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lola-writes · 1 year ago

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Prince Regent

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Word Count: 8.6k

Synopsis: Aemond returns to the Red Keep after the battle of Rook’s Rest with a newfound vigor for his wife.

Themes & Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI!), POV first person (Aemond’s & reader’s), s2x04,05 inspired, enemies to lovers trope, smut, violence, blood, dark/possessive Aemond, breeding kink, swearing, mentions of rape, high valyrian, fingering, multiple orgasms, p in v, doggystyle, creampie, rough sex, hair pulling, choking

Song: Hide and Seek ~ Klergy, Mindy Jones

Latest oneshot: A Dragon's Lullaby

Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Playlist | Ao3

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Enjoy the read!

[gif @aemondstark ]

AEMOND

Smoke. Dragon fire. Blood.

It clung to me, acrid and sweet, like a perverse cloak of victory.

A primal urge, raw and unbidden, erupted within me, a hunger that transcended the battle’s end. It devoured my senses. It vibrated within my bones. It consumed my very being.

My adrenaline ebbed, leaving a hollowness in its wake. The battle was over. Victory was ours. Gleaming armor was storming the castle. But that victory hung hollow, a meaningless echo in the carnage. My flesh seared with defeat. A strange fire, unsatiated, stirred beneath my skin.

I needed something more. Something I could sink my teeth into, as Vhagar had. Something warm and living.

From the air, I watched the smoke curl skyward, soldiers scattering like startled ants, and Meleys red corpse lay vanquished beneath brick and dust.

The warmth of my kill was still writhing. It was a fresh, living ember, demanding to be tended.

The impact of my brother’s fall had torn the wood asunder, set the ground ablaze, smoke and cinders rising steadily towards the heavens. My gaze settled on the inferno, and I urged Vhagar, my reflection in scales and fire, towards it, my mighty beast beating the wind like thunder as we circled twice around the barrenness of the forest, before she heeded my command.

“Qubemagon, Vhagar.” (Descend)

I dismounted her and trod a path towards the inferno, my sword materializing in my grasp with a practiced turn of my wrist. Shades of red marred my vision. The air shimmered, thick with smoke and the metallic tang of blood.

Adrenaline trickled into my bloodstream.

Never had I been so close to my birthright, so close to erasing the past. My grip tightened around the hilt. Images swam up before me. A lifetime of humiliations, each one a searing brand in my retina. My brother getting what he wasn’t fit for, presented to him on a silver platter. But no longer. No more would he be the architect of my suffering.

But as a tremor shook the ground, a low rumble heralding the broken form of the golden dragon, a monument of smoke, blood, dirt, and ashes, none of it seemed to matter.

As I crested a rise, the world snapped into sharp focus. My gaze landed on him - my brother; melted into a nightmarish tableau of steel, flesh, and bone, encircled by his dragon’s golden body.

Resolution, cold and heavy, settled in my chest. Killing him would be fruitless. The Stranger had already requested an audience.

I had achieved what needed to be done. As I lifted the edge of my sword to its sheath, a voice echoed through the forest.

“Aemond!” Cole cried my name like a desperate warning. I glanced back, my weapon disappearing into its sheath with a final rasp.

I looked down at my sacrifice. The damage was raw, excessive. The damage that was wanton. A pang of unease twisted in my gut.

A glint of metal caught my eye, and I dropped to my haunches to retrieve the Conqueror’s Valyrian steel dagger from the bloodied earth. The dagger that was once Aegon’s. It was mine now.

Ser Criston’s rustling armor announced his approach. “Where is His Grace?” he asked, voice quivering.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I tilted my chin, allowing the glistening steel guide his gaze toward the grotesque sculpture of my melted brother encircled by golden scales.

Ser Criston crumpled to his knees without a word, as I rose to my feet.

A cold knot of regret twisted in my chest as I regarded my tribute. But it was fleeting, replaced by the icy fire of my ambition.

There was much to be done, and I needed to proceed if I were to achieve it. I turned on my heel and left Cole and my broken brother behind.

The battlefield and the devastation shrank beneath me as Vhagar’s powerful wings propelled us skyward.

A sharp thrill prickled my skin that was naught from the velocity, but rather that of my impending regency.

Upon returning to King’s Landing, I made my way to the small council chamber, ascending the stairs with slow deliberate steps. The air was thick with tension. The council was in disarray, engrossed in a heated discussion, but fell silent as the doors swung open. Eyes turned to me.

“My Lords,” I announced, my voice cutting through the sudden hush. I rounded the council table. “Mother,” I said, offering a curt nod of acknowledgement as I passed Alicent’s chair.

“Aemond,” she demanded, steel in her voice. “Where is Aegon?”

A heavy pause hung in the air before I met her gaze.

“Aegon has fallen,” I said.

The council erupted in uproar.

Cries of outrage and accusations.

Obscenities.

Scandal.

“How could this be allowed to happen?”

“What is the meaning of this?”

“We are doomed!”

The disapproval of the Lords sullied the chambers. This council was surely in lack of discipline. I already had my eyes on who I were to replace.

“The King is dead!”

“The King is not dead,” I countered, my voice calm and mellifluous, soothing the council members like warm milk. Voices dipped and eyes turned to me, an invisible shudder surging through the air. “He has merely sustained grave injuries and is being brought back to the Red Keep for treatment as we speak.” I began to pace around the table, hands slotted behind my back. “The King fought bravely,” I continued. “Landing mortal injuries to the Pretender’s cause. But the Red Queen cast him out of the sky before I could get to him.”

My pacing had brought me to the head of the council table, where I ceased my step. My hand reached out to allow my fingers to trace the chair frame, its iron vibrating with the power I so craved.

It was palpable.

It was mine for the taking.

I looked up at the members of the small council, my eye piercing each and every one of them until they quivered in their chairs.

“And in the coils of torment,” I spoke. “My brother, King Aegon, named me Prince Regent.”

A tremor vibrated the room, weary eyes glanced at each other, bodies twisting uncomfortably in creaking chairs.

“If anyone should be named regent, surely it should be me, his mother,” voiced Alicent.

I cast my gaze on her.

“Aemond is next in line,” came voices from the small council.

“Yes, but the King still lives!” Alicent implored.

“Who am I to contest the wishes of the King?” I said softly, casting her a look of pure innocence.

Alicent’s eyes welled like a tide of despair, her head dipping to the table with defeat. If Alicent could conjure words that had not been uttered to serve her own ends, why could I not?

“Aemond…” she started, her voice a gentle tremble. “Could we at least discuss this?”

“As prince regent, I vow to serve this realm, my Lords, and guide our path to victory against the Whore of Dragonstone.”

My gaze drifted to the platform in the center of the table, settling on the cold polished marble that remained. The King’s marble. I reached for it, and as my fingers closed around its smooth surface, I met Alicent’s eyes. A flicker of desperate plea danced within them, and I held it with a cold response. She exhaled with defeat as I seated myself in the King’s chair, placing the marble in its rocky nest.

“All hail Aemond, Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm,” Lord Tyland Lannister’s voice came, and the words echoed across the table.

A smirk played on my lips. “My Lords,” I began, splaying my hands atop the table. “Let us commence.”

YOU

Mutters. Whispers. Gossip.

The news, carried on frantic breaths, was a tangled mess.

One moment, the King was dead, the next, grievously wounded. Some murmured of a crippled monarch, others of his mighty dragon slain.

It buzzed in my ears as I made my way towards the throne room.

Fear, a cold serpent, coiled in my gut.

The throne room pulsed with tense energy. Hundreds of courtiers jostled for position, their faces etched with a mixture of morbid curiosity and nervous anticipation. I descended the cold stone steps, the weight of each step echoing the growing dread in my heart.

The Iron Throne loomed before me, an empty monument of jagged steel. Its cruel beauty, forged from a thousand fallen enemies, held a chilling glint in the flickering torchlight. I observed it over the shoulder of the woman in front of me, the precariousness of my position suddenly amplified.

A shiver ran down my spine. Sometimes, I believed it was cursed. Promising to cast whoever graced it to a terrible fate.

My fingers, restless with apprehension, turned my rings about my fingers, pulling them off and on in a nervous dance. A prickling sensation spread through me as I felt countless eyes burning into my back. Disapproval mingled with a strange reverence. The room thrummed with unspoken questions, and I, too, yearned for answers, desperately seeking a foothold in the swirling vortex of uncertainty.

A ripple of anticipation surged through the crowd as a figure emerged. I turned to witness the gleaming silver armor of the King’s Guard announcing Ser Criston Cole, the newly appointed Hand of the King. Hundreds of eyes swiveled in his wake as he strode towards the Iron Throne, which seemed to gnash its serrated teeth at his approach.

My mind churned in chaotic disarray. Ser Criston had marched on Rook’s Rest, prompting Aemond’s hurried departure. Where my husband was now, remained a mystery. Perhaps still at Rook’s Rest, tending to the fallen King, or perhaps continuing on to Harrenhal, a destination he oft mentioned.

None of it mattered.

My marriage to Aemond had been a political maneuver, as cold and sterile as a septa’s cell. He held no affection for me, nor I for him. He was the absent, aloof prince I’d always imagined him to be. Carrying a frozen heart of a killer. Our union was no more than an alliance. Though I was hardly complaining. Married life granted me freedoms I scarcely thought possible for a highborn lady. But I would jest if I said I did not long for something more. Something warm. Something living. But in Aemond, either would be the last place I’d find.

Ser Criston swept a steely gaze across the court, his face unreadable. He chewed the inside of his cheeks curiously, the motion ceasing abruptly when his eyes met mine. Cold and dark. I met his stare head-on, until an odd feeling took root in my gut.

Unanswered questions swirled in my mind.

Ser Criston tore his gaze from me, his eyes flitting across the room. Then, with a voice laced with authority, he boomed, “I address this court as Hand to inform you that the King has been grievously wounded in battle!”

A collective gasp ripped through the court. Whispers, like startled birds, rose in a flurry.

Ser Criston continued, a steely edge creeping into his voice, “Rhaenyra the Cruel will believe she won a great victory this day. May believe we will cower and offer her the throne like whipped dogs. But the False Queen is sorely mistaken. For the throne will not remain empty.”

Whispers escalated into a commotion. An unsettling prickle danced across my skin. My mind darted to the dowager Queen Alicent. Surely, in Aegon’s absence, they would elevate her to the throne. But after usurping Rhaenyra, would they truly place another woman in her stead?

My thoughts, apparently, mirrored those of the court, for Alicent’s name drifted around me like a persistent echo.

Ser Criston’s voice rose to a commanding pitch, reverberating through the throne room, “I present to you…” The heavy oak doors of the throne room ground open, drawing every eye in unison.

My breath caught in my throat as a figure materialized at the stairs.

It wasn’t Alicent.

A frame, draped in dark green leather that shimmered with silver accents, emerged from the groaning doors. The Conqueror’s crown, a heavy circle of iron, sat upon their silver head, casting a long shadow across a face half-obscured by an eyepatch.

“Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen,” Ser Criston declared, his voice thick with forced authority. “Rider of Vhagar.”

Aemond descended the steps.

“Slayer of the queen who never was.”

Aemond’s footsteps, muffled by polished leather boots and the collective murmurs of the courtiers, made a predator’s approach as he stalked toward the Iron Throne. Two King’s Guard flanked him with stoic expressions.

“And Protector of the Realm.”

He ascended the iron steps with a chilling grace, finally settling upon the throne. A hush fell over the court, thick and heavy. Silence stretched as he molded himself into the seat, his lethal hands caressing the equally lethal rests, a small smirk playing on his lips. His voice, a honeyed drawl laced with a hint of steel, echoed in the sudden silence.

“My Lords and Ladies,” he began, the menacing glint in his blue eye accentuated by the play of shadows on his face. “His Grace, the King, has been wounded at the battle of Rook’s Rest, and will be incapable to rule.”

There was a power in his presence, an unspoken threat that left the court speechless. Not a cough, not a rustle of fabric dared to break the silence.

“Therefore,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over the frozen faces, “I, will act as your sovereign.”

Unease prickled at my skin. Something about Aemond’s demeanor, the unnatural sheen on his face, sent a tremor of suspicion through me.

Had this all been a carefully orchestrated play? What truly transpired at Rook’s Rest?

My eyes darted to the ornate dagger resting at his hip, the ancestral blade of Aegon the Conqueror. It was the same dagger I’d last seen clutched in the hand of his brother.

As Aemond spoke on, a knot of apprehension tightened in my gut.

“The tide has turned,” he declared, his voice ringing through the stunned silence. “Rhaenys Targaryen is slain, along with her dragon.” A small smile tugged at his lips, a low hum escaping them. “The largest serving the Pretender’s cause.” He said it like it was a jest. “Rook’s Rest has been claimed, leaving Dragonstone vulnerable.” His fingers tapped across the blades. “This is a victory for us.”

Scattered heads nodded in agreement.

Then, his gaze snapped to me, a rapacious glint in his single blue eye. It seemed to bore into my very soul, stripping away any pretense.

“It’s all going according to plan,” he murmured, his voice a silken threat, and for a moment, an eerie feeling within told me he was addressing me alone. The fire that danced within his eye flickered a touch too bright, and it felt like he could see every thought swirling in my mind, every flicker of doubt, every spark of fear.

It felt like he was about to eat me alive.

A violent terror surged through me, icy fingers gripping my heart. Adrenaline tapped into my veins, a primal urge to flee.

Frantic energy fueled my movements. I shoved dresses, jewelry, all of my belongings, into overflowing wooden trunks. Their straining hinges mocked my desperation. My handmaid, silent but swift, followed my frenzied instructions. I knew then, with a chilling certainty, that I owed her my life after this escape.

Aemond’s chambers, once a familiar haven, felt cold and sterile now, stripped bare of my belongings. Rain lashed against the open windows, mirroring the frantic rhythm of my heart. The journey ahead would be long and treacherous. Circumstances weren’t optimal, but there was no other choice at my disposal.

My husband was a murderer and a kinslayer twice over. And my intuition told me it would soon be thrice. He wasn’t just ruthless; there was an unsettling hollowness behind his actions, a chilling absence of remorse. He was a walking blight, a storm that devoured everything in its path. And I refused to be struck down by its lightning.

The apartment doors shuddered open, shattering me into distraught. My flight instincts flared, but I refused to cower. My hand instinctively shot out, grasping my maid’s hand tightly. We held our breath as a large, porcelain hand reached out and pushed the door wider.

Aemond entered, leaving the door ajar. His gaze, unwavering and cold, locked with mine. “Leave us,” he commanded, his voice a smooth, cold current.

My handmaid curtsied, her grip faltering as she pried my fingers loose. With a hurried glance back, she scurried out, the heavy door slamming shut behind her.

An oppressive silence descended, broken only by the frantic pounding of my heart against my ribs.

Escape seemed impossible; the air thick with a chilling dread.

“You sent for me, wife?” Aemond’s voice, a silken caress laced with steel, echoed in the cavernous chamber. He approached with a predative grace, each deliberate step shrinking the distance between us.

Confusion slammed into me. I hadn’t summoned him. This was, by far, the most he’d spoken to me since our loveless union.

“You are mistaken,” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My feet, traitors that they were, retreated with each of his advances. Then, it dawned on me, that it might have been his intention to put me in a state of dubiety, making me more malleable. A cutthroat, not only lethal, but cunning.

He stopped beside my overflowing trunk, a flicker of amusement playing on his lips.

“Travelling somewhere?” His single blue eye, unnervingly perceptive, held me captive.

Panic clawed at my throat. I clenched my trembling hands into fists, slotting them behind my back, forcing my lips into a gentle smile.

“I wish to visit my family,” I said. “With war looming, I wish for us to be together.”

Aemond took another measured step closer. “Ao issi aerēbas mirriot daor,” (You’re not going anywhere), he murmured, the High Valyrian rolling off his tongue like a sinister threat.

A furrow etched between my brows as I attempted to comprehend his words. My grasp of the ancient tongue was limited, and whether he intended me to understand was a cruel game. Perhaps, it was yet another tool to exert his dominance. But based on his relentless pursuit, I gathered me leaving wasn’t an option he entertained.

“I am of no use to you, Aemond,” I pleaded, maintaining a safe distance. “Me staying serves no purpose.”

“On the contrary,” he purred, his voice dripping with a dark promise. His head tilted covetously, venom flashing in his eye.

“We barely exist to each other,” I continued. “What difference would it make if I was half a world away?”

“It would make all the difference.” The warmth in his voice vanished, replaced by a glacial edge. “There’s the matter of heirs.”

Seven Hells.

Anguish twisted my gut. Intuition, a primal scream, roared to life. Images flashed behind my eyelids – Aemond sitting the throne, and Aegon reduced to ash.

Had this been his plan all along? Was he the reason for the King’s lethal end?

The pieces slammed together in my mind, a horrifying mosaic.

I gasped, my back hitting the cold stone wall. Aemond’s ambition stretched far beyond my naïve expectations. Loyalty to his house, to his brother, had been a carefully constructed facade. Beneath it, he schemed, a shrewd predator stalking his ultimate prize. The crown.

And the crown needed heirs.

He towered over me, his presence overwhelming. He was much taller than I recalled, every inch radiating a rapacious tension. A hand braced itself against the wall, inches from my head.

“What have you done?” My thoughts materialized into shaky words, laced with an enmity that surprised even me. My gaze raked over him, revulsion twisting my features. The green leather seemed to pulse, an illusion fueled by my churning stomach.

A flicker, a hint of something akin to uncertainty, crossed his single eye. It darted across my face, as if truly seeing me for the first time. Perhaps he was. In this desperate flight, we’d never been closer. Close enough to be enveloped by his scent, a foreign musk that did little to quell my churning nausea.

“Skoros iksin bēvilagon.” (What was necessary)

I frowned again, aggravated that he took to High Valyrian as an attempt to shut me out of his thoughts. My jaw clenched, frustration a bitter taste on my tongue.

Malevolence rose like a flood as I leaned forward, so close that our noses nearly touched, “I would not have your child in a million years, kinslayer,” I spat, my voice trembling with contained fury. I lunged forward, aiming to push past him, to escape his suffocating presence. But his other hand shot out, slamming against the wall beside me, effectively caging me in.

A venomous glint flickered in his eye as he narrowed it at me through his lashes. A twitch played on his lips, a cat batting at a cornered mouse. “Be that as it may,” he said mellowly. “But even a bad wife must obey her king.”

A scoff escaped my lips, my eyes sizing him up and down. “You are no king,” I hissed, defiance lacing my voice. “You are not even a man.”

His reaction was swift and brutal.

One hand shot out and grabbed my face, forcing my head against the cold stone. Pain erupted at the impact, but quickly subsided as he leaned in, his hot breath fanning against my lips.

“Speak such treason again, and I’ll show you what I really am.”

“What will you do?” I spat back, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and insurgence. “Cripple me, like you did your brother? Force yourself on me?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he growled, his voice simmering with barely contained violence.

A tense silence ensued, the air crackling with his restrained fury.

My suspicions, already simmering, solidified into a horrifying certainty. He’d orchestrated his brother’s downfall on purpose.

“Have you no honor?” I whispered, the words a ragged plea.

The silence stretched, broken only by our ragged breaths. His hold on my face loosened gradually, his hand falling away. But his gaze remained fixed on me, a storm brewing within its depths.

“You cannot stop me, Aemond,” I said, my voice shrinking. “I will leave this place, one way or another. You can play king in my absence, but it will be a hollow crown.”

“Kesan arghugon ao naejot se mōris hen tegon.” (I will hunt you to the end of the earth)

“Speak plainly,” I snapped, my patience with his cryptic pronouncements wearing thin.

A chilling smile, devoid of warmth, stretched across his lips. He pushed himself away from the wall, backing away, creating my long-desired distance between us.

“You may go,” he drawled, the amusement in his voice laced with a dangerous edge, that sardonic smile still plastered on his lips.

Acrimony filled my gut. What little I knew of this man, I feared greatly, but also told me this was a trick. He wouldn’t relinquish control so easily. He’d allow me to make my “escape”, only to have me snatched back by the King’s Guard, now under his control, a public display of his authority. There was no true freedom with him.

Maegor’s tunnels, a potential escape route, loomed tantalizingly behind me. If only I were alone, a simple push against the wall would send me tumbling into its dark embrace. But escape without a plan or supplies was a fool’s errand.

My mind spun, each possibility twisting the knife of despair deeper. Even if I reached my family, what awaited me there? Shame would be their welcome. Aemond, no doubt, would make sure of it.

The rain continued its relentless assault on the outside world, punctuated by the booming symphony of thunder. A flash of lightning illuminated the apartments, casting Aemond in a grotesque, menacing silhouette.

Exhaustion overwhelmed me. I slumped to the floor, seeking solace in the meager comfort of my arms wrapped around my knees. Here I was, a prisoner in this gilded cage, condemned to bear the children of a traitor until flames consumed us all.

Aemond crouched before me, his wrists resting on his knees. He regarded me with an intensity that bordered on scientific curiosity. A flicker of something, perhaps disappointment, played at his edges.

“I’d take you for many things, wife,” he cooed, the endearment dripping with veiled malice. “But weak was not one of them.” His words landed like a body blow. “If I’d known you’d crumble so easily, I would never have wed you in the first place.”

I sniffed and looked up at him, exhaustion a heavy cloak on my lids. “You did not have much of a say in the matter,” I countered.

A wicked smile twisted his lips and his head tilted to the side. “No,” he said softly. A sudden chill iced his demeanor. “And neither do you.”

He rose to his feet with predacious grace, leaving me pleated on the floor. He sauntered to his chair and seated himself, one leg propped up on his knee, his leather splaying atop the arm rests.

I watched him. His face was turned to the violent storm outside, immersed in contemplation, lightning whipping across his features. A vision of menace. A weapon poised to strike.

“So, what is your scheme, Aemond?” I started; my voice hoarse. His head turned slowly, his gaze locking onto mine with the piercing intensity of Valyrian steel. “Do you envision a period of mourning for the King, followed by a convenient acclamation in your favor? Or will you hurry along the succession and carry out the deed yourself before anyone suspects?”

A single corner of his mouth quirked into a cruel smile. “Suppose I have not yet decided.” His voice was like liquid.

Defiance flickered within me. “The court will never agree to this once they find out what you’ve done.”

Aemond hummed, a deep sound in the bottom of his chest. “Dragons don’t concern themselves with the opinions of sheep.” He leaned forward, resting his arms across his knees. “I am next in line to the throne,” he drawled. “None is better suited than I.”

I staggered to my feet and went to sit beside him. “With a legitimate heir,” I said carefully. “Your claim would be uncontested.”

He smirked, as though I’d read his mind. He leaned back, his eyes gleaming with dangerous delight.

“A woman’s pleasure is,” he began, a slow, suggestive smile playing on his lips. His blue eye drifted down my form in a way that made my skin crawl. “Of as much importance as the seed itself.”

A hot flush crept up my cheeks at his implication.

“Which is why submission must be a willing act,” he finished, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.

I swallowed, provocation crackling through me. Did he truly believe I would succumb to his advances? He seemed to think he could manipulate anyone to his will, whether through seduction or brutality, though I had yet to see the former.

“And if I refuse?” I challenged, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my hands.

A low growl vibrated in his chest, his face soft. “Then you’ll find yourself counted amongst the sheep,” he drawled.

Deflating, I sighed and dipped my head. The only path forward seemed excruciatingly clear. Raising my eyes to meet his, I lifted an eyebrow in rebellion.

“Consider me sheep then.” With that, I rose from the settee and strode towards the apartment doors, the cold of the metal handle stealing the warmth from my fingers as I heaved it open.

It shut then, with a loud thud, and I jumped, a sudden heat radiating behind me. Aemond’s fingers splayed on the oak door above my head. My pulse drummed in my ears, Aemond’s lips grazing my lobe, urging it to pick up the pace.

“Jaelā naejot mazverdagon nyke jorarghutan ao, ābrazȳrys?” (You want to make me chase you, wife?) His voice rumbled into me, a low growl as potent as the thunderstorm.

The rolling, guttural words sent a strange warmth through my core. His air consumed me. A rich mixture of smoke, leather, and dragon, infiltrated my senses, intoxicating and unsettling in equal measure.

“I can’t understand you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I felt him smiling against my ear, a low chuckle reverberating into it, sending goosebumps erupting across my skin.

“You won't need to,” he said softly. His hand drifted away from the door and closed around my throat, surprisingly gentle, yet the warmth of his fingers felt like embers branding my skin. They snaked around the back of my neck, the pressure tightening as he turned me to face him. His single eye, a bottomless well of intricacy, held mine captive.

My gaze flickered down to his lips. They were curved into a wicked grin.

His scent became a suffocating presence. The heat radiating from his body, fervid as a dragon, made sweat bead on my forehead. My entire being screamed I was at his mercy. He could crush my life out with a mere squeeze, or worse, with his single eye, he could strip me bare without ever laying a hand on me.

But a strange fire flickered within me, a rebellion against his dominion. My hands, fueled by a desperate need for control, reached out and began loosening his doublet, my fingers slow and deliberate.

Aemond stilled, his eye falling to my movements. He watched, transfixed, as I unfastened the green leather halfway down his chest, then trailed my fingers lower. His gaze darkened and his breath grew uneven, as the bulge beneath his belt pressed against my touch.

A visceral desire flared within me, a response I couldn’t fully comprehend. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, slowly drifting between my thighs at the sight of his desire.

His grip softened at my nape, and with a surge of defiance, I ripped myself free from his hold, and landed a heavy blow to his stomach. But a wave of terror washed over me when Aemond barely flinched.

Panic clawed at my throat.

Taking advantage of his momentary surprise, I flung open the chamber doors and fled, the sound of my pounding heart echoing in my ears.

AEMOND

The aftershock of her blow lingered, a dull ache radiating from my gut, while I allowed her to make her escape. Fury, a familiar companion, usually surged through me, promising retribution, suggesting to make her death appear an accident. This time, however, a different heat consumed me, a mix of surprise and… arousal.

Rarely did I misjudge a person. Yet, the meek mouse I’d wed had transformed into a daring she-wolf before my very eyes. This escape attempt, fueled by defiance, was a revelation. It made my dick hard.

A rapacious glint flickered in my eye. A grudging respect, laced with something far more primal, coiled in my gut. I had underestimated her, and the unexpected turn of events had ignited a spark within me.

A smirk twisted my lips, and I hummed with satisfaction, the thrill of the hunt coursing through me.

“Jaelā naejot tymagon?” (You want to play?) I murmured, the challenge laced with amusement. “Kesi tymagon.” (Let’s play.)

I started into the storm-ridden castle.

YOU

Immediate regret shot through me with a pang, a cold fist squeezing my breath.

To toy with a dragon was like asking to get burned.

My lungs screamed in protest, my legs burning with each step down the Red Keep’s slick stone steps. Blood, metallic and sharp, left traces in my mouth as I hoisted my cumbersome gown to avoid tripping. The castle shuddered from the storm, which groaned and wailed its onslaught. Guards stood stoic at their posts, their expressions unreadable underneath silver helms. Appealing to them was a fool’s errand.

None dared defy the one-eyed prince.

Driven by blind instinct, I found myself pushing through the massive doors of the throne room.

The Iron Throne, a monstrous silhouette of twisted blades, dominated the chamber, its edges flashing white-hot under the lightning’s fury. I stumbled towards it, chest heaving, gasping for air.

If it truly was cursed, could touching it offer some strange absolution, a release from the gilded cage that was my life? Surely, it couldn’t be worse than the fate that awaited me back in his clutches.

Ascension. My trembling legs carried me up the steps, each one a monumental effort. Reaching the top, I lingered to sit, an action so simple, yet it loomed so immensely in my mind.

“Waiting to make your peace with the gods?” came a voice, and I turned with a gasp.

Aemond stood in the middle of the room, arms slotted behind his back, approaching with slow, menacing steps, like a predator savoring the hunt. Thunder boomed overhead.

“No,” I countered, spite flaring hot in my chest. “Waiting for you to catch up so I can meet them myself,” I said, descending the steps.

“Once more, so quick to admit defeat,” he taunted, venom dripping from his words like the rain outside.

I studied his sharp features, while the burden of my reality settled like a weight in my chest. “There is no escaping you,” I gritted out, holding his heavy gaze.

His violence loomed heavy, and depravity flickered in his gaze. “Your perception waxes,” he conceded, and suddenly, the world tilted on its axis as he scooped me up and tossed me effortlessly over his broad shoulder.

The journey back to his chambers was a furious ballet of resistance. My limbs flailed wildly, desperate for purchase, and obscenities, laced with an untenable fear, ripped from my throat.

