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mercvry-glow · 4 months ago

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Stop making this hurt

parings. jack abbot x doctor!reader

summary. jack knew he didn’t want to go to pitt fest, instead suggesting you take a few of your girl friends on your day off. little does he know that decision leads to you experiencing the worst day of your life without him.

warnings. pitt fest incident, guns/shootings, hospital setting, blood and gore, reader gets hurt, death (not reader), medical inaccuracies and not show accurate but i tried my best, jack and robby are stressed af, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. finally my first pitt fest fic, hopefully this is angsty enough for ya'll and pleases all of my anons who asked for this! I love all of you, thank you for almost 300 followers and as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 3600+

You knew it was a long shot trying to convince Jack to come with you to Pitt-Fest.

Crowds were never his thing, not even before his time as an Army medic. Too loud, too many moving parts, too unpredictable. Add a decade of trauma medicine on top of that, and the thought of shoulder-to-shoulder festival traffic was enough to make him visibly tense. You didn’t blame him — not even a little.

And as much as you loved your husband, you weren’t going to fight him on this one.

“Go have fun,” he’d told you that morning, standing in the doorway in his usual worn t-shirt and sweats, a coffee mug in one hand and the other wrapped around your waist. “Text me when you get there. And text me again when you leave. And maybe don’t lose your phone this time?”

You’d rolled your eyes, kissed him once, then twice — and promised to behave.

Truly, it was better for him to spend his one of his days off actually resting, not galavanting around the venue with you and your friends, half-drunk on overpriced cider and yelling about pierogi trucks.

So you let yourself enjoy it. The chaos, the music, the warm breeze coming off the river. You danced with your friends in the middle of the concert to some college band playing covers too fast. You tasted six different kinds of barbecue and took a picture with a guy dressed like a giant bottle of Heinz ketchup. And every couple hours, your phone buzzed with a little check-in from Jack — usually short, always a little dry since he wasn’t a big texter.

JACKY [1:14 PM] You hydrated today or just vibes?

JACKY [3:06 PM] Hope the pierogi truck is worth the foot traffic.

JACKY [4:11 PM] Home if you need me.

You were smiling at that last one about to respond around 5pm, standing in line for boozy lemon slushies with Emma and a few others, when it happened.

At first, it was just a sound — one that didn’t register immediately. A sharp crack in the distance. Then another. Then screaming.

The crowd surged before your brain caught up. Someone dropped their drink. Someone else shoved you sideways. Your phone slipped out of your hand and hit the pavement.

“Is that—” Emma started to say, eyes wide.

You grabbed her wrist and pulled. “Run.”

You didn’t know where the shots had come from. You didn’t stop to look. You just moved — through the panicked chaos, toward the edge of the crowd, ducking behind a food truck with a group of strangers just as another round cracked the air like lightning.

Your chest was tight. Ears ringing. People were yelling. Crying. Calling for help. And your phone—your phone was still on the street.

Jack.

You couldn’t call him.

But he’d know. You didn’t know how, you just knew.

And however a mile away, as police scanners lit up and trauma alerts pinged on hospital radios, Jack was already on his feet — keys in hand, work boots half tied—and heart racing faster than he’d felt since he returned to US soil.

He didn’t wait for a callback. Didn’t care that he wasn’t on the schedule. He grabbed his badge and his trauma bag and was in the truck before the next dispatcher finished her second sentence.

Because something had happened at Pitt-Fest.

And you were there.

It really sounded like a firecracker at first — maybe someone messing around near the alley that ran behind the Pitt-Fest booths. But then came the second, then the third. Screaming followed.

You turned your head just in time to see another wave of people running. And then—

“EMMA!!”

She was beside you one second, and the next, she was down.

You didn’t think. You couldn’t think. You just dropped to your knees, catching her head before it hit the pavement, your mind going a mile a minute.

“Hey, hey—Em—look at me,” you said, your voice louder than you realized. “Where were you hit?”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her hands were pressed to her stomach, blood already soaking through her shirt and fingers.

“Fuck,” you hissed. “Okay. Okay, pressure. Emmy, stay with me. You’re gonna be okay.”

You barely noticed the searing pain until your legs buckled and you were on your side. A sharp, ripping sensation tore through your ribs like glass.

Shot.

You had been shot too.

Someone was shouting. A vendor nearby had flipped a table and was screaming for people to duck. A stranger—a kid, maybe barely twenty not much younger than you—ran toward you both through the chaos, eyes wide.

“Are you hurt? I have a truck—”

“Help us—please!” you said, trying to sit up, trying not to black out. “I’m a doctor—ER. Trauma. She needs a hospital now.”

He nodded, panicked, glancing at the blood now pooling on the concrete. “We’re like five blocks from PTMC—I’ll drive!”

You helped haul Emma up with shaking arms, biting back a cry when your chest screamed in protest. She groaned as you dragged her toward the curb, her weight nearly toppling you.

The kid had his pickup pulled up half on the sidewalk within seconds.

“Put her in the bed!” you ordered. “It’ll be faster to lift her in!”

Someone else joined—another panicked bystande —helping you hoist Emma into the truck bed as gently and as quickly as possible. You climbed in after her, teeth gritted, your once cute outfit sticky with blood.

“Go!” you screamed as the tailgate slammed shut behind you.

The engine roared and the truck peeled off, tires screeching. You barely held on, your legs braced against the wheel well, one arm clamped across Emma’s wound, the other pressing against your own side to slow the bleeding.

“You’re okay,” you told her, voice tight, even though you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince. “Emma, you’re gonna make it. You’re not fucking dying at Pitt-Fest! I won’t let you.”

Her eyes fluttered, and you cursed under your breath, checking her pulse.

Thready. Too fast.

You knew you had minutes. Maybe less.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew Jack was at the Pitt. On shift or not, he was always there when it mattered.

He had no idea you were on your way. Or that you were bleeding out in the back of a stranger’s truck, racing through downtown Pittsburgh.

But if you made it… if you could just hold on a little longer…

You’d see him again.

The truck rattled like it was going to fall apart with every pothole it hit on Carson Street. The shocks weren’t built for this kind of weight or speed, and the stranger behind the wheel didn’t care. He’d barely said a word since he’d skidded to a stop at the edge of the chaos. Now, you could barely hold your head up.

Emma was curled in on herself across from you, clutching the side of the truck bed like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to earth. Her glitter jacket was soaked through—Msot of it hers, some of it not—and her ponytail had come loose, curls hanging limp against her face.

You turned your head toward her, everything in you aching.

“Em,” you rasped.

She didn’t answer.

“Emma, look at me.”

She did, finally. Her lip was split, her eyes glassy. She was holding her side with one hand, the other shaking where it pressed against her stomach. Blood oozed through her fingers.

“Hurts,” she whispered.

“I know.” You reached out, hand slick and trembling. You were starting to feel lightheaded, the pain in your side sharp and spreading, warm and wet and endless. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. We’re almost there.”

She nodded—but then her gaze dropped to your side, and her eyes widened. “Babe… you're—”

“Don’t look at me.” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “Just breathe, Em. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You weren’t sure if that was true. The blood loss was getting worse. Your top was drenched. The bullet had torn low, near your hip, and every bump in the road sent fresh agony lancing through your whole body. You tried to apply pressure but your arm wouldn’t stop shaking.

The guy driving honked again, swerving around a city bus. Ahead, PTMC’s trauma bay came into view, the red trauma flags flapping against the gray building. Almost there. Almost safe.

Then Emma made a sound that shattered you.

It was small. Wet. A choking breath followed by nothing.

You lurched forward, dragging yourself toward her with everything you had left.

“Emma—Emmy. Stay awake. Look at me.”

Her head lolled. Her eyes were still open, just barely. “I’m really cold,” she whispered.

“No, baby. No, you’re not.” You gathered her into your lap, tried to shield her with what strength you had left. “We’re here. You’re okay.”

The truck hit the curb at full speed, rocking the bed. The brakes screamed as it slid sideways, stopping half a second before it would’ve crashed into the wall of the trauma bay. And then hands—at least half a dozen of them—were yanking open the tailgate.

Chaos.

“Two critical GSWs in the back—Jesus, they’re both going out!”

“She’s losing consciousness!”

“Someone help me get her—”

“She’s coding!”

You heard all of it like you were underwater. You were vaguely aware of someone pulling Emma from your limp arms. Someone else catching you as your head dropped back, limp, blood seeping down your spine.

A nurse’s voice rang out as she tried to open your airway.

“Who is she—anyone got a name?!”

No one answered.

Inside the trauma bay, Jack was elbow-deep in yet another chest wound, barking orders, adrenaline humming through his veins. He didn’t hear the commotion at the ambulance bay over the noise of suction and a flatline monitor. Didn’t look up when the bay doors slammed open again.

Didn’t know.

Didn’t know that somewhere down the hall, two trauma rooms were opening side by side—one for your best friend who wouldn’t make it, and one for you, his wife, who just might.

Not yet.

But he would.

He always did.

Now rushing inside to the hub, “Her BP’s eighty systolic and dropping—she’s hemorrhaging fast.”

“Pulse is thready. Pupils sluggish.”

“Get Dr. Robby in here, now!”

The trauma bay was already spinning into motion when Michael stepped through the sliding doors, hand dragging down over his messy brown hair. He was halfway into his new trauma gown as he crossed the room.

“What’ve we got?”

“GSW to the lower abdomen. Entry left, possible exit—can’t tell through the bleeding. She was brought in non-EMS, unknown downtime.”

Robinavitch’s eyes tracked the chaos instantly, sharp and assessing. He reached the foot of the bed and froze just long enough to squint at your face beneath the mask of blood, dirt, and bruises. Something flickered across his expression.

“…Is that—?”

“Yeah,” one of the nurses whispered. “That’s our second Abbot.”

He didn’t react. Not outwardly. Just snapped his gloves tighter and stepped in, voice calm but commanding.

“Alright. Let’s move. I need two large-bore IVs, type and cross, four units O-neg hanging yesterday, and someone page trauma surgery—now.”

A nurse slid a face shield over his head as he pulled the curtain closed behind him.

“Pressure dressing’s soaked through.”

“She’s crashing, Dr. Robby.”

Michael leaned in over your body, catching the faintest movement of your chest. He knew your voice, your laugh, the way you snapped off one-liners at Jack and him in the hall. And right now, none of that mattered. You were just another patient bleeding out on his table. And he was going to keep you alive.

“Hang another liter. Let’s get a FAST scan going—we need to find that bleed.”

A tech slid gel across your abdomen. The screen flared to life, the grainy black-and-white image revealing what they were dreading.

“She’s bleeding into her abdomen,” someone said.

“No kidding,” Robby muttered. Then louder: “Alright. We don’t have time. Prep her straight for the OR. I want her there five minutes ago.”

He pressed down on the wound with both hands, hard. Princess to his left winced.

“She should seee Jack,” she whispered.

“No,” he said firmly. “Jack needs her to still be breathing when he finds out.”

He looked down at you, your face pale and growing colder beneath his fingers.

“You hang on,” he said under his breath. “You do not die on me. He will never recover.”

You didn’t respond. Your eyes fluttered once, lips barely parted. A sound escaped, too soft to decipher as Mikey leaned closer.

Not as a doctor now, but as a close friend.

“What was that?”

Your mouth twitched. “Tell… Jack…”

But then your body jolted under his hands—heart monitor screaming into v-fib.

“Code!” someone shouted.

“Start compressions!” Robinavitch was already moving, calling for paddles. “One of you get Abbot!”

“But he’s still in Pink—”

“I don’t care if he’s in surgery or nott,” he snapped. “Tell him it’s his wife. Tell him she’s coding.”

Across the hospital floor, Jack looked up—something in his chest going cold before he even knew why.

The Pink Zone was chaos, and Red was a shit show.

Jack had blood smeared to his elbows and the kind of tension in his jaw that only came from running full tilt on no sleep. His short, curls—streaked at the temples with silver—were plastered to his forehead with sweat. His hazel eyes, usually sharp and quick, were laser-focused on the wound in front of him.

“Clamp—now,” he barked, voice low and lethal.

The security guard on the table had been fine for the minute, eventually turning critical. Shrapnel to the chest. He’d already coded once in triage. Jack had cracked him open right there on the gurney, and there was no room in his world for anything else.

Until—

“Dr. Abbot!”

He didn’t look up. “Hold pressure!.”

“Jack!”

That voice. Too familiar.

He finally looked.

One of the new night shift interns stood just inside the trauma bay doors, Jacob’s own scrubs stained and his expression wrecked. And he never looked wrecked.

Jack straightened, adrenaline still coursing, brow furrowed. “What?”

Jacob’s mouth opened—but nothing came out at first. He took a breath. Another. Then:

“She’s here. Your wife.”

The words didn’t land right at first. Jack blinked, frowning, like he hadn’t heard correctly.

“She what?”

“Gunshot wound to the abdomen. Came in the fourth or fifth wave from Pitt-Fest,” the young man said, voice tight. “They stabilized her. She was hypotensive on arrival. Tachy. Someone named Emma was with her—they were in the back of a civilian truck.”

The name Emma barely registered.

Jack’s pulse went sideways.

“She coded once—Robby sent her to the OR.”

“No,” Jack said, too fast, shaking his head. “No, she wasn’t even—she said she’d text me when—she wasn’t—”

The air felt thick. Too heavy. Too loud. His fingers curled into fists, shaking beneath his gloves.

“Dr. Abbot,” Someone said, stepping closer. “She’s still alive. They got her back. But you can’t leave right now. We need you here.”

Jack didn’t move.

“She asked for you,” Jacobs added quietly.

That broke something open.

Jack’s hazel eyes—usually unreadable—flashed wide. For half a second, pure panic. He turned, looking toward the hall that led to the elevators, toward OR.

But he couldn’t go. He knew it. The man on the table in front of him was dying.

And his wife… his wife was being cut open upstairs.

He squeezed his eyes shut once, breathing like it physically hurt. When he opened them, they were steely again. Grounded by sheer force of will.

“Tell Robinavitch to get me when she’s out,” Jack said. His voice was barely steady. “And tell him if she crashes again—he calls me. Immediately.”

“I will,” Jacob promised.

Jack didn’t answer. He just turned back to his patient like his spine was made of iron. Like his heart wasn’t bleeding under his ribs.

But his hands trembled—just once—before they found the scalpel again.

And he didn’t say another word about it, because what was there to say you could be gone before he even got to see you.

Eventually the world returned in fragments.

A slow, stuttering beep. The soft rustle of hospital sheets. The sterile hum of fluorescent lighting. Everything hurt—but not sharply. Not like it had. Now it was dull and heavy, like your body was made of stone, barely yours.

You blinked against the overhead light. It took effort. Your limbs felt like they were filled with sand.

A shape moved beside you.

Jack.

He was hunched forward in the chair, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped tight. His short, silvery curls were flattened on one side, sticking up in the back like he hadn’t moved in hours. His hazel eyes were fixed on the floor, red-rimmed, dark and distant.

Your heart monitor ticked just a little faster. He looked up immediately.

“Hey,” he breathed, already at your side.

You tried to smile, but your lips barely moved. “Hi.”

Jack let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob and reached for your hand. His touch was careful, reverent. “You scared the absolute hell out of me.”

“Me too,” you rasped.

He gave you a sip of water, helping steady the cup as you drank. When you pulled back, your throat still felt raw—but the words came anyway.

“Emma?”

Jack’s face changed.

The crack in his expression wasn’t obvious, but you’d seen it before—on the battlefiel, in different red zone code blues, in the quiet moments after a loss. He didn’t answer right away.

You already knew.

“…She didn’t make it,” he said softly. “They couldn’t even try. She was gone in the truck.”

Your breath hitched.

“She was getting married,” you whispered, tears already brimming. “She was twenty-eight, Jack...”

“I know.”

“She was going to try out for th-that promotion. She just bought her wedding dress last week—she wanted to show you, and—and she was finally gonna ask David to move in with—”

Jack didn’t try to stop your rambling grief. He just leaned in closer, resting his forehead against yours.

“I know,” he said again, voice thick. “I’m so sorry.”

You swallowed hard, your throat burning. “She died in my arms...”

His hand tightened around yours.

“I didn’t know it was you,” he murmured, guilt and grief bleeding into his voice. “I was a couple zones over. We were shoulder to shoulder with victims. I didn’t know until after they took you up to surge.”

You blinked fast. “Were you there when I came in?”

“Robby got you stable. Barely. Everyone just said it was bad. Said one of ours went down.” His voice caught.

“Jack.”

“I couldn’t go up,” he whispered. “They were still bringing bodies in. And you were already in surgery. I had to keep working.”

Your vision blurred again.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, you’re the one that got shot.” His hazel eyes were fierce now, even through the exhaustion. “You did everything you could. You kept Emma safe as long as you could. And you lived. That’s all that matters right now.”

You didn’t feel like it should be enough. Not with her gone, and the fate of the rest of your friends unknown. But the way Jack looked at you—like the entire world had stopped spinning until your heart started beating again—it made the pain settle differently.

He reached up and brushed your hair back, his touch gentle. “I’ve got you now. You’re safe.”

Since the first shots rang out at Pitt-Fest, you let yourself feel the weight of everything that had happened.

Your fingers twitched under his, slow and aching, but deliberate. Jack noticed immediately, shifting to cradle your hand in both of his, as if he could anchor you there by touch alone.

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice shaky but sure. “Thank you for staying with me…”

Jack’s eyes closed, lashes trembling. His head bowed as his grip on your hand tightened, pulling it gently to his chest.

“I’d stay a thousand times,” he murmured. “I’d go through hell a thousand times if it meant getting you back.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest—because you believed him. There was no part of Jack Abbot that ever did anything halfway, least of all when it came to you.

“I thought I was going to die,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out. “In that truck. I-I knew Emma was gone and—I couldn’t feel my legs. Everything hurt. I didn’t know if you’d even know…”

Jack leaned forward again, resting his forehead against your hands, breathing you in like he was trying to convince himself you were real. “I know now,” he said, voice rough. “And I’ve got you.”

You could feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek, the way his body trembled just slightly with the force of holding himself together.

“I kept thinking—‘he’s gonna be mad,’” you whispered. “Because I went without you. Because I didn’t duck fast enough. Because I let one of the girls get hit.”

“Stop,” he said, voice firm but thick with emotion. “You don’t need to carry that. Not even for a second.”

You nodded faintly, tears sliding into your hair. “She died, Jack. Emma died. And I couldn’t save her.”

He stayed quiet for a beat, then moved to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering there, like he could pour every unspoken word straight into your skin.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I’ll carry that with you. Every single day.” The monitors continued their slow, steady rhythm. Jack stayed at your bedside like he’d never leave it again.

Outside, the world kept spinning—grief, news headlines, recovery, chaos—but inside that quiet room, wrapped in his presence, you finally let yourself rest. Because you weren’t alone. Not anymore.

And you knew, in the deepest part of yourself, that Jack would keep holding on enough for the both of you—because that’s the type of man he was.

mercury-glow 2025

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itendtothinkalot · 4 months ago

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certified hater

summary: jake sim’s got a new roommate. and he hates it. he hates you. until one random wednesday afternoon, you look at him with those eyes, and suddenly he’s noticing things he definitely shouldn’t. now jake’s stuck trying to ignore the fact that his least favorite person is somehow making his heart beat faster. he didn’t sign up for this. but hey, neither did you.

genre: fluff | enemies to lovers

characters: jake x f!reader

words: 15.3k

warnings: curse words, kissing i guess

a/n: based on in this economy's jake! our fav hater is back!

“Well,” he sighed dramatically, hand over his heart. “There she goes. The only decent roommate I’ve ever had. The only one who cleaned the hair out of the drain without me having to beg. Who made late-night ramen taste like a Michelin-star meal. Who laughed at my jokes, told me when my shirt was inside out, and didn’t steal my shampoo.”

His best friend rolled her eyes, already halfway up the porch steps with her bag. “Jake, we’re literally 30 minutes away. You’re going to see me every other day.”

Jake turned to Heeseung with a sunny smile. “Well…take good care of her, yeah?”

“I do take care of her,” Heeseung said, voice flat, eyes sharp.

She snorted. “I’m not being shipped off to war, Jake.”

Jungwon—boba in hand, sunglasses on, posture far too relaxed for someone witnessing emotional carnage—finally spoke.

“Alright, drama club,” he called. “Wrap it up. People are starting to stare. Mostly me. And I’m starting to lose interest.”

Jake turned to him with a deep sigh. “What’s even the point of going home? The apartment is going to feel empty.”

Jungwon raised an eyebrow. “You do realize I still live there, right?”

Jake waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, but you don’t count. You don’t talk to me. You just throw protein bars at my head and call it a meal.”

“And yet somehow, you’ve survived,” Jungwon deadpanned, like Jake was some tragic survivor of mild inconvenience. “Anyway. You got to live with your best friend. Now I get to live with mine.”

Jake froze mid-chew, narrowing his eyes. “…Wait. Wasn’t that hypothetical?”

Jungwon didn’t even look up from his phone. “No? I meant what I said. She’s moving in today.”

“She? You mean to tell me… I’m coming home to a stranger? A female stranger?”

“She’s not a stranger to me,” Jungwon said with an infuriating shrug. “Anyway. She’s chill. You’ll love her. I think.”

Jake pointed accusingly at Jungwon. “I swear if she does something annoying, I’ll—”

“You’ll do what?” Jungwon said, already walking away. “Write her a strongly worded Post-It? Sue her?”

“Ugh. First, I lose my best friend to my annoying boss now…now this? I’m going home!” he yelled, heading for his Uber. “But before I do…Heeseung,” Jake called out.

Heeseung took a slow sip of his coffee. “That’s Mr. Lee to you.”

“Yeah, I’m not calling you that when we’re off the clock and you look like a walking beige napkin.”

“This is Gucci,” Heeseung said flatly, glancing down at his designer shirt—then at Jake’s outfit. “And whatever you’re wearing is…”

Jake sneered. “Is a gift. From your girlfriend.”

“Oh. Then I love them,” Heeseung said sweetly, turning to kiss her on the lips without breaking eye contact.

Jake recoiled. “Tell your boyfriend to back off.”

“Tell your ex-roommate to get a grip.”

Jake narrowed his eyes. “I hope your new place has ants.”

And then... standing there on Heeseung’s stupidly spotless porch, watching them disappear into their stupid new house (because of course Heeseung could just casually buy a house like he was adding a new hoodie to cart), Jake squinted thoughtfully at the disgustingly perfect front yard.

Jake’s eye twitched. God, he hated rich people. To be specific, he hated Heeseung. Stealing his roommate and his best friend, just like that. Selfish bastard.

But then — just by the edge of the driveway — movement.

Tiny. Crawling. Full of untapped petty potential. Jake’s lips slowly curled into a grin.

“Well, well, well,” he murmured to absolutely no one, crouching down like a villain in sweatpants.

“Nature provides.”

Cut to twenty minutes later:

Jake crouched like a criminal in Heeseung’s yard with a plastic cup. Scooping ants off the sidewalk like he was foraging for revenge. Whispering to himself like a lunatic.

“This is what betrayal gets you, Heeseung. You bitch.”

By the time he had an entire squad of confused ants swirling around in the cup like unwilling accomplices, Jake stood up, dusted his hands off, and jogged across the lawn.

He rang the doorbell.

Once.

Twice.

Three times — annoying, spaced out, just to be a menace.

Finally — the door yanked open.

Heeseung stood there, deadpan, already exhausted. In socks. Mug of tea in hand.

“What.”

Jake grinned, wide, sweet, feral. “Miss me?”

Heeseung blinked at him like he regretted every life choice that led to knowing Jake Sim.

“Didn’t you leave with Jungwon?”

“I was going to but…”

And then — without missing a beat — Jake yeeted the entire cup of ants straight through the doorway.

Heeseung’s eyes tracked it mid-air.

The cup landed with a hollow little plunk on the entryway floor — ants scattering like their Uber just arrived.

Heeseung stared.

“What—” Heeseung’s eye twitched. “Did you just—”

“Nature says hi.” Jake whispered.

And then?

Jake ran. Full sprint.

Cackling like an absolute child as Heeseung’s voice exploded behind him —

“WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Jake was already halfway down the street, gleefully texting Jungwon like a war general reporting a win.

jake: bro i did smth

jungwon: what did you do

jake: nothing much. Had fun w nature tho…lol

jungwon: wait a min…did u throw ants in their fucking house

jake: yea lol i can still hear heeseung yelling

jungwon: take a vid?

jake: i’ll snap u LOOOL

—-

It wasn’t that Jake hated new people. Well—okay. Maybe he did. A little. Just a bit.

Sure, he looked friendly — floppy hair, easy grin, that dangerously smooth voice that could charm strangers and confuse baristas into giving him extra whipped cream without asking. But deep down?

Jake Sim was a man powered entirely by routine, caffeine, and emotional damage.

At work? Immaculate. Precise. Heeseung’s best guy on every project. The guy you could trust to fix your mess without asking questions.

At home? At home, Jake Sim was powered by rage, Doritos, and spite-fuelled midnight snacking.

And nothing — nothing — disrupted that fragile ecosystem quite like a stranger invading his living space.

Jake sighed and glanced at Jungwon, who sat curled on the couch, no emotion on his face.

“You’re sure she’ll like me?” Jake asked, leaning back like he genuinely needed reassurance.

Jungwon didn’t even glance up from his phone. “Maybe she will. Maybe she won’t. I’m betting my money on the latter.”

Jake grinned, ego inflating instantly. “But I’m charming. I’m handsome. I ooze sex appeal.”

Jungwon finally looked up. Blinked. Paused.

“You’re… okay.”

Jake stared. “Okay?”

Jungwon shrugged, unbothered. “You’re like store-brand charming.”

Jake squinted. “The hell does that even mean?”

“Looks the same. Works okay. Nobody’s writing home about it.” Jungwon deadpanned. “But yeah, sure. Reliable in a pinch.”

Jake clutched his chest like he’d just been stabbed with a plastic spoon. “I am premium charming.”

Jungwon sipped his drink. “You’re aisle seven, bottom shelf, on sale for $2.99.”

Jake looked genuinely offended. “Wow.”

“Look,” he said flatly, “she’s moving in tomorrow whether you like it or not. So dust yourself off… and for the love of God, take down that thing you call art.”

He pointed lazily at The Painting. The painting that Jake did during his “I’m unemployed and spiraling” era. His “maybe I’m just like Van Gogh” phase. A little stressed, a little depressed, and unfortunately — very creative.

Except he wasn’t.

Because if Jungwon was being brutally honest (and he always was), Jake’s 36 by 36 inch masterpiece was…

A giant, aggressively well-shaded dick.

Like, museum-level shading. Art school tragedy. Anatomically correct in ways that made Jungwon genuinely concerned for Jake’s mental health.

“It’s abstract,” Jake had insisted once, dead serious.

“It’s a dick,” Jungwon had replied, dead inside.

“To you,” Jake had said, like he was Picasso defending himself in court. “To me it represents manhood. The transition from child to man.”

Jungwon stared at him. Stared at the cursed, hauntingly well-shaded disaster on the wall. Stared back at him.

"Just take it down by tonight, you moron." he muttered, already walking back to his room. "Because I am not explaining to a grown ass woman why there’s a three-foot dick staring her dead in the eyes while she’s just trying to eat her cereal."

—-

You balanced a box against your hip, car keys jingling in one hand, your phone wedged between your shoulder and ear as you stepped into the apartment for the very first time.

“You couldn’t skip one class?” you muttered into the phone, nudging the door closed behind you with your foot. “Just one? I am literally dragging my entire life through this hallway alone right now.”

Jungwon’s voice crackled on the other end. “And I am literally about to ace my quiz on post-colonial literature. We all have battles we can’t pick.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out. “I hope your professor forgets your name and ends up giving you the biggest F in history.”

“Trait—”

Jungwon cut you off with a yawn. “Anyway, key’s under the mat. Room in the back is yours. Make yourself at home. Don’t fight Jake. Love you.”

You paused mid-step. “Who?”

“Bye!” he said, then hung up like a man with no conscience.

You stared at your phone. “What do you mean ‘don’t fight Jake’?! Who’s Jake?!”

No answer. Just the echo of betrayal.

You let out a long sigh and took in your surroundings. The apartment was… livable. Clean-ish. A little too beige. Smelled like something between cologne and aggressively microwaved noodles. Classic boy territory.

Still balancing your box, you headed toward the back, where you assumed your room would be. The hallway split into two doors. One was cracked open slightly, revealing a glimpse of a desk.

You knocked once, half-hearted and awkward, and pushed the door open.

And then everything happened at once.

Music. Blasting.

Eyes. Wide.

Box. Dropped.

You screamed.

Because standing dead center in the room was a guy in nothing but boxers, aggressively dancing to Bruno Mars like he was auditioning for a boyband.

He jumped like he'd been tasered, yanked an earbud out, and yelped, “WHAT THE HELL?! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!”

“WHY ARE YOU NAKED?!” you echoed back, slapping a hand over your eyes.

“I’M NOT NAKED!”

“YOU’RE LIKE 80% NAKED!”

He grabbed a throw pillow off his bed and held it over himself like it could protect either of you from this moment. “What are you even doing in my room?!”

“Jungwon said the room in the back is mine!”

“This is my room!”

“Then label your damn doors next time!”

“You’re supposed to knock!”

“I did knock!”

“Then you wait for a response, smartass!”

“Are you serious right now?! How was I supposed to know you’d be air-humping the universe like a deranged psycho?!”

“That was choreography!”

You both stared at each other, panting like you’d just come out of battle. You took a long breath, picked up your box again, and hissed, “You must be Jake.”

His eyes narrowed. “And you must be the replacement.”

“Well,” he said, tossing the pillow onto the bed and grabbing a pair of sweats, “we’re off to a great start.”

If first impressions were anything to go by, this was going to be war.

And unfortunately, the battlefield was your new living room.

—-

You wiped your palms on your jeans, jaw still tight as you grabbed another box from the small pile by the front door. This one was heavier—textbooks, probably. Just as you turned around to haul it outside, you slammed straight into a very firm, very warm, very fully clothed chest.

You looked up. Jake.

Now dressed in a hoodie and joggers, hair slightly damp like he’d just showered the shame off. Unfortunately, he still looked obnoxiously good. Annoyingly taller than you. And, somehow, smug—which should be illegal after whatever happened earlier.

He blinked down at you. “Need help?”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but he held up a hand.

“Unless…” He squinted dramatically. “You’re about to peep on me again, then I—”

“Peep at you?!” you hissed. “I walked into what I thought was my room and got assaulted by a hip thrust.”

He shrugged. “I was in the moment.”

“Are you always this delusional?”

Jake leaned against the doorframe like this wasn’t already a disaster. “You really can’t admit it, huh?”

“Admit what?”

“That you enjoyed the view.”

Your jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”

“Don’t worry,” he added, all faux-gentle. “Not everyone can handle the Full Jake Sim Experience.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You know, Jungwon warned me about you.”

Jake’s grin kicked up, cocky. “Let me guess — ‘Jake’s a little dramatic, but give it time and you’ll fall for the charm.’”

“Actually,” you said dryly, “it was ‘don’t engage, it only encourages him.’”

“That’s slander,” he declared.

“That’s advice,” you corrected. “Good advice.”

—

Jungwon slid his bag off his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m home!” he called out, voice echoing through the apartment as he kicked the door shut behind him.

Finally. After years of joking about it, he was officially living with his best friend.

Jungwon knew the odds were low that you and Jake would hit it off immediately.

You were... you. Stubborn. Easily irritated. Quietly unhinged. But also — annoyingly kind. Thoughtful in that backhanded, "made you ramen but insulted you while doing it" kind of way.

You’d survive Jake.

Hell, maybe Jake needed to survive you.

He strolled down the hallway, humming as he knocked lightly on your door. “Yo. You alive in there?”

No answer.

He tried again. Still nothing. With a shrug, he walked over to Jake’s door and gave it a push. Open. Empty.

“Jake?”

Then, from the depths of the apartment, came shouting.

Jungwon blinked. Tilted his head. The bathroom. He padded toward the noise—and regretted it immediately.

“I was here first!” you snapped.

“No, I was here first!” Jake shot back, voice bouncing off the tiled walls.

“I had my towel in here! That’s bathroom code!” You yelled.

“There is no such thing as bathroom code, you freak!”

“Let me in! I’m going out and I have to pee!”

“Looking like that?” You sneered at Jake whose smile faded.

A long pause.

“…What’s that supposed to mean?”

You offered a polite smile. “Oh, nothing. I just thought you cared about how you dressed. But hey—good for you. You’re braver than most of the people I know!”

Jungwon closed his eyes. Rested his head against the wall. Inhaled slowly.

This was his life now.

—-

Jake sat slouched at the edge of the table, a half-spilled bowl of kimchi stew in front of him, aggressively chomping like it had personally wronged him.

Across from him, Heeseung and his girlfriend were mid–honeymoon phase nonsense—feeding each other dumplings, whispering like the rest of the room didn’t exist, giggling over god knows what as if Jake wasn’t having a full-blown emotional breakdown one seat over.

“She color-codes the pantry,” Jake snapped, waving his chopsticks like a weapon. “I left one bag of chips—one!—and she reorganized the entire cabinet. Who’s even looking in there, huh? The Pantry Police?”

“Oh—oh, and get this,” Jake ranted, mouth still half-full of kimchi. “She sends me photos of the sink. With captions. ‘This is your plate, Jake. I know it’s yours because it has your little cartoon fork on it. Like—what?! How does she even know I have cartoon forks?! Who memorizes someone’s cutlery?’”

He flailed a hand like he was being victimized.

His best friend didn’t even blink. “The real question is why you’re still using forks with tiny bears on them.”

“That’s not the point!”

“You ever thought of, I don’t know…” Heeseung finally looked up, lips shiny from dumpling sauce. “Being a better roommate instead of…an ass?”

“I’m not being an ass!” Jake protested — loud enough to startle the next table and wild enough to knock over the soy sauce dish. He scrambled to fix it with a sad napkin, still grumbling under his breath like he was the victim here.

“She’s just—she’s too clean, okay? Like robot clean. Psycho neat. I leave one hoodie on the couch and next thing I know, it’s folded, labelled, and put away neatly.”

“It just sounds like you’re being an ass to her,” she said.

“Yeah, let’s unpack that.”

Jake squinted. “Unpack what?”

“You know.” Heeseung leaned back, annoyingly relaxed. “Why are you all…angsty and weird about her?”

“Because!” Jake snapped. Jake glared. At them. At the table. At the ceiling.

Heeseung raised an eyebrow. “Because?”

Then he exploded, “…Because she freaking pisses me off, that’s why!”

The table went silent.

“That’s crazy. Sounds a lot like flirting to me.”

—-

You threw yourself onto the couch with the kind of rage that could only come from enduring Jake Sim for more than ten minutes. Jungwon sat across from you, calmly chewing on dried squid like he wasn’t witnessing a breakdown.

“He leaves his stupid fucking hoodie on the couch,” you exploded, hands flailing like you were directing traffic in hell. “Like we live in a prison bunk. Like there’s no other surface in the entire apartment for his crusty-ass clothes except the exact spot I want to sit.”

Jungwon nodded slowly. Unbothered. A man built for surviving your storms.

You inhaled sharply. But oh — you were not done.

“And don’t even get me started on the pantry.” You threw a hand toward the kitchen like it personally betrayed you.

“He messed up my color-coded snack shelf. My system, Jungwon.” He raised a brow. Brave. Curious. Foolish.

“What system?”

You blinked. Offended. “My Oreos go beside the dark chocolate. That’s balance. That’s harmony. That’s civilisation. That’s how society should be.”

“But noooo—” you went on, fully deranged now, “Jake Sim, chaotic neutral in sweatpants, decides to put my Oreos between the shrimp chips and the ramen cups like he’s staging a fucking rebellion.”

