#as far as memory.. physically unreachable

[prophecyhaunted]

You are as far from me as memory ...

[crazykinkrottenkiwi]

Money Talks | Twisted Oneshots [Pt2]

Pairing: Yandere!CEO Yuta Okkotsu x Captive F!Reader (MODERN AU)

Genre: Dark fiction, Psychological horror, Yandere, Possessive romance, Captivity, Power imbalance

Word count: 10.3k

Warnings:

Dark content, non-con/dub-con implications, manipulation, gaslighting, emotional and physical abuse, captivity, isolation, coercion, control through wealth/power, implied pregnancy/breeding themes, possessiveness, forced dependency, violence, implied SA themes, psychological trauma, loss of autonomy, toxic relationship dynamics, intimidation, injury (slapping/bruise), power imbalance, obsessive behavior.

Please DO NOT read if you're sensitive to these topics.

AN: This piece explores heavy and disturbing themes centered around control, obsession, and psychological manipulation. The relationship depicted is intentionally unhealthy and reflects yandere dynamics in an extreme, fictional context. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

Pt2 because mommy asked for it ;p

Masterlist

The city never truly went dark.

Even past midnight, Taipei pulsed beneath the penthouse windows—a restless constellation of neon and streetlight bleeding upward through the glass, painting the room in slow, shifting hues of gold and amber. From this height, everything looked distant. Reduced. Manageable. The kind of view people would kill for.

You don’t look at it the way you used to.

At first, you had. You remember that version of yourself—standing too close to the glass, fingertips grazing the cool surface, letting the glow soak into your eyes as if it meant something. As if it proved you had made it somewhere. That all of this—this life—was something to be proud of.

Now, it’s just background.

The apartment hums softly around you, a kind of curated silence that never quite becomes quiet. The temperature is always right. The lights dim themselves without needing to be touched. Somewhere deeper in the space, glass settles faintly against polished surfaces, a small, delicate sound that belongs to a world where nothing is ever out of place.

Luxury has a sound. You’ve learned that.

It’s soft. Controlled. Careful. Suffocating.

You stand near the window, a glass of wine resting between your fingers. You don’t remember asking for it. You rarely remember asking for anything anymore—not when it appears anyway, exactly as you would have chosen it, as if the decision had been yours all along.

That used to impress you. Now it makes something tight settle in your chest.

You’ve gotten used to it. That’s the worst part. The comfort, the precision, the way everything fits so seamlessly into your life that resisting it feels unnecessary—exhausting, even. Your wardrobe changed first. Then your routine. Then the smaller things, the ones you didn’t notice until they were already gone. Books replaced. Contacts fading. Messages that stopped coming, or maybe you just stopped expecting them.

You don’t reach out anymore. Not because you can’t. Because you don’t know how to explain it.

How do you tell someone that nothing is wrong, and yet everything is?

That you’re safe, and yet—

Your grip tightens slightly around the stem of the glass.

There are people everywhere. Staff moving quietly in spaces you don’t enter, security stationed far enough to be unseen but never absent, drivers waiting below in case you decide you want to go somewhere—though the list of places you can go has grown smaller in ways no one has ever said out loud.

You are never alone. And yet, you have never felt this unreachable.

Even the people who once mattered—the ones whose names used to sit so easily on your tongue—feel distant now, like something remembered through water. Your family. Your friends. They exist somewhere beyond this height, beyond this carefully constructed life.

You could call them. You know that. The thought lingers, fragile and useless. What would you even say?

The words don’t come. They haven’t, for a long time. Not after—

Not after what he did.

The memory of those three days still lingered, though never in a clear way. It came back in flashes more than anything else—the cold steel table beneath your hands, the white fluorescent light burning above your head, the sharp sound of the cell door locking each time someone left. You still remembered how the room had felt too small, too silent, as if the walls themselves were closing in around you.

“Do you have proof?”

That question had been asked more than once, always in the same flat, detached tone.

And every single time, you had nothing to say.

Because there had been nothing to prove. Nothing except your own words, and those had meant nothing in that place.

Even now, the thought of it made your chest tighten. Your body still carried the memory of those hours—the sleeplessness, the stale air, the way time had dragged so slowly it had stopped feeling real. You remembered trying to explain yourself again and again, only to be met with blank expressions and indifferent eyes, as if they had already decided the truth long before you had entered the room.

That was the moment you truly understood what it meant to be helpless.

And some part of you had never really recovered from it.

You hadn’t known how small a person could feel until then. You know now. And maybe… maybe that’s why this is easier.

The realization doesn’t come sharply. It settles, slow and unwelcome. Maybe that’s why you stopped pushing.

Why the edges of this life—this beautiful, carefully arranged cage—don’t scrape against you the way they should. Why you’ve learned to move within it instead of against it. The mind adapts. It always does. Especially after it’s been shown, so clearly, what happens when it doesn’t.

He knew that. Of course he did.

Your reflection stares back at you from the darkened glass—composed, quiet, exactly as you’re meant to be. There’s nothing visibly wrong. Nothing anyone could point to and name.

Everything is exactly where it should be. Including you.

Exactly where he wants you.

—

A soft knock breaks the quiet.

It’s polite—measured, familiar. The kind that waits just long enough to be acknowledged before the door opens anyway.

You don’t answer. You already know they’ll come in.

The door slides open with a muted sound, and one of the staff steps inside, posture straight, movements careful in the way everyone here seems to be. There’s a bag in their hand—structured, branded, something expensive without needing to be examined closely.

They stop at a respectful distance. “Ma’am,” they say gently, lowering their gaze for a second before extending the bag toward you. “Sir had these delivered for you.”

You don’t move right away.

There’s a small pause before you take it, fingers brushing against the smooth handle. The weight of it is light, but it settles in your hands heavier than it should.

“He’s hoping you’ll wear them tomorrow.”

Your brows knit faintly, confusion slipping through before you can hide it. You glance up. “What’s… tomorrow?”

The staff member hesitates. It’s brief. Controlled. But you notice.

“I’m sorry,” they reply after a second, voice just as polite as before, “I’m not permitted to answer that.”

Not unable. Not unsure. Not permitted.

Something in your chest tightens at the wording.

They offer a small, practiced smile. “Have a pleasant evening, ma’am.”

And just like that, they step back, placing the bag neatly on the table beside you before leaving the room as quietly as they entered. The door closes. The sound is soft.

Final.

You stand there for a moment, staring at the bag. Then, slowly, you open it.

A pair of heels rests inside—sleek, carefully chosen, the kind that matches everything you already own without you ever remembering buying anything like it. Of course they would fit. Of course they would suit you. They always do.

Your fingers brush over the material, but your mind is already somewhere else.

Tomorrow.

You exhale quietly, trying to piece it together. Maybe he’s taking you out again. Another dinner, another place you’re meant to enjoy. Or maybe something quieter—one of his private arrangements, something controlled, curated.

His yacht, maybe. That wouldn’t be unusual.

You set the heels back in the box, closing it with more care than necessary, as if the answer might reveal itself if you handle it gently enough.

It doesn’t.

—

By the time you step out into the main living space later, something feels… off.

Not wrong. Just different.

There’s movement—more than usual. Staff crossing the room with purpose, voices low but constant, the quiet efficiency of preparation. And then you see it. Luggage.

Not one or two pieces. Several. Large, structured cases lined neatly near the entrance, more being brought in and arranged with careful precision.

Your steps slow. For a second, you just stand there, trying to make sense of it. And then—

“Ah.”

You don’t need to turn to know he’s there, but you do anyway.

Yuta stands a few steps away, already dressed, already composed—like he’s been ready for a while now. His gaze finds you immediately, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment.

There’s something light in his expression. Amused. Curious.

He tilts his head slightly, a faint smile playing at his lips. “What’s wrong?” he asks, tone soft, almost indulgent. “I thought you might like the surprise.”

Your grip tightens slightly at your side. “I…” The word falters before you steady it. “I'm not. Certainly not.”

Your eyes flick toward the luggage, then back to him. “What is all this?”

He follows your gaze briefly, as if only just noticing it.

“Oh… these?” he hums, almost thoughtfully, tapping a finger lightly against his upper lip. “Right.”

There’s a pause—deliberate. Then, like he’s just remembered something trivial—

“Ah. Yes.” His smile deepens just slightly. “We’re going on our honeymoon.” The words land too easily. Too casually.

For a second, you just stare at him, like you’re waiting for the rest of it—some clarification, some explanation that makes it make sense.

It doesn’t come.

“Honeymoon?” you repeat, the word feeling unfamiliar in your mouth. “What are you—”

He doesn’t let you finish. His smile deepens slightly, something pleased settling into his expression as if your confusion is exactly what he expected.

“We leave tonight,” he adds, like it’s a minor detail.

Your eyes flick toward the luggage again, then back to him. “You didn’t tell me anything about this.”

“You’re right,” he agrees easily. Not apologetic. Not hesitant. Just… certain.

Another step closer, his presence closing the distance without effort.

“I wanted it to be a surprise, Sweetheart…”

—

And he wasn’t joking.

You realize that the moment the car doesn’t turn toward the usual route, when the city thins out into quiet stretches of road that lead somewhere more restricted, more controlled. By the time you’re escorted through a private terminal—no crowds, no lines, no questions—you understand just how little of this was ever meant to involve your choice.

The jet is already waiting.

Everything about it is understated and expensive—the kind of luxury that doesn’t need to announce itself. Soft lighting, wide leather seats that look more like a lounge than anything meant for travel, a quiet hum that barely registers once you’re inside. Staff move around you with practiced ease, already knowing where you’ll sit, what you’ll want, what you won’t ask for.

You don’t remember agreeing to any of it.

The flight passes in a blur of dimmed lights and muted conversation you’re not part of. At some point, the sky outside shifts—dark to pale, pale to gold—and when you land, it isn’t home anymore.

It’s Paris.

Cold air greets you as you step out, sharper than what you’re used to, carrying that unfamiliar weight of being somewhere far enough that going back doesn’t feel simple anymore.

But you don’t stay.

You’re moved just as smoothly as before—from car to platform, from platform to something that doesn’t quite feel real at first glance.

The train waiting there looks less like transport and more like something preserved from another time. Deep, polished exteriors. Gold detailing that catches the light just enough to feel deliberate. Staff dressed in crisp uniforms, movements precise, expressions carefully neutral.

Not many people board. You notice that.

A handful at most—each of them dressed like they belong here, like this kind of travel isn’t an experience but a habit. Quiet conversations, low laughter, the subtle weight of money that doesn’t need to be displayed to be understood.

This isn’t public. This is curated. Exclusive.

The moment you step inside, the atmosphere shifts. Warm lighting. Polished wood. The faint scent of something rich and clean lingering in the air. It’s beautiful in a way that feels almost unreal—too perfect, too intentional. Too contained.

Your hand tightens slightly around your bag as you follow him down the narrow corridor. And then the door opens.

The cabin is… smaller than you expected, but not in a way that feels lacking. Everything is arranged with precision—soft bedding laid out neatly, the sheets untouched and pristine, a small seating area by the window, polished surfaces reflecting the low golden light. The window itself stretches wide enough to make the outside feel closer than it is, though the glass is thick, unyielding.

There’s only one bed. You don’t comment on it.

You don’t look at him either, not immediately. Your gaze lingers on the details instead—the way everything has already been prepared, the absence of anything that feels temporary. Like this space had been waiting.

For you. For both of you.

Behind you, the door clicks shut. Soft. Final.

And suddenly, the space feels smaller than it did a second ago. Warmer. Closer.

You can feel him there without turning—his presence filling the room in a way that makes the air shift slightly, like everything is aware of him, aligned around him.

A pause. Then, quieter—

“Do you like it?”

—

Your fingers curl slightly at your side, nails pressing into your palm as you steady your voice.

“I don’t… understand,” you say, quieter than you intend. Your eyes flick around the cabin—the bed, the door, the window that feels more like a frame than an exit—before settling somewhere just past him. “What’s the purpose of this?”

There’s a pause. You don’t need to look to know he’s watching you.

“The purpose?” he repeats, like he’s tasting the words, turning them over for amusement more than clarification.

Then, softer—

“It’s you, Y/N.”

The way he says your name lands differently here. Too close. Too deliberate.

A small exhale leaves him, almost theatrical, as he tilts his head, expression shifting into something that resembles hurt—just enough to be convincing if you didn’t already know better.

“Can you not be so rude to your husband?” he murmurs, voice laced with a gentle reproach that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m patient.”

The words hang between you. Light. Empty.

You don’t respond. You’ve learned not to—not when the tone and the meaning never quite match.

He watches you for a moment longer, as if waiting for something that doesn’t come.

Then he moves.

It’s sudden—not rough, not forceful, but quick enough that your breath catches as his hand closes around yours. Warm. Firm. Familiar in a way that makes your shoulders tense before you can stop it.

“What—”

You don’t get to finish.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a slow, almost absent motion, before something cool slides against your finger. The movement is practiced, smooth, like he’s done this a hundred times before.

You freeze. The sensation settles. You look down. A ring.

It catches the light immediately—sharp, bright, unmistakable. A diamond, set cleanly, flawlessly, the kind that doesn’t just sparkle but demands to be seen.

Your breath stills.

For a second, you just stare at it, like your mind needs time to catch up to what your eyes are already telling you.

When you finally look up, he’s already watching your reaction. Of course he is.

There’s a faint smirk playing at his lips, subtle but there, satisfaction threading through it as he lifts your hand slightly, just enough to bring it closer to him.

He presses a soft kiss against your knuckles. “Easy,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low, almost amused. “It’s easy to get a reaction out of you, huh, pretty lady?”

You don’t pull your hand away. Not because you don’t want to. Because something in you hesitates—tight, uncertain, like moving too fast might shift something you don’t fully understand yet.

Your throat feels dry.

“Uhm…” The word falters before you can shape it properly. Your gaze drops back to the ring, then lifts again, uneasy. “You didn’t have to.” It’s the only thing you manage.

He hums softly, like the answer doesn’t matter. Then, almost casually, he lifts his own hand. The movement is unhurried. Intentional. The same ring gleams on his finger.

For a moment, the world narrows to that detail alone—the perfect match, the quiet confirmation of something you hadn’t agreed to, hadn’t been asked about.

Your chest tightens.

He tilts his hand slightly, letting the light catch it just right before his gaze flicks back to you, something playful settling into his expression.

“Couple ring, baby,” he says lightly, the words edged with quiet satisfaction. Then, softer, drawn out just enough to linger—“Surprise~”

—

You don’t argue after that.

You don’t fight it—not openly, not here. Instead, you do what you’ve learned to do best. You adjust.

Through the rest of the day, you move beside him, not quite with him. You respond when spoken to, nod when expected, let yourself be guided from one place to another without resistance. It’s easier that way. It always is.

He notices, but he doesn’t say anything about it—not directly. There’s just that quiet sense of approval in the way he looks at you sometimes, like you’ve done something right without being told what the expectation was in the first place.

By evening, he takes you to the dining carriage. It’s… exactly what you would have imagined, once.

Soft golden lighting. Tables set with polished silver and crystal that catches every flicker of movement. The low hum of quiet conversation blending with the sound of live violins somewhere near the far end of the carriage—gentle, elegant, the kind of music that fills the space without demanding attention.

It’s beautiful. Perfect.

The kind of setting you’ve only ever seen through screens before—movies, fleeting images, things that never felt real enough to touch.

And now you’re here. Living it. Experiencing it. And somehow… It feels worse.

You sit across from him, posture composed, hands resting lightly in your lap or around the glass he ensures is never empty for long. The staff move seamlessly around you, attentive without being intrusive, every detail handled before you even realize it needs attention.

Anyone looking would think this was romantic. They would think you were lucky.

Your gaze lifts briefly, meeting his. He’s watching you again. Not constantly—but enough. Enough to make you aware of it.

Dinner passes like that. Quiet. Controlled. Predictable in a way that feels rehearsed, even though nothing is spoken aloud to guide it.

And then, when the music shifts—slower now, softer—He stands.

Your breath stills for half a second.

He extends his hand toward you. An invitation. Not really a choice.

“Come on,” he says lightly.

You hesitate. Just for a moment.

But he already knows you won’t refuse. Not here. Not in front of others. So you place your hand in his.

The moment your fingers touch his, his grip closes—gentle, but certain—and he guides you toward the open space where a few others have already begun to move with the music.

The violins swell softly around you.

His hand settles at your waist, pulling you just close enough to feel the warmth of him through the thin space between you. Your other hand rests in his, held steady as he begins to lead.

You don’t make a scene. You don’t pull away. You move with him, step for step, letting him guide the pace, the direction, everything.

It’s easier that way. Safer.

He seems… pleased.

There’s a quiet amusement in the way he looks at you, like your compliance is something he finds endearing. Like every small decision you make eventually circles back to something that benefits him.

And maybe it does.

The dance itself is… calm. Almost peaceful, if you let yourself ignore everything else. The music, the rhythm, the gentle sway of the train beneath your feet—it creates a kind of illusion.

For a moment, it could almost feel real. Normal. But it isn’t. You know that. And so does he.

—

By the time you return to the cabin, the quiet settles in again.

The door closes behind you with that same soft, final click.

You step inside first, your movements slower now, more deliberate as the day begins to catch up with you. Your gaze drifts automatically—across the bed, the small table, the dim lighting—

And then it stops. On the phone. It rests there, exactly where it shouldn’t.

For a second, you just stare at it. It used to be yours. You remember that much. But now…

Now you’re not even sure you could unlock it.

Still, you move toward it.

Your fingers hesitate only briefly before picking it up, the screen lighting up at your touch. Notifications fill it—stacked, layered, more than you expected.

Missed calls. Messages. Names you recognize.

Your chest tightens slightly as your eyes scan over them, the weight of it settling slowly, heavily. And then—

One notification catches your attention. Your bank.

Your jaw clenches before you can stop it.

‘Your account has been temporarily blocked. Please contact your branch for further information.’

For a moment, everything else fades. The room. The train. The quiet. All of it. Because you had followed along.

You had stayed quiet. You had played your part, done exactly what he wanted, exactly how he wanted it. And still—

Still, he hadn’t kept his word.

Your grip on the phone tightens slightly.

The sound of the door sliding open breaks the silence.

You don’t turn immediately. You don’t need to. You can hear him.

The soft exhale, almost satisfied, as he steps inside. The faint rustle of fabric as he begins to remove his jacket, movements unhurried, comfortable—like he belongs here. Like you do too.

He pauses when he sees you, his gaze flicking to the phone in your hand. There’s a small shift in his expression—not sharp, not alarmed.

Just… curious.

A faint smile follows, edged with something unreadable.

“What are you looking at?” he asks, voice smooth, almost casual, as if the answer doesn’t already matter to him.

The question hangs in the air, quiet and dangerous.

For a second, you say nothing. Then something in you snaps.

Your grip tightens around the phone as you turn fully toward him, the words coming out before you can soften them.

“You said—” your voice falters, then steadies, sharper now, “you said if I cooperated, if I did everything you wanted, you’d fix this. That things would go back to normal…”

He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t even move. He just watches you. That same calm expression. That same faint, unreadable smile.

Your chest rises a little faster now.

“I have done everything,” you continue, the frustration slipping through, raw and unfiltered. “I’ve stayed. I haven’t caused problems. I’ve done exactly what you asked—so why is nothing changing?”

Still nothing from him. Not even a flicker. The silence pushes you further.

“Why is my account still blocked?” you demand, lifting the phone slightly like proof. “Why are there missed calls I can’t even return? Why can’t I contact anyone?”

Your voice cracks slightly at the edge, but you don’t stop. “At least let me call my family,” you press, quieter now but no less desperate. “That’s not unreasonable. You said this wouldn’t—” You cut yourself off, swallowing hard. “You said it wouldn’t be like this.”

The room feels smaller. Tighter. Every word you say seems to disappear into him without resistance, without reaction—like throwing something into still water and never seeing the ripple.

By the time your voice finally fades, you’re left standing there, breath uneven, the weight of everything settling heavily in your chest.

And him?

He hasn’t changed at all. There’s a soft exhale from him, almost thoughtful, as if he’s been patiently waiting for you to finish.