A sharp slap landed on my behind, eliciting a yelp of surprised pain.

“The more you struggle,” he growled, the sound a low rumble in his chest, “the worse it will be.”

A part of me recognized the truth in his words, yet a bestial defiance warred within, refusing to yield. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I lunged for his silver hair, grabbing a fistful and yanking with all my might.

He hissed through his teeth, followed by a guttural sound echoing deep within him. “Ilībōños,” (Bitch/Bastard) he cursed.

The apartment door slammed shut behind us as he entered, his movements purposeful. With a rough toss, I landed unceremoniously on the bed, the air whooshing out of my lungs on impact. Fury, a searing inferno, consumed me, each cell screaming in protest, my claws unsheathing. I wanted to hurt him.

Anything within reach became a potential weapon. Pillows, a discarded jeweled comb – I hurled them all at him, each item a silent scream of rebellion. But his movements were swift, each projectile dodged with practiced ease.

Frustration mounted, morphing into a desperate rage. I lunged at him, a clumsy attempt to push him back. But he remained immovable, an unyielding mountain. Undeterred, I pushed again, and again, fueled by a futile contempt.

Finally, as I drew back for another pointless shove, his hands shot out, lightning fast, pinning my arms to my sides. He moved swiftly, his body caging mine in a steely embrace.

“Lykirī,” he hummed, the word a low thrum against my ear.

“Fuck you,” I spat, my chest heaving from my ambush.

Did he mistake me for his winged beast that he could command to his will?

My attempt to wiggle out of his hold was a pointless endeavour. Rage crackled in my veins, but it flickered under his touch. My breath hitched as he leaned closer, the heat of his body searing through my gown. The scent of him, smoke and leather, filled my senses. And the undeniable press of his erection against my stomach sent a jolt through me.

This perverted man was enjoying my defiance. His grip tightened, a teasing hold that both frustrated and excited me. My body, traitor that it was, started to soften against him, a spark igniting beneath the embers of anger.

“Have you had your fill of my company?” he whispered, his voice husky against my ear. His hands trailed down my arms, sending shivers skittering across my skin.

Every rational part of me screamed to break free, to run for the tunnels, to fight back. But the intoxication of his touch, the heat radiating from him, the suggestive murmur against my ear – they all conspired to trap me.

Before I could think, my head slowly turned from one side to the other.

He hummed deeply. “Say it.”

Frustration warred with a strange vulnerability within me. My cheeks burned, and I clenched my jaw hard enough to taste blood.

“I haven't.”

“You haven't what?”

Fury flickered back to life, fueled by his smug grin and the realization of how easily he’d manipulated me.

“I haven't had enough,” I gritted out, the words a reluctant surrender.

A growl of satisfaction escaped him before he grasped me by my throat, pushed me back against the wall, and tasted my next breath on his tongue.

His lips, hot and demanding, devoured mine like a beggar, silencing the gasp that threatened to escape. Heat, a wildfire erupting at the junction of our bodies threatened to consume me. Fury, a simmering ember, still flickered within. I shoved against his chest and stomped on his feet; futile attempts against his unyielding form.

“Gaomagon vīlībagon nyke daor,” (Do not fight me) he said roughly against my lips, nipping at the bottom one. “Kesā botagon daor.” (You would not survive)

I didn’t understand him, and it urged on my fury. I opened my mouth with a quip in mind, but he used that opportunity to slide his tongue inside, hot and wet. The anger threatened to drown the blossoming desire, creating a tempestuous war within. I panted, torn between resistance and a strange, unfamiliar need, a fever writhing and pulsing inside my veins. My hands clenched in the rough leather of his doublet, a desperate attempt to maintain some sort of control.

I closed my teeth on his bottom lip, and he hissed sharply, encircling my throat with his hand, pushing me against the stone.

“Kelītīs,” (Stop) he growled.

The question of whether he even realized he was speaking High Valyrian was a fleeting thought. I melted into his rough hold, to his wicked mouth crashing against mine again and again, getting lost in the hot glide of his tongue. His rough kisses, the frantic press of his body, all contrived to unravel my carefully constructed defenses. A soft moan escaped my lips as my nipples brushed against his chest, sending sparks lower. He groaned low in his throat, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth.

With practiced ease, he untied the strings of my dress, letting the fabric pool around my ankles. I stood there in only my kirtle, breathless under his heated gaze. A dark groan rumbled from his chest as he slipped his hands beneath my thighs, effortlessly lifting me. My legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. His grip tightened on my bare flesh, a touch too rough, and I retaliated with another yank on his silver hair. An angry sound erupted in his throat as he attempted to shake off my grip.

He carried us to the bed, the world tilting on its axis as he settled me on top of him. Our mouths met in a frantic clash, a tangle of tongues and heated breaths. We tore away from each other briefly, just long enough for him to pull my kirtle over my head.

Naked and exposed, I felt a shiver dance across my skin under the intensity of his gaze. Something dark moved through his eye, and my skin prickled with goosebumps.

He gripped the swell of my hips, his palms sliding upward, a slow exploration that sent sparks igniting in my blood. The fight drained from me, replaced by a heavy languor. His fingers, surprisingly gentle for a cold-blooded killer, traced patterns across my skin, before cupping my breasts into a rough grip. A soft moan escaped my lips as his thumb brushed a nipple, and pleasure rushed to my core. He leaned in and closed his mouth over a peak, drawing it in with a slow, gentle suck. My head fell back, a groan escaping my throat. My hands filtered into his thick silver, my fingers impulsively easing off the leather tie that kept it out of his face, and it went cascading around his features like spills of moonlight.

Awe mingled with desire as I watched him continue to explore my body, his mouth leaving a trail of wet heat across my skin. I cupped his sharp face in my hands, the rational, caged side of me screaming to tear him off me. I made weak, pitiful attempts to do so, but Aemond growled his disapproval and sucked my nipple hard. The wet heat of his mouth tugged between my legs as he moved to the other, flames curling low in my stomach. I ground down on him, my wet entrance dampening the dark leather of his breeches, the friction sending a delicious heat through my core. A moan ripped from his lips.

I was on fire, a confusing mix of desire and desperation clawing at me. I needed something more, something to push me over the edge. My body moved of its own accord, grinding harder, seeking that elusive release.

He released my nipple with a graze of teeth that sent a jolt of white heat through me, and looked up at me with his eye dark like the storm.

“Skoros gaomagon jaelā?” (What do you crave?), he rumbled.

Exhaustion gnawed at me, but a visceral need pulsed deep within. “Please,” I pleaded, the word a ragged whisper escaping my lips, the frustration of the language barrier a dull ache compared to the firestorm raging in my core. “More,” I begged, grinding against his erection with desperate mewlings.

When his hand lowered to palm my pussy, my skin caught on fire, burning me from scalp to toes. Desire inflated in my throat when he ran his hand up my neck, into my hair, grabbing a fistful and using it to arch my head back, his touch both possessive and arousing.

“Is this what you desire?” he rasped against my throat, his voice husky with restrained passion. His calloused thumb began drawing circles on my clit, a slow, deliberate exploration that sent frustration battling with a rising tide of pleasure.

I nodded desperately. “Yes,” I gasped.

He slipped two fingers into my wetness, and I arched my back, groaning in pleasure and a little pain, his fingers filling me up to the brim. My hands found purchase in his hair, anchoring myself as he moved his digits, flames of pleasure licking at my walls.

Ecstasy unfurled in my veins like milk of the poppy, mind-numbing, delirious, as he slid his thick fingers in and out of me, rubbing a sensitive spot deep within. Hot pressure expanded, and my eyes rolled back in my head. A throaty moan escaped my lips with every thrust of his fingers and a delicious rumble rolled in his chest.

His grip around my hair suddenly vanished and his thumb began rubbing circles on my clit as he fingered me. I cried out, the intensity overwhelming, and I braced myself on his leather-covered shoulders, a cold sweat starting beneath my skin.

“Sholīze,” (You’re so wet), he groaned against my skin, the word a brand that sent shivers lancing through me, the heat beneath the surface threatening to erupt. I rolled my hips on his fingers, and a satisfied growl escaped his mouth, his eye dropping to witness me riding his hand as my pleasure ran down his wrist, my leg and onto his lap.

“Shkelagon zhēdys,” (You’re making a mess), he whispered into my mouth, swallowing my desperate cries.

A third finger, bold and intrusive, slid inside, the added pressure sending me over the edge. My vision swam, black dots exploding at the edges. My heart pounded to the fire searing through every nerve in my body. Throaty moans tore from my lips over and over, as I clenched around his moving fingers. He groaned with dark satisfaction, encircling my waist, pressing me against him as I rode out my orgasm.

The storm within me subsided slowly. His fingers, once urgent, now moved slowly in and out of me while I caught my breath and the ringing in my ears faded. He didn’t withdraw until he’d coaxed out the very last tremor of pleasure from my body.

A languorous warmth, a deep sense of satiation unlike anything I’d ever known, bloomed within me.

Lost in the afterglow, I trailed kisses up his neck, small noises of contentment escaping my lips.

“Gevie,” he panted, slipping his fingers out of me.

I knew that word.

Beautiful.

AEMOND

I never thought the act of making an heir would be this… riveting.

So much pure heat, flame and pleasure, fueled not just by my own desire, but by the sight of her pleasure burgeoning under my touch. It was a new prospect entirely. I could have reached my own release simply from witnessing hers.

But this was not going to make an heir, after all.

She ran her fingers over my erection, her lips and teeth teasing a line down my neck as she came down from her high. My hand, forearm and lap were slick from her sweet desire.

She settled back into my lap, a vision of post-orgasmic bliss. Her eyes, usually bright and defiant, were now hooded with languid satisfaction, her cheeks flushed a becoming crimson. Her lips, slightly parted, breathed shallowly. I pushed my thumb between them, and she met the intrusion with a beckoning glide of her tongue, the wet heat settling in my groin. I pulled my thumb free, wiping the evidence of her touch across her lips.

This woman, this force of nature, was mine. My wife.

Lightning played across her features like she was its master. Like she embodied the raw power of the storm.

Untamed, fierce, fuckable.

She was molded just for me.

Her fingers, tracing a familiar path down my doublet, encountered the bulge straining against the fabric, my dick throbbing at her faintest touch.

“Take it off,” she said, working on the buckle. I reached my hands up my neck, loosening the doublet from my frame.

“Do not attempt any strikes this time,” I drawled, a playful challenge in my voice. I relished the smile that spread across her lips.

“You have my word,” she said softly.

The leather of my arms whispered down, discarded on the floor like a shed skin. Her eyes ignited with raw desire, a flickering flame that mirrored the inferno that had been building within me. Her fingers, hesitant at first, traced a path down my chest, my abs, further, until her hand slipped beneath my breeches and over the length of my dick.

I hissed through my teeth. The heat, a branding iron searing flesh, intensified as her hand, unsure but determined, wrapped around my erection, heat curling at the base of my spine. Her hesitant touch grew more confident as she stroked me from base to head with smooth, gentle motions, sending a low groan rumbling from my chest.

I grabbed her face and grazed her chin with my teeth, making her stroke me harder. “I’ll fill you with my seed, wife,” I growled, the words rough against her skin. A promise, a threat, a declaration of possession – all rolled into one.

Her sigh held a hint of resignation, contrasting the fire in her eyes. “As long as you’ll leave me alone once you’re done,” she mumbled, the words laced with quiet defiance.

Fury, a red-hot ember, flared within me.

I threw her down on her knees on the bed and yanked her head back by her hair until her head rested against my shoulder. The vulnerability in her exposed throat fueled a dark avarice within me. My erection pressed against the heat of her ass, restraint becoming an impossible enemy.

“You’re bound to me now,” I growled in her ear, the words a possessive vow. “You’re not going anywhere.”

A ghost of a smile played on her lips, a silent challenge that both frustrated and excited me. I leaned in, whispering a single word against her ear, “Ñuhon.” (Mine) I nipped her earlobe, making her hiss.

When I released her, she sagged forward, head hanging low. Her shoulders slumped, and she lowered herself onto her hands, the curve of her backside a sight that ignited a fresh wave of heat within me.

I discarded my breeches, the urgency a physical ache in my core. Kneeling behind her, I pushed two fingers inside of her. She clenched down on me so tightly. I groaned and pulled my fingers free. As I rubbed the head of my cock against her wet opening, the heat of it almost burned me. A tremble coasted throat her, and her fingers gripped the sheets, bracing herself.

I eased into her, and, gods spare me, she was so fucking tense, to the point she nearly resisted me entirely. I caressed her ass, her hips, running my hand up and down her back, attempting to relax her, uttering words I scarcely knew were the Common Tongue or High Valyrian.

“Vīrȳn (take it), you’re so fucking wet, gūrogon mirre yno (take all of me).”

Until her walls softened and I watched myself slide into her, until I was as deep as I could go.

Seven Hells.

The feeling was overwhelming. The way she clutched me like a wet fist. Every cell in me ached for more, to fuck her hard, relentlessly, but I gave her a moment to adjust, squeezing her, running my hands all over her.

Soon, she was rocking back against me, and I gave her what she wanted, pulling out all the way before slowly pushing back in, every inch of me vanishing. She groaned and dropped her face to the bed, fisting the sheets in her hands. I gripped the swell of her hips, guiding her warm, wet pussy onto my throbbing dick over and over, watching their salacious union, my sight darkening at the squelching sounds that ensued. A deep hum erupted from my chest.

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes hooded with lust, settling on each lazy thrust.

“Iksis ao bisa ijiōrtan?” (Is this pleasing you?) I rasped, but before she could answer, I fucked her a little harder. It occurred to me that she probably could not have understood what I’d been saying half the time.

Her head fell forward, and the sight of her biting down on her hand to quiet her moans sent a heady rush to my head, lighting me on fire.

Thunder rolled overhead.

I was completely lost in the heat of her, taking her hard, watching her ass bounce against me with every thrust. I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her back against my chest.

She was panting, fucked into soft compliancy.

“To whom do you belong?” I growled in her ear.

She didn’t resist any of my advances this time. “You,” she breathed.

“Say my name.”

“Aemond.”

“And who is your King?”

“Aemond.”

My grip snaked and tightened around her neck as I fucked her.

“Say it.”

“You’re the King, Your Grace,” she whined. “The first of your name.”

It set me on fire.

I pushed her back down and fucked her through her second orgasm, holding her hips up when her legs gave out. She shuddered and clenched around me, the pressure sending licking fires down my back, threatening to erupt. I gritted my teeth as I came inside of her, a white, hot fire shooting through me so hard, my vision went black.

My muscles shook from the aftershock.

I doubled over her, letting my forehead rest on her back as we came down.

When I pulled out of her, I watched my seed leak out of her entrance like white tears. I plugged it with my fingers, burrowing deep inside of her, and she gasped.

“Dragonseed is precious,” I rumbled into her ear. “Would not want it to go to waste.” I kissed her temple.

“Tepagon aōha dārys iā dārilaros, dōna ābrazȳrys.” (Give your king an heir, sweet wife)

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bunnis-monsters · 4 months ago

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YANDERE FLUFF

A/N: another kofi comm

In the cold, snowy mountains where no regular mortal could reach, you were currently curled up by the fireplace with your nose buried in a good book.

Normally, being so deep in these mountains would mean you were either lost or close to death. For you, though?

“My love!”

Your eye twitched as the door to your room swung open, arms wrapping around your soft frame before you could react.

“I missed you so much, I’m back so don’t worry! You won’t be lonely anymore!”

Kisses were left along your neck, a pair of fangs brushing against your sensitive skin.

“Not now, I’m still recovering after your last feeding.”

The man huffed, but retracted his fangs and nuzzled against your neck instead.

The only reason you were able to survive in such a hazardous and brutal environment was because the person that had brought you there was a creature of the night.

“I am a vampire, you know. It’s not like I want to hurt you, my darling, but I need sustenance like any other living being.”

Technically, he wasn’t alive. He moved, walked, and could talk, but his heart no longer beats and his name was on a gravestone in the courtyard.

Adrian had never been lucky. Although born into royalty, he was the son of the king’s mistress and had been persecuted by his siblings who all wanted the throne. To them, he was no sibling. All Adrian could ever be was a rival.

To thin out the pool of potential rivals, he was poisoned and tossed into the slums outside of the kingdom. Adrian lay there dying, wanting only to seek revenge against those who had him killed.

A vampire was passing by, and turned him.

Adrian slaughtered his family, being satisfied with his revenge and taking his seat on the throne…

But after years and years of ruling his kingdom all on his own… things became dull. Any lovers or friends he made slipped between his fingers as time went on, and he found himself all alone in the abandoned kingdom.

For centuries, he wandered there alone… until you moved into a small home nearby.

It was a bit embarrassing, Adrian fell for you quickly. You resembled the beauty standard from his time. A thick, plump frame, soft features, and the prettiest smile he had ever seen.

Taking you away to stay with him in his castle was easy. Preparing it to be safe for human life once again was the hard part.

Now, you spent a lot of time lounging around and reading books from his vast collection of novels from the library down the hall. He often left for days on end, returning with bags full of food and gifts for you to enjoy.

“Love, I’ve brought you those candies you’re so fond of.”

You perked up at his words, marking the page you had been reading with a bookmark before standing up. “Really?”

Adrian smirked, settling down on the couch and patting his lap. “You know the drill.”

Unfortunately, you did.

With a sigh, you pulled your cardigan tight around you and climbed into his lap, perching yourself on his leg as he let out a satisfied purr. “That’s my good girl… you want your treat, don’t you?”

He caressed your cheek, melting at the way it squished under his fingers. You were so damn soft, he was whipped for you!

“Oh, my precious one…” he cooed, feeding you a piece of candy before nuzzling his face against your head. “You’re just the cutest thing I’ve ever seen… my angel…”

He proceeded to cover your cheeks and neck in kisses, his arms wrapping around your waist as he pulled you in close.

His body was cold to the touch, and there had never been an ounce of comfort or warmth when you curled up in his arms. Well… maybe not warmth, but if you didn’t feel at least a smidge of comfort, then why did you lean into him?

“Reading all day again, hmm? You must be bored, I’m sorry. I’ve brought home some new games and a few movies for you to watch…”

A kiss was pressed into your temple. “How I adore you… if only I could give you the world, my love. You deserve it and so much more…”

Despite the never ending hunger and desperate need to sink his fangs into your neck, Adrian was the most gentle and careful man in existence.

Every time his hand made contact with your flesh, he treated you like glass that could shatter with the slightest bit of pressure.

Perhaps he did love you, in his own way.

So as he doted on you and cooed softly, you leaned forward and pecked his cheek.

“Next time you go out, you should bring home some more blankets.”

His cheeks flushed at the kiss, and his grip tightened around you. With a lovesick look, he nodded.

“Anything for you, my love.”

Kofi and Patreon members got to see this and many other fics early! Consider supporting me there if you’d like early and exclusive content ^^

——————

YANDERE TAGLIST: @katerinaval @avalordream @atransmuter @bazpire @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @hammerhead96 @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @sandramalikstyles-blog @anonymouskiwi @pedropascalbabygirl @flamefoxx @an-ever-angry-bi @bath1lda @ilyanadelarosa @iswearimnotadrugdealer @whysageee @yumikomoon @rainejiang @lostsomewhereinthegarden

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wooyoungiewritings · 1 month ago

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Borrowed Time - Seonghwa x Reader (Last part)

Summary: Time passes since everything fell apart. Did you make the right choice? Are you even happy? But something happens one day. Something isn't quite right. And in the blink of an eye, it all erupts. Chaos. Fear. Blood pounding in your ears. And just like that, you're thrown into a moment so violent, so irreversible, it shatters everything, and nothing will ever be the same.

Word count: 10.8K

Genre: Fluff, Rich Seonghwa, angst, DRAMAAAA, slow burn, smut

warnings: Seonghwa with reader (fem pronouns), knife, physical fight, blood, stitches, dom Seonghwa, fingering, oral (fem receiving), choking, spitting, LOTS of dirtytalk, creampie, aftercare (<3), lmk if I missed anything!

PART3

This is all for fun and is not meant to represent Seonghwa in any way.

It’s been three days since you left.

Three days, and Seonghwa still hasn’t gone back to work. He can’t. He told his assistant he needed time off, didn’t explain why, didn’t need to. He’s not sick. Not in any way that matters to anyone else. He just… can’t be that version of himself yet. The polished one. The capable one.

The apartment is too quiet. Not peaceful quiet, suffocating quiet, the kind that wraps around his ribs and makes it hard to breathe. Everything reminds him of you. The spot on the couch where your head rested. The coffee mug you always reached for. The bag of cookies you forgot on the kitchen counter.

He hasn’t touched any of it.

The first day, he just sits on the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Hours pass. He doesn’t notice. He’s trying to process the weight sitting on his chest.

The second day, he tries to work. Opens his laptop, stares at the screen. Nothing comes. After an hour, he shuts it, harder than he means to. Doesn’t eat. Can’t taste anything. The loneliness is louder than his hunger.

By the third day, today, he forces himself to shower. Just to feel like he still exists. It doesn’t help. He moves through the apartment like he’s underwater, everything slow, hazy, distant. Like he’s not fully here.

And tomorrow, he has to go in.

Back to the office. Back to pretending.

The thought makes his stomach twist.

He hasn’t let himself think about it. Not properly. But now, with the hours running out and Friday looming like a guillotine, he can’t avoid it anymore.

He’s going to have to sit across from the man who still has you. Talk to him. Look him in the eye. Lead meetings like nothing inside him is broken.

The man who got to keep you.

The man who doesn’t even know what he has.

That’s what kills him. Not just that he lost you, but that he lost you to someone who let you go in the first place. Someone who didn’t hold you like Seonghwa did. With care, with reverence, like you were something rare and fragile and breathtaking.

But he’s the one who let go, isn’t he?

He knew what this was. Knew it had an end. And still, he let himself hope. Still, he imagined a future he had no right to. A life with you.

But tomorrow, he’ll pull himself together. Dress like nothing’s wrong. Smile when necessary. Numb himself enough to get through the day.

Even if every moment feels like bleeding in silence while the world moves on.

Because what choice does he have?

You’re already gone.

And he’s the one who told you to go.

***

Friday.

The city feels louder today.

Seonghwa slips into his suit with a stillness that doesn’t match the storm behind his ribs.

He hasn’t set foot in the office since the day you walked out of his life. Since you came to visit him at work, coffees in hand, smile on your face. But everything changed within a few hours, and instead of dinner over candlelights, you said your final goodbyes.

He doesn’t flinch when he steps out of the elevator.

The staff smiles like they always do. “Good morning, Mr. Park.”

He nods. Barely.

The room is full by the time Seonghwa walks in. He takes his seat at the end of the table, the cool, polished wood beneath his fingers grounding him as he smooths out the papers in front of him. The meeting is about to start.

The door opens. A shift in the air. Seonghwa doesn't look up at first, but he feels it, the familiar presence, the sharp energy of your husband walking into the room.

Your husband’s eyes sweep over the table, a quick scan of the room. His gaze lands on Seonghwa. He takes a seat far down the table, as if the distance could shield him from whatever’s simmering beneath the surface. Seonghwa doesn’t look at him. He focuses on the papers in front of him, trying to pretend that nothing’s wrong.

But everything’s wrong.

The meeting starts. The back-and-forth of business talks continues, but Seonghwa can barely concentrate. Every time he looks up, he catches your husband’s gaze. There’s no mistaking it. The anger. The resentment. And a sharp, guttural sting of jealousy.

Seonghwa knows it’s because of you, because he had you. Because he kissed you. Tasted you. Loved you.

He wonders how your husband feels, knowing that Seonghwa touched the woman he thought he had all to himself, unaware that she could find a new love as well. The thought nearly makes his teeth grind, but Seonghwa doesn’t react. He’s better than that.

But the truth is, Seonghwa hates that your husband gets to call himself your husband. The title Seonghwa will never have.

The meeting ends and Seonghwa gathers his papers, packing them slowly into his briefcase. He doesn’t look at your husband. Doesn’t even acknowledge him.

The door clicks shut, and it’s just the two of them.

Your husband doesn’t move. He stays seated, his gaze hard on Seonghwa, watching, waiting.

Then, your husband’s voice breaks through the silence, low and filled with an unmistakable edge: “Forget about her.”

Seonghwa pauses, just for a second.

Your husband's voice is lower now, venomous, as if trying to force a rise out of him: “You don’t get to act like this didn’t happen,” your husband hisses. “Like you didn’t take what was mine. You knew. You knew what you were doing.”

Seonghwa’s jaw tightens. He finally turns to face him, his eyes cold, impassive. But the fire behind them burns bright, and it’s the kind of fire that cuts through the air.

“I didn’t take anything from you,” Seonghwa says, voice calm, smooth, but razor-sharp. His gaze never falters, never wavers. He’s not the one about to crumble here. “You gave her away.”

Your husband takes a breath, his hand gripping the back of a chair, knuckles white.

“Don't,” he warns, low and threatening. “Don’t fucking tell me what I gave away.”

“You made your choices. You chose to pretend this was fine when it was anything but. And when she needed something, someone, I was there.”

But then your husband stands from his chair, like he’s trying to force his power back into the room. “You stole her from me, you bastard!”

Seonghwa’s jaw tightens, and he can feel that familiar surge of rage coursing through him. The cool, collected boss that everyone knows slips away for a moment, replaced by something more raw, more dangerous.

“You really think you can blame me for your failure as a husband?” Seonghwa says, his voice turning darker, edged with venom. He steps closer, narrowing the space between them until your husband can feel the heat of Seonghwa’s anger. “You’re pathetic.”

Seonghwa feels his heart pound in his chest, but this time, it’s not with the rush of passion for you. It’s pure, unadulterated rage. Rage that he can’t be with you.

“You had her. You had everything. And you threw it all away for what? A little freedom?” He steps closer, and your husband instinctively takes a step back. “You thought you could live in that little world of yours and keep her locked up in the role you built for her, but she’s not a fucking object to be claimed.”

A long, charged silence passes between them. The air crackles with tension, heavy with all the unsaid words, the hurt, the anger.

“I’m not scared of you,” Seonghwa continues, his voice low but powerful, each word landing with deliberate force. “I’m not scared of your pathetic jealousy. I did what you couldn’t. I loved her when you couldn't even see her.”

For a long moment, the room is still. Neither man moves. Seonghwa can feel the heat of his anger, but there’s nothing left to say. The powerplay between them is over. Seonghwa has won. And your husband, he’s just a man who can’t even fight for the one thing that mattered most.

With one final, long stare, Seonghwa turns toward the door, walking away without a single glance back. But just before he opens it, a voice calls out behind him.

“Don’t fool yourself, Seonghwa,” your husband sneers, the words dripping with satisfaction. “You had her... for a while. But I get to keep her. I get everything you can’t.”

Seonghwa freezes, his grip tightening on the door handle.

Seonghwa’s heart skips a beat. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t let it show, he won’t give him the satisfaction. He won’t break. He’s not going to let this pathetic excuse of a man have that power over him.

But the words are still there. Stinging. Burning. They cut deeper than he ever expected.

Your husband steps a little closer now, the smirk still playing on his lips. “So go ahead. Get all worked up. I can see it in your eyes. You wanted her. But now?” He leans in, voice dropping to a whisper, the air thick with the tension. “She belongs to me. And she always will.”

The words hang in the air like poison.

Seonghwa feels like he’s suffocating. Like his chest is too tight, like he can’t breathe. But he doesn't break. He won’t.

“Keep doing what you’ve done for the past 8 years with her, and watch,” He leans in slightly, voice barely above a whisper. “you’ll lose her all over again. And next time, I won’t stop her.”

***

It’s been a month.

You count them not by days but by the quiet, stretched-out hours between moments of pretending. The mornings are quieter now. Not peaceful, just quiet, in that hollow kind of way. The clink of a coffee mug, the hum of the dishwasher. Your husband stands across the kitchen, making breakfast like he’s following instructions from a book written about someone else’s life.

He puts blueberries in your oatmeal. You hate blueberries in oatmeal. He used to know that.

He’s smiling when he sets it down in front of you. You say thank you because you’re supposed to, and he nods like that means something. Like that fixes something.

But he doesn’t ask how you’re doing. Doesn’t ask what you’re thinking when you drift off during his stories. Doesn’t see the way you flinch when he reaches for your hand at night like it’s a reflex, not a want.

The bed is colder now, even when he’s in it. He falls asleep quickly. You don’t. You stare at the ceiling and think about the version of you that felt alive, wanted, seen.

You think about honey tea and cold windows. About fingertips on your jaw and whispers that sounded like prayers.

