PAIRING: f1 racer!riki x rehab therapist!reader (f)
SUMMARY: ferrari’s newbie driver can’t outrun the guilt of a crash that wasn’t his fault. a sudden brake failure put him in a hospital bed and in his own head. but like a fenice rising from its own ashes, riki is ready to get back on track… as long as you keep watching.
WARNINGS: starring enhypen JAKE, JUNGWON & HEESEUNG and bnd TAESAN. heeseung’s gf is reader in siren sounds, mention of accidents (slight description), hospital settings, mentions of injuries, burns, fighting, riki is a little rude but that’s his coping mechanism, making out, slightly suggestive, panic attack, reader struggles financially, celebrity harassment, trauma, rehabilitation, argument, lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD
a/n: you don’t necessarily need to read SIREN SOUNDS first, but for context i heavily advise it. my babies i love them sm! this fic has been my comfort zone to write for the past months 🩷 the ending is very rushed but i was running out of ideas and i didnt want to make it too long 😃 still REBLOGS & COMMENTS are appreciated!!
Riki woke up like he had been dragged upward from the bottom of a black ocean.
There was no gradual return and no soft drifting into awareness. One minute he was stuck in a burning car and the next he woke up gasping for air in a sterile room.
He tried to inhale sharply, and something resisted him. Something was inside his mouth.
His eyes snapped open in panic, but they couldn’t focus well on his surroundings.
The ceiling above him was blinding white, the lights too bright and shapes too blurry.
His vision trembled, refusing to focus. His body felt… gone, not numb in the way a limb fell asleep. Just gone, as if he had been reduced to a head floating in a field of static.
He tried to move his hand, but nothing happened. Not even a finger twitched from his will.
Panic surged like electricity through his chest. His heart rate spiked and he could hear it now, the beeping accelerating in response.
Voices cut through the haze, muffled. “His heart rate is increasing.”
“He’s trying to wake up.”
“Riki? Can you hear me?”
He couldn’t tell where the voices were coming from. They sounded underwater, like someone speaking through thick glass. He tried to turn his head toward the sound, but even that felt impossible.
A face leaned over him. A doctor, maybe. “Riki,” the doctor said slowly, shining a light into his pupils. “Follow the light.”
He couldn’t, hisis eyes struggled to track it. His vision doubled, then blurred, then sharpened just to blur again.
He tried to speak, but pain flared in his throat…. a tube. That was what was there.
He gagged slightly around it, instinctively trying to cough, but the movement sent a ripple of agony through his chest and something… lower?
His left leg. He couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything below his ribs.
He tried to lift his arm, to thrash, to signal that something was wrong, but nothing moved.
The monitor screamed louder as his panic grew. “Easy, easy.” someone murmured, keeping him down by his chest.
“The sedation might still be heavy, it’s not a good time to wake up while we are cleaning his lungs.” a female voice murmured. They were cleaning his what?
“He’s disoriented.” no shit.
The light flashed in his eyes again. “Pupils are reactive now,” someone muttered.
He wanted to ask what had happened. He wanted to ask if Heeseung was alive. If the families in the stands were alive. If he had killed someone, to ask if it’d been his fault.
But his body betrayed him, because the ceiling blurred again, then the beeping softened.
And the world folded back into black.
🐦🔥.
When he woke the second time, it wasn’t violent. It was slow and thick, like surfacing through the honey in the Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs movie.
The first thing he noticed was that the tube was gone. His throat felt scraped raw, each breath dry and painful but blessedly unobstructed.
He blinked carefully and this time, the room stayed still.
Riki was in the hospital, he realised.
His head ached, but it was manageable. His chest felt tight, and heavy bandaging wrapped around his right arm.
He tried to shift his shoulders and that fortunately worked. Relief flooded him. Then he tried to move his left leg, but nothing worked. It felt strange, numb from his own body.
His stomach dropped as soon as he looked down.
The blanket rose in a stiff, unnatural angle where his leg lay immobilized.
Metal rods and external fixators peeked from beneath layers of dressing. His thigh was swollen beneath the gauze. The machine beside his bed hummed quietly, pumping fluids through tubes attached to him.
“Don’t try to move it.” A nurse stood near the doorway, watching him carefully. She approached when she saw his eyes fully open.
“You’re in the ICU. You were in surgery for several hours earlier this week after a car accident,” she inforemd, fixing his blanket, “You’ve been in a coma for two weeks.”
Fuck. two weeks felt like an eternity. His voice came out hoarse. “Heeseung?”
The nurse paused just slightly before answering. “Your teammate is alive.”
Riki shut his eyes for a second, relief mixing with something far uglier. “What happened?” he whispered.
She checked his IV fluids as she murmured, “You sustained a compound fracture in your leg. There were additional injuries, but those are healing. And the internal bleeding was minimal. You’re stable now.”
Compound fracture.
The words echoed inside his skull… he knew what that meant. Bone through skin.
The recovery was measured not in weeks— but in months.
He turned his face toward the wall, jaw tightening. His throat burned again, but this time it wasn’t from the tube. It was from the sheer urge it took him not to cry like a fucking baby.
Heeseung came to visit him as soon as he learnt the news of his awakening. Riki wasn't really himself yet, he was still high on morphine, but he felt so relieved.
Heeseung sat there on the wheelchair looking thinner, his own arm wrapped heavily in bandages, faint bruising still shadowing his face.
The burns along his neck were angry and red, partially healed but unmistakable.
He looked like someone who had run through fire, which he had and it was all Riki’s fault.
The second time he visited, Riki could see him better, his brain cooperated and so did his body.
“You’re barbecued,” Riki rasped weakly.
Heeseung huffed out that might have been a laugh. “Job hazard.”
He frowned, gulping hard. “I’m sorry I lost control.”
“And I’m glad I stepped in.” Heeseung replied, thanking the pretty nurse who placed him beside his bed and stepped outside to give them privacy.
“You should’ve let me crash alone.” He murmured.
Heeseung’s eyes sharpened. “There were families there.”
He remembered it now in flashes. The car fishtailing and . the barrier being too close. He remembered panicking when the breaks under his foot stopped working, and then the impact.
Heeseung had taken the hit full on. He had positioned himself between the trajectory and the stands. Between Riki and the worst possible outcome.
A true hero.
The media was already calling him so, he'd peeked from a nurse phone who had caved at his begging.
Riki felt like a reckless child. “You could’ve died,” he whispered.
“So could you.” Silence stretched between them. Riki looked away first as shame crawled under his skin. “It was my fault.”
Heeseung leaned closer despite the stiffness in his movements. “It was an accident.”
And despite it being the truth, Riki couldn’t help but blame himself.
Jake tried to come the next day, but Riki refused him.
“Tell him I’m sleeping,” he told the nurse flatly. “But you’re awake.” she pointed out gently.
“I don’t care, just— don’t let him in, okay?” he ran a stiff hand through his hair and the nurse nodded, closing the door behind her back.
Jake tried again the day after, and the day after the day after.
“No visitors.” He repeated and the nurses respected it. Trauma unit rules were clear, the patient consent mattered.
Riki had been transferred there after the ICU, once he stabilized. The room was quieter and less frantic, as well as less depressing, But the reality settled heavier there.
A compound fracture required at least six months of rehab, of physiotherapy.
It was uncertainty.
He stared at his leg often. At the metal and at the swelling. At the way it no longer felt like part of him.
Would he still drive the same?
Would his reflexes hesitate?
Would fear live in the back of his skull forever?
One month passed by quickly despite the boredom of the four white walls.
One afternoon, a different nurse walked in, he recognized her vaguely. She had been Heeseun’s ex-nurse, and she came to check on him some times.
She moved quietly, efficient but gentle, adjusting his IV and checking his vitals. “How are you feeling today?” she asked softly.
“Like shit,” he answered honestly. She didn’t flinch, just nodded once. “That’s fair.”
Her hands were careful when she adjusted his leg. She didn’t overtalk nor did she pity him. Just did her job with steady precision.
“You’ll start light rehab soon,” she said without sugarcoating. “It’ll hurt at first.”
“I figured.” he gritted out.
“Will Heeseung come to visit me today?” Riki asked, because he felt like he could go insane.
The nurse stopped, her shoulders stuffing. He noticed the change but made no comment whatsoever. “Probably.”
“He’ll start driving again soon.” He felt the need to reassure.
The nurse smiled softly and told him, “So will you.” before closing the door behind her back.
A few days later, he told the nurse, “Let Jake in.” when she gave him his breakfast trail.
When Jake entered the room, Riki braced himself.
He expected anger and disappointment. A lecture about contracts and sponsors and recklessness.
Instead, Jake stopped just inside the doorway.
For a moment, they just stared at each other. Riki crossed his arms defensively. “You’re going to start?”
Jake didn’t answer right away. He walked forward slowly. “Oh fuck off, I know I made a mistake—“ Riki rolled his eyes but then Jake wrapped his arms around him carefully, mindful of the injuries, and held him tightly.
He froze, blinking, suddenly at a loss of words.
Jake’s voice broke first. “You scared me.” he whispered.
Riki’s defenses crumbled so fast it almost embarrassed him. His chin trembled as he tried to hold it back and failed.
“I messed up,” Riki choked out.
Jake tightened his hold. “You’re alive.”
“I could’ve—” Jake stopped him, “But you didn’t.”
Riki’s hands clutched weakly at the back of Jake’s shirt. His vision blurred with tears. “I thought you’d be mad,” Riki admitted through tears.
Jake pulled back just enough to look at him. His own eyes were red. “Oh, I am mad at you, but…”
“I don’t care about the car, or the sponsors, or about the headlines,” Jake said firmly. “I care about you.”
The words hit harder than any reprimand could have.
Riki broke. The tears came freely, hot and humiliating and necessary. Jake held him through it, steady and unashamed.
For the first time since waking up in that white ICU room, Riki allowed himself to feel something other than guilt.
🐦🔥.
When Riki was released from the hospital, the silence of his own apartment felt louder than any beeping monitor or whining patient.
The place was not as flashy as Heeseung’s mansion, but it was still polished in that quiet, newly-successful way.
It had floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city, and the couch was modern and barely touched for weeks.
Framed race photos hung on the walls, one with him smiling with trophies, him in a helmet, him mid-turn on a track at barely eleven years old.
His bedroom was fortunately close to the living room area so he wouldn’t have to navigate the hallway.
The external cast was still wrapped around his leg during the first days home, bulky and humiliating. Crutches leaned uselessly against the wall, since he couldn’t use them yet. A wheelchair waited nearby, unused because he preferred staying horizontal.
He spent most of his time flat on his back, propped slightly by pillows, the television glowing at the foot of the bed.
The accident replayed on every sports channel.
In different angles, then in slow motion with a commentary that layered over the screech of tires.
He watched it once. Then again. And again.
The moment his car fishtailed, the split second where he overcorrected. The frame where the barrier seemed too close, the explosion when metal kissed metal… he memorised it as as if he was living it again.
“If I hadn’t pushed,” he muttered one afternoon, staring at the screen. “If I hadn’t gone full throttle.”
The commentators didn’t blame him outright. They called it “an unfortunate miscalculation.” They praised Heeseung’s intervention. They called Heeseung a hero.
Riki swallowed bitterness that tasted like rust. “If I was just less competitive,” he whispered to the empty room. “If I wasn’t so damn hungry.”
The explosion sound replayed again, loud and violent.
On the second week of bed rest, the frustration finally snapped something inside him.
The remote was in his grip as the crash replayed yet again in high definition. His own voice from an earlier interview echoed over the footage, “I always push to the limit.”
“Shut up.” He said, his eyes fixed on the scene, watching the way ambulances rushed through the race as it got suspended temporarily.
“Guess he pushed too much to the limit, will Ferrari’s golden boy and Ferrari’s newbie be able to race again?” The interviewer said and it made Riki’s blood boil.
“Shut up!” he repeated at the screen.
“News say Heeseung will be back soon in the car while Riki will be substituted by the third pilot—“ With a sudden, furious motion, he hurled the remote at the television, and the plastic cracked against glass.
The screen spider-webbed instantly, a dark fracture spreading from the point of impact by before the display fizzled into black.
The apartment fell silent, while his breathing filled the room, uneven and sharp. He stared at the ruined screen, chest rising and falling rapidly.
For a moment, the silence felt worse than the noise had.
When Jake arrived later that afternoon, grocery bags hanging from both hands, he froze at the sight.
“What happened to the TV?”
Riki didn’t look at him. “It was annoying me.”
Jake set the bags down slowly. “You threw something at it?”
Riki shrugged, jaw tight. He was in no mood for a lecture. He could buy another one if he wanted.
Jake didn’t comment further. He moved through the kitchen, unloading groceries, placing bottles of water in the fridge, fresh fruit in a bowl and some snacks on a riki’s bedside table. The normalcy of the movements contrasted painfully with the tension in the room.
“You need help to shower?” Jake asked gently.
Riki hesitated, pride flaring. Then he exhaled softly “Yeah.”
Jake helped him carefully, with steady hands, practical and respectful.
Steam filled the bathroom, and Riki clenched his jaw while Jake helped him balance, avoiding pressure or water on the injured leg.
Afterward, back in bed, Jake sat at the edge of the mattress. “The external cast is coming off tomorrow,” Jake said, showing him the hospital papers. “The doctor cleared you to start rehab.”
Riki’s eyes flicked up. “Already?”
“It’s time.” Jake’s smile was hopeful and boyish.
He swallowed. Rehab meant reality… it meant effort and pain and acknowledging weakness. Something Riki wasnt really known for.
Jake studied him for a long second. “You don’t have to be strong every second.”
Riki scoffed faintly. “Kind of my job.” Jake’s expression softened. “Your job is to heal right now.”
The next day, there was a knock at the door.
Jake opened it with a welcoming smile. You stepped inside and followed him to Riki’s bedroom.
You tried not to act too surprised by how big the apartment was. How small yours was compared to just his living room.
“My name is Y/N,” you said gently, offering a small smile. “I’ll be working with you for your rehabilitation.”
You were young, fresh out of university, your posture straight with professional determination.
Your clothes were simple but neat, and there was a brightness about you that felt almost out of place in the dim apartment.
Riki studied you from the bed. “You look twelve,” he muttered unapologetically.
You didn’t take offense. You had heard worse from older patients. “I’m twenty-four,” you replied calmly. “And fully licensed.”
Jake hid a smile and stepped aside. You moved further into the room, taking in the crutches, the wheelchair, the broken television.
“You’ll start light exercises today,” you explained, setting your bag down. “We won’t push too hard. The goal is mobility, not speed.”
Riki’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Speed is kind of my thing.”
“Not right now,” you answered softly.
You helped him sit upright, carefully guiding his leg off the side of the bed. His muscles trembled instantly from disuse.
“Breathe,” you instructed. “We’re just flexing first.”
He gripped the edge of the mattress, jaw clenched. Sweat already formed at his temples.
He tried so many times, he started losing hopes. If he couldn’t even flex his leg how could he push on the accelerator?
With your support and guidance, he managed to flex his toes and leg, but it shook violently.
“That’s normal,” you said gently. “Your muscles have been inactive.”
“I can do more than this,” he insisted through his teeth.
“Today, this is enough.” You said, it had taken him thirty minutes to fully flex it.
He hated the word enough.
You guided him through small, controlled movements. Flexing, then llight weight shifts.
He complied at first. But frustration simmered.
“This is useless,” he snapped suddenly. “I’m not an eighty-year-old.”
“You’re recovering from a compound fracture,” you corrected evenly. “Your bone pierced through your skin. It needs structured stress, not reckless strain.”
His eyes flashed. “I’m not reckless.” It had been what the cameras called him, what everyone thought of him.
He wasn’t reckless. Sure, he liked speed and to test limits but he wasn’t reckless… Was he? He hadn’t meant to crash. He hadn’t meant for the break to malfunction.
You held his gaze. “The goal is healing, not proving something.”
With sudden determination, he shifted his weight harder onto the injured leg, attempting to stand up without your cue.
“Riki—” you started but it was too late.
His knee buckled. Pain shot through him like lightning. He gasped sharply, nearly collapsing.
You caught him as best you could, heart racing. “I told you not to push!”
He gritted his teeth, breathing ragged. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” You snapped.
You helped him back onto the bed, your movements firm now rather than soft. You knelt in front of him, examining the leg carefully.
You let your fingers trace his skin. “You just strained healing tissue,” you said, frustration bleeding through despite your effort to remain professional. “If you keep doing that, you’ll delay recovery.”
He looked away, jaw clenched. “I need to get back,” he muttered.
“And you will,” you replied firmly. “But not like that.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy and awkward. You softened your tone slightly, back to your professional self. “I understand you want progress, and that’s good. But progress is measured. You can’t treat your body like a machine.”
Riki’s chest rose and fell heavily. For a moment, the anger in his eyes flickered into something else… fear, perhaps. The fear of not being enough.
“If I’m not the same,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “If I can’t drive like before…”
You stood slowly, meeting his gaze. “Then we adapt,” you answered. “But you won’t know that until you give yourself the chance to heal properly.”
He didn’t respond to that, he just turned back to the lying position and stared at the broken TV.
You gathered your things, but before leaving, you added gently, “We’ll try again tomorrow,” You emphasised, “Slowly.”
🐦🔥.
Your mornings belonged to the café.
You tied your apron tight around your waist at six thirty, with your hair pulled back and sleeves rolled up. The bell above the door chimed every few minutes as regulars shuffled in, office workers clutching laptops, elderly couples sharing newspapers, university students pretending to study.
The air smelled like espresso and warm milk foam. Taesan leaned against the counter beside you, drying a cup with exaggerated seriousness.
“Table three is on a first date,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth.
You didn’t look directly, but you adjusted your stance slightly to catch their reflection in the espresso machine. “The guy keeps talking about football,” you whispered back. “She hasn’t blinked in thirty seconds.”
Taesan bit back a grin. “Do you think she’s plotting escape or murder?”
“Both.” you replied solemnly. He snorted, nearly dropping the cup.
You worked well together, with quick hands and shared glances. Inside jokes made the rush easier to survive.
When a man complained that his cappuccino foam wasn’t symmetrical, Taesan leaned toward you and muttered, “Tragic. I’ll call the authorities.” You had to turn away to hide your laugh.
For a few hours, your world was just coffee orders and sarcastic commentary.
Then the clock crept toward eleven. Your smile shifted into something more focused, as it always did when it was time to put to work the studies you did.
Taesan noticed. “Rehab guy?” he asked casually while wiping down the counter.
You nodded, untying your apron and disappearing in the kitchen to grab your bag from the hook.
“You still won’t tell me who he is?” he wiggled his brows teasingly.
“I signed confidentiality forms,” you reminded him. “Very official and very serious, unlike you.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “I respect the mystery.”
“Try not to judge too many people without me.” you said, waving your hand and hurrying to the door.
“No promises!” he replied, winking.
You stepped out into the late morning sun, the air cooler than inside the café. Your car started on the second try, and you drove faster than you probably should have, mentally rehearsing today’s plan for Riki’s session.
Weight distribution, perhaps some controlled steps if he felt ready. And much, much patience.
Jake had given you the door code days ago so he wouldn’t have to wait around. It felt strange at first, entering a client’s home alone, but professionalism overrode discomfort.
You punched in the code, the door clicking open with a soft mechanical sound.
The apartment was quiet, which was never a good sign with a toddler or with a Formula One driver named Nishimura Riki.
“Riki?” you called gently as you stepped inside, closing the door behind you.
At the absence of responde, you frowned and moved toward the bedroom automatically, your bag already sliding off your shoulder.
“Good morning,” you began as you turned the corner and froze.
Riki was halfway upright. Not upright like you had instructed. Upright like he had dragged himself out of bed without support.
“Oh no.” you breathed.
His back was to you, muscles straining as he gripped the edge of the dresser. The injured leg trembled violently beneath him, knee barely stable.
“Riki,” you said, trying to keep your tone even, even though your pulse spiked. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t turn around. “Standing.” he deadpanned.
“This is not how we practice standing.” you breathed out.
“I’m fine.” He snapped.
“No, you’re not.” You stepped forward quickly, heart racing despite your attempt at composure. Inside, panic clawed at you.
You had worked with stubborn patients before, older men who insisted they could climb stairs two days after surgery. But this was different. He wasn’t just impatient. He was desperate.
“Shift your weight back,” you instructed calmly. “Slowly.”
He replied through gritted teeth. “I’ve got it.” His voice wavered.
You saw it before it happened, the micro-tremor in his thigh and the way his shoulders tightened. “Riki—”
His leg gave out and seconds later he hit the floor hard.
The sound made your stomach flip. You were at his side instantly. “Are you okay? Tell me where it hurts.”
He sucked in a sharp breath, jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”
“You are not fine,” you repeated firmly, kneeling beside him. His height made everything harder. He was long-limbed, heavy with muscle even in recovery.
“On three, we’re getting you up,” you said. “One, two—”
He tried to push himself too quickly, grimacing.
“Stop fighting me,” you snapped before you could soften it. “Work with me.”
He hesitated, but then nodded. Together, slowly and awkwardly, you maneuvered him back onto the bed.
It took effort, and your arms strained under his weight. When he was finally seated, breathing uneven, you stepped back slightly.
“You cannot do that,” you said, voice firm but controlled. “You could have torn something.”
He looked away, embarrassed anger simmering in his eyes. “I’m not helpless.”
“I didn’t say you were. But you are healing.” you tried to make your point.
Silence filled the room. Then, without another argument, he nodded faintly.
The session that followed was slower than usual, because he would never be ready for more if he kept pushing. You guided him through measured movements, adjusting his posture and counting repetitions softly.
Two hours passed by slowly and by the end, both of you were tired.
You were crouched beside the bed, writing notes in your folder, when your stomach betrayed you.
A loud, unmistakable growl echoed through the quiet room.
You froze, embarrassed. Riki blinked at you, then he chuckled. “You didn’t eat?” he asked. “I’m fine,” you replied quickly, snapping your folder shut.
Your stomach growled again, louder than the first time, betraying your words.
Riki’s eyebrow lifted. “I can cook,” he offered.
You shook your head immediately. “Absolutely not. I don’t need my patients cooking for me.”
“You helped me off the floor,” he countered. “Seems fair.”
“That’s my job—“ Another growl interrupted.
You sighed, cheeks warming slightly. “It’s not appropriate.”
He tilted his head. “You’re starving.” You crossed your arms defensively. “I had a busy morning, but I did have breakfast.”
“Before you can say anything, coffee doesn’t count as breakfast.” He replied matter-of-factly.
You stared at him for a moment. He smiled faintly. “Let me.”
Reluctantly, you helped him into the wheelchair. In the kitchen, sunlight poured through the tall windows, illuminating the marble counters.
“What do you even have?” you muttered, opening the fridge cautiously.
“Enough,” he said.
You hovered nearby as he maneuvered carefully, one hand steadying himself against the counter. He moved slower than before the accident, but there was determination in every motion.
The wheelchair made him smaller, but he could reach the counter just fine. He moved effortlessly, taking eggs from the fridge, adding them in a pan with butter, bread and cinnamon.
“You’re good at this.” You commented from where you were watching, leaning against the counter.
“I remind you that I live alone,” he replied, placing the french toast on the plate, “It’s either this or take out.”
He turned around, pushing the wheelchair with one hand and before handing you the plate, “Voilà mademoiselle.”
“Thank you.” You replied, taking it in your hand. He wheeled himself to the fridge and took out a can of coke, handing it to you. You noticed he had beers stacked inside as well as energy drinks.
You didn’t think it was very healthy, but you didn’t comment on it. Perhaps you’d secretly take a couple away when he wasn’t aware. You didn’t really want him to drown his guilt on alcohol.
You bit down the french toast and the taste melted in your mouth, the cinnamon mixing with the bread and eggs. Your eyes widened and you sighed contentedly, “This tastes so good!”
Riki shrugged with a smirk, leaning back on the wheelchair, “Glad you like it.”
You ate eagerly and gulped down the can of coke, then you wiped your mouth and smiled at him, “Thank you, Riki.”
“No biggie.” He wiggled his brows. You went behind him and took him to his bedroom, helping him on the bed again.
You tucked him under the cover, “Everything’s good?”
“Nothing is truly good in this world,” he replied, wiggling, trying to find a more comfortable position. “You can go now.”
You just nodded and stepped away, “Goodbye, Riki.”
He waved his hand, “Bye Y/N.”
🐦🔥.
You were supposed to arrive at Riki’s house at eleven sharp, however, fate was cruel because it was 11:15 a.m. and you were still in your apron.
Taesan had called in sick that morning, he had caught a cold and could hardly get out of bed, and nobody could fill in his shift.
You had called your boss at least five times, and he hadn’t picked up once.
You were tempted to just close the shop and call it a day, if you didn’t desperately need it.
But you needed the job as the rehab nurse too…
“Come on…” You tapped your foot impatiently, hurriedly making an espresso and giving it to a customer, “That’ll be one and fifty.”
The old man took out the wallet from his pocket and tried to open it, but his hand shook too hard. He could barely hold the zipper.
Your eyes softened and you quickly slipped in caregiver mode, taking the wallet from his trembling hands and opening it.
You showed him the amount of money you took out and gave the wallet back to him. He smiled widely, “Thank you so much, young girl.”
“Have a nice day!” You replied.
After some minutes, the bell on top of the door chimed. “Welcome—“ You said, but as you turned around you realised it was not a customer, but Han Taesan.
“What are you doing here?” You asked, walking towards him. He really didn’t look well.
“Kai told me he couldn’t cover my shift.” He smiled, already stepping behind the counter despite being worryingly pale, “And I figured the only kind enough to do it was you, but you have to go to the rehab guy, right?”
“Yes,” you frowned. “But you’re sick.”
“Meh,” he shrugged, “I’ve been worse, now go.” He hushed you out of the door.
You turned around and kissed his cheek gratefully, “Thank you! I owe you.”
You probably broke eight different laws of the road to get there in five minutes. You punched in the code to Riki’s apartment, breath slightly uneven from hurrying up the stairs. “Sorry,” you muttered to no one in particular as the door clicked open.
The apartment smelled faintly… toasty.
You stepped inside and immediately noticed it.
On the kitchen counter, neatly placed on a small white plate, sat a sandwich9, with slices of bread cut diagonally and lettuce peeking out. A folded napkin was beneath it like it had been presented deliberately.
You blinked and stepped closer, staring at it like it might explain itself.
“What…” you murmured.
You set your bag down and walked quickly toward the bedroom.
He was propped up against the headboard when you entered, phone in his hand. He looked up when you appeared.
“Good morning,” he said.
You crossed your arms automatically. “Did you make that sandwich?”
“Yes.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “You were in the kitchen?”
He shrugged faintly. “Obviously.”
“Riki.” Your tone carried the beginning of a lecture.
“You’re not supposed to move around unsupervised,” you continued, stepping further into the room. “You could have fallen again.”
“I didn’t,” he replied calmly. “That’s not the point.” You nagger again.
He sighed and shifted slightly. “I figured out how to get onto the wheelchair without putting weight on my leg.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Show me.”
There was a flicker of pride in his expression. “Watch.”
He moved carefully to the edge of the bed. You hovered close, ready to intervene.
Instead of trying to stand upright like before, he positioned the wheelchair at an angle, locked the wheels, and used his arms to lift his body in a controlled motion. His injured leg stayed elevated, barely brushing the floor.
It was awkward, but precise. He transferred himself fully into the wheelchair without grimacing.
You blinked. “That’s…” You paused. “Impressive.”
He smirked slightly. “I told you I’m not helpless.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to experiment without supervision,” you shot back automatically, though your tone softened.
He rolled his eyes lightly. “Eat the sandwich,” he said. “Before you faint.”
You hesitated. “I won’t faint.”
“You look like you might.” You sighed, walking back into the kitchen. The sandwich was still warm. You picked it up, taking a cautious bite.
“Did you toast it?” you called out.
“Yes! i’m a pro.”
You finished it faster than you intended to. Hunger had a way of humbling pride.
When you returned to the bedroom, wiping your hands on the napkin, he was watching you with faint amusement.
“Thank you,” you muttered.
“You’re welcome.” he shrugged.
You clapped your hands lightly. “All right, now it’s rehab time.”
The session began normally. You guided him through controlled leg lifts, assisted stretches, slow weight shifts. He followed instructions, but something felt off.
He kept adjusting in his seat, his responses were delayed and his focus drifted.
“Riki,” you said gently after noticing him wince for the third time. “If it hurts too much, we can stop.”
“It’s fine.” he murmured.
“It doesn’t look fine.” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.
You crouched in front of him to meet his eyes. “Talk to me, are you tired?”
He looked… frustrated. But not in the usual way. There was a sheepish tension in his jaw.
You waited patiently. Finally, he muttered, “I need to pee.”
You blinked. “Oh.”
Silence hung between you for half a second.
“Jake didn’t come today,” he added quickly, as if that explained everything.
“Okay,” you said carefully. “We’ll pause.” You stood, processing the logistics.
“Why don’t you have someone assisting you full-time?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “You could afford it.”
His expression hardened instantly. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s exactly what you meant.”
“I meant support,” you corrected calmly. “There’s nothing wrong with having help during recovery.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m not paying someone to follow me around twenty-four seven.”
You crossed your arms, meeting his glare evenly. “Needing help doesn’t make you weak.”
His voice dropped. “It feels like it.”
That landed heavier than you expected. You softened slightly. “Let’s just get you to the bathroom.”
Without further argument, he positioned the wheelchair again.
“Watch,” he said, a little sharper now, as if proving something.
He performed the transfer trick again, controlled, careful, avoiding pressure on the injured leg. You stayed close but didn’t intervene.
It was smoother this time.
You wheeled him down the hallway and into the bathroom. The space was wide, adapted with grab bars that you were sure Jake had installed without Riki’s permission.
“All right,” you said, steadying the chair. “On three.”