“Y/N…”

Your name sounds different now. Lower.

He lets the silence stretch just enough to make you look at him fully.

“You’re still a criminal,” he says, voice calm—too calm. “Remember?”

The words land harder than they should. He takes a slow step forward.

“Everything you had… everything you were… it doesn’t exist anymore without me.” Another pause, his gaze steady, unwavering. “You’re only standing here—enjoying this, breathing like this—because I allowed it.”

He doesn’t stop.

“Otherwise…” His head tilts slightly, almost thoughtful again. “You’d still be there.”

Another step closer.

“Rotting.”

The word is quiet. Deliberate.

Your fingers curl tighter around the phone.

“And let’s not pretend you don’t understand what that means,” he continues, softer now—but there’s something underneath it, something colder. “You remember what it was like.”

The air feels heavier. Harder to breathe. His gaze doesn’t leave yours.

“You know what happens in places like that,” he adds, the faint trace of a smile returning—but this time, it doesn’t reach his eyes. “A place full of people who have nothing to lose.”

Another pause. Then, almost gently—

“A woman like you?”

The words linger. Dangerously.

He steps close enough now that the distance between you feels meaningless.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, voice dropping, “how long do you think you would’ve lasted?”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look away.

“Surrounded. Alone. No one to protect you.” A beat. “No one to stop them.”

The implication settles in slowly. Deliberately.

“A pretty woman like you…” he repeats, quieter now, almost thoughtful. “You wouldn’t have stayed untouched for long.”

The softness of his tone makes it worse. Not louder. Not harsher. Just… certain.

By the time he falls silent, the room feels suffocating. And you—You can’t find anything to say.

Because somewhere, beneath the fear and anger and everything else, there’s something far worse settling in.

The realization.

Of where you are. Of what he’s taken. Of how little ground you have left to stand on.

—

That night, you still shared the same bed. Not by choice. Not really. But you didn’t argue.

You lay on your side, turned slightly away, the space between you carefully measured—just enough to feel like distance, even when it wasn’t. The train moved steadily beneath you, a low, constant rhythm that filled the silence neither of you broke.

He didn’t speak. You didn’t either.

No questions. No remarks. No attempts to bridge the quiet. And for once… he didn’t push.

You could feel him there—his presence, steady and unbothered, like the silence itself didn’t inconvenience him in the slightest. As if this, too, was something he was willing to let stretch for as long as it needed to.

—

The next day wasn’t much different. If anything, it felt heavier. You kept your distance.

Stayed in your cabin longer than necessary, lingering near the window where the outside world blurred past in slow, breathtaking motion—lakes stretching endlessly beneath pale skies, mountains rising in the distance, their peaks dusted faintly with snow.

Someone had mentioned it earlier.

That the train would be passing through Switzerland before continuing on to Italy.

You didn’t care. Not really.

The view was beautiful—undeniably so—but it felt… far away. Like something you were watching through glass that didn’t quite belong to you.

Because it didn’t. None of this did.

You stayed there anyway, sitting quietly, your gaze fixed outside more often than not. It was easier than looking at him. Easier than acknowledging anything else.

If you couldn’t leave—Then this was the least you could do. Stay away. Say nothing.

Make it clear, in whatever small ways remained to you, that you weren’t part of this.

That you weren’t his.

Even if everything else said otherwise. You didn’t join him for breakfast. Or lunch.

When one of the staff knocked softly and stepped inside later in the day, their posture polite, voice careful—

“Ma’am, sir has requested your presence in the dining carriage.”

You didn’t even turn fully.

“I’m not hungry,” you said. Simple. Flat. Final.

The staff hesitated, just briefly, as if expecting something more. When none came, they nodded.

“Of course.” And then they left.

The door closed behind them. The silence returned.

You let it stretch. Let it sit there, heavy and deliberate, like a statement you didn’t need to say out loud.

—

A few minutes later, the door opened again.

This time, you didn’t need to look to know who it was. Footsteps. Unhurried. Certain.

You glance back anyway, just in time to see him step inside, followed by a few staff members pushing in a wheeled cart—covered dishes, fruit arranged neatly, everything set with the same careful precision you’d come to expect.

They stop beside the bed, placing everything in its place before quietly stepping out again, leaving the two of you alone.

You watch it happen. Silently. Then your gaze lifts to him.

He’s standing there, as composed as ever, like he’s waiting—for what, you’re not sure.

Maybe for you to speak. You don’t.

Instead, you turn back toward the window, your expression closing off as you let the silence settle again.

A few seconds pass. Then—

“Are you… perhaps on your period?”

The question cuts through the quiet so unexpectedly that it takes you a second to process it.

Your head turns sharply.

A frown pulls at your brows as your eyes lock onto him, disbelief flashing across your face.

“What?”

He looks… genuinely puzzled. Not mocking. Not taunting. Just—curious.

“You’re acting like you are,” he continues, as if explaining something obvious, his tone calm, almost thoughtful. “Acting all moody. Switching every time..."

A small sigh escapes him as he shakes his head slightly. “It’s exhausting, sweetheart...”

Your expression tightens. “I’m not.” The words come out sharper than before, immediate, firm.

For a moment, he just looks at you. Then—Something shifts.

His eyes brighten slightly, a slow grin forming like a realization clicking into place.

“Ah.” He tilts his head, watching you now with a different kind of interest.

“So… you are ignoring me after all.”

There’s a hint of satisfaction in his voice, like he’s just solved something that had been quietly entertaining him.

“Now I get it.” The smile lingers. And somehow—That makes it worse.

You draw in a slow breath, steadying yourself, then look away again. There’s no point. You already know—whatever you say, however you say it—it won’t change anything. It never does.

Silence feels safer. Easier.

Behind you, you hear him shift slightly. A faint exhale. Then—

“Y/N…” His voice comes softer this time, but there’s an edge beneath it. “I don’t like this reaction from you at all.”

You don’t turn.

“Could you change your tactics?”

Your brows pull together faintly at that—confusion, disbelief, something close to irritation flickering through you. Tactics? Like this is a game. Like you’re choosing this.

You don’t answer. You just sit there, back still turned, gaze fixed on the passing blur outside the window.

He watches you for a second longer. Then—another sigh.

“Alright, alright…” he mutters, tone shifting again, lighter now. “Let’s fix one thing at a time.”

You hear the soft clink of plates.

“The food’s going to get cold,” he adds, almost cheerfully. “Come on, let’s eat.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the movement—him picking up a plate, a fork, settling himself at the edge of the bed like this is normal. Like this is just another quiet moment between two people who belong together.

“Y/N,” he calls again, a little more gently this time.

You don’t move. Not even a glance. Just stillness. Your back to him.

It stretches. That silence. Long enough for it to become something else.

He exhales again, this time heavier. You hear the plate being set back down.Then—

“I love you.”

The words land quietly. You don’t react. Maybe you don’t even breathe for a second. A pause follows, deliberate. And then he repeats it, slower this time, clearer—

“I love you...”

There’s something different in his voice now. Softer. Almost… regretful.

“I didn’t want it to turn out like this,” he continues, quieter, like he’s thinking aloud. “I’ve thought about it. A lot.”

Another pause.

“I know I messed up. I really did.” His tone dips, something almost fragile threading through it. “Doing all that to you… making you go through that… just to keep you with me…”

Your fingers twitch slightly at your side.

“It was wrong.”

The words hang there. And despite yourself—You start to turn. Slowly. Carefully.

Your eyes lift toward him, uncertain, searching for something—anything—that might make sense of what he’s saying.

For a moment, his expression matches his words. Soft. Regretful. Almost human.

“And—”

You’re fully facing him now. And that’s when it changes. The shift is instant.

That softness twists—pulls—until it sharpens into something else entirely.

A grin. Cold. Certain.

“And I’m not sorry at all.”

The words land like a drop into still water—quiet, but everything inside you reacts at once.

A chill runs down your spine. Your skin prickles. Goosebumps rise along your arms before you can stop them.

For a second, you just stare at him. Then your body reacts before your mind catches up—you push at him, trying to create distance, trying to get away from that look, that tone—

But he catches your wrist easily. Too easily. His grip is firm, unyielding, like he expected it.

“Careful,” he murmurs, almost amused.

Before you can pull back again, he lifts your hand, pressing a soft kiss against your wrist like nothing just happened.

“Finally,” he hums lightly, glancing up at you, that same grin still lingering, “you looked at me.”

Your stomach twists.

He tugs slightly at your arm. “Come on,” he says, tone shifting back again, almost casual. “Let’s eat—”

Something in you snaps. You wrench your hand back, shoving at him harder this time.

“Stop it!” Your voice breaks through the room, sharp, shaking.

“You’re insane!” The words spill out now, fast, unfiltered. “You’re actually insane—do you even hear yourself?!”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t interrupt. Just watches. And that makes it worse.

“I shouldn’t have listened to you!” you continue, your chest rising unevenly. “I shouldn’t have come here—I shouldn’t have come to Taiwan in the first place—”

Your voice cracks, but you don’t stop.

“Then I wouldn’t have met someone like you—a maniac—jerk—”

The sound cuts everything off. Sharp. Sudden.

The impact comes a split second after.

Your head snaps to the side, the force of it sending a jolt through your entire body. For a moment, everything goes still—too still—as the sting blooms across your cheek, hot and immediate.

Your breath catches. The room goes quiet. Too quiet. Something small hits the floor with a faint distant sound.

You don’t register it right away. Not until the pain settles deeper, sharper—and you realize the edge of his ring had struck you hard enough that the diamond has come loose, skidding somewhere out of sight.

A dull ringing fills your ears.

Your hand lifts slowly to your cheek, trembling slightly as you touch the spot. It already feels swollen, tender—aching beneath your fingertips.

A soft, broken sound leaves you before you can stop it. And still—

He just stands there. Looking down at you. Unmoved. Unbothered.

He flexes his hand slightly, rolling his wrist like he’s testing the impact, his expression thoughtful rather than angry.

“Guess…” he mutters, almost to himself, “I’m not a very patient man after all.”

—

Your world tilts into darkness after that muttered admission, a whirlwind of rough hands and tearing fabric that registers only in fragments—the sharp rip of your blouse giving way, buttons scattering like fleeing insects across the floor, your skirt yanked down your hips with a violence that scrapes your skin raw.

Clothes, panties, bra—all shredded and flung aside in a heap by the bed, leaving you utterly bare, exposed, vulnerable under his predatory gaze.

Time fractures; one moment you're reeling from the slap, the next you're splayed on the mattress, body contorted into submission as Yuta folds you in half like a broken doll, your knees jammed against your heaving tits, calves hooked over his shoulders, thighs splayed obscenely wide.

Your ass lifts off the sheets, pussy thrust upward and parted, swollen lips glistening with unwilling slickness, clit throbbing visibly in the cool air of the room.

The position pins you helpless, hips canted high, holes on full display—your puckered asshole winking above the dripping slit of your cunt, folds already puffy from earlier abuses, inner walls clenching greedily around nothing.

He looms over you, shirt discarded somewhere, his cock jutting thick and veined from his open pants, but he ignores it for now, eyes locked on your spread sex with that cold, certain grin twisting his lips.

The dinner tray sits forgotten nearby, plates pushed aside, and his hand darts to it, snatching a ripe papaya—plump, golden-orange flesh split open crudely with his thumbnail, juicy innards spilling viscous nectar that drips in sticky rivulets down his fingers. It's obscenely phallic in his grip, the seeded core bulging like a engorged head, pulp soft yet firm enough to mimic a brutal thrust.

"Perfect," he murmurs, voice low and filthy, smearing the fruit's warm, sweet ooze along your inner thighs first, painting your bruises with glossy trails that mix with your leaking arousal.

The scent hits you—tropical, musky, cloying—blending with the sharp tang of your own pussy juices as he drags the papaya's ragged end through your folds, coating your clit in pulp that makes it twitch and swell.

Your breath hitches, body betraying you with a fresh gush of wetness despite the terror coiling in your gut. "No—don’t!" you whimper, but it's feeble, swallowed by the wet schlick as he presses the papaya's tip against your entrance, the yielding flesh molding to your hole before he shoves it in—hard, unyielding, stretching your cunt wide around the girth.

The fruit mashes inward with a lewd squelch, pulp bursting inside you, fibers scraping your sensitive walls as he twists and pumps it deeper, fucking your pussy raw with the messy intruder.

Juices flood out around it—papaya nectar mingling with your creamy slick, dribbling down your asscrack to soak the sheets in a filthy puddle.

Your inner muscles spasm, sucking at the pulp, the seeded core grinding against your cervix with each savage plunge, bloating your belly slightly with the sheer volume crammed inside.

"Look at that greedy little cunt," he growls, eyes dark with lust, free hand pinning your thigh harder to keep you split open. "Swallowing this fat papaya like it was made for your sloppy hole. Tch… is it better than my cock!? Huh!?"

He works it relentlessly, the fruit disintegrating under his thrusts, chunks of orange mush extruding from your stretched lips, your clit mashed against the pulpy shaft each time he bottoms out.

Your hips buck involuntarily, the overstimulation ripping gasps from your throat—pain and pleasure twisting into a nauseating heat that has your pussy fluttering, clenching, gushing more arousal in rhythmic squirts.

The bend in your body amplifies everything; your tits squash against your knees, nipples diamond-hard and scraping your own skin, while gravity forces every drop of mixed fluids to cascade toward your face, splattering your chin and lips with sweet-salty essence.

He leans in closer, breath hot on your exposed folds, watching the papaya rape your hole up close—the way your labia cling to the mushy invader, stretched thin and red, inner pink glistening through the pulp.

"Time to feast~" he rasps, yanking the ravaged fruit halfway out with an obscene pop, strings of pulp and your cream stretching between it and your gaping pussy. Your walls flutter emptily, aching at the sudden void, but he doesn't give you reprieve—instead, he shoves the papaya toward your mouth first, mashing the dripping end against your lips. "Suck it clean, Sweetheart. Taste your whorish cunt on this..."

You turn your head, but folded as you are, there's no escape; he forces it past your teeth, the pulpy mass filling your mouth, flavors exploding—tart fruit, your musky tang, the faint metallic hint of your earlier blood from the slap.

You gag, choking on the soggy fibers as he fucks your throat shallowly with it, drool and nectar bubbling from the corners of your lips, running down your neck to pool between your compressed tits.

Satisfied with your messy oral worship, he pulls it free, a thick strand of slime connecting your tongue to the fruit, then dives face-first into your wrecked pussy.

His mouth latches onto your clit like a starving beast, sucking hard enough to hollow his cheeks, tongue lashing the nub in frantic circles while his fingers cram the papaya remnants back inside—three digits plus chunks of pulp, knuckle-deep, stirring your guts into a frothy mess.

You scream around nothing, the sound muffled into a keen as he devours you, lips slurping obscenely at your hole, tongue spearing through the pulp to lap directly at your spasming walls. Papaya juice squirts with every suck, spraying his chin, your thighs quaking uncontrollably in his iron grip.

"Mmhh, fuck—your pussy's a sloppy fruit salad," he groans against your flesh, vibrations shooting through your core. “Hah… Cumming already? Maybe I should make a rule on it as well, hm?”

The orgasm crashes without mercy, your body seizing in the half-folded trap, pussy convulsing wildly around his buried fingers and mush, squirting a hot jet of mixed fluids straight into his greedy mouth.

He drinks it down, humming approval, teeth grazing your clit as waves rip through you—endless, brutal, leaving you a trembling, sobbing wreck.

He doesn't stop, though—lapping every drop, fucking the pulp deeper until your hole overflows, a constant drip of filthy slurry leaking from your ruined slit. Your vision whites out, mind fracturing under the assault, his unyielding control etched deeper into your shattered will with every degrading thrust and slurp.

—

Your body still shudders from the aftershocks, pussy a wrecked, pulsing mess of papaya sludge and your own squirted cream, walls quivering around the invading fingers he finally yanks free with a wet slurp.

Strings of orange-tinged froth cling to his knuckles, dripping onto your upturned ass as he straightens slightly, eyes gleaming with feral hunger.

The room's door hangs ajar—left that way after he came in earlier, voices murmuring faintly from the hallway beyond, the crew's low chatter filtering through like distant thunder.

Footsteps shuffle nearby, shadows flickering under the frame, but Yuta doesn't glance their way, doesn't care if they peek or listen to the depravity unfolding. Let them hear your screams, see your holes get ruined; it only fuels his dominance.

He shoves his pants down fully, thick cock springing free—heavy, nine inches of veined girth, head purpled and leaking precum in fat beads that stretch and snap as it bobs. No prep, no mercy; he slaps the fat crown against your soaked slit, smearing through the pulpy remnants, grinding your clit under the weight until you jolt.

"Gonna fuck this sloppy cunt raw, sweetheart," he growls, voice thick with lust, pinning your thighs wider with his elbows as he notches at your entrance.

One brutal thrust forward, and he spears you balls-deep, cock splitting your tender folds apart, mashing the leftover fruit deeper into your channel. The stretch burns deliciously, your inner muscles clamping down on the invading shaft, sucking him in with obscene suction as papaya mush squelches out around his base, coating his sack in sticky glaze.

He doesn't ease in—pounds immediately, hips snapping with punishing force, bedframe slamming the wall in rhythmic thuds that echo down the hall. Each drive mashes his pelvis against your clit, cockhead battering your cervix like a battering ram, stirring your guts into a churning froth.

Your folded position makes you take every inch deeper, ass cheeks spread by the angle, his heavy balls slapping your tailbone with wet smacks.

"Fuck, your pussy's milking me—clenching like a vice on my dick…!" he grunts, sweat beading on his brow, free hand mauling your tit, pinching the nipple until it throbs red. You keen, back arching as much as the pin allows, juices spraying with every withdrawal, splattering his thighs and the sheets.

The crew's voices hitch outside—someone mutters "What the hell?"—but he laughs low, thrusting harder, making your body jiggle, tits bouncing against your knees.

He fucks you through another building peak, pace relentless, cock dragging along your ridges, veins pulsing against your fluttering walls. Your cries turn guttural, pussy convulsing as orgasm rips free again, gushing around his pistoning length in hot spurts that soak his groin. He doesn't slow—chases his own release with savage grunts, hips blurring, balls drawing tight.

"Take my load, Y/N—fill that womb with my cum, yeah?" he snarls, burying deep and erupting, cock throbbing as thick ropes of semen blast your depths, flooding your core until it overflows, creamy white mixing with fruit pulp to leak in rivulets down your crack.

He grinds through it, stirring the mess, ensuring every drop paints your insides before pulling out with a filthy pop, your pussy gaping, womb-tainted seed bubbling from the ruined hole.

No reprieve—he flips you roughly onto your stomach mid-fold, yanking your hips up high, knees splayed wide to expose your untouched asshole. The crew's door creaks wider now; eyes peer in, gasps ripple through, but Yuta ignores them utterly, spitting a single glob onto your pucker before lining up his cum-slick cock.

"Punishment time, Heh," he hisses, voice edged with cruelty.

"This tight ass gets it dry—no mercy for brats who mouth off." The head presses, unyielding, forcing past your resisting ring with a searing burn that has you shrieking, nails clawing the sheets. Inch by agonizing inch, he forces in, dry friction ripping screams from your throat as your sphincter stretches impossibly around his girth, raw walls gripping like a fist.

He bottoms out, balls mashed against your dripping pussy, then starts railing—short, vicious strokes at first to loosen you, then full-length hammers that make your body lurch forward, tits dragging the mattress. The burn morphs to twisted fire, prostate-milking pressure building despite the pain, his cockhead punching your depths.

"Hear that baby? Your ass is squeaking on my dick—sucking me in like the anal slut you are," he taunts, slapping your cheeks red, spreading them wider for the audience.

Whistles and murmurs from the doorway spur him on; he fucks harder, pace brutal, sweat-slick skin slapping loud enough to drown them out. Your pussy clenches emptily below, creampie drooling onto the bed as anal ecstasy coils tight—humiliating, overwhelming.

He doesn't last long in the vice—growls deep, slamming home and unloading again, hot jets of cum painting your bowels white, overflowing to trickle down your thighs. He rides it out, grinding deep, slowly and smooth, cock still twitching inside your punished hole, before he starts pounding again.