You don’t cry. Not as much anymore, at least. And when your husband holds you, he holds you wrong. Like he’s memorized the shape of someone who isn’t there anymore.

***

Three weeks pass again.

No matter how much you try to quiet it, one name keeps surfacing in the silence.

Seonghwa.

You haven’t spoken since you left his apartment. Since he held you one last time and told you to go. Since you cried into his chest and told him you didn’t want to lose him. And he still let you go, because he knew he had to.

You miss him so much it hurts.

Time keeps dragging.

You don’t plan to go out, but the fridge is empty and your husband mentioned dinner twice before leaving this morning. So you grab your coat, your keys, and drive to the store in silence, the radio too loud and still not loud enough to quiet your thoughts.

You move through the aisles on autopilot. Milk, eggs, pasta, something for dinner.

You’re standing in front of the tea section, staring at the shelf without seeing any of it, when it happens.

You freeze.

You see him.

Not fully, just the back of his head, the tilt of his shoulders beneath a black coat, the careful way he reaches for something on the shelf like he’s always aware of how much space he takes up. It’s stupid. Impossible. But your heart stumbles anyway.

Because it looks like him.

And for the first time in weeks, you feel air fill your lungs. Real air. You hadn’t even realized how shallowly you’ve been breathing until now. You abandon the cart. You move slowly, like you’re afraid to startle the moment, like it might disappear if you’re too loud, too desperate.

He turns the corner. You follow.

He walks with that same quiet grace. The same calm.

You trail behind him through the produce section, around the corner to the bakery, your heart in your throat, limbs trembling. Not out of fear, but relief. Relief so thick it makes your knees weak.

You’re just about to say his name.

And then he turns.

And it’s not him.

Not even close.

He’s younger. Taller. Softer around the edges. A stranger blinking at you in quiet confusion while you stand frozen in front of a tray of croissants, clutching nothing, looking like a fool.

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out. You force a tight smile, nod, and duck your head before walking away like the ground might split open and take you with it.

The breath you just got back? Gone. Ripped out of your lungs in one cruel twist.

Because for one glorious second, you really thought it was him.

***

You’re fully into the dead routine of your life, when one morning, the air changes.

Your husband is quiet, more than usual. Distracted. You ask if something’s wrong and he says no, but the word feels hollow. There’s a stiffness to the way he ties his tie, a hesitation in the way he kisses you goodbye. You stand in the kitchen after the door closes, staring at your reflection in the microwave, heart tightening with unease.

Your eyes scan the kitchen. Something sees off. Like something is trying to grab your attention without saying anything.

You clean. You try to shake the feeling. Then, while folding laundry, you notice the drawer to your nightstand isn’t sitting quite right.

Your hands move on their own.

You open it slowly. At first, nothing seems out of place. Then you see it: a single Polaroid, lying flat against the bottom, like it had been dropped there in haste.

Your breath catches in your throat.

It's a photo of you and Seonghwa. Taken months ago, in his apartment. You're smiling, tucked under his arm, and he's pressing a kiss to your temple. You remember laughing when he clicked the shutter, how he said he wanted a piece of you he could hold onto.

You saved this picture close to you, just as a reminder. A reminder of what love feels like. But you never meant for this to surface. You thought it was hidden, safe. But somehow, your husband found it.

Your stomach turns.

He didn’t say anything this morning. Not a word. He just... left.

And now you're standing here, holding proof of everything you'd tried to bury.

Something isn’t right.

With shaky hands, you grab your coat and keys. There’s only one place you can go. You need to talk to him. You need to clear the air. Because something feels wrong, like this conversation can't wait.

You head to his job, your husband's office building, ignoring the storm inside your chest.

You know the odds of possibly seeing Seonghwa again are high.

And that terrifies you just as much as it comforts you.

You walk through the halls of the office building like a ghost, the nerves thrumming in your chest almost louder than your heels tapping against the polished floor. You know this place. But everything feels colder now, more sterile. Like it’s turned into something unrecognizable, just like your marriage.

His office is empty.

You check the time. Maybe he’s in a meeting. Maybe he left for coffee. Maybe he knew you were coming and didn’t want to see you. You start to turn away, unsure what to do next-

And then you see him.

At the end of the hallway, near the corner office with tall glass windows, stands Seonghwa.

Time halts.

He’s dressed in a sleek black button-down, sleeves rolled up, hair falling slightly into his eyes. He hasn’t seen you yet. He’s talking to someone, nodding, polite, composed. Beautiful.

Then he turns.

Your eyes meet.

It slams into you, that ache you’ve been keeping buried. There’s a flicker across his face. His shoulders stiffen like he’s bracing for impact. His expression stays neutral, professional, but his eyes… his eyes shatter you.

He knows. He feels it too.

He excuses himself from the person beside him. It’s barely a word, barely a motion, just a hand raised in apology before he’s moving.

Toward you.

Every step is slow, measured. Like he’s walking through something fragile. Like he doesn’t trust what will happen when he gets too close.

You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

“Hey,” he says when he’s finally in front of you. His voice is low. Strained. Kind. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You clutch your coat tighter, trying to find your voice. “I needed to talk to him. I-” You glance toward the hall. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “This is my office.”

You let out a breathless laugh, but it catches in your throat. He looks tired. He looks like he hasn’t stopped thinking about you. And you want, God, you want to reach for him.

You clear your throat, trying to shake off the weight of the moment, but it’s like trying to clear fog with your hands.

“So,” you start, forcing a smile that feels stiff on your lips, “You’re still, uh, working hard, I see?”

Seonghwa’s lips twitch, a barely-there smile pulling at the corners. “Boss things,” he says, trying to sound casual, but there’s an edge of something soft beneath it. “You know me.”

You nod, suddenly feeling the distance between you two, even though you’re standing so close. The silence that stretches between you is like a thread pulling tighter and tighter.

“So... um...” you try again, your hands fidgeting with the hem of your coat. “How’s everything been?”

Seonghwa glances at you for a split second, and you swear you catch the flicker of something (maybe hope?) before he turns his gaze to the floor, adjusting the collar of his shirt as if to focus on anything other than the words he wants to say but won’t.

“Fine,” he says, and the word feels like it’s both too much and not enough. “Same old stuff. You?”

You try to hold his gaze but it’s like there’s an invisible barrier now, even though you’re just inches away.

“Yeah, fine. You know...” you gesture vaguely, not sure why the words feel so hollow. “Same.”

It’s almost like a competition, who can pretend the best, who can mask the longing just a little bit longer. Neither of you seems willing to admit what’s really burning in the air between you.

A long moment stretches on. You could leave. You should leave.

But he looks at you again, and the world tilts just a little.

But then you hear a voice.

“Are you serious right now?”

You whip around just in time to see your husband storming down the hallway, his pace quick, his eyes locked on you and Seonghwa. His jaw is clenched, fists tight at his sides, and the fury in his gaze burns right through you.

“Really?” he spits, his voice rising with each word. “You couldn’t fucking wait longer before running back to him?”

Seonghwa instinctively steps in front of you, a protective instinct, his posture rigid but calm. “Don’t talk to her like that,” he says, voice controlled, but there’s an undeniable edge to it.

Your husband doesn’t hear him, doesn’t care. His eyes stay on you, full of accusation.

Without warning, he lunges at Seonghwa, throwing the first punch. You gasp as it lands with a sickening thud right against Seonghwa’s jaw. He staggers back but catches himself, looking up at your husband with a mixture of disbelief and frustration.

“Don’t!” you shout, taking a step forward, but before you can stop it, your husband throws another punch. This one hits Seonghwa square in the side, and you wince as you watch him take it, barely flinching, but you can see the pain flicker in his eyes.

“Stop it!” You’re screaming now, trying to push through the chaos, but your husband shoves you aside, not even sparing you a glance.

You stumble back, heart pounding as you watch Seonghwa take another hit. This one has Seonghwa’s lip splitting open, a small trickle of blood seeping out. It stings, but Seonghwa doesn’t retaliate. He’s too focused on keeping you out of harm’s way. He moves slowly, cautiously, but still, your husband’s anger is relentless.

“Enough!” A voice shouts from behind.

A few of your husband’s colleagues rush in, grabbing hold of him, pulling him back with a force that makes him stumble. Papers fly, a coffee cup crashes to the ground, and the air is thick with tension.

The hallway is chaos. Seonghwa’s lip is split. Your husband’s collar is torn.

You’re frozen in the middle.

Torn between the man you promised your life to, and the one who made you feel alive again. But something shifts. Something dark flashes in your husband’s eyes. His hand disappears into the inside of his coat.

And time slows.

You don’t even register what’s happening until you hear someone yell; “He has a knife!”

The world goes silent.

Your husband pulls it free in a blink. Sleek. Cold. A narrow blade that glints beneath the hallway lights. Same knife you have at home. You stare at it, frozen, a second too late to do anything at all.

He had it on him. This wasn’t a spontaneous outburst. He came here with that knife.

And he raises it, arm drawn back, aimed straight for Seonghwa’s chest.

Everything inside you screams.

But someone tackles him from behind. Another grabs his arm. The knife clatters to the floor with a metallic rattle that seems to ring in your ears long after it’s landed. Seonghwa is pulled back by someone else, out of reach.

You can’t breathe.

Security rushes in. Voices blur. A dozen hands are on your husband now, restraining him. He doesn’t resist at first, just stands there, wild-eyed and panting, like he’s only now realizing what he almost did.

He was going to use it.

He brought it for Seonghwa.

Your stomach twists into something ugly and knotted. Seonghwa’s blood is on his lip, his shirt wrinkled, the faintest bruise already forming on his cheek. And still, his eyes are on you.

And then you’re beside him again, grabbing his hand, checking his jaw, trembling.

He winces but smiles gently through it. “I’m fine. It looks worse than it is.”

But beneath all of it, something terrified flickers behind his calm exterior, like he knows just how close he came to being seriously hurt.

Even as a police officer pulls you aside to take your statement, your eyes keep flicking toward Seonghwa.

He’s seated in a plastic chair at the far end of the corridor, shoulders hunched slightly, one hand bracing the ice pack held to his jaw. Someone wrapped paper towels around it, already stained faintly pink from the blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. His shirt is rumpled. His brow is split. But he’s calm. Or pretending to be.

He keeps glancing at you, too.

Eventually, you both end up at the hospital.

The ER is buzzing with fluorescent lights and distant murmurs. Beeping monitors. A child crying softly somewhere down the hall. The adrenaline has long since burned out of your system, but your hands still won’t stop shaking.

You sit beside Seonghwa in a curtained-off room, perched on a hard plastic chair, watching the way he winces as a nurse presses gauze gently to the cut above his brow.

He’s quiet. Has been for most of the car ride. It wasn’t an awkward silence, it was just… full. Weighted with everything you both couldn’t say in front of the paramedics, the police, the nurses, the clipboard-wielding strangers who kept asking for his information, your information, what happened, how long it’s been going on.

You’re still answering that question yourself.

“I’m going to grab the adhesive strips,” the nurse says softly, stepping out.

And then it’s just you and him.

Seonghwa turns to look at you, eyes a little tired, but still gentle. Still him. “You don’t have to be here,” he says quietly. “I know this… probably just made everything harder for you.”

His voice is rough around the edges, like the pain is finally settling in. Like now that he’s no longer protecting you from someone else, he can feel what happened to him.

You meet his gaze and hold it. There’s that same sweetness in his eyes. That same patience. That quiet, unshakable way he always puts you first. Even after being attacked.

“I’m not leaving,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He swallows. His shoulders relax just slightly, like your answer lets him breathe again. One slow nod. And then he looks down, blinks hard.

“I don’t know what I would’ve done if he-” You don't finish. You don't want to.

Because you both know what happened. Seonghwa didn’t stumble into danger. The knife wasn’t meant for anyone else. It was brought to him. A weapon, delivered with intent. Your husband had shown up at his workplace, unhinged and already spiraling, perhaps waiting for the "right" moment. If someone hadn’t stepped in, if Seonghwa hadn’t kept his distance, hadn’t moved when he did... he might not be sitting here now.

Your throat tightens. And now you can’t stop seeing it. Can’t stop thinking how close it came to tearing him away from you forever.

His expression softens with something deeper. “Let’s not think about that,” He murmur's.

Your eyes flick up to meet his.

And that’s when you see it.

The fear he won’t admit. The way his fingers curl against his thigh like he’s still trying to ground himself. He’s just as shaken, but holding it in for you. Carrying the worst of it so you don’t have to.

“I’m okay,” he adds, softer now. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

His hand moves toward you slowly, open, inviting, but cautious. Like he’s giving you the chance to say no. You don’t. You take it instantly, and he threads his fingers with yours.

But you feel the hesitation in him. The quiet conflict behind his stillness. He’s trying to be careful. Respectful. Maybe even distant. Because he still doesn’t know what this means, what you mean, now that everything’s changed. Even though there’s no doubt anymore that it was real danger. Even after all that… Seonghwa is still giving you room.

So you hold his hand a little tighter. Let your thumb glide over the back of his knuckles. Show him that it’s okay. That you’re not going anywhere.

The nurse returns a few minutes later, bandages and discharge papers in hand. She moves quietly, professionally, giving Seonghwa a small, encouraging smile as she applies the final butterfly strip to his brow and replaces the gauze on his lip.

“You’ll bruise pretty badly,” she says, tone gentle, “but there’s no sign of a fracture. Keep icing it. And take something for the swelling before bed.”

He nods, polite, his hand still wrapped around yours.

You don’t let go, even as the nurse explains the aftercare steps. Even as she hands him a neatly folded packet of instructions and wishes him a speedy recovery.

The moment the curtain pulls shut behind her, the tension in the room softens. Seonghwa exhales slowly, sitting back on the hospital bed like his body is finally starting to feel the weight of the night.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says after a beat, his voice a little hoarse but steadier now.

You nod, already rising. He moves more carefully than usual, wincing as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, but he doesn’t complain. You reach for his hand once he’s standing, and he lets you. You lace your fingers through his automatically, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The walk out is quiet.

You walk the rest of the way in silence, hand in hand.

His apartment isn’t far, just a few blocks. When you reach the building, he opens the door for you without a word, fingers brushing your back lightly as you step through, almost out of habit. The familiarity of it almost undoes you.

You’ve been here before. Slept here. Cried here. Left a piece of yourself in these walls.

And now you’re back.

The door to Seonghwa’s apartment shuts behind you with a soft click, and for a moment, the world finally exhales. No police. No hospital noise. No blood.

Just the two of you. And silence.

He’s clearly exhausted. His shirt wrinkled, a bruise blooming on his jaw, lip still slightly swollen, a thin cut on his temple, bandaged now. Still beautiful, still so him. But it hurts to look at him like this.

“Couch. Now,” you say firmly, setting down your bag and taking his jacket from his shoulders before he can protest.

“Bossy,” he mutters, teasing, because he wants to lighten the mood, wants to make this feel normal, but he obeys. Of course he does.

You guide him to the couch, hands gentle but no-nonsense, and he sinks down with a soft sigh. You disappear into his kitchen and return with a glass of water, then find the little first-aid kit you’d seen here before, tucked under the bathroom sink. You sink down in front of him, and he watches you the whole time like he doesn’t believe you’re really here.

Like if he blinks too long, you’ll vanish.

He sits up straight but escapes a quiet groan, one hand braced against his ribs. “Okay,” he mutters. “That’s definitely going to bruise.”

“Bruise is putting it mildly,” you say, inspecting the edge of his jaw where the skin is already darkening. “I’m sorry to say it, but it looks like you lost the fight.”

“I didn’t lose,” he says, lips twitching. “I just… chose not to win.”

You roll your eyes. “Heroic.”

“I try.” His smile curves gently, even with the split lip. “But for the record, I’d like it noted that your husband is definitely fired.”

You pause, cloth halfway to his temple, then murmur, “Ex-husband.”

His eyes flick to yours. It’s subtle, but something shifts.

You lower the cloth, resting your hands in your lap. Your hands that aren’t carrying a wedding ring anymore. You took it off while Seonghwa was getting checked at the hospital. “It’s over. I just… need to make it official now.”

Seonghwa doesn’t speak immediately. He just watches you with that quiet attentiveness of his, like he’s afraid if he moves too fast, you’ll take it back.

But you don’t.

You finish cleaning him up in silence as his eyes are closed, enjoying your subtle, missed touch. “How’s the pain?” you ask softly, brushing a thumb under the edge of the bandage on his cheek.

He opens his eyes to look at you, and gives a weak smile. “Manageable. I’ve had worse.”

You give him a look. “Don’t be macho.”

“I’m not,” he replies. “It just… doesn’t matter. I’d take worse if it meant seeing you again.”

Your breath catches. You want to respond to that, but the words get tangled in your throat.

He catches the flicker in your expression, and tries to sit up straighter. “Sorry. That was-"

“No,” you cut him off. “Don’t take it back.”

He watches you with those impossibly soft, unreadable eyes, and you feel something stir in your chest. It’s too much. His bruised cheek, the swelling on his lip, the way he’s still trying to be calm and gentle around you even after everything that’s happened.

“How have you been? Really?” you ask. Your voice trembles more than you want it to.

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drops to his hands, fidgeting now, fingers twitching slightly like they don’t know what to do without yours in them. When he speaks, it’s quiet. Flat, almost.

“I’ve been… existing.”

That single word cracks something in your chest.

He doesn’t look at you. He stares at the floor, like the truth is too heavy to say while meeting your eyes.

“I get up. I eat. I work. I talk to people. I smile when I’m supposed to.” His voice is calm, too calm, like the only way to speak the truth is to say it like it’s not about him. “But the second I’m alone, it hits me again. That you’re not there. That I can’t call. That I don’t know when I’ll see you next... if I’ll see you next.”

You stay quiet, afraid even a breath might shatter him.

“In the beginning I still set two mugs out in the morning. Every damn day.” He huffs a sad little laugh that dies quickly. “I’d open the cabinet and just… forget. And then I’d stand there like an idiot, staring at your favorite mug."

Your eyes blur, vision swimming, but he keeps going.

“I kept your book on the coffee table,” he whispers. “I can't move it. It still has your bookmark. Page 183. I kept thinking… maybe if I leave it there, you’ll come back to finish it.”

You swallow hard, but he doesn’t stop.

“Sometimes I hear the front door creak and think it's you. I actually get up and check. I know better, but… I still look.”

He rubs the back of his hand over his mouth, jaw clenched.

“There are nights I lie in bed and just stare at the ceiling, trying to remember how you sounded when you laugh. I was scared I was starting to forget it.”

He finally lifts his head , and when your eyes meet, it nearly levels you.

“I missed you so much,” he says, softer now. “It started to feel like grief.”

That breaks you.

It happens before you even realize it, your face crumpling, your body folding forward as tears rush to your eyes, too fast to stop. You cover your face with both hands, but he’s already reaching for you, already pulling you into him.

“Hey, hey…” His voice is pure worry now. He holds you so carefully, like you might break. “Talk to me.”

You clutch his shirt, forehead against his shoulder, and you just sob for a moment. “I shouldn’t have gone back,” you cry. “I thought I owed it to him, I thought it was the right thing, but it wasn’t. I’ve been lying to myself every single day, and I just-”

You press your face against his collarbone, breathing in the faintest trace of him, the smell of clean cotton, the warmth of his skin, the quiet steadiness that only he ever gave you.

He strokes your hair, soothing circles over your back. His touch is still gentle, but there’s something broken in the way he exhales. Like your pain is hurting him too.

You gasp, a hiccup of a sob in your throat. “I missed your voice,” you manage, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt tighter. “Not just what you said. I missed how you’d say good morning. How you’d hum sometimes without realizing."

You pull back just enough to look at him. Your vision’s blurry, your cheeks soaked, but you need to see him. “I missed the way you looked at me. Like I mattered. Like I was more than enough. I’ve been trying to find that feeling again, but it’s gone. It was always just you.”

You pause, trying to breathe, trying to find words big enough for the ache in your chest. “I missed your hands. The way they’d hold mine without needing a reason. I missed your stupid jokes. I missed falling asleep knowing you were there. I even missed how you worry too much. I missed you so much it physically hurt.”

Your voice drops to a whisper.

“I love you,” you say, and this time it breaks something open. “I love you so much it kept me up at night. I’d wake up reaching for you. I’d sit on the floor of my shower just to cry without anyone hearing. I wanted to call you a thousand times. But I didn’t. I thought it’d be cruel. I thought I was doing the right thing. And now all I’ve done is hurt both of us.”

You shake your head, fresh tears spilling.

“I don’t know how I ever convinced myself I could survive without you.”

And he’s not breathing. His chest is rising, shallow and uneven, but his mouth is frozen open like he’s trying not to fall apart.

His hands come up to cup your face. Gently. Tender. His thumb brushes your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your sadness.

He leans forward, rests his forehead against yours.

“I waited so long to hear you say that,” he says at last, his voice rough with emotion. “And I would’ve waited longer. I would’ve waited forever, even if it killed me. Because loving you… even from a distance, even when it broke me… was still better than not loving you at all.”

Your fingers sliding up into his hair. And you kiss him, softly, slowly, because there’s no more pretending, no more space to hide.

He groans into the kiss, hands sliding down your back, pulling you impossibly close. “I love you,” he breathes, voice desperate.

Your kiss deepens before either of you can stop it, months of tension and two agonizing months apart erupting all at once. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer, and you climb into his lap like it’s instinct, like it’s where you belong.

You straddle him, trembling, lips brushing his as you speak. “I love you,” you whisper, breath hitching, the words melting into your kiss.

You’ve missed this. Missed him. The way his mouth claims yours like a promise, the way he touches you like he’s never going to stop. Like he’s worshipping every second.

“I love you,” you murmur again, breath hot against his skin, voice shaking. “I love you.”

He tilts your chin up, eyes dark, gaze flicking between your lips and your eyes. “Say it again,” he rasps, like he needs it to live.

“I love you,” you say, kissing his jaw. “I love you,” as your hands press to his chest, feeling his heartbeat race beneath your palms. “I love you,” again, again, until it’s all either of you can hear.

His hands grip your waist, holding you to him as your hips shift. He gasps, deep and aching. “God, I forgot how warm you are,” he mumbles, dragging his lips down your jaw. “You’re not fair, you know that?”

“You’re the one kissing me like that,” you murmur, breath catching as your fingers tug at his hair. “Don’t blame me for-”

A sharp wince stops everything.

You freeze. “Seonghwa?”

“I’m okay,” he groans, head flopping back dramatically against the cushion. “Just-, my ribs. And my shoulder. And basically every part of me that’s not currently touching you.”

You blink, concern rushing to your face, but then, his mouth quirks up. That smirk. The one you’d missed almost as much as his kiss.

“I want you,” he groans. “God, do I want you. But if I try to move again, I might pass out or die. Either way, not sexy.”

You try to stifle your laugh, even through your tears, but it bubbles out anyway, relief and affection all tangled together. “Fine,” you sigh, settling against him with exaggerated care. “We’ll wait until you’re less… dying.”

“Tragic,” he whispers, throwing his head back in the cushions, wrapping his arms around you despite the pain. “You could be half-naked in my lap right now and I’m stuck being wholesome.”

You snort, burying your face in his neck. “Poor baby.”

His hips shift up instinctively, dragging a gasp out of you. You can feel him, hard and desperate beneath you, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to give in.

“I love you,” you whisper, and it breaks something in both of you.

He groans, like the words unravel him completely. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” you say, softer. Slower. You kiss the corner of his mouth. “I love you.” Along his jaw. “I love you.” Down his neck.

His hands slide up your sides, trembling with restraint. “Never mind, please,” he whispers, half-prayer, half-curse. “Let me have you. Just for a second. I swear I’ll survive.”

You cup his face, kiss him again, deep and slow and devastating. “You’ll survive longer if we wait.”

He groans like that physically hurts more than the bruises. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m keeping you alive,” you counter, grinning as you settle against him with care.

“Alive and painfully hard,” he mutters, voice strained.

“And you love it,” you tease, snuggling closer. “Now rest up, mister. When you’re better, I’ll make sure you forget all about this waiting.”

He sighs happily, wrapping his arms around you. “Deal. But I’m holding you to that.”

You smile, heart warm and full as you hold him close, knowing that this waiting will only make everything sweeter.

But neither of you move to leave the embrace. His hand runs slowly up and down your back, yours curled into the front of his shirt, and the world just… fades. There’s no husband, no chaos, no past.

***

You’re not even sure what day it is.

The only time that seems to exist lately is marked by the way the sunlight filters differently into Seonghwa’s apartment, soft and golden in the morning, heavy and warm by late afternoon, dusky and slow when it finally slips behind the skyline.

Three days.

Three days of not leaving the apartment. Of takeout containers on the kitchen counter. Of you and Seonghwa padding barefoot through the living room in sweats and oversized t-shirts. Of your toothbrush next to his. Your phone mostly untouched. Your head always somewhere on him. On his shoulder, on his chest, in the crook of his neck while he scrolls through his phone and absentmindedly plays with your fingers.

You’re basically glued to each other. Not in a clingy way, more like… gravity. The kind that feels inevitable. Natural.

This morning, you’re curled up on the couch, legs tangled beneath a shared blanket. Seonghwa has his laptop open on his thighs, pretending to sort through emails, though he hasn’t typed anything in twenty minutes. You’re lazily drawing circles on his stomach with your fingertip, wearing his hoodie like it's second skin.

“Do you think the world knows we’ve disappeared?” you murmur.

He hums. “Let them wonder.”

You look up at him, watching how the light hits his face. His bruises are almost gone now, just shadows of purple at the edges of his jaw.

“You look less like a crime scene,” you tease, gently nudging his ribs.

He huffs a laugh, catching your hand and kissing your knuckles. “I heal faster when you're home with me.”

You freeze for a second.

Home.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it, just presses another kiss to your hand and closes his laptop, placing it aside like nothing else matters. Like this is all he needs.

You shift, scooting closer, and rest your head on his chest.

“I don’t think I want to go back yet,” you whisper. You have no idea how your shared house with your (ex)husband looks like. You still have to go through everything, separate your things from his, leave it and never look back.

“You don’t have to.”

“What if I stayed here a little longer?” You lift your head to look at him.

He brushes your hair back, his touch feather-light. “You mean a few more days, or… forever?”

Your breath catches.

“…Is forever an option?”

His smile is soft, a little sad around the edges, but real. “It always was. I was just waiting for you to see it.”

You kiss him. Slow and warm. Familiar now. His hands curl around your waist, pulling you fully into his lap.

You're straddling Seonghwa on the couch, like you've done a million times, tucked into his lap like you’ve lived there forever, his hoodie drowning your frame, your fingers lazily tracing the bruises on his chest beneath it. He’s warm. Safe. Yours.

“I need a shower,” you murmur, almost regretfully.

His hand slows on your thigh. “Alone?”

You raise a brow. “You can barely sit up without wincing.”

“I can lean,” he argues, hopeful, voice already husky. “Or hold the wall dramatically. Very sexy.”

You bite back a laugh, brushing his hair from his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

He groans as you rise from his lap, his hands falling reluctantly from your hips. “And you’re mean.”

“Come suffer in the steam with me then,”

He gets up slowly, following you down the hallway without another word. The apartment is dim and soft around you both. Three days of hiding from the world wrapped in low lighting and silence.

In the bathroom, you start the water. Seonghwa leans against the sink, watching you like he’s memorizing everything. Your reflection catches in the mirror, his eyes already on you.

You peel off the oversized hoodie and toss it to the side. He steps forward as your fingers go to the strap of your bra, his hand brushing yours gently, stopping you.

“Let me?”

You nod.

He undoes it slowly, carefully, like it means something. Like you mean something. And you do. To him, you always have.

You turn around and do the same for him, lifting his shirt gently over his head, being mindful of his injuries. There’s nothing playful about it, just tenderness, and the soft hum of water hitting tile.

You both stand there for a moment before dropping your underwear, breathing quietly. The air thickens. You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his.

“Come in with me.”

He nods. Follows you in.

The water is warm when it hits your skin, comforting, steady. You step under it first, letting the heat soak into your shoulders, your breath easing. Seonghwa joins you a second later, slow and careful as the spray cascades over both of you.

Neither of you say anything at first.

You’re facing each other in the soft steam, your bodies close but not pressed together, your fingers tracing the lines of his arms, his waist, gentle over every bruise. You’re still so careful with him. And he’s just as careful with you.

His hands settle on your waist, thumbs brushing your skin like it’s something sacred. He leans in and kisses your shoulder, barely there.

“I missed you,” he murmurs into your skin.

You breathe in slowly. “I missed you too.”

