your boyfriend sees your boobs for the first time and doesn’t know how to act.
heeseung
you’re a little drunk.
like warm-tummy, loose-shoulders, stupid-giggle drunk.
heeseung’s lying on your bed, scrolling, talking about something dumb — a dream he had, maybe. you’re sitting on the floor, half-listening, sipping from your glass, and then suddenly—
you stand up. pull your shirt over your head. no warning. no speech. just tits.
he looks up. and he freezes. scrolling finger mid-air. lips parted. expression blank. like you just slapped him with a gospel truth.
“bro,” he whispers.
you raise a brow. “bro?”
“oh my god.”
you just stand there, shirt in one hand, boobs out. vibes immaculate.
“are you for real?” he says, sitting up so fast he nearly drops his phone. “are those— are they always like that?”
“like what?”
“like fucking perfect?”
you laugh so hard you nearly fall over.
and he just keeps blinking at them. like they might change shape if he stares too long. like they’re a hallucination.
“you’re not real,” he mutters. “i’m in a dream. this is a simulation.”
you roll your eyes and sit on the bed, pulling the blanket around you lazily.
“okay, enough,” you giggle. “you saw them. you can stop worshipping now.”
he doesn’t move.
“no. no i can’t. this changes everything. i saw the light and now i’m different.”
jay
he doesn’t mean to look.
you thought he wasn’t paying attention.
but the moment your shirt lifts — before you even have time to toss it in the hamper — you hear him go quiet. like, dead silent.
you turn around, confused.
he’s sitting up now, remote in one hand, lips parted. just… staring. his entire soul left his body.
“what?” you ask, blinking. “why are you looking at me like that?”
“you…” his voice breaks.
he coughs. clears his throat. blinks like he just came back from war.
“you’ve been hiding those from me?”
you glance down, realize you’re still topless, and laugh — “i thought you weren’t looking.”
he puts the remote down slowly. reverently.
“i wasn’t. and now i’m being punished for it.”
you start reaching for your shirt again, but he stops you.
“no. no, you don’t get to take them away. i just met them.”
you laugh even harder, grabbing a hoodie, but he just looks betrayed. hand on his chest. like he needs a moment.
he’s so serious.
“i’m gonna write about this in my notes app. i just need a second to process. they were so pretty. like. aesthetically. artistically. spiritually.”
you roll your eyes. “you’re being so dramatic.”
he just nods slowly. “i know. and i’m right.”
and later that night, when you’re finally in bed, hoodie zipped to your chin, back turned…
you feel his hand on your waist. his lips near your ear.
“next time… warn me. or don’t. i’ll survive either way. i think.”
(he won’t.)
jake
he was laying on your stomach.
like full face-planted. arms around your waist. humming into your skin, half-asleep, talking nonsense between every other breath.
you thought he was dozing off. so when you finally sit up, lifting your shirt over your head, you don’t think twice.
you’re just changing. grabbing a hoodie. your back’s to him, and it’s dark. no big deal.
until you hear him choke.
“oh.”
you glance over your shoulder. “what?”
he’s sitting up now. like—straight up. eyes wide. cheeks red.
“did i—did you just—i mean, did i see that?”
you pause. blink. realize what he saw.
“oh. yeah,” you say casually. “sorry, i didn’t think you were looking—”
“NO i mean—it’s okay i just—wow.”
you laugh, pulling your hoodie on, but he’s still sitting there like he witnessed a miracle.
“you’re just… walking around with those? like… they’re real?”
you look at him.
he looks at you.
then covers his face with both hands and groans.
“i’m gonna have dreams about this,” he mumbles. “like not even in a gross way. just in a i saw something sacred kind of way.”
you crawl back under the blanket and he immediately wraps himself around you like a koala. kisses your collarbone like he’s trying to prove his love to god.
“you know i’d die for you, right?”
“because of my boobs?”
“yes. but also your soul.”
sunghoon
he just wanted his charger.
you’d taken it earlier. said he left it in your room. told him to come grab it when he needed it.
he didn’t knock. he thought you were in the kitchen.
so when he pushes the door open and sees you — topless, glowing, towel low on your hips, hair still damp, hand frozen mid-lotion — he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move. just. stares.
your eyes meet. for a second, you both just blink. like a standstill.
and then—“oh my god—” you gasp, arms flying up to cover your chest.
he flinches so hard he nearly drops his phone.
“i’m sorry—i’m so sorry—i thought you were—i didn’t know—i didn’t—”
he steps back, slams the door shut, and stands there. outside your room. in silence. breathing heavy.
you call through the door.
“did you at least grab the charger??”
his voice cracks.
“no. i… i blacked out a little.”
you start laughing, and he wants to crawl into the floor.
he walks back to the living room like he just got hit by a bus. plops on the couch. face flushed. head in hands.
his phone buzzes.
you: “they were nice though right 😌”
him: “don’t do this to me rn”
you: “i’m just saying”
him: “i’m spiraling”
he doesn’t talk about it again until a week later.
you’re cuddling. watching something dumb. his hand on your waist. and he whispers— “i wasn’t trying to see you like that.”
you smile. “i know.”
he exhales.
“but i think about it every day.”
sunoo
he knew you were a little drunk. and he loved it.
you were glowing — cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, giggling at nothing, spinning in his room like the floor was made of clouds.
“this song is so cute,” you hummed, dancing barefoot in your loose, but cropped tee. “you like it?”
“you’re cuter,” he said automatically, phone in hand, recording you from the bed like a proud dad. or a smitten boyfriend. or both.
and then you twirled. just once. dramatic. shirt lifted. boobs out. fully. jiggled in the light.
he screams. like, not a little gasp. a full-bodied, hands-flailing, dramatic-ass scream.
you freeze.
he drops his phone.
“what was that?!”
“what do you mean?” you blinked innocently.
“you just showed me your entire whole everything!”
you laughed. “it was like half a second!”
“HALF A SECOND TOO LONG!.”
he turned his back like it was a crime scene. hands on his hips. pacing.
“do you know what that did to me? i can’t just see those and go back to normal?? i have to live with this memory now???”
you’re still giggling, flopping on the bed.
“are you mad?”
he turns back slowly. shakes his head with deep, dramatic disappointment.
“i’m not mad. i’m… changed.”
you smile at him, hair messy, shirt hanging off your shoulder now, and he just sighs.
“your boobs are pretty,” he said, soft.
“thank you,” you whisper back.
ten minutes later, he’s cuddled into your side, face buried in your chest like nothing happened.
“just so you know,” he mumbles, “those are mine now.”
jungwon
he wakes up slow.
sunlight leaking through the curtains. sheets warm. room still. his head hurts a little, but it’s dull — the kind of ache that tells him he slept too hard, not too little.
your back is to him. face tucked into the pillow. one arm curled under your head, the other hidden beneath the blankets. hair a mess. tank top clinging to your shoulder, twisted near your ribs.
he yawns, stretches, blinks a few times—and then sees it.
he doesn’t even mean to look. he just happens to glance down as he shifts closer. and it’s there.
the curve of your breast. soft in the light. warm against the fabric. and your nipple. completely out.
his breath catches. eyes widen.
he goes still. so still. his body locks up like if he moves too fast, he’ll ruin the moment—or combust.
he stares for maybe two seconds too long. just enough to memorize the shape, the color, the way it’s pressed to the blanket. then he flips over and stares at the ceiling like a freak.
his brain short-circuits.
“you weren’t supposed to see that.”
“but i did.”
“you need to act normal.”
“i can’t.”
he’s spiraling. breathing too carefully. sweating for no reason. his heart’s beating like you just kissed him, but you’re not even awake.
he hears you shift. the blankets rustle. he wonders if you’re about to wake up and ask why he’s being so quiet.
so he gets up. fast. grabs his phone off the floor. stumbles into the kitchen like he’s being chased by demons.
ten minutes later, you walk out half-asleep, tank top still traitorous, rubbing your eyes.
“morning,” you mumble.
he can’t look at you. he sips his tea like it holds the answers.
nods once. “morning.”
you pause. tilt your head. “you okay?”
he nods again. eyes still fixed on his mug.
“…did i say something weird in my sleep?”
“no.”
you raise a brow. he finally glances up—but the second he sees your shirt slipping again, he FLINGS his gaze back down.
“jungwon,” you laugh, catching on. “did you see something?”
he says nothing. just takes a breath and murmurs, “i shouldn’t be seeing this. pausing a bit more before he whispers, “but it was beautiful.”
and that’s all he says.
for the rest of the day, he can’t look at you without blushing.
and for the rest of his life, he never forgets it.
ni-ki
you’re in his room, lights low, legs tangled under the blanket with a half-eaten bag of spicy chips between you.
the tv’s playing something dumb neither of you are watching — both too busy side-eyeing each other between jokes, limbs inching closer, pretending the tension doesn’t exist.
“you’re literally so bad at arguing,” you mutter, tossing a chip at his chest.
he catches it. eats it. shrugs.
“because i’m never wrong.”
you scoff. dramatic. lean back against his headboard like he didn’t just say something delusional.
it’s hot. too hot. the hoodie you’re wearing feels like it’s suffocating you. so you sit up. lift it over your head mid-sentence, not even thinking — just pull it off and toss it to the floor.
you don’t notice how your tank top rises too. you don’t notice how loose the armhole is. you don’t notice that for a split second, your left tit literally says hello to the room.
but he does.
he goes still. chip mid-air. eyes locked on you like he just saw a solar eclipse and isn’t sure if it was real.
you look at him.
“what?”
nothing. no answer. just him blinking.
“…what?” you laugh.
he points at you. expression unreadable. voice low.
“you did that on purpose.”
you blink. “did what?”
“you just flashed me.”
your face scrunches. you look down. your shirt is back in place.
“i didn’t flash you.”
“you did.”
“it was like—maybe a second.”
“that’s all it took,” he says, leaning back. “i’m a changed man now.”
you roll your eyes, dragging the blanket back over you, acting unfazed.
he turns away for a second. exhales. then you hear him mutter, mostly to himself—
“they were so pretty.”
you freeze.
he doesn’t take it back.
just grabs another chip and pops it in his mouth, chewing like he didn’t just say the most devastating sentence of your life.
“you’re annoying,” you say quietly. your voice cracks.
“no, you’re annoying ,” he fires back. “don’t take your clothes off around me if you want me to act normal.”
you laugh. loud. flustered.
he smiles. like he meant to do that. like he’s proud of himself.
synopsis: you & namjoon have been inseparable since kindergarten. as you navigate through college life that bond continues with pretty kisses and set routines. when you're in a bad mood on a busy day, namjoon has to remind you to not act out.
warnings: 8k words, no usage of y/n, somewhat underground!bts, touches of dom/sub relationship, brat tamer!namjoon, bratty/spoiled! reader, hyperfem! reader, fingering, reader is described as “little” and namjoon “big” but only in height, spanking, face slapping, reprimanding, car sex, exhibitionism (only for the foreplay,) oral (f!receiving), dirty talk, praise, mating press, rough & unprotected sex, creaming, choking, hair pulling, backshots, very mean!namjoon, calls himself daddy towards the end, he has a filthy mouth, size kink, AGAIN...
ʚ(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )ɞ. author's note: repost from my old account. luv joon & his short hair so that’s what i’m referring to >.<
since the first "get to know you" day of kindergarten, you and kim namjoon have been inseparable. having clicked as soon as a light blue clad joon's eyes met pastel pink and bows you during lunch time.
he could vividly remember the sloppily written lettering of your name on the small "hello, my name is" sticker laid prettily on your left shoulder, the thick curls of your hair pulled back into a ponytail with pink ribbon decorating the base.
the way your eyes lit up as you opened your hello kitty lunch box to find it full of sweets and a quick, homemade meal with chicken cut up into the shape of a bunny. watching as you pushed the box between the two of you to share, chubby cheeks stuffed to the brim.
though, he loved to leave out the part where he cried as the school day came to a close, balling a tiny yet impossibly tight fist into the fabric of your dress to the point where he had to be pried away by his eomma and promised that he'd see you the next day.
as time went on and in middle school came, you two would be seen attached at the hip: walking to school together with namjoon carrying your bag and tying your shoes, bringing you to class, and so forth and so on.
it was safe to say that from then on, the pair of you had wreaked havoc on each of the poor teachers of your school careers; gossiping in the back of class, being utterly unproductive during group projects, and many, many others that led to weeks spent in the library after school for detention.
see, as you graduated to high-school nothing changed.
sure you'd grown far maturer and became introduced to a world full of negative influences, but the bond between you two never wavered. the red ribbon of fate still connects you thoroughly by the pinky finger.
namjoon became captain of the robotics team and you a cheerleader, but your set routine as best-friends lingered—strengthening even.
he began growing protective, seeing as you were the same pretty little innocent thing you'd been since elementary, still dressed in pink and bows but now catching the unwanted attention of the outside world.
and when rumors of the two of you being together found themselves slithering into the minds of the student body, joon didn't do a thing to stop them, reveling in the comfort it gave him with assurance of your safety.
it even landed you a golden spot in the high-school yearbook of superlatives, both your names written in bold letters under 'Most Likely to Stay Together After Graduation.'
and stay together is exactly what you did.
fast forward to your senior year of college, it's the first semester and you and namjoon share a small yet comfortably luxe apartment in the heart of seoul, decorated to a distinct mixture of the two of you—lots of greenery and wooden accents for namjoon with pink throw pillows and hello kitty shaped plant pots for you.
it's endearing, seeing traces of your familiarity and passion like a juxtaposition throughout the home. wouldn't want it any other way.
about nine thirty is when you pop up out of bed, your hair strewn about your head askew to the left, proof of your habit of being quite the wild sleeper.
you make quick work of hopping the shower and starting your daily routine, lathering yourself in your favorite honey vanilla lotion and layering the scent with a lightly scented perfume.
by the time you throw on a matching set and your favorite robe, fuzzy slippers on your cold feet before trudging into the living room, you catch sight of namjoon bare chested with a pair if oversized plaid pajama pants hanging low on his waist, a watering pot in hand as he tends to the plants he likes to call your children.
the morning sun beams brightly between the white, linen curtains of the room, the harsh light bothering your eyes and makes you bring a nimble hand up to try and block it out whilst grimacing.
"and she finally awakes. morning, baby," he smiles, eyes low but ever so expressive as he looks at you with nothing short of adoration.
"there's tea and oatmeal for you on the counter. go on and eat for me, okay?" namjoon's always been a morning person, finding himself awake at the ass-crack of dawn to read, meditate, and do a little bit of writing here and there.
so it doesn't surprise you that he's chipper so early, cheesing, voice a little louder than intended. though, it does make you grumble with annoyance and pout, mood sour as your head pounds.
not saying much as you walk to the marbled island counter that sits dead smack in the center of the kitchen, your kuromi mug steaming from the peach tea he'd made and next to it, a brown wooden bowl and spoon filled with warm oatmeal that's topped with berries, honey, and vanilla granola—just to your preference.
"remember, we have to stop by the studio to meet up with the guys today," he's calling out to you. "gotta leave out by eleven."
"i know, joon," you grumble, snarky and mean but you really don't mean it. you just weren't feeling the best and your words escape you without the slightest thought of how they might sound.
"don't start. fix the attitude before we leave out," he says, voice stern and commanding as he washes his hands, drying them before leaning back onto his palms when he goes to glare at you shoveling food into your mouth.
you pause, cheeks round and swollen with oatmeal. "'m just tired."
"i know, princess. once we get back home, you can take the rest of the day resting up," he's promising, kissing your forehead from across the counter, and reassuring you that it'll be quick.
you hum and namjoon finds it all too amusing when you stomp your little self over to the sink, sulking and pouting as you wash out your dishes.
it takes everything in him not to take matters into his own hands and straighten you out right then and there. spanking your lil ass raw 'till you remember your manners but it's early, and hopefully the combination of food in your system and sun on your skin puts you in a better mood.
you drag your feet up the stairs, the sound of your slippers scrapping against the wooden flooring making him groan. "pick up your feet," he says, scowling when you merely put your middle finger up in his direction.
that's strike one.
at the vanity situated on your side of the room specifically dedicated to you and your makeup process, you sniff whilst putting the finishing touches to your beat: gold highlighter in your inner corners and a black wing on the outer, pink blush on your cheeks. you put extra attention on your makeup today, hoping that it would help with your mood.
just a heads up, it didn't.
namjoon stands dressed in all black: a pull over hoodie with a white tank underneath that's peeking out at the bottom, oversized, black sweatpants, a leather bomber jacket, and pairs it with low top, nike blazer courts. he leans against the door frame with crossed arms, admiring as you line your lips with brown and fill the inside with pink gloss.
"how are you feeling," he asks as he makes his way toward you, hands grasping onto your shoulders when he stands behind your chair. you make eye contact in the mirror, him almost immediately catching sight of your lip jutting out on instinct.
"do you think i look pretty?" you disregard his prior question, responding with your own because you need confirmation on days that you feel like shit.
he smiles at your reflection, bending down to speak into your ear and takes pride in seeing your reaction. squirming in your seat. "the fuckin' prettiest, baby."
"do you really think so?" he coos at your round eyes that stare back into his within the mirror. “or are you only saying it because you have to?”
"i know so, my love.”
you commend him for his efforts but it just wasn't enough. you were too far deep.
"god, i just want this day to fucking end," you say and it makes joon press his lips together and you know why. he's always hated when you cursed, believing that pretty girls shouldn't say ugly words, and he's right, usually is. but right now, you're blind to what differentiates ugly from pretty.
the angel on your shoulder tells you to revert back to old ways, fall into line and be his good girl for the day, but the devil on the opposite reigns supreme, poking and stabbing at namjoon's buttons that are clearly lined with the warning, "do. not. touch." it’s just so tempting.
"what'd i say about today?" you hear his voice ask, eyes now low and mean, just waiting for you to give him reason to take you over his lap. you're working your way up to strike two. just about one and a third now.
"to not act out and to fix my attitude." you roll your eyes as you recite the words, standing before nudging him out of the way so you could get pass. grabbing your bag, you leave the room with knitted brows. "ugh."
it takes namjoon a moment to gather himself. you hear him speak a few sharp words under his breath before bringing the skin of his lip between his teeth to stop himself, feeling the pot start to boil with each passing moment. but he breathes, tells himself that this run should be quick, the faster it goes, the quicker he can get you in bed and figure out a way to make this tantrum go away.
joon can't help the clenching of his jaw, chewing on his tongue as he heads downstairs, your jacket in his hand. taking care of you, he helps you work your arms into the sleeves of it: his old letterman jacket from highschool in which his name decorates the back with the number "7" underneath it. ironic, right?
his eyes peer down at you when he goes to open the door for you, shutting it and making sure to lock it once you know you have everything, because you're known for leaving things behind and throwing an absolute fit once you realize.
there's been so many times where you've been late for reservations, gathering, events, because fifteen minutes into the ride, you're only then noticing that you left your lip gloss on the kitchen counter and proceed to cry until he's forced to drive back to get it.
the boys have always told him that he's spoiled you rotten. giving you anything you could ever ask for at the drop of the dime just because he likes it when you're smiling from ear to ear. he's been giving you your way for the longest because you're so pretty when you look up at him with awaiting eyes.
it's been so long catering to you, expecting everything to fall into the palms of your hands. it's gotten so bad that whenever you hear the word 'no' directed towards you, you're immediately storming off and throwing a hissy fit.
it's not your fault for being princess, is what he likes to say. trying to justify both his and your actions but when push comes to shove, there's no other possible outcome other than being faced with the fact that you're a spoiled little brat and it's ultimately his fault.
that's why you huff when he goes to grab at the passenger side door handle just so that you wouldn't have to—just because you know you've got him so tightly wrapped around your pinkie finger.
he tugs at it, waiting for you to tuck your head under the frame and when you don't, he's bringing his free hand to the crown of your head, pressing down to force you into the plush of the seat as if he were a cop detaining a suspect before slamming the door shut.
there's nothing that you want more than to curl up into a ball and run back into the comfort of your own home, hands tightening into little fists and they rest on your thighs.
you can't help but take notice on the way namjoon's jaw bulges from its clinching, pearly white teeth grinding because he's this fucking close to being mean. this close to leaving you crying because that's the way you're trying to make him feel—like a fucking asshole.
he doesn't understand it. namjoon can't see to understand for the life of him how a girl so pretty can be so utterly filled with the overwhelming urge to be such a brat despite getting everything she's ever asked.
you wanna go out shopping for your girls trip next month? one that he's funding? yeah of course, he's holding your bags and trailing behind an empty handed you from store to store.
you've been looking at that one dior bag for the longest, right? the next day, you see a pretty box wrapped up in a pink bow with a bouquet of dozens of your favorite flowers resting in the bed when you come back from your weekly luxury spa visit.
but when he asks you for one thing. that being to put your attitude aside for just a couple hours, he's met with nothing. nada. zilch.
it infuriates him. the sweet, round faced namjoon with a thick wallet and a means to please you starting to fade into the version of himself who doesn't put up with your bullshit and isn't afraid of putting you in your place.
it's a rarity that you're in trouble—or even falling close to it. he's always been patient with you, able to talk to you in just the right tone to hold you off. gets your head floating and molding you until you break away from that more brattier side of you.
it's easy to do but quite frankly, namjoon is becoming fed up with your shit.
the night before, you had been fine. he'd held you in his arms, kissed both sets of your lips as a reward, whispered in your ear sweet nothings until your eyes fluttered shut. everything was perfect. absolutely what could've changed overnight?
when he made it to the driver's side of the car, lips pursed shut and pads of two fingers to the feature as he pulled out of the parking spot, you found yourself practically compressed against the passenger side door, head leaning against the cool glass, trying to melt and camouflage into it.
you know he still cares when he motions with his fingers and tells you to put something on the radio, eyes never moving from their position on the road.
and you do so, otw by khalid sounding from the speakers. it's mellowing, soothing. has the knot at the small of your back diminishing, making you sigh as you watch the blur of tall buildings and street lights shoot past you.
it's a fairly quick ride to the studio, being midday on a tuesday, everyone's already at work so traffic is minimal. namjoon's easily able to put an extra force behind his foot on the gas, weaving in and out of lanes because the streets are pretty much dead.
parking in the small lot situated at the back of the building, joon takes a look to his right to see you dozed off. eyes closed, hands folded in your lap whilst your neck bends uncomfortably to the right.
gently, he rests his hand on the side of your face, softly hoisting you up before unbuckling your seatbelt. "mama, we're here," he speaks just above what describes a whisper.
it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, squinting once they finally open before you realize a tense groan. "mm, joon, can i just stay in here," you ask, comfortable in your spot. it's not like you were going to do anything in there but sit off to the side. could he just let you be?
"i don't know how long i'll be here for. you have to come in," he's saying, shaking his head back and forth. one good look at the way your face morphs into an unfitting scowl, he knows he's gonna have to take a different approach.
he removes his keys from the ignition, stepping out of the car before he's rounding the hood and making his way to your side. you watch as he opens the passenger door, leaning his body forward to where his upper half is in the frame, face now leveled with your own and just a few inches away. so close that you can smell the mint on his breath.
"don't get in here acting a fucking fool," he says, gripping into your chin when you go to turn your head the opposite way. his tone catches you off guard. only then do you realize that he's had it about up to here with you.
you pull your face away from his, only to get back a thick hand wrapping around your neck, fingers pressing into the base tightly to have you drawing closer and closer. his lips ghost your own as he's growing more stern and stern. "do it, and see what happens. i'll embarrass you."
"okay, joon." your eyes water, but he knows it isn't real. big, fat crocodile tears because you know its his weakness. you think they'll work but he's too far deep, grabbing your hands to guide you from the car's seat.
still, your lip is jutted out in a pout, allowing for yourself to be pulled up to the stairs of the studio, dark double doors opening before you in which you're stepping into with your free hand pulled into a fist.
the other six that make up bangtan are already situated in their designated booth, engaged in playful banter as they wait for the leader.
upon walking into the room and immediately catching sight of two free chairs seated to the far left that you just know namjoon will be pushing you into, you quickly decide against it when you see an empty chair next to jimin. you're then pulling your hand from his larger one to make a beeline directly to it.
he cuts his eyes, leaving the situation alone for now. he'll let you think you've gotten under his skin when in reality, you're just digging yourself deeper into a problem you'll have to face once you get home.
at this point, it's inevitable.
jimin stifles a laugh when you make your way over. pretty face balled up tightly and he thinks you resemble an angry little bunny. "hi, pretty," he greets, smiling when you sit and wave.
