Daughter of Themyscira “we have no fear”

virgo|simp|23

[st-kitten]

the last great demented dynasty XX

titus danforth x y/n

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a/n: throughout the chapters, certain songs will be mentioned at the beginning or after a partition. the music is chosen mostly for the vibes and the melody. if the lyrics align, yay. if not, play along. but i highly recommend listening to the songs on loop for its section if you're a 'take-your-time' reader. idk, the music just adds some oomf to it.

summary: you're almost there, at the precipice of winning the necrofest and the high seat if you make it through the next two games. but will there be a wrench in your plans?

warnings: long chapter (because again, 1 chapter 1 game + surrounding plot), HEAVY torture, words that can be triggering, mention of satanism, sebastian in this chapter is gonna have his own warning, blood, injured y/n, descriptions of physical pain, mental trauma, and other bodily harm. no sexual assault. occult and supernatural descriptions, mild angst if you squint, character death, brutal combat wrestling, ultimate silver lining.

very few people considered sparring as a romantic activity. 

you and titus were at it since dawn, the only lights in the danforth manor were the ones in the gym and the only sounds bouncing off the walls came from your grunts. who knew which genius decided that boxing was a form of aftercare following some hot sex—messy sheets, torn clothes, the works. 

but neither of you argued for some practice was a must. the cheng fu combat wrestling was a week away and you were pouring every bit of your strength into your punches against the heavy bag that titus stood behind, holding on both sides. 

you hit the bag repeatedly, jab-cross, cross-left hook, combinations that really rested your power. you'd even swapped the earlier gloves for heavier ones, the weight adding more resistance to the movement.

"harder, baby." titus, of course, was very animated with his 'guidance'.

"i'm fucking trying!" you panted, wiping the sweat on your neck with the back of your rubbery glove.

"you see this bag? this is gonna be a person. and it's gonna hit you back. so you need to get your shit together."

you spared him a glance, then took your position and hit a few hard combos. the bag sent a muffled version of the impact of your fist colliding with its skin straight into titus torso and hands.

"that's good, hit a left uppercut," he said, and as you bent to hit the punch, he shoved the bag at you, and you stepped aside just in time to deliver a right uppercut.

"good fucking girlllll," he grinned, holding the bag steady again. 

you peeled off your glove, biting into the velcro with your teeth and it crunched. you tossed it on the mat and grabbed your water bottle, taking measured sips ever though your lungs wanted a flood.

titus took a long and permanent look at you, at your sweaty neck, forehead, the top of your breasts visible from the neckline, just moist enough. his eyes travelled down to your thighs, your calves, at your cat socks that stared back at hiim. he took in your dishevelled hair, which had now grown enough to be put into a tiny pigtail at the back; he didn't like it. he'd have to cut it off—he liked it chopped and messy (give that was how you looked the first time he fucked you and he wanted that vision of you imprinted, embossed on his brain like a wax stamp). the smell of your sweat, of your skin made him take the longest breath of his life. it nudged awake the most primordial instincts in man, to recognise one's mate by their scent. 

he stroked your damp head, his fingers carving runes through your hair. you looked up at him and he patted once.

"yes?"

"i gotta take you out..."

"what, with a gun?"

he rolled his eyes. "on a proper dinner."

"oh big no."

his brows furrowed. "why not?"

"you're gonna pick some obnoxiously fancy place that i can't afford, which means i'm gonna have to wear clothes that i can't pay for."

"i'll pay for it."

you smiled, "and all the elite people there will be able to tell that i'm a rags to riches candy on your arm."

titus chuckled, "ouch."

"am i wrong?"

his hand kept petting your hair. "you're not... off track."

"uh huh."

"where do you wanna go then?"

"do i have to 'go'?"

he blinked at you. "you wanna stay in all the time?"

"yes?"

titus bent down just a bit. "a girl's gotta go out sometimes."

"no she does not. a girl's gotta do whatever a girl wants."

"i can't take you out to dinner, okay. can i take you out to italy? france? some place you really want to go?"

"here's a thought, i go to my room. and sleep. because i'm tired."

he leaned in, nose bumping against yours. "one of these days, you're gonna let me take you out, spoil you a little, and you're gonna like it."

you gently patted his cheek a few times. "sorry your girl's an introvert, titus. peace be with you."

he pressed a kiss to your lips, then hauled you up. he put your glove back on, and well, you can guess, you went on for a few more rounds of hitting the bag till the leather creased and started to tear.

you'd started to get the hang of it. never in your life had you thought training for combat wrestling against a bunch of cultists would prove to be exhilarating and fun. 

"why don't..." you panted, pausing for a moment. "you and i spar? like in a match."

"no."

"titus..."

"not a chance."

"why not?"

"you'll lose, baby. i'm stronger than you."

"well, as per the chronology, it's you i'm gonna fight in the arena. and you're not just gonna 'fake' losing. the lawyer will see through that."

titus regarded you carefully, at the dead seriousness in your eyes. "i can fake it."

"one look at you holding back and everyone there will see that you're lying. then i'm fucked. or you blow up."

he gritted his teeth. "you really wanna risk getting knocked out by me?"

"of course not. but if i have to fight you, i need the experience. and..." it made you shudder to even think about it, but it was imperative.

"what..."

"i gotta learn how to take hits and continue fighting."

titus scratched his scruffy stubble. any other day, the thought of sparring with you, of demonstrating that ever-boiling violence in him before you would have aroused him, but facing the fact that you were probably going to get beaten up badly by the cheng fus—deadliest as they could be with their house sport—and three other contenders, surely it couldn't be sustainable. he knew, that technique and strength could only get you so far. if you dropped to your knees at the first hit, you'd lose just like that. 

he dragged a rough palm over his face. "fine. yeah, okay."

you nodded with him and took off your gloves. from what you'd been told, the game would be without gloves. wrestling each other with just your bare hands, your bodies, its force.

"how um... hard is your punch?" 

you looked almost miserable asking that. 

titus gave you a sorry smile. "you don't wanna find out, baby."

"dude come on. is it... make me fall kinda hard? make me faint?"

he shrugged. "both."

you nodded. "okay... okay that's fine. worse things to face out there," you muttered to yourself. "explosive diarrhoea is worse. burning in a fire is worse. getting bombed is worse. it's fine."

you sucked in a breath and focused, your stance ready to dodge or defend. and to take a hit from your beloved boyfriend. "on three?"

the only answer you got was a mighty fist landing just bellow your ribcage, narrowly avoiding the bone, and hitting right against your abdomen, knocking the air out of your lungs. you gasped, your stomach recoiling as you coughed and staggered back. 

titus immediately held you, strong arms that had hit you now curling around you gently. 

"i told you."

"THE FUCK... nhhhhhhh," you took in a full breath, eyes blown wide open by the impact. "jesus..." you rasped.

he rubbed your arm, pulling you in, his cheek resting over your head. "i warned you, baby."

"yep." you gave him some kind of a thumbs up.

and from there, the romance between you took on a new form, which ended with you in your bed after a shower, pain pills down your gullet, and few bruises on your body. titus saw to it that pernilla and the staff made your bed comfortable and always refilled the glass of water on the night stand. he let you take a nap, still a bit proud of how you'd taken his punches and delivered a few of your own. he wore the bruises you gave him with all the pride of a lion. hell, he paraded himself around the manor with them, leaving his pristine shirt unbuttoned enough for everyone to see the black and blues over his torso. 

your nap, which ended up being hours long, really proved how draining it was to exert yourself for the sake of survival. it felt nearly apocalyptic—that to live, you had to fight your way through it. all because a certain parent of yours had to insert himself not only into your life unasked for, but also drag you down into the hellympics he'd triggered. and to think you could've still been looking after chester, be in the flirting stage with titus, possibly still a stranger to ursula. and maybe even out the door sooner.

you dreamt about what life would've looked like without the threat of the necrofest, without knowing satanist cults existed. without titus.

and a part of you almost wanted it back.

your quiet, peaceful mornings, your grocery runs, the commute to your college, research in the library, the hospital, being buried under books and papers, drinks with your friends. and it would've sufficed. maybe eventually you would've found someone, gotten married, maybe had a kid.

but as lovely as the dreams were, you still felt adrift.

♬⋆.˚ experience; ludovico einaudi, daniel hope, i virtuosi italiani

before your eyes could open, your body tried to stir in your bed, but it felt too hard on your skin, nothing like the softness of the duvet you'd grown used to. you knew your body ached from all the practice, but this felt different.

you blinked awake, slowly trying to catch ambient light. you felt it from every sense of yours that this wasn't your room. you weren't in bed. you neck hurt, it wasn't resting on anything. your throat felt dry as you swallowed.

eventually, you raised your head, eyes opened and took in the sudden change of scenery. instead of the brown wallpaper and wooden vanity before your bed, there were cracked walls, covered in sigils, symbols. herbs and charms and knots hung from hooks nailed to the surface. the room smelled of chemicals, strong fumes all around you coming from a trolley that held beakers with god knows what inside, and surgical equipment neatly placed in a tray.

you opened and closed your eyes a few more times to see if you could wake yourself up, but no. this was real. 

a soft shuffle from behind you only established that fact. 

"we need to talk."

sebastian's face slowly emerged from beside you as he came around to stand before you. the iron chains and cuffs around your wrist rattled as you tried to pry your arms free in vain. 

"don't bother screaming, the room is sound proof."

the cry for titus in your throat died then and there. 

"what are you doing?" you asked.

"like i said, we need to talk."

"you can't text?"

sebastian spared you a bitter glance as he took heavy steps towards the tray. he plucked a syringe, and a vial. never a good sign in the hands of a man like him.

"by we, i meant you." he sucked in some liquid, tapping the syringe a few times. "you... seem to be up to something. and i will not have you get in my way to the high seat."

you stared at the injection for a long time, an unsettling feeling resting in your system. your distaste for the man was borne by anecdotes and police questions. you had only 'heard' of his atrocities. never did you imagine you'd be strapped to a chair, about to experience them firsthand.

"so what, you're gonna torture me?"

"if that's what it takes. or you can simply tell me what your plan is."

"in which world would i ever choose you over myself?"

sebastian knelt down to look you at eye level. "i am your father. you owe me some courtesy, no?"

"and you owe me a big fat trust fund, but life's funny, i guess."

there was a flicker of amusement on his face. "your mother had the same humour. always got on my nerves."

you held his gaze without flinching. "good."

sebastian held the syringe up, "you know what this is. you know what it can do."

"go ahead. flush as many truth serums as you want in me. gives me a chance to say everything i've been holding back."

you felt the needle prick and your arm and you watched him empty it into your system. the effect wouldn't be instantaneous. it would infest in you slowly, gradually, then all at once. and if it were anything as strong as that night of the beer pong, you knew you'd be spilling out things no one, least of all him, deserved to know. 

"it's not as effective as we think it is. you're still conscious. probably capable of telling selective truths," your father explained to you.

"save the lecture."

"i don't think so. i want you... to know what i'm doing to you."

he circled you and stood behind you. then you felt his rough, heavy, calloused hand curl around your throat. he squeezed hard, the pressure closing in and trapping the air inside your trachea. enough to let you breathe, but enough to hurt swallowing. 

"the less air you get, the more your body will comply."

his fingers dug into your throat, nails pressing against your skin in crescents. you felt your mind slowly start to feel foggy, your face swollen and your breath thin. 

"what are you planning, y/n?" his voice in your ear barely registered. 

but in a way, you thanked your momentary disability for you could barely make a sound with his grip in your throat. he did it a few more times, let you breathe, then clamped his hand around your throat. a ring of red and blue crawled over your skin when he decided to try another approach. you coughed, sucking in air with short staccato breaths. funny, you had been choked before, damn near fatally and in bed with titus, but each one differed from another drastically. this one was laced with intentions you couldn't predict. 

sebastian, after he put on a pair of surgical gloves, picked up a clean scalpel from the tray.

"i can keep this easy, or i can make it harder, y/n. it's up to you."

you looked at his hands through blurry eyes. "do you worst."

he raised an eyebrow. "is thta so?"

"nothing... can be worse than being alive with you."

he shook his head. "i'm not going to kill you. no..." he held the scalpel at your forehead, watching your eyes dart up. "you're going to die on your own."

he sliced a thin cut above your eyebrow. you winced, eyes shut as you felt a sharp pain, then warm blood drip down your face, all the way down to your cheek like tears.

he placed several such cuts across the thinner parts of your skin that bled too easily. he did it with such care and precision too, truly with a surgeon's pursuit. a dozen or so cuts lay on your skin, red colouring the unhurt parts of it.

"i'll ask again. what are you up to?"

you felt the chemical compulsion to spill everything out rise slowly in your body. "the book told me."

"told you what?"

when no words came from you, he dragged the blade against your arm once more, eliciting a whine out of you. 

"told you what???"

you forced yourself to yell, to cry, to whimper. anything but words. and he saw that coming. he put down the scalpel, and picked up a jar of salt.

you braced for the sting in advance as he poured some in his palm and rubbed it harshly against the cuts on your arms. you shrieked in pain, hands jerking within the confines of the chains.

"you don't wanna answer? fine by me. i can do this all day."

the more you resisted, the more he rubbed salt on your wounds, your skin flaring with irritation and pain, and the coarseness of the grains only made micro cuts on your skin, drawing more blood. you watched sebastian's eyes light up as he pressed his thumb hard into your wound, digging into it and making it wider. you watched him glean pleasure from your screams. did he feel this way when he bled his patients dry? 

for hours, as it felt, your cries and screams bounced off the walls of the attic. you hoped even one would reach someone downstairs. that they'd hear you, follow the sound to you. hell, you even tried to call for the lawyer as sebastian wiped his hands.

"oh he can't come in, sweetie. you see... chester, built this attic to keep that scrawny man away. all these sigils are drawn to stop the lawyer from even sensing that this room exists."

your scream gave out bluntly and softened into a helpless cry. surely by now titus must've noticed you were missing. he'd find you. that was the only thing you relied on for some measure of safety and hope as sebastian left the attic, leaving you chained, bleeding, in pain, facing a closed door with no handle.

the only way you could tell the passage of time was when the meagre light filtered from behind you, through a singular slanted window on the roof. you figured the night was over when your neck finally felt warm against the morning chill. the shallow wounds had barely clotted, your skin still throbbing with a raw, sticky heat, when sebastian was at it again.

this time, he brought a small blowtorch with him. the heavy scent of butane filled the cramped space before the blue flame even sparked to life. he let the edge of the heat brush against your bare skin, watching with a detached, clinical fascination as you recoiled your body away from the burning air. he would pull back for a second, only to push the flame close again until your skin caught just enough to blister. fresh burn marks stamped across your arms and legs, mottling the pale skin over your thighs where he had roughly cut away your pants. what a sick bastard.

"your boyfriend... is a perpetual pain in the ass, by the way. he's out there, sniffing the grounds like some... hell hound, looking for you."

sebastian sat there on a low stool before you, casually cleaning the scalpel he had used on you the day before. he dipped a rough rag into a plastic tub of bleach, running it slowly over the metallic surface until it gleamed under the dim bulb.

you met his eyes briefly, looking away just as fast. 

"i told him you went out to see david."

your head shot up again. you stared at your father, desperately trying to process his words through the haze of pain. but he only smiled sinisterly, enjoying the sudden panic that flooded your face.

"i can only imagine what titus would do to him when he doesn't find you there. in fact..." he poured a small pool of raw bleach into his bare palm and splashed it directly over a nasty, deep cut on your calf. your skin sizzled, burned, stung, and you hissed in pain. 

"...he might just be doing the same thing to david, what i'm doing to you. the only difference is..."

sebastian rose slowly, his shadow stretching long across the attic floor. he placed the sterile scalpel back on the metal tray, and then reached for a thick plastic bag, shaking it out and puffing it up with air.

"i can't kill you. but titus can kill him. free of cost."

he put the bag over your head with a sudden, suffocating jerk, and grasped it tightly at the back of your neck, caging you in a measly, shrinking limit of air. instantly, the room vanished. you could not hear anything more than the loud, echoing sound of your own huffing breath and the soft panicked whines scraping against your throat. the plastic bag fogged up easily with your body heat, trapping moisture and completely cutting off your sight. you were never claustrophobic, but god if this did not absolutely terrorise you. the thin material sucked against your lips every time you tried to drag in a full breath, delivering nothing but stale carbon dioxide.

just as your lungs began to burn, he pulled the bag off abruptly, pleased by your sheer panic and the frantic way you gasped for the dusty attic air.

"you know... you've done really well so far. i won't mind if you died in the games. i'll pick up from there."

rolling his sleeves, he paced around the room to reach for a whip from his instruments of torture.it was a wicked thing, weighted at the ends with jagged metal studs that would have doubled as a mace too.

"how about that, hm? i send you out broken and bruised. you play, and chances are, you'll die there."

you did not want to show it, you did not want to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break, but you were scared. truly, deeply scared. you were terrified of never being found in this godforsaken room, of actually dying from your numerous infected injuries before titus could ever break down the door. whip after whip, sebastian slashed at your back, your limbs, till your flesh tore in places, till it bore black and blue.

the second night you spent alone there, you really did try your best to slide your hand out of the cuffs, but the rusted iron was simply the worst of your enemies. you were hungry, thirsty, in pain, and stiff from being seated for two whole days. your head lolled over your shoulder when sleep tried to find you, but it hurt just the same. and every little squeak in the attic alerted you, and kept you awake. 

sebastian kept up with his creativity for another day. not to mention he brought news.

"david's dead. as expected."

you felt your throat dry, dread casting a shadow over you. 

"titus was always gullible to manipulation. but it seems that he... is feral about you," said sebastian. "i'm not sure i like him for you, sweet girl."

you wanted to throw up. the magnitude of what was happening churned inside you cruelly. you wanted it to be over. the injustice of it all didn't slip past you. you'd gone through relentless training, risked your life to play fatally dangerous games, you had taken the life of two people, injured another, watched a whole family blow up into pieces and blood, and just when your old wounds had started to crust and heal, your sadist of a father brought you up here, made you suffer the scorns of his whim.

three whole days passed. three days of unwavering cruelty, torture, mind games to get you to spill out secrets. your body felt detached from your mind, a map of raw burns, stinging cuts, and deep, aching bruises that throbbed in tandem with the heavy beat of your heart. the constant, gnawing pain had become a dull background noise, eclipsed only by the swirl of the drugs he kept pumping into your veins.

"what do you see in him? why titus of all people?" your father asked, looming somewhere above you. he had just injected another dose of the heavy truth serum, the cool liquid burning as it rushed through your sluggish bloodstream.

your tongue felt thick, heavy, and completely disconnected from your jaw. you slurred out a response, the words slipping past your cracked, bleeding lips before you could even think to stop them. "he re...minds... me of you. but better."

sebastian stopped swaying, raising an eyebrow. "better than me? he is a pathetic, angry man. the hound of the family, just some mindless beast without chains."

"not to me," you whispered, your eyelids fluttering as you fought to keep him in focus. "he sees me... he loves me."

sebastian chuckled, a low, humourless sound that vibrated through the damp air of the attic. "oh...y/n... not yet. you haven't seen him when he's... wrathful." 

then, he did something you had never felt before, something completely alien from any father figure you had ever known. sebastian stepped closer, his expression softening into something almost resembling pity, and gently tucked a bloody, matted strand of hair behind your ear. his fingers were surprisingly warm against your feverish skin.

"maybe i should have been there for you," he murmured, his voice dropping to a rare, quiet cadence that made your chest ache. "raised you a bit better. you have my resilience. under all this fragility, you could have become the next 'me'."

and there, in the quiet gravity of his words, the drug stripped away your final defence. it laid bare the gaping void in you that had spent a lifetime longing for paternal love—the desperate, pathetic urge to be chosen, to be praised by the man who gave you life. you had sought that same intensity in titus, craved a man who could ruin the world for you because your own father would not even look at you.

unable to fight the chemical honesty in your veins, and largely unable to fight the starving child inside you, you weakly tilted your head and leaned your cheek into his open palm, seeking the warmth of his touch like a wilted plant reaching for the sun.

he pulled his hand away instantly.

"dont fucking do that..." he muttered fiercely to himself, his face contorting into disgust nad conflict.

before you could even blink away the tears, he cracked his palm hard against your cheek with a brutal, self-loathing slap. the force of it snapped your head to the side as the fragile illusion of his warmth shattered into pieces.

you sat alone once more as the night swallowed the grounds of the danforth manor, covered in blood, sweat, your own piss from uncontrolled release. pale moonlight sifted through the solitary window, casting its tender light on your back, over the gashes and cuts that lay like a cape. the effects of the drug hadn't quite left your body, causing you to talk to yourself, to any atom that was willing to listen.

"stupid girl..." the words spilled out, thick and slurred. "he does not love you. how could he? you do not even love yourself enough to..." you swallowed hard, trying to summon enough moisture to warm your throat before the next sound tore free. "...to see it. to see what you really are to them."

the silence of the attic offered no reply, only the heavy weight of impending death. the iron in the air stung your wounds constantly.

"i don't wanna die... like this," you whimpered, the cold iron chains rattling softly against the floorboards as you shifted your weight. 

but the sorrow could not sustain itself. in the vacuum of your despair, a sudden, blunt spark of anger flared up. your sadness lost its rightful place on the podium, replaced by a raw, ragged spite.

"why should i die?" your voice grew sharper, breath coming in shallow, venomous puffs from your nose. "i am fucking... playing, am i not? getting fucking beaten up everyday for this... for what? for whose amusement?"

infused with a sudden, reckless adrenaline, you shuffled in the stiff wooden chair. you dragged your foot backward, straining against the cuffs until you managed to hook the heel of one shoe against the other, tugging it off your foot. though the shadows blinded you, you pinched the empty leather with your bare toes and began to sweep it like a wiper across the floorboards—deliberately, viciously eroding the perfect ring of salt that circled your chair.

"the lawyer cannot get in here," you snarled at the empty air, erasing the protective barrier, the laxman-rekha* that kept the supernatural horrors at bay. "but you can... or are you weak too? are you just another coward watching from the ceiling?"

the anger boiled over, a direct challenge to the unseen forces that governed this twisted estate.

"you... you could not have just left me alone? what did i ever do to you? i do not even believe in you!" you screamed into the rafters, the sound tearing at your throat. you paused to swallow your own blood, feeling the warm, salty liquid glide down your throat like a grim communion.

 "your own rules, buddy. are you not going to rectify them?"

you leaned forward, the chains straining to their absolute limits, your joints aching with a dull, screaming agony.

"what are you testing? i am playing, am i not? taking hits for your stupid, sadistic game. let me guess... i gotta offer up my soul or something?"

you jerked against the restraints, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping your lips. "can't expect righteousness from you, can i? but then again, you are trying so... hard to be a god. and what is god but righteous..." 

the frenzy of your rage began to cool, leaving behind the heavy, aching truth of your own heart. you thought about titus. you thought about the dangerous, volatile warmth of his presence, and how fiercely he had come to anchor you to this world.

"i know... i am a massive, massive hypocrite," you whispered to the moonlight, your head sinking low. "wishing them all dead... but falling for him. i should wish him dead too." 

you bit the inside of your cheek until the copper taste renewed itself. "but i can't. god help me, i cannot."

a long, heavy silence settled over the attic, broken only by the sound of the wind howling against the manor walls. the drug was finally receding, leaving you bare, broken, entirely exhausted.

"is this my punishment for trying to find my way out?" you asked the dark, your voice barely a breath now. "fair enough, man... have at it."

and then the heavy door creaked open on its own... shifting slowly against the floorboards without a single hand to guide it. a sudden, unnatural chill plummeted the temperature of the attic to a freezing low. you felt two heavy, impossibly solid hands settle over your bare, bruised shoulders and it burned your skin through and through, only it wasn't heat—but pure ice. thick black smoke billowed out from nowhere, pooling around your knees and filling your lungs with the scent old ash, and a cold, dead breath brushed directly past your ears.

with a sharp, metallic ping, your iron cuffs opened on their own, the heavy locks snapping back.

you whipped around instantly, the sudden movement causing a sickening crack in your stiff neck. a painful, breathless whine escaped your throat as you forced your eyes open through the haze, catching sight of a towering, vanishing figure dissolving into the shadows. for one fraction of a second, just two glowing red eyes burned out from the dark before they disappeared entirely into the woodwork.

"fuck."

it took every last ounce of remaining strength in your shattered body just to lean forward and try to get up from the chair. but your legs, deadened by three days of trauma and chains, completely failed you. you fell down immediately, a sharp shriek escaping from your throat as your knees hit the floorboards with a dull thud.

driven by pure, primal survival, you began to crawl against the rough wooden floor. every movement was agony; you dragged yourself directly over the scattered ring of salt, the sharp grains embedding themselves into your fresh wounds and chemical burns, making your skin sizzle and sting all over again.

clutching the doorframe, you hauled yourself into the hallway. the bright electric lights of the manor corridor burned your dilated eyes, blinding you with a splitting headache, but you held onto the floor, palms as steady as they could be and pushed yourself up to your knees.

you crawled again like a helpless child, your palms staining the floor with dark smudges of blood. you climbed down the steep attic stairs—down, down, down into the belly of the house—till you finally reached the carpeted parts of the manor you actually recognised. your balance gave out completely and you took a brutal tumble at the bottom of the stairwell, your body rolling onto the hardwood floor. but you did not stop. you could not. it was another literal hell simply making it down the long corridor to his bedroom door, every single bone, joint, and muscle in your body screaming in protest, begging you to just drop dead right there on the rug.

but you did it.

you collapsed against the base of his door, your weak hands clawing helplessly at the brass hinges, scratching futilely at the dark, polished wood. you barely had it in you to raise your fist to knock, your fingers curling into useless, trembling stubs. unable to lift your arm, you simply slumped your entire weight against titus' door, your bloody, lacerated shoulder bruising against the hard surface. you let out a pained whine, loud enough that it turned into a gasp as the door briskly opened.

there stood titus.

he looked down at you, his large frame freezing instantly. titus... who had spent the past four endless days tearing the world apart looking for you; a man who had spent ninety-six hours tormenting the everloving hell out of the late david, turning the man into a memory before dumping what was left. he had interrogated every single servant who claimed they never saw you, breaking their bodies with a ruthless, cold efficiency before having them hauled away to whichever poorer family would take them in. his clothes were disheveled, his jaw dark with heavy stubble, and his eyes completely wild with a desperate, feral rage—until they landed on the broken, bleeding sight of you at his feet.

he didn't waste a second of time before he knelt down and gathered your tattered body into his arms. it hurt. his rough palms felt like abrasive velcro straps against your shredded, wounded skin, yet, through the seething pain, you knew with absolute certainty that these hands wouldn't harm you. you sagged in his embrace, eyes heavy. 

titus picked you up like a bride and carried you towards his bed. he placed you as gently as he could, wincing when he heard you sob. just... how badly hurt were you that even the softest, finest bed in the world brought you nothing but physical torment?

he remained hovering over you, his breathing shallow and erratic. one large palm stroked the crown of your head with unfamiliar tenderness, while the other hovered mid-air, hesitating to cup your face because he could not find a single patch of skin that was not marred by a cut, a bruise, or a chemical burn.

"y/n..."

very few things rattled titus danforth. he was a man built for violence, but the sight of you like this mortified him. made him fear for your life. 

"baby..." he spoke softly, carefully watching your eyes follow him, the movement of his lips. he sighed a little in relief that you were still responsive.

as rabid and destructive as he could get, as much as his instincts screamed at him to tear the manor apart stone by stone, he knew in this exact moment that you needed gentleness. you needed softness, and not the vengeful hellfire that was brimming in his body. 

but titus was titus. the hound could only be restrained for so long. even as he looked down at you with a gaze full of devastating tenderness, the dark promise of total annihilation was already solidifying behind his eyes. he would defeat any foe, break any law, and slay any dragon to prove a singular, absolute point to this family: touching you was a warrant for death.

"who did this to you?" he hissed harshly. 

the question carried with itself a vow to damn the culprit to a perdition from which no prayer, no desperate plea could ever rescue. 

the spoonful of soup barely made it down your gullet before your ribs ached and protested the action of swallowing. you'd woken up in titus' bed after a few hours of fitful 'sleep', if you could even call it that. while you were out, you had been completely patched up, bandaged tightly in multiple places, and stitched together like a torn cotton toy. painkillers of a mighty caliber had been pumped into your system to numb and dull the persistent, thudding ache that resonated deep within your flesh.

titus had sat by your side throughout the entire ordeal. he had ruthlessly kicked out a mildly surprised and concerned ursula earlier, who had only wanted to nose her way in to find out what happened, especially since the security cameras in the manor had mysteriously gone entirely dark the exact night you went missing.

you had not realised just how starving you were until real, actual food was placed right before you, and it didn't smell like bleach or rust or your own injuries. 

"you want anything else? the cooks aren't going anywhere. they'll make whatever you tell them to," titus murmured, his dark eyes tracking the slow movement of your jaw.

the innate goddess of humility in you urged to shake your head and refuse, but you were long past listening to her. your grumbling belly won out.

"just... another plate of the same thing..."

titus did not think twice before snapping his fingers, and a servant rushed out to go inform the chef.

once the door clicked shut, he placed his large hand over your freshly bandaged thigh, applying only the barest, most careful fraction of his weight. he just needed to hold you, to anchor himself to the fact that you were still breathing. he didn't know how to come back to that conversation, the one before which you'd passed out.

"i'm going to kill him," he just said flatly.

you looked at him, eyes too lazy and tired to show any astonishment. 

"that's..."

"no, i am. i don't care that he's your father. he's dead. he was dead the second you collapsed against my door."

you swallowed the last bit of chicken from your second serving, then placed a shaky hand over his.

"titus..."

he begged you with a gaze you hadn't seen on him before. "he needs to die, y/n. for what he's done to you since... forever."

you cleared your throat. "not..." you said softly, mostly because any louder and your throat would constrict. "your kill."

he blinked at you, but if there was anything he understood, anything he'd learned from growing up in the sick, cultist world of his, it was to never get in the way of a hunt. especially one born out of vindication. and you were his queen... stronger than he'd ever thought you could turn out to be. kinder than a monster like him ever deserved to receive. smarter than him in ways that had to be invented solely for you. 

so he let you have it, conceding to your silent authority. sebastian... was going to be your kill, on your time, and by your own blood-stained hands.

you stared off into a daze throughout the car ride to the cheng fu estate.

beside you, titus sat quietly. and the only reason he was so because that morning, he'd turned the whole manor upside down trying to keep you from going forward with the fifth game of the necrofest. and his reasons were valid, of course. you were severely inujured, and though they were superficial injuries, none too deep to cause irreversible or long term damage, your body was absolutely not ready to take a beating, let alone give one. 

but you had insisted to fight. and your reason was valid beacause there was no other choice. you were the only participant from your house, and the only was you could escape the game was either by being dead or magically conjuring a third other member of your family and having your father nominate them.

so he simply sat, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the road, yet they couldn't help but rest on you, on your barely healed skin. you looked like you'd been tossed in a frying wok, your own description mind you, which he did not fucking laugh at.

titus replayed the past two days over and over in his mind. he kept thinking about the way you had described that hidden attic, a rancid corner of the manor he had not even known existed. you had spoken of the sigils drawn on the floor, the heavy salt barrier, and the iron chains that had bound you to the chair. you had deliberately skipped over the most gory, agonising details of sebastian's torture, shielding him from the worst of it, and you had neither confirmed nor denied exactly how you had managed to break free of those locks. you had only whispered that maybe... just maybe, that freak of a mr. le bail had actually heard your screaming soliloquy, and somehow set you free. but you had ended that line with a heavy, sceptical 'if'. because accepting it would mean accepting that literally satan decided to spare your life.

♬⋆.˚ for whom the bell tolls; emi meyer

when you reached the arena, sandy, crude, a sumo wrestling pit if you squinted, everybody's eyes were on you. usually, it was due to resentment and mis-anticipating your lucky wins, but this time... they were glances of weary caution.

for you entered the arena already deeply bloody and visibly bruised, dressed only in an oversized shirt and loose boxing shorts that showed the fresh white bandages wrapped tight around your limbs. yet, despite the damage, there was a menacing storm brewing in your eyes. you looked entirely broken, but you did not fucking look weak. it was like witnessing rocky balboa walk up to the arena before facing clubber lang; and you, well... you were about to face damn near four of them. 

the roar of the crowd dulled into a tense murmur. you did not hear a single instruction, a single rule, or a single word of good luck uttered by the lawyer, who stood at the edge looking equally spooked by the sudden contrast in your demeanour. the last time he had seen you, you were covered in polo grime and minor cuts, but this... this was an outright attempt at murder, best described in his book. his eyes narrowed down on sebastian, who looked disappointed, perhaps at your survival? but you were alive and down to fight, so by the code, no rules were broken. 

you didn't even hear the first ding of the bell, nor did you see mr cheng fu step into the pit, along with a wrinkly mr silcox, fists balled up too tight. 

mr cheng fu yelled something in chinese, a chant native to the family it seemed, for the extended family in the audience erupted in cheers and responses to the same. he stomped towards the shivering mr silcox, who made the mistake of backing into the ropes. a large, chubby fist landed straight into his face, the audible crack of his nose dissolving beneath the hoots and howls.

mr silcox went down before he could even process his own existence. it was a clean knockout. the 'ace' of combat fighting if you could call it. 

through unfocused eyes, you watched francesca step into the arena, followed by a really... really mad titus. 

oh, he had been counting down the days until this exact fight, waiting for the legal permission to deal some truly nasty blows to miss el caído, who had tried to make your life difficult on multiple occasions. he did not care that she was a woman. to him, gender meant nothing in the pit; she was only one thing: an opponent. and those? titus was exceptionally well at pummelling them into dust.

he let out a dark, mocking laugh at her weak stance, watching with a predator's satisfaction as her pleading eyes darted across the crowd to where her father sat helplessly in his wheelchair.

"eyes on me, bitch."

francesca snapped her head back to titus, who stood directly before her, his massive frame hunched low with his fists out, ready to attack.

"you hurt my girl. so you're gonna pay for that."

she scoffed, trying to muster her usual arrogance, but that sound did nothing to hide just how panicked she truly was. "maybe i toughened her up."

before he could even bother to respond to her words, the heavy iron bell dinged, and titus simply answered her with a brutal throw of his hands. his knuckles landed in a harsh sequence against her ribs, her arms, and then cracked hard across her cheek.

francesca's vision spiralled as she trudged away from titus, but he was ultimately too quick and far too eager. he yanked her hair, which she hadn't bothered to tie up. and shoved her into the ropes. and from there, it was a series of unstoppable punches to her body and face, knocking her side to side, up and down till she collapsed on the ground before him. titus lurched forward with a feral snarl, lifting his fist to deal another finishing blow that would have cracked her skull open, before the lawyer's invisible magic suddenly tightened around his limbs, restraining him forcefully in place.

the bell dinged once.

titus had won that round. 

he proudly stepped back, watching his work on the poor woman who clutched her ribs as she was pulled up by her family. titus turned to you, a little too happy to have absolutely ransacked francesca, but the only thing he saw was an eerie, calm focus on your face. 

fair, given that you were called next. 

titus watched you calmly walk up to the pit, ducking slowly under the ropes to get in. he saw the slight crease in your brown when you bent down. your body was still recovering. he did not know how you were going to take hits, hell, he wasn't even sure if you'd be able to pick yourself up from your own lagging movements. 

but at least you were up against mr silcox, whose nose was deformed now. the old man was clearly not in a good shape, so maybe—

the bell dinged. 

you held your fists up loosely, toes slightly bouncing on the sand, little steps to keep you agile. they fucking hurt, but the pain was bearable from the numbing spray you'd taken back in the car for your injuries. 

"how's your wife?" you asked mr silcox. 

he did not like that question. not when he'd witnessed you dragging his precious mallet over his precious wife's precious calf in his precious game of blood polo a week ago. she had to undergo at least thirty stitches and the promise of a talented plastic surgeon who swore that for just a few million dollars, he could make her leg look brand new.

mr silcox threw a punch at you, which you blocked. he was too slow, too inexperienced in hand-to-hand combat—that you could tell. you didn't even have to raise your arms. you just sliced your foot under his legs, swiping him off his feet and making him land flat on his face on the ground, rigghtttttt on his broken nose. 

the man gargled sand out of his mouth, clutching his face and scraped knee. 

you just kept jogging on the spot, looking down at the miserable man. well, mr silcox made no effort in getting up. partially from the humiliation of befalling the same injury, that too from a woman of lesser ranks, and partially from another cheque of twenty million he foresaw at the aesthetics clinic.

the bell rang and you walked out of the arena. you'd managed to win, and save your breath and energy. you took a seat next to ursula, who... very genuinely handed you a water bottle.

"it's... obvious that you're not okay but... how are you feeling?" she asked.

you looked at your bandages, checking if either of them tore or not. 

"you don't wanna know what i'm feeling."

she nodded. "we really did try to find you. sebastian, he told—"

"i know."

her hand itched to place itself over your shoulder. despite not being your biggest fan, she'd come to feel some kind of sorority in you. you'd proven to be useful, capable, and somehow stark different from them and ursula valued that uniqueness. you occupied space without shame. something she wished she could do, she should do given that she's a danforth heiress. but it never came to her naturally. it had to be enacted. 

"well... the least i can do is make you a good fucking martini when you win."

you smiled, taking a few sips from the bottle. "deal."

titus, back in the arena was supposed to fight mr silcox, but the man raised his white flag and slumped into a seat, fanned by his many sons and daughters. with the cowards out of the way, mr. cheng fu entered the arena instead, hefty, hulking, and hungry for a bloody fight with the cutthroat danforth.

now, a part of titus knew he was no match for the traditional wrestler under normal circumstances. cheng fu was bigger in size, meaner in his attacks, and far too certain of his victory. but titus had a different agenda. the one thing he could do, the only thing that mattered, was to put the humongous man in a bad enough shape, to break a few of his bones and weaken him just enough to make him beatable for you when your turn came.

the two men faced off against each other like absolute animals in the wild—a rabid hellhound fighting a massive grizzly bear in the dusty ring. their speeds were too potent for the ordinary eye to track, and the sheer, crushing strength of their punches and tussles could be felt in the very air around them, vibrating through the arena floor. neither backed down from offensive attacks, and neither bothered to defend because that was for losers. real men fought hard and mighty, absorbing the pain just to give it back twofold.

which is exactly what titus did. any bracket of time he found, any split-second opening in cheng fu's guard, he dealt merciless, heavy blows to the giant—targeting his ribs, his abdomen, his jaw, throat, and head, anywhere he could draw blood or fracture bone. at one point, he even managed to tackle and slam the man directly onto the ground, the impact shaking the sand, but he quickly found himself choked in a suffocating, lethal headlock as cheng fu wrapped a thick arm around his neck.

titus ruthlessly elbowed him in his torso over and over, knocking the air out of the wrestler's lungs until the grip loosened. he stood up quickly, his head spinning as he felt dizzy for a solid moment from the lack of oxygen.

but even then, with his vision blurred, he stepped forward and kicked the living daylights out of the man on the ground, his heavy boot cracking against cheng fu's ribs. he let out a sharp yelp when his ankle was suddenly caught in a vice-like grip, and with a sudden jerk, he was dragged down onto the hard ground with a brutal thud.

it was no surprise that titus ultimately lost that round when the dust settled. but he did not care about the loss. as he dragged himself up, spitting blood into the sand, he was completely regret-free and deeply pleased to see mr. cheng fu panting, limping, and left in an equally bad shape. that much he could do for you. all for you.

and your match with francesca, already being called a 'cat fight' ended up being something out of a video game. for all her family pride, legacy, and money, she was still weaker than you. you hadn't truly shown you could fight, so francesca thought you the same as her and tried to slap you. 

chuckling at that... attempt of whatever it was, you dodged out of her way and socked her jaw hard. you did not wait for her to react or scoff or say anything bitter in either of her languages before you dealt a simple but powerful jab at her throat, and a nasty right hook to her cheek, which caused her to stumble and fall to the ground. she coughed and whined in the dust, unable to fathom what had just happened. 

that was the case for every spectator around you. you weren't the best marksman, you weren't a chess prodigy like the le domas (may their soul roast in hell), you nearly got trampled on the polo ground. but you could suddenly fight? or were you always able to?

knowing she wouldn't get up, you glanced at the lawyer and he sighed, ringing the bell that announced you as the winner of that round.

you stayed in the pit, taking deep breaths to recover as much as you could. 

and then you saw him duck in through the ropes, and you just... smiled. it was the first genuine, unforced smile you had managed all day.

"hi."

titus returned your smile with a one of his own, his intense gaze softening as it washed over your bruised, but beautiful face.

"hello, baby."

it felt just like your practice sessions, moving around him, having him circle you, fists raised, a few jabs and crosses dodged. like taking the lay of the land. you could tell he didn't really want to hit you. and you knew he couldn't beat around the bush and breka the rules of the game.

so you spared him the trouble of faking it. pivoting sharply, you spun around on your toe with a sudden, fluid elegance, raising your other leg to deliver a barbarous sweeping roundhouse kick right to his pretty face.

titus staggered for a second, gaining his footing, his hand rising to touch his jaw. oh.

he looked at you, stunned. "i didn't teach you that."

you shrugged. "i'm a former ballerina, titus. i got some skills." you ended your sentence with a punch faked, which he fell for, and then you dipped down gracefully into a deep cossack squat, slicing your leg under titus', similar to what you did with mr silcox but better, at its full capacity, and kknocked your man off his feet. 

titus landed on his back, stupefied. he knew he should get up. stand up and fight for at least half his masculinity. but there was much more twisted pleasure in being smacked around and slammed down by you. he looked up at you looking down at him. he had about a few secodns to figure out his next move. he could not afford to 'fake' losing just to protect you and he certainly did not want to risk blowing up into piec—

"sorry, sweetie, i'll kiss it better later," you cooed, truly apologetic...

...before you stomped on his crotch, the hell of your shoe landing right on top his family jewels. and the man never resurfaced. 

for a few sincerely understandable minutes, titus lay on the ground, hands clutching his groin, holding back wails. and boy, he was not alone in his suffering; practically every other man in the arena, the lawyer included, instinctively winced and cringed inward, their thighs closing in. all of them held their breath in a collective silence, watching you ruthlessly put your man in his place.

no fucking body complained when the bell dinged and titus lay on the ground. you had won...which meant there was only one man left to fight. one man between you and another victory.

mr cheng fu surprisingly limped back into the pit. while he prepared himself, you took a moment to replenish your fluids, taking a slow sip from a water bottle before turning your attention to your pouty titus. he sat on the bench, his legs closed tight, his broad shoulders hunched over in frustration from his own loss. you leaned down, giving his bruised face a soft pat on the cheek and pressing a tender, reassuring kiss to his bloody lips.

then, you turned back to the sand.

you stood before the giant, mentally calculating just what you would have to do to not get killed mid-fight. dodging and ducking would only help you so far. your physical endurance was hanging by a thread, and your standard punches would not make that much of a difference, even if titus had already left the man pretty banged up. no, you had to be clever. and you had to be extra careful.

as soon as the bell rang, mr cheng fu stomped towards you. and through the adrenaline, you clocked right away that he was not fast. he was hefty, destructive, but he was not fast. he lacked the agility that you possessed, even though that aspect of your body had already been severely tested over the last few days and was nowhere near its full range.

because of your limitations, your battered body felt every. single. hit.

one of his heavy knuckles clipped your head, making your ears ring violently. your healing lip cracked open again, a fresh smear of crimson running down your chin. as the tussle continued, a few of your tight bandages tore open under the strain, bleeding through your clothes and bringing you to the exact same level of banged up as him. you limped away frantically from another daunting punch, which narrowly missed your jaw by a fraction of an inch. you stumbled behind him, maintaining a healthy, desperate distance.

the oaf darted towards you, and you took that split-second chance to spin around just in time, driving your elbow hard into his fractured ribs before sliding away just as fast. you winced sharply, a gasp escaping your throat as your weak ankle caught itself in a mean twist.

you couldn't hear in your left ear that well, but you were pretty sure people were just booing at you. fuck em.

you tried to draw in a few stabilizing breaths, but you had to abandon the oxygen halfway when a stray fist from cheng fu caught your cheek. you practically spun at the sheer impact, your body flying backward until you crashed heavily into the ropes. a few more ruthless hits caught you right across your wounded back, and you yelled out in blinding pain, your knees buckling as you knelt down in the sand.

through the muffled ring in your ears, you could hear titus and ursula screaming at the top of their lungs, shouting at you to get up, to move, to run.

but you simply could not bring your shattered frame up that soon. your muscles refused to cooperate, and you knew he was coming for you—at large and elephantine. you slumped down even more, a large fist missing the back of your head thankfully. your palms clutched at the rough ground, digging deep into the pit. taking one sharp breath, you forced yourself to stand up.

before mr. cheng fu could grab your tattered shirt and hurl you out of the arena itself, you threw a measly, telegraphed punch. he dodged it easily, a smirk forming on his face—you opened your clenched fist mid-swing and let a handful of the fine, coarse arena sand fly directly into his open eyes.

he wailed instantly, the sharp grains stinging his vision as he instinctively brought his large hands up to rub them. big mistake.

seeing him blinded, you let all the pent-up rage, the raw trauma, and the burning injustice of your life boil straight to the surface. you unleashed a furious, unhinged torrent of blows, hitting him over and over, not caring where your knuckles landed. in that blinding moment of wrath, you did not see cheng fu anymore. you imagined sebastian standing there instead, eating your punches with clattering teeth.

every single cut and bruise of that torture flashed before your eyes as your fists collided with mr cheng fu's body, slowly sending him stumbling backwards. you could not even hear your own guttural, feral scream—practically deaf in your left ear—as you dealt brutal blows left and right. you struck with a vicious velocity, spilling blood, spit, and even vomit from the big man as you kept hitting, and hitting, and hitting.

only when a sudden, invisible magical force caught ahold of your limbs, freezing your trembling body rigidly in place, did you finally realise that you had been fisting the empty air for a long moment.

you blinked through the sweat and blood obscuring your vision. your opponent, the supposed master of his sport, lay completely broken on the ground before you, gasping desperately for air, his eyes bloodshot and blinded by the sand.

the final gong of the bell was unheard by you. muffled noises came from one side, clearer groans from the other. and before your legs could give out, steady arms came to hold you, and led you out of the pit.

back in the car, freshly hurt for the millionth fucking time in just one week, you sat on the painfully squeaky leather seat. thankfully, the limousine allowed you to stretch your legs better, alleviating a fraction of the throbbing pressure in your twisted ankle.

your back lay against titus' chest, which heaved steadily. his stubbled felt rough against your forehead, but you somehow found that comforting. far better than any chair, any bed.

his hands ran up and down your arms, dirty fingertips tracing your skin gently.

and it was the safest you'd felt in weeks.

funny how that worked. finding absolute sanctuary in the hands of a man who had brutally beaten the hell out of multiple people in a matter of days; a man who had ruthlessly hunted down and killed your now former supervisor simply because the mere possibility of you being in danger trumped any differential diagnosis of logic.

"you actually did it," said ursula, who was seated away from you, nursing a flute of champagne that every limousine was characterised to provide. "won the games."

titus frowned, his grip tightening imperceptibly around your waist and his chest rumbled against your spine. "there's one more left. and i'm telling you right now, i am not hunting her down. not happening."

ursula and you shared a knowing smile, a wordless understanding that unsettled him.

"what"

you looked up at him, his face too close to be seen as one ideal shape. your palm gently scraped against his stubbled jaw and he looked down at you.

"didn't i tell you?" you murmured, a spark of hope in your voice. "i have a plan."

laxman-rekha: (line of lakshman, lit.), is an alleged line/boundary drawn by ram's brother lakshman to protect his sister-in-law sita from any harm during their voluntary exile into the forest (i say alleged, because in the actual valmiki written text, there is no mention of it. that was introduced in two latter versions of ramayan, the hindu epic, one in telugu and another in bengali/hindi, if i'm not wrong). i remain loyal to the og version.

SHE IS BACK. incredibly sorry for the massive delay (nuke me). i was out of the city, two hours in a plane, a bus, the metro. and on duty to chase a rat away (failed) in my friend's apartment.

also, i edited some boring ahh redundant lines out and kinda watered down the torture because it personally disturbed me to write it T_T (DON'T WORRY. i will still make the story worse during the final hunt. again, nuke me).

also read a few disturbing works on torture and trauma and watched a shit ton of fight scenes that just made me depressed so i had to take a break. T_T

AND im binging supernatural, hence the salt and sigils. lfg.

thank you so much for being patient.

always, comments are loved loved loved, reblogs are always welcome, all my ghost readers; u da real gems

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limited taglist: @taniamiller @generation-zero @goddess-of-spring @1dhoe93 @saigereaper @onyxorbspire @fluffyassbutt @niki128 @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @margaretblue777@emotionalsupportdilf @yiiiikesmish @softundermoonlight @tomnooksbagofbells

[hyuckzcult]

09 ⟶ SMASH OR PASS

.𖥔 ݁ SYNOPSIS . after getting publicly broken up with because of a misspread rumor, you move away to "heal" and "start over". when you come back after months and see your ex and said person—who spread those rumors about you—getting closer each day, you realize maybe you shouldn't have ever come back. and it definitely doesn't help when your ex starts giving you mixed signals about everything.

PAIRING ex!jake x fem!reader FEATURING aespa ningning, riize shotaro, nct haechan, le sserafim yunjin +enhypen

TAGS smau (+written) ; crack ; university au ; lots of miscommunication ; dumbass jake ; cringey moments ; cliche 𝓦 none that I can think of other than suggestive comments?

masterlist / 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10

mars yap I will always sneak in my love for f1 and Antonelli/Russell + jay's crush on verstappen ok leave me alone

taglist 50/50 @ellushic @iiunique @bbrianawhatt @heecinnamonroll @chanellerie @fondlyperfectjinx @doompost @miyeonprincessu @wobblymug @sjynlvr @lyzoor @zenhypen @natainred @cokewithcameron @makloves @lovleycherryy @goatedwiththesaucedotcom @enmortal @d0llddeonu @yvinion @jxqk3 @matchayumeee @dadaback @nctubatu @hoondiors @raebaebears @ariieeesworld @zsrcx @desirxriki @blvengene @seonghyeonsback @bensabrifirildak @anneakb @baedreamverse @hsngx @zoe1love @pityparadise @metioo @enhapagluuuuu @sunnysidesins @lilica75 @amivine @arelyvn @ni-k1ttie @miemiem9 @volcanicnomadlocket @softblaqn @tamedhoon @antonxoul @leeknowstoes00

[sailorsoons]

Rule One (c.sc)

PAIRING: F.Reader x ot13 PACK MEMBER FOCUS: Seungcheol PACK MEETING: You're having a hard time adjusting to your new pack. Good thing your head alpha knows exactly how to help you adapt. REQUESTED BY: @peaspeas REQUEST: Idek if this qualifies because I'm talking like, maybe pré-rules or before they were finalised formally but I want Seungcheol finding reader whenever she's eating and sitting with her and she has no idea why. If he shows up and she's already eating, he's like oh shit, panic to make up a reason that he needs to as well etc. Almost a sort of farcical comedy vibe? Both idiots ofc WC: 5,135 RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It may contain explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. PACK WARNINGS: Very mild angst like wouldn't even call it that, reader has some anxiety adjusting to a new pack, she's a little in her head, Seungcheol is a little shit, some vague references to hormones and adjusting to being near others, reader being lonely and feeling a little on the outside, both of them are kind of stupid lmfaooo but in a good way, some playful arguing at the end. A/N: Moni this is not as cracky as it was supposed to be and didn't really notice to the end I'm saur sorry lmfaoooo. Also this is not beta read we die like men guys.

HOUSE RULES M. LIST | MAIN M. LIST | ASK

THE KITCHEN IS PAINTED IN SHADES OF BLUE AT 5:47 IN THE MORNING. As the only resident of said kitchen this early in the morning the past two weeks, you've learned that the pre-dawn light that spills through the wide windows above the sink turns everything soft and cool in the morning. The white subway tile back splash starts off a muted grey before the sun finally melts away the blue and turns it bright white each morning.

This morning, the honey-colored cabinets look muted, nearly colorless as the sun hides beyond the horizon. You take another bite of cereal, listening to the old house settle around you. The house has taken getting used to - not because it's ancient, but because it's old enough to feel lived in and have its own quirks of floorboards that squeak, doors that click shut because the hinges are a little loose, pipes that groan when one of the thirteen people upstairs showers late at night.

It's a big house. It has to be, to fit the pack of thirteen - fourteen now, including you. Six alphas, seven betas, and you. A single omega, new and a little out of your comfort zone as you try to figure the ins and outs of a pack who have been together so long, they don't even have to think about how to navigate one another. They just do, planets who have been in rotation of one another for so long that it's as easy as breathing.

Where they've had years together, you've only had two weeks. It still feels like you're learning an entire new language - not because any of them are difficult or unkind, but rather because there's a difference between being welcomed into a pack and belonging, and you're somewhere in the strange gap between the two.

Unfortunately, the omega part of your brain doesn't really understand the distinction between the two, even though you do. You get that it'll take time to integrate yourself fully and to fit in as intimately as the others do with one another, but your instincts don't have that nuance. All your omega knows is that you should be surrounded by a pack, that you should be scented and claimed and constantly near people who want you.

Instead, you're sitting by yourself in a kitchen that feels too big and your instincts are ramming against you to go knock on a door and ask for company. You can't, though. Not that they wouldn't let you in - they would. You know they would. But the small fraction of the what if keeps you rooted to your seat. What if they end up not liking you? What if this doesn't work out? What if they decide they don't need an omega after all?

You stare at the cereal in your bowl, now soggy. It's something honey-flavored and generic that you took out of the pack pantry without looking. Mingyu swore you could take anything out of the pantry and fridge - anything in the house. What’s theirs is yours until you start filling the house with your favorite things, but like the anxiety of asking one of them to spend time with you, you can't seem to figure out how to ask for cinnamon sugar cereal or sweet cream coffee creamer.

Another bite confirms your cereal is as soggy as it looks. You ignore it, watching the kitchen in the morning stillness. It still smells like cinnamon and brown sugar from something Mingyu baked yesterday. Dishes pile in the sink and you know Seungcheol is going to have a field day when he sees it, adamant about dishes being done each night.

Under the layers of the smell of the kitchen is them. You're still trying to pick out the strands of scents that belong to each member, but thirteen scents layered over the top of one another is dizzying and hard to get used to, each one blending into something that you recognize as almost pack. Pack but not.

There are a few you can pick out individually, at least. You know Seungcheol's cedar and smoke, the head alpha easier to scent than the others. Jeonghan's citrus and something that you can't put your finger on. Mingyu's clean laundry smell with a hint of something soft and woody. The others remain a bit of a mess, but you're determined to try, hoping that maybe untangling each scent will lead you to untangling them and finding a sense of belonging that you'd hoped to find here and that they said they'd wanted you to find.

You try not to think about what happens if you don't find a place here. Though it's actually entirely normal not to, you don't know if you could survive that kind of embarrassment. You had already been a bit wary of using omega placement services as it was, desperate to find a pack after years of living on your own and unwilling to go back to living with your all-beta family in your tiny town where nothing much ever happened.

Thirteen pack members is a lot after coming from something small, something lonely. You'd been thrilled at the idea, realizing that you'd never be alone again, that you'd always have someone to lean on. Now you're here, in a house full of thirteen people who are supposed to be your pack, and you're still eating breakfast alone. Still sitting on the outside of their easy familiarity. Still trying to figure out how to bridge the gap between being new and being home.

Creaking stairs catch your attention. You perk up, freezing as you listen to the soft steps of someone coming down the stairs and toward the kitchen. You smell the cedar and smoke before you see him, your brain getting a little foggy before Seungcheol ever steps into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

He pulls up short when he sees you. He's surprised, and you realize he hadn't smelled you before he walked in, unused to having an omega or an outsider in his house. He looks devastating this morning in sweatpants slung low on his hips and a t-shirt that's tight enough to show off the width of him and strength in his chest. An alpha not only built strong mentally but physically, someone who feels and looks dependable, someone who looks entirely too soft and swollen and pretty in the dawn light.

He blinks at you. His eyes are dark and a little unfocused, still soft with sleep, but there's something sharp underneath. It makes you sit up straighter, you body thrumming as he flicks on the light. You squint, but when your eyes adjust, he's still looking at you with an expression he doesn't understand.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?" He asks, voice rough with sleep. "Are you alright?"

"What? Oh." You lower your spoon to the bowl, hyperaware of him. "Sorry, I'm an early riser in new places. I can go if you need the kitchen, sorry-"

"No, stay."

It's not a command, but his voice is firm enough that you nod instantly, relaxing a little. He moves further into the room, carrying the heavy presence of a head alpha with him. You can feel it in the way he moves, the way he takes up space and the gravity around him that has nothing to do with physical mass and everything to do with him.

You grip the edge of the counter, trying to stay composed as your omega instincts kick in. The last thing you want is for him to think you're awkward or needy. You don't want him to know how much you're struggling with this transition more than you should be. You're supposed to be settling in and comfortable by now, but you're not.

It scares you.

"Coffee?" he asks, already turning it on.

"No, I'm okay."

He hums, opening the cabinet next to the coffee maker. You watch him scan the mugs until he finds a specific one and selects it. You wonder if they have assigned mugs, if there's a hierarchy in the cabinet beyond your understanding like so many other things here.

Silence hangs between you as he makes his coffee, turning to lean backward against the counter with the mug tucked between his hands. His gaze drifts back to you and he gives you a soft smile that you tentatively return. The attention makes you feel exposed, like he's looking at you and sees right through the core of you despite only having been in the same room for a few minutes.

"Couldn't sleep?" You ask, desperately trying to fill the silence.

"Something like that." He gestures toward you. "What about you? Do you do this a lot? Waking up early and sitting alone in the dark, I mean."

"I guess, yeah. I have a hard time sleeping in new places and I don't like to just lay there."

"Mmm." There's a pause, and you can feel him still watching you. Still assessing. "You eat breakfast alone a lot too?"

You glance down at the bowl. "Sometimes, I guess? I'm usually up before anyone else."

"How long have you been up?"

"Maybe an hour?"

"And you've just been sitting here by yourself."

It's not quite a question, but it feels like one. You glance up at him, trying to figure out where this is going, but his expression is unreadable. His scent shifts and you realize what it is. Protectiveness. He doesn't like that you're sitting here by yourself, and the realization makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

"I don't mind," you murmur, looking down again to hide the sudden flush you feel.

He hums. "I'm hungry." You look up, confused at the statement. He points to your bowl. "What are you having?"

"Cereal. I think it's honey? I didn't want to wake anyone up by cooking."

"Cereal sounds good. Honey is Chan's. Good choice."

He moves with purpose then, crossing to the cabinets to pull down a bowl. Your eyes catch on the line of his shoulders and the way his muscles shift under the cotton tee, the way it rides up just slightly as he reaches for the milk in the fridge, revealing a tiny strip of skin at his lower back that makes your mouth go dry. You look away quickly, back down at your soggy cereal, and try to get your breathing under control.

You watch as he fixes himself a bowl of cereal and strides over to you, dragging a stool up next to you. You blink in surprise. You expected him to sit across from you, but instead he plops down next to you close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off his skin and close enough that the cedar and smoke of him makes your eyes flutter. His knee brushes yours as he adjusts and you have to physically stop yourself from leaning into him, your nervous system lighting up at the proximity.

"So," he says, pulling you from the static of your thoughts. "Tell me about yourself."

You blink at him. "Like what?"

"Anything." He takes another bite of cereal like this is completely normal. Like he wakes up at five in the morning to eat with strangers all the time. "Where are you from again?"

"Small town." You stir your cereal. The milk swirls. "Really small. Everyone-knows-everyone small."

"And you left."

"For college. I came back for a few years after but it didn't feel like I fit in anymore so I moved to the city, got an apartment by myself. Thought I wanted independence and freedom to figure things out on my own terms." You take a bite of cereal just to have something to do with your hands. "Turns out being alone and being independent aren't the same thing. I was just lonely. Really lonely. Didn't even realize how bad it was until I started looking into pack placement programs and well… now I’m here trying it out, I guess."

Seungcheol goes quiet. When you glance over, his expression is soft. "How long were you alone?"

"Three years."

"That's a long time for anyone, not specifically an omega."

"Yeah." You swallow. "I didn't know what I was missing. I'm still trying to figure it out, I think and how I… fit in."

"You're doing fine," he says.

"I eat breakfast alone every morning."

"Not this morning, though."

The words are simple and direct. When you look up at him, he's watching you with something warm in his expression. Something that makes your chest tight.

"No," you say quietly. "Not this morning."

He gives you a small smile that transforms his face. Suddenly, he's not the intimidating pack alpha - he's soft and warm, more like a person than someone you have to impress or earn the trust of. You relax a little, stirring your milk aimlessly.

"What about you?" you ask. "What made you want to lead a pack this big?"

He huffs a quiet laugh. "Honestly? I didn't set out to. It just kind of happened. We all met in college, started spending time together, and it felt right. Natural. Then more people joined and suddenly I was the one everyone looked to when decisions needed to be made. Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing it right. If I'm taking care of everyone the way I should be."

"I think you're doing a good job," you say. "Everyone seems happy. Settled."

He looks at you and gives you a look, one brow raised. "Everyone except you."

His words make you wince. Not because they're accusatory, but because you didn't think he noticed. You realize it's a bit of an insult for you to have doubted him - Seungcheol's entire role as the head alpha is to understand his pack, to balance the personalities, to lead. That includes you, despite not feeling like it, and you realize that he's taken notice and doesn't intend to let it go.

"We don't eat alone unless we want to in my pack," he says simply.

My pack. The possessiveness in those two words makes something flutter in your chest and you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to stop yourself from grinning, to stop yourself from getting too hopeful.

"I didn't want to be a burden," you admit.

"You're not," he promises. "You're a part of our pack which means you're never a burden. We want you here. We wouldn't have gone through the trouble of the agency and placement if we didn't think there was something missing. You were missing and we're happy to gave you, even if it's a little awkward at first."

You can feel your heart beating too fast, the warmth of him making you dizzy. Seungcheol doesn't lean closer, but you feel him closer, the smell of him overwhelming and comforting. You realize he's doing it on purpose, pheromones comforting you like he should. You glance up and he has a knowing look on his face, a little smug and a little endeared and you find yourself smiling.

"Thank you," you manage. "For noticing."

"Always," he murmurs.

You finish your cereal together as the sky outside continues to lighten. For the first time since you moved into this house, you don't feel quite so alone.

-

It's Tuesday in the middle of the day when Seungcheol interrupts your next meal. You look up as he walks onto the back porch, the apple covered in peanut butter in your hand pausing as he sits down next to you at the table. He's got a full plate with him, rice, chicken and vegetables piled high as he sighs and settles in comfortably.

"Hey," he says casually, cracking open the can of soda he's brought along.

"Hi," you say slowly, eyeing him.

"I am starving. Wanted something sweet."

You look at his plate. Then back at him. Then back at the plate.

"Seungcheol, that is not sweet."

"What?"

"You said you wanted something sweet. That's chicken."

He blinks and looks down like he's just now noticing what's on it. You press your lips together as he scratches the side of his neck, nodding. "Right. I meant I wanted something sweet after this. You like ice cream?"

"I do."

"Great." He leans over, peering at your apple slices as his shoulders brush yours, sending a spark through you. "What are you having?"

"Apple and peanut butter."

"Hmmm. Classic." He starts cutting into his chicken as you watch him, eyes narrowed. "How's your day?"

You're still processing the fact that he claimed to be starving for something sweet while holding a savory meal, but you answer anyway, amused.

"Good. I've been reading."

"Yeah? What are you reading?"

Taking another bite of your apple, you tell him. Seungcheol is an engaged listener, nodding and asking follow up questions as he devours his plate. Somehow, time passes easily. Even after he's cleared his plate, he leans back into his chair, foot up on the seat as he tells you about one of his favorite books growing up, dimples appearing every time he smiles.

You love his dimples, watching them as he ducks his head and laughs, long hair falling in his eyes. You smile too, unable to help it around him. He's infectious like that, easily shifting the mood from something tense to warm or lonely to comfortable, like an alpha should.

Eventually, he sighs heavily, stretching. You try not to notice the way his shirt peels up, revealing the barest hint of soft stomach before he drops his arms back down and grins at you.

"I have to get back to work," he says. "But this was nice. We should do it again."

"That would be nice."

He smiles and gets up, clearing his plate and reaching to grab your empty one without much preamble. You watch him go inside, shaking your head when you realize that he never wanted something sweet in the first place.

-

You've been awake for three hours.

It's not insomnia, exactly. It's more like your brain won't shut off and you keep laying in bed replaying conversations, analyzing the way Seungcheol looked at you on Wednesday, wondering if you're reading too much into the fact that Mingyu sat close enough to scent you yesterday but didn't, if any of this means anything or if you're just desperate enough to convince yourself it does. As usual, your brain is doing laps, restless and unsettled, and the quiet of the house at midnight isn't helping. It's making you hyper-aware of how alone you are in your room, how easy it would be to just stay here without anyone noticing and how good you've gotten at it.

So you give up on sleep. Again.

The kitchen is dark when you pad downstairs in your pajamas, the hum of the refrigerator going as you open it up, squinting against the light. You don't bother to turn the overhead lights on, the moon filtering in through the big windows over the sink enough to get by. You steal the honey cereal - Chan's - again from the pantry, and fix a bowl before sitting at the counter, sighing as you take a bite.

Your phone buzzes on the counter, startling you. You flip it over, squinting in the dark as you frown when you read it.

SEUNGCHEOL [12:15 AM]: What are you doing?

Your stomach does something complicated.

YOU [12:15 AM]: Eating cereal… why?

SEUNGCHEOL [12:16 AM] Be right there

You set your phone down slowly, your heart doing something erratic in your chest. He heard you come downstairs. His room is above the kitchen - you know this now - and realize that he must have heard you snooping around down here like he did that first morning he found you eating in the kitchen at five in the morning.

A minute later, he appears in the kitchen doorway and your brain short circuits a little. He's in soft cotton pajama pants and a t-shirt that's clearly old and pulled tight across his chest. His hair is completely disheveled, sticking up in about fifteen different directions, and he's rumpled and sleepy enough to tell you that he absolutely was asleep until he heard you.

"Hey," he croaks.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," he lies.

"You didn't have to come down, Seungcheol."

"I did. And you can call me Cheol, you know. Seungcheol makes it sound like I'm in trouble."

He moves to the cabinet, and grabs a bowl, making himself a matching snack before he sits down close enough that his thigh brushes yours. You shiver and if he notices, he has the decency not to point it out.

"Maybe you are in trouble," you mutter, taking a bite.

"Yeah? What for?"

"Being a liar who lies. You heard me and came down."

He grins and takes a bite of cereal. He chews thoughtfully for a few seconds, ignoring your stare. "So what if I did? I wanted to join you, so I did. Anyway, trouble sleeping again?"

"Kind of." You push cereal around your bowl, not quite meeting his eyes. "My brain won't shut off."

"Yeah?" He shifts slightly, and you're hyperaware of every point where his body is close to yours. "What's it doing?"

"Thinking."

"Pack stuff?"

"Maybe." You finally look at him. His eyes are soft in the moonlight. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Are you doing this on purpose?"

He doesn't ask what you mean. Doesn't pretend to be confused. Just smiles into his cereal, and the smile is so knowing that your face goes hot.

"Yep."

"Why?" Your voice is barely a whisper. "Why are you doing this?"

He sets his spoon down. Turns to face you fully, and there's something serious in his expression now, something that makes you sit up and pay attention to him.

"I told you already," he says softly. "We don't eat alone unless we want to. Do you want to?" You hesitate only a moment before shaking your head. "Exaclty. So until you feel confidence to ask someone - you can ask any of us, by the way - I'll make sure you're not eating alone."

It's something so simple and yet it devastates you to hear him say it. It isn't the words themselves exactly, but rather the way he says it, like it's a promise, like he's already decided that this doesn't require permission or gratitude or even for you to ask. It's just a fact that he's going to do this, no negotiation, no need to think about it.

You think about the last three years of your life of eating in your apartment along, of making meals for one, of not having to consider anyone else's schedule or preferences. Three years of being fine with it because fine was easier than admitting you were lonely. And now you have a pack you don't know what to do with, but this alpha - this head of a thirteen-person pack - is keen enough to pick up on what you need and come down to the kitchen at midnight to make sure you have what you need.

It's wonderful and terrifying all at once.

"Okay," you murmur, nodding.

You watch him in the moonlight filtering through the kitchen window. His hair is still a mess and his face is puffy with sleep, but he's soft. Warm. You notice a small scar on his collarbone you've never been close enough to notice before, and wonder where he got it from.

When he finishes his bowl of cereal, he looks at yours, raising his brows. "You finishing that?"

You shake your head and he grins, reaching over and brushing against you deliberately to steal your bowl. The contact is electric as his arm grazes your shoulder, his chest brushing your back for just a second, and your entire nervous system short-circuits. You nearly go catatonic at the contact, omega melting even when he pulls away, leaving you dizzy and touch starved and hungry for something not food. Your skin tingles where he touched you.

Seungcheol notices. This time, you see the way he grins, smug and content at your reaction. It hits you that he planned that, that he wanted you to feel it. The realization makes your chest tight in a way that's half panic, half something else entirely.

You can feel the heat crawling up your neck, your face, and it pisses you off - not at him, but at yourself for being so transparent, so easy to read. You huff and cross your arms over your chest, turning to him, temper flaring a little. You're not mad at all, but your omega instincts bristle in a way that feels playful and fun, something entirely unfamiliar to you. It's like your body knows something your brain hasn't caught up to yet.