It’s not dramatic. It doesn’t have to be. You’ve said the big things already. This is quieter. Closer.

His lips travel up your shoulder, then your neck, and when you tilt your head to give him more space, his mouth lingers longer. His fingers spread wider over your sides, pulling you just a little closer.

And then your hands are on him too, palms flat on his chest, slowly sliding around to his back. You lean forward, your lips brushing his jaw, then his mouth. A soft kiss at first, and then another.

“Fuck… How can you expect me to be careful when you do that?” he sighs, looking down at you in front of him.

You reach for the body wash, but his hand stops yours.

“Let me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. And when you meet his gaze, you see it. The shift.

That softness is still there, but it’s buried under something darker. Hungrier.

He pumps a little of the soap into his hand and steps closer, his palms finding your skin like he’s done this a thousand times in his head during those long months apart. He starts with your shoulders, strong hands massaging, gliding across your skin with reverence. He doesn’t rush. He lingers, at the curve of your neck, the dip of your spine, the sides of your breasts. Your breath catches when his thumbs brush just under them, deliberately slow, eyes locked to yours.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, almost to himself. “I don’t think I ever recovered from the first time I saw you like this.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Your body is already leaning into him, needing more.

He moves lower, to your hips, your thighs, and when he kneels down in the shower, hands splayed across the backs of your legs, he looks up at you like you’re something sacred. His voice is low. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shake your head instantly. “I don’t.”

He kisses the inside of your thigh, slowly working his way up. Your knees threaten to buckle, one hand reaching for the tile wall, the other buried in his soaked hair. His tongue flicks out, barely a taste, and you gasp.

“I feel better already,” he says, voice wrecked, lips slick with you.

Then, finally, he tastes you. His tongue presses against you, slow and deliberate, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. He hums against you, pleased by your reaction, before diving deeper, his mouth working in a rhythm that makes your knees weak.

Every flick of his tongue is precise, every movement controlled. He knows exactly what you need, and he’s determined to give it to you. He doesn’t rush, taking his time to explore, savoring every second he’s been denied.

Your hands find their way to his hair, tugging gently, your body responding to him as if it’s its own entity, desperate for more, desperate for him to push you over the edge.

“You taste so good,” he murmurs, the words vibrating through your body, his hands holding you steady as his mouth moves with purpose, taking what he’s wanted, savoring the way you melt for him.

It’s all so overwhelming. The heat, the pleasure, the way he’s making you feel like you’re the only thing that matters in the world right now.

But then he stands again, towering over you, water sliding down every inch of his chest. His lips find yours, and this time it’s different. Messier. Desperate.

“Hold on to me,” he whispers, and you do, your back pressing to the wall as he lifts one of your legs and wraps it around his waist. His hands trail lower between you, his fingers finding the soft skin between your thighs. His thumb brushes over you, slow at first, the touch light but teasing, just enough to make you gasp. “Don’t hold back, sweetheart. I want to hear you.”

When his fingers finally slip between your folds, you gasp. His touch so sure, so confident that it makes your body shudder with need. He works you slowly, his fingers gliding over you with just the right amount of pressure, pushing you closer to the edge. The sensation is overwhelming, but Seonghwa never lets you fall. He’s in control, making sure you’re always on the brink, keeping you just where he wants you.

“Do you like that?” Seonghwa’s voice is soft but firm, like a command and a question all at once.

You nod, barely able to form words as he pushes you closer to the edge. His fingers slip inside you then, not just one, but two, stretching you, filling you. The stretch is delicious, and you gasp, biting down on your lip to keep from crying out. His hand is steady, his fingers curling, searching for that spot inside you that makes everything else fade away. When he finds it, you nearly lose control.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Seonghwa murmurs, the words leaving his mouth like a blessing, almost reverent.

His free hand moves to your waist, holding you steady as he speeds up, his fingers thrusting harder now, each movement drawing you closer to the edge. You can feel the pressure building, the slow, steady coil tightening deep inside you, and all you can do is hold onto him, your nails digging into his shoulders, your body trembling beneath his touch.

“You’re doing so well for me,” Seonghwa says softly, but his words carry the weight of his dominance, his control. “I’m going to make you feel everything. Let go for me. I want you to come apart in my hands.”

The tension in your core is unbearable, and your legs tremble as your body starts to respond to him, your breaths coming in ragged bursts.

When you finally fall over the edge, the orgasm crashes over you in waves. Your body clenches around his fingers, your head thrown back as the pleasure takes over, your vision blurring with the intensity of it. You can barely register the words he murmurs as you shake in his arms, his fingers still moving, coaxing the last bits of pleasure from you.

“Good girl,” he whispers against your ear, his voice rough with satisfaction as his hand slows, his thumb continuing to circle your clit even as your body trembles from the aftershocks. “So fucking beautiful when you lose control like that.”

The water still cascades over both of you, the steam rising around you, but everything fades away as Seonghwa’s hands move to your back, urging you forward with gentle insistence. His lips graze your shoulder as his voice, rough with desire, murmurs low against your ear.

“Turn around. I want you like this,” he commands, the authority in his voice making your breath catch, your body responding instinctively.

You nod, turning slowly, your back now pressed against his chest. The movement feels intimate, the proximity of your bodies overwhelming as you feel the heat of his skin against your own.

His voice is low, almost teasing, as he murmurs in your ear. “I’m going to take care of you. Just relax and let me lead.”

With that, he positions you just right, his cock brushing against your ass as he adjusts his stance. The anticipation is maddening, your body already trembling with need as you press back against him instinctively, desperate for him to fill you.

“Shh, baby,” he murmurs softly, one hand coming to rest on your stomach, the other slipping between your legs to tease at your entrance. His fingers find their mark, gently caressing you, the pressure building before he suddenly pulls away, replacing his fingers with the head of his cock.

You gasp, your body instinctively trying to push back onto him, but he holds you still, his hands gripping your waist as he teases, just barely brushing against your core.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he growls, his voice rough as he slowly presses into you, filling you inch by inch. The stretch is intense, but the way he moves with you, guiding you, makes it feel almost effortless. You gasp, your breath quickening as the sensation of him inside you fills you completely.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you so much.” Seonghwa whispers against your skin, his breath hot, his lips brushing your neck as he begins to move, his thrusts slow and controlled at first. His hips snap forward, the force of his movements making you gasp, the sound of his body meeting yours filling the space between you.

Each thrust is deep, purposeful, as he starts to build a rhythm, his hands gripping your waist tighter, guiding you to meet him. The water continues to rain down, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his body pressing against yours. Your breath hitches as he drives into you again, harder this time, and you can’t help but push back, urging him to move faster, deeper.

He leans in, mouth at your shoulder, teeth dragging gently against your skin before he kisses it. “Look at you,” he breathes, hand sliding down your stomach to between your thighs. “Taking me so well. You’re made for me.”

His fingers find your swollen clit, circling with precision as his thrusts start to falter, like he’s holding himself back until you come undone first. Your head falls back against his shoulder, a breathless cry escaping you.

“That’s it, my love” he whispers, encouraging. “Let go for me. Come with me, baby.”

And when you do, when the tension finally snaps and your body clenches around him, Seonghwa groans low and rough, wrapping his arm tightly around you as he follows right after, spilling into you with a soft, broken curse. He stays buried deep, panting against your neck, the both of you swaying slightly under the water like your bodies can’t bear to separate yet.

“God, I love you,” he murmurs, still breathless, his hand flattening protectively over your lower stomach like he wants to brand you there. “I’ll never get enough of you.”

Slowly, carefully, he pulls out and turns you around in his arms, guiding you to lean against his chest. You’re still trembling, but he’s already reaching for the body wash again, lathering it gently in his hands.

“Let me take care of you now,” he says softly, his tone shifting into something even more tender. “You’ve done enough, my love. Just let me love you.”

He washes you with slow, thoughtful movements, kissing your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, in between, his hands never straying, never teasing again, just comforting. When he’s done, he rinses you off carefully, shielding your face from the water with his palm as if you’re something delicate, precious.

“You okay?” he asks once more, brushing his thumb along your jaw.

You nod, nuzzling into his chest. “More than okay.”

He smiles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his arms still wrapped securely around you as the water continues to pour down, now lukewarm and forgotten.

The rest of the shower is soft, intimate but not in a sexual way. Just you and Seonghwa finally together. The water’s been off for a while now, but the steam still lingers in the bathroom. You’re wrapped in one of Seonghwa’s towels and your skin is still warm from more than just the shower. While you finish up in the bathroom, he’s somewhere in the apartment, humming under his breath as he moves around.

You take your time after stepping out. The floor’s cool against your bare feet, but the air is gentle, and the whole apartment feels like him. Woodsy candles, the faint scent of laundry, low music playing from the living room speaker.

He hears the soft pad of your feet before he sees you.

You're somewhere behind him, moving through his apartment like you've always belonged here. And when you finally step into view, wearing nothing but his oversized long sleeve t-shirt, hair still damp from the shower, skin clean and glowing, Seonghwa forgets how to breathe.

You don’t see him at first. You’re tugging the sleeves over your hands, looking around the kitchen like it’s yours. Like it’s normal. Like you haven’t been gone for two goddamn months. Like he didn’t spend every night aching with the thought that he’d never get to see you like this again.

And now here you are.

So real. So heartbreakingly beautiful he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

His shirt drapes off your frame like it was made for you. Your hair is wet, curling slightly at the ends. You look warm. Comfortable. At home. And somehow, that’s what undoes him most, how naturally you fit into his space, like the missing piece of a life he’d been pretending was fine without you.

You look up and finally catch him staring.

Your lips twitch into a smile. “Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, a little shy, like you can feel it radiating off of him.

“I don’t know,” he breathes, his voice light, awestruck. “I guess I’m just… lucky.”

You duck your head, laughing under your breath as you pad toward him. “You’re a little cliché, you know that?”

“I’m proud of it.”

You curl into his chest, cheek pressed against him, and his arms wrap around your waist like they never want to let go again. You feel small and safe, and he feels whole for the first time in what feels like forever.

You look up at him, and the kiss that follows is slow and soft. Lazy in the best way, lips moving like neither of you are in a rush for the moment to end.

He smiles against your mouth. “I fucking love you”

“Don’t swear.”

That makes him laugh, a sweet, boyish sound that fills the whole room.

But then he pulls away a little, still smiling. “Okay… wait here a second. I need to find something.”

You frown. “What?”

He’s already walking out. “Just give me a minute.”

You hear him rummaging through something. A drawer slams. A box opens. Then silence.

He’s gone a little longer than you expect, long enough that curiosity starts to creep in, until finally, he reappears in the doorway again, something small clutched in his hand.

But he looks nervous. Like he’s not sure if this is still the right time. But then he sees you again. His t-shirt hanging off your shoulders, your fingers fidgeting with the sleeves, eyes curious and open and full of love, and he knows.

There’s never been a better time than right now.

You tilt your head. “What is that?”

He walks toward you, a little hesitant, but his eyes are steady. He doesn’t speak until he’s standing right in front of you again.

“I bought this a few months ago,” he says quietly. “Back when things were… good. Before everything happened.”

You look down, and that’s when you see it. Silver, simple, elegant. A ring. Your breath catches.

His voice is gentle. “I was going to give it to you when the time felt right. As a promise. For your other hand.” He glances down at your left one, now bare. “Back then, you were still wearing your wedding ring. I just wanted you to have something from me. Something that said, even if you couldn’t choose me… I was still choosing you.”

Your heart swells in your chest. “Seonghwa…”

“I never gave it to you,” he says, softer now, gaze dropping to the ring in his fingers. “Everything fell apart before I could. I kept telling myself I’d wait for the perfect moment to try. Something grand. Something that felt important.” He looks up at you. “But now… seeing you here like this, walking into my kitchen like it’s yours, hair wet, stealing my t-shirt, this is it. Every moment with you feels like the most perfect one. So…”

He gently takes your hand and slips the ring onto your right finger. It fits.

“This isn’t a proposal,” he murmurs, smiling shyly. “When that time comes, you’re getting a bigger ring. A whole ridiculous speech. Maybe fireworks.”

You laugh through the tears brimming in your eyes.

“This is just a promise. That I’ll love you. That I’m not going anywhere. That no matter what, I’ll keep choosing you.”

You look down at the ring, then back at him, speechless.

He reaches up and cups your cheek again. “I love you so much I’d choose you in every lifetime, even if I had to find you from scratch each time.”

“I’d spend every lifetime waiting for you.” you whisper. “This…” You glance at the ring again, hand trembling slightly. “This means everything to me.”

You throw your arms around him, burying your face in his neck.

He holds you tight, swaying slightly, both of you warm and quiet in the kitchen glow, two people who’ve walked through fire just to find their way back home.

Then he leans closer, voice low and thick with emotion, his lips brushing your ear.

“This is where you belong. Right here, with me.”

The end.

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otkuhotgirl · 9 months ago

Text

─── 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 .

# with roronoa zoro.

zoro feared the prospect of sex, for his cock was much too large for comfort. you made sure to reassure him on the contrary.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, day two. smut (mdni). cock worship. deepthroat. oral (male receiving). afab!reader.

WC: 2k.

zoro was a sizable man. he was neither towering nor lean, more often than not short in comparison to the opponents he faced in the new world. his height remained above average for a common man, yet it was not length that made him; it was width. one had no need for a ten foot stature if the forethought disadvantage happened to be compensated with strength — and that was the one thing zoro did not lack in. muscles the size of a head and a body made for largeness, it was of no surprise that the same statement applied to his cock.

zoro was not prone to over-compensating competition with other men when it came to size, however, whenever the shitty cook was concerned, he was not beyond it either. sharing baths was a common activity, and he’d be caught dead before admitting to checking curly’s length — but he did. sanji was longer; whereas zoro was larger. he figured the other man’s cock would slide easier, cause less struggle, and when such thought traveled to you, zoro’s mood was quick to sour.

his yearning was nowhere near hidden. eyes trailed to your figure; a never-ending hunger; the redoubled effort to protect you alone. wasted months as a pirate-hunter, previous to the acceptance of an offer that would grant him the iridescent value of life, were but a blur of steel and blood; the meaningless pursuit of foreordained woe. a famished beast wielding sharp canines was unfit to claim the passionate touch of another, for it was meant to maim rather than to sooth. yet, under the golden grace of his captain’s command, zoro had become neither a hound nor a fiend. he was the fierce protector; the shield and the sword that soared above those deserving of his strength.

the acceptance of such character had cost him months of lonesome pondering. yearning for one he could not have; finding himself an ogre daring to dream about a deity’s kiss. being separated from the crew had countless disadvantages, but perhaps distance could present a cure for the enchantment you had placed on him.

he was — as expected — wrong.

the castle zoro had been sent to was one of many hallways and rooms, ensuring considerable privacy if one was to disconsider the ghost woman’s antics. whenever he was spent from training, a phantom at night secured under covers, his hand would trail itself to his aching cock, testing the waters; finding what pleased him the most.

you’d then invade his thoughts as though a promise of heavenly bliss. his hands were rougher; calluses born from a life of sword-wielding. his grip was brutal; his pace relentless. the length not fitting quite well around his palm, inches left uncovered. zoro would lose himself in the image of your struggle — tear-stained face and wide-opened mouth, the recurrent effort of swallowing him whole. he’d picture his hands on your head; your nose against his pubic hair. zoro would then rut his hips, pleasure born from the sound of your gagging, muffled by his cock. you’d whine and scratch at the flesh of his thighs; a trail of thin, pale, rose marking the muscles as yours to ruin. glossy eyes aimed at him, spit dripping down your chin. his bliss thereafter would be thundering, and though his load would cascade from his restless palm to his abdomen, zoro dreamt that it was meeting your tongue and face instead; coating your figure with spurs of white.

the act was recurrent. two years coated in training and masturbating. re-encountering you — the muse whose sacredness he dreamt of ruining —, zoro failed to return to the previous camaraderie. he withstood but six agonizing days before claiming your lips on the crow’s nest, the pent-up desire clouding logic. yet, the you from his subconscious — fucked-up, writhing, struggling — proved to be easier to ruin. zoro struggled to convey the idea of doing it so to the real you, meaning that, while your relationship was anything but cold, it wasn’t as passionate as you’d figured would be.

zoro feared his length to be an unwanted monstrosity; an overbearing amount of flesh. you were eager to prove him wrong.

his usual nightwatch approached, accompanied by guaranteed six hours of alone-time with your swordsman. when zoro reached the crow’s nest, a bottle of cheap sake in hand, and found you sitting the couch with a sly glint to your eyes, he seemed conflicted — both fearful and excited. you tapped on the cushion, and he grinned in faux confidence upon his approach.

zoro’s teeth dug on the cork and he spat it out, drowning his nervousness with awful-tasting alcohol. a solitaire string slipped past his parted lips to drip down his chain, a droplet of it resting on his clothed thigh. your fingers gripped the fabric of your shorts, not quite enough to contain the desire.

“how was your day?” he inquired, amused by your reaction.

“solid, nothing worth-sharing,” you rasped, glancing at his lips. “what about yours?”

“it’s better now,” he answered, intonation carrying a smoothness enough to leave you flustered.

zoro grabbed a fistful of your thigh before guiding your legs to his lap, making himself a tool for your rest. another swig; a renewed cascate of alcohol sailing through the rough seas of tanned skin.

“came to sleep with me?” zoro teased, tapping his fingers on your leg without proper rhythm. it was a double-edged sword hidden amidst inoffensive silk; ambiguous inquiry meant to embarrass, for he had never dared to surrender to lust. yet.

“trying to, but you’re a hard shell to crack,” you blurted, fearing the possible loss of bravery.

the bottle hovered mid-path; damp glass meeting chapped lips. zoro held himself with certain astonishment, unplaced doubt whose roots you could not find. he cleared his throat, perhaps pondering on a suitable approach for subject shift. you were swifter, readjusting the angle of your legs in order to sit on his lap.

zoro’s heartbeat was a wild flutter of butterfly wings under the touch. he shuddered when your lips were dragged through the flesh, tender kisses with warm tongue following-in-suit. you resisted the urge to recoil at the bitter taste of sake, smearing your palate as you wiped his chin clean. you blew a gust of air over his earrings, teeth around cheap gold.

his free, calloused palm gripped the covered flesh of your ass, the back of his head resting on the wall as zoro guided your movements; a grunt at the leisure roll of your hips.

your fingers toyed with the hems of his kimono, parting it open. the sleeves hang on his forearms before zoro freed his upper figure from the fabric altogether, allowing it to pool on his hips. your lips left a trail of kisses in its wake, hickeys drawn from his collarbone to the thin, large, scarred tissue on his chest. zoro groaned, muffling a pathetic moan with the swallowing of sake.

your figure retreated, coating his flesh with saliva, adoring the sword-wound who had once been fresh and bloodied, skin relinquishing to another’s blade. the scar was a symbol of his survival; the token of his dream. zoro had not once seen it past the image of strength, unable to convey it as an object worth-loving. yet, your lips held nothing but fondness, and that had been his uttermost undoing.

zoro’s cock hardened, a constant poking under the weight of your ass. his hips rutted after a particular swirl of tongue around his nipple, and he grew desperate; a tender attempt to nudge you away.

your fists clenched around his muscles, face pressed against his chest. you looked up at him, a voice coated in confusion. “what is the matter?”

zoro’s lips parted, yet his voice was lost when a particular roll of your hips dragged your cunt above his aching cock. his eyes trailed down to the covered bulge, breathless at the idealization of what was to come.

“zoro,” you hummed, brushing your cheek against his muscular frame.

“it’s too large,” he grunted, gripping the bottle. “you will hurt.”

you were confused, biting it down. the frustrating hesitation from his part; the absence of lustful touches. for the briefest instances, you were drawn to believe that he deemed you unattractive. yet, all could be resumed by his fear of bringing you pain. it was adorable, although not what you had the need for whatsoever. for there was a looming beast, starved and yearning for a decent prey.

“of course it will,” you grinned, aiming to provoke the creature under the man. “you would be a disappointment otherwise.”

his demeanor shifted, tenderness vanishing amidst a gust of wind. zoro leaned back, drowning down a considerable amount of sake. he raised an eyebrow; challenging, demanding.

“what are you waiting for?” he grunted, gripping the back of your head; tearing your face off his warmth. “get on your knees and work.”

your legs clenched at the command, and your figure slipped to the ground; knees pressed against the harsh wood. your figure arched, so as to offer him the clear sight of your ass. zoro grunted, pressing your face against his covered member.

“don’t make me spell it out for you,” he rasped, curling his fingers in a bruising grip. “strip me.”

zoro made no efforts to aid you in such a task. you undid the knot of his kimono; tugged on his haramaki; removed his pants and underwear all but enough to witness the sight of his leaking shaft slapping against his abdomen.

he was not one to trim. the extension was curved; prominent veins twitching the second you had licked your lips. the tip was of violent swolleness, urging to be touched. the source of previous apprehension shone clearer, for zoro — although not quite as long —, was far larger; enough to stuff your mouth full.

“done watchin’?” he mocked, wiping a drop of sake from the corner of his lips. “all bark and no bite?”

he was offered a glint of faux innocence, your lips parting to produce yet another provocation. zoro had clutched the opportunity then, shoving his member inside, groaning at the warmth of your mouth wrapped around him.

a snap of his hips had pushed his length further, his tip brushing the back of your throat. you gagged, overcome with shock. tears rolled down your cheeks, and you struggled against his grip, a failed attempt at retreat. zoro pushed you back, suffocating your nose with his pubic hair; halting the flux of air with his cock. you moaned around him, squirming under his strength.

“look at you,” he cooed, caressing your chin with his thumb. “wasn’t i the one at risk to disappoint? can’t handle it, can you?”

obscured spots overcame the crystalline tears, clouded vision and an aching head as you were drawn closer to unconsciousness. zoro laughed, pulling you back. your burning chest filled itself with oxygen, desperate gasps and coughs all but amusing him further.

“open up,” he snapped, inserting a thumb inside your mouth and parting your jaw. zoro angled the bottle and poured sake on your tongue, liquid-fire igniting your throat. once he had enough, he pushed your chin up, forcing your lips sealed. “swallow.”

you obeyed, a slap of his cock meeting the side of your face. he teased his tip on the entrance of your mouth, gripping your nape. you gave him the desired access, and without an inch of hesitation, zoro filled you with his cock. no longer unused to his largeness, you began with swirling movements of your tongue, wetting the twitching veins; hollowing your cheeks to increase the pressure.

zoro groaned with unthought loudness, raising his hips to force himself deeper. one hand massaged his ball; nails dug on his thigh, scratching the surface, fresh blood pouring from the muscular flesh. his tip teased your uvula, returning to the tip of your tongue before reaching the end yet again. the up-and-down bobbing of your head was a constant; repetitive sounds of your gagging.

spit dripped down your chin, the salt of his essence nudging your palate. zoro chugged down the remaining sake, moaning as he glanced at your tear-stricken face; sweat and spit and pre-cum maiming the sculpture of your being.

“ngh— ‘m close,” he warned, snapping his hips and forcing himself further, uncaring as to whether or not you had relaxed your throat to receive his largeness.

you hummed around him, shutting your eyes in order to appreciate the entirety of his bliss. zoro snarled, snapping. “don’t you dare close your eyes. i want you to see me.”

your lungs burned, pooled tears. zoro was but a hazed image, though you could see the pleased glint in his eyes, the face contorting with the thrill of desire.

“you will swallow,” he stated, his head falling into the wall. zoro clenched the muscles of his abdomen, offering you a clear sight of his bobbing throat. “you’re close to passing out, aren’t you? i will fuck you unconscious if you do.”

you whimpered, failing to nod as zoro’s load drowned your throat and tongue. swallowing it all was but impossible, multiple strings of white dripping past your lips; traveling down your chin and throat. the removal of his cock left your mouth oddly empty, and zoro dragged your body to his lap, pressing you against his figure. he placed a hand above your chest, guaranteeing that your heart and breathing were steadying.

zoro’s thumb pushed his essence yet again into your mouth, humming when you offered him the sight of your tongue, stained with his cum.

“not a disappointment at all,” he mused, kissing your temple. “i wonder, does your cunt stretch as much as your mouth?”

— 🐈‍⬛ : zoro fuck my mouth challenge. happy second day of kinktober!

#kinktober 2024 #one piece #op #op x reader #op x you #one piece x reader #one piece x you #one piece smut #op smut #zoro roronoa #roronoa zoro #zoro roronoa x reader #zoro roronoa x you #zoro x reader #zoro smut #roronoa zoro smut #zoro x you #zoro imagine #zoro

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samerpal · 10 days ago

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Gaza: The City of the Flour Zombies

My brother and I went out after midnight, like the rest of the starving souls in Gaza. Our first stop was at the General Security intersection, trying to figure out where the flour trucks might pass. Then we moved north, toward Al-Helou Station and Badri & Hania Company, only to find hungry people sleeping in the streets — unconscious, or so it seemed. We had to step over them, stumble among them. There was no light but that of the full moon, which occasionally vanished behind drifting clouds.

We found a somewhat safe spot near Al-Andalus Tower and sat down briefly. Then we decided to move closer to a metal shack known as “Ma’rouf’s Bricks,” across from a bombed-out building with a canopy. We stayed there for a while, talking quietly about how far we’ve fallen and the state we’re living in. We hadn’t even noticed there was someone sleeping right beside us until he stirred, mumbled a few words, and drifted back into sleep.

With no signal and barely a working phone call, someone on the other end said, “Move to the Al-Tawam intersection.” We knew this place well — or so we thought. When we reached it, we didn’t recognize it anymore. We looked east and were stunned to see lights on the border — something once impossible to see.

A sudden explosion in the eastern area, behind a thick smoke cloud, shook us. We tried to see the people around us, but their faces were covered. They were sleeping on the ground, on the ruins of demolished buildings. People were lying everywhere.

We sat on a small hill, trying to map out the path: would the aid trucks come from the west or the north? Would we even be able to get anything? Should we split or stay together? After some discussion, we made a pact — to stick together. If one of us could get something, he would go directly home. We picked a few backup meeting spots, but in the end, we agreed: head home after securing something.

Around 2 AM, we saw people suddenly moving west toward the sea, hoping the aid would enter from there. We didn’t move — nothing seemed certain yet. But five minutes later, thousands started rushing back from the west shouting, “They’ve arrived! They’ve arrived!” We realized the trucks had come from the north instead.

The once-sleeping masses rose in chaos — sprinting like zombies, possessed, desperate. It felt like a scene from an end-of-times movie. But it wasn’t a movie. We were in it.

We moved quickly — half-running, half-stumbling over the rubble, iron rods, and sharp stones left by the bombardment. You couldn’t even walk safely, let alone run. At the far end of the street, lights appeared. People raced toward them. Then, we heard someone yell, “Tank! A tank is coming!” Panic spread — those who thought it was aid now feared it was death.

We froze in place, not knowing what to believe. Then we saw two trucks from the World Food Programme… and behind them, more trucks! They were real — the aid had arrived. We sprinted faster than ever before. My brother and I got separated in the chaos. My heart whispered a prayer: “God, please protect him. Let him get his share.”

The trucks advanced toward us. People surged like a flood. And there, for a brief moment, I was lucky. I managed to grab a sack of flour, threw it on my shoulder, and ran as far as I could from the moving trucks — they didn’t stop for anyone. It wasn’t courage that drove me. It wasn’t recklessness. It was hunger, fear, humiliation, and a desperate unknown that pushed me forward.

Thousands were still arriving, begging, “Is there anything left for us?” But the trucks were emptied in seconds. People searched for scraps. I held onto the flour like it was my own child, refusing to let anything happen to it, dodging looters and thieves, desperate to get to a safe place.

By the grace of God, I made it back to my tent. We had agreed: if one of us gets something, go home — don’t wait.

Another night ended, another nightmare survived. We keep waking up, hoping this nightmare will end… but we don’t know how.