Yuta yanks his dripping shaft from your gaping ass with a wet pop, cum bubbling out in thick rivulets that soak the sheets beneath you. He ignores your shaky protests, flipping you onto your back like a ragdoll. Your legs splay wide, pussy still leaking his earlier load, swollen lips glistening under the harsh room light.

"Look at that… you're aching for more, aren't you?" he snarls, gripping his slick cock and slamming balls-deep into your core in one vicious thrust. You arch off the bed, a broken moan ripping from your throat as he stretches you anew, his girth splitting you open, pounding your cervix with every brutal snap of his hips.

He fucks you like a machine, relentless, hips pistoning without mercy. Your walls flutter and clamp around him, milking his length as unwanted orgasms crash through you one after another—your body betraying you, juices squirting around his invading cock.

"That's it, cum—let it out, sweetheart," he grunts, pinching your clit hard enough to make stars explode behind your eyes. Sweat pours off his muscled frame, dripping onto your heaving tits as he leans down, capturing your mouth in a savage kiss, tongue forcing past your lips to plunder deep.

But he craves more degradation. Pulling out mid-thrust, strings of your mixed fluids connecting you, he hauls you up by the hair and shoves your face into his crotch.

"Choke on it, baby—clean your ass off my cock." You gag as he rams down your throat, the musky tang of your own ass and his cum flooding your senses.

Bulging cheeks hollow out, drool spilling from your stretched lips as he face-fucks you savagely, balls slapping your chin, nose buried in his coarse pubes.

Tears stream down your face, but the haze of ecstasy drowns any resistance; you're lost, floating in a sea of overwhelming bliss, body quivering from the constant stimulation.

He erupts down your gullet without warning, thick ropes of semen forcing you to swallow or drown, excess bubbling from your nostrils. Only when you're wheezing does he withdraw, cock still rigid and veined, slapping it across your cum-smeared cheeks.

No pause—he shoves you back down, mounting you again, this time alternating holes with feral precision. Ass, then pussy, ass, then pussy again—each switch a fresh violation, his cum from one orifice lubing the next.

Your body jolts with every plunge, holes stretched raw, overflowing with his endless seed. Orgasms blend into one endless peak, your mind fracturing under the onslaught, reduced to whimpering, twitching flesh.

—

The ride blurs into hours of nonstop ravaging. He flips positions effortlessly: you bent over the sheets, ass high as he reams your backdoor, the bed sway adding to the depth of his thrusts; sprawled beneath him, legs pinned to your shoulders for a mating press that bullies your pussy into submission, his weight crushing the air from your lungs.

Cum floods you repeatedly—pussy bloated, ass a creamy mess dripping onto the leather. When your voice cracks from screaming orgasms, throat raw, he grabs a water bottle, pinches your jaw open, and spits a mouthful into your slack lips, sealing it with his own.

"Drink up, baby—can't have you passing out before I fill you again." Cool liquid mixes with his saliva, trickling down your chin as you gulp desperately, revived just enough for him to resume.

Choking interludes punctuate the marathon: dragged to your knees on the floorboard, head bobbing furiously on his cock, gagging on the cocktail of cum, ass juices, and pussy slick coating it.

He skull-fucks you until your eyes roll back, then hauls you up to impale your ass reverse-cowgirl style, forcing you to grind while he slaps your clit.

The Italian countryside whips by outside tinted windows—vineyards, hills, distant lights—but you're blind to it all, the world narrowed to the burn in your holes, the slap of skin, his grunts of dominance. "Feel that, Y/N? My cum sloshing in your guts—marked inside out. Heh… so silly of you always denying…”

By the time the luxury train idles at the private platform, you're a quivering wreck: belly distended from seed, thighs sticky rivers of fluids, holes twitching open around nothing when he finally pulls free mid-boarding.

But even as the cars jolt into motion, sprawled across the plush bunk in the opulent sleeper compartment with him looming over you, he doesn't stop.

Legs hooked over the bunk's edge, he alternates pounding your pussy and ass, the train's steady rumble and rail clatter masking your muffled cries.

Mouth-to-mouth hydration becomes ritual—his lips crushing yours, water poured in to sustain the torment, your body arching into each violation, lost in euphoric surrender.

Hours stretch into a transatlantic blur of penetration: double-filling your pussy until it squelches audibly, then stuffing your ass while fingers plunge your cunt; throat bullied until hoarse, revived, repeat. Orgasms wrack you endlessly, muscles seizing, vision whiting out, yet he drives on, cock an unyielding piston.

Italy looms below as the train descends, but your descent is deeper—plummeting into total, mindless rapture, body his eternal vessel, protests long drowned in the flood of pleasure.

—

The restless pounding continued relentlessly for days, a ceaseless onslaught blurring the boundaries between flight and rail, your body jolted by the plane's turbulence morphing into the train's rhythmic sway without pause.

Yuta's cock hammered into your pussy and ass interchangeably, stretching your holes to their limits, cum and slick gushing out in thick rivulets that soaked the sheets and floors of both cabins.

Fingers rammed alongside his shaft in double penetrations that made your walls convulse, throat raw from gagging on his girth only to be force-fed water and some foods from his mouth to keep you pliant, orgasms crashing through you like tidal waves—each one shattering your mind further, synapses frying in white-hot ecstasy until thought dissolved into pure, animal need.

Protests? Forgotten. Resistance? Obliterated. You were his fucktoy, womb brimming with his seed, every fiber rewired to crave the violation, descending into a mind-broken haze where his dominance was your only reality, body arching instinctively for more even as exhaustion clawed at your edges.

Finally, the train screeched to a halt at some sun-drenched Italian station, your trembling feet touching solid ground for the first time in what felt like eternity.

Yuta had evolved—more clingy, more strict than before, his massive hand clamping around your waist like a vice, fingers digging in possessively as if ready to haul you back against him at the slightest twitch of rebellion.

He knew you wouldn't dare; not after the marathon of ruination he'd inflicted, leaving you a drooling, cum-stuffed shell utterly satisfied with his conquest, smug in the knowledge that your soul was fractured beyond repair, molded eternally to his will.

He guided you—half-carrying, half-dragging—to one of Italy's most breathtaking vistas, a cliffside overlook where the Tyrrhenian Sea crashed against jagged rocks under a golden sunset, vineyards rolling endlessly below. Pressing up behind you, his body molded to yours like a shadow, arms snaking around your swollen belly to lock you in place.

His lips brushed your nape in hot, lingering kisses, tongue flicking out to taste the sweat-slick skin, breath hot against your ear as he murmured, "Do you like our honeymoon, baby?"

Silence hung heavy, your fractured mind piecing together the words through the fog of submission. Then, in a voice small and reverent, broken yet fervent:

"Yes…”

—

He'd show you the whole of Italy after that, parading you through its most opulent corners like a prized possession on display—private yachts slicing through the crystalline waters off Capri, where champagne flowed from chilled magnums and the air hummed with the murmur of elite guests; secluded villas in Tuscany perched amid olive groves, their stone terraces laden with truffle-laden feasts under starlit skies;

Hidden coves along the Amalfi Coast, where speedboats ferried you to sun-drenched beaches reserved for the obscenely wealthy, waves lapping at your feet as servants hovered with chilled limoncello.

Each vista more lavish than the last, his arm always possessive around your waist, fingers digging just enough to remind you of your place, the swell of your belly pressing against silk gowns that clung to your curves like a second skin.

And every time, as the golden light of dusk or the velvet hush of midnight framed these extravagances, he'd lean in close, lips grazing your temple, voice a silken rumble: "Do you like this, sweetheart? I planned all these for you. For us.”

Your nods came automatic now, a fractured whisper etched in submission—eyes downcast, throat tight with the weight of it all. His free hand would rise then, thumb tracing the fading bruise on your cheekbone, the mark he'd inflicted with deliberate precision during one of his 'lessons' back then.

He'd tended it meticulously after—ice packs, arnica creams imported from Swiss labs, a dermatologist on speed dial to ensure it healed with a subtle shadow rather than garish purple—but never fully erased.

No, he'd linger over it, fingertips circling the tender violet bloom peeking from beneath layers of expertly applied concealer. "It suits you more like this," he'd murmur, voice laced with dark affection, eyes locking onto yours with that piercing intensity that made your pulse stutter.

"A little reminder... keeps you much more beautiful, keeps you mine. Right?"

—

Now, fresh from a manicure at one of Milan’s most exclusive salons—where crystal chandeliers dripped light onto marble counters and the air scented with rare essences of bergamot and rose—he’d insisted on your hands, those newly adorned fingers gleaming with flawless crimson polish, long and elegant, nails sharpened to wicked points.

‘“Mmh baby, your hands look so goddamn sexy, do you know that?” he’d growled the moment the technician stepped away, his eyes darkening with that feral hunger as he tugged you into a shadowed alcove at the back of the shop, the velvet curtain half-drawn for illusory privacy.

Here you sat on the plush pedicure throne, thighs pressed together under your designer skirt that Yuta got you, with him looming over you—tall and unyielding, his pants shoved down just enough to free his thick cock, heavy and throbbing in the warm lamplight.

Your hand wrapped around his shaft, slick with the spit you’d been forced to drool onto it, pumping with practiced rhythm—up and down, twisting at the swollen head where pre-cum beaded like pearls, then dipping lower to cradle his balls, rolling them in your palm, squeezing just firm enough to draw those deep, guttural grunts from his chest.

The shop had emptied in a hush of knowing footsteps; the staff—manicurists, receptionists—scurried off like startled birds, vanishing into back rooms or out the door, eyes averted, lips sealed by the weight of his black card swipes and whispered threats veiled as tips.

No audience now, just the wet schlick of your fist gliding over veined flesh, the musk of his arousal thickening the air, your fresh nails scraping lightly along his sack, teasing the sensitive skin until his hips bucked involuntarily.

You hated it—hated how your body had acclimated to this degradation, muscles remembering the stroke, the grip, a treacherous heat pooling low in your core even as your face twisted in feigned revulsion, lips pressed thin, eyes flicking away in silent protest.

He caught it, of course. Yuta’s hand shot out, fingers vise-like on your chin, yanking your gaze up to meet his blazing stare, breath hot and ragged against your face. “Hmm… You don’t want another trouble, do you?” he hissed, thumb digging into your jaw, the bruise on your cheek throbbing under his touch like a fresh claim. “Then be a good wifey and make me cum.”

No escape, no defiance—your hand plunged deeper, faster, forearm burning as you jerked him with desperate fervor, nails raking the underside of his balls, thumb pressing into the seam while your other hand joined to twist the base, milking him relentlessly.

His thighs tensed, abs clenching under his half-unbuttoned shirt, grunts escalating to snarls as veins pulsed hot against your palm, his cock swelling impossibly thicker, slick head flaring purple. He shuddered violently, a tremor ripping through him, and rasped, “Kiss me, Y/N.”

But instead of his mouth, he gripped the root and slapped the leaking tip against your lips, smearing pre-cum across your glossed pout, smirking down with cruel delight. “I told you to kiss... kiss it real good and sloppy~”

Your lips parted on command, tongue darting out to lap at the slit, sloppy and obedient—sucking the crown into your mouth with a wet pop, cheeks hollowing as you swirled around the ridge, bobbing shallow but fervent, nails digging into his thighs for leverage while your hand pumped the shaft in blurring strokes.

Saliva dripped down your chin, mixing with his essence, the obscene slurp echoing in the empty salon as you hollowed deeper, throat relaxing to take more, gagging softly on his girth. He thrust shallowly, fucking your face with restrained savagery, balls tightening in your grip until—with a guttural roar—he erupted.

Thick ropes of cum flooded your mouth, spilling over your tongue, oozing from the corners of your lips as you swallowed what you could, the rest splattering your hands in sticky white strands, a few errant drops hitting the bodice of your silk dress, darkening the fabric like obscene pearls.

Panting, he pulled back, cock twitching in aftershocks, then cupped the back of your head tenderly, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Good job, sweetheart... I’m very very pleased with you~”

—

People noticed—always. Waitstaff in crisp uniforms averting their gazes a beat too long; fellow diners at exclusive tables exchanging loaded glances over crystal rims; locals in quaint piazzas falling silent as you passed, their whispers trailing like smoke: "Povera ragazza... that mark..." or "È lui, il ricco... non si tocca."

Eyes followed you everywhere—curious, pitying, envious—tracing the possessive drape of his hand, the way your body leaned into him not from desire but necessity. But none dared speak up, none intervened with so much as a concerned word.

Why?

Money.

His money coiled around everything like an invisible noose, strangling dissent before it could form. A nod to the maître d', and service tripled; a flick of his black card, and entire venues cleared. Power manifested in ledgers and led lights, in the hush that fell when his name dropped. The world bent to his wealth, and so did you.

Bound tighter than any chain, your existence now tethered to the endless stream of his fortune—no more words of protest, only the cold gleam of platinum cards fulfilling every whim he deigned to grant.

Designer wardrobes overflowing in walk-in closets that dwarfed your old apartment; jewels dripping from your neck like liquid fire, each piece a shackle disguised as luxury; medical suites for your pregnancy, specialists charting every flutter of the life he'd planted in you.

Your needs, your wants—they danced on the strings of his provision, a puppet show where you mouthed lines scripted by his bank balance. Even your family, those clinging vines from your past life, he'd 'taken care of' with his signature benevolence.

Lavish wire transfers to pay off their debts, trust funds seeded for your siblings' futures, a beachfront condo for your parents in some sun-soaked nowhere.

"Because I care about you, Y/N," he'd coo during one such revelation, sprawled naked beside you in Egyptian cotton sheets, his hand splayed possessively over your belly. “You don't have to worry anymore. See? I'm good to you."

But contact? Forbidden. Phones confiscated, emails monitored, visits rerouted through his lawyers. Not that they had power to pressure anyway—they'd been bought, silenced, fattened on his generosity until gratitude morphed into complicity.

Just like you… shut in his gilded cage.

[Darker AU— "What if you struggled more?"]

[Previous Part] / [Next Part]

[bananarrlele]

➛ warnings: none • fluff • soft romance • mutual pining • physical affection (non-sexual) • love confession • commitment issues • first date • jealousy themes • slow-burn • hints of an established connection.

➛ characters: harlequin.

gender neutral reader.

➛ resume: you are a dedicated artist navigating the chaos of the circus, diving headfirst into your own writings and drawings. surprisingly, you invite harlequin to spend some time outside that place, at an amusement park — and this opens space for mutual recognition, for the discomfort between you both, and for the recognition of the strength it takes to stay.

This writing was heavily inspired by the songs "Unloveable" by The Smiths and "Lovesong" by The Cure.

The park was a vibrant spectacle of colors and lights. Banners fluttered in the wind, adorning wooden huts painted in cheerful shades of red, yellow, and blue. The sound of that merry, tender, and distant music filling the space was pleasant in the most satisfying way possible, reaching the ears of others like the lull of a fever dream or a soft, almost melancholy memory — of moments when life was essentially simpler, memories of better times. Small, unreachable glimpses of childhood, with its own wounds and tenderness, and the sugary premise of a simple happiness.

For reasons unknown, parks had this peculiarity: the ability to evoke a sense of longing and imprint a feeling of short, comforting, and deceptive belonging. It was as if the few hours spent there, in that small sanctuary bounded by rigid, unbreakable iron gates, were capable of returning to easily shaken hearts that childish contentment. The euphoria of being limitless, of leading a life that was light and without edges.

The false correspondence of the present with the past, however, was usually blatantly punitive. Like a mild caress, but not a lasting one. The attempt at a forced fit; a new image in an old frame, already worn, permanently gnawed by the passage of time.

It is for this exact reason that we can say Harlequin did not let himself be affected by the uplifting atmosphere of amusement parks. It was useless. A mere luxury that, in truth, benefited no one.

Even so, he arrived earlier than usual.

The park hadn't yet decided if it was open or abandoned. Some lights shone with a green and white splendor — mixed, weak colors; others, on the other hand, remained dark, as if saving their charm or having simply burnt out. He chose a random bench near the stationary Ferris wheel and let out a long, bored sigh, resting his hands loosely on his knees.

He wore casual clothes, far too simple for someone who usually shone under the spotlight, telling terrifying stories and seducing the audience with his performances. Still, the green remained there, discreet and stubborn — more than just any color, as if it were a strange extension of his own skin, surpassing the condition of a mere aesthetic choice. His curly, dark hair fell in free, misaligned curves; a heart-shaped curl, shy, hung undisciplined at the level of his eyes in an almost intimate way.

He was restless. Harlequin hated waiting, yet he watched that park like a poorly assembled stage. He harbored no expectations — they seemed like nothing more than an insignificant blur in his mind, something dispensable. Encounters were quick and, in his conception, that’s how they should be: made of calculated entrances and clean exits.

The plot was always the same. A subtle touch of innocence at the beginning, playful hesitation here and there, a slight and blatant brushing of bodies, empty flirtations, and an eventual make-out session under some dim light in a hidden corner. Who could blame him for that?

Harlequin checked the time once more — not out of nervousness, but out of something close to doubt. He considered leaving, getting out of there once and for all. He considered pretending that this had never been a plan.

Then, he finally heard footsteps.

The sound of a restrained gait over the uneven ground of the park, the presence of someone who did not rush time. Harlequin felt a slight discomfort run down his spine, but he remained seated for a few moments, staring at the motionless Ferris wheel. The reflection in the windows of a small night shop on the street showed a figure walking unhurriedly, almost airy, distractedly carrying a sketchbook, a light-colored folder, and a simple dark pen.

You stopped in front of him with a respectful posture. You didn't seem to hesitate, nor did you advance too far. You gave him a polite smile, nodding slightly and clutching your belongings lightly against yourself.

"Good evening, Harlequin."

Harlequin looked up slowly. For an instant, he considered smiling the right way, tilting his head at the exact angle, offering some light irony, but he gave up before he even started.

"Hi. Good evening." The answer escaped simply.

You pointed to the Ferris wheel, shaking your head slightly in disapproval. The ride remained still, its cabins unperturbed and imprisoned in place.

"Seems like we arrived too early, doesn't it?"

Harlequin let out a brief exhale through his nose. It wasn't exactly a laugh, but it wasn't disdain either.

"Seems you're right." He observed your figure for a few moments, catching every detail of your appearance and the clothes you wore with an attentive eye. His eyes didn't reveal much beyond that mocking, lazy glint that reached the edges of his eyelids.

"Want to take a quick walk? We can talk for a bit. We’ll wait until the rides actually start working," you suggested, brushing away a persistent lock of hair that the restless wind pushed against your face.

Harlequin sighed in relief, even though talking wasn't his favorite activity for first or second dates. Despite everything, a walk would be appropriate to calm his nerves, relax his body, and eventually make him attempt a bolder approach, regaining ground.

He nodded immediately, his smile revealing his pointed teeth.

"Please," he groaned lazily, stretching dramatically as he extended his limbs. "Let's hurry. It’s good that we can find something tasty to eat and buy along the way."

"Sounds good."

You responded with a slight nod, a faint smile on your lips. The walk began as a flat path, occasionally dodging cables and crooked signs. The park creaked with mechanical sounds, as if it were breathing with difficulty, preparing for something that, perhaps, would not happen that night or would not be seen.

Harlequin walked half a step ahead, almost without noticing. It was an old habit — to lead, to dictate the pace, to choose the path. He commented on small things, unpretentious observations, the kind of conversation that never required much emotional attention.

"Parks get a bit strange like this...," he began, his tone low. "Without many passersby, without loud music; they almost seem less harmless. But tell me, isn't it like we have a lot of wasted space?" Harlequin’s arm brushed lightly against yours as he played dumb and kept walking.

You sighed softly, holding back a giggle. He had a difficult task ahead of him, and apparently, the stubbornness of a mule.

"I don't think the space is being wasted, Harlequin," you replied after a few long seconds of suspense. "We have a mild, peaceful atmosphere. Sometimes, it’s in settings like this that the most interesting, most rewarding things appear. You just have to know how to look carefully." You shrugged, continuing the walk as the wind filled the space between you like a cool embrace.

