—genre(s): romance, fluff, best friends older brother/ friends to lovers
—pairing: Jaafar Jackson x reader
Summary: You and Jermajesty are best friends. Both of you have been inseparable since middle school. Ever since the first time you came over to the Jackson family household, you met Jaafar for the first time. It was love at first sight for you, but nearly a decade later, you still like him. Little do you know, Jaafar has liked you for a very long time as well.
(a/n: Hii! Hopefully you like this one-shot! I had a lot of fun writing this for you guys and I hope you like it! If you have any requests, don't be afraid to ask! also if you'd like to be added to my taglist please comment! Likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated!˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞)
happy reading:)
Masterlist
Today was finally your day off from work and had made plans with your best friend of many years, Jermajesty. You both met in middle school and ever since you both were inseparable. Always hanging out, texting, calling, you practically grew up together and grew up around the Jackson family.
You still remembered when you first met him at the age of fourteen.
Jermajesty had invited you to hang out after school one day, and both of you were in the kitchen eating some of the food his mother had cooked for them. Then Jaafar walked into the kitchen wearing a pair of grey sweatpants, a white hoodie, and his curls were messy; it showed that he had just woken up from a nap.
The moment that he introduced himself, you forgot how to breathe. His voice was deep and raspy.
From that moment on, you truly developed a crush on Jaafar.
Every moment from the first time you met him, you would double check your outfit before you went over to the Jackson household. Started to put a tiny bit of makeup on, you wanted to look presentable just for him. Every time he would smile at you, your stomach would flip each time even up until now.
__
Now you and Jermajesty are twenty-five years old, and you still had a crush on Jaafar.
“You still haven’t told Jaafar that you have feelings for him?.” He asked one night as you two were at his apartment eating sushi.
You shook your head instantly, “He will never know.”
“I’m telling, he likes you. I wouldn’t mind if you before my sister-in-law honestly.” He laughed.
You nearly choked on your drink when he said that. “He doesn’t like me.”
“If he didn’t like you, he wouldn’t buy you your favorite candies when you say I’m craving a sweet treat. He literally brought you the five jellycats that you said that you wanted.”
You shook your head in denial. “He would’ve said something.”
Jermajesty rolled his eyes, knowing that in two days, Jaafar had something up his sleeve for your birthday.
__
The Jackson family had invited you over to celebrate your birthday as you did every year. They would make a dinner for you, sing you happy birthday, and you would open the gifts that they had brought for you. Throughout the dinner, Jaafar was three seats away from you, laughing at whatever his brother Donte was saying to him. Every couple of minutes, he would look at you.
You would give him a soft smile each time, your stomach flipping each time you caught him.
Jaafar has been hopelessly in love with her for almost a decade now.
He noticed and remembered the things you liked and didn’t like.
The way you would fidget with your necklace when nervous.
How happy you would get when they would mention your favorite restaurant when the three of you would hang out.
How your eyes softened when you spoke about something that inspired you.
He remembered your iced coffee order by heart.
After all these years, he knew that he wanted to be with you even more. All these years that he saw you grow into the beautiful woman that you are today, he wanted to be the one for you
Jaafar decided that today was going to be the day that he was going to admit his true feelings for you. He asked Jermajesty a few weeks ago to come with him to the jewelry store that you three had visited a few months ago. You pointed out the silver bracelet that was decorated with tiny diamonds, mentioning that you were saving money to buy it. It was a simple and elegant bracelet that screamed you.
He told his younger brother that he was finally going to confess his feelings for you at the birthday dinner. Jermajesty leaned his head back and looked at the sky.
“Thank you, lord. You heard my prayers.” He spoke.
Jermajesty gave him the unnecessary blessing to date you. He was happy that you two would get together; he knew you were meant to be together.
Jaafar remembered every exact detail of you.
He wanted to show you that he did listen to you.
“It’s Jaafar’s turn,” Jermajesty said with a small tease.
“Don’t start.” You said, "I'm sorry," and gave him a small punch on the shoulder.
“Can you actually come with me?” Jaafar asked, standing up and extending his hand towards you.
“Yes, of course.” You said, Giving him your hand and got up. Both of you are walking on the porch of the house.
Your heart pounded harder every second that passed by.
Jaafar reached into his sweater's pocket.
“I brought you out here because I wanted to give you this.” He said softly.
You smiled at him softly.
He handed you a small grey box.
“What’s this?” you asked, confused.
“Just open it.” He laughed softly. His heart pounding, scared that you wouldn’t like it.
Slowly, you lifted the lid of the grey box.
“No way.” You said softly when you recognized the silver bracelet that was decorated with tiny diamonds.
“You remembered that I wanted this bracelet?” you asked in shock.
He smiled softly, his cheeks turning a bit red.
“You said that you wanted to get it. I remembered; well, I remember everything about you.”
You began getting teary-eyed.
No one has remembered these details about you.
“Thank you.” You said and wrapped your arms around his waist. Hugging him tightly, “Thank you so much.” You whispered.
Jaafar immediately wrapped his arms around your shoulders and hugged your back.
“Happy birthday, y/n,” he said and rubbed small circles on your back. He felt you cry softly on his chest.
“Why are you crying?” he chuckled softly.
You shook your head slightly and kept hugging him.
“I hope you know that I love you, not just like a friend,” Jaafar confessed nervously.
You froze.
“Y-you are in love with me?”
“I have loved you for many years now. I was afraid that I was going to ruin our friendship and, most importantly, your friendship with Jermajesty.” He said, pulling back slightly, bringing her hand under your chin to make you look up at him.
“But I love you too much, I knew that I needed to confess my feelings for you even if you don’t like me back.” He said quietly.
Jaafar loved you more than a friend.
Jermajesty was right.
All those times Jaafar brought you your favorite candy.
He would give you his hoodie when you mentioned that you were cold.
He was dropping hints, but you were too afraid to see the truth.
Without thinking about it, you got leaned up and kissed him.
Both of your lips moved gently against each other. The kiss was gentle and slow. He exhaled into the kiss as if he had been holding onto his breath for years.
He caressed your cheek as the kiss became more passionate.
Jaafar loved the feel of your lips against his; he was finally kissing the lips he had been longing for.
He tilted his head slightly, kissing you with more confidence. You swore your knees nearly gave out when you felt his tongue brush softly against your lower lip.
Immediately, you responded. The kiss becomes more intense.
You finally pulled back, both of you breathing heavily.
“I love you too.”
Jaafar smiled softly and rested his forehead against yours. Feeling as if he was on cloud nine. His almost-a-decade-long crush loved him.
“Would you like to be my girlfriend?” he asked, admiring you.
“I would love to be your girlfriend.” You said quietly with a smile.
He leaned back down and kissed you. The kiss was slower this time, mouths moving together slowly.
“About time!”
You both leaned back and turned to look at who screamed that. Jermajesty stood by the entrance with his arms crossed and a smile on his face.
“About time you guys got together. I have to go tell mom.” He said teasingly.
“Can you shut up?” Jaafar said with a smile.
“Mom! y/n and Jaafar are girlfriend and boyfriend!” Jermajesty said as he turned around and ran back inside the house to tell the family.
content/warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUT, fluff ofc, fem receiving, unprotected sex, mdni pls, SUB jaafar (he's obsessed with you) , friends to lovers and more!
WC: 2.9k
A/N: lowkey first REAL smut oneshot.. let me know what u think i tried my hardest trusttt
Jaafar softly groaned as he relaxed into your couch, humming along to Bruno Mars. You shook your head, pushing his feet off your coffee table as you sat across from him, resting your head on your knees.
Jaafar opens his eyes, keeping his gaze on you as you sigh and close your eyes. He takes this opportunity to admire the features he loves on you- the shape of your lips, your soft yet admirable eyelashes. He even focuses on the softness of your skin. He never cared for the filters and beauty standards set by social media- he preferred reality. He would often roll his eyes as you’d rant to him about how a picture you took captured your bad side, or how your stomach didn’t look right.
“How many times do I have to tell you, you look perfect without any of that extra stuff?” He would often say, and you’d scoff yet secretly love the compliments that came from this softness of his voice.
Jaafar’s recent outbreak was overwhelming to say the least. While he was a star even before he was born, the success of his new movie changed his life dramatically. He couldn’t grocery shop like normal anymore, or even stop for his favorite coffee on the way back from his daily runs. Instead, he’d have to wear disguises or have people do it for him. It was a change he didn’t like- the unfamiliarity of it reminded him of the lives his older family members had to endure.
He had flown in from New York a few days ago, and he had taken the time off to rest. He slept in every day, skipping his early-morning workouts to meditate instead. All these changes were uncomfortable, but well-needed. He texted you the night before, letting you know he’d be spending the day with you at your place.
You looked at the message and quickly got up to clean your place. You know you didn’t have to show off when it came to being with Jaafar, but you wanted to be different around him. You and Jaafar were friends for as long as you can remember, meeting one afternoon in the library at your college. You’d complimented his Interstellar shirt, and he began ranting about his favorite scenes and dialogue, and you’d been attached to each other’s company since.
Your friends and family would often tease you, asking, “When will you two finally kiss?” but you’d brush them off, correcting them that you two were simply friends. He would often read social media comments debating whether the two of you were dating, and it’d take every ounce in his DNA to not lie and respond with “yes, yes, we are.”
Friends. That word often stuck with you, reminding you that it was the truth between the two of you. Sure, you would share secrets with Jaafar that you wouldn’t share with your other friends, and you would also walk around your living room in just a t-shirt and underwear, pretending you didn’t feel the heat pool in between your legs as Jaafar would take subtle looks each time you’d walk in front of him. But all this didn’t matter, because Jaafar never said anything. Not even close to ever confessing if he felt anything for you.
Which brings you to today. You were tired, exhausted from work. Your back ached, reminding you that time was passing every day and that you were getting older. You groan, turning to crack your back as Jaafar looks away, smiling. “I’m so tired, J. Work’s been kicking my ass.”
“I told you to come with me while I do press. It would’ve taken your mind off of all your worries.” Jaafar hummed, raising a brow at your nodding.
“Bills have to be paid, J.”
“I told you, you don’t have to worry about that while you have me in your life.”
You shake your head, taking a sip of your beer. “I’m your friend, not your sugar baby.”
“Like there’s a problem with sugar babies, love.”
The name makes you blush, but you brush it off with a roll of your eyes. “Of course, there isn’t, but you’re my friend. I won’t take your money just because you feel bad. I’m a part of the working class. You deserve your success; you earned it, baby.”
Now your nickname makes Jaafar blush, nodding as he plays with his fingers in his lip. You look down, noticing the readjustment of his hips. You pretend it doesn’t make you feel anything while you look at his face, catching his gaze on you already.
You clear your throat, finish the rest of the beer, then wash it down with water. “I saw you signing those papers for those people outside the hotel the other day. Why didn’t you shoo them away?”
Jaafar shakes his head, licking his lips as he runs his hands across his knees. It was a tactic you knew that demonstrated worry, anxiety, and stress. “They waited all morning just for me. I’m grateful for that, you know? They care about me, they have to know I care about them too.”
You shake your head, pointing a finger at him. “A real fan would respect your space, honey. You look stressed and tired. And I mean that with love.”
Jaafar hums, resting his hand on his fist as he looks down. You were right, he was tired. He was grateful for the success, of course. He didn’t take the support for granted, but he needed to go away for a bit; he needed to find the energy to care for himself and pour into himself to be the best son, friend, and star.
“I know you’re right. I guess I’m just scared they’re going to realize I’m nothing like the star they think I am, and forget about me. Or worse, notice I’ll never be a perfect man.”
You tut your lips, standing and sitting beside Jaafar. You grab onto his hand, tucking it in between your palms and warming it. The touch gives him comfort, and you notice the twitch of his fingers as you massage it. “You’re even better than what they think you are, J. You know that. I know that. And it doesn’t matter if that’s good enough for them, because it’s good enough for me. And as long as you know I am here for you, you’ll be okay.”
Jaafar nods and laughs, and you smile as his eyes crinkle in light. He turns to look at you, taking his other hand to run against your chin and over your neck. The touch makes you shiver, and he notices the swallow of your throat.
“How come you always know how to comfort me?” He sighs, and you shrug your shoulders, looking down at your lap.
“I guess I’ve loved you for so long, I know you more than I know myself.”
Jaafar keeps his gaze on you as he leans in, pressing a kiss on the tip of your nose. The move wasn’t shocking to you- he’s done it before. But this time, this moment was special. It felt different, and it made you feel different. More confident, more secure, more controlled.
Jaafar looks down at your lips and into your eyes. “I need you.”
“You have me already.”
He shakes his head and pulls his hands away to play with his fingers nervously. “Not like that.”
You bite your lip, keeping your gaze on him as you tilt his head to face you. The move was confident, reminding you of the dynamic levels you had in your friendship. You were always the one speaking up, having no shame when it came to rude paparazzi or nosy Jackson fans. Jaafar never admitted it, but seeing you give the finger to the cameras as they’d approach the two of you after a late night repeatedly would turn him on, feeling a rush of excitement run down his body. His toes would curl in his shoes, using his jacket to cover his bulge as he walked beside you. He felt dirty, shameful even that he’d feel this way towards you. But when he’d go home and lie down on his bed, he’d pull his cock out and edge himself as the shame actually gave him a rush of excitement.
He looks at you, seeing the curiosity and teasing in your eyes. He was scared to say anything else, nervous you’d reject him. “I can’t say it.”
“Jaafar.” You said once, and he sighed your name back. The desperation in his voice as he said your name made you wet, but you couldn’t let him know just yet.
“Use your words, my boy.” You whispered, looking down as Jaafar brought his hands to his lap. You shake your head and tut your lips, and he quickly brings them away and off his clothed cock.
“I want you. I’ve been wanting you to for a while now. I’ve just been scared you didn’t like me and would reject me.” He said, and the sweetness of his words would have made you feel any other day, but for now, they just made you smirk.
You hum and nod your head, softly pushing Jaafar back into the couch. He bites his lip as you sit on his lap, resting your legs on both sides of his thighs.
“What do you want from me, then?” You said as you slowly began to grind onto him, softly laughing as he began to whimper. Those whimpers were heavenly, a music you were so obsessed with already.
“I need to be inside you. Please. Let me have the privilege of being inside you, baby.” Jaafar whimpered as you ran your hands through his curls, tugging at them. You bring him to your chest, pulling down your shirt to give him access to your cleavage. He softly moans, salivating at the sight of your hardened nipples.
“Suck them.” You ordered, and Jaafar nods, ripping the shirt open. You laugh, closing your eyes at his excitement. He clasps your bra off, tugging the nipple into his mouth as you continue grinding on him.
He traces his tongue on your left nipple, biting it softly and appreciating the soft moan you release. It pushes him to keep going, making sure to play with the other nipple. The rush makes you grind faster, the friction on your clit making you moan loudly.
“Yes, yes, yes.” Jaafar whimpers, feeling his underwear begin to wet as he feels the wetness of your pussy stain his sweatpants. He doesn’t care, however, and begins to wonder if he’ll ever wash these pants.
“Does that feel good, baby?” You ask, and Jaafar nods, continuing to plead.
“Yes, thank you.” He cries out as you smile and press a kiss against his cheek. The touch of your lips on his skin makes him suck in a sharp breath, scared that he’ll cum too soon and so much. You notice the hesitation and softly whine, pushing his face into your tits even harder.
You quicken your pace, throwing your head back. Jaafar whimpers, lifting his head up and looking into your eyes for permission. You nod, shivering as he drops his hands onto your waist. He quickly lifts your hips up, and then his. He then thrusts into you as you moan, arching your back as the friction begins to bring you closer to your climax.
Jaafar bites his lips, keeping his gaze on you as you play with your nipples, continuing to dry hump your clothed pussy.
“That’s it, baby, I want you to cum in your pants, okay?” You say, and Jaafar nods, keeping his merciless rhythm of deep and frantic thrusts.
You shove two fingers into his mouth, and Jaafar lets go. His hips stutter, and he whines loudly as you spasm after him. You fall onto his chest, breathing hard as sweat begins to form at your forehead.
You pull back, biting your lip as Jaafar shifts and looks down at his lip. His sweatpants begin to leak his cum. “Dirty, dirty, boy.”
Jaafar rolls his eyes back as you bring your hands down his chest and into his pants, pulling his cock out. You wrap your hands around it, breath hitching as you feel your fingers wet at his release. Jaafar brings his hand to yours and looks at you. “Let me please you, please?”
Your muscles tighten, and you nod. You stand and kick off your shorts and underwear, lying down across from him. You spread your legs open, using the wetness of your fingers from Jaafar’s release to begin teasing your folds. Jaafar whimpers and falls to his knees, crawling to you as he sits in front of you, admiring your glistening cunt.
“Eat.” You order, and Jaafar takes no time to obey. He drools as he begins to work on your clit, pressing kisses on it before sucking passionately. You tug at his hair, and he nods, bringing his other hand down to his cock as he begins teasing the slit of his head.
Jaafar consumes your wetness for a few more seconds before pulling away, smiling as the overstimulation washes over you. He uses the wetness of his cock and your pussy to massage the inside of your pussy. He curls his finger, whimpering as your moans fill the room.
“More, please, give me more, baby. Make me feel good.” Jaafar listens, and he slowly shoves another finger in, and you look down as the arousal glistens on Jaafar’s lips, you’re obsessed with. You bite your lip and moan as Jaafar continues to thrust his fingers into you.
“Cum for me, let me ravish you.” Jaafar murmurs, and you sputter, releasing your built-up climax into Jaafar’s soft yet filling fingers. He cooes, softly tracing his other hand onto your thighs.
He stands and pulls his pants down. You nod, gripping onto Jaafar’s shoulder as he pushes his cock inside you, slowly.
“I don’t want to hurt you, baby, so I’ll go slow, okay?” He hums, and you whimper as every inch fills you so perfectly. He moans into your ear, cock swallowed by the warmth of your perfect pussy, he’s intoxicated by. He’s scared to push into you more without your approval, but you tap his arms for more, and he obliges.
“This pussy was made for me. Just for me.” He cries out, stretching you so delicately.
“Just for you, it’s all for you. Just like that cock is mine.” You pant, eyes rolling back as he wraps his legs around your waist.
He slowly begins rolling his hips into you, finding a perfect rhythm in watching you slowly jerk back into the couch. The sight makes him bite his lip, bringing his hands down to your nipples. You take your hand and wrap it around his throat, putting enough pressure to have Jaafar’s hips stutter.
This pleasure has him begin rutting into you, bodies melted so perfectly together, you were in no rush to ever separate. He was hungry for your pussy, your warmth, your heart. He leaned down to kiss you, licking your lip so lusciously you began to cry out, begging for more.
“I’ll give you that and more, I promise,” Jaafar reassures you, nipping below your ear.
You began to feel your walls flutter around his cock, and Jaafar nodded as you screamed out. You threw your head back, gripping onto his curls as his hips pound into you, thrusting in you one more time before he cums inside your warmth, you following after.
You whimper softly as he slowly releases from you and takes a breath before standing, crouching down to pick you up from the couch. He walks the two of you to your bathroom, setting you down into the bathtub and turning on the water.
“Thank you for this. Truly. I’ve been blessed.” Jaafar says, and you softly smile. He begins lathering your body with water, making sure to wash away any of his or your arousal off your body.
“You weren’t that bad yourself, J.” You tease, and Jaafar throws water at your face playfully.
He continues to wash your body, wrapping you in a towel and carrying you onto your bed. He sits down next to you, grabbing your hands. “I love you.”
Your eyes softly lighten, looking for any hesitation in his face. Instead, there are tears and a serious light you’ve never seen him give you before, not while you were looking, at least.
“I’ve loved you for so long, and I wanted to tell you forever. I was scared I wasn’t enough for you, but you’re my person. The person I want to see every day, even on my worst days.” Jaafar continues, and you bring your hand to his face and wipe away his tears. You lean your forehead on his, smiling as you close the gap between the two of you.
“I love you. Thank you for trusting me, for allowing me to be your safe space.” You whisper, and Jaafar smiles into your kiss.
Jaafar pulls away, tugging at your towel. “I didn’t know I was into being controlled, you know? Not until I met you.”
You laugh, and shake your head, playfully tugging at his hair. “Next time, I think I’ll tie you up, show you if you really like to be dominated.”
Jaafar looks over at your open drawer, spotting a scarf lying out. He looks over at you, and you raise a brow. He walks over to it and hands it to you, and you smile.
jaafar jackson is shy about a... particularly spicier scene for the sequel to michael and quickly forgets to follow the script
(18+ ;) 3.6k words [part 2]
>
the production had already pulled you aside to discuss what the scene would be about, the director wanted to give greater emphasis on michael jackson's love life this time, and they landed that you would portray the sexual energy of the scene perfectly.
but it was a quick summary of the scene, you were promised to get a more complete explanation soon.
you were a gorgeous girl, and not many people knew of you. all of your roles before this were small ones, but you had poured your all into it. you have never felt more blessed to be a part of a production as big as this one, especially since for most of the movie, you will be acting beside a real jackson.
now, you were in a room with the writers and director of the sequel, no one had begun filming yet, now it was about laying the foundation down. jaafar was sat beside you on the long table, you guys have met countless times before-hand and got on well, you realize that a kind heart was genetic in the jackson family. but still, you guys were co-worker friendly.
the director clears his throat while pressing the edges of the paper to the table. "jaafar, you've seen my email?"
softly, jaafar responds. "yes, i responded back this morning."
the man shrugs, "no need, we'll discuss everything now. y/n, are you okay with nudity?"
your breath hitches, you've never been exposed on a big screen before, and knowing that it would be in a room with multiple people and especially jaafar, the idea scared you. you weren't that kind of actress yet. heat creeping up your neck, you dart your eyes to jaafar before responding. "what kind of nudity?"
the jackson next to you doesn't look away from you, you can tell he didn't want to see you uncomfortable, but he was observing quite closely. you and jaafar knew surface level information about one another, and it was safe to say you both were aware of the age-gap between the both of you. keeping your sight forward, you look at the man while you try to ignore jaafar's gaze on you.
"topless nudity, but it doesn't have to be your full chest. we want to go with the flow, but since you're so new to this we want to…" the director looks around the room, snapping his fingers while he tries to look for the word, "protect you." he lands with, holding your eyes again. you don't see, but jaafars adams apple bobs. jaafar felt shameful about his immense attraction to you and the idea of working with you naked made him quite nervous.
you hear him out, "are you uncomfortable with an entire studio seeing you bare?" he asks, clicking his pen and lightly twisting in his chair with wheels.
you swallow, answering honestly. "i've never filmed anything where i needed to be, so yes, i think i'm a little uncomfortable."
jaafar drops his gaze, he knows that after you it would be his turn to get asked these questions.
the man pops a shoulder, "thought so, it's only natural." then he abruptly asks a question that feels out of place. "have you worn backless dresses or tops before?" he randomly questions.
you nod, "yeah."
the man gives a look to one of the writers beside him, who jots something down on a sticky note.
"y/n, we'll get back to you on this, we want you to feel as comfortable and safe in this environment as possible. i'll discuss things further with you regarding nudity later, okay?"
you smile, and jaafar makes sure to lift his eyes and see it. "of course, thank you so much. i am willing to negotiate further, and make exceptions, i don't want you to think i won't do anything at all."
the man lifts his palm, "you're sweet, but you're only so young. now," he turns to jaafar, who was rubbing his palm on his thighs. "i'm not gonna make you get naked while you portray your uncle," jaafar laughs, and you cant help but chuckle too, "but this will be a very tension-filled, sexual scene. i'm going to give you both enough wiggle room to behave however you want but this is basically the scene—"
the writers pull out a stack of stapled paper, an older woman begins reading it out.
Cameras flash all on Michael, but he was staring at [Reader's character] who stands on the sidelines, away from paparazzi and interviewers and beside Bill and Michael's manager. The audience gets a view-shot of her entire flattering, sultry dress. Michael, despite being on the red carpet, pulls away early, eager to leave.
"Blah blah blah, okay, here's the scene."
Now that Michael was finally alone with [Reader's character], it's quiet and tension is thick in the air. Michael decides to speak first. He mentions something about how [Reader's characters]'s feet must be aching from her shoes. She, feeling bold, lifts up her legs and points her feet to Michael. She asks him to take her heels off for her. Michael doesn't think twice, feeling her feet once they are off.
"now jaafar, you're going to massage her toes and when you press against the middle of her foot, y/n will moan, this will take michael by surprise, kind of—shyly, boyishly smiling."
this was all starting to settle on to jaafars shoulders, he will really have to do these things with you. he wasn't sure how he felt, outside of his nervousness, but he would be a liar if he said this didn't excite him a little.
listening to the script kind of felt like a blur for you, a moment is brought up where jaafar will have to slide his hands under your dress and off of you, exposing you, you felt lightheaded. jaafar was good-looking, of course you couldn't wrap your mind around it.
"but don't worry, y/n. we'll edit this back if you're sure that you don't want to be naked."
as the explanation went on, you realize just how close you will need to get with jaafar.
phrases like "palm him", "pull his hair", "your tongue is gonna—" were thrown around, and that was only what you had to do. jaafar was left with much more work.
"remember, michael was quite the ladies man, he knew what he was doing when he put on a soft-act, and jaafar, you will also have to."
"yeah, i think i caught on with that." he jokes and you grin. just by his tone you can tell he was just as new to this as you. you often forget that he was never an actor before the first film, you both probably felt the same exact way.
"is there anything about the scene you two want me to change?"
you and jaafar both turn to look at each other but you both decide to remain silent, it seemed you both were open minded which was great news for the production.
you shake your head at the man, and he exclaims.
"great! now, this scene will take around a few days to film despite being a short one. our intimacy coordinator suggested, since you two have never filmed a romantic scene before, that you dedicate a few days together. you know, getting comfortable with each other and practicing the scene alone together before she interferes and organizes everything. we still want there to be passion, so we're relying on you two to make that happen. don't let it get unprofessional, but loosen each other up before the production interferes and filming starts happening, okay?"
alright, now you are a little scared. a few days of just you and jaafar together and, what, having sex? based on jaafar's shy, boyish expression, you can tell he was overthinking this just as much as you were.
everyone already starts to leave but you and jaafar are still planted on your seats.
"i would suggest starting as soon as possible, we're already behind schedule, so like, today.'
today.
is this a prank?
you can't even complain, you quite literally signed up for this.
the room began to empty out and you were still there, staring at your copy of the script. so was jaafar, who immediately rubs his forehead after it's just you two now.
"i had no clue they were gonna make me do this after i accepted doing the first movie." he said, humor behind his voice.
you laugh, "yeah, i got no excuse. not sure what we're gonna do with the whole topless thing though."
he takes a moment to respond back, there was a thickness in the air now that it was just the two of you. it was to be expected, after getting a step-for-step guide on how you're gonna be having sex for the next few weeks of practicing and filming. "do ah, do we just get right into it or do you want to get to know each other better first?"
looking at the dimple on his cheek, you say "i think getting to know each other sounds better right now."
-
you burst out laughing. you were back at his apartment now and you realize he's way funnier than he lets on, the sounds of your laughing giving him a sense of pride floating in his chest.
despite him saying he doesn't drink, he makes an exception today in order to pave some room for you both. no one was exactly drunk, just tipsy.
"i mean just look at his mustache!" he doubles down and you actually feel tears forming.
"oh my god, stop, i can't breathe." you throw your head back on his couch, gasping for air as you force yourself to calm down. he can't help but laugh when you do, so you both were just giggling messes.
you make a noise that sounds like a content sigh, turning your head to look at him as silence finally settles between you two again. you notice how jaafar doesn't make eye contact with you for long, looking away every time you catch his gaze. now he looks at the empty glass cups on his coffee table and the folders beside them, but you were too busy focusing on his curls which he grew out since the last movie. his hair wasn't too long per se, just a casually messy head of curls that he looked fabulous in.
he now knows more about what kind of music you listen to and your relationship with your family, but also your personality now shined like a sun-beam outside of a work setting. he absoluetly adored you.
he tried to push the thought to the back of his mind. he felt shameful for his violating, ungentleman-like thoughts but god. he could not wait to fuck you.
jaafar picks up the folder, giving you a wide smile which makes you try to swallow down how flustered you felt.
your sight darts to the folder now in his hand, nervousness eating you up again. "i guess we gotta get to it, huh."
"nah, not right away if you don't want," he flips through it quickly before dismissing it back on the table again. "how about we just do what we remember today, and tomorrow we follow it step by step?'
still in a mood where you felt like joking, you jump straight into it.
"oh gosh, my feet, michael. they just hurt so bad…" you made up your own dialogue as you lifted your right foot, where you only had a sock on since you had taken your shoes off before entering his apartment.
already, he laughs, the sound comforting you as he scooches close to you. "nope, no i cant have that, give me your foot," he grasps it and places it on his lap, shoving your socks off and doing a surprisingly good job at massaging it.
actually, it took you by surprise how good it was, you unexpectedly shove a hand to your mouth to keep yourself from making any noises.
"awh, i didn't even get to the pad of your foot yet." he grins at you, lifting a hand to pull your own hand away from your mouth. his being significantly bigger, softer.
you remembered you were supposed to be making noise, so you just let him, but it was just a massage and despite being tipsy, you didn't want to embarrass yourself by being too vocal so you force yourself to remain quiet.
you weren't wearing a dress, so he couldn't follow the steps of sliding his hand under it and groping your thighs, so instead he goes over your pants. his hands were warm, the heat of it seeping through your material until he reached your thigh, your character spread her legs open wider, so you do too.
he moves slower for a moment, you think it's because he was trying to remember what to do next, but what you don't know was that his heart was thumping so hard in his chest he thinks you can hear it. really. jaafar was building up his courage.
slowly getting closer to you, breathing in your scent, he looks up at you with such a puppy dog expression, you almost ask him what's wrong. "i'm going to touch you over your clothes today, okay?" jaafar tells you instead of asking you.
"okay," you respond softly, his character was supposed to grope your actual body, but jaafar barely even hovers above your clothed breast. he was so nice, it began frustrating you. you understand this was your job, but you were both new to this and you couldn't change how you feel at this moment.
"jaafar," your voice above a whisper, the humorous environment quickly shifting to exactly what the production was thinking when they wrote out this scene. jaafar looks back at you with his brown, sweet eyes. "i know you can tell i'm not wearing a bra under this," he watches your mouth and he gulps, "but you can loosen up, we need to."
he nods, hesitantly palming you while his other hand squeezed your thigh. arching your back from the sofa, you go to kiss his jaw like you remembered you should. jaafar got shivers at the feeling of your soft pillowy lips pressing against his skin, completely engulfed in your scent.
jaafar has never been this nervous preparing for a scene before, not even when he had to spin and do moonwalks. His mind went blank, he couldn't contain himself under the gaze of your doe eyes, eagerly waiting for his next move. he didn't expect the cotton of your shirt to be so thin, feeling your nipple grow harder against his grasp.
now he really couldn't focus.
"ah.." he drops his head to look at his lap, "what did it say i do now?" he was too shy to even look at you, all the blood rushing up to his face. he didn't think this would be so hard.
"kiss me," you purred. you didn't mean for it to come out that way, your tone making jaafar's heart skip a beat until he almost started praying.
slowly, he closes the space between you. you sucked in a breath while your lips brushed against each other. finally, he pressed his own lips against yours, and you tasted so sweet he felt as if he was growing high. the kiss was short, but so perfect. your lips felt lonely when he pulled away.
nervously rubbing his thumb over your clothed nipple, his body language proved his anxiousness, kneading your thighs as he dropped his forehead to your shoulder.. you bite your lip at the feeling, not ignoring the fact that none of this was in the script. "what do i do now?" he asks, afraid to look at you.
your fingers tangle themselves amongst the curls over his nape, "doesn't matter, this was about getting the tension out of the way, right?" you asked. he felt like a student who was being guided by a teacher, god he was so hard. he was an amateur actor, he didn't know how long he could hide it for.
you had no idea this was practically like the blind leading the blind, but he lifts his head from off your shoulder anyways and nods. "yes," he tells himself, "you're right."
focus jaafar.
he kisses you again and you are more than welcoming, but this kiss was far more extensive than the one before. his demeanor is broken, desperate. he moves his hand from your boob, leaving you colder while he reaches for the other side of your hip, pressing you against him.
"come on," he softly orders, fighting the urge not to stick his tongue in you, "sit on my lap, please…"
you're supposed to be in character, but calling his uncle's name out right now doesn't feel right. doing as you're told, you feel how hard he is now that his crotch is nuzzled between your ass, straddling both his sides.
taking matters into your own hands, you decide to part between his teeth using your tongue, but it seems he also had the urge to do it at the same time, so your tongues end up swirling against each other. this makes him whimper while your hips start rocking against him.
you suck his bottom lip as you tug on his hair, he instinctively stands up while he carried you from your thighs, you hooking your legs around his waist for extra security while he took you to his bedroom. he was such a gentleman, he didn't want the first time you two "rehearse" to be in the middle of his living room.
you didn't care where it would be, you were so wet you were sure you were damp through your pants.
he gently lays you down on his bed, and you can smell him everywhere. the sheets, the pillows, everything was so him. the scene didn't include any real penetration, and he promised to practice this without any clothes being taken off either of you, so the two of you felt so incredibly restricted.
you couldn't admit to each other you were frustrated that the first day on the job for this scene didn't include skin to skin contact.
"don't let it get unprofessional."
jaafar had to hold himself back so much, it physically hurt. he just stuck with what he knew he was allowed to do. pulling away from your mouth to look at the hard nipples poking through your shirt, he whines, grabbing a handful of it while crawling over you.
"i wish you could suck them," you impulsively, very unprofessionally gasp.
as soon as you were about to regret it and hate yourself forever, he responds immediately. "me too," he moans, a pained look on his features.
you look at each other, intoxication playing in both your eyes. without another word, you shove your shirt above your head and he helps it off you. his mouth immediately salivates, licking past your nipple as he buries himself in your tits.
he calls favorite for your right breast, kissing it and moaning into it while his other hand plays with the other one, flicking your nipple and twisting it. you didn't want to be obnoxious, biting your lip to suppress your whimper. your legs spread open, your tits jiggling in his face when you lift up your hip to press yourself against his crotch.
he pulls away from your chest, his chin just as wet as your boobs. his fixes himself, aligning his clothed cock against your clothed pussy, he can't believe what he's doing. "jaafar…" you mewled, embarrassingly covering your face with the back of your hand.
"stop," he particularly ordered, shoving your hand over your head. "i have to see you…" jaafar licks his lower lip. you blush hard, rolling your hips as the thick, rock-hard outline of his dick gets you even wetter.
unable to contain himself, he presses harder into you, humping you through your clothes as the contact presses against your clit. he doesn't know where to look, you're a distracting billboard. there was a dark wet circle of precum on his pants, he was so embarrassed, but it only turned him on more.
your soft, smaller hand goes to touch his throat, he leans closer to you, his shirt-covered chest hovering just above your bouncing, exposed one. gently wrapping your hands around his throat, his adams apple bobs against your palm and you kiss him again.
your pussy clenches around nothing and his dick twitches against you, you didn't know how much longer you could roll your hips, feeling as if you were about to cry out in frustration." jaafar," you coo against his mouth, accidentally squeezing his throat tighter. jaafar didn't think he could get any harder.
"jus' ah little longer y/n." he slurs, seeing stars. he takes your leg and puts it over his shoulder, humping through your pussy harder while you tried fucking yourself back on him. your orgasm completely sneaks up on you, jumpscared with the sudden cum pulsing out of you, leaking through your clothes. "jaafar!" you shuttered, your back almost completely arching off of his mattress. he keeps dryhumping you, throwing his head completely back until his hip stutters.
now you both were soaked messes of cum.
don't let it get unprofessional my ass.
<
ok let me know if you guys want a part 2 to this where they do a little more than just dryhumping if you catch my drift
PREVIEW. The limelight is yours—you’ve been itching for it ever since your debut only six months ago, and your pathway to stardom is a straight-shot after being recruited to be the opener for the world-famous rock band CH33RS. This a hundred day tour is sure to bring you the fame you know you’re deserving of, especially after the announcement of your upcoming debut album. The only catch? WOOZI, lead singer of CH33RS, seems to hate you.
FEATURING. rockstar!lee jihoon x risingstar!reader
GENRE(S). drama, angst, fluff, smut (mdni.)
LENGTH | WC. <3.5 hrs | 27.5k (PHEW)
TAGS | EXPLICITS. cursing, miscommunication, not really e2l more like they just get off on the wrong foot, lots & lots of tension, mentions of drug use, mentions of alcohol use, reader suffers from anxiety, mistreatment of idols by staff, mentions of needles from piercings (belly button, lobe, eyebrow, nose), descriptions of violence, frieren spoilers (!!!) | dom!ljh, sub!r, oral (r), fingering (r), finger sucking, reader has breasts, one (1) pussy slap, riding, doggy style, unprotected sex (pls be careful y'all…), sir kink, nicknames (ljh calls r pretty, baby)
JAY’S MUSINGS. FOR YUKI'S 100 MILESTONE COLLAB! i had an absolute BLAST getting to meet so many new ppl thru this collab & am excited to read through everyone else's work! additional warning: this is the craziest, longest projection I’ve ever done onto the mc for a fic. pls don't perceive me too hard. this is ALSO my smut debut (つ﹏<。)… I fear they get hella freaky. once again, pls don’t perceive me too hard. BIG BIG thank you to calli & hershey (@hhaechansmoless & @junplusone), my loves, for seeing me through this. (those sprints were insane btw. u guys rock. love u eternally.)
LISTEN TO THE SETLIST HERE! (🎧) fan favorites include california & he gets me so high by beabadoobee, r u mine, snap out of it, do i wanna know?, & 505 by arctic monkeys.
📍 SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
The photoshoot set is loud—too loud, if anyone were to ask you.
No one does, of course. Your make-up artist instead squeezes another shot of red cherry lip stain to your already plumped lips, batting her eyelashes and gushing over how your eyes are being complimented just right. Behind you, a photographer with a neon green mohawk mutters to themselves that you’re wearing too few layers for what’s supposed to be a corporate setting, but they’re shushed by the stylist who starts to preach about rebellion against a capitalistic and patriarchal society. There’s a flashing show of cameras going on up front where the office setting is, dulled-out office furniture turned over and papers scattered everywhere, with the camera staff making their final adjustments to the illumination.
The light hurts your head. You kind of want to take a Tylenol and pass out.
Just when the make-up artist begins to babble on about some sort of skin care routine to take care of the acne scars on your cheeks, your savior shows up.
Joshua.
“Oh, thank fuck that you’re here,” you sigh, pushing the staff member off of you in a barely professional manner. “Are we starting soon? It’s been like, two hours now.”
Your manager has the nerve to raise an eyebrow like he’s not the one causing you to be put through overstimulating torture. “Weren’t you the one begging to have a shoot with Rolling Stone? I went through hell trying to get you this gig.”
Tugging on the garter for one of your fishnet sleeves, you begin to fix your outfit from the horrors of prolonged sitting time, readjusting the tiers of silver jewelry around your neck. Joshua waits for you patiently, holding out a bottle of water that you gratefully chug down once you’re done.
“Look, this photoshoot is going to be good for you, you know. You need the exposure, especially with your upcoming debut album and tour.”
“Upcoming debut album and opener for a tour,” you sourly correct. “Instead of going on my own world tour, I get to be the background music to a merch line full of idiots who are probably high out of their minds, waiting for the main performance.”
You can tell when Joshua’s patience wears thin. He does this thing where his left eyebrow twitches in an attempt to stop his face from twisting into a scowl, and sometimes he’ll even pinch the bridge of his stupidly perfectly bridged nose with his index finger and thumb, rubbing it like a lucky charm.
The man sighs and surprisingly regains composure before speaking. “You’re still a rising star, Sairen. Rising doesn’t mean world-renowned. Rising means just starting out. We’ve had this conversation before.”
Your body involuntarily stiffens at the mention of your stage name. Sairen. A classic take on the seducing mythological creature that lures sailors to their death with an irresistible voice. When signing with the label PHOENIX, they insisted you use a stage name to increase your appeal to the target audience.
A persona raging with lustful eyes and dripping in confidence would make sales rocket, they praised, holding their breaths as they listened to your first playback. Embrace this mask on stage—it’ll give you the courage you need to score big.
But I’m already scoring big as I am right now, you wanted to argue.
Of course, your signature ended up neatly scribbled onto the contract anyway.
It wasn’t like you hated performing—no, you lived for the stage. Memories of your first live performance seep into your mind, the crowd’s energy shaking you to the core. Hearing people scream the lyrics to a song you wrote from the depths of your heart, and knowing they related tenfold to your words meant more to you than anything else in the world. From handmade bracelets to thank-you notes thrown on stage, you swore to continue giving back to your community. Your fans were one of the only things holding you together.
Because the constant hiding from on-slaughtering paparazzi? The diets your staff started to put you on, claiming they would help you lose weight? The fake interviewers with their fake smiles and even faker compliments?
You were tired of it—too tired of it, if anyone asked you.
But once again, no one does, and with only one more moment of hesitation does Joshua usher you to the front of the set.
📍 BUSAN, KOREA
Lee Jihoon can barely believe his ears.
“Sairen? You’re telling me Jeonghan got Sairen onboard for our tour?”
Soonyoung’s nodding so hard one would think he’s headbanging into another universe. The two of them were currently at a low-lit diner, enjoying kal-guksu over a shared beer.
“Yeah! Apparently he’s friends with their manager. They go way back or something, and he owed ‘em.” Soonyoung slurps a spoonful of noodles into his mouth. “Dude, this is huge. We’ve never had an opener who was this big before.”
“That’s because we’ve never had an opener, Soonyoung.” Jihoon raises an eyebrow at his friend’s antics and takes a sip of beer. The alcohol is bitter and tastes cheap on his tongue. “This is our first time going on a tour big enough to have one.”
“Oh. Right.”
The lead singer sighs and, in a bad habit of poor table manners, swirls his chopsticks around mindlessly.
Sairen. The indie rockstar was barely his age, but they were already reaching fame he could only have wished for back then. Jihoon remembers the restless nights waiting in anticipation for CH33RS’ album drop; he remembers the blood, sweat, and tears poured into the debut of the decade, and how the three of them had pushed themselves to limits they didn’t even know they had. He wonders how Sairen managed to do it—on their own, nonetheless—and with what will.
Letting out a low whistle, Jihoon kicks back his feet on the booth’s seat, right next to Soonyoung. The drummer makes a whine of protest before reluctantly obliging, scooting over so Jihoon’s clunky boots have more room.
“This Sairen,” Jihoon picks at his nails, “They’re pretty good, from what I’ve heard. But they don’t exactly fit our concept that much.”
Soonyoung scoffs, pointing his chopsticks at his bandmate accusingly. “You’re just jealous ‘cause you like their style. You wanna copy, don’t you?”
He tsks. Jihoon’s never been one for being read, especially by someone like Soonyoung.
It’s true; Sairen’s sound is unique and, like their stage name suggests, utterly captivating. He still doesn’t understand how they’re able to hit those haunting, spine-chilling high notes in their songs; Jihoon’s tried a shameful number of times to recreate the sounds, all unsuccessful.
Maybe this tour will prove useful, after all.
“Do you know when we’re meeting them?” Jihoon asks, totally ignoring his friend’s prior question.
Soonyoung tilts his head and rests his chin on his palm. He’s staring daggers into Jihoon’s soul again, a slitted eyebrow perfectly arched under the dim diner lighting.
“What? You interested in them or something? They are pretty hot.”
Jihoon moves his heavy-footed boot, and Soonyoung yelps. Rubber meets skin and Jihoon knows he’s hit a nerve when the older man starts whining for him to stop. He, albeit reluctantly, stops digging into Soonyoung’s thigh and opts for tapping a beat on the worn wood of the booth seat.
“I fear your lust is what’s going to disband our group,” Jihoon scowls.
The waiter comes at the perfect time with the check, and he watches Soonyoung neatly stack their bowls and cups together.
Flipping his hood up, the two band members shuffle their way out of the diner, the Busan wind meeting them head-on from the second they step out the door. Seungcheol is probably in the studio refining his guitar strings, Jihoon notes, as Soonyoung calls for a cab.
It’s still early in the evening, the sky on the brink of darkening into night. If he were farther inland, Jihoon would be craning his neck trying to see the stars that twinkle into view. Here, though, in the heart of the city, he knows it’s futile. There’s too much light pollution competing with the organic phenomena of the galaxy.
Jihoon purses his lips in thought. Humankind really knows how to fuck up natural beauties.
Soonyoung is calling his name, waving eagerly from the open back door of a taxi that will take them back to the studio. Raising a hand to signal he’s heard the obnoxiously rowdy calls of his friend, Jihoon trudges forward, forcing the stars out of his mind.
After all, forward is the only way to go around these parts.
📍 SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
WOOZI is… shorter in person.
You’re not sure why you notice him first; maybe it was indeed his height, or perhaps it’s because he’s the only one who’s actively not paying any attention to the matter at hand. It’s silent, save for murmurs of staff in the background, as Jihoon chugs water from a bottle someone gave him. A sliver of his abdomen is revealed as his head tilts back to get the last few drops, and to your surprise, you catch a peek of shiny black ink from under his white tank top.
Was it always this warm in the lounge room?
You shift awkwardly from one foot to another as a blondie with a mole on the apple of his cheek begins to introduce the members of CH33RS. Not like you needed one, anyway; you were more than familiar with the band.
CH33RS, a rock group that debuted barely two years ago. Composed of S.COUPS, HOSHI, and WOOZI, they’ve made an impressive dent in the K-rock world, hitting chart numbers you wouldn’t think were possible in someone’s early twenties. Their debut album, CHANGE UP!, charted in the top ten for Billboard, practically shooting them into stardom with people worldwide eagerly anticipating their release of new music.
Now, with their comeback and announcement of their world tour, RUBY, it’s a pure miracle you were able to even get a greeting from them. It’s even more of a miracle that you were able to score an opportunity to be their opener for the North America shows.
There’s a hand shaking yours. Breaking out of your trance, you’re met with the bright smile of HOSHI, the band’s drummer. His energy must be what got him the role of their percussionist, because you physically feel the drainage of your social battery from the vigor he has in shaking your hand.
“Hi! It’s so nice to meet you, Sairen, I can’t wait to see your performances,” he’s saying with a smile that rivals the sun.
His English is tinged with an accent, but you don’t find yourself minding. Your lips stretch into a smile, spurred on by his youthful spirit, and tell him he can call you by your real name.
“There’s no need for formalities when we’ll be working together.” You brush a stray hair out of your eyes and bow slightly to him; Joshua practically whacked good manners into you like you were some unruly kid who never learned how to take their muddy shoes off in a house. “I’m looking forward to working with you for the next few months as well.”
HOSHI’s eyes light up. He tells you that while he doesn’t mind being called his stage name, Soonyoung works just fine too, and for once in a blue moon, your heart warms for a coworker.
S.COUPS, also known as Seungcheol, is next. He bows deeply to you and extends his hand like a businessman. He was only adorned in a worn hoodie and baggy jeans, but if you didn’t know any better as an outsider, you would’ve guessed that the man was about to propose the best deal of your life.
To your right, the blonde man with the mole mutters something in Seungcheol’s ear. Seungcheol dips his head to you once more and steps back with a polite smile. “It is nice to meet you.”
You give him a brief smile. His eyes are the only thing that isn’t serious about him, and remind you of the gaze of a fawn’s that you would see in your backyard when you were younger—big, and filled with wonder.
Finally, WOOZI raises his hand in acknowledgment. You’re taken by surprise once again by him, as he doesn’t even bother stepping forward to greet you.
“WOOZI. Looking forward to working with you.”
You blink. “Sairen. Likewise.”
The air feels thick, and it takes Joshua coughing to get everyone back in action. Blondie with the mole introduces himself as Jeonghan, their manager, and you’re not quite sure if you like the twinkle in his eyes when they sweep over you and your manager.
“Now that introductions are over, our first schedule with the four of you will be a promotional shoot for the tour.” Joshua is clapping his hands like a director, and some staff members begin to scurry around for your guys’ belongings. “We’ll be taking separate cars, but we’ll see you at the shoot.”
You’re out the door before you can say formal goodbyes, but you manage to catch the friendly smiles on Seungcheol and Soonyoung’s faces while you’re being bustled along by staff members. Your ever-loving manager clicks the button to the elevator and heaves a sigh.
“Still angry over who you’re opening for?” he inquires. “I promise, they’re not a bad bunch to be around! Even Jihoon—er, WOOZI. I actually know all of ‘em pretty well; Jeonghan and I, we grew up in the industry together. You’re in good hands.”
You choose not to respond as you board the elevator, pressing the level for parking and reaching for your phone. There are no notifications, of course, but you fiddle with the folders of apps on your homescreen anyway to busy yourself. Joshua whistles a tune.
Maybe if you were lucky today, you’d be able to sneak away to a park somewhere and use that new gardening app you’ve been meaning to try out. You think back to your busy schedule and sigh; if only another miracle could happen, where someone with good intentions kidnaps you and steals you away.
“The photoshoot,” you finally say. “How many people are gonna be there? Same as last time?”
Your manager tenses. “I requested for less staff this time, but I’m not sure how well it came across to the company. Let me know if we need to schedule an early leave, okay?”
The elevator halts in time with your tightening chest. You blink hard and fast, trying to rid yourself of the images of bright lights and too many people talking to you at once. There’s a hand on your back, and though you want to curse Joshua for reminding you of your predicament, you instead find yourself aching for the circles he rubs into your shoulder blade.
“Fuck you,” you mutter. Joshua only laughs. “If I react this way later, don’t be surprised.”
—
You do, to your credit, react that way later.
Someone’s shouting for you across the set room. The room is alive with people, animated laughter ringing out as staff members run to and fro. It’s even worse since it’s not just you who’s being attended to, but three additional men. You can hear the cheerful voice of Soonyoung combined with Seungcheol’s requests to staff members for more water. Jihoon, on the other hand, is nowhere to be found.
Your name is called again and you flinch, muttering a half-hearted apology to the makeup artist who gives you a stink eye for messing up their work. The denim shorts they’re having you wear for this shoot are chafing your thighs. It takes everything in you not to throw a tantrum right then and there.
“There you are!” the sound manager barks, and you startle again, much to the stylist’s displeasure. “I’ve been looking all over you. Why haven’t you been to the front of the set yet? The lighting manager wants to ask for your opinion on filters.”
You want to bite back that what they’re asking is definitely a Joshua question, but you hold your tongue, sighing. Think of the park. Think of the flowers.
“I’ll be right there in a second, I’m almost done here.”
The makeup artist scowls. “You are not almost done here, are you kidding me? I’m gonna need a lot more time than a second.”
“Please hurry it up, then. We’re on a tight schedule; CH33RS is almost ready and we only have about two hours booked for this shoot.”
The sound manager leaves without another word. Your knuckles are paling from how tightly you’re gripping the arms of the styling chair, chewing the inside of your cheek until you taste the familiar metallic flavor of blood.
“You heard the man,” the makeup artist huffs. “Stop moving and maybe I’ll actually get something done to make you look better.”
Their brush clatters to the floor.
Before you know it, you’re out of the chair and in their face, teeth bared. It’s gotten eerily silent in the room way too fast. “You’re lucky my manager pities your company enough to work with you. How dare you treat me this way, and over a problem that’s not mine, no less.”
You’re about to say more, but there’s a cold tap of a finger on your shoulder. You twist, ready to charge yet again, but the sight of Jihoon’s sharp expression halts you in your tracks.
“Care to tell me why you’re yelling at a staff member? One your manager personally hired, too?” He raises an eyebrow.
You scoff. His perfect English pisses you off; it tells you his short introduction wasn’t due to lack of vocabulary, but lack of desire to greet you. “Stay the fuck out of this, Jihoon. You don’t know shit.”
The man’s eyes turn icy. You warily take a step back.
“My name to you is WOOZI. If you can’t even have the decency to treat your own staff members with respect, the least you can do to make up for it is refer to me by the name I prefer. Know your place, Sairen.”
With that, WOOZI turns around, coolly walking away without even a glance back to check if you’ve heard what he’s said. Seungcheol claps WOOZI on the back and says something in Korean, and Soonyoung starts up a conversation to kick the room back into action.
It works, and you’re left alone as the room bustles back to life, the makeup artist disappearing somewhere you couldn’t care less for.
Your cheeks sting, hot from embarrassment at being treated like a misbehaving child in front of dozens of people. You can hear the rumors already—Sairen, known for a biting tongue, finally humbled, and by no other than one of the members of the band they’re opening for. A classic powerplay that will haunt you even when the stage lights dim and the crowd cheers for an encore.
You barely register Joshua at your side. He’s speaking to you, pressing a cold water bottle to your neck to snap you back to reality.
Instead, tears prick your eyes, and your bottom lip wobbles. The sound manager from before is yelling again, no doubt trying to rush you, but the last thing you want is to be around people. The park will have to be saved for another day.
“I’m going to the bathroom. Tell the director I’ll be a bit.”
You don’t even wait for Joshua’s response before you’re walking away, arms crossed and head down.
📍 SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
Your head leans against the glass, the material cool against your forehead. The clouds across the sky streak red and pink as the sun peers out from behind a vast forest of evergreens. You stare at the outlined branches, imagining the rough, spiky bumps of a pinecone in your hands. Would it be less painful to hold a thousand of them bare, rather than have to be the bearer of WOOZI’s wrath?
A sudden lurch halts your reminiscences, the driver apologizing for the sudden brakes being hit, and you can faintly hear Joshua with his hasty forgiveness.
At least the tour was going well, you think bitterly.
You hate that it’s true; Joshua had excitedly woken you up this morning for your four o’clock flight with the news that three of the next upcoming shows for RUBY had sold out. In your stupor, you had spilled the poorly-made hotel coffee he had brought on yourself, leading to the man worriedly giving you treatment for any mild burns.
“Joshua, it’s fine,” you had stammered, hurriedly trying to ease the sting by pressing cold towels to your thigh and left wrist.
Contrary to how he acted with you in the industry, your manager was a kind man—it was one of his few redeeming qualities. He shooed you into the bathroom with a change of clothes, telling you he’d brief you more on the matter on the car ride later.
Now, on the vehicle, he sits beside you as you listen to him rattle off all the things you should theoretically be giddy about.
“Tonight, Vancouver, and Salt Lake City all were bought out once you finished up in San Francisco,” Joshua is puttering, typing away at some very important work emails on his laptop. “The crowd was great for a first show, of course, but because of how well your and CH33RS’ energy was, the internet is going wild with clips. Streams with How Tomorrow Moves have upped like, 16% overnight. You’re doing really well.”
“Just as they predicted,” you muse, tapping your chin with an indifference that makes Joshua’s eye twitch.
“Hey, their predictions don’t dictate that stuff, you know.” You feel the brush of his hoodie against your skin; a familiar way of his to show that in the end, he truly does care about you. “You dictate that stuff. Your energy, your performance, it all comes down to you. Not some shabby company that uses you like a pawn.”
You snort, slightly pushing him away and grinning at him. “Can’t believe you’re shittalking your boss, just like that.”
Joshua rolls his eyes as the trees start to give way to suburban developments, signaling that a restroom stop is close.
“You’re a human, too. Don’t forget that.”
His words stick with you throughout the remainder of the road trip.
You know CH33RS took a bus, them having more staff compared to you and your manager, and you’re grateful that Joshua listened to your request of taking a separate car to allow you to get more rest.
The flight itself was awful enough—two hours of staring straight ahead and trying to ignore WOOZI’s distant nature beside you. Soonyoung, who had been on your left, fell asleep rather quickly, leaving you no choice but to daydream about being anywhere but next to the lead singer of CH33RS.
You knew that WOOZI had an aloof nature; it was something fangirls giggled relentlessly about in the comment section of his Instagram posts and YouTube covers. You were expecting his lack of emotion, even, but you never would have guessed he would have been so openly hostile towards you on your first day of meeting.
And over a staff member who was disrespecting you, nonetheless!
Out of the corner of your eye, you had taken a peek at him, earbuds in and eyes shut. If he hadn’t been so arrogant about being the bigger person in that situation, maybe the two of you could be talking about inspiration for music instead of sitting in complete silence on the flight.
Too bad he had to be a complete dick who inserted himself into situations that didn’t even involve him.
You sigh, dragging your luggage out of the elevator and into the luxurious hallway of yet another hotel. Tonight’s show was sure to be highly anticipated, but all you wanted to do was curl up on your bed and watch anime. You heard Frieren was being highly reviewed these days, and you were itching to watch it.
“Remember that once you unpack, you’re scheduled for a dinner with the guys to discuss plans for the next few shows, now that they’re sold out,” Joshua calls from behind you; there’s the sound of shuffling and the unlocking of a door to your right. “Text me once you’re ready. We’re heading deeper into the city, so it would be wise to wear something that’s easy to disguise yourself with.”
Biting your tongue, you numbly nod, and without any more words you hear the heavy hotel door click shut.
—
Jihoon knows he should apologize to you.
He stands backstage, a staff member making sure the mic on his outfit is secure. With his forefinger and thumb, Jihoon twirls his iconic red microphone in his hand, letting the sensation of applause from your latest performance wash over him with satisfaction. That dramatic high note at the end was something he only ever dreamed of hearing, but here he was, listening to you belt your heart out live to a bunch of strangers.
That day, back during the photoshoot, Seungcheol had cornered him during a scheduled break. He remembers the crazed look in the bassist’s eyes, lips turned so forcefully upside down that Jihoon had to steady the man before asking him what was wrong.
“Why’d you upset Sairen like that?” Seungcheol huffed. “Man, we just met them today. You’re gonna get rumors to spread and our tour hasn’t even started yet.”
Faintly, the sound of a vase clattering to the floor flashes through Jihoon’s mind. He remembers cupping a face in his hands and shouting for someone to call an ambulance.
His worry must be evident on his face, because Seungcheol’s frown eases into a sympathetic grimace. “You know, Sairen was being mistreated first. They had the sound manager on their ass, and I heard from Jeonghan that their makeup artist wasn’t the greatest to them, either. Cut them some slack, will you?”
“That gives them no right to treat their staff that way, hyeong,” Jihoon points out, gritting his teeth together. “They should know better than to outright challenge a worker like that. It won’t work in their favor—not here. Not when all they have is Joshua behind them.”
Seungcheol heaves a sigh; one that Jihoon knows all too well, when Soonyoung steals too much of the kimchi without permission or when Jeonghan plays another nasty prank on him.
“We were in their shoes once,” Seungcheol chides, nudging his shoulder. “And you, out of everyone here, should know what it’s like to be looked down upon by everyone except a select few. Try and have some sympathy, even if it only lasts the hundred days we’re together with them.”
Now, in the present, Jihoon watches you hype up the crowd for the main event of CH33RS. You’re decked in an outfit that emphasizes your figure just right, the red crop-top letting your belly button piercing take full stage in the twinkling lights. He never knew you had one; you weren’t one to post pictures often on social media, and when you did for brand collabs, it was never flaunted.
Maybe it had been an impulse decision before the tour started—before you met him, and before your life changed too much for you to keep up with.
Shaking his head, the singer turns around and looks for his bandmates. It was no use overthinking the past; he had done what he did, and now you avoided him like the plague. Your stink eyes could rival Seungcheol’s, that’s for sure.
“Thank you, Seattle!” He hears you shout into the mic. “I’ll be back, don’t you worry!”
The roar of the crowd is deafening, and he knows you’re taking your final bow. There’s probably glitter running down your neck from the sweat you’ve gained onstage, your makeup being ruined from the performance, and he wonders what it would be like to wipe away the cold expression off your face and be the receiver of a smile, instead.
No matter. The music fades to instrumentals of CH33RS’ songs as the sound of your chunky boots treads offstage. Soonyoung’s running up to you with a grin, saying that you outperformed the first show in San Francisco, and you’re laughing in his arms. Jihoon feels like there’s a frog in his throat.
“Well done, Sairen.” Seungcheol beams. “If we’re not careful, you’re going to be the main performance instead of us.”
“Seungch—S.COUPS,” you correct yourself, smiling bashfully up at the bassist. “Thank you, but you know that isn’t true. Those people are out there for you. Me being here doesn’t change that.”
Jihoon’s heard enough. One of the staff members calls for last-minute bathroom runs and outfit changes, saying CH33RS will be up in no less than fifteen minutes. Before he can rationalize with himself to congratulate you on your show, he’s scurrying off to the bathroom, cheeks alight with something he refuses to recognize.
—
For the first time in days, you don’t want to tear your hair out when interacting with a staff member who’s not Joshua.
Sakura, one of the permanent stylists for CH33RS, sits you in a chair and begins to help you take your makeup off. Your breaths are still coming in heavy pants, chest rising and falling all too quickly, and the girl responds by handing you a bottle of water.
“Drink, please.”
It’s the most care you’ve gotten in the industry since Joshua became your manager. You sit, quietly sipping the water, a warm feeling in your chest rising as Sakura begins to wipe your face and moisturize it without any cruel remarks or biting, back-handed comments.
Even from backstage, inside a well-padded dressing room, you can still hear the audience’s booming cheers accompanied by the high-pitched strum of a guitar. WOOZI’s voice, a symphony to your ears, begins to ring faintly. You close your eyes and let the calmness wash over you.
Maybe Joshua was right; maybe you were doing well this time around, and this tour was going to be your key to stardom. The stomach in your pit ached to be seen, to be known, to be heard, and tonight it feasted on the crowd’s voices singing along to your music. Flowers and handmade beaded bracelets notes had been tossed onstage, making your heart melt as you profusely thanked Seattle.
This is what you were made for—putting your all out there for those who needed a voice. Not to perform some shitty, fake and lustful persona that PHOENIX wanted to market you for.
Your eyes flutter open as Sakura murmurs that she’s almost done. Letting out a breath of relief, your lips curl into a smile. “Thank you, Sakura. I appreciate you.”
She pauses in putting away the moisturizer. Joshua had taught you some simple Korean, especially for etiquette, but you guessed that Sakura was still surprised at hearing you speak to her so willingly.
Her big brown eyes blink once, twice, thrice at you before she dips her head. “Ah… you’re welcome. Please let me know if you need anything else.”
“Of course. Thank you once more.”
There it is again—Sakura lets her lips part oh-so slightly. You tilt your head, a quizzical smile on your face, but she quickly waves her hands in dismissal before offering you another goodbye.
Once she leaves, you’re left to your own devices, your manager off somewhere making plans for the upcoming days before the next show. The guys shouldn’t be here for about another hour, you muse, idling on your phone. You had started Frieren last night, but the oncoming slaughter of cheers from outside gives you the impression it would be hard to enjoy at the moment. Maybe you should order some food instead.
The brief thought crosses your mind of ordering food for CH33RS now, so the wait time wouldn’t be too long. It has you hesitating over the screen, thumb barely brushing the Order Now button on your favorite takeout place.
You wonder what WOOZI’s favorite food is.
Scoffing, you turn your phone off and throw it onto the vanity, its case clattering against the wood. Now was no time to think about a man who had majorly upset you.
There’s a knock on the dressing room door. You let your chin fall to your palm. “Come in.”
When Joshua enters, he finds you in deep thought, still sitting in the chair Sakura had you sit in almost half an hour ago. You watch him reach for the half-empty bottle.
“Still has a lot left. You should finish it,” he simply says, handing it to you. “Nice job out there. We’ll have to post the pre-show photos we took later tonight, with a thank you again to Seattle.”
Begrudgingly, you drink the rest of the water, swishing it back with a satisfying gulp.
“I was thinking of ordering some food,” you offer, trying to change the topic. “Do you know what kind the guys like?”
At this, Joshua hums thoughtfully. “Didn’t know you were the considerate type.”
Though his tone is in jest, your stomach twists in a way unrelated to hunger. You roll your eyes as you hear the crowd go wild at Soonyoung’s drum solo.
“Please. I have to at least try and be cordial.”
The left side of Joshua’s mouth lifts in turn. He takes a step back, right out of reach to not be a victim of your quick fingers, before taking out his phone.
“Lucky for you, there’s this place nearby I know of. Jihoon likes jjajangmyun a lot, and it’s a pretty popular dish there.”
Ding! Your phone buzzes on the vanity. Eying him with distrust, you pick up the device, only to be met with the address to a Korean takeout place not too far away.
Joshua’s back is to you before you can form a coherent answer; you watch, flabbergasted, as his hand reaches for the door. When it opens, it creaks slightly before being drowned out by the cheers of fans.
“Don’t forget to post those photos once CH33RS ends their show,” he throws over his shoulder—and then he’s gone.
Damnit, Josh. You grit your teeth, your fingers pressing hard on the screen of your phone. It lights up to reveal your screensaver, the late time of 10:36 gleaming in the dressing room’s fluorescents. A sigh falls out of you.
Your chin rests on your palm again as you contemplate your manager’s suggestion. You’re irked by that pit in your stomach once more; the one that curls in your gut during the night as you lie awake, wondering if this career path was the right one to take.
The guilt screams at you to give WOOZI another chance—after all, perhaps you had just gotten off on the wrong foot. Your index finger hesitates over the menu button for the restaurant, the choice feeling heavy in your hands.
And then a sweaty, shirtless WOOZI barges through your dressing room door, his face red and neck veins prominent.
“Get out.”
You let out a shriek, covering your eyes in embarrassment. “Oh my god, dude—”
He’s not even listening to you. You hear something crash to the floor—a bottle of some sort of product, probably—and then WOOZI’s snarling at you again.
“Get. Out.”
Meekly, you stand and bow. That feeling of shame rises within you, hot and burning, as you make a beeline for the door. You want to—no, need to—get out of here, as fast as possible.
In your hurry, you fail to notice the tears staining WOOZI’s cheeks and his heavy breathing, tormented by a feeling you knew only too well.
—
“Who the fuck do they think they are!?”
Jihoon’s frustrated scream echoes throughout the hotel room. He’s got his head in his hands, raking his hair and taking pleasure in the feeling of his nails scraping against his scalp. It sends shivers down his spine in the most sinfully alive way possible.
“We should fire them all,” he fumes. Soonyoung is quietly criss-crossed on the bed, hands in his lap, while Seungcheol’s got his hands rubbing what’s supposed to be calming circles into Jihoon’s back. “Fuck them. How dare they say those things to you?”
“It was my fault,” Soonyoung mumbles, head hanging low. “I deserved it. You know as well as I—”
“—that this is no way for staff members to treat musicians?” Jihoon finishes, raising his head sharply at his bandmate’s resignation. “That you did nothing wrong other than try and say hello to the fans? That the staff members are treating us as some species of zoo animal to be put on display?”
“Jihoon.” Seungcheol warns.
The younger man wipes the back of his hand across his face. When he brings it away, his fingers are coated in saltwater and snot. Jihoon feels like his whole body is on fire, tingling with energy he cannot let loose.
America is different from Korea. That much, Jihoon knows.
However, he never imagined that the difference would be so… stark. Here, fans were wild and unpredictable, unlike the routine nature of Korean fans who stayed silent during performances, except for fan chants. There were hecklers during their crowdwork, and wolf-whistlers weren’t uncommon throughout shows.
Jihoon slides another hand down his face. He knew Soonyoung meant well with his plan, and was trying to be careful—the show was well over, with the crowd dissipating almost at once to the merch booth over by the entrance.
He had watched the entire thing from the stage: Soonyoung’s whoop of joy as he jumped the barricade, accompanied by the screams of fans. They swarmed him, practically tearing at his clothes, and security had to drag the drummer out of the mass of people.
It ended in a scolding, not from Jeonghan but from one of the leading managers of the venue. Curses had been thrown, saying that if Soonyoung had gotten more hurt than a scratch, they’d be liable for damages done to a foreign artist.
Jihoon’s fists clench again at the memory of the manager’s tone. He was some old guy in his early forties, no doubt, but the contempt held in his voice would make one think he had been from early colonial days.
“This is why we can’t let these kinds of people perform here,” the singer had heard the man murmuring to another staff member.
A soft knock at the hotel door startles Jihoon out of his thoughts. Soonyoung jumps up from his place on the bed, alarmed, but Seungcheol waltzes to the door like he’s been expecting the visitor for a while now.
“Delivery,” comes a muffled voice from outside.
Yoon Jeonghan’s arms are full of takeout bags and drinks. It’s more than enough for four men, but Jihoon knows the intention behind the gesture.
Sometimes, one has to drown out the sorrows in good food and company.
“Wow,” Soonyoung breathes, immediately reaching for the chopsticks Jeonghan supplies from one of the various bags. “Where’d you get all this food?”
Jeonghan snorts. “A restaurant.”
He watches as Seungcheol snickers at the drummer’s whine. Jihoon accepts the wooden chopsticks he’s been given, cracking them apart and methodically swiping them together to get rid of the wood shavings peeling off. Sending a quick thanks to the universe, he digs in without another thought, absentmindedly listening in on the rambling conversation of the other guys.
“…they recommended it to me. Said they’d heard it was good, and thought it would cheer you guys up after what happened,” Jeonghan’s explaining.
Jihoon’s ears perk up at this. He’s slurping on a jjajangmyun noodle when he tunes back into what his manager’s saying.
“I should thank them tomorrow,” Soonyoung sighs solemnly. “We should’ve invited them to eat with us, actually. I bet Sairen has good food recommendations everywhere, and it’d be nice to hang out with them outside of work.”
Jihoon makes a face. Him? Hanging out with Sairen?
“Oh, is the jjajangmyun not good, Jihoon?”
Seungcheol is looking at him with concern, his chopsticks neatly placed on the cover of his takeout box.
“No, they’re fine,” Jihoon shakes his head; quietly, he adds, “Good, even.”
A head of blonde whips to face him. “Oh? You have Sairen to thank for that,” Jeonghan smirks, dabbing his face with a napkin. “They made the recommendation specifically for you and your love of jjajangmyun, actually.”
The noodle suddenly tastes like dirt in his mouth. He’s choking before he realizes it, reaching for the water bottle on the coffee table and downing it in one go. A splatter of water dribbles down his chin from how fast he’s drinking it.
Soonyoung gawks. “Jihoon, you’re red as fuck.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I just choked on water, idiot,” Jihoon argues, though he knows it’s futile—knows that Seungcheol’s looking at him with concern in a different tone, and knows that Jeonghan knew what he was doing when he brought up you.
Clearing his throat, he flips the lid on his takeout box and sets it on the coffee table with little care. He doesn’t like the look on Jeonghan’s face: eyebrows raised slightly, lips curving upwards with a knowing turn. Seungcheol and Soonyoung’s matching expressions are even worse—confusion mixed with a healthy spoonful of apprehensive perception, like they’re on the brink of a breakthrough.
“Thanks for the food, but you guys can have the rest of it,” Jihoon grumbles. “I think I’m gonna go back to my room. Goodnight.”
📍MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA
After the incident at the Seattle show, WOOZI has been staring at you more often than you’d like.
Your thumb releases from the grip it has on the water cooler’s knob. As you watch the last few drops drip into your bottle, you simultaneously feel the shift of WOOZI’s gaze fall away from his perch on the couch.
You don’t say anything to him as you walk past, shoulders tense with unspoken words at the tip of your tongue. It’s been a little over two weeks, but nothing has been said between the two of you other than greeting formalities.
You can’t help but think you’ve done something wrong.
The stop in Denver, Colorado, helped shape your hypothesis. Briefly, you remember the familiar nerves spiking in your heart before you were meant to go on. While it had been a smaller venue, meaning fewer people overall, it meant a more intimate stage with equally intimate crowdwork.
Soonyoung, slowly being able to pick up on your mood swings and anxious bouts, had sat with you as you vented about the woes of being an American rockstar. It wasn’t so different from Korea, he explained, pouting and picking at a protein bar.
Diets still existed. Crazy fans everywhere. Shitty staff, too.
“You learn to live with it, especially when the good people finally stick around,” Soonyoung had spoken around a mouthful of granola. “Like Jeonghan. Or, I guess for you, Joshua.”
Humming noncommittally, you twirled a stray strand of hair. Even though Soonyoung meant well, the buzzing under your skin had continued, your teeth beginning to chatter even though it was well above freezing backstage.
“Oh, Jihoon.”
The name of the lead guitarist and singer made you flinch. You had blanched at the sight of him in his all black stage attire, the boxy button-up accentuating his broad shoulders and cargo pants resting dangerously low. Silver rings adorned his fingers, a particularly thick-chained one sitting pretty on his index finger.
Swallowing heavily, you gladly accepted the towel given to you, dabbing your sweat off your forehead and neck. You didn’t even realize it was WOOZI who had handed you the towel, fingers brushing his as you rushed to give it back before you were able to give it another thought—to your horror, your skin still remembers how his fingers felt sliding against your wrist, the metal of his accessories having done nothing to help your pounding heart.
“Good luck,” he then offered.
Now, almost a thousand miles away from Denver, Colorado, you were sipping your water, watching WOOZI bounce his leg up and down from your place leaning against the vanity. Stage call was soon, so there was no reason for him to be back here—yet, here he sits, a mere five feet away from you.
Tonight’s show has him in a sleeveless red tank, a worn-out white star plastered on the front. The chains around his neck glimmer in the dressing room light as he shifts in place, scrolling aimlessly on his phone while he pretends he’s been paying you no mind.
You want to scoff, maybe throw a snide remark at how he has the nerve to stare at you after treating you like trash—but then WOOZI tosses his head back onto the couch with a groan, pectorals heaving, and all coherent thoughts scurry right out the exit of your brain.
Were tank tops supposed to be that revealing? Perhaps it was time to go back to Victorian ways, after all.
A rap on the door startles you, but not the singer. He merely lets out a loud huff, making a show out of getting up and beginning to stretch his arms out in an attempt to get blood flowing.
“On in five,” comes the muffled call of a stage crew member outside the door.
You catch the face he makes: his nose scrunches up a little, and he lets out a little shake of his head in dissent. “Yeah, yeah. Be there in a minute.”
Capping your bottle, you move to sit on the vanity, eyes following WOOZI’s pre-show routine. He’s shaking his hair to get his bangs to hang a little more in his face, and that damned part of you that you try to keep hidden away aches to push his fingers away and fix his hair yourself.
You don’t, of course.
WOOZI’s making his way to the door now. Something gets stuck in your throat—a good luck, maybe, or a have fun—but you gulp it down when his fingers meet the knob and twist.
Ah. Your gaze is cast to the floor, forlorn. Next show for sure.
To your surprise, your head darts up at the sound of his voice, melodic and soft and everything you’ve never been on the receiving end of.
“See you after?”
It’s posed as a question, thrown over his shoulder, with his warm brown eyes meeting yours. The silence is so loud you curl your hands so as not to end up covering your ears.
You finally exhale, breath billowing out. The guilt on your shoulders eases up.
“Yeah. Take care.”
—
It’s a little past one in the afternoon when you and CH33RS leave the upskate cafe, laughter ringing out from behind you as you let the glass door close. The Minneapolis breeze hits your face, inviting and warm, and you reach your arms towards the cloudless sky.
“God, it’s so nice out today!” You sigh, stretching in satisfaction.
Seungcheol nods his head in agreement from a little way behind you, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “The weather is nice. No need for a jacket.”
“And your English, it’s getting better with every show! Good job,” you encourage, shooting him a thumbs up; the man brightens at your response.
Beside you, Soonyoung swirls his iced coffee around with his straw, taking a sip and seemingly relishing in the aftertaste of grounded coffee beans.
“That cafe was so yummy,” he groans, squinting up at the sky. “You know the best food places.”
He stuffs his other hand in the leather jacket he’s wearing, his blonde hair gelled and spiky in the sun’s light. You offer him a grin, subconsciously leaning into him as a gesture of gratitude.
Sightseeing wasn’t exactly in your plans during the tour, but when Joshua encouraged it last night as a way to grow closer with the boys, you took up the opportunity with renewed determination. WOOZI’s reluctant acceptance of you makes your heart warm with the feeling of coworkers finally getting along after many unsuccessful trials.
At least, that’s what you reason with yourself when your heart rate picks up at the sight of him.
The aforementioned singer walks quietly beside the manager assigned to you four today, his wired earbuds bright against the black clothes you had grown used to seeing on him. You eye him, gaze tracing the wire that travels from his jacket pocket to the curve of his jaw and the slope of his ear.
He didn’t have many piercings, you noted—unlike Soonyoung, who had enough for a full set of stackers, WOOZI only sported the common, everyday single lobes. Huh.
An idea rises within you, but before you can speak, your body meets all things leather. Thud.
“Oh my god! I’m so s—Wait!—Are you—is this group—CH33RS? Sairen?!”
Bewildered, you hear someone start to speak Korean. You begin backing away from who you ran into only to be met with an equally confused man with short brown hair. He’s looking down at you like you’ve appeared from nowhere, but the shorter man beside him hurries to you with awe displayed plain on his face.
“Oh my god, it is you—out of all people to run into him—wow, nice going, Hansol—”
Shaking his head, the man bows deeply to the four of you. When he straightens up, you take in his bleached tips and pierced eyebrow. Hansol, the man you had crashed into, adjusts his gloves with pure shock written all over his expression.
“Oh. Sorry, dude. Didn’t see you there.”
His companion nudges him, hard. He says something again in Korean that gets a muffled laugh out of WOOZI.
“I am so sorry for him,” the unknown blonde dips his head again. “My name is Seungkwan. This is Vernon, but I call him Hansol. We’re big fans of you!”
Seungkwan begins to excitedly converse with Soonyoung, who reciprocates much too eagerly, leaving you to stand awkwardly in front of Vernon. You almost want to bow and leave to the back of the group where the manager is positioned, but the man begins to speak before you can.
“Seungkwan’s a big fan of yours.” He gives a nod to the man, who has retrieved a permanent marker from somewhere and is getting his arm signed by the drummer. “We like to blast your music during rides. Pretty calming, especially around the mountains during sunset.”
“Oh, are you guys bikers?”
Vernon nods. The left side of your mouth lifts at how, instead of ending the gesture, he lets it bounce on for a bit—almost as if he’s listening to an imaginary beat in his head. “Super fun stuff. You think you could sign my helmet or something?”
Your heart leaps. Random fan meetings outside of shows weren’t new to you, but every time you did get noticed, your entire day was made.
“Sure. Hey, Soonyoung, could I borrow that when you’re done?”
The commotion that is Seungkwan begins to die down once signatures are given and pleasantries are exchanged. You have to bite your lip to suppress your laughs; he’s too endearing, rushing around to congratulate everyone on the world tour and comebacks.
When he gets to you, his eyes brighten, and you swear you can see stars twinkling in them even though the sun is happily high up in the sky.
“Sairen, I’ve been meaning to get into music—I’ve actually worked on some of my own songs and they’re all inspired by you!” Seungkwan bashfully admits.
At his confession, you brighten. “That’s awesome! Could I hear one?”
The man deflates, your lips parting in an ‘o’ at how easily his entire demeanor changes in the blink of an eye.
“Ah… I don’t have the files on me right now…” He trails off and fiddles with the collar of his jacket, obviously downcast at the missed opportunity.
“It’s okay,” you smile, reaching out to pat his shoulder. “You can just message me on Instagram. How does that sound?”
Three things happen at once.
One. Seungkwan’s entire face lights up at your proposal, beginning to shake like a chihuahua without a sweater.
Two. WOOZI gasps.
Three. The manager’s hand flies out to grab your wrist, pulling you away with the strength of ten men, and forcing an ‘oomf!’ out of you quite easily.
The last occurrence takes the longest time and has the largest impact on you, your left wrist stinging slightly from his hold. Seungkwan, now a few feet away from you instead of smack dab in front, backs off in surprise.
“I apologize, but at this time Sairen is not accepting messages on Instagram. Perhaps if you come prepared to one of their shows, they can give you some proper feedback?”
Vernon wraps a comforting arm around his partner’s shoulders as Seungkwan stammers out an, “O-oh. That’s fine! We’re so sorry for bothering you. Could we get a picture before we go?”
The two bikers hastily leave. Your jaw clenches as the manager turns to you, his condescending stare rendering you frozen in place.
“Are you crazy?” He spits, pulling you towards him.
You cry out; WOOZI takes a threatening step forward, but he’s stopped by Seungcheol. There’s fury in his eyes as you give a minuscule shake of your head.
“What if they did that stuff with ill intent?” The manager’s breath reeks of the onion from the caprese he got from the cafe. “You’re not that stupid to just give away your information, are you? Do you not have a PR manager or something?”
Gritting your teeth, you wrench your arm away, rubbing your wrist with a scowl. “It’s Instagram, Carter. My account is managed by Joshua. If you got a problem with me interacting nicely with my fans, take it up with him. I’m sure he’ll have a blast telling you how wrong you are.”
Carter lets out a tch, turning away and beginning to walk ahead of the group. When he’s out of earshot, Soonyoung rushes to you, apologizing profusely. You barely pay him your regards; instead, your eyes catch WOOZI’s, the fire burning in his pupils trailblazing a pathway right through your strong facade.
You turn away.
—
You’re not entirely sure how you end up here, sitting a few inches away from WOOZI of CH33RS while munching on some potato chips.
Frieren plays out on his laptop screen, propped open awkwardly at the edge of the bed. The singer, clad in a black tee and gym shorts, shifts against the headboard of his bed and clears his throat.
It’s one of the earlier episodes, where Frieren is looking back on her memories with Himmel. She’s going on some monologue about not understanding how good things were until they were gone, and the scene pulls at your heartstrings, making you sigh.
“I can already tell this show is going to be so coming-of-age,” you frown, relaxing slightly and causing the bed to dip. “Classic story of personal growth, spurred on by past memories.”
WOOZI barely reacts to your comments, instead opting to open his palm up to you. Wordlessly, you place a few chips in his hand, which he crunches between his teeth earnestly.
It’s a while before he speaks. “You know, I didn’t take you for the anime type.”
“Same could go for you,” you dig at him, rolling your eyes. “Who knew the great WOOZI could have interests?”
“Hey,” he frowns. “Come on, don’t pretend you weren’t excited when I brought up Frieren.”
You bark out a laugh. “Excited? More like surprised. Never knew you could willingly give me the time of day, much less start up a conversation about the show I was trying to watch on the car ride home.”
Frieren is yelling something now. You watch in amusement at her and Heiter’s, the party’s priest, antics.
“Y’know,” you continue. “I even had the impression that you thought you were better than conversing with little ol’ me.”
Right. That’s how you got here. Memories of the dark insides of the van contrasting with the colorful scenes of Frieren on your screen come flooding back, along with WOOZI’s soft inquiries about how far along you were with the show. Surprisingly, he made for a good conversationalist about the topic, and you remember begrudgingly agreeing to have him join you on your marathon.
Joshua was going to have a field day with this one.
Don’t let his friendly demeanor fool you, a voice inside you chides. Remember how he treated you before. Some sappy anime isn’t going to change that.
The scene onscreen is violently different than before. Now, Frieren is blinking away tears, covering her face with her arms as her party consoles her. You find yourself mirroring her, self-pity beginning to swallow you whole.
WOOZI is silent again, but this time, you know he’s pondering what to say.
“Ah, sorry,” you choke out a laugh. “Forget about what I just said. Can we watch this episode another time?”
You’re reaching for his laptop when he stops you, grabbing your wrist. Unlike Carter’s, WOOZI’s touch is gentle and light, and you shiver at him running his thumb along the ball joint.
“Wait.” He inhales. “Just… wait.”
And you do, peering through your lashes at him. He drops your arm, drawing in on himself, and lets out another sigh.
“When CH33RS first started out,” WOOZI begins. “We were treated awfully. This was before we met Jeonghan; we had to fight to be given decent practice equipment and fair schedules. It was like our previous company wanted us to go through hell before reaching the top.”
You stay quiet, eyes trained on his fingers reaching to twist with the hoop in his right ear. It’s on the smaller side and made of black metal, but you think it suits him well.
“Then… along came Seokmin.”
“Seokmin?” you echo.
WOOZI nods, though it’s not without a hint of pain. “Our last manager from the previous company. He fought so hard for us. Didn’t let any of us get trampled on, and always made sure we knew we were his top priority.”
He leans back on the pillows, black hair billowing out to form a slight halo around his head. You blink down at him, fingers clawing at the mattress and heart being twisted in the worst way possible.
“He was the one who got us signed with our new company under Jeonghan,” he finishes softly. “It didn’t go over well with the higher-ups, but he took all the blows. Haven’t seen him since the big fight when our contract properly ended and we refused to renew.”
The show credits are running as his voice trails off. At this point, one of you would reach over and hit play on the next episode, but now you’re glued to the hotel bed.
“I’m sorry,” you console. “But… this still doesn’t answer why you snapped at me the first day.”
The singer throws an arm over his eyes.
