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vanteguccir · 3 months ago

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤSURPRISE PARTY TOUR: CHICAGO DISS TRACK * CHRIS STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　Where at the Chicago show of the Surprise Party Tour, Chris is not only surprised by the diss track made by his brothers against him, but especially by his girlfriend being part of it.

FEATURING　Chris Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　none.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

A/N²: I'm not a song writer by no means, so I apologize in advance if Y/N's part of the song sucks 😭✋🏻

A/N³: Stream LIKE ME right now!

The orange glow of the stage lights bathed everything in warmth, catching little glints in the shelves to the left of the stage, bouncing off the glossy top of the coffee table sitting between the two orange couches.

Y/N, standing just off-stage behind the curtain with the crew, had that weird ache in her chest she always got right before the surprise segment. She could practically feel the excitement coming from the fans, like static electricity tingling across her skin.

She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling too hard. She already knew what the surprise was. I mean, how couldn’t she? She was in it.

She leaned forward a little, peeking past the thick curtain, watching the boys from her hidden little corner.

Nick was lounging - well, more like bouncing - in his seat on the left couch, leg jittering, fingers tapping on the cushion, clearly vibrating with excitement. Matt and Chris were sharing the right couch, the former sitting up straight with a smile. Chris, meanwhile, was leaned back with one arm stretched along the back of the couch, his head tilted in curiosity, eyes glued to the giant screen in front of them.

And then, it started.

The big screen flicked to life with a massive countdown in bold white numbers against a glitching screen.

5... 4... 3... 2... 1...

Everyone in the theater screamed. It was instant.

Echoing. Like someone had thrown gasoline on a fire and let it explode.

Y/N laughed under her breath, clutching her jacket at the chest. She swore her heart jumped with that countdown. It always did.

The screen flickered, and there they were.

Matt and Nick. Edited to be side by side, both in suits and ties, serious expressions. Nick was adjusting his already-too-tight tie, and Matt was patting down his shirt collar, eyes locked with the camera lens.

The crowd absolutely lost it.

Nick leapt up from his couch like someone had shocked him and started doing these little bouncy jumps toward Matt, his face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. His feet barely touched the ground, boots thudding heavily against the stage floor.

"Oh, Nick." Y/N whispered to herself, soft smile decorating her face, watching Nick’s expression explode into a wide grin as he reached Matt and wrapped him up in a huge hug.

Matt hugged him back with one arm and held the mic to his mouth with the other.

"I’m so excited."

Nick pulled back from the hug, mic now in his hand.

"We've been talking about this all day." He said, turning to the audience. "And I'm so excited that we're about to show this to you guys. I feel like me and Matt don't have many duo moments, right?"

The theater roared with approval, stomping and clapping and shrieking. Chris raised an eyebrow from the right couch, side-eyeing them both with an amused but skeptical expression.

"Oh, here we go." He muttered into his mic, finally standing up.

Y/N bit her lip, stifling her laugh as Chris casually strolled over to the left couch Nick had just vacated, flopping onto it in one fluid motion, stretching out like he owned the place. Which, well, he kind of did.

"Alright, I’m curious." He said, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it. "I’m suspicious, but I’m curious."

Nick, still standing, grinned mischievously, and held up a single finger.

"Okay." He started, pacing a little as he spoke. "Before we play this video, I know you’re excited. I know you’re screaming. I know you’re probably on the edge of your seat."

People in the front row giggled, phones held up and already recording.

"But this surprise?" Nick continued, voice dropping dramatically. "It’s a little dramatic. It’s a little drama. And it’s gonna be amazing. But I need y’all to listen while you watch it. ‘Cause we only get to watch this once, alright? And I want to make sure that you have the best experience watching it. So, be excited, laugh, but listen, and let's get into it."

The crowd erupted in cheers.

Matt gave Nick a quick shoulder bump before the two of them made their way back to the right couch, both of them trying to suppress the stupid, excited grins tugging at their mouths.

Y/N clutched her chest.

The screen flickered again.

And the video began.

Matt and Nick sat on the edge of Matt's bed, both in crisp white long sleeves, shoulders brushing, Matt with his backward baby pink cap on.

"Me and Matt have some major plans today." Video-Nick said, not even waiting a single second to properly greet the camera. "And it all kinda involves shitting on Chris... Basically, Chris hasn’t done his fair share of shit on us, and going to the studio with his friends and making a diss track seemed just fair."

And that was when the place went feral.

People screamed. Hands flew over mouths.

On the right couch, Chris’s head whipped toward his brothers so fast it was a miracle he didn’t pull a muscle. His face was this perfect blend of betrayal and disbelief, pinkish lips parted in a dropped-jaw expression, blinking like he’d just been slapped.

And before he could even grab his mic to react verbally, Matt’s voice echoed again from the screen.

"Besides Chris’s friends, there’s gonna be another very important person in there with us to help create this diss track about Chris." He turned his head on the video to Nick beside him and added. "Also, Nick has never sung in a studio before. Not even once."

Video-Nick gave a little 'yeah, true' shrug and nodded.

"Never touched a mic for singing, actually. Either way, I feel like I’m more of a singer than a rapper, though."

"Chris needs a rap, not a pop song." Matt replied immediately, barely holding back a grin.

The crowd laughed.

Chris, still holding onto his mic like a lifeline, shook his head with this baffled little smile like he genuinely didn’t know how to react yet.

Then, cut.

The video jumped to a dimly lit studio room, those iconic blue neon lights casting this soft futuristic glow over everything. Matt stood in front of a mic setup, black headphones pushed over his ears, phone in one hand, looking relaxed but focused. He was glancing at someone off-screen.

"... If I have a visual cue of when the beat is gonna drop, it’s gonna be easier for me." He said, pointing slightly with the hand holding his phone.

And then, from somewhere just beside the camera, a familiar voice called out.

"Oh, you wanna see it drop?"

The second that voice hit, the entire crowd lost it.

Chris straight up jolted on the couch, body shooting forward like someone had zapped him. His cap almost flew off. His mic dropped from his hands to his lap - almost fleeing to the ground, and his whole expression screamed 'is that who I think it is?'

Because it was.

Video-Y/N's body walked into the frame. She had a big pair of headphones hanging around her neck, layered gold jewelry below it, catching the blue light.

She looked at whoever Matt had been talking to and nodded, her voice smooth and easy.

"Yeah, that would actually be very helpful."

That was it.

That tiny moment was enough to send the crowd into full-blown chaos. People jumped on their seats, screamed, you could barely hear over the shrieking.

Chris was still frozen with his mouth wide open, jaw starting to hurt, blue eyes staring at the screen, like his brain hadn’t caught up with what just happened.

And then he finally managed to react, dragging his mic to his lips like a man possessed.

"WHAT?!" He practically screeched, his voice cracking with disbelief.

Nick stood up, cracking up as he grabbed his own mic. He turned to where Y/N was obviously hidden behind the stage, grinning.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special guest for this surprise..." Then he pointed his free hand toward the side of the stage. "Y/N, come out here, queen!"

And right on cue, Y/N appeared, that same smug little smile on her lips like she knew she just turned the theater upside down.

She walked to the center of the stage, waving sweetly to the audience, blowing a kiss toward Matt and Nick’s couch, then heading over to Chris’s one, her movements chill and confident, already used to being on a stage after standing on its side for six shows in a row.

Chris hadn’t taken his eyes off her. He stared at her the entire walk to the couch, his expression a mixture of love and betray.

Y/N plopped down beside him, letting her shoulder bump his casually as she laughed at the chaos around them, thighs touching his jeans covered ones, feeling instantly his body heat penetrating her skin.

Chris dragged his mic back up dramatically, his eyes following hers.

"Did you really make a diss track about your own very good boyfriend?"

The tone was so wounded, so fake-offended, the crowd roared.

Y/N just rolled her eyes, leaning in more - as if it was even possible with how close they already were -, plump lips covered in pink gloss pressing a quick kiss on his milky cheek, leaving glitter behind, and leaned back with a shrug, turning her head to the screen.

"Gotta keep you humble."

Chris stared at her like she’d just invented fire, completely smitten, then dropped his head back with a groan into the couch.

"Unreal..." He muttered into the mic. Though he was smiling so wide, it nearly broke his face.

On screen, Y/N turned to Matt, pressing just one side of her headphones against her ear, listening to what Matt and Nick had sung until now while waiting for the producer to do what Matt had proposed.

"'I’m the favorite child, you can go and ask your father' is literally the best thing you could think of, Matt." She said, eyebrows raised, half-laughing in this low, amused tone that came straight from her chest.

From behind the camera, Nick cackled.

Matt just nodded super fast, his whole face smug, a crooked smile already spreading.

"No, exactly! If he comes with that shit of 'Oh, I have the best tour surprise', dude, I’m getting my gay brother who watches RuPaul’s Drag Race four times a week and his girlfriend who’s obsessed with him to come to this studio and diss rap him for hours."

Y/N snorted.

"Guilty." She muttered, tossing her free hand up dramatically, one foot tapping the ground to the beat that was still echoing from her headphones directly to her ears.

The crowd was still going wild as everyone’s attention kept glued to the screen, the video now slowly fading into what looked like the start of a music video.

The screen lit up with Nick.

Back to the camera, hood up, shoulders squared, and standing in front of a closed elevator.

The hoodie was pitch black and decked out in silver spikes that looked like they could kill someone if he turned too fast, catching the dim light of the scene and gleaming like daggers.

The second his figure appeared, there was a wave of gasps.

"Oh my God." Chris's voice echoed from his mic to the speakers, his eyes darting from the screen to Nick and back again.

DING

The elevator doors slid open, and Nick stepped in without hesitation.

Inside the elevator, the vibe somehow got even cooler.

Matt was standing on the left, looking like he had just gotten out of an important meeting, body covered in an all-black suit. He gave Nick the quickest up-and-down look, raising his eyebrows before turning back to face the closed elevator door again.

The crowd was already going crazy again. People clapping, some laughing with his reaction.

But then the camera moved again, and there she was.

Right side of the elevator.

Leaning back on the wall like this was the most boring situation in the world.

Her body was covered in a black faux leather pleated mini skirt that sat low on her waist, a wide belt looped around it, thick and grommeted, fastened with a large silver buckle that sat slightly tilted.

The skirt was paired with a long-sleeved black mesh top, fitted close to her body, dotted with tiny, scattered rhinestones. Her sleeves extended into fingerless gloves that wrapped around her hands decorated with silver rings.

Black shiny boots to her knees. Choker on.

She had her arms crossed, one knee bent, chewing gum like she could not care less about the world.

She didn’t even look at Nick.

Didn’t acknowledge anyone.

Just chewed her gum with this bored expression.

And that’s when the entire room collectively combusted. Someone yelled 'HOT' so loud it echoed above the screams.

Meanwhile, Chris went through five stages of falling in love all over again in two seconds.

His eyes lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, and this huge smile just took over his face. The kind of smile you try to hide but it’s too late, it’s already there and it’s so obvious you’re whipped.

His body acted almost on instinct, reaching for Y/N and just gently wrapping his arm around her shoulders. His fingers pressed into her upper arm like he was making sure she was real, and he tugged her softly until she leaned into him.

Her laugh was caught in the mic, soft and warm, tilting her head to look at him, but Chris, still staring at the screen, shook his head with the most insane look of awe.

"That's my girl right there, everyone." He said into the mic, taking more screams out of everyone.

Y/N didn’t even try to hide her grin. She leaned fully into him, nuzzling her head briefly on his covered shoulder before turning to look at the big screen like everyone else, her cheeks a little pink from the screaming crowd and the way Chris was looking at her like she hung the moon.

[When you get dressed, you should think a little longer]

On screen, the elevator dinged once more. The doors opening.

Only Nick stepped out, walking to the corridor that stretched in front of him. Neon purple lights on the ceiling. He walked forward, still not looking at the camera.

[First verse + Chorus]

[... Yeah, he wanna be just like me]

The space was bathed in neon purples and soft violets that kissed the black, curved walls. One big circle light glowed from above, dead center, like a spotlight from another planet.

And then, Y/N stepped into frame.

She moved with this crazy mix of confidence and chill, her steps slow and controlled as she slid into the middle of the frame like she owned the place. Half-lidded eyes decorated with shiny gems just below her lower eyelid locked with the camera in that way that made it impossible to look anywhere else.

"You talk big, babe, but you're softer than my skincare. Actin’ like a player, but your game’s just not there..."