"You speak in riddles sometimes. Artist thing," Harlequin gave a little laugh, letting out a lazy sigh. "Seems like you like looking for hidden things," he commented, his own body leaning in your direction with a smile that was familiar, rehearsed.

You smiled faintly, continuing the walk without really giving much importance to the proximity. You didn't return his touch, but you didn't pull away abruptly either. You just looked at his face, your attention fixed on his eyes.

"I believe it's not exactly about looking for hidden things. It’s more about perceiving what remains there when no one is trying to call attention to themselves. Does what I'm saying make sense?"

He nodded his head discreetly and without much conviction.

"Actually, it does make sense, yes. And what do you see now, if you can tell me?"

You hesitated for a few moments, choosing your words.

"I see someone in a dilemma. A silent bargain between the desire to be seen and the other... the one of simply being present." The answer came soberly, without any irony or malice. Just the genuine feeling of recognizing, of seeing through his eyes.

Harlequin frowned, slowing his pace. He looked at you intently for a few long seconds, his lips twisted in a confused pout, before slowly sketching a new smile. Not just any smile, though: a mocking, theatrical smile, but one deeply hurt inside. He profoundly loathed being read like a book; that burning sensation of judgment, as if he were an object subject to critical analysis by people supposedly more educated, wise, exemplary, or genuine than he would ever be. He placed one hand over his heart as if holding it dramatically.

"How you wound me with your words. And here I was thinking you'd say you saw a dangerous and exciting glint in my eyes."

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly. Raising your arms in a sign of feigned surrender, you looked at him with a playful gaze.

"How you sicken me with that overly sugary charm of yours, Harlequin. It’s truly a feat."

The provocation made the smile of the man dressed in green broaden further, his white teeth exposed like sharp, imposing daggers. Harlequin’s fingers then brazenly touched your shoulders, drawing random patterns on your skin as if it were a mere game.

"So you discuss me? If I disgust you so much, you must think of me quite a bit."

You ignored his constant teasing, letting out a soft, tired sigh before quickening your pace slightly and letting his fingers brush against thin air. You spotted a cotton candy stall at the end of the next turn in your path, glowing gracefully and lit with small lanterns and decorations.

"I can guarantee that my thoughts do not coincide with what you imagine. Besides, you talk too much," you mocked lightly. "Come on, there’s a cotton candy stand over there. And hopefully, there are other things for sale nearby too."

Harlequin watched your figure walking away for a second longer than intended. His fingers stayed suspended in the air, undecided, before slowly retreating back to his body. The smile remained, but there was something less secure in it now.

"Cotton candy?" His voice came out more like a murmur, a muffled sound reserved only for himself. "Questionable choice. And so much personality in one individual, wow!" Harlequin pursed his lips in a dramatic and exasperated gesture. His facial expression revealed confused feelings, a mixture of admiration and genuine frustration and indignation.

He resumed his pace, now at your side, not ahead.

The stall was small, lit by colored lanterns that swayed with the wind. The sweet scent spread through the air, almost excessive. Harlequin watched the machine spin, the sugar transforming into fragile clouds, and let out a low laugh.

"This here always seemed like a well-told lie to me," he commented. "Beautiful, light… and disappears far too fast."

You shrugged again, delicately taking the two sticks the man offered you. Harlequin paid the attendant, and then you both went to sit on a small treated-wood seat to finally talk for a bit.

"Do you like sweets, Harlequin?" You asked unpretentiously, handing one of the sticks to him.

"I admit that sweets aren't really my thing. Actually, I prefer spicier flavors," he said, grabbing a good handful of the pink candy in his hands. "But I guess a little sweetness won't kill me."

A brief silence. You nibbled on a bit of the pink cloud of sugar too, humming silently while your taste buds assimilated the soft, delicate flavor.

"So, you draw, don't you?" Harlequin asked, distractedly wiping his sugar-stained hands on the sides of his pants. The tone, however, was too casual to be just casual.

You nodded, letting a small happy smile escape; those characteristic smiles of someone with a specific passion, who is in the presence of another and eager to show them what their little world is about. You set the cotton candy aside and carefully opened the sketchbook you were carrying. The pages were already worn at the edges, marked by constant use.

"Yes. Actually, I draw, I write; I do a bit of both crazily, or else I do nothing for days," you admitted with a subtle nervous laugh, flipping through some pages carefully. "It depends on my mood and creativity. Do you want to see my latest work?"

Harlequin hesitated for a millisecond before nodding firmly. You chose some specific pieces, some unfinished and colorless sketches, and some scribbles with words poured over the paper, which he didn't know were poetry or something else entirely.

Delicately, you pushed the sketchbook toward him — and the narrator speaking here can admit that his eyes shone brightly like two stars in that moment. He was suddenly intrigued, curious to see what you liked to draw and write about.

The first figure was a sketched landscape. The light stroke of the pen on the paper showed that you were a careful and attentive illustrator — and a perfectionist. Harlequin narrowed his eyes, invested now, and saw the drawing as a whimsical representation of the circus's main entrance. The tents illuminated by their little lights, some nearby stalls, the elegant and restrained presence of Ticket Taker in the center, captured in a quick, not-too-detailed sketch, yet perfectly recognizable. He held his breath for a second, flipping through the pages further with your silent consent. He wondered to himself why the circus was so important to you. What was so significant behind those colorful lights and repetitive, dazzling performances that made you stay?

Right. Staying. He had always had trouble with that.

The next page was divided into two parts. One contained a small note about a performance watched with rapt attention, but the text itself wasn't long. It was merely a light tribute, without much depth. The writing was accompanied by a slightly more detailed drawing of the red tent, with Pierrot in the center of the spotlight. The moment captured in the sketch seemed to be the end of the show, as Pierrot appeared to hold his daggers between his claws in a solemn bow, thanking the audience for their presence.

Posing correctly. Majestic. Absolute.

The favorite clown of everyone who passed through there.

Harlequin felt the discomfort before he could even name it. That familiar, silent sting, old and persistent. Pierrot always had that effect on people. He didn't need to force a presence; he didn't need to ask for attention. He just had to be there: quiet, charming, inevitably chosen.

Columbina flashed through his mind without warning. Not as an image, but as a memory. As an absence. She appeared in the gaps of his mind from time to time, always on the wrong side of his story. Pierrot’s soft charm, the comfortable silence — the choice that didn't need to be spoken aloud to be understood. He swallowed hard.

It was just a drawing, after all. A faithful portrait of what was already known to everyone. He would never be that other man, no matter how hard he tried. Still, the sensation persisted like a painful needle: the feeling of, once again, watching someone else be chosen first.

He was her favorite.

Why wouldn't he be yours too?

He tried to let out an ironic chuckle, flashing his usual mocking smile. But the smile turned into a trembling, uncertain grimace as he murmured his next comment.

"So we have a sketch of Pierrot here. It seems he really does have this curious effect on the people who see him during his performances." He shrugged slightly, nervously touching that heart-shaped hair lock of his. "That mute bastard."

Harlequin let out a light laugh, but his apparent joy and unpretentiousness felt hollow. After that empty laugh, a brief silence settled in. Not awkward, just suspended.

You didn't counter his comment about Pierrot. You didn't defend the silent artist, nor did you accuse him further. You simply observed Harlequin for a beat too long, as if mentally negotiating whether to continue exposing your more intimate works or to take the sketchbook back and end the sharing right then and there.

"There's more," you admitted at last. Your hand hovered over the notebook for a second, hesitant. "If you want to see."

There was no expectation in your voice. No invitation, no challenge. It was a permission. Harlequin, however, only nodded.

The following page didn't feature sketches filling the sterile white space. Only words, carefully chosen and aligned on the paper. It looked like a short story — a sort of narrative poem using simple figures, personified discreet forces of nature. Metaphors selected with care to star in scenes and interpret the core of complex human feelings: a shy rose, slow to bloom, and a flighty, mischievous carnation. A truly simple premise.

Harlequin's green eyes scanned the essence of the words.

A carnation that tormented the quiet flower, which pulled its petals back in embarrassment. A presence that arrived without asking. Presence without promise. Charm without permanence.

"The wild Carnation is a haughty and proud force. Dense and dark — half amber, half soot. There is beauty in its bitterness, and between its dark brows, there are cloudy eyes, a storm of desires. It surrounds me without haste, but its very presence already pierces me."

"The Carnation is not just a flower. It is a mischievous minstrel, a magician of shadows. Its lyre is made of laughter and traps. He, the mocking poet, delights in collecting the tremors of others. He torments me at all hours of the day."

“In the third hour of his amusement, he laughs. He guffaws without exhaustion. Loud, beautiful, always scoffing. The Carnation sings to the rose, in a mocking tone:

[CARNATION]: ‘Poor little rose, still stuck? Eternally hidden in the shade, enjoying no surprises!’

He sings like one who desires nothing and yet claims the world; like one who lives to touch freedom with the tip of his tongue. The Carnation is never a slave, but a walking king, an adventurer, a bohemian who belongs to no one's garden. And yet, he invades mine. He is like the wind that comes and goes as fast as it arrives — a presence that appears without asking permission and without taking root."

Harlequin felt as if his heart had stopped upon recognizing the words printed on that page. Doubt gnawed at him. Did that work really represent him? He breathed deeply, his left hand wavering slightly, almost shifting the notebook in his previously careful grip. His eyes ran over a few sentences again, trying to twist their meanings, looking for something to minimize the impact; searching for anything that would reassure him that this selfish, laughing flower was not your version of him. For some stupid, unknown reason, he didn't want to be seen that way. Especially not by you. He didn't want to allow it to be true.

He felt the sting rise: uncomfortable, hot, unbearable.

"This..." he began, but couldn't even finish the sentence.

He didn't finish. He didn't ask directly. He didn't want to hear the answer that was already hinting at itself. There was something humiliating about admitting he recognized himself on that paper; the role of an intense, fleeting presence that arrives without promising and leaves without staying. He bit the inside of his cheek, annoyed with himself. He hated that horrible feeling: being observed too closely, almost decipherable. It was strange and contradictory. He wanted to be loved, esteemed — but he didn't want someone to see his flaws with such intensity or detail.

After all, who would stay after seeing all the ugly parts of him? Those parts he judged unworthy of valuing, simply unloveable?

He sighed, however, when your hands gently enveloped his, silently asking him to turn the page. The man in green looked back reluctantly, only to have his composure completely shattered, his green eyes shining in confusion and almost childish ecstasy.

He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

The drawing occupied the entire sheet. A colorful, vivid, complete work. He himself looked almost proud in the representation. Whole. There was no rush in the strokes, no careless improvisation. Every color seemed chosen with clear intent. Every shadow was placed to support, not to hide anything. The characteristic green of his clothes, his personal brand, didn't scream; it affirmed. His body was upright, present, without exaggeration. It wasn't Harlequin on stage. It wasn't the artifice. It was him when he didn't need to prove anything to anyone.

It was your favorite version of him. The Harlequin you appreciated so much, the one you liked to watch. The only version you had chosen for yourself.

The previous discomfort didn't disappear, but it changed shape. Where before there was the painful suspicion of being seen as something that doesn't stay, there was now something else, harder to sustain: the certainty of having been chosen with time. With attention. With permanence.

He flipped back slowly. That’s when he noticed small details scattered in the margins of the pages. Nothing flashy. Nothing overt. Just almost distracted marks: interrupted curved lines, incomplete strokes that, if observed closely, vaguely resembled hearts. Some were half-erased, others seemed drawn without intent, or perhaps with too much.

Harlequin felt his stomach flip. He looked up to meet yours, his green eyes like bright, unarmed crystals. He uttered his next words as a disconcerted, restless whisper.

"You made all this revolve around me? All these drawings, all these words, this poem. This isn't random. Why?"

He couldn't understand the reason. He stared at the figures one last time, his claws carefully scratching the surface of the paper as if he could pluck the image and the complex metaphors and hide those artistic works somewhere deep inside his tormented chest. He slowly closed the sketchbook, returning it to you in a restrained, almost timid gesture — an unusual move for someone like him. Finally, Harlequin let out a silent sigh, his gaze fixed on yours as he waited for some answer for his already racing, pounding heart.

"Because I saw you."

The answer came after a brief silence, as if you needed courage to cross the space between thought and speech. "Not just what you show." You took a deep breath, fingers lightly squeezing the edge of the now-closed notebook. "But what stays when the lights go out. When the stories end. When no one is looking."

You looked up at him, not in challenge. Just presence. "I don't know how to explain it well. I just wanted to record it. My way. As if, by drawing, I could keep that part of you close. Even if just for a little while."

Harlequin's face contorted with an expression bordering on disgust, but it wasn't quite that. He was completely terrified. He tried to think of something witty to say — some flirtation or disconcerting line — but nothing came. His mind was like a sterile space, a dry desert of thought. He didn't answer immediately; he just scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably, looking confused and vulnerable.

"You have a special talent for confusing people with your strange, polished metaphors and your way of thinking." He looked away, abruptly standing up from the seat with a long sigh and a careful stretch. "Don't do that to me again. Or at least, warn me next time."

You blinked two, three times, surprised. But then you simply stood up too, brushing off the remaining sugar from the cotton candy. You gave him a sidelong glance, unsure if your words had been received poorly or if they had secretly pleased him. He was a difficult person to understand.

"We're in a hurry, aren't we?" you teased lightly, though your eyes shimmered with your own insecurity. Maybe you had shown Harlequin too much of your world, the true colors of your heart, to the point where just thinking about it made you feel a bit humiliated. "What are your plans now, Harlequin?"

"Rides. They must be working by now; it’s impossible they aren't operating yet," he murmured, answering as if it were ridiculously obvious. "Aren't they the reason we're here, at an amusement park, on a romantic date?" he added, letting out a giggle and delicately running his green tongue over his teeth in a suggestive way, trying to regain his usual charm.

You blushed, clutching the sketchbook to your chest. Then, you shook your head in disapproval, giving him a glaring look.

"This isn't exactly a romantic date! Who or what suggested that to you, you green dot on the street?" You finally weighed your next words, your tone softening. "I just wanted to show you some things I've been working on."

He laughed spiritedly, dramatically slapping his hands on his knees while looking through you. Strangely, as he did so, he felt a warm, pleasant sensation in his chest.

"Then why are you blushing so much? Because of my quick, harmless words? Come on, you're better than that." He waved his hands dismissively, winking at you. "Just walk. The lines for most rides must be giant."

You nodded lazily, now walking beside him, keeping a steady, habitual rhythm. "And what are your choices, boy?"

"I don't know, something interesting, please!" he groaned playfully. "Something radical or at least demanding. I don't want easy, boring attractions."

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head as you watched him out of the corner of your eye. "Radical and demanding. Noted.”

It didn't take long before you reached a more open area of the park, where the lights flashed more aggressively and sounds overlapped: brief screams, nervous laughter, the metallic creaking of moving structures. There, the tower rose. Too high to be ignored. Its vertical reflectors rose and fell in slow, almost provocative intervals, while the mechanism lifted the seats to the top before dropping them in a sudden, unannounced fall.

You pointed up, casually. "How about that one?"

Harlequin stared at the ride, his green eyes widening slightly.

“A drop tower?" He gave a discreet chuckle, trying to hide his nervousness. "And here I was, thinking you were going to go easy on me. We're just getting started, you know? Usually, we go slower than this."

Your smile widened as you narrowed your eyes in a mocking gesture. "Chickening out now, Harlequin? I thought you were the one who said you wanted 'radical and demanding' rides just moments ago, or am I mistaken? Refresh my memory a bit, please."

Harlequin's expression of comic despair became even more pronounced. "What a pest you are! Full of provocations and mockery. You need a lesson in humility." He leaned closer, whispering softly in your left ear. "I can't wait to delight in your beautiful, desperate screams as we plummet from up there. My little revenge will do me much good."

You joined the line. It wasn't as big as Harlequin had predicted, but long enough to create an uncomfortable wait. He remained restless, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, his fingers tapping lightly against the side of his thigh. Every so often, he cast quick glances upward, always too quick to seem like genuine curiosity.

"I didn't ask you, but have you been on one of these before?" His voice sounded unpretentious, trying to cut through the inevitable boredom of the queue.

"I have, once, when a traveling group set up temporary attractions in my city," you began, slowly crossing your arms. "It gives you butterflies, but there's almost no time to think properly, you know? It's so fast that by the time you realize it, you're back on the ground. Safe and sound."

"Great." Harlequin nodded, as if he had just confirmed something important. "So you practically don't even have time to think about regretting it."

When your turn finally came, the attendant pointed to the seats. Harlequin went to his spot first, sprawling his body exaggeratedly as if trying to reaffirm dominance over the situation. Still, when the safety harness descended and locked over his shoulders, he let out a low sigh. Not of explicit fear, but of tense expectation.

You sat beside him, smiling reassuringly as the ride began to lift you both. The park receded from the ground, the lights turning into blurred dots below. The wind blew colder up there, and for a moment, Harlequin remained in absolute silence.

Then, before the drop came, he murmured almost to himself: "You chose well."

As you suggested, the drop was alarming but fast. When the ride finally stopped, the world seemed suspended and shaky for a few generous seconds. Harlequin, for one, took an extra moment to get up — nothing dramatic, just a brief adjustment of posture, as if he were relearning how to control his own body. You also took a moment to regain your balance, moving your legs softly as you smiled lazily.

"That was quite an experience, wasn't it?" you commented. "What did you think?"

Harlequin shrugged, breaking into a wide grin. "I think we both screamed too much. There must be people who got off that tower and are now deaf forever." He let out a loud laugh, one of those sincere, almost childish ones.

"Yes, that's true. You were screaming right next to that guy and his girlfriend. Poor couple." Giving him a light nudge, you continued: "And don't forget that time, before the second drop, when you squeezed my hands so hard I thought my fingers were going to fall off. Were you scared, Harley?”

The nickname sounded too sweet. Almost intimate. His eyes almost shone with a calm, tender reflection.

"That's not true. Stop talking nonsense," Harlequin retorted, looking away over your shoulders, his eyes narrowed curiously. A new attraction had caught his eye. "Look over there. Those shooting gallery stalls," he said. "Seems like a good option now, doesn't it?"

"It does seem promising, indeed."

Right. Truly, the shooting gallery was smaller than it looked from a distance. Colored lights flashed above the metal targets, and the dry sound of toy shots mixed with the occasional laughter of those who miscalculated their aim. Harlequin approached the counter with a confidence too rehearsed to be entirely true. He picked up the air rifle, weighing the object in his hand as if it were familiar, something he mastered.

"This is going to be simple." His tone emerged proud. "Coordination, focus, a little patience. There's not much secret to it."

You observed him, standing close to him, contemplating his burning determination. Before you both, the prizes were displayed. Various stuffed animals: cute bears, puppies, kittens, frogs, sheep, turtles. Your eyes, however, sparkled when you saw one in particular.

It was a little bear different from the others. A bit smaller, stitched unevenly, with greenish-gray fur that stood out from the sea of vibrant colors. One of the button eyes was slightly darker than the other, and there was a visible patch on its chest; not poorly made, just accepted as part of its history. You liked to extend this even to inanimate plushies, creating backstories for them and everything around you. An artist's restless mind, no doubt.

Harlequin noticed the movement of your eyes, fixed on the little bear. He understood in silence, nodding slightly with a small click of his tongue.

"You want that one, don't you?" he asked aloud, though he clearly already knew the answer. "What a curious choice. But today I'm feeling generous. I'll get that little guy for you, don't worry."

His tone sounded almost affectionate and attentive. You tried to dismiss the idea delicately, but Harlequin shook his head quickly, taking his position and leaning his body slightly, trying to find the best angle to demonstrate his aim. He closed one eye, totally focused on the task ahead, as if he were showing off or trying to prove his value to you.

The first shot missed by a hair. The second made one of the targets wobble but stay upright. Harlequin let out a low sound of frustration, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

"This junk is totally rigged, I can swear it to you!"

He looked at you, trying to gauge your reaction. You weren't exactly angry or disappointed with him. But for some reason that motivated him further and scared him at the same time, he didn't want to see you sad and without your beloved stuffed animal. He would try until the damn park closed if he had to as if it meant giving you a piece of him. A physical, material memory of the time you spent together. Not in kisses or passionate dates, but simply enjoying each other's company in a way he hadn't expected to be so pleasant, so rewarding.