“About that—I’m sorry,” WOOZI breathes out. “Can’t stand bullshit like that no matter who it’s from, and I didn’t realize at the time that the staff member started it. I know it's super late and also probably an incredibly lame apology, but… I really admire you and your work, Sairen. I hope the rest of the tour goes well and that we can at least be cordial.”
Pinching the bridge of your nose, you scrunch your face to avoid the giggles threatening to spill out of you. Part of you is annoyed, sure; couldn’t the dickhead just have asked you before jumping to conclusions?
But another part of you understands—this industry was notorious for wildfire rumors and miscommunication. That, coupled with the stress of being around a bunch of crappy staff members for hours on end, would be enough to drive anyone to the brink of snapping.
“I’m sorry, too,” you offer a bittersweet smile to him. “I get to be kind of an ass when I’m around people who don’t know how to be decent human beings. Kind of backfires on me a lot of the time in this field of work, though.”
To your utmost surprise and increasing delight, WOOZI lets out something between a witch’s cackle and a belly laugh.
He slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, but you’re already grinning from ear to ear, watching his own turn a shade of cherry red.
“Well,” he clears his throat. “Glad we can relate on that part, then. And thank you for the apology.”
You knock your knee against his. “No problem, rockstar. Hope to be more cordial with you too. Or whatever you said.”
WOOZI raises an eyebrow at you, but you wave him off, turning back to his laptop with a satisfied hum and hitting play.
Your heart feels lighter knowing you can enjoy the rest of the tour without having to walk on eggshells around the people who are supposed to know you best. It makes you wonder just how much you’ve missed out on with WOOZI, and how many episodes of Frieren you could be caught up with by now if this hadn’t happened.
Oh well, you mumble to yourself, stealing a glance at the man beside you. His face is once again illuminated by the screen, dimly lit yet glowing with an emotion that is hard to put into words. You hope it can be described as contentment.
Frieren is recapping her adventures with the knight of the party, Himmel, and promising to make the most of the time she has left. You turn your attention back to the screen, watching the elf girl finally cave into her heart’s desires.
Better late than never.
📍 ONTARIO, TORONTO
Your hair is dripping wet when you bumble through the door, Soonyoung and Joshua hot on your heels. The rain outside was never-ending, puddles forming on the ground from your damp clothes as you try to wipe your shoes on the welcome mat. The guys aren’t any better; Joshua’s wringing his hair out as much as he can while Soonyoung shakes himself off like a dog.
A woman behind the front desk peers up at you before smiling brightly. “Hello! Are you here for an appointment?”
You dip your head as you approach, taking notice of the woman’s inked skin. She’s got a dragonfly drawn across her forearm, the swirls of its wings mesmerizing to your eyes.
“Yes, with Minghao?” you tilt your head, sliding your ID across the table. “I really appreciate you taking us in so last minute. I’ve been meaning to get a tattoo at a local place while I’m traveling.”
“No problem,” she reassures, checking you in with ease. “What prompted you to come to ours, though? Lotsa good ones around these parts.”
You jerk a thumb back at the two wet dogs you’ve pulled in from the rain. Soonyoung perks up at your attention and you roll your eyes.
“My friend back there wanted to get some flowers as congratulations for… someone,” you clear your throat, to which Joshua makes a face at. “We were at the florist across the street yesterday, and he praised you highly.”
“Junhui?”
The new voice makes you look up to see a slender, lean man propping himself against a doorway to another room. He sports a black mullet that shows off the various piercings he has, ranging from a silver hoop through his daith to the metallic rod he’s got going through a flat and his helix. He purses his lips as he takes you in, crossing his tattoo-sleeved arms with intrigue.
“Yeah,” you confirm in surprise. “Pretty sure his name was Jun, at least. You’re Minghao?”
He nods. When he speaks again, his voice is slightly tinged with an accent—Chinese, you think, listening intently. “So, you’re the famous Sairen that’s got this city in an uproar,” he muses, motioning for you to come to the back with him. “I’m guessing the blonde dude is HOSHI from CH33RS, and your manager is the one who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here.”
At this, you let out a laugh, especially when Joshua bumps your hip with his own.
“Yeah, something like that.”
Minghao leads you to a table with various drawings spread out, papers cluttering the surface with ink spilling all over the wood. You sit down without having to be told, in awe over his workspace. Joshua and Soonyoung tell you they’ll be waiting for you outside, and you wave them off with a smile.
“Alright, what were we thinking today?” He takes a seat on the other side of the table and pulls an already-open sketchbook in front of him, uncapping a pen with his teeth. “What’s on your mind?”
You begin to describe the design you’ve had rattling around in your mind the past few days. Minghao takes your words in stride, slow strokes working faster to conjure up a messy drafted sketch. It’s easy, conversing with him—he’s straight to the point with his questions, but won’t hesitate to take a moment to linger on an answer he finds interesting. His wit catches you off guard.
“Do you have any other tattoos?”
To his inquiry, you straighten up a bit and pull on the hem on your shirt, revealing a section of your torso. Minghao raises an eyebrow before leaning over the table, his face instantly shifting to one of admiration once he sees the blotches of black.
With wondrous eyes, he hums in satisfaction. “Nice. Crescent moon?”
“Supposed to be a claw moon, actually,” you offer softly. “I was born on a night where the moon was so thin it looked like a cat’s claw. My mom—she would never stop talking about it when I was younger. Thought it was so cool.”
Then, you walk to his side of the table and lean over to slide down your ankle sock. Right above the ball joint of your left foot is a faded dahlia, the petals worn and just barely crackling at the edges.
“Official flower of San Francisco, California.” Your nostalgic tone doesn’t go unmissed by the tattoo artist, and he makes a noise of encouragement. “I got it when I was like, sixteen, without my parents’ permission. Whoops?”
Minghao snorts, angling the lamp onto the patch of artwork with a scrutinizing eye. “Glad you told me it was a dahlia, otherwise I would’ve thought it was a weirdly puffed up microphone. Or a sex toy.”
You curl your lip in disgust. “Okay, ew. I may be tacky, but not that tacky.”
Pretty soon, the artist is settling you into a more comfy chair, instructing you to raise your thigh so he has a good canvas to work on. The marker he uses to paint your skin tickles, and you tell him such, much to his dismay.
“I hope you aren’t going to move as much as this when I’m actively putting a needle in your skin,” he deadpans, but you only laugh.
Minghao’s quick, you’ll give him that. He lays down the basic outline in only about twenty minutes, give or take, though you suppose it also has to do with how you’ve opted for a simpler design.
He tells you about how business has been going for him lately; you make a big deal about how huge the sunflowers were in Jun’s shop. Minghao listens with the intensity of a therapist, making light remarks and comments that have you spluttering for an answer.
The next hour is spent lightly bantering with him, and listening to Joshua rattle off your next few schedules after he comes back from his trip to the café down the street. Soonyoung, ever so helpful, chugs a milk tea he got before offering you a sip.
“Dude, that tattoo looks fire. Jihoon’s gonna be in shambles.”
Minghao hisses as you promptly stiffen, your eye twitching. The drummer is quick to apologize while you give him your best death glare.
“Jihoon, huh?” Minghao clicks his tongue. “What, you getting this for him?”
“It’s not like that,” you quickly say. “Don’t listen to Soonyoung, he’s being stupid.”
The mentioned man makes a guffaw at this. “You’re literally getting the Frieren flowers tattooed on you.”
“They are not just ‘the Frieren flowers,’” you say indignantly. “They’re Blue-Moon Weed flowers. Which you would know the context and history of if you watched the anime.”
“Man, why’d you even ask me to come?” Soonyoung shakes his head good-naturedly. “Jihoon would’ve appreciated the invitation much more than me. He’s also basically getting to see the bottom half of you n—”
Joshua drags him out of the room before you can release your anger on the drummer. In front of you, on his knees, Minghao mutters something about trying meditation, which you gladly accept.
“Though,” he looks to the ceiling in mock thought. “What he said was true. I’ve seen the videos from last night’s show. If you haven’t gotten laid yet, that’s a mistake on your part.”
Your nose scrunches. Maybe you shouldn’t have listened to Jun the florist, after all.
—
WOOZI doesn’t react to your new tattoo right away.
Instead, he admires your older ones, questioning why you’ve never talked about them before.
To this you respond with a snort. “You’ve never asked, so I never talked.”
He seems to mull your answer over, before giving a sheepish nod.
“Touché.”
The bus hits a bump in the road, causing you to wince in pain. You shift in your seat, trying to get into a more comfortable position so as to not lean too harshly on the wound, before returning your focus back to the situation at hand.
This time around, you chose to make do with CH33RS for the ride to the airport, knowing that taking separate cars would only end up making matters more complicated. Joshua, Seungcheol and Jeonghan are upfront, giddy about some new pitch of a show that came out, while Soonyoung’s snoring away a few seats behind them.
How you all have gotten so close in such a short amount of time will never fail to amaze you, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.
“That reminds me,” you turn to face WOOZI again; the singer raises a single eyebrow at your words. “You’ve never shown me your tattoos before.”
He pauses in untangling his wired earbuds, apt fingers twisting the cords and making your stomach drop just slightly. WOOZI meets your gaze head-on, a challenge in his expression.
You swallow and muster the courage to look him in the eye. It’s not the first time he’s been the leading cause of the pleasing prickle of your arm hairs, but every time he is, you feel like you lose five years off your lifespan.
“Guess you’ll just have to see them for yourself,” he says smugly, before barely dodging your oncoming slap to his shoulder with a loud laugh.
📍 NEW YORK, NEW YORK
The East Coast is violently different from what you’re used to.
You fidget with your tank top, fanning yourself. The air conditioner was on full blast, but you still found your throat thick with heat, hydrating every chance you could get. You missed San Francisco.
Sure, the wind could get violent there, but the air itself was never as full as it was here. The humidity was awful, especially when smoke surged from sewer plates every five feet and clogged up the environment.
“Maybe because we’re more up north, where a bunch more cities are?” He had offered as an explanation. You raised an eyebrow full of judgement.
Oh, well, you muse. At least it gave you another justification for constantly wearing shorts other than to not irritate your tattoo. You had admired it this morning in the mirror of your bedroom, the early sun’s rays through the window causing the ink to appear quite nicely.
The flowers were healing well; you had marveled at Minghao’s handiwork, twirling stems lacing together before exploding into bundles of petals. While you wished it could have been colored the famous blue color that gave it its name, you had opted for leaving it as an outline, and you didn’t regret it.
Now, you sit and wait for the pizza to arrive, cozy on the couch of the suite you were given. Jeonghan had charmed his way into having the hotel grant you and CH33RS a proper penthouse for your stay in New York.
Soonyoung wanted to explore the area, gushing about how he’d only ever heard stories of the city from when he was younger, and Seungcheol was close behind in his agreement. Tired from your show the night before and having visited NYC before, you had opted to stay behind to rest.
However, Jeonghan and your manager promised the former two a day full of sightseeing and good food, and they were sold, letting out hoots of joy in following them out the door.
WOOZI, like you, was adamant about staying in the suite. The man was full of surprises, it seemed.
Your name is called faintly from the foyer. Rising to stand, your slippers scuff along the wood as you pad to the source of the sound and take a peek around the corner.
There he stands, baseball cap on with compression sleeves fit snugly along his calves. The sight almost makes you sigh in pleasure. Almost.
“I’m going to go out for a run,” WOOZI says. “I’ll be back in like, thirty minutes or so. Just a few blocks down and then I’ll turn around.”
You’re not sure why he’s telling you this. You’re also not sure why your feet carry you to stand in front of him.
Both happen anyways, and in the end, you muster up a hesitant, hopeful smile at him. “Alright. Be safe.”
He pauses, just slightly, and for a second you almost fool yourself into believing he’ll give you a kiss on the forehead.
You wonder how his lips would feel—smooth, like the petals of a magnolia from the tree in your childhood backyard? Or perhaps a little chapped and roughened, like the strawflowers you saw back in Jun’s flower shop?
What the fuck? You immediately gawk at yourself. What the hell were those thoughts?
The silence drags on impossibly long, turning into an awkward pause you’re not too confident you can break. Thankfully, the singer clears his throat, and you startle.
“Save some pizza for me,” WOOZI finishes, giving you a firm nod.
A part of you deflates. Right, of course—WOOZI was professional above all else. And up until recently, the two of you had been nothing more than flies on the wall to each other.
To hide your disappointment, you scoff and nudge him playfully, twirling around and throwing a wink over your shoulder.
“Then be back soon,” you stick your tongue out at him. “Don’t keep me waiting!”
—
WOOZI comes back right when you’re about to dig into the pizza—the cheese hits the roof of your mouth, actually, as you hear the door click open.
“Pizza’s ready and hot,” you call out to him, and you get a muted grunt and some shuffling in response.
He’s panting lightly as he walks over to you and plops down on the floor, right at the foot of the couch. You study how his hair parts slightly to the side and is matted from being suffocated under his hat.
“Good run?” You ask, chewing through a bite of pizza.
The man turns his head, his gaze dropping to the new tattoo lining your thigh before rising to your lips. A part of you wants to ask his thoughts on the design, but his fixed stare makes your breath hitch.
You must have something on your face, you realize, and dart your tongue out to catch whatever crumbs have to be on the side of your mouth.
He tears his eyes away. “Yeah, but the city stinks of sewage.”
WOOZI grabs a slice of pepperoni and begins to scarf it down, focusing his attention to the episode of Frieren you’ve got pulled up.
“Hey, weren’t we supposed to watch this episode together?” He complains, and if you didn’t know any better, you can almost swear he’s pouting.
“You took too long.” You hide a smile behind the last of the crust you’ve got in your hand. “I told you to hurry back and not keep me waiting.”
He huffs. “I did.”
Something about his intonation has you pausing. Your eyes flit to his comfortable position against the couch and your lax posture across the cushions.
On the coffee table sits two cups and a plaque of napkins. He had brought a cup of water for you from the kitchen, and you had made sure to ask for extra napkins from the delivery man so it would be enough for the two of you. You blink in surprise at the revelation.
When did domesticity become second nature with him?
It’s like you’re hit with a bullet of clarity, the aftershock radiating through your system one bone at a time. WOOZI, as if noticing your silence, casts another glance back at you and holds your gaze.
He has a mole under his right eye. This, you notice, and you notice well. The explosion of feelings only further seethes under your skin, roaring to be let out through words.
Nothing leaves your mouth, though.
You let the shockwaves pulse through you until they simmer down to something calmer, as if nothing had ever happened in the first place. Uncharacteristically, you swallow down the words bubbling up in your throat. WOOZI takes another bite of pizza.
And of course, the show goes on.
—
It’s well past four in the afternoon when you perk up and roll over, resting your cheek on the couch cushion and insistently poking WOOZI with your foot. Frieren is long paused on the TV screen, and you’re careful to not rest too much of your weight on your thigh.
“Hey, hey. Wake up.”
Half-asleep and slumped over a pillow, he hums in response, shifting away slightly. From your position on the couch, the glint of his single lobe piercing glares blatantly in your eyes, furthering the newfound determination thrumming beneath your skin.
“Crazy idea, but what if we got our noses pierced together?”
The man’s mouth moves in a mumble, clearly giving his response no thought. “Mmm. Sure.”
Without thinking, you tumble towards him, letting your arms find home around his neck. WOOZI stiffens, finally jerking awake and glaring at you. You grin back, trying not to seem unaffected by your instinctive action, and release your hold.
“Really? Okay, get ready then!”
A small, huh?, leaves his lips, but you’re already up and disappearing into your bedroom. He scrambles after you, but you leave him dumbstruck outside your door, his heart throwing itself against his ribcage and cheeks flushed red.
—
“A nose piercing?” you can practically feel his disapproval as you tug him towards the shop; it’s sundown, and golden hour sets his black hair on fire in a way that has you covering your eyes from the shine. “You, want me, to get a nose piercing with you?”
“You heard me the first time,” you reply nonchalantly, as if this were an everyday occurrence. “And I mean, who else if not you?”
The bell above the door jingles in greeting as you step through the doorway. You barely did any research of the surrounding area; your impulsivity left you walking into the first piercing shop near your hotel that had the flickering OPEN sign outside.
“Your tattoo is still healing,” he points out to you. “Shouldn’t you be resting before damaging your body even more?”
Though his words are rough, WOOZI still hasn’t let go of your hand, thumb running along yours as if it was nothing but a subconscious thought. You flush and pull away to grant yourself some dignity back. When did he think it was alright to touch you?
“It’s been a few days and I have high pain tolerance,” you shrug, before turning to the man at the counter. “Hi! Sorry to bother, but do you take walk-ins?”
WOOZI stares in wonder as you navigate through an impromptu conversation with ease. Sure, you’ve been cordial with him up to now, and even friendly enough to joke, but today has been something else entirely.
The person in front of him is nothing like the Sairen he knew from the media or interactions with staff; unlike before, where you would barely give him the time of day, you are now within arms reach. You are tolerable. Tangible. Holdable.
He rids himself of those preposterous thoughts and joins you at the counter.
You beam up at the man behind the desk with your best smile. He’s got cropped black hair and an equally cropped black shirt that shows off a belly button piercing, and the vertical labret he dons is nothing short of captivating. You watch as he scribbles something down on a piece of paper and excuses himself to the back, waving him off with a, it’s okay, take your time!
“When did you get so friendly?” WOOZI taunts, nudging you with his foot.
Your eyes are going to pop out of your sockets from how much you’re rolling them to the back of your head. “I’ve always been friendly. You’ve just been too unfriendly to notice.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but the staff member comes back, flashing the two of you a bright smile.
“Wonwoo will take care of ya in the second room on the left.” He gives you in particular a wink, to which you giggle at.
There’s a bad taste in WOOZI’s mouth. He hmphs—there must’ve been onions in the pizza, or something.
Wonwoo, thankfully, seems to be the complete opposite from his coworker. Wearing a simple sleeveless white tank and pierced with eyebrow studs, he stands up from his seat on a stool at your entrance.
You greet him with a polite hello, but the man’s eyes flicker to you for barely a moment before merely dipping his head in acknowledgement. Instead of starting up conversation, he brings the two of you over to a small glass display of studs.
“Whoever picks first can go first,” is all he says before disappearing off to who-knows-where, leaving you two in front of the display alone.
Instantly, your eyes are drawn to a silver star stud. It’s simple and serves its purpose as an easy sleeper piercing as well. Nudging the man next to you, you point it out with a smile, automatically leaning into him when his arm brushes yours a second time.
“This one would be cool, what d’ya think?”
WOOZI looms over the display, peering intently at the one your pointer finger is hovering over. From his position, you can easily trace the vein in his neck that snakes past the collar of his jacket, leading all the way down to the ones that bulge from his forearms. He presses his lips together in thought.
Standing up straighter, he gives a small nod. “Yeah, I like it.”
Wonwoo comes back a moment later, hands already gloved and holding a small kit of something in his hand. He lifts his head towards the stool, as if surprised that neither of you are sitting on it yet. “Did either of you choose one?”
“Oh! Yes, sorry,” you hurriedly show him the piercing, and he rummages around for a fresh stud.
The alcohol is cold on your nose. You have to stop yourself from wrinkling it as Wonwoo marks a dot right at the curve of your nostril. He steps back, gesturing for WOOZI to take a look.
“Look good to you?” He’s asking, but WOOZI’s eyes are already fixated on you.
Slowly, the guitarist nods, eyeing you up and down. It makes you squirm in your seat.
“Yeah. Looks good.”
Wonwoo instructs you to keep as still as possible, prepping the piercing needle with experience only a professional piercer could provide. Eyes flickering to the side, you take comfort in the sight of WOOZI, hair tousled and leisurely blinking at you with his hands in his pockets. He reminds you of a cat watching their owner do mundane tasks.
You hold your breath as you feel the needle go through your skin, before being quickly pulled out. It stings and you bite the inside of your lip. Air rushes through your lungs, wanting to tumble out of you, and Wonwoo successfully slots the star stud in with a satisfied hum.
“Nice work,” he compliments; you’re not sure if he’s talking about you or him, but you thank him anyway, stepping off the chair and making sure to be mindful of your tattoo.
He’s turning to WOOZI before you realize it, and your eyes widen in surprise.
“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry WOOZI I forgot to help y—”
But the singer is shaking his head, nodding casually to Wonwoo with all the nonchalance in the world. “I’ll have the same stud as them. Same place, too.”
Your jaw is on the floor for the whopping two minutes it takes for WOOZI to get his nose pierced. He watches you with amusement the entire time, eyes following your furrowing brows and flushing cheeks.
“What?” He smirks as the two of you leave the room, bidding Wonwoo a goodbye; the man just gives another nod. “Didn’t expect me to get the same one as you?”
“You…” You grit your teeth. You want to yell at him to stop playing with your feelings—it’s a dangerous thing, to play with fire. “You are such a copycat.”
WOOZI only shrugs. “I didn’t feel like looking at the display again and I liked your choice. What’s wrong with that?”
Everything, you want to confess. Everything, because it gives me stupid hope for something that’s never going to happen.
The man at the counter brightens at your reemergence. You offer a shy wave, and out of the corner of your eye, you see WOOZI’s mouth press into a thin line.
“Your piercing turned out well,” the man says—it’s pointedly towards you, his eyes never leaving your face. “I like the star you chose.”
“Thank you, Wonwoo did a great job,” you manage a nod. He was welcoming at first, but the way he’s looking at you now reminds you of the journalists who crowd you after a social event.
Thinking the conversation is over, you give him one last smile and turn towards the door. WOOZI seems eager to leave; he’s already five steps ahead of you, holding the wooden door open.
“Oh, um,” the man clears his throat loudly, and you half-turn, giving him a quizzical look. “I was thinking… maybe we could grab dinn—”
“Mingyu.” Wonwoo seems to appear out of nowhere, a broom in his hand. “We need to start cleaning up. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten you’re on the closing shift already?”
His stern voice makes you nervous; did you do something wrong?
The newly named Mingyu grumbles out an okay, sending you an apologetic smile before grabbing the broom and disappearing into the back. Wonwoo turns to you and WOOZI again, giving you two a final nod, though for some reason you feel like it isn’t exactly directed towards you.
“C’mon, let’s go,” WOOZI’s voice is rough, and it reminds you of your relationship with him early on: cold, and purely business. “It’s getting late.”
With what feels like no other choice, you follow him out the door and let the bell chime in farewell.
—
Strangely enough, the guys aren’t there yet when you come back to the suite.
The emptiness of the penthouse almost scares you. You’re not used to the stillness of a place, more attuned to the bustling of backstage prep and the liveliness of concerts. Slipping off your shoes, you make your way back to the living room, collapsing on the couch.
“Careful of your tattoo,” comes WOOZI’s belated reproach as the lights flicker on.
You groan and try to hide the burning sensation that rises in your leg. “What are you, my dad?”
He slides in next to you effortlessly, clicking on the remote to connect his phone to the TV like he had earlier in the afternoon. “No, but it’s clear that you need parental supervision at all times,” he remarks, his knees spreading slightly apart.
You do your best to keep your eyes on the TV screen when his leg presses lightly to yours. “I do not need parental supervision.”
“First the tattoo in Toronto, and now the nose piercing in New York.” WOOZI raises an eyebrow at you, and you feel caught red-handed, like a fly in a spider’s trap. “What next? Cutting and dying your hair in D.C.?”
“Come on,” you drawl, landing a soft smack on his shoulder. “Where’s your joy? Your whimsy? We all need to have fun sometimes!”
WOOZI scoffs.
“Oh yeah, I bet it was real fun flirting with the piercer,” he mutters under his breath.
There’s a pregnant pause. WOOZI stiffens and brings a hand up to his lips, as if, by doing so, he could stop the words that have already poured out. You’re equally as shocked, frozen in place at what now hangs in the air between you two.
Huh?
Trying to break the tension, you laugh nervously, heart pounding in your chest. “First you act like my dad, then you act like my jealous lover. Pick a struggle, dude.”
Another pause, and then WOOZI huffs. Puts the remote down.
He doesn’t say anything—instead, WOOZI leans in impossibly close to your face, studying the colors of your eyes with such intensity it has you blushing.
“You know what? Why don’t you pick for me, rockstar?” He challenges, breath mingling with yours. It smells like the Coke Zero you two shared earlier.
You swallow, lips parting ever so slightly with no sound coming out. WOOZI takes this chance to drag his fingers down your leg that doesn’t have the new tattoo on it, his touch sending your thoughts into a crazy whirlwind. A soft, high-pitched whine leaves your throat, and he lets out a heavy sigh in response.
Noses touching, your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks, whispering his name. WOOZI stills.
“Call me Jihoon,” he murmurs, and the care that’s packaged into his voice is swallowed by your lips as you gulp again. “Just Jihoon.”
Jihoon. Biting your lip, you feel emboldened by his actions, as if he’s got you under a spell only he can undo.
“Alright, Jihoon,” you place your own hand on his knee, drawing circles on his skin; he shudders in the most delicious way, and you file it away in your brain for later. “How about this? You kiss me, and you might just find out the answer to that question.”
He tsks in response, lips brushing yours.
“We’re home!”
Soonyoung’s echoing shout has the two of you scrambling away from one another, ending up on opposite sides of the couch. You wince from the pressure on your thigh, quickly using it as an excuse to bury your burning face in your arms and knees.
“Whoa—hey, Seungcheol, check this out! Jihoon got a nose piercing!”
You hear the drummer barrel into the living room, excitedly chattering in Korean, as a warm hand lands on your shoulder. Yelping, you raise your head to meet Joshua’s concerned glance.
“Hey, you alright? Did you hit your leg?” He asks worriedly, eyes searching yours.
Vigorously shaking your head, you rise with a wobble in your step. “No, I’m fine,” you squeak out. “Just really tired from today.”
The glint of the light must catch your stud, because Joshua lets out a laugh of disbelief. “Yeah? Tired from going out and getting a nose piercing?”
“What? You got one too?” Soonyoung bends down to try and get a glimpse. “Let me see! Aww, I can’t believe you two went without me!”
You finally get your friend off your back with the promise of getting another piercing with him before the tour ends, to which he immediately lights up at. He’s off to the kitchen where you can hear Jeonghan putting leftovers from the day away, no doubt accompanied by Seungcheol.
It leaves you with Jihoon and Joshua in the living room; the former is awkwardly inspecting the couch for lint as your manager worries over you once more.
“Joshua, I said I’m fine, honestly,” you smile tiredly, stomach doing a flip at Jihoon’s glance your way. “I think I just need some rest. Tell me all about your adventures tomorrow, ‘kay?”
Reluctantly, the doe-eyed man lets you go, and you trudge back to your room to get ready for bed. The bathroom is a quick trip, not wanting to chance running into Jihoon again, and before you know it, you’re buried under the covers.
You can still feel the warmth of Jihoon’s hand on yours, and the sweltering heat of his eyes on your lips. It makes you jostle uncomfortably under your blanket.
Call me Jihoon. Just Jihoon.
His voice fades to white noise, and you find yourself succumbing to sleep, uncertain of whether you wish for a dream tonight or not.
📍 WASHINGTON, D.C.
“I can’t hear you, D.C.!”
You lean against a pillar in the back of the venue, lips curved in a smile at Jihoon’s shout into the mic. The crowd thunders with applause and cheers, and from your vantage point you squint to see Seungcheol take his in-ears out, cupping the side of his face with one hand and gesturing to keep the screams coming.
Curious to get a different view, Joshua had allowed you to sneak to the very back of the venue, where the sound mechanics were handled. You were perched right on the edge of the outer balcony, hood and sunglasses obstructing the view of yourself from onlookers.
Jihoon starts jumping on stage again, his iconic boots thumping against the plywood. Enjoying your disguise, you take this chance to drink in his loosened tie and the flex of his biceps as he engages with the front row.
He’s beguiling, face so round and cheeky compared to the hard and chiseled statue of his body. Dangerously, you see his tongue loll out as he adjusts the collar of his shirt, unbuttoning the two top ones and giving a boyish grin to the crowd.
Cheeks flaring with desire, you look away, focusing on Seungcheol beginning to arch his hands up in time with the rhythm of the next song.
No wonder CH33RS was so renowned for their crowdwork; their energy was marvelous, no doubt wrecking the eardrums of any bystanders nearby the venue. You clap along to the beat that Soonyoung’s drum as they launch into their last and one of their most popular songs, 505.
Stop, and wait a sec’
Oh, when you look at me like that, my darling
What did you expect?
I’d probably still adore you with your hands around my neck
Or I did, last time I checked
Leaning on the balcony, you nibble on your thumbnail. You don’t know where to look: there’s Seungcheol’s focused lip bite, his mop of hair swaying to the beat as his fingers work the bass he’s got; or maybe Soonyoung’s energetic trills, twirling his drumsticks in the air as a show for the crowd.
“D.C., sing it with me!” encourages Jihoon.
Ah. Your eyes find their target, sweating and panting and oh-so-captivating. You sigh longingly, the pit in your stomach flickering to life. He gestures for his fans to get louder, curling his fingers in time with the music, as their chants grow.
Then—he finds you.
You don’t know how he does, but he stares right through to soul, offering you a nod when your fingers flit in a small wave.
From your point on the balcony, you watch Jihoon’s face glow under the stage lights. His eyes are crescents, reminding you of the claw moon etched into your torso right below your heart. Voice low and gravelly, Jihoon begins to sing again, eyes never leaving yours.
“I’m going back to 505, if it’s a seven-hour flight or a forty-five minute drive,” you murmur along breathlessly; Jihoon mimics your expression.
Your legs feel like jelly as he hones in on the next sentence—the beat slows down, and Seungcheol opts for only plucking the mandatory strings for the bassine. Jihoon’s eyelashes flutter as he ends the pre-bridge, staring straight at where you’re stationed with dark eyes.
“In my imagination, you’re waiting lying on your side,” he sighs, “With your hands between your thighs.”
For a second, time slows down. The swirling pit in your abdomen screams to be let loose, and if he were to do anything more, you greatly feared for your remaining sanity.
Taking a breath, Jihoon wrenches his gaze from yours and clenches his fist to his chest, as if it physically pains him to do so.
But I crumble completely when you cry
It seems like once again,
You have to greet me with goodbye
I’m always just about to go and spoil a surprise
Take my hands off your eyes too soon
You’re incapable of watching anymore. Sinking to your knees, the air in your lungs comes out in harsh pants, sweat dripping down your chin and landing on your exposed thigh.
The Blue-Moon Weed flowers peek out from below your shorts, and you draw a shuddering breath that’s easily drowned out from the screams of the audience.
Lee Jihoon, what have you done to me?
—
The alcohol burns in your throat.
You tip back your head again for yet another shot, the yogurt-flavored soju tasting enticingly sweet on your tongue. Soonyoung claps your back from next to you.
“You’re getting good at taking it!”
He… must not know what he’s saying anymore, you think as you choke on the liquid from his words. Dirty images flash through your mind, horrifying you to no end.
You’re handed a napkin from somewhere that you gratefully take, wiping the dribbling fluid that’s escaping down the column of your neck. “Watch it,” Jihoon mumbles into your ear. “Don’t want you being rendered too speechless during our tour.”
Jumping in your seat, you murmur a slurring apology, face burning when he hands you another napkin. You can barely make out Joshua from across the table raising a delicate eyebrow in your direction.
Without warning, you reach across the table and give him a hard smack to his shoulder, taking pride in the way he lets out a sound of indignance.
“It’s not what it looks like!” You pout. “Stop… Stop doing that!”
“I didn’t even say anything,” he’s laughing, and Jeonghan’s leaning into him with a giggle. “What did I do?”
The blonde manager angles his head towards you. Your cheeks puff up as your lips press together, clearly dissatisfied, as Jeonghan speaks like he’s talking to a child—which he is not.
“Sairen, honey.” You blink drowsily at his cheeky grin. “What’s your tolerance for alcohol?”
“Good,” you blurt out. “It’s good.”
Laughter crows from your friends around the table. Seungcheol has his mouth latched onto Jeonghan’s shoulder in a bite, burying his laughter underneath sharp teeth and a wide smile.
Biting. You want to do that, too.
Your teeth land sloppily on the shoulder beside you, the taste of skin flooding your senses. Soonyoung has a nice shoulder. Humming, you dig your teeth in just a little more, enjoying the sensation that comes with your love bite. The drummer wouldn’t mind another one, right?
“Oh-kay,” Jihoon splutters, pushing you away from his bare shoulder lightly; you admire the marks left by your canines with a lopsided smile as Jeonghan cackles in the background. “I think you’ve had enough alcohol for the night. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”
“No!” You whine, and now he’s pulling you to your feet, easily hooking an arm around your waist. “Wait, I don’t wanna go…”
It takes a few minutes, but you do end up in your bed, bottom lip jutted out in a pout as you’re tucked into your sheets by a messy-haired Jihoon. It’s clear the alcohol’s getting to him too, apples of his cheeks red and eyes glossy. You reach out to touch his forehead and brush a strand out of his face.
“Pretty,” you mutter.
Jihoon lets out a sigh—it’s heavy, burdened by something that rests on his conscience, and you drop your hand onto the cool comforter. He hangs his head low, not looking at you anymore. You miss his eyes.
You decide to try your luck again. “Jihoon.”
While the man doesn’t raise his face to meet yours, he does make a noise to let you know he’s heard you. Carefully bringing your hand to his head again, you card your fingers through his hair, basking in the long, slow intake of breath he gives in response.
There’s a bite mark in his shoulder. You study it, eyes narrowing. Did Soonyoung bite him earlier?
“Did you mean it?” He asks suddenly.
Your lips part, tongue swiping along your bottom lip. “Mean what?”
“What you said. Back in New York. Did you mean it?”
Blurry images of your face pressed to his come rushing back, and you let out a whine. “Of course I meant it, stupid. I wanted you to kiss me so bad!”
Jihoon says nothing. You, inebriated as ever, take this as a sign to continue your tangent. “And then you pulled that… that stunt at your show tonight. I was already going fucking crazy from the tension between us after New York, but you—you kept being a tease! Do you not remember what happened on the bus? And now here you are, in front of me, and all I wanna do is…”
Your impudent speech tapers off into silence. Jihoon’s finally looking at you, really looking at you, his eyes glassier than before. You cradle his face in the palm of your hand, thumb careful to not disturb his still-healing nose stud. The bejeweled star gleams in the light of your bedside lamp.
Ever so attentively, you bring his lips to rest just against yours, craving for the now familiar feeling of your breath mixing with his. This time, it smells faintly of the citron soju he was nursing in the living room of the suite.
Does he taste the same? You wonder, and lean closer to find out.
“Wait—” Jihoon gasps, your name falling off his tongue in a plea that has your knees weak again. “Wait, we can’t. We can’t.”
He’s got his hand pressed against your lips and your wrist captured in the other. The two of you are breathing heavily, even though nothing has happened, and a part of you shatters.
“Whaddaya mean we can’t?” You frown, already small voice muffled further by his fingers—you give a tentative bite to his palm, and Jihoon yanks his hand away from your mouth like he’s been burned.
Shifting in bed, you reach for him again, but Jihoon is shaking his head violently. His brown eyes, usually so warm, are instead blown out with widened pupils.
“I—we can’t,” he repeats, standing up in a hurry. “Not like this. Not right now.”
“Wait, Jihoon—!”
“Please.” He’s at the door to your bedroom, forehead knocking against the wood. Jihoon takes another quivering breath, and you watch his whole body shake at the gesture. “Just… get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
There’s some more mumbling from him; curses, you realize too late, and then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him and you’re left with nothing but the buzz of the air conditioner and your thoughts.
A part of you wants to stumble to your feet and crawl to him, begging for him to come back and explain himself. Another part of you wants to scream like a child throwing a tantrum, tears threatening to spill over your lashline.
“Jihoon,” you whimper into the darkness, lamp clicking off automatically from no movement sensed. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Do you not want me as much as I want you?”
📍 ORLANDO, FLORIDA
In the days following that night, Jihoon’s been ignoring you.
You thought it was just your imagination at first; maybe he was just busy with the next upcoming show, you reasoned, shrugging your shoulders as he gave another lame excuse for not being able to watch the next Frieren episode with you. The amazing show at D.C. caused yet another uproar, Orlando and Atlanta selling out soon after videos started circulating.
But then one Frieren episode turned to two, and two turned to three, until he was a whole arc behind you. The last episode you had watched together had been the one in New York, where Frieren counseled Fern and Stark on their relationship. You remember huffing in disbelief at the main character finding out the real meaning of the mirrored lotus, and what that entailed about Himmel’s feelings for her.
“I can’t believe it. He loved her so much, yet was so content with just staying by her side,” you lamented, your back hitting the couch with a thud. “He was so selfless about that shit. Even until the end.”
Jihoon had eyed your complaining from his newfound position across from you, knee bent at an angle to be able to brush against your thigh. He just shook his head, the credits rolling, and shrugged.
“Anything to be by her side.”
Back then, you had rolled your eyes for the umpteenth time at him, griping that he was much more of a sap than he let on.
Now, his words linger in your head as you stare at the news headline, Soonyoung worriedly trying to snap you out of your daze.
New Foreign Love? WOOZI, Lead Singer & Guitarist of CH33RS, Seen Embracing Anonymous Person Last Night at Mango’s Club in Orlando, Florida!
“Hey, you know how people get about the media,” he tries to console. “It probably wasn’t even him. We get into dumb scandals all the time, and—”
“Soonyoung.” Your grim tone makes him flinch. “What happened that night?”
“That night?” He recites, thinking hard for a moment. “Oh! Do you mean last night? Don’t listen to Seungcheol, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about with billiards—”
You sigh. “No, Soonyoung. The night we all got drunk in D.C. What happened?”
“Ooooohh.” Soonyoung lets the note drag on, his vibrato reverberating through the dressing room you’re in. “That night!”
Yes, you want to groan, mentally slapping your forehead. Memories were nonsensical from that night—all you remember was biting someone’s shoulder and then being dragged to your room, feeling incredibly down about it.
You chalked it off the next day as silly drunk antics, as everyone—save for Jihoon, who said he wasn’t feeling well that day—was acting normal around you.
But now? After gathering the evidence of ignorance, and seeing this headline? Your heart hammers with fear of the unknown, and you have to do a breathing exercise for a second before you’re able to respond.
“What happened?” You ask again, more firmly this time.
The drummer scratches the back of his neck, eyebrows squeezing in thought. “...I dunno. We were all drunk and stuff. Jeonghan was teasing you a lot for your low tolerance, and Jihoon took you to your room right after.”
Slumping, you wrack your brain, trying to fragment some semblance of what could have happened that night. Maybe you had embarrassed yourself by letting out a particularly gut-wrenching burp? Or, perhaps, you had disclosed something incredibly personal to him, and he felt awkward about it?
But nothing was brought up. Frustration laces your thoughts and makes itself comfortable in your heart, throwing its arms up in the air with a sigh. Surely he would’ve talked to you if you did anything embarrassing, right?
Or, maybe, your anxiety murmurs, he’s so disgusted by you he doesn’t even want to bring it up.
Burying your head in your hands, you will the feelings away, trembling with emotion. Soonyoung, put off by your desolate state, rubs a comforting hand in circles along your back.
“I’m sure it’ll all blow over,” he reasons. “And Jihoon will come around. I’m sure of it.”
Not even half a second later, the mentioned man pushes the dressing room door open. You don’t catch it, too entangled in your woes, but Jihoon takes a sharp inhale at the sight of his bandmate comforting you in such an intimate manner.
“Soonyoung,” Jihoon rasps, and you involuntarily stiffen at the sound of his voice. “We’re needed soon for pre-show photos.”
Soonyoung mutters that he’ll be there soon. Turning your head, you meet Jihoon’s eyes, hope flaring in your chest when he hesitates at the door.
“Seungcheol and I will be waiting in the stairwell. See you then.” He takes a step back and lets the door shut, the wood creaking for a moment in protest before ultimately giving in.
You let out a long, resigned sigh, tears welling up in the back of your throat.
“I’m sorry,” Soonyoung mumbles your name, and you look at him with what you hope is a grateful smile; by the expression on his face, it’s far from one. “I promise, he’ll come around. Maybe he just needs some space. Talk to you in a little, okay? Drink some water.”
He abandons you then, draped over the arm of the couch with a tissue box and half-empty bottle of water. Your sniffles are quiet in contrast to the loud cheering from outside—it’s definitely Soonyoung trying to lift the mood.
Maybe he just needs some space. The words, empty with promise, ring in your head.
Space your ass. Your jaw clenches. Jihoon should know better than to hide from communication with you—it’s what had you two at each other’s throats in the first place.
Right then and there, against better judgement, you make a decision. Tonight you would confront Lee Jihoon, WOOZI of CH33RS, and you would do it scared to absolute death.
—
You find Jihoon in your dressing room after the opening show, tinkering with the make-up products on your vanity.
He must’ve just gotten out of his own last-minute touch ups, the red eyeliner making those half-crescents you like to stare at so much become just that much more endearing. Jihoon adjusts the leather jacket he’s wearing, fiddling with the pocket’s button, before finally glancing up at you.
He speaks your name, sweet and soft and everything you could ever hope for.
“Did the show go… well?” Jihoon scans your figure as you make a beeline for the vanity, pushing past him and grabbing your water bottle. “You’re shaking.”
“Show went well,” you reply curtly; the water easily goes down your throat, and you welcome it, using it as an excuse to not talk to the man beside you just yet.
“Listen, I… wanted to explain—”
“Look, Jihoon.” You bring the bottle down from your lips, fixing him in place with a long look. “If it’s about the scandal, forget it. I need to talk to you about something more important—did I do something wrong?”
Jihoon blinks, lips parted in an ‘o’. “No?”
So he was brushing you off for the fun of it. Cool. The feelings of frustration and anxiety come flying back at the speed of light, smashing into you with such concentrated strength you end up crushing the plastic water bottle in your hand. Jihoon’s eyes flicker between you and the bottle in fear.
Good, you think. That makes two of us scared right now.
“Great, awesome,” you manage with a terse nod. “Have a good show, then.”
You make a move to leave, but there’s that familiar warmth around your wrist again, and you’re jerked back by Jihoon’s nimble fingers. He’s pleading your name, and—
Wait—I... we can’t.
Gasping, you snatch your hand away, stumbling back with your head whirling.
We can’t. Not like this. Not right now.
Please, just… get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?
Wait, Jihoon—!
Your lower back meets the couch, and you gawk at him, hurt slowly fanning out in your expression to reach even the tremors of your pinkie fingers.
“You—you stopped me that night. From kissing you. Didn’t you?”
Jihoon lets out a tch.
While he doesn’t give a verbal answer, his face says everything as he rips his eyes away from you and runs an agitated hand through his black locks.
“You stopped me—why? Was I not good enough for you? Is that why?” You cry out, fists shaking at your sides. “Did you realize at that moment that you didn’t want me? Is that why you ended up hooking up with someone from the club?”
“That’s not—” Jihoon clenches his jaw. “That’s not why I did that.”
And though his words are supposed to comfort, they instead overwhelm, the confirmation of the scandal looming over you like a taunt.
“So you did hook up with someone,” you say slowly, betrayal etched into your features.
He’s reaching for you, arm outstretched and eyes as glassy as the night he stopped you from kissing him. “God, okay, let me just explain—”
“What? Did you need a new lover, or something?”
It comes out much harsher than you intend. You watch as Jihoon’s arm falls and silence engulfs the two of you once more, save for your labored breathing and the squeaking of his boots on the floor when he shifts.
“Just… just for Orlando,” he mumbles, dropping his head.
You let out an incredulous laugh. “Just for Orlando?” You echo, disbelief written across all your features. “What, so you’re going to find someone new for Atlanta, too? Houston, even Los Angeles?”
He says nothing.
A knock comes at the door. The two of you stand still as statues as a staff member pokes their head in. If they heard anything, they don’t show it, sparing you only a glance before calling out to Jihoon.
“Stage in ten!”
The door closes as fast as they had opened it, the wood giving no resistance this time. You think Jihoon’s going to say something, but as he’s quite loved to do during the time he’s known you, he surprises you once again by simply making his way towards the exit.
You can’t tell if you want to laugh or cry.
He passes you, intentionally making sure to not even have his jacket brush yours, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
“So that’s it.” Your voice cracks on the last syllable and you hate it.
Jihoon stops in his tracks. His back is to you now, but you turn to watch the rise and inescapable fall of his broad shoulders. If you look closely, you can see the new silver hoops you had helped him pick out at a random flea market on the road.
“Is that all I was to you? Is that all I am to you?” You clamp your fists together, thumbs pressing on your knuckles until they pale. “Just a—just some event that happened to you that you can then make your own dumb conclusions based off of?”
He doesn’t say anything again—you wished he would. The words can’t stop spilling from your lips, like a cup that’s been left uncared for too long under a fountain.
Your impulsivity will be the death of you.
“I’m not a tour date, WOOZI,” you spit. “I’m not just some random location you can think of and go, Oh, right, I visited that place. I’m a person too. I have feelings. I thought you would’ve known that by now, with those stupid memories we shared. I guess I was wrong.”
WOOZI’s low, grainy voice reaches your ears a moment too late. “That’s not what I’m trying to do—”
Crash!
Wrapped up in your emotions, you had forgotten that you were right next to your vanity, your elbow knocking off a jar of perfume. The delicate, rose-colored pieces of glass now lay shattered on the floor, a floral scent filling the air. It’s so pungent you want to gag.
“Fuck,” you mutter, stepping back and plugging your nose. “Ji—WOOZI, I—”
He’s rooted to the ground, hands pressed over his ears and eyes screwed shut. Your eyes widen when taking in how his shoulders shake.
Worriedly and without hesitation, you dash over to him, extending the tips of your fingers to run along the stitches of his leather jacket.
One of WOOZI’s eyes crack open. The iris of brown meets you, his pupil practically a slit, and you falter just enough for him to recognize what you’re trying to do.
He strikes your hand away, fast as lightning, and you yelp in pain.
“Don’t fucking touch me.” WOOZI regards you with a voice that doesn’t sound like his own; it’s roughened around the edges, and so, so cold, that you shiver despite the jacket around your shoulders. “I’m leaving. And you can’t stop me.”
He does exactly what he says he’ll do, slamming the door so hard behind him it rattles in his wake. Sinking to the floor, you let out a sob.
The perfume bottle’s rose-colored pieces are left untouched.
📍 ATLANTA, GEORGIA
Jihoon traces the outline of your side-profile from backstage, eyes taking in your loose tank top and baggy shorts that fall just a little above your knees. The stage lights burn brightly onto your newly colored hair, freshly dyed the night before, and your lips are bruised with the cherry red lip stain he knows you love. You’re in the middle of Real Man, fingers holding the guitar pick so tight he’s a little scared you’ll break it by force.
And I already told you I just wanted to dance
Could you see me standing out here with my outstretched hand?
I guess no one ever taught you how to be a real man, ooh
He feels Seungcheol before he sees him; the hand on his shoulder is weighted, resolute. The bassist says nothing to him as you launch into the second verse of the song.
What Jihoon hates the most is how much of a coward he is—how, even back then with Seokmin, all he knew how to do was put up a cold front and sneer.
Seokmin, with his bright laugh and hopeful gaze. Seokmin, with his neverending optimism, who cheered the three of them on during late nights at their old company’s studio. Seokmin, who took a slap for him from their bitchy CEO, ushering him and his bandmates to flee and never come back.
Crash!
“Seokmin!” He had yelled—never before had he yelled so loud. Jihoon remembers his hoarse voice the day after, how Seungcheol had to brew him ginger tea for his throat.
He also remembers how Seokmin had just laughed, blood dripping from a cut across his cheek. The vase that had smashed to smithereens lay right below him, knocked over when he stumbled back from the CEO’s hand, and Jihoon remembers the smell of the daisies all too well.
“Jihoon,” Seokmin grinned. “It’s okay. The contract isn’t renewing. Go. I’ll always believe in you.”
Walking as the morning beckon
You said you'll be a second
Locked the back door
Yeah, you should have mentioned
Guess I should expect it
I'm out here, blue
What to do?
“Did you know today marks a hundred days since we properly met them?” Seungcheol asks, startling Jihoon out of his memories. “And soon we’ll hit the hundred day mark with them as our opener.”
He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his trousers. Pauses in opening his mouth. Thinks about how he can’t see your eyes from this angle, but doesn’t quite know what he’s looking for in them anyway.
“Where’d you hear that? Soonyoung?” Jihoon finally snorts. “Him and his weird anniversaries.”
From his peripheral vision, he sees Seungcheol shrug. Instead of giving a proper answer, the bassist lets out a low whistle and runs a hand through his hair.
“Man, they must be really worked up about something.”
Jihoon’s already staring at you when you drop to your knees, head tilted back and eyelashes flush against your cheeks. Real Man isn’t a ballad song by any means, but your stage presence has made it infinitely more personal this time around as you cry the lyrics into the microphone.
Would you hold it down and take it if I gave you a chance?
Need the reassurance, baby, not a silly romance
Guess I'm used to being disappointed, falling too fast
If you want it, go and get it, and I hope you last
“If you want it, go and get it!” Tears stream down your face; Jihoon ashamedly thinks you look like an angel with your hair framing your face so perfectly, head still tilted back to the light.
“And I hope you last.”
You punctuate the last word with a fist to the air. The stage lights darken, the music stills, and all that can be heard is the heavy breathing from you onstage.
That is, until the audience bursts into screams, of course.
He feels a hard clap to his shoulder. Seungcheol’s expression is stony, written with thick strokes of disappointment, doing nothing to ease the onslaught of bullets that are currently being shot into Jihoon’s chest.
Fix your shit, man, is what his friend says without words, before he leaves to go further backstage.
You’re standing up again, facing the crowd and away from Jihoon’s anxious eyes. He sees you readying your guitar for the last song.
“Thank you, Atlanta,” you say into the mic. “It’s been a pleasure being able to open for you tonight. This song… it’s dedicated to someone very special to me. I hope one day I’ll be able to introduce you to him.”
The crowd goes absolutely wild, and Jihoon becomes a deer caught in headlights. He’s listened to your setlist enough times to have memorized the order—knows that after Real Man, comes a song that you hold so close to your heart.
“Atlanta!” You strike a chord. “This is He Gets Me So High!”
There’s no time for him to react before you jump into the music, your mellifluous voice sweetening the sickening lyrics of the song as you strum. Jihoon can’t bear to watch anymore.
A staff member comes to remind him that he’s up next, and he gratefully takes the opportunity to leave—but not without throwing one last look over his shoulder. The entire show you’ve been facing away from him, but this time, you’re angled so he can see the glimmer of your star stud.
Then, you move, and that light fizzles out.
“A hundred days, huh,” he mutters, following the staff to his dressing room. “You’d think we’d have moved past square one at this point.”
—
You trace a light line across the dahlia on your ankle. Minghao had offered to touch-up on your old tattoos for free, but you had turned him down, liking how the fade of the ink added to the sentiment.
If only all your tattoos had such lighthearted meanings to them.
“Sit up a little straighter for me, please.”
Sakura, after your soft pleas, became one of your go-to staff members after shows to help you tidy yourself up. She gives a tiny pat to your leg, indicating you should put it down from its place propped up on your knee, and you oblige.
From outside your dressing room, you pick up on the now-familiar shouts from CH33RS’ crowd. While each city’s audience had their own unique sound—New York was full of screamers, whereas San Francisco had sweeter tones to them—they all bled into the same stream of being wildly captivated by the rock band.
Which, to your utter shame, you can’t exactly say is not hard to do.
“Sakura.” She hums to show she’s heard you, combing a hand through your hair to work the product out of it. “Do you enjoy being a staff member for CH33RS?”
The girl doesn’t stop in her ministrations, but she does fall into a different kind of silence from before, and you can only imagine the gears turning in her head.
“They’re very chaotic.” She states—this gets a giggle out of you. “But they’re very genuine in their actions, and I respect them for that.”
You wring your hands together. “Genuine?”
“I’d like to think so.” In the mirror, you see the reflection of her smile: it’s gentle and coats you with warmth, like one’s favorite quilt would do. “Especially Jihoon. He may seem prickly, but I think he’s just bad with words. He’s much better at showing sincerity through his actions.”
With a bite to your cheek, you carefully formulate your response, hoping Sakura doesn’t see through the cracks of your facade.
“He’s definitely… a character,” you confess. “It’s been hard to get along with him.”
To your surprise, Sakura only chuckles, as if she expected your answer. “I think it’s because you’ve been trying to be someone you think he would get along with. It’s hard to be someone you’re not, you know.”
Her words leave you silent, and she finishes up with pulling your hair back from your face to start taking off your makeup. While Sakura doesn’t say any more than that, you feel squeamish in your seat—almost as if she knows something you don’t, and is waiting for you to realize it.
—
The water of the hotel stings.
You rub your eyes with your hands, blinking away tears that crowd the corners of your eyes.
It’s hard to be someone you’re not, you know.
A spray of hot water hits your back as you turn around, leaning against the tiled walls with a sniffle. Sakura’s words hit you with a truck of feelings you’re not sure you’re ready to face.
Sairen. The stage name echoes in your mind, and you repeat it out loud, hating how it rolls off the tongue with such an alluring mystique to it—the sigh of a maiden’s whisper before being grounded with a firm, calm ending, one that leaves you aching for more. It sickens you to the bone.
You cry softly into your hands. Sakura’s right. Pretending to be a magnetic pull when you are instead a sporadic force of resistance has led to the baring of your teeth one too many times. You desperately wish you could mold yourself into what society is begging you to be, if only to stop the relentless torment you endure every time someone mistreats you.
Because pray, do tell—how are you supposed to be the gentle, enticing waves of the ocean, when all you are is the barreling torrent of a tsunami?
Slowly turning the knob of the shower, you shiver as the heat of the bathroom begins to dissipate, condensing into little water droplets on the glass of the shower’s door. Goosebumps prickle your skin and you hurry to wrap yourself in the towel you had prepared before getting in.
The hotel room is dark when you step out, but you’re taken away by the sight of the Atlanta skyline at night. Lights twinkle from various apartments and city buildings, looking like a galaxy some thousand light years away, and you find yourself standing at the bay of your window, hair still dripping wet onto your shoulders and fluffy towel warming you to your toes.
Tap, tap.
Your breath hitches at the soft knock of the door. It’s well past two in the morning—Joshua wouldn’t come bothering you at this hour, and Soonyoung knows better than to try and show up unannounced. Heartbeat quickening, you rustle around for a shirt to throw on, hastily hanging your towel on the metal rod inside the bathroom.
Before you can stop yourself, you’re at the door, rising to peek through the peephole on the hotel room door. “Hello?”
The sight on the other side of the door makes your stomach drop.
WOOZI, hair messy and bearing grey sweats with a black tank. He’s shuffling about awkwardly in his sandals, but his head snaps up at the sound of your voice, and in the half-heartbeat that you see his face it looks like he’s been—crying?
“Hey, it’s me.” WOOZI speaks in a low, muted pitch, and it has your heart aching.
Whatever. Your face burns as you clench your jaw, your back hurriedly pressed to the door, the sound of your breath coming out in rough gasps. Just make it back to your bed. Just go to sleep, and he’ll be gone.
Then—your name is uttered.
Suspended in place, the air is stuck in your lungs as a dull thump comes from behind you. Though the door is dense, you can practically feel the heat radiating off of him through it. You don’t know whether to run or let it embrace you.
He says your name again. The sound is loudest right at the shell of your ear, causing you to shiver despite the muffling of the door.
“I—I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’ve been a jerk this entire time. Even when you treated me with nothing but kindness—it’s… I have no other explanation or reasoning or justification, but I’m sorry.”
“I just had to let you know before the next show.”
Unfurling your fists and against better judgement, you turn to flip the lock of the hotel door open.
WOOZI’s eyes are tinged red. The beauty mark you like to study when he isn’t looking is bold against his pale, blush-fevered skin, making your heart leap in your throat.
“At least have the decency to apologize to my face, dickhead.” It comes out in a pitiful attempt to insult him; a blurt, which is followed by the sound of you sniffling and walking away from the doorway.
He must come in right behind you, because the hallway light goes out not even a second later as the door clicks shut. The city lights glimmer from your window, illuminating your hotel room with a dim glow, and the soft hum of the air conditioner has made itself comfortable in the silence.
“Decency?” echoes WOOZI.
In the blink of an eye, he’s got your wrist caught in his hand, spinning you around to look him in the eye. The expression on his face is a new one—there’s a crease in the middle of his forehead, lips pressed into a small frown, and a small part of you wants to believe he’s worried about you.
“If we’re talking decency, then you should at least also have the decency to look me in the face,” he murmurs, running a thumb along your knuckles.
Your cheeks burn. He must notice this, because he drops your hand soon after, opting to rub his forearm and clear his throat. “Y’know, you’re pretty bad at that. Eye contact.”
This gets a proper reaction out of you. Huffing, you turn away again, wanting nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow you whole.
“WOOZI. What are you doing here? What are you trying to possibly gain from this?”
There it is. At the last word, your voice breaks. Cringing, you inwardly curse at yourself, hating the evident flash of hurt in your tone.
“Didn’t you hear me earlier?” WOOZI’s walking around your figure to get you to face him again; the city lights disappear, his shadow looming over your body and sending shivers down your spine. “I’m—I’m apologizing. I’m trying to make things better—fuck, can’t you just look at me?”
Your hands shake as you tear at your hair. “No, I—I can’t. I can’t do that, I’m sorry. And I can’t accept your apology.”
“Why not?” You see him reach for your hand once more.
“Because!” Tugging your fingers away, the electricity jolts you alive, and your breaths start to fall shallow. “Because—how can I know you’re for real this time? How do I know you’re not going to push me away, again? How do I know that you’re not just spitting empty words at me like you have been the past few weeks?”
You don’t even realize you’re crying. The tears come slowly, at first, dripping down your cheeks and making droplets on your tee. Soon enough, though, they’re the flooding rapids of a river, all the emotions that you’ve bottled up over the course of the day exploding like a shaken can of soda.
“I’m tired of this, Jihoon,” you sob. “I’m tired of whatever the fuck this friendship—this, this situation is. Maybe you were right. Maybe we should just stay as memories on a map to one another.”
It all happens so fast; one moment, the cool air of the hotel surrounds you, and the next WOOZI’s got you tightly wrapped up in a hug. It’s the first time he’s voluntarily touched you the entire tour, a sickening part of your brain hoping it’s not the last. His hands are cold, fingers splayed firmly across the small of your back, but his torso—it’s warm.
“I’m sorry,” he’s croaking into your shoulder; you long to feel the brush of his lips against your bare skin. “I’m so, so, so awful with words. I’m sorry.”
His arms, heavy with muscle and firm with his quiet determination, guide you to your bed. The backs of your knees hit your comforter, and you sink to sit on the edge, letting go of him to cover your blazing face with your hands.
You’re expecting WOOZI to leave after sitting you down on the bed, fully convinced he’d be too off put by the surge of your emotions to have a proper conversation with you.
Of course, in true WOOZI nature, he surprises you by beginning to comb his hands through your hair.
He stands between you, not talking with words but with his fingers. I’m sorry, his index and middle finger mumble, disentangling some strands that veil your expression from him. I’m sorry, whispers his thumb, oh-so-carefully tracing the outer shell of your ear down to the point of your jaw.
I’m sorry.
“You still won’t look at me.” His murmur of your name is stained with defeat. “Please, just look at me.”
With a gulp, you lift your chin, trembling eyes meeting his. As you do so, his hand slides to cradle the side of your cheek in his hold. You try to fight the urge of pressing a kiss to his palm.
“There you go,” WOOZI lets out a sigh. “Wasn’t that hard, was it?”
He stands in between your legs, looking down at you with a gaze full of utter reverence. It almost makes you laugh.
“I should be the one saying that to you,” you croak out, the words getting stuck halfway in your throat. “It only took me several breakdowns for you to finally apologize. Wasn’t that hard, was it?”
Though the words are supposed to have a bite to them, they instead have a subdued acceptance to them, your heart pounding loud in your ears from how intimate this moment is. Now that you can get a good look at him, you spot your favorite manmade mark thus far—his star stud now shines brightly, spurred on by the Atlanta lights.
“Yeah,” WOOZI draws his hand away; you make a soft noise of protest at the lack of his touch. “Wasn’t that hard. Should’ve done this way sooner.”
His hands are on either side of you on the bed, leaning forward while you simultaneously lean back on your own hands. The tips of your noses touch and you don’t know where to look—his lips are parted, coffee-grounded eyes trained on the slope of your cupid’s bow, thumbs just barely skimming the surface of your thighs.
Time is awfully slow at times like this. You breathe a sigh into his mouth, one that makes his eyelashes flutter with a heaviness you’re quite sure you could get used to, and the seconds just keep on ticking.
“You’re not going to tell me to stop this time,” you murmur. “Are you?”
And then he fucking grins. “Nah. Been told I’m bad at words, so I’ll stick to letting my actions talk for me.”
You’re not ready for the swell of emotions that overcome you when his lips eagerly press to yours, drowning your senses in the smell of his shampoo. Your arms give out, and you fall back onto the bed, a whine escaping you when you feel the dip of his knee on the bed next to your thigh.
Kissing WOOZI is like taking your first dip in the ocean—the temperature initially shocks you and sends you into a gasping spiral, but then gradually gives way to the relaxing thrum of the waves against your body. His tongue darts out and takes a swipe along your bottom lip, your back arching in pleasure, and you feel the grin on his face when his teeth bump with yours.
“WOOZI—” You start, pulling back with a gasp.
Adjusting his position above you, the man’s head dips to press open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. He gives a nip to the column of your throat, making you let out an embarrassingly loud noise of content.
“I told you to call me Jihoon, didn’t I?”
Cheeks flushed, you let your arms snake around his neck, tugging lightly on the hair at the base of his neck. “Need to lay down. On the bed, please, Jihoon.”
Jihoon huffs out a laugh, detaching his lips from your neck with one last kiss. When he gets off you, you mourn the loss of his body heat, a long sigh leaving you at the glance you get of the tent in his grey sweats.
He guides you to sit much more comfortably on the bed, your head resting against the soft feathery pillows the hotel provided. Wasting no time, Jihoon settles between your legs once more, just barely dipping his hands underneath your already-bunched up shirt.
Leaning over you again, Jihoon tugs at your ear with his teeth, giving it a small kiss after. “Better?”
His fingers are a welcome chill to your feverish skin, and your quivering eyelashes tell him as such as you finally give into your desires, bringing one of his hands to your lips to press chaste kisses to. Jihoon’s own lips part in shallowing pants. His pupils are blown wide as he watches your ministrations turn less than innocent when you take the tip of his thumb in your mouth.
Your eyes are dark and half-lidded as you stare up at him with a challenge, swirling the digit around your tongue and sucking lightly. When you sigh, he sighs; when you let your eyes flutter close, his eyelids close half-way, becoming half-lidded in the dim light of your bedroom.
“You look so good when you’re like this, you know that?” Jihoon intones, the newfound sensation of the slow roll of his hips making you gasp and let his thumb fall out of your mouth with a pop!
You let out a shy mewl; he’s so hard against you, the friction of his sweatpants and your underwear catching onto your clit in the most delicious way. Chest heaving, your head tilts back on the pillows, exposing the column of your throat to him once more.
And he takes, dragging his teeth down your neck and sucking at the base of your collarbone. His hands are relentless on your body, squeezing your waist so hard you hope it bruises.
Jihoon pulls at the offending piece of clothing still on you. “Can I take this off, pretty?”
“Yes, please,” you beg. “And you too, Ji.”
“Of course I can.” He presses a long, sweet saccharine kiss to your shiny lips, one that leaves you breathless.
Jihoon sits back on his haunches, tugging his tank top off in one quick and smooth pull. Your eyes widen at the ebony serpent engraved into his skin, its tongue flicking out with a glint of danger in its expression.
The man quietly observes you reaching out to outline the tattoo. His abdomen tenses at your touch, but he lets you continue your journey down his torso, silent awe in your eyes.
“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, gaze finally meeting his. “What does it mean?”
Swallowing thickly, Jihoon places a hand over yours, extending your fingers to fully splay over the mystical creature.
“Supposed to be the serpent Ouroboros, from Egyptian mythology, before he was doomed to his eternal fate of consuming himself over and over.” Jihoon’s voice is impossibly low. “A reminder to myself to never succumb to my greed.”
“Might have to go back on that promise, though,” he chuckles, eyes drifting to where your nipples are perked up underneath your shirt. “You’re making it kinda hard to keep myself in check.”
Jihoon lifts you up with a surprising amount of strength, helping you get your shirt off and throwing it off the bed without as much as a look. You let out a squeak when he dives between your breasts, massaging them with both hands and hungrily pressing sloppy, wet kisses to the valley between them.
All the while, he’s started grinding against you again, and you’re left a little unsure of the source of the stickiness between your legs. Jihoon’s presence is overwhelming, as if his goal is to make you think of him and him only, and this thought makes your stomach churn with need.
His mouth makes its way down your body, biting at your skin with his fangs before smoothing the lovebites over with his tongue. The saliva he leaves in his wake burns cold in the air conditioned air of your hotel room, but it’s nothing compared to the fire in your lower stomach.
A groan leaves his throat when he comes to the new flowers lacing your thigh—right next to the delicate material of your panties.
“When you got this tattoo,” he sighs, and you squeal at the sudden press of his tongue, flat against the darkening spot of your underwear between your legs. “It took everything in me not to crack at the sight of you in those damn shorts you wore for days after.”
Your panties muffle his words, but as if to make up for it, the vibrations coming from his lips on your clit send waves of pleasure through you. Moaning, you raise your hips to meet his face, your back lifting off the mattress.
Inevitably, Jihoon grows tired of only tasting cotton. In a flash, your panties lay somewhere behind him on the bed, and his mouth licks a stripe up your folds, your moans music to his ears.
“Jihoon—oh, fuck—” you whimper, covering your face with your arms in embarrassment. “Feels—feels s’good, please don’t stop.”
He hums a melody into your cunt, letting his tongue kiss the insides of your gummy walls. You’re delicious, a taste he could only imagine of on nights with no one but him and his hand. Jihoon buries himself further into you, nose rubbing against the bud that draws the loudest sounds out of your throat, and loving every second of it.
You’re squeezing his head between your thighs with all your might, frantically trying to get him to go deeper with his tongue. Fingers scratching at his scalp, your voice comes out in a babble as Jihoon does something with his tongue that leaves your legs shaking.
“D—do that again, please, sir.” The title falls out of you with shockingly little thought, and you clamp around his tongue with a deep flush.
Jihoon pulls back from your folds, cocking his head with a smirk. You whine at the sight of the wetness coating his chin; it dribbles down onto the comforter with little to no regard for your sanity.
“Sir, huh?” He mumbles, teeth moving to nip again at your sensitive spot; you jump and let out a moan. “That’s a new one.”
The singer prods at your entrance with his tongue once more, one of his digits tracing circles around your puffy clit. “You want me to do what again, rockstar?”
Keening, you struggle to keep your eyes open, pathetically pawing at his hair and hoping Jihoon gets the message. He only raises an eyebrow at you, much to your dismay, before devilishly slurping the new juices flooding out of your hole.
His fingers, the ones you’ve only watched pick at his guitar strings until now, make quick work of you, sliding in a V-shape around your bud—up, down, up, down. The wet smacks of his mouth against your pussy echo in the quiet hotel room, loud and lewd. Your noises of pleasure accompany them to create what Jihoon would call his favorite orchestra.
“Th—that! Oh my God, Jihoon!” You yank at his hair, hard, when he does that stupid thing with his tongue again. “Sir—oh god, please… I’m gonna—”
The coils in your lower stomach are threatening to burst. It’s a searing kind of pleasure—one that borders on pain as Jihoon vigorously works his tongue and fingers simultaneously faster, until you’re left a sobbing mess for him to pick up the pieces of. Too much, you want to cry out. Too much, but please don’t stop.
Your legs are convulsing, endless in their tremors as you get lost in how good he’s making you feel. However, just as you’re about to let go of that star, letting it explode into oblivion—
Slap!
A shriek escapes you and you tear your eyes open, hips jolting with the force of Jihoon’s slap against your cunt. He’s grinning, fingers tapping your clit three times before his hand drops.
“Sorry, rockstar,” he teases, shifting upwards to engulf you in a kiss; you taste yourself on his tongue, gooey and sweet, and whimper in response. “Didn’t want you to cum before I’ve had my share of fun, y’know?”
Jihoon rocks his hips forward, his hard-on barely concealed by his sweatpants and dragging enticingly along your pussy just right. Breathlessly, you hold onto his broad shoulders, pouting up at him with your release smeared all over your lips from his kiss.
“Please,” you whisper; he doesn’t even have to ask what you’re begging for, too entranced by the soft spoken sound of your plea.
Shuffling his pants and boxers off, you’re finally met with the sight of his cock: girthy and curved ever so slightly, with a tip tinged so red it leaves your mouth aching to be filled. He grunts as it slaps against his lower stomach, choking out a moan when you immediately reach down to spread your fingers around his tip, smearing pre all over himself.
Jihoon catches your wrist in his hand, looking at you with a gaze so dark it has you clenching around nothing. “Careful what you wish for, pretty,” he mumbles aloud. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew right now.”
He lets his cock slide deliciously between your folds, your juices mixing with his pre to create the perfect lube. It’s so messy, with Jihoon gasping every time the tip of his cock brushes against your entrance. The sheets below you are soaked with your arousal, and you silently pray that the hotel staff won’t mind too much in the morning.
“Ride me,” Jihoon suddenly says. “Need you to ride me. Please.”
You’ve never heard him beg before, but you decide right then and there it’s one of your favorite sounds.
His eyes are so dark you can barely see the irises anymore, and are so, so glossy, that you worry he’s about to cry. Cradling his cheek in your hand, you swipe your thumb along his beauty mark with a soft smile.
“Of course, Jihoon,” you whisper.
He flips you over so you’re straddling him, your left hand splayed against Ouroboros. Jihoon tortures his bottom lip with his teeth as you mentally prepare yourself.
The stretch is painful. You squeeze your eyes shut as you lower yourself onto his length, whimpering from the dull sting of him. Jihoon isn’t doing any better; you hear his groan of pleasure, his hips twitching, before he’s desperately trying to still them as to not start frantically thrusting up into you.
“S’too big,” you fret, lashes fluttering along your cheeks with tears beginning to line the corners of your eyes. “Sir, s’too big.”
Jihoon grasps your hand in his and kisses it delicately. “You’re doing great, baby. Just breathe. M’right here.”
Slowly, you inch your way down his cock, until your hips meet his. You sniffle and try not to cry; he’s so deep in you, making you feel so full it has your head spinning.
“Good job, pretty.” Jihoon massages your hips with his fingers, squeezing the flesh with a gentleness you didn’t know he had. “You did so well. Feel good yet?”
“Uh-huh,” you nod, trembling above him.
“Good,” says the man. “Now ride me.”
With a small whine, your thighs shake as you lift yourself once, before dropping back down onto his cock. The loud, unabashed sound of his skin meeting yours makes you squeak in surprise, and Jihoon lets out a long, drawn out groan.
“Keep going, baby,” he encourages.
His hands help to guide you until you’re a bouncing wreck, cunt slamming down onto his dick with so much force the bed frame creaks in protest. Jihoon grabs your chin and pulls you into a smoldering kiss, your spit mixing with his as you unashamedly moan into his mouth.
“God, fuck, you’re taking m’so well.” Jihoon moans, lips sliding against your teeth, beginning to piston up into you at an impossibly harsh speed. He’s hitting that one spot that’s making you see absolute stars, your walls violently fluttering around him. “You—fuck, you feel s’good baby—tell me how much you like it.”
Your hips are starting to slow, especially with the new oncoming force of his thrusts, but you do your best to keep up with his pace. “Love it so much, sir—shit! Oh god… please, keep going…”
He must notice your slowing rate, because Jihoon makes a show of gripping onto your hips with a brutal hold and moving you in time with him.
“C’mon, baby,” Jihoon grunts. “Thought I told you to ride me.”
It’s so unbelievably hot, your skin sticky with sweat and whatever fluids have ended up on it. You let Jihoon take control, fingernails dragging down his chest as he lets out a hiss of pleasure. They leave little trails of red in their wake, and you take this chance to suck a bruising hickey or two into his shoulder, shuddering at his cock pressing into you in all the right places.
The squelching noises are what really get to you. They ring in your ears, directly fueling the pit in your stomach that’s already about to explode again. You feel so dirty.
“J—Jihoon,” you warn, the last syllable coming out in a garble. “Oh—oh, sir, too much! Gonna—”
And then Jihoon’s flipping you two over again, your face being pushed into the hotel pillows as he sets a pace so brutal it has you screaming. His cock rams into you, hands spreading your cheeks apart, as he finally lets loose of all control.
“Y—yeah?” He’s moaning. “Gonna what, pretty? Gonna cum all over my cock?”
Fisting the sheets, you nod your head eagerly, voice small in contrast to the loud, lewd noises coming from the two of you. “Yes—yes, please let me come sir, please please please please—”
“Go ahead baby. Cum.”
With a broken wail, your pussy flutters around his length, a burst of pleasure peaking within you as you see white. Jihoon still doesn’t stop, working you through your orgasm, until he’s whining and bent over you, mouthing at your shoulder with love bites.
“Fuck, baby—”
He pulls out and you sob at the loss, liquids rushing out of your hole as Jihoon works himself over with his hand. His cum spurts, hot and thick, all across your back and ass, and you clench around nothing to cope.
Breathing heavily, you turn your head, gasping for air. Tears stream down your face that you wipe away hastily. Jihoon, above you, has his breath coming out in harsh pants, leaning his weight onto the backs of your thighs.
For a few minutes, there’s nothing but the sound of your shared breathing, the air conditioning kicking in again to rid the room of the smell of sex.
“Jihoon.” Your voice is tiny, but he hears it all the same, taking a moment before moving so he can stand up and crouch beside the bed at your eye level.
With an inquisitive look from him, you blink the remaining tears away.
“Atlanta won’t be just another tour date to you, right?”
Jihoon’s shushing you before you can even get the question out. “Baby, baby, no. Atlanta is so much more than that to me, I swear. You’re much more than one night to me.”
He punctuates his words with kisses to your fingertips. You melt under his gaze, so soft and inviting it’s hard to ever remember a time where he looked at you with such contempt.
“Then…” You swallow tersely, pain lacing your every word. “Why did you sleep with that person? In Orlando?”
Jihoon’s expression turns solemn. He squeezes his eyes shut, heaving out a sigh, and when he speaks next, his tone is charred with regret.
“To try to forget.”
You frown. “That’s kinda hard to do.”
Smiling bitterly, Jihoon turns his face towards you again. “Yeah. Really hard to forget you, y’know. Especially now.”
Pouting, your cheeks flush, and you huff. It’s quiet again before you ask what’s been on your mind.
“Does that mean we’re dating now?”
The man chuckles, bringing your hand to cup his cheek. “You’re asking that now? You are so…”
“Let’s take it slow.” Jihoon stands up and disappears from your vision; you hear the click of the bathroom door, followed by the sound of the sink running, before he’s padding back to you with a wet cloth in his hands. “There’s no rush when it comes to us, ‘kay?”
You have the audacity to let out a snort as he begins wiping your back down, the towel feeling like heaven against your skin. “Right. Like how there was no rush to eat me out, I’m sure.”
He pauses, and you snicker at his dumbfounded expression. Jihoon sighs and shakes his head.
“Save it for when you aren’t covered in my cum, rockstar.”
“…Touché,” you concede, giggling as he presses kisses to your cheeks.
The towel is soon thrown in the bin, and he settles next to you in bed, curling an arm around your waist. You murmur a hello, eyes finding his under the Atlanta city lights.
“Sleep time, now,” he chides. “We have a flight at one tomorrow.”
Humming to show you heard him, you tilt your head forehead to boop his nose with yours. The stars are shining brightly, you’re positively sure of this, and Jihoon smiles against your lips as you whisper a goodnight.
Houston tomorrow, and Dallas next. Your eyes close easily, sleep coaxing you into the dreamworld rather quickly. Then, the future. Whatever the hell that entails.
The thought leaves you off with a grin.
—
“Rough night, eh?”
You jump in your seat, flinching at the sound of Jeonghan’s voice. He’s draped over the airplane seat in front of you, blonde hair perfectly framing the shit-eating grin on his face. It only grows when you fail to answer his question.
“Shut the fuck up, Jeonghan,” you snarl.
The manager of CH33RS barks out a laugh, causing Seungcheol next to him to throw a look over his shoulder. When he spots you, bottom lip pushed out in a glower, he gives his own chuckle.
“Happy for you,” Seungcheol calls; you wave him off, trying not to let his words affect you too much.
Pouting, you curl up in your chair, only picking your head up when Joshua peers over from the seat behind you, nudging the back of your head with a chirp of your name.
“Hey, take a look at this.” Your manager heaves his laptop over the chairs, and you grunt as you take it into your lap. “Let me know if I should schedule him for an interview when we get back to San Francisco.”
Lee Chan. His name comes out quick and fast, and you study his profile from the website Joshua’s got pulled up. Personal stylist, based in Berkeley, California. Looking for a full-time job under someone in the music industry. Flexible schedule.
“How do you keep finding Korean men to associate me with?” You laugh, passing the device back to him. “He looks promising. Did you run a background check on him?”
Joshua nods, typing away on his laptop atop the chairs. People who pass by him on the way to their seats give him a funny look, but he pays them no mind. “I’ll have to get the higher up’s approval, but that shouldn’t be hard. Lee Chan’s got about five years of experience in various other companies. Never stayed in one place for too long, though. Guess he’s as frustrated as we are with the industry.”
“I’d like to meet him, when you invite him for an interview.” The smile that spreads across your face is genuine, and Joshua mirrors your expression when he glances up from his screen.
“Look at you,” he coos, beginning to wipe fake tears away from his eyes. “Wanting to personally mingle with potential future staff members. You’ve come a long way… I’m so proud of you…”
Tsk-ing, you swat at him, letting out another laugh when he only stumbles back into his chair with a mock-offended gasp. Turning back around in your seat, you hum a tune to yourself, hope alight in your heart for what seems like a step towards proper management. A personal stylist would mean no more dealing with the berating cosmetic stylists at photoshoots or music video shoots, and the thought warms you down to your core.
Jihoon joins you a moment later; you both finally made the pinky promise to catch up on Frieren, the two hour flight to Houston being a perfect solution to your dilemma. Sliding into the cushioned seat, he’s already pulling out his wired buds, silently untangling them with a carefully stoic face.
You know better now, though—there’s a blush creeping up the column of his neck, and his fingers are clumsier than usual, slipping in and over themselves more times than not when trying to straighten out the wires.
So, you wait, watching out the window as air crew members line luggages to be packed onto the bottom of the plane. He’ll come to you when he’s ready.
And he does, poking the side of your arm with one of the buds.
“Here,” he murmurs. “You want the left one, right?”
Humming, you intentionally have your thumb run along the side of his index finger when taking the earbud, enjoying how he stiffens at your touch. Giving him a half-smile, you bump his shoulder playfully.
“Yeah. Thanks, Ji.”
Jihoon huffs but doesn’t move away; instead, he presses his shoulder to yours in a promise. Always.
Last but not least, Soonyoung comes bumbling down the aisle of first class, his new silver nose ring catching the overhead lights and complimenting the chain he’s sporting around his neck. He shoots the two of you a thumbs up, clapping Jihoon’s shoulder as he walks by to take his place next to Joshua, and you have to stifle another laugh.
The captain wastes no time once all the passengers are on the plane, flight attendants going through their usual routine of health and safety protocols. You’re barely listening, too caught up in the searing touch of Jihoon’s hand on your thigh.
Sometimes he’ll reach over to threateningly poke at the skin right next to the Blue-Moon Weed flowers, giving you a smirk when you shoot him a glare. After the third time, however, he tilts down to whisper something into your ear.
“Next time you get a tattoo, invite me to the studio, ‘kay rockstar?”
The pilot begins to back the airplane out of the terminal, the roar of the engine slowly coming to life as it approaches the runway. Breath hitching in your throat, you smile up at Jihoon: black bangs parted messily, eyes crinkling at the corners, and nose scrunched up to give his star stud the spotlight it deserves.
You’ve never found him more attractive, nor more yours, until this moment.
“Right back at ya, rockstar,” you challenge. “We may as well get matching tattoos. Whaddaya think?”
He considers it as the aircraft’s engine grows louder, trees whorling past you to indicate its about to make its ascent.
“I think you’re too impulsive for your own good,” he chuckles, brushing a strand of dyed hair out of your face.
“So, you’ll do it?” You eagerly lean into his touch, eyes wide with hope.
The airplane successfully makes its debut into the clouds, and Jihoon’s smiling at you like you’ve got all the time in the world to make this rushed decision together. Impulsivity was your forte, after all, and there were too many memories to be made in such a small amount of remaining tour locations.
Jihoon hums, bringing you out of your thoughts, prolonging his response even though you already know the answer.
“What design did you have in mind?”
📍 DALLAS, TEXAS
“Hi, guys,” you whisper into the mic, smiling when the live chat floods with reactions. “Yeah, yeah, I know it's late. Shouldn’t some of y’all be sleeping too? Why are you berating me for this?”
Your hotel room is dimly lit by the lamp beside your bed. You have your guitar out, strumming lightly, and when the viewers take notice they eagerly eat up the melodies you’re humming.
“Where’s Jihoon?” you query, reading off the comments from your phone screen. “How should I know? He’s probably asleep or something. Lord knows he needs his rest.”
You scoff and knock your knuckles against the polished wood of the instrument. There’s requests for songs in chat accompanied by demands to go to the singer’s room and bring him on live. Shaking your head, you tsk. “I’ve spoiled you guys too much. You’re getting greedy.”
“Now, what should I sing?”
The chat is going so fast you can barely read it, but you smile anyway, feeling at peace in a city you’ve barely been in. The hotel you’re at is a fairly high-end one, and high up at that—from your place on the bed you can see the twinkling lights of the city below. Cars are shooting down the highways, their lights zooming by, and you revel in the peace that is Dallas at night.
Your voice lifts, delicate against the string plucking you’ve chosen for tonight, a low intone as you settle on a song choice. If one were to close their eyes, they could probably picture being in a stadium full of shimmering flashlights as they sang into the mic.
I'm running over sentences at times
I'd better quit dreaming just so I could write
Yet the words to describe you aren't so hard to find
Like a good quote from a book that I've memorized
But I keep forgetting just what to do
A viewer asks what song this is, and you only respond with a smile. “Oh, this? It’s a new one I’ve been working on during tour.”
“Do you like it?” you ask softly, before continuing.
I missed the train again
I called your name, as if you'd drive it back
I swear you're in my head
Throughout the day
I can say that for a fact
Truth be told, your legs are shaking under your guitar. These lyrics are raw and unfiltered—they’re straight from your notes app, unedited and messily scribbled into your notebook with a melody you came up with just fifteen minutes ago.
You’re not sure what exactly prompted you to start the live, but something told you it would be worthwhile. Perhaps it was that you had too many feelings now that you were just incapable of bottling them up; or, perhaps, it was the Texas night sky that had you craving for some sort of semblance of familiar recognition, the stars reminding you too much of the stage.
Whatever it was, you welcome it with open arms—all emotions are valid emotions, after all. You close your eyes and let a wave of serenity wash over you.
Know we had better days, but to keep me sane
I guess that this is just another love song,
About you
A ping! from your phone has you cracking your eye open in just a sliver, pinpointing the message that’s now resting at the top of your screen. The sender’s name stands boldly out against the notification and almost makes you choke on your own spit.
frieren freak!!
Pretty voice. You should sing acoustic more often.
Just another love song,
About you
Your voice falters at the last note, but you continue to strum, humming an encore for the viewers. There’s another buzz from your phone.
frieren freak!!
Let me in?
Slowly, you let the strings of the guitar fade. Your smile is enough to compete with celestial beings as you pick up the device and blow a kiss goodnight.
“That’s it for tonight, guys,” you giggle. “Dallas, I’ll see you tomorrow. There’s someone I’ve been meaning to introduce to y’all.”