"Well that's not fair," you huff. "You can't just do that."

"Do what?"

"Brush up against me and use your… alpha ways."

He laughs, full bellied and loud, echoing off the kitchen walls. "My alpha ways?"

"Yes!"

"That's how it works."

"Well!" You stomp your foot against the footrest on the stool. "I would like to file a complaint. Wait, who do I file a complaint with? You're head alpha."

Even as you say it, you know how ridiculous you sound. You're literally complaining to the person you're complaining about. It's absurd. But there's also a part of you that likes this game, this playful banter.

"You're cute when you panic."

The word lands like a punch. Cute. You're not cute. You're competent and sarcastic and you've survived three years alone in a city that didn't care about you. You're not cute. Except the way he says it makes you feel small in a way that isn't entirely bad. You like it, even.

"I'm not panicking," you say, which is a lie and you both know it.

"Sure."

"And for the record, I'm not cute. I am a very strong, very assertive omega." You stand up, trying to reclaim some dignity, trying to put distance between yourself and the way his presence makes your skin feel too tight. "I've even lived on my own. Very independent."

"Absolutely," he agrees, not sounding convinced at all.

Seungcheol stands with you and puts the bowls in the sink, leaving them unwashed for once. He grins at you and gestures to the door and you listen, because apparently you do that now. Your body just obeys him, no thought required, no decision made. You just move when he moves, follow when he leads. It should feel wrong, but it doesn't. It feels familiar in a way you've been craving and you finally have it.

He follows you up the stairs and you're hyperaware of him behind you, footsteps quiet and measured. . You can feel the warmth of him in the space between your bodies, close enough that you could lean back and touch him. Your omega is purring at his proximity, at the simple fact of him being there, and you hate how easy it's becoming to just accept it. To want it.

The hallway is dark except for the moonlight filtering through the window at the end, letting in enough light for you to walk to your room, third door to the left. When you reach it, you pause, your hand on the doorknob, suddenly unsure of the protocol. Do you just say goodnight? Do you invite him in? The uncertainty makes your stomach knot uncomfortably, panic spiking.

You turn to look at him and he's closer than you expected. Close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes. He's still soft from sleep, and he's looking at you like he looks at the other members of his pack, warm and soft and so gentle that it makes your omega nearly scream.

Seungcheol grins and leans down, pressing a kiss briefly to your head, soft and warm and over before you even know it's happening. Your throat tightens immediately, thoughts turning to static as he takes a step back, winking at you.

"Sleep, he murmurs. "Wake me up when you want breakfast. I mean it."

He dismisses himself then and you watch him walk back down the hallway, his silhouette disappearing into the darkness, and you don't move until you hear his door close softly upstairs.

Only then do you slip into your room and lean against the door, your heart still racing, your forehead still burning with the ghost of his kiss. You touch your fingers to the spot where he kissed you, like you can hold onto it somehow.

Crawling into bed, you do exactly what Seungcheol has asked and you sleep.

-

The next morning when you wake up, you don’t have to wake Seungcheol. You hear the noise downstairs, confusion drawing you down the steps and into the kitchen where breakfast is being made in full. You stand in the doorway, confused as you watch Mingyu and Joshua argue at the stove, the sound of eggs sizzling and the smell of bacon wafting toward you.

Seungkwan is at the coffee machine, staring lifelessly into the open air as his coffee brews while Chan stands on his tip toes to reach more coffee mugs out of the cabinet behind him. Seokmin is sitting on the counter swinging his legs, laughing animatedly at whatever Soonyoung and Jihoon are arguing about near the sink while Jeonghan lays across the counter, head in Seokmin’s lap as he dozes. 

Seungcheol walks in behind you, not missing at beat as he steers you by the waist toward the counter. Jeonghan peeks an eye open and grins, lifting himself from Seokmin’s lap to make room for you just as Seungcheol grip you by the waist and halls you up to sit on the counter next to Jeonghan, the citrus and jasmine smell of him placating your immediate irritation at being lifted. 

“Why is everyone in the kitchen?” You demand, turning to Jeonghan because Seungcheol is already leaving you and heading for the fridge. “The sun isn’t even up yet.”

“Rule number one,” Jeonghan yawns, scooting closer so that he’s pressed up against you. You hesitate for only a second before you let yourself relax and tentatively lean toward him. “The omega is never allowed to eat alone unless she asks to.”

Seokmin peers around him. “Do you want to?”

His question hangs in the air among the noise and chaos of the kitchen, scents hitting you from every angle, the sound of Minghao complaining about burnt bacon and Mingyu hollering as oil pops and burns his wrist. 

You grin, ducking your head a little as Seungcheol catches your eyes from across the kitchen and winks. 

“No,” you tell Seokmin. “I like the company.”

[elikajinnie]

P: Death Eater!Sunghoon X Fem!Reader (MDNI 18+) PART 1

Warnings: Hogwarts!AU, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Emotional Manipulation, Minor Jealousy, Psychological Manipulation, Angst, Explicit Content, Corruption, Oral Sex, Fingering, Marking, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Kinda Needy!Sunghoon, Dub-Con, Praise Kink, Degradation, Mind Break.

Wordcount: 17,1k

Synopsis: At Hogwarts, you were golden. He chose darkness and shattered you. Years later, you hesitate to kill him. He kills for you instead. Now you teach at Hogwarts, trying to forget him. But Park Sunghoon never forgot you, now he has decided he won’t lose you twice.

a/n: Welcome to the first part of this series. It occured to me very late that it became too long to be a oneshot, so i had to cut it up. Now this first part is.. almost like an epilogue, but more detailed. So enjoy! REBLOGS AND COMMENTARY IS APPRECIATED!

Your father always called you a handful.

Not cruelly. Never cruelly. It was usually said with a tired sigh and the faintest hint of pride in his eyes, like he couldn’t decide whether to scold you or applaud you.

“You’ll go far,” he’d tell you, hands clasped behind his back as he watched you duel older cousins twice your size. “But that appetite for danger of yours will drag you down if you’re not careful.”

You always brushed him off, always laughed it off.

Because you were extraordinary.

Top marks. Impeccable wand control. A natural duelist. Pure-blooded and well-bred, raised with old magic. Professors at Hogwarts praised your essays, your reflexes, your instincts. You wanted to be an Auror — and you had the discipline to get there. Your grades never slipped. Your ambition was steady, focused, sharp.

But there was that other side of you.

The side that liked testing spells just to see how far they could stretch. The side that found creatures with too many teeth fascinating instead of frightening. 

You liked teeth and claws and things that could kill you if you made one wrong move.

You liked danger. And yes, maybe you liked chaos just a little too much.

You were exceptional with hexes — quick, creative, controlled. You knew the difference between harmful and humiliating, and you preferred the latter. There was an art to embarrassment. A craft.

Filch and Mrs. Norris simply happened to be easy canvases.

Their patrol routes were predictable. Their reactions were theatrical. Their paranoia made everything better.

And then there was Peeves.

Peeves adored you.

You were one of the few students who could keep up with him — who could invent chaos instead of merely react to it. 

Tonight’s prank had been meticulously planned.

You had enchanted one of the suits of armor near the third-floor corridor — the one Filch always passed during his late-night rounds. A simple trigger charm. Once activated, the armor would screech accusations at him in a booming, dramatic voice while releasing a cloud of bright purple smoke and a cascade of glittering sparks that clung stubbornly to fabric.

Harmless.

Humiliating.

Perfect.

You crouched behind a stone pillar, wand tucked into your sleeve, heart beating with anticipatory delight. Peeves hovered beside you, vibrating with barely contained excitement.

“He’s coming,” Peeves whispered, grinning wide enough to split his face. “Oh, this will be delicious—”

Footsteps echoed.

Measured. Even.

Not the shuffling, irritated stomp of Argus Filch.

But you were too excited to notice.

The suit of armor detonated into sound.

“FIIIIILCH YOU MISERABLE CAT-OBSESSED—”

Purple smoke burst outward in an impressive plume. Sparks rained down like cursed confetti.

And instead of wheezing outrage—

There was a sharp intake of breath. A cough. And a distinctly masculine voice snapping in surprise.

Peeves vanished. Just—gone.

“Coward,” you muttered under your breath, heart plummeting straight into your shoes. You stepped out immediately, because unlike poltergeists, you had dignity.

“I am so sorry — that was not meant for you, I thought you were Filch, I swear I would never—”

The student turned.

Your apology died mid-sentence.

Park Sunghoon.

He stood in the fading smoke like something carved from it — tall, composed, dark hair slightly mussed from the magical blast. Purple glitter clung to the shoulders of his robes and dusted the sleeve near his wrist. The torchlight along the corridor caught in his eyes, sharpening them into something almost metallic.

You had seen him before. Everyone had.

Pure-blooded. Ravenclaw. Top of the year in nearly everything. Brilliant. Ruthless. Quiet in a way that didn’t invite pity but demanded space.

You had seen him across the Great Hall, sitting alone at the Ravenclaw table with a book open. You shared—what? Two classes? Advanced Charms and Ancient Runes. You were almost certain you had never actually heard his voice before.

Not properly. Not directed at you.

And now he was staring at you. Not angry in a loud way. Just… displeased. Assessing.

Your pulse began behaving very unprofessionally. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeated, softer now, suddenly hyperaware of the distance between you — or lack thereof.

He blinked once.

“It’s fine,” he said.

Merlin.

You had not been prepared for that, not prepared for how the sound slid down your spine.

You had not expected that voice.

“It was meant for Filch,” you added quickly, because for some reason you felt compelled to defend yourself.

“I gathered,” he replied dryly.

There it was.

A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not amusement. Not quite. Something restrained.

Up close, he was unfair.

Sharp jaw. Dark lashes. Eyes that looked like they held thoughts he would never share, like they held too much thought and too little mercy. There was something composed about him, something restrained — like he was constantly holding something back.

And he was tall. 

You had to tilt your head slightly to maintain eye contact, and that realization alone sent your traitorous heart into a frenzy in a way that was deeply inconvenient. 

He didn’t fidget. He didn’t brush the glitter off his robe. He didn’t even look embarrassed.

He simply stood there, taking you in like you were the unexpected variable in an equation he hadn’t planned for.

“You’re in Advanced Defensive Theory,” he said.

Not a question.

You blinked. “Yes.”

“You argue with Professor Whitmore.”

“I contribute,” you corrected immediately.

“You interrupt.”

You scoffed softly, folding your arms over your chest like you were in the middle of a casual debate instead of standing inches away from a boy who made your pulse behave irrationally.

“In my book,” you said breezily, “that’s the same thing.”

His eyebrow lifted slightly.

You pushed on, brushing him off with a careless tilt of your head. “If someone is wrong, I correct them. If someone is vague, I clarify. If Professor Whitmore insists on explaining defensive counter-curses like we’re first years, I improve the lecture.”

A faint curl of satisfaction settled in your chest. You were used to winning arguments. Used to people reacting — either with amusement or exasperation.

Sunghoon did neither. He just stared at you. 

It wasn’t a blank stare. It wasn’t empty. It was sharp and focused, like he was dissecting your words instead of responding to them. His gaze didn’t flicker away when you shifted your weight. It didn’t falter when you met it head-on.

If anything, it deepened.

“You’re not going to argue back?” you asked lightly, attempting to reclaim some of your usual confidence.

He didn’t answer. He just continued staring.

And Merlin help you, but that was worse. Because it felt like he was waiting for something. Watching for something. As if he already knew how you would react and simply wanted to see it unfold.

Your fingers fidgeted slightly at your side before you forced them still. “Anyway,” you said, shifting gears, “I really am sorry. That wasn’t meant for you.”

Still nothing. Just those dark eyes, steady and unrelenting.

For someone so quiet, he had a presence that was almost suffocating. Not loud. Not overbearing. Just… intense.

It made your skin feel too tight.

“I didn’t expect anyone else to be walking through here,” you added, softer this time.

His gaze flickered — just barely — to the enchanted armor, now standing innocently against the wall as though it hadn’t just screamed obscenities.

Then he looked back at you.

“How did you do it?”

You blinked.

“…What?”

“The trigger,” he clarified calmly. “How did you bind it?”

For a second, you simply stared at him.

That was not the question you expected.

“I—” You faltered, thrown off. “I’m sorry?”

His expression didn’t change. “The suit of armor. You hexed it to respond. How?”

Confusion washed over you, followed quickly by something like surprise.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t offended. He was curious.

“You’re asking about the enchantment?” you said slowly.

“Yes.”

The simplicity of it unsettled you.

You glanced back at the armor instinctively, as if expecting it to answer for you. “It’s not complicated,” you said after a moment, though your tone lost some of its usual teasing edge. “It’s a layered charm.”

He didn’t interrupt.

You found yourself explaining before you consciously decided to. “I used a modified auditory trigger,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your hand. “The armor only activates when it detects ‘Filch’ spoken within a certain radius.”

“And the smoke?” he asked.

“Basic dispersion charm. Non-toxic. Stains fabric for about an hour, though.” You winced slightly. “I may have overdone the glitter.”

His gaze flicked to his shoulder again. Then back to you.

“You stacked the enchantments,” he observed.

“Yes.”

“In sequence?”

“Of course.”

“You’re not supposed to be able to layer that many minor charms without destabilizing the trigger,” he said evenly.

You blinked at him, surprised despite yourself.

“I stabilized the core,” you replied automatically. “Anchored it to the armor’s existing ward structure.”

His eyes sharpened. “How?”

“Why do you care?” you asked quietly.

“Because it worked.”

It shouldn’t have felt like praise. But it did.

Your pulse skipped.

“I adjusted the matrix,” you admitted after a beat. “There’s a binding symbol carved inside the base. It redirects excess magic back into the object instead of letting it disperse.”

Another stretch of silence.

You expected him to challenge it. To critique it. To tell you it was inefficient. Instead, something shifted in his expression.

Interest.

“You modified the runes yourself,” he said.

“Yes.”

“How long did it take you?”

“Like one minute.”

His gaze lingered on you in a way that made your stomach flip.

“It was just for fun,” you added. “I wasn’t exactly writing a thesis.”

“You shouldn’t waste that on pranks.” There was no condescension in his tone. Just a fact.

Your chin lifted instinctively. “I don’t waste anything.”

His lips twitched almost imperceptibly. “I can see that.” He glanced once more at the armor, then back at you. “Next time,” he said calmly, “tell me before you try something like that.”

“Why would I do that?”

“So I can see it up close.” 

You stared at him, thrown off balance in a way you didn’t appreciate. “You want to supervise my rule-breaking?” you asked lightly, trying to regain control of the moment.

“I want to see how your mind works when you’re not being graded.”

That did something to you. Because most people liked you for what you produced. Your scores. Your boldness in class.

But Sunghoon wasn’t impressed by results. He was curious about process.

You tilted your head, studying him the way he’d been studying you.

“You’re strange,” you decided.

A faint flicker of something — almost amusement — passed through his eyes.

“So are you.”

And somehow, that felt like agreement.

After that night, he didn’t disappear back into quiet observation.

He sought you out.

The next time you entered Advanced Defensive Theory, the seat beside you was occupied.

By him.

He didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t look at you when you sat down.

He never made a spectacle of it. Sunghoon didn’t do spectacle.

He existed beside you like a shadow that chose to stay.

You found yourself looking for him.

In the Great Hall, your eyes would drift to the Ravenclaw table without permission. In the library, you’d pretend not to notice him already seated near the section you favored. In corridors, you’d sense him before you saw him. 

By fifth year, people had started noticing how Sunghoon was always there. Always just slightly behind you. Or beside you. Close enough that the space between you felt claimed.

He didn’t touch you often in public. But when he did, it was obvious.

A hand at the small of your back when a corridor grew too crowded. Fingers brushing yours briefly before class began. Standing half a step in front of you when someone he didn’t like tried to linger in conversation.

He never raised his voice. He never made scenes.

He didn’t need to.

People felt the quiet warning in his stare. The calm certainty in the way he said, “She’s busy,” without asking your permission — but somehow knowing you didn’t mind. 

And you didn’t.

Because it wasn’t suffocating.

It was grounding.

You liked knowing someone that sharp had chosen you.

The Yule Ball was when everything shifted. 

Until then, whatever existed between you and Sunghoon had lived in the spaces between words — in shared glances across classrooms, in late-night study sessions that stretched a little too long, in the way he always seemed to appear at your side without being asked.

But the Yule Ball made things visible, bringing it to the light. 

You had agreed to attend with a boy from your house — charming, well-liked, perfectly acceptable. The kind of boy your parents would approve of. The kind that smiled easily and didn’t carry storms behind his eyes.

He’d asked weeks in advance, red-faced but hopeful. You had said yes because it was simple.

Because Sunghoon hadn’t asked.

In fact, he hadn’t said anything at all when invitations began circulating. No jealousy. No claim. Not even curiosity. Just that same unreadable expression he always wore when he was thinking too much.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

The night of the Yule Ball, the Great Hall was transformed — floating candles suspended beneath an enchanted winter sky, snow drifting lazily along the ceiling, frost-kissed trees lining the walls. Music swelled from the corner where instruments played themselves in elegant harmony. Students glittered in dress robes and jewel-toned gowns, laughter echoing against marble floors.

You felt beautiful. Confident.

Your date was attentive, polite. His hand rested at your waist as you danced, guiding you through the rhythm.

And yet— You felt it.

Across the room. A weight.

Your eyes found him without trying.

Sunghoon stood near one of the ice sculptures, half-shadowed by flickering candlelight. Dark robes tailored perfectly to his tall frame. Hair pushed back just enough to reveal the sharp lines of his face. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t dancing. He was watching.

Not the room though. No he was watching you.

You looked away first.

The music shifted into something slower. Your date’s hand slid lower on your waist — just slightly. Enough to be noticeable. Enough to feel presumptuous.

“You clean up nicely,” he murmured near your ear, breath warm against your skin. His fingers pressed a fraction too firmly against your hip.

You stiffened.

It wasn’t overtly inappropriate. But it wasn’t respectful either.

Across the ballroom, Sunghoon went very still. The kind of stillness that meant calculation.

You barely saw the movement. Just a subtle shift of his wrist. A controlled flick.

Your date’s foot caught on absolutely nothing. He pitched forward, balance vanishing beneath him as though the floor itself had betrayed him. Robes tangled. Shoes scraped uselessly against polished marble.

He went down hard.

A ripple of gasps. Then laughter.

Your date scrambled upright, face burning crimson, muttering something about slick floors.

You excused yourself with an apologetic smile and crossed the ballroom, ignoring curious stares. The music swelled behind you, but it felt distant now.

You found him near the edge of the Hall, partially obscured by the silver branches of an enchanted tree.

“You hexed him,” you said quietly.

“Yes.” No hesitation. No attempt to deny it. “He was inappropriate.”

Your brows lifted. “I could’ve handled it.”

“I know.”

That answer threw you.

You expected defensiveness. A justification. Instead, his voice remained calm.

He stepped closer. Close enough that you felt the warmth radiating from him despite the winter air drifting through the enchanted doors.

“I didn’t want you to,” he said. “He touched you like he thought you owed him something.” The possessiveness wasn’t loud. It was precise.

“And you think I owe you?” you challenged softly, though your voice lacked bite.

His gaze locked onto yours.

“No.”  A pause. “I think you’re mine.” The words weren’t playful. They weren’t flirtatious. 

Your heart hammered so loudly you were certain he could hear it. 

“You don’t get to decide that,” you whispered.

“I already did.”

You should have stepped back. You should have bristled. Instead, warmth flooded your chest. It wasn't like he wasn’t claiming control over you, but like he was claiming commitment to you. 

The difference mattered.

He leaned down slowly — giving you time to move if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

When his lips met yours, it wasn’t rushed. It was controlled intensity. Like he was memorizing the feeling.

Your fingers curled into the front of his robes, pulling him closer without thinking, while his hand slid to your lower back, anchoring you there.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.

“You should’ve told me,” he murmured.

“Told you what?”

“That he asked you.”

Your heart skipped.

“You never asked me.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “I don’t compete,” he answered quietly.

You smiled faintly. “That’s arrogant.”

From that night on, there was no ambiguity. You were together. And together, you were formidable. You loved him. Not because he was gentle. But because when he chose something — or someone — he never did it halfway.

You didn’t see the warning signs. You didn’t question the intensity.

You were young and in love.

And completely unaware of how dangerous it would become when the world outside Hogwarts demanded something darker from him.

The change began in the summer before sixth year, subtle and insidious, like ink bleeding slowly across parchment.

You didn’t notice it immediately — how could you, when you were separated by distance and the obligations of separate worlds? Letters had always been your bridge. His used to arrive heavy with detail: sharp observations about Ministry decrees he found illogical, notes on experimental charm variations he’d tested in the quiet of his family estate, even the occasional dry remark about a tedious pure-blood gathering where politics masqueraded as polite conversation. He wrote in that precise, slanted script, filling margins when the page ran out, as if he couldn’t bear to leave anything unsaid.

Then the replies grew shorter.

Not colder, exactly. Still polite. Still him in their careful construction.

I’m well.

Studying.

Family obligations are tedious.

Don’t do anything reckless.

You stared at the sparse lines, turning the parchment over as though more might appear on the reverse. You told yourself it was the pressure of summer — pure-blood families demanded appearances, alliances, endless dinners where every word was weighed like galleons. You knew that life. You lived echoes of it yourself. So you wrote longer letters in response: the Kneazle at your creature assessment internship that nearly took a chunk out of your sleeve, the new hex variation you’d been perfecting (more elegant containment, less backlash), how the days felt longer without him near.

He never acknowledged those parts.

The train ride back to Hogwarts should have felt like returning to solid ground.

The platform at King’s Cross thrummed with familiar chaos — trunks clattering over stone, owls hooting indignantly from cages, students calling greetings across the steam. The scarlet engine huffed impatiently, ready to pull away.

You stepped onto the Hogwarts Express with that old thrill sparking in your chest, scanning the corridor instinctively.

There he was.

Sunghoon stood near the far end, posture rigid, dark robes immaculate. He looked… honed. Leaner, sharper, as though the summer had stripped away anything soft. His features stood out more starkly — high cheekbones, jaw set in quiet tension, dark hair pushed back.

Your heart lurched forward before your feet did.

You wove through the crowd.

“Sunghoon—”

He turned.

For the briefest instant, something flickered in his eyes — relief, perhaps, or recognition so raw it almost hurt to see. Then it disappeared.

“You look well,” he said. The words sounding practiced, like lines from a script he didn’t entirely believe. No smile. No step toward you.

You tried for lightness. “You look like you forgot how to write more than two sentences.”

His gaze flicked down the corridor — scanning faces, checking distance — before returning to you.

“I was busy.”

“With what?”

“Things.”

The train lurched into motion. Compartments filled with chatter. You reached for his hand out of long habit.

He let you take it. But his fingers didn’t curl around yours the way they used to. The grip was there — present, but restrained. Distant. Like he was permitting contact rather than returning it.

You told yourself it was nothing.

The first weeks of sixth year unwinded in small fractures.

He still walked beside you to classes. Still claimed the seat next to yours in shared classes. Still dismantled questions with that same surgical intelligence. But he no longer lingered.

After lessons, he rose quickly. “I have something to handle.”

“With who?” you’d ask, keeping your tone casual.

“It doesn’t concern you.”

The phrase settled between you like a wall, repeated often enough to feel rehearsed.

He stopped the small touches, no idle tracing of your wrist while you read side by side, no hand at the small of your back when corridors grew crowded. He stood near, but the space between felt hollow. Air where warmth used to be.

When another student flirted with you — bold, harmless — he didn’t react. No sharpened stare. No quiet step forward. He simply watched, detached, expression unreadable.

That detachment cut deeper than any flash of jealousy ever had.

One night in the library, the air thick with dust and candle smoke, you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“You’re distant.”

He didn’t lift his eyes from the page.

“I’m studying.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Silence.

You reached across the table and gently closed the book in his hands.

“Talk to me.”

His jaw flexed, then he looked up at you. His eyes weren’t cold. They were exhausted — shadowed beneath, darker than you remembered, as though sleep had become optional. His shoulders carried perpetual tension, braced for impact.

“You’re overthinking,” he said quietly.

You searched his face for the boy who once told you he didn’t underestimate you.

“Are you pulling away from me?” The question landed heavy. 

For a heartbeat, vulnerability cracked through, then it vanished, sealed behind composure.

“No.”

But he didn’t reach for you. Didn’t soften the line of his mouth. Didn’t offer the reassurance you ached for. The absence of those things hurt more than any denial.

You began noticing the edges of something larger.

Whispers among certain pure-blood circles. Quick glances exchanged in corridors. Conversations that broke off when you approached. Sunghoon spent time now with people he once dismissed — sons of old families, names that lingered in the darker corners of wizarding news.

“You’ve made new friends,” you said once, trying to keep it light.

“They’re useful.”

Useful. The word landed like a curse.

You worried. But pride and trust kept you from chasing. 

Sunghoon had always been intense. Maybe this was simply… evolution. Family pressure. Sixth-year expectations. The weight of futures already mapped out.

You decided to give him space.

You stopped reaching first. Stopped asking where he disappeared to. Stopped pressing when he drew the line with “It doesn’t concern you.”

You smiled in public. Threw yourself into studies, into Auror training, into anything that filled the hours without requiring you to name the growing silence.

At night, though, alone in your dormitory, the questions returned.

You would lie awake, staring at the ceiling as moonlight spilled through the window, replaying every small shift: the way he flinched — just barely — when your fingers brushed his forearm once; the way he scanned corridors before speaking your name; the gradual cooling of his voice.

Love didn’t vanish overnight, you told yourself. People changed under pressure. Brilliant minds bent strangely under strain.

But distance, once offered, sometimes refused to take root.

You tried. Gods, you tried. In the weeks that followed, you became an expert in finding ways to avoid most interactions. You arrived to class three minutes late so the seat beside him was already taken by someone else—usually a wide-eyed third-year who didn’t know better when you smiled apologetically and claimed the far end of the row. You lingered in the library only until the candles burned to half-height, then packed your things with brisk efficiency before he could suggest walking back together. In the corridors you kept your eyes forward, chin high, laughter a little louder when your friends surrounded you, as if volume alone could fill the hollow space he used to occupy.

You told yourself it was kindness. Space. The gift he seemed to want.

He never thanked you for it. Instead, the opposite began to happen.

At first it was small things, easy to dismiss as coincidence. He appeared at the entrance to the Great Hall just as you were leaving breakfast, falling into step beside you without a word, his shoulder brushing yours once, twice, before you could widen the gap. When you chose a different table in the library—tucked and out of sight—he was already there the next evening, book open to the exact page you needed, as though he’d known your research schedule better than you did.

You tried harder.

You stopped going to the Astronomy Tower at midnight, the place that had once been yours without discussion. You joined a study group for NEWT-level Potions that met three evenings a week in the dungeons—loud, crowded, safe. On the fourth night, you slipped out early, expecting an empty corridor.

But it wasn’t.

He was leaning against the stone wall opposite the dungeon stairs, arms folded, silver prefect badge catching the torchlight like a warning. The same unreadable expression, but something sharper beneath it now. Tension in the line of his jaw. A muscle ticking once, twice.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said. 

You paused mid-step, heart lurching against your ribs. “I’m giving you space. You said—”

“I didn’t say disappear.” His answer came faster than usual. 

The corridor felt suddenly narrower. Torch flames flickered as though the air had shifted. You swallowed. “I’m not disappearing. I’m… respecting your boundaries.”

His eyes narrowed fractionally—the only crack in the composure. He pushed off the wall in one fluid motion and closed the distance until only a handspan remained between you. Close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his lashes cast spidery lines across his cheeks in the low light.

“My boundaries,” he repeated, tasting the word like it was foreign. “Is that what you think this is?”

You lifted your chin. “You flinch when I touch you. You vanish for hours and come back smelling like rain and smoke. What else am I supposed to think?”

For a moment he said nothing. Just looked at you—really looked, the way he used to when the whole world narrowed to just the two of you. Then his hand moved, slow enough that you could have stepped away. His fingers brushed your wrist, then closed around it.

“I don’t want space,” he said. The words were barely above a whisper, but they landed like a spell. “I never asked for space.”

“Then what do you want, Sunghoon?” Your voice cracked on his name despite every effort to keep it steady. “Because you’re pulling away and holding on at the same time and I can’t—I can’t breathe in the middle.”

His thumb traced once over the pulse point at your wrist, feeling the frantic beat there. Something fractured in his expression—brief, almost invisible, but you caught it. The same flicker you’d seen on the train platform the first day back. Relief edged with pain.

“I want you here,” he said. “Even when I can’t… even when I shouldn’t.” His free hand lifted, hesitated, then tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that contradicted every sharp line of his posture. “I need you close enough that I can still see you. Still know you’re safe. Still—” He stopped. Swallowed. “Still feel like I’m not completely gone.”

You could feel the tremor in his fingers against your skin, the way his breathing had shallowed. This was the boy who never made spectacles, never raised his voice, never admitted weakness—and yet here he was, confessing in a dungeon corridor that smelled of damp stone and old potions, that the distance you’d offered was carving him open.

You should have pulled away. Should have demanded answers. Instead your free hand rose of its own accord and settled against his chest, right over the place where his heart hammered beneath layers of wool and restraint. 

“You’re scaring me,” you whispered.

“I know.” His forehead dropped to rest against yours. “I’m scaring myself.” His gaze traced every line of your face as though he were memorizing it again: the arch of your brows, the curve of your mouth. He looked at you like you were the last solid thing in a world that had begun to slip through his fingers.

His hand—the one still wrapped around your wrist—lifted slowly, until his fingertips grazed the edge of your jaw. He tilted your face up the barest fraction, the gesture was so careful it almost hurt.

Then he closed the distance.

His lips brushed yours once—soft, testing, almost a question. When you didn’t pull away, didn’t push away, he pressed again, firmer this time. Still slow. But the restraint was fraying; you could feel it in the tremor that ran through his fingers, in the way his breath hitched against your mouth.

You didn’t kiss him back.

You let him have this—let him pour everything he couldn’t say into the careful press of his lips, the way he lingered at the corner of your mouth as though afraid to demand more. His other hand came to your waist, fingers splaying wide, anchoring you against the cold stone wall at your back without caging you. He kissed you like he was apologizing. Like he was asking permission with every slow slide of his mouth over yours.

And then—he pulled you closer.

One decisive tug, erasing the last sliver of space between your bodies. Your chest pressed flush to his, the hard planes of him meeting the softer give of you, and something inside you simply gave way.

You melted.

The resistance you’d been clinging to dissolved in a rush of heat and want and relief so sharp it bordered on pain. Your lips parted on a soft, involuntary sound, and you kissed him back.

Your arms moved without conscious thought. Up. Around his neck. Fingers sliding into the dark silk of his hair at the nape, threading through the strands he kept so ruthlessly neat. You tugged—just enough—and he groaned.

The sound vibrated against your mouth, low and rough and wrecked. It sent a shiver racing down your spine. His control snapped another fraction; the hand at your waist tightened, the other sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. Long fingers curled around the column of your throat, guiding your head exactly where he wanted it so he could angle deeper.

The kiss turned molten.

His tongue slipped past your lips, slow at first, exploratory, tasting you like he was relearning every inch. Your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer still, and he answered with a low sound that made your knees threaten to buckle.

His free hand began to wander, skimming up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through fabric before continuing, mapping the line of your ribs, the dip of your waist, the sharp edge of your shoulder blade. You arched instinctively into the touch, and he took advantage—pressing you harder against the wall, thigh sliding between yours just enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

Your palms slid down from his hair to the broad span of his shoulders, feeling muscle that hadn’t been quite so defined last year. He’d always been lean, elegant, precise. Now he felt lethal. Like a blade that had finally been sharpened to its full edge.

Another groan rumbled through him when your nails dragged lightly down his back. He retaliated by sucking your bottom lip between his teeth—gentle, then firmer—until you moaned, the sound swallowed by his mouth.

Sunghoon’s mouth left yours only long enough to drag hot, open kisses along your jaw, his teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear and you arched.

You retaliated by sliding your hands under his robes, over the crisp white shirt he always kept buttoned to the throat like armor, his abdomen contracted under your touch, a sharp inhale escaping him when your nails scraped lightly just above the waistband of his trousers. He was breathing unevenly now. You felt the evidence of how much he wanted you pressing insistently against your hip, and the realization sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly.

His fingers found the first button of your shirt—popped it open with a deft flick. Then the second. Cool air kissed the newly bared skin of your collarbone, your sternum, and he followed it with his mouth—kissing a slow path downward until your head tipped back against the wall with a soft thud. Your shirt hung half-open now, one side slipping off your shoulder with your robe. His hand slid inside, cupping the soft swell of your breast through the thin fabric of your bra, thumb brushing over the peak until it hardened under his touch and you whimpered his name.

“Quiet,” he murmured against your skin, voice wrecked, but the command lacked its usual steel. It sounded more like a plea. “Someone could—”

You cut him off by tugging his shirt free of his trousers and dragging your nails down his sides, harder this time. He bucked against you once—instinctive, helpless—and then his mouth was back on yours, tongues sliding together in a rhythm that matched the frantic press of hips. His free hand dropped to your thigh, hitching your leg up around his waist so he could settle more firmly between them. The friction was devastating. You rocked against him without thinking, chasing the pressure, and he groaned so deeply it felt like it came from the center of his chest.

His belt buckle clinked softly as he shifted—fingers fumbling for the zipper of his trousers with less grace than usual. You helped, impatient, your hand brushing over the hard length of him through fabric before he managed to free himself. The sound he made when your fingers wrapped around him—low, broken, almost pained—sent a shiver racing through you. He thrust shallowly into your grip once, twice, forehead dropping to your shoulder as though the sensation had short-circuited every thought he’d ever had.

You were both lost in it now—clothes askew, breaths mingling, bodies straining toward the same desperate edge. His hand slipped beneath your skirt, fingertips teasing along the edge of your underwear, pressing just enough to make your hips jerk—

A sharp, indignant meow.

High-pitched. Close. Too close.

You both froze.

Mrs. Norris stood at the end of the corridor, tail lashing, yellow eyes gleaming with accusation in the torchlight. Her thin, mangy frame was silhouetted against the flickering flames, ears flattened, mouth open in another warning yowl that promised Filch wasn’t far behind.

Reality crashed in like ice water.

Sunghoon swore under his breath—vicious—and released you so fast you nearly stumbled. You scrambled back against the wall, hands flying to your shirt. Fingers shook as you fumbled buttons back into place, missing the first one twice before managing to close the top enough to look halfway decent. Your bra strap had slipped down your shoulder; you yanked it up, cheeks burning.

Sunghoon moved with the same frantic efficiency. He tucked himself back into his trousers with a wince, zipped up, fastened his belt in one swift motion. His shirt was still untucked, hair mussed beyond repair, lips swollen and glistening. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand like that could erase what had just happened.

Mrs. Norris hissed again, louder.

“Bloody cat,” Sunghoon muttered, voice hoarse. He grabbed your wrist and tugged you toward the nearest darkest alcove, pressing you both into shadow just as distant footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Filch’s wheezy voice drifted down, calling for his infernal pet.

You held your breath, heart hammering so loudly you were sure it would give you away. Sunghoon’s chest rose and fell rapidly beside you, his hand still locked around your wrist like he couldn’t bear to let go even now. His thumb stroked once—unconscious, soothing—over your racing pulse.

The footsteps paused. Mrs. Norris yowled once more, then trotted off toward the sound of her owner’s voice. The corridor fell silent again.

Neither of you moved for a long moment.

Then Sunghoon exhaled—shaky, almost a laugh.

“We’re going to get expelled one day,” he said quietly, voice still rough around the edges.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. They were dark, pupils still blown, but the corner of his mouth twitched in something dangerously close to a smile.

“Worth it?” you whispered.

He looked at your mouth then back to your eyes. “Every damn time.” 

He leaned in, pressed one last, slow kiss to the corner of your lips—soft this time, almost tender—before stepping back and straightening his robes with shaking hands. “Come on,” he murmured. “Before they return.”

You followed him on unsteady legs, shirt still crooked, hair a disaster, skin still burning where he’d touched you.

From that night onward, he kept you close.

It felt, at first, like a gift. Like the calendar had flipped backwards, to when every glance carried promise and every brush of shoulders felt like a secret. In the days that followed, he was there—always there—whenever you came to him.

You slid onto the bench beside him at the Ravenclaw table in the Great Hall one morning, still half-asleep, and before you could even reach for the pumpkin juice, his arm had already draped casually around your shoulders. Just close enough that the warmth of him seeped through your robes, close enough that anyone looking would see the claim without him ever needing to speak it. 

In the library, he had already claimed your usual table, you came and sat beside him, greeting him lovingly. When your quill rolled off the edge, he caught it mid-fall and set it back. When you leaned over to point out a note, his head tilted toward yours until your temples nearly touched, breath warm against your cheek. Perfect. Attentive. Exactly the boyfriend who once memorized the rhythm of your pulse.

It should have felt like coming home.

But the more it happened, the more you noticed the pattern beneath the perfection.

He never came to you first.

Never.

Not once.

You were always the one to seek him out. You were always the one to slide onto the bench beside him, to claim the chair across from him, to walk the extra corridor to where he usually studied. If you didn’t—if you waited, testing—he simply… wasn’t there. He didn’t appear at breakfast looking for you. Didn’t linger outside your common room. Didn’t send an owl asking where you’d gone. He existed in his own orbit, precise and self-contained, and only intersected with yours when you crossed into his path.

And when you did, he became flawless.

Strategic.

The word lodged in your chest like a splinter.

You began to watch him more closely.

His social circle hadn’t changed since the summer. If anything, it had tightened. The same cluster of pure-blood students—tall, pale, impeccably dressed— always murmuring in low voices when professors passed. Names that carried old weight: Malfoy, Zabini, Nott, Greengrass, even a Lestrange boy two years above who’d returned for his NEWTs with a permanent sneer. They spoke of blood status the way other people spoke of Quidditch scores—casual, dismissive. Half-bloods were “adequate, at best.” Muggle-borns were “a temporary inconvenience.” 

Sunghoon sat among them.

Not loudly. Not performing. But he was there—listening, nodding once in a while, offering the occasional dry comment that made them laugh in that sharp, knowing way. When one of them sneered at a Gryffindor first-year who’d tripped over their own robes, Sunghoon didn’t join in. But he didn’t correct them either. He simply looked away, jaw tight, and changed the subject.

You hated it.

Every time you caught him at their table, something cold twisted in your stomach. You hated the way their eyes slid over you when you approached—like you were an interesting specimen rather than a person. You hated the way Sunghoon’s posture shifted fractionally straighter when you were near. You hated most of all that he still let you pull him away from them—let you thread your fingers through his and lead him toward the doors—without ever once apologizing for where he’d been sitting.

Because he was smart. Brilliant, really.

He should know better. He did know better. And yet he stayed in their orbit.

You told yourself it was survival. Pure-blood politics were a chessboard, and Sunghoon had always played three moves ahead. Maybe he was gathering information. Maybe he was protecting himself. Maybe he was protecting you.

But the doubt had taken root now, small and poisonous. Because when you weren’t there—when you didn’t cross into his path—he didn’t reach for you. And when you did, his perfection felt less like love and more like compensation. Like he was trying to keep you tethered with touches and kisses and murmured promises so you wouldn’t look too closely at the company he kept when your back was turned.

One evening in the library, you watched him from across the stacks.

You hadn’t meant to hide. Not really. You’d come looking for a specific volume on advanced counter-curses and the section had offered the perfect vantage. You could see without being seen. Or so you’d thought.

Sunghoon sat at the long oak table near the center of the room, flanked by Nott and Zabini. The three of them formed a closed triangle: heads bent over the same length of parchment, quills moving in lazy unison. From this distance their voices were a low murmur, punctuated by the occasional soft scrape of ink on paper and the rustle of turning pages. They looked like any other group of sixth-years cramming for NEWTs.

Except they weren’t.

You noticed it in pieces.

First, the way their eyes flicked outward—not randomly, but with purpose. A Hufflepuff girl with ink-stained fingers and a second-hand robe walked past, head down, hurrying away. Nott’s lip curled, just enough. He leaned in and muttered something. Zabini’s shoulders shook once in silent laughter. Sunghoon didn’t laugh. But the corner of his mouth twitched—small, almost imperceptible. Then he added something under his breath. Whatever it was made Nott snort outright and Zabini cover his mouth with the back of his hand.

Next came a Ravenclaw boy—lanky, glasses perpetually slipping, the kind of student who always answered questions too eagerly in class. He passed within ten feet of their table, arms full of books. Zabini tilted his head, murmured something about “eager little half-bloods thinking they belong here.” Nott smirked. And then, almost casual Sunghoon spoke.

“Careful,” he said, voice carrying just far enough for you to catch it. “He might hear you and start crying to McGonagall again.”

The words were dry. Detached. But they landed like a spark on dry tinder. Nott barked a short laugh. Zabini leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming. The Ravenclaw boy faltered mid-step, cheeks flushing, then hurried faster without looking back.

You felt your stomach turn over.

Sunghoon had instigated it.

Not in the theatrical way some Slytherins liked to perform. But he’d fed it. A single sentence—perfectly timed—and the others had latched on like wolves scenting blood. He didn’t join in the laughter. He simply returned to the parchment, expression serene, as though he’d commented on the weather.

You pressed your back harder against the shelf, heart thudding unevenly. The candle closest to you threw long shadows across your hiding place. You told yourself to leave. To walk away before you saw anything else that would make the splinter in your chest dig deeper.

But you stayed.

Another student passed—a Muggle-born Gryffindor fourth-year, red tie askew, laughing too loudly at something her friend had said. Zabini’s gaze tracked her like a hawk. He opened his mouth.

Before he could speak, Sunghoon lifted his head slightly. 

And looked directly toward you.

A tiny, involuntary squeak escaped you, barely audible, swallowed instantly by the library’s hush—but it felt deafening in your own ears.

He couldn’t see you… could he? 

You were hidden. Well hidden. Tucked behind two rows of towering tomes on goblin rebellions, half-obscured by a ladder and the angle of the shelf. Your robes blended with the shadows. There was no way…

And yet his gaze had locked exactly on your position.

For one frozen second his eyes narrowed—searching, assessing—then softened in recognition. The faintest curve touched his lips. Not a smile. Something private. Something that said I know you’re there.

Your pulse roared in your ears. Why would he look here? How could he possibly—

Nott’s voice cut through the silence, casual and amused.

“Oi, Park. You’ve gone soft staring at the shelves again?” He followed Sunghoon’s line of sight, squinting into the gloom. “Or is that your little flower lurking back there?”

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. Didn’t look guilty. He simply leaned back in his chair, arms crossing loosely over his chest, and let one brow lift in mild interest.

“She’s not lurking,” he said evenly. “She’s studying.”

Zabini chuckled low. “Studying us, more like. Must be thrilling, watching the future of wizarding society at work.”

Nott grinned, sharp and lazy. “Lucky bastard, though. Perfect girlfriend, isn’t she? Loyal. Pretty. Doesn’t ask too many questions.” He nudged Sunghoon’s elbow. “Bet she melts every time you look at her. Must make the rest of it easier.”

Sunghoon’s expression didn’t change.

But you saw it—the micro-second tightening at the corner of his eye. The way his fingers flexed once against his sleeve. He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet. Almost gentle.

“She’s more than that.”

Nott opened his mouth for another quip, then closed it again when Sunghoon’s gaze slid sideways to him. Something cold and unreadable passed over Sunghoon’s face. 

Zabini cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in the parchment again. Nott shrugged, smirk fading into something more neutral.

Sunghoon’s eyes returned to the shadows where you stood. He didn’t beckon. Didn’t call your name. Just held your gaze across the distance until the weight of it became unbearable.

Your heart hammered against your ribs so hard you were sure the sound would carry.

You sighed.

It slipped out before you could stop it—soft, defeated, the sound of someone who had already lost the argument with themselves. Your shoulders dropped a fraction. The book you’d been clutching like a shield felt suddenly ridiculous in your hands.

And then you stepped out.

One foot, then the other. Candlelight caught on the edges of your robes as you emerged from the alcove’s gloom into the open aisle. You kept your chin up, eyes locked on his, refusing to shrink even as heat crawled up your neck.

Sunghoon’s gaze sharpened the instant you crossed into the light.

It wasn’t the soft, private look he’d worn a moment earlier. This was something else—something honed, possessive, almost predatory. His eyes narrowed fractionally, with the faintest tilt of his head, like a predator acknowledging movement in the grass.

Then he lifted a hand.

Slow. Elegant. Palm up, fingers relaxed—except for the index one.

He crooked it.

Once.

A single curl of his finger.

Come here.

The gesture was small. Insignificant to anyone watching who didn’t know him. But to you it landed like a spell—silent, binding, impossible to ignore. Your feet moved before your mind could catch up. One step. Another. Crossing the open floor toward their table as though pulled by invisible thread.

Nott and Zabini noticed. Nott’s smirk widened into something lazy and approving. Zabini leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching the exchange like it was private theater staged just for him.

Regret hit you like cold water the second your body obeyed.

Why did you do that?

Why did you let one crooked finger pull you across a crowded room like a summoned house-elf?

You’d walked to him. In front of them. Because he crooked a finger.

Like you were his. Like you’d always been his.

Nott let out a low whistle, soft enough not to draw Madam Pince’s attention. “Merlin. That was almost poetic.”

Zabini chuckled under his breath. “She comes when called. Convenient.”

Sunghoon didn’t acknowledge either of them.

You however turned your head just enough to side-eye them.

Nott first—lounging with one elbow propped on the table, chin resting on his fist, dark eyes glittering with amusement. The smirk hadn’t faded; if anything, it had deepened into something smug, satisfied, as though your obedience had confirmed some private bet he’d made with himself. Zabini was worse in his stillness—arms crossed over his chest, one brow arched in faint, mocking approval. Neither of them said anything more. They didn’t need to. Their silence was loud enough: Look at her. Look how easily she folds.

Heat crawled up the back of your neck—anger, embarrassment, a sharp twist of something you refused to name. You let your gaze linger on them a second longer than necessary, letting them see the edge in your expression. Not fear. Not submission. Just cold, quiet warning: I see you too.

Nott’s smirk only widened at the challenge, lazy and predatory, like he found your defiance amusing rather than threatening. Zabini tilted his head, dark eyes gleaming with detached interest, as though you were a particularly interesting exhibit in a glass case.

Before either of them could open their mouths again, Sunghoon moved. Without looking away from your face, without so much as shifting his shoulders, he extended one long leg under the table. The motion was casual, almost lazy—until the toe of his polished shoe connected with the side of Nott’s bench. A single, firm push.

The bench scraped back and Nott’s balance vanished.

He pitched sideways with an undignified yelp, arms windmilling for half a second before he hit the floor in a sprawl of robes. A soft thud, followed by the unmistakable clatter of ink bottle rolling under the table. A few nearby heads turned; someone stifled a laugh behind a book.

Nott scrambled up almost immediately, face flushed crimson, mouth already opening on a retort.

“Enough,” Sunghoon said. Voice low. Flat. Final.

Nott recovered quickly, righting himself with exaggerated nonchalance, but the smirk faltered for half a second. Zabini raised both brows, amusement flickering, though he said nothing.

Sunghoon’s attention never wavered from your face.

“Sit,” he said. Low. Quiet. 

You glared at him.

The look you gave him was pure venom—narrowed eyes, lips pressed into a thin line, every line of your body screaming don’t you dare think this fixes anything. You wanted to turn on your heel. Wanted to leave him there with his smug friends and his carefully curated distance. Wanted to prove you weren’t the girl who came when called.

Your jaw tightened. Your hands curled into loose fists at your sides.

He didn’t flinch.

Instead he reached out and hooked two fingers through the belt loop at the side of your skirt. One gentle tug. The impact was soft. Cushioned. Because the second you were close enough, his arm slid around your waist. He drew you in until your side was flush against his, until the length of your thigh pressed along his, until there was no space left for doubt. His hand settled at the dip of your waist—then drifted lower. Dangerous. The heel of his palm rested just above the curve of your ass, fingers splayed wide enough that the tips brushed the upper swell through your skirt. Not groping. Not crude. Just a claim so blatant it made heat flare low in your belly despite everything.

His scent washed over you in the next breath—cedarwood, clean parchment, the faintest trace of winter air that always clung to him after flying. It curled into your lungs like smoke, familiar and devastating. Your shoulders wanted to drop. Your spine wanted to soften. You hated it.

You let yourself halfway melt anyway.

Your head tipped—just a fraction—until your temple brushed his shoulder. Not forgiveness. Just exhaustion. Just the bone-deep relief of being held when everything else felt like it was slipping.

Nott, back on the bench now, robes askew and pride clearly bruised, let out a low, mocking whistle.

“Merlin, Park,” he drawled, leaning back with renewed amusement. “You’ve got her trained better than a Cruciatus curse.”

Zabini leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on laced fingers. His voice was silk over steel.

“She looks good like that, though. All flushed and obedient.” His gaze slid over you—slow, appreciative, lingering a second too long on where Sunghoon’s hand disappeared against your side. “If you ever get tired of the brooding Ravenclaw routine, love, my bench has plenty of room.”

You stiffened.

Sunghoon’s arm tightened around you, then his head turned. When his eyes met Zabini’s, the temperature in the immediate radius dropped ten degrees.

“Shut. Up.”

Nott opened his mouth—probably to push, because that was what Nott did—but Sunghoon’s gaze slid to him next. One look. That was all it took. Nott closed his mouth again. Shrugged. Picked up his quill like nothing had happened.

Zabini exhaled through his nose and leaned back, pulling his own book toward him.

“Fine. Touchy tonight, are we?”

They both bent their heads over parchment.

They weren’t studying. Not really. Quills moved in lazy strokes. Eyes flicked sideways every few seconds—watching, waiting for the next crack in composure. But they kept their mouths shut. Kept their teasing leers to themselves. 

Because the message was clear: 

She’s mine. Back off.

You felt the tension in his frame—the way his fingers flexed once against your side, the way his breathing stayed even despite the storm you could sense coiling beneath his skin.

His thumb stroked once—slow, soothing—along the line of your waist.

A silent promise. Or maybe a silent apology. 

You weren’t sure which.

For weeks you tried—really tried—to give him the benefit of the doubt. You told yourself the library incident was a one-off, a momentary slip under pressure from Nott and Zabini’s goading. You reminded yourself that Sunghoon had always been sharp-tongued when cornered; it was part of what drew you to him in the first place. The way he could dismantle someone with a single sentence and never raise his voice. You loved that about him. You still did, in the private moments when it was just the two of you and the rest of the world felt far away.

But the moments weren’t private anymore.

You watched it happen again and again.

In the corridors between classes, when a nervous Hufflepuff fourth-year dropped their books in front of him—Sunghoon didn’t help pick them up. He stepped over the scattered parchment, glanced down at the trembling kid, and murmured something low enough that only the cluster of pure-bloods around him caught it. Whatever it was made them laugh loudly. The boy flushed scarlet and scrambled to gather his things alone.

You loved your boyfriend.

You did.

You loved the boy who once hexed your date at the Yule Ball because his hand had rested too low. You loved the boy who kissed you like you were oxygen in a room without air. You loved the way he memorized spell structures and shared them with you in late-night whispers, the way his fingers traced protective runes on your skin when he thought you were asleep.

But not when he was like this.

Not when he let those words slip so easily. Not when he chose silence over correction. Not when he fed the cruelty instead of starving it.

You tried to bring it up.

The first time was in the empty Charms classroom after curfew, moonlight spilling through tall windows, turning the desks silver. You’d waited until the castle quieted, until it was just the two of you and the faint hum of sleeping portraits.

“Sunghoon,” you started, voice low. “The things you say—the things you let them say—”

He turned from the window where he’d been staring out at the dark grounds.

His expression was unreadable.

Then he crossed the room in three strides.

Before the next word could leave your mouth, his hands were on your waist—lifting, turning, pressing you back against the nearest wall with controlled force. Your breath caught. His mouth crashed into yours, hard and claiming, swallowing whatever protest you’d been forming.

You tried to push back—palms flat against his chest—but his body caged you, pinning you in place. His hands roamed. Under your shirt. Along your ribs. Cupping your breasts through fabric until your nipples peaked and you gasped into his mouth. Fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. Drowning every coherent thought.

When he finally pulled back—just enough to let you drag in air—your mind was already fogging. Eyes glassy. Lips swollen. Knees trembling.

He looked down at you, smirking—slow, dark, victorious. “Can’t even finish a sentence without melting for me.”

The words should have stung. Should have made you shove him away. Instead heat flooded your core. Your thighs clenched around nothing. A soft, broken whimper escaped before you could stop it.

He chuckled—low, cruel—and kissed you again. Slower this time. Deeper. One hand sliding down to palm your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you arch. The other fisted in your hair, tilting your head so he could devour your throat—teeth grazing, then biting, marking you in places your collar wouldn’t hide.

By the time he let you go, you couldn’t remember the exact shape of your argument. Only the taste of him. The ache between your legs. The way your body betrayed you every single time.

It happened again the next week…

And the week after…

Every time you tried to confront him—about the comments, about the company he kept, about the way he let poison seep in—he turned it into this. Into something so intense it erased everything else. 

Into him winning. Always winning.

You started coming to class late.

Lips bruised and swollen. Shirt buttoned crooked, collar barely covering the fresh hickeys blooming purple along your collarbone, the faint crescent of bite marks peeking above your tie. Your hair mussed in ways no brush could fix. Eyes still glassy, cheeks flushed, walking with that careful, slightly bow-legged gait that made your friends exchange knowing glances and then look away.

One of them caught your wrist once in the corridor, voice low and worried.

“Are you okay?”

You forced a smile. Nodded. Lied.

“I’m fine.”

You weren’t.

You were exhausted.

Torn between the boy you’d fallen in love with and the one who was slowly disappearing into something darker. Torn between the way your body still craved him and the way your heart ached every time he chose silence over standing up.

You stopped trying to bring it up. Not because you agreed. Not because you stopped caring.

You told yourself one day you’d find the strength to surface. One day you’d make him listen without letting him turn your body against your mind.

One day.

But for now…

For now, you just tried not to look too closely. Tried not to hear the quiet cruelty in his voice. Tried not to notice how the boy you loved was slowly being replaced by someone colder.

Tried not to notice how the relationship tilted, into something slow, insidious, and toxic at the edges. Not broken. Just… off-balance. Like a potion left too long over flame—still drinkable, still sweet in places, but with a bitter aftertaste that lingered no matter how much honey you tried to stir in.

And then the showing-off began.

It started small. A hand on the small of your back as he steered you toward the Slytherin table during free study. Sunghoon didn’t ask if you wanted to stay. He simply guided you to the center of the group, sat you beside him on the bench, and rested his arm along you back like a king displaying his favorite trophy.

“Look who I brought,” he said, voice smooth as polished obsidian. His fingers traced idle circles on your shoulder, right where everyone could see. “My girl.”

The title landed like a claim. Not girlfriend. Not even your name. My girl. Possessive. Proud. Delivered with that quiet, effortless arrogance he wore so well now.

You flushed instantly—cheeks burning, gaze dropping to your lap. You wanted to shrink. To disappear behind Sunghoon’s shoulder. But he wouldn’t let you. His hand slid lower, fingers splaying across your ribs, pulling you closer until your thigh pressed flush against his.

Whenever you tried to pull away—whenever the discomfort crested and you’d whisper, “Not here, Sunghoon, please”—he’d turn it around so smoothly you almost believed him.

“You’re ashamed of me?” he’d ask, voice low and wounded, eyes wide with feigned hurt. 

You’d shake your head, throat tight, but the words would tangle. Because part of you did want the dark thrill of being claimed so publicly by the boy everyone else feared a little. And he knew it. That's why he used it.

He started taking you to their private gatherings. He’d walk in with you tucked under his arm like a living accessory, robes slightly askew from the way he’d kissed you breathless in the corridor beforehand. He’d seat you on his lap in front of everyone, one hand resting casually on your thigh under the table, fingers pressing just enough to make you squirm while they discussed bloodlines and loyalty and power.

You wished you could have spoken up.The words had burned on your tongue. This is wrong. They were right there, heavy and sharp: Blood doesn’t decide worth. Everyone at Hogwarts has the right to be here. To learn. To become something greater than the families that birthed them. Muggle-born, half-blood, pure-blood—none of it matters when a spell lights up the same way in every wand.

You wanted to say it out loud. Wanted to cut through the laughter when they sneered about “mudbloods cluttering up the good seats in Potions.” Wanted to look them in the eye and ask how many generations of “superior blood” it took before cruelty became tradition. Wanted to stand up—literally push Sunghoon’s hand off your thigh and stand—and remind them that the castle didn’t check blood status at the gates. How the Sorting Hat never asked for a family tree.

But Sunghoon wouldn’t let you.

It was like he could read the exact moment the rebellion formed behind your eyes. Every single time. His fingers would tighten, a hard press against the inside of your thigh under the heavy oak table, thumb stroking once, twice, right where the hem of your skirt met skin. A silent don’t. His other hand would slide up your spine beneath your robes, fingertips tracing the knobs of your vertebrae until you shivered, until your breath caught and the words dissolved on your tongue.

Or worse—he’d kiss you. Right in the middle of someone else’s sentence. His tongue sliding against yours until your mind blanked and your fingers curled helplessly into the front of his shirt. When he pulled back, your lips would be glossy, your cheeks flushed, and the conversation would have already moved on. The moment was gone. Your courage with it.

He always knew. 

Sometimes he’d rest his chin on your shoulder, eyes half-lidded, and murmur against your neck, “You’re thinking too loudly again.” As if your thoughts were something he could taste in the air between you. As if he’d already mapped every moral line you were trying to draw and had decided, long ago, exactly where to blur them.

You started falling down the rabbit hole.

Late at night, alone in your dormitory, the questions gnawed at you like gnats.

Were you even better than them?

You were pure-blood. Old family. Wealth that meant your vault at Gringotts had its own dragon on retainer. Your parents had rooted connections at the Ministry, kept a summer manor where portraits of ancestors sneered down. On paper, you belonged in their circle. You had the blood, the money, the connections.

But your family had never spoken like that.

Your father valued the house-elves with please and thank you. Your mother hired Muggle-born tutors for advanced Arithmancy because “talent is talent.” You had grown up believing Hogwarts belonged to everyone who could make a feather float on their first try. Blood status was a footnote, not a verdict. You had never looked at a first-year with patched robes and thought lesser. 

Never.

Yet here you were.

Complicit.

Every time you watched a Hufflepuff girl fall when Nott “accidentally” tripped her in the corridor, you said nothing. Every time Zabini drawled about how “certain bloodlines dilute the magic,” you bit your tongue so hard it bled. Every time Sunghoon added his quiet, cutting remark, you felt the guilt coil tighter in your stomach like a serpent.

You told yourself you were protecting the relationship. That if you spoke, he’d pull away harder. That you couldn't make him choose. That love meant standing beside him even when the ground turned to quicksand.

But the truth was uglier.

It was getting harder to meet your own eyes in the mirror.

You started avoiding your friends entirely. Started walking the long way around the Great Hall so you wouldn’t have to see the Muggle-born students laughing together, unaware of how their joy was being dissected at another table. Started excusing yourself from study groups when the conversation turned to “why some families still cling to old prejudices.”

Because every time you opened your mouth to defend someone—anyone—the memory of Sunghoon’s voice in your ear, his mouth swallowing your protests, would rise like a tide. And you would stay quiet.

You hated the person you were becoming. 

You hated how easily your body still arched into his touch even while your mind screamed this is wrong. You hated the way shame and desire had started to braid together so tightly you couldn’t tell them apart anymore.

And still, Sunghoon would turn to you in the empty room, eyes dark and soft all at once, and kiss you like you were the only pure thing left in his world.

“I need you,” he’d whisper against your swollen lips, hands already sliding under your clothes. “Stay with me. Please.”

And you would.

Because loving him had become a kind of drowning where you sank a little deeper into that rabbit hole—questioning your own goodness, your own courage, your own right to judge.

The rest of the year passed like that—slow, suffocating, a quiet erosion.

Exams came. You aced them—both of you did—because brilliance was the one thing neither of you ever lost. But the victories tasted hollow. You celebrated in empty classrooms instead of the common room, his mouth between your legs while your notes lay scattered on the floor, his name the only word you could remember when he finally let you come. Afterward he would hold you against his chest, and whisper how perfect you were. How no one else could ever understand what you had.

You believed him because believing anything else would have broken you.

End-of-year feasts passed in a blur of house banners and golden plates. You sat beside him at the Ravenclaw table, his arm draped over the back of your chair, fingers occasionally slipping beneath the collar of your robes to brush the fading hickeys he’d left the night before. 

Then slowly the castle emptied. Trunks rattled down staircases. Owls screeched farewell from the Owlery. You said goodbye to friends with smiles that didn’t reach your eyes, promising letters you already knew you wouldn’t write. Sunghoon vanished into the crowd the morning of departure—gone before breakfast, no note, no goodbye kiss. You told yourself it was better this way. Cleaner. You told yourself the distance might give you space to breathe, to remember who you were before his hands and his voice rewrote you.

The Hogwarts Express carried you back to King’s Cross in heavy silence. You sat alone in a compartment near the back, forehead pressed to the cool glass, watching the countryside blur past. Your reflection looked older, eyes shadowed in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep.

Platform 9¾ was chaos when the train finally hissed to a stop. Families reuniting, house-elves scurrying with trunks, parents calling names over. You stepped onto the platform last, suitcase heavy in your hand, heart heavier still. You scanned the crowd once—half hoping, half dreading—and saw nothing. 

You sighed and adjusted your grip on the handle.

Then arms came around you from behind.

Strong. Familiar. Unmistakable.

You froze for half a heartbeat—then melted.

Your suitcase slipped from your fingers with a dull thud. Your back pressed into his chest, head falling back against his shoulder as though your body had been waiting for this exact moment all year.

He kissed the top of your head, then his right hand lifted in front of your face.

A small velvet box rested on his palm.

He flicked it open with his thumb.

Inside lay a ring.

Sleek black metal—almost obsidian in the dim platform light—shaped like a slender serpent. Its body coiled once around an invisible axis, head raised, tiny navy blue eyes glinting with captured fire. Beautiful in the way only dangerous things can be.

“For you,” he murmured against your hair, voice rough with something you couldn’t quite name. “To show you my love. My devotion. That no matter what happens—no matter who tries to pull us apart—you’re mine. And I’m yours.”

The platform noise faded to a distant hum. The crowd blurred into watercolor. All you could see was the ring. All you could feel was the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the warmth of his arms caging you in the gentlest prison.

You turned in his hold.

His eyes were unguarded for once, with zero calculation. Just raw need. Just him.

You surged up and kissed him.

Hard. Desperate. Months of silence and guilt and drowning poured into the press of your mouth against his. He groaned—low, wrecked—and kissed you back with equal force. 

When you finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together, he lifted the ring between two fingers.

“Do you accept it?” His voice cracked on the last word—barely, but you heard it.

You stared at the serpent. At the blue eyes that seemed to watch you back. Then you looked up at him.

“Yes.”

The moment the word left your lips, the ring moved.

The black snake uncoiled in a fluid ripple of metal, slithering across his palm like liquid shadow. It glided onto your waiting finger—cool at first, then warming rapidly to match your skin temperature. The serpent’s body wrapped once around the base of your finger, before coiling around. The blue eyes flashed once—bright, alive—then stilled. But you felt it: a faint pulse, like a second heartbeat against your skin. Binding. Eternal.

You stared, stunned.

Sunghoon only smiled before he lifted your hand to his lips. Kissed the ring. Kissed the knuckle just above it. Then pressed another kiss to the inside of your wrist, right over the racing pulse.

You didn’t know yet what the ring truly meant. You didn’t know yet how tightly its coils would one day bind you.

The holiday passed in a fever dream of snow and silence.

Your family’s manor was as it always had been—grand, glittering, suffocating in its perfection. Crystal chandeliers refracted firelight across marble floors. Portraits of stern ancestors murmured approval when you passed. Your parents asked polite questions about NEWTs and future prospects, never once mentioning the black serpent coiled around your finger like a living tattoo. They noticed it, of course—they always noticed everything—but they said nothing. Pure-blood etiquette demanded discretion when it came to marks of devotion, especially when the giver came from a family as old and shadowed as Sunghoon’s.

And before you knew it, the calendar had turned.

September 1st arrived cold and sharp. The Hogwarts Express waited at King’s Cross like an old promise, scarlet engine huffing steam into the September sky. You stepped onto Platform 9¾ with your trunk levitating behind you, heart hammering in a rhythm you couldn’t name—anticipation, dread, braided together so tightly you couldn’t separate them.

You found an empty compartment near the middle of the train. Seventh year. Last year. No time to mess around. NEWTs loomed like storm clouds. Auror applications waited in Ministry offices. The war whispers that had once been background noise now felt like thunder rolling closer every day. 

The door slid open.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Sunghoon looked… insanely good.

Taller, somehow, though that was impossible. Dark hair pushed back just enough to reveal the clean line of his brow. Charcoal wool hugging shoulders that had broadened another inch, sleeves rolled once to expose the pale skin and the faint shadow of veins. His tie was loose, the knot imperfect, silver-and-blue stripes against crisp white. 

Before you could open your mouth—before you could say hello, or I missed you—he surged forward.

Three strides. Door slamming shut so hard behind him that the curtains followed with a flick of his wand. The locking charm snapped into place so fast the air crackled.

Then he was on you.

Hands framing your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as though mapping something he’d dreamed about all summer. His mouth crashed into yours—hard, desperate, tasting faintly of peppermint. You gasped against him; he swallowed the sound, tongue sliding in without preamble, claiming every inch like he was reminding you who you belonged to. You clung to the front of his sweater, knuckles white, body already arching toward him like gravity had reversed and he was the only solid thing left in the world.

The kiss turned frantic almost immediately.

Sunghoon’s breathing grew ragged against your lips, little hitches and low groans vibrating between you. His hands slid from your face to your waist, fingers digging in with bruising force, urgent, like he needed to feel solid proof that you were real, here, his. He kissed you harder, deeper, teeth catching your bottom lip and tugging until you whimpered. The sound seemed to snap something inside him.

He broke the kiss just long enough to mutter, hoarse and wrecked, “Fuck—I can’t wait.”

Before you could process the words, his arms banded around your ribs. In one fluid, effortless motion he lifted you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist for balance; your skirt rode up your thighs as he turned, dropped heavily onto the cushioned bench seat, and pulled you down with him.

You landed straddling his lap, knees sinking into the worn velvet on either side of his hips.

The compartment rocked gently with the motion of the train, but neither of you noticed. Sunghoon’s hands were already everywhere—sliding up your thighs, shoving your skirt higher until the fabric bunched uselessly around your waist. His palms were hot against your bare skin, calluses from Quidditch broom handles dragging deliciously as he gripped the backs of your thighs and yanked you forward until your core pressed flush against the hard ridge straining against his trousers.

You both moaned at the contact—low, broken sounds that tangled in the air between your mouths.

He surged up to kiss you again, but this time it was messier, hungrier. His tongue stroked yours in filthy imitation of what he wanted to do lower. One hand left your thigh to fist in your hair, tugging your head back so he could drag open-mouthed kisses down your throat—sucking hard enough to leave fresh marks over the faded ones from last term. You felt the sharp sting of teeth, then the soothing lap of his tongue, and your hips rolled forward without permission, grinding down on him in helpless little circles.

“Fuck,” he hissed against your collarbone, hips bucking up to meet yours. “You have no idea—how many nights I thought about this. About you like this. On me.”

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear and tugging the fabric aside. Cool air hit slick skin for half a second before his fingertips found you—sliding through your folds, circling your clit once, twice, then pressing inside with no warning.

You cried out—sharp, needy—and he swallowed it with another bruising kiss.

“Shh,” he breathed against your lips, even as he curled his fingers deeper, stroking that spot that made your thighs shake. “Someone might hear. Though…” He smirked, dark and dangerous. “Maybe I want them to. Maybe I want the whole bloody train to know exactly what I do to you.”

You clenched around his fingers at the words; he groaned like you’d punched the air out of him.

“Still so tight… Still so fucking perfect.” His thumb found your clit, rubbing circles while his fingers pumped slow and deep. “Ride my hand, baby. Show me how much you missed me.”

Shame burned somewhere distant in the back of your mind, but it dissolved under the heat of his touch, under the way his eyes devoured every twitch of your expression. Your hips rocked forward, chasing the pressure, grinding down until the heel of his palm pressed hard against you with every roll. Your hands scrambled for purchase—fingers threading through his dark hair, tugging until he hissed.

He watched you fall apart, eyes blown black, jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. The hand not buried inside you gripped your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, guiding your movements when your rhythm faltered.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Just like that. Let me feel you come all over my fingers before I fuck you properly.”

The filthy promise tipped you over.

Pleasure snapped through you like a whip, sharp and blinding. You buried your face in the crook of his neck to muffle the cry, body shaking as you clenched around his fingers, hips stuttering, thighs trembling on either side of him. He worked you through it, murmuring praise the whole time.

“Good girl. So good for me. Missed this—missed you clenching around me like you never want to let go.”

When the aftershocks finally eased, he withdrew his fingers slowly, letting you feel every inch. Then he lifted them to his mouth and sucked them clean—eyes locked on yours the entire time—tongue swirling around the digits like he was savoring something rare and precious.

You stared, dazed, lips parted, chest heaving.

