fiah

sunghoon's ruining my life

[nikililmj]

not very active on here, but i can’t believe heeseung is not a part of enha anymore. all this happened very suddenly, but as much as we fans are hurting, i can’t imagine what the boys are going through, and i firmly believe that company played a big part in this unfortunate decision. in my heart, enha will always be 7.

[nikililmj]

gender envy is so real cuz i wanna be a part of cortis sb why they so cool bro

[chudere]

୨୧ ROOMATE! NISHIMURA RIKI texts . . .

part one | part two | part three | part four

note ; i lowkey wanted to make him grovel more but i didn’t have anymore ideas + would’ve been like so boring and repetitive so i decided to wrap it up with this ^_^ i hope i didn’t disappoint! i wanted a happy ending but a sad ending at the same time, but the council wanted happy, so i shall deliver happy 🤍 also, anyone in this taglist is just in this one alone. if you wanted to be in a taglist specific to roomate riki or just all of my riki works do lmk since im not so sure!!

taglist — @justpassingdontworry @ddeonuswife @devdozes @whydolife @thisisnotjacinta @dolletwons @slut4heespam @rikigoonette @giannaissocute @frikimura @lovingjongseong @htaesans @nekobbin @rikismura @sugarrtalk @enhawonnie @emechannn @whothefvckami @tokkisluv @luvkiyomi

[ggukgcf]

About You - Ni-ki

📌 summary: he’s ni-ki of enhypen. you’re the main vocalist of girl group LUNARE. the world only sees you under lights, but behind them, you build a quiet love in hidden practice rooms and midnight texts.

pairing — idol!ni-ki (ENHYPEN) × fem!idol!reader genre — secret relationship, fluff, longing, comfort, soft romance warnings — none, just soft fluff overload

Inspired by “About You” by The 1975.

something a bit different from what I would usually post - no dark Ni-ki this time, just fluff. I'll go back to dark angst soon though... I love it too much lolllll

requests open too - lmk what you want to see <3

reblogs & feedback appreciated! ⋆⭒˚.⋆

“I know a place.It’s somewhere I go when I need to remember your face.”

The broadcast centre is a city that learned how to hum. On comeback weeks it hums louder—dolly wheels biting linoleum, stylists swishing like weather, managers speaking in timestamps. Even the vending machines sound tense.

But there’s one room that doesn’t belong to the city. It lives at the end of a basement corridor, behind a keypad that thinks too long before it decides to let you in. A practice studio that smells like rosin and lemon cleaner, its mirrors smudged with fingerprints from trainees who grew up and debuted and forgot they once believed a room could save them.

You didn’t forget. He didn’t either.

You are LUNARE’s main vocalist—five girls, three years post-debut, one trophy, ten near-misses, a calendar that runs on caffeine and faith. He is ENHYPEN’s youngest, but onstage he carries decades, moving like the song has bones and he knows where they go. Everyone else knows you as separate galaxies. Here, you decide to be two stars, closer than the charts allow.

Tonight, the keypad argues, then relents. You slip inside and exhale. The star lights you taped along the back wall twinkle politely, two bulbs permanently out. You sit on the floor and lean your spine against the mirror—the cool glass insisting you name in shivery cursive. Your hoodie’s sleeves cover your hands. Your phone goes face-down.

The door sighs again. Ni-ki enters the way he always does: a hush first, then a boy. Hoodie damp, cap pushed back, hair a little wild from a rushed change. He closes the door with the care of someone setting down a sleeping cat and tips his head, the smile softening everything the day sharpened.

“Sorry,” he whispers, very Ni-ki, apology for existing late. “We wrapped later.”

“That’s okay.” Your shoulders drop like they were waiting for permission.

He crosses the wood and folds down beside you, knees nudging yours. In the mirror you’re two shapes becoming one shape, then two again when you laugh at the exact same nothing.

“This room,” he murmurs, forehead tipping into your shoulder. “It remembers me kinder than today did.”

“It remembers you exactly,” you say, and kiss the top of his head. “Kinder is just more accurate.”

He huffs, pleased. His bracelet—thin silver, the one you bought in a Tokyo street market when the both of you were accidentally in the same city—shines when he pushes up his sleeve. He doesn’t wear it on stage. He wears it when he needs to carry you like a secret bassline.

“Tell me something small,” you ask, because small keeps you safe. “True and small.”

He thinks with his mouth—lips pursed, then parting. “The best part of today is being here. Second best was… there was a kid in the crowd with a sign that said, ‘I danced for the first time.’”

Your chest goes hot in that quiet, grateful way. “Because of you?”

“Because of us,” he says, like he can’t help it. Then, gentler: “Because of the music.”

You slip your hand into his. His fingers warm quick, like they were pre-heating for this. Outside, the building hums. Inside, you remember how to breathe.

This is the place: a mirror that forgives, a keypad that chooses you, a floor that has heard every version of your footsteps. He lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses the inside of your wrist. The room says amen in starlight.

“We get married in our heads. Something to do whilst we try to recall how we met.”

You met beside a humming vending machine in a hallway where extension cords made choreography of their own. LUNARE and ENHYPEN were on the same music show lineup; stylists flowed like rivers; a manager with a headset spoke into the air like it owed him answers. You had three water bottles, two for members, one extra because you’ve learned that kindness is good. Ni-ki had none and the kind of tired that sits in your collarbones.

You held a bottle out without thinking. He reached without looking away. For a beat longer than necessary, his gaze stayed.

“Thanks,” he said, and the thank-you sounded like a promise not to waste this second.

You smiled in that small, private way that makes your cheeks into parentheses. “Anytime.”

It became a running joke—weddings in the unlikeliest places. A stairwell between floors two and three where the light flickers like a nervous heartbeat. The parking garage where the rain smells like train tracks. Behind stacked speaker cases at an outdoor festival while a sea of fans chanted syllables you both know by muscle memory.

“In our heads,” he said the first time, looping a hair tie around your thumb like a ring.

“Something to do,” you agreed solemnly, “while we pretend not to know the cameras are everywhere.”

“Do you, uh, take this—” he began, but you were already laughing, and he broke, too, the kind of laugh you protect from the world because it gives too much away.

You never say vows out loud. You say them in behaviour—he waits for your nod before he lets go of a hug; you put an extra tea bag in your pocket because he likes the second steep. He learns the exact sound your laugh makes when you’re nervous. You learn that he rubs his thumb over his index finger when a room feels sharp.

You two become excellent at pretending in public and marrying in your heads. It keeps the day soft without lying about it.

“Do you think I have forgotten? Do you think I have forgotten about you?”

The first time he asks, your phone is propped against a jar of moisturizer in LUNARE’s dressing room, the front camera giving you raccoon eyes. Your group’s leader is asleep on a couch in an angle that can’t be good for her back; your maknae is negotiating with a zipper. Your manager is outside explaining to someone why you cannot possibly move your set by “just five minutes.”

Across the world, Ni-ki leans against a wall in a dim hallway wallpapered with posters from last year’s tour. From the angle you can see the brim of his cap, the slope of his nose, a corner of fluorescent light that flatters no one. You can’t see the bus waiting, the brothers laughing down the hall, the way the schedule eats personal minutes and calls it protein. But you know it’s there.

“Do you think I have forgotten?” he asks, and something in you steadies because he only asks when he needs the answer shaped like your voice.

Your mascara wand hovers. “About what?”

A smile, small and sideways. “About you.”

Somewhere a makeup brush clacks the edge of a palette. Somewhere a staffer holds up a jacket and yells a name that is yours. Somewhere in you, a door closes softly against the wind.

“Sing it,” you murmur, because joking is armour that doesn’t look like armour.

He does—just the line, quiet enough that it sounds like it’s meant for a single person in a single room. When he’s done, you don’t clap. You let silence make the ovation.

“Not even if I tried,” you say. You mean both of you.

He exhales in relief that lands warm across an ocean. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

“You and I, Were alive, With nothing to do I could lay and just look in your eyes.”

The staff lounge three floors up is a terrible lounge and therefore perfect. The coffee machine is moody; the couch is grey in a way that suggests compromise. The windows are fake-open; the plants are too brave for their pots.

Between pre-recordings, managers peel away to solve logistics, and the hallway empties just enough to become a possibility. You text a single ghost emoji. He texts back the little running guy.

Ni-ki arrives with a bag of chips he didn’t pay for because the vending machine returned his money like a coward. He kicks off his Nike slides and tucks his feet under your thigh without asking. You lift your knees and let your legs be his blanket, a domestic gesture that feels illicit only because you know how many stories people can write about a single hand.

“With nothing to do,” you whisper, nestling deeper into the couch’s compromise, “we might cause trouble.”

He grins. “We could take a nap. That’s pretty dangerous.”

“Revolutionary,” you agree.

You do not nap, though his head finds your shoulder, and your head finds his cap’s brim, and for a long minute you both just look. The kind of looking that counts as work where you come from—studying micro-expressions, cataloguing tiny changes. He’s paler when he hasn’t danced; you’re brighter when you’ve been allowed to.

“I could write an entire album about your face when you’re about to laugh,” he mutters, confident he will never have to prove it.

“You already did,” you say.

“Oh? Which track?”

“All of them.” You turn your head. His eyes are right there. After stages and choreography and ten thousand eyes, intimacy is being able to hold a gaze and not flinch. “Do it. Write it.”

He doesn’t say he is. He just reaches for your hand, squeezes once, and let’s go, because anything more would be greedy and you’re both trying so hard not to be.

The door opens. A courier with a stack of boxes apologizes in triplicate, retreats. The world resumes its whir. You remain, a small quiet declared and obeyed.

“Wait and pretend. Hold on and hope that we’ll find our way back in the end.”

Pretending is choreography everybody learns. You master the smile that says I am listening when your mind is learning an entirely different song. He perfects the nod that means we’re okay to fans who need it and to members who already know.

Hope is messier. It lives in pockets where you keep receipts you never file. It grows when you don’t water it. It is inconvenient and refuses to schedule a meeting.

You hope in DMs neither of you keep on your homescreens, in voice notes that begin with a sigh and end with a joke. You hope by leaving a spare pair of socks in his backpack because he always forgets. He hopes by labelling the contact name “Coffee Machine” in case anyone glances at his phone while your message lights it up.

Hold on, he texts the night before ENHYPEN fly to Jakarta, and the words are a bridge flung from his moving van to your dorm’s dark kitchen. You’re standing barefoot, forehead against the fridge, listening to LUNARE’s leader breathe evenly on the other side of a thin door. Hold on, he says again. I’ll find my way back.

You believe him because you have learned that he keeps the promises he can. He never promises crowds or headlines or trophies. He promises the end of the day, a return to the place that knows your laugh best. He promises stairs and a keypad that considers and a mirror that forgives.

You promise, too—sometimes out loud, sometimes into his hoodie when your voice won’t behave. I’ll be here. I’ll be here even when here changes.

“There was something about you that now I can’t remember. It’s the same damn thing that made my heart surrender.”

At GMA—the end-of-year show that turns the entire country into a stage—you pass each other in the backstage artery where the walls are covered with framed photos of performances that invented new adjectives. LUNARE are sequins and hairspray; ENHYPEN are tailored lines and silver threads that catch the light like a rumour.

The corridor is noise with elbows. Cameras become nouns and verbs. Someone calls your group’s name. Someone calls his. You should be air passing air. You are, and also not.

He looks at you a beat too long. You catch it, slip it into your pocket like a coin. Later, after the confetti has embedded itself inside your shoes and the encore has taxed muscles you didn’t study in school, you text him:

saw that.

He replies with a picture of his palm, confetti star stuck dead centre. you caught me.

You trace the star on your own palm with your index finger, a phantom of something you will absolutely never risk doing where anyone could see. He texts again: there’s something about you i forget when there’s lights, and it’s the same thing that makes me remember everything.

Your throat does the church bell thing it does when joy gets holy. stop being poetic, you send. you’re going to make me think we’re in a drama.

He sends a single keyboard smash, then: my heart surrendered anyway.

mine filed the paperwork, you answer. no takesies backsies.

“And I’ll miss you on a train, I’ll miss you in the morning.”

In Seoul Station, morning and night sit down together and decide to share. Security lines loop and loop; fans wait without coats because devotion is a heater; staff wear identical expressions that mean we’re almost late but not the dangerous kind.

Your cap is low; his mask is higher. You stand near a pillar where the camera is permanently tilted off by a degree you could kiss. The announcements are in three languages; the departures board has only ever known urgency.

You don’t touch. You align.

“Trains in two,” he says. You nod. A child in a puffy jacket trails a suitcase shaped like a dinosaur and yells something about snacks. You both smile, then stop, then smile again, caught.

“I’ll miss you on the train,” he murmurs. He is earnest like that, simple like that when it counts.

“I’ll miss you in the morning,” you reply, and it’s a statement about coffee and also about waking up without the message that arrives before your alarm, the voice note that folds the day into a more manageable shape.

The train exhales. He steps inside. When the doors close he lifts his hand, and you lift yours and the glass makes a promise it can’t keep. The train becomes motion; motion becomes distance; distance becomes the reason you’re so good at texting with your thumbs in the dark.

He sends a photo of his tray, tea brewing too light. wish it was with you

You send a photo of bed hair and the mug he always chooses when he’s here—the one with the whale peeking over the rim. me too

“I never know what to think about, so think about you.”

At 1:10 a.m., the vocal booth’s light goes warm as if it understands you respond to domestic moods. Your producer chews gum with religious fervour while twiddling a dial. LUNARE’s bridge refuses to land, your voice keeps reaching and missing, like the melody is a bird that will come if you stop clapping.

You stare at the lyric sheet until the words become furniture. You close your eyes and think about nothing, which turns out to be impossible. When you open them, the line has already arrived, fully dressed, like it knew the address all along.

“I never know what to think about,” you sing softly into foam, “so think about you.”

The producer looks up through the glass, eyebrows up. “What’s that?”

You shrug in a way that admits everything and nothing. “Filler.”

“It’s staying,” he says, and grins. “Cut me two more.”

You cut four. When you send Ni-ki an eight-second voice memo later—just the line, no context—he replies with a heart and a whistle of your melody in the back of a van. Someone in the background snores in a way that brings you to tears, because love is sometimes being able to place a person by the sound of a nap.

“About you.”

The song spills out of a taxi’s tinny speakers at 3 a.m. and the city obliges by performing neon blinking like a soft heart monitor, crosswalk lights counting down with theatrical gravitas, a convenience store clerk sweeping boredom into a neat pile. Your members are half asleep and half feral, arguing about whether triangle kimbap counts as breakfast.

Across a continent, ENHYPEN’s van is quiet in that post-show way where happiness makes everyone decent. Ni-ki’s earbuds dangle around his neck; the driver hums. At the same lyric—about you—he types it to you and sends. Your phone buzzes five minutes later in a city where it is not the same time. You smile into a window and try not to let your cheeks make noise.

You send back a photo of your hand with the vending-machine ring he gave you the night LUNARE hit number three, and you both found twelve consecutive minutes of privacy. The ring is off-silver and earnest and cost less than a latte. It fits your middle finger perfectly.

about you, he replies. Then: always.

“You and I were alive.”

Alive isn’t the stadium. Alive is the ramen shop that opens at 10 a.m., where the auntie with the red apron pretends not to recognize either of you and then slides an extra egg onto your bowls without comment. It’s the scarf you both forgot who bought. It’s the coffee machine in the building lobby that hates you both and yet responds to a double tap with a bitter, perfect shot.

It’s your dorm at 6:40 a.m., your members asleep, you on the kitchen floor in an oversized hoodie, listening to Ni-ki explain the way a crowd sings a chorus when the roof is low versus when the sky is the ceiling. It’s his dorm at midnight, him whispering so the others sleep, telling you about a trainee he glimpsed in a mirror who was dancing like she’d swallowed a sun. You saying, that was me once. Him saying, still is.

It’s learning the geography of each other’s ordinary: he sleeps curled toward the wall; you can only fall asleep if your feet are warm. He peels clementines in one perfect spiral; you collect receipts and then decide they are art. He rotates caps like seasons; you own one jacket in three colours because you fear the day they stop making it.

It’s also, sometimes, the hard moments. A comment that sticks to your ribs like bad rice. A headline that carries your name like a dare. You feel your fear, tell him you’re feeling it, and let it go—by speaking it into his hoodie, by letting his palm anchor the centre of your back exactly where anxiety collects like rain in a dent.

“Are you happy?” you ask him once, because you adore his answers.

He considers the ceiling like it knows him. “I’m tired in a way that is very specific,” he says, “and happy in a way that feels like keeping a promise.”

“What promise?”

“To come back to you.” He shifts so he can see your face. “To remember.”

You breathe out an I love you shaped like a yes.

“Wait and pretend. Hold on and hope…”

Your groups’ comebacks overlap by two weeks—ambitious, merciless, inevitable. LUNARE’s choreography drills bruise your knees in a constellation only you get to name. ENHYPEN’s press days stack like Tetris. Everyone is polite; no one sleeps.

In the middle of it, there’s Busan. Both groups headline a city festival where the wind is an uncredited guest star. The hotel has a view of water and a carpet pattern that should be a crime. There’s a back-of-venue bridge where the wind takes your caps and your dignity. You laugh so hard your masks slip, clutch each other’s sleeves, hide your faces in each other’s shoulders like teenagers, like people who didn’t sign the same contracts you did.

“Stop—” you wheeze, half sobbing, “people will think—”

“They already think,” he laughs into your neck. “I don’t care, I care, I don’t—okay—” He composes his face by force and fails.

You memorize the feeling, store it with the important things: the way his laugh lifts the worst parts of a day like scaffolding; the way the wind insists you’re alive enough to be ridiculous.

You go back to pretending - hoods up, masks on, hands not touching, eyes doing the work. You hold on. You hope, the way you always have, that the city will be kind and the schedule will crack just enough to let you fall through into each other’s waiting arms.

“Do you think I have forgotten about you?”

Your comeback stage falls on a Wednesday that acts like a Monday. You sing the bridge like you wrote a prayer and remembered all the words. After the last chorus, you bow with LUNARE and feel the floor bow back under the stomp of the crowd. Backstage is a tide; managers call names; a cameraman almost dies in a tangle of cables and resurrects via instinct.

ENHYPEN finishes their set twenty minutes after you. As their van doors slide, Ni-ki’s eyes find yours across the distance—under light that makes everyone a little too honest. He can’t say the line here. He says it with the tilt of his head, the question mark in his mouth. Do you think I have forgotten?

You answer without moving your lips. No.

Later, in the narrow alley where trucks sleep, he meets you under a reluctant streetlight. Your body recognizes him before your eyes do—the set of his shoulders, the scent of sweat and clean cotton and citrus from a sports drink he will never finish. He is all apology and victory and home.

He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a little thing wrapped in a receipt. You’ve always liked how his courage looks—shy, then not. He peels the paper away to reveal a cheap ring from the vending machine on floor two. It shines despite itself.

“It’s silly,” he says, embarrassed.

“It’s perfect,” you say, because truth never needed a price tag.

He slides it onto your middle finger, the right hand you both have decided means a promise that isn’t asking for permission. He doesn’t kiss you, not here. He touches your knuckles with two fingers. It feels like a vow dressed as a hello.

“Do you think I have forgotten?” he tries again, smiling because the sound of it has become code for remind me again anyway.

“Not once,” you say. “Not even on purpose.”

“I know a place…”

The keypad pretends to consider. The door gives. The studio is the same and different—two more bulbs’ dead, the star string determined anyway. Someone left a rosined footprint in the corner. You map yourselves to the floor like you always do—your back to the mirror, his legs stretched long, your ankle hooked over his.

You set your phones face-down. You set your hearts face-up.

“Tell me the future,” he says, because this is a game you made up that keeps both of you brave.

“Okay.” You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear that your stylist would scold you for touching. “In the future, you finally retire the black cap.”

“Impossible,” he says gravely.

“You find a new one you love. Everyone else says it looks the same. It doesn’t.”

He hums. “You start leaving your hair the way it wants to be instead of the way the schedule makes it.”

“Bold.”

“You learn how to rest and not feel like you owe the world an apology.”

You breathe. “Both of us?”

“Both,” he says, like he has that authority and always will.

“You write a song that sounds like laundry,” you add, grinning. “Warm and ordinary and better with someone else’s socks in the basket.”

He laughs, head tipping back. “It’s track three.”

“Not a single?”

“No. The one they find in the middle and say oh.”

“What about us?” you ask softly.

He slips a hand across the floor and finds yours, palm to palm, a map overlaid. “We learn the names of the birds outside your dorm,” he says. “We burn pancakes. We take buses that don’t go anywhere on purpose. We sleep.”

You close your eyes to see it better. “Someday,” you say.

“Someday,” he echoes. The word sits between you like a small animal that has finally decided you’re safe.

“There was something about you…”

In Osaka, on a split festival bill, the hallway is papered with last year’s posters. You pass each other between soundcheck and rehearsal, the air conditioned within an inch of its life. He lifts two fingers in the kind of salute that could be nothing. You respond by smoothing your hair even though it doesn’t need smoothing. Later, he sends a blurry photo from the stage: a corner of the pit, a girl crying into her friend’s sleeve, the stage lights making halos out of dust. i thought about you here, he types. the part where you close your eyes on your high note.

that’s because i’m praying i don’t fall off the note, you write.

you won’t, he says, and means it like he’s already seen the future and it told him to relax.

Back in Seoul, there’s a day that fights you. A fancam with a title that makes your mouth go cold; a comment section that decides who you are for you; a rehearsal where you miscount eight times and want to set the mirror on fire.

You text bad brain day, and then, because honesty is easier when you confess it fast, say something dumb.

potato, he sends instantly. kumquat. spork. kumquatto? kumquatito.

You snort alone in a bathroom stall. you’re an idiot.

your idiot, he corrects.

“And I’ll miss you… in the morning.”

There’s a morning that does not put up a fight. You wake before your alarm because a text arrived from a contact named “Coffee Machine” that reads if i bring the machine, will it finally make a good cup? You reply with a photo of your toes in fuzzy socks and no, then one minute later yes, if you double tap.

You meet outside a convenience store on the corner. He looks like a boy not a headline. You look like the version of yourself you only use on days you get to choose your own mouth. You buy triangle kimbap and coffee that admits it is coffee. You sit on a curb because chairs are too formal for mornings like this.

“Do you think,” you ask, “the auntie in there knows?”

“She knows everything,” he says. “She’s letting us be quiet about it.”

You raise your cup. “To quiet.”

He taps his to yours. “To quiet.”

A delivery truck beeps. A pigeon eyes your rice. The auntie inside pretends to scold it through the window. The city remembers you kindly.

“I never know what to think about…”

On a late night live, your leader asks chat to send “healing words.” A fan types eat strawberries. Another writes sleep is free. A third says we’re proud, always. You read them aloud, and your voice softens even though your throat is tired.

Ni-ki texts afterward: proud always. You reply with your eight-second line again, the one that made it onto the album, this time sung into your duvet so it sounds like you’re underwater. He sends a selfie from a bus aisle, hair a mess, eyes soft. No cap. The bus ceiling light makes him look like a saint from a very modern painting. He doesn’t know, can’t know, that the sight of him without a cap will be the thing that anchors you through next week’s schedule. He doesn’t need to. He just is.

“About you.”

The manager group chat for your company posts a list of stations in block caps and a schedule that makes your eyes cross. Someone reacts with a thumbs up. Someone else reacts with a funeral urn. Your own manager sends three clapping emojis and fighting!!

Ni-ki sends you an image: his hand on a rehearsal floor, palm up, your ring visible, confetti from a long-finished show stuck to his wrist. He has penciled a tiny smiley face in the middle of his palm with a half-dead marker. About you, the caption reads, and for a moment the entire industry becomes one person looking at one person saying one true thing.

“Do you think I have forgotten about you?”

In the practice room that is more yours than anyone else’s, he asks it one more time, the way you both like—the words soft as a secret handshake.

“Do you think I have forgotten?”

Your answer remains its own liturgy. “Not even a little.”

He leans forward until your foreheads press, the gesture you’ve kept since the first night and never given away to the cameras. In the mirror, you look like a rumour and a truth. In your chests, your hearts decide to slow down at the same time.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Okay.”

“You and I were alive… Hold on and hope we’ll find our way back in the end.”

The world stays loud. It always will. Your groups keep releasing things that ask strangers to feel. Your schedules keep arguing with physics. There are flights and stages and incidents where your body remembers it is human exactly when the run-through needs it to be steel. There are also soft rebellions: naps in stolen sun patches, noodles eaten out of the pot on a dorm floor, a plant on your windowsill that blooms every time his plane lands.

You keep your room. You keep your ritual. You add a new string of lights when two more bulbs die; you leave the old string up because imperfect is proof. You buy a second mat so your elbows don’t bruise. You write your initials tiny on the underside of the barre because you want the room to know your names and keep them safe.

On a Tuesday that acts like a Sunday, you meet there without texting first, the way birds decide which wire to sit on. You don’t turn on music. You simply lie on the floor, heads together, feet opposite directions, and breathe until the air in your lungs learns the other’s rhythm. Outside, the building hums about view counts and camera lists. Inside, you count freckles and floorboard scars.

“Tell me again,” he says, and you know which future he means because he has the same favourite scene every time.

“We learn the birds,” you begin.

“We burn pancakes,” he supplies.

“We take buses to the end of the route.”

“We sleep,” he finishes, and then, like a magician revealing the trick and insisting the magic stayed anyway, he adds, “We wake up.”

“We wake up,” you echo.

He lifts your hand, kisses your ring, and—risking nothing, giving everything—whispers, “About you.”

“About you,” you say back.

You know a place. You knew it when you were trainees and the mirror didn’t always love you. You know it now, with trophies and headlines and mornings that let you be ordinary. You’ll know it still, when the schedule is kinder and the coffee machine has learned manners and your cap finally retires and the auntie at the convenience store says, “It took you long enough.”

You and Ni-ki—ENHYPEN’s youngest and LUNARE’s main vocal—find your way back, again and again, on stairs and trains and under star-lights that refuse to go dark all at once. You hold on. You pretend when you must. You hope because you can. You remember because it’s the easiest thing.

And when the world is too much, you go to your room and press your foreheads together and ask the same question and give the same answer and breathe the same air until the hum outside turns into music again.

About him. About you. About both of you, always.

[nikililmj]

okay so ive been looking for this riki smau fic i read a LONG time ago, it was smth like riki and reader are neighbours and riki got kicked out of his apartment cuz his friend and friend's gf were over, so my guy was sleeping in the corridor in front of reader's home, and smth smth happened along the way. IF someone knows what im talking about, pls lmk the name T_T

[gyuuberryy]

level 4

pairing: psycho killer!ni-ki x reader

genre: backrooms au, enemies to (??), thriller

synopsis: you witness a brutal murder one night and run, only to get trapped in an abandoned parking garage that seems to stretch on forever. no matter how many stairwells you climb or elevators you take, every floor loops back the same. as you try to survive, you realise ni-ki—the dangerous and unpredictable killer—is always near, watching, waiting, his obsession growing with every step. the more you fight him, the closer he pulls you in, and the lines between fear, desire, and survival start to blur. escaping the garage may not save you from him.

warnings: evil!ni-ki, slight yandere behaviour, fighting, mentions of death, making out, biting, kissing with blood, mentions of blood, possessive behavior, toxic romance, forced proximity, backrooms/liminal space horror, ni-ki's lowkey a masochist, cursing

note: last fic in the backrooms series omg!! all of them were so fun to write<3 i was kind of bored of making enha entities in all of them, so i changed up this one to make ni-ki a human like the reader but deranged hehe. i hope you like this, enjoyy!

word count: 14.2k

backrooms au collection

if you liked this please comment or reblog to give me your feedback! <3

god, you were absolutely exhausted from today.

your feet were throbbing in these ridiculous shoes, your bag kept sliding off your shoulder, and all you could think about was getting home to that spicy ramen you'd ordered. the delivery guy had probably already dropped it off, and it was sitting there cooling while you dragged yourself through these deserted streets at nearly midnight.

the fork in the road materialised ahead of you like some kind of cruel joke. to the right, the main street stretched out with its reassuring streetlights and normal, non-murdery atmosphere. to the left, the alley that would cut your walk time in half but also probably get you featured in tomorrow's news headlines.

"don't ever take that shortcut, especially at night."

your mom's voice reverberated in your head, complete with that concerned expression she wore whenever true crime documentaries came on. but honestly? right now, with your stomach growling and your phone displaying 11:47 pm, her warnings felt somewhat overdramatic.

you gazed down the narrow alley. the streetlight at the entrance flickered erratically, barely illuminating the fractured pavement beyond.

"just this once," you muttered to yourself, turning into the shortcut before your common sense could talk you out of it. "what's the worst that could happen?"

famous last words, probably.

the alley was considerably quieter than the main street. just the distant drone of air conditioning units and some stray newspaper rustling in the breeze. your phone's flashlight created a modest sanctuary of light around you as you walked, revealing the typical creepy alley scene—fractured concrete, scattered debris, service entrances with their blinking crimson security cameras.

you pulled your jacket tighter and accelerated your pace. almost there. almost home. almost—

what the hell was that?

you halted abruptly, your sneakers squeaking against the damp pavement. somewhere ahead, emanating from one of the side alleys, was this muffled whimpering sound. barely perceptible, but there was something desperately human about it that made your chest constrict.

then came the other sound—something wet and rhythmic that felt fundamentally wrong in a way that made your skin crawl.

every survival instinct you'd ever developed was screaming at you to turn around, to mind your own business and get the hell out of there. but what if someone was hurt? what if they needed help?

"this is so stupid," you whispered to yourself, but your feet were already carrying you toward the sound, your phone raised like some kind of pathetic weapon.

you peered around the corner of the side alley, and—

oh shit. oh fuck. oh no no no no no.

there was a boy, presumably your age, tall and lean with sharp features that would've been attractive under literally any other circumstances. his dark hair was dishevelled, like he'd been engaged in strenuous activity, and his clothing appeared normal enough. just some guy you might pass on the street without a second thought.

except for his hands.

his hands were completely saturated with blood. dark, viscous, dripping onto the concrete in steady drops that made tiny percussion sounds in the silence.

at his feet lay a girl. probably around your age, her body contorted at angles that made your stomach revolt. her clothes were stained with the same dark substance coating his hands, and she was so perfectly, horrifyingly motionless.

but what really freaked you out—more than the obvious violence, more than the blood, more than the corpse—was how completely unbothered he looked. there was no panic in his posture, no horror or regret on his face. he was just... standing there. like he'd finished washing dishes instead of ending someone's life.

he flexed his fingers slightly, watching the blood move across his skin with what could only be described as mild curiosity.

those wet sounds you'd heard. god. you'd been listening to someone's final moments.

your free hand flew to your mouth, trying to stop the gasp that threatened to escape, but it was too late. way too late.

his head turned toward you with deliberate slowness, like he had all the time in the world. his eyes found yours across the darkness with scary accuracy, and you realised with growing horror that he'd probably known you were there the whole time.

for one frozen moment, you thought maybe—just maybe—he'd let you walk away. maybe he'd see that you were just some unlucky idiot who'd stumbled onto something she definitely shouldn't have seen.

but then he smiled in a way that looked like it belonged on something wearing a person's face, cold and calculating and full of dark amusement. like your terror was the most entertaining thing he'd seen all night.

that smile told you everything you needed to know about your chances of making it home to your cold ramen.

you didn't wait around to see what came next. you ran like your life depended on it—because it absolutely did.

your shoes slapped against the pavement with each desperate stride, the sound echoing off the empty buildings around you like some kind of twisted metronome counting down to your demise. your lungs were already burning, that sharp ache spreading through your chest as you pushed yourself harder than you'd ever pushed before.

but no matter how fast you ran, no matter which corner you took or which desperate turn you made down these maze-like streets, he was always there. not running frantically like you were, not stumbling or gasping for breath—just moving with this steady, relentless precision that made your blood run cold. he was closing the distance between you with the confidence of someone who'd done this dance before, who knew exactly how it would end.

"shit, shit, shit," you gasped, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart and the slap of your feet against concrete. you could hear his footsteps behind you, measured and unhurried, like he was taking a casual evening stroll instead of hunting you down.

panic made your vision blur at the edges as you spotted the entrance to an underground parking garage yawning open ahead of you like some kind of concrete mouth. without thinking, you dove into the darkness, hoping to lose him in what you assumed would be a maze of cars and concrete pillars where you could hide until morning.

the fluorescent red lights flickered overhead as you stumbled deeper into the garage, casting everything in a ominous red glow that made your skin look like it was already stained with blood. you could hear the echo of your own breathing reverberating off the low ceiling, and somewhere in the distance, the steady drip of water hitting concrete.

you spotted an elevator across the garage, its doors standing open like they were waiting specifically for you, and you practically threw yourself inside, slamming your palm against the button for the exit level. the doors slid shut with a mechanical whir, and for one blessed moment you allowed yourself to believe you might actually escape this nightmare.

but when the doors opened again, your heart sank straight through the floor.

it wasn't freedom waiting for you. it wasn't the street level with its promise of escape routes and other people who might help. instead, you were staring at another identical floor of the parking garage, as if the elevator had just taken you in a perfect circle back to where you'd started.

rows upon rows of cars stretched endlessly in front of you, their dark shapes hulking like sleeping beasts under the humming fluorescent lights. the lights themselves were too loud, buzzing with an electrical intensity that made your head throb. everything felt wrong here, like the laws of physics had taken a coffee break and left this place to operate on its own twisted logic.

you stumbled out of the elevator on shaking legs, your breath coming in short gasps as you tried to make sense of what you were seeing. maybe you'd gotten confused in your panic. maybe you'd pressed the wrong button. there had to be a reasonable explanation for this.

you spotted the stairwell entrance and made a beeline for it, taking the concrete steps two at a time as you climbed toward what should have been the exit. your legs burned with the effort, but you kept climbing, counting floors in your head—one, two, three. surely you'd reach the surface soon.

but when you burst through the door at the top of the stairwell, you found yourself staring at the exact same endless rows of cars, the exact same buzzing lights, the exact same freakish nightmare you'd just tried to escape.

your eyes found the sign mounted on the wall, its bold letters seeming to mock you: level-4.

"what the actual fuck," you whispered, your voice cracking with exhaustion and growing terror. this wasn't possible. parking garages didn't work like this. elevators didn't loop back on themselves, and stairs didn't lead you in circles like some kind of demented funhouse.

but as you stood there, trying to process the impossibility of your situation, you heard it—the soft ding of the elevator arriving on your floor.

he'd found you.

the elevator doors hissed open behind you like some kind of mechanical death sentence, and there he was.

his silhouette cut across the buzzing red light, tall and lean and absolutely terrifying in how calm he looked. his shadow stretched impossibly long across the concrete floor, reaching toward you like dark fingers trying to drag you back into his grasp. you could see that same unsettling smile playing at the corners of his mouth, the one that had sent you running in the first place.

"no," you breathed, scrambling backward until your shoulders hit cold concrete. your eyes darted around desperately, looking for anything that could help you, any weapon or escape route or miracle that might save you from whatever he had planned.

that's when you spotted it—a broken pipe lying near one of the concrete pillars, probably left behind by some construction crew. without thinking, you dove for it, your fingers wrapping around the cold metal as you swung it wildly in his direction.

"stay back!" you screamed, your voice cracking with terror and adrenaline. "i'll fucking hit you, i swear to god!"

but he just laughed, this low, amused sound that echoed off the walls like he thought your desperation was the most entertaining thing he'd seen all night. when you swung the pipe at his head, he moved faster than should have been humanly possible, his hand shooting out to catch your wrist and twist until you cried out in pain.

the pipe clattered to the ground, the metallic sound ringing through the garage as he backed you against one of the concrete pillars. his body pressed against yours, trapping you completely, and you could smell something metallic on his clothes—blood, probably from that poor girl in the alley.

but instead of wrapping his hands around your throat or pulling out some kind of weapon, he just... studied you. his head tilted to one side like a cat examining a particularly interesting mouse, his dark eyes roaming over your face with an intensity that made your skin crawl.

"running makes you pretty," he murmured, his voice soft and almost conversational, like he was commenting on the weather instead of terrorising you. that smile tugged at his mouth again, wider this time, showing teeth that looked too sharp in the red light. "you should keep doing it."

the casual way he said it, like your terror was some kind of aesthetic choice he appreciated, made your stomach lurch with revulsion. you planted your hands against his chest and shoved as hard as you could, catching him off guard enough to slip away from the pillar.

"you're fucking insane," you gasped, already turning to sprint deeper into the garage. maybe if you could find another stairwell, another elevator, another way out of this nightmare, you could still escape.

but as you ran through the endless rows of cars, your footsteps echoing off the low ceiling, something impossible started to happen. the ramp you were following, the one that should have led you to a different level or at least a different section of the garage, began to curve back on itself. the same cars appeared again, the same concrete pillars, the same flickering red lights that made everything look like the inside of some hellish snow globe.

you were literally running in circles.

"what the fuck is happening?" you whispered, stopping in the middle of what should have been a straight path but was somehow leading you back to where you started. your chest was heaving, sweat dripping down your back despite the cool air, and your legs felt like they might give out at any moment.

that's when you heard his footsteps behind you again, slow and measured and completely unhurried. you turned around to find him standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking like he'd just taken a leisurely stroll instead of chasing you through an impossible maze.

"yeah," he said, glancing around at the endless repetition of concrete and cars with something that might have been mild interest. "i figured this might happen. this place is seriously messed up." he looked back at you, that infuriating smile still playing on his lips. "guess we're stuck here together."

the way he said it, so casual and matter-of-fact, like being trapped in some kind of interdimensional parking garage was just a minor inconvenience rather than a complete break from reality, made you want to scream. or cry. or both.

"this isn't real," you whispered to yourself, slowly getting louder with each word. "parking garages don't work like this. spaces don't just... loop back on themselves."

he shrugged, like the laws of physics were really more of a suggestion anyway. "yeah, well, a lot of things aren't supposed to work the way they do. doesn't mean they don't happen.".

the realisation hit you like a punch to the gut—this wasn't just some weird parking garage with confusing layout. this was something else entirely.

you'd spent the last hour testing every possible escape route while maintaining a careful distance from the boy, who’d seemingly given up on hurting you and seemed content to follow along at a leisurely pace like he was on some kind of twisted sightseeing tour. 

every elevator led back to the same level. every stairwell spiralled into nowhere, depositing you right back where you started. the ramps twisted and curved in ways that defied basic geometry, looping you through the same endless rows of cars no matter which direction you chose.

"this is impossible," you muttered, staring at the familiar level-4 sign that had appeared for what felt like the hundredth time. your legs were shaking with exhaustion, and you could feel tears of frustration burning at the corners of your eyes.

the guy leaned against a concrete pillar, looking annoyingly unbothered by the whole situation. "yeah, it's pretty fucked up," he agreed, like you were discussing a mildly inconvenient traffic jam instead of being trapped in some kind of interdimensional nightmare.

you wanted to scream at him, to demand answers he obviously didn't have, to rage against the unfairness of being stuck in this hellscape with someone who'd been planning to murder you just a few hours ago. but the exhaustion was winning out over the anger, and you found yourself sliding down to sit on the cold concrete floor.

"i don't want you near me," you said, your words dripping with venom. the words felt important to say, even if they were completely pointless given your situation. "i'd rather die than have to trust you."

he nodded, like that was a perfectly reasonable response to being trapped with a killer. "makes sense," he said. "but here's the thing—i want out of here just as much as you do. maybe we don't have to trust each other, but we're both human beings who don't want to spend eternity wandering around this concrete maze."

the horrible truth of it settled over you like a weight. you were stuck here, possibly forever, with someone who represented everything you should be running from. but he was also the only other person in this nightmare, the only one who understood what you were going through, the only potential ally you had in figuring out what the hell this place was and how to escape it.

"god, this is so messed up," you muttered, pressing your palms against your eyes until you saw stars. when you looked up again, he was still standing there, waiting with an almost patient expression on his face.

the silence stretched between you, filled with the constant buzz of those awful red lights and the distant echo of your own breathing. finally, because the situation had already crossed every possible line of normalcy, you found yourself breaking the quiet with the most absurd question imaginable.

"what's your name?" you asked, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

he blinked, clearly not expecting the question. for a moment, his carefully maintained composure slipped, and he looked genuinely surprised, like he'd been so focused on being terrifying that he'd forgotten people actually had names and identities beyond their worst moments.

"uh," he said, running a hand through his dark hair in what might have been the first genuinely awkward gesture you'd seen from him. "ni-ki. my name's ni-ki."

the awkwardness of the moment was almost overwhelming. here you were, sitting on the floor of an impossible parking garage, exchanging pleasantries with someone who'd been drenched in blood when you first encountered him. if you weren't so terrified and exhausted, the absurdity might have been funny.

"i'm y/n," you said after a long hesitation, because apparently your survival instincts had decided that basic human courtesy was more important than self-preservation.

"y/n," he repeated, like he was testing how your name felt in his mouth. "that's... nice."

"unlike literally everything else about this situation."

"yeah, definitely unlike everything else about this situation."

another stretch of uncomfortable silence followed. you studied the cracked concrete beneath you while ni-ki examined the endless rows of cars like they might suddenly reveal their secrets. the whole interaction felt surreal, like you were two normal people making small talk instead of a potential victim and her would-be killer trapped in some kind of supernatural prison.

"so," you said eventually, because someone had to acknowledge the elephant in the room, "i guess we're going to have to work together if we want to figure out how to get out of here. even though this is literally the worst partnership imaginable."

ni-ki's expression shifted into something that might have been genuine amusement, different from the cold predatory smiles he'd been wearing earlier. "yeah," he agreed. "i guess we are."

and just like that, you found yourself in the most unlikely and terrifying alliance of your life—searching for an escape from an impossible place with someone who should have been your nightmare, bound together by nothing more than mutual desperation and the basic human need to not be alone in the dark.

and so began the most fucked up partnership in human history.

the first few hours were a nightmare of awkward coordination and constant tension. you'd pick a direction to explore, and ni-ki would saunter along behind you with his hands in his pockets like he was on some kind of leisurely field trip. when you'd stop to examine a door or investigate what looked like it might be a different exit, he'd drift closer than you were comfortable with, close enough that you could smell that metallic scent still clinging to his clothes.

"personal space," you'd snap, stepping away from him whenever he got too near.

"this whole place is personal space," he'd reply with that infuriating smirk. "besides, you're the one who wanted to team up."

"i wanted to not die alone in a concrete hellscape. that doesn't mean i want you breathing down my neck."

but he never really backed off. if anything, your obvious discomfort seemed to entertain him, like your fear was this fascinating thing he couldn't resist poking at. when you'd climb stairs, he'd stay just one step behind, close enough that you could feel his presence like a shadow. when you'd check behind pillars or peer into dark corners, he'd appear right beside you, sometimes close enough that his shoulder brushed against yours.

"you're doing this on purpose," you accused him during one particularly frustrating exploration of what had to be the fifteenth identical stairwell you'd encountered.

"doing what?" he asked, all fake innocence, but you could see the amusement dancing in his dark eyes.

"staying too close. trying to freak me out. getting off on the fact that i'm scared of you."

he tilted his head, considering this. "maybe," he admitted with a shrug. "but you are scared of me, aren't you? that's not really my fault."

"you literally murdered someone."

"allegedly."

"i saw you covered in blood!"

"circumstantial evidence."

you wanted to strangle him. or run away. or both. but since running away just led you in circles through the same endless maze of concrete and cars, strangling him was looking increasingly appealing.

it was during one of these tense exploration sessions that you first heard the sounds.

you'd been arguing about whether to try the elevator on the far side of level-4 (you were convinced it might lead somewhere different, ni-ki thought you were being optimistic to the point of delusion) when the noise echoed through the garage—the unmistakable screech of tires against pavement.

you both froze, the argument dying on your lips as you strained to listen. the sound came again, long and desperate, like someone was slamming on their brakes to avoid a collision. but as you looked around at the rows of parked cars surrounding you, every single vehicle sat perfectly still and silent.

"what the fuck was that?" you whispered.

ni-ki's entire demeanour had changed in an instant. the casual, almost playful attitude he'd been maintaining vanished, replaced by something sharp and alert. his eyes darted around the garage, and for the first time since you'd met him, he looked genuinely concerned.

"i don't know," he said quietly. "but we should probably—"

that's when you heard the whispers.

they started soft, barely audible over the constant buzz of the fluorescent lights, but they were definitely there—voices curling down from somewhere deeper in the garage, too distorted to make out actual words. the sound made your skin crawl, because there shouldn't have been anyone else here. you and ni-ki had been wandering this place for hours without seeing another soul.

"okay, that's not normal," you breathed, taking an instinctive step backward.

before you could react, ni-ki's hand shot out and wrapped around your wrist, pulling you toward him with a grip that was firm but not painful. suddenly you were standing much closer to him than you'd been all day, close enough to see the tension in his jaw and the way his eyes kept scanning the shadows between the cars.

"don't wander," he muttered, his voice low and serious in a way you hadn't heard from him before. "you don't know what else is down here."

the casual, almost flirtatious tone he'd been using was completely gone, replaced by something that sounded almost... protective? it was such a jarring shift that you forgot to pull away from his grip, too busy trying to process the fact that the boy who'd been taunting you for hours suddenly seemed genuinely worried about your safety.

"what do you mean 'what else'?" you asked, but even as the words left your mouth, you realised you didn't really want to know the answer.

another screech of tires echoed through the garage, this one closer, followed by what sounded like a car door slamming shut somewhere in the darkness. the whispers grew louder, more insistent, like whatever was making them was getting closer.

you stared at ni-ki, trying to read his expression in the red-tinted light. there was something different about the way he was looking at the shadows, something almost instinctive in how he'd positioned himself slightly in front of you.

before he could respond to your question, the whispers suddenly stopped. the garage fell into complete silence, the kind of oppressive quiet that made your ears ring and your heart pound. even the constant buzz of the lights seemed muted.

and then, from somewhere in the maze of cars, you heard footsteps that definitely weren't yours or ni-ki's, moving with deliberate purpose through the concrete labyrinth.

the footsteps were getting closer, echoing off the concrete walls with deliberate precision, and you could feel ni-ki's grip on your wrist tightening as he pulled you further behind one of the parked cars. but as you crouched there in the red-tinted darkness, listening to whatever was hunting you through this nightmare maze, you noticed something else that made your blood run cold.

ni-ki was breathing differently. it was faster and heavier, like he was getting excited instead of scared.

you turned to look at him, and what you saw in his expression made your stomach drop. his pupils were dilated, his lips slightly parted, and there was this look of anticipation on his face that you recognised from the alley—the same look he'd worn when he was standing over that girl's body.

"oh god," you whispered, the realisation hitting you like a physical blow. "you're enjoying this."

his head snapped toward you, and for a moment his carefully controlled mask slipped completely. the hunger was right there in his eyes, raw and undisguised, and you realised that whatever was stalking through the garage wasn't the only predator you needed to worry about.

"the adrenaline," he said softly, almost like he was talking to himself. "the fear. it's so—"

you didn't wait to hear the rest. you yanked your wrist free from his grip and scrambled away from him, your heart hammering as you put as much distance between you as possible. but ni-ki was already moving, that predatory grace returning to his movements as he started to follow you.

"where are you going?" he called out, and there was amusement in his voice again, that same dark entertainment he'd shown in the alley. "we were having such a nice moment."

you ran blindly between the rows of cars, panic driving you forward even though you knew there was nowhere to go in this endless concrete prison. behind you, you could hear ni-ki's footsteps, steady and unhurried, like he knew you couldn't actually escape.

that's when you saw it—a sleek sports car with its driver's side door slightly ajar, and when you yanked it open, your heart nearly stopped with relief. the keys were still dangling from the ignition, like some miracle left behind by whoever had abandoned this place.

you threw yourself behind the wheel, your hands shaking as you turned the key. the engine roared to life with a deep, powerful rumble, headlights cutting through the red-tinted darkness, and for the first time since this nightmare began, you felt like you might actually have a chance.

you slammed the car into gear and floored the accelerator, tires squealing against concrete as you raced toward what looked like an exit ramp. the speedometer climbed rapidly as you took the curves at dangerous speeds, your knuckles white on the steering wheel as hope built in your chest.

headlights flared in your rearview mirror.

"no, no, no," you breathed, but there they were—bright and blinding and definitely gaining on you. somehow, ni-ki had found his own car, and now the distant roar of another high-performance engine was growing louder behind you.

you pressed harder on the accelerator, the car's engine screaming as you took the ramps at speeds that should have sent you spinning into the concrete barriers. but no matter how fast you drove, those headlights kept getting closer, until you could see the dark silhouette of ni-ki's car in your mirror.

and he was gaining on you.

the chase became pure chaos after that. both of you were flooring it through the endless maze of ramps, engines roaring like caged beasts, tires screaming against concrete as you took corners that should have been impossible at these speeds. your headlights slashed through the darkness ahead while his stayed locked on your tail, following every desperate turn and swerve.

you caught a glimpse of him in your side mirror at one point and almost lost control of the car. he was grinning. actually grinning, like this terrifying high-speed chase through an impossible parking garage was the most fun he'd had all night.

that's when he rammed you.

the impact sent your sports car skidding sideways, and you screamed as you fought to regain control, the steering wheel spinning in your hands. behind you, ni-ki's laughter echoed off the concrete walls, wild and unhinged and absolutely terrifying.

"you fucking psycho!" you shouted, even though he probably couldn't hear you over the roar of engines.

but no matter how far you drove, no matter how many ramps you took or how desperately you searched for an exit, you kept ending up back where you started. the same level-4 signs mocked you from the walls, the same endless rows of parked cars stretched out in every direction, and those same red lights buzzed overhead like angry insects.

finally, your frustration and terror reached a breaking point. you slammed on the brakes so hard your car went into a skid, coming to a stop in the middle of what had to be the same section of garage you'd been circling for the past twenty minutes. you threw open the door and stumbled out, rage boiling over as ni-ki's car pulled up beside yours.

he stepped out casually, like he'd just finished a pleasant drive through the countryside instead of a psychotic chase scene, and something inside you snapped completely.

"what do you want from me?" you screamed, launching yourself at him with fists flying. "what the fuck do you want?"

you hit him in the chest, the shoulders, anywhere you could reach, all the fear and frustration and helpless anger pouring out of you in a torrent of violence. but ni-ki caught your wrists easily, his grip firm but not painful as he backed you up against the hood of your car.

for once, that infuriating smile faltered. his expression grew serious, almost thoughtful, as he looked down at you pinned between his body and the warm metal of the car. when he spoke, his voice dropped to a low murmur that made your skin crawl.

"what i want?" he repeated, his eyes dragging over your face like he was memorising every detail. "to get out of here. and maybe..." his gaze travelled lower, hungry and possessive in a way that made you want to disappear, "to keep you when we do."

the words hit you like ice water, and you felt your entire body go rigid against the car hood. "keep me?" you whispered, your voice barely audible over the distant hum of the fluorescent lights. "what the hell does that mean?"

but you already knew. the way he was looking at you, the way his grip on your wrists had shifted from restraining to almost... gentle. possessive. like you were something precious he'd found and had no intention of letting go.

"you're insane," you breathed, trying to pull away from him, but his hold remained firm. "you're completely fucking insane."

ni-ki leaned closer then, close enough that you could feel his breath against your ear, his body completely caging you against the car. the warmth of him pressed against you, solid and inescapable, and you hated the way your traitorous body seemed to notice everything—the way he smelled intoxicating, like musk mixed with something that was just him.

"maybe," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that you felt more than heard. "but you're stuck with me either way."

and then, without warning, you felt the sharp pressure of his teeth against the sensitive skin of your neck. not hard enough to break skin, but firm enough to make you gasp, your body betraying you with a reaction you absolutely did not want to have.

"what the hell," you whispered, but your voice came out breathier than you intended, and you could feel heat creeping up your neck that had nothing to do with fear.

ni-ki pulled back just enough to look at you, that infuriating smirk returning to his face as he took in your flustered expression. "see?" he said softly, his thumb brushing over your racing pulse. "you're not as scared of me as you think you are."

before you could form any kind of response to that absolutely ridiculous statement, a new sound echoed through the garage—footsteps again, but different this time. heavier. closer.

ni-ki's grip on your wrists tightened, his playful expression instantly shifting back to that sharp alertness you'd seen earlier. "we need to move," he said, already pulling you toward the cars. "now."

you'd lost count of how long you'd been trapped here—days, maybe weeks, the constant red glow making it impossible to tell when one nightmare ended and the next began. your stomach cramped with hunger most of the time, surviving on stale vending machine snacks you'd managed to find scattered throughout the garage. water came from bathroom sinks that barely functioned, the liquid tasting metallic and wrong but keeping you alive.

exhaustion had become your constant companion, weighing down your limbs and making your thoughts sluggish. you'd tried sleeping in the cars, but ni-ki's presence made rest nearly impossible. he was always watching, always too close, his dark eyes tracking your every movement with an intensity that made your skin crawl.

the fights had gotten worse as the days wore on.

"we need to try the south ramp again," you insisted, your voice hoarse from dehydration and constant arguing. "there has to be something different about it."

"we've tried the south ramp seventeen times," ni-ki replied with that maddeningly calm tone he used when he thought you were being irrational. "it leads to the same fucking place as every other ramp."

"then what's your brilliant plan?" you snapped, whirling around to face him. "just wander around here forever until we die?"

"maybe," he said with a shrug that made you want to strangle him. "at least then i'd get to keep you."

there it was again—that possessive undercurrent that had been getting stronger every day you spent trapped together. the way he looked at you like you belonged to him, like this nightmare scenario was some kind of twisted gift that had delivered you straight into his hands.

"i'm not yours," you said through gritted teeth. "i'm not some prize you won by being a psychotic murderer."

his expression darkened, that casual mask slipping to show something dangerous underneath. "no? then why haven't you tried to kill me in my sleep? why do you stick so close when those sounds start echoing through the garage?"

because you were terrified of being alone in this place, but you weren't about to admit that to him.

"because i'm not a killer," you said instead.

"neither was i, until i was," he replied, taking a step closer. "funny how circumstances can change a person."

the argument escalated from there, voices rising, accusations flying, until you were practically screaming at each other in the middle of the endless parking garage. all the frustration and fear and helpless rage you'd been swallowing for days came pouring out in a torrent of fury.

"you're fucking insane if you think i'm ever going to—"

his hands slammed against the car beside your head, trapping you between his body and the cold metal, his face inches from yours. his chest was heaving with anger, pupils dilated, and for a moment you thought he might actually hurt you.

instead, your fists came up automatically, pounding against his chest with all the strength you had left. "get away from me!" you shouted, but he didn't budge, just absorbed the blows like they were nothing.

"make me," he snarled, and something in his voice, some raw challenge, made your blood surge with adrenaline.

you hit him harder, aiming for his face this time, and your knuckles connected with his mouth in a sharp crack that split his bottom lip. blood welled up immediately, dark and gleaming in the red light, and you expected him to recoil, to get angry, to finally show some kind of normal human reaction to pain.

instead, he groaned.

the sound was low and rough and unmistakably aroused, and before you could process what was happening, his mouth crashed against yours. the kiss was messy and desperate, all clashing teeth and heat, his hand gripping your jaw just a little too tight.

you could taste the metallic tang of blood on his lips where your punch had split the skin. instead of pulling away, he kissed you deeper, his tongue swiping over the cut and then over your lips, like the sharp sting was making him lose his mind. his grip on your face tightened as he tilted your head, kissing you harder until you could taste his blood mixing with your own saliva.

your brain was screaming at you to push him away, to remember exactly who he was and what he'd done, but your body wasn't listening. your hands grabbed his shirt instead of shoving him back, pulling him closer even as you bit down on his split lip again, making him make this rough sound against your mouth.

apparently he liked that, because his other hand tangled in your hair and tugged your head back so he could drag his bloody mouth down your neck. his teeth grazed your pulse point, and you couldn't stop the gasp that escaped you, your fingers digging into his shoulders. every smart thought you'd ever had was melting away under his touch, replaced by something desperate and wrong that you really didn't want to think about.

"fuck," he breathed against your throat, his voice wrecked, and you could feel him smile against your skin when you shivered. his hands were everywhere—one still fisted in your hair, the other sliding down to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left between your bodies.

you could feel his heart hammering against his ribs where your chest pressed against his, could taste the copper and heat of him when he came back up to kiss you again, slower this time but no less intense. his tongue swept into your mouth like he was claiming it, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you.

when you finally managed to wrench yourself away, both of you were breathing hard, your lips swollen and stained red. you could still taste copper in your mouth, and you felt like you might actually be losing your mind because you were horrified and completely turned on at the same time.

but ni-ki wasn't done. the second you pulled back, he was already chasing after your lips, one hand catching the back of your neck as he kissed you again, rougher this time. his tongue swept across your bottom lip, licking away his own blood like he couldn't get enough of the taste, and the sound he made was almost feral.

"taste so good," he mumbled against your mouth, and you could feel him grinning when you made this pathetic whimpering noise. "even better with my blood on your lips."

his words should have disgusted you, should have snapped you back to reality, but instead they sent heat pooling low in your stomach. your hands were shaking where they gripped his shirt, and when he bit down gently on your bottom lip, you couldn't stop yourself from pressing closer.

"this is so fucked up," you whispered, but even as you said it, your fingers were curling tighter in his shirt, keeping him close.

"yeah," he agreed, his voice rough with want. "and i love it."

when you finally pushed him away for real, he leaned back against the car, watching you with dark eyes and that satisfied smirk that made your stomach do flips. his hair was messy from your hands, his lips red and swollen, that split still bleeding slightly. slowly, he brought his thumb to his mouth and licked away the last traces of blood, never taking his eyes off you.

"you make me bleed," he whispered, his voice rough and reverent like he was confessing something sacred, "and i've never wanted anyone more."

the words sent a shiver through you that you absolutely did not want to analyse. because somewhere in the blur of survival and desperation, you were starting to realise that the line between fear and desire was a lot thinner than you'd ever imagined.

everything changed after the kiss.

you tried to pretend it hadn't happened, that it was just some kind of stress response to being trapped in this impossible place for so long. survival instincts gone haywire. adrenaline and desperation making you do things you'd never normally do. that's all it was. it had to be.

but ni-ki wouldn't let you forget.

where before he'd maintained at least some pretence of personal space, now he seemed to take every opportunity to be close to you. when you walked through the endless rows of cars, he'd brush against your shoulder, letting his fingers trail just a little too long when he'd guide you around a corner. when you'd stop to rest, he'd sit just close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his body.

worst of all, he watched you constantly. not the predatory stalking from before, but something more intimate and infinitely more unsettling. you'd catch him staring at your mouth when you talked, his gaze lingering on your lips like he was remembering exactly how they'd felt against his. when you'd lick your lips nervously or bite down on them while thinking, his eyes would darken with something that made your stomach flutter traitorously.

"stop doing that," you snapped at him during one particularly frustrating exploration attempt, when you'd caught him staring for the fifth time in an hour.

"doing what?" he asked innocently, but that infuriating smirk was playing at the corners of his mouth.

"you know what. the staring. the... hovering. just stop."

instead of backing off like you'd hoped, he took a step closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "funny," he said, his voice dropping to that low murmur that made your skin prickle. "you didn't stop me before."

the words hit you like a physical blow, because he was right and you both knew it. when he'd kissed you, when his hands had been in your hair and his mouth had been on yours, you hadn't pushed him away. you'd pulled him closer.

"that was different," you said, hating how weak your voice sounded.

"was it?" he tilted his head, studying your face with that same intensity he'd shown when examining the blood on his hands that first night. "because from where i was standing, it felt like you wanted it just as much as i did."

"i was scared and confused and—"

"and turned on," he finished, his grin widening when you flushed red. "don't forget that part."

you wanted to hit him again, wanted to wipe that smug expression off his face, but you were terrified of what might happen if you did. because last time you'd hit him, it had ended with his blood on your lips and his hands in your hair, and some twisted part of you that you really didn't want to acknowledge was curious about what might happen this time.

"you're delusional," you said instead, taking a step back to put some distance between you.

"am i?" he followed your retreat, matching you step for step until your back hit the concrete wall. "then why haven't you tried to run from me again? "

because you were terrified of being alone in this place, because despite everything he'd done, he was still the only other human being you had, because somewhere in the blur of survival and desperation you'd started to depend on him in ways that scared you more than his capacity for violence.

but you weren't about to admit any of that.

"because we're stuck together," you said. "because like it or not, we need each other to figure out how to get out of here."

"right," he said, but his tone suggested he didn't believe you for a second. "just survival. nothing else."

to prove his point, he leaned closer, close enough that you could smell that intoxicating scent that was just him, could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. your breath caught despite yourself, and you saw the exact moment he noticed, saw the way his expression shifted from mockery to something hungrier.

"nothing else," you repeated, but it came out as barely a whisper.

"then you won't mind if i do this," he murmured, and before you could ask what 'this' was, his hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing across your bottom lip with devastating gentleness.

your body betrayed you completely, leaning into the touch before your brain could stop it, and ni-ki's smile turned predatory.

"that's what i thought," he said softly, but he pulled his hand away, leaving you cold and wanting and absolutely furious with yourself for reacting.

"i hate you," you breathed.

"i know," he replied, and the way he said it—fond and amused and completely unbothered—made you realise that your hatred might not be the deterrent you'd thought it was.

if anything, it seemed to be exactly what he wanted.

the sleep you got had been broken at best, restless fragments caught in the backseats of abandoned cars while the red lights hummed overhead like angry wasps. you'd doze off for what felt like hours only to wake up feeling like you'd barely closed your eyes. the constant buzz of flickering lights and the occasional echo of those unexplained sounds made real rest nearly impossible.

but it was during these fractured sleeping hours that you found yourself thinking about the things you didn't want to think about during the day. like why ni-ki had killed that girl in the alley. like what kind of person you'd have to be to do something like that so casually.

you'd tried asking him about it once, during one of your sessions to gather the vending machine food lying around.

"what made you do it?" you asked, the words coming out more blunt than you'd intended.

he'd looked at you with mild surprise, like he'd forgotten that most people didn't just casually murder strangers in dark alleys. "do what?"

"kill her. that girl. why did you—" you'd gestured vaguely, not wanting to be more specific about what you'd witnessed.

ni-ki had been quiet for a long moment, his expression thoughtful rather than defensive. "it was a job," he'd said finally. "someone wanted her gone, they paid me to make it happen."

the casual way he'd said it had made your stomach turn, but there was something almost... professional about it that was somehow worse than random violence. "you're a contract killer?"

"among other things." he'd shrugged, like discussing his career in murder was just small talk. "it pays well, and it satisfies certain... cravings."

"why didn't you kill me then?" the question had tumbled out before you could stop it. "it's not like we're getting out of here anyway."

but when you'd pressed for his answer, he'd just given you this unreadable look and changed the subject, leaving you with more questions than answers.

it was during one of those restless nights, when you'd managed to fall into something resembling actual sleep curled up in the backseat of an old honda, that you woke to the feeling of being watched.

your eyes snapped open, immediately alert in that way that came from too many nights of broken sleep and constant anxiety. the garage was dimmer than usual, some of the fluorescent lights having finally given up their flickering battle against the darkness.

ni-ki was sitting a few feet away, leaning back against the side of a car with his long legs stretched out in front of him. but he wasn't sleeping, wasn't even trying to rest. he was just... watching you.

there was something different about his expression in the red-tinted darkness. not the cruel amusement you'd grown accustomed to, not the playful predatory look he got when he was trying to get under your skin. this was something heavier, more intense. almost protective, if that word could even apply to someone like him.

"what are you doing?" you asked, your voice hoarse from sleep and dehydration.

he didn't seem startled by your sudden consciousness, like he'd been expecting you to wake up. "making sure nothing gets you while you sleep," he said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact.

the words should have been comforting, but coming from him they felt loaded with implications you weren't ready to unpack. "nothing's going to get me," you said, but even as the words left your mouth, you both knew they weren't necessarily true.

"you don't know that," he replied, tilting his head slightly as he continued to study you in the dim light. "this place... there's something wrong with it. more wrong than just the geometry."

you sat up slowly, suddenly very aware that you were vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with the supernatural elements of this nightmare. "so you appointed yourself my bodyguard?"

"something like that." his mouth quirked up in what might have been a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "call it self-interest. if something happens to you, i'm alone here."

the logical part of your brain wanted to point out that he'd been perfectly fine hunting you through these same corridors just days ago, that his concern for your safety was probably just another manipulation tactic. but there was something in his posture, something in the way he'd positioned himself between you and the darker sections of the garage, that suggested this might be more genuine than his usual games.

you wanted to scream at him, wanted to demand to know what gave him the right to watch over you like some kind of twisted guardian angel when he was the reason you needed protection in the first place. but the truth was lodged in your chest like a stone, uncomfortable and undeniable.

without him, sitting alone in this impossible place with only the whispers and tire screeches for company, maybe something would have gotten you already.

"how long have you been sitting there?" you asked instead.

"couple hours," he said with a shrug, like losing sleep to keep watch over someone he'd been planning to kill was the most natural thing in the world.

"you should sleep too."

"i will. later."

you stared at him in the red-tinted darkness, trying to make sense of this person who could murder someone without hesitation one day and sit guard over your sleep the next. the contradictions were giving you whiplash, making it impossible to categorise him as simply good or evil, safe or dangerous.

"i don't understand you," you said finally.

"good," he replied, and this time his smile was more familiar, touched with that dark amusement you'd come to recognise. "understanding me would probably just make things more complicated."

you wanted to argue with that, wanted to demand explanations and clear definitions of where you stood with each other. but exhaustion was pulling at you again, and despite everything logical and rational screaming at you that sleeping near him was the worst possible idea, you found your eyes drifting closed.

the last thing you saw before sleep claimed you again was ni-ki settling back against the car, his gaze still fixed on the shadows beyond, keeping his strange, unsettling vigil.

it was during one of your deeper exploration attempts that you finally understood what ni-ki had been talking about.

you'd been wandering through a section of the garage you hadn't seen before, one where the cars seemed older and dust-covered, like they'd been sitting there for decades. the fluorescent lights were more erratic here, flickering in patterns that made your eyes water and your head ache.

"this place feels different," you'd muttered, wrapping your arms around yourself as a chill that had nothing to do with temperature crept up your spine.

ni-ki had nodded, his usual casual demeanour replaced by something more alert, more cautious. "we should head back," he'd said, but even as he spoke, you both heard it.

a sound like metal scraping against concrete, slow and deliberate, echoing from somewhere deeper in the maze of vehicles. it was rhythmic, purposeful, like something was dragging itself across the floor with mechanical precision.

the air around you grew thick and heavy, charged with static electricity that made your hair stand on end and your skin tingle uncomfortably. the lights overhead began flickering more violently, casting the garage in rapid bursts of red light and shadow that made everything look like some kind of hellish strobe show.

for the first time since you'd known him, ni-ki looked genuinely unsettled. his eyes were darting around the shadows between the cars, and you could see tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there moments before.

"what is that?" you whispered, but he was already moving, his hand wrapping around your wrist in a grip that was firm enough to bruise.

"we need to hide," he said, pulling you toward the nearest car, an old sedan with tinted windows. "now."

he yanked open the back door and practically shoved you inside, climbing in after you and slamming the door shut just as something passed by the windows outside.

you held your breath, pressing yourself back against the worn fabric seats as a shadow moved across the glass. but it was wrong, all wrong—too long and too thin to be human, stretching and distorting like it wasn't quite solid. the scraping sound grew louder as whatever it was dragged itself past your hiding spot, and you could swear you felt the car rock slightly, as if something massive was brushing against it.

ni-ki's hand found yours in the darkness of the car's interior, his fingers intertwining with yours as he leaned close enough to whisper directly in your ear. 

"don't move," he breathed, his voice so quiet you almost couldn't hear it over the sound of your own racing heartbeat. "don't even breathe too loud."

you nodded against his shoulder, suddenly very aware of how close you were to him in the cramped space, how his body was pressed against yours as you both tried to make yourselves as small as possible. you could feel the tension radiating off him, the way his muscles were coiled like he was ready to fight or run at a moment's notice.

the scraping sound continued for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, accompanied by something that might have been breathing if breathing could sound like static and broken glass. occasionally, you'd catch glimpses of that impossible shadow through the windows, moving with a jerky, unnatural gait that made your brain hurt to watch.

finally, mercifully, the sounds began to fade, growing more distant until they disappeared entirely. but even then, ni-ki didn't move, didn't relax, just kept his hand over yours and waited in the suffocating silence.

when he finally decided it was safe, when the air had stopped crackling with that awful static and the lights had returned to their normal flickering buzz, you realised you were clinging to him. your fingers were twisted in his shirt, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you anchored to reality, and your face was pressed against his shoulder hard enough that you could smell that intoxicating scent which had now become familiar to you.

you started to pull away, embarrassed by how completely you'd lost your composure, but ni-ki's arm tightened around you, keeping you close.

"see?" he said softly, and when you looked up at him, his smirk had returned, though it was gentler than usual, touched with something that might have been actual affection. "told you. you need me."

you wanted to argue with him, wanted to insist that you could have handled that situation just fine on your own, but the truth was that you had absolutely no idea what you would have done if you'd been alone when that thing had appeared. the thought of facing whatever that had been without him there made your stomach clench with terror.

"what was that thing?" you asked instead, your voice still shaky from adrenaline and fear.

"i don't know," he admitted, his fingers absently stroking over your knuckles. "but this place is full of them. they come out when the lights start acting up, when the static gets too thick. that's why i keep watch at night."

the admission hit you like a physical blow. he'd been protecting you from things like that, sitting guard while you slept so those shadows wouldn't drag you away in the darkness. suddenly his strange vigil made perfect sense, and you felt something uncomfortably warm unfurling in your chest.

"how long have you known?" you asked.

"since the second day," he said. "maybe the third. i have no clue about the time here."

"and you didn't tell me?"

his smile widened slightly. "would it have helped? or would it have just made you more scared than you already were?"

you didn't have an answer for that, because he was probably right. knowing about the things in the shadows wouldn't have made you any safer, would have just added another layer of terror to an already impossible situation.

"thank you," you said quietly, the words feeling strange in your mouth. thanking a killer for protecting you from monsters felt like some kind of cosmic joke, but it was also the truth.

"don't mention it," he replied, but there was something in his voice, something almost vulnerable, that suggested your gratitude meant more to him than he was letting on.

you stayed there in the car for a long time after that, pressed together in the darkness, both of you listening for sounds that shouldn't exist and trying to process the fact that the nightmare you were trapped in was even worse than you'd imagined.

the fight started over something stupid, like most of your fights did these days.

you'd been trying to map out the garage on the back of an old receipt you'd found, marking down which ramps led where and trying to find some kind of pattern to the impossible geometry. the encounter with that shadow thing had shaken you more than you wanted to admit, but it had also given you hope in a twisted way—if the garage could produce things like that, if it was changing and shifting around you, then maybe there was some kind of logic to it that you could exploit.

"look," you said, spreading the crumpled paper out on the hood of a car, your finger tracing the crude lines you'd drawn. "this section here, where we saw that thing? it wasn't there before. the layout changed. which means if we can figure out the pattern—"

"you're wasting your time," ni-ki interrupted, not even bothering to look at your makeshift map. he was leaning against a concrete pillar, arms crossed, wearing that infuriating expression that suggested he thought you were being naive.

"how do you know if you won't even look at it?"

"because i've been watching this place longer than you have," he said with that maddeningly calm tone that made you want to scream. "it doesn't follow patterns. it just... is. the sooner you accept that, the better."

"so what, we just give up? sit here forever until those things decide to drag us away?"

"maybe," he shrugged. "or maybe we find other ways to pass the time."

the way he said it, with that lazy smile and those dark eyes fixed on you, made heat crawl up your neck. but you were too frustrated and scared and tired to deal with his constant innuendo right now.

"this is serious, ni-ki," you snapped. "we need to find a way out of here."

"do we?" he tilted his head, studying you with that same intensity he'd shown while watching you sleep. "seems to me like things are working out just fine."

"fine?" you stared at him in disbelief. "we're trapped in some kind of interdimensional nightmare with shadow monsters, living off vending machine snacks and bathroom sink water, and you think things are fine?"

"i think," he said, pushing off from the pillar and taking a step closer, "that this is the first time in my life i've had something i actually want to keep."

the words hit you like a brick, because his strange possessiveness was starting to show again, getting stronger every day. he was treating you like you were some kind of prize he'd won instead of a person he'd been planning to kill.

"i'm not yours to keep," you said through gritted teeth.

"aren't you?" he asked, moving closer still. "who else do you have here? who else is going to protect you from the things in the dark?"

"maybe i don't need protection. maybe i'd rather take my chances alone than be your pet."

his expression darkened at that, the casual mask slipping to show something dangerous underneath. "you think you'd last five minutes out there without me? you think those shadows care about your little maps and theories?"

"at least i'm trying to find a solution instead of just accepting that we're stuck here forever!"

"there is no solution!" he snapped, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "this place doesn't want us to leave. the sooner you stop fighting that, the sooner you can focus on more important things."

"like what?" you demanded.

"like this," he said, gesturing between you with something that might have been hunger. "like us."

"there is no us," you said, but even as the words left your mouth, you knew they sounded hollow. because there was something between you, something twisted and wrong and completely fucked up, but undeniably real.

"liar," he said softly.

that's when you shoved him, hard, both hands against his chest with all the frustration and fear and helpless rage you'd been swallowing for days. "stop talking like that! stop acting like this is some kind of romantic getaway instead of a nightmare!"

he stumbled back a step, but instead of getting angry, he laughed—dark and pleased and absolutely infuriating. "there she is," he said, straightening up with that predatory grace. "i was wondering when you'd stop pretending to be scared of me."