“So what I’m hearing is…” he drawled, “you think about Jake... a lot.”

“Shut the hell up.”

He ignored you completely. “God, you two act like toddlers.”

“It’s not my fault,” you whined. “He’s making living here hard.”

Like breathing was fine until Jake Sim walked into the room with his stupid smug face and stupid loud voice and stupid boy smell that was weirdly clean for someone who acted like a feral animal.

“You’re not exactly a ray of sunshine to him either,” he pointed out.

“That’s only because…” you muttered.

“Because?”

“Because he’s loud and smug and he–he leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor and–”

“Because?”

“BECAUSE HE FREAKING PISSES ME OFF, THAT’S WHY!”

The room went quiet. Jungwon stared at you. You stared at Jungwon.

And then he went back to chewing his squid, completely unfazed. “Yeah,” he mumbled, “you’re definitely in love with him.”

—-

It was nearly midnight, and the apartment was quiet except for the occasional sharp screech from the horror movie playing on the TV. The lights were off, the only glow coming from the screen casting quick shadows across the room. You were curled up on the couch, blanket over your shoulders, a bowl of popcorn balanced in your lap, gripping a pillow more out of nerves than comfort — heart jumping at every sudden sound.

Jungwon was long gone—fast asleep behind his locked door like a man who knew better.

The apartment was dark. Too dark. The only light came from the TV, flickering ominously across your face as the horror movie reached its cursed little climax.

On screen, the main character was creeping down some nightmare hallway — flickering lights, suspicious footsteps, a soundtrack practically begging something to kill them. You squinted, peeking nervously between your fingers.

“Don’t open the door,” you whispered to the screen, your voice tight. “Don’t open the door, you idiot—”

On screen, the character opened the door.

You sucked in a breath, ready for the inevitable jumpscare.

And then—

“Boo.”

You didn’t even think.

You screamed at the top of your lungs. The bowl of popcorn went airborne. Your fist met something very real, very solid, and very human.

Crack.

“OW—WHAT THE FU—”

You turned mid-panic to find Jake Sim, doubled over and holding his nose, blinking like he’d just been hit by a truck.

Your jaw dropped. “OH MY GOD—JAKE?!”

He groaned loudly. “Did you just punch me?!”

“YOU SNUCK UP ON ME!”

“DO I LOOK LIKE THE FUCKING DEMON?!”

Jake pulled his hand back and stared at the red streak now smeared across his palm.

“Is that—” you gasped, eyes wide, “OH MY GOD, ARE YOU BLEEDING?”

“Yes!” Jake hissed, clutching his nose. “My face is leaking! My nose is leaking because you decided to square up with me like this was Mortal Kombat!”

You scrambled to grab tissues, knocking over a cushion and somehow stepping on your own foot in the process. “I didn’t mean to! It was a reflex! Who sneaks up on someone during a horror movie? You’re lucky I didn’t stab you.”

Jake flopped onto the couch like a man deeply wronged. “You need a warning label.”

“You need common sense.”

“You need to stop throwing hands like you’re in an underground fight club.”

You shoved the wad of tissues at him, dropping onto the couch beside him with a dramatic sigh. “Drama queen.”

“Violent rat.”

The two of you sat there, breathing hard. Popcorn crunched quietly under your sock. The horror movie still played in the background — completely forgotten.

Ten minutes later, you were sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him, chewing your lip. Jake sat slouched on the couch, ice pack pressed to his face, still sulking like you’d ruined his modelling career.

“Are you okay?” you asked, cautiously.

Jake didn’t look at you. “Physically or emotionally?”

You squinted. “...Both?”

“Physically, my nose is fighting for its life. Emotionally? I’ve seen things.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh my god, you’re so dramatic.”

He gave you a look over the ice pack. “I googled it. I’m allowed to be dramatic.”

You snorted. “Let me see.”

“What, so you can break it again?”

Still, when you leaned in, Jake let you push his hand away.

Carefully, you touched the bridge of his nose, brows furrowed in focus. Up close like this, you were quiet for once — way too close, way too serious, and way too pretty for his peace of mind.

“It’s not broken,” you muttered, inspecting him closely. “Tragically.”

Jake huffed a laugh under his breath. “Bet you’re disappointed.”

“A little,” you admitted.

Your hand brushed his cheek as you pulled away and Jake’s brain short-circuited for a solid second.

“Okay, you’re fine. Still got your stupid face. The world can rest easy.”

He grinned lazily. “Worried about me?”

You scoffed. “I’m worried you’ll bleed all over the couch.”

You got up to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“To make you tea.”

Jake blinked. That shut him up fast.

“Chamomile?” he asked hopefully.

You groaned from the kitchen. “Isn’t that the only tea you drink?”

Silence.

Then Jake — deadpan, smug — called out, “Weird how you know that.”

You rolled your eyes. Hard. “Weird how you only drink the saddest tea on earth like an old timey British person.”

Jake snorted. “Says the girl who labels her instant noodles like they’re priceless artifacts.”

“At least I don’t treat chamomile like a personality trait.”

“At least I have a personality,” Jake shot back. “Yours starts and ends with passive-aggressive Post-Its.”

You yanked open the cupboard. “Maybe if you read them, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Maybe if you punched fewer people we wouldn’t be here.”

There was a beat.

You grabbed a mug, muttering under your breath, “Should’ve punched harder.”

Jake, from the couch, still icing his nose, let out a scoff of disbelief.

“And yet,” he said flatly, “here you are. Making tea for me.”

You slammed the kettle down louder than necessary. “Because if I don’t, you’ll bleed out and haunt me out of spite.”

Jake leaned back, smug despite the tissue stuffed up his nose.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he called out. “If I do die and end up haunting you, I’m definitely hiding your stupid label maker first.”

—-

The next morning, sunlight trickled through the blinds, soft and golden. The apartment was quiet. Jungwon had already disappeared for his 8 a.m. class like the punctual little overachiever he was.

Which left you here.

In the kitchen.

Making the most humiliating thing of your life:

“I’m sorry I punched your nose” scrambled eggs.

This wasn’t because you liked Jake Sim. God, no. This wasn’t softness. This wasn’t kindness.

This was guilt.

Stupid, irritating, nose-bleeding guilt.

Because yeah — maybe he shouldn’t have snuck up on you like the human embodiment of a jumpscare. But also... maybe you shouldn’t have decked him like you were trying out for MMA.

Maybe.

Unfortunately, despite being fully committed to hating Jake Sim with your entire soul... you also had a functioning moral compass.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Jake padded out of his room half-asleep, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, hair a disaster, still mentally in dreamland — following the smell of butter like a man possessed.

But then he saw you.

And whatever was left of his morning brain just... stopped.

There you were. Standing by the stove — hair pulled back messily like you hadn’t even tried, barefoot, apron cinched around your waist, that stupid little dress swaying just slightly as you moved.

It was... weird.

Soft, almost. Domestic.

Like he’d walked into someone else’s life.

You were humming to yourself, lazily stirring scrambled eggs — completely unaware that Jake had frozen in the doorway like an idiot.

And he didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even breathe.

Because it hit him — quietly, without warning — that you were pretty.

Not just yeah, okay, she’s kinda cute when she’s not yelling at me pretty.

But actually pretty.

So pretty it knocked the rest of his words clean out of his head.

Which explained why he didn’t notice the sharp corner of the kitchen counter directly in front of him.

WHAM.

His toe slammed into the sharp corner of the kitchen counter.

“Fuck,” he whispered, staggering back like he’d been shot.

You jumped, whipping around. “Oh, you’re awake.”

Jake blinked down at you from the other side of the kitchen, still cradling his busted toe like it was your fault. His hoodie was sliding off one shoulder, hair an absolute mess, socks mismatched.

Meanwhile, you?

Hair tied up like it was nothing. That stupid little dress swishing around your knees. Making breakfast.

It was almost offensive, really.

Jake narrowed his eyes. \Why did you look... annoyingly good this morning? Since when? Since when were you this pretty?

Damn, maybe you gave him a concussion.

You caught him staring.

“What?” you snapped, holding up the plate like it was a peace treaty you immediately regretted.

He blinked, snapped out of it. “What’s this?”

“Scrambled eggs. For you.”

“Pity eggs?”

You rolled your eyes. “Consider it hush money so I don’t have to keep looking at your tragic nose bruise.”

Jake hesitated. Then took the plate — fingers brushing yours just long enough to send something stupid and sparky down his spine.

Shut up, spine.

He cleared his throat. “You didn’t poison these, right?”

“Only emotionally,” you deadpanned. “Just like I do everything.”

Jake snorted under his breath — a sound halfway between disbelief and reluctant amusement.

But then, as you sat across from him, watching him eat like you weren’t the one responsible for his new villain origin story, you shifted awkwardly.

And Jake noticed.

Hard not to, when you were never this quiet.

“Look…” you started, voice forced like you were fighting every bit of your pride. “I was talking to Jungwon, and… maybe I’ve been giving you a hard time.”

Jake paused mid-chew.

Maybe?

“...You broke my face.”

You glared. “It’s not broken.”

He gestured wildly. “It could be. You’re not a doctor”

You exhaled sharply. “I’m just saying... maybe we could be, like, civil.”

“Are you sure you didn’t poison—”

“I didn’t fucking poison them, you rat.” Jake just stared at you, smug.

You cleared your throat, adjusting your tone like you hadn’t just threatened him with breakfast. “What I meant to say was… no. I didn’t poison them. If that’s what you were worried about.”

Jake watched you from the corner of his eye — the way your dress moved, the way your ponytail swayed.

“I just feel bad, okay?” you huffed, glaring at his very tragic, very dramatic face. “That big-ass bruise on your nose’s making eye contact with me.”

Jake froze. Instantly concerned.

“...Bruise?” he echoed, voice tight.

“Yeah.”

Like a man possessed, he snatched his phone off the counter, flipped to the front camera—

And the noise he made?

Somewhere between a gasp, a dying bird, and a full-on crime scene.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, horrified. “You ruined my face.”

You blinked. “I—”

“My beautiful fucking face!”

You winced. “That’s… a little dramatic.”

Jake spun around like you’d personally ended his modeling career, shoving the phone in your face. “Do you see this?! How am I supposed to show up to work tomorrow looking like I got body slammed by Dwayne Fucking Johnson?!”

You snorted. “You literally work in tech.”

“That’s not the point!”

“I’m pretty sure it is the point,” you deadpanned. “You’re not an idol, Jake. I’m sure the CEOs will survive your mildly distressed nose.”

Jake let out a pained groan, like you just didn’t understand the gravity of his suffering. “I have a presentation tomorrow!”

You raised a brow. “Okay... and?”

“A huge one!” he cried. “Multiple CEOs. Investors from all over the country. I’m supposed to look like I have my life together. Not like I got mauled by a vending machine!”

You shrugged, zero sympathy left in your body. “Can’t your boss… what’s his name again… Hee...Heesoo do it?”

“It’s Heeseung,” Jake bit out. “And he’s in Japan for a business trip.”

“Get someone else to do it.”

“I am someone else!” he exploded, pacing now like his nose was about to file a lawsuit.

A beat of silence.

You tilted your head slowly, casually, a little too calm for his liking.

“…What if I did it?”

“...What.”

“I could present it for you,” you said, crossing your arms, your smile inching into dangerous territory. “You wear a mask, pretend you’re sick. Cough a few times for realism. I’ll read your script. Boom. Problem solved.”

You turned back around, all casual, all dangerous. “Your pitch. I could do it.”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“Yeah, uh, no offense, Broadway, but the presentation is about app technology. Not jazz hands.”

You shrugged. “Fake it till you make it. Plus, I’m excellent at pretending I know things. Ask any of my professors.”

Jake stared at you.

Like you had absolutely lost your mind.

“You,” he said flatly, “want to stand in front of a room full of multi-millionaire investors... and pretend to know shit about app tech.”

You grinned. “Exactly.”

“That is—hands down—the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

“Thank you.”

“And also,” Jake added slowly, like it pained him to admit, “possibly... my only option.”

You shot finger guns at him.

You grinned like the menace you were. “Come on, Jake Sim. Admit it. You need me.”

“Fine,” he ground out. Like the word physically hurt coming out of his mouth. “But you’re getting a crash course in app tech in two hours. No complaining.”

You shrugged, breezy, unbothered. “Sounds painfully boring. Can’t wait.”

—-

The next day, Jake had already bolted out of the apartment like his hair was on fire while shouting, “The investors are here and they brought their lawyers! I gotta g–” and then he left.

Meanwhile, you?

You were still in the bathroom, casually putting on lip balm like you had all the time in the world. Because if you were about to scam your way through a tech presentation with nothing but sheer confidence and delusion — you were damn sure going to look like someone who belonged on a Forbes list.

Or, well... the clearance rack at H&M’s attempt at one.

Were you terrified of tech investors? Absolutely.

Were you about to march in there, smile pretty, and pretend you understood whatever the hell Jake had been mumbling about for the past 24 hours? Also absolutely.

Because if there was one thing you were good at — it was faking shit.

(And pissing Jake off. But that was practically a sport at this point.)

You strutted into Jake’s workplace like you owned the building. Or were seconds away from committing tax fraud in it. Either way — heels clicking, head high, shoulders squared like you’d been bred in the wild on sarcasm and petty confidence.

The lobby was ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Air that smelled like imported lemons and old money. A giant, abstract sculpture near the entrance that looked suspiciously like regret and cost more than your entire education.

Upstairs, Jake checked his watch for what had to be the fiftieth time.

You’re late. 5 minutes late.

His shirt collar felt like it was conspiring to choke him, and the mask he wore (to hide the bruise you gave him) felt less like protection and more like a visual reminder that he’d been punched in the face by you.

The elevator dinged. Jake didn’t even look up at first—he was too busy internally screaming about font sizes and silently mouthing his pitch like a deranged TED Talk speaker. But then the room shifted. The air changed. Like the universe hit slow-mo.

His gaze lifted. And there you were. Jake looked up. And promptly forgot how to function. Because there you were. Walking out of the elevator like you were starring in his worst nightmare — and maybe his daydream too. He wasn’t sure anymore.

Soft curls. Glossy lips. That dress. That damn dress — classy, simple, hugging you like it was personally invested in his suffering. The type of dress that shouldn’t have been this illegal in a workplace setting but was, somehow, devastatingly so.

Jake forgot how to breathe.

Because here was the thing about Jake Sim:

He’d seen you in every possible unflattering state known to mankind.

Screaming about printer ink like it committed tax fraud against you. Hair up in a bun so chaotic it looked like it had survived a natural disaster. Wearing the same hoodie for three days straight — his hoodie, he’d realized once, which only annoyed him more — eyes wild with caffeine and vengeance at 3AM because Spotify ads kept interrupting your study playlist.

And still — still — Jake had always kinda thought you were...pretty.

Annoyingly pretty.

The worst kind.

The kind of pretty that snuck up on you mid-argument or when you were mid-rant about detergent prices. The kind of pretty that didn’t need fixing or dressing up. Just...you.

But today? Today was different. You weren’t just pretty. You were dangerous.

His jaw clenched so hard he swore he heard a crack. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t even think.

It was like the floor had disappeared beneath him and someone had swapped out his organs with static. His heart had ditched the beat and gone straight to drum solo. His brain, normally quick, charming, obnoxiously cocky? Dead.

“You made it,” Jake said — and immediately regretted it, because holy shit, was that his voice? High. Cracked. Betrayed him completely like puberty had just swung back around for one last revenge tour.

“Yeah, well,” you hummed, throwing him a look and gesturing vaguely to the black mask covering the evidence of your sucker punch, “figured I owed you.”

Jake nodded. Or at least he thought he did. Hard to tell.

He decided to stay silent. Because God knows what would happen if he opened his mouth again? God help him — a full-blown Ed Sheeran love song might just crawl out.

So he didn’t. He just...stood there. Standing at the podium, you looked...ridiculous. Ridiculously good.

Like you didn’t just belong here — like you ran the place. Like you were here to pitch an app or recruit followers for a cult — and honestly? Jake wasn’t even sure which one. All he knew was… he’d probably sign up either way. No questions asked. No dignity left.

"Well, good morning, everyone,” you began, and even you were surprised by how calm you sounded.

Jake stood in the back, blinking at you like he’d never seen you before. You were charismatic. Smart. A little terrifying. And you had the entire room hanging on your every word.

Somewhere between “LinkedIn is dead” and “our algorithm is based on actual passions, not titles,” Jake realized something horrifying. You weren’t just pretending to be good at this. You were good at this. Confident. Sharp. Effortless.

His chest swelled — with what felt suspiciously like pride — until reality smacked him upside the head. This was the same girl who, just last night, sat cross-legged on his floor, staring blankly at his laptop and asked, with full sincerity:

"Wait… what does AI even stand for?"

Jake was still smiling like an idiot.

God, he hated to admit it — but you killed that presentation. Clean. Sharp. Smooth in a way that made him kind of want to brag about it like he trained you personally (he didn’t — he barely survived explaining what an API was to you without passing out).

A few came up to shake your hand — small talk, praise, the usual empty corporate fluff. Except no one really asked you questions. Not the tough ones, at least.

Right up until he caught movement at the edge of his vision.

Two guys. Tall. Sleek. Expensive haircuts that probably cost more than Jake’s entire outfit. Hovering. Too close. He squinted. Because they weren’t walking toward him. Nope.

They were walking toward you.

Grinning. Hovering. Talking with their hands like they were about to pitch you a deal or — god forbid — flirt. His eyes narrowed. You were still reeling from the high of the presentation, packing up your notes when a smooth voice cut through the air beside you.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” said Blondie. "Mr. Sim never mentioned someone so young... and pretty working in the App Tech department."

“Oh, uh, I’m new,” you said, hoping you didn’t sound as awkward as you felt. “Just joined.”

Blondie smiled, clearly not buying it. “New and already giving such an impressive presentation. I’d love to hear more about the algorithm sometime… maybe over dinner?”

You blinked again. Algorithm? Was that on Slide 7?

Before you could even form a response, a voice cut in like an unexpected thunderstorm.

“She’s booked.”

You turned just in time to see Jake—Jake—swoop into the scene like a knight in wrinkled business casual. His jaw was tight, eyes practically shooting daggers. And that mask? Somehow, it made him look even hotter. You were definitely going to need therapy to figure out why anger made him so ridiculously attractive. That was something for a professional to unpack.

“She’s what?” Blondie asked, blinking.

“Taken,” Jake said, his voice like cold steel. “I’m with her.”

Blondie’s eyes widened like he’d just been slapped with a fish. “Oh! I didn’t realize—”

Jake grabbed your hand and brought it up to his lips with a quick peck, way too casual for the situation. “Anyway,” Jake said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, “thanks for admiring my girlfriend. I, too, find her absolutely breathtaking.”

Blondie and his friend, practically evaporated under the weight of the awkwardness. They muttered quick goodbyes and slunk off, leaving you standing there, completely stunned.

“Girlfriend?” You stared at Jake, still holding your hand in his like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Jake leaned down slightly, his voice soft but pointed. “You’re welcome for saving you from that finance bro disaster. You looked like you were about to faint.”

“I was not,” you shot back, still flustered.

“You squeaked.” Jake smirked, his lips curling up in that annoying, irresistibly smug way of his. Your heart skipped a beat, but you shoved it down. He was being a jerk.

You crossed your arms, still confused by the whole situation. “You’re so weird. Why the hell would you do that?”

Jake shrugged casually, as if the whole thing had been no big deal. “Someone had to save you. I’m not letting some guy with a bad haircut flirt with you in front of me. It’s... inconvenient.”

"Inconvenient?" You stared at him, baffled. "What are you even—"

And then, like a slap to the face, it hit you.

He was jealous.

“No way,” you muttered, half-laughing. “Are you… actually jealous right now?”

Jake’s face flushed slightly, but he smirked, all smooth and defensive. "No, I just—"

You interrupted him, holding up your hand. "You are! Oh my god, you are jealous."

His eyes flickered briefly, like he was calculating his next move. “I am not. You're... imagining things.”

You leaned back slightly, giving him a teasing, incredulous look. “Right, because you not letting some guy get too close is just a totally normal response for someone you fucking despise.”

Jake paused, then looked at you with that intense, quiet stare, his expression unreadable for a moment. You felt a flicker of something in your chest, but before you could process it, he said, in a voice softer than you expected, “I don’t despise you.”

—

Jake sat across from you at the tiny grill table, doing his best to act like he didn't care that you were wearing what could only be described as the world's most unassuming dress. It wasn’t even remotely textbook "sexy." No slits, no plunging neckline, just a simple, casual thing that barely clung to you. Yet, somehow, you made it look like flawless.

You were just grilling meat, for crying out loud. Nothing remotely provocative about it. And yet, there Jake was, trying—and failing—to pretend he wasn’t completely losing his mind over it.

Then, disaster struck.

Jake’s grip on his chopsticks tightened, nearly snapping them in half. He could feel a vein pulsing in his temple. He didn't even realize he was glaring until the waiter noticed. And that’s when he realized something was very, very wrong with him.

You turned to Jake, blinking innocently. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Me?” Jake laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that wasn’t even remotely convincing. “Totally fine. Just making sure you’re not about to, y'know, set the whole table on fire.”

He shrugged off his jacket and—without thinking—slung it over your shoulders like his life depended on it.

“You look cold,” Jake muttered, trying to sound casual, but the effort was absolutely wasted.

“I’m sitting in front of an actual fire,” you pointed out, obviously not buying the excuse.

“Just take it,” he said through gritted teeth. He could feel his brain glitching as his fingers brushed against yours for half a second.

“You’re acting weird,” you muttered, clearly starting to suspect something was off. “Did you hit your head again today or…?”

“Just wear the damn thing.”

“Why?” you asked slowly, suspicious. “I’m not even cold.”

“It’s not for warmth,” he snapped, his voice tight with frustration.

You narrowed your eyes, not letting him off the hook. “So what’s it for?”

Jake leaned forward, dropping his voice to a near whisper like he was plotting a heist. “It’s... you're over there looking all... attractive, and the waiter’s looking at you like he wants to take you home. And I—” He paused and muttered, “I’m the one who invited you here, okay? So technically, you’re my dinner guest. And I just feel like you shouldn’t be—”

“Did you just call me attractive?”

Jake froze. For a split second, his mind went completely blank. He’d said it without even thinking, and now that the words were out there, the whole table seemed to get a little bit warmer, a little bit more suffocating.

“Uh—” He fumbled, trying to backpedal. “No! I didn’t—what I meant was—” He cleared his throat, awkwardly adjusting in his seat.

You stared at him, eyes wide. “Jake... you’re an awfully jealous person today.”

He froze. Blinked. And then launched into a performance so bad it was almost impressive. “Jealous? Me? Oh my god, that’s so cute. That’s actually hilarious. I’m not jealous. You? Of you? Pfft. I just... look, I just think it’s unhygienic for strangers to salivate this close to raw meat, alright?”

He avoided your gaze and took a big gulp of his drink, probably hoping it would give him some answers. “Also, that guy was undressing you with his eyes.”

You gave him a flat look, raising an eyebrow. "And your solution to a perv is to throw a jacket over me like I’m some fragile piece of art in a museum?”

Jake kept his cool, eyes still avoiding yours. “I could go beat him up if you want,” he offered, not-so-casually.

You snorted, leaning back in your chair, slipping your hands into the sleeves of the jacket he’d thrown over you. “You're an idiot.”

—-

The next time Jake found himself questioning the entire fabric of his reality, it was in the kitchen of your shared apartment.

A totally normal evening.

Except not really.

Because you were sitting across from him in nothing but an oversized T-shirt and a smile, and Jake was experiencing what scientists might classify as a complete psychological collapse.

He wasn’t even sure what the hell the conversation was about. Jungwon was laughing about something, maybe a dumb meme or a cursed group chat screenshot, and you were giggling so hard you smacked Jungwon’s arm and nearly knocked over your drink.

Jake didn’t laugh. Jake stared.

Because every time you moved, your stupidly oversized shirt rode up a little, and your bare legs—the ones he absolutely should not be noticing—taunted him like they were sent from hell specifically to test his willpower.

He hated it.

No, actually—he hated you. Yes. That was the correct narrative. He hated the way you always left passive-aggressive sticky notes on his leftovers ("These are MINE. I will KNOW if you eat one. By you I mean JAKE SIM."). He hated you when you reorganized his entire snack drawer by vibe. (“The spicy chips are angry. They go in the red bin.” What did that even MEAN?)

He hated that you chewed ice. That you used a ten-step skincare routine that monopolized the bathroom for thirty minutes every morning. That you once referred to him as “the reason I believe in selective mutism.”

And yet… he was currently staring at your thighs like they held the secret to inner peace.

Jake looked away, clenching his jaw. What the hell was happening to him? Was this a stroke? Had you poisoned his food?

The next time he went absolutely bonkers was a few days later. He had to pee.

He pushed the door open without knocking, because this was his house and he had…welll…he had the rights.

And then.

He saw you.

Half-naked.

In your bra and underwear, bent slightly over the sink, drying your shirt with a hairdryer.

His brain short-circuited like someone had poured water directly into his skull.

His gaze dropped—just for half a second, a reflex—and immediately locked on your bare legs, and oh god, he hated himself. He spun around so fast he almost slammed into the door.

“OH MY GOD—SORRY!” Jake yelped, one hand covering his eyes like he’d been hit with a solar flare. “You—why—WHAT—why didn’t you lock the door?!”

You blinked at him in the mirror and chuckled, totally unfazed. “Oh shit. I forgot to lock it.”

“What is wrong with you?!”

“Me? You walked in,” you pointed out.

“You left it unlocked!”

“You could’ve knocked!”

“I shouldn’t have to knock in my own apartment! What are you doing half-naked drying your shirt in here?!”

“I spilled soda on myself.” You replied, nonchalant.

“I’M THE VICTIM HERE,” Jake yelled dramatically, still not turning around. “I just wanted to pee and now I’ve seen your underwear! I’ll never recover from this!”

You laughed again, breathless. “Relax. It’s just a body. You’ve seen legs before.”

A long beat of silence passed.

Jake slowly turned his head just enough to peek at the wall. “Are you, um...decent now?”

“Yeah,” you said, tugging your damp shirt back over your head. “Crisis averted. You can resume your regularly scheduled hate.”

Jake turned around cautiously. You were grinning, cheeks slightly pink, shirt clinging a little, hair a mess—and somehow, it was worse. Way worse. Because even like this, maybe especially like this, you looked unfairly adorable.

He stared at you for one second too long.

“Jake,” you said, raising an eyebrow, “are you...blushing?”

“No,” he snapped immediately, brushing past you with all the grace of a man running from his feelings. “Now get out, I need to pee.”

As he shut the door behind him, you called out, “You’re welcome for the free show, by the way.”

Jake groaned.

Out loud.

Into the void.

He was never going to recover.

—-

It all started with what Jake would later refer to—dramatically and with full PTSD—as The Saturday Incident.

He had spent the entire day in bed, pretending to do work, but actually doing what could best be described as “vague laptop clicking” and “aggressively avoiding you.”

You were out in the living room, probably plotting new ways to rearrange the furniture or alphabetize the spices by vibe again. He wasn’t going to risk interaction. Not when his heart had started doing these strange, erratic flips every time you were near. It was disorienting, this fluttering sensation that kept taking him by surprise. Honestly, he didn’t appreciate it. Didn’t appreciate whatever the hell was happening in his chest, because he'd never felt like this before.

The thought crossed his mind—maybe he should go see a doctor for a cardiogram. Heeseung had laughed in his face when he mentioned it, as if the idea of it being a medical issue was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. Jake didn’t get what was so funny, though. All he knew was that every time you entered the room, his heart seemed to forget how to behave, and he wasn’t sure that was something anyone could just laugh off.

So he stayed hidden.

Until there was a knock.

“Jake?” Your voice came through the door—soft, almost... sweet?

He stared at the door like it had personally betrayed him.

“Jake?” you called again, this time with a tone that made his brain short-circuit just a little. He sighed like a man being forced into labor and got up, preparing for whatever minor chaos you were about to deliver.

He opened the door.

And immediately wished he hadn’t.

There you stood. In a dress—a glittery, stupidly pretty dress he had never seen before. The tag was still dangling from it, and for some reason, that made it worse. Like you were a gift waiting to be unwrapped and oh no what the hell, brain, stop right there.

His mouth went dry.

His knees? Unreliable.

You were—unfortunately—gorgeous.

“Can you help me?” you asked, turning around.

And that’s when he saw it. Your bare back.

Jake died a little. Right there in the doorway. He whispered, barely audible: “F-fuck.”

“Huh?” you looked over your shoulder.

“I said—sure! Sure, totally, yep,” he said, voice cracking like a 13-year-old boy seeing shoulders for the first time.

He reached for the zipper like it was made of lava. His fingers brushed your skin and he physically flinched.

“You busy with work?” you asked casually, like this wasn’t slowly killing him.

“Yeah. Working. Doing... business things. Graphs.” Nailed it. “Are you, uh, going out?” He zipped faster, praying for this moment to end and also never end, confusingly.

“Nope.” You turned back around, smiling. “I just got this dress and wanted to see if it fit.”

Jake stared at you like he was watching the heavens open. “Oh,” he said dumbly.

“Besides, I was bored.” You laughed, brushing past him like this was your room, and plopped yourself onto his bed like it was no big deal.

Jake blinked. “You can’t just—don’t just walk into my room!”

“What? You hiding something?”

“Yes!” he said, voice a little too high. “I mean—maybe. You don’t know my life.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Let me guess. Secret stash of R-rated movies?”

“What?! No!”

“Love letters? Hidden shrine of an ex?”

“Oh my god.”

“Wait—you have love letters?”

“I don’t have any! Why are you like this?!”

You grinned. “Hard to believe. You’re, like, suspiciously single.”

Jake scoffed. “Suspiciously?”

“Yeah. You’re cute in a grumpy, emotionally constipated way.”

He blinked. “Did you just call me cute?”

“I mean, when you’re not yelling about laundry socks and acting like you’ve never heard of coasters.”

Jake’s face flushed. His lips twitched. A smile was fighting its way out, and he hated that you were winning. “You’re so annoying.”

“I’m a delight.”

“You’re hell personified.”

“And you,” you said, leaning back onto his bed, “are blushing.”

“I am not.”

“Jake,” you said, eyes twinkling, “your ears are red.”

He turned away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Okay, but—hold on. Why are you in my room anyway? All dressed up, all dolled up, all pretty.”

You raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “Was that a compliment?”

“No.”

“You just listed three compliments,” you pointed out, your voice teasing.

“They weren’t compliments.”

“They sure seem like it.”

He stared at you—your ridiculous sparkle dress, your smug little smirk, the fact that you looked entirely too comfortable lying on his bed like you belonged there—and felt his heart do a full-body sigh.

Oh no.

He was in trouble.

Because he didn’t hate you at all.

—-

Jake had one goal tonight: get snacks, avoid feelings, don’t die.

He’d nearly made it to the kitchen—eyes forward, brain reciting his grocery list like a prayer—when he heard your voice.

“Jake?”

He froze like someone had hit pause on his life.

There you were, curled up on the couch with a blanket around your legs and a bowl of popcorn in your lap, looking... cozy. Cute. Normal. Like you weren’t the cause of 99% of his internal screaming today.

“Yeah?” he called over his shoulder, already bracing for disaster.

“Come watch this with me.”

Jake turned halfway, one hand still on the fridge. “What? No. Why would I wanna–”

You pouted. And he hated—hated—how fast his resolve crumbled at the sight of it.

“C’mon. Please? I’m lonely,” you said. “Jungwon’s not back for another hour.”

Jake audibly swallowed, “F–fine.”

Still, he sighed and walked over like a man approaching a guillotine.

He sat on the very edge of the couch, as far from you as possible. Like you might spontaneously explode and take him with you.

You blinked at him. “Why the fuck are you sitting miles away from me? I’m not gonna eat you.”

Jake’s ears went red so fast it was almost impressive. “I’m—just giving you space.”

You threw a popcorn kernel at him. “What, do I have cooties now?”

“No!” he blurted, then immediately regretted sounding like a panicked fifth grader. “I just thought—I mean, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You tilted your head, amused. “I thought we were pass our enemy phase and in the ‘I-only-hate-you-when-it’s-convenient-phase.”

His heart stopped.

Jake stared at you.

“We are! I just–”

You shook your head and patted the seat next to you. “Come on. You're so dramatic. Sit like a normal person.”

Jake, against his better judgment and every self-preservation instinct, scooted closer. A little. Then a little more.

You tossed the blanket over his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. “There. See? Not so scary.”

He sat stiffly under the blanket like it was radioactive, absolutely convinced he was going to die. His arm accidentally brushed yours and his brain lit up.

You leaned in slightly, focused on the screen.

Jake leaned back slightly, focused on not passing out.

And somewhere between the opening credits and the second kernel of popcorn you tossed at him “for flinching like a grandma,” Jake realized something horrifying.

He didn’t hate you.

At all.

And worse?

Instead, it was the absolute opposite. Maybe he liked you.

(Or had the biggest stinking fucking crush on you.)

Either way, these feelings were huge. And scary.

—-

Jake was fine.

Totally. Absolutely. 100% fine.

So what if he maybe thought about the way your shoulder brushed his during the movie? Or the fact that your laugh made his chest do weird twisty things? So what if you looked really cute in that dumb glittery dress and then even cuter in sweats and a bun with popcorn crumbs on your shirt?

He was fine.

No, he was lying. He was not.

Because Jake Sim didn’t do feelings.

Feelings were for wimps. For poets. For people with acoustic guitars and questionable Spotify Wrapped playlists. For people like Heeseung.

Not him.

Jake Sim was immune. Built different. Untouchable. Feelings? He left those at the door with his dignity and expired loyalty card points.

Which is why he was currently, aggressively, avoiding you like you were radioactive.

You walked into the kitchen? He walked out.

You tried to start a conversation? “I’m busy.” (He wasn’t.)

You reached for the chips? “Take it yourself.” (They were on the top shelf. You couldn’t reach. He still left.)

You asked if he wanted to hang out? “No thanks. Be alone. Bitch.” (He did not mean that. At all. And also whispered it when you were already out of earshot, afraid he’d hurt your feelings.)

He was strong. He was cold. He was emotionless steel wrapped in flannel.

Until—

“Jake?” you called from the hallway.

He glanced up from pretending to type on his laptop. “What?”

“Do you wanna go to the store with me? We’re all out of eggs.”

And like the absolute fraud he was, Jake—emotionless, avoidant, emotionally repressed Jake Sim—paused for 0.0000001 seconds before nodding.

“Yeah. Let me grab my shoes.”

Traitor.

He followed you out like a puppy who just got asked if he wanted a treat.

As you walked side by side through the aisles, Jake pushed the shopping cart like he was starring in the most generic romcom montage of all time, trying not to let his arm bump yours again because every time it did, his brain felt like it had just short-circuited.

But it was fine.

Totally fine.

He was definitely not thinking about holding your hand in the snack aisle.

Definitely not wondering if you'd let him try one of your gummies, even though he could buy his own.

Definitely not wondering if this was what it would feel like to be yours.

He wasn’t. He wasn’t thinking about any of that.

Nope.

Totally normal. Totally platonic.

He was so screwed.

It all started in the canned goods aisle. And honestly? Jake should’ve known the canned goods aisle brought nothing but bad luck. It happened in third grade when he tripped over his shoelace and fell into a container of perfectly aligned canned soups. It happened when he was trying to grab some mushroom soup for Jungwon when he was sick and ended up dropping the can right on his pinky toe, fracturing it.

And it’s happening again now.

You were just standing there, trying to decide between tomato basil and cream of mushroom, looking entirely too cute for someone who was making soup decisions. Meanwhile, Jake, trying to pretend he wasn’t watching you, was already making a mental list of things he could buy—anything to distract himself from his growing awareness that his brain was short-circuiting.