He smiled and leaned in to kiss you again. You tasted yourself on his tongue. 

“Welcome back to Hogwarts,” he murmured against your swollen mouth.

The train whistle blew somewhere distant—long and mournful—as though warning the world what was coming.

But neither of you cared.

The year had just begun.

And Sunghoon was already claiming every inch of you like he intended to keep you forever.

You really thought—foolishly, desperately—that this could be a normal year.

Seventh year. Last year. The one where everything was supposed to fall into place: NEWTs, career counseling sessions with McGonagall, late-night study marathons that ended in exhausted laughter then desperate kisses against cold stone. You pictured it like a photograph from someone else’s life: you and Sunghoon walking side by side to breakfast, shoulders brushing, sharing notes, stealing quiet moments in the library without the weight of eyes or expectations pressing in. Normal. Safe. Achievable.

It wasn’t like that at all.

Classes started unforgiving. You threw yourself into them with the kind of single-minded focus that had always carried you through. Charms, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts—you aced every practical, every written essay, every drill. Professors nodded in quiet approval. Your classmates whispered that you were “Ministry material,” that the Auror Office would be fighting over your application.

Herbology was the exception. The greenhouse felt like a different world—humid, alive in ways that refused to bend to logic alone. Mandrakes screamed when repotted; Fanged Geraniums nipped at your fingers; Venomous Tentacula wrapped around your wrist once and left a bruise that bloomed purple for a week. You struggled. Badly. So you found a tutor: a quiet Ravenclaw fifth-year who spoke to plants like they were old friends and never once looked at you like you were failing. Twice a week in the empty greenhouse after dinner, you repotted, pruned, fertilized. Progress was slow, but it was progress.

Potions, though…

Potions should have been easy. You’d always been competent. But seventh-year NEWT-level was brutal—complex brews with thirty-seven ingredients, timing measured in heartbeats, cauldrons that could explode if you so much as breathed wrong. Your first Draught of Living Death came out the color of weak tea instead of smooth pearl. Slughorn raised one brow and gave you an Acceptable with visible disappointment.

You needed help.

And the person who could help best was Sunghoon.

He was brilliant at Potions. Always had been. Precise, intuitive, the kind of student who could identify a misstep in someone else’s brew from across the dungeon just by the color of the steam. Last year he’d tutored you through sixth-year theory in between classes, his voice low and patient. You thought—hoped—that seventh year could be the same. But it was impossible.

Because you barely saw him.

Now he wasn't like.. gone, no he simply… just wasn’t there. Wasn't present.

One morning he’d kiss you goodbye outside the Great Hall, lips lingering, promising to meet you after lunch for Potions revision. By dinner he was gone. No owl. No sighting in the common room or corridors. You’d wait—first patiently, then anxiously— asking his housemates if they’d seen him, but nothing.

He’d reappear two, sometimes three days later. Tired. Paler. Shadows under his eyes like bruises. Hair mussed in a way that wasn’t your fault. Robes slightly wrinkled, as though he’d slept in them.

You’d corner him immediately—heart in your throat, voice shaking despite every effort to keep it steady.

“Where were you?”

He’d look at you for one long, aching second. Then the mask would slide back into place.

“Sick,” he’d say. “Nothing to worry about.”

You didn’t believe him.

Not the first time.

Not the fifth.

Not the tenth.

Because the absences grew longer. The excuses stayed the same. And every time he came back, he came back… further away.

He touched you less in public. No more casual arm around your shoulders in the corridors. No more hand at the small of your back when crowds pressed too close. When you sat beside him at meals he’d let you lean against him, but his arm stayed on the table instead of around you. His smiles were smaller. His kisses—when they happened—were quick, almost perfunctory, like checking a box.

Conversations became clipped. Surface-level. He asked about your day, listened to your answers, but never offered his own. When you tried to press—about the absences, about the shadows in his eyes, he’d shut it down.

“Not now.”

“I’m fine.”

“Stop worrying.”

Each refusal landed like a small cut. Shallow at first. Then deeper. Until the worry became something constant, something that lived under your ribs and made it hard to breathe when he wasn’t there.

You started crying in the shower so no one would hear. Started gripping the ring on your finger until your knuckle turned white, as though the serpent could somehow summon him back. Started lying awake at night staring at the canopy, replaying every disappearance, every excuse, every time he’d looked at you like he was memorizing your face before walking away again.

It broke you. Like ice cracking under too much weight.

You still aced Charms. Still smiled in the Great Hall when friends asked how you were.

But inside, the drowning had returned. Colder this time. 

Because the boy who once claimed every inch of you like he intended to keep you forever was slowly slipping through your fingers. And every time you reached for him, he gave you the same soft, tired lie:

“Nothing to worry about.”

You worried anyway. You worried until the worry became the only thing that felt real, it clung to you like damp robes after a storm—persistent, chilling, impossible to shake off no matter how tightly you wrapped yourself in denial.

It followed you through autumn’s golden decay and winter’s brittle frost. Every morning you woke with the same hollow ache in your chest, checking the foot of your bed for an owl that never came, scanning the Ravenclaw table at breakfast for the familiar dark head that was increasingly absent. Sunghoon became a ghost in his own life. He still appeared—enough to keep the rumors from exploding—but never for long. A quick kiss in an empty corridor before vanishing again. A hand brushing yours under the table in the Great Hall, then gone before you could lace your fingers through his. Notes left on your pillow in that precise, slanted handwriting: Library tonight? followed by nothing when you arrived.

When he did speak to you, his voice was flatter, stripped of the warmth that once lived beneath every word. He answered questions with single syllables. He stopped initiating touch. Stopped pulling you onto his lap in the courtyard. Stopped whispering filthy promises against your throat until you were trembling.

You told yourself it was the war whispers growing louder. The disappearances were Order business, or family business, or something he couldn’t share yet. You told yourself that the distance was temporary. Protective.

But the worry didn't go away. It lived in your throat like a stone. It woke you at 3 a.m. staring at the canopy, replaying every half-smile, every excuse, every time he’d looked at you like he was saying goodbye without words. It made your hands shake when you brewed potions, your cauldron bubbling over more than once because your mind was elsewhere. 

By March the castle felt colder than the grounds outside. The snow had melted into gray slush; the sky stayed low and leaden. You were going crazy thread by thread, and Sunghoon was the only one who could have stitched you back together—but he was never there long enough to try.

You finally had enough on a Thursday afternoon when the sun broke through for the first time in weeks, weak and watery, turning the courtyard into a patchwork of pale light and long shadows.

He was there—miraculously—sitting on the low stone wall near the fountain, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. Robes open at the collar, tie loosened, hair falling into his eyes. For one stupid, hopeful second your heart leapt the way it used to.

You crossed the courtyard without thinking. Grabbed his wrist—harder than you meant to—and pulled.

“Come with me.”

He looked up, startled. Opened his mouth—probably to brush you off with another I’m busy—but something in your expression stopped him. He let you drag him away from the curious stares of a few lingering fourth-years, through an archway, down a narrow passage lined with dusty tapestries, into a small, forgotten study room that smelled of old books and forgotten ink.

You slammed the door behind you then you turned to face him.

“What is your problem?”

Your voice cracked. You hated it—hated how small you sounded, how desperate—but the dam had broken.

Sunghoon leaned back against the nearest desk, arms crossed, expression carefully blank.

“There’s no problem.”

“Don’t!” You stepped closer. “Don’t lie to me again. You disappear for days. You come back looking like death. You barely look at me, barely touch me, barely speak to me. You’re pulling away and I can feel it every single second and I’m—” Your voice broke again. “I’m losing my mind, Sunghoon. Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

He looked away—jaw tight, throat working once. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Stop it!” The shout surprised even you. You closed the distance until you were inches from him, hands fisting in the front of his robes. “Stop treating me like I’m stupid. Like I can’t see it. Like I don’t feel it every time you leave without a word. I’m your girlfriend! I—” Tears burned hot behind your eyes; you blinked them back furiously. “I love you. And you’re letting me drown. Just tell me. Whatever it is. I can handle it. Just don’t keep shutting me out.”

For a long moment he said nothing.

Then something cracked.

His hands came up—fast, almost violent—and gripped your wrists, yanking them off his robes. His eyes—those eyes you’d once thought held entire galaxies—were stormy now. 

“You want the truth?” His voice was low at first, dangerous. “Fine.” He stepped forward, forcing you back until your spine met the wall. He didn’t cage you with desire. This was different. This was anger. This was something breaking.

“I fell out of love with you.”

You froze. Breath stopped. Heart stopped. Everything stopped.

He stared down at you—chest rising and falling too fast, eyes glittering with something that looked dangerously close to tears.

“I tried,” he said, quieter now, voice cracking on the edges. “I tried so fucking hard! Every time I came back I told myself I could still feel it. That I could still want you the way I used to. But it’s gone. It’s just… gone.”

You shook your head—small, helpless jerks.

“No...”

“Yes.” He laughed once—harsh, hollow.

The tears were falling freely now—hot, unstoppable, dripping from your chin. You didn’t bother wiping them away. What was the point? He was already looking at you like you were something he used to care about. Something he’d outgrown.

Sunghoon stepped back. Just one step. Enough to put space between you that felt like miles.

“You think I like this?” His voice dropped lower, colder. The warmth that once lived in it had frozen over completely. “You think I enjoy watching you cry every time I walk away? You think I don’t see how pathetic it’s become? How you cling to me like I’m still the same boy who kissed you in the Great Hall like the world was ending? Newsflash—” He spat the word like venom. “—that boy died the first time I came back and realized I didn’t miss you. Not the way I was supposed to.”

Each sentence landed like a slap. You pressed your back harder against the wall, as though the stone could absorb some of the pain.

“You’re suffocating,” he continued, merciless now. “You hover! You wait! You look at me like I owe you answers I don’t have. Like love is a fucking contract I signed and forgot to renew! I can’t breathe around you anymore. Every time you open your mouth to ask where I’ve been, every time you touch me like you’re scared I’ll vanish again—it just reminds me how much I don’t want this. How much I don’t want you.”

The black serpent on your finger pulsed—sharp, frantic, like it was trying to protest. You looked at it, but your vision was blurring.

Sunghoon followed your gaze. His jaw tightened.

“That ring?” He laughed again—bitter, empty. “I gave it to you because I thought it would keep you. But it didn’t work. Nothing works. You’re still here, still begging, still crying, and I still feel nothing… It’s over, don't bother trying to change my mind.”

He didn’t wait for your response. Didn’t give you time to argue, to plead, to scream. He simply turned away, robes swirling once, and walked out.

The door shut behind him with a loud slam.

Your knees hit stone. Your palms pressed flat against the cold floor. And then the sobs came—ugly, wrenching, tearing out of your chest like something alive. You curled in on yourself, forehead to knees, arms wrapped tight around your middle as though you could hold the pieces together. 

You cried until your throat was raw. Until the tears ran dry and left salt tracks on your cheeks. Until the room felt too small and too big all at once.

You didn’t know—couldn’t know—that Sunghoon hadn’t gone far.

He’d walked blindly through corridors, past startled portraits and flickering torches, until he reached the seventh-floor corridor. The blank stretch of wall opposite a tapestry. He stopped. Pressed his forehead to stone. Closed his eyes.

The door appeared almost instantly.

The Room of Requirement opened for him like it had been waiting.

He stepped inside and the door sealed shut behind him with a soft, final thud.

For one heartbeat there was silence.

Then he shattered.

A loud shout ripped out of him,  furious and broken. He spun and slammed his fist into the nearest surface—a wooden table the room had conjured, already cluttered with potion vials and spellbooks he didn’t want. The table cracked. Vials exploded in sprays of glass and liquid. He didn’t stop.

He grabbed a chair and hurled it against the far wall. Wood splintered. He kicked over a bookshelf—tomes and books tumbling like dominoes. He picked up a heavy crystal orb the room had provided (for what purpose he didn’t care) and smashed it against the floor. Shards flew. He stepped on them, grinding them under his heel.

He then sank to his knees in the wreckage.

The first sob came quietly—almost surprised. Then another. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes like he could force the tears back inside. His shoulders shook. His breathing came in ragged gasps.

“I lied,” he whispered to the empty room. “I lied—I lied—I lied—”

The words dissolved into another broken cry.

He curled forward until his forehead touched the cold stone floor—shards biting into his palms, blood smearing across his skin—and cried like something inside him had finally ruptured beyond repair.

Because he hadn’t fallen out of love with you.

He’d fallen so far into it—so deep, so violently—that the only way he knew how to keep you safe was to make you hate him enough to leave.

The war was coming. The mark under his sleeve had burned hotter every day since summer. The disappearances weren’t sickness. They were initiations. Tasks. Orders.

He couldn’t drag you into that darkness. He couldn’t watch you burn because of him.

So he’d burned the bridge himself.

And now—alone in a room full of broken things like him—he paid the price.

He cried until his voice gave out.

Until the room, sensing his exhaustion, softened the floor beneath him into something almost like a bed.

Until the last sob faded into silence.

The first weeks after the breakup were a suffocating collapse.

You didn’t speak. Not to your dormmates, not to the professors who asked why you were missing from class, not even to the house-elves who timidly left trays of food by your bed because you hadn’t appeared in the Great Hall for days. Words felt like glass in your throat, useless, sharp. So you stayed silent. Curled under your blankets with the curtains drawn tight, staring at the dark canopy until your eyes burned. Sleep came in fits and when you woke, the ache in your chest was still there, heavier each time.

You skipped classes. The ones you’d once aced without effort. You told yourself you’d catch up tomorrow. Tomorrow never came. Food lost all taste; the house-elves’ carefully arranged plates went untouched until they vanished again. Your robes hung looser on your frame. Your reflection in the dormitory mirror looked like a stranger—hollow cheeks, shadowed eyes, lips perpetually chapped from biting them to keep from crying again.

The first bad grade arrived like a slap.

An Outstanding in Charms had become an Acceptable in Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall’s note was polite, concerned, but the howler from home arrived the next morning, your owl dropping it right in front of you with an apologetic hoot before fleeing.

The scarlet envelope exploded open the second your fingers touched it.

Your mother’s voice—cold, furious, magnified tenfold—filled the room.

“—disgraceful! You are wasting your potential! After everything we’ve sacrificed? After the tutors, the connections, the expectations? You will pull yourself together this instant or so help me you will spend the summer scrubbing cauldrons at St. Mungo’s until you remember what ambition looks like! Do not test us further! Me and your father are ashamed—do you know what this looks like to the Ministry?—fix this, or don’t bother coming home for Easter!”

The parchment shredded itself mid-sentence, scraps fluttering to the floor like dead leaves. You sat frozen, face burning, tears stinging fresh behind your eyes. 

But something else ignited too.

Rage—not at your parents, not at the howler, but at yourself. At the version of you who had let Sunghoon hollow you out until there was nothing left to fight with.

That afternoon you dragged yourself to the library.

You sat at the same table you used to share with him. Opened every textbook you’d ignored for weeks. Summoned every scrap of willpower you had left and channeled the pain—the sharp, jagged thing in your chest—into focus.

From that day forward, you rebuilt.

You went to every class. Sat in the front row. Took notes until your hand cramped. Asked questions when you didn’t understand. You met the Ravenclaw girl in the greenhouse twice as often as before; the plants didn’t judge, didn’t leave, didn’t stop loving you just because you were hurting. You brewed potions until your cauldron sang perfect colors again. Your grades climbed steadily. 

You rejected everyone who tried. A Hufflepuff sixth-year left a note in your bag confessing he’d liked you since fourth year. You ripped it at the first word. A Ravenclaw boy from your study group asked you to Hogsmeade the following weekend. You looked him in the eye and said, “I’m not interested.” Polite. No explanations. No room for hope.

You locked everyone out.

Housemates were allowed small mercies—quiet good mornings, shared chocolate frogs during late-night revision—but nothing deeper. The world narrowed to your dorm, the library, the great hall, the classrooms. Anything beyond that felt like risk. Like vulnerability. Like another chance to break.

You tried to erase him.

The scarf he’d once draped over your shoulders after Quidditch—into the fire. The charmed quill he’d given you that never ran out of ink—snapped in half and discarded. The tiny vial of Amortentia-scented perfume he’d gifted you one Valentine’s poured down the drain, vial shattered against the sink.

You tried to take off the ring.

Every night for a week you sat on the edge of your bed, gripping the serpent between thumb and forefinger, pulling.

The first time it hissed—low, warning, almost hurt. The metal tightened like a shackle, coiling so hard your skin turned white and pain shot up your arm. You gasped, released it immediately. The snake loosened again,  almost apologetically.

You tried again the next night. Same result. Hiss. Tighten. Pain.

By the third attempt you were crying—quiet, furious tears—yanking until your skin bruised and the ring refused to budge. You screamed into your pillow. Punched the mattress. Cursed him in every language you knew.

Then you stopped.

You stared at the black serpent curled around your finger, pulsing faintly with something that felt dangerously close to a heartbeat—and whispered, “Fine! Stay!”

You told yourself it was because the snake didn’t want to leave. That it was enchanted loyalty, nothing more. That you were keeping it out of stubbornness, or spite, or practicality.

But deep down—bone-deep—you knew the truth.

You were relieved.

Relieved that something—anything—of him refused to let go. Relieved that one small piece still clung to you the way you still, traitorously, clung to the memory of him. The ring was the last tether. The last proof that he had once looked at you like you were everything.

You left it on.

Sunghoon, meanwhile, became a stranger in every way that mattered.

He walked the corridors like a shadow wearing his face. Head down. Shoulders rigid. Robes immaculate but eyes dull. When you passed in hallways he didn’t glance up. Not once. Not a flicker. Not even the accidental brush of eyes that strangers sometimes share. You might as well have been invisible. A ghost he’d already exorcised.

You told yourself it hurt less this way.

Yeah… you were a liar.

The lie was necessary. It was the only thing that kept your feet moving through the corridors when every instinct screamed to stop, to turn, to force him to look at you even if it was only to see hatred in his eyes instead of nothing. You repeated it like a mantra during the long, hollow weeks that followed: It hurts less if I pretend he never existed. You whispered it while brushing your teeth in the dormitory bathroom mirror, avoiding your own gaze. You muttered it under your breath while walking past the Ravenclaw table and forcing your eyes straight ahead. You clung to it in the middle of the night, when you had to press your palm against your mouth to keep from crying out.

But pain has a way of becoming fuel when there’s nothing else left to burn.

It pushed you forward.

Through the endless revision sessions in the library. Through the practical exams where your wand hand shook for the first five minutes until muscle memory took over. Through the nights when sleep refused to come and you stared at the canopy, tracing the ghost of his touch along your collarbone until the memory turned sour and you rolled over to bury your face in the pillow.

Before you knew it, NEWTs arrived.

And passed.

You walked out of the last exam—Potions, ironically—feeling nothing at first. Just the dull throb of exhaustion behind your eyes and the faint metallic taste of adrenaline fading on your tongue. Results came by owl two weeks later while you were home for a brief break. The envelope was heavy, official, sealed with the Ministry crest. Your parents watched in silence as you broke it open.

Top percentile, the accompanying letter said. Auror recruitment had already flagged your name. An interview was scheduled. A training position awaited—if you accepted.

Your mother’s eyes glistened for the first time in years. Your father actually smiled—small, restrained, but real. They hugged you. Told you how proud they were. How you’d honored the family name. How the Ministry would be lucky to have you.

And you were proud too.

Not the bright, shining pride of someone who’d won without scars. This was quieter. Harder-won. The pride of someone who had been cracked open, hollowed out, and still managed to stand upright long enough to cross the finish line.

a/n: 6AM. I say thank you. I go sleep. Part 2 will be posted soon. <3 REBLOGS AND COMMENTARY IS APPRECIATED!

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[courire]

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎甜心 ❕ 𝖮𝖩𝖮𝖲 𝖳𝖱𝖨𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖲

박 성혼 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗑, 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝗧𝗥𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗜𝗡。 ex !sunghoon ⚡ ex !reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎◜ᯅ◝ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎comedy, romance ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎───── ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎profanities

ONE ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎TWO ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎THREE

[sansaorgana]

— HONOUR RESTORED

PAIRING — Prince Valarr Targaryen x fem!Reader

SUMMARY — Prince Aerion took advantage of you during the feast thrown to celebrate his grandsire's birthday. He refuses to take responsibility and restore your good name, so his chivalrous cousin decides to save the honour of his family.

REQUEST — (1)

AUTHOR’S NOTE — I actually liked the request a lot because it is something that would totally happen. I just know my boy Valarr is honourable like that. Perhaps Aerion is even worse than in canon (?) but he's one of the worst Targaryens ever so... The actual scene of the assualt is not here but it still probably is a very trggering story, so be warned!

WARNINGS — mentions of non-con (the fic starts after it happened), misogyny, some people telling the Reader to "forget about it" and "move on"

WORD COUNT — 5,780

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

HONOUR RESTORED

The silence was long and heavy. Every fiber of your being screamed for you to run away from that room but you knew you had to endure it. A somewhat trial on which your fate depended even though you were not the guilty one. 

Of course Prince Aerion would not face any consequences of his actions. And you knew some men in the room probably believed that you had wanted it as much as he. That your claim of being taken advantage of was nothing but a fraud to keep your good name. But it would never be good anymore. Not after what he had done.

And he was sitting there, too. His presence was the worst part of that. He was sitting there and still staring at you with the same hungry eyes, smirking. He was leaning back on his chair as if he was the King himself, not even pretending to feel guilty in front of the rest.

Another thing you hated was the fact you were surrounded only by men. Your father and brother – the ones who had made an accusation. You couldn’t personally because you were a woman. The maester who had examined you before to confirm that indeed you were spoiled goods was there, too. Prince Aerion, the villain of the story as well. Alongside them, his father Prince Maekar, the King himself and the King’s most important heirs. Prince Baelor, who was his father’s most trusted and loyal advisor.

And his son, Prince Valarr, so he could watch and learn how such matters were being solved.

You were sitting nervously, playing with the hem of your humble dress that your mother had made you wear before so you would look more innocent for the occasion. 

“The Maester has confirmed that Lady (Y/N) is no longer a maiden,” the King spoke, his words causing goosebumps to appear on your arms and legs. You nearly threw up at the memory of Prince Aerion taking advantage of you at the feast in the Red Keep thrown to celebrate his grandfather’s birthday.

Out of all those ladies… Why had he chosen you? Perhaps he thought you should feel grateful for that. 

“It doesn’t mean I was the one to spoil her,” Prince Aerion shrugged his arms and his own father gave him a deathly glare. 

“You two have been seen!” Prince Maekar hissed at him.

“Does not mean I was her first,” Aerion insisted like a brat.

“My daughter’s reputation has always been pure when it comes to her maidenhood, Your Royal Highness!” Your father looked at the King. “You can ask anyone. She might have been loud, might have been reckless with her laughter, her speech or abandoned some of her classes but she has never been careless around men.”

You sniffled a little and looked down even further. You knew that the sound you had just made caused everyone to lay their eyes on your trembling shoulders.

“I believe you, Lord (Y/L/N),” the King said to your father. “Your daughter’s innocence is not being doubted.”

You sighed with relief… At least there was that. At least the King was a good and understanding man.

“I demand compensation for myself and for my daughter,” your father continued. “We are no lesser house, we deserve respect. My daughter could have married any meaningful Lord in the Realm and now she is spoiled. It will be a miracle if anyone wants her at all.”

“My friend, there are lots of honourable men…” Prince Baelor began, “...who will understand the circumstances.”

“Find me them, then, my Prince!” Your father raised his voice and then cleared his throat. “I will not watch my daughter’s reputation being torn like that. Prince Aerion must take responsibility for his actions.”

Another silence occurred, during which Prince Aerion laughed manically. You took a glance at him through hazy eyes. Your heart sank when you imagined yourself as his wife but you knew there was no other way. You had to, he had claimed you as his.

“There is no world in which I would marry her,” Aerion snorted and his father smacked him on the head.

“You will speak of Lady (Y/N) with respect, boy,” he scolded him.

But it was too late for respect.

“I will not marry a… Lady… Who is not of Targaryen blood,” Aerion explained. “Especially one with whorish tendencies.”

Your father gasped and your brother reached for his sword when Maekar slapped his son’s cheek this time. Prince Baelor took a step ahead to let your brother know that turning it into a duel would not be the best idea.

“How dare you call my daughter a whore?!” Your father asked.

“Spoiled goods, is she not? Meanwhile, I am a Prince. Don’t I deserve a chaste bride for my wedding night?” Aerion asked with a smirk, his fathers smacks and slaps couldn’t mean less to him.

“Aerion,” the King gave his grandson a serious look. “You better stay quiet as we settle this.”

“Fine. But I am not marrying her,” Aerion crossed his arms. “And I cannot be forced to.”

He was right. He was a man. He couldn’t be forced.

“As much as I hate to say this…” Prince Maekar sighed. “I really want justice for Lady (Y/N) but I know there is no point in forcing my son. If he says he will not do it, then he will not. We shall find a different solution.”

“Oh, you want justice, my Prince? I have a solution then!” Your brother exclaimed. “Prince Aerion should be exe–”

“Sh!” Prince Baelor raised his hand as Aerion chuckled with satisfaction. “No more words that might lead you to trouble.”

“No one should be above the law, no matter what surname they bear,” your father pointed out but you spotted a hint of disappointment in his voice. He was giving up already.

“If Prince Aerion refuses to take responsibility for his actions, perhaps Lady (Y/N) can be sent to become a Septa? I might ensure she would be trained by the very best and later sent to serve a very noble house,” the King proposed.

His words pierced your soul like a thousand daggers. You did not want to be a Septa. You’d rather end up a spoiled spinster on your brother’s mercy than to leave your home, your surname and your life. You did not wish to serve, you were a Lady and you wanted to wear your dresses and go on walks in nature and eat lemon cakes at the feasts…

You sobbed loudly – something you were trying to avoid so Aerion would be spared the wicked satisfaction he was getting from seeing your misery. But you couldn’t stop yourself any longer as you covered your face with your hand and cried. It was clear for everyone now that you did not wish to become a Septa.

An awkward silence occurred while you wept. The men were looking at each other, feeling helpless. They pitied you, surely. Except for Aerion, of course.

Young Prince Valarr was standing in the corner of the room, silently. He had been watching the scene with wide eyes until now, observing it without a word. Yet, a storm raged inside his heart each time his wicked cousin had disrespected you even further and each time you trembled. He was an honourable man and he valued his family’s reputation. The reputation was stained now by Aerion but he had a chance to restore it.

“I…” He began quietly but no one heard him because you wept so loudly. Valarr took a deep breath. He could still retreat from what he was about to say. But now, somehow, he felt even more sure than the moment before. “I shall marry Lady (Y/N),” he announced louder and all men inside the room looked at him with disbelief.

You froze at first, your tears immediately stopped flowing from the shock. You lowered your hand and revealed your wet face swollen from the sobbing as you looked at him. He was nervous but tried to maintain a calm posture.

Aerion smirked with contempt.

“Son… Are you sure about that?” Prince Baelor asked. You could see that he was surprised like everyone else but he did not seem to be angry at his son like many men would be.

After all, Prince Valarr was an heir to the throne after his father. He could marry any woman in the Kingdom because she would become the Queen one day. Perhaps your house was noble and important but you were no grand Princess and you were spoiled, impure, forever stained with his cousin’s stench.

“Yes, father,” Prince Valarr nodded. “If Cousin Aerion refuses to restore the honour of this Lady and our family, I shall do it. It is my duty,” he insisted.

Your jaw nearly dropped. You kept staring at him but he spared you no glance. It truly was not about you, he simply treated it as something he should be doing. It felt so odd to be nothing but an object in this moral conflict of his. Yet, his unbelievable chivalry made you feel relieved.

“What if she carries my seed?” Aerion grinned. “The teas don’t always work.”

“Oh, so you admit now? That you laid with my daughter?” Your father snapped at him and the Prince looked down immediately, realising his mistake.

“Aerion has made a good point,” Prince Baelor looked at his son and squinted his eyes. “What if Lady (Y/N) is with a child? Do you still wish to restore her honour?”

“Y-yes,” Valarr nodded even though he hesitated. “The child would be innocent in this. I shall not claim them as mine but I will raise them as such.”

“We can wait and see if Lady (Y/N) is expecting. If she is, we will wait for her to give birth and we will send the child away. Then you two will get married,” the King proposed.

“That is also a good idea but I think it is not for us to decide,” Prince Valarr finally laid his beautiful mismatched eyes on you. Your heart softened when you realised he actually gave you a choice in this matter.

“I…” You started, your voice raspy. “I want to wait and find out. If… If I am with a child… I shall make my decision then. I do not know how to feel about it now,” you admitted.

“If you find out about being pregnant and wish to keep the child, people will notice you are pregnant while you walk down the aisle,” your father reminded you. “We cannot wait any longer.”

“We will find a way,” Prince Baelor only said as you looked up at him, surprised. “So, it is settled then?” He looked down at you. “Do you wish to marry my son?”

You were taken aback. What a fool you would have to be to say no?

“I… My Prince, I fear I am not worthy,” you said, though.

As much as you loved the idea of being saved like this, you knew it was an injustice towards the Young Prince. He deserved a pure bride of the finest house. 

“If my son is willing to marry you, it is not for us to determine,” Prince Baelor smiled kindly. “I did not ask about that either. My question was if you wanted to be wed to Prince Valarr.”

“She wants!” Your father chimed in and you laughed.

The first laugh you had let out since Prince Aerion took advantage of you.

“I do, of course,” you whispered and bowed your head at Prince Baelor. “I am honoured.”

“It is settled then,” the King opened his hands with a smile.

Aerion was the first one to leave. His father followed him angrily. Your brother helped you stand and led you out of the room with your father closely behind you.

“I am proud of you, son,” you heard Prince Baelor’s voice as you left the room.

You were grateful with your whole heart for him to raise his children this honourable way. But you couldn’t help the anxiety creeping in.

You didn’t want your husband to loathe you… To treat you as an unpleasant duty. Of course it was better than living the rest of your life in shame or as a Septa. But you hated the idea of Valarr being disgusted with you and mourning the life he could have had without you in it…

Thankfully, your monthly blood came two weeks later already, which confirmed you were not expecting Prince Aerion’s child. You were packed and ready to go to Dragonstone. Prince Baelor decided it would be better for you to marry his son there, far away from the prying eyes of the Red Keep. 

The Realm was quite shocked with the news. Prince Valarr’s marriage was important for everyone because his wife would make a Queen one day. No one expected an union with your house. Most people took it as Targaryen’s desperate attempt to make their subjects like them more. A marriage with a local noble Lady without any Targaryen blood to emphasise the dynasty’s belonging in Westeros instead of choosing a powerful political alliance or bonding with their own kin.

Some believed it must have been a true love between you and Prince Valarr. It was a funny thought because you hadn’t spoken to him at all before. Yet, a romantic ballad was created already by the smallfolk about a handsome young prince meeting a lady at the feast celebrating his grandsire’s birthday.

If only they had known that the reality of that night had been much darker and grimmer for you.

You flinched when your mother approached you suddenly from behind to brush your hair on the last night before your departure to Dragonstone.

“Mother…” You chuckled nervously. “Do not creep up on me like that.”

“You cannot flinch each time someone gets too close. You will be a wife soon,” she smiled as she began to brush your hair.

“It is not something I can control ever since…” you lowered your voice.

“I know. And the nightmares keep you up at night. That must stop, too,” she said as if it was so easy. “Your husband will be sleeping next to you from now on. You do not want to keep him up with your nonsense nor burden him with it.”

“How can you say that when you know how much I have suffered!” You gasped.

“You were not the first nor the last, my dear. You should do what all the Ladies in your situation did – leave it in the past. And as dreadful as it was, it ended very well for our family,” she smiled softly as she watched your reaction in the mirror.

You didn’t say anything. You realised that your family was… glad that Prince Aerion had taken advantage of you. Because now their daughter would become Prince Valarr’s wife.

You wanted to ask her if she would let it happen again if she had known the result but you were too afraid to find out the answer.

You arrived at Dragonstone and Prince Valarr waited with his mother and younger brother to greet you. He looked pale and nervous but he offered you his arm to lean on when you were leaving the carriage.

“How was the ride, my Lady?” He asked.

“Not the worst, my Prince, but I am glad for it to be finally over,” you cracked a smile.

He led you to his mother and brother, introducing you as his betrothed.

“Lady Dondarrion,” you bowed your head in front of the woman. “Prince Matarys,” you looked at the boy.

They were curious about you but not suspicious. It was a relief for you because you feared what Valarr’s mother would think of you and your own mother could not come with you because your younger siblings needed her. She would arrive with the rest of your family for your wedding.

“Lady (Y/L/N),” Lady Jena smiled at you and squeezed your shoulder. “Come, I want to get to know you better.”

You smiled at her and walked with them all inside the castle as you looked around.

“Have you ever been to Dragonstone, Lady (Y/N)?” Matarys asked.

“No, my Prince,” you admitted.

“Then, Valarr should give you a tour. Let us meet in my chambers for a tea after,” Lady Jena smiled at her eldest son as she put her hands on Matarys’ shoulders and walked away with him.

For the first time, you were left alone with your betrothed. An awkward silence occurred between you two. Eventually, he cleared his throat and began the tour, speaking quietly about the place and its legends. You were listening carefully, trying to remember as much as you could about your husband-to-be’s ancestors but there were so many facts that it seemed impossible to memorise them all. Valarr knew a lot on top of that – much more than a typical Lord. The way he spoke reminded you of a teacher.

“You are a scholar, are you not, my Prince?” You asked eventually.

He blushed a little as he looked down.

“I do like books,” he said and you nodded.

“That is good,” you whispered.

He avoided your gaze and you couldn’t help but feel bad. You wondered what he was thinking now. Was it his way of hiding his disgust from you?

“My Prince…”

“Yes?” He finally laid his eyes on you, two opposite shades shimmering gracefully.

“I haven’t been given a chance to… thank you for what you are doing for me. It is–”

“You have nothing to thank me for, my Lady,” Valarr interrupted. “It is my duty and you are not to be blamed for my cousin’s actions. He was not mature enough to take the responsibility but someone had to.”

“I… I see…” you looked down. His answer somehow did not make you feel better. You still felt like a burden, an unpleasant surprise or an obstacle that happened to him. “You are very chivalrous,” you admitted.

“As a knight I have sworn to serve and protect,” he only said. “Now, do you wish to listen to more stories about this place or perhaps they bore you and you would rather join my mother for the tea already?” He asked.

“The stories do not bore me, my Prince, but they feel a bit too overwhelming at the moment. I would rather join your Lady Mother unless you take offense,” you confessed.

“I do not. Come, my Lady,” he took you by your elbow and led you in silence to his mother’s chambers. “Your chambers are right across the hall,” he pointed in their direction. “I shall leave you now.”

You nodded at him and watched him walk away. Even the way he moved was regal, you thought. And, suddenly, you realised how much you did not fit in. You were a Lady but you were no Princess. And you did not know anything about what it was like to be the Queen.

You took a deep breath in and knocked upon Lady Jena’s doors. She told you to come in and smiled at the sight of you.

“Come, Lady (Y/N), sit with me,” she encouraged and you thanked her silently before taking your seat. You were handed a cup of tea by Lady Jena’s servant as she observed you. “So, my dear, you are to be married to my son.”

“Yes… I… I want to apologise for that,” you confessed and she furrowed her brows. “I did not want to be a burden like this and I do realise that Prince Valarr deserves a… better bride,” you confessed quietly.

Lady Jena remained silent but she did not look angry. Perhaps she was looking for the right words as you took an awkward sip of the tea.

“My son is an honourable man like his father,” she finally spoke, softly. “And I take pride in that. You have nothing to apologise for.”

“He is no common Lord or knight, though, my Lady,” you said. “He is an heir.”

“And that makes the act even more honourable, does it not?” Lady Jena smiled at you. “My dear, no one knows. People already make up beautiful stories about you two.”

“So I have heard…” You blushed. “What if Prince Aerion tells someone…?”

“He was sent to Lys by his father,” Lady Jena informed you. “Lady (Y/N)...”

“Yes?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Do not let this one moment define your whole life. Please,” her voice soft and understanding, “do not allow a cruel man to rewrite your fate.”

Her words made an impact on you. You nodded and put the tea cup down as you needed a moment for yourself. 

“My fate… It has never been to become the Queen. I know nothing of it,” you confessed.

“I know,” Lady Jena smiled again. “And I will teach you. I still learn every day myself. We will learn together.”

You couldn’t believe how welcoming this side of the family was. It was nearly ridiculous that they were Prince Aerion’s kin.

No matter how kind Lady Jena, Prince Baelor and Prince Matarys were, your betrothed remained quite distant. Always a gentleman, of course, but nothing more than that. He kept avoiding your gaze and he rarely engaged in conversations with you.

On top of that, when your family arrived for the wedding, they were bearing awful news. Your brother had heard a rumour that Prince Aerion was bragging to everyone in Lys about fucking his cousin’s bride and claiming her. That the gentle Prince Valarr’s wife was not even truly his. That every time he would lay with her, he would have to smell his cousin.

You nearly threw up hearing all of that. If your brother had heard this rumour, it could only mean that half of the Realm had already heard it, too.

The night before your wedding, you kept on pacing in circles around your chambers. You considered running away. Prince Valarr did not deserve such humiliation. But everything was already prepared for the wedding and it would be a waste of money and effort. It would be ungrateful as well towards his family.

You sobbed as you hugged yourself in the middle of the carpet by the fireplace. Oh, how you wished for it to be possible to simply take a dagger and rip Aerion Targaryen out of your body. But he would forever be a part of it. He was right. The stench would follow you. 

The dreadful night came back to you again in flashbacks. His grabby hands, the way he loomed over you, his burning breath, his maniacal eyes, his contemptuous laughter and his teasing. He had even fucking bit you… You shivered and scratched that part of your neck where his teeth had sunk once.

You felt the need to leave your chambers and breathe fresh air. You grabbed a robe to put it over your nightgown and you left your room. You went to one of the towers and walked upstairs hoping to be left alone in the presence of the moon and with the view of the sea below.

But someone was already standing there, leaning on a pillar and staring at the night sky.

“My Prince… Forgive me…” You whispered, turning away to leave.

“Stay,” his soft voice commanded gently. “What are you doing here, my Lady?” Valarr asked as he turned his head around to look at you.

“I wanted to gather my thoughts in the presence of the moon,” you confessed. “But I can see that you are doing that already.”

“You are welcome to join me,” he said and you hesitated for a moment but then you approached him, wrapping the robe tighter around your body to hide a little from him. “Are you cold, my Lady?” He asked.

“No, no,” you shook your head but he was already taking off his cloak to put it over your shoulders carefully. It was an intimate moment between you two, a sort of rehearsal before the morrow when he would do the same in front of all the people gathered inside the Sept while making you his wife. “Thank you, my Prince.”

“What kind of thoughts were you trying to gather?” He asked and you sighed.

“My brother told me about a certain rumour from Lys…”

“I have been informed as well,” Prince Valarr nodded and looked at the sky again. “I am sorry that my cousin keeps humiliating you even now. He will pay the price for that one day.”

“I do not care about my humiliation. I am a fallen woman already either way,” you admitted. “But it hurts me that a man as honourable as you will become a mockery for his chivalry.”

“You are not a fallen woman,” Prince Valarr looked at you, his eyes full of sympathy. “You are my bride.”

“We both know you deserve a better one,” your lower lip trembled. “You could have any young maiden in the Realm all for yourself.”

“There is no point in dwelling on that. I am to be your husband,” he reminded you. “What happened is no stain on your honour but his. You are a chaste maiden to me,” he insisted.

His words made you cry. You apologised and turned away to hide your tears from him but he reached out to wipe your cheek with his fingers.

“Please, do not cry on the night before your wedding. I hope to be a good Lord Husband,” he whispered. “I take this matter very seriously.”

“I do not cry out of unhappiness, my Prince,” you assured him and sniffled as your eyes found his. They looked even more beautiful when they reflected the moonlight. “But I am worried about you secretly loathing me throughout our marriage.”

“Why would I do such a thing?” Valarr looked confused while he retreated his hand from your face.

“Because the only reason you are marrying me is to restore your family’s honour and to save mine,” you said. 

Valarr did not say anything at first.

“People married for way less. I dare to say, out of many reasons people get married, this might be one of the most reasonable ones,” he said.

Gods, he was so… practical.

“What about… love?” You asked and he raised an eyebrow at you while a small blush crept upon his cheeks. “What if you fall in love one day with someone?”

“Love is something that comes in time. And if it does not, the lack of it does not release me from my obligation to serve you, protect you and remain loyal. That is, after our vows,” he added.

Had he just said there was a possibility of him loving you one day…? Your heart picked up its pace.

“Of course, I expect the same. Loyalty,” he emphasised. You looked down.

“My Prince, I cannot imagine it any other way. How could I ever even think of…?” your voice cracked. How could you ever cheat on a man who saved you from a pitiful fate?

But – in a way – you had cheated on him already.

“Can you promise me one more thing, my Lady?” Valarr asked and you looked up again to meet his worried gaze. You nodded, unsurely. “Do not think of him tomorrow. It is our wedding ceremony. And, after that, I will be your husband. I will be the one to deal with whatever troubles you, including him. I know what I ask for is no easy task and I am sure this monster is plaguing your mind and soul but do not let him take over your heart… I beg of you, leave your heart for me.”

The last sentence was nearly inaudible, only for your ears to hear. You gasped at it. 

Your mother and Lady Jena had asked you to forget about the business with Aerion as well but none of them had done it in such a gentle manner. 

“My heart is yours already, my Prince,” you confessed and held his hand to squeeze it. “Forever and always… Ever since that day when you took responsibility for your cousin’s wrongdoings,” you assured him.

Valarr smiled a little at you. 

“I earned my wife-to-be’s respect then… I am glad. Respect is important in marriage,” he nodded.

“Indeed, my Prince,” you smiled back as he leaned in to place a kiss on the back of your hand while looking deep into your eyes.

“Now, we should rest before the morrow,” he said. “Let’s go back to the castle.”

Prince Aerion was back in Westeros. It took a year of partying and causing trouble in Lys for his father to finally realise that his banishment was no punishment. His great comeback was supposed to become public during a tournament in King’s Landing organised by the King. Since Aerion was his grandson, it felt improper not to invite him.

Men – especially privileged ones – always had their sins forgiven and forgotten in no time. Even the worst ones.

Your husband tried to protest but you told him to leave it be. You were still disgusted by Aerion and you hated him but you felt no need for revenge. Your life turned out well and you were carrying your first babe under your heart. A proof that you belonged to Valarr, that your womb had been claimed by him and his seed was growing inside you. 

You waited for the arrival of Prince Maekar and his sons at the courtyard with Valarr’s hand behind your back as you two stood by his parents’ side.

“You do not have to be here, (Y/N),” Prince Baelor told you when he spotted them approaching. “Everyone will understand.”

“I do not wish to flee, Lord Father,” you smiled at him. 

Sometimes you couldn’t believe that you were lucky enough to call Prince Baelor your Lord Father now. Your relationship with Valarr’s family was close and supportive.

Valarr remained silent. Throughout your marriage he hadn’t become more talkative but he was a good husband and you simply accepted the fact he was of a quiet nature. His gentleness, patience and carefulness had made you fall in love very easily, though. Meanwhile, you had gathered his love and trust by being loyal and respectful. You had a good and secure union.

Yet, at the sight of Maekar and his sons arriving, Valarr moved his hand to your swollen abdomen. A gesture of possession and his claim over you. Protectiveness, too, of course, since Aerion’s eyes were staring intensely. He was smirking on top of his horse at the sight of you.

Baelor and Maekar greeted each other while Daeron took his horse to the stable, surely to be able to sneak out immediately. Aerion jumped down from the saddle and approached you arrogantly.

“Cousin,” he greeted Valarr as if nothing had ever happened between you two. “I see you’re enjoying my leftovers,” he hissed out since Baelor, Jena and Maekar were busy talking and couldn’t hear you.

Valarr gritted his teeth as his jaw clenched.

“Fear not. I would not touch her after you,” Aerion grinned.

“She is the future Queen of this Realm,” Valarr reminded him, calmly yet angrily. “And you will show her respect.”

“Careful or I will challenge you at the joust, cousin, and we both know it will not end up well for you,” Aerion teased.

You wrapped your hands around Valarr’s arm to squeeze him.

“I am not scared of you,” your husband told his cousin.

“We shall see…” Aerion snorted and walked past you to enter the castle.

“Valarr!” You hissed at your husband. “Do you wish to harm me or the babe from all the worrying about you?” You asked him as his face softened.

“He would not seriously harm me in front of others, especially our grandfather, do not fret,” Valarr rubbed your belly with a gentle smile. “And do have more faith in me, my love, I can win with him.”

“That duel will not be of an ordinary kind,” Baelor interrupted you two as he had overheard some of the conversation. “Everyone will feel the tension because it will be about your wife’s honour,” he pointed out.

“And I am ready to win it, Father,” Valarr lifted his head up.

“What if you lose?” His mother asked, worryingly.

“Gods will favour me,” Valarr answered, “for my cause is the right one,”

Painfully long silence filled the air. Everyone at the stands and the whole audience watched with their breaths being held. Both Valarr and Aerion fought as hard and fiercely as they were able to. Until they fell off their horses, until they broke their shields. Two Targaryen in their beautiful black armours, now laying in the mud. Both out of breath.

You looked at Prince Baelor with a confused look.

“If none of them moves up soon, it will be announced a draw,” he told you.

You swallowed thickly as you watched, intensely.

Finally, one of the bodies moved a little. But not enough to actually stand up.

The King sighed and waved his hand to let others know he considered this skirmish to be over.

But just before the horn could sound, a sword drove into the ground.

The blade struck deep, sinking into the mud with a groan of pain coming out the knight wielding it. The man who held it clearly poured every last ounce of his strength into that single motion. Then, using the sword as an anchor, he pulled himself upward.

Slowly, he dragged his weight along the blade, boots slipping slightly in the muck… but, eventually, he managed to stand on both his feet. He swayed a little, barely standing, his breath ragged. Meanwhile, his opponent was still laying in the mud.

The horn finally echoed across the field as the crowd cheered for the victor.

Your husband.

His exhausted eyes found yours, his face bruised and bloody, a slight smile on his lips with a few small cuts on them. You were standing now and clapping your hands, beaming with pride.

Valarr turned around to face the crowd as he untied a ribbon off of his armour that you had given to him earlier as a token of your favour. He held it and raised his hand for others to see for whom he had defeated his cousin. The crowd cheered even more.

“It will become a beautiful song,” Lady Jena whispered to you with a smile as she clapped.

“Yes, it will,” you nodded.

But for now, it was your reality. 

MASTERLIST

[da2019]

You brought yourself. That’s enough.

Part 1: You Were Never the Problem | Part 2: Can we try? | Part 3: He was reaching for both of them.

Part 4: You brought yourself. That’s enough. [You are here]

Pairing: Prince Valarr (Modern AU) x Reader (She/Her) | Prince Aerion (Modern AU) x Reader (She/Her)

Word Count: ~11K

Warnings: drug use/addiction themes, paparazzi harassment, family trauma, emotional breakdown, explicit language, sexual content, pregnancy, invasive questions/media behaviour

Summary:

Aerion has spent a long time convincing himself that distance hurts less than rejection, right up until his younger brother turns up at his door shaken, followed, and in need of somewhere safe. Egg arrives expecting discomfort and finds something far stranger instead: a version of Aerion who is softer than he remembers, a woman who steadies the room without trying, and a life that looks far more like healing than chaos. Valarr, meanwhile, remains a shadow at the edge of it all, tied to old damage, older love, and the kind of history no one in the room is fully ready to name. Duncan is just there to supply tea, commentary, and emotional support with alarming efficiency.

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Flashback: A year and some months ago

The sharp click of Valarr's shoes rang across the marble floor of The Silver Stag, each step crisp and deliberate, until he stopped short at the front desk.

He stood there like a threat dressed in refinement.

His coat was dark and expertly tailored, severe enough to make him look almost cruel, the shoulders still dusted with fine silver beads of rain from the evening outside. One gloved hand rested lightly atop the marble counter while the other held a phone he had only just lowered from his ear. The young receptionist glanced up, and whatever greeting had first risen to her lips faltered the moment she truly looked at him.

"Welcome to The Silver Stag, sir," she said, her voice catching awkwardly in her throat. "How may I help you?"

Valarr did not answer at once.

Instead, he removed his gloves finger by finger, slow and precise, every movement measured in a way that felt far more unnerving than any raised voice ever could. He set the gloves neatly on the counter before lifting his gaze to her.

"I'm looking for my cousin, Aerion Targaryen," he said coolly. "His assistant told me he was staying here."

The receptionist swallowed. "I'm sorry, sir, we aren't permitted to..."

Valarr's eyes lifted fully to hers, and the rest of her sentence died before it had the chance to leave her mouth.

"Do not," he said softly, "make the mistake of telling me you cannot give me his room number."

He leaned one hand against the counter, not enough to seem aggressive, but enough that the pressure of his presence sharpened.

"This property is owned through one of our subsidiaries. If I chose to, I could have your manager, your manager's manager, and half the administrative body of this hotel replaced before midnight." His voice did not rise. If anything, it became quieter. "I do not have much time, and my patience is already exhausted. So you are going to give me the suite number. And you are going to hand me a key."

The girl stared at him for half a second too long, then scrambled for the card system so quickly she nearly fumbled it.

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

She passed the keycard over with trembling fingers. Valarr accepted it with a curt nod.

"Thank you."

He slid his gloves into his coat pocket, turned smoothly from the desk, and headed for the lifts with the kind of calm that only existed because his temper was already stretched so thin it had become deadly.

The ride to the thirteenth floor felt longer than it should have.

His reflection stared back at him from the elevator's mirrored walls, immaculate, composed, coldly elegant, and pale with the sort of anger he refused to let fully show. He could still hear his father's voice in the back of his mind, steady and irritatingly reasonable, telling him not to walk in furious, not to escalate, and not to let Aerion bait him before a proper conversation could even begin.

A wasted sentiment.

Aerion had been gone for months now, drifting from city to city, headline to headline, leaving scandal in his wake like expensive cologne. Drugs. Women. Parties. Fights. Tabloids. Photographs. Rumors. Most of it had been buried before it could become a problem. Some of it had been paid off. All of it had been exhausting.

And now this.

Daeron had already relinquished his portion of the family structure, stepping away from the branch of responsibility that might once have fallen to him. Maekar still stood above all his sons, of course, and retained enough control on the board that none of them could truly move without his shadow looming over them. But after that, Aerion mattered far more than he seemed capable of understanding.

Which was precisely the problem.

The elevator doors slid open.

Valarr stepped into the corridor and made his way toward the double doors of the garden suite. He was almost there when he stopped.

From beyond them came the unmistakable sound of sex.

Loud. Vulgar. Unrestrained. The graceless kind that belonged in the back room of some cheap private club, not in a luxury suite attached in any way to the Targaryen name.

Valarr closed his eyes for one brief, murderous second.

Then he swiped the keycard and entered.

The suite smelled like the aftermath of excess. Liquor. Sweat. Smoke. Sex. And beneath it all, the chemical sting of whatever narcotic Aerion had drowned himself in this time. The sitting room was dim, expensive, and in complete disarray, with glasses abandoned on every surface, a half-open bottle perilously close to the edge of the table, and clothes strewn from one room into the next.

Beyond it, in the open doorway of the bedroom, Valarr found precisely what he had expected.

And somehow still found it offensive enough to make his jaw tighten.

A woman with long red hair and tattoos winding over her shoulders and thighs was straddling Aerion at the edge of the bed, moving with drunken enthusiasm. Neither of them had heard him enter.

Valarr crossed the room in three long strides.

The woman barely had time to gasp before his hand closed in a brutal fist at the back of her hair and yanked her backward. She let out a startled cry as she was pulled clean off the bed and onto the carpet. She landed badly, scrambling in shock, while Aerion did little more than make a sluggish, intoxicated shift of his head.

"What the fuck?" she snapped, her Lysene accent turning the words even sharper as she shoved her hair from her face. "Who in the fuck do you think you are?"

Valarr looked down at her with the cool severity of a drawn blade.

"I am his cousin," he said. "Get dressed. Get out. Now."

She blinked up at him, stunned, then glanced toward Aerion as though expecting him to intervene. He barely seemed to register what was happening.

Valarr's expression did not change.

"Now," he repeated.

That was enough.

She gathered the scattered pieces of her clothing with shaking hands, muttering curses beneath her breath, and fled the room in a blur of bare feet, wrinkled silk, and humiliation. A moment later, the suite door slammed shut behind her.

Only then did Aerion stir enough to push himself halfway upright.

His hair was a mess, his eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused, his expression dragged halfway between confusion and indifference. He blinked once at Valarr as though struggling to place him in the room.

Valarr snatched a pillow from the bed and threw it at his chest.

"Cover yourself."

Aerion caught it on instinct and stared at him through a fog of intoxication. "Valarr?"

"Yes, Aerion. Valarr." His voice was pure ice. "Were you under the impression the entire world had died and left you alone in it?"

Aerion let the pillow settle carelessly across his lap. "You always did know how to make an entrance."

Valarr looked him over with open disgust.

"How old was she?"

Aerion squinted, as though the question required more thought than he could presently manage.

"Old enough."

"That is not an answer."

Aerion only shrugged.

Valarr let out a sharp breath through his nose. "Of course."

Aerion's head tipped back. The effort of remaining upright seemed suddenly too much for whatever poisonous cocktail had worked its way through his bloodstream. He muttered something incomprehensible, then collapsed backward against the mattress, nearly unconscious again, before he had fully landed.

Valarr stood over him in silence for a long moment.

"Pathetic," he said quietly.

Aerion woke the next morning with a splitting headache, a dry mouth, and the dull, sour misery of someone who had survived a night he probably should not have.

He lay there for a moment, eyes shut against the pale gold light cutting through the suite. He was naked except for the sheet twisted around one leg, and every inch of him felt heavy, as though his body had been dragged through the night and only loosely returned to him by morning.

Then he heard it.

The faint click of porcelain against glass.

And beneath that, the smell of food.

Real food.

That alone made him suspicious.

He dragged himself upright with a curse, one hand braced against the side of the bed while the room tilted unpleasantly around him. By the time he stumbled out of the bedroom and into the sitting room, he looked half-dead.

Valarr was already there.

He sat at the breakfast table in a fresh shirt and immaculate trousers as though he had not spent the previous night babysitting a disgrace. His laptop sat open beside a small stack of documents, clearly abandoned in favour of whatever was currently on his phone. To Aerion, it looked like work, messages to staff, orders to assistants, logistical rearrangements, another dozen responsibilities in Valarr's endless parade of obligations.

It was not.

Valarr was texting his girlfriend.

Aerion, of course, had no idea Valarr was seeing anyone seriously enough to soften for them. To him, his cousin simply looked composed, expensive, and irritated, with black coffee steaming at his elbow.

A full breakfast had been laid out between them: eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and fruit.

Aerion's gaze went immediately, instinctively, to the dresser instead.

He crossed the room, yanked open the top drawer, and checked for the small packets and rolled cash tucked beneath the tray.

"All still there?" Valarr asked without looking up from his phone. "How reassuring."

Aerion reached for one of the baggies automatically.

"Please," Valarr said, finally looking up from his phone. "Give me a reason, Aerion. Put that anywhere near your nose, and I will be very happy to break your face before I throw you off the balcony."

Aerion paused. Stared at him. Then, after a beat, slowly set it back down.

He pulled on a pair of boxers and sauntered toward the table, affecting an ease he did not feel.

"You don't travel across Lys for casual conversation," he said, dropping into the chair opposite him. "So what exactly do I owe this pleasure?"

Valarr did not answer at once. Instead, he reached for the newspaper lying folded beside his coffee and pushed it across the table.

"What happened to this?"

Aerion glanced down.

There he was on the front of one of the entertainment sections, exiting a nightclub with two women draped over him, one on each arm, bottles in hand, a grin on his face that looked more wild than genuine. Around him stood the usual sort of men, well-born, moneyed, useless. The kind bred into wealth and old names with no sense whatsoever of consequence. Boys who lived off inheritance and proximity, neither heirs nor workers, merely beneficiaries of legacies they had done nothing to build. Valarr knew the type well, because he was technically one of them, too.

The difference was that Valarr still worked.

Aerion's expression flickered. Briefly, but enough.

Valarr saw it. Noted it. Filed it away.

"So," he said smoothly, "you do remember it."

Aerion ignored the bait and reached for the coffee instead.

"You were photographed with them," Valarr continued. "Interviewed beside that little up-and-coming celebrity you were parading around weeks ago, the one now apparently shopping around a tell-all story about you and, by extension, our family. You were smiling, for once, which was unsettling enough on its own. You almost looked functional." He leaned back in his chair. "And yet last night I found you half-dead beneath a stranger whose name I doubt you knew."

Aerion took a slow sip. "Maybe I like variety."

Valarr's mouth flattened. "Maybe you like destruction."

Aerion gave a short, humourless laugh and reached for a strip of bacon. "That sounds dramatic. Even for you."

"Dramatic?" Valarr's voice sharpened at once. "You want dramatic? Your brother Daeron has relinquished his share in the family structure. Right now, whether you like it or not, you are the highest-ranking member of your branch after Maekar. Do you understand what that means?"

Aerion looked away.

Valarr's stare hardened.

"No," he said. "You do not. Because if you did, you would not be snorting yourself insensible in hotel suites and dragging the family name through every paper in the seven kingdoms."

"Spare me the lecture."

"I would love to spare you the lecture," Valarr replied. "Unfortunately, you continue to earn it."

Aerion threw back the rest of his coffee and set the cup down harder than necessary.

"I'm not sitting on some council. I'm not begging for a seat at Maekar's table. I don't give a shit about rank."

Valarr laughed then, once, cold and utterly disbelieving.

"That," he said, "is the most selfish thing you have said in a week. And with you, that is saying something."

Aerion's jaw tightened.

Valarr leaned forward, his voice low and lethal. "You do not have the luxury of not caring. Men have been destroyed for less than what you do for sport. You are watched. You are named. You are measured. And every time you behave like this, someone in this family has to clean your blood off the floor before the world sees it."

Silence stretched between them.

Then Aerion smirked, but it was brittle and ugly and did not reach his eyes.

"The truth hurts, doesn't it?"

"No," Valarr said flatly. "The truth is irritating. What hurts is watching you waste yourself."

That landed.

Aerion's gaze dropped briefly to the plate before him, then away. He shifted in his seat, restless and agitated, fingers tapping once against the table in a rhythm that betrayed more than his face did.

Valarr watched him for another beat before speaking again.

"Where is your supposed girlfriend now?"

Aerion let out a sharp, humourless breath. "Why?"

"Because unlike the girl from last night," Valarr said, "she actually seemed to matter."

Aerion's face hardened at once. "Stay out of it."

"That answer alone tells me enough."

"I said stay out of it."

Valarr's gaze did not move. "Who is she?"

Aerion stood so suddenly his chair scraped harshly against the floor.

"You really don't know when to stop."

"No," Valarr said. "Not when it concerns someone determined to ruin himself."

Aerion stood there staring at him, chest rising and falling, anger fraying at the edges into something more exhausted, more volatile, more dangerous.

Then, finally, he looked away.

"She's just some fling that lasted longer than the others," he said, the dismissiveness too forced to be convincing. "Don't worry. She's not going to be the future Mrs. anything. Father wouldn't even like her, which is why she's never been brought around at family events. By next month, it'll be someone else."

Valarr said nothing.

That silence was worse than judgment.

Aerion raked a hand through his hair and turned sharply away, heading back toward the bedroom as though ending the conversation by force.

"There," he said bitterly. "You have your answer. Now get the hell out of my suite."

At the doorway, he stopped, not quite turning back.

"And stop acting like you can save me."

Valarr's temper finally strained.

"Aerion, for fuck's sake."

His voice cut sharply through the room, enough to make Aerion hesitate.

Valarr rose from his chair.

"I came here to find out you've legally changed your last name to Dayne, forsaking the Targaryen name while still holding a significant share tied to it." His tone was no longer cold. It was furious now, though still controlled enough to wound cleanly. "My father and our grandfather sent me here to sort this out. I need you to work with me because, believe it or not, I already have enough on my plate."

Aerion turned, dazed and irritated, but Valarr did not stop.

"We have a merger coming in six months. They are expecting a united front. Stability. Reliability. Continuity. We cannot afford this." He gestured sharply toward Aerion, the suite, the drugs, and the entire state of things. "We are billionaires, Aerion, but the line of work we are in does not allow mistakes of this magnitude. One public fracture, one badly timed scandal, one investor who decides the family is unstable, and suddenly everyone starts circling. The public support weakens. The stakeholders hesitate. The investors start asking questions. There are beasts out there waiting to take a piece of the fucking business the moment they smell blood."

Aerion stared at him for a long moment, then gave a slow, crooked smile that was more mocking than amused.

"You are profoundly boring," he said. "Mergers this, documents that, research, statistics, projections. Do you ever get tired of staring at data, history, and numbers all day? Forecasting the likelihood of events just to build policy and make sure no one loses money?"

Valarr glared at him.

"Our wealth is a privilege," he said sharply. "A luxury our family bled for over generations. We keep it because it does not belong only to us. It belongs, in part, to the people before us who built it and the people after us who are meant to inherit it."

He took a step closer, fury pulling his composure taut.

"I was sent here to make sure of that. And for God's sake, do you really think I would come all the way here just for this mess if it did not matter?"

His voice dropped, but it only made the strain in it more pronounced.

"I have a life too, Aerion. I have people I care about who are waiting for me. I have responsibilities that do not pause just because you cannot keep yourself sober for twelve consecutive hours." His jaw flexed. "You think I wanted to prioritize this? You think I wanted to be dragged here because your father and our grandfather decided you need to be leashed? And yet here you are, unable to keep a low profile despite all the money in the world, choosing over and over again to be a fucking moron with it."

Aerion stared at him, dazed enough now that even his usual sharp reply seemed to lag behind his thoughts.

Before Valarr could continue, his phone rang.

Aerion's first assumption was that it was work. Another assistant. Another board member. Another person is waiting for Valarr to fix something.

But the moment Valarr looked at the screen, something in him changed.

It was subtle, but unmistakable.

His shoulders eased.

The tension in his jaw softened.

Even the hand that had been curled tight at his side unclenched.

Aerion watched with narrowed eyes as Valarr answered.

"Hi, sweetheart," Valarr said, and his voice changed so completely it was almost jarring. Softer. Warmer. Human, in a way, Aerion had rarely seen from him. "Yeah, I landed. Give me a second."

Without another glance at Aerion, Valarr turned away, already walking toward the adjoining room. He shut the door behind him, shutting Aerion out with it.

And just like that, the suite fell silent again.

Aerion stood in the middle of the room, hungover and hollow-eyed, staring at the closed door with a strange expression flickering across his face, something between disbelief, annoyance, and the faintest sting of being left behind.

Aerion remained standing on the other side of the bedroom door long after Valarr had stepped away.

The suite felt different without him in it. Too still, too empty, too honest. Only a little while ago, the room had been sharp with Valarr's anger, crowded with his presence, his lectures, and his cold disappointment. Now all of that had gone quiet, and what remained behind was worse. The silence pressed in from all sides and settled over the room like judgment, like the aftermath of a storm that had left everything stripped bare.

He exhaled unsteadily and dragged a hand down his face. His head was pounding, his nerves felt flayed raw, and the edges of Valarr's words still scraped at him, refusing to soften and refusing to go.

Highest-ranking after Maekar. Get your shit together.

And beneath even that, tangled through the mess in his skull, was another thought he did not want to touch.

His mother.

Aerion swore under his breath, harsh and low, and turned back toward the dresser. He yanked the drawer open harder than necessary, the wood knocking sharply against its frame, and pulled out the tray he had hidden beneath the folded shirts. His hands were not steady. He hated that Valarr had done this to him, had walked in here with that cutting, superior calm and somehow left him more rattled than any shouting match ever could. Still, he bent over the tray anyway, because that was easier than sitting with himself and infinitely easier than sitting with the truth.

By the time he straightened, his thoughts had begun to blur again at the edges. The sting in his nose grounded him first, and then the numb float of it all settled in, softening the room into something more manageable. The panic dulled. The anger loosened. The sharpest parts of the morning lost their edges.

Better. Cleaner. Quieter.

He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding. For a moment, he thought that might be enough.

It was not.

Because even now, even drugged and dulled and half-unravelling, Valarr's voice would not leave him. It stayed in the room like smoke and in his head like a splinter, impossible to ignore, no matter how badly he wanted to. Aerion cursed again and jerked the bedroom door open, half-ready to call Valarr back before pride could catch up to him, half-ready to spit something vicious down the hallway just to get the last word. He did not even know which impulse would win.

Instead, he froze.

Valarr had left his laptop open on the table.

Aerion's gaze landed on it almost absently at first, but then the screen brightened from sleep, and his attention sharpened despite the haze in his bloodstream.

A photograph filled the screen. It was not work, not reports, not charts, forecasts, schedules, or some miserable merger presentation. It was a woman, and for a second Aerion could only stare.

Several photographs cycled slowly across the background, candid enough to feel private, intimate in a way that made him feel as though he had stumbled into something he was never meant to see. In one, Valarr sat somewhere outdoors beneath warm golden light, his expression unguarded in a way Aerion had never seen before. The woman leaned in with a smile and pressed a kiss to his cheek, and Valarr, Valarr of all people, was smiling too.

Not that usual faint, dry, irritated almost-smirk he offered the world when it had earned a fraction of his amusement. Not the polished expression he wore through boardrooms and family dinners and every situation where feeling too much could be used against him. This was a real smile, soft and genuine and easy in a way that startled Aerion more than it should have.

For a moment, he wondered whether he was too fucked up to be seeing it properly.

Since when was Valarr with a woman? Since when did he have time for one? He was a workaholic, a machine in polished shoes and expensive cufflinks, a man who lived between meetings, flights, spreadsheets, and obligations. He never brought anyone home. He never mentioned anyone. Aerion had long ago assumed that sort of softness simply did not belong in Valarr's life.

And yet here she was, on his screen, on his laptop, hidden in plain sight.

Aerion stepped closer before he even realized he was moving.

The photos shifted again. The same woman appeared, laughing, her head thrown back, sunlight catching the side of her face, while Valarr looked at her from beside her with an expression so unguarded it felt almost indecent to witness. There was no impatience in him there, no sharpness, no practiced reserve. He looked softened by her, as though being near her had quieted something restless in him. In another photo, they stood shoulder to shoulder somewhere abroad, dressed for the evening, close enough that there was no mistaking what she was to him. She was not some passing woman. Not some disposable thing. Not someone brought in for appearances or convenience.

Whoever she was, she mattered.

That realization struck him strangely. It was not that Valarr having a woman should have been impossible. It was that Valarr having someone he actually let matter felt almost absurd. Aerion could not imagine him handing over that much access, that much softness, that much of himself to anyone. And yet the evidence was glowing right in front of him.

It was there in the way Valarr looked at her when he thought no one was watching, in the ease of his smile, in the quiet intimacy of a hand at her back, and in the instinctive turn of her shoulders toward him. For one stolen second, he looked less like an heir and more like someone simply, helplessly, in love.

Aerion kept staring, dazed enough now that the room seemed to tilt around him. He had the vague, detached thought that he was too far gone to remember any of this properly the next day, and maybe that was a mercy. Maybe he would wake up convinced he had hallucinated the entire thing. Valarr smiling. Valarr softened. Valarr apparently loved.

But even through the fog, one truth had already landed hard enough to stay.

Valarr cared about her.

Not in the shallow, convenient way men like them were expected to care when it cost them nothing.

No, this was worse than that.

This looked like the kind of care that changed a person.

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Present Day

For a second, she simply blinked at him.

Then something in her face shifted, not alarm, not quite surprise, but recognition by association. Aerion had mentioned him often enough, though never carelessly. He always spoke of his younger brother in that restrained way of his, as though even saying too much required him to handle something fragile with rough hands.

"Egg," she repeated gently, as though testing the name. "Right."

The boy standing in the doorway could not have been much younger than she had first thought, but there was something about him that made him seem younger anyway. Maybe it was the tension in him. Maybe it was the school uniform, too severe and formal for the hour, his black blazer still buttoned, collar neat, dark tie slightly loosened as though he had tugged at it in the car and then thought better of taking it off completely. His backpack hung from one shoulder, and his fingers were curled tightly around the strap.

He had Aerion's colouring, though in a younger, sharper way. Aerion had described him differently, and in the photographs she had seen, Egg had worn the same fair Targaryen hair, more gold than silver. But now his head was fully shaved, and the change made his striking blue eyes stand out all the more. They were more open than Aerion's, touched with uncertainty where Aerion so often hid behind irony, distance, or something much less gentle.

He looked past her, into the penthouse, and swallowed.

"I'm sorry," he said after a beat, the apology abrupt enough to sound sincere. "I should have called first. I just... he wasn't answering."

Her hand, which had rested instinctively over the soft curve of her stomach beneath Aerion's oversized shirt, tightened slightly.

"He's here," she said. "Come in."

Egg hesitated only briefly before stepping across the threshold.

Behind her, she heard Duncan shift off the stool in the kitchen. Aerion was still in the living room, not yet fully aware of who had arrived. The match remained muted on the television, bright bodies moving soundlessly across the screen. At the same time, the kitchen still carried the warm smell of garlic, butter, roasted vegetables, and something softer beneath it that already felt like the shape of an ordinary evening.

An evening that, quite suddenly, was no longer ordinary.