"i am scared of you!"

"no," he said, moving toward you again, "you're scared of how much you want this."

you shoved him again, harder this time, and when he caught your wrists to stop you, you struggled against his grip like a trapped animal. "let go of me!"

"make me," he challenged, and there was that same raw heat in his voice that you'd heard during your first kiss, that same dangerous invitation.

you were both breathing hard, standing too close, his hands wrapped around your wrists tight enough to leave marks. your voice was breaking as you yelled at him, all the emotion you'd been holding back pouring out in a torrent of words you barely recognised as your own.

"i hate you," you gasped. "i hate that you killed someone, i hate that you're keeping me here and not trying to get out, i hate that i—"

his mouth crashed against yours before you could finish the sentence, rougher and more desperate than before, like he was trying to silence you with obsession rather than words, like he needed to consume every sound you made.

and god help you, you kissed him back.

your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer even as your brain screamed at you to push him away. his grip on your wrists loosened, one hand sliding up to cup your jaw while the other tangled in your hair, angling your head so he could kiss you deeper.

you could taste desperation on his lips, something raw and hungry that matched the fire burning in your own chest. when he bit down gently on your bottom lip, you made this pathetic whimpering sound that seemed to drive him completely wild.

"fuck," he breathed against your mouth, and you could feel him smile when you chased his lips, wanting more. "knew you wanted this."

"shut up," you gasped, but there was no real heat behind it anymore, just breathless need as his mouth moved to your neck, finding that spot that made you shiver.

his teeth grazed your pulse point, and your fingers dug into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. every rational thought was dissolving under the heat of his touch, replaced by something primal and desperate that you'd been trying to deny for days.

when his hands slipped down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, you could feel how much he wanted this, could feel the way his breathing had gone ragged. and despite everything—the murder, the chase, the impossible situation—you wanted it too.

the admission sent something dark and fiery through your veins, because some twisted part of you liked it too—liked the way he looked at you when you were angry, liked the way his control slipped when you pushed back against him, liked the way he'd kissed you like he was starving for it.

you had been pushing yourself too hard, running on nothing but adrenaline and stubbornness for what felt like weeks now. the constant stress of being trapped, the broken sleep, the barely adequate nutrition from vending machine snacks—it was all catching up to you in ways you'd been trying to ignore.

you were walking through another identical section of the garage, following ni-ki as he led you toward what he claimed might be a different exit route, when your legs simply gave out.

one moment you were upright, the next you were falling, your vision swimming with black spots as your knees buckled completely. but before you could hit the cold concrete floor, strong arms caught you, pulling you against a warm chest.

"i'm fine," you insisted immediately, even though you clearly weren't, pushing weakly at ni-ki's chest as he held you upright. "i can walk. just let me—"

"no," he said simply, his voice carrying that infuriating authority that brooked no argument. instead of letting you go, he lifted you easily, carrying you the few steps to the nearest car and setting you down on its hood like you weighed nothing.

"i said i'm fine," you repeated, but your voice came out shaky and unconvincing, and when you tried to slide off the car, your legs felt like jelly.

ni-ki crouched down in front of you, bringing himself to your eye level, and pulled out the single mineral water bottle you'd both been carefully rationing. his movements were gentle but firm as he uncapped it and held it out to you.

"drink," he said, and when you didn't immediately comply, he moved closer, his free hand coming up to cup your chin. "all of it."

"we need to save—"

"we need you conscious," he interrupted, his tone maddeningly soft, almost tender in a way that made your chest tighten uncomfortably. "drink the water."

there was something in his eyes as he looked at you, something intense and focused that made your stomach twist with emotions you didn't want to name. it wasn't the predatory hunger you'd grown accustomed to, or the dark amusement he usually wore like armour. this was something else entirely, something that looked almost like genuine concern.

"why do you care?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

his thumb brushed across your cheek, so gentle it was almost reverent, and for a moment his carefully maintained mask slipped completely. "because i want you alive when we get out of here," he said quietly. then his expression hardened slightly, that familiar edge creeping back into his voice. "don't make me carry you."

the threat should have annoyed you, should have made you argue back out of pure spite, but instead it sent a shiver through you that had nothing to do with the cold air of the garage. there was something possessive in the way he said it, like the idea of you being weak or hurt was personally offensive to him.

you took the water bottle with shaking hands, bringing it to your lips and drinking deeply. the liquid was warm but tasted much better than that metallic sink water you had been living off. it felt like the most wonderful thing you'd ever tasted. you hadn't realised how dehydrated you'd become until the water hit your system, making you feel almost instantly more human.

ni-ki watched you drink with that same intense focus, his dark eyes tracking every movement. when you'd finished about half the bottle, he reached out and gently pushed it back toward your mouth.

"more," he said softly.

"that's enough for now—"

"more," he repeated, and there was something in his voice that brooked no argument. "you're not negotiating with me on this."

so you drank more, finishing nearly the entire bottle while he watched, his hand still resting on your chin like he was anchoring you to the moment. when you finally pulled the bottle away, he nodded approvingly and capped it, tucking it back into his jacket.

"better?" he asked.

you nodded, not trusting your voice, because the simple act of being cared for—even in this twisted, possessive way—was doing things to your emotional state that you really didn't want to examine too closely.

"good," he said, rising from his crouch but not moving away from you. instead, he braced his hands on either side of you on the car hood, effectively caging you in. "now listen to me. you don't get to collapse. you’re not giving up this easily."

"i wasn't giving up—"

"weren't you?" his eyes searched yours, looking for something you weren't sure you wanted him to find. "because from where i'm standing, it looked like you were ready to just... stop."

the accusation hit too close to home, because he wasn't entirely wrong. the hopelessness had been creeping in for days, the growing certainty that you'd never escape this place, that you'd spend whatever remained of your life wandering these endless concrete corridors with a killer who'd somehow become the only thing standing between you and complete despair.

"maybe i was," you admitted quietly.

his expression softened slightly, and one of his hands moved to brush a strand of hair away from your face. "then don't," he said simply. "because i'm not letting you go that easily. you want to get out of here, so we will."

the words should have been threatening, should have reminded you of exactly who you were dealing with and what he was capable of. instead, they felt almost like a promise, like he was offering you something you hadn't even realised you needed.

"why?" you tilted your head. “didn’t you want to stay here?”

he was quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing along your jawline as he seemed to consider his answer. when he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you'd ever heard it.

"because you're mine to keep safe now," he said. "and i take care of what's mine."

the possessive words that would have made you recoil earlier now settled over you like a blanket, warm and suffocating and strangely comforting all at once.

"i'm not yours," you said, but the protest came out weak and halfhearted, more habit than conviction.

his smile was small and knowing, like he could see right through the lie. "keep telling yourself that," he murmured, his hand still cradling your face with that devastating gentleness. "we both know how this ends."

the certainty in his voice sent heat pooling in your stomach, and you found yourself leaning into his touch instead of pulling away. "and how does it end?" you whispered, surprised by how breathless you sounded.

his eyes darkened, thumb tracing over your bottom lip with deliberate slowness. "with you admitting what you've known since that first kiss," he said softly. "that you want this just as much as i do."

before you could respond—or do something stupid like kiss him again—another one of those sounds echoed through the garage, distant tire screeches followed by that awful scraping noise that made your skin crawl. ni-ki's entire demeanour shifted instantly, his protective mode kicking in as he straightened and scanned the shadows.

"can you walk?" he asked, all business now, but his hand was still gentle on your face.

you nodded, sliding carefully off the car hood. your legs still felt shaky, but the water had helped more than you'd expected. "i think so."

"good," he said, taking your hand in his and intertwining your fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world. the simple contact sent goosebumps up your arm, and you didn't pull away. "because we need to move before those weird shadowy things show up."

as he led you deeper into the maze of concrete and cars, his grip on your hand firm and reassuring, you realised with a mix of terror and anticipation that you were no longer fighting the inevitable.

you squeezed his hand tighter, letting him guide you through the darkness, and when he glanced back at you with that adoring satisfaction in his eyes, you didn't look away.

the acceptance came slowly to you, like poison spreading through your veins.

it started with small things. the way you'd stopped flinching when ni-ki got too close. how you'd begun sleeping curled against him in the backseats of cars, telling yourself it was just for warmth even though the garage wasn't really cold. the way your heart would race when those shadow sounds echoed through the corridors—not just from fear, but from the anticipation of how he'd pull you close, how his hands would tighten protectively around you.

"we're never getting out of here," you said one day, the words falling flat in the red-tinted air. you were sitting on the hood of a rusted sedan, legs swinging like a child's, watching ni-ki examine yet another identical stairwell entrance.

"probably not," he agreed, and the casual way he said it should have made you angry. instead, you felt something like relief wash over you.

because if you were stuck here forever, if this concrete nightmare was your new reality, then maybe the normal rules didn't apply anymore. maybe you were allowed to want things you shouldn't want, to crave the touch of someone who should have been your executioner instead of your salvation.

ni-ki must have seen the shift in your expression because he moved toward you with that predatory grace, settling between your legs where you sat on the car hood. his hands came up to rest on your thighs, warm and possessive, and you didn't push him away.

"there it is," he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. "finally stopped lying to yourself?"

"shut up," you breathed, but there was no heat behind it. your hands came up to fist in his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away, and his smile turned absolutely devastating.

when he kissed you this time, it felt like surrender. not just physical, but something deeper, like the final dissolution of the wall you'd been trying to maintain between victim and predator, between fear and desire. his mouth moved against yours with devastating certainty, like he knew exactly what you needed, exactly how to take you apart piece by piece.

his hands slid up your sides, thumb brushing just under the edge of your shirt, and you shivered at the contact. every touch felt electric, amplified by weeks of tension and denial and the strange intimacy that came from surviving impossible things together.

"you’re mine," he whispered against your lips, and instead of arguing, you found yourself nodding.

because maybe you were his, in whatever twisted way that could exist in this place. maybe that's what you'd been fighting against all along—not him, but the growing certainty that you belonged to each other now, bound together by more than just mutual survival.

the days blurred together after that, an endless cycle of exploration and hiding and stolen moments pressed together in the darkness. you stopped pretending you didn't want his hands on you, stopped fighting the way you fit perfectly against him when those things stalked through the shadows.

you learned that he made this soft sound when you kissed his neck, that his control completely shattered when you bit down on his lip the way he'd done to you. you discovered that the careful, calculated mask he wore was just that—a mask—and underneath it was someone who touched you like you were made of something precious, who watched you sleep like he was memorising every detail of your face.

it was during one of these quiet moments, when you were curled against his side in the back of an old suv, that you heard something different.

the sound was softer than the usual chaos, more musical—like wind chimes, but wrong, discordant in a way that made your head ache.

ni-ki heard it too, his entire body going tense beneath you. "that's new," he muttered, his arm tightening around you protectively.

the sound grew closer, accompanied by a strange shimmer in the air, like heat waves rising off summer pavement. but as you watched, one section of the concrete wall began to... shift. the solid grey surface rippled like water, the fluorescent light bending and refracting through it in impossible ways.

"what the hell," you whispered, sitting up to stare at the phenomenon.

the wall continued to ripple and shift, and slowly—so slowly you almost didn't believe it was happening—a door began to appear. not carved into the concrete, not opened from somewhere else, but materialising like it had always been there and you'd just been too blind to see it.

the door was wrong in every possible way. too tall, too narrow, made of some dark material that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. but beyond it, through the gap where it stood slightly ajar, you could see something that made your heart nearly stop.

sky. actual sky, dark and star-studded and infinitely beautiful after weeks of red fluorescent hell.

"is that—" you started, but the words caught in your throat.

ni-ki was already moving, pulling you off the car and toward the impossible door with urgent hands. "don't question it," he said, his voice tight with something that might have been hope. "just go."

you stumbled toward the door together, your legs still unsteady from exhaustion but adrenaline carrying you forward. as you got closer, the wind chime sound grew louder, more discordant, like reality was protesting against this breach in its fabric.

ni-ki reached the door first, his hand wrapping around the strange dark handle. for a moment, you thought it might not open, might be some cruel trick played by this nightmare place. but then it swung inward on hinges that made no sound, revealing a narrow staircase that led upward into blessed darkness.

the climb was eternal and instant all at once. your legs burned with the effort, ni-ki's hand steady on your back as he guided you up steps that felt real and solid under your feet. the air grew cooler as you climbed, losing that heavy, electric quality that had defined the garage, and you could smell something incredible—fresh air, car exhaust, the ordinary scents of a living city.

when you finally pushed through the door at the top, the sensation of real air hitting your face nearly brought you to your knees.

you were standing on a sidewalk, actual concrete pavement under real streetlights, with real buildings rising around you like cathedral spires against the night sky. the sounds were wrong at first—too sharp, too immediate after so long in that muffled underground world—but they were wonderfully, perfectly normal. traffic in the distance, the low hum of air conditioning units, the distant murmur of late-night voices from apartment windows.

you almost cried with relief, your legs giving out as you sank to your knees on the sidewalk and just breathed. real air, cool and sweet and tasting of nothing but ordinary urban life. the stars overhead were dim through the city's light pollution, but they were there, actual points of light in an actual sky.

"we made it," you gasped, your voice cracking with exhaustion and disbelief. "we actually made it out."

when you looked up at ni-ki, he was staring down at you with that same intense focus, but something had changed in his expression. his chest was heaving like he'd run a marathon, and there was something wild and hungry in his eyes that made your stomach clench with familiar heat.

"we made it out," he agreed, his voice low and rough, but there was something in his tone that made the words sound less like celebration and more like a threat.

you tried to stand, tried to put some distance between you and remember that this was real now, that the normal world with its normal rules had reclaimed you. but your legs were still shaky, and when you stumbled, ni-ki's hand shot out to steady you.

except he didn't let go.

his fingers wrapped around your wrist with that familiar possessive grip, and when you tried to step back, to create the space that should exist between a murder witness and the murdrer now that you were free, he pulled you closer instead.

"where are you going?" he asked, tilting his head with false innocence.

"home," you said, but your voice came out uncertain. "back to my life. back to normal."

his laugh was dark and amused, the same sound that had haunted you through those endless concrete corridors. 

"normal?" he repeated, his thumb stroking over your racing pulse. "after what we've been through together? after what you let me do to you in there?"

the reminder hit you like a physical blow, because he was right. you'd kissed him back, had pressed yourself against him, had let him touch you and protect you and claim you in ways that had nothing to do with survival and everything to do with the twisted thing that had grown between you in the dark.

"that was different," you whispered. "that place, it wasn't real. it made us both crazy."

"was it?" he asked, stepping closer, forcing you back until your shoulders hit a street lamp. the normal world continued around you—a few late-night pedestrians on the far side of the street, cars passing with their ordinary headlights, the mundane bustle of a city that had no idea what you'd just escaped from.

"don't think the world out here changes anything," ni-ki said, his voice low, steady, terrifyingly certain. his free hand came up to brace against the lamp post beside your head, caging you in just like he had in the garage. "the parking might've let you go."

he leaned closer, his eyes catching the glow of the streetlight like a predator's, and you could see that same dark hunger that had driven him to hunt you through impossible corridors, that same obsessive need that had made him watch over your sleep and pull you close when the shadows came calling.

"but i won't."

the words settled over you like a death sentence and a promise all at once. because looking at him now, in the real world with its real consequences, you could see the truth written in every line of his face—he meant it. completely, utterly, without question.

that freakish hell was gone, but what had grown between you in its impossible corridors remained. he'd claimed you in that nightmare place and now that you were both free, he had no intention of letting that connection dissolve back into the ordinary world.

"ni-ki," you started, but he cut you off with a kiss, his mouth moving against yours with the same desperate hunger he'd shown in the dark.

when he pulled back, his smile was soft and terrible and absolutely certain.

"welcome back to the real world," he murmured against your lips. "let's see how long you can pretend you don't want to come home with me."

and as you stood there under the ordinary streetlight, his hand still wrapped around your wrist like a shackle, you realised with growing horror and anticipation that your real nightmare was just beginning.

because the garage had been a prison, but at least its rules had been clear. out here, in the world where he could follow you anywhere, where he knew your name and your face and exactly how you sounded when you whispered his name in the dark—out here, there was nowhere left to run.

and the worst part was that you were no longer sure you wanted to.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

[liuhsng]

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ cherry-stained skin ( nk ! )

✩ˎˊ˗ enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — ni-ki x fem!reader

⤷ word count — 16.2k ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — hi my loves ! sorry this one took so long but here it is !! this inspiration actually has two different and separate derivations—this is the first one, and the other one will be a bit more on the intense side. had to pull from my series just to write this piece since i couldn’t resist. hope you enjoy 🤍

⤷ warnings — smut (minors dni), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), idol au, idol!ni-ki, non-idol!reader, boyfriend!ni-ki, girlfriend!reader, established relationship, ni-ki gets a secret-not-so-secret tattoo, marking/bruising (hickies everywhere), fingering, oral sex (f & m receiving), praise kink, possessive!ni-ki, overstimulation (brief), hand-holding during sex, dirty talk, bath aftercare, playful teasing, engene camera interaction, protective boyfriend vibes, ni-ki’s secret tattoo reveal, clingy!ni-ki, domestic intimacy, fluff

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — nishimura riki was known to be secretive—smiles that never gave too much away, glances that kept people guessing. but secrets never stayed hidden forever. one night, your lips leave marks that makeup can barely cover, and your eyes catch the tattoo he thought you’d never see—a kiss mark inked just below his abdomen, dangerously close to where only you should know. or where bruises, secrets, and late-night tenderness remind you that loving ni-ki means uncovering the things he tries so hard to keep tucked away.

It had only been a few weeks back, one of those nights where the city outside seemed too quiet, when the clock read a little past three in the morning.

Sleepiness finally crept over you, weighing down your lashes as you burrowed deeper into the comforter.

The fabric brushed warm against your cheek, coaxing you into that hazy state between wakefulness and dreams.

The foot of the bed dipped, pulling you back, and your gaze fluttered downward to find Ni-ki.

He was leaning over you, soft blonde hair falling into his eyes, his hands resting gently on your legs as he smiled at you.

You were staying over at their dorm again—or more like, your boyfriend had flat out refused to sleep without you.

It didn’t matter that he ran back to you backstage after every performance, sweat still dripping, adrenaline still high. It never seemed enough for him.

“Done already?” you murmured sleepily, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, shoulders sinking. “Yeah. Turned it off.” His nose scrunched, the way it always did when he got annoyed. “Kept losing. It pissed me off.”

A laugh slipped from your lips, groggy but genuine.

With a small sigh, you lifted the covers in invitation. He didn’t hesitate—climbing in behind you, sliding an arm around your waist like he’d been waiting all day just to do that.

The weight of his chin settled in the crook of your shoulder, and instinctively, your hand found its way to his hair, threading through soft strands of blonde.

“I really miss your black hair,” you muttered, your voice muffled by the pillow.

Ni-ki’s chuckle rumbled low against your back, his breath warm on your skin. “Mmhm. I bet you do, baby.”

You turned in his arms, cheek pressing against his chest, and the steady thrum of his heartbeat lulled you further. His hands slid to cover yours, fingers lacing together loosely.

“I really do, Riki,” you said quietly, tipping your head back just enough to catch the smirk tugging at his lips.

He looked down at you, eyes glinting in the dim light as the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the mention of Yuki—the long-haired man who was more like Ni-ki’s shadow, constantly reminding you, “Look after him, please. He forgets.”

“Okay,” you whispered, grin tugging at your lips.

Ni-ki pressed a lingering kiss against your forehead, the warmth of it making your eyes droop even more.

“I’m so sleepy, Iki,” you mumbled into his chest, the nickname slipping past your lips without thought.

He chuckled, a sound that shook through his body and into yours. That name was yours alone—only spoken when it was just the two of you, safe in the quiet.

He shifted down further, pulling you tighter against him as his long arm reached to tug the blanket over the both of you.

“Go to sleep, baby,” he whispered against your hair. “We’ve got a full schedule tomorrow.”

You rolled your eyes even through your drowsiness, tilting your head to look up at him. “Can’t we just postpone the tour? I mean, I get it—you’re an idol, but you need to rest too.”

He laughed softly at your pout, the sound carrying a kind of fondness that always melted you.

You reached up, brushing his bangs away from his face with gentle fingers. He caught your hand mid-motion, bringing it down to his lips and pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles.

“I know, baby. I wish I could too.” His words were tender, weighted with exhaustion. “But we’ll get our break after they’re done, okay?”

You huffed, brows furrowing, not quite ready to surrender to sleep. As your hand rested against his chest again, your eyes caught the glimpse of black ink peeking out from under the cuff of his hoodie sleeve.

The fabric had slipped down with the movement, revealing the sharp lines of the tattoo etched into his wrist—an ace of spades, the bold A sitting neatly above the spade, stacked together like a secret meant only for him.

Your breath softened as your fingers instinctively reached for it, tracing the lines with featherlight care.

His skin was warm beneath your touch, the contrast of soft against inked permanence making your heart thrum.

“I really like this,” you hummed, still brushing your fingertip against the design.

Ni-ki’s lips curved into a small, gentle smile as he shifted his arm even closer, letting you explore the tattoo like it was yours to trace.

His gaze softened, lingering on the way you looked so focused even through your drowsiness.

“I know,” he murmured with a quiet chuckle, the sound barely breaking the stillness of the room. “You’ve told me that a hundred times before.”

You grinned, your cheek brushing against the fabric of his hoodie as you inched closer to his chest.

“Well… it just shows you’re such an ace in dancing,” you teased, tapping the spade once with your finger before dragging it lightly down his wrist.

“An ace, huh?” he whispered, leaning down just enough for his breath to tickle the shell of your ear. “Then what does that make you?”

You blinked up at him through heavy lashes, lips curving. “The lucky one who gets to keep you.”

His laugh came out low. Even in the dim light spilling in from the streetlamp outside, you could see the faintest pink tint dusting his cheeks.

You couldn’t resist leaning up a little, pressing the softest kiss to that warmth, your lips brushing against his skin.

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly before you settled back down, cheek to his chest, your ear catching the steady rhythm of his heart.

“I love you, Iki,” you whispered, the words carrying that hazy sincerity only the quietest hours of the night could hold. “Good night.”

For a moment, silence blanketed the room again, broken only by the faint hum of the heater and your breaths syncing together.

Then Ni-ki lowered his head, his lips brushing your hairline as he pressed a tender kiss there.

“I love you too, (Y/N),” he whispered, the sound so soft it almost blended with the darkness around you. “Good night.”

You smiled against his chest, your hand tightening around his hoodie as he pulled you even closer, as if he wanted to mold you into his very being.

The warmth of his body, the comfort of his scent, and the safety of his arms all tangled together, wrapping you in something far deeper than words.

It was barely seven in the morning when you found yourself perched on the leather couch in Ni-ki’s room, legs curled up as you leaned closer to the small mirror propped against the black wooden coffee table.

The faint light spilling through the blinds made the gloss on your lips gleam as you carefully swiped another layer on, pressing them together before giving yourself a proud little nod.

Even at this hour, you had to admit—you didn’t look half bad.

The door swung open with a loud creak, nearly startling you. Ni-ki barged in, hair still messy from sleep, a sleeveless shirt clinging to his frame.

A shit-eating grin stretched across his face, and before you could ask what he was up to, Jungwon’s voice carried through the now closed door.

“Nishimura, I swear—stop hiding (Y/N)! I need her help with the agenda!”

You shook your head with a small laugh, setting your gloss aside as you stood. He was practically glowing with mischief, shoulders bouncing with stifled laughter at his leader’s frustration.

You crossed the room, smoothing your pants down as you reached him, fingers hooking onto the hem of his sleeveless shirt.

“Stop chasing Jungwon around,” you scolded, clicking your tongue as you tugged him closer. “And get changed.”

Ni-ki pouted instantly, eyes widening as if he could charm you into letting him off. “But—”

You gave him a look, the one that always made him cave.

He sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. “Fine.”

You grinned victoriously, retreating to the edge of the bed while he rifled through his still-open suitcase. He grabbed a gray hoodie, tugging his sleeveless shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion.

You hadn’t meant to stare—really, you hadn’t.

But despite growing up alongside him, despite being there from the very beginning, your eyes couldn’t help trailing over the lean lines of his frame.

He wasn’t the same boy you’d met during debut; time and relentless training had carved him into something sharper, stronger.

Every muscle, every dip of his skin seemed highlighted by the ink that stretched over his ribs, black against pale skin, impossible not to notice.

You were so caught up in the sight that you nearly missed his voice.

“Baby, are you bringing any of the plushies I gave you?” His tone was casual, distracted as he tugged the hoodie halfway on, still facing away from you.

When no answer came, he frowned, brows pulling together. “…Baby?”

He turned, hoodie dangling in his hands, only to catch you frozen, eyes locked on him. The corner of his mouth twitched upward as realization struck.

You blinked rapidly, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Huh?”

Ni-ki’s smirk only widened, boyish but dangerous, like he’d caught you red-handed.

He removed his hoodie from his hands, not bothering to slip it on properly—just tossing it lazily over one shoulder like some careless model. One hand shoved deep into the pocket of his sweats as he strolled toward you, his voice low and amused.

“Were you staring?”

Your throat bobbed, panic blooming as you cleared it and quickly tore your eyes away.

“I—oh, um, yeah… I need to pack my stuff too, sorry.”

You turned in a rush, making a beeline for your open suitcase near the curtains. The neat rows of folded clothes suddenly looked like the most interesting thing in the world.

Fingers fumbled with the zipper, the excuse flimsy even to your own ears, but it was the only escape you had.

Behind you, you could feel his gaze—heavy, knowing. His smirk lingered in the silence, stretching out just enough to make you burn.

“Don’t forget your makeup bag, baby.”

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, spinning around as the memory hit you. Of course—you’d left it on the coffee table.

Ni-ki still shirtless, the hoodie hanging off his broad shoulder, holding the sleek black leather pouch. The Chrome Hearts one he’d gifted you a few months back. Your stomach dipped.

You couldn’t help the way your lips twitched into a guilty smile, recalling how you once ranted about your Prada one being too small for your growing collection—most of which he’d impulsively bought for you.

Ten lip glosses in one week, handed to you like candy, because “they reminded me of you.” Overboard, yes. But undeniably him.

The pouch gleamed under the dim morning light, supple leather shifting softly in his hand as he took his time walking closer, closing the distance inch by inch.

“Here.” His voice was gentle now, almost careful, as he held it out.

You swallowed and took it, nodding faintly, your eyes glued stubbornly to the floor as if it might swallow you whole.

But Ni-ki only chuckled.

“Hey.” His tone dropped to something softer, teasing laced with warmth.

He stepped closer, his fingers brushing yours again as he casually took the pouch from your hands and set it aside on the bed.

Then, without hesitation, his arms slipped around your waist, pulling you against him.

“What’s this, huh?” he murmured, tilting his head down so his breath tickled your temple. “Caught you staring and now you’re getting all shy on me?”

Your breath hitched, cheeks flaming as your palms landed flat on his chest, solid and warm. “I wasn’t—!”

He laughed quietly, the sound rich and unhurried, his lips curving against your hair. “Mmhm, you were.”

One of his hands slid up your back, holding you flush against him, while the other stayed at your waist like he had no intention of letting go.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, voice playfully conspiratorial as he leaned close enough for you to feel his smirk against your ear. “I like when you stare.”

Your knees nearly buckled at the words, your heart racing so hard you swore he could feel it.

You sighed shakily, burying your face into Ni-ki’s bare chest, the warmth of his skin calming you even as your cheeks burned.

“Not fair, Riki,” you mumbled against him, voice muffled.

He laughed lowly, arms tightening around your waist until you felt completely enveloped. “Nothing’s fair, baby.”

Groaning, you shoved lightly at his chest, slipping out of his grasp just enough to stand on your toes. Despite the stretch, he still had to dip down a little for you to reach.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek—quick—and leaned back with a grin when the glossy red print of your lipstick shone against his skin.

You hummed in appreciation of your own handiwork, smirking up at him while his brows lifted knowingly.

“Pack up, blondie,” you teased, tone playful as you poked at his chest. “I need to help Jungwon with the schedule for the London tour next week.”

He sighed, dragging it out dramatically, before finally nodding. “How many heels are you bringing for that?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “At least three.”

He nodded as if he were making mental notes, already dragging one of your empty suitcases toward him. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he reached down and picked up one of your heels from the floor, spinning it lightly in his hand.

“Oh,” you added with a smug little smirk, pointing at his cheek as you reached for the door. “And you might wanna clean that up.”

Before he could reply, you slipped out the door, shutting it quickly behind you.

For a moment, Ni-ki just sat there, blinking.

Then, curiosity getting the best of him, he fished his phone out of his pocket and flipped open the camera app. His reflection filled the screen, and sure enough, the bold print of your lipstick stood out proudly against his pale skin.

He chuckled to himself, scrunching his nose at the sight.

“Very cheeky, (Y/N),” he muttered, shaking his head, though the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him.

He stared at the mark for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes. Then, with a sudden smirk, he closed the camera app and pulled up his chats.

Scrolling quickly, he landed on a familiar name—his tattoo artist.

ni-ki [7:15 AM]: yo, are you awake?

It took barely a few seconds before the typing bubbles popped up.

ink man [7:15 AM]: What’s up man?

Ni-ki’s grin widened.

ni-ki [7:15 AM]: i need a rush piece. can you do it tomorrow?

ink man [7:15 AM]: Yeah sure, just drop by. Send me the inspo.

Ni-ki wasted no time, snapping a quick photo of his cheek, the kiss mark bold and clear, before sending it.

The response came almost instantly.

ink man [7:16 AM]: Did (Y/N) give you that? That’s sick, man.

Ni-ki bit back a laugh, thumbs flying across the keyboard.

ni-ki [7:16 AM]: obviously. need it somewhere hidden though.

ink man [7:16 AM]: I got you, man.

He was about to type out a reply when your voice carried faintly from down the hallway.

“Riki! Come here, quick meeting!”

He swiped the chat away immediately, only sending a quick thumbs-up emoji before shoving his phone back in his pocket.

Standing, he tugged his hoodie properly over his head at last, combing his fingers through his hair as he padded over to the door.

“Coming!”

The moment he pushed the door open, the noise of the dorm rushed in. His members were scattered across the floor of the living room, papers, pens, and laptops everywhere.

Their manager, Yuki, sat cross-legged, pinching the bridge of his nose as though dealing with children instead of grown idols.

“This kid—really—you only listen to (Y/N),” Yuki muttered, gesturing toward Ni-ki with exasperation.

Ni-ki blinked, tilting his head innocently, blonde strands swaying slightly in his face without their usual gel. He moved toward the empty spot beside you, dropping onto the floor easily.

“What do you mean?”

Heeseung shot him a look, unimpressed. “We’ve been calling your name for the last two minutes.”

Ni-ki’s lips curled into a sheepish smile, scratching the back of his neck. “Oops.”

You only rolled your eyes, nudging him with your knee. “Focus, Riki.”

Ni-ki smirked to himself, but obediently leaned closer, pulling the schedule papers toward him as if he hadn’t just planned something wildly impulsive behind everyone’s back.

It had been a week since Ni-ki sent that impulsive text to his tattoo artist, and for some reason, he’d been acting off.

Nothing big, nothing dramatic—but just enough for you to notice.

It was early, the dorm alive with a quiet kind of chaos. Members darted between their rooms with bags slung over their shoulders, voices muffled but firm as reminders echoed down the hall.

“London. Early. Start packing. Don’t forget your passports.”

You hummed to yourself, standing in front of the full-length mirror on Ni-ki’s closet door. The curlers had done their job—your hair fell in soft waves that framed your face perfectly.

You set the curler down carefully, running your fingers through to fluff the strands, nodding in satisfaction.

The door creaked open, and Ni-ki walked in with a handful of papers, his brow furrowed, lips pursed.

He looked like a grown man carrying the weight of the world—except he was still barefoot, hair messy, and his hoodie looked two sizes too big.

“Is our schedule really this packed?” he groaned, holding the papers up like they were some cursed prophecy.

You glanced at the page, recognizing both your name and Yuki’s scribbled at the bottom—signatures confirming the tour agenda you both spent hours organizing.

Smiling apologetically, you slipped the papers from his hands and set them on the bedside table before reaching up to wrap your arms around him.

“Come here, you big baby.”

Almost instantly, his arms wrapped back around you—but something about the way his hand darted down to move yours from his lower waist up to his middle didn’t go unnoticed.

You frowned for a split second, but let it slide, hugging him tighter.

His chin rested easily on top of your head, and for a moment, it felt like the stress of schedules, suitcases, and planes melted away.

Still, you winced, your neck straining at the angle. “Riki… are you forgetting you’re literally a whole foot and some inches taller than me?”

He chuckled quietly but didn’t let go.

Instead, he pulled back just enough to press a soft kiss to your forehead, his voice dropping lower as though whispering a secret only for you.

“When this world tour’s over, we’re going on vacation. Just the two of us.”

Your chest warmed, lips tugging up into a smile. “Let’s go back to Japan. I miss our families.”

Ni-ki’s face lit up at the suggestion, eyes glinting. “Mhmm. I miss Bisco.”

You burst into laughter at the mention of his dog. “Really? Not even your sisters?”

His nose scrunched adorably, making you grin harder.

“Hey—you can’t blame me. Those two won’t give me a break.” He shuddered dramatically, and you smacked his arm lightly.

Rolling your eyes with affection, you bent to grab the papers again. But as you shifted your weight, your other hand instinctively went low for balance.

Ni-ki moved faster than you expected, grabbing your wrist mid-motion, keeping your touch far from his side as he steadied you with his other arm.

You blinked up at him, brows furrowing. “Riki… are you okay?”

He forced a smile, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Yeah, just—really bad muscle ache on my side. From practice.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “You should get that checked—”

“Nah, I’m good.” He waved you off quickly with his free hand, a little too quickly.

You gave him a look—the one you always did when you could tell he wasn’t being fully honest.

He exhaled in defeat, muttering under his breath, “Women…”

Your eyes narrowed immediately. “What was that?”

He plastered on a sheepish smile, leaning down until his nose brushed yours. “Nothing, baby. I love you so much.”

Your irritation cracked under the weight of his grin, and when his lips pressed against yours, soft and slow, you couldn’t help but smile back into the kiss.

When he pulled away, you tapped his chest, nodding toward the half-open suitcase by the bed.

“You ready?”

His gaze flicked toward the empty luggage and he grimaced.

“…No.”

You smacked his chest lightly again, rolling your eyes. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”

The stadium was quiet compared to what it would be tomorrow—no fans, no flashing lights, just the faint hum of equipment and the echo of the boys’ voices bouncing off the walls as they rehearsed Sweet Venom for what felt like the hundredth time.

You sat slouched in one of the VIP front row seats, clipboard balanced on your lap, pen tapping against the paper.

Your eyes drifted from the detailed setlist you’d been rereading for the past ten minutes to the stage, where Ni-ki was moving with muscle memory, his every step sharp despite how visibly drained he looked.

A low sigh left your lips just as the seat beside you shifted.

“You alright, kiddo?”

You turned your head to see Yuki settling down beside you, one brow raised, his ever-present lanyard bouncing against his chest.

“Why?” you asked automatically, blinking at him before your eyes flicked back to the stage.

Ni-ki had just brushed his damp bangs out of his eyes, sweat clinging to his skin under the harsh stage lights. Your chest tugged a little, but you quickly looked back down at your clipboard.

Yuki chuckled, shaking his head. “Because you’ve done more than enough for the team tonight. You look ready to collapse yourself.”

A smile pulled at your lips despite the exhaustion weighing on your shoulders. “You know… I should thank you for still letting me in the makeup team.”

That got a laugh out of him. He leaned back in the seat, arms crossed as his eyes followed the boys on stage.

“Yeah, but you spend more time with the stage team than your own crew these days.”

Your grin only widened. “Still. Really, thank you, Yuki. I owe you a lot.”

He turned to look at you, and for a second his expression softened, almost fatherly.

“You don’t owe me anything, (Y/N). If anything, I owe you. The higher-ups love you. Say you act like a mother to the boys.”

You scrunched your nose at that, shaking your head in disbelief. “I’m literally the same age as Riki.”

That made Yuki burst out laughing, his voice echoing louder than the boys’ background vocals.

“Maybe so, but at least they listen to you. Who would’ve thought the youngest member’s girlfriend could make the rest of them actually shake?”

This time, it was you laughing, biting your lip as you tried to keep quiet. “That’s a little too extreme, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” Yuki admitted, lips quirking.

He glanced at the stage where Ni-ki was spinning into place before his eyes flicked back to you, his voice gentler now. “Still, thank you. For being with them when I can’t. For being with him when I can’t.”

You followed his gaze toward Ni-ki, then looked back at Yuki with a small, almost shy smile tugging at your lips. “Young love really does wonders, huh?”

Yuki’s smile deepened. “Mhmm. Childhood friends to lovers—you two are the definition of it. Suck it up.”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks and you swatted at him with your clipboard, but he just stood, ruffling your hair before you could dodge.

“I’m telling you, you are,” he said with a grin, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Anyway, I need to head backstage. Check on the equipment.”

“What’s next after this?” you asked, flipping your clipboard around and scanning the highlighted notes.

“Dunno. You tell me.”

You traced a line down the list before finding your answer. “One more run of ‘No Doubt’ and they’re done for the night.”

He nodded in satisfaction. “Well, knock yourself out. But not too much, alright? You’re practically like a daughter to me.”

You raised a brow at him, unimpressed. “You mean you just need me for crowd control tomorrow.”

Yuki’s grin widened as he pointed at you like you’d caught him. “Yes.”

Rolling your eyes, you waved him off. “Yes, yes, I get it. Goodbye, Yuki.”

“Bye, (Y/N),” he called as he walked away, laughing at the exasperation in your voice.

You couldn’t help but smile a little, your gaze automatically lifting to the stage just as the final notes of ‘Sweet Venom’ echoed out across the empty stadium.

The boys were panting, sweat-soaked, and drained—but still moving with precision. As the music faded, you noticed Ni-ki moving fast, skipping steps as he jogged down the side stairs.

The others caught his eagerness, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

Sunghoon leaned lazily into his mic, his lips curling into a smirk. “Such a baby.”

Ni-ki paused mid-step and whipped around to glare at the older, eyes narrowed, shoulders rising with every breath.

Sunghoon immediately lifted his hands in mock defeat, lips twitching in amusement. “Okay, okay.”

Still glaring, Ni-ki turned back and broke into a jog again—straight toward you.

You hurriedly dropped your clipboard onto the empty chair beside you and spread your arms open just as he practically launched himself at you.

“Oof, Riki—” you muttered, stumbling back a little under his weight. “You’re heavy!”

He only slumped further against you, unbothered, as if proving a point.

Your arms circled around him instinctively, and you rubbed your hands up and down his damp back, smiling when you caught the camera in the corner filming the two of you.

“You good?” you murmured softly.

He nodded against your neck, voice muffled. “I missed you.”

A laugh bubbled out of you as you stroked the back of his hair. “I’ve been sitting here for the past three hours.”

“Still,” he grumbled, refusing to move.

You sighed, tugging gently at his shirt. “Come on, you need to finish. You still have one more song to go over.”

“Don’t wanna,” he mumbled stubbornly, his arms tightening around you like a child.

You giggled, shaking your head at him, when suddenly a buzz from your pocket pulled your attention away. Patting his back, you coaxed, “Let go, Riki.”

He reluctantly pulled back, lips in a pout, before flopping onto the chair next to you like he owned the place.

You fished out your phone and saw Yuki’s name flash on the screen, a new message. Smiling, you set your phone on your lap and looked at Ni-ki, his hand still wrapped around the mic he’d been holding all evening.

“May I?” you asked, pointing at it.

He immediately let go and handed it over, eyes still sulking but lips twitching like he wanted to smile.

You stood, cleared your throat, and brought the mic up. “Everybody,”

The staff froze in place, turning toward you, and the boys on stage all blinked and shuffled closer, curiosity painted on their tired faces. Even the tech crew looked up from their equipment.

Flipping your phone around, you read aloud, trying to keep your tone professional: “According to Yuki, we can all leave after the boys get enough rest—staff included—once we finish one more stage check.”

The collective sigh of relief was instant. Shoulders relaxed, heads nodded, a few quiet “thank gods” echoing through the space. But you weren’t done.

A smile tugged at your lips as you scrolled to the next part of his message.

“Also,” you added, clearing your throat dramatically. “Yuki says—and I quote—‘I’ve heard No Doubt way too many times tonight. Have a good rest, everyone.’”

The staff erupted with laughter, some even shouting “Thank you, Yuki!” despite him being backstage.

Jungwon immediately punched the air and collapsed dramatically onto the stage floor. Jake doubled over, laughing, while Sunghoon leaned against him, groaning from exhaustion.

“Finally,” you muttered under your breath, lowering the mic and letting the boys and crew revel in the good news.

You turned back to Ni-ki, only to catch him wincing slightly as his hand pressed against his side. Your smile dropped into a frown.

“Haven’t I told you to get that checked?” you asked quietly.

He glanced at you sheepishly, caught, before giving you a small nod. “Yeah, you did.”

“And?” you pressed, already crossing your arms.

He grinned, victorious like a child who finally did his homework. “I did.”

Suspicious, you raised a brow and snatched your clipboard from the chair, holding it like a weapon. “And what’s the verdict?”

“Really bad muscle strain,” he admitted, tone casual, though you didn’t miss the slight tension in his voice.

You grimaced. “Riki…”

Standing at the same time you did, he swung an arm casually around your shoulders, tugging you close as if nothing was wrong.

“Are you sure you don’t have to go to a hospital?” you asked, brows furrowed as you let him guide you toward the side exit.

“Baby, you’re overthinking it.” He waved his free hand dismissively.

You shot him a sharp look, making him laugh. “What was that look for?”

“I’m serious!” you scolded, narrowing your eyes. “You push yourself too hard.”

He leaned down, pinching your cheek with his free hand. “Riki, I swear—”

“I know, I know,” he cut in quickly, grin soft but teasing as he let your cheek go. “So… thank you.”

You exhaled, torn between smacking him and hugging him tighter, your lips twitching despite yourself.

Behind you, the rest of the boys were filing down from the stage, loud as ever.

“I want chicken,” Jake groaned, stretching his arms overhead.

“I want pizza,” Sunoo countered instantly.

“No, chicken!”

“Well, I want pizza!”

“Both,” Jay sighed in defeat, dragging a hand down his face. “We’ll just get both.”

Ni-ki chuckled, glancing over his shoulder. “I want sushi.”

Then he looked back at you, eyes gleaming as he pulled you closer against his side, whispering just for you, “And plus, I’m not dying. It’s just a strain.”

Your chest softened, but you still sighed, leaning into him. “I know… but I worry about you.”

His lips curved upward, his voice low and teasing but warm. “I know.”

Things only got weirder with the way Ni-ki was acting that night. The two of you shuffled across your shared hotel room, walking through the mess of used plates and scattered cups that littered the carpet.

You sighed, tossing another paper cup into the trash bag as you muttered, “I feel like I’m the mother of seven.”

Ni-ki laughed, balancing two greasy chicken boxes in one hand. “Saying that at nineteen is wild.”

You shot him a flat look, but the corner of your mouth tugged up anyway.

When you walked past him to grab the stack of napkins someone left crumpled on the table, he caught your wrist and tugged you into his chest, his chin dipping to rest on top of your head.

“Tired?” he asked, voice low, soft.

You nodded against him, muffled. “So much. I don’t know how you guys manage to do all that singing and dancing for hours.”

His grin widened, and he pressed a lazy kiss into your hair. “Don’t bring yourself down like that. You do so much for us.”

You looked up at him then, smiling gently before you pressed a kiss against his jaw. “Well, I’m going to take a shower. Tell Jungwon I’ll help him with the morning schedule later, okay?”

He hummed, nodding, pressing another quick kiss to your forehead like he couldn’t help himself.

You were already walking toward the bathroom when you called back, teasing, “Are you gonna join me?”

Ni-ki chuckled under his breath, pulling his hoodie over his head and tossing it onto the loveseat. Clad now only in a white shirt, he shook his head with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, baby. I can’t.”

You frowned, hand already on the sliding door. “Are you sure?”

His smile tilted guilty. “Heeseung needs help with something. But I swear I’ll make it up to you next week.”

You blinked. “Next week?”

“Mmhm,” he confirmed, grin boyish but nervous.

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Okay, Nishimura. I’ll hold you to that.” And with that, you slid the bathroom door open and disappeared inside.

The second the door shut, Ni-ki let out a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. His hand lifted, grabbing the hem of his shirt and tugging it up.

The dim light washed over his skin, tracing down the sharp lines of his abdomen until it caught on the angry red ink just beside his V-line—an outline of lips. Your lips.

His own lips tugged upward despite himself, tracing the tender skin gently with his fingers before pulling the shirt back down.

“Since when do I ever refuse a shower invite?” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head at himself as he flopped onto the bed.

Reaching for his phone, he tapped Heeseung’s name. The older picked up within two rings.

“What did you do this time?” Heeseung’s voice was immediately suspicious, already teasing.

“What the hell do you mean ‘this time’?” Ni-ki huffed, shifting the phone between his shoulder and ear.

“Oh, I don’t know—did (Y/N) make you sleep on the hotel couch again?”

Ni-ki groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. “That was one time!”

Heeseung’s laugh echoed faintly through the line. “Yeah, when you lost her Dior lipstick during filming. I still remember that meltdown.”

“I bought her five more to make up for it, didn’t I?” Ni-ki retorted, flopping onto his back and fixing his gaze on the ceiling.

“Mmhm,” Heeseung drawled, the sound of rustling and then a ramen lid peeling back audible through the speaker. “Okay, loverboy. Why are you calling me? We’re literally two floors apart.”

Ni-ki bit his lip, hesitating. “…How do I tell (Y/N) I have a new tattoo?”

There was a pause. Then Heeseung’s voice rose in pitch. “When the fuck did you get a new tattoo?”

“Three days ago,” Ni-ki admitted, scratching the back of his neck.

Heeseung made a low hum. “So why don’t you tell her? You’ve never had a problem before.”

“Because…” Ni-ki sighed, sitting up to ruffle his hair. “It’s about her.”

That earned a snicker. “What, did you get her face inked on your back or something?”

“No!” Ni-ki snapped, then exhaled. His voice softened. “I got her kiss mark… right below my abdomen. A womb tattoo.”

There was silence—then Heeseung burst out laughing, nearly choking on his ramen. “Oh my god. You are so down bad.”

Ni-ki rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched with a proud grin.

“Well, I grew up with her. We went to the same school, she flew to South Korea with me during I-LAND, she never broke up with me even when things got insane. I asked her to be my girlfriend when we debuted, and we somehow kept it under wraps until last year. So yes, I am down bad. Thank you very much.”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Heeseung muttered between slurps of noodles. “You’ve got a future wife, damn.”

The grin stretched wider across Ni-ki’s face at that.

“So what are you scared of?” Heeseung pressed.

Ni-ki leaned back against the headboard, his hand unconsciously brushing against his side where the tattoo lay hidden. “She might have my head for getting one without her consent.”

Heeseung chuckled. “That, I can’t help with. But…” His tone shifted mischievous. “I do have an idea.”

Ni-ki groaned immediately, narrowing his eyes at the ceiling. “This is not a good start. A ‘Heeseung idea’ usually means problems.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

Ni-ki let out a heavy sigh, dragging a hand over his face. “…Go on.”

The crowd for soundcheck was as loud as it could get, the screams ricocheting off the stadium walls like thunder.

You stood beside Yuki just below the stage, hands crossed on your chest, eyes darting across the moving lights and the boys bounding from one end of the stage to the other as they sang ‘Go Big or Go Home.’

They were grinning wide, waving, showing off for the hundred cameras capturing their every move.

“Are we absolutely sure there’s no misplaced—” you gestured vaguely at the stage, “—lights, cables, or anything for them to trip over? You know, a falling spotlight waiting to kill somebody?”

Yuki barely blinked, arms crossed as he tracked the members’ blocking. “No. I triple-checked with the technical team last night. Everything’s secure.”

You nodded slowly, shifting your weight onto your other foot. The moment you did, Yuki’s eyes flicked down, catching the shine of your 4-inch platform boots. His grimace said enough.

“Are you sure you’re going to survive the whole night in those?” he asked dryly.

You glanced down at your shoes, rocking them side to side with a sheepish grin. “Yes… why?”

Yuki gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you. Two hours into our wedding and my wife nearly threw her heels at me because her feet were hurting.”

You laughed at the image, tipping your head toward him. “Oh, I will tell her that. I miss her.”

“Mmhm, sure. She misses you too,” Yuki replied, lips quirking.

You turned your head then, scanning the pit just behind you—and nearly snorted out loud. A crowd of ENGENEs were pressed up against the barrier, their phones all pointed directly at you, not the stage.

Some were giggling, others waving their banners, and a few even mouthed “(Y/N), look here!”

“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath, dragging a hand down your face.

Thanking Heeseung and Jake in your head for every English lesson they drilled into you, you called out, voice raised just enough:

“Why are you guys filming me? The boys are right there!” You pointed up at the stage, where Sunghoon was in the middle of his part, waving at the crowd.

The fans screamed even louder, and one particularly bold voice near the front shrieked, “We love you more, (Y/N)!”

You laughed, hand flying to cover your mouth before lowering it again, your smile wide. Turning back to Yuki, your eyes silently asked the question—‘Can I?’

Yuki raised a brow but eventually sighed, shaking his head in fond defeat. “Go ahead,” he said, a small smile tugging his lips.

That was all the permission you needed. You turned back around and walked closer to the barrier, the cheers rising with every step.

Immediately, the bodyguards stationed nearby moved like shadows, one of them already lifting his hand to step with you.

You quickly raised your own hand, halting them. “No need,” you said firmly, turning your head just enough to meet their eyes.

“But Ms. (Y/N)—” one of them started, tone cautious.

But you were quicker. “I trust them enough, okay?”

The bodyguard hesitated, but backed off with a reluctant nod, his gaze sweeping over the fans just in case.

You reached the barrier now, folding your arms loosely on top of it as fans nearly exploded into screams and chants.

Someone held up a poster with your name scribbled in glitter letters, another waved a plushie of a baby chick, and you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing.

“You guys are too much,” you teased, your grin widening as you pointed up at the stage. “Jake is right there!”

Sure enough, Jake was only a few feet away, mid-song, tugging playfully at Jungwon’s sleeve.

When he noticed you pointing at him, he waved dramatically, sending the fans into another fit of screams. You turned back to the barrier with a laugh.

“And you’re filming me, really?” you asked, mock incredulity painting your tone.

In response, a fan lifted their phone, the screen showing a paused frame from an EN-O’CLOCK episode—where the staff had accidentally left in a close-up of you making the ugliest face mid-laugh.

You burst into laughter, clapping a hand over your mouth.

“Oh, come on!” you groaned, still laughing.

“But you’re so pretty!” the fan shouted back, and the crowd around her echoed in agreement.

You felt your cheeks heat, ducking your head before lifting it again with a soft, “Thank you.”

Another voice piped up eagerly, “(Y/N)! Share your makeup secrets!”

You gasped playfully. “My makeup secrets? Okay, one day I’ll crash one of Ni-ki’s lives, alright?”

The cheers were deafening, and you couldn’t help but shake your head with a smile.

Even after all these years, using your boyfriend’s stage name in front of others still felt strange on your tongue. To you, he was just Riki.

“But,” you continued, tapping your lips, “right now I’m using Dior.”

Gasps, screams, and waving lightsticks followed instantly.

“The lipstick or the gloss?!” someone shouted.

You grinned, holding a finger up as if about to make a huge reveal. “Both.”

That got the loudest cheer yet, and you laughed, covering your ears dramatically as if they were too loud. Fans kept their phones up, catching every second, some yelling your name, others just screaming out of sheer excitement.

“How are you and Ni-ki?” a fan suddenly shouted above the noise.

You blinked but smiled warmly, leaning closer so they could hear you. “We’re very happy. Thank you.”

The crowd smiled. Some squealed, others cooed, a few even fanned their faces as if they couldn’t handle it.

The moment felt lighter now, so you started posing for their cameras—peace signs, exaggerated winks, blowing kisses that made the whole section of fans go feral.

You laughed as one screamed, “(Y/N), we’re only here for you!”

“Don’t say that!” you scolded playfully, pointing toward the stage.

But then another voice rang out, bolder, cheekier: “Does Ni-ki have a new tattoo?”

Your laughter faltered just slightly, though your smile didn’t drop. Shaking your head, you answered honestly, “That’s not my story to tell.”

The fans collectively pouted, some even whining, but you noticed most of them nodding in understanding.

Before you could add anything else, a voice boomed through the mic above you.

“Hey!”

Your head snapped up to see Jay walking toward your side of the stage, mic in hand, his expression halfway between amusement and mock-accusation. “(Y/N), are you stealing our fans?”

The crowd erupted again, and you shook your head furiously, laughing. “No!”

Jake quickly joined him, dragging Ni-ki along by the wrist. Jake’s grin was mischievous, his voice carrying clearly through the speakers. “Engenes, what is this?”

Behind you, the pit exploded into chants: “We love (Y/N)!”

You laughed, hiding your face in your hands. Jake bent over laughing too, but it was Ni-ki who took a step forward, pulling his mic to his lips.

“That’s my girl,” he said smoothly, in perfect English.

You froze, eyes widening, before your face flushed pink all the way to your ears. The crowd screamed so loud, every single phone now pointed at Ni-ki—or at you, who was covering your face in disbelief.

And of course, one brave fan screamed back, “She’s my girl, not yours!”

The boys on stage lost it. Jake keeled over laughing, Jay’s jaw dropped in fake scandal, and Ni-ki leaned forward, brow furrowed as he replied into the mic, “What? No.”

That only made the fans scream louder.

You couldn’t stop laughing, shaking your head as you raised your hands like you were calling a ceasefire.

“Okay, okay—let’s all calm down!” you said, gesturing toward the boys on stage, then to the staff behind you.

The crew by the wings gave you nods, already signaling to the sound team to get ready for the next track.

Ni-ki still had a mischievous grin tugging at his lips, Jake was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, and Jay was muttering something about “unbelievable betrayal.”

The concert had ended in fireworks, confetti, but now the halls of the hotel were hushed, lined with tired staff and members already retreating to their rooms.

You and Ni-ki lingered behind, waving the others off with soft goodbyes.

His hand rested at the small of your back protectively, while his other arm carried your discarded boots—the heels dangling by their straps as you padded along in just your socks, exhaustion written in every step.

Swiping the keycard, you pushed the door open with a sigh that was almost dramatic.

“My feet are so tired, Iki…” you mumbled, leaning heavier into him.

The way his lips curved at the nickname made your chest warm, but he only shook his head in fond amusement as he nudged you inside. Setting your heels down neatly by the door, he closed it behind you.

“Only your feet, really?” he teased, his tone light but his eyes soft.

You nodded solemnly, flopping against his side as he guided you deeper into the room. “I could still run a mile, I swear. But my feet? They’re killing me.”

He chuckled, leaning down just enough to brush his lips against your cheek before steering you toward the bed. “You’re stubborn,” he muttered, easing you down onto the mattress.

Kneeling in front of you, he gently tugged at your ankles, placing your socked feet in his lap before working his thumbs into the sore arches.

The sound that left you was an unfiltered sigh of relief. “That feels so good…”

“I told you to wear your more comfortable ones,” Ni-ki hummed knowingly, his long fingers tracing slow, careful circles into your skin. “But did you listen? No.”

Your nose scrunched up, the tiniest pout forming as you leaned back against your palms. “Okay, now you sound like Yuki.”

That made him laugh, a soft, boyish sound that filled the quiet room. He let go of your feet eventually, sliding up onto the bed beside you instead.

Without a word, he reached for the zipper of your cropped jacket, shrugging it off your shoulders with an ease that made your heart squeeze.

“Thank you, Iki,” you whispered, resting your head against his shoulder.

“Anytime, baby. I got you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into your temple.

You lingered there a moment, letting the quiet sink in—the dim hotel lights, the muffled sounds of the city outside, the way his warmth was already seeping into you.

Finally, you tilted your face up to him with a tiny smile. “Well… I don’t know about you, but I need to take a shower. I’ll be back, okay?”

Leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss against his lips, the kind that was meant to be quick—but his hands were quicker, sliding instinctively around your waist to hold you in place.

You couldn’t help but smile against his mouth, your palm flattening over his chest. “Iki… I feel so icky. Like, actually.”

Pulling back just slightly, he gave you that smug little grin of his. “Nice wordplay.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you stood up, tugging off your socks and tossing them aside with a sigh of relief.

Grabbing your phone from the nightstand, you were already scrolling to your shower playlist when you glanced back at him.

“Feel free to join me, okay?” you teased lightly, raising a brow.

His answer was a simple hum, his gaze following you as he leaned back on his palms. “Mhmm. Go ahead.”

You caught the way his eyes lingered as you padded toward the bathroom, and even after you closed the door, you could still feel his grin hanging in the air.

Humming softly, you continued scrolling through your shower playlist, the familiar beat of your favorite song spilling faintly from the phone speakers.

But instead of hitting play, your thumb slid to another app out of habit—Twitter.

The screen lit up instantly, a flood of notifications stacking on top of each other. Mentions. Retweets. Tags. All saying the same thing:

“Ni-ki’s tattoo!”

“Womb kiss mark tattoo??”

“Has (Y/N) saw it?”

Your brows furrowed. “Huh?” you mumbled, adjusting your grip on the phone. “Must be his ace of spades on his wrist again…”

You tilted your head thoughtfully, scrolling faster. “Or maybe his rib tattoo? Or… maybe the fans just want him to get a new one.”

But then one post caught your eye. A shaky, zoomed-in video from earlier tonight.

You tapped it.

The clip was grainy, but clear enough: Ni-ki’s hoodie riding up during soundcheck, the hem flashing just enough skin for a split second. The caption screamed in all caps:

“NI-KI’S WOMB TATTOO IS A KISS MARK?”

Your breath stilled, the faintest gasp escaping before you even realized. The red outline was unmistakable—lips, right below his abdomen, just at the sharp dip of his v-line.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, heart thumping against your ribs. “It’s real.”

Your shower playlist forgotten, you shoved the phone aside and bolted out of the bathroom, bare feet smacking against the carpet despite the ache in them.

“Riki!”

He was just tugging his hoodie over his head, hair mussed, tank top clinging to him in the dim hotel lighting. He startled at the urgency in your voice, spinning around.

“Baby, what—?”

“Let me see.” Your words came out sharp, desperate, as you crossed the room in quick strides.

His brows pulled together. “See what?”

“The tattoo.”

For a split second, he froze. And then—he winced, almost guiltily. “…What tattoo?”

Your jaw dropped. “Don’t play with me right now, Nishimura Riki. Let me see.”

The sound of his full name in your tone must’ve cracked something in him, because he sighed, defeated. Tossing his hoodie carelessly to the floor, he grabbed the hem of his tank top, pulling it over his head in one swift motion.

Your eyes flickered over his bare chest, the sculpted lines of his shoulders, but you didn’t have time for that distraction.

His hand went to his waistband, tugging the elastic of his joggers down just slightly—enough to reveal it.

The semi-fresh tattoo sat stark against his pale skin, the red ink almost glowing in the lamplight. The outline of lips was sharp and bold, delicate in its detailing but impossible to mistake.

It curved right at the dip below his abdomen, dangerously intimate, the placement both daring and tender. The skin around it was still slightly raised, faintly irritated, but the design itself looked striking, almost beautiful.

You couldn’t stop the way your lips parted, breath catching.

Slowly, almost reverently, you raised your hand, hovering just above it. You traced the air around the mark, careful not to touch the healing skin, your fingertips trembling.

“Riki…” Your voice cracked slightly, your brows furrowing. “Are you… cheating on me?”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, barely a whisper, but the weight of them hung between you like lead.

His head snapped up instantly, eyes wide. “Baby—what? No!” His voice was firm, urgent.

He reached for your wrist gently, “That’s—” He stopped, swallowing hard, his chest rising and falling. Then, quieter, he said, “That’s yours.”

You blinked, confusion flickering across your face as your lips parted, waiting.

He inhaled deeply, steadying himself, then nodded toward the tattoo, his voice raw. “Your lips. Always yours.”

You furrowed your brows, confusion tightening your face. “What? You didn’t even ask me for any references this past week…”

Your voice trailed off as your mind replayed the countless times he had bugged you before about his other tattoos—showing you sketches, asking which angle looked better, begging for your approval.

But this one? Nothing.

Ni-ki exhaled, his big hands slipping from yours as he sat back on the edge of the bed. His fingers tapped lightly against his thigh, wordless but insistent. An invitation.

You swallowed, then obeyed, stepping forward and settling across his lap, straddling him carefully.

Your arms looped around his bare shoulders, instinctively avoiding the fresh ink just below his abdomen. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

His gaze softened, though his tone carried a heavy seriousness. “You need to promise me something first.”

Your brows knitted. “What?”

“That you’ll never, ever think I could cheat on you. Ever.” His words were firm, unwavering, the kind that left no room for doubt.

You hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Okay…”

“Good girl,” he said, his chest rising against yours with relief. “Because I’d rather kill myself than do that.”

Your palm shot up to swat at his chest, a sharp “Riki!” escaping your lips.

He chuckled, the corners of his mouth tugging upward, but his eyes stayed earnest. “I’m serious, baby. I really just can’t. And I never will, okay? So don’t worry your pretty little head over it.”

His lips brushed your cheek in a soft kiss before he tugged you closer, his chin grazing your temple. The sincerity in his voice made your throat tighten.

“I got it almost three to four days ago,” he admitted quietly.

Your head tilted at that, confusion mixing with something else. “But… you never asked me to come with you.”

His mouth curved into a softer smile.

He leaned forward just enough to press a kiss to the tip of your nose, his voice lowering into something gentle. “Because I wanted it to be a surprise, silly.”

He sighed, shaking his head with a hint of playful frustration. “But the fans got to you first, huh?”

You nodded slowly, pouting. “Yeah… I saw it on Twitter.”

He let out a small laugh, ruffling his hair with one hand before wrapping it back around your waist. “Well. There goes my plan.”

You huffed, narrowing your eyes at him. “But whose kiss mark is that, really?”

Ni-ki laughed outright this time, his gaze flicking downward to the fresh ink. Your own eyes followed instinctively, catching on the way the tattoo curved dangerously close to his v-line.

One of his hands stayed firm on your waist, but the other tilted your chin up until your eyes locked with his.

His voice dropped, steady but soft. “I told you. That’s yours.”

You blinked at him, furrows deepening, and he leaned closer, almost conspiratorial. “Remember when you kissed me a few days ago before we left Korea?”

Your lips parted, a faint memory resurfacing—your lipstick, smudged on his cheek after a kiss. You nodded slowly. “Yeah…”

His grin turned sly, almost boyish, but his eyes burned with intent. “You laughed because your lipstick stayed behind. But I loved how it looked. So I took a photo… and sent it to my artist.”

Your mouth fell open incredulously. “And you couldn’t just let me kiss a napkin or something? So you’d have a proper stencil?”

He laughed again, tugging you in until your noses nearly brushed. “I told you, it was supposed to be a surprise. I thought you’d hate me after using you like that.”

You huffed, your chest tightening with warmth, then peppered kisses across his face—his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth—each one soft but urgent.

“Iki, that’s the hottest tattoo I’ve ever seen.”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling, brushing his thumb across your waist. “You said that about my rib tattoo.”

You pulled back just enough to press a quick peck to his lips, your smile curving against his mouth. “Well, this tops it off. And it’s even better that it came from me.”

His laugh rumbled low in his chest, and before you could take another breath, Ni-ki’s arm tightened around your waist, the other sliding up behind your head.

He tugged you flush against him, tilting your face just so, lips colliding with yours again—harder this time, hungrier.

Your fingers instinctively found the back of his neck, threading through his hair, tugging lightly at the soft strands as the kiss deepened.

He groaned into your mouth, a sound that sent heat rushing straight to your stomach. His bare chest pressed against you, firm and warm, and you melted further into him.

The kiss broke only for a second, both of you panting, lips still brushing as you whispered, “Your blonde hair is starting to grow on me…”

Ni-ki smirked, his breath fanning across your lips as he murmured, “I told you before, didn’t I?”

Then, before you could reply, he caught your mouth again, harder this time, the hand on your hip gripping and pulling you impossibly closer.

A gasp slipped from you, muffled into his mouth, as you felt him rub against you, hips pressing forward with a teasing grind. The movement dragged a needy little moan from your throat, which only seemed to spur him on.

You tilted your head, letting him nip at your lower lip, tugging it gently before his tongue slid against the seam of your mouth, asking for more.

Without hesitation, you parted your lips, letting him in, and the kiss turned messy—tongues tangling, breathless whines spilling as his hand slid lower on your hip, guiding you right where he wanted you.

The friction between you made your head spin, your nails grazing along his nape as you clung to him.

Ni-ki groaned again, hips rolling against yours in a slow grind that had your knees going weak.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice low and rough, “you drive me insane.”

Your fingers tugged on his hair, earning a low groan from him that vibrated right into your mouth.

Ni-ki’s hand on your hip guided you down against him, grinding you into the hard planes of his bare chest and the growing heat between his legs.

The sound that left your throat was muffled against his lips, a needy whimper that only spurred him on.

“Fuck—” he breathed against your mouth, his forehead pressing to yours for a second before he kissed you again, rougher this time.

His other arm slid lower, cupping the back of your thigh to pull you even tighter to him. “You feel so fucking good.”

Your head tilted back slightly, giving him more access as his lips trailed down your jaw, hot and wet against your skin until they reached the curve of your neck.

His teeth grazed your pulse point, biting just enough to make you gasp, your hips instinctively rolling against him.

“Riki—” you moaned, your voice shaky, broken by the friction that only grew more intense with every movement.

He chuckled against your skin, lips curling into a smirk before sucking lightly at the spot he’d just bitten. “I love it when you say my name like that.”

His breath was hot, his voice dark and low. “Say it again.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body rocking in sync with the way he guided your hips, grinding harder, deeper, until your head was spinning.

His mouth found yours again, swallowing every moan as his thumb traced circles into your waist, slow and deliberate.

The kiss broke just long enough for you to pant against his lips, your words barely a whisper.

“Riki, please…”

He chuckled low, the sound vibrating against your throat as his mouth dipped down.

“So needy…” he mumbled into your skin, the words melting into a groan as his teeth sank lightly into the side of your neck.

You gasped, fingers instinctively fisting his hair as his other hand gathered your dress higher and higher, the material bunching at your waist.

His palm slid beneath it, warm against your stomach, fingertips tracing the faint lines and curves there as if he were memorizing them.

Your breath hitched when his hand moved higher, cupping your breast over the thin lace of your bra. The gentle pressure made your back arch, your chest pressing into his palm, silently begging for more.

“Riki—” Your voice cracked halfway, turning into a soft whimper as his skilled fingers found the clasp behind you, undoing it with practiced ease.

The bra slackened and fell away, caught in the fabric of your dress, and his lips returned to your throat, painting trails of kisses and open-mouthed bites across your collarbone.

Each mark stung, then throbbed, leaving warmth that made you grin helplessly against him.

That grin made him groan, the sound raw, rumbling from his chest as if your reaction drove him insane.

Without warning, he stood, his arms locked around your waist, lifting you with an effortless strength that made you squeak in surprise.

“Riki!” you gasped, arms clutching his shoulders, legs curling around him instinctively.

“Relax,” he smirked against your ear, carrying you as though you weighed nothing, before lowering you onto the bed.

The mattress dipped beneath you, and before you could catch your breath, he was hovering above, his body caging yours in completely.

His lips were everywhere—your throat, your jaw, the slope of your shoulder—leaving a constellation of bruised, red marks in his wake.

Each press, each bite, drew moans you couldn’t hold back no matter how hard you tried.

“Sound so sweet,” he muttered against your skin, his voice husky, “all of this just for me.”

Your reply melted into a moan as his hands slid back to the hem of your bunched-up dress. He paused, dark eyes flicking to yours, and you already knew what he wanted.

Wordlessly, you reached down, helping tug the fabric up and over your head, your bra slipping off with it.

The cool air met your bare skin, but it was quickly replaced by the heat of his gaze—hungry, reverent.

“Fuck…” he breathed, his tone so raw it made your stomach flip.

His hand came up, tracing the curve of your chest before cupping it fully, his thumb brushing across your sensitive nipple.

You arched into his touch, a desperate sound breaking from your throat. “Riki—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice low and rough as he leaned down to capture your lips again.

His fingers toyed with your nipples, alternating between sharp pinches and soft circles that had you gasping into his mouth.

His kisses trailed lower, warm and wet, until his lips wrapped around one peak, tongue flicking while his hand teased the other.

Your whimpers spilled freely, echoing against his skin as he marked his way down, sucking hickeys into the softness of your chest.

He pulled away just briefly, smirking at the sight of the blooming bruises scattered across your skin.

“Perfect,” he muttered, admiring his work as his fingers gave another squeeze, sending you squirming. “All mine.”

Heat surged through you when his hands slid lower, careful but deliberate, brushing down until he hooked his fingers under the lacy material of your underwear. He tugged gently, grinning when your thighs tensed.

“Wearing the pair I bought you?” His tone was mocking, dripping with satisfaction. “Really, baby? Just tell me you need me.”

The embarrassment hit you all at once—cheeks burning, chest heaving—and your hands flew up to cover your face. “Riki…” you whined, muffled behind your palms.

He clicked his tongue in disapproval, leaning forward until his forehead rested against yours. “Don’t give me that shy bullshit,” he said, voice sharper this time.

His thumb dragged across your lower lip until you had no choice but to peek at him through your lashes. “I want to see you.”

Slowly, hesitantly, you lowered your hands. His eyes darkened instantly, a satisfied hum leaving his throat as he slipped the lace completely off you, tossing it aside carelessly.

The air was thick with tension as he settled between your legs, spreading you with a hunger that had you panting.

He pressed a single kiss to your inner thigh before giving your core a slow, teasing lick that sent shivers all the way up your spine.

“Riki—” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair. “No teasing.”

He pulled back just enough to grin up at you, mouth glistening. “You don’t call the shots, sweetheart.”

His thumb swiped over your slick folds, deliberately slow, as his lips brushed the inside of your thigh again. “But since you asked so pretty…”

Ni-ki didn’t give you a chance to whine before his mouth was back on you, tongue dragging up your slit in one long stroke that made your back arch.

He hooked his arms under your thighs and tugged them higher, resting them snug over his shoulders so he could bury himself even deeper.

The wet sounds of his mouth on you echoed in the quiet room, his tongue teasing your clit with feather-light flicks before dipping lower, pushing inside your entrance with playful thrusts.

The sensation made your finger instinctively bury themselves in his hair, pulling at the blonde strands until he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“Ni-ki—” your voice cracked into a whimper, your hips twitching, desperate for more friction.

You tried to buck up against his mouth, chasing his tongue, but his grip on your thighs was firm, pinning you down with ease.

He pulled back just slightly, lips glistening as his dark eyes met yours from between your legs.

“Mhmm, too eager,” he murmured, the corners of his mouth curling as he brought two fingers up, rubbing lazily over your folds. “Need to prep you, baby.”

You pouted, breath shaky. “But—”

“I know,” he cut in, kissing the inside of your thigh again, his voice calm but laced with amusement.

“You’ve taken me too many times to count, huh?” His fingers pressed teasing circles around your entrance without slipping in.

Your lips parted, frustration bubbling up. “Yeah, so—”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head like you were being stubborn on purpose. “The last time I skipped prep, you couldn’t stop complaining about how sore you were. Remember that?”

Before you could spit out another retort, he pushed one finger in, slow and deliberate, watching the way your face twister in relief.

He smirked knowingly, “See? Feels better when I take my time.”

Your breath hitched, your nails scratching at his scalp. “Feels… f-feels good either way,” you mumbled, already melting under his touch.

“Mhmm, maybe,” he said, curling his finger inside you before adding a second. His tongue flicked at your clit again, making you squeak.

“But I like it when you fall apart for me,” Ni-ki murmured against you, voice low, warm breath fanning your skin as his fingers began to pump in and out at a steady rhythm.

Your back arched instantly, your hands clutching at the sheets. “F-feels so nice, Iki…” you moaned, the nickname slipping out in a broken whisper.

He smirked up at you—sharp, proud. “There it is again.” His tone was almost mocking, but the way his fingers twisted deeper inside you made it clear he was eating it up.

“You weren’t even trying to hold back that time.”

You shook your head, whining as his thumb flicked your clit in time with his strokes. “N-not my fault—”

“So sensitive,” he teased, dragging his fingers out slowly just to thrust them back harder, making you gasp.

“Love your fingers so much,” you whimpered, squeezing your thighs together around his head.

“I know.” His answer was cocky but the curl of his fingers inside you was devastating, brushing against the exact spot that made your vision blur.

He pushed them deeper, stretching you further as he tilted his wrist. “You love how long they are, huh?”

Your moan cracked, the sound tumbling out shamelessly. He chuckled under his breath, the vibration against your clit making you spasm.

His pace quickened, slick sounds filling the room, his knuckles nudging against you as he drove his fingers in deep.

You tried to close your thighs tighter, overwhelmed, but his free hand pressed firmly against the inside of your thigh, keeping you spread for him.

He only growled low at the resistance, biting at the soft flesh of your thigh just to remind you who was in control.

“You’re already close,” he said knowingly, his lips brushing your skin as his tongue flicked over your clit again, slower now, dragging out your desperation.

“Yes,” you breathed, almost too quiet to hear, your chest rising and falling with sharp gasps. “So close, Iki—”

“I know you are,” he hummed, curling his fingers once, twice, perfectly timed with the way his tongue circled you.