"hyung, what'd you do to her," jungkook turns to ask namjoon, a ball point pen pressed to his small notebook in which holds the lyrics of their upcoming album. "looks just about ready to knock someone's head clean off."
that makes them all laugh and you have to grab onto the underside of the chair to stop yourself from calling an uber and leaving. pronto.
its humiliating when namjoon chuckles, sitting down and making himself comfortable on the couch in which yoongi and hoseok does too, legs parted with his arms crossed at his roomy chest. "she wouldn't swat at a fly, let alone lay hands on somebody," he speaks, having zero regard for the way you glare at him from the other side of the room.
you want to say something, want to argue back with a sharp tongue and harsh words but namjoon's voice back in the car played repeatedly in your mind, the look in his eye when he grabbed onto your throat. it was grounding enough to have you pursing your lips to keep them shut.
leaning back in your chair, you pull out your phone, your case glimmers and gleams, rhinestones catching onto the iridescent light illuminating the room, and namjoon watches as you type, biting down on his tongue while a smile forms on your pretty lips.
you're typing away to someone with eager eyes, fingers tapping and your nails clanking against the screen and it drives joon mad. so utterly and completely insane. it's a little irrational but you probably could've blinked in the wrong way and his top would pop the fuck off.
you've made his patience wear dangerously thin. just a little more pressure until it snaps.
an hour and a half passes, full of paperwork signing and a few touch ups to certain tracks here and there. at least forty-five minutes of it was spent with you giggling under your breath at whatever pops up on your for you page and direct messages from friends.
a few times, you even tilted your screen into jimin's direction in between topics to show something you found funny in which he would always watch and chuckle before shooting a quick glance into his hyung's direction, welcomed with the sight of slitted eyes and a clenched jaw, and he's quick to put two and two together.
when yoongi finishes playing the tracklist for their new album, bangtan decides to call it quits, even so much as setting up an impromptu hotpot and karaoke night for celebration amongst the guys.
but unfortunately for you, namjoon has other plans. "can i rain check tonight," he asks before continuing. "i have to have to get home and do some work around the house."
your eyebrows shoot up, dropping your phone into your lap to look at him incredulously knowing damn well it's a lie, but you keep your mouth shut and wait until they exchange words, saying that it’s no problem and to get home safely.
"don't touch me," you say, wincing when namjoon tightly grips onto your forearm, neck bulging with veins as he seethes.
you're done for.
each of his buttons are pressed, control switches in gear—set in stone. there's no running or hiding because now, you're on strike three and no amount of faux tears can get you out of the lesson you're about to get taught.
"walk or i'll throw your lil ass over my shoulder," he says, voice deep, demanding, and leaving no room for back talk, and you can't make space, either. "and i dare you to try it. i really fuckin' do."
it has you pressing one foot in front of the other, legs shaky whilst your knees threaten to buckle beneath you. seems you might've bitten off way more than you could chew.
you and jimin lock eyes and immediately you're met with a smile so sickly sweet because he knows that'll be that last touch of gentle you'll get. the dark glint in his hyung's eyes tells him everything he needs to know.
you're fucked. both literally and figuratively.
good luck, he mouths over before you're being dragged out of the studio by the intense grip on your arm. you'll need it.
you shake in namjoon's hold, back flexing away from his touch when his hand moves to the back of your neck, clutching tightly. it's grounding. keeping your head from straying too far from the harsh reality of the situation at hand.
"been acting out your fuckin' ass all day," he speaks, fumbling with his keys to press the unlock button. but he waits to put you in the car, turning you around so that you face him.
you're able to see the skin of his forehead crease in annoyance, his thin eyebrows that arch with anger, and his lips that utter sharp words.
"you're being mean, joonie. don't be mean to me," you say, thinking it's gonna get you somewhere but news flash: it doesn't.
"i'm being mean," he laughs but it's humorless. tongue drawing circle on the wall of his inner cheek to stop himself from causing a scene. “you've been mean to me this entire morning and when you finally get me to where you've wanted, i'm being mean?"
"get in the fuckin' car." when you go to interject, he's grabbing your face, digging his fingers into the hollows of your cheeks so that your lips jut out in a pout. "don't talk to me."
he then nudges you away, going to round the trunk till he's getting situated into the driver's seat, not even opening your door like the gentleman he is. because right now, fiery hot annoyance bubbles within him and he's ready to put you in your place. asap.
you huff as you get into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut at your side before your arms are crossing over your chest that heaves, pretty tits pressed against your forearms and it takes everything in namjoon not to pull your top down and suck on your pebbled nipples right then and there.
"don't slam my doors. you know how i feel about that," he speaks, not bothering to look at you because he knows it'll have him crumbling. he needs you to learn. to learn that there's a time and place for everything. and the day that he actually needs to get things done is absolutely not one of them.
"i honestly don't care," you say, looking out the window so that you wouldn't have to face namjoon's intimidating eyes. "wouldn't be slamming shit if you just left me home."
that's when you feel the press of namjoon's nike clad foot to the gas pedal. "you keep talkin'," he grunts out when the driver beside him honks, continuing when he bobs the lanes in order to get around them. "keep fuckin' digging a hole you can't cry yourself out of."
"but imma tear your lil ass up when we get home. don't even worry about it."
your lips part into a silent gasp, eyes widening. "what, that's not even fair. you've been acting like an asshole to me all day! i just wanted to stay home and get some rest because my head was fucking pounding, namjoon."
"i asked you to do one thing. one thing only. gave you tylenol, fed you, and asked you to do one thing as simple as be good and you do the exact opposite." his fingers tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. "and now you wanna cry wolf because you're in trouble."
he's chuckling, low in a deep rumble from the center of his chest. you can feel the irritation bubbling up, rising to his neck in the form of stubborn veins and its suffocating. too much.
it's only when the car slows to a stop at a red light when namjoon acknowledges you, looking in your direction with mean eyes. "get in the backseat," he's saying as he presses down on the lock of your seatbelt, hearing the familiar 'click!' before he's roughing you up. "hurry the fuck up."
tears swell your eyelids at his tone. "stop cursing at me," you retaliate, voice small though the increasingly wet patch in your panties is thick, filled with arousal because the duality of him has you spinning. it's satiating.
"you only seem to listen when i speak to you like this so get in the fucking backseat. now."
it has you scrambling, your miniskirt catching onto the rounds of your ass when you go to climb over the center console and into the back, legs feeling like jelly but it feels so good.
the light turns green and off joon goes, speeding down the streets but one arm reaches behind his seat that's already slightly pushed back to accommodate his size, making it easy for his hand to grasp onto your ankles placing them onto the console before he's pulling down your skirt, never removing his eyes from the road.
he’s always been good at multitasking.
"get her ready for me," he says and now it's crazily obvious why he put you there. the backseat windows are tinted, only being able to see out but not the other way around. it blocks the view of inside the car, giving the perfect place to have you spread out and completely at his mercy.
you give him what he wants without needing further instruction, fingers shooting down to pull inside the skimpy cloth you call underwear and immediately being met with cool air directly on your clit. it makes a shiver run up your spine before you're spreading your pussy lips open, fingers in the shape of a ‘v’ as they glisten with your honeyed slick.
sucking in a breath through your front teeth in the form of a hiss, you and namjoon lock eyes in the overhead mirror, and it makes you gasp when his free hand slaps at your clit, palm hitting repetitively until you squirm.
"joon, joonie, i'm sorry, baby," you whine and hiccup, closing your legs over his hand, leaving it between your thighs that spasm from the sensitivity of your clit. but you forget namjoon's strong, easily able to get himself out of it by nudging them apart with his elbow as if it was nothing.
"hold them the fuck open. stop playing with me," he speaks and it's so mean but nonetheless has you growing wetter and wetter with each passing moment.
you put your forearms underneath the backs over your knees, toes curling when they press up against the seats up front. so undeniably spread open that it's degrading.
simultaneously, your fingers resume their thumbing at your pussy, tips catching at your entrance before dipping in, making room for the thickness of namjoon's dick that's soon to come.
the squelching is obscene, loud over joji's 'night rider.' your pussy talks, singing along to the beat that plays lowly through the speakers. you wish you could block out the sound, finding it embarrassing as is.
the pace you build up is slow but ever so needy, clenching around your digits and they drag in and out before scissoring, stretching it out. but you need more, need to feel namjoon. have him inside you.
so you beg, plead, "please, joon. touch me, please. i'm so sorry." tears run down your face, eyeliner dripping already because you've never been able to handle what you dish out, and namjoon finds it funny. the irony.
the way you're so quick to break, being so apologetic and sweet when beforehand you were nothing close. again, namjoon can't help but laugh.
"you already crying?" and in response, you nod your head, still fucking yourself as you spew. "i'm so sorry. i-i didn't mean it."
his hand finds home between your legs and you think he's gonna slip his fingers in but are sadly mistaken when another forceful slap is laid to your cunt. "shut up. i don't want to hear any of that shit. you wanted this so deal with it."
"but—"
he cuts you off before you can get the rest of your words out. "but nothing. hush." by then, he's already pulling into the garage, car being placed in park.
but when he goes to step out, he merely uses the control gears on the side of the seat to maneuver it closer to the steering wheel, providing more space for him to join you in the backseat.
when he rounds the trunk of the blacked out audi, pushing himself into the seat behind the passenger's side, he's pulling you to him, legs dangling off the side of his wide shoulders. "been acting up all day," he mumbles, lips puckering up but they don't meet the ones north. they trail downward, latching onto your clit, sucking so that he can feel it rub against his tongue.
you moan, back arching against the coolness of his dark interior, hands trying to clutch onto him, to push or pull, give some sort of relief to the emptiness of you but he's grabbing your wrists, pinning them to your stomach. "you don't get to touch me," he speaks, the breath from his words battering up against your core, leaving you shaky and defenseless.
he licks a stripe before spitting, messy in the way he eats because he wants you dripping, easy enough to slide in and out of without working up a sweat. namjoon plans on wrecking your shit, leave you walking funny for days, a reminder that pretty girls don't cry when they get what they deserve.
you have no choice but to sit there and feel him spit, suck, lick, repeat, over and over again, the sound of his smacking and you gushing loud in your ears until your muscles flex, ankles crossing over one another behind namjoon's necks, the heels of your feet digging into his back.
"stay right there. please, please, please," you cry, hands thrashing in his unrelenting hold and best believe your pleas aren't anywhere near quiet. it has him bringing his free hand up to your mouth, middle and ring fingers tapping on your glossy lips.
you know what he wants, so like the good girl you're trying so hard to be, you open, letting the pads of his fingertips rest heavily on your tongue before you're wrapping your lips around them, tongue swirling around the length of them as a welcome.
he's momentarily given you a reason to shut up, fucking your mouth with his fingers whilst he eats your pussy like it's the last supper. namjoon has always found pleasure in pleasuring you, loving the way you tasted like honey on his tongue, the way your moans would pull him in like a siren would a sailor. it was a danger, the way you had him wrapped around your little finger.
your thighs tighten around his head in which he's blind to, the sharp strands of his buzz cut poking at the sensitive skin there but still, he never lets up his tongue's dipping into your entrance, licking into your gummy walls that clench as you near your orgasm.
you twitch, gargle around his fingers that press to the back of your throat until you're drooling, unable to speak. but you try, incoherent babbling mixing with the sound of namjoon between your legs.
when your spasms grow quicker, he's forced to let go of your wrists, palm striking down onto your hips that rut on his face, dragging your clit up and down his nose, and it's all too much. way too much. so involuntarily, you're stopped, body pausing in the shock of your orgasm that wrecks through you without warning.
"did i tell you to fuckin' stop? keep going," he spits, spanking your ass and urging your forward, drinking up every bit that pours from you.
the way you bunch up his jacket in tight fists is endearing, almost getting namjoon to reach up and smash his lips onto yours but he stops himself, keeps up his hard exterior because he knows he needs to put you in your place. learn your lesson.
"so good, joon. right there," you whine, head thrown back as he cleans you up with his tongue, lapping up any left over so that he can slide your underwear and skirt back into your lower half before bringing your face up to his with a grounding grip onto the column of your neck.
his lips hover over your own, practically daring you to kiss him. you know better though. his mean gaze on you says that you're in for a real treat, so you wait for him to speak, too scared to break the silence that blankets you.
"you've been out of line ever since you woke the hell up. i'm tired of you acting like you don't know shit."
"but i apologized," you say, eyes round and compliant as you look at him. you're a complete 180 of how you acted this morning. now docile in the way you shrink under his gaze.
his palm smacks against your cheek, stinging hotly but it adds fuel to the fire, makes your stomach full with butterflies. "mhm, but you don't mean it. just saying what you know i want to hear." namjoon's tugging you, putting his muscles to work as they sit you upright. "get out."
he's opening the door, ducking down in order to push himself out of the frame, and he doesn't look back because he knows you'll follow, making sure to press down on the lock button situated on his keys once he hears the shut of the car door.
your hair is messy, matting up in the back because of the friction between the strands and the fabric of the car seats. the wobbliness of your legs lead to the stairs, walking past the threshold and into your home in which namjoon holds the door and waits for you to get in just before gathering the thick strands at the back of your head, using it as leverage to urge you deeper into the home.
you gasp at his handling, his chest clung to your back as he pushes and pulls. you can't help but bring your hand up to his, clutching onto his wrist to try and ease his grip.
his breath is hot on your ear, whispering right into it as he bends forward to meet your level, ass pressed against his upper thighs while the growing bulge in his joggers swells. "by the time i get up those steps, you better be just how i want you."
and you bolt, quick to kick your chunky shoes from your feet and pull the jacket from your arms, left in a little skirt and an oversized soccer jersey, though you don't get time to dwell before rushing to take it all off, left bare save for the pink set of your bra and panties. the thickness of your curls resting at your shoulders.
heavy feet fall onto wooden flooring of the hall, partly creaky, or maybe it was the sound of your heart thumping in your ears. namjoon makes his way closer to your shared bedroom, his own outwear discarded and now left in a white tank and his bottoms.
your eyes are round and glassy when you look at him, regret all over your features because you know you're in for it. the way he rounds the bed to sit at the side of it before beckoning you over to him with the simple gesture of his fingers.
he wrangles you over his lap, right arm wrapping around your waist to keep you in place while his left hand rubs at the smooth skin of your ass before striking down, the smack so hard that it has you yelping.
"y'so pretty baby but act so fuckin' bad," he speaks, unwavering when he continues to reprimand you. "make it so hard for me."
“you know i hate seeing you cry.”
you call out for him, grabbing onto his calves for stability, thighs shaking in delicious pain because while it hurts, it feels so good, adding to the slick between your legs. the tears begin to run for the third time in the last half an hour, hands going to push at his but you're being stopped with the one along your waist, pinning your wrists to your lower back.
"you've done enough. be a good girl, would you," he questions but doesn't wait for an answer. "'s exactly why you're in this predicament now." ass perched up while he spanks it raw.
his hits are rough and repeated, taking the time in between to massage them just to take that momentary relief away once more at the bat of an eye. he even slides his finger between your folds to pick up a little bit of your wetness so that he can smear it across your ass.
namjoon's hungrily listening to every whine and scream that he draws from you, his cock unbearably stiff within his boxers, tip leaky and with a pinkened blushed undertone from its neglect.
it's only when he's done with you that he brings it to attention, pulling at the back of your hair to pull your face up level to his, eyeliner dyed tears streaming down your cheeks and he coos, kissing your forehead, but still, never touches your lips.
he knows you need it, the way your eyes are cloudy, waiting for him to get you exactly where it's easy to break to down: giggly and ever so moldable. pushing down your more bratty side and swapping it out for the good girl.
so he places you on the bed, sits you in his previous position whilst he rids himself of his clothes. chest and below bare and tanned with the small ribbon bow tattoo that represents you resting on his left pec, kneeling down just enough so that he can unclamp your bra and discard your panties before pursing his lips to leave a glob of spit catching onto your entrance, adding to your already drenched cunt.
"needed me, baby? you needed me to fill you up to put you in a better mood," he questions. “all you had to do was ask. you’on need to do the extra shit.” bringing a hand to his cock to jerk, standing back to his feet to drag his tip from your clit to the strip of skin just above your puckered hole. he just just keeps doing it, back and forth, up and down, until your grow restless, quivering, advancing to wrap your legs around his hips to bring him closer.
but namjoon easily slides into you and presses his palms to the backs of your knees, pushing so that they rest at either side of your head so that you’re completely folded.
the stretch hurts, makes you vulnerable and at the hands of his mercy but you wouldn't want it any other way, laying the future of your orgasm in his hold because you know he'll cater to you in every way possible.
his hips rut, pelvis to pelvis, heavy balls pressed to the swell of your ass as he digs deeper. and your pussy spasms, hugging him, sucking him in like a whirlpool. it makes namjoon lay his weight onto your chest, picking up his pace.
“slow down,” you whine, lips parted with your head thrown back, he takes one hand from your leg to wrap around your throat, bringing your attention onto him. maintaining gut-churning eye-contact.
"take this shit," he speaks, harsh and cruel. staring into your eyes and it makes you want to shrivel up. "been fuckin' with me all day so take this shit."
“d-didn’t mean to.”
he drops his hips a hurried slam, pounding into you like you owed him something. it was unrelenting. forceful. upon the impact of his dick sliding into you, your body jerks up higher onto the bed.
“mm, look at you. be actin’ all tough in public but as soon as you get on this dick, you go silent.”
leaning over, namjoon puts his thumb onto your bottom lip, sliding it between so that he can pry open your jaw, getting your mouth wide enough so that he can spit directly into your mouth but some inevitably falls onto your cheeks and he seals, smearing it, berry lip gloss smudging while your skin stings.
he laughs in your face, finding you to be the prettiest thing. even when you’re absolutely wrecked. pussy pulsing, titties bouncing, tummy folding, and knees resting beside your head.
“you boutta cream on me,” he asks when he feels you tighten and you nod, spent on the feeling of him splitting you open with a smile on his face. “this your shit. just go ‘head.” namjoon continues to dog you out, watching as the familiar white ring coats his dick at the base and he loves the sight.
before you get the chance to come down from the high of it all, namjoon’s taking matters into his own hands and is once again repositioning you as if it were nothing. the swiftness of it gives you whiplash. he's strong without reason, makes it entirely too easy to turn you to lay on your chest in the middle of the bed, arms behind your back whilst your ass points up, arched impossibly low that it strains your spine.
his palm is pressed to your cheek, pushing your head down into the mattress. one knee to the plush of the bedding while the other is bent with his foot flat as he thrusts entirely too deep.
it's hard hearing the soppiness of you taking him in, hearing your pussy talking back, pleading to take it easy because he's being so rough and you can barely keep up. he leaves you gaping when he pulls out and kisses your clit to see it jump just to push back in with fervor afterward.
with your face forced onto its side, watching through the mirror of your vanity as namjoon loses himself in your warmth, thrusts growing sloppy and straying away from its pattern, you blindly reach behind you, feeling the weight of his dick drilling into you.
"move your hand," he speaks sternly, calling you by name and its grounding. but you can't bring yourself to do it, trying your hardest to intercept his pace by pressing down onto his lower stomach. pretty nails dragging down the skin.
"i can't, joon," you plead, eyes rolling to the back of your head, toes curling. "god, it's too much." you involuntarily break your arch, back hunching, going to stand onto your knees to get namjoon to let up but he doesn’t let you.
pressing down on your back, moving your hand himself and pulling your hips up to get you right back into position he wants you, namjoon isn’t one for mercy as he digs back in. "nah, don't run from it.” he lays a heavy smack to your ass, watching as the flesh jiggles, so he does it again.
and again. and again. and again.
“fuck me back, baby.” he knows you’re gone when you do as he says without hesitation, smiling to himself as he feels his own toes curl. “yeah, you got it. fuck…keep goin’.”
and just like that, you’re back to your old ways. taking everything that he has to offer. throwing your ass back onto him to meet his thrusts. it has him reaching a hand down to pinch and roll your clit between two fingers, building you up so that you’ll be milking him in no time.
“all you wanted. this is all you wanted. you know daddy’s got you, baby,
a few more plunges in and you’re fluttering, cream flowing out of you, running down your thighs, and that causes a ripple effect on namjoon, his balls constricting as he paints your walls white.
and when you shake so much that you're one step away from sliding off the bed, namjoon chuckles before holding onto you tight, laying his sticky chest into your back and grabs the side of your face to smack his lips to yours.
cw. my attempt at humor and comedy, aged up riki (24), mentions of knives and weaponry, eating and food, violence, kidnapping, psychological and emotional distress, organized crime stuff duh, mature language (sexual innuendos, cursing), our pairing are essentially best friends that got married love this for them, blood and injury, trauma, plot twist (dun dun dunnnn), hurt/comfort, riki's a lil unstable but he means well
synopsis. he told you no, luckily for you—that was never anything you were used to hearing. riki, your headache and your whole damn world didn’t even want you stepping foot into the chaotic sphere that he calls his home. however, you were done playing housewife. but in a world where info is power and an achilles heel simultaneously, love (and riki's sanity) may not be enough to survive what’s next.
author's note!
ciao!! i've been working on this for some time (since may omg). it's been on my mind for some time and it feels good to get it off. i'm very proud of this. i'm down to make this into a part two because i still feel like this could be more. lmkkkk anyways enjoy <333!!
partially proofread which is progress for me!!
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Please?”
“No.”
You followed Riki downstairs, skirt swishing and Mary Janes clacking indignantly against the marble. The long, oversized button-up you wore—his, tailored for you—was the same deep navy as the one he was currently wearing. You always matched. It wasn’t optional. It was a language. A silent message. He didn’t look back.
He never did when he was irritated. Just kept walking, tall and terrifyingly composed, descending the staircase like a man on a mission, still calm under pressure. Black slacks sharp enough to slice, the soft sheen of luxury dress shoes hitting the floor like a metronome. Even without saying a word, Riki made the entire house hold its breath.
Kaminari wasn’t just a name. It was thunder, etched into Tokyo’s underworld like a scar. His great-grandfather had built it from blood and ash in the wreckage after World War II—when the country was fractured and men like him learned to make an empire from silence. Each generation added its layer: first muscle, then money, then myth.
And now, Riki.
Youngest leader in the syndicate’s history. Raised in marble halls and taught to slit throats with one hand while sipping tea with the other. A businessman on paper. A storm in a suit. And your husband.
Riki and you had been married for one year now, dated for three. Granted, your marriage had shocked a lot of people seeing as you married so young, both of you were twenty-three. But you were—are—in love and there’s nothing that could come between the two of you. He was your soulmate and you were his. That, you both were sure of.
So as you two walked to your kitchen, passing by staff and giving your maid—Clara—a kiss on the head and a ‘thank you’ as you both sat at the island to eat, you sighed in frustration. “Baby, please.”
Riki, eyes glued to his omelette as he settled into the seat. “I said no.” His dark hair fell over his forehead until he brushed it back—another small movement that looked like art. Now slicing into his food with the shiny utensils that had the family crest carved into them.
“Riki, I’m not asking to get in the field and hold a gun. I just want to…be an informant almost. Like your Oracle.” You turned to him, crossing your legs—not even wanting to touch your food now.
He furrowed his brow incredulously, “Oracle?” He muttered with a mouthful of eggs.
You nodded with a smile, “Mhm! Like the girl from Batman.”
“You’ve been watching too much TV, baby.”
You throw your hands up in frustration. “Because you won’t let me do shit besides that!” You whined, desperate to prove a point.
Since marrying Riki, you have taken up the cushy, spoiled housewife role. And while there was nothing wrong with that, after a while you started to feel antsy. You had bought every bag, every shoe, every diamond, every car, watched every show, even rented out Disneyland for you and Riki to enjoy one day just because you only wanted to go on the Radiator Springs ride. Even the Chanel Private Client Services wasn’t enough.
While you acknowledged the pleasures of being able to spend so indifferently, you started to get restless. There was something about the fact that he was able to go out every single day, going to be productive in more ways than one that made you feel almost…useless.
The staff around you stopped bustling, a bit shocked to hear your raise of voice. Even Clara paused, hands folded over a linen napkin, her gaze flicking to Riki like she wasn’t sure whether to intervene or bow out of the scene entirely.
Riki didn’t even blink. He just calmly chewed his omelette like your words bounced off that thick wall of stoicism he kept tightly bolted around anyone who wasn’t you. “I’m not telling you again.”
You didn’t care, you pressed further just because you knew you could. “I know I can do it.” You frowned, “I just wanna help. Most I’ll be doing is sitting at a desk and—”
His eyes looked ahead, nodding once at Clara after she slid him his poured glass of water. But you saw his fingers clamp around the glass. Paling, but his face wasn’t. Riki was calm, tempered as always. At least on the surface but he was patient with you. Something you took for granted. “You know what’s interesting about Oracle?” He said as he sipped his water. You didn’t answer verbally but nodded for him to continue.
“She’s sharp, stubborn, always ready and willing to help. A lot like you.” He gently stabbed the strawberry from the shared fruit bowl in the middle. “She helped Batman and Robin. An amazing partner, she was.” He chewed on the fruit.
You perked up, “See! Then I c—”
He calmly interjected, still not looking at you. But the vibrato of his voice verberated throughout the room. Bouncing off the walls, glass, and stainless steel. “But then one day, Joker shot her. Right in the back. And now she’s paralyzed.”
You blinked.
The sentence lingered in the air like smoke—harmless at first, until it filled your lungs. Riki still hadn’t looked at you. Still ate like nothing had shifted. But everything had.
The room was silent. Not the type of silence that asks to be broken—the kind that warns you not to try.
You swallowed. “That’s fiction,” you muttered, softer this time. “That’s not real.”
“Neither is invincibility,” he replied simply. “Not even for people who think they’re behind the screen.”
Finally, he glanced up at you—dark eyes laced with something you couldn’t name. Something heavier than anger, deeper than fear. “You think I’m keeping you out because I don’t think you’re capable?” He chuckled once, dry and humorless. “I’ve seen you lie through your teeth and charm your way out of federal security checkpoints. You’re brilliant. I’d trust you to run the whole damn empire if I died tomorrow.”