Y/N’s voice wasn’t sweet. It was smooth, sultry, sharp as glass wrapped in silk.

The crowd gasped.

Literal gasps. Audible whispers.

"Holy fucking shit." Chris's voice sounded choked against his mic, his tongue poking out to wet his lips in a hypnotized manner, pupils intensely widening.

"You say you run the house, can’t find clean underwear. Yeah, I date you, it’s a choice, but let’s not go there."

She bounced gently with the beat, arms moving effortlessly, shoulder dips, slow turns causing her skirt to dance around plump thighs, little half-smirks on the beat drops.

[Middle verse]

[... I'm the favorite child, you can go and ask Mary Lou]

The music video jumped into the next part. Purple. Neon. Glowy and deliciously moody.

"Your brothers roast you, I just add the spice. Lucky that I love you, boy, I’m way too nice."

There she was.

Y/N on the screen, in that dim, vibey room, with a glowing purple haze washing over everything. She was standing front and center, with Nick and Matt behind her, each on each side of her.

Nick was bobbing his head from his place in the left back of the dark room, smirking.

Matt had this calm confidence on his face, nodding along in the right back, his arms moving to the beat while his eyes locked onto the camera, blue bandana moving with each movement.

A smug smirk stretched across her face, exposing the two tooth gems glued to her pearly canine teeth's.

Two silver stars, shining below the camera flash.

"The gems!" Chris yelled on the mic before pointing it to the big screen, blue eyes widening. "Oh, you're gonna have to use those every day now."

Y/N laughed, her body shaking against his.

"It looks amazing, doesn't it? I was the one who told her to use them." Nick nodded from his place on the couch, a smug look taking over his features.

"And we all say 'thank you, Nick'." Matt muttered against his mic, snorting.

Then the video flickered.

Now it was all white neon light. Their dark silhouettes danced and vibed in perfect sync. Just their outlines, glowing in white and shifting around with the beats.

"So sip your soda, flex that 'Rizz God' fame. But let’s be honest, you'd forget your own name."

Every word, she looked straight into the lens like she was talking to someone specific.

Back on stage, Chris turned slowly to her and narrowed his eyes.

"You’re lucky I love you."

"Aw." She said into his mic, pouting her lower lip with the fakest sweetness ever. "You’d forget your own name without me anyway."

[Last verse + last chorus]

[... Yeah, he wanna be just like me]

When everyone thought the music video was over with how the beat got lower, the final scene started.

The crowd screamed, gasping in surprise.

"Wait, what the fuck?" Matt's voice yelled from his place, echoing from the speakers and bouncing against the theater walls. "There wasn't-"

"The song ended... it ended with that chorus! Wha-" Nick picked up from where Matt abruptly stopped, body sitting a little more straight on the orange couch, frowning.

Dark neon purple again. But this time, deeper. Intense.

Y/N was back, alone in that glowing room.

She was staring straight into the camera, half-lidded eyes, lips already curled into that smug, almost daring little smirk. Her head purposefully tilted just slightly to the side.

She had a Fresh Love unreleased black cap pulled low over her forehead, the brim shadowing her eyes a bit. But not enough to hide them. Not even close.

They were sharp. Locked in.

Her lips were red now, glossy and full, a little too perfect.

And then, she rapped.

"Okay, but listen, he’s mine, so tread light. Y’all can joke, but I swing when it doesn't sit right."

And holy shit.

Chris audibly choked on stage.

Nick had to grab Matt’s arm, jaw dropping so hard that anyone who paid close attention knew it hurt.

Matt let out the longest "AYOOOOOOOOO" into his mic like he couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

And the crowd?

Feral. Hands in the air. People screaming.

On the screen, Y/N's hands moved as she spoke, smooth and expressive. Her long black nails with silver glitter caught the light and sparkled as she pointed to herself on 'he’s mine'.

She looked down for just a split second, then licked her lips casually as the next line dropped.

"You call him the worst? Nah, he’s my favorite view."

She dragged that line with the softest rasp, just enough flirt in her tone to make the entire crowd go still for half a second like they needed to process it.

Chris's hand flexed around Y/N's shoulder, discreetly adjusting his hips and legs in a manspread position to try and hide how turned on he actually was, jaw flexing and adam's apple bobbing as he gulped, watching the screen like he could devour her video version with his eyes.

"Say what you want, but he’s better than the two of you."

The screen paused on her face for one last beat. Her smirk still there. Her eyes still locked into the camera like she was daring anyone to come for her man. Like she was saying, 'go ahead, try me'.

And then it all fades to black.

The music stopped.

And for a second, the theater was pure silence.

Until the crowd exploded.

Screams. Claps. Cheers. Laughter. Chaos. Literal hysteria.

Nick had his eyes still locked on the big screen, mic frozen halfway his mouth, while Matt glared at Y/N with a playful hard gaze.

"Oops?" Y/N pressed her lips in a fine line.

"How did you even record this part without us knowing?"

Y/N just sat there all smug, doing a little shoulder shrug.

"I just went back to the studio a week later. Me and the producer had it all planned since day one." Her eyes darted from Matt to Nick. "And then, I talked to the crew that helped us record the music video and asked them if we could film the last part and add it to the already edited MV. The one you both received didn't have this part."

"I'm shocked. This is actually insane, Y/N." Nick shook his head, looking at the crowd with raised eyebrows. "I guess we all were surprised tonight, guys."

Y/N jokingly rolled her eyes at him before turning to look at Chris with this soft little smile, one that was completely different from the cocky on-screen version of her. One from the girl who loved him too hard, who wrote verses like that not to roast him but to make him laugh.

Her fingers were affectionately tapping against the inside of his thigh, her arm resting comfortably above his legs, cheeks glowing with the most genuine happiness.

Meanwhile, Chris was just staring at her with this look, like she was the only person in the room before turning to the crowd.

"Y’all heard that, right? That was a threat." His eyes moved to his brothers. "I would watch my back now if I were you two."

Y/N giggled and grabbed the mic from him, casually resting her free hand on his chest.

"It was a love letter, babe. Relax."

The crowd screamed again.

Matt shook his head, fixing his cap before looking at her again.

"You’re so scary sometimes."

Chris snorted, pressing his mouth to the side of her head before turning to the mic again.

"I don’t care what anyone says... you’re better than all of us."

Nick nodded.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, the protector of Chris’s dignity, the queen herself, give it up for Y/N."

The cheers were deafening.

Y/N peeked down to the crowd, eyes wide, lips bitten back into a shy smile, shaking her head.

Under all the lights, with all the noise, the chaos, the screaming, Chris leaned in, whispering in her ear just for her.

"So just to confirm... I’m your favorite view, yeah?"

She turned to look up at him, eyes shining.

And without even thinking, she kissed him.

Just a peck. Quick, sweet. Pure instinct. Pure them.

Everyone screamed as loud as the whole crew thought it was possible, the stage shaking with it.

"Oh for fuck's sake- Chris!" Matt yelled, throwing his free arm up.

"CUT THE CAMERAS." Nick followed right after, standing up and waving his hand in a frenetic way, holding back his laugh.

Chris just held her tighter, his own laugh echoing like music around the speakers.

RECORD BREAKING FIRST RELEASED SONG - IS THERE ANYTHING THE STURNIOLO TRIPLETS CAN’T DO?

By E! News Staff

The Sturniolo Triplets have officially made their mark in the music world. Nicolas and Matthew's debut single, LIKE ME, has climbed into the Top 20 Most Streamed Songs on Spotify less than 24 hours after release, garnering over 1 million streams. The track, which features Chris Sturniolo’s girlfriend, Y/N, has taken the internet by storm.

Alongside the single, Chris’s fashion brand Fresh Love released a limited-edition black cap that Y/N wears in the music video. The drop sold out in just six minutes, reportedly bringing in over $100,000 in merchandise revenue within the first day.

With viral success, chart-topping numbers, and a fast-growing presence in both music and fashion, the Sturniolo Triplets are proving they’re more than internet personalities. They’re building an empire.

1K notes · View notes

youthguk · 4 months ago

Text

Encore 2: Intermission

“Some scenes only happen when the lights go down.”

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

genre: smut, ex lovers, second chance au, angst with smut, toxic ex au

summary: You’ve worked too hard to become untouchable. He still knows exactly where to touch. After one night of stolen pleasure, you’re determined to walk away — but Jungkook isn’t ready to let you go again. Between silk sheets, half-spoken regrets, and a black-tie dinner where flirtation becomes revenge, your past and present spiral into something dangerous. It was supposed to be physical. But feelings don’t follow the script.

warnings: explicit sexual content (multiple scenes), oral (f + m), fingering, rimming (f receiving), protected sex, angst, unresolved feelings, toxic relationship tension, emotional breakdown

w.c: 10k

author's note: ugh, this part really broke me🖤 writing and creating stories takes a lot of time, and no matter how much i love doing this and jungkook, i would love your support and feedback 🖤

part 1 | part 2 (you're here) | final part 3

You stand in front of Seo In-kyung’s office door in borrowed heels and smudged eyeliner, praying your face doesn’t betray the night carved into your body.

The morning light bleeds through the glass walls like scrutiny. Her office is pristine — sharp angles, a curved leather chair behind a white marble desk, walls lined with editorial archives and thick matte prints. A minimalist arrangement of white orchids sits perfectly still in one corner, untouched by dust or emotion.

You knock.

“Come in.”

Her voice cuts through like the heel of a Louboutin.

You step inside, clutching your tablet too tightly. Your hair is pulled back — barely — in a low twist that you smoothed with shaking fingers in the backseat of a cab thirty minutes ago. Underneath the oversized Saint Laurent blazer, your dress is the same one from last night. You're hoping it passes as intentional. It doesn’t.

Seo In-kyung is already seated. Flawless. Impeccable. A navy Mugler blazer sharp enough to slit throats, heels lacquered, wrists bare. She doesn’t smile. She gestures to the chair opposite her without looking up.

You sit, spine straight. For a moment, silence.

“You really outdid yourself, Y/N.”

She’s flipping through a printed copy of the BTS campaign spread — full bleed photos, minimalist layouts, editorial perfection. The same layouts you stayed past midnight refining. The ones you pushed through legal, color, and styling approvals with nothing but caffeine and willpower.

She taps her manicured nail on the cover.

“This,” she says, “brought the entire industry back to us.”

You exhale. Just slightly. “Thank you, Director Seo.”

“Don’t thank me,” she says, eyes still scanning the page. “Thank your instinct. You were right to strip it down. No gimmicks. No clutter. Just tension.” She turns a page. “Even Jeon looked like a man worth remembering.”

You freeze. But she doesn’t elaborate. Just closes the folder, places it gently beside her, and finally looks at you.

You wish she hadn’t. Her gaze is cool. Calculating. The kind that scans and files away. You feel it — the mess behind your eyes. The mascara you didn't have time to fully erase. The faint redness at your mouth. The scent of a man that no water could completely wash off.

She leans back in her chair. “Fondo di Luce.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

Her fingers tap the marble. Once. Twice.

“It’s an international art and fashion initiative,” she says. “A luxury gala held annually at Villa Fioretta, Lake Como. Private guest list. Couture-only. Funded by Dante Seo’s Light Fund and Vogue’s European partners.” A pause. “And we’ve been invited.”

Your breath stirs.

“I want you to represent Vogue Korea,” she says.

Silence blooms between you. “Me?”

“Yes. You pitched this campaign. You shaped it. People in Milan want to meet the girl who made the cover go viral.”

You feel lightheaded. Not from panic this time — from the taste of possibility. Of respect. Of validation earned, not handed.

Your mouth opens to thank her but then she speaks again.

“Don’t get too comfortable.”

The room shifts. Your spine locks. Her gaze hardens. She doesn’t blink.

“I don’t tolerate editors who sleep with clients,” she says. Voice smooth. Flat. “It’s unprofessional. It’s disgusting. It makes us look like we earned our place on our backs.”

Your blood turns to ice.

“You, Y/N, are better than that. You’ve proven yourself. Your instincts are rare.” A pause. “It would be a shame to lose someone like you because she couldn’t keep her legs closed.”

You don’t breathe. You can’t. You nod once, eyes fixed on a nonexistent spot on her desk. She stands.

“That’ll be all.”

You rise mechanically. Thank her. Bow. And walk out of the office with your pulse screaming in your ears. The moment you step into the hallway, Kara is there. Perched by the espresso machine in the break corner, sipping an oat milk latte with glossy lips and smug silence. She doesn’t say anything.