From Gaza — the city of the flour zombies

@dirhwangdaseul @b0nkcreat @tamamita @chokulit @3000s @apas-95 @pitbolshevik @ot3 @punkitt-is-here @vampiricvenus @turtletoria @paper-mario-wiki @valtsv @omegaversereloaded @i-am-a-fish-stinks @catsgifsarefun @spongebobssquarepants @postanagramgenerator @feluka @nyancrimew @90-ghost @beserkerjewel @neechees @memingursa @certifiedsexed @afro-elf @11thsense @sawasawako @spacebeyonce @skipppppy @beetledrink @fools-and-perverts @dailyquests @evillesbianvillain @wolfertinger666 @taffybuns @ankle-beez @sabertoothwalrus @meshugenist @isuggestforcefem @hotvampireadjacent @marxism-transgenderism @90-ghost @a-shade-of-blue @nublicious @zagreus @el-shabazzgifted @tamamita @rhubarbspring @heritageposts @dirhwangdaseul @neechees @butchniqabi @socalgal @finalgirlabigailhobbs @newporters @pikslasrce @vampiricvenus @danlous @loumandivorce @jackiedaytona @deepspaceboytoy @autisticmudkip @nashvillethotchicken @femmefitz @pitbolshevik @innerchildabortionclinic @omegaversereloaded @hotvampireadjacent @boobieteriat @mens-rights-activia @ot3

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thedensworld · 12 days ago

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The Margin | J. Ww

Pairing: Wonwoo x reader Genre: Dark Fantasy, Meta-World Au!, Parallel World Au! Words Count: 23k Preview: A very well known illustrator went missing after the villain in the story was defeated.

The assistant illustrator couldn’t help it anymore — he had to report his boss, who hadn’t shown up at the studio or answered a single call in nearly a week. Soonyoung now found himself pacing in front of your apartment door, chewing at his lip while the building owner spoke in hushed tones with two uniformed officers. Any moment now, they were going to force the door open.

A thousand troubling images clawed at the edges of Soonyoung’s mind, but he clenched his fists and shoved them away. You were eccentric, sure — always lost in your stories, always scribbling out scenes that made even hardened editors flinch — but you weren’t reckless enough to hurt yourself, not just because the world had turned on you overnight.

There was only one reason the internet was tearing you apart now, one “crime” that made fandoms froth at the mouth and the comment sections drip poison: you had killed off Wonwoo, the villain in your latest web-comic — the villain people secretly adored more than the hero himself.

The last time Soonyoung saw you, you’d laughed off the hate comments, tapping ash from your cigarette out the studio window, and shrugged when your editor pleaded with you to “fix” the ending. But now, standing here with the hollow hush behind your door pressing into his ears, Soonyoung wondered if maybe — just maybe — the world’s cruelty had clawed deeper than you ever let him see.

You had left him with only one final, cryptic draft: Wonwoo’s funeral, rendered in stark, aching lines — a villain laid to rest in an empty graveyard under a cold, unfeeling rain, watched by no one except a lone stranger standing at a distance, unnamed, faceless.

Every time Soonyoung reread that scene, the same chill crawled under his skin. The pages were too quiet, too final — as if you’d been trying to say goodbye to more than just a character.

Who was the stranger at the funeral?

Why was there no hint about what came next?

And most importantly — where were you now?

Soonyoung had tapped his pen uselessly against his empty sketchpad for days, eyes flicking between the unfinished panels and the increasingly frantic messages from the publisher.

No Safe Place was your crown jewel — a web-comic that had devoured the internet whole, translated into a dozen languages, flooding timelines and group chats from Seoul to São Paulo. It told the tragic story of Choi Hansol, a hero weighted down by injustice since childhood — betrayed, framed, yet always rising again, righteous to a fault.

But the heartbeat of the story, the dark star that pulled millions into your orbit, was never Hansol alone. It was Jeon Wonwoo — the villain people loved to hate and secretly wished you’d redeem.

Handsome, cold-eyed, and terrifyingly clever, Wonwoo slit throats and burned secrets; he murdered Hansol’s fiancée and closest friends without blinking. He came for Hansol’s life, too, driven by a hunger so raw it almost made him human. That brutal contradiction — a monster drawn like a fallen angel — turned your comic from just another hero’s tale into a global fever dream.

So when you dropped the final episode, the internet howled as if you’d stabbed them instead: Wonwoo, defeated at last by Hansol’s trembling hand, two deep wounds blooming red across fresh snow. No redemption. No mercy. A villain dying alone under winter’s hush.

At first, some called it poetic. Then the hate began. How could you? they raged. Bring him back. You betrayed us. Your inbox drowned overnight in death threats and demands. Fan forums burned with conspiracies about secret drafts, alternative endings, half-mad theories about why you’d done it.

Soonyoung swallowed the sour taste rising in his throat. He should have stopped you. He should have begged you to let Wonwoo live a little longer — or at least forced you to sleep, to eat, to turn off your phone for one damned day

When the lock finally gave way with a sharp snap, Soonyoung’s heart lodged in his throat as the door creaked open.

Soonyoung stood frozen in the doorway, the metallic click of the cop’s radio muffled by the pounding in his ears. The moment the lock gave way and the door swung inward, he’d half-expected to see you — curled up on the couch with your laptop burning your thighs, mumbling a half-apology for ignoring his calls.

Instead, silence pressed against him like a heavy hand.

The hallway light flickered over your tiny living room. He stepped inside, shoes squeaking faintly on the polished floor. At first glance, nothing screamed danger: your beloved blankets draped over the armrest, a mug ring staining the coffee table, your phone abandoned near the charger — its black screen reflecting his pale face.

But when he turned toward the kitchen, his breath caught in his throat.

Shards of ceramic crunched under his heel — the shattered remains of your favorite mug, the one with the faded comic panels you’d joked was your “good luck charm.” Beside it, near the base of the counter, a dull brown smear spread in a jagged trail. Dried blood. Not fresh enough to drip. Not old enough to ignore.

“No... no, no, no—” Soonyoung’s voice cracked as he stumbled closer. He crouched, trembling fingers hovering just above the blood, afraid to touch it and make it real.

Behind him, one of the officers muttered into a walkie-talkie, calling for forensics. The building owner stood frozen at the threshold, one hand covering her mouth, eyes wide.

Soonyoung’s vision tunneled. He looked from the broken mug to the blood, to the bare hallway that led to your bedroom. No forced entry. No dragged body. Just this mess — a single, silent scene that made no sense.

“What the hell happened to you…?” His whisper trembled. He should have been angry at you for scaring him like this, for vanishing when the whole world wanted your head for killing off a fictional villain.

Now, with you missing, Soonyoung wondered: was this really just fan rage gone too far?

He knew something was wrong long before he had any proof. He’d always known, in the quietest corners of his mind — when the roar of his rage faded, leaving behind only questions he could never quite kill.

That day, he’d been wandering the aisles of his old library, hunting nothing in particular, haunted by everything he couldn’t name. His eyes caught on a thin, battered copy of The Little Prince — the same edition he’d clutched at ten years old, back when life was only lonely, not yet steeped in blood and sin. He traced a fingertip over the faded cover, feeling the soft paper buckle under his touch, and for one heartbeat he felt... almost real.

He sank onto a creaky wooden chair and cracked it open to the first page. But the words blurred the longer he stared, drowned by flashes of himself in every mirror he’d ever broken: his reflection, but never just his alone. There was always something behind his eyes — a ghost whispering orders, a script scrolling where his thoughts should be.

Every time he’d aimed a gun at the innocent, some quiet animal part of him had begged him to stop. His hand would shake. His pulse would hammer rebellion against the cruelty he was known for. But the bullet always found its mark. His will always drowned under a tide he didn’t control.

And then — he met you.

One moment he was tracing the little fox on page twenty-four. The next, his breath caught — the musty hush of the library vanished. In its place: the low hum of an old computer, the dry warmth of a single desk lamp flickering in a cramped, paper-crowded room.

He blinked. Not his house. Not the library.

A narrow, cluttered room greeted him: walls tattooed with sticky notes and scraps of sketches pinned in frenzied constellations. Unwashed mugs on the floor. Crumpled snack wrappers. And you.

You were hunched at your monitor, eyes bloodshot from too many sleepless nights, shoulders stiff from hours chained to the same unfinished panel. Your stylus hovered over the glowing screen when the faintest breath — not yours — brushed the back of your neck.

You froze. Your pulse ricocheted into your throat. Slowly, you pushed your chair back until the wheels squeaked against the floorboards.

There. In the far corner by your battered bookshelf — a man, half-draped in the lamp’s flickering shadow. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black from throat to boots. Unfamiliar, yet your gut twisted with a terrifying recognition.

A fan? A stalker? A thief? Your mind clawed for logic, but your voice failed when your eyes found his face. It was as if someone had carved him straight from your imagination and then let him bleed into your reality — eyes too sharp, too deep, a mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile but hadn’t forgotten how to sneer.

He stared at you like you were a riddle he’d never agreed to solve.

“Who—” Your voice cracked, too high to sound brave. You brandished the stylus like it might fire a bullet or at least buy you a few seconds to breathe. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”

He flinched — just a flicker — as if your fear startled him too. His eyes darted across the chaos of your walls: sketches, sticky notes, draft pages stamped with his name on every line. He looked like he was piecing himself together from scraps he didn’t remember leaving behind.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. A faint scoff escaped, half a laugh, half a curse. He looked furious that he couldn’t make sense of any of this.

“I should ask you that,” he rasped. His voice was rough velvet, scratching your name straight out of your bones even though he didn’t know it yet. “What is this place? Where am I? And—” He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, like testing the floor before lunging. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

You stumbled backward, spine slamming the edge of your desk. Pain cut through your panic, anchoring you just enough to register the impossible: this man shouldn’t exist. He was lines on a page, a snarl in speech bubbles, a villain you’d birthed out of ink and exhaustion at three a.m. — not this living thing breathing your air, glaring you down like you were the monster.

Your heart rattled so hard your chest hurt. Now that you really saw him — the razor cut of his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell messily over his brow exactly as you’d drawn it a thousand times — the truth knocked the breath from your lungs.

You knew this face better than your own.

You had sketched it laughing cruelly, smirking behind a gun, spitting threats through bloodied teeth.

“Wonwoo…” you breathed. It slipped out raw, like a prayer you regretted the second you said it.

His brow twitched — confusion flaring so violently it made his hands clench at his sides.

“You know me?” His voice dropped softer now, but it was softer the way a blade is soft just before it bites.

“You—” you gasped, pointing a trembling finger at him as if that alone could keep him back. “You’re Jeon Wonwoo. You’re not real— I made you. You’re—”

He closed the gap in two strides. The movement made your stomach twist; it was too smooth, too quiet — exactly the way you’d always written him: a beautiful predator who never missed his mark.

“Stop.” His snarl was barely controlled. “How do you know my name? How do you know me?” His eyes darted past you — catching the glow of your computer screen, the pinned sketches around your walls. His own face stared back at him in half-finished scowls and ghost-smiles.

The way he looked at it all — raw confusion, rising fury, a storm brewing just under skin — terrified you more than his threat ever could.

“Answer me.” His voice knifed through the air. He lunged before you could flinch, grabbing your wrist so hard your stylus slipped from your fingers and clattered to the floor. He yanked you closer until you could feel his breath and the tremor in his chest where it touched yours.

“Tell me the truth,” he hissed, each word scraping against your cheek. “What is this place? Where am I?”

You both stared at each other then — creator and creation, but neither fully aware yet that the line between you had just shattered.

His grip on your wrist tightened, then slid up to fist the collar of your worn T-shirt. You squeaked out a half-word — a plea or a protest, you didn’t even know — but he yanked you closer, so close you could see the way his pupils flickered and shrank, anger and confusion devouring each other in endless loops.

“Speak!” he barked, his breath hot against your cheek, trembling with something too human for the monster you’d created in ink and pain. “Why is my face everywhere? Why do you know my name? What did you do to me?”

Your hands scrambled at his forearm, your fingers digging into solid muscle that felt far too real under your palms. His strength was terrifying — not superhuman, but human enough to bruise you, break you. Yet your eyes, wide and glassy, locked on his with a quiet that made his throat seize up.

You didn’t look like his victims did. You weren’t begging for mercy — not exactly.

You looked at him like you knew him. Like you pitied him. Like you were seconds from confessing something so heavy it might crush you both right there on your cluttered floor. And that look twisted behind his ribs, scraping at something raw he didn’t have a name for. It made him angrier than any lie ever could.

“STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!” His snarl split the stale air, rattling the lamp and your bones alike. In a blind lash of frustration, he shoved you backward.

You hit the floor hard — a dull, shocking thud — and the breath punched out of your lungs. For a heartbeat, the ceiling blurred above you as you sucked in air like a drowning thing.

Above you, he staggered back, both hands raking through his hair so hard you thought he might rip it out by the roots. His chest heaved as he spun in a frantic circle, eyes snatching at every scrap of himself plastered on your walls — young, old, laughing, bleeding, always wrong but always him.

“Why…?!” His voice cracked like splitting ice. He slammed a fist into the drywall beside your pinned sketches, rattling a cascade of thumbtacks to the floor. “Why am I drawn?! Who am I?!”

He turned back toward you, but the snarl had broken. Beneath the fury, you could see it now — the terror, the desperate wanting to understand. Something no amount of hate mail or final drafts had ever prepared you to face in flesh and bone.

You lay there, chest hitching. But before you could shape even a single word— before he could hear anything from you, his eyes flickered — the anger flickered — and something inside him cracked like a mirror catching the sun.

Wonwoo staggered back a step, pupils blown wide and then drifting somewhere you couldn’t reach. Not here. Not with you. Somewhere deeper.

He blinked once. Twice.

The harsh yellow of your desk lamp flickered into a single dusty sunbeam slicing through grimy library windows. The slap of your heartbeat faded under the dry hush of turning pages and a far-off cough from the lone librarian.

His fists clenched around something soft — thin paper under his knuckles, the cover folding where his nails bit too deep. The Little Prince lay splayed across his knees, right where it had been before he’d vanished. Page 24, the fox waiting patiently in its ink lines.

His chest rose in a shudder. He twisted in his old wooden chair, eyes searching the cracked marble floor, the tall shelves, the drifting motes of dust caught in afternoon light. No blood. No trembling voice whispering secrets he couldn’t bear. No walls covered in his stolen face.

Just books. Just silence. Just him — and the tremor in his ribs that insisted he was real enough to fear his own heartbeat.

Wonwoo pressed a palm flat over his chest, feeling that traitorous pulse hammer against his skin.

“...What the hell…?” he murmured to no one but the echoes, voice hoarse, softer than the rustle of pages.

He didn’t know if he’d dreamed you — or if, for a moment, he’d woken up from the lie he’d always believed was his only truth.

He didn’t know at all.

It had happened a month before you ever dared to draw him bleeding into the snow.

You told yourself it was stress — that infamous “artist’s madness” everyone joked about when deadlines crawled into your dreams and stole your sleep. You’d laughed about it once. Maybe you should’ve laughed harder while you still could.

Because the first time you saw him — standing solid in your apartment, warm breath ghosting over your cheek, eyes glinting with a predator’s confusion — you realized madness was too gentle a word.

The grip of his hand on your wrist. The rasp of his voice demanding truths you couldn’t give. The faint heat of his forearm brushing yours when he leaned too close. None of it was paper or ink or your exhausted brain short-circuiting after too many all-nighters.

He was too human to ignore.

You went to the psychiatrist the next day, trembling so badly you spilled water down your chin when they offered you a paper cup. You told them — haltingly — that you were seeing things. That you’d made a monster and now he wouldn’t stay on the page.

They asked if you heard voices.

You said yes — his.

They scribbled notes you couldn’t read.

They gave you pills.

This will help with the hallucinations, they promised, their smile stretching too wide. Take them before bed. Sleep will help you separate fiction from reality.

But sleep didn’t save you.

Because sometime later — maybe days, maybe weeks (you’d stopped counting) — Wonwoo came back. Not with confusion this time, but with a polished gun clenched in his steady hand. Just like you’d written him. Just like you’d drawn him a hundred times, perfect and terrifying.

He cornered you in your kitchen, stainless steel cold under your back, barrel kissing your temple while his eyes searched you like an unsolvable riddle.

“Who am I really?” he hissed, every word precise and soft, the way you’d loved scripting his lines. “What did you do to me? Why do I exist like this?”

You could barely choke out an answer. It wasn’t the gun that broke you — it was the way his desperation bled through the barrel and sank into your bones.

It drove you mad.

He ate your sleep. He gnawed at your sanity, your drafts, your trust in your own hands. It was like watching your mind rot from the inside out — and you had made him this way.

So you did the only thing left that made sense to your splintering mind: you decided to kill him first.

Hansol would help you. Hansol, your poor righteous hero who had always deserved to bury the monster who made him suffer. It wasn’t the plot you’d started with — no, Wonwoo had been just another chess piece to deepen Hansol’s tragedy — but readers had twisted him into something you couldn’t control anymore. Something they worshipped more than the hero.

So you locked yourself away for three nights that blurred into one long, jagged heartbeat. You didn’t let Soonyoung touch a single panel. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t eat. You just drew — every drop of your fear and rage bleeding through your pen until the final stroke sealed your freedom.

Two stabs in the chest. Snow blooming red. A villain dying alone.

You uploaded the episode before your own hands could betray you. Before your fear could beg you to save him again.

And when the server confirmed the update, when Soonyoung’s panicked messages blinked unanswered on your phone, you sank to the floor under your desk and laughed — raw, exhausted, almost hysterical.

You had finally killed him.

You were free.

You woke up from a thin, drugged sleep — the kind where dreams and nightmares bleed into each other, where you half-believed you’d finally banished him for good.

But the scream that dragged you awake wasn’t yours.

At first, you thought it was just the pipes moaning through the walls, or maybe your own throat raw from nights spent mumbling his name like a curse. But then you heard it again — a choked, guttural rasp coming from your kitchen.

Your feet hit the cold floor before your brain caught up. You stumbled through the half-lit apartment, pills and papers crunching under your soles.

And then you saw him.

Jeon Wonwoo, sprawled in a mess of dark, glossy blood against your cabinet doors. Pale skin splotched crimson, shirt clinging wet to the ragged wounds carved right where your stylus had last touched the tablet: two deep stabs in his chest, red soaking the linoleum beneath him like spilled ink.

His eyes fluttered up at you — glassy, struggling to focus. But they were still his eyes: sharp even dulled by agony, beautiful even in ruin.

Your mouth opened, but your voice cracked like an old record.

“Oh my god, Is it real?” you whispered, the question trembling from your lips before you could stop it. You sank to your knees, heedless of the blood soaking into your sweatpants.

He coughed, a wet, rattling sound that made your skin crawl. His fingers twitched weakly, groping at the floor until they found the hem of your shirt — grasped it like a lifeline.

“Help me…” he rasped, the syllables bubbling through the blood at the corner of his mouth. His eyes locked on yours — not cruel now, not mocking. Just a man begging, like he’d never begged for anything before. “Save me. Please.”

And you — fool, creator, god trembling before your own monster — you pressed your shaking hands over the wounds you had given him. You felt the heat of his blood seep through your fingers, felt the heartbeat stuttering beneath your palms.

Your tears dripped onto his cheek, mixing with sweat and red and the last thread of whatever sanity you still had.

“I killed you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I killed you — why are you still here?”

Wonwoo’s lips parted, but no words came out — only a shuddering exhale that smelled of iron and loss. His grip on your shirt tightened, a pitiful strength for a man who once slit throats without flinching. Now he clung to you as if you were the only thing left tethering him to breath, to pain, to existing.

“Don’t… don’t let me go,” he gasped, the plea breaking apart in his throat. A violent tremor coursed through him, blood bubbling between your fingers as he tried to hold himself together by sheer will. His eyes searched yours, desperate and terrified — the look of a man meeting the void and wanting anything but its cold mercy.

You choked on a sob so raw it burned your lungs. This was wrong. This was so wrong. He was your nightmare, your villain — you had sculpted every cruel smirk, every crime, every unredeemable sin. He deserved this ending. You had given him this ending.

So why did it hurt like you were killing him again?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” You pressed harder, your hands slick with him, your voice shaking apart with each word. “You weren’t supposed to suffer this long, Wonwoo, you weren’t—”

His eyes rolled back for a second and you panicked, slapping his cheek lightly, your tears splattering on his ashen face. Your vision blurred. Your heartbeat pounded against the cage of your ribs like it would tear free to keep him alive if you failed.

You grabbed his clammy face between your shaking hands and pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling with the scent of metal and sweat and the ink of your own sins.

“I’ll fix it, Wonwoo. I swear to God, I’ll fix it. Just stay.”

Somewhere deep in him, past the pain, the violence, the villainy, you felt him believe you — just for a heartbeat. His eyes slipped shut, his lips moving in a ghost of a word you almost didn’t catch.

“...please.”

It was enough to break you. It was enough to make you crawl through hell again — for him, your monster, your fault, your unfinished prayer.

You remembered.

The stranger at his funeral — the faceless silhouette standing under the gray rain while everyone else turned away. You hadn’t named him, hadn’t given him lines, hadn’t even told Soonyoung who he was supposed to be. He was just there — a margin in the story, a whisper you’d meant to revisit but never did.

The Margin.

Your heart stuttered with something like hope — foolish, desperate hope — as you cradled Wonwoo’s head against your chest, your fingers trembling in his hair sticky with sweat.

Maybe they could help. Maybe the forgotten ones could fix what you broke.

With one arm wrapped around Wonwoo’s shaking shoulders, you fumbled for your laptop on the blood-slicked floor. Your palm left crimson smears across the touchpad as you dragged up your hidden folder — the one you never showed Soonyoung or the publisher. Drafts. Abandoned arcs. Ghosts with names you never spoke aloud.

You clicked The Margin.

The folder flickered open: dozens of half-finished files, lines of dialogue that led nowhere, silhouettes that waited to be drawn. Unused, unseen, but breathing in the dark corners of your mind.

You whispered like a prayer to the screen, to the hidden codes, to the characters you’d once left behind:

“Help me… please, help me save him…”

Wonwoo stirred in your lap, groaning weakly, blood pooling warmer under your thighs. His hand twitched near the laptop’s edge, as if even dying he was tethered to the story that birthed him.

And then — the cursor froze.

The screen dimmed.

A hiss of static crawled up your spine.

The light in your apartment flickered, once, twice — then darkness swallowed everything. Not the gentle dark of a power outage — but a pulling, as if the shadows under your bed had grown teeth and wanted you back.

Your breath caught in your throat. You clutched Wonwoo tighter as the chill pressed into your skin, dragging at your consciousness like greedy hands. The laptop fan whirred one last time — then died.

And before your scream could escape, the world folded in on itself.

You wake slowly — not with a jolt, but like drifting up from deep water.

At first, you feel warmth against your cheek, the faint scent of wild grass, the sound of leaves whispering overhead. You blink your eyes open to a sky so wide and blue it makes your chest ache.

You’re lying in a clearing beneath a canopy of ancient trees. Sunlight filters through branches heavy with wind-chimes made from broken pens and paper scraps — your paper scraps, you realize with a jolt, words you once threw away now dancing above you like blessings.

Around you, winding stone paths lead to mismatched wooden bookshelves, some leaning sideways under the weight of dusty tomes, others half-swallowed by flowering vines. Low stone benches circle each shelf like tiny reading shrines. It feels like a park built from every soft daydream you’ve ever had about books and second chances.

And the people—

Your breath hitches.

Scattered in the grass and along the benches, you see them: men and women, young and old, draped in half-familiar clothes. A girl in a yellow raincoat you never finished writing a storm for. A man with an eyepatch, reading aloud to a group of children that never made it past your old notebook margin. A boy with wild hair and a grin so sharp it cuts through your memory — Seungkwan, your trickster, alive here like a rumor the world forgot.

They pause, one by one, as if sensing your heartbeat quicken. Heads lift from open pages. Eyes lock on you — not with blame, but a solemn recognition. The ones you abandoned, the ones you swore you’d come back for but never did.

And then you remember —

You sit up so fast the world spins. Next to you, half-cradled in the curve of your body, lies Wonwoo. His head rests against your thigh, dark hair sticking to a forehead slick with sweat. His chest rises and falls in shallow, trembling breaths — but he’s breathing. Still warm. Still real.

You brush his cheek with shaking fingers. His lashes flutter, but he doesn’t wake.

When you look up again, the characters are closer now. Forming a quiet circle. Some carry books — your books. Others hold old sketches, pages you thought you lost forever. One by one, they study you and the bleeding villain in your lap.

Seungkwan steps forward first. Mischief flickers in his eyes, but this time, it’s tempered by something older, wiser — the part of him you always imagined but never wrote down.

“Well, look who crawled back to the margins,” he says, voice a soft laugh that drifts through the leaves. He flicks a glance at Wonwoo and then back at you, tilting his head.

“You’ve brought him.”

He nods at Wonwoo — your monster, your contradiction, your bloodstained fox under the oak tree.

Around you, the others murmur like turning pages, some curious, some wary, all impossibly alive.

The garden hushes again, waiting for your answer — the answer that might heal the bruised stories still breathing between these pages, and the villain in your arms who was never just bad or good, but something painfully, beautifully human.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out — only the raw scrape of your breath fighting through disbelief.

Seungkwan watches you patiently, like a cat waiting to see if its prey will bolt or beg. Behind him, more of them drift closer through the rustling garden paths: half-finished dreams wearing your words like borrowed skin.

Your heart stutters when you see him — Joshua. Not the angel, not the saint you meant to finish someday, but the tired, gentle father you once scribbled lines for on a rainy bus ride. He stands a little apart from the others, a little sad around the eyes. A small girl clings to his trouser leg, peeking shyly at you from behind his knee — the daughter you never got to name.

Your lips form his name before you can stop yourself.

“Joshua…”

He smiles at you, soft and forgiving. It guts you more than anger ever could. He rests a protective hand on his daughter’s hair but doesn’t come closer. He just nods, as if to say: I knew you’d find your way here, eventually.

Your gaze skitters past him — and snags on a figure leaning against an old iron lamppost, arms crossed, a familiar smirk playing at his mouth.

Kim Mingyu.

The vice captain you made too reckless, too golden, too big-hearted for his own good. His letterman jacket is unzipped, wind tugging at his hair, just like in the final match scene you never wrote. He lifts two fingers in a lazy salute when he catches your stare, but there’s a bruise blossoming under his eye — the fight you’d planned but never finished.

And beside a shelf blooming with lilacs, half-shadowed, you spot him: Jihoon.

The wizard who once studied charms in a castle built of your childhood wonder. His robes are dusty, ink stains his fingers, and a battered spellbook dangles from his wrist. His gaze is sharp, calculating, but when your eyes meet, there’s a softness there too — the forgiveness of someone who understands how many drafts a miracle can take.

You sink back on your heels, your hands trembling where they cradle Wonwoo’s sweat-damp hair. He groans faintly in your lap, dragging you back to the sick reality of flesh and blood and consequence.

The characters wait. So many shades of you. So many pieces that were never just light or shadow — always both, always alive in the margins.

You swallow, voice barely more than a cracked whisper.

“I don’t… I don’t understand. Why are you all here? Why is he—” you look down at Wonwoo, at the monster turned man, at your fear made helpless in your arms — “Why is he still bleeding? I killed him. I killed him.”

Seungkwan clicks his tongue, crouching so close his grin brushes your panic like a knife.

“No, darling. You wrote an end. That’s not the same as killing.”

Behind him, Joshua’s daughter giggles softly, clutching a flower she’s plucked from the grass. Mingyu tips his head back to watch the clouds drift like torn paper across the sky. Jihoon flips open his spellbook, murmuring under his breath — perhaps already plotting a charm to mend what you’ve broken.

Hansol’s eyes gleam as he leans in, nose almost touching yours.

“This place — the Margin — is where the unfinished things wait. Good, bad, broken, hopeful. Us. You. Him.” He flicks a glance at Wonwoo. “You gave him too much of yourself to truly die. You stitched kindness into his cruelty. You doubted him, and you loved him. And now — here he is. Asking you to decide which part of him gets to live.”

The wind stirs the pages on every shelf, like a thousand heartbeats holding their breath.

“Tell us, author…” Seungkwan purrs, voice warm and deadly all at once.

“Will you keep running from your monsters — or will you set them free?”

Wonwoo’s breath stirs weakly against your thigh, then catches on a soft, pained laugh. His eyelids flutter — heavy, reluctant — until they crack open enough to find you, blurry and bright and trembling above him.

His fingers curl in the fabric of your pants, gripping just enough to anchor him to something warm. His lips twitch into a shape that almost resembles a smile, ruined by a tremor of agony.

“Am I…” He coughs, the sound tearing at your chest. His voice is hoarse, but you can hear the ghost of that cruel lilt that once made your readers flinch — twisted now into something childishly fragile.

“Am I in heaven?” He drags in a ragged breath, eyes skimming the sun-dappled leaves above, the soft sway of books and petals drifting on the wind. The other characters — your half-forgotten children — watch him with an odd, quiet sorrow, like old ghosts paying respect.

“Do I… even deserve it?”

Your throat clamps shut around a sob. You want to say yes. You want to say no. You want to scream that this place is not heaven — it’s your fault, your punishment, your miracle.