She closed the door gently behind Egg. He stood awkwardly in the entryway for half a breath, looking as though he were not sure where to put himself. His gaze flicked once more over her, taking in the bare feet, the borrowed shirt that hung to mid-thigh, the lounge shorts, the domestic ease of the room, and then, not very subtly at all, the bump she had long since lost the ability to fully conceal.

Understanding moved across his face in stages. Confusion first. Then surprise. Then something quieter and harder to name.

Not judgment.

Not exactly.

But certainly realization.

Duncan came around the island and offered Egg an easy half-smile, the sort meant to keep him from bolting.

"You made it upstairs, then," he said lightly. "That's always a good start."

Egg blinked at him. "You're Duncan."

Duncan placed a hand against his own chest as though deeply honoured. "I am, tragically, Duncan."

That got the faintest twitch from Egg's mouth, though it vanished quickly. Then Egg looked up properly.

And up.

And then a little farther up.

He frowned with the solemn seriousness only younger brothers seemed capable of and said, "You are very tall."

Duncan looked delighted.

"Thank you," he said at once. "That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me all week."

Egg glanced at her, then back at Duncan. "Was it not obvious before?"

She had to press her lips together to stop herself from laughing.

Duncan put a hand over his heart. "Brutal. Absolutely brutal. No, apparently not. Most people prefer to insult my personality first."

Egg blinked once. "Do you have one?"

That did it.

She laughed softly before she could stop herself, and even Egg looked faintly startled by his own boldness. Duncan stared at him for one dramatic beat, then pointed a finger in solemn accusation.

"Right. I see what this is. You're one of those. Quiet for five seconds, then suddenly lethal."

Egg's mouth twitched again, this time lingering.

From the living room, Aerion finally called, "Who is it?"

There was no concern about it yet. Only distraction. Mild curiosity. The casual tone of a man who thought this was likely a delivery or an inconvenience that could be handled from a distance.

Egg visibly tensed.

She saw it at once.

Without thinking too hard about it, she touched his forearm lightly. Not enough to crowd him. Just enough to steady the moment.

"It's alright," she said quietly.

His eyes flicked to hers. She was not entirely sure why he listened, only that he did.

"Come sit down first," she added. "You look like you're about to face a tribunal."

Duncan snorted. "He does, actually."

Egg shot him a brief, annoyed look, but it had more nerves than hostility in it. Duncan, apparently deciding the moment still needed rescuing, held out a hand toward the living room as if presenting a luxury resort.

"This way, Your Very Tallness," he said. "Please enjoy the seating arrangements and emotional complications."

Egg stared at him. "Is he always like this?"

She smiled faintly. "Unfortunately."

"That hurts," Duncan said. "And after I welcomed you with such grace."

"You made one joke," Egg said.

"I made several. You simply lack the experience to appreciate a master at work."

Egg looked unconvinced but followed them anyway.

She led him into the living room.

And somewhere in the strange, slow rearranging of the evening, what Aerion did not yet know was that a circle he had once thought broken beyond repair was beginning, however awkwardly, to close around him. Had he been even a little more sober that morning in Lys, more than a year ago now, he might have remembered her face well enough to place her instantly. He might have understood that she was the same woman from Valarr's laptop, the same woman now standing in his home with quiet certainty. He might have realized that she had once been the woman Valarr loved most, perhaps the only woman he had ever truly loved, and that she moved through Aerion's space with the calm of someone who had already learned what it meant to love a man who came with storms attached to him.

But Aerion had not been sober then, and he was not prepared now. For her part, she only touched Egg lightly on the arm and guided him toward the sofa.

"Sit," she said gently.

He did, though stiffly, setting his backpack by his feet as if he might need to leave again at any second.

Duncan dropped into the armchair across from him and stretched one arm along its side in an effort to make the room feel looser than it suddenly did.

Egg looked at the armchair, then at Duncan, then back at the armchair again.

Duncan caught it immediately. "Yes," he said, deadpan. "I do, in fact, take up more furniture than seems necessary. It's a burden I carry with dignity."

This time, Egg's smile came quicker, small but real.

Only then did she lift her voice just enough to carry.

"Aerion," she called.

From the living room sofa, there was the rustling of movement. "Yeah?"

Her tone remained calm. Steady. Leaving no room for alarm, but no room for dismissal either.

"You have company."

A beat of silence followed.

Then another.

And then Aerion appeared at the edge of the room, one hand still braced against the back of the sofa from where he had risen. He had changed after work, the sharpness of the office pared back into dark lounge trousers and a thin black shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Even at home, he still carried that same impossible Targaryen beauty, silver-blond hair falling carelessly, blue eyes sharp beneath lowered brows, his posture loose in the way only someone perpetually braced could ever call loose.

He looked first at her.

Then at Duncan.

Then, there was the boy seated on the couch.

Aerion stopped dead.

Egg, as if suddenly uncertain he had done the right thing after all, looked up and said nothing.

The room seemed to hold its breath.

And what Aerion understood first was not the shock of seeing his brother there, nor even the strange, immediate jolt of guilt that followed close behind it.

It was this.

He was not alone.

Not in the room. Not in the wreckage. Not in whatever came next.

The woman from Valarr's screen was in his home. Duncan was there too, steady and impossible to rattle. Egg, the younger brother he had not spoken to in nearly a year because he had convinced himself distance hurt less than rejection, sat on his sofa in his school uniform with his backpack still at his feet.

And all at once, with no lecture and no cruelty, she had made it painfully clear that Aerion was no longer facing any of this alone.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ 

For a long second, Aerion did not move.

He only stared.

It was not the sort of stare strangers mistook for coldness. She knew better than that now. There was too much happening beneath it. Shock first. Then the calculation. Then something quieter and much more dangerous in its tenderness: concern arriving too fast to hide itself properly.

His eyes dragged over Egg's face once, then higher.

And stopped.

His mouth tightened.

"What happened to your hair?"

The question came out before anything softer could. Just startled enough to sound rough.

Egg went very still.

For one brief second, she had the strange impression that he had expected many things tonight, but not that question. Not that particular note in Aerion's voice. Not something so immediate and familial that it bypassed anger, bypassed distance, and landed straight in the softest place.

His fingers tightened once against the strap of his backpack.

Then he said, too quickly and far too flatly, "I shaved it because I didn't want to look like you."

The room fell silent.

It was not dramatic silence. No one gasped. No one moved.

But she felt it all the same, the way the words landed between them with the force of something sharper than Egg had meant to throw.

Aerion did not flinch.

He was too controlled for that.

But she saw it.

Saw the minute shift in his expression, the almost imperceptible stillness that moved through him, the way something behind his eyes shuttered for just half a second before he caught it. It would have been easy to miss if she had not already learned him in the small ways that mattered.

She moved before she thought too much about it.

Crossing the short distance between them, she reached for Aerion's hand and curled her fingers around it. His hand was warm, larger than hers, already tense with something he was trying very hard not to show. The moment she touched him, he looked at her once, briefly, and some of the sharpness in his face loosened.

Then, almost absently, as if it were pure instinct, he drew her closer into his side.

One arm came around her waist. Not to shield himself. Not even really to shield her. Just to keep in contact while his gaze remained fixed on Egg.

When he spoke again, his voice had changed.

Not gentler exactly.

More careful.

"Why are you here?"

Egg opened his mouth.

Closed it.

His throat worked once.

And then, all at once, the earlier sharpness seemed to collapse in on itself, as if he had only just realized how what he said must have sounded.

"That's not—" He swallowed hard. "I didn't mean…"

His fingers slipped off the backpack strap and curled into his palm instead. He looked younger again, suddenly. Not because his face changed, but because whatever armour had brought him all the way up here was beginning to crack.

Aerion did not speak.

He only waited.

Egg dragged in a breath that came shakier than he probably intended.

"There were photographers outside school," he said at last, voice tight. "And paparazzi. They were waiting when classes ended." He laughed once, but there was no humour in it. "I thought if I used the side entrance, it'd be fine, but they were already there."

Her whole body went still.

Egg kept looking somewhere just left of Aerion, as if direct eye contact might make the humiliation worse.

"They kept asking questions," he said. "Nasty ones. About you. About the family. About whether I'd met…" He glanced, just once, toward her stomach, then away so quickly it made her heart ache. "About whether it was true. One of them asked if this was why I shaved my head. Another asked if I was trying to distance myself before the family's split properly."

Duncan's expression changed at once, whatever humour had been lingering there vanishing beneath something darker and quieter.

Egg went on anyway, like once the words had started, he could not quite stop them.

"I just wanted them to leave me alone." His voice cracked slightly on the last word. "I got in the car, and they followed all the way from school. I thought they'd stop, but they didn't, and I didn't know where else to go, and I just…" He took another breath that did nothing to steady him. "I just thought if there was anyone in this family who'd understand what that feels like, it would be you."

That did it.

She saw the exact moment Egg lost his grip on whatever composure had gotten him through the elevator, through the hallway, through her opening the door and through Aerion standing there asking hard questions with his beautiful, wounded face.

His mouth tightened.

His chin trembled once.

And then, horribly, he tried to look away as if he could outpace the tears by refusing to acknowledge them.

He couldn't.

She slipped from Aerion's side before she thought too much about it.

By the time Egg realized she was moving toward him, she was already there, already kneeling in front of the sofa, already reaching for him with the same steady certainty she used when someone was hurt and pretending not to be.

"Hey," she said softly. "Hey, sweetheart. It's alright."

That was all it took.

The first tear fell before he could stop it, quick and furious, immediately followed by the kind of shaking inhale that said he was trying not to let himself completely break in front of them.

She did not give him the chance to retreat into embarrassment.

She wrapped both arms around him and drew him in.

At first, Egg stiffened with sheer shock. Then something in him gave way all at once, and he folded forward into her, awkward and trembling and trying very hard not to cry harder just because someone had been kind to him.

"It's okay," she murmured, one hand sliding up between his shoulder blades. "It's okay. You're safe now."

Behind her, she could feel rather than see Aerion still standing there.

Still stunned.

Still watching.

Still, perhaps, trying to understand the sight of his younger brother curled in on himself in his living room while the woman he loved held him together with quiet hands.

Duncan moved first.

Of course he did.

He rose from the armchair and crossed toward the windows, already reaching for the remote controls and the heavy blinds. "I'm shutting these," he said, voice calm and practical in a way that made the moment easier to survive. "Last thing we need is some absolute ghoul with a telephoto lens getting ideas."

Aerion gave a single sharp nod, eyes never leaving Egg.

"Check downstairs too," he said, the command automatic, the old family instinct in him surfacing not as cruelty but as control. "Call the concierge. Tell them if anyone unauthorized made it past the lobby, I want names."

"On it," Duncan said at once, already pulling his phone from his pocket.

Egg made a small, miserable sound against her shoulder, half laugh and half broken breath.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "This is so stupid."

"No, it isn't," she said immediately.

"It really isn't," Duncan added from near the window, far more serious now than he had been five minutes earlier. "That's insane, actually. Following a school kid is genuinely unhinged behaviour."

Egg scrubbed hard at his face with the heel of one hand, though he didn't pull away from her. "I'm not a kid."

Duncan glanced over, deadpan. "You arrived in uniform with a backpack and the energy of someone one inconvenience away from a stress-induced collapse. Respectfully, mate, I'm calling it as I see it."

That, somehow, made Egg let out a weak, wet sound that was almost a laugh.

Good.

She kept rubbing slow circles over his back until the shaking eased even a little.

Only then did Aerion move.

He came closer slowly, not because he was hesitant exactly, but because he seemed to understand that one careless motion might send Egg retreating again.

When he stopped in front of the sofa, Egg finally looked up.

Aerion's face had gone very still.

Not empty.

Never empty.

Just carefully held together.

"You should have called me sooner," Aerion said quietly.

Egg's eyes flashed at once, defensive reflex colliding with hurt. "You weren't answering."

Aerion inhaled once through his nose. "I know."

The answer was so simple it seemed to catch Egg off guard.

No excuse.

No deflection.

I just know.

Egg looked down again.

"I didn't know if you'd want me here," he admitted, so low she almost missed it. "I didn't know if… after everything…"

Aerion's expression changed then, only slightly, but enough.

The distance in him cracked.

He crouched in front of the sofa so that he and Egg were closer to eye level, his forearms braced lightly on his knees, his focus absolute now in a way that made the whole room narrow around it.

"Egg," he said, and there was nothing careless in his voice anymore, nothing ironic, nothing sharp enough to hide behind. "You do not ever have to ask yourself that again."

Egg's breathing caught.

Aerion looked at the shaved head once more, slower this time, and whatever hurt had flickered through him earlier settled into something much older and sadder.

"I don't care what you've done to your hair," he said. "I care that you got here frightened and thought you had to stand outside my door rehearsing whether you were welcome."

Egg stared at him.

Then he looked away so quickly it was almost painful to watch.

"I didn't mean it like that," he muttered, voice thick. "About looking like you. I just…"

Aerion waited.

Egg's fingers twisted in the fabric of Aerion's borrowed shirt, where it still brushed against her arm.

"I got tired of people looking at me and seeing this family first," he whispered. "Seeing you. Seeing all of you. I thought if I changed something obvious, maybe they'd stop. Or maybe I'd stop feeling like every time I looked in the mirror I was just…" He broke off, jaw tightening. "I don't know."

Aerion was quiet for a moment.

Then, very gently, he said, "You are allowed to want to look like yourself."

Something in Egg's face folded inward at that.

She felt his shoulders shake again and tightened her arms around him just a little.

Behind them, Duncan ended the call and turned back toward the room. "Concierge's having a small panic," he said. "Which is fair, honestly. Security's checking the outside now. No one's getting up here."

"Good," Aerion said, without looking away from Egg.

Duncan hovered awkwardly for half a beat, then added, with surprising softness, "I can make tea? Or actual food. There's pasta. The garlic situation is strong. We're a very carb-forward household tonight."

That got another tiny, unwilling twitch from Egg's mouth.

She smiled faintly into his hair.

"Tea first," she said.

Duncan pointed at her like she had made an excellent strategic decision. "Correct. Good. Right. I'm useful again."

As he disappeared toward the kitchen, the room settled into a different kind of quiet.

Not the tight, frightened kind from before.

Something warmer.

Something trying.

Aerion rose only enough to sit on the edge of the coffee table in front of the sofa, close now, close enough that Egg would not have to raise his voice or bridge a room to reach him.

For a second, none of them said anything.

Then Aerion asked, more softly than before, "Did anyone touch you?"

Egg blinked. "What?"

"Did anyone put their hands on you? On the way here. At school. Outside."

Egg shook his head quickly. "No. Just cameras. Questions. They got too close, but no one—" He swallowed. "No one touched me."

Aerion nodded once, jaw tight.

Then his gaze flicked, briefly, to her.

To her hand, still rubbing slow comfort into Egg's back.

To the way Egg had leaned into her without even thinking.

And something in Aerion's face eased, only slightly, only enough that she knew he was letting himself breathe again.

She reached blindly for his hand.

He gave it to her at once.

Their fingers laced together between the sofa and the coffee table while Aerion kept his attention on Egg.

"You're staying tonight," Aerion said.

It was not a suggestion.

Egg blinked up at him. "I didn't bring anything."

"You brought yourself. That's enough."

Egg looked as though he wanted to argue, mostly on principle.

Instead, his face crumpled just enough to betray how badly he needed not to.

She squeezed his shoulder gently.

"You can shower," she said. "I'll find you something comfortable. Duncan will probably try to lend you a shirt, and you'll disappear inside it, so we'll avoid that."

From the kitchen, Duncan called, offended, "My clothes are generous, not ridiculous."

Aerion, without looking away from Egg, said flatly, "Your sleeves are longer than his future."

"Cruel," Duncan called back.

Egg actually laughed then, small and shaky, but real, and the sound of it changed the room.

Aerion heard it too. She knew he did by the way his expression softened, not openly, not enough that anyone else might have called it softness, but enough. Enough to see the brother beneath the distance. Enough to see the man who had once been left alone with too much of himself and had perhaps decided, wrongly and for far too long, that solitude was kinder than dragging anyone else into his damage. But not tonight. Tonight, Egg had come here. Tonight, he had chosen Aerion. And whether either brother quite knew how to say it yet, that choice mattered. A lot.

As the room slowly settled, Egg sat curled into the corner of the sofa, quieter now, though not fully at ease.

"You seem good for him," he said, quieter than before.

The room did not freeze exactly, but it softened. She looked back at him, surprised enough that it must have shown, while Egg glanced down into his tea as though embarrassed by his own honesty. Even so, he kept going.

"I mean..." He lifted one shoulder awkwardly. "He's different. Not in a weird way. Just..." He frowned, trying to find the words. "Less awful to be around."

Duncan snorted into his tea.

Aerion cut him a look. "Careful."

"No, let him finish," Duncan said at once, already grinning.

Egg ignored them both and settled his gaze back on her. "He looks happier, I think," he admitted after a beat. "Which is disturbing, obviously."

That got the faintest laugh out of her.

From the kitchen, Aerion muttered, "Thank you, Egg. Your warmth is overwhelming."

But he did not sound angry. If anything, he sounded almost embarrassed, which only seemed to encourage Egg a little more. His gaze flicked briefly toward the stove, the half-finished dinner, the open cupboards, and the unmistakable evidence that this place had been lived in tonight rather than merely occupied.

"And she cooks," he added, as though this were somehow further proof of his point. "Which you clearly need, because you used to survive on coffee, fast food, and whatever expensive takeout happened to arrive before midnight."

Duncan made a strangled noise into his tea.

She laughed properly then, covering her mouth for a second as Aerion turned to stare at his brother in open offence.

"That is a deeply uncharitable summary of my habits."

"It's an accurate one," Egg said, looking far less apologetic now. "There was that one summer where I'm fairly sure the only vegetable you consumed was whatever had accidentally fallen into your noodles."

Aerion folded his arms. "I eat perfectly well."

"No, you eat efficiently," Egg replied at once. "That is not the same thing."

Duncan pointed at Egg like a man witnessing greatness in real time. "Christ. He's even funnier when he's right."

Egg ignored that, though the corner of his mouth twitched again. When he looked back at her, his expression had gentled in a way that made him seem younger and more earnest all at once.

"I just mean..." He lifted one shoulder awkwardly. "You seem good for him. He looks happier, less awful to be around, and significantly less likely to die of caffeine and spite."

That finally made Aerion laugh once under his breath, reluctant and brief but real enough to change the room again.

"And you have actual friends," Egg added.

Duncan, who had just taken a sip, nearly choked. "Actual friends? Christ. I sound like a medical breakthrough."

Egg's mouth twitched. "I'm serious."

Aerion folded his arms. "I had friends before."

Egg lifted a brow. "No, you had rich idiots who liked your penthouse and your bad decisions."

That landed so cleanly that even Duncan went still for half a second before bursting into laughter. She covered her mouth, shoulders shaking, while Aerion looked deeply offended, which only made it worse.

"That is a vicious thing to say in front of the company."

"It's true," Egg said, and now there was more confidence in it, more life. "They weren't your friends. They were just always there when there was something to drink or destroy."

Duncan pointed at him like a proud coach. "There he is. Tiny and ruthless."

Egg ignored that too, but when he looked back at Aerion, something in his face had gentled.

"I just mean..." He swallowed once, then said it anyway. "This is better."

Aerion said nothing at first. He only looked at his brother for a long moment, and she saw that look in him again, the one that always came when he cared too much and did not quite know how to set it down gently. When he finally answered, his voice was quieter than before.

"Yeah."

It was such a simple answer, but Egg heard everything inside it anyway. Yeah, this is better. Yeah, they are better. Yeah, I know.

Then Duncan, because he could never leave a sincere moment unmolested for too long, leaned back in the armchair and said, "I'd just like it officially noted that I am being used here as evidence of emotional development."

Aerion rubbed a hand over his mouth. "You are unbearable."

"And yet," Duncan said solemnly, raising his mug, "deeply beneficial."

This time, Egg laughed properly, and when Aerion looked at him again, there was nothing guarded in his face at all.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ 

An hour passed, and Duncan returned first with tea.

It was not elegant tea, and certainly not the sort of polished, curated thing Aerion's kitchen might have led anyone to expect. There was nothing particularly refined about it. It was simply three mismatched mugs pulled together with surprising speed, steam curling lazily into the air as he carried them in with both hands. He handed one carefully to her first, then set another down near Egg with a gentleness Duncan would probably deny under torture and finally placed the third within Aerion's reach on the coffee table.

"No one is getting up here," Duncan said, more firmly this time, as though repeating it might somehow make the walls hold. "Concierge has gone into full panic mode. Security is checking the front entrance and the service corridor. If there's anyone still lurking downstairs, they're about to have a very bad evening."

Egg nodded, though his hands remained curled too tightly around the mug for him to drink from it. The ceramic sat trapped between his palms like he was using the heat to convince himself that he was still here, still safe, still in a room where no one was shouting questions at him through a camera lens. She stayed beside him on the sofa, one arm still around his shoulders, her thumb moving slowly against the back of his arm in the same absent, steady rhythm she always used whenever she was trying to coax someone back into themselves. Across from them, Aerion remained seated on the edge of the coffee table, close enough to feel present and close enough that Egg could see him clearly, but not so close that he might risk sending him bolting.

The room had steadied, if not settled. The football match remained paused on the television, frozen mid-play in bright, soundless colour. The smell of garlic butter still hung warmly in the air, rich and domestic and almost absurd against the tension now seated among them. Duncan's half-open bag of shredded cheese still sat on the kitchen island. A fork lay abandoned beside the stove. The whole penthouse looked like an ordinary evening interrupted halfway through itself, as if life had been moving along in its usual small domestic rhythms right up until the moment fear had come in and sat down among them.

Aerion looked at Egg for a long moment before speaking again.

"What exactly did they say?"

Egg stared into the tea for a second too long. At first, she thought he might not answer. His jaw worked once, tight and uncomfortable, as though he were trying to decide how much humiliation he could bear repeating aloud now that he was finally somewhere safe enough to feel it properly. Then he exhaled through his nose and said, "At first, I thought they were just fishing. You know. General family nonsense."

Aerion's face did not change, but she knew him well enough now to see how attentive he had become. He was not relaxed. He was not casual. He had gone very still in that particular way he did when every part of him narrowed toward the thing that mattered.

"They asked if I'd seen you recently," Egg went on, lifting one shoulder in a small, helpless motion. "That wasn't weird at first. People ask that. They always do. Where are you, what are you doing, are you still involved with the board, are you still impossible, all that."

Duncan muttered into his tea, "Charming."

That earned the faintest, humourless twitch from Egg's mouth before it faded again.

"But then they started getting specific."

Aerion's eyes narrowed slightly. Egg swallowed.

"They asked who she was."

The room went still again, not violently, but all at once. Her fingers paused briefly against Egg's sleeve before resuming their slow, steady motion. Across from them, Aerion did not look at her, and that somehow made her more aware of him, not less. Egg glanced between them once, quickly, like he regretted having to say any of it in front of either of them, then looked back down at the mug in his hands.

"They asked why you were always being seen with the same woman," he said, his voice tightening. "One of them asked if you were trying to keep things quiet before making some kind of announcement. Another asked if you'd..." He stopped, visibly hating the words before he had even finished them. "If you'd hitched yourself to a pregnant woman and were keeping it low-profile until the family figured out how to spin it."

Duncan went very still in the armchair. She felt Aerion's entire body sharpen, not in movement but in stillness, in the kind that meant anger had arrived too cleanly to show itself yet. Egg looked miserable now, as though saying it aloud had made the whole thing filthier than it had been when it was only a memory.

"I didn't know what they meant," he said quickly. "Not properly. I just thought they were making things up because that's what they do. But then one of them said there'd been pictures. Grainy ones, maybe, but enough that people were starting to ask questions about the woman you've been keeping out of sight." His eyes flicked involuntarily toward her stomach. "They mentioned the bump."

There it was, named plainly and made real. The room felt very small for one beat too long.

Egg's hands tightened harder around the mug. "They were asking if you'd married her. If she were carrying your child. If this was another one of those family disasters everyone was trying to bury before it got messier."

Duncan's mouth flattened. "Jesus Christ," he said softly.

Egg's face reddened faintly, not from anger but from the embarrassment of repeating other people's cruelty in a room where it had suddenly become intimate. "And then one of them asked if you were still the family fuck-up," he added more quietly. "Only this time with better tailoring and a domestic angle."

Aerion's expression did not shift at all. That was worse than anger would have been. She knew him well enough now to understand what that flatness meant: he was already pulling threads tight.

Egg looked at him at last, as if bracing for impact. "I didn't answer," he said. "I swear I didn't. I told them to get out of my way and kept walking, but they followed me all the way to the car. I just..." His voice wavered, though he forced it steadier. "I think they were talking about you. About her. About this."

Aerion finally moved, though only slightly. One hand dragged slowly over his mouth before dropping back to his knee, his gaze fixed somewhere just past the room as pieces began clicking into place. Not everything, not the most dangerous part, but enough: the paparazzi photos, the whispers, the timing, and the message from his cousin the week before.

Need a meeting. When are you free?

At the time, Aerion had assumed it was business. Board projections. Strategy. One more inherited nuisance with numbers attached. That had been the easy assumption, the safe one. His cousin only ever came down on him directly when there was damage to assess, and Aerion knew that better than most. A year and a few months ago, he had crossed a city and walked into a hotel suite just to drag Aerion out of one of his worst spirals before it could stain the family name beyond repair. Aerion had not forgotten that morning, however much he might have preferred to.

Now, with Egg still in uniform and shaken from the cameras that had followed him here, that message no longer looked so routine. Someone had noticed enough to start circling. Someone had let the shape of something slip out. And his cousin, if this was anything like every other time, was already moving because he could smell risk before the rest of them were even done naming it.

Duncan caught part of the shift in Aerion, even if not all of it. He sat forward in the armchair, forearms braced on his knees. "This isn't random, is it?"

Aerion lifted his eyes to him. "No."

The word landed clean and hard.

Egg looked between them. "What does that mean?"

Aerion exhaled slowly through his nose. When he answered, his voice was steady, but there was an edge beneath it now, not fear exactly, but something colder than that. More precise. "It means photographers don't start asking that specific a set of questions unless someone has given them reason to believe there's something there."

She felt the room change again, not warmer, but sharper.

Duncan frowned. "So somebody leaked something?"

"Maybe not formally," Aerion said. "Maybe they saw enough to start building theories. Maybe somebody in the building talked. Maybe someone heard a whisper and pushed it in the wrong direction. It doesn't take much." His jaw tightened. "The press doesn't need facts. It just needs a shape to chase."

Egg went pale all over again. "I'm sorry," he said at once. "I didn't mean to make it worse, I just..."

"You didn't," Aerion said immediately.

There was no hesitation in it. No room for misunderstanding. Egg blinked, and Aerion leaned forward slightly, forearms on his thighs now, his full attention settling back on his brother. Aerion's penthouse, the paparazzi, the gossip, all of it seemed to pull back for a second beneath something more personal.

"You came here because you were being cornered and you needed somewhere safe," he said. "That is not making anything worse. That is you using your judgment."

Egg stared at him, visibly startled by the praise.

Duncan, from the side, murmured, "That's genuinely the nicest thing anyone in this family has probably said in ten years."

Aerion did not look away from Egg. "Probably."

That, somehow, made Egg laugh once through the last of the tightness in his chest. His hand found hers without looking, and she let him take it. His fingers threaded through hers tightly, grounding himself there while his thoughts raced elsewhere.

Duncan cleared his throat lightly. "So what now?"

Aerion's focus shifted again, turning from tenderness back toward structure. "Now," he said, "I find out who started asking the wrong questions."

Egg tensed. "Do you think it's someone in the family?"

Aerion was quiet for half a beat before answering carefully. "I think families like ours don't need to say much out loud for other people to start circling. But I also think timing matters." His eyes flicked briefly toward the kitchen, toward where his phone sat on the counter. "And one of our cousins asked for a meeting last week."

She froze, though she hoped not visibly. Duncan's head turned slightly at that, but only with the wary interest of someone hearing about another wealthy family complication, nothing more. Neither of them had enough to attach that detail to anything specific, and Aerion, mercifully, noticed neither reaction.

"At first I thought it was business," he said. "Board projections. Something tedious and inherited." His jaw tightened. "Now I'm less convinced."

Egg stared at him. "Do you think he knows?"

Aerion's mouth flattened. "He knows something. Or he suspects enough that he wants the conversation before anyone else gets there first."

It was not the full truth. Not even close. But it was the truth as Aerion understood it. As far as he knew, this was still about optics, reputation, family management, and the usual quiet brutality of keeping the right things buried before they turned into headlines. He did not know there was anything more personal underneath it. He did not know that the woman sitting here in his penthouse, barefoot and tense and trying to comfort his brother, had ever belonged to his cousin's life in any serious way at all.

Duncan rubbed a hand over his mouth. "That's grim."

"Yes," Aerion said. "It is."

Egg looked stricken again, as if coming here had just made everything larger instead of safer. She shifted closer to him at once.

"None of this is your fault," she said quietly.

Egg shook his head, but weakly. "If I hadn't come..."

"They still would've asked," Duncan cut in. "You just wouldn't have been here with tea and pasta and emotionally complicated billionaire older brother to help you process it."

Egg looked at him, caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement. "That is the worst sales pitch I've ever heard."

"And yet," Duncan said gravely, "you remain seated."

That got a tiny smile out of him. Good.

Aerion rose then, not abruptly, but with purpose. She felt the loss of his hand only for a second before he stepped toward the kitchen counter and retrieved his phone. He looked at the screen. Whatever he saw there did not visibly alter his expression, but she knew that stillness now. It meant he was filing things into order.

Then he turned back toward them. "I'm not calling our uncle or cousin tonight. Not until I know more. If this is business, it can wait. If it isn't, I'd rather not have that conversation without understanding exactly what's already out there."

Duncan nodded. "Reasonable."

Egg looked up at him. "Should I go back to school tomorrow?"

Aerion's answer came instantly. "No."

Egg blinked. "I have classes."

"You also have photographers outside the gates asking about private matters that have nothing to do with you." Aerion's tone stayed calm, but there was iron under it now. "You are not going back there tomorrow unless I know the school has handled it."

Egg started to protest. "They won't like that."

Aerion lifted a brow slightly. "I'm devastated."

Duncan choked on his tea. Aerion looked at him for a second after the laugh faded, and something warmer settled behind his eyes.

Then he said, "You can stay as long as you need."

Egg's face changed all over again. He looked younger for one aching second, like some part of him had been braced for that offer not to come.

"Okay," he said softly.

She stood then, smoothing a hand over Egg's shoulder as she moved. "Right," she said gently, dragging the room back toward something ordinary on purpose. "Tea first. Then food. Then somebody is showering and changing out of that uniform before I personally declare war on it."

Duncan pointed at the blazer. "Horrendous little thing, honestly."

Egg looked down at it. "It's just a blazer."

"It's oppressive," Duncan replied. "Spiritually."

That earned another faint smile.

Aerion watched all of it from where he stood by the counter, phone still in hand, expression unreadable to anyone who did not know him. But she did know him. She knew the look in his eyes now. He was thinking about photographers, timing, Valarr's message, and the way the family machine turned the moment it scented vulnerability. Beneath all of that, though, she could still see the quieter truth in him: relief, because Egg was here and, for tonight at least, Aerion had not been shut out.

She crossed to him while Duncan started arguing with Egg about whether anyone under twenty should ever be forced into a tie after sunset. When she reached him, she touched his arm lightly.

His gaze dropped to her at once.

"You're miles away," she murmured.

"Only half a mile," he said, but the dry answer lacked its usual force.

Her eyes searched his for a moment. "You still think it's about the family."

Aerion looked past her briefly, toward Egg on the sofa. When he answered, his voice had gone quieter.

"For now."

It was honest. And incomplete. But it was what he had.

She nodded once. Then she took his phone gently from his hand, set it face down on the counter, and said, "For tonight, you can be angry tomorrow."

Something in his expression loosened, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for her.

Behind them, Duncan raised his voice toward the kitchen. "Also, for the record, if this becomes a proper scandal, I want it noted that I handled it with grace."

Egg, already sounding lighter, called back, "You called me 'Your Very Tallness.'"

"And I stand by it," Duncan replied.

Aerion closed his eyes for one brief second and exhaled through his nose. When he opened them again, some of the sharpness had eased. Not gone, but eased enough to survive the night. Then he drew her gently into his arms, careful of the bump between them, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ 

By the time the penthouse finally began to quiet, Duncan, Egg, and she had already decided that none of them was sleeping separately. Instead, the entertainment room had been transformed into a chaotic, cozy arrangement that could only really be called a sleepover. Mattresses had been dragged out onto the floor and layered with comforters, pillows, and enough blankets to suggest a full occupation of the space rather than a simple movie night. Plates of dinner and snacks had been piled up within easy reach, and Disney movies were already playing, which left Aerion standing in the doorway for a long moment, wondering why half the linen supply had apparently been relocated when they could easily have eaten first and then watched a film like normal people. He did not say any of that, however, because the moment she noticed him hovering there, she simply beckoned him over, made room for him beside her, and began putting together a plate for him as though his place among them had already been decided.

That alone was enough to silence whatever complaint he might have made. So he sat, accepted the plate, and let the room settle around him: Duncan half-sprawled in comfort as though he had been born for this sort of nonsense, Egg looking younger and lighter than he had only an hour earlier, and her tucked beside him with that same steady warmth that had somehow become the center of the room without ever demanding to be. At some point, while the television cast soft shifting light over all of them and the others were distracted by the film, Aerion glanced down at his phone and sent a single message to his father.

Aegon is with me. He is safe. I will take care of him.

After a moment, he sent a photograph too. In it, Egg sat between Duncan and her, laughing openly at something on the screen, one hand lifted as he pointed mid-reaction. Duncan was caught half-laughing too, while she leaned toward Egg with easy, unthinking softness, adding more food to his plate as though looking after him had already become instinctive. Her face was partly hidden by her hair, but not so much that the shape of her face could not be seen.

When Maekar received the message and the photograph, he paused longer than he meant to. His first instinct was to disapprove of the room's condition altogether. The mattresses on the floor, the blankets in disarray, the casual clutter of plates and cushions and bodies strewn too comfortably across the space all struck him as faintly uncouth for people of their standing. But that irritation failed to settle properly, because what caught him first, and held him longer than he liked, was not the room, nor the woman, nor even the message itself. It was Aegon's expression.

The boy looked comfortable. Not merely safe. Not merely present. Truly comfortable, seated there without visible strain, laughing in a way that suggested something more than temporary peace. For one unwelcome moment, Maekar found himself wondering whether his sons had in fact changed more than he had allowed himself to believe. It was not a thought he cared to entertain for long, and he pushed it down almost as soon as it surfaced.

Even so, his gaze returned to the photograph, this time narrowing slightly at the woman seated beside them. Her face was half-obscured by her hair, yet not so hidden that he could not see the way she tilted toward Aegon, the quiet attentiveness in the way she served him more food, or the ease with which she occupied that room. Maekar found, to his irritation, that he was curious. Curious about the woman Aerion now spent his time with, curious about the one he had grown so visibly protective of, and curious above all because Aerion had always guarded the private parts of himself with near-hostile precision. Yet here he was, however unintentionally, allowing his father a glimpse into something plainly cherished. That, more than the message itself, unsettled Maekar most of all.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ 

A/N: not to be like oh nooo the consequences of my own writing but this chapter did in fact make me stare at the wall for a bit 😭 The beginning came in swinging with trauma. Aerion got hit with feelings; she kept the whole room from collapsing, and Duncan continued his lifelong mission of being the funniest man alive in the middle of other people’s emotional devastation. and egg just needs a big ole hug. It's not easy being a Targaryen. also lowkey spoling all y'all with these parts. I had other things to do., jk, jk.

[r1dd1kulus]

I love them your honor!!!!!

[cherrychannel]

grinding your bare pussy on your roommate’s fwb, jake sim. you move in after they started hooking up and never seemed to run into each other until they both stumble into the apartment, drunk and kissing each other. they spot you sitting on the couch watching a movie and you barely paid any attention as they muttered apologies, laughing against each other’s mouths until they closed the bedroom door. they fucked loud and long, jake’s dick drilling into your roommate until she was screaming for dear life. jake was a moaner. dirty talked every filthy sentence in the book to the point where even you were moaning.

life goes back to normal after that. although, you see jake more often, who definitely pretends like he isn’t checking you out when your roommate’s around. you’re pretty sure she’s in love with this guy, always willing to play the part of the girlfriend while he leaves after he cums. he doesn’t stay the night very often, only when the session ends at 4am and he’s too tired to go home, and your roommates never kicks him out.

well… you wouldn’t be able to tell her how you got here, completely naked on the bottom, bare pussy grinding yourself on jake’s big, hot dick. he grinds his hips until it perfectly bounces across your pussy. his cock slots itself between your wet lips, the girth and size making you drool. jake moans against your mouth as he kisses you, one hand in your hair and the other by your waist, guiding you on his lap.

“want you so bad,” jake confesses, tongue mashing against your own until he started to lick you.

“you have me,” you whisper back. his hips thrust against you particularly rough until he lifts you off of him to adjust his cock until his pants tent. he hisses when he feels the rough material of his sweats against his sensitive cock head but it doesn’t matter when he’s putting your pussy over his body, covered tip broaching your hole.

the loud moans and wet whispers only fuel the passion. jake pulls you to his chest and angles himself until his covered cock is thrusting against your hole, only entering as much as your pussy could take with the barrier. the burn between your legs felt too good with the combined wetness of your arousal and jake’s precum. he fucks and fucks you until you cum on his dick and until he cums too, the hot semen slipping into your pussy and making an apparent wet patch on his pants. it’s slippery and you feel jake pulsing underneath you when your roommate comes home, completely unaware that her fwb is in your bedroom.

it’s really no secret that jake starts to pull away to fuck you instead. the two of you even date. your poor roommate who has to listen to the two of you fuck so loud for a change. it’s payback, really.

[mingyusgfr]

emergency contact

content: hospital scene, exes to lovers, light angst with comfort

it had been three months.

three painfully long months of pretending you were fine.

three months of deleting his name from the top of your messages but never from your emergency contact list. you told yourself it was practical. he lived closer than your parents. he answered calls no matter what time it was. it didn’t mean anything.

except it did.

the accident wasn’t dramatic. no shattered glass everywhere, no cinematic slow motion. just rain, slippery pavement, a car that braked too late. your head hit the window hard enough to make the world blur.

when you wake up, everything smells like antiseptic and fear.

“do you have someone we can call?” the nurse asks gently.

you hesitate, but your lips move before your pride can stop them.

“mingyu.”

mingyu is halfway through a photoshoot when his phone rings.

unknown number. he almost ignores it. almost.

“is this kim mingyu? you’re listed as an emergency contact for y/n—”

he doesn’t remember grabbing his jacket. doesn’t remember saying goodbye. doesn’t remember the elevator ride. he just remembers the word hospital echoing in his head like something violent and cruel.

by the time he gets there, he looks like he’s run a marathon. hair messy. hoodie thrown over his outfit. eyes already glassy.

“where is she?” he demands at the front desk, voice cracking in a way he hates.

they ask who he is. he doesn’t think.

“i’m her boyfriend.”

it slips out naturally. instinctively. like it’s still true. like it never stopped being true.

you’re sitting up when he bursts in. actually bursts.

the door swings open too hard, and he stumbles inside, breath uneven. for a second, he just stands there. looking at you. checking every inch of you like he’s counting fingers, counting breaths, making sure you’re real.

“hey,” you say softly.

he lets out a shaky laugh that sounds nothing like a laugh at all.

“hey?” he repeats. “you’re saying hey to me?”

his eyes fill immediately. he tries to blink it away. fails.

he’s across the room in seconds, large hands hovering near your face like he’s scared to touch you too hard.

“are you okay? does anything hurt? your head? your neck? tell me where it hurts.”

“mingyu,” you whisper, and it sounds too tender.

he freezes. because you used that voice. the one you used when you were still his.

he cups your face anyway. careful. trembling.

“don’t ever scare me like that again,” he says, and his voice breaks completely now. “do you have any idea what that call did to me?”

you swallow.

“i’m sorry.”

he shakes his head immediately.

“no. don’t apologize. don’t you dare apologize.”

he leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

his shoulders shake once. twice. and then he’s crying. quietly. but fully.

“i thought—” he stops. breathes. tries again. “i thought i lost you.”

the words hang between you.

you broke up because it got complicated. because schedules were insane. because loving each other hurt when you couldn’t be together properly. because you both thought you were being mature.

but sitting here now, with hospital monitors softly beeping and his tears warm against your temple, it all feels stupid.

“i’m still your emergency contact,” he mumbles, almost accusing.

“i know.”

“why?”

you look at him. really look at him.

his lashes wet. his nose red. his mouth trembling even though he’s trying to look strong for you.

“because you always come,” you say simply. “you always show up.”

that breaks him all over again. he pulls you into his chest carefully, mindful of the IV, mindful of the wires, but holding you like he’s afraid the universe will try to take you again.

“of course i show up,” he whispers fiercely. “you’re my girl.”

your heart stutters.

“gyu…”

“don’t,” he breathes. “don’t correct me right now. please.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you again.

“i told them i was your boyfriend,” he confesses softly, almost sheepish.

you almost laugh.

“you did?”

“yeah. didn’t even think. they asked who i was and i just—” he gestures helplessly. “that’s what i am.”

your chest tightens. because he still feels like it.

“i’m not letting you go home alone,” he says firmly. “i don’t care if you yell at me.”

“i won’t yell.”

“good. because i’ll carry you if i have to.”

you smile faintly.

he notices. his thumb brushes under your eye.

“does it hurt when you smile?”

“no.”

“good,” he murmurs. “keep doing it. i like that one.”

there’s something softer now. quieter. like the storm already passed and left everything exposed.

you reach for his hand. he laces his fingers with yours immediately. instinct. muscle memory.

“i missed you,” you admit before you can stop yourself.

his breath stutters.

“i know,” he says, but it’s not cocky. it’s fragile. “i missed you too. every day.”

silence again. not awkward. just heavy with everything unsaid.

he presses a kiss to your knuckles. then your wrist. then your forehead. gentle. reverent. like you’re something breakable.

“you scared me so bad,” he repeats softly.

“i didn’t mean to.”

“i know.”

he rests his head against your shoulder carefully, arms wrapped around you in the safest hug he can manage.

“next time,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your hospital gown, “if you want to see me that badly, just text me.”

you let out a small laugh.

“is that what this was?”

“obviously,” he says, sniffing dramatically. “you orchestrated the whole thing.”

you roll your eyes.

he smiles finally. small but real. then he looks at you again. serious.

“we were stupid,” he says quietly.

you don’t argue.

“i don’t care how busy things get,” he continues. “i don’t care how hard it is. i’d rather fight the world with you than be calm without you.”

your eyes sting.

“mingyu…”

“i’m not asking for some big dramatic answer right now,” he says quickly. “just— let me take care of you tonight. let me sit here. let me hold your hand.”

you squeeze his fingers.

“okay.”

and that’s enough for now. he stays.

he doesn’t leave your side even when the nurses tease him gently. he feeds you water like you’re royalty. adjusts your pillow every five minutes. glares at the heart monitor like it personally offended him.

when you start getting sleepy, he brushes your hair back softly.

“i’m here,” he whispers.

your eyes flutter. “i know.”

he presses a kiss to your forehead. “i love you,” he says it so quietly he almost hopes you don’t hear.

but you do.

and even half-asleep, you whisper back, “i love you too.”

and for the first time in three months, neither of you feels like you’re pretending anymore.

© mingyusgfr

[r1dd1kulus]

[seoulfulbliss]

Park Jongseong (Part One)

Author’s Note: Mayhaps, this is a long one. So, it might come in 3 parts. Let me know what you think! DON’T COPY MY WORKS ANYWHERE. 

CEO! Jay x Estranged Wife! Black Reader 

Synopsis: A one-night stand with a handsome CEO leads to an unexpected derailment in your life plans. 

Content: Angst, talks of miscarriage, depictions of depression, bullying, neglect, pregnant reader, motherhood, smut, autistic child, ghosted friendships, Jay’s mother reaaaalllllyyyy needs to get a life, eventual happy ending

Word Count: 3.0k

Pt. 2

Obtaining a practicing license was no easy feat. It required long, grueling hours of studying and hard work for you to succeed. You had graduated from an accredited university with a doctoral degree in veterinary medicine. Then you had to pass the national assessment exam to even be eligible for a license. After long, countless nights with no sleep, you had passed that too. It was challenging, of course it was. People warned that it wouldn’t be easy. Then came the state requirements for licensure. And that was where the trouble began. 

Some regional areas required additional examination to assess your clinical skills and make sure you were up to standard according to their practices. It’s not like it was unexpected. You knew this. But being blindsided by whatever the fuck was going on with the state board was not on your to-do-list. The people you had to deal with had a severe case of stick up ass syndrome. The smug bastards wouldn’t accept your scores. You had tried to turn in your application and exams numerous times. Each time, it was denied. You couldn’t even understand why it kept getting denied. They never quite specified in a way that made sense. So you went to handle business in person. 

When you inquired about the dispute, the jackass behind the window just smirked and stated, “You just aren’t… up to our standards.” Application rejected. And you knew what he had meant, the harsh snicker of his colleague resounding in your ears. They held bias against your racial background. You were no stranger to looks of displeasure due to your race. While blatant racism angered you to high hell, sneaky discriminatory antics pissed you off further.

Where did people get the nerve to judge your capabilities, or character, based on the color of your skin? As if they themselves were any better. But it’s like your grandmother always said, right? “You have to work twice as hard to be considered half as good.” She was right. Not to worry though. You would hold your head up high walking out of this office, and best believe these people will hear a formal complaint from you. Were you going to file a discriminatory charge with the state? Absolutely. But for now, it was water off a duck’s back. No matter what, you would stay afloat. 

Later that night, you would go out with your friends to let off steam. And that would be the night you meet him. 

It had been completely coincidental. You were dancing with your girls when you stumbled your way to the bar for another drink. Tangerine whiskey sour. Your favorite. Apparently his too. From what you remember, he had been sitting in a private booth with friends getting drunk off the loss of his fiance. Apparently, she cheated and high tailed it out of there without so much as a single note. She just left the engagement ring sitting on the nightstand. And that was it. He had been nursing a broken heart. How did you find yourself privy to this information? He told you.

You had ordered your fifth whiskey sour, mistakenly picking up his when the bartender brought it out. It was no biggie to him though. Ever the gentleman, he let you have it as he waited for the one that was supposed to be yours. Intrigued by his sweet demeanor, you stood and chatted with him. It was the least you could do for accidentally stealing his drink. He just laughed though; he really didn’t mind. And that’s how you got to know businessman Park Jongseong. Though his friends call him Jay.

And heartbroken Jay, drunk out of his mind, let his friends convince him that the cure to any heart related ailment was finding somebody to sleep with. There you stood, laughing at his jokes, delighted at his humor and sympathetic at his loss. He was enamored with you. Your intellect shined in conversation. And he was absolutely obsessed with your legs in that dress. So, he took you to a five-star hotel, a deluxe suite. He had a membership. There, he worships your body. All. Night. Long. Because nothing was as poetic as physical intimacy to him. He knew exactly what he was doing. With his fingers, tongue, and dick. The whole nine yards really. Then the next morning came, and with it came the embarrassment of letting yourself loose to such an extent. So, with tail tucked between your legs in shame, you truck it out of there before he wakes. 

Though you tried to erase the encounter from memory, the sinful nature of your lustful thoughts kept you craving for the ghost of his touch. Damn, he was a great lover. And his greatness continued to outdo itself weeks later when you encounter an even greater conundrum. Because there on your bathroom counter glaring at you in horrifyingly pink lines, are the revelations of several pregnancy tests. 

All positive.

Your life felt like it was over. How could you possibly be pregnant at a time like this? You were still trying to obtain your license, fighting against a system hoping to oppress you. You had barely started your career. What even happened? The two of you had been careful, right? Maybe the condom broke. Or maybe somewhere around round three the two of you simply let that layer of protection slip. Either way, consequence was staring you in the face. Park Jongseong. You remembered the man alright. And you remembered the business card he gave you too. Tucked carefully in the seams of your wallet. Hidden away as a token of that sensual night. So you use it. 

Calling the number on the card was simple. Getting a proper response was not. On the other end of the line, a woman answers the phone. “State your business.” Bluntly formal. Okay. No biggie, probably his secretary. But when she starts giving you the third degree, wondering how you obtained this personal number, the claws are ready to come out. “Don’t call this number anymore unless you have business to tend to.” Then the heifer hangs up mid call. 

Which brings you to the lobby of Park Enterprises. The place is bustling with ambition and visionary prowess. Various displays repeat videos on loop. Showcasing the fundamental values and mission of his company. His entire business was founded on the principle of sustainable urban development to mitigate the effects of climate change. Impressive and smart. You suppose he wasn’t only well-endowed between his legs. But while that was impressive, larger issues were at stake. Like your lack of proper protection during sex. Shaking yourself from the lustful thought, you refocus on the objective. 

“How can I help you?” The chipper, young woman at the front desk questions. “I’m here to see Park Jongseong.”

“What business do you have with him?” She continues typing away as if multitasking were a part of the job description. 

“It’s kind of a private matter.” She pauses and properly looks at you. You know you aren’t dressed the part for a corporate environment, wild curls framing your face, vibrant yellow crocs paired with baggy sweats, forest green tote bag slung over your shoulder with a loose sweatshirt hanging haphazardly from your frame. You look like you just threw your clothes together. And in your rush to get here, you technically did. “Do you have an appointment?” Her eyebrow quirks. 

You know she’s just trying to do her job. But you can tell by the slight lift at the corner of her lip that she already knows the answer to that question. Still, you push on. You’ve got better things to do than stand here all day debating about appointments. “Not necessarily. But he did give me this in case I ever needed to get in touch with him.” You pull the business card from your bag and slide it over the counter to her. She regards it impassively before a look of surprise dons her face. Then, like magic, she is quickly picking up her phone and calling a line. Guess that did the trick, you thought. You grab the card and slide it in your pocket. 

You don’t pick up much of the conversation she is having with whoever is on the line. All you hear is a chorus of “Yes sir’s” and “absolutely’s” before she is hanging up. She regards you with a look of curiosity before snapping out of her inquisitive gaze. “Secretary Kim Yeonmi has stepped out, but Mr. Park is upstairs and waiting. Floor 20. The elevators are that way.” Then just like that, her attention has shifted back onto the work she was tending to prior. Dismissed, you slowly make your way in the direction of the elevators. Butterflies swarm dangerously in the pit of your stomach. This very important man took you for a wild ride several weeks ago. And now you are catapulting back into his life with life changing news. Nervousness was an understatement. 

You deliberate in the elevator the entire way up. It’s as if the universe is conspiring against you to speed things up for you to meet your fate. Because all too soon, the elevator dings, and you are stepping out of the metal box. Destiny beyond its doors. Everything about Park Enterprises is sleek. There’s a clean look to the environment. Black and white color scheme mixed with accents of mahogany wooden furniture. Modern regality permeates the atmosphere. The design did well to mimic his personality. Neat, well-kempt, simple, and sensible. 

It was something you had noticed about him when you first met. Even in his drunken stupor, he carried a quality of elegant control. Which is a reason it excited you to see him let loose in the bedroom. Shaking those lustful thoughts once more, you cross the chasm between your present and future. Walking past the vacant secretary desk, you stand at a pair of closed mahogany doors. Hesitantly, you knock. 

A few seconds of silence before the words, “Come in,” echo beyond the doors. That’s how you meet Jongseong again. Standing in front of his desk, in a heath gray suit with a black undershirt, is the man of your recurring fantasies. His jaw is tight, hands in his pockets. Body language seemingly tense. Rightfully so. This is an unexpected encounter. You gather your bearings to drop this bombshell. 

Just as you cross the threshold, “What’s the urgency of the matter for you to go and brandish a card that doesn’t belong to you?” What… was that?

Baffled by his direct line of questioning, you stop shy of your destination. “Excuse me?”

“The card.” He acknowledges the nature of it with a nod. “It’s only given out to personal business associates and people I deem of importance.” Wow. This Park Jongseong was different from the one who let loose with a few drinks. He was rude and blunt. Maybe his ex-fiancé really did do a number on him.  

“This card was specifically given to me by you.” He hums. 

“Interesting.” And he says it like he doesn’t believe you at all. Which is strange considering he, in fact, did give it to you. 

“Do you… not remember Club Daydream a month ago? We met at the bar. I mistakenly took your whiskey sour. Tangerine.”

He shrugs his shoulders with disinterest. “Vaguely. I’ve met a lot of women in the past few weeks.” 

You continue, trying to drown out the thought of what that meant. “Okay… um. You took me to XO hotel after giving me your business card at the bar. You talked to me about your ex—”

“Stop.” He interjects, hand held up as a visual sign of his interruption. “Don’t speak about her like you know anything.” From the heat of his voice, it is clear he is still disgruntled from the nature of that relationship. 

“Sorry,” You stutter, mind jumbled from the whirlwind of confusion. This version of Jay was giving you whiplash from the one you experienced. “I didn’t mean to overstep—” 

“But you did, and I’m starting to think this conversation is useless. Get to the point.”

Scoffing, your frustration begins to rear its ugly head. “Well, I’m trying—”

“Try harder. I have a 4 o’clock meeting—”

“I’m pregnant,” you blurt out. “A few weeks along. It lines up perfectly with the timeframe of that night.”

“How do I know you haven’t slept with anyone else?” Ouch. As much as you understood his logic, it still offended you to know he could accuse you of that so easily. “I’ll try not to be offended by what you just said. But if you must know, I don’t typically sleep around. I’m just starting out in my career and don’t have time for relationships or children. Besides, you’re the first guy I’ve slept with in a long time.” He observes you for a moment, taking in your body language.

“And what about the pregnancy test? Where is it? Have you taken more than one? Have you gotten a professional opinion?”

Overwhelmed, you step back a little bit at the rapid fire questioning. Reading the room, he pauses once again to look at you. Reaching into your bag, you pull out four pregnancy tests. “I’ve taken four of these at home. All read positive.” You hold them out in the space between you two. Pushing off the desk he began to lean on mid conversation, he steps closer to observe the tests. As proof of your midnight tryst, 8 pink lines stare back at him. He curses softly under his breath. “Let’s say, hypothetically, the baby is mine.” You bristle at the skepticism lacing his voice. “Why haven’t you gone to a professional to confirm it? Sometimes pregnancy tests can be faulty.”

“By giving four false positives?” Bafflement was an understatement. 

“I don’t know how these things work,” he hisses. “But what I do know is you need a professional opinion. Why didn’t you go to one to confirm this?”

“Because I literally just found out and didn’t want to freak out alone.” You rebut.

He chuckles under his breath in disbelief, then looks away. Sucking his teeth in frustration, he makes his way over to his desk where he picks up the phone. “Secretary Kim, cancel the rest of my meetings for the day.” Ah, he was calling the secretary who stepped out to run errands. There seems to be dialogue on the other side of the receiver. “Just do it.” He states, before hanging up the phone with finality. Damn, that was kind of hot. His eyes snap back to you. You stiffen at attention. His gaze sweeps over your form once more, before he sighs. “Let’s go. I’ll take you to my family doctor.” 

Forty-five minutes later finds you in the care of Jay’s family doctor, Paik Sunjae. His results confirm without a shadow of a doubt that you are pregnant. The look on the young CEO’s face is unreadable underneath the fluorescent lighting. He thanks the doctor and gathers himself before walking out of the office. Grabbing your things, you swiftly follow after him. 

In the car, you both sit in silence before you break it. “Believe me now?” The man in question shuts his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath to repress the negative emotion oozing out of him. “If the timeline of events is as you say, then the child has to be mine. Meaning I now have to take full responsibility for you both.”

“Well, you don’t necessarily have to. I didn’t really intend on being a mother.” At the revelation of your words, he turns to look at you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m still working on obtaining my practicing license. Being a mother was not on my agenda at such a young age. You didn’t even seem happy about the baby. So, why should I sacrifice what I worked hard for?”

Immediately, he sits at attention. “You are not getting rid of my baby.” The conviction in his voice added more layers of confusion to the man you were getting to know. “I… didn’t intend to get rid of the child. What I meant was that we can take responsibility together up to a certain point. Once the baby is born, I can give them to you and move on with my life.” 

“No. If we do this, we do it my way. I wasn’t raised to abandon the mother of my child. That being said, you’re moving in with me. And in a few days time, I’ll finalize our marriage certificate.”

“What?!” You exclaim. “Did you not hear what I just said? I’m too young to be a mother and my career is already on the line. Why should I pause that for you? And who said anything about marriage? We hardly know each other, and what little I do know about you isn’t exactly pleasant at the moment.” The man in front of you had done a 180 shift from the charming gentleman at the bar. And now he was demanding you marry him for the baby? 

“Regardless of what you think you know about me, having a child out of wedlock is a huge scandal. One I’d like to prevent from reaching the media. Besides, a child needs its mother. I can’t care for an infant by myself. Since we created the kid together, we do the leg work together. My home and my resources are open for you to oversee proper nutrition and care during pregnancy. Being my wife should be seen as a perk, not a chore. Plenty of women would consider themselves lucky for that spot.”

“So call them since you wanna be braggadocious.” 

He rolls his eyes with a smirk at the sarcasm dripping in your voice. “Trust me, this arrangement is for the best. You’ll see.”

A week later you were officially married. 

[r1dd1kulus]

My face when a man tried to tell y/n what to do… lucky he’s smexy

[seoulfulbliss]

Now Playing in Theatre 1

An affiliate of Seoulmate Productions...

The Masterlist

Starring Park Jongseong

Synopsis: A one-night stand with a handsome CEO leads to an unexpected derailment in your life plans. 

R e l e a s e  D a t e  M a y . 5 . 2 0 2 5

Act One

Act Two

Final Act

[r1dd1kulus]

Yearner Jay 🫡

[simjakedly]

but i’m the jealous type - n.rk

- from love me (k)not

main masterlist

synopsis. riki likes to think that he's not the typical alpha; jealous and possessive beyond reason. but having you, a newly-presented omega, also his lifelong best friend, as his girlfriend, proves to elicit ugly emotions out of his wolf. or, riki is a jealous alpha and you're a clueless omega. a short continuation from love me (k)not!

pairing. alpha!riki x omega!female reader

genre(s). omegaverse, established relationship, smut, fluff

warnings. MDNI, contains nsfw, i kinda suck at giving titles pls forgive me, reader is a newly-presented omega, riki is jealous and possessive but are we even surprised, scenting, unprotected sex (DON'T!!! even think about it), oral (f receiving), doggy, p in v, dom!riki, riki is highkey pathetic and downbad, riki is also very silly, poor jay (again), alpha!jay, alpha!heeseung, insecurity, vulnerability, i think it can be read as a standalone…?, not beta read we die like injang, let me know if i missed anything!

word count. 5,013 words

note. sorry i just miss them. i'm kinda stuck on that hoon fic so i wrote this to gain my spark back (spark???? are you kidding me) so yes. i hope you like it!! <3

Riki is utterly fucked.

He is, by all means, a chill guy. All alpha stereotypes be damned—Riki has instincts, yes, but rarely ever did he act on them.

He never feels the need to fight other alphas for dominance, which contributes to Heeseung easily becoming team captain. He barely reacts to omega’s sweet pheromones, which most likely has to do with his suppressed feelings for you. But hey, at least he’s not baring his teeth to any unmarked neck offered his way. Unlike some alphas.

The most alpha he’s felt is probably when he’s dribbling across the court. Competitiveness is the only trait he fully embodies, because Riki treats basketball like an extension of his existence more than he does his subgender. Not territoriality. Not control. Certainly not omegas.

Well. Except for one omega. 

Which is why, with all the resignation of a fallen warrior against a battalion of armed enemies, Riki believes that he is utterly fucked.

Because that one omega—newly-presented, hundred-percent his girlfriend—is none other than you.

Riki swears he’s a chill guy, but he finds himself unable to uphold his principle when it comes to you. It was already bad when he and the rest of the world had thought that you were a beta; someone with no apparent subgender traits and behaviours; someone he called his best friend in public and his biggest, pathetic crush on his private X account. 

Teenager-him did everything he could to insert himself into your life. Taking up your free time by forcing you to join him at practice, lounging in your bedroom whenever he pleases just to get a whiff of your perfume (it smells the strongest in your room), staring down boys that attempted to confess to you until they ran away with their tails between their legs.

The most alpha he’s felt, after basketball, though it remains a secret, is every time he is around you.

Seriously, it’s honestly surprising how oblivious you had been, but it was probably for the best. Riki isn’t too keen to admit that he is perhaps a little (too much) possessive when it comes to you.

It was already bad back then, and it’s only getting worse now when he and the world are aware that you are an omega; someone with the sweetest scent he’s ever smelled on anyone; someone he calls his girlfriend in public and his wife on his private X account. Please do not blame him. He’s had a crush on you ever since he knew how to speak Korean, and it also doesn’t help that the sweet vanilla pheromone comes with a beautiful face like yours. So yeah, you are his wife. You just don’t know it yet. It’s just a matter of time.

It’s just a matter of time before Riki loses his shit, if anything—because suddenly, all of his alpha instincts are coming to life like a wire on flames ever since your presenting. Feelings that he used to ignore, urges he used to control; they’re suddenly not so ignore-able or controllable anymore. 

And that’s why Riki is utterly fucked.

Especially now. 

It’s another Tuesday, which means another day full of classes for you and classes and practices for him. Which means, being the dutiful boyfriend that he is, Riki is going to pick you up from your shared apartment with Wonyoung and drop you off at your campus, hold your hand and carry your bag to class, and kiss you goodbye before he leaves for his class (you only have one shared class this semester, him being a business major and you an economics major). It’s routine now. A routine that’ll change after he convinces you to move in with him, but it’s routine for now.

He’s in his building’s elevator, descending to the car park when he sends you a text.

you

omw 

my baby

okie riki ducky

car or motorbike?

Riki bites back a smile. He swears he’s a puma, but you always insist that he resembles a duck. Riki’s no puppy but he listens to you so well he doesn’t even fight it anymore. He just nods. Yes, he’s a duck.

You can call him a roach and he’ll be willing to change his identification card to a resident roach. But of course he won’t let you know that. Riki still has his human and alpha pride to protect.

you

motorbike

my baby

oh!!!

i’m wearing that black skirt that u like tho

u bring a jacket? or shld i take the uber instead?

Wait a damn minute. The black skirt that he likes? He’s sure you’re talking about that miniskirt that hugs the swell of your ass tight and pinches your waist right. The hem cuts just above your mid-thigh, leaving little to imagination and more skin to expose. Fuck. He likes that skirt so damn much that the last time you wore it, he had his face buried in between your legs for hours and you could barely move without his cum oozing out of your abused pussy.

And it’s so damn short too.

Something ugly and hot coil in his stomach. His eyes are thinly-veiled possessiveness that he almost missed the floating dots on the chatroom.

my baby

or shld i change?

No! Riki wants you to be free to wear whatever you want. It’s just his stupid alpha instincts that are howling at him, asking him to lock you in his room and have you all to himself. But Riki is a chill guy. A bit possessive, yes, but he’s a chill guy. 

you

changed my mind

gna bring my car instead

my baby

okieeee

tysm baby 

drive safe! <3

Ignoring the nagging wolf inside him, Riki takes a detour around the walls towards where his sedan is parked. Yeap, he’s a good alpha and a good man. He’ll let you wear anything you want, even if it means having more eyes on you in that skirt he loves so much.

His jaw tightens.

It’s okay. It’s going to be fine. 

For now, you’re going to ride in his car. He’s not going to let even the wind catch a glimpse of your lace panties. That is, if you’re wearing lace. He hopes you wear lace. Fuck. Riki hopes you can ride him after.

God, please forgive him. He’s been reduced to nothing but a horny, jealous alpha ever since your presenting. Someone please send help.

That day, he barely manages to let you out of his sight. Never mind the fact he almost locks you in his car and has his way with you, uncaring about whatever public indecency fine he might get charged with. But Riki is a good alpha. He successfully (reluctantly) watches you enter the lecture hall, even when his wolf is begging him to drag you into an empty classroom and fuck you senseless. 

Riki is a good alpha. An alpha with a raging boner, but a good alpha regardless.

That evening, you so generously let him eat you out at the backseat of his car. The skirt stays on, of course. With his mouth on your clit, tongue shoved up your hole, your breathy moans fogging up the windows, Riki thanks his wolf for the patience he has. 

Good, patient alphas always get their rewards.

And his rewards come with your sweet slick and his hot cum spurting out in his pants.

Riki is doomed.

He’s so attuned with his alpha that sometimes it slips from his mind that somebody somewhere might have just presented into their subgender and has no clues about their newly-sorted body.

That someone being you.

Sure, in theory, you know the do’s and the don’t’s of the omegaverse. But in practice, it’s quite difficult for you to adapt to the changes. Like how heightened your senses have become.

Pheromones are the easiest thing to learn. You manage to set people apart from their scents alone—especially your boyfriend’s pheromone. Riki’s sandalwood turns ashy when he’s nervous before a game, and it has a musky note to it when he’s aroused.

Riki notices this. You are fast to adjust to changes directly related to your body internally. Externally, though, you actually have him stressed the fuck out.

Which is why Riki is doomed.

Especially today. 

It’s a Thursday, an ordinary day of Riki only having his practices in the morning and finishing half-day. It’s also a day of you having only one class that starts midday. Due to this (unfortunate) arrangement, Thursday is the day Riki hates the most because he couldn’t drive you to campus himself. 

Thursdays are for Uber. Fuck Uber.

But Riki is a chill guy, so he won’t let one inconvenience sour his mood. After quickly showering post-practice and roasting Heeseung over his another failed date night, Riki struts through the hallway in the direction of the lecture hall you’re going to be in. According to the live location you just shared, the Uber driver has just dropped you at the entrance. He still has time to see you before your class starts.

(Never tell his teammates that he’s this clingy, please. Unlike you, they believe that he’s a puma. Riki intends to keep it that way.)

As he nears the lecture hall, with you still nowhere in sight, Riki hums a happy tune despite his brooding demeanour. He’s going to see you. God, he can’t wait for the day you’ll finally move in with him. He knows it’s inevitable, and that you’re just taking things slowly with him (which he’s so fine with, by the way!) but he’s only a doting alpha. Nobody needs to know if he prays you change your mind faster than his dick getting hard from seeing you in that miniskirt. 

Riki takes another step and almost falters when his nose picks up on something. A pheromone—so sweet and inviting and alluring—but it’s not subtle. No. It’s flooding the hallway like a broken dam that even a taken alpha like him is reacting to it. 

Wait.

This scent—soft vanilla, sweet caramel—he knows this scent. He breathes it everyday; it's practically his oxygen. Riki’s stomach drops.

This is your pheromone.

But why is the smell so strong?

His answer comes in the form of you speed-walking down the hallway, face red and avoiding eyes. Your eyes blow wide when you spot him, your legs picking up their pace before you crash into Riki.

Riki inhales and almost chokes.

“Y/N?” He breathes out, confusion lacing his voice. A protective arm wraps around your shoulders, shielding you from the public eye. “What’s wrong?”

“Rikiii,” you whine, still hiding your face in his neck. Riki gulps down. He’s already a weak man, why are you moving your lips on his neck like that? 

“Yeah?” He croaks out, voice strained. 

“I’m sorry.” You lift your face, chin digging into his chest as you pout at him. “I forgot to take suppressants and wear my scent patch…”

Riki goes very, very still.

The scent clings to the roof of his mouth he could taste it on his tongue. Sweet, intoxicating, and driving him nuts. Beneath the cloud of vanilla and caramel, there lies something exposed and unguarded.

The muscle in his jaw ticks. 

How many alphas passed you like this? How many of them have smelled you? Fuck, what about the Uber driver just now?

Riki unconsciously pulls you closer to his broad chest, removing any distance between your bodies. His grip on your shoulders tightens.

“You forgot,” he repeats slowly. It’s not a question.

Heat floods his veins. The same fire that almost engulfed him whole at the court weeks ago, when you collapsed under the pressure of alpha pheromones. The same fire that urges him to bare his teeth to any prying eyes and curious glances. 

“What about your Uber driver?” A faux calm veils his voice, feigning control when he’s losing it. Riki’s eyes flicker to the hallway, narrowing down at people staring and at alphas with twitching noses. His thumb digs into your waist.

“Hm?” He presses, feeling every thread of rational thoughts loosening with every second of your silence. You look up timidly, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy.

“He sped to send me here…”

Riki’s fingers flex. “Is he an alpha?”

You hesitate. Then subtly, you nod.

“Yes.”

Riki closes his eyes. He’s sure he’s breathing, but it doesn’t reach his lungs. The fire in his chest has smoked up every fiber of his being, where your scent is gasoline and his possessiveness a paper. 

Somewhere in the distance, Riki hears an alpha’s growl. Snapping his eyes open, he wraps his fingers around your wrist, tugging you close to him.

“We’re going home.”

Thankfully, you don’t protest. Riki doesn’t know how his alpha would react if you did.

That evening, Riki isn’t so good or patient as he fucks you from behind, fisting your hair in a tight grip. Your thighs are trembling from overstimulation, his sheets are soaked from your multiple orgasms; but Riki doesn’t let go. His hold on your hips are bruising, leaving marks that you know will bloom purple by the next morning.

“Gonna fuck this into your brain, baby,” he rasps, pushing your face down into the pillow. You’re a blabbering mess, drools dripping out your mouth as you take his angry cock. Riki’s pace is ruthless, fucking your hole in sharp, harsh thrusts that has you seeing stars.