—END.
thank you so, so, so much for reading! if you liked this, please be sure to check out the other fics out for yuki's 100 milestone collab! have an amazing day and as always, may good music find you <3!
genre: smut, angst, fluff, coworkers to lovers, friends to lovers
summary: being technologically averse, yet a complete control freak to your core, you tend to annoy senior IT specialist, jeon wonwoo, to no end. but after an apology brings you two closer together, wonwoo finds himself reaching out to you more often than not. on and off slack. despite what you two had originally perceived, you find yourself thrown into feelings that neither of you could've ever prepared for.
warnings: handjobs, fingering, oral (f!recieving), unprotected sex, missionary position, belly bulge, grinding, praise, wonwoo is a service top!!, multiple sex scenes, jerking it in an corporate office bathroom lol, drunk horniness, miscommunication, reader is learning how to open up<3, mutual pining. nsfw (minors / ageless blogs dni).
word count: 19.2k
note: hello new ppl, welcome to the first goldenhourology one shot ✨ I've written things in the past, but this is my first really long one shot. the longer it got, the more I stressed out lol. but I've seen a lot of people do this 20k word one shots, so I thought I'd try my hand at it! also idk much about tech, so if I got anything wrong in this, pls ignore it. thank you to anyone who gives this a read!!
in rotation: picture you, chappell roan / dress, taylor swift / valentine, laufey / diamond boy, sza
Some said your late 20s were the last few years of fun before you fully allowed yourself to be an adult, so why were you always drowning in work?
It didn’t help that you were an executive assistant in one of the biggest software companies in the U.S. When you took the job, surely, you should’ve known that you’d be signing up for an exorbitant amount of work, ranging from invoice management, planning travel for your boss, to even research for senior managers. Despite the constant stress you were under, you liked this job. You liked the trust that your boss had in you. You liked that they let you be independent and figure things out on your own.
And when you couldn’t … you simply contacted IT.
It helped that a senior IT specialist sat right across from your cubicle.
Jeon Wonwoo wasn’t the most talkative cubicle buddy, nor was he the most pleasant. He did his best to give you a smile every once in a while, but he had to fight the urge to throw his head in his hands whenever you send him a message on Slack. You didn’t typically need help with anything, except in the area of tech. You were so organized and incredibly smart – it didn’t take an idiot to see that – but god forbid, sometimes … you could be so technologically averse.
Maybe he just had too many years of schooling under his belt – he was 28 now with both a Bachelors and Masters in Software Engineering – but you surprised him with some of your requests. Sometimes, you’d delete files by accident, need to renew your subscription to important apps, even locked yourself out of your own computer once. He had interns underneath him that could be available to help you, but you had consistently messaged him. And he sat directly across from you. No matter what, it was always going to be Wonwoo that had to help you. Fate had made sure of that.
There were times that you realized you were bothering him. Either you heard him curse from behind his extremely large monitor or he adjusted his glasses so much that you thought he might break them in half. And to be honest, you liked being in control of your own work, so you’d try to find a solution. Typically, solving your own tech problems left your computer in more disarray.
And there was Wonwoo to save the day yet again.
You [10:58 AM]: Morning, Wonwoo!
You [10:58 AM]: I screwed up
You [10:59 AM]: Boss sent me some documents that were password protected, but he’s away for the next two days and not answering his phone
You [10:59 AM]: So I might’ve downloaded some software to help me unlock it and I think it’s attempting to hack my email as we speak
You [11:01 AM]: I’m so so sorry! I didn’t want to bother you
Jeon Wonwoo [11:01 AM]: I’ll be right over.
Luckily for you, Wonwoo was able to fix the problem and stop your email from getting hacked. Whoever was the owner of that virus-filled program you tried to download didn’t gain access to those password-protected documents before Wonwoo secured your computer. But it was close. Too close.
Not only that, but he had a multitude of other projects today. He had to train two new interns … have one of those annual performance reviews with the head of IT … change over a dozen new passwords for people … and then he found out that they’re changing servers. Which meant everything backed up on their former server had to be transferred over to the new one. Fucking great.
He wasn’t sure how many times he sighed today, but it had to be over a hundred. When he couldn’t stand to be sitting anymore, he stood up and paced around the third floor of the building. Today felt like the longest day of his life. And there was a mustard stain on his green sweater vest. And he got a shitty haircut a few days ago. And he probably needed new glasses because he was getting headaches.
It was time for a coffee. As well as a day off.
Coincidentally, you were also headed to the break room that afternoon in need of a green tea. You were about to walk in when you heard your cubicle mate letting out a frustrated breath while talking to another IT specialist. He was clearly fed up about something, or maybe just tired of this day. You hid next to the doorframe, and just when you thought it was safe to step out, you heard your name fall from his lips.
“I don’t understand how she does it,” Wonwoo complained, hands smacking against his sides. “Seriously, it’s mind boggling. I’m pretty sure she has her Masters in Business Administration, but she does this shit that just makes me … Oh my god, she literally tried to download some faulty software off the internet today, instead of just asking me or someone else for help.”
“Oh, yeah, everyone wants to turn to you when you got that attitude, man,” someone – Lee Seokmin, maybe? – joked.
“You get what a mean.” Wonwoo watched the first couple drips of shitty office coffee fill his cup. “I was able to save her computer, yeah, but it would be nice to avoid an emergency for a day.”
Seokmin slapped him on the back. “The joys of working in IT.”
You huffed, stalking away from the break room and back to your desk. There was only so much office gossip you could take, especially when it involved you. As soon as you sat down, you finished typing up an email at the loudest volume possible, your fingers basically punching themselves into the keys. You heard Wonwoo slide back into his desk chair, the fresh smell of burnt coffee wafting across to you, and he didn’t say a thing. Not that he would ever know you had eavesdropped. But not a “hello” or “how has computer been after this morning?” He went back to work, burning his tongue on the overly hot liquid.
Maybe Wonwoo was right; maybe you did need to just stop overthinking and ask for help instead of figuring stuff out on your own. Or maybe this asshole needed an attitude check.
You decided to not bother him for the rest of the week, complaining to your friends that Friday night about your shithead of a coworker. They said he might be looking out for you in his own fucked up way. You said he might just be an asshole.
Come Monday morning, you had realized your ignoring hadn’t effected him at all. He still sent you the same small smile as he walked in and sat down across from you. Could he really not see how pissed you are, or had the facade you’d crafted for so long as the perfect corporate employee work too well?
You should just be upfront with him, take control of the situation. Like always.
You [9:44 AM]: I heard you in the break room a few days ago.
You [9:44 AM]: I just didn’t want to bother you. That’s why I had tried to figure out the issue on my own. Didn’t realize that was a crime
Jeon Wonwoo [9:46 AM]: Crap.
Jeon Wonwoo [9:46 AM]: You weren’t supposed to hear that.
You [9:47 AM]: Well, I did
Jeon Wonwoo [9:50 AM]: Listen.
Jeon Wonwoo [9:50 AM]: Not that it excuses anything, but there’s so much going on at work. It wasn’t all about you. I was complaining just to complain and I didn’t mean any of it.
Jeon Wonwoo [9:50 AM]: I’m sorry.
You [9:51 AM]: Wow
Jeon Wonwoo [9:51 AM]: What?
You [9:51 AM]: You’ve never come across as someone who can apologize well
Jeon Wonwoo [9:52 AM]: Are you sure you aren’t projecting right now? We sit across from each other. I’ve seen how stubborn you are.
You [9:53 AM]: I thought you were apologizing to me????
Jeon Wonwoo [9:56 AM]: I’m sorry. Again.
You [10:01 AM]: Okay, you’re forgiven
Jeon Wonwoo [10:09 AM]: Can I make it up to you with a coffee?
You didn’t go out on dates. The last one you went on was … years ago, probably in undergrad. Once you go for your Masters, all energy to date goes out the window.
Not that this was a date. This certainly was not a date.
This was an apology coffee after work, since the two of you seemed to have an affinity for caffeine at late hours.
Even if, per chance, he thought this was a date … you’d eventually have to let him down easy. It probably wasn’t in your best interest to date someone like Jeon Wonwoo, but you’d also closed yourself off from love for far too long. It wasn’t that you didn’t get lonely – you did, very much, especially on late nights where it was just you and your favorite vibrator – but it was just … scary. Opening yourself up. Losing just a small semblance of control. You weren’t even sure you could physically allow yourself to do that after being alone for so long.
Your heart had been tucked away so many years ago, locked inside a box, and then in another box, and so on. With the final lock being so complicated that only someone who knew the last four of your social security number could answer. No one was opening up that box. Your heart was safe from the outside world.
You were independent, reliant on only yourself, and you liked it that way.
Once he had gotten both your coffees, he sat down next to you at a hightop table, folding his winter coat over the back of his chair. He had managed to remember your latte order and it tasted perfect. Your eyes flitted up, ogling him for a moment. When you’re not under the fluorescent lights of the office, Wonwoo was … attractive. To say the least. Maybe he always had been and you were too blind to see it. Maybe his face was perpetually hidden by his monitor.
His hair was tousled in the way that it looked effortless, even if he hadn’t brushed it after rolling out of bed. He had a tendency to wear sweater vests with white t-shirts underneath, or button-downs with jeans. But it was only when he showed off his forearms that you realized he was surprisingly built underneath his oversized clothes. He was tall and his shoulders were broad. You liked his glasses too; they always sat on the edge of his nose. A thin line was etched into both lenses, suggesting age, but they framed his face well.
Yeah, you thought to yourself, he is handsome.
“Why are you staring at me?” He asked, knocking you out of your stupor.
You blinked and looked down at your coffee, removing the lid. “Oh, I … uh … good question.”
“Listen,” he started, eyes flickering to his hands, “I’m really sorry about what I said –”
“You don’t have to keep apologizing.”
“– And I understand if you want to go to HR about this –”
You shook your head. “Wait, what? Why would I do that?”
He glanced around, until finally, his eyes were on you again. And suddenly, you were wondering if his eyes were dark brown or the color of cinnamon. “Isn’t that what any rational person would do?”
He had you stumped there. If this were a different situation … you probably would do that. “I’m not going to tell HR about this, Wonwoo. You apologized and said you didn’t mean it. I have to trust that.” And you didn’t trust lightly – hardly at all – but something about Wonwoo made you feel like it could be easy with him.
“We all have shit days,” you added, taking a sip of the scalding hot latte. “You have a ton of stuff on your plate. Doesn’t give you an excuse for what you did, but we all say things in the heat of the moment that we don’t mean. I have so many things to organize throughout the day, and sometimes it gets the better of me. Remember when I had book that last minute trip for our CEO and I was on the phone for hours with Delta and Suzanne in finance had the nerve to start bothering me about some invoice? I lost it on her for a straight minute.”
“Oh, my god, yeah,” he chuckled, pinching the bridge of his nose as the memory resurfaced. “Her eyes almost came out of her skull at your reaction. To be fair … Suzanne needs to be knocked down a peg sometimes. She always blames IT when she can’t get into her email, but it’s because she’s constantly typing her password with one letter off.”
You couldn’t help but giggle. Your hand hit the tabletop a few times as you let your workplace personality fade in front of your coworker. “Those new IT interns don’t know what’s coming once Suzanne comes for them,” you joked.
“The IT interns don’t know anything. Period.” He jabbed his finger onto the table. “I mean, they’re interns, but it takes so much time to train them. If I have to teach them JavaScript one more time …”
“Say it, Jeon Wonwoo,” you egged him on, a chuckle filtering at the end. “What will happen if you have to teach those good for nothing interns JavaScript?”
A slow smile made it’s way onto Wonwoo’s face, and … damn, you were actually a really cool person. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “I’ll tell you what will happen …”
Jeon Wonwoo [12:13 PM]: Did you bring lunch today?
Jeon Wonwoo [12:13 PM]: I just found this new cafe down the street and was thinking about grabbing something there in a few. Did you wanna come?
You [12:14 PM]: Do you think they have a chicken salad sandwich on the menu
Jeon Wonwoo [12:15 PM]: I can only assume so?
You [12:15 PM]: SOLD
You both go out for more coffees, before and after work. You found yourself excited to wake up early, to meet up with Wonwoo at the coffee shop located in the lobby of your work building. Always getting there before him, you typically ordered two coffees – remembering his order to a T – and when he walked in five minutes late, he promised to buy the next round. You never let him.
You began planning lunches over Slack, discussing what was on special at that cafe he found last month. In fact, you two talked most of the day on Slack. A message from you had once gotten on his nerves, and now … he was eager for it. Eager to hear your thoughts throughout the day, excited to talk about what new dumb question an intern asked him today or to see more pictures of your grandma’s cats.
And Wonwoo … Wonwoo was easier to get along with than you thought. You just had to peel back the layers before he finally got comfortable, and honestly, you could relate. To be fair, you had a few more layers than he did, but he was slowly learning that you were more than what he perceived. After that first coffee, he realized how funny you were, and then a couple lunches later, he learned you were an avid romance and thriller reader – and nothing in between. It wasn’t until last week that he finally cracked you open enough to learn about your love for Elder Scrolls Online. He was sure you were joking at first, but when you clarified how serious you were, he almost fell off his chair.
“I’m not shocked that you play it,” he said over coffee one morning. “What I’m shocked at is that you’d rather play Elder Scrolls Online and not Skyrim.”
“Of course, you would say that,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “I don’t really have an interest in the game universe. I started playing Elder Scrolls Online to relieve stress while applying to colleges, and then I just … didn’t stop.” You shrugged.
Much to his own surprise – even with your take on Skyrim – Wonwoo thoroughly enjoyed your company. It was insane that you both had spent almost two years sitting across from each other before realizing how much you liked each other. Words always left unsaid. Eyes staying glued to computers. It had been a routine for you both that you had never strayed from – until now. So many tech requests over Slack … and now he was actively looking forward to work everyday. To seeing you. To talking with you.
You.
Jeon Wonwoo realized how much he liked stockings. Specifically, he liked the way you looked in them.
And that’s when things got dangerous.
He started to notice the days you would wear them, and then concluded which day you did laundry. You liked wearing blouses with a pencil skirt and stockings on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. Those were now his favorite days.
Wednesdays you’d wear dress pants and maybe a sweater, whereas on “Casual Fridays,” you were clad in a t-shirt with a cardigan layered and jeans. You always looked nice at the office, but those stocking days … they were getting to him.
Sometimes, he’d watch the way you walked away from your desk – either to the Boss’ office or to the finance department – and he couldn’t help but let his eyes trail down your legs. You had these stockings that had a slight tear in the back, and he wondered if you realized, or was he just too much of a perverted loser to be the first person to notice? He wanted to purchase a new pair for you. He wanted to replace all your stockings and buy you enough that you could wear them with a skirt everyday, just so he could see you in them.
Maybe he was a loser.
You looked up at him, even in heels, and you had this way of smiling at him that left him questioning why you liked hanging out with him in the first place. His personality couldn’t be that charming to warrant your attention. But you were warm – even when your hands were perpetually cold – and kind, never straying once he was in front of you. And you had this lip gloss that stained your lips magenta and made them shine. Even in the dim fluorescent lights. When his chair turned just slightly and he let his eyes glaze over you, one finger rubbing at his top lip, he couldn’t help but be curious if the gloss had a flavor to it … and then, he’d get distracted by your legs again. And your blouse, and your hair.
Don’t even get him started on the way you smelled.
Maybe he was a loser. No, he was most definitely a loser.
It was a Thursday night. Almost 7 PM and you were still at the office. You had plans to go out tonight to celebrate your friend’s new job, but you ended up having to cancel when the Boss placed a stack of paperwork on your desk before leaving the building at promptly 6 o’clock. Why he couldn’t have given you all these invoices and memos hours ago was beyond you, but you weren’t even halfway through this stack and the janitor was now mopping beside you.
When a Slack notification appeared on the side of your monitor, you didn’t even read it before spinning around in your chair. There Wonwoo was, leaning back in his own chair while a progress window ticked on one of his dual monitors. You raised a brow. “I didn’t even hear you over there,” you commented. “Why are you still here?”
“A month or so ago, the IT head told me that we’d soon be transitioning servers, so all of our backups and data need to be transferred over to this new server.” He explained, adjusting his glasses and glancing over at the progress window. It changed from 23% to 24% finished. “Someone had to be the lucky person to stay after hours and make sure it all went smoothly.”
You twirled a pen in your two fingers and crossed your legs. “Oh, that sucks.” Your skirt hiked up a little, and just that small flash of exposed skin had Wonwoo averting his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m assuming you’re still here because of that.” He nodded towards the pile of paper.
“No, no, obviously I love being here after hours with you,” you replied, sarcasm dripping from your tone, but it still ignited a short spark of hope within him. (Wonwoo, can you chill the fuck out? He chastised.) “You know the Boss has a penchant for letting invoices pile up. He just so happened to let that pile end up on my desk before he left today. And some of these needed to be filled out …” Your eyes skimmed the first paper on your desk. “Oh, yesterday!”
Wonwoo offered to help you while also keeping watch of his computer – 28% finished – but you insisted you could handle it. “I already bother you enough during work hours,” you said before turning back to your desk. He knew by now that you were simply too stubborn to give up control of the project. Once you had started it yourself, you needed to see it through. He wasn’t sure if you two were close enough that he could be completely honest, that he could tell you that it was fine to let go this independence that you kept on a tight leash. He was willing to help. (God, was he willing.)
But he chocked it up to telling you once that you were “so fucking stubborn.”
Your reply had come in the form of a swift kick to his knee.
Wonwoo glanced at his monitor. 67% finished.
It was 10 PM and you were just about finished with the paperwork, but you were running on fumes. Just a few memos left and you’d be done. To get you through the next hour, you needed something. So you headed to the break room, suddenly craving some burnt workplace coffee. (What was it about this coffee maker that gave it such a distinct burnt flavor? You’d never know.) After placing the pod of coffee grounds in the slot and filling the water, you pressed the start button, turning around with a huff to see Wonwoo striding into the break room. A crushed, styrofoam coffee cup was clutched in his large hand before he tossed it in the barrel beside you.
“How’s your transfer going?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest. Coffee had started to pour from the machine and into your cup.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s at 88% now. Hopefully should be done in the next hour.”
“Me too, if all goes well.” A sigh escaped your lips. “I still have a few more papers to fill out. Shouldn’t take me more than an hour, but I haven’t looked through them all yet.”
Wonwoo stepped forward, reaching in the direction of the styrofoam cups. “If you had let me help you –”
You tried sidestepping out of the way to give him some room, but his hand brushed against your arm anyway. Your chin tilted up as your eyes met his, back pressing against the counter. “It wouldn’t have helped,” you finished for him.
His arm paused mid-air, and he looked down at you. Eyes narrowing, he replied, “You’re one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met. You have this desperate need to be in control of everything.”
“And why is that a bad thing?” Your tone took a hard edge. The last thing you wanted right now was to put effort into arguing, but you were tired and already on the edge of a breakdown. “I’ve relied on myself for as long as I can remember. I like being in control. I like being stubborn. If I didn’t do most things myself –”
“You ask me to fix something on your computer at least once a day.”
“That’s different.”
“You’re right,” he agreed, and you noticed then just how close he was. Your chests were practically touching. “Sometimes you do try to figure things out yourself and almost break your hard drive.”
His progress window was probably at 93% finished now. He should head back to his desk, but his feet stayed planted right where they were.
“Why does it matter?” You exhaled loud, your hands slapping against your hips. “Do you want an award or something? You have your way of doing things, and I have mine. I’m not perfect, but I … I like things the way they are.” Change is scary, you thought to yourself, but didn’t dare voice it out loud.
He was so close that he could smell your perfume. The scent of lavender mixed with orange blossoms and vanilla filled his nostrils, swirling around his brain. He could get addicted to this smell, to you. Maybe he already was. When his eyes roamed down to your legs and he saw his favorite pair of stockings on you, he damn near collapsed. In fact, he hadn’t even realized the soft groan had left his lips until your gaze found his, your pretty irises growing wide.
You were just so … captivating.
His hands were on both sides of you, pressing your back further into the counter. Your black coffee steaming and fully abandoned in the coffee machine. He was holding himself back, his knuckles going white with restraint. But he wasn’t like you. He could only keep himself in control for so long. And with you here right now, your perfume surrounding him, your stockings-clad thigh brushing against his leg, your a hand placed on his chest … he was a goner.
“Wonwoo,” you whispered, palm still resting on his shirt, “we …”
When your voice trailed off, Wonwoo’s instincts got the better of him. “Please, just …” One hand came up to smooth against your cheek, and he was almost out of breath as he pulled your face to his. “Let me do this.”
He gave you enough time to shove him back, to yell at him, to tell him you didn’t like him in that way. But your neck was craning towards his, and he took that as a sign to crash his lips onto yours. They were softer than he expected, and the taste … your gloss tasted like – well, like nothing. But if he pretended, he could’ve sworn there was a slight cherry aftertaste. His glasses bumped into your nose, but he’d been too overwhelmed to remember to take them off. Mouth moving against yours, his hips crammed you more against the counter, hard enough to leave a bruise on your spine. You didn’t care though. His shoulders were so wide that they shielded you, inviting your body into his, and your fingers fisted into his button-up. Tongues tangled, eager to taste more and more of each other.
Wonwoo could kiss you forever. You didn’t want him to stop.
But all good things must end. Because when he instinctively placed his leg between yours, he knew this was going too far. Especially because you two were still at work. In the break room.
He instantly removed his leg, his lips breaking from yours. Your eyes connected, the room filled with only the sounds of heavy breathing, before you wiped a trail of spit from your chin.
Wonwoo’s head spun behind him. Thank god, there was no CCTV camera by the coffee maker.
Jeon Wonwoo [9:09 AM]: Good morning.
Jeon Wonwoo [9:09 AM]: I shouldn’t have done that last night.
Jeon Wonwoo [9:10 AM]: Still friends?
You [9:14 AM]: We probably shouldn’t be talking about this on Slack
You [9:15 AM]: Here’s my number: 855-777-0821
You [9:18 AM]: But yes friends :D
Wonwoo did not want to be just friends. But he was utterly terrified of what you would say if he voiced that. You had kissed him back, yes, but … hadn’t you agreed to be friends far too quickly? You had both hung out post-kiss – he liked to call this period of time A.T.K. (after the kiss) – and you didn’t seem to be ruminating on it like he was. Of course, he didn’t know what you were thinking, and you could be so hard to read sometimes when your layers weren’t stripped back enough. But …
Could it really have meant nothing to you?
If that were the case, he didn’t know how it was possible for you. He couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss even if he tried. When he saw you the next day – Friday, January 9, A.T.K. – the first thing he noticed was your lip gloss and all he wanted was to have it smeared over his mouth again. He noticed the way your hair fell over your shoulder, remembering how soft the strands felt when his fingers had slipped between them. He noticed that you were wearing those jeans that hugged your ass just right, and – god, now he was wishing that he had touched more than just your cheek. Wonwoo wanted to touch you everywhere. And vice versa. He didn’t care if your hands were constantly freezing or if they were dry during the winter. He wanted you to touch him however you pleased. He wanted to grab you and kiss you and hold those cold hands in his warm ones –
Oh, my god. He had a boner. At work. Just the mere memory of a kiss had him shifting himself in his pants underneath his desk, hoping no one noticed.
Eventually, he stood up, trying to keep a casual hand over the bulge in his pants as he fast walked to the bathroom. Nobody batted an eye, but you did steal a glance over at him once his back was turned. Your brow raised at the way he was practically sprinting for the elevator, not realizing that he was heading for the second floor restrooms. He must be excited for something. Probably a package, you thought before turning back to your computer.
Wonwoo felt like he could finally breathe once he was inside a stall. He rested his head against the cool tile wall, feeling the ache start to settle in his groin. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this way. What 28-year-old gets a boner from a kiss? You had him acting like a goddamn teenager.
What had you done to him? Just one kiss and he was completely under your spell.
(Or maybe he’d been this way all along.)
His fingers fumbled with the zipper on his jeans as he finally pulled himself out of his jeans, stroking from base to tip. Thankfully, no one was in the bathroom. He couldn’t believe his life had come to this. The last thing he ever wanted was to be that guy who jacked off in the bathroom. But you had to wear those goddamn jeans –
Wonwoo wasn’t good at hiding his feelings, but he was doing a pretty good job even as this was killing him inside. He wasn’t like you; he found it hard to restrain himself, to ignore everything that was bubbling up inside him. He could feel himself cracking. What would be the thing that finally broke him?
The answer was simple: alcohol.
Lee Seokmin [11:26 AM]: Dude lol. Why’d you run away from your desk like that
Lee Seokmin [11:26 AM]: I think you could win the Olympics with that kind of sprint!
Jeon Wonwoo [11:39 AM]: Don’t ask.
Lee Seokmin [11:40 AM]: Alrighty then ;)
Lee Seokmin [11:41 AM]: On another note … you free next Thursday? My buddy in the marketing department, Josh, finally has a night off from his kid so we were thinking of getting a group together for drinks after work. Interested?
The last thing you ever expected was to be invited to drinks with Seokmin and some of the managers in marketing, but Wonwoo said you should come. “In fact,” he had clarified, “you should come so I don’t have to deal with DK’s drunk antics all night.” Who were you to deprive him of your presence when he was that desperate? Plus, there was a nice girl in marketing that was also invited; maybe tonight was the night to befriend her.
But the marketing people knew how to party. You were only halfway through your second beer whereas the rest of your group was on their fourth. And three tequila shots deep. Wonwoo, seemingly, had an affinity for tequila, unlike yourself. He was able to throw them back like it was nothing; he didn’t even need a chaser. When Seokmin had requested they all get a fourth, he was met with a round of cheers, and even Wonwoo – quiet, introverted Wonwoo – threw his hands up with excitement. You placed a hand on his shoulder, whispering in his ear, “Are you sure about that?”
Wonwoo felt his whole body freeze when your hot breath reached his ear. A pale, pink flush appeared on his cheeks, but you chocked it up to how drunk he was. Eventually, he waved away your worry with his hand. “I’m fiiiiiiiiine. Hey, how about I get you another beer?”
“Are you even coherent enough to get me another –”
“HEY! Bartender! Can I get one more of these?!” He shouted, waving your empty glass in the air. “Oh, and more tequila!”
Seokmin slapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder, laughing along with him. As you made friends with the rest of the marketing department, you found yourself glancing at Wonwoo every so often. His cheeks were so rosy now, and his glasses kept slipping down his nose. To be fair though, everyone in this dive bar seemed to be in the same state of mind. Seokmin was singing along to the Sabrina Carpenter song blasting through the speakers. Josh was so drunk that he was crying about how much he loved his friends. They had even gotten Suzanne in finance to come out, and she was making friends with everyone for once. And Wonwoo … oh, god, Wonwoo’s head was now on the bar top and he was closing his eyes –
You abandoned your beer and walked over to your friend, shaking his shoulders. His eyes instantly opened, expecting to see Seokmin, but when his gaze met yours, he instantly felt all warm and fuzzy. “Okay,” you said, trying your best to hoist this 6 foot man off the barstool, “you’ve had enough. I’m taking you home.”
It was like pulling teeth to get him to tell you his address, but you guessed you shouldn’t be surprised when the man on your arm was blackout drunk. After flagging a taxi, you shoved him in the seat next to you and rubbed your hands together to get them warm. Wonwoo’s head was on your shoulder the second you sat down, his eyes fluttering closed as the taxi sped off into the night. You watched his fingers twitch on his thigh as he whispered sleepily, “I think my family would really like you.”
“Is that so?” You chuckled, squeezing his arm for reassurance, but little did you know just how much your touch effected him. “Why’s that?”
“Because you’re you,” he replied, and then yawned. “Only you and Mingyu would do this for me.”
Your brow furrowed. “Who’s Mingyu?”
The taxi pulled up to a brick apartment building then, and your cold fingers struggled to get cash out from your pocket while Wonwoo was practically laying on top of you. Finally, you did your best to haul him out of the seat, thanking the taxi driver before gathering an arm around Wonwoo’s shoulders. The building was definitely old with vines of ivy crawling up one side. There was a dead tree with snow covering it’s branches directly by the door, spilling snowflakes on your head as you struggled to input the code Wonwoo managed to remember. And then, you were pulling him up two flights of stairs, which took far longer than you estimated. You had basically ripped his keys from his hand once you reached his apartment and continued to drag him inside, laying him on the old couch that was conveniently right near the door.
Wonwoo grumbled as soon as his head hit the armrest, and he almost fell off the couch if it weren’t for you catching him and rolling him back onto the cushion. “I’m going to go get you a glass of water,” you said, quickly rushing off to his kitchen. “Please, for the love of god, don’t fall off the couch again.”
He whined for you to come back, but you pretended you didn’t hear it, because if you did, you’d have to reckon with the tingle that bloomed between your legs at the sound of his desperation.
The entrance of his kitchen was right in front of a small hallway that sectioned off two ways. There was a bedroom door on each side of the hall, and once you walked inside the kitchen, you found a tiny table from the 80s and the dishwasher currently running. You didn’t have time to contemplate that now, and instead pilfered through his cabinets until you found a glass and filled it with tap water. Rushing back to his side, Wonwoo was already laying halfway off the couch and you sighed.
You set the glass of water on his coffee table and lifted him back up. With a little bit of help from you, you both managed to shrug off his winter jacket and you tucked a throw blanket over him to prevent him from falling off again. A heavy exhale slipped past your lips as you knelt by his side, and you couldn’t help but reach out to pushed back his hair from his forehead. His eyes were closed, but you knew he wasn’t sleeping. You smiled to yourself.
Were coworkers supposed to show this much affection for each other?
“Wonwoo,” you said softly, and he cracked one eye open. “Do you want some water?”
He shut that eye again, grimacing at the thought of anything entering his body right now. “Ab…absolutely not.”
“It’ll make you feel better,” you persuaded, but he still shook his head. “Okay, so what do you want right now?”
His breath stilled for a moment. “Can I be honest?”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
“I …” No, he couldn’t be that honest. “I want you to … keep p–pushing back my hair. It’s … relaxing.”
You chuckled, “Okay, you got it.” Your fingers were at the crown of his head again, smoothing back the strands. You hadn’t noticed until now that he had a freckle on the left side of his forehead; maybe you’d just never been this close to notice. Well, actually, you had. There was this thing you two did called a kiss –
“If you’re going to fall asleep, I’m going to take off your glasses,” you informed him, slipping his glasses off and setting them by his glass of water. It was late, much later than you anticipated on staying out, and you both still had to go to work tomorrow.
But then his hand was grabbing your wrist, his grip surprisingly firm for how intoxicated he was. “Can I b–be honest again?” He slurred, his eyes half open to meet yours.
You sighed, placing your hand on top of his, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Just know whatever you say will be used to make fun of you tomorrow –”
“I can’t … I haven’t …” He took a breath to formulate the words in his head. “… Stopped thinking about our kiss.”
You blinked down at him, watching the way his eyes began to close again as he relaxed into the old couch cushions. “You can’t just say shit like –”
He scoffed dramatically. “I’m noooot,” he defended, his hand slipping off your wrist to curl underneath the blanket.
“Wonwoo …” Your voice trailed off, the words dying on your tongue.
“Who the hell are you?”
You immediately got to your feet at the sound of another person’s voice behind you. Eyes growing wide, you took in the sight of the man in front of you wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, droplets of water trailing down his chiseled abdomen as he shook a smaller towel through his hair. He might’ve been taller than Wonwoo, only by a little bit, and his skin was a golden tan that reminded you of summertime even in this harsh winter. Why was Wonwoo hiding handsome men in his apartment? The man looked at you, waiting for an answer, his brows raised.
“Oh,” you cleared your throat. “Um …”
“Leave her alone, Mingyu,” Wonwoo groaned from the couch, turning away from them to lay on his side.
So this was Mingyu, you concluded. This slightly god-like dude that looked like he walked straight out of a porno was the only other person who’d help Wonwoo when he was blackout drunk. Interesting.
Mingyu raised his hand awkwardly for you to shake. “His roommate,” he clarified.
“Oh,” you replied, grasping his hand for a moment and telling him your name.
Mingyu instantly grinned, laying the small towel over his neck, holding both ends. “So you’re her.”
You blinked, not knowing how to respond to that. Perhaps there was no way to respond; the silence was comfortable enough. You decided to keep that in mind for later though.
“He’s … well, he got very drunk,” you informed Mingyu, gesturing to a now-sleeping Wonwoo with both thumbs. “I wanted to make sure he got home okay.”
Mingyu nodded, and then sighed. “I’ll take care of him. Don’t worry,” he promised, opening up the door for you. “Get home safe, okay?”
Wonwoo: Sorry about that the other night. I won’t get drunk like that again. It doesn’t happen very often
You: it’s okay! I’m used to handling drunk people
You: don’t get me wrong, I like to have my fun but it’s easier for me to take care of other people than like … be incoherent and anxious lol
Wonwoo: By the end of the night I was starting to feel that way. Not fun
You: DRINK WATER
You: your roommate is hot btw. does he always walk around without a shirt?
Wonwoo: Of course, he didn’t have a shirt on when you met him
Wonwoo: Everyone likes Mingyu
You: well, I like you [UNSENT]
The bi-annual sales meeting was started to boost morale and talk with other departments that you didn’t see as often. It was typically held at a hotel in the downtown city, with the company flying in all the sales reps from across the country. There were even a few from overseas. In reality though, this was usually the week where coworkers made mistakes. At least one person was let go after these sales meetings, and HR had their eyes peeled for an entire week.
You never made a mistake at one of these. And you didn’t expect to any time soon.
This was a week of rubbing elbows with slimy sales reps and making sure some old man hadn’t spiked your drink. For most, this was a week to slack off, but a woman working in corporate couldn’t relax in these settings. You’d been making corrections to your boss’ presentation for the entire company for what felt like forever. (Realistically, it’d been almost two weeks.) You probably went through the 50 slides at least twice as much, checking for spelling mistakes and making sure it was in the right place on your desktop. Not on some random external hard drive. Not in the trash.
But it was finally the day you’d been dreading. Presentation day, and everyone at the company was eager to hear the Boss reveal if they hit their goal for the year, amongst other things. You checked the slides another time, and then made sure no one would trip over the HDMI cord connected to the projector. The Boss gave you a reassuring smile, and then it was go time.
Your boss could be a shit bag – what CEO wasn’t? – but he had a way of speaking that made everyone so excited for the future. He was probably the reason why morale was always so high, and everyone looked forward to his presentation at these meetings. Your finger hovered over the right arrow button as he went through his speech, pointing out company statistics and what he wanted them all to accomplish this year, before finally getting to the goal reach. And his answer was nothing short of what the audience wanted to hear. He congratulated all of them, and everyone clapped together at the good news.
When you looked out at the crowd that had gathered, you realized almost every seat in the ballroom was filled. Some were even standing near the door and – wait, there was Wonwoo, leaning against the wall in the back. IT didn’t need to be here for this presentation. In fact, they were encouraged to be doing other things, like manning a table near HR and offering on-the-spot tech help. A smile made it’s way to your lips, watching the way Wonwoo was listening intently.
Once the presentation was over and the room erupted in small talk, your boss came over and thanked you for helping out yet again. “Of course,” you replied, as if there was anything else to say. He gave you a comforting squeeze of the hand before walking off to talk to some of his favorite sales reps.
As you shut your laptop and began to place your things in your backpack, Wonwoo slipped into the chair beside yours. Just the sight of his grin set you at ease, but also made you nervous at the same time. Why were you suddenly so nervous? This was just Wonwoo.
Just Wonwoo. Just Wonwoo. Just … your Wonwoo.
“Congratulations,” he beamed, giving you a high five. “I know you’ve been working on this all week, but you did it!”
You always stressed so much about this presentation, but at the end of the day … “All I did was press a button,” you shrugged.
Wonwoo rolled his eyes. “Well, yeah, but you didn’t accidentally delete your file like every other time you’ve messaged me on Slack.” He chuckled, and you scoffed at his teasing. “I’d call that a win.”
The second to last night of sales meeting week was the longest night of the year. It was a tradition for everyone to go out to a bar the company rented out, drinking whatever alcohol they could get their hands on while celebrating a job well done. You only saw half these people twice a year, and half of the time they’d have a beer in their hands.
You did your best to ignore every sales rep that tried to speak with you without slurring their words, but that was damn near impossible when some were already on their second cocktail. However, no matter how embarrassing it was, you did allow them to compliment you and your hard work. Who were you to turn down the validation? And when the time came, even your boss came over to compliment you again, and you realized there was truly nothing like being good at your job.
Just for a moment, everything felt okay. It was like the loneliness dissipated, the sting of years without pleasure or having someone by your side … it all faded when you were rewarded for your hard work.
Maybe tonight was the night you had fun for once.
When you finally found Wonwoo later that night, he was surrounded by a few younger members of the IT team, debating what computer language everyone should be obligated to learn. You waved to him from where you stood by the bar top, and that was all it took to have him walking away from his team and towards you. He wrapped one arm around your shoulders, insisting to buy you drinks for the rest of the night, and you didn’t hesitate to agree. If there was anyone here you trusted enough to hand you a drink, it was Wonwoo.
Just Wonwoo.
The hour was reaching midnight now, and you weren’t sure how many martinis you had, but you were hiccuping a storm. That was a telltale sign that you were totally, thoroughly drunk. Wonwoo was only drinking beer and pacing himself, unlike that night at the dive bar, but he was enjoying the sight of you finally letting loose. You hung on his arm, staring up at him with your big eyes, glazing over from all the alcohol coursing through your system. He didn’t like how this effected him; he shouldn’t be attracted to the way your gaze looked while you were intoxicated. But he couldn’t help but wonder if your eyes held the same shine while your lips were wrapped around his –
No, this was too much. He should take you back to the hotel.
The two of you glanced around the bar, realizing it was mostly cleared out. You definitely needed to leave now.
He tugged on your arm, wrapping one of his around your waist to support you. “C’mon now,” he grunted, helping you walk out. “Let’s get you back.”
“I didn’t f–finish my drink thoooooough,” you argued, despite letting him lead you out of the bar. “And I can walk … on my own. Swear!”
“Listen, you took care of me once,” he said as you two walked into the brisk cold air. The hotel was, thankfully, only a block away. “Let me take care of you.”
Even with the alcohol pumping in your veins, just the sound of those words falling from his mouth made you grip him tighter. You felt like your bones were made of jelly, and it wasn’t just from the vodka. It was him, and the way he made you feel, and how secretly warm he was, and the way he took care of you as you took care of him, and – oh, god, you wanted to cry because you liked Jeon Wonwoo so much.
So, so much.
It was much easier to get you back to your hotel room than his apartment, seeing as this hotel had a working elevator. You slumped beside him, tripping over your feet every so often, as he hauled you down the hallway to your room. You gave him your keycard easily, and once the door was open, he squeezed your hand to silently let you know it was time to move again. He helped you into the room, shutting the door behind him, before laying you down on your bed with the clumsiness only he could have.
You were laughing now, hiccuping from the alcohol, but laughing nonetheless. And he was laughing at your hiccups. Or maybe he just liked the way you grinned at him.
He assisted with taking off your boots and jacket, too embarrassed to remove anything else. And it definitely wasn’t appropriate to either. Tearing back the covers, he nestled you underneath them, and said, “You got everything, right? I’m a call away if you need me.” He grabbed one of the small trash cans in the room and placed it at your bedside. “If you need to vomit and can’t make it to the bathroom, just use the trash can here –”
You hand came out to wrap around his forearm. “Stay, Wonwoo.”
Your sleepy eyes were killing him, making his inhibitions melt and his cock throb at the same time. He sighed, sitting on the side of the mattress, and before he could stop himself, he was tucking hair behind your ear. “You know I can’t do that,” he said, his voice like a caress. “You know how it would look if someone saw me leave this room tomorrow morning. HR is on all our asses this week.”
“I know,” you slurred, and then pressed your flushed cheek into his palm. “I j–just thought you … were taking care of me thoooooooough …”
His resolve crumbled into a million pieces. This was complete, utter torture. You had to know how you effected him, but of course you didn’t, because you were stretching under the covers and yawning like you didn’t just make his heart stop.
That’s how he ended up in your bed, shutting off the lights and settling underneath the comforter. Until you came closer and rested your head on his chest. Despite how fast his heart was beating, he felt so at peace, and you both fell asleep in the clothes you wore out tonight.
Only a few hours later, you woke with a clear head and the beginning of a hangover. Your head was pounding like crazy, and it took everything in you to slip out from the comfort of your bed and pad your feet over to the bathroom. The bright light was burning your eyes, but you needed it to find the Tylenol you left by the sink. Filling a cup with water, you took the medication and prayed it worked sooner rather than later.
You squinted at yourself in the mirror, realizing you were still in the outfit you wore yesterday. With a sigh, you picked up the big t-shirt you left on the floor yesterday morning and stripped yourself until you were in nothing but your underwear. You pulled the t-shirt on and slumped against the wall, pressing your forehead against the cold tile. Now this felt like heaven for your headache.
It took a couple of minutes to get yourself to move again, feet slapping against the floor as you walked out of the bathroom. You noticed Wonwoo was awake too, in the midst of slinking back under the covers, and you saw his jeans abandoned by his bedside.You crawled back to your cocoon of blankets, and he instantly wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you against his chest. And you … you didn’t move away. In fact, you pressed yourself closer, finally hearing how his heart raced. Wonwoo didn’t care if it was probably 4 AM and he probably had to leave in a few hours – before anyone else woke – because he was holding you and smelling you hair. You smelled … god, you smelled so good that it made him hard almost instantly.
You felt his hand splay against your spine, as if trying to hold himself back, and it was then that your eyes opened. The room was dark, but you knew when his gaze was burning into yours only seconds later. You slipped one hand out from the covers, cupping his cheek as your thumb brushed over his lower lip. Under his breath, he muttered a soft, “Shit,” because you both knew where this was going.
You agreed you wouldn’t do this again. You agreed to be friends.
But now you’re kissing again.
Your hand moved from his face to his neck, and his hands are gripping your cheeks to make sure your mouth stayed on his. His fingers were shaking. He kissed you desperately, as if he needed this just to be able to breathe again, and maybe he did. You were like putty in his hands, molding yourself to his body as your tongue tangled with his. Whatever ache you felt in your temples drifted between your legs, causing you to moan into his mouth. And fuck, just the sound of you made his cock swell, precum soaking through his boxers.
The room felt so hot all of a sudden, but your cold hands came in handy as they rested on his neck. His left hand slid down to your ass, finally giving it a firm squeeze after kicking himself for not doing it when he first kissed you. That made you moan again, and he decided he’d never stop touching you like this, just so he could hear these sounds fall from your lips.
He slid his knee between your legs on instinct, and you didn’t hesitate to start grinding against his thigh. The friction felt delicious and soothing. You both kissed each other slower, a little messier, focusing on touching each other everywhere you dreamed about all these months. Your fingers traced down the column of his neck, down the thin cotton of the shirt he was still wearing from yesterday, while bucking against his thigh. His lips left yours, dragging across your cheek so he could nibble on your earlobe, feeling it grow warm and red from all the attention. “You have no idea how long I’ve needed you,” he whispered, and you damn near almost came from that confession.
You weren’t used to this; you couldn’t remember the last time you experienced pleasure like this with someone, but you couldn’t imagine stopping. Not when he angled his thigh just right, the muscle in his leg rubbing against your clit, your panties completely soaked. You cupped him over his boxers, feeling his bulge throb in your palm, and you cooed, “Can I …”
He groaned. You didn’t need to say more; Wonwoo was smart enough to know what you were insinuating. He felt disoriented, drunk off of you and your touch, smell, everything. “Are you … are you sure you don’t want to …” His voice was giving out, but from the way your fingers were slipping under the waistband of his boxers, you knew you wanted just this, and he’d give you whatever you wanted. “Yes. Yes, of course. That’s fine,” he finished.
You chuckled softly. He smiled against your neck. Pulling his cock out and wrapping your palm around it, you began to stroke him slowly. “Oh, god,” he was sighing into the crook of your neck, his brain in such a state of disarray when you resumed grinding against his leg while also pumping him from base to tip. This couldn’t be real; he had to be dreaming, but he could feel your wet panties sticking to his thigh. He could feel himself shake as he clung to you and pressed sloppy, wet kisses to your throat. It was all too much, but not enough at the same time.
“Wonwoo,” you whimpered, and he dragged his lips back to yours just to feel how your mouth moved when you said his name. You bucked your hips faster, your arousal coating his thigh, and warmth bloomed between your legs. When your hand on his cock reached his head again, you rubbed the pad of your thumb over his slit, making more precum bead onto your knuckles. “Wanna cum with you,” you begged, stroking him faster and in time with your hips.
“I know you do, I know,” he breathed against your lips. “Just a little faster … yes, just like that. Fuck.”
Only a moment later were you trembling, hips stuttering as pleasure took over your body. You came hard, squeezing his thigh between your legs, and your cry was swallowed by Wonwoo’s lips. If he didn’t kiss you, he knew he’d moan so loud it would wake the entire hotel. Because – oh, god, he was cumming now, and he was sighing against your mouth as he erupted in your hand, ropes of cum staining your t-shirt. He could’ve swore he saw white. He’d never felt a release like this before; not with anyone else. Not even when he jerked off. But maybe it was because this was your hand and you were cumming on his leg, and fuck –
You were still shaking in each other’s arms, minds blank and reeling, bodies coming down from the high. It took the kind of strength that moved mountains to slip from his arms and clean yourself up. But by the time you came back from the bathroom and cuddled up next to him, Wonwoo was already fast asleep.
Jeon Wonwoo [6:08 AM]: I had to leave early this morning before anyone woke. But if you want, I’d like to see you at breakfast this morning :)
You [7:31 AM]: Jeon Wonwoo, I’m begging you to just text this to me
You [7:31 AM]: Also, was your phone hacked? Since when do you use emojis?
There wasn’t much to do on the last day of sales meeting week. The only things on your plate were to make niceties with some of the new reps, and probably attend a few presentations by HR. When you had finally woken up this morning to just you in the bed, you almost considered skipping the HR presentations, feeling too guilty and like they might see right through you. It was irrational, but you were sure that this was the only way to feel after realizing that you hooked up with your coworker and friend.
Not that you hadn’t wanted to. Not that you hadn’t been thinking about it since your kiss. No, it wasn’t like that at all.
So why were suddenly terrified to see him at breakfast?
You got ready as quick as you could – but of course, making sure you wore that V-neck sweater that showed off your cleavage just right – and threw your hair up before leaving your hotel room. The line for the breakfast buffet was packed, but you waited patiently and decided to sit near the bar once you plate was full. The rest of the dining room was filled with people and you weren’t awake enough to make shitty small talk. Sitting here at the bar top was peaceful and quiet –
“Is this … seat taken?”
Your eyes met his instantly, and you noticed the way Wonwoo was cringing at the line he threw at you. You decided to forget it, for his sake, and gestured for him to sit down. Fuck, you were so goddamn nervous, even though you had agreed to meet him in the first place. You wore this low-cut sweater for him. You both sat in silence for a bit, crunching awkwardly on the burnt bacon, and shifting in your seats.
“Did you …” You were surprised that your mouth was moving on it’s own volition, spilling any words that came to your head. “… Do anything this morning since you were up early?”
Wonwoo choked a bit on a strawberry, but recovered quickly. “Uh … yeah, yeah, sure. Once I came down here, one of the IT interns found me in a panic because he couldn’t set up one of the rep’s new work phones. Created a whole scene over nothing.”
You snorted and sipped your coffee. “Is that intern still breathing?”
His eyes flickered to yours, a slow smile growing on his face. “Yes, actually.”
You fell into sync then, letting the awkward silence melt away as you joked about Wonwoo’s interns. He wasn’t meant to teach college students, god help them. But as your plates became empty and a server came around to take them, you two were left with only the mugs in your hands, strangely reminiscent of that apology coffee he bought for you so long ago.
Wonwoo sighed. “Hey, so about last night – or I guess, this morning …”
“Thank you for taking care of me,” you interjected, setting your coffee down. “I have a hangover, but I am thriving.”
He blinked. “Well, that’s good. But I was referring to –”
You almost couldn’t look at him when you said, “The fact that we’re definitely not just friends anymore?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, that part.”
“I …” You licked your lips as you gathered yourself. There was this … terrifying flutter in your chest. You’d never felt something like this before, but you weren’t keen on letting it go. Not yet. “I would like to see you again. Like that. Definitely not during work hours. If you catch my drift. This is awkward.”
Wonwoo had to turn his head so you wouldn’t see him trying to hold in his laughter, but it was clear as day. You sighed loud and hit his arm, making him look at you once again as he snickered to himself. “You know, you could just ask me if I want to hang out.”
You leveled a look at him and huffed. “Okay, Wonwoo, do you –”
“Yes,” he beamed. “Always, yes.”
You found yourself at Wonwoo’s side more often than not. What used to be work get togethers transitioned to meeting up at a bar, or checking a new restaurant on the weekends. Sometimes he’d ask you to come over so you could taste test a new recipe he found. (Unfortunately for both of you, Wonwoo wasn’t very good at cooking, but he was getting better. Somewhat.) Those recipe nights, however, always led to him lifting you up on his creaky kitchen counter and kissing you so hard that you almost forgot to breathe. Until Mingyu came into the kitchen, making a gagging sound, and you two instantly detached from each other.
Friday nights were known as Mingyu’s Movie Nights, and Wonwoo began inviting you to those. He had said that this would help knock a few movies off your Letterboxd Watchlist, but you knew that was just an excuse for wanting to see you. You probably saw him more than anyone now, but you couldn’t deny that you … wanted to see him too. Having him in your life made everything suddenly better. He was kind and smart and thoughtful. He made you laugh in ways you couldn’t explain, and obviously … he didn’t have to do much to make you want him. He’d simply have to look at you and you’d get on his lap. If Mingyu wasn’t there, of course.
Wonwoo seemed to blossomed with you. He was more excited to leave his apartment, more eager to become a better cook. He spoke up often, whether it be at work or out with you, rather than letting someone talk. He wanted to learn all the things that you liked, wanted to touch you exactly where you needed it, wanted to find new ways to leave you breathless. Because it was for you.
Even Mingyu noticed a difference in his friend. He’d known Wonwoo for so many years now, but he’d never made this much of a change for anyone. One night, when you and Mingyu were alone in the kitchen, he mentioned, “He’s different around you.” And then kept pouring wine in three glasses while Wonwoo picked a movie from the living room.
There were also times where Wonwoo was a booty call, of course, and neither of you had any problems with that. Some nights, Wonwoo would call you after Mingyu went to bed, begging you to come over, but ended up settling for phone sex. His attraction to you in stockings only went up, and it was difficult for him to contain his arousal at work when you strutted around just knowing how it affected him. There was days where all he wanted to do was pull you into a janitor closet and fuck the living daylights out of you. But it wasn’t like you’d let him anyway.
You had your fair share of desperate moments too. Especially tonight, as you were out drinking with your friends at a local spot you’d been coming to for years. The live band was loud and you’d had your fair share of shitty margaritas already. One of your friends was tugging on the arm of some rando she met on the dance floor, yelling over the music that she was leaving and she’d text you when she was home safe. That left you shit out of luck for a ride home, and suddenly very lonely. The last thing you wanted was to drink alone at a shitty bar on a Saturday night.
Wandering outside, your heeled boots crunched in the snow as you looked for the nearest Uber. The fastest one around would take over 20 minutes to get to you, and as you looked around the empty city streets … wait, didn’t Wonwoo live around here? Maybe all the tequila was just getting to you. But you called him anyway, and despite the time reaching 1 AM, he answered instantly. He heard the slight lisp in your voice, and once he got out of you exactly where you were, he realized you were right. It only took him about 10 minutes to get to where you were, parking on the side of the road.
He sighed at the sight of you sitting on the curb, shivering and hugging your jacket around you. Various drunk people filtered in and out of the bar, but none of them checked on you – a freezing girl just sitting on the side of the road. “Why didn’t you wait inside for me?” He asked, his breath hot against your cheek when he pulled you up in his arms. Your dress rode up a little, and his hands were quick to yank it back down. “It’s the middle of winter.”
“I jusssst thought … the cold air would sssssober me up,” you slurred, letting him place you in his passenger seat before running back over to the driver’s side. His car was warm, making you bury yourself in your jacket, but his hand on your thigh was even warmer somehow. If your fingers weren’t so cold, you’d wrap your hand around his wrist, inching his palm up higher as he drove.
Once he was parked, he wasted no time getting you out and helping you up the stairs to his apartment. Mingyu was passed out on the couch, an old movie from the 80s playing on the TV, but you could hardly register it because your brain was spinning and Wonwoo was practically dragging you to his bedroom. He was grateful that all the lights were off so you couldn’t see how messy it was, but honestly, it was a miracle if you could see anything clearly right now.
He sat you down on the bed and you looked up at him with bleary eyes, which made you so fucking hard to resist. All the tequila you drank was pumping through your bloodstream, and you couldn’t help but fist your hands in his t-shirt and try to kiss him. He evaded your lips though – no matter how much he wanted to – and you whined, “Whyyyyyy won’t you kiss me?”
“Shhh …” He whispered, yanking off your boots. “Inside voice. Mingyu’s sleeping.”
You smacked your hands against his mattress. “He’s sleeping in the living room!”
Wonwoo got back to his feet, gesturing as he instructed, “Arms up.” You were too intoxicated to do anything but oblige, lifting your arms as he struggled to pull your dress over your head. Once it was off and thrown to the side with your boots, your hazy vision caught him looking through his drawers for clothes for you to wear. But didn’t he just take your clothes off? You could’ve sworn he did that because he wanted you too right now.
You protested when he tried putting you in one of his simple white tees, but your body felt too limp to fight. He slipped the shirt over your head before pulling back his comforter and wrapping you in it. With your eyes half open, you watched him come to the other side of the bed, yanking his pants down and crawling in bed beside you. He reached over you and set his glasses on the side table. You sighed dramatically. Now he was just torturing you. Wonwoo simply chuckled to himself, realizing what you were angry about.
His arms instantly wound around you, his lips pulled into a smile at your hairline. You looked up at him with a scowl and your voice slurred, “Whysss your eyes closed?”
Wonwoo snickered under his breath. “Because it’s late and I’m tired.” His hand on your lower back traced circles, attempting to coax you to sleep.
“I thought you wanted meeeee,” you complained. Your hand reached in between you two, smoothing your palm against his groin as he slowly started to harden under your touch. You heard his breath hitch slightly, so you kept going, a soft ache beginning between your own legs at just the thought of putting him in your mouth.
“Sweetheart, I always want you.” He then grabbed your wrist, moving your hand away from him, and then lacing your fingers together. Pressing a kiss to the side of your forehead, he sighed sleepily, “But you’re much sexier when you’re sober.”
You started to realize why you didn’t usually do this, why it had been so long since you let someone see every part of you. What you looked like completely stripped down – both inside and out – completely vulnerable for your person. How your face contorted during pleasure, and how it relaxed when you were taken care of.
Catching feelings like this meant giving up control.
You didn’t work on the weekends unless you had to, and when the Boss sent you a high priority email on Saturday morning, you didn’t hesitate. He had transferred over a bunch of sensitive files that were needed for a board presentation first thing Monday morning. But of course, something just had to go wrong: the files were corrupted and you had no way of figuring out what to do. And it wasn’t like your boss was on call like you were on a Saturday.
This was how you ended up at Wonwoo’s apartment.
You had called him in a panic, explaining what had went wrong, but he didn’t seem too fazed. He was used to your tech emergencies by now. But by the time you got to his apartment, out of breath after running from the train station, he had realized just how serious you were taking this. You both sat down on his couch and you let him work his magic. His fingers moved across the keys as if he were a musician, and you couldn’t stop biting your nail nervously.
Mingyu came back to the apartment after grocery shopping, waving at you before putting all the food away. Seeing as you were here, maybe they could all go out and have fun tonight. He went into the living room, ready to mention a band that was playing at a local venue later, but upon seeing the stressed look on both your faces, he exhaled. “It’s a Saturday,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Why do you two look like that?”
“Corrupted documents,” Wonwoo answered quickly, not even looking up from the monitor.
“I don’t even want to know more,” he said, grabbing his leather jacket from the coat rack and tugging his arms through the sleeves. “Just your faces are making me anxious. I’m heading out. Don’t wait up.”
You gave Mingyu a wave as he left, but Wonwoo was too focused to even say goodbye. It took about another hour and one cup of coffee, but Wonwoo eventually figured out how to uncorrupt the files. You let out a sigh of relief as he handed the laptop back to you and you were able to open each of them without issue. Thank god, you had managed to figure this out before Monday morning. And … having Wonwoo wasn’t too bad either.
“Thank you,” you beamed, not being able to resist pinching his cheek. “My hero.”
Silence engulfed the room as you both noticed how the sky was already getting dark. You cleared your throat, slipping your laptop back into your bag and muttering, “Thanks again. I know I kind of barged in and wasted your Saturday afternoon –”
Like the saint he was, Wonwoo simply smiled at you. “No time with you is a waste.”
Whatever words you were about to say clogged in your throat. You swallowed hard, attempting to hide your fluster, but you ended up choking out, “I … should go.”
“You don’t have to.” He stood from the couch, walking over to you and running his hands down your arms. His brow lifted. “Do you want to?”
You let the strap of your bag fall to the floor as your hands cupped his neck. “No, not particularly.”
Wonwoo chuckled, leaning in and letting his lips just lightly graze yours. “We have the place to ourselves,” he hummed, slowly dragging you backwards with him. “Mingyu’s gone … probably won’t be back until midnight.”
You bit your lip to suppress a giggle, letting him lead you to his room, as limp as a rag doll. Once he shut his bedroom door behind you, he flicked the light on. You pressed your back against the door and your eyes roamed around the space. This was the first time you saw his bedroom with the light on; every other time had been pitch black. You liked that his walls weren’t bare – they were filled with posters of his favorite musicians or photographs. On his desk was a large monitor and a gaming set up, but also a camera with stacks of film next to it. His furniture was old – probably from the 90s, probably passed down from his family – but the scratches within the wood told a story. And unlike most men, his sheets were gray.
Wonwoo realized you were scanning his room, and he became acutely aware of the clothes scattered amongst his floor. He muttered something to himself, beginning to pick up the clothes piles and chuck them into his hamper. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I wish I inherited the organized gene like Mingyu.”
You tilted your head, striding over and pulling him up, making him halt his actions. Your hands went to his face as you brought him closer. With a smile, you whispered, “I don’t want to talk about Mingyu,” before pressing your lips to his.
The kiss became deep far too quickly, or maybe time was passing faster than usual. Your lips crashed so hard against his that they’d bruise. He took off his glasses, setting them on his drawer, before his fingers hooked into the belt loops of your jeans. You stepped forward, making him step back, then another, and another – until you had him falling back on his bed. You straddled him, arching your back so you could lick into his mouth just how he liked. Hands sliding up his shirt, you felt his abdomen flex underneath you. His fingers in your belt loops jerked you closer, pressing your hips to his, and it wasn’t long before he was moaning into the kiss.
You smiled against his mouth, dragging your lips down his neck, and then even further, as you slinked down his body. Your eyes were trained on his, and he was trying his best not to look like a complete idiot in front of you. But it was difficult when you were looking at him with those eyes and – oh, now you were pulling down the waistband of his sweatpants, practically salivating when you noticed how hard he was already.
But … this was what you guys always did. Not that he had an issue with you giving him blow jobs, but none of this felt particularly intimate. You never really let him worship you; you took control of the entire situation. As if you were bringing your professional stubbornness to the bedroom.
“Wait,” he choked out as you palmed his growing bulge. “Can we … can we try something different?”
Your brows furrowed and you continued pressing sloppy kisses above his groin. “Why would we do that?”
Wonwoo let out a frustrated sound, and before you could prepare yourself, he was yanking his pants back up and pinning you underneath him. You blinked up at him in surprise, and he was gripping your wrists above your head now, his bodyweight pressing you into the mattress. He almost looked shocked that he had the strength to push you back, but his blown-out pupils gave away his true desire.
“What was that for?” You asked incredulously. Nerves clouded your thoughts, making you stutter. “I thought … I thought you liked …”
“No, trust me, I do,” he assured you, and then tipped his head as he gazed down at you. “I just … why won’t you let me take care of you?”
You scoffed then, trying to cover up how petrifying this conversation was becoming. Were you that transparent now, or did he simply know you far too well for your own good?
“I have no idea what you’re –”
Wonwoo gave you one of his infamous leveled looks, and you sighed. “You’re in constant need of seeking control when it’s always at your fingertips. It’s okay to let it go; it won’t slip away.” He let go of your wrists then, but kept his body hovering over yours, holding himself up by his elbows resting near your head. “Please, just … surrender it for once. Let me take the lead.”
You glanced down at your hands on your chest, twiddling your thumbs. Eventually, you murmured, “It’s hard. I’ve never done that before.”
“Can we try? I like …” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, then let his head fall as he chuckled to himself. “This is so awkward. I just – I like prioritizing your pleasure. It feels much better for me and I think it will for you too. And if you don’t like it –”
“I’m not good with change,” you blurted.
“I know,” he whispered, his voice taking on that husky tone that made warmth pool in your stomach. His eyes flickered to your lips now, noticing how swollen they still were. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. It was just a suggestion, and I probably ruined the mood.”
You shook your head immediately, allowing your fingers to tenderly sweep over his shirt. “No, I …” A voice in the back of your head told you this was a good thing, and you did want this, but the fear of change was overwhelming. You wanted to step out of your comfort zone, desperately, for once. You were allowed to do this; you were allowed to be happy.
Your gaze met his again. “I want to try.”
His eyes softened with affection, but then he asked, “You’re not just agreeing for my sake, right?”
“Now when have I ever done that?” You laughed, making him smile along with you.
But as soon as his mouth met yours, that awkward, giggling persona seemed to melt away. Jeon Wonwoo morphed into an entirely different person, someone that possessed your jaw in his large hand, pulling at your bottom lip before kissing you harder. It was enough to leave you gasping for air once he pulled away, spit connecting you two, and he continued to suck and nip his way down your throat. He made sure to leave marks in places that could be covered up for work, but he’d know exactly where they were. God, would he even be able to control himself at his desk, knowing where his bites were hiding under your clothes?
Tugging your sweater over your head, he practically whined at the sight of your breasts, constricted in the bra that you told him was too old once, but you kept wearing it anyway because he said it was cute. He lifted you for a moment, expertly removing it with one hand, before licking the valley between your breasts. You arched into him, sighing into your arm when he swirled his tongue around your taut nipple. He glanced up and realized you were hiding your face, so he pushed your hand off. “I want you to look at me while I do this,” he cooed, but it sounded more like a demand.
Despite the embarrassment, you did as he asked, feeling completely bewitched as you watched him cup the swell of your breast, tugging on your nipple. This felt like a goddamn Pornhub video. You two have had sex before, yes, but not like this. Never like this. Wonwoo had always let you do what you were comfortable with, keeping his other side at bay while you rode him hard on the couch. But this … this felt like something else entirely. The way he was lavishing both your nipples, coating them with his spit, demanding you to watch … Expletives filtered softly from your mouth, wetness gathering between your thighs. It suddenly felt too hot and your jeans were still on.
Wonwoo was taking his time with you though, and it was very clear to you that this wouldn’t just be one of those nights where you had sex for 10 minutes before ordering pizza. When he lifted his mouth from your left nipple, he asked calmly, “Do you like this or do you want more?”
You sneered, “Well, of course, I like –”
His hand came up instantly to pinch your other nipple, and you couldn’t stop the whimper that came out of your mouth. “No teasing,” he said, lowering his head to flick that nipple with his tongue. “Just answer me.”
“More,” you choked out, your hips arching off the bed, seeking friction. “Please, more.”
He chuckled, pressing a kiss between your breasts once again, before lowering himself down your body. His eyes never left yours as he dragged his lips down your stomach. Eventually, he had to stand from the bed so he could finally unzip your pants, tugging when they got stuck around your ankles. When the cold air hit between your legs, you realized how soaked you were already. Wonwoo smirked to himself, slowly rolling your panties down your legs.
“Don’t let it get to your head,” you joked, kicking your panties off into a pile by his bed.
He lifted your ankle, nipping playfully, and replied, “Told you that you’d like me taking the lead.”
You rolled your eyes as he settled between your thighs, bending your knees back so your feet rested beside his head. You bit your lip as he placed sloppy kisses on your inner thigh, biting hard enough to make a bruise. Wonwoo fought hard to maintain a sense of composure, but god, the sight of your pretty pussy oozing slick made him wonder if he could cum untouched. You had let him finger you before, but had never been in the mood for this. And this was something Wonwoo had been fantasizing about since the day he noticed that tear in your stockings. He could jump for joy if that didn’t make him look like an absolute fucking loser.
He pushed your folds apart with two fingers, running a hand down his face as he attempted to school his expression. It was just so fucking hard to act cool when you were this aroused. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip. You reached out and brushed his hair back from his forehead, deciding to quip, “Wonwoo, can you even find the clit without your glasses on –”
Without warning, he spit on your pussy and buried his face between your thighs. The words died on your tongue immediately, and you let out the loudest whine he’d ever heard in his life. He smiled, but that didn’t deter him from circling his tongue around your clit. He wound one of his arms around your thigh, holding you in place as he pressed his face further.
Wrapping his lips around your clit, he sucked and drew out the prettiest sounds from you, using his free hand to slip two fingers inside you. You tasted exactly like he dreamed about, sweet and tangy and so unmistakably you. He looked up at you from between your legs, curling his fingers in the spot that made tears prick at your eyes, and when your gaze found his, it was like something in him snapped. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice muffled, feasting at you like he’d been starved for days.
Your fingers were in his hair now, pressing his head more into you, which only made this more enjoyable for him. He nearly came in his pants when your hips began to buck against his face, but this was about you. And him experiencing you cumming on his face. But mostly you. His fingers pumped faster inside you and his tongue was now flicking your clit, allowing more of your arousal to invade his mouth. He’d never get tired of this taste; he was obsessed. Now that he finally got a taste of you … he never wanted to not be doing this. Never wanted his face too far from the apex of your legs. Not when you had the sweetest taste that could move heaven and earth between these thighs.
And when you finally came on his tongue, he noticed that your legs shook like an earthquake. Your essence flooded his mouth, and he moaned – god, did he moan – lapping at you, never missing a drop of what you gave him. His fingers kept curling inside of you, making your orgasm feel like forever. When he finally removed them with a wet pop, he didn’t miss the opportunity to have more of you, wrapping his mouth around those two fingers and licking off the last of your release. You watched him, completely mesmerized by the way he savored you, even darting his tongue out to capture the whatever seeped out of you. Your hips jolted, suddenly so sensitive, and he grinned up at you.
You hardly caught your breath before he crawling up your body, kissing you hard and letting you taste yourself on his tongue. Your hands fisted in his t-shirt, and when you ripped your lips away from his, you arched a brow. “You are still fully clothed,” you reminded, and then swiped at the spit lining his bottom lip.
Wonwoo simply smiled, ghosting his lips over yours before trailing them to your ear. “I’m getting to that part. Patience,” he whispered, nibbling on your earlobe. “You must really want me inside you.”
“I want to not be the only one naked.”
“Say it,” he prodded in a weirdly casual tone.
“What?”
“Say you want me inside you.”
“This is ridiculous –”
He lifted his head from your jawline. “I can easily leave this room and order a pizza,” he teased, and you blinked at him. He was actually being serious. He would completely ignore what looked like a throbbing erection in his pants, just to make a point. You knew he wasn’t trying to be mean; he wanted to get you out of your comfort zone. This was so stupid, because you did want him inside you. Embarrassingly so. He had just given you one of the best orgasms of your life, but you still had this … aching need to be filled. Your cheeks heated just at the thought of it.
“I …” Your eyes closed for a moment, trying not to make your whole face turn bright red. With a sigh, your eyes connected again, and you answered, “I want you inside me, Wonwoo.”
He rewarded you with a kiss, pulling away before it could get too heated again, and stood from the bed. “Well, when you ask nicely …” He smiled, that dominating demeanor slipping for a moment as he pulled his shirt off. You’d never get tired of the way Wonwoo looked without a shirt. He didn’t let anyone see it very often – he wasn’t like his roommate – but the moments he did, you felt eternally grateful. His torso was toned, with defined abs and pecks that made your mind boggle. You liked that his arms were long and muscled; his hands large and slightly calloused.
You liked everything about him.
When he finally went to kick off his sweatpants, he noticed a large precum stain on the gray fabric from just eating you out. Which was probably the biggest jab to his calm and collected attitude right now, but he didn’t let it slip. He simply threw the sweatpants to the side, coming up close to the bed again, where your legs were now hanging off the edge. You gazed up at him as if he held the world in his palms, watching the way he reached into his boxers and pulled out his cock. Your eyes widened at the sight, never used to the size. He was slightly thicker than average, but long. Longer than you ever expected. With a pretty pink head leaking sticky precum.
It was killing you how long he was taking. Your legs shifted, ready to make a move to yank him underneath you, but he was faster than you. He pinned your wrists about your head with one hand this time, using his other to keep a firm grip on his cock. “You want to be in control that badly, huh?” He asked, tilting his head.
His hand was moving up and down his shaft now, letting precum dribble on your stomach. Your eyes flickered from his cock back to his eyes. “I just … I need you, Wonwoo,” you begged, your voice taking on a new tone. And somehow … wanting him so bad like this was ten times more arousing than riding him on the couch. “Please, please, Wonwoo. Please, fuck me.”
Your pleas had him falling apart, and he sighed, letting go of your wrists to discard his boxers too. His cock flopped against his stomach, hard and aching and – fuck, had he always been veiny? He got on top of you again, cooing against your lips, “I know, baby, I know.” His rubbed the underside of his length against your wet folds, moaning at the slightest bit of friction. “I’ll fuck you real good. I promise.”
Pressing the head of his cock at your entrance, his breath hitched at just the feeling of your arousal coating his shaft. You both had never taken your time with sex. But he was doing that tonight now that he was in control, letting himself slowly push inside you, feel you completely stretch open for him. You mewled, slinking your arms around his neck and carding your fingers at the nape. And when he finally buried himself to the hilt, his lips fell open and he groaned. You felt so good he could cum right now, but he needed to get a grip. The last thing he needed was to cum too fast.
Not that you would like him any less if he did.
“Wonwoo,” you cried, your hips arching up to meet his. “Please.”
Your voice snapped him out of whatever trance-like state he was in. He settled more on top of you, resting his elbows on both sides of your head, and pulled all the way out so only the tip remained. You whined at the emptiness, which soon changed to a gasp when he bullied his cock back in. Your fingers tugged at his hair; your legs crossed around his waist, drawing him deeper inside. “Fuck,” he muttered, still feeling how tight you were, how you molded yourself for him. “So fucking … god, so wet.”
His restraint could only last so long. He’d gotten his fill of feeling you adjust around him. He couldn’t take this anymore, or he was going to cum before you both had even started. With a deep breath, he set a brutal pace inside of you, his hips snapping forward. Tears rolled down your cheeks; how could something feel so good that you cried? Wonwoo seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he was burying his face in the crook of your neck and groaning, “God, so good … you feel so good … how can anyone feel this good?”
The only word you could choke out was, “Ditto,” which you’d regret for hours after this. But now was not the time.
He was fucking into you so hard that you were already sore, but you were holding onto him for dear life, clinging to him as that warmth burned in your gut. The way his cock curved and grazed your g-spot perfectly, making you tremble and whimper his name like a prayer. He placed a hand on your stomach, feeling how deep his cock nestled inside you, and you noticed him shiver in your arms. He was trying desperately to fight off his release. That coil in your gut began to tighten, and from the way Wonwoo was breathing, you knew he wasn’t going to last much longer. He wanted you to cum first though – like always – wanted to feel you clamp around him, squeeze him so tight that he saw white.
So he did what he did best: reached in between your bodies, finding your swollen, sensitive clit so easily, and rubbed slow circles. He lifted his head from your neck, wanting to see that familiar look in your eyes when you saw stars. “Are you gonna cum for me?” His voice was so deep that it reverberated against your chest.
And finally, as he pressed his thumb down hard and pushed into you just right, you felt your orgasm crest. “Fuck, Wonwoo,” you sobbed, body shaking as you came undone.
But Wonwoo wasn’t stopping. He kept fucking into you, making your eyes roll to the back of your head. And when your walls squeezed him so tight, he buried himself completely and came hard, a generous amount of fucks leaving his lips. His cheek pressed against yours; his groans muffled by the comforter. You held him close as he filled you to the brink with his release, and it almost felt like hours before he realized he finished.
You exhaled together, allowing your heart rates to settle. He turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to your cheek, and then to your nose, and now he was kissing all over your face. Your cheeks instantly tinged pink, but you let him do as he pleased. He didn’t even make a move off you, letting his cock soften inside your warmth. When your eyes opened, he was staring down at you like you were the sun. You searched his eyes, “What?”
His dark gaze flickered to your lips for a moment, and then he asked, “Did you really say, ‘Ditto,’ during sex?”
You and Wonwoo had gotten into a routine. Of course, you saw him 5 days out of the week at work, but you wanted more of him. You figured out Mingyu’s schedule, coming over most nights when he wasn’t home – besides Mingyu’s Movie Nights. You would let Wonwoo cook for you, and he promised he was getting better, before he led you to his room with kisses to your neck and a firm grip on your hand.
He always went with whatever you were comfortable with, but you found yourself letting him take the lead more often than not. You liked letting him prioritize you; you liked being selfish with him. Giving up control felt … much better than anticipated. Everything about this felt too good to be true. But you couldn’t help yourself, and you didn’t want to spoil it by asking him the dreaded, “What are we?” For now, you’d exist in your safe little bubble, where he would smile at you at work and then fuck your brains out after hours. It felt perfect, simple.
You approached sex through a different lens now. Instead of simply riding him on that godforsaken old couch, you let him go at his own pace: placing you on his lap, having his way with you and making you cum at least 3 times before he sunk you down on his cock, bouncing you up and down as you clung to him, practically letting him use you as a flesh light. Even when he let you sit on his face, it was on his terms: his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave a mark, trying to suffocate himself with your pussy, not allowing you to cum until he said so, no matter how much you needed to. But it felt too good to stop. You didn’t want this to stop. You liked the lack of control, liked the way he took care of you. The way he bent your knees back as he slid into you, keeping eye contact, so you’d feel him that much deeper … the way he could feast on you for hours, never getting enough of your taste … there was something about it that made you feel more than beautiful.
Especially when he looked at you as if you were his world.
Especially when he fucked into you and you realized you might be in love with him.
You tended to get lost in thought while laying in bed on an early morning. The birds chirped outside, your phone chimed along with each new notification. Curling underneath your comforter, you held your pounding head, reminiscing on last Sunday. You had gone over Wonwoo’s apartment and he had surprised you with a spaghetti dinner. Mingyu promised that it was “more edible than usual” before he left you two alone in the apartment.
You had noticed the shine in Wonwoo’s eyes, how excited he was to do this for you. He had never bothered to learn anything for anyone, but all he wanted to do was please you. To make you happy. And you could see that in the way he gazed at you, making your stomach do flip flops. Letting him have all this control over you, letting him see past the fortress you’d kept up for who knows how long … it was scary and exhilarating all at the same time.
He taught you how to play his favorite video game after dinner, placing you in between his legs on the couch and letting you lean back against his broad chest. His arms cocooned around you, nestling your body in his embrace. Sometimes he would nibble on your ear as you fought to maintain hand-eye coordination with the controller. Eventually, you had given up and asked to watch him, but that led to his hand dropping the controller as the enemy killed him off. And then his fingers were slowly slipping down the waistband of your leggings, rubbing your slit over your panties. You had arched into him, your ass pressing against his hardening erection as he pulled your panties to the side, already finding you wet and ready for his touch. He chuckled in your ear, “How long have you been thinking about this?” His index finger rubbed tight circles on your clit, and all that you could formulate for a response was a moan as he –
You cut yourself off from the memory before it could end you.
Your stomach churned. Despite your better judgement, you had completely fallen head-over-heels for senior IT specialist, Jeon Wonwoo, and that was terrifying. He had seen your personality unfold, seen the most vulnerable parts of you. But nothing was more scary than admitting to yourself how much you liked him, maybe even loved. You were frantic to the point of exhaustion, so stressed that you felt sick. Soon you were shivering, your head pounding as a fever came on, and you stayed home from work for a few days. Your phone notifications be damned – you stayed in your bedroom with the blinds closed, sleeping the days away.
Every so often, you would hear your phone chime. Your phone screen would light up with another text message. But … you couldn’t bring yourself to answer him. This behavior was illogical and stupid; you just simply couldn’t help yourself. You were an avoidant. The only thing you knew how to do was slowly push him away before he saw all the layers underneath your carefully crafted facade.
What if he finally saw how anxious you were all the time?
What if he knew how you secretly craved to be loved your entire life, but you looked for it elsewhere, in places like workplace praise or crowded bars where you couldn’t see another person’s face?
What if he knew you weren’t as organized up in your head as you were at your desk?
Or worse … what if he didn’t like you back?
TUESDAY, APRIL 22
Wonwoo: What’s going on?
Wonwoo: I managed to find out that you’re sick. I can make you soup, if you want? I know my cooking is terrible. But what if this time it’s good and it cures you?
Wonwoo: If I threaten to message you on Slack, will that make you reply?
Wonwoo: I promise I won’t. Unless … lol
Wonwoo: You’re not dead, right?
Wonwoo: Please, answer me.
FRIDAY, APRIL 25
UNKNOWN: hey, it’s Mingyu. I found your number in Wonwoo’s phone. he’s really messed up right now and worrying about you.
UNKNOWN: idk what’s going on between you two, but I don’t like seeing him like this.
UNKNOWN: just … call him. or text him. or something.
Jeon Wonwoo [10:13 AM]: Did your computer die and you need a new charger?
Jeon Wonwoo [3:21 PM]: I miss you.
When you finally returned to work, it’s on a day that your cubicle mate had decided to work from home. You couldn’t decide if that was a blessing or curse until the next day, when you wished that he decided to work from home forever. It was on a Tuesday morning that you finally faced him again, locking eyes with him from across the boardroom table in an all-hands meeting. You weren’t sure what to say, weren’t sure what you could say, but … he didn’t speak to you any way. In fact, even when you both got back to your desks, he kept quiet, throwing on his headphones and focusing on whatever task was at hand. His attitude change wasn’t exactly surprising, but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak to him either.
All your other coworkers looked bewildered. The silence between you two made just about everyone feel awkward. They all saw how close you and Wonwoo had become, and now everything just felt … flat. Silent. Empty. It was like you two were strangers. Maybe you had never really known each other in the first place, if you could both discard each other so easily.
But that just seemed too good to be true. You thought about him everyday, despite yourself, and he had to think of you too. You caught his eyes on you every once in a while, and you couldn’t help but yearn for him in silence. It was probably time for you to take charge again and make the first move, but you found yourself hesitating. Again. You were overwhelmed with thoughts of rejection.
This was why you never gave up control with someone before. It left you suddenly so, so doubtful.
You [1:34 PM]: I can’t get into my Outlook. I think I’ve locked myself out
Jeon Wonwoo is now offline.
You [1:36 PM]: I miss you too
It was a busy Sunday, the first notes of Spring evident in the air. You needed to go to the post office today, the supermarket, probably check in on your parents … but that was all discarded when you made the sudden decision to take a taxi to Wonwoo’s apartment. Your hands were shaking more than his when he first touched you. Your leg was bouncing with anxiety, and when the taxi finally pulled up to his building, you considered never getting out.
But you couldn’t continue being a coward. Besides, this driver had places to be, with the way he was arguing for you to pay in cash.
You were lucky enough to slide in through the building’s entrance while someone was walking out. The less you had to embarrass yourself by calling Mingyu to let you in, the better. The walk up those two flights of stairs was long and tiring, and it wasn’t because you always hated them. You physically couldn’t make yourself go faster, too frightened of what he was going to say when he saw you. Maybe he wouldn’t say anything; maybe he’d slam the door in your face. And you couldn’t blame him, because now you were at his door and – oh, god, you wanted to hurl.
The door was opening before you could even catch your breath. When you caught that first glimpse of Mingyu, you realized how much of a mistake this was. You could always turn back, run down the stairs before anyone could say a word.
But as soon as you both locked eyes, Mingyu raised his brow, but not in a mocking sense. It was as if … he expected you to be here. He sighed, leaning against the door, and without looking back, he called out, “Wonwoo! You got a visitor.”
Your eyes went wide, and then Mingyu was pushing past you, leaving the door open and muttering, “Good luck.” He was rushing down the stairs two at a time before you could even say a word back. But then you were seeing him, and you wondered if it had always been this hard to breathe around him.
Your fingers played absentmindedly as you both stared at each other. His glasses were slipping down his nose, but he made no move to fix them. His own hand was too busy dropping the controller that had been in his grip, now clattering to the floor. His hair was messed up and he was wearing his favorite comfy sweatsuit, and you … you were put together, as always. Your hair unwashed, but pulled up in a ponytail, and wearing that cardigan he liked so much on you. If he wasn’t so hurt, just the sight of you would have him on his knees right now, begging to have you.
He had to turn around and walk away. If he didn’t right now, he’d just –
“Wait,” you said, walking in and closing the door when he spun away. “Please, don’t. I –”
“What could you possibly say?” He snapped, facing you once again. You had never heard his voice at this octave before, never seen so much distress on his face. “I thought we knew each other well enough that you wouldn’t cut me off out of nowhere. As if I’m just some guy you met at a bar last weekend.”
Your mouth opened, and then closed.
“Do you … do you even understand how worried I was about you?” He ran a hand through his hair, voice cracking for the first time in forever. You took a step closer to him. “You weren’t answering me and I just … my head went to the worst. I thought Mingyu was gonna kill me the next time I mentioned your name. And then, to see you at work and realizing that you were actually just ghosting me was a fucking punch to the gut. I didn’t get it. I still don’t get it. But I’m so pissed at you for hurting my feelings that I’m not even sure if I wanna know.”
“Wonwoo –” You started.
“Please, don’t say my name like that,” he sighed and pinched his nose. “I realize that you came all this way to finally break the news to me, but I’m good. It’s very obvious to me now that you don’t like me as much as I like you, and to save us the pity party, let me get you home –” He reached for his wallet to grab some cash for your next taxi.
But you interrupted before he could finish.
“I love you.”
He paused, looking up and making sure he heard you right. “What?”
“I’m in love with you,” you said it again, and it felt so freeing to have this weight lifted off your shoulders. You moved closer, now standing a foot away, but refusing to touch him for your own good. “And I’m not just telling you that as an excuse. Ignoring you was cruel and I can never forgive myself for hurting you. I just … when I realized how deep my feelings for you were …” Your throat closed up, as if your body was acting on instinct, preventing you from being vulnerable with him.
Wonwoo closed the distance. “Hey,” he whispered, tucking a hair behind your ear. “I’m right here with you.”
His voice was so reassuring – as always – opening you up like a blooming flower. And suddenly, your mouth didn’t feel so dry anymore and your nails stopped making crescent-shaped indents in your palm.
“I got scared,” you confessed, your gaze locked on his. “And I ran away, because that was the easiest thing to do. I thought ignoring you would be best for both of us, and I stubbornly didn’t want to hear your opinion on any of this. What I did was wrong and I … I hate myself when I do stuff like this to people I care about.”
Tears pricked at the corner of your eyes, but he wiped them with his thumb before they could fall. You sniffled, noticing the hurt in his eyes had faded, replaced only by adoration. Your lips pursed as you searched his gaze.
“I’ve just … never allowed anyone to open me up like this. I’ve never given my feelings to someone and let them care for me.” You blinked, your eyes rimmed red. “I’ve hardly been able to comprehend my own feelings because I’ve been scared shitless of them in the first place. But I can’t … I can’t justify pushing you away anymore. Because I love you. I don’t like being alone anymore and all I ever want to do is see you. Sometimes I’m afraid if I stop holding you, you’ll disappear. You do so much for me; you literally fix something on my computer everyday. I think if I let you go right now, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life, and I –”
Wonwoo cut you off by pressing his lips to yours. You couldn’t remember the last time he kissed you like this: so gently with his palm cupping your jaw. You felt yourself relax when he slipped an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His tongue licked into your mouth, sighing with relief when the familiar taste of you entered his orbit again. The taste of coffee and peppermint gum and the peanut butter and jelly you definitely had for lunch today. It was everything he loved about you, and he smiled into the kiss.
When he finally pulled away, he said, “Sorry, I interrupted your monologue.”
“It’s okay. Someone needed to before I got into the Hamlet soliloquy I prepared.”
He chuckled, grinning from ear to ear, and just that had a blush creeping to your cheeks. “I forgive you,” he whispered, leaning back in to ghost his lips all over your face. Your warm breath fanned his mouth. “Just don’t do that again. I know I don’t show it very often, but I’m secretly very …” He smiled softer this time, pecking just slightly on the corner of your mouth. “Sensitive.”
Your fingers hooked into the waistband of his sweatpants, wanting him all the more closer. “I know. I promise.” You brushed your nose over his. “If I ever ignore you for even a couple hours, you have full permission to annoy me on Slack.”