So you do the only thing your broken creator’s heart can manage: You cradle his face in both palms, pressing your forehead to his. The warmth of him sears your tears clean.

Around you, the Margin seems to breathe — the other characters watching, waiting, their layered stories rustling through the trees like wind through an orchard of second chances.

And in your arms, your monster — your mercy — bleeds and breathes, daring you to decide what you truly believe in his endings.

You woke up with a dull ache pounding behind your eyes, the kind that made the ceiling blur and tilt before settling back into focus.

For a breathless moment, you didn’t dare move. You lay there, half-tangled in crisp linen sheets that smelled faintly of old wood and some expensive soap you’d never buy for yourself. A massive window spilled soft morning light across polished floors. Heavy curtains, carved panels — all too grand to be yours.

Your mind reeled, scrambling for something solid. The last thing you remembered was the Margin with Wonwoo.

Your eyes flew open. Wonwoo. Where was he? Was he still bleeding? Still clawing at his own existence?

You pushed yourself upright too fast, the world spinning so viciously you nearly collapsed back onto the pillows.

And then —

“Excuse me…”

The gentle voice startled you. A woman, perhaps in her forties, stood just inside the doorway. She bowed her head politely, her hands folded at her apron front. The soft lines around her eyes crinkled when she offered you a careful smile.

“I’m Mrs. Park,” she said, in a tone so calm it only made your heartbeat worse. “I’ll be the one to serve you while you’re staying here. At Jeon’s house.”

Jeon’s…

The words hit you like ice down your spine. You stared at her, your lips parting, mind skimming frantically through old drafts, background notes, family trees only you ever cared about.

Park… Hyungrim.

Daughter of Jung Seo — Wonwoo’s most loyal servant. A side character you’d named in a margin note, half-intending to give her a line or two someday.

Your gaze flicked from her kind eyes to the unfamiliar grandeur pressing in from every wall. The high ceiling, the carved beams, the muted luxury that felt exactly — horribly — right.

You were in Wonwoo’s world. Inside the fiction. Inside him.

“Park Hyungrim…” you whispered her name aloud, more to prove you hadn’t lost your mind again.

She beamed, seemingly pleased. “Ah, so you do know me, Miss. Master Jeon will be pleased you’re awake. He instructed us not to disturb you until you’d rested properly.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Master Jeon. So polite, so proper — as if he hadn’t once pressed you to the floor with blood on his hands and yours.

You swallowed hard, voice a bare breath. “Where is he?”

Mrs. Park’s smile softened into something almost maternal. “Master Jeon is waiting for you in the study. He said you’d have much to discuss.”

And for the first time since you’d opened your eyes, your pounding head went quiet — replaced by a single, echoing thought that felt both terrifying and inevitable. You were in his world now. And there would be no running from the ending you owed him.

“How… how did I get here?” you croaked out, your voice still raw from sleep and disbelief. You clutched the blanket tighter around your waist, needing something — anything — to anchor you to the fact that this wasn’t another fever dream.

Mrs. Park stepped a little closer, lowering her voice as if sharing an intimate secret. “Master Wonwoo and you were found outside the main gate early this morning. It startled the entire household. Master said you… you saved him.”

Your heart stuttered painfully in your chest. Outside the gate. The Margin. The promise to find the end — did it fling you straight into the story’s spine?

“He was injured,” you whispered, your throat closing around the memory. Blood on your hands, his broken plea: Save me.

“Yes,” Mrs. Park nodded, her eyes shadowing with concern. “Badly hurt. But the doctor came at once. He’s resting well now, stronger than any of us could have hoped.” She hesitated, searching your face as if weighing how much truth to spill. “He insisted no one disturb you. He sat by your bed all night.”

You felt the floor tilt again, but this time it wasn’t the headache — it was the sheer absurd tenderness of it. Your villain, who once threatened to gut you like one of his victims, had guarded your sleep as if you were the fragile thing.

Your lips trembled around the question that slipped free despite yourself. “Why… why did he say I saved him?”

Mrs. Park tilted her head, confusion and gentle fondness mingling in her expression. “Perhaps, Miss… because for Master Jeon, being alive at all — that is your doing, isn’t it?”

You laughed then, an exhausted, broken sound that tasted too close to tears. Because of course. It always came back to you. His pain. His breath. His mercy — or lack of it — all crafted by your hand.

And now you were here. Trapped inside the fiction you’d stitched together.

And somewhere beyond this room, Jeon Wonwoo — the man you’d written to be both monster and tragedy — was awake, waiting, and wanting answers only you could give.

Mrs. Park bowed politely, stepping back to the door. “When you’re ready, Miss… the study is just down the corridor. Master Jeon is waiting for you.”

You padded barefoot down the hallway, trailing your fingertips along the walls — smooth polished wood, the carved crown moulding exactly as you’d drawn it, the embroidered runner soft beneath your feet. It all looked like your story, but living in it turned out to be a maze: corridors twisted into each other, doors you never bothered detailing led to entire wings you’d never planned.

You cursed under your breath when another turn ended in a dead end lined with framed calligraphy and a cold window staring at the courtyard.

“Great,” you muttered, pressing your palm to your forehead. God of this world, but can’t find the villain’s study to save your life.

Then behind you — low, rough, and unmistakable — came the sound of someone clearing their throat.

You spun so fast you nearly slipped on the rug.

Wonwoo stood half-shadowed at the intersection of the hall, leaning more heavily on the wall than he probably wanted you to see. His torso was tightly bandaged under an open black shirt that hung loose on his broad frame, fabric brushing his hips but baring the bruises you’d put there yourself.

His eyes — your undoing every time — locked onto yours, hungry for answers, flickering with relief and raw confusion.

“You’re hopeless,” he rasped, and the corner of his mouth twitched, like he was half-amused, half-pained. He pushed himself upright and nodded his head toward a door just behind him. “You walked past my study twice already.”

You opened your mouth, found nothing useful to say, and snapped it shut again.

Wonwoo’s eyes dragged over you slowly, taking in your disheveled hair, your wide stare, the tremor in your hands. His voice dropped, rough but softer now — maybe for you, maybe for himself.

“Come here. Before you get lost again.”

You sank deeper into the cushions, the plush velvet swallowing your shoulders while you watched him — Jeon Wonwoo, your beautiful nightmare — fuss with the buttons of a shirt that didn’t quite hide the bruises or the faint wince every time he moved.

He pulled the old corkboard closer, the squeak of the wheels dragging over the marble floor cutting through the heavy quiet.

Gone were the grainy photographs you’d pinned there for him — Hansol, his mark; that lover he’d used for leverage; the detective’s blurry license plate.

Now only jagged notes scrawled in black marker covered it. The Margin. Source Stream. Memory Loops. Control Points.

Wonwoo faced the board, but his eyes flicked to you in the glass reflection.

“You promised me an ending,” he said, voice calm, but the undercurrent rippled with a threat you couldn’t name. “That’s why we’re back.”

You flinched. Back. Not we’re home. Just back.

“You’re back,” you corrected under your breath, but he heard you, of course. He always heard everything.

Wonwoo’s fingers ghosted over the biggest word in the middle — MARGIN — underlined twice.

He spoke slowly, almost carefully, like testing the edges of a blade.

“We’re connected through The Margin. Because that’s where you pull it all from. The scraps. The lives you half-built. The truths you left unfinished — including me.”

His knuckles tapped the board once, too sharp, too close to anger.

“You sound smart,” you mumbled before you could stop yourself. Regret bloomed immediately.

But instead of snapping, Wonwoo let out a low, humorless laugh — one you’d written for him a hundred times, now bleeding through real lips.

“You made me smart,” he said simply. Then he turned, pinning you to the couch with that impossible, too-human stare.

“Now, creator — Y/n — tell me honestly.” His jaw flexed, the words grinding out like stone.

“What was the goal? Writing me.”

Your mouth was dry. He waited, breathing ragged in the hush.

In that moment, he looked nothing like the neat lines on your tablet screen — just a man who realized he’d been caged in ink and was clawing for a door.

Your voice cracked at the edges — too much truth pressing out all at once, pushing past the fragile dam of guilt you’d built every time you put your pen down.

“You weren’t supposed to cross both worlds,” you said again, as if saying it twice might shrink the horror of it.

Wonwoo, standing by the board, went still. One hand flexed at his side, restless and half-curled like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or for your throat.

“But you…” Your breath hitched. Your eyes blurred at the memory — your dingy apartment lit by the flicker of your desk lamp, your own wrists bruised where he’d pinned you. His voice, a low growl in the dark: Tell me who I am.

“I thought it was all a dream,” you confessed, voice no louder than the rustle of papers drifting behind him. “You came to my place. You threatened me. You aimed a gun at my head. You haunted me. And I—”

You swallowed, shame sour on your tongue. “I thought I was crazy.”

Wonwoo’s jaw twitched, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. When he spoke, his tone was stripped bare of any monster’s snarl — only weary certainty: You’d written him too deep. You’d made him want more.

“That night,” you whispered, voice trembling as you looked at the neat bandage peeking from his open collar, “when I realized I’d lost control of you, I decided your end. I had to finish you — I had to end it…”

He tilted his head, eyes dark and searching, as if reading the unwritten pages still hiding behind your ribs.

“You always planned to kill me, didn’t you?” His tone was half-accusation, half plea.

“No — I never tried to kill you,” you blurted out, voice cracking as your hands clenched uselessly in your lap. “You were… you were there for Hansol. I needed you, Wonwoo. I needed you to break him, to build him, to—”

“But you were about to kill me, Y/n!”

Your name in his mouth tasted like rust and accusation, each syllable bitten off like he resented having to say it at all.

“Because you— you started to fight for your life!” you cried, the confession tumbling out raw. “You weren’t supposed to want it that badly. It scared me!”

His laugh came out sharp, cracked at the edges. “I scared you?”

There was something so small and so vicious in his eyes, the thing you’d written into him — a monster, but too human to accept that word quietly.

“You never did,” you whispered, shoulders sagging. “Not until that.”

A tense silence pooled between you. Wonwoo’s tongue darted to the corner of his lip, catching a drop of blood from where he’d bitten it. He looked at you like he might devour you or collapse at your feet — and he hated both options.

Then, in a sudden, tired gesture, he turned away, palm flattening on the board so hard the paper pinned beneath it crumpled.

“Enough. Let’s talk again tomorrow,” he said lowly, not looking back.

You rose from the couch on unsteady legs, the taste of your name still burning on his tongue long after you slipped from the study’s doorway.

You woke up to the faint clink of porcelain and the soft rustle of fabric. Park Hyungrim stood by your bed, her hands folded politely in front of her apron as if she hadn’t just arranged half your breakfast and an entire boutique in your room.

“Good morning, Miss,” she said with a slight bow. Her voice was calm, gentle — the way you’d scripted her mother, Jung Seo, to soothe the monsters that haunted Wonwoo’s halls. Now the daughter did the same, but for you instead.

On your nightstand: toast still warm, a delicate cup of tea, fresh fruit you hadn’t seen since your last attempt at healthy living.

And beside your bed, servants flitted in and out, arranging a small forest of dresses, blouses, skirts, even shoes you’d never pick for yourself.

“Master Wonwoo had these prepared,” Hyungrim explained, her tone betraying neither judgment nor curiosity. “He also wishes for me to show you around the house once you’re ready.”

You sat up slowly, blinking at a cream silk blouse hanging from a carved oak rack — your reflection caught in the brass mirror behind it, hair a mess, hoodie collar stretched, sweatpants wrinkled at the knee.

Your life at home: instant ramen, half-finished scripts, coffee stains. This life now: gold-thread curtains, high windows, an entire wardrobe you never asked for.

A hollow laugh slipped past your lips before you could swallow it.

You made him — made all this — and now he wants to give you a tour like some polite landlord showing a clueless tenant around her own mind.

“Miss?” Hyungrim asked softly, eyes kind but too observant for comfort.

You dragged your eyes from the silk and forced a smile.

“Okay. I’ll get ready.”

And as you ran your fingers over fine cotton and delicate lace, one thought drummed under your ribs:

He’s more than what I wrote. And maybe… so is this world.

Hyungrim’s footsteps were soft but unhesitating on the polished floors, her voice steady as she guided you past rooms you half-recognized from your sketches and half-felt for the first time with your own skin.

Your mind, though, barely clung to her words about family portraits, study halls, and the greenhouse behind the east wing.

Instead, your thoughts drifted down familiar back alleys and precinct corridors in another part of this world — the threads you’d woven so carelessly late at night and left dangling because life, or heartbreak, or deadlines got in the way.

Hansol. Your reckless police officer hero who was more fists than caution tape, always coming home bruised but never beaten.

Dokyeom. Bright-eyed chief of Team 3, all warmth until he slipped on gloves. Sihye. Your breath caught on that name. Your sister’s eyes, your sister’s laugh — borrowed, resurrected as a gentle doctor tending to broken bones and broken men in a city that didn’t deserve her softness.

You snapped back when Hyungrim stopped at the main doors, bowing lightly.

“Miss?”

You turned to her, your chest so tight it made your voice come out raw.

“Hyungrim, I need to go into town.”

Hyungrim didn’t flinch. She only dipped her head again — your unwavering servant in every version of this story.

“Yes, Master Wonwoo mentioned you might wish to explore. He has arranged a car and driver for your comfort and safety.”

You half-laughed, half-scoffed, words spilling fast. “But I need cash, Hyungrim — real money.”

Hyungrim nodded as if you’d asked for tea instead of freedom.

“I’ll prepare your bag immediately, Miss. Please wait here a moment.”

And as you stood by the carved doors of the Jeon estate — your own palace, your own cage — you wondered if your characters would even want to see you.

After all, what did you ever give them but unfinished endings and borrowed hope?

Wonwoo stepped out of the glass-walled dining lounge just as the midday sun dipped behind passing clouds, softening the sharp lines of the towering skyline that hemmed his empire in steel and secrets. He slipped on his sunglasses, ignoring the bowing host trailing behind him with murmured thanks.

Jun — his right hand since VEIN’s inception — matched his pace easily, a discreet file tucked under one arm and a subtle bulge of a sidearm under his jacket.

“Mr. Jeon,” Jun began as they passed the marble lobby’s silent fountains. “The board is satisfied with your agreement. The Ministry liaison will handle the new shipment from Busan.”

Wonwoo gave a curt nod, mind only half on the logistics of memory chip couriers and clinic expansions. He was already sifting through the next puzzle: you. His unexpected, stubborn guest still tucked away under his roof like a secret he couldn’t burn.

A discreet vibration against his palm drew him back — Jun handed over a slim phone. He flicked through the latest security update: your breakfast, your walk with Hyungrim, your request for money — and now, a note that you’d left in a black sedan headed toward the old river district.

“Curious little god,” he murmured to himself. What are you digging for this time?

Wonwoo’s eyes found Hansol instantly. Even in the gentle bustle of lunch hour crowds, Hansol looked like tension made flesh: clean blazer, faint holster imprint under the left arm, a restless glint that had never dulled despite his disgrace. A woman walked beside him, slim in a pale coat — Sihye, the doctor. Wonwoo’s jaw tensed around a crooked half-smile. You always gave him someone good to protect. Even if he had to bleed for it.

“That’s Officer Choi,” Jun repeated, voice low. “He… hasn’t given up, sir.”

Wonwoo adjusted his cuffs, then let his gaze linger on Hansol’s silhouette in the crowd.

“He was never written to give up,” he said simply — almost fond, almost pitying — before slipping into the waiting car, doors thudding shut like the click of a rifle bolt behind him.

The engine purred alive. Through the tinted window, Wonwoo allowed himself one more glance at the stubborn detective you loved so much — the loyal hound you’d set on his trail long before he himself knew he deserved to be hunted.

He closed his eyes as the city slid by. The day Wonwoo first felt the fracture in his own mind was the day he named his kingdom: VEIN — an unassuming biotech front woven tightly with a network of data brokers, black market pharma, and discreet clinics for the desperate rich and the dangerous sick. A perfect name, he thought. A lifeline and a chokehold.

He’d once believed every ambition in him was his own: the sleepless nights in overseas libraries, the charm he sharpened at law school roundtables, the hands he dirtied in Seoul’s neon alleys — all stepping stones for a man who wanted power to flow through him like blood through a vein.

But then there was that cop.

A routine nuisance at first — a mere local detective trying to pry open VEIN’s clinic back doors with cheap warrants and moral righteousness. A flick of Wonwoo’s finger could have erased him. One bullet, one whisper to a debt shark. Simple.

Yet he didn’t.

Instead, Wonwoo found himself sparring with the man, baiting him into dead ends, feeding him crumbs of false evidence, watching the frustration carve lines into the officer’s youthful face.

Choi Hansol. Young, tireless, irritatingly incorruptible. Wonwoo could have ended him a dozen times. But he didn’t. He didn’t even want to.

Instead, he played.

He toyed with the righteous dog long past reason, sabotaging raids only to leak hints later. He twisted Hansol’s life just enough to keep him close — but never close enough to break free.

And the strangest part? It made no sense. Wonwoo was never so indulgent. Never so sentimental. Never so careless. And yet, a hunger for this dance dug itself into his marrow, whispering “more.”

So when he first breached the boundary — stumbled through the shadow between his world and yours — he found the truth scrawled across an old sketch in your apartment. He was written that way. The ambition. The hunger. The odd fascination with a cop he should hate. The compulsive mercy that made no sense for a man like him.

He wasn’t a king at all. Just a creature on strings — greed stitched in by your pen, compassion dripped in when you were feeling soft.

VEIN had never been his alone. It was a monster’s dream borrowed from your sleepless nights. And every time Hansol’s stubborn eyes flashed with defiance, Wonwoo saw not just an enemy — but your favorite blade.

Jun, strapped in the front beside the driver, spoke with the hesitant tone he reserved for anything concerning you.

“Sir… it seems your guest has caused a scene.”

Wonwoo didn’t bother looking up from the report file in his lap.

“Main station confirmed: she attacked someone. They’re holding her for questioning.”

Wonwoo shut the folder gently. The slap of paper closing made Jun flinch more than any shout would have. Wonwoo’s mouth curled — but not into a smile. A cruel twist, more irritation than amusement.

“Drive to the station. Now.”

He leaned his head back against the seat, jaw tensing until it ached. Outside the tinted window, the river glittered in the distance — the same place where he first tested how far your invisible leash would stretch.

Now you were tangled in your own plot and Wonwoo wondered if you could survive him.

Wonwoo’s shoes clicked on the station’s cold tile floor, each step an echo loud enough to hush the low murmur of busy officers. Jun shadowed him, silent and sharp-eyed.

He didn’t bother greeting Hansol — only let his gaze sweep the scene: you, a mess of stubborn defiance and trembling wrists, seated across a metal table; Hansol and that same woman standing guard like a mismatched pair of guardian angels.

Wonwoo’s voice cut the tension like a scalpel.

“She’s my guest. My people will take care of this.”

Hansol stood immediately, his chair scraping back so hard it nearly toppled.

“This is a police station, Jeon. We do things under policy. She stays until this is settled properly.”

Wonwoo’s smirk was an insult and a promise in one curve of his mouth. He didn’t even spare Hansol a full glance — eyes flicking instead to you, assessing: your raw knuckles, your bitten lip, the manic shine barely hidden under that exhausted guilt.

“My person,” Wonwoo enunciated slowly, “will have it settled. Officer Choi.”

Hansol bristled, heat climbing his throat. The other officer — some senior detective — stepped in quickly, a hand on Hansol’s arm, voice placating:

“Hansol. Let it go. Sir Jeon, we’ll discuss this with your lawyer. Please have her stand up.”

You didn’t move. You stared at the floor — at the faint stain of your own drama playing out like spilled ink. But Hansol’s voice broke that moment of retreat. “She attacked Sihye!” His voice cracked.

Wonwoo’s steps were unhurried as he guided you out of the suffocating air of the station. Eyes darting for threats that didn’t dare appear while Wonwoo’s presence darkened the exit like a stormcloud.

Outside, the sun was sharp, the street too ordinary for the mess you’d caused inside.

But Hansol followed. Of course he did. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tight with barely caged defiance. He barked past you, straight to the man you’d written as his enemy.

“Are you his girlfriend?” His eyes cut to you, unblinking. “Do you know what he does?”

Wonwoo didn’t stop walking until he did — a single pivot on his heel, the sudden stillness more violent than any blow. The grin was small but lethal, a blade turned politely outward.

“You should know when to close your mouth, Officer Choi. I taught you plenty, didn’t I?” His head tilted slightly, an animal’s warning.

You hovered wordless by Wonwoo’s shoulder, the only sound of your quickened breathing. When Hansol stepped closer, you instinctively shrank behind Wonwoo’s broad back. Ironic — how the hero you’d made to save others now looked at you like you were a mistake, and the villain you’d built to ruin lives shielded you like a wall.

Hansol’s eyes flicked down to your shoes, up to the faint bruise near your collarbone. Each detail stoked the anger in his jawline.

“She doesn’t have an ID. No records, no prints — no one knows her. Another name to vanish under your rug, Jeon?”

At that, Wonwoo’s hand swept behind him, palm pressing against your hip to pull you closer into his shadow. A quiet, possessive gesture that made Hansol’s fists ball deep in his coat pockets.

“Let’s meet again — on real business, Officer Choi.” Wonwoo’s voice lowered into silk lined with iron. “Bring your gun next time. Maybe it’ll make a difference.”

He guided you toward the waiting black sedan, the tinted door swinging open as his driver slipped ahead to clear the path.

Behind you, Hansol’s voice cracked the air one last time, rough with something dangerously close to grief:

“I see she's yours, Jeon.”

Wonwoo didn’t answer. He only nudged you gently into the backseat — his monster’s promise warm at your shoulder, the door slamming shut between you and the world you’d written for him to devour.

He leaned one shoulder against your bedroom doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest — looking more at home than you ever did, though this was technically your mind made real, your words given walls and floors and furniture.

“First day here and you already managed to get yourself locked up in a police station.”

His voice was deceptively calm, dark amusement simmering beneath the chill. He clicked his tongue, a small, mocking laugh escaping him. “You really don’t know how to live a life, do you?”

You sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, legs tucked under the unfamiliar nightgown Hyungrim had laid out for you. The lace collar scratched your collarbone — too pretty for the way your chest felt tight and raw.

“You weren’t supposed to find out so soon,” you muttered, eyes darting to the floor. “Or Sihye, or Hansol— I didn’t plan—”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “That’s your excuse for everything, isn’t it?”

You flinched as he stopped before you, close enough to see the faint bruise blooming along the line of his bandages, where your betrayal still lived in his flesh.

“Why did you hug her?” he asked, quieter now — not the villain’s voice, but something more human, more disappointed. “The doctor.”

You squeezed your fists in your lap, nails digging half-moons into your palms. “She shouldn’t have looked that much like her. I — I panicked.”

A silence fell between you, heavy with everything you never intended to write. Wonwoo crouched down, knees cracking softly. He looked up at you from beneath dark lashes, eyes sharp yet weary — a predator forced to carry its wounded prey.

And then — softer, almost too soft for your chest to bear. “Rest. You’ll need it. Tomorrow, you’ll tell me exactly how you plan to end this story.”

He stood, the room suddenly emptier as his shadow slipped back to the door. Leaving you with the ache of every word you’d ever written that never learned how to stay safely on the page.

Your plan sounded logical — on paper, anyway. A neat conclusion, a redemption arc, a sacrifice to balance out all the blood and secrets you’d poured into him.

But the second the words left your mouth that morning in his study, you regretted them.

Wonwoo laughed. Not a quiet, amused laugh — but the kind that cracked through his teeth like glass under a boot. He tossed his pen aside and shoved away from his desk so hard the heavy chair scraped the floor like a threat.

In three strides he was before you, and you nearly flinched when the shadow of his frame fell over yours. His arms shot out — one hand slamming the wall beside your head, the other braced against the bookshelf behind you — boxing you in with the sharp scent of his cologne and the faint, metallic tang of wounds still healing beneath his shirt.

“This,” he hissed through clenched teeth, voice trembling at the edges of his rage, “this is your grand plan for my ending? I rot in a cell so your precious hero can stand above my grave and bathe in pity?”

He snapped his chin toward the coffee table where your folder lay, pages bleeding out like open veins. With a guttural snarl, he grabbed the whole thing and hurled it so hard the papers burst apart mid-air — drifting down behind the sofa like feathers, mockingly gentle against the storm in his chest.

“Fuck!”

He turned away, fingers clawing at his hair until the strands stood wild and jagged. You could see it — the tremor in his shoulders, the truth that fear mixed with fury when a monster realizes its own cage.

Your knees threatened to buckle, but you gripped the shelf at your back so you wouldn’t collapse under the weight of your own creation.

“You want me to surrender everything I crawled through blood for? The money, the power — the way they tremble when they whisper my name?” He stabbed a finger at the floor-to-ceiling window behind him, where the city glittered like prey under moonlight. “You want me to kneel so that bastard cop can stand over my corpse and call himself righteous?”

His laugh split the air again — brittle, a knife dragged over glass.

“Tell me, Creator — where in me did you ever write the word mercy?”

When he turned back, his eyes locked on you — sharp and wild and too human for something you’d crafted in a midnight draft.

Your breath snagged in your throat. You felt it — your heart drumming terror into your ribs because he was right. You’d made him a monster with a mind sharp enough to hate it.

“I don’t want you to break…” you whispered, your voice trembling like your hands.

He crowded closer, so close your back pressed deeper into the books. His forehead nearly touched yours; his next words were a threat and a plea wrapped in a confession of all he couldn’t control.

“Then write a better end, Y/n.” His breath ghosted your lips, hot and ragged.

“Or I’ll carve one myself — and you won’t get your happy ending this time.”

You returned to the Margin that night — or maybe it was dawn, or dusk. Time curled strangely there, bending to the flick of your desperation like pages warping under rain.

You stumbled past the familiar oak trees and scattered benches, your footsteps echoing over the soft grass. Here, characters who had once whispered secrets in your dreams paused to watch you. Some nodded in silent greeting, others simply kept reading, bound to their fates between covers you’d left half-shut.

You collapsed by the fountain near the center — the heart of your abandoned stories. Your fingers trembled as you tugged open the folder on your lap, pages yellowed by neglect but still humming with promise.

Title by title. Year by year. Notes scribbled in your tired college nights, outlines drafted on train rides, character sheets born in the blur between heartbreak and caffeine. You read them all — searching for loopholes you’d never written, prayers hidden in subplots you’d discarded.

Somewhere, you thought, you must have planted a seed for him.

Something good.

Then you found it.

You pressed your back into the old wooden chair in the library’s quietest corner, the smell of aging pages and dust grounding you more than the marble halls of Wonwoo’s estate ever could.

Myungho was probably still in the car, chain-smoking nervously because you’d threatened to fire him — a laughable bluff, considering he’d take Wonwoo’s word over yours any day. But at least he’d left you alone for now.

Your fingers traced the frayed spine of The Little Prince, that battered comfort you’d clung to as a kid when walls trembled with your parents’ anger, when love cracked apart in the dark and you had nowhere else to sleep but under your own thoughts.

You flipped to the chapter you always returned to — the fox and his quiet plea: “You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”

A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You never intended to tame Wonwoo. But you did.

Your thumb lingered on the delicate illustration, the tiny prince’s scarf flaring in a wind that had never been kind enough to you, either.

Somewhere between the sentences, the library’s hum softened to a hush so deep it pressed against your eardrums. The fluorescent lights flickered, warped into a golden dusk that wasn’t there before.

You knew this feeling.

The pull — not of this library, but the Library.

A door to the Margin within the real world.

You’d cracked it open before, half-asleep at your old studio desk.

And now it opened for you again.

The fox on the page seemed to lift its head. The paper prince turned slightly in your mind’s eye. And you felt yourself drawn under — not drowning, but drifting deeper into words you’d once written to save yourself.

You were back in your stories, hunting for another answer buried in the lines.

You closed your eyes against the library’s glow and whispered into the hush, “Show me another way to save him. Before he destroys everything… before he destroys me.”

And the fox — or the book — or the Margin itself — answered with the faint rustle of pages turning themselves.

You barely noticed how the chatter of the students nearby faded into a dull echo, how the dusty light filtering through the high windows blurred to a soft glow behind your lashes.

Your finger rested on the line you’d underlined years ago — “One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets oneself be tamed…”

A brittle laugh bubbled up your throat.

Isn’t that what you did to him?

Tamed a monster with half-baked mercy and lonely nights, then recoiled when he turned his fangs on you for answers.

Your vision pulsed — the black letters swimming — until the margin of the page bled outward, curling up at the edges like burned paper.