“Never.” He thrusts deep. “Forget.” The tip of his cock kisses that spot inside your walls. You arch your back. “Your.” His hips snap harder, and you let out a cry of pleasure as the heat pools in your belly. “Fucking.” Thrust. “Scent. Patch.” 

When you come again, it’s earth-shattering, ripping through your body in a violent shudder. His musky sandalwood and your honeyed caramel mix together, clinging to your body like a second skin. The air smells heavy of sex, and for a moment you think that Riki’s finally done. That he’s let out every pent-up frustration born from your clumsy, forgetful self.

But you’re so wrong. Because in the next moment, he’s already flipping you onto your back, knocking air out of your lungs. His eyes, heavy-lidded and intense, hold yours as he descends, tongue flicking out. You whine and clamp your thighs, trying to save yourself from further overstimulation. 

But Riki’s not having any of it.

His hands grip into your flesh, hard enough they’ll leave prints on the soft skin. Riki throws your legs over his shoulders, ragged breath fanning your swollen clit.

“‘M not done yet, babe,” he licks his lip, blowing on your sopping cunt and smirks when you shiver. “Gonna make you fucking remember.”

Riki laps up a thick stripe from your hole to your clit, nudging the nub with the tip of his tongue as he does so. You gasp, heaving out a sinful cry, fisting the sheets in an attempt to ground yourself.

“Oh God,” you choke, tears clinging to your lashes. “‘Feels so good, R-Riki.”

You’re so spent, so full, and Riki has been so harsh and mean. But your body is a temple of contradiction; it keeps begging for more—for his touch, his lips, his cock.

“Holy shit,” Riki chuckles, and then he takes another dive, prodding your hole in a merciless pace. You buck up your hip.

Two large palms push your middle down. Riki stares at you through his dark fringes, eyes sharp and intense.

“You’re not going anywhere without a scent patch,” he grunts against your slick, his voice thick with lust. He looks pornographic; with his messy dark hair and shiny, swollen lips. You mewl.

The corner of his lips curve up into a smirk.

“And that’s final, baby.”

You’re so in for a long night.

Riki admits it.

He’s a jealous, possessive alpha. Basically a textbook alpha; but only reserved for you.

He knows he once confessed to it; back when you told him you were going to spend your heat with his best friend. He knows he once spelled it out for you that he was jealous of imagining you with another man. But that was a one-time thing. 

Riki is a chill guy. His jealousy was reasonable, wasn’t it? It was only that time that he allowed himself to swallow his pride and admit that he was indeed jealous of his best friend and he wasn’t going to let him help you with your heat.

Anything jealousy-related after that, he managed to keep it subtle. An arm around your waist. A shadow looming by your side. A glare he throws when you’re not looking. 

Riki has always associated jealousy with heat and this burning urge to gauge someone’s eyes. All the ugly emotions that make him want to rip limbs apart (according to his wolf, not him, he’s still normal about everything). He never thought he would ever associate jealousy with sadness, vulnerability, or even insecurity.

Not until tonight. 

It’s a Saturday night, and Saturday nights are marked as party nights on every student’s calendar. Well, at least for those who could tolerate sweaty bodies, messy hookups, and sticky floors packed in a frathouse. Riki belongs in that category, simply because he can’t miss Heeseung twerking and singing in the living room. That man is a terrible drinker, and has a surprisingly good voice that will only come out when he’s drunk. It takes two red cups of beer to get him yelling Beyonce.

You, on the other hand, aren't a big fan of crowds. But Riki always insists you come, or he’ll cancel his plans with his homies and cuddle with you instead. If anything, you very much prefer to spend your night that way, but sometimes the guilt gets to you when Heeseung and Jay whine about not seeing Riki at parties anymore.

So, with a nose scrunched up from various kinds of pheromones and smelly armpits, you brave through the dancing bodies to where Riki’s basketball teammates are at. Riki follows closely behind you, chest pressed against your back as he uses both hands as barriers by your sides, shoving people out of your way unapologetically.

Heeseung is already red in the face by the time you settle on the couch, giggling at something Jake the famous beta says. Riki dabs his teammates, easily falling into conversations about games and badmouthing opposing teams while still keeping a hand on the small of your back.

The couch is on the smaller size, perfect for three adults. Four, if you force people to squeeze in. Riki relaxes at the nearest handrest, which leaves you to sit right beside him, which leaves the spot beside you empty. The spot that is soon taken by one of Riki’s teammates.

By none other than Jay himself.

“Hey, Y/N,” he greets, giving you a lopsided grin as he sinks into the couch. “How’ve you been?”

Now, Riki loves Heeseung and Jay to death. They’re the seniors that have taken him under their wings when he was nothing more than a lost freshman, trying to secure a spot in the college’s basketball team. Heeseung cooks ramen for him, and Jay cooks him Michelin-star meals. Both of which Riki appreciates greatly, deepening the respect that he feels for the elder guys.

Heeseung is an easy man, falling in and out of relationships as routine as changing his clothes. He’s that kind of alpha that puts his knot into good use and into any available hole. Riki used to be the most wary of him, flagging him as the most dangerous alpha to be in your proximity. 

Jay, on the other hand, is the steady one. He’s respectful, knows the right thing to say, always accidentally attracts the ladies even when he doesn’t mean to. He’s that gentleman who’s looking for a serious relationship with the intention to marry. Riki used to set him as the dependable guy; someone he confides in when the topic concerns a certain girl (you); someone he asks for help for when he couldn’t buy pads for you.

But after that incident, Riki ought to revise his judgement. Heeseung’s off the hook now. Jay, however, has risen as threat number one.

And threat number one is making silly jokes right now, prompting you to laugh until your familiar squeaks spill out of your pretty lips.

Riki shifts in his seat. Whatever Taesan rambles about flies over his head, going past his ears, blending into the loud music from the speaker. Jay is obviously trying to make you feel more comfortable, because you’re not the most subtle when you’re in discomfort; anyone in the room could notice it.

And comfortable you are.

Jay leans closer to hear you over the music, still keeping a respectful distance from you. But it’s enough to make Riki’s thumb slow down from rubbing circles on your back. The bass vibrates through the walls, but it feels distant. 

You feel so distant.

Riki doesn’t want to, but his mind spirals in the way it always spirals whenever it involves something to do with you and Jay. He’s brought back to the past, to when you didn’t hesitate to ask Jay for help. To the time when you thought Jay to be the ideal alpha for you. A worthy alpha to help you through your heat. 

The ugly emotions resurface. But this time, they didn't paint everything red. Instead, it feels like a lump has formed in his throat, blocking every reassurance you always give him in his vulnerability from reaching his rational mind. Every ‘I love you’s, every ‘It’s only you’s, evaporates into thin air in the presence of what-ifs.

What if you didn’t come to his apartment to talk to him that day? What if he let his ego win over and he never confessed? What if his silent treatment drove you tired, and you just went straight to Jay instead of to his doorstep?

The questions leave a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. 

Riki is a chill guy. But even a chill guy falls weak against an even chiller guy. In Riki’s case, the chiller guy is sitting on the other side of the couch, wearing a Polo despite the function, and an heir to a family-owned business. And is currently telling you funny stories that he likes to tell Riki too.

Riki swallows down the lump. Fuck, he’s always at wars with his wolf regarding his emotions and how he should act. But at this moment, his wolf is not yelling at him to stake claim. His wolf is quiet, whining lowly, ears flattened like a kicked puppy. A perfect visual presentation of how Riki’s feeling currently. He’s perfectly in sync with his wolf tonight.

Riki unconsciously withdraws his hand from you and places it onto his lap, toying with his fingers absentmindedly. He laughs at something Heeseung says, but it sounds foreign even to his ears.

Beside him, you feel the loss of his warmth almost instantly. Jay was in the middle of telling you about Riki’s silly mistakes during a game when the scent hits you. The sandalwood thins out, like firewood left out in the cold. You instinctively turn to your boyfriend, already tuning out whatever Jay’s about to say as you stare at Riki’s side profile.

“Riki?”

There’s a pause. Then, Riki slowly turns to you, eyes dimmed. His smile is losing its usual softness, and it settles heavily in the pit of your stomach. Your wolf is whining at the sight of the sad alpha, and your instinct is telling you that it has everything to do with the alpha you were talking to.

Your heart deflates.

“Yes, baby?” Riki answers, though his voice wilts. Seeing his slumped shoulders, losing all his easy confidence and still trying to fake it with a smile, tugs at your heartstrings violently. 

You give him a small smile, sensing his bare vulnerability through his scent alone. You reach out a soft hand, intertwining your fingers with his. 

“I feel tired. Let’s go home?”

Riki chews on his bottom lip.  For a moment, it’s like seeing twelve-year old Riki; when you used to comfort him after he got scolded for playing too rough with his younger sister. He casts a glance at something behind you—or someone, Jay, most likely—before turning back to you. Jay is back at conversing with others, easily leaving the one he had with you. Riki squeezes your hand back.

“Let’s go. I’ll drop you off.”

“No,” you pull at his hand slightly, a soft smile playing at your lips. “Let’s go back to our home.”

“Yeah, let’s—” Riki pauses. He takes a double look at you, slowly registering what he just heard.

“Our home?” Is he dreaming? Did you just imply that you agreed to move in with him?

You nod, deliberate and confident. Riki blinks at you, disbelieving. Holy shit. It’s true. He’s not drunk, and the warmth of your touch confirms that he’s not dreaming either. Then, a wide grin spreads across his face, boxy and teethy in all its cute glory. 

“Okay, let’s go home. Our home.”

The words taste sweeter than honey on his tongue.

That night, Riki cages you in his arms, holding you firm against his half naked body. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady of his heartbeat. Your finger traces on the skin mindlessly, mapping out trails of softness and silent reassurance. 

“Riki.”

He hums. The sound vibrates through his chest, and you smile at the feeling.

“I never told you this. But I used to pray to present as an omega ever since I learned that your mother only wants omegas as your mate.”

Riki stiffens, but his breathing doesn’t. His heart, however, is gradually speeding up.

He senses that you knew the moment you softly called his name at the frat house. God, you and your omega instincts. He knew he couldn’t hide anything from you, even his deepest secrets.

And you, being the caring, empathetic person that you are—a trait that doesn’t dull even with age—will always try to make it better for him.

Riki squeezes your waist, signaling you that he’s listening. His silence prompts you to continue. “I’ve been so in love with you that I was willing to be anything as long as I could be by your side. I couldn’t eat after finding out that I was a beta. But then I thought, maybe I can be your wedding planner. I even learned how to babysit just in case you needed one. As long as you’re happy. Even if it’s not with me.”

The back of your eyes feel hot but you blink the tears away.

“That day…when I mentioned Jay,” you started, carefully touching the subject that’s been an unspoken sensitivity to your boyfriend. “I did it out of obligation. My wolf wanted it to be you, but human-me knew it wasn’t possible. Back then, when I didn’t know that you liked me back.

“I didn’t want to force you to do something you probably didn’t want, and possibly lose the friendship that we have. So I just mentioned whoever. I did it to protect us. I did it because I didn’t want to scare you away and lose you.”

You inhale deeply and look up. To your surprise, Riki’s already staring at you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. You’re not sure if they’re reflecting back your tears, or if they’re truly his, but you’re sure that this is the most vulnerable the both of you have been since that fateful night.

You cup his cheek, brushing the tender skin gently. “I didn’t do it because I wanted him or if he was better. I could never; not when the person I have ever wanted; the person I have been in love with almost my entire life is you, Riki.”

A drop of tear slides down Riki’s smooth skin and disappears into the pillow. He exhales through his mouth, the sound wet and warm.

“Thank you, baby. Truly.”

Riki drops his forehead onto yours, eyes fluttering shut. For a moment, the buzz of the city fades, leaving only vulnerability and love between tangled breath and silent tears. After a minute of silence, you say it again, sealing your package of reassurances for the alpha you cherish dearly.

“I love you, Riki.”

Riki pulls you closer, mouthing a wet kiss into the crook of your neck. His lips brush the shell of your ear, tentative and soft. There is a sigh of relief, like a weight is finally lifting off his chest.

“I love you more, Y/N.”

Riki snuggles closer, then he noses at your scent gland promptly. You giggle from the ticklish feeling, writhing away from him. But Riki only tightens his hold.

“Let me scent you,” Riki rasps, breath warm on your skin. You shiver. “You kinda smell like him. I hate it.”

Your play-fight dies down and you let Riki do whatever he wants. His nose inches upwards, caressing the crown of your hair with his cheek, then trailing back down to where your neck meets your shoulder. You melt into his embrace, a contented sigh slipping past your lips.

“Feels warm, Ki.” You mumble, drunk on cozy sandalwood and clean cedar. Riki hums, pulling you flush against his chest. His finger trails your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake, then gently closes a gentle hold around your wrist. He brings it to his nose, nuzzling your pulse.

By the time he’s done, you’re drenched in his pheromones. Every inch of your skin smells like Riki, feels like Riki, touched by Riki. 

You’re his. Utterly his.

You hum in a daze, mind hazy and chest full with contentment. Deep inside, your wolf purrs, happy and satisfied that she’s marked by her beloved alpha. Riki leaves one final kiss on your forehead before tucking you under his chin.

“Night, my love.”

Both of you drift off to sleep, blanketed by each other's warmth, drowned in each other's scent.

man i actually love writing this couple so much <3

also i forgot where i saved the page divider from i accidentally left the search bar before i could reblog itttt sjhdbjhdhj can somebody tag the account if you find it thank you :(

[r1dd1kulus]

[simjakedly]

d-DID VAMPAPA SUNGHOON PURCHASE A VERIFICATION MARK IM CRYING

this smau is so funny plz don’t get burnt at the stake 🫶🫶

h-he did…thinking it was a royal stamp 😔

thank you for reading this smau 🫶🏼 i am not a witch like vampdada sunghoon’s mother so i will most likely not get burned at that stake ☝🏼

[sailorsoons]

𝔟𝔦𝔱𝔢 ☾ 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔫

PAIRING: Werewolf! f. Reader x Werewolf!Seungcheol x Werewolf!Jeonghan x Werewolf!Soonyoung x Werewolf!Seokmin x Werewolf!Vernon x Werewolf!Chan SUMMARY: When the Divine’s cult conquers your home, they don’t expect you to survive, let alone fight back. Captured but not broken, you and the unlikeliest of allies are ready to burn it all down. WC: 11,419 AU: Romantic Fantasy, Werewolves, Omegaverse Dynamics, Polyamourous GENRE: Smut, Heavy Angst, Fluff, Romance WARNINGS: As always, depictions of forced coercion by the Divine, cultish themes, graphic depictions of sacrificial altars and blood, graphic depiction of a forest that looks like it's bleeding/bloody, fantasy violence and action sequences with monstrous creatures, threats of sexual violence and predatory behavior from another alpha toward reader, sexism and a/b/o social constructs that are negative, some territorial stuff with Seungcheol, intense depictions of grief and mourning from both Seungcheol and reader, intense angst, speaking of people and lives they have lost, past references to abuse at the hands of the Divine, reader having some emotional distress about what she is being tasked to do... I think that is mostly it. This chapter is just very emotionally charged for reader and Seungcheol both who open up about grief. Lots of crying. MEMBERS IN THIS CHAPTER: Seungcheol with appearances from Mingyu and Jihoon A/N: Happy Bite Day! Thank you for letting me skip the last update period to get all of my collabs in order. This is a BIGGGG chapter that a lot of people have been waiting for where Seungcheol and reader finally bridge the emotional gap between them and we get insight into why Seungcheol behaves the way he does as he finally opens up! We also get to meet two new characters in Mingyu and Jihoon who are a part of a different pack! I hope you enjoy this one - this is my favorite chapter I have written to date - I think you'll see why. A/N 2: Thank you to @daechwitatamic who beta read this chapter! A/N 3: I highly recommend reading the scene with Seungcheol and reader in the gods grove while listening to Goodbye Brother by Ramin Djawadi.

SERIES M. LIST | M. LIST | PLAYLIST | ASK | PREVIOUS | NEXT

The unbroken have not yet been tested -  Inscription found on a bone

THE AIR IS THICK WITH THE SCENT OF WET STONE AS YOU FOLLOW SEUNGCHEOL DEEP INTO THE MOUNTAIN. The walls, veined with that eerie crimson glow, seem to pulse in time with your heartbeat. You hate the mountain and its knowing walls, the way they seem to lean in closer the deeper you go. You shift a little nearer to Seungcheol without meaning to, the torchlight flickering erratically across his broad back, throwing long shadows that make him look larger, more untouchable.

Your mind races, thoughts tumbling over one another like stones in a riverbed. The morning's warmth in Soonyoung's bed feels like a distant dream now, the heat of pack scents replaced by the chill seeping through your leathers. Vernon's revelations from the night before echo in your head, his low voice recounting the cult, the cold precision, the way he'd learned to shut off his scent entirely. It makes you look at Seungcheol's back as he walks ahead, wondering what secrets he's hiding from you. You're sure they're endless, locked behind the iron fortress he refuses to let you through, even after everything. You wonder if he'll ever open that door, or if some parts of him are meant to stay buried.

The hunt you're supposed to be going on looms ahead like a storm cloud, dark and inevitable. It makes your gut twist knowing you're expected to bring back deserters - people fleeing the very same tyranny you suffer under. You wonder if they're families. Loved ones clinging to one another in the night. People you're expected to drag back as one of the Divine's blades, proof of your loyalty. The nausea rises up, sharp and bitter, coating the back of your throat.

But you can't afford defiance right now. Not with Soonyoung's bruises fresh in your memory, the way his cracked ribs rose and fell under your palm last night. Not with the pack's safety dangling like a sword over your heads if you or Seungcheol step out of line while you're outside of the mountain.

The Divine never sends all of you at once for a reason.

Seungcheol moves with purposeful strides ahead, his bergamot scent strong and laced with an undercurrent of resolve you envy. He hasn't said much since pulling you from your nest of limbs and soft kisses, but his presence is an anchor, even if you don't know where the two of you stand. You never do. One moment he's a wall of protection, the next he's shutting you out again.

As you near the lower levels, the air shifts. It grows warmer and heavier, infused with the earthy musk of hay and the sharp tang of sweat and oiled leather. Distant whinnies echo up the stairwell, mingling with the clang of metal bits and the low murmurs of voices below.

Seungcheol halts abruptly in a shadowed alcove just before the last of the stairs, the space barely big enough for two. He pulls you toward him anyway, your heart spiking as the smell of him floods your senses. His dark eyes are intense as he looks at you, a sense of urgency in his gaze as he glances around once to ensure you're alone.

"Listen carefully," he murmurs. "This hunt - it's not just a task. It's the Divine's game. It always is. It's her way of testing loyalties and reminding us who is in control. You must appear obedient at all costs. Follow my lead in everything. Keep your eyes down if someone challenges you. Any slip up and she'll hurt the people that matter to us."

His words sink to the bottom of your stomach, each one a heavy stone. You'd already known this, deep down, but hearing it laid bare still cuts. The leverage is insidious, but it's smart of the Divine. She'll never send all of you at once, knowing the risk of losing you all is too great. It's why she'd only sent a handful to attack Valen, leaving Vernon and Jeonghan at home as leverage, as hostages.

Anxiety grips you, skin prickling hotly. What if you say the wrong thing? What if your scent betrays you? What if you don't step out of line, but someone says you do? The possibilities make you dizzy as Seungcheol watches you process, the understanding on his face telling you that he feels it too - the fear, the weight of every choice.

"I understand," you say eventually. "I'll be careful. Obedient."

The word tastes like ash in your mouth but you say it anyway. Obedience has kept you alive this long. You'll have to do it a little bit longer, until the ash in your mouth turns to the ashes of the Divine's funeral pyre.

Seungcheol's expression softens a little, a flicker of approval in his eyes. He squeezes your shoulder, the contact surprising but brief, his thumb brushing once against your collarbone before he lets go. "Just stick close. We've navigated worse, you and I."

You glance sidelong at him. He's already turning away, shutting the door on the warmth he let slip through for a single moment. He's right, though. The two of you have certainly gone through worse - it is what your entire relationship with Seungcheol has been, thus far. Worse.

You follow him, descending the final stairwell together. The stairwell ends in an open, cavernous room that serves as the stable. It's carved from the mountain's belly with a vaulted ceiling supported by massive stone pillars. There are carvings on the pillars, and you're suddenly reminded of the catacombs Jeonghan showed you once, the way he'd traced the lines with reverent fingers and whispered about a time before the Divine, when the mountain had been something else.

The stables are alive with activity. Grooms with hunched shoulders and averted eyes dart between stalls, buckling saddles, adjusting girths, their movements efficient but subdued, as if they might be punished for doing something wrong. You catch a glimpse of an alpha stable master, her eyes sharp, hand hovering near the coiled whip at her belt.

The crack of a whip echoes in your memory. Dara's scream. Soonyoung holding her down while she thrashed. Jeonghan baring his back, not flinching as the lash came down again and again-

"Wildheart." Seungcheol's voice breaks the memory, low and steady. You look at him. You realize your heart is racing, breathing ragged. "Breathe."

You nod. "Sorry."

He softens a little more, the hard lines of his face easing. "I understand."

In the large central aisle, the hunting party assembles. The lanterns and braziers throughout cast them in red light, making their shadows long and jagged. It's a compact group of five, their postures alert and weapons glinting at hips and across backs. Their scents wash over you as you approach, a combination of alpha and beta pheromones that tangle together.

You hang back a step as Seungcheol approaches, your hand hovering near the pommel of Chan's sword. You feel better with the weight of it on your hip, the dagger Vernon gave you tied to your weapons belt on the other side. You eye the strangers as Seungcheol stops in front of them, your protective instincts flaring a little. You tamp down on them, observing instead.

There's an obvious leader to the hunting party. She stands at the forefront, tall and wiry with lean muscle under taut, tan skin. Her dark hair is cropped to the chin, framing a face made up of sharp angles and amber eyes. She's pretty, but there's a cool detachment to her that makes your skin crawl when her gaze lands on you, assessing, measuring.

Seungcheol steps in front of her, cutting off her view of you and vice versa. You can still smell her scent, a smoky charred oak that makes you scrunch your nose and shift.

"Seungcheol," she greets, her voice raspy. "On time, at least."

"Lira." Seungcheol inclines his head respectfully, but the tightness in his shoulders tells you that he doesn't like this woman. "What's the route?"

Lira unrolls a bit of parchment to reveal a map, its edges frayed, inked lines tracing valleys and forests in faded tones. You side-step to get a better look, peering around Seungcheol. Her eyes flicker to you and you remember Seungcheol's warning, so you drop your gaze and step back again, frustrated.

Beside Lira are two other alphas. The first is compact, almost unassuming at first glance, with dark and sharp eyes. He's short but lean, his dark hair kept short as he nods at Seungcheol and crosses his arms, the gesture curt but familiar. They seem to know each other - at least, Seungcheol's tension eases a fraction when he looks at him.

The second alpha dwarfs the first, a towering figure with wide shoulders and a presence that fills up the space. He's strikingly handsome with warm brown eyes and high cheekbones. He smiles when he sees Seungcheol, but the smile is a little tight, not quite reaching his eyes. He runs a hand through his wavy hair, leaning against the nearest horse as he says something low to Lira you can't catch. She glares and he winks, but it seems practiced. Fabricated.

He glances at you and raises his brows. "Oh?" He asks Seungcheol, voice light but curious. "That's new."

Seungcheol steps in front of you again, cutting off the alpha's view. "Didn't expect you here, Mingyu."

Mingyu.

You recognize the name immediately. Isn't this the man Seungcheol mentioned once - someone he was trying to help loosen the Divine's hold on? Seungcheol steals a glance at you and sees your questioning gaze. He nods once, so subtle you wonder if you're imagining it before he turns back to the alphas.

"I'm a good hunter," Mingyu teases, the words light but carrying an edge. "Who's the one you're hiding?" Seungcheol doesn't answer for a moment. "I'm not going to bite."

"Wildheart," Seungcheol answers gruffly. He sidesteps to let you peer at the three alphas. "This is Mingyu." He nods toward the shorter one. "That's Jihoon."

Jihoon gives you a small nod, his sharp eyes assessing but not hostile. Mingyu's smile widens a fraction, genuine this time, though still careful. "Nice to meet you, Wildheart. Cute nickname."

Seungcheol bristles but you nod back, keeping your expression neutral. He ignores the other two alphas behind Mingyu, but his scent shifts, the bergamot deepening as they lead their horses over.

One of them is a woman, who steps behind Lira, her arms folded and her posture relaxed. She's nearly as tall as Lira, with long black hair braided down her back and a face carved from marble. Her eyes are so gray they're nearly colorless, reflecting back nothing. Lira introduces her as Soren with a casual flick of her wrist, and when she looks at Seungcheol, you see a flicker of something fierce in her eyes. He continues to ignore her, so you do the same.

The last alpha is hard to ignore. He's built like a stout mountain with a thick neck and a shaved head that gleams under the lantern light. His name is Torren, and though he lounges easily against his horse, you don't take the casual appearance for what it's worth. His eyes catch on you and he grins, slow and deliberate, showing too much teeth. He doesn't look at Seungcheol at all; his attention is fixed on you, raking up and down, lingering on your hips, your throat, the way your cloak clings to your frame.

You fight the urge to bare your teeth, a growl working its way up your throat. Had anyone dared to look at you like that in Valen - but Valen doesn't exist anymore. Here you're no one. Here you have no name. Just Wildheart, a fond pseudonym given to you by the only people in the world left to trust.

Seungcheol steps fully in front of you this time, broad shoulders blocking Torren's line of sight. His voice comes out low, dangerous. "Eyes up, Torren."

Torren chuckles, the sound rough and amused. "Just appreciating the view, Seungcheol. Divine's got good taste sending her along."

Seungcheol doesn't answer, but his scent flares, sharp and territorial, a clear warning. Torren only smirks wider, unbothered, and looks away at last, but not before giving you one more lingering once-over. You notice Mingyu and Jihoon scowling at his back.

Good. They don't like him either.

Lira clears her throat, impatient. "Enough. Mount up. We ride west. Deserters are a day ahead. Tracks lead to the Bloodwood. We track, we capture, we return. No mercy."

Her amber eyes land on you again, lingering. You keep your gaze low, but you feel the weight of it like a brand. Seungcheol's hand brushes your elbow briefly, steering you toward a groom that leads you to a mare. Then his touch is gone again, but he's only a step away, a bulwark between you and the rest of your hunting party.

Suddenly the hunting party feels less designed to seek out deserters and more like a test for you. For Seungcheol. You swallow back a sour taste in your mouth as you approach your mare. She's a sturdy bay with a glossy coat, a little taller than you expected. She's already saddled and bridled, saddle bags laden with supplies.

The groom moves to help you mount but you're already moving, gripping the pommel and planting your foot in the stirrup to haul yourself up and swing your leg over, muscle memory taking over. It's been a while since you've ridden now, but you could never forget how to ride. Mingyu mounts next to you, eyeing you with new interest. You squirm, suddenly feeling like everything you do - everything you're good at - will be under supervision.

Seungcheol mounts his gray stallion next to you, horse tossing his head a little. His horse dances up next to yours, thighs nearly touching as Lira takes point on her black mare with Jihoon and Mingyu falling in line behind her. Seungcheol nudges his mount forward and you do the same, their hooves echoing on stone as Torren and Soren bring up the rear, their stares pinned to your back like a blade.

You ignore them, focusing on the tunnel ahead until it swallows you whole. The tunnel is filled with wet stone and flickering torches, the walls covered in the same ancient sigils and symbols as the catacombs and the vaulting ceilings of the stables. You study them as you pass, each carving unfamiliar and alien as the day you first saw them.

The air grows cooler as you delve deeper, the musky scent of the alphas and the horses cloying in the narrow space. Your mare's ears flick back and forth, sensing the tension growing as your group rides in silence. You pat her neck on instinct, running gloved hands up and down her smooth fur, drawing a soft nicker in response.

It's a silent ride through the tunnel, save for the clack of the hooves and the occasional snort from the horses. The weight of the hunt presses down like the stone above, no one speaking. It's your first time leaving the Bloodkeep in months, and the thought sends a shiver through you. When you'd come here months ago, it had been in chains. Now as you near the end of the tunnel, you're in a different set of chains but heavy all the same.

Light pierces the end of the tunnel, growing bright until it blinds you. You emerge blinking into the noon sun, the world exploding into color and chaos. Bloodhaven sprawls before you, the multi-tiered labyrinth carved into the stone mountain familiar and alien all at once. The streets are slick with recent rain as you pass through them.

Red dominates everything - banners of Selyne fluttering from rooftops, her crest emblazoned in darker red. The fabric snaps in the wind, carrying the scent of bloodrose in the air, their petals crushed underfoot in the street.

The city here is alive just like any other city. You hate how normal it is. Do these people not care about the evil that goes on in the mountain? The evil that happens to give them this space? The blood spilled in the name of the Divine and her goddess? You stare at them with a newfound scorn, watching them live their lives while you remain shackled to the woman who burned your life down.

Like any other city, the air here is thick with the scent of unwashed bodies and roasting meats from nearby vendors. Unlike any other city, the coppery tang of blood hangs heavy in the air as you pass altars with fresh blood, evidence of recent sacrifices. Your stomach turns and your horse dances away from an altar, the wet liquid steaming in the cool air.

Sensory overload crashes into you as you plunge further into Bloodhaven. Voices clamor as you near a market, vendors and patrons haggling and shouting at one another. Random acolytes in red shout their praises to Selyne, and as Lira leads you through the throng, the press of bodies thins only enough to let your hunting party through.

You see the massive archway ahead, swallowing past the dry patch in your throat. When you'd seen it last, you'd been dressed in a robe that was too heavy with chains around your wrist, paraded through the city while attached to Seungcheol's horse. From the way he stiffens in the saddle next to you, you know he's remembering that day too.

We've navigated worse, you and I.

You ride under the arch in formation, Lira at the head. Seungcheol rides close enough that his knee brushes yours occasionally. He still doesn't speak, eyes scanning the crowds with predatory focus. You don't do anything but look ahead, the chaos of the city too much after months of isolation, the memories of your arrival flooding back.

A prickle of awareness prods at the back of your neck. You feel Torren's gaze on you, heavy and unwanted as you ride. You keep your head high, refusing to turn back to confirm his oily stare. Mingyu, riding just ahead of you, seems to sense the tension. He glances back once, his warm eyes catching yours with a small, encouraging nod, before sliding to Torren and narrowing a fraction before he turns to face the front.

The city slopes downward, the streets widening as you descend from the upper tiers. Timber houses give way to more open markets, stalls overflowing with red-dyed cloths and iron trinkets. Children dart between legs, their faces bright and happy under the autumn sun. You cannot imagine this a happy place for children to grow up, but their laughter is real.

An alpha stands on a crate of boxes as you pass, bellowing about the glory of sacrifice, his voice hoarse and fervent. You silently pray to your gods that he loses his voice, but you know they won't do anything.

They never do.

As you near the outskirts, the crowd thins. Beyond lies Bloodrest, the fortified cluster of squat stone buildings familiar. A forge belches smoke from a chimney, the clang of hammer on anvil ringing out as you pass through the central square. Red banners flap from everywhere, and soldiers dressed in crimson armor go to and from the inn.

Lira leads you through without stopping, the horses' hooves crunching on gravel. Seungcheol rides tensely, his hand resting near his sword hilt. Behind you, Torren mutters something to Soren and she chuckles, but you ignore it, gaze fixed on the horizon.

Beyond Bloodrest, the land opens up, the rolling foothills dotted with dry shrubbery and jagged rocks. The air lightens, crisp with pine and earth, free of the city's rot. Wildflowers peek through cracks, yellow bursts against green, defiant in a colorless place. A river snakes nearby, its waters foaming over stones.

The party travels west. It's different from how you came to the mountain, the terrain unfamiliar to you. Hours pass in the saddle, the sun dipping lower and casting long shadows. The land around you roughens, hills steepening, rocks giving way to dense thickets. Silence reigns, broken only by the wind and hooves.

Your mare picks carefully through the trail, following Seungcheol's stallion ahead. Mingyu has dropped back, his mare pulling up next to yours as he eyes you with interest. "First time out?"

"Yes."

"The air tastes different here, doesn't it? Cleaner."

"Yes," you agree cautiously. "It does."

Mingyu's earth scent is warm and nonthreatening as you ride. Seungcheol glances back a single time, eyes flickering between you, but he says nothing. You relax a fraction, knowing that Seungcheol's silence with Mingyu next to you means this unfamiliar alpha is somewhat safe.

Safe enough for Seungcheol to want you to help him, eventually.

"You've been on hunts like this before?" You ask him, curious.

"Too many." He frowns. "Stick close to Cheol. He's good."

Mingyu falls back again, putting himself between you and the two alphas behind you. You note the way he says Cheol, familiar and friendly. You also note that he's chosen to blatantly put himself between you and Torren, the latter huffing and complaining about Mingyu ruining the view. A pang of gratitude goes through you, feeling a little lighter with Mingyu at your back.

The tracks from the deserters lead westward, toward the Bloodwood. You know nothing of the Bloodwood, but you see the vast forest on the horizon, its canopy a sea of deep green tinged with red. You've heard vague tellings of trees that bleed and monsters that hide in the thick forest, and as you approach, you can smell the syrupy resin of the trees.

Nearing the Bloodwood is daunting. The trees are massive here, larger than anything you've ever seen in Valen. They loom above you, trunks thick, bark rough and dark, scored with slashes where sap oozes like blood, red and viscous.

Entering the treeline is like stepping into another world. The change is immediate. Above, the sunlight filters through leaves in dappled red hues, the sap staining the branches and the ground. Your mare picks her way carefully, hooves sinking into leaf litter soft as flesh, stained crimson where sap has dripped. Vines dangle like arteries, brushing your arms, leaving sticky residue that clings.

Some trees are wide as a house, their bark etched with natural whorls that resemble faces if you squint enough. You cringe away from them, disliking how the oozing sap looks like steadily bleeding trees, covering everything like the forest is actively hemorrhaging.

Strange undergrowth thrives under the world of red sap. Ferns unfurl in scarlet fronds, mushrooms sprout in clusters like wounds, their red caps veined red. Strange flowers bloom low to the ground with petals like velvet lips, their scent dizzying.

Birds call from hidden perches, their songs distorted, echoing as if through water. Insects hum, and you watch iridescent beetles scuttle over the bark as they eat sap. The forest feels ancient and alive in a way that you've never felt, and you cannot imagine how terrified the deserters must be to come here, where you feel Selyne and her bloodlust more than you ever have before.

Hours or minutes blur by - it's hard to tell. The forest's sameness disorients you, the endless red and endless shadow blending time and space itself. Mingyu rides up against, his voice soft and a welcome relief.

"Did you know the sap has acidic properties?" You shake your head. "Burns like hell on the skin, but seals wounds pretty fast."

"I can't imagine letting the sap touch me."

"Fair. You holding up alright?"

"Better than expected."

"Yeah, this forest is creepy. I hate coming here."

As dusk settles, the sap begins to glow faintly luminescent, casting the Bloodwood in ethereal crimson. The tracks are fresher now - a campfire's cold ashes, hastily buried; a torn scrap of cloth caught on thorns. You hate that the deserters leave evidence in their haste, hoping that they're outpacing you.

Torren chooses his moment to edge his horse on your other side, his knee nearly brushing yours. Mingyu stiffens, hand drifting toward a dagger at his hip. Torren ignores him, his inky eyes settling on you as he grins.

"Dangerous place, this forest," he says. His eyes stick to your unmarked throat. "Omega like you come nightfall will be vulnerable. Stick by us, little omega. We'll keep you safe. And warm."

The words slither over your skin, cold and nauseating. Your stomach turns, but before you can react, Seungcheol stops his horse dead, forcing Torren to veer to his left and split the two of you. He keeps his stallion between you, pivoting in his seat to block you from Torren's view as Mingyu keeps close pace on your other side, boxing out Soren.

Seungcheol's voice is quiet and lethal as he warns, "Another word to her and I'll cut you here and let the Bloodwood drink what's left. She is my omega. Mine. Touch her or look at her, and you will die screaming. Do you understand?"

Torren's smirk falters. For the first time, the leer vanishes entirely. His face pales in the red glow, eyes widening as he takes in the raw, unfiltered murder in Seungcheol’s stare. Seungcheol's scent floods the air, territorial and furious. A shiver ripples down your spine, omega reacting to the overwhelming pheromones.

It makes Torren swallow hard. He nods once, jerky, and pulls his horse back sharply, putting several paces between him and you. He doesn't speak again, though Soren is whispering something sharply to him.

Lira glances back once, brow arched, but says nothing. She smirks like she finds it funny and turns to keep riding, back to you as Seungcheol keeps his mount to your left. Jihoon drops back a little, glancing at Mingyu. He nods his head and Mingyu navigates his mare behind you, cutting you off from the two alphas who ride several paces back now.

You realize you're boxed in, glancing at Seungcheol. His face is hard, but he seems pleased by Jihoon and Mingyu's presence. You feel the heat in your cheeks, your pulse racing. My omega. The words echo, stirring something primal inside of you. The declaration lingers like a brand, but you don't know what to make of it, if Seungcheol actually feels that way, or if it's just to keep you safe.

You hate that you can't tell.

The Bloodwood grows darker as dusk deepens into true night, the crimson glow of the sap turning the forest into a living wound. Lire calls for a halt in a small clearing ringed by ancient trees whose trunks weep steadily, the sap pooling like open sores. The ground here is softer, carpeted in thick moss that squelches underfoot as you unmount, thighs shaking. Your knees nearly buckle but Mingyu's hand darts out to steady you by the elbow and you give him a grateful smile.

You tether the horses to low branches, their coats slick with sweat as you pull out a sachet of hay to buckle onto their bridles. Lira moves with brisk efficiency, directing the setup. Soren scrapes a space for a fire pit, stones ringed around it to contain the flames while Torren tosses bedrolls into the floor. No tents.

The fire is lit quickly, fed with dry branches gathered from the edge of the clearing, the flames flickering low and red, casting strange shadows that dance like specters across the trunks. You shiver, hating the red of the forest, hating the glare that Torren sends Seungcheol, who ignores him.

Seungcheol stays close to you the entire time, a silent, brooding presence. He helps unsaddle your mare without being asked, his hands steady as he rubs her down with a cloth and checks her hooves for stones. When you kneel to unroll your bedroll, he drops down next to you, doing the same.

The proximity is maddening. His bergamot scent wraps around you, warm and grounding, but his face remains closed off, jaw tight as his gaze fixes on his hands, the trees, the horses - anywhere but you. You feel the push and pull of him like a tide - one moment his shoulder brushes yours, warm and welcoming, the next he's pulling away, leaving you cold.

You hate the contradiction. Hate that his rejection from days ago still stings. You want to demand answers from him, but you know it'll drive him further. The Bloodwood isn't a place for vulnerability anyway, so you settle on your bedroll, knees drawn up as you stare into the flames.

The others spread out in a loose formation that reveals the divide of the hunting party clearly. Lira, Soren and Torren huddle on the far side of the fire, speaking in low voices, heads close together. Torren's leer is gone now, replaced by sullen silence after Seungcheol's threat. He still glances toward you occasionally though, his gaze like a cold, clammy awareness that clamps on the back of your neck.

Soren watches everything with a cold, calculated amusement that unnerves you. It's taken you hours, but you realize she's Torren's sister, the lines of their noses and jaws almost identical. What Torren lacks in Soren's height is certainly ugliness, and you turn away from him, trying not to scowl at the obvious way the three of them are a unit, insular and loyal to the Divine in ways the rest of you are not.

Mingyu and Jihoon settle nearer to you and Seungcheol, a subtle but deliberate choice. Mingyu drops down cross-legged, stretching his long legs toward the fire with a groan.

"Gods, my ass is numb," he mutters, rubbing his rear. "These saddles weren't made for long rides."

You notice that Mingyu says gods. Not goddess. Not a Selyne worshiper. You didn't think he was, but the confirmation that his gods are not the bloodthirsty deity these heretics worship is comforting.

Jihoon snorts, eyeing Mingyu. "You complain every hunt."

"Because every hunt is hell on my ass." He glances at you. "You doing alright?"

You nod. "The sap is weird. It glows like it's alive."

"It kind of is," Jihoon says. His voice is low and measured as he unwraps a piece of jerky. "Old stories say the trees remember every drop of blood spilled in this forest. The sap's their way of keeping score."

Mingyu rolls his eyes. "Don't scare her, Ji."

Seungcheol snorts. "Trust me. She isn't afraid."

Jihoon’s sharp eyes flick to you, assessing, then to Seungcheol, who sits a few feet away, sharpening his dagger with slow, deliberate strokes. The scrape of whetstone on steel is the only sound for a moment.

Lira clears her throat, standing. “Watch shifts. First rotation: me and Soren. Second: Jihoon and the omega. Third: Mingyu and Seungcheol. Torren, you’re with me on the fourth if we’re still here. Wake the next pair at the hour mark. No one sleeps through.”

You bristle at the way Lira dismisses you and calls you the omega. Seungcheol makes a sound in the back of his throat at you and you lay backward on your bedroll instead, angry and glaring at the trees. You hate the way these people treat you. Hate having to take it. But you do have to take it.

Mingyu catches your eye and offers you a reassuring smile. "At least you're with Jihoon. Which means I have to deal with the brooding wolf."

Seungcheol pauses his sharpening, looking at Mingyu with a thunderous gaze. You decide you like Mingyu, smirking a little as you sigh and stare up at the blood red trees, tired. The three of you sit in silence for a while as Torren immediately goes to bed.

The fire pops and hisses, sending sparks drifting upward like dying stars. You can't see the stars, but you wish you could. Your mother used to lay in the lawn with you when you were little, counting each star in the sky, telling you their stories and showing you how to trace your shapes. But the stars over Valen are dead. At least, so long as you're in the Divine's hold.

Looming overhead are the red boughs, watchful and ancient. You hate how small they make you feel. Hate the way Lira called you the omega like it was your only name. Hate the lingering heat of Torren's gaze, even though he's stopped looking now. Mostly, you hate the way Seungcheol is sitting just close enough that you can feel the warmth of him without touching, and far enough that it feels deliberate.

He shifts, reaching into his pack to pull something out before twisting to you. He doesn't say anything at first. He just holds out bread, cheese, and a strip of dried meat, waiting and expectant.

"I'm not hungry," you mutter, though your stomach does growl a little.

He doesn't move. "Eat."

"I said I'm not hungry."

"And I said eat."

His voice is quiet, but there's something hard beneath it. Not anger, just that same stubborn patience from that first night you met and he forced water down your throat. He seems to remember that night too, arching his brow like a promise to do that same exact thing now if you don't listen.

You snatch the bread from his fingers, tearing into it more forcefully than necessary. The crust is thick, but the inside is soft. He hands you the wedge of cheese next as you chew, watching you with that same steady expression. You bite into the cheese - soft and sharp - and he hands you the meat next. You snatch it from him, annoyed at the fact that it does taste good and you were hungrier than you thought.

When you finish the last bite and wipe your hands on your pants, he nods once, satisfied. He lays down then, his bedroll so close to you that you're dizzy with the smell of him, eyes fluttering for a second.

You growl, "You're doing that on purpose."

He rolls toward you, a tiny, fleeting quirk at the corner of his mouth. "Problem?"

"You're being annoying."

He shrugs. "Go to sleep. You'll be safe with Jihoon on your watch. And he's too quiet to be annoying."

You open your mouth to argue, but you remember your place here. So you snap it shut and glare as he lays on his back, one arm under his head as he looks up at the canopy. The space between your bedrolls is narrow, and you can feel the heat of him bleeding across it. It's maddening. Comforting. Infuriating.

Growling, you lay on your back too, staring up at the same red-leaf sky. Sleep feels impossible. Your body aches from riding, and your mind won't quiet. Every time you shift to get comfortable, you're acutely aware of how close Seungcheol is, your nerves on edge.

Seungcheol's breathing changes. You can feel the shift, the way it slows and deepens. Bergamot blooms, warm and steady, laced with something deeper that smells like safety and home and your pack. It's not overwhelming - it's just enough to settle the frantic edge in your chest, to quiet the racing thoughts.

You realize he's doing it on purpose. You want to be angry about it. Want to roll over and snap at him for acting like he cares when he's spent weeks pulling away. But you're too tired, and his scent is the only thing keeping you from spiraling.

So you let your eyelids grow heavy as the fire crackles low. The sap drips in slow, rhythmic plops somewhere in the dark. You roll over and curl on your side, away from him, but the distance between your back is small enough that you can feel the warmth of him through your spine.

You don't touch. You hate that you wish he would touch you.

The last thing you register is the steady rhythm of his breathing, perfectly matched to yours, and then sleep pulls you under.

-

A hand on your shoulder makes you jolt from sleep. You sit up fast, world tilting as your hand goes for your dagger. Jihoon shifts back on his feet, quick and away from you as you pant, gathering your bearings.

"It's me," he murmurs, brows raised. "Sorry."

Jihoon crouches low, expression calm and eyes dark in the burnt out embers of the fire. Snoring from across the way tells you that the others are sleeping, and beyond him, you see Lira settling down after waking him for your watch.

"Second watch," he says.

You nod, pushing yourself up. Your body feels heavy, limbs reluctant, but the fog of sleep clears quickly. You glance at Seungcheol to see he's awake and looking at you, arms still tucked behind his head. He looks tired, like Jihoon's presence has pulled him from sleep too. He gives you a small nod as you stand.

Jihoon waits until you've shaken out your cloak before leading you toward the perimeter, just out of the ring of light from the low burning wood. You feel Seungcheol's gaze on you as you go, stomach flipping as you creep over red moss and sap.

You follow Jihoon into the shadows, the firelight fading behind you. The Bloodwood presses in close, the air thick with the sweetness of the sap. Your boots sink in the moss ground with soft squelches and you cringe, watching as each step seems to send a ripple through the undergrowth, like everything here is alive. You think about what Jihoon said about the forest drinking in the blood spilled here and you shiver, pulling your cloak closer and resting a hand on top of your dagger.

Jihoon moves ahead, silent as a ghost. His frame bleeds into the dark crimson haze as he moves. He doesn't speak, doesn't even glance back - just pauses every few steps to listen, head cocked, sharp eyes scanning the vines and dripping trunks.

At first, the quiet is awkward. You're used to the easy chatter of Seokmin or Soonyoung's teasing, the endless bickering between Chan and Jeonghan. Jihoon's silence feels like a wall, solid and unyielding. It reminds you of Seungcheol. You open your mouth once - twice - searching for words to fill the silence. Each one dies on your tongue and you decide to leave the quiet, eyes studying each tree as you walk the circumference of the camp, always on the line of light from the fire.

The sap glows brighter at night, some unknown bioluminescence making it gleam. The veins pulse faintly along the bark, illuminating twisted paths that lead nowhere. Insects click in the hidden crevices of the trees and you stay away from them, uneager to find if the tree's residences like blood as much as the forest.

Jihoon stops at one point, crouching to examine a patch of disturbed moss. He doesn't explain and you don't ask, stepping behind him to guard his unprotected back. You decide his silence is more like Vernon's than Seungcheol's - not as solid and stalwart as you thought, but inquisitive. You get the feeling if he has something to say, he'll say it.

Something prickles at the back of your neck, a sudden shift in the air. Your senses flare, picking up something wrong, an acrid smell cutting through the sap's sweetness. It smells like rot and you freeze, hand drifting to the sword at your hip. Jihoon notices too, his head snapping up - but it's too late.

A shape detaches from the shadows above, launching itself at Jihoon with a wet, guttural snarl.

Time slows. You draw your sword in a single fluid arc, the blade singing as your other hand yanks the dagger from your belt. Jihoon twists, his own dagger flashing but it's your sword that saves him, cleaving through the creature right through the middle in a spray of dark ichor.

The blood burns your knuckles where it splatters, acid-hot. You curse, wiping your knuckles on your pants as Jihoon steps away from the creature, curling his lip.

"Thanks," he mutters.

You don't get a moment to respond. Another shadow peels away from a tree and you growl, stepping forward to meet it as Jihoon pivots, back against yours, twin daggers raised as shadows rip from trees.

"Ware!" You shout, voice cutting through the night.

The camp explodes into motion. You hear growls rip through the clearing, the sound of steel unsheathing. The creatures swarm, fast and feral, their vine-like limbs lashing out like whips. They're a grotesque thing to look at, almost humanoid but rotted away and taken over by vicious flora.

One of them vaults a low branch straight at you, thorns extended like a deadly fan. You sidestep, sword slashing upward to sever a limb, sap spraying. It burns your cheek and you hiss, ignoring the urge to wipe your skin as you spin to drive the dagger into the creature's side with your off-hand. The creature screams but presses the attack, its maw snapping inches from your arm. You drive your sword arm down, cutting its head clean off, panting.

When you glance up, you see chaos. Seungcheol is cutting his way toward you, sword gleaming. Mingyu isn't far behind him, cutting through a creature as an arrow from Lira whistles past him, hitting one of the vines and lighting it on fire, its screeches shattering the air. Torren is closest to you, swinging his axe hard as he cuts through the limbs of an enemy, flashing his teeth.

Another charges you and you drop low, rolling across the mossy ground as sap sticks to your cloak. You release it with a quick flick of your hand, coming up on one knee as you slash the sword across the legs of the oncoming beast. Vines part with a tear, making it buckle. You finish it off with a dagger plunge upward, growling as your weapon pierces through its chest.

Suddenly, a shoulder slams into you, sending you stumbling toward one of the monstrosities. You recover mid-stumble, sword thrusting forward to impale the creature approaching. It spasms, dying, but you whirl around, expecting an attack from the rear.

You just find Torren, eyes gleaming. "Watch where you're fighting, omega. Accidents happen in the dark."

Your blood boils, the urge to drive the sword home nearly overwhelming. But movement catches your eye and you turn away, dodging a lash of thorns and vine as the remaining creatures press in. Rage floods you as you slash one across the legs to drop it to the ground, finishing off with your dagger.

Sap coats you now, burning whenever it touches skin, but you ignore it, ducking under Seungcheol's blade as he cuts down the creature behind you. You pop up behind him, back to back as the two of you cut down enemies in tandem, your hearts pounding the same deadly rhythm.

And then there's silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of your party and the drip of sap. The clearing reeks of burned vines and rotting ichor, bodies littering the moss in twisted heaps. There's over a dozen of them, twisting and red, your stomach lurching at the sight. You hadn't realized the swarm was so large.

You bend down and wipe your blades on a clean patch of moss, heart pounding, adrenaline making the blood roar in your ears. Torren's attempt to kill you burns like a brand, but you say nothing. Telling Seungcheol will only spark a fight - maybe worse - and you can't afford to misstep. Not with the rest of them - your pack - in the Divine's clutches.

You won't lose your people again.

Seungcheol drops to a knee, sweat lining his hair. His pupils are blown from the fight, eyes a little wide as he looks for any sign of injury. "You alright?"

You nod. "Fine."

"What's wrong?"

You force a shrug, avoiding his eyes. "Nothing."

He looks like he's about to press when Jihoon walks over, sheathing his daggers. There's something close to respect in his gaze when he holds a hand out to help you to your feet. Seungcheol's face clouds over with something dark, but he says nothing.

"Thanks again. You saved my ass." You nod and he peers at you, cocking his head. "You fight very well."

"Soonyoung is a good teacher."

"Soonyoung isn't," Jihoon laughs. He peers at you once more, eyes flickering to Seungcheol who stands. "I'm glad to have you with us, either way. I owe you one."

A few feet away, Mingyu uses the toe of his boot to turn over one of the fiends. He recoils and looks up, face twisted in disgust. "Look at this," he says, voice low. "The bones are still human - see the shape of the pelvis and the skull? The flesh is rotted and replaced, like the sap took over the body after death. Or before."

Jihoon crouches beside him, frowning. "Parasite? The Bloodwood's always been hungry. Old stories say the trees drink blood to grow, but they don't always wait for you to die first. These may have been travelers. Or our deserters."

Lira shakes her head. "Tracks continue through the forest. We were just unlucky. Clean your blades. We move at first light."

Soren nods once, silent as ever while Torren mutters something under his breath and turns away, axe still dropping. You stay quiet, the adrenaline finally fading. It leaves your limbs heavy and your skin still burns where sap touches you, though it's already dulling.

Seungcheol hasn't moved more than a step away from you, so close that his cloak brushes your arm when he shifts, his bergamot scent steady and warm against the forest's rot. He doesn't speak, a silent, immovable wall as always.

You head back toward the fire, picking your cloak up from the forest floor. It's covered in red and you make a sound. Lira tosses you one of the extra water skins to wash the sap from your skin and clothes and you nod, grateful to her at a minimum.

Sitting on your bedroll, you begin to scrub the sap from your arms. It's thick and congealed, making you scrunch your nose as you use the cold water to wash it away, flicking your fingers to rid yourself of the residue.

As the others settle, Seungcheol lowers himself to the ground beside your bedroll again, closer than before. The space between you is almost gone now, and you can feel the heat of him through the thin layer of your shirt. He sits there for a moment, staring at you while you ignore him, focused on scraping sap from your cloak.

"What happened?" He asks again quietly.

You clench your jaw, frustrated. The anger that's been simmering since he pulled away from you in the training room and refused to tell you what the Divine was talking about the day she granted you citizenship ignites again.

Seungcheol is impossible. One moment you know he cares, the other he's icing you out again. He's the only one you don't know how to navigate, a constant list of unanswered questions you don't know what to do with. Trusting him is a given, with how far you've come, but talking to him is near impossible.

"If you're not going to be open with me," you say sharply, "I'm not going to be open with you."

The words hang between you. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't even argue. He purses his lips like he's thinking, before he nods, agreeing that it's only fair. You hate how he agrees that you're being rational, that instead of being forthcoming, he'll simply hold you at arms distance. It gnaws at you, makes you want to throw the cloak down and scream at him to make sense.

You don't.

Seungcheol lies down on his side, his back to you. You turn and glare at the space between his shoulders, furious at him - furious at yourself, for how much you still want him to turn around and say something real. To explain anything. To tell you why the Divine thinks giving you over to him is punishment. To just… let you in.

But he doesn't. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire as everyone stares at it, too wired to go back to sleep.

Eventually, exhaustion wins. Your eyelids grow heavy, the ache in your body deepening into something dull and bone deep. The last thing you feel before sleep claims you is the faint brush of his cloak as he throws it over you, the smell of bergamot lulling you to sleep.

-

Dawn filters through the Bloodwood's canopy in muted crimson streaks. You wake with a start, muscles stiff from sleeping on the bedroll, skin still sticky with the faint residue of sap. The smell of earthy bergamot eclipses the scent of rot, and when you blink, you realize it's because Seungcheol's cloak is draped over you.

Your chest tightens. You sit up slowly, pulling the cloak tighter around your shoulders. The fabric smells like him - bergamot and a little smoke - the faint edge of the mountain that never quite leaves him. It's grounding and infuriating all at once.

Seungcheol is already awake, crouched by the smoldering fire, feeding it small sticks with precise movements. His back is to you, shoulders tense, hair still mused from sleep. You can tell by the set of his shoulders and the way his head turns a fraction he knows you're awake, but he says nothing.

The camp wakes up around you. The sound of groans and joints popping fill the clearing as the others shake off the night's chill. Embers smolder in the pit and the smoke curls upward as Seungcheol coaxes the flame to life for breakfast.

It's a lifeless affair. No one speaks, not even Mingyu. You in silence, barely acknowledging Seungcheol when he gives you warm broth and eggs. He packs his bedroll without looking at you, prepping the horses as you finish eating. You fold his cloak carefully, smoothing the fabric and then drape it over his pack. He pauses for a heartbeat before continuing packing like nothing happened.

Everyone readies to leave. Saddles are placed on the horses and cinched, fire put out. Torren avoids your gaze, though you're sure he'll shove you down a ravine at the first chance he gets. Mingyu offers you an extra strip of jerky and you take it from him wordlessly, biting into it as Seungcheol stares.

You swing onto your mare, thighs protesting, and fall in behind Seungcheol. The ride from the clearing is tense and quiet, hooves muffled on the mossy path. Today, everyone rides with a hand on a weapon, your dagger half drawn as you glance in the canopy as you ride.

The Bloodwood grows deeper with thicker tree trunks and sap flowing freer, pooling in little lakes of red. Your horse skirts them warily, huffing as she tries to stay out of the sap. Vines dangle lower, brushing your shoulders like grasping fingers and you cringe. You feel watched, the forest alive and hungry, like maybe it won't wait until you're dead either to turn you into a sap creature.

You miss Soonyoung. You miss the smell of Chan's black tea and clove, stretching with him in the early mornings. You miss Seokmin making an annoyed sound as you ask for a salve for your bruises - miss the crack of bone beneath your fist with Vernon pressed to your side, your twin wrath. You miss Jeonghan's needling, pressing you to use the Call better, teasing you when you get frustrated.

"They'll be fine," Seungcheol murmurs, startling you from your daze. You frown at him. "I miss them too."

You say nothing and he resigns back to silence, looking ahead. He stays riding by your side and you ignore the way you feel him try to soothe you. It makes you want to snap your teeth at him - makes you want to scream stop comforting me at the same time it makes you want to scream let me in.

Hours bleed together in a red haze. The canopy begins to thin gradually and the light brightens, the unfiltered sun peaking through as the trees space out. The sap's glow fades, replaced by natural greens, and the air lightens, losing the cloying sweetness.

Gently, you emerge on the other side of the Bloodwood. You're surprised, until Mingyu mutters that you passed through the smallest part of the wood. Indeed, when you turn and look directly north, the red trees stretch as far as the eye can see, thickening on the horizon until you can't make out how far it goes.

The tracks end at a crossroads, trampled earth splitting three ways. Tracks go southwest through the grassy plains, directly west and away from the Bloodwood, and northwest following the crimson treeline into rocky hills.

Lira dismounts, examining the tracks with Soren for a bit. Seungcheol doesn't dismount, watching them with keen eyes. You're reminded that he isn't in charge here, which is strange to see.

"They divided," Lira notes. "Desperate. Torren and Mingyu will go south with me. Soren and Jihoon will go west. Seungcheol, take the omega northwest." Lira mounts again. "If you find no sign of them by nightfall, start the return tomorrow. We'll meet here end of day tomorrow. With or without them."

There it is again. The omega. You keep your head down, teeth grinding like your mare on her bit. Your relief of escaping Torren's gaze is dampened slightly by having to pair off with Seungcheol alone, but you prefer him to Torren and his sister's uncanny gaze.

You and Seungcheol turn northwest without preamble, the path climbing into hills dotted with boulders and shrubs. The wind picks up, carrying the smell of clean earth and distant rain. Seungcheol rides ahead, stallion picking a path as your party splits, cloak snapping in the breeze.

The hills climb steadily northward, the path a narrow ribbon of packed earth winding through sparse shrubs and stone. You and Seungcheol ride in silence, the only sounds are the steady clop of the horses' hooves and the occasional hiss of tall grass as it bends at the wind's command.

It feels lighter here. You find yourself closing your eyes, tilting your face to a grey sky. The sun is hidden behind the clouds, but you still feel a speck of its warmth. The air is crisp - no stale mountain air. No wet stone. A hint of winter pine is in the air, the promise of snow ahead. Snow that you need to beat.

You try not to think about winter. Your deadline is tight, and as your mare keeps pace with Seungcheol's stallion, you can't help but feel like you're wasting time.

The hills are barren in some places, exposed rock veined with quartz glinting in the grey light. Splashes of yellow and purple wildflowers appear in patches, clinging defiantly to the soil, refusing to die in autumn's chill.

It's beautiful in a stark, unforgiving way, so different from the lush valleys of Valen. For the first time in months, the world feels vast again, untamed and free and open. A quiet ache blooms in your chest, a reminder of what you lost. Freedom teases the edge of your thoughts, but it's shadowed by the Divine's invisible leash.

You would never leave your newfound home behind.

Seungcheol rides ahead, his broad back a constant in your vision. His cloak flutters slightly with each gust of wind, carrying his smell toward you. He hasn't spoken at all - hasn't even glanced back to check on you. That's just fine by you.

The silence between you is a living thing, thick and charged. His words from the day before haunt you - my omega. You're sure he just meant it to protect you, but you hate the way you wish he meant it like the others. You hate that despite the fact that you can't seem eye to eye, you wish you could. You want to. And he doesn't.

Hours pass by this way, the sun appearing for a brief moment as it dips lower, painting the hills in amber and gold. Your thighs ache from the saddle, the ride lulling you into a numb half-sleep. Thoughts drift as you doze: Soonyoung's untamed smile, Vernon's hand in yours, Seokmin's tea.

Beyond them, ghosts hover. Valen's burning spires, your people's screams, the smell of tapestries turning to ash. Grief tugs at your edges, a tide you're so practiced in holding back that you hardly realize you're doing it anymore. You just do.

Seungcheol veers suddenly off the path, his stallion turning sharply west without warning. Confusion spikes through you and you sit up straighter in the saddle. Your mare follows instinctively and you let her, the new direction leading toward a cluster of hills riding steeper, cloaked in dense clusters of large pines.

Around you, the ground roughens, scattered with pine cones and fallen needles that crunch under the hooves of the horses. It smells like pine resin and winter, and you breathe in deep, wishing you could bottle the scent and take it with you.

"Where are we going?" You finally ask.

Seungcheol doesn't answer. He just urges his horse onward, navigating the rising terrain with ease.

The path - if it can be called that - narrows to a deer trail, winding between boulders and through thickening trees. Pines tower now, their bark dark, filtering the light into dappled patterns that splash across the forest floor.

Your confusion deepens. Lira's orders were to travel northwest, but Seungcheol is leading you directly west, away from the tracks you were following. But he moves with purpose, unhesitating like he's been here before.

The tree part abruptly into a small clearing that's ringed by pines. Seungcheol dismounts wordlessly, tying his horse to a low branch. He turns to you then, extending a hand. You hesitate, your heart hammering, but you take his hand and let him help you off the mare. His touch lingers for only a second before he releases you, turning to walk.

Moss blankets the clearing, soft and green, untouched by the Bloodwood's red taint. At the center stands a circle of weathered stones, each etched with familiar runes : Eira the Spirit, Kaelen the Fierce, Morrakai Reaper, Arylun the Hunter.

There's a low altar of stacked granite, worn smooth by time and touch. Remnants of offerings remain - faded feathers, dried herbs, a small carving of a wolf's head. Pine encircles it all, their branches forming a natural dome that filters light into shafts that illuminate the space. The air here hums, alive with something.

Your heart begins to pound.

It's a worship site. Hidden and ancient, devoted to the Old Gods - your gods. Not Selyne's bloodlust and greed, but the deities you've prayed to since childhood, the ones your mother taught you to honor under Valen's open skies.

Tears blur your vision. You stand completely still, breath catching as you look at the stone, upon the weathered and carved faces of the Gods you've been screaming to for help.

Seungcheol watches you for a moment, expression unreadable. "I'll be back," he says quietly. "Take your time."

He turns then, leading the horses into the pine and vanishing without another word to leave you there alone.

The clearing pulls you in, a magnetic force drawing you toward the stone. Each step is halting, your hands shaking as you approach. When you reach the altars, you feel your knees buckle. The moss cushions the fall, hands landing on the stone. You barely feel the sting of the scrape of broken flesh as you press your palms into the cold stone, seeking. Searching.

The pines sigh above, branches swaying in a breeze that carries the clean scent of resin. Something pulses here, a faint heartbeat that you can barely feel, but you know.

A tremor starts in your chest, building into an uncontrollable shiver that shudders through you. Valen rises in your mind's eye - not the burning ruin of it, but the home as it was.

Golden fields. Summer sun. Laughter in the halls. People's smiling faces, alight from hearth fires. A throne, gone. All of it gone. Reduced to ash. Tapestries burned. Stone broken. People murdered. All of it gone for the Divine's thirst, all of it burned under a red banner.

You weep.

Once the first tear breaks free, you cannot stop the others. Sobs wrench from your throat, raw and ragged, echoing around you as you sink forward and press your forehead to the stone. You don't know what to do. How to get any of it back. How to heal your soul that has been shattered by a loss greater than your mother and father ever could have prepared you for.

You've stitched together borrowed strength from a pack that wasn't yours, not by blood but by choice. But Valen's ghosts still whisper - your mother's gentle hands. Your father teaching you the sword. The weight of a crown you never got the chance to wear.

Broken.

The word pulses through you and you scream. You scream because you hurt, you scream because you cannot stop hurting, you scream because you don't know how to stop hurting.

Broken.

You are broken - splintered wood from a felled tree, roots torn from soil, a bird pulled from the sky. You are broken and you don't know how to mend, so you scream. You scream into the earth, you scream until you don't have the breath to scream anymore, and then you do it again.

There is no throne to reclaim. No people to lead. Just you, adrift in a world that devours the weak, chained to the kind of tyrant you'd only heard about in history books that are all burned.

The Old Gods watch, a silent witness to your unraveling, their presence nothing but a faint hum in the air, distant but comforting. They offer no miracles, no vengeance. Just the quiet endurance of stone and earth, reminded you that through you is the only way they can act.

Time dissolves in the clearing. The sun is hidden somewhere beyond the pines and the air grows colder, biting through your cloak. Frost nips your fingers as the sun begins to sit and the tears dry down cold on your face. The world narrows to the ache in your chest, the salt on your lips, the earth's unending pulse.

Footsteps crunch softly. You lift your head to see Seungcheol emerge from the trees, his silhouette dark against the fading light. He pauses at the clearing's edge, then approaches slowly. He lowers himself to the ground beside you, close but not touching as he draws his knees up to his chest, putting his arms on his knees.

The tears come unbidden then, a fresh wave crashing over the dam you've built. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, wishing you could stop them, wishing you could close yourself back off to all of the hurt you've hidden from.

"Why did this happen to me?" You ask Seungcheol, voice cracking. You look at him, tears blurring your vision. "Why is evil so strong? Why does it take everything and leave nothing behind? Why?"

His presence is a silent bulwark against the cold, warm and steady as you unravel. He doesn't answer immediately, his gaze lifting to the canopy, where dusting motes dance like lost souls in the last light of day. The Old Gods stand sentinel before you, watching over the choked silence as you watch him through watery tears.

"There once was a boy who lived in the mountains," Seungcheol murmurs, his voice low. "Not these mountains, but the far ones, where the peaks scraped the sky and the valleys cradled his pack. He loved his people fiercely, but most of all, he loved a girl. She was like the first light of dawn, bright and unyielding, and a heart of storms. Fierce. Unrelenting."

You listen, breath catching, the grief in your chest twisting with recognition of a shared sorrow. His profile is sharp against the gloaming, jaw set, eyes distant as if gazing into that long-ago valley. The wind stirs the pines, needles rustling, and you feel the Old Gods leaning in to listen to Seungcheol speak.

"The boy dreamed of a life with her," he continues. "Of building a home in the bones of the mountain. But evil came, as it always does. Red in color - and evil ruined everything. Turned his people against themselves. Washed away thousands of years of culture and training."

His hands clench in his lap, knuckles white as bone. You watch him, tears blurring your vision. "The girl fought. But she liked to take too many risks. She liked to sacrifice herself too easily. The boy couldn't save her - he tried. Gods he tried. He screamed her name until his throat bled, asking why evil prevails unchecked while the good shatter like glass underfoot."

Seungcheol's gaze drops to his hands, scarred and steady. "The boy asked why me every day after. In the ruins of his villages. In the chains of his tyrant. In the worst of those early days. Why me? Sometimes, he still asks. But he's learned something."

Seungcheol looks at you then and you realize tears line his eyes, the grief you feel reflected back in such equal measure that it steals your breath. "The boy learned - him because he could bear it. Him because he needed to teach other people to bear it. Because sometimes grief is a crucible, and it forges something unbreakable. And the boy wants you to know that you can bear it too, and that he wants you to have courage, above all else."

Your tears fall freely now, mingling with the moss, seeping into the earth like an offering. Seungcheol lets a tear slide down his face too, his understanding so raw that you feel cut open. He bears it because he must, just like you.

"Have courage, Wildheart," he murmurs. He reaches for you then, wrapping a hand around yours and pulling it to his chest. You feel the pounding of his heart as he looks at you, tears clinging to his lashes. "She cannot break you."

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

He laughs then, wet and raspy. "Why?"

"I don't know. It felt like the right thing to say."

Seungcheol reaches over, startling you when he wipes the tears from your face. His hands are rough and warm, sweeping under your eyes. "I don't think you've ever apologized to me."

"Yeah, well." You sniff as he drops his hands. "Don't get used to it."

Seungcheol shifts closer, pressing his side against yours. You let him, your hand still wrapped in his as he holds it to his chest. He stares out, the clearing now fallen to darkness.

"The day we attacked Valen," he says, hesitating. "I saw you in the courtyard. Standing there, fierce and bloody after killing those men. I told you to run - not because I realized who you were. But because I looked at you, and you looked exactly like her. The girl I couldn't save. In that moment, I thought the Gods were giving me a second chance to right a wrong that haunts me."

His words hang heavy, your heart pounding. You watch him, breath held as he continues, "But you fought back." He laughs then, a bit ruefully. "You fucking fought back because of course you had fire. And I couldn't save you. The Divine sees it too - she thinks it's funny, pairing us. A reminder of my failures. She knows when I look at you it's because I sometimes see her. So when I pull away it's…"

The confession cracks you open further, grief mingling with his. Of course he doesn't want you near him. Of course the Divine found a sick way to play with him. Guilt begins to eat at you, but before you can open your mouth to apologize he squeezes your hand.