Wonwoo had to cover his mouth from letting out the loudest laugh possible, but it made you feel all the better to see him happy. You could spend forever seeing him this happy. You got up on your tiptoes just to stare at him more, to press yourself closer and feel his grin against your cheek.
But he was holding your face now, sighing down at you with a smile that almost made you swoon. “For the record,” he replied, “I love you too.”
: ̗̀➛ synopsis: Jun has been your best friend for years but you never knew that he’s actually been obsessed with you this whole time. Until he sends you a sudden nude whilst away in China which changes the dynamic.
You have always been lucky. You might not be crazy rich, or strikingly pretty, but you truly have the best friend in the world. Wen Junhui.
It's the times when you have him blowing up your phone when you don't reply, cooking chinese food when your stomach rumbles and the pair of pink slippers nustled into his hallway designated for you that make you realise that no man will ever live up to him.
He has been exceeding your expectations since the night you met him. The night your friend ditched you at the club for some dick, leaving you, in flawless makeup and an outfit you had been planning for days somehow contemplating going home.
Purse in hand, you caught sight of a him cutting through the crowd —suspiciously good looking and his smile reeking of "Are you open-minded?". You gripped the strap tighter, breath stalling, but instead of trying to get you drunk or onto the dance floor, he stayed beside you all night.
Since then, Jun had been at every birthday party, been through every breakup and been by your side through every moment you needed him — he's your constant. The one who will always stay.
Never once has a single hint of hesitation hit you when telling him all your worries. All the times you used to be crying on your bed, gut clenched at the realisation you had no one to talk to now couldn't feel like a more distant memory.
Chest tightening, you remind yourself not to take him for granted. Although, he certainly likes to make it difficult when he abandons everything for your needs. Like that time he skipped dance practice so you could have a sleepover the night your ex broke up with you.
Looking around at your empty room, you tuck away your pink slippers into your highest cupboard. They look far too lonely when they aren't in his apartment, accompanied by his grey pair. You yank at your charger, expecting a reply, only to be left with another painful reminder of his busy schedule.
Three months into his filming in China, and you're certain you are one minor inconvenience away from insanity.
You’d be lying if you said you didn't have moments — close calls. His hands brushing yours. Lingering looks. Him wiping your tears with his shirt sleeve.
But you would never dare to cross the line.
You couldn't. He’s your best friend. Always has been. What would you do if it fucks things up?
However, Jun percieves you differently.
After years of being friends, it became impossible for him to keep seeing you not getting treated how you deserved. You'd be happier with him. How could you not see this?
Every time he comforts you, every sleepover you have, every tear he wipes from your cheek, the urge swells. At first it was his desire to comfort you— to love you. But it's rotted into something darker, something dirtier gnawing at him from the inside.
It's a quiet obsession that he isn't exactly proud of, yet he can't deny it. He especially can't deny it at times when you're curled up on his lap wearing his hoodie with those tiny fucking shorts you love. His dick pressing against his zipper as he excuses himself to the bathroom to take care of it.
But the last thing he wants is to make you feel uncomfortable or to push your boundaries and lose you forever.
So every memory becomes a part of his private folder. He saves voicenotes of you saying his name, photos of you sleeping beside him, even screenshots of times you were being accidentally flirty over text.
He reassures himself that it's just a way to keep himself controlled, that he needs an output for his desires, but even he is aware of how much he's slipping into his fantasy rather than the reality that could shatter if he moves too fast.
And now that he hasn't seen you in three months, he's spiralling. He thinks about you constantly, reading your texts over and over whilst he's on set. He thinks about how soft your skin must be, his cock getting harder from just imagining the feel of you in his arms again.
He predicted this might be the case when he left for China so he did something new. It was always a fantasy he dared not to admit. But he had no choice when he stayed round yours for the final sleepover. Each deep, rhythmic breath of yours coaxing his eyes to your underwear drawer.
Jun now laid on his bed. His figure adorned only his grey sweatpants and a pair of your white lace panties in his grasp.
You, however, were at Mingyu and Wonwoo's place. They were two friends Jun introduced you to recently as he instructed them to look after you whilst he was gone.
You were now curled up on their couch, phone balancing on your stomach, half-waiting for Jun to reply to your last message.
The three of you had fallen into a routine by now: Mingyu cooking too much, Wonwoo gaming on call, and you sneaking photos to send to Jun like you were documenting your survival.
It wasn’t the same without him. Mingyu and Wonwoo were sweet, loud, and distracting — but they weren’t Jun.
With the silence from your phone beginning to get nauseatingly loud, you snap a quick selfie to Jun, silently hoping it will prompt a faster response.
It's a simple photo — you, Jun's hoodie pooling at your waist, watching tv with Mingyu on their couch.
Grinning to yourself, you caption the selfie, 'bet you miss me more than i miss you' and hit send.
Jun didn’t mean to open it while he was half-hard, shirtless and lazy on his bed… but now he couldn’t stop staring.
Grip tightening on his phone, he looks back to your panties laced within his hand, mentally piecing the sight together with your selfie — the formed image driving himself insane. His hand instinctively reaches for his cock, carelessly pulling it out of his sweats as if it was routine.
He knew it was wrong but he couldn't help himself when he was this hard. He zoomed in on your neck, mind wandering to how soft your skin is there. Thinking about how much he wants to grab it and hold you down. Letting his hand trail over his sensitive tip, he hums in pleasure as he lets his head roll back.
Fueled by his ache, he lets the soft, pure fabric meet his dick, wiping his precum, not realising how far this would lead him. The contact with his cock and your panties made him twitch, imagining how you'd look in them— how you'd look in them beneath him.
Jaw tightening and head spiralling, the realisation that he can't escape this situation hits him. Yet, he doesn't fight it. He knows better than to fight it when he can feel his hunger surging with every bead of sweat accumulating on his forehead.
His cock twitches further into your panties and before he can process his actions, he's got them wrapped around the base.
The hotel room is cold, nothing like the view on his bed. His abs gleam with a thin sheen of sweat, sweatpants sitting low enough to reveal the girth of his cock, partially veiled by your damp underwear.
He's far too deep in the fantasy, far too deep for any critical thinking, his mind only containing you and his need for you to finally acknowledge him in the way he craves.
Pulling out his phone, with his brain barely present, Jun snaps a photo as a response to yours. The only difference being that his photo back contains his dick wrapped up in your panties.
It comes with no warning. The innocent notification buzzing against your stomach like a hug, fooling you into a sense of comfort.
You opened the message expecting a selfie. Instead, it was him. Hard. With panties—your panties, looped around the base.
Oh my god. That’s yours — that’s your underwear wrapped around his cock like some kind of trophy.
And he knows. He fucking knows you’re looking at it. He wants you to look at it. Wants you to see how hard he is for you, even when he’s not here. You can’t breathe.
Now you’re in Mingyu’s bathroom, phone shaking in your hands, thighs pressed tight together like that’ll help anything. What the fuck does this mean?
You build up the courage and face the image again, drinking in the view. His dick— your best friend Junhui's dick. You couldn't help but notice every detail.
Your phone showed every vein, it showed just how hard he was.. for you. And without warning, it was now seared into your memory.
Yet you didn't mind it.
You didn't mind the thought of Jun, thick, flushed and twitching into your panties that he must have stolen from you.
And the thought of what is happening outside the image, him in that hotel room with his hand wrapped around himself, panting your name whilst jerking his cock into your underwear.
Palms sweating, you notice the slight v-lines visible in the corner of the image causing your to almost choke on your saliva.
This only lead you to imagine his face— fuck, that pretty face. Probably just as flushed as his tip.
You catch a quick glimpse of your reflection in the bathroom mirror, your state mirroring your imagination of Jun in this current moment.
Your face flushed a bright rosy shade and the stark light above you making you feel far too exposed, yet also lighting up the image on your phone as if it's going to burn through your retinas— or maybe that's just due to your staring.
Around you, you can still hear the muffled sound of Mingyu and Wonwoo discussing the TV, yet with every beat of your heart increasing in volume, and your breath slowly getting heavier, it became much easier to ignore.
Was it a mistake? But fuck, what if it wasn't?
Either way, you can't deny the fact that it's your panties he stole. And it's your panties he's jerking off with.
That thought alone makes your breath shallow, hitched and humiliatingly loud.
With your hands tightening around your phone screen, you open your messages, yet you can't manage to type. Your trembling fingers hover over the keyboard as if they are haunting it.
Looking down, you view the picture again, heat Instantly spreading through your chest, the sensation travelling down your stomach.. and lower.
You couldn't stop staring, thoughtlessly imagining the heat spreading through your body was his touch. That his long, slender fingers were the ones carresing your inner thighs and the dizziness you felt was from him yanking your head back.
You had to collect your thoughts — your emotions.
Finally, you typed
You: 'Did you mean to send that to me?'
Every second that passes feels like torture. Your body and mind unable to cope with the perverse thoughts of what could be taking him so long.
Jun is lying in his hotel bed, half watching some random chinese tv show. His free hand tracing a lazy trail down his stomach, fingers slipping just under his waistband. He isn't exactly paying much attention to any of it though. In his eyes, you are the only thing that matters. The phone buzzes and he leans up, seeing your response. Jun pauses, considering his response.
Buzz
Jun's name lights up your screen. You don't touch it right away. Your chest tight, breath stalling as you almost drop your phone when you scramble to read his reply.
Jun: 'Yes.'
That's it? What's up with him.? You bring your knees up onto the closed toilet lid where you are sitting, your mind completely blank yet still full of questions. But aside your curiousity, your stomach stirs and your thighs rub together.
You are left with only one word as your solution.
You: 'Why?'
Jun shifts, pulling his hand from his waist. He sits up, the blanket bunching at his hips. He types, licking his bottom lip, considering his response. How was he supposed to tell you the truth? That he was obsessed?
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
His response was faster this time.
Jun: 'Was thinking about you'
'Wanted you to see it'
'To see how much I miss you'
Your knees weaken. Your breath gets heavier. Is this really happening? You don't even think before replying.
You: 'You're insane. I'm at Mingyu and Wonwoo's!'
Jun chuckles, shifting to lay back against the headboard, resting the phone against his chest.
Jun: 'Then be quiet for me.'
You stare at the message for a moment. Your skin tingling with heat as you subconsciously fan yourself. Biting your lip, you look back at the photo he sent before responding.
You: 'In the photo.. is that mine?'
A smirk curves Jun's lips as he reads your reply. His thumb tracing along the bare skin of his hip.
Jun: 'You're smart enough to figure that out'
'I bet they look better on you'
Your stomach flips at his words. It's a tone you've never heard from him before and it feels as though every thing he says sends a signal straight through your body.
You: 'What were you thinking!?'
His reply is instant.
Jun: 'Are you really that desperate to know what I was thinking about with your panties wrapped around my hard dick, hm?'
'Isn't it obvious?'
Jun pauses to think about what was on his mind. The image of you in those exact panties had been burned behind his eyelids. He'd been thinking about it nonstop for days at this point. He couldn't get you out of his system.
Jun: 'I've been thinking about you'
'About what I'd do if you were here'
Your thumb hovers over the keyboard. You type something back but delete it. Your heart beat becoming the only distinguishable sound over the hesitant tap of your typing.
You: 'Tell me'
Again, he replies almost instantly. As if he'd ridden this train of thought a hundred times before.
Jun:'I’d have you on your knees right now'
'I’d pull your hair back so I could see your face'
Jun's hand curls around his length, squeezing. It's a poor, poor replacement for what he really wants. He closes his eyes, his mind already creating a picture, just picturing you there with him, all to himself.
Jun: 'I'd make you open your mouth for me.'
'I wouldn’t stop until you were a mess.'
'Then I’d use my tongue, my fingers, my dick. I'd make you feel so good.'
You close your eyes and picture it. Your legs feel restless. You rub your thighs together desperately in a pathetic attempt to ease your need for any kind of friction.
Steps faltering, you stumble your way to unlocking the bathroom door. Relief floods you, both Mingyu and Wonwoo are asleep in their rooms — unaware.
As if he could sense your movements, your phone starts ringing. Sharp against the counter, sudden enough to make your heart skip.
It’s him.
Your fingers hover over the screen. Breath catches. A pulse races through your chest, slowing only when you finally swipe to answer.
“Hey,” his voice hums through the line, low and deliberate, like he’s already inside your head.
His voice sounds soft and deep, that tone which you have been missing. It had been far too long since you have heard it.
In any other scenario, your body would instinctively relax upon hearing this voice, however when surrounded by the fluorescent confines of this bathroom, with your underwear soaked and mind blank, your body can't help but tense.
You manage to catch your pacing breath and choke out a weak, "Hi.." into the phone. Your voice sounding much weaker and inferior against the weight of his baritone.
"Are you alone?" His voice trembled slightly, like he was holding back.
Your thighs clench at the sound. Too shy to respond, you nod in response before remembering he can't see you. "I am.."
There’s a pause, and it’s like you can feel him leaning closer, teasingly close.
"Good. Sounds like your still in the bathroom. How about you make your way to their guest room, hm?"
Your skin prickles as if he was really next to you, as if he's in your ear, breath sliding down your throat. Without thinking, you follow his command, allowing the sound of your footsteps to act a signal of your obedience to him.
"I'm laying in the bed now.."
Jun brought your soft lace towards his face and breathed in your scent, although he's been doing it for so long it's started to fade. That doesn't stop him from pulling out his aching cock again, still wet with precum.
"Following my orders, already? How about a second one?"
"What is it?
He is fully fisting his cock now, aware that the sounds must be escaping into your phone speaker yet unable to stop himself upon hearing your voice.
"You're okay with this, right?" "Fuck, please say you are."
You can practically hear his brows knitting together through his voice. God, you wish you could see him pleading for you like this.
"I promise, what's the second order?"
Jun then slides your panties to his lower face and licks a determined stripe along the fabric, letting out a disgusting whine before speaking.
"Be good and let me hear how wet you are."
Your fingers teased with the hem of your panties, as your grinded up into the fabric. That wasn't enough — so you let the pad of your finger slide down the length of your wet cunt.
Jun’s breath hitched, a sharp groan slipping out as he bucked his hips up into his fist, ruined already by the slick sounds you were making for him.
"Does it scare you how much you want this?" Jun's voice is low, strained but authentic.
"It scares me just as much as it excites me." Your words are promptly silenced by a moan as you let a single finger slip past your folds.
Jun takes your panties and threads them back around his cock, fucking the fabric with deep thrusts, his mind only centered around how much better you'd feel.
You can hear the sound of his slick fist through the speaker, wet and obscene, mixing with his low groans. Your back arches instinctively against the hard mattress, your legs spreading wider as you circle your clit with trembling fingers.
“Jun-” you gasp his name, your voice high and shaky.
He groans at the sound, almost guttural. “Fuck, say it again. Say my name like that.”
You do, over and over, until you’re whining it like a chant. No longer giving a fuck if Mingyu or Wonwoo hear.
“I want to be inside you so bad,” he mutters, voice strained and heavy with lust. “I want to feel you clench around me. I bet you’d be so tight—so wet. You’d take me so good, baby.”
Your body reacts before your brain catches up, your fingers pushing inside yourself. The sharp stretch makes you cry out.
Jun hisses. “Fuck, are you touching yourself for me? Are you fucking yourself while I’m not there?”
“Yes. Yes, Jun,” you admit, your voice breaking on his name.
The sound he makes in return is dangerous, deep and ruined. “Good girl. That’s my good girl. Pretend it’s me. Pretend it’s my cock stretching you open.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, doing exactly that. Pretending it’s him. Pretending his weight is pinning you down. Pretending his voice is spilling into your ear instead of through your phone.
“I’d make you beg for it,” Jun growls. “I’d make you beg for my cock before I even let you have it.”
Your thighs shake at his words. You fuck your fingers into yourself harder, sloppier, chasing the sensation.
“Jun please,” you whimper, not even sure what you’re asking for.
He chuckles, dark and dirty. “That’s it. Keep begging. You sound so sweet when you’re desperate for me.”
The noises on his end get faster, more frantic, the sound of his hand gliding over his cock sharp in your ear. You can picture him perfectly. His head tilted back, face flushed, his pretty mouth parted as he ruins himself with your underwear.
“I’m close,” you whisper, your voice nearly breaking.
His reply is instant. “Cum for me. Cum with me. Need to hear how good my voice makes you feel.”
Your climax hits you hard, blinding, as your back arches off the bed. You’re gasping his name like a prayer, holding the phone tight against your ear as if that’ll make him closer.
Jun follows seconds later. His breath stutters, a low moan spilling out of him as he finishes into your panties, his voice so raw and disgusting you know you’ll never forget it.
There’s silence afterward, save for both of you catching your breath.
Finally, his voice cuts through the silence, soft and shaky: “...fuck. I wish you were here.”
🔞 18+, minors do not interact • masterlist • submit a request
🚨 minors and blank blogs will be blocked
after a career drought full of dead end positions, you finally land a job you can be proud to include on your resume—prestigious company, room for growth, and most importantly, a salary that will allow you and your boyfriend, soonyoung, to breathe a little easier. what you don’t expect is the discrimination and vitriol you’re met with on the job. as office life gets harder and harder for you, soonyoung finds it increasingly impossible to sit back and watch you repeatedly get hurt like this. so he dusts off a mask he never thought he’d use again, and when your colleagues start dropping dead one by one… well, that’s none of his business.
♫ i did something bad taylor swift
pairing: ghostface!soonyoung x fem!reader
wc: 23k 🤨
tags: horror fic (kinda not really), scream fic, established relationship, alternating povs, normal (used loosely lol) lovers to crazy psycho lovers, screenwriter!soonyoung, corporate slave!reader, “he hates everyone but her” trope except make it “he hates and brutally murders everyone but her” ┐(￣ヘ￣;)┌
a/n: the platinum blonde spiky hair ghostface soonyoung brain rot had me in a chokehold. this all started just bc i saw a gifset of him looking soooo early 00s fuck boy pop star and immediately my brain was like “ghostface hoshi.” so here we are. i do watch horror but like. i’m here for a good time not a critical time LOL. i am no expert on horror movies! i just like watching the more digestible ones, and if there are inconsistencies with the reasoning for becoming a killer or the relationship between killer and lover of killer or how realistically easy it would be to catch the killer… well, just pretend there aren’t :) i’m just trying to eradicate this ghostface hoshi brainworm :) so enjoy it :) or don’t :) this is more for me than anyone else :)
warnings READ ALL OF THEM!
content: murder… obviously (it won’t be overly gory, but it is described, so be careful. it won’t be anyone in svt), he’s a psychopath (again… obviously), blood, knives/stabbing, torture, domestic violence (not between mcs), traumatic brain injury, misogyny, daddy issues, eh mommy issues too why not, male use of the word “whore” and “bitch” against a woman, workplace harassment (bullying, hazing, finance tech red pill bro culture), sexual harassment in the workplace (inappropriate comments, sexualization of reader by male coworkers, etc. but no physical sexual assault takes place), no physical description of reader but she’s called a diversity hire by her harassers (whatever makes her diverse can be up to you), murdered people could possibly share names with idols idk but if they do, that’s a coincidence bc these are just random names, protectiveness to insane levels, possessiveness, codependency, jealousy, toxic and unhealthy relationship, reader is also crazy
smut: marked at beginning and end if you’d like to avoid, unprotected piv, creampie, roleplaying (kinda? like, is it roleplaying if they’re roleplaying as themselves but one of them doesn’t realize it’s themselves?), squirting, kink exploration, mentions of bondage, mentions of blindfolding, mentions of choking, mentions of degradation, mentions of knife play, light breeding kink, shower sex, oral (both receiving), face fucking, fingering, spitting, uh horniness supercharged by murder so… whatever tag that is, dirty talk except make it about murder, honestly don’t look at me
🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
IN AN APARTMENT
a man (jake) dressed in a disheveled suit returns home late at night presumably from work, though from his mannerisms, he seems drunk.
he takes his jacket off and lets it fall to the floor. he is grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge when his phone rings. the number is private. he declines it. when it rings again, he fumbles to hit the right button for several seconds but eventually answers, swaying drunkenly as he does.
JAKE hello? (he hears loud breathing) hello? (no answer) who is this? (hangs up and mutters to himself) fucking weirdos.
his phone rings again, and he watches his cell vibrate on the counter. he closes the fridge door and answers the phone, obviously ready to yell at whoever it is, but he is cut off by a raspy male voice.
PHONE STRANGER hi, jake.
jake freezes, too flustered to speak.
PHONE STRANGER oh come on, don’t be rude. where are your manners? this is where you say hi back. go on, try it.
JAKE who is this?
PHONE STRANGER that’s too easy, don’t you think? and too easy is never any fun.
jake seems to deflate, his exhaustion too potent to argue with a stranger. he hangs up once more. the phone rings again. he answers it in an almost violent fashion.
JAKE leave me alone!
PHONE STRANGER hang up on me again and i’ll take that pretty, little butcher knife (jake’s eyes dart to the knife block on his kitchen island. camera changes focus to knives) and run it down the entirety of your torso until the floor is slick with your blood and organs.
jake looks around the apartment, understanding there is a large chance he is being watched.
camera angle changes to a shaky shot farther away from around the corner in a dark hallway, suggesting whoever is watching is already in the apartment with him. goes back to jake in kitchen.
jake inches forward, wrapping his fingers around the very same knife he was just threatened with.
PHONE STRANGER hiding it won’t help you, jake. and neither will using it. i promise.
jake’s fingers immediately let go and he takes several steps back in horror as he realizes he is definitely being watched.
PHONE STRANGER good boy! (sounds genuinely excited) so you do listen after all. now. let’s start over. hi, jake.
JAKE hi. (voice cracks, clears his throat) what do you want?
stranger clicks tongue in disapproval.
PHONE STRANGER jake, jake, jake. didn’t we talk about manners already? (jake inches toward the front door, stranger laughs) eh, i probably wouldn’t go that way if i were you. (jake freezes, eyes flitting around the room wildly) what do you want to try next?
camera briefly shifts to a dark corner closer to jake now. goes back to kitchen.
JAKE who are you?
PHONE STRANGER my name is hoshi. (jake is very obviously surprised) didn’t expect me to tell you my name, did you? thought i’d keep that a secret? you don’t have to ask either; that’s my real name.
JAKE why?
HOSHI why what?
JAKE why are you telling me your name?
HOSHI well, it doesn’t matter if i tell you my name. it’s going to die with you anyway.
jake quickly takes the phone away from his ear and begins to dial the police. being drunk, he mistypes several times.
HOSHI i won’t try to talk you out of that. someone needs to find your body after all. i do want people to know you’re dead. i want her to know you’re dead. that you’re never going to hurt her ever again. so by all means, call the police. but i assure you. they won’t come in time.
JAKE (in a shaky voice) yes they will.
HOSHI no. they won’t. and you know how i know?
jake finally gets the call going, phone automatically putting hoshi on hold.
HOSHI i know because you’re a dumb ass and you never even put me on speaker.
camera focuses on jake’s face front on as his eyes widen and he freezes. audience hears dispatcher answer the line.
DISPATCH what is your emergency?
hoshi appears behind jake in a white mask, face contorted into a permanent scream, and a black tattered robe. audience hears a squelch as jake’s mouth falls open in pain and he stumbles. his phone falls out of his hand, ending the call.
camera angle switches to side view, where audience can see a hunter knife buried in the middle of jake’s back. hoshi slowly slides the knife out of him, letting him fall to the floor, where he’s immediately crawling away.
hoshi makes no move to follow him yet. simply watches him kick and struggle to stand.
HOSHI i knew you were dumb, but i didn’t realize you were this dumb.
he slowly walks after him, watching as jake pathetically tries to make it to the front door, blood trailing behind him. he crashes into most of his furniture as he stumbles past.
hoshi reaches him and kicks him in his stab wound, causing jake to fall back to the floor, screaming in agony.
JAKE god, why?! WHY?!
HOSHI question of the night, huh?
JAKE (sobbing, turns over and pulls himself away enough until he’s slouched up against the back of his couch) i don’t even know who you are!
hoshi squats down in front of him, forearms on knees, eye level. he keeps his bloody knife threateningly close to jake’s face.
HOSHI but i know who you are. oh man, i know exactly who you are. i’ve heard all about you, jake. more than i should’ve ever had to hear about you.
jake sobs harder as hoshi runs his knife gently across his neck, leaving his own blood on his skin.
HOSHI you couldn’t just be the quiet coworker who came to work, minded his own goddamn business, and went home, huh? you had to be the red pill loser.
JAKE (weakly) what…? i don’t… huh?
HOSHI you hurt her, jake. and when you hurt her… well frankly, you hurt me. and i don’t let anyone get away with hurting me.
JAKE who’s “her”?! who are you?! i don’t even know what you’re talking about, dude. please! please! i promise i won’t tell anyone! i’ll do whatever you want! i’ll give you whatever you want—just let me live!
hoshi doesn’t say anything for several seconds. resembles predator watching prey. when jake starts blubbering and begging, he sighs.
HOSHI what if what i want… (tilts his head menacingly at him) is for you to die… (wipes his knife along the length of his sleeve, cleaning it of blood) an incredibly slow and painful death? hm? what if that’s what i want? will you still give it to me, jake?
JAKE i don’t get it, please, i don’t get it. who are you? what do you want?
HOSHI god you’re a fucking moron, i literally just told you what i fucking want.
he drives his knife into jake’s thigh. when he screams, hoshi backhands him to shut him up.
several seconds pass as jake tries to catch his breath.
JAKE why are you doing this?
hoshi removes his knife from his thigh, just to plunge it into his abdomen. jake doubles over, blood spilling past his lips.
hoshi lets go of the knife, leaving it buried inside jake. he tries to reach up and remove it, but hoshi gently presses a single finger to the hilt. jake screams and lets his hands fall away. hoshi removes his finger.
HOSHI (casually) honestly, it’s kind of futile explaining this to an idiot who gets off of shitting on women.
jake’s breathing is labored as his screams subside.
HOSHI (comically scratches his head) like, how do i even explain love to a greasy little incel like you?
JAKE (incredulously, while stuttering) love?
HOSHI yes, jake. love. you know, it’s so funny. i really, really hated that word for most of my life, and then… one day that just… changed, i guess.
JAKE you’re killing me because… you love… me?
HOSHI (sputters/laughs) what?! are you fucking—what?! (backhands him again) i can’t even fathom how fucking stupid you are! what the fuck? (jake groans) no, you jackass, how could anybody love you? you’re like shit on the bottom of my shoe. (mutters again) what the fuck?
JAKE i don’t get it.
HOSHI (sighs) i know you don’t, dimwit. that’s why i’m not going to bother explaining why you’ll die tonight. you’ll never understand what it’s like to love someone the way i love her. i fucking adore her.
he watches jake carefully, head tilting to the other side like he’s studying his looming death. or enjoying it.
HOSHI and jake (just barely skims one finger from where the blade disappears into flesh, up the hilt of the knife) one thing about me?
jake’s eyes go up to meet the black holes in the mask, breathing coming out in short gasps now.
HOSHI my adoration is killer.
without warning, hoshi grabs his knife once more, other hand holding jake’s shoulder down as he pulls the knife up his torso with alarming force. he makes good on his promise to cover his floors with his own blood and organs.
your life has become a sad routine of miserably crying monday through friday, suffering an emotional hangover on saturdays, and spending the entirety of sunday shaking with anxiety over the mere thought of having to go back to work and do it all over again the next day.
your job, for the most part, is predictable. you expect to come in and endure catcalls, unprovoked insults, glares, and lewd gestures all before you even reach your desk. you expect to have your work—as flawless as you know it is—ridiculed and mocked, just for someone else to copy it word for word, claim it as his own, and receive endless praise for it. you expect your boss to sheepishly shrug and tell you boys will be boys and to be a “team player.” you expect to be told you’re useless, you’re just a diversity hire, and all you’re good for is something nice to look at.
as the only woman on an all-male, all-asshole team, you expect pure torment.
what you don’t expect is to be corralled into the company auditorium with hundreds of other employees first thing in the morning, where you’re all informed that jay, the psychopath you share a cubicle with, was not just playing hooky and skipping work like you and all his buddies assumed, but that he “tragically” passed away earlier this week. you’re in a daze as they tell everyone grief counseling is available and that those close to jay can take bereavement effective immediately if they have to.
what you also don’t expect is to return to your desk, google his obituary, and be met with several articles detailing a gruesome murder that took place in his apartment building. jay isn’t directly named, but you don’t need him to be to know it’s him. the executives were too dodgy about the announcement of his death for this to be about anybody else.
your eyes scan over words like “stabbed,” “bloodied,” “screams,” “ripped,” and “spilled.” the journalist describes it as the most grisly homicide to take place since the “prank call killings”—even goes as far to make connections between jay’s murder and the string of deaths that took place years ago, in a small town not far from where you are.
both involved victims with multiple stab wounds.
both were indicative of a frighteningly large hunting knife with unique serrations used as the weapon.
both ended with the torsos being carelessly cut open down the middle—while the victim was still alive.
the one difference is that police found no evidence of calls made to jay’s phone before his death.
this begs the question: after nearly a decade, has the prank call killer made their return, or has a copycat ascended their throne?
the closing line sends a chill down your spine, but you’re not sure it feels bad.
in fact, there’s one last thing you don’t expect that comes of today: as you turn in your seat to look at jay’s desk, exactly how he left it, you find that you don’t feel horrified about his death. contrarily, you find yourself feeling relieved. elated, even. and that’s what horrifies you.
as the team that housed jay, your boss releases you all from work for the rest of the day, some for the whole week. not you, though—never you. you are expected to return first thing in the morning to begin sorting through jay’s work and figure out where you can fill in and what you can split amongst your coworkers. but you know that won’t be happening; no one on your team would lift a pinkie to help you even if you were on the floor dying. everything jay left behind will be your responsibility now, not that that’s much of an issue. the man was already pawning all his work to you anyway.
“baby?”
soonyoung’s voice filters through the noise of the coffee machine as you close and lock the door behind you. a head of blonde, spiky hair pokes out from around the corner. your boyfriend’s eyebrows are raised, mouth puckered into a cute, surprised o.
“hey, what are you doing back?” he asks as he completely exits the kitchen and walks around the corner. his hands are immediately pressed against your forehead and neck when he reaches you, eyes running up and down your body like he’s checking for injuries. “are you okay? do you have a fever? are you sick?”
you don’t even have the energy to playfully slap him away and roll your eyes like you normally would at his overly worried behavior. you just shake your head slowly.
“what’s wrong?” he mutters, letting his hands fall to snake around your waist. soonyoung watches you so closely and so attentively, you almost swoon enough to forget why you’re so distraught.
“i…”
soonyoung doesn’t urge you to speak, patiently waiting for you to find the words you want to use. you shake your head again.
“jay’s… jay is dead?” you announce, sounding unsure and confused even though it’s literally just a fact now.
soonyoung snorts. “that would be a dream. how would he die? what’s the most satisfying way to imagine it? hit by a bus? fell into an open manhole? choked on a—”
“no,” you interject, gripping his forearms and squeezing. he moves to let go of you but you keep him where he is. “he’s actually dead, soonyoung. like… dead dead.”
he raises an eyebrow, still obviously hesitating. “okay, i want to say you’re joking… but your use of my government name is telling me you’re not…?”
“i’m not!” you insist, slapping his arms away now.
“hey.” he pouts.
“why else would i be home right now?!” you point out. “park told us to take the day off.” you toe off your shoes and push past soonyoung, further into the home you share. “something about grieving.”
you go straight to the couch, flopping onto it face down.
“oh my god?” your boyfriend murmurs in a daze as he follows you, brows furrowed into a deep frown.
he sits on the small sliver of couch you’re not occupying, automatically arranging you so that you’re laying face up against him between his legs. his arms find your waist once more.
“what… what happened…?” he asks, obviously trying to tread the topic carefully. he knows how much you hated jay—hell, as your biggest supporter, he hated him too. but for him to die? you’re full of complicated feelings. “is that why he’s been skipping work?”
you nod. “and it’s not just that… park and the other execs didn’t say this, but… i looked up his name to see if i could read the obituary.”
“mmm,” he hums, nodding. “tracks for a nosy girl like you.”
“not the time!” you whine, already pulling away. he tightens his arms around you, keeping you from moving.
“okay, okay! sorry! i’ll be serious—i swear! i’m sorry!”
you huff and relax against him once more.
“so you looked up his obituary…” he encourages you to continue, voice lower as he tries to be serious—a feat for him, honestly.
“i… i think jay was murdered.”
you whisper the words without meaning to, like you’re scared of giving life to them. like if you say them loud enough, the prank call killer—or their copycat—will come bursting through the door and shred you and the love of your life into ribbons of blood and flesh.
soonyoung remains quiet and you can almost hear the gears in his head turning as he tries to find the correct thing to say. you bet he’s trying to scour his brain for anything that isn’t an inappropriate joke.
“murdered…?” he asks in a small voice. “why… how…?”
you rest your hands over his on your stomach, pressing even further into him as you retell what you read.
a victim was found in his own apartment, stab wounds to his back and left thigh. it was clear he was attacked in his kitchen and that his assailant let him make it halfway to his front door… before they cornered him against his own couch. then, they gutted him—from lower abdomen to sternum, where his bones wouldn’t give any more way for the knife. they didn’t name him. they didn’t even describe his appearance. all they said was that he was 28, and he lived alone.
but you knew, and from the way you spoke, you were confident soonyoung wouldn’t question you about it. he was good at trusting you and believing in you.
“that’s… fucking barbaric…” he breathes out after you recount the story. “i mean, the guy was a fucking asshole, but… that’s… i mean, it’s… i—”
“i feel happy.” you blurt out the words that have been brewing in your head since you left the office.
to his credit, your boyfriend has taken most of this information well despite the poorly timed jokes. but at this new revelation, his entire body tenses against yours, and you immediately regret being honest.
“you think i’m a monster, don’t you?” you ask quietly, ready for him to gently remove you from him. to admonish you. maybe even leave. “you think—”
“i don’t think you’re a monster.”
he says it with so much conviction, you believe it the first time he says it. soonyoung repeats it anyway.
“i don’t think you’re a monster, baby. please don’t say that. i’m just… surprised. i mean i’m definitely not mourning the guy, but i know how these kinds of things can upset you.”
you know he’s referring to all the times news headlines made you cry, or the times bleak documentaries pushed you into a weird episode of feeling like there was no meaning to life and everything was pointless. you’ve always been easily affected by the world around you, so it’s fair for him to be surprised that being this close in proximity to a victim of such inexplicable violence doesn’t send you straight into a panic attack.
“he just… he made my life so hard, soonie,” you say, not expecting the tears that fill your eyes. your voice cracks on your boyfriend’s name and he immediately rests his lips against the crown of your head and whispers his love for you.
“i know,” he says after he’s told you he loves you at least a dozen times. “trust me, i know.”
soonyoung actually knows best because he’s the one who’s picking up the pieces when you come home broken and inconsolable. he’s the one who calms you down enough to explain what happened this time.
jay purposefully knocked your coffee over a report that took you a week. jay took credit for a project you were forced to collaborate with him on—a project you ended up doing all by yourself. jay was telling everyone you were a ditzy bimbo that couldn’t do her job right. jay went out drinking with the boss and spent the whole night talking shit about you. jay wouldn’t stop trying to convince you you were only hired because you had a pair of tits. that those tits are all you’re ever going to be worth.
he’s the entire reason the team is the way they are around you now. he’s the one who emboldened them to treat you the way they do.
and day after day, week after week, for almost a year now, soonyoung has had to endure all your rants—rants that were exactly the same because you didn’t know how to stand up for yourself. the only thing you knew how to do was “be a team player” in the hopes that you could find a promotion into another team or even better, a new job altogether.
being the best boyfriend there is, soonyoung never complained about your venting. even on nights he had to abandon the latest script he was working on, even on days he had to call in sick to the writers’ room because he had insisted on staying up until the sun rose, consoling you—he never complained or even hinted that he was tired of you. not once.
even more meaningful to you, he never chastised you for being unable to find the strength to speak back or enforce your boundaries, something you were already plenty embarrassed about. he never made you feel less than; he knew you already had enough of that from the men in your work life.
soonyoung was the gentleness and softness you craved and needed so desperately in your life. he was safety and love and warmth and he was what continuously healed you as your job tried over and over again to break you.
he knew all of this. he knew how much you hated it and how much you hated jay, and it comforts you to know that he doesn’t think you’re a monster for being happy he’s dead. it gives you the courage to be even more honest with him.
“i’m relieved,” you tell him, wiping away your tears. “i’m so relieved he’s gone, and that it’s over. that maybe now… maybe now, i’ll be safe.”
his hold on you tightens and he leaves more kisses in your hair.
“and… i feel like a terrible person saying this…”
“whatever it is, you’re not. so don’t.”
it’s the push you need.
“i’m glad he suffered,” you admit, feeling lighter as soon as it’s out of your mouth. “i’m not just happy he died… i’m glad he died in the most heinous way. and i’m glad his killer made it hurt.”
once the words are out, you can’t take them back. and soonyoung doesn’t make you feel like you should. after a few seconds of silence, he just sighs and leans forward to kiss your cheek.
“then i am too, baby. if you’re happy, then i’m happy.”
he says it like you didn’t just tell him the grossest thing you’ve ever said in your life. and when you look up and catch his reflection in the window opposite of you, unbeknownst to him, you find him smiling into your hair almost like he’s pleased with you. you believe that he really is happy when you’re happy.
and honestly, you love him even more for it.
“i love you, soonie.”
“i adore you,” he says, his favorite way to express his affection for you—even moreso than “love,” though he learned to return the four-letter word once you expressed how important it was to you. “endlessly.” he pauses briefly before promising: “i’ll love you forever.”
it takes just one week, when everyone returns from their bereavement, for you to realize you aren’t safe—that jay’s death just put his friends on edge and made them more dangerous than ever. that for some fucked up reason, they felt that torturing you was the best way they could keep their sick friend’s memory alive.
and it makes you wish they were all dead too.
🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
as hoshi stands over his bed, clean of the blood he shed just hours ago and watching his girlfriend sleep, a montage of traumatic events from hoshi’s childhood begins flashing—switching between his memories and their bedroom until his memories win out.
FLASHBACK
a very young hoshi screams as he throws his tiny body against his father’s uselessly. his father has his hands around his mother’s neck, choking her mercilessly.
YOUNG HOSHI stop it! stop! get off my mommy! (begins punching but makes no headway) stop! please!
DAD you think i wouldn’t hear about you coming around to that dead beat’s house under the guise of asking for sugar, you fucking whore?!
YOUNG HOSHI please! mommy!
hoshi’s father removes one hand from his wife’s neck to shove his son aside. hoshi stumbles several steps before falling and hitting his head on the corner of the table and blacking out.
memory moves to hoshi’s recovery, when he is back home with a bandage around his head. blood blooms on the back of it. he is freshly woken up, in his pajamas, and his mother is changing the dressing on his injury.
there is something eerily blank about his face.
MOM (in a hoarse voice) let me know if it hurts, sweetheart.
YOUNG HOSHI okay. (pauses in what seems to be thought, though his expression does not change) will you let me know if it hurts too?
camera follows his gaze, focusing on the bruises around her neck. his mother’s hands still on his head before she continues in silence.
hoshi does not urge her to answer him, his eyes almost glazing over as he stares at her bruises. his mother finishes up changing the bandaging.
MOM you don’t worry your cute, little head about mommy, okay? in fact—
she pauses to put the medical supplies away into the first aid kit resting on the nightstand and smooths her dress before crouching in front of hoshi’s bed. she takes his hands in hers.
MOM mommy doesn’t want you interfering like that ever again, okay? (hoshi’s face remains blank as he meets her eyes now) when you hear daddy or mommy shouting, i want you to stay right here, in your bed, with the door shut and locked, and i don’t want you to come out until i come get you, alright?
YOUNG HOSHI am i in trouble?
MOM no, no sweetie. you’re not in trouble. but daddy will be home soon. in the next day or so. and mommy needs you to be safe and healthy, so will you promise me that you’ll stay out of it?
YOUNG HOSHI why does daddy hurt you?
MOM daddy is… he’s sick, sweetheart.
YOUNG HOSHI if someone is sick, is it okay for us to let them hurt us?
despite hoshi’s blank stare, his mother recognizes this will be a pivotal moment that informs the way her son sees the world. she blinks rapidly as her thoughts go into overdrive and she tries not to cry.
MOM (whispers) no. (she pauses, shaking her head and quickly wiping away her tears before returning her hand to hoshi’s) no, it’s not okay. you don’t let anybody hurt you, sweetheart. not you. no one hurts you.
YOUNG HOSHI why do you let daddy hurt you?
MOM i… i love him, hoshi. i love your father. and he loved me once too. maybe he will again. but either way, i will still love him. he gave me you.
hoshi’s blank stare breaks at this, like the idea of any part of him being from his father bothers him. like he realizes he might be the only reason his mother stays with his father.
YOUNG HOSHI you love him… (his mother nods) i never want to love someone then.
memory moves years forward, when hoshi is 17. they remain in the same home, but messier and much sadder. colors are cooler than the past warmer memories audience has seen before.
hoshi is seated on the edge of a bigger bed now, in the same position as the previous memory, this time without his mom.
hands grip the comforter tensely. works his jaw anxiously as he stares, expressionless, at the door.
sound is muffled as camera zooms in on door. audience hears high-pitched whining sound as shots quickly flash between the door, hoshi on the bed, and the blood that spread on the floor from his head injury when he was young.
the whining gets louder as all the memories that flash now focus on young hoshi’s traumatic brain injury (blood, his mother screaming, blood, cops, stitches, bandages, blood, blood, blood).
the sound comes back full volume as the flashing comes back and stops on his closed room door.
MOM i’m sorry! i’m—
his mother’s pleas are cut off with her own scream as the walls shake and boom with the force of her body being thrown against them.
hoshi relaxes his fingers and smooths the comforter where he wrinkled it. he stands calmly, making his way to the door. his hand hovers over the locked handle.
flashes back to his conversation with his mom.
MOM will you promise me that you’ll stay out of it?
young hoshi’s face is blank but the way his eyes search his mother’s face in a way audience did not see before now implies that he possibly could’ve been weighing his options, even as a child.
YOUNG HOSHI why does daddy hurt you?
back to 17-year-old hoshi.
HOSHI (mutters to himself) you never promised.
audience sees he made it to the kitchen during the flashback. he faces the doorway from the kitchen to the living room.
camera focuses on door. mother is thrown across the living room, father stalks after her. the sounds of punching are heard but they’re beginning to muffle again.
flashes back.
MOM you don’t let anybody hurt you, sweetheart. not you. no one hurts you.
flashes back to memory from beginning of film.
MOM (both sprawled across grass on a sunny day) you and i, we’re one, hosh. you’re made of me, and i’m made of you!
YOUNG HOSHI i’m you and you’re me?
MOM hm. not quite but sure, yes! and we’ll always have each other.
flashes to conversation after brain injury.
YOUNG HOSHI why do you let daddy hurt you?
MOM i… i love him, hoshi.
we come back to teen hoshi in the kitchen. his mother’s voice is still there, but as muffled as the rest of the sounds are.
he walks forward and calmly retrieves the biggest knife from the block on the counter.
MOM (muffled voiceover) i love your father. and he loved me once too.
he weighs the knife in his hand and flips it so he’s holding it blade up. he holds it like someone who’s practiced this before.
he turns back toward the living room, walking to the doorway that separates it from the kitchen.
MOM (muffled voiceover) maybe he will again.
he watches as his father punches his mother wherever she can’t block him. as he takes a step forward, the high-pitched whining returns, the camera begins to shake, and the house seemingly starts to crumble around him as he walks forward.
scenes once again flash between hoshi approaching his father, the conversation on the bed, and the blood pooling from his brain injury.
MOM (voiceover, warped by the whining) but either way, i will still love him.
the scenes flashing now show bits of hoshi reaching his father amongst the rubble of their home, grabbing him by the shoulder and yanking him off his mother and onto his feet.
whining and shaking reaches a fever pitch before going eerily silent and the scene shows sunlight filtering through leaves.
MOM (clear voice) he gave me you.
camera comes back to hoshi and his mother sprawled across the grass. the memory is different this time.
MOM (said less warmly, more an order now) you and i, we’re one, hosh. you’re made of me, and i’m made of you.
as dialogue progresses, sun disappears, covered by dark clouds. hoshi sits up and narrows his eyes at the sky. when he turns toward his mom, he sees they are now both in the living room, the house completely in tact again, and she’s holding his small body—the younger version of him, limp in her arms as he watches from across the room. she’s covered in his blood, and so is the floor and coffee table.
MOM (blankly with no urgency) you and i. we’re one. someone hurts me, they hurt you. and what did i tell you?
HOSHI (voiceover as camera begins to follow the trail of blood gushing from young hoshi’s head) no one hurts me.
complete silence, camera still following young hoshi’s blood as it flows across the hardwood floor.
the flow joins the massive pool around two pairs of shoes, both facing each other. camera stays there for a few moments, before his mother’s screams pierce the silence.
camera slowly travels up hoshi’s legs from behind, until it reaches his head, where it looks like his dad is embracing him.
something heavy falls into the blood (presumably organs), creating a splashing noise, and shortly after that, hoshi shoves his father. it’s clear he had simply died and collapsed onto him.
his mother starts screaming and sobbing over his body for several minutes, but hoshi finds that he feels relieved, his face breaking out into the smallest smile for the first time since he hit his head.
when his mother gains her senses, she grabs his face between her hands, her own face bloody, puffy, and bruised.
MOM go! you have to go! they won’t understand, they’ll take you to jail, hoshi! you have to leave!
HOSHI (frowning) but we’re safe now.
his mother freezes.
HOSHI he’s gone. we’re safe now.
MOM (she swallows and nods shakily) we are. but i can’t let them take you to prison, sweetheart.
his mom begins leading him through the house, quickly forcing him to change out of his blood-soaked clothes, gathering important belongings and food, finding years’ worth of hidden emergency cash she never found the courage to use, stuffing it into his backpack.
HOSHI mom… what… i…
his mother brings him to the back door, weaving his arms through the backpack and smiling unconvincingly. she takes his face in her hands once more and kisses both cheeks as her tears start to fall.
MOM you be safe, okay?
HOSHI are you mad at me? do you hate me?
MOM what? no, no, sweetie. no. (said forcefully. pauses to think) i’ve only ever felt adoration for you, hoshi. adoration and nothing else. i’m sorry i let this happen. i’m sorry i subjected you to this.
HOSHI mom—
MOM but you need to go now, okay? the neighbors will have heard all the screaming. take the cash, go far away, and whatever you do, don’t come back.
HOSHI but—
MOM go!
she all but shoves him out of the door. she lingers there for a moment, trying her best to let the last memory of his mom be one of her smiling. she whispers an i love you before slamming the door shut.
PRESENT
we return to present-day hoshi, who is now seated on the edge of his girlfriend’s side of their bed. he strokes her hair away from her face as she breathes softly, still asleep.
he smiles, obviously, genuinely in love.
HOSHI (whispers) adoration.
you’re back at work the next day, much to soonyoung’s chagrin. he had been hoping you’d get the rest of the week off, and maybe he could get out of going into the writers’ room and keep you company at home. but he knows that was wishful thinking, especially with how set your team has been on not only working you to the bone, but ruining your life. but at least you enjoy the rest of the week since no one else is there to bother you.
for the first time since jay entered your life, you start to look light again. you start to smile more freely, joke more, and come home with bright eyes. it brings him hope that this is how it will be now—that he did the right thing.
though, he already knows for a fact he did the right thing.
soonyoung can’t describe the pure ecstasy that ran through his veins the moment you admitted you were happy that jay was dead—not only that you were happy he was gone, but that you were glad the killer made it hurt. you didn’t say it, but he heard it loud and clear.
you were proud of him for what he did. you adored him for the way he punished jay, and he would do it again. no matter how many times it took—how many lives it took—he would spill gallons and gallons of blood for you, and he would do it happily. no one would ever hurt you again. not with him around, and he planned to be around until you were both buried six feet deep.
there wasn’t anything that could beat this feeling, he had decided the moment you bared your heart to him—so naked and vulnerable, and still trusting him to hold it gently. you weren’t horrified by his means of protection. you weren’t running the other direction. you were grateful. and he doesn’t know why he thought you would be any other way. there’s a reason he’s with you, after all.
if there’s anything even remotely similar to a soulmate, that’s what you are. you’re meant to be his—made to be his. and he was made to be yours—to serve you, to keep you safe, to kill for you. it doesn’t matter that his habit started long before he ever even met you; now, his talents are only reserved for you.
and it made excitement bubble under the surface of his skin knowing you liked it. you didn’t even know he was jay’s murderer—hell, you didn’t even know he was the prank call killer—and you still admired his work anyway.
“what are you smiling at?”
he startles and looks up to see jihoon peering at his laptop screen, still only half a page full although they’ve been in the writers’ room the whole day. his colleague and friend frowns.
soonyoung sighs. “just daydreaming, man,” he says. it’s not dishonest. he shuts his laptop and stretches in his seat before standing and drawing the attention of the small handful of writers left. “going to head out now, everyone. got a pretty lady waiting for me at home. don’t stay too late, okay?”
he gets the usual playful eye rolls and smiles and cooing from the others as he slaps jihoon on the back and promises to get dinner with him soon. at work, he’s only known for three things: the exceptional writing that got him his lead position on the show, his fixation on horror movies, and his “obsession” with you. he liked it—the idea that when people thought of him, they immediately thought of you too. they know you belong to each other, and that’s exactly how he wants it.
soonyoung barely has the car started and in reverse when you call. he answers immediately.
“hey, baby, i’m just lea—”
“soonyoung?”
his heart stops at the sound of your voice. it’s clear you’ve been crying. for how long, he doesn’t know, but your words are still thick with tears. you sound exhausted and broken and worst of all, defeated. you sound like the day you came home and he decided he was going to kill jay—the first person he’s killed since he graduated college almost 10 years ago.
he puts the car back into park, clenching his jaw for a moment so that his first response to you isn’t tell me his name and i’ll have his head in front of you in an hour.
“soonie?” you whimper. “are you there? i’m sorry to call, i know you’re at work. i—”
“y/n, where are you?” he asks as calmly as he can.
“i’m home,” you answer, voice so small, it makes his rage burn hotter.
the fact that you’re home gives him at least some relief.
“i was hoping you’d be here,” you tell him, voice shaky. “i just need someone to talk to. i had…” you whisper your next words like if you’re any louder, you’ll completely break down. “i thought work would be better. fuck, soonie, i thought work was going to be better.” your words devolve into devastated sobs as you repeat yourself.
soonyoung’s instinct is to race to you, to hold you until your tears stop, and to put you to bed and make sure that every time you wake up from a nightmare, he’s still there, arms tight around you, unyielding. protecting you and in turn, protecting himself.
but his mask, robe, and knife are still in the trunk from his visit to jay’s last week, and right now, he thinks that paying a visit to whichever idiot you’re going to tell him about is the best way he can help.
he forces himself to turn the engine off.
“tell me everything,” he says softly, though his body feels so tense, he thinks he might pop a blood vessel.
“you’re not busy, are you?” you hiccup through your tears. “i can wait until you—”
“i’m not busy, love,” he says, eye inadvertently twitching from using the word.
soonyoung still struggles with it. he tries not to because it’s an affection that makes you feel comforted and, well, loved, and he’ll do anything to make you feel that way. still, he doesn’t know how to keep it from feeling like an insult to you.
love was what his father gave his mom. love was what made his mom stay with a monster. what he has for you isn’t the same; it’s leagues beyond it. he doesn’t think there’s a word for what he feels for you at all.
“go on,” he encourages you. “i’m listening. tell me.”
and you do.
soonyoung used to think he never had a control issue with his habit. it wasn’t something he craved or thought about the way he read that other serial killers did. no, his murderous tendencies only ever reared its ugly, useful head when he needed a solution for an ugly, useless lowlife.
the first was his father. something about cutting his stomach wide open, feeling the warmth of him rush over his hands, hearing the sound of him fall to his feet in pieces—he decided that would be the way it happened each time. he wanted to see a man who didn’t know how to treat a person right—and he wanted to feel the life flow right out of him. without meaning to, it became his M.O.
he found himself hopping city to city after being forced from his home, and there was no shortage of men who needed correction—or, eradication. it was simple at first; he’d see a horrible interaction between lovers or a father and a child or classmates or even strangers, he’d follow the offender until they were alone, and he’d gut them like a pig. he didn’t think about hiding or burying the body, leaving it in plain sight to humiliate his victims further. he didn’t even have his mask yet, and in retrospect, he’s not sure how he didn’t get caught because he was careless in those early days.
he took it as a sign from the universe that he was doing exactly what he was supposed to.
soonyoung was smart with the money his mom left him and picked up part-time jobs until he had enough to put himself through school. university was crawling with losers begging to be killed, but he was a little older and a little wiser, and he knew a serial killer on campus would draw too much attention. so he forced himself to focus on the worst of the worst. and that was when he realized his M.O. was evolving.
it started with a frat president rumored to drug and take advantage of girls at their house parties. soonyoung watched him for a whole semester, taking note of his schedule, his routes, his haunts, his friends. then, he started calling him. nothing more than heavy breathing at first. but when he could hear the man’s nerves fraying—and that didn’t take long—he started talking to him. he found that he liked psychologically torturing him as much as he’d tortured the girls he’d hurt.
hi, allen.
who i am isn’t important.
i hear you can’t get a woman to consent to having sex with you. what’s the problem? is it small? well, even if it is, that isn’t really an issue—just gotta know what to do with it, right?
well, i mean, why else would you resort to drugging and assaulting women?
don’t lie to me. i see everything.
one night, weeks after he’d started calling allen, soonyoung had one last phone conversation with him, one where he was no longer bluffing. he actually was seeing everything, standing in the dark corners of the kitchen in their fraternity house—this time in full disguise—while allen and his brothers got drunk in the backyard.
oh, allen, it’s a bad night to be drunk, buddy.
why? because i’m going to free this campus of you tonight. gonna cleanse the floors of this horrid fucking house with your blood.
it’s too late for “sorry,” allen. besides, i’m not the one who needs to hear it.
the frat president tried to stay with at least one person at all times after the call, but as his brothers got drunker and drunker and started stumbling off to bed or passing out, allen found himself alone. and in the morning, his brothers found him the same way, except this time, with his insides all over the outside.
soonyoung killed two more people while in college, and even though they were far enough apart, he still got dubbed the prank call killer, a name he found childish and dumb. besides, he didn’t want a name; he wanted men to be scared. at least scared enough to try to be decent.
then, college ended, he packed up to follow the shows he wanted to write for, and it led him to you. and he didn’t have time to think about anybody else, let alone plot their demise. soonyoung was occupied by you, your smile, your laugh, your scent, the way you made him feel normal—the way you made him feel at all, something he struggled with since his accident as a child. and once he actually had you? it was over. he knew there was no possible way he’d ever be able to let go of you ever again.
and the killing just… stopped. with you, he learned how to make friends—made a ton of them. he learned to enjoy other people and their company. he learned how to love, even if it sometimes made him want to plunge a knife into his own stomach. but he did it for you because he adored you, and nothing was more important than you.
so no, he didn’t think he had a control issue. it was largely easy minding his own business and refraining from stabbing men left and right when he had you next to him.
but then, you started this stupid fucking job. you met jay and all his little cronies, and soonyoung realized it wasn’t a matter of his control; it was a matter of your safety and happiness. because now that you were the center of his universe, you two were one. if someone hurt you, they were hurting him.
and the way he sees it, his only job is to make sure no one hurts him. no one messes with what’s his.
it’s not about control. he has none now. it’s about you.
by the time you finish telling him everything that happened that day, he has a strange calmness about him he hasn’t felt since before you. he can’t do anything but stare blankly forward, watching as employees of the studio walk to their cars and pull away.
“i’m so over it,” you grunt, having passed from sad to angry fairly quickly. “i don’t think i can do this anymore, soonie. i know money would be tight and i don’t want to put that stress on us but—”
“no, don’t be silly,” he says, feeling like he’s on autopilot. “please quit, baby. i’ve wanted you to quit since the first day; i just… didn’t want to be that boyfriend.” he means every word and yet, he can’t feel any of them as they leave his mouth. “we’ll figure it out. please quit.”
there’s a heavy silence between the lines until you sigh deeply. “okay, love. i will. i’ll do it.”
he thinks he should feel relieved. he doesn’t and he knows he won’t until he kills them. “yeah? you will?” he asks, hoping he sounds excited enough. “you promise?”
your smile is loud and clear as you speak. “yes, i promise, soonie. i’m going to march in there tomorrow and quit without notice, and i’ll tell them i hope they all drop dead—no!”
you gasp and correct yourself.
“i’ll tell them i hope the prank call killer comes for them just like they did for jay!”
soonyoung feels something then. he doesn’t know what; he can’t define it, but it quickly grows into something bigger the more you speak. it pulls both his spirits and the corners of his lips up. it kisses him and fills him with light. it makes him feel alive, more than a shell for a soul he isn’t even sure he has.
“i don’t even know if any of them realize what really happened,” you think aloud before sighing like you’re daydreaming. “ugh, what i wouldn’t pay to see them on the news like that. ‘grisliest murders since prank call killings plague corporate hell’! that would be nice, huh?”
soonyoung smirks. that, he can deliver.
“yeah, baby. it would. a headline like that… i’d die happy.”
“me too,” you agree before telling him: “no one gets me like you do, soonie.”
his heart soars.
🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
after he’s done gagging howard—so tightly, the fabric is cutting into his skin, a punishment for the earlier kick to the head—hoshi stands in front of the two men, leaning up against the pool table and watching them.
they both have cuts and bruises on their faces, from the struggle to get them into the dining chairs, but hoshi’s knife is still nowhere in sight.
HOSHI (begins mindlessly and slowly pacing in front of them) i bet you want to ask me who i am… what i want… why i’m doing this, right?
howard glares at him but chris is already crying.
HOSHI and usually, i’d entertain the questions because prolonging the hope that you’re going to survive makes this more fun for me, but… (stops facing away from them) i’m tired. and i think i’m beyond having fun tonight. (turns head toward them and chris flinches at the mask) i think… (fully turns toward them with hunting knife in hand, catching the light) i just want to wipe you two off the face of this earth and be done with it.
howard’s glare falters and chris urinates on himself. hoshi snorts.
HOSHI (walks up to chris, who cringes away from him) chris, right? (leans down so chris is face to face with his mask) i asked you a question.
chris nods obediently and quickly, gag soaked in his own tears.
HOSHI so you’re the one who called my girl a bitch, hm? (chris frowns but he doesn’t seem to know exactly who hoshi is yet) called her a bitch in front of the whole office… told her she’d be better sucking your dick under the desk than trying to assign you work?
howard’s eyes widen as he realizes exactly who hoshi is talking about. chris starts sobbing loudly, begging for his life incoherently through the gag.
HOSHI (looks down at chris’s soiled lap, points his knife at his crotch) you want her to suck this dick?
chris’s begging becomes more desperate, thrashing in his seat as he realizes what’s about to happen.
HOSHI (looks up at chris briefly and huffs a single laugh) what dick?
he shoves his knife into chris’s crotch. chris screams in muffled agony and howard starts shrieking and flailing in an attempt to scoot his chair away from the other two.
camera is focused on hoshi’s upper half and audience can see his arm jerking quickly back and forth as chris’s screams continue and howard finally starts crying. then, there’s a dull thud on the floor, and hoshi straightens back up and takes a step away, knife disappearing in his robes as he tilts his head and views his work.
HOSHI looks like there isn’t a dick to suck there, chris. shame.
chris’s wailing continues as hoshi looks to howard now, who begins shaking his head and crying through his gag.
HOSHI and you, you annoying little fuck. (crouches in front of howard) it wasn’t enough that you’re making her life a living hell, you wanted to piss me off even more and kick me in the head, huh?
hoshi rips his mask off, revealing his face to howard. there’s already a bruise spreading across the top of his left cheek. he smirks.
HOSHI my name is hoshi, if you’re wondering. and yeah. i’m her boyfriend. and as her boyfriend, she tells me all kinds of things. i’m sure you can imagine.
he stands up and walks back to the pool table, resting his mask against the felt before turning, leaning up against it once more, and crossing his arms.
HOSHI and today, she had a lot to tell me. she told me that jake’s two closest idiot friends were trying to continue his legacy as biggest asshole in the office. do you know how jake died, howard? won’t bother asking mr. no-dick, over there. seems busy.
camera goes to chris, who keeps fading in and out of consciousness, face soaked with sweat, tears, and drool slipping out of his open mouth.
HOSHI no guesses? (a gagged howard looks at him incredulously) okay, fine, fine, i’ll tell you. i killed him.
even though his tone sounds prideful as he speaks, his face is blank. he stares at howard with soulless eyes, and it unnerves him further.
HOSHI i snuck into his apartment while he was out drinking with you guys. (howard makes a noise of surprise) yeah, that’s right. you two were the last people to see that moron alive. i should probably thank you. (tilts his head up at the ceiling like he’s reliving the memory) his inebriated state made it a lot easier to tease and kill him. not a lot of fight in that one. surprising, don’t you think? (head remains tilted at ceiling, but eyes flash down to meet howard’s) that someone who tormented a woman’s life the way he did would die so easily… so quietly… so… pathetically.
chris regains consciousness and starts screaming and sobbing again, head hung over where his member used to be
HOSHI (brings his head down and looks at chris now) how will you two die? (eyes slide over to howard) will you beg for your life the way jake did? will you… offer me meaningless apologies and promises? will you… tell me that you’ll give me whatever i want?
he brings out his knife again and wipes it against howard’s pool table, smearing chris’s blood against the green felt. he inspects it like he’s making sure it’s sharp enough. camera focuses on hoshi’s reflection in the blade.
HOSHI (shrugs, puts knife down) i guess we’ll see in a few moments—how similar you are to jake. i will say, (pushes off the pool table, taking his mask with him) you two seem to be even worse than that deadbeat. do you agree, chris?
chris screams at the mere mention of his name, convulsing as hoshi walks closer to both of them. he stops just a couple of steps away from them, right in between the two.
HOSHI jake was a demeaning, narcissistic misogynist. and i tore him wide fucking open. let his intestines spill all over his own floor. made his living room a shallow sea of red.
both howard and chris beg through their gags.
HOSHI can you imagine what i’ll do to you if i think you’re even worse? (puts his mask back on and looks at howard) can you imagine what i’ll do to the man who told the whole office that he was gonna fuck the ambition and fight out of my girl, whether she liked it or not? what do you think i’ll do to that man if i made a massacre out of the dumbass who said a few mean things?
howard desperately shrieks excuses against his gag, no success in saying even one understandable word.
HOSHI (sighs like he’s come to a decision) yeah, i’m beyond having fun tonight. (quickly slashes chris’s throat, shallow enough that it will take a long time for him to bleed out. howard screams) at least with him. but with you? (crouches in front of howard again) the night has only started for you, howard.
IN THEIR HOME
TV NEWS ANCHOR authorities are doing their best to calm increasingly panicked citizens as fears that a serial killer is rampant on our streets spread. last week, 29-year-old jake lee was found brutally murdered in his downtown apartment (camera view switches to hoshi’s girlfriend as she tidies up around their living room. she looks pleased upon hearing that sentence), stabbed multiple times. last night, police answered multiple calls to 911 reporting the screams of a man in their high-rise apartment.
she stops tidying, turning to look at the news broadcast from where she stands. her eyes are wide and her mouth hangs open in surprise.
TV NEWS ANCHOR upon entering, they found 27-year-old howard wang and 25-year-old chris vu’s bodies in the former’s apartment. authorities have not yet released details of the crime, but sources report that the nature of their deaths is comparable to that of jake lee’s. we have maya on the scene, reporting.
the tv turns off as she sinks into the couch, obviously in a dazed shock. the camera focuses on her from straight ahead, slowly zooming in on her for several, silent seconds until only the lower half of her face is visible. after a few more moments, she smiles.
you watch soonyoung carefully as he washes the dishes, something he insisted on doing since you cooked tonight. you think it’s the least you can do for the sole earner of the household now that you’re unemployed, but he refused to let you do it yourself.
from where you stand, you have a clear view of his sharp profile. the bruise he says he got from falling down the stairs at work earlier this week has become a deep purple, spreading across his cheekbone and toward his jawline. you suppose he could’ve gotten that in a fall. a fall that took place the same night hayden and charles were murdered. the same night you told him you wished jay’s killer would come for them next.
you want to say your boyfriend would never do something that insane. you want to say your boyfriend doesn’t have the kind of temperament required to commit vengeful crimes like these. but after almost ten years together, you think there have been enough signs to make you take pause.
soonyoung almost never got visibly jealous—never paid any attention to men who looked at you a little too long or sent the server to deliver you a drink. he was confident in his trust in you. it should’ve been comforting how unbothered he was by the attention you received, but sometimes, you felt offended that he wasn’t at least a little bit jealous.
these thoughts were vanquished immediately when one night, someone grabbed you at a bar. it wasn’t even inappropriate; the man just took you by your forearm and yanked you toward him in an attempt to keep you from getting crushed by a drunken patron who had zero spatial awareness.
you’ll never forget the rage you saw in soonyoung’s eyes when they landed on the stranger’s hold on your arm. he didn’t do anything—simply threw the hand off you and led you away, but the look stayed with you. it was a raw, all-consuming, unadulterated, and unchecked rage you don’t think you’ve ever seen with your own eyes before.
the kind of rage you think could be capable of murder, given the right circumstances.
it should’ve scared you. just like the idea of soonyoung murdering your coworkers one by one should scare you. but it didn’t, and it doesn’t now. exactly like back then, it gets you wetter faster than foreplay itself.
soonyoung turns the faucet off and wipes his hands on the towel. when he turns, he’s so startled to find you standing so close to him, he stumbles back.
“oh shit,” he breathes, laughing a little. “i didn’t realize you were so close. you move so quietly.” he notices the way you stare at him intently. like it’s second-nature, he wraps himself around you and pulls you into his chest. “what’s up, baby?”
“i want to try something,” you say softly, a little hesitantly.
you know what you’re about to ask for is depraved and worrisome and… inhumane. but you can’t bring yourself to care right now, not when your panties are this soaked at the thoughts flying wildly around your head.
“okay,” soonyoung says, laughing a little. “can you be more specific?”
“i want… to roleplay a little,” you say, gaze going down to soonyoung’s neck, then his chest. your fingers trace the edges and dips of his collarbones and his pecs.
his grip on you tightens. “is that right?” he says, smirking. “and who do you want us to pretend to be? are we strangers in a bar?”
you shake your head. “no, not strangers in a bar.”
“okay,” he acquiesces easily.
soonyoung is always eager to give you whatever you want, and it bolsters your confidence to ask this of him. he leans down to graze your ear with his lips.
“am i your sexy sidepiece you’re cheating on your boring ass husband with?” he whispers, running his hands down to your ass and gently squeezing, pressing your hips against his so you can feel him already hardening from this conversation alone.
you smile, eyes fluttering closed as he nips at your lobe. “nope, not that either.”
“tell me who you want me to be, and i’ll be whatever it is, baby.” he subtly grinds into you and you try not to moan.
“you promise you won’t judge me?” you whisper.
“i would never,” he promises, leaving open-mouthed kisses down your neck now.
“i want you to be him,” you say as he starts to bite and suck. “i want you to be the prank call killer.”
he completely freezes in your arms, mouth still against your skin. for a horrifying minute, you think you’ve crossed the line. of course soonyoung is going to think you’re a freak for asking something so debauched and immoral of him. you have little to no evidence that he would ever enjoy something like this.
you’re about to push him away and start groveling for forgiveness and promising to seek therapy, when he grabs you by the face with both hands and envelopes your lips roughly with his own. his kisses are hot and wet and his tongue is in your mouth before you can ask if this means “yes.”
he presses you up against the kitchen island, and you can feel his entire length against your thigh, fully hard now and begging to be inside you. you groan just thinking about it—thinking about the murderer that took your tormentors off the street fucking into you viciously and relentlessly.
“and who are you?” he asks, breaking away from the kiss and lifting you so that you’re sitting on the counter.
soonyoung’s voice is rough and raspy with desire you haven’t heard from him quite like this before, and you feel the wetness between your legs grow knowing he’s willing to do this for you.
“i’m exactly who i am right now,” you say, feeling a little shy, but when he moans at your words, you feel bold enough to be honest with your fantasy. “i’m your girlfriend,” you inform him, hands diving under his shirt and caressing the muscles there. “and you’re going around killing all the losers i fucking hate because you adore me so much.”
“fuck, you’re so goddamn hot,” he mutters as he takes both hands and rips your blouse open, buttons popping and fabric ripping. you gasp and he smirks at the sound, slipping the ruined piece of clothing off you. “shhh, don’t be scared, baby. you’re the one person in this world i would never hurt.”
the sentence undoes you.
“oh god,” you breathe, diving forward and capturing his lips again.
soonyoung makes quick work of your bra, throwing it somewhere behind him once it’s off. he massages your breast for a few moments before taking your nipple between his fingers and tugging.
you break the kiss to tilt your head back and groan, and he takes the opportunity to bite and suck at the space where your neck meets your shoulder.
“rougher,” you breathe. “c’mon, you’re a murderer.”
soonyoung laughs a little at that, his love bites turning into gentle pecks up and down your neck.
“and you think this killer… he’d be rough with you?”
your eyes blink open a few times, staring at the ceiling and losing yourself in thought. in the days following your colleagues’ deaths and your own resignation from work, you’ve had a lot of time to think—and touch—about this. when you envisioned soonyoung as your murderous protector, you saw him as vicious and wrathful and cruel. but when it came to you… his need was desperate and carnal, but always softer. gentler.
you realize it’s probably not so different from the way soonyoung already likes to fuck you: like you’re the only person in the world he cares about.
“how about…” soonyoung presses one last kiss to your neck before his hands are suddenly up your skirt. he pushes your panties aside and abruptly plunges his middle finger into your heat. your body jerks into his in response. “you let me take the lead here, and if you don’t like something, you just let me know, hm?”
every word you’ve ever known escapes you as he fucks you with just one finger, the wet sounds of your arousal embarrassingly loud as he moves in and out. his thumb lands on your clit when you let out a particularly filthy moan for him, and you lean back on your hands and open your legs wider for him for better access. he gives you another finger as reward.
“oh, soonie,” you breathe. “yes.”
“so warm, so wet,” he rasps, other hand landing on your chest and flicking your nipple. “so beautiful.”
“babe,” you whine, rolling your hips onto his fingers in frenzied movements. “tell me… tell me about—oh my god!”
“hm?” he hums before the sound of more fabric ripping fills the kitchen.
you frown and look down in time to see soonyoung bringing your panties to his nose. you have half a mind to scream at him to stop but his fingers are still inside you, rendering you absolutely speechless as he presses the lace against his face and inhales deeply. your instinct is to feel self conscious—to snap your legs closed and grab your ruined underwear back. but you watch as his eyes roll back into his head and his lips twitch up against the black lace, and you realize he loves it. he breathes in again, and this time, you feel the excitement it causes through his fingers. they move with renewed fervor, like they’re thanking you for the gift you’ve given soonyoung.
“smell so fucking delicious,” he all but growls as he balls the panties up and pockets them.
before you can say anything back, he’s bending down to let his tongue taste your clit briefly before pressing his thumb back against you. your hips jerk and you can’t help when your elbows give, making you collapse and lay all the way down on the counter.
his fingers pump in and out of you faster now, and he completely replaces his thumb with his tongue, guzzling and drinking you up so intensely, his face quickly becomes covered with the stickiness of you.
“taste perfect,” he moans into you, tongue lapping you up eagerly. “tastes like mine.”
it pushes you over the edge quickly, and your back is arching off the island counter as your orgasm seizes you. the room is filled with your boyfriend’s name as you ride out the pleasure on his fingers.
“what do you want me to tell you about?” soonyoung asks once you come down, thumb going back to your clit. he keeps his face close to your pussy as he speaks, nose occasionally slipping between your folds and inhaling as he does. “should i tell you about how i disembowelled that ugly, little douchebag, jay?”
your cunt spasms at the words and soonyoung huffs a laugh when he feels you clench around his fingers. he curls them inside you, easily finding the spongy spot he’s been purposely avoiding up until now. he slows his movements, rubbing you patiently and carefully.
you sigh at the sensation, unsure if it’s because you feel so good or because you’re frustrated he’s eased up.
“i ran my knife up his body until his bones wouldn’t let me butcher him any further,” he whispers, moving so that his mouth is over your stomach, tongue slipping out to trace patterns on your skin between words. “and i made him bleed, baby. fuck, i made him bleed so much.”
“soonie.”
“i made him bleed for looking at you, for breathing near you, for ever thinking he could make someone as perfect as you bend to his will,” he whispers, breath hot as it fans over your skin, fingers still working you to a second orgasm. “i painted his apartment red. and i made it hurt. i made sure to make it hurt. just… for… you.”
he pushes roughly at your spot as he says that last word, eliciting a lewd moan as the beginnings of your next orgasm start to settle over you. soonyoung smirks against your skin.
“as for charles, i cut his fucking cock off,” he tells you.
you gasp at that even though you know he’s just making shit up for the sake of roleplaying. still, you find it in yourself to hate how much you love the idea of soonyoung doing that to someone who told you to get on your knees and suck his dick. someone who wasn’t your boyfriend.
“he cried like a bitch,” he says, kissing your clit before straightening back up so he can properly watch you writhe under him. “cried all the way up until i slit his throat.”
you smile at soonyoung then, reaching for his free hand—the one not currently buried two fingers deep inside you—and bringing it over your tit and holding it there. he looks at you like you’re the reason he’s alive. like you’re the only good thing in the world.
he massages you, just as gently as he did when this first started.
“but my favorite…” he says, eyes heavy-lidded as he takes you in. all his. all the time. until the end of time.
he removes his hand from your chest and shoves his sweatpants down just enough for his cock to spring out. your hips immediately start to buck at the sight, but all soonyoung has to do is shake his head at you once for you to immediately stop moving. there’s something so demanding and powerful about his presence right now that you’re not willing to push the limits of his patience. the pleased look on his face makes your emptiness feel worth it. he takes himself in his fist, pumping a few times as he speaks.
“my favorite was hayden. do you know why, baby?” he asks, moaning when you start playing with your nipple and breathing his name. “can you imagine the shit i did to the loser who thought he could fuck what’s mine?”
“i am,” you sigh, nodding desperately. “i’m yours.”
soonyoung pumps even faster now, but his fingers never falter inside you, intent on getting you to another high. and it’s close. you can feel it building almost painfully in your lower abdomen.
“i cut that ugly tongue of his out of his fucking mouth,” he grunts. you clench hard around his fingers. “and i started chopping him to fucking pieces—”
“soonyoung, i’m going to cum!” you half-shout, twisting under him uncontrollably.
“i cut him up, and the entire time, i only thought of you,” he fucks into his fist harder as you start to lose yourself to your climax.
“soonyoung!”
“and i thought that i’d kill the entire fucking world if i had to… just to keep you mine.”
you cum harder than you ever have in your life, near-screaming as you squirt all over soonyoung’s hand. the feeling reaches every, single corner of your body, making you convulse with pleasure.
“holy shit,” you hear from somewhere above you.
you don’t have time to gather your senses, though, because immediately, your body is being dragged down to the edge of the counter until you’re flying right off it. your boyfriend catches you, standing you up and kissing you full on the lips as he shoves your skirt down enough for it to slip off you and pool at your feet. you take the opportunity to tug his shirt off too, hands all over his naked torso once it is.
“let me cum in you?” he asks without leaving your lips.
“god, please,” you whine, feeling the wetness soonyoung caused sliding down your thighs.
he wastes no time after that, turning you around so that your hips are flush against the kitchen counter. you feel the fabric of his sweatpants glide down the back of your thighs as he removes them, and that’s the last thing you remember before the darkness overcomes you.
your eyes squeeze shut as soonyoung slams into you in one go, giving you zero time to adjust as he starts to immediately rut into you from behind. it burns and hurts so delectably, having him stretch you like this. usually, he takes even more time than he did tonight, making his way up to four fingers sometimes, but having him fuck you like this—like if he waits even a second longer, it’ll be his ruin—it threatens to violently shove you into an abyss of pleasure you fear you’ll never get out of.
soonyoung makes sure to hold you up, one arm across your chest with his hand on your breast, the other on your neck, forcing you to tilt your head back and rest on his shoulder.
you feel his eyes on you, his breath fanning your cheek as his gaze rakes you top to bottom, and you know he looks like a god, but you can’t open your eyes to save your life right now. you think if you do, you might explode into a million little pieces, forever disappearing into the ether.
you feel his lips rest against your ear as he sloppily whispers, “do you like it? knowing i’d do anything for you?” his voice is hoarse as he fucks you rougher than he ever has, the debased sound of skin slapping against each other filling the kitchen. “that i’d kill anyone without a second thought if it meant keeping you forever?”
you moan loudly, eyes pathetically rolling when you attempt to open them. you give up, keeping them shut as you reach up and grab soonyoung’s hair. he groans as you tug.
“soonie,” you sigh, shoving your hips back to meet his and making him curse. “i love it. i love it so much.”
you don’t know that you’re playing a role anymore. the idea that soonyoung would do any of this for you is so titillating, you feel drunk off it.
“feel so safe with you,” you say in broken gasps, your boyfriend’s rhythm making it impossible to say more than two words smoothly. “know you’ll always protect me, soonie.”
soonyoung curses loudly and bites into your neck to keep from getting any louder. his hips snap to yours at an increasingly unforgivable pace.
“and i’ll always protect you too,” you tell him.
you don’t care if this is something you wouldn’t be able to double down on when his cock isn’t buried to the hilt inside of you; it feels like the right thing to say. it feels exactly like what you want to do for him too: everything and anything. just to keep him yours.
“i would do anything for you, soonie,” you whisper.
without warning, there’s a burst of warmth inside your cunt, and soonyoung’s hand briefly tightens against your throat before immediately relaxing again, nothing but his moans and your name taking up the air in the room. he comes inside you hard, hips gluing to your ass like he’s trying to keep every, tiny drop inside you.
the feeling of his dick pulsing against your walls, pushing his seed into you, claiming you as his—it pushes you to your third orgasm, a slow and rolling one, not as intense as the others, but impossibly more satisfying. because this one not only brings you pleasure and an endless well of love for soonyoung; it brings you clarity.
because as you finally open your eyes moments later, soonyoung whispering sweet affirmations, vows, and affections in your ear as he keeps his softening cock warm inside you, you realize with startling lucidity that it wasn’t just a little fantasy.
the idea of soonyoung covered in blood and gore on your behalf was the stuff made of your dreams—or, arguably, nightmares. the idea that you had someone who adored you so deeply, he would play god like that made your heart grow tenfold. and now that soonyoung has fucked the fantasy deep into places inside you you couldn’t reach, you didn’t have it in you to feel ashamed about it.
you’re happy those three are dead.
and you’ll be even happier when the rest of them are too.
🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
HOSHI (leaning forward on the table) what’s your favorite scary movie?
YOUR ALIAS hmmm… (she buys herself time by taking a sip of her coffee) maybe… “saw”? why? are you big on scary movies?
HOSHI (shrugs) i like ‘em. probably more than other genres, yeah. (laughs nervously) what, um, do you like about “saw”?
she looks at him like she’s endeared by his nervousness.
YOUR ALIAS i mean, it was a really lengthy and roundabout way of doing things, but i guess i just enjoyed the idea of someone delivering retribution to people who deserved it but escaped it, not that i agreed all the victims chosen should’ve been chosen at all. just enjoyed seeing a few assholes die.
HOSHI (nods slowly) you like karma.
YOUR ALIAS (pauses with coffee at lips. she nods, maintaining eye contact) i do. (sips coffee) what’s your favorite scary movie?
HOSHI i like any slasher movie with a good final girl. if i had to pick, i’d probably say “halloween.”
YOUR ALIAS ahh, laurie, the final girl of all final girls.
hoshi visibly lights up at the comment, smiling widely at her.
HOSHI you know more about horror than you let on.
she nods, smiling back.
YOUR ALIAS just a little. i wouldn’t say i’m knowledgeable but i’ve watched a lot of the classics at least once. i’d call it a green flag that you root for the final girls. laurie’s a good one.
HOSHI i’ll take it. (obviously pleased) but humor me. why is it a green flag?
YOUR ALIAS (shrugs) when done correctly, final girls are the perfect mix of vulnerability—
scene suddenly and almost startlingly flashes to memories of hoshi’s mother for a brief second, accompanied by what sounds like a loud gust of wind. the memories are happy ones between hoshi and his mom.
YOUR ALIAS —and strength—
the memories become times his mother endured his father’s beatings.
YOUR ALIAS —and don’t subscribe to traditional gender roles and ideals. i’m not a huge fan of some films making it so that a lot of final girls are, like… holier than thou virgins, but i think the trope has come a long way.
hoshi nods, seemingly satisfied with her answer. she laughs and adds:
YOUR ALIAS unless you like final girls because you like to see a woman struggling against a violent serial killer. then red flag.
hoshi forces a laugh and shakes his head, looking down at his coffee and tracing the mouth of his mug.
HOSHI no, no. definitely more in line with the first one. i, uh… (looks up at her and seems to search for something in her eyes. whatever it is, he finds it and has the strength to be vulnerable for the first time in his life) my dad was abusive. with my mom.
her face falls and reaches forward to hold hoshi’s hand. the feeling is foreign and odd but he lets her hold it, even curling his own fingers closed around hers.
YOUR ALIAS i’m so sorry.
HOSHI she made me get out. she forced me to leave and never come back so i don’t really know what happened to her. i guess i just hope she’s a final girl.
she takes her second hand and closes it over the top of his and rubs it comfortingly.
YOUR ALIAS she must have loved you so much. (hoshi visibly bristles at that but doesn’t pull away) to be able to give you a better chance at life even if it meant never seeing you again… she absolutely is the final girl.
HOSHI (smiles) i like the way you described it. vulnerability, strength.
