the door. Your chest burns. Your body betrays you.
You gasp.
It rushes in—thick and wrong, coating your throat, your nose. The burn in your lungs eases and gets worse at the same time. The room tilts. The edges of your vision fuzz.
“That’s it,” he whispers. “Good girl. Just breathe. Let me take care of it. Let me take care of you.”
You make some sound under the cloth, garbled and furious. Your kicks slow. Your arms feel heavy, the zip tie suddenly not so urgent, not so sharp.
Your thoughts smear.
This isn’t safe, you think, distantly. This is bad. This is—
“I’ve got you,” he says again, like a stuck record, like a prayer. His thumb strokes your cheekbone. “I’ve got you. I’ll never let you get hurt again.”
Your body feels far away. Your fingers tingle, then go numb. The ceiling swims, his face the only fixed point, pale and intent above you. His hair brushes your forehead. His eyes look almost wet.
“I love you,” he says.
You try to spit one last insult at him. It comes out as a mumble against the cloth.
Darkness folds in from the edges, slow and thick.
Your last clear thought, before it swallows you, is that you should have screamed louder. That the hallway light is still on outside. That your neighbor might step out to take the trash and see—
Nothing.
When the world goes, it goes all at once.
You don’t feel him lift you.
You don’t feel the way he shifts your weight carefully against his chest, grunting a little at the effort but smiling through it. You don’t hear him murmur, “There we go,” as your head falls against his shoulder, your wrists still bound, your ankles slack.
You don’t feel the night air bite your cheeks when he eases the bedroom window the rest of the way up and maneuvers you through, step by careful step, onto the groaning fire escape.
You don’t hear the small, relieved laugh he lets out when the metal holds.
You don’t see the hallway outside your front door, empty and indifferent, the overhead light buzzing quietly as the door hangs ajar.
You sleep through all of it.
Hyunjin does not.
Every second is bright and sharp for him—each stair on the fire escape, each shadow he slips through, each corner he takes wide to keep from jostling you. He moves like he’s carrying something sacred and breakable.
At the bottom, he looks up at your dark window one last time.
“Mine,” he says again, very softly.
Then he turns away from your building and walks you home.
yandere chan...
tw: obsessive behavior, stealing, possessiveness, violent thoughts, also chan's just kind of a creep here ngl, also a massive perv.
yandere!chan who starts small. and by small i mean he steals a pair of your panties to sniff when he jerks off. it's just a little crush and you're not going to miss these anyway, right? plot twist, he barely even makes it to his car before he's holding them against his face. the red lace had just been taken off your body hours before when he presumes you'd gotten into the shower. and fuck, he can smell you on it. he's got his hand down his pants before he can think and he jerks his cock so hard the tip is red and swollen by the time he splatters all over his steering wheel and thighs.
yandere!chan who goes back for more. he takes your perfume you wear every day so he can spray his pillows with it; he takes one of your favorite hoodies to put over a pillow that he sleeps next to; he sleeps over almost every weekend and every single weekend, he spends nearly an hour in the morning looking through your bathroom. he's memorizing the products you use, where you place your toothbrush, what hair spray you have (and smelling it), and digging through the laundry bin nearby to see if there's anything he can pocket and take home with him.
yandere!chan who sticks close to you. not because you need him to protect you or because he thinks anyone else is a threat (yet) but because he enjoys the illusion. he chubs up in his pants when the barista at your local cafe giggles and makes a quiet comment about you two being a cute couple, his ears pink as he pays for your drinks and pastries. he has to suck his bottom lip into his mouth at the local bar when he realizes that a woman across from him won't approach him because she thinks you're his girlfriend just because of his arm around you. he's delusional - and gets off on knowing other people think you're together.
yandere!chan who is extremely jealous and manipulative. jisung wants to treat you to dinner for being so supportive of them and coming to visit while they tour? oh, but you didn't invite him along - so chan's going to ignore every text you send for the next three days until you come crawling to his hotel room door begging him to tell you why he's upset with you. and he's going to make you apologize, grovel in guilt, and only accept it if you hug him so he can feel your tits squish against his chest.
yandere!chan who thinks about you so much that it fuels the desire. he sees a post about a cute outfit of the day? he pictures you in it. then, he pictures you going on a date with him in it. what would happen after that date. how you would look underneath him. what sounds you make. how far down your blush goes. his body itches when he thinks about you, like a need that can't be sated. he feels irked. angry. angry he can't have you but so, so in love with you. his grip tightens on his phone until his knuckles are white and his teeth grit, jaw tight. it's like a cuteness aggression that won't go away; only the cuteness doesn't fuel the aggression - your existence fuels his desire.
yandere!chan who conforms to you. you like brunettes? his hair is brown the following week. you prefer hoodies over long sleeves; he doesn't wear them around you. you can't handle floral scents? he won't ever buy you flowers, but instead will find a replacement for bouquets. you mentioned once that you think people with blue eyes are pretty, so he buys contacts. he wants to be ideal for you. perfect. and he will find a way to make it happen, no matter what he has to do.
✩ °｡⋆ ⸜ Christopher Bahng × Influencer!Reader
↪ Your perfect influencer life collapses overnight when your ex and stepfamily turn you into the nation’s biggest scandal. Desperate to survive, you fall into the hands of a wrong man--a cold, dangerous rumoured criminal who forces you into marriage. Now you’re trapped between the world that betrayed you and the monster who might be falling for you.
w/c: 11,209 words!!
trope: Enemies to lovers · Forced marriage · Dark romance · Power imbalance · Obsession · Slow burn
cw: Manipulation, gaslighting, emotional abuse, possessive behavior, moral corruption, mentions of drugs/alcohol, family betrayal, media harassment, violence (non-graphic), coercive control, toxic dynamics, and general dark romance themes. Reader discretion advised.
KIDS GET THE FUCK AWAY PLEASE.
๋࣭ ⭑ author’s note ♬
I’m so sorry this is coming late, loves! Tumblr hates me I fear, but thank you for being patient -- your support means everything. I hope the part 1 is worth the wait.
taglist:
Permanent: @dknbvdb @prettypeachprincesz @geni-627 @s1lverroses @nightmarenyxx @thequeenofdramaqueens @anyans-world
For this fic: @rozalax @changbinqueencard @maddy24207 @readr1221 @hanwood @sadgvddess
a/n:
most of the sentences in italics (at time italics + bold) and start with 'I' are y/n's thoughts.
The soft click of your camera fills the room as you adjust the ring light, angling it up just a little so the glow catches your cheekbones. The screen shows you smiling -- warm, confident, effortlessly put together -- the girl your audience believes you are.
A girl whose life looks perfect.
You start recording. "Hey loves," you say, voice honeyed with practiced comfort, "today has been crazy but I can’t wait for you to see everything coming up. Brand collabs, a little vlog, some night-time skincare... you know the drill."
Your smile is bright. Beautiful. Believable. But your chest feels tight, the way it always does after too many hours pretending. Smile. They love you smiling. You can't let them see the cracks.
You keep going, moving smoothly through the sponsorship lines, the product placements, the aesthetic angles of your vanity. You’ve done this so many times it's a muscle memory. A scripted happiness. A curated peace.
Your followers adore you for it. Brands trust you for it. People envy you for it.
If only they knew.
Your mother died when you were barely old enough to understand the world but old enough to remember her funeral, and your father remarried quickly -- too quickly, some whispered.
But Irene had been graceful, caring, patient, gentle. At least, that’s what you believed for years.
She had a daughter -- Mira, three years younger than you -- and you grew up together like sisters. Mira bright, bubbly, always clinging to you. Irene soft-spoken, acting as the glue to hold what little family you had. They were the only women in your life. The only “home” you thought you had left. The only ones who seemed to care.
So you trusted them. You trusted them so easily. You finish the vlog, turn off the camera, and your smile drops immediately. The silence of your room feels heavy, suffocating. You stare at your reflection, mascara perfect, lipstick undisturbed.
"Perfect," you whisper, voice hollow. You look perfect. You sound perfect. You live perfectly.
If only it were real.
You check your notifications -- messages from your manager, comments from your audience, and a simple heart from Daylan.
Daylan -- your boyfriend of two years. The man Irene and Mira introduced to you. The man who charmed your father. Who appeared so steady, so reliable, so sweet. Online, your relationship looks dreamy. Cute couple pictures, soft reels, silly vlogs together. You both look like a romance novel brought to life.
But offline? It’s quieter. Colder. More fragile than you want to admit.
Still -- you convince yourself it's love. You've been with him for so long. It should be love. You want it to be love. You check the time. 11:47 PM. You’re late getting home. Again.
Your father won’t notice -- he’s been drowning in work for the fashion empire he built, barely present, always overwhelmed.
Irene will say she was worried, but gently. Mira will tease you but hold your arm and drag you to eat something.
That’s what they do. That’s what you believed.
You grab your bag, slip into a light jacket, and slowly walk down the long hallway of the house. The marble floor is cold under your feet. You keep your steps soft, careful not to wake anyone.
You don’t want questions tonight. You don’t want explanations. You don’t want to talk about Daylan, the argument, the way things felt like they cracked.
You just want silence. But silence does not greet you. You freeze.
Voices float through the darkness. Soft, muffled, coming from the living room. Irene and Mira. Their tones low, intimate, conspiratorial.
You frown. They’re awake this late?
You step closer, quiet as a shadow, slipping behind the wall where you can hear without being seen. "...she's too naive," Mira scoffs, voice dripping with contempt you’ve never heard before. "It's actually pathetic at this point."
Your heart stops. Naive? Pathetic? Are they talking about me?
Irene hums, her voice cold in a way you don’t recognize. "She trusts too easily. It makes things simpler for us."
Your stomach twists. For us?
Mira sighs dramatically. "Did you give Daylan the drug? He better record everything properly. If he messes up, this whole plan goes to shit."
Your body goes numb. Drug? Record? Plan?
Your breath slips out in a tiny gasp, but you slap a hand over your mouth before sound escapes. You press your back to the wall, willing your heartbeat to stop hammering. Mira… gave Daylan… what?
Your mind swirls, but their voices keep cutting through the air, slicing you open with every sentence.
"I gave it to him," Mira continued casually, as if discussing makeup.
"He said he would get her drunk, slip it in her drink, and make sure she won’t remember anything. Then record everything."
Irene clicks her tongue. "He better. We need visual proof to break the marriage."
Marriage.
Your marriage.
To Alex Rhee -- the son of a company your father desperately wants to merge with. Ethical. Old money. Traditional. Their family believes intimacy before marriage is immoral. A sin. A fucking crime.
A video would ruin you.
Destroy your image. Destroy the engagement. Destroy your father's company. But Mira doesn’t sound guilty. She sounds excited.
Triumphant.
"Once the video gets out, Alex and his family will cut off the engagement instantly," Mira says, a smirk in her voice.
"And then they'll consider me instead. Which they should’ve done from the beginning." Irene chuckles softly.
"You'll be perfect for the Rhee family. Not her. They want purity, class, loyalty... not an influencer obsessed with cameras."
Your chest tightens so painfully you almost double over.
Influencer. Obsessed. Not enough. Never enough.
You clutch the wall.
They planned to drug me. To record me. To ruin me. My own step sister… my own stepmother… who i considered my own fucking family.
You feel sick, bile rising in your throat. "This was supposed to happen tonight," Mira huffs. "Everything was set. But she stormed off after that argument with Daylan. She ruined it."
So that’s why Daylan kept pushing tonight. Why he insisted you drink more. Why he kept touching you even when you pulled away.
Oh God. Oh God. You inhale sharply, but it feels like there’s no air.
Irene sighs. "Doesn't matter. The rumors will start soon anyway. Once they spread, the Rhees will hear about it. We can work from there."
Your blood goes cold. They want Alex Rhee to think you slept with Daylan. To think you’re unfaithful. Impure. Disposable.
You brace a hand against the wall because your knees suddenly feel too weak to hold you.
Mira laughs lightly. "Poor thing's probably crying somewhere, thinking we love her." Irene joins in, soft and cruel.
"She really is easy to fool." Your vision blurs. Not from tears.
From shock. From betrayal so sharp it steals the ground beneath your feet.
They never loved me. They never cared. I was just… something to use.
Something to replace. Something in the way.
Your breath shakes, quiet, controlled only by panic. You step back silently, hand over your mouth, refusing to let a sob escape. Your pulse is loud, too loud, but you force yourself to stay quiet.
You should scream. You should storm in. You should confront them.
But you can’t. You can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do anything except feel everything burning inside you. You stumble backward, heart racing, and slip into the shadows of the hallway. You don’t stop until you reach the staircase, gripping the railing like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Your legs tremble violently.
A drug. A recording. A plan. A ruined marriage. Mira replacing you. Irene orchestrating it.
Your sister. Your mother. Your boyfriend. The three people you trusted most…were the ones ready to destroy you.
You inhale shakily. Your chest aches. Your throat burns.
I was supposed to be violated tonight. Used. Trapped. Ruined.
Your hands tremble uncontrollably. You press your back to the wall, staring into the darkness. Everything inside you feels hollow. Cold. Shattered. You thought you had a perfect life. But tonight proves the truth:
You never had a perfect life. You never even had a family. All you had were masks.
And you never realized how fragile your world was until it started cracking beneath your feet. You swallow hard, forcing yourself not to collapse on the floor. This night will change everything. You just don’t know how much. Not yet.
Your legs barely carry you up the staircase. Each step feels like it’s sinking into water, heavy and trembling, your vision blurring as the words from downstairs echo like a curse you can’t shake off. You don’t even remember how you made it to your door. One moment you were pressed to the wall listening to your stepmother and stepsister plan your destruction, and the next… you’re here.
Inside your room. Safe, but not really.
You close the door quietly, turning the lock with a shaking thumb. The soft click feels like the only sound in the world, and the moment it happens, your knees finally give out. You slide down against the door, your back hitting the wood, chest collapsing as the adrenaline drains out of you. The silence is suffocating. For a moment, you can only hear your heartbeat--violent, uneven, refusing to slow down.
You curl your fingers into your hair as the memories start to replay. Tonight wasn’t supposed to go like this. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration. It was supposed to be just you, Daylan, and your 2-year anniversary dinner, pretending you weren’t drowning and that he wasn’t growing distant every week. Everything had been perfectly curated for Instagram. A candlelit reservation at the rooftop restaurant he liked. A champagne glass he knew you couldn’t handle. A dress Mira picked out.
Mira picked it out.
Your stomach twists. Until the moment it all shattered. The argument. The way he snapped. The way you stormed out. The way he didn’t follow.
Your breath stutters. The weight in your chest expands painfully. This wasn’t just an argument. It was your miracle. Your escape. Because if you hadn’t left–if you hadn’t snapped, if you hadn’t broken up with him on the street, in the rain, with mascara streaking your cheeks and your heart feeling like it was splitting-- You would’ve been drugged. You would’ve been ruined.
You swallow, but it hurts. Your throat feels scraped raw, as though you’ve been screaming even though you haven’t said a word. You pull your knees to your chest and bury your face in them.
How long… how long had they been planning this?
Your hands grip your shins tighter as the truth settles heavily around you like dust. Mira’s voice echoes in your head, mocking and clear:
“Did you give Daylan the drug? He better record everything properly.”
A sharp, trembling breath leaves you. Record everything. They were going to destroy you physically, emotionally, publicly. They wanted the world to see a version of you that would erase every bit of credibility you had built. Every brand deal. Every image of strength and confidence you presented online.
For what? For a marriage you never wanted? For a man you barely know?
Alex Rhee.
You exhale shakily. Tomorrow, your father planned a dinner where the Rhee family would officially announce your engagement. You don’t even know Alex. You don’t know his face, his voice, his personality. You only know his name and the weight it carries. And yet Mira wants that life so badly she tried to break yours. You gently smack your head back against the door, frustration burning behind your eyes. The tears you’ve been holding in finally slip free, warm trails down your cheeks.
This chapter of your life was supposed to end with heartbreak, maybe even loneliness. Not... this. Not almost losing everything. Not almost losing yourself.
I almost got raped by the man I thought loved me.
The thought slices through you and you gasp, covering your mouth to choke back a sound that’s half sob, half disbelief. You trusted him. You defended him. You forgave him too quickly, apologized too often.
And he… He was going to hand you over. Like you were nothing. Like you were just a ticket into your family’s world. Your chest tightens unbearably. Your vision swims. You force yourself to breathe. Slowly, shakily, like a child learning how lungs work. You push your back harder against the door, as if physically trying to keep the world out. Your phone buzzes on the floor beside the bed. You stare at it without moving. You know who it is. It’s Mira. Two messages. The first:
“Did you reach home? Dad slept early. Don’t wake him up! Lets talk about your anniversary celebration tomorrow!”
The second:
“Send me the recording of your cake cutting when you get it from Daylan.”
Your stomach churns. A laugh escapes you, broken and humorless. They think you’re still part of the plan. They think you’re still their pawn. They think you’re naïve enough to not question anything. They don’t know that you heard everything. They don’t know you survived their trap. They don’t know you’re not the same girl who left the house earlier.
I need proof.
You wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand and force your limbs to move. You crawl toward your nightstand and grab your phone. You don’t open her messages. You open your call logs. You scroll. Your finger hovers over Daylan’s name.
You want proof, but you don’t want to hear his voice. You don’t want to hear excuses. You don’t want to hear lies.You scroll again. Your mom’s name sits there. Unchanged. Untouched.... You had memorised her number as a child.
A fresh wave of tears stings your eyes.
I wish you were here. I wish you could tell me what to do. I wish you could tell me why people change like this. Why love turns into cruelty so easily.
You blink rapidly, forcing the tears back. You have no one to rely on now except yourself. You stand up, gripping the edge of the table to steady your legs. Your reflection in the mirror makes you flinch. Mascara smudged, lipstick faded, eyes red and glossy.
You look like someone who’s been shattered and is still trying to piece herself together even as the edges cut her fingers. You take a shaky breath.
“I can’t tell Dad yet…” you whisper to your reflection. Not when he has so much riding on this marriage.
Not without evidence. Not without knowing exactly how deep the betrayal goes. He won’t believe you. He’ll think you misunderstood. He’ll think you’re overreacting.
But he can’t ignore proof. Your hands tremble as you walk to your bed and sit down slowly, every muscle aching with the weight of what almost happened to you. The room feels cold. The silence feels colder. Your mind drifts back to earlier in the night.
FLASHBACK -- A FEW HOURS AGO
“Are you serious right now?” you snapped, the rain pounding against the pavement behind you as you stood outside the restaurant.
Daylan rubbed his forehead. “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
“You forgot our anniversary. Again,” you choked out. “And you didn’t even apologize.”
He shrugged. Shrugged. “You influencers celebrate everything like it’s a milestone. I didn’t think it mattered.”
Something inside you cracked. “You think I don’t matter.”
His jaw tightened. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“Then put some from your own,” you said quietly.
“Anything. Something that shows you care. Something that shows you still want us.”
He said nothing.
The silence stretched, suffocating, loud even in the rain. You stepped back. “I’m done, Daylan.” you said,
“You’re being dramatic.” he muttred, yeah... muttred.
“No,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I’m being honest.”
He didn’t stop you. He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t even look hurt. He just watched as you walked away.
BACK IN THE PRESENT
You grip your arms, nails digging into your skin. His apathy saved you. Your breakup saved you. If you had stayed just ten minutes longer-- Just one more drink-- Just one more moment of trusting him-- Your entire life would’ve been destroyed. You lie back on your bed, staring at the ceiling through blurry eyes. The weight of reality finally crashes into you all at once. You cover your mouth as the sob finally escapes, messy and raw. But it’s quiet.
You learned long ago how to cry silently. After a few minutes, you roll onto your side, clutching your pillow, trying to ground yourself. Tomorrow… Tomorrow, you were supposed to stand next to Alex Rhee and smile for the cameras. Perfect daughter. Perfect fiancée. Perfect life. All built on a lie about to crumble.
You close your eyes tightly.
I need proof. I need to protect myself. I need… time.
Your breath hitches. You whisper into the fabric of your pillow:
“Why does everyone want something from me?” You curl into a tighter ball, exhaustion finally pulling you under. You don’t sleep peacefully. But you sleep. Because your body can’t cry anymore. And somewhere in the house, footsteps pass by your door--Irene, checking, listening. But you don’t hear her. You’re already slipping into darkness, clinging to the last coherent thought you have before sleep claims you:
I escaped tonight.
But tomorrow… my real battle starts.
Morning does not arrive softly. It crashes into your room like a storm you were never prepared for. You wake up to the vibration of your phone, a rapid, violent buzzing against your nightstand that feels like the universe trying to punch its way into your life. Your eyes burn from crying, your head throbbing from a night spent curled on the floor because you couldn't convince your body to move after everything that almost happened.
You reach out blindly, fingers trembling as you grab your phone. And then you see it. Your name. Everywhere. Every notification stacked with one headline repeated in different fonts, different colors, different levels of dramatized outrage:
“Influencer Y/n spotted leaving ex-boyfriend Daylan’s home late at night.”
“Reconciliation or more?”
“Exclusive: Y/n seen exiting in distress -- lovers’ quarrel?”
“Sources confirm they were together for hours.”
Your heart freezes. Your lungs forget air exists. No. No, no, no--
You scroll with shaking hands.
Comment sections blur.
“She went back to him. Typical.”
“Attention seeker.”
“Bet she cheated on the new fiancé already.”
“Sl*t.”
You feel the blood drain from your face. I didn’t even stay. I ran. I ran because he-- Your throat closes so hard you choke on your breath. You drop the phone, pressing a palm over your mouth to stop the sob that claws its way up. Your room feels too small.
The world feels too loud. And your phone lights up again. This time with something worse. Something intentionally worded to destroy.
“Alex Rhee’s family releases informal statement:
‘We are deeply disappointed.’”
You don’t even know them. You’ve never met Alex. Never spoken to him. Yet his world is collapsing onto yours with the force of a crashing plane. And then-- The final blow.
A live statement. Made by Daylan. Your breath stops. You open the clip. He looks tired, fake tired, the kind of exhaustion people imitate when they want sympathy. He’s standing outside his apartment, reporters crowding him, microphones shoved near his mouth.
“Daylan, did Y/n spend the night with you?”
He gives a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.
Acting. Always acting.
“I don’t want to ruin her reputation,” he says.
Liar.
“I don’t want to talk about private moments,” he continues softly, like he’s being forced.
Liar.
“But... she doesn’t remember.”
A gasp ripples through the reporters. Your heart stops.
“And yes,” he says quietly, eyes lowered like he feels guilty, “we DID sleep together.”
The world silences. You feel your soul leave your body.
Your fingers go numb, your phone slipping from your grasp and falling onto your blanket. “He’s lying,” you whisper. The words crack. “He’s lying. He’s lying.” Your entire body trembles violently. Your breath comes out in shallow, panicked bursts.
I almost got raped by the man I thought loved me... and now he’s saying this? He’s turning it on me?
Your stomach twists. You lunge off the bed and barely make it to the bathroom before you throw up everything inside you. Your forehead hits the cool tile. Your entire body shakes. You don’t know how long you sit there. Minutes. Hours. The world outside keeps burning. When you finally walk back to your room... you hear voices. Your stepmother, Irene. Your stepsister, Mira. Whispering near your door. Mira speaks first, sugar coating her voice in fake concern.
“Do you think she’s awake?”
“She should be,” Irene murmurs. “Poor thing must be devastated.”
You open the door. Both women jump, plastering on expressions of worry. “Oh, sweetheart,” Irene sighs, coming toward you with open arms. “We saw the news. Come here. It must be so hard.” You stiffen when she hugs you. Her perfume suffocates you, thick and floral and cloying in your lungs.
She strokes your hair too gently, too rehearsed. Mira folds her arms, looking you up and down with a smirk she tries to hide as concern. “Guys like Daylan... they always come back,” she says with a small shrug. “But I guess he decided to go public before you could.” You blink at her. Shock slowly morphs into rage. Irene tuts softly. “Mira, that is not helpful.”
Mira tilts her head, biting her lip to keep the grin from slipping out. “I just mean... bad timing, right? The marriage announcement is tomorrow.” Your heart clenches. Right.
Alex Rhee.
A stranger. A name tied to your future like a death sentence.
Irene gives your arms a little squeeze. “Don’t worry about that. We’ll talk to your father. He might delay it.” You know she’s lying. She wants this marriage more than anyone.
You step out of her embrace, wiping your face, trying to breathe despite the panic crawling over your skin. “I didn’t sleep with him,” you say quietly. Your voice shakes. “But he’s lying. He-- something happened. I didn’t-- I didn’t stay. I left.”
Mira raises a brow. “So the reporters are lying too?” You stare at her. “No,” you whisper. “Daylan is.” Irene sighs sympathetically, but her eyes gleam. “Sweetheart... everyone saw you leaving his house late at night.” “It wasn’t like that!” They exchange glances. You feel the floor tilt. Irene rubs your arm again. “I know you’re overwhelmed. And I’m on your side.”
She’s not. She never has been. “But until you have proof, sweetheart,” she continues softly, “there’s nothing we can do.” Those words hit like a slap.
Nothing we can do. Nothing we will do. You swallow hard. There is only one truth now: You are alone in this. Your dad knocks on your door an hour later.
He looks exhausted. Older. More worried than you’ve seen him in years. He sits beside you on the bed. “Kiddo... please tell me the truth.”
You look down at your hands. “I didn’t sleep with him.” “I want to believe you,” he whispers, voice cracking. “But the world is watching. Alex’s family is furious. They’ve already called me twice this morning.” Your stomach sinks.
Alex. The man you're supposed to marry in a few months. A man whose face you’ve never seen. A man who probably thinks you’re a disgrace before he even knows your voice. Your father takes a slow breath.
“I just... I need to know if I should defend you.” That sentence breaks you. Your throat tightens painfully. Even you’re not sure? Tears blur your vision. “Dad... please believe me.”
He closes his eyes. When he opens them, there’s love. But also fear.
“I do,” he murmurs. “But I don’t know how to prove it.” You wipe your face. You stand. “I’ll get proof,” you whisper. “I promise.”
Downstairs, Irene watches you pass with soft eyes. Too soft. Too gentle. “Take some rest, sweetheart,” she calls out. “You’ve had a long night.”
Mira stands behind her, lifting a mug of coffee to her lips. Her smirk is gone. She’s smiling now. Wide. Pleased. Exactly the way someone smiles when the fire they lit finally spreads.
Back in your room, you collapse on your bed.
Your phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a screenshot of a new headline. Sent by an anonymous number.
“Breaking: Fiancé Alex Rhee unfollows Y/n.”
Your breath catches. You stare at it. Frozen. Another buzz.
“Alex Rhee requests private meeting with fiancee.”
Your blood chills. You read the caption under the paparazzi post:
“Sources say the clean-cut heir is disgusted.”
You fall back on your pillow, staring at the ceiling. Your heart is cracking. Your reputation is burning. Your future is spiraling. And tomorrow-- You meet the man you’re supposed to marry. A man who already believes the worst of you. Rumors spread like wildfire. And you are standing in the center of the flames.
Night comes too fast.
You spent the entire day in a haze, moving like someone borrowed your body and forgot to return it. The rumors haven’t stopped. The hate hasn’t slowed down. Every few minutes, another notification lights up your phone like a spark thrown onto gasoline. But you’ve stopped reacting. Something colder has taken over. Something sharper. You can’t sit and let your reputation burn. You can’t let Alex Rhee’s family decide your worth before they’ve even met you. And you certainly can’t let Daylan’s lie become your reality. So you do the only thing left to do.
You dress up. Not in influencer glam. Not in brand-deal sparkles. You choose black. A simple, sleek gown that hugs your waist and falls like a whisper around your ankles. You tie your hair up, leaving two soft strands by your face. You put on minimal makeup--just enough to look like you belong in luxury but not enough to hide the exhaustion under your eyes. Because tonight isn’t about looking perfect. It’s about surviving.
Its The Rhee Charity Gala
You arrive through the side entrance because you can’t risk paparazzi. You study the guards, the cameras, the patterns of movement. Your heart pounds so loudly you think it might echo against the marble walls. You are not invited. You are not welcome. And yet you walk in like you own the place.
The gala is enormous--glass walls stretching into the night sky, chandeliers glittering like frozen rain, guests dressed in gowns that cost more than cars. Classical music floats through the room, elegant and haunting.
You hear whispers immediately.
“That’s her.”
“Alex’s fiancée.”
“Have you seen the news?”
“She has the nerve to show up?”
You keep your gaze forward. Let them talk. I didn’t come for them. You slip past waiters, past photographers, ducking your head every time a camera flashes too close. You only have one goal:
Find Alex Rhee. Explain. Clear your name. Beg, if you have to.
Except... You realize something horrifying. You’ve never seen him. Not in person. Not even in a clear recent photo. His face is a rumor, always half-covered by sunglasses or turned away from paparazzi. You have no idea what Alex Rhee looks like. Your pulse stutters.
Great. Perfect. Wonderful. I’m supposed to confront a man whose face I don’t even know. Panic tightens your chest. Then you spot the outside terrace. Quiet. Dark. Empty. Maybe he stepped away from the crowd. You move toward it, heels clicking against the marble until the noise disappears into the soft hum of the night air.
The terrace is breathtaking. A massive infinity pool reflects the moonlight in silver ripples. Lanterns line the edges, casting warm gold onto the water. Beyond it, the city stretches in glittering lights. And there-- at the far end-- sits a man.
Alone. Relaxed. Arms resting casually over the back of the lounge chair. He looks like he belongs to the night--sharp lines softened by moonlight, jaw carved with quiet arrogance, dark hair falling slightly over his eyes. Beautiful. But not gentle. There is something dangerous about him. Calm in a way that feels like still water hiding deep currents. You swallow.
That has to be him. Alex Rhee. The heir. The man who thinks I’m a scandal.
Your throat tightens. You step closer. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t react at all. You gather your courage, holding your dress so your hands stop trembling. “Alex?” you call out softly. His head turns slightly. And then fully. His eyes land on you.
Dark. Sharp. Intrigued. But not surprised. Slowly, he sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying you with a focus that makes heat rush up your spine. A faint smirk touches his lips.
“what do you want?” he asks, voice smooth like velvet dipped in danger. Your heart stops. You blink. “Can we talk...please?” His smirk deepens just a fraction. Not mocking. Curious.
Your breath catches as he stands--slow, deliberate--and walks toward you. Each step controlled. Confident. Predatory in the quietest way. He stops an arm’s length away. His cologne surrounds you--dark wood, cold smoke, something expensive and clean.
“Hm...You are?” he questions, more like daring you to not answer.
You stare at him.
Something feels wrong. Off. But your brain is too overwhelmed to process anything beyond survival instinct.
“I’m... Y/n.”
he hums
Your chest tightens. Your palms sweat.
“Relax,” he says softly. “I don’t bite.”
“I came to explain,” you say, voice cracking. “About the rumors.” He raises a brow. “The ones with your ex?”
You nod. The shame burns.
“I didn’t sleep with him,” you whisper. “He’s lying. I swear.”
He watches you. Silent. Unblinking. It unnerves you. Especially when a strange glint flickers in his eyes--something dark, something unreadable.
“And your reason for coming alone?” he asks.
Your breath trembles. “Because I had to tell you the truth myself before anyone else does.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you like you’re an interesting puzzle.
“Brave,” he murmurs. “Or stupid. Not sure which yet.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks. You look away, clutching your trembling hands.
“I just... I don’t want you thinking I’m someone I’m not.”
“And who are you?” he asks quietly.
Your lips part. Who am I?
A liar, according to the internet.
A scandal, according to the public.
A disgrace, according to Alex’s family.
But you lift your chin. “I’m someone who didn’t ask for this marriage but still tried to do my best. And I’m not the person the media says I am.”
Silence stretches. Then-- He steps closer. Too close. You inhale sharply. His hand lifts—fingers brushing a strand of hair off your cheek. Your breath catches. He shouldn’t touch you. He shouldn’t look at you like that. He shouldn’t make your heart race this hard. But he does.
“You’re interesting,” he says slowly. “Much more than I expected.”
Your chest tightens. His gaze lingers on your lips. Your pulse jumps so hard it almost hurts. Then-- He smiles. Cold. Beautiful. Dangerous.
“Follow me,” he says.
Before you can ask why, he turns and walks deeper into the terrace toward a shadowed corner. You hesitate. Something in your gut twists. This feels wrong. This feels... too easy. But if he’s Alex Rhee-- If this is your only chance-- You can’t afford to back away. So you follow. Even though every part of you whispers one thing:
Just so you know you’ve just stepped into the lion’s den with someone far more dangerous.
Christopher leads you deeper into the shadowed corner of the terrace, away from the laughter, the lights, the people who would recognize your face and tear you apart all over again. The air feels colder here. Sharper. You wrap your arms around yourself as he turns, leaning casually against a stone pillar, moonlight touching one side of his impossibly perfect face. His dark eyes gleam with something unreadable.
“Well?” he asks softly. “You said you wanted to explain.”
Your throat is dry. Your knees feel weak. But you force your voice to stay steady.
“I didn’t sleep with Daylan,” you stated again. “He’s lying. They’re all lying. I left early. I wasn’t drunk enough to not remember. The rumors are fake, and Mira and Irene planned everything. They wanted to ruin me so Mira could replace me.” His head tilts slightly, like he’s assessing a fragile creature he can’t decide whether to help or crush.
“And you expect me to believe all this?” he questiong, Your breath stutters. “Yes. I’m telling the truth.” you say. A slow smirk curls at the corner of his mouth.
“You know,” he says, “most women try to impress me. You’re the first to arrive shaking.”
Heat burns your cheeks. You look away, embarrassed, fingers trembling with the weight of everything you’ve been carrying. He takes one step closer.
“Tell me the part you’re avoiding,” he murmurs. “Why does it matter so much what I think?”
Your chest tightens. Because your life depends on it. Because your father believes this marriage is your redemption arc. Because if Alex Rhee cancels the wedding, it will destroy any chance you have of clearing your name. But how do you say that? How do you tell a stranger he has the power to break you? You swallow.
“I don’t want the marriage canceled.”
He raises a brow. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The single word slams into you. Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Heat floods your face, shame, fear, desperation mixing into something raw and humiliating. He doesn’t look away. He enjoys this. He likes watching you struggle.
“I--” your voice cracks, “--I just… don’t want you to think I’m someone I’m not.”
He smiles, slow and dangerous.
“That’s not an answer.”
You clench your hands. Just tell him. Please, just believe me.
“I’ve always…” you choke on your own desperation, “…liked you.”
His eyes flash with sharp amusement.
“Oh?” he drawls. “Always?”
“I mean--” your cheeks burn, “--from what I’ve seen, what I’ve heard. I know we’ve never met but… I’ve admired you.”
He lets the silence stretch. Then, with a low hum, he takes another step until he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Lies are dangerous.”
Your stomach drops. He knows you’re lying. But he’s not angry. He’s entertained. “Tell me another reason,” he presses. “Something better.”
The panic claws up your throat. He’s cornering you. Testing you. And you are breaking, piece by piece. “I’m innocent,” you whisper. “If you want proof, I’ll--I’ll do a virginity test. Right now. Tomorrow. Whenever. I don’t care. I’ll do anything to prove I’m telling the truth.”
The world goes silent. Even the pool’s soft ripples seem to pause. He stills completely--the playful curiosity melting away, replaced with something darker. Something territorial. Possessive. A hunter catching scent of prey he hadn’t expected. His gaze sweeps over you slowly. Not with lust-- With fascination.
“Anything?” he repeats softly.
Your breath shakes. “Yes.”
The faintest hint of obsession glints in his eyes. He steps forward, trapping you between him and the stone wall behind you. Not touching. Just close enough to steal all the oxygen from your lungs.
“You’re interesting,” he murmurs. “Most people come to me with fear. You come with desperation. Honesty. Sacrifice.” His hand lifts--two fingers brushing your chin--just barely. Your knees weaken.
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll keep the marriage.”
Your heart leaps. Relief floods through your chest so fast you almost choke on it.
“T--thank you--”
“But,” he adds, voice dropping, “you’ll owe me.” Your breath stops.
“Owe you… what?” He smiles. “That’s for later.”
Fear curls low in your stomach. But before you can respond, a voice cuts through the terrace like a blade.
“here comes the man child.” he mumbles to someone who is walking in. his smile shifts--lazily amused. He steps back just as another figure approaches you both fully.
You recognize him instantly from the internet’s rare photos he matches perfectly. Your blood drains.
That’s Alex Rhee.
The real Alex Rhee.
Your stomach drops so violently you physically sway.
The guy you asumed was alex steps aside, almost proudly, as if revealing a piece of art he’s been hiding behind.
Actual Alex’s eyes land on you. Dark. Sharp. Disdainful.
“What are you doing here?” Alex asks, voice cool, clipped, utterly uninterested in your existence. Confusion crashes over you like a wave. You turn to the man who had tricked you. Your lips tremble. Your voice barely comes out.
“If… if you’re here… then… who…”
The man smiles. A beautiful, lethal smile. The kind that means trouble. The kind that means danger. The kind that means you’ve made a mistake you can never undo.
“That,” he says, spreading his hands casually, “would be because I never told you my name and you never asked.”
He steps closer again, but this time, Alex grabs his shoulder, stopping him.
“Chris,” Alex snaps, “enough.”
Christopher laughs softly. Then he looks at you. Right at you.
“Sweetheart,” he purrs, “I’m not Alex Rhee.”
Your heart stops. He leans in, close enough for you to feel his breath at your ear.
“I’m Christopher Bahng.”
Your entire body goes numb. Cold. Hollow.
Christopher Bahng.
The most feared man in the country.
The ghost in every crime rumor.
The nightmare whispered in elite circles.
The name no one says out loud.
Your legs nearly give out. You back away, shaking, horror crawling under your skin.
You trusted him. You begged him. You gave him everything. You told him the plan against you. You told him your innocence. You offered proof. You offered yourself.
To the wrong man.
Christopher watches you unravel, head tilted, eyes drinking in every flicker of panic on your face. Alex’s gaze sharpens.
“What did he tell you?” he demands. But you can’t speak. Words won’t come. Christopher steps forward again--slowly, deliberately--face a mask of wicked fascination. He smiles.
“You really shouldn’t have come here alone, sweetheart.”
Your blood turns to ice. Because you finally understand. Tonight wasn’t fate. It wasn’t luck. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a trap. And you walked straight into it.
You don’t remember how you made it out of the Rhee estate. You don’t remember how your feet moved, how the night air seared your lungs, how the city lights blurred into streaks of nothing. You only remember the echo of his voice.
I’m Christopher Bahng.
Your stomach twists violently. You almost fall twice while rushing home, vision shaking, breath breaking in uneven gasps. Every step feels like walking through wet sand, heavy, resistant, suffocating. He played me. He watched me fall apart. He knew I thought he was Alex. He let me beg. He let me offer-- You gag, hand flying to your mouth.
I told him I’d do anything.
By the time you reach the gates of your home, your chest is burning so badly you can barely inhale. You fumble with the code, hands trembling, tears already stinging your eyes. You just need your room. Your bed. Silence. Somewhere, anywhere, to fall apart without an audience. The gate clicks open.