His pace built higher, sharper, the rhythm relentless. “Cum for me, baby.”

That snapped through your body—your hips jolted, thighs trembling as your climax hit hard, spilling out of you in shuddering waves.

Ni-ki didn’t slow, licking you through it, swallowing every sound you made like it was his favorite song.

“Good girl,” he said softly when your body finally sagged against the bed, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

His chin was glistening, fingers still buried inside you as he gave one last curl just to make you twitch. “So messy for me already… and I haven’t even started.”

You whined at the overstimulation, trying to shift your hips away, but Ni-ki caught your thighs with his other hand. His gaze burned as he slowly withdrew his fingers, coated with your slick, and lifted them to your lips.

“Don’t waste it,” he murmured.

You whined at the overstimulation, trying to shift your hips away, but Ni-ki caught your thighs with his other hand, holding you steady.

His gaze burned as he slowly withdrew his fingers, glistening with your slick.He raised them to his lips.

His tongue flicked out first, tasting you with a low hum of satisfaction before he drew his fingers into his mouth, licking them clean one by one.

The sound of it sent heat rushing to your cheeks. His eyes never left yours as he savored it, thumb dragging across his bottom lip as if he couldn’t get enough.

“Sweet,” he murmured, voice dropping even lower, “So sweet… I could live off this.”

The hand on your thigh stroked lazily, his thumb drawing circles as if to soothe.

He straightened slowly, towering over you now, the corner of his mouth lifting in that teasing, dangerous grin of his.

“Too tired, baby?” he whispered, voice rough, as though the words were meant only for your ears.

You shook your head quickly, breathless but desperate. “No,” you panted, tugging gently at his arm as if he might actually leave you there.

“I just need… to breathe. Just a second.”

Something in his expression softened at that—his grin easing into the faintest, fond smile. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then another, feather-light.

Soon, he was dotting kisses across your face—your temple, the bridge of your nose, your jaw—each press lingering just a little longer, just enough to make your chest flutter.

“Riki,” you whispered, voice soft but laced with something deeper.

He hummed in response, not stopping his trail of affection, until you looped your arms around his neck and tugged him flush against your bare body.

His chuckle rumbled warmly between you, low and amused. “Yes, baby?”

“Lay down for me.”

That made him pause, his brow raising as his lips quirked. “Are you sure?”

You nodded eagerly, sealing your answer with a few quick kisses of your own, peppering his cheeks, the corner of his mouth, even the tip of his nose.

This time, it was him who froze, smiling as though he was soaking in every ounce of your affection.

“I need to make you feel good too,” you murmured with a small pout, your bottom lip jutting out.

Ni-ki laughed, shaking his head. “Baby, you’re saying that while looking like an angry bunny. That doesn’t make you look very—”

You gasped, cutting him off with wide eyes. “You don’t think I look seductive?”

He smirked at your dramatics, leaning closer. “Depends.”

“Really, Riki?” you pulled him even closer by the neck, pressing your forehead against his. “After making me cum, you’re saying that?”

He chuckled again, his breath warm against your lips. “Baby, I’m just teasing. You know I find you very seductive.”

Your protest melted into a soft sigh when he dipped down to kiss along your collarbone, leaving heat in his wake.

Fingers threaded through the strands of his soft blonde hair that had fallen into his face, brushing them back tenderly.

“Come on,” you whispered, your thumb brushing his temple. “I wanna make you feel good too.”

Ni-ki hummed in approval, pressing one last kiss against your skin before pulling away. “Okay, okay,” he murmured, sitting back carefully against the headboard.

You slid off the sheets, standing for a moment just to catch your breath. His eyes immediately swept over you, lingering on the marks he’d already left. A smirk tugged at his lips.

“Stop acting like you weren’t the cause of these,” you teased, gesturing to the constellation of hickeys scattered across your thighs.

His chuckle was low, unbothered, almost proud. “Can’t help it if you look better with my marks.”

You rolled your eyes at him, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. Fixing yourself with just enough confidence, you moved between his spread legs, kneeling onto the mattress.

Slowly, you lowered yourself even more, cheeks flushing lightly under the heavy stare of your boyfriend—but you didn’t shy away.

Instead, your fingers tapped gently against the front of his gray sweatpants, voice quiet. “Can you… um, remove these, please? Iki?”

He didn’t say a word—just gave a small nod before lifting his hips. In one smooth motion, he shoved the sweats down, discarding them carelessly to the side of the bed, leaving him in nothing but black boxers that clung to his frame.

You stayed settled between his legs, eyes flickering down before they caught on the fresh ink etched into his skin.

You pulled up just enough to press a gentle kiss to his lips, lingering before you pulled away. Not far, though—just enough that your noses still touched, your breath mingling with his.

“Does it still hurt?” you asked softly.

Ni-ki shook his head faintly, gaze flicking between your lips and your eyes. “No… only when I move too much during practice or performances.”

You nodded, eyes warm as you tilted your head and pulled him into another kiss. Your palms pressed to the solid expanse of his bare chest, sliding upward as his arms wound tighter around your waist, pulling you flush to him.

His tongue slid past your lips with ease, swirling against yours in lazy, intoxicating strokes that made your head spin.

A small moan escaped your throat, muffled against his mouth. You pulled away only when breath forced you to, panting softly as you let your lips trail downward—kisses dotting his chin, then the column of his throat.

Ni-ki groaned low as you bit into his neck, the sound rough and unrestrained, his head tilting back automatically to give you more access.

“Fuck, that feels nice,” he mumbled, his voice dropping, thick with pleasure.

Grinning against his skin, you continued your work, tongue soothing over each sharp bite before marking him again, your lips dragging down to his collarbone.

The bloom of bruises followed wherever your mouth traveled, each one deliberate, each one a brand of your own.

You didn’t stop there—your mouth moved down, slow and teasing, pressing open-mouthed kisses across the planes of his chest, down the ridges of his toned stomach, until you reached the waistband of his boxers.

“Baby,” he rasped, voice almost warning, though his fingers inched down toward your hair, threading through it lightly.

You hummed softly, a low sound vibrating in your throat as you let him gather your hair into his hand, careful to keep it from falling into your face.

Your lips trailed lower, peppering kisses and sharp little bites along his v-line. The way his muscles flexed under your mouth made you grin against his skin.

“Baby…” Ni-ki groaned again, but it came out rougher this time, more like a plea than a warning.

You blinked up at him, wide eyes slightly glossy from the intimacy and the lingering buzz of your own pleasure, making his jaw tighten.

He hissed softly through his teeth, visibly restraining himself as he let you do what you wanted, his knuckles whitening where they clutched at your hair.

Your lips found the skin near his new tattoo, the small red marks you left near it earlier now blooming darker.

Each kiss, each bruise you pressed there only seemed to make the ink stand out more—your work contrasting beautifully against the art etched into him.

Ni-ki had to physically stop himself from flipping you onto your back and burying himself in you right then.

His abdomen tensed beneath your kisses, a frustrated groan catching in his throat as you pulled away, fingertips skimming lightly over the sensitive skin around his tattoo instead.

“You love me that much, huh?” you whispered, teasing, your nails tracing his skin delicately.

He smirked down at you, but there was heat simmering in his gaze. “Only if you knew, (Y/N).”

The rare sound of your name falling from his lips made your stomach flip. He almost never said it unless he was serious—or getting impatient.

That alone made you smile, biting your lip before lowering your hand. Your palm pressed against the hard outline in his boxers.

His hips jerked just slightly at the touch, a low groan vibrating in his chest as his hold on your hair tightened—not painfully, but enough to remind you just how close to his breaking point he was.

You licked your lips at the darkened patch of fabric where his precum had seeped through, your mouth practically watering at the sight.

With careful slowness, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and tugged them down. He lifted his hips obligingly, helping you peel them off and discard them carelessly to the side.

Your eyes widened at the sight of him—hard, flushed, the tip red and leaking.

Your hand instinctively wrapped around his base, the heat of him burning against your palm as you gave an experimental squeeze.

“Fuck,” Ni-ki muttered under his breath, his eyes locked on you as if the act of watching you alone was satisfaction enough.

You dipped your head, giving a kitten lick to the bead of precum gathered at the tip.

His head tipped back with a hiss, his adam’s apple bobbing as he groaned, the sound guttural.

Not breaking eye contact, you slowly wrapped your lips around the swollen head, hollowing your cheeks just enough to make him twitch in your grip.

“Good girl,” he praised, voice low and rough, making your thighs squeeze together at the sound.

A muffled moan slipped from you around him, the vibration making him buck his hips lightly into your mouth. His breath hitched, the hand in your hair tightening as his knuckles brushed your scalp.

“Just like that,” Ni-ki groaned, chest rising and falling faster as he tried to control himself, his gaze burning holes into you.

“Fuck, you look so pretty with your mouth on me…”

Your head traveled lower, lips stretching slowly as you took more of him in, careful not to let your teeth graze his sensitive skin.

The weight of him sat heavy on your tongue, making your mouth water as you wrapped your hand around the base, stroking the parts you couldn’t reach.

Your tongue worked messy circles around his shaft, and the salty taste of precum only urged you on.

“Baby…” he breathed, voice strained. His hand tightened in your hair, gathering it into a messy ponytail that kept your face clear so he could watch every second.

The sight alone had his jaw clenching. “You’re doing so good for me. So, so good.”

His praise sent a spark of heat right down your spine. You bobbed your head faster, letting him brush against the back of your throat. The sensation made you moan around him, the vibration traveling up his length.

He chuckled breathlessly, the sound broken. “Don’t force yourself, baby. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

But you only moaned again in response, the sound so needy it pulled another groan from him.

Your hand tightened its grip, pumping him in rhythm with your mouth. He hissed sharply, his hips twitching.

“Fuck—” he cursed under his breath as his other hand drifted down, tapping your cheek lightly in a way that made you shiver. “Look at you. Taking me so well.”

His control faltered when you swirled your tongue around the head again, his hips pressing forward just enough to nudge deeper.

Not enough to choke you, but enough to make your throat ache deliciously. The feeling of him stretching your mouth, filling every bit of it, had you whimpering.

“God, I need to cum in you,” Ni-ki rasped, voice breaking low and rough.

That had you pulling off him with a wet pop, licking your lips to catch the slick that trailed down your chin.

Your eyes flicked up to him, pupils blown wide, and you whispered, “Then do it.”

He didn’t give you a chance to tease him further. His big hands gripped your waist and in one smooth motion flipped you onto your back.

You squeaked out his name, “Riki!”, but it came out more like a whine than a protest.

He only hummed, low and firm. “I know.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks as he hovered over you, the switch in his demeanor dizzying. Just seconds ago he was groaning under your touch, and now he had you caged beneath his body like he hadn’t been falling apart at all.

His forearm pressed into the mattress beside your head as he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss so soft it almost didn’t match the urgency radiating off him.

His other hand laced with yours, fingers intertwining as he pressed your arm down beside your head.

With his free hand, he guided himself against your entrance, rubbing teasingly along your folds. The heavy drag of his cock against your clit made you whimper.

“Stop teasing, I need you,” you begged, hips twitching toward him.

He clicked his tongue, amused. “So impatient…”

But he gave in anyway, pressing forward slowly. The stretch burned in the best way, your walls straining to take him.

No matter how many times, he was always too much—too long, too thick, splitting you open inch by inch.

Your breath caught, a whimper escaping before you could swallow it down. He immediately brought his thumb to your clit, rubbing gentle circles to ease the sting, his lips brushing your temple.

“Relax for me, baby,” Ni-ki murmured, voice softer than before. His kisses moved down to your lips, pressing one after another, distracting you from the ache.

“Breathe. I’ve got you.”

By the time he bottomed out, your back arched and a moan spilled from your mouth right into his. He swallowed it eagerly, kissing you like he couldn’t get enough.

He stilled, chest rising and falling fast, letting you adjust. His hand slowly untangled from yours, brushing over your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“Tell me when to move, okay?” he murmured, gaze locked on your face.

You nodded, still shaky, trying to breathe through the stretch. The fullness had your body buzzing, your walls fluttering helplessly around him.

He kissed your cheek, then the corner of your lips, whispering, “Take your time, baby.”

A few breaths later, you whispered, “You can move.”

His eyes searched yours, worried even in his desperation. “Are you sure?”

You nodded again, pressing a kiss to his jaw, your voice trembling. “Yes.”

Relief washed over his features as he laced your fingers together again, squeezing gently before pulling his hips back slowly, then pushing back in.

The drag made you whine instantly, your thighs tightening around his waist.

Ni-ki kissed you again, this time rougher, swallowing your moans. His tongue tangled with yours, wet and hot, until you were gasping into his mouth.

When you pulled back just enough to breathe, you whimpered, “F-faster, please…”

He didn’t hesitate. His thrusts picked up pace, sharper, more deliberate. Your hands clutched at his back, nails dragging down his skin as your head tipped back against the pillows.

“Feel so good,” you gasped, voice breaking into moans.

He groaned low in his throat, pressing his forehead against yours. “Like that?”

You could only nod, words lost as he angled his hips just a fraction deeper. The new angle had you squeaking, eyes going wide.

“There it is,” Ni-ki rasped, his pace steady as his cock drove into that spot again and again.

Your eyes rolled back, the world around you blurring. “Oh my god—Riki—”

“That’s it,” he grunted, his grip on your hand tightening.

His other hand slid down to your waist, pinning you in place as he fucked into you harder, faster, hitting that spot over and over until you were crying out with every thrust.

“That’s my good girl,” he praised through ragged breaths, his voice breaking from how tightly you clenched around him.

“Taking me so well. So perfect.”

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, mingling with your broken moans. He reached down suddenly, thumb circling your clit in quick, tight motions.

The added stimulation had you writhing under him, back arching as your thighs trembled.

“‘M close,” you gasped, your body twitching with every roll of his hips.

“Not yet,” he growled softly, rubbing faster, relentless. “Hold it for me, baby. Just a little more.”

You whined, eyes glossing over with tears from the sheer intensity.

He leaned down, kissing them away one by one. “So pretty when you cry for me.”

Your walls clenched around him tighter and tighter until he hissed. “Together, baby. With me.”

You nodded weakly, moaning his name. “Riki, please—”

Both his hands went to your waist, holding you flush against him as his thrusts grew harsher, his groans spilling hot against your neck.

“Cum for me.”

The command tipped you over, your body convulsing as you clenched around him. Your nails raked down his back, scratching red marks as you cried out his name.

He groaned, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, hot and heavy, filling you with thick ropes of cum.

“Fuck—” his voice broke as he buried himself to the hilt, holding you tight through his release.

He pressed kisses down your neck, teeth grazing the tender skin as bruises bloomed in his wake. You panted beneath him, eyes half-lidded, trembling from the aftershocks.

When he finally lifted his head, sweaty bangs falling into his eyes, you reached up weakly, fingers brushing them away.

His gaze softened, lips curving into the faintest smile before he kissed you—deep, consuming, like he wanted to melt into you completely.

He kept fucking you through the tail end of your highs, slow now, drawing out every last shiver until you whimpered from sensitivity.

Only then did he pull out with a hiss, his cock glistening, the sight alone making your cheeks burn.

Carefully, he lowered himself over you, chest pressing against yours, his weight comforting as he buried his face in your neck. His arms wrapped around you, keeping you caged under him as if letting go wasn’t an option.

When he finally looked up at you, his eyes were soft—so different from the intense, heavy gaze he’d given you earlier. They were glossy now, gentle, almost boyish.

“I love you so much,” he whispered, voice low but steady.

You smiled, heart swelling, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I love you, Riki. More than you know.”

His lips curved into a tender smile as he pressed a quick peck where your kiss had landed. “How did I get so lucky?”

You scrunched your nose at him playfully. “Well… considering you pulled my hair during elementary school just to say you liked me…”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, shaking his head. “Mhmm. Wouldn’t have you right here now if I didn’t, huh?”

You laughed softly, letting him slowly guide you up until you were sitting. He slipped off the bed, then leaned back down, his large hand reaching for yours.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” he said gently.

Before you could protest, he scooped you up into his arms with ease, carrying you toward the bathroom.

The door slid open with a soft sound, and he set you carefully on the edge of the tub before moving to turn the heater on.

The steady rush of water filled the space as he reached for bath oils and a handful of bath bombs, the lavender scent quickly filling the room until your shoulders slumped in relief.

He dipped his hand into the water to test it, then looked back at you with a teasing little smile. “Come on, baby. I know you love your water scalding.”

You huffed, patting his chest lightly. “And you say it like I’m dramatic.”

His chuckle was soft as he helped you step in. The warmth of the water licked at your skin, relaxing your sore muscles instantly.

You sank in with a content sigh as he slid in behind you, his long arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you back against his chest.

“Now this,” you murmured, closing your eyes as you leaned your head on his shoulder. “This is nice.”

Ni-ki hummed, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “I love you. I really do.”

You tilted your face up to press a kiss against his jaw, smiling faintly. “How many times are you going to say ‘I love you’ tonight?”

He grinned, leaning down so his lips brushed your temple. “Not just tonight. I’d say it every day—even if one day you ended up hating me.”

Your eyes snapped open as you grimaced, turning in his arms to frown at him. “Riki, you know that would never happen.”

He only shrugged, reaching over to grab the shampoo bottle from the little shelf. “Just making sure.”

You only shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips as you leaned further into him, cheek brushing against his damp chest.

The soft quiet wrapped around you both, broken only by the faint drip of water against porcelain and the gentle rustle of his fingers twisting through your hair.

Everybody’s spirits were high—it was only a few hours before the first night of the show.

The boys, fresh from their showers at the hotel, were now gathered comfortably in the backstage dressing rooms.

The air was thick with the faint scent of hairspray, hair products, and the lingering trail of expensive perfume spritzed by staff.

Chatter and laughter filled the space, the kind of buzzing energy that always came before a performance.

You, however, were standing directly behind Ni-ki, flushed to your ears as you stared at the sheer amount of bruises along his neck and collarbone, clear as day under the harsh vanity lights.

They stood out even more against the plain white button-up shirt the stylists had given them to wear for the meantime.

Ni-ki clearly wasn’t ashamed—he grinned like a cat, leaning back in the chair with his long legs stretched out casually. He caught your wide-eyed stare through the mirror and raised his brows smugly.

“Looks nice,” he mused, running a hand through his freshly dried blonde hair, his smirk deepening. “Should I… point to them when I sing my part in XO?”

“Riki!” you swatted at his shoulder in mortification, earning a bark of laughter from him.

From a few seats away, Sunoo—currently getting his hair styled—caught the commotion. His sharp eyes flickered to Ni-ki’s exposed neck, his lips twitching before he spoke up.

“Nice job, (Y/N),” Sunoo teased, a knowing smile tugging on his lips. “At least we know the makeup artists are doing their job later.”

The room erupted in small snickers, and the two women standing beside you—the makeup artist and hairstylist assigned to Ni-ki—exchanged amused glances.

The makeup artist shook her head with a grin, reaching for her concealer.

“That’s true,” she chimed in, her tone dripping with playful mischief.

The hairstylist nodded eagerly in agreement, her voice sly as she leaned closer, nudging your arm with her elbow. “It’s always the innocent-looking girlfriends…”

Heat flooded your face instantly. You buried your face in your hands, muffling a groan. “Please, stop…” you muttered, voice small.

Ni-ki’s laugh rumbled out, boyish and teasing, as the stylist next tohim snorted under her breath.

“Ah, come on, don’t hide,” he teased, reaching behind him to pry your hands away from your face. He caught them easily, his long fingers wrapping around your wrists as he held your palms gently against his.

His eyes met yours through the mirror, playful but firm. “Come on, be proud of it. You’re an artist—like your boyfriend.”

Your ears burned hotter at his words.

The stylist chuckled, shaking her head as she dabbed primer along Ni-ki’s jawline. “He’s right, you know. Young love—it’s really sweet to watch.”

Ni-ki squeezed your hand, grinning wide. “See? Even she agrees with me.”

You groaned again, face warming more, making both Ni-ki and the stylist laugh together. The sound was light, easy, filling the room like sunlight.

Just then, a voice called from the doorframe. “(Y/N).”

You glanced back, spotting Yuki leaning against the door with a clipboard tucked under his arm. He arched a brow. “Can I steal you for a minute?”

You looked down at Ni-ki, who gave your hand one last squeeze before letting go. His grin softened into something gentler as he murmured, “Go, baby.”

The stylist hummed, not missing a beat as she brushed along Ni-ki’s cheekbones. “Ah, young love,” she repeated, voice fond.

You laughed, nudging her lightly. “Come on, you’re only twenty-seven.”

She huffed, though her lips twitched. “My husband finds joy in annoying me every day, so watching you two makes me soft, alright? Don’t ruin this for me.”

Ni-ki leaned back, smirking, catching your reflection in the mirror. “I mean, I find joy in annoying (Y/N) too. So maybe it’s fate.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, but before you could retort, you noticed the camera crew had slid in beside you, catching the whole interaction.

With a sigh, you turned toward the lens, eyes narrowing as you pointed accusingly at Ni-ki. “Engenes, are you seeing this? Do you see how Nishimura Riki treats his girlfriend?”

Ni-ki barked out a laugh, tilting his head toward the camera. “Engenes in relationships, back me up, yeah?”

The stylist, trying her best to keep her brush steady, muttered, “Stop moving, Ni-ki—” only for you to lean down suddenly, pressing a bright, glossy kiss to his cheek.

The smudge of red lipstick stood out against his skin, and Ni-ki erupted into louder, boyish laughter, smacking his thigh in amusement.

The stylist sighed, tossing you a half-hearted glare as she reached for a makeup wipe. “(Y/N)… what am I going to do with you?”

You blinked innocently, batting your lashes. “Be glad you think we’re cute?”

She huffed again, though you caught the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

Meanwhile, Ni-ki sat up straighter in his chair, sweeping his bangs aside with a flourish as if he were showing off a medal.

He pointed proudly at the lipstick mark. “(Y/N) has an attachment to our Romance: Untold album, as you can see.”

You couldn’t help but grin, leaning down to press a softer kiss to the crown of his head. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

He tilted his head back against the chair, gazing up at you with an easy smile. “Mhmm. Go, Yuki needs you.”

You gave his cheek a light pat. “Stop moving, you big baby.”

Ni-ki only shook his head, laughing as he looked back at himself in the mirror.

Leaving him behind, you crossed the room to Yuki, who was waiting with his clipboard. “Took you long enough, kid,” he muttered, handing it over.

You grinned. “Really, old man?”

He rolled his eyes, folding his arms. “Yeah, yeah. We need you by the tech booth—the staff wants your opinion on the stage lighting later.”

He paused, giving you a look. “Also… because you speak English better than me.”

You burst into laughter, shaking your head. “There it is.”

“Come on, time’s ticking.” He turned, walking ahead.

Before following, you glanced back toward the dressing room. Through the vanity mirror, you caught Ni-ki already watching you, his eyes soft and unguarded as he mouthed, ‘I love you.’

Your chest tightened, warmth blooming all over. You mouthed back, ‘I love you too.’

Ni-ki raised a closed fist, like he was sending you luck from across the room. You nodded, lips curving into a smile before finally turning to follow Yuki out.

As you trailed behind him, clipboard clutched against your chest, you couldn’t stop the quiet laugh that slipped past your lips.

You shook your head at yourself, muttering under your breath, “I really need to thank that fan who managed to see his tattoo…”

Yuki glanced sideways, brow arched. “What was that?”

You blinked, caught, and quickly waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing, nothing. Just… a thought.”

He hummed, clearly unconvinced but too busy skimming through the papers in his hand to pry.

Still, your thoughts lingered on Ni-ki—the way he’d smiled at you through the mirror, the lipstick mark still smeared proudly on his cheek, the way his fist had lifted in silent encouragement.

It tugged at something warm inside you, a feeling that refused to fade no matter how far down the hallway you went.

Because if it weren’t for that fan’s sharp eyes catching the ink on his skin, maybe you wouldn’t be here now, walking away from him only to feel his love following you like a shadow—loud, boyish, and impossibly bright.

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© 2025 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[purinfelix]

you're no good for me, but baby i want you - n. riki ✶⋆.˚

summary: after growing tired of his constant teasing you made up your mind not to give Niki anymore of your attention, but you should've known that he wouldn't let you go that easily - and is willing to go to desperate measures to get you just to look at him ──── delinquent Niki x class president reader || sfw but a little suggestive, kissing/making out, so much tension like so much, enemies to lovers sorta? || w/c: 2.7k

a/n: okay i'm trying to get better at writing longer fics/ones that actually have closure bc looking back i realise i kinda always leave u guys on cliffhangers LOLL - also i rlly tried to avoid making this too cliche given the trope i hope it worked !!! actually really like this one so i hope it doesn't flop rip

‘Bad boy’ felt too cliche - at least for your liking. You preferred to refer to Niki as what he was, a delinquent, a troublemaker, someone who skipped most of his classes and spent the rest dosing off or arguing with the teacher. But no matter what you called him you were sure of one thing, he pissed you off.

To be honest, you had absolutely no interest in the sorts of things a student like him got up to in his own time, but it was the fact that he insisted on dragging you into his business that irritated you the most. You weren’t sure why exactly he kept targeting you, maybe it was because he just wanted to mess with the class president or because you seemed like an easy target to him - whatever reason he had didn’t make it any less tiring though.

Skipping classes was one thing, but his constant breaches of uniform code meant that you were running out of warning slips - and patience. It didn’t help that whenever you did, he would only look you up and down with an amused smirk, brows raised as if daring you to continue telling him off - which only worked to make you stumble over your words.

That’s why you had made the decision to stop giving him anymore of your attention, and the most recent time you had seen him sporting his signature look - no blazer, dress shirt half unbuttoned and several silver earrings, you chose to ignore him. You simply walked past him in the hallway without so much as a passing glance, hoping it would tell him to stop wasting your time and causing trouble.

Little did you know, he would misinterpret your signs to mean the exact opposite.

The next morning when you were waiting at your desk you heard a wave of hushed murmurs coming from down the hall, and couldn’t help but feel partly responsible. A loud thud sent the classroom door flying open and a couple of his friends filed in with amused grins - and it was only when Niki followed them in did you see why. Not only had he gone and messily bleached parts of his jet black hair, but he now donned a piercing straight through his right eyebrow which, judging from the pink tinge surrounding it, was both brand new and self-made.

You were unable to stop your neck from craning as your eyes followed his figure, watching as he sauntered over to his desk in the back corner of the classroom, threw his books onto it and sat down. The expression on his face showed that he couldn’t care less about being there, but his eyes trained on you as if waiting for you to make a move.

You hated that he knew you so well, because before you knew it you were out of your seat and at the head of his desk, arms folded with a stern expression on your face. You can’t remember exactly what you said but it must’ve been harsh, and loud enough to summon the attention of almost the entire class, and your teacher who stormed into the classroom shortly after to tell the two of you off. It must’ve also been harsh enough to earn the two of you an after-school detention, which was your very first - though it clearly wasn’t Niki’s.

So that’s how the two of you had ended up alone, in an empty, hot classroom - waiting as the minutes of your detention ticked by agonisingly slowly. Irritated was an understatement. It was taking every ounce of self-control you had not to turn around and punch Niki right there and then. You kept your fuming to yourself, at least for now though, while you worked silently on an assignment, determined to at least make good use of being stuck here for the next hour or so - even if it meant spending it in a tense silence.

Niki didn’t seem to share the same sentiment, having sat himself in the chair right beside yours and kicked his feet up on the desk, twirling a pen in one hand as he hummed softly to himself. You were trying your best to ignore him, and he was trying his best to make that very difficult.

“What are you working on?” he asked curiously as he leaned in over your shoulder.

“Just an assignment,” you shot back curtly.

“Ah of course, what a goody-two shoes,” he scoffed as he sat back.

“Rather a goody-two shoes than a good-for-nothing delinquent,” you mumbled under your breath, though not quiet enough to escape his ears.

“A delinquent? Is that really what you think of me?” he asked in faux-offence, “I’m hurt.” You turned slightly, just enough to see the dramatic pout he had formed across his lips, his brows curving upwards and his piercing going with it.

“Whatever,” you huff, feeling both irritation and exhaustion rise in you, “it’s your fault we’re here in the first place anyways.”

“Oh yeah, my fault that you started a petty argument.”

“Your fault for dyeing your hair that stupid colour and getting that piece of metal jammed in your face!” You cry out, fully facing him now as you felt your face burning hot, “I mean seriously, all I did was ignore you once, and you go ahead and did something ridiculous like that?” Gesturing to his piercing and new hair, you can’t help but feel even more infuriated at the sight of his smirk which only grew as he watched you from half-lidded eyes.

“What makes you think I did it for you?” He asks teasingly, and you suddenly feel your bravado begin to crumble - he’s right, who are you to assume that?

“Well, I-” you stutter, but he interrupts you.

“Well maybe I did,” he laughs softly, “that depends on whether you like it or not.”

“That is so besides the point, Niki,” you whine, “it’s against uniform policy.”

“Oh c’mon, you think it’s a little cool,” he taunts, and you turn back around in your seat, chewing your bottom lip as you’re determined not to give him a response which you’re sure will only fuel his ego.

You sit in silence for a bit, and you can tell he’s watching you carefully in the way he leans in, keen eyes trained on your expression - almost as if he’s trying to figure out what you’re thinking. But that’s a challenge even you’re struggling with right now.

He’s the one to break the silence again. “I am sorry about getting you a detention though, that wasn’t what I meant to do.” You blink in disbelief because for the very first time, he sounds almost as if he really means what he’s saying.

“Is that an apology?” you say, gasping to show your surprise, though this quickly dissolved into a soft laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t let it get to your head,” he sighs, “I just couldn’t sit here and watch you sulk for the next hour.”

You can’t help but smile to yourself, feeling the tension between the two of you melt away at his apology, just enough for you to want to keep talking to him - even if it means neglecting your homework, for now. Your eyes move over his face, his sharp jaw, his eyebrow piercing glinting under the warm classroom light.

“Did it hurt?”

It’s a stupid question, you know, but it’s the only thing you can think to ask as you fiddle nervously in your seat. If you’re being completely honest, you do think it’s cool, you’ve always thought his piercing were cool - and right now you want nothing more than to reach out and feel them for yourself. But your common sense stops you.

“Well, duh,” he scoffs, sitting back in his seat as his eyes fix on yours, “figured a smart-ass like you would’ve been able to guess that.”

“Just asking,” you grumble defensively, though your curiosity urges you to keep talking. “If it hurt, why’d you do it?”

“Well, you like it, don’t you?” He asks, “that’s all the reason I need.”

You’re tempted to tell him off again, but something about his tone catches you off guard - it’s oddly earnest, and he says it with such a simplicity that makes you really believe that maybe he’s telling the truth and you’re unable to find the resolve to spoil this moment

“Can I feel it?”

He’s almost as shocked by your request as you are, and even as it leaves your mouth you’re unsure entirely why you’re asking it. His eyes widen in a way that you can’t help but find a little cute, even as you’re struggling to process your own thoughts.

“Sure,” he replies, a little too quickly, almost as if he had been waiting for you to ask him that, but can’t believe you actually did. You turn in your chair to face him, your arms coming up awkwardly to bridge the distance between you both but it’s clear you’re still too far.

You’re about to lean forward more in your seat to reach him, until you notice his hand coming down to grip the leg of your chair and it isn’t until you feel yourself moving and hear the faint screech of the legs against the floor that you realise that he’s pulling it - pulling you closer to him.

Once you’re close enough he stops, though his hand doesn’t leave the back of your chair, instead resting there as if trapping you in with him as he leans down as that his face is level with yours. You try not to overthink the way your knees are touching, or how this is your first time seeing him this close and how he’s even better looking up close. Carefully, you bring your hand and pray that he doesn’t notice the way it trembles, as your thumb grazes his thick brow gently. Even though you wish he didn’t, he keeps his eyes open and you can feel the weight of his gaze on you as your fingers close around the small metal ball.

“It’s cold,” you mumble, not sure what else to say to fill the air between you two.

“It’s metal,” he says matter-of-factly, letting out a small laugh at your fascination with it.

“You didn’t need to to do this just to get my attention, you know,” your eyes focus on the piercing as you speak, unable to look him in the eyes when admitting something that feels like a confession.

“I had to get you to look at me somehow.” You’re again amazed at how he can say such earnest things with such a serious face, and even as you look away you know his eyes are on you.

“Most people would’ve just said hi or something, not put a brand new hole in their face,” you sigh, fingers moving to tuck a stray strand of bleached hair behind his ear.

“Well most people wouldn’t be here now with you touching their face, so by my standards my plan worked better.”

“Did that plan have to include getting me my first-ever detention?” You ask in annoyance, though you can’t help but laugh softly at his simplicity.

“Well, not at first,” he admits, “but at least we’re alone, hm?”

“Because you need me alone to talk to me?”

“No, because I need you alone to do this.”

You’re pretty sure if you weren’t already leaning towards him you would’ve fallen backwards from the forceful way his lips crash into yours - and if not from that then the sheer shock of just that. Luckily for you though, he already has an arm snaked around your waist, keeping a hold of you and pulling you closer.

It shocks you though that, despite the initial force, Niki’s kiss is gentle, almost as if he’s easing you into something he knows you’re struggling to accept. He’s experienced, that’s for sure, but you can tell in his movements that he’s holding back from pushing you any further.

You don’t even realise it but your hands are cupping his face, caressing his strong jawline and pulling him closer to you. You open your mouth to talk but the only noise that comes out is a breathy gasp and if you weren’t so caught up in the feeling of his hands in your hair you might’ve stopped to feel embarrassed about how desperate you sound for him right now.

“Niki,” you mumble against his lips, unsure of what to do as you feel your mind struggle to comprehend what’s happening.

“Want me to stop?” he says in between heavy breaths, and even though it sounds like a taunt you know him well enough to know he’s being serious.

You shake your head in response, but decide to have a little fun of your own while you can. “When have you ever cared what I want?”

“Oh, you have no clue,” he hums in a low whisper as he leans back in.

“And when have you ever listened to what I’ve told you to do?”

“You’re right about that,” he smirks, pressing his lips to yours again, this time with the reckless abandon you’ve come to expect from him - almost as if he was waiting for your permission to let go. You thought you would’ve felt a little predictable, pathetic even, for having fallen so easily into his trap and giving him much more than just your attention at this point. But from the way his hands roam your body, grasping for more of you as he whines against your lips you smile to yourself at the realisation that really, he’s the one who’s fallen into your trap.

This sense of control is what finally calms your mind, even if it still struggles with just how ‘wrong’ all of this sounds against how right his lips on yours feel. The sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway however forces you to tear yourself away from him, though his hands don’t leave your body as you strain to figure out who it might be.

“Shit, it’s the teacher,” you say under your breath, pulling away from him to smooth down your skirt. Niki clearly doesn’t care, but still lets out a soft sigh as he hangs his head, leaning back in his chair.

“Tomorrow,” you continue suddenly, “I want the eyebrow piercing and the bleached hair gone.” You know you’re being harsh, but you also know that, given what just happened, you can’t afford to be nice.

“Wh-” he says suddenly, looking at you in disbelief, “I thought you liked them though.”

“Doesn’t matter,” you say firmly, “they’re still breaking like ten different uniform rules.”

“Just when I thought I’d finally broken your guard down,” he groans.

“Well, they’ve served their purpose already, haven’t they?” you taunt lightly, bringing a hand up to swipe at your bottom lip which you can feel is a little plump from him biting it. His eyes watch attentively as you do, and he lets out a soft laugh followed by a nod in agreement.

“You’re right,” he exhales, “but now I’m thinking if I keep them in I might keep getting lucky.”

“Niki,” you sigh.

“I mean, maybe if I had a reward for following rules I might feel more motivated,” he hums, looking away as he feigns innocence.

You pause, thinking to yourself for just long enough. “I’ll be studying in the library after school, maybe if you do as I say I’ll let you join me.”

“Studying? That’s what we’re calling it now?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll be there,” he laughs, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile - one that you can’t help but share even as the same teacher who gave you both this detention comes in to tell you you’re free to go.

You watch as he swings his bag over one shoulder coolly, tossing you his signature smirk - only this time, it doesn’t just annoy you, it lingers, sticking to your thoughts in a way you don’t want to admit. Because you know you should be mad, you should roll your eyes and remind yourself that he’s still the same infuriating troublemaker. But as he walks away the only thing you find yourself wondering is if he’ll actually show up tomorrow, and worse, if a part of you wants him to.

[ikeu05]

WONDER HOW I GOT BY THIS WEEK ✮ ONLY TOUCHED YOU ONCE

𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 。 where you make up your mind alone about your roommate having had enough of you, when all he wants is more of you

✸ riki x fem!reader 4.4k angst fluff towards the end roommates! au situationship! au ୨୧ miscommunication ( literally my favst thing eva ) sunghoon's lowk ass mentions of a panic attack, crying, kissing

the living room was buzzing with chatter and overlapping music — the usual chaos that came with ness’ spontaneous “gatherings.” she’d pulled out her speaker, thrown a few blankets on the floor, and called it ambiance. dani and ness were fighting over which romcom to put on in the background. intak was making everyone weird fruit mocktails in beer glasses. and somewhere between an uno game that had spiraled into full-blown betrayal and jake force-feeding sunghoon wasabi chips, riki had let his guard down.

just for a second.

and that was when sunghoon pounced.

“so,” he began slyly, flopping next to riki on the floor, “what’s your type?”

riki blinked, half-focused on the conversation yn was having with ness from across the room. he tilted his head lazily toward sunghoon. “huh?”

“your type, romeo,” sunghoon repeated, nudging his shoulder. “i’m trying to set you up here.”

riki frowned. “set me up?”

sunghoon grinned like a man on a mission. “there’s this girl in my psych tutorial who’s been asking about you. she saw you at the dance showcase last week and literally blushed when i mentioned your name. she’s cute, kinda mysterious. glasses. sketches in class sometimes. i figured she’d be your vibe.”

riki’s brain short-circuited for half a second.

he didn’t want to be rude — or obvious. especially with everyone here. especially with her here. yn was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, nursing a cup of mocktail with a bendy straw and laughing at something intak said. she looked so comfortable — their kind of comfortable — like she belonged here, and with him. but that was still just between the two of them. private. soft. unspoken.

he couldn’t just out them like that.

but he also couldn’t say yes to sunghoon. so instead, he leaned back, smirked, and said, “sexy.”

jake, on the other side of him, snorted into his drink. “what the hell does that even mean?”

riki shrugged, playing it cool. “you asked my type. i gave you my answer.”

sunghoon was already pulling out his phone. “perfect. she’s sexy. done. i’ll text her.”

riki sat up straighter. “wait—what?”

“just gonna say you’re in,” sunghoon said, grinning at his screen, fingers flying. “you’re welcome, by the way.”

“i didn’t say i wanted to go—”

sunghoon glanced up. “bro. you said sexy. she’s sexy. this is fate.”

“no, i said—” riki faltered. “i didn’t mean—”

too late. sunghoon tapped something on his phone dramatically and clapped. “done! friday. seven. she suggested that little bistro near the library. i said you’d love it.”

jake wheezed. “he didn’t even get your confirmation. you’re done, bro.”

riki was panicking.

and pissed.

across the room, yn hadn’t noticed a thing. she was still laughing, this time at intak failing to juggle three mandarin oranges. her nose scrunched a little when she laughed too hard. and she looked up right as riki looked over, and she smiled — soft, familiar, full of something that burned quietly between them.

he couldn’t breathe.

sunghoon leaned back on his elbows, proud of himself. “i’m a genius. you’re welcome, by the way. she’s gonna wear that dress i told you about.”

riki stared at him. “what dress?”

jake cackled. “don’t ask.”

but riki was seething.

not at the girl — she didn’t know any better. not even at sunghoon, really. but at how he couldn’t say anything. couldn’t say, actually, i like someone else. actually, she’s right there. actually, i’m already hers even if we haven’t said it out loud.

couldn’t say that because he was waiting.

for her to be ready.

he got up, pretending to go get a drink from the kitchen, needing to breathe. behind him, sunghoon and jake were already moving on to a new topic, something about how hot intak looked when he bartended.

riki braced his hands on the countertop, trying not to explode.

a date? seriously? a whole planned date? and what if yn found out? what if she thought he wanted to go? what if she thought she had to give him up?

the idea alone made him feel sick.

he pulled out his phone and opened his chat with sunghoon.

riki

cancel that date.

sunghoon

??? what why bro she’s already planning her outfit

riki

i can’t go. i’m busy. tell her something. idc what. just cancel it.

sunghoon

damn you sound pressed

riki

just cancel it. don't pmo hoon please

sunghoon

no can do :) and ure like soooooo welcome btw

he shoved his phone back in his pocket with a frustrated groan.

across the room, yn saw him get up and leave. curious. her head tilted just slightly. her drink was forgotten.

she found him leaning against the sink, jaw clenched, fingers drumming anxiously against the cold marble countertop.

“hey,” yn said softly, voice barely above a whisper as she stepped into the kitchen. “you okay?”

riki turned fast—like he’d been waiting for her. his eyes were frantic, his brows drawn tightly together. “sunghoon set me up on a date.”

she blinked. “what?”

“i didn’t ask him to. he just—he asked my type and i didn’t want to say anything obvious so i just—” riki exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. “i said something dumb. and now there’s a date. like a whole-ass confirmed thing. and i told him to cancel it, i swear i did. i didn’t even talk to the girl, i didn’t even want—”

“riki,” she interrupted gently.

his mouth shut with a small click, eyes still wide, desperate.

her heart ached.

ached because he looked so genuinely wrecked over it. ached because part of her wished she could be angry or jealous or something that didn’t just feel like loss. but she couldn’t. not when it wasn’t official. not when it wasn’t anything.

so she smiled. even if it didn’t reach her eyes. “it’s okay.”

he blinked. “what?”

“you can go,” she said, trying to sound steady. “if you want to.”

“i don’t want to, yn–”

“it’s not like we’re…” her voice caught for half a second, but she forced the rest of it out. “it’s not like we’re anything anyway.”

silence.

the kind that made her stomach twist.

she gave him one last glance, one last smile — fragile and too soft around the edges — and turned before he could stop her. her fingers trembled slightly around the hem of her hoodie as she walked out of the kitchen, head ducked so no one would see the way her eyes were starting to gloss over.

riki stood frozen.

completely still, but his blood boiled.

not at her. not really. but at the situation, at the dumbass trap of unspoken rules and the slow pace and the fragile way they’d both been tiptoeing around each other for weeks. at how she smiled like she didn’t care — when he knew, he knew — she did. at how she said he could go like it wouldn’t tear her apart. at how she told him they weren’t anything when everything inside him screamed that she was everything.

his fists clenched.

how could she say that? after everything?

after the way she kissed him with trembling fingers, the way she curled into him like he was home, the way she looked at him like she was terrified and hopeful all at once?

how could she say they were nothing?

he wanted to go after her.

he wanted to yell. he wanted to pull her in and tell her she was it and that she’d been it for months and that he didn’t need to go on some stupid blind date to realise what he already knew.

but he also knew she needed space.

because she was hurting.

and if he pushed now, it would only make it worse.

so instead, he slammed the fridge door shut unnecessarily loud, muttered a curse under his breath, and stalked off to his room, ignoring sunghoon’s clueless call after him and jake’s confused “yo what just happened.”

he didn’t know what pissed him off more.

the fact that she didn’t believe she was enough for him — or the fact that he still couldn’t tell her she was.

he didn’t look at her once during the movie.

didn’t make a joke like he normally would. didn’t sneak glances her way or poke her knee to make her laugh when a scene dragged too long. he sat at the far end of the couch, legs sprawled out, hoodie drawn up over his head as he slouched like he wasn’t fully there.

and that hurt more than anything.

yn sat tucked between ness and dani, body curled in on itself, trying to focus on the screen but registering absolutely nothing. every breath she took felt heavy. her chest was tight. her hands were clammy. she kept her face neutral, the way she always did when her emotions were starting to tip, but inside?

it felt like she was being squeezed.

each second that passed without him looking over was another second she regretted everything she’d said.

she got it. loud and clear.

he didn’t want to deal with her anymore. not after that. not after she told him to go on the date. not after she said they weren’t anything when he was probably just waiting for her to want something real in the first place.

her eyes didn’t tear up. not yet. but her heart ached so loud it pulsed into her temples, the pain blooming behind her forehead like a migraine.

ness nudged her at one point, whispering something about the plot twist. yn nodded like she’d seen it, gave a small smile like she wasn’t falling apart in silence.

across the room, riki stared blankly at the screen, lips tight. he hadn’t heard a word of the movie either.

he could feel her.

could feel her just a few feet away, her quietness sharp in his ears. she always talked. always had a dumb little commentary under her breath, always leaned into his arm even when she pretended not to. and now? now she was curled away, frozen in place like she didn’t exist to him.

and he hated it.

he hated himself for doing this.

but he also didn’t know what else to do. he was angry. frustrated. sad. so in love it made him feel pathetic. and she didn’t even want to be claimed by him.

the room laughed at some joke. she didn’t. neither did he.

they were both crumbling, alone in the middle of a crowded room.

everyone was already half-passed out when the credits rolled. jake had slumped sideways on the armrest, intak had a blanket over his head like a corpse, and sunghoon was laying face-down across three cushions like he’d been tranquilized.

ness stretched with a loud yawn, announcing, “no one’s going home at this hour, bro. just crash here. we have enough space, right?”

yn nodded quickly, eyes still a little distant, her voice small but even. “yeah. dani can sleep in my bed. rollout couch for the guys.”

sunghoon groaned, his voice muffled by the cushion. “bless you, hostess with the mostess.”

“shut up,” dani mumbled, already heading toward yn’s room.

everyone shuffled off into their spots with minimal resistance, exhausted from the long day. pillows were thrown, lights dimmed, and within ten minutes, there was a steady rise and fall of soft breathing across the apartment.

except in two rooms.

yn lay awake beside dani, curled up tight toward the edge of her mattress. dani had knocked out quickly beside her, her soft snoring occasionally punctuating the otherwise still silence. but she couldn’t sleep. not when he was still out there. not when she still felt so tense, like her heart had never stopped racing since the moment he pulled away from her.

and in the room down the hall, riki sat upright on his bed, staring at his ceiling like it had answers. he was supposed to feel relieved, finally having a moment of peace and privacy after the exhausting group hangout.

but he didn’t.

he hated how cold it had been between them. hated that he was too prideful to say something. too afraid that if he did, she’d just back further away again.

he rubbed his face with both hands, muttering to himself, “you’re such a dumbass.”

maybe he should’ve just told sunghoon no right away. or told her right away. or kissed her in front of everyone and said, ‘this is who i want, are you blind?’

but instead? they were now both lying in separate rooms, both wide awake, both feeling like the other didn’t care enough. and neither one knew the other was aching just as bad.

the next morning, the apartment was filled with the clinking of spoons against ceramic bowls, the sound of the kettle whistling, and the occasional sleepy groan from jake trying to stretch out the kink in his neck.

yn had already been up. hair brushed, hoodie on, and sleeves pushed up as she moved around the kitchen with quiet ease, helping ness sort out breakfast for the crowd that had spent the night. her voice was bright—artificially so.

“good morning, dani,” she beamed, kissing her cheek as the girl shuffled out of the bedroom rubbing her eyes.

“morning, baby,” she added, grinning at ness and kissing her cheek too when she joined.

she even did her usual little dramatic greeting to intak and jake, and of course teased sunghoon with a slap to his shoulder when he complained about his back.

but riki? she didn’t even glance in his direction.

he had been standing in the doorway of the hall, watching all of it silently. the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed with dani, the way she leaned into ness’ shoulder to look at the pan of eggs. how she was doing everything she normally did—except when it came to him.

she used to greet him like that too. always kissed his cheek or whispered a soft “good morning, baby” while brushing past him on her way to the kettle. it had become their thing—small, private moments wrapped in sleepy affection before the rest of the day could get to them.

but this morning?

nothing.

she hadn’t even looked at him.

he stood frozen for a second too long before quietly slipping further into the living room, slumping on the edge of the couch beside sunghoon, who was munching cereal straight from the box like a raccoon. sunghoon gave him a sidelong glance.

“you good, bro?”

riki didn’t answer. he just nodded once and picked at the loose thread on his sleeve. he could practically feel the way her lips had brushed dani’s cheek. the same way they used to brush his.

and for the first time, he really understood what it felt like to be on the outside of her warmth. and damn, it hurt.

riki stood by the doorway of his room, fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt for the third time. he hadn’t really bothered to dress up—just a dark tee and jeans, jacket tossed over his shoulder lazily. his hair wasn’t styled the way he usually liked it, and he hadn’t even picked out shoes yet.

he was stalling.

the apartment was quiet, save for the faint sound of her laptop speakers playing some sitcom rerun. her soft laughter would rise occasionally, not as bright as usual, but there. just enough to make his chest ache.

when he finally walked out, keys in hand, he paused in the hallway, eyes locking on her.

she sat curled up on the couch, knees hugged to her chest, wearing an oversized hoodie that looked suspiciously like his. her glasses were sliding down her nose as she focused on the screen in front of her. the warm yellow lamplight made her look so soft, so… untouchably distant.

his throat felt dry.

“i’m heading out,” he said.

she didn’t even flinch. her eyes flicked to him for barely a second, then right back to her screen. her face unreadable.

“don’t wait up,” he added, voice a little more clipped, a little more irritated. a little more desperate for something from her.

still nothing.

“wasn’t planning to,” she said flatly, not even looking up.

that was it.

that was all he got from her. no teasing comment, no eye roll, no half-smile she always tried to hide when she was pretending not to care.

just cold indifference.

it hit him harder than he wanted to admit. he lingered for another second, hoping—praying—she’d look at him again. say something. give him a reason to stay.

but she didn’t. she just sniffled casually, rubbing her nose and leaning further into the couch cushion like he wasn’t even there.

he clenched his jaw, fingers curling tight around his keys.

it wasn’t fair. why was she acting like he had done something wrong when she was the one who said he could go? she’d practically pushed him into it with that fake little smile, pretending she didn’t care. pretending she was fine.

but now she wouldn’t even look at him?

he didn’t say another word. just turned on his heel and walked out, slamming the door behind him harder than necessary.

she didn’t flinch. didn’t even pause the video.

but her eyes blurred over with tears she didn’t bother wiping this time. because she had known it would feel like this. but knowing it would hurt didn’t make it hurt any less.

her fingers trembled as she tapped at her phone, vision hazy and chest tight like there was a rope around her lungs, pulling tighter and tighter.

she’d tried everything—pacing, breathing the way riki had taught her, splashing water on her face. but it wasn’t helping. nothing was helping. her heart was racing too fast and her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. her knees buckled every time she tried to stand up and it felt like her world was caving in on itself.

she slid down the kitchen counter, curling in on herself on the floor. her chest heaved, sobs bubbling up unbidden.

the apartment was too quiet. too empty. no riki murmuring reassurances. no ness’ soothing voice. just the sound of her gasping through her tears.

it had been less than 2 hours since he left and she spent those hours spiralling herself into a panic attack. ness had been out since morning and riki was probably flirting with the girl he was on the stupid date with.

it was so humiliating to even think about reaching out to him after everything. after pretending not to care. but she couldn’t help it. he was the only one who ever knew how to help. the only one who could help.

she stared at the glowing screen of her phone, thumbs hovering above the keyboard for what felt like forever.

to: riki

can you come home please? i’m sorry i just. i can’t breathe

she didn’t really expect an answer.

riki didn’t see the text immediately. because he wasn’t on the date. he never made it.

he’d walked into the cafe, spotted the girl sunghoon had talked up so much—she really was pretty, nice too, waved when she saw him—and in that split second, he knew he couldn’t do it.

not while yn was pretending not to care back home. not when he was still thinking about the way she barely looked at him when he left.

so he’d gone up to the girl, apologised softly, even offered to cover whatever she’d ordered. she looked mildly disappointed, but she nodded, thanking him for being honest.

and then he left, fast, stuffing his hands into his pockets and walking until his legs burned. he needed to not think for a while. so he found some old pc room nearby and had been there ever since, headphones half on, eyes glued to the screen, clicking away his frustration.

his phone buzzed where it sat facedown beside the monitor.

he almost ignored it.

but something tugged at him.

something sharp and gut-deep.

he flipped the phone over lazily—just in case it was sunghoon or someone nagging about the date—and the moment his eyes landed on her name, everything stilled.

and then he read the message and his heart dropped straight out of his chest.

he didn’t even hesitate.

didn’t text back. didn’t stop to think. didn’t log off.

he just stood, shoving his phone into his jacket pocket, grabbing his bag off the back of the chair as he sprinted out.

his mind was already racing ahead of him.

she couldn’t breathe. she was alone. she had asked for him.

and he hadn’t even been there.

his feet hit the pavement hard, running full tilt toward the apartment, his chest aching—but not from the exertion.

from the thought of her, struggling on her own, thinking he didn’t want to see her. thinking she’d ruin his night just by needing him.

by the time he reached the building, he was breathless and panicked, slamming into the elevator and tapping his foot frantically as it rose floor by floor.

the door to the apartment wasn’t locked.

he flung it open—

and there she was. crumpled on the floor by the kitchen, her back to the cabinets, her arms shaking as they tried to hold herself together.

“yn—”

her head jerked up, eyes wide and glassy.

and before she could say a word, he was on the floor with her, dropping to his knees, cupping her cheeks.

“hey, hey—baby, i’m here. i’m here, it’s okay—”

a sob tore out of her chest, and she crumbled into him, clutching his shirt so tightly it hurt.

“i didn’t know what else to do,” she cried, voice broken. “i didn’t think you’d come.”

“of course i’d come.” his voice cracked as he held her tighter. “always. always, yn.”

he rocked her gently, whispering every word he could remember from the last time, and the time before that. his hand rubbed slow, firm circles into her back as she gasped for air, letting the rhythm ground her.

“i didn’t go on the date,” he murmured after a while, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “couldn’t even make it through the door.”

she looked up, tear-streaked and stunned.

“why?”

he held her gaze, thumb brushing her cheek.

“because it wasn’t you.”

her voice was barely a whisper, choked and trembling.

“i’m sorry,” she rasped, shaking her head against his chest. “i was being so stupid, riki. so, so fucking stupid.”

his arms only tightened around her.

she looked up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. “i didn’t mean it when i said we were nothing. i didn’t—i was scared and i thought i was protecting myself but i just—”

she hiccuped, then leaned up, kissing his cheek, then his jaw, frantic and soft and desperate. “i wanted more. i want so much more. i just didn’t know how to say it.”

her voice cracked mid-sentence, high and broken, and it shattered something in him.

“god—baby,” he breathed, pulling her in like he could shield her from the whole world. one of his hands slid up to cradle the back of her head, his thumb brushing along her nape. “don’t apologise. please don’t.”

she kept kissing him through sobs, every press of her lips damp with tears. “i was so scared you’d stop caring… i thought if i pretended not to care first, it’d hurt less.”

he pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes burning with something raw.

“do you really think i could ever stop caring about you?” he asked, his voice low and urgent. “i was losing my goddamn mind trying to not touch you, not say anything. do you know how many times i wanted to grab you and just tell you—?”

she leaned forward again, pressing a trembling kiss right below his eye. “then tell me now.”

he stilled.

she looked at him through wet lashes, breathing shallow. “please.”

and he didn’t even hesitate.

“i’m in love with you, yn,” he said softly, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “i don’t want some maybe. i don’t want to pretend you’re just my roommate or just my friend. i want you. all of you.”

she exhaled sharply, then surged forward, kissing him properly this time—messy and tear-salted and aching and full of everything she hadn’t said before.

and he kissed her back like he’d been waiting a lifetime for this exact moment.

as her fingers curled in his hoodie and his hands gripped her like he couldn’t bear to let her go, her voice broke one more time—muffled against his lips.

“i love you too.”

she pulled first but barely. sniffles and breathing filled the room and then her voice floated, so soft, barely there—fragile and full of hope, like it might shatter if he didn’t catch it fast enough.

“are you…” she hesitated, her lashes fluttering as she blinked up at him. “are you my boyfriend now?”

he stilled at her question, just barely pulling back, his forehead resting against hers. their breaths mingled between them, heavy with everything that had just been said, everything still unsaid.

the question made his heart thump so loud he was sure she could hear it. and for a moment, all he could do was look at her—eyes glistening, lips swollen from crying and kissing, her whole face still flushed with emotion. god, she was so beautiful, even now.

especially now.

his thumb brushed over her cheekbone gently, and he gave a soft, almost disbelieving laugh. “you’re really asking me that right now?”

she blinked again, confused for a second before her face started to fall. “i just… i didn’t want to assume—”

“no, no—hey.” he shook his head quickly, cupping her face with both hands. “i’m not laughing because i don’t want to be. i’m laughing because i’ve wanted to be yours for so long, i can’t believe you’re the one asking me.”

she looked up at him, lips parted, breath catching.

he kissed her again—once, twice, three times—so tenderly it made her chest ache.

“i’m yours,” he said against her lips, voice a little rough, eyes unwavering. “i’ve been yours. if you’ll have me, i’ll be your boyfriend. your problem. your pain in the ass. your personal heater at night. all of it.”

a shaky smile broke across her face, eyes glassy again. “you’re so dumb.”

he grinned, brushing their noses together. “and you’re stuck with me now.”

she let out a watery laugh, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “good. i don’t want anyone else.”

his arms wrapped around her tighter at that. he buried his face into her neck, voice low, content and slightly breathless.

“then it’s official,” he mumbled. “you’re mine, baby.”

nessie 🗯️ i'm in my riki era rn i think.... ive been writing sm for him i love it

tag𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 drop a comment down or send me an ASK to be a part of my taglist <3

@wenomakiluvr @jaysguitarstring @amatariki @luvchaew @rairaiblog @onlyywwon @1-itsneverthatserious-1 @tinyteezer @zoe1love @doellas

[heejamas]

717 AMORTENTIA

一緒 synopsis: in your final year at hogwarts, all you wanted was quiet. until a transfer student from durmstrang is placed in slytherin, paired with you in advanced potions, and starts asking the wrong questions. when students begin falling ill and secrets bubble beneath the castle’s surface, you find yourself tangled in a web of forbidden magic, deception, and a boy who was never supposed to care. he came to investigate you. he stayed to protect you. but in the shadows of the castle, even love comes with a price.

➤ pairing: slytherin! niki x gryffindor!fem!reader … hogwarts au, enemies to lovers, strangers to lovers // ➤ ˙⟡ word count: 21k 一緒 warnings: mystery, suspense, angst, kidnapping, memory loss, use of dark magic, student endangerment

seventh year feels different. heavier. not because of exams or job interviews or the looming pressure of life beyond the castle, no, you’ve been quietly ready for that. it’s something else, something that lingers in the way the professors pause too long before dismissing class. in how the prefects have been more tense during patrol. how the rumors aren’t just silly now. they sound like warnings whispered too late.

you try not to think about it. instead, you bury yourself in what you’re best at: precision, control, repetition. potions.

professor hong still doesn’t smile when he praises your work, but his hand always lingers a beat longer than necessary on your essays. last week, he gave you a recipe you’d never seen before, said it was from "an old experimental archive, pre-regulation." you copied it into your journal, all neat margins and underlined ingredients, pretending you didn’t notice the way his eyes tracked you as you worked. in class, jeonghan sits across the room. he’s brilliant, even you’d admit that, but messy. his notes are chaos, his technique too relaxed. he never brews the same potion twice the same way, and somehow, it always works. he doesn’t speak to you much. just watches sometimes, with a slight smirk like he’s waiting for you to slip up. you don’t.

and that’s why you’re the one professor hong pairs with on “independent research” tasks. why your name always shows up at the top of the board. why some people avoid sitting next to you in the common room, whispering things like “teacher’s favorite” or “dangerous clever.”

so when a new student shows up midweek — tall, quiet, dark uniform that doesn’t match any of yours — of course he notices you.

you catch him watching you during breakfast, eyes flicking from your hands to your schedule to your badge. you hear he’s from durmstrang, that he was transferred for “security reasons,” whatever that means. you know his name before he says it: niki. slytherin, naturally. but he doesn’t sit with the others. doesn’t talk much. doesn’t ask questions in class, but always seems to be listening too closely.

you remember the first time you saw him, that morning in the great hall, when the sky above the enchanted ceiling was still streaked with sunrise. the professors were already gathered, and the students were buzzing, loud with end-of-summer energy, still full of stories and luggage and half-eaten toast.

then the doors opened. and everything got quiet. he walked in like he belonged somewhere else. posture straight, uniform crisp, movements sharp, like he’d been trained for something that didn’t involve desks or parchment. you remember how people leaned toward each other immediately, whispering behind cupped hands. a transfer student wasn’t unheard of, but from durmstrang? in the seventh year? weird.

you remember how jake nudged you with his elbow. “watch, he’s gonna be the brooding type. bet you he’s a total prick.”

heeseung didn’t even look up from his cereal. “he’s either cursed or annoying. maybe both.”

you didn’t say anything. just watched as he walked toward the front, where mcgonagall stood waiting with the sorting hat. he didn’t flinch when it was lowered onto his head. didn’t even blink. the hall was dead silent.

“slytherin.”

it didn’t take long for the whispering to start again. the usual things: that durmstrang taught dark arts instead of defending against them. that he must’ve done something to get kicked out. that he wasn’t here for school at all.

“security reasons,” sunoo at the ravenclaw table said. “what does that even mean?”

“spying,” jungwon guessed.

you didn’t realize until later that he’d been looking at you when the hat announced his house. like he already knew your name. like he already had questions.

next week, you arrive early to advanced potions. you always do. professor hong prefers punctuality, and so do you — the quiet of the room before it fills, the heavy smell of crushed roots and something faintly metallic in the air, the chalkboard still blank and waiting. you always take your usual seat: third row from the front, left side, closest to the ventilation charm. the room is familiar. reliable. you’ve had four years of top marks and no interruptions here.

which is why the parchment pinned to the door stops you cold.

“term pairs: assigned by academic record.” your name, clear and centered and right beside it: rishimura niki.

you blink once. read it again. it doesn’t make sense. advanced potions is restricted. only students who passed the O.W.L. with distinction, only those who survived hong’s brutal summer assessment essay. niki hadn’t been here for any of that.

you step into the room, still holding the parchment in your hand. you don’t notice him at first, but of course he’s already there, sitting at your table, back straight, sleeves rolled precisely to the elbows. there’s not a single book or quill on the desk. just him, waiting.

“this seat’s taken,” you say automatically, not looking at him.

“i know.” his voice is low, steady. foreign, but not clumsy. like someone used to giving orders quietly.

you glance at him. doesn’t look smug. doesn’t even smile. he just tilts his head, motioning to the board where professor hong is writing ingredients with quick, sharp strokes. niki + y/n. pair #3.

you sit, slow. the table feels smaller than usual. “you’re not supposed to be in this class,” you mutter, more to yourself than him.

“i am now.”

you pull your notebook out with a little more force than necessary. “right. well. don’t get in my way.”

“wasn’t planning to.”

you don’t reply. professor hong starts the lecture, something about variable temperature thresholds in guilt-detection serum, but you barely register it. you feel niki’s eyes on you before you even see him turn. watching your hands again, the way you slice the asphodel root, the way you measure without double-checking.

“you’re precise,” he says quietly.

“that’s why i’m in this class.”

“gryffindor, right?”

you pause. “…yeah.”

“doesn’t track.”

you look up, eyebrows lifted. “what doesn’t?”

“you brew like a slytherin. methodical. calculated. no hesitation.”

“you’re stereotyping.”

“i’m observing.”

you roll your eyes, harder than necessary. “what, do they teach you arrogance at durmstrang, or is it just in the water there?”

he doesn’t smile. not even a twitch. “just asking questions.”

“well, don’t. i’m not interested in making friends.”

“i’m not interested in pretending.” you glance sideways. he’s watching you, yes, but not in that distracted, half-bored way other people do. it’s too direct. too sharp. like he’s picking you apart already, looking for cracks. “so,” he says, too casually. “your parents—also in potions?”

your stomach tightens. “what?”

“just curious. it runs in families sometimes.”

“what, brewing talent?”

“obsession.”

you set your pestle down too hard. the sound makes professor hong pause mid-sentence. you give a tight smile and mutter an apology. niki doesn’t flinch. “what’s your point?” you hiss under your breath.

he shrugs. “just strange, that’s all. someone as good as you, flying under the radar. no publications. no mentorships. no talk.”

“because i’m seventeen. and i’m in school.”

“still.”

you snap your head toward him. “are you always this invasive, or is it just me?”

his gaze doesn’t drop. “just you.”

you open your mouth to say something else, to say something biting, but professor hong claps his hands. “pair work. guilt serum base. i expect accuracy, not creativity. results on my desk by end of class.”

you grip the edge of the desk, pulse jumping. you don’t like being questioned. you really don’t like being watched. and you definitely don’t like the way niki moves, like he’s already two steps ahead of everyone, and like you’re some kind of puzzle he’s just starting to solve.

“fine,” you mutter, pulling ingredients toward you. “but if you mess this up, i’m reporting it.”

“you won’t have to.”

you ignore the way his tone makes your spine twitch.

professor hong paces past your table just as you reach for the silver scales and start weighing the powdered valerian root. his presence is like static, quiet but charged, sharp eyes sweeping over your measurements, nodding once before moving on.

you glance at the board.

veritaserum (skeleton base)

– jobberknoll feather (crushed)

– valerian root

– gillywater infusion

– moonstone shards

– whisper of wand essence

brew with absolute precision. contamination leads to useless result. or explosion.

you slide the jar of moonstone toward niki without looking at him. “you do the infusion,” you say. “gillywater, slow simmer. three stirs clockwise, pause, one counter. don’t mess it up.”

“don’t worry,” he murmurs. “i’ve done this before.”

“sure you have,” you mutter back.

he moves like he’s used to silence. his hands are steady, controlled, like someone trained to follow orders without hesitation, or someone who never needed to be taught twice. he handles the gillywater like it’s nothing, which only annoys you more.

“what were you doing at durmstrang?” you ask, casually. too casually.

he doesn’t answer right away. “learning things hogwarts doesn’t teach.”

you arch a brow. “like what? interrogation tactics?”

a flicker of something in his eyes. amusement? surprise? “maybe,” he says. “you’d be good at it.”

you scoff. “you’re really bad at compliments.”

“i wasn’t trying to be nice.”

“figures.”

you tip the crushed feather into the bubbling potion with precision, watching the surface turn a faint iridescent blue. it’s supposed to do that. still, you double-check the notes. he leans slightly closer, just enough for you to feel it.

“you always this paranoid?” he says under his breath.

you glance up sharply. “you’re the one interrogating me.”

“because you’re the only other person in this room who could’ve brewed something like that,” he says, too low for anyone else to hear. he doesn’t nod toward anything. doesn’t explain. 

“maybe you should mind your business.”

“maybe your business is my business.”

the simmering sound of the potion nearly drowns out the last line. nearly. you feel heat rise to your face — not from embarrassment, but from anger. and something else. something you can’t name yet. tension, maybe. or recognition.

you glare at him. “you don’t know me.”

“not yet,” he says simply.

you stab the stirring rod into the cauldron and begin the final stir sequence. you don’t look at him again. but you feel his eyes on you the entire time.

the dungeon air sticks to your skin as class ends. like it’s not just the potion steam but something heavier sitting in your chest. you pack your things slower than usual, not out of care but because your hands are tight with something you can’t name. annoyance. unease. that stupid static in the back of your neck from being watched too long.

you hear him behind you. still silent. still calm. he doesn’t say anything about the potion, or the fact that you were the only pair to get it right. professor hong gives your table the usual low-voiced approval, a faint nod, the same he gives to every decent result, but the weight of it lands different this time. like even the professor is watching something neither of you can name.

you latch your kit closed with a sharp snap. niki doesn’t even flinch. just wipes his side of the table with slow, precise movements, like he’s done this in labs stricter than this one. maybe he has. maybe he’s lying about half of what he is. or maybe he just makes everything feel like a lie — that steady face, those quiet questions, the way he looks at you like you’re a book he already started reading and didn’t ask permission for.

his hands are already clean. the station spotless. but he doesn’t move. not until you’re out of sight.

and even then, he’s slow about it. pulling a folded slip of parchment from the inside of his robe, the ink already half-dry on the note he started writing halfway through the lesson. your name isn’t on it. not yet. but he’s thinking about it.

weeks pass like molasses.

at first, you try to ignore him. it’s not hard, you’ve perfected the art of quiet disapproval. you sit next to him in advanced potions without looking directly at him, keep your comments to a minimum, stir counter-clockwise when he stirs clockwise. you don’t ask questions, and he doesn’t offer answers. for a while, that feels like enough. distant, tense, but manageable.

but then he shows up at the slytherin quidditch tryouts.

you don’t mean to watch. you’re just walking past the pitch with jake and heeseung, both of them halfway through arguing about who’s going to get bumped from the gryffindor lineup this year, when you hear the usual roar of the crowd, but this time it sounds different. more focused. people are watching someone specific. and of course it’s him.

niki’s in full gear, dark green robes catching the wind like he was born in them, cutting through the sky like a hawk. he’s fast, too fast. and worse, he’s good. he moves like he’s been playing for years, with that kind of ease that makes it look effortless. you glance at heeseung and see it, the immediate shift in his jaw, the quiet twitch of annoyance. he won’t say it, but you know. the last thing any gryffindor wants is to admit a slytherin is better. especially one who just dropped out of the sky and stole the show.

“he's so full of himself,” heeseung mutters, biting down on the words. “he’s not even that good. just fast. and tall. and probably on some weird eastern european broom charm.”

you don’t say anything, but your stomach twists. not because heeseung’s wrong — niki is good. but because you already know how this’ll go. girls from ravenclaw and hufflepuff will start showing up at slytherin games “just to watch.” someone’ll start writing about him in the hogwarts gossip paper. and you’ll be stuck next to him twice a week while everyone else acts like he’s the most fascinating thing to ever walk through the castle doors.

by the end of that week, it starts happening. you run into him everywhere.

first, it’s the greenhouses. you’re there late after class, picking up a special order of wormwood for your independent study project. professor sprout isn’t even there, but she left a note that it’d be waiting on bench three. you reach for it, turn your head, and he’s just there, already holding the exact same herb.

“need this?” he asks, like he hasn’t just stolen it from under your nose.

you scowl. “do you follow people, or is this just bad luck?”

he shrugs. says nothing. hands it over. smirking.

then it’s the care of magical creatures hut. you signed up to help professor galen monitor the growth of some hybrid firecrabs, mostly for extra credit and also because you actually like the weird little bastards. it’s quiet, peaceful work — or at least it was, until niki shows up with a pair of dragonhide gloves and a perfect excuse: “professor asked for a second assistant.”

you try not to scream. you fail a little. he laughs once under his breath, and you consider tossing a bucket of feed at his head.

and then there’s the library. and the owlery. and the great hall. and the narrow stairwell near the astronomy tower where you definitely weren’t expecting anyone at that hour.

it’s not like he’s following you, not really. but every time you think you’ve finally gotten a moment to breathe, he appears. silent, observant, eyes flicking over your hands, your books, your schedule. never saying much. never far.

jake thinks it’s hilarious, he calls it fate. heeseung calls it weird. you call it a problem. and yet, the worst part isn’t that you keep seeing him, it’s that he keeps seeing you. like he’s waiting for something. like there’s a piece of you he’s still trying to find. and you don’t know what he’s looking for, but you hate that part of you keeps wondering what he’ll do when he finds it.

and then, there's the first game. it’s the kind of match people talk about for years. slytherin versus gryffindor always pulls a crowd, but this one feels heavier before it even starts. there’s a tension in the air, charged like a storm’s about to hit, and maybe it is. maybe it always is when houses like these meet under the sky.

niki plays chaser. no one saw it coming. people assumed he'd be a seeker, sleek and quiet and fast, but he’s not. he’s sharp and ruthless, cutting through the field with a kind of precision that doesn’t feel fair. every pass, every goal, every feint is calculated. he moves like he’s already seen the play ten seconds before it happens. jake barely has time to call out strategies. heeseung’s fast, but not fast enough. the score climbs. fast. and it’s a massacre.

even the commentators start hesitating around the third goal. then the fifth. then the ninth. by the time slytherin hits two-hundred and twenty to forty, gryffindor’s cheering section is silent. people stop pretending it’s just a bad game. you watch from the stands with your jaw locked, hands frozen on the red-and-gold scarf you shouldn’t have bothered wearing. the worst part isn’t that gryffindor’s losing. it’s who they’re losing to. it’s how.

niki doesn’t smile once. he just plays. and wins.

and the dormitory that night is a graveyard. someone opens a few bottles of butterbeer in half-hearted consolation. the room smells like defeat and cinnamon. no one says anything loud. jake’s sitting with his head in his hands. heeseung’s sprawled on the couch, eyes on the ceiling like maybe if he stares long enough, the score’ll change. you’re pacing. you’ve been pacing since you got back.

"he had to have been training for years," jake mutters. “like, professionally. i don’t think normal students play like that.”

"oh, now you realize that?" you snap.

he lifts his head, blinking. "...you’re pissed."

"you think?"

"you’re more pissed than anyone. and you’re not even on the team." you shoot him a look that could fry a mandrake. "wait," he says slowly, sitting up straighter. “is this because your crush crushed us?”

"excuse me?!" heeseung makes a noise like he’s trying not to laugh. “i do not have a crush on him.”

“sure,” jake says, nodding like that’s exactly what someone with a crush would say. “you just talk about how shady he is every time we see him. totally normal.” you don’t dignify it with a response. you grab your cloak and stomp toward the door. “where are you going?” jake calls after you.