YOUR ALIAS (smiles back) tell me more about her.
the two talk until the cafe closes and kicks them out, and the audience sees a montage of the couple going on their second date, third date, until they are moving in together, and planning a future together. hoshi is the happiest the audience has ever seen him, and it seems the side of him that kills has been quieted, though we know that to be untrue from the murders happening present-day.
the montage moves into a scene where she comes home from work in tears. hoshi consoles her, but eventually, that same blank stare we first saw after his head injury comes back.
once she’s asleep, hoshi visits a storage unit he rents a few miles away. he reels up the door, revealing just one trunk in the unit. he walks up to it and opens it.
inside, is a mask, a robe, and a knife.
sex with you after that night in the kitchen has become twice as intense as it ever used to be, and soonyoung knows it’s because a big part of him isn’t holding back anymore—he’s bringing his whole self into bed with you, not bothering to pretend he isn’t completely eviscerating anyone who even looks at you funny in his spare time.
he tells you everything you want to hear, which funnily enough, is just the truth.
two more deaths to add to the list at your office, and he tells you exactly how he did it. he tells you what they said, how they begged, how he made them pay with their lives. between all of that, he never forgets to tell you he would do it time and time and again for you. he would do anything for you. kill anyone for you.
and the way you moan and gasp and cum at his words every time without fail is so goddamn addicting, he thinks he might die whenever he’s not inside you.
it’s dangerous, he knows that. as you start to tell him more stories you didn’t bother to when you were still working there, the itch to go annihilate that entire office becomes overwhelming, and he knows if he doesn’t control it soon, it’s bound to draw unwanted attention; he doesn’t know how it hasn’t already, with five dead bodies—all on the same team at the same company.
so for a few weeks, he doesn’t do anything about the mental list of names he has in his head, letting the headlines and panic die down.
you go out interviewing for jobs, he goes to work, you both come home and fuck each other’s brains out, and he stifles the voice in his head telling him to go murder every last person on that team.
but then, you ask for something terrifying.
you’ve been exploring your kinks ever since you first asked him to roleplay, and you’ve found the things you like and dislike—all things he agrees with so far. you like being tied up, you like blindfolding him, you don’t like calling him daddy (he absolutely fucking hated trying that one), you loved when he spit in your mouth, and he loved when you spit in his.
and while he was open to all your suggestions, there were some things he hesitated with. you asked him to choke you and though he initially agreed, he couldn’t, immediately getting soft when he tried to. you asked him to degrade you—call you a bitch, a slut, a whore—and he figured it was your way of coming to terms with what you experienced at your nightmare of a job. that maybe if it came from someone you loved and felt safe with instead of the asshole in the next cubicle, you’d slowly chip away at your trauma. but he couldn’t do that either.
you always handled his rejections gracefully, assuring him that you could do missionary with zero kinks involved for the rest of your life, and you’d be “on your knees thanking him for blessing you with his dick either way.” and you do your best to prove that to him, taking kinks off the table for a while and seemingly giving him a break. the only thing that stays constant is the “roleplaying,” though that’s probably more at soonyoung’s insistence than anything else. the intimacy he experiences from being himself in bed with you—truly himself—is unparalleled.
until one night, you ask him to use a knife on you during sex, and the panic attack it incites—the first soonyoung has ever experienced—is so massive, you almost call 911. he calms down enough to convince you not to, and the rest of the night is spent in your arms as you cry and apologize profusely for suggesting something like that when you know how his parents raised him. he tries to find the strength to tell you it’s okay, and that he understands, and that there’s no harm in asking, but each time he tries, nothing comes out of his mouth. he spends that entire time staring at the wall, and for the very first time, he experiences it: an undeniable thirst to plunge his knife into someone.
soonyoung isn’t sure why, especially since he just suffered the most exhausting mental breakdown over the measly idea of even holding a knife anywhere near your vicinity. maybe it’s to take his mind off the gruesome, nauseating thoughts of his hunting knife sinking into your flesh—images that flooded his mind against his will the moment you asked that of him. maybe it’s a need to recalibrate his brain, like if he kills another one of your tormentors, it will remind him of his devotion to you.
whatever it is, it nags at him day and night for the rest of the week until he accepts it’s something he needs to give into, no matter how callous and unwise it might be. in an attempt to convince himself it’s okay, he says this will be the last one; regardless of the handful of names left, he’ll do this last one, and he’ll move on. as such, he makes his last victim the one person who could’ve put an end to all of this from the start: your boss.
daniel park is a man of routine, soonyoung learns over the next few weeks. he leaves his home at a sharp 7 a.m., stopping by the same coffeeshop near his obnoxiously large house in the suburbs. he gets to the office around 8 a.m., a full hour after he required you (and no one else) to be in the office when you were still his employee. now that you’re gone, park is usually the first of his team in the office. he locks himself up inside his corner office doing fuck all while everyone else does his work for eight hours. he leaves the office exactly at 4 p.m., and from there, he either goes out for dinner and drinks with his team (something you were never invited to), meets equally old and ugly buddies for drinks, or goes to a bar alone for drinks. either way, the man is drunk by 6 p.m. every day.
then, around 10 p.m., he’ll make his sorry way home—driving drunk while at it—and he’ll stumble into his home, paying no mind to his already sleeping wife, who took care of the home and their child the entire day with no help from him.
soonyoung decides to be reckless one more time. it’s his last one, anyway. he wants this one to matter. he wants this one to be the one you think about for the rest of your life—enough to hold you over even if he never kills again.
he waits for a night when park drinks alone, usually around wednesday or thursday, when he’s gotten tired of his team and wants time alone with whatever stupid thoughts he has. soonyoung watches him from a corner booth at the bar, knocking back whiskey after whiskey like they’re shots. and when he stumbles out of the establishment, he easily guides him to his own car instead of park’s with little protest from the drunk.
he drives him right back to the office building that took so much energy and life out of you, using his badge to get them into the floor. he’s patient with park, letting the man nod off for an hour as he ties him up and prepares for the rest of the night.
when park finally blinks his eyes open, soonyoung is fully dressed in his usual disguise and standing before him in the darkness, only the moonlight filtering in from the windows to his left illuminating his shape. the way your boss startles so violently is deeply satisfying, and it takes everything in soonyoung to refrain from laughing in his face. park jerks his limbs, horrified to find them tightly bound to his own chair, wheeled out of his office and brought to the front of the team floor, where park keeps a whiteboard for their daily stand-ups.
“good morning, sunshine,” soonyoung says from beneath his mask.
“who are you?! what kind of sick joke is this?!”
“none of you were raised with manners, huh?” he grumbles. “all of you skip straight to your stupid questions. why don’t any of you know how to greet a fellow human being?”
he stills in the seat. “‘all of us’?”
soonyoung nods slowly, taking his knife out of his robes, freshly cleaned and polished the way it is before and after every single death. he feels a jolt of dread twist in his stomach when he looks at the blade, picturing it buried in your stomach. he shakes his head to free himself of the thoughts, and thankfully, park doesn’t notice, too busy blabbering all kinds of questions.
“shhh, shhh!” soonyoung shushes him, waving his hands erratically. “quiet, shut up, i’m irritable tonight and if you piss me off on top of that, i’ll make this ten times slower than it needs to be.”
his mouth clamps shut at that and he presses himself back into his seat.
soonyoung usually pretends to inspect his knife at this point just to intimidate his victims, but he couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t throw up looking at his own weapon right now, so he lets the arm holding it simply fall to his side.
“all of you,” he repeats. “jay… charles… hayden.” he walks to park slowly, menacingly. “leo, ian.”
your boss’s eyes widen as he hears all the names of his slain employees from the last several months.
“daniel,” soonyoung finishes his list. “you.”
“wh… what…?” he sputters, shaking his head in confusion. his words slur and this close, soonyoung can smell the alcohol on his breath even from under his mask. “you were actually targeting this office?!”
soongyoung scoffs. “well, yes. the only victims have been from this office.”
“b-but authorities! they said there have been a few others that could’ve been—”
park cuts himself off with his own scream as soonyoung’s knife pins his hand to the arm of his chair.
“oh my god!” he screams at the top of his lungs, entire body jerking against his restraints. “oh my god, you stabbed me! you fucking stabbed me! oh my god!”
“i told you to be quiet, right?” he reminds him. “are you going to be quiet… or not?”
your boss stops screaming, though his whimpering and sobbing is almost just as loud. he does his best not to look at his own hand like it helps him pretend it didn’t just happen. he stares up at the ceiling, taking shallow breaths.
“do you know what all of you have in common?” soonyoung asks.
“no,” park breathes, still blinking furiously at the ceiling.
“y/n,” he states easily. “that’s what you have in common.”
park’s eyes come down to soonyoung’s mask, wide and filled with tears.
“yeah, you know exactly why i’m here, don’t you?”
“i—i—” his mouth opens and closes several times before he says, “i’m sorry.”
“whatever for?” soonyoung asks sarcastically, pulling someone’s chair out from their cubicle.
he notices a light blanket on it, yanking it off and throwing it over his shoulder before he sits down. he slouches, bringing one ankle to rest up on his knee and cradling his chin in his hand, elbow on the armrest. he tilts his head in mock interest.
“for it all!” he shrieks. “i swear, i’m sorry, i know i should’ve done more! i’m sorry! i’m a fucking coward, okay?! please! i know what they did to her was horrible!”
“do you? know that?”
“yes, yes! i swear!”
“name them.”
“what?”
“if you can name everything they said and did to her,” soonyoung says, watching the way his blood drips from the armrest and stains the carpet below. “maybe i’ll make this quick. stab you in the heart and be done with it.”
“what?!” he protests. “what about you let me live?”
soonyoung scoffs exaggeratedly. “oh no, daniel. no. that’s cute, but no. the only way you’re coming out of this building is in a body bag. it really is just a matter of whether or not this will be quick and painless or… well, y’know… the alternative.”
he’s bluffing. he already knows exactly what he’s doing with park. he just likes giving him the illusion of control. when he rips it away from him, it’ll be all the more gratifying.
“you have a minute. i’d start listing if i were you.”
“they, uh, they bullied her!”
soonyoung rolls his eyes beneath his mask.
“they catcalled her! they took credit for her work! they made her do all of their reports! they, uh… they—”
“tick tock.”
“they made sexual jokes about her! talked shit about her during dinners! uh, they—um, they spread rumors about her!”
“okay,” soonyoung says, waving a hand and nodding. “good run.” park seems to sigh with relief. “how about you, though?”
“what?”
“how about you?” soonyoung repeats himself, and even though he’s still slouched casually in his seat, his change of tone makes your boss flinch. “what are some things you said and did to her?”
“i… i didn’t…”
“uh-uh,” he laughs, wagging a finger at him. “i already know everything, daniel. don’t try to lie to me.”
it’s another bluff. you told soonyoung you told him everything, but something about the way you said it never convinced him. he knew you were leaving something out, and if this was his last time with any of your vile colleagues, he might as well try to see what it was you were hiding.
“what’s it going to be, boss man? are we going slow or are we making it painless?”
“i passed her up for every promotion!” he shouts immediately, wincing when his enthusiasm jostles his hand against the knife. “she was the most qualified and i passed her up every time!”
soonyoung motions with his hand boredly. “okay… and?”
“i told her to suck it up! that boys will be boys! i told her if she wanted to move up, she needed to get used to it!”
soonyoung glares at him from beneath his mask.
“i—” he swallows hard, tears flowing down his face.
soonyoung sits up, sensing the revelation he’s waiting for on the horizon. he plants both feet on the ground, stands, and stalks over to park until he’s towering right over him. he whips the blanket off his shoulder, balling it in his fist before he rests his hands on your boss’s forearms and leans forward to meet his eyes, ignoring the way he gasps at the pain the movement causes.
“you what?” he asks calmly.
“i… oh god, i…” he swallows nothing again. “i’m sorry…”
“what are you sorry for, daniel?”
“i… i told her if she did want a promotion… she could do me some favors.”
soonyoung’s blood runs cold in his veins. that’s not something you ever mentioned to him, and he can imagine why. he wouldn’t have just gone on a murderous rampage; he would’ve blown this entire building up. he thinks he might break his own teeth from how hard he clenches his jaw. after a few moments, he forces himself to release the tension and open his mouth once more.
“what kind of favors, daniel?” he asks quietly.
“oh god, please don’t make me sa—SEXUAL!” he bellows when soonyoung presses a hand to the hilt of his knife, pushing down another inch. “SEXUAL FAVORS!”
“ah, there it is,” he grunts, nodding.
he stands back up. soonyoung unceremoniously yanks the knife out of park’s hand, flips it so that it’s blade up once more, and without hesitating, he brings the sharp side down on all four of park’s fingers. before the man has a chance to scream, he shoves the blanket into his open mouth, muffling any noise he planned on making.
“shhh,” soonyoung mutters almost soothingly. “shhh, you’re fine. it’s just a few fingers. you don’t need them where you’re going anyway.”
he pats park’s head condescendingly two times before hitting the same spot with the blunt end of his knife.
“you’re all just fucking assholes, aren’t you?” he asks as blood starts running down your boss’s temple. “is that on the job listing? ‘requirements: must be a misogynistic pervert’?”
he grabs a fistful of park’s hair, yanking back so that all he could see was the ceiling.
“i’m sure you know exactly what happened to the others,” soonyoung says, speaking so close to him, his mask presses up against the side of his face that isn’t bleeding. “i’m sure you know all about what i did to them.”
park sobs through the blanket, drool escaping the corners of his lips the harder he tries to speak through the makeshift gag.
“i bet you didn’t count on her having someone who adored her like this, did you?” he asks, voice low. “didn’t think someone would come punish you for hurting the person they love most in this stupid fucking world?”
“no. he didn’t.”
soonyoung freezes at the female voice that cuts through the floor from behind him. your boss starts to thrash with renewed hope that someone has caught him red-handed. his fist tightens around his hair, yanking to shut him up. painstakingly slowly, and without letting park go, soonyoung cranes his neck to look behind him, heart stopping when he sees you there, standing in the moonlight looking as breathtaking as ever.
he doesn’t dare say a word. under his mask, soonyoung frantically searches your face for any sign that you’ll run screaming from him, leaving him alone, never to see you again. he doesn’t find anything other than your usual, soft smile—“resting lovely face” he would call it on his especially sappy days.
you’ve pretended to be a murderer’s girlfriend dozens of times by now, but soonyoung had no reason to believe you thought any of it was real—that you suspected him of all the heinous crimes he’s committed for you. as you let the large bag hanging on your shoulder slip off and fall to the floor and you start walking toward them, he weighs his options.
he could run, but then what? leave you with a crime scene you’ll take the blame for? absolutely not. he could throw himself to the floor begging you for forgiveness, begging you to not turn him in but more importantly, begging you to stay with him. there’s a tiny, ugly voice that suggests he could also kill you. he shudders, shaking the thought away. if he resorted to that, he would have to follow right after. that had to be his last option.
you reach them, and soonyoung knows he’s run out of time. whatever you do or say next will dictate the rest of your lives.
when he forces himself to meet your gaze, though, he sees nothing there but absolute fondness and veneration. you rest a palm against his back as he continues leaning over your former boss.
“mr. park,” you say, turning your attention to the man bound to the chair now. soonyoung follows your gaze back to the man, who’s still being forced to stare at the ceiling. he releases his grip on him, allowing him to look at you. his eyes widen in what soonyoung suspects is fear. “nice to see you again under these circumstances. really nice.”
soonyoung feels his heart skip a beat. he straightens up to his full height now, eyes on you as you continue speaking. your hand snakes from his back to his arm, and down, down, down, until your fingers are intertwined with his.
“have you met my better half?” you ask him. “this is kwon soonyoung.”
he feels like his heart jumps into his throat at that moment, and he fights to keep from choking on nothing. you must feel the way he stills in your hold because you bring his gloved hand to your lips and kiss it gently.
your boss starts sobbing twice as hard, throwing what looks to be a restrained tantrum.
“i’m sorry,” you say, faking a wince. “you must have thought i was here to help you, huh?”
soonyoung’s mouth twists into what he’s sure is the largest, most insane smile he’s ever had the pleasure of smiling in his life. the adrenaline and dopamine that suddenly releases in his system makes him feel invincible in a way he never has before. because if you, the adoration of his goddamn life, know who and what he is and you still love him… then nothing will ever be able to stop him ever again. nothing stands between him and the entire world now.
“my bad,” you sigh. “i’m just here to watch you die.”
soonyoung takes that as his cue, lifting his knife toward park. but before he can do anything, your hand comes to his forearm, stopping him. he looks down at you, tilting his head in question. you look up and shake your head.
“i want to do it,” you whisper.
he doesn’t know why he doesn’t want to talk to you while his mask is on. whatever it is, he can’t say anything as you try to take the knife in your own hand.
sensing his hesitation, you smile and nod. “you’ve done so much for me, soonie. will you let me be my own final girl now?”
without a second thought, the tension in his arm dissipates immediately, completely surrendering his weapon to you. you hold his knife in your hand, and seeing it in your grip demolishes whatever last walls he had up between the two of you. you stare down at it like you’re holding a relic, and it takes him a moment to realize you’re imagining the men he’s killed in your name with it.
he reaches out, wrapping his hand around yours and tightening your grip on the hilt. your gaze flick up to him and his other hand briefly caresses your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, smile widening for a short moment. when your eyes open, there’s a fire in them he’s seeing for the first time, and he knows that whoever he walks out of here with is going to be a completely different person than the one he woke up next to this morning.
you give him a small nod before turning away from his hold and facing the man who’s made your life a living hell this entire time.
soonyoung decides he doesn’t want to watch park’s face as the light leaves his eyes. instead, he walks around the chair behind him, holding it from behind to keep it still for you, his eyes trained on your face and only your face.
the smirk that graces it now is glorious, and it takes everything in him to keep from falling to his knees and kissing the ground you walk on.
“sorry, nothing personal,” you say, obviously reciting something he’s said to you before. “girls will be girls, right?”
soonyoung barely hears the muffled screams that follow. all he can hear is his heart singing as he watches the life, light, and joy this job stole from you come back to you all at once. he’s never been more in love. and he thinks he understands now. this. this is love.
it was clear to you that something was escalating inside soonyoung for the last few weeks, and you knew he was gearing up to commit his last crime—you were sure of it.
you had your suspicions when you asked him to roleplay with you, but it was the week after that you became confident in your intuition. the week after, when authorities finally released the circumstances under which hayden and charles died.
you shouldn’t have been surprised when you read the dirty talk soonyoung used to get you to cum over and over again practically word for word in the article that detailed their murders. there was no way he would have been able to know all this information before the public did, and lucky guesses were out of the question, especially when every, last thing he told you was listed.
after that, two more of your ex-coworkers died, ones that made particularly lewd comments at you, something you noticed angered soonyoung more intensely than any other kind of offense. it made you feel more flattered than it should have—how possessive and jealous he got because of these assholes who thought they had any kind of entitlement to you or your body.
soonyoung had ruined you for anybody else long before you knew this truth about him; he had no reason to feel jealous. still, it made you feel so special, and you didn’t stop to question the toxicity and unhealthiness of everything you’ve been feeling in the last weeks—in the last year.
for the first time in so long, you felt good and you felt safe, and you had no intentions of changing that. you’ve been all in on soonyoung since your first date. this changed nothing.
so as he started escalating, you started watching. instead of attending job interviews like you claimed to be, you were following him. most of the time, it was just to the writers’ room, but a few times a week, it was to watch him tailing your ex boss.
between following him around and snooping through his things, it didn’t take long for you to piece together what he was planning, and with how erratic soonyoung’s behavior had gotten since you made the stupid, thoughtless, grave mistake of suggesting knife play in the bedroom, you knew he was going to be prone to mistakes. so you started preparing right alongside him.
when his gear disappeared from the creaky floorboard he kept it hidden under, you knew it would be time to act soon. then, today, as your boyfriend kissed you goodbye in the morning, he told you not to wait up; the writers room was going to run late to meet deadlines for next week’s episode.
you’ll give it to him; soonyoung was a really good liar. after all, he has kept this secret from you for a good amount of time. and if he’s so comfortable doing this, you imagine it isn’t his first time killing either. who knows how long he’s been lying to you?
but now that you were looking for the signs, it was easy to tell. he maintained eye contact too well, like he was actively telling himself to refrain from looking away and seeming suspicious. he smiled a little too hard. offered one too many details if you asked a simple follow-up question.
“oh okay, what time do you think you’ll be home?”
“fuck, not sure, this episode has a lot of rewrites because one of the actors is throwing a bitch fit about his lines, and they want us back at the drawing board—well, writing board—with, like, three new options for this asshole by tomorrow morning, so. who knows how long that will take. i’ll text you when i’m on my way, though, okay? i love you.”
as soon as he was out the door, you were moving.
you made a trip to your old workplace under the guise of needing a copy of your last paystub from HR, which happened to work right next to your team. while you were there, you made sure you were seen on every camera in the lobby, made sure to say hi to several people—even if some of those people were assholes you wish soonyoung would waste too. you allowed stray hairs to fall from your travel hairbrush. you scratched wildly at your skin. you coughed openly. you gave a valid and proper excuse for your DNA—and trace amounts of soonyoung’s DNA—to end up here other than for a murder.
and when no one was looking, you helped yourself to a jay minion’s cubicle while he was away from it. alex. you pocketed his badge, which he had a bad habit of walking around without, and you scheduled an email from his account addressed to your former boss, knowing full well that a lazy idiot like him would not be noticing a scheduled message in his account.
if soonyoung couldn’t kill him, life in prison was a good alternative.
once you were done with your part, you went home, dropped your phone off so that it couldn’t be tracked anywhere but home tonight, and packed a bag of extra clothes. then, you followed your doting boyfriend from his job, and once you saw him tuck your drunken former boss into his own car, you raced back to the office, where you were 99.9 percent sure he would be bringing him back. you scanned in using alex’s badge through the backdoor, where there were no cameras, you made your way to your team’s floor, and you waited.
not long after, when a tall, lean person dressed in the gear you’d found under your boyfriend’s creaky floorboard, walked onto the floor, practically carrying park on his shoulder, it took everything to keep from shrieking and giggling at how well you knew your own boyfriend.
you watched as he methodically and carefully tied him to his chair, rolled him to the exact spot he wanted him. you watched as he polished an already incredibly clean knife, shuddering uncomfortably a few times as he did. you wondered if it still bothered him—taking life. if maybe he wasn’t as seasoned as you thought, and the act still took something precious from him.
you hated the idea that something as generous as ridding the world of vermin like your ex-teammates could affect soonyoung like that.
what you hated even more was how turned on you were watching as he walked back and forth in his disguise, the muscles of his arms and his back still prominent through the tattered robes. but before you could debate jumping out of the shadows and convincing him to just leave and go home with you so you could ride him until dawn, your dumbass boss was waking up again.
you honestly didn’t know when you were supposed to step out, but the more soonyoung’s love for you shown—the clearer he made it that he truly would do anything for you, the less you cared about staying hidden.
and before you knew it, you were holding soonyoung’s very own knife, standing in front of a very dead daniel park, covered in his blood and laughing so hard, you thought maybe your nervous system was broken. but when the giggles died down and you didn’t burst into tears the way you expected you would, you knew you were perfectly fine. better than fine. you were thrilled.
“finally,” you breathe, reaching forward to yank the blanket out of your boss’s mouth, wiping the knife on a cleaner corner. “here you go.”
you hand it over hilt first toward your boyfriend, who’s still standing behind park, splatters of blood all over him too. he gently takes the weapon from you, tucking it somewhere within his robes. you watch him carefully, wondering what his face looks like, wondering what he’s thinking. instead, all you get is that permanent scream on his mask as it stares blankly back at you.
does he think i’m crazy? does it turn him off? would he rather be the one doing the saving?
you don’t voice any of your insecurities, though. you’re far too happy and relieved to ruin this moment with those thoughts. instead, you take the blanket you’re still holding and you dip it in one of park’s stab wounds until it’s soaked in his blood. you walk to the whiteboard behind his body and swipe at it in broad strokes, stepping back to view your work when you’re done.
you look back to your boyfriend to see him looking at the whiteboard.
FINAL
not for park or any of the other men soonyoung obliterated like a hurricane passing through, but for you. the final person standing, with the help of a man who loved you enough to make sure it ended this way. you hope he gets it and that he’s appreciating it the way you are.
while he continues staring at the board, you take the time to reach into the pocket of park’s jacket, fishing his phone out of it. because he treated you like his executive assistant, you knew most of his passwords, and you were banking on it being the same.
when his phone unlocks, you breathe a sigh of relief. you navigate to his email, pleased to find alex’s email in his inbox just like you planned for it to be.
to: [email protected]
from: [email protected]
subject: ! emergency situation, action needed
body: mr. park, we have a dire situation at the office that requires your attention. a few of the other team members and i will be working late into the night to remedy this; please stop by the office when you can to discuss next steps.
once you’re sure the message is marked read, you wipe the phone free of your prints with the blanket before tucking it back into his pocket. when you’re done, you let the blanket fall to the ground, eyes going back to your boyfriend, whose gaze is back on you now.
soonyoung still doesn’t say anything, simply walking to the duffle he left in the far corner. he removes his shoes, replacing them with a disposable shoe cover on each foot, before removing yours and doing the same for you, an act that feels so intimate, you’re tempted to take him right here, in the middle of this gore, effectively ruining all your efforts to keep him from getting caught.
he puts the shoes into spare trash bags and tucks them into his duffle before standing and holding his hand out for you to take. your fears that he’s mad you came here dissolve, and you take his gloved hand in yours.
he leads you away, picking up your own bag off the floor for you as you pass it. you think he’s leading you out of the building, but instead, you both end up in the showers, an amenity usually meant for commuters or people who went to the gym and worked out in the middle of their work day.
soonyoung sets both of your bags down on one of the benches in the locker room before nodding toward the showers. you follow him wordlessly, heat pooling in your stomach as you do.
he leads you into a shower stall, turning on the hot water and letting the water hit the both of you fully clothed. he turns around to face you, his mask wet with blood and water as it stares down at you. you hesitantly lift a hand up to rest on the jaw of it. you look up into the black holes of its eyes, hoping he understands you’re asking if you can remove it for him.
when he doesn’t stop you, you push up on the mask, lifting it completely off his head. the first thing you notice is that soonyoung’s platinum blonde hair is matted to his forehead with sweat, all of his visible skin slick with it. and when you meet his eyes, you’re immediately rooted to the spot, robbed of all air. his pupils are blown, making his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them as they bore into yours. his mouth is parted, chest heaving as he breathes like he’s been running for hours.
without giving you a chance to think of your next move, he grabs the mask and chucks it somewhere behind you before wrapping his hand around the back of your neck and roughly pulling you to him. he cranes down to envelope your lips with his, wasting no time parting them and fervently shoving his tongue into your mouth.
it doesn’t take long for him to get the both of you naked; you’re not even really sure when it happens, but suddenly, he’s kicking your soiled clothes away from the both of you, his hands going from cradling your face to softly running across your shoulders, your back, your ass, and you realize he’s rinsing the death off of you, all while peppering you with feather light kisses as he does.
you hang your head, resting it against his shoulder as you watch red swirl down the drain, until it’s pink, until it’s clear. you sigh deeply at the sensation of the water pelting your skin and soonyoung’s fingertips dancing across every part of you. he presses his erection in between your thighs at the sound of your breath, and it quickly turns into a moan.
you reach to grip his cock in your hand, fisting it tightly. his breath hitches, and you decide it’s time to thank him for everything he’s done for you these last few months. you lift your head up off his shoulder and reach up to press your lips to his once more, gentle and chaste.
“thank you,” you whisper. he runs a hand across his face to get water out of his eyes.
“for what?” he asks, voice husky around the first words he’s said to you since the night started.
“for loving me like this,” you answer, pumping your first slowly as you speak. “for doing all of this for me… and for letting me be a part of it too.”
soonyoung closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours, nothing but the sound of the water and his labored breaths as you stroke him filling the room.
“i love you, y/n,” he says in a voice you haven’t heard from him before. it sounds small, vulnerable, and emotional, and when he opens his eyes, you aren’t surprised to see tears gathered there. “i love you so fucking much.”
you don’t think he’s ever said that to you like this. getting him to even use the word “love” was like pulling teeth in the beginning of your relationship. now, he says it like he’s free of the trauma he’s tied to the word over the years of his childhood. you tiptoe to kiss the tears out of his eyes.
“i love you,” you return. “and i adore you. forever. now… let me show you.”
you kiss every bit of skin you can on your way down his body, until you’re on your knees. you look up at him one, last time, melting a little at the affection he stares at you with.
“don’t hold back, okay?”
he curses under his breath before nodding. he reaches one arm across the shower, planting a palm on the wall behind you to steady himself as you take his entire length into your mouth.
“fuck.”
you hollow your cheeks as you slide away, tongue swirling on the underside of his shaft and dragging across the veins of his cock. you wrap one hand at the base tightly before sliding him back in, knowing that taking his entire monster length wasn’t going to be sustainable for you or your throat. you blow him like this—pumping and twisting at the bottom of his shaft with your hand, your other one massaging his balls—for only a few moments before soonyoung absolutely loses it.
and ever eager to please you, he follows your instructions and holds nothing back. he palms the back of your head with his free hand and without warning, starts fucking into your mouth roughly. tears stream down your face, mixing with the hot water of the shower and the precum leaking out of soonyoung. the back of your throat starts to burn early on, but still, you want more.
your hands grab soonyoung’s ass, bringing him impossibly further into your throat on every thrust. he groans loudly, cursing in between shouts of your name.
“y/n,” he breathes, slowing his movements after a few minutes until his hips stutter to a full stop. you frown, looking up at him when he pops his cock out of your mouth. “i don’t want to cum in your mouth, baby.”
“why not?” you ask dumbly.
he laughs, obviously not expecting the question. instead of answering, he pulls you up and onto your feet, steadying you when you realize they’ve fallen asleep from the lack of blood flow. he presses you against the wall, caging you in and pressing his thigh between your legs to keep you standing as you regain the feeling in your legs. you gasp when his quad rests against your clit.
“there are better places to cum,” he finally answers, just barely moving his thigh against you.
the tiny movement is enough to coax another moan out of you, though. his fingers come down to dive in between your folds and trace your slit teasingly back and forth, gathering your arousal. he brings his fingers up to his mouth, shamelessly taking them in and tasting the way he makes you feel. his eyes close as he savors the taste.
“mmm,” he hums fondly like your lust is a five star meal. he opens his eyes, smirking at the way you’re staring at him. “want to taste?”
you nod eagerly. at this point, you’d take whatever he wanted to give you. you reach forward to kiss him, but he pins your shoulder to the wall with a hand, making you squeak in surprise, and when his other hand comes up your neck and grabs your jaw, tilting it up toward him and forcing your mouth open, you realize what he means and what he wants.
you fight your own smirk as you open your mouth wider, letting your tongue hang out as far as it will go. he presses his cock against you at the sight, cursing before he takes your face in both his hands, leans over you, and aims, spitting straight into your mouth. you whine pathetically when you feel it hit the back of your throat, immediately grasping both his arms and grinding down against his thigh while it’s still pressed between your legs.
“soonie, please,” you mewl, desperately and messily grabbing at whatever you can at this point just to get him closer to getting inside you, including his hair, his neck, his arms, his hips—anything.
he grabs your wrists when you won’t stop, holding them tightly in between your bodies with one hand, the other cupping your ass and guiding one leg to wrap around his waist, the tip of his cock already teasing your hole.
“behave,” he hisses, squeezing your wrists until they hurt. you don’t dare wriggle against his hold. “are you going to be good?” you nod. he immediately releases you, guiding one hand to his shoulder to keep yourself steady.
when both of your hands are wrapped around his shoulders, he takes your other leg and wraps it around his waist too, lifting you up and pinning you between him and the wall. he kisses you harshly and recklessly, tongue wrapping itself around yours as his cock starts to push into you.
he doesn’t wait until he’s fully buried in you the way he usually does. no, tonight, he can’t seem to help himself when he breaks away from you to remind you: “you’re mine.”
you nod, resting your head back against the wall, nails digging into his shoulders as he pushes in further. “yours,” you gasp. “always.”
“god, i love you,” he says for the third time tonight, making the burn feel all the better as he bottoms out. “you’re so perfect,” he breathes, adjusting to the feeling of your cunt around him. “so fucking tight.”
“fuck me, baby” is all you have the energy to whisper. and he delivers.
he easily bounces you on his dick in time with his own thrusts, the corded muscles of his arms hard, wet, and glistening as he holds you up against the wall. you don’t care how loud you are, letting your screams out as they come. at this point, you’re not sure you even care if the police catch you like this and arrest you.
all that matters is how soonyoung feels inside of you, how his mouth burns everywhere they press against you, how his fingertips dig into your flesh so hard, you think it’ll bruise. he rests his forehead against yours, holding unwavering eye contact with you as he fucks you like it’s simultaneously the first and last time.
“marry me,” he whispers suddenly. “fuck. marry me, y/n.”
you gasp as he thrusts hard, tip kissing your cervix. “a-are you s-seriously asking right now?”
he smirks, kissing you quickly before thrusting even faster and harder. the sounds that come out of your mouth are a pitch higher and nastier. “i’ve had a ring for a year. i can’t fucking wait anymore. marry me. god, please marry me.”
you don’t have to think twice. “yes,” you half moan. “yes, soonyoung. yes, i’ll—fuck! i’ll marry you!”
the thought does something to the both of you at the same, exact time, and you’re both shouting warnings at each other as you reach your highs. his teeth sink into your collarbone as he comes inside you, your fist closing around the hair at the nape of his neck as you reach your own climax on his dick too.
you stay in the same position for a few moments, both trying and failing to catch your breaths.
when you finally do, you tap soonyoung’s shoulder to let you down, but he refuses, stubbornly staying inside of you. you frown.
“what are you doing? we should shower and leave,” you point out, remembering there’s an incredibly deceased man outside.
“the longer i stay here, the longer my cum stays inside you, and the greater the chances i just got you pregnant,” he says cheekily.
you glare at him. “soonyoung, i’m on birth control.”
he glares right back.
“okay, fine,” you relent, laughing. the sensation makes soonyoung wince as you clench around his overstimulated cock a little. “kinda hot, though—you wanting to get me pregnant.”
he raises an eyebrow at you. “oh? another kink of yours?”
you blush, knowing you’ve been somewhat of a sex fiend since discovering your fantasy of having a murderous boyfriend—your reality now, you suppose. “maybe,” you murmur.
soonyong grins, kissing the pout away from your lips. “good. i’m going to keep trying.”
“okay, well, maybe we should try when we’re not in active danger of going to prison for life?”
“right.”
you both shower quickly, bagging the soiled clothes and changing into the outfits you both packed separately. you watch in awe as soonyoung takes out a blacklight and some kind of cleaning agent to get rid of any blood you both tracked into the shower. most of the evidence, it turns out, is right there in the stall, where his cum leaked out of you.
when he’s done cleaning, you both head to your cars, each parked in different lots, agreeing to meet at home after you pick up drive-thru dinner and he goes back to work to pick up his phone. and when you do get home, you find that soonyoung beat you there, the apartment dark save for a handful of candles. he’s on one knee when you enter, a small box open and turned toward you, the ring he claimed he got a year ago right there, staring you in the face.
“i love you,” he says. “i’ll spend the rest of my days loving you the way you deserve to be. adoring you with everything i have. will you allow me the honor of doing that as your husband?”
you don’t know how many times you scream yes at him as you drop the bags of fast food and throw yourself into his arms, the two of you collapsing into a pile of giggles and kisses.
TOP STORY • 2 MIN READ
Copycat serial killer sentenced to life in prison on three counts of torture, six counts of first degree murder
By Gale Weathers
Police investigating the torture and murder of Daniel Park, senior vice president of marketing at Loomis, Inc. two years ago.
Two years after a spree of murders rocked the local community, Alex Cho, former Loomis, Inc. employee, has been sentenced to life in prison, despite pleading not guilty to all charges.
Dubbed the "copycat prank call killer" for the similarities in mutilation amongst victims, Cho was found guilty on all counts of torture and first degree murder for the deaths of six fellow Loomis, Inc. employees, including his boss, Daniel Park, former senior vice president of marketing. Arrested just days after Park's murder, Cho was the authorities' main suspect since day one, according to a statement made by Police Chief Macher following the sentencing.
"Cho's name was on the board since the tragic murder of our first victim, Jay Lang," said Macher, "but as his spree escalated and became more frenzied, he became careless. The evidence against him became insurmountable after the death of Daniel Park."
Though evidence left behind by Cho at the previous murders still has not been disclosed by authorities to this day, his involvement in Park's torture and murder is clear. On the night of Park's death, Cho lured him to the office after-hours under the guise of a work emergency. Once there, Cho ambushed and tortured his boss before stabbing him almost 30 times and leaving his body to be found by other employees the next morning.
Police were able to arrest Cho early on, thanks to his email trail and the use of his badge at the Loomis, Inc. headquarters, just minutes before Park entered the building himself.
When asked about the sentencing of their former employee, a Loomis, Inc. representative told TOP STORY:
"Even two years on, we continue to mourn our tragically lost employees. As such, Loomis offers all our associates ongoing mental health resources and grief counseling. We also honor these victims with annual donations to various campaigns, including cancer research, LGBT support, and anti-bullying—all causes our former SVP of marketing Daniel Park championed. As for the sentenced individual, Loomis declines to comment, but ensures you that we are taking extra precautions and measures to vet all new employees, with annual mental evaluations of all existing employees. We are committed to the safety of our people, our clients, and all of our stakeholders."
As far as his "copycat" reputation goes, Cho denies drawing inspiration from the "prank call killer," though he continues to deny his involvement in the crimes at all. As of the publication of this article, the "prank call killer" remains an at-large, inactive serial killer, with the last victim dating back over 10 years ago.
Cho will be transferred to a maximum state prison later this month, where he will serve his life sentence with no chance of parole.
────
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🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
HOSHI (clicks out of video news story of andrew's arrest) i can't believe you did all that for me.
YOUR ALIAS (smiles, scratching his scalp comfortingly with her left hand, eyes admiring the ring on her finger as she does) i told you, i would do anything for you. you protect me, i protect you, right?
HOSHI (smiles, leaning forward to press his lips to hers) always.
fades into black. credits roll.
...
POST-CREDITS SCENE
a long while later, audience finds hoshi and his wife in the kitchen of a much larger home now, seemingly as in love and as playful as they always were. they are interrupted by their teen daughter running into the room, with her backpack still on, screaming and crying. both of them immediately tend to her.
YOUR ALIAS baby, what's wrong? what happened?
DAUGHTER (shrieks) it's tiffany! she's going around telling everybody i'm sleeping with the entire baseball team! i've never even had my first kiss and she knows that!
hoshi stills, face becoming eerily blank. you both exchange a look.
YOUR ALIAS you're only 15... why on earth are they talking about those kinds of things?
DAUGHTER (throws mom an incredulous look) all of them have already lost their virginities, mom!
YOUR ALIAS (pinching the bridge of her nose) dear god.
DAUGHTER she gave my number to a bunch of dudes and now they're calling and texting and blowing up my phone asking me when i'm free to do... gross things! (wails)
YOUR ALIAS we'll change your number, baby, don't worry. and i'll meet with your principal and make sure she knows we won't tolerate this behavior, okay? are you alright if i talk to tiffany's mom?
DAUGHTER no, please don't, she's so vindictive. i know it'll just get worse.
hoshi exhales slowly.
HOSHI okay, we won't do anything you aren't comfortable with, but... you're also not going to let her treat you like that, do you hear me?
it's clear their daughter is a daddy's girl when her crying immediately stops and she nods.
HOSHI no one hurts you, understand?
YOUR ALIAS nobody.
DAUGHTER (whispers, still sniffling) nobody.
HOSHI if you won't let us talk to tiffany's parents, we're going to have to show you how to defend yourself, baby. how to stand up for yourself.
YOUR ALIAS (smiles) your daddy is really good at that. you'll let him help, right? (daughter nods) good, go get cleaned up and i'll order whatever takeout you want.
DAUGHTER (immediately) thai.
YOUR ALIAS thai it is. go on.
their daughter retreats from the kitchen, still sniffling as she goes up to her bedroom.
YOUR ALIAS we aren't going to stoop so low as to kill a teenager, are we?
HOSHI (snorts, wraps one arm around her waist) no, we aren't. but kids like that only learn behavior like that from one place.
YOUR ALIAS their parents.
HOSHI mhm.
YOUR ALIAS you have the key to the storage unit?
HOSHI mhm. (plants one kiss on her cheek before grinning and nodding to the front door) i'll drive.
cuts to black with the sound of a piercing scream.
a/n: credit for the news story photo goes to unsplash. all other photos taken from pinterest, ctto. okay bye, i don't want to talk about how crazy i feel LMFAO.
🔞 18+, minors do not interact • masterlist • submit a request
🚨 minors and blank blogs will be blocked
after a career drought full of dead end positions, you finally land a job you can be proud to include on your resume—prestigious company, room for growth, and most importantly, a salary that will allow you and your boyfriend, soonyoung, to breathe a little easier. what you don’t expect is the discrimination and vitriol you’re met with on the job. as office life gets harder and harder for you, soonyoung finds it increasingly impossible to sit back and watch you repeatedly get hurt like this. so he dusts off a mask he never thought he’d use again, and when your colleagues start dropping dead one by one… well, that’s none of his business.
♫ i did something bad taylor swift
pairing: ghostface!soonyoung x fem!reader
wc: 23k 🤨
tags: horror fic (kinda not really), scream fic, established relationship, alternating povs, normal (used loosely lol) lovers to crazy psycho lovers, screenwriter!soonyoung, corporate slave!reader, “he hates everyone but her” trope except make it “he hates and brutally murders everyone but her” ┐(￣ヘ￣;)┌
a/n: the platinum blonde spiky hair ghostface soonyoung brain rot had me in a chokehold. this all started just bc i saw a gifset of him looking soooo early 00s fuck boy pop star and immediately my brain was like “ghostface hoshi.” so here we are. i do watch horror but like. i’m here for a good time not a critical time LOL. i am no expert on horror movies! i just like watching the more digestible ones, and if there are inconsistencies with the reasoning for becoming a killer or the relationship between killer and lover of killer or how realistically easy it would be to catch the killer… well, just pretend there aren’t :) i’m just trying to eradicate this ghostface hoshi brainworm :) so enjoy it :) or don’t :) this is more for me than anyone else :)
warnings READ ALL OF THEM!
content: murder… obviously (it won’t be overly gory, but it is described, so be careful. it won’t be anyone in svt), he’s a psychopath (again… obviously), blood, knives/stabbing, torture, domestic violence (not between mcs), traumatic brain injury, misogyny, daddy issues, eh mommy issues too why not, male use of the word “whore” and “bitch” against a woman, workplace harassment (bullying, hazing, finance tech red pill bro culture), sexual harassment in the workplace (inappropriate comments, sexualization of reader by male coworkers, etc. but no physical sexual assault takes place), no physical description of reader but she’s called a diversity hire by her harassers (whatever makes her diverse can be up to you), murdered people could possibly share names with idols idk but if they do, that’s a coincidence bc these are just random names, protectiveness to insane levels, possessiveness, codependency, jealousy, toxic and unhealthy relationship, reader is also crazy
smut: marked at beginning and end if you’d like to avoid, unprotected piv, creampie, roleplaying (kinda? like, is it roleplaying if they’re roleplaying as themselves but one of them doesn’t realize it’s themselves?), squirting, kink exploration, mentions of bondage, mentions of blindfolding, mentions of choking, mentions of degradation, mentions of knife play, light breeding kink, shower sex, oral (both receiving), face fucking, fingering, spitting, uh horniness supercharged by murder so… whatever tag that is, dirty talk except make it about murder, honestly don’t look at me
🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
IN AN APARTMENT
a man (jake) dressed in a disheveled suit returns home late at night presumably from work, though from his mannerisms, he seems drunk.
he takes his jacket off and lets it fall to the floor. he is grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge when his phone rings. the number is private. he declines it. when it rings again, he fumbles to hit the right button for several seconds but eventually answers, swaying drunkenly as he does.
JAKE hello? (he hears loud breathing) hello? (no answer) who is this? (hangs up and mutters to himself) fucking weirdos.
his phone rings again, and he watches his cell vibrate on the counter. he closes the fridge door and answers the phone, obviously ready to yell at whoever it is, but he is cut off by a raspy male voice.
PHONE STRANGER hi, jake.
jake freezes, too flustered to speak.
PHONE STRANGER oh come on, don’t be rude. where are your manners? this is where you say hi back. go on, try it.
JAKE who is this?
PHONE STRANGER that’s too easy, don’t you think? and too easy is never any fun.
jake seems to deflate, his exhaustion too potent to argue with a stranger. he hangs up once more. the phone rings again. he answers it in an almost violent fashion.
JAKE leave me alone!
PHONE STRANGER hang up on me again and i’ll take that pretty, little butcher knife (jake’s eyes dart to the knife block on his kitchen island. camera changes focus to knives) and run it down the entirety of your torso until the floor is slick with your blood and organs.
jake looks around the apartment, understanding there is a large chance he is being watched.
camera angle changes to a shaky shot farther away from around the corner in a dark hallway, suggesting whoever is watching is already in the apartment with him. goes back to jake in kitchen.
jake inches forward, wrapping his fingers around the very same knife he was just threatened with.
PHONE STRANGER hiding it won’t help you, jake. and neither will using it. i promise.
jake’s fingers immediately let go and he takes several steps back in horror as he realizes he is definitely being watched.
PHONE STRANGER good boy! (sounds genuinely excited) so you do listen after all. now. let’s start over. hi, jake.
JAKE hi. (voice cracks, clears his throat) what do you want?
stranger clicks tongue in disapproval.
PHONE STRANGER jake, jake, jake. didn’t we talk about manners already? (jake inches toward the front door, stranger laughs) eh, i probably wouldn’t go that way if i were you. (jake freezes, eyes flitting around the room wildly) what do you want to try next?
camera briefly shifts to a dark corner closer to jake now. goes back to kitchen.
JAKE who are you?
PHONE STRANGER my name is hoshi. (jake is very obviously surprised) didn’t expect me to tell you my name, did you? thought i’d keep that a secret? you don’t have to ask either; that’s my real name.
JAKE why?
HOSHI why what?
JAKE why are you telling me your name?
HOSHI well, it doesn’t matter if i tell you my name. it’s going to die with you anyway.
jake quickly takes the phone away from his ear and begins to dial the police. being drunk, he mistypes several times.
HOSHI i won’t try to talk you out of that. someone needs to find your body after all. i do want people to know you’re dead. i want her to know you’re dead. that you’re never going to hurt her ever again. so by all means, call the police. but i assure you. they won’t come in time.
JAKE (in a shaky voice) yes they will.
HOSHI no. they won’t. and you know how i know?
jake finally gets the call going, phone automatically putting hoshi on hold.
HOSHI i know because you’re a dumb ass and you never even put me on speaker.
camera focuses on jake’s face front on as his eyes widen and he freezes. audience hears dispatcher answer the line.
DISPATCH what is your emergency?
hoshi appears behind jake in a white mask, face contorted into a permanent scream, and a black tattered robe. audience hears a squelch as jake’s mouth falls open in pain and he stumbles. his phone falls out of his hand, ending the call.
camera angle switches to side view, where audience can see a hunter knife buried in the middle of jake’s back. hoshi slowly slides the knife out of him, letting him fall to the floor, where he’s immediately crawling away.
hoshi makes no move to follow him yet. simply watches him kick and struggle to stand.
HOSHI i knew you were dumb, but i didn’t realize you were this dumb.
he slowly walks after him, watching as jake pathetically tries to make it to the front door, blood trailing behind him. he crashes into most of his furniture as he stumbles past.
hoshi reaches him and kicks him in his stab wound, causing jake to fall back to the floor, screaming in agony.
JAKE god, why?! WHY?!
HOSHI question of the night, huh?
JAKE (sobbing, turns over and pulls himself away enough until he’s slouched up against the back of his couch) i don’t even know who you are!
hoshi squats down in front of him, forearms on knees, eye level. he keeps his bloody knife threateningly close to jake’s face.
HOSHI but i know who you are. oh man, i know exactly who you are. i’ve heard all about you, jake. more than i should’ve ever had to hear about you.
jake sobs harder as hoshi runs his knife gently across his neck, leaving his own blood on his skin.
HOSHI you couldn’t just be the quiet coworker who came to work, minded his own goddamn business, and went home, huh? you had to be the red pill loser.
JAKE (weakly) what…? i don’t… huh?
HOSHI you hurt her, jake. and when you hurt her… well frankly, you hurt me. and i don’t let anyone get away with hurting me.
JAKE who’s “her”?! who are you?! i don’t even know what you’re talking about, dude. please! please! i promise i won’t tell anyone! i’ll do whatever you want! i’ll give you whatever you want—just let me live!
hoshi doesn’t say anything for several seconds. resembles predator watching prey. when jake starts blubbering and begging, he sighs.
HOSHI what if what i want… (tilts his head menacingly at him) is for you to die… (wipes his knife along the length of his sleeve, cleaning it of blood) an incredibly slow and painful death? hm? what if that’s what i want? will you still give it to me, jake?
JAKE i don’t get it, please, i don’t get it. who are you? what do you want?
HOSHI god you’re a fucking moron, i literally just told you what i fucking want.
he drives his knife into jake’s thigh. when he screams, hoshi backhands him to shut him up.
several seconds pass as jake tries to catch his breath.
JAKE why are you doing this?
hoshi removes his knife from his thigh, just to plunge it into his abdomen. jake doubles over, blood spilling past his lips.
hoshi lets go of the knife, leaving it buried inside jake. he tries to reach up and remove it, but hoshi gently presses a single finger to the hilt. jake screams and lets his hands fall away. hoshi removes his finger.
HOSHI (casually) honestly, it’s kind of futile explaining this to an idiot who gets off of shitting on women.
jake’s breathing is labored as his screams subside.
HOSHI (comically scratches his head) like, how do i even explain love to a greasy little incel like you?
JAKE (incredulously, while stuttering) love?
HOSHI yes, jake. love. you know, it’s so funny. i really, really hated that word for most of my life, and then… one day that just… changed, i guess.
JAKE you’re killing me because… you love… me?
HOSHI (sputters/laughs) what?! are you fucking—what?! (backhands him again) i can’t even fathom how fucking stupid you are! what the fuck? (jake groans) no, you jackass, how could anybody love you? you’re like shit on the bottom of my shoe. (mutters again) what the fuck?
JAKE i don’t get it.
HOSHI (sighs) i know you don’t, dimwit. that’s why i’m not going to bother explaining why you’ll die tonight. you’ll never understand what it’s like to love someone the way i love her. i fucking adore her.
he watches jake carefully, head tilting to the other side like he’s studying his looming death. or enjoying it.
HOSHI and jake (just barely skims one finger from where the blade disappears into flesh, up the hilt of the knife) one thing about me?
jake’s eyes go up to meet the black holes in the mask, breathing coming out in short gasps now.
HOSHI my adoration is killer.
without warning, hoshi grabs his knife once more, other hand holding jake’s shoulder down as he pulls the knife up his torso with alarming force. he makes good on his promise to cover his floors with his own blood and organs.
your life has become a sad routine of miserably crying monday through friday, suffering an emotional hangover on saturdays, and spending the entirety of sunday shaking with anxiety over the mere thought of having to go back to work and do it all over again the next day.
your job, for the most part, is predictable. you expect to come in and endure catcalls, unprovoked insults, glares, and lewd gestures all before you even reach your desk. you expect to have your work—as flawless as you know it is—ridiculed and mocked, just for someone else to copy it word for word, claim it as his own, and receive endless praise for it. you expect your boss to sheepishly shrug and tell you boys will be boys and to be a “team player.” you expect to be told you’re useless, you’re just a diversity hire, and all you’re good for is something nice to look at.
as the only woman on an all-male, all-asshole team, you expect pure torment.
what you don’t expect is to be corralled into the company auditorium with hundreds of other employees first thing in the morning, where you’re all informed that jay, the psychopath you share a cubicle with, was not just playing hooky and skipping work like you and all his buddies assumed, but that he “tragically” passed away earlier this week. you’re in a daze as they tell everyone grief counseling is available and that those close to jay can take bereavement effective immediately if they have to.
what you also don’t expect is to return to your desk, google his obituary, and be met with several articles detailing a gruesome murder that took place in his apartment building. jay isn’t directly named, but you don’t need him to be to know it’s him. the executives were too dodgy about the announcement of his death for this to be about anybody else.
your eyes scan over words like “stabbed,” “bloodied,” “screams,” “ripped,” and “spilled.” the journalist describes it as the most grisly homicide to take place since the “prank call killings”—even goes as far to make connections between jay’s murder and the string of deaths that took place years ago, in a small town not far from where you are.
both involved victims with multiple stab wounds.
both were indicative of a frighteningly large hunting knife with unique serrations used as the weapon.
both ended with the torsos being carelessly cut open down the middle—while the victim was still alive.
the one difference is that police found no evidence of calls made to jay’s phone before his death.
this begs the question: after nearly a decade, has the prank call killer made their return, or has a copycat ascended their throne?
the closing line sends a chill down your spine, but you’re not sure it feels bad.
in fact, there’s one last thing you don’t expect that comes of today: as you turn in your seat to look at jay’s desk, exactly how he left it, you find that you don’t feel horrified about his death. contrarily, you find yourself feeling relieved. elated, even. and that’s what horrifies you.
as the team that housed jay, your boss releases you all from work for the rest of the day, some for the whole week. not you, though—never you. you are expected to return first thing in the morning to begin sorting through jay’s work and figure out where you can fill in and what you can split amongst your coworkers. but you know that won’t be happening; no one on your team would lift a pinkie to help you even if you were on the floor dying. everything jay left behind will be your responsibility now, not that that’s much of an issue. the man was already pawning all his work to you anyway.
“baby?”
soonyoung’s voice filters through the noise of the coffee machine as you close and lock the door behind you. a head of blonde, spiky hair pokes out from around the corner. your boyfriend’s eyebrows are raised, mouth puckered into a cute, surprised o.
“hey, what are you doing back?” he asks as he completely exits the kitchen and walks around the corner. his hands are immediately pressed against your forehead and neck when he reaches you, eyes running up and down your body like he’s checking for injuries. “are you okay? do you have a fever? are you sick?”
you don’t even have the energy to playfully slap him away and roll your eyes like you normally would at his overly worried behavior. you just shake your head slowly.
“what’s wrong?” he mutters, letting his hands fall to snake around your waist. soonyoung watches you so closely and so attentively, you almost swoon enough to forget why you’re so distraught.
“i…”
soonyoung doesn’t urge you to speak, patiently waiting for you to find the words you want to use. you shake your head again.
“jay’s… jay is dead?” you announce, sounding unsure and confused even though it’s literally just a fact now.
soonyoung snorts. “that would be a dream. how would he die? what’s the most satisfying way to imagine it? hit by a bus? fell into an open manhole? choked on a—”
“no,” you interject, gripping his forearms and squeezing. he moves to let go of you but you keep him where he is. “he’s actually dead, soonyoung. like… dead dead.”
he raises an eyebrow, still obviously hesitating. “okay, i want to say you’re joking… but your use of my government name is telling me you’re not…?”
“i’m not!” you insist, slapping his arms away now.
“hey.” he pouts.
“why else would i be home right now?!” you point out. “park told us to take the day off.” you toe off your shoes and push past soonyoung, further into the home you share. “something about grieving.”
you go straight to the couch, flopping onto it face down.
“oh my god?” your boyfriend murmurs in a daze as he follows you, brows furrowed into a deep frown.
he sits on the small sliver of couch you’re not occupying, automatically arranging you so that you’re laying face up against him between his legs. his arms find your waist once more.
“what… what happened…?” he asks, obviously trying to tread the topic carefully. he knows how much you hated jay—hell, as your biggest supporter, he hated him too. but for him to die? you’re full of complicated feelings. “is that why he’s been skipping work?”
you nod. “and it’s not just that… park and the other execs didn’t say this, but… i looked up his name to see if i could read the obituary.”
“mmm,” he hums, nodding. “tracks for a nosy girl like you.”
“not the time!” you whine, already pulling away. he tightens his arms around you, keeping you from moving.
“okay, okay! sorry! i’ll be serious—i swear! i’m sorry!”
you huff and relax against him once more.
“so you looked up his obituary…” he encourages you to continue, voice lower as he tries to be serious—a feat for him, honestly.
“i… i think jay was murdered.”
you whisper the words without meaning to, like you’re scared of giving life to them. like if you say them loud enough, the prank call killer—or their copycat—will come bursting through the door and shred you and the love of your life into ribbons of blood and flesh.
soonyoung remains quiet and you can almost hear the gears in his head turning as he tries to find the correct thing to say. you bet he’s trying to scour his brain for anything that isn’t an inappropriate joke.
“murdered…?” he asks in a small voice. “why… how…?”
you rest your hands over his on your stomach, pressing even further into him as you retell what you read.
a victim was found in his own apartment, stab wounds to his back and left thigh. it was clear he was attacked in his kitchen and that his assailant let him make it halfway to his front door… before they cornered him against his own couch. then, they gutted him—from lower abdomen to sternum, where his bones wouldn’t give any more way for the knife. they didn’t name him. they didn’t even describe his appearance. all they said was that he was 28, and he lived alone.
but you knew, and from the way you spoke, you were confident soonyoung wouldn’t question you about it. he was good at trusting you and believing in you.
“that’s… fucking barbaric…” he breathes out after you recount the story. “i mean, the guy was a fucking asshole, but… that’s… i mean, it’s… i—”
“i feel happy.” you blurt out the words that have been brewing in your head since you left the office.
to his credit, your boyfriend has taken most of this information well despite the poorly timed jokes. but at this new revelation, his entire body tenses against yours, and you immediately regret being honest.
“you think i’m a monster, don’t you?” you ask quietly, ready for him to gently remove you from him. to admonish you. maybe even leave. “you think—”
“i don’t think you’re a monster.”
he says it with so much conviction, you believe it the first time he says it. soonyoung repeats it anyway.
“i don’t think you’re a monster, baby. please don’t say that. i’m just… surprised. i mean i’m definitely not mourning the guy, but i know how these kinds of things can upset you.”
you know he’s referring to all the times news headlines made you cry, or the times bleak documentaries pushed you into a weird episode of feeling like there was no meaning to life and everything was pointless. you’ve always been easily affected by the world around you, so it’s fair for him to be surprised that being this close in proximity to a victim of such inexplicable violence doesn’t send you straight into a panic attack.
“he just… he made my life so hard, soonie,” you say, not expecting the tears that fill your eyes. your voice cracks on your boyfriend’s name and he immediately rests his lips against the crown of your head and whispers his love for you.
“i know,” he says after he’s told you he loves you at least a dozen times. “trust me, i know.”
soonyoung actually knows best because he’s the one who’s picking up the pieces when you come home broken and inconsolable. he’s the one who calms you down enough to explain what happened this time.
jay purposefully knocked your coffee over a report that took you a week. jay took credit for a project you were forced to collaborate with him on—a project you ended up doing all by yourself. jay was telling everyone you were a ditzy bimbo that couldn’t do her job right. jay went out drinking with the boss and spent the whole night talking shit about you. jay wouldn’t stop trying to convince you you were only hired because you had a pair of tits. that those tits are all you’re ever going to be worth.
he’s the entire reason the team is the way they are around you now. he’s the one who emboldened them to treat you the way they do.
and day after day, week after week, for almost a year now, soonyoung has had to endure all your rants—rants that were exactly the same because you didn’t know how to stand up for yourself. the only thing you knew how to do was “be a team player” in the hopes that you could find a promotion into another team or even better, a new job altogether.
being the best boyfriend there is, soonyoung never complained about your venting. even on nights he had to abandon the latest script he was working on, even on days he had to call in sick to the writers’ room because he had insisted on staying up until the sun rose, consoling you—he never complained or even hinted that he was tired of you. not once.
even more meaningful to you, he never chastised you for being unable to find the strength to speak back or enforce your boundaries, something you were already plenty embarrassed about. he never made you feel less than; he knew you already had enough of that from the men in your work life.
soonyoung was the gentleness and softness you craved and needed so desperately in your life. he was safety and love and warmth and he was what continuously healed you as your job tried over and over again to break you.
he knew all of this. he knew how much you hated it and how much you hated jay, and it comforts you to know that he doesn’t think you’re a monster for being happy he’s dead. it gives you the courage to be even more honest with him.
“i’m relieved,” you tell him, wiping away your tears. “i’m so relieved he’s gone, and that it’s over. that maybe now… maybe now, i’ll be safe.”
his hold on you tightens and he leaves more kisses in your hair.
“and… i feel like a terrible person saying this…”
“whatever it is, you’re not. so don’t.”
it’s the push you need.
“i’m glad he suffered,” you admit, feeling lighter as soon as it’s out of your mouth. “i’m not just happy he died… i’m glad he died in the most heinous way. and i’m glad his killer made it hurt.”
once the words are out, you can’t take them back. and soonyoung doesn’t make you feel like you should. after a few seconds of silence, he just sighs and leans forward to kiss your cheek.
“then i am too, baby. if you’re happy, then i’m happy.”
he says it like you didn’t just tell him the grossest thing you’ve ever said in your life. and when you look up and catch his reflection in the window opposite of you, unbeknownst to him, you find him smiling into your hair almost like he’s pleased with you. you believe that he really is happy when you’re happy.
and honestly, you love him even more for it.
“i love you, soonie.”
“i adore you,” he says, his favorite way to express his affection for you—even moreso than “love,” though he learned to return the four-letter word once you expressed how important it was to you. “endlessly.” he pauses briefly before promising: “i’ll love you forever.”
it takes just one week, when everyone returns from their bereavement, for you to realize you aren’t safe—that jay’s death just put his friends on edge and made them more dangerous than ever. that for some fucked up reason, they felt that torturing you was the best way they could keep their sick friend’s memory alive.
and it makes you wish they were all dead too.
🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
as hoshi stands over his bed, clean of the blood he shed just hours ago and watching his girlfriend sleep, a montage of traumatic events from hoshi’s childhood begins flashing—switching between his memories and their bedroom until his memories win out.
FLASHBACK
a very young hoshi screams as he throws his tiny body against his father’s uselessly. his father has his hands around his mother’s neck, choking her mercilessly.
YOUNG HOSHI stop it! stop! get off my mommy! (begins punching but makes no headway) stop! please!
DAD you think i wouldn’t hear about you coming around to that dead beat’s house under the guise of asking for sugar, you fucking whore?!
YOUNG HOSHI please! mommy!
hoshi’s father removes one hand from his wife’s neck to shove his son aside. hoshi stumbles several steps before falling and hitting his head on the corner of the table and blacking out.
memory moves to hoshi’s recovery, when he is back home with a bandage around his head. blood blooms on the back of it. he is freshly woken up, in his pajamas, and his mother is changing the dressing on his injury.
there is something eerily blank about his face.
MOM (in a hoarse voice) let me know if it hurts, sweetheart.
YOUNG HOSHI okay. (pauses in what seems to be thought, though his expression does not change) will you let me know if it hurts too?
camera follows his gaze, focusing on the bruises around her neck. his mother’s hands still on his head before she continues in silence.
hoshi does not urge her to answer him, his eyes almost glazing over as he stares at her bruises. his mother finishes up changing the bandaging.
MOM you don’t worry your cute, little head about mommy, okay? in fact—
she pauses to put the medical supplies away into the first aid kit resting on the nightstand and smooths her dress before crouching in front of hoshi’s bed. she takes his hands in hers.
MOM mommy doesn’t want you interfering like that ever again, okay? (hoshi’s face remains blank as he meets her eyes now) when you hear daddy or mommy shouting, i want you to stay right here, in your bed, with the door shut and locked, and i don’t want you to come out until i come get you, alright?
YOUNG HOSHI am i in trouble?
MOM no, no sweetie. you’re not in trouble. but daddy will be home soon. in the next day or so. and mommy needs you to be safe and healthy, so will you promise me that you’ll stay out of it?
YOUNG HOSHI why does daddy hurt you?
MOM daddy is… he’s sick, sweetheart.
YOUNG HOSHI if someone is sick, is it okay for us to let them hurt us?
despite hoshi’s blank stare, his mother recognizes this will be a pivotal moment that informs the way her son sees the world. she blinks rapidly as her thoughts go into overdrive and she tries not to cry.
MOM (whispers) no. (she pauses, shaking her head and quickly wiping away her tears before returning her hand to hoshi’s) no, it’s not okay. you don’t let anybody hurt you, sweetheart. not you. no one hurts you.
YOUNG HOSHI why do you let daddy hurt you?
MOM i… i love him, hoshi. i love your father. and he loved me once too. maybe he will again. but either way, i will still love him. he gave me you.
hoshi’s blank stare breaks at this, like the idea of any part of him being from his father bothers him. like he realizes he might be the only reason his mother stays with his father.
YOUNG HOSHI you love him… (his mother nods) i never want to love someone then.
memory moves years forward, when hoshi is 17. they remain in the same home, but messier and much sadder. colors are cooler than the past warmer memories audience has seen before.
hoshi is seated on the edge of a bigger bed now, in the same position as the previous memory, this time without his mom.
hands grip the comforter tensely. works his jaw anxiously as he stares, expressionless, at the door.
sound is muffled as camera zooms in on door. audience hears high-pitched whining sound as shots quickly flash between the door, hoshi on the bed, and the blood that spread on the floor from his head injury when he was young.
the whining gets louder as all the memories that flash now focus on young hoshi’s traumatic brain injury (blood, his mother screaming, blood, cops, stitches, bandages, blood, blood, blood).
the sound comes back full volume as the flashing comes back and stops on his closed room door.
MOM i’m sorry! i’m—
his mother’s pleas are cut off with her own scream as the walls shake and boom with the force of her body being thrown against them.
hoshi relaxes his fingers and smooths the comforter where he wrinkled it. he stands calmly, making his way to the door. his hand hovers over the locked handle.
flashes back to his conversation with his mom.
MOM will you promise me that you’ll stay out of it?
young hoshi’s face is blank but the way his eyes search his mother’s face in a way audience did not see before now implies that he possibly could’ve been weighing his options, even as a child.
YOUNG HOSHI why does daddy hurt you?
back to 17-year-old hoshi.
HOSHI (mutters to himself) you never promised.
audience sees he made it to the kitchen during the flashback. he faces the doorway from the kitchen to the living room.
camera focuses on door. mother is thrown across the living room, father stalks after her. the sounds of punching are heard but they’re beginning to muffle again.
flashes back.
MOM you don’t let anybody hurt you, sweetheart. not you. no one hurts you.
flashes back to memory from beginning of film.
MOM (both sprawled across grass on a sunny day) you and i, we’re one, hosh. you’re made of me, and i’m made of you!
YOUNG HOSHI i’m you and you’re me?
MOM hm. not quite but sure, yes! and we’ll always have each other.
flashes to conversation after brain injury.
YOUNG HOSHI why do you let daddy hurt you?
MOM i… i love him, hoshi.
we come back to teen hoshi in the kitchen. his mother’s voice is still there, but as muffled as the rest of the sounds are.
he walks forward and calmly retrieves the biggest knife from the block on the counter.
MOM (muffled voiceover) i love your father. and he loved me once too.
he weighs the knife in his hand and flips it so he’s holding it blade up. he holds it like someone who’s practiced this before.
he turns back toward the living room, walking to the doorway that separates it from the kitchen.
MOM (muffled voiceover) maybe he will again.
he watches as his father punches his mother wherever she can’t block him. as he takes a step forward, the high-pitched whining returns, the camera begins to shake, and the house seemingly starts to crumble around him as he walks forward.
scenes once again flash between hoshi approaching his father, the conversation on the bed, and the blood pooling from his brain injury.
MOM (voiceover, warped by the whining) but either way, i will still love him.
the scenes flashing now show bits of hoshi reaching his father amongst the rubble of their home, grabbing him by the shoulder and yanking him off his mother and onto his feet.
whining and shaking reaches a fever pitch before going eerily silent and the scene shows sunlight filtering through leaves.
MOM (clear voice) he gave me you.
camera comes back to hoshi and his mother sprawled across the grass. the memory is different this time.
MOM (said less warmly, more an order now) you and i, we’re one, hosh. you’re made of me, and i’m made of you.
as dialogue progresses, sun disappears, covered by dark clouds. hoshi sits up and narrows his eyes at the sky. when he turns toward his mom, he sees they are now both in the living room, the house completely in tact again, and she’s holding his small body—the younger version of him, limp in her arms as he watches from across the room. she’s covered in his blood, and so is the floor and coffee table.
MOM (blankly with no urgency) you and i. we’re one. someone hurts me, they hurt you. and what did i tell you?
HOSHI (voiceover as camera begins to follow the trail of blood gushing from young hoshi’s head) no one hurts me.
complete silence, camera still following young hoshi’s blood as it flows across the hardwood floor.
the flow joins the massive pool around two pairs of shoes, both facing each other. camera stays there for a few moments, before his mother’s screams pierce the silence.
camera slowly travels up hoshi’s legs from behind, until it reaches his head, where it looks like his dad is embracing him.
something heavy falls into the blood (presumably organs), creating a splashing noise, and shortly after that, hoshi shoves his father. it’s clear he had simply died and collapsed onto him.
his mother starts screaming and sobbing over his body for several minutes, but hoshi finds that he feels relieved, his face breaking out into the smallest smile for the first time since he hit his head.
when his mother gains her senses, she grabs his face between her hands, her own face bloody, puffy, and bruised.
MOM go! you have to go! they won’t understand, they’ll take you to jail, hoshi! you have to leave!
HOSHI (frowning) but we’re safe now.
his mother freezes.
HOSHI he’s gone. we’re safe now.
MOM (she swallows and nods shakily) we are. but i can’t let them take you to prison, sweetheart.
his mom begins leading him through the house, quickly forcing him to change out of his blood-soaked clothes, gathering important belongings and food, finding years’ worth of hidden emergency cash she never found the courage to use, stuffing it into his backpack.
HOSHI mom… what… i…
his mother brings him to the back door, weaving his arms through the backpack and smiling unconvincingly. she takes his face in her hands once more and kisses both cheeks as her tears start to fall.
MOM you be safe, okay?
HOSHI are you mad at me? do you hate me?
MOM what? no, no, sweetie. no. (said forcefully. pauses to think) i’ve only ever felt adoration for you, hoshi. adoration and nothing else. i’m sorry i let this happen. i’m sorry i subjected you to this.
HOSHI mom—
MOM but you need to go now, okay? the neighbors will have heard all the screaming. take the cash, go far away, and whatever you do, don’t come back.
HOSHI but—
MOM go!
she all but shoves him out of the door. she lingers there for a moment, trying her best to let the last memory of his mom be one of her smiling. she whispers an i love you before slamming the door shut.
PRESENT
we return to present-day hoshi, who is now seated on the edge of his girlfriend’s side of their bed. he strokes her hair away from her face as she breathes softly, still asleep.
he smiles, obviously, genuinely in love.
HOSHI (whispers) adoration.
you’re back at work the next day, much to soonyoung’s chagrin. he had been hoping you’d get the rest of the week off, and maybe he could get out of going into the writers’ room and keep you company at home. but he knows that was wishful thinking, especially with how set your team has been on not only working you to the bone, but ruining your life. but at least you enjoy the rest of the week since no one else is there to bother you.
for the first time since jay entered your life, you start to look light again. you start to smile more freely, joke more, and come home with bright eyes. it brings him hope that this is how it will be now—that he did the right thing.
though, he already knows for a fact he did the right thing.
soonyoung can’t describe the pure ecstasy that ran through his veins the moment you admitted you were happy that jay was dead—not only that you were happy he was gone, but that you were glad the killer made it hurt. you didn’t say it, but he heard it loud and clear.
you were proud of him for what he did. you adored him for the way he punished jay, and he would do it again. no matter how many times it took—how many lives it took—he would spill gallons and gallons of blood for you, and he would do it happily. no one would ever hurt you again. not with him around, and he planned to be around until you were both buried six feet deep.
there wasn’t anything that could beat this feeling, he had decided the moment you bared your heart to him—so naked and vulnerable, and still trusting him to hold it gently. you weren’t horrified by his means of protection. you weren’t running the other direction. you were grateful. and he doesn’t know why he thought you would be any other way. there’s a reason he’s with you, after all.
if there’s anything even remotely similar to a soulmate, that’s what you are. you’re meant to be his—made to be his. and he was made to be yours—to serve you, to keep you safe, to kill for you. it doesn’t matter that his habit started long before he ever even met you; now, his talents are only reserved for you.
and it made excitement bubble under the surface of his skin knowing you liked it. you didn’t even know he was jay’s murderer—hell, you didn’t even know he was the prank call killer—and you still admired his work anyway.
“what are you smiling at?”
he startles and looks up to see jihoon peering at his laptop screen, still only half a page full although they’ve been in the writers’ room the whole day. his colleague and friend frowns.
soonyoung sighs. “just daydreaming, man,” he says. it’s not dishonest. he shuts his laptop and stretches in his seat before standing and drawing the attention of the small handful of writers left. “going to head out now, everyone. got a pretty lady waiting for me at home. don’t stay too late, okay?”
he gets the usual playful eye rolls and smiles and cooing from the others as he slaps jihoon on the back and promises to get dinner with him soon. at work, he’s only known for three things: the exceptional writing that got him his lead position on the show, his fixation on horror movies, and his “obsession” with you. he liked it—the idea that when people thought of him, they immediately thought of you too. they know you belong to each other, and that’s exactly how he wants it.
soonyoung barely has the car started and in reverse when you call. he answers immediately.
“hey, baby, i’m just lea—”
“soonyoung?”
his heart stops at the sound of your voice. it’s clear you’ve been crying. for how long, he doesn’t know, but your words are still thick with tears. you sound exhausted and broken and worst of all, defeated. you sound like the day you came home and he decided he was going to kill jay—the first person he’s killed since he graduated college almost 10 years ago.
he puts the car back into park, clenching his jaw for a moment so that his first response to you isn’t tell me his name and i’ll have his head in front of you in an hour.
“soonie?” you whimper. “are you there? i’m sorry to call, i know you’re at work. i—”
“y/n, where are you?” he asks as calmly as he can.
“i’m home,” you answer, voice so small, it makes his rage burn hotter.
the fact that you’re home gives him at least some relief.
“i was hoping you’d be here,” you tell him, voice shaky. “i just need someone to talk to. i had…” you whisper your next words like if you’re any louder, you’ll completely break down. “i thought work would be better. fuck, soonie, i thought work was going to be better.” your words devolve into devastated sobs as you repeat yourself.
soonyoung’s instinct is to race to you, to hold you until your tears stop, and to put you to bed and make sure that every time you wake up from a nightmare, he’s still there, arms tight around you, unyielding. protecting you and in turn, protecting himself.
but his mask, robe, and knife are still in the trunk from his visit to jay’s last week, and right now, he thinks that paying a visit to whichever idiot you’re going to tell him about is the best way he can help.
he forces himself to turn the engine off.
“tell me everything,” he says softly, though his body feels so tense, he thinks he might pop a blood vessel.
“you’re not busy, are you?” you hiccup through your tears. “i can wait until you—”
“i’m not busy, love,” he says, eye inadvertently twitching from using the word.
soonyoung still struggles with it. he tries not to because it’s an affection that makes you feel comforted and, well, loved, and he’ll do anything to make you feel that way. still, he doesn’t know how to keep it from feeling like an insult to you.
love was what his father gave his mom. love was what made his mom stay with a monster. what he has for you isn’t the same; it’s leagues beyond it. he doesn’t think there’s a word for what he feels for you at all.
“go on,” he encourages you. “i’m listening. tell me.”
and you do.
soonyoung used to think he never had a control issue with his habit. it wasn’t something he craved or thought about the way he read that other serial killers did. no, his murderous tendencies only ever reared its ugly, useful head when he needed a solution for an ugly, useless lowlife.
the first was his father. something about cutting his stomach wide open, feeling the warmth of him rush over his hands, hearing the sound of him fall to his feet in pieces—he decided that would be the way it happened each time. he wanted to see a man who didn’t know how to treat a person right—and he wanted to feel the life flow right out of him. without meaning to, it became his M.O.
he found himself hopping city to city after being forced from his home, and there was no shortage of men who needed correction—or, eradication. it was simple at first; he’d see a horrible interaction between lovers or a father and a child or classmates or even strangers, he’d follow the offender until they were alone, and he’d gut them like a pig. he didn’t think about hiding or burying the body, leaving it in plain sight to humiliate his victims further. he didn’t even have his mask yet, and in retrospect, he’s not sure how he didn’t get caught because he was careless in those early days.
he took it as a sign from the universe that he was doing exactly what he was supposed to.
soonyoung was smart with the money his mom left him and picked up part-time jobs until he had enough to put himself through school. university was crawling with losers begging to be killed, but he was a little older and a little wiser, and he knew a serial killer on campus would draw too much attention. so he forced himself to focus on the worst of the worst. and that was when he realized his M.O. was evolving.
it started with a frat president rumored to drug and take advantage of girls at their house parties. soonyoung watched him for a whole semester, taking note of his schedule, his routes, his haunts, his friends. then, he started calling him. nothing more than heavy breathing at first. but when he could hear the man’s nerves fraying—and that didn’t take long—he started talking to him. he found that he liked psychologically torturing him as much as he’d tortured the girls he’d hurt.
hi, allen.
who i am isn’t important.
i hear you can’t get a woman to consent to having sex with you. what’s the problem? is it small? well, even if it is, that isn’t really an issue—just gotta know what to do with it, right?
well, i mean, why else would you resort to drugging and assaulting women?
don’t lie to me. i see everything.
one night, weeks after he’d started calling allen, soonyoung had one last phone conversation with him, one where he was no longer bluffing. he actually was seeing everything, standing in the dark corners of the kitchen in their fraternity house—this time in full disguise—while allen and his brothers got drunk in the backyard.
oh, allen, it’s a bad night to be drunk, buddy.
why? because i’m going to free this campus of you tonight. gonna cleanse the floors of this horrid fucking house with your blood.
it’s too late for “sorry,” allen. besides, i’m not the one who needs to hear it.
the frat president tried to stay with at least one person at all times after the call, but as his brothers got drunker and drunker and started stumbling off to bed or passing out, allen found himself alone. and in the morning, his brothers found him the same way, except this time, with his insides all over the outside.
soonyoung killed two more people while in college, and even though they were far enough apart, he still got dubbed the prank call killer, a name he found childish and dumb. besides, he didn’t want a name; he wanted men to be scared. at least scared enough to try to be decent.
then, college ended, he packed up to follow the shows he wanted to write for, and it led him to you. and he didn’t have time to think about anybody else, let alone plot their demise. soonyoung was occupied by you, your smile, your laugh, your scent, the way you made him feel normal—the way you made him feel at all, something he struggled with since his accident as a child. and once he actually had you? it was over. he knew there was no possible way he’d ever be able to let go of you ever again.
and the killing just… stopped. with you, he learned how to make friends—made a ton of them. he learned to enjoy other people and their company. he learned how to love, even if it sometimes made him want to plunge a knife into his own stomach. but he did it for you because he adored you, and nothing was more important than you.
so no, he didn’t think he had a control issue. it was largely easy minding his own business and refraining from stabbing men left and right when he had you next to him.
but then, you started this stupid fucking job. you met jay and all his little cronies, and soonyoung realized it wasn’t a matter of his control; it was a matter of your safety and happiness. because now that you were the center of his universe, you two were one. if someone hurt you, they were hurting him.
and the way he sees it, his only job is to make sure no one hurts him. no one messes with what’s his.
it’s not about control. he has none now. it’s about you.
by the time you finish telling him everything that happened that day, he has a strange calmness about him he hasn’t felt since before you. he can’t do anything but stare blankly forward, watching as employees of the studio walk to their cars and pull away.
“i’m so over it,” you grunt, having passed from sad to angry fairly quickly. “i don’t think i can do this anymore, soonie. i know money would be tight and i don’t want to put that stress on us but—”
“no, don’t be silly,” he says, feeling like he’s on autopilot. “please quit, baby. i’ve wanted you to quit since the first day; i just… didn’t want to be that boyfriend.” he means every word and yet, he can’t feel any of them as they leave his mouth. “we’ll figure it out. please quit.”
there’s a heavy silence between the lines until you sigh deeply. “okay, love. i will. i’ll do it.”
he thinks he should feel relieved. he doesn’t and he knows he won’t until he kills them. “yeah? you will?” he asks, hoping he sounds excited enough. “you promise?”
your smile is loud and clear as you speak. “yes, i promise, soonie. i’m going to march in there tomorrow and quit without notice, and i’ll tell them i hope they all drop dead—no!”
you gasp and correct yourself.
“i’ll tell them i hope the prank call killer comes for them just like they did for jay!”
soonyoung feels something then. he doesn’t know what; he can’t define it, but it quickly grows into something bigger the more you speak. it pulls both his spirits and the corners of his lips up. it kisses him and fills him with light. it makes him feel alive, more than a shell for a soul he isn’t even sure he has.
“i don’t even know if any of them realize what really happened,” you think aloud before sighing like you’re daydreaming. “ugh, what i wouldn’t pay to see them on the news like that. ‘grisliest murders since prank call killings plague corporate hell’! that would be nice, huh?”
soonyoung smirks. that, he can deliver.
“yeah, baby. it would. a headline like that… i’d die happy.”
“me too,” you agree before telling him: “no one gets me like you do, soonie.”
his heart soars.
🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
after he’s done gagging howard—so tightly, the fabric is cutting into his skin, a punishment for the earlier kick to the head—hoshi stands in front of the two men, leaning up against the pool table and watching them.
they both have cuts and bruises on their faces, from the struggle to get them into the dining chairs, but hoshi’s knife is still nowhere in sight.
HOSHI (begins mindlessly and slowly pacing in front of them) i bet you want to ask me who i am… what i want… why i’m doing this, right?
howard glares at him but chris is already crying.
HOSHI and usually, i’d entertain the questions because prolonging the hope that you’re going to survive makes this more fun for me, but… (stops facing away from them) i’m tired. and i think i’m beyond having fun tonight. (turns head toward them and chris flinches at the mask) i think… (fully turns toward them with hunting knife in hand, catching the light) i just want to wipe you two off the face of this earth and be done with it.
howard’s glare falters and chris urinates on himself. hoshi snorts.
HOSHI (walks up to chris, who cringes away from him) chris, right? (leans down so chris is face to face with his mask) i asked you a question.
chris nods obediently and quickly, gag soaked in his own tears.
HOSHI so you’re the one who called my girl a bitch, hm? (chris frowns but he doesn’t seem to know exactly who hoshi is yet) called her a bitch in front of the whole office… told her she’d be better sucking your dick under the desk than trying to assign you work?
howard’s eyes widen as he realizes exactly who hoshi is talking about. chris starts sobbing loudly, begging for his life incoherently through the gag.
HOSHI (looks down at chris’s soiled lap, points his knife at his crotch) you want her to suck this dick?
chris’s begging becomes more desperate, thrashing in his seat as he realizes what’s about to happen.
HOSHI (looks up at chris briefly and huffs a single laugh) what dick?
he shoves his knife into chris’s crotch. chris screams in muffled agony and howard starts shrieking and flailing in an attempt to scoot his chair away from the other two.
camera is focused on hoshi’s upper half and audience can see his arm jerking quickly back and forth as chris’s screams continue and howard finally starts crying. then, there’s a dull thud on the floor, and hoshi straightens back up and takes a step away, knife disappearing in his robes as he tilts his head and views his work.
HOSHI looks like there isn’t a dick to suck there, chris. shame.
chris’s wailing continues as hoshi looks to howard now, who begins shaking his head and crying through his gag.
HOSHI and you, you annoying little fuck. (crouches in front of howard) it wasn’t enough that you’re making her life a living hell, you wanted to piss me off even more and kick me in the head, huh?
hoshi rips his mask off, revealing his face to howard. there’s already a bruise spreading across the top of his left cheek. he smirks.
HOSHI my name is hoshi, if you’re wondering. and yeah. i’m her boyfriend. and as her boyfriend, she tells me all kinds of things. i’m sure you can imagine.
he stands up and walks back to the pool table, resting his mask against the felt before turning, leaning up against it once more, and crossing his arms.
HOSHI and today, she had a lot to tell me. she told me that jake’s two closest idiot friends were trying to continue his legacy as biggest asshole in the office. do you know how jake died, howard? won’t bother asking mr. no-dick, over there. seems busy.
camera goes to chris, who keeps fading in and out of consciousness, face soaked with sweat, tears, and drool slipping out of his open mouth.
HOSHI no guesses? (a gagged howard looks at him incredulously) okay, fine, fine, i’ll tell you. i killed him.
even though his tone sounds prideful as he speaks, his face is blank. he stares at howard with soulless eyes, and it unnerves him further.
HOSHI i snuck into his apartment while he was out drinking with you guys. (howard makes a noise of surprise) yeah, that’s right. you two were the last people to see that moron alive. i should probably thank you. (tilts his head up at the ceiling like he’s reliving the memory) his inebriated state made it a lot easier to tease and kill him. not a lot of fight in that one. surprising, don’t you think? (head remains tilted at ceiling, but eyes flash down to meet howard’s) that someone who tormented a woman’s life the way he did would die so easily… so quietly… so… pathetically.
chris regains consciousness and starts screaming and sobbing again, head hung over where his member used to be
HOSHI (brings his head down and looks at chris now) how will you two die? (eyes slide over to howard) will you beg for your life the way jake did? will you… offer me meaningless apologies and promises? will you… tell me that you’ll give me whatever i want?
he brings out his knife again and wipes it against howard’s pool table, smearing chris’s blood against the green felt. he inspects it like he’s making sure it’s sharp enough. camera focuses on hoshi’s reflection in the blade.
HOSHI (shrugs, puts knife down) i guess we’ll see in a few moments—how similar you are to jake. i will say, (pushes off the pool table, taking his mask with him) you two seem to be even worse than that deadbeat. do you agree, chris?
chris screams at the mere mention of his name, convulsing as hoshi walks closer to both of them. he stops just a couple of steps away from them, right in between the two.
HOSHI jake was a demeaning, narcissistic misogynist. and i tore him wide fucking open. let his intestines spill all over his own floor. made his living room a shallow sea of red.
both howard and chris beg through their gags.
HOSHI can you imagine what i’ll do to you if i think you’re even worse? (puts his mask back on and looks at howard) can you imagine what i’ll do to the man who told the whole office that he was gonna fuck the ambition and fight out of my girl, whether she liked it or not? what do you think i’ll do to that man if i made a massacre out of the dumbass who said a few mean things?
howard desperately shrieks excuses against his gag, no success in saying even one understandable word.
HOSHI (sighs like he’s come to a decision) yeah, i’m beyond having fun tonight. (quickly slashes chris’s throat, shallow enough that it will take a long time for him to bleed out. howard screams) at least with him. but with you? (crouches in front of howard again) the night has only started for you, howard.
IN THEIR HOME
TV NEWS ANCHOR authorities are doing their best to calm increasingly panicked citizens as fears that a serial killer is rampant on our streets spread. last week, 29-year-old jake lee was found brutally murdered in his downtown apartment (camera view switches to hoshi’s girlfriend as she tidies up around their living room. she looks pleased upon hearing that sentence), stabbed multiple times. last night, police answered multiple calls to 911 reporting the screams of a man in their high-rise apartment.
she stops tidying, turning to look at the news broadcast from where she stands. her eyes are wide and her mouth hangs open in surprise.