“Hey,” the guy said. “This might sound crazy, but... are you single?”

Jake turned his head so slowly you’d think someone had insulted his ancestors.

He was standing a few feet away, comparing granola bar sugar contents like a responsible adult, and now he was staring at this random man like he’d just asked to marry you in front of a priest.

You didn’t even seem fazed. You turned your head slightly, giving the guy the most nonchalant look, probably silently wondering if this guy had any idea how little he cared about his question.

Jake could feel the nerve in his temple twitch. The air between you and the guy became suffocating. Jake's hands flexed, holding onto the cart like it might need a good shove.

The guy, oblivious to the thunderstorm brewing a few feet away, “Just thought that you’re really cute, and I figured I’d ask.”

You blinked. “Oh! That’s—um—”

“She’s not,” Jake snapped, suddenly right there, standing next to you like he’d teleported in through sheer fury. “She’s very not single. Taken. Off the market. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.”

The guy blinked, taken aback. “Oh... are you two—”

“Together?” Jake interrupted, smiling like it physically hurt him. “Yeah. I’m her boyfriend.”

You glanced at him, his eyes glinting with that smirk of his. And then it hit you—he was playing this way too well. A little too well. You turned back to the guy, giving a dramatic gasp.

“Oh my God,” you said, suddenly faking an epiphany. “Babe, I didn’t even realize he was flirting. I was too busy thinking about how your hair looks so good today.”

Jake twitched.

You leaned into him with an exaggerated sigh, grabbing his hand like you were in some overly dramatic rom-com. “I’m so sorry. I’ll try to pay more attention when people are flirting with me. Would that be okay with you, my Jakey-wakey? My Jakey-kins? My love machine?”

Jake nearly choked on his own spit. “Okay. That’s enough.”

But you were on a roll. You turned to the stranger, practically glowing. “Isn’t he so cute when he’s protective? Ugh, he gets so territorial over me. It’s like his thing. Next thing I know, he’ll start growling and peeing in the aisles to mark me like his territory.”

Jake made a strangled sound, clearly regretting everything. “Please stop.”

You ignored him, fully leaning into the bit. “Honestly, I’m just waiting for him to pick out a leash for me next, y’know? Just to make sure everyone knows I’m his property.”

Jake made a strangled sound. “Please stop.”

You pressed your cheek to his shoulder. “Should we kiss?” You smiled, putting your arms around his shoulder.

And then, in what could only be described as a full-blown panic move, Jake spun around and ran.

Like, actually ran.

Through the snack aisle, dodging bags of chips and disgruntled shoppers, past the sample table, and out the store doors. It was as if he'd spotted an actual threat. You stared after him, holding his dignity in one hand and a can of soup in the other.

The stranger who had been casually eyeing you looked even more confused now, as if he’d witnessed a scene from a badly written TV sitcom.

You shrugged, trying to cover for the man who was now two aisles away, “My boyfriend can be a little bit crazy,” you muttered, laughing awkwardly as you began walking toward the door. You dropped the soup can on his foot. “See you!”

And without waiting for a response, you bolted out of the store after him.

“JAKE SIM, I’LL KILL YOU!” you yelled across the parking lot.

You found him pacing next to his car like a madman who’d just come to terms with the fact that he’d let his emotions spiral in public. His hands were in his hair, tugging like he was trying to physically yank his frustration out of his brain.

You marched up to him, heat rising in your chest, and the nerve to confront him. “Hey! You made me look like an idiot!”

Jake turned to face you, eyes wide, clearly surprised that you were actually following him. “You made yourself look like that!” he snapped, a slight edge in his voice.

“Oh, I wouldn’t have to if you stopped acting like my boyfriend around any man who approaches me!” You felt your hands on your hips, standing your ground like you were the queen of this absurd conversation.

Jake’s face froze, his brows furrowing in frustration. “You want freaks like him to approach you?”

“No?” you shot back. “But I’m perfectly capable of turning them down on my own.”

“I was just—” he began, floundering for a reason that was not his own mess.

“Was just what? Why do you keep doing this? Acting all weirdly jealous and protective!” you interrupted, genuinely curious now.

Jake exhaled, turning slowly, like the weight of this conversation was about to implode on him. His voice softened, his eyes wide, clearly caught off guard by your determination. “Because…” he started, his voice lower than usual, the words stumbling out like he was wrestling with a secret.

“Because what?”

He didn’t answer.

Just stood there—hands clenched, jaw tight, breath sharp.

Then suddenly—he dropped his arms like they weighed a ton. Like he couldn’t hold it in anymore. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a single, desperate step before spinning back around to face you.

“BECAUSE!” Jake shouted, his voice louder than he intended. Your eyes snapped open wide, caught completely off guard.

Jake kept going—words spilling, frantic. “Because I don’t know what this is—whatever the hell you’ve done to me—but I can’t think straight. I can’t breathe when you look at me like that and I haven’t felt like this ever and it’s—it’s messing me up.”

His hands went to his temples. “Like fuck…I think I might need therapy. Like, actual therapy. Because of you.”

The air between you cracked—silence stretching heavy and tight.

You stared at him, voice soft now. “I– did I do something wrong?”

Jake dropped his hands, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. His face twisted, like he hated even having feelings, like letting them out was burning him from the inside.

Then—quieter. Broken.

“No,” he said. “Fuck, no. Quite the opposite.”

You stood frozen. “What?”

He stepped closer, eyes wild, voice raw.

“I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me, okay?” Jake snapped. His voice cracked, raw and strained like it had been clawing at his throat for days.

“You walk into a room and suddenly I can’t think straight. I forget how to function. I forget what I’m doing. It’s like my entire brain short-circuits just because you looked in my direction.” He raked a hand through his hair, pacing in a tight circle like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts.

“You drive me crazy. You laugh at things that aren’t funny, and you talk like the world’s ending if you don’t say it all right now, and you never let anything go—ever—and it’s infuriating. It’s exhausting. You’re exhausting!”

He turned, pointing at you like you were the cause of every malfunction in his soul.

“I shouldn’t care if you’re cold. I shouldn’t want to punch every guy who looks at you for longer than five seconds. I shouldn’t feel like I’m being electrocuted every time you accidentally touch me. That’s not normal. That’s not me. I’m Jake fucking Sim for crying out loud!”

He paused, chest rising and falling, eyes burning into yours.

“I don’t even like people! I liked hating you! I was good at hating you! And now I can’t sleep and I can’t think and all I do is wonder what you’re doing and if you’re thinking about me too and I—”

He broke off, swallowing hard.

Then softer, hoarse:

“I don’t know what this is. But I think I’m losing my goddamn mind over you.”

You stood there. Blinking. Heart somewhere near your ankles.

Jake had just... exploded. Confessed? Kinda? In the most Jake way possible—by yelling about how much he hated that he didn’t hate you.

“…Okay,” you said slowly, like someone trying to defuse a bomb with zero training. “So, like... just to clarify… you’re not mad at me. You’re mad because you like me?”

Jake stared at you like he couldn’t believe that was your takeaway. Like you’d just handed him a banana when he asked for a pen.

“I just—like, not to make this about me,” you continued, hands half-lifted like you were talking to a wild raccoon, “but that was a lot of yelling and you kinda sounded like you were about to fight me and propose in the same breath.”

He groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Oh my god.”

You bit your lip. “So... um. Do you wanna kiss me or punch drywall? I just need to know what stage of emotional collapse we’re currently at.”

A beat.

“Like... if I lean in, am I getting kissed or concussed?”

He looked like he was seriously considering both.

You tried to smile. “I mean… thanks? For the mental breakdown, I think?”

He just blinked—still breathing like he’d sprinted through a breakup, a confession, and a public meltdown all in one afternoon.

Like he hadn’t decided yet whether to kiss you, cry, or walk into traffic.

Then, softer, you glanced up at him. Still unsure. Still trying to play it cool despite the fact that your heart was definitely trying to beat its way out of your chest.

“Like… I mean, I totally get why this would frustrate you,” you said, nodding seriously, like you were a therapist delivering a diagnosis. “Totally understandable. If I was going through what you were going through, maybe I’d be a little insane too. With, you know, healthier coping mechanisms, sure.”

Jake groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re talking too much. Do you like me or not?”

You blinked. “Wow. Okay. No trigger warning?”

“I’m at my limit.” Jake sighed.

“Yeah,” you said. “That’s… kind of obvious. You’re, like, one sentence away from combusting.”

Jake pointed at you like he couldn’t believe what was happening. “I—God, this is so embarrassing. Let’s just pretend this didn’t happen.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like you,” you muttered, looking away.

“You’re saying a whole lot of nothing,” he snapped.

You threw your hands up. “Well, I’m sorry I don’t have a perfectly rehearsed monologue ready! Some of us don’t process our feelings through public tantrums!”

Jake narrowed his eyes, “I yelled because I was panicking!”

“Well maybe don’t yell at someone who likes you, Jake!”

“You didn’t even say you liked me!”

“I was getting there!”

“You were stalling!”

“I was awkward!” you shrieked, pointing right back at him.

Jake threw his hands in the air. “Why are you the one acting like you just confessed your undying love through a full-blown breakdown?!”

A beat.

Silence.

Your faces? Bright red. Breathing like you just finished a cage match.

Then you exploded.

“FINE. YES. I LIKE YOU TOO, YOU PSYCHO!”

Jake froze. “You what now?”

You looked away, furious with yourself. “You heard me. I’m not repeating it. Take the win and choke on it.”

“That was the worst love confession I’ve ever received.”

You glared at him. “It wasn’t supposed to be one!”

“Well, it was horrible.”

“Yeah? Yours wasn’t exactly sonnet material either.”

You stared at each other. Still angry. Still flushed. Still… weirdly too close.

And somehow, despite all the yelling, all the sniping—

There was that thing in the air again. That pull.

Jake blinked. “...So are we dating now or what?”

You groaned. “Not like this, the fuck”

—-

The silence in the apartment was deafening.

Not literal silence—the kettle was whistling like it was being paid to, and someone’s phone was playing a YouTube video just loud enough to be irritating. But the emotional silence? The thick, suffocating, “we confessed our feelings and now we don’t know how to human anymore” kind of silence? Yeah, the two of you were losing it.

You were standing in the kitchen, arms folded, staring at the toaster like it had personally wronged you. Jake was sitting on the couch, holding a mug he wasn’t even drinking from, eyes glued to the television pretending to be absorbed.

Neither of you spoke.

The toaster clicked. You jumped like you’d been shot.

The two of you glanced at each other. You blinked at him. He blinked back.

Then immediately looked away, sipping his mug. The wrong end of the mug.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re drinking from the side with the tag still in it.”

“I like the taste of paper sometimes,” he said without looking at you.

You tried. “So... uh, did you sleep okay?”

Jake nodded way too fast. “Yeah. Great. You?”

“Fine.”

“Cool.”

You stared at each other for another five seconds.

Then, at the exact same time:

“So, what are you—” “Do you want—”

Silence again.

You turned back to the counter, flustered. “This is so weird.”

Jake exhaled sharply. “You think?”

You glanced at him. “Well, I’m not used to openly... liking you or being I guess civil.”

“You’ve done a great job hiding it,” he muttered.

You smirked, falling back on habit. “Well, I am cuter when I’m emotionally unavailable.”

“I think it’s scarier when you’re emotionally available.”

You turned, arms folded. “So what, you prefer when I threaten you with kitchen utensils?”

Jake shrugged, leaning against the counter like he wasn’t seconds away from combusting. “At least I knew where I stood.”

And that? That shut you up real quick.

Because you both knew—you’d just entered new, terrifying, heart-melty territory.

And neither of you had a clue what the hell to do next.

—-

There was a sock on the floor.

A sock. On the floor.

His sock.

White. Crumpled. Mocking you from the hallway.

Something inside you snapped.

“SIM JAEYUN!” you shrieked, the kind of full-volume yell that summoned the fury of every past version of you who’d ever tripped over that man’s laundry.

Jake’s door opened slowly, like even it was afraid of you. He peeked out. Hair messy. Shirt hanging loose. Clueless. Hot. You hated him.

“...Yeah?”

“HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU TO PICK UP YOUR SOCKS—”

“I—”

“You what? This isn’t the first fucking time–”

“Ah, fuck it.”

You didn’t get to finish.

Jake stepped out. Two fast, easy strides.

And he kissed you.

Hard.

His hand found the back of your neck, fingers pressing gently yet desperately, as if he’d been aching for this moment, pulling you closer with a sense of urgency that couldn’t be ignored. Without hesitation, his lips met yours—no gentleness, no grace—just raw, impulsive need.

The hallway blurred.

You gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound whole. His other hand gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him, like he needed your body to make sense of the chaos in his head. The kiss was hot and heavy, all teeth and tongue and emotion that neither of you had known what to do with until now.

Your hands clenched around the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him even closer, as if you were trying to tear the tension from his chest and claim it for yourself. Jake’s groan vibrated against your lips—low, desperate, and filled with something completely unrestrained. His hands dug into your waist, his grip tightening as if he couldn’t get enough of you. And then, with a sudden shift, he moved—forward, desperate, no longer willing to hold back.

In one swift, breathless motion, Jake pressed you against the wall, his body caging you in with just enough force to knock the air from your lungs. His hand gently cradled your jaw while the other slid down to catch your wrist, his fingers locking with yours as if the touch was a lifeline, something he couldn’t let go of even if he tried.

You gasped, the back of your head colliding softly with the wall, and Jake swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss like he was trying to consume you whole. The kiss turned hotter, more frantic—lips pulling, chasing, moving with an intensity that had been building for weeks and was now unleashed all at once.

Then, you squeezed his hand. Hard. Your body trembled with the force of it, like you needed something to hold onto before you lost yourself. And Jake felt it—felt the desperation in your touch. Without hesitation, he squeezed back, his thumb brushing over yours as he refused to let go.

For half a second, his forehead rested against yours, both of you gasping for air, and neither of you willing to pull away.

You blinked up at him, your mind still spinning from the kiss, disoriented.

“…I’ll pick it up,” you whispered, your voice softer than you intended. “The socks.”

You bent down, still avoiding his gaze, grabbing the sock off the floor. “Just... just put it nicely next time.”

You turned and walked back into your room, your legs unsteady as if they could no longer hold you together.

Jake stood in the hallway, frozen, his heart racing, his mind completely blank. He gripped the wall beside him like it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. But it did. And now, he had no idea what to do with it.

—-

Jake hadn’t screamed your name like that since the glitter explosion 2 months back.

“WHERE’S MY RED FOLDER?!” he bellowed.

Before you could even think of a way out of this—or how to hide under the floorboards—Jake barged into your room. Hair still wet from the shower. His shirt hanging half-buttoned, like he’d walked straight out of a webtoon. Fuck, he was sexy. Not the time though because you were sure you were about to get beaten up.

He slammed the door open so hard that it bounced back off the wall with a sickening thud.

You gave him a nervous smile, your best attempt at pretending you weren’t about to die. “Don’t be mad…”

Jake’s voice dropped to a dangerous growl. “What did you do?”

“I… might’ve thought it was old,” you said, wincing at the honesty in your voice. “So I kinda... threw it away?”

Jake’s body went rigid. His eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“You what?!”

“I—” You stammered, hands raised defensively. “I swear it looked all crumply, all old and–and–and ruined!”

Jake stepped forward, eyes burning with anger. You could feel the heat of his fury radiating off of him—jaw clenched, fists tight by his sides, like he was about to explode. You knew this look. It was like he was one wrong move away from detonating.

And just when you thought the situation couldn’t get worse, you did the only thing you could think of.

You threw yourself at him.

Your hands grabbed his shirt, and before he could even get a word out, you yanked him down, your lips slamming into his with the force of a thousand thunderstorms. It was hard, urgent—so intense, so sudden, that it instantly shut him up.

Jake froze for a split second, like you’d short-circuited his brain, and then, just like that—he kissed you back. No hesitation. No holding back. You were already moving, pushing him backwards, your arms locked around his neck, drawing him closer, deeper. His lips tasted like desperation, like need, and it was all consuming.

You kissed him with everything you had, no holding back. No gentleness. Just the kind of hunger that had been building up between you two for far too long. Your lips moved together, fast, messy, and you felt him press into you, desperate to keep up. Every part of you wanted him—wanted him to feel the frustration, the desire, the rage that had been bubbling under the surface for weeks.

Jake groaned into your mouth, his grip on your waist tightening. You kissed him harder, faster, pressing him back against the wall until he was pinned, his breath ragged as you both gasped for air.

His hands found your thighs and, without a word, you jumped. Legs wrapping around his waist, you felt him catch you effortlessly, your bodies moving as one.

Then, with a sharp turn, he slammed you against the nearest wall, his lips never leaving yours. The kiss was relentless, like he was starving, like he needed to make you feel every part of him, every inch of his desire. His grip on your waist was bruising, possessive, and you responded in kind, tugging at his hair, pulling him closer.

Your mouths collided, chasing each other, moving too fast, too clumsily.

Jake pulled back only when you both couldn’t breathe anymore. Your foreheads rested together, breaths uneven, eyes wild and hungry.

He looked you over once, placed you back down on the floor, his expression unreadable, and then muttered, “...I’ll just rewrite it.”

And before you could process it, before you could say a word, he was gone. Leaving you breathless, in your own room, utterly wrecked—staring at the spot where he'd just completely destroyed every last bit of control you had.

—-

You were standing in the kitchen, Jake was at the sink, and the tension was so thick you could practically slice it with a knife.

“I don’t understand why you would move the dishes,” Jake snapped, gesturing like you’d committed an actual war crime. “I have a system.”

“You have no system,” you shot back, holding a spatula like a sword. “You just shove stuff in and pray the dishwasher works it out like divine intervention.”

“It does work it out!”

“Really? Because last week you melted a Tupperware lid onto a knife.”

“That was ONE TIME—”

You threw the dish towel down. “You’re such a control freak.”

Jake turned, dripping wet hands mid-air. “You alphabetized the seasoning rack. By aesthetic. I had to Google what "sage green" looked like.”

You huffed. “It’s about visual peace, Jake!”

He took a step closer. “You know what’s not peaceful? Living with a freak who organizes our spices!”

You stepped toward him, eyes locked, breathing hard. “Well you know what’s not sexy? Whining about spice jars!”

“Funny,” Jake growled, now chest to chest with you, “because I still want to kiss you right now.”

You both froze.

You were both holding something—him, a mug. You, a spatula. Neither of you blinked.

Then—at the exact same time—you both dropped them.

Clatter.

And lunged.

You collided in the middle of the kitchen, your mouths crashing together, the kiss so intense and fiery it felt like it could set the room on fire. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you into him like he couldn’t get close enough. You fisted your hands in his shirt, yanking him even closer, until there was nothing between you but shared breaths and weeks of pent-up frustration.

His kiss was desperate, furious, like he hated how much he wanted it, and yet couldn’t stop. Your lips moved together, teeth clashing, and you met his passion with equal intensity—biting his lip, tilting your head, the quiet sigh you let out making him groan into your mouth.

You were both angry, breathless, and so far gone you didn’t even care.

When you finally pulled apart, your noses brushing, your lips swollen and tingling, you both just stared at each other. Your hearts pounded.

Then, at the exact same time, you both asked, “...Are we boyfriend and girlfriend or what?”

There was a moment of silence, and then Jake pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, and then your neck, before pulling back with that signature smirk.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I think we are.”

You grabbed the front of his shirt, yanked him back down, and kissed him again.

“Good. Now shut up and kiss me.”

Jake groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding to your back, pulling you even closer.

“God, I’m so in love with you, it’s actually disgusting,” he muttered, his voice full of both frustration and affection.

And for once, you couldn’t agree more.

—---

It was your first official date.

Like—an actual, real, human-first-date. No yelling. No post-argument makeouts. Just food. Chairs. Maybe eye contact if you were feeling brave.

You’d been dating for three days.

Which, so far, had consisted of:

Yelling at each other.

Making out.

Rolling your eyes at each other.

Making out again. Repeat steps 1–4.

Three days of chaotic tension. Of brushing shoulders in the hallway and pretending it didn’t set your whole body on fire. Of accidentally calling him “babe” and then gaslighting him into thinking he misheard you. Of Jungwon asking the two of you to shut up and stop arguing in the middle of the night. You weren’t arguing.

Three days of sharing the sink like civilized people, brushing your teeth side by side, totally normal, totally casual—totally not internally spiraling over the fact that your former arch-nemesis was now your boyfriend.

And then there were the quiet moments.

Like this morning, when you walked into the kitchen to find him already making coffee. He handed you a mug—black, just the way you liked it—and pretended he didn’t notice the way your fingers brushed.

You stared at it.

“What?” he said, avoiding eye contact. “I’m not a monster.”

You took a sip. “So you’re being nice to me now?”

Jake shrugged. “Don’t get used to it. I just don’t want to date someone who’s chronically dehydrated.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re worried about my water intake while you eat chips for breakfast.”

“Those chips had lime on them,” he said. “That’s vitamin C.”

Still, later that day, he also handed you a granola bar before you left the house. No comment. Just tossed it at your head with alarming accuracy and walked away.

And that was your boyfriend.

You, of course, were no better.

Like last night, when you walked past his room and saw him still hunched over his desk, blue light glowing off his face, glasses crooked, typing like he was trying to physically punch a thesis into existence.

You didn’t say anything.

Just stood there in the doorway for a second, watching the way his brows were furrowed in that hyper-focused, very-stupid, very-Jake way.

Then you glanced at the time. No dishes in the sink. Nothing in the trash.

He hadn’t eaten all day.

You scowled, muttered something about “men and their lack of survival instincts,” and turned straight into the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later, you dropped a steaming bowl of his favorite ramen next to his laptop without saying a word.

Jake blinked up at you. “Did you—?”

You didn’t look at him. “Don’t pass out. It’ll be annoying to carry your unconscious body.”

Then you left.

Fast.

Too fast for him to say thank you. Too fast for him to see the way your lips twitched just slightly at the corners.

And then…

The next day, you were minding your business, scrolling on your phone, sprawled on the couch like the world owed you peace, when Jake casually walked in and dropped himself beside you—close, but not too close.

He cleared his throat once. Then again. Dramatically.

You glanced at him. “Are you dying?”

“Not today,” he said. Then added, without looking at you, “Wanna hang out tonight?”

You blinked. “Out where?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Somewhere with food. Lighting. Chairs. That’s usually what dates have, right?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Was that you asking me out?”

Jake didn’t flinch. Just sipped his drink. “Depends. You gonna say yes?”

You stared at him for a long beat.

He stared at the wall like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

Then, you smirked. “Only if you promise not to talk about tech stuff the whole time.”

Jake raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into a grin. “If you’re lucky, I’ll limit myself to only mentioning API twice before dessert.”

You squinted. “You’re really bad at this whole romance thing, aren’t you?”

He grinned back, impossibly confident. “And yet, here you are. Saying yes anyway.”

You rolled your eyes, your lips threatening to betray you with a smile. “Yeah, well, I make questionable decisions sometimes.”

Jake nudged your knee with his, grinning like he’d just won a gold medal. “You’re about to make another one. I’m picking you up at seven.”

You crossed your arms, trying to look unimpressed. “We live together.”

Jake leaned back, completely unbothered. “So? I can’t be romantic?”

You didn’t argue.

God help you.

You were kind of excited.

—-

This was your first date.

And you were spiraling.

You had changed your outfit three times. Reapplied your lip balm five. Stood in front of the mirror giving yourself a pep talk like you were about to go on national television.

Jake was downstairs.

Wearing cologne and Jake never wore cologne.

When you finally met him outside, Jake blinked at you like you'd just materialized from a dream. His eyes widened, then quickly darted away, as if he could avoid the full force of your impact.

“You clean up okay,” you teased, trying not to smile too wide.

He opened his mouth, clearly trying to recover, but it came out wrong. “You look... pretty.” He froze, his face turning a shade of red that should’ve been illegal. Then he scrambled, “I mean, uh, shitty.”

“I heard you the first time, Jake,” you said, tapping his face lightly, almost affectionately. “So do you.”

—-

“Stop stealing my fries.”

“I’m not stealing. I’m redistributing.”

“Stop that! It’s not my fault I ordered curly fries and you got regular fries.”

“And I regret it. Let me live.”

You were about to launch into a full rant about Food Boundaries when your foot brushed his under the table. Then his knee. Then his thigh.

Neither of you moved.

And then—like gravity just snapped—you were both leaning over the table. French fries abandoned. Eyes locked. Breaths syncing. Heat crawling up your neck.

Jake reached out, brushed a hair from your cheek, his fingers lingering just a second too long.

You stared at his lips. He stared at yours.

Oh, you were so going to kiss in this grimy diner booth, and it was going to be beautiful and stupid and you didn’t even care.

And then—

“Well, well, well.”

You both froze.

Standing next to the table, milkshake in hand, eyes wide with the smuggest expression on Earth: Jungwon.

Jake sat up like someone just caught him cheating on a test.

You blinked. “Jungwon! Hi! What a surprise!”

Jungwon glanced between the two of you. The blushing. The weird knee situation. The shared fries. The vibes.

He sighed, long and dramatic.

Then took a sip of his milkshake and said—

“Fuck. Now I gotta move out.”

And with that, he turned and walked away.

Jake looked stunned. You stared after Jungwon in horror.

“Do you think he’s gonna tell everyone?” you whispered.

At that exact moment, both your phones buzzed in unison—a notification from Jungwon’s Instagram, tagging both you and Jake.

“That answers our question.” Jake replied.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

And under the flickering diner lights, knees still touching under the table, Jake reached across and laced his fingers through yours.He glanced at your intertwined hands, then at your face.

“God. I think I actually really like you.” he muttered, like it physically pained him.

You didn’t even blink.

“I hope the fuck you do. I’m literally your girlfriend.”

Jake groaned, slumping back into the booth like you just personally ruined him.

“This is so humiliating.”

You grinned, squeezing his hand.

“Yeah. For you.”

#jake sim x you #jake sim fanfic #jake sim fluff #jake sim imagines #jake sim x reader #jake enhypen #enhypen x reader #enhypen jake #enhypen scenarios #enhypen imagines #jake sim oneshots #jake sim fic #jake sim ff #sim jaeyun x reader #sim jaeyun x you #sim jaeyun x y/n #jake sim x oc #jake sim scenarios

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piracytheorist · 9 months ago

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Idk I just really like that Twilight's reaction to being told "Your wife used to be a prostitute!" is to go like

and proceed to say how honourable and worthy of respect her dedication, self-sacrifice and mental fortitude are, and how we're shown he actually means that.

And then my girl Yor sees his reaction and hears his words and for the first time in her life she goes like "This is a man who literally just met me and has no connection to me yet he not only understands my position, he's also willing to bring himself out there and have my back when other people have free bait to judge me" and like damn how important that was to her, to have someone (who doesn't owe his survival to her like Yuri does) actually see her and respect her choices and have the absolute BEST of faiths in her. Like, what Camilla says there has the societal power to make her look like a pariah. Yet this dude comes over and without knowing anything about her, he vouches for her and immediately assumes her reasons were noble and altruistic. And though he doesn't know what profession he's actually vouching for, he's completely right in his assumption about her intentions, and considering how easily the general public judges sex workers, it's no surprise this support gives Yor the courage to believe Loid will understand her and won't think bad of her if she ever disappears on them due to her work, because he's open-minded enough for his first and immediate assumption about her is that she has good intentions.

And I just wanna SCREAM because she has absolutely no idea how little he will judge her about her assassin gig. She already considers herself lucky she's come across someone who is compassionate enough to think the best out of someone who works in a profession that is not considered "morally acceptable" by the public. But she has no idea the actual jackpot she's hit, because his own profession is far more dark and sinister yet he still has the kindness and empathy in his heart to understand people who do the same as he does.

Like, that's it with her character, isn't it? She sacrificed her own youth and morality to help Yuri grow up and be educated, and that caused him to idolize her, and because he was the only family she had left, she has been desperate to not cause any of her ties with him to break. But it also caused her impostor syndrome, and she had no confidence in any of her abilities aside from killing and cleaning up after her work, because she lives in a misogynistic society that is suspicious of unmarried women (like, that judgment alone, considering unmarried men don't experience such scrutiny, can be enough to damage a woman's psyche) and because she has been working under a man cruel enough to hire orphaned teenagers as assassins and nearly kill them in tests of their abilities ever since she was a teenager. For her it was either "I'm either perfect in something or I'm completely useless and I deserve people's judgment". Because if Yuri sees she doesn't have the perfect record, she thinks he will be horrified and she'll lose the ties to her last remaining family. And she will think she deserved that. If her killing skills waver in the slightest, she will be killed, either by enemies or by the Shopkeeper doing his little "tests". And she will think she deserved that. And if she doesn't abide by the society's expectations, she will at best be judged and mocked (for not cooking at home) and at worst get arrested (for being suspected as a spy). And she will think she deserved that.

Yet again, this stranger comes along, is told she's worked a socially shameful profession, knows she's shy and with so few connections that she can't even find someone to act as her pretend boyfriend for a party, and he supports her. And then he finds out how socially unskilled she is, how terrible she is at cooking, how she can't even pretend to kiss him for their mutual benefit, how she has the tendency to get so drunk she accidentally kicks him unconscious... And those things that she considers fatal flaws of her, he says are parts of her that she doesn't need to pretend don't exist. That's who she is, and there's nothing to fix, and she can just accept them without feeling bad or ashamed of it, that pretending she's someone else, someone perfect, will only make her miserable and exhausted.

And like... fuck. How can she not feel glad she got to marry that guy?

And how much will her heart break when she finds out he's a spy and will immediately doubt all the supportive words he's told her? And how astonishing will it be when she finds out that he actually meant pretty much everything he's told her, and that he really resonates with her and believes in her?

(anime only here, don't spoil me for the manga)

#Spy x Family #sxf meta #Yor Forger #twiyor #500 #1k #2k #3k #4k #5k

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the-raindeer-king · 23 days ago

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(anxious reader x roommate Simon Riley)

It’s always been a thing with you: men that are strangers make you nervous. Being around men makes your anxiety ramp up, and you do your best to avoid them if you can. You hated the way your previous roommate would bring random men home without warning, scurrying to the safety of your bedroom when you caught sight of these hookups alone in the kitchen.

Which makes your current living situation so incredibly difficult.

It hadn’t been an easy decision, choosing to move in with Simon Riley. A man. A stranger. But money had been tight, and the amount he wanted for rent had been far cheaper than your current situation. Plus he had said he’s out most of the time due to work, and that you’d have the apartment to yourself for weeks on end.

Which is true. Sometimes it’s just a few weeks. Sometimes it’s for months. It’s blissful and quiet, having the entire apartment to yourself, not a single worry in your mind.

But it’s the weeks that he is home, that he’s physically in the apartment, that make you second guess the choice to put your name on the lease. Just seeing him has your heart dropping to your stomach, blood rushing in your ears until you scramble back to your room, hiding behind a locked door.

Simon has the right to be in the apartment, of course. It was his before it was yours, but if you’re being honest with yourself, if not for the cheap rent, you would’ve moved out months ago. Hell, you probably would’ve never agreed to move in.

Of course, none of that matters right now. Simon’s deployed, shipped off half way across the world, and you’ve got the whole apartment to yourself right now. Horror movie on the tv, curled up on the couch with a blanket and a stuffed animal, a coloring book on your lap - you’re having a wonderful time all by yourself. That is, until the front door opens.

You’re so engrossed in coloring that you don’t hear it. Lost in your own world, until you hear footsteps in the foyer, and a voice, rough but not entirely foreign calls out your name. Your heart stops in your chest as he rounds the corner, eye black still streaked around his hazel eyes, hair grown out since you last saw him.

“Simon,” you choke his name out like it physically pains you.

His lips curl upwards in the ghost of a smile, and then he’s moving further into the apartment. Panic grips you for a moment, convinced he’s coming closer to you, before he’s moving down the hallway, disappearing into his room. You hear him exit a few moments later, before moving to the bathroom, and then the shower turns on, water rushing through the pipes in the walls in a sound that should be soothing, but it isn’t. It only serves as a reminder that there is someone else inside your apartment.

Part of you feels like this shouldn’t be a problem anymore. You’ve lived with Simon for nearly two years now! He’s your roommate! But… he’s almost never around, gone off to some war-torn country, away more than he is home, and he feels more like a stranger than a constant figure in your life. Which makes it hard to feel comfortable around him.

You’re back in your room by the time he exits the bathroom, much to Simon’s dismay.

He’d been hoping to talk to you. Not to outright confront your behavior, but to ask if there was anything he could do to make you feel more at ease around him. Because, while he knows it has nothing to outright do with him, it’s killing him to see the way you tense up around him. Reminds him of his childhood, of things he’d much rather forget, and he wants to nip this problem in the bud as soon as possible.

It’s why he stayed on base, forced himself to sleep in the barracks for a week, despite being home. That time had been needed to decompress, and to try to figure out how to break this nasty habit of yours.

Maybe he should’ve gone to Price, asked the old man for advice. But that requires too many personal questions, admission to things that Simon’s not ready to face yet. Besides, Price’s been divorced at least twice now, and while Simon looks up to the captain, he’s not sure that he trusts him with this kind of problem.

Sure, he could’ve asked Gaz. But the sergeant is a horrible gossip, and rumors of the infamous Ghost having trouble with a bird off base is the last thing Simon needs right now.

And asking Johnny is absolutely out of the question. Not only is he just as bad a gossip as Gaz, he’s also a terrible flirt, and that’s not the kind of approach that Simon needs to take in this.

As soon as he’s gotten dressed, towel slung over his shoulder, nerves braced like he’s approaching a bomb, he makes his way to your room, knocking gently on the door. A pause, and then he calls softly, “Luvie?”

Debating between knocking again or calling it quits, Simon’s just about to let the latter win, when the door creaks open, revealing you. Staring up at him with wide, nervous eyes, hands fidgeting with the sleeves of your hoodie, intentionally oversized and swallowing you whole. Fuck, you’re so cute, and you seem to have no idea.

He’s fucked up before he’s even began, watching the way you stiffen up as he says, “We need to talk.” It makes him want to take the words back, rewind time and steal the sentence from his own brain. Instead, he pushes forward, ready for this to be done and over with.

“You’re… allowed to exist. Here. Don’t have to go running every time I’m home,” he continues, waving a hand in the air.

You stare up at him, blinking slowly, before lifting your hand to your mouth, nervously chewing on your fingernail. The only reaction he gets, the only thing that tells him that you’ve heard him is a soft, almost inaudible, “Oh.”

“I just…” he shrugs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. This type of thing has never been Simon’s forte. Give him a gun and a target, and he’ll get the job done. But talking about his feelings? Trying to be soft when the world has left him with nothing but jagged edges? Yikes.

“If I can do anything to… help, I guess, just let me know,” he continues.

It takes a moment before you respond, smiling shyly at him. Because even if you don’t know Simon all that well, you can tell he’s trying, and the thought puts you a little at ease, even when his general presence makes you clam up.

“Okay,” you reply softly, before quickly adding, “Thanks.”

***

It takes two weeks before any shift in behavior seems to actually take place. You’re still flighty around the brickhouse that you call a roommate, and he’s giving you space to sort yourself out. At his core, Simon is a patient man. He has to be in his line of work. Even if it’s killing him to see you so close and yet so far away at the same time.

He’s in the living room, half paying attention to the movie on the TV as he thinks about… well, as he thinks about you, trying desperately to come up with some kind of plan to help you feel more comfortable around him. Simon’s so lost in thought that he almost doesn’t register you tiptoeing into the living room, blanket wrapped around you like some kind of shield.

As if he could ever not notice you.