“somewhere you’re not,” you mutter, slamming the portrait shut behind you.

the night is cold. the castle's quieter than it should be. most people are at the slytherin common room, which you hear is loud enough to rattle the pipes. you don't care. you head toward the viaduct path, it’s far, and mostly empty at this hour, overlooking the black lake. the wind cuts through your robes and makes your cheeks sting, but the air helps. it feels real and grounding.

you sit on the stone ledge, just out of reach of the torchlight. your hands are in your lap. you close your eyes for a second and try to breathe. you don’t know how long you sit there. long enough for your anger to dull into something quieter. something closer to confusion.

and that’s when you hear footsteps behind you. you don’t have to turn around, you already know who it is.

“you’re following me again,” you say without opening your eyes.

“you’re predictable,” niki answers, stepping into view, voice calm. like he didn’t just humiliate your house in front of half the school.

you open your eyes and look at him. he’s not in his quidditch robes anymore, but his hair’s still wind-blown, and there’s mud on his boots. he doesn’t look tired. he doesn’t look sorry.

“come to gloat?”

“no.” he pauses. “you weren’t at the party.”

you blink. “why would i be?”

he shrugs. “you’re everywhere else.”

you scoff and look away, fingers tightening in your lap. the wind blows hair into your face, but you don’t bother moving it. not with him standing there, watching like he’s waiting for you to slip up.

“why are you here?” you ask eventually, not bothering to sound friendly.

he leans against the ledge a few feet away, arms crossed. “too much in the common room. too loud.”

you glance at him. “bit dramatic, don’t you think? they’re celebrating you.”

he doesn’t answer right away. “i don’t like attention.”

you let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “right.”

his eyes flick over to you. “what?”

“you’re telling me,” you start, voice dry, “that the star transfer student from durmstrang, who just massacred gryffindor and has half the school drooling over him, doesn’t like attention?”

he shrugs again, but it’s more of a pause this time. less of a defense, more of a question mark. “i just figured you’d be at the party,” he says, softer.

you snort. “why? i hate parties.” he raises an eyebrow. you continue. “i go to maybe one if it’s in the gryffindor dorms. maybe ravenclaw if sunoo begs. but even then, it’s always the same thing. someone brings a sketchy bottle of something labeled ‘love potion’ or ‘euphoria draught’ or—god—forgets to dilute amortentia and suddenly i’m dragging someone to madam pomfrey again.”

he looks at you carefully, and you can tell he’s trying to decide something. “so you weren’t at that last ravenclaw party last year?” he asks.

“no.” you shake your head. “i had a paper due for hong’s class and heeseung caught a cold. why?”

he watches you for a second. long enough that you start to feel defensive. “there was a girl,” he says. “a ravenclaw. drank something. couldn’t remember anything for days.”

you blink, sitting up straighter. “you mean yeji?”

he nods. “that’s her.”

you look away, jaw clenched. “i knew her. not well, but… she sat near me in magical theory. always gave perfect answers. smart and cautious.” niki’s silent again, waiting. “she’s not the type to take a mystery potion just because someone said it’d make her feel good,” you continue. “she’d ask what was in it. make sure it was brewed properly. she wasn’t careless.”

“do you know what she took?”

you shake your head. “no. whatever it was… it wasn’t something i recognized. or i would’ve said something by now.” you pause. then your gaze snaps back to him. “why are you asking me this?” you say, sharper than before. “do you think i had something to do with it?”

niki meets your eyes, unreadable. “i think you know more about potions than anyone else here. and that makes you useful.”

you stand up slowly, heart beating harder. “useful?”

“not in a bad way.”

“you don’t even know me,” you say, and there’s an edge to your voice now that wasn’t there before. “you sit next to me in one class, and suddenly you think you can judge what kind of person i am? if i was someone who—who poisoned someone?”

he doesn’t answer. but he doesn’t look away, either. you step back, just once. the stone under your shoes is cold and solid, grounding.

“you can ask your little questions,” you mutter, voice low, “but don’t pretend you’re not doing it for a reason. and don’t pretend i’m not noticing.”

you start walking away before he can say anything else. but even as you leave the viaduct, the weight of his stare clings to your back. like he’s not done with you yet.

the following week is... confusing. because after that night, niki seems to vanish.

he’s still around, of course. you still see him in potions, where he sits next to you in silence, answering only when necessary, his eyes flicking toward your hands when you chop ingredients a little too fast. but he doesn’t hover in the same spaces anymore. he’s not suddenly behind you in the greenhouse when you’re picking murtlap, not crossing paths with you outside the care of magical creatures hut. if he was studying you before, now it feels like he’s keeping his distance on purpose.

but he’s not exactly alone. you start noticing him with sunghoon and jay — the slytherin beaters, loud and cocky and always surrounded by admirers. it’s hard not to see them, honestly, with their matching smug grins and perfectly polished brooms slung over their shoulders like fashion accessories. the three of them make an intimidating group, and niki fits in with a quiet ease that somehow makes it worse.

but what really makes your stomach twist is when you see him with jeonghan.

the first time is in the library. you’re at a corner table, flipping through advanced antidotal theory, and they pass by in the restricted section, speaking in hushed voices. jeonghan has that same unreadable look he always wears, like he’s two steps ahead and enjoying the view, and niki is just behind him, listening. not saying much. not needing to.

you try not to stare and you fail. because it’s not just once. you see them again two days later, walking out of the potions classroom long after class has ended. they don’t notice you around the corner, but you catch the end of the conversation. jeonghan laughing softly, niki saying something too low to hear. and something clicks, something uncomfortable.

niki is hanging around with the two best potion students in hogwarts: you and jeonghan. only he’s not talking to you anymore. and jeonghan… well. you’ve never trusted jeonghan.

your rivalry with him goes back years. you both excel in potionwork, but he’s manipulative. calculated. always finding loopholes, shortcuts, ways to twist instructions just enough to outshine you. professor hong praises both of you, but there's always that tension beneath the surface — the unspoken competition, the way you both rush to finish first or brew cleaner or get more points for your house. it’s not personal. but it’s never friendly.

so when you realize niki’s been spending time with him, choosing to spend time with him, it feels like a warning. and your mind won’t stop circling back to the rumors, the girl in ravenclaw, the potion no one could identify. it starts keeping you up at night. not in the dramatic, sleepless kind of way. more like you’re distracted. unfocused.

jake notices first.

“you haven’t insulted heeseung’s handwriting in days,” he says one afternoon in the common room, poking your arm with his quill. “are you sick?”

“shut up,” you mutter, flipping a page in your notes.

heeseung chimes in from across the table. “she’s just sulking because her mortal enemy replaced her.”

“excuse me?” you blink at him.

“niki,” he says simply, leaning back in his chair. “you’re obsessed.”

“i am not—”

“you’ve been zoning out since the game,” jake says. “don’t even deny it. you walked into the wrong classroom this morning. twice.”

“i had a lot on my mind.”

“yeah,” jake mutters. “specifically, one thing.”

you slam your book shut and stand up before either of them can say anything else. you don’t have time to explain what’s really bothering you, not to them. not yet. not when even you don’t fully understand what it is.

on the end of the week, professor hong had called you into his office at the end of double potions. most students had already filed out, voices trailing down the corridor, but he had looked up from his desk just as you were collecting your things and said, “miss y/l/n. a word.”

you’d hesitated, glanced once at sunoo, who gave you a curious look over his shoulder, but you stayed behind. it wasn’t unusual, professor hong had a habit of assigning you extra work, sometimes letting you help with his research, sometimes testing obscure theories through essays or unsupervised brewing experiments. you were used to it. used to the pressure. the quiet praise he offered only when absolutely necessary. you respected him — feared him a little, too, but mostly respected.

“you’re serious about pursuing mastery after hogwarts?” he’d asked you then, voice flat, as if the answer didn’t matter.

“yes,” you said immediately. “of course.”

he nodded once, turning the open pages of a leather-bound journal toward you. it was worn and scrawled in a cramped, spidery script — old, maybe even pre-hogwarts era. “this is a recipe for the draught of lucid recall,” he said. “a stabilizing agent for memory restoration, very rarely brewed these days due to one limiting factor.”

you leaned forward, reading the ingredients list. something flickered in your chest when your eyes caught on a line. glowing firevine from a duskwing nest.

“these plants grow from the residual magical energy left behind by duskwing shrike hatchlings,” he continued. “and duskwing shrikes, as you may know, nest exclusively on the western border of the forbidden forest. nocturnal creatures. extremely shy. the vines bloom only when the nest has been long abandoned. and only at night.” 

he closed the book with a soft snap and looked at you. “you want the experience, don’t you?” and you had nodded.

so now here you are, close to midnight, stepping past the boundary wards into the forest. you’d prepared carefully: protective charms on your boots, your wand lit just enough to catch your footing, your satchel laced tight across your chest. it isn’t your first time out here, but it’s the first time you’ve come alone. and the silence of it all — broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves, or the distant flutter of wings — feels different than it does during class or field assignments.

you move slowly, tracking the marks you’d memorized in hong’s notes. the duskwing nests are fragile, crater-like indentations of moss and twigs, and the vines curl through them like veins of molten light, gold and red and strangely pulsing. it takes you nearly half an hour, but you find one tucked into the roots of an old tree, exactly where he said it would be.

the firevine glows faintly under your wandlight. it’s warm when you pluck it. and you barely have time to admire it before you hear the voices. 

they come in like fog. low, urgent tones. two, maybe three. you freeze, instinct pulling your wand up, light gone in an instant. you drop low, heart hammering in your throat, breath caught somewhere just behind your teeth.

they’re not speaking english, not any language you recognize. but the tone is serious. focused. and whoever they are, they’re moving closer.

you slide behind a thick wall of brambles, the firevine clutched to your chest, breath shaky. you’re about to press a muffling charm to your mouth when you feel it. a hand. firm and fast, clamping over your lips.

you jolt, panic spiking white-hot in your veins, but you can’t scream. the hand is strong, and someone presses close behind you, other arm curling around your waist, holding you still. your wand is still in your grip, but you can’t raise it. not without stabbing blindly behind you. and then, you hear the whisper.

“don’t move,” a voice says, low against your ear.

you freeze. the hand loosens slightly, and the pressure around your waist fades just enough for you to breathe. you turn your head, only a little, just enough to see.

niki.

his eyes catch yours in the dark. unreadable, as always, but more focused than you’ve ever seen them. he’s got his wand out, too — already raised — his other hand still hovering near your shoulder, steadying you. he makes a motion with his fingers. quiet. then he turns back, gaze locked in the direction of the voices. and suddenly you realize, he knew they were coming. he wasn’t following you. he was already here.

you stay frozen there for a while, crouched low behind the thick underbrush, hidden under dark branches that rattle slightly with the wind. the voices are getting louder. closer. and niki hasn’t let go. his arm is still firm around your shoulders, fingers pressed against the curve of your arm, anchoring you in place. you feel his chest behind you, the slow rise and fall of it unnervingly calm. you’re trying to match it, to steady yourself, but your heart’s racing and your fingers are clenched so tightly around the firevine it’s starting to lose its warmth.

the men are near now. you hear the crunch of boots on forest floor, the drag of something heavy being pulled along the dirt. someone curses. another laughs. it sounds like there’s four of them, maybe five.

niki moves. he shifts just enough to slip his wand into his other hand and pull something from the inner lining of his cloak. it glimmers faintly in the dark, like silver water. before you can process what it is, he’s tossing it up and over you both. everything disappears. you blink. once, twice. the bushes around you remain, faint outlines in the dark, but your hands, your legs, niki’s arm — they’re gone.

a disillusionment charm wouldn’t do that. a concealment spell wouldn’t either. it’s a true invisibility cloak. a real one. old magic. rare magic.

you don’t say anything — can’t, not with the footsteps just meters away. but your breath catches. the fabric is soft where it touches your arms, heavy and cool and real. you tilt your head slightly, eyes narrowing at the glint of the hem, and it clicks. this isn’t some hand-me-down replica. this is something ancient. expensive. possibly even enchanted. who the hell is he?

you feel the shift before you hear it, niki’s face turns slightly toward you, and for a moment, his forehead presses against yours. barely. just a touch. you’re both breathing shallow now, every inhale tight and quiet. his eyes are on yours. too close. too much.

you’re not sure how long it lasts. it feels like minutes, hours, your limbs locked in place, the sounds of the forest swallowed up by the murmuring of the men. but eventually, the voices start to fade, a few more bootsteps. a grunt. silence. they’re gone.

the stillness returns slowly, like the forest has to remember how to be quiet. niki doesn’t move at first, but then he carefully pulls the cloak off your heads, folding it down with one hand. you finally breathe fully, blinking as the shadows settle back around you.

then he speaks. “what were you doing here?” his tone isn’t curious. it’s sharp and suspicious.

you blink at him, still crouched. “excuse me?”

he stands now, brushing the dirt from his knees, his jaw tight. “it’s almost midnight. the forbidden forest. and you just happen to be walking around where a group of smugglers were about to meet?”

you stand too, anger rising instantly. “i wasn’t walking around, i was on assignment.” you dig into your satchel, still clutching the firevine, and pull out the folded parchment professor hong gave you. it’s damp around the edges, crinkled from your grip, but the seal is still visible. you thrust it at him. “here. read it.”

he doesn’t take it, just glances over quickly, then looks away.

“what were they doing here?” you demand, heart still racing. “who are they?”

niki pauses, eyes scanning the space where the men disappeared. “snatchers,” he says finally. “potion traffickers. illegal brew distribution, mostly. kidnapping, too. sometimes they use kids to run ingredients. sometimes they use… worse.”

you feel your stomach flip. “and you know that because…?” he doesn’t answer. you take a step closer. “niki.” still nothing. you laugh, bitter. “you think i’m suspicious? you’ve been lying about who you are since day one.” his jaw ticks, and you see the flicker of something in his eyes — guilt, maybe, or regret — but he still doesn’t explain. “what were you doing out here?” you ask, quieter now. “following them?”

he shrugs, but it’s stiff. rehearsed. “i just… heard something. figured it was worth checking.”

you don’t believe him. not for a second. you cross your arms. “you’ve been watching me since the first day of term. showing up in every class i’m in. now i find you with a cloak worth more than half the school, and you expect me to believe i’m the one with something to explain?”

you hate the way your voice cracks at the end. hate how shaken you still feel. hate how he’s looking at you like he knows something, something you don’t, something he’s not ready to say. 

niki runs a hand through his hair, breath heavy. “i wasn’t trying to—” he stops. you stare at him. waiting. “just… be careful,” he says finally. voice low. “you don’t know what kind of things people will do for potions like these.”

you stare at him for a moment, mouth parted like there’s more he could say, but he doesn't.  “fine,” you mutter, shouldering your satchel with more force than necessary. “if you don’t want to tell me what’s going on, don’t. but don’t drag me into it.”

you turn on your heel and start walking, the firevine still pulsing faintly in your hand. the glow matches the simmer under your skin. you’re not even mad, not really, you’re just done. you just want to go back, hand the plant to professor hong, and forget you were ever crouched behind a bush with niki pressed against you under some ridiculously expensive cloak, waiting for smugglers to pass.

but you hear footsteps behind you. you don’t have to look. you already know. “you cannot be serious,” you throw over your shoulder.

“what?” niki says innocently, which is rich, coming from the boy who basically accused you of being in a criminal syndicate five minutes ago. “you’re going back to the castle. so am i.”

“no, you’re following me.”

“i’m escorting you,” he corrects, like he’s doing you a favor. “it’s dangerous out here.”

you shoot him a glare. “i just watched you pull a cloak out of nowhere and you were about to take on five potion smugglers with nothing but your wand and a death glare. i think i’m fine.”

“you didn’t see my real death glare,” he says, voice low and mock-serious. “that was my soft version. reserved for classmates i don’t suspect of dark deals in the forest.”

you whip around. “i swear to merlin, if you say one more word about that—”

he raises both hands, smiling. this is the first time you see him smiling. “okay, okay. i’ll behave.” you narrow your eyes at him and keep walking, faster this time. naturally, he keeps pace. “you know,” he starts again after exactly three seconds of silence, “it was kind of impressive. the way you stayed quiet. most people would’ve screamed when i covered their mouth.”

“yeah, well, i was too busy trying to figure out if you were about to murder me,” you snap.

“aw. you thought i was dangerous?”

you roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out. “i think you’re annoying.”

“close enough.”

you mutter something unrepeatable and pull your cloak tighter around you. the forest’s thinning now, you can see the edge of the path that leads back to the castle, the soft orange glow of the torches in the distance. it should feel like relief, but you’re still buzzing with frustration. he walks beside you like it’s nothing. hands in his pockets. humming, even. 

you stop again, turning to him. “do you enjoy this?”

“what, the trauma of being ambushed in a forest?” he deadpans.

“no,” you hiss, “this. following me. provoking me. acting like you’re not hiding fifty secrets behind that smug face.”

his eyes flick to yours, and for a second, just a flicker, something shifts in his expression. not playful. not teasing. soft. but then it’s gone. “maybe,” he says, with the faintest shrug. “you’re cute when you’re mad.”

you groan, loud and exasperated. “i cannot stand you.”

“you don’t have to stand me,” he says. “just walk next to me until we get back.”

you’re already walking, again, because if you stand there one second longer you might actually hex him. you trudge the last stretch of path in silence, or your silence, anyway. niki keeps talking. nonsense, mostly. how the moon’s extra bright tonight. how one of the smugglers had awful footwear. how professor hong would probably give you extra credit for surviving a kidnapping attempt. you don’t dignify any of it with a response, which only makes him talk more.

you reach the courtyard. then the stairs. then the long corridor to the entrance of gryffindor tower. you stop at the portrait of the fat lady and turn to him.

“you can leave now.”

he tilts his head. “are you sure? what if there’s more traffickers hiding in the tapestry?”

“niki.”

“what if the portrait password changed and you’re locked out forever?”

you take a deep breath, glaring up at him. he’s smiling again. like he’s having the best night of his life. you hate that it almost makes you laugh. “goodnight,” you grit through your teeth.

“goodnight, y/n.”

you just turn and mutter the password, stepping through the door before you can think about what just happened, or the way your heart’s still pounding, for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with firevine or smugglers or the forbidden forest.

the next day, you don’t know if you should tell anyone what happened. you keep replaying it in your head — the firevine glowing in your hands, the crunch of boots too close for comfort, the weight of niki’s hand over your mouth, the quiet snap of his cloak as it unfurled over you both like a second skin. how close you were. how still you had to be. how natural it felt to trust him, for a heartbeat, when every part of your brain screamed that you shouldn’t.

you didn’t sleep. you barely said two words at breakfast. not even when heeseung tried to give you a hard time about falling asleep in your toast. not now, heeseung, you wanted to say. i might have accidentally gotten myself tangled in an underground potion smuggling conspiracy and i think niki’s hiding something and i was in the forest illegally and maybe i’m in over my head.

but instead you just stared at your scrambled eggs like they might give you answers.

the guilt sits wrong in your stomach, heavy and unshaped. it’s not just the fact that you snuck out, it’s that you didn’t tell anyone. you still haven’t. not even professor hong. not even jake or heeseung, and you tell them almost everything. the silence feels dangerous, but there’s something stopping you from breaking it. something in the way niki looked at you when he said you don’t know what people will do for potions like these. something in the way he followed you all the way back to your common room with that stupid smirk, like he knew you wouldn’t say anything.

and the worst part is that he was right. so you go to the library. you tell yourself it’s just research. you are a good student. you do care about learning. but you don’t go to the advanced potions aisle. you don’t head for herbology or magical fauna or any of your usual corners.

you go straight to the restricted back row where the musty, half-forgotten books on potion-related crimes live. black bindings. cracked gold titles. old wizard photos that flicker and fade. you comb through chapter after chapter — trafficking, smuggling rings, black market sellers, memory charm abuse, corruption. you take notes. 

and when you’re tired of digging through other people’s crimes, you go deeper. durmstrang student records, class archives, yearbooks. you bite your lip. you search for names. you search for his name.

you find them stacked in chronological order, old leather-bound volumes organized by year and specialization. you scan the spines until your fingers land on the right one — last year’s upper division, potions track. you pull it down, careful, and let the weight of it settle on the table. you flip through pages. names. faces. accolades. best in year. graduated early. expelled for dueling. there’s a few others you half-recognize. but no niki.

you go through it twice. then a third time. he’s not in it. not in any of them. your brows furrow. how?

maybe he was homeschooled. maybe he studied abroad and came back. maybe his name is spelled differently. maybe there’s a perfectly logical reason. maybe there isn’t.

you’re still staring at the open book in front of you when you feel it — a prickle at the back of your neck. that sense of being watched. of someone’s presence folding quietly into the space behind you. you lift your head slowly. and there he is. niki’s across the library. leaning against the far shelf, a book half-open in his hands but clearly forgotten. next to him, jeonghan.

you don’t even try to pretend it’s a coincidence anymore. of course he’s with jeonghan. of course they’re in the potions section, and not looking at anything on the shelf. jeonghan says something to him, too quiet for you to hear, and niki doesn’t answer. his eyes are locked on you.

you think about the firevine. the heat of his breath against your cheek. the way he pulled you close like he’d done it before. like he knew how to hide. how to survive. how to keep secrets so well it was second nature. he looks at you like he knows you’re keeping one now. you close the book softly. don’t break eye contact. and you think, not for the first time, that this might all be bigger than you realized.

you leave the library with your thoughts tangling into knots.

every step echoes with the weight of it — the missing yearbook photo, the too-perfect invisibility cloak, the way he looked at you like he knew you’d keep quiet. and you did. but it’s too much now. something isn’t right, and it’s bigger than a smirk in the library or a close call in the forest. you can’t carry it alone anymore.

so you write a note in quick, messy strokes. tell heeseung to meet you in front of hagrid’s cabin after his practice. say it’s important. don’t say why.

the sun’s already low when you get there, gold spilling across the edge of the forest and setting the fields in firelight. you sit on the stone ledge near the pumpkins, hands tucked under your legs, bouncing your foot like that’ll make him come faster. heeseung’s the only person you trust with this. he’s loud and annoying and says the wrong thing nine times out of ten, but he listens. he keeps secrets. he knows you. and right now, that feels like the only thing keeping you from unraveling.

he shows up with his broom slung over his shoulder, sweaty and windblown, still in his quidditch robes. “what’s up?” he says, slowing when he sees your face. “you look like you saw a dementor.”

you just gesture for him to follow. you walk in silence. through the edge of the grounds, around the old greenhouses, to a little hollow between the divination tower and the west wall, quiet, shaded, always empty. you used to come here with him during second year when you wanted to skip classes without getting caught.

you sit, so does he. and then you start talking. you tell him about the forest. the task professor hong gave you. the firevine. the men. the way niki grabbed you and covered your mouth, how he knew what was happening before you did. the invisibility cloak. the questions. the silence. the way he's always with jeonghan. heeseung doesn’t interrupt. not once.

and then you tell him about the library. the records. the way niki and jeonghan were together, not doing anything, just watching. you expect him to laugh. or roll his eyes. maybe call you dramatic. but he just frowns.

“okay,” he says slowly. “okay, that’s… a lot.” you exhale. it’s the first time you’ve said any of it out loud. it still feels insane. “but like,” he continues, “niki being in the forest — that’s not just weird, that’s sketchy as hell. and if he did know those guys… like, know who they were…”

you nod, tension tightening your jaw. “i think he’s here for a reason. i don’t think he’s just some transfer from durmstrang.”

heeseung rubs the back of his neck. “well, jeonghan’s always been the guy with potions at parties, right?”

you blink. “what?”

“i mean—yeah,” he shrugs. “he always has something. headache cures, hangover things, dumb little confidence draughts—whatever. people go to him if they wanna feel something. he’s like the unofficial supplier.”

you shake your head. “i’ve never seen him do that.”

heeseung raises an eyebrow. “yeah, because he never does it when you’re around.”

you pause. let that sink in. you think back to the parties you did go to, the ones heeseung dragged you to. the times jeonghan was just a quiet shadow in the corner. and the other times, when you left early, or didn’t go at all, when something did happen, someone did get sick, someone did say they took something they shouldn’t have.

“shit,” you whisper.

heeseung leans back, whistling low. “you think niki’s here for that? like, actually investigating?”

you don’t say anything for a moment. just stare at the grass between your shoes. “it makes sense,” you say eventually. “but… i don’t know who he is. or who sent him. or why he won’t just tell me.”

“maybe he can’t.” you look at him. “if he’s undercover or whatever,” he adds. “maybe it’s dangerous.”

you nod, slowly. but it still doesn’t explain everything. it doesn’t explain why he’s so reckless with you. why he watches you like you might be the one hiding something. why, despite all your instincts, part of you still wants to trust him.

and worse — why it feels like he already trusts you.

a month passes, quiet and strange.

niki doesn’t talk to you. doesn’t look at you. doesn’t sit near you in potions, doesn’t show up where you are unless he absolutely has to. it’s like that night in the forest never happened — like the muffled breath against your temple, the brush of his jacket against your arm under the invisibility cloak, the tension crackling in the silence — like all of it was just something you imagined.

and if he’s pretending it didn’t happen, you figure you might as well do the same.

professor hong starts giving you more work than usual, like he’s testing you for something. special assignments, obscure texts to translate, herb samples to categorize and label. it’s not exactly punishment, but it feels like a spotlight is always on you. your grades stay high, but your patience wears thin.

when december rolls in, hogwarts gets colder, quieter. thick snow covers the grounds, and the halls echo in a way they never do during the rest of the year. most seventh years stay. it’s your last winter here, after all. you’re not going home either. your parents sent a letter that said something about a trip, something about being proud, something about sending your present by owl. 

you like the castle better like this. emptier. you can breathe.

one afternoon, you head into hogsmeade with heeseung, jake, sunoo, and jungwon. it’s snowing, the kind that sticks to your eyelashes and stings your fingers if you forget your gloves. the five of you end up at the three broomsticks, and the butterbeer’s warm.

you sit around a small round table near the back, laughing over something jake said, watching your breath fog in the cold air that slips in through the cracks in the windows. everything feels momentarily normal.

until you see him. niki walks in with jay and sunghoon, a sweep of snow still in his hair. he looks taller in winter clothes, sharper somehow, the dark green of his scarf marking him clearly as slytherin. you don’t know what you expect, maybe that he’ll ignore you again, just like he has for weeks.

but he sees you. and he smiles. it’s small, barely there, a flicker of something at the corner of his mouth. and it throws you completely off. because that’s the first time he’s acknowledged you since the forest. no words, just a look. but it’s enough to make your heart beat a little off rhythm.

you glance around. jeonghan’s not with them. and somehow, that makes you more uneasy than his smile. you look away fast, pretending you didn’t see him. pretending it doesn’t matter. but the weight of his eyes doesn’t leave you for the rest of the night.

your mug is nearly empty, and so is sunoo’s, so you offer to get a new round. the others don’t protest. you push through the crowd toward the bar, cheeks still flushed, scarf tugged loose around your neck. the old barkeep grunts something unintelligible as you pass him the empty mugs.

and then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he’s there. niki.

he sidles up next to you, coat dusted with melting snow, hands shoved in his pockets. you can smell the firewood smoke on him. he doesn’t say anything at first. just stands beside you, eyes flicking toward the mugs, then toward your face. “why didn’t you go home for the break?” he asks, voice quiet, casual, like he hadn’t spent the last month acting like you didn’t exist.

you turn to him slowly, blinking once. your expression sharpens instantly. “you’ve been ignoring me for a month, and now you suddenly care?”

the words are colder than the wind outside. and you mean them to be. his jaw tightens just a little. he glances down, then back at you. “i was… busy.”

you let out a breath through your nose. “right.”

the mugs clink as the barkeep sets them down in front of you. you pick them up carefully, your fingers wrapping around the warm handles. niki watches you, but you don’t look at him again. you turn around and walk back to your table without another word, your shoulders stiff.

when you sit, sunoo instantly brightens. “yay, butterbeer delivery angel!” he beams, wrapping his hands around the mug.

jake notices your face first. “what was that?” he asks, tilting his head.

“what?” you say, too quickly.

jungwon raises an eyebrow. “niki. he was talking to you.”

you press your lips together and shrug. “it’s nothing.”

“seemed like not-nothing,” jake mumbles into his drink.

sunoo leans closer, chin propped on his hand, all teeth and glittering mischief. “honestly,” he says, “i still think you two would make a great couple.”

you roll your eyes and laugh. “you say that like we’re in a romance novel.”

“well,” sunoo says dramatically, twirling his mug, “you’re both always tense around each other. and smart. and annoying. it’s textbook chemistry.”

you’re about to retort when your eyes drift back across the pub, unbidden. niki is still at the bar with jay and sunghoon. his head is tipped slightly in jay’s direction, but he’s not paying attention to jay. he’s looking at you. and then, he smiles. crooked. like he heard. your breath catches for a second, and you whip your gaze back to your butterbeer. you don’t say anything else the rest of the night. but your heart won’t stop racing.

the three broomsticks was quieter now, the warmth of the fire lingering like a memory against the cold outside. snow tapped gently at the windows, and the room had thinned out to only a few stragglers nursing the dregs of their drinks. most of your group had already trickled out — jake and heeseung left an hour ago, stumbling into the snow laughing, and now jungwon was tugging on his scarf as he stood beside sunoo.

“you sure you’re staying?” sunoo asked, peering at you with concern, already halfway bundled up.

you nodded, half-smiling. “just gonna get one more drink before heading back.”

sunoo hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t push. “okay. don’t freeze to death.”

“no promises.”

they left in a flutter of cloaks and bootfalls, and you turned back to the bar, waving the barkeep over again with a quiet thank you. your fingers curled around the warm ceramic of the mug just as it touched the counter.

but before you could lift it, a hand wrapped around your wrist. firm. your head snapped up. niki stood in front of you, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. his grip wasn’t painful, but it was deliberate — insistent.

you blinked at him. “what the hell are you doing?”

he didn’t answer. his eyes flicked toward the drink, then toward the near-empty pub, then back to you. and without a word, he dropped a few galleons on the bar and pulled you with him, not harshly, but without giving you time to argue.

“niki—” you protested, stumbling slightly. “what are you doing? what’s going on?”

“come with me.”

“you could at least tell me where we’re going!”

“i’m protecting you.”

that shut you up. snow swirled around your boots as you stepped into the street. hogsmeade was blanketed in quiet, the kind that only existed this late, with windows glowing gold behind frost-lined panes and distant laughter fading into the hills. the sound of your footsteps echoed between buildings, fast and purposeful.

you kept pace beside him, heart thudding. “what do you mean, protecting me?” you hissed, teeth clenched. “from what? from a drink? are you serious right now?”

he didn’t answer. you realized, abruptly, where he was leading you. down the narrow alleyway past zonko’s, past the sweets shop, until you reached the worn wooden door of the hog’s head inn. a rusty sign swung gently above it, the boar’s head creaking in the wind.

“are you joking—” you started, but he was already opening the door, glancing once behind him to make sure you followed.

the air inside was thick with the scent of smoke and damp wool. it was mostly empty, just a couple old wizards huddled at the corner table, and aberforth himself behind the bar, polishing a glass with a rag that looked older than you. niki didn’t stop. he guided you past the bar, toward a narrow hallway, and into a small back room you’d never noticed before — cluttered with potion crates and ancient tomes, but strangely warm. like it had been prepared. like he knew he’d bring you here.

“okay,” you said, voice sharper now, heart in your throat. “you’re officially freaking me out. what was that at the pub? why did you stop me from drinking?”

he turned to face you, closing the door behind him with a soft click. and finally he spoke. “because someone tried to slip you something.”

before you could even fully register what he’d just said — someone tried to slip you something — the door creaked open. aberforth dumbledore stepped into the room, frowning deeply, his wand already drawn, though low at his side. he gave you a brief, assessing look before turning to niki.

“what’s going on?” his voice was low, gravelly. “thought you said it was quiet tonight.”

niki ran a hand through his hair, still tense. “it was. until someone tampered with her drink.”

aberforth’s eyes flicked toward you again, his expression darkening. “are you sure?”

niki nodded once. “i saw it happen. the glass was swapped while she was talking to the bartender. didn’t get a good look at who, they were wearing an invisibility cloak.”

“bloody hell.” aberforth muttered. “i’ll alert the others.”

you blinked. “the others?”

he was already stepping out of the room, muttering something under his breath, the door closing behind him with a quiet finality. you turned slowly to face niki, the words boiling up before you could stop them.

“what the hell was that?” your voice was sharp now, shaky but cutting. “what others? why are you talking to aberforth like you’re… i don’t know, colleagues or something?” niki exhaled slowly, but didn’t answer. you took a step closer. “niki. who tried to poison me? what were they trying to give me? how do you even know it was poison? what did you see that i didn’t?”

still, silence. 

“i didn’t see anything,” you snapped, “so how the hell did you? you were on the other side of the room! do you have eyes everywhere now? what else aren’t you telling me?” he shifted slightly, jaw clenched, like he was trying to hold himself back. but you weren’t done. not even close. his fingers twitched at his sides. your pulse was hammering in your ears. the walls suddenly felt too close. the air too thin. “niki,” you said again, slower this time. “what are you really doing here?”

he looked at you then. really looked. and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and sharp and tired. “i’m supposed to be investigating you.” you froze. he continued, almost like the words had slipped out of him before he could stop them. “that’s why i came here. that’s the mission. you were the assignment.”

you felt like the floor had cracked under you. “what?”

“you’re one of the best in potions,” he said, eyes on you like he hated himself for it. “high marks. known for healing spells. access to ingredients. always in the right place at the wrong time. and yeah—jeonghan’s on the list too. but you? you were supposed to be watched.”

you took a step back. “you think i—?”

“i don’t anymore,” he snapped, cutting you off, frustration blooming in his chest. “that’s what i’m trying to tell you. i’m not supposed to care if you get poisoned. i’m supposed to observe. report. stay distant. but i didn’t. i can’t. and now this—this whole thing is a mess.”

your heart was pounding. breath catching. it felt like the ground had tilted under you. “so what, you’ve been lying this whole time?” your voice cracked despite yourself.

niki ran both hands through his hair, stepping back like he didn’t know what to do with himself. “i wasn’t trying to lie,” he said, quieter now. “i didn’t expect… you.”

the words sat heavy between you. and for the first time, you weren’t sure what to say. the room felt impossibly still. you could hear the wind outside rattling against the windows of the hog’s head, the muffled creak of the old wood shifting with the cold. niki sat down heavily on the edge of an armchair across from you, his elbows on his knees, fingers laced together like he needed something to hold onto. his eyes met yours, tired and serious.

“i’m not a student,” he said, voice quiet but clear. “i mean—not really. i never was. i studied at home. full magical education, but private. passed my NEWTs last year, started working right after.”

you blinked, confused. he continued before you could interrupt. “i’m an auror. officially registered with the ministry.” he gave a humorless laugh. “youngest in my department, actually. i got recruited before graduation. they’ve been pushing younger operatives—people who blend in easier.”

your stomach twisted, but you stayed silent. you didn’t want to interrupt. not yet.

“they gave me this assignment right after i finished training. a deep-cover placement at hogwarts. the orders were clear: pose as a transfer student, infiltrate the school, keep a low profile.” his voice lowered. “there were… incidents. small, at first. potions going missing from the restricted stores. unauthorized brewing in abandoned classrooms. students showing symptoms that didn’t match any known potion—memory loss, euphoria spikes, uncontrolled magical surges. something darker. something new.”

he paused, letting that sink in.

“the ministry believes someone’s been developing illegal potions inside hogwarts. not just using them—creating them. testing them. distributing them. and not alone.” he looked at you with something like regret. “someone with power. influence. someone who knows how to stay hidden. maybe a student, maybe someone higher. we don’t know. all we know is that these potions are dangerous. they’re not just mind-altering—they’re manipulative. there’ve been whispers that someone’s trying to build a network inside the school. create dependencies. control.”

you felt cold all over.

“they thought it could be you,” he said quietly. “your name was one of the first i got. your record is spotless—too spotless, they said. top of your class in potions, outstanding marks in magical creatures, connections across all houses. you have access, respect. and you keep your nose clean.” your jaw tensed. “but then i met you,” he went on, not looking away. “and i watched. and waited. i read every report, every interview. i watched how you talk to people. how you help them. how you cover for them when they mess up. i watched you hand out hangover draughts after parties, not because you were pushing potions, but because you didn’t want anyone to get hurt. i watched you go into that forest alone for an assignment you didn’t even question, just because a professor asked. i watched you risk everything to stay curious. and it didn’t take me long to realize you’re not the one we’re after.”

you were quiet for a long moment. the fireplace in the room crackled once, soft and low. niki leaned back, his shoulders dropping a little, like confessing all this had taken something out of him.

“but that’s the thing,” he said. “you might not be the one behind this—but someone knows how powerful you are. someone’s trying to get close to you. or use you. and that’s why everything changed.” his voice dropped again, barely a murmur. “now, my mission’s not just to find who’s doing this. it’s to make sure you don’t become the next name on a list of victims.”

you stared at him, heart in your throat. “you’re not just a student anymore, y/n,” he said. “you’re a target.”

and somehow, even though he’d just shattered every truth you thought you knew about him, you believed him. your breath had barely settled after niki's last words when the fire inside you surged forward—quick, defiant, furious.

"fine," you said, standing up abruptly, the legs of your chair scraping against the floor. "then let me help you."

his gaze snapped to yours. "no."

"no?" you scoffed. "you just told me i’m a target. that someone is using me. that my life might be in danger—and you expect me to do what? sit quietly in the common room while you go off being a secret agent?"

he didn’t flinch. "yes."

"niki," you stepped closer, not bothering to hide your frustration. "i’m not just some kid you’re babysitting. i’m a seventh-year. i’ve brewed antidotes that saved people from the hospital wing. i know the signs of potion manipulation. i can help."

"you could also get killed," he snapped back, voice sharp but low.

"so could you!" your eyes narrowed. "what’s the difference?"

"the difference is that i signed up for this," he said, jaw clenched. "you didn’t."

"but i am in it now!" you insisted. "don’t you see that? someone already tried to poison me. i’m not just a bystander anymore." he looked away, jaw working, as if trying to wrestle down a hundred arguments. you softened slightly, voice dipping. "niki, if i’m the one they’re trying to manipulate—don’t you think i’m the one who might be able to see it from the inside?"

"i don’t want you anywhere near them," he muttered, almost to himself.

"who is it?" you asked quickly. "who do you think it is? is it jeonghan?" he didn’t answer. "what about a professor? is there someone on staff—"

"stop."

"why won’t you tell me—"

"because i’ve already said too much!" he barked, finally looking at you again. "you weren’t supposed to know any of this. the only reason i told you is because someone tried to kill you, and you were about to drink something that would've landed you in st. mungo’s for a month—or worse."

you felt your heart beating too hard, breath caught halfway in your chest. "so what?" you hissed. "you drop this huge secret on me, shake up my entire world, and then decide to shut me out again? i'm the one being hunted, niki. me. and you're just gonna keep holding everything back?"

he stood up too quickly, chair tipping slightly behind him. you were face to face now. close. too close. your words hung between you, heavy, and his silence was louder than anything else in the room. niki looked at you like you had just said something dangerous, like the words themselves were too heavy to hold. his jaw was tight, brows furrowed, and you could see the way his fists were clenched at his sides.

“that’s why i’m doing this,” he said, voice rough. “to keep you safe.”

you didn’t move. didn’t blink. “then let me help.”

he shook his head once, sharp. “no. you’re not—this isn’t your job.”

“but it’s my life,” you shot back, stepping forward. “it’s my name they’re using, my skills they’re exploiting, my drink they tried to poison. and you want me to just sit back and let you handle everything on your own?” he didn’t answer, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder for a second, then it was back on you. eyes dark, unreadable. “you think you can protect me?” you said, voice lowering, a challenge. “by ignoring me for a month? by pushing me away?”

he flinched slightly at that, and something in your chest twisted. he exhaled through his nose, sharp, like he’d been holding it in for too long. “i was getting too close,” he muttered.

you blinked. “what?”

his jaw flexed again. “i was getting too close. to you.”

your breath caught, and for a second the room felt smaller. warmer. too full of things unspoken. “so what?” you asked. “you run every time you care about someone?”

“i don’t care about anyone,” he said, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

you took a slow step forward. he didn’t move. “that right?” you asked quietly, almost smug, gaze flicking down to his mouth for just a second. “could’ve fooled me.”

“you’re impossible,” he muttered.

“you like that.”

“no,” he said, but his voice cracked just enough to give himself away. “i don’t.”

you tilted your head. “you sure?”

he looked at you—really looked at you—and you could tell something in him was close to snapping. not in a dangerous way. in the way someone snaps when they’ve been denying themselves something for too long. he took a half step closer. “you’re not making this easy.”

“good,” you whispered. “i’m done being easy.”

his breath hitched. and just as his hand twitched like it might reach for you—

the door creaked open.

you both jumped back like you’d been caught red-handed, and aberforth stood there, arms crossed, a knowing look in his tired eyes.

“right,” he muttered, clearly unbothered by the tension he’d walked into. “i’ve got word.”

niki straightened immediately. “what kind of word?”

aberforth stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. “ministry sent a message. they’ve confirmed another shipment of restricted potions coming in through knockturn alley. same magical signature as the ones popping up in school.” you could feel niki tense beside you. aberforth gave you a glance, then back to niki. “looks like you were right. and you’ve got more eyes on this now.”

niki nodded, sharp. “thanks.”

as soon as aberforth slipped out of the room, the door creaking softly behind him, silence settled like dust in the air. thick. tense. the quiet stretched between you and niki like a thread pulled taut. you stood still for a moment, unsure of what to say, unsure of how to feel. your hands were cold, and your heart was loud in your ears.

“this is too much,” you whispered, almost to yourself. the weight of it all—the secrets, the danger, the way his eyes had looked into yours—pressed down on you like a second skin. you stood up suddenly, the chair scraping against the floor. “i need to go.”

“you’re not going alone,” he said immediately, already moving to follow you.

you didn’t argue. maybe part of you wanted the company. maybe part of you was too tired to fight anymore.

the streets of hogsmeade were quiet, the snow falling in slow, lazy spirals from the sky. it was late enough that most windows were dark, the only sounds were the crunch of your boots on the snow and the soft whistle of wind through the trees. you walked in silence for a while, neither of you speaking, until niki finally broke it.

“you should go home for the holidays.”

you turned your head slightly, eyes narrowing at him. “the train already left.”

“i can get you there,” he said, a little too quickly. “i have… privileges. i can take you.”

you stopped walking. looked at him properly. “you want me to leave hogwarts?”

“i want you to be safe,” he said, voice low. “you’d be safer away from all of this. just for a while.”

you crossed your arms, shifting your weight to one side. “i’ll think about it… if you answer some of my questions.”

he hesitated. then nodded once. “fine.”

“what’s it like?” you asked. “being an auror.”

he exhaled, glancing away like he hadn’t expected that to be your first question. “it’s… hard. it’s not as glamorous as people think. most of the time it’s waiting. watching. pretending. and then sometimes it’s not pretending at all, it’s running for your life.”

you blinked. “sounds awful.”

“it is,” he said, giving a small, humorless laugh. “but someone has to do it.”

“and why me?” you asked, more serious now. “why was i the suspect?”

“because you’re too good at what you do for someone your age. and people like that… they’re either recruited or eliminated.”

you swallowed. “that’s comforting.”

niki looked at you then, the wind pulling at his dark hair. “but i know it’s not you. i knew weeks ago.”

“then why the hell did you disappear?” your voice came out sharper than you meant, and you hated that it cracked a little at the end.

he looked at you, really looked at you, and for the first time he didn’t have an answer ready. “because i was starting to care too much.” you froze. “i couldn’t think straight,” he went on, voice lower now. “i was supposed to be watching you. that was my job. to track you. report everything you did. but you kept… surprising me. being kind. being smart. being reckless. and then, you were in the middle of everything, and i wasn’t just trying to solve a case anymore. i was trying to keep you alive.”

you didn’t say anything. you couldn’t. the wind brushed past again, cold and biting, but you barely felt it. he was looking at you like he meant every word. like saying it hurt and helped all at once.

you were still halfway down the path back to hogwarts when he stepped a little closer. just a breath. barely a shift. but enough. “so yeah,” he added, almost a whisper. “i want you to be safe. not just because it’s my job. but because it’s you.”

and you stood there in the snow, the night holding both of you quiet and still, and everything between you had never felt more dangerous.

you walk the rest of the way in silence. hogwarts rises ahead of you, quiet and glowing against the snowy sky, but you barely notice the cold anymore. not with him walking beside you like that, close, warm, like he’s not quite ready to let you go either. every few steps, your arms brush, and every time it happens, your heart jumps. when you reach the portrait, you stop. your throat is tight, your thoughts spinning, and everything that’s happened tonight is pressing heavy on your chest. you turn to him slowly, unsure of what to say, unsure if you even can say anything at all.

he looks at you carefully, like he's memorizing your face. his voice is soft when he speaks. “just… think about it, okay? going home. not for me, or the ministry. for you. it might help.”

you don’t answer, not really. just a small nod, barely a movement. you’re not even sure if you mean it. you’re not sure of anything right now.

he steps closer, slowly. and then, gently, almost like he’s afraid to do it, he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. it’s barely a second, but it breaks you. because it’s soft, and real, and it says things he hasn’t let himself say out loud. it feels like a goodbye, or maybe a promise. maybe both. and you don’t move until he’s already walking away.

and when you step through the portrait hole, you feel like the weight of the whole night catches up with you all at once. your chest feels too tight, your eyes sting, and you barely make it to the fireplace before the tears start welling up in your eyes. you try to hold it back. you tell yourself to just go upstairs, sleep it off, pretend nothing happened. but your legs move before your brain can catch up. you don’t even know why—only that you need someone. someone safe.

you find yourself at the boys’ dorm, barely thinking, barely breathing. and when you push the door open, there he is. heeseung. sitting on his bed with a blanket around his shoulders, book in hand, looking up the second he hears you. “y/n?” he says, surprised. but not annoyed. never annoyed.

you don’t answer. you just walk straight to him, crawl onto the bed without a word, and curl into him like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart. he doesn’t question it. his arms wrap around you immediately, warm and careful, like he knows something cracked open inside you and he’s the only one who can hold the pieces together. you bury your face in his chest and the first sob escapes before you can stop it.

heeseung holds you tighter. strokes your back softly. doesn’t say much, just quiet things like “hey, i’m here,” and “you’re okay,” and “i got you.”

and you believe him. 

you didn’t take the train back home. even after everything, even after niki offered to take you himself, you stayed. you don’t really know why. maybe it’s the lingering fear, or the fact that you don’t want to explain to your family why your hands have been shaking a little more than usual lately. maybe it’s just easier to stay where things are complicated, but familiar.

and niki… well. he doesn’t leave you alone.

he doesn’t say that he’s watching you. but he is. always. whether it’s walking ten steps behind you on your way to the library or showing up conveniently five minutes after you sit down to lunch in the great hall, he’s there. a constant shadow. it would be annoying if it weren’t so… obvious. obvious that he’s trying. that he’s still scared for you.

heeseung notices it too. he sticks by your side almost as much as niki does, always a warm presence at your shoulder. he drags you out of bed when you don’t want to move, makes you laugh when your mind won’t shut off, and even tries to teach you how to charm a snowball to chase jake around the courtyard, which ends in disaster, obviously, but it makes you both laugh until your stomach hurts.

the days blur together. you and heeseung drink hot chocolate in the gryffindor common room, wrapped in thick blankets while enchanted snow falls outside the windows. you sneak into the kitchens and convince the house-elves to let you make gingerbread, which ends in a near food-fight that leaves flour in your hair and heeseung swearing he’ll never let you near powdered sugar again. you take long walks around the lake, watch the frozen water shimmer under the pale winter sun, and exchange stupid stories from your first years at hogwarts that you’ve both heard a hundred times.

through it all, niki stays close. never quite a part of it, but always hovering. sometimes, he and heeseung have these quiet little standoffs, nothing dramatic, just long glances and curt nods like they’re silently agreeing to disagree about something you’re not allowed to hear. you ignore it. mostly.

and then, before you even realize it, it’s new year’s eve.

you’re all gathered on the astronomy tower, just the few students left behind. someone’s enchanted a radio to play old wizarding songs, and the air smells like cinnamon and frost. there’s hot cider in your hands, your cheeks are pink from the cold, and you feel like you’re floating just a little above everything. like things are okay. like you’re allowed to breathe.

you’re leaning against the railing, watching tiny specks of light from hogsmeade in the distance, when niki appears at your side. as usual, silently.

he doesn’t say anything for a while. just stands there, the sleeves of his dark cloak brushing your arm. but then, without looking at you, he asks quietly, “are you and heeseung… together?”

you blink. “what?”

he turns to look at you, his face unreadable. “you’re always with him.”

you furrow your brow. “he’s my best friend. we grew up together. he’s practically my brother.”

he nods slowly, but doesn’t say anything else. and that’s when it hits you. the tone of his voice. the way he asked. the way he won’t meet your eyes now. he’s jealous.

the realization stuns you for a second, so out of place in everything that’s been happening, it almost makes you laugh. but you don’t. because now you’re the one staring, watching the slight shift in his expression, the tightness in his jaw. the way his fingers curl at his side like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

you’re about to say something (tease him, maybe) but then he mutters something about needing a minute and disappears into the nearby hallway.

niki steps into the cramped bathroom off the astronomy tower, the door swinging shut behind him with a hollow click. the tiled walls are cold and unwelcoming, mirrors lining two sides of the small room. he flicks on the light and stares at his own reflection—the dark circles under his eyes, the suspicious crease between his brows, the way his lips form a hard line that he can’t seem to smooth out.

he splashes cold water on his face, breath catching as the droplets sting his skin. get it together, he tells himself. you’re here on a job. you’re an auror. but the echo of your reply still rings in his ears: he’s practically my brother. the memory stabs at him. jealousy? of heeseung? when he was supposed to be protecting you, keeping you safe from people who would use you… and he’d been worrying about whether you were spending too much time with someone else. the absurdity of it nearly makes him grimace. a professional? an agent? or just a boy who doesn’t know his own heart.

he straightens his collar, brushes his hair away from his face, and looks into the mirror again. he reminds himself that everything he’s done—lying about his identity, pulling you away from danger, keeping his distance for weeks—has been for your safety. not because he cared too much. he shakes his head, trying to clear the guilt and confusion. focus on the mission.

when he finally steps back into the hallway, the space feels emptier than before. he’s almost certain you were right here, leaning on the railing, breath misting in the cold. and niki knew something was wrong the moment he returned to the tower.

the spot where you had been sitting just minutes earlier still looked lived in: your coat slightly folded over the ledge, a half-finished cup of something warm left behind. but you weren’t there. not standing, not waiting, not hiding just out of sight with that amused look on your face. and the drink, whatever it was, wasn’t yours. not the kind of thing you ordered, not the kind of thing he trusted. something icy coiled in his gut. his fingers hovered above the rim of the cup, then pulled back. he didn’t like the smell. didn’t like the stillness in the air. 

at first, he tried to be logical. maybe you’d gone to meet sunoo or jake, maybe you got tired of waiting and decided to call it a night. maybe you were mad at him for the jealousy, the tension. maybe it was all just a misunderstanding.

but then the clock ticked past fifteen minutes, then twenty, and your name began to sound strange in his mouth. panic tickles at the edges of his chest. he moves swiftly along the corridor until he finds heeseung and jake outside the portrait frame, bundled in cloaks and looking half as comfortable without your presence.

“have you seen y/n?” niki asks, voice tight. “where did she go?”

“we saw her talking to you,” heeseung said slowly. “like, fifteen minutes ago. then nothing. why?”

niki’s mind races. you wouldn’t just wander off in the middle of the tower. not tonight, not with whatever he’d said to you. niki hesitated, the weight in his chest sharp and sudden. “someone tried to poison her,” he said flatly. “a few weeks ago. at the three broomsticks. i don’t know who. or why.”

heeseung’s eyes widened. “she came back that night crying. i thought it was because of you.”

niki blinked, thrown off. crying? because of him?

but there wasn’t time to unpack that. he pushes past them, retracing his steps along the icy parapets, calling your name softly into the night. the breeze carries his voice away, unanswered. he checks every alcove, every shadowed doorway, each balcony ledge that overlooks the courtyard. nothing.

he tore through the castle after that. every hallway, every floor. he sent word to professors under fake pretenses. he summoned maps, tried tracking spells, used enchanted mirrors. nothing. no sight of you. not a whisper of where you’d gone. you weren’t in the common room. you weren’t in the owlery. you weren’t with the nurse, or the librarian, or any of your usual hiding places. and no one had seen you leave. no one even saw you get up from that ledge.

niki finally leans against a wall near the great hall doors, head in his hands, mind spinning. you're supposed to be safe. i’m supposed to protect her. but right now, he’s failed. you're vanished into the night, and no one knows where you are. the cold pressurizes in his chest as he realizes how out of control everything has become, and how desperately, painfully, he needs to find you.

that first night, no one slept.

heeseung was the first one to run through the castle beside niki, breathless, calling your name through every corridor like it would echo back to them with an answer. jake and sunoo joined soon after, both pale and panicked, and jungwon practically tore the library apart with shaking hands and a cracked voice. it didn’t matter how many rooms they checked, how many secret passages they tried, how many portraits they begged for clues, but none of them could find you. not even a trace. you had vanished.

by sunrise, niki was at the headmistress's office. the weight of his badge—something he’d always carried with quiet pride—now felt like a curse. he revealed everything. the undercover mission. the threat of potion trafficking. the poisoning attempt. and now, your disappearance. the words came out raw and broken, like they didn’t belong to him anymore.

by the end of that day, the ministry was involved. by the second day, your name was on every professor’s lips. by the third, flyers were floating through the air in the great hall. by the fourth, the other aurors arrived.

and through it all, niki didn’t stop moving. he didn’t sleep. barely ate. he sat through interrogation after interrogation, trying to retrace your steps down to the minute. he fought with the head of security. he argued with the map-keepers. he wrote twelve different reports for the ministry. he went to the forest twice, alone, against orders, just in case.

because it wasn’t just a mission anymore. it hadn’t been for a long time. you were missing. and he was the one who should’ve protected you.

by the seventh day, he was called into a private office in the ministry’s underground headquarters. everything in him was vibrating with rage, with restlessness, with the hollow ache of not knowing. when choi soobin walked in in a sharp robe, calm face, senior auror energy radiating off him like controlled fire, niki barely looked up.

“you look like hell,” soobin said simply.

niki huffed a breath, almost laughed. “i feel worse.”

soobin sat across from him, silent for a moment. then he slid a file forward. thick, slightly worn, full of pages. “we’re making progress,” he said. “slow. but real.” niki didn’t answer. his jaw was clenched too tight. “you want to tell me what’s going on?” soobin asked. “not the case. not the mission. you.”

niki closed his eyes. “i was supposed to keep her safe,” he said, voice low. “that was the one thing i promised myself. and i let her slip away while i was busy arguing with my own feelings. i knew she was in danger. and i let her sit alone with a fucking drink.”

soobin didn’t interrupt.

“i stopped looking at her like a suspect weeks ago,” niki whispered. “i started—i don’t know. caring. too much. and now she’s gone. and i have no idea if she’s okay or if she’s—” he couldn’t even finish the sentence.

soobin let the silence settle before he spoke again. “we found something,” he said, more serious now. “a name, tied to the movement of illegal ingredients through knockturn alley. someone old money. old magic. yoon.”

niki looked up sharply. “jeonghan’s family?”

soobin nodded slowly. “we can’t prove anything yet. but the pattern’s there. shipments. contacts. and whoever took her—they didn’t take her at random. she was getting close. and she’s powerful.”

the fury that surged through niki’s veins was immediate. white-hot. suffocating. he stood up so fast the chair scraped against the floor. “if they hurt her—”

“you’ll stay focused,” soobin interrupted calmly. “you want to find her? then keep your head. we’re going to bring her home, niki. but not if you lose yourself before we even get a lead.”

niki didn’t answer. because all he could see in his mind was your face—the way you smiled when you were teasing him, the crease between your brows when you were deep in thought, the look you gave him when you realized he was hiding something. he had memorized you. and he wouldn’t let this be the end.

niki had been watching jeonghan for weeks, long before you vanished.

at first, it had just been instinct. something sharp in the way jeonghan’s eyes shifted when he thought no one was looking. the way his tone changed depending on who was listening. the strange hesitations mid-sentence, the moments where he looked like he was about to say something and then didn’t. too controlled. too careful.

there was one day in particular, just before the winter break, when niki passed jeonghan in the hallway. the older boy was speaking to professor hong, the potions master. the conversation looked normal from afar. casual, even. but the second jeonghan turned to walk away, niki caught something in his expression. a flicker of something restrained and vacant. like someone who had been pressing on the same bruise too long.

it lingered with him. at first, he thought it might’ve been just house politics. pureblood pressure. the usual son-of-an-old-family expectations. but then the slip-ups started.

once, jeonghan had dropped a vial in class. it had shattered, hissing smoke into the air. and instead of reacting like a trained potioneer would, he flinched. visibly. like the sound of breaking glass meant danger. like he wasn’t used to handling potions at all. and that didn’t make sense. jeonghan was always top of his year in theory and practicals. but niki knew that look. the look of someone who was surviving something they couldn’t speak of.

then there were the disappearances. not major ones, not enough to alert the professors. just small gaps. study hours jeonghan missed. meals he skipped. days where no one saw him between classes, and he reappeared with excuses that felt a little too rehearsed. and every time niki tried to catch him alone, jeonghan either deflected or disappeared again.

still, it didn’t click. not until the week after your disappearance.

while combing through records in the ministry’s archives — mostly shipments, delivery logs, and restricted ingredient authorizations — niki came across an anomaly. three different orders of powdered root of asphodel, all signed off by the same person: professor hong. nothing illegal. not on the surface. but the quantities didn’t add up.

no professor needed that much unless they were brewing something… off-curriculum.

that’s when niki went deeper. he requested old reports. attendance records. student complaints. one name kept showing up at odd intervals: yoon jeonghan. nothing definitive. just traces. a detention here, a request for private tutoring there. all tied to professor hong.

what sealed it was a conversation he overheard in the restricted section of the library. he hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but he caught professor hong’s voice low and sharp behind a bookshelf. "you’ll do what i asked. no mistakes this time." silence.

then jeonghan’s voice, soft and monotone: "yes, sir."

it wasn’t the words. it was the delivery. too flat. too obedient.

the imperius curse.

it hit niki like ice down his spine. jeonghan was being controlled.

and professor hong — the quiet, highly respected, vaguely boring potions master — wasn’t just an accomplice. he was orchestrating everything. suddenly, it made sense. how the illegal potions were being smuggled. why none of the alarms ever triggered. how someone had slipped a hexed drink under niki’s nose. why you had been targeted in the first place.

you were powerful. too powerful. and you were curious. someone must have noticed how close you were getting to the truth, or how much professor hong feared what you’d uncover. niki had been so focused on you and jeonghan that he hadn't looked at the one person who’d been standing at the center of every circle: the professor no one questioned.

he sat with the realization for hours that night.

he didn’t report it immediately. not yet. not without proof. the ministry would need evidence. something solid. but the fury that twisted in his chest was hard to hold back. especially because he knew now, with horrifying clarity, that jeonghan wasn’t the villain. he was a victim. and worse: if hong had the power and precision to cast a long-term imperius on a student without detection, it meant this had been going on for a long time. maybe even before niki arrived.

and that meant you — the one person who had stumbled into this by accident, the one who’d been brave enough to question everything — were never supposed to be part of the game. and yet, now you were the most dangerous piece on the board.

but niki wasn’t going to let the game end without turning the table over completely. not this time. not with you still missing. not when he finally knew who had pulled the strings.

hong was careful. he always had been. too careful, even now. and sometimes, especially in the evenings, when niki was crouched in the dark corners of the dungeons using the invisibility cloak, the professor would pause, mid-step, and glance around. eyes narrowing. head tilting. like he could sense something… or someone.

niki’s heartbeat thundered against his ribs every time. he never moved. never breathed. not until the professor walked away.

but something else started happening too. jeonghan changed. at first, it was small. longer pauses before answering questions. forgetting his bag in class. moments where he’d stare off at nothing, blinking like he’d just remembered who he was. and then, more drastic shifts — confusion in the middle of conversations, outbursts in class, shaky hands. it was like the curse was slipping, losing its grip.

niki followed him too, from a distance. he didn’t approach. not yet. the boy was unraveling, and niki didn’t want to push him over the edge. not without knowing what secrets might fall out with him.

and then, one night, just before the second week of the new term, jeonghan vanished. no one knew where he went. no one even noticed, really. except niki. he knew the timing was too precise to be coincidence. something was happening.

he was halfway down the stairs to the dungeons, steps fast and silent under his cloak, headed toward hong’s office with the full intention of blowing this whole thing open, with or without permission, when someone grabbed his arm. heeseung.

“she’s back,” he said, panting slightly. “y/n. she’s in the gryffindor common room.”

niki froze. his blood ran cold. “what?”

“someone found her outside the castle. she looks— i don’t know— out of it. she’s not saying much.”

niki didn’t wait. he turned on his heel and bolted.

heeseung followed close behind, but all niki could hear was the ringing in his ears. this was impossible. you couldn’t have just… shown up. not like this. not without a trace. not without the world bending to make room for your return.

when he stepped into the common room, he saw you. you were sitting by the fire, wrapped in a thick blanket, your hair damp like you’d been caught in the snow. your eyes were tired. red. you looked up slowly when he entered. you. but not you.

niki felt it immediately. something was off.

your posture. your breathing. the way your fingers tapped against the fabric of the blanket — too rhythmic, too precise. your eyes flicked to him, but didn’t soften. didn’t change. didn’t widen the way they always did when you saw him, even when you were mad. and when you spoke, your voice was just a fraction too flat.

“niki,” you said softly. “you found me.”

he didn’t say anything. just walked closer, like he was under some spell himself. “do you… remember what happened?” he asked carefully.

you shook your head. “not much. i think i was lost. or taken. i’m not sure. it’s all blurry.”

“you remember the day at the three broomsticks?” he asked suddenly.

you hesitated. “yes.”

niki leaned forward, voice gentle. “what drink did i order for you?”

you blinked. “um… pumpkin juice?”

the silence that followed was sharp as broken glass. niki didn’t move. didn’t blink. he stared into your eyes like he was trying to see through them. and maybe he was. you had hated pumpkin juice. said it tasted like sugared mud. this wasn’t you.

“you’re not her,” he said quietly.

and for the first time, the thing pretending to be you looked afraid. just for a second. you froze. lips parted, eyes flicking around like searching for escape.

niki stood tall. “where is she?” no answer. his wand was in his hand in an instant. “where. is. she.”

the polyjuice was already starting to falter — niki could see it now. your features twitching at the edges, like they were being stretched too thin. the shimmer of magic unraveling under his stare. and soon enough, it wouldn’t be your face he was looking at anymore. it would be jeonghan’s.

the common room erupted in chaos. heeseung stepped back so fast he nearly tripped over the rug. sunoo gasped audibly, hand flying to his mouth. jake muttered something under his breath that sounded dangerously close to a curse. the fire cracked loud behind them, casting jagged shadows across the face that was no longer yours — that never had been.

in the flickering light, jeonghan's transformation completed. your features melted off like wax, reforming into his, pale and shaken, his skin damp with sweat, his limbs rigid, as though his body couldn’t keep up with what had just happened. he stared at all of them like a cornered animal, breath coming fast, eyes wide with something that wasn’t fear but something worse: total confusion.

“he’s under the imperius,” niki said quickly, stepping forward. “don’t touch him—”

but jeonghan’s hands had already started to tremble violently. his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the floor in front of the fire, gasping for air. like the spell was breaking piece by piece, like each second that passed was tearing apart the strings that had held him up for months.

niki crouched in front of him, lowered his wand gently, and without hesitation whispered the counter-curse.

liberare mentem.

a shimmer of silver burst around jeonghan’s head, thin like mist, curling upward before disappearing entirely. his eyes unfocused for a second. then, suddenly, they snapped to attention.

and he broke. “what— what did i do?” he whispered. “i didn’t know. i swear— i didn’t— where is— where’s y/n?”

“you’ve been controlled,” niki said, his voice steady, but his heart pounding so hard it echoed in his skull. “you weren’t yourself.”

“where is she?” jeonghan asked again, more desperately this time. he tried to sit up, but his body was shaking too much. “please—”

niki turned to jake. “get madam pomfrey. and professor mcgonagall. make sure someone watches him at all times, he’s still disoriented.”

“what are you gonna do?” jake asked, already halfway to the door.

niki stood up, eyes burning with the kind of fury that was too quiet to be anything but lethal. “end this.”

he didn’t run. he didn’t rush. but each step he took toward the dungeons was like gravity had shifted to pull him there. the corridor was colder than usual, like even the castle knew what was coming. portraits whispered as he passed, their painted eyes following him in silence.

when he reached the potion master’s office, he didn’t hesitate. the door was locked, of course, but a swift alohomora broke the spell. and just as he stepped inside, a flash of green light zoomed past his head, missing by mere inches.

professor hong was already standing at the far end of the room, wand raised, eyes hard. “you shouldn’t have come alone,” he sneered.

niki didn’t give him time for a second strike. “petrificus totalus!”

hong’s body stiffened instantly, limbs snapping to his sides like rope had been tied around them. he crashed to the ground, his face locked in a grimace, eyes still darting wildly.

niki didn’t flinch. instead, he reached into his robes and pulled out a small metallic coin etched with runes, a ministry-encoded auror flare. he pressed it hard between both hands and muttered a short, ancient phrase. it glowed crimson before disintegrating into dust, sending a silent signal across magical channels only the department of magical law enforcement could access.

reinforcements were coming. but niki didn’t wait.

he tore through the office, knocking over bookshelves, scanning every cabinet, ripping open floorboards. desperation clawed at his ribs, made his hands shake, made his breaths short. she had to be here. you had to be here.

and then he noticed a section of the stone floor that didn’t echo the same when his foot hit it. slightly hollow. a trick of old magic. he crouched, pried at the edge, and found a concealed latch beneath a false tile. the moment he yanked it open, cold air rushed up to meet him, damp and stale and too still.

a stone staircase spiraled down into blackness. his heart nearly gave out. wand gripped tightly, he descended fast but silent, each step feeling like a countdown.

and then, at the very bottom, the stairwell opened into a small, cold chamber, a dungeon with iron-barred walls and no windows. the air was freezing. and in the farthest corner, barely lit by the faint glow of his wand, he saw you.

curled in on yourself. knees to your chest. eyes half-open. breathing shallow.

“y/n,” he whispered, crossing the room in a flash. he dropped to his knees beside you, hands already reaching but not daring to touch.

you flinched slightly. but your gaze lifted. slowly. and locked on him. your voice came out barely a breath. “niki?”

“yeah,” he said, voice cracking. “yeah, it’s me. i’ve got you. i’ve got you now.”

and as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, the dungeon around you both finally felt like it could start to collapse, because the only thing that mattered was that you were alive.

and that he had found you.

the week after niki found you was a blur of adrenaline and exhaustion, of whispered reassurances in the infirmary and courtroom silence in the depths of the ministry. niki hadn’t slept more than a few hours at a time — he didn’t want to. every time he left your side, it felt like a piece of him stayed behind, hovering over your still body, watching the slow, shallow rise and fall of your chest as madam pomfrey muttered healing charms with furrowed brows.

you didn’t remember much. not yet. only flashes. a room without light. the feeling of being watched. the sound of footsteps echoing above you. you remembered fear, but not the shape of it.

niki stayed beside you anyway. through the first night, when you only stirred twice, mumbling incoherently. through the second, when your eyes finally opened for more than a few seconds and you blinked up at him, confused, then whispered his name like it was the only thing you were sure of.

and he’d whispered back, "i’m here. you’re safe now." and your lips had curled into the faintest smile before sleep took you again.

when he had to leave, because duty pulled him back into the mess that had stolen you away, he did it reluctantly. always leaving word with jake or heeseung, who rotated shifts like clockwork. jake would sit by your bed and tell stories, some true, some wildly embellished, just to keep the room light. heeseung rarely said much, but he was always there, shoulder barely brushing yours as he read next to you, quiet and steady. sunoo would braid your hair with warm hands and soft humming, and jungwon brought small trinkets from the greenhouse — lavender sprigs, chamomile leaves, things he said would make you feel calmer.

but while you healed, niki fought.

he combed through every detail of the case. professor hong had orchestrated the entire scheme from inside hogwarts for years. under the guise of developing advanced curriculum for potion prodigies, he’d manipulated access to restricted ingredients, developed illegal variants of memory-altering draughts, and had them smuggled out through connections to the yoon family — most notably, jeonghan’s estranged uncle, a known trafficker.

jeonghan had been one of many students placed under the imperius curse to serve as pawns. hong had targeted him specifically because of his last name, knowing the ministry wouldn’t suspect anything with a yoon seemingly playing the part of a loyal student. but with the curse broken, jeonghan’s testimony became critical. niki sat with him more than once during debriefings, watching guilt twist through his face like it would never leave. he wasn’t just collateral damage, he’d been a tool, a mask, a weapon, and he couldn’t forgive himself for not knowing.

the ministry moved quickly once the truth unraveled. aurors raided hong’s personal storage units across wizarding britain, seizing thousands of galleons’ worth of contraband. students who had unknowingly taken part in trials — subtle mood swings, unexplained memory gaps, illnesses no healer could diagnose — were examined and treated. and at the end of that long, brutal week, hong was tried under full witness testimony and sent to azkaban for crimes against magical minors and potion trafficking of class-a restricted brews.

niki testified in full robes, standing tall and quiet, voice never wavering. he told them everything: what he saw, what he missed, how close it came to being too late. 

back at hogwarts, madam pomfrey began allowing short walks around the infirmary by day five. you were still weak, drained, quiet, but your strength was returning bit by bit. sometimes you reached out in your sleep and caught his sleeve like you were afraid he’d vanish again.

he never pulled away. the evening of the seventh day, he brought you a cup of honeywater and sat on the edge of your bed. the sun had set, painting the windows in gold and plum. you looked at him with clearer eyes, and for the first time, you asked: “was it really him? professor hong?”

niki nodded slowly. “we got him. he won’t hurt anyone again.”

you stared down at the cup, then up at him. your voice was barely a whisper. “thank you for finding me.”

he smiled softly, tiredly, and reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “i never stopped looking.”

and for a moment, the whole world — the trials, the reports, the broken pieces of what had been done to you — faded into the background.

by the ninth day, you started remembering. not all at once, but like loose pages scattered by wind, settling slowly into your hands. fragmented flashes at first: music in your ears, the firelight, a voice laughing behind you. a cup being pressed into your palm. the scent — something sweet. unnaturally sweet. it smelled like amortentia. but not quite.

it hit you on the tenth morning, after your tea, when madam pomfrey left you alone to stretch your legs by the window. you remembered the warmth of the cup against your fingers that night, how your head went fuzzy a few minutes later, and how you smiled anyway, because nothing seemed wrong. you remembered walking, not entirely by your own will. your feet leading you somewhere while your thoughts floated miles behind, detached and weightless.

you remembered walking down the stairs. lower. lower. through a hidden passage behind a tapestry you didn’t know existed until your hand brushed it aside like you’d done it a hundred times. and then the stone door. the cold. the shadows.

by the time niki returned from a ministry meeting that afternoon, you were already sitting upright in bed, breath shallow, eyes wide with the weight of the memory.

"i remember," you said before he could even open his mouth.

he crossed the room in three strides, kneeling beside your bed like he’d been waiting his entire life to hear those words. “what do you remember?”

you told him everything. voice trembling, but steady.

the drink. the way your body responded without your mind’s consent. how you reached the door to the dungeon already forgetting why you were there. how every morning, the professor would appear in the doorway, soft-spoken, warm-eyed, placing another cup into your hands. how you drank it, over and over, because he told you it would help you focus.

and then the brewing began. you made potions. one after the other. your hands knew what to do, even if your mind felt like it was underwater. you stirred, you poured, you bottled. and in the haze, he said you were brilliant. gifted. necessary.

and you believed him. because the potion made you believe him.

“it wasn’t amortentia,” you said, rubbing at your arms like the chill from the dungeon still clung to your skin. “it smelled like it — but it was different. he labeled it ‘717 oblivira.’ not the real thing. it was… altered.”

niki’s face was carved from stone. “modified potion,” he murmured. “with mind control elements. twisted into a subjugation brew. that’s why it passed under the ministry’s radar — no known classification.”

you looked at him. really looked. “how long was i there?”

his jaw tensed. “almost a month.”

you nodded slowly, then said, “i want to testify.”

“y/n—”

“no,” you cut him off. “he used me. he violated my mind, my magic, my will. i need them to know what he did.”

niki didn’t argue. he just took your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

“i’ll be there the whole time.”

and he was. two days later, when you were strong enough to walk on your own again, the ministry arranged a private hearing inside hogwarts. they brought in a pensieve, and under niki’s watchful eye — and heeseung and jake standing just outside the doors in case you needed them — you gave your testimony.

you described the scent. the mental fog. the pain when you tried to fight it, the way it made your limbs sluggish and your thoughts disintegrate. you told them about the dungeon, the instructions left for you each day, the ingredients labeled with strange numbers, the shimmering flasks that you weren’t allowed to touch once completed.

you said his voice had changed after the first few days. less gentle. more demanding. and most of all, you told them that you never once chose to stay.

the pensieve captured your memories with chilling clarity. you saw yourself through its silver haze, eyes vacant, lips parted in a dazed smile, hands moving automatically over cauldrons as hong whispered to you from the doorway.

when it was over, no one spoke for a long time.

the chief auror, soobin, turned to niki. “this confirms it. hong used class-x mind alteration methods on a minor. he’ll face trial under full magical manipulation statutes.”

you exhaled shakily, the weight lifting just enough to breathe.

that night, niki walked you back to the gryffindor common room for the first time since you’d returned. the castle was quiet, blanketed in winter's hush, torches flickering low in their sconces. the red and gold of the portrait door glowed warm in the dark hallway, but your feet hesitated, heart skittering.

you looked up at him, eyes tired but soft. “thank you,” you said again, voice barely above a whisper.

he shook his head, gaze falling to yours. “don’t thank me.”

you hesitated, fidgeting with the hem of your sweater. “i’m… kind of scared to go in.”

his eyes sharpened, concerned. “why?”