TV NEWS ANCHOR upon entering, they found 27-year-old howard wang and 25-year-old chris vu’s bodies in the former’s apartment. authorities have not yet released details of the crime, but sources report that the nature of their deaths is comparable to that of jake lee’s. we have maya on the scene, reporting.
the tv turns off as she sinks into the couch, obviously in a dazed shock. the camera focuses on her from straight ahead, slowly zooming in on her for several, silent seconds until only the lower half of her face is visible. after a few more moments, she smiles.
you watch soonyoung carefully as he washes the dishes, something he insisted on doing since you cooked tonight. you think it’s the least you can do for the sole earner of the household now that you’re unemployed, but he refused to let you do it yourself.
from where you stand, you have a clear view of his sharp profile. the bruise he says he got from falling down the stairs at work earlier this week has become a deep purple, spreading across his cheekbone and toward his jawline. you suppose he could’ve gotten that in a fall. a fall that took place the same night hayden and charles were murdered. the same night you told him you wished jay’s killer would come for them next.
you want to say your boyfriend would never do something that insane. you want to say your boyfriend doesn’t have the kind of temperament required to commit vengeful crimes like these. but after almost ten years together, you think there have been enough signs to make you take pause.
soonyoung almost never got visibly jealous—never paid any attention to men who looked at you a little too long or sent the server to deliver you a drink. he was confident in his trust in you. it should’ve been comforting how unbothered he was by the attention you received, but sometimes, you felt offended that he wasn’t at least a little bit jealous.
these thoughts were vanquished immediately when one night, someone grabbed you at a bar. it wasn’t even inappropriate; the man just took you by your forearm and yanked you toward him in an attempt to keep you from getting crushed by a drunken patron who had zero spatial awareness.
you’ll never forget the rage you saw in soonyoung’s eyes when they landed on the stranger’s hold on your arm. he didn’t do anything—simply threw the hand off you and led you away, but the look stayed with you. it was a raw, all-consuming, unadulterated, and unchecked rage you don’t think you’ve ever seen with your own eyes before.
the kind of rage you think could be capable of murder, given the right circumstances.
it should’ve scared you. just like the idea of soonyoung murdering your coworkers one by one should scare you. but it didn’t, and it doesn’t now. exactly like back then, it gets you wetter faster than foreplay itself.
soonyoung turns the faucet off and wipes his hands on the towel. when he turns, he’s so startled to find you standing so close to him, he stumbles back.
“oh shit,” he breathes, laughing a little. “i didn’t realize you were so close. you move so quietly.” he notices the way you stare at him intently. like it’s second-nature, he wraps himself around you and pulls you into his chest. “what’s up, baby?”
“i want to try something,” you say softly, a little hesitantly.
you know what you’re about to ask for is depraved and worrisome and… inhumane. but you can’t bring yourself to care right now, not when your panties are this soaked at the thoughts flying wildly around your head.
“okay,” soonyoung says, laughing a little. “can you be more specific?”
“i want… to roleplay a little,” you say, gaze going down to soonyoung’s neck, then his chest. your fingers trace the edges and dips of his collarbones and his pecs.
his grip on you tightens. “is that right?” he says, smirking. “and who do you want us to pretend to be? are we strangers in a bar?”
you shake your head. “no, not strangers in a bar.”
“okay,” he acquiesces easily.
soonyoung is always eager to give you whatever you want, and it bolsters your confidence to ask this of him. he leans down to graze your ear with his lips.
“am i your sexy sidepiece you’re cheating on your boring ass husband with?” he whispers, running his hands down to your ass and gently squeezing, pressing your hips against his so you can feel him already hardening from this conversation alone.
you smile, eyes fluttering closed as he nips at your lobe. “nope, not that either.”
“tell me who you want me to be, and i’ll be whatever it is, baby.” he subtly grinds into you and you try not to moan.
“you promise you won’t judge me?” you whisper.
“i would never,” he promises, leaving open-mouthed kisses down your neck now.
“i want you to be him,” you say as he starts to bite and suck. “i want you to be the prank call killer.”
he completely freezes in your arms, mouth still against your skin. for a horrifying minute, you think you’ve crossed the line. of course soonyoung is going to think you’re a freak for asking something so debauched and immoral of him. you have little to no evidence that he would ever enjoy something like this.
you’re about to push him away and start groveling for forgiveness and promising to seek therapy, when he grabs you by the face with both hands and envelopes your lips roughly with his own. his kisses are hot and wet and his tongue is in your mouth before you can ask if this means “yes.”
he presses you up against the kitchen island, and you can feel his entire length against your thigh, fully hard now and begging to be inside you. you groan just thinking about it—thinking about the murderer that took your tormentors off the street fucking into you viciously and relentlessly.
“and who are you?” he asks, breaking away from the kiss and lifting you so that you’re sitting on the counter.
soonyoung’s voice is rough and raspy with desire you haven’t heard from him quite like this before, and you feel the wetness between your legs grow knowing he’s willing to do this for you.
“i’m exactly who i am right now,” you say, feeling a little shy, but when he moans at your words, you feel bold enough to be honest with your fantasy. “i’m your girlfriend,” you inform him, hands diving under his shirt and caressing the muscles there. “and you’re going around killing all the losers i fucking hate because you adore me so much.”
“fuck, you’re so goddamn hot,” he mutters as he takes both hands and rips your blouse open, buttons popping and fabric ripping. you gasp and he smirks at the sound, slipping the ruined piece of clothing off you. “shhh, don’t be scared, baby. you’re the one person in this world i would never hurt.”
the sentence undoes you.
“oh god,” you breathe, diving forward and capturing his lips again.
soonyoung makes quick work of your bra, throwing it somewhere behind him once it’s off. he massages your breast for a few moments before taking your nipple between his fingers and tugging.
you break the kiss to tilt your head back and groan, and he takes the opportunity to bite and suck at the space where your neck meets your shoulder.
“rougher,” you breathe. “c’mon, you’re a murderer.”
soonyoung laughs a little at that, his love bites turning into gentle pecks up and down your neck.
“and you think this killer… he’d be rough with you?”
your eyes blink open a few times, staring at the ceiling and losing yourself in thought. in the days following your colleagues’ deaths and your own resignation from work, you’ve had a lot of time to think—and touch—about this. when you envisioned soonyoung as your murderous protector, you saw him as vicious and wrathful and cruel. but when it came to you… his need was desperate and carnal, but always softer. gentler.
you realize it’s probably not so different from the way soonyoung already likes to fuck you: like you’re the only person in the world he cares about.
“how about…” soonyoung presses one last kiss to your neck before his hands are suddenly up your skirt. he pushes your panties aside and abruptly plunges his middle finger into your heat. your body jerks into his in response. “you let me take the lead here, and if you don’t like something, you just let me know, hm?”
every word you’ve ever known escapes you as he fucks you with just one finger, the wet sounds of your arousal embarrassingly loud as he moves in and out. his thumb lands on your clit when you let out a particularly filthy moan for him, and you lean back on your hands and open your legs wider for him for better access. he gives you another finger as reward.
“oh, soonie,” you breathe. “yes.”
“so warm, so wet,” he rasps, other hand landing on your chest and flicking your nipple. “so beautiful.”
“babe,” you whine, rolling your hips onto his fingers in frenzied movements. “tell me… tell me about—oh my god!”
“hm?” he hums before the sound of more fabric ripping fills the kitchen.
you frown and look down in time to see soonyoung bringing your panties to his nose. you have half a mind to scream at him to stop but his fingers are still inside you, rendering you absolutely speechless as he presses the lace against his face and inhales deeply. your instinct is to feel self conscious—to snap your legs closed and grab your ruined underwear back. but you watch as his eyes roll back into his head and his lips twitch up against the black lace, and you realize he loves it. he breathes in again, and this time, you feel the excitement it causes through his fingers. they move with renewed fervor, like they’re thanking you for the gift you’ve given soonyoung.
“smell so fucking delicious,” he all but growls as he balls the panties up and pockets them.
before you can say anything back, he’s bending down to let his tongue taste your clit briefly before pressing his thumb back against you. your hips jerk and you can’t help when your elbows give, making you collapse and lay all the way down on the counter.
his fingers pump in and out of you faster now, and he completely replaces his thumb with his tongue, guzzling and drinking you up so intensely, his face quickly becomes covered with the stickiness of you.
“taste perfect,” he moans into you, tongue lapping you up eagerly. “tastes like mine.”
it pushes you over the edge quickly, and your back is arching off the island counter as your orgasm seizes you. the room is filled with your boyfriend’s name as you ride out the pleasure on his fingers.
“what do you want me to tell you about?” soonyoung asks once you come down, thumb going back to your clit. he keeps his face close to your pussy as he speaks, nose occasionally slipping between your folds and inhaling as he does. “should i tell you about how i disembowelled that ugly, little douchebag, jay?”
your cunt spasms at the words and soonyoung huffs a laugh when he feels you clench around his fingers. he curls them inside you, easily finding the spongy spot he’s been purposely avoiding up until now. he slows his movements, rubbing you patiently and carefully.
you sigh at the sensation, unsure if it’s because you feel so good or because you’re frustrated he’s eased up.
“i ran my knife up his body until his bones wouldn’t let me butcher him any further,” he whispers, moving so that his mouth is over your stomach, tongue slipping out to trace patterns on your skin between words. “and i made him bleed, baby. fuck, i made him bleed so much.”
“soonie.”
“i made him bleed for looking at you, for breathing near you, for ever thinking he could make someone as perfect as you bend to his will,” he whispers, breath hot as it fans over your skin, fingers still working you to a second orgasm. “i painted his apartment red. and i made it hurt. i made sure to make it hurt. just… for… you.”
he pushes roughly at your spot as he says that last word, eliciting a lewd moan as the beginnings of your next orgasm start to settle over you. soonyoung smirks against your skin.
“as for charles, i cut his fucking cock off,” he tells you.
you gasp at that even though you know he’s just making shit up for the sake of roleplaying. still, you find it in yourself to hate how much you love the idea of soonyoung doing that to someone who told you to get on your knees and suck his dick. someone who wasn’t your boyfriend.
“he cried like a bitch,” he says, kissing your clit before straightening back up so he can properly watch you writhe under him. “cried all the way up until i slit his throat.”
you smile at soonyoung then, reaching for his free hand—the one not currently buried two fingers deep inside you—and bringing it over your tit and holding it there. he looks at you like you’re the reason he’s alive. like you’re the only good thing in the world.
he massages you, just as gently as he did when this first started.
“but my favorite…” he says, eyes heavy-lidded as he takes you in. all his. all the time. until the end of time.
he removes his hand from your chest and shoves his sweatpants down just enough for his cock to spring out. your hips immediately start to buck at the sight, but all soonyoung has to do is shake his head at you once for you to immediately stop moving. there’s something so demanding and powerful about his presence right now that you’re not willing to push the limits of his patience. the pleased look on his face makes your emptiness feel worth it. he takes himself in his fist, pumping a few times as he speaks.
“my favorite was hayden. do you know why, baby?” he asks, moaning when you start playing with your nipple and breathing his name. “can you imagine the shit i did to the loser who thought he could fuck what’s mine?”
“i am,” you sigh, nodding desperately. “i’m yours.”
soonyoung pumps even faster now, but his fingers never falter inside you, intent on getting you to another high. and it’s close. you can feel it building almost painfully in your lower abdomen.
“i cut that ugly tongue of his out of his fucking mouth,” he grunts. you clench hard around his fingers. “and i started chopping him to fucking pieces—”
“soonyoung, i’m going to cum!” you half-shout, twisting under him uncontrollably.
“i cut him up, and the entire time, i only thought of you,” he fucks into his fist harder as you start to lose yourself to your climax.
“soonyoung!”
“and i thought that i’d kill the entire fucking world if i had to… just to keep you mine.”
you cum harder than you ever have in your life, near-screaming as you squirt all over soonyoung’s hand. the feeling reaches every, single corner of your body, making you convulse with pleasure.
“holy shit,” you hear from somewhere above you.
you don’t have time to gather your senses, though, because immediately, your body is being dragged down to the edge of the counter until you’re flying right off it. your boyfriend catches you, standing you up and kissing you full on the lips as he shoves your skirt down enough for it to slip off you and pool at your feet. you take the opportunity to tug his shirt off too, hands all over his naked torso once it is.
“let me cum in you?” he asks without leaving your lips.
“god, please,” you whine, feeling the wetness soonyoung caused sliding down your thighs.
he wastes no time after that, turning you around so that your hips are flush against the kitchen counter. you feel the fabric of his sweatpants glide down the back of your thighs as he removes them, and that’s the last thing you remember before the darkness overcomes you.
your eyes squeeze shut as soonyoung slams into you in one go, giving you zero time to adjust as he starts to immediately rut into you from behind. it burns and hurts so delectably, having him stretch you like this. usually, he takes even more time than he did tonight, making his way up to four fingers sometimes, but having him fuck you like this—like if he waits even a second longer, it’ll be his ruin—it threatens to violently shove you into an abyss of pleasure you fear you’ll never get out of.
soonyoung makes sure to hold you up, one arm across your chest with his hand on your breast, the other on your neck, forcing you to tilt your head back and rest on his shoulder.
you feel his eyes on you, his breath fanning your cheek as his gaze rakes you top to bottom, and you know he looks like a god, but you can’t open your eyes to save your life right now. you think if you do, you might explode into a million little pieces, forever disappearing into the ether.
you feel his lips rest against your ear as he sloppily whispers, “do you like it? knowing i’d do anything for you?” his voice is hoarse as he fucks you rougher than he ever has, the debased sound of skin slapping against each other filling the kitchen. “that i’d kill anyone without a second thought if it meant keeping you forever?”
you moan loudly, eyes pathetically rolling when you attempt to open them. you give up, keeping them shut as you reach up and grab soonyoung’s hair. he groans as you tug.
“soonie,” you sigh, shoving your hips back to meet his and making him curse. “i love it. i love it so much.”
you don’t know that you’re playing a role anymore. the idea that soonyoung would do any of this for you is so titillating, you feel drunk off it.
“feel so safe with you,” you say in broken gasps, your boyfriend’s rhythm making it impossible to say more than two words smoothly. “know you’ll always protect me, soonie.”
soonyoung curses loudly and bites into your neck to keep from getting any louder. his hips snap to yours at an increasingly unforgivable pace.
“and i’ll always protect you too,” you tell him.
you don’t care if this is something you wouldn’t be able to double down on when his cock isn’t buried to the hilt inside of you; it feels like the right thing to say. it feels exactly like what you want to do for him too: everything and anything. just to keep him yours.
“i would do anything for you, soonie,” you whisper.
without warning, there’s a burst of warmth inside your cunt, and soonyoung’s hand briefly tightens against your throat before immediately relaxing again, nothing but his moans and your name taking up the air in the room. he comes inside you hard, hips gluing to your ass like he’s trying to keep every, tiny drop inside you.
the feeling of his dick pulsing against your walls, pushing his seed into you, claiming you as his—it pushes you to your third orgasm, a slow and rolling one, not as intense as the others, but impossibly more satisfying. because this one not only brings you pleasure and an endless well of love for soonyoung; it brings you clarity.
because as you finally open your eyes moments later, soonyoung whispering sweet affirmations, vows, and affections in your ear as he keeps his softening cock warm inside you, you realize with startling lucidity that it wasn’t just a little fantasy.
the idea of soonyoung covered in blood and gore on your behalf was the stuff made of your dreams—or, arguably, nightmares. the idea that you had someone who adored you so deeply, he would play god like that made your heart grow tenfold. and now that soonyoung has fucked the fantasy deep into places inside you you couldn’t reach, you didn’t have it in you to feel ashamed about it.
you’re happy those three are dead.
and you’ll be even happier when the rest of them are too.
🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
HOSHI (leaning forward on the table) what’s your favorite scary movie?
YOUR ALIAS hmmm… (she buys herself time by taking a sip of her coffee) maybe… “saw”? why? are you big on scary movies?
HOSHI (shrugs) i like ‘em. probably more than other genres, yeah. (laughs nervously) what, um, do you like about “saw”?
she looks at him like she’s endeared by his nervousness.
YOUR ALIAS i mean, it was a really lengthy and roundabout way of doing things, but i guess i just enjoyed the idea of someone delivering retribution to people who deserved it but escaped it, not that i agreed all the victims chosen should’ve been chosen at all. just enjoyed seeing a few assholes die.
HOSHI (nods slowly) you like karma.
YOUR ALIAS (pauses with coffee at lips. she nods, maintaining eye contact) i do. (sips coffee) what’s your favorite scary movie?
HOSHI i like any slasher movie with a good final girl. if i had to pick, i’d probably say “halloween.”
YOUR ALIAS ahh, laurie, the final girl of all final girls.
hoshi visibly lights up at the comment, smiling widely at her.
HOSHI you know more about horror than you let on.
she nods, smiling back.
YOUR ALIAS just a little. i wouldn’t say i’m knowledgeable but i’ve watched a lot of the classics at least once. i’d call it a green flag that you root for the final girls. laurie’s a good one.
HOSHI i’ll take it. (obviously pleased) but humor me. why is it a green flag?
YOUR ALIAS (shrugs) when done correctly, final girls are the perfect mix of vulnerability—
scene suddenly and almost startlingly flashes to memories of hoshi’s mother for a brief second, accompanied by what sounds like a loud gust of wind. the memories are happy ones between hoshi and his mom.
YOUR ALIAS —and strength—
the memories become times his mother endured his father’s beatings.
YOUR ALIAS —and don’t subscribe to traditional gender roles and ideals. i’m not a huge fan of some films making it so that a lot of final girls are, like… holier than thou virgins, but i think the trope has come a long way.
hoshi nods, seemingly satisfied with her answer. she laughs and adds:
YOUR ALIAS unless you like final girls because you like to see a woman struggling against a violent serial killer. then red flag.
hoshi forces a laugh and shakes his head, looking down at his coffee and tracing the mouth of his mug.
HOSHI no, no. definitely more in line with the first one. i, uh… (looks up at her and seems to search for something in her eyes. whatever it is, he finds it and has the strength to be vulnerable for the first time in his life) my dad was abusive. with my mom.
her face falls and reaches forward to hold hoshi’s hand. the feeling is foreign and odd but he lets her hold it, even curling his own fingers closed around hers.
YOUR ALIAS i’m so sorry.
HOSHI she made me get out. she forced me to leave and never come back so i don’t really know what happened to her. i guess i just hope she’s a final girl.
she takes her second hand and closes it over the top of his and rubs it comfortingly.
YOUR ALIAS she must have loved you so much. (hoshi visibly bristles at that but doesn’t pull away) to be able to give you a better chance at life even if it meant never seeing you again… she absolutely is the final girl.
HOSHI (smiles) i like the way you described it. vulnerability, strength.
YOUR ALIAS (smiles back) tell me more about her.
the two talk until the cafe closes and kicks them out, and the audience sees a montage of the couple going on their second date, third date, until they are moving in together, and planning a future together. hoshi is the happiest the audience has ever seen him, and it seems the side of him that kills has been quieted, though we know that to be untrue from the murders happening present-day.
the montage moves into a scene where she comes home from work in tears. hoshi consoles her, but eventually, that same blank stare we first saw after his head injury comes back.
once she’s asleep, hoshi visits a storage unit he rents a few miles away. he reels up the door, revealing just one trunk in the unit. he walks up to it and opens it.
inside, is a mask, a robe, and a knife.
sex with you after that night in the kitchen has become twice as intense as it ever used to be, and soonyoung knows it’s because a big part of him isn’t holding back anymore—he’s bringing his whole self into bed with you, not bothering to pretend he isn’t completely eviscerating anyone who even looks at you funny in his spare time.
he tells you everything you want to hear, which funnily enough, is just the truth.
two more deaths to add to the list at your office, and he tells you exactly how he did it. he tells you what they said, how they begged, how he made them pay with their lives. between all of that, he never forgets to tell you he would do it time and time and again for you. he would do anything for you. kill anyone for you.
and the way you moan and gasp and cum at his words every time without fail is so goddamn addicting, he thinks he might die whenever he’s not inside you.
it’s dangerous, he knows that. as you start to tell him more stories you didn’t bother to when you were still working there, the itch to go annihilate that entire office becomes overwhelming, and he knows if he doesn’t control it soon, it’s bound to draw unwanted attention; he doesn’t know how it hasn’t already, with five dead bodies—all on the same team at the same company.
so for a few weeks, he doesn’t do anything about the mental list of names he has in his head, letting the headlines and panic die down.
you go out interviewing for jobs, he goes to work, you both come home and fuck each other’s brains out, and he stifles the voice in his head telling him to go murder every last person on that team.
but then, you ask for something terrifying.
you’ve been exploring your kinks ever since you first asked him to roleplay, and you’ve found the things you like and dislike—all things he agrees with so far. you like being tied up, you like blindfolding him, you don’t like calling him daddy (he absolutely fucking hated trying that one), you loved when he spit in your mouth, and he loved when you spit in his.
and while he was open to all your suggestions, there were some things he hesitated with. you asked him to choke you and though he initially agreed, he couldn’t, immediately getting soft when he tried to. you asked him to degrade you—call you a bitch, a slut, a whore—and he figured it was your way of coming to terms with what you experienced at your nightmare of a job. that maybe if it came from someone you loved and felt safe with instead of the asshole in the next cubicle, you’d slowly chip away at your trauma. but he couldn’t do that either.
you always handled his rejections gracefully, assuring him that you could do missionary with zero kinks involved for the rest of your life, and you’d be “on your knees thanking him for blessing you with his dick either way.” and you do your best to prove that to him, taking kinks off the table for a while and seemingly giving him a break. the only thing that stays constant is the “roleplaying,” though that’s probably more at soonyoung’s insistence than anything else. the intimacy he experiences from being himself in bed with you—truly himself—is unparalleled.
until one night, you ask him to use a knife on you during sex, and the panic attack it incites—the first soonyoung has ever experienced—is so massive, you almost call 911. he calms down enough to convince you not to, and the rest of the night is spent in your arms as you cry and apologize profusely for suggesting something like that when you know how his parents raised him. he tries to find the strength to tell you it’s okay, and that he understands, and that there’s no harm in asking, but each time he tries, nothing comes out of his mouth. he spends that entire time staring at the wall, and for the very first time, he experiences it: an undeniable thirst to plunge his knife into someone.
soonyoung isn’t sure why, especially since he just suffered the most exhausting mental breakdown over the measly idea of even holding a knife anywhere near your vicinity. maybe it’s to take his mind off the gruesome, nauseating thoughts of his hunting knife sinking into your flesh—images that flooded his mind against his will the moment you asked that of him. maybe it’s a need to recalibrate his brain, like if he kills another one of your tormentors, it will remind him of his devotion to you.
whatever it is, it nags at him day and night for the rest of the week until he accepts it’s something he needs to give into, no matter how callous and unwise it might be. in an attempt to convince himself it’s okay, he says this will be the last one; regardless of the handful of names left, he’ll do this last one, and he’ll move on. as such, he makes his last victim the one person who could’ve put an end to all of this from the start: your boss.
daniel park is a man of routine, soonyoung learns over the next few weeks. he leaves his home at a sharp 7 a.m., stopping by the same coffeeshop near his obnoxiously large house in the suburbs. he gets to the office around 8 a.m., a full hour after he required you (and no one else) to be in the office when you were still his employee. now that you’re gone, park is usually the first of his team in the office. he locks himself up inside his corner office doing fuck all while everyone else does his work for eight hours. he leaves the office exactly at 4 p.m., and from there, he either goes out for dinner and drinks with his team (something you were never invited to), meets equally old and ugly buddies for drinks, or goes to a bar alone for drinks. either way, the man is drunk by 6 p.m. every day.
then, around 10 p.m., he’ll make his sorry way home—driving drunk while at it—and he’ll stumble into his home, paying no mind to his already sleeping wife, who took care of the home and their child the entire day with no help from him.
soonyoung decides to be reckless one more time. it’s his last one, anyway. he wants this one to matter. he wants this one to be the one you think about for the rest of your life—enough to hold you over even if he never kills again.
he waits for a night when park drinks alone, usually around wednesday or thursday, when he’s gotten tired of his team and wants time alone with whatever stupid thoughts he has. soonyoung watches him from a corner booth at the bar, knocking back whiskey after whiskey like they’re shots. and when he stumbles out of the establishment, he easily guides him to his own car instead of park’s with little protest from the drunk.
he drives him right back to the office building that took so much energy and life out of you, using his badge to get them into the floor. he’s patient with park, letting the man nod off for an hour as he ties him up and prepares for the rest of the night.
when park finally blinks his eyes open, soonyoung is fully dressed in his usual disguise and standing before him in the darkness, only the moonlight filtering in from the windows to his left illuminating his shape. the way your boss startles so violently is deeply satisfying, and it takes everything in soonyoung to refrain from laughing in his face. park jerks his limbs, horrified to find them tightly bound to his own chair, wheeled out of his office and brought to the front of the team floor, where park keeps a whiteboard for their daily stand-ups.
“good morning, sunshine,” soonyoung says from beneath his mask.
“who are you?! what kind of sick joke is this?!”
“none of you were raised with manners, huh?” he grumbles. “all of you skip straight to your stupid questions. why don’t any of you know how to greet a fellow human being?”
he stills in the seat. “‘all of us’?”
soonyoung nods slowly, taking his knife out of his robes, freshly cleaned and polished the way it is before and after every single death. he feels a jolt of dread twist in his stomach when he looks at the blade, picturing it buried in your stomach. he shakes his head to free himself of the thoughts, and thankfully, park doesn’t notice, too busy blabbering all kinds of questions.
“shhh, shhh!” soonyoung shushes him, waving his hands erratically. “quiet, shut up, i’m irritable tonight and if you piss me off on top of that, i’ll make this ten times slower than it needs to be.”
his mouth clamps shut at that and he presses himself back into his seat.
soonyoung usually pretends to inspect his knife at this point just to intimidate his victims, but he couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t throw up looking at his own weapon right now, so he lets the arm holding it simply fall to his side.
“all of you,” he repeats. “jay… charles… hayden.” he walks to park slowly, menacingly. “leo, ian.”
your boss’s eyes widen as he hears all the names of his slain employees from the last several months.
“daniel,” soonyoung finishes his list. “you.”
“wh… what…?” he sputters, shaking his head in confusion. his words slur and this close, soonyoung can smell the alcohol on his breath even from under his mask. “you were actually targeting this office?!”
soongyoung scoffs. “well, yes. the only victims have been from this office.”
“b-but authorities! they said there have been a few others that could’ve been—”
park cuts himself off with his own scream as soonyoung’s knife pins his hand to the arm of his chair.
“oh my god!” he screams at the top of his lungs, entire body jerking against his restraints. “oh my god, you stabbed me! you fucking stabbed me! oh my god!”
“i told you to be quiet, right?” he reminds him. “are you going to be quiet… or not?”
your boss stops screaming, though his whimpering and sobbing is almost just as loud. he does his best not to look at his own hand like it helps him pretend it didn’t just happen. he stares up at the ceiling, taking shallow breaths.
“do you know what all of you have in common?” soonyoung asks.
“no,” park breathes, still blinking furiously at the ceiling.
“y/n,” he states easily. “that’s what you have in common.”
park’s eyes come down to soonyoung’s mask, wide and filled with tears.
“yeah, you know exactly why i’m here, don’t you?”
“i—i—” his mouth opens and closes several times before he says, “i’m sorry.”
“whatever for?” soonyoung asks sarcastically, pulling someone’s chair out from their cubicle.
he notices a light blanket on it, yanking it off and throwing it over his shoulder before he sits down. he slouches, bringing one ankle to rest up on his knee and cradling his chin in his hand, elbow on the armrest. he tilts his head in mock interest.
“for it all!” he shrieks. “i swear, i’m sorry, i know i should’ve done more! i’m sorry! i’m a fucking coward, okay?! please! i know what they did to her was horrible!”
“do you? know that?”
“yes, yes! i swear!”
“name them.”
“what?”
“if you can name everything they said and did to her,” soonyoung says, watching the way his blood drips from the armrest and stains the carpet below. “maybe i’ll make this quick. stab you in the heart and be done with it.”
“what?!” he protests. “what about you let me live?”
soonyoung scoffs exaggeratedly. “oh no, daniel. no. that’s cute, but no. the only way you’re coming out of this building is in a body bag. it really is just a matter of whether or not this will be quick and painless or… well, y’know… the alternative.”
he’s bluffing. he already knows exactly what he’s doing with park. he just likes giving him the illusion of control. when he rips it away from him, it’ll be all the more gratifying.
“you have a minute. i’d start listing if i were you.”
“they, uh, they bullied her!”
soonyoung rolls his eyes beneath his mask.
“they catcalled her! they took credit for her work! they made her do all of their reports! they, uh… they—”
“tick tock.”
“they made sexual jokes about her! talked shit about her during dinners! uh, they—um, they spread rumors about her!”
“okay,” soonyoung says, waving a hand and nodding. “good run.” park seems to sigh with relief. “how about you, though?”
“what?”
“how about you?” soonyoung repeats himself, and even though he’s still slouched casually in his seat, his change of tone makes your boss flinch. “what are some things you said and did to her?”
“i… i didn’t…”
“uh-uh,” he laughs, wagging a finger at him. “i already know everything, daniel. don’t try to lie to me.”
it’s another bluff. you told soonyoung you told him everything, but something about the way you said it never convinced him. he knew you were leaving something out, and if this was his last time with any of your vile colleagues, he might as well try to see what it was you were hiding.
“what’s it going to be, boss man? are we going slow or are we making it painless?”
“i passed her up for every promotion!” he shouts immediately, wincing when his enthusiasm jostles his hand against the knife. “she was the most qualified and i passed her up every time!”
soonyoung motions with his hand boredly. “okay… and?”
“i told her to suck it up! that boys will be boys! i told her if she wanted to move up, she needed to get used to it!”
soonyoung glares at him from beneath his mask.
“i—” he swallows hard, tears flowing down his face.
soonyoung sits up, sensing the revelation he’s waiting for on the horizon. he plants both feet on the ground, stands, and stalks over to park until he’s towering right over him. he whips the blanket off his shoulder, balling it in his fist before he rests his hands on your boss’s forearms and leans forward to meet his eyes, ignoring the way he gasps at the pain the movement causes.
“you what?” he asks calmly.
“i… oh god, i…” he swallows nothing again. “i’m sorry…”
“what are you sorry for, daniel?”
“i… i told her if she did want a promotion… she could do me some favors.”
soonyoung’s blood runs cold in his veins. that’s not something you ever mentioned to him, and he can imagine why. he wouldn’t have just gone on a murderous rampage; he would’ve blown this entire building up. he thinks he might break his own teeth from how hard he clenches his jaw. after a few moments, he forces himself to release the tension and open his mouth once more.
“what kind of favors, daniel?” he asks quietly.
“oh god, please don’t make me sa—SEXUAL!” he bellows when soonyoung presses a hand to the hilt of his knife, pushing down another inch. “SEXUAL FAVORS!”
“ah, there it is,” he grunts, nodding.
he stands back up. soonyoung unceremoniously yanks the knife out of park’s hand, flips it so that it’s blade up once more, and without hesitating, he brings the sharp side down on all four of park’s fingers. before the man has a chance to scream, he shoves the blanket into his open mouth, muffling any noise he planned on making.
“shhh,” soonyoung mutters almost soothingly. “shhh, you’re fine. it’s just a few fingers. you don’t need them where you’re going anyway.”
he pats park’s head condescendingly two times before hitting the same spot with the blunt end of his knife.
“you’re all just fucking assholes, aren’t you?” he asks as blood starts running down your boss’s temple. “is that on the job listing? ‘requirements: must be a misogynistic pervert’?”
he grabs a fistful of park’s hair, yanking back so that all he could see was the ceiling.
“i’m sure you know exactly what happened to the others,” soonyoung says, speaking so close to him, his mask presses up against the side of his face that isn’t bleeding. “i’m sure you know all about what i did to them.”
park sobs through the blanket, drool escaping the corners of his lips the harder he tries to speak through the makeshift gag.
“i bet you didn’t count on her having someone who adored her like this, did you?” he asks, voice low. “didn’t think someone would come punish you for hurting the person they love most in this stupid fucking world?”
“no. he didn’t.”
soonyoung freezes at the female voice that cuts through the floor from behind him. your boss starts to thrash with renewed hope that someone has caught him red-handed. his fist tightens around his hair, yanking to shut him up. painstakingly slowly, and without letting park go, soonyoung cranes his neck to look behind him, heart stopping when he sees you there, standing in the moonlight looking as breathtaking as ever.
he doesn’t dare say a word. under his mask, soonyoung frantically searches your face for any sign that you’ll run screaming from him, leaving him alone, never to see you again. he doesn’t find anything other than your usual, soft smile—“resting lovely face” he would call it on his especially sappy days.
you’ve pretended to be a murderer’s girlfriend dozens of times by now, but soonyoung had no reason to believe you thought any of it was real—that you suspected him of all the heinous crimes he’s committed for you. as you let the large bag hanging on your shoulder slip off and fall to the floor and you start walking toward them, he weighs his options.
he could run, but then what? leave you with a crime scene you’ll take the blame for? absolutely not. he could throw himself to the floor begging you for forgiveness, begging you to not turn him in but more importantly, begging you to stay with him. there’s a tiny, ugly voice that suggests he could also kill you. he shudders, shaking the thought away. if he resorted to that, he would have to follow right after. that had to be his last option.
you reach them, and soonyoung knows he’s run out of time. whatever you do or say next will dictate the rest of your lives.
when he forces himself to meet your gaze, though, he sees nothing there but absolute fondness and veneration. you rest a palm against his back as he continues leaning over your former boss.
“mr. park,” you say, turning your attention to the man bound to the chair now. soonyoung follows your gaze back to the man, who’s still being forced to stare at the ceiling. he releases his grip on him, allowing him to look at you. his eyes widen in what soonyoung suspects is fear. “nice to see you again under these circumstances. really nice.”
soonyoung feels his heart skip a beat. he straightens up to his full height now, eyes on you as you continue speaking. your hand snakes from his back to his arm, and down, down, down, until your fingers are intertwined with his.
“have you met my better half?” you ask him. “this is kwon soonyoung.”
he feels like his heart jumps into his throat at that moment, and he fights to keep from choking on nothing. you must feel the way he stills in your hold because you bring his gloved hand to your lips and kiss it gently.
your boss starts sobbing twice as hard, throwing what looks to be a restrained tantrum.
“i’m sorry,” you say, faking a wince. “you must have thought i was here to help you, huh?”
soonyoung’s mouth twists into what he’s sure is the largest, most insane smile he’s ever had the pleasure of smiling in his life. the adrenaline and dopamine that suddenly releases in his system makes him feel invincible in a way he never has before. because if you, the adoration of his goddamn life, know who and what he is and you still love him… then nothing will ever be able to stop him ever again. nothing stands between him and the entire world now.
“my bad,” you sigh. “i’m just here to watch you die.”
soonyoung takes that as his cue, lifting his knife toward park. but before he can do anything, your hand comes to his forearm, stopping him. he looks down at you, tilting his head in question. you look up and shake your head.
“i want to do it,” you whisper.
he doesn’t know why he doesn’t want to talk to you while his mask is on. whatever it is, he can’t say anything as you try to take the knife in your own hand.
sensing his hesitation, you smile and nod. “you’ve done so much for me, soonie. will you let me be my own final girl now?”
without a second thought, the tension in his arm dissipates immediately, completely surrendering his weapon to you. you hold his knife in your hand, and seeing it in your grip demolishes whatever last walls he had up between the two of you. you stare down at it like you’re holding a relic, and it takes him a moment to realize you’re imagining the men he’s killed in your name with it.
he reaches out, wrapping his hand around yours and tightening your grip on the hilt. your gaze flick up to him and his other hand briefly caresses your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, smile widening for a short moment. when your eyes open, there’s a fire in them he’s seeing for the first time, and he knows that whoever he walks out of here with is going to be a completely different person than the one he woke up next to this morning.
you give him a small nod before turning away from his hold and facing the man who’s made your life a living hell this entire time.
soonyoung decides he doesn’t want to watch park’s face as the light leaves his eyes. instead, he walks around the chair behind him, holding it from behind to keep it still for you, his eyes trained on your face and only your face.
the smirk that graces it now is glorious, and it takes everything in him to keep from falling to his knees and kissing the ground you walk on.
“sorry, nothing personal,” you say, obviously reciting something he’s said to you before. “girls will be girls, right?”
soonyoung barely hears the muffled screams that follow. all he can hear is his heart singing as he watches the life, light, and joy this job stole from you come back to you all at once. he’s never been more in love. and he thinks he understands now. this. this is love.
it was clear to you that something was escalating inside soonyoung for the last few weeks, and you knew he was gearing up to commit his last crime—you were sure of it.
you had your suspicions when you asked him to roleplay with you, but it was the week after that you became confident in your intuition. the week after, when authorities finally released the circumstances under which hayden and charles died.
you shouldn’t have been surprised when you read the dirty talk soonyoung used to get you to cum over and over again practically word for word in the article that detailed their murders. there was no way he would have been able to know all this information before the public did, and lucky guesses were out of the question, especially when every, last thing he told you was listed.
after that, two more of your ex-coworkers died, ones that made particularly lewd comments at you, something you noticed angered soonyoung more intensely than any other kind of offense. it made you feel more flattered than it should have—how possessive and jealous he got because of these assholes who thought they had any kind of entitlement to you or your body.
soonyoung had ruined you for anybody else long before you knew this truth about him; he had no reason to feel jealous. still, it made you feel so special, and you didn’t stop to question the toxicity and unhealthiness of everything you’ve been feeling in the last weeks—in the last year.
for the first time in so long, you felt good and you felt safe, and you had no intentions of changing that. you’ve been all in on soonyoung since your first date. this changed nothing.
so as he started escalating, you started watching. instead of attending job interviews like you claimed to be, you were following him. most of the time, it was just to the writers’ room, but a few times a week, it was to watch him tailing your ex boss.
between following him around and snooping through his things, it didn’t take long for you to piece together what he was planning, and with how erratic soonyoung’s behavior had gotten since you made the stupid, thoughtless, grave mistake of suggesting knife play in the bedroom, you knew he was going to be prone to mistakes. so you started preparing right alongside him.
when his gear disappeared from the creaky floorboard he kept it hidden under, you knew it would be time to act soon. then, today, as your boyfriend kissed you goodbye in the morning, he told you not to wait up; the writers room was going to run late to meet deadlines for next week’s episode.
you’ll give it to him; soonyoung was a really good liar. after all, he has kept this secret from you for a good amount of time. and if he’s so comfortable doing this, you imagine it isn’t his first time killing either. who knows how long he’s been lying to you?
but now that you were looking for the signs, it was easy to tell. he maintained eye contact too well, like he was actively telling himself to refrain from looking away and seeming suspicious. he smiled a little too hard. offered one too many details if you asked a simple follow-up question.
“oh okay, what time do you think you’ll be home?”
“fuck, not sure, this episode has a lot of rewrites because one of the actors is throwing a bitch fit about his lines, and they want us back at the drawing board—well, writing board—with, like, three new options for this asshole by tomorrow morning, so. who knows how long that will take. i’ll text you when i’m on my way, though, okay? i love you.”
as soon as he was out the door, you were moving.
you made a trip to your old workplace under the guise of needing a copy of your last paystub from HR, which happened to work right next to your team. while you were there, you made sure you were seen on every camera in the lobby, made sure to say hi to several people—even if some of those people were assholes you wish soonyoung would waste too. you allowed stray hairs to fall from your travel hairbrush. you scratched wildly at your skin. you coughed openly. you gave a valid and proper excuse for your DNA—and trace amounts of soonyoung’s DNA—to end up here other than for a murder.
and when no one was looking, you helped yourself to a jay minion’s cubicle while he was away from it. alex. you pocketed his badge, which he had a bad habit of walking around without, and you scheduled an email from his account addressed to your former boss, knowing full well that a lazy idiot like him would not be noticing a scheduled message in his account.
if soonyoung couldn’t kill him, life in prison was a good alternative.
once you were done with your part, you went home, dropped your phone off so that it couldn’t be tracked anywhere but home tonight, and packed a bag of extra clothes. then, you followed your doting boyfriend from his job, and once you saw him tuck your drunken former boss into his own car, you raced back to the office, where you were 99.9 percent sure he would be bringing him back. you scanned in using alex’s badge through the backdoor, where there were no cameras, you made your way to your team’s floor, and you waited.
not long after, when a tall, lean person dressed in the gear you’d found under your boyfriend’s creaky floorboard, walked onto the floor, practically carrying park on his shoulder, it took everything to keep from shrieking and giggling at how well you knew your own boyfriend.
you watched as he methodically and carefully tied him to his chair, rolled him to the exact spot he wanted him. you watched as he polished an already incredibly clean knife, shuddering uncomfortably a few times as he did. you wondered if it still bothered him—taking life. if maybe he wasn’t as seasoned as you thought, and the act still took something precious from him.
you hated the idea that something as generous as ridding the world of vermin like your ex-teammates could affect soonyoung like that.
what you hated even more was how turned on you were watching as he walked back and forth in his disguise, the muscles of his arms and his back still prominent through the tattered robes. but before you could debate jumping out of the shadows and convincing him to just leave and go home with you so you could ride him until dawn, your dumbass boss was waking up again.
you honestly didn’t know when you were supposed to step out, but the more soonyoung’s love for you shown—the clearer he made it that he truly would do anything for you, the less you cared about staying hidden.
and before you knew it, you were holding soonyoung’s very own knife, standing in front of a very dead daniel park, covered in his blood and laughing so hard, you thought maybe your nervous system was broken. but when the giggles died down and you didn’t burst into tears the way you expected you would, you knew you were perfectly fine. better than fine. you were thrilled.
“finally,” you breathe, reaching forward to yank the blanket out of your boss’s mouth, wiping the knife on a cleaner corner. “here you go.”
you hand it over hilt first toward your boyfriend, who’s still standing behind park, splatters of blood all over him too. he gently takes the weapon from you, tucking it somewhere within his robes. you watch him carefully, wondering what his face looks like, wondering what he’s thinking. instead, all you get is that permanent scream on his mask as it stares blankly back at you.
does he think i’m crazy? does it turn him off? would he rather be the one doing the saving?
you don’t voice any of your insecurities, though. you’re far too happy and relieved to ruin this moment with those thoughts. instead, you take the blanket you’re still holding and you dip it in one of park’s stab wounds until it’s soaked in his blood. you walk to the whiteboard behind his body and swipe at it in broad strokes, stepping back to view your work when you’re done.
you look back to your boyfriend to see him looking at the whiteboard.
FINAL
not for park or any of the other men soonyoung obliterated like a hurricane passing through, but for you. the final person standing, with the help of a man who loved you enough to make sure it ended this way. you hope he gets it and that he’s appreciating it the way you are.
while he continues staring at the board, you take the time to reach into the pocket of park’s jacket, fishing his phone out of it. because he treated you like his executive assistant, you knew most of his passwords, and you were banking on it being the same.
when his phone unlocks, you breathe a sigh of relief. you navigate to his email, pleased to find alex’s email in his inbox just like you planned for it to be.
to: [email protected]
from: [email protected]
subject: ! emergency situation, action needed
body: mr. park, we have a dire situation at the office that requires your attention. a few of the other team members and i will be working late into the night to remedy this; please stop by the office when you can to discuss next steps.
once you’re sure the message is marked read, you wipe the phone free of your prints with the blanket before tucking it back into his pocket. when you’re done, you let the blanket fall to the ground, eyes going back to your boyfriend, whose gaze is back on you now.
soonyoung still doesn’t say anything, simply walking to the duffle he left in the far corner. he removes his shoes, replacing them with a disposable shoe cover on each foot, before removing yours and doing the same for you, an act that feels so intimate, you’re tempted to take him right here, in the middle of this gore, effectively ruining all your efforts to keep him from getting caught.
he puts the shoes into spare trash bags and tucks them into his duffle before standing and holding his hand out for you to take. your fears that he’s mad you came here dissolve, and you take his gloved hand in yours.
he leads you away, picking up your own bag off the floor for you as you pass it. you think he’s leading you out of the building, but instead, you both end up in the showers, an amenity usually meant for commuters or people who went to the gym and worked out in the middle of their work day.
soonyoung sets both of your bags down on one of the benches in the locker room before nodding toward the showers. you follow him wordlessly, heat pooling in your stomach as you do.
he leads you into a shower stall, turning on the hot water and letting the water hit the both of you fully clothed. he turns around to face you, his mask wet with blood and water as it stares down at you. you hesitantly lift a hand up to rest on the jaw of it. you look up into the black holes of its eyes, hoping he understands you’re asking if you can remove it for him.
when he doesn’t stop you, you push up on the mask, lifting it completely off his head. the first thing you notice is that soonyoung’s platinum blonde hair is matted to his forehead with sweat, all of his visible skin slick with it. and when you meet his eyes, you’re immediately rooted to the spot, robbed of all air. his pupils are blown, making his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them as they bore into yours. his mouth is parted, chest heaving as he breathes like he’s been running for hours.
without giving you a chance to think of your next move, he grabs the mask and chucks it somewhere behind you before wrapping his hand around the back of your neck and roughly pulling you to him. he cranes down to envelope your lips with his, wasting no time parting them and fervently shoving his tongue into your mouth.
it doesn’t take long for him to get the both of you naked; you’re not even really sure when it happens, but suddenly, he’s kicking your soiled clothes away from the both of you, his hands going from cradling your face to softly running across your shoulders, your back, your ass, and you realize he’s rinsing the death off of you, all while peppering you with feather light kisses as he does.
you hang your head, resting it against his shoulder as you watch red swirl down the drain, until it’s pink, until it’s clear. you sigh deeply at the sensation of the water pelting your skin and soonyoung’s fingertips dancing across every part of you. he presses his erection in between your thighs at the sound of your breath, and it quickly turns into a moan.
you reach to grip his cock in your hand, fisting it tightly. his breath hitches, and you decide it’s time to thank him for everything he’s done for you these last few months. you lift your head up off his shoulder and reach up to press your lips to his once more, gentle and chaste.
“thank you,” you whisper. he runs a hand across his face to get water out of his eyes.
“for what?” he asks, voice husky around the first words he’s said to you since the night started.
“for loving me like this,” you answer, pumping your first slowly as you speak. “for doing all of this for me… and for letting me be a part of it too.”
soonyoung closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours, nothing but the sound of the water and his labored breaths as you stroke him filling the room.
“i love you, y/n,” he says in a voice you haven’t heard from him before. it sounds small, vulnerable, and emotional, and when he opens his eyes, you aren’t surprised to see tears gathered there. “i love you so fucking much.”
you don’t think he’s ever said that to you like this. getting him to even use the word “love” was like pulling teeth in the beginning of your relationship. now, he says it like he’s free of the trauma he’s tied to the word over the years of his childhood. you tiptoe to kiss the tears out of his eyes.
“i love you,” you return. “and i adore you. forever. now… let me show you.”
you kiss every bit of skin you can on your way down his body, until you’re on your knees. you look up at him one, last time, melting a little at the affection he stares at you with.
“don’t hold back, okay?”
he curses under his breath before nodding. he reaches one arm across the shower, planting a palm on the wall behind you to steady himself as you take his entire length into your mouth.
“fuck.”
you hollow your cheeks as you slide away, tongue swirling on the underside of his shaft and dragging across the veins of his cock. you wrap one hand at the base tightly before sliding him back in, knowing that taking his entire monster length wasn’t going to be sustainable for you or your throat. you blow him like this—pumping and twisting at the bottom of his shaft with your hand, your other one massaging his balls—for only a few moments before soonyoung absolutely loses it.
and ever eager to please you, he follows your instructions and holds nothing back. he palms the back of your head with his free hand and without warning, starts fucking into your mouth roughly. tears stream down your face, mixing with the hot water of the shower and the precum leaking out of soonyoung. the back of your throat starts to burn early on, but still, you want more.
your hands grab soonyoung’s ass, bringing him impossibly further into your throat on every thrust. he groans loudly, cursing in between shouts of your name.
“y/n,” he breathes, slowing his movements after a few minutes until his hips stutter to a full stop. you frown, looking up at him when he pops his cock out of your mouth. “i don’t want to cum in your mouth, baby.”
“why not?” you ask dumbly.
he laughs, obviously not expecting the question. instead of answering, he pulls you up and onto your feet, steadying you when you realize they’ve fallen asleep from the lack of blood flow. he presses you against the wall, caging you in and pressing his thigh between your legs to keep you standing as you regain the feeling in your legs. you gasp when his quad rests against your clit.
“there are better places to cum,” he finally answers, just barely moving his thigh against you.
the tiny movement is enough to coax another moan out of you, though. his fingers come down to dive in between your folds and trace your slit teasingly back and forth, gathering your arousal. he brings his fingers up to his mouth, shamelessly taking them in and tasting the way he makes you feel. his eyes close as he savors the taste.
“mmm,” he hums fondly like your lust is a five star meal. he opens his eyes, smirking at the way you’re staring at him. “want to taste?”
you nod eagerly. at this point, you’d take whatever he wanted to give you. you reach forward to kiss him, but he pins your shoulder to the wall with a hand, making you squeak in surprise, and when his other hand comes up your neck and grabs your jaw, tilting it up toward him and forcing your mouth open, you realize what he means and what he wants.
you fight your own smirk as you open your mouth wider, letting your tongue hang out as far as it will go. he presses his cock against you at the sight, cursing before he takes your face in both his hands, leans over you, and aims, spitting straight into your mouth. you whine pathetically when you feel it hit the back of your throat, immediately grasping both his arms and grinding down against his thigh while it’s still pressed between your legs.
“soonie, please,” you mewl, desperately and messily grabbing at whatever you can at this point just to get him closer to getting inside you, including his hair, his neck, his arms, his hips—anything.
he grabs your wrists when you won’t stop, holding them tightly in between your bodies with one hand, the other cupping your ass and guiding one leg to wrap around his waist, the tip of his cock already teasing your hole.
“behave,” he hisses, squeezing your wrists until they hurt. you don’t dare wriggle against his hold. “are you going to be good?” you nod. he immediately releases you, guiding one hand to his shoulder to keep yourself steady.
when both of your hands are wrapped around his shoulders, he takes your other leg and wraps it around his waist too, lifting you up and pinning you between him and the wall. he kisses you harshly and recklessly, tongue wrapping itself around yours as his cock starts to push into you.
he doesn’t wait until he’s fully buried in you the way he usually does. no, tonight, he can’t seem to help himself when he breaks away from you to remind you: “you’re mine.”
you nod, resting your head back against the wall, nails digging into his shoulders as he pushes in further. “yours,” you gasp. “always.”
“god, i love you,” he says for the third time tonight, making the burn feel all the better as he bottoms out. “you’re so perfect,” he breathes, adjusting to the feeling of your cunt around him. “so fucking tight.”
“fuck me, baby” is all you have the energy to whisper. and he delivers.
he easily bounces you on his dick in time with his own thrusts, the corded muscles of his arms hard, wet, and glistening as he holds you up against the wall. you don’t care how loud you are, letting your screams out as they come. at this point, you’re not sure you even care if the police catch you like this and arrest you.
all that matters is how soonyoung feels inside of you, how his mouth burns everywhere they press against you, how his fingertips dig into your flesh so hard, you think it’ll bruise. he rests his forehead against yours, holding unwavering eye contact with you as he fucks you like it’s simultaneously the first and last time.
“marry me,” he whispers suddenly. “fuck. marry me, y/n.”
you gasp as he thrusts hard, tip kissing your cervix. “a-are you s-seriously asking right now?”
he smirks, kissing you quickly before thrusting even faster and harder. the sounds that come out of your mouth are a pitch higher and nastier. “i’ve had a ring for a year. i can’t fucking wait anymore. marry me. god, please marry me.”
you don’t have to think twice. “yes,” you half moan. “yes, soonyoung. yes, i’ll—fuck! i’ll marry you!”
the thought does something to the both of you at the same, exact time, and you’re both shouting warnings at each other as you reach your highs. his teeth sink into your collarbone as he comes inside you, your fist closing around the hair at the nape of his neck as you reach your own climax on his dick too.
you stay in the same position for a few moments, both trying and failing to catch your breaths.
when you finally do, you tap soonyoung’s shoulder to let you down, but he refuses, stubbornly staying inside of you. you frown.
“what are you doing? we should shower and leave,” you point out, remembering there’s an incredibly deceased man outside.
“the longer i stay here, the longer my cum stays inside you, and the greater the chances i just got you pregnant,” he says cheekily.
you glare at him. “soonyoung, i’m on birth control.”
he glares right back.
“okay, fine,” you relent, laughing. the sensation makes soonyoung wince as you clench around his overstimulated cock a little. “kinda hot, though—you wanting to get me pregnant.”
he raises an eyebrow at you. “oh? another kink of yours?”
you blush, knowing you’ve been somewhat of a sex fiend since discovering your fantasy of having a murderous boyfriend—your reality now, you suppose. “maybe,” you murmur.
soonyong grins, kissing the pout away from your lips. “good. i’m going to keep trying.”
“okay, well, maybe we should try when we’re not in active danger of going to prison for life?”
“right.”
you both shower quickly, bagging the soiled clothes and changing into the outfits you both packed separately. you watch in awe as soonyoung takes out a blacklight and some kind of cleaning agent to get rid of any blood you both tracked into the shower. most of the evidence, it turns out, is right there in the stall, where his cum leaked out of you.
when he’s done cleaning, you both head to your cars, each parked in different lots, agreeing to meet at home after you pick up drive-thru dinner and he goes back to work to pick up his phone. and when you do get home, you find that soonyoung beat you there, the apartment dark save for a handful of candles. he’s on one knee when you enter, a small box open and turned toward you, the ring he claimed he got a year ago right there, staring you in the face.
“i love you,” he says. “i’ll spend the rest of my days loving you the way you deserve to be. adoring you with everything i have. will you allow me the honor of doing that as your husband?”
you don’t know how many times you scream yes at him as you drop the bags of fast food and throw yourself into his arms, the two of you collapsing into a pile of giggles and kisses.
TOP STORY • 2 MIN READ
Copycat serial killer sentenced to life in prison on three counts of torture, six counts of first degree murder
By Gale Weathers
Police investigating the torture and murder of Daniel Park, senior vice president of marketing at Loomis, Inc. two years ago.
Two years after a spree of murders rocked the local community, Alex Cho, former Loomis, Inc. employee, has been sentenced to life in prison, despite pleading not guilty to all charges.
Dubbed the "copycat prank call killer" for the similarities in mutilation amongst victims, Cho was found guilty on all counts of torture and first degree murder for the deaths of six fellow Loomis, Inc. employees, including his boss, Daniel Park, former senior vice president of marketing. Arrested just days after Park's murder, Cho was the authorities' main suspect since day one, according to a statement made by Police Chief Macher following the sentencing.
"Cho's name was on the board since the tragic murder of our first victim, Jay Lang," said Macher, "but as his spree escalated and became more frenzied, he became careless. The evidence against him became insurmountable after the death of Daniel Park."
Though evidence left behind by Cho at the previous murders still has not been disclosed by authorities to this day, his involvement in Park's torture and murder is clear. On the night of Park's death, Cho lured him to the office after-hours under the guise of a work emergency. Once there, Cho ambushed and tortured his boss before stabbing him almost 30 times and leaving his body to be found by other employees the next morning.
Police were able to arrest Cho early on, thanks to his email trail and the use of his badge at the Loomis, Inc. headquarters, just minutes before Park entered the building himself.
When asked about the sentencing of their former employee, a Loomis, Inc. representative told TOP STORY:
"Even two years on, we continue to mourn our tragically lost employees. As such, Loomis offers all our associates ongoing mental health resources and grief counseling. We also honor these victims with annual donations to various campaigns, including cancer research, LGBT support, and anti-bullying—all causes our former SVP of marketing Daniel Park championed. As for the sentenced individual, Loomis declines to comment, but ensures you that we are taking extra precautions and measures to vet all new employees, with annual mental evaluations of all existing employees. We are committed to the safety of our people, our clients, and all of our stakeholders."
As far as his "copycat" reputation goes, Cho denies drawing inspiration from the "prank call killer," though he continues to deny his involvement in the crimes at all. As of the publication of this article, the "prank call killer" remains an at-large, inactive serial killer, with the last victim dating back over 10 years ago.
Cho will be transferred to a maximum state prison later this month, where he will serve his life sentence with no chance of parole.
────
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🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung
HOSHI (clicks out of video news story of andrew's arrest) i can't believe you did all that for me.
YOUR ALIAS (smiles, scratching his scalp comfortingly with her left hand, eyes admiring the ring on her finger as she does) i told you, i would do anything for you. you protect me, i protect you, right?
HOSHI (smiles, leaning forward to press his lips to hers) always.
fades into black. credits roll.
...
POST-CREDITS SCENE
a long while later, audience finds hoshi and his wife in the kitchen of a much larger home now, seemingly as in love and as playful as they always were. they are interrupted by their teen daughter running into the room, with her backpack still on, screaming and crying. both of them immediately tend to her.
YOUR ALIAS baby, what's wrong? what happened?
DAUGHTER (shrieks) it's tiffany! she's going around telling everybody i'm sleeping with the entire baseball team! i've never even had my first kiss and she knows that!
hoshi stills, face becoming eerily blank. you both exchange a look.
YOUR ALIAS you're only 15... why on earth are they talking about those kinds of things?
DAUGHTER (throws mom an incredulous look) all of them have already lost their virginities, mom!
YOUR ALIAS (pinching the bridge of her nose) dear god.
DAUGHTER she gave my number to a bunch of dudes and now they're calling and texting and blowing up my phone asking me when i'm free to do... gross things! (wails)
YOUR ALIAS we'll change your number, baby, don't worry. and i'll meet with your principal and make sure she knows we won't tolerate this behavior, okay? are you alright if i talk to tiffany's mom?
DAUGHTER no, please don't, she's so vindictive. i know it'll just get worse.
hoshi exhales slowly.
HOSHI okay, we won't do anything you aren't comfortable with, but... you're also not going to let her treat you like that, do you hear me?
it's clear their daughter is a daddy's girl when her crying immediately stops and she nods.
HOSHI no one hurts you, understand?
YOUR ALIAS nobody.
DAUGHTER (whispers, still sniffling) nobody.
HOSHI if you won't let us talk to tiffany's parents, we're going to have to show you how to defend yourself, baby. how to stand up for yourself.
YOUR ALIAS (smiles) your daddy is really good at that. you'll let him help, right? (daughter nods) good, go get cleaned up and i'll order whatever takeout you want.
DAUGHTER (immediately) thai.
YOUR ALIAS thai it is. go on.
their daughter retreats from the kitchen, still sniffling as she goes up to her bedroom.
YOUR ALIAS we aren't going to stoop so low as to kill a teenager, are we?
HOSHI (snorts, wraps one arm around her waist) no, we aren't. but kids like that only learn behavior like that from one place.
YOUR ALIAS their parents.
HOSHI mhm.
YOUR ALIAS you have the key to the storage unit?
HOSHI mhm. (plants one kiss on her cheek before grinning and nodding to the front door) i'll drive.
cuts to black with the sound of a piercing scream.
a/n: credit for the news story photo goes to unsplash. all other photos taken from pinterest, ctto. okay bye, i don't want to talk about how crazy i feel LMFAO.
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ➙ When you inherits an estate, you expects creaking floors and dust — not a ghost who swears you’re his wife. The house breathes with memories that aren’t yours, and every night, a soft voice whispers your name. Jun isn’t frightening; he’s heartbreakingly gentle, waiting for a love you've forgotten.
𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬 ➙ Angst, Ghost x Human, Dark Romance, Mention of Past Lives, Slow burn (I think??), Tragic Romance, Love beyond Death, “You forgot me but I never did” type of shit, Porn w/ Plot (and yes, YOU CAN SKIP the sex scene if not comfortable with the smut warnings)
𝐖𝐂 ➙ 12.8k
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ➙ MDNI, explicit sexual content, explicit language, oral sex (both f. and m. receiving), fingering (f. receiving), unprotected sex, rough sex, neck grab, restraining hands, sensory description, necromancy, wax play, temperature play, soft dominance, implied somnophilia, body worship (jun be obsessed hahaha), dirty talk, ghost sex, dom! jun, sub! reader, crying from pleasure and pain, dacryphilia, loud moans (for both of them), possessiveness, creampie, clit stimulation
🎧 ➙ No sense by Justin Bieber ⋮ Fetish by Selena Gomez ⋮ Young and Beautiful by Lana Del Rey
𝐀/𝐍 ➙ ahh I adore this story so much!! I really hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’m usually known for my angst works, so I guess this is my moment to shine hahaha. please don’t hesitate to click out or skip the explicit parts if they make you uncomfortable — this one gets a little intense with the kinktober themes 😭 anyways, reblogs (w/ or w/o tags) are always appreciated. love you lots!!
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The house was older than your name.
It stood past the last turn of the countryside road, half-swallowed by the forest, where even the birds refused to sing. The lawyer had given you the address over a call that sounded static, voice clipped, rushed — like he didn’t want to linger on the topic too long.
“An inheritance, Miss L/N,” he’d said. “A private estate. Been untouched for years. You’re the last living relative.” “Relative of who?” you’d asked. “Of the previous owner, Miss Wen.. if I remember correctly. Distant, very distant. She had no direct heirs. You might want to- ah -look through the documents yourself.”
The call ended before you could ask more.
Now, standing at the foot of the property, suitcase in hand, you realised how words could never have prepared you for this.
It was enormous, but not in the modern sense. The house was alive in its decay — a mansion of forgotten gold and black wood, wrapped in ivy that crawled like veins up the cracked stone. The windows glowed faintly amber, reflecting the dying sun. Even the wind that brushed against your skin felt heavy with something unsaid.
“Okay,” you muttered to yourself, pushing the rusted gates open. “Creepy, but not.. haunted. Hopefully.”
Your footsteps echoed across the gravel path leading up to the grand doors. Each step felt like trespassing on someone’s memory. When you finally pushed the door open, it didn’t screech or fight you like an old hinge should — it sighed, like the house itself was breathing you in.
The first thing that hit you was the smell — grass and rain, faint but fresh, like someone had opened a window minutes ago. The foyer stretched out before you, the chandelier above still glittering under years of dust. Paintings lined the walls. Not landscapes, not still lifes — just portraits. Of the same man.
You paused in front of one. He was handsome in a way that felt wrong for being immortalised in oil paint — sharp jaw, dark, tousled hair that falls around his neck in soft layers, eyes are gentle yet piercing. Scattered across his skin are small, striking moles — near his lips, another on his cheek, and gracing his forehead — as if even the universe couldn’t resist marking beauty where it found it.
Someone had painted him with devotion. You leaned closer. “Whoever you were,” you whispered, “you were definitely the favourite.”
The next few hours passed in quiet exploration. Every room was preserved — sheets draped over furniture, candles that looked half-burned but untouched by time, books still open mid-page on desks. It was eerie, yes, but also intimate. Like someone had just stepped out of the room and would return any minute.
By dusk, exhaustion caught up with you. You found the master bedroom on the second floor — and stopped cold. It was clean. No dust. The bed was made perfectly, the sheets turned down as though waiting. There was even a small vase by the window, a single white rose standing tall in it. You frowned.
“Someone’s been here,” you murmured. Then, louder, calling out just in case, “Hello? Is anyone-?” Silence. Except the faint hum of wind through the old vents. You hesitated, then sighed. “Guess I’ll just lock the door.”
The bed was too soft. Too inviting. You sat down anyway. The pillow smelled faintly of cedar and musk, a scent that didn’t belong to you. Still, the fatigue was pulling you under, and you let your eyes close for just a moment.
—
A breath brushed your neck. So real, so warm, it made every hair on your body stand on end. “You came back.” You bolted upright, eyes scanning the room. “Who’s there?” Nothing. Only the curtains swaying even though the windows were closed.
Your heart hammered as you reached for your phone flashlight. Its glow hit the mirror across the room — and froze you in place. In the reflection, someone stood behind you. A man, tall and pale, dressed in white collared shirt, neckline framing a single pearl necklace that adds a delicate contrast to his look.
Over it, he wears a black tweed jacket interwoven with silver threads, catching light in subtle glints. His expression wasn’t threatening. If anything, he looked relieved. He smiled softly. “You shouldn’t be afraid. I’ve waited long enough.”
You turned around. Empty. Your throat felt dry. “I’m-” You laughed weakly to yourself, trying to shake it off. “definitely calling the real estate agent tomorrow.”
You climbed back into bed, pulling the blanket tightly around your shoulders. But your body refused to relax. When your breathing finally steadied, you noticed something that made your pulse skip again. Your dress.
It had slipped halfway off your shoulder, your collarbone bare. And on your skin, faint as breath, was the outline of a handprint. You stared at it until your eyes blurred, until the scent of roses filled the air, until sleep pulled you back into the dark.
And somewhere, between waking and dreaming, you heard him whisper again — closer this time, almost tender “I’m glad you’re back, Wen Y/N.”
Morning came gently — too gently for an abandoned place. The light that poured through the curtains was soft and gold, catching the dust in the air like glitter. You sat up slowly, your body still wrapped in that hazy, half-remembered dream. There was no handprint now. No scent of smoke or roses. Just quiet.
“Okay,” you whispered, rubbing your eyes. “Maybe I just freaked myself out.” You checked your phone. Now we’re talking. I can definitely live here, there's a signal. It showed the time, 7:43 a.m. You must’ve slept like a rock.
After washing up with the little water that still ran in the bathroom sink, you wandered downstairs. The house looked different in daylight — less ominous, more tragically beautiful. Every surface was layered with dust except for a few areas: the stairs’ rail, the main hallway, the parlour table. Like someone had constantly wiped them.
You knelt beside one of the portraits in the living room and dusted it gently with your sleeve. The man’s painted gaze met yours again, unblinking and patient. His eyes were dark brown, almost gold under the varnish.
There were at least eight portraits in the entire house, all of him. Each painted a little differently: one in uniform, another in casual robes, another holding a book. You moved to the last one by the fireplace — this time, he wasn’t alone.
A woman stood beside him. The artist hadn’t captured her face clearly, but she wore a white dress and veil, hand resting delicately on the man’s arm. A wedding portrait. You tilted your head, curiosity pricking at you. “So.. you were married,” you murmured, brushing the edge of the frame. “And I’m guessing your wife didn’t inherit the place. Lucky me.”
You took a step back, hands on your hips. The house was huge, but not unmanageable. You could make it feel like home again. So you started cleaning.
At first, it was just idle — opening windows, letting air in, humming faintly under your breath. But then something strange happened. The longer you worked, the more you noticed subtle traces of order that weren’t yours: beds already made, a vase refilled with white roses, curtains tied back differently. Someone — or something — had been maintaining this house all along.
You shook your head, deciding to distract yourself before your imagination spiraled like last night. Grabbing your phone, you opened your messages to message your best friend.
Y/N: guess who inherited a horror movie set 😭
Hao 😈: LMAOOO don’t tell me it’s that creepy old mansion your mom mentioned??
Y/N: yeah. the one with zero neighbors and 800 ghosts per square meter
Hao 😈: pls send pics 😭😭
Y/N: hold up
You snapped a few photos: the cracked chandelier, the grand staircase, one of the portraits — you didn’t even realise until later that it was the wedding one.
Y/N: okay ngl it’s pretty. like victorian pretty. you should come here.
Hao 😈: looks like somewhere a hot ghost would haunt.
Y/N: stop! 😭😭
Hao 😈: no bc imagine waking up w/ a ghost husband like “good morning my bride” 💀
Y/N: STOP IT HAO I SWEAR I’LL MOVE OUT
Hao 😈: u say that but u also said ur into tragic romance when bored soooo 👀
You laughed out loud, the sound echoing across the empty hall.
Y/N: fine. if a ghost husband appears i’ll let u know so u can write my obituary.
Hao 😈: deal
You pocketed your phone, still smiling. The house felt a little less lonely now. By afternoon, sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, scattering coloured light on the floor. You carried an armful of old books back to the library and froze when you saw one already open on the table — one you knew you hadn’t touched.
Its pages were lined with elegant handwriting. You could barely read the faded ink, but you caught one phrase clearly underlined: “Bound beyond death, by name and vow.” A chill ran down your arms. You shut the book gently, heart thudding. “Okay.. enough cleaning for today.”
Outside, the wind had stopped entirely. The forest was silent. The only sound left in the house was your breathing — and somewhere, faintly, a low hum. Like someone singing through the walls.
The house was quiet that night. Too quiet.
You settled at the desk with your laptop, your only source of light a small lamp you’d brought from your old apartment. The rest of the room lay in shadows, the wallpaper peeling faintly in the corners as if the air itself had been holding its breath for years.
You cracked your knuckles, muttering, “Okay. Chapter sixty-three. Let’s do this.” The blinking cursor greeted you like an old friend.
Your book — To Breathe Again — had been a year in the making, and your editor had been hounding you for pages. The irony of working on a novel about necromancy wasn’t lost on you. You even laughed about it when you messaged Minghao earlier those years.
Y/N: if i start writing ghost love stories don’t pick me up, i’m doing the right thing
Hao 😈: u kinky mf
Y/N: shut up 😒
Hao 😈: ok but if u get possessed can u at least ask the ghost to edit my thesis
You shook your head, smiling to yourself before getting back to work. Hours passed unnoticed, the rhythm of typing filling the silence like a heartbeat. Sometimes you swore you could hear faint footsteps pacing the hallway — the kind that made the wooden floor groan softly, like memory itself stretching awake. Every time you paused to listen, the sound stopped.
Around 2 a.m., you leaned back in your chair and sighed. “One more paragraph,” you told yourself. But the words on the screen blurred together, and your head eventually dipped forward. You must’ve dozed off right there at the desk.
When you woke, it was morning again. The sun slanted through the tall windows, warm on your face. You blinked against the light, you woke up in the bed “ahm.. did I sleep walk here last night?” you mumbled, stretching your arms.
But your body felt sore in a way that didn’t make sense — like you’d been tossing in bed for hours, muscles overworked and trembling faintly. Your nightgown clung to your skin, a little too loose at the collar and ends almost reaching your hips.
You frowned, rubbing your eyes. It hurts. That’s when you noticed your laptop. The document you’d been writing was still open — but your last sentence had changed. Instead of “She pressed her hand against the cold stone altar..” the words now read:
She pressed her hand against the warmth of his chest and whispered, “I’m home.”
Your heart stuttered. You didn’t remember typing that. And yet.. the phrasing sounded exactly like something you would write. You closed the laptop slowly, the faint scent of something — cedar, musk, and roses — lingering in the air, as if someone had been beside you all night, breathing close enough to touch.
The smell of sizzling butter filled the kitchen, the sound of eggs hitting the pan soft and rhythmic. Sunlight pooled faintly through the old lace curtains, dust swirling in golden ribbons. You could almost pretend the house wasn’t haunted — that it was just another quiet morning.
Almost.
You rolled your shoulders, wincing. There was still a deep, dull ache running through your muscles, especially between your thighs. “Did I- sleep weird?” you muttered, rubbing the back of your neck. You brushed off the thought with a nervous laugh and reached for the salt.
It must’ve been another one of those dreams. The kind that felt too real, too heavy. You remembered flashes — pale fingers tracing your skin, a whisper against your ear. The dream man’s touch had been so vivid that your body still remembered the heat. You’d seen his face this time too, clear and unblurred, framed by soft candlelight.
And it wasn’t just any face.
Your gaze drifted across the kitchen, toward the hallway where the portraits hung — the ones you’d noticed. You froze, spatula hovering midair.
The reflection in the hallway mirror caught him perfectly — the same slanted eyes, the same mouth curved like a secret. You blinked, once, twice, stepping closer to make sure your eyes weren’t playing tricks.
It was him.
The man from your dreams.
Your stomach dropped, pulse quickening in your throat. He’d been here all along, hanging silently in those frames, watching you from the moment you arrived.
You forced a shaky laugh, brushing stray hair from your face. “Okay. Creepy coincidence. It’s just- just the power of suggestion, right?” you told yourself, trying to sound convinced. “You saw the portrait before bed, your brain mashed it into a dream. Simple.”
The portrait didn’t answer. Behind you, the stove hissed. And for the briefest moment — just before you turned off the heat — you thought you heard a low voice whisper near your ear, soft and familiar “Good morning, my bride.”
You froze mid-breath.. again, every hair on your neck standing up. The voice was right there. Close enough that you could feel the faintest whisper of air brush past your ear. Your body reacted before your brain did.
“WHAT THE!” You spun around with the frying spatula raised like a weapon, egg still clinging to the edge. “WHO’S THERE?! I SWEAR I’LL- I’LL FLIP YOU TO HELL!!”
“Please don’t,” came a calm, almost amused voice from somewhere behind you. It wasn’t echoing, wasn’t hollow — it sounded real. Too real. “You’ll stain the walls with yolk, and I quite like our kitchen.”
Your eyes darting around the empty room. No one. Nothing. Just the faint sound of your pan still sizzling. Your heart hammered against your ribs. “Who- who said that?” Silence. Then, softly: “Jun.”
You blinked. “Jun..? What? Huh- ha?!” A small pause, then a low hum that almost sounded like a chuckle. “So you can hear me. That’s good.”
Your grip tightened on the spatula. “Okay. Either I’m losing it, or I’m being haunted by a polite ghost who cares about kitchen hygiene.” “Haunted?” Jun sounded genuinely offended. “That’s a rather cruel word for a husband, don’t you think?”
You gawked at the air. “Excuse me- husband?!” “Yes.” His tone softened, almost fond. “You’ve been wearing my ring.” You glanced down — and nearly dropped the spatula. On your left hand, glinting faintly in the sunlight, was a thin silver band. You had no idea when it got there.
“Oh hell no,” you whispered, yanking it off. “This is not happening.” Jun’s laugh was gentle, teasing. “You always say that. I miss hearing from you.”
“What- no, no, no! Don’t gaslight me, Casper!” “That’s not my name.” “I don’t care!” you shouted at the air. “You-! Get out of my house! Out! Whatever supernatural lease you think you have here, it’s over!”
“I’m afraid it’s not,” he said lightly. “This house is also mine.. and to you.” You dragged a hand down your face, spatula still clutched tight. “Great. Fantastic. I move into a cursed house, and my new roommate is a ghost husband with boundary issues.”
There was a low, almost bashful chuckle. “You weren’t complaining last night.” You froze, eyes wide. “Excuse me?” But the voice didn’t answer this time — just a faint, amused hum that faded into the creak of the old walls.
You pointed the spatula at the ceiling. “Don’t you dare ghost-laugh at me, Jun!” Somewhere, you swore you heard the faintest echo of a grin in his voice, that made you drop your spatula “You’re cute when you’re angry, my bride.”
—
You sat at the kitchen counter, laptop open, breakfast cold. The spatula still lay on the floor where you’d dropped it mid-crisis. Your phone buzzed beside your plate. You snatched it up like a lifeline.
[Group chat: “Emergency Life Updates (aka Therapy)]
Y/N: besties i think my house is haunted
Hao 😈: LMAOOOO it’s been 3 days, that’s a record. what happened suddenly??
Y/N: some man’s voice called me his wife while i was making eggs
Min 😵💫: ..was he hot at least???
Y/N: I DON’T KNOW I DIDN’T EVEN SEE HIM
Min 😵💫: so u married a ghost sight unseen 💀 bold of u
Y/N: IM NOT MARRIED
Hao 😈: sure kinky mf who’s writing a novel exactly with that plot, i think u manifested it loll
Y/N: also i think he’s a victorian ghost level polite. kept saying “my bride” like bro calm down
Min 😵💫: LMFAO STOPPPP this is going in my notes. “haunted by horny regency ghost”
Y/N: NO 😭😭
Hao 😈: did u check the portraits u sent me? maybe he’s one of those men 👀
Y/N: that’s the thing. IT’S HIM.
Hao 😈: oh.
Min 😵💫: …babe.
Hao 😈: are u sure ur not just having like, a super vivid lucid dream? u do write romance for a living.
Y/N: im literally wide awake and my ghost just argued with me about kitchen cleanliness
Hao 😈: sounds husband material to me. when’s the wedding??
Min 😵💫: more like when was the wedding LMAOOO
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Why are my friends like this,” you muttered aloud. Why is Mingyu missing out of all times.. Seokmin and Minghao are no help. From somewhere down the hall, a familiar voice replied, low and teasing, “Are you in distress?”
You shrieked and nearly dropped your phone. “HAO HE’S HERE AGAIN.”
Hao 😈: ok listen before u start performing an exorcism, record it. i want receipts.
Y/N: u want me to RECORD THE DEMON?
Hao 😈: for science.
Y/N: i hate you.
You peeked over your shoulder, heart pounding. “Jun?” “I’m here,” came the smooth reply, closer now. “You don’t need to shout, my love.” You stiffened. “Don’t call me that!” “I can’t,” he said softly, like it was the saddest truth in the world. “You’re all I have left.”
The words hung in the air, so gentle it almost made you forget the absurdity of the moment. Almost. You typed one last message with shaky fingers.
Y/N: ok yeah maybe the ghost husband is kinda sad and not bad
Min 😵💫: so u admit he’s hot
Y/N: BLOCKED.
You set your phone down, exhaling deeply. “Okay.. Jun,” you muttered, scanning the empty room. “If we’re really doing this ghost tenant thing, why are you still here?” A quiet laugh brushed your ear like wind.
“Devotion. It ties me to the house.. to you.” You groaned. “Oh my god. He’s poetic too.”
It started the same way it had the last two nights. The soft creak of floorboards. The faint shift of weight on the mattress. The air cooling around you as if someone had opened a window. You didn’t move this time.
“Jun,” you whispered into the dark. “You’re here again, aren’t you?” Silence, then “I always am.” His voice came from beside you, smooth as velvet, threaded with something ancient. “You sleep so restlessly when I’m not.” “I sleep restlessly because there’s a ghost in my bed,” you muttered, sitting up halfway.
“Do you even.. sleep?” He chuckled, the sound low and fond. “No. Not anymore.” You exhaled through your nose, squinting into the faint light spilling through the curtains. “Okay, let’s try this again. Who are you, Jun?”
“I’ve told you,” he said gently. “I am your husband.” You rolled your eyes. “That’s not an answer. A name and a marital claim don’t explain why I wake up sore, by the way.” A pause. His voice softened, almost guilty. “I haven’t touched you without your consent.”
You arched a brow toward the darkness. “Really? Because my sore thighs say otherwise.” “I swear it.” His tone deepened, steady and earnest. “Your body aches from something else — the remnants of the bond. The house.. it remembers. And through it, so does your body.”
“The house remembers?” you repeated, half a scoff, half a laugh. “Jun, that’s not- that’s not even science. That’s..” “Magic,” he finished for you, quiet but unyielding.
You stared at the shadows for a long moment. “You expect me to believe that I’m some reincarnated bride living in a haunted love nest?” “I don’t expect you to believe,” he murmured. “Only to listen.”
Your throat tightened — something about the way he said it felt real. Too real. You tried to sound casual. “Then why are you here? Why can’t you just.. move on? Find peace, cross the afterlife, whatever ghosts are supposed to do.”
A silence. Then the faintest brush of a cold fingertip against your wrist — hesitant, reverent. “Because my peace was buried with you.” You froze. “You’ve got the wrong girl,” you whispered, voice trembling despite yourself.
“Perhaps,” Jun said softly. “But tell me, why do you wake up with my name on your lips?” You blinked, stunned. “I- I don’t.” “You do,” he said simply. There was no arrogance in it, only sorrow.
You fell quiet for a moment, staring at the darkness that felt far too alive. “You really didn’t do anything?” “No,” he said, and this time his voice was gentle enough to make you believe him. “Only kissed you when you were dreaming. You looked so lonely.”
Your heart squeezed. “That’s still technically not consent.” He laughed quietly, the sound curling through the air like smoke. “Then I’ll ask properly next time.”
You sighed, lying back down. “There’s not going to be a next time.” “I said that once too,” he murmured. You pulled the blanket over your face, trying to hide your smile. “You’re so dramatic for someone dead.”
“I was dramatic before I died,” he countered, teasing now. “You said you liked it.” You turned to where you thought he was, whispering, “You talk too much.” “And you listen too little.”
Somewhere between his chuckle and your quiet hum of annoyance, your eyes slipped closed. The bed dipped slightly, just enough for you to feel the outline of someone lying beside you. And though you told yourself you didn’t believe in ghosts, you still whispered, just before sleep took you,
“Goodnight, Jun.” A hand — cold but gentle — brushed your hair back. “Goodnight, Y/N.”
—
You pushed the front door open with your shoulder, grocery bags cutting into your fingers, sunlight spilling in behind you.
“Jun!” you called out, voice echoing across the empty living room. “I was literally talking to you outside for ten minutes simply about if you do eat or not, and then I realised-” You paused dramatically, setting the bags down on the counter. “You weren’t even there!”
There was a soft hum from somewhere near the hallway — warm, amused. “Why are you talking to yourself outside?” Jun said. You glared toward the voice. “Don’t turn this on me. The delivery guy looked at me like I’d lost my mind. I thought you’re with me. This past few weeks, you never leave me alone”
He chuckled quietly, the sound wrapping around you. “Would you rather I scare other people half to death? Also, I can’t help you outside anyway”
You huffed, unpacking the paper bags. “Still. You could’ve… I don’t know. Come with me? You never go out.” There was a pause — not defensive, just words. “I can’t,” he said simply. Your hands stilled on a carton of milk. “Can’t?”
“The house is my boundary,” he explained. “My anchor. I’m bound here — by the curse, by memory, by you. Step beyond the threshold and I start to fade.” You turned toward the sound, heart softening. “That’s awful.”
“It’s tolerable,” he murmured. “I was alone here for so long before you came.” Your chest tightened. “Jun..” He spoke again, light but wistful. “Besides, I like it here. You fill the rooms with noise and scent and warmth. It’s almost enough to feel alive again.”
You rolled your eyes — to hide the sudden pang of emotion. “You sound like a bad poem.” “I was a bad poet once,” he teased. “You threw my drafts into the fire.” You froze mid-unpacking. “What?” He laughed, low and delighted. “Ah — perhaps that was another life.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re insufferable.” “I missed being called that,” he said softly.
The quiet after that settled gently, like a comfortable silence between old friends, or husband and wife..? You busied yourself with arranging the vegetables, pretending you didn’t notice the way the air thickened slightly around you — Jun standing close, unseen but undeniably there.
“Hey,” you said after a moment. “If you can’t go out.. what do you do all day when I’m gone?” “I watch,” he said simply. “Creepy.” “Protectively,” he amended, amused. “I walk through the halls. Listen to the wind. Sometimes I read over your shoulder when you’re writing.”
You shot a look toward the dark corner of the kitchen. “That’s definitely creepy.” “Then perhaps,” he said, voice warm with laughter, “I’ll keep doing it.” You couldn’t help it — you laughed too, shaking your head. “You’re impossible, Jun.”
“I was told I made an impossible husband,” he said, tone dipping into something soft, almost nostalgic. “But I like to think I’m improving.” You ignored the way your heart skipped. “Keep the flattery for someone you can actually touch.”
Another pause — this one quieter, heavier. Then: “I can touch you.. just to remind you,” he murmured.
You swallowed, suddenly unsure what to say. The light from the window dimmed as clouds rolled in outside, shadows crawling gently across the old wood floor. You pretended to focus on your groceries again, voice light but trembling slightly.
“Well,” you said, “if you’re going to touch me, at least help me unpack next time.” A faint rustle answered you — the bag of rice shifting slightly on its own, sliding closer to the cabinet.
You froze. Then laughed, a soft disbelieving sound. “Show-off.” From behind you hear his amused whisper, low and tender “Only for my wife.”
—
It was past midnight, the kind of hour where even the wind outside seemed half-asleep. The house was wrapped in silence, save for the soft rustle of paper as you turned another page of your book. The lamp beside your bed cast a warm circle of light that didn’t quite reach the corners of the room, where the dark always seemed to breathe.
You could feel him there. “Jun,” you said quietly, without looking up. “Are you here?” A pause — then that familiar voice, soft and close. “I’m always here.”
You smiled faintly, still reading. “That’s supposed to be comforting, right?” “I suppose that depends,” he murmured, “on whether you believe I’m haunting you or protecting you.”
You tilted your head toward the voice. “You keep saying you’re not haunting me, but it sure feels like it sometimes.” “Would a haunt make your tea every morning?” he teased gently.