When you first moved in, you’d bought this chair, this big circle chair that Simon never thought looked all that comfortable. In his opinion, it looked more like a satellite dish than a chair, not that he’d ever tell you that. But now? Seeing the way you curl up inside, letting out a soft sigh of content, Simon decides that it must be the most comfortable chair in existence.

This is a big move for your relationship with your roommate, and Simon doesn’t comment on it. As far as you can tell, he doesn’t even seem to register your presence in the room. Something that can’t be any farther from the truth.

Unbeknownst to you, Simon’s acutely aware of your presence, always keeping an eye or ear on you. You remind him of a hurt animal, wary and cautious, and if he comments on you joining him, he knows you’ll leave. And that’s the last thing he wants. So he sits almost inhumanly still, careful not to breathe too loud, for the remainder of the movie, paying more attention to you than to the film; watching the way your body relaxes as you get comfortable, the way you snort through your nose at something funny. His eyes snap to the tv when you turn to glance his way, far less subtle with your staring at him.

Part of Simon wonders what you see when you look at him. A man? A soldier? Your roommate? Potentially something more? The last thought has been worming its way into his brain for the last few months now, and he’s given up on shaking it off. But you’re not ready for that kind of admission, and Simon’s more than willing to wait for you.

***

It’s almost painstakingly slow, the progress in your relationship between you and Simon. But it seems to be improving, little by little. You’re willingly spending time in the living room with him, and at least once a week, you have dinner together. And Simon’s ecstatic by the improvement. You still tense up when he first gets home, but it’s the way your shoulders relax when you realize it’s him that feels like a victory.

Honestly, everything feels like a victory, and it’s taking everything that he’s ever learned to stop Simon from scooping you into his arms. For now, he’ll take the shy smiles, the way your eyes light up, the sight of you relaxed on the other end of the couch. But if he could have it his way?

He’d kiss you senseless. Pull you into his lap during movie night, and let you hide your face against his chest when the movie gets too sad. Carry you to bed when you fall asleep in the living room and keep you tucked against him all night long. But he can’t do any of that. Not right now.

The next shift in your relationship with Simon happens a few weeks after the first one. Things have been moving along just fine. He’s been home more than usual, giving you plenty of time to get gradually used to his presence.

“You’ve been home for a while,” you comment, curled up in your chair. There’s a coloring book in your lap, but you haven’t touched it, consumed by the show you’re watching and talking with Simon.

“Yeah, the last deployment was a nightmare,” he replies cautiously. You’ve gotten a little better at reading Simon, and you can see the tension in his shoulders. What you don’t know is that one of the guys on his team had been injured, and it had been Simon who carried him out.

“Oh,” you reply quietly, knowing better than to push. You might not know everything about what Simon does, but you know enough to know that it’s not easy and that some of it haunts him afterwards. Afterall, the walls of the apartment are pretty thin and there have been plenty of nights that you’ve been woken up due to one of Simon’s nightmares. Not that you’d ever say something about it.

“Be out of your hair next week,” he adds nonchalantly, draping an arm over the back of the couch. Your eyes follow the movement, watching the way his muscles flex, following the curves of his tattoo, before his words sink in.

He’ll be gone again next week.

A thought that once brought you peace, only fills you with anxiety. You can’t quite place why dread fills your heart, painful in your chest. Maybe it’s because you’ve come to enjoy Simon’s presence, a calm constant over these last few weeks. It feels weird, knowing that come next week, he won’t be here, won’t be in his spot on the couch for movie night, won’t be snorting at your poor attempt at comedy.

The only thing you can think to respond with is a soft, “Oh.”

Simon stares at you for a moment, giving you time to continue, but there’s nothing else you can think to say. Not when worry and dread have filled your heart and head. You look away from him, chewing nervously on your bottom lip. And Simon - endlessly patient Simon - doesn’t push you either.

“Don’t seem so excited,” he jokes, amusement creeping into his voice.

You huff, looking back over at him with the ghost of a smile on your face. “Don’t be an ass,” you shoot back.

He grins in response, glad you’re not completely lost in whatever anxious spiral your brain is trying to send you down. “Thought you liked it when I was gone,” he replies. Not an accusation, but more of a casual comment, something you both know used to be true but might not be anymore.

“I do like being alone,” you agree, and then hesitant - shy, sweetly, absolutely adorably - you admit softly, “But I like your company.”

Fuck. Simon could die a happy man, right then and there, heart swelling in his chest, and if he wasn’t so in control of himself, he’d be grinning from ear to ear. Instead, he keeps it calm and collected, cool as a cucumber, as he replies, “I like yours too.”

Prt 2

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley fluff #y'all this man is YEARNING we gotta put him out of his misery lmao (i say as the one who wrote this LMAAOOOO)#my writing

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healmydesires · 24 days ago

Text

cause I’m cool on my own. but it’s warmer in your arms ꕤ jinu

part two + other parts here

pairing: jinu x fem!angel reader

summary: Jinu never believed in angels, has his world turned upside down when he spots a breathtakingly beautiful girl. But before he can speak to her, she’s already gone. When fate brings them together again, he discovers she's an angel who was raised to fear demons like him, yet they're both drawn to each other with an inexplicable pull that feels like coming home.

genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)

word count: 16,808 (almost 17k bye I need help)

warnings/tags: demon x angel trope, strangers to lovers, forbidden love, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, shy!reader, reader is described as shorter than jinu, meet cute!, emotional!reader, miscommunication. reader saves jinu <3 (no death) but gwi-ma goes down! love confessions. soulmates. corruption kinda? but it’s so sweet. UGH. inexperienced/virgin!reader, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom jinu, ok… just in overall bye, jinu is soft for reader, sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, consent king? hell yes. overstimulation, major size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, oral fixation. breeding kink aaaaa sorry. body worship kinda. one time use of “daddy” I AM SO SORRY. lots of pet names. this is high key sweet and soft and then turns filthy. jinu is worshipping his angel ok! aftercare. reader has hair, no further description though. this is not beta read sorry!

a/n: OH GOD! finally! I am so excited to share this with the world. I love this story sm. so self indulgent. I think this might be oc? or a bit more soft? idk. the timeline of the movie isn’t totally the same as what I’m writing. I absolutely loved this story and the aftercare scene means the world to me. also english isn’t my first language so bear with me. but either way I love this. I hope you enjoy!!! 🩷🥰

this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3

AO3 • masterlist

Angels were never something Jinu believed in. He couldn't fathom their existence in this reality—the world felt too chaotic, too broken for such pure beings to exist. The idea seemed like wishful thinking, nothing more than fairy tales meant to comfort the naive.

But as he waited for his usual order at the small coffee shop tucked away on the corner of the busy streets of Seoul, Jinu realised he had been wrong all along.

There, standing so gracefully in line, was the most breathtakingly beautiful girl he swears he’d ever laid eyes on. You gazed up at the menu boards with their endless array of drinks, one delicately manicured nail tapping thoughtfully against your chin as you pondered your choice. When your turn came, you approached the counter with a shy smile that made something flutter in his chest.

You weren’t just beautiful—you were breathtaking.

He was completely entranced, utterly captivated by your presence. Jinu stood there slack-jawed and dumbfounded, his heart hammering against his ribs at an alarming rate. Time seemed to slow as he watched you move with an effortless grace that made everything else that happened in the coffee shop fade into background noise.

And he was staring. Shamelessly, helplessly staring.

Yet somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to care. His eyes traced over your gentle movements as you seemed to stumble endearingly over your words, ordering what he was certain must be something as sweet as you appeared to be. He couldn’t understand this magnetic pull he felt toward a complete stranger, this girl who had wandered into his ordinary Tuesday morning and turned his entire world upside down with nothing more than your presence.

Perhaps angels did exist after all, and perhaps one had just ordered a mocha with extra foam.

Jinu released a shaky breath through parted lips as he watched you delicately sip from the straw of your chocolate flavoured coffee, your rosy pink gloss leaving the faintest trace on the white paper.

Then he felt the world stop as you finally looked up from your drink, and your eyes met his from across the crowded room. The coffee shop’s ambient chatter seemed to disappear entirely. Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, and for a breathless moment, you simply stared at one another. A flicker of something like recognition passed across your sweet features before a small, shy smile bloomed on your lips, and Jinu for once in his life was at a loss for words.

“Order for Jinu!” The barista’s voice cut through the spell like a knife, announcing that his coffee order for the Saja Boys was ready and pulling him reluctantly from his trance.

He blushed before moving. His movements felt mechanical as he collected the tray of drinks, his mind still trying to recover from your shared moment. But when he turned around, expecting to find you still there—perhaps to finally work up the courage to speak to you—his heart sank.

You had vanished.

The spot where you'd been standing was empty, leaving only the lingering scent of vanilla and the ghost of your smile. Jinu stood there with a tray full of coffee and a chest full of yearning, wondering if he'd ever meet you again.

.˚ * ꒰ঌ✦໒꒱ * ˚.

Jinu had been replaying that brief encounter in the coffee shop for days. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quiet his mind. His thoughts constantly drifted back to you—your warm, radiant smile, the effortless kindness in your eyes. He got addicted of the way your presence seemed to quiet the chaos inside him, even if only for a second.

Dark thoughts still curled at the edges of his mind, clawing at old wounds that refused to close. But whenever he thought of you, the sharp ache dulled. The pain didn’t disappear—but it became bearable. Lighter. Like your memory was a balm his soul had long been searching for. The shadows in his mind seemed less suffocating when you occupied even the smallest corner of his thoughts.

He needed to think about you. He craved it, even just to ease the weight pressing down on his chest and soul, even if only for a fleeting moment.

To say that Jinu was becoming obsessed and growing feelings for someone he barely just met was minimising his experience.

He was completely, irrevocably drawn to you, enchanted by someone whose name he didn’t even know.

A quiet pull, a yearning that made no sense. You were a stranger, yet you felt… familiar. As if he had been waiting for you without realising it.

For days, he’d searched for you in every crowd, scanned every café, every street corner, every room and passing face, clinging to the hope of seeing you again. Hoping to catch even a glimpse. To finally speak to you, to hear your voice, to learn your name.

One evening, beneath the velvet sky over Seoul, Jinu was walking with no real destination—his thoughts torn between his mission to take down the Huntrix and the quiet ache you left behind.

He just wanted to try and clear his head.

A strange pull, soft but certain, tugged at his chest—like invisible threads winding around his heart. He didn’t question it. His feet moved on their own, guided by instinct or fate or something in between, weaving through the city until he stopped in front of a quiet, unassuming building.

And though he didn’t know why… he felt it.

You were near.

.˚ * ꒰ঌ♡໒꒱ * ˚.

The rooftop was cold beneath your legs, the concrete rough against your skin even through your jeans, but the quiet was worth every shiver.

You buried your hands deeper into the warmth of your hoodie and gazed out at Seoul's skyline—thousands of lights flickering like bright stars, glittering like precious gemstones scattered across black velvet. Each flicker felt like a heartbeat, steady and alive.

The wind tugged gently at your hair, carrying with it the distant symphony of the city below: the steady hum of late-night traffic, the occasional wail of a siren, and the soft murmur of life continuing in the streets far beneath you.

But up here, it all felt so far away. Muted. Gentle.

This was your sanctuary, the peace you were always seeking. This place had always been your escape. The one corner of the world where the weight of everything seemed to lift. Where silence wouldn’t feel so lonely, but soothing. Here, the stillness wrapped around you like a familiar friend.

Moments later, you felt him before you heard him.

He didn’t make much noise when he appeared on the rooftop. Just a soft thud of sneakers against concrete and a subtle shift in the air around you, as if the city itself paused to acknowledge his presence.

You didn’t turn to look at him right away.

Your heart was suddenly too loud in your chest, as if it knew something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet. The air felt warmer now, more alive, more… aware. Like the space between you had begun to hum with something delicate and invisible, like the start of a song only the two of you could hear.

You bit your bottom lip, fingers curling tighter into your sleeves. He was close. Not too close—but close enough that you could feel his presence sinking gently into your quiet.

And still… you waited.

Because some part of you was afraid that if you turned around too soon, it might all vanish.

The silence stretched between you like a taut string, heavy with unspoken words and the weight of destiny. Both of you lingered in that suspended moment, neither quite brave enough to break the spell. But curiosity and something deeper, something that felt like fate itself finally won.

You turned your head slowly, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked up to meet his gaze. And just like in the coffee shop, the world stopped spinning. Time became meaningless. The city’s symphony faded to nothing.

A wave of heat crashed over you as you met his impossibly beautiful eyes, your skin burning with a mixture of shyness and something far more dangerous. You knew what he was—his aura sang with dark energy that made your celestial blood recognize him instantly. Demon. The very beings you’d been warned about since you first unfurled your wings, the creatures your fellow angels had taught you to avoid at all costs.

Yet as you gazed at him, drinking in the sharp angles of his face and the way moonlight caught in his dark hair, you felt nothing but an overwhelming magnetic pull. It didn't matter that you were strangers, his energy called to yours like a missing piece of your soul finally clicking into place. Every instinct screamed that this was dangerous, forbidden, impossible.

You couldn’t bring yourself to care or listen to those instincts.

He was the most breathtakingly beautiful creature you’d ever seen, regardless of what his kind was supposed to represent.

You watched, mesmerised, as a blush crept across his cheeks, the tips of his ears turning an endearing shade of red when your lips curved into a soft smile. For a demon, he seemed almost... Vulnerable.

“Hi.” His voice was barely above a whisper, rough with nervousness. “You're the pretty girl from the coffee shop.”

A sweet, melodious giggle escaped your lips before you could stop it, the sound floating between you like music. Heat spread through your entire body as you ducked your head bashfully, then met his eyes again with a warmth that surprised even you.

“I guess I am,” you murmured before biting your bottom lip as you looked at him.

Jinu slowly moved closer, each step deliberate and careful, as if he were approaching something precious and fragile. But he came to an abrupt halt about two meters away from where you sat, his hands fidgeting nervously at his sides. He looked like he was wrestling with himself, words dying on his tongue before they could escape.

Your small, encouraging smile seemed to give him the courage he needed.

“Can I...” he started, then stopped, running a hand through his dark hair. “Can I sit next to you?” The question came out rushed, and he looked away for a split second, vulnerability written across his features. “Please?”

Your eyebrows rose in surprise—not at his request, but at how genuinely nervous this demon seemed. After a moment, you composed yourself and offered him the sweetest smile. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Jinu blinked, clearly not expecting your acceptance. He stood frozen for a heartbeat, looking almost dazed by your response, until your soft giggle broke through his stupor and spurred him into action.

He settled down beside you with careful precision, leaving a respectful distance between your bodies, close enough to feel his warmth, but far enough to maintain propriety. The breath he released was long and relieved, as if he'd been holding it since the moment he’d asked.

Silence enveloped you both again, but this time it felt different. More intimate. More charged. You found yourself acutely aware of his presence beside you. The way he breathed, the subtle cologne that mixed with the night air, the way his fingers drummed silently against his knee.

Your shyness returned with a vengeance, and you found yourself nervously playing with the hem of your hoodie, twisting the soft fabric between your fingers.

You could feel his gaze on you like a physical touch, warm and intent. When you finally gathered the courage to glance at him, you found him already watching you with an expression so tender it made your heart skip.

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly, clearing his throat. “I don't want to make you uncomfortable. It's just...” He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. “I'd love to know the name of the beautiful girl sitting next to me.”

Heat bloomed across your cheeks like sunrise, and when you turned to face him fully, you caught the way one corner of his mouth lifted in the most endearing half-smile.

As you looked into his eyes, you felt yourself getting lost all over again. They were so dark, so deep—like looking into the night sky and finding entire galaxies hidden within. The longer you stared, the wider his smile grew, until you suddenly realised you were gaping at him like a lovesick fool.

“Sorry,” you whispered, looking away in mortification.

His smile only widened, and he shrugged with easy grace. “Don’t be. I was doing the same thing.”

You cleared your throat, feeling braver. “Only if I can know your name too.”

“Deal,” he laughed, and the sound was like music in the quiet night.

You looked at him with a shy smile as you whispered your name, the syllables feeling precious as they left your lips.

Jinu’s entire expression softened as he received your name like a gift. A soft blush painted his cheeks, and he looked away briefly before meeting your eyes again. “Such a beautiful name,” he murmured, his voice reverent. “My name is Jinu.”

You bit your lip bashfully, your heart fluttering at the way he said it. “Thanks. Jinu... I like that. It suits you.”

“Does it?” he asked, tilting his head with genuine curiosity. “What does it suit me for?”

You considered him for a moment, taking in his gentle demeanor despite his otherworldly beauty. “It sounds... warm. Safe.” You paused, then added more confidently, “Not at all what I expected from a demon.”

His eyes widened in genuine surprise, and he whispered, “How...” before looking away for a brief moment. When he turned back to you, he was trying to maintain a serious expression, but you could see right through it. The way his jaw tensed slightly, the uncertainty flickering in his gaze—he was nervous. Vulnerable. Perhaps even insecure.

“And what did you expect?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Something scarier,” you admitted with a small laugh. “My kind always told me demons were... well, terrifying. But you're...” You trailed off, suddenly shy again, your heart hammering as you prepared to voice what you really thought.

“I'm what?” he prompted gently, as he slightly leaned closer to you.

“Beautiful,” you breathed, the word escaping like a confession. “You're absolutely beautiful.”

He looked away immediately, but not before you caught the way his entire neck flushed red, the color creeping up to the tips of his ears. The sight made you giggle softly, a sound like wind chimes in the night air.

When he turned back to you, you quickly pulled the collar of your hoodie up to cover the lower half of your face, suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze. His eyes sparkled with amusement, and a knowing smirk played at the corners of his mouth.

“You said... your kind?” he asked softly, his voice like velvet in the darkness. “What do you mean by that? And how do you know what I am?”

This time it was your turn to smile, though it was hidden behind your makeshift fabric shield. You lowered the hoodie just enough to reveal your grin. “I’m an angel.”

Jinu’s eyes widened, his lips parting slightly in shock. Everything suddenly clicked into place. Your otherworldly beauty, the way you seemed to glow even in the moonlight, the inexplicable pull he felt toward you. But he knew, deep in his soul, that it wasn’t just your celestial nature that drew him in. There was something else, something that felt like recognition, like coming home after a lifetime of wandering.

“I know what you are because I can sense it,” you continued, your voice growing more timid. “Angels... we feel these things. Supernatural auras, energy signatures...” You paused, then added quietly, “But that’s not all I feel.”

Jinu’s breath caught. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper. “What else do you feel?”

You bit your lip, looking away as your fingers found the sleeves of your hoodie, twisting the fabric nervously. The vulnerability in your next words made his heart race.

“I don't know how to explain it,” you whispered without meeting his eyes. “I just know I'm drawn to you. Like... like gravity. Like I don't have a choice.”

Jinu’s expression softened completely, and he inhaled sharply before shifting closer to you on the concrete ledge. The space between you suddenly felt electric, charged with possibility and danger.

Then he did something that stole your breath entirely.

His fingers, warm and gentle, found your chin and tilted your face toward his. Your eyes widened as you found yourself drowning in his gaze—brown eyes that held galaxies and promises and something that looked dangerously like forever.

“I feel it too, sweet angel,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. His thumb traced the line of your jaw with feather-light touches that made your entire body come alive. “You’re the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. The most beautiful thing I never knew I was searching for.”

When his hand finally dropped from your face, you had to bite back a whimper at the loss of contact. The sensation was entirely foreign; this ache, this need, this feeling like you might dissolve if he stopped touching you.

The emotions you were experiencing weren’t the only foreign things you were feeling. Not only did you feel the warmth spreading all over your body, but it also spread between your legs. This was whenever he looked at you as if you were the most precious thing to ever exist.

You barely knew him, and yet every fiber of your being recognised him as if you’d been waiting your entire existence for this moment.

The rational part of your mind knew this was forbidden territory. Angels weren’t supposed to feel anything close to romantic attraction, let alone harbor feelings for demons—the very beings you were created to oppose. This was dangerous, reckless, potentially catastrophic.

But as you sat there in the moonlight, his warmth radiating toward you and his scent filling your senses, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

It felt too right to be wrong. Too perfect to be forbidden.

Too much like destiny to walk away from.

.˚ * ꒰ঌ ✧ ໒꒱ * ˚.

Days melted into weeks, and what had started as stolen moments became a beautiful routine.

Almost every day, you found yourself seeking out Jinu’s presence like a flower turning toward the sun. In the beginning, you’d always meet at your two sacred places-the rooftop where you'd first truly seen each other, or his favorite coffee shop where destiny had first intervened. But as your connection deepened, so did your courage to explore the city together.

Soon you were discovering hidden corners of Seoul side by side. You visited quiet bookshops tucked between bustling streets, met up in late-night convenience stores where you’d share ice cream and whispered confessions, secluded parks where cherry blossoms fell like snow around your intertwined fingers. Each new place became another chapter in your secret and blossoming love story.

It didn’t matter where you met anymore.

Whether it was a crowded subway platform or an empty riverside bench, as long as you were with him, your heart felt complete. His presence had become your home, your sanctuary, your piece of heaven on earth.

The warmth that had bloomed in your chest that first night on the rooftop had never faded.

If anything, it had grown into something magnificent and consuming—spreading through your veins like liquid starlight every time he smiled at you, every time his fingers accidentally brushed yours, every time your phone lit up with his name. Even the simplest text from him could make your entire being vibrate with joy, and the sound of his laughter had become your favorite melody.

You were falling, and you had never felt more alive.

You felt a pang of guilt. Angels weren't supposed to experience such emotions, especially not for a demon. Not for Jinu. Not for anyone at all. Yet, you found it impossible to resist. There was something captivating in the demon’s gaze that drew you in.

Your bright eyes and warm smile radiated friendliness, making you open to everything around you. Each time he playfully flirted, you would turn all flustered, and you would shyly look away.

To say that Jinu was completely and utterly falling for the shy angel would be the understatement of the century.

He reminded himself repeatedly that he shouldn’t let his guard down; his heart was softening for an angel. As a demon, he had spent over 400 years building his walls up. He would often feel like he didn’t deserve anything good to happen to him. Or that he was broken and deserved to live all eternity with this guilt. Yet, every time he gazed at you, those thoughts faded away. There was nothing dark about you. You were pure, far too good for someone as damaged and cursed as him.

Whatever connection you shared, Jinu eventually embraced it wholeheartedly. He enjoyed having you close, relishing the moments of touch, the warmth of hugs, and the intimacy of holding you tight. To him, you were his most cherished treasure.

The care and affection you shared for each other blossomed into something deeper. It blossomed into love for each other. You were in love with each other.

The care and quiet affection you shared slowly blossomed into something deeper—something tender, fierce, and undeniable. It blossomed into love. Real, soul-deep love. You were in love with each other.

.˚ * ꒰ঌ✦໒꒱ * ˚.

You found yourself caught in a reckless fever, heart fluttering like it belonged to Jinu—completely lovestruck.

You never thought you’d feel this way. You never wanted to. You had guarded your heart so carefully, kept the world at a distance to avoid the sting of heartbreak. And yet… here you were, letting someone in. And not just anyone: Jinu. Somehow, impossibly, you had fallen for him. And it wasn’t just a little. You found yourself absolutely and irrevocably charmed by Jinu.

Soft whispers passed between you like secrets shared in a sacred language only the two of you understood. His dark eyes would linger on yours with an intensity that made your pulse quicken, each stolen glance building toward something inevitable, something that felt written in the stars themselves—your first kiss.

It happened during one of those perfect spring evenings when the world seemed painted in gold. You were both perched on your beloved rooftop, the same place where you’d first revealed your true selves to each other, watching the sun begin its descent toward the horizon. The air was warm and sweet with the promise of summer, and Seoul spread out below you like a glittering tapestry.

Jinu had been telling you some ridiculous story about his bandmates, his animated gestures and theatrical expressions sending you into fits of laughter that bubbled up from your very soul. Your giggles were infectious, making him laugh even harder until you were both breathless and giddy, sitting close enough that your knees touched and your shoulders bumped with each wave of mirth.

“You’re such an idiot,” you said between breathless giggles, your shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.

Jinu gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest as if you'd wounded him. “How dare you! I’m a *cute* idiot—you said so yourself not even ten minutes ago.”

“Hmm, I don’t recall saying any such thing,” you replied with theatrical thoughtfulness, tapping your chin while pretending to search your memory. Your eyes sparkled with mischief as you watched his expression shift.

“What?” Jinu’s jaw dropped in genuine shock this time. “Oh, that’s it!”

Before you could react, he lunged forward with his arms outstretched. Both of you were still perched on the rooftop, the beautiful warm evening shining as a beautiful backdrop, but all you could focus on was the playful glint in his eyes as his fingers found your sides.

“No, no, no!” you shrieked, dissolving into uncontrollable laughter as he tickled you mercilessly. You squirmed and wriggled, trying desperately to escape his grasp while gasping for air between giggles. “Stop! Jinu, please! I’m sorry—I was just teasing you!”

“Oh, now you remember?” he said with a mischievous grin, but his fingers finally stilled against your ribs. He huffed out a laugh, unable to keep up his mock-serious expression when faced with your flushed, tear-streaked face from laughing so hard.

“You’re terrible,” you panted, still catching your breath but unable to stop the residual giggles from bubbling up.

“And yet, you’re still here with me on this rooftop,” he pointed out with a smug smile, settling back beside you. The gentle breeze carried the sound of your shared laughter across the warm spring evening.

Jinu couldn’t help but stare at you as you continued to giggle softly, your joy absolutely infectious. The way your nose crinkled when you laughed, how your eyes practically disappeared into crescents—he was completely smitten. In moments like this, with your guard down and pure happiness radiating from every part of you, he felt like the luckiest being alive.

“Your laugh,” he said suddenly, his voice soft with wonder. “It’s like music. I could listen to it forever.”

The sweet confession made you pause mid-giggle, warmth blooming in your chest. Warmth and heat rose in your face as you looked at him. “You’re being cheesy now.”

“Maybe,” he admitted with a boyish grin, “but I’m still a cute idiot, right?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “The cutest,” you conceded, and the way his entire face lit up made your heart do little flips in your chest.

“I knew it!” he exclaimed triumphantly, pumping his fist in the air like he'd just won a great victory.

And there your laughter mingled with his once again, creating a perfect moment that felt like it could last forever.

As your laughter gradually faded into contented sighs, the sun painted the sky in brilliant strokes of amber and rose. You found yourself mesmerised by the beauty of it all— the way the light caught in the windows of distant buildings, how the world seemed to glow with ethereal warmth.

“It’s so beautiful, Jinu,” you breathed in awe, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice thick with something deeper than admiration. “She’s so beautiful.”

The reverence in his tone made you turn toward him, only to discover that he wasn’t looking at the sunset at all. His eyes were fixed entirely on you, drinking in every detail of your face as if he were trying to memorise you. The golden light cast a warm halo around both of you, making the moment feel almost divine.

Heat bloomed across your skin under his tender gaze, your heart beginning to race as he slowly shifted closer until your shoulders pressed together. The simple contact sent electricity through your entire being. His hands rose to frame your face with infinite gentleness, his thumbs tracing the curve of your cheeks as if you were made of something precious and fragile.

Your breath caught in your throat as his face drew closer to yours, the space between you charged with anticipation and desire. His eyes moved between yours and your lips in a rhythm that made your mouth go dry, made your entire world narrow to this single, perfect moment.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice full of wonder and affection, as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real. His thumb brushed across your lower lip, and then he was leaning down, closing the distance between you.

When his lips finally met yours, it was soft and deep and absolutely perfect-like coming home, like finding the missing piece of your soul, like every romantic story ever told suddenly making sense. The kiss tasted of forever and felt like falling into starlight.

You never wanted this feeling to end.

.˚ * ꒰ঌ ❤︎ ໒꒱ * ˚.

But paradise, as you would learn, was never meant to last.

Ever since that perfect evening when he’d first kissed you under the painted sky, you and Jinu began seeing each other less and less. The change was subtle at first—a cancelled coffee date here, a shortened phone call there—but it grew into something that gnawed at your heart like a persistent ache. You found yourself wondering if you'd done something wrong, if something had fundamentally changed in the way he felt about you.

The questions burned in your throat, but you could never quite voice them. Whenever you gently mentioned that you missed seeing him more often, Jinu would offer the same explanation with apologetic eyes: his busy schedule with the band, upcoming performances, endless rehearsals. You tried desperately to believe him, to convince yourself that it was just temporary, but something deep in your celestial intuition whispered that there was more to his distance than he was letting on.

What you didn’t know was that Jinu’s retreat from you was tearing him apart from the inside. He was acutely aware of every missed date, every shortened conversation, every time he saw your face fall when he made another excuse. But he couldn’t bear to tell you the truth about Gwi-ma’s plan for this world—couldn't bear to see the light in your eyes dim when you learned what he’d done, what he’d abandoned, what he was still bound to do.

The weight of his past felt like chains around his soul. He knew that if you discovered how he’d abandoned his own family, how he’d traded their lives for his freedom from torment, you would never look at him the same way. You were pure light, celestial goodness incarnate, and he was darkness masquerading as something worthy of your love.

He didn't deserve someone as precious as you. So he convinced himself that slowly retreating was an act of mercy, for both of you.

The evening everything changed, began like any other, until it didn't. The moment Jinu betrayed Rumi, revealing her secret in the most humiliating way possible, he felt something inside him shatter. It never felt good to crush someone’s spirit, but Gwi-ma’s hold on him left no room for mercy. This was the price of his freedom from endless torment, someone else’s pain.

Meanwhile, you were going about your evening when you noticed the sky beginning to shift. The usual soft pastels of twilight were giving way to something darker, more ominous—shades of deep pink and crimson that made your angelic senses scream in warning. The skies would never paint themselves in such colors naturally.

Your heart hammered against your ribs as you rushed through the crowded streets, following the surge of people all heading toward the massive stadium in the city center. You pushed through the throngs of concertgoers, your celestial instincts telling you that something catastrophic was about to unfold.

When you finally got through the stadium entrance, a song was beginning. The stage blazed with ethereal light as the Saja Boys stood in traditional dark robes, their gat casting shadows over their faces as they harmonized in a way that made your blood run cold. The sound was beautiful and terrifying, demonic in its perfection.

You gasped, pressing yourself against the back wall of the stadium, but you could see and hear everything with crystal clarity. The crowd swayed hypnotically, completely unaware of what was about to happen to them.

They were going to steal their souls.

Tears blurred your vision as you watched, your heart breaking into a thousand pieces. You’d known Jinu was a demon, but you’d hoped—prayed—that he could never be capable of something so monstrous. Yet there he was, his voice weaving the deadly spell that would consume thousands of innocent lives.

You stood frozen in shock throughout their entire performance, your body trembling as the full scope of the horror unfolded before you. When their song ended, another voice rang out near one of the entrances.

Rumi emerged, the crowd parting to make room for her arrival.

You remained paralysed as she and the other huntrix girls began their counter-performance, their voices pure and strong as they fought against the encroaching eternal flame that is Gwi-ma. Demons materialized from the shadows, and the girls cut them down with ruthless precision, their song never faltering even as chaos erupted around them.

Everything raged on until Gwi-ma's voice boomed across the stadium: “Your voices cannot defeat me!” A massive ball of fire erupted from his form, hurtling directly toward Rumi.

As Rumi struggled against the flames, your body moved of its own accord. Light exploded from your skin as you transformed into your true angelic form, wings unfurling as you shot toward the stage like a comet.

But then you saw him—Jinu, throwing himself between the fire and Rumi, sacrificing himself to save her.

“No!” The scream that tore from your throat was raw and desperate. You couldn’t lose him, not like this, not when you haven’t truly expressed how you felt about him.

Moving faster than lightning itself, you channeled every ounce of your celestial power to push back the flames. Tears streamed down your face as the fire finally dissipated, and you immediately wrapped your arms around Jinu's injured form, pouring your healing energy into him until his breathing steadied.

Without hesitation, you took flight, cradling him against your chest as you soared through the night sky. You didn't stop until you reached the balcony of your apartment, a place he’d never seen but that suddenly felt like the only safe haven in the world.

You carried him through the balcony doors into your bedroom, laying him gently on your bed as tears continued to cascade down your cheeks. His face was pale, his body marked with burns and bruises that made your heart clench with pain.

“I’m okay, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice hoarse but tender as he watched you cry.

But he wasn’t okay, you could see the damage written across his skin. Closing your eyes, you hovered your hands over his injured form, channeling every bit of healing power you possessed. Golden light flowed from your palms as you worked to mend his wounds, to take away his pain and make him whole again.

Jinu gasped softly as your power washed over him, his injuries fading under your celestial touch. When you finally felt him completely healed, when the last of his pain had ebbed away, your angelic form dissolved and you collapsed to the floor beside your bed.

Your cries wouldn’t stop—you were overwhelmed by everything that had happened, by the horror of what you’d witnessed, of what could’ve happened, by the knowledge that the man you loved had been capable of such darkness, and by the terrifying realisation that you’d almost lost him forever.

Jinu sat up on your bed, looking down at you as you fell apart before him. His heart shattered as he witnessed how broken and overwhelmed you looked, how the tears streamed down your face without mercy, as if they’d never stop.

He knew he was the reason for your pain, and the weight of that knowledge crushed him. He desperately wanted to fix it, to make things right. He was grateful that his angel had saved him, but now he needed to save his girl—to save what they had together.

Your cries echoed in the silence even after Jinu climbed down to sit beside you. Gently, he moved to wrap his arms around you, hoping to pull you into his lap, into the safety of his embrace.

You pulled away with a sharp flinch.

The moment you recoiled from his touch, Jinu’s heart plummeted. He watched, helpless, as you retreated further into yourself, building walls between you that felt insurmountable.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you finally whispered through your sobs, your voice raw and broken.

“What do you mean, my angel?” His voice trembled with barely contained fear.

“I can’t have a relationship with you when you keep hiding shit from me.” The words came out harsh, angry. You'd always tried not to curse, but you were beyond caring now. Were you still a real angel? After all, you'd fallen for a demon—a demon who kept secrets and had tried to destroy the world. “I can’t keep going if you’re going to hold me at arm’s length... I just can’t.”

Your sobs intensified as the words poured out. “I can’t be with someone who lies to me, who keeps me in the dark.” You didn’t care how devastated Jinu looked. You needed to release this pain from your heart. “I thought we trusted each other.”

“I do trust you—”

“Do you?” you interrupted, your voice cracking. “Because it doesn’t feel that way to me.” Your words came out in broken fragments between gasps. “Was our connection, our relationship, was any of it real?"

“Of course it was,” Jinu said with fierce conviction. “Everything between us was and is still real.”

“Then why—?” Your voice shattered completely, and you couldn't finish the question as fresh waves of grief overwhelmed you.

Jinu sat in the heavy silence, absorbing every word, every tear, every tremor in your voice. He understood now, you weren't just overwhelmed by recent events. You were drowning in the need for truth, for closeness, for the connection you’d thought you shared.

He’d been terrified to reveal his secrets, his past, deepest fears and feelings. But sitting here, watching you break apart, he realised he was even more terrified of losing you. He would do anything to keep you, to love you, to care for you and receive that same precious gift in return.

For the first time in what felt like hours, he couldn't hear Gwi-ma’s voice. A brief glance outside revealed the Honmoon sealed, its rainbow and golden hues glistening with renewed hope. For the first time in four centuries, he felt like he could truly breathe—like he could finally be himself without the weight of ancient curses crushing down on him.

He was going to tell you everything.

Jinu turned to face you fully, his eyes steady and filled with newfound resolve and understanding. “I’m going to tell you everything,” he promised, his voice thick with determined sincerity. “But first, I need you to know… I want to be here for you. I want to be present because you need me, because I care for you and because you deserve that.” His voice softened then, wrapping around you like a warm blanket and embrace. “I’m sorry I shut you out. It won’t happen again. You’re not alone in this, not in your feelings, not in your pain. I’m here for you. I’ve got you.”