Your heart skipped.
He set his fork down. “But I’m not dead yet.”
Then he rose. Just like that.
You expected him to storm off, to make a scene. He didn’t. That wasn’t Riki. He just straightened his cuffs, softly kissed your cheek, gave Clara another kiss on the forehead, and walked out of the kitchen and to the front door with the kind of quiet command that made everyone else shrink. “I love you, angel. Love you too, Claraboo.”
The guards fell in around him, black suits rippling like shadows. “I love you too…” You whispered, but loud enough for him to hear it because you knew he wouldn’t leave until he heard you say it. And within seconds, the heavy front doors whispered shut, and the house exhaled a hush that felt a lot like defeat.
You stared at the imprint his coffee cup had left on the wooden coaster. Inherited empire, inherited fears. Same old script.
A gentle hand touched your shoulder. Clara. Cinnamon‑and‑steel Clara, who’d watched him grow from toddler to tycoon.
“Tea?” she offered.
You shook your head softly, leaning on the marble with your shoulders slumped and frown etched onto your face. “No thank you, Clara.”
The older woman had sort of become your best friend and aunt all rolled up in one over the last few years, sitting right where Riki did. She smiled bitterly as she rested her hand on your cheek. “Young master doesn’t mean to hurt you. Just doesn’t know how to let you help without feeling like he’s failing you.”
You blinked up at her, lips parting, but she beat you to the thought. “He thinks protecting you means keeping you in the dark. It’s not fair. But it’s what he was taught. The men before him—his grandfather, his brother, his father at first—they didn’t marry for love. They married for legacy. You? You’re the first thing he ever chose.”
Her thumb brushed along your cheekbone before dropping back to her lap.
“He’s scared.” She said it like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t something Riki would ever say himself. “Not of the enemies. Of what happens to him if something happens to you.”
You exhaled through your nose, scoffing softly at the bitter twist in your chest. “He could just say that.”
Clara smiled gently. “He could. But you married a yakuza, babygirl. Not a poet.”
You cracked a smile—small, but real.
“He’ll come around. Just don’t mistake his silence for stubbornness. That boy listens. Always has.”
Your eyes met hers, lashes trembling just a little, because you were tired. Not tired of him—never of him—but of what came with him. The silence. The walls. The feeling that even though you slept next to each other every night, there were parts of Riki that refused to come out from behind that iron curtain in his chest.
“He talks like someone who’s already buried a wife,” you muttered.
Clara sighs, “Because he’s seen it all of his life. Colleagues dying, their wives dying. His mother…” She trailed off.
Riki’s mother had been shot and killed when he was two. He hadn’t had any memories of her, just the things that his family wanted him to remember. All of his life he had heard stories of his mother’s laugh, how fun she was, and that one time she accidentally overheated the soup in the kitchen and made the pot boil over and explode all over the counter.
Riki had seen no point in being upset over it, he didn’t remember her. In his mind, there was no use mourning someone he never knew. She didn’t mean much to him until he brought you to meet his dad.
While you were in the parlor, leg bouncing and nearly hyperventilating, Riki and Mr. Nishimura were speaking in the hallway. Riki would never forget.
“Her laugh reminds me of your mother’s.”
That was all his father said. Stern and weathered, voice like gravel under boots, but his eyes softened for half a second—just one—as he looked past Riki into the parlor, where you sat nervously smoothing out your dress.
Riki stood there frozen. Because in all the years of funerals and retellings, of whispered stories around the dinner table and framed photographs that never moved from the shrine, not once had anyone ever made her real.
He’d never known her laugh. But apparently, you sounded like her when you did that thing—laugh with your whole chest, eyes squeezing shut, hands slapping his shoulder even when he barely cracked a joke.
That was the moment his mother became real—not a figment, not folklore.
And that was when fear sunk its teeth into him.
But Clara didn’t need to say anything. You knew. He knew. Everyone did and you couldn’t forget because he wasn’t going to let you.
So you sat there, knowingly and sighed in resignation. “I just…I love him and I want him to see me as an equal.” You brushed your hair back, jewelry cold on your warm face.
“He does, sweetie.” The elder nodded with an endearing smile. “He’s just a prideful and protective man raised by a lot of prideful and protective men. And sometimes that gets in the way. They’ll do anything to ensure the safety of each other. That’s how they were raised. You’re his world, don’t act like you don’t know.”
“I know,” you whispered as you stared down at your doll-like shoes. Rubbing them together lightly and creating a creaking sound with the coated leather.
Clara stood, brushing off her apron. “But if that’s not enough, then…just talk to him. Seriously,” she lightly pinched your cheek. “You know just like I do that he’ll listen.”
She left you with that, bowing before she went to go dust the living room.
And you stayed there, heart heavy and at this point, you felt like that same frown was going to become permanent. But you just turned to eat your breakfast.
Chewing on your omelette and it was cold and bitter, akin to what you thought battery acid could taste like. You frustratedly put the fork back on the plate, and just grabbed your apple juice. Leaving everything else in your wake.
—
Later that day
—
You lay in bed, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it owed you answers. The moonlight spilled through the blackout curtains, painting silver streaks across the sheets—cold and unforgiving.
Riki moved around the room with his usual quiet precision, the soft click of his dress shoes replaced by the muted sound of him slipping out of his clothes. You didn’t say a word. Didn’t even flinch when he pulled back the covers and settled beside you in just his briefs. He liked sleeping this way.
He glanced over, catching the set of your jaw, the silent storm brewing behind your eyes. His voice was low, cautious—the kind reserved for moments when words had failed too many times already.
“You still upset?”
You stayed quiet.
Your husband sighed as he stared at you, a mixture of pity and frustration. “I just want you to be safe…” He leaned up on his side as he tilted his head. An idea came to his head as he smiled softly. “I have good news.”
You tightened your arms, still looking to the ceiling and staying silent.
But he kept talking, “While I was out, I got those chocolates you liked. I know you haven’t been able to find them for months. They’re downstairs…I can have Clara bring them up for you.” He said hopefully but you still didn’t dignify it.
“And…tomorrow when I get back from work we can finally watch that show you’ve been wanting to. The Vampire Diaries you said?” He reached to lightly brush your cheek with the back of his hand, to which you almost fell for it then but you had more resolve. “I promise not to get jealous when you call that Klaus character sexy.” He smiled gently, hoping to make you laugh but to no avail.
“C’mon, my love.” Riki kissed your temple, “don’t be so mean to me.” He said with near desperation.
Your eyes flicked toward him for a split second. Just one. That was all he got.
He saw it, too.
“I’m not being mean,” you muttered finally, voice flat. “I’m just tired.”
Riki stilled. His hand dropped back to the sheets.
“That’s not what this is about and you know it,” he said, his voice quieter now, more careful. “You’re punishing me.”
You looked at him, “You’re underestimating me.”
He furrowed his brows, “I…no I’m not. I told you earlier. I have no doubts. I love you more than you could ever understand but…you’re naïve.” His gaze wavered for the first time you saw in him, fear. “A-And you get in over your head sometimes. I know you won’t be in direct danger but…it’s enough and that’s all I need to make me say no to you.”
You sat up, “I am not naïve!”
Riki smiled gently, nodding as he moved his hand to your waist. “Yes, you are.”
“Name one time.”
Riki held your gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was debating whether or not to say it. “One time?” he said softly. “Alright.”
He ran a hand through his hair, then let it fall to his lap. “That day you tried to drive yourself to Ryujin’s house across town because ‘it was just lunch.’ No guards. No heads-up.” He paused. “You didn’t notice the car that trailed you for ten blocks. You didn’t notice it double back when you stopped at the café. I did. Because I had someone watching.”
You blinked, jaw dropping in disbelief.
“You brushed it off when I brought it up. Said I was being paranoid. But that same car was on our street the next night.” He leaned in a little, voice lower now. “I didn’t tell you that part. Because I knew it would scare you. And I didn’t want you to feel guilty.”
He exhaled. “You’re amazing. Brave. Smarter than anyone I know. But baby…that’s what makes it worse. You think you can’t be touched.”
“Have you…been touched?” You whispered in defeat.
“Me?” He snorted, “Fuck no,” letting out a small laugh.
“Riki…” you whined as you leaned back onto the headboard with a pout.
“What?” He laughed, but quietly gathered himself for you. “I’m sorry, but no. I haven’t but that’s because this is something that I was born into?” He said it as if it was obvious—because it was. “You married into this life and this is just something you’d have to learn. But it’s been four years of me keeping you away from it and it will stay that way until we both croak over.” Riki nods affirmatively as he lays back down on his back. Eyes leering at the ceiling the same way you were.
A beat of silence fell over you two. You hated to push him, but this was the last time you would. “Okay but…at least think about this. I married you because I love you.” You huffed, looking at the ceiling as well. “You, our union, this ring, our family name…it means the world—the universe and galaxy—to me. But I swore to love, honor, and respect you in sickness and health, for rich or poor. But…” You turned to him with gentleness in your eyes.
“I promised to protect the integrity of the Nishimura name. That I wouldn’t shame this family, myself, or you. That by becoming Mrs. Nishimura, there’s tremendous responsibility and I’m ready for all of it.” You tenderly pecked his lips, to which he quickly reciprocated. “I love you, and if I ever do anything to make you think I cannot handle this…then pull me out. But don’t just say no if we haven’t even seen how I would do.”
Riki didn’t respond right away. You watched his chest rise and fall, steady, like he was working through every word you’d just said.
Then, slowly, he turned his head toward you.
“…Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll think about it.”
You blinked, surprised he hadn’t shut it down completely. But before you could say anything, he leaned over and kissed your forehead—then your lips. It lingered this time. Less reflex, more emotion.
“Goodnight, baby,” he murmured against your mouth.
You nodded, brushing your fingers over his cheek. “Goodnight.”
He waited until your breathing evened out beside him. Waited until your hand slipped from his chest and onto the pillow.
Then, carefully, Riki slipped out of bed and into a silk robe.
He moved quietly, barely letting the bedroom door creak open before he was down the hall, bare feet silent against the marble.
—
The door clicked shut behind him. Clara glanced up from her desk, already halfway into her second espresso. She didn’t even look surprised.
“I figured you’d come,” she said, setting her cup down. “You only knock when it’s about her.”
Riki didn’t smile. Just stood there for a second.
Then: “What do I do?”
Clara smiled fondly, “What you think is best, son.” As she sipped her coffee.
Riki sat down on the chair in front of her desk with a sigh. “But that’s why I came to ask you.” He gestured to the elder with an annoyed expression but quickly hid it as he actually had respect for her. “She made a good point. Too good. I just don’t want her to get taken advantage of. I don’t want her to lose her light the way so many of us did.”
Clara laughed, “You still have your light, Riki.” She leaned back in her chair as she adjusted her glasses. “You didn’t always have it…but she gave it back to you.”
He nodded with a firm look. “She did. She’s my light. She’s my—oh gosh—” Riki exhaled firmly as he buried his head in his hands, slightly shaking as he bounces his leg. Anxiety peeking through. “I can’t lose her. I won’t. I will not end up like my dad. I refuse to.” He shakes his head vehemently, his black hair falling in his face to which he swiftly pushes it back.
“She’s strong. You’re even stronger. Use your strength to help her get there. She just wants you to meet her halfway. That’s all she needs from you.” Clara said softly. “She’s capable and you know it. I believe so.”
Riki looks up at her through hooded lids. “You think so?”
Clara nodded, “I know so.” She stood up and beckoned him to follow her. “Come on,”
He complied and followed her to the east wing of the home—where his office resided. She used her key to open it and walked to his file cabinet and pulled out a black folder and handed it to him. “Here.”
The tall man scanned the folder and looked up at her. “What’s this for?”
“A test.” she said simply. “Start small. Give her something to handle. If she can carry it—then you talk.”
Riki stared at the folder, thumb brushing over the edge.
“You sure?”
Clara’s eyes didn’t waver. “I’ve never been more.”
—
You sat in the living room, watching another installment of some YouTube gameplay of a horror game. After last night, you had hope. Hope that something in the universe would change the mind of your vexingly stubborn husband. That for once he’d let you have a little more agency than he’d let you have any other day.
Though, please don’t misunderstand. Riki wasn’t controlling by any means. He let you do and practically say whatever you wanted. You spent his money, were able to go out at your leisure (not without security), utilize…him as much as you wanted. But especially, he let you argue.
Riki never let anyone argue. Being the man he was, prideful and a leader, his word was always going to be the last one. It was his way or no way, and this was the first time he had fought you so hard on something as this only made you want it more. You wanted to help, of course. But you just wanted to be more important to him than you already were.
You knew that he loved you, you had never in the four years that you were together doubted the affection he held for you. You had just wished that he let you have a little more freedom.
So you adjusted yourself on the couch, your shorts twisting and crop top riding up just a little but it didn’t matter because you had a throw blanket on. Riki entered the living room with something hidden behind his back. “Hello, my love.”
You furrowed your brows, “What are you doing?”
He shrugged as he padded over to the couch and plopped beside you with a knowing smirk. You turned off the TV and turned to face him, giving him your undivided attention. “I have to talk to you about something serious.”
You frowned, “If this is about yesterday then I—” He shook his head with a smile now, “Ancient history, passé.”
Growing suspicious, you hugged the blanket close to you. “Okay?”
He revealed a black folder from behind him and flashed it with a smile. “Ta-da!”
You shrug, “A black folder. Wow…”
He smacked his teeth with a grunt. “Take it,” he said gently, smiling with tenderness.
You grabbed the folder reluctantly, opening it to sift through it: three different color USBs, CCTV stills, ledger excerpts, and then a sealable, ivory envelope with a Kaminari recommendation card on it.
Your heart dropped, tears welling up in your eyes as you looked at him. “No…”
He nodded, smiling, “Yes, but only if—”
You cut him off by throwing yourself on top of him in excitement. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” The black folder behind you now and your legs tangled with his as you held his face between your hands, kissing him once, twice, a third time just to make sure this was real.
Riki laughed into your lips, arms wrapped around your waist, holding you like the choice didn’t shake him a little too. Like giving you this meant everything would be fine. “Wait, woah slow down.” He smiled, “there’s something else too. Come with me.” He stroked your cheek as he helped you up and off of the couch, grabbing the folder.
Without a word, you followed him to the east wing as if you were going to his office. But then you made a strong left. This house was so big that there were rooms you hadn’t even seen yet; and you’d been living here for two years. But he handed you a key to a door, the door being right down the hall from his.
You took it without a word and unlocked the door to see an office of your own. A pink, girly office.
You stepped inside slowly, mouth parting in a silent gasp. It was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the room in soft morning light. White marble floors. Blush-toned walls. Shelves already stocked with delicate file boxes, soft leather notebooks, gold-trimmed pens, and what looked like a crystal lamp shaped like a cherry blossom. Then you looked around in the corner of the room, a plush carpet and loveseat with a mini-fridge.
There was a glass desk in the center, wide and sleek, with your name engraved on a pink acrylic placard: Mrs. Nishimura—but underneath, in smaller script, it read:
Behavioral Intelligence Officer
Your knees buckled a little.
“Riki…” you breathed, turning around with trembling hands. “What is this?”
He stood at the doorframe like he wasn’t watching your entire soul ascend out of your body. His smile was slow, private. “This is where you’ll work from now on. The folder stays here. You get full clearance, unmonitored access, your own contact line with everyone, and burner accounts we’ll rotate weekly.”
You stared at him, absolutely speechless.
“You said you wanted to help,” he added softly. “But more than that…you wanted me to treat you like a partner. So here you go. This is me treating you like a partner.”
Tears filled your eyes again, but this time they didn’t sting. They shimmered.
“And I don’t have to…ask permission to come in here?” you asked, still stunned.
Riki shook his head, stepping in and running his hands up your arms. “This is yours. It’s your space, your case, your decisions.” He paused. “I’ll still worry, and I’ll still protect you. That’s not up for debate. But this—” He looked around. “This is where I start learning how to let go a little.”
You threw your arms around his neck again, burying your face into his shoulder. “I’m gonna cry all over this expensive-ass marble.” He let out a breathy laugh as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “Don’t. I don’t want a slip and fall one day in.” Kissing your temple lovingly, his voice softening. “I love you, you’re Mrs. Nishimura. Not just in love, but in title and it’s time we all started acting like it.”
You peeled off and pulled him down a bit to lay your lips onto his. Resting your hands on his nape as you kissed him like it was the last thing you’d ever do.
Riki, letting out a groan as he picked you up off of your feet, grabbing your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist. He smiled into the kiss as he massaged your ass in his large hands. “Should’ve done this sooner.”
“Mhm,” you hummed into the exchange as you tilted his head back to start showing his neck some attention.
Riki’s pulse thrummed beneath your lips, his head tipping back just enough for you to taste the faint salt of his skin and the trace of expensive cologne he only ever wore for you. His breath caught—low, rough, entirely at odds with the marble‑cold composure everyone else knew.
He shifted, pressing you against the edge of your new desk. The glass was cool, a soft contrast to the heat rolling off the two of you.
“Careful,” you whispered, teasing your teeth along his jaw. “That’s my desk now.”
He hummed, voice vibrating against your mouth. “Then I guess I’ll just have to get used to doing things your way.”
His hands skimmed up the backs of your thighs, thumbs drawing lazy circles that made you shiver. The black folder still sat secure on the far corner—close enough to remind you why you were here, but far enough to keep from shattering the moment. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes—dark, dilated, a storm held only by sheer will. “Thank you,” you murmured. “For trusting me.”
He brushed a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering at your cheek. “Thank you for demanding it.”
The weight of those words settled between you—equal parts promise and permission. He leaned in again, slower this time, lips hovering at the shell of your ear.
“Lock the door, Officer,” he murmured, a smile in his voice. “We must discuss business.” You squealed in glee as you hopped off the desk and closed the door, clicking the lock and scampering to your desk chair to sit dramatically. Crossing your legs like this was your throne and you were about to speak to one of your subjects. “Behavioral Intelligence Officer speaking,”
Riki smiled at your corniness. “Woah there, Powerpuff Girl. We gotta lay down the ground rules first.” He leaned against your desk, half sitting—his long legs in his signature black slacks looked you in the eye.
Raising your brows in curiosity, you knew this was coming. “Rules?”
He nodded once, “Rules. There are quite a few.”
“What are these rules?” You grabbed the folder to open it but he quickly took it from you, barely leaning forward as his long arms made quick work. “Hey!” You tried to grab it back.
He held the folder out of reach and held his hand up. “Nope, I need your attention.”
You huffed in frustration and leaned back in your chair. “Okay, you got it.”
He nodded, something behind his eyes switching. That domestic, loving, caring husband disappeared and now thunder, cold, and firm boss made an appearance. This is how you know he was being totally serious. “Rule one: you never—and I mean ever—do anything without consulting me. You report to me, you run things by me, you address me. This goes for everyone in the organization. I am the boss, I am your leader, I will be respected as such.”
Your eyes widen at his unyielding tone; unsure whether to find this scary or sexy. But you concede, “Okay. Number two?”
Riki nodded, “Number two: one-way door policy. Do you know what that means?” He tilted his head.
You shook your head with wide eyes. “No,”
He smiled politely, “It means that whatever comes in here, stays here. That folder? Stays here. External drives, put it in the safe.” He points to the hidden safe behind the big picture frame of you two, the photo of him proposing to you in Cabo. “Don’t screenshot anything. Don’t even mention anything outside of here. The only other place that’s acceptable is my office. Understood?”
You nod, “That makes sense, I get it. Understood.”
“Good. Number three: when this button lights, pick up your phone. It means there’s an emergency and someone needs to get a hold of you.” He nods to the clear knob on your PC keyboard. “We haven’t had a situation where we’ve needed to do it for years. But it’s necessary. Simple.” He claps his hands as she slowly paces the room now.
“Next rule: Every accusation needs proof. Time, place, motive. You can’t just say you have a gut feeling. I would believe you if you spat on me and told me it was rain. But here, we need proof. No baseless accusations. This goes for everyone, even me.” He put his hands in his pockets, as he looked at the marble floor. Letting himself think, doing that thing with his tongue-in-cheek. “Any questions thus far?”
Even with receiving all of this information, you shook your head. “No, keep going.”
“Beautiful,” he half-smiles. “Number four, this is a special rule: mental health days for you. Brains work better when they’re not being fried. Take a day to decompress, all of our problems will be there when you get back. And you will stop working at midnight, every night. No exceptions—I’m not going to explain it.” He said firmly. “A few more rules.”
He stopped walking to look you in the eye. “You only break rules to save a life, not for curiosity. It’s cute in a mystery film but people’s lives are at stake everyday here, don’t just do shit for the fun of it.” He comes back to his slow pacing.
“Third to last rule: this,” He gestured around the room, “is all yours. But this position isn’t a sure thing—”
Your jaw dropped, “Riki—” you whined in protest, finding it to be unfair.
“I’m speaking.” He held his finger up to silence you, to which you complied. Cowering in your seat as you looked at him with a pout.
“You’re going to be headed into this with little training. You’re not used to being under constant pressure, sometimes when you aren’t used to that…well…” He shrugged, “you can choke.” Riki sighed.
“You think I’m gonna choke?” You applied pressure to your tone, tilting your head in confusion. “I thought you said I was capable.”
Riki’s jaw flexed, eyes flicking up to meet yours—and for a moment, the weight of all this vanished. He looked at you like he always did: like you were the sun wearing heels, a hurricane with heart. But even so, his voice stayed firm.
“I know you’re capable,” he corrected. “But being capable and being ready aren’t the same thing. This isn’t a trust fall, baby. If you fall, someone could die.”
You stared at him. The silence between you stretched just long enough to feel like a power shift. Like you weren’t his wife at that moment—you were his kobun, his chosen partner, sure. But still…new.
You swallowed your pride and gave a tight nod. “Alright. Next rule?”
He sighed again, knowing this one would damper you a little. “No pet names. No ‘baby,’ no ‘my love,’ no ‘babe,’ ‘babe-arsaurus.’”
“Not babe-asaurus!”
He gave you a flat look. “Especially not babe-asaurus. We’re not at home. You wanna call me something cute, you do it in the kitchen.”
You snorted, arms crossed as you leaned back in your chair. “So dramatic.”
“I’m serious.” He circled back behind your desk, hands coming to rest on the armrests as he leaned in close. “Pet names blur the lines. And here, we don’t blur lines.”
You blinked. “Okay, edgelord.”
He grinned against your cheek, voice dropping again into that teasing warning. “Keep it up and the next rule’s gonna be ‘no lip gloss if you’re gonna talk back.’”
You raised your brows, daring him. “You gonna confiscate it?”
He took your gloss right out of your shorts pocket like he knew exactly where it was. “First offense: warning. Second offense? I keep it. Third…” He leaned in and whispered against your jaw, “You come to my office to earn it back.”
“Ooh…” you smile as you nuzzle his neck then pull back. “Am I speaking to my husband or Kaminari?”
He smiled back, “Both…but I’m serious.” He raised his brows, “No names.”
You smacked your teeth, “Okay ba—I mean—sir.”
Riki smiled kneeling in front of your chair now. “That turns me on too, but final rule. And it’s the one I’ll break before I ever let you break it.”
He leaned forward, holding your face in his hands. His cool rings melted against your cheeks as he looked you in the eye. “No lying,” he said. “To me. Ever. If you’re scared, tell me. If you messed up, tell me. If you don’t know what to do, you come to me. We do not lie to each other.”
This was an unspoken rule, not only in your career but in your marriage too. The only lie that Riki had ever told you was that he was going to work but was going ring shopping instead.
With the candor of his own family—meaning that Riki’s family physically never lied to each other—he saw that lying was the ultimate form of betrayal. The only time that lies were acceptable were under moments of extreme duress (e.g. his job).
When you two had discussed deal breakers on your first date he had said ‘lying’ before the question even left your mouth. And funnily enough, he never lied to you. He just withheld things or simply never brought things up until you asked.
He never spoke about work, and if you asked about his day then it was: “Today was shitty.” Or “It was good. Just work.” Or “Productive, fortunately.” He never wanted you to know anything because knowing means danger and danger means you die. And it’s not paranoia! No. Never.
If you asked how a pair of jeans looked on you and he didn’t think they suited you then he’d give a simple “You’ve got better ones, my love.”
Riki’s brand of honesty wasn’t mean—just wrapped in a velvet glove with iron beneath. Never cold, never cruel, never abrasive. He just valued the truth and gave it to you whether you liked it or not. Simply, he’d want the same thing from you. He’d rather you hurt his feelings with the truth now than hurt it even more with a lie if—and when—he found out. You never lied to him, even when the truth would hurt more.
So now, as he knelt in front of you, thumbs brushing your cheekbones like you were made of glass and fire at the same time, it wasn’t just a rule. It was another vow. Not just for the sake of your marriage but your new dynamic.
“Not even if it’ll hurt you?” You whispered, leaning your forehead on his.
He closed the gap a little, leaning to place a gentle kiss on your lips; letting it linger. “Especially then,”
“…Is this the part where I get my badge and cool-girl gun holster?” you mumbled against his mouth.
He snorted, pulling back. “You are so annoying.”
“Hot and annoying,” you corrected, poking his chest.
“Yeah, unfortunately,” he sighed, mock-disappointed, before grabbing the case file from the desk. “Alright, dude. Let’s ruin someone’s day.”