"I... I told you I was going to get that stuffed animal, okay? Just wait. You're going to be parading around with this little thing in your arms," he reassured you, moving the rifle in his hand again. "And your sketchbook, of course."

You didn't comment. You just offered an encouraging smile and stayed there, watching not with overt expectation, but only showing that silent calm that made him want to strive even harder.

He adjusted his aim before spending his last chance. The third shot, surprisingly, hit the mark. The target fell with a dry clink, drawing a brief whistle from the attendant. Harlequin blinked, surprised for half a second, before covering it with a crooked smile.

"See?" Harlequin commented, too fast. "It was a matter of persistence."

You let out an excited laugh, opening your arms wide. Harlequin received the prize from the stunned attendant, whistling in admiration. He pushed the stuffed animal toward you, only to be surprised by your gesture, freezing exactly where he was.

You hugged him. Simple as that.

Instead of clutching the newly won stuffed animal to your chest, you hugged Harlequin with affection and gratitude. For an instant, he didn't know what to do with his own hands. Then, almost without noticing, he relaxed his shoulders, allowing himself to stay there. He discreetly appreciated your proximity: the soft scent of your hair, the small details of your face, the smile lines around your sweet eyes, the look you gave him, loaded with recognition, a kind of patient affection. He loved that feeling.

Harlequin held the hug for a bit before pulling away with a shaky sigh and a contained smile. "Are we getting intimate now, I presume?" he teased affectionately. His tone, finally, was free of any venom or sarcasm.

"Maybe I really am feeling more comfortable with you." The confession came out faint, but genuine. You looked at Harlequin like someone waiting for his next idea. You didn't exactly want the meeting to end, but you had the growing feeling that you two would separate soon — after all, the park was close to closing time.

Harlequin cleared his throat, looking away, and pointed with his chin toward the high structure of the Ferris wheel, illuminated against the dark sky. "Let's go before the line becomes impossible."

You nodded, following Harlequin with renewed energy. The two of you walked together in a comfortable, calm silence, yet one heavy with unspoken words. Your gaze softened as you tried to catch a glimpse of the expression on the man whose hand was dangerously close to yours. You pulled the stuffed animal tighter against your chest, feeling a warm sense of satisfaction. Spending time with him definitely did your heart good; he was being so kind, so affectionate — in unexpected ways, even if he perhaps didn't realize it himself.

You wanted to say something. You wanted him to hear you being sincere about your old and persistent feelings. And yet, you waited. You would wait just a little longer for the right moment. Yes, that seemed like the most rational choice.

A small sigh escaped your lips when your hand lightly brushed his. You yearned for his warm touch, for that same attentive glint he’d had in his eyes when handing you the prize, desperately trying to gauge your reaction. The thought surfaced before you could even resist, making you blush slightly. You wanted to see him again. To be near him often. You wanted it more than you were willing to admit out loud.

When you finally reached the long-awaited Ferris wheel, the line wasn't as large as you had feared. Some people had already left the park; others were occupied with different attractions, too distracted to notice the two of you.

You moved forward and greeted the employee operating the ride. It was then that Harlequin, in a slightly clumsy manner, ushered you ahead, gesturing for you to step up onto the platform. He followed right behind, casting you a peaceful smile: less sharp teeth, more true.

The cabin closed with a soft click. The seat was narrow enough that your shoulders almost touched. As the mechanism began to move, there was that brief instant of suspension, as if the world held its breath before rising with you.

Harlequin leaned his elbow on the backrest, looking far too relaxed for someone who was usually "on stage." His eyes, however, were not on you. They were on the landscape below.

"You really liked this little guy, didn't you?" he asked lazily, his face still turned toward the view.

The park stretched out beneath you like a sea of living lights. The stalls, the rides, the illuminated paths looked small, almost unreal from up there, blinking and glowing as if waving to the two of you.

You looked down at the stuffed animal in your arms, your fingers distractedly stroking the soft fabric. "Maybe I really did like him a lot." You smiled broadly. How could you not, after all? He had tried so hard to win it and finally give you that gift.

Harlequin turned his head toward you, noticing you stroking the plushie. He let out a mocking little laugh, but his gaze was kind.

"Does this little thing have a name yet?" The tease was light, but he truly wanted to know how you would answer. Harlequin knew you were creative.

You blinked, surprised by the question. You looked at the toy for a moment, as if truly considering it for the first time. "I was just thinking about that."

"Hm..." Harlequin rested his chin on his hand, theatrical as ever. "I vote for Grass."

"Grass?" you repeated, incredulous. The choice was curious, to say the least.

"What? Weren't you the one who liked writing funny metaphors about flowers, roses, and carnations?" He chuckled. "I'm just following your line of reasoning."

"Right, that makes sense." You huffed softly, nodding. "I thought of something like Little Leaf. If we're going to highlight his green nature."

"Little Leaf?" His smile widened as he leaned a bit closer to you. "Sounds excessively cute. In my home country, we would say it like “Folhinha”. You know, Fo-lhi-nha,” he murmured, testing the word on his tongue. "I'm not so sure."

The way he pronounced it made your stomach flip slightly.

"You say that as if it’s important," you commented, almost without thinking. "Surprisingly, it seems you're taking this choice more seriously than I am."

"Maybe I am." He shrugged, but his gaze remained locked onto yours. "Names matter, you know."

You went back to staring at the toy, thoughtful. "And what if it were… Moss?”

"Musgo. A more foreign touch to it." Harlequin repeated the name, now with more attention. "Sounds better. More mature than the previous one, and still captivating." A small silence settled in. "We can leave it at that. Musgo."

He tilted his head, curious. "You don't like how it sounds?"

"Mus...go." You tried to repeat it the way he said it, but the word came out marked by your accent. Harlequin let out an affectionate giggle and gave your knees a light tap.

"I'll teach you that word. And many others," he said naturally, as if it were obvious. "Don't worry about it."

You nodded shyly, resting your head lazily against the cabin's safety bar. A deep sigh escaped your lips while your heart beat a little faster.

"Can I tell you something, Harlequin?" Your voice was low. "Something important."

Harlequin didn't make a joke this time. The gentle swaying of the cabin marked the pause as the Ferris wheel reached its highest point. The park lights twinkled below you like artificial constellations. He slowly reached out and wrapped his fingers around your wrist — not squeezing, just enough to anchor the moment.

"You can." His green gaze met yours, attentive in a rare way. "I'm listening."

The silence stretched just long enough for you to take a deep breath and organize your thoughts. Your fingers squeezed Musgo tighter against your chest, as if the small weight of the plush could give you courage.

"I'm not very good at expressing my feelings out loud. I get tangled in words; I hesitate for too long." You sighed, running a hand over your temple. "Maybe that's why I prefer writing and drawing. Feelings flow more easily that way."

Harlequin nodded slightly, his eyes a bit wider than usual. He remained silent, letting you continue.

"But I needed to tell you this. To unburden my heart." You hesitated for a moment, staring into his dilated pupils. "I admire Pierrot. I like him. His talent, his silence, the way he commands the stage." Your voice did not falter. "But he isn't the one who makes my heart race."

Your fingers closed carefully around Harlequin’s wrist, returning the touch. Almost like a request for permission.

"It's you."

There was no urgency in your speech. No demand.

"I prefer you, Harlequin. The way you enter places without asking permission, but also these moments where you stay quiet, when no one is looking."

A shy smile appeared, truly fragile, as you touched his fingers. "I just wanted to go slow. For you to follow my life closely. For us to spend time together... if that's possible."

For a few seconds, Harlequin said absolutely nothing.

The grip on your wrist remained, but his fingers had relaxed, as if he were more anchored than he would ever admit. The easy smile didn't return. Neither did the sarcasm.

"You really have a gift for saying dangerous things as if they were very simple." He breathed with difficulty, as if the revelation had stolen his composure. A nervous smile emerged, and his eyes betrayed his own commotion. "What a pest you are. You planned this from the moment of the invitation, didn't you? The exact moment to tell me."

You shrunk back slowly, thinking it might have been a stupid idea to say it out loud. But before any apology could escape, he placed a gentle hand on your shoulder: warm, firm, reassuring.

"I'm glad you told me that." He ran his free hand through his hair. "Going slow isn't exactly my specialty."

A brief pause. "But for you... I'm willing to try."

Harlequin swallowed hard. His hand remained on your shoulder for a few more seconds, as if he needed that point of contact to avoid getting lost in what he felt. His green eyes dropped to your lips for a moment — too fast to be an invitation, too slow to be accidental.

He leaned in.

The gesture was careful, almost hesitant, as if asking permission from the very air between you. Instead of seeking your mouth, Harlequin touched your cheek with a brief, warm kiss, loaded with an unexpected tenderness. Nothing urgent. Nothing hungry. Just presence.

You practically melted, letting out a soft sigh — of relief, of affection, of something very close to happiness.

"Don't go thinking this means I've become easy to deal with," he murmured, trying to recover a shred of his old mocking tone, and failing miserably. His voice was too low. Too soft.

"I certainly didn't think anything of the sort," you replied, with a peaceful and genuinely happy smile.

He rested his forehead lightly against yours for an instant, taking a deep breath. "But I like the idea of staying."

A short pause.

"As long as it’s with you. Going slow, I guess.”

The Ferris wheel began its slow descent, and the park lights reflected in his eyes like restless little constellations. Harlequin carefully intertwined his fingers with yours — not to bind you, but to accompany you.

Musgo remained squeezed against your chest.

And for the first time in a long while, Harlequin felt at ease. There was no impulse to flee at the first sign of sunlight. The monster who believed they were unloveable went home carrying a new sensation, warm and quiet.

The feeling of being wanted.

Of being, finally, the chosen one.

He had secured another date.

[belovedgyu]

hit me hard and soft || kim mingyu part three

what is done in love, is done well

PART 1 -> PART 2 -> part 3 -> PART 4

⚬ pairing: ice hockey player! kim mingyu x fem! reader ⚬ word count: 11k ⚬ warnings: alcohol, food, unrequited love and depiction of certain symptoms of depression, eventual smut, violence, slutshaming and derogatory language, harassment and other mature themes MDNI ⚬ genres: uni au, forbidden romance, slow burn, angst, fluff sometimes, hurt/comfort.

playlist for part three <3 - quit playing cool by vlad holiday - hold me down by daniel caesar - buzzcut season by lorde - halley's comet by billie eilish

author's note: not beta read per usual, lol. pardon any major errors/overwriting.

CHAPTER 11: the fall

The slanting sheets of rain slice at his skin with an unforgiving cold as Mingyu races against it across the campus. The umbrella—the one that you gave him without even lifting your eyes up—warms the skin of his palm where he holds onto it like a tether. 

He doesn’t open it, for it would require him to slow down. And right now, he wants to reach you before his thoughts can reach any conclusions that might make him stop and reconsider this entire insanity. 

His lungs burn even though he has trained under harsher conditions, ran further miles. It is almost like everything he has trained his body and mind for so far in his life falls short when it comes to you. 

His feet almost lose balance over the slippery asphalt, making him halt to catch his breath. He doubles down, hands clutching his knees as his chest caves in at the mere possibility of everything that could go wrong in the next ten minutes. 

He doesn’t want to confront you, but he wants answers. 

Because how can the last six weeks amount to this? 

It is his fault. He knows that. He never properly asked you—just took your quiet deflections in the beginning as you needing some time and space to warm up to the idea of him. He got it. His popularized personality, his outspokenness and loud ease often made it difficult for people around him to see him for who he truly was. But with you, he thought he had gotten a hang of it — when to go out of his way to pull a smile out of you when you seemed too stressed for your own good and when to hold back because not everything in your life had to require his interference. How you’d carefully avoid questions about your family but how easily you had handed him your mom’s brownie recipe that night in his apartment. 

That night in his apartment…

It had certainly flipped a switch in him just watching you there, making it a home worth living in without even knowing. Sitting on the rug he had vacuumed thrice just for good measure, flipping through your notes and fiercely chewing on the pencil while he cooked. How you kept on stealing glancing at him when you thought he wasn’t looking. How even your knees had flushed red when he held your dress between his fingers. 

How could it all be just in his head? 

Just when he thought he had earned a grace good enough to ask you out, you had turned into someone distant, someone unreachable. 

The dorm building comes into view like a memory he is afraid might vanish if he blinks again. Rain gathers at the edge of his jaw, runs down the column of his throat, seeps into the collar of his shirt…but he feels none of it. Because something far colder settles in his chest, a thought so sharp it nearly splits him open—what if you laugh in his face and tell him he’s being stupid? 

What if, despite all his best efforts, he has committed the same mistakes he did all those months ago? 

If the last six weeks hadn’t happened, this would be the point where Mingyu would turn around, shake his head like he wants to physically shrug his feelings off and spend the next five days convincing his heart that it did, in fact, not skip a beat each time the girl with those glimmering eyes smiled at him. 

But he steels his nerves—because this is you. 

And although he might not be entitled to anything from you, he owes it to you. 

The world tilts for a second, rain blurring the yellow glow of the dorm windows into smeared halos, but he forces his feet forward anyway. Each step feels heavier than the one before, like the ground itself is trying to keep him from reaching the inevitable.

The umbrella digs into his palm, the metal spine biting just enough to remind him that this is real—this is where he opens and offers his heart to you. 

Even though he had thought he still had time, even though he thought to wait until there was another sign—a clearer, red, blaring one—he knows that if he doesn’t speak now, he might regret it forever. Because he had seen you turn around and not look back today. And the sheer permanence of the idea of losing you makes his stomach twist so violently that it almost leaves him heaving. 

He knocks at your door, splattering water all over it and on the floor as his clothes drip with the rain that had taken a temporary home in them. 

For a moment, nothing happens. Just the flickering lights in the deserted lobby keeping him company. 

He waits for a total of five seconds, each passing one loading more dread than before in his spine. 

And then, with his forehead pressed to the polished wood, he calls out your name like a prayer. “Are you in there?” 

His clothes cling on to him like a second, colder skin causing endless chills to run through his entire body. But it barely registers, because he takes a step back and sees the shadows shifting under your door and it makes his heart pound like hungry fists against confinement. 

He scrambles to put together what to say to you, something that doesn’t feel too phony but also not too pressing—apologize for the muddy mess first or ask you how you are…wait, that would be so lame—

The door clicks softly and you open it just wide enough to peek at him first before pulling it full. “Mingyu?” 

“Hi,” he instantly feels stupid after saying that.

“What are you…” you whisper, your voice sounding like it’ll break any moment. “Shouldn’t you be with Heather?” 

He wants to tell you that he tried, wants to describe you in detail how awful it had felt until you tell him to shut up. 

But all he can muster up is a—

“Seriously?” 

Your mouth parts at that single word, unable to even look at him. 

He lowers his head with disbelief, trying to steady the dizziness building within him by taking deeper breaths. Overwhelm still manages to grip him like a vice. For a moment, that’s all he does—trying to catch his breath, hunched slightly. And then, his eyes are back on you, sadder and deeper than ever. His usual warm gaze has been replaced by something icy yet broken, and it makes your chest squeeze more than it should. 

“Let us rephrase that,” his chest rises and falls, uneven. “Why shouldn't I be with Heather right now?” 

“Mingyu, come in…you will catch a cold.” you interrupt, voice hoarse. 

“I don’t care.” he shakes his head. “I am not moving from here until you let me finish.”

“Mingyu don’t be—”

“Stupid? Congrats, you got it. That’s reason number one why I shouldn’t be out there with anyone else right now…cause I’m so fucking stupid about you!” 

The words don’t land clean, they tear out of him — jagged and breathless, nonsensical almost — as if they were some beast clawing at his ribs for days and finally found a way through. 

You don’t make a sound—you can’t make a sound. Everything around you stills, even the rain reduces into nothing but a dull hiss against the concrete. 

You wish there was a way you could hold those words and hand them back to him. Not because you don’t want to hear them, but because you are not sure that you deserve to hold onto them, to possess them. 

Your eyes flutter confused, your brows furrowing deep with this immense anguish. And that, to him, is so much worse than if you had laughed at him. 

He drags a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it back only for it to fall forward again, stubborn and heavy with rain.

“There it is,” he says, “I should have worded it better—I wanted to. But… I just…God.” 

His voice cracks, and he hates it…hates how exposed it makes him feel, like you can see every fragile, unguarded part of him he’s tried so hard to keep steady. 

“The truth is,” he finally exhales, “I have wanted to ask you out for as long as I can remember. Spend my time with you in a way that’s not obligatory, but because I want to…I want you.” 

Silence stretches between you again, but this time it’s heavier. It sinks, settles, presses into the space between your chests like something real.

He continues, quieter this time, “I can take it if you don’t feel the same.” he swallows hard because it hurts to even say that out loud. “But I can’t deal with you not knowing. I can’t deal with you retreating and acting like I am some…thing…to avoid whenever it starts feeling real between us.”

A teardrop hangs on the edge of your eyelid, so tiny that one might almost miss it.

But he doesn’t. 

His thumb reaches forward—carefully, reverently—and rests over your cheekbone for a brief moment before brushing off the moisture weighing down on your lashes. With that little movement, everything within you and everything around you softens like his warmth is enough to melt it all into a puddle.  

A shuddering breath escapes you, settling over his skin and he removes his hand from your face like it is steam. Perhaps that is what takes him to realize that you haven’t answered yet—not that you have to, but also because he is aware enough to know that your teary eyes aren’t what he was aiming for when he came here. 

His head drops low, like a heavy reality of acceptance has fallen over his neck.

He takes a step back.

Then another.

His eyes lift up to look at you like he is taking you in one last time—broken and hollowed out. 

You want to tell him to come in, you want to gather your running thoughts and tie them together into something coherent, something tangible. But they keep on escaping your hold, tumbling and rolling over each other like something wild and free. 

That wildness, that sheer sense of freedom surges within you, clogging up your throat. There’s a static hum in every inch of your being, one that brushes off all concerns, all sense of rights and wrongs. 

It makes you leap forward for him right when he is about to turn around and before you even make sense of it, you are stretching on your toes, leaning all your weight into him by curling your arms around his shoulders.

The water on his clothes soaks you too, but you don’t care.

Because your fingers curling into the mess of his hair feel like this is exactly what they were meant for. Because your eyes flutter close the same way they do when you are on your knees about to pray or make a wish. Because his lips—God, his lips—so warm, wet and soft at the same time are pressing down against your own like they fully intend to pull every single breath out of you. 

Mingyu kisses you hard—teeth and all. It is so desperate that he has to hook his arm around your waist and cradle your face in the palm of the other to anchor himself. To not accidentally take away from you more than he’s allowed to, even though he is starving for every single bit of it. 

Just when you can physically feel him beginning to hold himself back, your fist bunches up against his collars and you apply all your strength to pull him inside your room.

He willingly follows like that’s all he is made to do. 

You don’t know who shuts it, but you know that yours is the body being pushed against your door as his hold around you tightens, sliding you up against it until he’s nearly lifting you up with that single arm on your waist.

You gasp into his mouth more out of the sheer wonder of being kissed so deep than the lack of air that is making your mind go numb. His fingers are busy mapping the curve of your spine or cushioning your head from bumping into the wood as he sucks onto your bottom lip. 

You inadvertently find yourself getting pulled deeper into the heat of him—back arching off the door, head lolling limp into his palm, a leg curling over his hip—like your body cannot stand the idea of there being any distance left between your skin and his. 

He whispers your name right against your lips like he has been waiting to say it that way since forever. He leans down, surrenders to whatever force there is that keeps on drawing you both closer and closer. 

When he moves on to kiss the edge of your jaw after pressing several heated ones into the corner of your ruined lips, it is like a reminder for you to catch your breath. He nips at your skin lightly before licking the tinge away when you moan like there is a slow spread of fire under your skin. 

“I avoid you because you make it easy for me to forget things that I shouldn’t.” you end up blurting out while he sucks the patch of skin where your nerves thrum the loudest in your throat. 

“What does that even mean?” he asks, his voice a lick of flames in the shell of your ear as he pauses just briefly to ask that. 