He gripped the bar and pushed himself up carefully. His good leg bore most of the weight while the injured one hovered lightly.
He couldn’t lean fully on you, the angle didn’t allow it. So he braced one hand against the wall as well, breathing controlled.
“Turn around,” he said quietly.
You nodded immediately and pivoted, facing the opposite wall. “I’m not looking,” you assured him.
There was the faint rustle of fabric. The sound of his uneven breathing. Then the soft, unmistakable sound of relief.
You focused on the tiled wall in front of you, counting silently to give him privacy.
When it ended, you turned slightly. “Do you need help?”
“I can manage.” He gritted out.
You stepped closer cautiously anyway, prepared to assist if needed.
He adjusted himself awkwardly, his movements stiff and awkward.
You reached instinctively to steady him. “I’ve got it,” he said quickly.
You paused. “I can help you clean up,” you offered gently, professional tone intact. “I’ve done it with other patients already.”
He stiffened. “No.”
“It’s part of recovery. There’s nothing embarrassing about it.” you pressed on.
His cheeks flushed faintly. “I said no.”
There was a fragile edge to his voice now, you recognised it as pride.
You studied him for a moment. “All right,” you said softly, stepping back.
He finished on his own, slow and deliberate. When he was ready, you helped him ease back into the wheelchair.
The trip back to the bedroom was quieter. You could feel the shift between you, an understanding of boundaries being tested and reset.
Once he was settled again, you spoke carefully. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”
He stared at the floor. “I know.”
“But you don’t believe it,” you said gently.
He didn’t answer and you didn’t push further.
Instead, you adjusted your notes and said, “We’ll finish with seated exercises today.”
He nodded once.
And this time, when you guided his movements, he followed without trying to prove anything.
🐦🔥.
You had chosen a day where the sky was clear. Not too hot and not too windy. The sunlight felt intentional, like it had decided to show up for a reason.
When you told Riki you were taking him out, he had stared at you like you had suggested skydiving.
“No,” he said immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“You need fresh air.” You smiled, pointing to the world around.
“I have windows.”beh replied matter-of-factly.
“You need sun.” You now pointed a threatening finger towards his pale skin.
“I have vitamin D supplements.” Riki raised a brow in challenge.
You crossed your arms. “You also have cabin fever.”
He glared at you from the edge of the bed. “I’m not going outside like this.”
“Like what?” You tilted your head.
“In a wheelchair and with people staring.” you rolled your eyes, “They won’t stare.”
“They will.” You softened your tone, stepping closer. “Then we’ll make it harder for them to recognize you.”
Ten minutes later he was wearing a dark hoodie, the hood pulled low, and a cap shadowing most of his face. If someone wasn’t looking closely, he was just another tall guy recovering from an injury.
You adjusted the footrests of the wheelchair carefully before pushing him toward the elevator.
“Y/N,” he muttered as the doors closed, “if this ends badly, I’m blaming you.”
“You blame me for everything already,” you replied lightly.
Outside, the park felt alive. Children ran across the grass, their laughter bright and uncontrolled. A dog barked somewhere near the fountain and leaves rustled softly overhead.
You guided him along the paved path, careful over small cracks. His shoulders were tense at first, hunched slightly inward, as if trying to shrink.
“No one’s looking,” you said quietly. “That’s because they’re being subtle about it” he muttered.
You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You stopped near a sunny patch by a bench and locked the wheelchair in place.
“Sunlight is good for bone healing,” you explained, crouching in front of him. “It helps your body produce vitamin D naturally.”
“I already take supplements.” He murmured, watching you with his intense eyes.
“But this is free.”
Before he could protest, you gently lifted the hem of his sweatpants slightly to expose part of his injured leg to the warmth. The skin was still pale from weeks indoors.
He inhaled, surprised by the simple sensation. “It feels… weird,” he admitted.
“It’s just warmth.”
You sat beside him on the bench, close enough that your shoulders almost touched. For a while, neither of you spoke. You watched a little boy chase pigeons, tripping over his own feet and laughing as if falling was the funniest thing in the world.
Riki’s voice came quieter than usual. “When I was in Japan, in kindergarten, I cried all the time.”
You turned your head slightly toward him. “For what?”
“For everything,” he said with a faint huff. “If someone took my toy or if my mom left me at school. I hated it.”
“Why?” you questioned.
“Because the other boys didn’t cry. I felt weak.” You studied his profile beneath the cap’s shadow.
“There’s nothing wrong with crying,” you said gently. “It’s your body’s way of signaling that something hurts, physically or emotionally. It’s… a wayv of communication.”
He stayed quiet for a few moments, “I stopped eventually,” he added. “I told myself it was embarrassing.”
“Or maybe you just learned to hide it,” you replied softly.
Before he could answer, footsteps approached. A couple walked past you, young and laughing at something between them. The boyfriend slowed mid-step, eyes narrowing.
“Wait,” he said, squinting. “Is that…?”
Your stomach dropped, bracing for Riki’s fear materialising.
He stepped closer without invitation. “Yo, you’re Riki, right? The Ferrari driver?” Riki’s hands tightened on the armrests.
“Not now,” you said calmly but firmly. “He’s recovering.”
The boyfriend ignored you. “Dude, that crash was insane. What did it feel like? Did you think you were gonna die?”
Riki’s jaw clenched and he lowered his face, trying to hide it with the cap.
“Please,” you said, standing slightly. “We’re not doing interviews.”
The guy laughed awkwardly. “I’m just asking. It’s public news.”
His girlfriend tugged at his sleeve. “Babe, leave him alone.”
But he stepped even closer, peering at Riki’s leg. “Man, that looks brutal. You think you’ll ever race again?”
“Step back,” you said, sharper now.
He brushed past you slightly as he leaned in, and the sudden shift unbalanced you. You stumbled backward, your foot catching on the edge of the pavement.
You hit the ground as pain shot through your palms.
Riki’s head snapped toward you. “Y/N!”
He gripped the wheels instinctively, as if he could stand, as if he could do something. But he couldn’t.
The wheelchair stayed locked and he stayed unmoving.
The boyfriend froze, startled. His girlfriend rushed forward immediately.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she said, helping you up gently. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” you muttered, brushing dirt off your hands.
She turned to her boyfriend sharply. “What is wrong with you? He’s clearly not okay.”
The guy mumbled something defensive but allowed himself to be pulled away.
Silence settled heavy after they left.
Riki didn’t speak, even as you braced for his crash out. You knelt beside him. “I’m sorry.”
But didn’t look at you.
You decided to take him home, unlocking the wheelchair and pushing it.
The park noises faded behind you. His shoulders were tense again, maybe more than before.
“Wait here for one minute,” you said suddenly.
His head snapped up. “What?”
“Just… wait.” You stepped away before he could argue.
“Y/N!” he hissed after you. “Don’t leave me here.”
You ignored the tightness in your chest and hurried down the street toward the small ice cream vendor you had spotted before.
You came back less than three minutes later, and the look on Riki’s face told you he wasn’t mildly irritated. “You can’t just—”
He stopped mid-sentence when he saw what you were holding.
A cone of chocolate ice cream, slightly melting at the edges.
You walked toward him slowly, holding it out like a peace offering. “I assumed you liked chocolate,” you said softly.
He blinked at it. “What is this?”
“Ice cream,” you replied gently. “When I was sad as a kid, my mom used to buy me ice cream. It didn’t fix anything, but it made things better.”
He stared at you as if you had grown three heads.
“You don’t have to eat it,” you added quickly. “I just thought maybe it would help.”
He looked down at his hands. Then back at the cone. “You left me alone in the street for ice cream?” he asked, incredulous.
“Yes…. well, with good intentions.”
He took the cone carefully from your hand and licked it slowly, tentatively. “Thank you.” he murmured.
“Anytime.” You smiled.
🐦🔥.
Riki sat on the edge of the bed wit his left leg extended stiffly.
You knelt beside him, your hands gentle but firm as you adjusted the brace around his leg. It had been full months of hardship, bickering and trying to get the F1 racer to collaborate with you, and with great effort, you managed to establish a relationship based on collaboration and bribing.
“Alright, Riki.” you said softly, your voice carrying the encouragement that had become your shared language. "Let's try walking again. Remember, slow and steady, no rushing."
He nodded, his dark hair falling slightly over his forehead, those sharp eyes, usually so fierce on the track, now softened by frustration and determination.
The limp was pronounced, a halting drag that pulled at your heart each time, but progress was there, inch by inch.
That day, though, the session felt heavier, the lateness of the hour weighing on both of you. You'd noticed how his energy flagged earlier than usual, the pain etching deeper lines into his young face.
To lighten the mood, you'd invented a game earlier that week, something simple to turn the monotony of rehab into a challenge. "Okay, let's play 'Track Lap,'" you announced with a playful smile, helping him to his feet.
He leaned on the sturdy cane you'd provided, its rubber tip thudding softly against the floor. "You have to 'lap' the hallway and back to the room without stopping. I'll time you, but the goal isn't speed— it's completing the circuit. Winner gets bragging rights."
Riki's lips quirked into a rare grin, the first genuine one you'd seen all evening. "Bragging rights? You're on. But if I win, you owe me a weird story from your physiotherapy sessions." His voice was low, laced with that competitive edge that hadn't dulled despite the accident.
You chuckled, steadying him as he took his first step. The hallway stretched out from the bedroom door, a long corridor lined with abstract art and a few framed photos of Riki on the podium, his helmet tucked under one arm.
He moved deliberately, the cane planting ahead, his injured leg swinging forward with effort.
You walked beside him, not touching unless needed, your presence a quiet anchor. "One lap down," you murmured as he rounded the corner, his breath coming in measured puffs.
The game worked its magic: his focus sharpened, the limp less about defeat and more about strategy.
Back in the room, after two full circuits, sweat beaded on his brow, and his grip on the cane tightened. He paused by the bed, chest rising and falling. "I think that's enough for today," he admitted, his tone apologetic, as if pushing himself was the only option he knew.
You nodded, concerned,. "You did great! better than last time. Let me help you back." But as you reached for his arm, he shook his head, a spark of stubborn pride igniting.
"I can do it alone.” he insisted, his jaw set. Slowly, painfully so, he shuffled the remaining steps to the bed.
Each movement was a testament to his resilience, the way his good leg bore the weight, the subtle tremor in the injured one, and the soft grunt he let escape when he finally lowered himself onto the mattress.
It took what felt like an eternity, the room silent save for the distant hum of the air conditioning, but he made it without your aid. Pride swelled in your chest as you watched.
Once settled, you moved to tuck him under the covers, pulling the soft duvet up to his waist with care.
The fabric whispered against his skin, and he sighed, the tension easing from his shoulders. You sat on the edge of the bed beside him, your hand resting lightly on the blanket over his leg.
The proximity felt natural now, after weeks of shared vulnerability, the boundaries of professional distance blurring in the quiet intimacy of these late sessions.
"I'm very happy with the results, Riki," you said, your voice warm with sincerity. "You've come so far. I’m sure in just a couple of weeks, you'll be walking without that limp holding you back. Back to striding like the champion you are."
His eyes met yours, a mix of gratitude and something deeper flickering there, a gratitude that bordered on affection. "Thanks to you," he murmured. "Couldn't do it without... this." He gestured vaguely between you, his fingers brushing the air.
To help him unwind further, you shifted closer, your hands returning to his leg. "Let me give you a quick massage to relax the muscles.” you offered.
Gently, you worked your fingers over the taut flesh above the brace, kneading in slow circles. The skin was warm under your touch, the scar a textured map you navigated with care.
Riki closed his eyes, his body melting into the bed, a low hum of contentment escaping his lips. The room seemed to shrink around you both, the outside world fading as his breathing steadied.
As your hands moved, conversation drifted to safer topics, but your mind wandered to the news you'd caught earlier. "I saw Heeseung on the news today," you said casually, though you knew the topic was a raw nerve.
Heeseung, with now only minor burns marring his skin, was already back on the track, dominating practice sessions while Riki still languished in recovery.
The substitution by the third pilot, Noah, a talented but unproven rookie, had been a bitter pill, splashed across headlines as the team's pragmatic move.
Riki's body tensed slightly under your hands, but he didn't pull away. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken resentment. You pressed on gently, hoping to acknowledge the pain without dwelling "It must be tough, seeing him out there while you're sidelined."
He exhaled slowly, his eyes still closed. "Yeah, tough." The words were clipped, laced with the frustration of a man caged by his own body.
Curiosity, or perhaps a need to connect on that shared scar tissue, prompted your next question. "Were you burnt during the accident too? The reports were vague about your side of things."
He didn't reply at first, the quiet amplifying the soft sounds of your massage.
Then, with a deliberate motion, he lifted the sleeve of his loose shirt, exposing his forearm. The skin there was marred by a jagged scar, pale and healed, twisting like a frozen lightning bolt from wrist to elbow.
"Heeseung's car was the one that blew up," he said finally, his voice even but distant. "He took the hit for me. I got this when they pulled me out, because the flames were close, but I was already fading. It healed on its own while I was in the coma for those two weeks. Didn't feel much... or anything, really."
Your fingers paused, drawn inexorably to the mark. You traced it lightly, the pad of your index finger following the raised edges, feeling the story etched into his flesh.
The texture was rough yet smooth in places, a testament to time's imperfect healing.
Something stirred in you, an impulse born of empathy and the closeness of the moment. Without thinking, you leaned in and pressed a featherlight kiss to the center of the scar, your lips brushing the warm skin in a gesture that was tender, almost reverent.
Oh shit.
The realization hit like a cold splash— very unprofessional. Heat flooded your cheeks as you pulled away sharply, your heart pounding. "I-I'm sorry," you stammered, ready to retreat.
But Riki's hand moved swiftly, fingers tangling in your hair, gentle yet insistent. He tugged you back, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that stole your breath. Before you could protest, he pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss was electric, a spark igniting the air between you. You melted against him, a soft moan escaping your throat as his mouth moved with surprising urgency.
His tongue invaded, teasing at the seam of your lips until you parted them, allowing him deeper.
The taste of him flooded your senses, your body responding instinctively. Your hands found his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as your lips danced together, the rhythm building from tentative to fervent.
Emboldened, you shifted, and he guided you, his hands on your hips as you swung a leg over to straddle him.
The position was awkward with his injury, your weight was carefully distributed to avoid pressure on his leg, but neither of you cared.
The bed dipped under the new balance, sheets rustling as you settled atop him. Experimentally, you ground your hips down, the friction sending a jolt through you both. He rewarded you with a deep groan, the sound vibrating against your lips, his fingers tightening in your hair.
Concern pierced the haze of desire. You broke the kiss just enough to whisper, "Am I hurting you? Your leg—"
His response was immediate, his voice rough with need. "Only if you stop."
Reassured, you dove back in, your mouths fusing once more. The making out intensified, tongues tangling in a heated exploration and breaths mingling in short gasps.
Your hands roamed his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm, while his free hand slid up your back, pulling you closer. The grind of your hips became rhythmic, a slow roll that elicited more groans from him, his body arching slightly despite the restraint. Heat built between you, the room charged with the scent of arousal and the soft sounds of lips smacking, moans muffled against skin.
Time blurred in the cocoon of the bed, the world narrowing to the press of his body, the way his scar brushed your arm as you leaned in.
His fingers traced patterns on your spine, sending shivers racing down your body. You nipped at his lower lip, drawing another low sound from him, your own desire pooling hot and insistent.
Then, abruptly, the front door burst open with a resounding thud that echoed through the hallway. The spell shattered.
You jumped away from him, scrambling off the bed in a flurry of motion, your face burning with mortification.
With your heart racing, you gathered your things fumbling as footsteps approached. Riki sat up straighter, his expression shifting to casual nonchalance, though his lips were still swollen from the kisses.
Jake entered the room without knocking further, arms laden with grocery bags bulging with fresh produce and protein shakes.
He was oblivious, his focus on the task, whistling a tuneless melody. "Hey, man, got the stuff you asked for, extra greens for that rehab diet. Traffic was a nightmare, sorry I'm late."
“Oh, hi Y/N.” He said as he entered the bedroom to check on his driver, “Are you okay? You look flushed.”
You straightened, clutching your bag like a shield, words tumbling out in an awkward stutter. "I-I should go, the session’s over. Great progress tonight, Riki. See you tomorrow."
Without waiting for a response, you hurried out, brushing past Jake in the doorway, your pulse thundering in your ears as you escaped into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind you.
Jake frowned, glancing at Riki. “Did you say something to her?”
Riki sighed, sinking further on the mattress, “I wish.”
🐦🔥.
The evening sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows through the half-drawn curtains of Riki's bedroom.
The room, still carrying the faint scent of your perfume, felt heavier now, charged with the residue of unspoken tension.
Riki lay propped against the pillows, his injured leg elevated on a cushion, staring blankly at the wall.
The king-sized bed seemed too vast for him alone, the white sheets rumpled from the day's exertions.
The front door clicked open again, but this time, the footsteps were heavier, more purposeful.
Heeseung stepped into the apartment, his presence announced by the faint jingle of car keys and the rustle of a jacket being shrugged off.
He'd been absent for over one month, swallowed by his own whirlwind of rehabilitation sessions and relentless press conferences.
The media hounded him as the hero of the accident, the driver who'd sacrificed his car to save his teammate, but the glow of that narrative couldn't mask the toll it took.
His own recovery was a grind, physical therapy for the burns that mottled his hands and arms, sessions where he gripped steering wheels only to feel the skin pull tight and raw.
He pushed open the bedroom door without knocking, his eyes immediately drawn to the broken TV.
The sight of hit him like a punch to the gut: he knew Riki's temper, the way frustration boiled over when the world moved on without him.
Glass shards glinted under the lamp light, a stark symbol of the isolation Riki had been stewing in. Heeseung's expression softened, a mix of concern and understanding etching deeper lines into his face.
He crossed the room in a few strides, pulling a chair from the corner desk and positioning it beside the bed. The wooden legs scraped softly against the floor, breaking the silence.
Riki's gaze flicked to him, surprise flickering before settling into something weary. Heeseung sat down, the chair creaking under his weight, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Look who finally showed his face after I got out of the hospital.” Riki teased.
"Hey, man," he said. "I’m so sorry, I’ve been busy with press conferences and practice, but I know Jake was taking care of you, no?”
Riki nodded faintly, his fingers twisting the edge of the blanket. Heeseung launched into the update, needing to fill the space with something normal, something racing-related to bridge the gap.
“Want to hear something funny? No matter how much rehab I have, my hand won’t collaborate! I finished tenth in the last race. Tenth. Can you believe it?" He flexed his right hand experimentally, wincing as the scarred knuckles protested. “I give you the permission to laugh at me.”
He spoke for a few more minutes, but Riki's attention wandered. His eyes drifted to the window, then back to the ceiling, his responses limited to hums and nods that lacked conviction.
Heeseung paused, studying his teammate's face, the distant look that spoke volumes. He'd seen it before, in the garages after a bad qualifying, but this was deeper, laced with something personal.
"Alright, spill it," Heeseung said, straightening up. "You're not even hearing me. What's eating you?"
Riki sighed softly, the sound escaping like a deflating tire. He shifted against the pillows, his injured leg twitching slightly under the covers.
For a moment, he hesitated, chewing on his lower lip, but the weight of the evening pressed too hard to keep it bottled. "Hypothetically speaking," he started, his voice tentative, eyes fixed on a spot on the blanket, "what would you do if you accidentally made out with your rehab therapist?"
Heeseung's eyebrows shot up, surprise rippling across his features. He leaned back in the chair, processing the question, a low chuckle escaping despite himself. "Oh shit. Well, first of all, my girlfriend would be very mad." The words hung in the air, casual but loaded.
Riki's eyes widened, snapping to Heeseung's face with genuine shock. "Wait— you have a girlfriend? Since when?"
Heeseung nodded, a huge smile tugging at his lips, softening the edges of his exhaustion.
He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture that pulled at the collar of his shirt, revealing faint scarring along his collarbone. "Yeah, it's the nurse who followed me in the hospital after the accident. The one with zero tolerance for my bullshit, I believe you remember her. We made it official a few weeks back, but we kept it quiet. She doesn't want any part of the press life, and i respect it.” His voice warmed at the mention, a rare glimpse of vulnerability from the unflappable driver.
Then, Heeseung cleared his throat,"But hypothetically," he pressed, "how much of that making out would be a mistake, and how much... right?"
The room fell quiet again, and Riki sighed deeper this time, running a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. "It isn’t hypothetical," he admitted, his voice dropping. "I kissed my therapist. And she kissed me back. But maybe it wasn't... I don't know, anything about feelings? We see each other every day, and she's the only one who doesn't look at me like I'm Riki the Ferrari driver, the guy who crashed out. She sees just... me. But maybe that's all professional, you know? Just her job."
Heeseung watched him, the pieces clicking into place.
Oh man, Riki was truly fucked.
Heeseung leaned forward again, his expression turning serious. "Sounds like it's more than professional to me.”
He gave Riki a small smile “But yeah, it's a minefield. You've got to figure out what it means before it derails everything." He didn't push further, letting the advice settle.
“Ah, whatever, I’ll figure it out.” Riki sat up straighter, “Now tell me about you and the pretty nurse, uh?”
Meanwhile, the following morning dawned crisp and bustling in the heart of the city. The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans mingled with the sweet tang of pastries, steam rising from the espresso machine like a fog.
Sunlight filtered through the large front windows, casting warm patterns on the wooden counters and the mismatched stools lining the bar.
Your shift started early as always, but today, your mind was elsewhere, replaying the heated press of lips, the tangle of fingers in your hair, and the abrupt interruption that had sent you fleeing.
Clumsiness plagued you from the moment you clocked in. The first mishap came during the breakfast rush, when a customer ordered a latte,p and as you reached for a cup, your elbow knocked into a stack on the shelf.
Two ceramic mugs tumbled, shattering on the tiled floor with a sharp crack that drew stares from the line.
Shards scattered like confetti, white and blue fragments glinting under the lights. "Sorry," you muttered, grabbing the broom from the back, cheeks flushing as you swept up the mess.
Taesan, your dear coworker, shot you a concerned glance from behind the register. Not even ten minutes later, disaster struck again. While prepping an Americano, you fumbled the syrup bottle, but it was the espresso that did you in.
As you pulled the shot, your hand slipped on the hot portafilter, the scalding metal brushing your palm.
Pain bloomed instantly, a red welt rising as you hissed and dropped the tamper with a clang. The machine hissed back, oblivious as steam curling upward. You plunged your hand under cold water at the sink, biting your lip to stifle a yelp, the cafe's chatter fading into a dull roar in your ears.
Taesan hurried over, wiping his hands on a towel, his brow furrowed with worry. "Y/N, you okay? You’ve broken two cups today and now this? You don't look well— did you even sleep?"
You shook your head, drying your hand gingerly on a clean cloth, the burn throbbing like a guilty heartbeat.
"I did something very unprofessional last night," you confessed, your voice low to avoid the ears of the patrons. The words tasted bitter, laced with regret.d
Taesan raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter. He glanced around to ensure no one was eavesdropping before grinning playfully. "Unprofessional? What, did you kiss your rehab guy or something? Come on, spill, you've been hiding his identity like it's state secrets." His tone was light, teasing, the kind of joke that usually elicited a laugh from you.
But you didn't reply, your silence stretching as you busied yourself wiping down the steamer, avoiding his gaze.
The lack of denial hit him like a revelation. His eyes widened, and he gasped so hard it echoed over the soft jazz playing from the speakers.
Heads turned from nearby tables, customers raised their eyebrows in mild curiosity before they returned to their own worlds.
"Wait, seriously?" Taesan whispered urgently, pulling you toward the back of the counter, away from prying eyes. "You actually did? Oh my god, Y/N, sit down and tell me everything. Now."
You sank onto a stool behind the espresso machine, the wooden seat cool against your jeans while your burned hand cradled in your lap.
Taking a deep breath, you let it out in a rush. "It was after the session. He showed me his burn scars on his arm, from the accident that broke his leg. He looked so... sad, Taesan. I just traced them with my fingers, and then... I kissed it.”
You gripped your hair in your hands, “But it was so stupid, so unprofessional. And then he…. he pulled me in, and we kissed. Really kissed. But we're still working together. He just started walking with the cane properly, and now this? Gosh, I'm so stupid. He could report me for harassment!”
Your words tumbled out, laced with self-reproach and your free hand gesturing wildly before you caught yourself.
The burn on your palm pulsed in time with your racing thoughts, a physical echo of the inner turmoil. Taesan listened, his initial shock giving way to a thoughtful nod, though his eyes sparkled with a mix of concern and intrigue.
He crossed his arms, tilting his head. "Okay, hold up— did he kiss you back? Like, was it mutual?"
You hesitated, the memory flashing vivid in your mind: the tangle of his fingers in your hair, the groan against your lips, the way he'd insisted you continue. "Well... yes," you admitted, your voice softening. "He kissed me back. But that's so not the point! I initiated it, I crossed every line. It was unprofessional, full stop. I need to apologize and set boundaries. I'll do it after my shift ends. Clear the air before it poisons everything."
Taesan placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his touch grounding amid the cafe's bustle. "Hey, breathe. if he kissed back, maybe it's not all on you. Just... be careful. Apologize if it feels right, but don't beat yourself up too hard. You've got this."
You nodded, though doubt lingered, the weight of the impending confrontation settling like steam on the counter.
🐦🔥.
That afternoon, the weight of what had happened before seemed to follow you all the way up the stairs to Riki’s apartment, pressing against your chest with every step until even the simple act of breathing felt deliberate.
It hadn’t been planned, hadn’t been calculated, and that made it worse, because it meant it had been honest.
And honesty, in your line of work, could be dangerous.
By the time you entered the code and stepped inside, your fingers felt colder than usual, despite the mild weather outside. The apartment greeted you with its usual quiet, a stillness that had become familiar over the past weeks. You closed the door softly behind you, almost as if loud sounds might break something fragile that lingered in the air.
“Hello?” you called out, your voice carefully even.
“In here,” Riki answered.
You found him in the bedroom, sitting upright against the pillows, his injured leg stretched out in front of him.
He looked better, there was no denying that. Less pale and less hollow. But there was something in his gaze when it met yours that made your stomach tighten.
You looked away first. “Let’s start with cleaning the skin around the case,” you said, moving into routine as if it could shield you.
You set your bag down and pulled out gloves and ointment. your hands moved automatically, muscle memory taking over where your thoughts faltered.
You sat beside him on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel the heat of his body, close enough to notice the faint scent of his soap.
You focused on your work, gently lifting the edge of the case padding, careful not to irritate the skin underneath.
the silence wasn’t uncomfortable in the usual sense. It was heavier than that, filled with something unspoken, something waiting.
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry,” you said suddenly, your voice quieter than you intended.
Your hands didn’t stop moving, but your fingers slowed slightly against his skin.
“For yesterday,” you continued. “That shouldn’t have happened. It was unprofessional, and I really hope you can forget it. And… forgive me.”
The words felt rehearsed, like you had practiced them in your head too many times, worn them thin before even saying them out loud.
Riki didn’t respond immediately. You felt his gaze before you saw it, the weight of it settling on your face, studying you in a way that made it impossible to pretend nothing had shifted between you.
“Do you really want me to forget it?” he asked.
The question caught you off guard, even though you should have expected it.
Your heart stuttered. Truthfully? No.
Truthfully, you didn’t want him to forget the way his hand had tightened slightly against your waist, the way his breath had changed, the way it had felt so natural to be that close to him.
You didn’t want to forget how it had stirred something in you that had nothing to do with professionalism and everything to do with something softer, deeper and more dangerous.
You wanted him to kiss you again, to pull you closer and to bury his fingers in your hair like he had almost done.
But you couldn’t say that.
So you looked down again, focusing on the careful motion of applying ointment along the edge of his skin, your voice steady despite the quiet storm inside your chest. “Yes,” you said. “I really do.”
“Okay,” he said simply, a small, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. And somehow, that made it worse.
You continued working, finishing the cleaning, rewrapping the padding with practiced care. The routine steadied you again, grounding you in something familiar.
Rehab that day was quieter than usual, but not tense. There was a strange kind of understanding settling between you, one that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.
He followed your instructions without pushing too far, without trying to prove anything. His movements were more controlled now and the progress was subtle but undeniable.
Days turned into weeks. And then, at the end of the month, something shifted again. “I want to go outside,” he said one late afternoon.
You blinked at him, surprised “Really?”
He nodded, a little uncertain but determined. “Yeah. I think… I think I’m ready to try again.”
The smile that spread across your face came before you could stop it. “Okay,” you said, almost breathless with relief. “Okay, yes, we can do that.”
You helped him get dressed carefully, adjusting the brace, making sure everything was secure.
He wore a cap, a mask, and a hoodie, layers of anonymity that made him feel safer.
Outside, the air was cooler than expected, the sky a soft gray that hinted at rain.
The streets weren’t crowded, which helped. You stayed close to him as he walked, his hand gripping the cane, his steps slow but steady.
The limp was still there, but it was less pronounced now. “You’re doing really well,” you said quietly.
He shrugged, but there was a flicker of pride in the movement. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
“It will,” you replied. “You’re getting there.”
After a while, he spoke again. “You never really talk about yourself.”
You glanced at him, surprised. “There’s not much to say.”
“I don’t believe that,” he said.
You hesitated, then exhaled softly. “I graduated recently from university.”
“What did you study?” he questioned genuinely
“Rehabilitation therapy,” you answered, smiling faintly. “Obviously.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I also work at a café in the mornings,” you added. “To pay rent. And… finish paying my fees.”
He glanced at you, something thoughtful in his eyes. “Why this job?” he asked. “Why rehab?”
You looked ahead, your gaze softening as the memory surfaced.
“My best friend,” you began slowly, “her name is Karina and in high school, she was…. an increible gymnastic. The kind that made everything look effortless.”