"You're really nothing alike," he whispers. "You look similar but… I realized it was more my grief projecting. You're stubborn like her but…" He smiles a bit. "You have more fire than anyone I've ever met. Truly. And you're a lot harder to reason with than she was, to be honest."

"I've been told."

"It's a good thing." He squeezes your hand as wind lifts the strands of his hair. "I mean it, Wildheart. Have courage."

[ohhowjooniewept]

handyman jungkookx y/n

damsel in distress, obsessive obsessive obsessive, smutty

>20k

-

the life you lived was hardly one that many dreamt about.

you weren’t rich, successful or even remotely happy. you worked two gruelling jobs, one throughout the day and then a night shift at your local diner all whilst barely having enough money at the end of the month for basic necessities and food, all thanks to the horrible apartment you had moved into.

moving away from an abuser who had connections and knew everyone in the town you’d once lived in meant you were forced into the city - big streets, bigger prices and no safety net. you had been here for six months, still healing from the kind of trauma that lodged itself in your body as opposed to your overworked mind. the kind that made you flinch at footsteps, double check locks, keep your head down.

you weren’t sure you had ever experienced safety, and you weren’t sure you ever would.

the only building you managed to secure on such short notice was the building you lived in now - a concrete block rotting from the inside out. the water pressure was horrendous, shooting out cold water a majority of the time, with mould crawling up your walls like it was alive. you owned very little because you couldn’t afford to replace anything that broke, and the worst part of all? the rent.

triple what the apartment was worth.

you didn’t know at first, too blinded by your desperation to escape your abusive home, too tired, too exhausted - you had signed the papers without looking properly. by the time you realised, you were already trapped. you couldn’t move even if you wanted, not with all of the deposits you couldn’t afford, moving fees you couldn’t dream of paying or the even nastier landlords that somehow managed to be sleazier than your own.

and so, you endured. endured the way he would speak to you, all up in your business, breath hot on your neck and cheeks every time he’d lean in too close. sometimes he would move goalposts, forcing you to pay your rent early just to watch you scramble. you were in a constant fight or flight mode that you knew would kill you.

you woke up tired and went to sleep tired, body aching in ways that rest could never help recover. you didn’t complain, didn’t have anyone to ask for help, didn’t have the time nor the energy to believe anything would change. you moved through the world quietly, apologetically, as though your mere presence took up too much space.

jungkook had known that apartment long before you ever even stepped foot into it.

unit 4b.

as the resident’s on sight handyman, he had been inside it years ago. the building had been past saving then, but still pretending otherwise - he couldn’t even imagine what it was like now, but luckily, it had been unoccupied for so long that he had forgotten all about it thankfully.

he had fixed a pipe in there once, replaced a fuse another; every visit had left him with grime underneath his fingernails and a sour taste in his mouth. the place was a hazard waiting to happen, damp beneath the walls and faulty wiring. it was a display of neglect that didn’t show itself all at once.

when he had seen your name on the new tenants list, next to the apartment, something inside him had gone still.

he hadn’t bothered to knock on your door when you moved in. never introduced himself, that wasn’t how things were done in this place - it was rough living for rough people. you asked when you wanted something, weren’t just given it.

he, however, had met fragments of you.

coming and going whilst he fixed stair rails, brow collecting sweat as he watched you shuffle beside him to take the rubbish out. you moved like someone permanently bracing for impact with your shoulders curled in, bag clutched tight, steps uneven with exhaustion. sometimes you couldn’t even bring yourself to look up, but he could see the glassy mess of your eyes.

he doubted you had ever even seen him. that should have been the end of it, but it wasn’t.

because once he noticed you, he couldn’t stop.

it wasn’t an immediate desire - it wasn’t that simple or crude, no. it was something slower, heavier. it carried in the way his attention snagged every time he saw you stumble slightly on the stairs. the way his jaw would lock tight when he noticed how late you’d leave and come home from your night shift, or the way his chest would tighten inexplicably whenever he imagined you unlocking your door and stepping foot in that fucking apartment all alone.

he didn’t like the thoughts that manifested because of you.

they were intrusive - possessive to the core. he felt sick at the thought of you. wanted to sink his teeth into your arms and legs, anything to grab your attention so you’d notice him head on. his brain was fucked up, wrong in the way that had less to do with morality and everything to do with intensity. jungkook had always known there was something twisted about the way he wanted - not in excess but in pure depth.

he didn’t give a fuck about the idea of all of his past girlfriends leaving him - they weren’t what he craved. they weren’t the missing puzzle piece he had been looking for, all differently shaped to the specific hole in his life.

he fantasised about his dream woman. fantasised about making her stay, making her feel good, providing something he knew he yearned to give.

wanted to provide until there was nothing left for them to worry about. wanted to make money irrelevant in their brain. rest would be mandatory - he wanted to come home dirty after a long day of work to his sweet girl cooking for him, just so he could breed her all fucking night.

it didn’t stem from kindness, but mere vice.

and watching you wear yourself thin inside a place he knew should’ve been condemned made that vice burn hot and ugly in his chest.

he started recognising the patterns. the way you always opted for the stairs when the elevator had broken down, despite it being incredibly dangerous in a messed up building like this one. it was the way you paused on the landing, trying to catch your breath after a long day of not eating enough and feeling a level of exhaustion that had settled into your body like home, your fingers tightening against the very metal he had worked on prior.

you never complained, never flagged anyone down, never even asked for repairs - he was marginally cheaper than anyone else you could hire considering his contract with your building and yet still, you lived in squalor.

jungkook had never been good at ignoring the things he wanted most. especially not when they had him hardening, balls tightening at the mere sight of you - the perfect candidate for the life he wanted to build. at first, he tried convincing himself it was normal to worry about any woman like this, tired and exhausted living in a bad area but he knew his motivation was anything but innocent.

this was a fixation. a maddening, obsessive one.

he could feel his brain warping, dripping in need whenever he’d catch you walking back to your place. couldn’t help the thoughts from straying, wanted to protect you, save you, he’d do it in anyway possible.

you shouldn’t be living like this, and one day soon, something had to give.

he’d make fucking sure.

—

the stairwell smelled like damp concrete and old cigarettes.

the elevator was broken again, and this time it had been down for weeks. you didn’t know if you were allowed to complain to anyone, didn’t have half the energy the act required and frankly, neither the time. your bag dug into your shoulder as you opened the door to the staircase, sighing quietly, beginning your painful ascend to the fourth floor.

your vision swam from your shift you had just finished with, whimpering lightly as your aching legs took you to your place, so you could get dressed for your night shift.

as you climbed, your keys fell from your hand, your hair falling into your eyesight, blurring it even more.

you watched as they clattered down the stairs, another small noise of complaint leaving you at the sight. the sound was jarring in the empty space, as you stumbled down to collect them, hand darting outwards whilst you swayed.

your body lagged behind your mind, causing you to slip, a squeak escaping as you began to fall forwards, bracing for impact.

an arm caught you.

fast. firm. heavy. rough.

fingers clung to the skin on your waist like they had been there before, pulling you harshly into an equally hard chest, the contact knocking air away from your lungs.

“steady.”

a single word. low.

you froze.

your bag had slipped from your shoulder to the ground, your soft palms pressing gently against a set of shoulders, heart pounding. the first thing you noticed when looking up was how big he was, wide shoulders, large pecs, biceps bursting from the t-shirt that sat on top of his body. his grip hadn’t loosened, it had even tightened, his thumb pressing in further to make sure you were steady on your feet.

you nodded quickly, coming out of your daze. “i..i-i am so..sorry.”

he didn’t answer.

instead, he manoeuvred you to his other arm, whilst he bent down to pick up both your bag and your keys, moving in a way that felt easy, controlled. he was blocking the narrow landing, making sure you were pressed firmly against him despite it being intense. you hadn’t been this close to anyone, regardless another man, in years.

his forearm flexed when it straightened, veins standing out underneath worn skin. he held them out to you.

your eyes were hazy, a mixture of exhaustion and the heat of the situation, lips parted as your eyes met with his. you felt suffocated by his gaze, you felt completely naked, as though he as looking at every crevice you tried to hide with mere ease.

“you live here.” he said. not a question.

you shrugged weakly, nodding, shamefully looking away from his gaze, unsure of what to say and not being able to stomach his stare.

something shifted in his expression at that. not sympathy. irritation, sharp and contained. his jaw tightened.

your fingers brushed his as you took your stuff, despite being held almost intimately still. the contact was brief, and accidental, and yet it held even more weight than the heavy arm around your waist, as though it meant something else entirely.

“late.” he gruffed out.

you nodded again, hands against his chest. “yeah.”

his touch loosened, but he remained inappropriately close. tired eyes, scuffed shoes, the way your shoulders were sagging from exhaustion.

“you shouldn’t be out at a time like this,” he said.

not gently.

your stomach twisted. “i don’t really have a choice.”

he looked at you for a long moment. his gaze flicked down the stairwell, listening, calculating, and when he looked back, he stepped closer, close enough that you felt it in your chest.

“pretty thing like you,” he said quietly, “working nights in a place like this?”

your heart fluttering was a shock to you. you could feel a stampede in your stomach, curling further into the warmth he was providing without even realising it, voice tough enough to carry heat. his words weren’t necessarily a compliment, but a mere observation, one that had you reeling regardless.

you nodded for a third time, small. “i have to.”

his hand on your waist squeezed, grunting vocally in response. he could feel his cock hardening, and he knew it was fucked up, but the prospect of such a pretty damsel in distress like you? you were out of his wildest dreams, an anomaly that only came once in a lifetime.

he held you for another moment, the two of you simply looking at one another. he liked watching you cower a little, knowing that there were bad people all over in the complex, and though he evidently wasn’t one, his sheer size alone had you hesitant. knew it made his brain fucked up, but he enjoyed it regardless.

“get inside.” he muttered slowly, arm slipping away from your waist.

your too large eyes blinked up at him, uncomfortable with the feeling cold seeping in. you wanted him to touch you again.

“okay.” you nodded through a whisper, pulling your bag further onto your shoulder more firmly. he admired you for another moment before nudging his nose up to the rest of the staircase, where the door to your floor sat. “lock your door.”

your cheeks were a deep pink, as you turned and walked up the rest of the stairs, nibbling away at your lip, heading through the final door, and rushing into your apartment.

you leaned against your door, locking it exactly as he ordered you, before sliding down the cold wood, legs giving out beneath you.

who was he?

so tall and so broad, his face alone had your thighs trembling but it was more so how manly he was.

you knew it was ridiculous, but just meeting someone like that had your stomach in knots. you assumed he was just being kind, if a man like that was even able to process that emotion - he was calloused all over, rough without meaning to. the type of guy to take up as much room as physically possible because he could.

you had no idea that as you sat pooled on your floor, eyes closed and lip bitten, jungkook stood on the other side, quiet, listening to make sure you had locked it. to make sure you were safe.

only then, did the loud sound of his boots echo into the hall, cause you to gasp.

—

the knock came too early.

it was the kind of early that felt cruel - sunlight barely stretched through the thin, stained curtains, your body still sunk deep into that half-sleep where breathing ached and nothing felt real yet. the sound cut through the quiet of your apartment too harshly, your brain short circuiting despite your legs carrying you out of the little warmth of your bed.

you were startled. no one knocked on your door. people kept to themselves around here until, well, they didn’t, like your neighbour on the left. his door had banged a few weeks ago just as you had come home, and you hadn’t heard or seen from him since, a thought that was now presenting deep in your mind.

with trembling hands, and aching feet, you padded your way over to the door whilst all remnants of sleep fell from you like droplets. your toes curled against the cold floor, grabbing a cardigan on your way over to shield your indecent outfit that consisted of a too thin, too see through tank and shorts set.

by the time you had opened the door, the person behind it had already knocked three separate times, raising the level of urgency and only adding to the stress on your shoulders. you had a rare day off from your night shift, meaning you were only heading out to your day job in a few hours. this was supposed to be decompression time.

your fingers finally slid against the cool handle, hesitating at the lock before opening it up, eyebrows furrowed lightly.

you froze.

it was him.

your brain stuttered for a moment as it took in his broad frame, shoulders wider than you’d seen on any man, with muscles in places you had only ever dreamt of. his biceps were practically spilling out of his uniform, which despite being sat seamlessly, showed signs of wear, indicating he had been working all morning. boots were planted solidly against the chipped hallway tile, sunlight shining onto the highest parts of his cheeks.

daylight did him no favours - made him worse. heavier. darker. stronger. the kind of man that felt realer than anything you’d ever experienced.

the kind of man that worked to an inch of his life.

his work belt sat low on his waist, sleeves pushed up, tatted forearms already streaked with things like grease and dust, and hair still damp from his morning shower. despite the hour, he looked awake and alert, something you knew you lacked in that very moment.

his eyes flickered over you, slow. real slow.

you felt it everywhere.

jungkook met your gaze as you finally looked up, your chest tightening.

“morning.”

his voice was even rougher in the daylight, like gravel dragging over concrete. you could feel it in your stomach.

“hi.” you whispered, barely audible.

“inspection.” he lifted his clipboard whilst staring you down. the eye contact was heavy. “pipe issues in this unit.”

you frowned faintly, confusion pulling at your features. “i..i didn’t call anyone..”

his mouth twitched. you were even cuter when you just woke up. he liked that.

“i know.”

his comment should have unsettled you, should have had you closing the door in his face, locking it immediately and ignoring him.

instead, jungkook took it upon himself to set forward. the door brushed your arm as he passed, your already too small apartment feeling somewhat suffocating as it became swallowed by his mere presence.

you hovered near the door, against the wall as he began to move around with a sense of familiarity that had you stomach churning again.

first, he crouched beneath your sink before checking taps, looking inside your cabinets for any sign of water damage, inspecting the dampness that clung to certain walls. he was efficient, practised - it was clear he was good at his job. he moved like a man who knew what he was doing, as though this was another task on his list that he had to get through.

not like he had been thinking of you in this wretched apartment all fucking night.

he was in your bathroom now, writing something down whilst you continued to hover, half out of curiosity and the other half merely weary. you had every right to be given where you were, the fact you hardly knew him if at all, and of course the knowledge he had simply let himself in.

suddenly, water began sprouting from your tap the way it usually did but judging from the small grimace on his face, you knew it wasn’t something normal despite it being that way from day one.

“this place is so fucked.” he huffed, with a shake to his head. “they shouldn’t be renting this unit out. it’s a biohazard.”

your fingers intertwined together nervously; as though the problem at hand was your fault. “i keep a towel..under there..”

he paused. slowly, he turned to look at you, savouring the way your cardigan was leaving little to his imagination. your nipples had pebbled, and a better man would have looked away, but jungkook was hardly good - assessing them for a moment longer before meeting your gaze.

“you shouldn’t have to.” his voice was hard.

the way he said it, flat, certain, unyielding. it made your stomach ache and your chest tighten, as though someone was looking directly through you.

he stood taller then, raising from his once crouched position. he towered over you, a reminder of the sheer size difference between you, something both of you secretly felt aligned on.

he wiped his hands on his rag, cleaning them before moving past you to the breaker panel. his arm brushed against your shoulder deliberately, watching the way you shuddered.

“power cuts at night?” he asked.

“sometimes.” you answered honestly.

he looked over you again. “figures.”

he opened the panel, taking his time with inspecting it before closing it off. he turned back around to face you once he was done, not bothering to walk away, but instead taking up more of your personal space.

he looked at you properly.

the sag of your shoulders and the shadows underneath your eyes, the way you stood hoping not to be noticed. too small for even the cramped space of your apartment. it made his head swirl.

“you eat?” he gruffed out, a slight edge to his voice.

you were shifting from foot to foot. “what?”

“food.” he clarified with narrowed eyes. “you eat it?”

“i-..when i can.”

you weren’t sure why you were being so honest with him and yet the worlds tumbled out before you could think. you were nibbling on your lip.

he wasn’t done with his line of questioning, finding himself stepping closer to you resulting in you stepping back.

“how old are you?”

“24.”

he exhaled through his nose. he seemed angry, or something adjacent, as though your words were aggravating him. “too young to look this tired.”

you looked down with heat creeping up your neck and cheeks. “it’s fine.”

“don’t say that.” his eyes narrowed once more. he ran a hand through his hair before exhaling deeply. “i’ll be around today, gotta fix some shit around here. don’t go out.”

your mouth opened and closed a few times, unsure of what to say. you watched as he walked towards the entrance, the warmth radiating from his body suddenly gone.

he paused at the threshold, one hand braced on the frame whilst looking back at you, watching the way your chest rose and fell, your sheer pyjamas doing nothing to hide the way your body subconsciously leant towards him.

“next time something breaks, you call me.” his voice firm.

“i don’t have your number.” you weakly replied, as though it was anything to deter him. secretly, you hoped it wouldn’t.

he didn’t respond, simply running his eyes up and down you once more as though he was savouring the sheer look of you, all soft and pliant. it made that sick part of his brain swirl, the thought of you being all his, the side of him that tried to rationalise a man ten years older being with a pretty little thing like you. he’d fucking ruin you and he knew you’d be thankful for it too.

jungkook turned around, cock half hard and head swarming, veins popping out of his arm, leaving you be for a few moments.

—

working the diner on a late shift meant two things. first, it meant you would have to deal with cleaning the entire place top to bottom, which was easily your least favourite task of your entire job. second, and more importantly, it meant you would be forced to deal with the filthy, sleazy men that would come in hopes of riling you up in anyway they could.

you were pliant, too soft for a place like this, too clean, too scared. all the girls before you had been ran away with ease after experiencing a single shift, and here you were, tiny little diner dress that sat too high on your thigh as men ogled at you.

you knew it was going to be a long night by hour two when you had already been harassed by two newcomers, the cooks in the back not able to back you up as much as they wanted considering it was a busy shift. you had been fighting tears back the entire night, but this was borderline insane. it felt targeted, and you felt exhausted already - this was hardly helping.

the smell of burnt coffee and grease was all you could think about as you walked around the diner, filling coffee mugs everytime a man would smash it hard against the table to get your attention, ignoring disgusting comments like they had never even been uttered, eyes down.

you felt it before you saw it.

him.

a regular. late 40’s, unshaven, dirt under his fingernails. kind of guy to make you uncomfortable just to get him off. he made your skin crawl. made you want to hide forever and never appear again, but alas, you were a young, poor, twenty something year old fighting for the very will to live.

you felt the slow drag of attention on your legs, dragging up and settling on your tits. your dress was buttoned, and though you knew there was nothing to even ogle at, the shape of your breasts against your dress was enough for dirt like him to get riled up.

“there she is, about fucking time.” he grunted out, breath hot and legs spread underneath the booth table. “fetch me a coffee. make it good.”

you simply nodded, not trusting your voice as you grabbed him a mug before pouring it in in front of him, eyes trained on the drink.

“what time you finish tonight, sweets?”

your shoulders bristled immediately. he always did this, but it never made you feel any better.

“late.” you murmured quietly, but he was perceptive enough to hear you. didn’t like the bite in your voice.

“walking home alone again?”

your body went cold.

your stomach tightened uncontrollably, and though the line of questioning wasn’t anything new, it still messed with you more than you wanted to admit. you could feel the thin layer of threat coated in each word, and it scared you to know you were utterly defenceless.

you had been feeling watched recently too. on the staircases, when entering your home, walking through hallways. your building was shady, yes, but this was different - it felt charged. felt scary enough to notice, and paired with a line like that? this didn’t feel normal anymore.

you shake your head before you could even think it through. “no.”

“no?” he repeated with a smirk.

you swallowed nervously.

“i’ve got someone..so.”

your words surprised even you, and you tried your hardest to hide it, especially when his own was formed perfectly upon his features. he leaned back, drinking the coffee with his darkened features.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

you shifted from foot to foot. he didn’t believe you, you could feel it.

“he works in construction.” you added, nervously, breathing through your words to sound firm but instead, coming out like a fawn. “does long shifts too but takes care of me and..and he doesn’t..like men talking to me..so.”

your pad suddenly looked so much more interesting, shuffling it between your fingers as he stared you down, secretly seething at the idea of the pretty plaything at the diner no longer being accessible to mess with.

“he’s protective too. big cause he works with his hands.” you kept rambling on, describing the very protector you needed.

describing jungkook.

subconsciously, of course.

the sleazy man narrowed his eyes at you, tilting his head slightly. “don’t look like you have a man like that. you sure you’re not lying to me, sweets? cause i don’t like liars.”

“i do..i really do.” you nodded immediately but you were blinking fast, almost about to burst into tears from your lie that you begged wouldn’t come back to bite you in the ass.

“yeah? what’s his name?”

your throat constricted. you wanted to run away.

“he wouldn’t like me giving his name out.” your voice came out a whisper.

you knew he had you. knew he could see right through you.

he drank from his mug once more, filthy stare looking over you once more as though he had every right. his fingers tapped against the table for a few seconds before he leaned back.

“say hi for me.”

you didn’t respond. you couldn’t. you simply walked away.

later, once the diner had closed and every inch had been mopped to perfection, you finally grabbed your bag and your coat with a loaded sigh. the exhaustion was heavy today, you could feel it in the way your bones screamed with every passing movement. you had been shouted at non stop all night by customers, and though you weren’t doing anything wrong, it still was never good enough.

stepping out after you had locked the doors was stark, the cold air hitting you in your face causing you to wrap your coat even tighter around you, beginning the ten minute walk to your apartment block. you had long become used to the journey, and despite the late hour being terrifying at this time of night, it was one of the only chances you had to feel the wind hit you. to remind you that you were alive.

the streets felt different tonight, with the stark lighting above flickering with each and every step. you could feel a knot begin to form in your stomach, and you knew it was anxiety, you knew you were being ridiculous but that didn’t make the thoughts go away.

it only took another 30 seconds for your thoughts to be confirmed.

you could hear it. footsteps just a few metres away from you, and considering it was the early morning, the streets were completely bare save for yourself and whatever was trailing you from behind. you felt your legs quicken despite the tiredness in your body screaming at you, openly telling you it could take no more for the night and yet you were doing a full blown run home within seconds.

you could still hear it behind you, and it was real, wasn’t a figment of your imagination - someone was trying to get you, to hurt you.

you could see your apartment, could see the heavy doors, the rubbish bins all empty and random waste littered around on the floor. the most noticeable thing of all, however, was the beaten down truck, where a tall and bulky man stood, smoking his cigarette with furrowed eyes as he leaned against it.

you recognised him immediately.

he seemed to notice you too, watching as you all but ran over to him, your eyes wide and breathing heavy, your chest heaving up and down.

jungkook’s head tilted just slightly, grabbing you with one of his arms as his cigarette sat on his lip, watching as you burst out into crushing sobs almost instantly from the feel of his touch.

it was safety personified.

his arms wrapped around you as though it was second nature, one hand on the back of your head, the other harsh on your waist.

his cigarette fell to the ground, extinguished by a heavy boot whilst you sobbed in utter fear, clutching him like a lifeline, as though he was the only thing that could protect you from the outside world.

he was.

his touch wasn’t gentle, or firm - it was mean, harsh against your skin, grabbing and forcing you to look up at him as it did exactly what it needed to. it grounded you, enough to sedate the fear, just slightly, fingers pressing into your uniform.

“what happened?” his voice was equally as rough, as though he had barely used it all day, a man used to using his hands as opposed to his words.

you couldn’t get your words out, too big eyes staring up at him almost desperately as broken sounds and wet breaths fell into his chest, your hands bundled against his pecs.

his jaw tightened. he looked past you, eyes narrowing as he assessed the street, shoulders square. it was far too quiet considering the state you were in, and he could only assume whatever had made you so scared had quickly ran away the moment they realised you had sought shelter in him. he was a pretty intimidating guy, all height and muscle, a right hook that had people passing out in seconds.

“did someone touch you?”

you shook your head fast against him, sucking in a breath.

“n-n..” hiccup. “no.”

his hand travelled from the back of your head, running through your hair until it reached the back of your neck, eyes narrowing harshly. he was grounding you still, keeping you safe in his arms as you shook violently, a mixture of the cold air and the fear of what could have been had jungkook conveniently not been stood outside.

you had no idea that he had been waiting for you, almost aggravated at how late you were coming home.

“use your words.” he uttered, fingers digging into your skin just enough to leave pressure, something you found grounding. “talk.”

“was a m-man..at the..at the diner and..but he keeps..and then..” you were choking out words, hardly making sense but it was enough for him to gather the general gist of what was happening.

you watched as his face went completely cold.

“regular?” he asked.

you nodded, not trusting your voice through your sobs.

“he fucking follow you?”

you took a deep breath, shaky air leaving your lips. “i don’t know- i think..someone foll-followed me..” hiccup. “so i ran.”

he looked angry.

you barely knew the man, but from the emotions he had given you, you could tell it wasn’t directed at you whatsoever. you could feel it in the tension of his arms around you, the warmth his body exuded - it was fury.

“alright.”

decision made.

he pulled your face back, the hand on your neck forcibly tilting your head, so he was looking down at you. you shamelessly had never felt so protected ever before. he wiped the mascara underneath your eyes, despite the constant stream of tears, making sure to rid you of the blotchiness on your skin.

“listen to me,” he began, watching you nod like the good girl he knew you were. “you’re not going upstairs.”

your lip trembled again. did this mean you couldn’t go home?

“b-but..”

“if he knows the building, you ain’t going up there alone.”

you let out another sob, this only adding to the pile of problems you were already drowning in. you couldn’t handle this. could feel your brain splitting from the stress of it all.

“i’m scared.” you admitted in a small voice, fingers curled into his work jacket so delicately. “what if he knows which one is mine?”

that fucking killed him.

jungkook rolled his shoulders before letting go of your neck, grunting lightly as he pulled you even tighter against him. suddenly, you were turned towards the entrance of the building, his heavy hold on you guiding you inside.

“where a-are we-“

“my place.” he cut you off immediately as he walked you inside, head turning back to make sure no one was following him.

“you live here?” you asked through a hiccup, desperately still clinging to him, giving him no option but to hold you intimately as he guided you downstairs instead of up, where you and the other residents lived.

everything moved so quickly as you were ushered into an apartment, your eyes hazy as they began to blink away tears to register what was in front of you.

jungkook’s place was clean, tidy, meticulous. the furniture looked expensive, everything crafted perfectly, open plan living room and kitchen with a dining table sat as though he had a family he could dine with. dark wood floors and a couch so plush you were sure it was softer than anything you had ever sat on in your life.

you heard the clink of the door behind you, even watched him lock the door, bolting it for your comfort as opposed to himself.

he turned to face you again, observing you clearly.

you stood, shaking still, body slowly calming down from the sobbing you were doing earlier and instead replaced with a string of hiccuping breaths. you looked so small, so defenceless - a sick part of his brain wanted you like this always so he could play the knight in shining armour. wanted you to need him.

he exhaled through his nose. “sit.”

you obeyed instantly, moving to the couch and taking a seat on the edge as though you were terrified to touch anything. he walked over to the kitchen, where you could still see him before he returned to you, glass of water in hand.

he handed it to you, watching you take it with both shaky hands and take small sips.

he suddenly crouched in front of you. his calloused hands took a hold of either side of you, fingers digging into the sides of your thigh as he situated you on the couch properly, your bare legs brushing against him with ease due to the position he had now put you in.

“look at me.”

and so you did.

his shoulders were tight against his work jacket, frame so large you longed to be underneath it, just to know what kind of warmth would seep into your skin and bones. his forearms were thick, veins visible and tattoos on show, with bruised and bloody knuckles showing signs of scarring display too.

“is he going to try something?” he asked you, eyes trained onto your own.

“i don’t know.” you answered honestly, and the acknowledgment of being uncertain had your anxiety spiking again visibly, causing him to hold you even firmer.

“recount the conversation for me.”

“he a-asked when i finish..and then..something about if i-i was walking home alone..”

jungkook’s jaw was ticking; his shoulders rolling as he ran a heavy hand through his hair. he met your fearful gaze, your fingers intertwined in your lap shaking.

“what’d you say?” his voice was direct, and his presence felt calming.

“i..told him i had a boyfriend.” you admitted through a sniffle, rubbing underneath your eyes. “made him sound scary.”

the silence between you became thick, jungkook’s fingers digging into your skin. not painfully, but enough to certainly remind you of his hold, with his gaze never leaving your own.

his face remained stoic, but his actions gave him away.

“yeah?” he quietly responded; to which you nodded. “mhm.”

“how’d you describe him?”

“well..” you sniffled again, making jungkook wipe under your eyes for him, the harsh skin on his hands a stark difference to the soft surface of your face. “said he works in construction..and that..that he’s big and he doesn’t like guys talking to me.”

his tongue began poking his cheek, eyes closing for a mere second before his fingers then moved to sit on your hips, pulling you into him, making sure you were much closer than you initially were sitting. your hands situated on his shoulders through hiccups, sniffling away as you tried to ignore the severity of the situation.

“construction.” he repeated.

you nodded, the intake of your breath shaky.

“don’t like men talking to you.” he repeated again, but his fingers gave him away again. he was being prodded by you and you didn’t even realise it.

you nodded again, realising then that you had just been openly describing him, a beat of acknowledgment filling the room as silence filled the empty cracks between you.

there was something dark shining in his eyes, something that wouldn’t soften no matter how hard you sat there and tried. jungkook was a hard wall, but it didn’t mean he was unfeeling. emotion swirled deep in his stomach, igniting an internal need to take you for himself, to keep the door locked and protect you forever. how could someone be so oblivious to their own nature? did you know how sweet you were? his jaw ached at the mere thought of how you’d taste, so sugary he’d get a fucking toothache just imagining it.

“you lie good?”

your stomach dropped. “i-i don’t usually..”

“did he believe you?” his gaze dropped to your mouth, before returning to your eyes, lip curled.

“i don’t think so.” you whimpered then at the memory, the feeling of suffocation running back as you remembered the implication of the situation. you weren’t safe anymore.

silence settled between you once more, a norm considering he was hardly a man of many words. his hands on your waist tightened before sliding up and down, soothing you subconsciously, your bodies so close.

“if he comes near you again,” he said, voice low and void of overt emotion, “don’t engage. don’t talk. call me immediately.”

you blinked through a hiccup.

“but i don’t have your num-“

you were cut off immediately as he stood up to his full length, towering over you as he grabbed his phone, unlocking it and opening his contacts app.

“give me yours.”

you fumbled for your bag, hands still shaky, pulling out your phone before handing it to him.

he grabbed it, inputting his number and making sure it sat at the top of your contact list. there were no frills, no emojis, just his name staring at you as he handed your phone back to you, eyes sweeping over your face.

“don’t let him scare you so easy. guys like that thrive on this shit.” his words came out gruff, and you blinked up at him quickly.

“i know, i just-“

“i know.” he cut you off again, shaking his head.

that did something to your chest. he knew. he didn’t need the details, didn’t want to hear you make an excuse for how you were feeling because you didn’t need to, he had seen enough for himself. he had watched you long enough to know you liked to pack yourself way in too small boxes in hopes you’d go unnoticed, in hopes you wouldn’t be a bother.

the intimacy of him simply cutting you off to remind you he didn’t need to hear an explanation, he understood. it was music to you.

he was still looming over you.

“you don’t eat.” his thumb suddenly pressed down on your bottom lip, as you hiccuped, big eyes staring up at him. “don’t sleep enough, work too much, walk home on your own in the middle of the night. live in a unit that should be fucking condemned.”

your throat tightened, but his thumb was firm, the tip of your tongue slightly grazing it. he liked it.

“not anymore.” he shook his head.

the way he said it wasn’t intended for romance, it was ownership. you could feel it deep in your stomach, inbetween your thighs and in the traitorous thump of your very soul.

“you’re staying here.” he suddenly dropped his thumb from your lip, your brain a buzzing mess as his words began to register in your brain, your eyebrows shooting up on your face.

“what?”

he didn’t respond, simply walking over to the kitchen area and grabbing a beer can, rolling his shoulders gently. you found yourself standing then, shaky legs taking you over to him, big eyes capturing his as he took a swig despite the late hour, his adam’s apple capturing your eye.

your smaller fingers tugged at his jacket lightly, capturing his attention as his own stomach pinged at the sight of you, yearning for him to address what he had just said.

“you eaten yet?” he simply uttered.

your mouth opened and closed, nodding your head lightly making him do the same.

“don’t want you going up. not safe. bathrooms down the hall to the left,” he put his beer down. “you can wear one of my t-shirts to bed.”

your shoulders were slowly dissipating before his very eyes. you had never been taken care of, not for a moment in your full 20 odd years of living and you were almost unsure of how to act as your fingers remained on him, large eyes still glassy from your earlier emotion.

jungkook wanted to take care of you, wanted to dominate every negative emotion in your head until you were nothing but lullabies and sweet nothings, no more echoes of stress or negativity. what he hadn’t expected was to see you utterly melt at the prospect, as though the very notion was the one thing you had always wanted.

oh.

you were perfect for him in every way - that he could see clearly.

you made no effort to move, the act alone feeling like it would take too much out of you and so jungkook took one last swig, before grabbing you by your waist. his rough hand sat low on your back, half on your ass in honesty, as he lead you there himself, dark eyes trailing over your much shorter figure against him.

within seconds, you were in the bathroom, fresh clothes given to you, and the shower already on awaiting you. the first step into it had you moaning quietly, the patter of warm water being completely foreign to you considering you were so used to cold shooting bursts that brought no comfort whatsoever. you helped yourself to his shampoo, his body wash, his products just as he intended and were taken aback by how familiar it smelled to you.

there was a sense of protection in carrying his scent that was messing with your brain, and as you washed yourself, you couldn’t help but recognise your situation properly.

you, who had only met jungkook twice before, were now naked in his shower, using his products to wash yourself, imprinting his familiar scent into your skin like it was a lifeline. you were in a stranger’s home, seeking refuge from a bad man and yet you knew secretly, the big bad wolf was merely a few metres away from you - not that it deterred you.

the protection. the safety. it felt like a drug. you couldn’t bring yourself to reason with the fact it was batshit insane to be sleeping over at his home, your handyman for goodness sake, instead of going to the police or any other normal avenue.

no, instead, you pattered out, towelling your body down before putting on his t-shirt, eyes closing at the even stronger scent of his cologne. your uniform and underwear sat in a neat pile, ready to be taken away when you woke up in the morning, leaving you utterly naked underneath the way too large top that sat just below mid thigh.

once you were completely refreshed, all remnants of fear stolen from you by the warmth of the water and the comfort of his presence, your bare feet padded back to the living room. he wasn’t here, causing your eyes to narrow slightly in confusion before hearing a noise in the room adjacent, making your way over.

walking in, you were greeted by two things.

first, jungkook’s bedroom, which like him, was as manly as you imagined it to be. clean, precise, darker in colour and void of any real personality - a nagging, desperate little voice in your head practically screaming that it needed a woman’s touch. if only you knew the thought alone would have him cumming.

the second? jungkook’s naked back, littered with scars and muscle in places you didn’t even realise one could have. to say he was big was a gross understatement, for he defined the very meaning of buff - wide shoulders, insane biceps, back rippling with every move.

you could feel yourself growing wet at the mere sight of him, a quiet little gasp leaving you, causing him to turn around, only for you to see his pecs, his abs. god, he was just massive all over, a sight for your already sore eyes indeed.

jungkook didn’t say anything immediately, but he let out a deep grunt of appreciation at the sight of you. your bare legs, your wet hair; the way your hands were shuffling together. you looked like a vision.

had he been a better man, he would have guided you to the bed and walked out, designating to sleep on the couch but he had no intention of doing so. especially not when he could see your nipples poke straight through the cotton of his shirt, no doubt suggesting you had nothing underneath. his mouth watered at the thought of the sugary nectar inbetween your legs, could feel himself growing hard at the prospect.

“where do you want me to sleep?” you softly asked him, voice so gentle he wanted to ruin you.

that broke him from his trance, realising he was half hard just from looking at you. he felt like a fucking teenager, but could you blame him? you were his dream woman, circumstances and all, dolled up in his room like a present just for him.

“bed.” he muttered, nodding towards it which made you shyly play with your hair, watching him leave the room to no doubt go to the bathroom, his body brushing firmly against yours purposefully on the way out.

you closed your eyes for a moment once you were alone, heart beating fast, before walking over to the bed. you felt bad thinking he would take the couch, a little frown forming on your lips as you settled into the plush covers. another soft moan escaped you at the feel of such softness, the mattress delicate underneath you as you settled into it, feeling more comfortable than you ever had.

jungkook was back in a few minutes, also sporting wet hair suggesting he had just showered. this time, he returned merely in his boxers, a towel running through his locks as he examined you, all curled into the covers, not asleep just yet, as though you were waiting for confirmation from him.

fuck. he liked that. liked having you wait for him so he could decide your next move, like you were a little fawn unsure of what to do unless someone told you. he’d be that someone.

he watched as your eyes instantly fell to his bulge, eyes widening at the sheer size of it, your thighs pressed tightly together under his sheets as he approached you. he watched you stare at it, cock only hardening further at the attention, before pulling back the covers.

“oh..a-are you..sleeping here?” you managed to choke out, your tshirt having ridden up to sit at the tops of your thighs, big eyes peering up.

“not sleeping on a couch in my own home.” he grunted back at you, before sliding in beside you.

a once massive bed suddenly felt claustrophobic as you realised why he needed the space, though you managed not to touch him, you shyly moved to your side, your back to him to give him his privacy, your cheeks painted pink at the implication.

you were sharing a bed with a stranger. a big, tall, tatted stranger who was currently hard as fuck, whilst you laid on your side, pussy soaked from his attention, body quivering.

he was on his back, body taking up a massive majority of the space in the bed and he was utterly shameless about it. you, however, had tried to make yourself as small as possible in the corner, body scrunched up, unable to sleep as your brain worked round and around and around and around and arou-

big, beefy arms suddenly were grabbing you, one on your leg, the other on your waist as you were suspended in the air for a moment or two. you squeaked loudly, stomach dropping at the confusion of being moved and in the air.

jungkook was grunting at you, his preferred method of communication as you were finally placed firmly onto his chest, stomach first. your t-shirt had ridden up to the middle of your back, meaning your bare ass was on display, causing jungkook to place his hand on it as though it was the most normal thing on earth.

the position also meant you were pressed against him intimately, with your wet cunt now pushed against his too large bulge, causing a soft whimper to escape you, right into his ear. your breasts we’re pushed against his chest, your head resting into his shoulder as you both settled in as though this was the most natural thing on earth.

“sleep. you’ve had a long night.” his voice was rough, coarse, as though he too was fighting something.

as though the hand on your ass and the push of his weight, making you feel him intimately in every single way, was just as much punishment for him as it was for you. it was suffocating and you needed more, yearned for it.

your hands settled on his chest, your nose nuzzling into his neck as you nodded, eyes snapping shut. you truly were the picture perfect definition of obedience.

you weren’t sure how long either of you stayed like that, unmoving, unspeaking, just the understanding you were truly no more than strangers seeping in as sleep finally took both of you.

—

the diner was equally as busy the next day, with a particular scent that wouldn’t escape your skin no matter how hard you tried.

burnt oil soaked through the cracking walls, whilst the coffee that had been brewing for far too long sat in its pot, in your hand as you walked around the dining floor, filling mugs to whoever demanded more. you had disinfected the entire place with a cheap lemon solution that morning, the scent lingering slightly, causing you to feel nauseous.

you had been out of it all day.

you had woken up still in the same position as you had fallen asleep in, only this time, jungkook’s arms were hugging you tightly to him. one hand was curled into his hair, the other pressed into his chest, whilst you both slept deeply, safely.

you had slept better that night than any other in your entire lifetime. the feeling of protection was immense, and for the first time, your brain wasn’t racing in anxiety all night - you were able to rest comfortably.

that only made it so much more jarring once you had left his apartment whilst he was still sleeping, wanting nothing more than to stay in his arms, sleep a few more hours, relish in the warmth he was so happily providing for you. you felt guilty leaving like that, but the constant thump in your head brought you back to reality.

you did not know him. he was a stranger.

that was what you were telling yourself anyway, knowing that the traitorous thump of your heart gave you away. you hadn’t been focused all day, spilling drinks, dropping plates of food - your manager had been on your case your entire shift, the cooks even shouting at you at one point. you were utterly overwhelmed with jungkook and he wasn’t even there.

your feet were aching, but you knew you only had 20 minutes left. 20 minutes and you could go home, no night shift, just a long day that would be over in less than half an hour. that gave you a sort of excitement you rarely afforded yourself, and despite the fact your cheap flats were digging into your feet, and your apron felt too tight, you couldn’t wait.

that was until you heard a voice.

“are you fucking deaf? asked for a coffee 3 times now.”

you looked up from your spot behind the counter, meeting the gaze of the horrible, sleazy regular from yesterday, your blood running cold.

he usually only showed up in the late hour, and this was the first time you had see him during the day. it felt like a confirmation of some kind, one in which you had gathered he had either been watching you or was now looking closely, something that unsettled you. how else would he be here? why else?

you swallowed the thump in your throat, shaking hands grabbing the coffee pot and filling his mug as he sat at the diner bar, your eyes avoiding his at all costs.

“you look tired.” he said through a yawn, making no attempt to hide the fact he was ogling your tits. “your ‘boyfriend’ keep you up?”

you flinched at his words, knowing the implication - he still didn’t believe you. that made you feel sick. you chose to ignore him, tending to something at the till, in hopes he’d leave you alone.

“don’t know if i believe ya, sweets. been thinking about what you said about him, construction guys don’t go for girls like you.” he mused, as though he was the smartest man in the world, watching the way your hands shook lightly. “you’re all shy and shit. what you know about pleasing a man?”

you felt heat crawl up your throat and down your spine, feeling a level of shame you couldn’t quite place. you hated it. even reacting to a man like him was giving him power, and he relished in it.

“you better be usin’ what you got.” he leaned back, hand openly palming himself as he grinned, dirty teeth on display. “tight little ass like yours? should let him use it or he’ll start lookin’ elsewhere.”

you flinched once more, this time harsher.

“that’s inappropriate.” you found your voice, though it was shaky, desperately looking over at your manager who was conveniently pretending like he couldn’t hear a thing.

“i’m helpin’ you, sweets. should be grateful.”

your eyes narrowed. “you don’t know anything about me.”

at that, he leaned forward, grin even wider. it was sinister. “yeah? know you walk home all alone.”

your heart dropped.

“i see you.” he added. “late. every night.”

you couldn’t breathe. it felt like someone had grabbed your lungs, suffocating you from the inside and out, a confirmation of your wildest fears before your very eyes.

“see, i like to watch who goes in and out of that building. got some buddies, and you know..bad area. should be careful.” he was all but fucking gleeful. “pretty girls like you, they’re the most fun to play with.”

your hands were beginning to shake violently, as one reached for your phone, clumsily putting your password in, not being able to think.

“you sure your boyfriends real?” he asked lazily. “or you just sayin’ that to throw me off the scent?”

“i have one.” you immediately interjected, panic visible in your voice, desperate to be believed. “he doesn’t like when i talk to other men, so..” you pathetically whispered, turning on your heel and immediately going into the back, where the staff room was located.

you didn’t come out for the rest of your shift, your chest in a panic, hands shaking and eyes leaking tears once more. he had been watching you? did that mean something could have happened had you returned to your unit last night, instead of staying with jungkook?

you couldn’t believe this was a reality, and the fact you knew you had no escape plan was even worse. you couldn’t move out, you didn’t have the funds, and it was a terrifying thought to know you were simply waiting to be violated. the thought alone had you crying into your hands, shakily hovering over jungkook’s contact.

you didn’t want to bother him. he owed you nothing, and you had already taken so much from him.

with that, you grabbed your things and snuck out the back, beginning the 10 minute walk back home.

jungkook had been in the same position as you all day. his work was rendered useless, and considering he had well paying clients, it was enough to drive him to the point of anger. every thought, every crevice of the world around him brought him back to you, how you’d slotted against him so easily last night, so pliant and ready. to then wake up to an empty bed and a wet patch on his boxers from where you were both pressed together was frustrating to say the least - he wanted to wake up to the sight of you.

he had every intention of sitting you down, telling you to leave your job, telling you exactly what he could offer you if you just let him. hell, he would do it against your will too if you kept this shit up, more than ready to fund a lifestyle you had only ever dreamt of.

he was outside the building now, loading up his truck with shit he had been using all day, his tools, extra pieces of wood he had no use for at the minute and what not. his hands were beyond rough, calloused from daily use but that was the payoff for working with them carelessly. he couldn’t help but remember the feel of them on your ass, squeezing all night, sometimes dipping lower subconsciously just to hear you whine in your sleep.

fuck, he was half hard again just remembering it, but half annoyed recalling the way you had just left.

he was taken out of his thoughts when he looked to his right, just as you walked into the apartment complex, not seeing him, tears streaming down your face once more and shoulders sagging as though walking alone was too exhausting for you. he felt his chest break into tiny little pieces at the sight, it was enough to anger him for a completely different reason.

he was walking towards you before he could even rationalise it, a hand slipping over your waist within seconds and pushing your back straight into his chest, his bigger frame engulfing you. you let out a strangled gasp, looking down and visibly melting fully as you noticed the tattoos on his hand, letting out a quiet whimper.

“what happened?” jungkook immediately asked, the two of you stood in front of the building.

your tears wouldn’t stop streaming, your breathing already difficult as your bag dropped from your shoulder. your hands instantly went to cover your face, as you broke out into quiet sobs, body raking in his arms. the exhaustion had finally got to you.

your brain had broken.

jungkook didn’t waste any time. he grabbed you fully, picking you up with a single arm, to which you immediately hid your face in his neck, holding onto him as you ruined his uniform with your body shaking sobs. your bag was in his other hand whilst he made his way to his own apartment, not saying anything but simply allowing you to get the bulk of your emotions out, before walking in, and settling you down onto his couch.

“talk to me.” suddenly, you were in his lap, completely cradled by the older, bigger man as though you were a little baby, and your body moved closer in hopes of more comfort.

it took you a while until you were able to speak, holding the sleeves of his jacket desperately, his large hands on your back and cupping your legs to him. he was soothing you with his presence, patting gently to get you to calm down and soon enough you did, unable to look him in the eye, feeling embarrassed enough that you had done this two days in a row now.

“the guy from the diner came..came back and..” you breathed deeply through your hiccups, his forehead now against yours, making sure you could feel him. “told me he watches..the building..knows i walk home alone and, said he knows..said he knows people from the building.”

the more you recounted, the more restless you became as you began to sob once more, your hands covering your face again. his anger was beyond anything he could describe, he could feel it coursing through his veins as though it was part of his dna, the need to protect you stronger than every other emotion.

“look at me.” he managed to say, voice strangled, causing you to do exactly as he said, despite your shaking body.

“you’re not going back upstairs, you hear me? i’m gonna go get your things, and you’re staying here.”

you startled for a moment, eyes narrowing up at him in confusion. what did he mean?

“but that’s my apartment..”

“it’s a fucking shoebox with a busted lock.” he hissed.

“jungkook, i can’t just..” you shook your head, your shaking hands piled at his chest whilst he pulled you closer, nose nuzzling yours for just a moment to gather himself. “you can. what do you need from it, and i’ll grab shit.”

you shook your head, pushing him away lightly despite it being the last thing you wanted him to do, and he knew that. your hands were now tightening against the material of his jacket, tears streaming, eyes wide and head shaking.

“this is crazy. you don’t even know me and i don’t even know you.” you said through another half sob. “i can’t stay here, okay? you’ll get sick of me, and..and i’ll annoy you, or you’ll wake up, and..and you’re gonna..you’re gonna decide it was a mistake and i..”

he simply stared at you, eyes narrowing dangerously. if he had felt anger at the situation before, now it was beginning to direct at you.

he exhaled sharply. “stop.”

you let out another shaky sob at his command, head dropping to his shoulder, the confusion in your mind so clear. it wasn’t that you didn’t want it, but you didn’t feel worthy of it. all you had ever known was abuse, from the moment you were born until this very second - happiness was foreign to you, a notion you truly believed wasn’t in the cards for you, and to have someone openly wish to shelter you felt confusing.

“i’ll bother you, i know it.” the voice in which you admitted your darkest fear had him tightening his grip on you.

suddenly, your positions had changed. you were no longer on his lap, cradled, but instead, on your back laid on the couch, with your hands positioned above your head and jungkook’s entire body hovering over you. he was rendering you useless, and you couldn’t bring yourself to fight it.

“listen to me, y/n.” his eyes were dark. “i work all day, like a fucking dog, breakin’ my back doing all this shit, fucking my body up. you think i do that for fun?”

you shook your head in a little no, still crying.

“got all this money, got a nice job, stopped doing all that bad work that gets me in trouble, no back door shit. do it so when i got myself a lady, she rests good, you hear me?” his voice was rough, almost mean. “so she don’t have to lift a fucking finger a day in her life.”

your chest tightened at the notion, and a subconscious part of you screamed inside, begging to be the very woman he was discussing; yearning.

“you move here, and you do nothing. don’t want you working, don’t want you doing anything other than lookin’ pretty. don’t want a single thought in that brain ever again, unless it’s when i take you out, or when you want something.”

his head pressed against yours, the conviction behind his voice causing you to quiver. you had stopped sobbing now, reduced to silent tears that continued to stream, your cute nose all pink and the fucked up part of him was fighting the fact his cock was hardening at the sight.

“i’m gonna go upstairs, gonna get your shit, and you don’t do nothing, understand me? don’t think about rent, or food, or sleep - you don’t stress about nothing no more.”

“but why?” you asked through a shaky breath, sucking in air as you hiccuped, a pool of wetness forming on either side of your head from how much you were crying. “you don’t even get anything out of it.”

he doesn’t hesitate. “i get you.”

at that, a strangled noise left you, your eyes shutting tightly as your heart thudded harshly in your chest. he wanted you? truly? even without the frills, even without you being able to offer anything real, or tangible?

“i get to take care of you, spend my money on you, get you in my bed every night where you can’t run off before i wake up.” he grunted down at you, grabbing one of your hands from above your head and pressing it firmly against the growing bulge in his work trousers. “you feel that? feel how fucking hard i get just thinking about it, baby?”

you nodded through your sniffles, hiccuping a few times as your hand gently massaged his cock, the layers of clothing dulling the sensation but it was enough to have him press his head against yours once more, cooing at you. his hand slid on top of your own, pushing it harder, and despite the action being intensely sexual, it felt intimate more than anything.

“couldn’t get bored of you, wouldn’t ever. look at you..fuck. were meant to be spoilt, not built to be working out there and stressin’. need to lock you up here so you never worry again.”

again, you nodded, more desperate, whining out for him as both of your hands interlocked with his. the one above your head, sweet and reassuring, and the other, massaging his cock, demanding and grounding. you were his, and it was only then that you realised it - strangers or not.

the next hour was spent with you washing up in the bathroom, having the longest shower of your life, crying all of the remnants of your emotions out whilst jungkook went upstairs, grabbing your things. considering your situation, it took him no longer than ten minutes, something deep pinging in his stomach knowing you had never even tasted luxury. he’d change that.

by the time he had come back down, he was settling your things into your now shared room, watching as you shuffled out in another one of his t-shirts, wet hair, big teary eyes and an unsure demeanour. he took his time with you then, arm around your waist so you could watch him work, putting things away like it was second nature.

he left you curled up all nice and warm on the couch, blankets covering you whilst he gave you the remote, urging you to watch something. he had shit to do.

first, he was going to cancel your lease and threaten your landlord.

second? he was going to fuck up the man who had scared you.

—

two weeks.

two weeks of living a life you were sure was never supposed to be yours.

from sleeping as much as you wanted, and eating whatever your heart desired, jungkook was spoiling you rotten. the glee in his eyes every time he could see a small smile form on your face was enough to render you a mess.

you’d wake every morning flush to his chest, with your bodies pressed together intimately, his hard cock poking against your own panties in a way that had you breathless. on one occasion, you had woken up to find yourself all but grinding against him, only aware of it once you realised you were orgasming, causing your cheeks to flush a deep plum.

he fucking loved it. finally, everything made sense, his life has purpose, tangible purpose. the sight of you on his couch, resting on your stomach with your bare ass to the door just as he would walk into the apartment was enough to drive him insane - it was the sight he’d masturbate to daily. he didn’t want to push you, he was enough of a gentleman to know it wasn’t right to push his needs on you, and he was trying. god knew he had put every bit of his restraint into his situation.

you were both dancing a fine line of evident need and want, yet one couldn’t admit it to themselves and the other didn’t want to push.

the first night was the moment you realised that jungkook wasn’t any ordinary man. all of the kindness aside, it was when you awoke from the nap on his couch to him walking back into the apartment that you realised he was indeed every bit of the man you wanted.

bloody knuckles, and a slight bruise already forming on his cheek, he had walked over to you and pressed a kiss to your forehead, telling you everything was now taken care of. your rent, the piece of shit that had been scaring you, hell, even your nasty manager who made it a habit to be rude to you.

you had washed his knuckles yourself, sniffling away your tears whilst apologising for being so weepy. he simply nuzzled his nose into your forehead, grunting something about how he liked it. liked how you wore your emotions openly and how honest you were about your feelings. it felt refreshing.

after that, he made it a habit to break any wandering thought left in your brain. he’d wake up to you all curled into his body, making him leave kisses all over your hands and cheeks whilst you slept, leaving you to go to work. he’d think about you the entire day, only to return to you with different boxes of food for you to try so you could find out what your favourite cuisines were.

in two weeks, jungkook made you feel more seen and recognised than you had ever felt in the past 24 years.

you still felt awfully shy in his presence. just yesterday, he had taken you out shopping, your hand tucked gently into his arm as you both walked up and down the high street. you shook your head vehemently as he tried to get you to go into the expensive, designer shops, your heart practically failing out of guilt just thinking about it.

“buy what you want.” he’d say to you, or, “don’t look at the price.”

you had once done so, picking out a lipstick marginally cheaper than the ones you could see in hopes that it would satiate him. he saw right through it, his eyes narrowing down at you as you shuffled from foot to foot, unable to meet his gaze.

“don’t annoy me. get something good.”

and so, you’d leave with bags upon bags of things, with flushed cheeks and a thundering heart.

his favourite shop, obviously, was victoria secret. you had clung to him almost desperately out of shyness, often hiding your face in his chest whenever he’d hold up a pair that he thought were nice. he let you browse, watching you shakily pick out a pair or two before you peered up at him, large eyes shining.

“which ones do you like?” you had whispered, so sweet, so inviting that he swore he could have came right then and there.

his arm around your waist tightened as he looked down at you, jaw clenched slightly at the way you had asked him. maybe it was the genuine curiosity that stemmed from you that had him guiding you to a cute, lacy pink pair. he bought them for you immediately, leaving you a flushing mess.

going home, eating together, curled together as you watched things, his legs spread wide whilst he played with your hair. it felt domestic. it felt freeing, and frankly, it felt like everything you had ever prayed for. something in the back of your mind screamed at you, reminding you that you still didn’t know enough about him, that he was no more than just a random man a month ago and yet here you were.

and so, here you sat, at the dining table with your legs crossed. it was 2pm, so jungkook was well within his work day, leaving you at home with a racing mind and shaking hands. you wanted to do something for him, something to show him just how grateful you were for all of the kindness he had bestowed upon you.

you grabbed your phone, embarrassment heavy in your chest as you began searching in anything that came to mind.

‘how to keep a man happy’

you frowned at the results, not finding anything that applied to jungkook in particular.

‘how to be a good girlfriend’

you flushed furiously writing that one out, but you knew it was the closest equivalent to the relationship you had with him. even then, all the results catered to people that didn’t align with jungkook’s personality. you sighed.

‘how to please a man that takes care of you’

now this, this was different. you sat up, seeing multiple different hits but the one thing you kept seeing over and over was the same line. you shuffled in anticipation, eyes reading it continuously, biting down on your lip.

“keep his stomach fed, and his balls empty.” you whispered out loud, repeating what you had read.

your cheeks flamed red as you shut your phone, setting it down like you had an audience around you, feeling a level of embarrassment creep up your neck. that..that felt fitting. you knew he loved his food, was always eating with a can of beer whenever he got a chance.

you also knew him to be hard nearly every instance he got. you weren’t an idiot, you had felt it against you to know that you probably couldn’t take him fully without prep, but the thought had your eyes shutting tight, a small whine leaving you - you wanted him just as bad.

soon enough, you had decided on your plan of action. you got changed, grabbing the card jungkook had given you and quickly made your way to the grocery store, hand shaking around your phone as you searched in popular dishes. you figured a steak would do, since you knew most men enjoyed meat, despite knowing you had never really cooked before.

you stood in front of the meat section hopelessly, shyly asking the workers there a million questions until a lovely older lady walked you around the shop, telling you how to prepare it, what ingredients to use, pushing you to purchase the more expensive options as ‘you could taste it in every bite.’

waddling home, you steadied yourself as you put everything in the kitchen, wrapping your new apron around you tight. you were determined. you wouldn’t fail, not when this was for jungkook, not when he had done so much for you.

hours had passed, and you were finishing up the last details of the dinner. the table had been set, with candles and plates positioned in a way you had seen in a youtube video. you had his favourite beer chilled and ready, even going the extra mile to have a shower, do your hair and makeup using the products he had bought you. you still had your apron on, knowing he’d love the sight of the cute frilly material around you.

your hair was clipped behind your head as you heard the door unlock, causing you to squeak quietly, gathering everything together as quickly as you could.

jungkook had had the longest day of his entire existence. from clients taking the piss, to fixing rushed jobs from other men in the industry. he had even had a phone call from an old friend, asking to stash some cash - it came with a hefty profit, but he had to decline, despite it souring the relationship. he had his girl waiting back home for him, and he had to make sure he was on the right track. no more illegal shit, no matter what that meant for the legacy he had built in his twenties.

walking inside his home, only to find you nervously smiling at him, was enough to take the wind out of his lungs. looking down, however, and seeing the full home cooked spread, was enough to have a man like him on his knees.

“hi..” you shyly grinned, hands shuffling.

“what’s this?” he asked, putting his tools down, uniform heavy as he approached you.

the sound of his keys dropping on the dish you had placed by the entrance made you jump slightly, as you nibbled away on your lip. he approached you, standing in front of you, eyes never leaving your own.

“i just..you do so much for me and, i’m so grateful and i wanna take care of you too.” your voice was no louder than a whisper, almost flushed at the admission as you immediately reached for his jacket, playing with the buttons, peering up at him. “it’s okay if you don’t like it, i just thought it would be nice for you to have something home cooked.”

he grunted, deep from his chest as his face fell into the space between your neck and shoulder, breathing in your scent. his hands were roaming all over your stomach, your hips, your waist, a soft giggle finding its way out of your lips at his reaction. it made you giddy to think he was enjoying this.

“you cooked all this?” he asked, walking towards the table, dragging you along with him, to which you lightly bounced, nodding. “went to the shops, and asked the nice lady and she told me what to get and she said that you’d like steak and she showed me what video to follow-“ you rambled.

he was enamoured by you, taking a seat at the head of the table, where you had positioned all of his plates. instead of moving towards your own seat, he grabbed your waist once more and pulled you firmly until you fell into his lap, your tiny dress doing little to provide modesty as you curled into him.

you watched him intently cut a piece, big eyes peering at him as he took a bite.

“you really made this?” he asked you, hand harsh on your thigh.

you offered him a shy nod, anxiety swirling in your stomach. it was okay if he didn’t like it, but the thought made you want to weep - this was supposed to be all for him. you didn’t want to mess it up.

“good girl.” he murmured, before cutting up a piece for you, watching as you ate from the same fork, a look of pure glee across your face.

his words had you leaning into him properly as you both ate, his grunts of approval worth a million words as you recounted how you cooked it, all whilst he listened carefully and ate. you truly couldn’t have been happier with yourself, your fingers curling into the hair behind his neck.

he had finished his plate, but was now properly feeding you, and despite a shake of your head, was making sure you finished your plate. the two of you sat in silence for a few minutes, your arms around him and his around yours, breathing in one another’s scent.

he was so manly all over, the faint smell of sweat alongside his cologne and skin was intoxicating and you wanted it ingrained in your mind forever.

“well done.” he murmured down at you, soft for a change, causing you to look up.

the smile that formed on your lips was enough for him to dedicate his entire life to praising you, wanting to see it every single day for the rest of his life. he couldn’t fathom how lucky he was to have the object of his desires all pretty, in a cute apron and dress; cooking for him, just so he’d feel good. fuck.

“i’m happy you liked it.” you admitted in a small voice. “i really wanted to make it good for you.”

“you don’t have to do anything, y/n.”

“i know, you always say that but i just..i wanna, okay?” you shook your head, nibbling away at your lip once again.

his thumb darted out, capturing your lip and releasing it from your teeth. god, he couldn’t get enough of how cute you were, looking up at him like that. his thumb pushed against your lips for a moment, letting it sit on your tongue, watching the way you wrapped your mouth around it.

the moment was gone within a second as he pulled back, a sudden look on his face you couldn’t decipher. before you could ponder on it, his lips finally connected with your own.

kissing jungkook was unlike anything you had ever expected. you knew him to be dominant, direct and manly, but this? he was all but devouring you. it wasn’t gentle like first kisses often tended to be, but demanding - rough. his lips moved against yours like he owned you, and you deflated immediately, letting him do whatever he wanted to you. your hands were in his hair, tugging him closer, your legs moving around him to now straddle instead of just sitting.

the second his tongue began exploring your mouth, you couldn’t hold back the moans.

he kissed like a man starved, his hands running up and down your body, cupping your ass, your breasts, before settling on your waist, chasing you every time you pulled away for breath.

by the time you had fully managed to depart from his lips, you were panting, eyes lidded and heart beating faster than you could keep up with. your hands slid from his hair down to his chest, as he captured your lips in small pecks.

jungkook could feel the day washing off of him. the dinner, your excitement, the kiss - fuck, even the thought of you paying for all of the things you wanted at the grocery shop with his card. he was visibly melting, more relaxed than he’d allowed himself to be in years and it was a sight for you too.

“go shower.” you whispered lightly to him, pecking his lips. “i’m gonna clean up.”

he simply nodded, capturing your lips in another heavy kiss that lasted far too long before letting out a grunt, setting you on your feet, and heading to the bathroom.

you stood there for a moment, eyes fluttering closed and breathing out through your nose.

god, you were so fucked.

—

later that evening, jungkook sat in front of the tv, legs spread, a can of beer in hand and the game playing loudly. he was the picture perfect image of relaxation, in a pair of sweats and a white tank, his hair still wet from his earlier shower, he truly didn’t think life could get better than this. he had jumped you the second he had gotten out, smothering you in as many kisses as he could get in before you started pushing him away, flushed pink and giddy.

his cock had been straining against his sweats for hours.

you, however, were a slight nervous wreck.

you stood near the edge of your now shared bed, nibbling away on your lip as you looked at yourself in the mirror. you had showered yourself, dried your hair, even did your makeup really nice. you were in a tank and tiny little cotton shorts, but underneath? the pink underwear he had bought you.

your only objective tonight was to make him cum.

a shaky breath left you as you ran your hand through your hair, making sure you looked okay. you wanted to make him feel good, wanted it more than anything else in the world, and you knew that once you started, the door would be wide open and your relationship would completely change.

you weren’t sure how many more times you could withstand the feeling of not quite being able to satisfy yourself. being home alone for most days, waiting for him to return with the thought of him heavy on your mind and mouth, trying to keep your hands out of the space inbetween your legs was impossible.

waking up to his boner pressing into you? unfair.

you knew he wanted this badly, maybe even more than you did, but he wasn’t about to push that on you given your strange dynamic. luckily for him, you were heeding the internet’s advice - you had fed him, now you were ready to drain his balls.

and so, you walked into the living room, his eyes completely trained on the tv as you sat beside him on the couch, not looking up at you. his hand, however, sat high on your bare thigh immediately, all whilst his cock strained against his clothes.

you glanced at him from the corner of your eye, noticing him taking a swig of his beer, attention entirely on the game playing, easing your nerves massively. you shifted, his hand dropping from your thigh as you began your plan of action.

jungkook finally looked at you, only to catch you pulling your hair up into a ponytail. he would have thought nothing of it had it not been for your outfit, your pretty lipstick, the way you looked like you were ready to be fucking used. his lips parted as he watched you drop to your knees in front of him, innocent eyes no longer feeling as naive as he once thought.

before he could even say anything, your smaller hands began reaching for his waistband, fingers hooking until you were able to push them down enough for his fat cock to spring free.

he watched you gasp. watched you take in his length and girth, a fucked up part of his brain eager to break you finally as you blinked away your visible fear. he wasn’t just big, he was monstrous. the type of cock to break you from the inside, the type to hurt and make you sore for days. the type that had you moaning just at the sight of it.

your hand finally wrapped around it, although your fingers didn’t touch and that alone had your head dropping to his thigh, mouth already drooling.

“so pretty.” you whimpered up at him, causing him to jolt in your grip, a low grunt filling the air. “gonna break yourself trying to make it fit in your mouth.” he nudged your chin with his fingers, his words condescending but they only made you wetter.

a surge of confidence ran through you as you huffed up at him, tongue laying flat as you let his cock tap against it a few times, licking up all the salted beads of precum. soon enough, you were suckling at his tip, moaning and circling your tongue.

his hand shot to the back of your head with a loud curse, his eyes closed. he hadn’t had anyone warming his bed in months upon months, and now that he had you, he knew no one else would ever be good enough.

watching you finally begin to suck and bob your head was enough to have him pushing down your head, forcing you to accommodate another inch or two. it made you gag, but the wet patch forming on your shorts was proof enough you liked it. your hands pumped the rest of his cock in unison as you eagerly sucked, whimpering against the most sensitive part of him.

“fuck, look at you.” he hissed out loud, continuing to bob your head. “wanted this from day one, didn’t you?”

you parted from his cock for air, gasping lightly as you pumped him faster, nodding despite already feeling lightheaded. god, jungkook had barely begun and you were already so needy - he yearned to know what you’d be like once he finally impaled you fully.

“wanted it so bad.” you admitted through a small voice, eyes never leaving his as you tapped his cock onto your tongue again a few times before opening your mouth and starting it again.

this time, jungkook pushed your head down further and further, watching his cock disappear down your throat until you couldn’t take anymore, pulling off for breath once more, your shattered gasps and gulps enough for him to cup your cheek.

“that’s my girl, look at you.” his coos were hardly sweet, with a clear edge to them as you bounced your head up and down, sucking him with all of your energy. he swore, throwing his head back. “should’ve done this a long time ago. look how good you look choking on me.”

your legs were quivering with want, wanting nothing more than to play with your clit in that moment but focusing on him regardless. jungkook was already close, and as much as he wanted to paint your throat in his cum, he had no intentions of cumming anywhere other than your fucking womb.

suddenly; his hands on your head were pulling at your hair, forcing you off of his cock as you panted for air, chest rising and falling. your lips were covered in spit, and yet you looked like a vision made just for him, his cock tweaking at the sight of you.

he forced you to get up, which you happily did, falling onto the couch beside him as he grabbed onto your legs, hand grabbing your shorts and harshly pulling them down only to be met with the pink lacy set he had been thinking of all day.

his silence was met with a shaky giggle from as you spread your legs once more, your panties absolutely soaked through, and yet you wanted more.

“i hope you like them.” you hummed, as he began to hover over you. “wanted to wear them for you.”

“yeah?” he groaned quietly, fingers tracing the shape of your pussy through them. “fuck, you’re tiny. i’m gonna break you, you know that?”

“promise?” you whispered back, causing his eyes to flicker back to you, his cock jolting.

you were a secret minx.

his lips were on yours within seconds, tasting himself on your tongue as he devoured you, moving against you with utter ease. instead of taking your panties off, he simply moved them to the side, pulling your tank down to reveal your tits spilling out of your matching lacy bra. pink was a colour he wanted you in every waking moment, you looked better than he could have ever imagined.

his hand was on you immediately, fingers rubbing away at your clit causing you to whimper at the feel of relief finally. you were wound up so tight anyway, to have someone touching you after so so long was a feeling you had forgotten. to be touched by jungkook was a whole other ballpark.

you both moaned into each other’s mouths as your hand began to pump him, bodies moving in unison as you focused on pleasuring one another. it only took a few minutes for you to succumb to your first orgasm, loud moans leaving your lips as you shook in his arms.

he watched you hungrily, his brain chemistry changing before for your very eyes.

this is what you looked like cumming.

oh. how had he lived? how had he survived a life without your face scrunching up, whining out his name so pathetically, legs shaking around him whilst your hand only gripped him tighter.

it wasn’t enough, though. never. he allowed you a moment or two of rest before circling your clit once more, watching you jostle in overstimulation. his fingers were inside you without any prior warning, pumping as he heard you whine loudly.

“j-jungkook!” you shrieked, hand falling from his aching cock as you grabbed onto his shoulders, grounding yourself.

“fuck, there you go. c’mon.” he was hissing down at you, fingering you deep, bigger than anything you had taken in a while.

the stretch was delicious, and you already felt so full - you couldn’t even fathom being fucked by his cock, but the thought had your hips lifting for more.

jungkook coaxed two more orgasms out of you just like that, leaving you a shaky and dazed mess, before removing his fingers, sucking on them with a loud grunt. he went to move inbetween your legs, to make good work of the slick dripping from you only to be stopped by your smaller hands.

“want you.” you whimpered with a shake of your head. “don’t wanna wait anymore.”

“need to stretch you baby, you’re still tight.” he shook his head back at you, grabbing your legs and pulling you closer.