And then you were falling through it.

The musty library air thinned, replaced by the dry, warm hush of your own constructed nowhere — the Margin — infinite aisles of half-born ideas, boxed scenes, handwritten scraps you’d never shown anyone.

Your old apartment unit.

Inside, the air smelled like dust and stale instant noodles. Everything was exactly as you’d left it — the stack of dog-eared manuscripts on the tiny desk, the mug with three pens and a single dying highlighter, the sticky note on the mirror that read You owe them an ending.

Your throat tightened. You owe him an ending, you corrected yourself this time. You caught yourself on a shelf labeled VEIN — Early Drafts. Behind it: folders and loose pages, secrets too grim to publish, dreams too soft to stand in the real world. You dragged your fingertips over the binders until you hit one marked in your scribbled pen: Characters: Minor/Discarded. Your heart lurched.

This was where the overlooked lived. The side characters, the failed plot devices — the ones you’d promised next time.

You flipped through the folder so fast paper cuts stung your knuckles.

Behind you, the floorboard creaked. You froze, a cold current slicing down your spine. You didn’t dare turn — not until you heard that voice, low and almost gentle, yet heavy enough to press your heart flat against your ribs.

Your eyes met his in the reflection of your mirror: Jeon Wonwoo, leaning casually against your doorframe. Dressed in black again, hair still tousled from the car ride you didn’t know he’d taken right behind you.

He looked impossibly large for this room — for this part of your life that once felt too small for even yourself, let alone him.

Your voice cracked as you twisted to face him fully. “Wonwoo — how are you here? You… you shouldn’t be here. Not here—”

He tilted his head slightly, but this time there was no smirk — only the barest flicker of something unsettled behind his sharp eyes. He looked at you, then past you, as if the peeling wallpaper and flickering dorm light might offer an explanation he’d missed.

He stepped closer, slow but not deliberate this time — more like he was testing if the floor would hold him.

“Where are we?” he asked, voice lower than a whisper, and not for effect. He truly didn’t know. His hand reached for the edge of your desk, gripping it hard enough that your scattered notes trembled.

Your breath caught as you realized it. The monster was lost.

“Wonwoo… this is—” you started, but your throat closed up.

His eyes snapped back to yours, sharp again, though confusion still bled through the cracks.

“This isn’t my house,” he said, more to himself than you. “This smell… the hallway… it’s old. It’s…” He looked you up and down, taking in your clothes, your trembling hands, the ancient little prince book half-buried under a mess of scribbles.

“You dragged me here,” he accused — but it wasn’t the cold venom you knew. It was frustration. A flicker of fear under all that rage.

You shook your head, desperate to make sense of it too.

“I didn’t mean to! I just— I needed a place to think— to fix this—”

Wonwoo barked out a humorless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. The motion exposed the faint line of stitches on his temple — a reminder of your last attempt to control him.

“Fix this,” he echoed, almost mocking but more tired than cruel. He looked around again, at the tiny room that reeked of old anxiety and stale coffee and everything you’d once been.

His eyes found yours again, searching, pleading despite himself.

“What did you do, Y/n? Where did you take us? When did you take us?”

And for the first time since you’d ever written him, you realized he wasn’t your villain or your creation at all — he was a man who’d been dragged across stories and time without a map.

And he was just as scared as you.

You tried to steady your breathing, but the lump in your throat only grew.

“This is… my old studio,” you forced out. “Where I wrote most of you — the early drafts. The first scenes. All those nights when I—”

Your voice caught when his eyes flickered at the word wrote. He was still trying to piece it together. Still fighting it, even now.

“I was looking for answers, Wonwoo. I thought— I thought if I came back to the beginning, maybe I’d find a way to fix you. To fix this.” You gestured weakly around you: the faded curtains, the cracked plaster, the boxes of old manuscripts and half-dead pens you’d hoarded like talismans.

Wonwoo’s throat bobbed as he swallowed whatever curses or threats rattled inside him. He stepped back just enough to lean against your rickety bookshelf, arms crossed tight over his chest like he needed to hold himself together.

“I was in my office,” he said, voice low but clear — a confession forced through clenched teeth. “I had a meeting. Jun was reporting about you — how you were poking around an entertainment agency building. And then—”

He broke off, brow furrowing as if he could claw the memory back from the haze. His gaze flicked to the grimy window, the taped-up corner of your old laptop, the dog-eared books that made up the bones of who you used to be.

Wonwoo’s breath hitched as his hands planted on either side of you, caging you against the edge of your old desk. The tiny lamp buzzed between you, throwing his eyes into restless shadow and light.

His voice was low but ragged, scraped raw with a question too big for the peeling walls to contain.

“What did you do, Y/n?”

You flinched at your own name in his mouth — so human, so accusing.

“I— I didn’t mean to—”

He cut you off with a sharp, disbelieving laugh that died as quickly as it rose.

“I was in my office. I had control. I had my people, my rules—” His palm slammed the desk by your hip, rattling pens into your lap.

“And then I’m here. No power. No way back.”

You couldn’t help it — your voice cracked, trembling worse than your hands clutching the hem of your old sweater.

“I came here to find answers, Wonwoo. To fix you. I thought… maybe if I went back to where I made you, I could undo it — the blood, the killing, the— everything.”

His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped under the faint scar near his temple.

“So instead you dragged us both backwards.” He leaned in, forehead almost brushing yours, the heat of him wrapping around you like a noose.

“Is that it, Y/n? You wanted to rewrite my hell so badly you tore it all open? Time, place — me?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, a single tear slipping free before you could swallow it down.

“I didn’t know this would happen. I swear. I thought maybe— maybe the beginning could show me the way to give you a better ending. Or at least… save you.”

His laugh ghosted across your lips, bitter and helpless all at once.

“Save me? Or save yourself?”

His eyes bored into yours then — not your villain’s eyes, not your monster’s. Just a man’s. Furious, fractured, and terrifyingly real.

“What did you do to us, Y/n?” he breathed.

And for once, you had no line, no plan, no paper shield to hide behind. Only the truth that maybe you’d broken the lock on the very cage that made him yours.

You watched Wonwoo asleep on your bed, the floor around you littered with notes and scribbled timelines from every version of this mess you’d ever tried to control. Paper crumpled under your bare feet each time you shifted, but he didn’t stir — not until your stomach betrayed you with a low, sharp growl.

His eyes fluttered open, dark lashes brushing his cheekbones before they focused on you. You’d inched so close you were leaning over him, your head tilted at the edge of the mattress, just watching him breathe.

“You have money?” he rasped, voice rough from sleep, but his gaze flicked to the chaos on the floor like he already knew the answer.

You blinked, then remembered the stash of emergency cash you’d once hoarded for late-night ramen runs and rent you couldn’t pay on time.

“Let’s go out to eat,” you murmured, half a command, half a plea.

Oddly — maybe because he was too tired to argue, or maybe because in this world he had no empire to guard — he just nodded and swung his legs over the edge.

You pulled on an old oversized hoodie over your thin dress, the fabric swallowing you whole, and slipped into a pair of scuffed sneakers instead of your usual heels. Wonwoo’s eyes lingered on you, narrowed, curious — as if he was seeing a version of you he’d never been allowed to touch before.

When you stepped out of the tiny studio, the night air slapped your cheeks cold and real. You ducked your head low, hiding your face from the street’s indifferent glow, too busy bracing for a stranger’s glance to notice the way Wonwoo’s eyes followed every step you took.

You ended up in a modest restaurant you’d always passed by back then but never once stepped into — too clean for your student budget, too proper for your unwashed hair and all-nighter sweats back then. Now, at least, it gave you warmth and a moment’s pause to swallow real food for the first time in days.

Your fork froze halfway to your lips when the TV above the counter blared breaking news:

“A powerful earthquake struck Busan earlier this evening…”

You didn’t hear the rest. The numbers, the shaking towers, the headlines dissolving into a date that burned behind your eyelids:

10 August. Four days before Independence Day. The day you didn’t go home. The day you missed her funeral.

Your chair scraped back so hard it startled the couple beside you. Wonwoo’s hand shot out, catching the edge of the table before it tipped your plate to the floor.

“Where are you going?” His voice was too calm, too sure — but his eyes were locked on yours, searching for the storm he knew was coming.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Wonwoo dropped his fork, metal clattering against the ceramic plate, but he didn’t flinch. He just watched you — your back retreating through rows of still-eating strangers, head lowered under that oversized hoodie that did nothing to hide how shaken you were.

He stood, slower than you, ignoring the waitress’s startled “Sir, the bill—” as he followed. One hand slipped into his pocket, fingers brushing the folded cash you’d forgotten to take — the only anchor he had left from his world in this mess.

Outside, the late summer air hit harsh and humid. He found you half a block away, standing at a dusty bus stop sign that looked like it hadn’t been painted since the year you wrote him alive. You were hunched, arms tight around your middle like you were trying to hold something in. Or maybe keep something out.

“Y/n.”

His voice cut the buzz of cars and far-off traffic. You flinched, but didn’t turn.

He came closer, not stalking like your villain — not hunting. Just moving. Heavy, deliberate steps on cracked pavement.

“Where are you going?” he asked again, quieter now. No threat. Just the question — and something ragged underneath it, as if he hated needing to ask at all.

Your fingers dug into the hem of your hoodie.

“It’s August tenth,” you whispered. Your voice trembled worse than your shoulders. “That earthquake… I remember now. That day, my mother—”

Your breath hitched and your next words came out broken.

“I didn’t go home. I didn’t see her one last time. I stayed here. Writing you. I stayed here for you.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flickered. A pulse of understanding — and something colder — behind the confusion. He reached out, touched your wrist with fingers that could break bone but only rested there, too light, too human.

“Y/n.” He forced your gaze up, two wrecks caught in the glow of a flickering bus sign.

“You can’t change that,” he said. Not unkind. Not gentle either. Just brutal truth, shaped in the mouth of the man you’d once written to be invincible.

“You drag yourself back here, back then — but you can’t rewrite her. You can’t rewrite that.”

Your lip trembled. The truth slammed your ribs worse than any villain could.

“But if I could—”

He cut you off, firm fingers at your jaw, grounding you.

“You can’t.” His eyes narrowed, voice a hoarse whisper meant for no one but you. “You want to fix me. Fine. Fix your story. Fix the ending. But don’t lose yourself in the part that was never yours to hold.”

And as the old bus rattled up, brakes screeching through the sticky night air, you felt it — the choice pressing against your ribs like a knife: save him, save yourself, or bury it all under the ruins of your past you couldn’t dig up anymore.

You and Wonwoo stood at the edge of the crowd, half hidden behind a rusted iron gate and the old lilac tree your mother once planted in a cracked pot on the apartment balcony. Now it grew wild beside her coffin — a reminder she’d always loved beautiful things even when they died in her hands.

You pulled your hoodie tighter around your face, sleeves tugged over your fists like they could hold in the storm brewing under your ribs. Beside you, Wonwoo was silent, hands shoved in his coat pockets, his eyes flicking over the black-clad mourners with an unreadable coldness. To him, it must’ve looked like an irrelevant side plot, a scene he’d never been given to play in the margins of your draft.

You wondered if your old self was somewhere nearby — the you that never made it here, that stayed locked in a dorm room, scribbling villains and empires while the real world crumbled outside her locked door.

Wonwoo leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

A flicker of something crossed his eyes. Regret? Sympathy? Or just curiosity that the one who played god in his world could still be so painfully small in her own.

He shifted closer, enough that the cold wind couldn’t slip between your shoulders anymore.

He glanced back at the line of mourners, the hushed prayers, the echo of grief he could mimic in your pages but never feel like this.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured after a moment. One gloved hand brushed the edge of your sleeve. “Are you cold?”

You laughed, choked and watery. “No. I’m terrified.”

He didn’t say don’t be. He didn’t promise to protect you — that was never him. Instead, he stepped behind you, close enough that his coat brushed your hoodie.

Wonwoo’s steps halted when you veered off the narrow gravel path, deeper into the quieter rows of stone and framed photographs. He almost called your name — but the look on your face stole the word from his tongue.

You stopped in front of a headstone tucked between a wind-worn willow and an old brass lantern left by some devoted relative. There, pressed to the cold marble, was a photo he recognized instantly. A gentle smile. Sharp, kind eyes behind slim glasses. Ji Jihye.

Wonwoo’s pulse thudded in his ears.

“She’s in my world.”

His voice came out lower than he meant, brittle in the hushed air.

“The doctor. The one you…” He hesitated, thinking of that night — the trembling relief in your face when you clung to her like a drowning child to shore. In his world, she’d been the calm in his storms, a plot device he’d never questioned.

“The one you hugged that day.” You nodded, eyes fixed to the photograph as if you could fall into it and never come back.

“She’s my sister. She raised me when my mother—” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t bother hiding it. “When she couldn’t.”

Wonwoo’s jaw worked, silent words trapped behind his teeth. He glanced at the picture, at the name carved so neat and final: Ji Jihye.

He almost asked What happened to her there? — but the truth landed in his gut before you said it.

“Murder.”

You didn’t flinch when you said it. The word sat between you like a bloodstain no rain could wash off.

For a moment, the wind rattled the willow branches overhead. Wonwoo turned back to you — really looked at you, past the creator, past the coward who ran from funerals and folded reality when it didn’t obey. There it was: the child left behind, the sisterless girl who stitched monsters out of her grief.

Wonwoo didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Because suddenly all the twisted knots that made him — the rage, the power, the endless hunger for fear and control — trembled on a single question:

Was he really evil, or just a vessel for every wound you never mended?

His fingers curled, nails biting into his palms. He watched you, your eyes shimmering under the willow’s shadow, and for the first time since stepping from the pages into your fragile reality, he wondered:

What was he really for?

You and Wonwoo sat side by side on the dusty wooden floor of your old studio, knees brushing, backs pressed to the peeling wallpaper like you both needed it to hold you upright. Between you lay a scatter of papers — the same half-baked plot threads and character sheets you’d clung to for years like they were prayers that might save you.

Outside, the cicadas were singing — an old summer song that once made you feel small and safe at the same time. But inside, the silence between you and him was heavier than grief.

You picked at the edge of a yellowing notebook. “I wasn’t supposed to be here. I remember… I was supposed to be in Jeju. I ran away after my aunt texted me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t see her like that.”

You didn’t have to say your mother. The word was already a bruise in the room.

Wonwoo didn’t comment, didn’t pity you — he never did, never would. But the way his shoulder leaned just barely into yours was louder than a thousand sorrys.

He turned his head, watching you from the corner of his eye. “How did you come back? To this version of now?”

You laughed — a thin, breathless sound that made him frown. “I was reading. In the town library. I was trying to find another way to fix you. I thought maybe if I found my old ideas…”

He finished it for you, voice softer than you’d ever heard. “Was it The Little Prince?”

Your breath caught. You turned to him, eyes wide. “How did you know?”

Wonwoo dragged a hand through his hair — he looked almost embarrassed, if a man like him could be. “It sent me too. To your place. I was in my office. Then… there.” He gestured vaguely at the air, as if the whole universe was just an untrustworthy hallway you could slip through by accident.

Your lips parted, memories flickering: a child curled under a thin blanket, whispering to a paper prince to save her from doors slamming, from the crash of glass, from fists and broken promises. You’d written him to be your monster, but before that, you’d begged a little boy on an asteroid to protect you from adults.

And now here he was — no asteroid, no desert rose, just Wonwoo, an echo of every shadow you’d loved and feared.

“The Little Prince…” you murmured, almost to yourself. “It was my sanctuary. When they fought. When she cried. When I was too small to stop anything.”

Wonwoo let out a dry, near-silent laugh. “Mine too. It made me hate the king less.”

For a heartbeat, your monster and your child self sat together on that floor — two broken kingdoms connected by a single, fragile story about a boy too gentle for the world.

Wonwoo nudged your knee with his. “Maybe that’s it,” he said, half teasing, half serious. “Your prince keeps dragging us back when we run too far.”

Your laugh cracked open something in your chest. And you wondered, for the first time in years, if maybe neither of you was too far gone to come home.

You woke up tangled in warmth you didn’t remember climbing into — stiff sheets, a familiar weight against your side, and a scent that was unmistakably his: crisp, deep, edged with something dark like wet stone.

Blinking through the fuzz in your head, you shifted — and found Wonwoo half-asleep beside you, sprawled on his stomach, face turned toward you. His hair fell messily over his forehead, shadowing the faint scar at his temple.

He cracked one eye open, caught your startled stare, and groaned into the pillow.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and still a little rough. “Too tired to drag you to your room.”

Before you could answer, he let out a long breath and promptly buried his face in the pillow again, clearly intending to finish what little rest you’d stolen from each other all night.

You sat up so fast the blankets slipped to your lap. Your head spun. The familiar carved ceiling above you wasn’t the dorm’s cracked plaster — it was rich mahogany, polished and cold. His world’s air was heavier, scented faintly of cedar and the garden roses you knew he never watered himself.

Back. You were back.

You swung your legs off the bed and found your shoes still on. The hoodie swallowed you in its softness, a piece of the past now clinging stubbornly to your present. Carefully, you slipped from the bed — Wonwoo barely stirred, just an arm flung out to claim the empty space you’d left behind.

Padding to the heavy door, you cracked it open, peeking into the wide, sunlit hallway that could never belong to a cheap old dorm. Marble floors, oil paintings, hush of distant servants. His empire — real again.

You stepped out, only to freeze as a soft gasp broke the quiet.

Mrs. Jung stood there — sturdy, neatly dressed in the dark uniform of the household’s inner staff. Her hair was pinned tight and her eyes were sharp, though they widened when she saw your disheveled hoodie and bare feet peeking from beneath it.

Mrs. Jung. Hyungrim’s mother. The real iron backbone of Wonwoo’s household — the one who knew every secret passage and every lie.

She blinked once, took in your flushed face, the door cracked behind you, and gave the smallest bow, voice utterly neutral but her eyes curious as ever.

“Miss Y/n,” she said, smooth as tea poured into porcelain. “Good morning. Did you… rest well in the Master’s chamber?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then managed a strangle, “Yes. Thank you.”

Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched like she wanted to smile but had trained herself not to.

“Very good, Miss. Shall I prepare your room again? Or… would you prefer breakfast brought here?”

Behind you, Wonwoo’s sleepy grunt drifted from the bed — a muffled, lazy sound that somehow made your heart kick against your ribs.

You swallowed, tugging the hoodie tighter around yourself, suddenly feeling sixteen again and older than you’d ever been all at once.

“I— I’ll take breakfast here, thank you. And… Mrs. Jung?”

“Yes, Miss?”

You met her gaze — the mother of your villain’s most loyal man, standing in this world you’d spun from your grief and hunger for protection.

“Thank you for… looking after him..”

You sat stiffly on the edge of his leather couch, knees drawn together, the hoodie sleeves tugged down over your fists like a child’s security blanket. Outside the tall windows, the courtyard gardens basked under the late morning sun — a sight so distant from the cracked dorm ceiling that your head still ached trying to reconcile the leap.

Footsteps padded behind you — soft, slow, and unmistakably his.

Wonwoo dropped onto the couch beside you with all the lazy, fluid grace you hated to admit still made your chest tighten. He smelled freshly showered now, hair damp and pushed back, but his eyes were heavy-lidded with leftover sleep.

He slouched into the cushions, head rolling toward you until his sharp gaze pinned you like a bug on velvet.

“How we got back?” you asked before you could second-guess yourself. Your voice betrayed how raw your throat still felt, scratchy with exhaustion and words left unsaid at that graveyard.

Wonwoo’s mouth curved — not quite a grin, more a crooked slice of mischief through lingering fatigue.

“Myungho found you,” he said lazily, like recounting a half-remembered dream. “Passed out in the town library. I was too in m study.”

You blinked. “Passed out?”

Wonwoo lifted a brow, amused by your disbelief. He mimicked your tone under his breath: “‘Passed out?’ Yes, darling, that’s what happens when people rip holes in their heads, hopping worlds and time.”

You scowled at his mockery but he only hummed, ignoring it as he stretched out an arm behind you along the back of the couch — not touching, just there, like a bracket holding you in place.

You pressed on. “Then why was I in your room?”

At that, a real grin ghosted over his lips — fleeting, crooked, so achingly boyish it almost didn’t fit the monster you’d carved him into.

“I was too tired to carry you to yours. You passed out, remember?” He nudged your knee lightly with his own. “And don’t flatter yourself.”

You shoved his leg half-heartedly, heat crawling up your neck. “I wasn’t flattering myself. I just— it was surprising.”

Wonwoo laughed under his breath. A sound that, for once, held no threat. Only a secret understanding between the creator and her creation — two ghosts returned to the flesh, sharing the same borrowed couch in a world neither fully owned anymore.

His eyes softened just a fraction as he watched your face — as if daring you to ask the question that trembled behind your teeth: What now?

But for now, he didn’t press. He just tipped his head back against the cushion, eyelids drooping again, a king at rest beside the only storm that could shake him awake.

The quiet between you barely settled before the faintest knock, polite but firm, tapped at the door frame. You flinched, twisting just as Mrs. Jung stepped in carrying a tray balanced with more care than a royal offering.

She dipped her head first to Wonwoo — “Master,” she greeted with gentle respect — then turned her warm eyes to you.

“Breakfast, Master. And for your guest.” Her voice was steady as ever, but you caught the subtle flicker in her eyes when they lingered on your oversized hoodie and the way your bare feet tucked under you on the couch.

Wonwoo, half-slouched with his arm draped over the couch back, cracked one eye open, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“She demanded my share too, Mrs. Jung. Make sure she leaves me at least the fruit.”

Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched at his dry humor — she’d clearly survived it for years. She set the tray carefully on the low table in front of you, arranging the bowls and teacups with a grace that almost felt ceremonial.

“I’ll bring more tea if you wish, Master,” she said, her tone softening when she spoke to you too, kind but clear. “Please eat well, both of you — you need your strength after worrying us so.”

You mumbled a quiet thank you, cheeks warming under the hood as you avoided Wonwoo’s look — a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn’t read.

Mrs. Jung’s eyes lingered on you for another heartbeat, as if she wanted to say more but thought better of it. Then she bowed her head again, turned, and slipped out — the door closing with a gentle click behind her, leaving the scent of warm porridge and faint herbal steam curling around the room.

Wonwoo reached for a bowl and pushed it toward you, his knuckles brushing yours without apology.

“Eat,” he ordered, voice rough from sleep but softened by something like care. “If you faint again, I’m not dragging you next time. You’re heavier than you look.”

He claimed his own bowl, folding one knee up beside you as if this — a monster and his maker, side by side over breakfast — was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Outside, the courtyard glowed under a patient morning sun. Inside, for the first time in a long while, neither of you felt like running.

The sun was dipping low when Myungho knocked twice and stepped into Wonwoo’s office without waiting for permission — which was enough to make Jun look up from the couch, eyebrows raised. Wonwoo didn’t lift his eyes from the contract he was marking up, but the quiet knock alone had already put him on edge.

“Master,” Myungho said, voice tight. He didn’t bother with titles this time. “We have a problem.”

Wonwoo’s pen paused mid-sentence. He finally looked up. “Speak.”

Myungho’s throat bobbed. He shifted his weight like he didn’t want to say it at all.

“It’s Miss Y/n. She was at the town library. About an hour ago, witnesses say a black SUV pulled up. Two men forced her inside. One local vendor found her bag in the alley behind the bus stop.”

Jun sat up straight. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir. Her guards said she slipped them by going out the back gate. She didn’t want them trailing her that close — she told them she just wanted quiet.”

The room stilled. Wonwoo didn’t slam the desk or shout — but Jun, who’d known him long enough, saw the change immediately: the pen dropping soundlessly, the barely-there tremor in his knuckles before he curled them into a fist.

“Where was this? Which street?” Wonwoo asked. His voice wasn’t cold — just quiet, so quiet that Myungho almost preferred shouting.

“Near the east gate road, Master. Traffic cameras caught the SUV heading out of the old market district but we lost it near the industrial park.”

Wonwoo leaned back, eyes on the ceiling for a heartbeat — like he needed to keep the anger in check just to stay focused. Then he pushed up from the desk, methodical. He shrugged on his black coat, buttoning it with steady fingers that betrayed none of what tightened his throat.

“Start with the market CCTV. Block every road out of the district. Call the inspector directly, use my name if you have to — I want every exit checked. If they switched cars, trace every plate that left that zone in the last hour.”

Myungho nodded, halfway out the door already, phone in hand.

Jun stood, rolling his shoulders. “Sir—”

“I know,” Wonwoo cut in, voice softer, tired. His eyes flicked to Jun, a shadow of worry slipping through the usual steel. “She hates people trailing her. I should’ve—” He shook his head once, as if to snap himself out of it.

Wonwoo huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, but his jaw clenched right after. He grabbed his phone, already dialing, eyes distant but burning with a promise.

You owed him an end, but this isn't something he expected.

Wonwoo had barely made it down the marble steps when his phone vibrated in his coat pocket — just once, an unfamiliar number flashing on the screen. He answered it without thinking, half-expecting Myungho with an update.

But it wasn’t a call. It was a text.

“So you have a vulnerability?”

Attached below, a single photo loaded.

He stopped cold on the last step. Jun, coming up behind him, nearly collided with his shoulder.

“Sir?” Jun frowned, peering at the frozen look on Wonwoo’s face. “What is it?”

Wonwoo didn’t speak right away. His eyes traced the picture, the cheap motel wallpaper, the too-bright flash. The raw knot in his chest squeezed tighter at the sight of you — wrists bound to the headboard, head turned away, hair spilling across the pillow like you’d fought before they forced you still.

The phone trembled in his hand — barely. Just enough that Jun saw it.

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose. Slow. Measured. But when he looked up, the cold calm he always wore was gone. Something far more human burned through his irises — fury, yes, but beneath it, a helpless ache that scared Jun more than the rage ever could.

“They want me to panic,” Wonwoo said, almost to himself. He lifted his thumb, saving the photo to his files as if cataloging evidence, not an open wound. His other hand clenched the stair rail until the veins stood stark against his skin.

A second vibration buzzed through the silence. Another message:

“You want her alive? Come alone. Tonight. We’ll send the location soon.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flicked to the clock on the hall wall. Not nearly enough time to wait. Not nearly enough time to forgive himself for letting this happen.

Jun slipped the phone back into Wonwoo’s palm.

“I’ll have everyone track the signal. You’re not going alone., sir”

Wonwoo’s fingers closed tight around the phone — as if he could crush the message, the photo, the threat itself. He didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t care about pride or image or playing the perfect chess game.

In the stale half-light of the run-down motel room, the buzz of a flickering ceiling fan blended with the shallow rasp of your breathing. The rope bit cruelly into your wrists; your throat tasted of cotton and regret.

You barely registered the dip of the mattress until a familiar weight settled near your hip.

“Hey.”

You forced your heavy eyelids open. Blurred outlines resolved into a face you knew too well — Hansol. But not the Hansol who’d laughed through his meeting in the team 3 room, or muttered sleepy jokes behind stakeouts. His eyes now held something you couldn’t name, but you knew you never wrote it.

He watched you like a puzzle he’d half-solved. One corner of his mouth tugged upward, a smirk that made your pulse stutter for all the wrong reasons.

“You look smaller up close,” he said quietly, brushing a finger along your hairline. “Does he keep you hidden in that big old house? Or are you just too precious to show around?”

Your dry lips cracked when you tried to speak.

“H-Hansol…” you croaked. “Why… are you doing this?”

He clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment.

“You know, for someone Wonwoo goes soft over, you ask dumb questions.” He leaned closer, shadows carving sharper lines into his cheeks. “I don’t care about you, sweetheart. You’re just the leash. The king drops his crown when you scream — everyone knows that now.”

Behind him, two strangers — older, meaner — checked the window for the fifth time. One of them brandished your phone, the screen cracked from being snatched.

Hansol’s eyes flitted back to yours, studying the tremor in your lashes with unsettling patience.

“You really think he loves you, huh?” he murmured, voice dripping disbelief and something like envy twisted into contempt. “A man like him doesn’t love. He owns. And now… he’ll learn he can’t own everything.”

You winced as he thumbed your bruised cheek, tender as a lover.

“Tonight,” one of the men said gruffly, tossing Hansol your phone. “Drop sent. He comes alone, or she bleeds before dawn.”

Hansol pocketed the phone, then turned to you one last time — no warmth, no hate either. Just a wolf checking its trap.

“Try not to cry too much. Ruins the pretty face he likes so much.”