You step inside-- And freeze.
Someone is standing right in front of your house. Tall. Rigid. Expensive suit lined with moonlight.
Alex. The real Alex. Your breath stops.
He turns slowly, face carved from cold, polished stone. No warmth. No softness. No hesitation. Just ice.
“What,” he says, voice quiet and lethal, “were you doing with him?”
Your stomach drops so violently you almost stagger.
“I-- I can explain--”
“Good.” Alex steps closer, pulling a folder from under his arm. “Explain these.” He throws the photographs at you. They scatter across the marble steps like fallen leaves. You stare down. Your heartbeat detonates inside your chest. Pictures of you and Christopher by the pool. Christopher leaning close. You shaking. You crying. You begging. You standing alone on the terrace with him. Your fingers tremble as you gather the photos in your hands.
“This is not what it looks like--” Alex laughs.
“Really? Because it looks like you ran straight to another man the night before your engagement announcement.”
“No,” you whisper. “I didn’t know who he was--”
Alex’s brows lift sharply. “Are you saying you accidentally confessed to Christopher Bahng?” The name lands like a punch. Your throat tightens. Alex steps forward again, invading your space without even touching you.
“You humiliated me,” he says calmly. Too calmly. “You humiliated both our families. News outlets already have the photos. Articles are being drafted as we speak.” Your chest goes cold.
“They think you’re cheating with Bahng.” He steps closer. “They think you were with him last night after daylan.” Another step. “They think you slept with him.” Your breath breaks.
“No,” you choke out. “I swear on my life, nothing happened. I thought he was you-- I didn’t know--” Alex’s jaw clenches so hard you hear the grind of teeth. He looks at you like you’re a stranger who has personally insulted his bloodline.
“You should have stayed home,” he says.
You flinch. A light flicks on behind you. Irene’s voice cuts through the silence like a knife dipped in honey. “Y/n?” She places a trembling hand on her chest, face perfectly staged. “What is going on? Why is Alex here? Why are there pictures of you with-- with that man?” Mira appears behind her, hair messy from sleep, wearing false shock like it’s perfume. “Unnie…” she whispers, voice breaking with the perfect balance of pity and judgment. “How could you?”
The world spins. “I didn’t--” you gasp, “--I didn’t do anything wrong, I swear--” Alex cuts in sharply.
“Irene, Mr. Y/L/N has been informed.” His voice is ice toward you, silk toward them. “My family cannot associate with this kind of scandal. Due to the repeated issues involving your daughter, the Rhee family is formally withdrawing the marriage proposal.” Your heart stops. You feel the words physically. Like a blade slicing between your ribs. Mira covers her mouth, pretending to be shocked. Irene pretends to be devastated.
“No…” Irene whispers. “Y/n, what have you done?”
Your eyes burn. “I didn’t do anything!”
Alex ignores your voice completely. “My father will contact yours in the morning. The proposal will be transferred.”
You blink. Slowly. Painfully. “Transferred?” your voice cracks.
Alex meets your eyes with cold certainty. “To Mira.”
Your entire brain blanks out. Your knees buckle. Your breath slips out in a sound you don’t even recognize as human. Mira’s eyes shine with triumph she barely hides.
“Oh… wow,” she whispers. “I… I don’t know what to say…”
You planned all this. You and Irene planned everything. You wanted this. All along. And you won. Alex turns away. He’s leaving. He’s actually leaving. You lunge forward before you can stop yourself.
“Alex, please--” He doesn’t look back. “I don’t want to hear anything from you,” he says softly. “Not now. Not ever.”
Thunder cracks in your chest. Your legs finally give out, and you collapse onto the cold marble, photos slipping from your hands. Your world shatters. Your father rushes out from inside, confused by the noise. He freezes when he sees Alex halfway down the driveway.
“Alex? What’s going on?” Alex stops for only a second. “Ask your daughter,” he says. And then he’s gone. Your father rushes to you immediately.
“What happened?” he kneels, gathering you into his arms, voice shaking. “Y/n, angel, talk to me-- what happened?” “I didn’t do anything,” you sob, collapsing into him. “Dad, I didn’t do anything-- I swear-- I swear--” He holds you tighter.
“I believe you,” he whispers. “I believe you.” He looks up at Irene and Mira with confusion. “What is all this?” Irene folds her arms like a grieving widow.
“It… looks bad, hun. Pictures of her with Christopher Bahng. Alex is furious. Their family won’t deal with this humiliation.” irene said. Your father’s face breaks. He looks at you again, eyes full of helplessness. You’ve never seen him look this small.
“Come inside,” he murmurs. “We’ll talk in the morning. Let’s just get you to bed.” His hand cradles your head the entire walk upstairs. He doesn’t ask more. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t judge. He just holds you. That alone shatters you more. In your room, he helps you sit on the bed.
“Rest,” he whispers, brushing your hair back. “We’ll fix this. I promise.”
You nod, but your vision is already blurred from tears. The moment the door closes, your composure cracks again. You fall onto the floor, pressing your hand to your mouth to muffle your sobs. Your body shakes. Your lungs collapse. Your heart feels like it’s been carved out.
I hate him. I hate Christopher Bahng for this. I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone.
You wrap your arms around your knees and curl into yourself. Everything hurts. Your reputation. Your future. Your father’s disappointment. Your own broken pieces scattered all around you. And the worst part? Christopher’s voice won’t leave your head.
You’ll owe me. That’s for later. Careful, sweetheart.
You grip your hair, trembling. “I hate you,” you whisper into the dark. “I hate you. I hate you.” But deep down, under the anger and humiliation, something else curls tightly inside you.
Fear.
Because deep, deep down-- You know he isn’t done with you yet.
-
Morning doesn’t arrive gently. You don’t wake to sunlight, or warmth, or anything that could be mistaken for hope. You wake to your phone exploding. Vibrating so violently on the nightstand that for a second you think it might crack the wood. Dozens of notifications stack up, one after another, faster than your vision can adjust. Your eyelids feel swollen, lashes stuck together from last night’s crying. Your throat burns. Your body feels like an empty vessel. Still, your hand reaches out. Still, you look. And the world ends all over again.
TRENDING #1: “Y/N THE FRAUD”
TRENDING #2: “THE VIRGINITY LIE”
TRENDING #3: “NATIONAL DISGRACE”
Your pulse spikes. You scroll with trembling fingers, each headline worse than the last.
“Influencer Y/n caught seducing Christopher Bahng.”
“Y/n cheats on arranged fiancé with a rumoured criminal.”
“Y/n’s ‘innocent image’ was all an act.”
“Virginity test fake-- sources claim she planned everything.”
Your jaw locks so tightly it aches. You whisper to no one, to nothing, “That’s not true… I never…” The screen glitches from all the alerts. Mira’s voice echoes from the hallway, sweet and poisoned: “Poor thing. She must be devastated.”
You grip the blanket, fists shaking. Even now, even after all this, they’re enjoying it. Of course they are. Your chest feels too tight. Too heavy. Too much.You nearly drop the phone when a new notification slides across the screen:
“Legal Notice from Bahng Corp.”
Your stomach collapses. You tap it open.
CHRISTOPHER BAHNG REQUESTS A PRIVATE MARRIAGE NEGOTIATION WITH YOU.
Your mouth goes dry. No. No, this isn’t real. You blink, but the words don’t disappear. The documents are cold, sharp, terrifying:
A written proposal. A request for your signature. A promise of ‘protection’ in exchange for marriage.
No warmth. No affection. No humanity. Just a deal. A threat dressed like a contract. The walls blur. Your heartbeat slams in your ears. You hear footsteps in the hallway-- your dad’s. You hear him calling your name, worried, broken. You hear Mira pretending to comfort him.
You shut your eyes. You can’t drag him deeper into this. Not yet. You need time to breathe. To think. To exist. But life doesn’t give you that. Not today. Not anymore.
Your phone rings.
Your heart stops. Not a message. Not a notification. A call. An unknown number. But you know. You know exactly who it is. Your hand shakes so violently you almost drop the device. Still, you swipe. Still, you answer.
“…hello?”
A low, controlled breath fills the line. Then a voice-- smooth, calm, deadly. “You’re ignoring the proposal.”
Christopher Bahng.
Your blood freezes. Your grip tightens around the phone. You whisper, “I’m not marrying you.” There’s a pause. Not the startled kind. Not the questioning kind. The kind that means he expected this answer. The kind that means he prepared for it. His tone drops lower, like velvet soaked in poison.
“Y/n.”
Just your name. But it feels like a verdict.
You struggle to keep your voice steady. “You don’t get to ruin my life and then demand I marry you.”
“How dramatic,” he murmurs. “I didn’t ruin your life. I corrected a narrative.”
You choke out a half laugh, half sob.
“You made everyone think I cheated. You let Alex humiliate me. You let the entire country call me a liar.”
“You walked into my world,” he answers simply. “I didn’t invite you in.”
Your throat tightens. He isn’t apologizing. He isn’t explaining. He’s stating facts. As if facts justify everything. As if you deserved it.
You whisper, “I won’t marry you. I’d rather die.”
Another pause. Then the single most terrifying sentence you’ve ever heard:
“If you don’t marry me, your father’s company collapses by sunrise.”
Your breath catches.
“What… what are you talking about?”
He sighs, sounding almost bored. “The banks backing his brand are mine. The private investors are mine. The real estate the factory sits on is mine. All it takes is one phone call.”
Your heart stops. “You’re lying.”
“Try me.”
You feel your soul split open. Your father. Your only remaining parent. Your last anchor in a world that keeps trying to drown you.
“He’ll… lose everything…”
“Not if you say yes.”
Tears blur your vision. “Why me?”
There’s a soft exhale-- almost like a laugh he refuses to let you hear fully.
“You interest me.”
Your skin crawls.
“I don’t want any part of your world,” you whisper.
“You’re already in it.”
“…please…”
“Say yes.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, tears spilling.
“If I say no?”
“I destroy him.”
Your breath trembles. Your heartbeat cracks. Your world tilts. Your father’s smile. Your mother’s memory. The empire he built from nothing. All of it hangs on your next words. Christopher speaks again, patient and lethal:
“Say it.”
Your lips tremble. You hate yourself when the word leaves you.
“…yes.” The approval in his voice is chilling.
“Good girl.”
You flinch.
“I’ll send final documents. You have one hour to sign.”
The call ends. The silence feels deafening, suffocating. You drop the phone on the bed and press your face into your hands. You don’t sob. Not at first. Your body just shakes silently, violently, uncontrollably. Then the dam breaks. And you cry for the future you lost. For the childhood you never had. For the father you must protect. For the mother who isn’t here to pull you into her arms. You cry for yourself. For the girl who just sold her freedom to a man who doesn’t understand the meaning of mercy.
And as the hour ticks forward, as your tears dry on your cheeks, as silence drowns your room-- You whisper the truth you’re terrified to believe:
“I just agreed to marry a monster.”
--
The world does not calm after your yes. It doesn’t forgive you. It doesn’t pause long enough to breathe. It hunts you. Because the very next morning, every news channel broadcasts the headline like a punch to the throat:
“CHRISTOPHER BAHNG ANNOUNCES HIS BRIDE: INFLUENCER Y/N.”
Your hands shake so badly you almost drop the remote. Your father stumbles into the living room, breathless-- but before he can ask anything, the reporter’s voice fills the screen.
“Sources confirm influencer Y/n agreed to marry the rumored criminal in a private arrangement.” The whispers online are merciless.
“So she cheated on Daylan.”
“Then she cheated on Alex.”
“Now she crawled to a criminal? This girl has no shame.”
“She’s desperate for any rich man. She must be good in bed.”
“Slut. Homewrecker.”
You cover your ears. It doesn’t stop. It never stops. Your father grabs the remote, turning off the TV, eyes wide with panic.
“Y/n… what did he make you do?”
You open your mouth-- but nothing comes out. How do you tell him? How do you destroy him with the truth? How do you tell him you sold your life to save his? You can’t. Not yet. So you whisper the only thing you can manage:
“I’m… fine.”
His eyes fill with tears. He knows you’re lying. And you hate that this is the life he fought to give you.
One Month Later
The world still hates you. Every post you upload gets flooded with:
“Whore.”
“Gold digger.”
“Bahng’s new toy.”
“Bet her body is all she offered him.”
Every morning you wake up wondering why Christopher hasn’t announced the wedding date. Every night you wonder why he hasn’t shown up again. Most days he doesn’t call. He doesn’t text. He doesn’t visit. But the fear stays.
Always.
Like a shadow cast over your life. And then-- The Rhee family makes a national announcement:
“ALEX RHEE AND MIRA’S WEDDING WILL BE LIVESTREAMED TO THE COUNTRY.”
Your chest tightens. You knew this was coming. You knew Alex would move on. You knew Mira would win. But it still carves something sharp into your ribs. Your father watches you silently, as if he’s preparing to catch you before you break. Irene and Mira walk around the mansion dressed like royalty, their smugness impossible to ignore.
Mira’s voice drips honey when she passes you: “Try not to cry when you watch it.”
Irene adds,
“You really should be happy, dear. At least someone wants her.”
You don’t reply. You’ve stopped giving them reactions. Stopped giving them power. Stopped giving yourself the illusion that any of them cared.
Wedding Day
You don’t attend. You aren’t allowed. You aren’t welcome.
At the mansion, the TV is already set on the Rhee family channel, livestreaming the wedding hall. The screen shows Mira glowing in a pearl gown, smiling like she owns the world. Alex stands beside her-- stiff, handsome, unreadable. Your throat tightens.
You remind yourself:
He is a stranger. He never knew you. He owes you nothing.
And yet the humiliation burns. Your father sits beside you, gripping your hand. “Don’t watch,” he whispers.
But you do. Maybe because you need closure. Or maybe you need proof that you’re truly alone now. Then--
The smooth livestream suddenly turns chaotic. People gasp. The doors of the Rhee chapel had opened. Gasps ripple through the hall. And then the camera shifts.
Your heart drops.
Christopher walks in.
His presence is a storm-- sharp suit, cold eyes, every step radiating danger. In his fist… he drags someone by the hair.
Daylan.
Beaten. Bruised. Barely standing. You jolt upright. Your blood turns to ice.
“What is he doing?!” you choke.
Your father gasps beside you. On-screen, chaos erupts. Irene stumbles out of her seat. Mira goes pale. Alex’s jaw clenches so hard the mic catches the sound. Christopher doesn’t stop. He throws Daylan onto the floor in front of the altar. Gasps. Screams. The priest drops the Bible. Christopher’s voice booms through the chapel:
“Tell them.”
Daylan cries out, coughing, trembling, trying to crawl away. Christopher presses a shoe to his back.
“Tell. Them.”
Your heart beats so loud you hear nothing else. Daylan sobs.
“Okay! Okay! I’ll say it-- stop--!”
Everyone holds their breath. You hold yours. Daylan’s voice breaks as he speaks:
“I lied! I lied about everything!”
Your father grips your arm. Daylan trembles uncontrollably as he continues:
“Irene paid me! Mira paid me! They told me to drug Y/n-- record her-- ruin her reputation-- make Alex break the engagement-- so Mira could replace her!”
“I never loved her! I cheated the whole time! I just needed the money-- I did everything they said-- I swear!”
Christopher lifts his hand, and your stomach flips when you see his phone screen. Airdropped into the livestream. Recordings. Screenshots. Bank transfers. Voice notes.
The truth. All of it.
The chapel explodes into shouts. Alex turns on Mira so violently that security rushes in.
“YOU USED ME? YOU MANIPULATED MY FAMILY?!” he roars.
Mira drops to her knees. Irene lunges forward, grabbing her daughter, screaming for the cameras to stop. christopher stands like a king in the center of devastation, unbothered. Unmoved. Unshaken. Your father lets out a sob, burying his face in his hands. You don’t move. You can’t. You feel like a ghost watching your own life burned to ashes and rebuilt in front of you. People online reverse their comments instantly.
“Y/n was innocent…”
“She was framed…”
“Oh my god, her own family did this…”
“Why did Christopher defend her?”
“Is he obsessed with her?”
Your throat tightens. There is no relief. Not really. Not fully. Because every truth that surfaces comes from him. From Christopher Bahng.
The man who ruined your life.
The man who saved it.
The man who cornered you into marrying him.
The man who terrifies you more than hell itself.
You stare at the TV, hands shaking uncontrollably. Because now the entire country knows one thing: Christopher didn’t expose the truth for justice. He did it because you are his. And he will destroy the world to protect what he believes he owns. You whisper, voice breaking into a thousand pieces:
“Why… why is he doing this to me?”
Your father looks at you helplessly. He doesn’t have the answer. No one does. Except maybe Christopher. And he’s the last man you ever want to ask.
The world felt different after what happened at the Rhee chapel. It felt quieter. Sharper. Like the air itself was holding its breath, unsure whether to collapse or erupt. You had spent an entire month being humiliated, torn apart, judged, mocked, and disgraced in ways you didn't even know a human heart could survive. And then--in one night--Christopher Bahng turned everything upside down.
You weren't sure whether to thank him or run from him.
Your body still shook from the way he dragged Daylan in front of the entire country like a broken offering.
The recordings. The texts. The way Daylan's voice cracked as he confessed that Mira and Irene had paid him to break you. To ruin you. To infiltrate your life. To shatter you slowly.
You had stood frozen in your room, too shocked to move, the broadcast playing on every TV and screen across the mansion. Alex had screamed at Mira. Irene had fainted. The scandal had ripped the Rhee family in half. And Chris-- Chris had walked away from the chaos with the calm of a man watching a chessboard he’d already solved. And now, thirty minutes after the disaster wedding, you and your father were rushing to the venue--because your father had insisted. He needed to thank Christopher Bahng. You, on the other hand… You weren’t sure why you came. You weren’t even sure you could look that man in the eye without feeling every emotion in existence collide inside you.
At the chapel
The reception hall still stank of panic. Guests whispered in clumps, shaken, gossip staining the air. Photographers had been kicked out. Security roamed every corner. Alex and Mira had been escorted away to continue a wedding none of them wanted. Your father pulled you through the marble hallway, his breath uneven. Your father--the strongest man you knew--had cried tonight. Broken down. Because he finally learned just how thoroughly you had been betrayed.
He spotted Chris before you did. Christopher was walking away from the main hall, hands tucked into his pockets, suit immaculate despite all the blood that had stained the night. Daylan’s blood. His lies. His downfall. Your father rushed forward.
"Mr. Bahng! Please... wait!"
Christopher stopped. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder.
Dark eyes unreadable. Expression cool and terrifyingly collected. Your father bowed.
Actually bowed.
"Thank you," he choked. "Thank you for saving my daughter from a trap I never saw. Thank you for exposing them before they destroyed her forever." You froze.
Hearing your father thank that man... That man who had forced you into marriage with the threat of total financial destruction... It left a strange, painful knot in your chest. Your father bowed again, voice trembling.
"Please... I know my daughter is now tied to you legally. I know I owe you everything. But I beg you... keep her away from whatever world you belong to. She is innocent. She is gentle. She cannot survive the darkness I suspect surrounds you." You swallowed hard.
Christopher’s eyes flicked to you for a moment--brief, sharp--and you hated the way your breath caught. Then he looked back at your father. And what he said made the world stop.
"I give you my word."
Your father let out a broken, relieved sob. You... froze. You... stared at him. Christopher Bahng gave his word? The man who forced you into marriage? Who threatened to crush your father's empire? Who manipulated every step of your downfall and reconstruction? Christopher’s word was a dangerous thing--rare, sharp, final. He didn't lie often. He didn't need to.
And when he said something... he meant it. Your father squeezed your shoulder, whispered a soft apology for everything you'd been put through, and went back inside to check on the remaining chaos. Which left you and Christopher alone.
Silence.
Heavy, tense, electric. You watched him walk toward the entrance, hands in his pockets, steps slow and unhurried. You followed him without even thinking. Outside, the cold night air slapped your face awake. His car was parked under the grand driveway canopy--a sleek black benz, engine humming softly. His driver stood by the door, waiting. Christopher paused when he saw you there already. Right you must have walked by when he was checking his messages.
You stood directly beside the passenger door, blocking his path. He didn't speak first. He simply looked at you with that unreadable expression--that gaze that felt like it carved you open quietly. Like you were the only thing he saw.
"Why?" you snapped, breath uneven. "Why did you do all that?"
He didn't answer. "Why force me into marriage? Why ruin my reputation? Why trick me? Why drag Daylan in like... like some kind of warning? Why expose Mira and Irene like that? Why involve yourself at all?"
His eyes lowered to your trembling hands. You hated that he noticed.
"You destroyed everything," you whispered. "And then you fixed everything. And I still don't understand why."
Chris tilted his head slightly, watching you with eerie calm.
"So tell me," you pressed, stepping closer, "what do you get out of this? What do you gain by ruining me, then saving me? By forcing me into your world but promising my father to keep me out of it?"
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He wasn't annoyed. He wasn't angry. He was… listening. Really listening. Focusing on your every word like it mattered. That unsettled you more than anything.
"I hate what you did to me," you breathed. "I hate that you tricked me. I hate that you dragged me into your mess. And I hate that you--"
Your voice cracked. Damn it.
You hated that too.
"And I hate that I'm saying this but... thank you," you whispered. "For tonight. For the truth. For giving me back my dignity. Even if you were the one who tore it away first." The wind blew lightly, brushing hair across your face. Christopher slowly lifted his hand.
For a moment, you thought he was going to touch your cheek. But instead... He gently patted the top of your head.
A soft, controlled tap. Almost awkward. Almost tender. Like he wasn't used to comforting people. Like he didn't know how to express whatever he was feeling. And then he said it lightly, calmly, almost bored:
"I will make sure the internet and media apologize to you."
Your eyes widened. It wasn't a reassurance. It wasn't a promise. It was a statement of fact. Something inevitable.
Like rain. Or gravity. And then-- He stepped around you, opened his car door, and got inside without another word. Your mouth fell open slightly.
"That's it?" you blurted. "You're just going to leave after saying that?"
He looked at you from inside the car, one eyebrow lifting faintly. He didn’t answer. His driver closed the door. The car began to pull forward. You stepped back, watching the taillights glide away like a shadow slipping into the night. You stood there alone. Angry. Confused. Shaken. And even more furious at how your heart refused to steady itself.
You went home with your father.
Still trembling. Still unsure of anything. You collapsed on your bed, staring blankly at your wall when your phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again. And again. Notifications flooded in faster than you could open them.
News alerts.
Online articles.
Public apologies.
Statement after statement.
Breaking News: Daylan confesses to deliberate sabotage, cheating, and fraud.
Trending Topic: 'Y/n was framed'
Public Apology from Rhee Family Spokesperson: 'We regret misjudging the situation'
Major Fashion Magazine: 'Our previous article about Y/n was unfair and incorrect'
Influencer Pages: 'We owe Y/n an apology.'
Talk shows.
Brands.
Journalists.
Hate accounts.
Everyone.
Your phone couldn’t keep up.
Every apology looked rushed. Panicked. Forced.
As if someone had scared them into fixing everything immediately. Someone powerful. Someone feared.
Someone named Christopher Bahng.
You stared at your screen, heart pounding. He said it. And then he made the entire country kneel in apology overnight. You sat in silence, phone buzzing nonstop beside you. Your throat tightened. Because for the first time since all this began-- you felt something you never expected to feel toward him.
Safety.
And that terrified you most of all.
....To be continued.
a/n:
Before y'all come to choke me! I had no choice but split this fic into 2 parts 'causeeeee tumblr hates me. It keeps fucking giving me the STUPID ASS error of 'dAnG, 1000 bLoCkS AllOwEd PeR PoSt!' fuck ass. I AM CRASHING OUT. GENUINE. CRASHOUT. Anyways I hope y'all enjoyed this atleast, sorry for the delay my lovies!
Ahem. Part 2 will take time- HOPEFULLY BY TOMORROW I WILL BE ABLE TO POST!
Warnings in the Series Masterlist as well as any other information needed
Important notes at the end
Chapter 3
“Hey.” Hyunjin pokes his head into the room seeing the female has been moved back over to the bed, probably with the help of Minho. He fully comes in holding a bowl. “We made you some soup.”
“Perfect.” Felix smiles as he quickly grabs the bowl and brings it over to Y/n. “Something not too heavy on your stomach since who knows when you last ate.”
The omega looks at the soup Felix places on the table tray on the bed as she realizes just how hungry she is. She’s pretty sure the last time she ate anything was the morning before the hunt. She looks up at Hyunjin who is lingering by the door and gives him a nod in thank you.
“No problem…” The male trails off realizing they still don’t know her name. “Umm… I don’t want to keep having to call you princess, is there a name we can call you?”
She looks down, not making any eye contact as she thinks about it. She shrugs her shoulders while biting her lip still not feeling confident to speak yet.
Felix whimpers looking at her wide eyed. “Please tell me you are shrugging your shoulders because you don’t know what else to do and not because you don’t know your name.”
She blushes while nodding before deciding to take a bite of the soup. The two older omegas watch her eat, not sure what else to do until Minho, who’s finally finished cleaning up the room, comes up to her and places a pen and paper on the table tray making her stop eating and look up at him.
“Can you maybe write it?”
She hesitates before picking up the pen, feeling weird in her hand as she hasn’t written anything in so long, carefully writing her name out on the paper making sure it’s eligible. All three of them look at the paper.
“Y/n.” Hyunjin reads it out loud, smiling, making her blush as she’s been used to only being referred to as O13 for the last few months. “That’s a pretty name.”
Now that the older omega is closer to her she reaches out to grab his left hand pulling it to her so she can look at his inner wrist. He furrows his eyebrows in confusion before looking to Felix for help.
“Like I said, he was never an arena omega.” Felix chuckles a little as she stares at Hyunjin's ink free wrist in disbelief.
“It’s true.” Hyunjin sets his other hand over hers where she’s holding onto his wrist. “Chan and Changbin have been looking out for me since the moment I presented as an omega. Same with Jisung, Chan took him in even before he presented because it was easy to tell he would be one.”
“All omegas are kept safe here from any kind of harm.” Minho finally takes a seat by the bed now that he has nothing to keep him busy and is hoping she’ll get used to him more. It was already an improvement when she let him carry her to the bed earlier. “Well, kept safe from everything but each other at least.”
Y/n furrows her brows as she looks at Felix and Hyunjin in confusion which makes them both laugh a little. She finally lets go of the older of the two's wrist.
“Hyun and Jisung didn’t get along at first.” Felix leans into Hyunjin a little. “They fought with each other for about a good year?”
Hyunjin nods his head that the youngest male is correct. “Ji was upset he was no longer the only omega in the pack to get all the attention.”
“What was your excuse?” The beta crosses his arms over his chest with a slight smirk.
“I didn’t know how to interact with other omegas.” Hyunjin says as if it’s obvious.
Y/n gives a barely noticeable smile watching them interact, never having seen something like that before. Felix saw it though, making his scent sweeten hoping the girl will come around soon.
“WHAT?!”
All four of them turn towards the door after hearing the yell followed by hurried footsteps approaching the room.
“Shit.” Minho hisses as he stands up and quickly moves in front of the door just as it opens and another omega rushes in, overly excited, running right into the older male who wraps his arms around him. “Calm down, Ji.”
“You’re awake.” Jisung is looking at Y/n with bright eyes over Minho’s shoulder not even noticing her cowering a little.
“Jisung.” Minho uses a firm voice to get the younger’s attention finally. “You smell like beta.”
“So do you.”
The beta rolls his eyes. “I mean you smell heavily of Seungmin.”
It takes a moment for Jisung to register before looking at Y/n who is watching everything in fear. “Oh.” He blushes and rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry.”
“Y/n, this is Jisung.” Felix grabs her hand in reassurance. She flinches at first but doesn’t pull away. “He’s our other omega we were telling you about.”
“Hi.” He waves awkwardly as Minho lets him go. “Sorry to have scared you. I was just excited when Chan told us you’re awake. And sorry if I smell too much like our other beta. We were hanging out. I can leave if his scent is too much.”
She hesitates as the overly excited omega practically vibrates where he stands. Looking to Felix for guidance she squeezes his hand unsure what she’s supposed to do, or want.
“It’s okay. If Seungmin’s scent on him is too much for you then you’re allowed to ask for him to leave.” Felix gives her a smile watching her closely as she looks back at Jisung and sniffs a little. “I can promise you though that even though he seems like a lot, Jisung is really great to have around.”
Y/n nods as she grabs the pen again and writes on the paper in front of her before giving it to Felix to read.
“You can stay, Ji.”
The omega's eyes brighten before he’s rushing over to steal the seat Minho had previously occupied so he can sit with his other two mates and talk with the girl. Minho watches all of them with a smile enjoying the site of the four omegas, even if Y/n is still cautious and a bit jumpy as the males talk around her.
“Y/n.” The beta moves next to her bed and flips the paper on the table tray over to the blank side. “Why don’t you write down any information you have about your family. Parents names, pack name, where they were last living. I’ll give it to the alphas so they can do some research and try and track them down.”
He waits for her to write down everything she knows before taking the paper, folding it before turning to the boys. “You guys can stay and do whatever it is you omegas like to do to bond but remember Y/n still needs to rest, so don’t get too overly excited in here.” He then turns to Felix and pushes some hair out of his face. “Show her how to use the call button on the bed that notifies our phones for if she ever needs anything.”
“I will.” Felix leans into Minho's hand before the older male leaves the omegas in the medical bay.
As soon as the door shuts behind him, Chan stands up from one of the bar stools where he has been waiting as patiently as he can for any of them to come back out. He looks back and forth between Minho and the door waiting to see if anyone else comes out.
“She’s fine.” The beta smirks at his concerned alpha. “She let us eventually stitch her thigh back up and was eating the soup. Now the boys are just keeping her company. She seems to be attached to Felix after she saw his arena number on his wrist and he explained things to her. I think she tolerates Hyunjin just because the shirt she’s wearing is his so his scent is the only familiar and comforting thing to her right now. And she didn’t send Jisung away when we told her she was allowed to since he smelled heavily of Seungmin.”
“She’s acclimating, that’s good.” Chan sighs as he sits back on the stool not seeming as tense now. “Has she said anything about what happened that night?”
Minho presses his lips together in a thin line and shakes his head no. “She won’t speak. I’m starting to wonder if it’s because she’s too scared to or if she physically can’t.” He puts the folded up paper on the counter in front of the alpha. “She wrote her name though, it’s Y/n. And we told her that we’ll help her find her family to go back to once she’s healed. She wrote down information that’ll hopefully help you and Changbin search for them.”
Chan unfolds the paper and looks it over. “Once Bin and Innie are done in the gym we’ll see what we can find.”
Minho nods and looks around a little confused. “Where’s Minnie?”
“Upstairs.” Chan glances up at the banister that overlooks the living room. “When he and Sungie came back in from the garden I told them how Y/n is awake. You already know how Jisung reacted but Seungmin didn’t say anything and just went upstairs.”
“Did he seem upset or mad?”
“No.” Chan sighs. “I don’t know what’s going on in his head but he just seemed numb to the information. His scent stayed the same and he just went upstairs.” He notices Minho’s worried look as he looks up at the second floor landing as well. “Hey, you and the omegas focus on the girl, we’ll figure out Seungmin. No need to worry.”
Minho nods with a sigh before turning towards the door of the med bay when it opens again and out walks Hyunjin and Jisung. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Jisung holds his hands up to calm down the two older males who are quickly walking over to them. “Y/n and Lix fell asleep.”
Hyunjin opens the door a little bit more so the two can peek in. Y/n lays there sound asleep on the bed, her head turned towards Felix where he lays hunched over in the chair, his head resting on his arms on the bed. One of his hands holding hers.
Chan frowns which shocks the two omegas and Hyunjin speaks up. “It’s cute. And Felix is finally sleeping peacefully for the first time in days.”
“Sleeping like that isn’t good for his back though.” Chan sighs knowing when the boy wakes up his back is going to ache more than it normally does. But he also knows that if he moves Felix he’ll wake up and be restless.
“Just leave them be.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The next morning Seungmin lays on Felix’s bed while he waits for the omega to get out of the shower. His back was hurting from sleeping hunched over Y/n’s medical bed so he’s relaxing his muscles with a hot shower and the beta had offered to help him use the massage gun since everyone else is still sleeping.
Seungmin sits up when the omega’s phone goes off next to him on the bed. He takes in a sharp breath when he sees a notification from the medical bay. The call button they have set up on the bed only notifies Felix, Minho and Chan’s phones. They were going to set up so it also notifies Jisung and Hyunjin as the girl has gotten used to the other two but it hasn’t been done yet.
Seungmin chews on his lip as he strains to listen to the rest of the house trying to gauge if Minho or Chan woke up due to the notification but the other rooms are quiet except for the sounds of Jisung’s and Hyunjin's light purrs. He debates if he should tell Felix or go and wake up the two oldest pack mates when another notification sounds on the youngest omega’s phone.
Seungmin decides to go find out himself just how urgent it is, leaving Felix’s room and rushes downstairs. The door was left slightly open after Felix left this morning and he peers through the crack seeing the girl sitting up in bed, fidgeting with the blankets, seeming anxious. Her head whips to look at the door when she smells the beta’s scent giving him away. She recognizes his scent from Jisung.
“Hey.” He pushes the door open a bit more to let himself in. “I saw the notifications on Felix’s phone, are you okay?” She stares at him, her hands closing tighter around the blanket in her lap as she chews on her bottom lip. “Do I need to go get Minho or one of the omegas?”
She sits there for a second before whispering, barely audible. “B-Bathroom.”
“Oh.” Seungmin is shocked as he was told that she still hadn’t spoken yet. “Right, you still can’t walk with your stitches… Is it okay if I help you?”
Y/n hesitates debating on if he was safe enough but she so badly needs to pee that at this point she doesn’t even fully care. She nods her head yes and watches him closely as he walks over to her. She pushes the blankets off of her and swings her legs off the side of the bed as he gently places a hand on her arm causing her to flinch making him retreat.
“If you aren’t comfortable I can go get one of the others.” He starts to step away to do exactly that until he feels her hand grab his wrist making him look at her.
She almost looks like she's pleading to him to help her and he nods moving back to her. He helps her stand up and as she places weight on her injured leg, her knee buckles a little making him have to catch her as he wraps an arm around her waist.
“Just lean your weight against me.”
He waits until he feels her lean against him before slowly helping her walk towards the bathroom connected to the room. Once to the doorway, he flicks the light on and helps her get a hold on the bar lining the walls of the room.
“Got it from here?” She nods, her cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “When you’re done either open the door or knock or something. I’ll stay right outside.”
He closes the door and stands against the wall waiting for a few minutes. He knows she’ll probably take longer than the average person with her injuries right now but after five minutes he starts to get concerned.
“S-Seungm-min?” Her voice comes from the other side of the door just as he thought about knocking. He’s shocked to hear her speak again, and his name of all things.
He opens the door to find her standing near it against the wall with the help of the bar, balancing on her good leg. He moves to her and waits for her to lean against him again before leading her back to the bed, pulling the blankets over her once she’s settled.
“Do you need anything else?” She shakes her head no already looking ready to fall asleep again. “When the omegas wake up I’ll tell them to come check on you again.”
She gives him a small smile as he retreats to the door. He gives her one last glance before leaving the room, making sure to keep the door cracked a little so they can hear for her. When he turns he’s startled to see Felix leaning against the opposite wall, his hair still wet from his shower.
“Fuck, Felix.”
“You were gone when I got out of the shower then I saw the notifications on my phone from her call button.” He gets off the wall so they can head back upstairs.
“Yeah. She just needed to use the bathroom so I helped her walk.” The omega nods but doesn’t say much more letting Seungmin decide if he should tell him what happened. “She spoke.”
Felix stops midstep on the stairs whipping his head to look at the younger male. “She did? What did she say?”
“She only said bathroom at first then after she was done she stuttered out my name to let me know she was done.” The beta furrowed his brows a little, looking down at the steps. “I don’t even know how she knew my name. I had forgotten to introduce myself.”
“I do.” Felix smiles. “And I think it’s the only reason she let you help her. When Jisung joined us yesterday, he smelled heavily of you. She recognized your scent this morning from him. Ji trusts you enough to have had your scent on him so she concluded you were safe enough to help her.”
Seungmin's heart flutters at the revelation as he looks back at the medical bay door. Felix smirks and whacks his harm lightly. “Come on pabo, you promised to help massage my back.”
A/N 1: There's going to be a bit of a break before the next chapter as I get through Holiday season. It will be Beautifully Cruel World chapter 29 that gets posted next I just don't know when then sometime after that will be Chapter 4.
A/N 2: I had meant to share this fun fact in one of the first two chapters but had forgotten about it. The reason for her having O13 on her wrist is because I actually have 013 tattooed on my inner left wrist that I got done about 3 years ago, I just changed the zero to an O for this fic. Yes it is meant to be like the Stranger Things tattoo and the reason it's a 13 is because I was born on Friday the 13th.
⚠️ Contains explicit sexual content, graphic violence, and psychological manipulation. All sexual acts are consensual within a coercive, obsessive relationship dynamic.
he promised he’d keep you safe. he never specified from who
You don’t hear the door open so much as feel the house change its breath.
The hallway draft stops dead, like the building itself is holding it in. The air that slides under the bedroom door is colder than it should be, damp in a way that makes your skin go pebble-fine. You are not drunk—just soft around the edges, the way a book looks when you thumb the corners too long. The sheets are warm from your legs. Your phone is face down on the nightstand, an accusatory square.
Keys. A low clink against the console dish. Leather whispering. The tiny rubber sound of shoes leaving your entry mat and finding the wood.
You close your eyes and pretend to be asleep.
“Bad actress,” Chris says from the doorway, voice so gentle you could cut your finger on it.
When you look, he’s a silhouette first: all black, the clean geometry of a high-collar jacket and fitted tee, dark jeans that drink the light from his silver hair. Wet where they shouldn’t be. There are splashes on the cuffs and a dull sheen on his knuckles, rubbed halfway clean and then abandoned. He smells like outside at midnight—cold metal, wet bark, the bite of something mineral.
He doesn’t turn the lamp on. He walks by feel in this place like it’s mapped under his skin. The bed dips—a slow, careful press by your shins. His hand finds your ankle through the comforter and closes, thumb smoothing along the bone as if taking your pulse.
“Hi,” you say, small. It comes out a little breathy, guilty by nature.
He hums. “You’re warm.”
“I—yeah.” Your tongue tastes like wine and citrus. “Changed my clothes.”
His thumb stops moving. “Before or after you stopped answering me.”
The hour before this—your coworkers, the loud bar, the way your phone kept lighting up like a heartbeat—rearranges itself in your head. You swallow. The ring of your glass on polished wood. Laughter. Someone’s sleeve grazing your bare shoulder. “My battery—”
He reaches over you. A quiet, unhurried theft. Your phone is in his hand before you can catch the thought of saying no. He doesn’t check it yet. He just rests it on his thigh and looks at you, the whites of his eyes milk-pale in the low light.
“Battery,” he repeats, but it isn’t a question. It’s a place he’s setting you down to see if you stay.