You paused, the image vivid in your mind. “She fell during a routine and broke her knee badly. It wasn’t just the injury… it was what came after. She lost herself for a while, completely. She stopped smiling… stopped caring about anything.”
Riki listened quietly, and you continued. “But then she went through rehab,” you continued. “And it wasn’t easy, it took months, but she got better. She found her way back. Not just to gymnastics— but to herself.”
You smiled faintly. “I want to do that for people. To help them find their way back.”
There was a silence after that, not empty but full. “And you?” you asked gently. “Why racing?”
He let out a quiet breath, his gaze drifting ahead. “My dad used to take me to watch races,” he said. “When I was a kid. I didn’t understand everything, but I loved the sound… the speed, the feeling of it all.” He shifted his grip on the cane.
“I think… I wanted to feel like that. Like I was part of something bigger. Like I was in control.” You nodded, understanding more than you expected.
Something wet hit his cheek, and he frowned. Then, something wet hit your head too.
It took only a couple of seconds for the sky to open completely, rain pouring down. “Oh—” you laughed softly, looking up. “Of course.”
You turned around, walking back to his apartment. People all rushed to find shelter, but there was no need. Riki could not run, and you were content just by being by his side.
Riki groaned. “I hate this.”
“You hate rain?” Your eyes widened.
“Yes.”
You shook your head, smiling. “I love it. It makes everything feel… free.”
“Free?” he echoed, incredulous.
“Yes. Especially when you’re inside, under a blanket, listening to it.” He huffed, but there was no real annoyance in it.
The rain soaked through your clothes, your hair clinging to your face and your shoes growing heavier with each step. But there was something strangely peaceful about it, something that made the moment feel… alive.
By the time you reached his apartment, both of you were drenched. “Okay,” you said, pushing the door open. “First priority: getting you dry.”
You helped him out of his wet clothes carefully, mindful of his leg, his balance. You handed him a towel, then moved to the wardrobe to grab something clean.
“You should change too,” he said.
“I’m fine—” you dismissed, but he insisted. “You’re soaked.”
He pulled out a hoodie and sweatpants, handing them to you. They were too big, the fabric soft and warm. “Here.”
“Thanks,” you murmured.
You changed quickly in the bathroom, the dry fabric a relief against your skin. When you stepped back into the room, the clothes hung loosely on you, sleeves too long and the waistband gathered awkwardly at your hips, tied with a hair tie
Riki looked up and stilled. There was a shift in his expression, it made your breath catch. You cleared your throat, suddenly aware of the space between you.
“So, today…” you began softly, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of the hoodie. “Today is the last day.”
He frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
“The contract,” you explained. “It was for five months, today marks five months from our first session.”
Understanding flickered across his face. “Oh.” He nodded slowly. “Of course, yes.”
But there was something in his eyes now. Something that hadn’t been there before. “You went a long way, uh? From being stubborn to almost being my best patient. I might even give you a star sticker.” You joked, trying to lighten the mood.
He pushed himself up, not using the cane this time. He just had a slight limp as he crossed the space between you.
And then he wrapped his arms around you. “I’m glad you helped me,” he said quietly, his voice close to your ear. “You gave me my hope back.”
Your chest tightened and you smiled, even if he couldn’t see it.
“I hope I see you on TV again one Sunday,” you replied softly.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you. “You will.”
You nodded, stepping away before the moment could stretch any further.
You gathered your things slowly, your movements deliberate, as if rushing would make it harder to leave.
“Goodbye, Riki.” You said for the last time.
“Bye, Y/N.”
🐦🔥.
The clearance to go back racing wasn’t dramatic. There was no dramatic announcement, no applause abd no flashing cameras waiting outside the hospital doors.
Just a doctor flipping through a chart, nodding once, and saying, “You can start driving again. Slowly and no pressure. Listen to your body.”
Riki had nodded too, but the words hadn’t landed the way everyone expected them to.
They didn’t feel like freedom, not yet. They felt like a door opening to something he wasn’t sure he could step through.
Still, that evening, he went to the track.
The city circuit stretched out under a fading sky, the asphalt still warm from the day with lights flickering on one by one as the sun dipped lower.
The place smelled the same way, of burnt rubber, fuel and metal. It was familiar in a way that should have been comforting, but instead, it made something in his chest tighten.
He stood near the pit boxes, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, cap low over his eyes.
The sounds of engines roaring past surrounded him. Noah was on track with Riki’s car. He watched it pass once, then again, the sleek red body slicing through the circuit like nothing had ever happened to it. There was no trace of the crash that had nearly ended everything five months ago.
It almost looked like a stranger’s car.
When Noah finally pulled back into the pit lane, the engine whined down as the car rolled into position, Riki didn’t move at first. He just stared, his gaze fixed on the vehicle like it might shift if he blinked too hard.
Noah climbed out, pulling off his helmet with a grin. “As good as new,” he said, clapping Riki on the shoulder as he passed. “All yours.”
Riki barely reacted, he was somewhere else. Maybe he was still inside it as it almost crashed against the bleachers, or maybe he was still at the hospital, in a coma.
So much so that he didn’t notice Heeseung approaching until an arm suddenly hooked around his shoulders and a sharp nudge hit his side, a knee, quick and familiar.
Riki jolted slightly, blinking out of whatever trance had held him. “What the fuck—”
Heeseung grinned. “Payback.” Because that had been the joke Riki always did to Heeseung when he was nervous.
Riki exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re annoying.”
“You started it,” Heeseung shot back easily, his arm still loosely draped over Riki’s shoulders. “So, you ready to get back on track, huh?”
Riki’s eyes flicked back to the car. Ready… the word felt heavy.
“Jake even had your racing suit fixed and polished.” Heeseung informed, pushing Riki towards a table where his old racing suit rested.
He reached out, fingers brushing the fabric before gripping it fully. “Thanks.”
The changing room felt smaller than he remembered. Or maybe it was just him. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The suit hung from his hands, heavier than it should have been.
He changed slowly, pulling the fabric over his body felt strange after months of loose clothes, hoodies, and sweatpants. The suit hugged him tightly, outlining muscles that had weakened and then rebuilt, reminding him of every inch of his body that had been broken and stitched back together.
He stared at himself in the mirror and for a second, he didn’t recognize the reflection.
Then he grabbed his helmet and stepped back out, reaching for his car.
He slid into the seat, his movements more careful than they used to be. The harness clicked into place across his chest, the familiar pressure grounding and suffocating all at once.
His hands wrapped around the wheel, then he flexed his injured leg slightly, testing it against the pedal. It responded, stiff and a little sore, but functional.
“Radio check,” a voice crackled through his helmet.
Yang Jungwon. His trusted radio friend. “Yeah,” Riki replied, his voice steady but quieter than usual.
“Conditions are clear, the track’s yours and the brake system was fully checked and fixed,” Jungwon continued. “Take it easy. No need to push.”
Riki swallowed the lump in his throat “Got it.”
The engine roared to life beneath him. The vibration traveled through his body, up his spine and went into his chest.
For a moment, it felt like coming home. he eased out of the pit lane. Slow and controlled at first, then faster.
The straight opened up in front of him, long and inviting. His foot pressed down on the accelerator, the engine responding instantly as the car surged forward.
He was at 100, then the number climbed, reaching 200 km/h.
The wind roared against the chassis, the world narrowing into speed and motion.
For a split second, everything aligned. his muscles, his memory, the feeling of control…
But then the turn came.
A familiar one. One he had taken hundreds of times without thinking.
But now his mind was filled with something else. It was somewhere else.
His foot slammed on the brake, too hard. The car jerked violently, swerving slightly as the tires protested against the sudden force.
“Riki, ease up,” Jungwon’s voice cut in, sharper now. “Control the car.”
Riki’s grip tightened on the wheel as his breath peaked up. “Move the car off the racing line,” Jungwon continued. “Heeseung’s coming up behind you.”
But the words barely registered, because that turn wasn’f just a simple turn. It was again that moment. That crash. That loss of control.
“I can’t—” he muttered under his breath. Instead of correcting, instead of continuing, he pulled off abruptly, stopping near the edge of the track.
He unlatched the harness with shaking hands, ripping the helmet off as he climbed out.
He left the car there, left himself behind and rushed back toward the pit building, his limp more pronounced now.
The changing room door slammed shut behind him. A silence, heavy and suffocating filled the room. He sat down hard on the bench, elbows on his knees while hands gripped his head.
Then, during his not so internal turmoil, the door that connected the reception to the changing rooms opened.
“Hello?” a voice called softly.
As Riki looked up, he noticed that it was you. You stood there, slightly out of place among the harsh lighting and metallic surroundings, a cartoon-patterned bag in your hand.
Your hair caught the artificial light, your expression shifting quickly from neutral to concerned as you took in the sight of him.
“Y/N?” he said, confused.
“I— Jake texted me,” you explained, stepping inside and closing the door behind you. “He said to bring your clothes back here because you weren’t home.” You paused, studying him more closely.
He was still in his racing suit, half unzipped, damp with sweat. His chest rose and fell too quickly while his hands trembled faintly.
“Are you okay?” you asked gently.
Something in your voice, soft and familiar, something he’d heard for five whole months, broke whatever fragile control he had left.
He dropped his head into his hands again, fingers digging into his hair. “I can’t do it,” he said, his voice cracking.
You stepped closer instinctively. “I can’t,” he repeated, louder this time, frustration and fear tangling together. “I got in the car and it was fine, and then the turn came and I—” He sucked in a sharp breath. “I froze.”
You set the bag down slowly, approaching him as if he was a wounded animal. “I thought I was ready,” he continued, his words rushing now. “Everyone thinks I’m ready. But I’m not. I’m—” He let out a harsh laugh. “I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared.”
The confession hung in the air, raw and unfiltered. “I’m a coward,” he finished quietly.
You didn’t hesitate. You moved in front of him and dropped to your knees, the motion quick but deliberate, forcing him to look at you.
“No,” you said firmly.
His eyes flicked up, surprised.
“I have never seen cowardice in you,” you continued, your voice steady despite the intensity in your chest. “Not once.”
“You didn’t see me out there,” he shot back bitterly. “I slammed the brakes like I’d never driven before.”
“I saw you fight to get back on your feet when you couldn’t even stand,” you replied. “I saw you push through pain every single day. I saw you rebuild something you thought you’d lost.”
He shook his head. “That’s different.”
“It’s not,” you insisted. “It’s the same strength.”
He looked away, jaw clenched. “I see fire in you,” you said softly.
His laugh was hollow. “Yeah. I saw fire too, right before i slammed the break.”
You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentler now but no less certain. “You saw it because it scared you. Because you remember what happened. That doesn’t make you weak, it makes you human.”
“I believe in you,” you added quietly. “You’re not going back to who you were before,” you continued. “You’re going to be better. Stronger. You’ve been through something most people wouldn’t survive, and you’re still here.”
You reached for his helmet, which lay discarded beside him, and picked it up. For a moment, you just held it. Then you stood and placed it gently into his hands.
“If you want,” you said softly, “I’ll watch you.”
He stared at the helmet, foreign in your hands, and something shifted in his expression.
He exhaled slowly, then he stood. He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you for a long second, something unspoken passing between you.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “Follow me.”
He held out his hand, and despite everything in your brain telling you not to take it, to turn around and go back to your life, you took it.
🐦🔥.
The pit lane was louder now, harsher after the silence inside.
The entire place felt like a world built on precision and speed, and you stood there, just slightly out of place.
Riki was already back at his car, standing beside it with the helmet in his hands, shoulders squared in a way that looked more like resolve than confidence. Noah had brought it back, parked neatly in the pit box, the red body gleaming under artificial lights as if it had never betrayed him before.
You watched as he slipped the helmet on again, the motion more deliberate this time, less rushed, like he was bracing himself instead of escaping.
As he climbed in, the engine roared back to life, vibrating through the ground beneath your feet.
It startled you slightly, even though you had heard it before ci.
You stayed near the edge of the pit area, unsure where you were allowed to stand, unsure of the invisible rules that seemed to govern everything around you. No one stopped you, but no one acknowledged you either.
So you stayed still..
The car pulled out again, smoother this time, merging back onto the track.
Your hands clasped together unconsciously. You didn’t know how this worked. You didn’t know what you were supposed to look for, what was considered good or bad.
All you knew was him, the way he had looked in that room and the way his voice had broken when he admitted he was afraid.
That was what you were watching for. Not the car, but him.
“Hey.” The voice pulled you out of your thoughts.
You turned, and a tall man stood a few steps away, studying you with mild curiosity.
His posture was relaxed, but there was something sharp in his gaze, something observant.
“Who are you?” he asked suspiciously.
You hesitated for a second, caught off guard. “I— uhm…” you started, suddenly aware of how out of place you must have looked. “I’m with… Riki?”
The sentence came out unsure, like you weren’t entirely certain what you were to him anymore. “And your name?” he asked.
“Y/N, I was his rehab therapist.” you shuffled on your feet awkwardly.
He frowned before recognition burned in his eyes. “So you’re that Y/N.”
“That?” you echoed, confused.
He smiled faintly, extending a hand. “Heeseung.”
You shook it, his grip was warm and firm. You noticed then, the faint scars that wrapped around his neck, peaking out from under the collar of the racing suit.
“Come,” he said, gesturing for you to follow. “You probably shouldn’t just stand there, let’s go watch him.”
You fell into step beside him, weaving through the organized chaos of the pit lane until he led you to a set of monitors set up under a shaded structure.
A man with headphones sat in front of them, eyes glued to the screens while his fingers moving quickly over controls.
“This is where we watch everything,” Heeseung explained, nodding toward the screens. “Positions, speed… well, all the fun stuff.”
You nodded, even though most of it went over your head.
The screens showed Riki’s car from different angles: onboard views, overhead shots with data scrolling alongside in numbers and lines you couldn’t decipher.
“He’s out again,” Heeseung added, glancing at the main monitor.
You leaned slightly closer, your eyes fixed on the moving image.
As the car approached the turn, a simple one, it slowed down until it stopped aburptly.
A frustrated groan came from the man with the headphones. “Again.” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.
“That’s Jungwon,” Heeseung said quietly to you. “Our radio technician.”
Jungwon leaned forward, pressing a button. “Riki, you need to keep moving.” he said into the mic, his tone controlled but strained.
On the screen, the car stayed still for a beat too long. Heeseung exhaled slowly beside you, but then something shifted in his expression.
He looked at you, then back at the screen and then at you again. “I have an idea,” he said.
Before you could ask what he meant, he reached over and gently, but very decisively, lifted the headphones off Jungwon’s head.
“Hey—!” Jungwon protested immediately, turning around. “What are you doing?”
“Relax,” Heeseung replied easily, already placing the headphones into your hands. “We’re trying something.”
“I need those—”
Heeseung rolled his eyes “You’ll get them back.”
Jungwon looked like he was about to argue more, but Heeseung had already turned his attention to you.
“Talk to him,” he said.
Your eyes widened. “What?”
“Talk to him,” he repeated. “Maybe he needs to hear you.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the headphones. “I don’t know what to say…” you admitted.
Jungwon leaned closer, clearly still annoyed but focused. “Just tell him what I tell you. He’s alone on the track right now, but he needs to keep moving.”
You swallowed, and then you put the headphones on. You pressed the button hesitantly.
“Riki?” you said, your voice softer than expected.
There was a pause, a shaky exhale. “Yes?”
Your chest tightened at the sound of his voice. “I—” you glanced quickly at Jungwon.
“He’s alone,” Jungwon whispered. “Tell him that.”
“You’re the only one on the track,” you said, trying to keep your tone steady. “There’s no one around you. You can take it slow, but you have to keep going.”
“I’m right here,” you added, softer now. “And… I believe in you.”
There was another pause before the engine roared again and the car on the screen began moving.
Your eyes locked onto it, your entire body tense with anticipation.
“Keep your line,” Jungwon murmured beside you. “Keep your line.” you repeated into the mic, your voice steady now.
The car turned, not perfectly, definetly not, but it went over the turn and continued on the track. A breath you didn’t realize you were holding escaped your lips.
“He did it.” Jungwon muttered, almost to himself.
You relayed every instruction Jungwon gave you, about speeds, adjustments and small corrections. Your voice became a thread he could hold onto.
Until finally, he pulled back into the pit boxes.
You removed the headphones slowly, as ykur hands slightly trembled.
Heeseung was already walking toward the car, and you followed, your steps quick despite the lingering uncertainty in your chest.
When his eyes found you, he smiled. He flexed his leg slightly, almost instinctively, as if showing you without needing to say anything.
You stepped closer immediately. “Does it hurt?”
You dropped down slightly, your hands already reaching to check, your instincts taking over.
But he caught your wrist gently. “Hey,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re not working right now, remember?”
You blinked, then let out a quiet breath, straightening. “Right.”
Behind him, Heeseung watched the exchange with a knowing look, something almost amused flickering in his eyes. He didn’t say anything, though. He just gave Riki a light pat on the shoulder.
“I’ll give you two a minute.” he said casually, already stepping away.
The space around you shifted again. Riki looked at you for a moment, before speaking “Did you come here with your car?” he asked.
You shook your head. “No, it broke down a few days ago. It’s at the mechanic, but…” You hesitated slightly. “I don’t really have the money to fix it right now. So I took the bus.”
He frowned. “Wait here,” he said suddenly.
Before you could ask anything, he turned and walked back toward the building.
You stayed where you were, confused but oddly calm, watching as he disappeared inside.
A few minutes later, he came back , he had changed out of his racing suit, back in normal clothes and carrying the bag you had brought.
He walked straight to you and without a word, he reached for your hand. His fingers wrapped around yours, warm and steady as if it was a normal thing.
“Come on,” he said.
His car was, well, expensive, here was no other way to describe it. A black, sleek Cadillac. It felt like stepping into a different world entirely as you got in, the interior smelling faintly of leather and. You gave him your address quietly as he started the engine.
You watched the city pass by through the window, the lights beginning to glow as evening settled in. When he pulled up in front of your building, the engine idling softly, neither of you moved immediately.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
He nodded once. “Anytime.”
You reached for the door, then paused.
Before you could overthink it, you leaned slightly toward him and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
You pulled back immediately, your heart racing slightly. “Goodnight, Riki.”
Riki smiled, “Good night, Y/N.”
And he started the engine again only when he was sure you were safe in the house. You knew it because you had peaked from behind the curtain, your heart fluttering.
🐦🔥.
The café wasn’t supposed to be busy, that was part of its charm, the reason people loved it, the reason you had chosen it in the first place.
It was tucked away between two narrow streets, almost hidden unless someone already knew where to look.
The kind of place where regulars came for quiet mornings, where conversations stayed low and unhurried and where the sound of the espresso machine was usually the loudest thing in the room.
But that day, something had shifted.
From the moment you tied your apron and stepped behind the counter, there had been a steady flow of people, the bell above the door chiming over and over until it lost its meaning.
Orders piled up, cups lined the counter, and the air grew thick with the scent of coffee and warm pastries.
You moved quickly and taesan was beside you, just as quick, though less composed.
“What is happening today?” he muttered under his breath as he wiped the counter for the third time in five minutes.
“I don’t know,” you replied, adjusting a cup beneath the espresso machine. “Maybe the world discovered us overnight.”
“Or maybe they’re all lost,” he said dryly.
“I’ll take the orders.” you called, turning toward the tables instead of the counter this time, a small notepad already in your hand.
A man sat near the window. His presence didn’t match the others. While the café buzzed with chatter and movement, he seemed… still.
You approached him anyway. “Good afternoon, what would you like to order?” you asked, your voice professional, neutral.
He lifted his head… and everything in you stilled.
You knew that face. Even partially hidden under the cap, even softened by natural light instead of flashing cameras and polished interviews— you knew it instantly.
Nishimura Riki.
Your eyes widened before you could stop yourself, your breath catching sharply in your throat as recognition hit all at once.
“What the hell?” you muttered under your breath, too quiet for anyone else to hear, but loud enough that your own shock echoed in your ears.
“What are you doing here?” You asked, “I never told you the name of the cafe where i work.”
He tilted his head slightly, something almost amused flickering in his eyes. “I have my ways,” he said simply.
You stared at him. “Of course you do.” you replied flatly, trying to regain control of yourself.
“A cappuccino, please.” he said, as if this was a normal interaction, as if he hadn’t just appeared out of nowhere and shattered your sense of order. “With cocoa.”
You scribbled it down mechanically. “Anything else?”
He shook his head.
You nodded once and turned away, your heartbeat still uneven as you walked back behind the counter.
Taesan noticed immediately. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” he said, leaning closer as you set the notepad down.
His gaze went to the man you had just taken the order of, “Oh my God,” Taesan breathed, his voice rising before you could stop him. “Is that—”
You grabbed his arm instantly. “Lower your voice,” you hissed.
His eyes snapped back to you, wide. “That’s Nishimura Riki,” he whispered harshly. “What is he doing here?”
You busied your hands with the coffee machine, focusing on the mechanical process just to ground yourself.
“I don’t know.” you muttered.
“Wait,” he said slowly. “The way he’s looking at you—”
“He’s not looking at me.” You snapped too quickly.
Taesan raised a brow “He is looking at you.”
You ignored him, concentrating on pouring the milk inside the coffee, the steady motion helping you keep your composure.
“You said your rehab client was private,” Taesan continued, his voice dropping into something more curious than teasing. “You never told me who it was.”
You didn’t respond again and that tipped you off.
“It was him!” he said suddenly, realisation hitting him all at once.
Your head snapped toward him. “Shut up,” you snapped under your breath.
He leaned back slightly, stunned. “You kissed Nishimura Riki?”
“If you say his name one more time, I will throw this coffee at you.” you threatened, your voice low and deadly serious.
He raised his hands in surrender, though his expression was still full of disbelief.
You turned back to the counter, finishing the cappuccino with steady hands despite everything swirling inside you. You added the cocoa on top, just like he had asked, the small detail grounding you.
When you brought it to him, the café had shifted.
People had started noticing, a dad was trying to get his kid to get Riki’s autograph, while others had cameras clearly aimed at his face.
He sat there, completely at ease in the attention, as if it were just another part of his day.
It felt strange, seeing him so confident in his own skin.
You placed the mug in front of him. “Cappuccino with cocoa,” you said, your tone carefully neutral.
“Thanks.” he replied, his voice softer than the chaos around you.
You worked through the rest of your shift mechanically, your thoughts circling back to him over and over.
When he finally stood, the movement caught your attention immediately. The limp became less pronounced each time you saw him.
He walked toward the counter. “How much?” he asked.
“Two and thirty.” You replied, typing on the register. “Alright,” he said, reaching in his pocket, “Can I tip?” he added casually.
You hesitated. “Sure.” you said, though something in his tone made you wary.
He pulled out money. Too much money. Way too much. “Take it,” he said.
“No.” you replied instantly, your voice sharper than intended.
“It’s fine.” He said, holding it out for you. “It’s not fine.” You took only what was needed for the cappuccino, pushing the rest back toward him.
“I’m not a charity case.” you said firmly.
His brows furrowed slightly. “I didn’t say you were.”
“Then don’t treat me like one,” you snapped.
“Okay.” He didn’t argue. He just took the money back and left.
The rest of your shift dragged heavy. Your mood lingered somewhere between frustration and something heavier, something harder to define.
Who did he think he was?
You stepped outside for your break, needing air, needing space away from the noise and the constant motion.
The door closed behind you, but it didn’t bring salvation.
Because there Riki was, leaning against his sleek Cadillac parked just outside, his arms crossed loosely and his head tilted slightly as if he had been waiting.
He straightened immediately when he saw you, pushing off the car and jogging the short distance toward you.
“I told you to go away,” you said before he could speak, your voice still edged with irritation. “I’m not working for you anymore.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “Just— hear me out.”
Hesitation flickered in your eyes before sighing, “Fine.”
He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly less composed than he had been inside.
“This is new for me,” he admitted.
You frowned slightly. “What is?”
“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely between you. “Feeling like this.”
“I’m good at flirting,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “At being… cocky, at saying the right things. But this?” He shook his head slightly. “This is different.”
You didn’t interrupt, afraid to shatter the vulnerability of the moment.
“The way you make me feel,” he said, meeting your eyes, “it’s not something I know how to handle.”
“I wanted to help you,” he added. “To fix things. To make things easier for you.”
“That’s not your job.” you said.
“I know,” he said. “But I wanted to.”
He took a step closer. “I wanted to take away some of your burdens. That’s why I gave you that money.”
Your jaw clenched slightly as he continued. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”
His voice softened. “I just… wanted you to be okay.” he added more quietly, “Can you let me do that?”
You frowned. “Do what?”
“Take care of you,” he said.
The words were simple, but they carried weight.
“We don’t have to rush anything,” he added quickly. “We can take it slow. Just… see where it goes.”
You looked at him, really looked at him.
At the boy who was so stuck in his own head just months ago. At the boy who blamed himself for something that wasn’t his fault.
At the man Riki had become, not Riki the driver.
“It’s weird hearing you say you don’t want to rush,” you said lightly. “Considering you’re very good with speed.”
He huffed a small laugh. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Guess this is different too.”
You nodded slowly. “Okay,” you said. “I can give you a chance.”
The word hung in the air for a second, and then his hand found your waist. And he kissed you.
This time, there was no hesitation, no interruption. Just warmth and certainty and something that felt… right.
You melted into it for a moment before pulling back slightly. “People might see us.” You murmured.
“I don’t care.” he replied.
And then he kissed you again, your hands grasping his shirt while his fingers pulled you flush against his chest.
When you finally pulled away, with your breath uneven and your heart racing, he smiled faintly.
“I might have done something else that could make you mad.” He announced sheepishly.
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “What did you do?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys.
Your breath caught when you recognised them. “No way…”
He held them out. “Your car,” he said simply. “I picked it up from the mechanic. It’s fixed.”
“You’re unbelievable!” you muttered, hitting his arm lightly.
He winced dramatically. “Ow.”
You grabbed the collar of his shirt, kissing him again. You weren’t sure of many things: you didn’t know if you could manage paying rent, or if you could actually make a living with rehab.
You didn’t even know what to eat for breakfast, always debating whether you preferred toast or cereal.
But what you were sure of was that if you gave your heart to this man, he wouldn’t break it.
having a freaky night with your boyfriend but you have to stay quiet because you share one thin wall with the other members
pairing: bf!riki x fem!reader
contains: 18+ content dom!riki pussyeater!riki fingering unprotected sex (don’t) riki covering readers mouth finger in mouth idk
⊹
The movie is playing, but neither of you is really watching it.
You’re curled up on Riki’s bed in his dorm, backs against the headboard, a blanket over your legs because his dorm is always colder than it should be.
The sound is low.
Low enough that you can hear the boys laughing in the living room sometimes. Low enough that you can hear Riki breathe.
His arms looped around your waist and his hands tucked under the waistband of your, well technically his, sweats.
His fingers trace little shapes on your skin, occasionally dipping lower, just low enough to make you shiver. His hips shift behind you, trying to get more comfortable, but all you notice is the buldge in his pants.
He exhales slowly through his nose.
Then he leans down.
It’s subtle at first, a soft kiss pressed to your temple, barely there. Then another on your cheek. Then one at the corner of your mouth.
You turn your head slightly, and his lips brush your jaw.
Then your neck, he kisses it once.
His mind is clearly somewhere else.
You tilt your head slightly. “You’re not watching the movie.”
He exhales a quiet laugh.
“No,” he murmurs. “I’m not interested in that.”
Your stomach flips, but you keep your tone light. “That’s not my problem.”
He leans closer, lips brushing near your ear as he speaks.
“You know what I want right now?”
You do.
You definitely do.
But you glance toward the door anyway.
“Riki,” you whisper back, “the boys are literally right outside.”
He sighs softly, forehead resting softly against your temple like he’s trying to calm himself down.
“Yeah. I know.”
His hand stills for a moment.
Then, just a little smile curves at the corner of his mouth.
“We gotta do it quietly then.”
You bite back a smile.
“You look so good. Good enough to eat.”
“To eat?” you echo.
“Yeah.” he reaffirms with a cocky edge to his voice. “That body. Those lips. Those eyes.” He shakes his head slowly while licking his bottom lip, “so fucking sexy.”
He grabs you by your sides and pulls you on top of his lap. His hands pulling your hips closer so you're pressed against him. He can feel the heat coming off your body, and it's driving him insane.
“I don’t wanna watch the movie baby… I’m more interested in how quick your legs could wrap around my head.” He says, his voice low and raspy.
You can’t help but giggle, “Heesung’s gonna kill you if he hears us”. You say while you place one hand on the back of his head, fingers curling in his hair, you lean closer and place a soft kiss in his neck.
His eyes flutter closed at the feeling of your fingers in his hair, a low groan escaping his lips. He lets out a small chuckle at your words.
"Mm, let him try." He says, his mouth hovering just over yours.
His eyes meet yours, a mix of hunger and possessiveness.
"I need you baby. Now.” he says, his hands still possessively holding you against him. His lips find yours, tongue sliding in deep like he’s been starving for it. He shoves his hand up your shirt to palm one of your breasts, then he takes it off and throws it across the room.
Suddenly he grabs you by your waist and flips you over. He hovers himsef over you. He kisses you down your body slowly, your neck, then inbetween your tits, down your stomach, until he reaches the waistband of your sweats.
He slides your sweats and panties off in one quick motion, he pushes your legs apart and doesn’t even hesitate, he just starts. His mouth sucking on your clit, his tongue flicking hot and sloppy.
Your brows furrow and your eyes flatter shut. “Shit Riki—“ you whine.
“Shhh…” Riki shushes and then slides two figners inside you, curling just right.
“Mmh R- Riki”.
Riki smiles at the sight of you. His thumb start making quick circles on your clit, trying to find the spot that makes you cry out.
"Yeah, baby?" he grunts. "You like that?"
You can’t get much words out, you just moan and throw your head back.