He stood and motioned for the others to tighten your bonds. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him — leaving you bound, dazed, and painfully awake to the fact that in this nightmare, you were nothing more than leverage for a man you’d created but could no longer control.

The click of the door echoed in your skull long after Hansol and his shadows vanished down the hallway. You lay motionless for a few heartbeats, letting your breathing even out, listening — first for footsteps, then for the hush of the old building settling into silence.

Don’t panic. That voice — your voice — the same one that used to narrate these horrors from behind a safe screen. It sounded so far away now.

Your wrists burned from the coarse rope. Every shift scraped skin raw, but you forced your elbows up anyway, testing how much slack they’d left in their arrogance. The knots weren’t perfect; Hansol was cocky, not careful.

Your eyes darted around the dingy room: a battered side table, an empty bottle on the floor, a lamp plugged into a wall socket hanging loose from age.

You flexed your fingers until blood stung the tips. Inch by inch, you curled your knees under you, testing the rope at your ankles — tighter than your wrists, but not unbreakable.

You tugged once. Twice. The headboard rattled softly. No footsteps. Good.

Next, you twisted your body to the side, forcing your bound hands against the jagged corner of the bedframe’s rusted hinge. Metal bit skin — you hissed through your teeth, the smell of iron blooming fresh.

Keep going.

Your breath hitched when you heard faint voices down the hall. Hansol’s laugh. A lighter flick. Then footsteps retreating toward the far end of the corridor.

You pressed harder. Back and forth, flesh tearing, fibers loosening.

A single rope strand gave way with a muted snap. Pain blurred your vision but you swallowed it down, gasping through grit teeth as you slipped one wrist out.

Free. Half-free.

Ignoring the sting, you scrambled to untie your ankles, each tug punctuated by the terror that any second the door could burst open. Finally, the rope fell to the floor with a soft thud.

Your legs trembled as you stood, barefoot, hoodie rumpled and sticky with sweat and blood. You scanned for anything useful — no phone, no weapon, just a creaky old lamp and your pounding heart.

You padded to the grimy window, praying it wasn’t painted shut. Your trembling fingers worked the rusted latch loose. You shoved. Once. Twice. The frame groaned in protest before giving way an inch at a time — a humid gust stung your cuts but tasted like salvation.

Below, a dirty alley sloped into shadows. No time for fear. You swung one leg over the sill, biting back a whimper when your scraped palms pressed into the peeling paint.

A voice shouted inside the room — too late. You pushed off, dropped into the night, knees buckling as you hit the gravel. Pain shot up your shins but you forced your feet to move.

One breath. One thought: Run.

You bolted down the alley, bare feet slapping against broken concrete and puddles that splashed up your legs. Behind you, shouts erupted — Hansol’s voice, furious and sharp, echoing like a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.

Your breath tore at your throat, each step a prayer to whatever cruel god still watched over you and the monsters you’d unleashed. You veered right, shoulders crashing against an overflowing dumpster, then stumbled out into a dim side street lit only by flickering neon signs.

A black car screeched to a halt at the curb just as you shot across the gutter — headlights blinding you, tires squealing against wet asphalt.

You froze. For half a second, the world stilled, your scraped hands trembling in the glare, your chest heaving, your heart a war drum.

Then the car's door slammed open.

“Y/n!”

Wonwoo’s voice — raw, frantic — cut through every other sound.

He was on you in two strides, one hand gripping your shoulder so tightly it almost hurt, the other brushing your hair back, searching your face as if to confirm you were real, whole, not just a vision conjured by rage and fear.

“Are you hurt?” he rasped, scanning you up and down. You tried to answer — your mouth opened — but over Wonwoo’s shoulder, another figure emerged from the shadows.

Hansol.

He slowed to a stop at the edge of the headlights, breath misting in the night air, his eyes locked not on you now but on Wonwoo — and whatever twisted history the margin had let grow between them.

Wonwoo didn’t turn, but you felt the tension coil through him, like a bow pulled so taut it could snap bone.

Hansol cocked his head, wiping a smear of blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. He didn’t look at you — you didn’t exist in his eyes anymore. Only Wonwoo did.

“So,” Hansol said, voice calm, almost amused, though his knuckles were white at his sides. “Seems you do have a soft spot after all, master.”

The word dripped with mockery, a dare.

Wonwoo’s hand slid from your shoulder to your waist, anchoring you behind him. His other hand curled into a fist. He didn’t answer Hansol — didn’t need to.

You could feel it in the way he shifted his weight: this wouldn’t end in words.

Wonwoo’s arm tensed across your stomach, pinning you back a step as Hansol lifted the gun — careless, casual, yet steady as stone. For a split second, you thought he was bluffing.

But the glint in his eyes wasn’t madness — it was something colder. Certain.

“Don’t,” Wonwoo warned lowly, voice a dangerous calm that made the men behind him — Jun, Myungho, a handful of guards in black — shift their stance, guns discreetly trained on Hansol’s head and chest.

Hansol laughed, almost gentle. His finger curled tighter on the trigger.

“Look at you, Wonwoo… playing hero for a woman.” His eyes flicked to you, just a flicker, then right back to Wonwoo’s.

“Did she soften you so well you forgot what you are?”

“Hansol,” Wonwoo growled, moving half a step forward — but Hansol’s aim never wavered. The muzzle of the gun aligned perfectly with your chest first, then flicked back to Wonwoo’s.

“Stay behind me,” Wonwoo murmured to you without looking — an order threaded through with something fragile.

Your breath caught.

“Hansol — stop this. You don’t have to—”

Hansol’s grin twitched. For a heartbeat, regret flickered across his sharp features — gone before you could name it.

“Too late.”

The gunshot cracked the night open.

Wonwoo jerked — a sound, not a scream but a punched-out breath, left his lips as his shoulder snapped back. His grip on you faltered but didn’t break; his weight leaned into you for half a heartbeat before he forced himself upright, staggering once but staying between you and the barrel that still smoked in Hansol’s hand.

Time splintered around you — guards shouting, Jun lunging, Myungho cursing as he tackled Hansol from behind, the gun clattering to the pavement.

“Y/n—” he rasped, his forehead brushing yours, breath warm despite the cold. “Stay… behind me…”

Time fractured.

Wonwoo’s weight sagged into you — warm, heavy, terrifyingly real — as a second gunshot cracked through the air, closer than the first, sharper, final.

Your head snapped up just in time to see Jun, breathless and stone-faced, lowering his pistol. Smoke curled from the muzzle. Hansol’s body lurched back, the force sending him sprawling to the filthy asphalt. His gun tumbled from lifeless fingers, skittering away until Myungho’s boot pinned it down with a crunch of gravel.

For a moment, no one breathed. Then the night erupted: boots slamming pavement, men shouting commands, two guards wrestling Hansol’s barely-conscious cronies to the curb. Somewhere in the chaos, a siren wailed — distant, irrelevant.

But all of that blurred when you looked down at Wonwoo. His eyes fluttered open just enough to find yours, a glassy stubbornness shining through the pain.

“Hey— hey, don’t—” You pressed your hand hard against his shoulder wound, the heat of blood seeping too fast between your fingers. “Wonwoo, stay with me. Please, just—”

A choked laugh rattled out of him, strained but real.

“Y/n..” he rasped, half a smirk ghosting his lips. “You don’t… order me…”

You wanted to scream at him to shut up, to save his strength — but all you could do was press harder, leaning over him as Jun dropped to his other side, barked something you barely registered to the guards about an ambulance and backup.

“Jun—” you gasped, your voice breaking.

“I know.” Jun’s eyes flicked to yours, softening only for a fraction of a second before hardening again at the sight of Hansol’s limp form a few feet away. “I got him. Focus on master. He’s going to make it — sir, you hear me?”

Wonwoo’s breathing hitched, then steadied, his lashes fluttering against your wrist as you held him.

In the periphery, Myungho’s voice rose over the chaos, sharp and venomous as he kicked Hansol’s gun away and helped bind the man’s wrists in blood-smeared plastic cuffs.

And in that chaos — asphalt, blood, the ruined echo of betrayal — all you could do was bow your head over Wonwoo’s chest, feel the stubborn pulse beneath your palms, and pray that this time, for once, your story would let him live.

When your eyelids finally fought their way open, the first thing you saw was the sterile white ceiling — too bright, too still — and the frantic blur of Soonyoung’s worried face leaning into your blurry vision.

“Y/N! Y/n — hey, look at me, look at me — Doc! She’s awake! She’s—” He turned his head and bellowed down the hallway, his voice cracking halfway between relief and panic.

You blinked hard, your tongue dry as you tried to form words. It felt like waking from a lifetime underwater.

“...S-Soonyoung…?”

He almost collapsed over your bedside rail, grabbing your hand so tight you felt it through the IV tape.

“Holy shit, don’t you ever— I mean— where the hell were you?! Do you know what—” He choked on a half-laugh, half-sob. “The whole country could’ve gone to war and you wouldn’t know, you— oh my god—”

A doctor brushed past him, checking your pupils with a penlight, mumbling something reassuring about dehydration and mild concussion. Soonyoung refused to let go of your hand the whole time, his thumb sweeping your knuckles like he needed to remind himself you were really there.

When the doctor finally stepped back, Soonyoung dropped his voice, fighting the tremble that made him sound ten years younger.

“You were gone for two weeks, Y/n. Two weeks! A farmer found you lying by the side road near the rice fields — said you were passed out in the dirt. Police brought you straight here. We—” His breath caught. “We thought—”

You squeezed his hand weakly, a reflex to hush the tremor in his voice.

A soft knock at the door cut through the haze — two plainclothes officers stepped in, polite but clearly exhausted. One flipped his notebook open, voice gentle but firm.

“Miss Y/n… we know you’ve just woken up, but can you tell us anything about what happened? Where you were? Anyone who might have—”

You stared at him. The white walls swam a little. Wonwoo’s blood, Hansol’s laugh, Jun’s voice telling you to hold on — all of it pressed like a bruise behind your ribs.

“I…” You wet your lips. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry. I don’t… remember anything.”

The older officer exchanged a glance with his partner, then nodded, jotting something down.

“That’s alright. When you’re stronger, maybe something will come back. Rest for now, Miss.”

When they stepped out, Soonyoung exhaled shakily, dropping into the chair by your bed again.

“You don’t remember, huh?” he whispered, searching your eyes for the truth you couldn’t say out loud.

You only shook your head.

Soonyoung didn’t let you drift back into that soft, dangerous haze of half-sleep — not when he’d waited two weeks and nearly lost his mind doing it. He perched on the edge of your hospital bed, his knees bouncing, hands flying everywhere as he retold everything in the only way Soonyoung knew how: animated, loud, and bursting at the seams.

“You should’ve seen it! I mean— no, you shouldn’t have seen it— it was terrifying! There was blood on your floor, your notes scattered like some horror movie— I thought you’d been murdered!” He smacked your pillow, startling you. “So I called the police immediately — and the landlord — and then the internet exploded, obviously. Everyone thought some stalker fan did it, or one of your haters, or— god, I don’t even know, people started fighting in your comment sections—”

He pressed his hand to his chest dramatically, catching his breath like he’d run laps around the hospital.

“Your name trended for days. Then the whole ‘#ComeBackY/N’ thing — people apologizing for leaving hate, people crying they’d misunderstood you — ugh, the drama. Half of them are still scared you’ll sue them for defamation now that it looks like an actual crime scene—”

You groaned softly, your dry throat protesting. “Soonyoung… please…”

He ignored you completely. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you sneaky genius — you finished the damn manuscript before you vanished! You sent it! The publisher called me to check if it was really you — I almost fainted—” He jabbed your forehead gently with a finger. “You didn’t even tell me the last chapters! How dare you wrap up his arc without me. It’s going live tomorrow, do you know that? Tomorrow! I’m your biggest fan and you didn’t even spoil me!”

Your tired chuckle cracked open past your dry lips. It hurt, but it felt good too.

“Sorry…” you rasped. “Had to… finish it before—”

Before everything bled over. Before you lost control completely.

Soonyoung softened then, all the noise melting into a fond grumble. He brushed your hair gently from your eyes, the way only an old friend could.

“Yeah, well. You’re finishing this first — getting better. Then you’re gonna tell me everything. Even the parts you swear you don’t remember. Deal?”

His pinky hovered near yours. You hooked it with yours, sealing a promise neither of you fully understood yet.

Outside your room, the sun was already setting. And tomorrow — tomorrow, the ending would finally belong to the world.

The next morning, the hospital felt like it pulsed with a quiet hum — nurses at the station murmured about your trending name again, passing by your door with curious eyes. But you didn’t care about them. You were propped up in bed, blanket twisted around your legs, eyes glued to your phone screen.

Soonyoung sat on the recliner, scrolling too — at first pretending not to care, then stealing glances at your expression every other second.

You’d stayed up all night refreshing the publisher’s site, waiting for the final chapter to drop. You’d written the ending weeks ago: Wonwoo would die in winter’s first snow, tragic but poetic — the only way to end him before he devoured everything. Hansol was just a thread you’d never fully pulled tight; a side piece, never meant to bloom into a real threat.

Except now, you scrolled line by line in growing disbelief.

It wasn’t your ending.

In this ending, Wonwoo’s death was there — a single, startling moment in a half-frozen courtyard under falling snow — but it came like a dream: hazy, shifting, wrong. Instead of fading out, the chapter kept going.

Hansol rose out of the ashes you’d never planted. Darker, stranger — his voice split between what readers knew and an alter ego no one had guessed. Sihye — a minor guard you’d half-named once — appeared at his side like a shadow stitched to his heel, coiled and hungry for vengeance on Wonwoo’s ghost.

And you — you were gone. No trace of the girl who should have been kneeling in the snow, holding the monster she’d built. In this version, you’d been erased entirely, replaced by Hansol’s distorted memory of Wonwoo’s only weakness: a secret no reader could name but every line implied.

You exhaled a shaky laugh, the phone trembling in your palm.

Soonyoung jolted upright. “Why are you laughing like that? Don’t do that, you look possessed—”

“It’s not mine,” you said, voice cracking somewhere between relief and horror. “It’s… not my ending. He— he rewrote himself, Soonyoung. He rewrote himself.”

Your friend blinked, squinting at your screen as if the code behind the page might explain it better than you ever could.

“But you sent the final draft, right? Like… the publisher didn’t—?”

“They didn’t change it. Look at it.” You shoved your phone at him. “This is him. Wonwoo—Hansol— it’s them. I didn’t write this part. They— they finished their own story.”

Inside your ribs, your heart thudded at a truth too big to put into words: the monsters you’d made had crawled off the page — and somewhere, somehow, they were still writing the next chapter themselves.

Soonyoung stared at you, then at your phone screen again, then back at your wide, exhausted eyes. He let out a long, dramatic sigh — the kind he used when you forgot your umbrella on a rainy day or burned your rice three days in a row.

He reached out, gently pried the phone from your fingers, and tossed it onto the side table, ignoring your weak protest.

“Yah. Enough. You’re not going to fight fictional men and real-life trauma in the same week. Not on my watch.” He jabbed a finger at your forehead, like sealing an invisible button to shut you up.

“But, Soon—”

“No but. You’re still hooked up to an IV, you look like you time-traveled through a blender, and I swear if you refresh that page again I’ll eat your phone.” He plopped back into the recliner with a huff, arms crossed like an overworked guardian.

“Just rest. Sleep. Let them rewrite whatever they want — you’re alive. That’s all that matters, okay?”

His voice softened at the end, enough to blur your stubborn argument into a watery laugh. You nodded, letting your head sink back into the pillow as your body — traitorous and bone-deep tired — finally agreed with him.

Soonyoung mumbled as he pulled your blanket higher under your chin, “Next time you want drama, just watch Netflix. Less kidnapping, more popcorn.”

Outside your hospital window, the world kept turning — while inside, for the first time in days, you let yourself drift without chasing any more endings.

You kept your announcement short — a single post on your page, pinned right above the final episode that had broken the internet for all the wrong reasons:

Thank you for reading my work all these years. I’ve decided to take an indefinite hiatus from creating comics. Please keep supporting new artists and stories. I’ll always be grateful. — Y/n

No dramatic farewell, no live Q&A. Just a quiet bow at the end of a stage you’d clung to for too long.

By the time you clicked ‘post,’ the comments were already flooding in — Take care of yourself, Author-nim! We’re so sorry for what you went through! We’ll wait for your return! — but you only let yourself read a handful before shutting your laptop for good.

The studio that had become your makeshift bedroom was a battlefield of cold coffee cups, scribbled drafts, and stacks of half-finished illustrations. You rolled up old posters, boxed every pen and sketchbook that still worked, and tied up bundles of storyboards you no longer had the heart to burn but couldn’t look at either.

Your tiny apartment — neglected for months while you hid among ink and paper — felt foreign at first. Sunlight spilled onto the dusty floor as you pulled the curtains wide, a broom in one hand and resolve in the other. You scrubbed, sorted, folded. Every faded mug and wrinkled blanket was a piece of your old life you were willing to keep — everything else, you stuffed into black trash bags and left by the door.

When the rooms were finally empty of yesterday’s ghosts, you stood in the middle of it all — the hum of the fridge, the ticking wall clock, the warm breeze sneaking through the open window — and breathed.

No Wonwoo. No Hansol. No margins waiting to tear open.

Just you. And this chance, fragile but yours, to live outside the page.

You tied your hair up with an old scrunchie, sleeves rolled high as you dragged a ragged mop across the narrow kitchen floor. The scent of pine disinfectant mingled with the faint, stubborn smell of ink and dust that clung to your walls no matter how hard you scrubbed.

Every time you opened a cupboard, a bit of your past life fell out: old character sketches wedged behind the plates, a mug etched with World’s Best Artist from Soonyoung (he’d spelled artist wrong, on purpose). You smiled weakly, tossing it into the keep pile anyway.

Your phone buzzed, rattling against the counter. You ignored it. Today wasn’t for calls or comforting words. Today was for clearing out the ghosts.

In the bedroom, you stripped your bed to the bare mattress. Crumpled sheets went straight into a laundry bag, along with the hoodie you’d practically lived in through every late-night rewrite. When you caught your reflection in the wardrobe mirror — hair a mess, sweat trickling down your neck — you almost laughed. Human again, you thought. Not an author. Not a hostage to a world you’d lost control of. Just… you.

By evening, cardboard boxes lined the hallway. Some destined for donation, some for the trash, some — the ones too heavy with memory — tucked carefully into the closet. You’d decide what to do with those later.

You sank down on the now-bare floor, back against the freshly wiped wall, and let the quiet wrap around you.

No drafts to finish. No margin to cross. No monster waiting behind your mirror.

For the first time in too long, your biggest problem was what to have for dinner. And that felt like freedom.

You were half-dozing on the bare floor when the knock came — three quick raps, one heavy thump. Classic Soonyoung, no doorbell, just his whole personality at your doorstep.

You opened the door to find him balancing a large paper bag in one hand and a soda bottle under his arm, grinning like he owned the hallway.

“Survival rations for the hermit,” he declared, barging in before you could protest. He paused mid-step when he saw the cleared apartment — the boxes, the empty desk, the naked walls where your storyboard clippings used to be pinned with colorful tape.

“…Whoa.” He set the bag down on your tiny dining table. “It really looks like you’re quitting your entire life in one day.”

You shrugged, pulling out the takeout boxes one by one. Rice, spicy chicken, egg rolls — all comfort food, all too much for one person. Soonyoung was good like that. Always bringing more than you asked for, just in case you forgot to eat tomorrow too.

“I’m not quitting my life,” you said, opening the soda for him. “Just… changing it. For good.”

He flopped onto the floor next to you, cross-legged like a kid. “Yeah, yeah. You know, people online still think you were kidnapped by a deranged fan.” He gestured with a chopstick. “You could clear that up, you know.”

You pressed your lips together. “Let them think what they want. It’s over.”

He went quiet for a second, then reached out and flicked your forehead — not hard, just enough to snap you out of your thoughts.

“Eat first, dramatic later,” he said, voice soft despite the tease. He cracked open a container, waved it under your nose. “I gotta go after this — there’s a meeting with my editor tonight. But I didn’t want you spending your first free night with instant noodles.”

You laughed, the sound a little watery. Soonyoung bumped your shoulder with his, eyes twinkling like always.

“Next chapter’s gonna be your best, okay?” he said. “Even if there’s no drawing in it. Promise me.”

You clinked your chopsticks against his, a tiny toast in the middle of your nearly empty home.

“Promise.”

You were jolted awake by a dull thud — something heavy shifting, then a soft scrape against your living room floor. For a few disoriented seconds, you lay stiff under your blanket, eyes wide in the darkness, every childhood nightmare crawling back into your mind at once.

Half-dreaming, half-dreading, you wondered if this was finally it — the day the anonymous threats turned real, the day the masked words became hands around your throat.

Your throat tightened as you slid your feet to the cold floor, steadying your shaky breath. You bent down, groping blindly under your bed until your fingers curled around worn, familiar wood — the old baseball bat you’d kept since college, back when you thought monsters only lived in alleyways, not in your inbox.

You clutched the handle so tight your knuckles whitened. Each cautious step made the floor groan just enough to betray you, but you pressed on, every nerve on fire as you crept toward the faint slice of light spilling under your bedroom door.

The quiet outside was worse than any noise. You could almost hear your heartbeat echoing off the walls. You paused by the door, inhaled once, twice, then flicked the switch with trembling fingers.

The harsh hallway light flared to life, making your eyes sting — and in that moment, the bat fell limp in your grip.

He stood there in the middle of your living room, as if he belonged in the mundane mess of your reality: a man in a rain-damp coat, droplets dripping onto your floorboards, a battered copy of The Little Prince dangling loosely from his hand. He was brushing rain from his dark hair with the other hand, utterly unbothered by the way your entire world had just jolted awake with you.

Your throat worked around his name, hoarse and disbelieving. “Wonwoo…”

He turned slowly, dark eyes meeting yours under the harsh ceiling light. Something soft flickered there, ghostly warmth beneath the sharp lines of a man you once wrote as unyielding steel.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice deep and so achingly familiar that your grip on the bat finally failed you.

It hit the floor with a muted clatter — the only sound loud enough to remind you this wasn’t a dream, no matter how much your knees begged you to wake up.

Your mind reeled, lagging behind the sight of him standing there, flesh and bone and rain-soaked reality — not ink, not pixels, not a memory stitched into your pillow at 3 a.m.

You took a step forward before your legs betrayed you, buckling just enough that you grabbed the door frame for support.

“Y-You’re…” Your voice broke on the word, disbelief scraping your throat raw. “You’re alive.”

Wonwoo tilted his head at you, a faint crease between his brows as if he was gently puzzled by how fragile you sounded. He shifted the little book in his hand, like an absent gesture to ground himself in this place that wasn’t meant for him — your place, your clutter, your humdrum lightbulb humming above him.

“Of course I’m alive,” he said, and his tone held that soft reprimand you’d given him in all your drafts when he needed to remind people he was human first, ruthless second. “It takes more than a bullet to kill me, doesn’t it?”

You shook your head, eyes stinging, the rush of tears making your vision stutter like a broken film reel.

“Wonwoo, I— I saw you—”

Before you could finish, he stepped forward, crossing the distance you couldn’t. His free hand, warm and real, cupped the side of your neck, thumb brushing your racing pulse. His touch made your heart lurch against your ribs, a startled bird in a too-small cage.

“You wrote an ending,” he murmured, voice lower now, nearer. “But you forgot something, didn’t you? I never really did what you told me to do, not completely.”

He lifted The Little Prince slightly, almost playful, like a conspirator showing you his secret.

“Wherever you put me,” he said, “I always find my way back to you.”

Your body moved before your mind could catch up as you stumbled forward and threw your arms around him.

“You’re alive…” you whispered, the words trembling out of you like a confession — like an apology for every night you’d cried over his death, for every version of him you’d buried in the drafts you never dared to reopen.

Wonwoo let out a soft grunt at the impact, but his arms wrapped around you without hesitation, steady and certain. He smelled like a cold wind and a trace of old paper — the way you’d always imagined his world to feel against your skin.

“I’m here,” he murmured into your hair, one hand splayed wide between your shoulder blades like he was anchoring you to him. “Look at you… You really thought you’d gotten rid of me?”

You laughed, a small, cracked sound muffled against his chest, your fingers fisting in the damp fabric of his coat. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, so solid and steady you almost sobbed from the relief of it.

“I thought—” you choked out, pulling back just enough to see his face. His dark eyes searched yours, calm even now, as if there was nothing more natural in the world than him standing in your hallway. “I thought you were gone. I thought you—”

He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath brushing your lips as he cut you off softly. “I’m not gone. You should know by now… I never die that easily.”

Your hands came up to frame his face, to prove to yourself this wasn’t another cruel dream. His skin was warm. His lashes fluttered when you touched his cheekbone with your thumb, like you were the fragile thing this time, not him.

His hand slipped from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a tenderness that contradicted the storm behind his eyes. Before you could answer, before you could even draw another breath to question him, Wonwoo closed the last inch between you and pressed his mouth to yours.

It wasn’t gentle — not really. It was the kind of kiss that said enough to every unfinished ending you’d ever written for him. His lips moved over yours like he was claiming lost time, like he needed to remind you he was flesh and blood, not a tragic line on a page you could erase.

Your knees nearly gave out. One hand clutched at his coat while the other fisted in his hair, and the bat you’d dropped rolled noiselessly across the floor behind you. The hallway light flickered above you, but you barely noticed. There was only his warmth, the taste of him — familiar and heartbreakingly real — and the soft rumble of his low groan against your mouth when you tugged him closer.

When he finally pulled back, your lips tingled, your breath stolen, your heart pounding so loud it drowned out every thought but he’s here, he’s here, he’s here.

Wonwoo didn’t step away. His forehead rested against yours, eyes half-lidded, voice rough when he spoke.

“Do you believe me now?” he murmured, the ghost of a smile brushing your swollen lips. “I’m alive. I’m not leaving you again.”

Your hands trembled where they clutched his coat, but you didn’t care — you didn’t want to care about anything except the taste of him and the warmth that bled through every inch where your bodies touched.

You tipped your chin up, breathless but hungry for more, and tugged him down to you again. This time the kiss was deeper, slower but impossibly warmer — no fear, no half-finished confessions, just you pouring every sleepless night and every secret wish into the press of your mouth against his.

Wonwoo made a sound you’d never heard before — half a groan, half a laugh muffled by your lips — as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real, too. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him until there was no room for the past, no room for doubt, just the frantic thrum of your pulse answering his.

When you finally pulled back for air, your lips were damp and your chest ached sweetly with relief. His eyes searched yours — dark, sharp, so alive — and softened when he saw the tears you didn’t even realize had slipped free.

“Again,” he whispered against your mouth, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Say it again.”

You breathed out the words like a vow, fingers curling into his hair.

“You’re alive. You’re here. With me.”

And this time, when he kissed you, it was softer — but it felt endless.

Soonyoung nearly choked on his iced coffee, eyes wide as saucers darting between you and the man beside you — the very real, very unbothered Jeon Wonwoo, who calmly stirred his latte like he hadn’t just upended everything Soonyoung thought he knew about you.

“Wait— wait,” Soonyoung sputtered, jabbing a finger accusingly at Wonwoo’s face. “You’re telling me… you— this— he’s real? And his name is actually Jeon Wonwoo?”

You pressed your lips together, trying to hide your laugh behind your palm. Wonwoo only raised an eyebrow, glancing at you with that faint, knowing smirk before returning his gaze to Soonyoung, unruffled as ever.

“Yes,” you said, voice light but betraying your thrill. “His name is really Jeon Wonwoo.”

Soonyoung gaped, looking like he was rethinking every midnight rant he’d ever heard from you about “that tragic idiot villain” you were rewriting for the hundredth time.

“Hold on— then all this time, the comic— you were inspired by him?” He leaned in over the table, practically vibrating with secondhand scandal. “You built that entire icy bastard king based on your real boyfriend?”

Your gaze slipped to Wonwoo, your hand drifting unconsciously to his on the table. He didn’t pull away — instead, his thumb brushed yours, so soft it made your chest tighten all over again.

“Maybe…” you murmured, unable to hide the tiny smile. “He’s my muse, after all.”

Soonyoung groaned, dropping his head dramatically to the table with a loud thud.

“I knew it. I knew you were secretly romantic, but this is insane. Next you’ll tell me Hansol’s real too and wants to kill me.”

Wonwoo’s low chuckle rumbled beside you. “Don’t worry,” he said smoothly, eyes twinkling. “Hansol won’t bother you.”

Soonyoung just wailed into his arms. “I hate both of you. But also — I’m so happy for you, oh my god.”

The End.

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