The apartment is too quiet. You can hear the tiny tick of the hallway thermostat. Somewhere in the pipes a neighbor’s shower shuts off. Chris sets your phone on the nightstand without looking away from you. Then he bends, and the scent of him gets sharper.
Your fingers move before your nerve can talk you out of it. You catch his wrist. His skin is cold and a little damp; there’s grit drying in the lines of his palm. “What… is that?”
His mouth tips. He turns his hand in yours and spreads his fingers. In the dark, the stains read as a palette of shadows—edges the color of violets and rust, a smear you could almost pretend is paint if your stomach wasn’t pulling tight.
“Nothing you need to put your hands on,” he says softly. “Not with your pretty hands.”
“Chris.” Your name for him folds itself around a small plea. “Where did you go?”
“Out.” He lifts one shoulder, the movement minimal, controlled. “You were out. I gave you space.”
“You were mad.” Your voice wants to make it an accusation. It only makes it to observation. “You were mad at me for going and then you left and…and now you’re back.”
“I always come back.” He says. His knuckles skim your knee over the blanket; he’s not petting you. He’s measuring. “Did you have fun?”
The question is silk over wire. You hate how it snags. “It was just drinks.”
“Just.” He tastes the word as if it offends him. “With who.”
You tell him. Names that feel harmless in your mouth feel less so in the room with him: Anya with the chipped pink manicure, Lucas from accounting who laughs with his whole chest. Chris tips his head once, small, taking the list like a report.
“Your coworker touched your back,” he says. Not a question. “By the door.”
You feel your face heat. You hadn’t told him that. You hadn’t even fully registered it until now— a palm that landed too comfortably between your shoulder blades as the group spilled outside to call rides, a thoughtless guiding pressure. Harmless, you told yourself, even as goosebumps rose sharp across your skin.
“He’s handsy with everyone,” you say.
“Handsy.” The corner of his lips quirk at that and he flexes his wrist slightly. The sheen of wetness there flashes suddenly. “Well.”
He drags his thumb along his wrist where something has dried into the seam of skin, then wipes it on his jeans without looking. He tips his head, studying you, and the quiet stretches until you feel your heartbeat as a separate animal in the room.
“Some men,” he says at last, conversational, “don’t know where to put their hands.” His gaze lowers to where the blanket tents over your knees. “It gets them into trouble.”
You try to laugh like it’s a joke, but it comes out thin and papery. “He… he didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Intent is a bedtime story.” His eyes find your face again. They are very gentle when he’s being unkind. “Contact is a fact.”
He reaches—slow—and takes your right wrist the way a tailor takes a measurement. His fingers encircle, warm now, pressing just enough to feel the pulse under the skin. “Palms up,” he murmurs.
You turn your hands. Your palms look almost luminous in the low light, every line a map you don’t know how to read. He brushes over them like he’s checking for splinters, then flattens your fingers one by one, counting under his breath so soft you almost don’t hear it.
“One… two… three… four… five.” He lifts your left and does the same. “Six… seven… eight… nine…” He pauses on your smallest finger, thumb resting at its base like a promise. “Ten.” His mouth softens. “Good. Keep them.”
The relief is quick and mean; it makes you feel stupid. “Chris—”
He places your hands back on the blanket with exaggerated care, aligning your fingers together, smoothing the duvet where you’ve wrinkled it. “Don’t put them on strangers,” he adds mildly. “Not even on your ‘handsy-with-everyone’ coworker. Especially not him.”
Your tongue sticks to your teeth. “I didn’t— I wouldn’t—”
He nods, as if you’ve given the answer he wanted. “Tomorrow you’ll call off,” he says. “Headache. Or stomach. Something simple. I’ll write it for you.”
“I have a deadline.”
“Then you’ll meet it from here.” He glances toward your desk. “I moved the charger.” He has. The cord that used to live by the couch trails neatly to your nightstand, looped into a figure-eight. “You’ll stay home. That way your hands don’t… wander.”
The thermostat ticks over. Somewhere on the street a far siren winds down and disappears. He looks toward the window briefly, as if listening for his name in it, then unbuttons his cuff with precise, clean movements. The fabric peels back to show crescent-shaped indents deep into his skin, blooming red against his wrist. He smooths it with the other thumb, absent, soothing.
Your mouth moves before your sense does. “Did you… get hurt?”
He considers the question a moment, then shakes his head. “No.”
There’s a small, complicated silence. You think of the bar’s door, the way Lucas had skated his palm between your shoulders like he was steering a shopping cart; you think of the word harmless and how cheap it suddenly feels in your mouth. You think of how Chris’s cuff had been wet when he walked in, and the way the building itself seemed to hold a breath for him.
“He won’t touch you again,” Chris says, almost tender. “Or anyone.”
You look at the shape his words make. They don’t land like a guess.
“Is he—” You stop yourself on the brink. The question opens under you like a staircase to something you don’t want to see the bottom of. You try a different angle, smaller, more ordinary. “Is he okay?”
Chris’s expression does something minuscule—an eyelash shift of amusement, gone as soon as you name it. “He’s not going to be handsy for a while.” He says it like the weather. Like a calendar note. “Extended leave.”
Your stomach lurches. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says patiently, “we won’t have this conversation again.”
He picks up your phone, flips it over, and presses the side button with his thumb.
“Location,” he says. You unlock it. He doesn’t have to ask twice.
He toggles the setting on with the same reverence he uses to smooth your hair when you’re shaking. He adds himself to a little white list of people who can always find you. He does not look triumphant. He looks relieved, like someone closing a latch.
He watches the little toggle slide green, then lets your phone dim on its own. The room seems to settle with it, like a lid finding its jar.
“Good,” he says. It isn’t praise so much as calibration. “That’s how we stop accidents.”
He reaches for your hands again, less like a lover and more like someone fitting a lid—checking the lips, the seal, the way things meet. His thumbs trace the pads of your fingers as if memorizing their texture for later, then pause at your ring finger like he’s counting future problems.
“Dry,” he notes. “You pick at the cuticles when you’re anxious.”
“I—sometimes.”
“I love you,” he says into your knuckles—each kiss a seal—and then, almost lightly: “I’m going to shower.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t move.” It’s gentle, which means it isn’t optional.
The bathroom door clicks. A heartbeat; the pipes wake. Water hits tile in that hard first burst and then takes on a steady hiss. You hear the metal thrum of the knob easing hotter, the wet drag of a curtain pulled closed. Steam slips under the door and ghosts along the floor.
You stay put for twenty seconds. Maybe thirty. Your pulse makes the counting slippery.
Then you climb out of bed.
The jacket waits where he left it, draped over the chair like a sleeping thing. Up close it smells like cold and soap and a thin, mineral thread the shower can’t quite erase. You tell yourself you’re just moving it, just… tidying. Your fingers find the collar. The fabric is heavier than it looks; the hem gives a little when you lift it.
There’s a darker crescent on the inside placket, dried thin and matte. You swallow, carefully. Your hand finds the inner pocket and grazes something wrapped—paper or tissue gone dense with damp. It gives when you press it. Your stomach steps off a curb.
You shouldn’t.
You do.
The paper sighs open. It isn’t a big thing. Not heavy. Just… definite. Pale where it shouldn’t be, a blunt little curve, the clean circle of a band biting soft tissue. The ring is the wrong kind of familiar—the cheap onyx square your coworker never took off, the one he rapped against doorframes when he was telling a story too loudly. L.M. engraved inside in bad block letters. You recognize it with the same certainty you recognize your own phone by weight in the dark. Recognize the finger that is still attached to it, blood crusted at the end.
Air forgets how to go in. You hear yourself set it down back into its cocoon—too careful, too late—your hands suddenly useless birds.
The shower keeps hissing—a steady white noise that makes the apartment feel far away from itself. Steam curls under the bathroom door, licks the floor, climbs the chair legs. You try to put the bundle back exactly the way you found it—edges kissing, soft layers aligned—but your fingers won’t listen. The tissue makes that papery sigh again. Your stomach pitches.
The bathroom door opens.
He’s there in the doorway, towel low on his hips, hair dripping in silent commas down his throat. The room smells like heat and soap and something faintly medicinal. He doesn’t look at the chair first. He looks at you. The angle of your shoulders. The way your hands hover, useless, just off your ribs.
“I forgot the razor,” he says, utterly ordinary, then sees the jacket lifted and your hands mid-guilt. The sentence folds itself away. His eyes take in the angle of your elbows, the loosened pocket, the counterfeit stillness you’re trying to wear.
“I told you not to move.”
“Chris—” Your voice splinters. Your heart is a spotlight that can’t pick a target. “I didn’t— I was just—”
“Bring it here.” Not unkind. Inevitable.
You shake your head before you can stop it. The world wobbles. Something helpless and high climbs your throat.
“Inside voice,” he reminds you softly, stepping closer, towel riding his hipbone, heat breathing off him in waves. “Neighbors.”
“It’s—” The word fails three times. You force it through. “His. That’s— it’s his—” You can’t say finger and not make it real.
“I know what it is.” He holds out the hem of the towel, palm hidden, offering fabric instead of skin. “Give it.”
You almost drop it. Instead, your hands betray you in the safest way they can: they obey. He receives the small weight without looking, wraps once, twice, until the shape is nothing again. He turns and sets it on the closed toilet lid, exactly where a folded towel might live and no one would notice.
Your breath is small and fast. “We have to call— we have to tell someone—”
“No,” he says, utterly calm. “We don’t.”
“He needs a hospital.”
Chris tilts his head, considering. “They won’t be able to help him much.”
He watches your mouth try to shape the argument and fail. The parcel sits obediently on porcelain. The shower keeps talking behind the curtain, a long even line of sound, as if the apartment could write over this with steam.
“They can’t help him,” he repeats, gentle as a correction.
Your breath scrapes. “You don’t know that.”
“I can.” He says. “And if you call anyone now, you’ll only move your fear from the chair to the door.” His gaze flicks there, to the latch, then back. “I prefer it where I can see it. Where I can fix it.”
You shake your head hard enough that black dots crowd the edges of the room. Your hands hover, then clutch the hem of your sleep shirt because you have to hold something or you’ll come apart.
“We have to—” Your voice thins. “Chris, we can’t have— that—here.”
Something flickers in his eyes then, and he softens considerably. He tilts your head back with a finger at your chin. “Are you trying to protect me?”
You flinch like he’s caught you holding a knife by the blade. “I—no— I’m trying to—”
“To make it smaller,” he says, kindly. “For both of us.” His thumb at your chin isn’t force; it’s gravity. “Sweetheart, you always do that. You hold the bad thing close and hope it stops being sharp, even as it’s digging into your chest.”
Your throat works. “This isn’t a bad thing, Chris. It’s—” You can’t say it. The word would sit in your mouth like a rock.
“It’s consequence,” he supplies gently. “It’s the shape safety takes when someone mistakes you for public property.” He leans closer, steam shining his eyelashes. “Listen to me. He put his hands on you like you were an aisle display. He’ll never do that again. Not to you. Not to anyone.”
“You don’t know—”
“I do.” He says it with that low, unarguable certainty that makes you feel both furious and steadied. “Because I removed the choice.”
Your eyes burn. “You can’t ask me to be okay with that.”
“I’m not.” The smallest smile ghosts across his mouth. “I’m telling you that you don’t have to hold it. Give me the part that shakes.” He taps your sternum with two fingers, precise and light. “Let me be heavy so you can be soft.”
It’s wrong that his voice makes your pulse calm. It’s wrong that his palm at your jaw—warm, damp, steady—makes your knees remember they’re attached. He watches the fight in your face without gloating, like a doctor waiting for a fever to break.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Shivering. Your skin’s trying to crawl away from itself.” He tips his head at the shower, still hissing behind the curtain. “Come wash it off.”
He doesn’t pull. He simply offers his hand, palm up, the way he does when he’s certain you’ll remember who you are with it. You stare at it, at the nicks and lines and the new marks, and hate that the relief is already cresting.
“You’ll keep looking at that chair if you stay,” he murmurs. “You’ll imagine stories that are uglier than the truth. Or kinder than it. Either way you’ll bruise yourself with it.” His fingers flex, inviting rather than demanding. “Or you’ll come with me, and I’ll soap your wrists and count you back into your body.”
“That’s manipulative,” you whisper.
He smiles. “It’s love,” he whispers back. “And I’m very good at it.” Softer. “You love me.”
You do. You love him so much, it’s ripping your heart into shreds. Your hand finds his. You tell yourself it’s to stop shaking, to anchor, to prove you can still make a choice. He laces your fingers, warm and certain, and leads you the three steps into steam. The air kisses your face wet; the mirror ghosts your outline.
He lets go of your hand to slip off his towel, stark naked and straight-backed in the way only a person completely confident in their skin can be. He glances up at you, still fully dressed, and smiles slightly.
“Clothes on the hook,” he says. “I’ll turn around.”
“Will you,” you murmur, but it’s almost an old joke between you, and you hate that too.
He does turn, though, despite the fact that he’s seen you naked a million times before. He faces the mirror, head bowed, palms resting lightly on the counter as if he’s bracing with politeness. You can see him in the glass, ears slightly pink, fingers fidgeting and you can see the parcel on the shut lid and you hate that you can hold both images at once.
You feel ridiculous for noticing how the lines of his back looks in the mirror. You hate that your skin already misses his hands.
You peel your shirt over your head. The steam eats the last of the bar-smell; shame sticks closer. Shorts, panties—gone, balled onto the hook by reflex. The curtain whispers when you pull it. He doesn’t look until you are inside with him and the water clasps your shoulders like a warm hand.
When he turns, it’s slow, like he’s letting you get used to the shape of him. His cock is heavy and dark where it hangs, unashamed of what it wants. Your stomach flips traitorously. You hate that your mouth waters more for him than for oxygen.
His fingers find your jaw. “Open,” he says, and you do, because that’s the muscle memory he’s installed in you. He kisses you lazy at first, uncoiling heat, then bites when you chase it. It’s filthy how quickly you melt. It’s filthy how your hips rock without your permission.
“Look at you.” His voice roughens against your mouth. “You were shaking for the wrong reason. I’ll fix it.”
“Chris—” It comes out a whine. You want to curse him. You want to be on your knees. You want both.
“Turn around,” he murmurs, and walks you into the tile until your nipples brush cool ceramic. His hand spreads at your nape, not pinning so much as arranging. “Hands on the wall.”
You plant your palms. Steam glosses them. Water drums your spine. The disgust curls low and glowing—how can you want this now, knowing what he——and then his other hand drags down your belly and sinks between your thighs and the thought scratches out.
He finds you wet like you’d been waiting for him all night. His breath breaks at your ear. “There she is,” he says, and the pride in it makes your knees tremble. Shame pricks; your body opens anyway.
His thumb circles your clit in slow, obscene laps, the kind that make heat pool and then surge. Two fingers press at your entrance and the groan you make when he pushes in is so relieved it’s almost a sob. He doesn’t thrust right away—he holds you full, spread, thumb grinding shallow circles until your hips start to chase, until you’re whining please without meaning to.
“Greedy,” he says, delighted. “After the little stunt you pulled.” He sets a rhythm designed to undo you—deep, dragging strokes that rub the rough pad of his finger against your front wall, the heel of his palm catching your clit on the exit. Your jaw goes slack; your cheeks go hot. Water slicks everything but his grip never slips.
You tremble. He hears it. “Say you need me.”
“I—need—” The syllables fracture around his hand. “I need it.”
“You need me,” he corrects, and crooks his fingers just so. The sound you make would embarrass you if embarrassment could live here. He does it again, patient, cruel, praising you with his breath. “That’s it. Make a mess on my hand.”
Your forehead thumps the tile when he speeds up—tiny, ruthless punches of pleasure that light your nerves like a fuse. You bite your wrist. He tsks and drags your arm down. “No hiding,” he says, and taps your cheek with his knuckles. “Let me hear you.”
You hate him; you love him; you’re coming up hard and bright around the fingers of a man you should be afraid of and you arch back into him like a sinner courting the flame. He feels your body seize and laughs, soft and pleased, and claps his palm hard against your clit on the downswing. You break. It rips out of you, filthy and helpless, thighs shaking, cunt milking his fingers like you were made to perform exactly this trick for him.
He doesn’t stop. He rides you through it, wringing the aftershocks until you’re keening, until your hands slip on the tile. “Too much?” he asks, not stopping, not interested in fairness. You shake your head because honesty would make you beg and you refuse to give him that—until his thumb flicks and you beg anyway.
He gentles. He always knows exactly when to. He drags his soaked fingers to your mouth and taps. You take them like a penitent. You lick your taste off him, eyes closing, shame burning hot as want. His voice goes ragged. “Good girl. Clean me up.”
He kneels.
The filthy punch of it—Chris on his knees in your tub like prayer—makes you dizzy. He hooks your thigh over his shoulder and eats you like he’s been starving for days. No teasing, no polite tongue; he gets messy immediately, mouth open, sucking your clit into the wet heat of him while his injured wrist braces your hip. You slap the tile, a smacking echo that makes you flush, and grind down because your body is done pretending it has standards.
He moans into you when you ride his face. The sound vibrates through your clit and you jerk; he does it again, greedy for the way you seize. His tongue fucks you shallow, sloppily, then drags up and flattens over you until your knees threaten to go. “Chris,” you gasp, and he answers by driving two fingers into you from below and curling them like a hook. The world whites out around the edges.
“You taste like you missed me,” he says against you, voice ruined, and devours you harder. His hand is a metronome between your legs; his mouth is chaos. You let him make you into a noise. You let him use your hips like handles. You hate yourself for how quickly the second orgasm winds you back up—and when it slams through, messier than the first, you cry out loud enough the pipes hum it back.
He stands in one smooth flex and kisses you, filthy, sharing the mess he made of you with a satisfied noise when you chase his tongue. You can taste yourself and him and something metallic you don’t want to name, and the wrongness of that reels you; your cunt clenches uselessly around nothing and he groans into your mouth like he felt it.
“Bed,” he says, hoarse, fumbling for the shower knob. “On your back. Legs open.”
You stumble out of the tub, dripping and boneless, and he follows, slinging water across the tile with his steps. You don’t look at the porcelain lid when you pass; his fingers at your wrist give you something truer to stare at. He throws you onto the sheets like you’re soft and expensive and his favorite problem.
He drags you down the bed so your hips kiss the edge and folds you open. “My pretty mess,” he says, and spits on you, quick and obscene. His thumb smears it in and your body thanks him before your brain can get a vote.
“Condom,” you start to say, and he’s already reaching the drawer, already tearing it with his teeth, already rolling it down with practiced, impatient hands. Consideration weaponized. You hate that relief loosens your spine.
He lines up and pushes—slow the first inch, watching your face, then down to the root in one long glide that makes both of you swear. Your mouth falls open. He holds there, deep, letting you feel how utterly inside you he is, how there is no getting him out now that he’s home.
“Fuck,” you whisper, and he smiles like he’s been paid.
He moves. Not fast, not yet; slow, dragging thrusts that grind him right where you’re still trembling from his mouth. His hands climb your body, mapping possession in a language your skin understands better than your head. One circles your throat—not squeezing, just fitting there—and the other lifts your thigh higher, folding you until you open the way he likes, until his hips can pin you to every inch of the bed.
“Eyes,” he says, and you drag them up to him. He looks down like he’s blessing you. “Say what you are.”
“Yours,” you breathe, because lying would be pointless, and his rhythm stutters sweetly, his composure cracked with a sound that curls your toes.
“You are,” he grits out, picking up pace. “Your mine.” He fucks you harder, deeper, the kind of stroke that turns words to weather. The slap of skin fills the room; the wet between you is obscene; your slick coats him and he groans, filthy and pleased. “Listen to yourself,” he pants. “God, you’re loud for me.”
Your nails carve his back. He hisses and drives you higher, the bed complaining. The shame surges, searing and numb all at once—how can you moan for him when you know what he did, how can you come on a man who——and then he pins your wrists over your head in one hand and grinds down exactly right and you choose the smaller sin: you let him.
It builds ugly and perfect. He keeps you there, right on the edge, with little mean circles of his hips that make your eyes wet. “Not yet,” he says when you reach for it. “Hold it. Be good.”
“I can’t,” you plead, and he smiles like that’s his favorite part, and slides deeper, angling to own that spot you can’t protect. Your back arches, your feet slip, your mouth falls open on a sound that feels like confession.
“Fine then,” he says, and the word is a key. You come like you’re being wrung out, like he’s turned you inside out over his hands, like every ugly thought burns away under the heat he’s made of you. You bite his shoulder; he grunts and fucks you through it, chasing his own end now, brutal and beautiful, the lines of his face cut with pleasure.
He’s right there—hips hammering, breath tearing out of him—when his rhythm breaks. A harsh curse rips from his throat; he wrenches out of you with a wet, obscene drag, condom snapping as he claws it off and flings it aside. His hand wraps himself like he means to bruise, wrist jerking, fist a blur.
“Fuck—fuck—look at me,” he snarls, voice gone raw. The sound he makes isn’t pretty; it’s guttural, animal, his head thrown back, throat working as he pumps, fast and mean, like every second not inside you hurts. His abs jump; his hips chase the air. He’s loud, louder than he ever lets himself be—deep, broken groans punched out of him, a helpless litany of your name and filthy, grateful curses.
You’re splayed open at the edge of the bed, slick everywhere, thighs shaking, and the sight of you ruins him. His jaw locks; he doubles over you, bracing one palm on the mattress beside your ribs, the other tearing at himself, desperate, frantic. “God, look at you—mine, mine—” It pitches higher on the last word, ragged and close.
“Channie,” you gasp, and that’s what does it. His whole body tightens; his hand stutters and he shouts—loud, uncontained—spilling hot and thick over your stomach in hard, messy stripes. The first hits your lower belly; the next lands higher, a wet heat across your ribs, your breasts, a warm splatter catching your throat. He keeps jerking through it, whimpering now, ruined and beautiful, painting you with it like he’s signing a contract he wrote in his own blood.
He yanks another breath, fist still working, chasing the last aftershocks out of himself until he’s empty. A final, helpless groan punches into your neck as the last spill drips over the swell of your chest and slicks down your side. He shivers, hand loosening, cock twitching in his grip as he milks the last drops onto your belly, smearing them with the flat of his thumb like he wants it everywhere on you.
“Fuck,” he laughs, breathless and wrecked, forehead falling to your shoulder. His chest heaves against your knees; his hips twitch like he can’t stop wanting. For a second there’s nothing but the sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe and the obscene slide of his palm as he finally lets go.
He lifts his head, eyes blown and greedy, and stares at the mess he’s made—at your skin shining with him, at your nipples slick and peaked, at the milky line collecting at the notch of your collarbone. The look on his face is worship and victory tangled into something that scares you and softens you at once.
“Pretty,” he rasps, voice torn to threads. He drags two fingers through the warm spill on your sternum and rubs it slow over your skin, spreading it down, circling your nipple until you gasp again. His mouth follows, open and hot, licking it from you, sucking lazily like he can’t stand to waste a drop. He mouths a filthy path up your chest and licks the spot at your throat where it landed, groaning low when you shiver.
He noses the hollow of your throat and licks a slow, possessive stripe through the warm mess there like he’s tasting proof. A pleased sound rattles in his chest. “Mine,” he says into your skin, and then he’s chasing every slick line downward with his mouth open and greedy, tongue broad and hot.
He drags the flat of it over your collarbone and sucks the spill from the notch like he’s siphoning heat. It’s obscene, wet, noisy—he wants you to hear how he’s cleaning you. His hand pins your hip when you twitch. “Stay,” he mutters, and laps lower, patient and ravenous at once.
Your chest lifts helplessly to meet him. He takes his time there—circles one nipple with the tip of his tongue, smearing the milky shine until it coats you, then seals his mouth over it and sucks hard. Your back bows; a broken sound leaves you; shame bites; want eats it alive. He hums like he’s been given cream and moves to the other, mouthing it sloppier, licking until it’s slick again, sucking until your thighs tremble.
“Look at you,” he breathes, pulling back half an inch just to admire the spit-slick flush he’s made. He drags two fingers through the mess on your sternum and paints a crooked line down your ribs; his mouth follows, tongue working, teeth scraping lightly when you gasp. He cleans like a sinner making amends—thorough, reverent, filthy.
He gets to your belly and slows further, licking in lazy swirls that make your muscles flutter. He collects everything he finds with the soft edge of his tongue and swallows, then goes hunting with the tip, chasing it into your navel until you squeak. He laughs against your skin, low and wrecked. “All of it,” he promises, voice hoarse. “Every drop.”
He turns his head and bites the tender place beside your hipbone then soothes it with his tongue, lapping at a rivulet sliding toward the sheet. He won’t let it leave you; he catches it on the underside of his tongue and rolls it back up your skin into his mouth with a groan that ricochets through your gut. Your fingers fist in the sheets. You hate how your body melts under the worship, how your hips tip to give him more.
“Open,” he murmurs, nudging your knees wider with his forearms, but he doesn’t go there yet. He drags his cheek over your inner thigh, smearing shine into your skin, then licks it away in long, patient swathes like he’s polishing you. Every time you flinch, he follows the twitch with his mouth and cleans it, tongue insistent, lips soft, breath hot.
When he reaches the juncture of your thigh and pelvis he slows to nothing, holding your gaze as he flattens his tongue and slides it through the thin line he left on your lower belly, collecting the last of what he spilled and groaning like he’s starving for it. Your head tips back on a whimper; you can feel heat pooling low and mean again, traitorous.
“Almost done,” he lies, and you know he’s lying because his thumbs are already stroking into the crease where you’re slick for a different reason, and he’s looking at you like dessert is finally plated.
He bends and licks the inner curve beside your mound, not touching your clit, not yet, just cleaning your skin with obscene diligence. He chases a stray smear up and over, mouth open, licking slow enough to make you curse. He hums at the taste and your body answers, a little jerk that gives everything away. He follows it with the tip of his tongue, drinks from you again like he’s earned the right.
Then he finally drags the flat of his tongue up your slit in one long, deliberate stroke that leaves you shaking. He tastes you and the noise he makes is grateful and indecent. “So sweet,” he says, slurred, and seals his mouth around your clit just long enough to make your vision grit out. He pulls off with a wet pop, breath tearing. “I said I was cleaning.” A beat. “This is part of it.”
He spreads you with his thumbs and eats you again, deeper. He’s still loud—low groans and ruined little curses as he licks everything you give him, as if the only way to finish what he started is to pull you back apart with his mouth. Your hips climb his face; he lets them, one arm banding your waist, the other anchoring your thigh over his shoulder so he can get messy. He licks your entrance and fucks his tongue into you, sloppy and insistent, then drags up and sucks your clit in deep, obscene pulls that make your toes curl.
“Chris—” It’s a plea and a warning both.
“I know,” he pants, laughing breathlessly against you, and goes right back to it, tonguing you until your thoughts blur, until shame has nothing to hold onto. He cleans you and dirties you at once, lap after lap, swallow after swallow, until you’re soaked with his spit and your own slick again, until your thighs are shaking and your hand is in his hair trying to push him away and keep him forever.
He takes your wrist and plants your palm over your own breast. “Hold it for me,” he says, and when you do, he moans and licks harder, like the sight is gasoline.
You climb fast. He feels it and chases it, sucking your clit into the heat of his mouth and flicking his tongue exactly the way that breaks you. It hits sharp and hot—your hips stutter, your breath rips out in a cry, and he hums through your release like he’s proud of himself, like he’s finishing his plate.
He doesn’t stop until you shove at him, half-sobbing. He lets you, finally, lips shiny, chin wet, eyes black with want. He crawls up your body, dragging his mouth along your belly to catch anything he might have missed, then kisses your sternum, each breast, your throat, licking away the last ghost-stripes he painted there.
“All clean,” he says against your mouth, and kisses you slow so you can taste the truth of it—him, and you, and the ruin of the night turned into heat.
You hate that the taste makes you open for him. You hate that your hips lift again when his hand slides down, palm heavy on your belly, thumb stroking low like a promise that he isn’t done. He smiles into the kiss, feral and fond, and licks the corner of your mouth as if there were anything left to claim.
“Roll over,” he murmurs, voice gone velvet-dark.
You roll, cheek to the cool side of the pillow, hips lifting because his hands have already found your waist. He palms you open, thumbs pressing into the dip above the swell of your ass like he’s fitting you to himself.
“Like this,” he says, low and rough, dragging his mouth down your spine in hot, open kisses. “Want you like this.”
You know what he means before he says it; your body knows it first. He nudges your knees wider, presses his chest to your back, breath hot at your ear. “No rubber,” he murmurs, filthy-soft. “Bare. Let me stay.”
A flare of sense—thin, sputtering—fights up your throat. It dies on the whine you make when he slides two fingers through your slick and pushes them into you to the knuckle. Your hips answer for you, pushing back, shame prickling uselessly under the want.
“Say it,” he grinds, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Tell me to fuck you raw.”
“Yes,” you breathe, burnt and honest. “God—yes, Chris. Bare.”
He groans like you untied something inside him. The sound vibrates in your bones. He drags his fingers out, slow, and you feel the blunt head of him notch against you—hot, heavy, hungry. There’s no latex drag, no barrier. Just him, thick and alive, pressing into your heat. Your breath shreds.
“Open up for me,” he rasps, and you do, the angle of your hips changing under his hands. He pushes. The first inch makes both of you swear, the stretch almost too much, the slick obscene. He holds there, panting against your neck. “Fuck, that’s it… you feel like you were made to keep me.”
He sinks the rest of the way in with a slow, ruthless grind that leaves you clawing the sheet. Full. Too full. Perfect. Your mouth falls open on a sound you don’t recognize yourself in. He groans into your hair, broken and grateful. “Bare,” he says again, almost a prayer. “So warm. So tight. Christ.”
He moves.
Not careful now—hungry. Deep, dragging thrusts that smack skin, that grind his pelvis into the soft ache of your clit each time he bottoms out. The bed knocks the wall in a steady, shameless rhythm. He’s talking without knowing it, filthy praise spilling like heat—good girl, take me, that’s it, all of me, fu–ck, I can feel you clutching——and every word makes you softer around him.
Your head is a riot. Some small, horrified part of you whispers you shouldn’t want this, not after tonight, not after what you saw, not after what you know—but the rest of you is a body on fire that only understands yes. He fills every argument with his cock, erases every edge with his hips. You break yourself against him and he thanks you for it, voice shredded, hands sure.
“Hands up,” he pants, and you give them, sliding your wrists to the headboard. He laces his fingers through yours from behind and bears down, changing the angle until you can’t do anything but feel. The new depth knocks a helpless moan out of you; he snarls at the sound and pistons faster, sloppy now, desperate, like he’s racing something only he can see.
“Look at what you do to me,” he grits, pulling out almost all the way just to slam back in, obscene and wet. “Listen to me.” He’s loud, uncontained—deep curses breaking on your name, harsh, wrecked little laughs when your body clenches and drags him in deeper. “Fuck, you’re milking me,” he gasps, losing composure on a groan. “You’re gonna make me—”
“Inside,” you choke, shocking yourself with how fast you say it. “Please, inside—fill me, Chris—”
He makes a sound that isn’t language. His grip on your hands tightens; his thrusts turn brutal, gorgeous, hips snapping, balls slapping wet against you. “Yeah? You want it?” he growls, ragged, almost gone. “You want me to breed this pretty pussy?”
“Yes,” you sob, honest and ruined. “Yes, yes—Channie, please—give it to me—”
That breaks him. He buries himself to the root and holds, shaking, and you feel the first hot pulse spill deep where he wanted it. He shouts—loud, dirty, unashamed—crushing your fingers in his as he empties himself into you, each convulsion dragged out by the tight way you clutch around him. He grinds through it like he can push himself further inside, like he can stay, like he can mark you from the inside out.
“Take it,” he snarls against your neck, voice wrecked to threads. “Take all of it—fffuck—” Another heavy pulse, another, heat spreading in low, molten waves that make you see static. Your body answers with a vicious, rolling aftershock, milking him, greedy, a drawn-out whimper tearing from your chest when you feel the spill and the stretch and the pressure fuse into something that obliterates thought.
He doesn’t pull out. Not yet. He stays fully sheathed, panting, mouth open against your shoulder. His hips give small, helpless pushes, like his body can’t believe it gets to keep going. You’re delirious enough to press back, to meet those afterthrusts with your own tiny rolls, the wet, messy slip of him inside you making both of you groan.
“God, look at you,” he gets out, laughing breathlessly, delirious and proud. “Keeping me. Holding me.” He lets one of your hands go and slides his palm down, splaying it low over your belly. The weight of it there, heavy and possessive, makes your eyes sting. “Right here,” he husks. “Right where you wanted me.”
When it finally wrings him empty, he stays, buried to the hilt, panting into your skin. His hands stroke over you like he’s patting down a fire—thighs, waist, belly—possessive and shaky. You feel him soften and twitch and he hums, sated and obscene, hips giving one last lazy push to seat it deeper.
He slides out slow and you gasp at the loss. Warmth follows, thick and undeniable; he hisses softly, enthralled, watching it. “Don’t move,” he says, and his voice is wrecked and gentle at once. He thumbs your folds open and groans at the glossy spill, at the way your cunt flexes reflexively against the emptiness. “Look at that.”
You can’t. You can only feel: the wet weight of him inside you still, the heat slicking your thighs, the filthy satisfaction in his tone.
He presses two fingers to your entrance like a stopper and leans down to kiss the top of your spine. “Hold it,” he murmurs. “Hold me.” Then he withdraws his fingers and uses his thumb to smear his cum up over your swollen clit, slow and obscene. You jerk; he laughs into your shoulder and does it again, lazier. “Greedy even when I give you everything.”
He rolls you onto your back. The mess slides and you gasp; his eyes go heavy-lidded at the sight. He pushes your knees up and apart, opens you to the night and to him, and watches another warm stripe slip out. He catches it with his fingers and pushes it back in, groaning like it hurts him. “Keep it.”
“Chris,” you whisper, dazed.
“I know.” He noses your jaw, voice gone velvet and rough. “You’re perfect. You took me so good. You’re going to keep me.” A slow, greedy kiss.
His palm stays spread low over your belly, heat heavy and possessive. He stares at where he’s opened you, at the slow, warm slide he just pushed back in with his fingers, and swallows hard like the sight feeds him.
“Gonna sit right here,” he murmurs, pressing more firmly until you feel the weight of him inside shift deeper, “and let it take.” He kisses you—slow, drugging—and talks into your mouth like a secret. “Want you walking around full of me. Want you leaking when you get up for water. Want you thinking about it every time you move.”
Your breath stutters. “Chris—”
“Thinking about us,” he corrects himself softly, thumb dragging an idle circle just above your mound. “About me putting a future in you.” He nips your bottom lip and soothes it with his tongue, eyes hot and glassy. “Tell me you’d carry me.”
You should say something sane. Instead you whisper, “I’d carry you,” and his pupils go blown and dangerous.
“That’s my girl.” He noses under your ear, voice gone low and ruined. “Gonna have you all soft for me. Gonna watch you swell up pretty. I’ll hold your hair when you’re sick in the morning, rub your back when you can’t sleep. I’ll run my mouth to the pharmacy at 2 a.m. I’ll do the lists and the laundry and the dinners—” His hand cups your breast, thumb grazing your nipple as if he can picture it already. “—and I’ll kiss you right here when it kicks.”
A soft, shocked noise spills out of you. Your hips tilt into his thumb without permission; your body is a traitor and a shrine.
“Look at me.” You do. He looks wrecked and certain and yours. “You’ll tell me when you’re late.” His mouth ghosts your cheek, your jaw. “I’ll buy the test and wait outside the door, hands on my knees like a boy.” A breathless laugh catches. “Then I’ll drop to the floor when you show me and you’ll sit on my lap and I’ll promise you I won’t let the world put a finger on you again.”
His words sink under your skin like ink. You don’t know if you’re shaking because you’re scared or because you want it so badly your bones ache with it.
“Turn,” he whispers. You do, pliant and messy, thighs still slick. He slides down between them again, opens you with his thumbs, and stares at the wet shine he’s made. “So much of me,” he says, awed and filthy. “Stay open.”
You whimper when his tongue licks low, not to tease, not to play—just to gather what tries to slip free and push it back with slow, greedy strokes. He groans into you every time he manages it, as if he can solve biology with his mouth. “Keep… every… drop,” he mutters, punctuating each word with a push of his tongue that makes your toes curl.
When he looks up, his chin is slick, his mouth swollen, his eyes devout. “You’ll tell me when your breasts hurt,” he says, voice shot to velvet, kissing the softness at the inside of your knee. “You’ll wear my shirts when nothing fits. You’ll sleep with my hand on your belly so it knows me.”
“Chris.” Your throat is raw; your body is molten. “You’re—”
“Obsessed with you,” he finishes simply, crawling up until his weight blankets you. He nudges his cock back to your entrance, still heavy, still slick, the head bumping where he just left himself. “I should wait,” he says, and then he pushes in again, bare, with a wrecked little groan because he can’t. “But I can’t. Gotta pack it in.”
The stretch is even easier and somehow filthier; you feel your body swallow him like it’s been taught. He slides to the hilt and stays, hips pressed deep, as if depth alone could write the future he wants.
“Again,” you breathe, and he laughs against your mouth, dizzy with you.
“Hungry girl.” He draws back and gives you a slow, claiming thrust, then another, each push deliberate, grinding, designed to seat him high. His hand finds your knee and folds you open, angle obscene, his pelvis kissing your clit at the end of every stroke. “That’s it. Let me put it where it sticks.”
“You’re insane,” you say, but it breaks on a moan when he circles your clit with two fingertips and fucks deeper.
“For you.” His mouth opens against your throat, teeth scraping just enough to make your eyes roll. “You’ll text me pictures,” he pants, pace tightening, “of test strips on the counter, of sweaters you outgrow, of the crib I build wrong the first time and right the second.” He laughs, choked and bright. “You’ll sit on my lap while I read names out loud until you kick me and we pick the one you kick for.”
It shouldn’t soothe you. It does. It shouldn’t turn you on. It lights you up like tinder. You clamp around him and he groans, high and helpless, losing the last of his rhythm for a handful of messy, glorious thrusts.
“Say we’re trying,” he begs, near-delirious, thumb insistent on your clit. “Say it. Say it now.”
“We’re trying,” you gasp, arching. “We’re—oh God—we’re trying.”
He breaks. The sound that leaves him is deep and wrecked, and he drives in hard and holds there, grinding like he can bury the word inside you with his body. You feel the twitch, the hot spill again, raw and shameless, and your back bows off the mattress at the flood.
“Take it,” he groans, shaking, “take it, take me—” And you do, legs locked around his waist, hands in his hair, lips on his open mouth, swallowing the sounds he can’t hold, letting him pour himself into you like he can fill the future in one long breath.
When he finally sags, it’s not collapse; it’s a settling. He turns his head and kisses your palm where it shakes against his cheek, then drags that same palm down to your belly and pins it there under his.
“Mine,” he whispers, reverent and fierce, pressing you like he can feel it happen under your skin. “Our secret for now.”
You could remind him about statistics and timing and the pill and sensibility. You don’t. You lie there with him inside you, messy and full, and watch his face soften into something you’ve never seen before—hope unclenching its fist.