The sight of you losing control only makes him move his fingers faster. His hips grind against the edge of the bed, needing some kind of friction to take the edge off.
“Answer me." he grunts.
Your eyes immediately flick open, your body desperate to please him. “Y- Yeah”
His hands are under your ass, holding you up at the perfect angle. His tongue is running up and down your clit, his own moans making his voice vibrate against your skin.
“Mmh you taste so good baby…”
Riki’s grip on your ass tightens as his tongue moves up, finding your clit again and working to push you over the edge. You try reaching for him but he swats your hand away, he takes your wrist and pins your hand to the side.
A loud wince leaves your mouth “Riki! Fuck—“.
“Shh. Be quiet, yeah?” Riki says, voice muffled.
He moans softlt againsr you, the feeling of your legs shaking around his head, the way your hands clench into the sheets, that itself is enough for him to come. But he isn’t done with you yet.
He’s so hard and leaking alreaky and he’s starting to get impatient. He let’s you calm down for exaclty 5 seconds before he yanks his own sweats and boxers down, not even bothering to take them off completely, just pushing them low enough to get what he needs.
He grabs your ankles and drags you to the edge of the bed then he kisses you.
“You want it baby?” He says soflty in between the kiss.
You nod your head. “Mhm.”
His fingers graze your cheek and he presses his forehead against yours, his free hand is already lining up his dick with your entrance.
“Use your words y/n, do you want it?”
“I want it Riki.” you whisper.
He nearly growls as he pushes inside you. He gives you some time to adjust before he grabs your waist and starts to thrust up into you, pace rough and hard.
“Fuck…”
He bites down on the column of your neck, sucking a hickey into the skin as each stroke pushes into you just right.
“Mmh, feels so fucking good.” he says between breaths.
Every thrust drags a moan out of you, they get louder every time.
“Shit riki— fuck!”
His hands fly up to cover your mouth the second you cry out, fingers pressing hard against your lips. Even as his thrusts get harder, he’s trying to muffle your noises, to keep you quiet.
“Shush baby, shh.” he whispers, his pace not slowing down. “You gotta be quiet, okay? Or they’re gonna hear us.”
You shake your head, it’s becoming too much for you. “I— fuck, i can’t!”
He lets out a small, breathy laugh at your stubbornness. “Yeah, you can.” His hand grips your mouth a little tighter. “You’re gonna have to.”
He slows down for a second, letting you get control of yourself, before moving his hand away.
He lets out a quiet groan as he slams back into you. That gets another loud moan out of you.
“Jesus, baby, I said be quiet.” He grits as he speeds up again.
His hands slide back to your ass, lifting your hips slighty so he can hit that one spot that makes you go crazy. His fingers digging into your skin to keep you in place as his speeds gets more frantic.
He places his hand on your mouth again just in time and muffles the sound of your moan. He keeps his hand firmly over your mouth, his hips stuttering for a second cause he’s getting close.
“Fucking hell y/n, be quiet.” His voice is breathy, almost a whine. “Do i need to shut you up?”
You mumble something whiny and then he puts a finger in your mouth to shut you up. He picks up the pace, hitting that spot that makes you cry out. He shoves his finger further into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue.
“That’s it baby… stay quiet for me, yeah?”
“Mhm…”
“Good.”
His hips snap some more times before he cums with a low, raspy groan. His fingers grip your waist hard and he lets his eyes flatter close as he rides out his orgasm, breathing heavily against your neck.
“Fuuuck…” he breaths, his voice even rougher than before.
He pulls out and he practically collapses on top of you, both of you sweaty and panting. Riki looks down at you as you slowly relax.
He slowly drags his fingers through your hair, “you good?”
You nod your head and open your eyes to the sight of a very tired Riki, hair messy, cheeks flushed. “They defenitely heard us.”
Riki lets out a breathy laugh “Us? They heard you.”
“I wasn’t that loud.”
“Mhm...” Riki hums, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Keep thinking that, baby.”
bsfs brother!Heeseung x f!reader - when you ask him to teach you how to masturbate. (pure porn with plot. MDNI 18+, explicit, masturbation, cunnilingus, phone sex, ANGST, fluff too so its fine.)
“If she’s not cumming, she’s not listening to her pussy.”
“And if she won’t listen…”
“I’ll make her.”
You’ve always had a hate-hate relationship with masturbation.
Not the “haha I don’t know what I’m doing” kind. Not the shy, innocent kind. The kind where you tried, over and over again, and every time it ended in that same aching, pathetic way—panties soaked, fingers numb, pussy throbbing, and absolutely nothing to show for it.
No finish. No orgasm. Not even a fucking twitch of satisfaction.
You rubbed and rubbed, like everyone said to. You found your clit. You circled it. Pressed it. Flicked it. Tried soft and slow, then fast and desperate. Tried with spit, with lotion, with fucking coconut oil once. But nothing ever felt right. Just this frustrating hum of almost. Like your body was teetering on the edge of something big and just… refused to jump.
You’d end up sore. Agitated. Your legs would shake, but not the good kind. Your pussy would swell, throbbing like she was mocking you for trying.
It made you feel broken. Or worse—boring. Like your body was wired wrong. Like you’d missed the most basic feminine skill everyone else seemed to be born with.
Girls talked about cumming like it was breathing. Like they could do it in five minutes flat with one hand and a good imagination. You’d hear them talk about shaking through the sheets, arching off the bed, seeing stars—and you’d smile and nod and laugh along, pretending like you got it, like you knew what it was like to get wrecked by your own hand.
You’d never even come close.
You tried toys. You bought a vibrator and nearly cried when it did nothing but make your arms go numb. You tried grinding on pillows until the friction made you raw. You tried porn. You even tried watching yourself once in the mirror like some kind of twisted self-help therapy. Nothing worked.
You’d touch and touch and chase and beg for it in your head—please, just this once, just let me finish, please—and still end up breathless, sticky, empty.
You’d cry sometimes. Just a little. From the frustration of it. From the absolute humiliation of being so fucking horny and not being able to do anything about it.
You hated that about yourself. Hated the way your body seemed to enjoy the build and not the release. Hated the way your clit would throb for attention and then get overwhelmed the second you gave her any. Hated the need. The noise. The mess with no reward.
But the worst part—the actual worst part—was how much you still wanted it. How much you still tried. Like a dog chasing its own tail. Like some needy little loser who couldn’t leave it alone.
You were eighteen, for fuck’s sake. You were supposed to know your body by now. You were supposed to be able to make yourself cum. You were supposed to own your pleasure.
Instead, you were stuck with a pussy that got wet at the idea of being touched and then shut down the second you did.
It made you feel fucking insane.
So you gave up. Mostly. You still touched yourself when you needed to—when it built up too much and made your thighs ache. But it wasn’t about cumming anymore. It was maintenance. A reset button. A pressure valve. You did it in the dark, quietly, quickly, just to shut your body up.
You didn’t even think about pleasure anymore.
You didn’t dare.
-
Evie—Heejoo, but you only ever called her that when you wanted to piss her off—was your best friend in the world. Ride-or-die since ninth grade, bonded over a shared hatred of your chem teacher and the fact that neither of you fit into your school’s carefully manicured social circles.
Where you were sharp and quick with your mouth, she was soft-spoken and wide-eyed, just sweet enough to disarm anyone who got too close. You balanced each other out. She calmed your storm. You stirred hers.
You were over at her house so often it barely felt like visiting anymore. You knew the code to their garage door. You had your own toothbrush in her bathroom. Her mom kept your favorite cereal in the pantry like clockwork. You even had a drawer in her room, mostly old hoodies and stolen pajama shorts that smelled like her perfume.
It wasn’t unusual for you to spend the weekend there, or three nights in a row, or an entire spring break. Her parents didn’t mind. They liked knowing where you both were—liked having an extra body in the house, even if they never said it out loud.
And then there was Heeseung.
Her older brother. Four years up. Barely a presence.
When you were younger, he was just the older guy who sulked in his room and stole her chargers. Sometimes he’d give you a ride when Evie asked, sometimes he’d walk past you in the kitchen and grunt a greeting, but that was about it. He was there, and then he wasn’t—off to college, off to god knows where, vanishing from your life as quickly as he’d drifted through it.
You had a tiny crush on him once, freshman year. The kind that sparked quick and stupid, fed by his lazy smirk and the way he wore his backwards cap while fixing his car in the driveway. It died fast—suffocated by time and distance and his complete disinterest in acknowledging your existence beyond a nod or a side-eye.
By the time he moved back home post-grad, you barely noticed. He was older now, busier, always in his room with the door closed, voice low behind it, like he was on constant phone calls or late-night games or… something.
You didn’t think about him much. He was just Evie’s brother. Part of the background. White noise.
Your focus was always Evie.
She was the one who held your hair when you puked. The one who lent you a dress before every shitty date. The one who knocked on the bathroom door when you were taking too long and said, “You better not be edge-cumming again, bitch,” like it was the most normal sentence in the world.
She talked about sex like it was just part of the air. Blunt. Effortless. She could make herself cum in three minutes flat. She said it with confidence, like breathing.
You hated how easily it came to her. You loved her anyway.
You always felt safe in her house. Safe in her bed, tangled up under a shared blanket, legs overlapping like twins born too far apart. Her room smelled like vanilla and lip gloss and safety. It felt like yours.
-
The house settled around you like it always did—quiet, gentle, familiar in a way that made your muscles loosen and your brain drift. Even the silence felt padded here. The hum of the fridge downstairs, the occasional pop of cooling pipes, the subtle click of the thermostat shifting—background noise you’d grown so used to, it almost felt like home.
Evie was out cold beside you, one arm thrown carelessly across your stomach, her breath hot against your ribs. She always slept fast after wine. She always slept on you, too—like her body never quite understood boundaries even after all these years. You didn’t mind. It was comforting, the weight of her. Like a grounding wire for the anxious, electric static building low in your belly.
Sleep wasn’t coming for you, though.
You’d been lying there in the dark for the better part of an hour, phone dimmed to nearly unreadable brightness, eyes burning from the glow. Nothing on your feed caught your attention. You’d scrolled past the same content three times already, thumb swiping out of pure muscle memory.
Something restless twisted beneath your skin, persistent and irritating. Not quite horniness, not quite insomnia—just that same pulsing tension that had been sitting heavy between your legs all night. Like your body was trying to tell you something without using words. You shifted under the blanket, trying not to disturb Evie, thighs pressing tighter together to relieve the dull ache. It only made it worse.
The urge to do something about it had been growing for hours.
You’d thought about sneaking off to the bathroom. You’d done it before—quiet, quick, businesslike. Just enough friction to take the edge off before falling asleep, still unsatisfied but too tired to care. The idea barely tempted you anymore. You already knew how it would end: the usual mess of spit-slick fingers, your clit swollen and sore, pussy wet and pulsing and still refusing to give you anything real.
Just the thought of trying again made you clench your jaw.
It was pathetic, the way your body teased you. Wet for no reason. Needy without payout. Over and over again, like clockwork. Like punishment.
You turned your phone off with a quiet sigh and let the screen go black.
For a moment, all you could hear was the creak of the floorboards expanding under the weight of a settling house. A branch tapping against the window. The subtle drag of Evie’s breathing. You stared at the ceiling, tired but tense, willing yourself to shut down the frustration building behind your ribs.
A man’s voice, deep and casual, barely audible through the cracked bedroom doors. Not enough to make out words. Not yet. Just the soft cadence of speech, rising and falling like a secret being shared too close to the edge of the world.
Heeseung’s door was open. Or cracked. Just enough to let a sliver of sound spill out. You hadn’t even realized he was home tonight.
Your body stilled, like it always did when you felt watched—except this time, you were the one doing the watching. Listening, technically. Just barely.
There was a pause, then a laugh. Not his. Another voice. Someone else. Male. Maybe one of his friends from school, the ones who came and went without warning. You couldn’t place the sound, and you didn’t care.
Your focus sharpened the second Heeseung spoke again.
“It’s not that hard. Girls make it harder than it is."
“If she’s not cumming, she’s not listening to her pussy.”
The sentence dropped like a stone in the middle of your chest.
Not whispered. Not dirty. Just… stated. Like a law. Like fact.
Your fingers flexed unconsciously against the blanket. Heat flushed your neck and settled low in your belly, familiar and unwelcome. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.
There was something about the way he said it. Not performative. Not like he was trying to sound cool. Just calm. Confident. Like the kind of guy who got women off without effort and never thought twice about why.
Every hair on your arm lifted. He didn’t stop there.
“And if she won’t listen…I’ll make her.”
No laughter followed that. No teasing. Just a quiet moment where it hung in the air, unchallenged.
You lay frozen in the dark, heart thudding, mouth slightly open. Your legs ached under the blanket, thighs tense and pressed together. You weren’t just turned on—you were caught. Cornered by something you weren’t supposed to hear and couldn’t let go of.
Something clicked. Not like a revelation, not some dramatic internal monologue, just… a shift. A tilt in the floor beneath your feet. A door opening in a room you didn’t realize you were trapped in.
You didn’t even know what you wanted in that moment.
But for the first time in your life, you wondered—really wondered—what your body would feel like under instructions that weren’t your own.
-
You tried not to think about it for the rest of the day. Swore you wouldn’t spiral.
You kept the overheard words tucked somewhere tight in your chest, smothered under fake laughter and half-listened stories while Evie walked you through her latest dating app disasters. You made it through brunch, through an entire Target run, through two face masks and one trashy Netflix documentary—and you almost convinced yourself you were over it.
But when the house quieted again that night—when Evie fell asleep curled up on the far side of the bed with her arm draped over a pillow instead of you—you gave in.
You waited a while. Just in case she wasn’t fully out. The kind of sleep that could crack open with the creak of floorboards.
And when her breathing evened out, soft and deep and oblivious, you slid out from under the blanket, grabbed your phone, and slipped into the hallway.
The bathroom door closed with a soft click behind you.
You didn’t turn the light on right away. Just stood there for a second in the dark, breathing.
The air was cooler here. The tiles cold against your feet. The smell of Evie’s shampoo still clung to the room—vanilla and something floral, sticky-sweet. You stared at your reflection in the mirror above the sink, barely visible in the silver sliver of hallway light. Your face looked flushed. Too open. Like something had already been peeled back.
You sat on the closed toilet lid, tugged your hoodie over your thighs, and pulled your phone into your lap.
No buildup. No browsing. You knew what you were looking for.
The video you always came back to. The closest thing you’d ever found to what worked. A deep voice. Slow instructions. Just audio—nothing to watch, nothing to focus on but sound.
It wasn’t him, but it didn’t have to be. Not yet.
Your underwear stuck to the heat between your thighs as you slid it down. Still wet from the tension that had been building since that morning. From the second you saw Heeseung in the kitchen and felt your legs press together automatically.
The wetness should’ve been a good sign.
But you already knew how this would go.
You played the video. Turned the volume down low. Closed your eyes.
Your fingers found your clit easily. Rubbed gentle circles, the way the voice said. You tried to breathe through it, tried to slow down, to listen.
There was too much pressure too soon. Your skin twitched with every touch. The angle was wrong. The rhythm never quite synced. Your body jerked between feeling almost there and feeling absolutely nothing.
You tried harder.
Tried picturing something—someone. His voice. His mouth. The way he looked at you this morning like you weren’t just Evie’s friend, like he saw something else.
That made your fingers move faster. Your hips twitch up from the seat, trying to find something—anything—that would tip you over.
But it never came.
Just heat. Just sweat. Just the same stinging tension in your thighs and the wave that built up, crested, and refused to break.
Your hand dropped. Your chest heaved with a breath that sounded too much like a sob.
You sat there for a full minute in silence, pussy swollen, twitching, soaking your hand—and still nothing. You hadn’t cum. Not even close.
Not even fucking close.
Your palm dragged across your inner thigh as you reached for toilet paper, the wet slick of your own arousal catching against your skin, obscene and bitter and useless. You wiped your hand clean, flushed, washed it under the tap in a daze.
Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror, flushed cheeks, wild eyes, bottom lip bitten raw.
This wasn’t working.
You couldn’t do this by yourself. Not anymore.
The shame didn’t even hit you until you opened the door, stepped back into the hall, and looked toward Heeseung’s room.
You didn’t remember walking from the bathroom to his door. Not really. Your body moved on instinct, fingers still damp with failure, breath shallow and uneven like you’d been running—not down a hallway, but in circles inside your own skin. Everything felt hot and wrong, like you were standing too close to something dangerous and still leaning closer.
The light from under his door was soft, pale blue. The kind of glow that came from a computer screen and sleepless hours. It made the hallway feel colder. Your skin felt clammy beneath your hoodie, thighs still tacky with your own arousal, pulse thudding hard behind your ears. You didn’t even try to calm yourself before raising your hand. There wasn’t enough time. There wasn’t enough anything left.
You knocked.
Soft, quick. Regretted it immediately.
Nothing.
The silence on the other side stretched just long enough to make you feel stupid. You should’ve gone back to Evie’s room. Should’ve locked the bathroom door and buried your face in your hands like you always did. Should’ve swallowed the shame and left it to rot where it always did: at the bottom of your throat.
Your hand was already dropping when the doorknob turned.
Heeseung opened the door halfway, leaning into the frame, and for a second you couldn’t speak. You weren’t expecting him to look like that—hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, collar askew, hair a damp mess like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. His sweatshorts hung low on his hips, legs bare, skin flushed warm like he’d just come out of the shower… or just come. You had no way of knowing which. And it made your brain short-circuit either way.
He didn’t look surprised to see you. Just confused.
His eyes dragged down your body with a slow kind of calculation, and you swore you saw the moment they caught on the way your thighs were pressed together, your bare legs twitching under the hem of your hoodie. The way your breath hitched in your throat. The way your fingers—still wet, still trembling—curled tighter at your side.
He blinked once, brows pulling in slightly.
“You good?”
The question was simple, quiet. But it hit like an echo in a room with no furniture. You were not good. Not even close.
Your voice came out before you could soften it. Flat, direct. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
He blinked again. Caught off guard this time.
“…What?”
“I just need to know,” you said quickly, words tumbling over each other. “Before I say anything. It matters.”
He stared at you for a beat, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should be amused or suspicious.
“No. I don’t.”
You exhaled like someone had untied a knot inside your chest.
“Fuck.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”
“If you said yes,” you muttered, eyes darting to the floor, “I would’ve had an excuse not to ask you.”
That made him pause.
He shifted his weight, crossed his arms over his chest, leaned into the doorframe like he was settling in. His voice was a little lower when he asked, “Ask me what?”
Your whole body burned. There was no easy way to say it. No casual phrasing. No safe distance between you and the truth anymore. You didn’t have the energy to dance around it.
“You said something last night,” you started, forcing yourself to look at him. “About girls who can’t finish. About how they’re not listening to their bodies.”
He watched you carefully. No expression, just the slow, measured study of a man waiting for the rest.
“I heard it,” you added. “By accident. But it’s been stuck in my head. And I thought—I don’t know, I thought maybe you were right.”
Still nothing. Just his gaze crawling over your face, down to your knees, like he was trying to see where this was going before letting himself speak.
You swallowed, the taste of failure still thick in your throat. “I tried again tonight. Bathroom. Just now. I’ve been trying for years, and it’s always the same. Nothing works. I can’t finish. I touch myself, and it just—goes nowhere.”
Your cheeks burned. You didn’t even know why you were telling him all this. You barely knew the guy. The last time you’d had a real conversation was probably three birthdays ago when he offered you a ride and you said no because he smelled like weed and fuckboy cologne.
But here you were. Standing in front of him like some half-dressed, sweat-slick confession, spilling everything.
And he still hadn’t said a word.
Your next breath shook as it left you.
“I don’t want you to touch me,” you said, quieter now. “I just want to ask… if you’d tell me what to do.”
That got something out of him. A small breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. His eyes dropped—lower this time—to your legs again, to the edge of your hoodie, to the bare skin flushed and prickling under the hallway air.
He nodded once toward you, chin tilting. “Your hand’s still wet.”
You froze.
His voice was low, unreadable. “You tried that hard, huh?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
He stepped back.
Just a few inches. Just enough to open the door wider. The light from inside poured out around him, cool and soft and full of static.
He held your gaze.
“Come in. Close the door behind you.”
The door shuts with a soft click behind you, and just like that, the house disappears. Evie’s room, the hallway, your entire carefully contained world—it all drops away. There’s only the low glow of his monitor casting pale blue light across the carpet and the quiet hum of something electric in the corner, like the room itself is holding its breath.
You hover near the door for a second, not sure what to do with your hands, your legs, your shame.
Heeseung’s already sitting, legs wide in his desk chair, turned toward you like he was waiting the whole night for this. He shifts, pushes himself up slightly, and drags the chair forward—lazily, unbothered—until it sits right in front of the bed. Close enough that if you spread your legs, he’d have a front-row seat.
Then he flips the chair around, straddling it backwards like some cocky delinquent in detention, arms crossed over the backrest, chin resting casually on top. His expression doesn’t change. He just watches you.
“Go ahead,” he says, voice calm and low, like this is just another Tuesday night. “Sit.”
You make your way to the bed, legs tense, breath shallow, and perch at the edge like it might bite. Your thighs clench on instinct, hoodie pulled low, trying to shield what you already know he’s seen. You’re still warm from the bathroom. Still soaked. Still aching.
His eyes drift down. Slow. Lazy. No shame.
You fidget.
Heeseung doesn’t move. “Don’t get shy on me now. You came in here asking for a masturbation lesson, not a bedtime story.”
Your lips twitch. You almost laugh. Almost.
He lifts his chin. “Tell me what you usually do.”
The question lands harder than it should. Not because it’s dirty, but because it’s so simple.
You blink. “Like… where I touch?”
“Yeah.”
You hesitate. “I usually just go straight to my clit.”
“Figures.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “And then what? Rub the fuck out of it ‘til it gets sore and wonder why it doesn’t work?”
Your mouth falls open in a small gasp. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs one shoulder, unbothered. “Don’t take it personal. That’s what most girls do. It’s not your fault you think the goal is speed over sense.”
You don’t respond, but your silence is answer enough.
He leans in a little, forearms resting on the chair back, gaze glued to your bare thighs. There’s no hunger in it—not yet. Just observation. Like he’s assessing you.
“If your pussy had a voice,” he says smoothly, “she’d be screaming at you to chill the fuck out.”
You’re quiet for a long second. Because the worst part is… he’s not wrong.
He watches you squirm, and something like amusement passes over his features. Not cruel, but smug.
“Take your time,” he says, gentler now. “You rush her, she locks up. Doesn’t matter how wet you are.”
“…She?” you murmur, lifting a brow.
Heeseung shrugs again, like it’s obvious. “Yeah. She.” His eyes flick to yours. “You don’t gotta name her or write poetry about her, but you should probably stop treating her like a vending machine.”
Your laugh breaks before you can stop it. Quick and sharp, nerves bleeding out of your throat. “You’re so annoying.”
“And yet, you’re still here,” he says with a smirk, eyes dark. “Go on. Show me how you start.”
Everything tightens. You feel the weight of his voice low in your belly.
You don’t move right away.
He raises a brow. “You said you didn’t want me to touch you. That’s cool. But I need to see what you’re doing wrong.”
Your breath hitches.
Your hand moves on instinct—slow, shaky—and dips beneath the hem of your hoodie, then under the band of your panties. You’re already wet. Embarrassingly wet. And when your fingers graze over your clit, you flinch. It’s too sensitive. Too much. Your hips jerk a little, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes follow the motion.
You rub. Once. Twice. It’s not bad. It’s what you always do.
But still—nothing clicks.
Heeseung tilts his head. “You’re too stiff.”
“I’m nervous,” you admit quietly.
“Don’t be.” His voice drops half an octave. “You look hot.”
The way he says it—it doesn’t sound like a compliment. Just a fact. Like he’s telling you what time it is. Like your soaked fingers and clenched thighs are something he’s been picturing all night.
“You’re thinking too much,” he adds. “Trying to force it instead of feel it.”
Your hand stills.
He leans forward slightly, his voice quieter now, more intimate. “Try this. Press your hand flat. Just hold her. No rubbing. No tapping. Just… feel her.”
You hesitate, then obey.
The flat of your hand settles between your legs, heat blooming up your arm from the contact. Your whole body clenches around it.
“Feel that?”
You nod. Barely.
“That’s what she likes,” he murmurs. “You’ve been poking at her like she’s a fucking keyboard. No wonder she’s not putting out.”
You let out a breathy laugh—half scandalized, half aroused. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re soaking through your panties,” he says, deadpan.
Your breath catches. Heeseung doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t look away.
He sits there like he’s got all the time in the world. Like he’s doing you a favor. Like he’s enjoying this. You’re not even sure he’s hard yet—but he will be. You can feel it building. Between you. In you.
He lets the moment hang.
Then: “Now—slow circles. Don’t speed up unless she tells you to.”
“She doesn’t talk,” you whisper, teasing without confidence.
His gaze is heavy. Steady.
“She does,” he says, voice like heat sliding under your skin. “You just haven’t been listening.”
The room feels hotter now.
Not just the air—your skin, your mouth, your thighs. Sweat clings to the backs of your knees, damp beneath the bunched-up hoodie, and your panties are so wet they’re practically glued to one thigh. Your hips keep twitching without your permission, rolling up slightly with every pass of your fingers. It’s not graceful. It’s not some porn fantasy. It’s messy and uneven and real, and Heeseung is watching every second of it like it’s the only thing worth watching.
You keep thinking you should feel embarrassed. Ashamed. You’re spread open on his bed, hand stuffed between your legs, whining softly every time you stroke a little too hard and have to ease back again—but you’re too far gone now to stop. Your cheeks are flushed, lashes wet, lips parted, and you can’t look away from him.
He hasn’t blinked once.
Heeseung is still straddling the backward chair, elbows resting on the top, chin on one hand like this is casual. Normal. Like you’re just some half-naked girl jerking off in front of him for practice and he’s your substitute teacher for the night.
The only thing that’s changed is his posture.
His knees are spread wider than before. His forearms are tense. One hand grips the edge of the chair a little tighter every time your body jerks, and you don’t miss the way his jaw flexes every time your breath stutters or your voice cracks.
You’re doing this to him.
But not enough.
Not enough to make it stop hurting. Not enough to make the ache go away. Not enough to finish.
You’re trying. God, you’re trying.
Your fingers rub in slow circles, not too fast now. You’re listening. You are. But your body keeps tensing at the edge, like it’s scared to fall off the cliff it’s been building for years. Your hand’s cramping. Your clit throbs. Your stomach clenches like you’re close—and then it dips, again and again.
It’s good. So good.
But it’s not enough.
You choke on a frustrated sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your free hand fists the blanket beneath you like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
Heeseung speaks, finally, voice low and steady. “Still rushing her.”
“I’m not,” you whisper.
“You are. I can see it.”
You shake your head, breath stuttering. “I’m not trying to—I swear, I’m—” You gasp. “It’s just—it’s not—”
You stop. Words catch in your throat. Your hips are rocking now, involuntarily, chasing a sensation that keeps pulling away the second you get close. Your fingers are wet, your pussy’s pulsing, and it still feels like you’re just rubbing up against a wall.
“It’s not enough,” you breathe out, broken. “I—I can’t—fuck—she’s not listening.”
Heeseung leans forward slightly, something sharp flashing in his eyes.
“Oh, she’s listening,” he says. “You’re just not talking to her the right way.”
You whimper. “Then tell me what to say.”
That makes his mouth twitch—just barely. Like he’s been waiting for that.
“Tell me what she’s feeling first.”
“I—” Your voice cracks. “She’s tight. Warm. I feel her—pulsing. Like she wants something but—she’s not opening.”
He tilts his head slightly, gaze dark. “She wants to be filled.”
You nod.
“No,” he says. “Say it.”
Your chest heaves. Your hand hasn’t stopped moving, rubbing slow, desperate circles around your clit. “She wants to be filled.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“She wants to be fucking filled,” you whine. “She’s throbbing—she’s soaking—fuck, I can feel her squeezing nothing.”
Heeseung exhales slowly, eyes flicking down between your legs again.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “Now she’s talking.”
Your fingers glide lower, catching more slick and sliding back up. Everything’s soaked. You’re dripping down onto the sheets, and your thighs are trembling from the strain of keeping your hips lifted just right.
“She needs more,” you pant. “She’s clenching—she’s starving—”
Heeseung’s hand flexes around the edge of the chair again. His voice drops, almost to a growl. “So feed her.”
You moan—high and breathy—and press harder, circling your clit faster now, the way your body wants. Your lips are wet, your fingers slipping, but it doesn’t matter. Everything is slick and hot and alive.
“You’re soaked,” he mutters, eyes burning into you. “Look at your fucking fingers.”
You do. It’s obscene. Your hand shines in the light, your fingers coated in slick. You barely recognize your own body like this. Ruined. Responsive.
“She’s begging,” he says softly. “And you’re finally listening.”
You whine, eyes squeezing shut. Your free hand presses against your lower belly, trying to hold the heat in. Your pussy twitches at the pressure.
“She’s so fucking greedy,” you gasp. “She won’t stop pulling—I can’t—I can’t keep up—”
“You don’t have to,” he says. “She knows what she’s doing. Let her take it.”
You don’t even realize how loud you’ve gotten until you hear yourself moan again—shameless, cracked open, shaking from the inside out.
Your legs spread wider. You’re not trying to hide anymore. Not from him. Not from yourself.
You’re right there.
You’re going to break.
He’s just watching. Like it’s his favorite thing he’s ever seen.
You’re right on the edge, and this time it’s not teasing.
It’s sharp. Fast. Inevitable.
Your legs are trembling now, hips jerking with every motion, and your fingers are soaked—slipping against your clit, coating your inner thighs, dripping down the crease of your ass like your body’s trying to fuck itself open. Every stroke sends another wave of tension through you, and there’s no holding it anymore. Your body is begging. Your pussy’s leaking, twitching, clenching around nothing—and Heeseung watches like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You don’t even realize you’re moaning until you hear it echo back at you in the small room. High-pitched. Desperate. Wet.