—
Riki sat on the edge of your desk again, this time with the folder open in his lap, flipping through it casually—composed as usual. “We have a leak,” he said simply.
Your brows pulled together. “Internal?”
He nodded once. “High-level. The kind of leak that gets people killed.”
You leaned forward in your chair, pulse ticking up. “What kind of intel got out?”
“Shipment logs. Safehouse rotations. Even a few agent profiles,” he said, tapping the page with the back of his ringed hand. “All routed through dead drops in Nishiyama territory. No digital trail. Clean. Old-school.”
You scoffed under your breath, “So we’re dealing with a professional.”
“We’re dealing with a mole.” His voice hardened like concrete setting. “Someone inside Kaminari is feeding information to the Nishiyama syndicate. Which means one of ours is playing both sides.”
You blinked. “A double agent?”
He met your gaze with a heavy look. “Exactly.”
You swallowed. This wasn’t just a briefing. This was serious. “You already have a suspect?”
“I’ve got three.” He flipped to the next tab. “Some important people. Social Liaison, Yuna. Logistics, Jo. Then Sohee, the Accountant. All had access to the stolen intel.”
You reached out, but Riki didn’t hand over the folder yet. “Your objective,” he said, his tone dropping into something deadly smooth, “is to make contact with all three. Casually. I want your read on them. Behavioral patterns. Speech tells. Any inconsistencies.”
You raised a brow. “You want me to profile them.”
“I want you to read them like a book, baby,” he said, before catching himself—then exhaling. “Sorry. Not on the job.”
You smiled a little. “Slipped out. I’ll allow it.”
He looked at you, seriously now. “You’re not just my wife here. You’re the only person I trust to do this clean. No bias, no noise. I don’t need proof yet. I need instinct. Which might contradict a rule but you aren’t making a move yet. That’s up to me…or maybe you depending on how this goes.”
“And if my gut tells me who the leak is?”
He nodded. “Then we build the case. Surveillance, comms trace, movement logs. But you’re the first step.”
You inhaled. “Understood. Where do I start?”
Riki handed you the folder at last.
“Page one. Then you come to the compound with me tomorrow morning.” He smiled, tilting his head.
You stood with slight nervousness, shaking your hands as if the feeling was water and you needed to let it dry. “Tomorrow?” You muttered as you paced in front of him slowly. “I’m going tomorrow?”
Riki smiled at your demeanor, “Yes, you will be coming with me tomorrow.”
“What? So like, do I go in a disguise or something?” You stopped and put your hands on your head dramatically, cropped shirt lifting just a tad to reveal the hem of your bra. Not that you cared, Riki had seen you as naked as the day you were born.
Letting out a breathy laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners and that was enough to soothe you. Hearing him laugh. “Sure.” He crossed his arms. “Your disguise will be ‘my wife.’” Riki leaned off of the desk as he approached you. “You’re just going to talk to them. Like I said…read them. Point out red flags, assess a possible motive. But even then, you are not to engage further. No strong-arming. That’s my job.”
“Because you’re mean to people.”
Riki snorted. “I’m not mean. I’m...assertive.”
You raised a brow. “You once threatened to staple someone’s tongue to a desk.”
He held up a finger. “Because he lied. With confidence. That’s worse.”
You blinked. “You smiled while doing it.”
“And I was right,” he replied, smug as hell.
You muttered something about psycho husbands under your breath and flipped open the folder anyway. Inside were three crisp profiles: one woman, two men. All clean-cut. All smiling in their ID photos. Like one of them could’ve handed someone a kill order and then gone out for ice cream after.
Your stomach twisted just a bit.
“You good?” Riki asked softly.
You nodded. “Yeah. Just a lot to take in.”
He paused, reading you again like he always did—too carefully, too much like someone who knew every version of you. The tough one. The soft one. The one who panicked over brunch menus and the one who could lie on cue if called for it.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” he said quietly. “To me. Or anyone else.”
Your eyes flicked up to his. “That’s funny. I thought this whole thing was a test.”
“Oh it is,” Riki pursed his lips. “And you do have something to prove, I just wanted to make you feel better.”
“Whatever happened to not lying?” You furrowed your brows, now getting irritated that he was making a joke of you.
Riki didn’t flinch. “I’m not lying. I’m softening the blow. Totally different.”
You scoffed, folding your arms. “Feels the same from where I’m standing.”
He stepped closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your spine straighten. “If I didn’t think you could handle it, you wouldn’t be here. I don’t hand out assignments because of marriage certificates.”
You held his gaze, jaw tight.
“So yeah,” he continued, “it’s a test. But not of your worth. Of your readiness.”
Your heart beat just a little harder at that. Not because you were scared—but because you hated how much you cared about passing. How much you wanted him to see you pass.
“…Still feels like lying,” you mumbled, avoiding his eyes.
“Then lie back,” he said, almost a whisper now, brushing a knuckle down your arm. “But I owe you a receipt, though.” Riki pouted his lips mockingly.
“A receipt?” Your eyes flitted to the side for a moment in confusion.
“Mhm,” he hummed as he sharply pulled you in by your biceps, your chest meeting his upper abdomen as he towered over you. “Don’t think I forgot the tone you took with me yesterday morning.”
Your heart raced and the breath caught in your throat like it had something to lose. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was firm enough to remind you: Riki didn’t bluff.
“I had to assert myself,” you said, chin tipping up even as your voice dipped lower.
Riki smirked, eyes flickering between yours. “Oh, you asserted something, alright. Had me rethinking our marriage vows halfway through my eggs.”
“Should’ve read the fine print,” you quipped, trying to deflect the way your pulse was going off like sirens under your skin.
His smile widened just a bit—dangerous and sweet, like a dare in the dark. “Fine print said mutual respect,” he murmured. “And you disrespected your superior officer, baby.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Superior officer? That’s what we’re doing now? You get off on that?”
“I get off on putting you in your place.” He stroked your cheek with his knuckle as he leaned in, grazing his nose with yours. “I think you forgot who you married.” Something behind his eyes flickered, something dark, menacing, and slightly sinister.
He leaned back as he scanned your body. “Go to our room,” he said, voice low and unshakable. “Lose the attitude—and the clothes. I want both off by the time I walk in.”
—
Getting ready the next morning at six ante meridiem was the hardest thing you’ve had to do in a very long time. You don’t know how Riki did it. If it was a solid nine then that was right up your alley. And considering the events of last night, your husband wasn’t exactly forgiving. You were sore as a bitch, with every part and limb aching.
Nevermind your glorious dream about riding unicorns in the rain. It didn’t matter because it wasn’t rain, it was your despicable husband shaking his wet hair in your face as your wake up call.
“Grand rising, beloved!” He beamed with a boyish smile.
You jumped up, clenching the linen sheets to your bare chest and gasping for air. “Oh my God.” You grunted as you swung on him, hitting his bare arm. “You’re such an asshole! Fuck you, you scared the shit out of me!” You’re still spent for air as you fell back on the bed and he was towering over you from beside the bed, laughing from the pit of his gut.
He grinned, completely unbothered by your assault. “Don’t be mad. You looked peaceful. Like Snow White, but, like...if Snow White had a felony record.”
You tossed a pillow at him, which he caught easily with one hand, the other holding his towel around his waist. “I’m not the one with the felony fucking record.”
“Well technically I don’t. But if I did then I’ll add something else to my list if you don’t get up.” He tossed the pillow back at your face. You launched yourself at him like vengeance itself, arms wrapping around his neck as you tackled him backward. The towel slipped just enough to make it personal.
“I hate you,” you growled, even as laughter bubbled in your throat.
He caught you mid-flight with that irritatingly perfect upper-body strength, stumbling a little before regaining balance. “Lies,” he muttered against your shoulder. “You were just singing my praises last night.”
“That wasn’t singing, that was—” you cut yourself off, groaning as you buried your face in his collarbone. “I’m too tired for this. Let’s call in rich.”
“We are rich,” he said, smug. “But we’re also very much still showing up, because I’m not digging the ‘sore and cranky’ excuse from you today.”
You sighed and looked up at him, “I would kiss you but you pissed me off and I have morning breath.”
Riki smirked, unfazed, and leaned in anyway. “Lucky for you, I have a piss kink and no sense of smell.”
You smacked his chest, scandalized. “Riki!”
He just laughed, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Relax, I brushed my teeth for both of us.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not how hygiene works.”
“It is in marriage,” he said, already walking away like he didn’t just say the most obscene things before the Lord Himself was awake. “Now move it. We’ve got a mole to sniff out.”
You stared after him. “I swear, I’m calling HR.”
“I am HR.” he yelled from the bathroom. “You have two hours.”
God help you.
—
“Okay, so what’s the plan?” You exhaled shakily, trying to rub the sweat off of your palms and onto the leather seats of black car.
“My love, you asked like twi—”
“I don’t care, I’m asking again.” You looked out of the car window, watching the trees turn to mush and blur as the car sped through the highway.
“Three people, one woman: Jung Yuna. Two men: Asakura Jo, and Lee Sohee.” He said, carefully, as he soothed your nerves, gently massaging your thigh. “Leak. You’re going to talk to them, get a feel for their personalities. Just…get to know them. That’s all.” He pressed a tender kiss to your shoulder.
“Okay,” you huffed. “Simple enough.”
Riki gave a soft hum. “Simple, yes. Easy?” He flicked his eyes toward you, a warning there. “Not even a little.”
You glanced at him. “What’s the catch?”
He didn’t answer immediately, just adjusted his grip on your thigh and dropped his voice. “One of them’s working with a third-party buyer. We don’t know who. We don’t know why. But we know it’s internal.”
Your brows furrowed. “And they don’t know we know?”
“Exactly. As far as they’re concerned, I’m bringing my sweet, unassuming wife for a fun day at work. Yuna knows me. Jo doesn’t trust me. And Sohee…” he trailed off, pausing. “Sohee thinks he’s smarter than everyone in the room.”
You clicked your tongue. “So you want me to play dumb.”
Riki’s lip curled into that crooked smirk—the one that always meant trouble. “Not dumb. Charming. A little naïve, maybe. But observant. You’re not interrogating them. You’re studying them. I want your instincts, not your analysis.”
“So this is ‘vibes-based’ intel?” You made quotation marks with your fingers.
“This is you-based intel.” His hand slid up your thigh, fingers curling gently. “You see people. You’ve always seen me—even when I didn’t want you to. That’s your edge.”
You fell silent for a beat. “If I’m the edge, what are you?”
“The blade,” he said simply. “So keep it cute. I’ll do the cutting if we have to.”
You let out a breath, heart pounding as the trees blurred past faster now. “Okay. Let’s find our mole.”
—
You entered the expansive compound, smiling and waving at the different people. At times—and the very few times you’ve been here—you forget that this is an organized crime group and not an organization, a conglomerate even.
And seeing Riki walk in here was like seeing a switch flip and the light turn on. Gone was your generous, funny, doting lover and now straight-faced, strict, articulate Komichō. It was slightly overwhelming to be able to see someone just turn themselves on and off like that.
So when he walked in, every person lined up to greet him. His kobun, bloodbound kobun. Trained, loyal, and unshakably his.
They bowed—not out of introduction, but acknowledgment. You weren’t a stranger here, not technically. They knew your face. They’d watched you stand beside Riki in silk and gold, watched you kiss him with a thousand eyes on your back. But none of them knew you.
Not really.
So when you walked in today—no veil, no curated elegance, no fanfare—there was a shift. A flicker in the way some of them looked at you. You were here, which meant something had changed. You weren’t just the wife anymore. You were part of the inner workings now. At least you and Riki knew that.
Still, he said nothing else. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough to quiet any question before it could rise. But the way his hand hovered at your back—subtle, protective, claiming—told the whole room that you weren’t just tagging along. You were trusted.
A few of them looked surprised.
One or two looked uneasy.
And at least one looked curious.
You kept your posture steady, offering a nod of acknowledgment. Cool. Collected. Just another day casually stepping into your husband’s criminal empire. Totally fine. Absolutely fine. Zero panic.
Riki leaned in just enough to brush his lips against your temple. “They remember the wedding,” he murmured, “but they don’t know you.”
“Good,” you replied under your breath.
He smirked. “That’s my girl.”
—
You strolled into one of the lounges, making decent use of your time here. You were careful to not immediately get to work as you didn’t want to make yourself super obvious. So here you were, walking around, scaring Heeseung—head of operations—every now and then just because you could. But after about thirty minutes, you decided to pull the trigger on this.
Your eyes found Sohee sitting at one of the many tables, tip-tapping away at something on his laptop. Presumably not work-related because this was considered a breakroom. But Riki wasn’t that strict, he didn’t care where the work got done—as long as it was in the building and nowhere else.
Putting on a friendly smile, you approached the table with politeness. “Hi, Sohee. How are you?”
The guy looked up from his laptop, the blank stare turning to a smile that mirrored your own. “Okaasan, I’m doing fine. You?”
You waved him off with a smile, telling him to drop the formalities and that calling you by your name was more than fine. But he didn’t comply, stating that Riki insisted that they call you Mrs. Nishimura or Okaasan.
“No, I’m telling you to call me by my first name. Please, it’s okay.” Smiling, nodding your head to ensure he felt a little more comfortable in this exchange. Being on a first-name basis establishes comfort. If there’s that then the conversation won’t be so rigid.
Sohee smiled gently, being slightly flustered at your friendliness. He hadn’t spoken to you ever and only knew you in passing. He was at the wedding like most of the group but besides that there were very little interactions between you and the other affiliates. No one knew about you aside from Riki’s close friends—some of whom were a part of the group and his groomsmen, and his family by the time of the ceremony. “Of course…” He rubbed his eyes, “But yeah, I haven’t seen you since the wedding. Tell me about married life, how’s it treating you?”
You slid into the seat across from him, adjusting your blouse just slightly as you crossed one leg over the other. A friendly smile stayed on your lips, but your eyes had already started their sweep—watching his fingers, his posture, how fast he minimized whatever was on his screen.
“Oh, you know,” you started, tone breezy like the back patio of a brunch spot. “We argue about whether the AC should be at sixty-eight or seventy-two, and then he kisses me. Classic honeymoon phase stuff.”
Sohee laughed politely, but you noticed the slight tug at his lip—like he was trying to decide if it was okay to really laugh. That was good. You liked that.
“It’s different though,” you continued, tilting your head thoughtfully. “Being someone’s girlfriend, and then suddenly you’re…really a part of their life. Your world is one, I guess. Still getting used to the perks.”
He snorted at that, relaxing a little. “I mean, if by perks you mean the estate and a guy named Chan who opens your car door every morning—yeah, not bad.”
You let out a soft laugh. “Exactly. And the complimentary paranoia’s cute too.”
Sohee’s eyes flicked up at you, and for a second, you saw the calculation behind the smile. He was smart. They wouldn’t have put him over logistics if he wasn’t. “You say that like you weren’t built for this. I mean, most people around here kind of expected you to be the accessory. No offense.”
You smiled wider at that. “None taken. Accessories don’t walk themselves in here and sit across from the guy who tracks where all the money goes.”
He stilled—just barely—but you caught it. Bingo.
Before he could volley back, you softened your voice, brushing invisible lint off your sleeve. “Anyway. I’m not here to scare anyone. I’m here to get to know people. Riki’s always talking about how tight-knit the team is. Family, right?”
Sohee nodded slowly, and you could practically hear the mental gears clicking. “Yeah. Family.”
“And family talks,” you said lightly. “Even if it’s just about what’s stressing them out…or keeping them up at night.”
He leaned back slightly, tilting his head. “That’s a very specific way to phrase that.”
You looked at him with a half-smile. “Well. I’m a very specific kind of person. Plus, I spend his money, I gotta make sure it gets where it has to be right?” You try to break the subtle change in vibe with a joke. He bites, somewhat relieved that the woman who has the power to either put him on the unemployment line or in a body bag wasn’t taking him too seriously.
Despite that, you took it for what it was and whatever he was giving you. Before either of you can stretch the silence too far, the door swings open.
“Heard there were pastries in here,” a voice calls out playfully, and in walks Yuna—light on her feet, dressed like her outfit alone had a LinkedIn profile, and confident like someone who always gets the last word.
Her gaze slides over the room, landing on you and Sohee.
“Oh,” she says, lips curving upward as she closes the distance. “Didn’t know this was a members only table.”
You gesture to the seat beside you. “Not at all. I was just catching up with Sohee. Join us.”
Sohee stands halfway out of his seat in reflex—a gentleman or a little afraid, who’s to say—before awkwardly sitting back down once Yuna waves him off.
“So,” she says as she takes a seat, folding her arms on the table and angling herself toward you. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding. You were a vision by the way. I mean, the ceremony? You two could’ve had a Vogue cover, just stunning.”
You chuckle, nodding politely. “Thank you. It was a blur, but I do remember crying over my lashes right before walking down the aisle.”
Yuna laughs, then tilts her head a little. “So, married life? How’s it been? I imagine being Mrs. Nishimura is…an adjustment.”
The way she says it—like she’s biting into something sweet just to test the aftertaste—tells you she’s digging. Not cruelly. Just…curious. Or pretending to be.
You tilt your head, mirroring her. “We were just talking about it.” You gesture to Sohee with a smile. “It’s been good.” You always loved to overshare, but it was no one’s business what consisted of your relationship. Namely how well your husband treated you. You had to learn that lesson better now than later.
Yuna hums. “Right. He’s always had that...edge. But seeing him soft for someone? Kind of wild, honestly.”
You smile, gentle but unmistakably proud. “It’s a side of him you have to earn.”
That lands. You see it in the way her jaw shifts just slightly, like the compliment doubled as a subtle door slam.
She nods slowly, playing it off. “Must be nice—being the one person who gets let into the inner sanctum. He doesn’t really do vulnerability.”
You rest your elbow on the table, your chin on your hand. “No, he doesn’t. Which is why I don’t take him for granted.”
And that right there—that soft, unapologetic weight behind your words—is when the intimidation really hits.
Yuna smiles, but this one doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You make it look easy.”
Sohee clears his throat, trying to reroute the conversation back to safer shores. “You always had that energy, though,” he says. “Even at the wedding. People were talking more about you than the cake.”
You grin. “Then I hope they weren’t talking about the dress fitting too tight. I ate like four slices of that cake myself.”
“Bold,” Yuna murmurs, sipping her drink. “That cake was like five hundred a slice.”
You glance at her. “When you marry a man who owns the bank the baker owes a loan to, cake isn’t a concern.”
Sohee chokes on a laugh, half trying to hide it. “She’s not wrong.”
Yuna raises an eyebrow, lips twitching. “That sounds like something Komichō would say.”
“He’s rubbing off on me,” you say.
“Definitely rubbing,” she mumbles beneath her breath as she sipped her tea again, you barely heard it but it was definitely loud enough for you to catch.
Your ears perked up at the comment, “I’m sorry?” Tilting your head with a small smile, acting as if you didn’t really hear her.
Yuna blinked, playing it off, though her smirk didn’t quite fade. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”
You let out a soft chuckle, resting your elbow on the table and your chin in your hand. “You should be careful doing that around here. People might think you’re losing it.”
Sohee glanced between the two of you, sensing the invisible knife sliding onto the table. “Right, well, I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear anything either.”
“No need,” you said smoothly, eyes still on Yuna. “I just thought I heard something interesting. Wouldn’t want to miss out.”
Yuna gave a small shrug, eyes cool. “Guess my mind wandered.”
“To Riki?” you asked lightly, no edge to your voice but every word precise.
Her lips parted like she might defend herself, but instead she laughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re good.”
You smiled wider. “I know I am.”
Sohee cleared his throat again—less out of nerves, more out of self-preservation. It seemed so with him, Riki said he always thinks like he’s the smartest in the room but it might not even be that. Maybe, but he shrinks beneath the gaze of someone bigger. Though, intelligence and bravery aren’t mutually exclusive in this case. Or any of them for that matter.
But you didn’t break your gaze from Yuna, not just yet. “Don’t worry,” you finally said, sitting back in your seat with a gracious tilt of your head. “I don’t bite unless I’m hungry.” Your eyes glinted, like the once inquisitive look was suddenly demoted to annoyance. But you knew better than to let her get the best of you.
Yuna lifted her tea, trying to cover the shift in her posture—the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw tightened for just a second. “Good thing I’m not on the menu.”
“Of course not,” you said sweetly. You stand, brushing off your skirt as you slide out of your seat. “I’ll be going now, guys. Thanks for hanging out with me.”
“No problem,” Sohee said with a gentle smile as he stood up to shake your head. To which you nodded respectfully, returning the gesture. “Hopefully we’ll be seeing more of you around here.”
You laughed with a nod, “For sure, I’ll definitely be around.” Glancing at Yuna, you smiled gently. “See you around, little one?” You reached out and rubbed her arm, to other eyes it was friendly. Between you two—and maybe Sohee if he squinted—it almost seemed like you were rubbing the metaphorical snot she sneezed onto you, back on her. Sonning her, ‘little girl-ing’ her.
Nonetheless, she smiled. She nodded. And just took it. “Yes, see you around.”
And off you were.
—
Speaking to Riki after that little exchange was definitely on your mind. Seriously it was, every aching part of you was determined to run down on him and question him until he physically choked on his every word. Because for real, what the fuck was that? Why was Yuna so comfortable speaking about your relationship and Riki in such a way? How has Riki made her so comfortable? When has he done that? How did it happen? Who even brought this up to her in the first place?
As the five W’s were this close to the edge of your tongue, you decided to save it for later. Not now, no. And it’s not even like you were shy about your marriage. If one couldn’t tell by now, you took any and every opportunity to mention Riki. You swore to your friends that once you got married you would ‘my husband…’ the fuck out of them and everyone else around you.
But you didn’t know Yuna, hardly even. You’d known her as one of the heavy hitters—essentially the PR for the group. The Social Liaison. She was delicate, yet biting. Subtle, yet direct. She was gorgeous and that’s exactly why she was appointed, because she was easy on the eyes and no one could dare turn away a beautiful woman.
You didn’t feel inferior, there was no reason to. Yuna was Yuna and You were You. Both of you were beautiful young women in a field dominated by men no matter how you sliced it. So to see her be so combative when you didn’t do that to her made you feel like you lost a friend before you could even make one.
So as you were on the hunt for Jo, passing through each hallway and scouring every nook and cranny for this guy. You peeped Riki a few feet away in the broad, wide-ranging room. Speaking so firmly to one of the kobun, not making eye contact but nodding along as he walked and they briefed him on something. They were too far for you to hear but he had noticed you, almost like he felt you from ten feet away.
He didn’t stop what he was doing, didn’t pause, he was slick as always. Riki kept walking and as he was listening but he made eye contact with you. His gorgeous, alluring eyes followed you as you kept moving but he didn’t smile. He just poked his tongue out—quick, barely there, a flicker of his usual mischief. The kind of look that says I see you, and I know you see me, without saying a single word.
It wasn’t apologetic. It felt more like a challenge. Like he was telling you to come find him. To press him. To demand what you wanted to know. At least to you because that’s what you felt like doing. But knowing him, he was just teasing. Letting you know that beneath the hard shell of the Komichō was your childish, teasing, yet loving husband.
You held his gaze for a moment longer, then kept walking. Because no matter how much your fists itched to grab his collar and ask him what the hell Yuna meant by that, you had other business to handle. Logistics came first. And Jo—well, Jo was never easy to find. Which was kind of the point.
So you tucked Riki into your back pocket for now, like a loaded question you’d pull out later.
Jo was somewhere in this damn compound, likely holed up with blueprints, phone calls, and at least five burner devices. And if there was anyone (sans Riki) who could give you the real lay of the land—or shift it completely—it was him.
Riki could wait.
You pulled out your phone to shoot him a message, though:
thorn in my side: do yk where jo would be right abt now?
He replied back in a split second.
idiotbox: should be in his office. upstairs, 5th floor. 509.
thorn in my side: thanks
idiotbox: i love you
…
???
i said i love you
i love you baby ????
now girl…
You didn’t even care to respond, you were mad at him for something you only assumed he did and that was childish, of course. You were petty, but so was he and that was how you two worked so well. He’d pick up eventually, but you hated the fact that such a menial exchange had irritated you this badly. But you knew better than to put him in a bad mood at work.
thorn in my side: i love you more babe-asaurus
idiotbox: hm
we’ll talk later
You rolled your eyes at how easily he was able to read you even without seeing you. But whatever, you have a guy to find and Riki was close to your heart as always; but the least of your worries.
Taking the elevator was intense because you hoped that it would be slower, honestly. Like how much of a rush were these guys in? You reached the first to fifth floor in less than two seconds. Now, here you are, scanning the doors and you finally reached Jo’s appointed office and you politely knocked. Waiting for a ‘come in’ or ‘enter’ or ‘who is it’ literally anything. But nothing.
You scanned the hallway, peering both ways up and down. No one was around, no one seemed to be passing through and you stepped forward a little bit to put your ear to the door. Also silence.
Racking your brain, Riki’s words kept ringing in your mind: you are not to engage further.
You are not to engage further.
You are not to engage further.
You are not—fuck it.
Without another thought you twisted the knob to Jo’s office and as fate would have it, the door was unlocked. You pushed through the door and peeked your head in.
Empty.