Your fingers over his shoulders and around his neck stutter like they can’t decide whether to push him away or continue keeping him close while you talk nonsense between those wet kisses. 

He takes your lips once again, slotting between them softly. Deliberately. He kisses you so slowly that it is a torture. Like he intends to pour all his longing, all the waiting, all the pain from when you’d push him away into this moment and make you feel every single throb of it.

It is no more a heated desire, but heartbreak given an act where your lips are the performers. 

It makes all the sensations of your body surge upwards and escape your body to settle into his careful palms instead—the same palms that he cushions you with when you inevitably fall limp, undone, against the door from just the impact of him kissing you slow. His forehead falls against your own, his eyes cinched shut like he is absorbing something.

“What does that mean?” he repeats, this time, right against your lips like a dare. 

Your stomach flutters when he brings his hand to lace his fingers with yours and gives them a gentle squeeze like he is urging you to come back to him and speak. 

You lick your lips before you can give it a second thought, sucking the remnants of him from them. His eyes fall from yours to your mouth before traveling back again. 

“It means,” you whisper in between shallow gasps like it is something jagged that you have to force past your lungs, “that I don’t get to feel like this.” 

“Like what?” his eyes, clearer and reignited like your kiss was all he needed to trigger the fire within him, search for clues in your foggy ones.

Your lips part. Then close. 

You can no longer keep your eyes on him, this is where all your resilience drains out. 

When your voice finally manages to climb past from where your heart had lodged itself in your throat, it is barely above a breath. 

“Like I want you.” 

You look up, only to find him frowning down upon you like you just spoke something in a language he cannot quite comprehend. His hold around you loosens, letting your toes touch the ground. And once you’re not swaying enough, he lets go of you completely like your words had started to settle. Not completely, but enough for him to put some space and allow himself to be rational. 

“You want me,” he says more to himself than to you, like he has to speak it out loud to process something he has wanted so badly, for so long. “You want me and your solution to that was to push me away. Why?” 

That last word comes out so fragile, like he didn’t even want to ask that. Like he is afraid that the answer might break something that he doesn’t know how to fix. 

You suck in a sharp breath. “Because I shouldn’t…I shouldn’t be wanting things that aren’t meant for me. I shouldn’t be pulling you into my room and kissing you like I get to keep you.”

“Why not?” he demands, stepping closer again, his voice rising—not in anger, but in sheer, aching frustration. “Why does everything with you have to feel like there’s some rule I don’t know about?”

“Because rules exist for a reason, Mingyu.” you nearly cry out, but the rain’s rhythmic tapping against your window drowns it out. “They exist to remind us to stay in our limits—”

“And who gets to decide those limits for you?” he counters, “why do you think it is a sin for you to want me?” 

Because this entire thing is based on a lie. 

Because I stole you from someone else’s destiny. 

Because when we were kids, Ethan and I divided the entire Universe among ourselves and for some reason, he claimed possession over his right to hate you before I could even begin to explore my love for you…

But you say none of that. 

You just stand there, breathing hard through your cowardice. For a split second, your mind does what it does best—races to make predictions. 

What are the odds that if you tell him everything right now, he’d hate you forever? 

What are the odds that he’d continue to kiss you despite it all? 

You realize that you don’t have anything concrete to establish an answer upon. 

He steps in closer, voice dropping just enough to make you lean in without intending to. “Did I do something to hurt you?”

His voice trails off and the fallen, sullen look on his face makes your heart clench until it combusts. 

“You didn’t…you—God, no!” you fling your arms around him again. This time, hugging his torso and clutching on the fabric of his shirt until it wrinkles under your hold. “I don’t know…I guess I’m just—I’m just scared because I’ve never felt this strongly for anyone.” 

Your entire body trembles, your voice half-muffled into his body. He presses you closer like a reflex, like he just saw you nearly fall apart and instantly rushed to hold you back together. 

“I know baby, I know,” he says, kissing your temple, “but we’ll figure it out…do you trust me?” 

You nod eagerly—or attempt to the best you can because you’ve wound yourself around him like a tightwire. 

He brushes your hair with a delicate tenderness. You feel his chest hum under your cheek when he asks, “Would you go out with me?” 

You feel the ground shift under your feet, making you ground your heels deep into it. You lift your head up, barely, just enough to look at him. Your eyebrows pull together, not with confusion, but with agony because that look on his face…gone and devoted, like you are something worshipful and ruinous at the same time. 

His eyes keep on exploring your face like one searches for constellations in the night sky. 

And then, he breathes, “let me show you what I have for you is worth breaking your rules for…let me prove to you how easy this can be. Please, be mine.”

“Yes,” you choke out before the nagging voice that has been burning holes in your gut can catch up to your mind because for once, you want to be selfish. Because for once, you feel like you owe it to yourself to dedicate yourself to something without worrying about anyone else. “God yes.” 

CHAPTER 12: i know i'm your favorite

The first thing you register after waking up is the soft morning light filtering in through your open blinds and kissing your face with a warmth that seems to be revisiting all the spots Mingyu had kissed last night.  

The blushing tip of your nose. The curves of your cheeks. Your fluttering eyelids and even that one spot between your brows that creases with the deepest frown-lines when you’re trying hard to focus. 

You feel your cheeks heat up at the memory of it all and you bury your face into your pillow like that would make it stop from spreading. The truth is, you haven’t stopped flushing pink—not since he showed up, said things that made you feel like you were living in a dream, swept you off your feet and kissed you like that one act of desire was his sole salvation. 

And then, after most things had been said and done and after you spent what seemed like an eternity hiding in his embrace, the storm outside had thinned down into a misty shower. Like even the rain knew it had given everything it needed to, and all that remained was the quiet, delicate aftermath of it all. 

You had asked him, shyly, almost reluctantly, if he wanted to stay the night. Chaeyoung’s bed was vacant—it had been since the day she left. You told him you could ask the girl next door for some clothes for him because her boyfriend was always staying over with her. Or he could borrow your largest hoodie—to which, he just laughed, telling you it’d be a corset at best on him. 

But he had agreed, like you didn’t even need to fuss about it, like he would have stayed back even if there was no change of clothes or no place to sleep for him. All you had to do was just ask. 

The back of your thighs still burn from where he had held them when you nearly slipped while climbing the bed to reach your top bunk. He didn’t even need to hold you, you lost balance almost everyday. Still, he was there, protective and watchful without you even asking him to be. Like looking after you was something inherent in him… something he didn’t have to hide anymore now that you had agreed to let him in like that. 

“You look like a little koala climbing up a tree,” he had joked, helping you settle between your sheets and pulling them over your body. 

He hadn’t even needed to stretch his toes to reach your face when he brushed your hair off your forehead. 

You had turned on your side to face him, returning his soft, teasing grin before wishing him good night. 

Although, neither of you had been able to sleep. 

Not really. 

You could tell by how the bed below kept creaking, how you kept on counting each breath—yours and his. And whenever the silence stretched too thick, you’d break it by talking. 

There was no agenda, no to-do’s. Just erratic topics. What got you into ice-hockey? Why do you only drink tea and not coffee? Why didn’t you use the umbrella I gave you, idiot? What’s the name of your worn out pink plush-bunny that you’re squeezing like a shield to your chest? 

He told you he had planted peonies in his balcony like you had asked him to. You told him about the girls in your dorms who kept on asking you about your dresses and how it finally made you convince Cass to set a little account up and begin taking orders here and there.

You couldn’t run out of topics to talk with him, you had realized. So when you began yawning more frequently and when his voice dipped another octave, turning huskier, he had carefully suggested from the bed below: “Truce?” 

“Truce.” you had mumbled, rubbing your head deeper into your pillow, already half-submerged in the type of slumber that made you question if the entirety of that conversation was something your mind made up. 

And now, you can recall every single detail of the night like someone has etched it in your heart with something sharp, leaving a mark that you have no intentions of ever covering up. 

Once your breathing isn’t as ragged and uneven as if you just ran a marathon around the memories of last night, you pull yourself up like you do every morning. Half up on your elbows, staring at the sun rise behind the magnolia tree outside the window. Sunlight melts over the leaves that are soaked from yesternight’s storm, residual rain dripping down from them like liquid gold. 

It is beginning to get cold. Too cold. The crisp kind that creeps in through your fingertips before settling in your spine making every nerve shudder. You pull the comforter higher around yourself, wounding it tighter before stretching just enough to peek down at Chaeyoung’s bed. 

Mingyu is still fast asleep. His lips are slightly parted, hair ruffled and messy over Chaeyoung’s duck-printed pillow. The clothes you had arranged for him are a size too small, bunching up over his wrists and ankles awkwardly, the fabric straining a bit over his broad shoulders and chest. He has somehow managed to fold his limbs in a way that looks so uncomfortable but practical enough to have him fit over the small mattress. The blanket has pooled half down over his body and lies abandoned on the floor. 

You can’t help but giggle at the sight. 

That little sound, just a beat too loud than a breath, is what stirs him out of sleep. 

His muscles move under the tight strain of the clothes as he stretches, grinning already even though he’s only half awake. It is not his usual, confident, half-smile — the one he flashes to people when he wants to get his way. Nor is it the teasing one from when he is trying to get a reaction out of you. It’s easy, pure… something so inherent to him that it makes your heart fold in on itself. 

“Watching me sleep?” he cocks his head to the side, his voice low and raspy like velvet threaded through warmth. 

“No,” you lie blatantly, “I just wanted to check if you fell off or something.” 

“Well, it wasn’t the comfiest bed for my body,” he admits, getting up from the bed and straining his neck from side to side. “But worth it.” 

“Worth it for a bad night’s sleep after getting drenched by the rain? You look like someone folded you in half and then forgot about it.” 

“Worth it cause I got to wake up to you.” he finishes, voice still thick with sleep as he drags a hand through his already unruly hair.

You roll your eyes, trying — and failing — to look unaffected by those words or the view in front of you as you trace the slow stretch of his taut, tanned abdomen, the way the fabric clings and rides up just enough to make your breath catch.

Mingyu steps closer to the bunk, one hand coming up to rest against the frame just beside your head. The bed dips ever so slightly under the shift, bringing him closer without him even needing to climb up. Close enough that you can see the faint imprint of sleep still lingering on his cheek, close enough that the warmth of him reaches you before his touch does.

“You’re blushing.” he murmurs almost to himself like he is trying to memorize the tinge flushing your skin, your eyes glazed with sleep or how your lashes fan over your cheeks as you blink at him.

Your grip over the blanket loosens like you’re shedding yet another wall around him. Slowly, but surely. 

“It’s probably just the cold,” you shake your head, getting up and sitting up straight. 

“Yeah?” he muses, leaning further with his arms on your bed, “so you are saying you won’t have any reaction if I took this tight sweatshirt—which has been bugging me all night—off right now?” 

“Do your worst, Kim.” you shrug, attempting to appear cool like you haven’t daydreamt about it whenever his shirt would ride up each time he’d reach forward to fetch a book from the top shelf that you couldn’t reach. 

Mingyu’s grin slants, not in a cocky way, but with the confidence of knowing something to be true. Your throat tightens when his fingers curl around the hem of the sweatshirt, not with nerves, but with the raw kind of anticipation that leaves you tingling. 

His eyes remain stationed at you, drinking every single reaction as he takes it off. How your breathing quickens. How you squirm, just a little movement, enough to cause the comforter to shift. The lingering gaze oscillating between the hard ridges of his abs to the expanse of his collarbones. How your lashes flutter with a hint of shame when you realize he has caught you staring. 

He doesn’t flex, doesn’t put on a show like the boys at your gym do in between sets before the mirror. He doesn’t have to. 

If the several hours of practice on the bone-chilling cold ice-rink wasn’t a testament of his stamina, his body surely is. The firm lines of his biceps which flex with smooth movement when he reaches for his own hoodie that had been drying at the back of your chair all night. The rippling muscles of his back and how they move smoothly under his honeyed skin when he puts it on. 

Something inside of you begins ripening the more you stare at the details of him. He catches you off guard by looking over his shoulders as he straightens the fabric out. 

“Just giving you a heads up but I’m gonna change into my pants now.” 

You can’t hold your gasp in at that information and quickly rush to cover your face with the blanket. 

“Stripper.” you mutter under your breath, but the hush of the early winter morning makes it impossible for him to not hear that little insult and chuckle. 

You bite your lips hard as you hear the rustling of fabric while he changes into his own clothes, your palms sweating from holding the blanket too hard. 

“Are you done?” you call out, impatient. 

He answers you by padding closer to you. You feel him grab the blanket and gently pull it off your face. 

“All done, pretty.” he grins, his palms coming up to rest over your hips. He slides them up, reverently smoothing over the curve of your waist before settling securely over your ribs. He closes his eyes to breathe it in — like he has just mapped out a new home for himself, and when he opens them again, his eyes glint with something light and mischievous when he asks, “Ready?” 

“For wha—” you cut yourself off when you realize what he intends to do, “Mingyu, no.” 

“Please?” 

“I’m not letting you haul me off. What if you drop me?” 

“I won’t.” he promises, softer this time. Like he wants to follow it up with a ‘I won’t let anything happen to you’ but decides against it. 

You consider it for a minute, watching how his sturdy shoulders and sure grip make a case for themselves. 

“Okay…” you relent, “but only cause the rug is soft.” 

His fingers tighten around you, not uncomfortably but enough to let you feel held between them. And then, as you bury your trembling palms over the dips of his shoulders, he lifts you effortlessly. 

A quiet gasp slips past your lips as the world tilts for a second. He steadies you instantly, one arm hooked securely beneath your thighs, the other firm at your back, anchoring you against him like you belong there. Like you’ve always belonged there.

Mingyu gives you a half-twirl before settling you down so gently that it feels like a kiss when your toes meet the ground. 

“There you go, Princess,” he murmurs, voice brushing against your skin as much as his breath does.

Your heart doesn’t race, it stumbles, it trips over itself in a way that makes your fingers curl tighter into the fabric of his hoodie. You can feel the warmth of him even through the layers, the solid reassurance of his chest rising and falling beneath your palms. 

“You’re having too much fun with this.” you whisper, squinting your eyes at him, but there’s no bite to it. Not when you’re this close, not when his face is mere inches away from yours. 

“Can you tell I always wanted a bunk bed when I was a kid?” 

“Then take the top bunk the next time you sleep over.” 

“Only if you want it to break under my weight.” he shrugs, “or maybe that’s exactly what you want cause it means I will fall right in bed with you.” 

“God, you’re insufferable.” you laugh softly, wriggling in his stronghold as he anchors you tight to himself, “now let me go. I need to get ready for my classes.” 

He kisses the edge of your jaw and slots his face deeper into the curve of your neck, not caring about how your hair gets into his eyes and mouth when he speaks. “Please, just a few more minutes. You’re too soft and you smell so good… this is like a dream to me.” 

Your brain ceases to function when it lands just how desperately he’s holding on to you. 

Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close as your heart continues to brim with this unimaginable upsurge of love that you never knew your body could contain. 

But it does. 

And he’s the one who pulls it out of you without any grand gestures or profound declarations. 

People say that one often falls for someone who reminds them of their home. Which is why we get stuck in the endless loops of the same cycles repeating throughout our life. And if you’re able to experience a love that doesn’t trigger those familiarities, then congrats, you broke the cycle and outgrew a version that needed to be left behind at your home. 

When you’re with Mingyu, it doesn’t feel familiar—it feels easy. You don’t have to worry too much about your low voice being drowned out because he always leans down to listen. You don’t feel like yet another fixture on the beige walls of your drawing room because he always stares at you so deeply, with such reverent and gentle intent like each time, he’s memorizing you all over again. And above it all, you never feel lonely…or in a constant competition to hold his attention because it’s always there, without you even trying to. 

“You’re more like a clingy puppy than a boyfriend,” you tease him when he attempts to nuzzle even closer, “you’re making me regret this.”

He pulls back, just slightly, and tilts his head with the world’s widest grin. “Boyfriend? That sounds nice.” 

Your eyes widen. Wondering if you sounded too eager or if you misunderstood his entire confession last night, you carefully add. “I don’t mean to…I mean—”

“Promoted and demoted in the same breath?” he gasps and you hit him lightly, over his bicep. 

“I just mean…I’m not rushing you into any labels.” you mumble, biting your lip a bit too hard. 

Mingyu’s arms fall from around you, not dramatically, but to hold your hands instead. He ensures to match your gaze with his own when he speaks, “I literally begged you like a starving dog last night. And still, you think I’ll be scared of a label? Baby, if you say the word, I’ll only wear shirts that have your name printed in bold for the rest of the academic year.” 

“Oh my God you couldn’t get more corny!” you manage to slip out of his hold. 

He leans against the bed, watching you do what you do every morning like he wants to learn your routines. 

“Get used to it, baby.” 

CHAPTER 13: stargirl interlude

You adjust your top yet again in the mirror, hoping that’ll somehow make it look more modest. 

“Cunty tops are so in right now, stop being a fucking prude!” your friend Cass scolds you through the screen. 

“I don’t know,” you whine, pulling at the hem of the short denim-skirt like that’ll elongate it, “I look like I just gang-banged half the galaxy.” 

“Hot.” Cass says, her voice muffled by the fistful of chips she just stuffed her mouth with as she returns back to work on one of her sketches. 

With every inch of your skin buzzing with nerves, you want to ask her yet again if she thinks you look fine even though you already know her answer. 

But she seems rather preoccupied tonight. 

So you bite the question back and return to inspect yourself closely. A shimmering purple top that slinks a bit low down your cleavage and the denim mini-skirt with purple glittery butterflies stitched over the pockets and boots to match is exactly an outfit you’d wear to a party. But the only parties you have ever attended were Cassidy’s all-girls birthday bashes or your cousin’s bachelorette last year. 

It is safe to say that you have no idea about what makes a good outfit for a frat party that you’re going to attend with someone who was termed your college’s most eligible bachelor, just a few weeks back, as his girlfriend. You wonder if you overdid it with the little stars that you glued over your eyelids — just a small detail, nothing excessive. Or if you should dab off the thick layer of your gloss. 

“I look like a rejected popstar from a kid’s TV show,” you complain, but go on to pin yet another strand of lilac hair-tinsel in your hair. 

“You look like a hot cosmic cowgirl.” Cass corrects, “and who cares if you do look like a popstar? Kids have the best fashion sense anyways—Ugh, love the tinsel, you should add some more.” 

“You think?”

“Yeah, and pop a bubblegum in your mouth while you’re at it. Trust me, you’re gonna walk out of that party with the other half of the galaxy that you didn’t gangbang begging on their knees for you to do so.” 

You don’t go out of your way to correct her that you’re not looking forward to seducing anyone tonight. You also conceal it away from her that you already have a date, someone you’re so serious about.

You’ve been doing that a lot — concealing truths and letting your conscience rest under the illusion that hiding some things from the people you love and care about isn’t exactly the same as lying to them. 

And as much as it burns a pit in your stomach, you don’t want to risk having Cass freak the fuck out the moment you mention Mingyu in front of her simply because you haven’t even sat down to think what answers would you give her when she inevitably asks you questions.

Questions like, ‘does Ethan know about you and Mingyu?’, ‘does Mingyu know about you and Ethan?’ 

Questions that despite the faith they originate from, are bound to put you in a position to pick and choose between your brother and your boyfriend. A choice that you still refuse to accept the existence of. 

It should be none of Ethan’s business whom you choose to date. And you haven’t exactly discussed families with Mingyu yet — or that’s at least the excuse that you give yourself, for now. Because you know he had mentioned something fleeting about his sister’s birthday during one of your first study sessions together or how his parents would call him sometimes just to check in on him.

You just conveniently refuse to remember any of that because it excuses your own silences. 

The knock at your door signals his arrival. You bid a quick goodbye to Cass while mumbling some excuse. 

You open the door, slow and deliberate, like your pulse isn’t tripping all over itself at the rudimentary realization of how important this night seems, even if you don’t mean it to be. 

Like so far, it had all been a secret, a hazy story you spun for yourself in your warm bedroom, the cozy diners, his house tucked away from all eyes or the hidden corners of the library. 

But tonight, you make it visible, you make it solid. 