“i know it’s stupid, but… it’s the first night back. sleeping alone feels—wrong. like my body remembers being locked up even if i don’t.” he didn’t say anything for a beat, but the muscles in his jaw tightened. he hated that. he hated that you had to say that. you bit your lip, then added, “can you come in with me?”

niki glanced at the portrait. “if anyone sees me—”

“they won’t. it’s late, gryffindors sleep like rocks.” you gave a soft, fleeting smile, like you were trying to make light of it. “plus, it’s me. i break curfew at least once a week. the fat lady’s used to it.”

he huffed a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “alright. just for a bit.”

the common room was dim and empty, the fire reduced to soft coals, the air thick with the scent of old parchment and leftover christmas pine. your steps were slow on the stairs to your dorm, and he followed without a word.

inside, the curtains on your four-poster were drawn back. your things sat untouched, like time had paused in the room while the rest of the world spun on. you sat on the bed, pulling the covers back. niki stayed near the door, eyes flickering across the room like he was still scanning for danger.

you laid down, turning your head to look at him. “are you gonna just stand there and stare at me like a creep?”

he blinked, caught off guard. “i’ve gotten used to it. at the infirmary, i just sat there while you slept.”

you smiled, sleepy and fond. “well… we’re not at the infirmary anymore.”

he didn’t answer right away. then, slowly, he stepped closer, sitting on the edge of your bed, then eventually lying down beside you, tentative and careful. you turned to face him, noses just inches apart. your eyes searched his face, trying to read all the things he never said out loud.

“why do you care so much about me?” you whispered.

his expression twisted, like you’d pressed a bruise. “because i do,” he said, voice low and hoarse. “because i started to before i even realized what was happening.”

you didn’t say anything. just watched him. watched the way he blinked slowly, like each word tasted bitter, like it scraped on the way out. you could feel the tension thrumming between you, delicate and electric.

“i thought i was prepared for this,” he continued, eyes fixed somewhere just past you. “i thought i could stay detached. do my job. figure out the case. keep you safe. that was it. that was supposed to be it.” his voice cracked a little, and he shut his eyes for a second, swallowing hard. “but you… god, you made it impossible.”

your breath caught in your throat.

“you’re funny,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. “and reckless. and smarter than anyone gives you credit for. you talk about books and potions like they’re life and death. you argue with professors just because you know you’re right. and you care so much—even when it hurts you.” his eyes opened again, meeting yours, soft and devastating. “you got under my skin so fast i didn’t even notice until it was too late.”

you blinked, trying to process the weight of his words, how they settled warm and aching in your chest.

“when you disappeared,” he said, voice lower now, barely above a whisper, “i couldn’t sleep. i couldn’t eat. i kept seeing you in the corner of my eye, hearing your voice in places you weren’t. i thought i was losing it.” he let out a shaky breath. “and when i found you—when you looked at me like you knew me, even after everything they’d done to you—something in me just…” he paused, looking down at his hands. “snapped. i think that’s when i realized. i think i was already in love with you.”

your heart thudded so hard it almost hurt.  you could feel it in your fingers, your toes, the tip of your nose. that unbearable, beautiful pressure of something blooming far too fast.

he looked back at you then, eyes full of something sharp and scared. “but it’s wrong,” he said again, softer now. “you’ve been through so much. i was supposed to be your guard. your shadow. i shouldn’t feel like this. i shouldn’t want to kiss you right now more than i’ve ever wanted anything.”

you reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing the back of his hand. his breath hitched.

“it’s not wrong,” you whispered. “not if i fell too.”

you watched his whole body still. like time folded in on itself, holding its breath. he didn’t move, not right away. his fingers flexed beneath yours, as if grounding himself in the fact that you were real, that this was real. his eyes searched yours like he was trying to find the catch, the twist, the moment when you’d laugh and say just kidding.

you didn’t. and in that quiet, heavy moment, you could feel something shift. you didn’t kiss, but his hand turned, palm to palm with yours. and his pinky hooked around yours, just barely. like a promise. you were still lying side by side, not touching apart from that small, fragile link. but everything else, every unsaid word, every feeling that had been burning slow and steady for weeks, was between you, humming like a heartbeat.

his pinky stayed hooked around yours for a long time. neither of you moved. neither of you spoke. the space between you was still and warm, filled with everything you hadn’t said, everything you didn’t need to say anymore.

his eyes kept flickering to yours like he was memorizing you. like he was still waiting for permission. and then, finally, you gave it.you leaned in slowly, like a tide rolling in. your forehead touched his first. and he exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath this whole time. his nose bumped yours gently. your hand slid up, fingers brushing his jaw, and he leaned into the touch like it undid him.

“can i?” he whispered. so soft you barely caught it.

you nodded. and that was all it took.

his lips met yours like a sigh. like he’d been aching to do it for lifetimes and was only just now being allowed. there was nothing rushed in it. nothing messy or desperate. just care. just warmth. just him.

he kissed you like he was trying to say thank you and i missed you and i’m sorry and i love you all at once. and maybe he didn’t say the words yet, but you felt them. every single one. you kissed him back with all the pieces of yourself that had been cracked and patched and held together these past few weeks. you kissed him back like maybe this was the one thing that could stitch them all whole again.

his hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye like he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on. and you didn’t want to look away, didn’t want to break the moment, so you didn’t. you just let it happen. you let yourself fall.

when you pulled back, barely an inch, your noses still brushed. you opened your eyes and he was already looking at you. smiling. not the smirk he wore when he was trying to tease you. not the grin he gave when he was covering something up. a real smile. soft. reverent. safe.

he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering there like he wasn’t ready to let go. like he didn’t have to rush now that you were finally here. “you’re here,” he said quietly, voice barely above a whisper, like the words were fragile. like saying them too loud might break the spell. “you’re really here.” his eyes were wide, almost disbelieving, and they kept flicking between yours and your mouth like he was still trying to memorize you. like he didn’t quite trust that this wasn’t a dream. 

you nodded, blinking slowly, heart so full it almost hurt. “i’m here.”

something in him crumbled at that. the tension in his shoulders fell away, the worry in his eyes softened, and he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he met you. he pulled you close then, wrapping an arm around your waist, and you curled into him without hesitation. like gravity had decided for you. like maybe it had been pulling you toward this moment all along.

your face pressed against his chest, and his heartbeat was right there—steady and warm and human. your hand rested lightly against his ribs, feeling the rise and fall of each breath like proof. he’s here. i’m safe. he held you like he was trying to memorize the shape of you in his arms. like this was something he’d dreamt about but never thought he’d be allowed to keep.

and then, he leaned down again. slower this time. softer. his nose brushed yours, and your eyes fluttered shut. his hand cupped your jaw so gently, like you were something breakable. something sacred. his lips met yours again, but this time, slower. deeper. he kissed you like he wanted to stay in that moment forever. like he was pouring every piece of himself into it. everything he couldn’t say. everything he hadn’t dared to feel. every night he’d sat beside your bed in the infirmary and prayed you’d open your eyes.

and you kissed him back just as softly. your fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring yourself to him. his other hand found your waist and stayed there, grounding. reassuring. you’re real. you’re here. you’re his.

you didn’t rush. didn’t pull each other closer too fast. you just stayed there, lips brushing and pressing and brushing again, over and over, learning the shape of each other’s mouths like it was something sacred.

when you finally pulled back, your foreheads stayed touching. your breaths mingled in the space between you, short and quiet and warm. you opened your eyes and he was already looking at you. his thumb traced the curve of your cheek, then lower, along your jaw. his touch feather-light. his lips still pink from kissing you.

“this isn’t wrong,” he murmured, voice a little hoarse.

“no,” you breathed, “it’s not.”

he smiled then, small and full of something quiet and glowing. not hope. not relief. something deeper than that. something that felt like beginning.

he laid back beside you, still close, but no longer needing to hold on quite so tightly. you both just stared at each other in the dark. nothing else existed. just the shape of his smile, the softness in his eyes, the warmth where your fingers still linked loosely.

no more spells. no more secrets. just you and him. safe. together. finally.

and outside the window, snow was just beginning to fall. a quiet, glimmering blanket over the castle. like the world was tucking you in. like something had ended.

and something new was just beginning.

author's note: this has been sitting on my drafts for ages!!! i wrote this fic months ago, but hogwarts aus always had a grip on me and i knew i had to do it eventually. this was my first time writing something with niki as the main character and honestly i loved how it turned out!! so if you made it all the way here, thank you for reading, it means so much to me!! send me an owl if you liked it 🦉✨

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[swiftjay23]

I have a request, like dragon ni-ki x reader where he is an immortal dragon with grudge and hate towards humans who treated him like a diet in the past but now everyone fears his wrath. Now Ni-ki's grandmother seeing his condition sends a human, you, to control the warth/hatred and help him teach him love and seal both of you in game of fate (soulmates). He is cold and cruel towards her but eventually they fall in love when the reader is in grave danger and he goes feral and saves her. And then maybe eventual smut if you add

HI ANON. YOU FUCKING POPPED OFF, SWEETIE. Like, what do you mean you just casually dropped the hottest, most emotionally devastating, folklore-drenched, soul-scorching concept of the century in my inbox and walked away??? The way your brain brained. The way you said, “What if we make him a dragon? What if he’s cruel? What if she still loves him?” and then proceeded to throw knives, soft kisses, bloodied hands, and god-tier sacrifice into the mix????

You didn’t just pop off. You ERUPTED. You cracked the sky. You slit the earth open. You gave me divine lore and slow burn torment and a girl willing to die for a monster who doesn’t know how to be loved. You served everything. This fic? Would not exist without your unhinged brilliance. You planted the seed and watched me spiral into a fever dream of pain, prophecy, and pussy.

So from the depths of my shattered writer’s heart and the ashes of my serotonin: THANK YOU. COME BACK. ANYTIME. I OWE YOU MY LIFE. (And the dragon? He owes you his soul.)

Title: To Tame a Dragon’s Heart

Pairing: Immortal Dragon!Ni-ki (Riki) × Mortal!Reader (Soulmates AU, Enemies to Lovers, Monster x Girl, Prophecy trope) Genre: Dark Fantasy, Tragic Romance, Mythological Drama, Soulmate Prophecy Angst, Epic Tale (slow-burn to explosive payoff), Smut (eventually—explicit and earned) Content & Trigger Tags: Immortal being / God AU, Monster x mortal dynamic, Prophecy, Blood / Violence / Death, War and ancient magic, Harsh language, Abandonment themes, Slow burn romance, Forbidden touch, Suicidal ideation / mental health themes, Protective male lead, Possessive/obsessive behavior, Hurt/comfort, Sacrifice, Loss of power, Knife wounds / battlefield injury, High fantasy lore, Explicit smut (eventually), Dom!Riki, Worship kink, Power imbalance, Marking/bonding, Size kink, Oral (f/m), Emotional sex Summary: Once, the gods scorched the earth with dragons. Now, only one remains. You were never meant to survive the prophecy. A girl born under a dying comet, marked by flame and fated for sacrifice. But when your village casts you into the mountains, to burn or be devoured, you find him. Riki, the last of the dragon gods. Wing of Ruin. Son of Fire. Cursed with immortality. Starved for warmth. And he wants nothing to do with you. But your heartbeat won’t leave him alone. As war brews and gods watch hungrily from the stars, you and Riki are pulled into a bond deeper than fate. One born not just from prophecy, but choice. And when you bleed for him, he will burn the world to bring you back. A dark fantasy tale of monsters, girls, and the terrifying power of love.

"Before the moon knew her name, before the sea had teeth, there was flame."

He was born in the Age of First Fire, when the heavens still bled stars and the gods walked with bare feet across mortal soil. His name was whispered by winds and worshipped in war. They called him Riki, Son of Flame, Wing of Ruin. Born of dragonblood and god-wrath. A beast too proud to kneel, too cursed to die.

Son of the Storm Serpent. Grandchild of the Celestial Flame.  A creature of bone-forged magic and wrathful birthright. A dragon not made, but unleashed. In the beginning, he brought rain to famines and heat to frostbitten fields. They called him savior. Carved his likeness into stone.

“Blessed be the Flamebringer,” they said. “Blessed be the winged god in the mountain.”

But humans are greedy. And gods do not suffer greed kindly. They asked for more, more rain, more gold, more power. And when he refused, they dared to take. Blood of the divine, siphoned drop by drop, brewed into elixirs.  Wings shattered beneath steel.  His heart pierced and displayed like a trophy.

They caged him in chains forged from priestbone and broken vows. They feared what they’d raised. Tried to chain him in bone and burn him in steel. But gods do not go quietly. He did not die.

For what god dies while the sky still remembers his name? When he rose again, the skies turned black.  And for forty days and forty nights, the world burned. Ash fell like snow on the cities that betrayed him.  Rivers turned to steam.  And kingdoms fell not with screams, but silence. Mothers told their children to hide. To pray. And to never, ever say his name aloud.

He vanished into the cradle of Mount Yurei, a scorched throne of molten stone and jagged sky. And the gods, his own blood, refused to intervene. “He is not one of us,” they said.  “He is a god no longer. He is ruin incarnate.” So the earth grew quiet. And the mountain slept. But in every village, in every century, one tale remains unchanged: He waits. Beneath the ash, he waits. When the stars misalign and blood touches flame once more, he will wake. And this time, there will be no mercy.

The fire popped, spitting embers into the cold night. The children sat in a ring, their faces flickering between wonder and fear, limbs tucked tight beneath frayed cloaks. You were the youngest. Six winters old, maybe seven. A quiet girl with big eyes and calloused hands who never asked questions, but always listened.

The storyteller’s voice was thin and rasped with smoke: “And that’s why you don’t look at the mountain,” she whispered. “You don’t speak his name. You don’t call him.” The others leaned closer. One child covered her ears. Another held back tears.

But you, you didn’t feel afraid. You felt something else.  Something pulling. Your eyes flicked toward the distant silhouette of Mount Yurei, rising black against the starless sky. And for just a second, you thought you saw something move.  Not wind. Not shadow. Something alive. Something watching you back.

The old woman’s gaze slid over the circle of children, then stilled. Her eyes locked on yours. “But sometimes… the gods send a girl,” she said, quieter now. “One the dragon can’t burn. One who can touch what he’s forgotten.” You swallowed.

“A girl not to kill the beast,” she whispered. “But to remind him he once had a heart.” You didn’t understand what she meant. Not then. But that night, when you fell asleep by the embers, hand curled beneath your cheek, you dreamed of wings black as obsidian and eyes glowing gold beneath a mountain sky.

And somewhere far, far away,  something stirred.

Long ago, before the gods fell silent and the dragons turned to stone, there lived one who watched. The chamber was carved from silver light and skybone, ancient and echoing, lit only by the soft pulse of fate-weaving threads. She sat alone at its center, eyes like moonlit opals, skin lined with the weight of watching centuries fall to ash.

She sat beneath a sky that had never known stars, in a realm older than time, where starlight was still being spun and fates were still soft with becoming. She was called many names. Oracle. Flamekeeper. Stormmother. Last of the Dragon Priestesses. Maker of bonds.  But to him, to the beast forged in fire and grief, she had always been Halora.  Grandmother.

Her bones ached with centuries. Her heart, what little remained of it, burned beneath layers of divine ash. She had watched kingdoms rise on broken promises.  Watched mortals beg the gods for flame, only to recoil when it scorched their greedy fingers. And worst of all, she had watched him.  Her blood. Her sorrow. Her dragon-born boy.

“My Riki,” she whispered to the wind that was not wind. “What have they made of you?” She stood within the Looming Hall, where destinies crossed like threads of molten glass. A hundred thousand soullines flickered before her, radiant veins of potential, lives being born, broken, tangled, set ablaze.

But none reached the mountain. None had ever reached the mountain. “He is unraveling,” she whispered to no one. “His soul frays with each century. Soon, even I will not be able to reach him.” Until now. The loom stuttered. A shimmer. A ripple in the threads. She turned. And saw you.

A child. Small and still and nothing to the world but breath and skin. But to the loom? To Fate itself? You glowed. Not like royalty. Not like prophecy.

Like reminder. Like mercy shaped into human hands. She leaned in, ancient body creaking like stars shattering in their sockets. You sat by a fire in a forgotten village, tucked among children too scared to breathe. The wind moaned through the trees. The mountain slept, just barely. And you… you watched.

You looked toward the peak not in fear, but with longing. As if you recognized something there. As if your soul was calling to a home your body had never touched.

Halora’s mouth parted. Her voice cracked like thunder beneath water.

“You will not be spared,” she said softly, her hand hovering over the loom.  “You will scream. You will fall. You will curse me before the end.” A single droplet of golden flame swirled in her palm. It hovered, quivering between divinity and damnation. A single thread glowed. Not gold. Not red. But something gentler. Braver.

The Maker of bonds leaned forward, fingers brushing the loom. “Little spark,” she murmured. “You do not know what you are.” But the mountain would. And so would her grandson. She raised her hand. Drew a single drop of light from the center of her palm.

“You will suffer,” she said softly, solemnly. “You will bleed. You will cry out, and he may not come.” Her voice broke, just a little. “But you are the last hope I have.” “So I name you his.”

She touched the light to the girl’s thread. A mark seared itself onto your soul. Unseen. Silent. But permanent. And far below the realms of gods and ash,  in the deepest part of Mount Yurei, something howled.

From that moment on, the thread of the world bent quietly around you. The winds shifted when you passed. Shadows leaned to listen. And the mountain, silent for centuries, began to stir.

You did not know it yet.  But the story had already chosen you. Not shaking. Not weeping. Just… watching. Wide-eyed and still.  A soul untouched by fear, and yet already tethered to ruin. And the beast, buried beneath centuries of rage, had already begun to wake.

You do not remember the moment you were chosen. But you remember the moment the world stopped pretending you weren’t.

The wind was not wind. It was warning. It blew sharp and restless across the valley, carrying no scent of earth, no trace of life, only ash, and the faintest memory of fire. It hissed between the cragged rocks in broken syllables, like it was trying to speak but forgot the language centuries ago.

You stood at the threshold of the world they had taught you to fear.  And it did not greet you gently. Before you, Mount Yurei rose like a monument to fury, massive, skeletal, and blackened at its edges. The cliffs were jagged, curved like claws around the throat of the sky. No trees dared grow on its slopes. No birds circled its peak. The land was empty in the way a wound is empty, hollowed out and rotting at the edges.

The air had a heaviness to it, thick and pressing, as if it bore down on your shoulders with the weight of every story ever whispered about this place.

Your feet crunched over scorched stone and something softer, ash, you realized. But not the kind left by a campfire. This was older. Finer. So pale it looked silver in the fading light. It clung to your boots. Your cloak. Your skin. As if even the mountain’s dust wanted to mark you as its own.

You didn't look back. Couldn’t. Not with the sound of your mother’s sobs still echoing in your ears, wet and broken, muffled behind the hands she pressed to her mouth to keep from wailing. You hadn’t turned to see her, but you’d felt it when she fell to her knees behind you, her forehead touching the hem of your cloak like she was saying goodbye to a grave.

And maybe she was. They’d dressed you in white. The ceremonial color of fate-bound offerings. The color brides wore. The color they buried the dead in.

Your cloak hung too heavy on your frame, fastened with a gold pin engraved with ancient runes, an old spell of protection that probably hadn’t worked since before your grandmother was born. Beneath it, your palms stayed curled into fists, tucked deep inside your sleeves so no one would see them shaking. They hadn’t said anything to you, not really. The villagers.

Not when the summons came. Not when the priestess lifted your shirt and pressed the Fate Mark between your shoulder blades, branding your soul with light that felt more like fire. Not when they tied your satchel and braided your hair like a bride going to meet her husband. They didn’t look at you at all.  No prayers. No gifts. Not even a goodbye.

Like you were already gone. Like it would hurt less if they forgot you had ever been there at all. You swallowed hard, but it didn’t help. The knot in your throat sat like a stone. Heavy. Cold. Final.

You’d been quiet during the walk. Carried forward by guards who wouldn’t speak to you. Watched only by trees that leaned away when you passed. You hadn’t cried, not since the marking, but now, here, with the peak rising like a curse in front of you…

It was starting to ache. Not your legs. Not your lungs. Your heart. Because this wasn’t just some ritual. Some test. You weren’t walking into a temple. You were walking into the lair of the god-turned-monster. The dragon who devoured kings. Who torched the stars once. Who slept in the belly of a mountain, curled around a grudge that had outlived empires.

And he was waiting for you.

You tried not to think about the fire circle. The way the old woman had told that story, voice low, lips trembling like she was remembering it, not imagining it. You’d been so small, then. Just a little girl curled between your friends, listening to tales meant to keep you quiet at night. But now you knew it wasn’t a story. It was a warning. And you were the ending.

“She’s only a girl,” your mother had begged the gods. “She’s only a girl, why would you do this to her?” You had no answer. No secret lineage. No forgotten magic. Just the mark on your back and a quiet, choking fear that you were never going to return.

They say the mountain accepts no offerings. Only victims.

You paused near a ridge where the path twisted, jagged and sharp, like it had been carved by claws. Below, the valley spread in silence, your village just a distant blur of roofs and smoke trails now. So far away. Too far to run back to.

You closed your eyes. The wind pulled at your cloak again. Insistent. Icy. And underneath it, there. That sound again. Not wind. Not echo. Not your heartbeat. A low, bone-deep rumble. Like the earth itself was breathing. Like something massive had stirred, just slightly, far beneath the crust of this cursed mountain. He knows you’re here.

And somehow, you knew, he had always known. Riki. Son of Flame. Wing of Ruin. The mountain shifted. Just barely. A breath, if anything. But it was enough to fracture a slab of stone along the inner ridge of the cavern wall, sending dust spiraling through the void like falling stars.

It had been years since the last one. Decades, maybe. Time meant little in this place. He did not mark it by sunrises. He did not sleep, not truly. Not when his memories never dulled. Not when rage kept the blood in his veins molten, and the smoke in his throat thick.

They had burned him in golden chains once. They had carved offerings into his scales and dared to call it worship. They had sent soldiers, then kings, then gods. And he had ripped them all apart. Let them build their altars. Let them write him into scripture. He knew the truth. They had feared him even as they bowed.

As they should have. Now, he stirred again. But not from pain. No, from amusement. Because she had arrived. The little Fate-marked lamb they’d sent him like a treaty. A beggar’s prayer wrapped in soft skin and trembling steps. He could smell her now, fear, resolve, bloodline, starlight, like a half-broken offering limping toward the fire.

She was weak. Small. Mortal. But the soul-mark burned bright enough to reach him even here, through stone and ash and smoke. The bond had tethered itself to him the moment the Celestial Matron branded her. His other half. How quaint. He’d felt it like a sting. A foreign weight settling in his chest, where no warmth had lived for centuries. She’d been born too soft, too late. And now the world had forced her into the lion’s mouth.

He should have raged. Should have torn her heart out the moment he sensed it beating. But instead, he smirked.

A slow, fanged curl of his lips. Smoke curled up from his nostrils like laughter.

Let her come. Let her shiver. Let her weep for the home she’ll never see again. He would not go to her. Let her climb. Let her bleed. Let her earn the right to stand before him. And when she did, when she collapsed in his den with hope flickering like the last breath of a candle, he would look into her eyes and ask her why the stars had chosen her.

He could crush her in a second. Break her bones like he once broke cities. But there was something curious in the way her steps echoed up the path. The way her soul-song whispered through his silence. The way the world itself held its breath as she drew near.

He had slaughtered kings who claimed to love him. Incinerated priests who offered their blood to his altar. But this one? This one came with no promises. No lies on her tongue. No belief in her eyes. Only the fate she did not choose, and the audacity to face him anyway.

“Come, little flame,” he murmured into the dark, claws flexing into scorched stone. “Let’s see how far you make it.” The mountain did not welcome you. It watched you.

Every stone, every jagged edge of rock and coiling root beneath your boots seemed to pulse with something… ancient. Not alive, no, worse. Remembering.

The wind had long stopped following you. The snowstorm had ended miles below, at the mountain’s skirt, as if even the weather feared to trespass beyond the boundary.  Now the only sound was your breath.  And your heartbeat.  And the way the earth creaked beneath your steps. You weren’t supposed to make it this far. No one did.

The trail behind you was littered with ash and bone, scattered memories of those who dared climb before, their souls swallowed by fire and forgotten by history. You should turn back. You were not meant for this.

But the seal on your chest glowed softly, an ethereal sigil pressed into your skin by a goddess herself. A soulmark not chosen, but inflicted. And so you pressed forward. Because your mother had cried so hard she could not speak when she last held you.  Because the village priest had shaken his head and whispered, “May the stars show her mercy.” Because no one else dared approach the dragon.

Because the skies had chosen you. And it did not matter what you wanted.

The mouth of the cave gaped before you, black as pitch, yawning like the throat of some dead god. The closer you walked, the more the air thickened. Not with heat, but memory. Soot and time clung to the cave walls, whispering secrets in a tongue you didn’t understand. But you heard them anyway. Faint. Distant. Wailing. A child’s scream. A soldier’s plea. A woman sobbing someone’s name.

The screams didn’t echo. They lingered. You stumbled at the edge. The darkness inside stretched deeper than it should’ve. It swallowed the light, the wind, and your sense of time. You couldn’t even hear your own footsteps anymore. And just when you opened your mouth to speak,“Welcome, little flame.” The voice did not sound like it came from a mouth.

It came from everywhere, from the walls, the ground, your bones. It shivered down your spine like a storm breaking across sky. It wasn’t just deep. It was primeval. A rasping thunder so ancient it made your own heartbeat feel young. “I’m surprised you made it across the mountain.”

You froze. You couldn’t see him. Couldn’t feel him, not yet, but the cave trembled slightly, as if reacting to his awareness. And though your knees wanted to bend, your back straightened instead. Because your fate had already been sealed in starlight. Because someone had to face him. Because you were chosen. “I was sent,” you said quietly, voice soft but resolute. “So I came.”

There was silence. Then, a low, rumbling chuckle. It wasn’t warm. It was amused. Predatory. Almost disappointed. “So brave,” he murmured, “when the shadows hide what waits inside.” The air grew hotter. Not like fire. No, this was something older than flame. The kind of heat that came from buried power, coiled deep within the earth, breathing in molten silence.

You took another step forward. The sigil on your chest throbbed. Your breath caught in your throat, and then, the shadows moved. Not a flicker. Not a blur.

A presence. Massive. Fluid. Ancient. He stepped from the abyss like a god bored with sleep. And you saw him. Finally, you saw him.

Obsidian claws first, digging grooves into the cavern floor. Then the curve of his body, humanoid only in shape, but carved with celestial ruin. Scales darker than midnight shimmered over his skin, shifting between black, violet, and faint threads of molten gold.  His wings scraped the ceiling as they unfurled, vast and terrible, folded back like thunderclouds. His horns curved elegantly behind him, twisted from bone to crystal.  And his eyes. Oh.

His eyes were the worst of all. Because they didn’t burn. They glowed. Not red. Not gold. Not hellfire. But starlight. Purple. White. And violet. Deep and endless as the cosmos. The kind of eyes that had seen kingdoms fall, stars burn out, and time collapse in on itself.

And his face, he was beautiful. Not in the way mortals described beauty. No, it was the kind of beauty that terrified. Sharpened features, cruel lips, high cheekbones and a jaw carved by wrath. Every inch of him was regal, unrepentant, and gloriously inhuman.

You couldn’t breathe. “So,” he said, voice lower now, more intimate. “This is what the gods send me.” His smile curved, razor-sharp. “A child. With stars on her skin.”

He took a slow step forward. Then another. The heat suffocated. Your vision blurred at the edges. Still, you did not step back. “Tell me,” he whispered, head tilting, eyes narrowing, “what will you teach me, little flame?”

“When I’ve made gods scream?”

You met his eyes. And that was your first mistake.

Because they weren’t just eyes, they were wells. Deep, violet-black abysses streaked with molten gold, like someone had trapped dying stars in his irises and let them rot. They didn’t look at you so much as see through you, like your bones had turned to glass, your soul strung up in front of him for his slow, thoughtful perusal. Your breath stuttered. And he smiled. It wasn’t kind.

No, it was cruel in the most devastating way, an ancient kind of cruel. The smile of a creature who had tasted kingdoms and watched gods die. The kind that knew your name without needing to ask, because he had already dreamed of your blood.

And then, he moved. Not with the clumsy gravity of man, but with deliberate grace. Like a shadow come to life. Like time itself bent around his steps. You tried to stay still. You tried to stay strong. But your body betrayed you.

Your knees locked. Your throat clenched. Your fingers twitched at your sides, curling tight into your skirts. Your heartbeat, a deafening drumbeat of terror and fate, pounded in your chest so hard you thought you might break your own ribs. He circled you.

Each step slow. Precise. Soundless. And the air shifted. It folded around him, bending the temperature, the weight, the very meaning of the cave. Suddenly, you were cold and burning all at once, your skin prickling with chills while heat pulsed from the floor beneath you, as if the stone had remembered fire.

And then, he spoke. “What a noise you make,” he murmured, voice smooth and scorched, the sound of smoke curling off battlefield ruins. “I haven’t even touched you.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He was behind you now. You could feel it. His breath was a furnace against the nape of your neck. “Your heart…” he drawled, savoring the word, “is frantic. Like a caged thing.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't let him see, but he smirked. You didn’t have to open your eyes to know. You could feel the shift in the air, the quiet triumph at your trembling shoulders.

“You’ll drown in your own fear if you’re not careful, little flame.”

And then, his hand. Large. Calloused. Unnaturally warm. It rose from the shadows and brushed, lightly, achingly, over your collarbone. Just one finger. Slow. Lazy. Reverent in a way that made you shiver harder.

And he found the mark. That cursed, celestial sigil. The glowing tether that bound your soul to his. The reason you were here. He dragged his fingertip across it. Not roughly. No. He was careful, like he was tasting the temperature of it. Feeling for the moment it burned him back.

And gods, it did. A spark leapt between your skin and his touch. You sucked in a breath. Your knees buckled a fraction. “Ah,” he whispered. “So it is true.”

His voice, lower now, quieter, seeped into your bones. “Fate’s mark. Still warm. Still fresh.” “You poor, wretched girl.” Tears pricked your eyes. Not just from fear. Not just from the weight of his gaze, his power, his endless, smothering presence.

But from the aching, bone-deep grief of knowing that this was your fate. That this, this terrible, magnificent creature, was what the stars had written into your skin. And he hated you for it.

He leaned closer. You felt his nose skim along the edge of your jaw, slow and curious. “You’re trembling,” he whispered. “Is it because of me?” You gasped. And that sound, that soft, startled breath, seemed to thrill him.

He chuckled. It was low, smoky, cruel. A sound that slid down your spine like liquid heat.

And then, he vanished. No wind. No retreating steps. Just the sudden, suffocating absence of him. You stood there in the silence, shaking, heart still battering your ribs like a prisoner desperate to escape. Alone now. But you could still feel him. Somewhere in the darkness. Watching.

And for the first time since crossing that cursed mountain, you wondered if you'd made a terrible mistake. “Sleep well, little flame,” his voice whispered from the dark. “We begin at dawn.”

You do not sleep. Not really. You don’t dare sleep deep inside the cave.

Even though the winds have teeth and the stones dig cruelly into your side, you choose the mouth of it, the last sliver of moonlight you can claim before shadows swallow her whole. You sleep is disturbed, you couldn’t. Not with the cold pressing into your bones like iron stakes. Not with your pulse hammering loud as war drums in your throat. Not with the air thick with ancient magic, breathing around you like a second skin.

You curl tighter, knees to your chest, face tucked into your elbow, the threadbare fabric of your cloak pulled high around your ears, but it doesn’t stop the ache. The cold is everywhere. It leeches into the soft flesh of your thighs, settles behind your eyes, nests beneath your fingernails. You can’t remember the last time you were warm.

And you can’t stop shaking. Not just from the chill, but from him. He hasn’t spoken again. Not since that first mocking welcome, all dark amusement and cruel silk. Not since his voice echoed off the cave walls like a storm threatening to fall. But you know he’s there.

Somewhere beyond the veil of shadow and stone, he’s watching. The weight of his gaze is unbearable. It slides over your skin like oil, thick and suffocating, tasting every inch of you without a single touch. You can’t see him, but you feel him in your marrow. An invisible presence sitting just beyond the firelight of your mind. Hungry. Heavy. Endless. And you’re nothing. Just a girl wrapped in too-thin cloth, clutching your arms like they could anchor you, like they could stop the trembling.

Just a girl marked by stars you didn’t ask for, sent into the belly of a monster’s mountain like some pitiful offering. Just a girl.

You press your forehead to your knees and try not to cry again. You’ve already wept so much your throat burns with salt, your eyes dry and sore. But the silence is a blade. The fear is a rope. You’ve never felt so alone.

Above, the wind howls low through the peaks like a funeral dirge. And still, still, you feel him. Like gravity. Like storm tide. Like the edge of the world, breathing down your neck.

He watches you. From the deep. From the dark. Motionless as stone. As eternal. Only his eyes gleam, two slivers of molten obsidian in the black, flickering like dying embers. He listens to your heartbeat.

The stutter of it. The high, panicked flutter that betrays every brave little lie you told yourself before stepping into this place. You smell like salt and starlight. You feel like a wound. And he drinks it in. You do not see the way his head tilts in the dark.  The way something ancient in his chest claws against the cage of his ribs. The way his fingers twitch, once, like they long to reach out and touch.

Just once. He could. He’s fast enough. You’d never even know. He could press a single claw to that little mark glowing faintly on your collarbone, just to see if it burns. Just to see if you burn. But he doesn’t. Instead, he stares. And stares.

Until the minutes bleed into hours. Until your tears dry on your cheeks. Until your body finally gives out and your breathing slows into something like sleep, uneasy, twitching, cold. Still, he does not turn away.

In your half-dream, the stone beneath you vanishes. The cave opens into a sea of stars. And he’s there, just behind you. Breath warm against the nape of your neck. Voice low and ancient, whispering things you don’t understand.You wake with a gasp, heartbeat wild. And in the dark, you swear you see something move, far down the tunnel. Something watching.

Something waiting. You wake with your throat raw and your skin frozen stiff. Everything aches. Your fingers are numb. Your legs feel twisted beneath you, stiff from sleeping curled on jagged stone. The cave floor has marked you, scrapes on your elbows, a purpling bruise along your hip. You shift slowly, wincing, heart pounding with the disorientation of being… somewhere that doesn’t want you.

Your lips part for breath, but it hurts to inhale. The air is bitter cold and bone-dry. It tastes like sulfur, dust, and something older. Then you feel it. A shiver. A ripple through the air. You are not alone. You turn your head, and there he is.

The dragon in human form. Ni-ki. Tall, pale, immovable. Like he’s carved from the very mountain you scaled. He stands with one shoulder leaned lazily against the cavern wall, arms crossed, a curtain of silken dark hair spilling around his face and collar. His obsidian eyes are fixed on you, not with interest. Not with warmth.

With annoyance. You scramble up to sit, legs trembling beneath you, one palm flat against the stone for balance. You want to say something. Anything. But your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth, dry and cracked.

He speaks first. “Still alive,” he says, voice flat. “Shame.” You flinch. He pushes off the wall and begins walking slowly toward you. Each step echoes through the silence, like a countdown. You clutch your shawl tighter around your shoulders, the fabric already stiff with frost and dried tears.

“I was certain the cold would take you,” he muses. “Or perhaps the fear.” He stops just a few feet from where you sit. You look up at him, regretful, confused, angry, lost. But his face doesn’t soften. If anything, his gaze grows colder. You try to stand, knees wobbling beneath you.

“I—I made it,” you whisper. “I crossed the mountain. I reached your cave, just like the prophecy said—” He laughs. It’s not a warm sound. Not the kind of laugh that invites company. It’s hollow. Mocking. Cruel. “The prophecy,” he sneers, the word tasting like venom on his tongue. “You think that means something to me? That a few desperate stars scribbled your name into some ancient stone and now you matter?”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

He steps closer. “What exactly did you expect?” he murmurs, eyes stalking past you without a glance. “Kindness? Conversation? A warm bed and a hero’s welcome for surviving a night on my floor?”

You instinctively step back, only to hit the cave wall. You press against it, heart thundering. He leans in. “I’ve seen your kind before,” he whispers, voice silken and sharp. “Crying. Shivering. Hoping I’ll take pity on them.” His gaze drops slowly, to your collarbone. “You wear the mark, yes. But do you even know what it means?”

Your breathing is ragged. He reaches out with one long, gloved hand and trails a single finger over the seal burned into your skin. It's warm. Burning hot through the fabric. Your whole body jolts.

“Do you feel that?” he murmurs. “Your little heart trying to outrun your ribs? That’s fear, little flame. Not fate.” You want to speak, but your throat tightens. His presence is too heavy. Too much. It presses down on you like a collapsing sky. “And yet,” he continues, circling you slowly, “you still came. Like a good little offering. Like a lamb to the altar.”

“I’m not—” you try to say, but your voice cracks. “You’re not special,” he cuts in coldly. “Don’t mistake survival for destiny.” That stings. Tears prick your eyes again, hot and helpless. You hate that he sees it, hate the twist of amusement that flickers at the corner of his mouth when he does. He steps even closer, lowering his face to yours.

“You don’t belong here,” he says, softer now, but the words carry a knife’s edge. “Go back down the mountain. Or die. I don’t care which.” “I didn’t come here to be liked,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I came because I had to.” Another silence. This one stretches long.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is colder than the air itself.

“Then act like it,” he says. “And stop crying. It’s pathetic.” And then, just as suddenly, he turns. Walks away. His cloak sways with each step as he vanishes deeper into the shadows of the cave. No further warning. No food. No answers. Just the bitter echo of his voice hanging in the air like frostbite:

“I’ll enjoy watching the cold eat you alive.”

You're left shaking. Alone. Tears dripping down your cheeks in silence, salt staining the mark that binds you to him. And for the first time, you wonder, what crime you must have committed to deserve this fate.

You find him again, later.

By the inner pools, where the water glows faintly, echoing the starlight trapped in the stones. He sits atop a jagged outcrop like it’s a throne, eyes closed, head tilted back, the curve of his throat bared to the cold. You hesitate. But your feet carry you forward anyway.

“…why do you live alone?” you ask, softly. He doesn’t open his eyes. “Why do birds fly south for the winter?” “That’s not an answer.”

“That’s not a good question.” Your lips tremble. Still, you keep standing there. Still, you keep asking. Day after day. Night after night. He ignores you. Or mocks you. Or wounds you with words carved sharper than claws. But he never tells you to leave.

And you never do.

You wish he’d kill you. At least then it would be over.

Instead, he ignores you. Or worse, he doesn’t. Some days, he walks past you like you’re less than air. He never glances your way. Never pauses when you speak. He leaves you to freeze near the cave mouth, lets the wind batter your skin and silence steal your breath. You eat only what scraps you can find, bitter roots, melted snow, the occasional crust of old bread he tosses near you like feeding a dog. You don’t know what day it is anymore. Or week. Or season. Just that you're shrinking. Dulling.

Falling into something dark you can’t claw your way out of. And the nights are the worst. Because when he does speak, it’s to break you further. “I don’t care how far you climbed,” he once said as you shivered beside the embers. “You’ll still die like all the rest.”

Another time, when you tried to ask what the mark on your collarbone meant, he barely looked up. “You were born with it? Then that’s your curse, not mine.” And tonight? Tonight he didn’t say anything. Just stood across the cave, sharpening his blade with long, slow strokes while you wept silently into your knees. He didn’t glance up. Didn’t blink. Just let the screech of metal over stone drown out your sobs like it thrilled him.

You curl tighter now, huddled near the cave’s entrance, where frost creeps over the edges of your blanket like fingers. Your breath clouds the air, lips blue, skin raw. The mountain winds scream against the rock like banshees. You’re shaking. Tired. So very tired. And still, he does not come. Still, he does not care.

You bury your face into your palms and whisper the same words again, like prayer: “Please… please… just let me go. Just let me die.” You don’t even know who you’re speaking to anymore. Your voice cracks on the word die. It echoes softly back to you. The stones do not answer. Neither does he.

But someone hears you. Far above the clouds, nestled in silver sky, Halora watches. The goddess of fate. Of fire. Of celestial bonds long forged and long forgotten. She watches you weep with the aching tenderness of an older sister who cannot interfere, but aches to. Her light has been dimmed for centuries, her name erased from altars and tongues. But she remembers you.

She remembers the dream she placed in your mother’s womb. She remembers the heat you once held, before the world made you small. And now, as she watches you shiver beneath a cruel dragon’s wrath, her eyes flood with quiet pity.

“You poor thing,” she murmurs to the stars. “You think you came here to die…” “But you came here to wake him up.”

Below, the cold deepens. And within the cave’s shadows, Ni-ki glances toward your crumpled figure, face unreadable. He hears your breathing hitch. He feels your agony through the bond neither of you understand. And he does nothing.

But Halora knows. He is not immune. Just buried. And you? You are the match. All you need now… Is the spark.

The cold doesn’t bite anymore. Not because it’s gone, but because you’re too numb to feel it.

You’ve been here too long. Crying too much. Starving too quietly. You’ve memorized every crack in the stone, every wind current that snakes into this cave. You’ve learned to time his silences, learned the different kinds of cruelty: the sharp-edged remarks meant to cut… and the colder ones meant to make you feel like you don’t exist.

You can’t decide which hurts more. Your throat is dry. You haven’t spoken aloud in hours. Your voice has begun to sound like a stranger’s anyway, frayed and fragile, like it doesn't belong in a place like this. But tonight… it’s worse. Because tonight, he didn't even glance your way. Not once. You think that should hurt less, by now. You thought you’d grow used to it. You were wrong. Tears begin to spill again, quiet, constant.

You curl tighter, pulling your legs to your chest, hiding your face in the crook of your arms. The blanket offers little warmth. The mountain wind whistles sharp and cruel through the cracks in the cave. You flinch with every gust, your fingers shaking. You don’t want to cry anymore. But you do. You always do.

And somewhere in the dark… You feel his eyes on you. Not soft. Not kind. Not comforting. But heavy. Unreadable. Like you’re a problem he hasn’t yet solved. Your heart stutters. Your breathing becomes uneven again. You don’t want to speak, but something cracks inside you.  A fracture too deep to ignore.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” you whisper brokenly, though you don’t know if he’s listening.  “I thought I came here for a reason. I thought… you were that reason.”

Silence. “But maybe I was wrong.” Still, he says nothing. You bite your lip. Draw blood. Press your forehead to the cold stone. “If I’m just a burden to you,” your voice trembles, “then why didn’t you just let me freeze out there?” That’s when you hear it. A breath. Not yours. His. Controlled. Shallow. Like something… cracked. But when you glance up, he’s already gone. Back into the shadows. Like he was never there at all.

(NI-KI)

I pretend not to care. It’s easy, most nights. She’s just another flame fated to die out. Another girl with soft eyes and a too-fragile heart. Another child of prophecy come to tame the monster.

I’ve seen it before. I’ve burned them all. But this one, this one won’t stop crying. Her breath hiccups through the dark like it’s hurting me. And worse, I feel it. The tremble of her bones. The silence of her hope. The raw, open wound of her loneliness bleeding across the stone floor. And it touches me. Somewhere deep. Somewhere ancient. Somewhere Iswore was long dead.

I hate it. I loathe it. I loathe her.  Because I shouldn’t care if she starves.  I shouldn’t ache when she curls up smaller.  I shouldn’t look at her when she sleeps, watching her cry into her own arms, too proud to ask for help. But I do. I always do. Because her mark calls to me. And worse, her heartbeat stays. No matter how cruel I am. No matter how cold I become. She keeps looking at me with those storm-glass eyes, searching for something good in me.

And I, I don’t know whether to destroy her for it… Or fall on my knees and beg her to stop. So instead, I vanish. Into the dark. Into myself. Like a coward. But her voice lingers. “If I’m just a burden to you… then why didn’t you let me freeze out there?” I close your eyes. And I don’t answer. Because I don’t know why. Not yet. But it terrifies me that the answer might be…

Because I can’t. Afterall, I’m a monster, and it’s all that monsters are made to be.

𝑌𝑜𝑢 – 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐹𝑙𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝐺𝑖𝑟𝑙

It starts with a feeling. Just a whisper in your chest, warm and strange, like something tugging softly beneath your ribs. The sun hasn’t fully risen. The frost hasn’t melted. And still, you’re wide awake, barefoot on stone, staring at the stretch of earth below. The valley dips between two ridgelines, green and blooming. A sleepy village rests at the bottom, smoke rising in thin spirals from chimney tops, children darting between stalls, life humming quietly beneath the mist.

You shouldn’t care. But gods, you do. You press your hand over the mark on your chest, still faintly glowing from last night’s fight, when he got too close, said too much. When you’d thrown a cup at his head and screamed “I’m not your prisoner!” only for him to snarl back, “Then leave.”

And maybe you meant to. Maybe you even planned to. But you hadn’t felt it. Not until now.

This… pull. Like someone waiting for you down there. Like a memory you never lived. Like freedom. So you run. You don’t pack. You don’t look back. You just run. Down the slope. Past the burnt trees. Past the skull-lined ridge he warned you about. You don’t even stop to breathe until the cold winds soften, and the scent of pine turns to the scent of home.

You’re smiling. Actually smiling.  Your lungs burn, your knees are scraped, but it doesn’t matter. Because you made it. You escaped him. You escaped the cave. The fire. The curse. The boy with silver eyes and a heart made of stone. You’re free.

And then you hear them. “…Dragon’s den can’t be far.” “—three days tracking that bastard. He’s close.” “Poison’s ready. Aim for the wings if you can’t reach the heart.” Poachers. Your feet lock in place. Your smile fades. You hear the clink of metal. The hiss of sharpened blades.  And beneath all that, something colder. Laughter.

Triumphant. Certain.  Like they’ve done this before. You don't think. You just run. Faster than you ever have. Back the way you came, back up the ridge, back through the frost. Your body protests. Your chest aches. But you don’t stop. You run. You run like you’ve never run before, past briar, stone, and sky-bitten fog. Past every cracked bone and cramping lung. Because you heard them. The poachers.  Whispers of “The beast lives here,”  “Bring me his head.”  “Don’t get too close, he doesn’t die easy.”

You know he’s not expecting them. You know he’ll taunt them before realizing they’re not afraid. And you know, you know with a terror that shreds your insides, that they’ll bring poison blades. That they’ll cheat. That they’ll slaughter even a god if it means glory. So you run. And when you reach the cave, panting, half-crying, he’s just sitting there. Cross-legged on the black stone, silver eyes half-lidded like moonlight trapped in glass. He smirks lazily when he sees you.  "Little flame," he drawls, tilting his head. "Missed me that much?"

You open your mouth, to scream. To warn.  To tell him they’re coming, that you’re not here for him, you’re here for his life. But the words die. Because steel kisses your skin. A blade, long and unforgiving, slices straight through your stomach. You freeze. A wet, breathless sound escapes your lips, half word, half wheeze. The world sways. Blood seeps slow down your legs. The edges of your vision blur and spin. Ni-ki’s smirk vanishes. In an instant, it’s gone, replaced by horror. And something far, far worse. Worry. "No," he whispers. His voice is shaking. "No. No, no, no, no—" He’s beside you before you hit the ground, catching you in his arms like you weigh nothing, like you’re fragile crystal he’s only just realized could break.

Your fingers curl weakly in his cloak. You smile—soft, sad, full of too much love. "I… I came back," you murmur. He shakes his head violently. "Don’t—don’t say anything. Don’t—" His hands are glowing now, clawed and desperate, pressing to your wound. But there’s too much blood. Too much heat. And his magic… his ancient fire… it can’t mend what’s already tearing. "You’re not dying," he snaps. "You’re not allowed to die, do you hear me?" Your head lolls. Your heartbeat falters. And in that moment, he breaks.

RIKI – THE MONSTER WHO NEVER LOVED

I don’t feel fear. I haven’t in centuries. Not when they pierced my wings. Not when kingdoms fell beneath my breath. Not even when the gods carved that cursed mark into my chest and said "She will be your end." But this, this moment, when she collapses in my arms, red blooming against my palms like spilled wine, this is fear. It eats me alive. The air drops ten degrees. And the dragon inside me howls.

"Why?" I choke, voice hoarse with disbelief. "Why would you run back? Why would you—" Her lashes flutter. "They were going to hurt you," she whispers. "I didn’t want you to… be alone again." Alone. The word cuts deeper than the blade ever could. I stare at her face, at the tears slipping past blood-streaked cheeks. At the soft smile she’s still wearing, even as her body fails her. And I burn. Not outside. Not in fire or rage. But inward.

A quiet, feral kind of burn that shatters the chains I forged around your heart. She came back. She tried to save me. And I…I mocked her. I hurt her. And now I don’t know if the stars will ever forgive me.

And then he hears them, still laughing, still moving. The poachers. Still alive. Still breathing. Still daring to exist in a world where she bleeds. He lays her down, trembling. Eyes glowing. Then he stands. And becomes something monstrous. They don’t even scream in time. Fire floods the forest in a blink, hotter than hell, older than the sun. His claws tear through the first man's chest before he even lifts his weapon. The second gets impaled by his tail, spine shattered, body limp.

But it’s the last one, the one who touched her, that suffers. He doesn’t just kill him. He drags it out. Breaks every bone.  Burns each limb.  Lets him beg. And still, it isn’t enough. Because nothing is enough. Nothing will rewind that moment. Nothing will stop her blood from staining his hands. Nothing will erase the look on her face when she fell.

𝐴𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟

He returns to her, scorched, trembling, eyes blown wide. He drops to his knees. Stares at her pale skin. Her lashes fluttering. Her blood-soaked dress. And he touches her cheek—barely. As if she’ll vanish if he tries too hard. “What have you done to me…” he whispers. Voice ragged. Barely human. “You were supposed to be nothing.” His throat closes. He can’t breathe. Can’t think. “You were just a flame, just a—just a girl—”

She whimpers. His chest cracks in two. And he does something he hasn’t done in over a thousand years. He prays. Presses his forehead to hers, hands soaked in her blood, and calls to the gods he swore he’d never kneel for again. “Please,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Please don’t take her.” His breath shakes. “Take me instead.” The gods do not come with mercy. They do not come with kindness. They descend like a storm.

The skies shatter open above the valley, and all at once, the air turns heavy, thick with magic, bitter with smoke. Trees bend, their branches curling inward as if in prayer. The ground trembles beneath Ni-ki’s knees, but he does not bow. Not to them. Not even now. Not when you are dying in his arms. Your blood seeps through the gaps in his fingers. Sticky, hot. A warning. A clock. He presses down harder, frantic, but he can feel it, your heartbeat, fading like the last notes of a song. Your lips twitch, trying to smile. “Riki,” you whisper. “Shh,” he breathes, brow pressed to yours. “Don’t talk. Don’t—just stay. Stay with me.” And then, light splits the clearing.

They arrive. There is no form, not at first, just blinding brilliance. Heat without fire. Sound without echo. Their presence carves through the forest like a blade, and even the wind forgets how to move. Then, slowly, they take shape: gods cloaked in light, crowned in thunder, eyes that see through centuries. They speak not with mouths, but with voices that ripple through the marrow of his bones. “You dare summon us?”

He does not flinch. “I need her alive.” “She is mortal.” “I don’t care.” “She will die anyway.” “Then let her die old. Let her die happy. Not like this.” Their laughter cracks the heavens. Trees catch fire just from the echo of it. “You, dragon child, beg for the life of a girl?” “I am not begging.” “And yet you kneel.” Ni-ki clenches his jaw, forcing himself to meet their blinding gaze. “I am offering.”

A hush falls. And then,“What do you offer, flame-born?” He swallows, his voice dry as ash. “Take it all. My power. My immortality. My name. Take everything. Just bring her back.” Silence. One of the gods steps forward, draped in windswept gold. Their voice hums like stars colliding. “You would give up eternity… for this?” He nods, once. “You will bleed. You will break. You will forget what it is to be more than man.”

“I accept.” “You will grow old. You will rot. You will be weak.” “I accept.” “You will never fly again. Never breathe fire. Never speak with beasts. You will be nothing but skin, and bone, and grief.” His voice trembles. “If she lives… then let me grieve.”

And then, another form breaks from the divine chorus. Gentle, radiant. Halora, goddess of memory. Her eyes are silver lakes, rippling with sorrow. Her steps are quiet, but the world bends to them. She kneels beside him. “Riki,” she whispers. “Don’t do this.”

He looks at her, and for the first time in centuries, his eyes are soft. “You were born for more than this. To guard the eastern flame. To balance the wild. You are the last of your line.” “I know.” “If you give this up… you will never return to what you were.” “I know.” “She is one girl.” “She is my girl.” And Halora’s face crumples. He turns back to the gods. “Do it.” They hesitate. And then, “Very well.” The sky ignites. Power, raw and ancient, rips through his chest like lightning. It tears his wings from his back. It drains the fire from his blood. He screams, once, loud and guttural, like a beast being slaughtered, and the forest screams with him.

He cradles your face, softer than he ever has before. His hands shake. His shoulders tremble. He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, and murmurs: “You’re safe now.” You stir. Your lashes flutter. Your lips twitch. Your eyes blink open. “Riki?” And he, he is no longer a god. No longer a dragon. Just a boy. Just Riki. He falls forward, forehead pressed to your shoulder, sobbing like a child.

You only feel the warmth of his skin, the fragility of his breath, the way he clings to you like he’s the one dying now. But when you touch his back, there are no wings. And when you reach for his pulse, it’s fragile. Finite. And his eyes look at you with something mortal. Something human.

“What happened?” you whisper. He cups your face with trembling fingers. “You happened.” Your brow furrows. “I gave everything for you,” he whispers, and the tears won’t stop. “Please… be worth it.”

And above, the gods turn. Their work is done. The sky seals behind them. Halora watches once more, from the clouds, her eyes glassy with unshed grief. A god has fallen. And love has won. It begins on a night thick with quiet. Outside, the forest hums with crickets. A breeze slips through the window, cool against your bare arms as you light the final candle. Inside the small cottage, it smells like pinewood and tea, and peace, and home. But when you turn… He’s already watching you.

Ni-ki leans against the doorframe, half-drenched in moonlight. Shirtless, with the thin hem of his sleeping pants hanging low on his hips. His hair’s messy from the rain. His mouth wet, parted. Eyes locked on you like you're something carved from fire. You swallow, suddenly shy. It’s been months.  Since the gods. Since your wound.  Since the night he gave up everything and begged the heavens for you to stay. And though he’s human now, there’s still something dangerous in the way he moves. Still something primal. Caged. A dragon’s soul pressed into skin and blood and bone.

Tonight, that soul is starving. “Come here,” he murmurs. Voice low. Commanding. You hesitate, your eyes fluttering, hands unsure at your sides. And that’s all it takes for him to move.

Ni-ki’s on you in three strides. One hand cradles your jaw; the other slides around your back and yanks you into his chest. Your gasp is swallowed instantly, his mouth crashing down, lips slanted over yours like punishment. Tongue hot. Wet. Desperate.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a claiming. And it leaves you trembling. “I’ve been patient,” he rasps, dragging his mouth down your throat, “but I’m done pretending I don’t think about it. Every night. Every second. I want you.” He pushes you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. Then gently, so gently, you’re pressed down. Flat against the blankets. “You’re sure?” he whispers now, reverent suddenly. “I’m not a god anymore. I can’t feel your soul. But I still need your yes.”

And you don’t hesitate. You never could. “Yes,” you breathe. “Ni-ki… yes.” And that’s all he needs. His mouth is back on yours before the last syllable is out. Fingers already slipping under your nightgown, sliding it off your shoulders like it’s made of clouds. “You’re so soft,” he groans against your collarbone, voice breaking. “You always were. Even when I hated you. Even when I tried to pretend I didn’t want to tear into you.” He kisses your chest. Your ribcage. Your stomach.

“You haunted me,” he confesses, “even when I was cruel.” You arch into him, hands threading through his hair, back bowing off the sheets when his mouth finds your inner thigh. “I still do,” you whisper. That makes him laugh. A dark, ruined sound. He leans in. Licks up your core in one, slow stroke.

Your whole body jolts. “Gods,” he hisses, “you taste like fucking starlight.” He eats you out like a man starved, mouth hot, tongue relentless, eyes locked on yours the entire time. His fingers dig into your thighs to hold you open. He moans when you clench around nothing. When you whimper his name, he chuckles, muffled by your cunt, and says, “Don’t start begging yet, little flame. I’m nowhere near done.” He slides two fingers inside you, curling just right, and your back arches with a cry. His tongue flicks your clit, fast and punishing, and you break open for him within seconds, your orgasm ripping through you like lightning.

But he doesn’t stop. Even when you’re trembling. Even when you try to twist away, overstimulated. He pins you there. Makes you feel it. Makes you sob for him. Only when you’re shaking, lips parted and glazed in tears, does he finally pull away, licking his fingers clean.

You’re panting. Dazed. He climbs up the bed slowly, gaze hooded, cock hard and leaking as he drags his pants down. You’ve never seen him like this. Not even in his dragon form was he this… massive. His cock is long, thick, flushed dark at the tip. And you whimper without meaning to.

“Don’t worry,” he purrs, crawling over you. “I’ll make it fit.” He presses the head against your slick entrance, kissing your temple as you moan. “You’ll take what I give you,” he whispers against your skin. “And you’ll stay with me.” Then he pushes in, slowly, inch by inch, and your vision nearly whites out.

It’s too much. It’s perfect. He stretches you open like he’s built for it. Like he’s meant to live inside you. When he bottoms out, your nails are digging into his shoulders. Your legs are shaking. “Good girl,” he pants. “So fucking tight. You were made for me.” He starts to move, deep, grinding thrusts that have you gasping every time he hits the spot inside you. His hand wraps around your throat. Gentle, but firm. “You like being ruined, don’t you?” he growls. “You like that I’m not holding back anymore.”

You nod, barely able to think. His thrusts get faster. Rougher. The bed creaks. The headboard slams against the wall. Your second orgasm slams into you without warning, your body convulsing around him. And he groans loud into your neck, rutting harder. “I’m gonna cum inside you,” he snarls. “Fill you up until you drip for days.” “Please,” you cry, legs wrapped around his waist.

And with a final deep thrust, he spills into you, hot and thick, mouth open against your skin, moaning your name like it’s prayer. You stay tangled together for a long moment, both of you trembling. Sweaty. Boneless. Eventually, he pulls out carefully and lays beside you, tucking your body against his chest, whispering soft praises into your hair. “My flame,” he murmurs. “My soul.”

Your fingers trace the mark still glowing faintly over your collarbone, the one that once sealed your fate. Now, it binds you to the man who gave everything up for your life. And every time he touches you, it glows brighter.

THE END.

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[swiftjay23]

I have a request, like dragon ni-ki x reader where he is an immortal dragon with grudge and hate towards humans who treated him like a diet in the past but now everyone fears his wrath. Now Ni-ki's grandmother seeing his condition sends a human, you, to control the warth/hatred and help him teach him love and seal both of you in game of fate (soulmates). He is cold and cruel towards her but eventually they fall in love when the reader is in grave danger and he goes feral and saves her. And then maybe eventual smut if you add

HI ANON. YOU FUCKING POPPED OFF, SWEETIE. Like, what do you mean you just casually dropped the hottest, most emotionally devastating, folklore-drenched, soul-scorching concept of the century in my inbox and walked away??? The way your brain brained. The way you said, “What if we make him a dragon? What if he’s cruel? What if she still loves him?” and then proceeded to throw knives, soft kisses, bloodied hands, and god-tier sacrifice into the mix????

You didn’t just pop off. You ERUPTED. You cracked the sky. You slit the earth open. You gave me divine lore and slow burn torment and a girl willing to die for a monster who doesn’t know how to be loved. You served everything. This fic? Would not exist without your unhinged brilliance. You planted the seed and watched me spiral into a fever dream of pain, prophecy, and pussy.

So from the depths of my shattered writer’s heart and the ashes of my serotonin: THANK YOU. COME BACK. ANYTIME. I OWE YOU MY LIFE. (And the dragon? He owes you his soul.)

Title: To Tame a Dragon’s Heart

Pairing: Immortal Dragon!Ni-ki (Riki) × Mortal!Reader (Soulmates AU, Enemies to Lovers, Monster x Girl, Prophecy trope) Genre: Dark Fantasy, Tragic Romance, Mythological Drama, Soulmate Prophecy Angst, Epic Tale (slow-burn to explosive payoff), Smut (eventually—explicit and earned) Content & Trigger Tags: Immortal being / God AU, Monster x mortal dynamic, Prophecy, Blood / Violence / Death, War and ancient magic, Harsh language, Abandonment themes, Slow burn romance, Forbidden touch, Suicidal ideation / mental health themes, Protective male lead, Possessive/obsessive behavior, Hurt/comfort, Sacrifice, Loss of power, Knife wounds / battlefield injury, High fantasy lore, Explicit smut (eventually), Dom!Riki, Worship kink, Power imbalance, Marking/bonding, Size kink, Oral (f/m), Emotional sex Summary: Once, the gods scorched the earth with dragons. Now, only one remains. You were never meant to survive the prophecy. A girl born under a dying comet, marked by flame and fated for sacrifice. But when your village casts you into the mountains, to burn or be devoured, you find him. Riki, the last of the dragon gods. Wing of Ruin. Son of Fire. Cursed with immortality. Starved for warmth. And he wants nothing to do with you. But your heartbeat won’t leave him alone. As war brews and gods watch hungrily from the stars, you and Riki are pulled into a bond deeper than fate. One born not just from prophecy, but choice. And when you bleed for him, he will burn the world to bring you back. A dark fantasy tale of monsters, girls, and the terrifying power of love.

"Before the moon knew her name, before the sea had teeth, there was flame."

He was born in the Age of First Fire, when the heavens still bled stars and the gods walked with bare feet across mortal soil. His name was whispered by winds and worshipped in war. They called him Riki, Son of Flame, Wing of Ruin. Born of dragonblood and god-wrath. A beast too proud to kneel, too cursed to die.

Son of the Storm Serpent. Grandchild of the Celestial Flame.  A creature of bone-forged magic and wrathful birthright. A dragon not made, but unleashed. In the beginning, he brought rain to famines and heat to frostbitten fields. They called him savior. Carved his likeness into stone.

“Blessed be the Flamebringer,” they said. “Blessed be the winged god in the mountain.”

But humans are greedy. And gods do not suffer greed kindly. They asked for more, more rain, more gold, more power. And when he refused, they dared to take. Blood of the divine, siphoned drop by drop, brewed into elixirs.  Wings shattered beneath steel.  His heart pierced and displayed like a trophy.

They caged him in chains forged from priestbone and broken vows. They feared what they’d raised. Tried to chain him in bone and burn him in steel. But gods do not go quietly. He did not die.

For what god dies while the sky still remembers his name? When he rose again, the skies turned black.  And for forty days and forty nights, the world burned. Ash fell like snow on the cities that betrayed him.  Rivers turned to steam.  And kingdoms fell not with screams, but silence. Mothers told their children to hide. To pray. And to never, ever say his name aloud.

He vanished into the cradle of Mount Yurei, a scorched throne of molten stone and jagged sky. And the gods, his own blood, refused to intervene. “He is not one of us,” they said.  “He is a god no longer. He is ruin incarnate.” So the earth grew quiet. And the mountain slept. But in every village, in every century, one tale remains unchanged: He waits. Beneath the ash, he waits. When the stars misalign and blood touches flame once more, he will wake. And this time, there will be no mercy.

The fire popped, spitting embers into the cold night. The children sat in a ring, their faces flickering between wonder and fear, limbs tucked tight beneath frayed cloaks. You were the youngest. Six winters old, maybe seven. A quiet girl with big eyes and calloused hands who never asked questions, but always listened.

The storyteller’s voice was thin and rasped with smoke: “And that’s why you don’t look at the mountain,” she whispered. “You don’t speak his name. You don’t call him.” The others leaned closer. One child covered her ears. Another held back tears.

But you, you didn’t feel afraid. You felt something else.  Something pulling. Your eyes flicked toward the distant silhouette of Mount Yurei, rising black against the starless sky. And for just a second, you thought you saw something move.  Not wind. Not shadow. Something alive. Something watching you back.

The old woman’s gaze slid over the circle of children, then stilled. Her eyes locked on yours. “But sometimes… the gods send a girl,” she said, quieter now. “One the dragon can’t burn. One who can touch what he’s forgotten.” You swallowed.

“A girl not to kill the beast,” she whispered. “But to remind him he once had a heart.” You didn’t understand what she meant. Not then. But that night, when you fell asleep by the embers, hand curled beneath your cheek, you dreamed of wings black as obsidian and eyes glowing gold beneath a mountain sky.

And somewhere far, far away,  something stirred.

Long ago, before the gods fell silent and the dragons turned to stone, there lived one who watched. The chamber was carved from silver light and skybone, ancient and echoing, lit only by the soft pulse of fate-weaving threads. She sat alone at its center, eyes like moonlit opals, skin lined with the weight of watching centuries fall to ash.

She sat beneath a sky that had never known stars, in a realm older than time, where starlight was still being spun and fates were still soft with becoming. She was called many names. Oracle. Flamekeeper. Stormmother. Last of the Dragon Priestesses. Maker of bonds.  But to him, to the beast forged in fire and grief, she had always been Halora.  Grandmother.

Her bones ached with centuries. Her heart, what little remained of it, burned beneath layers of divine ash. She had watched kingdoms rise on broken promises.  Watched mortals beg the gods for flame, only to recoil when it scorched their greedy fingers. And worst of all, she had watched him.  Her blood. Her sorrow. Her dragon-born boy.

“My Riki,” she whispered to the wind that was not wind. “What have they made of you?” She stood within the Looming Hall, where destinies crossed like threads of molten glass. A hundred thousand soullines flickered before her, radiant veins of potential, lives being born, broken, tangled, set ablaze.

But none reached the mountain. None had ever reached the mountain. “He is unraveling,” she whispered to no one. “His soul frays with each century. Soon, even I will not be able to reach him.” Until now. The loom stuttered. A shimmer. A ripple in the threads. She turned. And saw you.

A child. Small and still and nothing to the world but breath and skin. But to the loom? To Fate itself? You glowed. Not like royalty. Not like prophecy.

Like reminder. Like mercy shaped into human hands. She leaned in, ancient body creaking like stars shattering in their sockets. You sat by a fire in a forgotten village, tucked among children too scared to breathe. The wind moaned through the trees. The mountain slept, just barely. And you… you watched.

You looked toward the peak not in fear, but with longing. As if you recognized something there. As if your soul was calling to a home your body had never touched.

Halora’s mouth parted. Her voice cracked like thunder beneath water.

“You will not be spared,” she said softly, her hand hovering over the loom.  “You will scream. You will fall. You will curse me before the end.” A single droplet of golden flame swirled in her palm. It hovered, quivering between divinity and damnation. A single thread glowed. Not gold. Not red. But something gentler. Braver.

The Maker of bonds leaned forward, fingers brushing the loom. “Little spark,” she murmured. “You do not know what you are.” But the mountain would. And so would her grandson. She raised her hand. Drew a single drop of light from the center of her palm.

“You will suffer,” she said softly, solemnly. “You will bleed. You will cry out, and he may not come.” Her voice broke, just a little. “But you are the last hope I have.” “So I name you his.”

She touched the light to the girl’s thread. A mark seared itself onto your soul. Unseen. Silent. But permanent. And far below the realms of gods and ash,  in the deepest part of Mount Yurei, something howled.

From that moment on, the thread of the world bent quietly around you. The winds shifted when you passed. Shadows leaned to listen. And the mountain, silent for centuries, began to stir.

You did not know it yet.  But the story had already chosen you. Not shaking. Not weeping. Just… watching. Wide-eyed and still.  A soul untouched by fear, and yet already tethered to ruin. And the beast, buried beneath centuries of rage, had already begun to wake.

You do not remember the moment you were chosen. But you remember the moment the world stopped pretending you weren’t.

The wind was not wind. It was warning. It blew sharp and restless across the valley, carrying no scent of earth, no trace of life, only ash, and the faintest memory of fire. It hissed between the cragged rocks in broken syllables, like it was trying to speak but forgot the language centuries ago.

You stood at the threshold of the world they had taught you to fear.  And it did not greet you gently. Before you, Mount Yurei rose like a monument to fury, massive, skeletal, and blackened at its edges. The cliffs were jagged, curved like claws around the throat of the sky. No trees dared grow on its slopes. No birds circled its peak. The land was empty in the way a wound is empty, hollowed out and rotting at the edges.

The air had a heaviness to it, thick and pressing, as if it bore down on your shoulders with the weight of every story ever whispered about this place.

Your feet crunched over scorched stone and something softer, ash, you realized. But not the kind left by a campfire. This was older. Finer. So pale it looked silver in the fading light. It clung to your boots. Your cloak. Your skin. As if even the mountain’s dust wanted to mark you as its own.

You didn't look back. Couldn’t. Not with the sound of your mother’s sobs still echoing in your ears, wet and broken, muffled behind the hands she pressed to her mouth to keep from wailing. You hadn’t turned to see her, but you’d felt it when she fell to her knees behind you, her forehead touching the hem of your cloak like she was saying goodbye to a grave.

And maybe she was. They’d dressed you in white. The ceremonial color of fate-bound offerings. The color brides wore. The color they buried the dead in.

Your cloak hung too heavy on your frame, fastened with a gold pin engraved with ancient runes, an old spell of protection that probably hadn’t worked since before your grandmother was born. Beneath it, your palms stayed curled into fists, tucked deep inside your sleeves so no one would see them shaking. They hadn’t said anything to you, not really. The villagers.

Not when the summons came. Not when the priestess lifted your shirt and pressed the Fate Mark between your shoulder blades, branding your soul with light that felt more like fire. Not when they tied your satchel and braided your hair like a bride going to meet her husband. They didn’t look at you at all.  No prayers. No gifts. Not even a goodbye.

Like you were already gone. Like it would hurt less if they forgot you had ever been there at all. You swallowed hard, but it didn’t help. The knot in your throat sat like a stone. Heavy. Cold. Final.

You’d been quiet during the walk. Carried forward by guards who wouldn’t speak to you. Watched only by trees that leaned away when you passed. You hadn’t cried, not since the marking, but now, here, with the peak rising like a curse in front of you…

It was starting to ache. Not your legs. Not your lungs. Your heart. Because this wasn’t just some ritual. Some test. You weren’t walking into a temple. You were walking into the lair of the god-turned-monster. The dragon who devoured kings. Who torched the stars once. Who slept in the belly of a mountain, curled around a grudge that had outlived empires.

And he was waiting for you.

You tried not to think about the fire circle. The way the old woman had told that story, voice low, lips trembling like she was remembering it, not imagining it. You’d been so small, then. Just a little girl curled between your friends, listening to tales meant to keep you quiet at night. But now you knew it wasn’t a story. It was a warning. And you were the ending.

“She’s only a girl,” your mother had begged the gods. “She’s only a girl, why would you do this to her?” You had no answer. No secret lineage. No forgotten magic. Just the mark on your back and a quiet, choking fear that you were never going to return.

They say the mountain accepts no offerings. Only victims.

You paused near a ridge where the path twisted, jagged and sharp, like it had been carved by claws. Below, the valley spread in silence, your village just a distant blur of roofs and smoke trails now. So far away. Too far to run back to.

You closed your eyes. The wind pulled at your cloak again. Insistent. Icy. And underneath it, there. That sound again. Not wind. Not echo. Not your heartbeat. A low, bone-deep rumble. Like the earth itself was breathing. Like something massive had stirred, just slightly, far beneath the crust of this cursed mountain. He knows you’re here.

And somehow, you knew, he had always known. Riki. Son of Flame. Wing of Ruin. The mountain shifted. Just barely. A breath, if anything. But it was enough to fracture a slab of stone along the inner ridge of the cavern wall, sending dust spiraling through the void like falling stars.

It had been years since the last one. Decades, maybe. Time meant little in this place. He did not mark it by sunrises. He did not sleep, not truly. Not when his memories never dulled. Not when rage kept the blood in his veins molten, and the smoke in his throat thick.

They had burned him in golden chains once. They had carved offerings into his scales and dared to call it worship. They had sent soldiers, then kings, then gods. And he had ripped them all apart. Let them build their altars. Let them write him into scripture. He knew the truth. They had feared him even as they bowed.

As they should have. Now, he stirred again. But not from pain. No, from amusement. Because she had arrived. The little Fate-marked lamb they’d sent him like a treaty. A beggar’s prayer wrapped in soft skin and trembling steps. He could smell her now, fear, resolve, bloodline, starlight, like a half-broken offering limping toward the fire.

She was weak. Small. Mortal. But the soul-mark burned bright enough to reach him even here, through stone and ash and smoke. The bond had tethered itself to him the moment the Celestial Matron branded her. His other half. How quaint. He’d felt it like a sting. A foreign weight settling in his chest, where no warmth had lived for centuries. She’d been born too soft, too late. And now the world had forced her into the lion’s mouth.