Your fists clench. Your face burns. You want to tear the smugness off her face and throw it back at her in headlines.

Instead, you walk past her — heels echoing like threats — and your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You check it.

Unknown Number

Still quiet, hm? Should I send someone to pick up my jacket or do I get a kiss as collateral?

Buzz.

I’ll take the kiss.

Buzz.

…or both.

You delete the thread. Turn off your notifications. And get back to work.

You don’t cry in the hallway. You don’t clench your jaw, or turn on your heel, or demand Seo In-kyung look you in the eye when she delivers the kind of warning she never would’ve given to a man. You don’t remind her that half the board she answers to built their careers on affairs with photographers, designers, founders — powerful men who never had to answer for the women they fucked.

You just breathe.

Measured. Controlled. Counted down like pills in the morning. You walk back to your desk with your back straight, your heels clean against the tile, pretending you don’t feel the ghost of his hands still pressing into your hips. You can almost hear him still — that teasing, velvet-coated filth, low and smug against your skin. You hear it in the vibration of your phone every hour since sunrise. You hear it in Kara’s eyes every time they rake over you. You feel it in the way your own body responds when you close your eyes at night — when your fingers trail down beneath the sheets and it’s his name that sits between your teeth, no matter how hard you bite down.

You tell yourself it was just sex. A one-time indulgence. A lapse in judgment that began and ended in a penthouse no one else has to know about. You tell yourself it was closure — that there’s no gravity to the way he held your face in his hands like he still knew how to ruin you. That the ache still curling inside your chest is nothing but delayed shame.

But the problem is, it wasn’t just the sex.

It was the way he looked at you like five years hadn’t passed, like you weren’t a stranger in that room, like you were still the girl he used to know in a borrowed hoodie and scraped-up Nikes, standing in a dingy kitchen, editing your first column with red pen on a ten-thousand-won table. It was the way he kissed you with a hunger that felt older than his fame. It was the way he let you bite him, claw him, curse him — and still whispered “come back to me.”

And now you're here. Perfectly poised in the office you fought tooth and nail to climb into, barely holding yourself together while your editor-in-chief — a woman born with the title stitched into her spine — calls you brilliant and disposable in the same breath. She will never know what it feels like to be called a genius on Monday and a whore on Wednesday. To be handed praise with a choke chain wrapped around it. To have your best work reduced to who you might have let touch you after hours.

She can talk about dignity. She can afford to. You, on the other hand, know exactly how fragile power can be when it’s built from scratch.

✦✦✦

The message comes barely an hour after you walk out of Seo In-kyung’s office.

You didn’t even say goodbye.

You don’t open it. You don’t need to — the preview alone is enough to make your stomach twist. You swipe it away, fingers rigid, and tell yourself that it doesn’t mean anything. Not the message. Not the sender. Not the way your name still looks when it rolls off his voice, even in text.

That night, another one arrives.

Was it the blazer? Should’ve left you something softer.

You laugh, once. Quietly. Then delete it like it burned you. You don’t respond. You won’t. Because if you let yourself type anything — a word, a punctuation mark, the space before a breath — you won’t stop. And you’ve worked too hard, pulled yourself too far out of the wreckage, to let one night drag you back into the ruin you barely crawled out of.

But the texts don’t stop.

Sometimes they’re careless. Teasing. Written like he’s still in your bed with your thighs pressed against his hips and your nails in his back. Other times, they’re sharp with weight, like he doesn’t know which version of himself you’ll tolerate — the boy who left you, or the man trying to come back.

You never reply. But you read every word.

And at night, when the world finally stops demanding your time and your poise and your reputation, when the silence of your apartment feels too loud to ignore — you remember how he touched you. You remember how it felt to let go of everything for one hour, one night, one man who once shattered you so completely that you forgot what it meant to breathe without him.

You touch yourself like it means nothing. But it’s his voice you hear when your fingers slip lower. It’s his mouth you imagine when you bite your own shoulder to muffle the sounds. It’s his hand around your throat when you finish — sharp and soft at once — and it’s his name that almost slips out, pressed against the inside of your teeth like a secret you’re still ashamed of wanting.

You don’t look at your phone after that. You tell yourself it was just sex, you’re smarter now.He’s just another mistake in a long line of things you’ve learned how to survive.

And when another message arrives — two days later, right as you're finalizing your flight details for the gala in Lake Como — you don’t even read it.

You just close your eyes, and try not to remember how he looked at you when he came.

✦✦✦

You arrive at Incheon International two hours before your flight, slipping through security behind oversized sunglasses and an air of quiet efficiency. The blazer you’re wearing is Dior this time — borrowed from the archive rack, boxy at the shoulders, sleek across your hips. Beneath it: a slate-gray satin blouse tucked into wide-leg ivory trousers, pressed razor-sharp. You look like someone who’s going to Lake Como for work, not for war.

It isn’t until you reach the boarding gate that you see the line of black masks, tailored airport coats, and hush-voiced assistants clustered like chess pieces around Gate A7.

BTS.

Of course.

Your stomach doesn’t sink. It knots — tight, controlled, slow — like the warning of turbulence long before the plane leaves the ground.

You keep walking, silent, graceful, aware of every click of your heels on the polished floor. You don’t let yourself search for him. You don’t have to. You feel him before you see him — a presence that presses against your awareness like heat against skin, impossible to ignore.

It isn’t until you’re lowering yourself into your business class seat, reaching for the strap of your carry-on, that you finally glance up — and meet his eyes.

Row 2. Aisle seat. Black mask, black cap, rings on both hands. And staring at you like he hasn’t blinked in days. You look away.

The plane boards slowly. Assistants murmur. Photographers keep their cameras off. The boys move like shadows, trained to blend, to disappear behind the shape of fame. You keep your posture perfect, legs crossed at the ankle, your tablet open with your flight agenda already pulled up — even though you’ve read it three times.

He doesn’t approach until you're halfway into the sky.

You excuse yourself from your seat, nod politely at the stewardess, and head down the narrow aisle toward the lavatory — slow, deliberate steps in heels that whisper money and control. The tiny hallway near the restrooms is dim, quiet, muted beneath the drone of altitude and distance.

You don’t expect the hand on your wrist.

It’s not rough. But it’s firm — and you know that grip. You’ve felt it around your waist, your neck, your thighs. You turn slowly, breath already caught halfway between fury and something far more dangerous.

He's right there. Closer than he has any right to be in this narrow corridor with no eyes but yours and his. The door to the lavatory is behind you. His body blocks the path. His scent — soap, leather, the faint trace of your perfume still clinging to his jacket from days ago — wraps around you like memory.

You keep your voice cold.

“Do you seriously think now is the time?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you, face half-shadowed by the cap, eyes hungry in a way that makes you press your thighs tighter, just to feel something grounded.

Then, finally, he speaks — low, rough.

“I keep dreaming about the way you moaned my name.”

Your stomach tightens. You don’t blink. You lift your chin instead “That’s all it was. A dream.”

But his eyes drop — once — to your mouth, and then lower. “I remember the way your legs shook. That wasn’t dreaming.”

You inhale sharply, but your expression doesn’t change.

“You should go sit down.”

“Or what?” His voice dips lower. “You’ll pretend again you don’t want me to fuck you right here?”

His hand doesn’t move. His body doesn’t touch yours. But you feel every inch of him like a scream in your skin — heat, memory, friction.

You smile — slow and cutting. “I’ve learned how to control myself. You should try it sometime.”

His gaze flickers. Just slightly. Then he leans in — not enough to touch, but enough for you to feel his breath near your neck, his voice low and ruinous.

“I’m not the one squeezing my thighs together.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate that your heartbeat is in your throat, that your body is already lit from the inside out. You hate that you want to kiss him. Bite him. Tear him open. But you won’t. Because you’re not that girl anymore.

You step aside, brushing past him with a look that could frost steel, and say nothing as you return to your seat. You don’t check to see if he follows.

You don’t breathe again until you’re halfway through an article you can’t remember reading, with his gaze still burning a hole into the back of your neck from three rows behind.

✦✦✦

The wheels touch the tarmac just past four in the afternoon, and the landing is smoother than expected, the kind that glides into the runway with practiced quiet, as if even the aircraft has been told to behave. Outside the small window, the northern Italian sun pools in long, soft ribbons over the hills, stretching across the landscape like liquid gold, tinting everything it touches with the kind of warmth that doesn’t burn — only stuns.

You disembark without ceremony, your sunglasses still in place, your coat folded over one arm, and your expression carefully blank. The assistant from Vogue Italia is waiting beside the hangar — her posture perfect, clipboard in hand, dressed in cropped white linen and flat shoes that probably cost more than the flight. She greets you by name, with polite English and a smile that’s too curated to be real, then leads you across the quiet concourse, past shuttered photographers and a cluster of sleek black cars idling behind a discreet security perimeter.

Your name is listed on one of the placards. Y/N — Vogue Korea.

So is theirs. BTS.

You don't react — not outwardly. There is no visible shift in your posture, no flicker in your gaze. You’ve already taught your body how to lie better than your words ever could.

The assistant ushers you toward a waiting Mercedes, its interior cool and leather-scented, the seats butter-soft beneath the press of your thighs. A silver tray holds still water, a lemon wedge perched just so. Your phone buzzes once in your lap. You don't check it. Not yet.

The drive from the airport is postcard-perfect in a way that feels intentionally cruel — narrow country roads wrapped in vine-laced stone, the distant glimmer of Lake Como revealing itself in flashes between tall cypress trees and crumbling terracotta villas. Each bend in the road opens into a view more breathtaking than the last, until you almost forget where you're headed and why your chest has been tight since the gate at Incheon.

The car finally slows as it pulls through ornate wrought-iron gates that gleam with gold filigree under the light, winding up the long private drive that spills into the front courtyard of Villa Fioretta. The estate rises from the hill like it was carved directly out of the cliffside — all creamy limestone and tall shuttered windows, manicured terraces spilling over with ivy and white flowers, and delicate copper details that catch the dying sun like jewelry. It looks like something you’ve seen on a Vogue Italia cover in a past life, or maybe a perfume ad from the early 2000s, the kind where everything was just slightly out of reach, and nothing ever truly belonged to you.

As the driver comes around to open your door, you exhale once, slow and silent, and allow your face to settle into something calm and beautifully unreadable.

Inside, the villa is all elegance in hushed tones — soft marble beneath your heels, pale walls washed in ivory and cream, every piece of furniture chosen for quiet power rather than comfort. The concierge greets you by name and with reverence, offers you a key card embossed with the letter “F” in deep matte black, and explains with the expected level of practiced charm that you’ve been placed on the fifth floor, lake view, courtesy of Fondo di Luce, and that a welcome aperitivo will be served on the lower terrace shortly after six.

You nod, thank them, and enter the elevator with the same stillness you’ve been wearing since you boarded the flight. It’s not until the doors begin to close that he enters behind you.

You don't need to look to know it's him. The presence is immediate — heavy, hot, undeniable. His cologne clings to the air, low and sharp, the same one you woke up wearing four mornings ago in his bed, still tangled in his heat.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

The silence in the elevator stretches, long and taut, the kind that drapes itself over the walls like velvet, pressing in on all sides. You keep your gaze forward, focused on the panel, the floor numbers blinking upward. You can feel him beside you — not touching, but close enough to undo you all over again if you let yourself lean even an inch in his direction.

The mirrored wall reflects the shape of him — rolled sleeves, black slacks, tattoos visible where the cuff is turned, sunglasses tucked into his collar like he never needed to hide. He’s looking at you. You don’t return it.

The elevator stops at five.

You step out first. The hallway is quiet, dimly lit, touched with the kind of warmth that money doesn’t have to brag about — just suggests. He follows.

Your room is halfway down the hall. You can hear the soft tread of his boots behind you, steady and measured, but it’s the silence between you that rattles louder than any footfall.

You stop at 506. Slot the card into the reader. The green light flashes. Still, you don’t turn.

"If you're going to say something stupid, Jungkook," you murmur, voice calm but edged, your hand resting on the doorframe like it might hold you steady, "don’t waste it here."

The door unlocks with a soft click. You step inside and let it close behind you without another word.

You never heard his footsteps retreat — which is exactly why your hands are still shaking when you set your bag down on the velvet bench at the end of the bed.