The sound of your pussy is louder now too. Sticky and obscene, each rub slicker than the last. You can hear it every time you roll your hips into your palm.
Heeseung doesn’t say a word for a second too long.
You lift your head, eyes glazed over, panting.
His eyes are darker now. Half-lidded. Focused on your pussy like he’s reading it better than your face.
He shifts in his chair. Spreads his knees wider. His hand dips into the front of his sweatshorts, slow and casual, like he can’t ignore it anymore. You catch a glimpse of his fingers wrapping around himself—and your breath catches so hard your vision blurs.
He’s so hard.
His voice comes out deeper. Filthy. Measured like it’s the only thing anchoring him in the room.
“Look at that messy little cunt.”
Your body jerks at the word. You’ve never heard it said like that. Never felt it hit like that.
Heeseung strokes himself once, slow and firm under the fabric.
“She’s drooling all over your fingers. So fucking hungry. Bet she’s never been this loud for you before.”
“She hasn’t,” you breathe. “She never—she never—”
“You’ve been starving her,” he says, still jerking himself lazily. “Touching her like she’s a problem instead of a fucking meal.”
Your hand speeds up, and he sees it. Hears the slap of slick. You’re humping into your fingers now, sloppy and desperate and so close you could scream.
Heeseung leans forward, one elbow braced against the back of the chair.
“You wanna cum, baby?”
You nod frantically, but it’s not enough.
“Use your words.”
Your voice comes out cracked. “Yes. Please—I wanna cum—I need it—”
“Need what?” he pushes.
“I need her to fucking break,” you sob. “She’s clenching—she’s begging—she needs to cum, she needs it—”
“Then let her,” he growls. “Don’t fucking hold it. Let her make a mess.”
You whimper, fingers frantic, back arching off the bed.
And that’s when he says it—low and hot and foul.
“Let her fuck your fingers, slut.”
You snap.
Your body locks up, then shatters. You cum so hard your legs shake, hips jerking forward, thighs squeezing around your own hand as your pussy gushes over your fingers in sticky, messy waves. The moan that rips from your throat is broken, cracked, half-wet from tears.
It doesn’t hit you right away.
At first, there’s just white. Blinding. A full-body seizure of pleasure as your cunt clenches around nothing, soaking your own fingers, mouth open in a moan that doesn’t even sound like you.
It crashes over you fast. Wet. Messy.
You cum harder than you ever have in your life—harder than you thought was even possible—and your body just keeps going, hips jerking, slick dripping past your knuckles, your voice cracking on every gasp.
Heeseung is still there.
You know he is. You can feel his eyes on you, feel his breath in the space between your bodies, but you can’t look at him. Not right now. Not like this.
And then it fades.
That warm, bright static in your brain flickers out. Your thighs twitch. Your hand finally drops, fingers soaked, wrist aching, clit too sensitive to touch again.
What’s left is the sound of your breathing. The slick, wet mess beneath your hips. The embarrassment flooding in all at once like a second wave.
Reality slams back into you hard.
You’re laid out across his bed—sweaty, flushed, thighs spread wide and soaked all the way down to the crease of your ass. Your pussy’s still twitching, swollen and glistening, your panties bunched at one knee, hoodie halfway pushed up your stomach.
Your fingers shine in the low light. Still wet. Still shaking.
You sit up fast, panic sweeping over your skin like ice water. “Shit—fuck.”
Your hand fumbles to pull your hoodie down, yanking it over your thighs, shoving your panties back into place even though they’re absolutely soaked through. The fabric clings wetly to your pussy and only makes the mess feel worse.
Heeseung hasn’t moved.
Still in the chair. Still one hand inside his shorts. He looks completely unbothered. Calm. Like you didn’t just cum your entire soul out in front of him.
You can’t meet his eyes.
He watches you fuss with the hem of your hoodie, your hands still trembling slightly as you try to make yourself look decent.
“Didn’t say stop,” he says mildly.
You glare at him, cheeks burning. “I came. Pretty sure that’s the goal, right?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Just surprised you’re acting all shy now. That pussy was practically talking thirty seconds ago.”
“Jesus—” you squeeze your eyes shut, bury your face in your hands.
Heeseung grins. Not mean. Not mocking. Just amused.
“You do realize how loud you were, right?” he adds. “I thought the bed was gonna snap in half.”
“Please stop talking,” you groan, voice muffled.
“You were crying,” he says like it’s a compliment, hand still lazily palming himself under his shorts. “That shit was beautiful.”
You peek at him through your fingers. He’s still hard. Still watching you with that same steady calm, like this is fine. Like this is normal.
He doesn’t even seem fazed.
That somehow makes the ache between your legs flare again. Weak, overstimulated, but greedy.
You clear your throat. “I didn’t realize I—um. That I could… do that.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Cum?”
You shoot him a look.
Heeseung laughs, finally letting go of himself. “You’ve been fighting her for years. All I did was give you directions.”
You tuck your knees up into your chest, arms wrapped around them. You feel like you just stripped naked in front of someone who stayed fully clothed—and now he’s just lounging there like you didn’t just show him the most private part of yourself.
You sit in that awkward silence for a few seconds longer.
Heeseung stretches, chair creaking slightly. “So,” he says, tone casual. “Lesson two tomorrow?”
You blink.
“…There’s a second lesson?”
He smiles slow, eyes dropping to your thighs again. “You think she’s done learning?”
Your pussy twitches beneath your soaked panties.
-
Your legs are still weak from the first night when you leave.
Just a few days back home. Just a quick visit. You didn’t think it would matter—but the second you cross the county line, your pussy starts aching like she knows she’s been abandoned. Like she misses his voice already.
You think about texting him before you even unpack your overnight bag.
It starts that fast—barely through the front door, barely through dinner with your parents, barely through pretending to care about someone’s new side hustle or whatever cousin just had a baby, and already your mind is slipping.
Already you’re restless. Already your body feels too awake. You can still feel the slick sticking to the inside of your thighs from last night, from the way he sat in that chair like he was doing you a favor while you touched yourself for the first time like it meant something. It hasn’t gone away. The ache stayed with you.
That trembling throb between your legs that didn’t fade after one orgasm—or two—or three. And now, here you are. Sitting in your childhood bedroom like you didn’t just learn how to listen to your pussy in someone else’s bed with someone else’s voice in your ear.
You last all of twelve hours. Maybe thirteen if you count sleep, but that’s cheating. You keep checking your phone like a freak. Not even for a message—just to see his name.
You scroll through the notifications like maybe he’ll magically show up. You open his contact. Stare at the little circle icon. You type a text. Delete it.
Type again. Delete. Pace the room. Pull your hair up. Let it fall. Lie on the bed. Toss the blanket off. Roll onto your stomach, then your back, then sit up again because your body’s too hot and your thoughts won’t stop dragging back to the sound of his voice saying “Good girl. She’s listening now.”
You try to distract yourself. Put music on. Stare at the ceiling. Scroll through reels. But the tension is building and it’s not casual. It’s deep. It’s mean.
Like your pussy’s crawling up your spine and whispering call him over and over again. And finally, like a fucking addict, you give in.
You don’t try to be subtle. Your fingers tremble as you type the message—“Can I call you?”—and hit send before you can regret it. Your breath catches in your throat. Heart pounding. Shame twisting in your gut like you’ve already crossed a line and he hasn’t even replied. But then your phone buzzes. Two texts in a row. You click without thinking.
No. I’ll call you.
Speaker on. Hands ready. Nothing else.
You don’t even get a second to prepare. The call comes in instantly, and you fumble to answer it, press speaker, toss the phone onto your pillow and sit back, legs shaking under your blanket. You’re wearing nothing but a big t-shirt—no bra, no panties. Like your body already knew what was coming.
His voice is in your ear the second the line connects.
Low. Thick. Wrecked.
“You waited all day just to fuck yourself to my voice, didn’t you?”
The sound alone makes your thighs clamp together. You can’t answer. You don’t know what to say. You feel called out, ruined, exposed, and he hasn’t even seen you.
“You’re pathetic,” he breathes, and it’s not cruel—it’s reverent. Like he’s turned on by the depth of your desperation. “You left for less than twenty-four hours and she’s already starving.”
Your breath comes out shaky. “She hasn’t shut up.”
“I bet. That little pussy’s been crying for attention, hasn’t she? Soaking your panties, throbbing for no reason. Did you even try to touch her?”
Your hand slides down your stomach. Shame floods your chest. “I tried last night.”
“And?”
Your fingers drift over your mound, soft and slow.
“…Didn’t work.”
“Of course it didn’t.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “Because she’s not trained to your fingers. She’s trained to my voice.”
You nearly choke.
“Take the blanket off.”
You do.
“T-shirt stays. I want you messy under it. Like a filthy little secret.”
You obey, chest rising. The air hits your bare skin and your nipples pebble instantly under the thin cotton. You slide your hand under the hem and find yourself dripping already—your folds slippery and warm, your clit throbbing at the first brush.
“Fuck. You’re already wet.”
You don’t answer.
“Don’t ignore me. Say it.”
You whimper. “I’m wet.”
“Where?”
Your hand slides lower. “Everywhere.”
“Let me hear it.”
You drag your fingers through your folds, then lift them to the mic.
Squish. Slick. Wet.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “She’s fucking leaking for me.”
“She won’t stop,” you pant. “She’s been clenching—she’s needy. I can’t—I can’t even think straight.”
“She doesn’t need you to think. She needs you to listen.”
You nod like he can see you.
“You touching your clit yet?”
“No,” you whisper. “Just teasing.”
“Don’t tease her. Feed her.”
You obey. Your fingers find your clit and press slow, warm circles into the swollen skin. Your hips twitch immediately. Your body jolts with relief. Like it’s been waiting for this.
“Fuck. That’s it. Let her roll her hips. Let her grind on your fingers.”
You do.
And you moan. Loud. Wet. Pathetic.
“You sound like you’re crying.”
“I might be,” you choke out. “I’m—I’ve been on edge all day. She’s screaming—”
“Then shut her up.”
Your fingers move faster. Your breath turns ragged. The slick is everywhere now—coating your palm, sliding down your ass, soaking the sheets beneath you. You can hear it—slap, slap, slap—and you know he can too.
“God, listen to her,” he says. “She’s fucking talking again. Slapping wet, loud as hell, crying to be filled.”
Your thighs start to shake.
“Don’t you dare stop.”
“Heeseung—fuck, I’m close—”
“She wants to cum. So let her.”
You cum hard, back arching, legs tensed, voice cracking open around a sob as your pussy convulses around nothing—just your fingers, just your shame, just his voice dragging it out of you with nothing but command.
“Again,” he growls. “Don’t you dare take your hand off her. You begged for this. You waited all fucking day for it.”
You keep going. Because you can’t stop. Because this is his now.
-
You don’t get a break.
Heeseung doesn’t let you.
After that first call—the one where you came so hard you swore you saw stars—you thought maybe the tension would ease up. Maybe you’d get to breathe. But you don’t. Because the second you wake up the next morning, there’s already a text waiting for you.
Morning. She hungry?
Your pussy clenches on reflex.
You bite your lip, cheeks flushing under the covers.
Yes.
His reply is instant.
Good. edge yourself until you’re shaking. No cumming. No cheating. You’ll send me a pic of your fingers when you’re done.
That’s it. No teasing. No sweet talk. Just commands. Direct. Cruel. And of course—you obey.
You finger yourself that morning with shaking hands, grinding into your palm in the silence of your old bedroom with one hand over your mouth to muffle your cries. You stop just short of release three times. Your panties are soaked. The sheets beneath you are ruined.
You send the photo.
Two slick fingers, gleaming. One droplet hanging from your wrist like a taunt.
He doesn’t reply until hours later.
Beautiful. Don’t clean her up. Let her stick to your skin. I want her to haunt you all day.
That’s how it starts.
Sometimes it’s a call. Sometimes it’s just a photo prompt. Sometimes it’s voice notes—low, slow, whispered filth that you replay in the bathroom on full volume with your thighs clenched so tight you can barely breathe.
Another day: make a mess on your favorite pair of panties. Send proof. Don’t wash them. Fold them and put them in your drawer like a secret. Like she remembers.
When you can’t call—family dinners, company in the house, a wedding event—he doesn’t complain. He just adapts.
He sends you three voice notes in a row, each one filthier than the last.
“Are you wearing panties right now?”
“She’s wet just from this, isn’t she?”
“Put your phone between your legs. Let my voice buzz against her while you grind.”
You do. In the middle of the day. On the edge of your childhood bed. With the door locked and your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sound of you cumming on command.
Every time you text him, he knows what you need before you say it.
On your knees. Two fingers. Say my name when you finish. That’s all.
You cum like a trained animal.
By the end of the fourth day, you’re overstimulated and aching. Your cunt stays warm. Your clit stays swollen. You can’t think straight without hearing his voice. You can’t fall asleep without a pillow between your legs and your phone under your ear, replaying the way he said your name like it tasted good.
He doesn’t let you get comfortable.
I want her ruined by the time you get back. Wet stains on your thighs. Bruised from your own fingers. No excuses. You belong to me now, yeah?
-
You’re at the dinner table when the text comes in.
There’s a bowl of pasta in front of you. Your uncle’s talking about traffic. Your mom’s pouring more wine. And your phone buzzes in your lap—one tiny, harmless vibration you almost ignore until you see the name on your lockscreen.
Heeseung.
Your chest tightens immediately. A hot ripple runs down your spine. You unlock it under the table, heart already picking up speed, thighs pressed tight together like that’s gonna help anything.
You expect a voice note. Maybe an instruction. Instead, it’s just a single message.
Don’t open this here. I’m serious.
You excuse yourself. Bathroom. You try to walk casually, but your legs feel unstable, like your body knows what’s coming and is bracing for it. You shut the door. Lock it. Sit down on the closed toilet seat. And then you open the message.
It’s not a photo. Not a voice note. Just a block of text.
And it destroys you.
I want you dripping. Right now. I want your thighs sticky. I want your pussy hot and twitching and swollen like she’s just been edged for an hour and she’s still not allowed to cum. I want her pulsing around nothing. Squeezing air. Leaking like she misses my cock even though she’s never had it. That’s how good I want her trained. That she misses me even though I’ve never fucked her.
I want you to slide your hand into your panties and feel her spit for me. Feel how filthy she’s gotten just from reading my words. Not even hearing my voice. Just letters on a screen and she’s frothing like a brainless little thing. I want her throbbing. Sore. Pink. Aching.
I want you to pull your panties to the side and look at what I’ve done to you. How she opens for nothing. How she clenches for nothing. How she cries, fucking cries, when she doesn’t get touched. I want her messy. Slutty. Wet enough to embarrass you. Wet enough you can’t clean it up with one tissue. Wet enough that if someone walked into that bathroom right now, they’d smell her.
No fingers. Not yet. Just pressure. Palm down. Let her hump. Let her grind. Let her get yourself dirty. She knows what to do. She doesn’t need permission anymore. You’re gonna leak down your leg just reading this, aren’t you? She’s already twitching. Already soaking. She knows what she is now. A thing that exists to be used. To be made wet. To be trained.
You stare at your screen. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.
And you feel it—that slow, steady drip.
You slide your hand down between your legs and whimper when your fingers meet your panties—soaked through. Hot and sticky, your folds puffy and swollen, everything throbbing with need.
You spread your legs wider. There’s no stopping it. You have to.
You push your panties aside, just like he said, and when you look down, your cunt is shining. Slick lips parted, clit swollen and begging, a string of wet clinging between your folds when you breathe too hard.
You cup her with your whole palm and rock once.
You grind again. Harder. The heel of your hand pressing directly on your clit. Your hips move faster, panting now, forehead pressed against your bent knee as your pussy humps your own hand like she’s starved.
You’re fucking yourself with no fingers. Just pressure. Just filth. Just his words rotting your brain and your pussy loving it.
You don’t stop until your legs lock, jaw clenched tight to muffle the moan that rips through your throat. Your pussy convulses, grinding down hard, cumming in waves against your own palm until you’re crying silently, thighs soaked, panties a mess, body twitching from the force of it.
When it’s over, you’re wrecked. You sit there in silence. Breathing heavy. Panties still pulled to the side, hand drenched, cunt gaping and twitching like she’s still looking for him.
You snap a photo.
Not of your face. Just your hand. Soaked. Ruined. Slick covering your wrist, dripping down your knuckles.
You send it. No caption. A minute later, his reply lights up your screen.
That’s how she’s supposed to look. Every day until you get home.
-
You don’t even knock.
You could, but what’s the point? He told you to come over as soon as you got back. No texts. No warning. Just a short message yesterday night:
You better show up dripping.
And you are.
The shorts you wore are damp at the crotch, your hoodie clinging to the sweat on your lower back. Every shift of your thighs against the car seat on the drive over made you squirm. By the time you’re standing in front of his door, your cunt is throbbing. Empty. Trained. Starving.
He opens it like he already knew you were there.
Barefoot. Hoodie. Nothing underneath.
He stares at you for a second, quiet. His eyes drop to your legs, to the way you’re fidgeting, clenching, trying not to press your thighs together. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak.
Just opens the door wider and lets you in.
You step past him. Silent. Heat prickling under your skin. His presence is loud, even without words. You can feel the pressure building already—your pussy knows. She’s aware. Aware of the air, of the scent of him, of how close he is now after five days of only hearing him through a speaker.
He closes the door behind you. And waits.
You turn to him, hands still curled into your sleeves. “I did everything.”
He lifts a brow. “Yeah?”
You nod. Swallow hard. “Every day.”
Heeseung steps forward slowly. Stops in front of you. His eyes flick down, over your body, like he’s looking for confirmation.
“You leaking?”
Your breath catches. “Yes.”
“Prove it.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. But you don’t hesitate.
Your fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and tug them down in one smooth motion. They hit the floor and you step out of them, bare underneath, thighs sticky and glistening. Your hoodie barely covers your hips now. One inch higher and he’d see everything.
He doesn’t touch you.
“Show me,” he says, voice low.
Your breath hitches again—but you drop to your knees. Not because he asked. Because your body knows what to do now.
You kneel between his feet on the hardwood floor, hands moving to part your thighs so he can see. You pull the hoodie up to your waist and slide two fingers between your folds—dripping. It spreads so easily. Glossy. Viscous. Your pussy folds open for your own touch like it’s nothing new. Like she’s been practicing all week.
You keep your eyes on him the whole time.
And when your fingers come back up, soaked and glistening, you hold them out. Heeseung watches you in silence.
Then leans forward, slow and deliberate. He takes your fingers into his mouth and sucks—deep, slow, tongue curling around them like it’s a reward.
Your hips jerk slightly. Your cunt clenches hard. He pulls off with a wet pop and stares down at you.
“She tastes trained.”
You nod.
“She beg yet?”
You exhale. “She never shut up.”
He clicks his tongue. “Yeah?”
Then he grabs your jaw. Fingers firm but not rough, tilting your face up to his.
“You want her filled?”
You nod again. “Please.”
“Not yet,” he says. “She’s not ready.”
“I’m ready—she’s so ready, I’ve been—”
“I don’t care what you think. You’re not here to make decisions. You’re here to do what I say.” He lets go of your face. “You wanna get fed? Earn it. Lay down. Show me how she begs.”
You scramble onto the bed.
Flat on your back. Legs spread. Cunt on display. Dripping.
You’re already on your back, knees drawn up, thighs spread and trembling, cunt pulsing with heat that’s been building all week. You don’t try to hide it. You can’t. Your pussy’s wet. Loud. Lips glossy and parted, folds flushed and twitching like she knows the moment has finally come. She’s been teased. Trained. Denied. You’ve been filling her with fingers and pressure and your own voice, but never this. Never him. And now he’s standing at the edge of the bed, staring down at you like he’s finally ready to eat.
But he doesn’t touch you first.
He picks your shorts up off the floor, turns them inside out—and finds your soaked panties tangled in the legs. He peels them out slowly, sticky with your slick, the thin fabric darkened and clinging to itself. You watch, breath caught, legs still open, burning with shame as he brings them up to his face.
And sniffs.
Deep.
He inhales like it’s a fucking ritual. Eyes half-lidded. Thumb pressing into the crotch to smear the wetness around before dragging it across his lip. His tongue flicks out—tastes it.
“Jesus fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “She’s been marinating in this.”
Your body jolts. Your hands fist the sheets.
“She’s loud, too.” His voice drops lower. “I haven’t even touched her and she’s already talking. Look at her. Fucking twitching. Dripping. Spreading herself open like she knows who she belongs to.”
“Heeseung—” You whimper.
“Shut up.”
He tosses your panties to the side and climbs onto the bed, slow and smooth, eyes never leaving your cunt. He settles between your legs and just kneels there for a moment. Breathing her in. Hands on your thighs. Pushing them wider. Spreading you so open you can feel the air hit your slick.
You’re soaked. You know it. You can feel it, the slick sliding down into the dip of your ass, the way your folds part with every breath, your clit poking out, hot and swollen.
He just stares.
“You fucking trained her like this,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You really did it. Came like a good little slut every night just to keep her hungry.”
“She’s starving,” you whisper, voice shaking.
“I can see that.”
His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs, holding you open. His face lowers. Inches away. His breath hits your folds and your hips twitch violently.
He doesn’t lick you.
Not yet.
He just hovers. His nose skims your inner thigh. Then up. Right up the slick slit, dragging his breath across your folds until your body shudders. He breathes her in again—this time slower. Longer. Right at the source.
“God,” he mutters. “She fucking smells like obedience.”
You sob.
And then he spits.
Right on your pussy.
Hot. Heavy. Messy.
It splashes over your clit, drips between your folds, mixes with your slick and makes everything worse.
Your hips roll. You can’t stop it.
“Don’t you fucking move,” he growls. “She’s getting attention. She better stay still.”
And finally—finally—his tongue drags up your slit. A long, slow lick from hole to clit that ends with his mouth wrapped around it, sucking hard.
Your hands fly to his hair. Your spine arches off the bed.
But he pins you with one forearm across your stomach and doesn’t stop.
He eats you like a man starved. Like you’ve been feeding her for him. Keeping her ready. Keeping her needy. His mouth is everywhere—tongue licking up everything you’ve been saving, spit and slick and mess pooling under your ass while he moans into you.
“That’s it,” he groans against your clit. “Let me taste five fucking days of begging.”
You cry out, thighs clenching.
But he slaps your pussy with his hand—sharp, wet, punishing.
“Open.”
You go limp. You can’t fight it. You don’t want to.
He eats you like it’s personal. Tongue flat. Licking. Circling. Spitting again. Your clit’s too swollen, too sensitive, but he doesn’t care. He mumbles into you—filth you can barely understand because he’s too focused on devouring.
“She’s so fucking loud. She won’t shut up. You hear that?”
You do.
Your pussy makes noise with every lick—squelching, wet, obscene.
“I didn’t even fuck her yet,” he growls. “And she’s already creaming.”
You try to cum. You try.
But he pulls back just as your thighs start to shake, just as your stomach seizes.
“Nope. She’s not getting fed all the way until I’ve felt her on my cock.”
You nod frantically, fingers gripping the sheets, desperate.
Heeseung leans back, licking his lips, chin soaked, eyes wild.
“She’s ready,” he says. “She’s starving.”
He’s already got two fingers hooked inside you when he tells you to open your mouth.
Not to kiss him. Not to speak. Just to take it.
He shoves his fingers past your lips—soaked in your own slick, the same fingers he’s been curling deep inside your cunt, dragging against that spot that makes your eyes roll back. You gag around them, moaning as the taste floods your tongue—salty, sour, yours. He pushes them down onto your tongue, presses hard until your spit leaks out around them and drips down your chin.
“Swallow it,” he mutters, eyes locked on your face. “That’s what obedience tastes like.”
You do. Of course you do.
Because you’d do anything he says.
And he knows it.
He wipes the slick from your lips with his thumb, drags it down your throat, then shifts forward—kneeling between your trembling thighs, lining himself up with your soaked entrance like he’s been waiting years for this moment.
You stare down at his cock, thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, and your whole body tenses. You’re already open, already dripping, already fucked dumb—but none of it’s going to prepare you for this.
“Look at her,” he mutters under his breath, dragging the head of his cock through your folds, smearing pre-cum across your clit. “She’s fucking begging.”
“She wants it,” you pant, voice shaking. “Please—”
He doesn’t give you time to finish.
He presses in—slow, deep, cruel.
The stretch hits you all at once. Your back arches. Your breath leaves you in a choked gasp, and your pussy clenches hardaround him, sucking him in inch by inch like she never wants to let him go.
“Ohhh, fuck,” he groans. “She’s trained alright.”
You moan. Loud. Desperate. Writhing beneath him as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass, his cock buried all the way to the base.
She’s full.
Finally fucking full.
Your cunt grips him tight, fluttering around his cock like she’s been starving for it—and she has. Every inch of him hits something you didn’t know existed. Your body shakes under the pressure. You’re soaked. Stuffed. Used. And you want more.
“Say it,” he growls. “Say what she is.”
“She’s yours,” you gasp. “She’s a hole—your hole—she’s been waiting for this—”
He pulls out halfway, then slams back in.
You scream.
“You’re goddamn right she’s mine,” he snarls. “You trained her just to take my cock.”
You nod frantically, crying now, pleasure too thick in your throat to hold back.
He starts to fuck you in earnest—hard, relentless, loud. Skin slapping skin. His cock slick from your wetness, dragging through every twitch and squeeze, pressing deep, deeper, forcing your body to stay open for him. You feel it in your stomach. Your spine. Your fucking brain.
Every thrust knocks your thoughts loose. And you want to thank him. You want to feel him. You want to taste him.
So you lift your head—try to kiss him.
You lean up, lips parting, mouth open and begging.
He pulls back.
His hand grabs your throat, presses you flat into the mattress. You gasp, eyes wide, blinking up at him in confusion. He smiles. Cruel. Mocking.
“No,” he says coldly. “You don’t deserve to be kissed.”
Your breath shatters.
“Kisses are for good girls,” he spits. “You’re just a trained little hole.”
Your pussy clenches around him so violently he groans.
“That’s all you are now, isn’t it?” he sneers. “A stupid little cunt that opens on command. You get used, not kissed.”
Tears spill over your cheeks.
And you cum. Just like that.
From the words. From the shame. From the humiliation.
Your pussy spasms around his cock, soaking both of you as you scream into his hand still wrapped around your throat. Your hips jerk. Your vision goes white. But he doesn’t stop.
He fucks you through it, hips pounding, cock punching into your oversensitive cunt like he’s trying to reprogram you from the inside out.
“That’s it,” he pants. “Let her milk me. Let her show me how much she needed this.”
You’re sobbing. Gasping. Too wrecked to speak.
“Fucking knew it,” he groans. “You were never gonna be satisfied until you got split open.”
He leans down, mouth right by your ear.
“But don’t ever reach for a kiss again. Sluts like you don’t get kissed.”
You’re already limp when he flips you.
Your body gives out so easily—shoulders pressed into the mattress, arms numb, legs trembling, hips cocked up on instinct the second he yanks you onto your stomach. His hands drag you by the waist like a ragdoll. Like something boneless, brainless, ruined. Your face is buried in the pillow. Your cheek sticks to the fabric. You’re crying, still, but there’s no shame left. Just the raw ache of your cunt pulsing around nothing—because he pulled out.
You whine, pathetic and wordless, hips rolling back into the air, leaking down your thighs.
“Still hungry?” he mutters behind you.
You nod into the pillow.
“Say it.”
“She’s empty,” you whimper. “She’s twitching—she wants you back in—she’s not done—she’s never done—”
You gasp when the head of his cock slides back in. Just the tip.
He doesn’t give you the rest.
You wiggle. Cry. Press your ass back against him and moan when your folds stretch again, split open all over his length.
“You trained her to take it,” he says. “Now you’re gonna train her to keep it.”
He presses forward.
His cock buries to the hilt in one brutal thrust, and your whole body spasms. Your hands claw at the sheets. Your cunt clenches so violently it forces a sob out of your chest, high-pitched and broken. You’re still sensitive. Still throbbing from the last orgasm. But he doesn’t care.
He starts fucking you again like he owns you.
The slap of skin echoes in the room, wet and obscene, his cock pounding into your raw pussy like she’s just a hole to conquer. You don’t even try to move anymore. Your body takes it. Open, obedient, used.
“You like that?” he pants. “You like being my little fucktoy?”
“Yeah, you do. You’re trained now. A good little cocksleeve who comes when she’s told. Cries when she’s full. Cums from being humiliated.”
“I do,” you choke out. “I’m yours—I’m your toy—just your fucktoy—use me—use her—”
“That’s it,” he growls. “That’s what she wanted, isn’t it? Not kindness. Not kisses. Just cock. Just someone to shove it in and remind her she’s nothing but a messy, wet little pussy.”
He thrusts harder. You scream into the sheets.
“She’s so loud,” he snarls. “So fucking wet. She’s gushing. Every time I pull out she cries.”
You don’t even recognize your own voice when you cum again.
It’s raw. Ugly. Loud.
You scream—clawing at the sheets, nails ripping fabric, your body wracked with spasms as you squirt all over his cock, wet exploding out of you in waves, soaking the bed, your stomach, your thighs. You can’t stop it. You don’t want to.
He fucks you through it—harder.
“Let her break,” he growls. “Let her fucking split.”
And when your body finally collapses, hips falling, spine trembling, Heeseung doesn’t even slow down.
He grabs your hips, hauls you up, and drives in deep one more time—and stays there. His cock pulses inside you. Thick. Hot. Flooding you.
You feel it. You feel his cum shoot deep, thick ropes filling your already ruined pussy until your belly aches with it.