He should have raged. Should have torn her heart out the moment he sensed it beating. But instead, he smirked.

A slow, fanged curl of his lips. Smoke curled up from his nostrils like laughter.

Let her come. Let her shiver. Let her weep for the home she’ll never see again. He would not go to her. Let her climb. Let her bleed. Let her earn the right to stand before him. And when she did, when she collapsed in his den with hope flickering like the last breath of a candle, he would look into her eyes and ask her why the stars had chosen her.

He could crush her in a second. Break her bones like he once broke cities. But there was something curious in the way her steps echoed up the path. The way her soul-song whispered through his silence. The way the world itself held its breath as she drew near.

He had slaughtered kings who claimed to love him. Incinerated priests who offered their blood to his altar. But this one? This one came with no promises. No lies on her tongue. No belief in her eyes. Only the fate she did not choose, and the audacity to face him anyway.

“Come, little flame,” he murmured into the dark, claws flexing into scorched stone. “Let’s see how far you make it.” The mountain did not welcome you. It watched you.

Every stone, every jagged edge of rock and coiling root beneath your boots seemed to pulse with something… ancient. Not alive, no, worse. Remembering.

The wind had long stopped following you. The snowstorm had ended miles below, at the mountain’s skirt, as if even the weather feared to trespass beyond the boundary.  Now the only sound was your breath.  And your heartbeat.  And the way the earth creaked beneath your steps. You weren’t supposed to make it this far. No one did.

The trail behind you was littered with ash and bone, scattered memories of those who dared climb before, their souls swallowed by fire and forgotten by history. You should turn back. You were not meant for this.

But the seal on your chest glowed softly, an ethereal sigil pressed into your skin by a goddess herself. A soulmark not chosen, but inflicted. And so you pressed forward. Because your mother had cried so hard she could not speak when she last held you.  Because the village priest had shaken his head and whispered, “May the stars show her mercy.” Because no one else dared approach the dragon.

Because the skies had chosen you. And it did not matter what you wanted.

The mouth of the cave gaped before you, black as pitch, yawning like the throat of some dead god. The closer you walked, the more the air thickened. Not with heat, but memory. Soot and time clung to the cave walls, whispering secrets in a tongue you didn’t understand. But you heard them anyway. Faint. Distant. Wailing. A child’s scream. A soldier’s plea. A woman sobbing someone’s name.

The screams didn’t echo. They lingered. You stumbled at the edge. The darkness inside stretched deeper than it should’ve. It swallowed the light, the wind, and your sense of time. You couldn’t even hear your own footsteps anymore. And just when you opened your mouth to speak,“Welcome, little flame.” The voice did not sound like it came from a mouth.

It came from everywhere, from the walls, the ground, your bones. It shivered down your spine like a storm breaking across sky. It wasn’t just deep. It was primeval. A rasping thunder so ancient it made your own heartbeat feel young. “I’m surprised you made it across the mountain.”

You froze. You couldn’t see him. Couldn’t feel him, not yet, but the cave trembled slightly, as if reacting to his awareness. And though your knees wanted to bend, your back straightened instead. Because your fate had already been sealed in starlight. Because someone had to face him. Because you were chosen. “I was sent,” you said quietly, voice soft but resolute. “So I came.”

There was silence. Then, a low, rumbling chuckle. It wasn’t warm. It was amused. Predatory. Almost disappointed. “So brave,” he murmured, “when the shadows hide what waits inside.” The air grew hotter. Not like fire. No, this was something older than flame. The kind of heat that came from buried power, coiled deep within the earth, breathing in molten silence.

You took another step forward. The sigil on your chest throbbed. Your breath caught in your throat, and then, the shadows moved. Not a flicker. Not a blur.

A presence. Massive. Fluid. Ancient. He stepped from the abyss like a god bored with sleep. And you saw him. Finally, you saw him.

Obsidian claws first, digging grooves into the cavern floor. Then the curve of his body, humanoid only in shape, but carved with celestial ruin. Scales darker than midnight shimmered over his skin, shifting between black, violet, and faint threads of molten gold.  His wings scraped the ceiling as they unfurled, vast and terrible, folded back like thunderclouds. His horns curved elegantly behind him, twisted from bone to crystal.  And his eyes. Oh.

His eyes were the worst of all. Because they didn’t burn. They glowed. Not red. Not gold. Not hellfire. But starlight. Purple. White. And violet. Deep and endless as the cosmos. The kind of eyes that had seen kingdoms fall, stars burn out, and time collapse in on itself.

And his face, he was beautiful. Not in the way mortals described beauty. No, it was the kind of beauty that terrified. Sharpened features, cruel lips, high cheekbones and a jaw carved by wrath. Every inch of him was regal, unrepentant, and gloriously inhuman.

You couldn’t breathe. “So,” he said, voice lower now, more intimate. “This is what the gods send me.” His smile curved, razor-sharp. “A child. With stars on her skin.”

He took a slow step forward. Then another. The heat suffocated. Your vision blurred at the edges. Still, you did not step back. “Tell me,” he whispered, head tilting, eyes narrowing, “what will you teach me, little flame?”

“When I’ve made gods scream?”

You met his eyes. And that was your first mistake.

Because they weren’t just eyes, they were wells. Deep, violet-black abysses streaked with molten gold, like someone had trapped dying stars in his irises and let them rot. They didn’t look at you so much as see through you, like your bones had turned to glass, your soul strung up in front of him for his slow, thoughtful perusal. Your breath stuttered. And he smiled. It wasn’t kind.

No, it was cruel in the most devastating way, an ancient kind of cruel. The smile of a creature who had tasted kingdoms and watched gods die. The kind that knew your name without needing to ask, because he had already dreamed of your blood.

And then, he moved. Not with the clumsy gravity of man, but with deliberate grace. Like a shadow come to life. Like time itself bent around his steps. You tried to stay still. You tried to stay strong. But your body betrayed you.

Your knees locked. Your throat clenched. Your fingers twitched at your sides, curling tight into your skirts. Your heartbeat, a deafening drumbeat of terror and fate, pounded in your chest so hard you thought you might break your own ribs. He circled you.

Each step slow. Precise. Soundless. And the air shifted. It folded around him, bending the temperature, the weight, the very meaning of the cave. Suddenly, you were cold and burning all at once, your skin prickling with chills while heat pulsed from the floor beneath you, as if the stone had remembered fire.

And then, he spoke. “What a noise you make,” he murmured, voice smooth and scorched, the sound of smoke curling off battlefield ruins. “I haven’t even touched you.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He was behind you now. You could feel it. His breath was a furnace against the nape of your neck. “Your heart…” he drawled, savoring the word, “is frantic. Like a caged thing.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't let him see, but he smirked. You didn’t have to open your eyes to know. You could feel the shift in the air, the quiet triumph at your trembling shoulders.

“You’ll drown in your own fear if you’re not careful, little flame.”

And then, his hand. Large. Calloused. Unnaturally warm. It rose from the shadows and brushed, lightly, achingly, over your collarbone. Just one finger. Slow. Lazy. Reverent in a way that made you shiver harder.

And he found the mark. That cursed, celestial sigil. The glowing tether that bound your soul to his. The reason you were here. He dragged his fingertip across it. Not roughly. No. He was careful, like he was tasting the temperature of it. Feeling for the moment it burned him back.

And gods, it did. A spark leapt between your skin and his touch. You sucked in a breath. Your knees buckled a fraction. “Ah,” he whispered. “So it is true.”

His voice, lower now, quieter, seeped into your bones. “Fate’s mark. Still warm. Still fresh.” “You poor, wretched girl.” Tears pricked your eyes. Not just from fear. Not just from the weight of his gaze, his power, his endless, smothering presence.

But from the aching, bone-deep grief of knowing that this was your fate. That this, this terrible, magnificent creature, was what the stars had written into your skin. And he hated you for it.

He leaned closer. You felt his nose skim along the edge of your jaw, slow and curious. “You’re trembling,” he whispered. “Is it because of me?” You gasped. And that sound, that soft, startled breath, seemed to thrill him.

He chuckled. It was low, smoky, cruel. A sound that slid down your spine like liquid heat.

And then, he vanished. No wind. No retreating steps. Just the sudden, suffocating absence of him. You stood there in the silence, shaking, heart still battering your ribs like a prisoner desperate to escape. Alone now. But you could still feel him. Somewhere in the darkness. Watching.

And for the first time since crossing that cursed mountain, you wondered if you'd made a terrible mistake. “Sleep well, little flame,” his voice whispered from the dark. “We begin at dawn.”

You do not sleep. Not really. You don’t dare sleep deep inside the cave.

Even though the winds have teeth and the stones dig cruelly into your side, you choose the mouth of it, the last sliver of moonlight you can claim before shadows swallow her whole. You sleep is disturbed, you couldn’t. Not with the cold pressing into your bones like iron stakes. Not with your pulse hammering loud as war drums in your throat. Not with the air thick with ancient magic, breathing around you like a second skin.

You curl tighter, knees to your chest, face tucked into your elbow, the threadbare fabric of your cloak pulled high around your ears, but it doesn’t stop the ache. The cold is everywhere. It leeches into the soft flesh of your thighs, settles behind your eyes, nests beneath your fingernails. You can’t remember the last time you were warm.

And you can’t stop shaking. Not just from the chill, but from him. He hasn’t spoken again. Not since that first mocking welcome, all dark amusement and cruel silk. Not since his voice echoed off the cave walls like a storm threatening to fall. But you know he’s there.

Somewhere beyond the veil of shadow and stone, he’s watching. The weight of his gaze is unbearable. It slides over your skin like oil, thick and suffocating, tasting every inch of you without a single touch. You can’t see him, but you feel him in your marrow. An invisible presence sitting just beyond the firelight of your mind. Hungry. Heavy. Endless. And you’re nothing. Just a girl wrapped in too-thin cloth, clutching your arms like they could anchor you, like they could stop the trembling.

Just a girl marked by stars you didn’t ask for, sent into the belly of a monster’s mountain like some pitiful offering. Just a girl.

You press your forehead to your knees and try not to cry again. You’ve already wept so much your throat burns with salt, your eyes dry and sore. But the silence is a blade. The fear is a rope. You’ve never felt so alone.

Above, the wind howls low through the peaks like a funeral dirge. And still, still, you feel him. Like gravity. Like storm tide. Like the edge of the world, breathing down your neck.

He watches you. From the deep. From the dark. Motionless as stone. As eternal. Only his eyes gleam, two slivers of molten obsidian in the black, flickering like dying embers. He listens to your heartbeat.

The stutter of it. The high, panicked flutter that betrays every brave little lie you told yourself before stepping into this place. You smell like salt and starlight. You feel like a wound. And he drinks it in. You do not see the way his head tilts in the dark.  The way something ancient in his chest claws against the cage of his ribs. The way his fingers twitch, once, like they long to reach out and touch.

Just once. He could. He’s fast enough. You’d never even know. He could press a single claw to that little mark glowing faintly on your collarbone, just to see if it burns. Just to see if you burn. But he doesn’t. Instead, he stares. And stares.

Until the minutes bleed into hours. Until your tears dry on your cheeks. Until your body finally gives out and your breathing slows into something like sleep, uneasy, twitching, cold. Still, he does not turn away.

In your half-dream, the stone beneath you vanishes. The cave opens into a sea of stars. And he’s there, just behind you. Breath warm against the nape of your neck. Voice low and ancient, whispering things you don’t understand.You wake with a gasp, heartbeat wild. And in the dark, you swear you see something move, far down the tunnel. Something watching.

Something waiting. You wake with your throat raw and your skin frozen stiff. Everything aches. Your fingers are numb. Your legs feel twisted beneath you, stiff from sleeping curled on jagged stone. The cave floor has marked you, scrapes on your elbows, a purpling bruise along your hip. You shift slowly, wincing, heart pounding with the disorientation of being… somewhere that doesn’t want you.

Your lips part for breath, but it hurts to inhale. The air is bitter cold and bone-dry. It tastes like sulfur, dust, and something older. Then you feel it. A shiver. A ripple through the air. You are not alone. You turn your head, and there he is.

The dragon in human form. Ni-ki. Tall, pale, immovable. Like he’s carved from the very mountain you scaled. He stands with one shoulder leaned lazily against the cavern wall, arms crossed, a curtain of silken dark hair spilling around his face and collar. His obsidian eyes are fixed on you, not with interest. Not with warmth.

With annoyance. You scramble up to sit, legs trembling beneath you, one palm flat against the stone for balance. You want to say something. Anything. But your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth, dry and cracked.

He speaks first. “Still alive,” he says, voice flat. “Shame.” You flinch. He pushes off the wall and begins walking slowly toward you. Each step echoes through the silence, like a countdown. You clutch your shawl tighter around your shoulders, the fabric already stiff with frost and dried tears.

“I was certain the cold would take you,” he muses. “Or perhaps the fear.” He stops just a few feet from where you sit. You look up at him, regretful, confused, angry, lost. But his face doesn’t soften. If anything, his gaze grows colder. You try to stand, knees wobbling beneath you.

“I—I made it,” you whisper. “I crossed the mountain. I reached your cave, just like the prophecy said—” He laughs. It’s not a warm sound. Not the kind of laugh that invites company. It’s hollow. Mocking. Cruel. “The prophecy,” he sneers, the word tasting like venom on his tongue. “You think that means something to me? That a few desperate stars scribbled your name into some ancient stone and now you matter?”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

He steps closer. “What exactly did you expect?” he murmurs, eyes stalking past you without a glance. “Kindness? Conversation? A warm bed and a hero’s welcome for surviving a night on my floor?”

You instinctively step back, only to hit the cave wall. You press against it, heart thundering. He leans in. “I’ve seen your kind before,” he whispers, voice silken and sharp. “Crying. Shivering. Hoping I’ll take pity on them.” His gaze drops slowly, to your collarbone. “You wear the mark, yes. But do you even know what it means?”

Your breathing is ragged. He reaches out with one long, gloved hand and trails a single finger over the seal burned into your skin. It's warm. Burning hot through the fabric. Your whole body jolts.

“Do you feel that?” he murmurs. “Your little heart trying to outrun your ribs? That’s fear, little flame. Not fate.” You want to speak, but your throat tightens. His presence is too heavy. Too much. It presses down on you like a collapsing sky. “And yet,” he continues, circling you slowly, “you still came. Like a good little offering. Like a lamb to the altar.”

“I’m not—” you try to say, but your voice cracks. “You’re not special,” he cuts in coldly. “Don’t mistake survival for destiny.” That stings. Tears prick your eyes again, hot and helpless. You hate that he sees it, hate the twist of amusement that flickers at the corner of his mouth when he does. He steps even closer, lowering his face to yours.

“You don’t belong here,” he says, softer now, but the words carry a knife’s edge. “Go back down the mountain. Or die. I don’t care which.” “I didn’t come here to be liked,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I came because I had to.” Another silence. This one stretches long.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is colder than the air itself.

“Then act like it,” he says. “And stop crying. It’s pathetic.” And then, just as suddenly, he turns. Walks away. His cloak sways with each step as he vanishes deeper into the shadows of the cave. No further warning. No food. No answers. Just the bitter echo of his voice hanging in the air like frostbite:

“I’ll enjoy watching the cold eat you alive.”

You're left shaking. Alone. Tears dripping down your cheeks in silence, salt staining the mark that binds you to him. And for the first time, you wonder, what crime you must have committed to deserve this fate.

You find him again, later.

By the inner pools, where the water glows faintly, echoing the starlight trapped in the stones. He sits atop a jagged outcrop like it’s a throne, eyes closed, head tilted back, the curve of his throat bared to the cold. You hesitate. But your feet carry you forward anyway.

“…why do you live alone?” you ask, softly. He doesn’t open his eyes. “Why do birds fly south for the winter?” “That’s not an answer.”

“That’s not a good question.” Your lips tremble. Still, you keep standing there. Still, you keep asking. Day after day. Night after night. He ignores you. Or mocks you. Or wounds you with words carved sharper than claws. But he never tells you to leave.

And you never do.

You wish he’d kill you. At least then it would be over.

Instead, he ignores you. Or worse, he doesn’t. Some days, he walks past you like you’re less than air. He never glances your way. Never pauses when you speak. He leaves you to freeze near the cave mouth, lets the wind batter your skin and silence steal your breath. You eat only what scraps you can find, bitter roots, melted snow, the occasional crust of old bread he tosses near you like feeding a dog. You don’t know what day it is anymore. Or week. Or season. Just that you're shrinking. Dulling.

Falling into something dark you can’t claw your way out of. And the nights are the worst. Because when he does speak, it’s to break you further. “I don’t care how far you climbed,” he once said as you shivered beside the embers. “You’ll still die like all the rest.”

Another time, when you tried to ask what the mark on your collarbone meant, he barely looked up. “You were born with it? Then that’s your curse, not mine.” And tonight? Tonight he didn’t say anything. Just stood across the cave, sharpening his blade with long, slow strokes while you wept silently into your knees. He didn’t glance up. Didn’t blink. Just let the screech of metal over stone drown out your sobs like it thrilled him.

You curl tighter now, huddled near the cave’s entrance, where frost creeps over the edges of your blanket like fingers. Your breath clouds the air, lips blue, skin raw. The mountain winds scream against the rock like banshees. You’re shaking. Tired. So very tired. And still, he does not come. Still, he does not care.

You bury your face into your palms and whisper the same words again, like prayer: “Please… please… just let me go. Just let me die.” You don’t even know who you’re speaking to anymore. Your voice cracks on the word die. It echoes softly back to you. The stones do not answer. Neither does he.

But someone hears you. Far above the clouds, nestled in silver sky, Halora watches. The goddess of fate. Of fire. Of celestial bonds long forged and long forgotten. She watches you weep with the aching tenderness of an older sister who cannot interfere, but aches to. Her light has been dimmed for centuries, her name erased from altars and tongues. But she remembers you.

She remembers the dream she placed in your mother’s womb. She remembers the heat you once held, before the world made you small. And now, as she watches you shiver beneath a cruel dragon’s wrath, her eyes flood with quiet pity.

“You poor thing,” she murmurs to the stars. “You think you came here to die…” “But you came here to wake him up.”

Below, the cold deepens. And within the cave’s shadows, Ni-ki glances toward your crumpled figure, face unreadable. He hears your breathing hitch. He feels your agony through the bond neither of you understand. And he does nothing.

But Halora knows. He is not immune. Just buried. And you? You are the match. All you need now… Is the spark.

The cold doesn’t bite anymore. Not because it’s gone, but because you’re too numb to feel it.

You’ve been here too long. Crying too much. Starving too quietly. You’ve memorized every crack in the stone, every wind current that snakes into this cave. You’ve learned to time his silences, learned the different kinds of cruelty: the sharp-edged remarks meant to cut… and the colder ones meant to make you feel like you don’t exist.

You can’t decide which hurts more. Your throat is dry. You haven’t spoken aloud in hours. Your voice has begun to sound like a stranger’s anyway, frayed and fragile, like it doesn't belong in a place like this. But tonight… it’s worse. Because tonight, he didn't even glance your way. Not once. You think that should hurt less, by now. You thought you’d grow used to it. You were wrong. Tears begin to spill again, quiet, constant.

You curl tighter, pulling your legs to your chest, hiding your face in the crook of your arms. The blanket offers little warmth. The mountain wind whistles sharp and cruel through the cracks in the cave. You flinch with every gust, your fingers shaking. You don’t want to cry anymore. But you do. You always do.

And somewhere in the dark… You feel his eyes on you. Not soft. Not kind. Not comforting. But heavy. Unreadable. Like you’re a problem he hasn’t yet solved. Your heart stutters. Your breathing becomes uneven again. You don’t want to speak, but something cracks inside you.  A fracture too deep to ignore.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” you whisper brokenly, though you don’t know if he’s listening.  “I thought I came here for a reason. I thought… you were that reason.”

Silence. “But maybe I was wrong.” Still, he says nothing. You bite your lip. Draw blood. Press your forehead to the cold stone. “If I’m just a burden to you,” your voice trembles, “then why didn’t you just let me freeze out there?” That’s when you hear it. A breath. Not yours. His. Controlled. Shallow. Like something… cracked. But when you glance up, he’s already gone. Back into the shadows. Like he was never there at all.

(NI-KI)

I pretend not to care. It’s easy, most nights. She’s just another flame fated to die out. Another girl with soft eyes and a too-fragile heart. Another child of prophecy come to tame the monster.

I’ve seen it before. I’ve burned them all. But this one, this one won’t stop crying. Her breath hiccups through the dark like it’s hurting me. And worse, I feel it. The tremble of her bones. The silence of her hope. The raw, open wound of her loneliness bleeding across the stone floor. And it touches me. Somewhere deep. Somewhere ancient. Somewhere Iswore was long dead.

I hate it. I loathe it. I loathe her.  Because I shouldn’t care if she starves.  I shouldn’t ache when she curls up smaller.  I shouldn’t look at her when she sleeps, watching her cry into her own arms, too proud to ask for help. But I do. I always do. Because her mark calls to me. And worse, her heartbeat stays. No matter how cruel I am. No matter how cold I become. She keeps looking at me with those storm-glass eyes, searching for something good in me.

And I, I don’t know whether to destroy her for it… Or fall on my knees and beg her to stop. So instead, I vanish. Into the dark. Into myself. Like a coward. But her voice lingers. “If I’m just a burden to you… then why didn’t you let me freeze out there?” I close your eyes. And I don’t answer. Because I don’t know why. Not yet. But it terrifies me that the answer might be…

Because I can’t. Afterall, I’m a monster, and it’s all that monsters are made to be.

𝑌𝑜𝑢 – 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐹𝑙𝑎𝑚𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝐺𝑖𝑟𝑙

It starts with a feeling. Just a whisper in your chest, warm and strange, like something tugging softly beneath your ribs. The sun hasn’t fully risen. The frost hasn’t melted. And still, you’re wide awake, barefoot on stone, staring at the stretch of earth below. The valley dips between two ridgelines, green and blooming. A sleepy village rests at the bottom, smoke rising in thin spirals from chimney tops, children darting between stalls, life humming quietly beneath the mist.

You shouldn’t care. But gods, you do. You press your hand over the mark on your chest, still faintly glowing from last night’s fight, when he got too close, said too much. When you’d thrown a cup at his head and screamed “I’m not your prisoner!” only for him to snarl back, “Then leave.”

And maybe you meant to. Maybe you even planned to. But you hadn’t felt it. Not until now.

This… pull. Like someone waiting for you down there. Like a memory you never lived. Like freedom. So you run. You don’t pack. You don’t look back. You just run. Down the slope. Past the burnt trees. Past the skull-lined ridge he warned you about. You don’t even stop to breathe until the cold winds soften, and the scent of pine turns to the scent of home.

You’re smiling. Actually smiling.  Your lungs burn, your knees are scraped, but it doesn’t matter. Because you made it. You escaped him. You escaped the cave. The fire. The curse. The boy with silver eyes and a heart made of stone. You’re free.

And then you hear them. “…Dragon’s den can’t be far.” “—three days tracking that bastard. He’s close.” “Poison’s ready. Aim for the wings if you can’t reach the heart.” Poachers. Your feet lock in place. Your smile fades. You hear the clink of metal. The hiss of sharpened blades.  And beneath all that, something colder. Laughter.

Triumphant. Certain.  Like they’ve done this before. You don't think. You just run. Faster than you ever have. Back the way you came, back up the ridge, back through the frost. Your body protests. Your chest aches. But you don’t stop. You run. You run like you’ve never run before, past briar, stone, and sky-bitten fog. Past every cracked bone and cramping lung. Because you heard them. The poachers.  Whispers of “The beast lives here,”  “Bring me his head.”  “Don’t get too close, he doesn’t die easy.”

You know he’s not expecting them. You know he’ll taunt them before realizing they’re not afraid. And you know, you know with a terror that shreds your insides, that they’ll bring poison blades. That they’ll cheat. That they’ll slaughter even a god if it means glory. So you run. And when you reach the cave, panting, half-crying, he’s just sitting there. Cross-legged on the black stone, silver eyes half-lidded like moonlight trapped in glass. He smirks lazily when he sees you.  "Little flame," he drawls, tilting his head. "Missed me that much?"

You open your mouth, to scream. To warn.  To tell him they’re coming, that you’re not here for him, you’re here for his life. But the words die. Because steel kisses your skin. A blade, long and unforgiving, slices straight through your stomach. You freeze. A wet, breathless sound escapes your lips, half word, half wheeze. The world sways. Blood seeps slow down your legs. The edges of your vision blur and spin. Ni-ki’s smirk vanishes. In an instant, it’s gone, replaced by horror. And something far, far worse. Worry. "No," he whispers. His voice is shaking. "No. No, no, no, no—" He’s beside you before you hit the ground, catching you in his arms like you weigh nothing, like you’re fragile crystal he’s only just realized could break.

Your fingers curl weakly in his cloak. You smile—soft, sad, full of too much love. "I… I came back," you murmur. He shakes his head violently. "Don’t—don’t say anything. Don’t—" His hands are glowing now, clawed and desperate, pressing to your wound. But there’s too much blood. Too much heat. And his magic… his ancient fire… it can’t mend what’s already tearing. "You’re not dying," he snaps. "You’re not allowed to die, do you hear me?" Your head lolls. Your heartbeat falters. And in that moment, he breaks.

RIKI – THE MONSTER WHO NEVER LOVED

I don’t feel fear. I haven’t in centuries. Not when they pierced my wings. Not when kingdoms fell beneath my breath. Not even when the gods carved that cursed mark into my chest and said "She will be your end." But this, this moment, when she collapses in my arms, red blooming against my palms like spilled wine, this is fear. It eats me alive. The air drops ten degrees. And the dragon inside me howls.

"Why?" I choke, voice hoarse with disbelief. "Why would you run back? Why would you—" Her lashes flutter. "They were going to hurt you," she whispers. "I didn’t want you to… be alone again." Alone. The word cuts deeper than the blade ever could. I stare at her face, at the tears slipping past blood-streaked cheeks. At the soft smile she’s still wearing, even as her body fails her. And I burn. Not outside. Not in fire or rage. But inward.

A quiet, feral kind of burn that shatters the chains I forged around your heart. She came back. She tried to save me. And I…I mocked her. I hurt her. And now I don’t know if the stars will ever forgive me.

And then he hears them, still laughing, still moving. The poachers. Still alive. Still breathing. Still daring to exist in a world where she bleeds. He lays her down, trembling. Eyes glowing. Then he stands. And becomes something monstrous. They don’t even scream in time. Fire floods the forest in a blink, hotter than hell, older than the sun. His claws tear through the first man's chest before he even lifts his weapon. The second gets impaled by his tail, spine shattered, body limp.

But it’s the last one, the one who touched her, that suffers. He doesn’t just kill him. He drags it out. Breaks every bone.  Burns each limb.  Lets him beg. And still, it isn’t enough. Because nothing is enough. Nothing will rewind that moment. Nothing will stop her blood from staining his hands. Nothing will erase the look on her face when she fell.

𝐴𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟

He returns to her, scorched, trembling, eyes blown wide. He drops to his knees. Stares at her pale skin. Her lashes fluttering. Her blood-soaked dress. And he touches her cheek—barely. As if she’ll vanish if he tries too hard. “What have you done to me…” he whispers. Voice ragged. Barely human. “You were supposed to be nothing.” His throat closes. He can’t breathe. Can’t think. “You were just a flame, just a—just a girl—”

She whimpers. His chest cracks in two. And he does something he hasn’t done in over a thousand years. He prays. Presses his forehead to hers, hands soaked in her blood, and calls to the gods he swore he’d never kneel for again. “Please,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Please don’t take her.” His breath shakes. “Take me instead.” The gods do not come with mercy. They do not come with kindness. They descend like a storm.

The skies shatter open above the valley, and all at once, the air turns heavy, thick with magic, bitter with smoke. Trees bend, their branches curling inward as if in prayer. The ground trembles beneath Ni-ki’s knees, but he does not bow. Not to them. Not even now. Not when you are dying in his arms. Your blood seeps through the gaps in his fingers. Sticky, hot. A warning. A clock. He presses down harder, frantic, but he can feel it, your heartbeat, fading like the last notes of a song. Your lips twitch, trying to smile. “Riki,” you whisper. “Shh,” he breathes, brow pressed to yours. “Don’t talk. Don’t—just stay. Stay with me.” And then, light splits the clearing.

They arrive. There is no form, not at first, just blinding brilliance. Heat without fire. Sound without echo. Their presence carves through the forest like a blade, and even the wind forgets how to move. Then, slowly, they take shape: gods cloaked in light, crowned in thunder, eyes that see through centuries. They speak not with mouths, but with voices that ripple through the marrow of his bones. “You dare summon us?”

He does not flinch. “I need her alive.” “She is mortal.” “I don’t care.” “She will die anyway.” “Then let her die old. Let her die happy. Not like this.” Their laughter cracks the heavens. Trees catch fire just from the echo of it. “You, dragon child, beg for the life of a girl?” “I am not begging.” “And yet you kneel.” Ni-ki clenches his jaw, forcing himself to meet their blinding gaze. “I am offering.”

A hush falls. And then,“What do you offer, flame-born?” He swallows, his voice dry as ash. “Take it all. My power. My immortality. My name. Take everything. Just bring her back.” Silence. One of the gods steps forward, draped in windswept gold. Their voice hums like stars colliding. “You would give up eternity… for this?” He nods, once. “You will bleed. You will break. You will forget what it is to be more than man.”

“I accept.” “You will grow old. You will rot. You will be weak.” “I accept.” “You will never fly again. Never breathe fire. Never speak with beasts. You will be nothing but skin, and bone, and grief.” His voice trembles. “If she lives… then let me grieve.”

And then, another form breaks from the divine chorus. Gentle, radiant. Halora, goddess of memory. Her eyes are silver lakes, rippling with sorrow. Her steps are quiet, but the world bends to them. She kneels beside him. “Riki,” she whispers. “Don’t do this.”

He looks at her, and for the first time in centuries, his eyes are soft. “You were born for more than this. To guard the eastern flame. To balance the wild. You are the last of your line.” “I know.” “If you give this up… you will never return to what you were.” “I know.” “She is one girl.” “She is my girl.” And Halora’s face crumples. He turns back to the gods. “Do it.” They hesitate. And then, “Very well.” The sky ignites. Power, raw and ancient, rips through his chest like lightning. It tears his wings from his back. It drains the fire from his blood. He screams, once, loud and guttural, like a beast being slaughtered, and the forest screams with him.

He cradles your face, softer than he ever has before. His hands shake. His shoulders tremble. He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, and murmurs: “You’re safe now.” You stir. Your lashes flutter. Your lips twitch. Your eyes blink open. “Riki?” And he, he is no longer a god. No longer a dragon. Just a boy. Just Riki. He falls forward, forehead pressed to your shoulder, sobbing like a child.

You only feel the warmth of his skin, the fragility of his breath, the way he clings to you like he’s the one dying now. But when you touch his back, there are no wings. And when you reach for his pulse, it’s fragile. Finite. And his eyes look at you with something mortal. Something human.

“What happened?” you whisper. He cups your face with trembling fingers. “You happened.” Your brow furrows. “I gave everything for you,” he whispers, and the tears won’t stop. “Please… be worth it.”

And above, the gods turn. Their work is done. The sky seals behind them. Halora watches once more, from the clouds, her eyes glassy with unshed grief. A god has fallen. And love has won. It begins on a night thick with quiet. Outside, the forest hums with crickets. A breeze slips through the window, cool against your bare arms as you light the final candle. Inside the small cottage, it smells like pinewood and tea, and peace, and home. But when you turn… He’s already watching you.

Ni-ki leans against the doorframe, half-drenched in moonlight. Shirtless, with the thin hem of his sleeping pants hanging low on his hips. His hair’s messy from the rain. His mouth wet, parted. Eyes locked on you like you're something carved from fire. You swallow, suddenly shy. It’s been months.  Since the gods. Since your wound.  Since the night he gave up everything and begged the heavens for you to stay. And though he’s human now, there’s still something dangerous in the way he moves. Still something primal. Caged. A dragon’s soul pressed into skin and blood and bone.

Tonight, that soul is starving. “Come here,” he murmurs. Voice low. Commanding. You hesitate, your eyes fluttering, hands unsure at your sides. And that’s all it takes for him to move.

Ni-ki’s on you in three strides. One hand cradles your jaw; the other slides around your back and yanks you into his chest. Your gasp is swallowed instantly, his mouth crashing down, lips slanted over yours like punishment. Tongue hot. Wet. Desperate.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a claiming. And it leaves you trembling. “I’ve been patient,” he rasps, dragging his mouth down your throat, “but I’m done pretending I don’t think about it. Every night. Every second. I want you.” He pushes you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed. Then gently, so gently, you’re pressed down. Flat against the blankets. “You’re sure?” he whispers now, reverent suddenly. “I’m not a god anymore. I can’t feel your soul. But I still need your yes.”

And you don’t hesitate. You never could. “Yes,” you breathe. “Ni-ki… yes.” And that’s all he needs. His mouth is back on yours before the last syllable is out. Fingers already slipping under your nightgown, sliding it off your shoulders like it’s made of clouds. “You’re so soft,” he groans against your collarbone, voice breaking. “You always were. Even when I hated you. Even when I tried to pretend I didn’t want to tear into you.” He kisses your chest. Your ribcage. Your stomach.

“You haunted me,” he confesses, “even when I was cruel.” You arch into him, hands threading through his hair, back bowing off the sheets when his mouth finds your inner thigh. “I still do,” you whisper. That makes him laugh. A dark, ruined sound. He leans in. Licks up your core in one, slow stroke.

Your whole body jolts. “Gods,” he hisses, “you taste like fucking starlight.” He eats you out like a man starved, mouth hot, tongue relentless, eyes locked on yours the entire time. His fingers dig into your thighs to hold you open. He moans when you clench around nothing. When you whimper his name, he chuckles, muffled by your cunt, and says, “Don’t start begging yet, little flame. I’m nowhere near done.” He slides two fingers inside you, curling just right, and your back arches with a cry. His tongue flicks your clit, fast and punishing, and you break open for him within seconds, your orgasm ripping through you like lightning.

But he doesn’t stop. Even when you’re trembling. Even when you try to twist away, overstimulated. He pins you there. Makes you feel it. Makes you sob for him. Only when you’re shaking, lips parted and glazed in tears, does he finally pull away, licking his fingers clean.

You’re panting. Dazed. He climbs up the bed slowly, gaze hooded, cock hard and leaking as he drags his pants down. You’ve never seen him like this. Not even in his dragon form was he this… massive. His cock is long, thick, flushed dark at the tip. And you whimper without meaning to.

“Don’t worry,” he purrs, crawling over you. “I’ll make it fit.” He presses the head against your slick entrance, kissing your temple as you moan. “You’ll take what I give you,” he whispers against your skin. “And you’ll stay with me.” Then he pushes in, slowly, inch by inch, and your vision nearly whites out.

It’s too much. It’s perfect. He stretches you open like he’s built for it. Like he’s meant to live inside you. When he bottoms out, your nails are digging into his shoulders. Your legs are shaking. “Good girl,” he pants. “So fucking tight. You were made for me.” He starts to move, deep, grinding thrusts that have you gasping every time he hits the spot inside you. His hand wraps around your throat. Gentle, but firm. “You like being ruined, don’t you?” he growls. “You like that I’m not holding back anymore.”

You nod, barely able to think. His thrusts get faster. Rougher. The bed creaks. The headboard slams against the wall. Your second orgasm slams into you without warning, your body convulsing around him. And he groans loud into your neck, rutting harder. “I’m gonna cum inside you,” he snarls. “Fill you up until you drip for days.” “Please,” you cry, legs wrapped around his waist.

And with a final deep thrust, he spills into you, hot and thick, mouth open against your skin, moaning your name like it’s prayer. You stay tangled together for a long moment, both of you trembling. Sweaty. Boneless. Eventually, he pulls out carefully and lays beside you, tucking your body against his chest, whispering soft praises into your hair. “My flame,” he murmurs. “My soul.”

Your fingers trace the mark still glowing faintly over your collarbone, the one that once sealed your fate. Now, it binds you to the man who gave everything up for your life. And every time he touches you, it glows brighter.

THE END.

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[nocturnebite]

All Eyes But Yours

Ni-ki x Fem!Reader | The Shadow That Follows

THE PRELUDE── He has it all. The looks. The charm. The effortless power that pulls everyone in. They orbit him like he's untouchable. But you? You don’t care. And that’s exactly why he can’t let you go.

Caution: slight NSFW MDNI · dark romance · silent fixation · possessive love · emotional power imbalance · slowburn tension · blurred boundaries · unhealthy dynamics wc: 7.8k ⤷ Dark Romance Series

You’re halfway through curling your hair when Jae-in kicks open your bedroom door with her heel.

“We’re gonna be late,” she announces, dramatic as ever. “And if I don’t get a picture before we leave, I swear to God I’m not going.”

You glance at her in the mirror. Tight red mini dress. Lip gloss shining like she dipped her mouth in sugar. She looks perfect, as usual.

“You always say that,” you mutter, wrapping another section of your hair around the wand. “You’ll still go. You just won’t shut up about it for the first twenty minutes.”

Jae-in narrows her eyes, then flops onto your bed with a groan, legs dangling off the side. “Okay, but can you at least pretend to be excited? This isn’t just some dorm party. This is Niki’s house.”

You pause, letting the curling wand cool in your hand.

“That supposed to mean something to me?” you ask, brow raised.

Jae-in sits up like you’ve just insulted a national treasure. “Don’t play dumb. You know exactly who Niki is. Every girl on campus knows. And every guy wants to be him.”

You don’t respond. Just unplug the curling wand and start brushing the loose waves into something more natural. Honestly, the name doesn’t ring a bell. You’ve probably heard it before, in passing—in the dining hall, on some girl’s Instagram caption—but it’s never meant much.

He’s probably just another rich boy with a too-big house and a god complex to match.

“Is he the one who throws those... weird theme parties?” you ask finally, grabbing your rings from the dish on your dresser.

Jae-in gasps, genuinely offended. “Weird? Babe, they’re legendary.”

“That’s what people said about Y2K fashion, and look how that turned out.”

She snorts, tossing a pillow at you. “Whatever. Just don’t embarrass me tonight. If you accidentally seduce Niki by being the only girl who’s not obsessed with him, I’m going to be so mad.”

You glance at her in the mirror again, lips twitching. “Why would that make you mad?”

“Because it’s hot. That mysterious, ‘I don’t need you’ energy? Guys lose their minds over it. Especially someone like him. He’s used to girls falling at his feet.”

“Well, I’m not falling,” you say, grabbing your jacket. “Let’s go.”

The music hits you before the front door even opens. Heavy bass, some remix you don’t recognize, bleeding out into the driveway like smoke. The house is glowing—actual glowing, with LED strips outlining the roof and purple light pouring from the windows. You feel it in your chest before your shoes hit the tile inside.

Bodies. Everywhere.

It’s not your scene. Not really. You’re here for the drinks and the distraction—and maybe the free pizza if you’re lucky. But Jae-in is already disappearing into the crowd, drawn toward the kitchen like a moth to the liquor cabinet.

You hover near the edge of the living room, adjusting your sleeves, scanning for a familiar face. And then—

You see him.

Ni-ki.

You don’t know him by name yet. Not really. But you know the look of someone who’s used to being watched.

He’s leaning against the stair railing, drink in hand, smiling at something a girl says—but not really listening. His eyes flick lazily across the room, bored. Distant. Like he’s already lived this night a hundred times and he’s still waiting for something to happen.

Then his gaze lands on you.

And stays there.

It’s not a double-take. It’s not a smirk. It’s not even overt. It’s just... stillness. Like for a second, something in him stops.

You look away first. Not flustered. Not interested. Just done.

Because you don’t play games with boys like that.

You move past him without another glance, the music swallowing you whole.

But he’s still watching.

And something inside him—something hungry and patient—starts to unravel.

The kitchen’s packed, shoulder-to-shoulder with sweaty college kids in too little clothing and too much cologne. You sidestep a guy spilling beer on his own shoes and reach for the half-empty bottle of vodka on the counter, pouring a splash into whatever mixer’s closest.

Behind you, someone laughs a little too loud. You keep your back to the noise, fix your drink, and take a slow sip. Better than expected.

Still, the party feels... the same. As always. Loud, restless, desperate to impress. You lean against the fridge, half-listening to a conversation about internships and exes, until a shadow slides in beside you.

Not touching. Not speaking. Just there.

You glance sideways.

Tall. Black sweater. Loose jeans hanging low on his hips like he owns gravity. Hair pushed back but still messy, like he styled it with frustration. And that face.

Of course it’s him.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

Just meets your eyes—and holds it. His stare isn’t cocky. It’s calculated. Studying. Like he’s never seen someone like you before and doesn’t quite believe you exist.

And you?

You blink once. Then turn your head back forward. Bored.

As if he’s just another body in a room full of them.

That’s when it starts.

“Who’s your friend?” Ni-ki’s voice is low, casual, stretched smooth like silk across a blade.

Jae-in nearly chokes on her drink. “Who? Her?” She spins to look at you across the room where you’re leaning against the kitchen sink, lazily texting. “Oh. That’s just—yeah, she’s cool.”

He doesn’t look away. Not even when Jae-in starts listing your major, your dorm, where you’re from. None of that matters.

He only says one thing.

“She doesn’t know who I am, does she?”

Jae-in hesitates. “Uh. I think she’s heard of you?”

He hums. Then smiles. Just barely.

Interesting.

It’s an hour later when he makes his second move.

You’re in the hallway near the stairs, trying to find the bathroom, when you turn a corner and almost walk straight into him.

This time, he doesn’t let you pass. He steps sideways, blocking your path with an apologetic smirk.

“You lost?” he asks.

You look up at him, expression flat. “No.”

“Looking for something?”

“The bathroom.”

He nods toward the next door. “That one works. Unless you’re scared of mirrors.”

You raise a brow. “Should I be?”

His smile sharpens—something behind it flexing like a hidden muscle.

“Guess that depends on what you see when you look.”

You brush past him without answering.

He doesn’t move to follow.

But his gaze trails you like heat on the back of your neck.

Later, you spot him again. Center of the party. Everyone wants his attention. Everyone touches him too much, talks too loud, laughs too hard. But he’s not looking at them.

He’s watching you.

When you laugh, his jaw tenses. When you talk to some guy who leans too close, Ni-ki’s head tilts—just barely.

And then he moves.

Effortless. Liquid.

Crosses the room and slides into your conversation like it’s his.

“Did he tell you about the time he threw up on his professor?” he says, nodding at the guy beside you.

You blink. The guy chokes. “Dude, what—?”

Ni-ki grins. “Oops. Thought we were sharing.”

The guy vanishes five minutes later.

You’re left holding your drink, brows raised. “That was subtle.”

He leans a little closer.

“I don’t like competition.”

You tilt your head. “Are we competing for something?”

“No,” he says, voice low. “But I like to win anyway.”

You leave the party before midnight. You don’t say goodbye to him. You don’t even look for him.

But from an upstairs window, Ni-ki watches the way your figure disappears into the streetlight haze. One hand resting on the glass. The other in a tight fist at his side.

That look on your face—calm. Unbothered. Unreachable.

And Jae-in was right. It drives him insane.

Jae-in had begged you to stay, insists that the “real fun” doesn’t start until after midnight—but the room is too loud, the air too thick, and you’ve never liked the kind of parties that feel like performances.

So you left.

No drama. No scene. Just slip your phone into your pocket, zip up your jacket, and walk out into the cold.

The street outside is still buzzing—cars pulling up, girls adjusting their heels on the curb, laughter echoing down the block. Your breath fogs the air as you walk, slow and steady, earbuds in but nothing playing. Just habit.

You don’t think about him.

Not really.

There’s a flicker, maybe. A glance you didn’t ask for. A line that stuck in your head longer than it should have.

“I don’t like competition.”

But it’s the kind of thing a guy like that probably says to everyone. Easy charm. Sharpened smiles. One part mystery, two parts ego.

He’s not the first guy to think he’s interesting just because he’s hard to read.

You’ve met his type before.

And you’ve learned not to waste your time trying to decode people who want to be puzzles.

—

He doesn’t sleep.

Ni-ki lies in bed with one arm tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it’s supposed to give him answers.

You weren’t supposed to matter. Not in any specific way. Just another girl at another party. But something about you—itched. The way you looked at him. Or didn’t.

He replayed it. All of it.

That first glance across the room. The way you didn’t flinch when he stepped beside you in the kitchen. The disinterest in your voice.

You looked at him like he was... nothing.

Like you could unsee him just as easily as breathing. It rattled something loose. He doesn’t know what it is yet. But he wants to.

—

The next morning is slow.

A half-dead Sunday that smells like old coffee and leftover perfume. Your dorm is quiet—Jae-in still face-down in bed, groaning into a pillow every time her alarm buzzes.

You sip from a chipped mug and scroll aimlessly on your phone, ignoring the group chat exploding with stories from the night before.

Someone hooked up with their ex.

Someone fell into the pool. Again.

Someone swears Ni-ki looked right at them while they were dancing and now they’re “emotionally ruined.”

You snort, setting your phone down.

Gosh. They’re obsessed with him.

And maybe you’d get it—if he weren’t so aware of it. The kind of guy who knows he’s pretty. Knows he’s wanted. And lets it sit in his mouth like sugar.

You don’t have time for that kind of energy.

You’ve got a lab write-up due. And a week full of classes. And a life that doesn’t revolve around someone else’s popularity.

Still...

When you tie your shoes and grab your bag for the library, you hesitate for just a second.

Your fingers pause at the edge of your hoodie sleeve.

Not for him.

Just... for the mirror.

You brush a wrinkle out of your shirt. Adjust your lip balm. Leave.

—

He sees you again. Doesn’t mean to. Or maybe he did.

He’s walking down the east quad, earbuds in, hoodie up, the sky heavy with pre-rain gray—and there you are.

Sitting on the steps outside the library, legs crossed, coffee balanced on your knee, flipping through a packet of notes like your life depends on it.

Your head is tilted, headphones in, lips pursed in concentration.

You don’t see him.

And he knows he should stop.

But he doesn’t.

He tells himself not for long. Just... long enough.

To watch the way you turn the page. The way you curl your fingers into your sleeve when the wind hits. The way you sigh and tug the wires out of your ears before tucking your pen behind your ear and standing.

That sigh.

Something about it feels personal.

Intimate.

He doesn’t know you.

But he wants to.

—

The air smells like wet pavement and damp leaves, the kind of chill that clings to your sleeves even after you step inside. The library is warmer than expected—muffled voices, the distant hum of a printer, fluorescent lights softened by the grey wash of rain outside.

You tug your hood down and shake the damp from your hair, glancing around for a spot.

Most of the tables are taken. Groups of people hunched over laptops, energy drink cans clustered like shrines. You’re halfway through debating whether to squeeze between a pair of over-caffeinated pre-meds when you spot an empty seat tucked in the far corner, right next to the window. Quiet. Out of the way. Perfect.

You settle into the chair and exhale, dragging your laptop from your bag and pulling your notes free. It’s early, but the buzz from the party still lingers in the corners of your head, like smoke. Everyone seemed so bothered last night. Like they were trying to be noticed. Heard. Chosen.

You didn’t feel that. You never really do. You like the quiet. The stillness. The space to breathe without someone else trying to crowd it. So when a shadow passes across your table ten minutes later, your first instinct is to ignore it.

But then it stops.

Not awkwardly. Not like someone hesitating or lost. Just... still.

You look up, your expression carefully neutral.

And there he is again.

Black hoodie. Backpack slung low over one shoulder. Hair pushed back like he’s been running his fingers through it all morning. That same unreadable calm stretched across his face.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t make a joke.

Just looks at the empty seat across from you and says, in that low, steady voice: “Anyone sitting here?”

You glance at it. Then back at him.

There’s a brief pause, just long enough to be noticeable.

“No,” you say.

He slides into the chair without waiting for more. Pulls out a worn notebook and flips it open, pen already in hand. He’s not pretending to work. He is working—head bent, gaze scanning quickly, like this is just another part of his day. But he chose here. He could’ve sat anywhere. But he chose your table.

You go back to your own screen. Try to focus.

But he has a presence that’s hard to ignore.

Not loud. Not obnoxious. Just… aware. Like every time you shift in your chair, he notices. When you pull your sleeve over your hand, when you sip from your drink, when you rub your thumb across the corner of your page to flatten it—he sees all of it.

You don’t know that, of course.

But he’s watching.

Ni-ki doesn’t speak for the full hour.

Not once.

He writes. Occasionally glances out the window. Spins his pen between his fingers like he’s trying not to fidget.

But when you get up—softly pushing your chair back, packing your things—he looks up, just as you zip your bag.

You catch it.

That tiny beat too long.

His eyes lingering.

But again, he says nothing.

You nod politely, a reflex more than anything. He nods back, just as quiet.

You leave.

And he waits until your figure disappears behind the bookshelves before exhaling through his nose—barely a breath.

He learned something today.

You bite your bottom lip when you’re thinking. Not nervously, but like it helps you remember things.

You highlight in three colors, but only use one at a time. You stack your notebooks in reverse order of class, from last to first. You drink coffee without sugar, but pause every time before taking the first sip—like you’re bracing for it.

These are small things.

But they matter.

To him, they already matter.

Later that night, when you’re brushing your teeth in the dim glow of your bathroom light, you catch your own reflection mid-thought. You pause. Head tilted.

You’re not thinking about him.

Not really.

Maybe just about the quietness of the library. The stillness. The faint scent of cedarwood from someone’s cologne that still clung to your hoodie after you came home.

You rinse your mouth and turn out the light.

Tomorrow’s just another Monday.

You’ll go to class. You’ll study. You’ll keep your head down.

And you won’t notice the boy sitting three rows behind you, two seats to the left—close enough to hear your voice when you answer a question, close enough to catch the faint trace of your perfume every time you pass.

You won’t notice the way he stares at your hands.

You won’t see the way his leg bounces when someone else talks to you.

You won’t know, not yet, that this has already become a routine.

Because Ni-ki’s not curious anymore.

He’s invested.

And he doesn’t lose.

—

The lecture hall smells like old textbooks and burnt coffee—an early morning graveyard of half-asleep students and half-functioning projectors. You find your usual seat in the middle row, third from the end. It’s habit by now. Comfortable.

You slide your laptop out, tug your hoodie over your fingers, and sink into the rhythm of the class before it even starts—opening last week’s notes, glancing at the board. You like the predictability of this hour. The routine. It’s not exciting, but it’s familiar.

And then you feel it.

Not a voice. Not a presence. Just… a shift.

Someone settling into the seat two over.

You glance.

It’s him.

Same black hoodie, sleeves pushed to the elbows. Same calm expression, like he belongs everywhere he goes. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even acknowledge you. Just leans back, legs stretched out, flipping a pen between his fingers as he stares at the front of the room like he’s been coming here for weeks.

But he hasn’t. You’ve never seen him in this class. Not once.

You tell yourself it’s probably nothing. Maybe he added late. Maybe he’s just auditing. It’s a big class—people come and go. It doesn’t mean anything.

But when the professor starts talking, you can’t stop noticing the details.

The way he turns slightly in his chair, angled toward you just enough to make your skin prickle.

The way he doesn’t take notes.

The way he doesn’t look at his phone—not once.

You can feel his attention, even when it’s not on you.

Especially then.

It’s not openly invasive. Just a slow pressure. A shadow at the edge of your periphery that won’t move. He doesn’t speak to you. Doesn’t try to flirt. And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because it’s not about getting your attention.

It’s about keeping it.

After class, you’re one of the last to pack up. Your laptop cord is tangled, your jacket won’t zip right, and by the time you stand, most of the room has already cleared.

He’s still there.

Waiting, maybe. Or just slow. Hard to tell.

You step into the aisle, and he moves at the same time—just a little too in sync. You both reach the door at once.

He opens it for you.

Doesn’t say anything. Just holds it.

And for some reason, your breath catches a little in your throat.

You nod a quiet thanks and keep walking.

But he walks too.

Right beside you.

His steps match yours exactly. Not hurried. Not loud. Just steady. His hands in his pockets, his gaze forward. Like this is just a shared path, and not a calculated mirror.

You try not to look at him. Try not to give him anything.

But when you part ways at the quad—your building left, his right—he finally glances over.

“See you next time.”

That’s all he says. Four words. But they slide under your skin and settle there, warm and uneasy.

You never told him this was your routine.

He shouldn’t know there is a next time.

And yet—he does.

Two days later, he’s in the same seat again.

Still quiet. Still watching nothing and everything.

And this time, when you sit down, his fingers tap the desk once in greeting.

Just once.

You don’t look at him.

But something about it keeps your pulse unsteady for the next forty-five minutes.

You’re not paranoid. You’re not.

But later that week, when you’re walking home from the library with headphones in, backpack weighing heavy against your spine, you pause at the crosswalk out of instinct—and catch sight of him across the street.

Leaning against the bike rack. Talking to someone, sort of. Nodding while they ramble.

But his eyes?

Already on you.

You turn away fast, pretending you didn’t see him. The light changes. You cross the street. You don’t slow down. And you tell yourself again—it’s a big campus.

People overlap.

Coincidences happen.

But when you reach your dorm building and glance behind you—

He’s gone.

Like he was never there at all.

It starts to feel... routine.

Not on purpose. Not overnight. But slowly, in that creeping way things shift when you’re not paying attention.

He’s always there now.

Not just in class, not just outside the library—but everywhere.

When you walk into the café by the engineering building, he’s already at the corner table, sipping from a black paper cup. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t call you over. Just glances up once—eyes on yours like a reflex—and then looks away again.

You sit at a different table.

He never moves.

But when you leave, he stands up at the same time. A full minute earlier than he should’ve if he were actually studying. And even though you walk in opposite directions, you catch his reflection in the glass door, pausing just long enough to watch you go.

When you show up to your TA’s review session on Thursday, he’s already there. Not with anyone. Not part of the registered list. Just leaning back in his chair at the far edge of the group, one hand resting on the back of the seat beside him—empty.

He doesn’t say anything. Not even when you sit down, a little too aware of how close his knee is to yours under the table.

He doesn’t take notes.

He watches the TA. Sometimes.

He watches you, always.

And you don’t know how he even knew about the session.

But he’s there.

And somehow, no one questions it.

—

“Okay, what is going on with you two?”

Jae-in’s voice is sharp with amusement, eyes flicking between you and across the library where Ni-ki sits, a few rows over. Close enough to be near. Far enough to act like it doesn’t matter.

You blink. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play innocent.” She leans across the table, whispering like it’s gossip and not your reality. “He’s literally always around. That’s not normal. That’s, like—guy in a romcom levels of commitment. When did this start?”

You shrug, rifling through your highlighters. “We’re in the same class.”

“Okay? And you’re in class with like, eighty other people. He doesn’t follow them around.”

“I don’t think he’s following me.”

Jae-in raises a brow. “You sure? He just showed up to my psych study group last night. We’ve never even spoken. I think he only came because I told you about it.”

Your fingers pause mid-highlight.

You didn’t even go to that study group.

She keeps talking, but your mind’s already somewhere else—flashing through the last few days, the last few weeks. All the moments you brushed off as coincidence.

You don’t invite him.

You don’t text him.

You’ve never even exchanged numbers.

But somehow, he’s there. Before you. Beside you. Behind you.

Never pushing. Never loud. Just… present.

Too present.

Later, walking across campus, your phone buzzes in your jacket pocket. You slide it out, expecting a message from Jae-in.

Instead, it’s a name you don’t remember saving.

Riki did you get home okay?

You stop walking.

The sky is overcast again—cool wind sweeping through the trees, leaves skipping across the pavement—and suddenly everything feels a little too quiet.

You stare at the screen.

You didn’t give him your number.

Not out loud. Not directly.

Your schedule, maybe. Your classes. The building you live in. All those could be picked up in conversation, from mutuals, from being around.

But your number?

You should say something. Ask. How did you get this? But your fingers don’t move.

Because the truth is—you already know the answer.

—

You don’t even know her name.

She’s just another girl from your major—pretty, polished, with perfect notes and a voice that always sounds like she’s one answer ahead of the professor. The kind of girl you’re used to fading next to. The kind of girl who would always be standing beside a guy like him.

She catches him outside the lecture hall on Tuesday. You spot her before you spot him—shoulders angled toward him like she’s practiced the pose, twirling a silver pen between her fingers. Laughing softly. Casual. Pretty. Effortless.

You don’t know why you slow down.

But you do.

And then you see him.

He’s not looking at her. Not even a glance.

His eyes are on you.

Across the hallway. Behind the crowd. Through the stream of students flooding the exit, moving between you like fog—and still, somehow, he sees only you.

Her laugh cuts off, a little awkward now. She says something—shoulders shifting, trying to reclaim his attention—but he doesn't even blink.

He steps past her.

Walks toward you.

Like she was never there.

You feel it before he speaks. That stillness in the air. That pull he carries with him like a weight.

“Hi,” he says simply.

You blink, unsure. “Hey.”

He falls into step beside you without being asked. Without asking. Like it’s automatic. Like it’s the only thing he knows how to do.

Later, in the library, Jae-in snorts. “Okay, what was that earlier?”

You keep your eyes on your notebook. “What do you mean?”

“I mean Princess Wannabe Barbie getting ignored like she was invisible. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her get straight-up dismissed like that. What’s his deal?”

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t know what his deal is.

But you’re starting to feel it.

It gets worse.

It’s little things, at first. Things you could explain if you wanted to. If you were still pretending this was just coincidence.

Your name written on a coffee cup you didn’t order.

The open seat beside you in the library—always just cleared when you arrive, even when the rest of the row is full.

A door held open too long. His eyes already there before you even reach it.

And sometimes… it’s not just him.

It’s the way people look at you. The way some of them stop talking when you enter a room. The way others glance between you and him, whispering things you’re not sure you want to hear.

One afternoon, you catch a conversation you were never meant to hear—two girls from your seminar, tucked into a corner booth at the café.

“She said she tried asking him out.”

“No way. Ni-ki?”

“She literally waited after class. He wouldn’t even look at her. Said something about already having someone.”

Your breath stutters.

Already… having someone?

They laugh. Whispering now.

“You mean that girl he's always around? She doesn’t even talk to him.”

“Exactly. It’s weird. Like really weird.”

You start checking behind you when you walk home.

You start locking your bedroom door.

You don’t tell anyone why.

You try ignoring him.

Try avoiding the usual spots. The café. The third-floor study hall. Even the class group chat.

And still—he finds you.

At the vending machine in the language building. At the student lounge where you’ve never once studied before. Once, even outside your apartment building at dusk, leaning against the railing like he’d been there for hours.

You freeze.

He doesn’t speak.

Just holds out a drink. Your favorite.

“I figured you’d be tired.”

You take it. Your fingers don’t touch. But his eyes don’t leave you.

You’re not afraid of him.

That’s the worst part.

You should be. You want to be.

But instead, you feel something colder. Something that wraps around your lungs and holds them still.

You feel owned. And the terrifying part?

You’re not sure you hate it.

—

You groan to yourself as you slip on your shoes and head out the door. 

You weren’t even going to come.

This was like the third party of the month thrown by the same frat, same playlist, same half-broken speakers vibrating against the wall. You’d spent the last hour half-listening to your friends hype themselves up in your dorm room, scrolling through your phone like you weren’t counting how many stories Ni-ki showed up in. Like you didn’t notice how even in a crowd, he stood out.

But that wasn’t why you went. Not really. You were just… bored.

That’s what you told yourself when you stepped into the house, bass rattling the windows and someone’s perfume clinging to your hair before you even made it to the living room. That’s what you told yourself when you spotted him instantly, like your body already knew where to look.

He was exactly where you expected him to be—couch corner, hood pulled up, long legs stretched in a lazy sprawl like the party revolved around him. Girls lingered at his feet like he was a god and they were waiting for permission to breathe.

You didn’t even blink.

You walked straight through the crush of bodies and stopped in front of him, hand on your hip, lips pressed into a lazy smile.

“Get me a drink,” you said, tone flat but eyes flickering. “You’re not doing anything important.”

The girl curled closest to his side blinked at you, slow and stunned, then tilted her head with a scoff. “Who even—?”

She didn’t get to finish.

Ni-ki stood without a word. Just rose like gravity didn’t apply to him, his gaze locked on yours like he’d forgotten there were other people in the room. One step. Two. And then his hand wrapped around your wrist—not hard, not soft either—and he turned, guiding you without hesitation.

The girl’s voice trailed behind you in a clipped little laugh. “What the hell?”

He didn’t even look back.

You let him lead you into the kitchen, didn’t resist, didn’t speak. The silence between you was heavy. Tense. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be. You watched the way he moved—how deliberate everything was. Not one wasted motion. His hand didn’t leave yours, not until he reached for a red cup and filled it.

He handed it to you, but his eyes never dropped from your face.

“This doesn’t mean I like you,” you said, lifting the cup but not drinking from it. Your voice was low, unimpressed. Like you hadn’t just walked straight through a crowd and stolen him out of it.

He didn’t blink.

“You still came to me,” he said, quiet. Steady. Like the words had been rehearsed.

You arched a brow. “I was bored.”

“I don’t care.”

A beat.

The tension cracked like lightning behind your ribs. You could see it in him now—not cool or calm like he always pretended to be. His fingers tapped once against the edge of the counter. His jaw flexed. He kept his distance, but it felt suffocating anyway.

Like if you got one step closer, he’d combust.

You took a slow sip and looked him over, tilting your head.

“You’re acting weird.”

His nostrils flared slightly. “You’re the weird one.”

That made you laugh—soft, sharp.

“I’m serious,” you said, licking a drop of whatever cheap alcohol off your bottom lip. “You don’t talk to anyone. You don’t even look at them. And then I show up and you just… forget they exist.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t deny it.

You took another step forward, close enough now that you could smell him—clean laundry, faint cologne, the warmth of his skin underneath. His shoulders stiffened, like your presence alone set something in motion he wasn’t prepared to handle.

“You’re obsessed with me,” you whispered, half-teasing, like you wanted to see how far you could push it.

He looked at you like he was drowning.

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m consumed.”

You blinked.

For a second, the room disappeared. The noise, the bodies, the chaos—none of it touched you. Just him. Just that look on his face, like he was barely holding himself together. Like your indifference was unraveling him cell by cell.

“I think about you all the time,” he continued, voice lower now. Almost strained. “Even when I try not to.”

You tilted your head, letting the silence stretch.

“And what exactly do you think about?”

His lips parted, like he had the words—but they wouldn’t come out. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then your throat, then back up again, like he couldn’t decide where to settle.

But the look in his eyes said it all.

He didn’t want to answer.

He wanted to act.

And you couldn’t lie—it did something to you. That look in his eyes like he was on the verge of falling apart and the only thing keeping him steady was you. The way his body curved toward yours like gravity bent around it. Like he'd been starving and you were the only thing that ever tasted real.

It felt… good.

Dangerously good.

Which is probably why you set the cup down, leaned in close enough for him to smell the perfume on your neck, and whispered:

"You want me too much."

Then you walked away.

You didn’t look back. Not once. But you felt it—his eyes tracking every step you took, like if he looked away for even a second, you’d disappear.

And then he disappeared.

For three days.

No texts. No hallway sightings. No perfectly timed run-ins between classes or lingering stares from across the quad. It was like he vanished into smoke—and the silence rattled you more than you expected.

At first, you pretended you didn’t notice. Then you started to wonder if you went too far. If you’d hurt him. If he was giving up.

Then came the whispers.

“Did you finally reject him?”

“I heard she humiliated him.”

“Guess he got tired of chasing her.”

And for the first time, you weren’t annoyed—you were worried.

You checked his social. Nothing. You asked a friend if they’d seen him. They hadn’t.

And that night, when your fingers hovered over your phone longer than they should have, you caved.

“Where’d you go?”

You stared at the screen too long after sending it. No reply.

Not that night. Not the next morning.

You never had to wonder where he was before. He was always just… there.

And now that he wasn’t, it felt like something vital was missing.

And boy were you confused by that. 

So later that night you did what any confused girl does when she doesn’t want to admit she’s spiraling.

You called your best friend.

Jae-in answers on the third ring, still chewing something. “What’d he do now?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you drop back into the bed, your phone pressed to your cheek, and sigh. “He didn’t do anything.”

A beat of silence. Then: “Wait. He’s… gone?”

“Yeah.”

“Gone gone?”

You pick at a loose thread on your comforter. “I haven’t seen him in a week.”

Jae-in goes quiet, then exhales, “Damn.”

You don’t say anything, and she doesn’t push—not yet. She’s your best friend for a reason. She waits until you fill the silence yourself. And you do. Because it’s been eating you alive.

“I think I liked it,” you whisper. “Like… not the stalking thing. But the attention. The way he made me feel like I was the only person that mattered.”

“Because you were,” she says instantly. “Do you even realize what girls would do to be in your spot? Ni-ki doesn’t look at anyone. He doesn’t entertain anyone. You’re literally the only one.”

You swallow thickly, heart fluttering in that annoying way it always does when you hear his name. “I didn’t even give him anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” she says simply. “That’s what made it hot.”

You groan. “Don’t say it like that.”

“But it’s true.” You can hear her smiling. “You liked being chased.”

“I didn’t—” you pause. “Okay. Maybe a little. But it’s not like I asked for it.”

“No, but you played with him. You snuck off after dropping one-liners like a walking cliffhanger. You made him spiral.”

You close your eyes. “That’s the thing. I didn’t mean to. It’s just… he makes me feel powerful. And now that he’s gone—”

“You feel powerless,” she finishes for you.

Your voice drops to a murmur. “I don’t want to. But yeah. I do.”

Another pause.

“Maybe,” Jae-in says gently, “you don’t miss him. Maybe you just miss how it felt.”

You almost agree. But then your brain floods with every look. Every breathless reply. Every time his eyes told you he’d burn down the world just to be near you.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I think… I think I do miss him.”

Jae-in doesn’t say anything for a while. She lets it settle. And then, like the menace she is: “Well, then go get him.”

You laugh. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, sorry I let you obsess over me and then ghosted you. Wanna pick that back up?’”

“No. You say: ‘3:15. Don’t be late.’ And then make him chase you.”

You blink, heart skipping.

You stare at the text thread on your phone—the one he’d never replied to. Still just your blue bubble, but now on read. Still him trying to pretend he was cool while practically dying trying not to respond.

Your thumbs hover, then move.

“3:15. Don’t be late.”

“If you want it bad enough.. You’ll know where to find me.”

And that’s it. You don’t give him anything else. Because you know he’s always watching. You know he’ll read it.

And now you wait.

—

3:12 PM.The hallway is quiet, sunlight spilling through the tall arched windows in golden streaks across the polished floors. You don’t pace. You don’t even check the time again. You sit there, one leg crossed lazily over the other on the edge of your chair in the lounge area near the art building, sipping your overpriced iced matcha like you aren’t testing fate.

Because you are.

You didn’t tell him where. Didn’t need to. You knew he’d find you.

And he does.

At exactly 3:14 and thirty seconds, you hear it. The echo of his steps before he even turns the corner. No words. Just that presence that fills a space before he even walks into it—tall, dark, devastating. But this time, his shoulders are tense, jaw tight, black hoodie half-zipped over a white tee like he dressed in a rush. Like he couldn’t stand not knowing.

He stops when he sees you. Doesn’t sit. Just stares.

You don’t look up right away. You take another slow sip, letting the silence stretch until it snaps.

“You made it,” you murmur, not looking at him.

“I always do.” His voice is rough. A little breathless.

You raise your eyes slowly, meeting his. “Figured if you were gonna stalk me like a ghost, might as well put it in your calendar.”

His eyes flinch. A flicker of something flashes across his expression. Not embarrassment—need. That same desperate, wired look he had the night you left him at the party.

“I wasn’t stalking,” he mutters, like even he doesn’t believe it.

“No?” you hum while standing and moving near the small table next to you. “So I imagined you behind me walking out of the science wing every day. And in the cafe. And the library. And the gym hallway—despite you not being enrolled in any fitness classes.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks away, jaw flexing, then turns back. “You texted me.”

You smile, biting the straw between your teeth. “So?”

He exhales hard. Runs a hand through his hair, then takes a step closer. And another. Until he’s right in front of you. You lean back onto the table with your hands like you’re completely unfazed by the way he’s looking at you like you’re oxygen. Like he hasn't breathed in days.

“You said 3:15,” he whispers. “I was scared I’d miss it.”

That almost makes you falter. Almost.

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He swallows hard. “Because I thought if you gave me an out, I’d take it. And if I didn’t show, you’d finally mean it. That you didn’t want me.”

The silence settles between you again, thicker now. He’s cracking. You see it in the way he shifts his weight, clenches his fists at his sides, like his body is barely holding the truth in anymore.

You narrow your eyes just slightly. “Why do you want me, Ni-ki?”

He flinches like you slapped him. Then slowly lowers his head, voice rough and low. “I don’t.”

You arch a brow.

“I need you.”

You go still.

He’s staring at the ground like confessing it out loud hurts. “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I’ve never felt like this. No one’s ever looked at me the way you do—like I’m nothing. Like I don’t matter. And it’s made me lose my fucking mind.”

You don’t speak. You just watch him. Let him unravel.

“I tried to ignore it,” he says, laughing bitterly. “Tried to hook up with other people. Tried to stop walking where I knew you’d be. But every time, I thought—what if you look up and I’m not there? What if you stop noticing?”

His voice breaks. “You’re the only thing I look forward to. Every day.”

You stare. “So what—this is obsession?”

He hesitates.

Then slowly—nods.

“I haven’t gone a day without thinking about you. I don’t sleep. I barely eat. I check every building you walk into. I’ve scared off half the guys who’ve looked at you too long. I have…” He pauses, breathing harder now. “I have pictures. From parties. From class. From across the quad. You don’t even look at the camera and I still—I still keep them.”

You blink. Something hot coils in your stomach—fear, adrenaline, something you can’t name.

“And I know I sound insane,” he whispers, eyes wide, desperate. “But I swear to God, I’d never hurt you. I just—don’t know how to stop.”

You don’t move. He takes another shaky breath.

“I was fine before you. I swear. But now I can’t do anything without thinking of how it’ll look to you. I can’t breathe unless I know where you are. It’s like…” He closes his eyes. “It’s like I need your permission to exist.”

You’re still trying to feel your heartbeat. It’s thunder in your ears.

“So,” you say slowly, coolly. “This is what happens when someone doesn’t like you.”

He looks up sharply, eyes wide, shattered.

And you lean forward just a little, enough that he holds his breath. “You spiral.”

He stares.

You smirk. “What happens if I start liking you?”

His lips part. He looks like he’s about to fall to his knees.

“Want to find out?” you murmur.

He exhales like you saved his life.

The space between you vanishes.

Not completely—not yet. But enough for you to feel it.

The shift.

His shoulders drop, like he’s been holding a breath for weeks. Like your voice alone cut the thread that was keeping him sane. He’s staring at you like he can’t believe you’re real, like he’s scared if he moves too fast, you’ll vanish all over again.

And it’s almost sweet. Almost.

But then he takes a step closer. Then another.

And you don’t stop him.

You slide back, your back hitting the wall behind you, cool stone seeping through your sweater. His palm braces beside your head, and he leans in, breath shallow, eyes wild.

“Say it again,” he whispers.

You tilt your head, defiant, teasing. “What, that you’re obsessed?”

He swallows. His fingers twitch against the wall. “That you want me to find out.”

You let the silence hang, then look up at him from beneath your lashes. “You already know the answer.”

And that’s all it takes.

He snaps.

His hands find your waist, grip desperate and reverent all at once, like he’s been dreaming about the shape of you and still can’t believe you’re real. He kisses you like it’s the only thing that could possibly save him—hungry, messy, all teeth and breath and frantic, aching need.

You gasp against his mouth, shocked by the intensity—and by how much you like it. You’ve never been this kind of girl. Never let anyone close this fast. Never folded for someone you swore you weren’t interested in.

But this?

This isn't interest. It’s possession.And it’s mutual.

“I need you,” he breathes against your neck, already pulling you by the hand—down the hallway, through the abandoned wing of the building, toward a metal door with a rusted keycode he punches in like muscle memory.

A janitor’s closet. Cramped, quiet. Dim.

And private.

He pushes you gently against the shelving unit, not out of aggression—out of reverence. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again if he’s not careful.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, breath ragged, eyes searching yours like he’ll fall apart if you say no.

You nod slowly. “I’m not doing this for you.”

He stills.

“I’m doing it because I want to.”

That does it.

He groans—low, wrecked—and kisses you again like it hurts. His hands roam without hesitation now, gripping your thighs, sliding under fabric, everywhere at once like he’s been fantasizing about this for months. Which, if you’re honest, he probably has.

“God, baby, I’ve wanted you so bad,” he murmurs against your skin, voice shaking. “You don’t get it. I dream about you. I lose my mind thinking about how close you always were and how I couldn’t touch you. But now—” His hand slides up, slow and possessive, until it cradles the back of your neck. “Now you’re mine.”

You shiver at the tone. Not a question. Not even a promise.

A declaration.

He mouths down your throat, every kiss more desperate than the last, hips rolling into yours with quiet, aching need. The shelf rattles behind you as you tug him closer, both of you tangled in a rhythm that feels like chaos and craving, like punishment and praise.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he murmurs, words hot and reverent against your collarbone. “So good, baby. Gonna make up for every second I had to pretend I didn’t want you.”

Your fingers thread through his hair. You shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t. But God—every moan, every groan, every breathless praise against your skin—it’s like your body’s been waiting for this moment. For him.

It doesn’t last long—it’s too heated, too frantic. But it’s messy and breathless and real, and when it’s over, you’re both clinging to each other like survival.