✦✦✦

The evening descends in a soft, golden hush, the lake catching the last streaks of sunlight and bending them into mirrored ribbons that stretch across the manicured garden lawns. The terrace is already glowing by the time you arrive — dozens of floating candles bobbing in the villa’s pool, crisp white tablecloths draped over stone tables, wine glasses catching firelight like they were designed to burn. Waiters move like shadows through the crowd, balancing trays of Campari spritzes and white truffle canapés, slipping between conversations spoken in Italian, French, and English laced with old-money vowels.

You’ve dressed for the kill.

The gown you chose is a strapless black number that ends just above your mid-thigh — sculpted to your body like it was designed for this exact kind of dusk, this exact kind of attention. The satin clings in all the places you used to hide and now let sharpen you. Your back is bare, your collarbone glistens with a soft sheen of skin-warmed perfume, and your heels are high enough to demand silence when you walk. The neckline dips low, the hem even lower, and there’s a part of you that knows—without even needing the confirmation—that if Jungkook looks at you tonight, it won’t be casual.

You tell yourself you wore it to feel powerful. You tell yourself that it’s just about proving a point.

But deep down, beneath all the polished rationality and strategic poise, you know it’s a lie. You wore it to tempt him. Or maybe to punish him. It’s hard to tell the difference anymore.

You glide through the terrace like you belong to it. Conversations flicker as you pass — Vogue Paris, L’Uomo, a few senior figures from Condé Nast and K-Media International — all familiar faces from the inner circle of fashion and luxury publishing. You smile, you nod, you take a glass of wine with the hand not gripping your clutch, and you keep moving.

He’s here. You haven’t seen him yet, but you feel him. You’ve felt him since the moment you walked in — like a change in air pressure, like heat blooming in places that should be cold. Each time a new shadow approaches, your chest coils tight, your gaze flicks once, and you brace yourself.

The first time you actually see him, he’s standing on the far end of the terrace near the balustrade, surrounded by three men in Tom Ford tuxedos and a woman from Vogue Italia who is laughing too easily at something he hasn’t said. His hair is pushed back, exposing the sharp line of his jaw, the silver hoop in his ear catching the light each time he turns slightly, and his shirt is unbuttoned just enough to make your mouth dry. He looks devastating. You don’t look twice.

You spend the next hour performing avoidance like an art. Each time he moves in your direction — and he does — you change course. A conversation with a photographer. A compliment to someone’s emerald earrings. A turn toward the pool just in time to keep a table between you. He’s watching. You know he is. And you never let yourself look back.

Until you meet Dante Seo.

He arrives like an entrance — tall, olive-toned skin that speaks of Italian summers and Seoul winters, his suit perfectly fitted in bone-white silk with a single black brooch gleaming on the lapel. His hair is dark and swept back with the ease of someone who doesn’t try hard and never has to. His smile is clean. Curated. Dangerous.

“You must be Vogue Korea,” he says as he offers his hand, eyes tracing over your form like he’s calculating how many men in the room already hate him for standing beside you. “No one told me you’d be this stunning. I’ll have to send my regrets to our editor-in-chief for not coming in her place.”

“Y/N,” you reply, slipping your hand into his. “Campaign editor. But I suppose the title doesn’t matter so long as I’m stunning.”

He laughs — low, indulgent — and motions to a pair of older executives hovering behind him.

“You all remember Jeon Jungkook, I’m sure?” Dante glances sideways, eyes sparkling. “The face of Vogue Korea’s revival, the star of the cover that’s been circulating Milan for two weeks straight.”

Your spine tenses.

“I think it’s fair to say Korea brought us something exceptional,” one woman offers, sipping from her wine. “He was brilliant. Magnetic. I hadn’t seen that kind of restraint from an editorial in years.”

“I think that was more the editor’s eye than the idol’s,” Dante says, looking directly at you now, one eyebrow lifted with the kind of mischief that always ends in trouble. “Tell me, Y/N. How did you convince a man like that to surrender so completely?”

You force a smile, swirl the wine in your glass, and answer coolly.

“Sometimes all it takes is silence.”

More laughter. More praise. More commentary on how sharp he looked, how he carried the shot, how Vogue Korea must be so proud. The room keeps saying his name. Over and over, like it means something, like it doesn’t still taste like sweat and regret and begging on your skin.

You excuse yourself twenty minutes later, your glass half-full and your teeth aching from how hard you’ve clenched your jaw.

The moment you step back into the villa’s interior, the noise blurs. You walk past the grand staircase, through the velvet-draped hall toward the elevator, your heels muffled against the thick cream carpet, your throat hot from wine and words you didn't say.

You don’t notice he’s following you until you reach your door. The moment you slide the keycard into the reader, he’s there.

One hand planted against the door beside your head, the other grazing your hip, his body closing the space so completely that all you can smell is him — clean, woodsy, sharp with the memory of what he did to you last time.

You turn slowly, your back brushing the wood. His breath is hot against your cheek, his voice low and intimate, like a confession laced with filth.

“Do you want me to say it?” he murmurs. “Do you want me to say I couldn’t stop staring at your thighs all night? That I imagined dragging this dress up your legs while the whole fucking party watched?”

Your body tightens. You keep your voice steady.

“Move.”

He leans in closer, lips brushing just beside your jaw.

“I saw how you avoided me. Like I was the one who begged. You think I don’t know you wore this dress for me?”

You swallow. Hard. His fingers trail lightly along the line of your jaw, down to your mouth, hovering there as if waiting for a tremble he already knows is coming.

“I could take you right here,” he whispers. “I could make you cry with my fingers before you even reach the bed.”

You hate the way your knees weaken. Hate the thrum building between your legs, the ache in your stomach, the heat spreading low and sharp like fire beneath your skin.

You should say no, open the door and disappear into the room and lock it behind you.

But when you meet his eyes — dark, hungry, full of something wild — you fumble the key, and he catches it with a smirk, sliding it into the lock like he’s been there a thousand times before.

And when the door opens, you step inside without a word. Not because you forgave him. Not because it means anything.

Only because your body stopped asking for permission the moment his mouth said your name.

✦✦✦

The door shuts behind you with a heavy, soundproofed click, and the moment it does, you feel it — the shift in air, the sharp electric drag of his presence right at your back.

You barely make it three steps into the suite before his hand circles your waist and drags you back against him. You don’t gasp, you don’t whimper, but your body tenses with something that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the ache that’s been clawing at your stomach since the moment he stared at you from across the terrace like he wanted to fuck you blind.

His mouth finds your shoulder first — soft, open, hot — pressing through the thin fabric of your dress, kissing along the slope of your neck while his other hand skims down the silk curve of your thigh. You smell wine on his breath, wood and heat and hunger, and he’s already hard against your ass, pressing into you like he can’t believe you’re real again.

“Fucking knew this dress was for me,” he breathes against your skin. “Knew it the second I saw you.”

You turn your face slightly, just enough to graze his jaw, your voice calm even as your blood roars beneath the surface.

“And what are you going to do about it?”

His grip tightens.

“This.”

He spins you — smooth, practiced, fast — and pins you against the suite wall, just beside the blackout-curtained window, one knee between your thighs, your heels barely catching grip on the polished wood floors. His hands are under your dress in a second, sliding up your thighs, growling when he feels just how little you wore beneath it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice low and guttural. “You didn’t wear anything for me?”

“Maybe I wore it for someone else,” you murmur, tilting your head, letting your lips brush his but never touching fully.

His teeth graze your chin. “Don’t fucking test me tonight.”

“I thought you liked being tested.”

He laughs — dark, breathless — and you both know you’re seconds from snapping. His hands glide over your ass, gripping, kneading, dragging you harder against the bulge in his pants. You rock your hips back, just once, just to feel how badly he wants it.

And then you pull away. “Sit.”

His eyes flicker, and you see it — the surprise, the interest, the way his breath catches just slightly before he obeys. He backs up toward the edge of the king-sized bed and lowers himself slowly, legs spread, cock straining against the fabric of his tailored black trousers.

You follow him. Drop to your knees between his legs like it's a throne, not a man.

His eyes are already half-lidded, hands braced on his thighs, watching you as you reach for his belt with smooth, practiced fingers. You undo the buckle with no urgency, and when the leather slides through the loops, he hisses under his breath like it’s your mouth around him already.

When you reach into his boxers and pull him out, you exhale softly — not from surprise, not from awe, but from the rush that starts between your legs at the sheer weight of him in your palm. He’s hard. So hard it makes your mouth water. The tip’s flushed, leaking, pulsing against your skin.

He looks like he wants to say something — maybe a tease, maybe a curse — but the second your lips close over the head, all he does is moan. Long. Deep. Raw.

You don’t rush.

You swirl your tongue around the tip, one hand still stroking the base, the other flattening against his lower abdomen to keep him exactly where you want him. You suck slowly, carefully, letting your mouth shape around him like you’re molding heat out of gold. You glance up — and the sight of him nearly undoes you.

His head is thrown back, mouth parted, hands gripping the edge of the mattress now. The muscles in his thighs are shaking under your palms. When you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper, his hips jerk, his voice cracks.

“Fuck— Y/N… don’t… I’m gonna—”

You pull off with a wet pop, licking your lips like a threat.

“You’re gonna what?”

He opens his eyes, looks at you like you’re the devil himself, and chokes on a groan when you go down again — this time deeper, wetter, your tongue pressed under the shaft, saliva dripping down your hand. You let your mouth contour around him, let him feel every inch of heat and slick velvet you can give.

“Please,” he whispers, eyes clenched shut now. “Please don’t stop. Please—fuck—just like that—”

The begging shocks you. It makes your core throb, makes you grind your own thighs together as you take him deeper still, lips stretched wide around him, hand working what your mouth can’t reach. You love the way he sounds, the way he begs, the way this man — who fucked you like he owned you just days ago — is now unraveling in front of you with your name gasped like a prayer.

You pull off again, let your lips drag down the side of his cock, tongue licking up the vein, and you whisper:

“You taste better than I remember.”

He grabs your shoulders, dragging you up fast, lips crashing against yours like he’s trying to climb back into control.

“You’re going to fucking kill me,” he mutters, voice shaking. “Get on the bed. Now.”

You don’t resist. Because you want it too — filthy, breathless, and only getting darker from here.

He doesn’t let you move far — his hands are already on your thighs, on your waist, pushing you back until your legs hit the edge of the bed, and he shoves you down with a grip that’s firm but reverent. He follows immediately, kissing you deep, tongue filthy in your mouth, his taste mixed with the sharp salt of his own arousal. You moan into him, still breathless from the way he sounded minutes ago — the quiet begging, the desperation, the way he came undone just from your mouth.

But now he’s reclaiming the space.

He pulls away, eyes black, chest heaving. You barely register your own dress being pulled up, bunched around your waist, before he drops to his knees between your legs and drags your soaked thong down with both hands — slow, savoring the way the fabric clings to you, the wet string pulling along your folds.

“Fucking perfect,” he mutters, and you feel it in your spine — that growl, that tone, the sound of someone starving.

He spreads your legs wide, pushes your knees up, and leans in with no ceremony. His mouth finds your clit in the same breath as his fingers gripping your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed until you feel like you’re going to slide off entirely — right into the heat of his mouth. His tongue flicks once, then twice, then circles until your hips buck.

“You’ve missed this,” he says against your cunt. “This pussy remembers me.”

You try to argue. You try to speak. But your breath stutters when he sucks your clit into his mouth and moans like he’s tasting sugar.

Your hands fly to his hair, gripping the soft strands, anchoring yourself. You can’t stop the sounds that escape you now — soft, sharp gasps, your head falling back as he devours you, his mouth relentless and wet and so good you can’t think straight.

And then he slides lower.

At first it’s a tease — his tongue licking below, over the tight ring of muscle, making your thighs twitch. But then he spreads you wider, his thumbs parting your ass, and before you can process it, his mouth is there, licking into you with slow, filthy indulgence.

You moan — loud, uncontrolled, broken — and your entire body tries to lift off the bed. He holds you down.

“Jungkook—” It’s the first time you’ve said his name like that tonight, and it cracks at the edges. “What the fuck—”

He doesn’t stop.

He eats your ass like he’s done it before, like he’s memorized you, like he owns the right to taste every inch of you. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping hard enough to bruise, and when his tongue drags back up to your clit again, your vision blurs.

And in the haze of your unraveling, one thought claws through everything: he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Your hips grind up into his mouth, chasing the friction, chasing the high. And when he slides two fingers into you — slow and deep — your back arches, your moan breaks apart, and your orgasm hits like a wave dragging you under.