“That was you?” You blinked. “I thought I was just.. sleepwalking.” “I can’t do much,” he said quietly, “but I can move little things when the night is kind to me.”
You shut the book slowly, the words blurring. “Why do you do it?” “Because you forget to take care of yourself when you write,” he said simply. “You get lost. I don’t want to see you vanish the way I did.”
Your breath caught. “The way you did?” He didn’t answer at first — only silence, deep and heavy, filled the room. Then, softly “I loved too fiercely. Enough to tether my soul here.” You looked toward the darkness, where you thought his voice had come from. “For her? Your wife?”
A faint laugh, like wind through old glass. “For you.” The room suddenly felt colder, your heart lurching against your ribs. “Jun, that’s-” “I know,” he interrupted gently. “It doesn’t make sense. Not to you. Not yet.”
You pulled the blanket tighter around you, eyes scanning the space though you knew you wouldn’t see him. “You sound like a tragic novel waiting to happen.” “Perhaps that’s why you were drawn here,” he said softly. “Writers always return to unfinished stories.”
You exhaled, half a sigh, half a shaky laugh. “You make everything sound like fate.” “Isn’t it?” His voice was closer now — you swore you felt the faintest brush of fingers along your hair, so gentle you might’ve imagined it.
“You should sleep,” he murmured. “The world outside can wait.” “Are you staying?” you asked, eyes drooping. “I never left.” You smiled faintly, a small surrender, before your eyelids fluttered closed.
Jun stayed — unseen but so achingly near, his presence hovering like a heartbeat in the dark. And when your breathing evened out, his whisper came, softer than a sigh “You once told me you’d find me again. I suppose you always keep your promises.”
The cafe was the kind that looked like a Pinterest board come to life — soft lighting, fern leaves drooping over every table, the faint hum of an espresso machine mixing with lo-fi music. You sat by the window with your laptop open, pretending to edit your manuscript while your three best friends interrogated you like you were on trial.
“So,” Hao started, sipping his iced latte dramatically, “how’s married life?” You choked on your drink. “What- excuse me?” Min snorted. “Don’t play dumb. You literally sent us a picture of another portrait and said, He’s kinda hot for a dead guy. Don’t tell me you’re not crushing on the house ghost.”
You pressed your fingers against your temple. “I was joking!” “Were you, though?” Gyu cut in, deadpan as ever. “You also texted last night that someone made you tea again. Either you have a kind spirit or a trespasser with excellent domestic skills.”
Seokmin gasped theatrically. “Or maybe both!” You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “He’s a ghost.” “Then why are you blushing?” Minghao leaned forward with a grin. “Look at her, Seok- she’s blushing!”
“I am not!” you hissed, but your cheeks burned hotter than the cappuccino in front of you. “He’s just..” You stopped, realising how ridiculous it would sound to admit that Jun talked to you every night. That he teased you, cared for you, comforted you in ways that humans can’t even do.
Mingyu leaned back, stirring his coffee lazily. “You’re acting like you’ve got a boyfriend who only comes out after dark.” You glared at him. “He’s not my boyfriend.” Seokmin propped his chin on his hands. “Not yet.”
Hao laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “God, this is gonna be one of her novels, isn’t it? Lonely writer moves into a haunted house, ghost falls in love with her, she says it’s a curse, but he says it’s destiny-”
“Stop quoting my life!” you interrupted, waving your spoon like a weapon. “You guys are the worst.” “We’re the realists,” Min said, still smirking. “You just happen to be living inside your own plot twist.”
For a moment, they all laughed, that kind of carefree, echoing laugh that only happens in midday cafes. You joined in too, trying to drown out the strange warmth you felt under your ribs.
Your laughter stuttered, your eyes darting toward the window. The glass reflected only you and your friends — no one else. You sometimes think every time you’re outside, is he bored at home? Is he okay? That quiet presence. A part of you just wants to stay at home.
“See?” Min teased, nudging you. “She’s spacing out. Probably thinking about her ghost husband.” You forced a laugh, looking back at him, heart racing. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Something like that.”
The cafe hummed with lazy afternoon chatter. You sat across from Minghao, Seokmin, and Mingyu, who somehow turned what was supposed to be a casual catch-up into a full-blown roast session.
“You’re into ghosts now, huh? So that’s why you’re not dating anyone alive?” Hao said, chuckling. You jabbed a straw at him. “Minghao, I swear to God-” Gyu raised an eyebrow. “What’s his name again?” You hesitated. The word caught on your tongue. “Jun.”
All three of them stared for a beat before Min smirked. “Jun? You even named him?” “I didn’t name him!” you said quickly. “That’s what he-” You froze. “That’s what his real wife, maybe, called him.”
“Right.” Mingyu nodded, clearly unconvinced. “So this ghost talks to you, cooks for you, and sleeps beside you-” “He doesn’t sleep beside me!” you blurted, heat rising to your cheeks. “He just- he-” “Uh-huh.” Seokmin grinned. “You’re doomed, man. She’s in deep.”
You tried to laugh it off, but your pulse was unsteady. Because later, when you were back home and the house greeted you with that quiet stillness, the laughter from earlier still echoed faintly in your head — you called Jun, yet no one was responding.
You frowned. He always answered when you came home. Even just a faint, teasing whisper — You’re late, little human. But tonight, nothing. Just the quiet hum of air through the vents and the faint ticking of the antique clock in the foyer.
“Okay,” you muttered to yourself, forcing a laugh. “So we’re doing the ghost-silent-treatment thing now? Cute.” You busied yourself in the kitchen, slamming a cabinet or two a little louder than necessary. Still nothing. The quiet felt heavier now — not the peaceful kind, but the kind that watches you.
“Jun.” You called again, voice sharper. “If you’re mad at me for something, at least say it. Don’t just.. vanish.” The air stirred faintly behind you, like a breath on your neck. You turned, but the space was empty. A shiver ran down your arms.
“Come on. Don’t tell me you’re sulking because I went out with my friends.” You rolled your eyes, more to convince yourself than anything. “You’re not seriously mad, right?” Still nothing. You exhaled. “Fine. Silent treatment it is. You win. I’ll just talk to myself then.”
You started rambling, pacing the living room like a stand-up comic trying to fill dead air. “For the record, they’re friends. Normal, breathing, alive friends who buy me coffee and don’t haunt my house.”
The chandelier above flickered faintly. You stopped. “Did I strike a nerve there?” A faint hum of energy prickled across your skin — the sign that he was listening, even if he didn’t want to admit it.
You sighed, softer now. “You know, it’s kind of unfair. You disappear when I talk to other people, but then you act like I’m supposed to just stay here waiting for you to materialise out of thin air.” The silence stretched.
You pressed your lips together. “I’m not yours, Jun.”
That’s when you heard it — not a loud voice, but something that slid into your mind like a thought that wasn’t yours. “Aren’t you?” You froze. The temperature dropped suddenly, enough for your breath to fog in front of you.
“You wear my ring,” his voice murmured now, closer, though he still wasn’t visible. “You live in my house. You sleep in my bed. You call my name every night without realising it.”
You spun toward the sound. “You didn’t answer when I came home. You scared me.” “I know.” The reply was soft, low, guilty — but underneath it, something darker stirred. “You talked about me with them,” Jun continued, voice drifting between the walls, nearer and nearer. “You laughed. You blushed. Did you enjoy that?”
“Jun,” you warned, heart pounding, “how did you even-? Don’t do this.” He let out a breath of what almost sounded like a laugh. “You think I don’t feel it? Every time someone says your name, every time you smile at someone else, it burns.”
Your pulse quickened, a strange mix of fear and warmth tightening in your chest. “You’re not even alive, Jun. What are you implying?” “Maybe not,” he whispered. “But you still make me feel it.”
You swallowed hard, staring at the faint outline of his form starting to shimmer near the hallway mirror — not solid yet, just smoke and memory. “Then don’t disappear like that again,” you said quietly. “If you can feel something, then talk to me. Don’t just.. leave.”
For a heartbeat, nothing. Then the faintest smile crossed his half-formed face. “You missed me.” You scoffed. “You were sulking.” “I was angry,” he corrected. “Because for a moment, I thought maybe you preferred your men.” You looked at the mirror — at his faint, sorrowful expression behind your reflection.
“They're not my men.. they’re my friends. You’re impossible,” you whispered. “And you,” Jun said softly, “are the only thing I’ve wanted in centuries.”
The room stilled. The air grew warmer. You felt the ghost of fingers trace the outline of your wrist — not cold, but not quite warm either. Just real enough to make you tremble.
Jun's reflection leaned closer, his gaze locked on your lips. His hands moved from your wrist to either side of your head, trapping you gently between his ghostly palms. “Say you're mine,” he whispered, his voice low and urgent.
You didn’t answer. He held your hands and pulled you near the mirror, “Do you need to see me, for you to talk?” he said, a little annoyed, you’re not sure whether to you or to himself. You looked directly at the mirror, memorising his ethereal face.
His hands framed your face, thumbs gently brushing your cheeks as he stared into your eyes, making you look at his direction directly, nothing, you can see nothing. But you could feel his presence, his breath ghosting over your neck. “I'm not in the mirror, my wife” he murmured, voice coming from both directions. “I'm here.”
The ghostly hands slid from your cheeks to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. He leaned in closer, his translucent lips hovering just above yours. “Let me kiss you,” he whispered against your mouth. “Please.”
You smiled.. “only because you asked this time.” Jun's reflection smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He loved when you teased him, even a little. It meant you weren't scared of him. “Only because I asked?” He repeated softly, his voice ghosting over your lips. “You admitted before that you did without my consent.”
His expression turned serious, one hand moving to gently grasp your chin, turning your face slightly as if preparing to kiss you but stopping himself. “I’m sorry. That was my mistake.” His thumb brushed over your bottom lip. “This time.. will be different.”
He stared at you intently, his hands steady and gentle. “I'll ask for permission every time. I'll wait for your agreement. And if you say no, I'll stop.” His voice was quiet, sincere. His eyes searched yours, looking for understanding.
You parted your lips slightly to answer. “Then go on.” That was all Jun needed. He surged forward, capturing your mouth softly at first. He tested your response — one hand cupped your cheek possessively while the other slid around your waist. You hummed softly, making him deeper. Now this is weird but also kinda hot.. I’m kissing the air.
Jun’s kiss grew more insistent, his tongue gently probing your mouth. He tasted sweet, like a phantom memory of honey and mint. His hands roamed from your waist downwards until they gripped onto your hips firmly pulling you closer towards him. You can feel him.
You gasped against his mouth as he pulled you closer, his cold hands gripping your hips tightly. Jun took advantage of your open mouth, deepening the kiss even further by pushing his tongue inside. He tangled it with yours, exploring your mouth thoroughly as if he was trying to memorise the taste of you. “Fucking hell, you taste like heaven.”
“For someone who’s dead, you curse so strongly.” You said laughing in between the kisses. In the mirror, you can see him smirking against your lips, his voice husky and amused. “Even ghosts can curse when they’re kissing someone they’ve been longing for.” His hands slid down to your thighs lifting them slightly as if trying to pull them around his waist.
You giggled, the sound muffled against his mouth. Jun groaned, the vibration sending shivers down your spine. He pulled harder, attempting to wrap your legs around his unseen waist. The mirror grew warmer, fogging up completely as their kiss grew more intense, more desperate.
“Jun.. my imaginations may be wild, yet I can’t do this to someone I can only see in the mirror”
Jun’s smirk faltered. For a second, his reflection looked as though it was flickering — as if even his smile could no longer hold shape. Then he stepped back, his eyes dark and distant. “You can’t see me because you’re not supposed to.”
Before you could ask what that meant, his hand — cold but firm — grasped your wrist. The mirror rippled like water as he pulled you through the hallway. You stumbled after him, feet barely touching the ground, until you reached a door you had never opened before. It was the last one at the end of the corridor at the third floor — carved oak, locked since the day you moved in.
“Jun, wait-” But the door creaked open on its own, revealing a dimly lit room heavy with the scent of old wood and faded perfume. Dust particles drifted lazily in the air, but beneath the decay, everything was preserved. A canopy bed stood at the center, its sheets neat, untouched. A wedding veil lay folded at the pillow’s edge.
“This room” you whispered. “I never-” “Because you weren’t meant to remember it.”
Jun’s voice was quieter now, stripped of playfulness, stripped of warmth. He stood by the window, you can’t even see his figure under the pale afternoon light. You could see the garden though — but you know his eyes were solid, endless, tired.
“You walk through this house like a stranger because you are one. But once, you weren’t.” Your chest tightened. “What are you saying?” He looked at you, a faint tremor in his hands. “You can’t see me because you can’t even remember who I am.”
The words felt like a knife — sharp, but dull in disbelief. “That’s impossible. I just moved here. I just-” Jun shook his head. “No. You came back.” He stepped closer. His voice softened, trembling with a kind of desperation you’d never heard from him before.
“You promised me you would, before you died.” Your breath caught. “Died?” “Before you died,” he said again, slower this time, as if tasting every syllable. “You said you would find me. You said, ‘Wait for me. Even if it takes lifetimes, I’ll come back.’”
You blinked rapidly, a faint ringing in your ears. Your mind refused to accept it — but your body remembered something. A pulse in your fingertips. A flash of a wedding ring. A man’s laughter. A voice saying My Jun.
He continued, eyes glimmering like glass. “I remembered everything. That’s my curse. I have lived every life remembering you — who you were, how you died, how you looked at me the day we said our vows. Every damn lifetime.”
The room felt like it was spinning. You staggered back a step and looked around the room, dizzy. That’s where you realise, this room is the real master bedroom, with another portrait.. where Jun and the same woman from downstairs. The difference is that you could see her face clearly now.
A face that is very familiar to you. A face that you see everyday. It’s your face. It’s you. “No.. Jun, that can’t be real. That’s-” “You’ve always said that,” he whispered. “Every life. Every time we meet, you never remember at first. But I always do. And every time, I find you.”
You shook your head, heart pounding painfully. “Then why am I here? Why this house?” “Because it’s where we lived,” Jun said simply. “Where I built a home for you. And where I died waiting when you didn’t come back.”
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He looked around the room, his gaze softening with memory. “They called it devotion. I called it punishment. I’ve been bound here, in this house, between life and death, waiting for you. Every creak of the floorboards, every breeze through the window — it’s been you I’ve been calling.”
You sank onto the edge of the bed, the veil beside you brushing against your hands. “Then.. I died?” Jun nodded slowly. “You did. In this life, you lost control of your car the day before our wedding anniversary. You were coming here.” He knelt before you, his touch barely grazing your knee, but warm now, almost human.
“You survived,” he whispered. “But you lost your memory. You forgot me.” Tears burned your eyes before you even realised you were crying. “So that’s why I can’t see you. Because part of me still refuses to remember.”
Jun smiled sadly, brushing your tears away with fingers that faded halfway through the motion. “You can’t see me because you don’t believe in me anymore. And without your belief, I’m barely here.”
You tried reaching out to touch him, his hands guiding your hands to his face — his cheek, his hair, anything solid — but your hand passed through his face like mist.
Until it didn’t.
Warmth bloomed under your touch. Solid. Living. Real. You gasped softly, feeling your heartbeat stumble as Jun’s features sharpened in front of you — the faint curve of his smile, the mole beneath his eye, the soft slope of his nose. He was no longer just a shimmer in the mirror; he was right there.
He was beautiful. And familiar. He’s divine.
The air pulsed once and then everything tilted. The floor beneath your feet dissolved, colours shifting, walls melting into light. You blinked and suddenly, the world changed.
Sunlight streamed through the canopy of white sakura trees, their petals falling like snow. You stood under an arch woven with lilies and pearls, your hands trembling as Jun slid a ring onto your finger.
“Do you promise to haunt me even if I die first?” you teased, your voice catching from laughter and tears. Jun’s lips curved into that same half-smile you’d later dream about. “I’d rather haunt the world than live in it without you.”
You threw your head back, laughing softly, pressing your forehead to his. “That sounds like a curse.”He smiled against your lips. “Then I’ll gladly be cursed.”
—
You stood in front of the house you live in now — only brighter, newer. Boxes piled high on the porch, sunlight filtering through the vines climbing the walls. Jun appeared behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Our forever home,” he said, kissing your temple.
“It’s old,” you murmured. “And it creaks.” “So do we, sometimes.” You laughed, swatting at him. “That’s not romantic.”
He leaned closer, whispering, “Then let me try again.” He kissed your shoulder gently. “Our love will creak too, old, stubborn, and impossible to let go.”
—
The sound of clinking porcelain. You sat at the wooden kitchen table, hair still messy from sleep, while Jun poured you tea with that same careful grace he did everything with.
He kissed the back of your hand. “You always forget breakfast when you write.” “And you always act like I’ll starve in two hours,” you said, rolling your eyes playfully.
“Because you will,” he replied, sliding the cup toward you. “My wife, the novelist who forgets she has a body.” You smiled, reaching out to tug him closer by the tie. “You talk too much hubby.”
He chuckled. “I love you” you smiled “I love you more”
—
The clock struck midnight, the house silent except for the faint hum of the record player. You were in your pajamas, barefoot on the hardwood floor. Jun appeared behind you, holding out his hand.
“Dance with me,” he said simply. “There’s no music.” “There’s us.”
You laughed, slipping your hand into his. He spun you once, your laughter echoing in the dim light. The two of you swayed lazily, the world shrinking to the warmth of his hands on your waist and the sound of your quiet breaths syncing together.
—
Thunder boomed outside, rain drumming against the windows. You were both huddled in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a single blanket. “Tell me something true,” you murmured, tracing his palm with your finger.
Jun’s gaze softened. “When I first saw you, I thought I had seen you before. Like in a dream that I’d already lived.” “And did you?” you asked.
His silence was long, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Maybe I’ll tell you in another life.” You frowned. “That’s unfair.” “Then stay with me in this one,” he whispered, voice low, almost pleading.
Both of you laughed, as the warmth between you two became one, cuddling at the stormy weather at the bed.
—
“Jun, stop reading over my shoulder!” you groaned, swatting him lightly with your pen. “I can’t help it,” he said, grinning. “Your characters sound like us.” “They do not.”
“They do. ‘The stubborn man who won’t take no for an answer,’” he quoted dramatically, pointing to the page. “That’s clearly me.” You threw a crumpled paper at him. “Then I’ll kill your character next.”
“Then I’ll haunt you,” he teased, eyes glimmering. You rolled your eyes. “Then I’ll marry you out of guilt.” “Perfect. My plan worked.”
—
Sunlight peeked through sheer curtains, painting soft stripes across the bed. Jun’s arm was draped lazily around your waist, his chest rising and falling behind you.
“Jun,” you murmured sleepily. “You’re heavy.” He chuckled, half-asleep. “You used to like it.” “I changed my mind.” He buried his face into your hair. “Too late. You married me.”
You sighed, smiling to yourself. “You’re impossible.” He kissed your shoulder. “So are you. That’s why it works.”
—
The dining room was dim except for candles you hastily lit on a lopsided cake. Jun entered the room and froze, eyes widening as you yelled, “Happy birthday!” “I told you not to-”
“You think I listen to you?” you said, grinning. “Make a wish before I eat it all.” He stared at you for a moment before blowing the candles out. “I already did.”
You blinked. “What’d you wish for?” He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “To live long enough to grow old with you.” You laughed, rolling your eyes. “That’s so cheesy.”
But he smiled softly. “Cheesy things are true things.”
—
The smell of oil paint filled the room. You sat by the window, sunlight catching in your hair while Jun worked on a portrait of you. “You’re taking forever,” you complained, swinging your legs.
He looked up from the canvas, smirking. “You move too much.” “I’m bored.” “Then talk to me.” You tilted your head. “What should I say?”
“Say something I can remember,” he said. You smiled. “I love you.” He paused, brush mid-air. “That’ll do.”
The memories collided with reality, your breath ragged as you stumbled back. The house, the mirror, the kitchen — everything shimmered and settled again into the dim golden light of dusk.
You were crying. Not from fear, but from the weight of recognition. “Jun,” you whispered, your hands trembling as they cupped his face. “I remember everything.”
Jun smiled through the tears shining in his eyes. His thumb brushed the corner of your lips like he’d done a thousand times before. “You came back to me.”
Your lips trembled. “And you waited.” He nodded once, a soft, broken laugh escaping him. “Every lifetime.”
His smile turned into a hungry kiss as he pressed you against the old bed where you shared countless moments together you’ve forgotten. His hands roamed over familiar curves remembered through centuries of waiting — for this exact moment where memory returned fully between two souls meant to be entwined forever.
His hands trailed down to your waist, pulling you flush against him as he kissed along your jawline. Suddenly, he pressed a cold finger to your neck, activating a necromantic chill that made you gasp and arch into him. “Do you remember my touch?” He whispered huskily
A wicked smile spread across his face as he remembered your kinks. He reached over to the bedside table and lit a candle, the flame flickering to life in the dim room. He started playing with temperatures, his breath, his touch being entirely cold, and the candle.. the wax. He dribbled hot wax onto your collarbone, watching as you gasped and your eyes fluttered closed. He knew exactly what you liked.
He kissed down your neck, his mouth alternately hot and cold like fire and ice. “Wife.. you taste so good.” His lips trailed open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone with wax on it as he slowly unbuttoned your shirt, revealing more skin for him to worship.
One hand continued the slow torture of dripping hot wax onto your skin while the other hand slipped under your bra, teasing your nipple with cold fingertips. “Cold or hot first?” He didn't wait for an answer, switching between hot wax poured onto your chest and his ice-cold hands caressing your skin.
This leaves you shivering and gasping beneath his touch. He unhooked your bra, throwing it somewhere as he continued his assault on your senses, his mouth claiming one hardening nipple while his fingers played with the other.
Junhui worshipped your body like he’d been starved for centuries — because he had been. His mouth trailed down to your stomach, kissing and licking each inch of skin he uncovered. He unbuttoned your pants slowly, almost reverently, pulling them down your legs along with your underwear.
He spread your legs gently, his cold hands contrasting with the heat of your core. He leaned down, blowing a cool breath over your clit before he spoke. “I remember everything about you. Every moan, every gasp, every shiver.”
“And I remember how you used to drive me crazy with that mouth of yours.” You spread your legs wider, teasing him deliberately. Jun groaned, pressing a freezing cold kiss directly onto your clit. “Stop teasing me with your knowledge of my body,”
His cold tongue replaced his lips, licking a slow path up your slit before sucking your clit into his mouth. He used his fingers to spread you open further, his ice-cold digits pushing inside you suddenly. You gasped and bucked against him. “Uhmm-hmm jun..” “You used to call me hubby.” He murmured.
“My hubby,” He growled against your sensitive folds, his fingers curling inside you while his tongue worked overtime on your clit. He remembered every spot that made you moan hubby. His other hand snaked up to pinch one of your nipples hard, making you arch into him.
“You used to grab my hair and fuck my face when I do this..” He demonstrated by sucking hard on your clit while pushing three cold fingers deep inside you, curling them exactly how you used to love. “Ugh! Fuck-”
You instantly wrapped your legs around his head, gripping his hair tightly and riding his face as you moaned his name like a prayer. Jun moaned loudly, his fingers freezing cold inside you as he remembered how much he loved being used by you.
“God, you always ride my face hard when I touch you like this.” He added another finger, spreading them wide inside you, hitting your favourite spot. He blew cold air onto your clit again, watching your body tightly coil with remembered pleasure.
“Stop reminiscing,” You pushed his head away sharply. He laughed softly, his mouth wet with your arousal. “No more remembering how you used to bounce on my face?” He teased, trying to pull your hips back down onto his mouth. You smacked his head lightly, “Asshole.”
He caught your hips sharply, pulling you back. He spread your legs wide, feasting on you like a starving man. His fingers still inside you, curving them perfectly as he ate you loudly, slurping and sucking your clit like it was his last meal.
Your body tightened like a bowstring as he remembered exactly how you liked it. Within minutes, you were crying out, your legs shaking as you came hard against his mouth. “Junhui- God! Aghh Oh my- fuck!”
He kept eating you through your orgasm, his cold fingers never stopping their relentless attack on that sweet spot inside you. He loved how you tasted, how you moaned his name like a dirty prayer. When your legs finally stopped shaking, he pulled away slowly, licking his lips.
He sat up, his face glistening with your juices. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking up at you with hooded eyes. “You taste even better than I remembered,” he said huskily. He spread his legs slightly, palming his hard, cold erection through his pants.
“My turn, hubby.”
You smirked and slowly removed his jacket and white collared shirt, revealing his perfectly sculpted abs. He lifted his hips so you could pull down his pants and boxers in one smooth motion. His massive, erect dick sprang free, slapping against his stomach with a wet smack.
His hands came up to grip your hair as you looked down at his length. He was already cold and hard, leaking pre-cum. “Take it in your mouth,” he ordered roughly, his Chinese accent thickening with desire. His hand tightened in your hair possessively. “Open Wen Y/N”
You spread your lips slowly, taking the tip of him into your hot mouth. He hissed sharply, his hips bucking slightly. “Damn it,” He muttered softly, watching your wet mouth stretch around him. “You used to deep throat like a pro.” He gripped your hair tighter, guiding you slightly.
His eyes rolled back as you suddenly took him deep into your throat without warning, your nose pressing against his balls. He let out a choked groan — “Fucking hell..” His hands tangled in your hair desperately as you started bobbing up and down rapidly, sucking hard “Shit.. shit- shit, you’re even better now!”
His cold dick throbbed in your mouth as you kept deepthroating him, your tongue pressing against the sensitive vein underneath. He could barely speak, his voice coming out strained “Fuck...fuck..fuck! Goddam- Ughh”
With a loud, muffled groan, he came down your throat, his hips jerking uncontrollably. You swallowed every drop before pulling off with a wet pop. He fell back onto the bed, panting heavily. “Still so noisy” You commented dryly, crawling up his body.
He wrapped his arms around you tightly, nuzzling into your neck and inhaling your scent. “Sure sure..” He murmured against your skin, his voice hoarse. “You’re the loud one. Always screaming my name.” He started kissing and sucking on your neck possessively. “My hubby.. still so good for me.”
He rolled you onto your back, covering your body with his. I can’t even see the ceiling. His cold hands gripped your wrists, pinning them above your head. His dark brown eyes bore into yours intensely. “Turns out, my wife gives even better head now. I wonder how else she’s improved.”
One hand slid under your thigh. “Spread for me, Y/N. Let me check if that tight hole still belongs to me only.” His voice was low and commanding.
He pushed your legs apart roughly, his cold dick already hardening again. I’m fucking a ghost. He’s so cold. He positioned himself at your entrance, rubbing the head against your sensitive spot. “You know what I love about this position?” He asked, his voice husky.
“What?” You barely said, “It lets me go deep,” He answered darkly, pushing your thighs back sharply and slamming inside you hard. He hit the bottom instantly, making you cry out loudly. “See?” He pulled back and thrust hard again, making you bounce on the bed. “Noisy.”
He started pounding into you relentlessly, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room along with your loud moans and cries. One hand remained on your wrist above your head holding it back while the other on your thighs “Fuck-” He groaned, “Too loud, my wife”
His thrusts became deeper and harder, hitting that spot inside you perfectly. Your loud moans turned into high-pitched screams as he fucked you brutally. “Shut up...shut up”
He slapped a hand over your mouth as you screamed during another deep thrust. “AHHH-” “Jesus,” He muttered against your neck, “You sound like a fucking porn star.” He bit down on your shoulder to muffle his own groan, still fucking you mercilessly.
Your world turned into a blur of cold hands gripping your body painfully, eyes glinting menacingly above you, and a ghostly cock pounding into you. You could feel every inch of him stretching you open, hitting depths you never knew existed. “Mmph..”
You felt possessed, fucked by a literal ghost who showed no mercy. His cold body slammed against yours relentlessly, making the headboard bang against the wall loudly. Your screams were echoing, spit dripping from the corners of your mouth.
Tears streamed down your face from the intense pleasure-pain as he hit your cervix with every thrust. Your nails scrambled against his back, leaving red marks on his pale skin. You felt like you were being claimed by a supernatural being, completely at his mercy. “Nghh!”
Your tears only seemed to fuel his hunger for you. He watched, mesmerised, as they spilled down your cheeks and dripped onto the pillow. “Adorable,” He groaned, his voice laced with dark desire. “My pretty wife crying while I fuck you stupid.”
Mid-thrust, an abrupt memory flashed through his mind — the candle he had lit earlier, still burning softly nearby. A wicked smirk crossed his ghostly face as an idea struck him. “Hold that thought..” He suddenly pulled out completely, leaving you empty and whimpering. “Don't move.”
He quickly reached the candle, dipping his cold fingers into the melted wax. The room fell silent except for your laboured breathing and soft sniffles. “I forgot you’re a ghost, and how you can’t feel pain.” He chuckled then looming over you with a sinister grin and wax-covered fingers. “Spread wider,” He ordered darkly. “Let's play a little game.”
Without warning, he pressed the warm wax against your sensitive entrance, pushing it inside you slowly. You gasped at the foreign feeling, your hole stretching to accommodate the wax. He added more, filling you up with the warm substance before snapping his fingers. “Cold now.” The wax instantly hardened inside you,
Leaving you with a feeling of extreme fullness and pressure. He pushed your legs back even further, until your knees were practically touching your ears. “Now, let's see how long this pretty little human can hold still while I fuck her with a frozen, wax-filled hole.”
He lined up his cock again, pushing the head against your entrance. He groaned as he slowly slid in, the hardened wax making you even tighter than before. “Goddamn,” He grunted, “You feel insane right now.”
With a sharp thrust, he buried himself balls-deep inside you. The sudden intrusion forced a loud, strangled moan from your throat. “Ahh..! F-fuck..!” You bucked your hips instinctively, only for the wax to shift inside you uncomfortably. “N-no...ahh- st-still..”
He wrapped a hand around your throat to hold you down as he started thrusting his hips slowly, each thrust causing the wax to grind against your prostate pleasurably. Your moans turned into broken whimpers as he fucked you with that unrelenting fullness. “Shh, my wife.. just take it”
He picked up the pace, his hips slapping against yours with wet smacks. The wax inside you began to melt slightly from the friction, creating a warm, sticky sensation that had you moaning uncontrollably. “Ahh..ahh...ahhh!”
Your loud, desperate moans sent him over the edge. He slammed into you one last time, hitting your prostate dead on as he came hard inside you. “FUCK!” He groaned loudly, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his hot cum. “HUBBY!” You screamed as you cream his cock as well inside.
He stayed buried inside you, his heavy breathing gradually slowing as he nuzzled against your neck. The melted wax and his release dripped out of you messily, coating your inner thighs. After a moment, he pulled out slowly, watching as more fluid followed. “Mmm”
You looked down at the mess between your legs, then back up at him with confused eyes. “How.. how are you cumming? You're a ghost” He smirked mischievously, “Ghost sex has its perks, wife. My spirit can still produce semen.”
“And trust me, it feels just as good as real cum would.” He chuckled softly, floating down to clean himself up with some tissues he got at the night stand. “Plus, being dead means I can fuck you for hours without getting tired.”
Your eyes widen, completely not understanding what happened just now, “can I get pregnant..? BY A GHOST?!”
He raised an eyebrow at you, then shook his head with a soft laugh. “No, Y/N. You can’t get pregnant from ghost sex.” He explained, “My spirit might produce semen, but it lacks the necessary components to impregnate anyone.”
“Oh ok,” you sighed, relieved. His smirk turned into a full-blown grin as he went back up to top you, hovering between your legs. “So basically, I can fill you up as much as I want, and there’s zero risk of an actual baby.” He leaned down to kiss your neck and the night was long.
The morning light slipped through the old lace curtains, pooling soft gold across the floorboards. The air was warmer than usual — almost gentle, like the house itself didn’t want to disturb you. You stirred under the sheets, your body still aching in ways you couldn’t explain, every muscle sore but tingling with something that felt like longing.
This bed feels more like me, than the other bed. I love to be back.
Jun sat beside the bed, his elbow resting on the headboard, chin on his hand, smiling softly. “You’re awake,” he murmured. His voice was as calm as ever, but there was something different in his gaze — something steady, quiet, almost resigned.
You groaned, trying to sit up. “Remind me to never let a ghost manhandle me again.” He laughed — that deep, melodic laugh that used to echo down the hallways when the house was still alive. “You weren’t complaining last night.”
“Yeah, well,” you muttered, cheeks warming as you tried to swing your legs off the bed, “that was before I realized ghosts apparently have stamina.”
Jun leaned forward, catching your wrist before you could stand. “Careful,” he said softly. “Don’t move too fast. You’re still sore.” You rolled your eyes. “I can handle it.”
“Of course you can,” he teased, standing and offering his hand anyway. “But let me handle you for once.” You took his hand without thinking — it felt solid now, warm even. The thought almost made your chest ache. “Since when did you get so smug?”
He smiled faintly, leading you toward the kitchen. “Since I got my wife back.” You froze mid-step, and for a moment, your breath caught. He said it so casually, like it was the most ordinary truth in the world. But something in his tone — that faint tremor beneath the calm — made your heart twist.
“Jun..” He only smiled again, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Breakfast first. Heavy hearts need coffee.”
He made pancakes. You didn’t even think ghosts could cook, but the smell of butter and sugar filled the air, and when you asked how he did it, Jun just shrugged. “You said you missed the scent of home,” he said, flipping one perfectly golden. “So I borrowed it from your memory.” You laughed. “That’s creepy and romantic. I can’t decide which.” “Can’t it be both?”
The rest of the day passed in a strange sort of domestic bliss. You both cleaned the bedroom — or at least, you did, and Jun hovered around you, pretending to help but mostly teasing you. He brushed wax off your cheek, steadying you every time you leaned too close.
“Do you ever miss it?” you asked suddenly, when you caught him watching the sunlight through the window. He turned to you, smiling faintly. “Miss what?” “Being alive.” For a heartbeat, his smile faltered. Then he said quietly, “Not anymore. Everything I ever wanted.. is standing right here.”
You stared at him — the soft glow in his eyes, the way his voice trembled like he was holding back something heavy. You didn’t press. Instead, you reached out and brushed his hand — and this time, it felt entirely real.
Jun blinked, then smiled again, softer this time. “See? You’re getting stronger.” You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing a light kiss to your forehead — his lips almost warm now. “It means you’ll be okay,” he whispered. “Even when I’m not here to make pancakes for you.”
You looked up sharply. “What are you talking about-” “Nothing,” he interrupted, smiling again — that same too-gentle, too-final smile. “Just saying.. ghosts like me don’t get forever. So promise me, if I ever fade away” He brushed your cheek with his thumb. “…don’t stop living.”
You didn’t know why, but the air grew heavier around you. The sunlight dimmed. You forced a laugh. “You’re being dramatic again.”
Jun chuckled softly, though his eyes were glistening in the light. “Maybe. But if being dramatic lets me stay in your memory, then I’ll take it.”
You stared at him for a long time, the ache in your chest tightening, and for a fleeting moment, you swore you could see through him — just a shimmer, like heat rising from pavement. But you blinked, and he was solid again. Smiling. Alive in his own way.
And so, you smiled back. “You’ll have to work harder than that to get rid of me.” He leaned in and kissed your lips. “I know,” he whispered. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
—
The night came gentle, like the world itself didn’t want to wake you. You sat on the veranda with Jun, a single candle flickering between you — its flame bending and swaying with the wind. The garden was quiet, the air thick with that faint sweetness of rose and memory.
Jun leaned back in his chair, watching you instead of the stars. You didn’t notice at first how still he’d become. “I used to dream of this,” he said softly. “Of what?” “Peace.” He smiled faintly, eyes never leaving your face. “I thought I’d forgotten what it felt like.”
You chuckled, sipping your tea. “You sound like someone who’s about to give a farewell speech.” “Maybe I am.” You frowned. “Jun.”
He turned toward you, eyes reflecting the candlelight, gold and endless and unbearably sad. “You remember everything now, don’t you?” You blinked. “What do you mean?” “Us,” he whispered. “Before this life. Before this house. Before the accident.”
The words hit you like a chill. The images — faint, half-remembered — started to surface. The rain. Screeching tires. The ring glinting against the pavement. Jun’s voice calling your name, desperate, echoing. And then.. nothing.
Your throat tightened. “I- I saw flashes. I thought they were dreams.” He reached out, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. His touch was lighter than before — fading. “They were memories. The last ones we shared before everything ended.”
You shook your head, tears already welling. “Ended? No.. we found each other again, didn’t we? You said you waited for me-” “I did,” Jun said, smiling. “Every life I remembered, I searched for you. Sometimes I found you. Sometimes I didn’t. But this time..” He paused, his voice breaking. “This time, you came back to me.”
“Then why- why does it sound like you’re saying goodbye?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Because I am.” You froze. “No.”
He moved closer, cupping your face, thumbs tracing slow circles over your tears. His hands were almost see-through now — light bleeding through his fingers. “My curse was to remember every life,” he said softly. “To live them all until I learned to let go.”
“Jun, stop-”
“But yours,” he whispered, “was to forget. To live free of the pain. To start again.”
—
The moment the words left his lips, something in your chest cracked open — a white flash of pain, too bright to bear. And then..
White walls. The soft hum of machines. A dull ache at the back of your head. You blinked your eyes open and found yourself lying on a hospital bed. Your throat was dry, your body heavy. The faint rhythm of a heart monitor keeps time with your shallow breathing.
“Mingyu- she’s awake!” You turned your head weakly. Three faces came into focus — Mingyu, Seokmin, and Minghao — all hovering near your bed, eyes wide with relief. Mingyu reached out, holding your hand tightly as if grounding you.
“Hey,” he said softly, voice trembling. “You scared us.” You looked at them, confused. “What.. happened?” Seokmin’s smile faltered. “You got into an accident. You’ve been out for a few days.”
You nodded slowly, your mind foggy. But as you looked at their faces — familiar yet oddly distant — you felt something off. Something hollow. “Was anyone else with me?” you asked after a moment.
They froze. Minghao looked down at the floor, his jaw tight. “No,” he said finally. “You were alone when they found you.” You frowned, trying to recall anything — a road, a sound, a name. But your head throbbed the harder you tried. There was nothing. Just blank space.
Days passed, and you went home, that doesn’t even feel like home. You walked through your apartment, touching the furniture, tracing the edges of picture frames that held no faces. You caught your reflection in the mirror and felt the strangest ache, like someone else should’ve been there beside you. Someone who wasn’t.
Late one night, unable to sleep, you sat on your bed and whispered into the dark — not knowing why, or to whom. “Maybe it’s not about moving on,” you murmured, clutching your chest where that invisible ache lived, “but trying to remember the memories I’ve already lost.”
A tear slipped down your cheek before you even realised you were crying. You didn’t know what you were grieving — only that your heart was mourning something you couldn’t recall.
—
You sobbed, shaking your head violently. “Then why- why bring me back here? Why make me remember?” “Because you deserved to know you were loved,” Jun said, voice trembling. “Even after death. Even after forgetting. You were my heart in every lifetime, and I needed you to know that before I go.”
The candle flame flickered. His form wavered, the edges of him breaking apart like smoke. “No,” you cried, clutching his shirt — your hands passing through him. “Please, stay. I’ll remember you this time. I swear, Jun, I won’t forget”
He smiled faintly, leaning forward until his forehead touched yours. “You will. You have to. That’s how you live.” He said. You sobbed. “Then what now? What happens to us? To you” “You live,” he said gently. “You finish your book. You keep the house. You keep going.”
“As for me.. I’ll keep waiting. Like I always do.” You shook your head violently. “No. No, you can’t. You deserve to move on.” “How can I?” Jun whispered. “My heaven was you. This is my fate.. I finally have the reason to cross the afterlife for this life, Y/N.” You felt the warmth of his breath one last time as he whispered,
“Find me again, in another life, my bride” The candle went out.
Silence filled the house — that heavy, sacred kind of silence only grief can make.
You sat there long after, whispering his name into the darkness, your tears falling onto the wooden floor. When the morning light finally touched the veranda, there was no trace of him — just the faint scent of cedar and rose and the ghost of a handprint on your cheek.
And for a moment, as you looked toward the mirror inside the house, you swore you saw him smiling.
Then he was gone.
And on the bed beside you, the veil stirred gently — as if brushed by unseen hands. unheard voice.
𝐀/𝐍 ➙ and that’s a wrap!! thank you so much for reading — I hope you liked it!! we’ve still got a few more left on our 2025 kinktober prompt list, next up is jeonghan, then wonwoo. see you all soon! stay safe, healthy, and a little unhinged, loves mwaa
your poetry professor starts showing up in your dreams after he praised you on your assignment—but it must be all in your head right? or why is he looking at you like he know what you dreamt about?
Pairing | incubus!mingyu x unistudent!reader
Genre + warnings | Smut, Porn with Plot; dub-con? (it’s a incubus story so it comes with the lore), dom!mingyu, oral, fingering, spanking, nipple play, piv sex, unprotected sex, stalking(?), marking(?), professor/student relationships, age-gap (the man’s a demon so…), reader x mystery member one-night stand, petnames (harlot, slut, baby, sweetheart, pretty, human), riding, masturbation, degradation/praise. I think that’s it, a little dark/not fluffy, comes with the incubus lore obvs. *lil surprise at the end hehe
Word Count | 5.5K ♡ 22 min read
Notes | this is my first time writing anything with incubi (and mingyu lol) I did a lot of research so there is a bigger chunk of plot than usual. I hope y’all like it regardless, and that I didn’t butcher the lore much TT
Request | hiii i saw that your request is open. since it is the spooky month, i was thinking of a mingyu incubus fic? it's all dark and alluring, him luring a girl and using her to get her energy.
As summer transcends into fall, the falling orange leaves mark the start of a new semester, the chilly wind and cloudy skies the only companion as you walk to your last class of the day—Lyric Poetry. Living a quiet life, you pushed yourself to indulge in small things you liked, even though Literature was not your major, you thought it would be good idea to take a poetry class in hopes of finding a medium to channel your feelings.
It’s been a whole year and a half since you found out your boyfriend of two years had been cheating on you with your best friend—your only friend at that. Not for a month, not for a year, but for the whole duration of the relationship. He couldn’t even wait a week after asking you out when he was already having his way with her in the back of his car. You were not sure if that hurt more or the fact that the only person you had ever trusted was the one that was seeing him. Safe to say the past year has been the loneliest of them all, maybe you were destined to be alone all along—just how you overheard your mother say once.
A sigh left your lips, soft smog forming due to the cold weather, as you opened the doors to the building. The heels of your boots clicked on the floor and your jacket ruffled softly as your approached the room—Room 406 to be exact.
Professor Kim would be waiting on the other side of the door. You had heard so many stories about him, from girls in your classes and hallway gossip. Two semesters into teaching and his classes were already a bloodbath to get in during registration, not because his classes were all so interesting, but because students on campus had taken quite a liking to the physique of the professor. You’d never seen him before, but when you saw he was offering a new poetry class, you had to take into the opportunity—to learn of course.
There were rumors that some girls had become so obsessed with him that the Dean had to get them transferred, others that there were students who swore up and down that they had slept with said professor—in their dreams—but it had felt so real to the point that they had started believing it themselves.
‘He can’t be that handsome…’ you thought to yourself when you heard a guy excitedly tell his friends how he just knew Professor Kim wanted him.
As your watch marked 4:30PM, you open the door to the classroom, all front seat already taken by girls with skirts too short and necklines too deep, clearly in efforts of catching the attention of the “hot” new professor. Pathetic, that’s what they were, parading themselves for a man that will merely see them as disposable, they all did, they were all the same.
There was a seat towards the end of the lecture hall, just perfect for you, away from the giggles and whispers of those oogling the teacher. Just a perfect view of the board and quiet enough to sit with your little pathetic broken heart.
Five minutes later, sharp, you hear the door open and the whispers subside. An odd feeling crept up your body as a shiver went down your spine, the warm light of the hall flickered slightly—odd. A tall muscular man in his early 30s stood in front of the room, a white button up hidden behind a black coat adorned his body, his hair was neatly brushed back, with a couple of messy strands framing his hair perfectly, probably due to the wind outside.
Professor Kim. The rumors were kinda true—he was handsome, but not ‘make you go mad handsome’, at least to you.
“Ms. _____?” You heard a male voice call, pulling your gaze up from your notebook, you met his eyes.
Odd.
There was something odd about his eyes, but you decided to let it go, blaming it on the long distance.
“Here.” You said softly, a hum resonated from his throat.
“Welcome to the class, Ms. ______.” A smile. Odd smile—almost a smirk. For some reason it sent shivers down your spine, the way his eyes looked dark from up your row was weird, but nonetheless you shrugged it off, you were just tired. Tired in so many ways.
You felt some lingering gazes from some people at the front, but paid no mind to them as your eyes quickly went back to your notebook. Class went on as normal, despite your body temperature suddenly feeling cold, but hey, it was fall after all.
As soon as the clock marked 6:00PM, Professor Kim concluded the class, all students getting up their seats and preparing to head home. Still, some students lingered around to ask the professor stuff—mostly his office hours and extra credit opportunities, if you know what they meant…
Your bag slung over your shoulder after stuffing your notebook and laptop back in, quickly making way down the lecture hall and towards the door. Just as you were to push past the door you hear a voice call your name, awfully close.
“Goodbye, Ms. ______.” Deep and dark—almost seductive right next to your ear, tickling a little.
The proximity of the voice made you turn around immediately. The over of the voice, however, was still at his desk, a couple of girls surrounding him.
A hum of confusion had left your lips, his attention suddenly on you.
“Everything okay, Ms. ____?” Professor Kim asked, glacing at you, feigning worry. Something about him was off, your brain was yelling at you, but you brushed it off—obviously thats crazy to think, you didn’t know the man.
“Yeah, I thought I heard someone calling.” You said dismissively, a snort coming from one of the girls at his desk.
“Sure, you did…” her eyes rolled.
“M’kay. Have a nice night, see you Friday.” The man said giving you the same smile as earlier, prompting you to finally leave the classroom.
You were tired. Definitely. That had to be it.
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿☆ ‿⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
Days passed, every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, you found yourself in the same seat—center seat, last row of the lecture hall. Every class was the same, you came in, he took roll, his eyes lingered, you avoided his gaze, shivers up your spine, a smirk on his face, and a cold feeling on your skin. It always seemed as if no one else felt it, the coldness of the room, the strange atmosphere, dark gaze, lopsided smirk—you couldn’t be imagining that every day, could you?
After a couple of weeks, your first assignment had been graded. An A+. Of course, you deserved that grade, you put your heart into the assignment, literally. It was like a leak you couldn’t fix, words just came, pouring all feelings of solitude and heartbreak into paper.
‘That is what prompted him to call you after class’, you told yourself as you waited for the last person seeking to get more from him to leave. As soon as he did, Professor Kim’s eyes were on you, a softer smile on his face.
“Your work was exceptional, Ms. ____!” He announced. “You have an incredible talent with words, I could feel every single word in your work.”
“Thank you, Professor. I tried my very best.” You said, feeling lighter, a breath you didn’t know you were holding leaving your lips.
“I would love to have you join the University’s new Poetry Club. It’s pretty new, nothing too fancy yet.” His hands worked on stacking some papers due for grading. “I am in charge of it and I think you would be a great first addition to it as we grow, what do you think?”
First addition? As in… just you? Something told you to reject, yet your mouth had other plans, it’s not like you had a social life anyway. Eventually more people would join and you would meet new friends… right?
“Sure! That sounds interesting.” You said softly, a small chuckle left his lips.
“Cool, I’ll email you the details once we have a meeting date set. Have a good night, Ms. _____.”
“You too, Professor…” you turned to leave, but that voice returned. It was his voice, you knew that.
‘I’ll see you tonight.’ A shiver. You turned back to see him still at his desk, already grading papers, his tie a bit looser.
It wasn’t him, he was too far. It was all in your head, you were imagining things. Then why did that voice kept on replaying in your head?
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿☆ ‿⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
The drive back home was quiet, just the faint music coming from the speakers as you pulled into your complex’s parking garage. You discarded your jacket and sweater by the door, getting more comfortable as you prepared to sleep in—it was the weekend after all, no school and no work.
After a quick warm shower, you were ready in your pajamas under the covers. The view to the city was relaxing as you indulged in a book. You loved reading before bed, love stories made you mend your heart slightly, it was nice thinking love was a real thing in some universe far away—not on this one though.
After an hour or so, you put the book away, lying on your side after turning off your bedside lamp. The quiet murmuring of the city from your window soothed your eyes into a peaceful slumber.
That is until you heard that voice again. This time it was obviously in your dreams, right in your left ear.
“Aren’t you a pretty little thing?” You tried to turn around, but couldn’t. Then you felt a large hand, soft but cold, caress your shoulder.
You couldn’t lie, it felt nice to be touched like this, even if it was just in your dreams.
“So lonely and dejected.” The voice taunted you, but the soft finger tips approached your hips, where they pressed softly, pulling you back against their much larger frame.
This was kinda nice.
“I bet you taste so sweet,” an involuntary gasp left your mouth as his fingers danced closer to your inner thighs. “I can smell this neglected little cunt all the way from my desk every day, baby.”
You froze at that. What the fuck were you dreaming?!
“Every time you are immersed in your notebook and you shiver, I can see your pretty nipples harden under your sweater. Such a slutty little thing.” The fingers of the person behind you dipped further between your legs, finally touching your heat over your panties—a moan leaving your lips.
You wanted to look back, but your body was anchored to its side on the mattress. You should’ve panicked, but it was a dream after all.
“A whole year without anyone kissing this wet cunt is torture. But I’m here to change that, baby. I will give you what he couldn’t.” A set of sharp teeth sunk on your shoulder softly. “I will give you what he was giving her all that time. I will fuck this little pussy raw until all you can think about is how warm my cum feels deep inside.”
Your thighs pressed together around the large manly hand and your back arched back slightly.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you, little harlot?” His middle finger pressed down your wet clotherd slot, playing with your hole teasingly. “You want your professor to cum deep inside you, fuck the loneliness out of you.”
You nodded. ‘Yes’, you wanted to scream, you really did want your Prof- wait… Who? Before you could even panic, his fingers dipped beyond your panties and into your warm hole. A moan finally leaving your lips.
“Fuck, you are so wet, baby.” With that, he moved you to lay on your back, finally letting you see his face. His fingers scissored inside your heat, provoking a moan from you.
His eyes were dark, not only in color but in aura. A smirk decorated his face, sharp fangs showing slightly. Professor Kim, you were having a wet dream about your teacher.
What the fuck?
“Expected someone else, pretty?” He asked seductively, leaning in to lightly graze his teeth on your jaw. “I’ll see you some other day then, baby. Keep that pussy wet and nice for me, yeah?”
You jolted awake with a sharp inhale, sitting straight up in bed. Your heart was pumping way too fast in your chest. Sweat making your hair cling to your neck.
Your eyes turned to where he was, empty.
It was a dream, but it felt oddly real. His presence wasn’t real, but the heat between your legs was. Your back met the mattress again and your hand shamefully moved to the waistband of your pajama shorts.
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿☆ ‿⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
Loneliness was some weird bitch cause he visited your dreams every single night until Monday finally came along.
He didn’t do much, just a bite and a grope here and there, plus the occasional fingering between your legs. But you couldn’t help yourself after jolting awake, lulling yourself back to sleep with a cry of his name in your lips.
‘Mingyu’, he had told you one night prior to disappearing as he usually did. If that was his real name, you were not completely sure. But that was the name your mind had given him in your dreams.
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿☆ ‿⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
The walk into the classroom the following Monday was shameful to say the least. You had touched yourself to a dream version of your professor for five nights straight. With rapid speed, you found your seat and drifted away into nothingness until he took roll.
“Ms. ____?” He called, already looking up at you in the last row of the hall.
“Here.” You murmured without looking up. A smirk drawn on his face and he feigned deafness.
“Ms. ____?” He called again, eyes set on you. You knew he was looking at you. His gaze was too heavy not to notice.
You refused to look up, until you heard that voice again, close to your ear.
‘Look at me, pretty.’ It felt like a whisper in your ear and you couldn’t help but obey for some strange reason.
“I’m here.” You said, louder this time, meeting his eyes. A lazy smirk adorned his face as he nodded and moved unto the rest of the list. You found yourself lost in your notes, but could feel his eyes set on you once in a while through the whole class. Every stare was followers by a shiver down your spine and a sudden chilly breeze around you.
You swore every day was the same, Professor Kim’s eyes on you once in a while throughout the class. It felt like he gave you specific attention, but no one seemed to take notice of it. Odd. At this point, it had been 2 weeks of dreaming about him. Being anchored to your bed without any ability to move while he touched you. By the seventh dream, he had eaten you out, made you see stars, until you jolted awake. Your underwear had been moved to the side just like he did in the dream and you could’ve sworn your clit was swollen—but that was impossible, you must’ve moved in your sleep. Maybe you needed to get laid in real life to stop having these intense dreams about your teacher nonetheless.
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿☆ ‿⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
Your eyes scanned around the bar, nothing good would come out of this, you were sure, but you needed to release all the pent up lust. Everyday you couldn’t control your body, it was like you were stuck in your ovulation period. So, here you were now trying to find someone willing to fuck you and call it a night.
A tall muscular man came into your view, his eyes met yours and his lips drew into a smirk. In less than 3 seconds he was already making his way to you.
“Saw something you liked, gorgeous?” He let out an airy chuckle, no sign of alcohol in his breath. Perfect.
“Hmm, not sure, I was looking behind you.” You said, biting your lip. He let out an amused chuckle at that.
“Such a shame, cause I was looking straight at you.” He said, getting a little closer, your breath hitching.
He was just perfect. Tall, big biceps, thick eyebrows, and pretty plump lips—handsome all around. You could already imagine how the night was gonna end.
“May I buy you a drink?” He asked, “or would you rather we go somewhere else?”
“I think I can skip the alcohol for tonight.” You smiled softly, tracing his bicep with your index finger. The way he smiled while biting his bottom lip gave you a peek of dimples.
Yeah, tonight was gonna be great.
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿☆ ‿⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
Seungcheol’s (you had learned his name on the way to your place) hands gripped your ass while his lips devoured yours. Soft pants resounded from both of you while you guided him towards your bedroom. This was the first time you had brought a stranger home, but the way he touched you was enough to not drive your mind into overthinking.
“And to think I was going to stay home.” He murmured against your lips. “Such a pretty little thing, fuck, I saw you as soon as you came into the bar, baby.”
His hands pulled you in closer as you approached the bed. He was gentle with laying you down and you could definitely feel something flutter in your chest. The man removed his shirt with a grin, giving you a view to his chiseled torso, your hands reach out automatically to feel him.
“Let me remove these, baby…”
Soon your clothes were gone and he had your legs pressed against your chest as he rutted into you in a slow but more than satisfactory pace. He was big all around, stuffing you perfectly and making your mind forget all about Professor Kim. He had folded you into three positions already, making you cum in every single one.
“Still so tight, baby…” He said, but it wasn’t Seungcheol’s voice. You froze, heart beating out of your chest. It was the voice again, his voice.
“What?” You asked and he hummed.
Suddenly he stoped his tracks grabbing his ear in pain as he stumbled back.
“What’s wrong?” You asked sitting up quickly to help him, but he looked scared. His eyes zeroed behind you, you tried to look back but you were stuck in place.
“I gotta go.” He rushed to put his clothes on, you wanted to stop him, but you were anchored to where you at in bed.
And in less than two minutes he was gone.
“Tsk, you belong to me, remember?” The air was knocked off your lungs and you saw black.
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿☆ ‿⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
The following class your professor didn’t call your name like he usually did and you felt relieved. The extra attention was not for you and you were glad he seemed to stop. Until you felt his gaze extra heavy on you mid-exam. You looked up cautiously, he was staring back already. He looked angry? No, stern. His eyes dark and lips pressed into a thin line as he looked into your soul.
His fingertips tapped his desk and you could see he was tense. Did you do something? You weren’t cheating, if that is what he was thinking.
The man’s jaw clenched and you could see the movement even from up your row. You felt small under his gaze, this man had a weird fixation with you but you couldn’t voice it out without sounding crazy—cause you kinda had a fixation with him too, right?
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿☆ ‿⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
The eleventh dream came along and this time your teacher ate you out and made you suck him off at the same time. His thick veiny cock dragged deliciously against your tongue with every bob of your head; his large hands gripped at your ass while his tongue lapped your soaked cunt. The wet sound of his tongue and the saliva pooling at your mouth rang in your ears mixed with the soft city noises from your window. You felt hot and bothered, it was like you just couldn’t get enough, even if you tried waking up yourself to stop being a creep, you just couldn’t—not until he decided it was over.
“So fucking sweet. I can taste the despair and loneliness from this pretty pussy, sweetheart.” He growled, his hand came to do spank your left cheek harshly. The sting only sending you closer to the edge, if it were real the smack would surely leave a mark. “Are you gonna come for me, baby?”
He hummed, two fingers entering you without warning, making you moan around his shaft. Everything was making you dizzy and you wanted nothing more than to have his cum dripping down your throat. Your moans only grew louder and louder as he plunged his fingers at an insane speed.
“You’re so tight, baby. Can’t wait to finally put my cock inside you next time.” Mingyu said, almost like a promise.
Your tongue lazily played with the vein of his cock, a hand now pumping the lower half. The man beneath you groaned loudly as thick ropes of white flooded your mouth, you drank every single drop he gave you.
“Fuck, Mingyu!” you came with a scream ripping off your throat as he placed a kiss on your core before everything went black.
This time, you didn’t jolt abruptly awake—as a matter of fact, you woke up past your alarms at 4:00PM, there was no way you’d get to class on time, his class to make everything worse. So you opted to skip it.
You woke up in the same position you were in the dream, your feet by your pillows, legs and jaw sore. Weird. Looking at the clock, you forced yourself awake, wiping drool off your chin with the back of your palm.
Your legs nearly gave out when you stood, a sting in your ass as you made way towards the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror caught you off guard—disheveled hair, tear stains in your cheeks, and when you turned to the side you saw the worst part. A bruise.
A gasps left your lips, it was a hand mark. A big one, right where Mingyu had smacked you in your dream. You were definitely going insane, this wasn’t real. Quickly reaching for your phone, you opened the camera app and took a picture, if it showed up you knew for a fact that something was wrong.
And there it was. A hand print on your left ass cheek. Your phone fell off your shaking hands and into the floor, oxygen wasn’t reaching your lungs enough. Had he been here all this time? There was no way he had sneaked into your home, was there?
But that would explain the whispering, the stare, and Seungcheol’s sudden reaction that night.
You washed your face and quickly got dressed. You were going to find out and you would do it tonight, even if it made a fool out of you.
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿☆ ‿⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
Students were exiting the classroom by the time you got there. 6:40PM. It was already dark outside, but you couldn’t care less. You pushed by the doors to find your professor at his desk, grading papers. The sudden noise of footsteps made him look up.
“Ms. _____, class already ended.” He said softly, going back to what he was doing.
“Mingyu?” That’s all that could leave your lips. Your heart was racing and you saw him stop suddenly, turning his chair to stare at you with a blank expression.
Said expression slowly morphed into a smirk and clicked his tongue before chuckling deeply.
“Yes, baby?” He said slightly tilting his head and you could feel all of the blood drain from your face, yet there was a warm feeling in your belly.
“You-“ a finger pointed at him, the room was spinning and now you understood all the crazy stories, but you guess no one was ever stupid enough to ask him about it.
He pointed at himself, raising his eyebrows in amusement. This was funny to him.
“Come here.” His voice commanded and your body followed. Was it against your will? You were not too sure. “Did you need something from me, baby?”
“You-“ it was merely a whisper.
“Yes?”
“You have been breaking into my house.” You let out as a breath.
“Mmm, you let me in, baby.” He reached for your hips, pulling you closer, his face pressing into your abdomen and kissing it softly over your blouse. “And I don’t need to break in, I can just appear.”
You looked down at him, his eyes were fully black. You know you should be scared, but for some reason it just made you feel aroused. This sparked amusement in him, you weren’t scared… interesting.
“May I say you taste sweeter than any other little human I’ve had.” Large hands danced down your waist to your ass. “That guy from the other night was a coward, he couldn’t even last a second when I appeared behind you.”
Goosebumps arose on your skin at the memory.
“I just wanted to watch.” He laughed mockingly. “I couldn’t believe you had let another man into your bed.”
“Well, he gave me what you couldn’t give me in these past weeks.” You say as a matter of factly. “I was getting bored of just your fingers.”
Your fingers danced over his shoulders, and he took the opportunity to sit you in his lap. It was obvious he was already hard, but you swear you could feel every vain of his cock under his pants. He quickly unzipped them and without preparation, his hand went under your skirt to find you had no panties on. Mingyu only growled as he plunged you down his cock.
“Fuck!” You whined and let your head fall back as your hands gripped his shoulders tightly.
“Shit, you’re so fucking tight, baby.” He groaned against your collarbones, before biting down.
You felt so full. Nicely fucked and full, he had stretched you out in every way imaginable—and you were enjoying every single second of it. His large hands pulled down your blouse, letting your breasts bounce out. If you thought his eyes couldn’t get darker, you were wrong.
His mouth was quick to latch unto the hardened buds in your chest. Each suction sent electricity through your body, making you clench around his big length. He grabbed your hips to lift you up and slam you back down his cock, his mouth ravening in the sweetness of your breasts.
Mingyu’s grip was harsh on your hips and the force in which he moved you like a ragdoll was even harsher. He was overstimulating every single bundle of nerves in your body. His tongue worked magic on your nipples, making them red and swollen from the wet friction and his cock stretched you out as he glided through your warm cunt and hit your g-spot lusciously.
“Such a slutty little human, this is the best pussy I’ve had.” You should’ve snorted at that, cause it was a lie, he told everyone the same thing. But all your mouth could make out was moans of his name. “I’m gonna fuck you so good, you’re gonna beg for me to come back to this cunt every night.”
“Fuck, Mingyu, right there!” You moaned, feeling that sense of release approaching. “I want to cum all over your cock, please!”
“Of course you do, slut.” He smacked your ass over your skirt. “You’re gonna cum all over me and I want you to be messy. Then I will take you home and break your fucking bed from fucking you so much.”
His sharp teeth raked over the swell of your tits and that was enough to release the tension in your lower belly. A scream ripped from your throat and you felt his skin get wet. The sound of climax coating his body, chair, and floor mixed with your heavy breathing.
“Look at this mess, Seungcheol didn’t deserve this. This is only for me.” He grabbed your jaw and made you stare into the dark depths of his black eyes. “Say it. Say your pussy is only for me.” You moaned, lips so close to his.
“My pussy is yours. Only yours.” You whine out and he kissed you with force. Teeth almost breaking yours with the impact. He sucked your tongue into his mouth, not caring of the wet drooling mess falling from where your lips connected.
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿☆ ‿⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
Mingyu pushed past your bedroom door, he carried you while remaining deep inside you. He was indulging in everything you gave him. Your tits, your tongue, your pussy, your fingers pulling his hair. It was weird. You were weirdly addictive and this had never happened with any other human before.
“Let me down, I need your cock down my throat right now.” He does as you say, letting you think you have some control over him, and puts you down.
You strip off your clothes before guiding him to the chair by your desk. He sat down as you grinned down at him, raking your fingers down his chest.
Mingyu tried to reach up to grab your breasts but he couldn’t move. His face changed quickly, trying again, this time he tried to stand up but he was glued to the chair. You just stood before him, naked, smirking at him.
“What the fuck did you do?” He asked furiously and you only giggled while getting onto his lap.
“How does that feel, Mingyu?” You asked in a sickening sweet voice.
“What are you…” he asked, still trying to break free from whatever was holding his down. “Let me go before I kill you.”
You only laughed louder.
“Silly little incubus.” You booped his nose. “You can’t kill me. I control you now.”
Even though his eyes were lacking pupils, you could see a flash of panic in the dark of his eyes.
“Now, if we look up to the ceiling…” you grabbed his chin harshly, nails digging into his face while you pushed him to look up with you, a large group of runes painted on the ceiling above shined purple “We see that our dumb little demon didn’t realize he was fucking a witch. How does it feel to be controlled?”
“I knew you were an incubus. I just couldn’t believe you fell for the story about my cheating boyfriend and how heartbroken I was.” You pouted and mocked cried a little. “I should definitely take up on acting, did such a good job you couldn’t read the lies in my mind.”
His breathing was heavy and quick.
“Now, I don’t plan on killing such a gorgeous face. They really outdid themselves with you down there, such a pretty face.” You said, moving his head from side to side while giggling.
“What do you want?” He asked.
“The same thing you do, baby.” Your lips kissed his softly and you ground against his growing bulge—he was enjoying this. “How about this, I don’t kill you. Right? But you promise to fuck me whenever I tell you to. I think that’s a win-win situation for you.”
He laughed in disbelief.
“You’re fucking crazy.” He spat, a load groan ripping from his chest.
“And yet you are rock hard under me. I can feel you pulsing like horny loser.” You pout again. “I could also leave you bounded here, provoking you every single night. Draining you of energy slowly and painfully.” You smiled widely.
“You can’t kill me,” he said.
“Oh but I can. But we don’t want such a pretty face to go to waste.” You kissed his jaw until you reached his mouth. He groaned into the kiss, hips bucking up. You were intoxicating and now it made sense why you were so alluring to him. “Unfortunately for both of us, I think you are my soulmate, I was told a few years ago that I had a weird case of having a demon as a soulmate. My mother thought I was gonna die alone.”
Soulmate? The devil had given him a soulmate?
“Fine, but I will need to get energy from somewhere.” He bit your chin softly before you shook your head.
“If you agree, you can only sleep with me.” You smiled sweetly, mockingly. “I’ll give you enough energy so you don’t die. But you will never ever fuck any other being in the looooong years you have on Earth.” Which is forever, he knew that. For some reason that didn’t sound so bad to him, if you were his soulmate, maybe he could get used go this. He wasn’t lying when he said you had been the best fuck he’s had.
“Fine, I will do whatever you want.” He grinned and you bit down his lower lip until a metallic taste flooded your tongue.
Your teeth painted red as you smiled at him and he felt weirdly aroused at the sight. Your tongue lapped inside of his mouth sealing the pact.
And for some reason that sounded oddly nice. He was bound to your soul now, you’d be much gentler than the other dude anyway—and he couldn’t wait to fuck such a pretty little thing for eternity.
“Good job, Mingyu. You got yourself a brand new owner.”
you were born a mutant, gifted with the power to manipulate bodily sensations. until now, you've only ever used it to cause pain. but now, stuck in a remote safehouse with bucky for the next few months, tension crackles between you. when you finally confess that your ability can also bring pleasure, he looks at you differently, more than a little curious to experience it first-hand.
Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, magical smut??, fingering, edging!!, praise kink, so much sexual tension, vague enemies to lovers, forced proximity, lowkey brat reader at times??, soft dom! bucky (at times), kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), protective!bucky, grumpy!bucky, bodyguard!bucky, mention of torture, wound description, injuries, mention of human trafficking, hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, reader has survivors guilt, reader is horny lol, use of the pet name sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 17k (jesus fucking christ)
A/N: hi this is a fucking monster of a fic. i've been working on this for weeks now. if it flops i might cry and go die in a hole. pls like/reblog/comment etc <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.
main masterlist
In the short time you had been acquainted with Bucky Barnes, you had quickly learnt three things.
One, he didn’t talk much, if at all. Most of your conversations consisted of little more than grunts, terse glances, or unimpressed scowls. He didn’t ask questions, nor did he answer them. At one point, you suspected he might have had his tongue cut out. That changed when you began to hear him muttering under his breath as he stomped past, his heavy boots reverberating through the safehouse. ‘Securing the perimeter’. Always the same phrase, always delivered in the same grim tone.
Two, he was paranoid. He never turned his back on you. Always kept you in his line of sight. There was always a weapon within arm’s reach. He checked every door and window twice. His movements were systematic, almost compulsive. He prowled the safehouse like an animal on the hunt, slipping into view when you least expected him. More than once, he’d startled you so badly you’d dropped something. A shattered coffee mug still lay in the trash as proof. And each time you flinched, his eyes would narrow slightly, suspicious, as if trying to decide what exactly you were hiding, why someone like you could be so easily spooked. You didn’t know what his employers had told him, but obviously it was not the whole story.
And three, he didn’t want to be here.
He made no effort to hide that fact.
You bit your tongue more often than not, swallowing every snide remark that burned its way up your throat. Surprise, I don’t want to be here either, assshole. But you knew better than to lash out at the only person you'd be stuck with for the next few months. The only person standing between you and whatever might come crawling out of the woods. Protection wasn’t something you could afford to alienate.
The officials who dumped you here had been full of promises. They said you’d be safe, hidden, far from the reach of the Menagerie. They told you to wait. This storm would pass, and when it did, you could return to your everyday life.
But after two years under the Menagerie’s thumb, normal didn’t exist anymore.
What even was normal?
This safehouse felt like the eye of a hurricane, but you could sense the storm circling just beyond, the pressure building in the air, the wind pressing at the windows. It was only a matter of time before it rolled over and consumed you whole. And maybe that was the truth of it, that you were already in the belly of the beast, already chewed up and digested. There was no normality to return to.
There never would be again.
The safehouse sat on a stretch of farmland, tucked far enough from the world that it felt like the end of it. No internet, no cell service, not even a TV. Just enough power to keep the lights on and the water running. It was midsummer, and the air was thick and syrupy, heavy with the scent of clover and sun-warmed hay. At night, the frogs and cicadas sang in overlapping rhythms, insects tapping softly against the mesh of the window screens. Rolling meadows stretched in nearly every direction, grass tall and wispy, swaying lazily in the breeze, cattle grazing along the fence line. Beyond the weather-worn red barn, the woods waited. You could sometimes hear deer calling in the dusk, birds chattering high in the canopy.
You’d tiptoed downstairs about a week after your arrival, barefoot on the old wood planks, a floral sundress brushing your shins as you crept through the lounge. The sky outside was streaked with soft orange and watercolour pink, the quiet hush of dawn holding everything still. Bucky was asleep on the couch again, arms folded across his chest, his boots still on. He rarely slept, and when he did, it was always here, not in the bedroom just across the landing from yours.
You hadn’t asked why.
Maybe he was afraid he wouldn’t hear someone break in. Maybe he didn’t trust doors. You were half convinced he’d sleep on the porch if you hadn’t caught him doing it once and given him a look harsh enough to make him reconsider. Not that it mattered, he seemed to wake at the slightest shift in the air. Twice already, you'd startled him by just breathing too loudly on your way to make morning tea, trying to be as quiet as possible as you filled the kettle and set it to boil.
This time, he didn’t stir. Or maybe pretended not to, just so that he could avoid your regular awkward morning exchange. You slipped past him, easing open the front door, wincing as the screen squeaked. The sun hit you square in the face, gold and blinding, warm even this early. You stepped out into the grass with a long breath and crouched, brushing your fingers through the delicate strands as the world slowly began to stir.
The farmhouse had a few animals, just enough to feel lived-in. A small coop of chickens, a handful of cattle, and a scraggly white barn cat who seemed to claim the place as her own. You called her Alpine, after the word etched into one of the barn beams above the old hayloft she slept in. Whoever carved it there had long since disappeared, but the name remained, half-claimed and half-given.
“It’s not safe out here alone.” The gruff voice shattered your moment of peace, and you jumped, heart lurching in your chest.
Bucky stood behind you, all shadows and hard edges.
He filled the doorway without trying to, broad shoulders bracketed by the frame, thick arms folded across a chest that strained the seams of his faded henley. He was massive in a way that made rooms feel smaller, as though the very architecture had to shift to accommodate him.
Even when still, he gave the impression of movement barely restrained, like some great machine idling under the surface. His frame was built like something forged rather than born, towering over you with muscle carved deep into every inch of him, from his sculpted chest to the veined forearms visible beneath pushed-up sleeves.
His stance was always solid, unmoving, as if the earth itself would sooner shift than he would. The glint of his vibranium arm caught in the low morning light, brushed in gold from the rising sun, each plate moving in smooth precision as he adjusted his stance.
His face sported an unimpressed scowl, his jaw shadowed by stubble, brows drawn low over stormy blue eyes that swept the fields behind you with disinterest. And though he said nothing, you could sense his irritation as clearly as the heat rising off the sun-touched grass.
He had a particular hatred for you being outside alone. Most days, he’d trail after you reluctantly, watching with narrowed eyes as you wandered the fields for an hour or two. When his patience wore thin, he’d herd you back inside like a sheepdog. He preferred enclosed spaces. Contained. Controlled.
Places where he could see you—track you—where your every movement could be accounted for.
You were beginning to feel like you escaped one prison just to enter the next.
“You gonna roll around in it next, sweetheart?” he called, voice stern with impatience.
Sweetheart. That damn condescending nickname. It wouldn’t have got under your skin so much if it didn’t make your stomach twist and flutter every time it rolled off his tongue.
You didn’t answer, but you could feel his gaze like a weight between your shoulder blades. Any second now, you wouldn’t put it past him to stomp into the grass and haul you inside himself, fingers fisted in the back of your dress like he was pulling a wayward stray by the scruff of its neck.
“Come on. Inside,” he barked again. “I haven’t checked the perimeter yet.”
Ah. Of course. The perimeter. God forbid a tree shifted in the wind without his knowing.
Suppressing an eye roll, you finally pushed to your feet, brushing bits of grass from your palms. The porch creaked under your steps as you ascended, pausing as he stepped aside with his usual stern silence.
You gave him a sugar-sweet smile as you gripped the handle of the screen door.
“Well, don’t let me stop you,” you said, voice light but laced with venom. “Go check your precious perimeter.”
The muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t answer, but the scowl that crept across his face said enough. He caught the bite in your tone, felt the edge beneath your pleasantry.
You didn’t wait for a response. The door snapped shut behind you, a little harder than necessary, rattling the frame.
—
The next time you saw Bucky was early afternoon. You’d been irritated enough to barricade yourself in your tiny room, thumbing through the stacks of old paperbacks until you finally landed on something vaguely interesting. It was some tacky romance novel that was amusing enough not to let your mind wander, but not quite good enough to engulf you completely.
Though, eventually, it was hunger that won your imagined standoff, your stomach growling so loudly you were half-convinced it had gained sentience and was protesting its conditions.
Bucky was still on the couch, right where you’d left him hours ago. You couldn’t make out what he was doing from the doorway, his broad shoulders alone blocked most of your view, but he appeared to be fiddling with something in his hands. You didn’t ask. You weren’t in the mood for another grunt in place of conversation. Instead, you turned sharply into the kitchen without a word.
The safehouse was well-stocked, rows of canned goods crammed into the cupboards, their faded, illegible labels boasting things like beef stew, baked beans, and mystery meat in gloopy gravy. There were jars of peanut butter with oil slicking the top, stale crackers sealed in military-grade packaging, and boxes of instant mashed potatoes that looked more like powdered chalk than food.
On better days, you had the garden out back, knobbly carrots, bitter greens, the occasional undergrown zucchini, and the chickens, who begrudgingly gifted you eggs when they felt generous. You found yourself wishing for a dairy cow, not that you had any idea how to milk one, just to be free of the powdered imposter you stirred into your coffee every morning. Whatever it was, it tasted like plaster.
You could feel Bucky’s gaze flick toward you through the doorway. You didn’t look up, instead pretending to study the cans as if they held the answers to life’s greater mysteries, silently tossing up between which mystery soup you would try today.
Before the Menagerie, you’d loved to cook, baking especially. Anything stuffed with chocolate chips or drowned in frosting had your full attention. But you dabbled in savoury dishes too, the kind your mother used to call ‘real people food’. The two of you would stand shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, elbows knocking as you bickered over seasoning or whether the onions were truly caramelised. Your father and brother would crowd around the TV, shouting and drinking cold beers while watching the big game.
You swallowed hard at the thought of it. You wondered where their headstones lay, if they had even been buried at all. Who would’ve organised their funeral? That thought soured quickly, festering as your eyes dropped to the stove. The idea of putting time and care into a meal now felt wrong. Hollow. Maybe two years ago, you would’ve tried, scavenged herbs from the garden, scrubbed the vegetables clean, dared to open one of the suspiciously labelled cans of meat. But today, it felt like a step too far.
Bucky didn’t cook for you. It was clear from the start that you were on your own in that regard. A true fend-for-yourself arrangement. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen him eat a single bite since your arrival. You weren’t even sure the man had taste buds.
Mystery soup it was.
Your curiosity got the better of you. You stole a glance over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes. He was still planted on the couch, and for the briefest second, his gaze met yours before flicking away again. He turned toward the empty fireplace, posture drawn tight like he was trying to fold himself out of sight, which, of course, failed rather comically since he was a beast of a man.
You sighed and pulled two cans from the shelf, the metal clinking dully as you set them on the counter. You’d heat the soup for both of you, maybe as a peace offering, maybe just an effort at civility. Either way, it felt a little ridiculous. But at least you could say you tried.
—
You dropped one of the bowls onto the coffee table with a soft clack, Bucky blinked, slightly startled, his eyes flicking from the bowl to you as you sank down cross-legged on the floor across from him, the wood grain sticky against your thighs.
“Food. For you,” you said simply.
He didn’t answer at first, still hunched over the thing in his hands, something metal and half-disassembled, probably a weapon. His shoulders shifted, just barely. Like the faintest show of surprise, or maybe gratitude he didn’t know how to express.
“Bit hot for soup,” he muttered, glancing toward the window. He wasn’t wrong. The sun had been relentless all day, and the old farmhouse was holding the heat like a kiln. The single desk fan that you’d claimed did little more than hum uselessly upstairs. You were sure it was a fire hazard from the sheer amount of dust it had collected on its plastic blades.
You shot him a look.
“Fine. Suit yourself. Make your own damn food—” You’d barely started uncrossing your legs when his hand lifted, palm open in a wordless command.
“Sit down.”
You did, settling back into place with a muted huff. He set the metal part aside, definitely part of a gun, now that you were looking. He picked up the spoon beside the bowl, eyeing it like it might bite him, and you watched as he took a mouthful, wincing slightly at the heat.
“Bland.” He commented.
You rolled your eyes. So, he did have taste buds after all.
“It’s from a can, god knows we’ve got enough of those to last the next ten years, let alone a few months.” You replied dryly, and you could’ve sworn the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
You both ate in silence for a while. The soup was as terrible as you had anticipated, watery broth, sad carrot chunks, and what might have once been chicken. It was bland, just as Bucky had stated, but you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of admitting it.
It was only as you were halfway through your bowl, the sound of spoons scraping against the ceramic, the occasional creak of the old farmhouse settling while the cicadas droned outside, that you finally found the words to speak up.
“Your employers,” you began, eyes still on your soup, “did they tell you much?”
Through your lashes, you saw Bucky’s head lift slightly.
“No.” He stated. Simple. Gruff. Then he hesitated, leaning back on the couch, eyeing you in that analytical, quiet way of his. You could practically hear the thoughts ticking behind his silence. You, small—in comparison to him, at least—unassuming, wrapped in a floral sundress, hardly looking like a threat. How dangerous could you be? How much danger could you truly be in to warrant exile in the middle of nowhere, locked away like a state secret? “Just said you were mixed up in that mess with the Menagerie raid. That someone might be looking to hurt you.”
“Right…” You stuffed another spoonful of soup into your mouth to keep from saying something foolish, letting the heat sting your tongue.
Silence stretched. He’d already emptied his bowl, positively licked it clean—so much for being too hot and bland. Meanwhile, while you pushed a discoloured chunk of carrot in slow, grinding circles, the handle of your spoon tracing the rim of your bowl. His eyes hadn’t left you.
You inhaled deeply, then blurted it out before you could stop yourself. “Do you know how long I have to stay here?”
He hesitated, just long enough to tell you he didn’t know either. “As long as it takes to eliminate the threat.”
You finally looked up, catching the shift in his gaze. Less neutral now, more calculated… Suspicious. You recognised that look, it said I’m piecing something together. Like the soup had been some sort of tactic. A quiet kindness with strings attached. That you were slowly manipulating him with every gentle smile and soft word.
Like he was finally seeing you clearly, and not liking the picture.
“If you’re being this well hidden,” he said slowly, “you must’ve been real deep in it. What were you, a mole? Scared they’re gonna hunt you down for revenge, sweetheart? You don’t look like the usual type they send out for infiltration.”
You froze, soup curdling in your stomach, your appetite gone before he even got the last syllable out. You placed your half-eaten bowl on the coffee table before you, refusing to meet his eye.
“I wasn’t a mole.” You clarified, though your tone did not sound anywhere near convincing.
It was like he could smell the guilt and shame you reeked of. His mouth curled slightly. Not a smile. Not quite.
“An informant, then?” He pressed. There it was, the snide bite you were waiting for. He thought this was some glorified babysitting gig for a rat. “Too scared to put you in prison in case you are killed before a court date?”
“No, I—” The words jammed in your throat like splinters, and all you could do was stare down at the coffee table. Coffee rings. Cigarette burns. Ghosts of the past.
Bucky leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice lower now.
“So what was it that made you finally turn on the Menagerie, huh? A guilty conscience, fear?” He asked, a disgusted sneer joining his words. “Or did your morals only click after they started trafficking mutants, caging them and tagging them like inventory?”
Your throat closed up.
He thought you were part of it.
He thought you were one of them.
“Or was it just about self-preservation?” He continued.
You hadn’t said it aloud. Not properly. Not in a way that made it real. The interviews after the raid had scraped the words out of you, hour after hour, voice raw, eyes dry. Endless questions. Demands. ‘Be specific’, ‘Start from the beginning’, ‘What did they do next?’. They made you relive it again and again until your memories felt like ash in your mouth, so many retellings that they stopped sounding like your own.
Some mornings, you still woke to the phantom scent of damp stone and bleach. Still braced for cold concrete beneath your palms, for the echo of distant footsteps clattering through narrow halls. You could see it all too clearly in the dark, that stone labyrinth, windowless and humming with distant electricity
You’d think of the auctions. The buyers. Their laughter. The way the air thickened with rot and perfume. The casual smiles of men who knew they wouldn’t be stopped. The shouting.
The cages.
The screaming—
Still, sometimes, you thought you could hear it, just beneath silence. Not memory, not quite. Like something still screamed through you.
“You don’t know shit about what I went through.” You spat out finally.
“No,” he admitted, coldly. “I don’t. But from where I’m sitting, you’re not exactly making yourself look innocent, sweetheart.”
You stared at him, stunned for a heartbeat.
Part of you wanted to cling to that flicker of delusion, that at least he cared. That the horrors of the Menagerie upset him, that he hadn’t brushed it off the way so many others might. There was something almost noble in his anger, in how deeply the injustice of it all seemed to affect him.
But the moment cracked and fury surged up like bile, but it caught in your throat before it could be spoken. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, useless. The words wouldn’t come. They never did. Not the right ones.
Because how could you explain it? How could you possibly untangle the last two years into something coherent, something clean, when nothing about it was? You wanted to scream that it hadn’t been your fault. That they’d taken everything from you. That you’d been a victim.
But the voice in your head always whispered something else.
You’d done what you had to do. Survived the only way you could. But survival had never come without cost. Not in that place. And even if you knew that you hadn’t chosen any of it… there were still stains on your hands. Still moments when you looked in the mirror and didn’t see someone worth saving.
You couldn’t find the words to defend yourself.
Because maybe, just maybe, you didn’t deserve to defend yourself.
“Fuck you.” You seethed.
You shot to your feet so fast your knee clipped the coffee table, rattling your half-eaten bowl. The room tilted slightly, breath caught between rage and something dangerously close to grief. Your legs carried you before you could think, before you could cry. You crossed the room in quick strides, soup abandoned, the sting of unshed tears heating your face.
—
A week of silence had followed your argument with Bucky.
You moved around each other like ghosts, haunting the same space but never touching, orbiting in sullen, silent patterns. You ate meals in silence on opposite ends of the house. Dishes piled beside your bed. Books stacked on the floor. You let yourself be swallowed by the mattress, the weight of silence slowly pulling you under.
When you did venture downstairs, it was only for chores. The division of labour had happened wordlessly. He’d take the barn, the treeline, his perimeter. You’d feed the chickens and cattle and refill the water troughs. Alpine was the only creature who seemed to move freely between you, accepting a can of tuna from Bucky one day, curling up against your legs the next when she wasn’t out prowling for field mice.
You’d stopped asking him anything. Stopped trying to close the gap with awkward, tense conversation. And he seemed relieved, like silence was some kind of reward. At least now he didn’t have to pretend to care. His silent judgment was not something you were blind to. It followed him like a cloud of smoke, obscuring his vision as he regarded you as something malicious rather than wounded. So you started wearing your own bitterness like armour. Met every cold glance with a glare of your own.