The raw sincerity in his voice made your rigid body begin to soften. You’d been so certain he would retreat again, build those walls higher. But here he was, surprising you in the most beautiful way possible. His care, his presence… It meant everything.

He opened his arms slightly, a patient invitation. No pressure, no demands—just quiet understanding. Through your tears, your vision blurred and uncertain, you could still feel the gentle patience radiating from him with a certain warmth.

Slowly, carefully, you crawled into his lap, melting into him the moment you felt his solid presence. He enveloped you completely, his arms a sanctuary as one hand caressed your hair and the other traced soothing circles on your back. You cried into his chest, finally allowing yourself to be held, to be vulnerable in the safety of his affection.

After what felt like an eternity, your violent sobs gradually softened into gentle, shuddering breaths. You buried your face deeper into the crook of Jinu’s neck, finding solace in his familiar warmth. The demon pressed tender kisses against the crown of your head, each one a silent promise, while his hands continued their soothing caresses along your back and arms.

As your breathing finally steadied, you slowly lifted your head to meet his gaze. Your eyes were still glassy with tears, but there was something else there—patience, understanding, unconditional love. That look gave him the courage he’d been searching for.

With trembling hands still holding you close, Jinu began to unravel the threads of his past. His voice was barely above a whisper as he told you about abandoning his family four centuries ago, how that guilt had become a festering wound that never healed. Gwi-ma had weaponised that shame, using his memories and pain like puppet strings, making him dance to every cruel command. The humiliation, the feeling of worthlessness, it had all been carefully orchestrated.

He explained how he and the other Saja Boys had been molded into a K-pop facade, their true purpose hidden beneath the glittering surface: to hunt down the huntrix, destroy the Honmoon, and plunge the world into darkness. His voice cracked as he admitted the truth he’d been running from telling you.

“But the moment I met you,” he said, his eyes finding yours with desperate honesty, “I knew what I’d been trying to ignore all along. Everything I was doing was wrong. You made me remember who I used to be, who I wanted to be again.”

His breath hitched as he continued, “My shame, my doubt... it made me pull away from you. And Gwi-ma’s voice.. it was always there, whispering poison into my thoughts, making me believe I was nothing. That I didn’t deserve anything good. That I didn’t deserve you.”

As you listened, tears welled up in your eyes anew. You could feel his pain as if it were your own, each word cutting through your heart. The weight of everything he’d carried alone, the fear that had kept him from you, it was almost unbearable to imagine. But through it all, one truth remained crystal clear: you couldn’t stop loving him. Every fiber of your being told you that you were meant to find each other, that your souls were intrinsically connected.

You were soulmates.

You could feel his heart thundering against his chest, could see how his hands trembled as he laid his soul bare before you. Near the end of his confession, you reached for one of his shaking hands, interlacing your fingers with his and squeezing gently—a silent reassurance that you were there, that you weren’t going anywhere.

Jinu’s entire body seemed to melt at your touch, the tension flowing out of him like water. He knew then that he was safe with you, that his greatest fear wouldn’t come true.

As he finished speaking, you shifted in his lap, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him close to your body.

“Thank you for sharing everything with me,” you whispered against his ear, your breath warm and comforting. You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, and Jinu felt warmth spread through every inch of his being.

When you finally pulled back—reluctantly, and only just enough to see his face—your eyes were soft with understanding.

“I wish you had told me sooner,” you whispered with a small, tender smile, “but I’m so grateful you’re sharing everything with me now.” Your hands came up to cup his face, thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones. “You’re so beautiful, Jinu. You’re everything and more to me. It doesn't matter that you’re flawed… we all are. You deserve love and peace just as much as anyone else.”

Your eyes shimmered with unshed tears as you gazed at him with such gentleness that it took his breath away.

The tears Jinu had been fighting finally broke free, streaming down his cheeks in silent rivers.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, his voice broken with emotion.

“Yes, you do,” you said with gentle but unwavering firmness. Without hesitation, you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, a kiss that tasted of tears and promises and new beginnings.

As you started to pull away, Jinu immediately chased your lips, capturing them in a deeper kiss that spoke of desperation and love and gratitude all at once.

“God, I love you so much,” he whispered against your lips when you finally parted, his forehead resting against yours.

Fresh tears sprang to your eyes at his confession, your heart stopping for a moment before racing ahead. “Y-you? You l-love me?” you questioned, disbelief coloring your voice even as hope bloomed in your chest.

“Of course I do,” he said, his expression tender but serious, his eyes never leaving yours. “There's no one in this world—in any world—that I love more than you.”

“I love you too, Jinu,” you hiccuped through your tears, your voice thick with emotion. “So much.”

Without another word, you pulled him down to meet you, sealing your mutual confessions with a kiss that tasted like healing and home.

.˚ * ꒰ঌ♡໒꒱ * ˚.

Throughout the evening, neither of you could stop touching, holding, or kissing each other—like two souls trying to memorize every second. You remained curled up on the floor, nestled in his lap, lips moving languidly together in an unhurried rhythm that spoke of longing and tenderness. Every kiss deepened with time, slow and reverent, before turning more fervent—more hungry—as his hands began to explore your body through the barrier of your clothes.

Jinu kissed you with devotion, like you were something sacred. His fingers traced the curves of your form with awe, his lips pressing gentle, lingering kisses to your skin as though he were trying to worship every inch. You could feel your breath quicken as the heat between you bloomed, your body squirming instinctively in his lap, soft whimpers spilling from your lips.

One of his hands rose to your cheek, tilting your face toward his. You met his gaze, those deep, dark eyes made your whole body flush with warmth. There was so much emotion behind them, so much quiet intensity that it stole the breath from your lungs.

“It’s okay to stare,” he whispered with a teasing softness, a crooked smile playing on his lips. “I’m all yours now.”

His thumb brushed gently along your cheekbone. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice low and full of adoration.

Without another word, his lips found yours again, this time with less hesitation, more urgency. He kissed you like he needed you, like he couldn’t get close enough. One hand cradled your jaw delicately while his mouth moved against yours, your bottom lip caught between his in a kiss that sent sparks through your spine.

Thoughts scattered in your mind like fallen stars. All that existed was him—his scent, his touch, his breath against your skin.

You pressed yourself closer, arms sliding around his shoulders as you kissed him back with a desperation you didn’t know you had. Jinu’s lips moved to your cheek, then your jaw, and lower still pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to your neck that made you gasp. Your hands tangled in his dark hair, fingertips lightly tugging, wordlessly begging him to keep going.

He lifted your chin, locking eyes with you as his lips claimed yours again, deeper this time, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with intoxicating precision. The air around you shifted, thick with emotion and unspoken want. His arms wrapped fully around you, one hand at your lower back, the other gently holding the curve of your waist.

You didn’t know it was possible to want someone this much.

A moan escaped you as Jinu dropped his head to your neck again, lips brushing against your sensitive skin, planting soft, claiming kisses. Your hands rested against his chest, feeling the heat of his body through his shirt, his steady heartbeat pulsing beneath your palms. You could feel the tension growing between your bodies, the way your hips instinctively shifted, seeking friction and closeness.

“Jinu—” you gasped as his mouth found a sensitive spot, his tongue soothing where he had just marked you.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze heavy with need but still so full of affection. Then he leaned forward and kissed you again, this time slow, deep, and sweet.

“Your lips…” he breathed against your mouth, “they’re heavenly.”

Your mind was a haze, your heart pounding with a wild, dizzy rhythm. You had never felt anything like this before. It wasn’t just desire, it was love, pure and overwhelming. Everything about him, his voice, his touch, the way he held you, made your heart feel like it had found its home.

You let out a quiet whimper, unable to hide how your body ached for him, how your heart already belonged to him. You moved your hips against him instinctively, drawing a low groan from his throat.

His forehead pressed to yours as he caught his breath, brushing a strand of hair from your face before kissing the corner of your mouth.

“God, I need you so bad, baby,” he whispered, voice shaking with want.

Suddenly his hands grasped your hips, halting your movements. You whimpered as he held you back from rutting your clothed pussy against his crotch.

“Are you sure you want this?” He whispered, his voice sounding deeper.

“Y-yes, Jinu. Please.” You begged and shivered in his arms, breathless and trembling, desire pooling deep within you. You had no doubt now, no fear, no second thoughts. He was the only one who could make you feel this way. The only one who could touch your soul like this.

You were simply perfect. In every way. The expression on your face, the sounds you made, and how your body reacted to his touch captivated him. He was so in love with you, deeply enamored with something so pure and innocent, taking his time to corrupt you gently and lovingly.

Jinu gathered you into his arms with ease, holding you close as if you were something fragile and precious. Instinctively, your legs wrapped around his waist, your body drawn to his like gravity itself was pulling you together. The sudden loss of friction against your aching center left you whimpering softly, your hips shifting needily, grinding against the hardness beneath his clothes in search of more.

He let out a deep groan, his breath hitching as you moved against him, back and forth, slow and desperate. Even through the layers of fabric, you could feel the way he responded to you, the tension rippling through his body like a tightly wound string ready to snap.

With careful hands, he laid you down onto the soft comfort of your bed, his touch gentle as if he were laying down a treasure. He stepped back for just a moment, eyes drinking in the sight of you—the soft glow of your skin, the way your little white summer dress had ridden up your thighs, the delicate lace of your little thong now on full display. You looked like a dream, ethereal and divine, a vision made just for him.

“Fuck…” he whispered, as his gaze lingered on the way the damp fabric clung to your most sensitive parts. He gently spread your thighs apart, his breath catching at the sight.

“So wet already,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, his voice dark and full of awe.

His fingers reached out, barely brushing the soaked fabric. Even that small touch made you tremble, a soft whimper escaping you as your hips jerked involuntarily toward his hand.

Jinu’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, heavy with heat, but there was something else in them too—something tender, reverent.

“Has anyone ever touched you like this before?” he asked, his voice low and rough, tinged with something deeper. Possessive. Protective.

You shook your head, cheeks burning, unable to speak through the haze of sensation clouding your thoughts.

His thumb pressed on your clothed button, slow and purposeful. You gasped, the pressure sending another wave of warmth flooding through you, your body arching into his hand.

“No?” he asked again, a teasing edge in his voice now, though it remained soft. “No one’s ever made you feel like this?”

You let out a trembling breath, too flustered to meet his eyes. Your hands lifted to hide your face as you mumbled shyly, “No… never.”

Jinu stilled for a moment, the corners of his lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. Something in his chest tightened at your answer, part of him had suspected, but hearing the truth made his heart swell. You were untouched, unclaimed. And now, you were here, trembling beneath him, trusting him with something you’d never given anyone else.

He leaned down slowly, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, just above the lace. You shivered at the contact, your fingers clenching the sheets.

“My sweet little angel,” he whispered against your skin, his voice now filled with something reverent and unshakable. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

He knew then he couldn’t rush this. He didn’t want to. You deserved to be worshipped, cherished—not just touched, but loved. And he wanted to be the one to show you everything, slowly, gently, with infinite patience.

With a breathless smile, he kissed his way up your inner thigh, his hands never leaving your skin. "I’ll take care of you,” he murmured. “I promise. Let me show you what it means to be loved.”

You whimpered softly, your body aching, your core clenching around nothing—yearning, desperate, begging for his touch. For him. The need built like a storm beneath your skin, hot and aching, and only he could calm it.

Jinu shifted, rising slowly as he moved to the foot of the bed. The low light kissed his skin as he shed his partly burned robe and clothes with quiet intention, his eyes never leaving yours. Every motion was unhurried—like he wanted you to feel every second of anticipation.

When he was left in just his dark boxers, your breath caught.

Your eyes were drawn downward—drawn to the thick outline of his cock, straining against the fabric. Your mouth went dry, and then immediately watered with want. Your body reacted instinctively, your thighs squeezing together, your slick heat pulsing with need.

But then, a flicker of nervousness danced in your chest as you looked at him—at all of him.

Your gaze lifted slowly back to his face, the man you loved beyond measure. And there he was, looking at you with a small, knowing smirk that only made the warmth in your cheeks burn hotter.

But then the teasing faded from his expression, replaced with something softer. Something tender.

“Don’t worry, sweet girl,” he murmured as he began crawling up the bed toward you, his voice laced with warmth and unshakable affection. “I’ll take my time with you. I’ll be gentle. I promise.”

His body hovered over yours, strong arms braced on either side of you, surrounding you with warmth and the scent of him. You reached for him instinctively, your hands exploring the planes of his back, the curve of his shoulders, the muscle beneath his skin.

“Jinu… I need you,” you whispered, your voice trembling as your fingers roamed his body.

A deep, guttural groan escaped him, and in the next moment, his mouth was on yours, urgent and burning. He kissed you like a man starved, like he’d been waiting a thousand years just to taste you. You whimpered against his lips as his hands caressed your thighs, slow and reverent, like he was savoring every inch of your skin.

Your mind swam in heat and emotion, lust clouding your thoughts, love tangling itself around every breath you took. You pressed your hips upward, moaning softly into his kiss—hoping, pleading for more.

He pulled back just enough to let out a low, teasing laugh. “Such a needy kitten…”

“Only for you,” you whispered, eyes wide and full of longing as you looked up at him. “Please… touch me.”

He smirked again, his hands continuing to wander over your trembling body. “I am touching you,” he murmured, feigning innocence as his fingers danced along your sides and traced the curve of your waist.

“Jinu,” you whined, voice sweet and desperate as you squirmed beneath him. “Please. I need you…”

His teasing gave way to something deeper, a gaze so full of love and hunger it made your heart stutter. He leaned in, brushing his lips against your temple before whispering, “You’ll have all of me, angel. Every inch. Every heartbeat. I’m yours.”

And the way he looked at you right then—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered—told you that he meant every word.

His thumb runs along your lower lip, tracing it slowly, his eyes lost in wonder. You watch him for a moment, the look in his eyes as he stares at his thumb moving on your lip. He’s looking at you like you’re the most extraordinary thing in the world, touching you so tenderly and with such gentleness, and you never want him to stop.

Jinu leans in then, slowly, watching you with intensity while he moves his other hand to come and cup your face. He leans in until his forehead touches yours, and you sigh softly as you enjoy the closeness again. The tip of his nose nuzzles yours, his warm breath kissing your lips, less than a few millimetres away now, and you move your thumb on his cheek, stroking his skin and making his eyes fall close as he lets out a relieved sigh.

Then, at last, he kissed you again.

The moment your lips met, something in you gave way. The kiss grew deeper, more heated with every passing second. Your hands threaded into his hair, fingers curling around the dark strands and tugging just enough to make him groan into your mouth. One of his hands trailed slowly up your thigh, making you tremble with anticipation.

Your whimpers came faster the closer his fingers crept toward where you needed him most. When they reached the band of your delicate thong and tugged, you let out a shaky, mewl.

Jinu couldn’t help himself. His fingers slipped the damp fabric aside, and he groaned low and rough when they met your soaked folds. His long, skilled digits stroked your slit slowly, purposefully, and you couldn’t stop the soft gasp that escaped you.

“Fuck…” he murmured against your lips, voice hoarse and full of awe. “You’re dripping, baby. All for me?”

You nodded quickly, overwhelmed with heat and need, your voice catching in your throat. “Y-yes… please…”

“What do you need, princess?” he whispered, teasing, even as his breath hitched at the way you writhed beneath him.

“Need more,” you breathed, arching your back and grinding your hips against his fingers, desperate for him to ease the ache inside you.

One of his fingers teased your entrance, rubbing slow circles around your pulsing heat. The slightest pressure from his fingertip had your body clenching, already trying to pull him in.

Your hips bucked as his finger finally slipped inside, and your head fell back with a helpless moan. But just as quickly, he pulled away, leaving you empty—and aching.

Tears welled in your eyes from the sudden loss, frustration bubbling up inside you as he chuckled darkly above you.

“Patience, kitten,” he murmured, brushing a kiss against your cheek.

“Please…” you whimpered, voice soft and pleading. You needed him—his touch, his warmth, him—more than anything.

“For an angel,” he groaned, eyes dark with desire, “you’re so needy. So desperate for me.”

You whimpered again, and his restraint finally snapped.

His hands gripped the hem of your little dress, fingers curling around the fabric as he pulled it up, taking his time. “I love it when you beg,” he whispered. “You’re such a good girl for me.”

He began kissing his way down your body, his mouth worshipping your skin with every pass—trailing heat along your chest, your ribs, your waist. The fabric slowly peeled away from your form, leaving your upper body bare to him. You trembled beneath his gaze, heart pounding as his eyes roamed every inch of you, unable to settle on just one place.

The way Jinu was looking at you, eyes filled with nothing but love and adoration, had you feeling so alive.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, voice full of something raw and reverent. “So beautiful…”

His hands slid over your hips, pulling you closer as he lowered himself down. His lips met your bare skin again, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to your curves. His fingers traced over your thighs, over the lace of your thong, ghosting across the edges as if memorizing you by touch.

When his mouth returned to yours, the kiss was deeper this time—hungry, passionate, and full of the longing he could no longer hold back. Your hands clutched at him, and you felt yourself slowly, deliciously unraveling.

His fingers traced lightly around the band of your underwear, teasing, tempting, promising. Every movement was slow, deliberate—meant to savor, not to rush. And you wanted nothing more than to let him take his time.

Because this wasn’t just lust. This was love.

And tonight, he was going to show you how both could intertwine.

You don’t know what to do with your hands. They’re trembling so much, and your core is, too, as he begins mouthing along your collarbone with affection.

“You’re so ethereal,” Jinu whispered, voice thick with awe, as his lips traced reverent paths across your exposed skin.

Your bare chests pressed together, skin against skin, heat blooming between your bodies like fire beneath the surface. Your breath hitched as you gazed up at him, your wide eyes locking onto his face while he continued to press slow, damp kisses across your collarbone and shoulders—each one stealing another piece of your breath.

His large hands slid down your sides, resting at the delicate curve where your waist met your hips. He held you there, firm and grounding, as his lips journeyed lower. You trembled when you felt the soft brush of his nose skimming the swell of your breast, his warm breath fanning across sensitive skin. A whimper slipped from your throat, your body responding before your mind could catch up.

Then Jinu stilled.

He leaned down and pressed the softest kiss to the side of your breast—tender, unhurried—before lifting his head to meet your gaze. His forearms rested on either side of you, bracketing your body protectively. Your heart pounded, and he could feel it.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice low and careful, the intimacy in his tone wrapping around you like silk.

You nodded, breath shaky, but he didn’t move, not yet.

“I need more than that, angel,” he said gently, one hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin with care. “If we’re going to go any further, I need you to talk to me. I need your voice. Think you can do that for me?”

You stared into his eyes—so dark, so full of love—and something inside you softened. The way he held you, the way he saw you, made the fear melt into warmth. You nodded again, this time with more purpose.

“Sorry,” you whispered, barely audible. “Y-Yes, Jinu… I can do that.”

His expression lit with quiet pride, and his lips curved into a soft smile.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the words sending shivers down your spine. The praise felt like sunlight in your chest.

He pressed another kiss to your chest, then continued lower, letting his lips trail gently through the valley between your breasts. Each kiss was feather-light, full of unspoken devotion. Your hands curled into the sheets beneath you as your eyes fluttered shut, heart racing.

“And if you want me to stop…” His voice was rough now, strained with restraint. “You tell me. Right away. No hesitation, okay?”

“Yes,” you breathed, barely able to form words through the heat pooling low in your belly. “I understand, Jinu.”

His mouth hovered just above your skin, breath hot and heavy. “Good,” he whispered.

He breathes in through his nose as he inhales your scent and you shiver when he exhales warmly through his mouth and onto your nipple. “Fuck, baby, you’re so beautiful.”

Then, he wraps his lips around one nipple, teeth just skimming your skin as he sucks and licks with passion.

“Jiiinuuu,” you mewl as you try to grind your hips against something, your cunt seeking friction.

“Good?” he quips back, peering up at you as his mouth curls into a Cheshire Cat smile. You feel your skin flush with heat as you just stare down at him. Lust is written all over your face and he has no trouble reading your expression. So he resumes licking, long, lavishing licks with the flat of his tongue over your pebbled nipple as a hand goes up to squeeze your other breast.

You take it upon yourself to bring the hand that’s squeezing your breast, guiding it down to your heat. As his fingers slip underneath the band of your underwear, down to where you need him the most, his mouth falls open to unleash a loud groan onto your nipple as his fingers slip between your wet lips.

Heat overwhelms you as Jinu litters soft kisses down your chest. Your hands find his head, running your fingers through his dark hair as his mouth continues to wander all over your naked skin.

Jinu’s lips move slowly down your body, kissing every little place he can find on your skin while his hands trace along.

He then leans forward, breathing in your core and running his nose along the patch of dampness. You pull at his hair as he inhales your scent. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he hums as he looks up at you with a dark smile, his hands leave your skin to curl his fingers into the waistband of your panties. “You smell so good. Can’t wait to taste you.”

A shuddering breath leaves your lips as you lift your hips instinctively allowing him to take off your underwear. Once he pushes your legs wide for him, you whimper as the air hits your wet slit. He takes a moment as his eyes take over you, your glistening centre clenching around nothing as he continues to stare at your wet hole.

Jinu licked his lips slowly, his eyes dark and full of reverence as he lowered himself between your thighs. His warm breath danced over your skin before his mouth followed, pressing slow, lingering kisses to the inside of your thighs—licking, sucking, worshipping.

Each touch was purposeful, tender, but it left you trembling. He was so close to where you needed him most, yet still teasingly far away, making the ache within you pulse stronger.

“So pretty…” he murmured against your skin, his voice like velvet.

With gentle hands, he lifted your legs and draped them over his shoulders, positioning you perfectly. Your breath hitched as you watched him settle between your thighs, eyes never leaving yours—dark, intense, and full of want.

You were about to plead, already breathless and aching, when his lips finally brushed against your soaked folds. You gasped, your body jolting as he nuzzled into you, his mouth slowly parting your lips, smearing your slick across his kiss-bruised lips.

Then came the first stroke of his tongue—slow, deliberate, devastating.

You moaned aloud, back arching, hips twitching beneath his touch. The sensation was overwhelming, electric, as his tongue moved expertly, tasting you like he’d waited lifetimes just for this moment. You squirmed at the contact, hands fisting in the sheets, barely able to think through the pleasure building between your legs.

But just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, he pulled back, and a whimper of protest left your lips.

Only for him to return with his fingers.

His hands were so careful, so steady, as he used one to spread you open, exposing your most sensitive parts to his hungry gaze. He groaned low in his throat at the sight of you—wet, trembling, and completely undone beneath him.

“Look at you,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “So wet for me…”

He slid one long, slender finger inside you, and your body reacted instantly, tightening around him, gasping at the sudden fullness. You moaned into the pillow beside you, your hips shifting instinctively toward his touch.

But his voice stopped you.

“Don’t you dare silence yourself,” Jinu growled, the gravel in his tone sending shivers down your spine. “I want to hear every sound you make. Every single one.”

Your answering whimper only seemed to encourage him.

He watched with fascination as your body clenched around his finger, the way your slick walls gripped him tightly—desperate, needy. His jaw tensed, his desire etched into every part of him.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes locked on the way your body responded to him. “Such a tight, perfect little pussy…”

He leaned in again, lips brushing the inside of your thigh as he whispered, “Can’t wait to feel this pretty cunt wrapped around my cock.”

Your breath caught at his words, they were vulgar, yes, but said with such raw admiration, such unrestrained desire, that it made your entire body throb in response.

Your little mewls grew louder, rising with the waves of pleasure that began crashing through you. You could barely breathe through it—through him. The way his fingers moved inside you made your mind go blank. They were thicker, longer, stronger than your own—just one of his felt better than anything you’d ever given yourself.

Your body trembled, clenching around his finger with a desperation that only made you ache more. Your hips began to move instinctively, grinding down against his hand, seeking out more of the pressure, more of him. Jinu moaned low in his throat, the sound thick with desire as he watched you come undone beneath him.

His eyes roamed your body hungrily, unable to settle on one place. The way your lashes fluttered, your parted lips, your flustered chest—he wanted to memorize every part of you. You were breathtaking like this. Writhing. Wanting. His.

You were panting now, lost in the haze of pleasure. And then you gasped, his fingers returning, slipping two more inside your heat. The stretch made you whimper, your tight walls fluttering around the sudden fullness. It was overwhelming, but it was perfect.

“Shh… you’re doing so good for me,” he murmured, his voice low and ragged.

He moved slowly at first, letting you adjust to the added pressure, curling and spreading his fingers inside you as your body began to rock with his rhythm. Every motion, every delicious drag of his fingers left you gasping, trembling, your hands flying to his hair and gripping tight.

Jinu leaned in then, and your lips found his again. He kissed you hard, pouring every ounce of his desire into the way his mouth moved with yours. You moaned into him, helpless against the tide of pleasure crashing through your body as he swallowed every sound you made, like he needed to feel you, taste you, consume you.

Your hips moved in sync with the push of his fingers, and he curled them just right, just enough to make you see stars behind your fluttering lashes. His tongue slipped between your lips, claiming your mouth with slow, searing intimacy.

“That feels good, doesn’t it, kitten?” he rasped, pulling back just slightly to breathe the words against your lips. His thumb slid up, brushing gently over your clit.

You cried out, your hips jerking beneath him. You nodded, breathless—but he wasn’t satisfied with that.

“Use your words, angel,” he whispered, voice laced with heat and command.

“Y-Yes,” you moaned, hands shaking against his skin. “Please, Jinu—please, it feels… it feels so good.”

A groan vibrated in his chest at your response, and his mouth found your body again—kissing lower, slower, with growing hunger. His lips ghosted over your ribs, your stomach, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

And still, his fingers never stopped.

You whimpered softly, unable to contain the way your body quivered with every motion, your hips twitching as he continued to work you open with aching tenderness.

His mouth reached your hips, and you felt your breath catch in your throat, your body already begging for more—silently, helplessly, reverently. Your hands tangled tighter in his hair as he looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark, full of love and hunger all at once.

He hadn’t even taken you yet, and still—You had never felt so desired. So adored. So completely his.

Jinu breathed you in the moment he leaned forward, your scent thick in the air—sweet, intoxicating, entirely you. His lips parted, wetting them slowly, as his eyes lifted to meet yours with a smoldering kind of reverence. And then, without hesitation, his head dipped between your thighs.

His warm tongue dragged a deliberate, aching stripe up your folds—slow and firm, stopping only once he reached your sensitive clit.

“Ah—Jinu!” you gasped, hips jolting clean off the mattress as the sensation surged through you.

A chorus of helpless, breathy sounds escaped you—soft whines and broken moans that spilled freely from your throat. Your hips stuttered beneath him, chasing every flick of his tongue like it was the only thing tethering you to earth.

And Jinu? He just sighed contentedly, like he’d found heaven between your thighs. Like this—you—was all he’d ever need. His hands gripped your hips tenderly but firmly, one holding you down to keep you from writhing too far out of reach, the other still buried between your legs, fingers pumping slowly, expertly, curling upward with each thrust.

Your voice dissolved into fragments of his name, repeated over and over in a dazed, breathless chant. A prayer. Your eyes squeezed shut, tears threatening as the pleasure mounted. His tongue flicked and licked over your clit with unrelenting attention, and all the while, his fingers kept moving inside you, finding that spongy, devastating spot deep within.

The tension in your abdomen grew sharper, tighter, each wave stronger than the last. His lips wrapped around your clit again, sucking gently but purposefully, and that coil inside you twisted nearly painfully with how close you were to coming undone.

“A-ah—too much!” you squeaked, voice strangled and thick with desperation. “T-too—Jinu, I—I can’t—”

“Easy, angel,” he murmured, pausing only long enough to press a soft, soothing kiss to your trembling thigh. His fingers stilled inside you, holding you carefully as he looked up, his expression full of mischief and something achingly tender.

“Jinu… baby,” you mumbled into the pillow, your voice muffled and shaky.

“I know,” he cooed, brushing his hand along your hip. “I’ve got you, my sweet girl. It’s a lot, I know… Can I keep going?”

You nodded faintly, then forced yourself to find your voice. “Y-Yeah. Just—just give me a second…”

He smiled, that warm, knowing kind of smile that made your heart ache. “I’ll wait forever for you.”

But the moment didn’t stretch for long and neither of you wanted it to. The seconds apart felt like hours, a kind of torturous pause, until Jinu finally leaned down again.

This time, his tongue slipped between your folds with renewed tenderness, lapping upward in a slow, deliberate motion until it found your clit again. You sighed—high-pitched, broken—at the exact moment he did, his deep, dreamy exhale warming your skin.

Jinu began to lap at you again, this time more carefully. His fingers moved inside you in a slow, steady rhythm, no longer pushing too hard but coaxing you, gently building you back up with a lover’s patience.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, barely able to hold yourself together. Your trembling fingers tangled in his hair, while your other hand covered your mouth, trying—but failing—to contain your cries.

“Fuck… ahhh… d-daddy…”

Jinu groaned deep against you, the word catching him by surprise—but clearly affecting him. His lips sealed more firmly around your clit, sucking in time with the steady pulse of his fingers.

“Fucking hell,” he growled into your heat, voice ragged and full of awe. “You taste like heaven. You feel so perfect. You’re everything.”

The intensity, the praise, the intimacy, it was all too much, and yet, not nearly enough. With every word and every stroke of his tongue, he wasn’t just making love to your body.

He was worshipping it.

“Jinu, oh my fucking— god,” you cry out loud. He sucks lazily at your clit while he curls his fingers into you. Jinu eventually sucks harder on your clit, still occasionally swirling his tongue around your little bud while moving his fingers inside you a bit faster. You keep chanting his name between moans as you now hold onto his hair with both of your hands.

You gasp loudly as your whole body trembles even more, the hot feeling continues to spread all over your body, your body tingling, your hips moving at their own accord against Jinu’s hand and face. Then your body tenses as you come against his mouth. Your whole mind feels like exploding and all you can see is stars. You feel so overwhelmed by the amount of pleasure and emotions you are experiencing. Your body is still trembling as you feel yourself come down from your high.

“You’re doing so well for me baby,” he says proudly as his fingers slow down, slipping out of you to rub your slit softly, while he continues to lick your clit, still helping you ride out your orgasm.

You are a sputtering mess while he teeters you towards overstimulation.

As you come back to your senses, you feel his fingers slip away from your heat. Your pussy clenches repeatedly around nothing, you feel like a hot storm and you’re sopping wet from the waist down and dripping down the poor sheets, as you whimper helplessly.

You need him so bad. Your pussy continues to pulse, begging to be filled all over again. Begging for his cock.

“Taste so good angel, I could eat this pussy all day.” He said as he licked his lips and fingers.

Jinu slowly made his way back up your trembling body, his warmth following the path of his kisses as he climbed. Every brush of his lips was tender—worshipful—as if he was stitching the pieces of your soul back together with each soft press.

When he reached your face, he didn’t rush. He lingered, planting delicate kisses along your jaw, then your cheeks, before nuzzling his nose against yours with a quiet breath of laughter. You giggled, light and breathless, your heart fluttering in your chest.

His lips touched your forehead next, then your temple, your nose—every inch kissed with love before finally settling on your mouth. He kissed you slowly, smiling against your lips, the both of you laughing quietly between each kiss like two lovers tangled in a dream.

It was sweet. Intimate. A moment you never wanted to end.

He pulls away with a satisfied sigh, he smiles as he reaches to touch the side of your neck, tracing his fingertips up and down.

You sigh as you melt at the feel of his touch and kiss his thumb as it comes to trace across your lips. You wrap your still shaky legs around his hips as you stare into his eyes.

“I need you, Jinu… I’m ready,” you whispered, voice breathless but steady.

His gaze searched your face, his touch soft as ever. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly, his voice holding the kind of tenderness that made your heart ache.

You nodded with certainty, lifting your hand to gently cup his cheek. “Yes.”

Still, Jinu lingered, his concern for you shining in his eyes. “We can stop at any time, angel. If it becomes too much… you just say the word.”

That sincerity—so deep and unshakable—only made you fall harder.

Your fingers reached up to trace his face, your eyes softening. “I know,” you said with a small, teary smile. “I’m nervous… but I don’t want to stop. Not with you.”

His eyes softened even more, if possible. “Angel,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek, “I just want you to feel safe. And I need you to know, if you change your mind at any point—tonight, or ever—I’ll still adore you. Nothing could change that.”

Tears stung your eyes at his words. They felt like a warm blanket wrapped around your entire being. You’d never felt more cherished, more seen, more loved.

There was no one else on this universe you trusted more than Jinu. He wasn’t just a demon. He was your safe place. Your heart.

Swallowing the lump forming in your throat, you brought your other hand up to cradle both sides of his face. He leaned into your touch, his deep, brown eyes never leaving yours.

“I want this with you,” you whispered. “I trust you… and I love you with everything I am.”

Jinu’s expression melted, shifting into something so full of awe, so reverent, you swore it reached your soul. He looked at you like you were divine—sacred. As if you were something holy he was afraid to break, but so desperate to hold.

Your cheeks flushed under his gaze, but the warmth it brought made the nerves fade just a little more.

He leaned in slowly, lips brushing yours with such gentleness you could cry. The kiss deepened, soft and full of emotion, as one of his hands cradled your face like you were the most fragile, precious thing in existence. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer until you could feel the full weight of him pressing against your center, straining through the thin fabric of his boxers.

Your breath hitched.

Driven by instinct and longing, your hands slid from his cheeks, down the strong lines of his chest and over the taut muscles of his abdomen. Your fingers trembled slightly as they slipped under the waistband of his boxers. You hesitated only a moment before tugging gently.

Jinu’s breath caught. His gaze locked with yours again, reverent and patient. He leaned back just enough to discard the last barrier between you. The moment stretched, quiet and full of anticipation, as he finally rid himself of his boxers and tossed them aside.

Your eyes widened.

He was beautiful—breathtaking. Long and thick, perfectly shaped, and hard for you. The sight of him sent a wave of heat rolling through your body, tightening deep in your core. The thought of him inside you, filling you, had your thighs trembling.

But the nerves returned, lingering.

Jinu noticed immediately. He always did.

He moved closer, lips brushing over yours again, then your cheek, your jaw. His voice was soft, laced with the gentlest amusement. “What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours, hm?”

You blinked up at him, flustered. “H-how… how will that fit?” you whispered, cheeks blazing.

He laughed softly—warm and affectionate, no mocking—and your pout only made his smile grow.

“I promise,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your cheek, “it will fit. I’ll take my time with you, angel. You don’t need to worry.” He kissed you again, slower this time, reassuring, grounding. “We’ll go as slow as you need. I’ve got you.”

And in that moment, wrapped in his voice, his touch, his love—you believed him. You knew he meant every word.

Jinu settled himself between your thighs, his body blanketing yours, the warmth of his skin making your own burn with anticipation. You felt him at your entrance, thick and heavy, teasing the place where your need pulsed strongest. He rested his forehead gently against yours, his eyes searching, asking silently for permission one last time.

You smiled and kissed him, soft and breathless, your hips rising instinctively to meet his. “I love you,” you whispered, voice trembling with affection and desire.

His gaze glowed with a warmth that rivaled the stars. “I love you more,” he murmured, brushing his lips over yours in a kiss so gentle it made your chest ache.

The two of you kiss languidly for a moment, treasuring the heat of each other's bodies as your lips slot together with ease, but soon enough the kisses became deeper, and hands started to grip tighter and legs tangled together.

He held his length in his hands as he kept rubbing the head of his cock from your entrance, up to your clit, circling until you squirmed underneath him, and back down. Jinu loved the sounds you made as he spread his precum around your slit, where you were still dripping for him.