“Sleep,” he says at last, lips on your temple. “I’ll keep you full.” He shifts deeper with a satisfied sigh, lazy afterthrusts that make both of you gasp. “In the morning, we try again.”
⤜GENRE: Fantasy au, Fae worlds, fae talk, description of different worlds, “enemies” to lovers,soulmates, “mates” defeating an evil queen, love, slow burn?
You adjusted the grip on the leash as you walked through the woods with your dog, Max, who was tugging you along the new path you'd found the week before. You'd been desperately looking for a new place to take your dog out and when you found this place online you hadn't been able to resist. It wasn't that he couldn't be around other dogs but Max seemed to flourish more when he walked alone with you rather than having the distraction of other dogs around you.
It was an old abandoned road that used to lead to a mining site but it was now just a peaceful path for dog walkers or horses to take a stroll down. It had some reviews online that you'd been reading about but none of the descriptions of photographs had done the place justice.
The path where the old road used to be, was now almost unrecognizable under a thick blanket of grass and wildflowers that surrounded it. The pavement was cracked and fragmented, nature reclaiming it at every inch you looked around.
"Easy Max," You giggled a little as he excitedly began to dive through the long grass in front of you, his ears flapping every time he bounced around. Tree-lined the pathway, providing a sense of peace and privacy and even filtered out the sunlight that was above.
Everything was peaceful, not a single sound of other civilisation around as you listened to the resulting leaves, the chirping of birds and the occasional scamper of whatever woodland creature was around.
"Max..." You trailed off as Max stood to attention, almost as though he could hear something you couldn't and he slowly began to lower to the floor, his eyes fixated on something behind some trees.
Something in the air changed, the calming sense of serenity you had been feeling was wiped away in one swoop and replaced with a sense of dread. You didn't believe in much but what you did believe in was if everything went silent in the middle of nowhere, it was a sign to leave.
"Let's go," You whispered, softly tugging on Max's lead but he barked, his tail down between his legs before he lunged at whatever had caught his attention through the trees.
"Easy! Max!" You screamed, trying to gain control of him but he continued to pull and you felt a chill run down your spine as you ventured further into the woods, a silent warning telling you to turn and leave.
"I'm telling you, no one would even know it's here." Someone said, your head shot around in search of anyone that was around but there was no one, no one at least where you were standing.
"She just wants us to take a look, we look and we come back. It's not that hard, once we're back through the portal shuts and no one would even know one has been opened. The same voice said again. Either someone was very high on drugs or you'd walked in on a set for a film, who talked that way? You frowned looking around for what was making noise when you spotted it.
It looked like a window but floating in the middle of the air, light pouring through it as you saw snow inside.
"Shit, the prince is coming. S-Shut it down!" A nasal voice said before rustling was heard, you turned away from it shaking your head thinking you might have lost your mind for seeing and hearing such things.
"Well, that was weird." You whispered to Max, about to pull him away when you felt something tugging on your bag, you grunted a little at the tug.
"Looky what we found." The same voice from before said before you felt a rough tug on your back and you flung backwards, hitting the floor with a thud and groaning loudly.
You stared up at the sky which was now a dark grey colour and snow fell down around you, your body ran cold as you stared up at the sky.
"What the fuck-"
"Morgath is going to love you," The voice from before grumbled before you were dragged to your feet, your eyes scanned over the tall trees surrounding you, the air was so cold that you could see it.
"Who-" Before you had a chance to ask, who or what had grabbed you, an arrow shot through the sky before the man - thing? - holding you hit the floor with a bang and you screamed, scrambling away from him.
"Shh, shhh." A second voice called out, arms wrapping around you before a hand was placed over your mouth and you struggled against the grip until you heard it, more people talking in hushed tones.
"She sent us to find the mortal so we're not going to fail our Queen," Whoever was holding you scoffed but kept you pressed against them, your eyes wide as you listened more.
"This must not be where the portal is. Damn him, always giving us the wrong coordinates," The footsteps retreated as did the person's grip on you and you scrambled away, turning to face whoever had been holding you.
You felt a jolt of recognition as if you had seen him before but you were almost certain you'd remember someone so beautiful. You opened your mouth to speak, but the words caught in your throat. The man was tall and broad, his ears pointed as you stared at him he was breathtakingly beautiful, with sharp, elegant features and hair that seemed to shimmer like spun gold, even with glittery pieces through it. His presence was commanding, yet there was an air of melancholy about him.
"I've been looking everywhere for you," He whispered without thinking but you stared at him, your eyes narrowing as you tried to figure out who he was.
"Who-" You barely had a chance to finish your question before the man rudely cut you off,
"You shouldn't be here," Was all he had said, his voice smooth but laced with an edge of irritation at the idea of you being there with him and you felt your ego take a hit. It wasn't as though you'd been asked to be dragged through the damn portal.
"I—I didn't mean to intrude," You stammered, feeling strangely self-conscious under his intense gaze, your eyes went over to the body on the floor but the men stepped in front of your view, blocking the dead body from your eyes.
"I was just walking my dog, and someone grabbed me." You uttered, looking around, the snow around you was making it hard to stay warm and your body was shivering thanks to only being dressed in shorts and a tank top. Your heart sank as you thought about Max back home, you hoped he'd run home since he knew the way but it didn't make the guilt weigh on you any less.
"That much is obvious," he replied curtly, his eyes flicking to your outfit briefly before returning to you, no expression written across his cold face. You suddenly felt yourself feeling self-conscious and you folded your arms across your chest to cover up yourself,
"This is no place for humans." You bristled at his tone but couldn't help being captivated by his ethereal beauty. The man was dressed in, he was wearing a crafted tunic that was a pale green colour with silver embroidery stitched through the fabric. Paired with some form-fitting trousers and a pair of sturdy boots fit for walking through the woods. Clasped around his neck was a dark cloak that looked warmer than what you felt right now.
"I didn't know. It’s not like there were any signs saying 'Keep Out'." You grumbled at him, having enough of his dark and broody attitude toward you. It wasn't as though you'd walked right in. His expression softened slightly, but his demeanour remained aloof.
"You need to leave. Now." He practically growled, his eyes darting around the forest in case anybody else was around and listening in to the conversation.
"You think I don't want that? My dog is left behind..." You hissed at him, looking around you before taking a cautious step closer to the man who had been holding you moments before.
"What is this place? Who are you?" You finally found the courage to ask and the man hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. Almost as though he seemed upset you hadn't known who he was.
"My name is Felix," he said finally, glancing at you and sighing a little. You were already here there was no use hiding what he was or what the place you were standing in was.
"And this is Eldoria, a realm not meant for your kind." His words were cut off, almost as though he wanted the conversation to end as much as quickly as possible
"Eldoria..." You echoed, the name feeling strangely familiar on your tongue. You couldn't help but think maybe you had read about it as a kid? Why did this place feel so familiar to you, why did he? Your eyes lingered on him once again, trying to figure out where this man had been before.
"I didn't mean to trespass, Felix. It's just... there's something about this place that feels like—"
"Like you belong?" he interrupted sharply, his eyes narrowing at you before a dry laugh left his throat and you couldn't help but feel your heart break at the laughter. He didn't need to be so harsh about it,
"You do not. Go back to where you came from. For your own safety." You wanted to say so much to him, you had so many questions but it was obvious he was not in the mood for any kind of games with you and you sighed.
"Whatever." You bit back at him, slowly walking to where you thought you'd been dragged through, your body shape was on the snow but the portal you'd come through was gone. You stared around waiting for something, any sign of it coming back but there was nothing there, not even evidence of it being in the way before.
"It's closed," Felix said flatly from behind you as if it was basic knowledge for you to know, your fists clenched at your sides. You had no idea what you'd done to make this guy hate you so much but clearly, he did. Irritation brewed inside of you,
"What do you mean it's closed? How do you expect me to leave if it's closed?" You asked, a mixture of frustration and desperation in your voice as you span around to face him. If it was closed how did he expect you to get home? Teleport? Felix stared at you coolly, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of sympathy making you frown a little. He'd never shown any kind of sympathy to you before, why start now?
Sighing a little he turned to look at you, his eyes staring into your soul as you felt your chest flutter. There was something about the brown in his eyes that felt so familiar to you, almost as though you'd stared into them before but couldn't quite place where.
"Portals to your world are rare and unpredictable. This one has sealed itself. Another exists, but it lies on the far side of the kingdom." Hearing this your shoulders slumped, how long was it going to take you to get back home? How were you even going to make it through the woods alone?
"How far is it?" You asked, looking at him and letting out a small sigh. You weren't sure how you were going to make it to the next portal but you weren't just going to stop.
"A several days' journey," Felix replied, his tone shortened. He stared down at you before clearing his throat, he knew there was barely a chance of you walking through the woods without being spotted and he knew he'd need to step in. Reluctantly.
"And it's dangerous. The realm is not safe for humans." You looked up at him, his expression was unreadable as you waited for any sign of him offering to take you.
If this place was so dangerous why was he here? Why had he been in the area when you'd fallen through, or rather had been dragged through?
"I don't have a choice, do I? I need to get home, since you're so adamant I shouldn't be here," Felix hesitated, his cold façade slipping for just a moment, a flicker or something else on his face as you stared at him. Realistically he knew that there was going to be no other way for you to get home, he knew he was your only hope but he needed to maintain distance.
"I will guide you," he said finally, swallowing a lump in his throat as he watched you closely looking for any sign of unease from you. He would need to find a way to get you through the Kingdom without being detected and your outfit was going to draw eyes to you, and the smell of you. Humans smelt incredible to certain creatures in the woods and it would take only a moment for something to catch you.
"But understand this: I am not doing this out of kindness. Your presence here is a threat to Eldoria, and the quicker you leave, the better." You frowned, feeling a pang of hurt at his harsh words.
"I get it. You don't like me or my kind. Let's just get this over with." You scoffed, tightening the bag around your shoulders and looking at him as he nodded his head.
"Good," Felix said curtly, turning to lead the way through the woods, throwing a glance over his shoulder.
"Stay close and do exactly as I say. There are many dangers in these woods, and you are ill-equipped to face them." You tried not to give him a snarky remark.
As you walked through the snow, you couldn't help but steal glances at Felix. Despite his cold demeanour, there was something about him that drew you in, something that felt inexplicably familiar. You wondered what secrets he was hiding behind that icy exterior but you shivered a little, gaining the attention from him and he felt his stomach sink at the thought of you getting sick out here.
"Why do you hate humans so much?" You questioned after a long stretch of silence. Felix stiffened sliding off his coat before wrapping it around your shoulders, telling himself it was only to mask your scent.
"It's not about hate," he said quietly, almost as though he didn't want to admit it to you but he knew it was going to be a long couple of days if he didn't admit the truth to you, or at least part of it.
"It's about survival. The presence of a human in Eldoria is dangerous. The queen - as she likes to call herself -, Morgath, will stop at nothing to destroy anyone who poses a threat to her power." Your heart skipped a beat, a threat? You barely knew how to walk without stumbling over your own feet. How could you ever be a threat to some Fae Queen?
"And do you...think I'm a threat? I'm a human I can't do anything" Your voice had trailed slightly and Felix glanced back at you, his eyes piercing into you before he held his hand up and shook his head needing this conversation to stop.
"Morgath has spies everywhere. If she learns of your existence, she will hunt you down and I can't describe the kind of things she will do to you." He looked ahead of him, there was a cottage coming up soon and he was hoping to find you something else to wear. Something to hide you and mask the stench of your human-ness.
"My hostility is a necessity, not a choice." He added you swallowed hard, realizing the gravity of the situation. You didn't feel like being tortured by someone because you were merely a human.
"I understand." You whispered, stepping closer to Felix as the two of you walked together. If it was that dangerous there then you were going to stick to him like glue.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a twilight glow over the snowy forest as you and Felix approached a secluded lodge. By now you were practically freezing to death as you clutched his jacket around you tighter, your knees feeling weak.
"We need to make a quick stop here," he said quietly, glancing around for any sign of someone else in the area but the place was clearly abandoned.
"You can't keep walking around smelling like a human. It's too risky." He said as he began to walk toward the lodge. Its wooden structure was nestled among the towering trees, ivy creeping up its walls making it look as though it belonged there in the woods. Felix halted, turning to you with a serious expression.
"And how exactly do I fix that?" You mumbled, sniffing yourself trying to figure out what made you smell different to him. The two of you weren't too different, in appearance maybe. Felix's cheeks coloured slightly at the sight of you cuddled into his jacket, a sight that both surprised and intrigued you.
"There's a lodge here that belongs to a Fae family I know." He looked over at the door, trying not to let the sadness overwhelm him as he took in the sight of the place.
"They aren't home right now. We can find you some clothes that will help mask your scent." You nodded, following him up the creaking steps to the lodge's front door, wondering why there had been such a glum expression masking his face. Felix produced a small, intricate key from his pocket and unlocked the door, gesturing for you to enter, his eyes casting a glance behind you as he locked the door.
Inside, the lodge was cosy and warmly lit by the soft glow of enchanted lanterns, Felix snapped his fingers before a fireplace in the middle of what looked to be a living room lit itself startling you a little. The air smelled of pine and lavender, a welcome contrast to the tension of your journey here. If you were home you'd curl up in front of the fire and sleep for the night.
"This way." He whispered, leading you to a small bedroom before opening the wardrobe. He rummaged through the clothes, occasionally glancing at you and then looking away quickly, his ears tinged pink at the sight of you looking around.
Your hands ran over the bed sheets as you wondered who might have lived here, it was a beautiful home.
"Did your friends go on vacation?" You quizzed, glancing back over at him as he pulled out a soft green gown and then reached for something else.
"Not quite, they'll be back though." It almost sounded as though he didn't believe it but before you could push him more on the subject he turned to face you.
"Here," he said, handing you the gown as well as a warm-looking shawl.
"This should fit you, Sharm and you are almost the same size." He uttered the woman's name and you couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy but you had no idea why. You had no claim to him. He didn't even like your kind.
You carefully took the dress, your fingers brushing against his for a brief moment as he felt a jolt run through his skin. You noticed the way his breath hitched and smiled inwardly at him.
"Thank you. I'll, uh, change in the bathroom." You nodded behind you at the separate room and Felix nodded, stepping out of the room to give you some privacy.
As you changed, you couldn't help but marvel at the dress's quality. It felt cool and soothing against your skin, the material imbued with a faint, pleasant fragrance that seemed to blend perfectly with the forest's natural scent.
When you finally stepped out of the room, Felix was waiting in the small living area, pretending to study a map on the wall with his hands behind his back. He turned, his eyes widening slightly as he took in your appearance, he hadn't expected it to fit you so perfectly but the gown seemed as though it was made for you.
"You look... it fits well," he said, clearing his throat as he stopped the compliment from slipping from his lips.
"And it will help mask your scent." He finished, turning his attention back to the map, you slowly began to walk toward him, kneeling in front of the fire wanting to warm up a little before heading back into the snow.
"Not bad for stolen clothes. Do I smell sufficiently Fae now?" You laughed a little, sparing a glance at him and noticing the smile on his lips and a blush on his cheeks.
"Much better." His gaze was on you again as he took in your appearance, his eyes slowly drinking just how beautiful you looked in his world. Finally, he'd gotten a good look at you in a nice lightening and he couldn't help the way his heart skipped a beat. Clearing his throat he reminded himself of why you were here
"Now we just need to—"
"You didn't pick that dress just because it masks my scent, did you? You actually think it looks nice on me." You smirked noticing his glance from before, Felix's blush deepened, and he turned away slightly.
"It's practical. That's all." He said it so formally you almost would have believed him, you got up from the floor and laughed a little, stepping closer to him.
"You know, for someone who's supposed to dislike humans, you're being awfully considerate. Taking me home, giving me clothes. You could easily hand me over to Morgath and be done with it,"
"No!" He yelled, the lanterns practically shaking as you stared at him, shocked that he'd been a little loud and stern with you.
"What-"
"I have my reasons for getting you home," Felix replied, his tone softer than before. He met your gaze, and for a moment, the tension between you seemed to dissolve.
"This isn't easy for me, either. But keeping you safe is important. If I'm caught with you it would very much mean my head on a spike, something I do not need to happen." Something that no one in Eldoria needed to happen, he was the one thing standing in Morgath's way of gaining full power. With him around there was still a slim chance he could take back his throne.
You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at the thought of him keeping you safe.
"I appreciate it, Felix. Really." Felix nodded, averting his eyes once again.
"Have you warmed up enough?" He questioned, gesturing back to the fire that was burning hot behind you, your body had warmed up quickly thanks to him but you nodded a little.
"We should get going. The lodge won't be safe for long." As you wrapped the shawl around your arms you looked at him, unable to resist a small quip at him.
"You know, if you keep being this nice, I might start thinking you don't hate me after all." You teased, but Felix paused with his hand on the door handle, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Don't get used to it." He said in a teasing manner, not being able to keep the smile on his lips from growing. You laughed, and for the first time since you'd gotten to Eldoria, you felt a flicker of hope and something else deep in your chest.
Despite the danger, despite Felix's cold exterior, you sensed that there was more to him than he let on and you were going to keep pressing him for information.
"So are you going to tell me more about this place or do I have to beg for tiny bits of information?" You asked with a giant smile, trying to catch up to him as he strolled through the woods, a deep laugh falling from his lips.
"What would you want to know?" He arched a brow, turning to look at you as he kept walking with you, your eyes never leaving his even though you had no idea where you were walking, it was as though your body just knew the route.
"What other creatures are there here? You're clearly Fae and I'm assuming the queen is?" You looked at him and then in front of you, Felix smiled to himself. He'd never really had someone in his Kingdom he had to explain anything to before and it filled him with a small bit of excitement and he knew he couldn't be silent on your trip. Besides the way your eyes lit up as you questioned him only filled him with more eagerness to fill you with information.
"There are many things here, different kinds of Fae. The Queen is..." He stops for a moment trying to think of the words to describe her.
"She was made Fae, human first though." He rolls his eyes,
"But someone took her and created her for Evil, not knowing it would ultimately be the death of him as Morgath overthrew him," He glanced at you, you were clearly still listening to every word,
"Damn, Karma is a bitch here too." A laugh fell from his lips once again.
"I suppose it is,"
"Isn't there anyone that could stop her? I mean, if no one wants her in power why doesn't anyone try to stop her?" If only it was that simple, people had been trying for almost two years but she was too powerful.
"She's queen, she has many followers who will do anything to see her succeed. Including killing any Human." He nodded to you and you bit your lip, remembering the Fae that had dragged you through to this world.
"Not everyone believes in her though, there are some... admittedly very few, that want her gone and people have been trying for a long time to throw her out of power." You nodded along with him, happy you were having any kind of conversation with him. As you walked you were about to step over a log when he reached for you, his arms enveloping you right away before pressing you to his chest, his heart racing so hard you could feel it. The two of you sat on the floor as he caught his breath,
"Traps," He whispers as he points down, a trip wire on the floor before angling your head up to see the giant net above it.
"Shit, t-thanks," You stuttered, turning to face him, his face inches away from yours as you let out a small and shaky breath. Your heart practically racing but not from the trap, from being so close to him.
"Anytime," He breathed out, his eyes lingering on your face fluttering down to your lips before looking you back in your eyes.
"Felix..." You whispered, almost as though you didn't want to talk or ruin the moment, whatever kind of moment was happening between you. He inclined his head closer and you almost touched lips when a twig snapped and he turned to see what it was.
"We should move," He rushed out, carefully getting to his feet and holding out his hand for you. You stood up, your chest crashing into his as you both stared at one another again, neither of you making an attempt to move from the spot you were in.
"Yn." He breathed out, his hand running over your cheek as you felt your heart flutter, your mind completely ignoring the fact that you had yet to mention your name to him.
"Am I going to forget everything once I'm home?" You couldn't stomach the thought of it. You were almost scared to remember it, knowing what was out there but never going to be close to it again but part of you never wanted to forget the way he was making you feel. A flicker of something you couldn't read ran across his face before he put some distance between you, clearing his throat.
"I'm not sure." He mumbled, going back to cold silence as you made your way through the forest, being extra careful of where you were looking in case of traps.
The moon hung high in the sky, casting a pale glow over the forest as you and Felix trudged through the snow once again. The night had grown colder, the chill seeping into your bones as fatigue began to overtake you. Felix had underestimated how cold you were going to get since it hadn't really affected him all that much and he felt guilt crushing him. The two of you had been travelling for hours, the path growing steeper and more treacherous. He'd been trying to make the trip as quick as possible trying not to get caught with you. He needed to get you out of there as quickly as possible.
Felix glimpsed at you, noticing your slow pace and the way you stumbled over roots and rocks. Your breath came in laboured gasps and you could barely keep your eyes open as yawns escaped you. He could see you were nearing your limit and he needed to do something about it. There was no way you'd made another hour on foot.
“Yn,” he said, stopping and turning to you as much as he didn't want to stop he didn't really have much of a choice when it came to how tired you were.
“We need to find shelter.” You shook your head stubbornly, adamant that you could continue without needing a break.
“I can keep going. We have to keep moving.” Felix sighed, stepping closer to you, clearly, you were too tired.
“You’re exhausted. We won’t make it far if you collapse.” Before you could protest, your legs gave out beneath you, and you fell to your knees, hissing out in pain. Felix was by your side in an instant, his strong arms lifting you effortlessly as he stared down at you.
“Felix, I’m fine,” You grumbled, though your eyelids were heavy with sleep, you didn't want to stop not when he hadn't shown any signs of getting tired yet.
“Clearly,” he replied dryly, shifting your weight to carry you more comfortably, your body was tense in his arms and he breathed into your ear.
“Just rest. We’re almost there.” You nodded a little, your eyes slowly becoming too heavy for you to keep open but you didn't want to stop. Part of you worried you'd fall asleep and never see him again.
"What if this is just a dream and I never see you again?" He chuckled softly at your innocence,
"You'll see me when you open your beautiful eyes in the morning." He let out a low laugh and you snuggled against him, a yawn taking over you.
"Another compliment? I should feel honoured," You breathed,
"Go to sleep, Yn," He urged, you whined at him and shook your head.
"Felix..." You trailed a little, he'd said your name twice now but you'd never even told him it,
"Hmm?" He asked dryly, his eyes forward as he navigated his woods, his eyes straight ahead as he tried to make his way with you in his arms.
"I never told you my name." You whispered before your head lolled against his shoulder as he continued through the forest, his body tense as he realised he'd said your name and hadn't meant to.
Felix moved swiftly but carefully, his keen eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger, he needed to get you out of there sooner rather than later, he'd already let too much go.
After what felt like an eternity, the two of you arrived at a small, secluded lodge nestled among the trees. Warm light spilt from the windows, and Felix approached the door, knocking softly, or attempting to with you nestled in his arms. Your head snuggled closer to him as you let out a small whine at the sudden movement.
A moment later, the door creaked open, revealing an elderly Fae woman, her eyes scanning over Felix before she gasped, her eyes widened in surprise and then softened in recognition.
“Prince Felix,” she whispered, stepping aside to let him in, her eyes scanning over your sleeping frame as she stared at the sight of Felix.
“Come quickly. We’ll keep your presence secret.” She told him, bolting the door shut and blowing out the light that let people know there was a lodging available inside.
This had been one of the many places Felix could come and still feel a little control over his Kingdom, Mary was one of the few people left in his world who cared he was the true owner of the throne.
Felix nodded his thanks and carried you inside of a small room. The lodge was cosy, with a fire crackling in the hearth and the smell of fresh bread wafting through the air. Two other Fae, a middle-aged couple, looked up from their seats by the fire, their expressions turning to concern as they saw their Prince carrying a person in his arms.
“We need a place for her to rest,” Felix said quietly, his eyes glancing down at you as he took in your sleeping appearance. You appeared so peaceful in his arms and he hated how perfect you seemed to mould against him.
“Of course,” Mary woman replied, leading him to a small bedroom at the back of the lodge. She pulled back the covers on a neatly made bed, and Felix gently laid you down, pulling the blanket over you and gently running his hand over your cheek, his heart racing as he stared at you. You stirred slightly but didn’t wake, your eyebrows scrunching together at the sensation of Felix being gone and he smiled weakly to himself.
“Thank you,” Felix said, stepping back and watching you for a moment before returning to the main room where the Fae who had been watching waited for an explanation.
They motioned for Felix to sit by the fire, offering him a cup of warm tea, which he accepted gratefully, sipping on the liquid and sighing to himself. He knew that they were going to have questions, anyone would.
“Who is she?” the middle-aged man asked, his voice hushed, almost as though he was scared one of Morgaths spies was around ready to pounce.
“She’s a human,” Felix replied. “She stumbled into Eldoria. I’m helping her find a way back.” The elderly woman shook her head, he already knew what they were going to say to him and he wasn't ready to admit it to himself.
“She’s not just any human, Felix. We can all sense it. She could be the one to save us.” Felix’s expression hardened, there was no way he was going to put you in that kind of Danger. There was no way he was going to subject you to that kind of torture.
“Don’t speak of that. She’s not here to fulfil any prophecy. She’s just a girl who got lost.” He hissed out, apologising for his outburst and sighing. The elderly couple left the room as Mary narrowed her eyes at him, she'd always managed to speak freely to him.
“But Felix,” She insisted, her eyes earnest as she ran her hands over his shoulder, rubbing softly.
“The prophecy speaks of a human who will break the curse. You know this.” Of course, he knew it. The damn thing had been drilled into his mind from the moment Morgath had taken the throne from his father but the Prophecy had been much older than that, older than any Fae that Felix had encountered.
In the ancient annals of Eldoria, written in the language of the Fae and etched into the sacred stone of the Elder Tree, there exists a prophecy that has been passed down through generations. It speaks of a time when darkness would fall upon the land, and a saviour from another world would emerge to restore light and harmony.
It had all been something told to children to make them sleep at night, Morgath was nothing but a nightmare until it all finally came true.
"She could be the one and you know it, you already feel it." She mumbled to him and it was true but Felix stood abruptly, his jaw clenched. He'd known it from the moment he'd seen you standing there that you were the one to fix everything but he wasn't going to put you through that. The second he'd locked eyes with you he remembered you, he'd always had fleeting visions of you, his soulmate. The visions had become more vivid as of late and he knew it was because you were closer to one another than before.
But you were human, you were breakable and would grow old. Felix was doing this for your own good, you deserved to be with someone of your own kind. The moon goddess had made a mistake making you mates.
“I won’t let her be used. She deserves to be in her own world! We’re getting her home, nothing more.” The room fell silent, the fire flickering as he shook his head. Felix turned away, staring into the fire, his thoughts a tangled mess of duty and protectiveness. He couldn’t deny the possibility that you might be the one the prophecy spoke of, but he also couldn’t bear the thought of you being thrust into such danger.
Mary placed a hand on his arm and smiled weakly, running her hand up and down his arm.
“We understand, Felix. We’ll help you both as best we can. But remember, sometimes destiny finds us, even when we try to avoid it.”
Felix nodded, though his resolve remained firm. He wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Not if he could help it.
"Don't forget while you're protecting her...You're also pushing away your own happiness." She whispered before disappearing into her own room, leaving Felix to stare into the flames.
The first light of dawn filtered through the small window of the lodge, casting a gentle glow over the room and you stirred, slowly waking to the comforting warmth of the bed and the smell of something delicious cooking nearby. You sat up, blinking away the remnants of sleep, looking at the small room you'd slept in and smiling to yourself that this all hadn't been a dream and you still had some time with Felix.
"Good morning," A woman said kindly, her eyes crinkling with a warm smile when you finally emerged out of the room. Your eyes danced around the kitchen she was in and she looked at you, almost as though she was in awe of you.
"I hope you slept well." You nodded, stretching your sore muscles.
"I did, thank you. Everything smells wonderful." You whined as you took in a deep breath to get another sniff making the lady chuckle softly, ladling a fragrant stew into a bowl bringing it over to you and leading you toward a table.
"Eat up. You need your strength." She told you, rubbing your back softly as you accepted the bowl gratefully, the warmth of the stew seeping into your hands.
"Is Felix here?" You asked as you took a cautious sip, savouring the rich flavours. Mary smirked to herself at you already asking about him. It was clear to her that you cared for him already and even if you hadn't realised you were soulmates something inside of you felt attached to him.
"He went to scout for the morning, I think he wanted to check nothing would happen to you both on the walk today," She smiles, sitting across from you and taking out a knitting needle before knitting while sitting there.
"Oh. Did he eat?" You asked softly, your eyes never leaving the bowl of stew in your hands as you slowly lifted another spoonful to your lips and carefully ate.
"You care that much already?" She smirked and you felt your body heat in embarrassment as you went back to eating in silence, Mary stilled and leaned forward.
"Don't worry dear. I made sure he ate and I've packed you both a lunch as well." She told you while stroking her hand over yours and you nodded a little,
"You're very sweet." The woman waved a hand dismissively, she'd been working this Inn for a long time this was something that was completely second nature to her at this point.
"It's nothing, dear. We're happy to help a friend of Prince Felix." Your food caught in your throat at the mention of him being a prince but she gave you nothing else on that.
As you ate, you couldn't help but notice the woman's eyes occasionally flickering to you with an expression of curiosity and something else—something that looked almost like reverence.
"Is something wrong?" You finally asked, lowering your spoon. The woman hesitated, looking around to make sure Felix wasn't around before clearly choosing her words carefully.
"It's just... unusual to see a human in Eldoria. Especially one who arrived the way you did." You frowned a little, surely there had been stories of other humans coming into the world.
"What do you mean?" You laughed awkwardly and she sighed, sitting down opposite you again and holding your hands in hers, nervously glancing around to make sure the cost was clear.
"There are old stories, prophecies really, about a human who would come to our land and—"
"Mary, that’s enough," Felix's voice interrupted sharply from the doorway, your heart picked up as you glanced over at him. He stepped into the room, his expression stern and cold like the one from the forest the day before.
Mary glanced at him and then back at you, her eyes filled with a mixture of apology and caution as she realised how scared you looked now.
"I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to alarm you." She breathed out, walking into the kitchen as Felix approached, his gaze locking onto yours.
"We need to leave soon. The longer we stay in one place, the greater the risk." He mentioned, glaring over at Mary who was now avoiding his gaze at all costs. You looked between Felix and Mary, sensing there was much being left unsaid and you hated the thought of being left out.
"Felix, what is she talking about? What prophecy?" You questioned, standing up from your chair and looking at him but he avoided your gaze, shaking his head as he went to collect the bag Mary had prepared for you both. Filled with food and things for the road you might need.
"Lix." You breathed out, the nickname slipping from your mouth as though it was second nature and Felix's body froze, slowly turning to look at you, his expression softened slightly, but his tone remained firm.
"It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with right now. Our focus is getting you back to your world safely." Mary stood, her hands wringing together as she studied you closely, she knew Felix would never harm her for speaking the truth but he was a friend and she didn't want to lose him as such.
"Just know, Yn, that you are special. More special than you realize." Felix shot Mary a warning look but didn’t say anything further. Your curiosity burned, but you knew pushing Felix would get you nowhere, right now at least. Maybe you could pester him more on the road since you'd have nothing else to talk about but right now it was clear he wasn't going to move on the matter.
"Thank you for the meal and a place to sleep." You said to Mary, finishing the last of your stew before bringing her the empty bowl, she took it from you, placing it down as Felix made his way to the doorway.
"Let's go." He urged impatiently but Mary wrapped her arms around you, taking in a deep breath and you hugged her back.
"Stay safe, child. Keep him on his toes," She whispered to you. As you were about to pull away she tightened her grip.
"Trust your gut." Was all she said before Felix gently took your arm in his, guiding you toward the door.
"We need to keep moving. There’s still a long journey ahead." You spared a glance over your shoulder at Mary who looked away and sighed.
As you both stepped out into the morning light, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were a part of something much larger than you understood. The weight of Mary's words lingered in your mind, a puzzle you were determined to solve.
"Did you sleep last night? Do fae even sleep?" You asked, rambling a little as the two of you stepped into the woods again, a chuckle left Felix.
"I think I preferred you sleeping, much less questions being sent my way," You playfully glared at him and looked down at the snow that hadn't even melted despite the sun burning above you both.
"Yes I slept, I sleep just like you." He explained, holding your hand as he helped you cross over a log, his hand lingering in your embrace as the two of you walked together.
"I'm sorry I fell asleep," You uttered, you hated that you'd slept in his arms but it had been the best sleep you'd had in the longest time.
"Don't be, you're human, you tire easily. I should have expected it," Felix hadn't meant for the way it had sounded, so harsh and as if he looked down on you for growing tired.
"Why does the snow never melt?" You asked, trying to break the awkward tension between you and Felix raised an eyebrow.
"It seems your sleep has refuelled your brain then." He teased softly and you stared at him,
"I can ask about the world or I can ask about the prophecy, your choice." At the mention of the prophecy, you noticed his throat bob nervously and he let out a deep breath.
"The snow is a present from Morgath, an eternal winter she called it," He rolled his eyes a little. The woman had always had a flare for the dramatics.
"And how did she become Queen...seeing as you're the prince." You tread carefully around the topic. Mary had let the words slip this morning and you hadn't known how to bring it up to him.
"Mary let that slip did she?" He cocked his eyebrow while shaking his head. Mary had always been crafty when it came to him, he knew he should have stayed with you that morning to make sure nothing was mentioned about the prophecy, he was just glad Mary had neglected the soulmate part of the discussion.
"An accident I'm sure." You smirked, biting on the inside of your cheek as Felix rolled his eyes,
"Hmm, I'm sure." He muttered not sounding entirely convinced of the fact. Mary knew how to play people and she was playing both of you perfectly together.
"She married my father, who mysteriously died a short months later ready for her to take over."
"But surely the crown would fall to you?" Maybe it was different here but usually, a queen would never rule alone.
"We tried that, but Morgath was power-hungry. Demanded that she get the thorne only it hasn't exactly worked in her favour." He laughed softly as though he was in on a joke you hadn't known and you frowned a little,
"Meaning?" He stopped walking and held you in place, standing behind you and placing his hands on your shoulder. Your body stilled in his, relaxing a little from his touch as he leaned down toward your ear,
"Watch those trees," He whispers in your ear, your skin heating from the contact as you let out a breathy sigh. You stared over at them, waiting for something, anything, to happen but as you were about to turn and speak to Felix you saw it.
The tree slowly parted ways and sunlight was bleeding through, not an inch of snow below it, all of it beautiful lush grass and wildflowers.
"I'm the heir, the rightful heir to the throne and the kingdom knows it. It's why it still bends to my will, why some of her people fear me." You turned to stare at him, your eyes scanning his face as he smiled down at you, his fingers brushing over your cheeks to remove some of the snow that had fallen on your skin.
"She's been trying to kill me ever since," Your eyes darkened and he could have sworn he saw a flash of red in them before it faded. Your anger boiled deep inside of you at the thought of someone ever harming him.
"Why?" Your voice shook as you stared at him, your eyes brimming with tears at the thought of anything ever happening to him and Felix felt his heart clench. He was already revealing too much to you.
"She'll finally have the Kingdom at her will, she'll be able to do whatever it is she wants," He whispered, his hand gently cupping your face in his as he went to wipe away a fallen tear, you placed your hand atop of his stopping his action in place.
"And the prophecy...it'll stop her?" Felix's hand dropped from your face and he turned away from you, the trees moulding back together to hide the sunlight.
"The prophecy is a story, fictional. Made up by the people of this Kingdom who are scared." He grumbled, walking ahead of you and forcing you to catch up to him.
"If it's just a story why won't you tell me it?" You grunted as you tried to keep up with him, Felix only slowing down as he realised how far behind you were from him.
"I don't wish to bore you." He deflected quickly,
"We've got nothing else to talk about so unless you want to walk in absolute silence-" Your breath caught as Felix spun around, pressing your back up against a tree as he leaned down close to you. His face inches away from yours as his eyes bore into yours,
"Lix?" His finger lifted to your lips and she shook his head, his eyes on you but his mind clearly somewhere else as he listened to what was going on behind him.
"Morgath said she can sense it, the filthy thing is here somewhere." A voice cried out, it was navely and high pitched and you could have sworn you saw Felix shiver as he stared down at you.
"Be quiet," He whispered before disappearing right before your eyes, you reached out to touch him and he was still there. His hands held yours tightly as you watched two creatures stalk by you.
One was a wolf, the size of a bear as he sniffed around, stopping and staring in your direction. Felix could feel your heart racing and he pressed himself closer to you, your heart stilling as you waited for the wolf to pass.
"You find something?" The navily voice asked as the second creature turned to see what the wolf was staring at but it let out a growl before continuing away from you and Felix and in the direction of Mary's lodge.
Once Felix revealed himself and you, he wasted no time in grabbing your hand and quickly pulling you through the forest, his eyes focused in front of him.
The encounter had only hammered it in harder that he needed you out of there, that no prophecy about a human breaking the curse was going to be worth losing you if Morgath or any of her minions found you here. He wasn't going to let a single thing happen to you.
"Lix, please." You pleaded with him, your breathing becoming erratic as you tried to keep up with him without tiring yourself out. The nickname sent shivers down his spine as he was thrust into the memories of dreams about you. The two of you. Except they couldn't be true, you needed to be out of here before you were killed.
"We can't stop, you have to get home."
"Please...I-I just need a minute." You cried out before he finally stopped, taking you through a secluded area and sitting you down on a log, his face pale as he stared around.
"Why are they so adamant to find me?" You questioned, staring at him as you slowly caught your breath once again.
"I told you, it doesn't concern you-"
"I'm telling you! I want to know considering if they find me I'm dead, I'm pretty sure it damn well concerns me," He was slightly taken back by your boldness and he smirked a little, he should have known his soulmate would be able to hold their own when the time came. Taking in a deep breath he looked at you, he knew if you were anything like him you were going to be stubborn enough never to give in.
"It's a story we were told as kids, okay? Don't think about it too much." He told you before sighing,
"When shadows stretch across the Fae lands, And the queen of darkness takes her stand, A foreign soul, pure and bright, Shall cross the veil in the dead of night. From realms afar, where mortals dwell,
A human heart will break the spell, Bound by fate to a prince of old,
Their union is forged in stories told. Through trials dire and love concealed, The truth within shall be revealed, With courage strong and sacrifice, The cursed land shall pay the price. The kiss of life, with power untold, Will shatter chains and darkness fold, As light returns to Fae once more, The saviour’s heart shall love restored. In unity, both worlds shall see, A future bright, where all are free,."
"That's it?" You stared at him, you had to admit you'd been expecting more ever since you'd learnt about it that morning. It sounded more like a riddle than a prophecy someone was supposed to uphold.
"I told you, it's a fictional piece told to us as kids." He rolled his eyes a little and you stilled, staring at him with an arched brow.
"So fictional the Queen of Darkness happens to be real?" You slowly raised from the log you had been sitting on and Felix scoffed, shrugging his shoulders and turning to face the way you needed to go.
"A coincidence." He uttered harshly at you.