“no.” you huffed, voice suddenly bratty. “you said you’d give me anything i want..”

he closed his eyes at that, cock throbbing. fuck, you already knew his weak spots, and he had every intention of making you feel it just as deeply as he could. he departed from you entirely, leaning back, pulling you up by your arms firmly.

“get on the bed.” he simply uttered to you, voice dark. he was so firm, so direct - his words sat in your stomach as you shakily did exactly that, leaning on the walls as you wobbled your way over.

even in moments of heightened passion, he couldn’t get over how tooth achingly sweet you were.

you laid on the bed, head plush on your shared pillows as you managed to catch your breath. jungkook walked in, hair a mess, shoulders sore from the scratches you had left behind, cock hard and against his stomach as he approached. neither of you could look away from one another, as he grabbed your hips and yanked you down closer to him, hovering over you immediately.

“give me a kiss.” he hushed down at you, causing you to lean up, pressing a sweet peck to his lips. you were so cute to him.

he lined himself up with you, rubbing his cock up and down, causing you to whine, the size of him against you already addicting. soon, he started to push in, the tip of his cock already stretching you wider than anything you had ever taken.

jungkook hovering over you, his arms caging you in other side of your head as he pushed deeper, deeper and deeper. you could feel your thighs quivering, your wide eyes shutting tight as you felt you couldn’t breathe by the time he was half way in. he wasn’t fairing any better. this was out of his wildest dreams, panting on top of you, cooing down at you.

“my good girl, so so good to me. look at you taking it so well. were born to take me, weren’t you baby?” he cooed down, causing you to whimper as you could feel the familiar sting of tears forming in your eyes.

you nodded, sucking in a shaky breath as your arms wrapped around his neck. “s-so big.”

he hissed as he continued to push inside, managing to fit his entire length in after multiple minutes. you were breathing deeply, chest rising and falling as jungkook waited for you to settle down, watching the way your stomach bulged from the intrusion.

“you can take it.” he assured, hand pressing down on your stomach, against the bulge causing you to shriek loudly, eyes closing tight again. tears were beginning to stream, and he could feel himself getting harder.

“you c-can..can move.” you whimpered out.

with seconds, jungkook began to thrust.

if you thought you had experienced pleasure before, you were sorely mistaken.

you knew then that nothing would ever feel like this, nothing could compete or compare - this was everything your body has subconsciously craved for years, given to you by the much older, stranger who had taken you in for his own.

the pain was overshadowed by the thrill and pleasure, his deep thrusts hitting a sponge part of you that was already pulling you closer and closer to the edge. your tears were streaming as he rested his head against your own.

“needed this from you, baby. been thinking about you for so long, you know that?” he grunted out loud. “now you’re all mine..all mine to fuck.”

“yours..all y-yours, kook.” you nodded vigorously, hands pulling at his hair. “feel so big.”

he hid his face in your neck as his pace began to quicken, causing you to borderline scream out his name. you didn’t care who could hear you, the feeling of being pounded into by a cock too big for you euphoric. he couldn’t get enough of you, the taste of your skin on his tongue as he sucked on your neck, leaving heavy hickeys to mark you for the entire world to see.

you couldn’t hold back on the sobs, crying out from the overstimulation; the pleasure, the stinging pain. it was too much and not enough, at one point finding yourself even beating your fists against his chest, only causing him to fuck you harder.

soon enough, jungkook flipped you around, so you were on your stomach, his chest pressing harshly on your back. you could barely move in this position, couldn’t breathe very well either, merely forced to endure the pleasure of jungkook taking care of you. your shallow breaths alongside the chant of his name were like music to his ears, as he kissed and bit on your shoulders.

“my girl. gonna make you my wife, you know that?” he promised down at you, pounding at this point.

“don’t..say that.” you gasped loudly, his words making you clench harshly around his cock, clearly liking it far too much than you wanted to admit.

you had been in house for two weeks and yet the thought of this treatment for life, belonging to jungkook for the rest of your days, was enough to make you sob in joy. your cheek was smushed into the pillow, as you grabbed onto the sheets for life, only for him to intertwine his fingers with your own from behind.

“you like that, huh..” he let out a small laugh. “wanna be my wife, pretty girl? wanna be mrs jeon?”

you were clenching uncontrollably, only edging him closer to his own orgasm.

“fuck..just like that.” he grunted. “gonna wake up to a ring on your finger one of these days. don’t give a fuck that it’s too soon, gotta make sure you get what this is.” he was picking your body up from the bed, your ass in the air suddenly as his thrusts only got more brutal. “you belong to me, you understand? every part of you, all mine.”

“wan’it.” you admitted, through a small sob. “wanna be your wife, kookie, want it so so bad.”

“yeah?” he closed his eyes at your admission. “god. need to get you a house, make sure you decorate it just how you like. gotta spoil you like my wife deserves.”

you were seeing stars, the sound of skin slapping against skin louder than either of your whines, moans or sobs. he slid one of his hands down, circling your clit once more despite the fact you were already a bundle of over sensitivity.

at that, you squealed loudly.

“gonna cum soon, gonna fill this pussy up just like you deserve. get you all nice and round for me.” his words cut through you like a knife, causing you to lose your breath.

“please, please, please.” you begged, through harsh sobs. “cum inside, kookie, please, wanna have your baby.”

you couldn’t take it any longer. the movement of his fingers, the harshness of cock, the way you could feel his entire weight on your much smaller body - you could hardly breathe as your orgasm hit you like a freight train, rendering you useless.

you completely blacked out, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you choked lightly, only causing jungkook to orgasm himself. he buried himself deep inside you with a final thrust, feeling you clench and milk him for all that he had.

the shared orgasm was unlike anything you had ever experienced before. it felt the closest to euphoria you’d ever felt, and you knew the feeling was mutual with the way the usually stoic, manly man on top of you was moaning into your shoulder, fucking you both through your orgasms.

he settled on top of you for a solid minute, still inside of you, repositioning you so you could breathe freely. he was breathing in your scent, his shoulders sagging as though the full stress of the day had finally escaped you. it was like he could breathe again, having bared his entire soul to you mid thrust only for it to be reciprocated in the filthiest of ways.

your eyes remained closed, even after he pulled out, and pushed his cum back into you with his fingers, secretly praying it would stick. you were a panting, dazed mess as he picked you up and took you to the bathroom, drawing you a bath all the whilst holding you firmly into his arms, not letting you worry about a single thing.

and once you were settled in, warm bubble coated water surrounding you as you nuzzled deeper and deeper into jungkook’s chest, only then did you open your eyes, meeting his gaze with parted lips.

“did you mean it?” you whispered quietly, almost afraid of his answer.

he didn’t respond to you at first. instead, he brushed a wet thumb over your cheek, watching the way you nuzzled into his cheek gently. he was were enamoured by you, both body and soul, and if he was a man of words, he would have professed his feelings for you grandly. alas, he was not, so instead, he did the next best thing.

jungkook took a hold of your left hand, easing it to his lips and planting a sweet kiss to your ring finger, right where he promised he would decorate it with jewellery soon.

he meant every fucking word.

—

three months had passed and welcomed pure bliss into your life. you knew that life with jungkook was a pleasure in itself, but from moving into a completely new home, one he had put under your name as a testimony of his love for you, to the ridiculously expensive gifts he would come home with each and every day. you were living a reality that you couldn’t have ever dreamt would belong to you.

you looked healthier - from your long hair to your flushed cheeks, your eyes brighter and your ribcage no longer poking out. you were head over heels in love with the man who had claimed you for his own like a modern day stalker, and yet you had never felt so sure of your safety.

jungkook loved in a way that was visible, not explicit. he wasn’t one to tell you those three words, instead opting to show you any change he would get, something that had you weeping constantly out of pure joy. something he couldn’t ever get over.

you liked the dynamic you had built for each other too. you got to play house, spending all of your time being domestic, cooking meals, trying new recipes, baking, adding furnishings to the home, making it completely and entirely your own whilst he went out and worked. he was a manual labour kind of guy, coming home with sweat lined skin and grease all over him, but that only made you want him so much more.

to know he worked so hard just to provide the picture perfect life for you had you riding him most nights, giving him the love he bestowed upon you in the best possible way you knew how. through milking his cock until his cum sat deep in your womb, a favourite pastime for you both.

even now, you were stood in your kitchen, phone in hand as you read the text jungkook had sent to you only moments prior. he never texted. ever.

your stomach flipped as you reread it over and over, trying to decipher the meaning for the text, instead of him calling you, your head tilted as your stomach sat doing somersaults.

‘don’t cook. bringing you something home.’

seemed innocent enough, but this was your man. you knew him intimately in a way many could only ever dream of - he was up to no good, you were sure of it.

you stared at the screen longer than you needed to, chewing on your bottom lip, bare feet cold against the kitchen tile. the apartment was quiet, save from the soft music playing from your tv, warm lighting dancing around your shared space whilst the low hum of the city rumbled through the walls.

you were already cooking. of course you were.

you liked when he came home to food, a visual manifestation of the fact you had been waiting for him to arrive - a kiss to his soul that told him directly that you wanted him to know you were thinking of him.

regardless, you turned the stove off, forever obedient to your older boyfriend.

you were in a matching loungewear set, soft and pink, his favourite duo as the shorts barely covered your ass, your breasts bulging out of the low cut t-shirt thanks to the pretty bra you were wearing. your hair remained damp from your shower, clipped up and out of your face, skin soft and flushed.

you checked the time.

like clockwork, the door began to open, making you look up, smoothening the strands around your face. after all the moments spent together, you still felt so incredibly shy in his presence, something he would never get over.

his footsteps were heavy down the hallway, weight against hardwood, announcing his presence with every creak of the floor. the air changed the second he stepped inside of kitchen, as though the temperature warped to accommodate him and him alone.

he shut the door behind him with his foot, looking you up and down hungrily as he placed a brown bag on the dining table unceremoniously.

“you eat?”

his voice was rough from the day.

you shook your head gently. “no..waited for you.”

he glanced at the stove, noticing the cooling pan and your sheepish little smile. he tilted his head.

“told you not to cook.”

“i turned it off.” you murmured just as he grunted softly. you walked over to him, helping him out of his work jacket; watching as his veins protruded from his arms, making you trace them immediately as a small habit.

you peered up, standing on your tip toes to plant a soft peck to his lips, with blazing cheeks that flushed too pink for the occasion.

he watched you for another instance, enamoured by you as per usual but there was something unreadable in his gaze. something darker, something raw that had been left untouched for too long, like a glass of water finally over spilling after being continuously poured into. you tilted your head at him gently.

you barely noticed it at first, too busy maintaining the intense eye contact, but jungkook reached into his pocket, grabbing something.

you watched as he placed something on the counter inbetween you.

something small.

velvet.

square.

the world suddenly fell completely silent as your eyes fell on it, your mouth completely drying up as your hands travelled up to your mouth. your breath had caught so sharply it left an ache in your chest.

your pulse thrummed harshly in your fingertips as you stared, and stared and stared, unable to bring yourself to open what you assumed was insane, unable to fathom this was a reality.

jungkook didn’t say anything for a few moments, before looking down at you, observing your reaction.

“open it.”

your eyes snapped up to him, finally.

“..what?”

his jaw shifted slightly. amused. “you know what it is.”

you do. of course you did, but it felt too big to say out loud. your fingers hovered over the box, desperate to touch but almost unsure.

“you’re serious..” you whispered faintly. it wasn’t doubt in your voice but absolute disbelief, like something you had only ever dreamt about was about to take place before your very eyes.

his eyes darkened at your tone. “i wouldn’t joke about shit like this.”

he stepped closer to you now, his chest touching the side of your body, caging you against the counter, his head dropping down so you could meet his gaze properly, without having to look up.

“you think i’ve been saying this for nothing?” he continued, voice low, rougher now. “you think i’m talking just to hear myself?”

you shook your head up at him, chest rising and falling as one of your hands gripped his shirt, hand on his hardened abs to ground yourself as you blinked tears away, trying to comprehend this was really happening.

“open it.” he nudged his nose towards the box, eyes trained on you intensely as your hand finally reached out to hold it, letting out a shaky breath.

opening it up caused you to let out a soft whimper, something that had your knees almost buckling.

the light of the kitchen caught on the heavy diamond sat comfortably in the box, a vision of both taste and money - it didn’t take a jeweller to tell you that this ring was worth more than every pay check you had ever gotten. there was nothing delicate or dainty about it, he wanted you to wear the best of the best and this was exactly that.

you pressed your fingers to your lips as you tried to control your breathing, looking up to meet his gaze through a teary gaze that he was already devouring. you were such a crybaby, and he fucking loved it - you cried over everything and anything, with the only remedy being himself.

“you like it.” he murmured, fingers pressing into your waist to ground you, voice certain.

you nod rapidly, letting out a shaky, teary exhale. “kookie, it’s so..it’s beautiful..”

“good.”

silence settled between you both again, but it sat thicker now. charged. your chest felt too tight, your stomach aching as you tried to keep your tears inside, all the whilst he began peppering your neck in kisses.

“you don’t have to-“ you started softly, tears beginning to stream. “i’m already yours, always.”

the words slip out before you could stop them, as you tried to stifle your sobs to no avail, hand shaking enough where you placed the box down onto the counter gently, too in awe of it to even comprehend it being real.

he stilled.

he stopped his kisses, leaning up to his full height before cupping your cheek with his hand, making your own head lean back to stare up at him. he swiped at your tears, humming lightly down at you. “yeah, you are.”

he took your fingers in his hold then, planting a sweet kiss to each finger, to your palm, to the tops. he took hold of the ring, feeling the weight of it for a moment before sliding it onto your finger slowly, letting you experience it first hand.

his calloused fingers were warm against your own, the size difference hitting you as it often did. it was the way in which it sat on your body, the weight of jungkook’s presence settling into your own and the love you both shared blatant and on display.

you were safe.

loved.

but more importantly? jungkook had chosen you, openly, directly, without fear of scrutinisation. he knew he was a man that moved fast, but it came with an understanding of exactly what he wanted.

you.

—

ahhhh!! handyman jungkook is finally here, thank you all for your patience - if this was something you enjoyed and you want to support me and my writing, here is my kofi <33

love u guys so bad

[4linos]

eighteen and everything after 1

hwang hyunjin x f!reader

synopsis: you build a life too young and watch it fall apart just as you start finding yourself. as you navigate single motherhood and a demanding new career, someone unexpected becomes a steady presence, while the man you never stopped loving learns what it truly means to lose you.

warnings: angst, emotional infidelity, (slightly) suggestive, emotional distress, separation.

wc: 11,878

part 2

You were eighteen when the world tilted on its axis, when a thin plastic stick rewrote the rest of your life in two unforgiving lines.

You remember the bathroom being too quiet. The hum of the vent sounded louder than your own breathing, like it was mocking you for standing there frozen, test in hand, heart pounding so hard you thought you might throw up. Your reflection looked the same, the same tired eyes, same messy hair pulled into a bun but you knew, deep in your chest, that nothing would ever be the same again.

You sat down on the cold tile floor, your back against the bathtub, and stared at the test like it might change its mind if you waited long enough.

It didn’t. You cried then. Not loud or dramatic sobs just silent tears slipping down your cheeks, one after another, soaking into the oversized hoodie you’d stolen from Hyunjin months ago. You loved him. He was gentle, attentive, the kind of boy who listened when you talked and remembered the little things. But love didn’t magically make you ready for this. Love didn’t suddenly turn you into an adult with a plan.

You were eighteen. You were supposed to be thinking about college, friends, what kind of person you wanted to become, not how to tell your boyfriend you were pregnant.

When you finally told him, your hands were shaking so badly you had to clasp them together in your lap. You sat across from him on his bed, knees pulled to your chest, watching his face as you spoke.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words landed heavy between you. Hyunjin didn’t say anything at first. His mouth opened slightly, then closed. His brows pulled together, confusion giving way to shock, then something like fear. You hated that you were the one who put that look there.

“Are you… are you sure?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. “I took three tests.”

He leaned back against the headboard, running a hand through his hair. He looked young then. Younger than he’d ever looked before. Just a boy pretending to be a man, just like you were pretending to be okay.

You waited for him to say something.. anything. Anger, reassurance, panic. But all he did was sit there, staring at the wall, jaw tight.

“I love you,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out in desperation. “I’m not trying to trap you or anything, I just—I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to tell anyone else before you.”

He finally looked at you then, eyes dark and unreadable. “I know,” he said. “I know you wouldn’t do that.”

There was comfort in that, at least. He trusted you but trust didn’t mean certainty. The weeks that followed were a blur of whispered conversations, sleepless nights, and growing dread.

Telling your parents was worse than you imagined. Your mother cried. Your father went quiet in that terrifying way that meant disappointment ran deeper than anger.

“You’re a child,” your mother said, her voice shaking. “How could you be so careless?”

You had no answer that would make it better.

They told you your options in voices that pretended to be gentle but carried the weight of finality. You could keep the baby, but only if you did things “the right way.” That meant stability. That meant marriage.

“You can’t raise a child alone at your age,” your father said. “And we’re not doing this halfway.”

You didn’t know whether you wanted to scream or disappear.

Hyunjin’s parents reacted differently, but the message was the same. His mother was stern, lips pressed into a thin line as she looked at him like he’d failed some invisible test.

“You’re responsible for this,” she told him. “So you will step up.”

He nodded, shoulders tense, saying all the right things. He said he’d take responsibility. He said he cared about you. He said he’d do whatever it took but late at night, when it was just the two of you, lying side by side in the dark, you felt the distance in the silence. You felt the questions he didn’t ask, the doubts he didn’t voice.

“Do you want this?” you asked him once, your voice barely above a whisper.

He turned his head to look at you, his face soft in the dim light. “I want you,” he said honestly. “I just… I didn’t think it would happen like this.”

Neither did you. You got married when you were nineteen, five months pregnant, your belly no longer something you could hide with baggy clothes and excuses. The ceremony was small, rushed, more practical than romantic. You wore a simple dress that had to be altered twice to accommodate your growing body. Hyunjin wore a suit that didn’t quite fit right, his tie crooked because his hands were shaking.

When you said your vows, your voice wavered. You meant the words but they felt heavier than they should have. Promises about forever felt terrifying when you’d barely figured out who you were.

After the wedding, you moved in together almost immediately. The apartment wasn’t big, but it was clean and new and yours. Hyunjin insisted you choose everything. The couch, the curtains, the color of the walls.

“What do you like?” he asked, holding up paint samples, smiling at you like this was some normal, happy beginning.

You chose soft colors. Calm ones. Like you were trying to convince yourself this life wouldn’t swallow you whole.

When it came to the nursery, he went all out. He built the crib himself, spending hours sanding the wood until his hands were sore because he said he wanted it to be perfect. He let you pick the theme, the stuffed animals, the tiny clothes you folded with trembling hands.

“This one’s cute,” he said once, holding up a tiny pair of socks. “She’s going to be so small.”

You froze. “She?”

He smiled softly. “I don’t know. Just feels right.”

Something in your chest cracked open then.

Pregnancy was hard. Your body didn’t feel like your own anymore. You were tired all the time, nauseous, emotional in ways you couldn’t control but Hyunjin was there for everything. He learned your cravings, rubbed your back when you were sick, held you when you cried for reasons you couldn’t explain.

He talked to your belly when he thought you were asleep. He’d press his hand there, murmuring nonsense, telling her about the world like she could already understand him.

“I’m going to protect you,” he whispered once. “Both of you.”

You believed him.

When Aerin was born, everything else faded into the background. The fear, the resentment, the what ifs, they all shrank in the face of her tiny fingers wrapping around yours. Hyunjin cried when he held her for the first time, tears streaming down his face as he laughed softly, like he couldn’t believe she was real.

“She’s perfect,” he said, voice breaking. “You did so good.”

Those first years were exhausting but full. Hyunjin took time off work, learned how to change diapers, how to warm bottles just right. He was protective to a fault, reminding everyone to wash their hands, hovering whenever someone held her too close.

You watched him become a father, watched the way he softened around her, the way his entire world seemed to revolve around the two of you. You told yourself this was enough. That love could grow into something steady, something lasting.

And for a while, it did but time moved forward, whether you were ready or not.

Aerin grew from a baby into a toddler, then into a little girl with opinions and endless questions. She started preschool, her backpack almost too big for her small frame, waving at you excitedly every morning as she ran toward her classroom.

And suddenly, your days were too quiet.

You cleaned the apartment that was already clean. You cooked meals hours before Hyunjin got home. You scrolled on your phone, watching people your age live lives that felt impossibly distant. College campuses. Study groups. Late night coffee runs. Laughing with friends, free and unburdened. You loved Aerin more than anything. You didn’t regret her. But sometimes, standing alone in the grocery store, you felt something sharp twist in your chest.

Girls your age passed by you, giggling, throwing makeup into their carts, talking about parties and plans. You pushed your cart slowly, Aerin sitting in the seat, pointing at toys she wanted, her voice bright and innocent.

“Mommy, look!”

You smiled for her. Always for her but inside, you mourned a version of yourself that never got the chance to exist.

That’s when the idea started forming, quiet at first, like a guilty thought you tried to push away. School. Doing something that was just yours.

When you brought it up to Hyunjin, you tried to sound casual. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like your heart wasn’t racing.

“I was thinking,” you said one evening, setting plates on the table. “Now that Aerin’s in school… maybe I could go back too. Take some classes.”

He barely looked up from his phone. “Why?”

The word stung more than it should have.

“I just—” you hesitated. “I want to do something. For me.”

He finally looked at you then, expression firm. “You don’t need to.”

You swallowed. “I know we’re okay financially. This isn’t about that.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “I make enough for all of us. I want you to focus on Aerin.”

“I can do both,” you insisted, your voice trembling. “She’s in school most of the day. I’m home alone.”

He shook his head. “No.”

The finality in his tone made your stomach drop.

“I don’t want to have this conversation again,” he said, standing up. He leaned down, kissed your forehead like a peace offering, like that was supposed to smooth everything over. “I’ll take care of everything. You trust me, right?”

You nodded, because that was easier than fighting. Because he was already grabbing his keys, already late, already gone.

But something inside you didn’t settle.

That night, after Aerin was asleep and Hyunjin was snoring softly beside you, you lay awake staring at the ceiling. Your mind buzzed with possibilities, fears, excitement you hadn’t felt in years. You picked up your phone and searched anyway. Programs. Class schedules. Opportunities. Nursing catches your eye.

Your heart raced as you read, imagining a future that wasn’t confined to the walls of your apartment. You felt guilty. You felt selfish. You felt alive. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t know which feeling scared you more.

You tell yourself it’s harmless at first.

Just looking. Just reading. Just imagining.

It becomes a routine you don’t admit out loud. After Aerin goes to bed, after the dishes are done and the apartment is quiet again, you curl onto your side of the bed with your phone turned low, brightness dimmed like you’re hiding something shameful. You scroll through program requirements, application deadlines, testimonials from students who look like they have their whole lives ahead of them.

You imagine yourself in scrubs. You imagine studying late, tired but fulfilled. You imagine being more than just someone’s wife, someone’s mother. And then guilt crashes over you like cold water.

Because Hyunjin works hard. Because he provides. Because he’s never once made you feel unloved or unsafe. Because he stepped up when everything went wrong.

So why does it feel like you’re suffocating?

The days blur together. You wake Aerin up, pack her lunch, braid her hair. You smile at other parents at drop off, all of them older than you, all of them looking at you like you belong here like this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

At home, the silence waits for you.

You try filling it. You reorganize closets. You redecorate the living room twice. You bake things you don’t even want to eat. Nothing sticks. Nothing quiets the restless buzzing in your chest.

When Hyunjin comes home, you’re careful. You’re softer than usual, quieter. You laugh at his jokes, ask about his day, listen as he talks about work stress and promotions and plans. You nod along, supportive, grateful. You don’t bring up school again but the resentment doesn’t disappear just because you don’t name it.

It seeps in slowly. In the way you flinch when he says, “You don’t have to worry about that.” In the way your jaw tightens when he hands you money instead of asking if you want to go with him. In the way he talks about your life like it’s already decided.

One afternoon, you sit on a bench outside Aerin’s preschool, watching kids spill out of the building, laughter echoing in the air. A girl from your graduating class walks past you with a group of friends, textbooks tucked under her arm, complaining about exams and dorm food.

She looks older. Confident and free. She doesn’t recognize you. You don’t know whether that hurts or helps.

That night, you apply. Your finger hovers over the screen for a long time before you press submit. Your heart pounds so loudly you swear Hyunjin will hear it from the living room. When the confirmation email comes through, your hands start shaking. You’ve never done something this big without asking him first.

You tell yourself you’ll explain later. That once he sees how serious you are, how important this is to you, he’ll understand. That love means compromise. That marriage isn’t ownership but deep down, you already know it won’t be that simple.

The acceptance email comes two weeks later.

You read it three times, pressing a hand to your mouth to keep from crying out loud. Your chest feels too tight, too full. Excitement and fear coil together until you can’t tell them apart.

You don’t tell him right away. You wait for the right moment or what you convince yourself will be the right moment. You wait for a good day. A calm evening. A time when he isn’t stressed or tired or distracted. That moment never comes.

Instead, he finds out by accident.

He comes home early one afternoon, earlier than usual, and you don’t hear the door open over the sound of Aerin’s cartoon. Your laptop is open on the kitchen table, emails pulled up, course schedules glowing on the screen.

“What’s this?”

His voice is calm.

You freeze, your stomach dropping like you’ve missed a step going downstairs. You turn slowly, your heart already racing.

“I—” Your mouth goes dry. “I was going to tell you.”

He looks between you and the screen, jaw tightening. “You applied?”

You nod, throat burning. “I got accepted.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. Aerin laughs from the living room, unaware, blissfully safe in her little world.

“You went behind my back,” he says finally.

The words hurt more than if he’d yelled.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say quickly. “I just needed to do this. I need something that’s mine.”

“I told you no.” His voice hardens. “I was clear.”

“And I told you I wasn’t asking for permission,” you snap before you can stop yourself. The words hang in the air, sharp and dangerous.

His eyes darken. “Then what were you doing?”

You feel tears prick at your eyes, but you force yourself to keep going. “I’m not just a mom. I’m not just your wife. I’m still me.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once across the kitchen. “Do you have any idea how this looks? How this feels?”

“How it feels?” you repeat bitterly. “You make decisions for all of us without asking me how it feels.”

“That’s not fair,” he says. “Everything I do is for you and Aerin.”

“I know,” you whisper. “And I’m grateful. But I’m disappearing.”

That makes him stop.

He looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time in years, really seeing you. The dark circles under your eyes. The tension in your shoulders. The way you’re clutching your hands together like you’re holding yourself upright.

“You’re not disappearing,” he says, but there’s doubt in his voice now. “You’re our family.”

“And who am I when she grows up?” you ask softly. “Who am I when she doesn’t need me every second?”

He doesn’t answer. The argument doesn’t explode. It fractures. It leaves cracks in places you didn’t know were fragile. He tells you it’s too much. Too sudden. That you should have talked to him. That you’re risking stability for something unnecessary.

You tell him you feel trapped. That you feel like your life ended at eighteen while everyone else’s kept going. Neither of you really listens.

That night, he sleeps on the couch. Aerin asks why Daddy isn’t in bed with you, and you lie through your teeth with a smile that hurts your face.

“Just a long day, baby.”

But when you’re alone in the dark, staring at the ceiling again, you realize something terrifying.

For the first time since you got married, you don’t feel like you’re on the same side anymore.

And no matter how much you love him, you’re no longer sure love alone is enough to fix what’s breaking between you.

The next morning feels wrong before you even open your eyes. The bed is too empty on his side, the sheets cold where his warmth should be. For a second, you pretend nothing happened, that you just woke up early, that he’s in the shower or already in the kitchen making coffee the way he does on weekends.

Then reality settles in your chest like a weight.

You get up quietly, padding down the hallway so you don’t wake Aerin. Hyunjin is already dressed, standing at the counter with his back to you, scrolling on his phone. There’s a mug in his hand, untouched.

“Morning,” you say carefully.

He glances at you, nods once. “Morning.”

That’s it. No kiss. No smile. No hand on your waist as he passes by. The absence of those small habits hurts more than shouting ever could.

You busy yourself with breakfast, movements automatic. You crack eggs, toast bread, pack Aerin’s lunch. Your hands know what to do even while your mind spirals. You wonder if this is how it starts, two people who used to share everything now moving around each other like strangers.

When Aerin wakes up, everything shifts. Hyunjin softens immediately, crouching down to her level, letting her climb into his arms like nothing in the world is wrong.

“Daddy!” she chirps, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he says, kissing her cheek. His voice is warm, normal. It almost makes you angry. You watch them from the kitchen, heart aching at how easily he slips back into that role. How natural fatherhood is for him. How hard it feels to exist anywhere outside of it.

The drive to preschool is quiet. Aerin hums to herself in the backseat, swinging her legs. Hyunjin keeps his eyes on the road, hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.

You want to say something. Anything. But the words get stuck in your throat.

After drop off, he turns to you in the parking lot. “We’ll talk later,” he says. Not a question. Not a promise. Just a statement. You nod.

The rest of the day crawls. You check your email obsessively, rereading the acceptance letter like it might disappear if you look away for too long. You imagine orientation day. You imagine telling Aerin one day that her mom went back to school, that she didn’t give up on herself. Then you imagine Hyunjin’s face when you say you’re not backing out.

That night, he comes home late. Later than usual. You hear the door open, then close softly. He doesn’t call your name. You sit on the couch, hands folded in your lap, heart pounding.

He finally speaks first. “I talked to my mom.”

Your stomach twists. “About…?”

“About you going back to school.”

The way he says it, flat, controlled makes your chest tighten.

“And?” you ask.

“She thinks it’s irresponsible,” he says. “She thinks Aerin needs you home. That I work too much already.”

You laugh softly, but there’s no humor in it. “Of course she does.”

He sighs, rubbing his temples. “I’m trying to understand, okay? But you blindsided me.”

“I’ve been telling you I was unhappy,” you say quietly. “You just didn’t want to hear it.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why did you decide for me?” Your voice shakes despite your effort to stay calm. “Why did you get to say no like my life is something you own?”

That makes him look at you sharply. “I don’t own you.”

“Then why do I feel like I need permission to exist outside this apartment?”

Silence again. It’s becoming a pattern.

He sits down across from you, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “I’m scared,” he admits finally. “I didn’t plan any of this. I didn’t plan to be married at nineteen. I didn’t plan to be responsible for a family before I figured myself out.”

Your chest tightens. “Neither did I.”

“But I did it,” he continues. “I gave up things too.”

You nod slowly. “I know and I appreciate that. But you got to replace those things with a career. With growth. I replaced mine with staying still.”

“That’s not fair,” he says again, weaker this time.

“Isn’t it?”

The question hangs between you.

He looks at you and you see something crack in his expression.

“I’m scared that if you start building a life without me,” he says quietly, “you’ll realize you don’t need me anymore.”

The honesty knocks the air out of you.

You move closer, sitting beside him. “This isn’t about leaving you,” you say softly. “It’s about not losing myself.”

He swallows hard. “And what if I lose you anyway?”

You don’t have an answer that will soothe him. You wish you did.

When he finally agrees, reluctantly, painfully it feels less like a victory and more like a fragile ceasefire. He tells you he’ll help with Aerin. That you’ll figure out schedules. That he needs time.

You tell him thank you, even though something in his tone tells you this isn’t over. That night, lying beside him again, you stare at the ceiling, heart racing with equal parts excitement and dread.

You’re stepping into something unknown. Something risky.

And deep down, you know that no matter how this turns out, your life has already started changing in difficult ways neither of you can control anymore.

—

You’re right, it is difficult. Exhausting, even. But there’s something about it that feels almost… natural, like your body and mind have been waiting for this rhythm all along.

Your first week starts months after that conversation, after schedules have been argued over and rewritten, after doubts have settled into something quieter but still present. You don’t sleep much the night before your first day. You lie awake next to Hyunjin, listening to his breathing, staring into the dark with your heart racing, not with fear, but anticipation.

Morning comes too quickly. You wake up before your alarm, before the sun is fully up. The apartment is still, wrapped in that soft silence that only exists before the world wakes. For a moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, letting it sink in.

This is real. You’re really doing this.

You move carefully, slipping out of bed so you don’t wake Hyunjin. You shower quickly, dress in clothes that feel both unfamiliar and exciting simple, comfortable, but chosen for you, not just for practicality. When you look in the mirror, you barely recognize the woman staring back. She looks tired, yes, but there’s something else there too. Purpose.

You make breakfast next, moving quietly but efficiently. You pack Aerin’s lunch with the same care you always have, cutting her fruit just the way she likes, slipping a tiny note into her lunchbox like you always do. You promised yourself nothing would change for her. No rushed mornings. No chaos. She didn’t choose this, you did.

When it’s time, you wake her gently, brushing her hair back from her face.
“Good morning, baby.”

She groans softly, curling closer to you. “Five more minutes.”

You smile, kissing her forehead. “We don’t have five more minutes.”

She sits up slowly, rubbing her eyes, and when she looks at you, her face brightens immediately. “Mommy.”

That single word grounds you. Hyunjin comes out while you’re eating breakfast together, hair still messy, sleeves of his shirt pushed up. He pauses when he sees you dressed, bag by the door.

“Today’s the day,” he says.

You nod, suddenly nervous all over again. “Yeah.”

He steps closer, presses a kiss to your temple. “You’ll do great.”

It’s simple and quiet but it means more than he knows.

Breakfast feels normal, Aerin chatting endlessly, Hyunjin teasing her, the three of you laughing like you always have. That comforts you more than anything. Proof that this doesn’t have to destroy what you’ve built.

You drive Aerin to preschool like always. She sings along to the radio, swinging her feet, completely unaware that your life has shifted on its axis. When you drop her off, she hugs you tight, just a little longer than usual.

“Pick me up later,” she says seriously.

“I will,” you promise. “Always.”

And then, you don’t go home like usual.

Your hands tighten on the steering wheel as you pull out of the parking lot, heart pounding as the campus comes into view. It’s bigger than you expected. Louder. Full of people who look so young it almost hurts. You park, grab your bag, and for a moment, you just sit there, breathing.

You’re terrified.

You walk into your first class feeling like an imposter. Like someone’s going to tap you on the shoulder and tell you don’t belong here, that you missed your chance, that you’re too late. But no one does. You sit down, take notes, listen, absorb. And something clicks.

Your brain wakes up in a way it hasn’t in years. You’re tired, but you’re focused. Engaged. You ask questions. You write things down like they matter because they do.

When class ends, you don’t linger. You go straight to the library, finish what you can, checking the time every few minutes. Responsibility still anchors you. Motherhood still comes first. That hasn’t changed. You pick Aerin up right on time.

The afternoons blur into a pattern after that. Dinner prep. Homework at the kitchen table, Aerin beside you with crayons and paper, narrating her drawings while you study anatomy terms. Sometimes she asks what you’re doing.

“I’m learning,” you tell her.

“Like me?” she asks.

“Just like you.”

When Hyunjin comes home, it’s always the same. The door opens. Aerin lights up.
“Daddy!”

He scoops her up, kisses her cheek, then comes to you. A kiss on the lips. One on your forehead. Routine, steady, grounding.

“How was school?” he asks.

You answer honestly. “Hard. Good.”

And somehow, every day since you started school goes exactly like that. It’s tiring. You fall into bed some nights barely able to keep your eyes open. There are moments when guilt creeps in, moments when you wonder if you’re asking for too much, if balance like this can really last.

But when you sit there at the table, textbooks open, your daughter humming beside you, your husband’s presence warm and familiar behind you, you realize something quietly profound.

For the first time in years, you’re not just surviving. You’re living and you’re happy.

—

The cracks don’t show up all at once.

At first, everything holds together so neatly that you almost believe this is the version of life people talk about when they say it all works out. You’re tired, yes but it’s the good kind of tired. The earned kind. The kind that makes sleep come fast and deep.

Weeks pass. Then months.You learn how to move through your days like muscle memory. Wake up early. Coffee first.. always. Pack Aerin’s lunch. Lay out her clothes. Wake her gently. Smile even when your eyes burn from lack of sleep. Drive. Drop off. Campus. Notes. Exams. Rush back. Pick her up. Dinner. Homework. Wait for Hyunjin.

Repeat.

And most days, it really does feel easy.

Not because it is easy but because it feels right.

You start to notice changes in yourself before anyone else does. You stand a little straighter. You talk with more confidence. You catch yourself explaining something medical related to Hyunjin one night, hands moving as you speak, eyes bright, and he just watches you like he’s seeing you for the first time again.

“You like this,” he says.

You nod. “I really do.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You tell yourself not to read into it.

Midterms hit hard. You start staying up later, studying after Aerin goes to sleep, your notes blurring together as the clock creeps toward midnight. Hyunjin tells you to rest, tells you he’s got it under control, tells you not to push yourself so hard. You thank him. You keep going anyway.

Sometimes you forget small things. A permission slip. A load of laundry. A text you meant to send. Nothing catastrophic, just enough to make you feel like you’re failing at everything all at once.

One night, Aerin falls asleep on the couch waiting for Hyunjin. Her head lolls against your arm, warm and heavy, her breathing slow. Your laptop is open in front of you, unfinished notes staring back accusingly. Hyunjin comes home late.

You look up when the door opens, exhaustion flooding through you all at once. He smiles when he sees Aerin asleep on you, but there’s tension in his shoulders as he shrugs off his jacket.

“You didn’t wake her?” he asks quietly.

“She wanted to wait for you,” you say softly. “I didn’t have the heart.”

He nods, lifts her carefully, carries her to bed. You watch from the doorway, chest tight with love and guilt all tangled together.

Later, when the apartment is quiet again, he sits beside you on the couch.

“You forgot to sign her form today,” he says gently.

Your stomach drops. “I did?”

“She told her teacher you’d do it tonight.”

You close your eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I’m not mad.”

But there’s something in his voice. Something restrained.

“I just worry,” he continues. “You’re doing a lot.”

“So are you,” you reply. “We both are.”

He exhales slowly, leaning back. “Yeah. We are.”

The distance doesn’t feel dramatic. It feels subtle. Like a door that isn’t fully closed but isn’t fully open either.

You start noticing how often he watches the clock when you study late. How he hesitates before asking you things. How he doesn’t talk about his own stress as much anymore.

And still every morning, he kisses your cheek and says “Good luck.”

Every night, he asks, “How was school?”

So you keep going.

Then one afternoon, something small finally tips the balance.

Your class runs late. Just twenty minutes. You text Hyunjin.

You: Running late, can you pick up Aerin?

Assuming it’ll be fine.

He doesn’t reply.

Your heart starts racing halfway through the drive. You grip the steering wheel, mentally calculating time, imagining Aerin waiting, confused, watching other kids get picked up while she looks for you or Hyunjin.

When you arrive, she’s sitting on the bench outside, feet swinging, Hyunjin beside her.

Relief hits so hard your knees feel weak.

She runs to you immediately. “Mommy!”

You drop your bag, kneel, pull her into your arms. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m here.”

Hyunjin stands behind her, arms crossed.

“You said you’d pick her up,” he says quietly.

“I know. Class went late, I texted—”

“I didn’t see it,” he replies. “I had to leave work early.”

Guilt floods you instantly. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

He nods, jaw tight. “We can’t keep doing this.”

Your chest tightens. “Doing what?”

“Pretending nothing’s changing,” he says. “Because it is.”

The drive home is silent.

That night, after Aerin is asleep, the conversation you’ve been avoiding finally happens.

“I feel like I’m losing you,” he admits, voice low. “Like there’s this whole world you’re building, and I’m standing outside of it.”

You sit across from him, hands wrapped around a mug gone cold. “I’m still here.”

“I know you are physically,” he says. “But you’re always tired. Always studying. Always somewhere else.”

You swallow hard. “I warned you this wouldn’t be easy.”

“I thought I was prepared,” he says honestly. “I wasn’t.”

Silence stretches between you again but this time, it’s heavier.

You think about the girl you were at eighteen.

You think about the woman you are now. Growing. Reaching. Refusing to disappear.

“I don’t want to choose,” you say quietly. “I don’t want this to be you or me.”

He looks at you for a long time. Then he nods slowly.

“Neither do I,” he says. “But something has to give.”

That night, you lie awake again but this time, the fear feels different.

Because for the first time, you realize that growth doesn’t just change you. It tests everything you grew from.

-

You really do believe things are getting better.

You start talking more. You stop swallowing things just to keep the peace. When you’re tired, you say it out loud instead of pretending you’re fine. When school overwhelms you, you tell Hyunjin instead of hiding behind a smile. You really try to bridge whatever invisible gap has opened between you but he doesn’t meet you halfway.

At first, you tell yourself it’s normal. He’s stressed. He works long hours. Maybe he just needs time to adjust, the same way you did. Maybe he feels neglected. Guilty thoughts pile up quickly, easily.

So you decide to prove, to him and to yourself that you can still choose them.

The exam is looming, heavy and unavoidable, but you push it aside. You tell yourself one night off won’t ruin everything. Family matters more. Marriage matters more. You’ll make it up later.

When Hyunjin comes home that evening, you’re already dressed, keys in hand, Aerin bouncing excitedly beside you.

“Hey,” you say lightly. “How about ice cream before dinner? Like a little family thing.”

Aerin’s face lights up instantly. “Ice cream? Daddy, please!”

She tugs at his arm, small hands wrapped around his sleeve, eyes bright with hope.

Hyunjin barely looks at her.

“I’m tired,” he says, voice flat. “I’m going to bed.”

You blink. “I can drive. You don’t have to do anything.”

He shakes his head. “Just eat the ice cream we already have.”

You watch it happen in real time, the way Aerin’s excitement drains from her face, the way her shoulders slump just slightly. It’s subtle, but it hits you like a punch to the chest.

“Oh,” she says quietly. “Okay.”

Something twists inside you.

“Come on,” you say gently, forcing a smile. “We’ll go anyway. Just us.”

She brightens again, but not all the way. In the car, she chatters, legs swinging, eyes glued to the window. But every few minutes,

“Daddy come too?”

“Daddy coming later?”

“Daddy likes chocolate, right?”

You answer softly every time, making excuses that taste bitter in your mouth. When you get the ice cream, she eats happily enough, but you notice how she saves some, insisting on bringing it home “for Daddy.”

That night, after you tuck her in, you stand alone in the hallway longer than necessary, staring at her closed door, your chest aching with a quiet dread you can’t name yet. You tell yourself it’s just a rough week.

The second moment comes quietly, late at night.

You’re exhausted, stretched thin, but you miss him. You miss the closeness you used to share without thinking. You curl into his side, press a kiss to his jaw, your hand sliding down his stomach like it’s always done a thousand times before.

He stiffens immediately.

“Not tonight,” he says, grabbing your wrist. His grip isn’t rough but it’s firm enough to stop you. “I’m tired.”

“Oh,” you whisper. Embarrassment burns your face. “Okay.”

He rolls onto his side, turning his back to you, the distance between your bodies suddenly unbearable. You lie there staring at his shoulder blades, replaying the moment over and over, wondering what you did wrong. He’s been tired before. That’s never stopped him from wanting you. You don’t sleep much that night.

The third moment, the one you can’t explain away comes on a random afternoon while you’re doing laundry.

It’s mundane. Ordinary. You’re folding clothes automatically, mind half on flashcards, half on dinner plans. You lift one of his work shirts and freeze. Makeup on the collar. Not yours.

A faint smudge of foundation, darker than your shade. A streak of mascara. And there, almost mocking you a light dusting of glitter that catches under the kitchen light. Your hands start shaking so badly you have to set the shirt down.

You tell yourself there has to be an explanation. A coworker hugged him. A party at work. Something harmless. Something innocent but your stomach churns, instinct screaming louder than logic.

You wait until that night, until Aerin is asleep and the apartment is quiet. You hold the shirt in your hands like evidence you don’t want to believe exists.

“Hyunjin,” you say carefully. “Can you explain this?”

He looks at the shirt, then at you. His expression changes instantly hardening, defensive.

“What are you implying?” he snaps.

“I’m not implying anything,” you say, heart racing. “I just want to understand.”

“Understand what?” he says sharply. “That I work in an office? That people exist around me?”

“There’s makeup,” you say quietly. “And glitter.”

“So?” he scoffs. “What, now you’re checking my clothes?”

The way he turns it on you makes your chest ache.

“I just asked a question,” you say, voice trembling despite your effort to stay calm.

“You’re being paranoid,” he says flatly. “You’re stressed. You’re tired. You’re imagining things.”

The word hits hard. Imagining.

“You’re making me feel like I’m crazy,” you whisper.

He throws his hands up. “I’m not doing this. You’re seeing things because you want to.”

He walks away, leaving you standing there with the shirt clutched in your hands, your reality suddenly feeling unstable beneath your feet.

That night, you lie awake again but this time, the fear is sharp and undeniable. Because it’s not just distance anymore. It’s secrecy. Deflection. A coldness that doesn’t match the man you married, the father who once couldn’t wait to come home to you both.

And for the first time, a thought slips into your mind that you don’t want to name. Something is wrong. And no matter how much you want to fix it, you’re no longer sure you’re the one breaking things.

—

It doesn’t happen all at once.

You don’t wake up one morning and decide to fall apart.

It’s quieter than that. Slower. More humiliating.

You miss an alarm one day. Just one. Aerin still gets to school on time, but breakfast is rushed and you forget the little note you always slip into her lunchbox. The next day, you forget to move the laundry from the washer. Then you forget an assignment deadline. Then you stop opening your textbooks altogether, because every time you do, your chest tightens so badly you feel like you can’t breathe.

Your routines unravel the same way your thoughts do silently, privately, while everyone else assumes you’re still holding it together.

You’re not.

You sit in lectures and stare at the board without absorbing anything. Words blur together. Your pen stays still while everyone else scribbles notes. You reread the same sentence ten times and still don’t know what it says. Your mind is always somewhere else on Hyunjin’s distance, on that makeup stained collar, on the way he no longer reaches for you without thinking.

You start dreading coming home just as much as you dread leaving.

Hyunjin notices you’re quieter, but he doesn’t ask why. Aerin notices too, curling closer to you on the couch, small arms wrapping around your waist like she’s trying to anchor you in place.

“Mommy sad?” she asks one night, eyes big and worried.

You force a smile that feels like it might crack your face in half. “Just tired, baby.”

You hate lying to her.

The guilt eats at you. Guilt for slacking in school after fighting so hard to get there. Guilt for not being present enough. Guilt for being too present, too watchful, too desperate for signs that you’re wrong about him.

Eventually, the pressure becomes unbearable.

You choose a day when Aerin is at school. When the apartment is quiet and there are no distractions, no excuses. Hyunjin is home, working a late shift that evening, still in casual clothes, sitting at the kitchen table scrolling through his phone. Your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

“Hyunjin,” you say.

He looks up, distracted. “Yeah?”

“We need to talk.”

Something in your tone must tip him off, because he straightens slightly. “About what?”

You sit across from him, hands clasped tightly in your lap. Your fingers feel numb.

“I can’t concentrate anymore,” you say. “I can’t sleep. I can barely think. And it’s because I don’t know what’s going on with you.”

He sighs, already defensive. “Why are we doing this again?”

“Because I’m falling apart,” you say quietly. “And I need the truth.”

He scoffs softly, shaking his head. “Why the hell are you bringing this up now?”

“Because I feel like I’m losing my mind,” you snap, voice breaking. “Because I found makeup on your clothes. Because you won’t touch me. Because you won’t look at me.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he says sharply.

“Then tell me that,” you plead. “Tell me you’re not seeing someone else.”

The words hang between you.

He doesn’t answer.

Your stomach drops.

You stare at him, waiting. Seconds stretch into something unbearable. He looks away, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the table.

“Hyunjin,” you say again, more desperately now. “Please.”

He closes his eyes.

“You’ve been distant,” he says finally. “Ever since you started school. You barely look at me anymore.”

The words feel like a slap.

“Are you seriously blaming me right now?” you ask, disbelief flooding your voice. “After everything I’ve done to try and keep us together?”

“I’m just saying—”

“Who is it?” you interrupt. Your voice is shaking now. “Just tell me who it is.”

“No one,” he says quickly. “I didn’t cheat.”

You laugh weakly, because the alternative is screaming. “You’re still lying.”

“I’m not,” he snaps, voice rising. “I didn’t cheat.”

“Then why are you acting so guilty?” you say, tears burning behind your eyes. “Why won’t you look at me?”

He opens his mouth to respond and stops.

That’s when he notices.

Your vision is blurred. Your chest hurts. Something hot slides down your cheek, then another. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you lift a hand and feel wetness on your skin.

Hyunjin freezes.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “You’re crying.”

That makes it worse.

“I didn’t cheat,” he says again, slower this time. “I swear.”

You shake your head, tears falling freely now. “Something happened. I know it did. I just need you to be honest with me.”

He swallows hard.

“I went out for drinks,” he admits. “With coworkers.”

Your heart sinks, but you stay silent.

“One of them.. Chaein, she got handsy,” he continues, voice tight. “And I didn’t stop her.”

Your chest caves in.

“She kissed me,” he says quietly. “And I didn’t pull away. That’s it. I swear.”

You knew something had happened. You did. But hearing it, hearing it said out loud hurts twice as much. Like confirmation makes the pain real in a way suspicion never could.

You stare at him, tears streaming down your face, hands shaking.

“Are you still seeing her?” you ask.

He hesitates. Just for a second but it’s enough.

He opens his mouth, probably ready to lie again, and something in you snaps.

“Don’t,” you say, voice raw. “Don’t lie to me again. Please.”

He looks at you like he’s cornered.

“Yes,” he admits finally. “But it’s not physical. I promise. We just… talk.”

The words feel sharp, slicing straight through you.

“She listens,” he adds, almost defensively. “And you and I—we don’t do that anymore.”

Your heart doesn’t just break, It shatters.

You sit there in silence, staring at the man you married at nineteen, the man who once built a crib with his own hands, the man who promised to protect you. You feel like the ground has disappeared beneath your feet.

“I talk to you,” you whisper.

“Not like before,” he says, regret flickering across his face now. “You’re always tired. Always busy. Always somewhere else.”

You press a hand to your mouth, a sob escaping despite your effort to stay quiet.

“I fought so hard not to lose myself,” you say through tears. “And you let me lose us instead.”

He doesn’t respond. He can’t.

You realize then sitting in that kitchen, crying so hard your chest aches that the hardest part isn’t the kiss. It’s the fact that when he felt lonely, he didn’t come to you.

And suddenly, everything you’ve been holding together school, marriage, identity feels like it’s slipping through your fingers all at once.

The silence after his confession is unbearable. You can’t even look at him anymore. Your hands are clenched so tightly in your lap they ache, nails biting into your skin, grounding you in the only way you know how. Your chest feels hollow, like something vital has been scooped out and you’re still expected to function as if nothing happened.

“So,” you whisper finally. Your voice sounds distant to your own ears. “You didn’t cheat… but you’re emotionally with someone else.”

He flinches at the wording.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he says quickly. “It just—”

“It just did,” you finish for him, bitter. “Like everything else in my life.”

He reaches out, instinctively, like he wants to touch you. You pull back before his hand can even reach your arm. The rejection flashes across his face, and for once, you don’t soften it. You can’t.

“How long?” you ask.

He hesitates again.

Your stomach twists. “How long, Hyunjin.”

“A few weeks,” he admits. “Maybe a month.”

A month. A month of distance. A month of late nights. A month of him turning away from you in bed. A month of you crying quietly, convincing yourself you were paranoid.

“Does she know about me?” you ask.

He nods. “She knows I’m married. She knows about Aerin.”

Something inside you breaks at that.

“And she still listens?” you murmur. “Still talks to you. Still lets you complain about your wife while knowing you have a child at home?”

He looks ashamed now. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“I never complained about you,” he says. “Not like that.”

“But you talked about us,” you say. “About what we don’t do anymore.”

He doesn’t deny it. You push back your chair and stand, legs shaky. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too tight, like the walls are closing in.

“I gave up everything for this family,” you say, voice trembling despite your effort to stay composed. “I gave up my youth. My freedom. My choices. And when I finally tried to take one thing back for myself, you replaced me.”

“That’s not what I did,” he says urgently, standing too. “I never replaced you.”

“Then why am I the one standing here alone?” you snap, tears spilling over again. “Why does she get the version of you that talks and listens while I get whatever scraps you have left?”

He opens his mouth but quickly closes it. His shoulders slump.

“I felt invisible,” he admits quietly. “I didn’t know how to say it without sounding selfish.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Invisible? I built my entire life around making sure you and Aerin were okay.”

“I know,” he says. “And that’s the problem. Everything changed.”

“Yes,” you whisper. “It did. And instead of growing with me, you stepped outside of us.”

The realization settles heavy in your chest. this didn’t happen because you went to school. It happened because neither of you knew how to survive change without losing each other.

“I need space,” you say suddenly.

His head snaps up. “What?”

“I can’t look at you right now,” you say honestly. “I can’t pretend this didn’t happen and then go pick up our daughter and smile like everything’s fine.”

“What does that mean?” he asks, panic creeping into his voice. “Are you leaving?”

You shake your head weakly. “I don’t know. I just know I can’t do this today.”

He drags a hand down his face. “Aerin—”

“I know,” you cut in sharply. “Don’t you dare use her to keep me from breathing.”

That shuts him up. You grab your bag, your keys, your movements mechanical. At the door, you pause, not because you want to look back, but because your body remembers years of turning toward him automatically.

“Are you still talking to her?” you ask quietly.

He swallows. “I can stop.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Another pause.

“Yes.”

Your heart cracks open all over again.

“Then stop,” you say, voice flat. “If you want even a chance at fixing this, you stop. Now. Not later. Not gradually.”

He nods quickly. “I will. I swear.”

You don’t say I believe you. Because right now, you don’t know if you can.

The drive to pick up Aerin is a blur. You grip the steering wheel so hard your hands hurt, focusing on the road because if you don’t, you might break down completely. When you see her running toward you at pickup, backpack bouncing, smile wide and trusting, it almost undoes you.

“Mommy!” she calls.

You crouch down, open your arms, let her crash into you. You bury your face in her hair and breathe her in like oxygen.

“Hi, baby,” you whisper, voice breaking. “Did you have a good day?”

She nods enthusiastically, completely unaware that her world is shifting in ways she can’t see.

At home, you go through the motions. Dinner. Bath. Storytime. You laugh at the right moments. You tuck her in, kiss her forehead, hold her hand until she drifts off to sleep. And then, finally, you allow yourself to fall apart.

You curl up on your side of the bed, clutching a pillow to your chest, sobbing silently into the fabric so no one hears you. Your mind replays everything the kiss, the conversations, the way he chose someone else to listen to him.

You don’t know what tomorrow looks like. You don’t know if your marriage will survive this. All you know is that loving him used to feel like safety. And now, it feels like standing on broken glass, wondering how much more you can bleed before there’s nothing left.

You wake up to sounds that don’t belong to him.

At least, not like this. There’s the quiet clink of dishes, the low hum of the kettle, the soft rustle of lunch bags being opened and closed. For a moment, still half asleep, your body reacts on instinct. You think I need to get up, think I’m late, think Aerin. Then you remember. Everything comes rushing back all at once, heavy and suffocating. Your chest tightens before you even open your eyes. When you do, Hyunjin’s side of the bed is empty. Cold.

You sit up slowly, your head pounding, your throat raw from crying the night before. The apartment smells like toast and coffee. Normal. Domestic. Like nothing is wrong.That almost makes it worse.

You drag yourself out of bed and move down the hallway, feet quiet against the floor. Hyunjin is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp like he showered early. He’s packing Aerin’s lunch, cutting fruit the way you always do, folding the napkin just so.

For a split second, a sharp, bitter thought flashes through your mind.

He knows exactly how to do this. He’s always known.

You don’t say anything. You don’t even look at him. You turn away before he can catch your eye and go straight to Aerin’s room.

“Good morning, baby,” you say softly, sitting on the edge of her bed.

She groans, rolling onto her stomach. “Morning…”

You brush her hair back gently, focusing on the familiar rhythm of caring for her. This is safe. This you can do without thinking.

Hyunjin lingers in the doorway, watching. You can feel his presence like pressure against your back, but you refuse to acknowledge it. You talk to Aerin instead about her day, about what she wants to wear, about how she slept. You laugh when she makes a silly face, even though it feels forced.

You keep your world very small. Very contained.

By the time Aerin is dressed and brushing her teeth, you’re out of distractions. Hyunjin steps closer. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple before you can dodge it.

Your body goes stiff immediately.

“I made breakfast,” he says quietly, like he’s afraid of startling you. He sets a plate in front of you at the table fruit, toast, eggs.

“I’m not hungry,” you say flatly.

“You didn’t eat yesterday,” he replies. “You have a long day. Please.”

The word please hits differently now. It doesn’t soften you. It just reminds you how late it is.

You sit down anyway, more out of obligation than desire. You poke at the fruit with your fork, moving pieces around without actually eating them. Your stomach twists, not with hunger, but with resentment.

Aerin finishes her breakfast and hops down from her chair. “Mommy, I’m done!”

You look up at her immediately. “Okay, baby. Grab your backpack.”

Hyunjin reaches for your hand then slow, hesitant, like he knows you might pull away.

You do. Instantly. Your hand snaps back into your lap like you’ve been burned. The hurt flashes across his face, quick and unguarded. For once, you don’t feel guilty about it.

You clear your throat, standing. “I have to go drop off Aerin.”

He nods, swallowing hard. “I can drive—”

“I’ve got it,” you say, firmer than you mean to, but you don’t take it back.

You help Aerin with her shoes, grab the keys, your movements efficient and distant. At the door, Hyunjin speaks again.

“I’m trying,” he says quietly.

You pause but you don’t turn around.

“I see that,” you reply just as quietly. “But this isn’t something you fix by waking up early and packing lunches.”

The words hang there, heavy and final.

Aerin grabs your hand, warm and trusting. You squeeze back gently and step outside, the door clicking shut behind you.

In the car, Aerin hums along to the radio like she always does. The morning sun filters through the windshield, casting everything in a soft, ordinary light. And you realize something that makes your chest ache even more. You can still do this. You can still be her mom. You can still keep moving. But forgiving him? That’s not something you know how to wake up and do.

-

You dread the drive home the entire way back from campus. Your hands are tight on the steering wheel, knuckles pale, mind spiraling in circles you can’t seem to break out of. Part of you wants to keep driving, past your exit, past familiar streets, anywhere that isn’t that apartment filled with memories and half truths. You imagine circling the city until it’s time to pick up Aerin, pretending this pause means nothing, pretending you don’t feel like your chest is caving in But you go home anyway because this is still your life. Because running won’t fix what’s already broken.

The apartment is quiet when you walk in, too quiet. Your bag slides off your shoulder and lands softly by the door. You barely have time to breathe before Hyunjin appears from the hallway like he’s been waiting, like he’s been counting seconds.

“There you are,” he says, relief flickering across his face.

It makes something ugly twist in your stomach. He walks toward you immediately, hands hovering like he doesn’t know whether he’s allowed to touch you anymore. You step back before he gets close enough.

“I have schoolwork to do,” you say, already turning away.

“Can we just—” He reaches out, then stops himself. “Can we talk for one moment?”

You sigh, exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. “About what, Hyunjin?”

He swallows. “About… us. About what happens now.”

You stop walking. You turn slowly to face him, your expression empty. “What should happen now is that you blocked her yesterday.”

His breath hitches. The silence that follows is answer enough.

You stare at him, something cold spreading through your chest. “You didn’t.”

“I was going to,” he says quickly. “I just—”

“Just what?” you ask, incredulous. “Forgot? Got distracted? Decided it could wait?”

He doesn’t answer. That’s when something inside you finally settles not with peace, but with clarity.

“There’s no point,” you say quietly. “There’s no point in us pretending anymore.”

His eyes widen. “What are you saying?”

You step past him and sit down at the table, suddenly very calm. “You should go.”

He freezes. “Go… where?”

“Anywhere but here,” you reply. “Because I can’t live like this. I can’t wake up next to you and wonder if you’re still choosing her every time I turn my back.”

He watches you stand again, panic creeping into his features. “I love you,” he says quickly, desperately. “I love you so much it hurts.”

You spin around instantly, the words slicing through whatever restraint you had left.

“If you really loved me,” you say, voice sharp and shaking, “you would’ve pushed her away the second she touched you. You would’ve stopped this before it ever got here. You didn’t.”

He opens his mouth and closes it.

You take a step closer, tears burning but not falling. “You don’t get to tell me you love me now. Not when you chose to let someone else in.”

His jaw tightens, his eyes glassy. He looks like he’s drowning, like he doesn’t know which way is up anymore.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he whispers.

“But you did,” you say. “And you’re still doing it.”

You turn away again, your voice quieter now but no less firm. “I want you to leave.”

He follows you a step. “I’m not leaving Aerin.”

You face him again, exhausted. “You’re not. You’re welcome to come see her every day. You can pick her up, take her out, be her dad. I would never take that from her.”

He looks relieved for half a second, until you keep going.

“But continuing like this,” you say, gesturing around the apartment, “sleeping under the same roof, acting like yesterday didn’t shatter everything? It makes me sick. I can’t do it.”

The words feel final as they leave your mouth.

“I won’t pretend for comfort,” you add. “Not anymore.”

He swallows hard, throat bobbing. His shoulders sag like the weight of it all is finally pressing down on him.

“Please,” he says softly. “Just… give me time.”

“I gave you time,” you reply. “And you used it to stay connected to her.”

Silence settles between you again, thick and irreversible. He looks around the apartment, at the couch where you once sat together, at the hallway leading to Aerin’s room, at the life you built too young and tried too hard to save.

Then he nods once. Slowly.

“I’ll pack a bag,” he says hoarsely.

You don’t answer. Because if you do, you might beg him to stay for all the wrong reasons.

-

Hyunjin leaves that day. The door closes softly behind him, no shouting, no slammed walls just the quiet finality of a choice that can’t be undone. The sound echoes through the apartment long after he’s gone, settling into the corners like a ghost you can’t chase away. You cry the entire day.

Not the kind of crying that comes in waves and then eases, but the kind that hollows you out from the inside. You cry in the shower with the water scalding your skin. You cry on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinet, knees pulled to your chest. You cry into a pillow so Aerin won’t hear you when she comes home. And when she does come home, you wipe your face, steady your voice, and become someone else.

You smile. You ask about her day. You make dinner. You pretend.

Everyone around you thinks you’re handling it well. They say you’re strong. Resilient. Brave. You nod and thank them, because correcting them would require energy you don’t have.

Inside, you’re breaking in places no one can see.

Somehow, impossibly, you finish school.

There are days you don’t remember how you made it through, only that you did. You sit exams with your heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the material. You write papers with tears blurring the screen. You walk across campus feeling like a shadow of the woman who once felt so alive there.

But you finish. And when you do, you don’t celebrate. You don’t feel triumphant. You just feel relieved like you’ve been holding your breath for months and can finally let it out.

You get a job almost immediately after. Flexible hours. Kind management. Close to Aerin’s school, like the universe is throwing you a lifeline just when you’re too tired to ask for one.

You’re good at it. Better than you expect to be.

Life settles into something new, not easy, but manageable.

Hyunjin lives on his own now. A small place. Quiet but he shows up. He always shows up for Aerin. School pickups when you can’t make it. Parent events. Performances. Meetings. You two communicate politely, efficiently. Almost like coworkers who share the most important project of their lives. You never talk about us.

And yet, you still love him.

You hate that part of yourself. You wish it would shut up, disappear, harden the way everyone says it eventually does. But part of you truly believes you’ll never move on. That first love, the kind forged in fear and youth and shared responsibility doesn’t just vanish.

He still loves you too. You see it in the way his eyes linger. In the way his voice softens when he talks to you. In the way he never crosses certain lines, never brings anyone around Aerin.

You think maybe… maybe this is just how it will be. Broken, but respectful. Painful, but survivable.

Then you find out about her. You weren’t supposed to.

You would never normally go to his place. You know where he lives, of course, but you’ve kept that boundary firm. For your own sanity. For your dignity. You don’t need to see how he lives without you.

But it’s your first day at work. Your shift runs late. Hyunjin is picking up Aerin from school so she can stay the night at his place, and you need to drop off her overnight bag. Just a quick stop. In and out.

You stand outside his door for a moment longer than necessary, adjusting the strap of the bag on your shoulder, steadying yourself. You knock.

The door opens.

And it’s not Hyunjin. It’s a woman.

She’s pretty, effortlessly so. Slim, soft features, hair loose around her shoulders. She’s wearing nothing but one of his shirts, oversized on her frame, the hem brushing her bare thighs. Her expression shifts from confusion to something curious as she looks at you.

Your heart drops so hard you feel dizzy.

“I—” You step back immediately, instinct screaming at you to leave. “Sorry. Wrong—”

Behind her, you hear his voice.

“Who is it?”

And then he sees you. His face drains of color.

“Wait,” he says urgently, already moving past her. “Hey—wait.”

You don’t. You shove Aerin’s bag toward him when he reaches you, the movement sharp and unsteady. He grabs it automatically, panic flooding his features.

“She’s just a friend,” he blurts out. “It’s not—”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “What friend wears nothing but your clothes?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. You feel something cold settle in your chest not shock, not even anger anymore just confirmation.

“I hope,” you say quietly, voice shaking despite your effort to stay composed, “that she hasn’t met Aerin.”

His eyes widen. “She hasn’t. I swear. I would never—”

“Good,” you cut in. “Because I don’t want her to.”

The words come out harsher than you mean, but you don’t take them back. You can’t. This is the one boundary you refuse to let blur.

You take a step back, already turning away. Your hands are trembling now, your throat burning.

“Good luck,” you say flatly, not looking at him. “I really hope this… whatever you think this is… doesn’t hurt her too.”

And then you walk away. You don’t look back. You don’t give him the chance to explain, to soften it, to make excuses that will only sink deeper into your skin.

You get into your car, close the door, and sit there gripping the steering wheel while your chest caves in all over again.

Because seeing her, that her does something you didn’t expect. It doesn’t just hurt. It makes you realize that loving him was never the problem.

Trusting him was.

And no matter how much part of you still aches for the boy you married at nineteen, the man who once built a crib with his own hands, that version of him is gone. And you finally understand that moving on isn’t about stopping yourself from loving him. It’s about choosing yourself anyway.

You can’t even think about how nervous you are.

Your mind won’t let you.

It’s still back there, standing in a hallway that isn’t yours anymore, staring at a woman wearing his shirt like it belongs to her. Every thought feels scrambled, layered over each other until you can’t separate what hurts from what scares you. Your hands won’t stop trembling. Even breathing feels uneven, like your body forgot how to do it smoothly.

You were good. You were.

You remind yourself of that as you sit in your car for a moment longer than necessary, fingers gripping the steering wheel. You don’t get to be jealous. You don’t. You were the one who told him to leave. You were the one who drew the line. He’s allowed to move on, even if it feels impossibly fast, even if seeing proof of it makes your stomach churn.

Still, something about her standing there, barefoot and comfortable in his space, makes you feel sick in a way you weren’t prepared for.

Your eyes burn. Your throat tightens.

You could cry. You want to cry. Let it all spill out until there’s nothing left inside you. But instead, you open the car door.

You straighten your shoulders. You wipe under your eyes. You remind yourself this job is yours. You earned it. You fought for this future while everything else was falling apart.

You don’t get to lose it on day one.

Inside, the hospital is busy, bright lights, overlapping voices, the sharp scent of antiseptic and coffee. It’s overwhelming in a way that has nothing to do with school. This is real now. This is responsibility with faces and names and consequences. You try to smile. It doesn’t last.

It turns into that practiced, hollow version you’ve perfected over the past year, the one that looks fine if no one looks too closely. You introduce yourself at the desk, your voice steady even though your chest feels like it’s vibrating.

“I’m supposed to be training today,” you say. “With… Seungmin?”

One of the nurses barely looks up and cocks her head. “He’s around. Ask Mina.”

You turn and spot her immediately moving fast, hair pulled back, clipboard tucked under one arm as she weaves between rooms like she knows this place by heart. You hesitate, then approach.

“Hi,” you say softly. “I’m looking for Seungmin.”

She stops, looks you over, and smiles warm, genuine. “You must be the new nurse.”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m—”

Before you can finish, she leans in slightly, lowering her voice. “Just so you know—Seungmin can be… a lot.”

Your stomach tightens. She gives you a quick, reassuring look. “I’m not saying that to scare you. He’s good at what he does. Just tense. Really high standards. People have quit because of him before.”

Your heart sinks a little.

“But,” she adds quickly, squeezing your arm lightly, “don’t let it get to you. If you need help, you come to me. Okay?”

You nod, grateful for the kindness more than you can express. “Thank you. I’m y/n.”

“Mina,” she replies. “You’ll fit right in.”

Before you can respond, a voice cuts through the noise.

“Where the hell is the new nurse I’m supposed to be training?”

You freeze. The voice is sharp, impatient, already annoyed. Mina turns calmly and points straight at you. “Right here.”

Your throat goes dry.

You force yourself to smile as he approaches tall, brisk, eyes already scanning you like you’re another task on his list. He looks tired. Wound tight. The kind of person who doesn’t slow down for anyone.

He sighs when he reaches you, glancing at the clock. “You’re late.”

“I—” You swallow. “I’m not. I checked in—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he cuts in. “Follow me.”

And just like that, he turns and walks away.

No introduction. No welcome. No explanation.

You scramble to keep up, heart racing as you fall into step behind him. His pace is relentless. He talks while walking, rattling off information like you’re supposed to absorb it all at once.