He doesn’t stop until you’re trembling beneath him, thighs twitching, cunt fluttering around his fingers.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is slick, his eyes feral, and he climbs back over you like a man who hasn’t eaten in days.

“You good?” he whispers, voice raw with pride.

You glare at him, chest still rising and falling, and mutter, “You’re disgusting.”

He smirks, kissing your collarbone, licking a stripe up your neck.

“And you’re wet.”

He’s on you before you can gather your thoughts — his body pressing you into the mattress, heavy and solid and far too familiar. His chest brushes yours, warm skin meeting your peaked nipples, and the friction makes you hiss between your teeth. You try to push him back, just enough to reassert something, anything — but he catches your wrist and pins it to the bed beside your head.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Not when you’re this wet for me.”

You scowl, but it’s weak — half-hearted, half-turned-on, and he knows it.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

He leans in, licks into your mouth like he owns it, and then slides his cock slowly through your folds — hot, heavy, dragging along your slit until you’re whimpering despite yourself. You feel him reach for a condom, hear the crinkle of foil, and then his hips notch forward, the thick head of his cock pressing at your entrance.

“You still feel like fucking heaven,” he groans, and when he pushes in — slow, so slow — your nails dig into the sheets.

You gasp, head falling back against the pillows. He’s big. He always was, but this time it feels deeper, sharper, like every inch is a punishment you didn’t see coming.

“God—” you breathe, blinking up at the ceiling. “Why the fuck do you still feel this good?”

“Because your pussy remembers me,” he says through a ragged exhale, hips still rolling forward. “Because it’s mine.”

You clench around him at the word — mine — and hate how much it turns you on.

“You really think one night erases years?” you bite, trying to pull your voice together, but it’s breathy and cracked.

“No,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “But it reminds you.”

He bottoms out, and the sound you make is caught between a moan and a curse. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, trying to pull him deeper even as your pride screams at you to shove him off. He feels too good. It’s too hot. It’s everything you didn’t want to feel again, wrapped in silk and sweat and his goddamn voice.

He starts to move — slow and deep, every stroke dragging across every nerve ending you have.

“You’re clenching,” he growls in your ear, licking down the side of your neck. “You missed this. Missed me.”

“I missed being fucked,” you shoot back, voice shaking. “I could’ve found that anywhere.”

He snaps his hips once — hard — and your gasp betrays you. Your hands fly up to his back, nails digging in.

“You’re lying,” he pants. “You never let anyone fuck you like this. Never let them see you like this.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate that you’re already close again, already tightening around him like he’s the only man who’s ever made you come this hard.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you come,” he murmurs, brushing sweaty strands from your face. “Wanna feel it again. Wanna watch you break.”

You pull him closer, arch your back, and mutter into his neck:

“Then make me.”

That’s all it takes. He fucks you harder now — still deep, still deliberate, but with that edge of hunger he’s been holding back all night. His pelvis rubs your clit with every thrust, and when his hand slides between you, fingers circling your swollen nerves, you see stars.

You’re writhing now, moaning his name like a warning, and he’s kissing you through it, swallowing your sounds, your curses, your surrender.

And when you finally come — tight and fast and gasping — he moans something filthy into your mouth that you’re too far gone to understand. You feel him tense, feel the thick roll of his hips as he buries himself one last time, and then he’s groaning through clenched teeth, coming with your name against your lips.

For a moment, the room is nothing but breath and sweat and silence. Then you turn your face away. And the next wave starts building.

You should’ve gotten up. You should’ve pushed him off and walked into the bathroom, should’ve wrapped yourself in a robe and poured a glass of water and reminded yourself who you are now — not nineteen, not in love, not wrecked by the memory of a boy who never said goodbye.

But instead, you stay. Lying there, trembling in the aftermath of an orgasm that still echoes in your spine, your thighs slick and sore, your heartbeat pressed somewhere up in your throat.

Jungkook shifts beside you, his palm still on your stomach, his breath still hot against your shoulder. You can feel him stirring again, thick and half-hard between your legs, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re moving — rolling onto your side, facing away, pulling the sheet off your skin like you’ve surrendered to something you’ll never admit out loud.

He presses up behind you, his chest flush to your back, his mouth trailing down the slope of your shoulder with reverent hunger. One hand slides over your hip, gripping it as if anchoring himself to reality, the other skating down between your thighs to find you still soaked.

“Still dripping for me,” he mutters, voice hoarse with lust. “You love this.”

“I hate you,” you breathe.

“I know,” he whispers, pushing your legs apart. “That’s why you’re letting me do this again.”

You want to scream at him. You want to tell him to shut the fuck up, to get out, to stop twisting everything into something so ugly and true — but then the head of his cock is sliding between your folds, and your breath catches in your throat like betrayal.

He pushes in slowly, and the stretch burns — not painfully, but beautifully, the kind of fullness that makes your spine arch and your mouth fall open. His hand finds your throat from behind, just a gentle pressure under your jaw, guiding your gaze up to the full-length mirror across the room.

“Look.”

You shake your head.

“Look, Y/N.”

Your eyes flicker open. And what you see takes the last bit of air from your lungs. Your body — flushed and glistening, breasts bouncing gently with each slow thrust, his chest pressed to your back, his hand wrapped around your throat. His face — focused, wild, desperate. Yours — wrecked.

“Fuck,” he groans, picking up speed. “You look so fucking good like this.”

“Shut up,” you bite, but it’s weak, broken, your voice shaking.

He pulls out, slaps your ass once, then sinks back in deep. You whimper, your head falling forward, but he doesn’t let you look away.

“I want you to see what I do to you.”

You do. And that’s the problem. Because it’s not just the sex. It’s the way your mouth falls open when he rolls his hips just right; your nails claw the sheets when he says your name like a curse and a prayer. The way your eyes can’t lie in the mirror — how wrecked you are, how undone, how his.

“You’re just a dick to me,” you spit, desperate, cruel.

But he only groans and fucks you harder. “Then why are you dripping down my thighs?”

He reaches between your legs again, fingers finding your clit, circling fast and filthy, and your body convulses around him, your moans high and breathless. He fucks you through it, relentless now, slamming into you as your muscles clench around him.

The mirror fogs. Your eyes blur. And when you come again, it’s with his name on your tongue and your pride somewhere back in Seoul.

He follows moments later, hips stuttering, curses tumbling from his mouth as he spills into the condom with his forehead against your shoulder and your scent all over his skin.

The sound of your own heart, thudding against your ribs like a warning.

You pull away first. Walk into the bathroom without a word, leaving him in the bed where he just ruined you all over again.

✦✦✦

You take your time in the shower, as if hot water can rinse off regret. You wash his hands from your thighs, scrub the taste of him from your mouth. You tilt your head back and let the water hammer against your eyes until it’s impossible to tell what’s tears and what’s steam.

But none of it works. Because when you walk out of the bathroom wrapped in a robe that still smells faintly of jasmine, he’s still there. Shirtless. Sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them like he’s praying to something he stopped believing in a long time ago.

You walk to the desk in the corner, grab your phone, place it face-down, and then turn around — arms crossed, face unreadable.

“You should leave.”

He looks up. And he doesn’t move.

“Jungkook,” you repeat, slower now, sharper. “This doesn’t change anything.”

He rises, but he doesn’t close the space between you. His voice is low, frayed at the edges.

“Stop pretending it was just sex.”

You laugh — bitter, quiet, worn thin. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His jaw clenches. “You felt it too.”

“I felt your cock inside me,” you snap. “I thanked you for the orgasm. What else do you want?”

“That’s not what it was.”

“You’re right,” you say, folding your arms tighter. “It was nostalgia. A stupid, warm, familiar fuck. That’s all. It’s easy to miss someone when you’re lonely.”

He steps closer. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to.”

There’s a pause. A thick, excruciating silence.

“You and I…” he says, softly now, like the words might shatter in his throat, “we were made for each other. Even our bodies—”

“Oh, right,” you cut in, vicious now, unable to hold it back. “You’d know. You’ve had so many to compare.”

His mouth opens. Closes. For once, he has no clever retort. You press forward, rage slipping between the cracks of your voice.

“How many, Jungkook? Since me? How many fans, idols, influencers, pretty things to fuck between tours? Don’t act like I was unforgettable when you replaced me every goddamn night.”

“I didn’t replace you,” he says — broken, breathless. “I was just trying to forget.”

“And did it work?”

“No.” His voice cracks. “No, it didn’t. I was stupid. I was young and insecure and fucking terrified. I hated myself for what I did. I still do.”

You shake your head slowly, tears stinging the corners of your eyes, the robe cinched too tightly around your waist now.

“You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to walk out when things get hard and come back years later with apologies and expect me to what— forgive you? Believe that you’ve changed?”

“I have changed.”

“Good for you.”

He takes a trembling breath. “I don’t want to be defined by the mistakes I made when I was twenty.”

You inhale sharply — then exhale through your teeth like it burns.

“You think I wasn’t twenty too?” Your voice rises, high and brittle. “You think I didn’t feel lost? I moved to Seoul with you. I started everything from scratch. My job. My name. My future. I met people too. Rich ones. Brilliant ones. Men who would’ve killed to touch me, to claim me, to give me the fucking world—”

He flinches.

“—but I never said yes. Because I wanted to go through it all with you. I was building something. A life. A career. A future. And I wanted you beside me.”

Tears fall now. Hot, fast. You don’t bother to wipe them.

“But you left,” you whisper. “No explanation. No closure. Just silence. Like I meant nothing.”

He takes a step toward you while you step back.

“You broke me,” you say, and your voice finally cracks — full and sharp and agonizing. “You left me alone in a city that already hated me. You made me beg for your attention without saying a word. And I still had to show up to work. Smile. Climb. Watch my dreams come true with no one beside me to see it.”

“I should’ve been there,” he chokes out, eyes shining now. “I was a coward. I didn’t deserve you then. But I want to be the man who does now. Please—please just give me a chance to prove it.”

You stare at him and your heart is breaking. But you shake your head.

“Every time I look at you,” you whisper, voice like shattered glass, “I see the version of myself you left behind. Nineteen. In love. Hopeful. And you stole her from me. You robbed my nineteen year self of her happy future.”

His lips part, trembling.

“I’ll never forgive you for that.”

He doesn’t move. Just stands there in the quiet of the room that still smells like sex and sweat and the bitter rot of everything they’ve broken again. His eyes are red-rimmed now, chest rising like it physically hurts to speak — and maybe it does.

“I love you.”

He says it softly, like the words themselves might vanish if he says them too loud. Like he doesn’t quite believe they’ll land.

Your lips part, barely. But you don’t answer. Not at first. You just stand there, arms wrapped tightly around your waist, robe clinging to damp skin, trying to shield yourself from a wound that’s already been split open at the seam.

“I never stopped,” he whispers, stepping closer, not enough to touch, but enough for you to feel the warmth of him, even now. “Even when I fucked up. Even when I disappeared. Even when I hated myself for it.”

You blink once. Your throat tightens. And then you speak — slowly, like every word is a blade you have to pull out of yourself to hand to him.

“No.”

He freezes.

“No, you didn’t love me then,” you say, voice low, calm, terrifying in its precision. “You loved how I made you feel. How I adored you. How I was yours when you wanted me, and gone when you didn’t.”

His breath hitches, but you go on.

“And now you’re doing it again. You’re confusing lust with love. Familiarity with fate. You’re looking at me and thinking this means something more than it does, because you want it to, because it makes you feel less guilty.”

“It does mean something,” he argues, stepping forward like he’s desperate to close the space. “You and me—”

You shake your head. “You don’t get to say that. Not anymore.”

He opens his mouth, but you lift your hand — not to strike, not to touch, just to stop him.

“I don’t believe you,” you say, and you mean it. “And even if I did… it’s too late.”

You turn then, slow and sharp, like your heart is finally made of steel instead of longing, and you gesture toward the door — toward the end of the night, the end of the echo, the end of whatever illusion he came here chasing.

He doesn’t move at first. But when he does, he doesn’t say anything else. Just walks to the door with quiet steps, like the weight of everything he never said is finally too much to carry.

The door opens and shuts behind him with a soft, final click.

And in the silence that follows, you don’t cry. You just stand there, still barefoot, still breathing, staring out across the lake through the glass windows as the lights of Villa Fioretta shimmer back at you in the dark.