And then—

He pulls you close. Presses his forehead to yours.

“I’m not letting you go,” he says softly, eyes burning.

You blink, still catching your breath.

“I’m serious,” he says. “You belong to me now. And forever.”

You don’t answer.

Because deep down…

You already know it’s true.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs + notes always mean a lot 💌 other works

tl: @yazmike

(read rules before asking to be added to any list ᥫ᭡. )

[riqomi]

CUDDLES ──── 西村力

西村力 ˖ 𝑓em!r .. g. fluff. suggestive ──── BOOKSHELF ( 1O39 ) tw: kissing. lmk if there's more.

ni-ki gets home just after nine, and the lights are low.

there’s a single lamp turned on in the living room, casting a soft yellow glow across the floorboards. the TV hums in the background — some quiet rom-com playing — and you’re there, curled up on the couch like you’ve been waiting for him all evening.

you glance up when he enters. he’s a mess — hair damp from practice, hoodie slung halfway off one shoulder, a slight sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. his cheeks are flushed from the cold air outside, and there's a tired sort of softness around his eyes.

but the second he sees you, he grins — boyish and slow, the kind of smile he saves just for you.

“you’re wearing my hoodie,” he says like it’s the most important thing in the world.

you look down at yourself — sleeves too long, hem hanging almost to your thighs. “you always leave them in the laundry basket.”

“and you always steal them,” he counters, toeing off his shoes at the door without breaking eye contact. “i should stop bringing them here.”

“you won’t.”

he doesn’t respond — just hums in quiet agreement as he makes his way over to you. his body practically folds into yours the moment he sits down, stretching out like he’s been aching to do this all day. his arm slides behind your back, his other hand lands warm on your thigh, and he exhales, like finally.

you laugh softly as he pulls you closer. “you’re gross,” you murmur, your nose brushing his cheek. “you didn’t shower.”

“too tired,” he mumbles, already pressing his face into the side of your neck, his lips grazing skin. “let me stay here like this for a bit.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t move. your fingers find their way to his hair, carding through it gently, scratching lightly at his scalp — the exact way he likes.

ni-ki melts. visibly. he breathes deeper, tighter, holding you like the world outside the apartment doesn’t exist.

“you missed me,” he says after a beat, voice muffled into your skin.

“maybe.”

“you always miss me,” he teases, now kissing lightly just beneath your jaw. his thumb strokes slow over your thigh, dangerously close to the edge of your shorts. “it’s okay. i missed you too.”

you laugh quietly, but your breath stutters when his lips find the corner of your mouth. the kiss is soft. not quite innocent.

“you’re annoying,” you say, but it’s breathy — traitorous.

he doesn’t let up. his hand slides a little higher on your leg, his nose brushing yours now. “and yet,” he whispers, “you’re climbing into my lap.”

and you are. without thinking. without meaning to. you shift, swing a leg over until you’re straddling him, your knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips. the hoodie rides up a little, revealing more of your thighs than before, and ni-ki doesn’t even try to hide how his gaze flicks down — just for a second — before he’s looking at you again like he’s starving.

your hands rest on his shoulders now, fingers toying with the collar of his tank top.

“you’re gross,” you repeat, weaker this time.

“you already said that,” he says, voice low. “and you still haven’t stopped touching me.”

he leans in — slower this time — lips barely brushing yours. and when you don’t pull away, he finally kisses you, proper.

it starts gentle. soft, like the quiet hum of the movie in the background. but it builds — quickly. your lips part for him easily, and he takes his time — tilting his head, deepening it, one hand gripping your waist while the other slides up your back beneath the hoodie. your skin is warm, and his touch is reverent, almost too gentle for how dizzy the kiss is making you.

your fingers tighten at the nape of his neck. he groans softly into your mouth, his other hand slipping down to the bare skin just above the waistband of your shorts, fingers splayed against your hip.

you shift in his lap slightly — unintentionally — but it draws a quiet curse from his lips.

he pulls back for half a breath, lips swollen, eyes dark.

“you’re driving me crazy,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. “i come home and you’re sitting here, wearing my hoodie, looking like that—what am i supposed to do?”

you smile, slow and smug. “kiss me again.”

and he does — harder this time. needier. his hands roam more freely, sliding up your back and down your thighs, gripping softly but possessively. the kiss gets sloppier, hungrier — teeth tugging, tongues tangling, your body pressing flush against his. the air in the room gets heavier, warmer, every sound drowned out by your breathing, the wet sound of your mouths moving together, the rustling of fabric and shifting of weight.

his hands settle on your waist again, thumbs dragging over your skin.

“stay here,” he whispers between kisses. “don’t move. don’t even think about getting up.”

you chuckle, breathless, your mouth brushing his jaw now. “clingy.”

“only with you,” he mutters, pulling you back in.

you don’t know how long you stay like that — tangled up in each other on the couch, the movie long forgotten, his lips finding yours over and over again like he can’t get enough. his hands never leave your skin, and yours never stop running through his hair, holding him close.

eventually, you both slow down — not because you want to, but because your lungs demand it. ni-ki keeps you in his lap, arms wrapped tight around your middle, his face pressed to your collarbone.

your hands stroke down his back, slow and soothing.

“you need to shower,” you whisper, lips brushing his hairline.

“you’re warm. i’m staying right here.”

you hum. “your hoodie’s gonna smell like me.”

he lifts his head, kisses your shoulder. “good. now you’ll think of me when you wear it again.”

you smile, too soft for your own good. you press one last kiss to the top of his head and settle against him, your cheek resting on his. the room is quiet, but full — warm with something that lingers in the air like love not yet said out loud.

finally back after almost two months... gulp. likes and reblogs are much appreciated!! everyone say thank you to @emisluvr for this idea

[zorange13]

— sanctioned, nishimura riki

wc. 24.6k

pairing. yakuza husband! nishimura riki x reader

cw. my attempt at humor and comedy, aged up riki (24), mentions of knives and weaponry, eating and food, violence, kidnapping, psychological and emotional distress, organized crime stuff duh, mature language (sexual innuendos, cursing), our pairing are essentially best friends that got married love this for them, blood and injury, trauma, plot twist (dun dun dunnnn), hurt/comfort, riki's a lil unstable but he means well

synopsis. he told you no, luckily for you—that was never anything you were used to hearing. riki, your headache and your whole damn world didn’t even want you stepping foot into the chaotic sphere that he calls his home. however, you were done playing housewife. but in a world where info is power and an achilles heel simultaneously, love (and riki's sanity) may not be enough to survive what’s next.

author's note!

ciao!! i've been working on this for some time (since may omg). it's been on my mind for some time and it feels good to get it off. i'm very proud of this. i'm down to make this into a part two because i still feel like this could be more. lmkkkk anyways enjoy <333!! OH and @hoonieyun i love you to bits!

partially proofread which is progress for me!!

“No. Absolutely not.” 

“Please?”

“No.”

You followed Riki downstairs, skirt swishing and Mary Janes clacking indignantly against the marble. The long, oversized button-up you wore—his, tailored for you—was the same deep navy as the one he was currently wearing. You always matched. It wasn’t optional. It was a language. A silent message. He didn’t look back.

He never did when he was irritated. Just kept walking, tall and terrifyingly composed, descending the staircase like a man on a mission, still calm under pressure. Black slacks sharp enough to slice, the soft sheen of luxury dress shoes hitting the floor like a metronome. Even without saying a word, Riki made the entire house hold its breath.

Kaminari wasn’t just a name. It was thunder, etched into Tokyo’s underworld like a scar. His great-grandfather had built it from blood and ash in the wreckage after World War II—when the country was fractured and men like him learned to make an empire from silence. Each generation added its layer: first muscle, then money, then myth.

And now, Riki.

Youngest leader in the syndicate’s history. Raised in marble halls and taught to slit throats with one hand while sipping tea with the other. A businessman on paper. A storm in a suit. And your husband.

Riki and you had been married for one year now, dated for three. Granted, your marriage had shocked a lot of people seeing as you married so young, both of you were twenty-three. But you were—are—in love and there’s nothing that could come between the two of you. He was your soulmate and you were his. That, you both were sure of. So as you two walked to your kitchen, passing by staff and giving your maid—Clara—a kiss on the head and a ‘thank you’ as you both sat at the island to eat, you sighed in frustration. “Baby, please.”

Riki, eyes glued to his omelette as he settled into the seat. “I said no.” His dark hair fell over his forehead until he brushed it back—another small movement that looked like art. Now slicing into his food with the shiny utensils that had the family crest carved into them. “Riki, I’m not asking to get in the field and hold a gun. I just want to…be an informant almost. Like your Oracle.” You turned to him, crossing your legs—not even wanting to touch your food now. 

He furrowed his brow incredulously, “Oracle?” He muttered with a mouthful of eggs. 

You nodded with a smile, “Mhm! Like the girl from Batman.” 

“You’ve been watching too much TV, baby.” 

You throw your hands up in frustration. “Because you won’t let me do shit besides that!” You whined, desperate to prove a point.

Since marrying Riki, you have taken up the cushy, spoiled housewife role. And while there was nothing wrong with that, after a while you started to feel antsy. You had bought every bag, every shoe, every diamond, every car, watched every show, even rented out Disneyland for you and Riki to enjoy one day just because you only wanted to go on the Radiator Springs ride. Even the Chanel Private Client Services wasn’t enough.

While you acknowledged the pleasures of being able to spend so indifferently, you started to get restless. There was something about the fact that he was able to go out every single day, going to be productive in more ways than one that made you feel almost…useless. The staff around you stopped bustling, a bit shocked to hear your raise of voice. Even Clara paused, hands folded over a linen napkin, her gaze flicking to Riki like she wasn’t sure whether to intervene or bow out of the scene entirely.

Riki didn’t even blink. He just calmly chewed his omelette like your words bounced off that thick wall of stoicism he kept tightly bolted around anyone who wasn’t you. “I’m not telling you again.”

You didn’t care, you pressed further just because you knew you could. “I know I can do it.” You frowned, “I just wanna help. Most I’ll be doing is sitting at a desk and—”

His eyes looked ahead, nodding once at Clara after she slid him his poured glass of water. But you saw his fingers clamp around the glass. Paling, but his face wasn’t. Riki was calm, tempered as always. At least on the surface but he was patient with you. Something you took for granted. “You know what’s interesting about Oracle?” He said as he sipped his water. You didn’t answer verbally but nodded for him to continue.

“She’s sharp, stubborn, always ready and willing to help. A lot like you.” He gently stabbed the strawberry from the shared fruit bowl in the middle. “She helped Batman and Robin. An amazing partner, she was.” He chewed on the fruit.

You perked up, “See! Then I c—”

He calmly interjected, still not looking at you. But the vibrato of his voice verberated throughout the room. Bouncing off the walls, glass, and stainless steel. “But then one day, Joker shot her. Right in the back. And now she’s paralyzed.”

You blinked.

The sentence lingered in the air like smoke—harmless at first, until it filled your lungs. Riki still hadn’t looked at you. Still ate like nothing had shifted. But everything had. The room was silent. Not the type of silence that asks to be broken—the kind that warns you not to try.

You swallowed. “That’s fiction,” you muttered, softer this time. “That’s not real.”

“Neither is invincibility,” he replied simply. “Not even for people who think they’re behind the screen.”

Finally, he glanced up at you—dark eyes laced with something you couldn’t name. Something heavier than anger, deeper than fear. “You think I’m keeping you out because I don’t think you’re capable?” He chuckled once, dry and humorless. “I’ve seen you lie through your teeth and charm your way out of federal security checkpoints. You’re brilliant. I’d trust you to run the whole damn empire if I died tomorrow.”

Your heart skipped.

He set his fork down. “But I’m not dead yet.”

Then he rose. Just like that.

You expected him to storm off, to make a scene. He didn’t. That wasn’t Riki. He just straightened his cuffs, softly kissed your cheek, gave Clara another kiss on the forehead, and walked out of the kitchen and to the front door with the kind of quiet command that made everyone else shrink. “I love you, angel. Love you too, Claraboo.” The guards fell in around him, black suits rippling like shadows. “I love you too…” You whispered, but loud enough for him to hear it because you knew he wouldn’t leave until he heard you say it. And within seconds, the heavy front doors whispered shut, and the house exhaled a hush that felt a lot like defeat. You stared at the imprint his coffee cup had left on the wooden coaster. Inherited empire, inherited fears. Same old script.

A gentle hand touched your shoulder. Clara. Cinnamon‑and‑steel Clara, who’d watched him grow from toddler to tycoon.

“Tea?” she offered.

You shook your head softly, leaning on the marble with your shoulders slumped and frown etched onto your face. “No thank you, Clara.” The older woman had sort of become your best friend and aunt all rolled up in one over the last few years, sitting right where Riki did. She smiled bitterly as she rested her hand on your cheek. “Young master doesn’t mean to hurt you. Just doesn’t know how to let you help without feeling like he’s failing you.” You blinked up at her, lips parting, but she beat you to the thought. “He thinks protecting you means keeping you in the dark. It’s not fair. But it’s what he was taught. The men before him—his grandfather, his brother, his father at first—they didn’t marry for love. They married for legacy. You? You’re the first thing he ever chose.”

Her thumb brushed along your cheekbone before dropping back to her lap.

“He’s scared.” She said it like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t something Riki would ever say himself. “Not of the enemies. Of what happens to him if something happens to you.”

You exhaled through your nose, scoffing softly at the bitter twist in your chest. “He could just say that.”

Clara smiled gently. “He could. But you married a yakuza, babygirl. Not a poet.”

You cracked a smile—small, but real.

“He’ll come around. Just don’t mistake his silence for stubbornness. That boy listens. Always has.” Your eyes met hers, lashes trembling just a little, because you were tired. Not tired of him—never of him—but of what came with him. The silence. The walls. The feeling that even though you slept next to each other every night, there were parts of Riki that refused to come out from behind that iron curtain in his chest.

“He talks like someone who’s already buried a wife,” you muttered.

Clara sighs, “Because he’s seen it all of his life. Colleagues dying, their wives dying. His mother…” She trailed off. Riki’s mother had been shot and killed when he was two. He hadn’t had any memories of her, just the things that his family wanted him to remember. All of his life he had heard stories of his mother’s laugh, how fun she was, and that one time she accidentally overheated the soup in the kitchen and made the pot boil over and explode all over the counter. Riki had seen no point in being upset over it, he didn’t remember her. In his mind, there was no use mourning someone he never knew. She didn’t mean much to him until he brought you to meet his dad. While you were in the parlor, leg bouncing and nearly hyperventilating, Riki and Mr. Nishimura were speaking in the hallway. Riki would never forget. 

“Her laugh reminds me of your mother’s.”

That was all his father said. Stern and weathered, voice like gravel under boots, but his eyes softened for half a second—just one—as he looked past Riki into the parlor, where you sat nervously smoothing out your dress. Riki stood there frozen. Because in all the years of funerals and retellings, of whispered stories around the dinner table and framed photographs that never moved from the shrine, not once had anyone ever made her real. He’d never known her laugh. But apparently, you sounded like her when you did that thing—laugh with your whole chest, eyes squeezing shut, hands slapping his shoulder even when he barely cracked a joke.

That was the moment his mother became real—not a figment, not folklore.

And that was when fear sunk its teeth into him.

But Clara didn’t need to say anything. You knew. He knew. Everyone did and you couldn’t forget because he wasn’t going to let you. 

So you sat there, knowingly and sighed in resignation. “I just…I love him and I want him to see me as an equal.” You brushed your hair back, jewelry cold on your warm face. “He does, sweetie.” The elder nodded with an endearing smile. “He’s just a prideful and protective man raised by a lot of prideful and protective men. And sometimes that gets in the way. They’ll do anything to ensure the safety of each other. That’s how they were raised. You’re his world, don’t act like you don’t know.”

“I know,” you whispered as you stared down at your doll-like shoes. Rubbing them together lightly and creating a creaking sound with the coated leather.

Clara stood, brushing off her apron. “But if that’s not enough, then…just talk to him. Seriously,” she lightly pinched your cheek. “You know just like I do that he’ll listen.”

She left you with that, bowing before she went to go dust the living room. And you stayed there, heart heavy and at this point, you felt like that same frown was going to become permanent. But you just turned to eat your breakfast. 

Chewing on your omelette and it was cold and bitter, akin to what you thought battery acid could taste like. You frustratedly put the fork back on the plate, and just grabbed your apple juice. Leaving everything else in your wake.

—

Later that day

—

You lay in bed, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it owed you answers. The moonlight spilled through the blackout curtains, painting silver streaks across the sheets—cold and unforgiving. Riki moved around the room with his usual quiet precision, the soft click of his dress shoes replaced by the muted sound of him slipping out of his clothes. You didn’t say a word. Didn’t even flinch when he pulled back the covers and settled beside you in just his briefs. He liked sleeping this way.

He glanced over, catching the set of your jaw, the silent storm brewing behind your eyes. His voice was low, cautious—the kind reserved for moments when words had failed too many times already.

“You still upset?”

You stayed quiet.

Your husband sighed as he stared at you, a mixture of pity and frustration. “I just want you to be safe…” He leaned up on his side as he tilted his head. An idea came to his head as he smiled softly. “I have good news.”

You tightened your arms, still looking to the ceiling and staying silent.

But he kept talking, “While I was out, I got those chocolates you liked. I know you haven’t been able to find them for months. They’re downstairs…I can have Clara bring them up for you.” He said hopefully but you still didn’t dignify it. “And…tomorrow when I get back from work we can finally watch that show you’ve been wanting to. The Vampire Diaries you said?” He reached to lightly brush your cheek with the back of his hand, to which you almost fell for it then but you had more resolve. “I promise not to get jealous when you call that Klaus character sexy.” He smiled gently, hoping to make you laugh but to no avail.

“C’mon, my love.” Riki kissed your temple, “don’t be so mean to me.” He said with near desperation. 

Your eyes flicked toward him for a split second. Just one. That was all he got.

He saw it, too.

“I’m not being mean,” you muttered finally, voice flat. “I’m just tired.”

Riki stilled. His hand dropped back to the sheets.

“That’s not what this is about and you know it,” he said, his voice quieter now, more careful. “You’re punishing me.”

You looked at him, “You’re underestimating me.” He furrowed his brows, “I…no I’m not. I told you earlier. I have no doubts. I love you more than you could ever understand but…you’re naïve.” His gaze wavered for the first time you saw in him, fear. “A-And you get in over your head sometimes. I know you won’t be in direct danger but…it’s enough and that’s all I need to make me say no to you.”

You sat up, “I am not naïve!” 

Riki smiled gently, nodding as he moved his hand to your waist. “Yes, you are.”

“Name one time.”

Riki held your gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was debating whether or not to say it. “One time?” he said softly. “Alright.” He ran a hand through his hair, then let it fall to his lap. “That day you tried to drive yourself to Ryujin’s house across town because ‘it was just lunch.’ No guards. No heads-up.” He paused. “You didn’t notice the car that trailed you for ten blocks. You didn’t notice it double back when you stopped at the café. I did. Because I had someone watching.”

You blinked, jaw dropping in disbelief.

“You brushed it off when I brought it up. Said I was being paranoid. But that same car was on our street the next night.” He leaned in a little, voice lower now. “I didn’t tell you that part. Because I knew it would scare you. And I didn’t want you to feel guilty.”

He exhaled. “You’re amazing. Brave. Smarter than anyone I know. But baby…that’s what makes it worse. You think you can’t be touched.”

“Have you…been touched?” You whispered in defeat.

“Me?” He snorted, “Fuck no,” letting out a small laugh.

“Riki…” you whined as you leaned back onto the headboard with a pout.

“What?” He laughed, but quietly gathered himself for you. “I’m sorry, but no. I haven’t but that’s because this is something that I was born into?” He said it as if it was obvious—because it was. “You married into this life and this is just something you’d have to learn. But it’s been four years of me keeping you away from it and it will stay that way until we both croak over.” Riki nods affirmatively as he lays back down on his back. Eyes leering at the ceiling the same way you were. A beat of silence fell over you two. You hated to push him, but this was the last time you would. “Okay but…at least think about this. I married you because I love you.” You huffed, looking at the ceiling as well. “You, our union, this ring, our family name…it means the world—the universe and galaxy—to me. But I swore to love, honor, and respect you in sickness and health, for rich or poor. But…” You turned to him with gentleness in your eyes. “I promised to protect the integrity of the Nishimura name. That I wouldn’t shame this family, myself, or you. That by becoming Mrs. Nishimura, there’s tremendous responsibility and I’m ready for all of it.” You tenderly pecked his lips, to which he quickly reciprocated. “I love you, and if I ever do anything to make you think I cannot handle this…then pull me out. But don’t just say no if we haven’t even seen how I would do.” 

Riki didn’t respond right away. You watched his chest rise and fall, steady, like he was working through every word you’d just said.

Then, slowly, he turned his head toward you.

“…Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll think about it.”

You blinked, surprised he hadn’t shut it down completely. But before you could say anything, he leaned over and kissed your forehead—then your lips. It lingered this time. Less reflex, more emotion.

“Goodnight, baby,” he murmured against your mouth.

You nodded, brushing your fingers over his cheek. “Goodnight.”

He waited until your breathing evened out beside him. Waited until your hand slipped from his chest and onto the pillow.

Then, carefully, Riki slipped out of bed and into a silk robe.

He moved quietly, barely letting the bedroom door creak open before he was down the hall, bare feet silent against the marble.

—

The door clicked shut behind him. Clara glanced up from her desk, already halfway into her second espresso. She didn’t even look surprised.

“I figured you’d come,” she said, setting her cup down. “You only knock when it’s about her.”

Riki didn’t smile. Just stood there for a second.

Then: “What do I do?”

Clara smiled fondly, “What you think is best, son.” As she sipped her coffee. 

Riki sat down on the chair in front of her desk with a sigh. “But that’s why I came to ask you.” He gestured to the elder with an annoyed expression but quickly hid it as he actually had respect for her. “She made a good point. Too good. I just don’t want her to get taken advantage of. I don’t want her to lose her light the way so many of us did.” Clara laughed, “You still have your light, Riki.” She leaned back in her chair as she adjusted her glasses. “You didn’t always have it…but she gave it back to you.” He nodded with a firm look. “She did. She’s my light. She’s my—oh gosh—” Riki exhaled firmly as he buried his head in his hands, slightly shaking as he bounces his leg. Anxiety peeking through. “I can’t lose her. I won’t. I will not end up like my dad. I refuse to.” He shakes his head vehemently, his black hair falling in his face to which he swiftly pushes it back. 

“She’s strong. You’re even stronger. Use your strength to help her get there. She just wants you to meet her halfway. That’s all she needs from you.” Clara said softly. “She’s capable and you know it. I believe so.”

Riki looks up at her through hooded lids. “You think so?”

Clara nodded, “I know so.” She stood up and beckoned him to follow her. “Come on,” 

He complied and followed her to the east wing of the home—where his office resided. She used her key to open it and walked to his file cabinet and pulled out a black folder and handed it to him. “Here.”

The tall man scanned the folder and looked up at her. “What’s this for?”

“A test.” she said simply. “Start small. Give her something to handle. If she can carry it—then you talk.”

Riki stared at the folder, thumb brushing over the edge.

“You sure?”

Clara’s eyes didn’t waver. “I’ve never been more.”

—

You sat in the living room, watching another installment of some YouTube gameplay of a horror game. After last night, you had hope. Hope that something in the universe would change the mind of your vexingly stubborn husband. That for once he’d let you have a little more agency than he’d let you have any other day. Though, please don’t misunderstand. Riki wasn’t controlling by any means. He let you do and practically say whatever you wanted. You spent his money, were able to go out at your leisure (not without security), utilize…him as much as you wanted. But especially, he let you argue. Riki never let anyone argue. Being the man he was, prideful and a leader, his word was always going to be the last one. It was his way or no way, and this was the first time he had fought you so hard on something as this only made you want it more. You wanted to help, of course. But you just wanted to be more important to him than you already were. You knew that he loved you, you had never in the four years that you were together doubted the affection he held for you. You had just wished that he let you have a little more freedom. So you adjusted yourself on the couch, your shorts twisting and crop top riding up just a little but it didn’t matter because you had a throw blanket on. Riki entered the living room with something hidden behind his back. “Hello, my love.”

You furrowed your brows, “What are you doing?”

He shrugged as he padded over to the couch and plopped beside you with a knowing smirk. You turned off the TV and turned to face him, giving him your undivided attention. “I have to talk to you about something serious.”

You frowned, “If this is about yesterday then I—” He shook his head with a smile now, “Ancient history, passé.” 

Growing suspicious, you hugged the blanket close to you. “Okay?”

He revealed a black folder from behind him and flashed it with a smile. “Ta-da!”

You shrug, “A black folder. Wow…”

He smacked his teeth with a grunt. “Take it,” he said gently, smiling with tenderness. 

You grabbed the folder reluctantly, opening it to sift through it: three different color USBs, CCTV stills, ledger excerpts, and then a sealable, ivory envelope with a Kaminari recommendation card on it. 

Your heart dropped, tears welling up in your eyes as you looked at him. “No…”

He nodded, smiling, “Yes, but only if—” 

You cut him off by throwing yourself on top of him in excitement. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” The black folder behind you now and your legs tangled with his as you held his face between your hands, kissing him once, twice, a third time just to make sure this was real. Riki laughed into your lips, arms wrapped around your waist, holding you like the choice didn’t shake him a little too. Like giving you this meant everything would be fine. “Wait, woah slow down.” He smiled, “there’s something else too. Come with me.” He stroked your cheek as he helped you up and off of the couch, grabbing the folder. Without a word, you followed him to the east wing as if you were going to his office. But then you made a strong left. This house was so big that there were rooms you hadn’t even seen yet; and you’d been living here for two years. But he handed you a key to a door, the door being right down the hall from his. 

You took it without a word and unlocked the door to see an office of your own. A pink, girly office.

You stepped inside slowly, mouth parting in a silent gasp. It was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the room in soft morning light. White marble floors. Blush-toned walls. Shelves already stocked with delicate file boxes, soft leather notebooks, gold-trimmed pens, and what looked like a crystal lamp shaped like a cherry blossom. Then you looked around in the corner of the room, a plush carpet and loveseat with a mini-fridge. There was a glass desk in the center, wide and sleek, with your name engraved on a pink acrylic placard: Mrs. Nishimura—but underneath, in smaller script, it read:

Behavioral Intelligence Officer

Your knees buckled a little.

“Riki…” you breathed, turning around with trembling hands. “What is this?”

He stood at the doorframe like he wasn’t watching your entire soul ascend out of your body. His smile was slow, private. “This is where you’ll work from now on. The folder stays here. You get full clearance, unmonitored access, your own contact line with everyone, and burner accounts we’ll rotate weekly.”

You stared at him, absolutely speechless.

“You said you wanted to help,” he added softly. “But more than that…you wanted me to treat you like a partner. So here you go. This is me treating you like a partner.”

Tears filled your eyes again, but this time they didn’t sting. They shimmered.

“And I don’t have to…ask permission to come in here?” you asked, still stunned. Riki shook his head, stepping in and running his hands up your arms. “This is yours. It’s your space, your case, your decisions.” He paused. “I’ll still worry, and I’ll still protect you. That’s not up for debate. But this—” He looked around. “This is where I start learning how to let go a little.”

You threw your arms around his neck again, burying your face into his shoulder. “I’m gonna cry all over this expensive-ass marble.” He let out a breathy laugh as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “Don’t. I don’t want a slip and fall one day in.” Kissing your temple lovingly, his voice softening. “I love you, you’re Mrs. Nishimura. Not just in love, but in title and it’s time we all started acting like it.”

You peeled off and pulled him down a bit to lay your lips onto his. Resting your hands on his nape as you kissed him like it was the last thing you’d ever do. 

Riki, letting out a groan as he picked you up off of your feet, grabbing your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist. He smiled into the kiss as he massaged your ass in his large hands. “Should’ve done this sooner.”

“Mhm,” you hummed into the exchange as you tilted his head back to start showing his neck some attention.

Riki’s pulse thrummed beneath your lips, his head tipping back just enough for you to taste the faint salt of his skin and the trace of expensive cologne he only ever wore for you. His breath caught—low, rough, entirely at odds with the marble‑cold composure everyone else knew.

He shifted, pressing you against the edge of your new desk. The glass was cool, a soft contrast to the heat rolling off the two of you.

“Careful,” you whispered, teasing your teeth along his jaw. “That’s my desk now.”

He hummed, voice vibrating against your mouth. “Then I guess I’ll just have to get used to doing things your way.” His hands skimmed up the backs of your thighs, thumbs drawing lazy circles that made you shiver. The black folder still sat secure on the far corner—close enough to remind you why you were here, but far enough to keep from shattering the moment. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes—dark, dilated, a storm held only by sheer will. “Thank you,” you murmured. “For trusting me.”

He brushed a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering at your cheek. “Thank you for demanding it.” The weight of those words settled between you—equal parts promise and permission. He leaned in again, slower this time, lips hovering at the shell of your ear.

“Lock the door, Officer,” he murmured, a smile in his voice. “We must discuss business.” You squealed in glee as you hopped off the desk and closed the door, clicking the lock and scampering to your desk chair to sit dramatically. Crossing your legs like this was your throne and you were about to speak to one of your subjects. “Behavioral Intelligence Officer speaking,”

Riki smiled at your corniness. “Woah there, Powerpuff Girl. We gotta lay down the ground rules first.” He leaned against your desk, half sitting—his long legs in his signature black slacks looked you in the eye.

Raising your brows in curiosity, you knew this was coming. “Rules?”

He nodded once, “Rules. There are quite a few.”

“What are these rules?” You grabbed the folder to open it but he quickly took it from you, barely leaning forward as his long arms made quick work. “Hey!” You tried to grab it back.

He held the folder out of reach and held his hand up. “Nope, I need your attention.”

You huffed in frustration and leaned back in your chair. “Okay, you got it.”

He nodded, something behind his eyes switching. That domestic, loving, caring husband disappeared and now thunder, cold, and firm boss made an appearance. This is how you know he was being totally serious. “Rule one: you never—and I mean ever—do anything without consulting me. You report to me, you run things by me, you address me. This goes for everyone in the organization. I am the boss, I am your leader, I will be respected as such.” Your eyes widen at his unyielding tone; unsure whether to find this scary or sexy. But you concede, “Okay. Number two?”

Riki nodded, “Number two: one-way door policy. Do you know what that means?” He tilted his head. 

You shook your head with wide eyes. “No,”

He smiled politely, “It means that whatever comes in here, stays here. That folder? Stays here. External drives, put it in the safe.” He points to the hidden safe behind the big picture frame of you two, the photo of him proposing to you in Cabo. “Don’t screenshot anything. Don’t even mention anything outside of here. The only other place that’s acceptable is my office. Understood?”

You nod, “That makes sense, I get it. Understood.”

“Good. Number three: when this button lights, pick up your phone. It means there’s an emergency and someone needs to get a hold of you.” He nods to the clear knob on your PC keyboard. “We haven’t had a situation where we’ve needed to do it for years. But it’s necessary. Simple.” He claps his hands as she slowly paces the room now. “Next rule: Every accusation needs proof. Time, place, motive. You can’t just say you have a gut feeling. I would believe you if you spat on me and told me it was rain. But here, we need proof. No baseless accusations. This goes for everyone, even me.” He put his hands in his pockets, as he looked at the marble floor. Letting himself think, doing that thing with his tongue-in-cheek. “Any questions thus far?” 

Even with receiving all of this information, you shook your head. “No, keep going.”

“Beautiful,” he half-smiles. “Number four, this is a special rule: mental health days for you. Brains work better when they’re not being fried. Take a day to decompress, all of our problems will be there when you get back. And you will stop working at midnight, every night. No exceptions—I’m not going to explain it.” He said firmly. “A few more rules.”

He stopped walking to look you in the eye. “You only break rules to save a life, not for curiosity. It’s cute in a mystery film but people’s lives are at stake everyday here, don’t just do shit for the fun of it.” He comes back to his slow pacing.

“Third to last rule: this,” He gestured around the room, “is all yours. But this position isn’t a sure thing—”

Your jaw dropped, “Riki—” you whined in protest, finding it to be unfair. 

“I’m speaking.” He held his finger up to silence you, to which you complied. Cowering in your seat as you looked at him with a pout.

“You’re going to be headed into this with little training. You’re not used to being under constant pressure, sometimes when you aren’t used to that…well…” He shrugged, “you can choke.” Riki sighed. 

“You think I’m gonna choke?” You applied pressure to your tone, tilting your head in confusion. “I thought you said I was capable.”

Riki’s jaw flexed, eyes flicking up to meet yours—and for a moment, the weight of all this vanished. He looked at you like he always did: like you were the sun wearing heels, a hurricane with heart. But even so, his voice stayed firm.

“I know you’re capable,” he corrected. “But being capable and being ready aren’t the same thing. This isn’t a trust fall, baby. If you fall, someone could die.”

You stared at him. The silence between you stretched just long enough to feel like a power shift. Like you weren’t his wife at that moment—you were his kobun, his chosen partner, sure. But still…new.

You swallowed your pride and gave a tight nod. “Alright. Next rule?”

He sighed again, knowing this one would damper you a little. “No pet names. No ‘baby,’ no ‘my love,’ no ‘babe,’ ‘babe-arsaurus.’” 

“Not babe-asaurus!” 

He gave you a flat look. “Especially not babe-asaurus. We’re not at home. You wanna call me something cute, you do it in the kitchen.”

You snorted, arms crossed as you leaned back in your chair. “So dramatic.”

“I’m serious.” He circled back behind your desk, hands coming to rest on the armrests as he leaned in close. “Pet names blur the lines. And here, we don’t blur lines.”

You blinked. “Okay, edgelord.”

He grinned against your cheek, voice dropping again into that teasing warning. “Keep it up and the next rule’s gonna be ‘no lip gloss if you’re gonna talk back.’”

You raised your brows, daring him. “You gonna confiscate it?”

He took your gloss right out of your shorts pocket like he knew exactly where it was. “First offense: warning. Second offense? I keep it. Third…” He leaned in and whispered against your jaw, “You come to my office to earn it back.”

“Ooh…” you smile as you nuzzle his neck then pull back. “Am I speaking to my husband or Kaminari?”

He smiled back, “Both…but I’m serious.” He raised his brows, “No names.”

You smacked your teeth, “Okay ba—I mean—sir.”

Riki smiled kneeling in front of your chair now. “That turns me on too, but final rule. And it’s the one I’ll break before I ever let you break it.”

He leaned forward, holding your face in his hands. His cool rings melted against your cheeks as he looked you in the eye. “No lying,” he said. “To me. Ever. If you’re scared, tell me. If you messed up, tell me. If you don’t know what to do, you come to me. We do not lie to each other.”

This was an unspoken rule, not only in your career but in your marriage too. The only lie that Riki had ever told you was that he was going to work but was going ring shopping instead. With the candor of his own family—meaning that Riki’s family physically never lied to each other—he saw that lying was the ultimate form of betrayal. The only time that lies were acceptable were under moments of extreme duress (e.g. his job). When you two had discussed deal breakers on your first date he had said ‘lying’ before the question even left your mouth. And funnily enough, he never lied to you. He just withheld things or simply never brought things up until you asked. He never spoke about work, and if you asked about his day then it was: “Today was shitty.” Or “It was good. Just work.” Or “Productive, fortunately.” He never wanted you to know anything because knowing means danger and danger means you die. And it’s not paranoia! No. Never. 

If you asked how a pair of jeans looked on you and he didn’t think they suited you then he’d give a simple “You’ve got better ones, my love.” Riki’s brand of honesty wasn’t mean—just wrapped in a velvet glove with iron beneath. Never cold, never cruel, never abrasive. He just valued the truth and gave it to you whether you liked it or not. Simply, he’d want the same thing from you. He’d rather you hurt his feelings with the truth now than hurt it even more with a lie if—and when—he found out. You never lied to him, even when the truth would hurt more. So now, as he knelt in front of you, thumbs brushing your cheekbones like you were made of glass and fire at the same time, it wasn’t just a rule. It was another vow. Not just for the sake of your marriage but your new dynamic. 

“Not even if it’ll hurt you?” You whispered, leaning your forehead on his.

He closed the gap a little, leaning to place a gentle kiss on your lips; letting it linger. “Especially then,”

“…Is this the part where I get my badge and cool-girl gun holster?” you mumbled against his mouth.

He snorted, pulling back. “You are so annoying.”

“Hot and annoying,” you corrected, poking his chest.

“Yeah, unfortunately,” he sighed, mock-disappointed, before grabbing the case file from the desk. “Alright, dude. Let’s ruin someone’s day.”

—

Riki sat on the edge of your desk again, this time with the folder open in his lap, flipping through it casually—composed as usual. “We have a leak,” he said simply.

Your brows pulled together. “Internal?”

He nodded once. “High-level. The kind of leak that gets people killed.”

You leaned forward in your chair, pulse ticking up. “What kind of intel got out?”

“Shipment logs. Safehouse rotations. Even a few agent profiles,” he said, tapping the page with the back of his ringed hand. “All routed through dead drops in Nishiyama territory. No digital trail. Clean. Old-school.”

You scoffed under your breath, “So we’re dealing with a professional.”

“We’re dealing with a mole.” His voice hardened like concrete setting. “Someone inside Kaminari is feeding information to the Nishiyama syndicate. Which means one of ours is playing both sides.”

You blinked. “A double agent?”

He met your gaze with a heavy look. “Exactly.”

You swallowed. This wasn’t just a briefing. This was serious. “You already have a suspect?”

“I’ve got three.” He flipped to the next tab. “Some important people. Social Liaison, Yuna. Logistics, Jo. Then Sohee, the Accountant. All had access to the stolen intel.”

You reached out, but Riki didn’t hand over the folder yet. “Your objective,” he said, his tone dropping into something deadly smooth, “is to make contact with all three. Casually. I want your read on them. Behavioral patterns. Speech tells. Any inconsistencies.”

You raised a brow. “You want me to profile them.”

“I want you to read them like a book, baby,” he said, before catching himself—then exhaling. “Sorry. Not on the job.”

You smiled a little. “Slipped out. I’ll allow it.”

He looked at you, seriously now. “You’re not just my wife here. You’re the only person I trust to do this clean. No bias, no noise. I don’t need proof yet. I need instinct. Which might contradict a rule but you aren’t making a move yet. That’s up to me…or maybe you depending on how this goes.”

“And if my gut tells me who the leak is?”

He nodded. “Then we build the case. Surveillance, comms trace, movement logs. But you’re the first step.”

You inhaled. “Understood. Where do I start?”

Riki handed you the folder at last.

“Page one. Then you come to the compound with me tomorrow morning.” He smiled, tilting his head. You stood with slight nervousness, shaking your hands as if the feeling was water and you needed to let it dry. “Tomorrow?” You muttered as you paced in front of him slowly. “I’m going tomorrow?”

Riki smiled at your demeanor, “Yes, you will be coming with me tomorrow.” 

“What? So like, do I go in a disguise or something?” You stopped and put your hands on your head dramatically, cropped shirt lifting just a tad to reveal the hem of your bra. Not that you cared, Riki had seen you as naked as the day you were born. Letting out a breathy laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners and that was enough to soothe you. Hearing him laugh. “Sure.” He crossed his arms. “Your disguise will be ‘my wife.’” Riki leaned off of the desk as he approached you. “You’re just going to talk to them. Like I said…read them. Point out red flags, assess a possible motive. But even then, you are not to engage further. No strong-arming. That’s my job.” 

“Because you’re mean to people.”

Riki snorted. “I’m not mean. I’m...assertive.”

You raised a brow. “You once threatened to staple someone’s tongue to a desk.”

He held up a finger. “Because he lied. With confidence. That’s worse.”

You blinked. “You smiled while doing it.”

“And I was right,” he replied, smug as hell.

You muttered something about psycho husbands under your breath and flipped open the folder anyway. Inside were three crisp profiles: one woman, two men. All clean-cut. All smiling in their ID photos. Like one of them could’ve handed someone a kill order and then gone out for ice cream after.

Your stomach twisted just a bit.

“You good?” Riki asked softly.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just a lot to take in.” He paused, reading you again like he always did—too carefully, too much like someone who knew every version of you. The tough one. The soft one. The one who panicked over brunch menus and the one who could lie on cue if called for it.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he said quietly. “To me. Or anyone else.”

Your eyes flicked up to his. “That’s funny. I thought this whole thing was a test.”

“Oh it is,” Riki pursed his lips. “And you do have something to prove, I just wanted to make you feel better.”

“Whatever happened to not lying?” You furrowed your brows, now getting irritated that he was making a joke of you.

Riki didn’t flinch. “I’m not lying. I’m softening the blow. Totally different.”

You scoffed, folding your arms. “Feels the same from where I’m standing.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your spine straighten. “If I didn’t think you could handle it, you wouldn’t be here. I don’t hand out assignments because of marriage certificates.”

You held his gaze, jaw tight.

“So yeah,” he continued, “it’s a test. But not of your worth. Of your readiness.” Your heart beat just a little harder at that. Not because you were scared—but because you hated how much you cared about passing. How much you wanted him to see you pass.

“…Still feels like lying,” you mumbled, avoiding his eyes.

“Then lie back,” he said, almost a whisper now, brushing a knuckle down your arm. “But I owe you a receipt, though.” Riki pouted his lips mockingly. 

“A receipt?” Your eyes flitted to the side for a moment in confusion.

“Mhm,” he hummed as he sharply pulled you in by your biceps, your chest meeting his upper abdomen as he towered over you. “Don’t think I forgot the tone you took with me yesterday morning.”

Your heart raced and the breath caught in your throat like it had something to lose. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was firm enough to remind you: Riki didn’t bluff.

“I had to assert myself,” you said, chin tipping up even as your voice dipped lower.

Riki smirked, eyes flickering between yours. “Oh, you asserted something, alright. Had me rethinking our marriage vows halfway through my eggs.”

“Should’ve read the fine print,” you quipped, trying to deflect the way your pulse was going off like sirens under your skin.

His smile widened just a bit—dangerous and sweet, like a dare in the dark. “Fine print said mutual respect,” he murmured. “And you disrespected your superior officer, baby.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Superior officer? That’s what we’re doing now? You get off on that?”

“I get off on putting you in your place.” He stroked your cheek with his knuckle as he leaned in, grazing his nose with yours. “I think you forgot who you married.” Something behind his eyes flickered, something dark, menacing, and slightly sinister. He leaned back as he scanned your body. “Go to our room,” he said, voice low and unshakable. “Lose the attitude—and the clothes. I want both off by the time I walk in.”

—

Getting ready the next morning at six ante meridiem was the hardest thing you’ve had to do in a very long time. You don’t know how Riki did it. If it was a solid nine then that was right up your alley. And considering the events of last night, your husband wasn’t exactly forgiving. You were sore as a bitch, with every part and limb aching. Nevermind your glorious dream about riding unicorns in the rain. It didn’t matter because it wasn’t rain, it was your despicable husband shaking his wet hair in your face as your wake up call.

“Grand rising, beloved!” He beamed with a boyish smile.

You jumped up, clenching the linen sheets to your bare chest and gasping for air. “Oh my God.” You grunted as you swung on him, hitting his bare arm. “You’re such an asshole! Fuck you, you scared the shit out of me!” You’re still spent for air as you fell back on the bed and he was towering over you from beside the bed, laughing from the pit of his gut. He grinned, completely unbothered by your assault. “Don’t be mad. You looked peaceful. Like Snow White, but, like...if Snow White had a felony record.”

You tossed a pillow at him, which he caught easily with one hand, the other holding his towel around his waist. “I’m not the one with the felony fucking record.” 

“Well technically I don’t. But if I did then I’ll add something else to my list if you don’t get up.” He tossed the pillow back at your face. You launched yourself at him like vengeance itself, arms wrapping around his neck as you tackled him backward. The towel slipped just enough to make it personal.

“I hate you,” you growled, even as laughter bubbled in your throat.

He caught you mid-flight with that irritatingly perfect upper-body strength, stumbling a little before regaining balance. “Lies,” he muttered against your shoulder. “You were just singing my praises last night.”

“That wasn’t singing, that was—” you cut yourself off, groaning as you buried your face in his collarbone. “I’m too tired for this. Let’s call in rich.”

“We are rich,” he said, smug. “But we’re also very much still showing up, because I’m not digging the ‘sore and cranky’ excuse from you today.”

You sighed and looked up at him, “I would kiss you but you pissed me off and I have morning breath.”

Riki smirked, unfazed, and leaned in anyway. “Lucky for you, I have a piss kink and no sense of smell.”

You smacked his chest, scandalized. “Riki!”

He just laughed, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Relax, I brushed my teeth for both of us.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not how hygiene works.”

“It is in marriage,” he said, already walking away like he didn’t just say the most obscene things before the Lord Himself was awake. “Now move it. We’ve got a mole to sniff out.”

You stared after him. “I swear, I’m calling HR.”

“I am HR.” he yelled from the bathroom. “You have two hours.”

God help you.

—

“Okay, so what’s the plan?” You exhaled shakily, trying to rub the sweat off of your palms and onto the leather seats of black car. 

“My love, you asked like twi—”

“I don’t care, I’m asking again.” You looked out of the car window, watching the trees turn to mush and blur as the car sped through the highway. “Three people, one woman: Jung Yuna. Two men: Asakura Jo, and Lee Sohee.” He said, carefully, as he soothed your nerves, gently massaging your thigh. “Leak. You’re going to talk to them, get a feel for their personalities. Just…get to know them. That’s all.” He pressed a tender kiss to your shoulder. 

“Okay,” you huffed. “Simple enough.”

Riki gave a soft hum. “Simple, yes. Easy?” He flicked his eyes toward you, a warning there. “Not even a little.”

You glanced at him. “What’s the catch?” He didn’t answer immediately, just adjusted his grip on your thigh and dropped his voice. “One of them’s working with a third-party buyer. We don’t know who. We don’t know why. But we know it’s internal.”

Your brows furrowed. “And they don’t know we know?”

“Exactly. As far as they’re concerned, I’m bringing my sweet, unassuming wife for a fun day at work. Yuna knows me. Jo doesn’t trust me. And Sohee…” he trailed off, pausing. “Sohee thinks he’s smarter than everyone in the room.”

You clicked your tongue. “So you want me to play dumb.”

Riki’s lip curled into that crooked smirk—the one that always meant trouble. “Not dumb. Charming. A little naïve, maybe. But observant. You’re not interrogating them. You’re studying them. I want your instincts, not your analysis.”

“So this is ‘vibes-based’ intel?” You made quotation marks with your fingers.

“This is you-based intel.” His hand slid up your thigh, fingers curling gently. “You see people. You’ve always seen me—even when I didn’t want you to. That’s your edge.”

You fell silent for a beat. “If I’m the edge, what are you?”

“The blade,” he said simply. “So keep it cute. I’ll do the cutting if we have to.”

You let out a breath, heart pounding as the trees blurred past faster now. “Okay. Let’s find our mole.”

—

You entered the expansive compound, smiling and waving at the different people. At times—and the very few times you’ve been here—you forget that this is an organized crime group and not an organization, a conglomerate even. And seeing Riki walk in here was like seeing a switch flip and the light turn on. Gone was your generous, funny, doting lover and now straight-faced, strict, articulate Komichō. It was slightly overwhelming to be able to see someone just turn themselves on and off like that.

So when he walked in, every person lined up to greet him. His kobun, bloodbound kobun. Trained, loyal, and unshakably his. They bowed—not out of introduction, but acknowledgment. You weren’t a stranger here, not technically. They knew your face. They’d watched you stand beside Riki in silk and gold, watched you kiss him with a thousand eyes on your back. But none of them knew you.

Not really.

So when you walked in today—no veil, no curated elegance, no fanfare—there was a shift. A flicker in the way some of them looked at you. You were here, which meant something had changed. You weren’t just the wife anymore. You were part of the inner workings now. At least you and Riki knew that. Still, he said nothing else. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough to quiet any question before it could rise. But the way his hand hovered at your back—subtle, protective, claiming—told the whole room that you weren’t just tagging along. You were trusted.

A few of them looked surprised.

One or two looked uneasy.

And at least one looked curious.

You kept your posture steady, offering a nod of acknowledgment. Cool. Collected. Just another day casually stepping into your husband’s criminal empire. Totally fine. Absolutely fine. Zero panic. Riki leaned in just enough to brush his lips against your temple. “They remember the wedding,” he murmured, “but they don’t know you.”

“Good,” you replied under your breath.

He smirked. “That’s my girl.”

—

You strolled into one of the lounges, making decent use of your time here. You were careful to not immediately get to work as you didn’t want to make yourself super obvious. So here you were, walking around, scaring Heeseung—head of operations—every now and then just because you could. But after about thirty minutes, you decided to pull the trigger on this. Your eyes found Sohee sitting at one of the many tables, tip-tapping away at something on his laptop. Presumably not work-related because this was considered a breakroom. But Riki wasn’t that strict, he didn’t care where the work got done—as long as it was in the building and nowhere else. 

Putting on a friendly smile, you approached the table with politeness. “Hi, Sohee. How are you?”

The guy looked up from his laptop, the blank stare turning to a smile that mirrored your own. “Okaasan, I’m doing fine. You?”

You waved him off with a smile, telling him to drop the formalities and that calling you by your name was more than fine. But he didn’t comply, stating that Riki insisted that they call you Mrs. Nishimura or Okaasan.

“No, I’m telling you to call me by my first name. Please, it’s okay.” Smiling, nodding your head to ensure he felt a little more comfortable in this exchange. Being on a first-name basis establishes comfort. If there’s that then the conversation won’t be so rigid. Sohee smiled gently, being slightly flustered at your friendliness. He hadn’t spoken to you ever and only knew you in passing. He was at the wedding like most of the group but besides that there were very little interactions between you and the other affiliates. No one knew about you aside from Riki’s close friends—some of whom were a part of the group and his groomsmen, and his family by the time of the ceremony. “Of course…” He rubbed his eyes, “But yeah, I haven’t seen you since the wedding. Tell me about married life, how’s it treating you?” You slid into the seat across from him, adjusting your blouse just slightly as you crossed one leg over the other. A friendly smile stayed on your lips, but your eyes had already started their sweep—watching his fingers, his posture, how fast he minimized whatever was on his screen.

“Oh, you know,” you started, tone breezy like the back patio of a brunch spot. “We argue about whether the AC should be at sixty-eight or seventy-two, and then he kisses me. Classic honeymoon phase stuff.”

Sohee laughed politely, but you noticed the slight tug at his lip—like he was trying to decide if it was okay to really laugh. That was good. You liked that.

“It’s different though,” you continued, tilting your head thoughtfully. “Being someone’s girlfriend, and then suddenly you’re…really a part of their life. Your world is one, I guess. Still getting used to the perks.”

He snorted at that, relaxing a little. “I mean, if by perks you mean the estate and a guy named Chan who opens your car door every morning—yeah, not bad.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Exactly. And the complimentary paranoia’s cute too.”

Sohee’s eyes flicked up at you, and for a second, you saw the calculation behind the smile. He was smart. They wouldn’t have put him over logistics if he wasn’t. “You say that like you weren’t built for this. I mean, most people around here kind of expected you to be the accessory. No offense.”

You smiled wider at that. “None taken. Accessories don’t walk themselves in here and sit across from the guy who tracks where all the money goes.”

He stilled—just barely—but you caught it. Bingo.

Before he could volley back, you softened your voice, brushing invisible lint off your sleeve. “Anyway. I’m not here to scare anyone. I’m here to get to know people. Riki’s always talking about how tight-knit the team is. Family, right?”

Sohee nodded slowly, and you could practically hear the mental gears clicking. “Yeah. Family.”

“And family talks,” you said lightly. “Even if it’s just about what’s stressing them out…or keeping them up at night.”

He leaned back slightly, tilting his head. “That’s a very specific way to phrase that.”

You looked at him with a half-smile. “Well. I’m a very specific kind of person. Plus, I spend his money, I gotta make sure it gets where it has to be right?” You try to break the subtle change in vibe with a joke. He bites, somewhat relieved that the woman who has the power to either put him on the unemployment line or in a body bag wasn’t taking him too seriously. 

Despite that, you took it for what it was and whatever he was giving you. Before either of you can stretch the silence too far, the door swings open.

“Heard there were pastries in here,” a voice calls out playfully, and in walks Yuna—light on her feet, dressed like her outfit alone had a LinkedIn profile, and confident like someone who always gets the last word.

Her gaze slides over the room, landing on you and Sohee.

“Oh,” she says, lips curving upward as she closes the distance. “Didn’t know this was a members only table.”

You gesture to the seat beside you. “Not at all. I was just catching up with Sohee. Join us.”

Sohee stands halfway out of his seat in reflex—a gentleman or a little afraid, who’s to say—before awkwardly sitting back down once Yuna waves him off. “So,” she says as she takes a seat, folding her arms on the table and angling herself toward you. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding. You were a vision by the way. I mean, the ceremony? You two could’ve had a Vogue cover, just stunning.”

You chuckle, nodding politely. “Thank you. It was a blur, but I do remember crying over my lashes right before walking down the aisle.”

Yuna laughs, then tilts her head a little. “So, married life? How’s it been? I imagine being Mrs. Nishimura is…an adjustment.”

The way she says it—like she’s biting into something sweet just to test the aftertaste—tells you she’s digging. Not cruelly. Just…curious. Or pretending to be. You tilt your head, mirroring her. “We were just talking about it.” You gesture to Sohee with a smile. “It’s been good.” You always loved to overshare, but it was no one’s business what consisted of your relationship. Namely how well your husband treated you. You had to learn that lesson better now than later.

Yuna hums. “Right. He’s always had that...edge. But seeing him soft for someone? Kind of wild, honestly.”

You smile, gentle but unmistakably proud. “It’s a side of him you have to earn.”

That lands. You see it in the way her jaw shifts just slightly, like the compliment doubled as a subtle door slam.

She nods slowly, playing it off. “Must be nice—being the one person who gets let into the inner sanctum. He doesn’t really do vulnerability.”

You rest your elbow on the table, your chin on your hand. “No, he doesn’t. Which is why I don’t take him for granted.” 

And that right there—that soft, unapologetic weight behind your words—is when the intimidation really hits.

Yuna smiles, but this one doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You make it look easy.”

Sohee clears his throat, trying to reroute the conversation back to safer shores. “You always had that energy, though,” he says. “Even at the wedding. People were talking more about you than the cake.”

You grin. “Then I hope they weren’t talking about the dress fitting too tight. I ate like four slices of that cake myself.”

“Bold,” Yuna murmurs, sipping her drink. “That cake was like five hundred a slice.”

You glance at her. “When you marry a man who owns the bank the baker owes a loan to, cake isn’t a concern.”

Sohee chokes on a laugh, half trying to hide it. “She’s not wrong.”

Yuna raises an eyebrow, lips twitching. “That sounds like something Komichō would say.”

“He’s rubbing off on me,” you say. 

“Definitely rubbing,” she mumbles beneath her breath as she sipped her tea again, you barely heard it but it was definitely loud enough for you to catch. Your ears perked up at the comment, “I’m sorry?” Tilting your head with a small smile, acting as if you didn’t really hear her. 

Yuna blinked, playing it off, though her smirk didn’t quite fade. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

You let out a soft chuckle, resting your elbow on the table and your chin in your hand. “You should be careful doing that around here. People might think you’re losing it.”

Sohee glanced between the two of you, sensing the invisible knife sliding onto the table. “Right, well, I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear anything either.”

“No need,” you said smoothly, eyes still on Yuna. “I just thought I heard something interesting. Wouldn’t want to miss out.”

Yuna gave a small shrug, eyes cool. “Guess my mind wandered.”

“To Riki?” you asked lightly, no edge to your voice but every word precise.

Her lips parted like she might defend herself, but instead she laughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re good.”

You smiled wider. “I know I am.”

Sohee cleared his throat again—less out of nerves, more out of self-preservation. It seemed so with him, Riki said he always thinks like he’s the smartest in the room but it might not even be that. Maybe, but he shrinks beneath the gaze of someone bigger. Though, intelligence and bravery aren’t mutually exclusive in this case. Or any of them for that matter. But you didn’t break your gaze from Yuna, not just yet. “Don’t worry,” you finally said, sitting back in your seat with a gracious tilt of your head. “I don’t bite unless I’m hungry.” Your eyes glinted, like the once inquisitive look was suddenly demoted to annoyance. But you knew better than to let her get the best of you. Yuna lifted her tea, trying to cover the shift in her posture—the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw tightened for just a second. “Good thing I’m not on the menu.”

“Of course not,” you said sweetly. You stand, brushing off your skirt as you slide out of your seat. “I’ll be going now, guys. Thanks for hanging out with me.” 

“No problem,” Sohee said with a gentle smile as he stood up to shake your head. To which you nodded respectfully, returning the gesture. “Hopefully we’ll be seeing more of you around here.” You laughed with a nod, “For sure, I’ll definitely be around.” Glancing at Yuna, you smiled gently. “See you around, little one?” You reached out and rubbed her arm, to other eyes it was friendly. Between you two—and maybe Sohee if he squinted—it almost seemed like you were rubbing the metaphorical snot she sneezed onto you, back on her. Sonning her, ‘little girl-ing’ her.

Nonetheless, she smiled. She nodded. And just took it. “Yes, see you around.”

And off you were.

—

Speaking to Riki after that little exchange was definitely on your mind. Seriously it was, every aching part of you was determined to run down on him and question him until he physically choked on his every word. Because for real, what the fuck was that? Why was Yuna so comfortable speaking about your relationship and Riki in such a way? How has Riki made her so comfortable? When has he done that? How did it happen? Who even brought this up to her in the first place? As the five W’s were this close to the edge of your tongue, you decided to save it for later. Not now, no. And it’s not even like you were shy about your marriage. If one couldn’t tell by now, you took any and every opportunity to mention Riki. You swore to your friends that once you got married you would ‘my husband…’ the fuck out of them and everyone else around you. But you didn’t know Yuna, hardly even. You’d known her as one of the heavy hitters—essentially the PR for the group. The Social Liaison. She was delicate, yet biting. Subtle, yet direct. She was gorgeous and that’s exactly why she was appointed, because she was easy on the eyes and no one could dare turn away a beautiful woman. You didn’t feel inferior, there was no reason to. Yuna was Yuna and You were You. Both of you were beautiful young women in a field dominated by men no matter how you sliced it. So to see her be so combative when you didn’t do that to her made you feel like you lost a friend before you could even make one. So as you were on the hunt for Jo, passing through each hallway and scouring every nook and cranny for this guy. You peeped Riki a few feet away in the broad, wide-ranging room. Speaking so firmly to one of the kobun, not making eye contact but nodding along as he walked and they briefed him on something. They were too far for you to hear but he had noticed you, almost like he felt you from ten feet away. He didn’t stop what he was doing, didn’t pause, he was slick as always. Riki kept walking and as he was listening but he made eye contact with you. His gorgeous, alluring eyes followed you as you kept moving but he didn’t smile. He just poked his tongue out—quick, barely there, a flicker of his usual mischief. The kind of look that says I see you, and I know you see me, without saying a single word. It wasn’t apologetic. It felt more like a challenge. Like he was telling you to come find him. To press him. To demand what you wanted to know. At least to you because that’s what you felt like doing. But knowing him, he was just teasing. Letting you know that beneath the hard shell of the Komichō was your childish, teasing, yet loving husband. You held his gaze for a moment longer, then kept walking. Because no matter how much your fists itched to grab his collar and ask him what the hell Yuna meant by that, you had other business to handle. Logistics came first. And Jo—well, Jo was never easy to find. Which was kind of the point.

So you tucked Riki into your back pocket for now, like a loaded question you’d pull out later.

Jo was somewhere in this damn compound, likely holed up with blueprints, phone calls, and at least five burner devices. And if there was anyone (sans Riki) who could give you the real lay of the land—or shift it completely—it was him.

Riki could wait.

You pulled out your phone to shoot him a message, though:

thorn in my side: do yk where jo would be right abt now?

He replied back in a split second.

idiotbox: should be in his office. upstairs, 5th floor. 509.

thorn in my side: thanks

idiotbox: i love you

…

???

i said i love you

i love you baby ????

now girl…

You didn’t even care to respond, you were mad at him for something you only assumed he did and that was childish, of course. You were petty, but so was he and that was how you two worked so well. He’d pick up eventually, but you hated the fact that such a menial exchange had irritated you this badly. But you knew better than to put him in a bad mood at work.

thorn in my side: i love you more babe-asaurus

idiotbox: hm

we’ll talk later

You rolled your eyes at how easily he was able to read you even without seeing you. But whatever, you have a guy to find and Riki was close to your heart as always; but the least of your worries.

Taking the elevator was intense because you hoped that it would be slower, honestly. Like how much of a rush were these guys in? You reached the first to fifth floor in less than two seconds. Now, here you are, scanning the doors and you finally reached Jo’s appointed office and you politely knocked. Waiting for a ‘come in’ or ‘enter’ or ‘who is it’ literally anything. But nothing. You scanned the hallway, peering both ways up and down. No one was around, no one seemed to be passing through and you stepped forward a little bit to put your ear to the door. Also silence. 

Racking your brain, Riki’s words kept ringing in your mind: you are not to engage further.

You are not to engage further.

You are not to engage further. 

You are not—fuck it.

Without another thought you twisted the knob to Jo’s office and as fate would have it, the door was unlocked. You pushed through the door and peeked your head in.

Empty.

So as you slipped in, gently closing the door behind you before locking it, you reminded yourself of what you came here for. It was to get a hold on behavioral patterns, but there’s no harm in scanning. With a shaky exhale, your eyes followed through the space. Very minimal. Only necessary items here: desk, chair, file cabinet, desk lamp, simply essential office gadgets. But as you neared his desk, you spied a ton of papers scattering across it. You hovered, unsure whether you should touch them, but then again, Riki did say not to engage further. He didn’t say anything about observing. Which, in your opinion, made this a grey area. And what were grey areas for, if not you skating through them with barely plausible deniability? The first sheet that caught your eye was a layout of the compound—more detailed than the blueprints you’d seen before. Color-coded zones, timestamped patrol shifts, even ventilation system routes. Jo is definitely playing chess while the rest of these guys are just showing up to the board. The next paper underneath made your stomach pull a little tighter. It was a list. Names. Some you recognized, some you didn’t. Some were marked with symbols: asterisks, slashes, question marks. What you did know was that this was the definitive roster—essentially—for everyone in Thunder. 

Sans one other: Yuna.

Weird.

Then you saw it.

A manila folder tucked half underneath a blueprint sheet. You knew you shouldn’t, but girl—curiosity is a disease. You slid it out just an inch, enough to see the label written in Jo’s tight, deliberate handwriting:

“INCIDENT REPORT — LEAK”

Then another:

“NISHI — CONFIDENTIAL”

You didn’t let your initial shock cloud your common sense. Without another thought you grabbed the two files and shoved them inside of your shirt. Dumb decision, yes. Strange, absolutely. Just as you were heading to the door to make your graceful exit (you’ve been doing a lot of those lately it seemed), you heard footsteps and jingling keys right outside of the door. 

“Fuck!” You mouthed in panic and scanned the room. A sliding closet was your best bet so you took shelter there, squatting at the floor and hugging the cloth covered folders to your chest. Knowing better, you ensured your phone was on silent and not on the hard floor to make noise. 

And not a second too soon.

The lock clicked, the door swung open, and Jo entered—as leisurely as one can be. You watched through the thin slits in the closet door as he moved with practiced ease, the way only someone who expected to be alone did.

He muttered something under his breath, inaudible, as he tossed a USB onto the desk and rolled his chair out with a squeak. You swore your heart was doing parkour in your chest, beating a rhythm so loud you were sure he could hear it.

He started typing.

Clicking, clacking, clomping. Jo hands had left the keyboard to feel for his folders—the absent ones. 

His hands patted the desk once. Then again. Slower.

You could hear the moment he realized something was off.

Click, click.

Rustle.

Click.

Pause.

“…Huh.”

He stood up. You could see his silhouette shift through the closet slats. Jo leaned over the desk again, rifling through papers, lifting one corner of the blueprint like the folders might be playing hide and seek with him.

Another pause. Longer this time.

Then he muttered, low and sharp: “Motherfucker.”

Busted. Not completely, but the clock was officially ticking.

Jo paced once, then sat back down hard, fingers drumming against the desk in a rhythm that screamed calculating. You knew Jo very vaguely—this wasn’t confusion. This wasn’t panic.

This was inventory. This was war.

And you were right there in the middle of it, like a roach under a glass.

He pulled his phone out. Tapped. You didn’t hear the call ring—probably encrypted, burner-to-burner. Probably to someone way too important to be talking about two stolen folders and a potential mole crouched three feet away.

Still, his voice was ice when he finally spoke:

“They’re gone. Both of them. Yes. Both. Folders. No. Nobody else’s been in here.”

He huffed as he slammed the device down on the desk and left without another word. Closing the door behind him. 

You didn’t move for a full thirty seconds.

Just breathed.

Slow and shallow, trying not to make even your lungs betray you. Your heart was doing a drum solo in your chest, and the folders clutched to you suddenly felt like live explosives. Your knees were screaming. Your brain was screaming.

But Jo was gone.

And you were still here.

When you finally uncurled yourself and opened the closet door like it might squeak out a betrayal, the coast was still clear. The office was eerily quiet, save for the dull hum of whatever sinister programs Jo had left running on his screen.

You grabbed his phone too, along with the USBs. Leaving that behind, what a dummy. 

You crept out like a cat burglar in a heist movie, glancing around one more time before heading to the door.

No one.

No shadows.

You slid out and shut the door behind you, just as quietly as you came.

And then booked it.

—

Muscle memory had you headed there before you could even second-guess the idea. Ninth floor, west wing, room 920. You’d memorized it months ago without even meaning to—like the curve of his signature, or the way his voice dipped when he was serious. The folders were still tucked under your shirt like contraband, stabbing awkwardly against your ribs as you power-walked. You probably looked suspicious. Not that anyone was around to clock it—yet. But paranoia was creeping in like a slow leak. Any second now, you were sure alarms would start blaring.

You rounded the corner, heart racing. Riki’s door stood at the end of the hallway, clean and unassuming. You didn’t knock. Just turned the handle and slipped inside like a shadow.

He wasn’t at his desk.

He was standing at the window, back to you, hands in his pockets like some tortured antihero. Of course. Of course he was being dramatic today.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, without turning around.

You rolled your eyes and let the door click shut behind you. “This is where my man is, this is where I’m due. Thank you very much.”

He turned slowly, his expression unreadable until his eyes landed on your shirt—and what was very obviously not a very lumpy new bra.

“You didn’t,” he said flatly.

You didn’t say anything. Just reached under your shirt, pulled the folders and phone out like a magician producing a rabbit, and dropped them onto his desk with a soft thump.

Riki stared at them.

Then at you. “...You’re insane.”

“I love you.”

He pressed his fingers to his eyes, already visibly aging five years. “I love you too. But I told you not to engage.”

“Yeah, well.” You walked to his side of the desk as he sat. “I’m starting to think you only say that when you don’t wanna deal with the fallout.” You lifted yourself to sit atop his desk, folding your legs.

He didn’t argue because a part of him knew better. But he was going to ask questions.

“Before I open these, Oracle.” He smirked as he leaned back in his chair, rubbing your bare calves. “You are going to tell me how you got these.”

You tilted your head, half-smirking, half-daring him to press. “Before I tell you,” you said, voice sweet as poison, “you’re going to tell me who Nishi is.”

He paused, the playful squeeze he gave your leg faltering for just a second. Just enough for you to catch. Just enough to confirm that the name meant something. Something serious.

“That’s not how this works,” he said slowly, like he was weighing each word. “You first.”

You leaned back on your palms, eyes dragging lazily across the office like you were bored—like you weren’t high off adrenaline and one bad decision away from spiraling. “Door was unlocked. Papers were out. Your little friend Jo doesn’t have the cleanest filing system.”

“You broke into his office,” he said, amused but exasperated, like a teacher trying not to laugh while writing you up. “You hid in his closet.”

“And you told me not to engage, which is very different from telling me not to investigate,” you quipped. “And how do you even know I did that?”

His hands were warm against your skin again, this time steady. Grounding. He sighed, and there was something tired in it. Like this day had finally worn him down. “First off, you came in here winded. Which means you were running. Something you never do.” He nodded affirmatively, like he had seen this scenario a million times before. “Then you have extra padding in your bra like you don’t have enough going on there alrea—” 

You squinted at him, offended but mostly appalled. “Excuse me?”

Riki had the audacity to grin, all smug and unbothered, like he wasn’t skating on the thinnest ice imaginable. “What?” he said, lifting his hands in fake innocence. “I notice things. You weren’t exactly subtle and I’ve seen them enough to know what they do and don’t look like. The folders are poking out like a second set of ribs.”

You smacked his arm. “You are insufferable.”

“Observant,” he corrected, laughing under his breath. “And I know you. You only get this chaotic when you’re pissed or nosy. Or both.”

You rolled your eyes and slipped off his desk, pacing a few steps to blow off steam. “Well, congrats. You know me. You want a medal or a map to Jo’s shitty closet?”

“I want you to tell me why you went looking for him,” he said, the smile in his voice gone now. “What made you dig?”

You paused, fiddling with the edge of a stray paper on his desk, not looking at him. “I was just making my way down the list.” You shrug with a slight pout. “I had already spoken with Yuna and Sohee. Conveniently they were both in the same room. Then I saw you enroute to Jo, knocked on his office. Nobody home. So I took it upon myself to find what he wasn’t there to tell me.” You sighed with a firm nod. “Who’s Nishi? Is it short for Nishimura? Or short for Nis—” You paused as something in your brain had clicked, the lights weren’t dim anymore. “The Nishiyama syndicate that you were speaking of.” Humming in understanding finally as you leaned against the desk. “Is that it?”

Riki’s then blank expression shifted to a smile, not devilish. But kind, almost…proud despite the weird situation. “Yeah, that’s it.”

Somehow you felt small beneath his gaze, so your eyes shifted to the files and phone. “Are you gonna open the files?”

The raven-haired man sighed, leaning back into his chair. He was entirely too cavalier for your liking but you kept your lips glued. This was his world, not yours. At least not yet. “No.” He shook his head gently. “You’re gonna read them and tell me what you find.”

You blinked. “Okay,”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” Riki leaned up and handed you a new notepad and pen. “Don’t write on his stuff. I’m sure he knows they’re missing.”

“He does,” you took the items with both hands. “Is he going to hurt me if—”

“Over my dead fucking body.”

Your breath caught—not because you didn’t believe him, but because of how fast he said it. Like it wasn’t a question. Like the very thought of Jo trying anything had flipped a switch in Riki’s brain that only lived between rage and devotion.

You stared at him. “That’s dramatic.”

“I mean it,” he said, and this time there was no smugness, no teasing. Just that low, steady tone that made your spine straighten and your chest feel way too small. “He touches you, he dies.”

Laughing him off, you waved your hand. “Again, dramatic.”

“There’s nothing dramatic about it. I have no problem putting anybody six feet under if it’s about you. I’m telling you now, I will kill him. Myself, with my bare hands.” He nods calmly. You nodded, lips pursed as this weird feeling of not believing him but absolutely believing him came over you. Now you aren’t stupid, there’s very few people in this life that have clean hands but since you never saw that side of Riki—it was hard to fully compute that. You were used to the version of him that bit you when he just found you cute. The one that whenever he ate french fries, he would put them in his mouth and act like he was a walrus. The part of him that whined whenever his food touched.

The Riki that kissed you like it was his first and last, everytime. When he made love to you it was passionate, like he cared. Savoring every part of your body and ravishing it like a starved man. And even though you’ve been together for as long as you have, he still makes you feel like you’re in high school. Both his and your inner child’s connect and that’s what makes every part of being with him so worth it. Hearing him talk about putting someone in the dirt for hurting you didn’t scare you. At all, if anything a depraved part of you loved that he was so ready and willing to take care of you. But because he had kept you so far from this life—to the point where you never saw him right when he came home from work. You only ever saw him after a shower when he got back. The house was big enough for him to avoid you and he didn’t want you to even see him in any other way aside from put-together or casual. He simply wants to keep your perception of him one way. Now he’s at the point where he doesn’t need to get his hands dirty, but he’s not above it. He knows he’s not but he doesn’t want you to know that. Maybe because you’re pure, the only clean thing in this world and he wants to honor that sanctity.

Thus you nod with a tight-lipped smile. “Aye-aye captain,”

Riki nodded curtly, “Thank you, now sit.”

“Can I take this home with me—oh wait, no, the rule.” I sighed as I sat down on his couch. 

He laughed, “Right, good, good. But…” He breezed past his desk to now sit beside you. “Why didn’t you tell me you loved me?” He leaned back against the back of the couch, crossing his arms as he peered at you with patient eyes. 

You furrowed your brows, snorting at his ridiculousness. “I tell you that multiple times an hour, Riki. I just said it when I came in. What are you talking about?”

“Babe—sorry—” He covers his mouth, trying to muffle a smile at the minor slip-up. 

You point at him, “Ah-ha! You broke your own rule, genius.” Laughing as you twirl the pen between your fingers.

Riki groaned dramatically, tipping his head back against the couch cushion like the weight of his love-induced hypocrisy had just crushed him. “God, I’m so weak,” he mumbled into the ceiling.

You giggled, nudging his leg with your knee. “You made a rule you couldn’t keep. Who does that?”

“A man in love,” he sighed, hand flopping over his heart. “A fool. A slave to your eyes and...whatever scented oil you’re wearing today. Beautiful gourmand.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your past mistakes. “You suck so bad.”