The thought of him finally entering you with his cock made you wetter and turned you even more on. Jinu swallowed your whines with his lips against yours, his hips rolling with yours. He kissed you full with fervour, his grip on you intensifying heatedly.

You were trembling against him, full of anticipation. His body covered your whole body with his. You writhe against him, wishing he was just in you already and filling you up and making you see white.

“I’ll try to go slow, okay, angel?” Your demon lover says before leaning back down to kiss your lips again, he reaches down and grasps himself to line up between your lips and slide. He is rubbing the tip firmly over your slit and your mind is all over the place.

“P-please, Jinu,” you stuttered, your body trembled even more underneath him. “P-put it in, please?”

He rubbed himself up and down your slit for a while longer before he moved his dick teasingly around your core. You arched your back slightly and whined loudly out of frustration.

“Relax sweet girl,” he whispered against your mouth.

You whimpered in anticipation as his forehead touched yours. He nudged the tip of him against your hole, still slick with arousal. Your legs trembled underneath him, a mix of nerves and excitement. Once he notched himself inside of you, a gasp elicited from the both of you.

You knew it was just the tip of him, but you couldn’t help but feel the stretch already. Jinu slid in so slowly it was agonising. He was careful, like he was afraid you might break. You let out a long broken whine as he gradually pushed more of him inside you. He was so big.

You tangled your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling slightly as you whined underneath him. He panted along with you, his warm breath fanning over your face while he kept his forehead pressed against yours. The stretch stung, but his pace kept it bearable. He guided himself a centimetre further, then another, another, until you were digging your nails into his scalp, a gasp spilling from your lips.

His hips stilled instantly once he heard the pained noises falling from your lips. Tears began to prickle at your waterline, a combination of discomfort and the overwhelming feelings coursing through you.

“Doing so good for me baby,” he praised as he peppered your face with soft kisses. “You’re doing amazing.”

“Please,” you whimpered as your eyes fluttered close.

He continued to move almost painfully slow, letting you adjust to every centimetre of him. After a couple of seconds you were able to relax more into it. You whimpered, clutching his shoulders at the stretch, the heat in your abdomen grew as your walls fluttered around him, pleasure beginning to bloom in your stomach.

“Such a good girl,” he grunted softly. You think there isn’t a possibility to get more wet but as he utters those words you feel your heat get even more wet.

Once he bottomed out, a soft gasp slipped past your lips as his tip kissed your cervix. The tears that lingered at your eyes fell freely down your cheeks. You felt so full and relieved as he stilled against you. Your walls involuntarily fluttered around him, getting used to his size. Jinu’s soft lips were on your forehead, leaving soft kisses and whispering sweet nothings and words of encouragement.

You took your time, letting the moment wash over you like a slow, rolling tide. When you finally opened your eyes, blinking through the heady haze, Jinu was already looking down at you, his expression clouded with concern.

“I’m fine,” you whispered between shallow breaths, giving him a small, reassuring nod. “It’s just… a lot.”

And it was. The way he filled you—completely, utterly—made you feel like your body had been waiting for this moment, for him. Like he had been carved by the universe to fit only you. The sensation wasn’t just overwhelming—it was otherworldly. You swore you could see stars behind your eyes, constellations drawn in the shape of his name.

You shifted slightly beneath him, adjusting, and your body instinctively clenched around him. A low groan rumbled from his chest, and you caught the flicker of restraint in his features—the way his brow furrowed, the tension in his jaw. He was holding back for you.

“Jinu,” you breathed, reaching up with a trembling hand to brush the curls from his forehead, your fingers lingering in his hair. “You can move.”

His eyes locked onto yours, and something in him softened. There was devotion there. Worship. Love.

When you gave the slightest tilt of your hips, inviting him in further, his restraint cracked—just a little—and he moaned your name like a prayer. His lips parted as he wet them, and then, slowly, he began to move.

His thrusts were deep, slow, and deliberate—like he wanted you to feel every inch of him, every breath between each connection. He never pulled back too far, never rushed. Just the rhythmic rock of his hips against yours, grounding you both in the moment.

The initial sting began to melt away, like ice thawing under the sun, giving way to something softer… warmer. You sighed, breath catching in your throat as pleasure bloomed gradually inside you, slow and bright. He watched every reaction on your face, his hands holding your hips, his body covering yours with reverent care.

“Jinu,” you whimpered, your fingers curling around the back of his neck.

Slowly, you were getting used to his girth, anticipating it every time he pulled out of you before moving forward again. Your legs were splayed open on either side of his hips as he grind his cock into you. The angle was so good, gradually he picked up his pace, leaving you a whimpering mess underneath him. As Jinu fucked into you in languid strokes, the sound of slick skin was being heard in the room.

Every time he thrust into you, his pelvic bone dragged along your throbbing clit, making you cry out his name in pure ecstasy.

“You’re doing so well for me, sweet girl,” he whispered against your skin, his voice husky and warm. “Taking me perfectly.”

Soft grunts fell from Jinu’s lips whenever he hit a specific deep spot inside you. You whimpered as his lips moved back up to your lips, enveloping them in a heated kiss. His hand found its way between your bodies to gently circle over your sensitive clit.

At a certain point you felt him slide into a pressure point in your core, coupled with the way his fingers circled your clit, it had you clenching like a vise around his dick. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head from the pleasure he was providing you. The whimpers that fell from your lips became higher pitched as he picked up his pace.

“Feeling good kitten?” He moaned, as his lips curled into a soft smile while he couldn’t help but admire the way your face contorted in pure pleasure. Too overwhelmed by the new experience. Filth and praise continued to come out of his mouth as he fucked you. “This pussy was made for me.”

His mouth captured yours in a desperate kiss, swallowing every soft whimper and breathless moan you gave him. The world around you blurred—reduced to nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths and the electricity sparking between your bodies. That familiar tightness coiled low in your belly again, growing tighter with every careful thrust and whispered touch.

Your whimpers, gasps of pleasure and pants increased as ecstasy and warmth overwhelmed your senses.

Jinu’s hands were everywhere, grasping, caressing, exploring as if he still couldn’t believe you were real. His palms skimmed your hips, your waist, your spine like he was trying to memorise every curve, every inch of your warmth.

The rhythm of his body against yours grew more urgent, his movements more focused. He could feel it, that you're on the edge, and he adjusted his hips slightly, searching for the perfect angle that would blow your mind. When he found it, the sound you made had his breath catching in his throat.

Your legs locked around his waist as the wave built, and your arms wrapped tighter around him, trembling from the sheer intensity. Your nails dug gently into his back, and he groaned at the feeling—at the knowledge that you were falling apart for him, and only him.

The pressure in your belly burned white-hot now, every nerve ending lit aflame, every second bringing you closer to unraveling completely beneath him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, cursing under his breath when you purposefully tightened your walls around him. “Bet you’d look even prettier with my cum inside your pussy. All full and messy.”

“Please…” you moaned as you thought about him filling you up. “Please Jinu, baby, fill this pussy up.”

He grunts as he buried his face into your neck as he fucked into you, making the whole bed rattle at his force.

“You want to cum sweetheart?”

You nodded frantically at his words while your eyes fluttered close as you bit your bottom lip harshly. You were bucking up beneath him, nails digging into his skin even more as his hand moved back to your clit as another came to intertwine your hands together, pinning them to the bed. He rubbed your clit with enough pressure to ensure you’d cum around him.

“Cum for me, angel.” Jinu demanded softly.

And when he finally nudged against that spot inside you coupled with his deep voice–your body broke into waves of pleasure, trembling violently as your climax crashed through you like a storm, all heat and chaos and light. His name tore from your lips, wild and raw, before his mouth found yours again—urgent and tender—swallowing every sob, every gasped breath, as if he needed your pleasure like oxygen. Your head lolled back, your back arching violently as you twist and contort in pleasure underneath him.

Jinu groaned in your ear as your walls spasmed and pulsed around his cock, begging him to cum inside, desperate for him to fill you up the way he promised.

“Fuck,” he moaned, pushing himself up as he thrust deeper into you, the head of his cock hitting your sweet spot repeatedly. “You want me to fill this pussy up? Make it all messy?”

You were still in a daze but you were still able to understand him so you nodded vigorously at his words, whining even more at the sensitivity. Your pussy squeezed around his cock in anticipation. “Please…”

He moved his hips sloppily before he groaned loudly, as he finally came inside you. The warmth of his seed filled you up and spread within your walls. You whimpered at the feel of his cum dripping out of you once he pulled out.

It was a blurry haze when you came back to your senses, your whole body was aching whilst simultaneously feeling the most relaxed you've ever been, equally as exhausted as it was energised, and you didn’t bother trying to question why. Just pure contentment.

Once both of you caught your breaths, Jinu pressed his forehead against yours before kissing you tenderly.

“That was…” He breathed, smiling tiredly at the complete dopey mess he had made of you; hair all over the place and eyes lidded heavily, heated skin glowing and your lips looked swollen from all the kisses you’ve both shared.

“Oh yeah, that was everything.” Your voice came out hoarsed, still recovering from the height and volume it had gone, and you cleared your throat gently before you smiled up at him.

Your skin was damp with sweat, sticking softly to his, but Jinu didn’t seem to care in the slightest. If anything, he only pulled you closer, like the thought of distance between your bodies was unbearable. His hands roamed slowly, reverently—gliding over your sides, your back, your arms—touching you as if he was still in awe, still stunned by how beautiful you looked falling apart beneath him… all because of him.

You looked up at him, completely overwhelmed with love, with wonder, with something impossibly soft blooming in your chest. Both of your hands came up to cup his cheeks, your thumbs brushing gently over his flushed skin. Then you pulled him down into another kiss—slow, warm, and full of emotion. A kiss that said everything you couldn’t quite put into words.

He smiled against your lips before pulling back just enough to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. “We have to clean you up,” he mumbled, his voice low and slightly hoarse as his fingers trailed gently down your sides, making you shiver and close your eyes in blissful exhaustion.

“Later,” you murmured with a whine, already sinking into the post-lovemaking haze. “I’m tired.”

Jinu chuckled quietly, the sound low and fond. In one swift movement, he slipped his arms beneath you and lifted you into the air, drawing a surprised yelp from your lips.

“Up you go,” he said, smirking as your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck.

You opened your mouth to protest—something about being perfectly capable of walking to the bathroom—but the soreness settling into your legs betrayed you. The moment you shifted, a dull ache pulsed through your body, and your words died on your tongue.

He raised a brow knowingly as he looked down at you with amusement. “Thought so,” he said with a wink, holding you like you weighed nothing and walking toward the bathroom with you nestled safely in his arms.

He reached the bathroom and gently set you down on the edge of the bathtub, his hands lingering on your waist as he leaned forward to turn on the water. To your surprise, he grabbed a familiar container and dropped your favourite bath bomb into the filling tub. The fizzy swirl of scent and colour blossomed through the water, and a smile curled on your lips as you watched it bubble. The fact that he knew which one you loved most tugged sweetly at your heart.

Once the bath was warm and the water had risen just enough, Jinu turned off the tap and stepped toward you again. Without a word, he scooped you back up into his arms and carefully lowered you into the tub. You let out a soft sigh as the warmth of the bath enveloped your tired body, relaxing your sore muscles and calming every last nerve.

You leaned your head back, eyes fluttering closed as you soaked in the comfort and tranquility.

“Jinu?” you called softly, hoping he hadn’t left.

“Yes, my princess?” he answered immediately, voice gentle.

Your eyes opened to find him still beside you, sitting at the edge of the tub. You reached toward him with a timid smile. “Can you... please join me?”

Jinu’s lips quirked into a mischievous smile. “Of course, my angel,” he said as he rose to his feet.

You scooted toward the center of the tub, making room for him behind you. He stepped in carefully, the water rippling with each motion, and then slid in beside you. Almost instantly, his arms wrapped around your middle, pulling you back into his chest.

You sighed contentedly, melting against him as you rested your head on his shoulder.

“I love you,” he whispered near your ear, pressing a trail of featherlight kisses along your neck. His voice was low and sincere, like a sacred vow only meant for you.

A soft, blissful smile played on your lips. You shifted slightly, snuggling even closer to him in the warm water, letting your bare bodies press together under the bubbles. Your legs tangled effortlessly with his, and for a moment the world faded away, leaving only his breath, his warmth, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“I love you too,” you whispered back.

And that was how the rest of the night passed—wrapped up in each other, in soft touches and lazy kisses, the quiet intimacy of shared space and tender silence. In his embrace, you felt safe, adored, and deeply, utterly at home.

Jinu caught your heart, so effortlessly, as if it had always belonged to him. Promising to hold onto it forever.

thank you for reading <3

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hyacinth-in-a-haze · 30 days ago

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The stranger- Yandere husband??? x fem reader

Contains - minor smut, obsessive behaviour, corporeal horrors, body horror, neglect.

You are starting to think the man in your home isn't your husband.

It was the night after your wedding when he left to go to war, you looked up at him as he stood beside the bed fastening his armour while you covered your bare chest with the sheets. Neither of you spoke a word to each other. You still remember your thighs were sticky with his spend, and it was as though he looked everywhere in the room but at your direction. The wedding itself felt like a farce, he only needed someone to maintain his estate in his absence, picking the daughter of one of his vassals to do the job. You only spoke one sentence to him in the glow of your room before he left.

“Would you like me to give you a token?” You were still bright eyed and used to novels of courtly love. Naive enough to believe that if he didn't love you yet he would at least have respect for you as his wife.

The only thing he met you with was a grimace “Why would I want something like that?” He muttered before closing the door behind him. Leaving you there in the dark unsure if you did anything to upset him.

That was three years ago, now with the war over and all the men returning you heard stories about men returning changed from war. Quiet and unable to handle loud noises, or volatile and quick to blows. But you heard nothing about a man who once felt nothing for his wife returning home full of love.

In all the years he's been gone he's never written to you, never asked after you. The man who returned however sought you out firstly, took you in just arms with a passion you thought only existed inside those novels you long abandoned as lies. And you wanted to believe it, wanted so much to be deserving of the love you always wanted. Until you noticed some things-

His eyes flickering between colours from the start to the end of the day. Moments when his features just looked wrong on his face, slightly off angle and misplaced. Or when you'd wake late at night, turning over to your side and freezing when you'd see a void where his teeth should be. But most of all, it was his newfound gentleness, following you throughout his day without caring for the household. The way he'd hold you to him at night, gentle as he pistons in and of you, asking reassurance for your comfort, wanting to make sure you're not in pain. How he'd have you cum over and over before he would allow himself release. when your wedding night was a stab of pain, and a handful of grunts over in five minutes before he abandoned you. This cannot be the same man.

You've taken to superstitions hoping they would help. Spending hours in the temple only for him to cross the threshold and find you. Keeping salt in your pockets but he'd still have his hands all over you. The only thing you haven't tried yet was silver until you spotted him through the keyhole, cracking in two before forming himself back again. Dressing up in the skin of your husband as though it's an evening suit.

With only the moon as your witness you hold the blade carefully above his heart, it would only take one push and then the thing masquerading as your husband would reveal himself. He is beautiful in his sleep. But with the beauty of a statue, an imitation of life from the perspective of an outsider looking in. You thrust the knife down- only to be interrupted with one eye opening.

“Why can't you just be satisfied with this?” The cloying affection is finally dropped from his voice as he grabs at the knife you hold against him. “He wanted nothing to do with you but here you are, unwilling to accept all the love i have to show you,” blood drips down his palm and onto his sleep shirt, falling in thick black drops.

“What are you?” you cry out “You've stolen my husband's face and wear it for what purpose?” you try to push the knife deeper but his grip blocks you before you can break flesh or what constitutes his flesh.

“I am someone who can take any shape I wish, I took your husband's face because I quite enjoyed the life he led in his memories. Nobels always lead the most fun ones, and they tend to die easily in battle so it's rather easy to switch skins from one man to the next”. He smiles and you could swear his teeth become sharp. “Normally I'm quick to switch my interest, but how could anyone grow tired of a life with you?” His hands move, pinnng you underneath him, staining the shoulders of your gown black with his mud like blood.

“I tried for you, I read those books you hid beneath your bed, copied them exactly but you never would accept it. Is it my face? Am I not pretty enough for you? I assumed you'd want me to keep his face at least publicly but in private I can be anyone you want,” he pleads desperately leaning down above you as his face begins to shift, features rearranging themselves. You become dizzy as he swaps faces, “I can be anything you want, take any form all for you!” He transforms into the stable boy who blushes when you take his hand, to the guard that accompanies you out from the castle, to the knights from all your abandoned books, before going back to your husband. Not stopping until you scream for him to end this game.

“Show me your face then! The true one!” your scream silences him as he pauses, leaning down into your neck.

“Do you really mean that?” his breath is hot on your neck as he begins to shift. A creature of ink spilling over your body, a thousand hands and lips caressing you. Made of smoke and stone you can't escape the weight he holds over you.“My love,” a thousand voices speak in tandem, “my sweet sweet love wanting me as I am.” the creature giggles almost, giddy on his adoration of you, “but I can't stay like this for too long, else you'd become mad,” he coos, you feel teeth across your neck, nipping the skin, careful not to devour you whole. He's still so careful as you feel tendrils spreading your legs, caressing you wherever he can find skin. You can't breathe with him stealing the air from your lungs.

He transforms back slowly, reducing into bone, then sinew then flesh again. Your husband's form, a minor horror compared to what you just witnessed. He smiles with too-sharp teeth as he pulls you close to his chest as though to steady you with his false heartbeat. “My sweet little wife, how could he have never loved you?”

#yandere imagines #yandere #yandere drabble #yandere oc #fem reader #male yandere #yandere x reader #yandere shapeshifter #Yandere husband?#the stranger #yandere oneshot

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cbeargyu · 1 month ago

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跡継ぎの妻 – the heir’s wife

summary: you marry a stranger in silk—his lips stained with blood and tradition. what starts as a marriage of convenience between a yakuza heir and a public figure spirals into something neither of you were prepared for: protection that tastes like devotion, duty twisted with longing, and kisses that come too late to be innocent. in a world where bullets speak louder than hearts, love might be the most dangerous vow of all.

pairing: yakuza heir!yuta x model fem!reader

genre: mafia/yakuza au, arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, romance, family legacy, redemption arc, forbidden desire, emotional healing, found family, power couple dynamic, smut-heavy, character-driven.

warnings: blood, gun use, mentions of injury, dom/sub dynamics, power play, mature themes, violence, blood, weapons, grief, guilt, trauma processing, complex power dynamics, yakuza activity, arranged marriage, emotional manipulation, emotional dependency, toxic loyalty, gender roles, tattoos/irezumi, canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension, mention of lingerie photos, political manipulation, clan dynamics, betrayal, male dominance themes (non-toxic), smut in later chapters.

wc: 12,1k

notes: hellooo!! i'm so excited because i seriously loved the idea for this fic and i spent two whole days writing it nonstop hahaha💀 i have to confess that the story had so much potential that i ended up preparing a second chapter and an epilogue🥹 also, i'm taking the chance to celebrate hitting 1k followers!!🥳🎉 i'll be posting them soon so stay tuned!! leave a comment if you want to be added to the taglist 👇 thank you all so, so much for your support, i seriously adore you 😭🫶🏻 thank you for loving and enjoying my fics, i put so much love into them for you and it makes me so happy to know that you like them 🩷🩷

part ii. epilogue

taglist: special dedication to this anon.

@beestvng @bamtor1sss

osaka, japan — summer, 1995.

the streets of osaka never slept. even at midnight, they pulsed with a quiet rhythm — the flicker of neon lights, the hum of motorcycles in alleyways, the unspoken codes exchanged between men in tailored suits with tattoos hidden beneath white shirts. it was a city built on layers of tradition and violence, elegance and blood.

at the heart of it all stood nakamoto yuta.

he wasn’t supposed to be the head of the kansai syndicate. not yet. at twenty-eight, he was too young, too bold, too unpredictable in the eyes of the elders. but when his uncle — the revered oyabun — was assassinated in a dispute gone wrong, the family needed a name to rally behind. yuta had the bloodline. the legacy. and the audacity to wear the crown before it was polished for him.

his rise had been swift and ruthless.

they called him "the camellia snake" — beautiful, dangerous, impossible to read. he smiled with his mouth, not with his eyes. where his uncle led with honor and hierarchy, yuta ruled with precision and power. under him, the organization evolved. businesses bloomed. territories expanded. and those who doubted him learned to fear him.

but fear didn’t keep the police away.

by march, a whisper reached his ear: one of his shell companies — a modeling agency, ironically — had been flagged for financial inconsistencies. anonymous money transfers. duplicate bank accounts. income without origin. nothing damning yet, but close. too close. if the audit moved forward, questions would come. and yuta, for all his brilliance, had no clean answers.

the police weren’t idiots. they’d been watching. too young, too rich, too many homes, too many cars, too many women. they knew. they just needed a crack in the mirror.

“get married,” takuya said.

his second-in-command. older, level-headed. loyal since the days they’d fought with knives in parking lots. “marry a girl with a clean record. a civilian. preferably someone local. someone easy to explain.”

yuta stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “you want me to lie to the japanese government?”

takuya lit a cigarette, eyes narrowing through the smoke. “you’ve lied to worse.”

“i can handle this,” yuta muttered. “negotiate. bribe. threaten. same as always.”

but takuya didn’t flinch. “not this time. they’re smarter. they want to bury you, yuta. not just investigate you. a wife changes the story. you become a man protecting a family, not a criminal building an empire.”

he hated how logical it sounded.

it wasn’t about love. it wasn’t even about appearances. it was about strategy — the illusion of normalcy. the illusion that nakamoto yuta, feared oyabun of the kansai underground, was just a young man in love with his wife, running a few successful businesses to keep food on the table.

he refused, at first. of course he did. he didn’t do relationships, let alone legal ones. but then came the call — a low-level member, breathless, talking about his cousin. “she’s perfect,” he said. “twenty-three. a model. new in the industry. she needs exposure. you need a wife. she’ll agree if you ask.”

yuta didn’t answer. not immediately.

but that night, alone in his penthouse, staring out at the osaka skyline, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

a marriage of convenience. temporary. strategic. two strangers helping each other survive.

he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.

he’d be lying if he said the idea didn’t thrill him.

the studio smells like cigarettes and desperation masked with luxury perfume — the kind of place that pretends to be high fashion but rots from the inside. you’re standing in the middle of it, arms crossed over the thin silk robe they threw on you, jaw set like stone, fire smoldering in your eyes.

“i said no,” you bite, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “i’m not posing in fucking lingerie.”

people freeze. assistants pause mid-step, makeup artists exchange wary glances, and the photographer pretends to adjust his lens to avoid the tension thickening the air like fog. but they’re all waiting — for your manager to handle you.

hitoshi exhales the way someone does when they’re trying not to scream. “we already talked about this,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “it’s just lace. it’s not porn.”

you arch an eyebrow, slow, deliberate — the kind of look that used to make men melt and now makes them pray. “lace?” you echo with venom. “what part of ‘lace’ makes it okay to be half-naked on a cheap set so some sweaty assholes can jerk off to the catalog later?”

he flinches. good. but he doesn’t back down — you’ll give him that. he’s known you long enough to know you’re a storm, but he still walks into the rain.

“you signed a contract,” he reminds you, the words clipped and quiet. “we don’t have the money for legal shit, y/n. not now.”

you hate him for being right. hate the pit in your stomach, the taste of swallowing your pride. but most of all, you hate this world — the one where your beauty opens doors only to lead you into cages. you clench your jaw until it aches.

“fine,” you snap. “but if i see one of those photos on some sleazy magazine, i swear to god, hitoshi, i’ll make sure everyone in that room regrets being born.”

no one dares to breathe.

fifteen minutes later, you’re on set in nothing but black lace and stockings. your heels click against the floor as you move — slow, poised, deadly. you don’t pose, you dominate. your eyes burn through the camera lens like a challenge. they want sexy? they’ll get it. but not soft. not sweet. nothing about you is for free.

the next set is red. sheer bra, matching panties, white heels. you hate it. hate the way they look at you like you're a product. hate the heat under your skin that isn’t from the lights. you don’t even know where these photos will end up. probably sold to men with thick wallets and no self-control. the thought makes your stomach twist.

by the time you leave, your throat’s dry, your body aches, and your pride feels scraped raw. you slam the door of hitoshi’s beat-up toyota and fold your arms, staring out the window like it owes you something.

he doesn’t say anything. he knows better.

you came to osaka with nothing but a suitcase and fire in your blood. your parents were farmers in a dead-end village near nara — small, quiet, and too slow for someone like you. you always knew you were different. prettier. sharper. when the boys confessed their love at school, when the village chose you for beauty pageants, when you learned that your smile could buy things, you understood one thing: you were made for more.

so you left. for the city. for a future with lights and power and your name in people’s mouths. you stayed with your aunt — kind, clueless — and her son riku, who was trouble dressed in denim and secondhand cologne. only twenty-one and already tangled in shadows.

you never asked where the bruises on his knuckles came from. didn’t ask about the money he brought home, or the whispers on the phone late at night. his life wasn’t yours.

but that night changed everything.

you’d just slipped under your futon, the smell of setting powder and studio sweat still clinging to your hair. your body ached. your pride ached worse. you weren’t even sure what this was all for anymore — modeling? fame? the slow grind of selling yourself in pieces?

the knock at your door startled you.

sharp. insistent. not loud, but not calm either.

you sat up, frowning, crawling over to the sliding door and opening it just enough to peek out.

riku stood there. panting. pale. eyes wild.

“we need to talk,” he said.

your spine stiffened. you stared him down, unimpressed.

“what did you do?”

“nothing,” he lied too quickly. “just... just hear me out, okay?”

you didn’t move. your body was still. cold. waiting.

“someone wants to meet you,” he continued. “it’s important. serious. could change everything.”

you narrowed your eyes. “if this is about some fucking hostess job, i swear to god—”

“it’s not that,” he snapped. “this is... different. big. maybe dangerous.”

your stomach turned. not from fear — you don’t do fear — but from something colder. something real.

you didn’t say yes. not yet. but something shifted that night. something irreversible.

and you knew, deep down, that whatever was coming… it wouldn’t be something you could control.

not this time.

the room smelled of smoke, incense, and old leather — thick with heat from the summer bleeding through the cracked windowpanes. the shoji doors were shut, sealing the quiet inside, broken only by the soft sound of ice shifting in a glass and the subtle drag of a lighter sparking flame.

takuya stood with arms crossed, the rigid set of his shoulders mirrored in the furrow of his brow. yuta sat behind a lacquered black desk, half-shadowed by the golden glow of the hanging lamp above him. his red hair, slightly tousled, shimmered in the dim light — a harsh contrast to the dark ink crawling up his neck and arms, vanishing beneath the crisp sleeves of his black silk shirt, buttoned down just enough to glimpse the coils of dragons etched across his collarbones.

“we’re being watched,” takuya said, low and direct. “again.”

yuta didn’t look surprised. he never did.

he reached for the sake bottle near his elbow, poured into the small cup with graceful fingers tattooed in black kanji. the designs slithered with meaning, oaths made in blood. he drank slowly, as if considering the weight of every word that came next.

“and your genius solution,” he said, voice rough but eerily calm, “is for me to get married.”

before takuya could answer, riku stepped forward, his palms already sweating, his jacket too big, like a boy playing adult. he held something clutched in both hands — crumpled magazine pages, ripped roughly at the edges.

“not just anyone,” riku said, unfolding them with exaggerated care. “her.”

he laid them on the desk like an offering. photos of you — stretched in lace, seductive, sharp-eyed and radiant. black set first, your gaze commanding, then red — a different flavor of temptation. hair voluminous and curled, thighs wrapped in stockings, eyes cold and untouched. it wasn’t just sex appeal. it was danger wrapped in satin.

takuya blinked, barely disguising his surprise. he leaned forward slightly to examine the photos.

“where did you get these?” he asked.

“they’re from a catalog,” riku admitted, his voice too eager. “she just shot them a week ago. she’s my cousin. moved here from a town near nara, lives with my mom and me. she’s... she’s the most beautiful girl back home. people used to say she was blessed by the fox spirits. twenty-three, smart, proud... she’s probably still a virgin.”

yuta’s head turned — slow, deliberate.

his eyes, dark as a crow’s wing and twice as sharp, pinned riku like a nail to the floor.

“probably?” he echoed, voice like a blade.

riku swallowed, color draining from his face. “i... i just meant she’s not... she’s not like the others. she’s not easy.”

“watch your mouth,” yuta said, softly, but it landed heavier than a gunshot. riku bowed his head.

takuya cleared his throat and straightened his spine.

“i don’t think this is a joke,” he said. “the tip came from above the osaka division. someone’s pulling strings beyond our usual channels. if they open a formal audit, we’re fucked. this girl — a marriage — it makes you untouchable. at least for now. appearances matter. even in this world.”

yuta didn’t answer right away. he leaned back, eyes never leaving the photos, but unreadable behind the icy calm he wore like a second skin. the only movement was his thumb running across the edge of the page — just once — over the curve of your hip.

“and if she doesn’t agree?” he asked.

“she will,” riku blurted, then shrank under takuya’s glare. “i mean... she doesn’t know yet. but she will. she’s ambitious. proud as hell, yeah, but smart. she’ll see the opportunity.”

yuta tilted his head slightly.

“opportunity,” he repeated.

there was a silence then — long and thick. the kind that made men sweat and regret.

outside, a cicada screamed in the heat.

finally, yuta reached again for the sake. filled the cup. brought it to his lips.

“bring her tomorrow,” he said, setting it down. “at dusk.”

he looked up then — first at takuya, then at riku.

“and tell her to wear white.”

takuya nodded once. riku, visibly relieved, almost stumbled backward in his rush to bow.

as they left the room, the door sliding shut behind them, yuta looked back down at the photo still sitting on his desk. his fingers hovered over the image of you — red lace, pale thigh, that scowl on your face like you were ready to burn the world if it ever tried to touch you the wrong way.

he smiled — slow, dangerous.

“white,” he murmured to no one, then leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if trying to see the shape of fate through the plaster cracks.

the car wasn’t riku’s.

you knew it the second you saw it — black, polished, long, too luxurious for someone who still owed his mother rent. it looked like something out of a movie, the kind where people died halfway through and the boss never smiled.

you frowned as you slid into the passenger seat, the leather cold against your thighs, the hem of your short white dress riding up just enough to make you tug it down with nervous fingers.

“riku,” you asked, casting him a sidelong glance, “whose car is this?”

he didn’t meet your eyes. just gripped the wheel tighter, the metal of his cheap watch catching the evening sun.

“i’ll explain when we get there,” he said.

“you sound like someone in trouble.”

he didn’t laugh. that was your first clue.

the streets blurred past — familiar for a while, then increasingly foreign. houses turned to alleys, alleys to shadowed roads, until you found yourselves in a part of town you'd never even noticed on the map. old-fashioned, silent, wealthy in the kind of way that kept its secrets buried deep.

“ever heard of the nakamotos?” riku asked, voice low.

you shook your head. “no. who are they?”

he exhaled, like the name alone weighed something in his lungs.

“they’re... old blood. powerful. my uncle used to say they ran osaka before politicians even had names. people think they’re just a legend. but they’re not.”

“you’re talking about the mafia.”

“i’m talking about something older than that,” he corrected. “this isn’t like the shit you see in movies. they don’t wear suits and flash money in clubs. they wear silence. control. fear.”

you opened your mouth to ask him what the hell you were doing here when the car slowed.

he turned into a narrow stone path, flanked by perfectly trimmed hedges and lanterns that hadn’t lit up yet. at the end stood a traditional japanese house — wide, quiet, beautiful... and terrifying. the kind of place that wasn’t a home, but a domain.

the wooden gates opened without a word. two men stood guard — massive, bald, shirtless under their haori coats, with black ink swirling over their arms like sacred maps. their eyes followed the car without blinking.

your stomach tightened.

you knew those tattoos. old-style irezumi. yakuza.

riku parked, shifted the car into neutral. before you could ask anything, the door beside you swung open and his hand wrapped around your arm.

“come on,” he said, voice softer now. “and... don’t say anything unless spoken to.”

you stumbled out, the white heels you’d chosen digging slightly into the stone pathway before he hissed, “shoes off.”

quickly, you slipped them off, your bare feet meeting the cool wood of the engawa. your dress clung to your skin — tight, delicate, lace-trimmed with a little bow between your breasts. thin straps barely held it up, and the ruffled hem danced halfway down your thighs. it wasn’t the kind of thing you wore to meet strangers. especially not dangerous ones.

especially not him.

your curls spilled down your shoulders like a waterfall, wild and untamed. you felt their eyes on you — the men lounging inside, smoking in silence, watching you pass like a prize being paraded.

riku walked ahead, brought you before a closed shoji door, and then — without a word — dropped to his knees.

you blinked. “riku—”

he grabbed your wrist and tugged you down beside him.

“kneel,” he whispered.

your heart thudded hard as your knees touched the tatami.

the air inside felt heavier. sacred. strange.

riku cleared his throat. “nakamoto-san... i’ve brought her.”

a pause.

then a voice — low, smooth, commanding.

“enter.”

the doors slid open.

and there he was.

seated cross-legged behind a desk, bathed in golden light, red hair glinting like fire under the lamp. tattoos peeked out from the open collar of his black shirt, curling over the base of his throat like serpents. his eyes were the first thing you noticed — black, deep, emotionless. like looking into the sea at midnight.

he didn’t stand. didn’t smile. didn’t offer a single greeting.

he just looked at you.

like you were something being weighed.

and you — still on your knees, barefoot, trembling slightly in your white nightdress — felt it.

something shift.

like the world you knew had just ended at the doorstep, and whatever lay beyond was his to shape.

the room was quiet.

no clocks ticking, no voices murmuring beyond the walls. just the sound of your own breathing, unsteady and too loud in your ears, and the faint crackle of incense burning somewhere in the corner — sandalwood, rich and smoky.

he hadn’t said anything.

yuta sat there like a statue carved from shadow and fire, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to the elbows, revealing more of that swirling ink that marked him as untouchable. the tattoos weren’t flashy; they were traditional — dragons and chrysanthemums, waves crashing across his forearms like they were alive. his hair, a deep blood-red, was slicked back slightly, letting you see the clean, sharp line of his jaw, the slight scar on his brow, the disinterest in his eyes.

he looked at you like a man who didn’t waste time.

like someone used to getting exactly what he wanted.

and right now, his eyes were on you.

you sat on your knees, legs folded neatly under you just like riku had instructed. your white dress — thin, ribbed cotton that hugged your curves — felt suddenly far too revealing. the lace along the neckline dipped just low enough to expose a teasing amount of cleavage, delicate and feminine. a tiny satin bow rested between your breasts, and the hem of the dress stopped a few inches below your hips, ruffled and sheer at the edge. the room was warm, but your skin prickled.

your golden choker gleamed in the soft light, a simple band resting at the base of your throat like a brand.

and yuta noticed.

his gaze flicked to it, then back to your eyes.

you swallowed hard.

“you wore white,” he finally said, voice quiet but firm — the kind that made people listen the first time. “good.”

you glanced at riku, who kept his head bowed.

“stand,” yuta said.

your breath caught.

he wasn’t talking to riku.

you.

he meant you.

with shaky hands, you rose slowly, careful not to trip over the hem. your bare feet touched the cool tatami as you stood in front of him — exposed, nervous, but refusing to shrink.

yuta’s eyes roamed, slow and unapologetic. he took his time, letting the silence stretch as his gaze slid down your body — over the slope of your shoulders, the soft lines of your thighs, the little tremble in your fingers.

when his eyes finally returned to yours, something shifted in them. barely.

interest.