So as you slipped in, gently closing the door behind you before locking it, you reminded yourself of what you came here for. It was to get a hold on behavioral patterns, but there’s no harm in scanning. With a shaky exhale, your eyes followed through the space. Very minimal. Only necessary items here: desk, chair, file cabinet, desk lamp, simply essential office gadgets.
But as you neared his desk, you spied a ton of papers scattering across it. You hovered, unsure whether you should touch them, but then again, Riki did say not to engage further. He didn’t say anything about observing. Which, in your opinion, made this a grey area. And what were grey areas for, if not you skating through them with barely plausible deniability?
The first sheet that caught your eye was a layout of the compound—more detailed than the blueprints you’d seen before. Color-coded zones, timestamped patrol shifts, even ventilation system routes. Jo is definitely playing chess while the rest of these guys are just showing up to the board.
The next paper underneath made your stomach pull a little tighter. It was a list. Names. Some you recognized, some you didn’t. Some were marked with symbols: asterisks, slashes, question marks. What you did know was that this was the definitive roster—essentially—for everyone in Thunder.
Sans one other: Yuna.
Weird.
Then you saw it.
A manila folder tucked half underneath a blueprint sheet. You knew you shouldn’t, but girl—curiosity is a disease. You slid it out just an inch, enough to see the label written in Jo’s tight, deliberate handwriting:
“INCIDENT REPORT — LEAK”
Then another:
“NISHI — CONFIDENTIAL”
You didn’t let your initial shock cloud your common sense. Without another thought you grabbed the two files and shoved them inside of your shirt. Dumb decision, yes. Strange, absolutely.
Just as you were heading to the door to make your graceful exit (you’ve been doing a lot of those lately it seemed), you heard footsteps and jingling keys right outside of the door.
“Fuck!” You mouthed in panic and scanned the room. A sliding closet was your best bet so you took shelter there, squatting at the floor and hugging the cloth covered folders to your chest. Knowing better, you ensured your phone was on silent and not on the hard floor to make noise.
And not a second too soon.
The lock clicked, the door swung open, and Jo entered—as leisurely as one can be. You watched through the thin slits in the closet door as he moved with practiced ease, the way only someone who expected to be alone did.
He muttered something under his breath, inaudible, as he tossed a USB onto the desk and rolled his chair out with a squeak. You swore your heart was doing parkour in your chest, beating a rhythm so loud you were sure he could hear it.
He started typing.
Clicking, clacking, clomping. Jo hands had left the keyboard to feel for his folders—the absent ones.
His hands patted the desk once. Then again. Slower.
You could hear the moment he realized something was off.
Click, click.
Rustle.
Click.
Pause.
“…Huh.”
He stood up. You could see his silhouette shift through the closet slats. Jo leaned over the desk again, rifling through papers, lifting one corner of the blueprint like the folders might be playing hide and seek with him.
Another pause. Longer this time.
Then he muttered, low and sharp: “Motherfucker.”
Busted. Not completely, but the clock was officially ticking.
Jo paced once, then sat back down hard, fingers drumming against the desk in a rhythm that screamed calculating. You knew Jo very vaguely—this wasn’t confusion. This wasn’t panic.
This was inventory. This was war.
And you were right there in the middle of it, like a roach under a glass.
He pulled his phone out. Tapped. You didn’t hear the call ring—probably encrypted, burner-to-burner. Probably to someone way too important to be talking about two stolen folders and a potential mole crouched three feet away.
Still, his voice was ice when he finally spoke:
“They’re gone. Both of them. Yes. Both. Folders. No. Nobody else’s been in here.”
He huffed as he slammed the device down on the desk and left without another word. Closing the door behind him.
You didn’t move for a full thirty seconds.
Just breathed.
Slow and shallow, trying not to make even your lungs betray you. Your heart was doing a drum solo in your chest, and the folders clutched to you suddenly felt like live explosives. Your knees were screaming. Your brain was screaming.
But Jo was gone.
And you were still here.
When you finally uncurled yourself and opened the closet door like it might squeak out a betrayal, the coast was still clear. The office was eerily quiet, save for the dull hum of whatever sinister programs Jo had left running on his screen.
You grabbed his phone too, along with the USBs. Leaving that behind, what a dummy.
You crept out like a cat burglar in a heist movie, glancing around one more time before heading to the door.
No one.
No shadows.
You slid out and shut the door behind you, just as quietly as you came.
And then booked it.
—
Muscle memory had you headed there before you could even second-guess the idea. Ninth floor, west wing, room 920. You’d memorized it months ago without even meaning to—like the curve of his signature, or the way his voice dipped when he was serious.
The folders were still tucked under your shirt like contraband, stabbing awkwardly against your ribs as you power-walked. You probably looked suspicious. Not that anyone was around to clock it—yet. But paranoia was creeping in like a slow leak. Any second now, you were sure alarms would start blaring.
You rounded the corner, heart racing. Riki’s door stood at the end of the hallway, clean and unassuming. You didn’t knock. Just turned the handle and slipped inside like a shadow.
He wasn’t at his desk.
He was standing at the window, back to you, hands in his pockets like some tortured antihero. Of course. Of course he was being dramatic today.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, without turning around.
You rolled your eyes and let the door click shut behind you. “This is where my man is, this is where I’m due. Thank you very much.”
He turned slowly, his expression unreadable until his eyes landed on your shirt—and what was very obviously not a very lumpy new bra.
“You didn’t,” he said flatly.
You didn’t say anything. Just reached under your shirt, pulled the folders and phone out like a magician producing a rabbit, and dropped them onto his desk with a soft thump.
Riki stared at them.
Then at you. “...You’re insane.”
“I love you.”
He pressed his fingers to his eyes, already visibly aging five years. “I love you too. But I told you not to engage.”
“Yeah, well.” You walked to his side of the desk as he sat. “I’m starting to think you only say that when you don’t wanna deal with the fallout.” You lifted yourself to sit atop his desk, folding your legs.
He didn’t argue because a part of him knew better. But he was going to ask questions.
“Before I open these, Oracle.” He smirked as he leaned back in his chair, rubbing your bare calves. “You are going to tell me how you got these.”
You tilted your head, half-smirking, half-daring him to press. “Before I tell you,” you said, voice sweet as poison, “you’re going to tell me who Nishi is.”
He paused, the playful squeeze he gave your leg faltering for just a second. Just enough for you to catch. Just enough to confirm that the name meant something. Something serious.
“That’s not how this works,” he said slowly, like he was weighing each word. “You first.”
You leaned back on your palms, eyes dragging lazily across the office like you were bored—like you weren’t high off adrenaline and one bad decision away from spiraling. “Door was unlocked. Papers were out. Your little friend Jo doesn’t have the cleanest filing system.”
“You broke into his office,” he said, amused but exasperated, like a teacher trying not to laugh while writing you up. “You hid in his closet.”
“And you told me not to engage, which is very different from telling me not to investigate,” you quipped. “And how do you even know I did that?”
His hands were warm against your skin again, this time steady. Grounding. He sighed, and there was something tired in it. Like this day had finally worn him down. “First off, you came in here winded. Which means you were running. Something you never do.” He nodded affirmatively, like he had seen this scenario a million times before. “Then you have extra padding in your bra like you don’t have enough going on there alrea—”
You squinted at him, offended but mostly appalled. “Excuse me?”
Riki had the audacity to grin, all smug and unbothered, like he wasn’t skating on the thinnest ice imaginable. “What?” he said, lifting his hands in fake innocence. “I notice things. You weren’t exactly subtle and I’ve seen them enough to know what they do and don’t look like. The folders are poking out like a second set of ribs.”
You smacked his arm. “You are insufferable.”
“Observant,” he corrected, laughing under his breath. “And I know you. You only get this chaotic when you’re pissed or nosy. Or both.”
You rolled your eyes and slipped off his desk, pacing a few steps to blow off steam. “Well, congrats. You know me. You want a medal or a map to Jo’s shitty closet?”
“I want you to tell me why you went looking for him,” he said, the smile in his voice gone now. “What made you dig?”
You paused, fiddling with the edge of a stray paper on his desk, not looking at him. “I was just making my way down the list.” You shrug with a slight pout. “I had already spoken with Yuna and Sohee. Conveniently they were both in the same room. Then I saw you enroute to Jo, knocked on his office. Nobody home. So I took it upon myself to find what he wasn’t there to tell me.” You sighed with a firm nod. “Who’s Nishi? Is it short for Nishimura? Or short for Nis—” You paused as something in your brain had clicked, the lights weren’t dim anymore.
“The Nishiyama syndicate that you were speaking of.” Humming in understanding finally as you leaned against the desk. “Is that it?”
Riki’s then blank expression shifted to a smile, not devilish. But kind, almost…proud despite the weird situation. “Yeah, that’s it.”
Somehow you felt small beneath his gaze, so your eyes shifted to the files and phone. “Are you gonna open the files?”
The raven-haired man sighed, leaning back into his chair. He was entirely too cavalier for your liking but you kept your lips glued. This was his world, not yours. At least not yet. “No.” He shook his head gently. “You’re gonna read them and tell me what you find.”
You blinked. “Okay,”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good.” Riki leaned up and handed you a new notepad and pen. “Don’t write on his stuff. I’m sure he knows they’re missing.”
“He does,” you took the items with both hands. “Is he going to hurt me if—”
“Over my dead fucking body.”
Your breath caught—not because you didn’t believe him, but because of how fast he said it. Like it wasn’t a question. Like the very thought of Jo trying anything had flipped a switch in Riki’s brain that only lived between rage and devotion.
You stared at him. “That’s dramatic.”
“I mean it,” he said, and this time there was no smugness, no teasing. Just that low, steady tone that made your spine straighten and your chest feel way too small. “He touches you, he dies.”
Laughing him off, you waved your hand. “Again, dramatic.”
“There’s nothing dramatic about it. I have no problem putting anybody six feet under if it’s about you. I’m telling you now, I will kill him. Myself, with my bare hands.” He nods calmly.
You nodded, lips pursed as this weird feeling of not believing him but absolutely believing him came over you. Now you aren’t stupid, there’s very few people in this life that have clean hands but since you never saw that side of Riki—it was hard to fully compute that. You were used to the version of him that bit you when he just found you cute. The one that whenever he ate french fries, he would put them in his mouth and act like he was a walrus. The part of him that whined whenever his food touched.
The Riki that kissed you like it was his first and last, everytime. When he made love to you it was passionate, like he cared. Savoring every part of your body and ravishing it like a starved man. And even though you’ve been together for as long as you have, he still makes you feel like you’re in high school. Both his and your inner child’s connect and that’s what makes every part of being with him so worth it.
Hearing him talk about putting someone in the dirt for hurting you didn’t scare you. At all, if anything a depraved part of you loved that he was so ready and willing to take care of you. But because he had kept you so far from this life—to the point where you never saw him right when he came home from work.
You only ever saw him after a shower when he got back. The house was big enough for him to avoid you and he didn’t want you to even see him in any other way aside from put-together or casual. He simply wants to keep your perception of him one way.
Now he’s at the point where he doesn’t need to get his hands dirty, but he’s not above it. He knows he’s not but he doesn’t want you to know that. Maybe because you’re pure, the only clean thing in this world and he wants to honor that sanctity.
Thus you nod with a tight-lipped smile. “Aye-aye captain,”
Riki nodded curtly, “Thank you, now sit.”
“Can I take this home with me—oh wait, no, the rule.” I sighed as I sat down on his couch.
He laughed, “Right, good, good. But…” He breezed past his desk to now sit beside you. “Why didn’t you tell me you loved me?” He leaned back against the back of the couch, crossing his arms as he peered at you with patient eyes.
You furrowed your brows, snorting at his ridiculousness. “I tell you that multiple times an hour, Riki. I just said it when I came in. What are you talking about?”
“Babe—sorry—” He covers his mouth, trying to muffle a smile at the minor slip-up.
You point at him, “Ah-ha! You broke your own rule, genius.” Laughing as you twirl the pen between your fingers.
Riki groaned dramatically, tipping his head back against the couch cushion like the weight of his love-induced hypocrisy had just crushed him. “God, I’m so weak,” he mumbled into the ceiling.
You giggled, nudging his leg with your knee. “You made a rule you couldn’t keep. Who does that?”
“A man in love,” he sighed, hand flopping over his heart. “A fool. A slave to your eyes and...whatever scented oil you’re wearing today. Beautiful gourmand.”
You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your past mistakes. “You suck so bad.”
He turned to look at you again, his playful expression softening slightly. “You didn’t say it earlier. In the texts. Well you did, but I just had to pull it out of you. Which is unusual because usually it happens easily. Like a nice, well-lubricated machine.”
You paused, the smile still on your lips but tinged now with something quieter. “I was annoyed.”
“I figured,” he said.
“And don’t use ‘well-lubricated’ like that ever again.” You laughed as you adjusted your position, kicking off your shoes just because you could. Placing your legs on his lap as he instinctively went to massaging your aching feet.
Riki laughed beneath his breath, “Mmm, how else should I use it then…?” He trails his hand up your calf.
“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence,” you said, pointing the pen at him like it doubled as a taser. “I’m in work mode now. No nasty metaphors.”
Riki smirked, thumb dragging slow circles into your ankle like he was trying to hypnotize you. “You sure? I’ve got a whole glossary. Synonyms. Imagery. PowerPoint, even.”
“PowerPoint?” You quirked a brow. “Wow. And here I thought this organization was low-tech.”
“We save the advanced tech for seduction,” he deadpanned.
You threw your head back in a laugh, letting your legs go slack against him. “You are so lucky you’re cute.”
“I know.” He smiled proudly, then leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your knee. “But seriously...I knew something was bothering you. I felt it.”
You nodded, brushing a bit of lint from your lap like it was your own way of smoothing down your thoughts. “I didn’t like the way Yuna talked about you. Like she knew you. Knows you. I know it’s stupid—”
“It’s not,” he cut in gently. “Whatever it is, it’s not.”
You looked at him. “I didn’t want to make it a thing while you’re working, but...she got under my skin.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing really,” You shook your head as confusion plagued your expression. “Like she was just throwing jabs at our marriage. Like—”
“Do you want her gone?”
“Wait–damn! Can I at least tell you what happened?” You put your hands out in panic.
Riki blinked, caught between his gut reaction and your clearly not-yet-finished train of thought. “Right. Sorry.” He held up his hands, leaning back slightly. “Continue. Full dramatic reenactment, if you will.”
You gave him a flat look. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here I am. Devoted. Foot-rubbing. Ready to commit crimes in your honor.”
You fought back a smile, exhaling sharply before continuing. “She just said some things. Made it sound like she knew you in a way I didn’t. Nothing direct, but it was all…in the way she said it. Like she was watching me, waiting to see if I’d flinch.”
Riki’s jaw ticked just slightly, and his hand stilled again on your leg. “What did she say exactly?”
“She joked about you being soft for me. About how it must be wild seeing you like that. And then she muttered something under her breath—‘definitely rubbing’—after I said you were rubbing off on me.” You rolled your eyes. “While it was funny,” you smiled as you reflected on the moment. “It was just the tone she took, it was petty.”
His voice had that eerie calm again—the kind that made you picture storms on the horizon. “And do you want her gone?”
You hesitated. “I don’t want to make you cut people loose just because they annoy me.”
“Not just anyone,” he said slowly. “Her. You disrespect my wife, you disrespect me. End of discussion.”
You sighed. “I just didn’t like feeling like I was being tested. Like I had to prove I was worthy to be here. That I deserved you.”
“No. You don’t need to prove shit to anyone. She works for you, baby. Not the other way around.” He scoffs in irritation, not at you. Just at the situation.
“You think she wants you or something?”
Riki rolls his eyes, “Please,” he waves off.
“No, I’m being serious.”
He furrowed his brows, “That has nothing to do with me, I chose you. I love you. Yuna is just…Yuna.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, folding your arms across your chest as your legs stayed propped on his lap. “That is the vaguest, most non-answer answer I’ve ever heard.”
Riki groaned, tilting his head back like the ceiling was somehow responsible for your suspicion. “Baby, come on. You want me to what—spell out that she probably has some weird little crush from back in the day? Okay. Maybe. Possibly. Who wouldn’t? But that doesn’t matter. I don’t want her.”
You blinked, lips parting just slightly. “Weird little crush from back in the day?”
He froze. Froze frozen. Like someone had just hit pause on his entire soul.
Then slowly—painfully slowly—he sat up straighter and scratched the back of his neck like a man about to give a deposition. “...I mean, like…a crush she invented in her head. You know how people do. Delulu culture. She’s a millennial. Or—whatever she is.”
You gave him the most unimpressed stare humanly possible. One that could suck the air out of a room if you held it long enough.
“You’ve been avoiding answering straight for two full minutes,” you said, your voice sharp but cool. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He let out a deep sigh, eyes flicking briefly to your legs across his lap—like grounding himself with you physically would make the words come easier.
“Nothing happened,” he finally said, slow and careful, like laying down a live wire. “She flirted. Years ago. Once. I didn’t flirt back. I shut it down. It didn’t become a thing because I didn’t let it become a thing. Plus by that point, I had just started seeing you.”
You stared, not blinking, not speaking. Just letting the silence stretch until it felt like your heartbeat was echoing off the floors.
“And now?” you asked at last, voice like velvet over a blade.
His gaze lifted to meet yours, firm and unwavering. “Now she’s someone on payroll who will never get that close again. You have my name, my ring, everything. And if I could give you more of me, I would. She’s noise. Vapor.”
The words settled in your chest like something warm and weighted. The kind of thing that wasn’t just sweet, but true. You didn’t nod. You didn’t smile. You just breathed—and it came easier after that.
“Good,” you murmured.
“Good,” he echoed, reaching up to squeeze your ankle gently.
Riki had never given you any sort of reason to doubt his loyalty to you. But something about Yuna just made you feel some sort of insecure. And that’s never a good feeling. “Okay, so back to work on these thingies.” You sighed as you grabbed all of your things, the files and notepad.
—
You settled deeper into the couch, the file balanced on your knees, pen in hand. Riki stayed quiet beside you, hands behind his head like he wasn’t five seconds away from snatching the folder and reading it himself. But this was your job now. He gave it to you. He trusted you. And trust in this world was rarer than sleep.
The first folder you opened was the one labeled:
“INCIDENT REPORT — LEAK”
Your eyes scanned the top page. Neat, efficient language. Jo’s writing was all business. But beneath that business tone… was tension. A lot of it.
Summary: On 05/23, it was confirmed that classified movement data regarding the Nishiyama holdings in the Shibuya district was compromised and intercepted by an unknown third party. The breach occurred between the hours of 03:00 and 05:00 JST.
Method of Leak: Evidence points to an internal device tap. Most likely wireless, planted within the logistics room (3rd floor).
Potential Suspect(s):
T. Nakamoto (denied access two weeks prior but showed up in building security logs 24 hours before the breach)
Sohee Lee (recent behavioral inconsistencies; requires further monitoring)
UNCONFIRMED: External syndicate involvement possible (see cross-file: “NISHI — CONFIDENTIAL”)
You sucked in a breath. “Sohee?” you said aloud, almost in disbelief.
Riki’s voice was low. “Keep going.”
You flipped to the second page—grainy black-and-white images from security footage. A figure moving at 4:12 AM through a hallway near the logistics room. Hood up. Face obscured. But the time stamp matched Jo’s report exactly.
You shook your head. “This is bad. Whoever this is knew where to go. No camera catch, no chatter, just straight infiltration. Like a ghost.”
Riki didn’t speak—his jaw was tight. He already knew this. He’d probably seen the footage himself.
You flipped to the next folder:
“NISHI — CONFIDENTIAL”
Your stomach clenched.
This one wasn’t a report. It was…a dossier.
A breakdown of an entire group.
The Nishiyama Syndicate. Or, as Riki had called them before—“Nishi.” A former rival organization that went dark years ago.
Overview: The Nishiyama Syndicate—presumed inactive by 2017—has begun resurfacing under new leadership. Not confirmed, but rumored to be operating under a splinter faction using legitimate business fronts. Possible laundering through offshore holdings (Monaco, Belize, Singapore).
Recent Activity:
Acquisition of real estate adjacent to Nishimura holdings.
Shadow-bidding on construction contracts connected to your family’s public-facing properties.
Unusual surveillance patterns noted around Nishimura residences.
Notable Names:
A. Nishiyama (deceased, patriarch)
M. Nishiyama (???) — identity redacted
“Subject N” — possible mole or double agent; suspected to have contact with active Nishimura staff. (PRIORITY)
You looked up at Riki. “This reads like they’re trying to move in. Slowly. Quietly.”
He nodded, lips pressed tight. “I think the breach might’ve come from a mole inside the building. Someone feeding info.”
Your pulse spiked. “Who do you think it is?”
He looked at you carefully. “I haven’t ruled anyone out. Neither has Jo. But everyone’s guilty until proven innocent.”
“It’s inno—”
He held his hand up, “I know what it is.”
You snorted as you looked back down at the file but then suddenly looked back to him. “Hey, did Jo call you at all today on one of the burners?”
He frowned in thought. “No, why?”
Your eyes widened in slight fear, feeling adrenaline pump through your veins. “His phone is on your desk.” Pointing to it with urgency. “He called someone earlier, letting them know the files were missing.”
You felt like the floor shifted under you.
Riki stood up and grabbed the phone, unlocking it as he sifted through it. “Go. Continue, let me do this.”
Then you flipped one last page in the NISHI folder—and your heart stopped.
REDACTED TARGET LIST [photo attached]
R. Nishimura (active)
“Okaasan” (active, unnamed spouse)
Status: Tracking active; no confirmed contact attempts. Maintain passive surveillance.
There was a picture.
Of you.
A candid photo. Leaving your favorite coffee shop. Hair in a bun. Not even looking at the camera.
They knew who you were.
They were watching.
“Oh my fucking…” You whispered as your hands started to shake.
Riki didn’t look up—yet. He was still going through the burner phone, locked in, muttering something under his breath. But the second your voice cracked, just the edge of that whisper, he froze.
Your hands were trembling around the paper, your breath shallow as if the photo alone had stolen the oxygen from your lungs. “They’re watching me, Riki,” you said quietly. “They know. They know who I am.”
That’s when he looked up.
His gaze flicked to your face first—then to the folder in your lap. You didn’t even have to show him. He crossed the room in three strides, dropped the phone without care, and snatched the folder from your lap with steady hands but a murderous edge in his jaw.
He saw it. The image. The note. The label: “Okaasan – Active, unnamed spouse.”
Your face. Your fucking face. On a watch list.
Riki’s breathing changed.
Not heavy. Not loud.
But measured. Controlled. The kind of breathing someone does right before they explode.
“No contact attempts,” he read aloud, barely above a whisper. “Passive surveillance. Maintain.” His jaw flexed once. Twice. “That means they’ve been watching. But not enough to tip me off. Or you.”
You still couldn’t speak. Your mind was spiraling, thinking back—every time you thought someone was staring at you too long in the coffee shop. Every car that took a little too long to pull away. The time your key fob didn’t register on the first try and you swore you saw someone standing at the edge of the parking lot.
You knew. Felt it more than anything.
Riki stepped back, slowly. “You’re done,” he said, coldly.
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re done with this.” He gestured to the papers—everything. “I don’t want you involved anymore.”
“No—Riki—”
“I said you’re done.”
His voice wasn’t raised, but it was final.
You stood, breath catching again—not out of fear this time, but out of frustration. “You can’t just—”
“I can, and I will.” He looked at you, eyes flashing with something deeper than anger. “They put you on a list. A list with my name. They put a target on your back for being married to me.”
“You said you’d pull me out if I couldn’t handle it. I can and—”
“No. You said that,” he bit out. “Thank you so much for your interpretation of how you think this works. But I’m telling you now, sweetheart. You’re finished.”
You stared at him, chest rising and falling rapidly. “So what, you’re just gonna hide me away like a secret? Lock me in the house?”
“If I have to,” he said without hesitation. “I’d rather you hate me than end up in a morgue. You think I give a fuck about being the bad guy in your story if it keeps you alive?”
And for the first time, you realized—he wasn’t just angry.
He was scared.
Riki Nishimura, the man who ran empires with a flick of his fingers, the one who made people disappear without batting an eye—was looking at you like he had already lost you. Like he was trying to stop the bleeding before the wound even opened.
And you didn’t know whether to fight him or fall apart.
—
Within the next hour, Riki sent you home.
No yelling. No begging. No stomping down the hallway with your shoes in hand like you wanted to. Just a tight-lipped goodbye, a long look that said please don’t fight me on this, and the subtle pressure of his hand on the small of your back as he walked you to the elevator. Kissing your cheeks and temple as he guided you.
“I’ll be home later, I love you.” he said, eyes fixed on the elevator door as it closed, locking you in. Locking you out.
You didn’t say anything. You just nodded, chewing the inside of your cheek like it’d keep your heart from leaping up and making a scene.
And now here you are.
In the house. Your house. His too. That same massive, almost-too-silent house where the floors were spotless, the air always smelled faintly of clean linen and sandalwood, and the fridge was somehow always stocked but never truly full.
You hadn’t even changed clothes. You hadn’t moved much. Just sat on the edge of the bed for a while, fingers interlaced, something so mundane like Riki’s silver watch still on the nightstand like it might grow teeth.