He turned to look at you again, his playful expression softening slightly. “You didn’t say it earlier. In the texts. Well you did, but I just had to pull it out of you. Which is unusual because usually it happens easily. Like a nice, well-lubricated machine.”

You paused, the smile still on your lips but tinged now with something quieter. “I was annoyed.”

“I figured,” he said.

“And don’t use ‘well-lubricated’ like that ever again.” You laughed as you adjusted your position, kicking off your shoes just because you could. Placing your legs on his lap as he instinctively went to massaging your aching feet. 

Riki laughed beneath his breath, “Mmm, how else should I use it then…?” He trails his hand up your calf.

“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence,” you said, pointing the pen at him like it doubled as a taser. “I’m in work mode now. No nasty metaphors.”

Riki smirked, thumb dragging slow circles into your ankle like he was trying to hypnotize you. “You sure? I’ve got a whole glossary. Synonyms. Imagery. PowerPoint, even.”

“PowerPoint?” You quirked a brow. “Wow. And here I thought this organization was low-tech.”

“We save the advanced tech for seduction,” he deadpanned.

You threw your head back in a laugh, letting your legs go slack against him. “You are so lucky you’re cute.”

“I know.” He smiled proudly, then leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your knee. “But seriously...I knew something was bothering you. I felt it.”

You nodded, brushing a bit of lint from your lap like it was your own way of smoothing down your thoughts. “I didn’t like the way Yuna talked about you. Like she knew you. Knows you. I know it’s stupid—”

“It’s not,” he cut in gently. “Whatever it is, it’s not.”

You looked at him. “I didn’t want to make it a thing while you’re working, but...she got under my skin.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing really,” You shook your head as confusion plagued your expression. “Like she was just throwing jabs at our marriage. Like—”

“Do you want her gone?”

“Wait–damn! Can I at least tell you what happened?” You put your hands out in panic.

Riki blinked, caught between his gut reaction and your clearly not-yet-finished train of thought. “Right. Sorry.” He held up his hands, leaning back slightly. “Continue. Full dramatic reenactment, if you will.”

You gave him a flat look. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here I am. Devoted. Foot-rubbing. Ready to commit crimes in your honor.”

You fought back a smile, exhaling sharply before continuing. “She just said some things. Made it sound like she knew you in a way I didn’t. Nothing direct, but it was all…in the way she said it. Like she was watching me, waiting to see if I’d flinch.”

Riki’s jaw ticked just slightly, and his hand stilled again on your leg. “What did she say exactly?”

“She joked about you being soft for me. About how it must be wild seeing you like that. And then she muttered something under her breath—‘definitely rubbing’—after I said you were rubbing off on me.” You rolled your eyes. “While it was funny,” you smiled as you reflected on the moment. “It was just the tone she took, it was petty.”

His voice had that eerie calm again—the kind that made you picture storms on the horizon. “And do you want her gone?”

You hesitated. “I don’t want to make you cut people loose just because they annoy me.”

“Not just anyone,” he said slowly. “Her. You disrespect my wife, you disrespect me. End of discussion.”

You sighed. “I just didn’t like feeling like I was being tested. Like I had to prove I was worthy to be here. That I deserved you.”

“No. You don’t need to prove shit to anyone. She works for you, baby. Not the other way around.” He scoffs in irritation, not at you. Just at the situation.

“You think she wants you or something?” 

Riki rolls his eyes, “Please,” he waves off.

“No, I’m being serious.” 

He furrowed his brows, “That has nothing to do with me, I chose you. I love you. Yuna is just…Yuna.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, folding your arms across your chest as your legs stayed propped on his lap. “That is the vaguest, most non-answer answer I’ve ever heard.”

Riki groaned, tilting his head back like the ceiling was somehow responsible for your suspicion. “Baby, come on. You want me to what—spell out that she probably has some weird little crush from back in the day? Okay. Maybe. Possibly. Who wouldn’t? But that doesn’t matter. I don’t want her.”

You blinked, lips parting just slightly. “Weird little crush from back in the day?”

He froze. Froze frozen. Like someone had just hit pause on his entire soul.

Then slowly—painfully slowly—he sat up straighter and scratched the back of his neck like a man about to give a deposition. “...I mean, like…a crush she invented in her head. You know how people do. Delulu culture. She’s a millennial. Or—whatever she is.”

You gave him the most unimpressed stare humanly possible. One that could suck the air out of a room if you held it long enough.

“You’ve been avoiding answering straight for two full minutes,” you said, your voice sharp but cool. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He let out a deep sigh, eyes flicking briefly to your legs across his lap—like grounding himself with you physically would make the words come easier.

“Nothing happened,” he finally said, slow and careful, like laying down a live wire. “She flirted. Years ago. Once. I didn’t flirt back. I shut it down. It didn’t become a thing because I didn’t let it become a thing. Plus by that point, I had just started seeing you.”

You stared, not blinking, not speaking. Just letting the silence stretch until it felt like your heartbeat was echoing off the floors.

“And now?” you asked at last, voice like velvet over a blade.

His gaze lifted to meet yours, firm and unwavering. “Now she’s someone on payroll who will never get that close again. You have my name, my ring, everything. And if I could give you more of me, I would. She’s noise. Vapor.”

The words settled in your chest like something warm and weighted. The kind of thing that wasn’t just sweet, but true. You didn’t nod. You didn’t smile. You just breathed—and it came easier after that.

“Good,” you murmured.

“Good,” he echoed, reaching up to squeeze your ankle gently.

Riki had never given you any sort of reason to doubt his loyalty to you. But something about Yuna just made you feel some sort of insecure. And that’s never a good feeling. “Okay, so back to work on these thingies.” You sighed as you grabbed all of your things, the files and notepad. 

—

You settled deeper into the couch, the file balanced on your knees, pen in hand. Riki stayed quiet beside you, hands behind his head like he wasn’t five seconds away from snatching the folder and reading it himself. But this was your job now. He gave it to you. He trusted you. And trust in this world was rarer than sleep.

The first folder you opened was the one labeled:

“INCIDENT REPORT — LEAK”

Your eyes scanned the top page. Neat, efficient language. Jo’s writing was all business. But beneath that business tone… was tension. A lot of it.

Summary: On 05/23, it was confirmed that classified movement data regarding the Nishiyama holdings in the Shibuya district was compromised and intercepted by an unknown third party. The breach occurred between the hours of 03:00 and 05:00 JST.

Method of Leak: Evidence points to an internal device tap. Most likely wireless, planted within the logistics room (3rd floor).

Potential Suspect(s):

T. Nakamoto (denied access two weeks prior but showed up in building security logs 24 hours before the breach)

Sohee Lee (recent behavioral inconsistencies; requires further monitoring)

UNCONFIRMED: External syndicate involvement possible (see cross-file: “NISHI — CONFIDENTIAL”)

You sucked in a breath. “Sohee?” you said aloud, almost in disbelief.

Riki’s voice was low. “Keep going.”

You flipped to the second page—grainy black-and-white images from security footage. A figure moving at 4:12 AM through a hallway near the logistics room. Hood up. Face obscured. But the time stamp matched Jo’s report exactly.

You shook your head. “This is bad. Whoever this is knew where to go. No camera catch, no chatter, just straight infiltration. Like a ghost.”

Riki didn’t speak—his jaw was tight. He already knew this. He’d probably seen the footage himself.

You flipped to the next folder:

“NISHI — CONFIDENTIAL”

Your stomach clenched.

This one wasn’t a report. It was…a dossier.

A breakdown of an entire group.

The Nishiyama Syndicate. Or, as Riki had called them before—“Nishi.” A former rival organization that went dark years ago.

Overview: The Nishiyama Syndicate—presumed inactive by 2017—has begun resurfacing under new leadership. Not confirmed, but rumored to be operating under a splinter faction using legitimate business fronts. Possible laundering through offshore holdings (Monaco, Belize, Singapore).

Recent Activity:

Acquisition of real estate adjacent to Nishimura holdings.

Shadow-bidding on construction contracts connected to your family’s public-facing properties.

Unusual surveillance patterns noted around Nishimura residences.

Notable Names:

A. Nishiyama (deceased, patriarch)

M. Nishiyama (???) — identity redacted

“Subject N” — possible mole or double agent; suspected to have contact with active Nishimura staff. (PRIORITY)

You looked up at Riki. “This reads like they’re trying to move in. Slowly. Quietly.”

He nodded, lips pressed tight. “I think the breach might’ve come from a mole inside the building. Someone feeding info.”

Your pulse spiked. “Who do you think it is?”

He looked at you carefully. “I haven’t ruled anyone out. Neither has Jo. But everyone’s guilty until proven innocent.”

“It’s inno—”

He held his hand up, “I know what it is.”

You snorted as you looked back down at the file but then suddenly looked back to him. “Hey, did Jo call you at all today on one of the burners?”

He frowned in thought. “No, why?”

Your eyes widened in slight fear, feeling adrenaline pump through your veins. “His phone is on your desk.” Pointing to it with urgency. “He called someone earlier, letting them know the files were missing.”

You felt like the floor shifted under you.

Riki stood up and grabbed the phone, unlocking it as he sifted through it. “Go. Continue, let me do this.”

Then you flipped one last page in the NISHI folder—and your heart stopped.

REDACTED TARGET LIST [photo attached]

R. Nishimura (active)

“Okaasan” (active, unnamed spouse)

Status: Tracking active; no confirmed contact attempts. Maintain passive surveillance.

There was a picture.

Of you.

A candid photo. Leaving your favorite coffee shop. Hair in a bun. Not even looking at the camera.

They knew who you were.

They were watching.

“Oh my fucking…” You whispered as your hands started to shake. 

Riki didn’t look up—yet. He was still going through the burner phone, locked in, muttering something under his breath. But the second your voice cracked, just the edge of that whisper, he froze. Your hands were trembling around the paper, your breath shallow as if the photo alone had stolen the oxygen from your lungs. “They’re watching me, Riki,” you said quietly. “They know. They know who I am.”

That’s when he looked up.

His gaze flicked to your face first—then to the folder in your lap. You didn’t even have to show him. He crossed the room in three strides, dropped the phone without care, and snatched the folder from your lap with steady hands but a murderous edge in his jaw.

He saw it. The image. The note. The label: “Okaasan – Active, unnamed spouse.”

Your face. Your fucking face. On a watch list.

Riki’s breathing changed.

Not heavy. Not loud.

But measured. Controlled. The kind of breathing someone does right before they explode.

“No contact attempts,” he read aloud, barely above a whisper. “Passive surveillance. Maintain.” His jaw flexed once. Twice. “That means they’ve been watching. But not enough to tip me off. Or you.” You still couldn’t speak. Your mind was spiraling, thinking back—every time you thought someone was staring at you too long in the coffee shop. Every car that took a little too long to pull away. The time your key fob didn’t register on the first try and you swore you saw someone standing at the edge of the parking lot.

You knew. Felt it more than anything.

Riki stepped back, slowly. “You’re done,” he said, coldly.

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re done with this.” He gestured to the papers—everything. “I don’t want you involved anymore.”

“No—Riki—”

“I said you’re done.”

His voice wasn’t raised, but it was final.

You stood, breath catching again—not out of fear this time, but out of frustration. “You can’t just—”

“I can, and I will.” He looked at you, eyes flashing with something deeper than anger. “They put you on a list. A list with my name. They put a target on your back for being married to me.”

“You said you’d pull me out if I couldn’t handle it. I can and—”

“No. You said that,” he bit out. “Thank you so much for your interpretation of how you think this works. But I’m telling you now, sweetheart. You’re finished.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling rapidly. “So what, you’re just gonna hide me away like a secret? Lock me in the house?”

“If I have to,” he said without hesitation. “I’d rather you hate me than end up in a morgue. You think I give a fuck about being the bad guy in your story if it keeps you alive?”

And for the first time, you realized—he wasn’t just angry.

He was scared.

Riki Nishimura, the man who ran empires with a flick of his fingers, the one who made people disappear without batting an eye—was looking at you like he had already lost you. Like he was trying to stop the bleeding before the wound even opened.

And you didn’t know whether to fight him or fall apart.

—

Within the next hour, Riki sent you home. 

No yelling. No begging. No stomping down the hallway with your shoes in hand like you wanted to. Just a tight-lipped goodbye, a long look that said please don’t fight me on this, and the subtle pressure of his hand on the small of your back as he walked you to the elevator. Kissing your cheeks and temple as he guided you.

“I’ll be home later, I love you.” he said, eyes fixed on the elevator door as it closed, locking you in. Locking you out.

You didn’t say anything. You just nodded, chewing the inside of your cheek like it’d keep your heart from leaping up and making a scene.

And now here you are.

In the house. Your house. His too. That same massive, almost-too-silent house where the floors were spotless, the air always smelled faintly of clean linen and sandalwood, and the fridge was somehow always stocked but never truly full. You hadn’t even changed clothes. You hadn’t moved much. Just sat on the edge of the bed for a while, fingers interlaced, something so mundane like Riki’s silver watch still on the nightstand like it might grow teeth.

Because it could’ve been anyone.

Anyone watching you. Anyone taking that photo.

You didn’t even realize you’d started crying until you saw the wet spot on your blouse. And then more tears followed—not because you were scared. But because he had known. About the business. The threats. The danger.

And he kept you out of it. You were so proud. Marching into lounges. Reading body language. Toying with people like you were ten steps ahead. But the whole time, you were in a different game.

A different arena.

You weren’t playing chess. You were the queen piece. And someone had started planning your checkmate.

You wiped your face and reached for your phone.

Nothing from Riki yet. Of course. He needed time. To clean up. To cover tracks. To burn things down.

You opened your texts anyway. Clicked on the chat.

thorn in my side: i’m home

i love you, baby

Message delivered. No reply yet.

You stared at the phone until the screen went dark.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence in your house didn’t feel safe. It felt like someone else might be listening too.

—

Riki came home and the house was equally as silent. 

He’d come home to a quiet home almost everyday, nothing new. Most times you were in the bath, in the living room buried in a book, or on a good day—you’d already be in bed. And by this time, he’d shower before he came to greet you but the weird thing about being with someone for so long—you feel them everywhere. Your warmth, your mood, he feels it all. 

But this time he felt nothing. 

Immediately his mood dampened, the intuition that he had relied on so heavily over the last twenty-four years of his life already letting him know something was amiss. “Baby?” He called out as he slipped his shoes off. 

No response. 

He smacked his teeth, “My goodness, I shouldn’t have gotten her those fucking headphones.” He placed his jacket on the coat rack and skimmed the area. Your keys were by the door, as usual. The sweater you wore today, okay fine. Your Mary Janes—your favorite shoes that he always tripped over and threatened to throw away. Huh.

Again, that strange nagging feeling in Riki just never went away. He padded over to the kitchen, seeing dinner spread out on the table. Wrapped up and ready for yours and Riki’s consumption, there was a serving taken out of it which meant you ate something. Good.

But you weren’t in the kitchen. And you weren’t in the living room.

The staff not being around makes sense, he sent them home for the day. Clara wanted to spend time with her son so who was he to tell her no? 

And now, the fucking office that he had built with his own hands—empty.

This house was huge, humongous—but there would’ve been some way you heard him already.

He called your name firmly. Riki never says your name, that’s like the rule. Still, no response. He calls your phone because knowing you—it’s never too far. Straight to voicemail. 

“What the fuck.” Riki Nishimura doesn’t panic—but something cold and venomous slithered up his spine as he stood in the middle of that pristine kitchen as he now made his way back there, fists clenched, jaw ticking.

And then.

Then he saw the note.

Sitting prettily on the marble counter—in a little nook. Surprised he had missed it before. 

Simple. Clean. In all capital letters.

YOU WANTED HER OUT. SO WE TOOK HER OUT.

And on the back of the note was a photo of you. Gagged, tearful eyes, messy hair, scratched face. You had put up a fight that was for sure, it wouldn’t be you if you didn’t. 

The marble counter shattered first.

He slammed his fists down, hard enough to crack the stone. The note crumpled beneath him as he shouted, loud and hoarse, like it had been ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.

“FUCK!”

Everything after that was instinct. A storm. A full-blown implosion. He threw the nearest chair across the room. It smashed into the wall with a satisfying crack, splintering on impact. Plates followed next, flying off the table with a feral sweep of his arm. Food hit the cabinets, the fridge, the floor. A glass shattered under his heel. He didn’t even flinch.

“I told her to go home!” he roared. “I sent her home!”

His eyes were wild. Drenched in something between fear and fury. The kind of look no one ever saw and lived to describe.

He yanked open drawers. Punched the fridge. Tore the cabinet door clean off the hinge and hurled it across the room. A vase hit the floor and shattered—porcelain flowers slicing across the floor like confetti made of rage.

And then—his voice broke.

“Fuck—fuck, fuck—”

He grabbed the sink with both hands, chest heaving, eyes squeezing shut like maybe, if he tried hard enough, this would all vanish. That the note would disappear. That you’d walk out from your office and ask what the hell happened to the dining room. But all he heard was silence. All he felt was the absence of you. The kind of stillness that only existed in grief. He sank to the floor—only for a second—hands gripping his hair. And then the door creaked open.

Clara opened the door with glee, bags from the nearest arts and crafts store. “Riki—?”

She froze in place.

The kitchen looked like a warzone. Dinner ruined. Furniture destroyed. Her boss—on the floor, shaking, breathing like a wild animal trying to hold in a scream.

She didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t have to.

Because then she saw the note. 

The note.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my goodness.”

Riki slowly stood. There was a line of blood down his knuckles—he hadn’t even noticed. His breathing was low now. Tighter. Like someone was holding his lungs closed.

He didn’t look at her as he spoke.

“Tell everyone to get on the line. Now. I want every runner, every affiliate, every fucking rat with ears in this city looking.”

Clara nodded, frozen.

“If she’s not found by midnight—” He turned to her. Eyes glassy. Voice cold. As he stepped beside her, venom in his eyes as he looked down at her with nothing but truth in his eyes.

“—Everybody’s fucking dying, Clara. You included.”

Clara didn’t say a word. Just nodded, pale as a ghost, and scrambled to grab her phone. Riki didn’t even watch her leave. He turned on his heel and stormed toward his office, blood trailing faintly from his knuckles and dotting the floor like red ink.

He slammed the office door behind him so hard the glass panel trembled.

Without hesitation, he slammed the heel of his palm down on the black switch embedded into the side of his desk—an unmarked button that immediately turned the room red. Not metaphorically. The lights literally shifted into emergency mode, casting the entire office in a crimson hue. The kind of red that let every handler in his operation know: This is DEFCON 1. Life or death. Burn everything if you have to.His jaw clenched so tight you could hear the creak in his teeth. Then he yanked open the bottom drawer, reaching for the sleek matte tablet hidden beneath a stack of decoy files. With a swipe and a facial scan, he opened a security interface. His fingers flew across the screen.

“Tracker,” he muttered under his breath. “C’mon, c’mon…” He clicked into a discreet sub-menu, one labeled ‘PRIVATE ACCESS – VELOMY.’ The screen lit up, pulling a location from a hidden signal.

Riki’s chest stopped moving for a full beat. The blinking dot that represented you was there—active. 

“You’re still wearing the ring,” he whispered to himself. A dark smirk twisted his lips, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “You stubborn little thing…”

That ring. The one he gave you at the altar when he promised to you, his family, and yours that he would love you during your highs and lows. The ring that tethered you to him forever. 

He put a chip in it. Just to be straightforward.

Riki’s paranoia ran so deep that it became difficult for him not to. And funnily enough, he remembers he didn’t tell you that it was in there until your honeymoon. 

You both were lounging on your private beach in front of the newly bought property in the Maldives. Sun setting, breeze flowing through your hair as you both laid on your stomachs. Simply gut-laughing at any and everything, everything was funny at this moment. You’re newlyweds.Riki smiles as he plays with the ends of your hair, twirling the end of a braid. “You know,” he glances down at your left hand. “I’ll be able to find you anywhere now.” His smile settles into something soft, something more than just teasing. “What do you mean?” You tilt your head in confusion. The sun hitting your face at the perfect angle. 

He brought your hand to his lips, kissing the ring. “I put a little locator in your ring.” Riki’s heart raced, using your conjoined hands to cover his mouth as he nervously awaited your reaction. “See? You can’t even tell.” You brought your hand back to inspect the enormous rock and he’s right. You really can’t tell. And you weren’t going to ask why he put it there because you knew why. Again, you knew who you married. Plus you didn’t even have the energy to be mad at him right now. You couldn’t be mad after you just swore to forever with your best friend.

“Okay, but I still need privacy, Riki. I don’t just want to be a—”

He shook his head, “No, no, no. It’s not even activated. I just…in the event that something would happen to you—hopefully that’s never—but it gives me peace of mind that I can always find you, baby.” Riki smiled gently as he carefully caressed your cheek. “Only I can activate it. It just tells me where you’re positioned but it only works if you…” His chest caves slightly as his words tremble at the thought.

“If what?” You placed your hand on his shoulder, holding yourself up on your other arm.

“It only works if you have a pulse.”

“What if I take it off?”

Riki laughs.“You wouldn’t though, and I know you wouldn’t. There’s nothing you do that warrants taking it off.” He shrugs as he lays on his back and pulls you on top of him swiftly. 

You yelp at his almost reflexive motion, putting your hands on his chest to stabilize yourself. “You’re right. But it’s not like someone’s gonna want to snatch me up at the grocery store or something.”

Riki had laughed with you then.

Really laughed—head tilted back, his arms wrapping tight around your waist as if just the idea of losing you was so ridiculous, so farfetched it barely warranted a real thought.

But now?

Now that blinking dot on his screen was the only thing keeping him from collapsing into the marble floor of his office.

His hand hovered over the location map, the tracker still active. Still moving.

You were alive.

That was the only thing keeping the wrath at bay—barely. Because while the dot pulsed, it wasn’t close. It was on the far edge of the city, in one of the zones they rarely used. Industrial. Warehouses. A part of town they had all but erased from operations.

Which meant someone wanted you hidden. Not hurt. Not yet.

Still…the bloodlust was roaring now. In all of his life, he had never felt such an insatiable, primal urge to kill like he did now. It was truly like the spirit of the devil ran through his veins and possessed him. That thirst wasn’t going to be quenched until you were back in his arms. Riki stood from his desk, shoving his chair so hard it crashed against the wall. He pressed the emergency button again—just in case. Red lights flashed once in the corner of the ceiling. His hands moved on autopilot, grabbing his bulletproof vest to put on over his compression shirt, his sidearm, his second piece, and the long black blade he hadn’t used in years. The blade that had started it all. The blade they said made him infamous. The one he swore he’d never need again.

He strapped it to his back. Along with one of the embossed Kaminari guns.

Grabbed the note again from the kitchen and stuffed it in his pocket—not because he needed it, but because he wanted to burn it on whoever sent it. By now, Clara had rallied his top men. Jake was on standby, speaking through the comms with a strained voice—he had been yelling at people relentlessly within the last twenty minutes.

Riki didn’t even look at the others in the room as he walked toward the front entrance, eyes locked on the car waiting just outside.

He paused only once.

To grab a bottle of your favorite perfume.

He sprayed it twice across his collarbone, once across his wrist. Something grounding. Something to carry you with him while he burned everything else down.

As soon as he stepped outside, he made contact with the two security guards meant to get you back here. They stood at the base of the steps—nervous, unsure if they should speak first. Their eyes flicked from the tension in Riki’s jaw to the fine mist of blood still drying across his knuckles.

He didn’t blink as he approached them. “You were supposed to bring her home and ensure she was safe. I gave explicit instructions.” His voice was eerily calm, but it buzzed like a live wire underneath.

“We—we did, sir,” one of them stammered. “She went inside. We locked the door right behind her—”

“I don’t give a fuck what you did!” Riki stepped forward, face to face with the buff man that cowered in the face of his lean figure. “My wife is not in my fucking bedroom because you failed to do your job.” He leaned in now, nose hardly touching his—his cologne and your perfume clashing between their senses.

The other guard interjected, “Sir—”

Before he could utter another word, Riki placed the barrel to his forehead. Squeezing the trigger and letting a metal bullet ripple right through his brain. Watching his body fall to the ground with a thud.

The echo of the gunshot rang out like a death bell across the courtyard. Riki didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. His jaw tightened as he watched the second guard freeze, paralyzed by fear and disbelief. A splatter of red stained the granite steps, and he finally looked down—then calmly wiped the barrel of the gun with the hem of his shirt. No one moved. Not even the wind dared.

“Let this be the part where you realize,” he said slowly, eyes locked on the remaining guard, “that I don’t make idle threats. I don’t give second chances. And I don’t tolerate incompetence.” The man nodded furiously, hands trembling at his sides.

“Good. Now get your shit together and get in the fucking car. If she loses a single hair on her head, I’m putting a bullet in your mouth. Understand me?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Riki exhaled sharply through his nose, holstering his weapon. His knuckles were cracked and bleeding again from how tightly he’d gripped it. It didn’t matter. He turned back toward the house and grabbed your scent once more—letting it wrap around him like armor. The tension in his shoulders didn’t loosen; it hardened. Sharpened. Weaponized.

He climbed into the car.

Clara’s voice came through the comms again: “Riki. We’ve found the tunnel entrance. Sealed off, looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. But the tracker’s pinging beneath it.”

His fingers tapped against his thigh—once, twice—before he answered. “Good. Blow it open.”

“Already on it.”

Riki leaned his head back, eyes half-lidded. “And tell someone—I don’t care who it is—to get rid of what’s-his-name from in front of our door. I don’t want her seeing that when she gets back.”

—

The floor was frigid as ever. To which you didn’t understand, it was springtime. But Earth’s crust wasn’t something you took time to worry about. The left side of your head was throbbing and you were barefoot. Only your white nail polish is visible in this dark room. Your arms were bound to some wooden chair with…you jostled in the chair as best you could. Zip ties. Of course they were zip ties. Your feet too but your mouth wasn’t covered, big mistake on their end. 

You smelt of debris, cinders, and a bit of blood. But none of that mattered, you had to get the fuck out of here despite you not being able to see shit. Before you could concoct some sort of plan, the lights were turned on. Stinging your eyes as your pupils had to adjust to the new sensation. 

“Oh, babygirl. Are you okay? I know it’s been a long day.”

That voice. Sweet. Familiar. The kind that once called you baby while handing you fresh towels. The one that scolded Riki for forgetting to eat. The one you trusted.

Your blood ran like ice. 

“Clara?!”

It didn’t compute at first. Your brain tried to reroute it, convince you that maybe she’d been kidnapped too. Maybe she was checking on you. But then you saw her. Heels clicking across the concrete. Calm. Clean. Untouched.

Her hair was neatly pinned up, her blouse spotless, not a wrinkle in sight. She looked like she just came from brunch—not your kidnapping.

You blinked. “Clara?” you croaked. “What the hell—”

“Shhh.” She crouched down in front of you, cupping your chin like a parent checking a child for fever. “You poor thing. That gash on the head looks awful.”

You were too stunned to move but you quickly snapped out of it and jerked your head out of her grasp. “The fuck is this?”

The older lady stood up straight, towering over your torn figure. “This is retribution,” she gestured around the shithole bunker you were in. You stared up at her, heart pounding so loud it nearly drowned out her words. “Retribution?” you echoed, like your brain was lagging ten seconds behind. “Clara, are you out of your fucking mind?”

She chuckled softly. Not like a villain. Like a teacher. Like a mother. Like someone who believed she had the moral high ground. “Don’t worry, your knight in shining armor is on his way here. Right to where you’re sitting. I can’t wait to inform him of his wonderful test results.”

Clara’s voice lilted like she was presenting a prize at a company banquet—like this wasn’t some underground dungeon and you weren’t zip-tied like a prop in a cautionary tale.

You scoffed, full of disbelief and blood in your mouth. “You’re sick.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said with mock sympathy, “you’re not the first girl who thought she was special.”

She circled you slowly now, her heels echoing through the cold, damp space.

“You think I didn’t know about the tracker in your ring? You think I didn’t let him find you? This is about control, baby. Not chaos. I want him to come. I need him to.”

You snickered, “Yeah well, I like it when he does.” If nothing else, you were great at pissing people off.

Clara paused mid-step.

And then she laughed. But not in amusement—in disbelief. A short, sharp sound, like a knife testing the surface before a deeper plunge.

“You’re really going to joke?” she said, turning toward you slowly. “Tied up like a pig in a butcher’s shop, and you’re making sex jokes. You really think you matter that much?”

You leaned forward as far as the zip ties would allow, blood crusting against your temple and your vision still swimming slightly. But your smirk was solid as a rock.

“He’s killed for less, Clara.”

Her nostrils flared, but she kept her composure. Barely. There was a twitch in her jaw now. You’d landed a hit.

“He loved me first,” she hissed. “He respected me. I built him. I made him.”

“No,” you said calmly, with that lethal kind of clarity only someone truly protected by love can wield. “You trained him. I made him human.”

For a beat, the only sound was the hum of the overhead lights and the crackle of Clara’s rage simmering just below her ribcage.

Then she smiled, too wide.

“Let’s see how human he stays when he finds your body,” she said sweetly, almost like she was offering a bedtime story. But you didn’t flinch. You nodded for her to come closer. Closer. Now your nose was nearing hers. “I fucking dare you to touch me.”

Two of her personal goons come in behind her, standing on either side of the door Riki was due to come in through. Clara’s eyes flickered to the guards like a general surveying her troops—calm, collected, but every muscle ready to snap. She stepped back, smirking like she’d already won some invisible game.

“You’re bold, I’ll give you that,” she said, voice silky but dripping with menace. “But this is my battlefield.”

The two goons cracked their knuckles, eyes cold and hungry, shadows stretching long across the concrete floor. The tension in the room thickened like fog, suffocating and heavy. You kept your breath steady, every nerve screaming fight or flight—but you knew better. The fight wasn’t here. It was coming. And it was coming fast. Outside the heavy steel door, you could almost feel the air shift—the calm before a storm that would shake foundations and burn everything to ash.

Clara glanced toward the door, lips curling.“Tick tock, babe.”

The door exploded inward, steel shrieking on its hinges as Riki stormed through like a bullet—rage crackling in his bones like wildfire.

His eyes locked on you instantly, wide with fury and fear, scanning your face for injury. “Baby—”

“Riki, watch out!” you screamed, voice cracking.

But it was too late.

One goon came at him from the left, the other from behind. Riki ducked, twisted, managed to land a vicious punch to the first one’s jaw—crack—but the second was already swinging with a steel baton, catching him in the ribs with a sickening thud. Riki stumbled, grunting through clenched teeth, his fury barely contained. He went for the blade tucked in his boot—only for a third man, hidden just outside the door, to grab his arm and twist it savagely behind his back. Another punch came flying, this one straight to his jaw. The force knocked him to the floor.

You cried out, struggling against your bindings, your wrists screaming in protest.

Clara watched it all unfold with the elegance of a queen watching gladiators bleed for sport. “Tsk. You boys and your dramatics.”

“Don’t fucking touch him!” you yelled.

They did anyway. Stripping him of every weapon on him—blades, a small pistol, even the tracker cuff on his wrist. Riki didn’t stop fighting, even as they dragged him up and slammed him into the chair beside you. Blood was already trickling down the corner of his mouth, but his glare was wildfire—aimed directly at Clara.

One of the goons zip-tied his hands to the arms of the chair with force, tightening them until his skin burned red.

“I should kill you right now,” Riki growled through grit teeth, eyes trained on Clara like a blade.

She approached slowly, as if savoring his fury. “You’re not in a position to make threats, Riki.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” he snapped. “Touch her again and I swear to God—”

Clara only smiled sweetly. “Swear all you want, son. You’re both right where I want you.”

You turned to look at Riki, both of you battered, bound, but alive.

And somewhere beneath the weight of adrenaline and bruises, your fingers brushed the edge of his chair.

Even now—your pinky searching for his.

He found yours. Linked it. Tight. 

You were still here. And so was he.

Clara sent the men out with a wave of her hand as she pulled up a chair to sit down and face the both of you. After a few moments of silence between both of you, she finally spoke. “Wow, fine couple.”

“Bitch, shut the fuck up.” You spat out, rolling your eyes. “What are we doing here? What do you want? More money? We got that. Status, you have it. What more do you want?!”

The older woman smiled at your state. “I want Riki.”

You turned to Riki, who was so far removed from any place you’ve seen him. Your husband was right next to you but the troubled, anxious boy that he’s done such a good job at hiding was making an appearance. But you didn’t know which version of it was.

He bounced his knee up and down with extreme fervor, so fast that you had hardly even seen it moving. Hunched over, the top of his head facing Clara as he shook his head with his eyes glued shut. Lap dampening as what you could only perceive as angry tears misted his eyes and relentless, incessant thoughts bombarded his brain. Riki’s breath was shallow as ever and you could only hear him mutter threats that stemmed from that same fury. More to himself than anyone in the room.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you.” 

“You’re dead.”

“You fucking—”

“I swear on everything I love, I’m putting you in the fucking dirt.”

His voice cracked beneath the gravel, barely audible through the grind of his teeth. Every muscle in his arms strained against the zip ties, his body trembling like he was trying to hold back an earthquake. The air in the room grew thick, like the moment before a downpour—or an execution. You watched him, heart breaking and raging all at once. You’d never seen Riki like this. Not even close. The man beside you wasn’t your husband—not the one who made silly faces behind menus or kissed your shoulder every time he passed you in the kitchen. This was the version buried deep inside. The one he kept scrubbed clean and locked behind five layers of steel. The version built from years of betrayal and bloodshed. The boy no one ever loved right.

And Clara had dragged him out.

“I want Riki,” she repeated calmly, as if she were choosing an entrée off a menu. “Not the man you married. Not this polished little husband of yours. I want the real him. The one I raised. The one who knows how to destroy.”

“You didn’t raise him,” you snapped. “You groomed him.”

Her lips curled into a faint smile. “Tomato, tomahto.”

“Let her go,” Riki muttered, voice low and vibrating with rage. “Let her go, and I’ll give you what you want.”

You turned your head so fast it nearly gave you whiplash. “Riki—”

He still wouldn’t look at either of you. His shoulders trembled, breaths sharp and quick.

“Just let her go,” he said again, louder this time. “This isn’t her world. She doesn’t belong in it.”

Clara leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “Oh, honey. She entered this world the moment you put that ring on her finger. And now she’s in it until the end.”

Then she leaned forward slightly, that same maternal voice dripping venom: “Tell me, Riki…do you think your daddy would be proud of the little house pet you’ve become?”

That did it.

The room cracked open.

Riki lifted his head—slowly, deliberately—and his eyes found Clara’s with a fire that could level nations.

And for the first time since you met him, you were afraid of your husband.

You interjected quickly, “Seriously. Why are you doing this?”

Riki glanced at you with calmness behind his eyes momentarily, but something about hearing Clara’s voice sent the wrath of the scorned through him. 

“I want my son back.” She hummed as she folded her hands on her lap. 

Your brows furrowed, “He’s not your fucking son.”

Clara’s lips curled into a slow, venomous smile, like she was savoring every drop of poison she was about to pour.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she began, voice dripping with sickly sweetness, “you’ve been living a lie your entire life.”

She stood and paced slowly, every step echoing like a death knell in the cold room. “The woman you thought was your mother? The one who died when you were two? She was nothing but a convenient story.”

Your eyes locked on Riki’s, watching his jaw tighten, his entire body tense like a coiled spring.

Clara stopped just inches from him, voice low and deadly. “I am your mother. Your father’s mistress—the other woman. The one he never wanted you to know about.”

Riki’s fists clenched so tight the veins in his forearms pulsed visibly. “That’s a goddamn lie.”

“Is it?” Clara’s laugh was cold and bitter. “You want the truth? You’re my son, Riki.” She fished in her skirt pocket for a photo of her holding baby Riki as she had just delivered him. 

You swallowed hard, staring at the photo like it was some kind of sick puzzle piece finally clicking into place. The baby in Clara’s arms had the same sharp eyes and yes—the unmistakable mole just below his lips. “I was able to hold you for fifteen minutes before you were taken from me, son.”

His eyes screwed shut, “I’m not your son! I’m your child. I am not your fucking son! Oh my go—baby you better say something before I—” 

“What happened after? Why was Riki taken from you?” You chimed in, in an effort to calm your seething man. 

“Because, I was the mistress. In love with your father, wanted a future with him. But he was married. And…” 

Clara’s voice cracked just a little, the only crack in her otherwise steel mask.

“He made me promise to keep quiet, to stay in the shadows. But when my pregnancy came to light, everything exploded. The wife…she found out.” Her eyes darkened, haunted. “She made sure I lost you—took you away before I could even hold you properly again.” The more you looked at her, the more Riki favored her. The same mole, the same unwavering determination in their eyes. The eyes that can be kind when they want to be. “It was either I disappear from your life completely or I stick around as the help and swear to secrecy. And I couldn’t lose you again, Riki. Do you know how much it hurt me to see you call someone else ‘mama’ for the first two years of your life?” 

“I don’t give a fuck what hurts! It hurts that you had three big ass men jump me. It especially hurt that you had my wife taken from the safety of my fucking house—that I pay for you to live at—and lay a finger on her when you know how much she’s relied on you.” Clara’s eyes glazed over, “But you did too. I was like a mom. You came to me all the time, I was your Claraboo. Remember?” She shrugged as she resigned, tears in her eyes. “When Fumiko died, I thought it was a blessing in disguise.” She stood up. “But then you found her!” She gestured to you with unadulterated disgust. “Saying how great she was, wanting advice on how to dress for dates. So I thought, ‘Okay, this is his first time really taking someone seriously, it’s fleeting. No big deal.’ But then she started coming around. Family dinners, game nights. Then it became her spending the day, then sleepovers, then hearing you two go at it like rabbits when you thought no one could hear you. Fucking disgusting.” She snarled. 

You looked at Riki from the corner of your eye, as did he. Both of you purse your lips to refrain from laughter during this serious moment. Lives are at stake here. “Then, you got on one knee, Riki. At twenty-three, just throwing your best years away for one girl. And I kept thinking, ‘why does my son keep being taken from me? Why, why, fucking why?!” She grabbed one Riki’s pistol from a nearby table and whipped you with it. 

The crack of metal against your cheekbone rang out louder than your gasp. Your head whipped to the side, pain blooming instantly along your jaw, your vision fracturing for a second. But you didn’t scream. You didn’t give her that.

Riki did.

“NO!” His chair thrashed violently beneath him, muscles flexing so hard the wood creaked. “Don’t you fucking touch her! Clara, I will fucking gut you—DO YOU HEAR ME?!” His voice cracked with fury, something animalistic and unhinged bubbling up from his core.

You spat blood, your lip split open now, and still you turned to Clara and hissed, “You’re not a mother. You’re just some bitter bitch who couldn’t let go.” Clara’s hand trembled around the gun as she stepped back, her mask cracking further. “I raised him. I wiped his tears. I was the only one who gave a damn when he cried himself to sleep when his dad would be too hard on him. And you? You think your soft little hands and pretty smile can compare to that?”

Riki had stopped shaking. Now he was still—dangerously still. “You’re right,” he muttered. “You did raise me. Which is exactly why I know how to destroy you.”

Clara froze.

“You forget who you trained, Clara,” he said lowly. “You made me this way. You taught me how to survive. How to outsmart. How to kill.” And then he smiled. Sharp. Unforgiving. Blood drying on his lip.

“So congratulations,” Riki growled. “You just signed your own fucking death certificate. Maybe I really am your son.”

Clara blinked, eyes glassy. The gun trembled again in her hand. And then she raised it. But it wasn’t pointed at you. 

It was aimed at herself. 

You froze. So did Riki.

Clara’s finger hovered over the trigger, her eyes blank. “If I can’t have you,” she said softly, voice almost childlike, “then nobody will. Not her. Not the world. Not even you.”

“No.” Your voice dropped, pleading “Put the gun down.”

Riki sighed, looking down and mumbling to himself. “Damn bitch let me do the shit myself at least.” Rolling his eyes, knowing only you heard him and you refused to laugh at this moment. You clenched your jaw to keep the smile from betraying you, even as the absurdity of Riki’s comment floated in the air like a cracked window letting in too much cold. Clara’s hands trembled now. The gun shook between her fingers, and though it was aimed at her own temple, the tension in the room wrapped around all three of you like barbed wire.

“You think this is funny?” Clara snapped, eyes darting between you and Riki. “I’m baring my soul, and you’re making jokes?”

“Clara,” you said gently, the steel in your voice only thinly veiled by the concern beneath. “This isn’t the answer.”

“I gave up everything,” she whispered. “Everything. For him. For a son who looks at me like I’m a stranger—like I’m some monster.”

“You are some monster,” Riki muttered under his breath again, then louder, “but we don’t need a whole song and dance about it. Just...step away from the trigger, Broadway.”

You shot him a look this time. “Riki, please.”

Clara’s expression fractured—like a mirror that had been held together too long by spite alone. “I could’ve been someone,” she whispered, lip trembling. “I could’ve had a life with your father. With you. But I was the side note. The servant. Claraboo. Never mom.” Her voice broke. “You don’t understand what it’s like to watch someone else raise your baby. To be called help by the child you gave birth to.”

Silence. Then—

“I’m sorry,” Riki said quietly.

Clara froze.

“I’m sorry you went through that,” he continued, gaze steady. “I’m sorry you didn’t get the life you wanted. I’m sorry no one protected you when you needed it most. But this—” he nodded toward the gun, “—isn’t gonna bring any of that back.”

You took a breath. “Please,” you added. “Don’t make us leave here with another scar.”

You heard a low snap from your left where Riki was sitting, your eyes flitted that way. He had made free of the ties. Then, with every ounce of strength in his legs, jutted his calves out to free his legs. He slowly rose to his full height. Clara’s sobs only intensified, shaking as her eyes squeezed shut and pumped out tears. Her breathing shallow as she trembled, hardly able to even line the barrel up with her chin anymore. She pointed the gun at him mindlessly. Riki slowly edged to her, “Clara…please.” He nodded, “give it to me. I have a vest on, and I’m not going to let you do something you’ll regret.” His voice was low, steady—like a lifeline in the dark. Clara’s trembling hands faltered, the gun wobbled, and then, with a choked sob, she dropped it. The metallic clatter echoed in the cold room as it hit the floor.

You exhaled, relief crashing over you like a wave.

Riki quickly swooped up the gun as Clara plopped down on the chair in complete dejection. She looked up at her son, “are you going to kill me?”

He sighed, “I am,” he nodded with another smile he tried to smother.

She huffed out a laugh despite her tears and mucus, because if she taught Riki anything—it was that sometimes, survival meant knowing when to play the long game.

“Not today, son,” she whispered, voice raw but steady. “You’re smarter than me. You’ll make sure I pay in ways that cut deeper than a bullet ever could.”

Riki’s eyes flickered—half respect, half warning. “I’ll make sure you regret every breath you take until then.”

She nodded, somehow at peace with her fate. “Plus, if it makes you feel better—there was no real leak. I just used Yuna, Jo, and Sohee as pawns. Just distractions when I knew that Ms. Prada—” She nodded to you.

“Chanel.” You and Riki corrected simultaneously.

“...Whatever. But I knew that she was itching to get involved, I made you hyper aware of a leak. When there wasn’t anything to find. A perfect smokescreen to send you chasing ghosts while I set the real trap.” 

“So how does that explain their weird behavior?” You leaned forward despite your restraints. 

The older woman shrugs, “Sometimes people tell on themselves. But I did tell Jo to keep it from you. Said that you had other obligations and that if anyone got in the way you’d deal with them.”

Riki frowned, “Oh that pisses me off,” he pointed the gun lower and shot her kneecap. Eliciting a blood-curdling scream from the elder.

“Riki!” You yell, eyes wide as he just looks at you with humor in his eyes. “What’s wrong with you?!”

He waves you off, “Sorry,” he holsters his gun as he comes up behind you to free you. In oh-so-convenient timing, here comes Riki’s men down the bunker and into the room

The heavy metal door groaned open, and a squad of Riki’s men flooded in, their faces grim but ready. Flashlights cut through the dimness, illuminating the mess Clara had made trying to stall for time.

Riki didn’t waste a second—he tugged sharply at the zip ties binding your wrists, his hands steady but fierce. “You okay?” His voice was low, but laced with raw urgency.

You nodded, heart still hammering, eyes locked on Clara who was now clutching her injured knee, glaring daggers despite the pain. “Where were they?”

“The perimeter, you really thought I came solo?” He snickered, “I’m impulsive, not stupid.”

Riki’s men quickly secured the perimeter, eyes scanning every shadow. One of them whispered into a radio, “Target secured. Extraction ready.”

Riki glanced back at you, his expression softening just a fraction. “You’re safe now. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

You exhaled, relief flooding through you even as adrenaline kept you wired. Riki called out to all of them in the room as well as on the walkie-talkie he grabbed from one of the men. “Kobun! Clean up the mess. No loose ends. Take the old lady to the infirmary—alive. She’s got answers we’ll need later.”

He turned to you, voice low and steady, “You did good. Too good.” He brushed a stray hair from your face, the heat of his touch grounding you after the chaos. As the team moved efficiently, Riki’s eyes locked with yours—fierce, protective, and full of unspoken promises.

You smiled, “How did you break free?” 

Riki smirked, the tension easing just a fraction. He opened his mouth and lifted his tongue to reveal a tiny razor, glinting silver against the dark warmth of his mouth.

Your eyes widened. “You kept that in your mouth? What if you cut yourself?”

He shrugged, “Tongue is the fastest healing muscle. Plus, I’ve done it enough times to not get hurt.”

You blinked, “That’s not comforting.”

He took it out of his mouth and tossed it to the ground. “There. Let’s go home.” 

—

Later that night

—

The dust had settled a bit, the kitchen was still destroyed but that was tomorrow’s problem. You and Riki had been patched up on the way here. The moonlight spilled through the blackout curtains, painting silver streaks across the sheets—cold and unforgiving. Riki moved around the room with his usual quiet precision, the soft click of his boots replaced by the muted sound of him slipping out of his clothes. You didn’t say a word. Didn’t even flinch when he pulled back the covers and settled beside you in just his briefs. He liked sleeping this way.

But you didn’t let it simmer, you sat up. “Are you okay, my love?” You whispered in the still room—the still house.“Mhm, just another day at work.” He yawned as he turned to face you with a gentle smile. But you didn’t buy it. He always did this so he could be a big-bad-strong boyfriend, now he’s a big-bad-strong husband. 

“Riki, seriously?” You tilt your head in concern as you run your hand through his freshly washed hair.

He nodded, “Babe-asaurus, I’m cool as a cucumber.” 

You snorted softly, the nickname breaking through the tension like a warm breeze. “Cool as a cucumber? More like a slightly burnt pickle after today.” He chuckled, reaching out to tuck a stray strand behind your ear. “Yeah, maybe a little crispy around the edges. But I’m here. And you’re safe. That’s what matters.”

You purse your lips, you knew what he was doing. But you didn’t pry, you never liked to. “I love you.”

He sat up, pulling you in for a hug as he kissed your lips gently. “I love you more. You know I do.”

“I know,” You kissed his bare collarbone, nuzzling his smooth skin courtesy of the body scrub you made him use. 

“Let’s sleep, yeah?” He laid down on the smooth, clean linen.

You nodded against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat sync with your own. “Yeah. Sleep sounds good.”

—

But for some reason, cuddling wasn’t on the agenda. Subconsciously, you two had parted—but it wouldn’t be you or him if you didn’t touch at least. But somehow, you felt the bed tremble a bit—shaking and quivering in the midst of the silence of the room. You sat up, turning around with furrowed brows. Feeling a little groggy from the meds you were given but still cognizant enough to know what was happening around you. 

And with that, your husband is lying down with his back turned to you, on his right side. Chest caving in, breath shallow. You blinked, confusion curling into worry. That tremble wasn’t just from the meds—it was something else. Something deeper.

Riki’s shoulders shook slightly, the kind of subtle, silent tremor that only showed when no one was watching. Your heart tightened. The big-bad-strong husband was cracked open and raw underneath the armor you both pretended was unbreakable.

You reached out tentatively, fingertips brushing the edge of his arm. Before you could open your mouth, he turned around and fell right into your arms. Wrapping his arms tightly around you as he buried his face into your neck. Letting a sea of twenty-four years worth of pollution fall down your neck and onto your chest. 

Finally the dam broke, the iron curtain. The wall of stoicism was no more.

And this one time, you said nothing. You let him have it.

His bare skin pressed hot against yours, every tremble shaking through the thin sheets. The cold night air met the heat of his body, exposed and raw in nothing but his briefs—the armor stripped away, leaving only a man unraveling.

You felt the wetness against your neck before you saw it—the slick, hot tears silently tracing down his cheeks, the first you’d ever seen. His breaths hitched violently, chest rising and falling in ragged waves, his shoulders heaving with a grief he’d never let surface before.

He buried his face deeper, clinging to you like you were the last piece of solid ground. Your fingers trembled as they traced the curve of his spine, as if trying to stitch together the pieces of a broken man. You held your love through the quiet like you promised—the good, the bad, the ugly. And this was the worst of it and even then you’d rather die than give it up. Give him up.

You rubbed his back as you scooted back to lie down. Letting him put half of his weight on you as his grip didn’t relent. Not that you wanted it to. Your cold hands pressed against his warm body in effort to cool him down. But you couldn’t as seeing the strongest man in your life was at his weakest.

Tears pooled in your eyes.

You kissed the crown of his head, silent and steady—a quiet promise without words. The night held you both close, broken but unbroken, fragile yet fierce. And in that stillness, you understood something true: love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just holding on when everything else falls apart.

And you married a yakuza, but most importantly you married a man who lets you see the cracks—and still chooses to stay.

fin.

Copyright: © zorange13. 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, copy, or distribute without permission.

[bambidollies]

soft ink - nishimura riki 𓈒ིུ ❤︎ ˖ ݁

₊ㅤ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Ⳋ᧙ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺

“In which Ni-ki goes to get his first tattoo, not expecting to fall for the pretty, soft girl who turns out being his tattoo artist”

⁺ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❤︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⊹　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ͏͏✧ content:

fem! reader x ni-ki, fluff fluff fluff, short drabble, reader has tattoos, ni-ki is down bad

notes: in honor of riki (probably) having a tattoo, this came to my mind, kind of based in real life from when i got my first tattoo in the cutest studio ever

hate comments will be deleted and blocked, likes and reblogs are appreciated !!

The bell above the door chimed softly as Ni-ki stepped into the studio, the cool air brushing against his skin after the heat outside. He took a look around, black walls, neon signs, the faint buzzing of a tattoo machine coming from the back. It was what he expected: edgy, dark, kind of intimidating.

You looked up from behind the desk, ipad in hand, glossy lips parted in surprise like you hadn’t even noticed the door open. Your sweater was pale pink, oversized at the sleeves and cropped at the waist, showing a bit of soft skin above your white washed jeans. Your nails were perfectly done, glittery and shaped into gentle almonds. And your hair, half-up with a satin pink ribbon, looked so delicate and stylist.

Ni-ki blinked.

“Oh, hi,” you said sweetly, smiling a little as you set the ipad down. “Are you… Ni-ki?”

He cleared his throat.

“Yeah. That’s me.”

You stood, brushing invisible lint off your lap as you stepped towards him, radiating warmth and softness, Ni-ki smelled the soft vanilla scent coming out off you. Definitely not what he’d pictured when he booked the appointment. In your hands, small, tiny, fine lined tattoos. A little moon, a little heart, a couple of daisies that trailed up your wrist. You had tiny gold hoops in your ears, and a rose gold charm bracelet that jingled softly as you moved.

“It’s nice to meet you, I’m Y/N, i’m gonna be doing your tattoo today,” you said, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. Your voice was delicate, kind of shy, but confident in a quiet way. “You want to come back and get settled?”

Ni-ki nodded slowly, still processing.

“Wait—you’re the artist?”

You giggled, a sound so light and pretty it made his ears burn.

“Mhm. Surprised?”

He followed you down the hallway like he was hypnotized.

“A little, yeah. You don’t look like…”

“Like a tattoo artist?” You smiled back at him over your shoulder, biting back a grin. “I get that a lot.”

“No—I mean—” He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing under his breath. “You’re just… not what I pictured.”

You didn’t answer, but the corners of your lips curled up in a way that made his stomach twist.

The room you led him into was cozy. Warm lighting, soft instrumental music playing faintly, a little pink lamp glowing in the corner. There was a shelf with Sanrio figurines and a candle that smelled like marshmallows. Even the tattooing chair was pink, you had a picture with who looked like your puppy on the shelve on a white frame. It felt like a sleepover, not a place to get ink stabbed into your skin.

“Okay,” you said softly, tapping on your ipad. “Oh wow, you chose a very big design, brave boy.” you smiled a bit teasing, and he chuckled.

He sat down carefully, his eyes still bouncing around the room like he couldn’t quite believe where he was.

“I don’t feel like i’m in a tattoo studio at all” he muttered, half-joking.

You laughed again, that soft, silvery sound that made his chest ache a little.

“Well, the needles are real,” you said sweetly, pulling on your gloves with a quiet snap. “So try not to pass out, tough guy.”

Ni-ki smirked.

“You calling me soft?”

You tilted your head, biting your lip like you were holding back a smile.

“No. Just saying I’ve seen guys twice your size faint at the first line.”

That made his pulse quicken.

You stepped closer, eyes skimming his side.

“You said ribs, right?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, lifting his hoodie slowly, exposing smooth, tan skin and lean muscle. His abs flexed slightly under the low light. He didn’t mean to show off, but it was hard not to when your gaze dropped to his waist.

You blinked, clearing your throat quickly.

“Alright, I’m gonna clean the area first,” you said softly, reaching for a cloth soaked in disinfectant. “Let me know if anything feels uncomfy, okay?”

Ni-ki nodded, suddenly quiet again. And then your hands were on him, your touch was very gentle, soft and feather-light, almost like if you were scared to hurt him or touch him more than necessary. You wiped across his ribs with slow, practiced movements, fingers brushing his skin.

He had to force himself to breathe.

“So… is this your first tattoo?” you asked, your voice light and casual, trying not to notice the way he tensed under your touch.

“Yeah,” he muttered, eyes fixed somewhere near your wrist. “Didn’t think it’d start like this.”

“Like what?”

“With you.” He looked at you then. “Didn’t expect the girl stabbing me with needles to be this pretty.”

Your cheeks went warm, but you kept your expression soft, lashes lowering as you smiled, cleaning the skin of his torso.

“Don’t flirt.”

Ni-ki smirked, but his pulse was going crazy now.

You moved closer, fingers now dabbing the stencil gently along his ribs. You were focused, precise, but your touch was still so soft it made his breath stutter. Then you leaned in, blowing gently across the ink to help it set, and the sudden breeze against his skin made his abs twitch.

“You’re already flinching and i haven’t even started,” you murmured with a teasing lilt, not looking up.

You stayed focused, swiping gently at his ribs with a cloth, adjusting the angle just a little, brushing hair out of your face with the back of your hand. Ni-ki smiled, it was starting to hit him that this wasn’t just a regular tattoo appointment.

“Okay” you breathed, moving back a little bit to prep the needle “Here’s the needle, new and clean” you opened the package in front of him, just protocole, and his eyes were fixated on your face.

You snapped the cartridge into place with a soft click, your gloved fingers moving smoothly, practiced. Everything you did was quiet, even the way you peeled off the sterile seal and adjusted your stool again beside him.

Ni-ki hadn’t said a word, but you could feel his stare like heat against your skin.

“You ready?” you asked softly, glancing up at him under your lashes.

His throat bobbed as he nodded.

“Okay,” you breathed, switching the machine on. The soft hum filled the room, vibrating low between you. “I’m gonna start with the outline. It’s not that bad. Just don’t hold your breath, alright?”

You leaned in.

His whole body tensed, but not from fear. From you. From your voice that felt like silk, from the way your perfume was soft and sweet and surrounded him until it was suffocating, from the look in your eyes as you focused so carefully on him.

And then the needle touched his skin.

A sharp sting, fast and thin, dragged carefully along his ribs. His jaw tightened, muscles flexing under your hand but you didn’t pause.

“Breathe,” you reminded gently, the corners of your mouth lifting just slightly. “You’re doing great.”

He exhaled, finally, the tension in his chest deflating just a little.

You worked in slow, steady strokes, one hand holding the skin taut, the other guiding the needle with precision. Every now and then you dabbed at the line with a soft cloth, and each time your hand skimmed his waist, it left goosebumps in its wake.

Ni-ki bit the inside of his cheek.

He could handle the pain. He wasn’t worried about that. What he couldn’t handle was the way you touched him. The way your voice dipped softer every time he flinched, how you leaned in so close he could feel your breath when you checked your work.

“How’s that?” you murmured, glancing up again, a soft smile on your lips and your nose slightly scrunched, he though you looked adorable, “Too much?”

He shook his head, voice low and a bit shaky.

“No. It’s… good.”

“Perfect.” your smile was warm as you kept going, but his eyes kept drifting to your shoulder, where the wide neckline of your sweater had started to fall, baring smooth skin and the delicate strap of your bralette. You weren’t trying to be sexy, or anything at all, but the sight still made his breath hitch.

You were glowing under the soft pink lamp, lashes spreading shadows on your cheeks, hair tucked loosely behind your ears. You looked like you belonged in a pastel dreamscape, not hovering over him with a needle in your hand.

“How’s it looking?” you asked, still focused on the lines as your hand gently wiped his skin clean again.

“Beautiful,” he answered, not even realizing what he’d said until your eyes flicked up to meet his.

You blushed again, but your hands kept being steady on his skin. You kept working, trying not to get too shy with his heavy gaze over you.

The buzzing continued in the background, steady and low, but the atmosphere had shifted, warmer now. Your hand still moved carefully along his ribs, but your voice had softened, and his had too.

“So, what do you like to do usually, on your free time?” you asked, wiping the zone before starting again.

Ni-ki blinked like he hadn’t expected the question. Your tone was so gentle, almost like you were trying not to break whatever invisible thread had formed between you.

He cleared his throat softly.

“Mm… I’m kind of a homebody,” he said. “I watch a lot of movies. Sometimes I’ll just sit in my room messing with music stuff, i dance a lot too.”

You smiled as you dabbed at the ink again, your movements slow and careful.

“I could see that,” you murmured.

“See what?” he asked, glancing at you.

“That you’re a dancer,” you said softly, still focused on his skin. “You move like someone who knows his body.”

Ni-ki blinked, a little stunned by the way you said it, to him, it wasn’t just a compliment, but an observation that made his chest feel warm.

“…You’re kind of poetic,” he said, voice a little quieter now.

You laughed under your breath.

“I’m what some people would call “too dreamy, my friends tease me about it all the time.”

Ni-ki smiled at your words, something soft flickering behind his eyes.

“I can see that,” he said, voice low. “You kind of… feel like a dream.”

You blinked, caught off guard, a small laugh slipping from your lips as you reached for a clean wipe.

“I’ll start with the filling now, might hurt a bit more”

Ni-ki nodded, but the way he looked at you made it feel like he hadn’t even heard the warning.

He was still thinking about your laugh.

Still thinking about the way you said “too dreamy” like it was something to be ashamed of, when he’d never heard anything more perfect. You adjusted slightly, gloved hand bracing against the side of his torso again, and your other hand guided the buzzing machine back to his skin.

“This’ll feel deeper,” you murmured, more serious now, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

“Okay,” he said softly, but it came out closer to a whisper.

Then the needle touched down again, slower now, more pressure, and he felt it sink in differently. The pain was sharper, warmer, blooming right beneath your gentle touch. You felt him hiss through his teeth and flinch abit.

“Breathe,” you reminded him again, glancing up with a soft smile. “Nice and easy.”

He tried. But your voice was way more effective than any deep breath.

The hum of the machine was steady, your movements fluid and focused. But even in your concentration, he noticed how your bottom lip curled slightly when you were deep in thought. How you kept adjusting the angle of your wrist so you wouldn’t press too hard against him. Every tiny detail about you felt overwhelming.

“You okay?” you asked softly after a few minutes.

He nodded, exhaling a bit shakily.

“Y-Yeah.”

Ni-ki smiled, jaw tightening as another sting hit, but he didn’t even care anymore. The pain was background noise now, everything in him was focused on the way you touched him, talked to him, made the room feel like it had shrunk into just the two of you.

“You’re really good at this,” he said.

You blinked, fingers pausing just briefly.

“tattooing?”

He looked at you again, eyes softer now.

“No. This, all of this.”

After a couple of hours, the buzzing finally stopped.

You leaned back slowly, stretching your shoulders with a soft sigh, fingers brushing his side one last time as you wiped away the excess ink. The room had gone quiet again, quiet that hums after something intimate. The glow of the pink lamp wrapped around you both like a curtain.

“Okay,” you said, breathless but proud, pulling your gloves off with a snap. “You survived.”

Ni-ki blinked, still a little dazed. His ribs ached and his body felt heavy, but he wasn’t thinking about the tattoo.

He was thinking about you.

You smiled gently, standing up and gesturing toward the mirror across the room.

“Go take a look,” you said. “Tell me if you like it.”

He stood slowly, running a hand through his hair, and padded over to the mirror, still shirtless, the air cool against his skin, the fresh ink burning in the best way.

His eyes found the reflection.

It was beautiful.

Bold but clean, intricate lines and soft shading. He traced his eyes over the curves of it, appreciating the way it fit his frame perfectly. But only for a second. Because the next thing he did was look behind him in the mirror, at you.

You were still over by your station, carefully wrapping up supplies, your expression relaxed now, your mouth tucked into a soft smile like you were happy with what you’d made, not even realising the effect you were having on him.

He turned back around, crossing the room again.

“Well?” you asked, lifting your eyes to meet his.

He paused in front of you, eyes flicking from your face to your lips and back again.

“I love it,” he said honestly. “Thank you.”

You smiled proudly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you picked up a pink memo card from the little ceramic tray beside you. With neat handwriting, you started writing out the aftercare instructions while he watched you quietly, still not quite over the fact that you were real.

“No tight clothes around the area for the next few days,” you said softly, scribbling the last line. “And keep it clean. Gently wash it, pat dry, no rubbing, no sunlight, and definitely no swimming.”

He nodded, lips tugging into a faint smile as he watched the way your brows furrowed a little in focus. You were back in “professional mode,” but your voice was still soft. Still dreamy.

“Use this ointment twice a day,” you added, placing a small packet next to the card. “And don’t pick at it when it starts to peel, no matter how itchy it gets.”

“You’re really sweet.”

Your eyes softened again. And for a second, neither of you said anything. Just the hum of the room. The faint smell of marshmallow-scented candle smoke. The way he was looking at you like the tattoo was just an excuse to be near you this whole time.

You cleared your throat lightly, sliding the pink card towards him on the counter.

“There you go. All the info’s there.”

His fingers brushed yours as he picked it up.

He looked down at the card. Then back up at you.

“…Is your number on here?” he asked, tone innocent, but his smile wasn’t.

You blinked, caught a little off guard, lips parting slightly.

“Mmm… no.”

Ni-ki tilted his head.

“Can it be?”

The question hung in the air, bold and warm and filled with butterflies. You smiled slowly, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear again as you reached for a pen.

“Turn it over,” you whispered.

He obeyed, and your handwriting followed, digits carefully written with a tiny heart next to your name. You slid it back to him and met his eyes, pulse thrumming.

“Don’t text me dumb questions,” you warned, teasing.

“I won’t,” he said, slipping the card into his pocket. “I’ll text you to say I miss your touch.”

You blinked, your breath shaking just slightly, but you didn’t look away. Ni-ki said goodbye, he left happily with a new tattoo but something better, he just met the cutest, prettiest girl ever, and he had to make you his.

That’s why later that night, when you were lying in bed, fresh out of the shower with your hair still damp, scrolling aimlessly, you smiled when you saw the message pop up from an unknown number.

[Unknown Number]:

hey… i didn’t get a rash yet so i think that means you’re good at your job 😅

You smiled instantly, sinking deeper under your covers.

You:

glad to hear you’re not dying

Three dots appeared right away. He was already typing.

Ni-ki:

lowkey tho

is it normal to miss your tattoo artist?? asking for a friend

You giggled, hiding your face in your pillow.

You:

depends

did the artist tease you the whole time or was that just me?

Ni-ki:

definitely just you

but like… i didn’t hate it

You could practically hear his voice through the screen, shy but trying, his boyish charm bleeding through every message.

You:

tell your friend that it’s not weird

especially if the artist kinda misses him too

he didn’t respond for like five whole minutes.

Ni-ki:

don’t say that

i’m already smiling like an idiot

You covered your mouth, blushing way too hard for someone who spent the entire day being professional and calm.

You:

just being honest…

Ni-ki:

can i be honest too?

You:

yeah

Ni-ki:

i haven’t stopped thinking about your voice

and your hands

and your cute little marshmallow-scented studio

you’re kinda stuck in my head now

Your heart did something dramatic. Like actually tripped over itself. Your cheeks burned, fingers hovering above the keyboard for longer than they should have.

You:

that’s not fair

you’re making it hard to focus on anything else tonight

Ni-ki:

oh no

am i distracting the dreamy tattoo artist?

You laughed quietly to yourself, pillow hugged to your chest.

You:

a little bit

but it’s okay

i kinda like it

Three dots.

Ni-ki:

you looked so pretty today

you know that?

You froze, smile tugging at your lips before you could stop it.

You:

you didn’t even look at the tattoo first

Ni-ki:

yeah

but i looked at you the whole time

You buried your face in the pillow, fingers gripping the edge of the blanket as you kicked your feet once, hard.

You:

stop

you’re gonna make me blush again

Ni-ki:

good

i think you’re really cute when you blush

You covered your face with your phone for a second, then peeked at the screen like it was too much.

Then another message came.

Ni-ki:

can i see you again?

You blinked, heart leaping straight into your throat.

You:

yeah

i’d like that

Ni-ki:

soon?

You:

soon :)

And just like that, the whole night felt warmer.

You tucked your phone against your chest, smile slow and quiet as you whispered into the dark:

“He’s so cute.”

A few months later…

Jake’s apartment was very loud. The music was playing from a Bluetooth speaker that had been dropped twice already, and it smelled vaguely like takeout and boy.

But you and Ni-ki were tucked into the corner of the couch, completely unfazed.

You were half on his lap, your legs curled under you as he lazily traced shapes into your arm with his fingertip. His voice was soft against your ear, lower than the noise around you, like everything he said was meant just for you.

“You look so pretty tonight,” he murmured, thumb brushing over the hem of your sleeve.

You smiled, turning your head slightly so your nose bumped against his.

“I told you I’d survive meeting your friends.”

He leaned in and kissed your cheek.

“I didn’t doubt you. I just… like showing you off.”

You blushed, leaning into his chest, completely absorbed in the moment, even with chaos erupting around you.

Then:

“YO,” Jake yelled from the kitchen, over the sound of chips being ripped open. “How the hell did you two even meet?”

Ni-ki looked up, blinked once, then smiled like he’d been waiting for someone to ask.

“Ohhh,” he grinned, adjusting so you were facing him just a little more. “This story.”

You groaned, already hiding your face in his hoodie.

“Ni-ki don’t start—”

“No, I have to,” he said, eyes sparkling. “So I walk into this tattoo shop, right? Totally normal day. I’m just expecting some bald tatted guy to show up, but then, behind the desk, this girl stands up.”

He looked at you, smile softening.

“She’s in this oversized pink sweater, hair all soft, tiny tattoos on her hands. She looked like a marshmallow. And then she goes, ‘Hi, I’m Y/N, I’ll be doing your tattoo today,’ and I’m like—nope. I’m in love.”

The guys howled, but he kept going, completely sincere.

“She was so sweet. Kept checking on me, touching my ribs like I’d break, her voice was all quiet and warm. And then, when she finished…” He reached into his wallet, already pulling something out. “She gave me this.”

He held up a slightly folded pink memo card, that you gave him. Your careful handwriting, aftercare instructions, a little heart under your name.

Sunghoon almost choked on his soda.

“Bro.”

“You kept it?” Jay yelled.

“Obviously,” Ni-ki said, completely unfazed. “ I literally stared at this all night like a loser.”

You were dying, pressing your face to his shoulder, laughing into his hoodie.

“And then I texted her,” he finished, slipping the card safely back into his wallet. “And now she’s here. Sitting on my lap. Looking like that. So yeah. Best appointment of my life.”

The guys groaned and teased and threw popcorn at him.

But Ni-ki didn’t care.

He just looked down at you again and whispered, “Best tattoo ever”

[strawberrynull]

I’m literally dying over this. Fic of all time

[bywons]

LIP BALM ⪩⪨ 𝗇𝗋𝗄

𝐎𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄， 𝗇𝗂𝗄𝗂 𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝖽𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗌

❪ 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐄 ❫ 𖹭 𝗇𝗋𝗄 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 1002 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿────── ✿ 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 贅沢

REBLOG FOR  ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠  KISSES

“are you doing this on purpose?”

you can only stare at riki after asking the question, lips still tingling, your cherry lip balm shining a little too obviously in the soft glow of your bedroom. your chest rises and falls, not just from the dozen tiny kisses he’s already stolen, but from the way he looks at you—eyes full of something unreadable, unreadable only because it’s so much.

“doing what?” he says innocently, scooting even closer, his knees bumping yours like it's the most casual thing in the world.

you narrow your eyes. “you know that was cherry.”

“hmm,” he hums, head tilted, acting like he’s giving it serious thought. “i was gonna say, bubblegum?”

you sigh, “riki.”

he grins. you shove his shoulder. “you’re literally the worst at this game.”

he doesn’t budge. “maybe i just need another taste.”

your breath catches because he says it so casually—but you barely have time to react before he’s leaning in again, one hand cradling your jaw as he steals another kiss. it’s short, warm, and he pulls away far too quickly.

“okay,” he says, nodding dramatically. “yep. definitely cherry.”

you blink at him. “you just said bubble—”

he cuts you off with another kiss. and then another. and another.

soft. slow. fluttery. one on your upper lip, another at the corner of your mouth, like he’s sampling every spot he can get away with.

“riki—!” you try, voice breathy, but he kisses you again, this time with his palm splayed against your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he’s memorizing the way you feel.

“you were saying?” he murmurs, lips barely brushing yours.

you swat at his chest, flushed and overwhelmed and trying very hard not to completely melt into a puddle. “you’re cheating.”

“you’re distracting,” he counters, pecking you again, smiling like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

you shake your head, grabbing a different balm—peach this time—and swipe it on with trembling hands. “alright. one more. and i swear, if you guess it wrong again—”

“you’ll what?” he says, that same teasing glint in his eyes as he inches closer. “kiss me back?”

“riki.”

“what?” he shrugs, and it’s so casual, the way he slides his arms around your waist, pulling you into his lap like you belong there. your thighs straddle his without much warning, and his hands settle comfortably on your hips.

“you’re ridiculous,” you mutter, heart racing as your fingers find the soft fabric of his hoodie, gripping it like it’ll steady you.

he doesn’t reply. just looks at you.

and then kisses you again—this time deeper.

your breath stutters.

it’s not rushed. not frantic. it’s slow and warm, his lips brushing yours over and over, like he’s learning you by heart. his hands stay at your waist, fingers curling slightly, grounding you against him. your hands end up cupping his jaw, pulling him closer because you can’t help it anymore.

your noses bump a little, you giggle into the kiss, and he pulls back just enough to smile against your lips. “that one’s definitely, strawberry?”

you pull away, just an inch, laughing breathlessly. “peach, riki.”

“damn,” he says with a lazy grin, eyes half-lidded as he chases your lips again. “guess i need another try.”

you can’t even pretend to protest this time.

“i don’t wanna guess anymore,” he says finally, and his voice is softer now. lower. “kinda just wanna…”

he trails off, but his eyes are fixed on your lips again. you swallow.

“just wanna what?” you whisper.

his gaze flickers up to yours. he leans in, eyes never leaving your lips. “this.”

he kisses you again, and this time there’s nothing playful about it.

his other hand finds your waist, sliding under the hem of your oversized hoodie, fingers brushing the warm skin there. you gasp into his mouth and feel him smile against you, like he’s proud of himself for catching you off guard.

your hands clutch at his hoodie, pulling him closer without thinking. you tilt your head just enough to deepen the kiss and feel the way he exhales sharply through his nose. his fingers press more firmly against your waist, grounding you as you shift into his lap, straddling him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he groans softly into your mouth when your hips settle against his.

“god,” he breathes, breaking the kiss just long enough to look at you, lips red and pupils blown. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you laugh, but it comes out breathless. “you deserve it.”

he grins, tugging you down into another kiss—and this one’s slower, hungrier. his tongue traces your bottom lip and your lips part before you can even think about it. he kisses you deeper now, head tilted just enough that your noses don’t bump, his fingers splayed across your back like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he lets go.

you feel dizzy—in a good way. in a way you can’t believe he’s kissing you like this.

his kisses are messy now. greedy. your name slips from his lips in a quiet breath between kisses, and it does something to your chest—warms it, cracks it open, makes your heart beat louder than it should.

you pull back just enough to catch your breath, both of you panting, foreheads pressed together.

he looks up at you with that stupidly handsome face and says, “so, that one was, let me guess, uh, mint?”

you blink.

then burst out laughing, forehead dropping to his shoulder. “you’re so annoying.”

“what?” he grins against your temple. “i’m really bad at this game.”

you lift your head just enough to meet his eyes, cheeks flushed, lips tingling. “you just wanted to kiss me.”

he doesn’t deny it. instead, he brushes his nose against yours and whispers, “can you blame me?”

and you don’t answer. not with words. just with another kiss, just a little slower this time, like you’re both trying to memorize the shape of this moment.

and maybe you are.

스루 ܃ manifesting this exact scenario to happen to both you and me in the future, twin 🙁

© bywons, 2025 div ctto —taglist open ! nets. @/k-labels @kflixnet @k-films