If he wanted to hate you, you could make it easy.
You already hated yourself enough.
The heat had been unbearable all afternoon, the worst it had been since you arrived. It was the type of heat that made the air feel thick and heavy, clinging to your skin no matter what you did to cool down. You opened every window in the house, splashed cool water on your face, tied back your hair, and even stood with the fridge door wide open, ignoring the quiet huff of disapproval from behind you. Still, it wasn’t enough to distract you from the fact that you were boiling alive in your own body with every passing hour.
Bucky, of course, was perfectly composed. During your second attempt to fold yourself into the fridge, he sat at the kitchen table like a statue, sharpening a knife with slow, meditative strokes. Not a bead of sweat on his brow. Like the fact that you were both slowly roasting to death didn’t bother him at all.
You wanted to scream.
It wasn’t just the heat. It was him. His silence. His stillness. His looming, suffocating presence, like he was pressing the full weight of himself onto your chest without ever touching you.
You needed air. Space. Anything that didn’t feel like breathing your own recycled breath. You were going to lose your mind in this goddamn house. And if it came down to who’d walk out of here alive, it wasn’t going to be you. Not at this rate.
You had laced up your boots and stormed down the stairs before the thought had even fully formed, impulse overriding reason. Bucky didn’t look up at first. From his silence, you could guess he thought you were just being dramatic again, stomping around like a sulking child.
It wasn’t until your fingers curled around the doorknob that you heard the scrape of his chair against the kitchen tiles. “Where are you going?”
You didn’t look at him. You shoved the screen door open and muttered flatly, “The woods.”
He paused. You could feel it, the change in pressure, like the atmosphere thickened just from him standing up. The summer heat already clung to your skin like syrup, yet somehow it had become one step closer to suffocating.
“No.”
You turned, one foot already on the porch. Bucky was rounding the corner from the kitchen fast, eyes sharp, shoulders tense, like he was bracing to grab you by the arm if you took another step.
“I need air,” you snapped, backing away slightly. “It’s like five thousand degrees in here. It’ll be cooler under the trees.”
He didn’t flinch, just stared at you with that wolfish intensity, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. You could see the twitch of frustration behind them. Not anger exactly, but something more primal. Protective, maybe. Possessive. Something you didn’t have a name for.
His nostrils flared as he narrowed his eyes.
“It’s not safe,” he said, stepping closer like a warning. A hunt was unfolding between the two of you. You took a step back. He mirrored it forward.
Your eyes flicked down. He wasn’t wearing shoes.
Interesting.
You glanced at the couch, his boots tossed haphazardly at the base, probably kicked off after his last perimeter sweep. A grin tugged at your lips, sharp and cunning. You released the screen door with deliberate calm.
“Don’t you dare—” he growled, voice already rising, warning.
The door slammed shut behind you as you took off, boots hammering down the steps, sundress flying around your legs as you sprinted into the field.
You could already hear him swearing behind you, scrambling for his boots, but you didn’t look back. The grass was tall and wild, slapping against your calves as you tore through it, laughing breathlessly as you darted toward the barn like a madwoman. The sun beat down mercilessly, warming your skin, but you didn’t stop. Not when you heard your name shouted, not even when the chickens exploded into squawking chaos as you shot past the coop.
The fence loomed just ahead, waist-height, made of metal wire and wood posts. You’d never gotten close enough to inspect it properly before now. The top was wrapped in barbed wire, coiled like a snake. Of course it was.
“Shit,” you hissed, skidding to a halt and eyeing the fence with frantic calculation.
Behind you, Bucky’s footsteps thundered across the clearing. You glanced back once, just once. Your breath caught.
He was a storm.
Boots only half on, shirt clinging to his chest with sweat, barreling toward you with terrifying speed. Determined. His eyes on you like a target.
This was your only shot.
“Fuck it,” you spat, grabbing the fence and hoisting yourself up. The metal rattled under your weight, one foot jammed between as you swung a leg over. You hissed as your dress caught, barbs slicing the fabric and catching the tender skin of your thigh. Pain spiked up your leg, but you didn’t stop.
You heard him yell your name just as you dropped down the other side, hitting the dirt hard, knees skidding through dry grass. You shoved yourself upright, wiping your hands on your dress as Bucky skidded to a halt on the other side of the fence, face wild with disbelief.
“What the fuck are you—”
But you were already gone, vanishing into the trees.
The woods swallowed you whole. The world shifted the moment you passed beneath the canopy, sunlight shattered across the leaves, scattering gold and green over your skin as branches closed above you like cathedral arches. You ran until the burn in your thighs twisted into fire, until the pounding of your heart drowned out everything else. Behind you, his voice grew distant, swallowed by underbrush, bark and birdsong.
You didn’t know where you were going.
You just knew you needed to be gone before he caught up.
And for a fleeting moment, you thought you’d done it, lost him in the thick underbrush, outpaced him through the tangles of low-hanging branches and bramble. The heat had begun to slip from the air, replaced by the cool breath of the woods and the low, rhythmic drone of cicadas. A sea of green unfurled before you, layered in moss and leaf-shadow, still and quiet now that your footsteps had slowed—
The world tilted.
You hit the ground hard, air knocked from your lungs, before your mind even registered that he had caught up to you. A blur of limbs and gritted teeth, the two of you rolled through the dirt and fallen leaves, snapping twigs and kicking up soil as you struggled against each other in a mess of instinct and fury.
You twisted, tried to scramble away, but his body was too heavy. His arm caught your leg as you kicked, his weight pressing you down, pinning you like prey.
When the momentum stopped, he was already on top of you, straddling your hips, shoving you deep into the damp forest floor. His hands pinned your wrists above your head with effortless control. His face loomed close, his eyes dark and glittering, and his breath harsh from the chase.
“Are you done?” he growled, voice low and raw, every syllable biting.
You glared up at him, chest heaving. “Get off me—”
Your voice caught as he laughed, a low, humourless sound, breathless but amused. There was dirt smeared across his cheek, a leaf tangled in his hair, and his shirt clung to him with sweat and blood. He looked wild. Feral. Alive in a way that made your stomach twist.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he muttered.
And then he was moving, the sudden loss of his weight a brief mercy, but it didn’t last. Before you could twist away and draw in a proper breath, his arm was around your waist, and you were tugged up, slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Your stomach hit the edge of his metal shoulder blade with a thud that knocked the wind from you again.
“Hey, put me down, you asshole—!” you protested, breathless, your voice muffled slightly by the sway of his shirt against your cheek.
But he was already moving, circling back toward the house with slow, deliberate strides like he hadn’t just chased you through half a mile of forest. His arm was iron around your thighs, locking you in place against the solid plane of his shoulder. You bounced with every step, your ribs pressing painfully against the hard ridge of his collarbone and the metal edge of his arm.
“No,” he barked, tone clipped. “You’ll just bolt again.”
Your stomach was twisted sideways over his shoulder, blood rushing to your head until your vision pulsed at the edges. It was dizzying, the world tipping and tilting with his gait, trees, sky and earth passing upside down in a blur. His shirt clung damply to his back beneath your arms, soaked through with sweat and forest humidity. Every inhale brought the scent of dirt, pine, and something distinctly him into your lungs.
“I won’t! I swear, just—” you tried, squirming, but he adjusted his grip and hoisted you higher with a grunt, one hand sliding firmly up the back of your thigh to keep you from slipping.
“You lost any of my trust when you decided to hop that fence, sweetheart,” he said coldly.
His hand stayed there, splayed wide and strong, fingers flexing against the curve of your leg in a way that made something flutter low in your stomach. You writhed, trying to ignore the way your skin heated under his palm, how aware you suddenly were of every place his body touched yours, his forearm hooked tightly around your knees, his breath steady and close.
“Put me the fuck down!”
“Shut the fuck up, or I’ll find something to gag you with.” His voice turned harsh, and the end of his patience showed. “I’m sick of your whining. This is your own fault.”
“My fault?” you choked out, exasperated, pushing at the small of his back, which did absolutely nothing. “You’re the one keeping me locked up!”
“It’s for your safety, or did that little detail slip your mind?” he bit back, unbothered by your wriggling.
“We’re in the middle of nowhere!” you snapped. “Who the hell is going to find me out here if I go for a goddamn walk to cool down?”
“I’m not worried about people.” His grip on your thighs tightened again, just enough to send another shock of awareness through your core. “I’m worried about animals. Do you know how many bears, cougars, and other shit that can rip you in half live out here?”
You froze, the fire in your chest faltering. “…There are bears out here?!”
“Yes,” he snapped, voice rough. “Now would you shut the hell up? Every living creature within a hundred miles already knows where we are thanks to your squealing.”
You clamped your mouth shut, heat prickling at your ears, though whether it was from embarrassment, exertion, or the lingering burn of his hand against your thigh, you weren’t sure. Upside-down, half-breathless, and bruised with indignity, you told yourself it was just the blood rushing to your head that made your heart beat like that.
He reached the fence a few seconds later, barely slowing his pace before tossing you over it with an unceremonious grunt. You yelped as you hit the ground with a solid thump, your knees scraping against the packed dirt and scattered stones. Pain bloomed across your palms as you caught yourself, your breath stuttering.
You looked up at him just in time to see him plant his boot on the middle rung and vault the fence with practised ease. He landed beside you, his chest rising and falling with the exertion, his expression furious.
Your eyes caught on his shirt, the fabric torn open across the side of his ribs. Blood welled from a sharp gash beneath it, slow and dark, soaking into the material. He must’ve hit the barbed wire trying to chase you down.
The fence: two. You and Bucky: zero.
You shifted uncomfortably, your own thigh still stinging, a warm line of blood trickling down your leg. The barbs had bitten deep. It felt like the forest had left its mark on both of you.
Bucky stared down at you with a scowl.
“Now…” he said slowly, “do I need to carry you all the way to the house, or are you going to be a good girl and walk by yourself?”
You blinked up at him, heart hammering, pulse still roaring in your ears and gulped. “I’ll walk.”
—
Bucky didn’t seem to care that he was smeared in a mixture of dried blood and dirt as he slumped heavily onto the couch with a grunt, his broad shoulders sinking into the cushions. He kicked off his boots with a purposeful carelessness, one of the pair nearly smacking you in the shin as you shied out of its path.
He’d practically herded you back into the house, his gaze never leaving you as you limped your way up the porch steps. His scowl never wavered, only deepened with irritation as he finally realised the state you were in, hair tangled and sticking to your damp forehead, your dress torn and stained with streaks of mud and blood.
You stopped in front of the empty fireplace across from him, arms crossing tightly over your chest, jaw clenched. You leaned slightly on your right leg, the pain flaring hot in your thigh. The cut burned like it had been licked by flame, no doubt packed with dirt and whatever else you'd rolled through during your messy scuffle. But your eyes drifted from your leg, caught instead by the quiet rustle of fabric. Bucky peeled off his shredded shirt with little fanfare, exposing the sheer, ridiculous expanse of muscle beneath. His torso looked sculpted from stone, every line and shadow painfully defined. And yet, infuriatingly, even in all his dishevelment, he looked good. Unfairly so. It was almost nauseating how perfect he looked.
You bit the inside of your cheek and tapped your fingers against your arm, gaze snagged for a beat too long as he examined the fresh gash slashed across his abdomen. He winced slightly, dragging a finger through the blood and grime that caked the wound. It was a deep cut, raw and filthy, and the dirt clinging to it made you pause. You knew that kind of wound, the kind that festered fast if left unchecked.
“Where’s the first aid kit?” you asked, stepping forward despite yourself. “I’ll get it for you—”
“No.” His voice cut through the air, low as a growl, stopping you cold. “You’ve done enough. I’ll get it.”
You blinked, the words catching in your throat. “Hold on—”
But then he looked at you. Really looked at you. And whatever flicker of protest had been building inside you died right there.
“Sit. Down.”
You sank onto the couch without another word, the tension knotting in your shoulders as he disappeared up the stairs. You ran a hand through your tangled hair, wincing as your fingers snagged on leaves and twigs embedded in the strands. Somewhere above, you could hear him rummaging through the bathroom cabinet, drawers slamming and clattering as he searched.
Your attention dropped to your leg. You hesitated, then slowly hiked up your skirt, trying not to wince as you exposed the wound. The barbed wire had torn a lash up your inner thigh, the skin swollen and angry. Blood had dried in thick, flaking streaks down your leg. You hissed as you prodded the edges, trying to gauge the depth through the grit and grime. It stung like hell, sharp, hot, and pulsing, and the thought of cleaning it out made your stomach churn.
Bucky thundered down the stairs behind you, dumping the first aid kit on the coffee table. A few medical supplies spilt out from the jolt. He barely looked at you before muttering, “Stop fussing. You’ll make it worse.”
Your hands stilled instantly, retreating to your lap. You didn’t dare test his patience again, not when he was like this, all bruises and blood and stormclouds behind the eyes.
He sank to his knees in front of the couch, wedged between your legs and the coffee table, and reached for you without hesitation. His grip was firm as he caught your leg, fingers wrapping around your calf and sliding upward, tilting your thigh to get a better look at the damage.
Your breath hitched, chest tightening. The cut stung, but it wasn’t the pain that made you tense, it was him. The heat of his skin against yours, the way his rough palms guided your leg, thumb grazing perilously close to the seam of your underwear. Your dress had ridden high, bunched around your hips, leaving you far too exposed. And his face, god, it was right there, inches away from the softest, most private part of you—
You let out a small yelp, the sharp sting of antiseptic dragging you back to reality as he pressed a wipe over the wound with no warning, scrubbing away dried blood and filth like it was nothing. You squirmed on instinct, gasping.
He tutted with annoyance, locking your leg in place with his forearm like you were nothing more than a twitchy animal.
“Stop squirming.”
“It’s kind of hard when you’re manhandling me—”
“I’m not in the mood for babying you, sweetheart,” he shot back, glaring up at you briefly, his voice low and cool.
That shut you up.
You swallowed hard and stared past him, fixing your gaze on the constellation of scars across his chest and shoulders. Old wounds. Some shallow, others deep. Your heart thudded against your ribs, the silence between you prickling with static.
He dipped his fingers into a small tin of ointment and began slowly and deliberately, working it into the wound. His touch was firm, steady, maddening, his hand creeping higher with each pass, inching up your inner thigh until his knuckles grazed dangerously close to the pulsing heat between your legs. Your entire body shuddered lightly, a tingling up your spine, and for one wild moment, you were sure he was savouring this. You could feel his every breath against your thigh, every callused inch of his palm.
Your breath hitched audibly. Embarrassingly.
“There you go,” he murmured, almost to himself, patting your knee. “Good girl.”
A whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.
Then, he was gone. Peeling off some large sticky bandages and slapping them on hard enough to make you jolt in surprise.
You jerked your leg back, retreating into yourself. Your fingertips hovered at the edge of the bandages, trailing the sticky outline. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did and didn’t care—as he climbed up off the floor and took a seat beside you on the couch, the cushion dipping under his weight.
You sat there with your mouth slightly agape, still recovering, still too aware of how much of you had just been laid bare.
He stared at you.
“Are you even listening?” he barked.
You jumped. “Sorry—what?”
“I said,” he gestured toward the gash slicing across his torso, “I need you to help me clean this cut, repeat the steps I just did for your leg.”
You floundered uselessly like a fish for a second.
“Did you hit your head?” he asked, voice laced with irritation. “Do I need to check you for a concussion—?”
“No!” you blurted, too fast. “No. I’m fine. I can do it.”
Without waiting for permission, you slid to the floor, knees brushing against his shins as you settled between his legs. Your fingers fumbled through the mess of gauze, scissors, and ointments strewn across the coffee table, deliberately avoiding his gaze. When you found the antiseptic wipes, you cleared your throat, peeled one open, and hesitantly pressed it to the wound carved deep into his side.
The muscles under your hand were corded tight, heat and tension rising from him like steam. You dabbed lightly at first, uncertain.
“You’re gonna need to press harder than that, sweetheart,” Bucky muttered, voice rough. “You’re not picking up all the—”
You shot him a look flared with annoyance and dug the wipe in harder than necessary.
He hissed, breath catching between gritted teeth, and his abdomen flinched beneath your hand. The skin twitched as you worked, dragging out a stubborn patch of grit and dried blood. You grimaced, wiping again, watching the red bloom spread.
The gash was far worse than yours. Red, angry, and deep. The kind of wound that would’ve sent someone else into shock. When you pulled the wipe back, it was streaked with fresh blood, revealing a glimpse of raw muscle beneath.
“This is going to need stitches, it’s too deep—”
“It’s fine.” He shook his head, his breath uneven as you reached for a fresh wipe. “It’ll heal faster than a normal person.”
You paused, cloth hovering just above the end of the slash curving around his ribs. “You’re a mutant?”
That stopped him cold.
His body stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it. His jaw ticked, and the muscle beneath your touch turned to granite.
“No, uh—” He began, and the words faltered. For the first time since you’d met him, his voice wavered. This voice was uncertain. Defensive. It didn’t match the sharp-edged man who barked orders and silenced you with just a glower. You looked up in time to catch the flicker of frustration in his expression, the way his brow furrowed, not in pain, but regret. Like he’d just given away something he wasn’t supposed to.
“Super soldier,” he muttered finally, quieter like the words tasted bitter.
You frowned, forcing yourself to keep your fingers moving as you continued to clean the lash.
“Super solider… like serums?” You dared to mumble in question.
“...Yeah.”
You nodded. You were familiar with the rise of serums and super soldiers, they had been a hot commodity, just as coveted as mutants. Weapons given flesh. The perfect stock for the Menagerie to peddle. Easier to control, more predictable than the mutants among their inventory.
“There were a few of those at the Menage—” The words slipped out before you could catch them. As soon as they crossed your lips, your stomach dropped. “I—Nevermind.”
You didn’t need to look up to feel it, the shift in his posture, the way his presence recoiled. Not from pain. From you.
He was flinching from you.
Shame roared up your throat like bile. You didn’t have to ask what he was thinking. You could feel it. The disgust. The assumptions. You could almost hear his thoughts shaping you into a creature of cruelty. A collaborator. A willing participant.
Did he think revealing this information would illicit a perverse curiosity within you? That you’d start viewing him in the same way the Menagerie had viewed you?
And for once, there was a sadness that lingered. A sadness that you couldn’t tell him, couldn’t explain. You let him believe you were complicit, that you were broken in a way that was your own fault. Would it have been better to tell him? To offer up the whole, rotting truth and see what he did with it? Not one clouded by the lies and falseities you used to punish yourself?
When you had stumbled free of that place, you had sworn never to use your powers again. Never be a weapon again. Never let anyone twist your gift into something cruel and unrecognisable.
What if this was different?
What if you could use it for good this time? Not to tear someone apart from the inside out, not to entertain monsters, but to soothe. To help.
Would that balance the scales, even a little? Would that scrub the blood from your conscience, the memory from your skin? Would it make you more than what they turned you into?
Would it make you… better?
Your hands had stilled. The wound was only half-cleaned, blood still trickling sluggishly along his side. You looked up.
His expression was unreadable, like a wall had been placed between you.
Your voice came quiet and uncertain. “Can I… can I show you something?” you asked. “I think it’ll help.”
He tensed. His jaw was tight, the suspicion in his gaze sharp and waiting, as if he expected you to pull a knife, like your soft-spoken words were nothing but bait in a trap he hadn’t seen yet. But you didn’t wait for a reply. For once, you wait for a command. You balled up the bloodied wipe in your fist and tossed it aside, the fabric landing with a wet slap on the cluttered table behind you. Then, without ceremony, you raised your hand above the wound stretching across his ribs.
His mouth parted, breath catching, ready to protest, but you were already committed, brows drawn in concentration as your palm began to glow. The light bloomed, like dawn bleeding through morning mist. A ball of pale, gold light that cast long beams between your fingers, casting his skin in a haze.
You didn’t dare look up at him.
Instead, you pressed your focus into the magic pooling in your hand, letting it spill like silk across the jagged tear in his flesh. As you touched your fingers to him, you hovered a moment longer than necessary, and a soft, invisible pulse of heat radiated from your palm to his abdomen.
He didn’t flinch.
That was the point.
The knot in his abdomen uncoiled. His muscles slackened, his body loosening inch by cautious inch beneath your touch. Your fingertips hovered over the torn skin, skimming the edges. When you finally dared to glance up, his face had slackened in sudden, jarring relief.
He stared at you like you weren’t real. Disgust turned to horror and then to shock.
You didn’t stop. Your palm pressed lightly to the curve of his ribs, the glow now flickering as your focus thinned and the pain siphoned away. The magic never hurt, not directly, but it drained you all the same. You could feel it in the weight of your limbs, in the tremble behind your knees. Your breath had turned shallow. Sweat prickled along your hairline.
“You’re a—”
“A mutant,” you interrupted quietly, light fading as you squeezed your hand into a fist. “I know.”
The silence was thick as you reached behind you, grabbing a clean antiseptic wipe from the dwindling supplies. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink as you swept it gently through the remaining dirt and grit, revealing clean, ragged flesh beneath. Crimson welled at the edges like dew.
“I took the pain away,” you clarified as you blindly searched the table for the small tin he’d used earlier. You couldn’t meet his eye, couldn’t deal with any guilt he was likely feeling. “My powers… I can change how the body perceives sensations. I can nullify nerves or amplify them. Make you feel things that aren’t there, or take away feeling entirely.”
You found the tin at last, fingers fumbling slightly as you pried it open with a soft metallic click. A faint herbal scent rose as you scooped a generous, pearlescent smear of ointment onto your fingertip. It clung thickly, catching the light like a melted pearl.
“You were a victim,” Bucky said, voice breathless and stunned, like he’d received a punch right to the gut. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me you were a victim?”
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you pressed your fingers to his skin, spreading the salve along the length of the wound in slow, deliberate strokes. The half-translucent mixture turned pink as it blended with the fresh blood that beaded the surface.
“It’s complicated,” you muttered, eyes fixed on your hands instead of his.
But he didn’t let it go.
Of course, he didn’t.
Bucky Barnes, ever the soldier, ever the protector of the broken and bruised. That part of him, the part that saw pain and didn’t look away, that part that burned with justice, that was maybe the only thing you’d truly admired from the start.
Not the cold commands, not the steel-blue stares, not the way he could make your breath hitch with just a word.
It was that he cared.
Beneath the hard edges and combat scars, he gave a damn. About the ones who couldn’t fight for themselves yet. About the ones others would write off. When he looked at something shattered, his instinct wasn’t to discard it—it was to fix it.
“You’re a victim. When they pulled you out of there, why didn’t they send you back home? Back to your family?”
You swallowed hard. “Like I said... It’s complicated.”
When you dared to look up, he was looking down at you like he was expecting an answer. You sighed.
“My powers, it’s a gift and a curse. They can be used for good, like this.” You nodded toward his side, where the blood had begun to clot under the thin sheen of ointment. Withdrawing your hands from him, you tucked them into your lap, fingers curled inwards, guilt weighing heavily in your chest. “Or it can be used… used to create pain.”
His brow creased. “Pain?”
“You think the Menagerie were above torture?” you asked, sharper than you meant to. Then your face twisted apologetically, and you looked away quickly. “Sorry. I just—”
You drew in a breath, steadying yourself.
“When they captured enemies, or anyone who defied them, they interrogated them. Asked their questions. And if they didn’t get what they wanted…” You paused, voice tight. “They brought me in.”
His face changed, eyes sharpening, expression folding inward.
“They made me hurt people,” you explained. “Amplify their pain, make them feel things that weren’t even real. The body doesn’t know the difference. It responds anyway.”
You rubbed your wrist with your other hand, as if scrubbing the memory away. “Sometimes… sometimes they made me do it for fun. For their entertainment. Just because they knew how much it broke me—” Your voice broke on the last word, the sound caught between a sob and a gasp.
Turning away, you reached for the coffee table with trembling hands, shoving through the disordered supplies until you found the large, sticky bandages. Only as you felt confident that your voice wouldn’t tremble, you spoke up again.
“I was their prisoner, their weapon for two years. Decided I was to be kept, too valuable to be sold like the rest of the product,” You mumbled, the plastic crinkling as you tore one free, fingers fumbling with the edges.
“That’s why you’re here,” Bucky said at last.
His voice was quiet, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. You watched the gears turn behind his eyes, watched the truth slot into place piece by piece.
“You know too much,” he murmured, breath catching in his throat. “The Menagerie... they’re not hunting you because you ran.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
“They want you dead because you know. You know too much.”
His gaze snapped up to meet yours, the initial shock gone. Something had shifted. The realisation landed like a crack of thunder as anger reared its head, hot and bitter.
“And the officials…” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “They don’t care what it costs you. They just want you on that stand. They want a witness.”
His hands curled into fists at his sides, a tremor running through his arm.
“God,” he muttered. “They used you. All of them. They’re still using you. They’re all just passing you around like you're fucking evidence.”
You nodded, blinking hard as you peeled back the adhesive strip. “Not a rat, you see?” you said with a brittle sort of humour, trying to cover the tremor in your voice.
He looked down at you sharply, eyes dark, nostrils flared, coiled tightly enough you were half-convinced he was going to march out there and tear them apart himself. “I’m sorry.”
That startled you more than it should have.
“Shit, sweetheart. I was wrong about you, very wrong,” he added. “From the start. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you murmured. “I should’ve… I should’ve just told you. I just—”
Your fingers splayed out as you smoothed the bandage carefully across his ribs, palms gentle as you coaxed it into place. “It’s hard. To defend my actions. To relive it over and over again, to think of what I could have done differently, what I could’ve done to stop it. And I’m sick of people telling me it wasn’t my fault, sick of the nightmares and the memories I—”
The warmth of his skin still lingered under your touch. You were about to pull away when he caught your wrist. You jolted, breath stuttering. His grip wasn’t tight, just enough to hold you there. His thumb circled slowly over the inside of your wrist, right over the soft thrum of your pulse.
“No, I… I get it.”
Your lungs stalled, breath coming out in a sharp wheeze as you looked up at him, wide-eyed.
“It’s hard sometimes,” he said, gaze haunted, “to justify defending yourself when you feel like a monster. Even when you weren’t the one who chose the violence.”
He glanced away, then back, not with judgment, but understanding. Maybe even shame.
“But you’re not that,” he affirmed. “You never really were.”
You got the sense he wasn’t just saying it for your sake. Not entirely. That maybe he was saying it for himself, too.
—
Bucky had been truthful. Within a few short days, his wound had knit itself into a pink, raised scar, the kind that would fade in time.
Yours, however, wasn’t healing nearly as well.
It wasn’t an infection, you knew that much. Bucky’s borderline militant efforts to clean and dress your wound had paid off. No, the problem was its intimate placement. Too high on your inner thigh, too close to where the skin was soft and constantly moving. Every step rubbed it raw. Every shift of your legs, every twitch or stretch, irritated it further. The adhesive bandages clung stubbornly, chafing the tender flesh surrounding.
And the weather wasn’t helping.
The dry heat had broken sometime during the night, replaced by a soupy humidity that clung to everything. It made your clothes stick to your back, your sheets damp, your skin slick with a sheen of sweat you couldn’t seem to shake. That morning, as you fed the cows, Bucky had tilted his face to the sky, eyes narrowed.
“Storm’s coming,” he muttered, gaze fixed on the horizon where dark clouds had begun to crawl over the hills like an advancing army.
You’d followed his eyes and silently agreed.
It was the third day since your reckless dash through the woods, and you could feel every inch of it. Your body ached with dull protest, knees bruised, but it was the wound that made you grit your teeth every time you moved. Bucky had noticed, of course, he noticed everything. He’d watched you hobble halfway down the stairs that morning, frowning in that deeply displeased way of his, jaw set like he was at war with the world.
Ever since your reluctant confession, something in him had shifted. The hostility had bled out of him, replaced by an overwhelming guilt. You felt sorry for your dejected bodyguard. You both knew it wasn’t his fault, that he had acted true to his nature with the information given, yet he still reeked of regret.
His protectiveness had turned soft at the edges. Where once he’d shadowed you out of suspicion, now he hovered like a sheepdog with a wounded charge, not willing to leave your side for a moment.
He gave up his place on the couch without a word, fetched things before you asked, and adjusted pillows behind your back with silent focus. When you’d had enough of being babied and escaped upstairs to your room, he’d only watched you go with those impossibly blue eyes, gaze desperate and stricken.
But today… Today, he took it further, determined to take his coddling the extra mile.
You only made it to the corner of the stairs before you saw him coming up with purpose written in every line of his body.
“Wait—Bucky, I can walk—!”
Your protest was cut short by a startled gasp as he swept you effortlessly into his arms, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing at all.
Your breath caught, not just from the motion, but from the sudden, intimate closeness. His body radiated heat, even through his shirt. You could feel the curve of his shoulder beneath your cheek, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.
“I can walk myself down the stairs,” you tried again, more weakly.
“You keep aggravating it,” he said simply, descending with slow, sure steps.
With uncharacteristic gentleness, he placed you down on the couch. He crouched in front of you, one knee pressed into the floor, his eyes scanning your face with quiet intensity before dropping to your thighs.
You opened your mouth to argue—too late.
The hem of your dress was already lifted.
“Hey—!” You flinched, hands moving to cover yourself, but he was faster. His fingers curled gently around your knee, not forceful, but firm enough to stop you from snapping your legs shut.
“It’s irritated. Look.” His voice was low, focused, the pad of his thumb brushing dangerously close to tender skin as he inspected the wound.
You inhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat that jolted through you at the contact, the way your body betrayed you with the pulse that bloomed low in your belly. His breath ghosted across your inner thigh as he leaned closer, and it was all you could do to hold still.
He pointed, fingertips skimming just above the angry, raw skin. “See that? It's from friction. The humidity is not helping. The bandage is rubbing it raw.”
You tried to speak, but he was already speaking over you.
“I’ll change it over,” he said, already rising to grab the supplies. “Stay here.”
“It’s fine, really—” you began, trying to wave off the concern in your voice, but Bucky hit you with a look so sharp it cut your words clean in half.
His brow dipped, jaw tight. “Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?” you shot back with a whine, already shifting upright from where you’d been slumped between the couch cushions. The movement made your thigh throb.
Before you could get far, his hand shot out—broad, calloused, and unbothered—pressing gently but firmly against your middle. The ease with which he pinned you back made you blink.
“I said stay,” he said, with exasperated authority. “What is it with you and always making things difficult?”
Your mouth hung open in disbelief. “I don’t want to be babied.”
“I’m not babying you.”
“I feel like dead weight.”
His brows shot up, incredulous. “If I were to describe you as anything, it would not be dead weight, sweetheart.”
“Oh?” you challenged, folding your arms, eyes narrowing. “Then what would you describe me as?”
That made him pause.
His hand fell away slowly, drifting up to rub along his jaw. He turned his gaze downward and away, suddenly studying the floorboards like they held some grand revelation. You could see the calculation flickering behind his eyes, like he was deciding if his true answer was worth whatever calamity he was anticipating or not.
Your heart kicked in your chest.
You held your breath, shamefully hopeful. Like some stupid, soft part of you, some battered, longing part, was enamoured with him. Even when he’d been cruel, cold, dismissive... you'd wanted him to see you. Wanted him to like you. And now, beneath all the banter, you were hanging on the edge of a confession you weren’t even sure you wanted to hear.
He finally looked up. His eyes, storm-dark and unreadable, met yours.
“If this is some ploy to distract me,” he said, voice rough, “it’s not working.”
You deflated, oddly disappointed and sank back into the cushions with a huff. “Fine. I’ll play along. Just get one of the books from my room, would you? If I’m stuck on this damn couch, I’d rather not die of boredom.”
His expression broke into a crooked, lazy grin. “Sure thing.”
And before you could blink, he was halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
You let out a breath through your nose, dragging a hand down your face. The house was suffocating you. The stillness, the isolation, the tension that bloomed every time he entered the room. Maybe it was the ridiculous number of romance novels you’d burned through. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was just him—Bucky, with his quiet protectiveness, so noble with his brooding silences, and the way his hands had felt against your bare skin in the forest.
You bit your lip, cursing yourself.
His rough palms. The way his body had pinned you down, heavy and solid, the way his breath had ghosted across your cheek, your thigh. It was a memory you couldn’t scrub out, no matter how hard you tried.
And now, you were wondering… wondering how it would feel if he pinned you to this couch—
You jolted upright as Bucky returned, slapping the first aid kit and one of your smuttiest romance novels onto the coffee table like a dealer laying down a hand of cards.
He didn’t say a word, but his lips twitched at the corners. His poker face was cracking.
Your face burned.
You reached for the book, praying he wouldn’t comment on the shirtless man with windswept hair on the cover, but of course, he didn’t have to. That stupid, knowing smirk was already doing the talking.
So much for subtle.
You swallowed thickly as he settled between your legs again, his weight pressing into the couch, his broad shoulders framed by the curve of your thighs. There was something maddeningly composed about him, like none of this fazed him in the slightest. If anything, he almost seemed amused by your discomfort, eyes flicking upward just enough to catch the squirm in your hips, the shallow hitch in your breath.
He looked far too comfortable for someone in such a compromising position, like he knew the effect he had on you, and maybe even enjoyed drawing it out.
He gave your knee a light pat, a silent signal to open up. You obeyed hesitantly, and he brushed back the hem of your skirt. Your underwear, thin and barely holding modesty, was now fully on display. You bit down a wince as he took hold of a loose corner of the bandage. He tugged gently, slowly peeling the adhesive away from the inflamed skin. Pain flared sharp and immediate, white-hot beneath the stretch of gauze.
A soft, involuntary whimper escaped your throat before you could muffle it. Your hand shot out, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you gripped his shoulder for stability, or maybe just to anchor yourself against the sudden wave of discomfort.
Still, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. His voice came low and steady, a rumbling murmur as his free hand drew calming circles into the uninjured thigh. “Nearly there, sweetheart. You’re doing great.”
Your nails dug into him as your head lolled back, breath ragged. Every muscle was taut, braced against the conflicting signals. Pain prickled your nerves, comfort stirring from his voice and touch. You weren’t sure whether to pull away or lean in.
“You’re doing so well,” he continued. “Just hang in there for me, won’t you?”
The bandage continued its slow ascent, dragging higher and higher up your thigh, until his knuckles were brushing the very edge of your underwear. The skin there was more sensitive, flushed, overheated, and the gentle pull of the adhesive felt too much, too raw, too close. You hissed through your teeth, muttering a broken string of half-coherent words.
“Shit—ah—”
A particularly harsh sting made your hips buck. Your legs tried to snap closed on instinct, but Bucky was faster. He caught your knee with his forearm and pressed it down, holding you open, firm and immovable.
“Easy,” he murmured, steady as a rock. “Don’t tense up. You’ll just make it worse.”
You squirmed beneath his touch, back arching slightly, breath caught between agony and embarrassment. Finally, he peeled the last sticky corner away, and your skin gave a soft snap as it sprang free from the bandage’s grip. The rush of fresh air was immediate, and with it came a strange kind of relief, tinged with something dangerously close to arousal.
“See?” His voice dipped into something almost indulgent. “Good girl. It’s all done now.”
You nearly passed out on the spot. Your head swam, vision dancing at the edges. A ragged exhale wheezed out of you. “God... Sorry. You probably think I’m being dramatic—”
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said, smoothing a hand briefly down your thigh. “That’s a nasty spot. Fence got you good.”
You finally dared to look down at him, cheeks flushed, heart a mess in your chest. You were almost certain there was a wet patch on your underwear now. You prayed to whatever higher being was listening that he hadn’t noticed, but when you chanced a look at him, down between your legs, a wave of heat coursed through you. You could see it now. The slight flare in his nostrils. The way his jaw tightened. He knew. And he wasn’t saying a damn thing.
His attention drifted only briefly from your wound as he balled up the used bandage and tossed it somewhere behind him with little care.
“Why don’t you ever use your powers?” he asked, casually. “To stop your own pain?”
You exhaled, long and slow.
“Doesn’t work that way,” you muttered. “I can use it on others, sure. But not myself. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a mental block or something... I just... can’t read my own body the same way I can read others. Or maybe the universe just hates me.”
He didn’t reply immediately, just nodded slightly in understanding as he cleaned the area with another antiseptic wipe. You winced, hissing through clenched teeth as the sting bit into your already flayed nerves.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “One more second.”
You braced yourself again as he smoothed a fresh bandage over the wound. You could feel the ghost of his fingers lingering there, just for a moment longer than necessary, just enough to make you question it.
—
Outside, the sky had deepened from moody grey to near-black, the clouds rolling like smoke across the heavens. The wind picked up, rattling the windows. Somewhere far off, the first crack of thunder rumbled.
You had expected Bucky to drift off somewhere once he had finished tending your wound, the kitchen maybe, or the porch to watch the storm roll in, or even just to sit on the floor nearby. Anywhere that wasn’t with you. You’d stretched yourself out across the length of the couch, limbs heavy and warm, your upper body propped up by a mess of pillows and the armrest as you lost yourself in the pages of your book. It was a position meant for solitude.
So when Bucky returned from putting the first aid kit away, he didn’t hesitate. With casual ease, he lifted your outstretched legs and sat down, settling your feet squarely in his lap, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But the moment his hands touched you, your entire system short-circuited.
He did it so easily, like it was a habit. Like it was his right.
Your breath caught mid-page.
You didn’t dare move. Didn’t speak. Your fingers hovered over the paper, your eyes glazed across the lines, but your brain refused to register a single word. Your heart pounded in your chest like it was trying to break free. It took twenty agonising minutes, maybe more, before you could even pretend to read again.
And what didn’t help, what made the entire ordeal a million times worse, was that your book had finally reached the scene, the one everyone waited for. The part where the tension cracked wide open, and the protagonist was getting thoroughly ravished against a wall in some expensive villa by the kind of dark, brooding man that only existed in fiction... or maybe sat next to you.
You swallowed dryly, heart lurching again as the male lead slid his hand up the heroine’s thigh, just like Bucky’s had earlier when he’d peeled off your bandage. Only… you’d imagined it going further. Higher.
Maybe you were delusional, but every time he’d touched you, even under the guise of first aid, you’d felt it—the maddening restraint.
You bit your tongue hard, forcing yourself not to let your thoughts spiral, even as arousal simmered low in your belly and pooled with heat between your thighs. You were already flushed and aching and halfway to combusting, and now he had the audacity to sit there, thigh under yours, body close enough to feel his warmth, like he wasn’t slowly unravelling you.
You were seconds away from imploding, from throwing your shitty romance novel across the room and throwing yourself at the goddamn furniture—
“Did you know,” Bucky drawled suddenly, voice low and casual and way too close, “that super soldiers have enhanced senses?”
You practically jumped out of your skin. “What?”
“I can hear your heartbeat,” he continued, that smug glint in his voice unmistakable. “It’s pretty fast. Erratic.”
Your mouth opened, then closed. Your cheeks went up in flames.
He added, far too pleased with himself, “That’s actually how I found you in the forest. I followed your footsteps and your pulse.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you hissed, snapping your book shut with a hard thwack, trying—and failing—to sit up with any grace.
Outside, rain hit the house in a violent curtain, a sudden hisssssh as the skies split open and water poured down in thick, slanted sheets. It rattled on the roof like pebbles hurled from the sky. Wind clawed at the windows, moaning through the seams.
He chuckled, one hand sliding over your shin, fingers curling around your ankle as he held you in place. “Couch rest,” he reminded you, voice dipped in that annoyingly firm tone.
You struggled half-heartedly, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he tugged gently until you sank back into the cushions, his hand still wrapped securely around your leg.
“No,” he scolded, like he was denying more than just your movement.
Your blush deepened, spreading to your chest. You let out a breath, half-frustrated, half-flustered, and melted into the cushions like you wished they’d just absorb you whole.
His thumb brushed a soft, slow arc along your calf—
Then, with a sharp pop, the power snapped off.
The lamps blinked out. The steady hum of the fridge died mid-breath. Silence swallowed the room for a single heartbeat before a thunderclap shattered it, a crackling whip of lightning illuminating the windows in a brief, unnatural white.
You jolted in fright.
Bucky didn’t move right away. He remained seated, your legs still draped across his lap. You squinted into the darkness, instincts already urging you to move, to rush and shut the open windows before the rain crept in.
Bucky’s grip on your shin tightened, silently reminding you to stay put.
“I’ll get them,” he said quietly, voice calm as thunder rumbled loudly overhead once more. “The windows. And some candles.”
You nodded, throat dry, unsure if he could even see the gesture. He moved slowly, easing your legs off his lap and lowering them onto a pillow with tenderness. Then he vanished into the gloom.
You tracked him by sound, the soft thud of his feet on the floorboards, the swift click of windows shutting, one after the other. Each flash of lightning lit the farmhouse like a shuttered camera flash, brief glimpses of movement, shadow, and form. You caught sight of him once, silhouetted in the doorway, jaw set.
When he returned, he carried a bundle of stubby candles and a matchbox. He set them on the table in front of you, crouching low as he arranged them.
He struck a match, the flare hissing into life, and held it up to one of the candles.
You watched, horrified, as he held it aloft for too long. Far too long. The flame crept toward his fingers, the wood blackening, curling with heat. It licked the vibranium tips, skimming the grooves like the metal had been soaked in fuel.
“Bucky—!” you gasped, lurching forward. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
He blinked up at you, brow furrowed in quiet confusion.
“The vibranium?” he asked, glancing at his hand like it was some borrowed object. “It doesn’t feel pain. The tech…there are no nerves.”
You stared at the charred ends of the matchsticks and the still-glowing candlelight flickering against his dark silhouette. The flames cast golden halos along his jaw, his cheekbone, glinting off the grooves of his metal fingers.
“You looked terrified, sweetheart,” he murmured, amusement warming the edge of his voice. “You okay?”
“I just—you let it burn you.”
He smiled, slow and crooked. “It’s not me. It’s metal.”
But you didn’t agree. Not really. Because it was him. That arm, the weight of it, the precision and restraint in it. It was as much a part of him as the careful way he spoke, or the way he touched your leg like it might bruise.
You swallowed again, watching as he struck the final match. It flared to life with a dry rasp, briefly lighting his face in warm gold before he tipped it to the last candle. The wick caught with a soft sputter, the flame settling into a steady flicker. He sat back on his heels, eyes lifting to meet yours. Smoke curled faintly in the air, mingling with the subtle sweetness of melting wax.
Your voice was small. “It is you. All of it.”
He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you, something in his gaze softened. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out again, resting one calloused palm on your shin. His thumb moved in an easy rhythm
“Explain it to me,” you breathed. “How it works.”
Bucky seemed to turn that over in his mind. A low rumble of thunder murmured outside as he eased himself up, returning to the couch beside you. His hand lingered on your leg, tracing up the curve of your shin in thought, pausing lightly over your knee.
“The technology…it simulates nerves, mimics what touch feels like,” he said quietly. “I can touch an object and understand I’m holding it. Feel its weight. Its texture. But I can’t feel temperature… not heat, not cold. I can’t feel pain. I could sink my hand into a fire or take a bullet straight through the palm and feel nothing.”
You didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, you reached out, your touch featherlight as your fingertips skimmed the metal of his wrist. There was precision in the construction, elegant, engineered, but it was still him. You traced along the inside of his forearm, up to the sharp line of his palm, feeling the grooves, the seams, the impossibly subtle notches between each plate. Then you curled your fingers gently around his, lifting his hand.
You turned it upward. Candlelight caught along the joints of his fingers, gleaming in liquid amber.
And then, deliberately, intimately, you ran your hand down the back of his vibranium hand. Knuckles to wrist.
“Can you feel that?” you breathed.
He inhaled quietly, eyes locked on yours. “Yes.”
You traced your thumb across a seam in his palm, a soft circular motion like brushing the edge of a scar. “Not temperature. But touch?”
“Yeah,” he said. His voice was rougher now. “I can feel the pressure. The motion. Just not... the heat of your skin.”
You didn’t speak. Just guided his hand upward, toward your face, your breath catching as the cool pads of his vibranium fingers grazed your cheekbone and rested there. You could’ve sworn he shuddered. A thrill passed through you at the sensation, not for you, but for him, a quiet hope that maybe this gesture still meant something, even if he couldn’t feel the warmth.
“And now?” you asked, voice barely audible over the rain.
His gaze dipped to your lips, then back up. The flickering darkness had devoured the familiar stormy blue of his eyes, leaving only a hungry void in its place.
“I feel your skin,” he said, low. “It’s soft. Smooth.”
His fingers flexed gently, tracing the line of your jaw in a slow descent. “But I can’t feel the warmth. Just… the shape.”
A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips, bittersweet. A silent war was waged behind his expression, trapped between desire and duty. Between what he wanted and what he was allowed to reach for.
“I used to have another arm,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter now, like the admission cost him something. “A silver one. I couldn’t feel anything with it. Not even this.”
Your brows furrowed.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” he murmured. “Feeling everything… or feeling nothing at all.”
You leaned into his touch, your cheek pressing fully against the metal. Even if it didn’t give him warmth, maybe it gave him presence.
“I think,” you mumbled, “that feeling is the most natural thing of all. It’s the experience of living. Of life.”
His hand stilled against your face.
“People who try to push aside feeling,” you said, softer now, “to cut it off and pretend it doesn’t exist… they’re the ones who are suffering the most. Not the ones who feel everything.”
His breath left him in a slow exhale. A subtle release, like he hadn’t even realised he was holding onto something tight in his chest until now. The candlelight caught the faintest tremble in his throat as he swallowed, as though your words had struck a nerve.
“I feel everything now,” he said at last, voice barely above a breath, like a truth he hadn’t meant to say aloud, like it had just dawned on him. His fingers twitched, then slowly withdrew, curling into a loose fist in his lap.
Silence settled between you, and you watched as the plates in his metal arm shifted with a subtle hiss, the faint whir of unseen mechanics clicking into place as he flexed his fist open, then closed again. The movement was restless, almost unconscious, like his body was speaking the turmoil he wouldn’t voice. You could feel the heat where his hand had just been, the ghost of his touch clinging to your skin.
For a second, you worried he was retreating inward again, lost to whatever troubles consumed him, but then his voice, low and quiet, cut through the static.
“Come here.”
You blinked, unsure you’d heard him right. “What?”
“Just... closer.”
You moved without thinking. Slowly, cautiously, you slid forward on the couch, knees grazing his, breath shallow in your throat. The space between you disappeared. You could feel his warmth, his stillness, the quiet restraint in the way he held himself.
When he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you didn’t flinch. His fingers lingered against your cheek, almost like he was afraid you might vanish if he wasn’t gentle.
“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmured, his voice barely audible beneath the rain. “You’re killin’ me here.”
You let out a shaky breath. “I thought you didn’t notice.”
“Sweetheart,” he said, voice rough and honest. “I notice everything about you.”
Your breath caught, lips parting on instinct, but no sound came.
God, was this really happening? You could feel it, his gaze, the pull of something simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for a spark. But was this wise? You were holed up here, alone together for who knew how long. If you were wrong and misread this current thread between you, it would ruin everything. There’d be no slipping away, no easy out, just long days and longer nights of awkward silence and sidestepped glances.
You didn’t know if you were ready to be seen like that. To be touched like that. To fall headfirst into something that might not let you come back the same. You swallowed hard, unsure if you wanted to lean in or away.
And then you took the plunge.
“Let me… let me show you something.”
His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t pull away. “Yeah?”
You focused, just a small pulse of energy through your fingertips, a delicate twist of sensation sent skimming through his nerves like a shiver. It bloomed slowly at first, a gentle, spiralling warmth that coiled from where you touched and then unfolded, spreading like ripples in water.
He inhaled sharply. Eyes fluttering closed. A tremor ran through him, his spine arching ever so slightly as the feeling expanded, not sharp or overwhelming, but deep. A full-body shudder, unforced and unguarded.
You squeezed your fist shut just as his eyes opened in shock. “What was that?”
“Pleasure.” You muttered, almost sheepishly, as heat crawled up your neck. “It’s just another way I can manipulate the senses. Pain, pleasure, hot, cold—”
“Show me again.”
You blinked, unsure if you’d heard right. Momentarily stunned as your nervous ramble melted to nothing on your tongue. “What?”
His eyes met yours. There was no teasing in them, no bravado. Just raw honesty. Curiosity. Need.
“The feeling,” he said. “The pleasure.”
You hesitantly pressed your fingertips gently to the curve of his throat this time, just under his jaw. A warmer spot, closer to where his pulse thrummed, let the sensation unfurl more slowly this time. Syrupy and coaxing, a velvet ribbon of warmth that traced along his neck, over his chest, down his sides.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, body caught somewhere between a shudder and a squirm.
“Jesus,” he breathed.
You bit your lip, focusing, and let it continue, sliding up through his arms, his back, the curve of his stomach. A steady rise and fall of sweetness and shimmer, like goosebumps made of sunlight.
“Tell me,” you said. “What’s it like? How does it feel?”
His voice was strained, breath catching. “It’s—fuck—it’s like… some is pouring honey down my spine. Like every nerve’s waking up. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s… good. So good.”
You swallowed hard, your own fingers trembling slightly now. The intimacy of it, watching him react, watching the pleasure ripple through him, watching him feel, it was dizzying. You hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected how much it would undo you.
You hadn’t meant for it to turn you on. But there was something so dangerously intoxicating about the control, not over him, but over what he felt. To give something gentle. Something sweet. To offer pleasure instead of pain.
And God, he took it like he’d been starving for it.
“Do you want me to stop?” you asked, barely recognising your own voice—breathy, tight, trembling with restraint.
“No,” he said immediately. “Please. Don’t.”
Your fingers drifted lower, brushing the soft fabric just above his chest. His eyes locked with yours, dark and dilated, his pupils swallowing the colour. Every inch of him was taut, vibrating beneath your touch. His thighs twitched from the phantom of sensation, his breath ragged. You held still, the thrum of your own pulse deafening. Your underwear clung uncomfortably to your skin, soaked through with want. You shifted instinctively, a slow grind against nothing, desperate for friction.
A wicked thought slid through you. Before you could talk yourself out of it, the magic spilt from your fingers, liquid light snaking down his torso, following the line of muscle, dipping lower, lower….straight into the heat of his groin.
His hips jerked up in response, a shocked, broken moan ripping from his throat.
Both of you froze, eyes locked, stunned. The golden glow in your palm flickered, fading, the magic receding like a tide.
And then something snapped.
Your lips crashed into his, sudden and sure. He kissed you back instantly, almost desperately, his hands coming up to cradle your face. You barely registered the storm outside anymore, the flicker of lightning on the windows, the hush of rain. He shifted, and suddenly he was between your thighs, pressing you back into the couch cushions. His weight blanketed you, but it only made your need ache sharper.
One hand cradled your jaw, thumb swiping across your cheek as his lips moved against yours, needy and desperate. You fumbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward and over, your palms dragging over heated skin and hard muscle. His stomach flexed beneath your touch, and you traced along his ribs, up the carved lines of his back, just to feel how he moved.
He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that went straight to your core. His hips ground down against you, bandage and gash completely forgotten, lost beneath the press of flesh and want.
Your wrap dress loosened under his hands, fingers slipping beneath the knot and unravelling the fabric with an urgency that made your breath stutter. The fabric parted, cool air brushing your skin as he exposed your chest.
Your head tipped back as his mouth left yours, trailing lower in a feverish line, across your jaw, down your throat, over the arch of your collarbone. His head dipped beneath your chin, kissing his way down your sternum like he was worshipping every inch of you.
Then you sent another slow pulse of magic through your fingers and into him, this time directly into his skull.
His kisses faltered, breath catching. Teeth scraped gently across your skin as he let out a sound that was half growl, half groan.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart,” he rasped against your chest, breath hot and trembling. Goosebumps rippled over your skin in waves, the warmth of his voice sinking straight into your bones.
You only laughed, breathless. “Good.”
You sent another wave of pleasure, molten and slow, slithering down his spine.
He stiffened, body arching slightly as he rode the feeling. You used the moment to shift, rolling him carefully onto his back. He let you, too lost in sensation to resist. You knelt beside him, half draped off the couch, hair hanging wild around your face as you gazed down at him.
He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Lost. His eyes unfocused, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. You watched the way his muscles jumped and twitched under his skin, the way his mouth struggled to form words.
When he blinked back into awareness, the first thing he did was reach down, hands fumbling at his belt with shaking fingers. You helped him, breath caught in your throat, both of you working together to strip him down.
And when his pants came off—
You stopped, just for a second.
Your breath hitched.
He was huge, hard and flushed, resting against his belly. Your mouth went dry.
“You have to tell me how it feels,” you murmured.
Your hand flattened against his stomach, fingers splayed wide. A deep, pulsing bloom of heat channelled through your palm, arcing downward into the thick, aching weight of him.
His reaction was immediate.
A sharp cry tore from his chest as his hips bucked up off the couch, hands flying to your thighs, fingers digging in as if he needed something to anchor him.
The pleasure took him like a tide.
And you could only watch, trembling, as he unravelled beneath your hands.
“I—I… fuck, sweetheart.” He stuttered, breathless, mouth slack as your magic surged through him, pushed to its limits. The strain already throbbed in your arms and back, a dull, familiar ache blooming beneath your skin, but you didn’t let up. Not yet.
He was beautiful like this, utterly undone. His cock flushed at the tip, slick with precum that beaded from the slit, catching the golden shimmer of your magic. His chest heaved, muscles tensing and quivering as pleasure rolled over him. His eyes were clenched shut, brows knit tight as he rode every pulse of sensation.
Then, just as he trembled on the edge, you withdrew, your magic vanishing abruptly.
He choked out a curse, hips jerking uselessly toward the absence, left hard and aching.
“Holy fuck—” he muttered hoarsely, blinking up at you with dazed eyes. “You’ve been holding that back, sweetheart?”
You giggled, warm and wicked, delight blooming in your chest as his vibranium hand slid up your belly and cupped your breast through your bra. His grip was firm, thumb brushing slow circles that had your spine arching.
“I didn’t think you wanted me,” you whispered, almost shy despite the heat between you.
He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky wasn’t real.
“Didn’t want you?” He looked stricken. “Shit, I thought you didn’t want me. If I had known… if I’d known you didn’t hate me, after everything, I would’ve had you pinned to this damn couch days ago.”
Your head spun. The words lodged in your throat. You couldn’t speak, not when your body was buzzing, not when your heart was hammering like the thunder overhead.
So you showed him.
Your palm lit once more, gold heat pulsing from your fingers like molten thread, weaving into the core of him. His face crumpled beautifully, a groan tearing loose as he squeezed your breast harder, his body lurching with the force of it. Precum spilt onto his stomach in a slippery trail, his hips trembling with the need to move, to finish.
You watched as his right hand dropped, trailing down his stomach in desperation, fingers clumsy, desperate for friction.
You caught his wrist before he could touch himself, eyes narrowing as your breath came in sharp pants. His gaze shot up to meet yours, pupils blown wide.
“I… you fucking minx—”
His voice caught, and then his eyes rolled back. His chest rose and fell rapidly, wrist twitching in your grip as he fought for release. His hips rocked into the air, helpless, caught between your magic and your mercy.
He was close. You could feel it in the way his muscles trembled, in the sounds he made. You wanted to see him fall apart. To come undone under your power, not in pain, not in fear, but in ecstasy.
For once, you wanted someone to reap the rewards of your magic—
But just as your focus began to flicker, just as your grip faltered, Bucky struck.
With a growl, he surged upward. His weight hit you like a wave, knocking the air from your lungs as he flipped you beneath him. Your magic sputtered out, lost in the sudden jolt. You gasped, blinking in surprise as he pinned you with his body, his hips snug between your thighs.
He grinned down at you, smug and breathless, as he locked your legs around his waist.
“You wanna say it?” he murmured, voice rough with lust and teasing threat as he rolled his hips with one testing thrust. “Or do you want me to make you?”
You arched up into him instinctively, a cry caught in your throat, the space between your thighs pulsing with need. Every nerve ending felt electrified, begging for contact, for friction, for him.
“Touch me, please,” you whispered, voice raw and aching.
That was all it took to break him.
“Good girl.” He purred, and then he surged forward, crashing into you with a kiss that was all teeth, tongue, and hunger. Your gasp was swallowed by him, your hands fisting in his hair as he kissed you like he was trying to devour you, like he'd starve without you. His hand slid beneath your skirt in one bold motion, cupping the heat of your soaked underwear.
“Fuck,” he growled, voice cracking with disbelief and lust. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch his fingers press into you through the fabric. “You’re dripping for me.”
You whimpered, head falling back against the cushions as his thumb found your clit, rubbing maddeningly slow circles through the damp cotton. Every movement sent a jolt up your spine. You couldn’t help the way your hips bucked, chasing after every scrap of friction he offered.
“God, Bucky—”
He latched onto the underside of your jaw, kissing and nipping, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm.
“Should’ve known,” he muttered against your throat. “Sitting here all sweet and pretty, thighs clenching, practically vibrating with it. You wanted this, didn’t you?”
Your only answer was a breathless moan as he hooked his fingers under your underwear and tugged them down your legs. The fabric clung to your slick folds before peeling away, leaving you bare and glistening, trembling beneath him.
Cool air hit your wetness, and you jerked, but he held you in place, palm braced firmly against your thigh.
“You’ve been so fucking patient,” he murmured like a promise, and then, finally, his vibranium fingers found you again, brushing through your folds, gathering your wetness before teasing at your entrance. “Such a good girl. Let me take care of you.”
Then he pushed inside, one thick finger curling into you with devastating control. You cried out, hips lifting from the couch as your walls fluttered around him, greedy and clenching. Then another finger followed, stretching you, filling you, and the stretch burned just right.
“Christ,” he groaned, voice ragged, his lips dragging over your collarbone. “You’re so tight… gonna squeeze the life outta me, sweetheart.”
Your hands clawed at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you could find purchase as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers. His thumb circled your clit in time, the rhythm perfectly matched.
But it wasn’t enough. You needed more.
Without thinking, your magic stirred, wild and hot and instinctual. It bloomed at your fingertips, golden light flickering like flame across your skin. You pressed your palm to his back, right between his shoulder blades, and poured it into him.
Bucky gasped, his body convulsing above you as the magic hit him, raw pleasure cascading down his spine. His fingers faltered inside you, but you grabbed his wrist and pushed him deeper.
“Don’t stop,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Let me…let me feel you feel it.”
His mouth dropped open, a strangled moan escaping him as the heat of your power flowed down his nerves, threading through his blood like lightning. His arm flexed beside your head, trying to hold himself up as your magic made him quake.
“You’re gonna ruin me,” he rasped, voice nearly unrecognisable, jaw slack as he rocked his fingers harder into you, magic fueling his every movement. “You—fuck, sweetheart—”
“I know,” you cooed, hips stuttering.
You pressed another surge into him, palm glowing like molten gold. His body shuddered against yours, and this time, he groaned your name. And God, with his fingers driving into you, his mouth on your skin, and your magic wrapped around his soul like silk, you were close. So close.
“Fuck—what are you doing to me?” he groaned, voice cracking as your magic threaded through his chest like silk. “Feels like—feels like I’m burning—”
“You are,” you gasped, your back arching, thighs shaking. “Burning for me.”
Your walls clenched around his fingers, drawing him in as if your body was desperate to keep him there, to never let him go. Every drag of his fingers, every stroke of his thumb over your clit, sent a new wave crashing through you, building like a storm on the horizon.
“Bucky, I—” Your voice broke on a moan as pleasure threatened to spill over. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “You’re gonna be a good girl and fall apart for me. Right here.”
Your magic surged in answer to his voice, responding to the ragged way he spoke, to the desperation in his touch. You reached for him again, palm pressed flat to his chest this time, and pushed, magic pouring from your body into his, sparks dancing where your skin met his. It hit him like a shockwave.
His breath caught, a strangled gasp punching out of his lungs. “Oh fuck—”
His entire body shuddered. His hips jerked forward reflexively, grinding against your thigh as his body buckled under the pleasure, his orgasm taking him by force, torn from him by the sheer intensity of your power. A guttural, broken sound ripped from his throat, and you felt the warmth of him spill across your stomach, hot and thick as his cock twitched against you.
That was all it took.
Your climax slammed into you with brutal force, your body seizing around his fingers as the pleasure snapped through you. Your legs trembled, your hips rolled uncontrollably, and you cried out. Your back arched off the couch as your magic exploded outward in golden waves. You clung to him, trembling, your body pulsing around his hand as the orgasm rippled through you, again and again.
Bucky felt it all, every tremor, every pulse, every wave. He grunted, his eyes fluttering closed, mouth open in pure awe as you came around his fingers, your walls fluttering and spasming, slick dripping down his wrist.
Bucky groaned against your throat, his lips open and gasping against your skin, voice gone to gravel. “Jesus Christ.”
He collapsed half on top of you, arm catching his weight as his vibranium hand slowly slipped free, fingers drenched in your juices. You were both breathless, wrecked, his cum smeared across your stomach. You crumpled beneath him, limbs shaking, still tingling from the aftershocks.
“You okay?” he whispered, brushing your damp hair from your face with trembling fingers.
You managed a breathless laugh. “Are you?”
He chuckled, dropping a kiss to your collarbone. “You just hijacked every nerve in my body and made me see God. So yeah. I’m fucking great.”
You winced sheepishly, heart fluttering. “Sorry. Lost control a little there.”
“Don’t apologise,” he insisted, voice low and reverent. “If that’s you losing control... I want it. Again. And again…”
He kissed your temple, then pulled back slightly to look at you, eyes half-lidded and hungry even in the aftermath. “But next time, sweetheart… I get to make you lose it first.”
You grinned, your pulse still fluttering. “Deal.”
---
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Your lips part. Nick slides the popsicle into your mouth. Your tongue curls, cradling the sudden cold sensation. Nick’s breath is close enough to feel in warm ghosting over your nose, and the moment is frozen for a moment. He drinks you in the same – eyes wavering with each twitch of your lips around the popsicle, the flare of your nostrils as your breath grows thin.
Nick’s grin splits again, too wide for his face. His fingers tense, and he pushes it to the back of your mouth.
Your breath is choked out of you in a moan, your throat cold and closed. The sweet, sticky juice is already beginning to gloss over your lips, threatening to run down your chin.
“You wanna suck? Choke on it?”
ice cream truck driver!Wolfwood for @bastardblvd slimeball town hall event! 🥰
ɴꜱꜰᴡ | ᴍɪɴᴏʀꜱ ᴅɴɪ ✧ pov : second person, AFAB reader, nongendered pronouns ("sweetheart" used as an endearment) ✧ tags: modern au, smut, smoking, choking, love bites, oraI (fem. receiving), fingering, finger sucking, creampie ✧ word count: ~4.7k ✧ ao3 link ✧ recommended mood playlist: raspberry cake
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It had been your first thought – with a wrinkle of your nose shifting the veil of your sunglasses over your eyes; that there’s no way this is sanitary. Maybe the families at the park know it too, with all the laughter and shrieks contained to the playground. You’re the only one on this part of the field. It’s probably because an ice cream truck shouldn’t smell like smoke.
And any smoke coming from a vehicle is bad, but it’s cigarette smoke.
The man inside the ice cream truck rests his elbows on the counter, chewing the end of a cigarette that burns down slowly, bringing the acrid smell of tobacco through the air with it. You slide your sunglasses down as you step into the shade of the truck’s overhang, and squint up at him. “Should you be doing that around food?”
“Quiet,” he says, barely flitting his glazed-over gaze down over you. “You’ll scare away all my customers.”
The smoke drifting away turns blue in the streams of sunlight. The roll of the ground is hard under your feet, the white walls of the ice cream truck blinding and peppered with faded photographs advertising the wares within.
“Anyway,” he says with a slight cough rolling into the first syllable, “most of it’s prepackaged.”
“Most?”
He pulls the cigarette from his mouth, smacks the back of his hand still holding the stub against a paper sign taped to the sliding window. Fresh fruit smoothies! “Strawberries and stuff in the fridge.”
“Then smoking’s definitely not okay. Haven’t you heard of cross-contamination? Don’t they train you on things like that?”
You don’t know why you’re suddenly pretending to be an expert on food safety, but he seems to enjoy it. At the very least, he’s intrigued.
“’S why I’m smoking over here away from the fridge,” he says, just as fast. He flicks the smoldering cigarette butt down by your feet and grins at you. “Who are you to tell me how to do my job, anyway?”
His smile is white, sharp. His dark bangs are forced flat against his forehead under a jaunty white cap that, just like the rest of the uniform, must be one-size-fits-all. The crisp white short-sleeved button-up shirt pinches at his shoulders, falls too boxy below his moving arms as far as you can see. It has a nametag pinned lopsidedly on it, with a square too narrow and handwriting too thick to fit what he had clearly set out to Sharpie in – NICH must suffice. And all in all, it brings a smile to your own face.
The visual scan, the appreciation of his appearance, has somewhat distracted you from the fact that he’s whipped out another cigarette. The hiss of a lighter is sharp. His lips close around it.
“A concerned consumer,” you say. He eyes you, sharp brows furrowed ever so slightly in careful, focused study.
“Well, concerned consumer, what are you consuming? You want a popsicle? Ice cream bar? Sandwich?”
“What do you recommend?”
He exhales white smoke. “For you?”
There’s a soft musicality in the way he asks the question, the two words singing, dancing into each other. For…you? He looks you up and down. You roll your shoulders, straightening your back without thinking. He slides his jaw as he breaks into another smile. The cigarette rolls between his teeth.
“Fuck the smoothies. I’m running a new special,” He says. He suddenly pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, new as it is, and stubs it into the side of the van before tossing it out to land at your feet. “Come round back, if you want something really good.”
He slides the window shut before you can say anything else. A moment later, grunting metal heaves around the corner of the ice cream truck, and the back door unlatches.
“Are you hiding all the good treats back here?” you say, twisting your lips and tracing your finger over the pasted images of ice cream cones on the door as you step up into the truck. There’s a dalmatian print of what you now realize must be other cigarette stubs and burns along the outer handle.
“I have a secret menu for special customers.”
You surreptitiously shut the door, making a decision without consciously thinking of it. When you turn back, he’s looking at your hand on the latch with an amused expression playing across his face.
It’s a small space, made smaller by his frame echoed in every silver, mirrored surface. Even with strewn paper cups and open canisters of whipped cream, it appears cleaner than you would have imagined. He rests broad hands on counters lining either side of the gutted truck, hunched in the narrow aisle between the chrome freezers. He drums his fingers, the sound dull thuds. He’s broad, taller even than the height difference from the window to the grass seemed.
He’s so hot.
He points to his nametag. “Call me Nicholas. Or Nick,” he says.
“What’s on this special, secret menu, Nick?” you ask.
Nick reaches up with a hand, scratches his forehead where the brim of his hat meets skin and bristling, trapped hair. “You like popsicles?”
You raise your eyebrows. “That’s what you called me in for?”
“Well, it’s your choice,” Nick says, and he turns. He heaves open a door, a blast of icy air puffing into the interior. He rummages for a moment, and you watch the flex of muscle moving in his arm, the crosses of veins prominent. “Orange?”
“Sure.”
You take a step closer. It doesn’t take much than a few more to meet him in the small aisle of the van, the tin, patterned floor shaking slightly. The smell of cigarettes is discernable only from the faint motions of his fingers, tense, white half-moons rising under his nails as he concentrates on rooting through the bin.
He closes the door and looks down at you, as you lean back, nestled nearly on the countertop. You watch, first his fingers as he wrests with the squeaky white wrapping, then up to his face – the automatic expression of slight concentration, the relaxing of his features as he succeeds and pops the icy treat free, sliding the wrapper off. He tosses it to the counter behind him; it catches on the air, floats to the ground instead, ignored.
You jerk your chin up. Nick turns the wooden stick in his fingers. You begin to extend your hand for it, but he speaks first, in a voice that comes softer than the banter. Softer, deeper. Dangerous.
“Open up.”
Enticing.
Your lips part. Nick slides the popsicle into your mouth. Your tongue curls, cradling the sudden cold sensation. Nick’s breath is close enough to feel in warm ghosting over your nose, and the moment is frozen for a moment. His fingers curl on the wooden stick. Your eyelids feel heavy as you stare at him. The cracks of smile lines webbing silver under his eyes; the stubborn push of stubble under his chin. He drinks you in the same – eyes wavering with each twitch of your lips around the popsicle, the flare of your nostrils as your breath grows thin.
Nick’s grin splits again, too wide for his face. His fingers tense, and he pushes it to the back of your mouth.
Your breath is choked out of you in a moan, your throat cold and closed. The sweet, sticky juice is already beginning to gloss over your lips, threatening to run down your chin.
“You wanna suck? Choke on it?”
You let out a muffled whimper again.
“Which would you prefer?” Nick asks, and his voice groans. “What’s your choice? You wanna take this little popsicle outside and enjoy the day? Or for me to open you up nice and slow right here on the counter?” He pushes the popsicle on your tongue, rolls it. It gags you and you make that strangled sound again.
Nick pulls it out, leaving your teeth to chatter.
You pause a moment, sucking in air, feeling the sugary tack on your lips. Nick swirls the popsicle, licks away a melting droplet.
So, you think, our first kiss is an indirect one.
“Say it,” he says with a dare. He takes another step. It brings his knee between yours now, and your throat tightens as you tilt your head up to him. The pulse quickens in your neck.
“Nice and slow?” you say, and your voice cracks into ice. “What if I want it a little rougher?”
“Oh?” Nick asks, and you don’t know where the popsicle goes, you don’t care if he’s thrown it to the ground again, because your eyes are closed and his lips are on yours, dissolving the melting syrup. His hands are on your hips, and your hips are twisting in turn; in the sudden fog of lust, you’re not sure if you’ve boosted yourself on the counter or if he’s lifted you. But he’s on a closer level to you now, your fingernails skating over the stubble of his jaw on your way to throw your hands over his shoulders.
The tart bursts of orange lingering at the inside of your cheeks clashes with the musk of his taste, the earthy tobacco smacking with each kiss. Your knees part wider for his body stepping closer as his tongue slips into your mouth. With your eyes closed, it feels like falling, the oxygen taken straight from your lips to his, your head spinning with the remnant of the smoke, the soft work of his tongue against yours.
“Oh.”
Your thigh muscles tighten and shake. Even in the chill of the truck, something warm begins to settle down through you, and your grasp across Nick is shifting, faster. A hand at his arm before you realized it, the other still pressing through his thick hair to cradle the back of his neck. You’ve knocked that silly cap off, and he grabs at your waist in fervent agreement. As much as Nick holds your tense body into his, you pull him into you, even as the kisses begin to leave your mouth stale and dry with the remnants of smoke.
“I can still taste it,” Nick whispers, his tongue almost licking your still-parted lips with the words laced with nicotine, with orange sugar. He kisses the corner of your mouth and straightens up, pulls away, leaves you breathless as you open your eyes to drink him in again. His hands anchor on the counter, and you swear you can begin to feel it shift backwards with his strength. “But I want to taste something else.”
Nick’s hands move again. The pressure of your clothes, suddenly so palpable, unbearable over eager skin, releases as he unfastens your pants. Your hips roll almost desperately as he slips you nearly bare from the waist down, and the thought comes again as you tremble on the counter with only the thin fabric of your panties keeping you from the cold steel. “This is so unsanitary.”
It’s hard to sound assertive with strong, nimble fingers undressing you, and your sentence breaks into a gasp. Nick raises those thick brows at you as he sinks, barely able to kneel in the narrow aisle as he eases off your shoes, rolls off your pants. “What, are you gonna report me?”
You grin. It’s ruined by the drop of your mouth, the slack of your jaw as your voice keens into another “oh!” as Nick kisses your soft inner thighs, bracing his hands so lightly against your legs as he coaxes slight adjustments of your leg. Saliva cools across your skin, the warmth of his lower lip dragging as his mouth opens wider.
“Ah!”
The bite doesn’t hurt, really, but his teeth run along you lower, closer to the trembling heat below your panties. Nick gives another biting, sucking kiss. His other hand moves up your thigh with a softer touch than his lips.
He reaches the band of your panties and brushes against the fabric. You can feel the turn of his wrist as it allows him a better grab at the cloth, a better touch of your skin below, and you let out a sound closer to a hiss as he spreads his fingers to cup and shape your cunt perfectly through the panties.
“Nick – ”
His name is heavy on your tongue, your skin somehow feeling cool right between his touch, right where the side of his fingers pinch together.
“I like hearing you say my name,” Nick says softly. His breath is hot, closer and closer on your thigh. He rocks his fingers and pushes into you. The nerves sing under your tense muscles. And finally, with another exhale, his mouth sets.
It’s another kiss at first, open-mouthed and heavy over your underpants, but when he moves his tongue over the fabric it’s with a harder urgency. He flattens his tongue, saliva seeping through the cloth to meeting slick and push it back to you. The barrier is so rough, leaving you even more sensitive below it. You moan again when Nick’s tongue retreats, moving higher, harder, up. He flicks right between the groove that’s now so perfectly shaped beneath the damp panties, teasing your clit.
You reach forward, skating your hands through his hair, thick and shining like nylon. His busy hand pinches against you in response. It’s all heavy at your hips, the sensation teasing you just as much as the ministrations of his mouth.
Nick turns closer to the counter, shifting between your spread legs as he pushes his face into you.
“Take them off,” you hear yourself whine. It’s tauntingly warm, each twist of your body and sway of his lips rubbing the fabric on and off your body, settling with teasing whispers in just barely new locations. He shakes his head in a way that may or may not be a response, but brushes his lips over your cunt.
“Said I didn’t want slow,” you say.
“Be a little patient. I can see you so perfectly,” Nick rasps, and his fingers frame you again, pushing the wet fabric back against your body. “What a pretty, plump pussy.”
You push your hips into the counter and curl your fingers against his scalp, at the back of his head. “Nick,” you say again.
A heavy breath, and his fingers slide harder. He peels the elastic away from your skin, away from your already strained and aching thighs. It lifts from you as he forces your panties to the side. It’s so cold in the air for a moment, and then hot when Nick’s tongue forces past to your bare skin.
“Fuck!”
He laps messily over you, letting the jerk of your hands in response guide his head, the direction of his tongue as it twists and flattens. He eats you out sloppily. You jerk, the back of your knees bending hard into the underside of the counter. You’re grinding into Nick’s face without thinking of it, and the moan that escapes him in return is something uninhibited. It’s raw, gasping for breath, full of a desire that should have fallen from your own lips.
Your hips rock up, and his lips break away. Nick’s fingers flatten under the curve of your thigh and reach, a slight cushion drumming the back of your panties as his thumb strokes back up against the gusset. He presses into the wet fabric and teases it over your skin again. He bends and pushes his fingertip carelessly, almost randomly, along the covering of your slit, index finger drumming down around the back of your thigh.
“Oh, please,” you whimper. Your back arches as you try to write into his touch.
Nick’s finger rolls again, flattens, presses harder. You’re throbbing where his fingers touch you, even if it’s just over the coarse fabric that feels rougher and rougher the wetter it gets. The wetter you make it.
“You’re so messy,” Nick says, almost like a quiet observation. The pressure between your legs slips away as he moves. Your legs ache, knees curving instinctively together again as he rises with an involuntary grunt. He looks down on you with gleaming eyes beneath wild brows, and his half-parted lips are wet.
“Even through your panties,” he continues, and he extends his glistening fingers forward. “See?”
Not necessary for him to ask this time. Your mouth is open, you loll your tongue forward. The pressure of his fingers pushes it against her teeth, and you force your tongue up between the V-shape they make to swirl and turn, licking himself clean of you as your eyes roll up to him. Your cheeks hollow with it, the taste not as sweet as the popsicle, but you let your tongue work harder. The way his eyes gleam down at you only spurs you on. You turn your resting foot against his leg to urge him back, closer.
Nick’s thumb turns under your chin in response, and he leans down. Drool slips from the corner of your mouth when he replaces his hand with his lips on yours. You taste yourself even more than the traces on his fingers, entwined with the eternal earthy remnants of smoke. You reach to clumsily press your palms against his stomach. You can feel, almost to your surprise, strong bands of muscle beneath the cheap thin button-up, and you fumble at the buttons to bid the shirt open.
“Not fair if you still have all this on,” you say, breaking the kiss with words and peppers of little, closed-mouth kisses on his cheek, his jaw, blind as your fingers hunt up to his throat. When the shirt hangs open, you trace them down again, tilting your head back with a grin of your own as you feel the warm curve of his pectoral muscles, the softness below his breastbone where air pockets. And when you free the hem from his waistband and feel for the fastening of the dark slacks, Nick moves down to at long last wrap those strong fingers around the band of your panties and pull them from you. You sigh audibly as the damp fabric peels away, letting go of his own clothes for a moment. His bend of limbs knots into your reaching arms as your hips rock away and back to the counter as he undresses you, panties falling to the floor. He keeps a hand on your thigh, pushing your legs open again.
You groan at the muscle stretch, and it catches in your throat. “Nick,” you say again, softly, letting it linger.
His muscles tense beneath the billow of the open shirt as he forces his pants lower with his free hand, finishing your half-started efforts. The zipper clatters at the underside of the counter as he cants in.
The anticipation is trembling practically out of your body. Your shudders and whimpers are almost lost in the hum of the appliances.
“You want rough?” he says, rasping his words.
“Mmhm…god.”
“No,” Nick says, a slight, sudden dryness as his hand flexes, pushes on your leg. Something smoother, thicker, than his fingers, pushes against your inner thigh. His cock curves as he leans closer. “No God here.”
At that, his hips turn. And you writhe as his cock slides into you, so easily spreading and entering your cunt perfectly oiled with saliva and your arousal. You arch, moan a “fuck!” as he leans forward with a strained, satisfied, Cheshire-cat smile, and goes deeper.
He’s big, so big you can feel your body almost go numb, inner muscles beating at the intrusion – and then softening to make space for him. He sucks in a breath, as if he’s feeling the same shaking tightness.
You groan and curve your hips, the best attempt to roll up and meet him just as he pulls out, and then so deep back in that your mouth falls open with the next moaning breath. You reach forward, tugging plaintively at his shirt, grasping at the fabric to pull him close.
“Oh, oh, please – ”
No banter, no witty talk, nothing but pleading for him with your open body. He pushes, and your hand finds his side, wrapping halfway to his back. Your fingers bend, and he groans as your nails drag down the side of his ribs.
The pressure, the heat that his tongue was building in you rises again, and you jerk your hips pathetically forward. It doesn’t do much to interrupt the build of his pace, but it presses your skin close to his, the warm layer of sweat beginning to rise between your limbs. And the energy that rolls in your veins, shit, it has to go somewhere. You strain to pull him close to you, to bring his mouth down to yours again, but his body is stone, and his determined grip is hard.
You whine, letting your hands dance up again just to drag backdown with raking nails.
“Fuck,” Nick groans, and the guttural, raw tone, sends more through you.
His hand is off your thigh, the press so hard you almost expect a large, palm-shaped bruise to rise in its place. And the push is at your clit, his thumb rubbing busy circles that almost make you sob when you look down, hazy vision fixing on the thick expanse of his fingers working you over as his cock forces you open and swollen.
“Ah!”
Your hand still knotted in his shirt rises to your lips, your tongue lapping over your fingers, the curve of your thumb, and you reach an awkward hand down over spread thighs to surround him. You rub, at the inch of cock that can’t quite fit inside you at this angle, circle down to stroke with soft fingertips at his balls.
“Oh, oh,” Nick says in desperation. “Fuck.”
The words are broken, and you barely can lift your eyes up and away in time for his mouth to meet yours again. His lips are soft, fat, hungry, and you whine into his throat as he fucks you harder, harder.
It’s a brief kiss, because he breaks his head away to rest on your shoulder. His body cages over you, and you move your hands again, both scooped under the open shirt to grab at his back with frantic fingers. His hair has fallen forward, rubbing sweaty, rough, in strands at your neck.
“Oh, Nick – right there,” you say, feeling your voice shake higher and higher. Your instinct is to lean back, fuck your hips higher, but instead you pull him closer and try to curve into him. “Please – don’t stop – ”
“No?”
“No, no, touch me, fuck me, please - ”
He tosses his head back and his throat muscles are tight, jaw pulsing, as he straightens up over you again. “What makes you think I’ll stop, sweetheart?”
He pulls his tormenting hand away and spits on it. You almost scream when it comes back, sliding faster over your suddenly even more sensitive clit, sore and puffy as he makes you bloom like a rose with split folds.
“You have to cum first.”
And you rock on the counter, the freezers groaning with the bumping shift of the van’s movements. Something clatters down as appliances, spoons, napkins, fall. It doesn’t matter if the ice cream melts around you. What matters is the way your muscles jump, the way friction is burning below your skin, moving faster and faster.
“Oh, oh!”
You close your eyes and cling to him. The force of his grunts with each pump vibrates through his chest. Your thighs are arched high, feet desperately pushing at the back of his legs, not quite high enough to cross and not quite enough strength in you to hook around him tighter. But your hands are hard on his back, his shoulder blades flat between the spread of your fingers.
Nick’s hunched over you. He lifts his hand, pulling it away and leaving you beating, shivering, practically gushing with the pumps of his cock. He cups the side of your face as your eyes roll open, gaze to the ceiling as you writhe.
“Does the roof make you cum?” he asks in jagged breath.
“N-no,” you say automatically.
“Is it god? Who’s fucking you?”
“God, no. You – you.”
He jerks your chin to him. His eyes are fixed, brows sharp, lips pulled back and teeth wet in a half-grin. “Then don’t look up; look at me, look at me, when I make you cum.”
It’s the words that are your undoing, the way they spit harsh from his mouth. The harshness is without cruelty, but with a vigor that’s echoed in the kiss when you lean forward to meet him in wanton agreement.
“Nick,” you breathe into his mouth, and bite his lower lip as you withdraw. “Make me cum – please, make me cum.”
“Wanna cum with you, sweetheart,” Nick says in that grating groan as he moves his hand back to rub in furious circles.
You tense your thighs and feel for it, squirming against the countertop as that friction beats harder. It’s something burning beneath your core, even as he splits you, again, and again, in frantic heat. When his hand stills, you can tell – you can tell in his body, in the focus right at his hips as they begin to buck into you harder, in the sucking of his breath, that he’s as close as you are.
“Nick – I’m gonna – ”
“Oh,” he groans, his words crashing into yours, and you pulse as he lets go. You bury your face in his shoulder and stuff your mouth full of shirt to muffle the scream. With each throb of his cock as he cums in you, it urges the shivers of your miniscule muscles wild. You cum without announcement, almost to your own surprise, and Nick’s hands anchor at the small of your back. He practically sings his moans in your ear as you cum on his cock, his rhythm slowing as yours tenses and stutters.
Somehow, the counter stops rocking.
The silence is cut by two lungs raggedly gasping, the hum of the freezers, the groans of the truck. Far off in the distance, the people in the park keep playing and laughing.
“Fuck,” you say, low, and you find your voice shaking.
“’S right,” Nick says.
He pulls out of you, and you whimper in your throat at the slide, at the warmth, at the ache across your legs.
Bam, bam, bam.
You physically startle, heart leaping into your throat, hands automatically flying to your lap as Nick’s seed beats out of you. Someone’s at the front part of the ice cream truck, knocking on the window. A shadowed hand appears at the glass as they try to look inside past the paper taped on the window.
“Hey,” calls a young man’s voice. “Anyone in here? You guys open?”
“Just a second,” Nick shouts back. He grins down at you as he hoists his pants back up. “Just a customer. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry?” you hiss quietly.
“Can’t see you from here.”
“Nick, you’re not actually going to serve –”
“Kitchen’s down,” he suddenly yells, interrupting you. “Only got the pre-packaged stuff.”
“That’s alright,” they shout in return.
Nick wipes his forehead, pushing back sweat-slicked hair. “See? Nothing to worry about.”
You suck your teeth and raise your eyebrows, trying to suppress a smile.
“Hold tight,” he says, buttoning his shirt. “Let me find my hat, sell an ice cream sandwich, and I’ll be right back.”
You can’t hide it when he kisses your cheek, hands busy as he rises to his collar. “Not gonna jump out the window and escape?”
“You think I’d fit through that?” Nick raises those thick brows. “I’m not trying to get anywhere. Not without your name and number first.” He reaches down, fumbles on the floor of the van and comes up with his cap.
You edge slowly off the counter, pins and needles aching in your thighs. He’s already crammed his hat on his head and’s turned, moving towards the window.
“Hey, hey,” you say, whispering as quietly as you can. “Do you – Nick, do you see my panties?”
At first, you think you haven’t gotten his attention. But when he hauls the window open, giving that cheeky grin to the spiky blonde-haired man you can barely see standing below with a “what can I get for you?” – you can see the wet, crumpled fabric winking at you from his back pocket.