Because it could’ve been anyone.
Anyone watching you. Anyone taking that photo.
You didn’t even realize you’d started crying until you saw the wet spot on your blouse. And then more tears followed—not because you were scared. But because he had known. About the business. The threats. The danger.
And he kept you out of it. You were so proud. Marching into lounges. Reading body language. Toying with people like you were ten steps ahead. But the whole time, you were in a different game.
A different arena.
You weren’t playing chess. You were the queen piece. And someone had started planning your checkmate.
You wiped your face and reached for your phone.
Nothing from Riki yet. Of course. He needed time. To clean up. To cover tracks. To burn things down.
You opened your texts anyway. Clicked on the chat.
thorn in my side: i’m home
i love you, baby
Message delivered. No reply yet.
You stared at the phone until the screen went dark.
And for the first time in a long time, the silence in your house didn’t feel safe. It felt like someone else might be listening too.
—
Riki came home and the house was equally as silent.
He’d come home to a quiet home almost everyday, nothing new. Most times you were in the bath, in the living room buried in a book, or on a good day—you’d already be in bed.
And by this time, he’d shower before he came to greet you but the weird thing about being with someone for so long—you feel them everywhere. Your warmth, your mood, he feels it all.
But this time he felt nothing.
Immediately his mood dampened, the intuition that he had relied on so heavily over the last twenty-four years of his life already letting him know something was amiss. “Baby?” He called out as he slipped his shoes off.
No response.
He smacked his teeth, “My goodness, I shouldn’t have gotten her those fucking headphones.”
He placed his jacket on the coat rack and skimmed the area. Your keys were by the door, as usual. The sweater you wore today, okay fine. Your Mary Janes—your favorite shoes that he always tripped over and threatened to throw away. Huh.
Again, that strange nagging feeling in Riki just never went away.
He padded over to the kitchen, seeing dinner spread out on the table. Wrapped up and ready for yours and Riki’s consumption, there was a serving taken out of it which meant you ate something. Good.
But you weren’t in the kitchen. And you weren’t in the living room.
The staff not being around makes sense, he sent them home for the day. Clara wanted to spend time with her son so who was he to tell her no?
And now, the fucking office that he had built with his own hands—empty.
This house was huge, humongous—but there would’ve been some way you heard him already.
He called your name firmly. Riki never says your name, that’s like the rule. Still, no response. He calls your phone because knowing you—it’s never too far. Straight to voicemail.
“What the fuck.” Riki Nishimura doesn’t panic—but something cold and venomous slithered up his spine as he stood in the middle of that pristine kitchen as he now made his way back there, fists clenched, jaw ticking.
And then.
Then he saw the note.
Sitting prettily on the marble counter—in a little nook. Surprised he had missed it before.
Simple. Clean. In all capital letters.
YOU WANTED HER OUT. SO WE TOOK HER OUT.
And on the back of the note was a photo of you. Gagged, tearful eyes, messy hair, scratched face. You had put up a fight that was for sure, it wouldn’t be you if you didn’t.
The marble counter shattered first.
He slammed his fists down, hard enough to crack the stone. The note crumpled beneath him as he shouted, loud and hoarse, like it had been ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.
“FUCK!”
Everything after that was instinct. A storm. A full-blown implosion. He threw the nearest chair across the room. It smashed into the wall with a satisfying crack, splintering on impact. Plates followed next, flying off the table with a feral sweep of his arm. Food hit the cabinets, the fridge, the floor. A glass shattered under his heel. He didn’t even flinch.
“I told her to go home!” he roared. “I sent her home!”
His eyes were wild. Drenched in something between fear and fury. The kind of look no one ever saw and lived to describe.
He yanked open drawers. Punched the fridge. Tore the cabinet door clean off the hinge and hurled it across the room. A vase hit the floor and shattered—porcelain flowers slicing across the floor like confetti made of rage.
And then—his voice broke.
“Fuck—fuck, fuck—”
He grabbed the sink with both hands, chest heaving, eyes squeezing shut like maybe, if he tried hard enough, this would all vanish. That the note would disappear. That you’d walk out from your office and ask what the hell happened to the dining room.
But all he heard was silence. All he felt was the absence of you. The kind of stillness that only existed in grief.
He sank to the floor—only for a second—hands gripping his hair. And then the door creaked open.
Clara opened the door with glee, bags from the nearest arts and crafts store. “Riki—?”
She froze in place.
The kitchen looked like a warzone. Dinner ruined. Furniture destroyed. Her boss—on the floor, shaking, breathing like a wild animal trying to hold in a scream.
She didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t have to.
Because then she saw the note.
The note.
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my goodness.”
Riki slowly stood. There was a line of blood down his knuckles—he hadn’t even noticed. His breathing was low now. Tighter. Like someone was holding his lungs closed.
He didn’t look at her as he spoke.
“Tell everyone to get on the line. Now. I want every runner, every affiliate, every fucking rat with ears in this city looking.”
Clara nodded, frozen.
“If she’s not found by midnight—” He turned to her. Eyes glassy. Voice cold. As he stepped beside her, venom in his eyes as he looked down at her with nothing but truth in his eyes.
“—Everybody’s fucking dying, Clara. You included.”
Clara didn’t say a word. Just nodded, pale as a ghost, and scrambled to grab her phone. Riki didn’t even watch her leave. He turned on his heel and stormed toward his office, blood trailing faintly from his knuckles and dotting the floor like red ink.
He slammed the office door behind him so hard the glass panel trembled.
Without hesitation, he slammed the heel of his palm down on the black switch embedded into the side of his desk—an unmarked button that immediately turned the room red. Not metaphorically. The lights literally shifted into emergency mode, casting the entire office in a crimson hue. The kind of red that let every handler in his operation know: This is DEFCON 1. Life or death. Burn everything if you have to.His jaw clenched so tight you could hear the creak in his teeth. Then he yanked open the bottom drawer, reaching for the sleek matte tablet hidden beneath a stack of decoy files. With a swipe and a facial scan, he opened a security interface. His fingers flew across the screen.
“Tracker,” he muttered under his breath. “C’mon, c’mon…” He clicked into a discreet sub-menu, one labeled ‘PRIVATE ACCESS – VELOMY.’ The screen lit up, pulling a location from a hidden signal.
Riki’s chest stopped moving for a full beat. The blinking dot that represented you was there—active.
“You’re still wearing the ring,” he whispered to himself. A dark smirk twisted his lips, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “You stubborn little thing…”
That ring. The one he gave you at the altar when he promised to you, his family, and yours that he would love you during your highs and lows. The ring that tethered you to him forever.
He put a chip in it. Just to be straightforward.
Riki’s paranoia ran so deep that it became difficult for him not to. And funnily enough, he remembers he didn’t tell you that it was in there until your honeymoon.
You both were lounging on your private beach in front of the newly bought property in the Maldives. Sun setting, breeze flowing through your hair as you both laid on your stomachs. Simply gut-laughing at any and everything, everything was funny at this moment. You’re newlyweds.Riki smiles as he plays with the ends of your hair, twirling the end of a braid. “You know,” he glances down at your left hand. “I’ll be able to find you anywhere now.” His smile settles into something soft, something more than just teasing. “What do you mean?” You tilt your head in confusion. The sun hitting your face at the perfect angle.
He brought your hand to his lips, kissing the ring. “I put a little locator in your ring.” Riki’s heart raced, using your conjoined hands to cover his mouth as he nervously awaited your reaction. “See? You can’t even tell.” You brought your hand back to inspect the enormous rock and he’s right. You really can’t tell. And you weren’t going to ask why he put it there because you knew why. Again, you knew who you married. Plus you didn’t even have the energy to be mad at him right now. You couldn’t be mad after you just swore to forever with your best friend.
“Okay, but I still need privacy, Riki. I don’t just want to be a—”
He shook his head, “No, no, no. It’s not even activated. I just…in the event that something would happen to you—hopefully that’s never—but it gives me peace of mind that I can always find you, baby.” Riki smiled gently as he carefully caressed your cheek. “Only I can activate it. It just tells me where you’re positioned but it only works if you…” His chest caves slightly as his words tremble at the thought.
“If what?” You placed your hand on his shoulder, holding yourself up on your other arm.
“It only works if you have a pulse.”
“What if I take it off?”
Riki laughs.“You wouldn’t though, and I know you wouldn’t. There’s nothing you do that warrants taking it off.” He shrugs as he lays on his back and pulls you on top of him swiftly.
You yelp at his almost reflexive motion, putting your hands on his chest to stabilize yourself. “You’re right. But it’s not like someone’s gonna want to snatch me up at the grocery store or something.”
Riki had laughed with you then.
Really laughed—head tilted back, his arms wrapping tight around your waist as if just the idea of losing you was so ridiculous, so farfetched it barely warranted a real thought.
But now?
Now that blinking dot on his screen was the only thing keeping him from collapsing into the marble floor of his office.
His hand hovered over the location map, the tracker still active. Still moving.
You were alive.
That was the only thing keeping the wrath at bay—barely. Because while the dot pulsed, it wasn’t close. It was on the far edge of the city, in one of the zones they rarely used. Industrial. Warehouses. A part of town they had all but erased from operations.
Which meant someone wanted you hidden. Not hurt. Not yet.
Still…the bloodlust was roaring now. In all of his life, he had never felt such an insatiable, primal urge to kill like he did now. It was truly like the spirit of the devil ran through his veins and possessed him. That thirst wasn’t going to be quenched until you were back in his arms.
Riki stood from his desk, shoving his chair so hard it crashed against the wall. He pressed the emergency button again—just in case. Red lights flashed once in the corner of the ceiling.
His hands moved on autopilot, grabbing his bulletproof vest to put on over his compression shirt, his sidearm, his second piece, and the long black blade he hadn’t used in years. The blade that had started it all. The blade they said made him infamous. The one he swore he’d never need again.
He strapped it to his back. Along with one of the embossed Kaminari guns.
Grabbed the note again from the kitchen and stuffed it in his pocket—not because he needed it, but because he wanted to burn it on whoever sent it. By now, Clara had rallied his top men. Jake was on standby, speaking through the comms with a strained voice—he had been yelling at people relentlessly within the last twenty minutes.
Riki didn’t even look at the others in the room as he walked toward the front entrance, eyes locked on the car waiting just outside.
He paused only once.
To grab a bottle of your favorite perfume.
He sprayed it twice across his collarbone, once across his wrist. Something grounding. Something to carry you with him while he burned everything else down.
As soon as he stepped outside, he made contact with the two security guards meant to get you back here. They stood at the base of the steps—nervous, unsure if they should speak first. Their eyes flicked from the tension in Riki’s jaw to the fine mist of blood still drying across his knuckles.
He didn’t blink as he approached them. “You were supposed to bring her home and ensure she was safe. I gave explicit instructions.” His voice was eerily calm, but it buzzed like a live wire underneath.
“We—we did, sir,” one of them stammered. “She went inside. We locked the door right behind her—”
“I don’t give a fuck what you did!” Riki stepped forward, face to face with the buff man that cowered in the face of his lean figure. “My wife is not in my fucking bedroom because you failed to do your job.” He leaned in now, nose hardly touching his—his cologne and your perfume clashing between their senses.
The other guard interjected, “Sir—”
Before he could utter another word, Riki placed the barrel to his forehead. Squeezing the trigger and letting a metal bullet ripple right through his brain. Watching his body fall to the ground with a thud.
The echo of the gunshot rang out like a death bell across the courtyard. Riki didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. His jaw tightened as he watched the second guard freeze, paralyzed by fear and disbelief. A splatter of red stained the granite steps, and he finally looked down—then calmly wiped the barrel of the gun with the hem of his shirt. No one moved. Not even the wind dared.
“Let this be the part where you realize,” he said slowly, eyes locked on the remaining guard, “that I don’t make idle threats. I don’t give second chances. And I don’t tolerate incompetence.” The man nodded furiously, hands trembling at his sides.
“Good. Now get your shit together and get in the fucking car. If she loses a single hair on her head, I’m putting a bullet in your mouth. Understand me?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
Riki exhaled sharply through his nose, holstering his weapon. His knuckles were cracked and bleeding again from how tightly he’d gripped it. It didn’t matter. He turned back toward the house and grabbed your scent once more—letting it wrap around him like armor. The tension in his shoulders didn’t loosen; it hardened. Sharpened. Weaponized.
He climbed into the car.
Clara’s voice came through the comms again: “Riki. We’ve found the tunnel entrance. Sealed off, looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. But the tracker’s pinging beneath it.”
His fingers tapped against his thigh—once, twice—before he answered. “Good. Blow it open.”
“Already on it.”
Riki leaned his head back, eyes half-lidded. “And tell someone—I don’t care who it is—to get rid of what’s-his-name from in front of our door. I don’t want her seeing that when she gets back.”
—
The floor was frigid as ever. To which you didn’t understand, it was springtime. But Earth’s crust wasn’t something you took time to worry about.
The left side of your head was throbbing and you were barefoot. Only your white nail polish is visible in this dark room. Your arms were bound to some wooden chair with…you jostled in the chair as best you could. Zip ties. Of course they were zip ties. Your feet too but your mouth wasn’t covered, big mistake on their end.
You smelt of debris, cinders, and a bit of blood. But none of that mattered, you had to get the fuck out of here despite you not being able to see shit. Before you could concoct some sort of plan, the lights were turned on. Stinging your eyes as your pupils had to adjust to the new sensation.
“Oh, babygirl. Are you okay? I know it’s been a long day.”
That voice. Sweet. Familiar. The kind that once called you baby while handing you fresh towels. The one that scolded Riki for forgetting to eat. The one you trusted.
Your blood ran like ice.
“Clara?!”
It didn’t compute at first. Your brain tried to reroute it, convince you that maybe she’d been kidnapped too. Maybe she was checking on you. But then you saw her. Heels clicking across the concrete. Calm. Clean. Untouched.
Her hair was neatly pinned up, her blouse spotless, not a wrinkle in sight. She looked like she just came from brunch—not your kidnapping.
You blinked. “Clara?” you croaked. “What the hell—”
“Shhh.” She crouched down in front of you, cupping your chin like a parent checking a child for fever. “You poor thing. That gash on the head looks awful.”
You were too stunned to move but you quickly snapped out of it and jerked your head out of her grasp. “The fuck is this?”
The older lady stood up straight, towering over your torn figure. “This is retribution,” she gestured around the shithole bunker you were in.
You stared up at her, heart pounding so loud it nearly drowned out her words. “Retribution?” you echoed, like your brain was lagging ten seconds behind. “Clara, are you out of your fucking mind?”
She chuckled softly. Not like a villain. Like a teacher. Like a mother. Like someone who believed she had the moral high ground. “Don’t worry, your knight in shining armor is on his way here. Right to where you’re sitting. I can’t wait to inform him of his wonderful test results.”
Clara’s voice lilted like she was presenting a prize at a company banquet—like this wasn’t some underground dungeon and you weren’t zip-tied like a prop in a cautionary tale.
You scoffed, full of disbelief and blood in your mouth. “You’re sick.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said with mock sympathy, “you’re not the first girl who thought she was special.”
She circled you slowly now, her heels echoing through the cold, damp space.
“You think I didn’t know about the tracker in your ring? You think I didn’t let him find you? This is about control, baby. Not chaos. I want him to come. I need him to.”
You snickered, “Yeah well, I like it when he does.” If nothing else, you were great at pissing people off.
Clara paused mid-step.
And then she laughed. But not in amusement—in disbelief. A short, sharp sound, like a knife testing the surface before a deeper plunge.
“You’re really going to joke?” she said, turning toward you slowly. “Tied up like a pig in a butcher’s shop, and you’re making sex jokes. You really think you matter that much?”
You leaned forward as far as the zip ties would allow, blood crusting against your temple and your vision still swimming slightly. But your smirk was solid as a rock.
“He’s killed for less, Clara.”
Her nostrils flared, but she kept her composure. Barely. There was a twitch in her jaw now. You’d landed a hit.
“He loved me first,” she hissed. “He respected me. I built him. I made him.”
“No,” you said calmly, with that lethal kind of clarity only someone truly protected by love can wield. “You trained him. I made him human.”
For a beat, the only sound was the hum of the overhead lights and the crackle of Clara’s rage simmering just below her ribcage.
Then she smiled, too wide.
“Let’s see how human he stays when he finds your body,” she said sweetly, almost like she was offering a bedtime story. But you didn’t flinch. You nodded for her to come closer. Closer. Now your nose was nearing hers. “I fucking dare you to touch me.”
Two of her personal goons come in behind her, standing on either side of the door Riki was due to come in through. Clara’s eyes flickered to the guards like a general surveying her troops—calm, collected, but every muscle ready to snap. She stepped back, smirking like she’d already won some invisible game.
“You’re bold, I’ll give you that,” she said, voice silky but dripping with menace. “But this is my battlefield.”
The two goons cracked their knuckles, eyes cold and hungry, shadows stretching long across the concrete floor. The tension in the room thickened like fog, suffocating and heavy. You kept your breath steady, every nerve screaming fight or flight—but you knew better. The fight wasn’t here. It was coming. And it was coming fast. Outside the heavy steel door, you could almost feel the air shift—the calm before a storm that would shake foundations and burn everything to ash.
Clara glanced toward the door, lips curling.“Tick tock, babe.”
The door exploded inward, steel shrieking on its hinges as Riki stormed through like a bullet—rage crackling in his bones like wildfire.
His eyes locked on you instantly, wide with fury and fear, scanning your face for injury. “Baby—”
“Riki, watch out!” you screamed, voice cracking.
But it was too late.
One goon came at him from the left, the other from behind. Riki ducked, twisted, managed to land a vicious punch to the first one’s jaw—crack—but the second was already swinging with a steel baton, catching him in the ribs with a sickening thud. Riki stumbled, grunting through clenched teeth, his fury barely contained.
He went for the blade tucked in his boot—only for a third man, hidden just outside the door, to grab his arm and twist it savagely behind his back. Another punch came flying, this one straight to his jaw. The force knocked him to the floor.
You cried out, struggling against your bindings, your wrists screaming in protest.
Clara watched it all unfold with the elegance of a queen watching gladiators bleed for sport. “Tsk. You boys and your dramatics.”
“Don’t fucking touch him!” you yelled.
They did anyway. Stripping him of every weapon on him—blades, a small pistol, even the tracker cuff on his wrist. Riki didn’t stop fighting, even as they dragged him up and slammed him into the chair beside you. Blood was already trickling down the corner of his mouth, but his glare was wildfire—aimed directly at Clara.
One of the goons zip-tied his hands to the arms of the chair with force, tightening them until his skin burned red.
“I should kill you right now,” Riki growled through grit teeth, eyes trained on Clara like a blade.
She approached slowly, as if savoring his fury. “You’re not in a position to make threats, Riki.”
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” he snapped. “Touch her again and I swear to God—”
Clara only smiled sweetly. “Swear all you want, son. You’re both right where I want you.”
You turned to look at Riki, both of you battered, bound, but alive.
And somewhere beneath the weight of adrenaline and bruises, your fingers brushed the edge of his chair.
Even now—your pinky searching for his.
He found yours. Linked it. Tight.
You were still here. And so was he.
Clara sent the men out with a wave of her hand as she pulled up a chair to sit down and face the both of you. After a few moments of silence between both of you, she finally spoke. “Wow, fine couple.”
“Bitch, shut the fuck up.” You spat out, rolling your eyes. “What are we doing here? What do you want? More money? We got that. Status, you have it. What more do you want?!”
The older woman smiled at your state. “I want Riki.”
You turned to Riki, who was so far removed from any place you’ve seen him. Your husband was right next to you but the troubled, anxious boy that he’s done such a good job at hiding was making an appearance. But you didn’t know which version of it was.
He bounced his knee up and down with extreme fervor, so fast that you had hardly even seen it moving. Hunched over, the top of his head facing Clara as he shook his head with his eyes glued shut. Lap dampening as what you could only perceive as angry tears misted his eyes and relentless, incessant thoughts bombarded his brain. Riki’s breath was shallow as ever and you could only hear him mutter threats that stemmed from that same fury. More to himself than anyone in the room.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you.”
“You’re dead.”
“You fucking—”
“I swear on everything I love, I’m putting you in the fucking dirt.”
His voice cracked beneath the gravel, barely audible through the grind of his teeth. Every muscle in his arms strained against the zip ties, his body trembling like he was trying to hold back an earthquake. The air in the room grew thick, like the moment before a downpour—or an execution.
You watched him, heart breaking and raging all at once. You’d never seen Riki like this. Not even close. The man beside you wasn’t your husband—not the one who made silly faces behind menus or kissed your shoulder every time he passed you in the kitchen.
This was the version buried deep inside. The one he kept scrubbed clean and locked behind five layers of steel. The version built from years of betrayal and bloodshed. The boy no one ever loved right.
And Clara had dragged him out.
“I want Riki,” she repeated calmly, as if she were choosing an entrée off a menu. “Not the man you married. Not this polished little husband of yours. I want the real him. The one I raised. The one who knows how to destroy.”
“You didn’t raise him,” you snapped. “You groomed him.”
Her lips curled into a faint smile. “Tomato, tomahto.”
“Let her go,” Riki muttered, voice low and vibrating with rage. “Let her go, and I’ll give you what you want.”
You turned your head so fast it nearly gave you whiplash. “Riki—”
He still wouldn’t look at either of you. His shoulders trembled, breaths sharp and quick.
“Just let her go,” he said again, louder this time. “This isn’t her world. She doesn’t belong in it.”
Clara leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “Oh, honey. She entered this world the moment you put that ring on her finger. And now she’s in it until the end.”
Then she leaned forward slightly, that same maternal voice dripping venom: “Tell me, Riki…do you think your daddy would be proud of the little house pet you’ve become?”
That did it.
The room cracked open.
Riki lifted his head—slowly, deliberately—and his eyes found Clara’s with a fire that could level nations.
And for the first time since you met him, you were afraid of your husband.
You interjected quickly, “Seriously. Why are you doing this?”
Riki glanced at you with calmness behind his eyes momentarily, but something about hearing Clara’s voice sent the wrath of the scorned through him.
“I want my son back.” She hummed as she folded her hands on her lap.
Your brows furrowed, “He’s not your fucking son.”
Clara’s lips curled into a slow, venomous smile, like she was savoring every drop of poison she was about to pour.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she began, voice dripping with sickly sweetness, “you’ve been living a lie your entire life.”
She stood and paced slowly, every step echoing like a death knell in the cold room. “The woman you thought was your mother? The one who died when you were two? She was nothing but a convenient story.”
Your eyes locked on Riki’s, watching his jaw tighten, his entire body tense like a coiled spring.
Clara stopped just inches from him, voice low and deadly. “I am your mother. Your father’s mistress—the other woman. The one he never wanted you to know about.”
Riki’s fists clenched so tight the veins in his forearms pulsed visibly. “That’s a goddamn lie.”
“Is it?” Clara’s laugh was cold and bitter. “You want the truth? You’re my son, Riki.” She fished in her skirt pocket for a photo of her holding baby Riki as she had just delivered him.
You swallowed hard, staring at the photo like it was some kind of sick puzzle piece finally clicking into place. The baby in Clara’s arms had the same sharp eyes and yes—the unmistakable mole just below his lips. “I was able to hold you for fifteen minutes before you were taken from me, son.”
His eyes screwed shut, “I’m not your son! I’m your child. I am not your fucking son! Oh my go—baby you better say something before I—”
“What happened after? Why was Riki taken from you?” You chimed in, in an effort to calm your seething man.
“Because, I was the mistress. In love with your father, wanted a future with him. But he was married. And…”
Clara’s voice cracked just a little, the only crack in her otherwise steel mask.
“He made me promise to keep quiet, to stay in the shadows. But when my pregnancy came to light, everything exploded. The wife…she found out.” Her eyes darkened, haunted. “She made sure I lost you—took you away before I could even hold you properly again.”
The more you looked at her, the more Riki favored her. The same mole, the same unwavering determination in their eyes. The eyes that can be kind when they want to be. “It was either I disappear from your life completely or I stick around as the help and swear to secrecy. And I couldn’t lose you again, Riki. Do you know how much it hurt me to see you call someone else ‘mama’ for the first two years of your life?”
“I don’t give a fuck what hurts! It hurts that you had three big ass men jump me. It especially hurt that you had my wife taken from the safety of my fucking house—that I pay for you to live at—and lay a finger on her when you know how much she’s relied on you.”
Clara’s eyes glazed over, “But you did too. I was like a mom. You came to me all the time, I was your Claraboo. Remember?” She shrugged as she resigned, tears in her eyes.
“When Fumiko died, I thought it was a blessing in disguise.” She stood up. “But then you found her!” She gestured to you with unadulterated disgust. “Saying how great she was, wanting advice on how to dress for dates. So I thought, ‘Okay, this is his first time really taking someone seriously, it’s fleeting. No big deal.’ But then she started coming around. Family dinners, game nights. Then it became her spending the day, then sleepovers, then hearing you two go at it like rabbits when you thought no one could hear you. Fucking disgusting.” She snarled.
You looked at Riki from the corner of your eye, as did he. Both of you purse your lips to refrain from laughter during this serious moment. Lives are at stake here.
“Then, you got on one knee, Riki. At twenty-three, just throwing your best years away for one girl. And I kept thinking, ‘why does my son keep being taken from me? Why, why, fucking why?!” She grabbed one Riki’s pistol from a nearby table and whipped you with it.