“turn around,” he said.

your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed.

you turned — slowly — letting him see the dip of your back, the way the thin straps clung to your skin, the curve of your ass under the short white dress. the silence behind you was heavy, and though he said nothing, you could feel his stare like heat down your spine.

then:

“enough.”

you turned back, your eyes meeting his once more. his expression hadn’t changed. unreadable. unreadable and yet so incredibly present, like he was already taking possession of something without needing to lift a finger.

“how old are you?” he asked.

“twenty-three,” you replied quietly.

his gaze narrowed slightly.

“virgin?”

your heart dropped. riku visibly tensed beside you, but didn’t say a word.

you didn’t answer.

yuta arched a brow.

“i asked you a question.”

you hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.

“yes.”

a pause.

yuta leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers wrapping around a ceramic cup of sake, lifting it to his lips. he drank slowly. thoughtfully. then set it down with a soft clink.

“good,” he murmured.

you didn’t know what that meant.

but you could feel it — your fate shifting under your feet.

“leave us,” he said.

just as riku began to bow his head to excuse himself, yuta raised his hand with a single flick of his fingers.

“call takuya,” he said, not taking his eyes off you.

riku froze for a second — like he’d forgotten something crucial. “yes, sir,” he mumbled, then bowed quickly and disappeared behind the sliding door.

and now you were alone.

alone with nakamoto yuta.

his eyes were darker now, more focused. he didn’t smile. didn’t move.

“come closer,” he said.

and something in you — something curious, frightened, and strangely drawn — obeyed.

as soon as the door slid shut behind riku, you exhaled, but it came out shaky — barely holding together the storm brewing inside you.

you turned toward yuta, cheeks burning. “what the hell was that question?” you blurted, voice tight and sharp, almost cracking.

he didn’t flinch.

he didn’t apologize either.

he simply looked at you like he was watching a child throw a harmless tantrum.

“i needed to know,” he said coolly, fingers tapping once against the rim of his sake cup. “that information changes things.”

your eyebrows shot up. “changes what?”

“your value,” he said, flat and emotionless.

the words hit you like a slap.

you blinked at him, stunned. “i’m not... some kind of—”

“i didn’t say you were,” he interrupted, still calm. still infuriatingly unbothered. “but where you’re going, who you’ll be playing... details matter.”

you pressed your lips together, heart pounding. his gaze was steady, unwavering. there was no cruelty in his tone — but also no softness. just facts. just business.

like you were already part of the machine.

“you’re here for a reason,” he said, sitting forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze locked on yours. “riku says you’re smart. obedient. pretty enough to catch a man’s attention, but not enough to be seen as a threat.”

you almost flinched again. almost.

he noticed.

“don’t take it personally,” he added. “the role needs someone forgettable. invisible, at first glance. someone no one would look at twice — until it’s too late.”

you didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.

you were still kneeling, toes curled into the tatami, your white satin dress clinging lightly to your thighs. the hem brushed against your skin every time you shifted, your bare shoulders cold beneath the dim lantern light. the gold choker around your neck felt heavier now, like a chain instead of an accessory.

you finally turned to look at him. “are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

yuta leaned back in his seat, the tattoos along his forearms catching the light where the sleeves of his dark yukata had slipped. he looked at you like he was reading something only he could see.

“there’s pressure from the police. not just local. national,” he said. “they’re watching us. they want to bring me down.”

you blinked. “so... what does that have to do with me?”

his voice didn’t change. still cold. still even.

“if i marry a civilian woman — someone clean, untouched by our business — it changes the narrative. i stop being the yakuza heir. i become a husband. a man trying to build a quiet life.”

you stared at him.

“you want to marry me.”

“i need to,” he corrected.

“and you expect me to just—”

before you could reply, a soft knock echoed from the other side of the room.

“enter,” yuta called.

the sliding door opened quietly, and in stepped a man in his mid-thirties, sharp as a blade in both posture and gaze. he wore a dark suit with no tie, and even though his arms were hidden, you could still feel the same kind of power rolling off him as the men outside.

“this is takuya,” yuta said without looking at him. “the one who came up with the plan.”

takuya bowed briefly, his eyes scanning you once. no reaction. just cold calculation.

“pleasure,” he said flatly, then got straight to it. “we're currently facing heat from law enforcement. not just the division — higher up. there's a task force building a case. they’re using the press, community outreach, whatever they can. they want to paint yakuza like common criminals. it’s not just raids anymore. they’re aiming for image. public perception.”

you swallowed.

takuya continued, unfazed. “they need something scandalous to latch onto. something to justify pushing deeper. but if we give them a distraction — a different narrative — the pressure dies.”

he looked you in the eye now.

“a marriage,” he said. “to a local girl. innocent. untouched by crime. beautiful, with roots in a quiet town. the kind of story the papers love. the kind of woman that turns a red-haired, tattooed leader into a ‘reformed’ man.”

your heart skipped a beat.

“you want me to marry him?”

yuta’s silence confirmed it before either of them spoke.

“the marriage will be legal,” he said, bluntly. “we’re filing the papers through a lawyer we trust. it’ll hold weight. that’s the point.”

your breath caught.

“we need legitimacy,” takuya went on. “you’re the key to that. the girl from the countryside. beautiful. clean. no record. no history. the media will eat it up — especially when they realize you’re marrying someone like him.”

you looked down, at your dress — soft white, with lace trim over the chest and a satin bow between your breasts. the kind of thing that screamed innocence. riku had made you wear it. said it was yuta’s favorite color on women.

your cheeks burned.

“and what do i get?”

“money, comfort, protection,” takuya said immediately. “you’ll live in comfort. you’ll be kept safe. no one will touch you. not the police. not enemies. not even our own men without permission.”

his gaze hardened. “money. more than your village’s mayor makes in a year. and attention. the kind you can use.”

you glanced at yuta, who was watching you with unreadable eyes. the flames of the oil lamp caught the glint of the gold chain around your neck and the soft shine of your white satin dress, making you look even more delicate — and out of place.

you were barefoot, knees pressing into the tatami, curls spilling down your back like ink on silk.

“so... i’m supposed to pretend to be your wife,” you said, eyes locked on yuta now. “while you do what, exactly?”

he finally spoke again.

“live,” he said. “lead. and make them believe i’ve changed.”

you weren’t sure if it was insane or brilliant.

but deep down, something about the idea — the promise of safety, of being wanted in such a specific, strategic way — pulled at a place inside you that you weren’t ready to name yet.

you didn’t look at takuya when he bowed out, only waited until the door slid shut behind him. silence fell again, thick like smoke in your lungs. you hated it — being spoken about like an asset. like a pawn on some expensive chessboard. like a clean little civilian girl they could dress in white and parade in front of the press.

you crossed your arms.

“you’re a fucking piece of work,” you said, eyes locked on him. “you don’t even ask. you just... tell me i’m getting married. to you. like i’m supposed to be flattered.”

yuta tilted his head. his eyes — those cruel, unreadable eyes — didn’t move from yours.

“if you weren’t angry,” he said slowly, “i’d be disappointed.”

“what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“it means i don’t need a quiet, obedient wife,” he said. “i need someone with fire. someone who doesn’t flinch when men like me enter a room.”

you scoffed. “so you want a wife or a weapon?”

he smirked — just barely. almost not at all.

“both.”

you stood, not bothering to hide the defiance in your posture. your dress flowed around your legs as you stepped closer, barefoot, jaw tight.

“i come from a farm in fucking wakayama,” you snapped. “my parents grow vegetables and wake up before the sun. i crawled out of that life by sheer force of will. i didn’t come to osaka to be anyone’s doll.”

he watched you with an unnerving calm. your temper didn’t faze him. if anything, he seemed... intrigued.

“then don’t be a doll,” he said. “be the woman who stood next to the devil and didn’t blink.”

your chest rose and fell. the white choker around your neck suddenly felt suffocating.

“and what do you get out of this?” you asked. “besides a pretty distraction.”

“peace,” he replied, finishing his sake. “for now.”

you stared at him, still furious — but your fury no longer felt out of place. it felt... necessary. expected. wanted.

he stood slowly, and you couldn’t help but notice the curve of muscle beneath the dark fabric of his yukata, the tattoos peeking out over his chest and wrists like whispered warnings. like stories he didn’t need to tell with words.

he came closer, and stopped just short of your space.

“tomorrow,” he said. “we’ll register the marriage. we’ll make it real.”

your heart thudded — not with fear, but with something heavier. something hotter.

“wear white again.”

“you’re a controlling asshole,” you muttered.

he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your temple.

“good. you’re learning.”

you didn't sleep the night before.

not from fear — you weren’t some trembling girl marrying her first crush. it was the sheer weight of it. the permanence. the fact that when you woke up the next morning, you would legally belong to the red-haired devil with tattoos snaking across his chest. the one who barely flinched when you cussed at him, who told you to wear white like it was some kind of silent power game.

riku arrived at dawn in a black car — another luxurious model that reeked of expensive leather and cigarettes. in the back seat was a garment bag, pristine and white, and a lacquered box wrapped in silk.

“these are from yuta,” he said, handing both over carefully. “he said to wear the western one for the ceremony.”

you pulled the zipper down.

the wedding gown inside looked like it had stepped out of a bridal magazine. dramatic off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, pearl buttons down the back, and a full, billowing skirt that would swallow your legs whole. the lace was delicate, vintage, almost royal. your fingers hesitated at the embroidery.

“jesus christ,” you muttered. “this must’ve cost a fortune.”

“probably did.” riku rubbed the back of his neck. “he doesn’t half-ass anything.”

you didn’t respond, only moved to open the silk-wrapped box next. inside: a traditional shiromuku kimono — heavy white silk with detailed cranes and chrysanthemums embroidered in silver thread. beneath it, folded with exact care, was a note in black ink.

you’ll wear this tonight. we need photos for the papers. — n. yuta

you rolled your eyes and slammed the lid shut.

the ceremony was held at a historic ryotei garden estate outside osaka. the kind of place used for tea ceremonies and old-money weddings. white lanterns floated on the koi pond, and flower arrangements shaped like clouds lined the stone walkway leading to the altar.

your heels clicked sharply against the path, dress trailing behind like a whisper. makeup perfect, lashes heavy, lips painted a soft cherry red. around your neck, a thin golden choker — delicate, expensive-looking, chosen by someone with taste. your hair was still curled and loose, spilling down your back in waves like the night before.

you held your head high. eyes straight ahead.

the photographers swarmed the entrance. local reporters lined the gate. and there he was — standing at the altar in a black montsuki haori, crimson hair tied loosely back, tattoos just barely visible where the robe dipped at the collar. yuta nakamoto looked like a villain out of a storybook. untouched. untouchable.

you stopped beside him, and only nodded once.

he didn’t smile. didn’t blink.

only said, “you look beautiful,” without moving his lips too much.

“you better,” you muttered, “after dropping this much cash.”

the ceremony was both legal and traditional. papers signed first, in front of witnesses — then the vows, recited with low, steady voices. you said them with a precision that almost sounded sarcastic. yuta repeated his in a tone that made the back of your neck tingle. like he was promising more than the words on the paper.

when the priest announced the kiss, you almost flinched. but the cameras were already flashing.

you turned.

you placed a hand on his chest.

and you pulled him in — slow, confident, unflinching. lips pressed to his with calculated pressure, just enough to look like passion, just enough to keep your pride intact.

he didn’t pull away. his mouth stayed still for a second longer than necessary. enough to make you feel heat bloom low in your stomach.

you stepped back first. wiped the edge of your lip with a fingertip. smirked like a queen who always won.

the reporters clapped. someone whistled. riku looked like he wanted to throw up.

you didn’t look at yuta again until after the ceremony, when he leaned in close during the photo op and said under his breath, “i knew you’d make it look good.”

you didn’t answer.

but part of you hated how your heartbeat stuttered anyway.

the reception was held back at the traditional house — the one you'd visited with riku only the day before. everything felt familiar, but colder now. more official. more yours.

the room smelled of sake, tobacco, and incense. a soft string quartet played somewhere in the background, a luxury reserved only for special occasions in this part of the country. long tables were filled with men in black suits, most of them tattooed beneath the fabric, their voices low and respectful. the atmosphere wasn’t celebratory — it was ceremonial. serious. like the birth of a deal.

you sat beside yuta on a low wooden bench, legs tucked beneath your heavy white kimono, the weight of the fabric grounding you. yuta had changed into a darker formal haori — simple, elegant, his hair still tied back, a few strands falling around his face. you tried not to glance at him too often. he didn’t speak much, only nodded at greetings, poured you a cup of tea when the cameras weren’t looking.

the group photo was taken near the engawa, under a blossom tree, everyone lined up behind you both — riku awkwardly stiff behind you, takuya beside him with arms crossed, unreadable. yuta’s hand rested lightly on your knee for the shot. your posture was perfect. expression unreadable.

then came the second photo — just the two of you. you stood side by side on the engawa, backs straight. he tilted his head just slightly toward you, eyes calm. you didn’t lean into him. not yet. but your hands brushed once.

you hated that your skin remembered it.

later that night, in the room they had prepared for you both — a wide, clean space with tatami floors and a low table still holding untouched tea — you sat at the edge of the futon, kimono folded neatly beside you, hair pinned up. your western dress had been carefully stored away. the silence stretched between you and yuta like a tight wire.

he stood by the window, back to you, sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal part of the ink on his forearm.

“you should tell your parents,” he said suddenly, voice calm. “so they don’t hear it from someone else.”

you blinked. “i will. but it’s not that easy.”

he turned slightly toward you. “why not?”

you gave him a tight smile. “you forget where i’m from, city boy. that town barely has working lights. my parents don’t have a landline.”

he paused. then, slowly, walked to a small desk in the corner and pulled out a set of paper, brush, and ink.

“write a letter. i’ll send someone to deliver it in person.”

that startled you more than anything.

“…seriously?”

“i don’t joke about family,” he said, gaze steady. “especially now.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. instead, you took the paper and sat cross-legged to write. your fingers trembled slightly at the start, but you found the words. told them you were safe. told them you were married. left out the politics.

you left out the man standing by the window again, quiet as a ghost.

after you sealed the envelope, yuta finally stepped closer. but he didn’t reach for you. didn’t touch you.

“you’ll sleep here,” he said, voice low. “i’ll take the room next door. just for tonight.”

you looked up at him, surprised.

“what, not going to consummate the deal?” you asked dryly.

his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. “you’re not a deal.”

you held his gaze a second too long. then turned away.

“…thanks,” you muttered.

he paused by the door, then added, “you looked strong today. people noticed.”

you snorted. “damn right they did.”

he left without another word.

you lay back, eyes wide open. married. protected. still you.

and for some reason, that scared you more than anything else.

you woke up to the smell of garlic and soy sauce.

it was a gentle aroma, not overwhelming, but enough to stir you from sleep as sunlight trickled through the wooden blinds. you stretched beneath the soft, white sheets, the unfamiliar futon beneath you barely creaking. your limbs were heavy with yesterday’s weight — the ceremony, the stares, the quiet glances exchanged in front of too many eyes.

slipping out of bed, you pulled the red silk robe from the edge of the futon, tying it lazily around your waist. it clung to you with that subtle sheen, smooth against your bare legs. your hair, still slightly tousled from sleep, was swept into a loose bun, a few strands curling at your nape. barefoot, you padded quietly down the hallway.

you found the chef in the kitchen — a tall, polite man with graying hair tied at the nape. he bowed when he saw you.

“good morning, miss. breakfast will be ready shortly.”

you blinked at the formality, then cleared your throat. “where’s yuta?”

he didn’t look up from the pot he was stirring. “the young master is in his office.”

of course he is.

you murmured a quiet thank you before turning and making your way down the same corridor from last night — where yuta had disappeared into quiet work and you had gone to bed alone.

you knocked once. no answer. you slid the door open.

yuta was seated behind a long wooden desk, papers laid out in front of him, a cigarette resting on a small tray by his elbow. he glanced up when he saw you — and something in his gaze caught, like a moment of surprise he didn’t know how to mask.

you were barely dressed for conversation. the robe hugged your waist too perfectly, a flash of your leg peeking out as you shifted your weight. your lashes curled softly above your half-lidded stare, arms crossed beneath your chest. you didn’t try to hide how comfortable you looked. or how dangerous that made you seem.

“i need to make a call,” you said simply. “it’s important.”

he nodded once, motioning toward the landline on the sideboard.

“go ahead.”

you paused. “can i have privacy?”

that earned you a look — half amusement, half disbelief. then, without a word, he stood and walked past you, sliding the door closed behind him.

as soon as the click echoed in the room, you exhaled. you opened the small leather agenda you always kept in your bag — fingers flipping to the back page where hitoshi’s number was scribbled in your handwriting.

you dialed. it rang twice.

“y/n?”

his voice was frantic, breathless. “where the hell have you been? i’ve been trying to reach you for days—i even came by your aunt's house. it’s empty. what the fuck is going on?”

you bit your lip. “…i got married.”

silence.

then—

“WHAT?”

you pulled the phone slightly away from your ear.

“what do you mean married? married to who?! when? are you even—y/n, are you conscious of what you’re doing?! you have a career, a whole future about to start. you can't just—”

you cut him off gently. “look at the news, hitoshi. or tomorrow’s papers. the answer’s there.”

“but—why?!”

you leaned against the wall, voice calm. “because it was necessary.”

he was pacing. you could hear it in the rhythm of his breath. “y/n, you have contracts. endorsement deals pending. you know what the clauses say—you’re supposed to be single.”

you sighed. “don’t worry about the money. that’s not a problem anymore.”

his voice dropped. “what does that even mean?”

you didn’t answer that.

instead, you softened. “i’ll explain in person. let’s meet soon, yeah?”

after a beat, he agreed. you hung up quietly.

then, without turning, you said, “you can come back in.”

the door slid open slowly.

yuta stepped inside, eyes lingering on your silhouette — the curve of your hip, the smooth dip of your shoulder beneath the robe. your nails, painted white, contrasted sharply with the red fabric as you crossed your arms. you looked the part now. a dangerous, elegant wife. someone who belonged in a room like this — and maybe even someone who could command it.

his voice was lower this time. unreadable.

“who’s hitoshi?”

you raised an eyebrow. “what, jealous already?”

his jaw tightened. “just answer.”

“he’s my manager,” you said firmly. “and i needed to let him know about this situation.”

“you seemed close.”

“don’t start,” you warned, stepping forward, your tone sharp, impatient. “not everyone in my life is someone you need to size up. especially not him.”

he stared at you a moment longer.

and then, quietly — like it surprised even him — he said,

“…you look like you were made for this.”

you didn’t reply.

but you didn’t look away either.

you ate breakfast with your legs crossed under the wooden table, the silk of your red robe brushing softly against your thighs. the chef had prepared grilled fish, miso soup, rice, and a delicate tamagoyaki roll — a traditional spread that felt both luxurious and grounded, like something too refined for a newlywed girl still adjusting to this new life. you picked at your food in silence while the staff moved quietly around you.

yuta joined you ten minutes later, dressed in a dark pinstriped yukata, his sleeves loose, the scent of cologne and cigarettes lingering faintly as he sat across from you. he didn’t say much. didn’t need to. the silence between you wasn’t cold — not quite — but it felt suspended, like a string pulled tight between two people who hadn’t decided what this thing between them was going to be.

you finished eating first. he watched you dab at your lips with the napkin, watched the subtle way you moved, always confident, always so sure of your space in the room. you weren’t the type to wilt, not even under a house full of men who whispered your name like a warning.

“i’ll be in my office,” he murmured as he stood.

you only nodded.

the days passed with a strange kind of rhythm. mornings were quiet — breakfast, then long hours where you wandered the compound’s grounds or stayed in your room, reading, journaling, waiting. there were training sessions in the garden, men bowing to yuta like he was a god, and you saw it clearly now — what kind of man he really was. the way they followed him. the way even takuya never questioned a command. you were living in the center of something vast and ancient and quietly violent, and yet… you didn’t feel afraid.

not really.

yuta treated you with distance, but not cruelty. he gave you space, but not indifference. and in the quiet moments — a shared glance at dinner, the brush of his fingers when handing you a cup of tea — there was something else, something harder to define. tension, yes. desire, maybe. but also… possession. like he was slowly convincing himself that you weren’t just here for the show.

you noticed it most when riku came to inform you of your meeting with hitoshi.

“i’ll drive you there,” he said, pulling keys from his coat pocket. he led you outside to where a glossy black toyota century sat gleaming beneath the trees — a 1994 model, clearly imported with care. it looked like power and old money. when the door opened for you, you slipped inside with practiced ease, dressed in a simple black fitted skirt and a white blouse, minimal makeup, but still polished.

yuta stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching.

“she said he’s her manager,” takuya said from behind him, tone casual. he was smoking again, the end of the cigarette glowing orange in the dusk. “why are you so tense?”

yuta didn’t answer at first. his gaze stayed locked on the vehicle, unmoving.

takuya smirked. “don’t tell me it’s jealousy. i thought this was just a business arrangement.”

yuta’s jaw flexed.

“it’s not that.”

“hm,” takuya exhaled. “then what is it?”

“i’m a man,” yuta said simply, his voice low and firm. “and she belongs to me now. any man would hate the idea of someone else touching what’s his.”

takuya gave a short, quiet laugh. “you’re not very good at pretending, you know.”

the car pulled away.

inside, you kept your eyes forward, legs crossed, fingers resting lightly on the leather seat.

“are you nervous?” riku asked, his voice softer than usual.

“no,” you said simply. “but he might be.”

the meeting spot was a quiet café tucked in a side street near the train station. it was almost empty — just a few people scattered inside. you stepped out of the car and walked in like you owned the place.

hitoshi stood as soon as he saw you.

his expression was pure disbelief.

you sat down without a word.

“…you really went and did it,” he said eventually. “you married someone. just like that.”

“i told you,” you said, tilting your head. “you could’ve checked the papers.”

“oh, i did. believe me, i did.” he ran a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. “but nothing in those headlines explains why. or who. they only say that you married into the nakamoto family, and if you think i don’t know what that means—”

“you’re overreacting.”

“am i?” he leaned forward. “y/n, do you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into? these men aren’t just businessmen. they’re criminals. this… this is dangerous.”

you met his gaze evenly.

“i’m safe.”

he scoffed. “he’s got you brainwashed already.”

“hitoshi—”

“no,” he cut in. “you can’t just throw your career away for this. you had a film audition next month. a music contract on the table. i worked for those.”

your voice dropped. “i didn’t ask you to.”

his face froze.

you leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.

“you’re good at your job,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly. “but you don’t own me.”

he stared at you. your tone was cool, sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. it was the version of you he rarely saw — the version you hid beneath stage smiles and rehearsed charm. the version that came out when you were pushed.

he sat back.

“…so, what now?” he asked. “you going to disappear into his shadow forever?”

you smiled faintly.

“i don’t disappear, hitoshi.”

he watched you for a long moment.

“…i want you to be happy,” he said finally, quieter now. “but i just hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

“i do.”

he nodded.

then, reluctantly, “i’ll wait for you to call.”

you stood, and he didn’t try to follow.

when you returned to the car, riku opened the door for you again. the ride back was silent. you stared out the window, your reflection ghosting across the glass.

yuta was waiting when you arrived.

he didn’t speak right away.

but his eyes moved slowly over your figure — your blouse now slightly unbuttoned from the heat, the black skirt hugging your hips, your heels clicking softly against the wooden floor as you stepped inside. your hair was tied in a neat twist. you looked untouched. but not untouchable.

“how was it?” he asked at last.

“expected,” you said.

he didn’t respond.

so you turned, arms crossed, leveling him with a look.

“don’t look at me like that.”

his brow lifted. “like what?”

“like you think he’s more than what he is.”

“and what is he?”

you tilted your chin.

“not your problem.”

the corner of his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. not quite anything.

he stepped forward until you could smell his cologne again, feel the weight of his presence wrapping around you like gravity. you didn’t move.

“you’re mine,” he said simply, his voice low, almost soft. “whatever this started as… it doesn’t change that.”

you met his eyes without flinching.

“then act like it.”

you stepped past him, your heels clicking down the hallway like a challenge.

he watched you go — and for the first time in days, he didn’t know whether to follow or fall harder.

the soft knock on the door came just as you were adjusting the strap of your black dress in front of the mirror. the fabric clung to your body like it had been molded for you, emphasizing every curve, every subtle sway of your hips. lips painted red, a delicate gold chain around your neck, hair styled effortlessly to frame your cheekbones—you were the picture of elegance. the kind of elegance that didn't ask for attention, but demanded it nonetheless. when you opened the door, yuta stood there, his dark eyes sweeping over you with an unreadable expression. the faintest smirk curled on his lips.

“you’re ready,” he said, his voice deep, smooth like aged whiskey.

you nodded. “always.”

it was the first time you stood beside him like that—visibly, publicly, as his wife. the police visit had been scheduled days ago, supposedly a routine check. they had heard whispers, rumors about illegal movement, weapons, maybe more. but when the door opened to reveal you—immaculate, poised, clean as paper—their tone shifted. and when they saw the documents, the legal marriage certificate, your name listed as the new owner of multiple boutiques and cosmetic shops around the city, they exchanged glances.

“mrs. nakamoto?” the inspector had asked, uncertain, skeptical even.

you nodded politely. “yes. is there a problem?”

he glanced at the paper again, then at yuta, who remained calm, arms crossed, watching the interaction in silence. eventually, they left. the marriage had erased all suspicion, at least for now. your spotless reputation had become a shield, and yuta had used it like a blade.

that night, as you stood alone on the engawa of the traditional house—the same one you were brought to the first time—watching the moon dip behind the clouds, something inside you felt hollow. it wasn’t about the marriage. it wasn’t about the danger. it was the way he hadn’t come home.

you didn’t want to admit it, but his absence gnawed at your nerves. the house felt too quiet, too still. the shadows stretched in strange ways. your heartbeat was louder than the wind rattling the trees. you remained near the front, robe tied tightly around your waist, sandal-clad feet tapping restlessly against the wooden floor.

a screech of tires shattered the silence.

your body tensed, instinctively stepping toward the door. “yuta?” you called out, voice unsure.

“don’t turn on the lights,” he growled from the darkness, his voice uneven. strained. almost guttural.

you froze, your breath caught. “what—what happened?”

his silhouette appeared under the dim light of the porch. he stumbled, one hand pressed hard to his side, the other braced against the wall. he was bleeding. thick, dark liquid was spreading across his shirt, staining it in ominous blotches.

“yuta—oh my god.” you rushed forward, catching him as he lost balance. your arms wrapped around him, struggling to hold up his weight. something warm and wet seeped through your robe, making your skin crawl.

“it’s fine—just... just a scratch,” he muttered, clearly lying.

“shut up,” you hissed. your fingers trembled as you pressed them against the open wound. blood poured out over your hands, slippery and terrifying. you couldn’t see clearly. your head spun. you were shaking, overwhelmed, but you weren’t going to let him die here.

you pulled off your robe, leaving yourself in nothing but your underwear, and pressed the fabric hard against his abdomen. “stay with me, do you hear me? stay the fuck with me.”

his eyes moved to you, barely focused. but they lingered. his bloodied fingers brushed your arm, slow, reverent. “you look like a damn goddess,” he whispered, his breath hitching.

“you’re delirious,” you snapped, voice cracking.

you bolted into his office, found the notebook with contacts, and dialed takuya with shaky fingers. “it’s bad,” you said as soon as he picked up. “he’s hurt—stabbed—bleeding. hurry, please.”

minutes later, engines roared into the driveway. several men stormed inside. one, enormous, bald and covered in tattoos, barked orders. “get him in the car. now!”

you stood frozen, blood staining your legs, your stomach, your hands. you hadn’t even realized you were crying until takuya’s hand cupped your shoulder. “he’s gonna be fine. it’s not his first time.”

your head snapped toward him, anger flashing through your tears. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean? like that makes it okay?”

he sighed. “you married a yakuza boss, sweetheart. this... this is the life.”

they carried yuta out on a stretcher, still conscious, his eyes locked on you until the car doors slammed shut.

you ran to your room, changed into the nearest jeans and a sweatshirt, your skin sticky, heart pounding, nerves frayed. you were supposed to be used to this. you weren’t. you never would be.

but you’d made a choice. and for better or worse, this was your world now.

“you’re not coming with us,” takuya said firmly, standing between you and the door like a wall. “we don’t know if it’s safe. the ones who did this could still be out there.”

you clenched your jaw. “i don’t care.”

he sighed, exasperated. “you should. if something happens to you, he’ll lose his fucking mind. he’s already half-dead—don’t give him another reason to bleed out.”

just then, another man stepped inside the house, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black coat soaked at the hem. his eyes flicked briefly to you—blood still crusted on your arms—before turning to takuya.

“send a team,” the man said coldly. “find the ones responsible. they laid hands on the boss—i want heads rolling before sunrise.”

your heart skipped. the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. these men didn’t play. and neither did you.

takuya stepped aside, distracted by his phone. in that split second, you slipped past him and out the door.

your legs carried you before your fear could stop you. you flagged the first car outside and ordered the driver to take you to the hospital. he hesitated at first, but the blood on your body, the tremble in your voice, and the fire in your eyes convinced him otherwise.

the ride felt endless. your thoughts spiraled. images of yuta, pale and breathless, leaning on you like he had nothing left to give. the way his blood soaked your robe. his whisper: you look like a damn goddess. you pressed your hand to your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but it only made you more aware of the ache blooming inside.

the hospital was surrounded—unmarked cars parked along the curb, men in black stationed near the entrance like statues. you walked past them, eyes forward, not daring to look weak. no one stopped you. maybe they recognized you. maybe they just knew better.

when you reached the emergency wing, takuya was already there. he turned sharply when he saw you, brows drawn tight.

“you don’t fucking listen.”

“and you don’t get to keep me away from him,” you snapped. “i’m his wife, remember?”

he hesitated.

“where is he?” you demanded.

after a long pause, he pointed down the hall.

room 304.

you stepped in quietly. the lights were dim, the room cold and too clean. yuta lay in the bed, shirtless, wrapped in gauze, an IV attached to his arm. bruises spread like ink under his skin, and the bandage around his abdomen was already faintly stained.

he looked up when he heard the door click. his lashes fluttered, expression softening as he saw you.

“you’re here.”

“of course i’m here,” you said, voice cracking. “i wasn’t going to let you go through this alone.”

his head rolled slightly on the pillow. “told you not to come.”

you approached slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed. your fingers brushed his, and his hand immediately gripped yours, tight, desperate.

“they’re looking for them,” you whispered. “the ones who did this.”

he hummed. “i figured.”

you stared at him, really stared. even beaten and bruised, he was still beautiful. painfully so. his lips were cracked, his hair damp with sweat, and yet when he looked at you like that—like you were the only light in the room—something shifted in your chest.

“you could’ve died,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“i didn’t.”

“you’re not invincible, yuta.”

his thumb traced your knuckle, slow and deliberate. “i’ve survived worse.”

“doesn’t mean i want to watch you do it again.”

he blinked slowly. “are you worried about me?”

you looked away, ashamed by how quickly your throat closed up. “of course i fucking am.”

a silence settled between you, charged and heavy. then, softly, he tugged your hand.

“come here.”

you hesitated, then shifted closer until you sat beside his torso. his free arm moved, gently pulling you down, guiding your head to his shoulder. you melted into him, careful of the bandages, heart thudding wildly in your chest.

“you smell like blood,” he murmured against your temple.

“your blood.”

he exhaled, a sound between a laugh and a groan. “you shouldn’t have come.”

“shut up,” you whispered. “i couldn’t stay away.”

his hand slid up your back, slow and warm, fingers curling lightly at the nape of your neck. it wasn’t sexual—not yet—but it was intimate in a way that made your skin burn.

“you’re shaking,” he said, voice low.

“i’m not,” you lied.

he tilted his head slightly, enough to catch your eyes. “you were scared.”

you didn’t deny it.

then, so softly you almost missed it, he said, “i’m sorry.”

it knocked the breath out of you. not just because it was rare, but because it sounded real. raw. like he meant it.

you buried your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of saline and blood and yuta. “just... don’t make me lose you.”

his fingers tightened against your spine. “you won’t.”

and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. you just lay there—his body battered, yours tense, your heartbeats syncing in the quiet. his touch grew bolder, fingertips tracing the line of your waist where the sweatshirt had ridden up. not enough to be indecent, just enough to remind you that you were both alive, still tethered to this moment.

his lips brushed your forehead.

“thank you,” he whispered. “for disobeying.”

the days passed slowly, quietly, like smoke curling in still air. yuta remained in the hospital, recovering from the attack—each morning his color improved, each night you still woke up drenched in cold sweat, the memory of his blood staining your hands refusing to leave you.

you visited him every day, sometimes for hours, sometimes just to bring him something sweet from the bakery he liked. he hated the hospital food. tastes like regret, he’d mumbled once, wincing at the scrambled eggs.

you would laugh. he liked hearing your laugh. said it sounded like it didn’t belong in a world like his. too soft. too clean.

on the third morning, you received a call from hitoshi.

“i know it’s sudden,” he said, voice crackling with low urgency, “but they need you for the ad. the set’s already built. we’re behind schedule.”

you hesitated, looking over your shoulder at the clock. 8:42 a.m. visiting hours started at nine.

“it’s the commercial,” he added, softer this time. “the one with the energy drink. the ‘neon burn’ campaign.”

you exhaled, one hand gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. “i’ll be there.”

the shoot was loud, hectic, and full of neon lighting. they’d dressed you in a vibrant 80s-inspired athletic bodysuit—electric purple, turquoise, and hot pink, with high-cut sides. mesh leggings hugged your thighs, and scrunched leg warmers clung to your ankles. your hair was teased and pinned high, lips painted with a glossy coral shade, eyes framed by metallic blue shadow.

it was absurd.

and yet you killed it.

even with your heart split in two, you danced, posed, ran down the fake gym set and delivered your lines with energy that felt impossible to fake. the crew clapped. the director smiled. hitoshi looked almost proud.

but you heard them. behind the camera, behind the mirrors.

isn’t that the girl who married a nakamoto?

she’s still working? i thought she’d go into hiding after that shooting...

you didn’t flinch. not once. your back stayed straight, chin tilted, eyes cold and far away. you’d learned that from yuta—how to carry chaos like it was perfume on your skin.

when the shoot wrapped, you slid into hitoshi’s car, pulling off your earrings and tossing them into your bag.

“take me to the hospital,” you said quietly.

he didn’t argue, but he didn’t hide the concern in his tone either.

“you keep walking into fire,” he muttered, one hand on the wheel. “one of these days, you’ll get burned.”

you turned to look out the window, slipping on your sunglasses. “then i guess i’ll burn.”

by the time you arrived at the hospital, the sun had reached its peak. you wore a soft beige set—trousers that hugged your hips, a cropped blazer, and low nude heels. your makeup was subtle, elegant, and your dark glasses concealed the weariness in your eyes.

no one stopped you. they knew you by now.

room 304.

you entered without knocking.

yuta was sitting up in bed, finishing the last bite of toast. he wore a plain black shirt, one of the ones you brought from home, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, bandages still visible underneath. he looked better. less pale. a little annoyed.

“what’s with the shades?” he asked, swallowing.

you took them off and placed them on the windowsill. “blinding lights. needed protection.”

he eyed you, amused. “you look like you walked out of a magazine.”

you shrugged. “it was the commercial shoot. energy drink. eighties gymcore fantasy.”

��so you wore... what, a fluorescent leotard?”

“and leg warmers. don’t forget the leg warmers.”

he smirked. “should’ve been there.”

you smiled faintly, then crossed the room, pulling the chair closer to his bed. he watched you in silence, a hand resting loosely on his stomach.

“you okay?” you asked softly.

“better,” he said. “doc says maybe two more days.”

you nodded, fingers curling slightly over your knees.

“you really went to work in the middle of all this?” he asked, voice low.