"Lix." You breathed out but he was already gone, walking ahead and trying to forget the way his nickname sounded on your lips
The two of you walked in silence for what felt like hours but the sun was still high in the sky when Felix decided to make a camp, parting the trees once again before pulling you inside and letting them shut around you both. It was spacious enough for you to rest and for Felix to get food out,
"I didn't mean to upset you," You finally whispered, your eyes watching him as he shook his head,
"You have nothing to be sorry for, I just want to get you home. I don't want anything to happen to you." He whispered, his back to you as he got the food out that Mary had prepared for the two of you. You needed food before the two of you continued on but he was rationing it so you could get another two meals out of it at least.
"But if I can help...I will." You pushed him on it and his fingers clenched around the flask he was holding,
"The risk isn't worth the cost, you need to go home where you can be safe."
"But-"
"Please," He turned to look at you, kneeling in front of you as you finally noticed tears in his eyes. Your hands slowly moved to cup his face in your hands and you slowly ran your hand over his cheeks. As long as he'd been yearning to feel your touch on him he didn't want to risk anyone finding you killing you for their own sick pleasure and destroying him in the process. He'd never recover if he lost you.
Knowing you were in the human world would be torture but not as much torture as it would be to lose you completely.
"Okay...I'll leave," You whispered, smiling weakly as you let him go, his back to you once again as he finished preparing you some food, both of you falling into an uneasy silence once more.
Your mind going back to the prophecy, if you could help him you wanted to do everything in your power to do it.
The sun had once again set, and the forest was bathed in the silver light of the rising moon, Felix could see how tired you were getting and he sighed to himself. It was one night of rest and the two of you could be at the next portal by the next afternoon if he was lucky enough not to run into any more trouble. He cast you a nervous glance, you'd been quiet ever since lunch and it worried him, if this was all the time he was going to get with you he wanted to spend it talking to you.
"Soon you'll see Max," He offered a small smile but you nodded at him, glancing over at him and smiling weakly.
"He probably ran home, my neighbours probably watching him." You whispered, wondering if you were going to go back to a bombarded questioning about where you'd been.
"Time works differently here," He admits to you, it was probably something he should have mentioned when you first arrived but between saving your life and seeing you in person it had thrown him through a loop.
"You'll go back to find it's only been about four hours missing," You stared at him and nodded a little, too tired to question him more on it and he hated it. He wanted to hear you say something, anything, even if it was a snarky remark about him, anything.
"Yn...Are you tired?" He asked, his voice full of concern as he stepped in time beside you. You refused to look at him, staring straight ahead as your eyes grew heavy.
"A little but I can keep going if we're close."
"We're not." He answered quickly, a little too quickly but if you'd noticed you didn't let on that you had and he smiled.
"There's a clearing just up ahead with an abandoned cabin, we can spend the night in there." He told you as he carefully brushed his hand with yours, taking it into his grasp and walking with you off the main path.
You emerged into a small clearing, where a secluded cabin stood hidden among the trees. Its stone walls were covered in moss, and the roof was partially obscured by overhanging branches but even from where you were standing you could see it was falling apart.
“We’ll rest here for the night,” Felix said, pushing open the creaky door and letting you inside.
“It’s an old hideout we can use. We’ll leave at first light.” He told you as you nodded, stepping inside and immediately noticing the double bed against one wall and a fireplace on the other. It was more of a bedroom than a cabin and your heart skipped a beat at the sight of one bed.
“Where are you going to sleep?" Felix followed your gaze, his expression remaining impassive though a faint flush coloured his cheeks.
“I’ll take the floor,” he replied curtly, not wanting to put you in distress at the thought of sharing a bed, besides, he wasn't sure that if he slept beside you he'd be able to hold back his feelings anymore.
“You need the rest more than I do.” You frowned, feeling a pang of guilt at the thought of him on the cold and hard floor after everything he had done for you.
“You don’t have to do that. We can share the bed. It’s big enough.” You stepped closer to it and Felix looked at you,
"Fine, but stay on your side," He pointed a look at you and you couldn't help but smile at his serious tone.
"Deal. But there isn't any-" Before you could mention the lack of pillows or anything to keep you warm a bright light flashed in the room before it was engulfed in a warm light, the sound of the fire crackling behind you both.
"Fit for a prince," You giggled noticing the bed was now covered in pillows and sheets to keep you warm through the winter night.
After eating you lay on the bed, stiffly side by side as you listened to the fire cracking on the other side of the room.
"Thank you for helping me, Felix." Felix glanced at you, his eyes softened by the flickering flames as he stared at you.
“I’m doing what’s necessary. Keeping you safe is important—for Eldoria and for you.” You smiled gently, sensing the weight of unspoken words in his tone but not pressing him any more than you had today. Right now you were just glad the two of you were speaking again, it had been your own kind of hell not speaking all afternoon.
“Still, I appreciate it. You’re not as cold as you pretend to be.” Felix’s lips twitched in what might have been a suppressed smile.
“Don’t get too comfortable. We’re not out of danger yet...We've still got a trip tomorrow,” He whispered as you yawned, your eyes slowly shutting as you nodded,
“I know,” You replied softly, your eyes slowly opening to find him again.
“But I’m glad I’m not alone in this.” For a moment, silence fell between you, filled only by the sounds of the crackling fire and the distant hoot of an owl. You shifted, trying to get comfortable on the bed, your leg brushing against Felix’s. You froze, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of your clothes.
“Sorry,” You murmured, starting to pull away. Felix’s hand gently caught yours, holding you in place, enjoying the feeling of being close to you, even if only for a night.
“It’s alright,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, his heart getting the better of his mind as he shuffled closer to you on the bed.
“Get some rest. We have a long journey ahead.” Your heart raced at the unexpected contact, but you nodded, settling back into the bed. Felix released your hand and turned onto his side, his back to you, though you could still feel the tension in his body from the contact the two of you had shared however brief.
“Goodnight, Lix,” You whispered, closing your eyes for the final time that night, too tired to open them again.
“Goodnight, Yn,” he replied softly. As you both lay there, the boundary between you slowly dissolved as you both sank into a deep slumber, Felix's body moving on its own as he wrapped himself around you pulling you flush against his chest. His own body gave in to the fact that you were there even if for a short while before you returned home.
While the two of you slept you'd not noticed that someone had followed you deep off the trail and watched the house while you slept, waiting to pounce.
The morning sun peeked through the holes in the ceiling, waking you up as you enjoyed the feeling of being in his arms, leaving your eyes shut for as long as possible. Both of you knowing the other was awake but neither making an attempt to move or start your journey together,
"I don't want to go," You finally whispered as Felix tensed from behind you. If he was a selfish man he would have begged you to stay, if he was the King he would have begged you to help but he needed you to go home. He needed you to be safe.
"You must," He whispered, his arms leaving you as he got up, straightening his outfit before snapping his fingers to remove everything he'd bought with him in the night. The sheets and pillows disappear in seconds and you rise from the comforts of the bed.
There was a certain tranquillity in the air as the two of you began your walk that morning, a quiet anticipation that neither of you dared to break with words. Felix walked a little slower than usual, his steps deliberate, as if savouring every moment of your time together.
You noticed his uncharacteristic pace but chose not to comment on it. Instead, you walked beside him, your fingers brushing against one another, enjoying the silence and the unspoken bond that had grown between you.
As the two of you walked, neither of you noticed the snow melting behind you, leaving a trail of sunlight through the trees and wildflowers finally sprouting in the ground, almost as though the Kingdom was reacting to the two of you together.
You stole another glance at Felix, your heart saddening as you realised your time together was coming to an end rather quickly.
“Felix,” you said softly, your fingers wrapping around his own as he stilled,
"Is everything alright?" He looked at you his expression indistinct for a moment before he nodded, smiling weakly at you.
“Yes. Just... thinking.” In fact, he was in a heated debate with himself. His heart and his brain raging against one another fighting a way to keep you with him. You smiled gently, accepting his vague answer for now and continued walking together. Neither of you noticed the silent figure lurking in the shadows, watching your every move, too lost in your thoughts or one another to notice anything else.
As you finally reached a clearing, the shimmering portal to your world came into view, Max was waiting there with his tail high in the air, barking into the portal almost as though you'd only left minutes before, it's light ethereal and inviting. Your heart quickened, torn between relief at the sight of your way home and the sorrow of leaving Felix behind.
“We’re here,” Felix said, his voice tinged with a mix of emotions. You didn't move toward the portal, you merely stayed still looking at him and waiting for him to tell you to stay.
“Felix, I—” Before you could finish, a dark, monstrous figure lunged from the shadows, its claws grabbing Felix and pulling him away from you as you let out a scream. You reached out but Felix was ripped from your grasp, thrown to the ground by the creature's immense strength. The wolf from the day before was towering over him, pinning him to the ground.
“Felix!” You cried, rushing toward him. But the wolf growled turning his attention to you as it snarled, blood dripping from its mouth.
“Yn, run!” Felix shouted, his voice strained with effort. But you couldn’t leave him, you'd never leave him alone like that. Searching around you grabbed a fallen branch from the ground, wielding it like a weapon, and charged at the wolf. The beast swiped at you, knocking the branch from your hands, but you didn’t back down.
"Go!" Felix managed to breathe, if the wolf wasn't attacking you then there was a small chance no one knew you were human and you still had the chance to get out of there.
"GO!" He screamed out before the wolf stepped on his arm, the bone snapping as he screamed. The scream made your stomach drop and your heart shatter.
"YN GO!" He finally boomed out, staring at you with tears in his eyes but you shook your head. Suddenly, a blast of light hit the wolf, sending it stumbling back. Mary, the elderly Fae woman, emerged from the trees, her hands glowing with magic.
"Hurry, child!” She called out, prepared to save Felix the second you left but she could sense your hesitation and the look on your face as you took in the bloody sight of Felix.
“The portal won’t stay open forever!” You stared over at the portal and then back to Felix, The creature was recovering and quickly advancing on Felix again. Your resolve hardened and you shook your head, there was no way you were leaving, you didn't care how dangerous it was. You couldn’t leave him to face this alone.
"Yn." He warned as Mary held off the wolf, drawing it away from you as you stood Felix up from the floor, wrapping his one good arm around your shoulder.
"I'm not leaving you, Felix, I don't care," You grumbled, groaning as you shifted your body to accommodate Felix's weight.
"We need to get you somewhere safe, to heal." You whispered but as you began to walk you stilled. A woman stood there with fiery red hair and a sharp face stared down at you, an evil smile spread across her lips as she took in the sight of you both together,
"So, the prophecy unfolds," Morgath hissed, her voice dripping with venom as she stared you down, trying to intimidate you.
"The human girl and the Fae prince. How touching." You felt your blood run cold as Morgoth’s gaze locked onto you. Felix immediately stepped in front of you, his stance protective. It didn't matter that he was already wounded he wasn't about to let her lay a hand on you.
"Morgath," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
"You won’t touch her." He added as you reached for his hands, trying to steady him, he was in no position to fight
"Romantic...but very ill-advised my darling stepson." She smirked at him, laughing a little as the chilling sound echoed through the forest.
"You think you can protect her? You, whose power has been dimmed by my curse? How pathetic." With a flick of her wrist, Morgath summoned a dark, shimmering blade, its edges crackling with dark energy. She advanced towards you, her intent clear aiming to kill Felix and you shook your head.
"No!" You cried, trying to push Felix aside out of her way.
"I won’t let you hurt him!" You screamed, moving him out of the way but Felix was faster and stronger than you. As Morgath lunged with her blade aimed at you, Felix threw himself in front of you, taking the full force of the strike. The blade pierced his side, and he gasped in pain, collapsing to his knees.
"Felix!" You screamed your throat hoarse, dropping to his side as Morgath stepped back, a triumphant smile on her lips.
"Such noble sacrifice," Morgath sneered. "But futile. The human will never save Eldoria." She spat out as Felix pulled the blade from his side, hissing out in pain. You stared down at him, your eyes filled with tears as you cradled him in your arms. His face was drained of all colour, and his breathing was shallow.
"You have to go..." He whispered, his voice barely audible as he held onto your arms but you were applying pressure to his wound, refusing to leave his side for even a second.
"No," You sobbed, clutching him tighter as tears gushed down your cheeks.
"I won’t leave you. There has to be another way." You cried heavily but Felix shook his head at you, smiling weakly through his final breaths. Morgath watched with a mixture of amusement and annoyance at the scene unfolding before her.
"Your defiance is pointless. The prophecy is a lie. There is no saviour." Felix reached his hand up, cupping your face as tears fell down onto him and that was it.
A flash in your mind before everything became clear, all of the dreams you'd had ever since you came of age, a faceless man you'd never quite been able to picture in your mind but who would constantly visit you in your dreams. Images coming clearer of you and Felix together, spending time together in your dreams, he'd always been there. It was how he knew your name and how you'd slowly remember his nicknames. Your dreams had slowly been drifting back into your memory as you spent more time together.
Your heart ached with despair, but as you looked into Felix’s eyes, you felt a surge of determination as you stared down at him,
"I love you." He breathed out, blood trickling from his lips as Morgath began to laugh erratically, knowing she was close to getting everything she'd ever wanted but your mind went back to the day before. You remembered Felix's words, the prophecy, and the power you'd felt within you.
"I love you too," You whisper, looking at him as he frowns a little. With trembling hands, you leaned down and kissed Felix, your lips soft against his.
A brilliant light exploded from the point of contact, enveloping them both not letting anybody from the outside see in. Morgath shielded her eyes, stumbling back as the light grew brighter and brighter.
As you pulled away you stood from the floor, grasping the blade that had been the one to injure Felix and you turned your attention on Morgath who was stumbling, aiming her hands at you but nothing came of it.
"What's going on?!" She screeched, snow around her melting as you smirked a little as you realised what was happening. The kiss had been the one thing to break the curse.
"The prophecy," You whispered, realization dawning on you as you realised everything had been true.
"This changes nothing! I will destroy you too!" She cried out, snapping her fingers but nothing happened, the wolf and Mary emerged from the bushes behind you, her arm around the creature as it snarled in Morgath's direction.
Felix stepped forward, his hand still holding yours taking the blade from your grasp before kissing your cheek softly.
"No, Morgath. Your reign of terror ends now." He said through gritted teeth. With your combined strength, you faced Morgath together, as she scrambled to get away and sink back into whatever hole she'd crawled from. But it was too late The power of your bond, now fully awakened, surged through you both, creating a barrier of light that repelled Morgath’s dark magic.
You felt the energy within your response to Felix’s, your hearts and souls intertwined as your fingers found one another, your eyes never straying from the woman before you. As Morgath attacked, you countered, your combined power overwhelming her. With a final, desperate scream, Morgath was consumed by the light, her form disintegrating into nothingness.
As soon as everything had calmed, you heard the birds and other wildlife slowly begin to awaken and you slowly turned to Felix, your eyes searching his.
"Felix? Are you...?" You could barely finish your sentence, you felt him dying before, you felt him dying in your arms and you were almost sure it was over.
"I'm here, Yn. Thanks to you." He chuckles, running his hand over your cheek as Mary smirks at you both.
"The curse is broken. The land will heal, and so will our people."
Felix nodded his head as he stood beside you, your hands still intertwined. The portal still shimmered behind you both, but it no longer represented an escape. It was a choice, a path to a future the two of you could shape together if you wanted to try.
Now there was no threat to you he wanted you to stay, he needed you to stay after having you so long but if you wanted to go home he would never be the one to stop you.
"Yn," Felix said softly, his eyes locked on yours before flicking over to the portal, Max still waiting for you with his tail in the air.
"Whatever happens next, I want to face it with you." Your eyes dragged away from the portal and back at him,
"Your kingdom needs their king."
"And their queen," Mary spoke from the distance, earning a glare from Felix but you giggled at him running your hand over his cheek,
"She's right...If you want a Queen that is," He looked at you, he was ready for you to leave and hadn't stopped to think you would want to stay with him.
"You're my other half, Lix, I can't even dream of leaving you," You breathed out almost as though you'd been reading his mind and he wrapped himself around you, bringing you into another kiss.
This time there wasn't a flash of magic but you felt your body explode against his as you wrapped your arms around the back of his neck and pulled yourself closer to him. Butterflies erupted inside of you as fireworks went off.
"I love you, future Queen of Eldoria," He whispered, a bark separating you both as you turned to find Max wriggling in Mary's arms, jumping free and pouncing over to you both.
"I guess someone else wants a new life here too," Felix chuckled, kissing your cheek softly before you reached down for Max, cuddling him in your arms.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the ancient forest of Eldoria. In a secluded grove, a sacred ceremony was about to commence. The air was filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers, and the trees seemed to hum with anticipation.
You stood in the centre of a circle of ancient stones, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nervousness, Felix had explained all of this to you weeks before not wanting you to be scared but it still worried you a little. You wore a flowing gown of silver and green, crafted by the finest Fae artisans, its fabric shimmering like moonlight. Your eyes sparkled under the sunlight and you glanced a look at your mate who was holding your hand firmly in his own,
"Are you ready?" Felix asked, his voice gentle but filled with excitement. He'd been pushing off the ceremony for as long as he could, trying to make sure that you were truly ready for it. You nodded, your gaze unwavering from his as you smiled brightly.
"I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life." You giggled, earning a clap from Mary who had been watching the two of you. She stepped toward you both holding a crystal chalice which was filled with a glowing liquid, you eyed it up before nodding at her,
"By the power of the Elder Tree, by the light of the moon and stars, we gather here to witness the transformation of Yn, who has proven her heart and soul are one with the Fae." The grove filled with a soft, ethereal light as the incantation continued, Felix squeezed your hands, his eyes never leaving yours.
"You’re about to become one of us," he whispered, pride and love evident in his voice. Though he'd never forced you into it, you could see how excited he was for this. The two of you would age slowly together for many years to come. You smiled, a tear slipping down your cheek from how happy you were to spend the rest of forever with him.
"I’m ready, Felix. I want to spend eternity with you." Mary brightened her smile as she slowly handed the chalice to you.
"Drink, and let the magic of Eldoria flow through you." Carefully you lifted the chalice, feeling its warmth against your palms. Taking in a deep breath you gave Felix another smile before you drank, the elixir cool and sweet as it travelled down your throat.
As you finished, a radiant light enveloped you, lifting you off the ground, Felix's hand slowly left yours as he watched in awe as your transformation began. Your hair shimmered like spun silver, your eyes brightened with an otherworldly glow, and delicate, iridescent wings emerged from your back fluttering softly as you slowly floated back down to the ground with a graceful landing.
"How are you feeling?" Felix questioned as your wings continued to flutter, your eyes finding his as you stared at him. Everything was so much brighter...everything was just so much more. The lights were brighter, the sounds louder but nothing overwhelming and you could feel everything. You could feel the flowers growing beneath you and hear Felix's heart from where you stood.
"Felix, I feel... complete." You breathed out before he rushed into your arms, his wings unfurling to wrap around you both
"You’re more beautiful than ever," he murmured, kissing your forehead softly both of you forgetting those who had come to witness the ceremony.
The gathered Fae cheered, their voices a harmonious symphony celebrating the union of their prince and his beloved after so long. You and Felix turned to face them, your hands still intertwined, your love and unity shining brightly.
"I'm going to marry you under this tree," He whispered to you, just low enough for you to hear him and you giggled at him,
"Oh? And what if I decline?" You teased but he wrapped himself around you, dipping you lowly as he leaned in toward your lips.
"As if you would," He smirked, kissing you deeply as the fae around you erupted in cheers once again.
18+ he fucks a magic sex toy. one that connects him to you.
He almost misses it when it arrives. It comes in a small, inconspicuous package, designed to be ignored. The delivery driver had done almost too good a job at keeping it out of the sight from opportunistic passersby, adding to the chances of him missing it entirely.
But he doesn’t.
He snatches up the small box and hurries inside, knowing already what it contains.
It hadn't been an impulse purchase. The tab had been bookmarked in his browser for well over a year.
Still, he sits the box down on his desk and eyes it like it might’ve been a mistake.
It feels dirty.
Just looking at the plain brown box has him looking over his shoulder like he might get caught doing something he shouldn’t, despite living alone, and being an adult, and not doing anything wrong in the slightest, he reminds himself.
His fiddles with his box cutter for a minute or so, spinning his desk chair back and forth. Then he drops it on the desk.
Later.
When the sun was gone.
These things were always less shameful in the dark.
Food is a good distraction. He cooks, cleans. He showers. He changes his sheets. He sits on the edge of his bed and stares at the box before he cleans a little more.
Then, when it’s well past ten, and his hair is dry, and the neighbours have stopped stomping around upstairs, he snatches the box cutter off his desk and cleanly slices the package open.
Your ceiling fan rattles a little on the highest speed. It was white noise that normally helped you battle your insomnia. Tonight it was particularly bad.
You throw a leg over your blankets, stuffy and uncomfortable. Tired and restless.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. If you were braver, you wouldn’t be spread across an empty bed, tossing and turning.
If you were braver, you’d be with him.
You weren’t ready.
Not for someone like him.
Not yet.
Your curtains dance in the midnight air. You watch their performance as your eyelids finally grow heavy.
It’s right on the brink of sleep—dreams mixing with reality—when a sudden heat pulses between your thighs.
You jolt, rolling slightly forwards, like it’s something you can escape from.
Not a dream.
As your brain fires back on, the sensation doesn’t stop, or even lessen.
You reach down on instinct, cupping yourself over your underwear, like you might be able to soothe it with some firm pressure.
Rolling into your stomach helps for a moment. It eases.
Then, a flood of cool wetness has you jolting off the bed and collapsing onto the floor.
You know immediately what’s happened.
The feeling is too unnatural to be anything else.
Someone had a bond sex toy, and they were thinking of you. You could block it out. That was always an option, but these toys worked on mutual bonds. There was only one person who could open the connection to you.
He had dribbled cold lube over a toy designed to simulate your cunt, and he was thinking of you while doing it.
You pull yourself up to your knees at the side of the mattress, like a sinner about to pray.
She wouldn’t feel it, he reminds himself.
She’d turned him down. She didn’t feel the same. She’d turn him down again.
But the idea that she might not… she might let him slip inside the slippery, supple toy and feel him like he was right there with her. She might let him feel her—let the toy take her shape and warmth and wrap around him and suck him dry.
And next time he had to face her, he could look in her eyes and know she wanted him.
He plays with the lube a little more, tracing over the toy’s soft, pliable opening with his fingers. He’s sure he can feel a little warmth emanating from the inside. Her warmth.
He stops.
She’d know what was happening. She’d be realising it was him. She’d be deciding whether to stop him.
One finger toys with the entrance, coated in artificial slick. He’d just dip inside. Just to make sure. Then he’d wait. Wait for her answer.
He could stop after that. He’d know the truth and he could stop.
Slowly, he presses inside—silicone lips yielding to his gentle pressure.
Heat.
He holds his breath, waiting for you to release him—to realise he was there and break the connection.
Greed is the word that comes to mind as he considers sinking inside. You would be lying in the dark, alone, knowing he was here with the tip of his finger hesitating at the entrance of your cunt—feeling him there. You knew it and you were letting him.
He knew what he needed to know.
He could stop now.
Continuing would be so, so greedy.
Your walls relax as he presses further inside, like you’re welcoming him in. Like you're making sure he knows he can enter.
He can imagine your eyes closing, your lips parting.
The world might end outside and he’d still be fixated on where his finger sinks into the hot toy. Playing with you like that—with his fingers—is an all-consuming task.
It’s unreal.
The thing twitches and squeezes and wraps around him like it never wants him to leave, and all the while, he knows it’s you… your pussy squeezing and twitching around him. He’s slipping his fingers in and out of your pretty little cunt.
He can almost imagine you trying to keep him inside each time he slips out fully.
He presses and strokes gently along your folds, teasing, hearing your voice in his head, pleading with him to stop.
Toys were meant to be played with.
Were you writhing around in your sheets? Were your hands between your legs, desperately grasping at nothing?
The idea has him bringing it his lips and dropping a single, delicate kiss at your hole.
It’s okay, he says without words. I’ll look after you, sweetheart.
And he means it. Just like he’d meant every word he said to you as he’d confessed. He’d poured himself out and had been left trying to gather himself back up again when you’d turned him away.
You were afraid.
He knew it.
He could wait.
He could enjoy you like this in the meantime.
Soon he’s fucking into the toy with his tongue between kisses, making out with the thing in his hands like it was your mouth. Like he could show you how patient and good he could be for you. He imagines himself above you, pressing you into the mattress, feeling his tongue against yours.
You might squirm and wriggle under him, moan into his mouth.
The toy is glistening with spit by the time he pulls away, like your little pussy would be—quivering from his kisses.
He runs his finger down the seam, entranced.
It lets up just long enough for you to grip the sheets and pull yourself up onto the bed, finally escaping from the cold, hardwood floor.
He’d been relentless; hungry.
You’d grabbed at nothing between your legs, like you could push his head away as he’d laved his tongue up your fluttering cunt.
And still, despite the overstimulation, you hadn’t released the bond.
How could you?
Even now, as you lie flat on your stomach, panting into the pillow, you miss him.
Your phone is only an arm’s length away, you remind yourself.
But then just the thought of it—of hearing his voice—it has you considering cutting off your connection right this second.
It would be too real.
Too close.
You weren’t ready.
You jolt as that feeling returns: something touches you. Something different than before.
It’s thicker, warmer. It slides along you, between your lips. It’s coated in lube, leaving mess in its wake.
Oh.
Your hips rolls into your mattress, like you might be able to encourage him along. Of course, you can’t. Instead, you grind into nothing, unable to increase the pressure or slip him inside yourself. You’re left grasping at the sheets as you let him use you—use the toy.
Then he prods. The fat tip pokes at your throbbing hole like he’s asking to be let in. Over and over and over again, until you’re whimpering into the pillow… sensitive and empty.
You would grab him if you could. Tell him it’s okay. Come inside. You can come inside.
Then it stops.
Just long enough for panic to creep around the edges.
Then, with no warning at all, he’s pressing inside. There’s no hesitating now.
He’s asked. You answered.
Now, he’s taking, using, feeling. He’s filling you. And without thinking, you squeeze—grabbing at him with the only part of you that can.
He’s gasping for air. One hand reaches over his head to press against the wall, bracing.
He thinks of anything but you. Anything to distract from the throbbing heat and tight squeeze and sweet wetness dripping down to his balls.
Still, you show no mercy.
You.
His sweet girl. His. Clinging to his cock with her sweet little pussy, desperate to keep him there.
He can feel it.
She’s asking him to stay. Asking him why he took so long. Begging him not to leave.
It’ll kill him.
This’ll be the first and only time he feels her.
He stares at the ceiling and convinces himself of it.
“Please,” he gasps into the empty room—hips jolting off the bed. “Please, baby.”
Another squeeze.
He tugs the toy free from his twitching cock, knowing he can’t survive it.
One deep breath. Two. Three. Four.
He prods at the entrance again, testing the waters. He should’ve known better than to expect you to be a good girl. So instead, he doesn’t give you a chance to behave.
You’re about to give in. To reach for your phone and beg him with words. You’re about to be brave.
Instead, you cry out, reaching desperately between your legs—overwhelmed. He’s fucking into you at a pace that leaves you separate from your surroundings. In a way only achievable if someone was fucking a toy down their cock over and over and over again, lightweight and small.
You gasp in small breaths, like the wind is being knocked from your lungs.
He’s fucking you. Fucking. There’s no other word for it. Using you to fuck himself.
You can see it. Him leaning back, knees apart, fist clenched around a small, slick toy, imagining it was you.
Was he talking to himself? Talking to you? Was he telling you how nice it felt inside? Was he telling you how good you were for him? You can almost hear it. Hear his voice.
Eventually it slows. Just the tip slips in and out, in and out. Slow and precise. You try and squeeze around him each time, to catch him before he can retreat. Please don’t leave.
Keep me.
Control.
He could make it last.
She hadn’t left him yet.
He could keep her a little longer.
He rolls onto his stomach, keeping the toy between himself and the mattress. He would keep her beneath him if he could, press her down and use his weight make her feel all of him.
That’s how he enters you again.
Slow and with all his weight behind it. He wants her to know. Know he’s thinking of her beneath him.
Does she know how messy he’s being? She must feel it. How much lube he’s lathered over the toy. He has to keep switching hands, wiping them on the sheets so he can keep his grip in all the slick, warm, mess around him.
He’d make her that messy, he decides.
He wants her oiled up and so slippery he can barely keep his grip on her hips as he uses her. As he bounces her in his lap like she was this little toy beneath him.
She squeezes around him tight, like she can hear—like she approves.
“Nice and wet,” he babbles into the mattress. “Just like this.”
She sucks at him, suckles. Mouths at his leaky cock until he floods her full. She doesn’t stop, either. She pulses around him and takes and takes until he’s whimpering and biting the sheets below him.
He lets her.
It’s only fair.
He’s on the brink of tears when finally, finally…. the bond snaps clean.
Released.
He tugs the now lifeless toy from himself quickly, unwilling to let the feeling of it replace the feeling of her.
He has her.
He knows it now.
She’d said yes, and she’d let him inside, and he was never, ever, letting her go.
Warnings in the Series Masterlist as well as any other information needed
Chapter 1
Chan groans when his phone goes off with an alert from the motion detectors around the border of his territory. It’s been happening more often recently. He looks at the security app to see it’s one of the motion detectors from the northern side going off again and he huffs out a sigh.
“Guards again?” Changbin asks from where he sits at the other end of the couch on his laptop.
“Probably.” Chan mutters as he continues looking at the app, waiting for another sensor to go off indicating that the intruder crossed back over the territory line after seeing the signs the pack have placed on the trees indicating that it’s private property. “It’s from the northern border so the only explanation is it being a guard having gone too far from the compound.”
“I understand it's a new arena but you would think they’d train their guards better than to patrol too far from the compound and cross into our territory all the time.” Changbin sighs as he waits for Chan to confirm that the intruder is gone.
“I’ll go back up there again tomorrow and tell them if they do this again I’m setting up traps on our borders and they can’t do shit if any of their guards get hurt in one of them.” Chan grumbles still watching the sensors on his phone.
“There shouldn’t be a fucking arena there anyways.” Changbin growls, tossing his laptop off his lap and onto the couch. “That land was mutual roaming grounds for all of the surrounding packs.”
“There was nothing we could do to stop the government from taking that land. It didn’t actually belong to any of our packs.” Chan sighs tired from having to have this conversation all the time. “Hongjoong, Gun-il, Jae-beom and I have been looking for new lands we can claim. BamBam told Jae-beom and I that the packs, Twice, Itzy, and BTOB have quite a bit of unclaimed territory further south that we could take. We won’t have as much land as we do here but we’ll be away from the arenas at least. Minho thinks the BTS Pack is over that way too. So we’ll have a lot of our allies at least.”
Changbin nods glad that their allies have their backs in helping them get away from their current situation. “Has the guard finally left yet?”
Chan furrows his brows and clenches his jaw as he refreshes his security app, showing no new sensors going off since the first one.
“No, let’s go check it out.”
The two males get up and walk out the back door towards the northern border of their territory. Half way through the backyard Chan’s phone goes off indicating a new sensor has been triggered. But it isn’t the northern border motion detector, but one they have at the top of the hill to indicate either someone has come too far onto their lands, or if one of their omegas goes up the hill when they’re not supposed to.
“The hill’s sensor just went off.” The oldest male growls now angry that people are coming this far into their territory without permission.
“They really can’t pay attention to fucking signs can they?” Changbin huffs and throws his arms up.
“Hyung!” Jeongin jogs up to them from the house. “The sensors.”
“We know, pup. We’re heading there now.” Chan knows the youngest must have heard the security system inside beeping when the omega’s safety sensor went off and came running as fast as he could. “We have an intruder from the north.”
Jeongin growls as they walk through the dark field towards the hill. As they get closer there's a yelp from farther to their left then the stench of blood that makes their stomachs drop.
“Did they get hurt?” Jeongin looks at the two older males, confused.
Changbin, without thinking, runs ahead wanting to scare whoever made it this far. Just as he gets to the tree line at the bottom of the hill he hears leaves rustling and the smell of blood is stronger. Too strong. It’s when he hears a barely audible female whine does he see the curled up body under the crescent moon’s light. “Over here!”
The body moves a little as he runs over and slides to a stop next to it not expecting to see a girl heavily bleeding from her thigh. Through the stench he can smell her omega’s scent.
“Shit.” He curses as he hears the other two getting closer and applies pressure to her thigh making her whimper but her pants are soaked through with blood as well as the leaves around her. “She’s an omega, and she’s lost a lot of blood.”
Chan kneels over the girl’s head seeing Changbin’s hands covered in the crimson liquid and looks to Jeongin who is standing there horrified. “Call the house and tell them to set up the medical bay.” Once he sees the pup pull out his phone he turns back to the girl, placing a gentle hand on her cheek. “Can you hear me? We’re gonna help you, you’re safe now.”
“Min?” Jeongin is frantic on the phone. “Chan says to set up the med bay… No, we’re all fine but we’ve found an omega… Yeah, get Lix… And hyung, she’s bleeding a lot…”
Chan feels her move her head a little and look at her eyes seeing them foggy and unfocused. “Hey, stay with me.”
“Hyung, we need to move her. Now.” Jeongin says, hanging up the call after Minho heard Chan in the background and knew the girl wouldn’t last much longer if she wasn’t brought back to the house immediately.
“I’ve got her.” Changbin wraps his jacket over her thigh to help slow the bleeding before placing his arms under her shoulders and knees and lifts her making sure her thigh is pressed against his torso. The smallest of whimpers coming from her lips.
“Let’s go.” Chan nods and they all start running back to the house.
She goes limp in Changbin's arms, scaring him for a moment but keeps his composure as he can see and feel her still breathing. He doesn’t stop glancing down at her until they rush through the back door and see the doors to the medical bay thrown open and the fluorescent lights shining into the main area.
“Put her on the table.” Felix rushes them into the room where Minho is putting on gloves as Changbin places her on the metal table in the center of the room.
“She passed out not long after I had picked her up.” Changbin explains as Felix is already cutting off the jacket that was tied around her thigh then her pant leg revealing what looks to be a bullet wound.
“Fuck.” Minho curses as he grabs a few tools, the others standing near her head watching. “Lix, get fluids going. We don’t know what her blood type is so we won’t be able to set up a transfusion until possibly later. I’m gonna have to find this damn bullet.”
The younger one sticks an IV into her arm as Minho ties a tourniquet around her upper thigh as tight as he can get it.
“Guys.” Felix whimpers as he has the underside of her arm facing up showing O13 tattooed on her left inner wrist. “She’s from the hunt.”
“I had a suspicion.” Chan groans looking at the tattoo in malice. “But I’ve never heard of anyone being able to escape one of the arenas before.”
“As far as we know, she is the first.” Jeongin whispers.
Minho wipes away as much blood as he can before he stretches open the wound a little to try and find the bullet with a pair of forceps. He doesn’t get to do much digging before the girl bolts upright, reaching down to stop him as she squints her eyes in the blinding lights of the room. “Hold her down.”
Chan and Changbin jump quickly to push her onto her back again at the barked out order. She struggles a little until she is fully laying on her back but even with the two holding down her upper body she’s still moving her legs not allowing Minho to work.
“We’re trying to help you.” Chan hopes she is aware enough to understand that they aren’t going to actually harm her. But of course she doesn’t stop thrashing.
“Sedate her.” Minho looks at Felix whose eyes widen and whimpers.
“But it could cause a reaction with whatever she might have been given before.”
“It’ll be better than her continuing to fight us and possibly bleeding out.” Minho is stern. “Sedate her. We’ll deal with any kind of reaction she might have later.”
Felix reluctantly grabs a needle and a sedative before administering it into her upper arm. It takes a moment before her movements weaken and after a minute she finally goes limp. The two holding her down hesitate before slowly releasing her. Everyone sighs once they’ve let go of her and she doesn't move.
“What’s going on in here?” Seungmin stands in the doorway, his mouth agape, Jisung behind him rubbing his eye, obviously having been woken up from sleep.
“Go back to bed, guys.” Chan ushers them out as Minho immediately gets back to work before it’s too late.
“Do you think they actually drugged her with stuff?” Jeongin asks no one in particular after the oldest has left with the other two.
Felix who is still standing on the other side of the table watching Minho finally pull the bullet out of her thigh starts absentmindedly rubbing his inner left wrist. “They did it to me all the time.”
Jeongin’s expression softens as he goes over to the male omega and wraps his arms around him who leans into the youngest's embrace. Everyone in the pack knows what Felix has gone through and how it still affects him. The hunt is a very touchy subject for him and he likes to avoid it as much as he can.
Minho looks up at the two and knows Felix needs to be kept occupied for the moment. “Lix, test for her blood type and see what we have for a transfusion.”
The omega nods before getting to work as the older stitches up the girl’s thigh.
“I’m gonna go shower and change.” Changbin looks down at his blood covered clothes. “And probably burn these.”
“Good idea.” Jeongin nods before looking at the still form on the metal table. “She can't stay in those clothes either.”
“Go get one of Hyunjin's shirts.” Felix says as he tests her blood. “I’ll change her after we get her cleaned up. We don’t know how long she’s gonna be knocked out so if she’s just in a baggy shirt we can keep her modest but still have better access to check her wounds periodically.”
“Why one of Jinnies?” Changbin raises an eyebrow as they watch the two work.
“You know I would have normally said yours or Chans but if she’s from the hunt she’s not gonna want to wake up wearing a shirt that smells like an alpha.” Felix sighs. “And out of us omegas Hyun is the tallest so he’ll have shirts that will be bigger for her to wear like a dress.”
The two nod before leaving the room.
“You could have said to get mine or Seungmins.” Minho retorts as he ties off her suture.
“She probably won't be too fond of a beta’s scent either.” The younger of the two moves to their fridge they keep blood in and grabs a bag. “You remember how I acted when I was brought here the first night.”
“Yeah.” Minho whispers as he starts gently wiping away the blood on her thigh as Felix gets the blood transfusion going.
Meanwhile, Jeongin goes upstairs to Hyunjin’s room to find the omega still sound asleep. He’s not surprised, he would be the only one to be able to sleep through all the commotion that has been happening for the last hour.
“Innie?” Hyunjin stirs as Jeongin searches through the closet looking for the biggest shirt, even though any of them would be pretty big on the girl. “Aren’t I usually the one rifling through your closet? What are you doing?”
“Lixie told me to get one of your shirts for the omega we have in the med bay.”
“Omega?” Hyunjin shoots up as Jeongin finds the shirt he was looking for. “Why didn’t anyone wake me?”
“To be fair, we’ve been a little busy with her. Besides, Ji and Minnie managed to be woken by just the sound of us frantically keeping her alive.” The youngest starts to leave knowing the other will follow. “It’s not our fault you sleep like the dead.”
“Still, someone could have woken me.”
“I did, just now.” They both make it to the bottom of the stairs and Jeongin starts to head to the med bay and the moment Hyunjin gets a whiff of her scent mixed with blood he starts to run after the young alpha but doesn’t make it far.
“Woah.” Chan stops him. “I know you want to see her but you know the rules.”
“Unless I am the one needing attention, only alphas are allowed in the room with Felix and Minho.” Hyunjin whines. “But hyung, she’s an omega.”