And for the first time in years, you let yourself whisper the truth. He broke you. And you’re still not sure if you’ll ever recover.

✦✦✦

Villa Fioretta sparkles like something out of a Renaissance painting — golden lanterns swinging in the breeze, shadows stretching long over the polished marble as the evening unfolds with practiced luxury. The terrace for tonight’s formal dinner is carved into the cliffside, overlooking the dark silk of Lake Como, each table draped in white linen and framed with tumbling white roses. Candles flicker in crystal holders. Soft jazz rolls under the clink of silverware and laughter that never reaches the eyes.

You arrive later than planned.

Hair pinned. Makeup fresh. The kind of dress that breathes elegance from the front and vengeance from the back — low-cut, high-slit, sharp where it needs to be and soft where it shouldn’t. Midnight navy satin hugs your waist, drapes over your thighs, whispers down your legs with every step you take. On your ears: diamonds. Around your neck: a pearl choker — delicate, pointed, surgical.

No one would know that you didn’t sleep last night. Except maybe him.

Jungkook sees you before anyone else. Of course he does. He’s already seated when you arrive, across the long dinner table, dressed in black-on-black with his hair slicked back and his jaw clenched tight enough to crack. His eyes meet yours. Then drop. Then return. He doesn’t look away after that.

You let your gaze sweep past him like he’s any other guest — beneath you, behind you, not even worth remembering. Because tonight, you’re not here to feel. You’re here to make sure he does.

“Ah, Y/N.” Dante Seo stands when you’re led to your place, a slow grin blooming on his face like he’s waited the whole day for this exact moment. “You’re late.”

You slip into the chair beside him without apologizing. “I had to recover from a… long night.”

His eyes spark at that. You don’t let them linger.

Around you, the table is littered with people who make headlines for a living — stylists, designers, fashion house CEOs, cultural editors from every Vogue in the western hemisphere. BTS is here too — seated near the far end, spaced out perfectly so the illusion of randomness doesn’t look like security protocol.

You don’t look at them either. You focus on Dante’s hand as it grazes yours every time he reaches for his wine. You focus on the warmth of the candlelight on your collarbones. On the way people lean in when you speak.

“You truly spearheaded something magnificent,” the director of Vogue UK says, dabbing at her lips. “That October cover… everyone’s talking about it. Jungkook’s never looked so refined.”

“Or so raw,” someone else adds. “There’s something vulnerable in it. Almost like…”

“Like he was seen,” Dante finishes, smiling sideways at you. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

You sip your wine.

“That was my job,” you reply coolly. “To see him as something more than a headline.”

Your words hang between you, and Jungkook doesn’t speak even once.

But you feel him. Every time Dante laughs too loud. Every time Dante leans too close. Every time his hand brushes your thigh under the tablecloth and you don’t move it away. You feel Jungkook watching like it’s a punishment. And maybe it is.

Because he doesn’t look powerful now. He looks like a man barely holding himself together — knuckles white against the stem of his glass, jaw so tight you know it aches. And still… he says nothing.

Dinner ends slowly. Plates are cleared. Dessert is offered. Liqueur appears in tall, thin glasses, and conversations bloom into something silkier, messier. Looser.

Dante leans toward you again, the scent of spice and ambition warm against your cheek.

“I have a bottle I’d kill to open with you,” he murmurs. “Private cellar. Ten minutes. Just us.”

You smile without showing teeth. Your heart is thudding like betrayal behind your ribs. But you nod.

“Lead the way.”

You stand. And that’s when he stands too. Jungkook.

You pretend not to see him following, just a few paces behind, not fast, not loud — but steady.

The hallway is dim, the sconces casting long shadows across marble walls as you and Dante make your way toward the private wing. At the turn, Dante checks his phone — a call from someone downstairs. He excuses himself for a moment, promises to be right back.

And then you feel it — the heat behind you. A presence you’ve memorized in your bones.

He says nothing at first. Just breathes. Then, softly — like a ghost afraid to be exorcised, “You don’t have to do this just to hurt me.”

You turn, slow and sharp, and there he is — no stage, no audience, no press-ready expression. Just Jungkook. Tense. Broken. Bare.

“I’m not doing anything to you,” you reply. “I’m leaving.”

“With him?”

Your smile is tired. “He asked nicely.”

His voice drops, rough and unsteady. “He doesn’t know you.”

“No one does,” you whisper. “Not anymore.”

His eyes close for half a second — like that one cut sliced too deep.

“You don’t mean that,” he says, almost to himself. “You’re just angry. You’re trying to prove something.”

“I’m proving I can walk away from you now.”

Jungkook steps closer. Just one step. Barely enough to touch. His breath hits your collarbone.

“If you walk out with him right now… I’ll never stop thinking about it.”

You blink. But your voice doesn’t break this time.

“Then think about it.”

“Please,” he says — and it’s not performance, not charm, not strategy.

It’s desperation. Raw. Quiet. Real.

“Please don’t do this. Not like this.”

You hesitate. Just a second. But it’s enough to break you.

“Don’t ask me for anything,” you say, voice soft and surgical. “You already took everything that mattered.”

And when Dante reappears at the end of the hall, you turn without another word.

Your heels echo across the marble as you disappear down the corridor. You don’t look back.

Not even when Jungkook breaks in the silence behind you.

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aajjks · 5 months ago

Text

The Boy (I)

synopsis. All he ever wanted was someone to love.

pairing: yandere!brahms doll jungkook x fem!nanny reader. ft. Cha eunwoo.

genre: 18+ horror, smut, angst and yandere.

warnings. 18+ YÁNDÈRÈ, dàrk thèmès, dïstúrbíng thèmès, mèntïóns ôf à míscárrïàgè, yn ïs brókè & hórny, dóll, erríe thèmès, únsèttlíng thèmès.

wc: almost 3000.

fic note. Please keep in mind that this fanfiction is the exact copy of the movie from the same name “the boy” (2016) so if you find any similarities, that’s on purpose. Also viewer discretion is highly advised.

note. OH MY GOD, HE’S HERE.. this is everything and I have worked really hard on this so don’t let this flop and I’m really nervous… BUT if you want to be tagged, please reply under this post only. PLEASE ENJOY AND SHARE YOUR FEEDBACK. OH MY GOD OK???

•••

You’re scrolling through job listings on your phone, your eyes glazing over the endless options.

Babysitting, waitressing, house cleaning..

none of it seems even remotely appealing, and none of it pays nearly enough to escape your mess of a life.

Why the fuck does your life have to suck so much?

As you keep looking, you almost roll your eyes at the ridiculous job offers, but then, your eyes flicker when you see this one.

This is the most weirdest thing you’ve ever seen on the Internet so far.

But you find yourself intrigued so you click on it.

Live-in nanny position. High pay. In Busan.

You blink, not quite believing it. Busan? That’s hours away from Seoul.

You could use the distance. You could definitely use the money.

But a nanny job? You squint at the screen, a laugh escaping your lips. A nanny? To take care of some kid in a big house somewhere far from your current mess?

It sounds too good to be true.

And it sounds hilarious.

You tap on the message from Alina.

Allie:

I found something for you. Live-in nanny job. High pay. Busan.

This is weird because you’re looking at the same mall for it’s like the universe wants you to have this one.

You laugh out loud.

you:

Are they serious? Who needs a nanny for a kid that badly?

Alina texts back almost immediately.

Allie:

Trust me, Yn. It pays enough to start fresh. You need this. And yeah, they’re serious.

You shake your head. A nanny job. You don’t even like kids. But the thought of getting away from everything..

the mess of your relationship, the toxic memories of Min Jae, the grief from losing your child—

it’s tempting. Hell, you need it.

you text back before you can second-guess yourself.

You:

Fine, I’m in.

The money is too good to turn down. You don’t have a real family to keep you tied down. Alina’s your best friend, but she’s too busy with her own life.

And the salary? You look it over again.

5 million Korean won per month.

Five million. For what? Looking after a kid? The job sounds too good to be true. And you can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous it all is.

You really hope this isn’t some scam. But the thought of the money, of freedom… it makes you push past the doubt.

You need to take this.

•••

You honestly don’t know what you’re doing but the next day you find yourself driving.

You might regret this, but what’s the point in looking back now you’ve been through a lot of shit anyways?

You drive down to Busan, with your luggage and it feels like an eternity. But you’re not complaining.

The farther you get, the more you feel like you’re shedding the weight of your past life. like you’re heading toward something that doesn’t have Min Jae’s name written all over it.

When the massive house finally comes into view, you stop dead.

You’ve heard of the Jeon family, everyone in Seoul has, but you didn’t expect a mansion that large.

The house looks like something straight out of a gothic horror movie.

Cold, imposing, almost too perfect.

You ring the doorbell, echoing through the hallway like it belongs to another century. It takes a few seconds for someone to answer, and when the door finally opens, you’re greeted by a woman in her early fifties.

“You must be Yn,” she says in a voice that’s a little too calm for your liking. “I’m Jeon Ji-seon.”

“Umm yeah, HI! I’m… yn. Kang Yn..”

You smile, trying to keep your composure.

“I’ll show you inside,” she continues, stepping aside. “Please, come in.”

You walk through the door, and as soon as you step into the house, the silence hits you.

The place is huge, far too big for just a couple of people. And it’s cold, like the air here has been frozen for years.

Ji-seon leads you down a hall that feels way too quiet. You don’t even know why, but your skin prickles as you walk behind her.

“Come, this is the boy,” she says, opening a door to a sitting room.

You glance around, expecting to see some child, maybe a little too spoiled, maybe a bit over the top.

but what you find is… not that.

It’s a doll. A life-sized doll sitting on the couch, its eyes too wide and too real. It’s sitting there like a person, and you can’t help the chuckle that slips from your mouth.

“This is JK,” Ji-seon says, her voice soft, almost motherly.

“The boy you’ll be looking after.”

You blink, unsure whether you’ve heard her right.

“Wait, this is… this is the kid?” You can’t help yourself. The laughter bubbles up again, louder this time. “A fucking doll? You want me to look after this?”

This is not even a kid, but this is a doll..

Ji-seon’s smile doesn’t falter, but you can see a flicker of something in her eyes.

“Yes, JK needs care. He’s like a child, in many ways.”

You laugh again.

The idea of it is absurd. Who would hire a nanny for a doll? And who would pay five million won a month to do it?

You can’t resist a glance back at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No,” Ji-seon says, her voice unflappable. “He requires attention. He’s very… sensitive.”

A sharp chill runs through you, but it only lasts a second before you shake it off.

“Uh-huh. Sure,” you mutter under your breath. “Okay, I’ll take care of the… kid. Whatever.”

Ji-seon doesn’t seem bothered by your sarcasm. She just nods, smiling softly.

“You’ll be well compensated, yn” she adds. “And Eunwoo will be overseeing everything. He’ll make sure you’re doing it right.”

You don’t like the way she says your name like she’s already familiar with you.

“Eunwoo?”

“His name is Eunwoo. He checks on JK. He’ll be checking on you as well,” she explains, her gaze a little too intense.

You try to stifle a yawn. This whole thing is weird. And for the amount of money they’re offering,

it’s almost too weird.

And then, as if on cue, a man enters the room. He’s tall, dressed in a sleek black suit, his eyes cold and assessing.

“I’m Eunwoo,” he says in a deep voice that sends a shiver down your spine.

You blink. For a second, you think you’ve seen him somewhere before, but you push the thought away.

“I’ll be overseeing things here,” he continues, not bothering with pleasantries. “Make sure you’re following the rules.”

You squint at him. “Rules for taking care of a doll?”

Eunwoo’s smile is sharp, almost predatory. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

You’re about to ask more questions when Ji-seon interrupts.

“Remember the doll can actually speak a few words so don’t be freaked out about that, JK is capable of crying and sometimes even complimenting.”

What the fuck?

“Eunwoo will show you around. He’ll tell you what’s expected of you.”

You glance at Eunwoo, who watches you closely, as if evaluating every inch of you.

“I’ll be back later,” he says, before turning and walking toward JK, adjusting the doll in a way that makes you shiver.

You feel like you’ve stepped into some strange, twisted world. But you try not to let it show.

You need this job.

After all, you’ve got five million won to make.

The house feels too quiet as you stand there, trying to process everything.

You walk around, pretending to look busy while your eyes are fixated on the doll, JK, sitting perfectly still on the couch.

You can’t help but feel like you’re under some kind of microscope.