He stays inside. Keeps you cockwarmed, plugged full, hands rubbing down your spine like this is the aftercare.
Not words. Not love. Just being kept full. Like you should be.
You barely breathe. Your eyes are glassy. Your mouth’s open. You feel him lean over you. Feel the slow drag of his lips against your ear.
“You’re not starved anymore,” he whispers. “She’s fed now. Finally.”
You nod. Barely. Weak. Fucked out. His cock twitches.
“She’s still twitching,” he murmurs. “She wants to sleep like this.”
-
You wake up to the burn in your thighs.
The stretch. The ache. That slick-dried, too-sensitive sting between your legs from being filled for hours without a break. Your skin’s flushed. Clammy. You shift slightly under the covers, still half-asleep, and you feel it—him.
Still there. Still inside you.
You blink. Breathe. Try to make sense of your body—but the pressure between your legs is still warm. Your cunt clenches instinctively, and his cock twitches in response.
A slow, deep ache spreads in your gut.
His arm is draped over your waist. His chest is pressed against your back. He’s asleep—soft breaths on your shoulder, jaw resting against the side of your head. And his cock is still buried to the base in your pussy. Warm. Heavy. Plugging you full like it belongs there.
But something else creeps in too.
You lie there for a moment. Silent. Still. Pussy fluttering, heartbeat slowing, and that awful little ache growing in your chest. The one that started the second he pulled away last night. The one that settled into your ribs when you reached for him and he said “You don’t deserve to be kissed.”
You swallow. You whisper it before you even think about it.
“Are you really not gonna kiss me?”
It’s soft. Not needy. Just… there.
His breath shifts against your skin. His arm tightens slightly around your waist.
You almost regret asking.
Until he exhales through his nose and mutters, voice rough and low and real, “I’m still fucking inside you, you brat. You think I’m gonna spend the whole night cockwarming my favorite pussy and not kiss her in the morning?”
You twist under him, face flushed, and turn your head over your shoulder—and his mouth is already there.
No hesitation. He kisses you hard.
Mouth slanting over yours, tongue sliding in with no patience, lips full and hot and filthy with morning breath and spit. You moan into it, deep and broken, cunt clenching around his cock again like she’s reacting to the kiss like it’s touch.
His hand grips your jaw, thumb dragging over your cheek as he devours your mouth. He licks into you like he means it—like you’ve earned it—like he’s been wanting to do it since before he ever called you a slut.
You’re whimpering into his mouth when it happens.
Your lips slide against his, sticky with spit, your breath still uneven from how long you spent crying into the pillow, your cunt still fluttering weakly around his cock. He hasn’t pulled out. He’s still inside you. Still twitching, half-hard again already, thick and warm, stretching your still-leaking pussy while your body curls back into him, needy and clingy and soft in a way you didn’t get to be last night.
His hand cups your jaw now. Gentle. Finally. His thumb drags along your lower lip, slow and possessive, like he’s re-learning your mouth after denying it. His tongue pushes into you with unhurried filth, and your hips shift just barely, like your cunt’s trying to pull more of him in. Like she doesn’t even know how to be empty anymore.
And then you hear it.
“Heeseung?”
It’s distant. Not loud. Sleepy. But your blood freezes.
“Hey—have you seen Y/N?”
Evie. She’s awake. The breath dies in your throat.
Your eyes fly open. Heeseung’s hand freezes on your jaw. Your whole body locks. His cock is still deep inside you, softening now, but still heavy. Still leaking. You can feel him dripping down your inner thighs as your brain flips inside out with panic.
“Shit,” you mouth, barely audible.
Heeseung exhales through his nose, calm, but his arm is already tightening around your waist like he’s trying to figure out his next move in real time.
“Y/N?” she calls again. “Where’d you go?”
You scramble out of the bed like you’ve been shot. Legs wobbly. Pussy sore. You trip over the blanket as you reach for your discarded clothes, yanking your hoodie on over your head, trying not to scream as your shorts catch on your ankle. You’re still soaked, your panties still twisted around your thigh from where he shoved them earlier, and you can feel his cum still inside you, wet and hot and fucking obvious.
Heeseung’s already sitting up, dragging his hoodie on, running a hand through his hair to make it look like he just woke up.
You’re panicking. “Do I go back to her room? What do I do—what if she’s in the hallway—?”
Heeseung stands up, grabs your shoulders, kisses your forehead once—quick, mocking, cocky—like this is funny to him.
“Bathroom. Now.”
You sprint for it. Just as he opens his door.
His voice is casual. Sleep-rough.
“Yo.”
“You seen Y/N? I woke up and she wasn’t in bed. Her stuff’s still there though.”
Heeseung stretches in the doorway, voice smooth as fucking silk.
“Nah, haven’t seen her. She probably went to the bathroom.”
“She didn’t text me.”
“She probably didn’t want to wake you.”
You’re crouched in the bathroom, hands over your mouth, hoodie soaked at the hem, thighs still trembling. You glance down and see a smear of his cum on your leg, glistening in the morning light like a neon sign of guilt.
“Whatever. Tell her I’m making pancakes.”
“Will do.”
Door shuts. Heeseung turns, leans into the bathroom, finds you crouched by the sink.
“You owe me.”
You punch his chest.
He grabs your wrist. Kisses it.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers, voice low. “You’ll pay me back tonight."
-
It’s early.
Evie’s downstairs making coffee. You can hear the clinking of mugs, the stupid hum of whatever playlist she plays when she’s in a good mood.
You’re in Heeseung’s lap. Hoodie on. No underwear. His back’s against the headboard, his cock deep inside you, and you’re grinding slowly—hips circling, cunt fluttering, hands pressed to his chest to keep yourself upright.
You’re not allowed to bounce. Not allowed to moan.
Just slow, controlled rolls—like you’re milking him without giving yourself away.
“You sound like you want her to know,” he whispers against your throat.
You shake your head. Breathe through your nose. Keep moving.
“Then be quiet, baby. Or I’ll hold your mouth and your hips still, and you won’t cum at all.”
You almost cry. He grabs your ass. Tilts your hips just right.
“If she walks in, you better keep her name off your lips while I fill you up.”
You do. Barely.
You cum with your hand clamped over your mouth, twitching around his cock like you were made for it—and Heeseung cums seconds later, low and quiet, mouth on your collarbone.
Downstairs?
Evie sings along to the chorus.
-
It’s disgusting.
There’s no other word for it.
You’re on all fours, face buried in Heeseung’s mattress, drooling, moaning, thighs trembling with every wet squelch of his fingers plunging into you from behind. His mouth is glued to your cunt, spit running down his chin, tongue working your clit in slow, sloppy laps while one hand spreads you open—and the other, lower, slick with your cum, is rubbing tight circles around your asshole.
You’re whining his name. Filthy. Wordless. Brain-melted.
“Fuck, she’s drooling for it,” he mutters into your pussy. “She wants both. She’s ready. One in her ass, two in her cunt—you wanna be stretched like a proper little hole, huh?”
Your face is soaked. Your body’s trembling. Your pussy flutters around his fingers, slick squelching with every slow drag in and out. Your rim clenches, raw and wet from the friction. You try to answer, but all that comes out is a pathetic sob.
“Say it,” he growls. “Say what she wants.”
“I want it,” you gasp, voice cracking. “I want you to open my ass—wanna be full, wanna cum like a fucktoy—please—please—”
And then—
“Y/N?”
You hear your name like it’s being spoken through a tunnel.
You freeze.
Every muscle in your body locks.
Heeseung doesn’t move.
You can feel his tongue hovering right at your clit. His finger is still circling your asshole.
And then you both look up.
In the doorway. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.
Evie.
Her face doesn’t go red. It goes white. Like her blood just dropped to her feet.
She stares at your body—at your back arched, knees wide, your ass open, Heeseung’s hand buried between your cheeks, your best friend’s brother with his mouth on you and your spit in his beard.
And then she gags. Audibly. Violently.
Her whole body jolts forward like she’s about to puke right there in the hallway.
“Oh my—fucking—god—” she chokes. “What the—what the FUCK—”
She turns. Presses her palm to the wall. Leans into it. Her other hand clamps over her mouth and you see her shoulders jerk. Once. Twice. A horrible, broken sound crawls out of her throat.
“No—no—no—no, no, no—”
She’s panicking.
Can’t breathe. Her body is shaking so hard you think she might collapse.
“Evie—” you start, voice already wet. “Evie, please—please just listen—”
“DON’T.”
The scream hits like a slap.
“Don’t talk to me. Don’t—don’t even say my fucking name—”
You’re sobbing now. Reaching for the blanket. Falling off the bed. Barely able to pull your hoodie down over your sticky, twitching body.
Heeseung moves. Not fast enough. Still shirtless. Still hard. His fingers still glistening.
“Heejoo—”
“DON’T. CALL ME THAT.” Her voice is shrill, raw, wrecked. “You’re my fucking brother.”
She looks at you. Like she doesn’t even know you.
And then her expression cracks completely.
Her face contorts—pain, betrayal, disgust, hatred—all in one devastating collapse.
“You were inside her,” she whispers, and her voice breaks. “You had your—your—you were licking her while you were fingering her ass—”
“You’re both fucking insane.”
You crawl toward her. Not thinking. Just begging. Your knees burn. Your hands shake.
“Evie—please—please just let me explain—”
She flinches.
Flinches.
Like your voice touched her skin. Then she goes still. Her breathing slows. Her hands drop to her sides.
She looks empty.
“Don’t come near me.”
Her voice is flat now. Robotic.
“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t even fucking breathe in my direction.”
You can’t speak. Can’t move. She steps back.
Looks at Heeseung. Then at you.
“You’re both dead to me.”
-
You don’t remember the walk home.
You don’t remember grabbing your phone, or leaving the house, or what the weather was like. You don’t remember how long you cried, or how many people stared, or how fucking long it took for the heat between your legs to fade into something cold and ugly. You just remember sitting on your bedroom floor—hoodie still wet between your thighs, your underwear balled up in your pocket—and trying to breathe without choking on it.
Because it doesn’t stop. The image. Her face.
Evie, hand over her mouth. Evie, gagging. Evie, stepping back like you were something dirty.
She meant it. Every word.
“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t fucking breathe in my direction.”
She meant it.
You try to text her that night. You don’t even know what to say. There are three different messages in your drafts: one with just her name. One that says “I’m sorry.” One that says nothing at all.
They don’t send. You’ve been blocked.
He doesn’t text either. You don’t even know if he can.
The silence is so big it feels like a second death. You lie in bed every night with your phone face-up on your pillow, waiting for it to light up with anything. A call. A voice note. Just a name.
It never comes.
But you still feel him. In your body. In your bones.
Every time you try to sleep, your body curls like it’s expecting to be filled.
Some nights you wake up sweating—panting, pussy twitching—because you dreamed of his voice again.
You still miss him. Even after all of it. Even after how it ended.
Even after Evie’s face broke in half at the sight of you—wet, spread open, her brother’s finger sliding into your ass while you begged for more.
You still miss him. And that’s the part that makes you sick.
-
It’s been nearly two weeks since you watched Evie recoil in that doorway, hand clamped over her mouth like she was actually going to vomit.
You can’t erase the memory of her face—how disgust bled into betrayal, how her gaze slid right past you like you didn’t exist, then landed on Heeseung as if he were some twisted stranger in her own home. You tried to bury the image, tried to make it small and unimportant, but it lives in your chest now, swelling every time you breathe.
You haven’t talked to either of them since. Not one word to her, not a single text to him.
It’s as if the world paused on that moment: her voice ripping through the room, your body half-naked, his spit drying on your thighs, your stomach churning with guilt.
Now the doorbell rings, and somehow you already know who’s on the other side.
You open it slowly, hesitation weighing on every movement of your hand.
Heeseung stands there in a wrinkled hoodie, dark circles stamped beneath his eyes. He looks thinner—like the shape of him has caved in from the inside out. His hair is unstyled, his shoulders hunched, and the way he stares at you feels desperate.
Neither of you speak for a few seconds, the silence pressing into your lungs.
Then you break it, because you can’t handle him looking at you like that. “Why are you here?” Your voice comes out flat, echoing the numbness you’ve been living in.
Heeseung swallows, gaze skittering between your face and the ground.
“I had to see you.”
The words feel like they’re meant to fix something, but all they do is twist the knife. You give a hollow laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
“You already saw enough.”
He exhales shakily, bringing a hand up to scrub at the back of his neck.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “I know that’s not—there’s nothing I can—” He trails off, struggling, guilt carved into every line of his face. When he finally speaks again, his voice strains.
“You think we haven’t replayed it a hundred fucking times?” he asks. “The door. The blanket. You moaning. Me—God—we were still fucking with each other right there, even when she—”
“Stop.” Your voice cracks. “Don’t say it.”
“We saw her face,” his voice keeps going, low and fast and pained. “We saw it, and we still didn’t stop, like fucking animals. I see it every time I close my eyes. I hear her say my name like I was never hers, like you were never her friend.”
You speak,
“I can’t look at you without hearing her gag.”
The confession slashes the air, and his lips part like you’ve slapped him.
“I can’t hear your name without remembering what it felt like to be in her house, in her family, doing… that, while she thought I was asleep down the hall.”
For a moment, neither of you breathe. Then he forces himself to speak, voice cracking.
“I know. I fucking know, and I hate that we didn’t let go even when we heard her. I hate that she looked at us like we were monsters. I hate that part of me still wanted to stay inside you, and part of you still wanted me there, when we should’ve both stopped.”
You close your eyes, replaying Evie’s strangled gasp in your head, recalling the numb disbelief that followed when she told you not to speak, not to look, not to fucking breathe in her direction.
“I can’t talk to you,” you whisper, voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I can’t even hear your name without feeling sick.”
He swallows and nods, like he’s been waiting for those exact words. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds like he’s about to shatter. “I won’t—if you never want to see me again, I understand.” He drags in a breath that rattles in his chest. “I just needed to know you were… alive.”
For a moment, you want to ask him if he’s okay too, if he’s been eating or sleeping, if he wakes up sweating like you do. But you lock it down, because you can’t afford to care right now.
“Well,” you say, and your voice is colder than you intend, “now you’ve seen me. Congratulations.”
A faint tremor passes through him, and he nods once. There’s nothing else. No lecture, no pleading. He just steps back, shoulders slumped, and turns away.
-
It happens in the grocery store, of all places. You’re pushing a half-empty cart down the cereal aisle, trying not to think about how much quieter life has been since you lost your best friend and the boy you broke her heart with. You’re scanning the shelves for something to distract you when you catch sight of a familiar figure at the other end of the row.
Your heart lurches, your fingers tightening on the cart handle as your stomach flips.
Because there, frowning at the boxes of cereal, is Evie—or Heejoo, or however she wants to be called now. You don’t have time to decide whether you should turn and run or force a hollow smile. She glances up, and your eyes meet. Neither of you moves.
The aisle feels too narrow. Her cart sits between you, an invisible barrier.
She looks different—her hair is shorter or maybe just pulled back in a careless ponytail, dark smudges under her eyes, shoulders tense. She seems hollowed out in the same way you feel.
Some part of you wants to say hey or I miss you or please talk to me, but the words dissolve in your throat. She’s the one who steps forward first, letting her cart roll behind her. Her heels click on the tile, echoing your every heartbeat.
“Having fun?” she asks, and it doesn’t sound like a question so much as a thinly-veiled jab.
You grip the handle of your cart, mouth suddenly too dry to speak.
“Evie—”
“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, eyes flicking away like the name itself stings. “You don’t get to pretend we’re okay. You don’t get to act like we’re still friends.”
Her arms fold across her chest, nostrils flaring with each breath, and you feel your own pulse jump in your neck. “I—I’m sorry,” you manage, voice trembling. It’s not enough, you know that.
She scoffs, a breathy, humorless sound. “That’s it? You’re sorry? You think that magically fixes everything?” She gestures sharply, and you notice how tightly she’s clenching her fists. “You screwed around with my brother like it was nothing, and I walked in on—” Her voice breaks, face twisting as she fights off the memory. “I was just the idiot friend who never saw it coming, right?”
Shame flares in your cheeks. You hold your ground, though it hurts to meet her eyes. “I know I betrayed you,” you say. “We—God, I don’t even have the words for how messed up it was. We both knew better. We both let it happen.”
Her hand lifts to cut you off, shaking with the effort. “You think it’s just that you hurt me?” Her voice wobbles between anger and heartbreak. “You hurt him too, you realize that? He was my brother, you were my best friend, and you both blew yourselves up in front of me. Like you had no idea what it would cost.”
Your stomach knots in a way you haven’t felt before. She’s right. It wasn’t just her—it wasn’t just you. It was all three of you, tangling and twisting until it snapped. “I know,” you say more quietly. “And we’re all paying for it. He’s… he’s not okay. I’m not okay. And you’re definitely not okay. There’s no part of this that isn’t broken.”
She lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Do you think that helps? Hearing you say it’s broken doesn’t change the fact that I can’t even look at either of you without wanting to scream.”
You bow your head, voice almost inaudible. “I wish I could take it back.”
She swallows, and for a fraction of a second, the hostility in her eyes flickers with pain. “Well, you can’t.” Her grip tightens on the cart handle until her knuckles whiten, and she exhales shakily.
“I want my brother back, you know. I want my friend back. But I don’t get either of those things, because you two decided to… to destroy what we had.”
Your throat closes up, tears pricking at your eyes. “I’m sorry.”
She stares for another few seconds, jaw clenched as she holds herself together. Then she moves around you, snatching her cart by the handle, the wheels squeaking in protest.
“Enjoy the produce,” she mutters under her breath, voice dripping with bitterness as she passes.
-
It doesn’t happen overnight.
There’s no single conversation that wipes the slate clean, no perfect gesture that makes Evie’s betrayal vanish, no magic wand that repairs the gaping wound in your chest.
But over time—slow, grudging, step by hesitant step—you all begin to realize that staying in this darkness is killing you. Staying strangers, orbiting the same guilt without looking one another in the eye, is worse than facing the truth. And that truth is messy, fragile, and riddled with scars.
It begins with Evie texting you, late at night, a week after the grocery store encounter.
Just three words: We need to talk.
You stare at the screen for a solid minute, heart pounding like it’s trying to break out of your chest.
Your hands shake as you reply, Yeah, okay.
That’s all. No apology, no second-guessing, just acceptance. You wait for her to say when or where, but she doesn’t text back until the next afternoon, telling you to meet her at the park near her house.
And then she clarifies: Just you.
You show up after sunset, nerves jangling in every limb, expecting hostility, or silence, or both.
Instead, you find Evie sitting on a faded wooden bench under a flickering streetlight. She looks smaller than you remember, knees drawn up under her chin, arms hugging herself for warmth. As you approach, you open your mouth to say something—anything—but she holds up a hand, shaking her head.
“Don’t,” she says, voice tight. “Not yet.”
You stand there, awkward and guilty, waiting for her permission to speak.
She lowers her hand and sighs, staring at a patch of dead grass near her feet. “I asked you here because… this is killing me,” she mutters. “Being this angry all the time. Hating you. Hating him. I can’t keep up with it. It’s turning me into someone I don’t recognize.”
Her words break something inside your chest, and your throat goes thick. You sit down on the far edge of the bench, leaving a wide space between you, unsure if you’re allowed to be any closer. “I… I know,” you manage, voice unsteady. “I feel it too. It’s like I’m rotting on the inside.”
She nods once, gaze flicking to you before sliding away again. “I’m not saying I forgive you,” she warns, and you nod, heart pounding. “I’m just saying I don’t want this to be my life anymore. This—rage. It’s not me.”
She exhales, shoulders curling inward. “And I loved you. You were my best friend. And he… he’s my brother, and I loved him too. So how did we all end up here?”
Silence lingers. You fight back tears that threaten to spill.
“We messed up,” you whisper, voice cracking. “We both did. Me and him. We used your house, your trust, your everything for our own messed-up… needs, and it was stupid and selfish and we ended up shattering everything.” You swallow a lump in your throat. “I know none of that fixes it. But I swear to you, we never wanted to hurt you.”
Evie laughs bitterly, a hollow sound. “Well, you did. And I can’t pretend you didn’t.”
Her gaze shifts to the distance, to the halo of light under the streetlamp. “But I don’t know if I can keep hating you. Or him.”
She hesitates, words coming out slow. “I saw him last week. He looked—God, I hardly recognized him. Like a ghost of himself.”
You nod, biting back the urge to defend him or to ask a dozen questions. “He’s… not doing great,” you say simply, remembering his hollow cheeks, the way his voice cracked when he said he couldn’t sleep.
She wraps her arms tighter around herself, rocking slightly. “Neither are we,” she points out. “None of us are okay. And I guess that’s what I’m realizing. That we’re all stuck in the same crater, staring at the same wreckage. Maybe we shouldn’t be trying to fix it on our own.”
Your eyes burn with unshed tears. “What do you want to do?” you ask, feeling the weight of her words press into your chest.
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she looks directly at you, tears shimmering at the edges of her eyes. “I want us to talk,” she says. “All three of us. In one place. I want us to put it all on the table, no hiding, no running out. Because if there’s any chance of moving forward—together or apart—we have to face it."
“I’ll text him,” she says, voice ragged. “Don’t expect miracles. But I can’t do this alone.”
A teardrop escapes your lashes and slips down your cheek. “Neither can I,” you whisper. “Thank you.”
She doesn’t respond, just stands up and motions for you to follow.
-
Evie’s living room is dimly lit, and the air feels thicker than it should—as if everything you’ve said to each other in the last hour is still hovering in the space between. Outside, it’s already dark, the muffled hum of passing cars bleeding in through the windows. You’re all drained—physically, emotionally—yet no one moves to leave. Not yet. It’s not finished.
Evie is perched on the armchair, knees drawn close to her chest. You’re on one end of the couch, Heeseung on the other, and there’s still a gulf of guilt and confusion separating you. But you can feel the conversation building toward something bigger than apologies or confessions of regret.
Evie tugs at the sleeves of her sweater. She glances between you and her brother, mouth pinched tight, but her voice is gentler than before.
“I’m not pretending this is easy,” she begins, clearing her throat. “We’ve all hurt each other. I just want to know what you… what you both actually feel.” Her gaze settles on you, question clear in her eyes. “Do you two even care about each other beyond… beyond whatever it was you were doing?”
You swallow, your mouth dry. This is the moment you’ve been pushing down for weeks, refusing to think about. The reason you woke up gasping sometimes, alone in your bed, missing a warmth you never should have craved in the first place. You take a shaky breath, feeling your pulse hammer in your temples.
“I—” you begin, then stop. Your voice wavers, but you force yourself to speak. “I’m in love with him.”
It comes out bare, unpolished, stripped of excuses. You feel the words echo in your chest, leaving you vulnerable. Across the room, Evie’s eyes widen for half a second, and you can see her guard tighten, just a bit.
Heeseung exhales sharply, his head snapping up. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. Instead, you focus on the floor, heart pounding.
“I know,” you continue, voice trembling, “that he might not feel the same way. I know we started this all wrong, that I messed up your trust, that I hurt you”—you glance at Evie—“and maybe I don’t deserve a happy ending. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t love him just because I’m ashamed of how we got here.”
Evie inhales like she’s bracing for another blow, her arms tightening around her knees.
“You’re saying you love him, even if he doesn’t love you back?” she asks, carefully, like she’s afraid of the answer.
You let out a breath that feels like it’s been caged in your ribs for months.
“Yes. It’s not… it’s not his responsibility. If it’s one-sided, that’s on me.” You glance fleetingly at Heeseung, face flushing. “I don’t expect anything from him, or from you. I just—” Your voice cracks. “I needed to say it out loud.”
Silence envelops the room, charged with tension. Heeseung is staring at you, eyes wide and glossy, like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs. Evie shifts, chewing on the inside of her lip.
Heeseung finally speaks, voice rough.
“You… love me?”
You manage a small, trembling nod. “I do,” you say, meeting his gaze at last. “And if you don’t love me back, that’s okay. I know how messed up this is. I’m ready to… to accept that.”
He looks startled, as if no part of him expected you to be okay with that possibility. His hands flex on his knees, knuckles blanching. Then he breathes out, shoulders sagging.
“God,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievably stupid.”
You flinch, heart jolting—though there’s no real malice in his tone, only a shaky awe and raw disbelief that seems to be tying him in knots. He forces himself to meet Evie’s eyes for a flicker of a second, as if silently asking for permission to go on.
“Don’t call her that,” Evie snaps, voice quivering at the edges. She fixes him with a sharp glare, arms folded tight across her chest. “I don’t care how you meant it—she’s not stupid, and you don’t get to insult her in front of me.”
“Shut the fuck up Evie, one second,” He turns to you, “Because you think I’m not in love with you? That I’d leave you hanging with all this guilt?”
Your heart stutters, the floor tilting under you. “Heeseung…”
“I’m in love with you too,” he says, and the words hang in the air with tangible weight. “I can’t believe you’d be ready to walk away, believing it was one-sided. That you’d… accept it. God, do you have any idea how much it hurts to see you in so much pain, thinking I don’t feel the same?”
A soft sound escapes your throat—some blend of relief and shock—and tears gather at the edges of your vision. Across the room, Evie exhales shakily, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. You can see the swirl of emotions crossing her features: anger, hurt, jealousy, and underneath it all, a lingering care for you both.
Heeseung scrubs a hand over his face, then looks to Evie, voice trembling.
“I love her. I know I messed up. We messed up. We never should’ve lied. But I can’t take back how I feel.”
Evie drags in a deep breath. She pushes herself up from the armchair, pacing a short line across the living room. Her head is down, hands in her hair. When she finally looks at you both, there’s pain in her eyes, but not the same raw fury as before.
“Jesus,” she mutters. “You two…” She chews the inside of her cheek. “I hate what you did. I hate how you did it. But if you love each other—really love each other—I can’t tell you not to.”
Her shoulders slump. “I want to be angry forever, but… seeing you like this, I—” She presses her lips together, tears brimming, then sets her jaw. “I guess I just want us to find a way to exist without destroying each other.”
A thick silence fills the space. Your chest feels ready to burst from conflicting emotions—gratitude, guilt, longing, terror. You look at Evie and see the ghost of the best friend you once knew, who might be willing to stand beside you again one day, even if it won’t ever be the same.
You open your mouth.
“I know it won’t be easy,” you say softly. “I don’t expect you to forgive everything in one night. But maybe… maybe we can start moving forward?”
Evie dashes a tear off her cheek and gives a tiny nod.
“Yeah,” she whispers. “Maybe.”
Heeseung watches her, watches you, then rises from the couch. He hesitates, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch you. You stand up, heart pounding, and drift closer. Neither of you quite meets in the middle, leaving a careful gap where all your remorse hangs. But it’s less than before.
Evie clears her throat, hugging herself.
“I can’t stay down here with you two being… whatever you are. I need time, okay?”
You nod quickly.
“Of course.”
Heeseung nods as well, voice soft.
“Anything you need.”
She steps back, wiping her eyes, and there’s a hint of a weary smile ghosting across her face, like she’s relieved but not sure how to show it.
“You two can talk, or… or go, or do whatever. I just…” Her breath catches. “I’m gonna go upstairs. That’s all I can handle right now.”
You don’t stop her.
Then you turn to him, tears slipping down your cheeks, a tremulous hope fluttering in your chest. He lifts a hand—tentative, like he’s scared to break you—and cups your cheek, thumb brushing your damp skin.
He exhales shakily.
“I love you,” he murmurs, the words raw with emotion. “I’m sorry for everything.”
You nod, voice catching in your throat as you rest your hand over his.
“I’m sorry too,” you whisper. “But I love you, and maybe… that’s something we can start with.”
His eyes close in something like relief, and he presses a soft, uncertain kiss to your temple. It isn’t a triumphant moment, not the kind of romantic victory you might’ve once imagined. It’s tender, laced with guilt and fear. But it’s also real—genuine and fragile, the only piece of warmth you’ve had in a long time.
-
Things shift slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. You and Heeseung start keeping your distance whenever Evie’s around—no subtle hand-holding, no lingering touches, certainly no sneaking off to lock yourselves behind the nearest door.
It’s not that you’re ashamed of each other; it’s that you can’t stand the thought of rubbing your relationship in her face. You both know you’re lucky she’s even letting you in the same room without storming out.
So you dial it back. You let your bodies stop running the show.
It’s harder than you expect—he still sets your nerves on fire by simply looking at you—but you remind yourself that Evie’s feelings matter, that you owe her more than just half-hearted consideration. You give her space, which means giving yourselves space too.
No sex. No heavy make-out sessions. No pressed-up-against-a-wall confessions. Just… time and gentle contact.
Heeseung seems as restless as you.
Sometimes, when it’s late and you’re on a phone call—whispering so Evie won’t hear through the walls—he sounds downright desperate.
You can hear his breath catch when you say you miss him, can practically feel the tension radiating through the receiver.
Yet both of you agree: this is how it has to be for now. If you want Evie to believe that what you have is more than just an addiction to each other’s bodies, you need to show her you can exist outside a bed.
So you go on dates. Real dates. Movie theaters, yes, but also bookstore trips, late-night drives to nowhere, strolling through a local fair when it rolls into town.
You hold hands only if you’re well away from Evie’s neighborhood—fearful that any small sign of affection might break the thin thread of tolerance she’s extended.
The first time you walk along the riverside in the evening, sipping cheap coffee from a convenience store, it hits you that you’ve never really done this part before: the tentative, day-to-day romance of building a real relationship. It’s both comforting and nerve-wracking.
You can feel the charge sparking under your skin every time he smiles at you, like you’re seconds away from losing your careful resolve.
But you don’t. Neither of you wants to risk undoing the fragile progress with Evie.
And that progress is slow, but present.
She doesn’t cringe as much when you and Heeseung enter a room together.
She no longer flinches if you happen to stand on the same side of the kitchen.