“And if she’s from the hunt wouldn’t it be better for us to be in there instead of you alphas stinking up the room?” Jisung argues once again.
“She’s an arena omega?" Hyunjin's eyes widen as he looks between his pack alpha and doors that are keeping him from seeing the girl. “How?”
Ever since Chan had bought Felix from one of the arenas in the city the pack had all agreed none of the alphas would ever sign back up to participate since they’ve all done their required one rut in an arena.
“We think she escaped.” Chan rubs the bridge of his nose. “She set off the northern border sensor and we found her at the bottom of the hill.”
“Please hyung, let us see her!” Jisung whimpers and even seungmin fidgets wanting to see the new omega.
“Alright.” Chan sighs looking at all of them. “Once she’s cleaned up you guys can go see her, but after that no one is going in there except for Felix and Minho to tend to her. Try to keep the scents at a minimum in there so as to not overwhelm her when she wakes up.”
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
“Min.” Felix whimpers making the beta turn to see the girl now that Felix has taken her dirty clothes off of her revealing the amount of bruising and cuts littering her body.
Minho sighs and feels at her ribs where the worst of her bruising is while Felix cleans up the cuts on her face then the rest of her body and checks for infection.
“She’s got a cracked rib for sure.”
“She must have been a part of the selection for yesterday's games.” The omega’s hand shakes as he cleans up her skin.
“Lixie, if you need to take a moment it’s okay.” The older male grabs his hand, stopping the tremor. “I can finish from here.”
Felix shakes his head no while taking in a deep breath. “I just wanna get her cleaned up and off this table and comfortable in the bed.”
Minho watches him for a moment before nodding and helps clean her up before Felix gets the baggy shirt on her and reattaches the tubes for the fluids and blood transfusion back into the IV in her arm. He then picks the leaves out of her hair and brushes it as best as he can.
The beta moves her from the exam table over to the small medical bed in the room. Felix makes sure she’s warm as he tucks the blankets around her and pushes some hair out of her face.
“Chan said everyone wants to see her before it’s gonna be only you and I allowed in here until she wakes up.” The beta watches him knowing how hard all of this is. “I’m sorry I made you sedate her. But you have to understand that if you didn-”
“I know.” Felix sighs as he steps back from the bed and looks at the older male. “I just know how they like to drug the omegas every day, kept us docile. And sometimes whatever they gave us the day we were to participate in the hunt would cause a reaction with the previous drugs. So if she did participate in yesterday's games like we think, the sedation can make her really sick.”
“And we’ll take care of her, don’t worry.” Minho moves to him and cradles his cheek.
A knock on the door causes them to turn and see Chan poking his head in. “Everyones getting antsy to see her.”
“They can come in.” Minho says pulling away from the male omega as the rest of the pack makes their way in, all eyes going to the girl on the bed.
“She’s so small.” Jisung whimpers as he goes to Felix and they hug each other.
“And she’s an arena omega?” Hyunjin asks and watches Minho as he pulls her left arm out from under the blanket and gasps when he reveals the tattooed number on the inside of her wrist.
“O13?” Seungmin looks at the alphas confused.
“The arena is called the Oscar Arena.” Changbin grumbles with his arms crossed over his chest. “The O probably represents that.”
“But the arena has only been here for a few months.” Jeongin looks at her wrist more closely. “And she doesn’t seem much younger than me.”
“Was she transferred from another arena to the Oscar one?” Jisung looks at all of his packmates from the youngest male omega’s arms.
Felix shakes his head. “Theres no sign of a previous tattoo removal to give her the new arena number.”
Minho looks at her wrist for a moment longer before placing it back on the bed and pulls the blankets back over her. “Or she presented late or had managed to stay unregistered until a few months ago.”
“We’re gonna keep her right?” Hyunjin gives them all hopeful eyes.
“She’s not a pet.” Seungmin gets closer to the girl, looking over her beaten and battered form. “But what are we going to do with her?”
“We’re not sending her back.” Felix goes wide eyed.
“Relax.” Chan steps forward to defuse the situation. “We aren’t going to send her anywhere. It will be her choice in the end.”
“What do you mean?” Jisung looks up with worry.
“We aren’t going to make her stay if she doesn’t want to.” Chan touches both of the omega’s cheeks and rubs his thumb soothingly over their skin. “If she stays or not will be her decision when she wakes up.”
“She shouldn’t be going anywhere with her injuries.” Minho interjects.
Chan sighs. “I know that, calm down.” He looks each and every one of his pack mates over. “We’ve been through this with an arena omega before.” Felix whimpers a little, making the alpha pull him to his chest. “We know she’ll be scared when she wakes up. Lixie will explain to her that she is safe here while she heals and after that she can decide what to do. We’ll take her anywhere she wants to go, I’m sure her family is still out there willing to take her in now that she’s escaped.”
“What if they’re not?” Hyunjin moves to the girl's side and moves her hair out of her face.
“We’ll figure it out.” Chan reassures all of them. “For now, she’s asleep and safe. And we should go to bed too, it’s late.”
Everyone nods and starts filing out of the room except for Minho, Chan and Felix.
“You too Lix.”
“But what if she wakes?” The omega gives sad puppy eyes.
“Hey.” Minho grabs his hand. “Why don’t we sleep in the guest room next door? We’ll be able to hear her if she wakes up.”
Felix hesitates, looking at the girl before nodding his head and squeezes the beta’s hand back.
Minho leads him out of the med bay and Chan follows them into the guest room.
“Please get some sleep.” Chan kisses Felix’s head.
𝓹airing — bf!skz x gf!reader ・ 𝓰enre / fluff・ 𝔀arning — none , just kisses and very loving skz .ᐟ ・ 𝔀ordcount — 0.6k w & 3.4k cc .
[ 𝓱yung line .ᐟ ]
﹙ 방찬 - channie﹚ .ᐟ
you wander out of the bathroom , hair damp and skin clean , not a trace of makeup left. his eyes catch yours instantly and soften. “god , you’re beautiful like this …” he murmurs , thumb brushing your cheekbone. he pulls you closer by the waist , forehead to yours , just staring for a second like he’s memorising you. “don’t ever hide this from me ,” he whispers , kissing the corner of your mouth slow , like he’s tasting the quietness of the moment.
﹙ 리노 - minho .ᐟ ﹚
you’re curled up on the couch with a blanket , skin bare , lashes dark against your cheeks. he stops mid-step , blinking at you. “you look so real right now ,” he says softly , almost to himself. his hand comes up to tilt your chin , eyes tracing every freckle , every dimple. “i love when it’s just you ,” he murmurs , kissing your nose before settling next to you , pulling you against his chest.
﹙ 창빈 - changbin﹚ .ᐟ
you rub the last of your makeup off with a towel , looking up to find him staring. dimples deepening , he grins. “no filter looks better than this ,” he laughs quietly , cupping your face with both hands. his thumbs stroke your jaw as he leans in , voice low and warm. “so soft , so pretty ,” he says , pressing a kiss to your temple like he’s proud of catching you in this moment.
﹙ 현진 - hyunjinnie﹚ .ᐟ
the moment you drop onto the bed beside him , barefaced and smiling , he blinks like he’s been caught off guard. “oh my muse …” he breathes , fingers sliding into your hair. he lies down so his head rests on your stomach , looking up at you with a lazy grin. “stay like this ,” he murmurs , tracing your cheek with his fingertips before kissing up your jaw , soft and unhurried , as if he’s painting you with his lips.
[ 𝓶aknae line .ᐟ ]
﹙ 한지성 - jisungie﹚ .ᐟ
you plop down next to him on the sofa , nothing on your face but your usual glow. he pauses his game , eyes widening. “noona … you’re killing me ,” he says , voice somewhere between a whine and a laugh. his hands reach up to cup your cheeks , thumbs brushing your skin. “you know exactly what you’re doing to me ,” he whispers , kissing your forehead before pulling you into his side.
﹙ 필릭스 - lixxie﹚ .ᐟ
you pull his oversized shirt tighter around you and glance at him shyly , barefaced. he literally exhales like it’s a moan , freckles going pink. “oh angel …” he whispers , eyes roaming over you like you’re a miracle. he crawls closer without thinking , resting his chin on your knee while his hands trace circles on your thighs. “i love this face ,” he says softly , kissing the edge of your jaw , eyes flicking up to meet yours with a shy , glowing look.
﹙ 승민 - seungmin﹚ .ᐟ
you pad into the kitchen , hair messy , skin clean. the mug in his hand stops halfway to his lips. “wow …” he mutters , dragging a hand down his face as a small smile pulls at his mouth. he sets the mug aside and steps into your space , kissing you firm but gentle. “don’t think i’ll let anyone else see you like this ,” he teases quietly , fingers brushing your bare cheek.
﹙아이엔 - innie﹚ .ᐟ
you peek out from under the covers , face fresh and soft , and he freezes , eyes going wide , throat bobbing as he swallows. “you’re like … glowing ,” he says quietly with a shy , giddy smile. his hand lifts , hesitating until you nod , and then he’s tracing your jaw with his fingers , mouth brushing your collarbone in a slow , reverent kiss. “you look unreal ..” he whispers against your skin.
vampire!bang chan x reader | “you gave him your blood. he took your soul with it.”
🔞synopsis: You signed the contract. Gave your blood. Agreed to his terms. He promised protection, pleasure, and power. What he didn’t tell you? The contract never ends. You weren’t just a blood doll. You were chosen. And Bang Chan doesn’t share what’s his—not your body, not your blood, not your soul.
💌a/n: i blacked out. this is what happens when you play Cabernet and then think “what if bang chan was a vampire who tied me up, drank my blood, and fucked me until i forgot my name?”
🩸 he’s not your dom, he’s your religion.
🩸 you didn’t sign a contract—you surrendered.
🩸 yes, you came when he fed. no, you’re not okay.
those who know me know i can’t run into smut directly, so yes—there’s a bit of background first :3 consider it the slow poison before the bite. this one’s for the bloodlust girlies. the silk tie sluts. the “bite me harder, please” crowd.
p.s. hope you brought holy water.
p.s.s. rate, scream, moan in the tags. i’ll be watching.
⚠️ warnings: NSFW (18+) — bloodplay, biting kink, body worship, orgasm control, bondage (silk restraints), overstimulation, edging, marking, possessiveness, creampie, vampire feeding-as-foreplay, rough sex, filthy talk, praise + light degradation, dom!chan energy, sensory overload, manipulation kink, claiming/mating themes, emotionally manipulative tenderness™, aftercare that hits too hard, consent framed as control, he bites you and you come. you said “i can handle it.” he said “prove it.”
🎶now playing: "Red Lights" — Bang Chan & Hyunjin
📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune
🩸 background
CAST
Vampire!Bang Chan
Ancient, but looks late 20s. Charismatic. Seductive. Deeply calculating.
Keeps up the façade of elegance, control, and civility—but beneath it lies an animalistic hunger.
Treats his blood dolls like precious, exclusive possessions.
You? His last. The only one he’s ever signed a lifetime contract with.
He feeds slow. He fucks slower. But when he snaps? There’s no going back.
Reader (Blood Doll!You)
You signed the contract voluntarily—but not just for the money.
Maybe you were running from something. Maybe you were drawn to the dark.
You’re inexperienced with vampires. This is your first arrangement.
You said it was a business deal. He knew better.
Your body begged the first time he bit you.
🩸what is a blood doll?
A blood doll is a human who willingly offers their blood—and sometimes their body—to a vampire, bound by a formal contract.
In return, they’re protected, housed, and cared for financially, emotionally, physically.
It’s supposed to be a mutual exchange.
But when the vampire is Bang Chan… it becomes obsession.
Control.
A covenant.
The elevator doors opened with a hush, spilling dim light across polished black marble. You stepped out, heels clicking softly like the tick of a countdown.
The penthouse was silent.
Not empty—waiting.
Everything gleamed: obsidian floors, dark glass walls streaked with rain, gold accents warm against shadows. The air was scented faintly with something ancient—wine, cedar, and blood just barely gone dry. It didn’t smell unpleasant. It smelled like a memory you weren’t sure was yours.
He stood at the far end of the room, one hand resting on the back of a high-backed chair, the other cradling a glass of something red and viscous. He wasn’t dressed like a monster. He wore tailored black trousers, a silk shirt undone just enough to tease the curve of his collarbone, and no shoes. Just him—barefoot in his own cathedral.
Bang Chan looked up at you, and the world seemed to still for a breath.
"You’re punctual." His voice came low, warm, and polished with civility. But the cadence was too slow, too careful—like someone used to commanding rooms with silence, not volume. "Good."
You nodded, throat tight. “You said midnight.”
"I did." His mouth curled, sharp and soft at once. “And here you are. Come. Sit.”
The table was long and dark, minimalist, with a single folder placed at the center like a relic. When you lowered yourself into the chair opposite him, your legs barely brushed the underside before you crossed them tightly, trying not to look tense. But you were. Your skin buzzed with it. Not fear. Not exactly. Something older, hungrier.
“I assume you read the terms,” he said, setting his glass down with a soft clink.
You nodded again. “Twice.”
“Mmm. Still”—he reached forward, flipping open the folder with elegant fingers—“I like to go over the finer details… in person.”
The contract looked deceptively simple: black ink, pristine paper, heavy with embossed lettering and a dark red wax seal. Legal, binding. Intimate. You scanned it again, though you could recite most of it by now.
Clause 3: The Vampire shall provide financial, medical, and physical support to the Doll at all times during the bond.
Clause 7: Feeding shall occur with full verbal consent. In absence of consent, no feeding is permitted.
Clause 9: Sexual contact is optional. However, if initiated by either party, it must be fulfilled within safe and agreed-upon parameters. Withdrawal is permitted, but rare.
Clause 11: A Doll who offers themselves for long-term service is to be protected as a permanent asset.
You paused at Clause 9.
“...Sexual contact is optional,” you said aloud, almost skeptical.
Chan’s eyes didn’t move from yours. “Technically.”
You raised a brow.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “That clause was added after a rather… messy disagreement in Vienna. Some dolls think they can offer blood without intimacy. Some vampires agree. I don’t.”
You swallowed. “You mean you won’t feed unless—”
“No.” A beat. “I mean I’ve never wanted to separate them. Blood is pleasure. Pain is trust. Sex is… currency.” He tilted his head. “What are you willing to give to be kept?”
The silence draped over your shoulders like velvet. His words should’ve chilled you. But they didn’t. Instead, your skin prickled. Your thighs pressed a little tighter. You hated that he noticed.
“Let me see your wrist.”
You hesitated.
His eyes didn’t waver. There was no impatience in them—just certainty. Hunger, tucked behind a glassy calm.
You extended your arm, pulse fluttering like a ribbon in the wind.
Chan took your wrist with a gentleness that was worse than roughness. Reverent. He held it between both hands, thumb brushing the vein just beneath the skin. You swore you could feel his fingers in places he hadn’t touched yet.
“Hmm,” he said quietly. His voice dropped, low and rasped. “You’re trembling already.”
You hated that he was right. Hated that your heart had started pounding the moment you stepped into his domain. And he could hear it—you knew he could hear it.
“It’s not fear,” you said, too quickly.
“Oh, I know,” he whispered. “It’s anticipation.”
He released you, slow as syrup.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
Chan reached for a fountain pen—black with a silver serpent wrapped around the barrel—and set it beside the parchment. “Go ahead,” he said, voice rich like candle smoke. “If you’re ready to surrender. If you’re ready to be mine.”
Your fingers wrapped around the pen. You wrote your name in long, fluid strokes—first name, middle, last, like signing your soul away required formality. The ink glided, but just as you lifted the tip from the page, it snagged—slightly. A prickle. Then warmth.
You hissed softly, looking down.
A drop of your blood rolled down your finger and splattered right at the base of your signature. Small. Bright. Stark red against the cream paper.
Chan’s chair creaked as he stood.
He leaned over the table, one hand braced beside the contract, the other reaching out—but not to you. Just the paper. His fingertip grazed the blood, collecting the crimson bead, then lifted it slowly to his lips.
He tasted it.
And closed his eyes.
“…You bleed beautifully,” he said, almost reverent.
When his gaze returned to yours, it was darker. Deeper. “No turning back now,” he murmured.
The signature was barely dry when Chan’s voice sliced through the quiet. “Come,” he said, stepping away from the table and beckoning you with a single finger. “We’ll begin tonight.”
You blinked. “Tonight?”
He turned his head slightly, a half-smile curving his lips. “Why wait? Your blood’s already calling to me. I can hear it… humming under your skin.”
You stood, slowly. Legs steady, voice not so much. “I thought the first feeding was scheduled—”
“I changed the schedule.” His eyes dropped to your neck. “You’ll find I do that often.”
He didn’t lead you to a sterile feeding room or a clinical space with straps and silver tools. No, he brought you to what looked like a bedroom. If vampires even slept. The space was soft with shadows—curtains drawn, the faint glow of amber sconces casting flickers across the walls. A plush velvet chaise rested near the window, flanked by shelves full of antique books and empty crystal decanters.
He gestured to the chaise. “Sit.”
You obeyed.
Chan knelt in front of you—not rushed, not showy. Just deliberate. Like a priest at a private altar. His hands, still cool from the glass he’d held earlier, gently took your knees and parted them enough for him to slot between. It was chaste. For now.
“I’ll be gentle,” he said, brushing hair back from your neck with the backs of his fingers. “Unless you want it rough.”
Your breath hitched. He smiled.
“I thought so.”
He studied your throat like it was scripture. The pad of his thumb pressed lightly under your jaw—tilting your head, exposing the fragile, thumping line beneath your skin. His gaze sharpened.
“Heartbeat’s racing again,” he whispered. “Such a pretty tempo.”
You tried to speak, but your voice had vanished somewhere behind your teeth.
“Relax,” he murmured, “I won’t take too much. Just enough to make us… connected.”
You felt his lips first. They brushed against your pulse in a whisper-soft kiss, reverent and maddening. Then—the scrape of fangs.
Not sharp. Not yet. Just a threat.
“I need you to say it,” he said, voice vibrating against your skin. “Consent. Give it to me.”
You swallowed hard. “I consent.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“I… I want you to feed from me, Chan.”
His eyes fluttered closed. The sound of his name on your tongue did something to him. When they opened again, they weren’t just dark. They were hungry.
And then—he bit you.
It wasn’t a stab. It was an invasion dressed as intimacy. The pressure sank in slowly, coaxing your skin apart, followed by a bloom of sharp heat. Your body arched without permission. A sound slipped from your throat—too soft to be a cry, too desperate to be a sigh.
Chan groaned against your neck.
You felt his mouth moving—drinking—his tongue sweeping across the punctures with devastating control. His hands gripped your thighs now, not rough but anchoring, grounding you while your body dissolved. Your pulse thundered in your ears, but your head felt light, floaty, distant.
Heat pooled low in your belly.
Your hips shifted without thinking.
That’s when he pulled back.
Blood glossed his lips—your blood. He licked them slowly, as if savouring the last drop of a rare vintage. His tongue dragged across his bottom lip, chasing the taste.
“…Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re sweeter than I expected.”
You were still panting. His thumb wiped a smear of blood from your neck with gentle precision. He pressed a kiss to the spot, sealing it closed with a trace of heat.
“You’ll start to feel… different,” he said, rising to his feet and towering over you now. “Feeding changes you. Makes you… sensitive. Addicted, some say.”
You looked up at him, dazed. “To you?”
He smiled. But it wasn’t comforting.
“No,” he murmured. “To this. To being wanted like this.”
He leaned down, eyes burning into yours. His voice dropped to a hush.
“And soon, you’ll want me too.”
You didn’t notice it at first.
The ache.
It started as a dull flutter under your ribs—barely there, easy to ignore. But as the days passed without Chan’s fangs in your skin, it grew sharper, more insistent. Like hunger, but not for food. Like arousal, but with no release. You woke up one morning with your sheets twisted between your legs, skin damp with sweat, heart hammering.
You hadn’t seen him in four days.
He said he had business. Said he wouldn’t be far. But the bond was forged now. His absence echoed through your body like a missing rhythm. A phantom touch that never landed. Your body knew he hadn’t fed.
And it wanted him to.
You tried to act normal. You showered. You ate. You answered emails. But nothing settled. You were restless. Your skin felt too tight. Your limbs, too heavy.
And then… the gifts started.
The first was a book. Left on your pillow.
An old hardcover—The Picture of Dorian Gray. You flipped it open and froze. The margins were full of notes. Your notes. From university. From a copy you hadn’t seen in years.
You didn’t tell him about those annotations. He must’ve tracked it down somehow. Bought it back. The idea that he’d searched for something that touched your mind, not just your body—
You clutched it to your chest and pretended it didn’t mean anything.
The next day, it was a necklace. Silver, fine, weightless. A small black garnet hanging from the center. You found it on your nightstand with no note, but you knew. You put it on without thinking. The gem sat perfectly over your collarbone—right where his mouth usually went.
After that came the clothes. Silk robes. Cashmere sweaters. A pair of shoes that fit like they were molded for you.
He didn’t speak of them. Just watched you wear them with a look that was too satisfied, too sure.
You started sleeping in his bed without realizing when it began.
At first it was just because you couldn’t sleep. The scent of him on his pillows helped. The air in his room felt thicker, safer, like the shadows themselves bent around you to listen to your breathing.
You told yourself it was convenience. Proximity.
Then, one night, you woke with the feeling of being watched.
Your eyes fluttered open.
He was there.
Sitting in the armchair in the corner of the room, legs crossed, one hand resting under his jaw. His shirt was unbuttoned. Bare feet on the rug. No sound. Just him, and you, and the silence between.
"How long have you been there?" you whispered.
He smiled faintly, fangs just barely visible. “Long enough.”
Your breath caught.
“You moaned my name,” he said softly. “In your sleep.”
Your cheeks burned. “That doesn’t mean—”
“It means you’re mine,” he said.
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a declaration.
It was a fact.
The next feeding was different.
You didn’t wait for him to ask. You came to him.
You didn’t knock. Just opened his door, eyes wide, pupils blown, breath already trembling.
He didn’t say a word—just reached for you, pulled you into his lap, and buried his face in your throat.
This time, you felt everything.
His bite burned and bloomed, molten and euphoric. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your hips rolled instinctively in his lap. He didn’t stop you. He guided you. Hands on your waist, mouth on your neck, whispering filth between gulps.
"You're shaking."
"Need it," you gasped.
"I know. You were made for this. For me."
By the time he finished, you were panting and soaked between the legs, thighs twitching, vision fuzzy. He held you through the aftershocks, licking the wound closed with obscene tenderness.
"You’ll crave it more now," he murmured. “Soon, you won’t be able to come unless I’m inside you… or feeding.”
You should have told him to stop. That it wasn’t true. That you had control.
But the worst part was—you wanted it to be true.
The gala was held in a forgotten cathedral—repurposed and gilded in fresh vice. Glass chandeliers hung like dripping fangs. Shadows wore tuxedos and corseted gowns, wine swirled in crystal like blood, and the air vibrated with the undercurrent of hunger.
This was not your world.
Not really.
And yet—you were here. A blood doll, yes, but one under his protection.
Marked, fed from, cared for. No one could touch you without risking war.
But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t look.
And you… you let them.
The vampire in question wasn’t particularly handsome, not like Chan. But he was bold. He offered you his hand during a waltz, and you took it. He leaned close when you laughed. You let his eyes linger on your neck—on the healed bite that still ached from last week. You didn’t move away.
You didn’t stop him.
And Chan saw everything.
From the gallery above, he stood like a statue—expression unreadable, drink untouched, fangs pressing into his tongue to keep the growl down. He watched you flirt with another predator, watched the flick of your lashes, the curve of your mouth, the bare skin of your throat on display.
He said nothing.
But his eyes never left you.
You expected him to confront you after. Maybe a whispered threat in the car, a sharp warning through clenched teeth.
Instead… silence.
Not a single word on the drive home.
Not one glance as you entered the penthouse.
You were halfway down the hall when you heard it.
The click of the door locking.
You turned.
Chan stood behind you, still and deliberate. He took off his jacket slowly, folded it, and laid it across the nearest chair. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms—veins taut, muscles coiled like he’d been holding himself back for too long.
You opened your mouth, but he spoke first.
Low. Lethal.
“Tell me,” he said, voice like black velvet soaked in wine. “Was he worth it?”
You blinked. “What—”
“You think you can offer this blood to someone else?”
The room dropped ten degrees.
You backed up a step, heart tripping. “It was nothing. Just—just dancing.”
He moved closer. Slow, stalking. “You let him look at you.”
“I didn’t—”
“You let him imagine tasting you. Touching you. Filling you.” His eyes gleamed now—obsidian, deadly. “And you didn’t stop him.”
Your back hit the wall.
Chan leaned in, bracing his palm beside your head. His breath ghosted over your cheek.
“You wanted to see what I’d do.” His other hand slid to your throat—not squeezing, just resting. Claiming. “You wanted to test me.”
Your breath hitched. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
“You’re mine,” he growled, voice rumbling from deep in his chest. “I feed from you. I fuck you. I care for you. No one else touches what’s mine.”
He leaned in closer—lips brushing your ear.
“Now… get on your knees.”
Your knees hit the floor with a soft thud, silk pooling around you like an offering.
Chan stood above you—barely restrained, chest rising with quiet fury, his jaw tight. He looked down at you like a king surveying his most treasured possession, soiled by another’s gaze.
“Open your mouth,” he said, voice low and lethal.
You obeyed—lips parting, tongue already peeking out slightly like a plea. He hummed, pleased, and reached down to cup your jaw. His thumb traced your lower lip once. Then again—pressing harder until you had no choice but to let it past your lips.
“Suck,” he ordered.
You did.
He watched you, unmoving, as your mouth worked over his thumb, soft and obedient. Your tongue swirled, your lips hollowed, and when he pulled it out, it left your chin glistening.
“Good,” he muttered. “You know how to behave when you’re on your knees.”
He undid his belt with one hand, the metallic sound of the buckle snapping through the air like the start of a ritual. You swallowed hard. Your thighs squeezed together instinctively—already soaked, already wanting.
His cock was hard. Thick. Veins prominent. You barely had a second to breathe before he grabbed the back of your head and fed it to you.
Slow at first—his tip dragging over your tongue, a groan rumbling from deep in his chest as your lips closed around him.
“You take me well,” he breathed. “But you’re not gonna get it easy tonight.”
His hand tightened in your hair.
Then—he started thrusting.
Not shallow. Not gentle. He fucked your mouth like it was his right—like it was the punishment and the reward. Your throat burned, your eyes watered, but you took it. You moaned around him, the vibration making him curse above you.
“Look at you,” he growled, glancing down. “Choking so pretty on my cock.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks. Drool pooled at the corners of your mouth. He didn't stop. Didn’t slow. His hips moved with brutal rhythm, driving deeper every time until your throat gave in, welcoming the violation.
“You think anyone else could do this to you?” he snarled. “Think he could use you like this? Own you like I do?”
You whimpered around him, lashes fluttering. You tried to answer—but you couldn’t speak. You could only take.
And he loved that.
Finally—he pulled out. You gasped, coughing, spit trailing down your chin.
He grabbed you by the jaw and forced you to look up. His eyes glowed now—hungry. Ferocious.
“Say it.”
You blinked, dazed. “Wh-what?”
His thumb smeared your spit across your cheek.
“Who do you belong to?”
You swallowed.
“You. I’m yours, Chan.”
He exhaled like that was the first thing that soothed him all night.
“Good girl,” he rasped, eyes trailing over your flushed, ruined face. “Now get on the bed.”
You stumbled to the bed, still breathless, throat wrecked and wet. Your legs trembled—not from fear, but from the sheer force of want pooling between them, slick and desperate.
Chan stood back, watching.
Commanding.
You crawled onto the mattress, knees sinking into the soft black sheets. You didn’t even make it all the way before his voice stopped you.
“Don’t lie down,” he said darkly. “I want to see it.”
You froze on all fours.
He prowled toward you—slow, deliberate. A predator savoring every second of the hunt.
His fingers caught the strap of your dress. “This,” he murmured, dragging the silk down your back, “wasn’t for him, was it?”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
The dress slid from your body like water.
And when it pooled at your knees, revealing what you wore beneath—it wasn’t silence that followed.
It was a growl.
Black lace. Barely there. Garters. Sheer cups that lifted your breasts just enough to tease. A tiny diamond charm hanging between your ribs. Skin flushed. Bite marks healing.
Chan let out a sharp breath, almost like it hurt to look at you.
“You look…” he stepped closer, eyes dragging down every inch of your spine, “fuckin’ divine.”
You felt him kneel behind you. Fingers hooked into the lace at your hips and ripped. The sound tore through the room, and your body jolted, arousal dripping from your core onto the sheets.
Then—fabric tightened around your wrists.
Your head snapped back. “Wh—”
“My tie,” he whispered, knotting it expertly behind your back. “You wanted to be played with. Now you don’t get to touch. Or beg. Or finish… unless I say so.”
He spread your thighs apart with both hands. Sat back on his heels to admire the way you glistened.
“You’re already dripping,” he muttered. “Pathetic. You want to be used.”
You whimpered. “Yes—please—”
He pressed his thumb against your entrance. Collected the wetness. Smirked.
“Then you’ll wait.”
He brought his thumb to his mouth and licked it clean, slow and deliberate, groaning softly like he’d just tasted something indecent.
Then he looked up at you from behind—eyes black with hunger, lips parted just slightly.
“So sweet.”
Without warning, his hands clamped around your thighs, dragging you down so your knees slipped wide, your back arched deeper, your ass and cunt perfectly exposed. He didn’t give you a second to breathe.
He dove in.
His mouth landed on your soaked pussy like it was salvation—tongue flattening against your slit, licking from your entrance to your clit in one long, filthy stroke. You choked on your own breath, body lurching forward, but your tied wrists left you helpless to do anything but take it.
“Fuck,” he groaned against you, voice muffled by the obscene wet sounds between your legs. “You taste even better when you’re desperate.”
He buried his face in deeper, tongue pushing inside you now, slow and thick, swirling with maddening precision. His nose pressed to your ass, his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. He moaned into you—guttural, low, possessive.
Every time he pulled back to suck on your clit, he made sure it was loud—sloppy and wet and absolutely wrecking. You could feel his fangs graze close to your skin but never break it, teasing you with the threat of another bite you weren’t allowed to beg for.
Your thighs trembled.
Your breath hitched.
Your entire body was on the verge.
“Chan—” you whimpered, voice high, ruined. “Please, I—please—”
He pulled back just enough to speak, lips glistening, chin slick with your arousal.
“Please?” he repeated mockingly. “Didn’t I say you don’t get to beg?”
You whimpered again, hips twitching back toward him instinctively.
He spat on your pussy—warm and obscene—then licked it up without hesitation, sucking your clit between his lips with a deep groan that vibrated through your spine.
“Look at you,” he muttered, tongue flicking wickedly. “Already about to come and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”
You moaned, eyes rolling back.
“Feel it?” he growled against your cunt, licking long and slow. “That edge? Right there?”
You nodded frantically, tears starting to sting the corners of your eyes.
“Good. Now stay right there.”
Then he stopped.
You screamed—a strangled, broken sob of frustration.
Chan chuckled darkly and rose to his feet behind you. You could feel the heat of his cock against the back of your thigh, hard and heavy.
“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmured, running the head along your dripping folds. “You’ll get to come.”
A pause.
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear.
“But not until I feed.”
He leaned over you slowly—caging your body with his, forearm braced beside your head, the other gripping his cock as he dragged it through your soaked folds again and again. Not entering. Just teasing.
The head nudged your entrance. Slipped up to your clit. Down again. Wet noises filled the space between your ragged breaths.
"Feel that?" he rasped, grinding against your slit, hips rocking just enough to make you ache. "How badly you want me? How wet you got just from my tongue?"
You gasped, squirming under him, wrists still bound behind your back with his silk tie.
"Please," you whimpered.
“Not yet.”
His mouth dipped lower—pressed to the curve of your shoulder, tongue tracing the skin like a map he already knew by heart. He kissed it once. Then again, slower.
And then—fangs.
You tensed, body electric, just as he whispered:
"Mine."
He sank his teeth in.
Deep.
You cried out—part pain, part unbearable pleasure—as heat burst through your entire body. His cock thrust into you at the same time—slow, thick, stretching you open inch by inch as he drank from your shoulder. The rhythm matched—the draw of your blood, the press of his hips—every thrust perfectly timed with every pull from your vein.
It was too much. Too intimate. Too raw.
You keened, back arching, legs trembling.
"You feel that?" he groaned against your skin, licking the blood that trickled from the bite. "This is what you need. My cock. My bite. Nothing else will ever satisfy you again."
He began moving in earnest—fucking you deep and steady, the slap of his hips echoing through the room as your slick coated his cock with every thrust.
He licked your bite clean.
Sealed it with a kiss.
Then his hand curled around your throat and pulled you back against his chest, fucking you from behind with filthy precision. His cock hit so deep, dragging against every sensitive spot that had already been teased raw.
"Look at you,” he growled in your ear. “Taking me so well. Making such a mess.”
You sobbed, drool slipping down your chin, tears lining your lashes.
"Chan—can't—gonna come—"
“No,” he said darkly, slowing just to the edge of cruel. “Not yet.”
He angled his hips.
Hit that spot again.
And again.
His fingers pinched your clit. Once.
You screamed.
"Now," he breathed. "Now you can come."
And your body obeyed. You shattered around him—tight, pulsing, crying out his name as your orgasm crashed through you, white-hot and endless. But Chan’s grip tightened around your waist—and he kept going.
Thrusting.
Hard.
Unrelenting.
Your cunt, still pulsing, still wet and raw, clung to him as he fucked into you like he was chasing something deeper than pleasure—possession. You cried out, your tied wrists flexing behind you.
“Chan—ah—please—!”
He growled behind you, low and dangerous. “That wasn’t enough.”
His pace slammed into you now—each thrust brutal and perfect, his cock dragging against every spot that made your spine melt. The sound of skin slapping skin, your wetness, your sobs—it filled the room like music.
You were incoherent. Wrecked. But your body still begged for more.
He leaned over you again, chest pressed to your back, and this time—this time—his lips went to your neck. The untouched side. The one he hadn’t bitten yet.
“Gonna take more,” he whispered, voice fraying. “Need to feel you.”
And then he bit.
Sharp. Deep. Devouring.
You screamed, the pleasure so sharp it cut straight through your nerves. His cock slammed into you as he fed, synced perfectly with every draw of your blood—each thrust harder than the last, deeper, until you were delirious from it all.
You felt yourself unravel again—another orgasm building too fast.
Your thighs shook, overstimulated. Your moans cracked into sobs.
“Such a good girl,” he growled against your throat, voice thick with your taste. “Bleeding so fucking sweet for me. Coming so tight around my cock.”
You sobbed his name, broken and blissed-out, body on fire.
And he snapped his hips again—deep, grinding into your soaked cunt until you felt the thick stretch of him press so high inside, you swore he touched your soul.
You shattered.
Again.
This time, harder. Your orgasm tore through you, so violent your vision went white. Your body spasmed around him, pussy clenching so hard he groaned, fangs still buried in your skin.
And still… he didn’t stop.
He growled low, deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your skin as his hips slammed into yours, cock thrusting through every pulse of your orgasm, every tight squeeze of your overstimulated cunt. You were shaking—wrecked—but he chased his high like a man possessed.
“Fuck—just like that,” he snarled, mouth full of your blood, voice shredded and animal. “Fucking perfect—so tight, so fucking good—”
Your walls were spasming around him, dripping down your thighs, your pussy fluttering like it was begging for him to fill you.
And Chan—he gave in.
With a final, brutal thrust, he pushed deep—as deep as he could go—his cock pressed against your cervix as his body shuddered against yours. His fangs slid free from your neck, blood smeared down your skin, and he roared your name as he came.
Thick.
Hot.
Endless.
Spilling into you in long, staggering pulses, flooding you with his cum. It filled every clench of your pussy, every slick, swollen fold, leaking around the base of his cock even as he stayed buried inside, grinding in slow, final strokes to make sure it stayed in you.
You gasped, boneless, melting into the sheets beneath him.
He didn’t move. Not for a long moment.
Just held you—cock still buried, cum dripping, his breath ragged against your neck.
“…Mine,” he whispered again, quieter this time. Like a prayer.
Then he kissed the bite mark gently.
Twice.
One for the pain. One for the promise.
You weren’t sure when the tremors stopped. Or if they ever really did.
All you knew was this: you were limp, boneless, your body melted into the sheets with Chan still buried deep inside you—his cock softening slowly, his cum thick and warm where it leaked from your spent cunt.
Your skin was covered in blood, sweat, his mouth, his hands. The bite on your shoulder throbbed. The one on your neck pulsed. And your wrists—still tied behind your back with his silk tie—twitched weakly as you tried to move.
You whimpered.
Immediately—immediately—he responded.
Chan’s breath caught. He pulled out of you carefully, slowly, like withdrawing from something fragile. His hands—no longer demanding—were tender now. Reverent.
“Shh…” he whispered, voice low and raw. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
You felt the weight of his body shift, then his fingers—trembling slightly—began to undo the knot binding your wrists.
“You did so good for me,” he murmured, loosening the fabric. “So fucking perfect.”
The silk slipped free. Your arms fell forward limply, and he caught them in his hands, pressing kisses to your wrists where the skin had reddened.
“I didn’t mean to hold you that tight,” he whispered.
You could barely answer, barely move. But your breath hitched at his voice, at the gentleness of it, and that was enough.
Chan leaned forward, turning you slowly onto your side, then carefully—like lifting something too delicate to breathe on—gathered you into his arms. He sat against the headboard with you in his lap, pressed chest to chest, one arm wrapped securely around your waist while the other cradled your head to his shoulder.
His scent surrounded you again—cedar, wine, and the faintest trace of blood.
“You’re okay,” he whispered again. “I’ve got you.”
His hand slid through your hair, combing it back, and he pressed a long, warm kiss to your forehead.
Sometime later, you felt yourself being lifted again. Carried.
Chan’s arms under your back and knees.
The lights dimmed automatically as he crossed the room into the bathroom. He tapped the marble edge of the tub with his foot, and the bath began to fill—perfect temperature, gentle steam curling into the air like a cocoon.
He set you down carefully on the edge.
You didn’t resist when he peeled off what was left of your lingerie, brushing your skin softly where it stuck with dried sweat or blood. He climbed in behind you, drawing you into the water between his legs, your back to his chest. Warmth surrounded you. So did he.
He reached for a soft cloth and dipped it in the water.
“Let me take care of you.”
He began with your neck.
He cleaned the bite marks with feather-light precision, dabbing away the blood without pressing too hard. Then your shoulders. Your thighs. The inside of your knees. His fingers brushed your folds just once, so gently it made you shiver—but not from arousal. From how safe it felt.
He kissed the back of your shoulder.
“Next time,” he murmured, “you don’t flirt with anyone else.”
You let out a breathless laugh, eyes fluttering closed.
“Noted.”
He chuckled against your skin, arms tightening around you. “I meant every word. You belong to me.”
You turned your head, eyes meeting his. “And you belong to me?”
His gaze softened—but the hunger never left.