“i didn’t want to,” you admitted. “but i needed to remember i still exist outside of this. outside of... bleeding walls and bodyguards and hospital beds.”

he looked at you, really looked. something in his eyes flickered—guilt, maybe. or admiration.

“i heard the crew talking,” you continued. “they think i’m crazy. marrying into this family. being seen with your name wrapped around my finger.”

“they’re not wrong,” he muttered.

you reached into your purse, pulling out a folded napkin. “i brought you something.”

he raised an eyebrow.

you handed him a pastry, soft and still warm. almond filling. his favorite.

“see?” you said, a little teasing. “not a complete mistake.”

he chuckled, biting into it. his shoulders relaxed. for a moment, he looked like any other man—wounded but human, soft around the edges.

“i missed this,” he said suddenly, voice quieter. “us. when it’s... normal.”

“this isn’t normal,” you whispered, eyes flicking to the IV, to the faint red stains on the gauze at his waist.

“no,” he agreed. “but it’s ours.”

you felt something catch in your chest.

“you scared me, yuta,” you said. “that night. i thought—i thought you were going to die in my arms.”

he swallowed. “i know.”

you reached for his hand. he let you.

“and it made me realize... it’s not just about the blood. or the danger. it’s you. it’s always been you.”

he stared at you for a long time, as if trying to memorize your face in this moment—sunlight casting gold along your cheekbones, shadows pooling at your collarbone.

“you were shaking,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “you wrapped your robe around me like it was the only thing holding me together.”

“it was.”

he leaned forward, slow, careful. his face inches from yours.

“i’ve had men take bullets for me. i’ve had people beg to die in my name. but no one’s ever looked at me the way you did that night.”

you exhaled shakily, heart hammering.

“how did i look at you?” you asked.

“like i was worth saving.”

you swallowed hard.

his fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face toward him. you saw the softness in his gaze war with the fire in his touch, that unspoken hunger blooming between you like a bruise. his lips brushed yours—not quite a kiss, not yet—but the weight of it stole the air from your lungs.

“i’m not letting you go,” he whispered. “not now. not after that.”

you didn’t reply.

you didn’t need to.

you just leaned in, lips brushing his again, as if sealing a quiet, dangerous promise.

he came home just as the cicadas began their evening song, the sky burning orange behind the high walls of the estate.

the front gates creaked open, and the commands were already lined up along the stone path, kneeling, backs straight, heads bowed in perfect silence.

the black car door opened. yuta stepped out slowly, his movements still deliberate, recovering. he wore a dark yukata, fabric loose at the collar, bandages still hidden beneath the folds. the sound of his geta against the stone echoed like a heartbeat.

“welcome home, young master,” they murmured in unison.

one of the higher officers stepped forward. “the men who orchestrated the attack have been dealt with. the one responsible… was eliminated last night.”

yuta said nothing at first. his eyes closed, head dipping just slightly, as if acknowledging not just the words but the weight of everything they carried.

you watched from the genkan, leaning lightly against the doorframe, arms crossed. your orange summer dress caught the dying light, soft fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, fluttering just below your knees. your hair was down, loose and warm like the air, and you felt his gaze linger on you even through his exhaustion.

you didn’t say anything. neither did he.

you didn’t have to.

he passed by you slowly, the smell of sandalwood and blood and quiet victory still clinging to him.

the house returned to stillness once he disappeared down the hall toward his room.

later, you stood barefoot in the kitchen, elbows propped on the counter, chatting aimlessly with the chef. he was old, bored, fond of telling stories that made no sense and pretending to hate you even though you knew he liked your company.

“you’re hovering again,” he muttered, chopping scallions. “what, worried i’ll poison him?”

“i just want it done right.”

“it is done right.”

“then let me take it.”

“you don’t need to—”

“he’s my husband,” you said sharply, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “i’ll take it.”

he blinked at you, then snorted. “possessive little thing.”

“i’m just not decorative,” you said, grabbing the tray.

on the wooden surface, you laid everything carefully: a bowl of miso soup, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and a small porcelain cup of green tea. nothing too heavy—he still hadn’t regained all his strength. you added a folded cloth napkin and a pair of dark chopsticks.

the corridor was quiet when you made your way toward his room. the sliding door stood closed, warm light flickering through the paper panels. a couple of his men were stationed outside, standing stiff as statues. they glanced at you as you knelt gently before the door.

“yuta” you said softly. “i’m coming in.”

their eyes widened slightly—you hadn’t waited for permission.

inside, yuta sat reclined on his futon, his yukata slightly loosened, revealing the smooth, pale line of his collarbone. his head rested on his hand, elbow propped on a cushion. he was absently tossing a temari ball into the air and catching it with lazy precision, the silk threads glinting in the warm lamplight.

when you entered, he caught the ball midair and raised a brow.

“is this what i get for nearly dying?” he said, voice rough but amused. “a pretty wife and a home-cooked meal?”

you stood, holding the tray. “don’t get used to it.”

“but i like this version of you.”

“the barefoot maid version?”

“the worried wife version.”

you walked over and set the tray in front of him. “you’ll be serving yourself the moment you can stand without wobbling.”

he chuckled low in his chest. “you’re all thorns tonight.”

you sat beside him on the tatami, tucking your legs under your body. he reached for the bowl of soup, pausing to inhale the scent.

“this smells like my mother’s,” he murmured.

you looked over. “really?”

“mm. not exact. hers was saltier. but close enough that it stings.”

your voice softened. “was she strict?”

he took a sip of tea before answering. “no. not with me. she was tired by the time i came along. my sister got most of her anger. i got the leftovers.”

“you don’t talk about them much,” you said, careful not to pry.

he rested the cup on the tray. “there’s not much to say. my parents are gone. my sister left years ago. changed her name. ran away from the family.”

“where did she go?”

“fukushima, maybe. i’m not sure anymore. she hasn’t contacted me since…” he paused. “six years.”

you went quiet. the weight of that silence filled the room, not heavy—but sharp, like the moment before a storm.

“sorry,” you said. “i didn’t mean to—”

“it doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, glancing at you. “i don’t need her.”

he picked up a piece of fish, chewing slowly before he added, “i have you now.”

you looked at him. his voice wasn’t teasing. there was no smirk, no game behind his words. just truth.

you smiled, faint but genuine. “we’re not really a family though, are we?”

he didn’t flinch.

“maybe not yet,” he said. “but marriages evolve. even the fake ones.”

you scoffed lightly, looking away. “you really think this can become something real?”

he shrugged, finishing his tea. “i’ve seen stranger things.”

you let the quiet settle between you again. somewhere outside, a wind chime jingled in the warm breeze.

you stood, brushing your dress down over your thighs. “i’ll let you rest.”

“you could stay.”

you looked over your shoulder.

he wasn’t smiling now.

just watching you, the temari ball still between his fingers.

“stay,” he repeated, softer. “we don’t have to talk. just sit.”

you hesitated, then walked back and sat near his futon, close enough that his hand brushed against the hem of your dress.

he didn’t move it.

neither did you.

you stayed like that until the tea cooled, until his breath evened out into sleep, until you felt the strange ache of something tender begin to bloom—soft, patient, dangerous.

you didn’t dare give it a name.

not yet.

1K notes · View notes

vividxpages · 2 months ago

Text

"problematic tower romance"

pairing: John Walker x fem!reader

words: 6.5k

summary: John liked to remind you that he was fifteen years older than you. You liked to remind him that you honestly didn't care.

warnings: age gap (John is in his late 30s, reader is in her early 20s), mutual pining, fighting & arguing, getting together, explicit sex scenes, (wet humping, vaginal sex)

a/n: the title of this fic is inspired by the book "problematic summer romance" by Ali Hazelwood! (big recommendation, I marked so many quotes of it on my kindle) thank you for everyone who showed interest in a fic idea like this, I was so motivated to keep writing because all of you!🤍 Enjoy!

ao3 version

────୨ৎ────

Everything you knew about John Walker was contradictory.

All your life, you had been trained to spot patterns, to look at a stranger and know their weakness within seconds. And yet, months had passed after you had become one of the New Avengers and still you couldn’t figure out the riddle that was John Walker.

He was made of the strongest steel, hardened from his life and never letting down his guard – never not hiding behind the shield of his own smugness and cockiness. He was harsh and commanding and older, and if he wanted to, he could be a real pain in the ass.

But somewhere along the way, between missions and the everyday life at the tower, something between you had shifted.

On the first glance, you had nothing in common.

He had a history, tragedies that had struck his life and evidently changed it for the worse and you were a blank slate, only growing into the abilities that made you strong and valuable to the group. Where he liked to stay for himself, playing grumpy old hard-to-get, you liked to surround yourself with your new companions, quickly carving yourself a place in everyone’s hearts.

Yet, there was an invisible force pushing you together.

And there came the day where almost inevitably, John subconsciously started to look out for your smile, his ears adjusting to find your sunny laugh echoing through the space that slowly became home.

Him and you drifted towards each other, circling each other’s orbit without meaning to. Closer, closer.

Neither of you had a habit of sleeping in and so, the kitchen was often shared between the two of you in the early mornings. Silently at first and then over hushed, small conversations that grew longer and longer over time. You discovered John was a pretty good cook until you weren’t even able to imagine what it was like to start your day without his greasy cheese and bacon toasts anymore. He often almost burned the eggs when he listened to you sing quietly along to the radio, in awe and mesmerized.

When the others eventually joined you for breakfast, the coffee between you had long gone cold with conversation. One last glance shared, almost like a secret before you’d go on with your day.

You joined his training – brutal at first, but so damn efficient – and he showed you how to defend yourself better, even letting you carry his shield for practice in case you’d need it one day. John didn’t know yet what the funny tug at his heartstrings meant when he saw you with it. And when you complained over sore muscles the day after, he sneaked you a salve from his private stash. He thought no one saw it, but Yelena and Ava shot you a knowing grin as you turned away with heated cheeks.

It was surprisingly easy to mess with John. It seemed like his shoulders only lost their tension when you made a joke, your sweet laugh a comforting music to his ears.

One time, Bob and you had tried to get one of the old kitchen devices to run since you wanted to bake a cake together.

“There’s no way anyone walking this planet still knows how to use this ancient technology.” Bob quirked his mouth at you and when you saw John come to stand above the two of you, a smile was ready, tugging at the corners of your lips.

“Hmm…let’s ask John, he was born among the dinosaurs.”

He cocked a brow at you, wanting to stay unimpressed which was hard when a literal sunshine was grinning up at him. “Really? An age joke? Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, studying or something?”

You stuck your tongue out at him, his laughter warming your chest like nothing else.

On missions, there always was a shift in him and gone was your grumpy yet soft John, replaced by a sharp and focused weapon of a man who yet always found a way to look out for you. You didn’t miss the way he started to stick to your side, even if it meant breaking protocol. The ghost of his gloved hands drifting over your spine, to move you out of the way or give you an extra push to launch into an attack he had taught you.

You were becoming a team, on the job and outside of it and of course, as a woman in her twenties, you possessed good eyesight: John Walker was, almost annoyingly so, pretty fucking hot.

He wasn’t perfect, but battered yet sharp at the edges, and when he leaned over you for the first time to grab something on the table, freshly showered, white shirt and damp hair, his cologne had filled your senses and you couldn’t look away from him.

The thought of him, the idea of being with a man who wasn’t only older than you but a steady, comforting presence in your life, kept following you way into the nights until all you could think about was him and your hand inevitably drifted underneath your bed covers, fantasizing about what could be.

It was the smallest contacts that haunted you the most.

His calloused thumb brushing over your braid. The way his eyes turned a shade darker when you looked at each other a moment too long. The warmth of his body when he brushed past you, getting to work and making you eggs the way you liked them. That one time during movie night his thigh feather lightly touched yours, your fingers drifting over a scar on his hand in the dark, barely breathing…

With the years John had on you – a decade and a half you liked to brush off as nothing when you thought of him, he was more experienced in every aspect and liked to show it. Whether it was his cut, commanding orders during missions or correcting your technique in the gym again and again, he liked to remind you that you were younger. Inexperienced to the world and its ways. Just a little doe that now played with the adults.

It drove you wild.

It turned you on more than it should’ve.

You had never wanted anyone more.

And secretly, while John beat himself up for getting a boner at the thoughts of you circling through his mind, you fully gave into them and thought: why the hell not?

During a mission in Rome, the tension between him and you had finally boiled over.

The others had stayed in New York while the two of you went to Europe, playing happy couple on a little trip while also spying on a cartel that had brought Val some trouble recently. Which meant that most of the time spent there, John was supposed to take you out on some fancy rooftop dates, with you dressed in pretty sundresses and heels as you tried to concentrate on the mission with his hand constantly on your lower back or your arm.

It also had been a shock to discover that you were actually the impulsive one in this unusual pretend-pairing, especially when this certain attribute surfaced during a chase through the narrow alleys until you had nearly caught a knife to your chest.

But John’s shield had been faster, catapulting the thing that could’ve ended your life against a wall and killing your opponent with it. For a moment, you both had stood still, breathing heavily as the reality of what could’ve happened sunk in and your eyes met. Yours confused and a little dazed, his wide and terrified.

In the next second, you were pressed up against the wall, your thigh hooked over his waist as he kissed you desperately, senseless.

Maybe it was the aftermath of the scare, the adrenaline still pumping through both of your veins.

Or maybe what had been blossoming quietly between the two of you.

In that moment, it didn't matter.

When he had muttered a weak “We can’t…” against your lips, you only kissed him back harder, your arms secure and wanting wrapped around your neck, making him bend down to meet you.

“I don’t care.” You had whispered back, sealing your fate.

Back then, you hadn’t known yet how complicated John liked to make his own life.

The rest of the time in Rome had been spent in a dream, the mission complete, the flight scheduled soon but out of reach. The two of you had let yourselves be swallowed by the vibrant city, getting lost in the streets and old monuments, forgetting of the titles you both wore and who you were supposed to be.

An invisible question mark floated between you at all times.

Will we? when his thumb brushed over the corner of your lip to wipe away some vanilla ice cream.

Will we? when you casually entwined your fingers with his as he carried your shopping bags.

Will we? when you watched the sunset and you leaned your head against his arm, one of his hands splayed over your thigh.

During your last night, after a delicious dinner where pinkies kept brushing and electricity sparking, you finally found yourself in his hotel room, drowning in his sheets and him.

You were tangled together, all breathy moans and heated flesh, his suit and your flowy flower dress dropped and forgotten on the floor. Your silky hair splayed down on his pillow, his broad shoulders reddened from your nails scratching him passionately.

John tried to keep most of his weight off you, but you kept dragging him down.

You didn’t want to be babied. You wanted to be covered in him, swallowed up by all of him and never to be seen again. Your back arched as he hit just the right spot and you gasped into his mouth, your hand pulling him down by his sweaty nape, ready to be devoured by his kiss.

“There’s fifteen years between us.” He gasped against your neck, hips rutting into you slow and deep, his teeth gritted and hot breath lighting you on fire.

You nudged your nose with his, forcing him to look at you as you bit down on his bottom lip, hard. “Congrats on knowing how to count, John.”

Everything in you seized up when he suddenly bit down on your neck, softly licking over the mark before doing it again just because you let him. Your pussy clenched around him, ankles locking behind his back and pushing him further into madness.

There was a crazed urgency in the way his hips snapped into yours. Like he needed to get deeper, no sight of being sated yet as he fucked you into the mattress. John was everywhere, filling up your senses as he kept you full with his cock, legs spread wide around him as you held on to him for dear life.

He couldn’t look away from you if he wanted to, fascinated with your rosy cheeks and soft, parted lips.

You were soft.

Not fragile, far from it, but precious to him and the others.

And even as if he was buried deep into your sweet warmth, all John could think about was that it was only a matter of time until he’d mess this up and break you just like everything else that used to be good in his life.

But he had never claimed to be perfect.

And so, he kept fucking you into an earth-shattering high, until your body twitched and shook in his embrace and you slowly fell asleep on his chest, his arms keeping you safe and close to him all night.

After Rome, he withdrew.

Putting a reasonable and safe distance between himself and you.

John had no bigger enemy in this world than his own mind sometimes and so, he carefully loosened his hold on your sleeping form the next morning, trying his best to shake off what had been growing so gently inside of him.

You had not realized the last time he planned to allow himself to be in a room with you was the debrief with the team after you got home. And even then, John had barely looked at you.

The next day, after sitting over cold breakfast for an hour, you understood that he wasn’t coming. And when he walked past you with Bucky later, jaw tense and face scarily neutral, something inside of you reeled back in shock.

The first few days, you were a little lost, the happiness you had felt when you had drifted off in John’s arms fading into a numb confusion. The passionate night shared between you kept replaying itself in your mind and you wondered where things had taken a wrong turn. You hadn’t been in a relationship before and you couldn’t help but think you had done something wrong.

And John didn’t give you a chance to ask.

While life at the tower went on, John avoided you, never crossing paths at the gym and even excusing himself from conversations when he saw you approach.

At first, it was frustrating.

Then, it became infuriating.

Your hurt heart built itself a cage of anger, a constant burn in your chest following you around until one day – after a good, healing talk with the girls and Bob – you understood what the fucking problem was.

There was a deep, heavy self-hate inside of John Walker.

A guilt he couldn’t brush off, dark and ugly and making him believe after everything, he didn’t deserve happiness like the one he felt with you. After his downfall in society, the split with Olivia…what good had he done to deserve you? What gave him the right to rely on someone like you, still so young and unsullied from the world’s tragedies?

Even after the mission and time you had spent together, you haunted him in his dreams, your smile and beauty brightening up his nights until he’d wake and hate himself a little more for not being able to let go of you. The idea of you. Someone young he’d have a second chance with. John knew if you were his, he’d spend every second of his day cherishing you, spoil you rotten and keep you as happy as he could.

But you deserved better.

So, he continued to give you space. When he refused to go on another duo mission with you during the next conference, suggesting Bucky could get the job done instead, you finally had enough.

You watched him leave for the gym like a coward, determined to not give up on one of the few things that truly made you feel alive and wanted. If John wasn’t going to talk to you or acknowledge what happened, you’d have to pry yourself a way back into his life.

Manchild.

You went after him, making a quick detour to your room to change into the shortest gym shorts you could find. When you arrived, John was already blowing off steam at one of the boxing sacks, his shirt drenched with sweat.

Leaning against the wall, you watched with an aching heart, the way his muscles shook, strength and anger searing through every vein of his. John was not going to stop until he’d either thrown the sack off its hook or you found the bravery to put an end to this.

“You should take it out on me.” You spoke up after a while, bitterly.

John stilled, breath heavy as he turned around to look at you. One look, that’s all it took. “Fuck no.”

“I want you to.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Oh? Since when do you care about what you want?” You pushed yourself off the wall, glaring at him angrily. “You’ve done an excellent job to convince yourself that you don’t want me. If you want to push me away so badly, I need you to fight back.”

There was so much unspoken between the two of you.

But you were a fighter.

If the point came where words weren’t enough anymore, you still had your fists.

You launched yourself at him, a surprised grunt leaving his lips as you attacked, unhinged and frayed at your very edges. You were tired, occupied at night to think of the one in front of you and you were angry that he possessed the audacity to toss you aside like you were nothing to him.

And your body held on to this ugly knot inside of you and doubled it, making sure to throw every storm of feeling abandoned and rejected into the fight. Annoyingly easily, John slipped into defense, keeping you away as you tried to crowd him, getting all up into his space with a growl.

Sweat stuck to your exposed skin as he kept pushing you away, never attacking back.

When your closed fist hit his chest, John didn’t even flinch and it poured gasoline all over the fire inside of you. You were getting messy, not smart or strategic anymore, just trying to hit him wherever you could while he kept his defense up with a stubbornness that made you see red.

Only your heavy breathing and grunts echoed across the gym, reminding you of when he had been on top of you, his cock dragging over that mushy spot that made you see stars, your mouths melting together in a wild kiss.

A sudden sob tore its way from your throat when the skin of your knuckles broke against his solid form and you hissed, head fuzzy and swaying on your feet. John instantly lost his posture, trying to grab your wrist and check the damage.

You struggled against him, hating the way tears suddenly pricked at your eyes. “Let go of me!”

“Hey, you have to stop- Stop, honey, stop!”

With one last raging strength, you pushed him away. Staring at him wide-eyed, you panted and felt every inch of your bruised heart beat wildly in your chest. “Really, John?! Honey? You ignore me for days, leaving every room like I’m the walking plague after you railed me into your mattress and now I’m suddenly honey?! Looking back on how you treated me, I am nothing to you, am I wrong?”

John stared back at you, hating the way your blood dripped down on the floor because of him. And the look in your beautiful eyes…he hated himself just a little more.

He rubbed his face in frustration, knowing that if he didn’t put his hands to use, he’d pull you into his arms with them. “You’re not no…fuck. I just shouldn’t have… I lost control. I was taking advantage and I’m not going to be-“

You scoffed, offended, and cut him off. “I can’t believe you. Are you seriously blaming yourself for me ending up in bed with you? God, I wish- I wish you would realize that I’m in fact an adult and have critical thinking skills. If I wanted to stay away from you, I would’ve. If I didn’t want to be close to you, Rome would’ve never happened the way it did. Do you really think I would’ve let you fuck me when I didn’t fucking want you so badly I can’t even breathe? Are you thinking this low of me, John?”

You hated the way your voice had started shaking, the insecurity of the past days rising again in your chest. For the first time, you really acknowledged the years between him and you. Your heart was young. If he was going to break it, you’d have all the time in the world to heal – but without him.

John shook his head, a tortured expression on his face. “It’s not- Christ, I could never think low of you. But this can’t happen. It’s not about you, it’s…”

Just as he wanted to turn away from you, you grabbed his shoulder and spun him back around. “Then tell me what this is about. Talk to me!”

You were standing close now, him looking down on you with dark, clouded eyes. Fighting against himself on the inside. Lowly, he said: “I’m fifteen years older than you. This is a new situation for all of us and if anything, I’m supposed to be someone who protects you, a- a friend.”

The word tasted bitter in your mouth. “Friends don’t sleep with each other like it means something.”

And just like that, the fire was back in him. “Fine, then someone who’s not taking advantage when there’s clearly a power imbalance! This is problematic.”

“You’re not taking advantage.” You urged, clinging to the little hope you had of talking some sense into him, although you felt just as mad as he did. “I want you. You want me.”

“How could I not want you?!” John exploded, muscular chest falling and rising rapidly, out of control when his heart was only screaming for you. “You’re smart and beautiful and the best thing that happened to me in months and I stood no chance, none. I’m trying to be reasonable and good for once in this new fuckery that’s my life and I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you and you keep making it so fucking hard to stay away from you.”

You were breathing each other’s air, the anger you had held on to not lose your mind slowly saying goodbye and vanishing in the depths of his blue eyes. John looked defeated and regretful and wide open and you felt yourself taking another step. Right into his space, his heart. (But that had been yours from the beginning on.)

“Then don’t.” You said simply and took his hand, his large warm palm resting in your uninjured smaller one. “I don’t want you to stay away from me. We can fight or argue or whatever it is you prefer over fucking me senseless the way I want you to. Even if there was a power balance, I wouldn’t give a fuck if it means I’d have you. I…want to be close to you and I want to fall asleep in your arms without worrying that you will disappear in the morning. But I also want to joke with you and talk and- go back to how it used to be between us. Just…don’t go back to ignoring me because I can’t take that and- I’ll murder you if you do.” You ended weakly, a sad smile on your face.

John swallowed hard, his long exhale unsteady as his thumb brushed softly over your hand. “You’re too good. I didn’t want to treat you like this, it’s just…I think I’m going to screw this over like I do with everything else in my life. If I’m ever hurting you again, I’ll gladly let you end me, honey.”

There it was again, the nickname.

Familiar and soothing.

Slowly, as if you were about to startle him, you leaned up on your tiptoes and let your lips press the smallest kiss to his stubbled jaw. Lovingly, you murmured against his skin: “Idiot.”

“I know, I know…” He pressed his lips together, his eyes so full of longing, you almost forgot to breathe. “I’m going to make this up to you. You deserve the fucking world and I’m…I’m gonna try to be better.”

You softened. “You’re already good enough for me.”

He didn’t agree, but he also didn’t argue.

Instead, John pulled you into his arms and held you against his chest. You let out a sigh, marveling at the way your head fitted perfectly under his chin, how you felt at home in the blink of an eye, cradled and loved the way you were meant to me.

“I don’t just want sex.” John murmured into your hairline, his hand rubbing circles onto your small shoulders. “I want it all, with you. If you’ll have me.”

You smiled, dazed and hopeful and wide open. “I already got you, John.”

“Good.” He nodded, his lips kissing the top of your head, then your temple, your nose. You could’ve stayed like this forever, tired out by the fight but finally at peace before his deep voice broke the silence in the gym once more. “Will you please let me look at your hand now?”

And despite the low throbbing pain in your knuckles, you laughed breathlessly into his chest.

For a while, things between John and you were fragile, careful.

What had started out as a fire out of control had simmered down to a slow exploration of each other, cautious of any more bumps his self-punishing streak could cause.

You were still doing breakfast together, but now those lazy mornings would start with neck kisses and tasting blueberries and pancakes on his lips. You still had some age jokes in the chamber and so had the rest of your team now that you didn’t hide anymore.

You were as unapologetic about your attachment as ever and you couldn’t help but beam every time John lost some of his self-hate. When your hand found his or your head needed to rest on his shoulder for a while, he’d let it happen.

At some point – you couldn’t really pinpoint how it started – John developed a habit where he couldn’t sleep without you. It started slow, with him quietly trailing after you once movie night ended, a big shadow following you to your room. He’d move in sync with you and help you out of your clothes only to put one of his shirts on you.

In the beginning, your heart had nearly exploded when John had crawled into bed with you, his touch searching but not demanding as he moved you like a dolly until you’d fit perfectly against him and he was satisfied with the amount of his skin making contact with yours. He was kind of like an oversized teddy bear like this and when you whispered exactly that into his ear, he softly slapped your ass and cuddled you even closer.

Those were the peaceful and quiet nights at the tower.

You came to know others, too.

There were times when John still blocked you off.

There was so much guilt inside of him, suffocating him at times where he would’ve shut off completely in the past. But when he drew up his walls now, they went up with you in them. In the dark silence of his room, where everything felt too heavy and out of control, you laid yourself on top of him, a warm and very much alive safety blanket that grounded him better than any self-destructive gym session ever could.

And when you brushed some of his hair away from his forehead, taking care of his bruised soul with the softest touches and words, John knew he was going to be okay.

Magically, your things wandered over into his room over time until you couldn’t imagine anymore what it was like before, pining after one another wall to wall. Your nights always consisted of murmured conversations now, nose to nose and keeping each other warm and comfy and you resisted the urge to pinch yourself if this was really your life now. (John pinched himself on a daily basis.)

He learned every way to make love to you, sometimes sensual and slow, other times hard and fast when you both needed it to be that. You were more than smug when you discovered that John was kinda getting off on knowing you were younger now, allowing himself to love you unashamed, for all you were.

Your hunger for each other was insatiable. Ever-growing.

Like a fire you could only put out when he was balls deep inside of you and even then, John and you burned.

This morning, miraculously, he and you had stayed in bed.

You had gotten home from a quick mission a few days ago, but the time difference was still messing with your head. Since John revealed himself to be an oversized cuddly bear, you had a hard time getting out of bed early in the morning anymore. Which meant: you literally couldn’t move because his arms wouldn’t let go of you.

You stifled a little yawn, content to watch the city outside of the panorama windows for now, John’s body a steady presence against your back. You remembered having fallen asleep on top of him, but now he was spooning you, your head bedded on his bicep and his other arm slung around your waist, massive hand close to cup your chest.

It was so natural, familiar.

If your mornings started out anything different than this, without him, you didn’t want them.

You sighed happily and shifted back against his tall form, luring a sleepy groan from deep within his chest when your barely clothed bum brushed against his dick. John’s arms tightened around you and he exhaled deeply, burying his face in your neck and making you squirm as his hot breath hit the sensitive skin behind your ear.

“’morning…” He murmured, his hoarse sleepy voice sending pleasant shivers down your spine. Last night, you had ridden him like a goddess, taking him deep inside of you as he worshipped your body dutifully and let you lead. He had stayed inside afterwards, out of breath for once and a fucking goner for the girl in his lap. But now, with him so closely plastered to your back, his thumb brushing lazy circles around your rosy buds, you knew he was far from done with you.

You looked over your shoulder and touched his beard. “Hi…time to take your morning meds yet?”

His nose scrunched up, two of his fingers plucking on your nipple and making you moan between your giggling. “Fuck off.”

“Actually, no.” You grinned at him, rubbing your ass shamelessly against the growing bulge in his boxers. “Fuck me.”

John shook his head in playful disbelief, brushing your hair away from your shoulder so he could kiss your neck, all open-mouthed and wet and exactly how you craved it right now. You could already feel yourself getting wet from being so thoroughly caged in by him, no chance of escaping his sweet assault. “Such a dirty girl…you already soaked, honey?”

You grabbed his chin and led him up, kissing him filthily as he moaned into your mouth and your ass rubbed over his hard dick just right. “Come and find out, old man.”

That was every invitation he needed.

In a whirlwind, John threw the covers off the bed, leaving you unprotected and barely clothed in front of him. You bent one of your legs, showing him how wet the silky fabric of your lace panties already were, your chest blooming with hickeys and bite marks he had left on you when you had bounced on it last night.

John’s eyes darkened, fixed on the dark patch over your center. He loved the color of your hair against his navy-blue sheets. Loved how you smelled like him, how familiar you were in his space. And he loved nothing more than fucking his girl into oblivion and he licked his lips, planning to do just that.

You writhed against his sheets, beaming under his undivided attention, breath hitching when he leaned over you and parted your legs with his hips. John hummed deep in his throat, nosing at your neck as he took both your wrists and placed them up over your head. Quickly, he pulled his shorts down and threw your panties over his shoulder.

“Fuck, John…” You stared up at him, trusting and excited and he thought, if he wouldn’t get into trouble about it, he’d keep you in this room forever. Away from everyone else that wasn’t him, his to cherish and love and fuck.

“’gonna take care of my baby girl.” He mumbled, kissing down your chest before he pushed his hips forward. You both exhaled sharply when his long, curved cock slid over your wet pussy just right.

The friction was delicious and you seized up, back bowing off the bed as he started to rub himself against your core, coating his length in your arousal like it fucking belonged to him. Your fingers closed around nothing, trying to center yourself and he noticed instantly and surged down, connecting your lips in a hot lazy kiss.

“Shit, that feels s-so good…” You whimpered between kisses. Your efforts to somehow match his rhythm couldn’t compare to his authority. It was John leading, knowing what you needed. You slumped back and gasped when the tip caught at your clit, soaking it in his precum too.

“Jesus, you’re unbelievable.” John peppered kisses over your boobs, sucking them into his mouth and listening to your little moans like it was a symphony. You were ruining the bed and he fucking loved it, feeling your legs around his waist, heels digging into his butt as he kept grinding against you.

“I need you to- fuck, get inside me.” For emphasis, you bit down on his bottom lip. “Now.”

John sat back, letting go of your wrists and being immediately pulled down by you. “Greedy little thing.”

“You were the one who woke up with a boner.”

“You rubbed yourself against me.”

You winked at him. “I heard old people often just need enrichment.”

John chuckled darkly. “Oh, honey. I’m gonna fuck the sass right out of you.”

Yes please.

He sank down on you, stroking himself one more time before he slowly pushed into you. You sometimes still needed a moment – the serum had enhanced everything – and he watched carefully, the little frown on your face softening as you adjusted, your hands a bit shaky on his shoulders.

His calloused thumb circled your clit for a while and slowly, you eased up around him with a sigh.

“’s good…” You nodded and tested the waters by flexing around him, eliciting a bunch of curses from his mouth at the sudden pressure. You giggled in delight, a little unbelieving, a lot in love. He was yours and he was not going to leave again. “You can move. Don’t hold back.”

John kissed you, pulling out almost all the way before he pushed back into you, making your toes curl as he started a steady passionate rhythm. You moaned against his lips, fingers digging into his shoulders and holding onto him tight.

“Fuck yesss…” You hissed as he cupped your bum with one hand and lifted you just a little bit, the new angle allowing John to hit your g-spot just right.

“God, you’re so wet for me, honey.” John groaned, resting his head against your shoulder and moving you back and forth on his cock as if you weighed nothing at all. “’m gonna make you see stars.”

The snarky remark on your tongue died as he swiftly turned you around on your stomach before immediately pressing himself flat against your back.

“You’re mine.” He growled, hand pushing your sticky thighs apart as he buried himself in you once more, your whimper damped only briefly by the pillows before his hand came to rest easy on your throat and lifted your head. A moment later, he bit you and you convulsed around him.

He fucked into you as if he hadn’t already claimed you for himself. Full of purpose and aching need, hot-headed and adoring. John bullied his hand between you and the mattress, cupping your whole pussy with it as he grinded into you like a man possessed.

“You look so fucking beautiful, honey, so cute with your little whimpers.” He whispered into your ear, knowing he had you completely now. “’gonna come in you so deep, you’ll feel it for days. My good girl. Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight.”

You sobbed in pleasure, not caring for your drool on his pillow, trying to grab behind yourself and push him deeper.

He growled into the soft space between your shoulder blades. “Still need more of me, hm? We can fix that.”

In one swift, strong motion, he sat back on his haunches and took you with him, your whole body boneless and slumping against him, just as you had woken up. Your back against his chest, your dripping pussy now spread wide around his dick.

You shrieked, feeling him up in your belly and grabbed his hair, letting yourself be lifted and pushed down on his cock like he wanted to. The filthy sound of skin slapping against skin, combined with your shared moans, filled the room. It was fucking heaven.

With one of his hands still resting lightly on your throat, the other sneaked down and rubbed your throbbing clit and you moaned his name, head dropping onto his shoulder as he bucked wildly into you.

“J-John, I’m gonna come-“ You whimpered, reduced to only feeling him, your combined scent enveloping you and mind slipping further away as white-hot pleasure completely overwhelmed you.

“That’s it.” John gritted his teeth, spurning you on towards the edge. “Come on my cock, honey. Let me feel you. Fuck yeah-“

You screamed, falling over the edge in his arms and letting go of yourself entirely. John held you through it, his hips bucking a few more times until he came with you, both of your bodies almost melting into one as he slowly let you down on the bed and gathered your twitching body right back into his arms.

He was still inside of you and you smiled blissfully at him through your lashes, brushing a few blond strands away from his sweaty forehead. John looked absolutely wrecked for you and you couldn’t help but hide your wide smile in his chest. You were so full of him, blissed out and sleepy and he was still there, right where he belonged. With you.

“You are incredible.” John said quietly and kissed your temple, both of you slowly climbing down from your high as your breath mingled. “So, so good for me…”

“If you continue sweet talking to me like that, we’re not going to leave the bed.” You whispered while drawing little hearts on his naked chest.

John huffed out a laugh. “Not a problem for me.”

“For me neither.” You playfully bit down on his pec and he groaned underneath his breath. “Just worrying about you, y’know?”

“Ah, come on.” His hand glid over your spine, softly stroking your back and keeping you warm. You felt him softening inside of you, but it’d be only a matter of time if you kept this up. “Don’t make me proof myself like this.”

“We’ll see.” You kissed his nose contently. “I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.” John smiled, hiking your leg a little higher on his hip for comfort. It wasn’t the first time you had said it, the words lived in by now yet making his heart flutter every single time he got to say or hear them. He was home.

After a while, in the quietness of his bedroom, John blinked back at you and muttered: “I think I pulled something in my back.”

Your giggle echoed in his ears, his heart.

Recently, John was grateful for a lot of things, but above all, he was grateful that you had not given up on him and made him stay.

And now? He was never going to let go of you again.

────୨ৎ────

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