The crack of metal against your cheekbone rang out louder than your gasp. Your head whipped to the side, pain blooming instantly along your jaw, your vision fracturing for a second. But you didn’t scream. You didn’t give her that.
Riki did.
“NO!” His chair thrashed violently beneath him, muscles flexing so hard the wood creaked. “Don’t you fucking touch her! Clara, I will fucking gut you—DO YOU HEAR ME?!” His voice cracked with fury, something animalistic and unhinged bubbling up from his core.
You spat blood, your lip split open now, and still you turned to Clara and hissed, “You’re not a mother. You’re just some bitter bitch who couldn’t let go.”
Clara’s hand trembled around the gun as she stepped back, her mask cracking further. “I raised him. I wiped his tears. I was the only one who gave a damn when he cried himself to sleep when his dad would be too hard on him. And you? You think your soft little hands and pretty smile can compare to that?”
Riki had stopped shaking. Now he was still—dangerously still. “You’re right,” he muttered. “You did raise me. Which is exactly why I know how to destroy you.”
Clara froze.
“You forget who you trained, Clara,” he said lowly. “You made me this way. You taught me how to survive. How to outsmart. How to kill.” And then he smiled. Sharp. Unforgiving. Blood drying on his lip.
“So congratulations,” Riki growled. “You just signed your own fucking death certificate. Maybe I really am your son.”
Clara blinked, eyes glassy. The gun trembled again in her hand. And then she raised it. But it wasn’t pointed at you.
It was aimed at herself.
You froze. So did Riki.
Clara’s finger hovered over the trigger, her eyes blank. “If I can’t have you,” she said softly, voice almost childlike, “then nobody will. Not her. Not the world. Not even you.”
“No.” Your voice dropped, pleading “Put the gun down.”
Riki sighed, looking down and mumbling to himself. “Damn bitch let me do the shit myself at least.” Rolling his eyes, knowing only you heard him and you refused to laugh at this moment.
You clenched your jaw to keep the smile from betraying you, even as the absurdity of Riki’s comment floated in the air like a cracked window letting in too much cold.
Clara’s hands trembled now. The gun shook between her fingers, and though it was aimed at her own temple, the tension in the room wrapped around all three of you like barbed wire.
“You think this is funny?” Clara snapped, eyes darting between you and Riki. “I’m baring my soul, and you’re making jokes?”
“Clara,” you said gently, the steel in your voice only thinly veiled by the concern beneath. “This isn’t the answer.”
“I gave up everything,” she whispered. “Everything. For him. For a son who looks at me like I’m a stranger—like I’m some monster.”
“You are some monster,” Riki muttered under his breath again, then louder, “but we don’t need a whole song and dance about it. Just...step away from the trigger, Broadway.”
You shot him a look this time. “Riki, please.”
Clara’s expression fractured—like a mirror that had been held together too long by spite alone. “I could’ve been someone,” she whispered, lip trembling. “I could’ve had a life with your father. With you. But I was the side note. The servant. Claraboo. Never mom.” Her voice broke. “You don’t understand what it’s like to watch someone else raise your baby. To be called help by the child you gave birth to.”
Silence. Then—
“I’m sorry,” Riki said quietly.
Clara froze.
“I’m sorry you went through that,” he continued, gaze steady. “I’m sorry you didn’t get the life you wanted. I’m sorry no one protected you when you needed it most. But this—” he nodded toward the gun, “—isn’t gonna bring any of that back.”
You took a breath. “Please,” you added. “Don’t make us leave here with another scar.”
You heard a low snap from your left where Riki was sitting, your eyes flitted that way. He had made free of the ties. Then, with every ounce of strength in his legs, jutted his calves out to free his legs. He slowly rose to his full height.
Clara’s sobs only intensified, shaking as her eyes squeezed shut and pumped out tears. Her breathing shallow as she trembled, hardly able to even line the barrel up with her chin anymore. She pointed the gun at him mindlessly.
Riki slowly edged to her, “Clara…please.” He nodded, “give it to me. I have a vest on, and I’m not going to let you do something you’ll regret.” His voice was low, steady—like a lifeline in the dark. Clara’s trembling hands faltered, the gun wobbled, and then, with a choked sob, she dropped it. The metallic clatter echoed in the cold room as it hit the floor.
You exhaled, relief crashing over you like a wave.
Riki quickly swooped up the gun as Clara plopped down on the chair in complete dejection. She looked up at her son, “are you going to kill me?”
He sighed, “I am,” he nodded with another smile he tried to smother.
She huffed out a laugh despite her tears and mucus, because if she taught Riki anything—it was that sometimes, survival meant knowing when to play the long game.
“Not today, son,” she whispered, voice raw but steady. “You’re smarter than me. You’ll make sure I pay in ways that cut deeper than a bullet ever could.”
Riki’s eyes flickered—half respect, half warning. “I’ll make sure you regret every breath you take until then.”
She nodded, somehow at peace with her fate. “Plus, if it makes you feel better—there was no real leak. I just used Yuna, Jo, and Sohee as pawns. Just distractions when I knew that Ms. Prada—” She nodded to you.
“Chanel.” You and Riki corrected simultaneously.
“...Whatever. But I knew that she was itching to get involved, I made you hyper aware of a leak. When there wasn’t anything to find. A perfect smokescreen to send you chasing ghosts while I set the real trap.”
“So how does that explain their weird behavior?” You leaned forward despite your restraints.
The older woman shrugs, “Sometimes people tell on themselves. But I did tell Jo to keep it from you. Said that you had other obligations and that if anyone got in the way you’d deal with them.”
Riki frowned, “Oh that pisses me off,” he pointed the gun lower and shot her kneecap. Eliciting a blood-curdling scream from the elder.
“Riki!” You yell, eyes wide as he just looks at you with humor in his eyes. “What’s wrong with you?!”
He waves you off, “Sorry,” he holsters his gun as he comes up behind you to free you. In oh-so-convenient timing, here comes Riki’s men down the bunker and into the room
The heavy metal door groaned open, and a squad of Riki’s men flooded in, their faces grim but ready. Flashlights cut through the dimness, illuminating the mess Clara had made trying to stall for time.
Riki didn’t waste a second—he tugged sharply at the zip ties binding your wrists, his hands steady but fierce. “You okay?” His voice was low, but laced with raw urgency.
You nodded, heart still hammering, eyes locked on Clara who was now clutching her injured knee, glaring daggers despite the pain. “Where were they?”
“The perimeter, you really thought I came solo?” He snickered, “I’m impulsive, not stupid.”
Riki’s men quickly secured the perimeter, eyes scanning every shadow. One of them whispered into a radio, “Target secured. Extraction ready.”
Riki glanced back at you, his expression softening just a fraction. “You’re safe now. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
You exhaled, relief flooding through you even as adrenaline kept you wired. Riki called out to all of them in the room as well as on the walkie-talkie he grabbed from one of the men. “Kobun! Clean up the mess. No loose ends. Take the old lady to the infirmary—alive. She’s got answers we’ll need later.”
He turned to you, voice low and steady, “You did good. Too good.” He brushed a stray hair from your face, the heat of his touch grounding you after the chaos. As the team moved efficiently, Riki’s eyes locked with yours—fierce, protective, and full of unspoken promises.
You smiled, “How did you break free?”
Riki smirked, the tension easing just a fraction. He opened his mouth and lifted his tongue to reveal a tiny razor, glinting silver against the dark warmth of his mouth.
Your eyes widened. “You kept that in your mouth? What if you cut yourself?”
He shrugged, “Tongue is the fastest healing muscle. Plus, I’ve done it enough times to not get hurt.”
You blinked, “That’s not comforting.”
He took it out of his mouth and tossed it to the ground. “There. Let’s go home.”
—
Later that night
—
The dust had settled a bit, the kitchen was still destroyed but that was tomorrow’s problem. You and Riki had been patched up on the way here. The moonlight spilled through the blackout curtains, painting silver streaks across the sheets—cold and unforgiving.
Riki moved around the room with his usual quiet precision, the soft click of his boots replaced by the muted sound of him slipping out of his clothes. You didn’t say a word. Didn’t even flinch when he pulled back the covers and settled beside you in just his briefs. He liked sleeping this way.
But you didn’t let it simmer, you sat up. “Are you okay, my love?” You whispered in the still room—the still house.“Mhm, just another day at work.” He yawned as he turned to face you with a gentle smile. But you didn’t buy it. He always did this so he could be a big-bad-strong boyfriend, now he’s a big-bad-strong husband.
“Riki, seriously?” You tilt your head in concern as you run your hand through his freshly washed hair.
He nodded, “Babe-asaurus, I’m cool as a cucumber.”
You snorted softly, the nickname breaking through the tension like a warm breeze. “Cool as a cucumber? More like a slightly burnt pickle after today.”
He chuckled, reaching out to tuck a stray strand behind your ear. “Yeah, maybe a little crispy around the edges. But I’m here. And you’re safe. That’s what matters.”
You purse your lips, you knew what he was doing. But you didn’t pry, you never liked to. “I love you.”
He sat up, pulling you in for a hug as he kissed your lips gently. “I love you more. You know I do.”
“I know,” You kissed his bare collarbone, nuzzling his smooth skin courtesy of the body scrub you made him use.
“Let’s sleep, yeah?” He laid down on the smooth, clean linen.
You nodded against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat sync with your own. “Yeah. Sleep sounds good.”
—
But for some reason, cuddling wasn’t on the agenda. Subconsciously, you two had parted—but it wouldn’t be you or him if you didn’t touch at least. But somehow, you felt the bed tremble a bit—shaking and quivering in the midst of the silence of the room.
You sat up, turning around with furrowed brows. Feeling a little groggy from the meds you were given but still cognizant enough to know what was happening around you.
And with that, your husband is lying down with his back turned to you, on his right side. Chest caving in, breath shallow.
You blinked, confusion curling into worry. That tremble wasn’t just from the meds—it was something else. Something deeper.
Riki’s shoulders shook slightly, the kind of subtle, silent tremor that only showed when no one was watching. Your heart tightened. The big-bad-strong husband was cracked open and raw underneath the armor you both pretended was unbreakable.
You reached out tentatively, fingertips brushing the edge of his arm. Before you could open your mouth, he turned around and fell right into your arms. Wrapping his arms tightly around you as he buried his face into your neck. Letting a sea of twenty-four years worth of pollution fall down your neck and onto your chest.
Finally the dam broke, the iron curtain. The wall of stoicism was no more.
And this one time, you said nothing. You let him have it.
His bare skin pressed hot against yours, every tremble shaking through the thin sheets. The cold night air met the heat of his body, exposed and raw in nothing but his briefs—the armor stripped away, leaving only a man unraveling.
You felt the wetness against your neck before you saw it—the slick, hot tears silently tracing down his cheeks, the first you’d ever seen. His breaths hitched violently, chest rising and falling in ragged waves, his shoulders heaving with a grief he’d never let surface before.
He buried his face deeper, clinging to you like you were the last piece of solid ground. Your fingers trembled as they traced the curve of his spine, as if trying to stitch together the pieces of a broken man.
You held your love through the quiet like you promised—the good, the bad, the ugly. And this was the worst of it and even then you’d rather die than give it up. Give him up.
You rubbed his back as you scooted back to lie down. Letting him put half of his weight on you as his grip didn’t relent. Not that you wanted it to. Your cold hands pressed against his warm body in effort to cool him down. But you couldn’t as seeing the strongest man in your life was at his weakest.
Tears pooled in your eyes.
You kissed the crown of his head, silent and steady—a quiet promise without words. The night held you both close, broken but unbroken, fragile yet fierce. And in that stillness, you understood something true: love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just holding on when everything else falls apart.
And you married a yakuza, but most importantly you married a man who lets you see the cracks—and still chooses to stay.
SYNOPSIS — in which your bf gets dragged by your friends
pairing ot5 x reader
warnings minor cursing,cyberbullying(??),jokes about appearance,keonho catching strays, Martin being mistaken for a masc lesbian (yes this is bc I saw tt comparing him to Katie b😭), beef between cortis and ur friends, uses of face claims
notes ! I felt bad writing this ngl😭 . i had sm more I wanted to write but tumblr has a stupid upload limit. feel free to send requests on what you want to see next!!<33
synopsis: after a bad fight, ohyul tries apologizing while his girlfriend does his skincare.
ᵎ!ᵎ 𝙛𝙡𝙪𝙛𝙛 ⊹ 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠.ᐟ𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 ⊹ 𝙞𝙙𝙤𝙡.ᐟ𝙤𝙝𝙮𝙪𝙡.
The argument started over something stupid.
At least, that’s what Kwon Ohyul said.
“You always say that after you hurt my feelings,” you snapped, standing in the middle of your apartment with your arms crossed tightly over your chest.
Ohyul ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Because you drag things out.”
“Oh my God.”
“There you go again—”
“No, because you don’t listen,” you cut him off. “You hear one thing and immediately get defensive.”
His jaw tightened.
The apartment suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too loud.
You hated arguing with him because Ohyul wasn’t the type to yell constantly. He got quiet first. Sharp second.
And somehow that was worse.
“I’m not doing this right now,” he muttered.
“Then when? Since you love avoiding things so much.”
That hit.
You knew it did from the way his expression changed instantly.
“Oh, okay,” he laughed dryly. “That’s what we’re doing now?”
You looked away first.
Wrong move.
Because now both of you were angry enough to keep going.
“You know what?” he said, grabbing his hoodie from the couch. “Forget it.”
Your stomach dropped slightly. “Ohyul—”
But he was already heading toward the door.
“You’re really leaving?”
“I need space.”
“And I don’t?” you shot back.
He stopped for half a second.
Just enough to make you think he’d turn around.
He didn’t.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the picture frames on your wall.
And then he was gone.
At first, you were still angry.
You texted him anyway.
Are you serious right now?
No response.
Ohyul.
Nothing.
You called once.
Then twice.
Straight to voicemail.
That only made you angrier.
So you stopped.
No more texts.
No more calls.
No more checking his location.
Nothing.
If he wanted space so badly, he could have it.
Meanwhile, Ohyul was losing his mind.
At first, he ignored his phone on purpose. Pride. Anger. Stubbornness.
But after an hour passed…
Then two…
Then the entire night…
His irritation slowly turned into anxiety.
Because you always texted back.
Even when you were furious.
Especially when you were furious.
By the next afternoon, he was staring at his phone during practice while Woojin talked about choreography changes.
“You’re distracted,” Woojin said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve checked your messages like thirty times.”
Louis looked up from the floor immediately. “Did she stop texting you?”
Ohyul glared.
“Oh my God,” Louis whispered dramatically. “She did.”
Ryul nearly choked laughing.
“She’s mad mad,” Woojin added.
Ohyul shoved his phone into his pocket. “Can all of you shut up?”
That confirmed it.
“Oh, he’s overly upset,” Ryul said.
Normally Ohyul would’ve snapped back.
Instead, he stood up suddenly and grabbed his bag.
Woojin blinked. “Where are you going?”
Ohyul was already heading for the door.
“To fix it.”
When your apartment door knocked later that night, you already knew who it was.
You considered ignoring it.
Really considered it.
Then came another knock.
Softer this time.
“…Baby.”
Your chest tightened immediately.
You opened the door just enough to glare at him.
Ohyul looked exhausted.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
His hoodie was wrinkled, his hair messy from running his hands through it too much, and the second he saw your face, his shoulders relaxed slightly like he’d been worried you wouldn’t answer.
“You ignored me,” you said flatly.
“I know.”
“You left.”
“I know.”
“You slammed my door.”
“That was accidental.”
You stared.
“…Okay maybe not accidental.”
You tried not to laugh.
Tried.
Ohyul noticed instantly.
“Please don’t be cute right now,” you muttered.
His lips twitched. “So you still think I’m cute.”
“You’re annoying.”
“I’m sorry.”
That made the teasing disappear completely.
He stepped closer carefully, like he thought you might shut the door in his face.
“I’m serious,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have walked out like that.”
Your expression softened a little despite yourself.
“Ohyul—”
“No, let me finish,” he interrupted gently. “I was frustrated, and instead of talking to you, I left. Then I ignored you because I was being stubborn.”
“You were.”
“I know.”
“And childish.”
“That too.”
You crossed your arms again, but there wasn’t much heat behind it anymore.
Ohyul looked at you for a second before speaking again.
“When you stopped texting me back…” he admitted softly, “I got scared.”
That got you.
Completely.
Because Ohyul rarely admitted things like that out loud.
You sighed dramatically. “You’re lucky I love you.”
His entire face softened instantly. “So you forgive me?”
You thought for a moment.
“…Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“You need to earn it.”
“Oh my God,” he groaned quietly. “What do you want?”
A slow smile spread across your face.
“You’re doing skincare with me.”
Ohyul blinked.
“…That’s it?”
“That’s the condition.”
He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You’re plotting something.”
“I’m always plotting something.”
Ten minutes later, Ohyul was sitting on the edge of your bed while you organized products beside him.
He looked deeply offended by the fluffy headband you’d shoved onto his head.
“This is humiliating.”
“You look adorable.”
“I look ridiculous.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“Baby,” he deadpanned, “there are unicorns on this headband.”
You burst out laughing.
And honestly?
That alone made him feel better.
The tension from earlier had almost completely disappeared.
Almost.
“Come here,” he said, pulling you into his lap naturally.
Ohyul’s hands immediately settled on your waist like muscle memory.
“There,” you murmured. “Now stay still.”
“You’re very bossy.”
“And you’re lucky you’re pretty.”
He grinned lazily. “You missed me.”
“Barely.”
“You stopped texting my texts.”
“Because you were ignoring me.”
“I was suffering.”
“You were at practice.”
“I suffered there too.”
You rolled your eyes, squirting cleanser into your hands.
The second your fingers touched his face, Ohyul went quiet.
Not because he disliked it.
The opposite.
His eyes stayed fixed on yours while you gently rubbed cleanser across his skin.
“What?” you asked.
“You’re cute when you’re focused.”
“Stop flirting.”
“No.”
You tried ignoring him.
That lasted maybe thirty seconds before he leaned forward and kissed your cheek.
“Oh my God,” you laughed. “Sit still.”
“I am sitting still.”
“You just moved.”
“Technically my lips moved.”
You snorted.
Then he kissed your jaw.
Then your cheek again.
Then the corner of your mouth.
“Ohyul.”
“Hm?”
“You’re distracting.”
“You like it.”
Unfortunately, he was right.
You continued your routine anyway, trying to stay focused while he kept pressing soft kisses anywhere he could reach.
Cheek.
Temple.
Shoulder.
Your neck for half a second before you shoved his face away laughing.
“Behave.”
“I am behaving.”
“You’re literally not.”
Ohyul smiled against your skin, arms tightening around your waist.
“I missed you,” he admitted quietly this time.
That softened you immediately.
You put the moisturizer down for a second and touched his face gently.
“I missed you too.”
His expression changed completely at that.
Less teasing.
More vulnerable.
Then, because he was still Ohyul, he ruined the moment by kissing you again.
Longer this time.
Slow enough to make your brain stop working for a second.
When he finally pulled back, you stared at him.
“…I still have serum left.”
“So finish later.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you love me anyway.”
You sighed dramatically before grabbing the serum bottle again.
“Yeah,” you muttered, climbing back into place on his lap. “Unfortunately.”
Author's Note: Hi Seoulmates! I’m back with Maknae Line version of this. First, I want to thank everyone for the likes, follows, and reblogs from Hyung Line pt. 1! I’m truly appreciative. Pls do enjoy this one, and as always, comments are appreciated 🫶🏾
(Friendly reminder, YOU DON'T HAVE PERMISSION TO COPY MY WORKS ANYWHERE.)
Boyfriend! Maknae Line × Girlfriend! Reader
Synopsis: Sometimes you are incapable of reading the room. Annoying your bf was an accident. Him insulting you and calling you weird was not.
Content: angst, hurt reader, unresolved conflict, alienation, the guys are mean 😢, implied break ups
Word Count: 6.2k
Pt.2 | Hyung Line
JISUNG— "WHAT'S MINE ISN'T YOURS"
No one can truly ever foresee a volcanic eruption. No, seriously. While there may be monitoring techniques in place, there are still many uncertainties. Why? Because volcanic behavior is unpredictable. There’s too many factors to consider, and various combinations trigger differing reactions. Some meaningful, some pointless. But at least scientists could observe a pattern to understand these volatile characteristics. You on the other hand had no type of data to rely on when it came to your boyfriend's own volatile eruptions.
What started out as a normal day, at least to you, quickly spiraled into a cataclysmic event so wild, you think it would top the Guinness World Record for Largest Recorded Eruption. You had been spending a lot of time with 3racha lately, camping out in the studio with them whenever you could. It was pretty much every fangirl’s dream. And with Jisung being your boyfriend, it was the perfect way to spend time with your man while he worked simultaneously. It was the act of killing two birds with one stone. Which had happened often, and surprisingly lasted this long.
Except today, Jisung was a lot more erratic than usual, leg bouncing with a bout of anxiety. His body was jittery, nail biting ensuing with his mind all over the place. He was distracted and frustrated with his lack of progress. That was understandable. You suppose that it also didn’t help how much you were chatting with Chan and Changbin either, throwing around jokes and playful insults.
But that was the dynamic that had been set when you started coming around. When you first got with Jisung, you’d initially been much too intimidated to even hold a conversation with his members because they seemed so otherworldly in their superstardom. But your boyfriend assured you that was not the case and even encouraged your interactions with them. So why on earth would he be making a fuss now?
That’s what you ask yourself when he addresses you so rudely.
“What do you think you’re doing right now?” Jisung’s harsh voice rips through the studio icily. Both Changbin and Chan freeze, mid jeer, at his words as you work to process what he just said to you.
“What?” You whisper with confusion. He turns slowly in his seat, eyes squinted in a way that would be menacing if his cheeks weren’t such a cute distraction.
“I asked what you think you’re doing right now distracting my members.” The air gets more tense as he repeats what was said prior. Silence encases the room as both men look between the two of you apprehensively. Oh, he was serious.
“I’m very confused right now.” You mumble honestly. Everything had been fine thirty minutes prior. Of course his shift in demeanor was now causing confusion. A hollow chuckle escapes the lips of the man you love.
“That’s not surprising when you clearly don’t know how to read the room.” Okay, ouch. What the fuck? The other two members of the producing unit seem to have the same sentiments by the way eyebrows raise and mouths drop. Jisung has never talked to you like this before.
“Mate, maybe you should calm—” Jisung cuts Chan off before he can even think about finishing the sentence.
“Hyung, I know you like being nice and all, but you don’t have to continue humoring her in this situation.”
Your brows furrow at the statement. And what the hell did that mean?
Changbin chimes in next. “Jisung-ah, think about what you’re saying very carefully and cool it.”
But you are having none of it, pissed off and eager to know just what the hell your boyfriend was talking about. “No. Let him. He clearly has something he wants to get off of his chest, let him keep running his mouth and dig himself a deeper hole.”
A smirk graces his face as he chuckles. “You know, sometimes, it really pisses me off.”
“Jisung—” Chan again. But neither one of you is listening in this showdown of sorts that your man has put you in.
“If there’s something you want to say to me then speak clearly, before you really set me off.”
“Set you off? You’re one to talk. You’ve been pissing me off for days, weeks even. You come prancing in here while we are in the middle of a studio session and run your mouth ten miles per minute. You keep texting my members— Chan, Changbin, and Minho allll the time like they owe you a response. As if we aren’t maxed out from busy schedules. You talk their ears off consistently whenever you are in our space. And have the nerve to demand more time of them, of me while we work. I understand if your job isn’t fulfilling, but this is my life. And some of us work hard to achieve our dreams. Stop blowing up my members' phones, stop talking their ears off, and stop wasting everyone’s time. It’s weird.”
You simmer with rage and something akin to heartbreak at the vitriol Jisung utters at you. Swallowing thickly, you watch as Jisung’s chest heaves with the weight of his words finally being lifted from his shoulders.
“What’s weird about making conversation with your members, Jisung?” You question tentatively, trying your hardest not to cry or cuss him out.
He stares in silence before mumbling his truth. “What’s mine isn’t yours. Stop it.”
And there it is. The root of his little rage monster. “Are you… saying my interactions with your members are weird because you have a sharing problem?” You would definitely not hold back on hitting Jisung where it hurt. Afterall, he hardly cared about the words he threw at you. You can tell it gets to him by the way he flinches.
“I don’t have a sharing problem, I have a girlfriend problem. And she seems to think that my friends are her friends, that my life is her life. It is not. And I would appreciate it if you learned your place from now on.”
The silence is overwhelming as you work to process the painful slap of humiliation Jisung has dealt you. ‘Learn your place from now on.’ Oh, he didn’t have to worry about that. You certainly had learnt exactly where you stand if this conversation is anything to go by. Standing carefully, you grab your items in silence, removing any and all traces of yourself from his space. And very soon, his life.
“Don’t worry Jisung. I promise it won’t happen again.” Smiling bitterly, you make your way to the door and exit just as a round of questioning begins for him.
“Jisung, what the fuck?”