“Supply room’s down there. Med cart keys stay on you at all times. Crash cart’s here—don’t touch it unless you know exactly what you’re doing. Break room’s useless if you actually want to sit down.”

You try to keep up, nodding, mentally repeating everything so it doesn’t disappear the second he moves on to the next thing. But your head is still foggy, emotions lagging behind you like dead weight.

Your feet ache already. Your chest feels tight. You miss half of what he says and hate yourself for it.

“This isn’t school,” he says abruptly, glancing back at you. “You mess up here, people don’t get second chances. Understand?”

“Yes,” you say quickly. “I understand.”

He studies you for a split second, then turns away again. “Good.”

You trail after him, struggling to match his pace, realizing with a sinking feeling that today isn’t just going to be rough.

It’s going to test everything you have left.

And as you follow him down another long hallway, heart pounding, you think bitterly that maybe this is exactly what you deserve, a day so demanding you don’t have time to think about the man who broke your heart before you even clocked in.

//

masterlist.

a/n: it’s been a while..? 😅 sorry for anyone who has been waiting for empty words. this fic will replace empty words.

[official taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa @emilyywhyy @ready2readnwrite @nyxaluna @tricky-ritz @tsunderelino @wickedbutlovely @delulumel @euphysia @shinygubbins @hhwangsmoon @geni-627 @enhacolor @lunaspov @a2dkive @jisuperboard @hyujim @linogatinho @puppymsworld @blablamerra @alondra6011 @you-dont-know-my-name @rylea08 @luvbangchan @chezzeballs300 @luvbangchan @astrophia13 @bemyaehiweloveskz @luvvvivi @mrsbbg @moon-1307 @chaoticancer @iwannabang-chan @kaybeerrosa @elenas-kaleidoscope @nightmarenyxx @pinklasagna04 @minnieewon @rianzysworld @seungminimpossible @imnota-bot-iswear @smiileflower @imelteverytimeihearminniesing @hyunnnieeeeee @imnotsupposedtobedoingthis @sillylittlecat1 @maddy24207 @inmyfelixera @senaenabear lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..]

[ihaveamassivegun]

DEAR Y/N: SORRY WE TRIED TO KILL YOU

pairing: serial killers!ot8!skz x fem!reader

genre: crackfic, dark comedy, dark romance, thriller

summary: hyunjin invites you over to hang out with him and his friends. they try to kill you. you survive! aaaand now they’re obsessed with you.

warnings: attempted murder of protagonist(reader), violence, blood, stalking, obsessive behavior, mentions of death/murder/dismemberment/(implied)rape(it’s just in a conversation, it didn’t happen to anyone in the fic!!), cursing, homicidal behavior/psychopathy, dumb han and felix, people die, the love interests(skz) are the problem, nobody here is okay, english is obvi not my first language

word count: 13k

you almost got murdered.

by eight gorgeous men.

yea, y/n. you got yourself into that situation. but how?

you were walking home once, minding your own business, chewing on some thought. could have been anything. from dinner to what you need to do tomorrow, let’s not act like it matters. none of these little details matter, what does, is that a man was walking towards you. (an: guys i’ll clarify it now that it’s hyunjin. i just hate when fanfics try to describe looks when we don’t know names yet)

the man passed you. smelled great. nothing more.

“is this yours?”

that was him. his voice. he talked to you.

you stopped then and turned around. he was also standing still, looking at you. holding a single airpod.

no. it was not yours. at all. not your airpod.

“shit. yes, it is.” you smiled. a hundred percent aware that the single airpod was not yours.

hyunjin smiled, relieved in a way that suggested he had not planned beyond step one: talk to pretty girl. he asked your name. you asked his. he pretended he wasn’t internally rehearsing how to introduce you to the worst decision of your life.

and that’s exactly how you got yourself into the situation before your getting murdered one, where you kept seeing hyunjin, never really revealing that the airpod was not yours. you didn’t want to, he was just so cute.

and also a serial killer, not like you knew that though.

hyunjin was always the best with the women. or with the people in general. the other seven guys were… doing alright with them, sure, some better and some worse, but hyunjin always got what he wanted. he was the one collecting the people, another person to kill.

which did not happen to you, duh it’s in the first line, but how? how, when the eight of them, eight little nobodies who only got through school and universities because of each other, are so good at killing? how, when it’s the main thing that bonds them together and gives them their sick little dosage of joy? how, when that’s the thing they can do best? how, when they’re fit? lucky? hot?

yea i’ll just stop with all the questions. i’m boutta explain, obvi.

so. you two started meeting up. you not telling him that the airpod wasn’t yours, him not telling you he was planning on sliming you out.

once, he invited you out. you two have been out hundreds and thousands of times(like five times), so it didn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary to you. not a date, he said hang out. his place. “a few friends might be there” he added. you went. fucking idiot.

the place was so fucking cool. big. looked good. kinda place where you immediately lost cell service and your sense of direction.

“that’s just the guys.” hyunjin had also said when you two got there, gesturing inside.

you met them all in under three minutes, which was about two minutes too many. chan was a gentleman. he smiled. he shook your hand. he had huge arms and was gorgeous.

minho and seungmin both looked like they hated you. looked you up and down. acted like bitches. acted like they didn’t understand what you wanted when you said hi and introduced yourself. acted like you were beneath them. hm.

changbin saved the moment by immediately knocking over a chair and laughing at himself. he was sweet. he asked you if you wanted a drink. that was nice, because he meant that. he wanted to get you something to drink, even if he wanted to kill you after. wanting to absolutely murder you wasn’t personal, so he wasn’t going to make it personal.

felix and unfortunately han, two sunshine or whatever you heard the guys say about them(why were there two?) were sweet, but dumb. han tried to shake your hand and missed. felix complimented your shoes and then apologized to the floor.

jeongin bowed. he asked if you were real. he told chan you were out of his league. chan was about to smash his head into a wall. he seemed intelligent though, a little playful, a little flirty. sweet guy. (also a fucking psychopath y/n run run RUN)

through all of it, hyunjin, the liar, the asshole, stayed near you. calm. watching. soooo fucking hot, man. everyone else was loud or mean or deeply stupid, but hyunjin looked at you like he didn’t quite know what to do with you.

which was funny, because the rest of them clearly knew exactly what they wanted to do with you.

they were bad at hiding it. terrible, actually. chan kept whispering. minho and seungmin stared too long. felix dropped something sharp and went “oops”. jeongin asked, loudly, if you were good at running, then immediately said he meant marathons.

you thought they were weird. intense. hot, unfortunately. you had no idea you were being sized up.

so. like two hours into the hang out. you didn’t have your phone with you, it was in the living room somewhere. you were in the kitchen with hyunjin, leaning against a counter, listening to him explain, calmly, something about the cabinets.

“uhuh.” you said, opening three drawers and finding nothing but knives. so many knives. “oouukay.”

from the living room, something heavy scraped across the floor.

“alright.” chan’s voice came. “enough foreplay.”

you frowned, no idea what he was referring to. yet. “that’s a weird thing to say out loud.”

hyunjin hummed. then seungmin appeared in the doorway, posture lazy, swaying a lil, with a fire poker in his hand. i repeat, fire poker.

you had just enough time to think oh that’s new, before he swung. clean. aimed at your head.

you ducked on instinct. the poker smashed into the cabinet behind you, splintering wood, sending a drawer of knives exploding onto the floor.

everyone froze for half a second.

“jesus.” changbin said from somewhere nearby. “we just fixed that.”

you stared at seungmin. he stared back. you two stared at each other for a while.

“…huh.” you said. “okay.”

then you ran.

the boys just… got into it immediately. switched. getting up. listening to your footsteps. laughing. jeongin whooped. they all obviously had done this before. they were so boyish, all of them. and so fucking evil.

you ran down a hallway, heart slamming in your ribs. a door on your left? locked. on your right, open.

you ran into a study and immediately regretted it. felix was there, sitting on a desk, holding a crossbow. WHERE. DID. HE. GET. THAT. FROM.

“oh!” he said, genuinely delighted. “hey.”

“move.” you snapped.

he winced sympathetically. “can’t.”

the shit that he shot out of the bow that i don’t know the name of thunked into the wall beside your head. close enough that you felt the vibration.

“fuck you.” you said, accepting it surprisingly quick that you were getting hunted down.

you burst back into the hall and nearly collided with changbin. he caught you by the shoulders automatically, steadying you.

“okay.” he said, quick and quiet. “left stair’s blocked. right one buys you maybe twenty seconds.”

“why are you telling me?” you panted.

he shrugged. “i like you.”

then he leaned down, pressed a quick kiss into your hair, warm, apologetic, and shoved you forward by the middle of your back.

“go.” he said. “before i change my mind.”

you went.

behind you, he called out cheerfully: “she went right!”

“YOU FUCKING LIAR.” minho yelled immediately.

you ran up the stairs two at a time. at the top when you turned, han was waiting, holding a bat.

“oh shit.” he said. “hi.”

you grabbed the bat mid-swing, yanked it free, and cracked him across the shin. you fucking rock y/n.

he screamed, fell over, and immediately yelled: “timeout! timeout!”

you ditched the bat(DUMB bitch) and ran into what looked like a… whatever room. it was big, too big, too open, too much of a bad choice.

chan stepped into your path. was this bitch there the whole time? no, he couldn’t be. could he?

“easy.” he said, hands up. calm. annoyingly handsome. “you’re safe for—”

you threw a chair at his head.

he caught it.

you spun, only to find minho closing in. you kicked him in the knee. hard. he lunged. you ducked, grabbed a chair again and swung blindly. the thing is, you were extremely weak tho. the chair could have been a fucking pillow at this point, because he just stepped away from it. and you… kinda went with the chair. but you stood up! luckily.

they loved this. they loved the way you fought. the way you adapted. the way you didn’t scream, just swore and moved and made it harder than it was supposed to be. it made them better. sharper. meaner. more playful.

you ran out the door you came in thru and shut it behind you, jamming a heavy table against it. the boys could have prevented that, they just didn’t. you were way too fun, and they knew that you were getting tired. they knew they were going to win this. again.

you waited a bit.

the door shuddered. once. twice.

then stopped.

silence.

your stomach dropped. that was never good.

“okay.” hyunjin’s calm voice came, suddenly close, from behind you. “i’m gonna need you to turn around.”

you spun.

for a moment, you just stared at each other.

“yeah.” you said breathlessly. “so. the airpod?”

he winced. “yeah.”

“figures. sorry for lying about it.”

“it’s fine. i lied too.” he stepped aside, gesturing toward a side door. gentlemanly. insane. “run.” he said. “i’ll count to five.”

“why?”

he smiled, small. “because it’s more fun when you almost make it.”

you didn’t wait for five. you ran again, heart in your throat.

“YOU’RE DOING GREAT!” felix shouted when he saw you run past him. “I MEAN—STOP!”

yeah. pfftt.

the house stopped making sense after a while. corridors doubled back on themselves, which was fucking brutal. there were rooms you swore you’d already crossed. you ducked into a side room and slammed the door, immediately realizing, too late, that it didn’t lock.

“fuck.” you whispered, hands on your knees, trying to quiet your breathing. and you listened. footsteps walked past. someone laughed, a really… loud laugh. jeongin’s voice echoed from somewhere far off. you could hear how unserious his voice was, talking bout sum “she’s still upright, folks, which is honestly impressive” genuinely just making fun of the situation.

“keys.” you muttered. “i need keys.” because you clearly remembered hyunjin closing the front door after you.

from behind the curtain came a soft, confused, very close: “…huh.”

you froze.

the curtain moved. it was han, holding a knife and a flashlight upside down, blinking at you.

“oh” he said. “hi.”

third hi he said tonight. hi to you too, han.

you stared at each other.

“uh.” he said.

“yeah.” you replied.

a beat passed.

another.

he frowned at the flashlight, turned it the right way up, immediately blinded himself, and yelped.

“sorry.” he said, rubbing his eyes. “didn’t mean to corner you.” serial killer btw.

“you did.” you said. “that’s literally what you did.”

“right.” he nodded. “yeah. so. i’m supposed to, uh—” he made a weak stabbing motion with his hand that held the knife. missed entirely. “—do the thing.”

you glanced at the knife in his hand. them at him. then back at the knife. “you don’t look super confident about that.” you said.

he shrugged. “i get nervous.” he hesitated. then leaned in and whispered: “hyunjin gave his keys to chan, i saw it.”

your eyes widened. “…thanks.”

he smiled, shy. “okay.” he said, stepping aside. “i’m gonna count to… uh… what’s fair?”

“ten.” you said immediately.

he nodded seriously. “ten.”

you bolted.

“ONE—” he shouted, already losing count. “THREE—WAIT—”

you ran out. didn’t get far though, you heard too many noises, so you did what made sense at the moment. hide again. and you did hide again, at least tried, you were soon interrupted by seeing felix, who was crouched behind a couch, chewing on a cereal bar.

he looked up mid-bite. “oh. hello again.”

“move. again.” you said.

he scooted instantly. “yep.”

you walked past. paused. looked back. “why are you hiding?”

he swallowed. “i forgot what the plan was.”

“oh. i’m sorry.”

“it’s alright.”

from the hallway, heavy footsteps approached. chan, probably. he walks confident. you can just… hear his walk. felix heard it too. he grimaced.

“he’s gonna be mad.” felix whispered. “he hates when i lose track.”

you looked at felix. then at the hallway. then back at felix. “you’re fine. it’s not your fault. i think so, at least.” you looked around. “he just feels like the fucking star of the show, having the keys and all that”

felix’s eyes lit up. “oh! yeah, he’s got those.”

boom. that was your plan. sneak the keys into the conversation. get to know about it. you’ll be out of there in no time, y/n.

you looked back at him. “can you distract him?”

felix thought for a second, then shook his pretty head enthusiastically. “absolutely not.”

“…fair.”

he stood anyway, squared his shoulders, and marched into the hallway yelling “HEY BRO I THINK SHE WENT—”

you didn’t hear the rest. you ran. you climbed stairs, ducked under a railing, slipped through a door that led into a laundry room, and locked it. the blessed, beautiful click of a lock nearly made you cry. then you crouched between machines, shaking, trying not to laugh or scream or do both.

minutes passed. nothing. then, a knock. polite. gentle.

you stared at the door.

hyunjin’s voice followed, calm as ever. “i’m not coming in.”

“yeah?” you called. “promise?”

“cross my heart.”

“don’t have one.” jeongin added from somewhere farther back.

hyunjin sighed.

the fact that jeongin heard you talk and didn’t go to the laundry room says a lot about them though. tells you that they’re doing this for fun. that they’re not in a hurry at all.

you edged closer to the door, careful. “i need the keys.”

“i know.”

“give them to me.”

a pause. you imagined him leaning against the wall, hands in pockets, watching the floor. “you almost deserve them.” he said. “that’s the problem.” from down the hall came a crash, followed by changbin yelling. hyunjin continued anyway, softer now. “if you get them, though… you’re really leaving.”

“yes.”

“shame.”

fucking manipulator. that’s what he is. “you’re really leaving” oh boo fucking hoo. sappy asshole.

the doorknob jiggled once.

“five minutes.” he said. “that’s what I can give you.”

then footsteps retreated. you sagged against the dryer, adrenaline buzzing. five minutes. okay. you had to get out for sure, otherwise you would be so dead. so, next, run. you were going to run. open the door and… go… some… way. anyways, that’s what you did after about one minute of sitting on the floor and thinking about how will you do that. you got out, and didn’t stop running so much as you failed forward into the next hallway.

somewhere behind you, han shouted your name wrong, twice, then tripped over absolutely nothing and went down with a sound like a dropped bookshelf.

“FUCK.” he yelled. “i’m okay! I’M OKAY.”

you risked a glance back just in time to see him scramble up, only to immediately collide with minho, who had come around the corner too fast. they hit the wall together, tangled, swearing.

you burst through a door and nearly slammed straight into seungmin. both of you froze. like actually froze. inches apart. his breath was loud. yours was worse. he stared at you. you stared at him. his grip tightened on whatever sharp thing he had in his hand.

“…hi.” you said.

“sup.” he said. “you’re shorter up close.”

“fuck you.”

“later.” he agreed easily.

you looked at him, furrowing your pretty brows.

he glanced down at the knife in his hand, then back up at you. “this is awkward.”

“yeah.”

he tilted his head. “you okay?”

“no.” you said.

“hm.”

there was a beat where neither of you moved. somewhere far away, something crashed, probably han.

seungmin tilted his head. “you gonna run, or are we doing this weird staring thing?”

you lunged left.

he lunged right.

you both smacked into the same doorframe and recoiled in pain.

“fuck.” you mumbled, rubbing your pretty head.

“shit, okay, that one’s on me.” he admitted, rubbing his shoulder. his pretty shoulder. that sweater looked good on him, by the way. yeah. hm. really good. but that didn’t fucking matter when he lunged again.

you screamed, slipped on a rug, and went down hard, only for minho to come in from the side and tackle seungmin directly into a glass table. the table shattered.

you stared.

they stared back.

“…go.” seungmin shook his head, waving you off.

you did not need to be told twice. behind you, minho yelled smth like “WHY ARE YOU LETTING HER GO?”

a crash. a thud.

then seungmin, very calmly: “because you’re pissing me off.”

you ran straight into han and felix arguing at the end of the hall.

“i said left.” han insisted, holding a crowbar upside down.

“you always say left.” felix argued, holding a taser and clearly forgetting how it worked.

you skidded to a stop.

all three of you froze.

you were panting. “can you both—”

felix lunged. han lunged. they lunged into each other. they crashed, arms everywhere, legs everywhere, clothes everywhere, the smell of men everywhere, tangled up, the taser going off uselessly into the air.

“STOP STABBING MY JACKET.” felix yelled.

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE HER.” han yelled back.

you stepped over them. “thank you.” you said sincerely, and ran.

you rounded a corner and slammed straight into chan, full chest-to-chest. you both stumbled back a step. he held you automatically, hands on your arms. you stared up at him. he stared down at you.

he almost smiled.

then han came sprinting in, tripped over absolutely nothing, and took chan out at the knees.

“OH MY GOD I’M SO SORRY.” han yelled, tangled in chan’s limbs. “I DIDN’T SEE YOU.”

seungmin and minho found you again. jeongin leaned against a wall, wiping dust off his knees. han just got up and felix came in late, and they tripped over each other again. chan just sighed at this point.

you backed toward the door, hands up.

then while getting up, felix slipped. took han down with him. again. they crashed into minho, who slammed into seungmin.

jeongin smiled. “DOMINOES!”

that was your chance to do something. something to even just slow these guys down, anything, bro. so, you did. when chan stood up finally, you lunged for him.

but like… that asshole just laughed in your face and twisted away easily, shoving you past him. “go.” he said. “you’re warmer when you keep moving.”

weirdo. but you ran again anyway, down a side corridor, thru a door and immediately ate shit. your foot caught on absolutely nothing, and you slid, palms burning, your pretty little skin they want to cut so bad just gone like that.

behind you, there was a collective “OOHHHH.”

you rolled your eyes. sighed. thought about just lying there because they would probably still miss even if you were completely still. you decided maybe not. so you scrambled up and ran again, swearing, adrenaline making everything feel fucking crazy. unreal. is this really happening?

you didn’t know how long you ran. time stopped somewhere around the third near death experience.

you went downstairs and upstairs and downstairs again, back and forth, hoping to find something that could save your life. when you were back at the stairs for the seventh time that night, you took the stairs three at a time, only to find han at the top, again, wheezing, holding a knife backwards.

“WAIT.” he said. “hold on—timeout—my lung—”

you ran past him.

he immediately tripped over his own foot and tumbled down the stairs alone, screaming “I’M FINE—I’M NOT FINE—TELL MY MOM—”

you didn’t look back. you burst into a bedroom and slammed the door, locking it just as something heavy hit the other side.

silence.

your chest heaved. sweat slicked your now skinless palms. you pressed your back to the door and slid down until you were sitting on the floor, brain finally catching up enough to think.

okay. door. big house. front door has keys. keys are on someone. they told you it’s at chan but he could have gave it to anyone since that.

that was bad.

you stood, looking through the room. window. too high. bathroom. connected. closet. tiny but usable. fuck yes. you hid in the closet just as the door opened.

footsteps. slow. unhurried. manly.

“you know, i really thought we had something.” jeongin. sweet. acting, obviously.

you clapped a hand over your mouth.

he paced the room, dragging something metal lightly along furniture. an axe, maybe.

“like, don’t get me wrong.” he continued conversationally, “i love the chase. big fan. but the eye contact earlier? intimate.”

you heard him stop in front of the closet.

“…you in there?”

you didn’t move.

he sighed. then, dropped to his knees. you could see him through the slats now, sprawled on the floor.

“y/n.”

you could hear your breathing. you could also hear his. which meant…

“come out.”

…he could hear yours too.

okay. fuck. your only option was to make a run for it. so, after taking a biiiiig big breath, you burst out of the closet and kicked him in the shoulder. was it successful? was it a good kick? who knows. it knocked him down, that’s what matters, but it was a pretty lame kick after all. he only went down because he wanted to, not because you actually kicked him good.

anyways, you ran again. out the room. then immediately skidded to a stop when seungmin opened a door in front of you.

he stepped aside immediately. “after you.” he said, gesturing inside.

you stared at him.

he stared back.

you could hear hyunjin make a noise, talking with changbin.

seungmin raised his brows. “i insist.”

he knew that you needed an escape route and this was your only option. you knew he knew.

you sighed. ran through it, and it slammed shut behind you. you could hear a snicker(his voice), then silence. maybe he left. maybe not.

the room you were in was darker. storage. boxes. is this place even owned by these guys? or do they just come here to… play?

you hid behind a shelf, crouching, heart in your ears.

okay. think.

front door. locked. too obvious. you needed keys. you needed a person.

but they were playing. this wasn’t about killing you quickly. it was about the fun. about testing themselves. about proving, again, that they were smarter, faster, better. the teamwork thrilled them. having prey thrilled them.

footsteps approached. you tensed.

door opened. han stepped into the room, tripped over absolutely nothing, and face-planted into a stack of boxes. why always this guy?

“oh COME ON.” he groaned. “i wasn’t even chasing her!”

neither of you moved.

“…you okay?” you asked.

“yeah.” he said, looking up, nose bleeding. “yeah. you?”

“living the dream.”

he nodded. then, very gently, he pointed back towards the door. “they’re coming.” he whispered.

in the doorway, felix appeared, pointing at han. “dude. again?”

you took the chance and got out of your hiding place, quick, and bolted past them both.

felix gasped. “oh shit—sorry—sorry—”

han tried to follow, slipped again, and yelled: “WAIT FOR ME!”

a crash. a curse. someone else falling over him.

you ran down the hall toward what you hoped was the front of the house. behind you, shouting, laughter, whooping, bodies colliding, someone yelling “WHO LEFT THIS CHAIR HERE?” you rounded a corner and skidded to a stop in front of the front door. you tried the door. locked. you didn’t know where the keys are. your chest tightened. behind you, footsteps slowed. confident. chan, seungmin, minho, jeongin, closing in.

you turned around. the wall met your back hard enough to knock the air out of you.

“okay.” you said, breathless, palms flat against cold wood. “okay. this is—yeah. alright.”

the other four found you too. felix, panting. han, limping. hyunjin and changbin obviously not affected because they didn’t really take part of the chase. blocking off every possible exit.

chan didn’t take his eyes off you. “everyone good?” he asked, calm. so fucking calm. knowing he won.

“peachy.” jeongin said.

“bit winded.” felix added. “but spiritually fulfilled.”

changbin gave you an apologetic little wave. “sorry.”

two seconds later, seungmin lunged.

you fought, harder than they expected, apparently, elbowing, kicking, swearing. but they were coordinated now, hands grabbing wrists, legs hooking yours, pressure applied. you went down. not slammed, though. controlled. that fucking pissed you off more.

seungmin had your arms pinned. minho had a knee near your thigh, firm. chan crouched in front of you, looking down at your pretty face.

the second you were fully restrained, jeongin shrieked. “oh my GOD we got her!”

he leapt into felix’s arms. felix caught him, squealing back.

“we did it!” felix yelled.

they spun once. almost fell. han clapped wildly and then tripped into changbin, taking them both down.

you lay there, chest heaving, heart pounding, not knowing what the fuck was happening. because they didn’t seem dangerous, but you knew they were.

chan tilted his head. “you ran well.”

“thanks.” you said.

jeongin crouched low, level with your face. “so. how you feeling?”

“fuck off.”

hyunjin tilted his pretty head, hands in his pockets. “you did really well.” he told you quietly.

you forced yourself to breathe slower. think. keys. chan’s jacket pocket. right side. you’d seen the outline earlier when he caught one of the boys mid fall.

jeongin tilted his head at you. “are you afraid? like, i’m actually asking, because i need to know what to do differently next time. are you afraid of death? did we make you feel like you’re going to die? how would you rate it out of ten?”

you sighed, looking down at the floor. “getting killed is, like, the last thing on my list right now.”

they paused.

seungmin grimaced. “yeah, no.”

“oh, no.” felix said, shaking his head

“dude.” minho murmured.

“we would never.” changbin whispered.

“ew.” han blurted, horrified.

you narrowed your eyes. “ew?”

“no—no—not ew you.” he babbled. “i mean—fuck—you’re hot—shit—sorry—what I meant was—”

jeongin smacked the back of his head. “stop talking.”

seungmin grimaced. “we’re not… that evil.”

minho crossed his arms. “jesus.”

chen straightened slightly. “that’s not our thing.”

you watched it all carefully. the discomfort. the immediate correction. the way the tone shifted. interesting.

“relax.” you said, rolling your neck as much as the hold allowed. “i know.”

“thank you.” han said, sweating. “sorry. respectfully.”

“you’re fine.” you murmured.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

but something had shifted. you saw it. that weird line you’d dropped, half joke, half truth because it’s horrible that we have to live in a world like this, hit somewhere they didn’t like. their version of evil had rules. sooo fucking weird ones, but still.

“okay.” you said suddenly. “wait. wait.”

they paused.

“what.”

“i think i’m gonna throw up.”

“fuck—” changbin recoiled.

“not on me.” minho said, backing up.

“turn her head!” felix yelped.

jeongin scrambled backward on his hands and feet.

chan watched seungmin loosen his grip just a fraction, instinct overriding everything. “are you actually nauseous?”

“yeah.” you croaked, gagging for effect. “stress. adrenaline. it hit now that i’m still.”

hyunjin crouched beside you, studying your face. “you might want to give her space.”

“THANK you.” you gasped.

they got off you. you rolled to your side, clutching your stomach dramatically. and in that shuffle, arms moving, balance adjusting, you shoved your hand straight into chan’s jacket pocket. your fingers hit metal.

keys.

you grabbed them and curled them into your palm just as jeongin leaned back in. “you good?”

you gagged louder.

“jesus.” minho said, disgusted.

“okay, okay.” changbin said. “bathroom, bathroom—”

“down the hall.” hyunjin said calmly.

you scrambled to your knees, pushing past them, one hand over your mouth, the other clenched tight around the keys.

“don’t run.” chan warned.

you made eye contact with him.

and ran.

“FUCK.” seungmin yelled.

“GO GO GO.” han screamed, even though he was on the wrong side.

you sprinted down the hallway, heart about to explode, keys biting into your palm. behind you, footsteps. but now… less playful. more oh shit.

han tripped immediately. felix ran into a wall. changbin yelled: “STAIRS—CUT HER OFF—” and jeongin was just shouting around for fun. just hootin n hollerin.

you ran down the hall.

behind you, hyunjin’s calm voice said: “don’t panic.” which was funny. because they finally were.

you ran away from them. deep into the house again. you heard the footsteps disappear from behind you. good. good.

you slowed just enough to think. you couldn’t outrun eight of them forever.

chan and hyunjin were walking together on the halls. hyunjin had a small, neat folding knife now resting loose between his fingers. chan had taken a syringe with him. already prepped. yes, he can do a lot with only one syringe. his other hand kept brushing the empty space where the keys used to be.

he didn’t like that.

“she took them clean.” chan said.

“yeah.” hyunjin replied quietly. “good hands.”

chan glanced at him. “you sound impressed.”

“i am.”

“you like her?”

hyunjin didn’t answer.

“if we lose her, we change locations.” chan said, ignoring that his earlier question didn’t get an answer. he already knew it.

hyunjin nodded. but there was something under it. for the first time, the outcome wasn’t certain. that was unusual for them, because they usually did really, really good at this. once someone was caught by them, there was no escape. you were the first one who lived to a second round. he found that interesting. and yeah, he might have started developing a tiny little crush on you, back when you two were just meeting up normally. so what? he’s allowed to!

jeongin moved alone. still with his axe that he’d twirled into familiarity. he swung it lightly as he walked. he checked corners, smiling. as if he was dancing.

“y/n.” he called, sing-song. “be honest, was it the flirting? too much? i can dial it back. slightly.”

he stepped over a fallen chair.

“i just feel like we had chemistry.”

he grinned to himself. he loved this part, the story, the tension, the almost. he knew you were thinking now. they got a thinker. he loves that. he hates that.

he paused, listening. then grinned. “oh, you sneaky girl.”

seungmin had the fire poker again. reliable. brutal.

he liked the chase because it stripped people down to instinct. no masks. no pretending. no lying. just raw survival. that’s what he respected.

“c’mon.” he murmured. “don’t go quiet on me.”

you were irritating him. he barely got irritated. ever.

changbin and minho moved together. changbin carried an injection case now, plus a heavy flashlight he could swing if needed. minho had a hunting knife.

they turned a corner. empty.

“she’s doing something.” minho realized.

changbin’s smile(that came upon his face while he was thinking about you, hehehe) faded. “oh.”

they heard a noise and both spun, only to slam into each other again.

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE.” minho snapped.

“shit.” changbin said, steadying the other guy by his shoulders. “let’s just go.”

you moved through hallways. your lungs burned, but your head was clear now. you slipped into a side room and crouched low, listening.

footsteps passed. voices echoed elsewhere. they’d spread too wide.

you waited. counted to twenty. then moved.

back at the hyunjin chan duo, hyunjin stopped in the hallway. “she’s heading back.” he said quietly.

chan. followed his gaze toward the front of the house. “you sure?”

“yes.”

“how?”

“it’s what i’d do.”

meanwhile, at the front door han sat on the floor, back against the wall, holding a shovel. felix sat beside him on the other side of the door with a frying pan he absolutely did not need to be trusted with.

“…we guarding?” han asked.

felix looked at the door. looked at the hallway. looked back at the door.

“…yeah.” he decided.

they both nodded, serious.

“you think she thinks i’m cute?” han asked, adjusting his grip on the shovel.

“bro.” felix said immediately. “absolutely.”

“really?”

“yea, mate.”

they dapped each other up.

“if she makes it back here, i call saying something smooth.” felix said thoughtfully.

“what’s smooth?”

“i don’t know yet.”

while they talked, you grabbed a metal… something from a side table. and started walking back toward the front door.

“she definitely liked when i said she was hot.” han said.

“respectfully.” felix said.

“respectfully.” han looked away, then back at felix. “she’s gonna be so impressed when we catch her.”

“dude. literally.”

they fist bumped.

then, a loud sound came from down the hallway, and a metal object rolling fast across the floor toward them.

they screamed, then scrambled to their feet, immediately abandoning the door.

“dude. we’re gonna fucking die.” han cried.

felix grabbed his arm. “if y/n was here right now, she’d hold my hand.”

“yeah.” han said, terrified. “she’d be so brave.”

“should we check?”

“absolutely not.”

“…we should get the others.”

“yes.”

they ran away from the door, deeper back into the house, yelling for backup.

the front door stood unguarded.

you waited three full seconds after their footsteps faded. then you moved. silent. you didn’t run, that was important. you didn’t want to make noise.

behind you, distant voices.

“FRONT DOOR!”

“THEY LEFT IT—”

you walked to the door quickly. put the key in. wrong key. tried another. wrong key. another. unlocked it. opened it.

now, you ran. you ran, and didn’t stop. you didn’t look back. already past the gate. past the trees. gone.

for the first time ever, they’d lost.

the boys regrouped at the front door. empty. door slightly open.

silence.

chan looked at the door. then at hyunjin, who stared at the gap, face blank. he felt respect. and relief.

seungmin looked at the lock. then at chan’s empty pocket. then back at the lock.

for a second, nobody spoke.

“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” minho said, sneering.

behind them, han and felix jogged in, out of breath and pale.

“okay.” felix panted. “so—update—there’s a hallway demon—”

they stopped when they saw everyone standing still, all backs turned to them.

felix looked around. “anyone else feel a breeze?”

chan walked to the door in three steps and shoved it open the rest of the way. empty driveway. dark trees. no you.

jeongin blinked. “…no.”

seungmin made a sound like someone had just run over his foot. “noooo.”

minho rubbed both hands down his face. “no no no no—”

jeongin looked at the ceiling. “oh that’s embarrassing. that’s so embarrassing for us.”

han gasped “shit, she did it!”

felix nodded. “i always believed in her.”

they high-fived.

every head turned.

“are you two serious right now?” seungmin snapped.

han immediately jumped into felix arms.

chan stepped back inside slowly and shut the door, quiet. too quiet. “no one moves.” he said.

seungmin was already halfway to the threshold, fire poker still in hand. “we can still see the road—”

chan grabbed his arm. hard. “i said no.”

seungmin yanked free. “she’s on foot.”

“she has a head start.”

jeongin crossed his arms, shifting his weight. “so we just—what—clap?”

“use your brain for once.” chan, voice low. “you’ll make mistakes.”

“oh, i’m sorry.” seungmin snapped. “did your pocket make a mistake?”

OHHHHH.

minho swore and kicked a chair across the room. it smashed into the wall. “THIS is why we don’t get cute.” he said. “this is why we don’t play with our food.”

chanbin winced. “okay, that phrase—”

“not the time.” seungmin cut in.

hyunjin leaned against a table, arms crossed, watching the boys.

seungmin looked at him, suspicious. the level of angry where he gets suspicious at anything. “you’re quiet.”

“thinking.”

“about?”

hyunjin didn’t answer.

“you liked her.” minho accused.

hyunjin’s eyes flicked to him, calm and flat. “irrelevant.”

“bullshit.”

chan stepped between them before it turned physical. “enough.”

“no, not enough.” jeongin shot back. “she got past eight of us. eight.”

“seven.” seungmin muttered. “i was close.”

“YOU HIT A CABINET.” changbin screeched.

felix, still holding han bridal style, raised a hand. “i think we should acknowledge that she was very good.”

everyone stared at him.

han nodded seriously. “and brave.”

minho looked like he might actually kill them. “put him down.”

felix gently set han on his feet.

han immediately pointed at minho. “your energy is aggressive.”

minho grabbed a glass off a table and hurled it into the fireplace. it shattered. “THIS is aggressive.”

“billy badass over there.” changbin murmured, crossing his huge arms.

minho didn’t hesitate to turn towards changbin and shove him. changbin shoved back automatically.

“don’t start.” chan warned.

too late. seungmin grabbed minho’s shoulder and pulled him back. minho shook him off. jeongin stepped between them, not to help, just to watch. “god, you’re all so emotional.” he muttered.

seungmin started toward the door again, fury radiating off him. “i’m going after her.”

now, chan didn’t just stop him but actually pushed him away by the chest. a confident, violent push. manly. frustrated. “no.”

seungmin rounded on him. “she’s RIGHT THERE.”

han raised his hand again. “i still think she likes me.”

everyone yelled at once: “SHUT UP.” “READ THE ROOM.” “YOU WERE AFRAID OF THE DARK.” “SHE HIT YOU WITH A BAT.” “YOU LEFT THE DOOR.”

“we were investigating a threat!” felix said defensively to the last one.

“you are the threat, you idiot!” seungmin barked, then grabbed the front of his own shirt and screamed into it.

minho kicked the wall.

chan exhaled through his nose, centering himself. “no chasing into the dark.” he said. “not like this.”

“she’s getting farther.” jeongin argued.

seungmin made a noise like something dying. chan folded his arms. thinking. hyunjin stared into the night air like he could still see the path you took.

behind them, han whispered to felix: “when we catch her, i’m gonna ask if she thinks my eyes are pretty.”

felix nodded seriously. “they are.”

eight dangerous men. outplayed. and every single one of them wanted you back.

so yeah. that’s what happened, like… two weeks ago now? yeah. about two weeks. now you’re living your life. you hadn’t told anyone. what would you even say? you decided to just leave it. process it. give yourself time to get over it.

now you are standing in line for coffee. life’s been fine since that after all, you deserve it. you slept. eventually. not well, but enough. you changed routines. new routes, new locks, pepper spray, therapy waitlist, the works. you tell yourself you’re fine.

your name gets called.

“hey.”

your stomach drops before your brain catches up. you don’t turn around. because you know that voice. so you grab your coffee and walk. behind you, footsteps.

“okay, so don’t freak out.” jeongin says.

you keep walking.

“that’s actually a terrible opener, sorry, ignore that.”

you cross the street. he crosses too. you don’t look at him. you don’t run. at least you try.

“you look good.” he adds.

“go away.” you say calmly.

“working on it.” he says, which is not how that phrase works.

you turn a corner toward a busier street. people. noise. couples. kids.

“no.” you say.

“i just want to talk.”

“no.”

“did you get a haircut?” he tries.

you stop dead and turn. “how long have you been following me?”

“today? or—”

“jeongin.”

he winces. “okay. today today? like twenty minutes. but not in a creepy way. i was building courage.”

you resume walking faster.

he matches it, breath puffing a little. “listen, i know we didn’t end on a great note.”

“you chased me with an axe.” you cross the street without looking. a car honks. jeongin grabs your sleeve and yanks you back just enough to keep you from getting hit.

you stare at him.

“i didn’t come to hurt you.” he says. “if that helps.”

you keep walking. he groans softly and follows. people passing by just see two hot twenty somethings having what looks like a mildly tense situationship talk. it’s kinda crazy that they have no idea what happened two weeks ago.

you walk faster. he matches it.

“you dropped something.” he blurts. when you give no reaction, he tugs at your sleeve. “really.” he says, pointing behind you.

“that only worked once.” you say, yanking your hand out his grip.

“yeah.” he sighs. “worth a shot.”

a florist stand is set up on the corner. without stopping, jeongin leans sideways, grabs a small bouquet, tosses a crumpled bill onto the table, and keeps moving. he shoves the flowers toward you.

you stare at them. then at him. you don’t take them. but you stop walking and finally look at him.

he looks… normal. hoodie. messy hair. no axe. no grin that clearly tells he’s in animal mode. just this pretty guy.

people move around you, annoyed at the sidewalk blockage.

“you have five seconds.” you say.

he nods, serious now. “okay. we’re not going to hurt you.”

you stare. you start walking again.

he follows. “the boys haven’t shut up about you.”

“that’s not flattering.”

“it kind of is.”

“i don’t know what you want. i’m not coming back.” you say.

“i know.”

“you can’t follow me.”

“already am.”

you reached your apartment building. this is bad. this is very bad. you stop again, turning to face him fully now. his eyes shine.

“we don’t want to kill you.” he says quietly.

you search for anything that could say he’s lying. you can’t find it.

“that doesn’t make you better.” you say.

“i know.”

“you’re still—”

“yeah.”

“…if you come near my place again, i call the cops.”

he nods immediately.

“if i see any of you, i run.”

“mhm.” he holds the flowers out again, then seems to think better of it and just sets them on the sidewalk between you. “i just needed you to see that i’m not… only that.”

“…you are that.” you say. you’re not even being mean, just honest. brutally honest.

“yeah.” he says.

you go inside without looking back. not caring about where will he go, when will he go, why will he go.

the next day, you change your route. different coffee shop. different street. hoodie up, headphones on, just really fucking trying to stay away from them in general. you’re in that coffee shop now. then you step out of the café with your drink, and nearly walk straight into a guy. you flinch back hard.

“whoa—sorry—sorry.” a voice says quickly.

you look up. it takes your brain a second. glasses. plain black frames. simple gray t-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that this man is fucking fit.

changbin.

he gives you a small, awkward wave like you ran into each other and not like he… he found you. “hi.”

you just stare.

“i come in peace.” he adds, lifting both hands.

you close your eyes. “you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“okay. before you walk away—i deserve that—but just—hi.”

you glance around. public. morning rush. safe enough. “why are you here.”

he adjusts his glasses. “i just wanted to talk. like, normal talk. not chase talk.”

you sigh, and start walking. “you have two minutes before i start screaming.” that’s more time you’ve given jeongin, though.

he falls into step beside you immediately. “you could’ve called the cops.” he says after a moment. genuinely confused. “you still could.”

you look at him. “you don’t think i’ve thought about that?”

“i figured. but you didn’t.”

you sip your coffee, buying time. “you’d disappear before anyone got there.”

“…yeah.” he admits.

“and then what? i spend the rest of my life wondering if you’re gonna show up mad?”

he nods slowly. he can’t argue that.

“also, i don’t want to tell that story out loud. figured it would be the best for me if i just lived through it and got over it. eventually.” you add, quieter.

changbin nods “okay. yeah. that makes sense.”

you study him. he looks the same as in the house, almost friendly. that makes a question pop up in your head. “have you done that before?” you ask. “like. killing people.”

“yeah.”

“how many?”

he blows out a breath through his teeth. “i don’t keep a number.”

“and why?”

he takes a breath, thinking. actually thinking. “it’s not the killing part.” he says slowly. “not for me. that’s just… the end of it. it’s the before. i dunno. i like the teamwork. but that’s just me, ask the others if you want their version.”

you’re confused. “…did something happen in your past?”

he shrugs. “no. grew up rich. had friends. i have a great job. my mom calls me on sundays.”

you stare at him.

“i’m serious.” he says. “i’m just… like this.”

you hate how calmly he says it. “when did you start?”

“early twenties.”

“why didn’t you stop?”

he gives you a small, almost embarrassed smile. “i’m good at it.”

you don’t answer. a car horn blares down the street. someone laughs nearby. the world keeps going, oblivious. “you scared me.” you say.

“i know.”

“you still are.”

“i know.”

you swallow. you check the time on your phone. “i told jeongin i’d scream if any of you came close to me ever again.”

“i heard.”

“you got lucky.”

“i’m glad.”

a bit of silence.

you meet his eyes. “i don’t trust you.”

“you shouldn’t.”

“but you still came now. why? why can’t you leave me alone?”

he shrugs, small and helpless. “i liked talking to you in the kitchen. before we… started.”

ow. sounds bad. so bad that you take a step back. away from him. you’re scared.

“i don’t feel things the way other people do.” he says finally. he wanted to spit that out for a while now, he just couldn’t scrape the courage together. “it’s like everything’s gray unless it’s intense.”

you sigh. “…at least you’re honest.”

he nods. “i just… i wanted one interaction with you that wasn’t you running.”

you watch him. he’s still scary. “you got it.” you say. “now what.”

he shrugs. “now i go away.”

you study him. glasses slightly crooked. trying very hard not to look threatening. failing, because he looks like he could lift a car.

you almost smile. almost. “don’t follow me.” you say.

“i won’t.”

“tell the others.”

“i will.”

you start to walk off.

“hey.” he calls.

you turn, tired.

“you were really impressive.” he says. sincere. really.

you hold his gaze. “i know.”

then you leave him standing on the sidewalk, alone. alone with his horrible, evil soul. alone with this weird dumb crush he recently developed on you. alone with his biceps, flexing because he feels a lot and it just… happens when he feels a lot.

it’s the next day. normal day. sun’s out. people walking dogs. a delivery truck is parked. blablabla anything that says world goes on. you were paranoid this day, sure, but you survived so far. you’re currently locking your apartment building door after yourself so you could go grocery shopping when a voice behind you says:

“okay, don’t be mad.”

you close your eyes. slow inhale. you turn.

it’s felix. and this guy literally tried to shoot you once, you remember clearly, but he looks… perfect. perfect hair. expensive jacket. shoes that cost more than your phone. holding… a container?

you stare.

he smiles, so sweet. “i made you muffins.”

“…you what.”

“blueberry.” he says proudly.

you look at the container, suspicious. “i’m not eating that.”

he frowns a little. “that hurt my feelings.”

“you tried to kill me.”

“sorry.”

you rub your face. “why are you here.”

he shifts his weight. he’s nervous. it’s cute tho. “we voted.” he says.

“you VOTED.”

“yeah.”

“ON WHAT.”

“on not killing you.”

you just stare at him.

he brightens. “it was almost unanimous.”

“WHO voted no?”

“…minho.”

yoy try to step around him toward the street. he mirrors you accidentally.

“felix.”

he freezes. “yeah?”

“move.”

“oh. right. sorry.” he sidesteps so fast he almost falls off the curb.

“you cannot come here.” you say. calm. really hoping he’ll understand. “you cannot follow me. you cannot bake for me. do you understand how insane this is?”

he nods immediately. “yes.”

“then why are you here.”

he looks at the muffins. then at you. “okay. so. we— i— baked.” yes baby, we know. you told us already.

“i see that.”

“for you.”

“i gathered.”

he nods, satisfied that the point has been made.

you start walking. he starts walking. directly into a street sign. it’s loud.

he recoils. “ow.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose.

“is it bleeding?” he asks, pointing at his face, but he immediately goes cross eyed as you push his face away instead. his skin is warm. feels nice tbh. he blinks at you, unbothered. “you have strong hands.”

“go away.”

“okay.” he says.

he does not go away.

you reach the crosswalk and the light changes. felix steps forward without looking. a car honks.

you grab his hand and yank him back.

he stumbles into you.

“jesus.” you mutter, still holding his hand as you cross. “you’d be roadkill in five minutes.”

he looks down at your joined hands, his big eyes shining, absolutely taken aback by the fact that you would do this for him. well, all that until you drop his hand on the other side of the street.

“thanks.” he says cheerfully.

a man wearing a watch worth a month’s rent, carrying something he made for you that you won’t eat, who could absolutely overpower you, and instead just almost died to a car.

“don’t follow me.” you say.

“okay.” he says, still following.

you glance at him. “you’re unbelievably stupid.”

“thank you.” he says.

“that wasn’t—”

“i’ve been working on self-acceptance.”

pffft.

you stop. “felix, listen. i don’t want you guys here.”

he looks at you, tilting his pretty head in confusion.

“you scare me.” you clarify.

“oh.” he says quietly. that, he understood.

you point at the muffins. “those could be drugged.”

“they’re not!”

“i don’t know that.”

silence hangs between you. street noise fills it. someone laughs across the road. life just keeps going.

“i liked talking to you.” he says finally.

“you didn’t talk to me.” you reply. “you hunted me.”

“yeah. i’m sorry.”

you watch him. disappointed that something this beautiful can be this cruel. “you need to leave.”

he nods. but he doesn’t move yet. “do you…” he starts, then stops. tries again. “do you hate us?”

you don’t hesitate. “yes?” of fucking course bro???

his little brain absorbs that. shoulders drop a little. “okay.”

he holds out the muffins one last time, hopeful in the dumbest way possible.

you just look at him.

he lowers them.

“just go, felix. bye.”

“yeah. bye.”

he turns the wrong direction.

you grab his hood and spin him around. “that way.”

“right.” he says, walking off.

he makes it three steps. turns back. holds up the muffin container. “do you want—”

“no.”

“okay.”

he walks into a bike rack.

you watch him go. he looks beautiful.

you hate him.

you check to make sure he crosses the next street safely before you turn away.

that passed too. a few days later you are leaving a pharmacy in the afternoon, receipt crumpled in your fist, focusing on your surroundings now.

and across the street, leaning against a lamppost, is chan. he raised a hand, giving you a little wave, mouthing: you good?

you mouth back go away.

he nods once, then pushes off the pole and walks in the opposite direction. not chasing now. actually walking away.

then you’re in a grocery store, looking at pastas, deciding which one you want to eat tonight. a hand reaches past you and places the more expensive one in your cart.

you turn. it’s seungmin. black hoodie. baseball cap.

you immediately pull it back out. “no.”

he takes it. puts it back into the cart.

“no.”

back in.

“stop.”

it went on for a good five minutes.

at checkout, you unload your stuff, and when you’re about to pay, seungmin comes up behind you and wordlessly uses his card. do you process that in the head? no, only when he is already at the exit, hands in his pockets, not looking back.

he walks straight into the automatic door before it finishes opening. you hear the thud.

you rub your temples.

then you’re walking through the park because that’s the shorter way home. peaceful. sunlight. children playing. then the bush next to the sidewalk starts shaking.

you stop. you kick the bush. han tumbles out directly at your feet. face in dirt.

“…hi.” he says into the grass.

you look down at him. “were you hiding?”

he looks up at you, leaves in his hair, expression hopeful. “no.”

you start walking again. he scrambles up and follows, then trips on the sidewalk edge.

you catch his sleeve before he eats pavement. “use your brain.”

he nods seriously. “i keep meaning to.”

next time about days later, you see felix before he sees you. he’s staring into a store window, clearly confused by mannequins.

you walk past.

noticing that, he turns and his pretty little face lights up. “hi!”

“hi. don’t.”

“okay.”

he walks into a mailbox.

you only see hyunjin once, at a distance. not close enough to speak. just standing outside a train station, hands in his coat pockets, watching the crowd, not just you.

when your eyes meet, he doesn’t smile, just gives a small nod. then he leaves.

days after that it’s seungmin again. at night. parking lot. you only came with car because it was too far. you’re unlocking your car and a shadow leans against the hood.

“you’ve been avoiding me.” seungmin says, casual as hell, like he didn’t once swing a fire poker at your skull. “man.” he continues “small world, right?”

you turn, pepper spray in hand, and spray it directly into his eyes.

he screams, drops to his knees, clawing at his face. “OH MY GOD IT’S LIKE SATAN PISSED IN MY EYES—”

“stop finding me!” you yell.

he’s laughing through the pain. laughing. “you look good today.”

you drive off while he’s still swearing.

the next time minho follows you through a bookstore. keeps pretending to browse. picks up a book upside down. so you turn a corner and wait. he walks right into it. he also gets a taste of your pepper spray.

“SON OF A BITCH.” he chokes, doubling over between romance and self help. “you fucking—”

“YOU’RE STALKING ME.”

they find you in different places. weeks apart. or days apart. but they always come back.

something is clearly wrong with them. like, all eight are sick in the head. but it doesn’t seem like they’re following you around to kill you. they talk too long. they get distracted. they bring you things. they absolutely eat shit every time you fight back. and you do fight back. diva.

minho and seungmin have been pepper sprayed so many times they flinch when you reach into your bag. jeongin tries every possible pickup line on you. han once tried to sneak up on you and got hit in the face with your tote bag and apologized.

it’s ike they’re still in hunting mode. after you. into you. but now they’re… unsure. they don’t seem to want you dead anymore. they just… want you around now. or to just be around you, at least.

it’s the middle of the night right now. you’re in old sweatpants, hair a mess, waiting for the food you ordered. and soon enough, the doorbell rings. you shuffle over and look through the peephole for a second. delivery uniform. cap. bag. seems normal. so you open the door.

it’s felix. smiling ear to ear, holding your takeout, wearing the uniform jacket and cap. “hi!”

“absolutely not.” you say, already closing the door.

he sticks his foot in. “wait, wait—don’t slam it, the soup’ll spill—”

that’s when you see it, behind him, in the hallway. a man on the floor. the delivery uniform pants still on him, only his jacket gone, the one on felix right now. there’s blood under the man.

your stomach drops. your organs drop. after staring for about a minute, you slowly look back at felix. “…is that—”

“okay.” he says quickly. “before you freak out—”

“BEFORE I FREAK OUT?? YOU KILLED THE DELIVERY GUY?!”

jeongin leans into view, coming next to felix, hands in pockets. “it wasn’t him who killed the guy.”

you point wildly, not even concerned about the fact that there’s two of them now. “THAT IS A PERSON ON THE FLOOR.”

“yeah but like…” minho says, stepping into the doorframe, arm around felix’s shoulders now. “he’s not using the uniform anymore.”

your mouth opens. nothing comes out.

and then, without a word, chan walks past you. into your home. into your fucking home. felix shrugs and follows him. the other six too, actually taking their shoes off.

YOU ARE STILL HOLDING THE DOOR. THEY JUST WALK AROUND YOU.

“what—no—no—no—” you manage, backing up as they enter.

han closes the door gently behind them. “heat’s nice in here.” he says.

hyunjin looks at you and mutters a quiet but confident “hi” before going further into your living room.

changbin walks past you and spins slowly, taking in the room. “oh this is cute. this is very you.”

“YOU BROUGHT A CORPSE TO MY DOOR.” you choke.

felix is still holding the food bag. “your noodles are getting cold.” he says softly.

you make a noise that doesn’t exist in human language. (imagine something close to a windows crash sound)

seungmin tosses his jacket over a chair. there’s a smear of blood on his sleeve.

you gag.

he notices. “oh, relax. it’s mostly the delivery guy’s.”

“OH MY GOD.”

“hey, where’s the hand soap?” han asks, already at your kitchen sink, washing blood off his fingers.

you stare at the red swirling down your drain.

jeongin flops onto your couch. “i like what you did with the lighting in here. mood.”

“GET OUT.” you say, voice coming back in bursts. “GET—OUT—OF—MY—APARTMENT.”

they all look at you. it’s obvious that they don’t really understand what’s your problem.

chan gestures toward the takeout bag. “eat first.”

“I DON’T WANT THE FOOD.”

felix looks devastated. “you picked the combo meal…”

changbin is by your bookshelf now. “you alphabetized? that’s hot.”

“a— i— eugh— what is HAPPENING.”

minho leans against the wall. “okay, in our defense—”

“there is NO DEFENSE.”

“—we didn’t come to kill you.”

“YOU’RE TRACKING BLOOD ON MY FLOOR.”

they all look down.

han lifts his foot. “…shit.”

jeongin points at him. “mop boy.”

han salutes and grabs paper towels.

“listen.” chan says, turning to be in front of you. “we just wanted to see you.”

you stare at him. then at the door. “…you couldn’t text?” you ask hoarsely.

eight grown ass serial killer men exchange glances.

jeongin shrugs. “didn’t have your number.” that’s alright sweetie, not like you can’t find a phone number when you can find an address perfectly. not like you can’t ask for it from HYUNJIN.

you make another sound.

changbin steps closer, hands up, gentle. “okay, hey. we know this looks bad.”

“LOOKS—”

“bad phrasing.” he admits.

seungmin rubs the back of his neck. “we didn’t plan the delivery guy part.”

“that’s WORSE.” you sag against the wall. “you have got to be shitting me.” you whisper to yourself. then you look at them. all of them. in your apartment. on your couch. at your sink. in your life. “out.”

they don’t move.

jeongin tilts his head. “we just got here—”

“OUT.”

changbin actually flinches.

seungmin raises his hands. “okay, volume—”

“you killed someone. again, i assume. and brought it to my DOOR. do you understand how fucking insane that is?”

silence.

“i can’t sleep normally. i check reflections everywhere. i don’t walk with headphones anymore. do you get that? do you get what you did to my brain? i couldn’t function for weeks. every sound was footsteps. every guy walking behind me was one of you. i have three different hiding spots in my own apartment.”

han raises a hand slightly. “this one’s not great.”

“NO IT IS NOT GREAT.”

felix looks genuinely confused. “we didn’t think about… after.”

“YEAH. THAT’S THE PROBLEM. you don’t think about after. you don’t think about people being PEOPLE. you think about adrenaline and teamwork and your little murder club hangouts.”

changbin crosses his arms. “okay when you say it like that—”

“how else is there to say it??” you gesture wildly at the room.

they don’t look guilty. they look… attentive. they’re paying attention. trying to understand you.

you swallow. “no, seriously. i want to know. when you followed me for weeks? when you showed up at my job? when i thought every man walking behind me was about to grab me? that was fun for you?”

seungmin shrugs. “engaging.”

you grab the nearest thing, a throw pillow, and launch it at his face. then relax your shoulders and sigh. “i am a person. with a nervous system. i had a normal life before you guys.”

there’s a long pause.

felix raises a hand slightly. “your food is still warm.”

“READ THE ROOM.”

he lowers it.

han whispers to him: “she’s upset-upset.”

“no shit.” you snap.

chan has his hands on his hips. “you’re saying we made you paranoid and ruined your life.”

you stare. “…are you fucking for real right now.”

“trying to understand the damage.”

“DAMAGE???”

jeongin leans forward on the couch, elbows on knees. “we don’t feel fear like that, or guilt the way you do.”

“yeah, i noticed.”

“but we’re not dumb.” hyunjin says quietly.

your eyes flick to him.

he meets them. calm. honest in a deeply unsettling way. “we know we changed your life. we can see the behavioral shifts. we know what we did. we just don’t care.“

you blink. does this fucking asshole hear himself.

he continues. “and what you’re saying is that our continued presence equals harm.”

you blink “yes.”

“even without immediate violence.”

“YES.”

he nods once. processing. filing it somewhere in his terrifyingly organized brain.

chan takes over. “we’re saying, we understand the outcome. even if we don’t experience the emotion attached.”

changbin rubs his neck. “we didn’t think about the after. usually there isn’t one.”

you let that sit. “yeah.” you say. “because people die.”

quiet.

han finally says, softly: “you didn’t.”

you look at him. “no. i didn’t. and now i have to live with what you did.”

there’s a long silence.

then jeongin claps his hands once. “so. solution. anyone? ideas?”

you point at him without looking. “you are on thin fucking ice.”

he mimes zipping his mouth.

seungmin rubs his face. “okay, but question.”

you glare.

“when we stopped trying to actually kill you… that didn’t help?”

you just stare at him. “…you hear yourself, right?”

he thinks about it. “…yeah.”

felix looks like he’s actually using his brain for once. “we thought… not finishing the job was growth.”

“that is the lowest bar i have ever heard in my LIFE.”

but you see, the thing is, this is a system error for them. you’re not prey right now. you’re not running. you’re furious, first of all. human. loud. hurt. they don’t know this game. they only know the killing and manipulating one, but they want to have you. they just… don’t know how to get you.

chan clears his throat. “so the correct action would be… removal of our presence.”

“yes.”

“immediately.”

“so fucking immediately.”

“we don’t want to kill you.” minho cuts in, hoping that this saves their situation a bit.

“yeah, you told me a hundred times already. your point?” you ask

“we like you.”

you make a face like you bit into soap. “that is not how liking works.”

“for you.” he agrees.

chan exhales. decisive. “we adjust behavior.”

you cross your arms. “into WHAT?”

silence.

felix brightens. “dinner?”

you stare at him.

han nods eagerly.

you look around the room at eight serial killers in your living space, one of them holding a roll of paper towels covered in someone else’s blood. “…dinner.”

changbin shrugs. “low pressure environment. public. you feel safer. we practice acting normal.”

minho adds: “exposure therapy. for all parties.”

“i just gave a speech about how you ruined my sense of safety.” you whisper, voice defeated.

hyunjin nods. “we heard you.”

“and you want to take me to DINNER.”

“yes.”

“why.”

he doesn’t hesitate. “because harming you is now counterproductive to the thing we want.”

you are actually taken aback by the words this guy uses. “…which is?”

he holds your gaze.

“you.”

the room goes quiet.

then han whispers to felix, way too loud: “is this flirting?”

“yeah.” felix whispers back. “i think this is the good kind.”

you drag a hand down your face. “…get the fuck out of my apartment.”

they stand, immediately obedient. getting their shoes on and whatnot.

changbin gives you a small wave. “we’ll text?”

“you do not have my number.”

jeongin points at hyunjin. “he’ll give it to us.”

“I WILL CALL THE POLICE.”

they walk out.

han pauses at the door. “sorry about the sink.”

door closes. silence. your apartment is a disaster. your life is worse.

but… they looked weirdly sincere, actually. and they were.

soon, they stopped showing up unannounced. mostly. they also stopped bringing weapons into your line of sight. mostly. and they stopped treating you like prey. completely.

how were they about you, comes the question.

obsessed.

and they did not process attachment normally. if they processed it. they did not understand love. but they understood preference, and if you told them enough times, then eventually they understood your emotions too. well, not understood, but they processed the fact that you feel the way you feel and they can do something about it if they actually try.

han once fell down an entire staircase because someone said your name and he turned too fast. chan pretended he wasn’t competitive about board games and then absolutely lost his mind over monopoly. hyunjin brought you flowers all the time. you learned that seungmin always had to sleep on his stomach.

you started to understand the function of them. not excuse, no. absolutely not. just understand and process the fact that they’re how they are. and you couldn’t do shit about it, and you couldn’t get rid of them now. so you lived with it.

they still killed, of course. that was one of the few things that brought them happiness in life, so you couldn’t expect them to stop doing it. they didn’t kill around you, though.

but you knew they still did it. and you could feel when the tension built when they haven’t hurt anybody in a long time.

it also… what’s the right word, scared? impressed? took you aback? could be either, what matters is that when you saw that all of them had it in them, even han and felix who behaved like total angels throughout the day, it… upset you. or just moved something in you, seeing that each of them has that empty place where fear or guilt or empathy should go.

they didn’t kill out of anger. it was release. their brains were wired wrong. thrill, control, mastery, stimulation, those hit the reward centers. violence scratched an itch they couldn’t reach any other way.

and after, they were calmer. lighter, like they’d gone for a run. when they were satisfied with themselves, they tried to tell you about it. you always stopped them, because you did NOT need to hear the horrible things they did. no matter how much they wanted to brag about it, how much they wanted to make you proud.

you weren’t safe in the world, but you were weirdly safe with them. and they would have died for you.

but you had to set rules. actual rules. “do not follow me into bathrooms.” “do not threaten my coworkers.” “do not kill anyone within a five-mile emotional radius of me.” the basics. and they tried. god, they tried. but they didn’t really… do well.

once you opened your door to seungmin at one in the morning, and he stood there, breathing a little heavy, COVERED in blood.

you just stared.

he stared back.

“…you good?” he asked.

“are you good??”

“oh. yeah. not mine.”

you almost slammed the door. he stopped it with a hand, but gently. always that now.

“didn’t come here for that.” he said.

“for what, seungmin, WHAT possible reason makes this a normal social call.”

he shrugged. “adrenaline crash. didn’t wanna be alone.”

that did something weird to your chest. not forgiving, just… information. because you realized that now they wanted you. your company, your voice, your hands. and it felt good.

anyways, you told him to take a shower, then you let him hang out with you.

they also fought each other more than they ever fought you.

once minho and jeongin, two extremely capable men mind you, actually went for each other’s throats in your kitchen while hyunjin and chan tried to separate them.

you yelled at them then. they paused and looked at you.

jeongin, bleeding from the lip, grinned. but like in that hot way. “sorry.”

“take it outside if you’re gonna be like this.” you told them.

“fair.” chan said, dragging minho back by the collar.

you weren’t scared of them like prey anymore. you were scared of the capacity. the strength. the speed. the way the air changed when something in them flipped.

you’d seen what they could do, you just weren’t the target now.

they were on your dick constantly, though. emotionally. socially. existentially. texting wasn’t their thing, but presence was. which meant they showed up unannounced a lot. but the reason for that was that they didn’t want to lose access to you, to be honest. didn’t like the thought of that.

one night you opened the door to changbin. he told you he was going to come over later. well, it was late. around midnight.

when he saw you, his eyes lit up, and wrapped you in the warmest, most affectionate, full-body hug of your life.

you froze.

because he was sticky.

wet sleeve. iron smell. your cheek against his skin. your hands touching the back of his shirt.

he squeezed tighter, cheek against your hair. “missed you.”

you pulled back.

looked down.

this boy was covered in blood.

he smiled, soft, relieved. “hi.”

you shoved back, stumbling, hand over your mouth, already shaking your head like that would stop it. you barely made it to the sink before you threw up in it.

behind you, changbin stood there, horrified. “oh. oh no. right. right. that’s— that’s on me.”

from the hallway, jeongin yelled: “did you forget again??”

“I GOT EXCITED.”

hyunjin was the only one who followed you then, already grabbing a towel, turning on the sink. he didn’t look at changbin, and he didn’t look at the blood. he looked at you. “i’ve got you. you’re okay. breathe.”

they kept forgetting what you were. alive. normal. human. that for you it was a body, a person, a life.

it wasn’t the only time, of fucking course. they’d be loose, relaxed, calm. you’d be staring at hands that had done something irreversible two hours ago. there were a few nights like that, a sleeve not changed, a stain not noticed, you throwing up in your own kitchen while eight men who could disassemble a human being panicked because they’d upset you.

not because they felt guilt like you did. because they’d hurt something important in the environment. you. you, who sometimes made it to the sink, sometimes didn’t.

they did learn, though. slowly. painfully. they didn’t feel what you felt, but they learned it mattered. which, for them, was the closest thing to empathy available in the system.

you fell asleep on the couch once while they were over. you didn’t mean to. how could you mean to, when you knew what they were capable of?

and you woke up pinned. well, luckily not trapped, just surrounded. han was hugging your ankle. felix was using your shoulder as a pillow. changbin had an arm across your middle. jeongin was half off the couch but anyways. seungmin pretended he wasn’t involved but his foot was hooked under your leg.

they didn’t experience comfort like most people did. but proximity? pressure? familiar scent? that, they liked.

they were really, really glad that you survived them. and because of that, somewhere in their broken little predator brains, you became home. and what do predators do? bring things home.

once han showed up beaming, holding something behind his back.

“i got you flowers.” he said.

you blinked. that was… new.

he revealed it.

you stared.

it was technically arranged like a bouquet. the only problem was that… they were human lower arms. a lot of them. like flowers. just… arms.

you made a noise. you looked away, then back at it, then had to look away again.

“i thought it was romantic.” he said, crushed.

“honey, i appreciate that, but—“ you gagged. held the doorframe. teared up.

he watched you throw up then. patted your back after.

felix once brought you a wallet because “you’re always losing yours.”

you opened it. immediately closed it. “felix.”

“yeah?”

“return that.”

chan was… fucking brutal. he didn’t bring objects. he brought information.

“found a guy who’d been stalking women in your area.” he said once.

you went cold. “…what did you do.”

he met your eyes calmly. “took care of him, of course.”

you didn’t know whether to scream or say thank you. this one wasn’t bad, actually. you just had to sit down for a minute.

they were not house trained though, not even a little. one time you caught seungmin about to piss in your giant houseplant.

“seungmin.” you sighed.

he froze mid-zip. “…yeah?”

“if you water that plant with your BODY i will end you.”

“okay, okay.” he said, offended. “god. boundaries.”

felix once wiped his hands on your curtains. han sat on your coffee table. minho had to be told three separate times that knives did not belong “wherever feels right.” changbin once tried to “air out” your apartment by opening every window during winter.

and jeongin was just really spontaneous in general. if a guy talked to you, he would insert himself into the conversation, no matter what. “bro.” he’d say, arm slung over the stranger’s shoulders. “i love your confidence. truly. quick question, how attached are you to having kneecaps?”

you hit him. he’d grin. the stranger would evaporate.

hyunjin was the only one who got you normal gifts. they were… brutally expensive, yeah, and you had no idea where he had that kind of money from, but you appreciated every gift from him.

and oh my fucking god, the mailman. felix hated the mailman. for no reason. the man was fifty something and friendly. still, every time the mail arrived, felix would appear at your window, talking bout sum “he’s back.” ???

“felix, that’s his job.”

“yeah but why is he always here?”

“because i live here. that’s how mail works.”

the suspicion remained.

but beneath all the insanity, the red flags, the daily reminder that they could bring a corpse to your doorstep any day, they were sincere. they never played with your feelings. never lied about what they were. never pretended.

they just… adjusted their behavior around one central rule, which was not to lose you. to keep you safe, even if they didn’t understand why they wanted to keep you so safe. or why did you find so many things they did wrong.

you had, at one point, physically grabbed felix by the hair and yanked him backward because he was halfway out your front door, whispering “i just wanna talk to him.” about the mailman.

“NO.” you barked, fist in his hair.

“he’s BEEN HERE THREE TIMES THIS WEEK.” felix insisted.

“THAT IS HOW MAIL WORKS.”

he did not agree with you.

changbin loved cheek kisses. loved them. unfortunately, changbin also had a chronic issue where he just… forgot he was holding things. knife. wrench. crowbar. gun.

you’d feel a gentle kiss on your cheek and open your eyes to see cold steel six inches from your face.

“baby.” you’d say.

“oh, shit.” weapon would go on the table like car keys. “sorry.” he’d say, and kiss your other cheek, now technically unarmed.

then once you mentioned to hyunjin that you were cold and he wordlessly took off his jacket. it had a suspicious stain. he saw you notice.

“…i’ll get another one.” he said immediately.

because he really didn’t want you to be cold. not like he understood what your problem was with a little blood, but alright. anything for you.

now that i’m getting carried away with the stories, i’ll tell you that han did not understand personal space.

for an example, if you scolded him? immediate cling. you’d finish saying “you cannot threaten the barista for writing my name wrong” and suddenly he’d be attached to your side, rubbing his face into you, arms around your shoulders, chin on your head.

“okay, but we’re good though, right?”

“sweetie, i’m trying to pay.”

he’d nod against your hair, not moving. that went on for twelve minutes until a woman asked if he was concussed.

they clung like that a lot, they didn’t understand a lot, they acted up a lot, they hated a lot, but they loved one thing.

you.

they didn’t understand jealousy as an emotion. they understood it as something wrong with their insticts, and you in danger. how did that make sense? it didn’t. it just sounded horrible. because it was. but it was also the most sincere attachment they were capable of.

you were still scared sometimes. still human. still deeply aware of what they were, and reminded of it a lot of times, of course.

but they’d learned one thing with absolute certainty:

you were not prey.

you were home.

and they were trying, badly, incorrectly, concerningly, to deserve to be there.