“Always.”
He kissed you then—slow, deep, claiming in a new way. Not as the monster who fed from you. But as the one who would never let you go.
The next evening, you found the contract, the same contract you had signed. Folded neatly on the black marble desk in his study, next to a glass of untouched wine and a blood-red fountain pen.
You hadn’t seen it since the night you signed it. Since you bled on the page and gave him everything.
Curious, you reached for it.
You flipped through each clause slowly—Clause 3, Clause 7, Clause 9... and then your eyes landed on one you hadn’t noticed before.
Clause 13: This bond is eternal. Should both parties fulfill the covenant, termination is not permitted.
Your breath caught.
“Covenant?”
You turned—heart thudding—just as Chan appeared behind you, silent and barefoot.
He didn’t look surprised. Not even guilty.
Just satisfied.
“I was wondering when you’d find that,” he murmured, stepping close. “You skipped the fine print.”
Your lips parted. “You said it was a contract—”
He cut you off with a smirk, eyes gleaming dark.
“I lied.”
He reached for your waist, pulled you flush against him. His mouth brushed the shell of your ear as he whispered:
“You didn’t sign a contract, sweetheart.”
His hands slid down your back.
“You signed a covenant.”
Your heart stuttered. “What does that mean?”
His lips found your neck. The spot he hadn’t bitten yet tonight. The one that ached for it now.
“It means you were never going to leave me,” he whispered. “Not after the first feeding. Not after I marked you. Not after I filled you.”
He kissed your pulse once, slow.
“It means you’re not just my blood doll.”
He kissed lower.
“You’re my chosen.”
Lower.
“My mate.”
Then—fangs.
He sank them in slow. Gentle. Not like before. This time… it was intimate. Sacred. Your breath caught as your body melted against his, cunt already throbbing, slick already dripping and making a mess of your panties from the sheer gravity of his presence.
And then—you felt it.
His hand slipped between your legs, beneath the panties, two fingers sliding through your soaked folds like he already knew exactly what you needed. And of course he did.
He fed.
You arched.
And just as he groaned from the taste of you—you came. Shaking, gasping, crying out his name as he held you, bit you, fed from you like you were his first and final meal.
Your body clamped around nothing, but it didn’t matter.
You weren’t cumming for friction.
You were cumming for him.
Because now, it wasn’t just about being claimed.
It was about being kept.
When he pulled back, blood on his lips, eyes wild and reverent, he whispered against your skin:
Synopsis: The shy you meet the charming stranger, Felix, through a dare that leads you both into a whirlwind of a night filled with new, unexpected things. (17,6k words)
Author's note: It’s a late bday fic for Felix. I had soooooo much fun writing the smut in this one and I rarely said that so I hope you had fun too reading it x
Not this—being in a loud, dark club with Rex and her friends, a group of people you barely know, and the alcohol in your glass isn't any less foreign, a poor substitute for your usual chamomile tea.
A typical Friday night for you usually means snuggling on the sofa with your favorite blanket, a book in hand, and a cup of tea.
The music is thumping, the strobing lights flickering incessantly, and the sheer chaos of it all overwhelms your senses. It's overstimulating, like stepping into a world where you don't quite belong.
But here you are, trying to push past your comfort zone for one night, specifically for your best friend, Rex. You make the exception because it's her birthday.
You've known Rex since high school, and to this second, you're still not entirely sure how you two became best friends.
Rex is everything you aren’t—fierce, vibrant, and unapologetically confident—while you are introverted, shy, and awkward. Yet somehow, in that contrast, you found something that clicked. Maybe it's the way she effortlessly pulls you out of your shell or the way she always has your back without needing to say much.
For almost eight years now, this unlikely bond has stood the test of time, bridging the gap between your quiet, dull world and her wild, colorful one.
However, at times, the stark contrast between you and Rex pushes you to the edge. She thrives on excitement, constantly seeking new experiences, while you cling to routine. You like the comfort of predictability—having the same breakfast every day, enjoying the calm of your familiar surroundings. Rex, on the other hand, is always nudging you, sometimes even shoving you, to break free from that comfort zone. She wants you to explore, to live a little, and while you appreciate her intentions, it can feel overwhelming. She never seems to understand that trying new, exciting things isn’t natural for you the way it is for her.
Just like tonight. Rex has convinced everyone to play Never Have I Ever, and it quickly becomes apparent how out of place you are.
Every statement, every confession, is about wild, reckless things—everything you’ve never done. With each round, your glass remains untouched while everyone else takes shots, laughing as they reveal their mischievous pasts.
By the time the group is tipsy and lightheaded from confessing their wild and naughty escapades, you are still as sober as ever, quietly sitting there, feeling even more like a fish out of water.
Rex eventually notices your lack of participation. She puts down her glass and says, “Alright, this is getting boring. Let’s change the game!”
You notice her eyes flicking to you, and you feel your heart sink. “But I’m having fun,” you assure her, forcing an awkward laugh.
Your words are not entirely false. It isn’t like you aren’t having fun—it just isn’t your kind of fun.
Rex smirks, knowing you too well. She can see through your calm façade. “Sure you are. Alright, Never Have I Ever cheated on a test?"
Everyone else laughs, raising their glasses to take a shot, but your glass stays put.
“Guys, you shouldn’t cheat on...” your words trail off as you notice the looks they give you.
“See?” Rex says, turning back to you. “It’s not fun if you’re not participating.”
You scoff, but you can't really argue. It's true. The game isn’t exactly designed for someone like you.
“I’m still having fun,” you insist with a faint smile, but even you can hear how fake that sounds.
Rex lets out a sigh and scoots closer to you. “It’s my birthday, and I want my best friend to have fun on my birthday.”
One of her friends groans, putting her glass down with an exaggerated eye roll. “Whatever, I’m hitting the dance floor.” She slides out of the booth, and the rest follow, leaving you and Rex alone.
Maybe Rex’s birthday has become a bit boring because of you, but you told her before that you would’ve preferred a small gathering at your apartment, maybe just the two of you.
“I’m sorry I’m ruining your birthday,” you mumble, feeling guilty for being a party pooper and aware that it's unfair to her.
However, Rex’s attention has already drifted elsewhere—on someone, to be exact. She turns her head back at you with her eyes twinkling with mischief.
“He’s been checking you out,” she whispers against the loud music.
You snort and shake your head in disbelief, glancing in the direction she subtly nods toward, checking if she's telling the truth.
Across the room, a guy with bleached blond hair and tattooed hands sits casually, dressed in a leather jacket. His fair skin and delicate features are striking, but you can’t help but laugh to yourself. There is no way he is checking you out—not when Rex, your stunning, lively best friend, is sitting right next to you.
Before you can argue, Rex turns your head toward him. Your eyes lock with his instantly, and your heart skips a beat. You tell yourself it's just the loud, thumping music making your chest pound like that. He smiles faintly at you, and you quickly look away, feeling heat rise in your cheeks.
“Okay, new game!” Rex suddenly announces, clapping her hands.
You blink in shock. “Wait, what?”
“Don’t worry, it’s just between you and me,” Rex says with a mischievous grin, taking a second to sip her drink.
You raise an eyebrow, wary of what she has in mind. “Okay...?” you respond nervously.
“Truth or dare,” Rex finally reveals, her eyes gleaming with trouble. “But here’s the twist—there’s no truth.”
“Rex, I don’t—” you begin, but she cuts you off by covering your mouth with her hand.
“It’s my birthday,” she says, her voice low yet commanding. “You’re obliged to do whatever I ask.”
You sigh, nodding reluctantly. Rex removes her hand and holds yours instead, her fingers cool and reassuring despite her devious smile.
“My dear best friend,” she says, that mischievous grin lingering on her red-painted lips, “I dare you to kiss that guy.”
Your eyes follow her finger, and it's pointing at the bleached blond guy with the tattooed hands across the room.
“What? No way!” You blurt out, eyes widening in shock.
“Come on! It’s just a kiss. You can do it," Rex says casually, showing how different the two of you view this dare. She then squeezes your hand and adds, "Besides, he’s been staring at you all night.”
Your heart pounds, not from the music but from the sheer terror of Rex’s dare. Kiss a stranger? In a club? You aren’t Rex—confident and fearless. You’re the girl who barely participated in Never Have I Ever because the wildest thing you’ve ever done is stay up late to study for finals.
“But I… I don’t know him,” you stammer, your palms getting sweaty on your lap.
“That’s the point of the game!" Rex says lightly. "And it’s not like he hasn’t noticed you. He smiled, didn’t he?”
The idea terrifies you, but there is also a small part of you—buried deep under all the shyness and caution—that is curious. What if you step out of your comfort zone for once? What if you do something wild, something you’d never do on your own?
As if she hears your thoughts, Rex leans closer and softly says, “You’ve spent your whole life playing it safe. It’s just one kiss. What’s the worst that could happen?”
You glance back toward the guy. He’s still sitting there, calm and collected, his long bleached-blonde hair falling effortlessly around his face. He hasn’t looked away since your brief, flustered glance earlier. Instead, he seems… unfazed, but there’s something curious in his eyes, like he’s still watching, waiting.
“I can’t,” you mutter again, shaking your head, feeling that familiar wave of discomfort rise in your chest.
Rex leans in closer, holding your hand gently. “Look, I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. I just want you to have fun for once, not think about everything so much. You trust me, right?”
Of course you trust her. Rex has been by your side for eight years, through thick and thin. As wild as she is, she always has your back, no matter what.
The logical part of your brain screams at you to refuse, to stay in your lane. But there’s another voice, quieter but growing louder with each passing second, telling you to just do it, to be bold, even if just for one night.
You inhale deeply, your hand still in hers, and with a shaky voice, you say, “Fine. But if I make a fool of myself, I'll kill you and leave your body in a ditch.”
Rex bursts out laughing, not finding your words threatening at all. “Deal! Now go get him, tiger!” she says, giving you a playful slap on the butt.
“I can’t believe I’m about to do this,” you mutter under your breath, standing up on legs already turning to jelly.
You look over your shoulder and find Rex grinning, clearly delighted. As encouragement, she gives you a nudge in the guy's direction.
As you walk toward him, each step feels surreal, heavier than the last. It doesn’t take long before the guy notices you, and to your surprise, his faint smile grows.
When you finally stop in front of him, you don’t know what to say. Your throat tightens, and for a moment, you regret even considering the dare. But despite everything, you hear your own voice ask, “Do you mind if I kiss you?”
There's no turning back now, and it’s not like he's the type to say no, not with the way he's looking at you—intrigued. And despite the panic in your chest, there’s something thrilling about the way he watches you.
He looks at you with a mix of surprise and amusement, then his smile turns soft. “How could I say no to that?” he says, his voice surprisingly low and deep.
Not giving yourself time to overthink, you close the gap between you and him, leaning in as he does the same until your lips and his meet in the middle.
The kiss isn’t wild or reckless like you imagined it would be. It’s gentle, slow, and—much to your surprise—perfectly in tune with the moment. It feels like the first time you’ve ever kissed anyone, full of nerves, fluttering excitement, and the kind of tenderness you hadn’t expected from a stranger.
When you pull back, your hand flies to your lips, barely believing you’ve just done that. Your heart is still racing, but this time, it isn’t just from fear. You feel the thrill and rush of stepping out of your comfort zone, and you think... maybe you can push yourself a little more, just a little bit.
Absentmindedly, you open your mouth and ask, “Do you want to get out of here?”
-
It's a typical Friday night for Felix—hanging at the club with his friends, having a few drinks, casually watching the scene. The same kind of night he's had countless times. His eyes wander across the room, drifting from one group of people to another, and then… he sees you.
You're completely out of place, dressed in something someone would wear to church on Sunday, your glasses slightly sliding down your nose, sitting with your hands clasped tightly in your lap. The glass you're holding? He's pretty sure it's just an accessory for your idle hand. Then he observes the people you're with—they're clearly here to let loose and have fun, his usual type—the kind of girls who are bold and uninhibited. But you? You're different, and that’s what intrigues him.
Felix isn’t being judgmental. He knows everyone needs to blow off some steam once in a while, but there's something about seeing you in this environment that captivates him. You don’t belong here, not really, and yet here you are. The juxtaposition of your quiet presence amidst the chaos of the club fascinates him. He finds himself watching you without meaning to, drawn to how out of place you are.
Then, your eyes meet. You look right at him from across the room, and he doesn't look away. He holds your gaze, wondering if you’ll hold it too, but you drop your eyes almost immediately.
The shyness in that simple act is oddly cute because most girls he meets in places like this are bold, forward. They don't shy away from eye contact, but you? There is something sweet in your hesitance.
The second time you glance over, Felix notices a change. You're a little braver, and this time, you don’t just look—you stand up. Your steps are hesitant but purposeful as you cross the room, and before he can think too much about it, you're right in front of him.
“Do you mind if I kissed you?” you ask, your voice soft, small yet determined.
Felix raises an eyebrow, surprised but amused. He can’t help but smile at the way you asked for permission. Most girls don’t ask—they just do. But your politeness, your shyness, the way you're so out of place in this club yet standing in front of him, asking so sweetly—it's irresistible.
He looks at you, his smile widening. “How could I say no to that?”
A kiss has always just been a kiss for Felix—a simple way to satisfy some biological need, with no deeper meaning behind it. But this? This kiss doesn’t feel like that.
The kiss takes him back to something he hasn’t felt in years—the thrill of a first kiss. The kind that's innocent, pure, and full of nervous excitement. He can’t remember the last time he had a kiss that made him feel like this—something chaste but electrifying all at once.
As you pull away, Felix almost groans in protest. He wants more, needs more of that flutter, that spark. His lips tingle, and he can tell yours do too, as your hand flies up to your mouth as if you can’t believe what just happened.
"Do you want to get out of here?" you ask, your voice shy, but with a daring edge that Felix hadn’t expected.
Your charm is something else—shy and demure one moment, then bold and forward the next, endlessly fascinating him. There's just something about you that makes this feel less like a random encounter and more like something worth exploring.
Consider his curiosity piqued, eager to see where this unlikely encounter will take him next. He meets your gaze, a playful smile tugging at his lips, then he says, "Lead the way!"
You turn, feeling the heat of his presence close behind you as you make your way through the packed club. The noise slowly recedes, replaced by a focused, almost intimate atmosphere between you.
As you reach the exit, Felix places a hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd. Once outside, the cool night air hits you, a refreshing contrast to the club’s stuffy heat.
Felix glances at you, his smile still in place, and asks, “So, what’s the plan?”
-
To be honest, you have no idea why you asked him out. You acted spontaneously, which is unlike you, but you know what you want. You crave the thrill and the excitement, and ultimately, more of that explosive kiss.
Without thinking, you reach for Felix’s arm, pulling him toward the dimly lit alley next to the club. The urgency between you both is palpable, the energy from that brief kiss still simmering just beneath the surface.
As soon as you're out of sight from the street, Felix pins you against a stack of old crates filled with empty beer bottles. His hands find your waist and pull you close. Your lips collide again, this time more passionate, more intense. Your heart is beating out of your chest as your fingers tangle in his long hair.
In the intensity of the moment, you lean back slightly, misjudging the proximity of the crate. Your head strikes the edge with a sharp thud, and the sudden pain makes you wince.
You gasp and accidentally break the kiss for a second, but you decide to laugh it off—you don’t want to ruin the moment.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice tinted with concern.
“I’m fine," you say, half-laughing.
Felix smiles, though concern fills his eyes as he leans in close. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m okay, I’m—” you begin to blabber, wanting to resume the heated moment by leaning in for another kiss, but you immediately stop when you notice the shift in his expression.
His hand reaches up to the side of your head, and that’s when you feel it too—the warm, sticky sensation spreading through your hair. Then, he shows you his fingers, coated with your blood.
“I don’t think you're okay,” he mutters, his voice suddenly serious. “You’re bleeding.”
You can feel the adrenaline and embarrassment mingling as the pain begins to set in.
Felix gently touches your shoulder, trying to comfort you as he guides you away from the alley. “We need to get this checked out. We need to go to the hospital.”
Oh, no! This was supposed to be your night of finally breaking out of your shell, not a night where you make a fool of yourself in front of a hot guy.
“It’s not a big deal. I don’t need to go to the hospital,” you insist, trying to brush off the situation.
He shakes his head firmly, but his hand remains gentle on the small of your back. “We’re getting this checked out. You can’t just ignore it.”
Without taking any of your excuses, Felix hails a taxi until one stops and pulls to the side of the road. He helps you get in, and on the ride to the nearest hospital, he checks on you every once in a while, asking if you're okay. His tatted hands and rough exterior are such a contrast to his gentle, attentive demeanor.
That only makes you hate how the night has taken a turn. The two of you could have done more than just kiss by now if it weren’t for you bumping your head on a stupid crate.
“Come back if you feel dizzy, nauseous, or if there’s a ringing in your ears,” the doctor says as she takes off her latex gloves, leaving the nurse to finish the rest.
Despite the night’s earlier excitement, you feel a tinge of embarrassment about the whole incident. You're thinking of faking a concussion just to stay the night in the emergency room, but you're aware that would only make him worry more about you.
Guess there's no other option but to push your way through this humiliation.
As you step out of the emergency room, you see him standing against the wall, looking impossibly cool in his rough leather jacket. With his striking features, he could’ve been doing a photo shoot for a magazine.
“Hi,” you nervously greet him.
The adrenaline has drained from your body, leaving you feeling deflated. It's like the girl who kissed a stranger in a dark alley has vanished, replaced by your usual shy, awkward self—plus, you now have a bandage on your forehead.
The magic of the night has faded, and you wouldn't blame Felix if he decided to leave now that he’s met the real you. He glances up from his phone, a soft smile stretching across his lips.
“Hey. You okay?” he asks, putting his phone back into the pocket of his leather jacket.
“Three stitches, no concussion,” you say, trying to sound casual.
“Oh, that’s a relief,” Felix sighs, visibly relaxing.
“You know, you don’t have to wait for me. I can deal with this myself,” you say, feeling a little guilty. He’s already done enough by helping you get to the hospital.
“I can’t do that,” Felix says, his voice steady.
“Why not?” you ask, genuinely curious.
“I can’t just leave when you’re hurt,” he answers simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
That's such an unexpected answer from an unexpected man. He barely knows you, yet here he is, waiting outside an emergency room just to make sure you're okay. That thought warms you—but then it hits you: you don’t even know his name.
“Unless I’m actually concussed… do I know your name?” you ask with a shy laugh. “Or did we skip introductions?”
Felix chuckles, holding out his hand to you. “Felix,” he says, his deep voice sending a pleasant shiver through you.
You take his hand, offering your name in return. “Nice to meet you, Felix.”
It's about to get awkward from here, you can feel it. The momentum of the night has stalled, and now you aren’t sure what to say or do. You like him, but it feels like the window to continue this spontaneous night has closed. Maybe it’s better to retreat.
“I’d better head home,” you mutter in defeat, but deep down, you hope the end of the night won’t feel as anticlimactic as it seems.
To your surprise, Felix straightens up from the wall and turns toward the exit. With a warm and genuine smile, he offers, “Let me take you home.”
-
As Felix stands outside the emergency room, leaning against the wall, he notices you stepping out, looking more like yourself again—shy, awkward, but also kind of endearing. He can see the hint of embarrassment in your eyes, like you're expecting him to vanish now that things aren't as wild as they were earlier. But you have no idea he isn’t that kind of guy, not when it comes to this.
You walk over, your voice soft and uncertain as you greet him, “Hi.”
“Hey. You’re okay?” he puts on a smile, relieved that you're okay.
“Three stitches, no concussion,” you answer, trying to play it down.
“That’s a relief,” he sighs.
Honestly, if anything worse had happened to you, he would’ve felt responsible, and he can’t live with that. Sure, his appearance might have given off the wrong vibe, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. You need help, so he helps you.
“You know, you don’t even have to wait for me. I can just deal with it myself," you awkwardly clasp your hands in front of you and keep avoiding his eyes as you speak.
“I can’t do that,” he says; there’s no way he leaves you alone after everything.
“Why not?” you ask, genuinely confused.
Felix doesn’t really have an answer to that, so he slowly shrugs and says, “I can’t just leave when you’re hurt.”
You give him this look, like you're trying to figure him out. He guesses you don't expect him to care, but he does, and that is that.
A moment passes in silence, and you shift awkwardly in front of him. “Unless I’m actually concussed... do I know your name, or did we skip the introduction?”
It only hits him now that you both indeed haven't introduced each other. He chuckles and holds out his hand. “Felix.”
You take it, and your hand feels warm and delicate in his. “Nice to meet you, Felix.”
You seem like you're about to wrap up the night, but he can see it in the way you're fidgeting, like you're ready to go but also unsure about how to end things.
“I’d better head home,” you mutter, your voice almost apologetic.
But Felix isn’t ready to end the night, and he can tell you don’t want to, either—you just don’t have the nerve to ask. And honestly, he doesn’t want the moment to slip away, so he decides to give you an out.
“Let me take you home,” he offers, and when your eyes meet his, he can see the relief flicker across your face.
When the taxi pulls up outside your apartment building, he watches you try to act cool, but he can tell you’re hesitating. You don’t want the night to end any more than he does, but you aren’t going to say it.
Felix has been with enough people to know when someone is too shy to speak up, and you are definitely in that space. He leans in slightly and asks, “Do you mind if I come in for a bit? I’m afraid I need to use your bathroom.”
Your face lights up with a smile you can’t hide, and he has to hold back a grin of his own.
“I don’t mind at all," you say, trying so hard to conceal the excitement in your voice.
The two of you head inside. You lead the way to your apartment, climbing the stairs, giving him a view of your back as the hem of your dress sways while you walk until you reach the fourth floor.
Thank God for that! If you climbed another flight of stairs, he would have followed his intrusive thoughts and dropped to his knees to peek under your skirt to see what kind of underwear you’re wearing.
Felix bets it's white, cotton, probably with cute floral prints. He shakes the thought away when you abruptly stop walking as you arrive at the front door of your apartment.
Once you unlock the door, you open it and step aside to let Felix in. He flashes you a smile as he steps in the small yet cozy apartment. He glances around and sees the pictures on the wall, mostly of you and a tall girl with curly brown hair. He remembers her as one of the girls you’ve been with at the club.
“The bathroom is that way,” you tell him, and Felix makes his way down the hall.
Once inside, he wastes a bit of time washing his hands, fixing his hair, checking the hair products, all the while giving you a moment to settle.
When he comes out, you’re in the kitchen, your hair now tied back into a low bun, exposing your neck and the soft tendrils of hair on the nape of your neck. You look… different, but still really cute.
“Would you like a drink?” you ask, sauntering your way to the fridge.
“Anything cold would be nice,” he answers.
You take two cans of soda out of the fridge, bringing them with you to the living room and sitting on the small sofa.
“Sit down, please,” you say, permitting him to sit in the space next to you since there’s no other place to sit.
“This is a nice apartment,” he comments, his eyes glancing around while his hand works the tab on his soda can.
“Thanks,” you mutter with a smile, holding the can of soda in both hands. It has been opened, but you're not drinking it.
"I can safely assume you live with a roommate?" he asks, then takes a gulp of his soda, which instantly refreshes him.
"Yes," you answer. "Rex, she’s one of the girls... back in the club," you awkwardly explain, confirming that he's right—she's the same girl from the club.
"Is it short for Tyrannosaurus—" he pauses for dramatic effect, "—Rex?"
You let out a chuckle and push your glasses up your nose. "Her real name is Rebecca, but she insisted on being called Rex because it's..."
"Sounds cooler?" he easily guesses.
"Yeah," you nod in confirmation, "and it's her birthday today, so..."
"That's why you were at the club?" he asks, slowly getting his curiosity answered.
"I think it's obvious that I wasn't there because of my own volition," you openly admit.
Felix can see it now—the way you seemed out of place back at the club. It isn’t your scene, and it makes sense now that you explained it is Rex’s thing. He hesitates, feeling a question burning in his mind, one that he needs an answer to, regardless of what it might reveal.
"And the kiss?"
-
Oh, no! Not this again.
Please don't say that Felix is actually interested in Rex and that he was checking her out instead of you. This wouldn't be your first time, but what a pity! What a pity it would be if that turned out to be true.
Until Felix asked about the kiss and whether it was Rex’s idea or not.
Your throat tightens, but you know you have to be honest. “Rex dared me to do it,” you admit, your words tumbling out faster than you wanted.
He nods, but you can see a flash of disappointment in his eyes—brief but noticeable. Before he can respond, you rush to explain the rest of the truth.
“But the one we shared in the alley? That was me. I wanted that,” you add.
Felix gives you the chance to explain more, so you continue, determined to make him understand. You put your can of soda on the table and inhale before speaking.
“Earlier, during this game Rex and her friends played, they were talking about all these wild things they’d done, and I just sat there... realizing how much I’ve missed out on.” You pause to let out a sigh as the weight of your confession settles between you. “I’ve spent so much time focused on studying, hitting all my academic goals, that I never gave myself the chance to live. And I don’t want to wake up one day full of regret for not taking chances.”
You look up from your lap at him—not necessarily meeting his eyes, or else you'll be a nervous wreck. “So tonight, I decided to push myself for once. The kiss might’ve started as a dare, but when I pulled you into that alley… that was real. For the first time in my life, I felt so alive.”
Felix remains quiet for a moment, his eyes searching yours, taking in every word. You can feel his hesitation, though—a cautious distance. His concern isn’t just about your head injury; it's something more.
“You don’t have to do all that just because your friends have done it,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “You do it when you’re ready.”
His words hit home, and you feel a wave of realization. The thrill and the pressure you’ve felt earlier are starting to clash with a deeper understanding of what you really want.
You may be naïve and know little about this intimate stuff, but you're also the one who knows you best, and you know what you want—you want this.
“I’m doing this for me. I want it. I'm ready," you unequivocally say, full of conviction.
Felix’s expression softens, but doubts linger in his eyes. “I think you know what kind of guy I am. I don’t do relationships. I… casually date. I’m not a good guy.”
You can’t help but smile at that, shaking your head in disagreement at his last statement. “You insisted on taking me to the hospital, waited until I got treated, and then made sure I got home safely. If that’s not a good guy, I don’t know what is,” you lay out all the facts on why he isn't what he says he is.
He sighs, clearly conflicted, running his hand through his long, bleached hair. “I’m just not sure if you really want to do this… with me.”
“I want to do this with you," you say without the slightest doubt.
There's a reason why he's here when he had his chances to walk out of this situation. He could have ditched you back there in the club, in the dark alley, or at the hospital. He could have gotten into that taxi and gone home, but instead, he chose to come in here.
Felix is quiet again, his eyes locked on yours as he considers what you said. Then, after what feels like an eternity, he lets out a sigh, letting the last bit of hesitation slip away from him.
"We should go to your bedroom," he says, his voice low but confident.
The excitement flares up in your chest, your heart racing as you rise from the sofa. This is it. The feeling you’ve been chasing all night—the sense of truly living, of stepping out of your comfort zone. You lead him to your bedroom, each step heavy with anticipation.
When you open the door to your bedroom, you pause for a moment, suddenly feeling vulnerable. It’s strange—no one ever warns you how personal it feels to show someone your bedroom. It’s not just a room; it’s a reflection of you, of your habits, your life. You close the door behind you, your breath catching as Felix steps in and takes a quick look around.
He glances over the shelves, where countless books are crammed into every available space. A small smile tugs at his lips, a look of slight amusement crossing his face as he takes it all in. It’s like he doesn’t expect this—your quiet, introverted world clashing with the chaotic energy of the night.
But then his eyes land back on you, and your pulse quickens. You’re alone now, really alone, in the privacy of your bedroom, and the reality of it all settles over you. You can feel the weight of the moment, not knowing how to begin but wanting to. You step closer to him, hoping he’ll take the lead.
Felix sits down on the edge of your bed, his eyes still on you. He pats the space beside him, an invitation, and you sit down next to him, nerves tingling under your skin.
"You have a very interesting room," he says with a playful smile, but there’s no mockery in his tone—only genuine surprise.
You shyly chuckle, your hands fidgeting in your lap. "Yeah, I’m… very aware."
He turns to you, his gaze softening. He’s studying you, taking you in, and when he looks into your eyes, you feel like he’s seeing something deeper. Then, as if realizing something, his brow furrows slightly.
“Can I take them off?" he asks, nodding toward your glasses. "Will you still be able to see without them?”
“I’m nearsighted, so yeah,” you confirm, your hand halfway to your face to take them off, but Felix gets ahead, gently removing them for you. Then he places them carefully on your bedside table.
The world around you becomes a soft blur, but Felix… Felix is in perfect focus. He’s all you can see. His delicate features stand out, his warm brown eyes locking onto yours, his freckles like tiny constellations dusting his cheeks and nose. It’s like he’s become the center of your universe, and nothing else matters in that moment.
You get a little overwhelmed as you take him in—his beauty so striking, so close, making your heart beat out of your chest. You wonder if he can hear it too.
"Can I take your hair down?" Felix asks, his voice soft but deliberate.
Unable to provide a verbal answer, you nod. His hand is quick to reach behind your head, releasing your hair from the tie, and you feel an unexpected wave of relaxation wash over you, like the tension you’d been carrying all night had been held there, in your hair.
Felix’s fingers move through the strands gently, combing through them, letting the ends slip through his fingers. The tattoos on his hand catch your attention, and as his sleeve rides up, you notice even more ink snaking up his arm.
"How many tattoos do you have?" you ask, unable to hide your curiosity.
"I stopped counting a long time ago," Felix chuckles, a lightness in his voice that makes you smile.
He notices your lingering gaze on his tattoos, and without hesitation, he starts unbuttoning the cuff of his shirt. He lets the fabric fall back, giving you a clearer view of the designs that cover his skin. The sight of his muscles beneath the inked patterns, the veins trailing down his arm, captivates you.
"Is it okay if I touch you?" you ask, your voice quiet, unsure if it’s too bold.
"You can touch me," he says with an encouraging smile, "anywhere."
The last word unexpectedly provokes you; it was just a word until Felix gives it a new meaning now, and it's been echoing in the back of your mind in his deep, low voice. Anywhere.
With a tentative hand, you reach out, slowly rolling his sleeve up higher. The tattoos become more detailed—the lines and shading intricate—but what holds your attention is the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. The combination of the ink and the physicality of him makes you feel a strange sense of intimacy. Afraid that you're overstepping, you let the sleeve fall back and flash him a smile of gratitude.
“You know this will be easier if you sit closer,” Felix says, his tone suggestive but gentle.
You shift closer, trying to keep your breath steady. The space between you shrinks, but the heat from his body seems to rise, making your heart race.
"Closer," Felix murmurs, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
You move another inch.
"More," he says, his voice a bit firmer this time.
You scoot a little more until finally, there’s no space left between you. Your body is pressed against his, and the warmth from him feels overwhelming, your skin tingling from the proximity.
"I think you should put your hand around my neck," Felix suggests, his voice a low rumble.
"Are you sure?" you ask, still worried about overstepping.
"Of course," he reassures you, guiding your hand up to his shoulder.
From there, you let it drift to the back of his neck, feeling the strong line of muscle beneath your palm.
The two of you are incredibly close; you can feel his breath brushing against your cheek. As if the proximity isn't enough, his hand cups your jaw, his thumb softly rubbing your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine.
It doesn't take a genius to know what comes next; you can feel it coming as the tension intensifies with each passing second.
"I'm not a good kisser," you blurt out, your insecurities successfully breaking through the haze of the moment.
"You did just fine earlier," he says, watching as his thumb swipes across your lower lip.
You try to argue, but before you can say another word, Felix presses a soft kiss to your cheek, leaving a searing warmth behind.
"Stop thinking and just..." he trails off, kissing just beneath your eye, sending a shock of sensation through you, "… do it."
Before you can process his words, his lips find yours. The kiss is electric and powerful, wiping away every doubt and insecurity. The world narrows down to the feeling of his mouth on yours, the sound of your breath mingling in the quiet of your bedroom.
Felix pulls away just enough for you to catch your breath, his hand moving to brush your hair to the side. He does it carefully to avoid accidentally touching the bandaged wound on your forehead.
"Now," he says, voice deep with desire, "we’re going to put in a little tongue."
Dazed and a little disoriented from the kiss, you nod, your brain unable to compute a word.
He kisses you again, this time slower, more deliberate, teasing you with his tongue as it slides across your lips. It’s sensual and intimate, and when you let him in, the kiss deepens, and you try your best to move in sync with him.
When Felix pulls away, he’s grinning, looking impressed. "See? You’re a natural."
Flustered, you look down, but he isn’t having it. He wants your eyes, your full attention on him, so he puts his hand under your chin, gently angling your face back toward his.
Not giving you a moment to think, he plants a kiss on your lips again—gently, but there’s intensity to it, a sense of hunger that needs to be satisfied.
At the same time, his other hand travels down to your back, tracing down your spine before he withdraws it back to your front, reaching for the button of your dress.
You've been handling it well so far, but when he touches you there, it triggers the alarm bells in your head. You try to convince yourself that it's okay; you trust Felix, and he's not going to harm you, but your body abruptly freezes, and you stiffen against him.
Felix notices immediately and takes his hands off of you, concern painted on his small face.
"Did I do something wrong?" he asks softly, not wanting to alarm you further.
First, it was Rex’s birthday party, and not long after that, you did it again by bumping your head during a makeout session in the dark alley, and now this. You sigh and look down at your lap, wondering why you keep sabotaging your life like this.
"I’m sorry, I just... I–I wasn’t ready for that," you meekly say, looking down at your lap, feeling embarrassed.
"That’s okay," he says with a soothing voice. "I’d rather you tell me when you’re uncomfortable."
Anyone else might have been annoyed or disappointed, but Felix—he’s patient, gentle, and very understanding. You feel a rush of gratitude for him.
"Okay," you murmur, nodding.
"Or you can just slap me next time," he jokes, trying to lighten the mood.
Slapping his face would feel like vandalizing the Mona Lisa, so you shake your head in strong disagreement while softly laughing, "No. I wouldn’t do that."
Thanks to you freaking out without reason, you have to start all over again, and you can only hope that Felix has some patience left for you.
You watch as he glances toward your bedside table, eyeing the small stack of books. "Are these the ones you’re reading?"
"Yeah," you reply, your smile returning.
"You’re telling me you’re reading five books at once?" he asks. His tattooed fingers trail along the spines as he reads the titles under his breath.
"Three are for school," you say, chuckling, "but the other two are for fun."
"Oh, so you do know how to have fun," he teases you with a charming smile that makes his eyes lively.
You know he's trying to lighten the mood, and you feel thankful that he indeed still has some patience left in him.
Felix picks up the smallest one from the top of the stack and flips through the pages. "Poetry," he remarks.
"Yeah," you nod, feeling a bit shy.
He looks at you with something new in his eyes. "Would you read me one?"
"A poem?" you stammer.
"No, the index page," he teases you yet again.
You laugh, feeling a bit silly for asking, and then take the book from him. You open it, easily finding the page you marked as your favorite poem.
"Okay... I’ll try," you say as you clear your throat.
Your fingers nervously brush the edges of the page, eyes glancing at the words, but you’re aware of Felix’s gaze on you. His presence is overwhelming—his closeness, the subtle intensity in his expression.
Despite everything, you begin reading, your voice low and a little shaky.
"Somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which I cannot touch because they are too near."
Felix leans in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. His hand moves to the back of your neck, brushing the loose strands of your hair away.
You pause, feeling the pressure of his nearness, but he nudges you gently.
"Keep reading," he whispers against your skin, the warmth of his voice sending a shiver down your spine.
You swallow, forcing yourself to focus. Your voice is a little shaky as you continue.
"Your slightest look easily will unclose me though I have closed myself as fingers; you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens—"
Felix’s lips press softly against the corner of your mouth just as your voice falters. You draw in a breath, trying to steady yourself, but his kiss lingers, feather-light and teasing.
You glance at him, the lines of the poem slipping from your mind.
"Go on," he murmurs, his mouth now brushing your jawline. His hand slips to your waist, holding you in place as if keeping you tethered to the moment.
"I... I—" you stammer, your focus crumbling under his touch, his lips trailing a path down to your neck. You grip the book tighter, trying to maintain the thread of the poem, your voice coming out as a breathy whisper: "you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose—"
Felix presses another kiss just below your ear, making your breath hitch. He’s being gentle but deliberate, his lips grazing your skin with an intention that makes it almost impossible to concentrate.
Your heart bursts, the words on the page becoming blurry. "Felix..." you murmur, caught between the poem and the sensation of his kisses.
"Don’t stop," he whispers again, this time against the curve of your neck, sending a rush of warmth through you. "I want to hear the rest."
Your voice quivers as you try to continue, the lines of the poem mixing with the feeling of his lips.
"Or if your wish be to close me, I and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending—"
His kisses grow slower, more languid, as if savoring every inch of your skin. Each one draws you further away from the poem, your pulse quickening under his touch. He pulls back just slightly, and his eyes meet yours, his gaze heavy with desire, but still, he urges you on.
"Finish it," he says softly, his thumb tracing your lower lip as he holds your gaze.
You exhale shakily, barely able to focus anymore, but you try.
"Nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility..."
Before you can finish the last line, Felix’s lips capture yours, cutting off the rest of the poem. His kiss is deeper this time, not asking for permission but claiming the moment as his own. The book slips from your hand, forgotten, as you lean into him, your breath mingling with his.
The poetry becomes a distant memory as his kisses consume you, every touch drawing you further into him. And for the first time, you don’t feel the need to pull back or hesitate. You melt into the moment, into him, as the poem fades into the background, replaced by the quiet intensity of Felix’s lips on yours.
The poem may be incomplete, but the moment is whole.
-
Felix watches as you fumble with the edges of the poetry book, your nervousness plain in the way your fingers tremble. He can sense how hard you’re trying to focus, trying to find your voice in the moment.
There’s a certain charm in how unsure you are, the way your eyes keep darting up to him, like you’re looking for some kind of permission. But he knows you don’t need it. You want this—he can feel it in the air between you.
When you finally start to read, your voice is soft, hesitant.
“Somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence...”
Felix can barely concentrate on the words. It’s your voice—that shaky, uncertain quality—that pulls him in, and you’re so close. He leans in, pressing the warmth of his lips against your cheek, testing, teasing. He feels the way you stiffen, your breath catching. He doesn’t want to overwhelm you, but the urge to touch you, to close that gap, is too strong.
"Keep reading," he murmurs, his lips brushing your skin, barely above a whisper. He feels your pulse quicken beneath his touch.
You take a deep breath and continue, your voice even softer now, trying to hold it together.
"Your slightest look easily will unclose me though I have closed myself as fingers..."
As your voice trails off again, Felix can't resist. His lips graze the corner of your mouth, light and fleeting. He watches your eyes flutter, sees the way you're barely hanging onto the thread of the poem, and it makes him smile inwardly. He pulls back just enough to see the heat in your cheeks, the uncertainty fighting with desire in your eyes.
"Go on," he urges, this time pressing his lips to the soft skin just beneath your jawline. His hand slips to your waist, fingers curling lightly around you, holding you steady, grounding you as he teases.