“Hey,” you greet him, hiding a little within yourself without intending to. 

You have to physically brace yourself before lifting your eyes up to see him.

So far, in the few official dates you’ve been on with him, if there’s something you know for sure about Mingyu, it is that you can always see the effort he puts in his outfits to look good by your side. Like tonight, as he leans a shoulder by your doorway—all quiet confidence interwoven with intentional ease like he didn’t spend an extra twenty minutes doing his hair exactly the way he did during your first date because you complimented him for it. 

Your breath stutters anyways. 

He is dressed simpler than you, but of course, even simplicity feels devastating on him. A black shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the strong lines of his forearms, the fabric stretching faintly across his chest. Dark jeans that sit low on his hips — effortless, dangerous. His tanned Dior jacket lies half-folded over his forearm, like he had shrugged it off halfway through the trip here, impatient to see you rather than bother with appearances.

When he extends the bouquet of peonies that he always brings for you — with that stupid grin that always has you hold onto something tight to avoid reaching for him and kiss him crazy — the expensive watch on his wrist catches the light in ways that makes everything about him shift into a sharper focus. 

You take the flowers from him, suddenly too conscious of the chaos going on all over behind you in your room and on your body with all the spilled glitter and tinsels tangled with clothes. 

But Mingyu’s eyes are focused on you. Laser sharp. Like you’re the only thing ever worth noticing. His gaze drops, slow and unhurried, taking you in from head to toe. Not in the way that feels cheap or rushed or evaluative, but like he’s burning this image of you somewhere in a deep crevice of his mind. 

Like he intends to recall every glittering detail later, alone, in the quiet. 

The stars on your eyes. The gloss that he wants to feel sliding against his own lips. The stupid little butterflies on your skirt that he can’t help but reach forward to caress with his thumb when he says, “Wow you look…”

“Too much?” you suggest, burying your nose in the flowers once before settling them over the desk by the door. 

“Not at all,” he corrects, taking your fingers between his own and making you begrudgingly step out of your room, “you look unfair.” 

“Unfair?” 

“Yeah… like you don’t want me to go to this party and just have me sit and stare at you here all day.” 

“You’re so dramatic,” you huff out. “What if I’m the most sparkly person there?” 

“Well, my stargirl’s gotta shine.” 

You roll your eyes, but that does little to hide the way you squirm. His gaze drops from where the fabric dip at the swell of your chest, then to the extra layer of kohl around your eyes before finding a home on your lips. He gives you one crooked smile, the kind that always makes your heart beat a little too fast before his head dips down to capture your lips in a short but heated kiss. 

“Now we’re both shining,” he says, doing nothing to wipe the gloss off his lips. 

“You look ridiculous,” you laugh, cleaning it off with your own fingers as he gives you a fake whine of displeasure. And then, you stretch on your toes to kiss the edge of his jaw. “There, that’s better.” 

⸻

Even with the giant coat on, you never not shiver whenever you step into Mingyu’s car. 

Sleek black with seats covered in smooth leather, it looks like it belongs to someone with a lofty attitude and icy glares.

But with him, it just works. 

Because nothing about the way he helps you settle in after holding the door open for you, keeping a hand stationed over your waist until the leather presses warm against your thighs before he clicks the door shut seems cold or detached. 

On the contrary, you feel your limbs loosening up the way they do after you have downed two flutes of red wine as the cinnamon-scented warmth of his car burrows you in itself. 

He reaches to hold your hand immediately after starting the car. He always does this. Your fingers curl over his palm like a tether that you need tonight. 

“You’re nervous,” he says, turning his head to give you a thoughtful glance. 

“A little,” you answer, trying your best to stop your palms from turning so clammy. “I mean, usually it’s just the two of us. Feels weirdly official.” 

“More official than our last date?” he quirks his brows up, making you laugh at the memory of last weekend when you were both grocery shopping for a dinner he wanted to cook for you at his house. 

The two of you had begun arguing between fresh tomatoes versus canned tomatoes, earning the attention of a child who turned to his father and said— ‘why do married people always fight over tomatoes? Can’t they just eat ketchup?’ 

It was just a silly incident, but the memory of it still causes enough heat to rush into your cheeks that you turn your face away from him, staring at the greens blurring with the grey skies as the car smoothly speeds past the lush campus. 

“My friends have big personalities,” Mingyu says after a few moments of comfortable silence, “but I know for sure you’re going to love most of them.” 

“And do you think they’d like me?” you ask, your voice a little smaller and too shy for someone decked in half the stars borrowed from an evening sky. 

He huffs out a long exhale like he is giving it a genuine, serious thought. And then, he shakes his head, “honestly baby, they don’t really get a choice.” 

You bring your conjoined hands to give him a light shove, “don’t threaten your friends to like me.” 

“Stop fretting this much over those idiots, gorgeous.” he brings your palm to his lips, pressing a small kiss over it, “they’ll love you.”

⸻

Mingyu gives you one final rundown about his friends while helping you out of your coat and hanging it on the coatrack in the foyer of the frat-house. 

“Dokyeom is basically me but in italics, and harmless. I don’t think there’s any girl whom Jihyo can’t get along with. Wonwoo’s a bit more reserved so don’t take it as him being aloof. Misty’s humour can be a hit or miss so don’t mind her and Chan’s basically a pup.” 

You nod eagerly, signalling him that you are on track even though you aren’t. But your eyes, always so wide and reflective, give you away the moment he takes a good look at them. 

He rubs your tensed temples with his thumbs before cupping your face to kiss your forehead. And even though there are so many people, already drunk or looking forward to getting drunk, milling around the two of you between the cacophony of loud, slurred chatter and the muted bass that thumps across the entire floor, you find yourself wrapped into this safe, fuzzy feeling which makes everything bearable and slow. 

Mingyu winds his arm over your lower waist, and something about the stable surety of it makes you feel like it is an unsaid promise that there’s nothing that can let him make you stray away in this crowd. 

You involuntarily shift closer to him, letting his warmth seep into your exposed skin. 

He leads you up the stairs, away from the commotion of the actual party as it bubbles and trips over itself downstairs, telling you his friends are all playing pool up there. 

He opens the door and squeezes your waist once with assurance before grinning wider at his friends who all begin encircling you both with enthusiastic hellos and half-hugs. 

“Finally!” someone calls out.

“Took you long enough!”

“Gyu, is that my fucking shirt?” 

Mingyu introduces you to all of them while you actively try not to shrivel up under their watchful gazes as they observe you with unabashed curiosity. 

You think you spot a few looks of appreciation, especially from Jihyo who has had her attention glued to every little move you make and how it involuntarily pushes you closer to him. But it’s too early to tell. 

“Blink twice if you need me to shut him up,” she leans in to whisper when Chan begins asking you for academic advice. 

It is too loud, too much. Your eyes keep on flitting from one face to other as their voices stumble over each other to finish a story they think you have to know on your very first night with them. And yet, it oddly feels at home. 

Throughout it all, Mingyu’s touch remains over you. Not hovering. Not almost. But firm, present, possessive, and definitely there. 

You are listening to Wonwoo talk about his semester abroad from last summer when the door hinges open, making you turn your head around to see a girl with auburn hair and glitter on her skin eyeing you up and down. 

Mingyu begins, “Misty, this is—”

She shushes him up with a single finger, her sharp, pointed nails painted bright red. Then turns to her friends. “So no one was gonna tell me Mingyu is bringing a baddie along?” 

⸻

The game of pool soon dissolves when Dokyeom and Misty break out into an argument that has her threatening to throw him off the balcony. 

The group disperses, some going to the dancefloor while the others insist on going for a swim despite the chill. And as much as you enjoyed their company, you find yourself grateful for the space that allows you to digest it all down. 

“You okay?” Mingyu asks, the moment you find a quiet place away from all the chaos. 

“Yeah but my face is all tingling and warm.” you laugh, pressing your cold fingers over your skin.  

“Told you, they can be a bit much.” 

“I liked them but it was kinda like pre-school.” 

That pulls a laugh out of him. 

“Wanna get something to drink?” he asks you, slowing down a bit before what seems like a make-shift bar in the kitchen. 

“Something non-alcoholic for now?” you suggest. 

Mingyu nods, walking deeper into the stuffy kitchen brimming with swaying bodies stumbling over each other to find something for you because the counter outside is loaded with open drinks and warm punches lying forgotten.

You don’t see them at first when they are checking you out, but you catch the movement from the corner of your eye when one of the guys out of a group hanging out idly around the counter walks up to you. 

“Hey sparkles,” he leans, trying so hard to appear sober and tough by supporting his weight at an awkward angle at the counter by you. 

Choosing to ignore him, you shift a step away, your eyes focused on the faint view of the refrigerator opening and closing in the distance. 

“Not chatty much?” the guy asks, thinking you are not seeing the way he looks back at his friends and gives them a careless shrug. 

Fucking desperate freshmen. 

The guy clears his throat, downing his drink in a go before leaning in again and slurring the line you know he must have practiced hard for with his friends ever since he saw you. “You look like a glitter bomb exploded all over you, wan’ my help to get you all cleaned up, huh? Bathroom’s that way.” 

This time, you can’t hold the condescending snort back as all your resolve breaks loose over. “Oh my God, you’re more pathetic than I thought. Take a hint and leave, dude.” 

His friends behind him let out a low chorus of ooohs, the kind that feeds egos instead of deflating them.

“Relax,” he scoffs, straightening up like he wasn’t just leaning half his body weight on the counter to stay upright. “Was just being nice. Don’t wanna fuck an obvious whore anyways.”

A few people around you laugh too loudly at that. Or maybe, that’s just what you think happens. You don’t know. Because to you, everything sharpens… narrows. 

You hate that it leaves you stunned for long enough that his smirk widens. 

“Come again?” you ask him, voice low and a bit unsteady. 

He scoffs, glassy eyes dropping to the flesh of your thighs visible between your thigh-highs and skirt. “You heard me. I know desperation when I see it.” 

You nod, keeping your spine straight and chin high even though your chest is caving. “Then maybe you should learn to stand by what you say without slurring through it. Or is alcohol the only way you know how to talk to a woman without pissing your fucking pants?”

His expression tightens, “you bitch—”

Before he can finish that, his body is being yanked away from you by the collar of his shirt. The guy thrashes for a moment—or attempts to, because as soon as his brain catches up to just who is holding him back, his eyes widen and he turns so pale that someone might have just cut him open and left to dry. 

“Apologize.” Mingyu says, jerking the guy with enough force that has him losing his balance until he’s being held up solely on the mercy of Mingyu’s fists. 

Being choked by his own collar, he manages to splutter, “s-sorry man, I didn’t—”

Mingyu’s grip tightens, you can see the strain in the veins of his forearms. Enough to cut air off, enough to make a point. His jaw flexes, a muscle ticking in his cheek as his eyes, dark and steady, bore straight into the boy. “I wasn’t talking about myself.”

You don’t realize just how breathless and limp you’ve gone until the guy turns towards you and you realize you’ve taken several steps away from the two of them. 

This time, his eyes don’t roam over you like you’re something to be enjoyed being looked at when he blabbers, “Sorry… sorry I wasn’t thinking.” 

And just as quickly, his eyes snap back to Mingyu like he’s the one who is supposed to do the accepting, to tell him if he’s okay to go. 

Mingyu drags him further with an uncalculated, carelessly furious strength and shoves him until he collides with a wall. “Go home.” 

“But I—”

“You reek of beer. Take a fucking cab and go home. If I see you around tonight…”

Before he can even finish that, the guy is scrambling to his feet and rushing towards the door. 

Mingyu’s wild eyes tame down a bit the moment they fall on you squirming in on yourself. 

His chest heaves—not with strain, but with pure, raw anger when he turns to the few people who have gathered around to see what was happening, “The hell are you guys staring at?” 

The crowd begins to dissipate just as Mingyu reaches for you. This time, he doesn’t directly touch you like he always does—with need, with possession. This time, his fingers hover, just slightly, asking for permission. 

“Baby—” 

“I am fine,” you nod quickly, giving him a poor attempt at an assuring smile. 

“Are you sure? Do you wanna go back home?” 

“Wha—why? No,” you huff out, not realizing how your lips wobble under the weight of your fake smile, or how your eyes well up—red and raw. “I can handle a drunk sleaze… I’m completely fine.” 

“You don’t have to,” he shakes his head, his palm cradling your face with such tenderness like he’s afraid he might touch you wrong. “We can just call it a night and I can cook something at my place—”

You hold his wrist, removing his hand away from your face. 

He instantly drops it with a shallow breath. 

“I’m fine,” you repeat, your smile tight. “Just need some air, that’s all. Please don’t follow me.” 

You don’t turn around to see if he disregards your wish and follows you, you know he wouldn’t. Your fingers shake uncontrollably as you retrieve your coat and shut the buttons tighter than you normally would, not because it is unbearably cold outside, but because you don’t want anyone else to see you in this ridiculous outfit anymore. 

You wipe the wet trails over your cheeks with the back of your hand, letting the glitter smudge your skin as you suck in breaths with too much effort. 

Half of the party crowd has gathered around the swimming-pool while the other half sways along to music inside. The backyard is completely vacant leaving for two girls who are helping another one as she throws up in a corner. 

You let the chilled air settle over your nose, between the crevices of your fingers and dry your tears out. Once you are sure you aren’t crying anymore, you let yourself succumb to the ground, pulling your knees up to your chin and stare straight ahead as bright lights catch the bodies of screaming people jumping in the pool. 

Not once do you turn around, fearing that if you do, you might see him there somewhere, looking wrecked and apologetic but still being present for you. 

⸻

You don’t know for how long you sit there. But the back of your thighs feel completely damp from the dewy grass by the time Jihyo comes and sits beside you. 

“Hey,” she says with all the softness in the world. “Rough night?” 

You shake your head, “just overstimulated.” 

She nods. Her fingers shuffle around in the pockets of her jacket for a while before she pulls out a cigarette and a lighter. Pursing the cigarette between her lips, she lights it up with a single flick of the lighter, letting the end sizzle for longer than it needs to before putting it away. 

She offers it to you wordlessly, and you accept with a small ‘thanks.’

“You know you don’t have to babysit me.” you say after taking a drag, letting the smoke curl in thin strands between the dense fog of the night before it disappears into it.  

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean,” you cough a little, passing the cigarette back to her, “I know you’re here because Mingyu is worried about me.” 

Jihyo leans back on her palms, the cigarette pressed in the corner of her mouth as she eyes you for a few long moments. When she finally laughs, it is more smoke than sound. 

“Bitch please, I’m here to smoke because they won’t let me do that in the house.” But then, her eyes soften, “and because I’m also worried about you.” 

You tilt your head, “please don’t be. I’m fine.” 

“Then why did you run out here?” 

When you exhale, your shoulders drop down, releasing all the tension that had bunched up there. 

And then, “I was embarrassed.” 

“Embarassed?” 

“Yeah… for wearing this to a frat party, of all places, and thinking people won’t talk.”

“You know you could be wearing a sweatshirt and baggy jeans and that wouldn’t have dented the odds of something like this happening?” 

“I know, I just— it was messy.” 

Jihyo doesn’t respond, at least not with words. She just observes you through the thick curtain of smoke. 

“But I feel better now… really. Just needed some time to cool off.” 

She nods, just a single movement, “I’ll take your word for it.” 

You begin dusting your legs, ready to get up and head back in. But before you can, she catches your wrist. 

“For what it’s worth, you look hot. Like really fucking hot. And though it is very human to let yourself be affected by whatever that dickhead said to you, don’t let it distract you from the fact that Misty and I are gonna fight over who gets to steal that outfit from you.” 

This time, you allow yourself to laugh. Not as a distraction, not as a way to hide the pain searing in your chest. But because it feels good to hear her say that. 

Jihyo persists, “I’m not joking dude. Did you see his grin when Mingyu walked in with you on his arm? It was like he won at life or something.”

“Oh stop it.” 

“I’d so hit on you if it weren’t for him or the fact that I’ve been yearning for her for over a year now.” She cocks her head towards the pool. 

You follow her line of gaze to see a girl sitting at the corner-most edge of the pool, a lilac towel wrapped around her drenched frame as she desperately tries to wipe her wet hair from sticking into her eyes as she talks to her friends. 

“She’s cute.” you giggle, “why don’t you go talk to her?” 

Jihyo shrugs, “I don’t know, it seems too risky.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I don’t know if she’s into girls, I don’t wanna creep her out.”

“Wha—guys ask girls out all the time without knowing if they’re into them or not. Shoot your shot, you won’t ‘creep her out’. She seems sweet.”

“I don’t know man,” Jihyo finally straightens up, putting the cigarette out by the thick sole of her boot, “she is quite nice but there’s always this distance that she puts between herself and the world, you know? Like she doesn’t want you to know her. It’s like I wasn’t supposed to like her.” 

You blurt out before you can hold it in, “I get it, I fell in love with someone I wasn’t supposed to either.” 

All humor seems to evaporate from Jihyo’s eyes as she detects the deeper confession in your words. 

“Really? You love him?” she asks, her smile giddy, “but why do you think you aren’t supposed to?”

You pull your knees closer, pressing your face into them and letting your hair shield your heating cheeks from her. 

“No seriously,” she insists, all giggly and excited, “he is the type of guy you are absolutely supposed to fall for. He’s caring, he’s loyal, has the potential to earn good money and looks like someone mating with whom won’t negatively impact your gene-pool.”

At this point, you don’t really care how moony your eyes look when you muse. “I know, he’s perfect.” 

“Is that why you’re scared about falling for him? Cause he’s perfect?” 

You quickly shake your head. “It’s not like he’s out of my league or anything.”

“Yeah, exactly. Then what is it? Your family doesn’t approve or what?” 

You weren’t expecting her to hit the square straight up. You take a breath, biting your lip. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

Jihyo senses the shift in your demeanor and much to your relief, drops it. 

You don’t speak for some time, just check your phone for any texts only to find one from Mingyu that says ‘I’m here in the drawing room, right behind the backyard… lmk if you want me out there.’ 

You shut it and slide it back in your pocket. Jihyo is still staring at the girl in the pool, her eyes more rueful now. 

“What if she thinks I’m annoying and says no?” she asks more to herself than to you. 

“Well, statistically speaking, there’s a 50% probability of her saying no. But that doesn’t mean it’s because she’s disinterested in you or hates you. There can be so many reasons. Maybe she has other plans after graduating. Maybe she’s already dating someone.”

“Maybe she plans on being a nun.” 

“A hot nun.”

You both break out into another fit of giggles. 

“Jesus,” Jihyo wheezes, “I guess I’m just afraid of her rejecting me after I’ve spent so much time pining over her. It’s all that PTSD from seeing what happened to Mingyu after rejection-gate last year.” 

You give her a puzzled look, your laughter stuttering into confusion. “What do you mean?” 

Jihyo’s smile falls quicker than yours, her head snapping in your direction like she wants to chase the words that just left her mouth and hold them back. 

“I…uh, shit.” she stammers, “I don’t… I don’t think I should have said that.”

Your frown deepens. 

She gulps, “I guess—I guess he’ll tell you when he thinks it’s right.” 

Jihyo seems unwilling to take it any further, as evident by the way she gets up, starts fiddling with her pockets and leaves before you even have the time to process what just happened. 