Maybe sometimes she rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t snap. You see the tension in her shoulders when you’re all in the same space, though—like she’s bracing for some new betrayal.
You can’t blame her. You still offer to leave the moment you sense her discomfort rising. Surprisingly, she’s started telling you to stay.
But the real sign that things might be healing comes one weekend night when Evie texts you, out of the blue:
Girls’ night?
She doesn’t dress it up with a cute emoji or an explanation; it’s bare bones, almost clinical. And you stare at your phone with your heart hammering, wondering if this is a test, or maybe a begrudging olive branch.
You answer with a shaky yes, and spend the next few hours trying not to read too much into it. You tell Heeseung you’ll be hanging out with Evie, and he just smiles—wide and genuine, telling you to have fun, to text him if you need anything.
Evie’s room hasn’t changed much since the night you snuck out of it to see Heeseung. The layout is the same, the posters the same, the bedspread the same. It all feels loaded with history.
She sits cross-legged on her bed, handing you a soda—no alcohol tonight, no false bravado. You sense she wants you both stone-cold sober for whatever might be said.
There’s an awkward pause, and then she gestures for you to sit, too.
For a while, conversation comes in bursts: updates about random classmates, stories from her day at work, small talk about the show you both used to binge-watch together. It’s stiff, but not hostile.
She picks at her blanket, and you notice how she won’t hold your gaze for too long. Yet each minute that passes without snapping or bitterness feels like a victory.
Eventually, she slides a bag of nail polish across the bed toward you. “You, um… you still like doing this, right? It’s been a while,” she mumbles, glancing at your nails.
It’s such a small gesture, but it makes your throat tighten. You nod, and she exhales something that might be relief.
For a solid hour, the two of you paint and chatter, as if practicing how to be friends again. Her shoulders are less rigid. You’re careful not to misstep. Neither of you mentions Heeseung.
At least not directly. But you feel his presence in the air, the unspoken pivot point around which your every interaction revolves. It’s only when Evie finally fixes you with a long, assessing look, half-concern and half-uncertainty, that the moment arrives.
“Are you two, like… okay?” she asks. Her voice is laced with discomfort, but there’s no hatred in it. “You said no more sneaking around. But are you—happy?”
You swallow hard, carefully blowing on your newly painted nails. “We’re… doing our best,” you say. “Trying to be good for each other. Not just physically.”
She nods, lips twisting like she’s turning over your words in her mind. “I guess… that’s what I wanted to know,” she admits softly. “It still weirds me out sometimes, but I’d rather it matter to you than be some… fling.”
A wave of gratitude surges in your chest, making it hard to speak. You nod. “It matters,” you whisper. “I swear.”
She blinks a few times, then sets her nail polish aside. The tension in her shoulders relaxes just enough that her spine curves against the headboard, more comfortable than you’ve seen her in weeks. “Good,” she murmurs, tone stilted but earnest. “Don’t… don’t make me regret trying to rebuild this, okay?”
Your own shoulders slump in relief. “I won’t,” you promise. Your voice shakes with the weight of it. “And if I ever do, you can—and should—kick my ass.”
That draws a small, genuine laugh from her—a sound you haven’t heard in what feels like ages. She nods, letting the humor fill the space that was once suffocating with tension. “Deal,” she says.
You stay up later than expected—talking about nonsense, painting your nails in mismatched colors, occasionally lapsing into awkward silences.
But each time, one of you breaks it before the air can go stale. By the time midnight rolls around, you’ve settled into a strange new normal: not quite what you were before the betrayal, but not strangers anymore. Something between you is mending, fragile but real.
When you leave, she walks you to the front door. It’s still weird, stepping out into the hallway where so much damage happened.
But Evie’s behind you, not in front, and you can’t help feeling that the dynamic has changed in a way that actually might last. You glance back at her, and though she still looks tired, she doesn’t look hostile or betrayed. Maybe just… cautious. It’s enough.
“Night,” she says, one hand resting on the doorknob.
“Night,” you reply, voice quiet. “Thanks, again.”
She nods and closes the door gently behind you—no slamming, no huffing. Just a simple, private goodbye.
As you slip into the night, you realize you’re smiling, mind already whirring with what you’ll tell Heeseung when you see him next. You catch yourself wondering if you’ll meet up for another date soon. Or if you’ll just call him on the way home, excitedly spilling the details of your slow but tangible progress with Evie.
-
The new place is barely furnished. A couch that’s still covered in plastic. A mattress on the floor. Takeout containers littering the kitchen counter. The floorboards creak with every step. The windows are wide open, and there are no curtains yet. It’s not home—not really—but it’s his.
And most importantly, it’s finally, blessedly, fucking private.
When he opens the door and lets you in, he doesn’t kiss you right away. He just watches you step inside like you’re something he’s trying to memorize. His hands stay in the pocket of his hoodie. His jaw’s tight. His eyes flicker to the bag in your hand, then to your shoes, then up your legs so slowly it makes you feel exposed even though you’re still fully dressed.
You don’t say anything at first. You set the wine down on the counter. You take in the space—empty and echoing—but your skin’s already buzzing. You hear the door close behind you with a soft click, and something shifts.
He clears his throat.
“I haven’t kissed you yet,” he says, voice low. “Not really.”
You turn to look at him. “No.”
There’s a beat.
“Can I?”
You nod.
And that’s it. That’s all it takes.
His hands are on your face before you can blink, warm and rough and needing. The kiss starts soft, but only for a breath. Then it turns—hungry, desperate, filthy. Your back hits the counter with a thud, his tongue already in your mouth, his body pressing into yours like he’s trying to crawl inside you through your lips.
You moan into him, and he groans, deep in his throat, like the sound broke whatever shred of self-control he was hanging onto.
“You have no idea,” he pants, mouth hot against your jaw, “how long I’ve wanted to ruin you in peace.”
Your shirt’s pulled up before you can answer, his mouth already sucking marks down your neck. His hands are everywhere—gripping your tits through your bra, unbuttoning your jeans, fingers slipping into your waistband like he owns the place. Like he owns you.
You gasp as his hand slides between your legs, cupping you through your underwear, his breath catching when he feels the heat there.
“Already wet?” he mutters, voice ragged. “Fucking knew it.”
He yanks your jeans down to your ankles, then sinks to his knees on the kitchen tile without another word. His hands push your legs apart, pulling one up to rest over his shoulder. And when his mouth presses to the soaked fabric of your panties, you cry out—sharp, helpless, needy.
“You wore these knowing I’d take them off with my teeth, didn’t you?” he growls, dragging the fabric aside with his nose, his tongue already lapping through your folds like he’s been waiting for this for months.
You can barely breathe. One hand flies to the counter for balance, the other fists in his hair. He licks you with obscene, wet sounds, groaning into your pussy like the taste is sending him over the edge. You grind against his face shamelessly, whining when he flattens his tongue and drags it up through your slit, over and over again.
“Fuck, Heeseung—please—”
He pulls back just enough to spit directly on your clit. “What do you need, baby?” he pants, thumb spreading it around with tight, deliberate pressure. “You want me to make you cum with my mouth like a good little whore? Is that it?”
You nod frantically, hips rocking against his hand.
“I missed this pussy,” he mutters, diving back in. “Missed how fucking loud she is.”
And she is. Your pussy’s wet, sloppy, noisy, every flick of his tongue echoing off the bare walls. You cum hard, legs shaking around his shoulders, crying out his name as your vision blurs.
But he’s not done.
He stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then grabs you by the waist and turns you around, bending you over the counter.
“No more pretending,” he growls in your ear. “No more quiet. You’re gonna scream for me this time.”
He pulls your panties down and spreads you open, groaning like a man unhinged.
“God, you’re dripping. You fucking missed this too, didn’t you?”
You try to answer, but he’s already stroking his cock against your folds, rubbing the head through the mess between your legs, smearing it everywhere.
“Say it,” he demands.
“Yes—yes, I missed it—fuck, Heeseung, I missed your cock—”
He sinks into you in one sharp, brutal thrust, and you wail.
No condom. No pause. Just the stretch of him filling you up in one smooth, devastating stroke.
“Oh my God,” he groans. “You’re fucking swallowing me.”
You’re moaning, writhing, drooling onto the counter. He doesn’t start slow. He doesn’t give you time. He fucks you—relentless, pounding, like he’s been waiting to do this since the moment you first touched him.
Your ass slaps against his thighs with every thrust. Your pussy is loud, the kind of wet, messy squelch that would embarrass you if you could think.
He slaps your ass hard, making you jolt forward. “Listen to her,” he growls. “She’s been crying for me.”
You don’t stop him. You beg for more.
He grabs your arms and pulls you back onto him, using your own body to fuck you harder.
“Keep taking it,” he snarls. “Be my good little cumrag, just like you used to be.”
You scream. You scream for him.
You cum again, sobbing into the crook of your arm, your entire body trembling.
He pulls out and flips you around, lifts you up onto the counter again, and kisses you like he’s devouring you from the inside out. Your legs are trembling so hard you can barely hold them up, but he spreads them open and spits straight onto your cunt, rubbing it in with two fingers, moaning when you jolt at the sensitivity.
“Wanna fuck you on the floor next,” he mutters against your lips. “Wanna fuck you on the mattress, on the couch, against every wall. Wanna ruin this apartment with the sound of your pussy screaming for me.”
You grab his face, breath ragged. “Then do it.”
He throws you over his shoulder and carries you to the mattress on the floor, where he fucks you in every position he’s ever imagined. He keeps you cockdrunk and leaking. When your voice gives out, he fucks you in silence. When your legs stop working, he props them up and keeps going. And when he finally cums—inside you, deep, claiming—he doesn’t pull out.
He just collapses on top of you, both of you drenched in sweat and slick and the aftermath of something feral.
You can’t move.
You don’t want to.
You just lie there, shaking, full, used, satisfied in a way that makes you dizzy.
Heeseung kisses your shoulder and whispers against your skin.
++ i think he would be the type to run and hug you when you guys see each other after some time(not even a long time like ex. him and jake went to get food from the convenience store while you finished shopping, when you see each other, he’ll come running towards you and hug you)
++ his hugs are warm and protective, not too tight
++ he get jealous when you wear short skirts and around guys at the same time but generally, he doesnt get jealous
synopsis: during the japanese occupation in the philippines, a japanese soldier fell for a filipina
themes & warnings: angst, historical fiction, war, forbidden love trope, poetic(?) and hidden meanings, good lit. and history practice
𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐣𝐢𝐧'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: i did this for 3 hrs than reviewing so i hope you guys like this lol
Walking along the plaza with the sun glaring down on me as I overheard raising voices. A crowd gathered as many of their eyebrows furrowed in the head and frustration. While at the center stood a stern officer as his voice cut sharply through the humid air.
“Calm yourselves! Or there will be no order!” he scans the crowd.
Beside him was another officer. He kept a steady gaze at the same crowd with immense tense posture as he writes on his small booklet.
"Napaka problema naman yung mga Hapon.[The Japanese is causing a commotion again]" my friend said annoyed as we both continued to watch the commotion.
The commanding officer turned sharply, pointing a rigid finger toward a young man in the crowd. “You, quiet down!”
The second officer looked up from his booklet as your gaze locked with his. His eyes, dark and troubled, held a silent message.
A sudden murmur swept through the crowd as the tension thickened. I took a hesitant step forward, almost as if drawn by an invisible thread.
The second officer caught my movement. For a heartbeat, time slowed. His gaze softened, and he gave the faintest nod—as if acknowledging a secret understanding.
But the moment shattered when the commanding officer barked, “Don't meddle into this commotion any more young lady! Step back.”
I withdrew quickly, heart pounding, yet unable to forget the warmth that flickered behind his eyes.
---
It was just past sundown when the world began to hush.
The streets of the town were cloaked in that blue hush of twilight, the kind that softened the harsh lines of the torn buildings and made the world look almost kind again. The curfew bell had long since tolled, sending families scurrying indoors behind shuttered windows and drawn curtains.
But I remained outside just a little longer, walking slowly along the side walk. I didn’t know what exactly I was waiting for—but my heart did. It was beating hard, thudding against my ribs with each quiet step.
Then I saw him.
He appeared from the side alley like a shadow pulled from the soft, amber spill of the lamp—his uniform jacket slightly undone, the cap tucked under one arm. His steps were quick, nearly silent, but the gravel gave him away.
He saw me before I could fully look up.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked sharply though his voice carried a sharpness, it was laced more with concern than reprimand. “It’s past curfew. It’s not safe.”
I blinked at him, as my fingers tightening slightly around the hem of my shawl.
“Oh… sorry,” I said in a hushed voice, almost like I'd startled yourself by being there.
I looked down for a moment, brushing my fingers together, as if the cold air had given me something to do.
His jaw clenched, and he glanced over his shoulder instinctively before stepping closer. “You shouldn’t risk. If anyone sees you—”
“They won’t,” I whispered, standing still despite the tension humming through the street. “They’re all asleep. Or pretending to be.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
He glanced over his shoulder warily, then back to me, voice softened. “It’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be alone.”
I nodded, looking down but feeling the weight of his gaze still on me. The night was still, thick with unspoken tension and a strange, fragile hope.
The silence between me stretched just long enough for the world to feel still—until a sharp voice pierced the quiet night.
“Sergeant! Where are you?”
He stiffened, his eyes flicking toward the direction of the commanding officer’s call, tension suddenly snapping back into his posture.
“I have to go,” he murmured reluctantly, stepping back a few paces. His gaze found mine one last time, serious and almost pleading.
“I want to talk… properly. Tomorrow. At the edge of the market, near the old banyan tree. When the sun hasn’t fully risen yet.”
I blinked, heart quickening despite the fear curling in my stomach.
“Will you come?” he asked quietly, voice low enough so only I could hear.
“Sergeant!"
I nodded before I even realized it, the promise in his eyes too compelling to refuse.
“Good,” he said, and with a final glance, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving me standing alone beneath the pale light of a flickering oil lamp.
The weight of the night settled around you as you turned away, already counting the hours until dawn.
I slipped quietly through the narrow streets, careful not to be seen. The flicker of kerosene lamps cast long shadows on the walls as I hurried home, heart still pounding from the strange encounter.
Inside, the house was dark and still, but the faint creak of the floorboards under my feet betrayed your presence. I paused at the doorway, catching the worried faces of my parents in the dim hallway.
“Bakit kapa nasa labas! Alam mo naman may curfew![Why are you still out? You know about the curfew!]” my mother whispered, her voice thick with concern.
“Hindi naman sila nakita[They didn’t see me]” I replied softly, brushing past them before they could say more.
Upstairs, in the quiet refuge of my room, I closed the door gently behind me. The familiar scent of worn wood and faded perfume wrapped around me, but it did little to calm my restless thoughts.
I laid on the woven mat as the day’s heat still clinging to your skin, and stared at the ceiling.
His eyes—dark, conflicted, but gentle. The way he looked at me, like I were the only thing that mattered in a sea of chaos. The promise in his voice to meet again.
Endless thoughts and my mind raced, weaving stories and questions I couldn’t answer. Who was he, really? Why did his presence unsettle yet comfort me? And what danger hovered just beyond the edges of this fragile moment?
I clenched my fists, a mix of fear and longing swirling inside.
Tomorrow, at dawn. Near the banyan tree.
Should I go?
-----
The next morning, before the sun had stretched its light across the sky, I rose quietly. Wrapped in a shawl against the cool dawn, I made my way to the edge of the market where the old banyan tree stood—its thick roots twisting like ancient fingers into the earth.
I arrived early, heart fluttering with nerves and anticipation, eyes scanning the quiet street.
Then, from the shadows, he appeared... uniform still neat but the weight of the night visible in his tired eyes. He gave a small nod, relief and something unspoken passing between me as he stepped closer.
The day had not yet begun, but in that moment, time seemed to pause, holding space for the beginning of something neither of us fully understood.
He shifted his weight, eyes fixed on the ground for a moment before meeting yours again. “You came,” he said simply, a quiet statement filled with relief and something softer—gratitude, maybe.
“I wasn’t sure if I should,” I admitted “But… I wanted to.”
He gave a small, almost shy smile. “This place feels safer. Away from prying eyes.”
I nodded, glancing up at the sprawling branches overhead, their leaves whispering softly in the morning breeze. The world was still waking up around us both, but here, beneath the banyan tree, it felt like our own secret space.
“I’m Riki,” he said after a pause, extending a hand.
I hesitated, then took it gently. “And I’m Yn.”
The name felt strange and new, yet somehow right.
Riki’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he leaned against the tree trunk. “So, you’re a mysterious night wanderer. Do you always sneak out after curfew, or am I special?”
I smirked, folding my arms. “Maybe I just like testing the rules. Or maybe I was hoping to run into a certain grumpy officer.”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Grumpy? I’m practically a ray of sunshine.”
“Sure, if sunshine came with a scowl and a clipboard,” I teased.
Riki’s smile widened. “Fair enough. But what really kept you out last night? Didn’t your parents ground you already?”
I rolled my eyes. “Parents? Please. They wouldn’t do anything if I turned into a ghost.”
He raised an eyebrow. “A ghost, huh? So should I be worried about haunted barracks now?”
I nudged him playfully. “Only if you start talking to yourself.”
He laughed, the sound warm and easy. “Alright, I admit it—I’m curious about you, Yn. What’s your story?”
I hesitated, then shrugged. “Maybe that’s a story for another night. But I promise, it’s worth the wait.”
Riki nodded slowly, eyes glinting with interest. “I think this is the start of something interesting.”
I purse my lip to hide your smile, feeling the thrill of the unknown between us.
He leaned back against the rough bark, the morning light filtering through the leaves above. The quiet rustle of the banyan tree was the only sound as the two of you savored the moment.
“So,” Riki said, eyes sparkling with teasing intent, “if you were a ghost, what kind would you be? Mischievous? Scary? Or just… utterly charming?”
I smirked, nudging him lightly. “Definitely charming. But only for those who deserve it.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Sounds like a rare ghost.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And what about you? What kind of ghost haunts these parts?”
He grinned. “The kind that’s bad at following orders but good at keeping secrets.”
I smile softened, and for a heartbeat, the weight of the world felt lighter.
Then, from the shadows of the path, a sharp voice called out. “Riki! Where are you?”
He glanced toward the voice, tension flickering in his eyes. “That’s the commander.”
I sighed softly, disappointment flickering through your chest.
He turned back to me, his smile bittersweet. “I have to go, but… I want to see you again. Tomorrow, same time, same place?”
I nodded quickly. “I’ll be here.”
He gave my hand a quick squeeze before slipping away toward the voice calling him back into duty.
As the footsteps faded, I stayed beneath the banyan tree, heart fluttering with hope and anticipation.
-----
Another morning broke gently over the town, casting soft gold over the rooftops and trees. I moved quietly, slipping my shawl over my shoulders as my hand reached for the door latch—hoping to make it out unnoticed.
But my mother’s voice rang out from behind me, sharp as a slap.
“Anong ginagawa mo? Saan ka na naman pupunta nang ganitong oras?[What are you doing? Where are you going at this time of day?]”
I froze.
“I just… needed air,” I mumbled.
“Air? Habang gising pa ang mga sundalo sa labas? Hija, ayoko ng problema. Don’t think I don’t notice you disappearing these past mornings.[When the soldiers are outside? I don't want any problems]”
My father appeared in the doorway, folding his arms as his gaze swept over me with worry.
“You need to be more careful, anak. You think people won’t talk? The neighbors already whisper.”
“I’ll just walk a little,” I said softly, avoiding their eyes. “I promise. No one will see.”
My mother sighed, eyes tight. “Bumalik ka agad. Don’t make us worry again.[Just go back her quickly]”
I gave a small nod, and the door creaked open behind me as I slipped out into the light of day.
By the time you reached the edge of the tree, the sun had just begun to melt the dew off the grass. The old tree came into view—tall and quiet, its shade offering a sense of hush against the hum of the world.
There, beneath its boughs, stood Riki.
His posture was tense, hands clasped behind his back, pacing ever so slightly.
When he saw me, his shoulders dropped in visible relief.
“You’re late,” he said quickly, voice low but thick with worry. “I thought—” he paused, swallowing, “I thought something happened.”
I approached slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
“My mother caught me,” I admitted. “She said people have started to notice.”
Riki exhaled and looked away for a moment, jaw tight.
“I shouldn’t have asked you to come. It’s dangerous. But… when you didn’t show, I—”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but the emotion lingered between me like breath in the cold.
I stepped closer, voice softer.
“I still came, didn’t I?”
His eyes found mine again, filled with something wordless.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “You did.”
A flicker of something passed through his features—relief, maybe, or the hint of a smile fighting its way through the weight he carried. He reached into the pocket of his uniform and pulled something out—a small, pale cloth-wrapped bundle.
He hesitated, then gently offered it to me.
“For you,” he said, softer now. “I was going to give this the other day.”
I unfolded it carefully. Inside was a hair accessory—delicate and glinting in the light, carved with simple but elegant floral patterns. It looked like something meant for someone gentler than war would allow.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, turning it over in my hands. “You didn’t have to…”
“I wanted to,” he said firmly. “You remind me of something… still good.”
The wind stirred around us, leaves whispering above, as if holding its breath for the quiet between us.
I was about to respond, to thank him properly, when a voice called from a distance.
“Riki!”
“I have to go,” he said. “But… meet me again tomorrow? Same time as always. Please.”
I nodded without hesitation. “I will.”
But before Riki could step away, the sharp sound of boots crunching through the gravel echoed behind him. We both turned—too late.
The commanding officer had rounded the bend from the path, flanked by two other soldiers. His eyes, sharp and calculating, immediately locked onto the space between us.
“Riki,” he barked, voice clipped with suspicion.
Riki straightened instinctively, slipping his cap under his arm as if nothing were out of place. “Sir, I was just—”
But his pause said too much.
The officer’s gaze slid to me—lingering. His lips curled, not quite a smile. “So this is why you’ve been lingering in strange places lately,”
Riki’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Instead, he gave me the slightest glance, one that spoke louder than any defense.
“Return to your post,” the officer ordered coldly. “Now.”
Riki hesitated just a second too long, until he gave a reply. “Yes, sir.”
As he fell in line with the others, he didn’t look back. But I could feel his worry lingering in the air, even after he disappeared into the tree line with the others.
I stood frozen for a moment, fingers curling tighter around the gift in my hand. A chill ran up my spine.
---
The days that followed were steeped in silence.
My mother no longer asked where I was going—because she already knew. The commanding officer had gone to our home, his words laced with concern but driven by power. He stood tall at our doorway, explaining in careful, deliberate Tagalog that I was seen "interacting inappropriately" with a Japanese officer. He didn't raise his voice—he didn't have to. His uniform spoke for him.
“She’s too young to understand the danger,” he had said coolly. “I suggest you keep her inside before she causes trouble for herself… or for you.”
Since then, the door had been bolted every morning. My mother barely spoke to me unless it was to scold. My father, who once looked at me with warmth, now wore an unspoken fear in his eyes.
I tried once—just once—to reach the tree. I crept through the back, slipping between fences and under windows. But by the time I reached the edge of the field, Riki was already gone.
He didn’t come back.
Until one night, after curfew, I heard a soft tap against the back shutter.
I hesitated before opening it just enough—and there he was, cloaked in the shadows, worry etched into every angle of his face.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know he’d report you. I never meant for this.”
His voice was quieter than usual, and more tender. “You shouldn’t be here,” I murmured, eyes darting back into the house.
“That’s why I came. You’re not safe… not here, not anymore.”
He reached for my hand.
“Come with me. Just for tonight.”
I stepped out quietly as the night air cool against my skin. In my hand, I held the delicate gift he had once given me, the hair ornament wrapped in silk and memory.
When Riki saw it, his expression softened into something almost fragile. His eyes, dark beneath the moonlight, shimmered with unspoken emotion.
He reached out gently, his fingertips brushing against mine as he took the ornament from my hand. With a small, tender smile, he stepped closer and tucked it into my hair, letting his fingers linger for a heartbeat longer.
“It suits you,” he murmured, voice low, as if he was afraid the moment might break.
And for a second, everything else—war, orders, danger—faded into silence. There was only me and him under the bright moonlight.
---
The walk was quiet, tense. His hand never left mine.
When we reached the officers' quarters tucked behind the old garrison, he guided me through the side entrance, into a small room that smelled faintly of paper, rain-soaked fabric, and cedar.
It wasn’t much—a cot, a basin, and a low table—but it was safe.
“Stay here,” he said gently, pressing a folded blanket into my hands. “Just until dawn. I have to report for duty, but I’ll be back before first light.”
I nodded slowly, heart pounding, unsure whether it was fear or something deeper.
Before he left, Riki paused at the doorway.
Then, he turned around, stepped back toward me—and wrapped his arms around me tightly, his warm embrace more like a shield than a goodbye.
“I’ll be back soon,” he whispered into my hair.
And then he was gone.
---
But he wasn’t the only one watching.
Not long after Riki left, I heard the low grumble of voices outside. I shrank back into the corner of the room, but the door was already being forced open.
Three soldiers stepped inside.
“She’s the one,” one of them sneered. “The girl he’s been sneaking around with.”
I tried to run, but one of them blocked my path.
“You shouldn’t have involved him,” he spat.
And then, without warning—
The world exploded into searing pain.
A gunshot.
The floor met me harshly, and everything blurred. The shouts, the stomping of boots… and then—
“NO!”
Riki.
His voice tore through the room like a blade. He pushed past the others, eyes wide with horror as he dropped to his knees beside me.
“Riki…” I whispered. “I’m sorry—”
He gathered me into his arms, trembling. His uniform was soaked with my blood, but he didn’t care.
“Medic!” he roared, but no one moved.
The commanding officer stepped forward, unmoved, arms crossed. “This is what happens when you forget your duty.”
Riki stared up at him, hatred like fire in his eyes but he stayed quiet holding my cold body.
---
After that night, nothing was ever the same.
He stopped sleeping. Stopped eating. The fire in his eyes dimmed, like a candle flickering low in an empty room.
They demoted him. Called him weak. Useless. Said he’d gone soft.
Stripped of his rank, they told him to leave the quarters. And he did—without protest, without a word. As if he knew there was nothing left worth holding on to.
Riki faded quietly.
A cough, at first. Then a fever that clung to him like a shadow. The other soldiers said it was pneumonia. Or exhaustion.
But deep inside, it was more than that.
It was grief. A soul hollowed by loss. A heart that had nowhere left to rest.
And just like that... he was gone.
But somewhere in the silence, the wind through the trees.
As if, even in death, he stayed beside her—like he promised he would, just once, beneath the shade of that old tree.
++𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐣𝐢𝐧'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: i cried while writing this and i keep re-reading it even though i think its unhealthy
synopsis: during the japanese occupation in the philippines, a japanese soldier fell for a filipina
themes & warnings: angst, historical fiction, war, forbidden love trope, poetic(?) and hidden meanings, good lit. and history practice
𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐣𝐢𝐧'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: i did this for 3hrs than reviewing for exams so i hope you guys like this lol
Walking along the plaza with the sun blazing down on the pavement as I overheard raising voices by the gazebo. A crowd gathered as many of faces had their eyebrows furrowed frustration and heat. While at the center stood a stern officer as his voice cut sharply through the humid air.
“You guys have to follow the decency rules given to the country!” he scans the crowd.
Beside him was another officer. He kept a steady gaze at the same crowd with a tensed up posture as he writes on his small booklet in his hands.
"Napaka problema naman yung mga Hapon.[The Japanese is causing a commotion again]" my friend said annoyed as we both continued to watch the commotion from a far.
The commanding officer turned sharply as us, pointing a rigid finger toward a young man in the crowd. “Silence!”
The second officer looked up from his booklet as your gaze locked with his. His eyes glint under the heavy rays of the sun.
A sudden murmur swept through the crowd as the tension thickened. I took a hesitant step forward, almost as if drawn by an invisible thread.
The second officer caught my movement. For a heartbeat. His gaze softened, and gave the faintest nod.
But the moment shattered when the commanding officer barked, “Don't meddle into this commotion ladies! Step back.”
I withdrew quickly, heart pounding, yet unable to forget the warmth that flickered behind the other one’s eyes.
---
It was just past sundown when the world began to hush.
The streets of the town were cloaked in that blue hush of twilight, the kind that softened the harsh lines of the torn buildings like it made the world seems kind again. The curfew bell had long since tolled, sending families scurrying indoors behind shuttered windows and drawn curtains.
But I remained outside just a little longer, walking slowly along the side walk. I didn’t know what exactly I was waiting for—but my heart kept me there. It was beating hard, thudding against my ribs with each quiet step.
Then I saw him.
He appeared from the side alley like a shadow pulled from the soft, amber spill of the lamp—his uniform jacket slightly undone, the cap tucked under one arm. His steps were quick, nearly silent, but the gravel gave him away.
He saw me before I could fully look up to meet his eyes.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked as his voice carried a sharpness, it was laced more with concern than reprimand. “It’s past curfew. It’s not safe out here.”
I blinked at him, as my fingers tightening slightly around the hem of my shawl.
“Oh… sorry,” I said in a hushed voice, almost like I'd startled yourself by being there.
I looked down for a moment, brushing my fingers together, as if the cold air had given me something to do.
His jaw clenched, and he glanced over his shoulder instinctively before stepping closer. “You shouldn’t risk. If anyone sees you—”
“They won’t,” I whispered, standing still despite the tension humming through the street. “They’re all asleep. Or pretending to be.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
He glanced over his shoulder warily, then back to me, voice softened. “It’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be alone.”
I nodded, looking down but feeling the weight of his gaze still on me. The night was still, thick with unspoken tension and a strange, fragile hope brushed against the wind.
The silence between me stretched just long enough for the world to feel still—until a sharp voice pierced the quiet night.
“Sergeant! Where are you?”
He stiffened, his eyes flicking toward the direction of the commanding officer’s call, tension suddenly snapping back into his posture.