FELIX— "BUTTERFLY IN MY STOMACH"
In your entire time of knowing him, Felix had always been a social butterfly. You’d grown up together and fallen in love in that early 2000s rom com sort of way. Best friends to lovers as goes the trope. You both wore it very well, skirting around the crush you both harbored for one another for ages. Meeting in primary school had been interesting, with him leaning across the aisle towards your desk asking if he can borrow your sparkly, pink pen. It was his favorite color evidently. Enamored by his kind smile and freckly face, you agree. That’s how you both sparked a friendship spanning two, long decades. He had been stuck to your hip ever since, claiming that you had the best craft supplies in the whole school. Because of that, he’d share all his strawberry milks with you. Citing it as a reward for your kind behavior. Strawberry milk was his favorite treat by the way, and you were totally lucky for him to give it to you. He didn’t just give it up for anyone. His words, not yours.
Anyway, that had been that. And somewhere between year 9 and year 12, you’d developed romantic feelings for him. But your first kiss would not be shared until the day he left to go join a boyband. That had been crazy, sparking a whirlwind of emotions when he ran away from you that night at the playground, before catching the early morning flight to his destiny. He had blocked you after that, too embarrassed to know he had poured his heart out like a desperate loser and stolen your first kiss even more pathetically. This had devastated you of course, considering you had liked him all this time, but he was so pig-headedly stubborn that he threw all caution to the wind and disappeared like a wimp.
So then there had been a three year stint where you didn’t speak to one another. Until he came home to surprise his family while on break. And ohhhh were words had between you two when your mother had told you that she found out from Mrs. Lee herself at the grocery store that Felix was back. You all but buried him six feet under at the way he had left you like that. But all things had been smoothed over and sealed with a kiss once feelings were hashed out.
That had been several years ago, and Felix’s social nature had increased significantly since then. Becoming the brand ambassador for several major brands, he’d often attend events with you by his side. Toting you around, showing you off proudly like the hottest thing since sliced bread. It made you feel confident, made you feel warm.
And Felix always went out of his way to show appreciation to you for tagging along. Most of the time it looked like buying you expensive, new outfits to be worn at said events. You wouldn’t even have to say anything. You’d simply come home and there would be a pretty, decorated box on the bed with a card attached to it reading, “Wear me.” Then your man would come to scoop you up and escort you in your ‘carriage for the night.’
It was like clockwork, a routine that never got old or boring. And that’s what you expected today as well, having been excited all day to attend a brand new Louis Vuitton store opening. You’d gone home, freshened up and everything, even indulged in a glass of wine before Felix had gotten there. All without paying too much mind that your boyfriend had not prepared a special gift for you in your bed like he typically would.
That was fine. No biggie, right? That’s what you tell yourself when a knock sounds at your door. Padding across the floor, the beaming smile on your face drops a fraction at the slight look of irritation on your boyfriend’s face. He steps inside your apartment as you further open the door.
“Lix, everything alright?” You try not to notice the absence of a decorative box in his hand. In the back of your mind you wonder where your outfit is.
He wrings his hands as he paces about. Something evidently is wrong. “Babe,” you call tentatively. “What is it? Where are my clothes for tonight? Did something happen?”
He takes a sharp, deep breath before regarding you with a guarded look. Oh, that was odd. What was he looking at you like that for? “It wasn’t prepared.”
Immediately, your face scrunches at the admission. “Okay… but why? Did someone make a mistake? Is that why you look a bit upset? If I had known something had happened last minute, then I would have found something myself. Why didn’t you say something sooner?” You rush across the space back into your bedroom to pilfer through your closet. Time was quickly winding down. While you didn’t want to look thrown away, you had to try to find the best thing to settle for. But Felix immediately puts a damper to your otherwise jovial nature when he hits you with several words that crush your spirit.
“No, Y/N. You don’t understand. It wasn’t prepared because I didn’t request it.” Then he mumbles the other part low. “On purpose.”
You step back out of your closet to come face to face with him, head bowed and hands in pockets.
“Oh.” you whisper quietly between the two of you. “Why?”
He fixes you with a forlorn, yet strange look. “Do you ever think about how weird it is how much we’re together?”
That… throws you for a loop, head rearing back with confusion at the question. Not sure how to answer, you settle for the truth. “No?” It comes off more of a question than an answer.
He sighs before sitting on your bed. “I do. I mean, come on Y/N. We’ve been attached at the hip since we were kids, and even more so in the time that we’ve been dating.” Butterflies settle in your stomach at where he is going with this. And not the good kind. “Like, don’t get me wrong. It’s fun but… sometimes you have a tendency to try too hard to fit in when I’m networking.” He closes his eyes briefly as he says it. Like he’s finally admitted to something bouncing around in his mind, causing a racquet for days.
You stand in the middle of your room unsure of what to do with yourself. Your chest feels tight with disbelief. Wrapping your arms around yourself vulnerably, you seek first to understand what is actually happening. “Felix, what exactly brought this on?”
“The last brand event. Manager-nim said he noticed how much you tried to be included in photos every time someone wanted to take a picture with me. He found the situation odd and thought I needed to draw a line in the sand to make sure you understand that I am the celebrity, not you.”
Your mind is boggled at what he relays to you, wondering how on earth he let his manager talk about you like that, unless… he agreed.
“So, let me get this straight. There seems to be a supposed issue with me attending brand events with you because I have a “knack for trying too hard to be included in photos,” as your manager put it so fucking eloquently when speaking about me. Which you just let him by the way. And your solution was to… what? Revoke the invitation you extended to me, last minute, and come into my apartment with your bad juju ruining my night?”
He looks crestfallen at your assessment. “Baby—”
You don’t give him an opportunity to respond, taking several steps back before he can reach out to touch you. Surprised eyes meet yours across the space of your room. “No, absolutely not. You do not get to call me that right now. Actually, I’m debating if you get to call me that period after what you just told me.”
“Y/N—”
“Save it. You have an event to attend and millions of people to perform for. Go do it since you take orders from others so well.” You snap sarcastically. A beat passes between you before he turns on his feet, making his way out of your room. Crossing the threshold to your living room, you watch as he opens the front door before turning to look at you with those sad, puppy eyes.
“Can I just—”
“Out.” You point back towards the entrance. His shoulders sag with dejection as he walks out the door.
“Good riddance.” You mumble, slamming the door. Sliding down the hard surface you finally unleash the tears you had been willing away.
What a shitty night.
SEUNGMIN— "COPING MECHANISM”
Nervousness ran through your system the same way blood ran through your veins. It was normal for you to navigate life with a sense of anxiety looming behind you, crippling any confidence you could have in yourself. Seungmin, your boyfriend, knew this, doing his due diligence of playing the role of knight in shining armor for his damsel in distress.
He liked feeling needed this way, often expressing his fondness for your cute codependent demeanor. So, to humor him, you clinged onto him at home and in public. It was part of the routine, a mandatory unspoken drill between the two of you. Except, what is a normal occurrence in the space you share together becomes a topic of concern at the dinner table one night.
A few of the guys had gone out for a midnight snack, their youngest needing a reprieve from the stress of a busy schedule. So, like good hyungs, Hyunjin, Seungmin, and Lee Know had gone. That gathering had included you too by default, Jeongin extending the invite to you as well via Seungmin. So you figure, why not? He is your boyfriend after all, and his members seem to enjoy your presence most of the time. You had had a rough day too, so going out for a late night social gathering would do well to clear your mind. This shouldn’t have been an issue. But somehow, Seungmin decided to make it one.
It started out as light banter, him poking at how you clung to his arm throughout the entirety of the walk there. “Seriously babe,” he chuckles. “You’ve been hanging off my arm the whole way. I’m gonna need it to eat you know.” Okay, that had made sense in the moment when he said it. You were clinging to his dominant hand. It really would be hard for him to eat.
Nervously, you chuckle before giving him a bit of space, hovering just within arms length range of him to ground yourself when needed. You were feeling a bit antsy, picking at the skin of your lip and bobbing your knee with the rampant energy raking through your nervous system.
You had been bothered by something a colleague at work had said earlier in the day, not getting an opportunity to divulge it to your boyfriend yet as he had only just come in from a long day before you both turned around for this late night excursion. The individual in question at work had made a disparaging comment about how you were too soft spoken and shy that it almost came across as needy the way people had to speak up for you. It made you freeze in the moment it was said to you, caught like a deer in headlights wondering what to do. The person had scoffed at you right then and there when you couldn’t produce a good enough answer for them, muttering under their breath about how dependent you were.
The words had put you on edge, stunning you enough to retreat from your cubicle and into the nearest bathroom stall to cry your eyes out at how cruel some people could be. Coming home was supposed to be relieving. You were supposed to fall into Seungmin’s arms and let him don the cape of your savior, uttering endearing words of encouragement into your ear until you could feel better. That, however, was not the case.
The next offense was reaching for his hand underneath the table. You were just… feeling dejected about the earlier course of events, that person’s harsh rhetoric playing on repeat in your head. It didn’t help that Jeongin exacerbated the issue whilst complaining about his own grievances with the company. It amps up your anxiety, causing you to look around for a boogeyman that wasn’t there as you all huddle around a table in the back of a hole-in-the-wall joint. When you reach for his hand, extending your pinky a fraction to lock with his, he jolts back like he had been branded. Everyone turning startled eyes towards you watch as a slight frown makes its way onto Seungmin’s face. He was locked in to whatever Jeongin was saying and felt like you were distracting him from being a good friend.
“Y/N, come on. I’m tryna focus here but your neediness is kinda getting in the way.” He laughs a little at his words. Jeongin and Hyunjin chuckle too, thinking this is the regular banter between you two. But Minho, he is silent, observing the way your hand shakes a little as you retract it from him.
“Sorry Minnie. You know how I get.”
“Yes, we all know how you get.” He emphasizes it like there’s an inside joke there, like you’re exasperating in your need for his affection. Your hands clam up at this, already suffering one misunderstanding at work and not trying to bring one here.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You whisper quietly. He just pats you lightly over the head, consoling you like you don’t know any better.
“Don’t worry your pretty, little head. You can’t help the way you are.”
By now, Hyunjin’s eyebrows have raised a fraction. Minho even stops eating, pausing the raise of his chopsticks mid air as he stares at his band member. Jeongin doesn’t even register anything is happening, instead nestling his glass of soju in hand. Your heart is hammering away at what appears to be a confrontation on the horizon. “Seungmin, what does that mean?” You ask once again.
He disregards you, instead, turning to his members who seem just as perplexed as you are at the turn of events. “Nothing, nothing. It’s just funny how you practically can’t breathe without me if I’m not in a general radius of you, or if you aren’t touching me in some capacity.” He catches Minho’s eye, who looks to be holding back a grimace. “Did you guys know that she really cannot function without me? Like, she gets all weird about it if she’s not cooped up under me. Even at home, she has to have her foot touching my leg to even feel comfortable enough in her sleep. It’s kinda weird if you think about it honestly.”
Your blood runs cold at the words, heart stuttering with an ache you didn’t know could exist with him. He called you needy, codependent, and weird all in the span of the short time you had seen him today. Always heralding himself as some knight in shiny armor catering to his damsel in distress, now sits a young man who is no better than the person at your job. It’s an insult and backstab all the same. It’s how you cope. You can’t help it. Seungmin knows this, relishes in it. So, what is going on? Why is he being so mean?
“It’s just how I cope Seungmin,” you mumble sadly. “I’m not trying to make it weird.” Across from you, Hyunjin’s lip juts out a bit at the desperation you reek of. Seungmin, ever the vibe killer, doesn't exhibit that same pity.
“Well, can you find another way to cope?” He remarks with a dry huff of laughter. He’s joking… you think. But it is insensitive nonetheless. It’s not like he knows you’ve had a terrible day, spirit crushed with the same rhetoric as a colleague. Doesn’t make it hurt any less. You nod your head silently at the sting of rejection. At this point, Jeongin has enough wherewithal to smile at you pityingly. For the remainder of that late night rendezvous, you sit in desolate silence, aching and yearning for the one person who cannot console you in the wake of your heartbreak. Because he was the one who broke that trust in the first place.
Sadly, you can’t help but start to internalize all the rude words thrown at you today as truth. You were annoying. You did depend on Seungmin a lot. You hardly ever stood up for yourself. You were needy like a fucking whiny baby. God, you were… hopeless. And everyone around you knew it but you. What a joke you must’ve been. You swallow your pain with what little pride you have left and tuck metaphoric tail to the furthest place in your mind you can dissociate to. Licking wounds was not easy. Seeing Seungmin’s face daily, as the cause of some of those wounds, made it no better.
All it takes is two days. Two days for him to ask you what is wrong, and two days to contemplate a life changing decision that would alter the course of trajectory where you had previously been hovering. Misery may love company, but you are about to excuse yourself as its guest. Because you would rather leave than to stay and make this man supposedly as miserable as he proclaimed.
Mulling over your options at breakfast, Seungmin analyzes you. He hadn’t had physical contact with you since the midnight tryst. In fact, you hadn’t even paid him any mind at all now that he thinks about it. Instead, offering non-comital hums and head nods in the ambiance of silence. It… concerns him a bit, at the way you have locked yourself away somewhere in your mind. And he is regretful to know he no longer holds the key to enter.
“You’ve been quiet lately, distant.” He mumbles over his coffee.
“Just got a lot on my mind.” You reply robotically. Almost as if you had teleprompter level responses queued up to ward him off. He huffs a bit at the distance between you both even at the table.
“What could be so important that you hardly have anything to say?” You could tell he is trying to dispel the weird energy in the air by joking. But it doesn’t quite land the way he wants it to. And you are oh so tired of not being brave, of not learning to stand on your own two feet enough to say—
“I think we should break up.” The words spill from your mouth like word vomit as your soul finally gives way to the dam of emotions swelling within you. It is like being awarded the sweet liberty of release the way you say it. But to Seungmin, it is agony.
“What?” All color drains from his face. He couldn’t have heard you right. Surely his sweet, kind, soft-spoken girlfriend didn’t just suggest a separation. There was no way.
But you are unyielding now that you have gained your bearings, and you are not relinquishing this foothold you have created for yourself. This was no longer a mountain standing tall above you, unwilling to be moved. This situation was simply a molehill, one you could move around and write a proverb about. Fixing yourself with a steely resolve, you stare into the face of the man you once loved, still do, and utter words that cannot undergo a surgical procedure of ‘takesies backsies.’
“Let’s break up.”
JEONGIN— "OLD HABITS"
Securing a job at JYP as a stylist had been a dream come true. Working permanently with Stray Kids had been more like a fairytale. Especially when you started dating their youngest. It had all been professional on your end, really. You had kept your head down, minded your business, and did what needed to be done. But somehow, Jeongin had taken a liking to you. He would linger after being styled, hover just at the edge of your vision so that he could somehow be in your line of sight at all times. He would make prolonged eye contact, smiling cheekily when you would get flustered. And the hand contact? That had been an entirely other beast in and of itself.
Anytime you needed something or forgot an item in the space of the dressing room, he’d rush to get it for you. Eager to please. And he would make sure your finders brushed against each other no matter how you placed them. Naturally, you had chalked it up to delusion, or sleep deprivation. There was no way the maknae of this international powerhouse had a romantic… inclination towards you. The thought alone made you feel like delulu was not the solulu and that you were simply making everything up.
However, that thought process had been derailed when Jeongin had practically cornered you in an empty room one day with a furrow to his brow, and pout on his face, asking if you were genuinely oblivious to his advances, or simply ignoring them. You would really like to claim you had been strong-willed here, fighting off whatever conflicting feelings you had for him as he was technically your superior. But alas, that had not been the case when he pushed you up against the wall with a soft spoken “Noona,” on his lips. Dare you say it, you were hooked.
From that point forward, you stuck together like peanut butter and jelly. Doing what couples do. You played your part as the dutiful girlfriend so well, taking to bringing your boyfriend the occasional lunch or snack in between breaks. You couldn’t help the need to want to take care of him. Especially as a slightly older woman. He’d relish in the spotlight. Preening at the extra attentiveness you showed him as a form of affection.
It had never been a problem before. Until Jeongin decided it was one. Lately, he had been snippy with the prospect of appearing more manly as he matured with age. There was nothing wrong with it, hardly a big deal. You liked seeing the side of him that matched the muscular growth he had put on. Evidently though, he had silently begun seeing your constant “mother hen” tendencies as a problem. He hadn’t even explicitly said it to you. That’s what hurt the most.
You had happened upon a conversation in the practice room while you were stopping by. The intent was to share the snacks you had brought for Jeongin. Instead, you are met with hostility as you overhear what Jeongin has to say about your ‘habit.’
“It’s just, the constant need to pander to me and treat me like a baby is excessive and weird. I mean— she comes here nearly every day dropping off treats and meals with that strange, soft voice reserved for babies. Like I’m not a man. It’s just odd… and really messes with my image.” You can hear the frustration in his voice as he discloses his grievance against you to whoever is in the room.
“I mean… I suppose I get it.” A deep voice speaks tentatively. Ah, Felix. “But, Noona is really nice and she just wants to take care of you. Ya know?”
You are somewhat thankful to know that the Australian male can be the voice of reason at a moment like this. It helped soothe your aching heart at feeling slight discomfort and shame at your boyfriend bashing you like this. Albeit, you aren’t supposed to hear the words. Doesn’t mean it stings any less.
Just then, a snort rings out. “Right.” The voice drawls sarcastically. And that would be Seungmin. Of course it is. “She treats him like a toddler who’s still in pre-school. Little Ayen-ah never stood a chance. It’s cute.” The other chuckles teasingly. You know Seungmin means well, but this is not helping.
A huff of annoyance forces its way through Jeongin’s nose. “Can you be serious for once? I’m expressing a thing that irritates me and you’re joking about something that’s becoming increasingly weird.”
Silence follows his words. “Jeongin, I don’t think Seungmin meant it like that. And I think Y/N means well too. I’d actually be pretty flattered if my girlfriend took the time to stop by everyday and deliver food for me. Try not to think so hard about it. Otherwise, you might ruin a good thing.” Hyunjin, what a level-headed thinker. Perhaps he was the one who deserved your treats.
“What do you know?” Your boyfriend grunts. And that had been that. You simply turned around and went about your day, not keen to disturb him. If he noticed you did not follow your routine for the day, he simply didn’t mention it. Probably stewing in his ire still.
That’s how you ended up here two weeks later. You had stopped bringing snacks completely. Instead, strictly adhering to your duties. In your petulant stupor, you create distance between you and Jeongin as a means to remain professional. It hurts your heart to do this, sometimes compelled to reach out and pinch his cheek, or brush a strand of hair from his face. But you refrain, instead, reverting to as you were in your pre-dating era. You keep yourself busy, always working. And it probably wasn’t noticeable at first since everyone was working diligently for the comeback. But of course, there is always someone who pays attention to detail. And that person happened to be Hyunjin, the man who is more observant than he appears.
“Hey,” he asked while you pinned a shirt to make it more fitting for his lean frame. “Why haven’t you been around lately? I missed your snacks so much!” He whines dramatically.
You simply roll your eyes at the playful behavior. Several ears perk up at this, also curious to know what you had been doing with your time. “I just didn’t feel like doing it anymore.” You simply state.
Hyunjin pauses a fraction at your nonchalance to routine behavior. Across the room, Jeongin stills too. Color him surprised that you dignified that with a response. But also, don’t. Because he’s your boyfriend and he totally isn’t stupid despite looking like his head is full of air. He had noticed the distance growing between the two of you, especially during the times where he would request to spend more time with you. He clocked it immediately when you stopped showing up with the snacks and lunchboxes. And okay, sue him if he pouted a little. Your food was always excellent and despite wanting to appear more manly, he can’t help that he folds way too easily when it comes to you. Which is how he got in this situation in the first place, little does he know. But anyway, any time he demanded your presence recently, you would decline with some type of excuse. Yes, it’s comeback season. But what the fuck? Can a man not spend time with his woman? These are all the thoughts that run through his head the moment you answer.
So, what does any boyfriend do when he would like an explanation for why his girlfriend is being weird? Well, he corners them. Which is exactly what Jeongin does. Which… probably makes matters worse, because why the fuck is he starting an argument with you?
“Noona,” he questions, pressing close to you with a childish pout. “How come you’ve been ignoring me?”
You sigh disinterestedly as you navigate around him. Picking up clothing items and shoving them onto hangers aggressively, you respond. “I’m not. Just been busy.”
He shuffles over to you with a disbelieving face. “That’s what you said yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and—”
“I get it, Jeongin.” You cut him off before he can get himself worked up. But your response pissed him off further than he realized it would.
“Oh, so you realize you’ve been neglecting me? Glad to know my girlfriend hates me.”
“You are so dramatic.” You growl in frustration.
“Yeah, and you’re fucking rude ignoring me like that in front of my members. It was embarrassing.”
Rolling your eyes, you continue cleaning up, not phased by this temper tantrum he’s throwing. For someone claiming to be manly, he sure doesn’t act mature. “Sure, because that’s the most embarrassing component of your life lately.” Your words are laced with sarcasm, bitter at knowing what he thought of you, mind going back to the rude words he had divulged to his members.
Coming to a stop in front of you, he takes the hangers in your hand and tosses them onto the couch. “Jeongin.” You rebuke, but he is forcing you against one of the makeup tables, eyes locked into your own.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t worry about it.” You mutter, trying to push away.
He forces you back immediately. “No, absolutely not. You’ve been distant for the past few weeks, and you’re so fucking mean for ignoring me. Now you won’t even tell me what’s wrong when I give you attention? Why can’t you just talk to me since you seem to have an issue?”
Ohhhh, Yang Jeongin was on extremely thin ice talking to you like that. Deciding to definitely not be the bigger person (you had pride and ego too ya know,) you give him tit for tat. Leveling him with a sharp gaze, you smirk meanly up at him. He analyzes your face and realizes you are devoid of the affection you typically possess when speaking to him. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t gulp a little. You’re intimidating when you want to be.
Icily, you reply to him in a way you know is a dose of his own medicine. “Why though? Isn’t it weird how clingy you're being with me?”
He stills at the line of questioning, face drastically losing color at the words you speak. That’s how you know he understands the exact connotation behind the statement. You nod your head slowly at the recognition that flits across his face at where you derived that expression from.
“You should really be careful what you wish for, Jeongin. You never know who might be listening to grant your wish.” Then you saunter out of the room as if you hadn’t pulled the proverbial rug from underneath him.
P.S. if there’s any typos, I typed this at work 😭. I’ll edit later. Hope you enjoyed!
haechan forcing jisung’s head firmly between your folds with the most devious smile ever ૮꒰ ྀི >⸝⸝⸝< ྀི꒱ა. your cute little black laced panties, with the cutest pink bow to top it off pushed over to the side by haechan— whose fingers were tangled in ji’s hair as he went in on your cunt. completely pussy drunk and messy, your arousal all on his chin and nose.
“you love how he eats your pretty little pussy? huh doll?” haechan would ask, he would be so mean. laughing when your thighs would start trembling. “please make him stop- can’t take it . . .”
“you wanna stop?” he didn’t ask you, no, he asked a pussy drunk jisung— to which he, of course, shook his head no. sucking your sensitive clit into his mouth, causing you to cry out. attempting to push his head away, haechan slapped your thigh harshly, gripping your hands in his firmly. “give him what he wants, i don’t think he’s stopping any time soon.”
now on your fourth orgasm, back to back, barely minutes in between them. your juicy, lipgloss-covered bottom lip quivered as it felt like your nerves were on fire affecting every part of your body up to your lips, begging haechan to give you a break but he just laughed in your face. your nails instantly gripping the sheets when he let go of your hands, trying to twist your body away. but two pairs of hands holding you down . . . was something else.
“hyung, look at how she’s gripping my fingers,” jisung grunted in awe as if it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen. always talking as if you weren’t there in front of them.
“fuckkk you’re gripping him. so fucking pathetic, i thought you were done?” haechan would mumble out staring at your pussy as if he would start devouring you at any second now.
jisung dived back in, you could’ve swore he moaned. the dazed look in his eyes from your pussy alone scared and awed you. tongue fucking you at one moment then his fingers curling at your g-spot with sucks and slurps to your sensitive nub the next.
“‘m coming again ji~” you hiccuped, haechan sneaking his hands up to press just above your pelvis making you loosen up your muscles and spongy, warm walls. it was as if your insides were on fire, caving in to utter weakness. “no wait-”
squirting in return. you let out choked gasps, tugging jisung’s hair . . . anything to get him away. you mewled as you watched him hold out his tongue in hopes of catching some of the liquid in his mouth. haechan slapped your clit repetitively to prolong your orgasm and out of reflex your hand went to his wrist harshly pushing it away, making him laugh at you.
the sight of jisung licking your folds gently, taking in the essence of what he had just done made you shudder. lucky for you they let you lay and pant for a couple of seconds. preparing yourself for haechan who was ten times worse and always refused to let up— to the point where jisung sometimes got worried.
haechan then went to spit on your pussy, it dripping down your glossy folds like honey. “fuck he ruined you,” he whispered laying soft puckered kisses on your swollen clit and puffy folds. jisung going up to suck at your pert nipples lazily. you were so utterly exhausted that you attempted to close your legs from a touch so soft. “when did our doll become so slutty.”
he’d degrade you making you pout and deny, feeling so humiliated. shushing you when you’d try to reply making you feel even more dumb. “dolls don’t talk back.”