//

jihyo, son...🥀🥀🥀🥀

taglist:

@gyuiebabie @lavendersunfloooooower @fzenn @mmerleu @junniesoleilkth

@woo-wonwoo @meowchella @yoongihan @berry-s-stuff @slut4kwon

@bramos91 @fzenn @haobaobaei @lilylikesthat @eskoupe

@honglynights @vwintershire @mellowamour @lovelylonelinesssvt @gyuguys @scoupscious

@jicheolsol-lover @sumzysworld @lllucere @seungcheolsblackcard @wakandabiitch2

@helloiliketits @J3nnch3ls3a @princessjazzyjazz @livelaughloveseventeen

@sousydive @izzyy-recs @livmarauder @vwintershire @cherrymayz @novalpha

@gyuiebabie @lavendersunfloooooower @gyugyu97 @sadgirlroo @marshmallowywine

@allmyl0ve17 @avchannie @kpxxxp

...hello why are there so many of u wtf

[capriluvr]

r u mine?

pairing suna x fem!reader

your best friend is whipped for you

tags fluff, best friend to lovers

warnings none

you and suna have been tethered together for as long as your memory allows. since your families have always been close, the two of you naturally grew side by side. suna became your sarcastic yet lovable support system. always lingered a step behind, ready to catch you when the world felt just a little too heavy. whenever the smallest inconvenience crept into your day, he was there with a quip on his lips and a hand outstretched.. that’s just how it works between you two: you have a problem, he’s right there by your side, ready to fix it. that dynamic hasn’t changed, even as the two of you grew up.

it goes without saying that even now in high school, suna remains. his schedule overflows—lectures that blur together, constant volleyball practice—but still, he drifts into your orbit, never too far, never quite gone. it should be enough, it should be comforting to know that nothing has changed. after all, suna has never left, why would he? your bond has withered time itself. unshakable, unbreakable. at least that’s what you tell yourself. but you’re wrong.

it started out small, as most things do. the quiet gaps in your days, those sliver of moments spent apart didn’t prove to cause that much of a difference. it wasn't anything drastic. it only meant you had less time to bother your cat-like friend. the one who always lounged around with that languid, out of it stare. not that it was a big deal, after all, you could always just catch up with him on your walk home, just like you always had.

as if the universe itself was conspiring against you, you were wrong about that too. like unpatched cracks spreading across a wind shield, the once small, harmless time spent apart from each other seemed to only continuously grow. suna had his responsibilities, and you had yours. such is the inevitability of growing up, things are bound to change. sure, you missed the easy comfort of your favorite person, but you refused to let yourself sink into longing. instead, you took it upon yourself to grow connections with others around you.

suna, on the other hand, had noticed this sudden shift in time all too late. caught up in the seemingly endless practices, matches, and obligations, he hadn’t noticed how far you’d drifted—until the distance stretched wide enough to sting.

in the cold, barren hush of his room, suna lay sprawled across his bed, the low of his phone the only thing keeping him company. his thumb scrolled lazily, mind black, letting himself be enveloped by the meaningless content thrown at him just to fill the silence. it was easier this way—numb, detached, unreachable. until he saw you.

new posts. 

he froze. your smile lit up the screen, so bright it almost hurt his eyes. it was the same smile he knew better than anyone, the one that had always been his reward for every sarcastic quip, every quiet act of loyalty. but now it wasn’t for him. it belonged to someone else.

his chest tightened as he scrolled, each flick of his thumb physically pained him, but he couldn’t stop. more pictures, more laughter, more memories--without him. the gap between you, once small enough to ignore, now loomed back at him in pixels.

suna swallowed hard, the familiar weight of regret pressing against his ribs. he should’ve been there. he should’ve noticed it sooner, his mistakes, his feelings. instead, he was left in the dark, staring at  proof that the world kept turning for you, even when he wasn’t in it. and god, it ached.

some time had passed since suna’s newfound discovery, and it gnawed at him from the inside like a stubborn parasite. he couldn’t go five minutes without thinking about you—what were you doing? had you eaten? had you remembered to drink water? (not like he was one to talk…) were you… happy without him? the thought alone made his stomach twist. you were ruining his life, and you didn't even know it.

“i can’t do this,” suna muttered, dragging his hands over his face in defeat before tossing his phone half haphazardly to the side. the thud was enough to attract the attention of his teammates.

“is this about her again? dude, if you don’t just talk it out, i swear i’m gonna kill you via dutch oven, real not fake.” atsumu’s tone carried way too much confidence for suna to even doubt the threat

suna groaned, flopping back against the bench, but the words hit harder than he cared to admit. he’d been turning this over in his head for weeks now, letting the weight of it sit and settle like something he wasn’t ready to digest. but maybe he waited too long already. maybe the only right thing left to do was stop running from it and finally tell you.

suna stared at his phone for what felt like hours, thumbs hovering, erasing, retyping, erasing again. every word felt too heavy or too light. he hated himself for shaking over a measly text, but this was you. it had always been you. finally with a shaky breath he hit send.

hey. can we meet up? just us.

your reply came quicker than he expected, and his heart lurched into his throat.

later that evening, under the dim streetlights that always flickered near the corner of your usual spot, suna stood with this hands buried deep in his pockets, shoulders tense, gaze fixed on the pavement. when you arrived, smiling the same smile that had haunted him through every sleepless night, his breath caught.

“you wanted to talk?” you asked softly,

he nodded, though the words lodged in his throat. for once, suna rintarou, the one who never missed a chance to throw a dry remark—was speechless. his hands itched to reach for you, but he clenched them tighter in his pockets instead.

“i–” his voice cracked, and he let out a bitter laugh. “god, this is harder than i thought. listen, i can’t pretend anymore it’s driving me insane. you’re running my life in the best and worst way possible. and i don’t know how to be around you without wanting more than what we have.”

silence stretched, heavy and unbearable. suna forced himself to meet your gaze, bracing for rejection, for laughter, for anything but what you gave him—your hand reaching for his, warm and steady.

“rin,” you whispered, squeezing gently, “i’ve felt the same way. for a long time.”

the tension shattered. suna’s chest caved with the weight of it, his shoulders shaking as he finally exhaled the breath he’d been holding for months. he didn’t cry, not exactly—but something broke inside him, silent and fragile, as relief washed through his veins. when you leaned closer, forehead brushing his, he let out a quiet, desperate laugh, like he couldn't believe he’d finally made it here.

for once, the ache wasn’t eating him alive. it was spilling out, piece by piece, into your hands.

↺ masterlist

[my-my-my]

Heatwave - for Summer Extravaganza hosted by @soulsocietyevents, using the prompt: summer love

Summary: Aizen/Reader. The thought of summer leaves Aizen contemplative and nostalgic in Muken.

CW: none, sfw! Past mention of an established relationship.

Word count: 568

Read on AO3 here.

NSFW sequel here (and here for AO3).

The passage of time never ceases in Muken. Yet for Aizen, and the other inmates in the underground prison, time has become irrelevant. The days, weeks and months pass by, with seasons changing to and fro.

Yet sometimes Aizen reminisces for the changing of seasons. To smell the fragrant blossoms of spring, to see the hazy gaze of the summer sun, to the sound of fallen leaves in autumn, and the feel of the deep chill of winter. The sensations of time feel further away from him the longer he remains imprisoned.

Most days he pays it no mind, deciding to focus on strengthening his mind in his inner world, learning to better understand kyoka suigetsu, learning to better understand himself.

But some days, such as today, he feels nostalgic. Of the sweltering summer heat, of cicadas buzzing incessantly, to the sunsets smeared with vivid colours.

The thought of summer makes Aizen wistful. It’s a season marred by memories of you (as if you didn’t leave marks on all the other seasons). Although blindfolded in Muken, he closes his eyes, thinking of you. The sound of your voice as you share with him the new blooms of the garden, and the echoes of your annoyance at the oppressive summer heat.

The beads of sweat that rolled off your face that reminded him of dew drops off a flower petal. The way your eyes shimmered and softened at sipping cold, barley tea.

Aizen recalls the middle of summer of years past. The point of summer where the heat smothers everyone, leaving them motionless, hot and silent too. The cruelty of summer that seeps under everyone’s skin, even his. Yet without warning, without asking, you smile at him, a smile that softens the brilliant, almost blinding sun. The bright sun blurs in his memories, but your smile remains the same. The smile you would give him as you pour a cup of your personal brew of barley tea.

The smell is long gone from his memory, the taste lingers in his mouth for a moment, before it’s gone again. The feel of your warm fingers as you give him his cup is a fading sensation from his hands.

The summers remain indistinct in his memory, as if it was one continuous summer in his life. Was it the same summer he offered to use kyoka suigetsu on you? To distract you from the heat?

The laughter in your voice, louder and clearer than the cicadas in the courtyard. It was a laugh of surprise and of shock. You cupped his cheek, rubbing your noses together.

“Why would I want to do that, if we can’t experience this together?” You asked, giving him a curious look. The summer, as with all seasons, was enjoyable with his presence. To be given a way out, even of Aizen’s own doing and offering, wasn’t what you wanted, it was never what you wanted.

So the two of you would continue to drink barley tea, listening to the chirping of cicadas, under the intensity of the summer sun. The memory rolls in Aizen’s mind, like the small bead of sweat off his forehead.

Aizen chuckles to himself, in the utter silence of Muken. The thought of summer, the thought of you, leaving a physical lasting impression on him churns at his heart. The memories of past summers rushing through his mind, soul and now body, leaving him haunted by you.

I was inspired by the following waka poem in the Man'yoshu (Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves):

As evening falls, I gaze at the clouds, lost in contemplation. Thinking of my lover, who is like the unreachable sky, far beyond my reach.

Thank you for reading!

[koenigami]

tags : fluff, reverse comfort (kind of?), nightmares wc : 1k synopsis : his solace as much as his biggest fear

“No… don’t!-”

Caleb never knew that he could get so dependent on you. He'd probably go as far as to say that he's gotten addicted to your presence, in every sense of way. 

Specifically, on nights when sleep seems like a dystopian idea, a dream so far away and unreachable. Either because he's simply unable to fall asleep in the first place, or because haunting images won’t let him rest. 

Waking up to your body snuggled against his, hearing your soft breaths and seeing your serene expression, all of it is enough to immediately alleviate the lingering tightness in his chest, unlike when he has to go through all of that when he’s by himself. Tonight however, not even that seems to help at calming the persisting storm inside his mind. 

Long lost memories keep flashing behind his eyes, making his eyelids twitch almost uncontrollably and his chest rise and fall unsteadily. It doesn’t take long until you’re woken up by the broken pleas falling from his lips, and his trashing body which is physically trying to fend off whatever is robbing him of a peaceful night’s sleep. 

“Caleb?” You reach out to cautiously place a hand on his chest. Besides the sweaty shirt, he almost seems to be overheating considering how hot to the touch his body feels. Your breath staggers when you realise how much the nightmare is affecting him. It’s almost as if he’s frozen, limbs completely rigid and tense except for his head that turns from side to side. 

“Come on, baby. You’re alright, it’s just a dream.” But your words seem to hit an impenetrable wall, as he keeps on getting louder until he’s nearly screaming. With teary eyes, you hastily grab his right shoulder and try to shake him awake, unaware of the fact that doing so would do anything but calm him down. 

It all happens in a matter of seconds as you watch him shoot up, the sight akin to someone diving out of the deepest parts of the sea and desperate to finally get a breath of air. Something cold and hard envelops your wrist so tightly that it makes you wince in discomfort, and you’re pulled forward against his heated torso. 

With unfocused eyes, Caleb varily scrutinizes you before his gaze drifts off to the space around you. Ever so slowly, the fog in his head seems to dissipate as you watch his eyes visibly regain clarity while his grip on you lessens finally. As if fearing that he had burned you, he lets go of your wrist with a suddenness that makes you instantly recoil.

The sound of his laboured breaths fills the room, and when he eventually looks back at you, you think you’d preferred if he had just ripped your heart right out of your chest instead. There’s a slight shake in his left hand as he reaches out to you with a certain hesitation that makes him look as if he were afraid of scaring you away. 

On one hand, his fear might be reasonable, considering that it has always been him taking care of you. Always him comforting you, always him covering your ears and shielding you from the scary outside world, always him holding your hand and never letting go. Burdening you with further ballast would go against everything that he has been working up to until now. 

“I-I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” 

On the other hand, you remember that as a child, you often wondered whether there was actually anything Caleb was truly scared of. He’d been your personal little hero at that time, and ever one of the most, if not the most reliable and helpful person in your life. 

Proclaiming himself as selfish and overly defensive when it comes to you, he has never been the one to deny his flaws, especially ever since he’s stepped back into your life. In this moment, as your fingertips gently graze his until your palm is nestled perfectly in his, you wonder whether you’ve been the selfish one all this time. Now, as he desperately tries to hide his pain behind a strained smile, you wonder whether you’ve relied so much on him that you never made him think of the possibility that he could do the same. Rely on you.

Caleb’s gaze falls to the reddened skin along your wrist, and combined with the tears lingering in your eyes and threatening to stain your beautiful cheeks, he immediately jumps to conclusions. “I did this, didn’t I? Are you alright? Does it hurt a lot? Shit, I’m so-”

“I’m fine, but…” The streetlight from outside enters the room through the flowy curtains, and reflects in your eyes. Those same eyes carry so much sorrow, pain as well as anger. Yet, he’s unsure towards whom the latter is directed. “But you’re not, Caleb.”

He smiles. And the fact that you can tell that it is a genuine expression angers you even further because you know that he’s completely disregarding his own feelings right now. It’s just another attempt at hiding the anguish that he’s being put through, and an attempt at hiding the things plaguing his mind, even though you’ve reassured him countless times that there is nothing that could scare you away from him. “That’s okay.” As long as you are. 

In the end, there’s nothing you can do except climb into his lap and hold him close to you. You can’t do more than lean in and press a gentle peck against his forehead as a silent prayer for the turmoil inside his mind to stop hurting him. Because despite his futile reassurances, you can feel how fast his heart is still beating against his chest. You can still feel the slightest tremor in his hands as they cling to your waist.

“One day, we will be fine. Eventually.” He whispers and presses his nose against the column of your neck, relishing in the way you smell, and how you perfectly fit in his arms. Because as it turns out, there certainly is at least one thing that Caleb is scared of, and it is for his nightmares to come true. 

[miss-delulusuzune]

NO ONE LEFT THE ROOM BUT SOMETHING DID

Warning: angst ,ot5 cortis

..................…...…......…......................….....................

It wasn’t supposed to leave the room.

That was the first lie.

The second was that it was just rehearsal.

Because nothing about that day felt like rehearsal once the video surfaced—grainy, tilted, too close to be harmless. Someone had been laughing when they recorded it. That detail made it worse later. Like betrayal had a soundtrack.

At first, nobody even understood what they were looking at.

Five figures. Movement. Music faint under breath and footsteps. Sweat. Exhaustion. A run that should’ve been forgettable.

But the internet doesn’t forget anything it can destroy.

James was the first to get clipped into a frame.

Not because he did something wrong.

Because he did something worse.

He looked absent.

Like his body had stayed but the part that belonged to the group had already started leaving.

Juhoon missed a beat—tiny, human, recoverable.

Seonghyeon didn’t correct him immediately.

That delay became everything.

Because when he finally looked at Juhoon, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was controlled precision. The kind of look that doesn’t raise voices—it lowers confidence.

Juhoon recovered too fast after that. That was his mistake.

Keonho noticed both of them noticing each other and stepped in half a second too early, too sharp, forcing the formation back into place like structure could save something already leaking out from the edges.

Martin smiled.

Automatically.

Like his face had muscle memory for pretending.

Except—

in the leak—

his smile faltered.

Just once.

Just enough.

The internet paused on that frame like it had found oxygen.

And then everything exploded.

It didn’t trend as a clip.

It trended as a story people started writing without permission.

“James looks like he’s done.”

“Seonghyeon is controlling the group’s vibe.”

“Juhoon is the weak link.”

“Keonho is overcompensating.”

“Martin is faking it.”

And then the sentence that spread like infection:

“They don’t look like a team anymore.”

No one said “maybe.”

No one said “we don’t know.”

Certainty always spreads faster than truth.

The group chat died before it spoke.

Seen. Seen. Seen.

Typing indicators that appeared like ghosts and disappeared like guilt.

Keonho finally broke first:

did you see it

Martin replied immediately:

yeah

Juhoon followed after a delay that felt like hesitation in physical form:

it’s edited weird

Seonghyeon:

it isn’t

That message ended the conversation for a full minute.

Because Seonghyeon didn’t comfort people.

He analyzed them.

If even he wasn’t softening it, then there was nothing left to soften.

James didn’t reply.

He didn’t even show “typing.”

That absence became louder than everything else.

They met because silence in private starts to feel like guilt.

The practice room was too bright.

That was the first thing anyone noticed. Not each other. Not the manager. Not the tension.

The lights.

Too clean for something that felt so dirty now.

No one greeted anyone properly.

No one smiled.

Keonho stood near the mirror like he could disappear into his own reflection if he stayed still enough.

Juhoon adjusted his sleeves three times in under ten seconds.

Martin kept his eyes down like eye contact might turn into accusation.

Seonghyeon stood perfectly still.

James stood slightly apart from all of them.

Not physically far.

Emotionally unreachable.

The manager said something about focus, about rumors, about “not letting online noise affect real work.”

No one responded.

Because the noise was already inside the room.

And it had a name.

James spoke first.

Not loud.

Not emotional.

Worse.

Calm.

“Just say it.”

Keonho frowned.

“Say what?”

James tilted his head slightly.

Like he was tired of pretending this wasn’t obvious.

“What you’re all thinking when you look at me.”

Silence.

Juhoon opened his mouth, closed it again.

Martin looked at the floor harder.

Seonghyeon looked at James like he was trying to calculate something that didn’t have a formula.

So James did it for them.

“You think I’m the problem.”

That wasn’t anger.

That was resignation dressed as clarity.

Keonho immediately shook his head.

“No— that’s not— no one said that.”

James let out a small laugh.

It didn’t sound amused.

It sounded like something breaking without noise.

“You didn’t have to say it.”

That landed too cleanly.

Because it was true in the worst way.

No one had said it.

But everyone had thought it at least once during rehearsal.

That’s how groups rot. Not from one person. From shared silence.

Keonho snapped first.

Not yelling.

Worse.

Immediate honesty with no control.

“We’re all struggling, James. It’s not just you falling apart!”

That was supposed to help.

It didn’t.

Because James finally looked at him like he was seeing him clearly for the first time in a while.

“I never said I was the only one.”

Beat.

“I said I’m the one you all look at when something goes wrong.”

Martin flinched.

Because he knew exactly what James meant.

Juhoon whispered:

“That’s not fair…”

James nodded slowly.

“No.”

Pause.

“It isn’t.”

And then—

“But it still happens.”

No argument followed that.

Because no one could deny it without lying.

Seonghyeon finally stepped in.

“We’re not communicating properly.”

No emotion.

Just diagnosis.

Keonho turned instantly.

“Whose fault is that?”

The question hit like a trigger pulled too fast.

Seonghyeon didn’t react.

“All of ours.”

That answer didn’t calm anything.

It removed escape routes.

Because shared blame means shared damage. No one gets to leave clean.

Martin’s voice cracked when it finally came out.

Not dramatic.

Just tired.

“I can’t keep pretending I’m okay when I’m not.”

That stopped everything.

Because Martin was always okay.

That was his role.

That was his safety.

If even he was breaking, then there was no stable point left in the room.

James looked at him properly now.

Like something in him shifted slightly out of survival mode.

Juhoon said quietly:

“We didn’t know…”

Martin laughed once.

It didn’t have humor.

“That’s the problem.”

It didn’t become shouting.

It became exposure.

Keonho admitted he felt like he was constantly fixing damage no one acknowledged.

Juhoon admitted he was scared every mistake was permanent.

Martin admitted he felt invisible unless he was performing happiness.

Seonghyeon admitted he was exhausted from seeing everything collapse before anyone else noticed.

And then—

all of them turned toward James.

Because James still hadn’t said the deepest fracture.

The one under everything else.

James swallowed.

Once.

Twice.

Like words were something he had to survive saying.

“I don’t think I belong in the version of us you all still try to protect.”

That wasn’t dramatic.

That was final in a quiet way.

Like something already decided long before the conversation began.

No one moved immediately.

Even the air felt suspended.

Keonho slowly sat down without realizing he had chosen to.

Juhoon stayed standing, but stopped fidgeting like his body had gone into shutdown.

Martin wiped his face once and didn’t bother hiding it after.

Seonghyeon looked anywhere except James, because looking would make it real.

James didn’t move either.

Because he didn’t feel like part of the room anymore.

He felt like something the room was remembering wrong.

The rehearsal lights hummed overhead.

Same room.

Same group.

Same timing.

Wrong reality.

And outside the building, the internet kept writing their ending in real time.

Inside—

they were still there.

Just not together in the way that mattered anymore.

Not yet gone.

But already leaving.

Slowly.

All at once.

Like a door closing without sound.