How could anyone need a nanny for a doll?

you think, your thoughts dripping with sarcasm. But then you remind yourself that you’re here for the money.

Five million won.

That’s what you keep telling yourself to push down the absurdity of the situation.

Eunwoo’s movements seem calculated as he adjusts JK’s position on the couch.

You don’t know why, but his actions feel almost… gentle, like he’s handling something fragile.

It’s unsettling.

You swallow, trying to mask the unease creeping into your stomach.

“Right,” you say, trying to force a grin as you break the silence. “So, what exactly am I supposed to do with… him? Do I play with him, or is he more of a… I don’t know, a silent companion?” Your tone is light, as if you’re joking, but it feels strangely hollow.

But he doesn’t seem to find your joke funny.

What a weirdo but at least he’s got a pretty face.

Although he looks very familiar… you just can’t put your finger on why you have probably seen him somewhere but you’re not sure at this point.

Eunwoo doesn’t respond at first, his gaze locked on the doll, then finally, he mutters, “You’ll interact with him when it’s required. He has specific needs. You’ll figure it out.”

His voice is colder than you expected, but it’s a different kind of cold— more like a warning than a suggestion.

You shift uncomfortably, looking over at JK.

. The doll’s porcelain eyes are wide open, locked onto you in an unnerving way, and you fight the urge to laugh at how absurd the whole situation is.

How could anyone possibly think this thing is alive?

“Got it,” you say, forcing a smile, trying to make light of the situation. “I’ll treat him like a… like a kid, right?”

Eunwoo’s eyes snap to yours, a brief flicker of something unspoken passing between you two.

“You’ll take care of him,”

he says, and you can feel the weight of his words sink in, much heavier than you expected.

His gaze lingers on you for a beat too long before he nods, as if ensuring you understand.

Ji-seon reappears, smiling pleasantly, and her presence brings a sense of eerie calm to the air.

“You’ll be fine here, yn. Eunwoo will help you get settled. We just need you to follow the routine.”

You nod, trying to sound agreeable. “Of course. No problem.”

She leads you down a hallway, her heels clicking on the polished floor as she motions toward a door.

“This will be your room while you’re here. Make yourself at home.”

You step inside, and your breath catches. It’s bigger than any space you’ve ever lived in before. bigger than your tiny apartment in Seoul, bigger than anything you’ve ever imagined.

The room is sleek, minimalist, and pristine, with soft, neutral colors that almost feel too perfect.

Rich people are ridiculous but at least you get to live in a really nice room and a literal man just to take care of a fucking doll. life is being nice to you at least.

At the far end of the room, there’s a large window with a view of the sprawling estate grounds, but it’s not the view that catches your eye.

It’s the family photos.

They’re everywhere— on the walls, on tables, in frames.

At first, it seems normal, just a rich, respectful family showing off their prized memories.

But then you start noticing things. In one picture, there’s a child, a little boy who could be no more than five or six. His features are strikingly similar to JK’s.

sharp Bambi eyes, a mole under his lower lip, and a smile that mirrors JKS.

It’s unsettling, the way the child looks so much like the doll, so much like… him.

In one photo, the child is sitting on a chair beside a younger version of the doll, his tiny hand placed possessively on the doll’s shoulder.

The similarities between them are too eerie to ignore.

You feel a slight shiver creep up your spine. What the hell is going on here?

you want to ask about this but you decide to let it go.

“How strange,” you murmur under your breath, though you’re not sure if you’re speaking to the doll or to yourself.

You force yourself to look away from the photos, but it feels like they’re following you.

You walk over to the desk, where another photo sits—this one of the couple holding hands with the child, all three of them beaming at the camera.

And again, the resemblance between the child and JK is too uncanny. It’s like they’re trying to prove something, some perfect image of family that feels staged, artificial.

A sudden knock on the door interrupts your thoughts, and before you can answer,

Eunwoo enters.

He doesn’t wait for permission, just steps inside, his eyes immediately scanning the room before they rest on you.

“Get settled. We’ll talk later,” he says, his tone clipped and direct.

You give him a forced smile, trying to keep your nerves in check. “Of course. Thanks, Eunwoo.”

“But where are Mr. and Mrs. Jeon?”

He nods, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer than comfortable.

There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his expression, but then he turns and walks out without another word.

“Didn’t you read in the advertisement? They have to go on a business trip to the states and they need you to take care of…. JK.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

The air in the room feels dense, thick with unspoken things. You can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched, monitored, like a subject in some twisted experiment.

You move to the bed, setting your bag down, and glance back at the photos.

The resemblance between the doll and the child is enough to make your stomach turn.

You try to push the thought out of your mind, but it sticks with you. What kind of family is this?

You pull out the piece of paper Eunwoo gave you earlier.

The list of instructions. It’s simple, even ridiculous at times. But the last line sticks out to you, making your heart skip a beat:

1. Do not leave him alone for extended periods.

• JK requires constant companionship. Never leave him for more than an hour at a time. If he is left alone for too long, you may hear him calling out for attention, sometimes saying things like “stay” or “hello.”

2. Talk to him regularly.

• Speak to JK as if he were a real child. He understands more than you think and benefits from daily conversation. You may hear him respond in his own way, even if it’s just a faint whisper of words like “pretty” or “hello” that seem to come from nowhere.

3. Do not ignore him.

• If JK’s eyes are on you, he is expecting attention. Never leave him in a room alone without acknowledging him. If you do, you might hear him softly say “stay” or something equally unsettling when you’re out of sight.

4. Maintain his appearance.

• Clean JK daily, especially his clothes. Ensure his hair is brushed and neat, and that he is positioned properly. If you don’t care for him properly, you may hear him complain.

5. Do not place him out of sight.

• Always keep JK within your line of sight. If you leave the room, take him with you, or he will become distressed. If left alone for too long, you may hear him calling out, perhaps asking for you in a low, soft voice.

6. Respect his space.

• Do not move JK without carefully considering his position. He prefers to be seated in his chair or on the couch—never leave him lying down for long. You may notice him suddenly changing positions on his own if you don’t follow these guidelines.

7. Follow the daily routine.

• A structured schedule is important for JK’s well-being. The routine is as follows:

• Morning: Greet JK. Talk to him about your day.

• Afternoon: Engage in activities with him (reading, conversation, or watching TV together). He might ask you things like “pretty” or “play” when he wants to interact.

• Evening: Ensure he is settled before you sleep. You may hear him say “stay” if you don’t give him a kiss goodnight.

8. Do not let him become distressed.

• If JK begins to look upset or agitated, stop what you’re doing immediately and comfort him. You’ll know he’s upset if his eyes seem unfocused or if he “stares off” for too long. At these times, you may hear him say things like “hello,” reaching out for attention.

9. No visitors unless approved by us.

• Do not invite anyone into the house unless we have specifically authorized them. This includes friends, family, or strangers. JK may also react to unapproved visitors by whispering, “go away,” or “stay,” in a chilling voice that’s hard to ignore.

10. Follow all of JK’s instructions as they are given.

• While he cannot speak in the traditional sense, his needs will make themselves known. You must be attuned to his behavior and respond accordingly. This includes listening for his soft, eerie phrases like “stay” or “pretty” when you least expect it.

11. Always keep his room organized.

• JK’s environment must remain tidy. His room should be cleaned and arranged according to how you find it each day. If you don’t, expect to hear him muttering things like “stay,” as if reminding you of your duties.

12. Never speak ill of him or treat him disrespectfully.

• JK is a special member of the family. Disrespect or neglect will not be tolerated. You may hear him call out to you in a hurt tone, saying “why” or “pretty,” if he feels abandoned.

13. If you feel discomfort or fear, contact Eunwoo immediately.

• Eunwoo is to be your point of contact should you feel overwhelmed or need assistance. He is also here to make sure everything is running smoothly. He may even contact you if he notices JK has been more vocal than usual, or if things seem off.

14. In case of an emergency, stay calm and follow the procedure.

• If anything unusual happens, contact us immediately. Keep calm and ensure JK is safe. During these moments, JK might cry out, or ask you “why” or “stay” in a soft voice, leaving you with an eerie feeling of being watched.

15. Do not attempt to move or alter JK’s appearance without prior approval.

• His positioning, attire, and overall state must remain as it is unless told otherwise. This is crucial for his well-being. If you disobey, JK might say things like “don’t” or “stop” under his breath, which you’ll hear clearly when the house is quiet.

16. If you need to leave the house, make sure JK is placed safely in a position to rest.

• Ensure he is seated comfortably before leaving. If you are gone for more than an hour, contact Eunwoo to check on him. You might also hear him call out faintly, “stay,” as if trying to hold you back.

17. Keep your emotions in check around him.

• JK can sense emotional changes. If you are feeling upset or disturbed, try to manage it before interacting with him. He may respond with a quiet “pretty” or “hello,” as if trying to comfort you, or, more chillingly, he might ask you, “stay.”

18. Remember: JK is not a doll.

• Treat him as you would any living child. He may not look alive, but his needs are very real. If you treat him like an inanimate object, you may hear him cry softly, pleading for attention, and saying “stay.”

19. Always give him a goodnight kiss.

• Before you sleep, you must give JK a kiss on the forehead. It’s a requirement for his comfort and peace of mind. If you forget, he will become unsettled, and you might hear him whisper, “stay” or “please” in a voice that feels too real for comf

You look over at JK. The doll’s unblinking eyes stare back at you, and for a moment, you almost think it’s smiling.

The money is still the only thing keeping you here. Five million won. But the unease crawling under your skin refuses to let go.

“Umm well these instructions are quite… haha… ummm… thorough…”

Eunwoo looks at you and he almost looks annoyed by you.

“Obviously. People like you need thorough instructions. You have to make sure that you follow each and every one of them or we will deduct your salary.”

What a little bitch he is.

“Yn you can go to your room now I can take care of him right now and keep the set of instructions with you and read them over again and again until you can remember them. Good night. The dinner will be on the dining table so eat whenever you want.”

•••

The next morning when you wake up, you realize that you didn’t really get much sleep last night because your head is pulsing, but you barely have time to breathe when you hear the older woman call out your name and there is a knock on your door.

When you finally compose yourself and dress up, you rush downstairs and you see the couple with the brooding, butler guy.

“Ummm good morning.”

Ji-seon and Jeong-hwan sit you down in the grand living room, the air thick with a seriousness that immediately puts you on edge.

You’re seated across from them, the doll, JK, still in his usual spot on the couch, eerily quiet as always.

The room feels colder now, as if the warmth has been sucked out of the house overnight.

“We have to leave for an extended period,” Ji-seon says, her voice smooth but with an undertone of finality.

She’s holding her hands in front of her, fingers laced together, her perfectly manicured nails catching the light.

She’s dressed as if she’s about to attend a gala, the elegance radiating off her like a fine perfume.

Jeong-hwan nods beside her, his expression unreadable, his posture stiff.

“We’ll be in Europe for business,” he says, his voice calm but firm,

“and we won’t be back for a few months. Maybe longer, depending on how things go. But we need you here, yn. You’re crucial to this arrangement.”

You blink, not sure what to make of the sudden reveal. You were told they were going away for a short time, but this? This feels different.

You glance at Eunwoo, who’s standing by the door, arms crossed, looking like he’s barely keeping his composure.

He’s so serious you almost want to fuck him.

His eyes are intense, unwavering, but there’s something else there too. something you can’t quite put your finger on.

Ji-seon leans forward, her eyes locking onto yours.

“The job isn’t just to care for the house, or to clean up after us. It’s to take care of JK while we’re gone,”

she says, her voice unwavering, almost as if she’s testing you. “

“We’re trusting you with a very special task. We have rejected 25 Nannie’s before you but something about you stood out.”

You feel a strange knot tighten in your stomach. “Right. I understand,” you say,

Though you can’t help but question how anyone could need someone to look after a doll like that.

Eunwoo’s gaze flicks to you briefly, a warning lingering in the way his lips press together. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

Jeong-hwan speaks up again, his tone cold, almost stern.

“You’re to follow the rules exactly as they’re written, and there will be no exceptions. JK needs consistency. He’s… special,” he adds, his words leaving a strange, unsettling weight in the air.

Why the fuck does everyone keep on saying that it’s almost starting to piss you off and you’ve been here for a day?

You frown, your mind reeling from the bizarre nature of their instructions.

“Special?” you ask, glancing nervously at JK, who’s still as ever on the couch, eyes wide and staring.