“I have to go,” he murmured reluctantly, stepping back a few paces. His gaze found mine one last time, serious and almost pleading.
“I want to talk… properly. Tomorrow. At the edge of the market, near the old banyan tree. When the sun hasn’t fully risen yet.”
I blinked, heart quickening despite the fear curling in my stomach.
“Will you come?” he asked quietly, voice low enough so only I could hear.
“Sergeant!"
I nodded before I even realized it, the promise in his eyes too compelling to refuse.
“Good,” he said, and with a final glance, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving me standing alone beneath the pale light of a flickering kerosene lamp.
The weight of the night settled around you as you turned away, already counting the hours until dawn.
I slipped quietly through the narrow streets, careful not to be seen. The flicker of kerosene lamps cast long shadows on the walls as I hurried home, heart still pounding from the strange encounter.
Inside, the house was dark and still, but the faint creak of the floorboards under my feet betrayed your presence. I paused at the doorway, catching the worried faces of my parents in the dim hallway.
“Bakit kapa nasa labas! Alam mo naman may curfew![Why are you still out? You know about the curfew!]” my mother whispered, her voice thick with concern.
“Hindi naman sila nakita[They didn’t see me]” I replied softly, brushing past them before they could say more.
Upstairs, in the quiet refuge of my room, I closed the door gently behind me. The familiar scent of worn wood and faded perfume wrapped around me, but it did little to calm my restless thoughts.
I laid on the woven mat as the day’s heat still clinging to my skin, and stared at the ceiling.
His eyes—dark, conflicted, but gentle. The way he looked at me, like I were the only thing that mattered in a sea of chaos. The promise in his voice to meet again.
Endless thoughts and my mind raced, weaving stories and questions I couldn’t answer. Who was he, really? Why did his presence unsettle yet comfort me? And what danger hovered just beyond the edges of this fragile moment?
I clenched my fists, a mix of fear and longing swirling inside.
Tomorrow, at dawn. Near the banyan tree.
Should I go?
-----
The next morning, before the sun had stretched its light across the sky, I rose quietly. Wrapped in a shawl against the cool dawn, I made my way to the edge of the market where the old banyan tree stood—its thick roots twisting like ancient fingers into the earth.
I arrived early, heart fluttering with nerves and anticipation, eyes scanning the quiet street.
Then, from the shadows, he appeared... uniform still neat but the weight of the night visible in his tired eyes. He gave a small nod, relief and something unspoken passing between me as he stepped closer.
The day had not yet begun, but in that moment, time seemed to pause, holding space for the beginning of something neither of us fully understood.
He shifted his weight, eyes fixed on the ground for a moment before meeting yours again. “You came,” he said simply, a quiet statement filled with relief and something softer—gratitude, maybe.
“I wasn’t sure if I should,” I admitted “But… I wanted to.”
He gave a small, almost shy smile. “This place feels safer. Away from prying eyes.”
I nodded, glancing up at the sprawling branches overhead, their leaves whispering softly in the morning breeze. The world was still waking up around us both, but here, beneath the banyan tree, it felt like our own secret space.
“I’m Riki,” he said after a pause, extending a hand.
I hesitated, then took it gently. “And I’m Yn.”
The name felt strange and new, yet somehow right.
Riki’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he leaned against the tree trunk. “So, you’re a mysterious night wanderer. Do you always sneak out after curfew, or am I special?”
I smirked, folding my arms. “Maybe I just like testing the rules. Or maybe I was hoping to run into a certain grumpy officer.”
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Grumpy? I’m practically a ray of sunshine.”
“Sure, if sunshine came with a scowl and a clipboard,” I teased.
Riki’s smile widened. “Fair enough. But what really kept you out last night? Didn’t your parents ground you already?”
I rolled my eyes. “Parents? Please. They wouldn’t do anything if I turned into a ghost.”
He raised an eyebrow. “A ghost, huh? So should I be worried about haunted barracks now?”
I nudged him playfully. “Only if you start talking to yourself.”
He laughed, the sound warm and easy. “Alright, I admit it—I’m curious about you, Yn. What’s your story?”
I hesitated, then shrugged. “Maybe that’s a story for another night. But I promise, it’s worth the wait.”
Riki nodded slowly, eyes glinting with interest. “I think this is the start of something interesting.”
I purse my lip to hide your laugh, feeling the thrill of the unknown between us.
He leaned back against the rough bark, the morning light filtering through the leaves above. The quiet rustle of the banyan tree was the only sound as the two of you savored the moment.
“So,” Riki said, eyes sparkling with teasing intent, “if you were a ghost, what kind would you be? Mischievous? Scary? Or just… utterly charming?”
I smirked, nudging him lightly. “Definitely charming. But only for those who deserve it.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Sounds like a rare ghost.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And what about you? What kind of ghost haunts these parts?”
He grinned. “The kind that’s bad at following orders but good at keeping secrets.”
I smile softened, and for a heartbeat, the weight of the world felt lighter.
Then, from the shadows of the path, a sharp voice called out. “Riki! Where are you?”
He glanced toward the voice, tension flickering in his eyes. “That’s the commander.”
I sighed softly, disappointment flickering through your chest.
He turned back to me, his smile bittersweet. “I have to go, but… I want to see you again. Tomorrow, same time, same place?”
I nodded quickly. “I’ll be here.”
He gave my hand a quick squeeze before slipping away toward the voice calling him back into duty.
As the footsteps faded, I stayed beneath the banyan tree, heart fluttering with hope and anticipation.
-----
After a few other mornings, the usual morning broke gently over the town, casting soft gold over the rooftops and trees. I moved quietly, slipping my shawl over my shoulders as my hand reached for the door latch—hoping to make it out unnoticed.
But my mother’s voice rang out from behind me, sharp as a slap.
“Anong ginagawa mo? Saan ka na naman pupunta nang ganitong oras?[What are you doing? Where are you going at this time of day?]”
I froze.
“I just… needed air,” I mumbled.
“Air? Habang gising pa ang mga sundalo sa labas? Hija, ayoko ng problema. Don’t think I don’t notice you disappearing these past mornings.[When the soldiers are outside? I don't want any problems]”
My father appeared in the doorway, folding his arms as his gaze swept over me with worry.
“You need to be more careful, anak. You think people won’t talk? The neighbors already whisper.”
“I’ll just walk a little,” I said softly, avoiding their eyes. “I promise. No one will see.”
My mother sighed, eyes tight. “Bumalik ka agad. Don’t make us worry again.[Just go back her quickly]”
I gave a small nod, and the door creaked open behind me as I slipped out into the light of day.
By the time you reached the edge of the tree, the sun had just begun to melt the dew off the grass. The old tree came into view—tall and quiet, its shade offering a sense of hush against the hum of the world.
There, beneath its boughs, stood Riki.
His posture was tense, hands clasped behind his back, pacing ever so slightly.
When he saw me, his shoulders dropped in visible relief.
“You’re late,” he said quickly, voice low but thick with worry. “I thought—” he paused, swallowing, but the silence spoke for itself.
I approached slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
“My mother caught me,” I admitted. “She said people have started to notice.”
Riki exhaled and looked away for a moment, jaw tight.
“I shouldn’t have asked you to come. It’s dangerous. But… when you didn’t show on time, I—”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but the emotion lingered between me like breath in the cold.
I stepped closer, voice softer.
“I still came, didn’t I?”
His eyes found mine again, filled with something wordless.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “You did.”
A flicker of something passed through his features—relief, maybe, or the hint of a smile fighting the weight he carried. He reached into the pocket of his uniform and pulled something out—a small, cloth-wrapped bundle.
He hesitated, then gently offered it to me.
“For you,” he said, softer now. “I was going to give this the other day.”
I unfolded it carefully. Inside was a hair accessory—delicate and glinting in the light, carved with simple but elegant floral patterns. It looked like something meant for someone gentler than war would allow.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered, turning it over in my hands. “You didn’t have to…”
“I wanted to,” he said firmly. “It remind me of you.”
The wind stirred around us, leaves whispering above, as if holding its breath for the quiet between us.
I was about to respond, to thank him properly, when a voice called from a distance.
“Riki!”
“I have to go,” he said. “But… meet me again tomorrow? Same time as always. Please.”
I nodded without hesitation. “I will.”
But before Riki could step away, the sharp sound of boots crunching through the gravel echoed behind him. We both turned—too late.
The commanding officer had rounded the bend from the path, flanked by two other soldiers. His eyes, sharp and calculating, immediately locked onto the space between us.
“Riki,” he barked, voice clipped with suspicion.
Riki straightened instinctively, slipping his cap under his arm as if nothing were out of place. “Sir, I was just—”
But his pause said too much.
The officer’s gaze slid to me—lingering. His lips curled, not quite a smile. “So this is why you’ve been lingering in strange places lately,”
Riki’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Instead, he gave me the slightest glance, one that spoke louder than any defense.
“Return to your post,” the officer ordered coldly. “Now.”
Riki hesitated just a second too long, until he gave a reply. “Yes, sir.”
As he fell in line with the others, he didn’t look back. But I could feel his worry lingering in the air, even after he disappeared into the line with the others.
I stood frozen for a moment, fingers curling tighter around the gift in my hand. A chill ran up my spine.
---
The days that followed were steeped in silence.
My mother no longer asked where I was going—because she already knew. The commanding officer had gone to our home, his words laced with concern but driven by power. He stood tall at our doorway, explaining in careful, deliberate Tagalog that I was seen "interacting inappropriately" with a Japanese officer. He didn't raise his voice—he didn't have to. His uniform spoke for him.
“She’s too young to understand the danger,” he had said coolly. “I suggest you keep her inside before she causes trouble for herself… or for you.”
Since then, the door had been bolted every morning. My mother barely spoke to me unless it was to scold me. My father, who once looked at me with warmth, now wore an unspoken fear in his eyes.
I tried once—just once—to reach the tree. I crept through the back, slipping between fences and under windows. But by the time I reached the edge of the field, Riki was already gone.
He didn’t come back.
Until one night, after curfew, I heard a soft tap against the back shutter.
I hesitated before opening it just enough—and there he was, cloaked in the shadows, worry etched into every angle of his face.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know he’d report you. I never meant for this.”
His voice was quieter than usual, and more tender. “You shouldn’t be here,” I murmured, eyes darting back into the house.
“That’s why I came. You’re not safe… not here, not anymore.”
He reached for my hand.
“Come with me. Just for tonight.”
I stepped out quietly as the night air cool against my skin. In my hand, I held the delicate gift he had once given me, the hair ornament wrapped in silk and memory.
When Riki saw it, his expression softened into something almost fragile. His eyes, dark beneath the moonlight, shimmered with unspoken emotion.
He reached out gently, his fingertips brushing against mine as he took the ornament from my hand. With a small, tender smile, he stepped closer and tucked it into my hair, letting his fingers linger for a heartbeat longer.
“It suits you,” he murmured, voice low, as if he was afraid the moment might break.
And for a second, everything else—war, orders, danger—faded into silence. There was only me and him under the bright moonlight.
---
The walk was quiet, tense. His hand never left mine.
When we reached the officers' quarters tucked behind the old garrison, he guided me through the side entrance, into a small room that smelled faintly of paper, rain-soaked fabric, and cedar.
It wasn’t much—a cot, a basin, and a low table—but it was safe.
“Stay here,” he said gently, pressing a folded blanket into my hands. “Just until dawn. I have to report for duty, but I’ll be back before first light.”
I nodded slowly, heart pounding, unsure whether it was fear or something deeper.
Before he left, Riki paused at the doorway.
Then, he turned around, stepped back toward me—and wrapped his arms around me tightly, his warm embrace more like a shield than a goodbye.
“I’ll be back soon,” he whispered into my hair.
And then he was gone.
---
But he wasn’t the only one watching.
Not long after Riki left, I heard the low grumble of voices outside. I shrank back into the corner of the room, but the door was already being forced open.
Three soldiers stepped inside.
“She’s the one,” one of them sneered. “The girl he’s been sneaking around with.”
I tried to run, but one of them blocked my path.
“You shouldn’t have involved him,” he spat.
And then, without warning—
The world exploded into searing pain.
A gunshot.
The floor met me harshly, and everything blurred. The shouts, the stomping of boots… and then—
“NO!”
Riki.
His voice tore through the room like a blade. He pushed past the others, eyes wide with horror as he dropped to his knees beside me.
“Riki…” I whispered. “I’m sorry—”
He gathered me into his arms, trembling. His uniform was soaked with my blood, but he didn’t care.
“Medic!” he roared, but no one moved.
The commanding officer stepped forward, unmoved, arms crossed. “This is what happens when you forget your duty.”
Riki stared up at him, hatred like fire in his eyes but he stayed quiet holding my cold body.
---
After that night, nothing was ever the same.
He stopped sleeping. Stopped eating. The fire in his eyes dimmed, like a candle flickering low in an empty room.
They demoted him. Called him weak. Useless. Said he’d gone soft.
Stripped of his rank, they told him to leave the quarters. And he did—without protest, without a word. As if he knew there was nothing left worth holding on to.
Riki faded quietly.
A cough, at first. Then a fever that clung to him like a shadow. The other soldiers said it was pneumonia. Or exhaustion.
But deep inside, it was more than that.
It was grief. A soul hollowed by loss. A heart that had nowhere left to rest.
And just like that... he was gone.
But somewhere in the silence, the wind through the trees.
As if, even in death, he stayed beside her—like he promised he would, just once, beneath the shade of that old tree.
++𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐣𝐢𝐧'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: i cried while writing this and i keep re-reading it even though i think its unhealthy
꒰ 𝔖𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 ꒱┆starting your new job wasn’t easy whatsoever, however, there was one person who made it so much worse…or better? ⨾
۶ৎ choreographer!ni-ki x fem makeup artist!reader┆fluff, angst, crack┆slight age gap? (2 years), enemies to lovers, ni-ki tries to be nonchalant about his feelings┆teasing, petnames, reader has a panic attack, kissing, crying┆wc 2.4k
⤷ 𝐲𝐞𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: thank you to the anon who requested! i hope it’s okay >//<
꒰ঌ ℬℴℴ𝓀𝓈𝒽ℯ𝓁𝒻 ໒꒱
you got insanely lucky for your first real job. you had secured a spot on the styling team of a k-pop group at the age of 18. it paid pretty good and it wasn’t something you would ever get bored of.
traveling the world, doing makeup and hair, it was all you could ever ask for.
the only bad thing about this job was a singular co-worker. nishimura riki.
he was a dancer from japan and he had been hired a couple years before you to be the choreographer for the group.
for some reason, this man could not stand you. you had no idea what you did to deserve his snarly remarks or his relentless teasing, but it happened. maybe it was because you were new and an easy target for picking on. or maybe it was because he was just a jerk.
“i don’t know what i did,” you whine to your fellow makeup artist, jiyeon. you had come to befriend all of the makeup artist team and you had all gotten very close, many if them treating you like their baby.
“it’s so weird! he was never like this with anyone else?” jiyeon ponders, scrunching her eyebrows.
you continued cleaning your makeup brushes while just thinking to yourself, letting the conversation of your co-workers blend into the background.
“hey! you’re gonna ruin those brushes, aren’t you?” him. his obnoxiously deep voice that never failed to send shivers down your spine.
turning around, you’re met with a 6 foot giant, smirking down at you as he tell you how to do your job. ridiculous!
“no, i’m not,” you bite back, losing your patience with him. you let out a sigh, setting down the brushes and trying to control yourself.
“woahh, chill, i’m just trynna help,” he laughs, putting his hands up in surrender. to be quite honest, ni-ki had no idea why he treated you like this either.
the first day you walked in, clad in your little white dress over your patched jeans, your hair styled too perfectly, and a smile too pretty adorning your lips. he didn’t like the way it made his heart race. he didn’t like the way it made him smile.
so, for some reason, he resulted in pushing you out, not letting you get too close. he was scared of letting his guard down around people. he was scared because of the past.
even still, every time he steps a little too close to you, his breath will hitch slightly and his heart starts to beat a little too fast.
your eyes said it all. you were pissed and you were not putting up with his behavior right now.
“ni-ki, i am trying to do my job and it’d be very nice for you to just leave me alone right now,” you grit through your teeth.
“alright alright, i’m leaving princess,” he chuckles lowly.
“don’t call me that!” you snarl, your patience hanging on for dear life. but ni-ki just smirks once again before leaving the room.
“oh my gosh he totally likes you,” yusu, another co-worker, gasps.
“yusu!!! don’t encourage it! besides, he literally hates my guts! i haven’t done anything wrong to him and he treats me like this!” you whine, pouting at the pink haired girl.
she just laughs and pats your head, saying: “you’ll be fine!! he’ll most likely come around eventually!”
you roll your eyes at that. like that would ever happen.
~~
a big comeback was coming up for the group, meaning that lots of preparations needed to be made.
unfortunately, you didn’t expect this much stress as it was a full album instead of a mini album—which was what you were used to.
“y/n ssi! i’m going to put you in charge of all the eye makeup for filming today, okay? i want them to look similar and you’re the best at it!” the director smiles, making you feel both proud and anxious.
not even seconds later, another directer ran up to you: “oh! y/n ssi! can you please do the hair styles for the members? i know you’re pretty good at that and i think this concept is your strong suit,” she asked, rushing away before you could even agree.
great. now you had eye makeup and hairstyles for all the members. totally manageable.
there was quite a bit of chaos in the prep room. the members were quietly chatting with each other, some filming some behind the scenes, some practicing the dance, and some locking in to get ready for filming.
you kinda lost track of what was going on as you started to feel your head spin a bit, losing a bit of your balance.
“oh- y/n? are you alright? do you need to sit down?” one of the members asked you, concern written all over his face. these boys were always so sweet and they always cared for their staff, making you appreciate them even more.
but right now, it was hard to even focus as there was a searing pain that hit your head. suddenly, the room started to feel a bit too crowded, spots appearing in your vision and your breathing becoming a bit too labored.
“sit her down!”
“no! get her out! she needs air!”
there was a bunch of shouting around you and you weren’t sure who was talking anymore. that was until a voice caught your attention.
“y/n? hey? you here? look at me, yeah?” his voice. the deep concern his voice echoed as he tried to speak as softly as possible to you.
you looked at the boy, eyes staring straight into his. since when were nishimura riki’s eyes so pretty? and since when did he have that mole under his eye?
“hey! there you are, let’s get you outside okay?” he smiles softly. he laces his hands with yours and gently pulls you up, securing you as you stumbled a bit.
you didn’t notice the way the members were smiling at you, glad that their choreographer knew how to take care of you.
once you made it outside, you took a deep breath before collapsing into ni-ki’s embrace.
“thank you,” you mumble softly, enjoying his comfort. you never thought he would be this kind to you, and it kinda caught you off guard. but you had desperately needed a hug and he was inviting you to take it.
“it’s the least i could do,” he replies, his voice calming your nerves. he gave you a couple minuted of silence to collect yourself, assuming you probably had a panic attack.
“stress?” was all he asked, his eyes still staring at the cars passing by. you look at him, tilting you head slightly.
“yeah i guess so…just…overwhelming. i guess i’m not used to it just yet,” you try to laugh it off.
“hey? it’s okay to be overwhelmed, okay? this job is stressful and you’re handling it amazingly. you got this,” he reassured, looking you in the eye.
you were a but stunned by his words as this was the first time he had ever been so nice to you.
“thanks ni-ki…that meant a lot,” you smile back, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
“anytime,” he replies, standing up and signaling to go back inside. “i’ll let them know you can’t do it all without some help. you shouldn’t be doing all this as the newest addition to the team.”
and maybe it made your heart flutter. and maybe it made you hate nishimura riki a little less.
~~
that’s what was so weird. he wasn’t mean anymore, he was nice. you didn’t even think that was in his vocabulary for goodness sake’s! he started bringing you coffee the next morning, knowing you were up at an ungodly hour just to start preparing the boys for mv shooting.
he stopped bugging you about not doing your job correctly and started admiring the way you worked instead. you weren’t sure if you liked it, or it freaked you out because maybe ni-ki was replaced by an alien.
“how come you’ve been so nice lately? i didn’t know you had it in you,” you laugh, nudging ni-ki’s shoulder one break.
“yah! i can be nice! i just…needed to warm up i guess,” he muttered, rubbing the bag of his neck and looking away so you didn’t see the blush that coated his cheeks.
“uh huh…sureee,” you snort, taking a bite of your lunch. “whatever, i like you better like this.”
“you..you like me?” ni-ki coughed, his eyebrows furrowed.
“y-yeah! you actually seem to be a pretty decent co-worker,” you cover up, not sure if you were ready to confess your full feelings.
you weren’t sure why that made your heart sink and ni-ki didn’t either.
“right. co-workers,” he nodded, though his tone didn’t match his eyes. you both sat there in an awkward silence before ni-ki cleared his throat, excusing himself and saying he had to run over the choreo with some of the members again.
you were so lost in thought, you didn’t hear yusu walk in and sit herself down next to you.
“soo…are you falling?” she asks, her tone skeptical.
“i don’t even know,” you sigh. “i think i like him but do you think he likes me?” you pout, everything feeling so complicated.
“ynnie, he’s so in love with you. he always has these little heart eyes when you walk in and he’s so sweet to you now! i think he’s just unsure about how to handle his feelings. he had a nasty breakup a couple years back and it was awful..his choreo was sloppy and he was horrible at teaching at that time. it was bad…” yusu recalls, touching a finger to her chin as she thought.
“well that just means he’s not ready, right?” you sigh for the millionth time.
“no! what it means is that you make him feel different and he’s scared that he’s gonna get broken again and doesn’t know how to approach his feelings!” yusu exclaims, not enjoying your obliviousness.
oh.
“so what am i supposed to do??” you whine, ready to go dig a hole and cry in it.
“you slowly get him to trust you—which i think he already does. but he needs to open up and let you in,” she smiles, packing up her stuff for the day.
so now you had to gain ni-ki’s trust. got it..
~~
things were bad..you were struggling with your bills and you were on the verge of losing it. not to mention, ni-ki had been super cold to you these past few days, making things even more unpleasant.
he would ignore you in the hallways and barely look at you when you were in the same room.
he was back to his teasing—except this time it came in forms of harsh criticism.
“y/n can you work faster? the boys need to be on stage in 5!” he scoffed, venom laced in his voice. you had no idea what you had done to make him cold again but you hated it.
maybe he found out that you liked him and now he hates you for it? or maybe he realized you’re just really unpleasant to be around and now hates you.
one day, you were at music bank super early to get the boys ready for their comeback special. your taxes were filing in and it was hard to keep track of it all. your mom had needed a bunch of money to stay in her assisted living care and it was really eating at your salary.
and today was the icing on the cake.
“y/n! they need the makeup done in 3! jesus, what are you even doing?!” he snapped, making many of the staff and members uncomfortable, including you.
you felt everything crash down and all of your problems come flooding out. tears pricked at your eyes but you wouldn’t cry. not in front of him.
“excuse me,” you managed to squeak out before running out of the room.
you found an empty green room and quickly shuffled into it. you sat on the couch, head in your hands and tears rolling down your nose, cheeks, and chin.
everything was going wrong and the world hated you. at some point, your muffled cries made their ways out of your hand and soon echoed in the room.
a shuffle at the door made you whip up to see who was there, instinctively wiping your eyes to attempt the tears to stop.
there, stood ni-ki in the door frame, a different look adorning his face. something mixed either concern and regret.
“what do you want?” you sniffle, wiping your nose.
ni-ki locks eyes with you before letting out a sigh and walking over to the sofa you were on.
“i’m sorry…i don’t know why i’ve been so cruel to you these past few days..i think i got scared because i felt something a little too real and i got scared..i didn’t want it to end up like last time,” he said, looking you straight in the eye. “i guess i thought that if i pushed you out, the feelings would stop.”
“ni-ki…i want you to know that i still like you even after all this..i would wait as ling as it takes for you to recover just so i could be with you. that past week made me realize that i really like you and you make me happy—like, really happy,” you mumble the last part, your cheeks flushing red.
“i had a horrible breakup a couple years ago and i guess it just made me scared to feel things..i just didn’t want to be hurt anymore,” ni-ki says. “but i want to try with you. i feel like i can be myself around you and i would do anything to make up for my awful behavior.”
suddenly, the room felt like it was just you two in the space and nothing else. ni-ki’s hand found your waist while the other one cupped your cheek gently.
“can i kiss you?” he whispered. you nod and that’s all he needs to lean in.
his lips fit perfectly against yours and it feels like the final piece of a puzzle.
the kiss is soft yet passionate, tender with his apology.
when you pull away, his eyes are twinkling and you suddenly feel the butterflies again. you lean your forehead against his and stay like that for a bit.
“let me be yours,” ni-ki says against your lips, his own brushing against yours as he spoke.
“i’d like that. very much so,” you giggle, closing the gap with another kiss.
yeah, maybe it was a cliché office enemies to lovers, but it gave you a happy ending, making it all okay.
it started with the rain tapping against your window. soft at first like fingers politely asking to be let in. then stronger, steadier, a rhythmic soundtrack to a lazy morning wrapped in grey skies and warm blankets.
you barely registered it at first. what you did register was rikis arms tightening around you.
you shifted slightly under the covers, only to be tugged closer, your back flush against his chest. his legs tangled with yours, face buried against the crook of your neck, warm breath puffing across your skin.
“don’t move,” he mumbled, voice rough and low from sleep. “it’s raining,” you whispered.
“mhmm perfect cuddle weather,” he said, pressing a sleepy kiss to your shoulder. “now stop talking and be my pillow.”
you laughed softly, curling your fingers around his forearm where it wrapped around your waist. “you’re clingier when it rains,” you teased. “because you’re softer when you’re sleepy,” he murmured, nudging your neck with his nose. “and warmer.”
you turned in his arms to face him, tucking yourself against his chest. he immediately adjusted, slipping one leg between yours, his hand sliding up your back and settling at the nape of your neck, his thumb brushing small, lazy circles.
his eyes were barely open just soft slivers of brown, blinking slow and full of affection. “you’re staring,” you whispered.
“yeah,” he murmured, leaning in to nuzzle your nose with his. “can’t help it. you’re so pretty in the morning like…unfairly pretty.” you flushed, half laughing. “kiii stop.”
“never” he grinned, then dipped his head to kiss your cheek. then your nose. then finally, your lips, soft and slow and barely there, like he was still halfway dreaming.
the rain drummed gently against the windows. outside, the world was grey and blurred, but in here, in his arms, it felt warm and golden.
“stay with me all day?” he asked, whispering the words into your hair. “you’re not going anywhere,” you replied, resting your forehead against his. “you’ve practically glued yourself to me.”
he hummed, eyes fluttering shut again. “because you’re my favorite place, princess.” you kissed his jaw, your fingers brushing his bangs back from his forehead. “that was smooth.”
you buried yourself deeper into him, your nose against the base of his throat. he smelled like fresh cotton and that subtle citrus shampoo he always used. his hand slid down to rest on the small of your back, keeping you close, like even in his dreams, he wasn’t willing to let you go.
neither of you moved for a long while. the storm outside swelled and settled, water streaming down the windows, thunder rumbling far off in the distance. inside, the only sound was your breathing syncing with his.
you tilted your head up after a while, just to steal another kiss, short, soft, warm. he smiled against your lips and kissed you back, this one slower, deeper, fingers slipping into your hair.
“you know,” he said, between kisses, “i’d pick this over anything else.”
“what’s this?” you asked, eyes still closed.
“lying in bed with you. listening to the rain. kissing you whenever i want. loving you without rushing.” you opened your eyes, meeting his sleepy gaze. “you already do that,” you whispered.
“yeah,” he replied, tucking you in closer, resting his forehead against yours. “just wanted to say it again.” you smiled, your heart all gooey and warm, and reached up to squish his cheeks. “you’re so sappy in the mornings.”
“only for you,” he mumbled through your fingers, his lips curving into a grin.
you giggled, and he used that moment to steal another kiss, quick and playful this time, like he couldn’t help himself. then another. and another, until you were laughing into his mouth and trying to swat him away, your hands tangled somewhere in his hair.
“kiiii,” you whined, but it was useless. he was already burying his face back into your neck, arms locked around you like a koala. “you’re ridiculous.”
“mm, yours though,” he said sleepily.
“mine,” you agreed, pressing one last kiss to the top of his head. “and i’m not letting you go either.”
outside, the rain kept falling. inside, it was all warmth and skin and sleepy kisses, like time had paused just for the two of you to stay wrapped up in love a little longer.
fresh out of a horrific break up, yn gets invited out to the club by her friends. on the other hand, tokuno yushi, the quietest in his group of friends, is dragged to the same one.
after spending a night filled with a whirlwind of emotions together, they both make the mistake of never formally introducing themselves. they are both determined to find each other again. after all, if they were really soulmates, fate would take over again, right?
yushi x fem!reader
genre. half smau/half written, angst, fluff, lowkey crack, set in college/university
content warning. LOTS of cussing (sorry im a potty mouth 😭), maybe bad grammar/lack of punctuation, very very mild suggestive language, kys/kms jokes, i tried making all the idols around the same age so i picked some that im not too familiar with- taesan is an asshole and i make the introverts into extroverts in this story so sorry </3
author’s note. hii i have no expectations of this popping off i’m honestly just writing this because i dont see a lot of wish on this app </3 i haven’t written an actual story in like 4 years so it might be hot garbage .. but i hope yall enjoy anyways <3 if you want to be in the taglist lmk !
navigation !
too many cats | sion’s minions
prologue . everyone’s invited
chapter 1 . fated (written, 2.3k words)
chapter 2 . good morning freaknation
chapter 3 . MINIONS! TONIGHT! WE STEAL! THE MOON!
chapter 4 . don’t you worry your pretty little head (short written, 621 words)
areudirty
romaincrisis
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
yousharknotpass
blakekathryn
baratheonpilled