"I–I..." Your voice falters completely as his lips trail lower, brushing the sensitive spot near your neck.
He loves the way you stammer, the way your breath comes in shallow gasps.
"You open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens—"
Felix hears your voice waver again, and he chuckles softly against your neck. He knows exactly what he’s doing. The poem doesn’t stand a chance against his kisses, but he likes this game, this slow unraveling of your composure.
"Felix..." you murmur, barely able to hold onto the words.
He pulls back just enough to speak, his breath warm against your ear. "Don’t stop." His voice is low, coaxing, as he brushes another kiss just below your ear. "I want to hear the rest."
You try—he can see you trying—but the way you tremble beneath his touch makes it almost impossible for you to concentrate. He watches you struggle, a mix of amusement and desire in his gaze as you fight to continue.
"...Or if your wish be to close me, I and my life will shut very beautifully..."
Felix’s lips move slowly across your skin, savoring every inch. He can feel the tension in you, the way you’re holding onto control by a thread. But then, something shifts. He presses one last kiss to your neck, soft and lingering, and watches as your resolve crumbles. The book slips from your hands, your breath hitching in your chest.
“Finish it,” Felix whispers, his thumb grazing your lower lip. He can see the words have all but left you, but he waits, eyes fixed on your trembling lips.
"...The power of your intense fragility..."
Before you can finish the line, Felix presses his lips to yours. The words are lost as he kisses you, claiming the moment. There’s no hesitation in the way your body responds, melting into him as if you’ve been waiting for this all night. The book falls from your hands, forgotten, as his hands move to pull you closer.
He feels the way you surrender to the kiss, how every bit of uncertainty you held before dissolves. His kiss deepens, slow but deliberate, until he pulls back just enough to look at you, lips still close, your breaths mingling.
Felix takes a quick check to see if you're comfortable enough to continue, his thumb brushing across your cheek as he leans his forehead against yours. He can feel the way you’re still caught in the moment, still wanting more.
His hand slides down to your shoulder, tracing the curve of your spine. He brushes your hair to the side, kissing you again—slower this time, deeper. The way you respond, your lips meeting his with growing confidence, only pulls him in more.
Felix takes your hand and gently places it on his chest. He feels the way your hand stays immobile for a moment, but then it starts to move, roaming curiously over his body. Your touch is tentative but warm, and soon enough, your fingers tug at the opening of his shirt, revealing a peek of inked skin underneath. Felix notices the way your curiosity lights up your face. “Do you want to see the rest of my tattoos?”
You hesitate, biting your lip as you think about it, unsure if you should say yes. To avoid letting him hear how eager you are, you nod instead.
“But you have to help me with the buttons,” he says, glancing down at his shirt.
It’s a subtle invitation, but the way he says it makes you feel like you’re in control. You start undoing the buttons, one by one, your fingers working carefully, as if each button is a gateway to something unknown. When you finish, you stop, leaving the fabric still draped across his chest. There’s a moment of hesitation, as if parting the shirt will reveal something too intimate, something more than just skin.
Felix senses your nerves, so he does the rest; he shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, revealing the ink that covers his chest and arms. Normally, he’s confident about his body, but under your gaze, he feels a flicker of vulnerability. You’re studying him, and he can feel the weight of it, like you’re looking past the surface.
“It’s all over you,” you mutter in awe.
One, in particular, seems to draw your attention—the dragon on his ribcage. Felix notices the way your hand lingers there, eyes fixed on the intricate design. He smiles softly, taking your hand and pressing it gently against the dragon.
“Here... feel it,” he says, guiding your touch.
Your fingers trace the lines of the tattoo, feather-light and full of wonder. Every slight graze of your fingertips sends a rush through him, and the way you’re touching him so delicately is like you’re trying to memorize the feel of each tattoo.
“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice soft but laced with curiosity.
“I had no idea I liked tattoos until now,” you innocently answer.
There's something so honest in your words, and Felix can’t help but smile, feeling the tension between you shift into something deeper, more intimate. He watches you as your fingers continue to explore, and for the first time in a long while, he feels a kind of peace in this closeness, like it’s more than just physical. There’s something in the way you touch him, like you’re seeing him for the first time—not just his body, but all the stories inked into his skin.
Then you take your hand back and fidget in your seat. You open your mouth, but no words come out. After a while, you ask, “Should I undress?”
“Only if you want to,” he says, not wanting to pressure you and also trying to make it clear that this is on your terms.
With a shy nod, you start moving, fingers flying to the buttons of your dress, fumbling a little in your nervousness. Felix notices and, sensing your discomfort, turns his head away, giving you the privacy you need. He helps by dimming the lights on your bedside lamp, knowing that a girl like you prefers the softer glow to ease the tension. Now, the room is bathed in a quiet, warm light, making everything feel more intimate, more comfortable.
“Do you need help?” he offers after a moment, his back still to you.
“I’m done anyway,” you respond, your voice softer now.
Felix hears the faint sound of your dress hitting the floor, and he inhales, preparing himself for what he's going to see. He turns his head slowly, careful not to look directly at you until he’s sure you’re comfortable. His eyes first meet yours, searching for any sign that you’re nervous, that you want him to stop, but you hold his gaze, and that’s all the permission he needs. His eyes travel down, finally taking in the sight of you.
The first thing that catches his attention is the unexpected—the matching silk and lace set you’re wearing, soft and delicate against your skin. It’s a contrast to the image he had in mind, and it takes his breath away. The colors, the fabric—it all highlights your natural beauty in a way that almost overwhelms him.
Beautiful. That’s the only word that comes to mind, but even that feels like it doesn’t do you justice. You’re beyond that. You’re captivating in a way that makes him hesitant to even touch you, as if the act itself would somehow break the spell between you.
“I want to touch you,” he admits, his voice trembling with restraint, overwhelmed by how much he desires you but not wanting to rush.
“Okay,” you say, so simply, so openly.
-
The intimacy of the moment is overwhelming. Felix is sitting there, shirtless, and the way he’s looking at you makes your skin tingle. The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken questions.
After a while, you finally manage to speak. “Should I undress?”
Felix’s gaze is soft, his voice gentle when he responds, “Only if you want to.”
His words reassure you, but still, your hands tremble as you reach for the buttons on your dress. You fumble with them, nervous fingers struggling to move faster. Felix, sensing your discomfort, turns away, giving you a moment to compose yourself. It’s a small gesture, but it makes you feel better, like he understands without needing to be told.
You manage to undo the last button, letting the dress slip down your shoulders and fall to the floor with a soft thud. You glance at Felix, and he still isn’t looking. He’s turned the light down, creating a softer, warmer atmosphere that eases some of the tension in your chest. It’s as if he knows that you’d rather not be fully exposed in the harsh glow of bright light.
“Do you need help?” he asks, his voice careful, like he’s afraid of pushing you too far.
“I’m done anyway,” you reply, your voice shaky but steady enough.
Felix exhales, turning back to face you slowly, almost cautiously. He looks into your eyes first, making sure you’re okay before letting his gaze travel down. When his eyes finally take in the sight of you, you see something shift in him. His expression softens, and you feel your heart pounding in your chest, almost painfully so.
You weren’t sure what he’d expect to see, but the look on his face—like he’s in awe—makes you feel beautiful in a way you’ve never felt before. You're wearing your favorite matching set, silk and lace, in a color that contrasts perfectly with your skin. You chose it thinking you might need something that makes you feel confident, but now, under Felix’s gaze, you wonder if it was the right choice. But then you see the way he looks at you, like you’re something precious, and all your doubts melt away.
“I want to touch you,” Felix says softly, his voice trembling, almost as if he’s afraid to break the moment.
“Okay,” you answer, trying to sound calm even though your heart feels like it’s about to explode.
Felix doesn’t rush. His movements are slow, deliberate. He brushes your hair aside, his fingertips barely grazing your skin, but it’s enough to send a shiver down your spine. His knuckles trace down your chest, stopping at the center, right between your breasts. His hand rests flat there, and you feel the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin, the beat of your heart thudding loudly under his touch.
“You're so beautiful,” he softly murmurs as he looks into your eyes.
You can feel heat spreading across your face. You want to say something, but the words get stuck in your throat. Instead, you just look down, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, by how gentle and caring he’s being.
Felix leans in, and when he kisses you, it’s not rushed. His lips are soft, and the kiss is gentle, as though he’s trying to coax you out of your shell. You kiss him back, a little more confidently this time, the warmth of his body pressing against yours making everything feel more natural.
The more time you spend with Felix, the more certain you feel that you’re in the right place, with the right person. His presence is calming, his touch patient and careful. Every kiss, every gentle brush of his hand against your skin reminds you that he’s giving you all the time in the world. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push you beyond what you’re ready for, and that thought alone is enough to make your heart swell.
Felix holds back so much—it’s evident in the way he slows his movements, adjusting to your hesitance, waiting for you to catch up, to feel comfortable. You notice how he looks at you, always checking, always making sure you’re okay with what’s happening. He’s so understanding that you can feel your insecurities start to melt away, one by one, like the weight of them no longer matters in this space you’ve created together.
As the kissing becomes more intense, your breathing picks up, and the room feels warmer. You feel his strong yet gentle hand resting on your shoulder, his fingers playing with the strap of your bra, and you know what comes next.
This time, you decide to take the initiative and ask, “Do you want me to take these off?”
“If you allow me to,” he answers with a soft smile.
You’ve always known your body isn't the kind men fantasize about, or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. “They’re not—They’re not my best features,” you meekly admit.
Felix’s eyes don’t waver, and his smile turns into a playful smirk, one that both teases and comforts at the same time. “How can I know for sure when I haven’t seen them?”
You feel a smile tugging at your lips; he has a fair point, and you can’t argue with him when he looks at you like that—like he sees you, not just the parts you want to hide.
You nod, giving him permission, and lean forward slightly to make it easier for him to reach behind you. His fingers find the clasp of your bra almost immediately, without hassle.
The sound of it unclasping makes your breath hitch, anticipation swirling in the air between you, and then he pulls back just enough to let the bra fall away, his fingers gently sliding the straps down your shoulders. His movements are slow, with excitement simmering underneath, as if he’s unwrapping a precious gift.
And then, you’re bare in front of him, vulnerable in a way that sends a nervous thrill through you.
Felix doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He doesn’t gawk or make you feel exposed. Instead, he looks at you with a soft, quiet admiration that makes your heart flutter.
“They're perfect,” he says, and the sincerity in his praise makes your insecurities seem small, insignificant.
-
Felix's breath catches in his throat at the sight of you, bare in front of him. The soft curves of your chest stir something deep inside him, and for a moment, he has to hold back from letting his hands act purely on impulse. He swallows hard, trying to keep his cool, even though the urge to touch you is overwhelming.
“They’re perfect,” he says softly, his voice rougher than he intended. He means it. It’s not about size or shape—he just likes seeing you, just like this.
If he's being honest, you’re not what Felix thought he always wanted. But now, with you in front of him, he finds himself thinking that you’re more than enough—perfect, in fact.
He lets himself lose a bit of that self-control, his hand reaching out, grazing your skin before cupping your breast, his gentle yet curious fingers exploring the softness of your chest. They fit perfectly in his tattooed hands, and he feels heat rising in him.
“See? They’re perfect,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin as if to prove the point.
You remain quiet as he touches you, but your eyes go wide, lips parting slightly, and then, unexpectedly, you run your palms over your own breasts, fingers grazing your nipples with a restless, almost nervous motion.
The sight of you touching yourself, so innocently but also with that hidden desire, nearly drives him over the edge. He has to clench his jaw to stop himself from groaning aloud.
"Why are you looking at them like that?" you curiously ask in a shy voice.
“Like what?” he asks, his voice deep and low, almost a growl as he leans in closer, needing to hear you say it.
“Like you want t-to…” You hesitate, stumbling over your words.
“Lick them? Suck them?” he finishes the sentence for you, the words falling from his lips with an intensity that makes you look down at your lap, cheeks heated.
You nod, too shy to say it aloud.
Felix exhales slowly, his restraint hanging by a thread. “Come here!” his voice is rough, almost commanding as he gestures for you to sit on his lap.
Biting your lip, you crawl onto him and sit right on his lap.. You freeze for a moment, probably feeling his hard flesh prodding under you.
"You can ignore that," he tells you, at least for now, but he knows both of you can’t ignore that for long.
Somehow, that thought worries him, and he expected you to sit stiff as a board on his lap, but you immediately settle in close, and when he puts his arm around you, you let out a ragged sigh, instantly melting into him.
Fuck, you're so close, especially that part of you, hanging so close to his mouth. He gulps air and reminds himself to take things slowly. This is about you, not him.
You put your hand under his arm and grasp at his back, your hard nipples grazing his chest in the process, and Felix can’t resist cupping your breasts and rubbing his fingers over them.
Soon, your body softens around him, but his hands grow rough as he touches you, molding you to him as he claims your mouth. The kiss is a savage thing of teeth and tongues, but there’s no hint of protest from you. Instead, you match his roughness for roughness, kissing him back until you run out of breath.
As you come up for air, he covers your nipple with his mouth and sucks hard. He pulls you close so he can do the same with the other one; this time, he has your nipple rolling on his tongue. Oh, he can do it all night, just playing with your soft mounds.
Your fingers make their way through his hair, tugging at it as you arch your back with unconscious demand. It's apparent that you love this, losing your mind over his touches.
Felix lets go of your breast, then drags his lips upward, climbing the column of your throat until they find yours, kissing your mouth with such intensity that it causes you to sharply inhale air.
As he's kissing you, his hands refuse to remain idle. He cups your breasts, stroking the buds until they ache and pinches them, sending a burst of sensation straight to your core. With caution, he takes it to the next level, shifting his focus to another sensitive part of you. He's smoothing a hand over your stomach, and he can feel your muscles clench. Cautiously, he slides a hand up your inner thigh.
“I want to touch you here,” he says while gently palming your sex with a bold grasp, and the heat of his touch spreads through the fabric of your panties, searing hot.
Your hand immediately flies to grip his wrist, intending to pull him away, but your hand stays there; if anything, you pull it back and let it rest on his inked forearm.
“Is that permission?” he whispers into your ear.
He sees the conflict in your eyes. He guesses the reason you hesitate is that this is new to you, and you don't know how to handle this side of yourself. After a while, your body wins over your hesitant mind as your hips arch against his hand, asking him to continue, asking him for more.
He pushes your underwear to the side, and as he kisses your neck, his fingers trace your bundle of nerves, circling it, then applying the gentlest of pressure to test whether you like it or not.
A low moan slips out of you, and he can feel you tugging at his hair, hard.
"Do you want me to keep my hand there?" he asks as he looks into your dazed eyes.
You innocently nod.
"All right. I'll do that," he says with a hasty kiss on your lips. He continues by tracing your slick entrance with his fingertips, touching you there lightly, trailing around and around in dizzying circles.
"Does that feel good?" he asks, barely audible.
Still unable to give him a verbal answer, you nod again.
He aims his parted mouth toward your neck and purposely scrapes his teeth against your skin before he licks and kisses you there, causing goosebumps to spread over your skin.
"Will you let me get inside?" he asks for permission as his fingers tease your entrance.
It's obvious that you want it from the way you're arching your hips against his hand, but he doesn't want to risk losing you to the nerves again; he needs to hear you say it this time.
"Yes," you breathlessly say with a small nod.
With your consent given, his fingers search through your folds, coating them with your essence, and he lingers around your entrance for a little while before pushing one finger into you.
He feels your sharp intake of air as your head rests so close to his, your teeth faintly biting your lower lip to muffle the noises you make.
Felix gives you time to adjust before adding another digit. Two fingers are inside you now, pumping them, and he curls them, finding that spot that makes you...
"Oh!" you gasp, your hand grasping at the end of his hair like it gives you a lifeline. Your legs tremble, causing you to lose your balance, and you almost topple back, but Felix is quick to grip your waist to keep you steady.
The whole thing is so cute. Felix rubs his lips to hide a grin as you steady yourself on his lap and fold your hands in your lap. He knows that if he continues, you’d likely fall to the floor. You're the kind of girl who gets weak when you get hot, and don’t get him wrong; he loves that. If anything, it makes every bit of effort it has taken to get past your guard worth it.
"It's better if we lay down," he suggests as he removes the strand of hair caught between your lips.
"Okay," you say, your voice small and filled with obedience.
Once you get off his lap, Felix takes the lead again. He stretches out near the center of the bed, propping himself up on an elbow, and pats the space next to him. No moment of hesitation this time, you crawl across the bed and lay down next to him.
Felix leans over you and kisses you, starting right back at the beginning with innocent brushes of both of your lips and teasing licks before taking your mouth once again. He wouldn't say you're that great of a kisser, but it's entertaining feeling you learn. You may lack in skill, but you make up for it with your eagerness.
He puts your hand on his bare chest, letting you roam free from there; he needs you to feel him too, how his body heats all over from his desire for you. You drag your hand down his chest, fingers trailing the hard ridges of his abs, and then you keep heading down south, meeting the waistband of his jeans.
Felix is unprepared when your hand suddenly goes to his crotch and strokes over the fly of his pants. Pleasure courses through him, and his cock jumps in excitement, a hoarse groan slipping out of his parted mouth.
He remains calm even though you've just awakened a part of him that he wants to keep tamed, for now. He notices the curious hand and then the curious eyes.
"Want to touch it?" he offers, his eyes half shut, heavy with lust.
"Can I?" you ask back instead of answering.
It's about time to set it free anyway; his jeans have been tightening around the crotch for quite some time. He unzips the fly open, then tugs at the waistband of his jeans and pulls it low enough to let his swollen member out of its confines.
Your hand lingers on his abdomen, hesitating to put your hand on the thing you're curious about.
He takes your hand, puts it on his cock, and then makes you close your fingers around it. The sight of your soft, delicate hand wrapped around his cock makes his heart thrumming inside his chest.
"This is my cock," he says, trying to keep his voice calm.
He guides you to stroke your hand on it, pumping it up and down his length, showing you the pace he prefers: slow but steady. "I want you to tell me when you want it."
You swallow air and look down to see that he's no longer guiding you; you're stroking his cock on your own, and he must say, you're doing so good at it.
He returns the favor by reaching down between your legs, touching you there again. His fingers meet your wetness, hot and slippery, tantalizing him.
After a moment, he decides to hover above you, letting go of your lips to start making a trail of kisses down your front. Your chest is heaving as he gets closer to your core, but he does the unexpected by detaching his mouth.
"Do you mind if I take this off?" he asks, fingers tugging at the elastic band of your underwear.
You lick your swollen lips and lowly mutter, "No."
He flashes you a soft smile before doing what he asked. His palm scrapes up the outside of your leg as he pulls your underwear down. You help by lifting your hips to make it easier for him to take it off.
Felix stands at the end of the bed with your underwear in his hand. He lets you watch as he takes a long sniff of it; you smell so heavenly that he wants this smell all over him. But first, he has to make it fair. He takes his jeans off along with his underwear, exposing his naked body in all its glory for you—just for you.
In return, he gets to see all of you, your body wrapped in miles and miles of soft skin. His eyes feast on every part of you, but you cross your thighs together, blocking him from seeing the thing that tantalized him all night.
He runs his tattooed hands down your legs, offering you his warmth and comfort as a way to assure you that he wants nothing but to make you feel good. When he deems you're relaxed enough, he parts your legs open, and his eyes widen as if he sees something that goes beyond what his brain can comprehend.
"You're so wet for me," he says, swallowing air as the sight suddenly makes his throat dry.
Felix satisfies his need by taking a closer look at it, his eyes darkened and fixated on the thing that endlessly tantalizes him. He licks his lips in reaction to the overwhelming urge to taste you.
He uses his thumb to circle your clit, which engorges with every motion. "It wants my mouth so badly," he tells you, his eyes dark and heavy with lust.
Felix presses his cheek to your inner thigh and, ever so softly, places a long kiss on the skin. It's close to where he wants to be but not enough. His need grows desperate.
"Put us both out of our misery and let me taste you."
-
Felix is perfect. He stands there like carved stone, but his skin is smooth and hot to the touch, firm but giving, alive. His muscles hunch and shift as he moves, and the dragon tattoo winks at you as he steps out of his pants; the motion alone is so sexy.
This is Felix in all of his naked glory. He is perfection, even that part of him—gosh, especially that part of him. His erection demands your full attention, hard and veiny, in flawless proportion to the rest of his beautiful body. You have never given a man oral sex before, but your mouth waters at the sight of it. You want it.
You can’t remember how to breathe as he puts his tattooed hands on you, rubbing them up and down the outside of your legs, making you tingle down there. You see how he quietly inhales air before parting your legs open and lets all the air out of his mouth as he shifts his eyes to see what's between your legs.
It's the most private part of you, and you expect him to see it in disgust, but the way he looks at it... you see nothing but pure admiration. He puts his focus there, needing more time to process what he's seeing.
"You're so wet for me," he says, barely audible as he holds his breath.
He bends down close to your wet flesh, making your nervousness spike to heart-pounding levels, and his eyes never stray away from what he wants. Then his thumb meets the peak of your sex, gently rubbing it, and you quietly moan under your breath.
"It wants my mouth so badly," he says, receiving your body's signals too well.
The little kisses he places on your inner thighs feel soft, but you can see that it's not quite what he wants; he's so close to it, yet he handles his self-control really well.
He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them, they immediately find yours. Then he murmurs, "Put us both out of misery and let me taste you."
It hits you now that he truly wants this, you. He likes what he sees, and his craving for your most private parts is real. It's dirty but highly erotic and exciting. You want to give it to him; you do, but you doubt that the reality will meet his expectations.
“Will you be disappointed if I don’t like it and I don’t respond like other women?” you ask, feeling a little anxious, thinking that you’re about to ruin the moment. Again.
“If you don’t like it, then we’ll move on,” he simply says, spreading your legs wider and then landing a gentle, closed-mouth kiss on your clit, catching you off guard.
Your body stiffens for a second, not expecting that sensuous jolt, and then you relax in the next second.
"Hate that?" he asks with wistful, downturned eyes.
"I..." You still can't decide if you like it or not; you need more—
Felix lands another kiss, followed by a slow tasting of his tongue on it. He hums his approval and covers your sex with his mouth, sucking with slight pressure as his tongue laps over your clit, repeatedly.
Your mind shuts down; your body slowly goes limp as heat blooms inside you, and your face buries in the blanket as the pleasure intensifies. This feeling is new to you; your body is in a state of shock from the immense sensations, and you feel like you're about to cry when he abruptly stops.
"You don't like it?" he asks after getting no answer from you. "Let me try it another way..."
Felix pushes two fingers into you, and your eyes roll to the back as he begins a steady pace, combining it with his tongue flickering over your cunt, and somehow, you can’t stop your hips from rising to meet his thrusts.
Oh God! You're riding his hand and smothering his face with your wet cunt. You tell yourself to stop, but you can't; you find your hands tangled in his long, bleached-blond hair instead. You're tightening around him, so wet now you can hear the slippery sounds every time he pumps his fingers into you.
"I'll stop," Felix says as he licks his glistening wet lips, then rubs his tongue over you fast and hard, making you clench helplessly around his fingers.
"Felix..." you breathlessly call his name. You can't believe how needy you sound—almost pathetic even.
"One last taste..." Felix says before planting his mouth on you again. He sucks with perfect pressure, his tongue cleverly dragging out the pleasure to keep your release out of reach. He presses a parting kiss to your sex and lifts his head, stopping for real this time.
"Yeah, you look ready now," he says it so low it's almost like a whisper.
Truthfully, you've been ready for a while now, and you love the idea of demanding his... cock and him providing it; you just can’t get those words past your lips.
Apparently, the look on your face tells it all. As he props a hand next to your waist, he looks at you and asks, "Do you want it?"
You stifle a nod, and you're aware that's not enough to convey how much you want it.
His hand reaches for the strand of hair covering your face and asks again, "Do you want it now?"
Want, want, want. You eagerly respond in your head, but you force yourself to remain calm and say, "Yes."
Felix nods and lands a kiss along your jaw, then drags his lips close to your ear. With a hoarse voice, he whispers, "I'll give it to you."
His warm, soft yet firm body blankets yours as his lips bombard you with kisses, each kiss peeling away your senses along with your worries and insecurities; you eventually stop thinking altogether.
"Excuse me for a second," he says with a kiss on your lips, getting off the bed to look for something on the bedroom floor.
As Felix picks up his jeans from the floor, you watch the muscles on his back bunch and shift as he moves, admiring the twin indentations at the base of his spine. The view is nothing compared to when he turns around, showcasing his ethereal visuals and a godly figure of chiseled abs, not forgetting his cock in a size that demands your attention.
He gets onto the bed, kneeling and using his teeth to tear through the foil packet to extract the condom.
"Want to help me with it?" he offers, his eyes sparkling in the dimly lit room.
You swallow air and say, "Yes."
Your hands aren't steady, so you and he end up doing it together, and once you’re both done with it, he pulls you close. You shiver at the feel of your skin coming into contact; your nipples graze his chest, and his length burns against your lower belly. You suddenly feel very self-conscious.
Felix runs his hands up and down your back as he angles his head, trying to catch your gaze but keeps failing.
“Why won’t you look at me?”
You look at the hollow in his collarbone and hunch your shoulders forward. "I feel—I feel naked."
“We’re both naked," he states the obvious with a light smile.
You don’t know how to explain that you’re not only feeling naked on the outside but also from the inside, and that if he looks into your eyes, he’d see all of you. No one wants to see that. This is supposed to be fun and educational, not soul-baring.
Felix flashes you a smile as he tilts your head by your chin, and you catch a glimpse of tender eyes before you close yours, knowing that he's about to kiss you.
Soon, his warm lips brush over yours, tasting of him, you, and sex. His hands caress you, gently kneading the flesh of your waist before grabbing you by the thighs and hooking them around him.
Slowly, he lowers you onto the bed and then covers your body with his. He places sweet little kisses on your jaw, your neck, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, and eventually, your lips.
“If you don’t like it, if something hurts... I want you to talk to me, okay?"
As always, you give him a nod before saying the words, "Okay."
"Okay," he repeats, then sweetly kisses your lips. "Now, can you turn over for me?"
You obey him, turning over on the bed and lying on your stomach, taking in the sight of the rumpled pillows and wooden headboard.
"Lift your waist for me, please?" he politely demands, and you do what he asks, lifting your waist off the bed as he slips a pillow underneath.
It takes you a moment to understand what he's doing. In this position, he chooses not to let him see you, and at the same time, it makes you less self-conscious.
"Is this better?" he asks as he places a hot kiss on the skin behind your ear.
"Yes," you say, feeling comfortable already, but you don't think about how you can't see him and what he's going to do to you.
A low sigh escapes your lips as his rough hand glides down your back and massages the flesh in voluptuous motions. His firm chest brushes against your shoulder blades as he props an arm on the bed next to you.
You take a deep inhale as his hand reaches between your thighs, his fingers searching through your folds and sinking deep, pumping fresh essence out of you until it drips around them. As if that isn't enough, he teases your clitoris with gentle touches.
"Felix..." you desperately call his name.
"You're ready, mmh?" he asks, planting a soft kiss on the nape of your neck.
Soon, his hard length prods at your entrance and pushes its way inside, painstakingly slow, as if he wants you to feel every inch of that delicious cock stretching you out.
All this time, you thought sex was repulsive, uncomfortable and painful—something you kept avoiding because your past experiences validated those thoughts—until now. With Felix, you feel nothing but intensifying pleasure even after he is fully sheathed inside you.
"Oh, you feel too good," he whispers into your ear with a low growl.
His words make you feel all sorts of things, and you should say something about him too—how good he feels inside you, how he fills you perfectly. You try to speak like he’s asked you to, but all that comes out are gasps and sighs of pleasure. Instead, you try to communicate with your body, spreading your thighs wider for him and trying to match him thrust for thrust.
His tattooed hand propped against the mattress captures yours, and he interlaces both of your fingers together.
“Now, it's perfect," he whispers.
For a timeless moment, you're hovering on the brink until orgasm crashes over you. He knows, but he relentlessly drives into you. You try to meet his thrusts, but you can’t quite match his strength and intensity.
With your eyes closed, you dare to look over your shoulder, and he immediately captures your mouth, stroking his tongue deep into you. Before the last orgasm has finished, you feel another building. You're clenching hard, the tiny muscles fluttering around his cock.
With a hoarse groan, Felix surges into you one last time, hard and shallow, sending you both to your highs. He rubs his lips against your jaw and neck, then lowers your shaking body to the bed. He holds you, wrapping his tattooed arms around you and drawing you even closer, holding you like his.
With your eyes still shut, your fingers trail his forearm, feeling the defined muscle and the smooth skin—a combination that is utterly distracting. His scent, his warmth, and his solidness surround you, slowly lulling you into a dreamless sleep.
Now, it's perfect, you say in your head.
-
Felix breathes in deeply, letting the warm, comforting scent of your space envelop him as he burrows into the sheets, a happy sigh escaping his lips.
Slowly, he pushes himself up from the bed, and your room looks slightly different basked in the morning sunlight. Like this, he can see the colors of the books on the shelf, the hats and scarves hanging on the bedroom door, and the succulents you keep on your windowsill. Under a different light, your room looks a lot more alive.
It's also illuminating the memories of last night—your shared laughter, the sweet sounds of pleasure that echoed around him, the rustles of the sheets as your naked bodies tangled under the duvet. A rush of warmth fills him at the recollection, but as he looks around, reality settles in: he is in your room, in your apartment, and he shouldn’t overstay his welcome.
Collecting his clothes from the floor, he dresses methodically, and once in a while, he can't help but glance back at the bed where you shared such an intimate night.
Once he's decent, he steps out of the bedroom, finding you right away in the kitchen. Your hair is in a messy bun, glasses perched slightly askew on your nose, and you're dressed in a simple white t-shirt and pajama pants. You are focused on reading something on your phone while quietly eating from a bowl.
“Morning,” he greets, his voice deeper in the morning air, startling you slightly.
“Morning,” you reply, a soft smile lighting up your face.
As he continues buttoning his shirt, he slides onto a vacant stool at the small dining table.
“Orange juice?” you offer, “or do you prefer coffee?”
“Not a coffee person,” he honestly replies, and you immediately pour him a glass of orange juice, your movements easy and familiar.
You turn around to put the carton of juice back into the fridge and come back with a plate of breakfast for him, serving it in front of him.
“I don’t know what you like for breakfast, but this is what I usually cook for my roommate,” you say, sliding a plate of scrambled eggs and toast toward him.
“Wow! Thank you,” he says in utter gratitude.
Felix can’t recall the last time he enjoyed a nice breakfast with the person he had a one-night stand with; usually, he’d be gone before his partner even woke.
He glances toward the door of your roommate’s bedroom, wondering if she's inside.
“The birthday girl isn’t home yet?” he asks as he lifts his fork.
“She’s probably staying over at one of her friends,” you reply, your tone casual, suggesting you are used to this arrangement.
Felix finds it convenient this way. He enjoys the intimacy of just the two of you in the calm of the morning. The presence of another person would only ruin that.
“Is that what you usually have for breakfast?” he asks, peeking into your bowl, which contains slices of fruit, granola, and yogurt.
“Yes,” you answer with a small smile.
“Ah, that explains…” he absentmindedly says, not realizing the implications of his words until you catch his gaze.
“Explain what?” you ask, your curiosity piqued.
“Uh... that explains why you’re so smart,” he lies with a casual smile, hoping to brush off any suspicion.
The truth is, your diet explains why you smell and taste so good; the thought makes him bite back a smile, recalling the events of last night.
"Oh..." your reaction is a mix of surprise and gratitude, but he's still unsure if you understand the meaning behind his words. If you do, just know that it's a compliment.
After breakfast, Felix uses your bathroom for a quick wash-up and retrieves his jacket from the sofa. He adjusts his shirt before putting it on, realizing the time has come to leave, even though he wants to stay longer.
With heavy steps, he approaches you as you stand by the door, sensing the moment is drawing to a close.
Your eyes are on him, but your hands are clasped behind your back, your eyes shimmering with a different kind of light than when he first met you. They seem more alive now, filled with warmth.
“I want to thank you for last night,” you say, a smile creeping onto your face as the memory flashes through your head as it does for him.
“No need to thank me,” he replies. He refuses to accept your thanks when you're not the only one gaining something from last night.
“We had fun last night,” he remarks, not fully realizing he is speaking for both of you.
“I mean, I don’t know about you, but I had fun last night,” he corrects himself with an awkward laugh, pressing a hand to the pulse point on his neck out of nervousness.
“I had— I had fun last night,” you shyly remark, looking away for a second to compose yourself before looking back at him, a shy smile still lingering.
“That's good to know,” he replies, catching your shyness as it creeps into his demeanor.
A moment passes in silence as you look at each other. He has so many things to say, but no words are spoken. He can see that you're struggling to fathom your thoughts into words too.
“Felix,” you call in a different tone from the way you called him last night, yet it makes his heart flutter the same.
“Yes?” he answers, his heart beating in anticipation.
You open your mouth, but no words come out, then close it again, thinking hard about whether to say it or not.
“You can talk to me,” he assures you, his hand flying to your elbow and gently holding it.
Taking a deep breath, you finally close the distance between you, pressing your lips against his in a quick, unexpected kiss.
The surprise electrifies him, but the briefness leaves him wanting more. He quickly decides it's best to ask for forgiveness later rather than permission. He cups your jaw and leans in for a proper kiss; eventually, his lips meet yours in a kiss that means so much more than that: it's a tender connection that feels just right.
As much as he likes it, he knows he has to let go eventually. He slowly pulls away, only to see a smile blooming on your face, and his lips reflexively follow suit, smiling back at you.
“I hope that’s okay,” he murmurs, but he knows he's not sorry at all for what he did.
You nod, your smile shy yet genuine. "That’s—”
Suddenly, the door swings open, and Rex stumbles in, making a ruckus with her arrival as the keys jangle in her hand and her shoes drop onto the floor, oblivious to the intimate moment unfolding between you two.
“Oh?” she gasps, stopping in her tracks when she finally notices the two of you. Her eyes glance between you and Felix.
“Oh!!!” she exclaims again when she recognizes Felix as the guy you kissed for a dare last night.
Realizing she's interrupted something private, she hurriedly clutches her purse close to her chest and dashes into her bedroom, shouting, “I’m not here!”
The moment is shattered nonetheless, and Felix knows he can't stay here for as long as he wants, not when your roommate is now present.
“I'd better go,” he says, even though he hasn’t planned anything beyond that.
“Okay,” you say in a way that makes you sound defeated.
“Okay,” Felix repeats, hoping you would say something to extend the moment just a bit longer.
But good things often come to an end. Felix shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and takes a good look at you one last time, imprinting it in the back of his mind.
“It was nice to meet you,” he earnestly says with one hand on the doorknob.
“Me too,” you reply, your smile soft and genuine, lingering in his thoughts even as he steps out of your life.
At least, for now.
-
Here you are again, surrounded by the pulsing energy of the club with Rex and her friends. You’re still the same shy, nerdy girl, yet somehow, you handle the scene better now. It's a familiar chaos, except that tonight, it's harder to ignore Felix’s absence.
Noticing that you're not having fun like everyone else, Rex leans in closer to talk against the loud music playing in the club.
“Are you disappointed that he’s not here?” she asks, her alcohol-tinted breath brushing your ear.
“Why should I be disappointed?” You scoff, trying to mask the truth. But deep down, you are counting every second since you walked in without seeing him.
“You think I didn't know that you’ve been secretly watching the door?" Rex chuckles, almost spitting her drink. "Or the way you get a little excited whenever you spot a blonde guy?"
Guilty as charged. You are caught, but admitting it feels like opening a wound. You tried not to dwell on it, convincing yourself it was just a one-night stand and these feelings... they'll eventually fade, right?
“Don’t worry,” Rex says as she gently squeezes your knee. “He’s probably still on the way.”
“He didn’t even ask for my number, Rex,” you confess, finally voicing the disappointment that has been gnawing at you ever since that day.
“Then fuck him!” she exclaims, fierce as always. “There are plenty of cute guys, and I'm sure we can find one tonight.”
"No, thank you," you flatly reject the offer.
"Why not?" Rex asks, her eyes studying you.
You scoff again, but inside, the truth lingers: you're still hung up on him.
“Because you’ve already drunk too much," you choose to lie instead, taking her drink from her hand.
Suddenly, someone enters the booth, and you recognize him instantly, even with his bleached hair slicked back. Your heart leaps at the sight of Felix. He looks just as perfect as you remember, but doubt creeps in. Does he remember that night as vividly as you do?
He stands across the table, drink in hand, smiling at you, but you manage a polite smile back, not wanting to set yourself up for another disappointment.
“How about a round of ‘Never Have I Ever’?” he suggests out of the blue, his deep voice drawing everyone’s attention.
"Yes, let's do that!" Rex enthusiastically responds while raising her drink higher in front of her.
Felix trails the rim of his glass with his tattooed finger as he thinks of something, and a while later, his eyes fiercely stare at you with a sly smile dancing on his face.
“Never have I ever... made out with a guy in a dark alley, bumped my head on a crate, gotten three stitches, and still proceeded to give him a night he can’t forget?”
A rush of warmth washes over you, either from his eyes that don’t stray away from yours even for a second or the fact that he still remembers everything. You smile nonetheless, feeling the flutter in your chest returning.
Everyone goes silent, glancing around, unsure who might have done that, except for Rex, who squeals next to you like a giddy child.
“I have,” you confidently say, out loud with a proud smile.
You take the drink from Rex’s hand and drink it in one go, wincing at the bitter aftertaste but recovering quickly.
You daringly stare back into his eyes as you take the next turn. “Never have I ever regretted not asking someone for their number?”
“I have,” he replies without missing a beat and downs his shot in one gulp.
Felix places the empty glass on the table, walks over to you, and holds his hand out to you. “Now, I dare you to come with me.”
It isn't a dare when it's exactly what you want; it's a wish come true. You take his inked hand, feeling the warmth radiate from his skin, and let him lead you away from the table and into the night.
In the dark alley where it all started, Felix pulls you close until your bodies collide, wrapping his arms around you. Impatiently, he kisses you hard and deep, full of longing.
The kiss is intoxicating, even better than you remember, and as he steers you away from the crates lining the alley to avoid any mishaps, you softly laugh.
Felix leans his back against the brick wall and holds you close, his face lingering only inches away from yours, breath mingling in the cool night air.
“Let’s avoid visiting the hospital tonight,” he playfully says.
In that dark alley, with the world falling away around you, you realize you don’t want this to ever end. You lean in, capturing his lips once more, and you melt into the kiss, bracing yourself for what you're about to ask and the answer you'll get.
“So, what now?” you ask, your fingers caressing his cheek, tracing the contours of his face.
“We can start by finishing the poem,” he says, a playful glint filling his eyes, reminding you of the lines you have barely gotten through that night.
You grin as the weight of the time you spent worrying about not seeing him again lifts off your shoulders. “Okay, but I think I need a new beginning for this one.”
This time, you know what you want, and what you want is more nights like this, more moments, and more of whatever this is between you and him, and that’s the only dare you're doing tonight: to find out what that is.
-
“(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.”
-
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