“What do you mean by that?”

Ji-seon’s expression softens slightly, but there’s a sharpness behind her gaze that makes you hesitate.

“What we mean,” she begins, her voice careful but insistent.

“is that JK, has particular needs. He requires attention, affection… care. You’ll need to spend time with him, talk to him. Don’t leave him alone for too long. You understand?”

You nod, unsure of what to say. You can feel the tension rising in the room, the weight of their expectations pressing on your chest.

Eunwoo shifts, stepping further into the room as if to emphasize his role.

“And I’ll be visiting, here to make sure everything goes smoothly,” he adds, his voice is smooth, almost too calm.

“If you ever have any issues or doubts, I’ll be here to help. Just… keep him company. That’s all we ask.”

You bite your lip, your thoughts racing. You never imagined this job would be anything like this.

The money was appealing, but now, the reality of it is setting in— and it’s starting to feel far too strange,

too unnerving.

“You’ll be fine,” Ji-seon says, offering you a smile, though it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“We’ll be back when we’re done with business, but until then, please make sure JK is well taken care of. He’s very important to us.”

Jeong-hwan stands, his suit sharply pressed, and gives you a small bow of his head.

“Take care of everything. Follow the rules, and everything will go smoothly.”

You nod, trying to remain composed, even though everything inside of you is screaming for a way out.

The money.

That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’ll stick it out.

But as you glance over at Eunwoo, his unblinking stare fixated on you, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re being drawn into something far deeper and more dangerous than you ever imagined.

The door closes softly behind Ji-seon and Jeong-hwan as they leave, and you’re left standing in the silent house with JK and Eunwoo.

And as soon as the door closes, there is a mechanical sound leaving the doll.

“pretty, pretty, stay… stay.”

And for the first time ever, you got serious shivers down your spine.

“Nice.. JK seems to like you a lot.”

What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

•••

I watch you, every move you make, every breath you take.

Your body, so unaware, so oblivious to the presence of the one who truly owns you.

You laugh, that soft sound echoing through the room, and I can’t help but let my eyes linger on the curve of your neck, the way your lips part when you exhale.

You’re beautiful.

But it’s not just your beauty that calls to me. It’s the way you touch the doll. Your fingers graze his face, your movements slow, almost hesitant.

You don’t even realize it, do you?

You’re already giving him a piece of yourself, even if it’s just a touch. But it’s not for him, is it?

No, it’s for me.

You think you’re in control, that you’re simply playing a role, but I can see the way your body betrays you.

The way your hands shake just a little when you adjust him, how your breath hitches when you think no one’s watching. You want him, want me, more than you’re willing to admit.

I can feel the heat radiating from you, the tension in the air thickening with every second you linger in that room.

You don’t know it yet, but every time you speak to him, every time your skin brushes against his, you’re inviting me in. You want to be touched, you crave it.

Your body, so starved for affection, desperate for someone to care, to see you.

I see you. And soon, you’ll feel me.

You’re not just taking care of a doll. You’re taking care of me.

The doll is just a way to keep you close, to watch you, to savor every second of your vulnerability.

You don’t realize how deep you’re sinking into this.

Every time you move, every time you shift, it’s like you’re drawing me in closer, pulling me into your world.

Your eyes flicker toward the doll again, and I can almost hear your thoughts, wondering why you’re drawn to him so much.

You want to feel him. You want to touch him.

But what you don’t know is that the only thing you’ll feel is me. The only thing you’ll touch is me.

I let out a quiet breath, my fingers curling into a fist as I watch you through the shadows. You’re perfect for this. You’re perfect for me

And the longer you stay here, the closer you’ll get to me, to the things I want from you.

You’ll beg for it soon enough.

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meow286 · 3 months ago

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notes on how i go about stylizing cats from reference.

ive observed when drawing a cat with extra fat, its easy to lose the form and have it look like a balloon animal. if you keep bony landmarks and silhouette in mind as you caricature this can be avoided. these landmarks are places like joints, the spine, some points of the ribcage, and certain bones in the face.

the joints are where you "break" the silhouette of the figure. these are essential to a strong drawing and selling the volume of your character. interpreting the contrast of straights and curves around the figure will give a visual rhythm and prevent your drawing from appearing stiff and lifeless. some inner descriptive lines in places where muscle, fur, skin and fat are more obvious create a more defined shape that can really add something extra if you find your drawing is appearing too flat.

selling the markings by having them follow the contours of the body will also really help in making sure your drawings come across as volumetric. its easy to slap them on as an afterthought, but copy pasted looking markings can totally ruin the illusion of your characters dimension!

this of course is all relative to your own goals when drawing a piece, if you want your art to be flat and graphic, go for it! i will say it always helps my design sense to understand how things work in a 3d space before i get really abstract with them. the more you can understand your subject the easier it is to find success with the end goal of your piece.

this also geared towards animation. when you can "see" clearly how the character is structured from every level, drawing them in sequential motion becomes just that much easier. thanks for reading!

#cat #warrior cats #life drawing #tutorial #advice #this is rather rambly #and me getting my own method and thought process out there #hope it helps!#where did my L go when i wrote supplemental? i think it got erased somehow #ignore that #cats also have pretty loose skin fat on them tends to be a bit saggy and is store around their torso chest and neck #weve all played with a cats pouch before you know that i mean #skeleton is very loose and gestural do not take it as perfect anatomy lol

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pitlanepeach · 2 months ago

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The Long Way Home I Chapter Nine

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Guys…. I was watching young!Oscar edits before writing this chapter and it’s made me so emotional omg.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

It was colder than it looked.

The wind off the track cut straight through Harper's jumper, even with Mark's spare team jacket draped over her shoulders. It smelled faintly like petrol and stale coffee, but it was warm, and she wasn't about to complain.

Oscar was somewhere past the pit lane, already strapped into the car. The livery was nice — mostly black, matte, with just a splash of deep blue on the sides. The team was new, too. Small. Scrappy. Privately funded and all nerves and duct tape. But Oscar looked right in the car.

He looked like he belonged there.

Harper shifted on the folding chair outside the tent, hands tucked under her thighs to keep them warm. Five and a half months pregnant meant back pain and always being hungry — and maternity tights that itched like hell.

A few mechanics from other teams kept sneaking glances her way.

She couldn't hear them whispering, but she could imagine what they were saying.

"That the girlfriend?"

"Yeah. Christ, they're only fifteen."

"Looks like she's gonna pop any minute..."

Mark handed her a paper cup of tea and sat down beside her without a word. He didn't look at the men. Didn't say anything about the whispers either. He just passed her a packet of Jaffa Cakes and kicked his feet up on the crate beside them like they were sitting at a beach instead of a professional racetrack.

"You alright, kid?" He asked eventually, his voice low and gruff in that Aussie way that sounded more like gravel than concern.

She nodded. "Just a bit tired. And uncomfortable."

He let out a soft grunt of sympathy. "Yeah. I bet."

Harper blinked. "You really never wanted kids?"

"Nah. Not yet. Still got time."

Harper sipped her tea. "Is it mad I'm more nervous than Oscar about today?"

Mark shook his head. "Not mad. Just means you give a shit. Which is nice."

From the garage, the radio crackled to life. Oscar's voice, tinny but steady. "Copy. Track feels good. Brake balance is stable."

Harper let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

One of the press photographers drifted too close, camera already raised. Mark turned his head just slightly, and that was enough. A look — one part ex-racer, one part protector — and the guy scuttled off like he'd nearly stepped on a landmine.

"Thanks," Harper murmured.

"You're with me," Mark said simply, like that explained everything. "They don't get to treat you like a bloody spectacle."

Across the paddock, Oscar's car wheeled into view, engine snarling, tyres twitching with that jumpy, pre-race tension. The pit crew moved in a flurry. Helmet on. Visor down. And then he was gone — off into the formation lap with that twitchy, fast grace he always had when he wasn't thinking too hard.

Harper watched the car disappear around the corner. Her hands curled around her bump.

"I hate this part," she whispered.

"The waiting?" Mark asked.

"The knowing he might crash," she admitted.

Mark nodded like he knew that fear well. "He's good," he said. "Bloody talented. But more than that, he's got the head for it. That's rare."

Harper blinked down at her belly. "Yeah," she said. "He'll be a good dad too."

Mark looked at her — not with pity, not with surprise — but with something older. Like respect.

"I think you're braver than he is," he said after a pause.

"Doubt it," she said quickly.

"Don't," he said. "You're a bloody teenager. But you're here. And you're not hiding."

She didn't answer, but she didn't look away either.

Then a shout went up from the track. The lights went out. The race had begun.

Harper's breath caught.

Oscar's car — P6 on the grid — slotted into the pack like it belonged there. And it wasn't even two laps before he was chasing the front runners, tyres biting, throttle feathered like a pro.

Mark leaned back, arms crossed.

"Told you," he said.

And Harper, despite the murmurs, despite the cold, despite the weight of everything pressing down on her chest — smiled.

Because yeah.

Oscar was flying.

—

The paddock was still buzzing — cars being wheeled off, radios crackling, tyres cooling, mechanics shouting over each other with the wild relief of a clean finish. Somewhere in the distance, someone was setting off an airhorn. Mark was yelling into a phone about tyres.

Oscar ducked under the awning, helmet tucked under his arm, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. His race suit was half-unzipped, tied around his waist, black fireproof undershirt soaked through at the collar.

Harper was already there, perched on a crate by the spare front wing. Her hands were clenched in her lap, face flushed. When she saw him, she stood too fast, steadied herself, and exhaled.

"You finished fifth," she said breathlessly. "Fifth, Osc. Your single seater debut and you finished fifth!"

"I know." He was grinning so hard it barely fit on his face. "I overtook on Copse. Did you see it?"

"Did I—" She gave a strangled laugh. "Yes, I saw it! You nearly gave me a fucking aneurysm."

Oscar dropped his helmet and practically launched himself at her. His arms went around her, careful but tight, like he couldn't decide whether to hold her or just collapse.

Harper melted into the hug, cheek pressed to his shoulder.

"You smell awful," she muttered.

"Victory sweat," he said into her hair. "Don't disrespect it."

She made a noise halfway between a snort and a sob. Her hands clung to the back of his fireproofs, fingers knotting the fabric.

"People were staring," she said quietly. "It'll be all over the forums, soon. Twitter. Instagram. The fifteen year old F4 driver with a pregnant girlfriend."

"I know."

"I don't want us to have a negative impact on your career."

Oscar's face softened. He glanced around — there were still people watching. Journalists, team members, other drivers. Some looking curiously. Some not bothering to hide their judgment.

He ducked his head, touched his forehead gently to hers. "Let them stare," he murmured. "They don't know you. They don't know us. They don't get to decide anything."

She blinked fast. "I cried during the final lap."

"Mark probably cried too. He's emotionally repressed — that man leaks feelings through his jaw tension."

Harper giggled in spite of herself. "I'm really proud of you, Osc."

Oscar smiled — not the flashy, race-day grin, but the soft, private one he only really gave to her. "Thanks for being here," he said.

"Thanks for not crashing." She whispered.

Oscar looked at her belly. Rested a hand there, carefully, then glanced around awkwardly to make sure nobody was around.

"She kicked right after you overtook that kid in the green car," Harper said softly.

His head turned back to her and his eyes widened. "Wait, really?"

"Swear to God. She's already got road rage."

Oscar laughed.

Then Mark shouted across the garage, "Oi, golden boy — debrief in ten, and put on a bloody shirt before someone files a harassment complaint!"

Oscar winced. "Sorry." He muttered.

Harper shook her head. "Go on. Go be told how amazing and fast and talented you are."

"You staying?"

"Obviously." She said. "I'm going to get a 99 from the ice cream van. Then I'll come back here and wait for you."

Oscar kissed her cheek and jogged off, still bouncing on adrenaline, slipping slightly on a rogue bit of tyre rubber.

Harper sat back down on the crate. Someone was still staring. She stared right back.

Because yeah — she was pregnant. And fifteen.

But her boyfriend had just placed fifth in his first-ever F4 race.

And that was worth staring at.

—

The TV was on but muted — something about rugby. Oscar was lying on his stomach on the hotel bed in a pile of pillows, scrolling through his phone. Harper sat against the headboard in one of his hoodies, her knees pulled up to her chest, laptop open, trying not to cry over a piece of geometry homework.

She wasn't looking at her maths anymore.

She was looking at Twitter.

And Twitter was, as always, a shitshow.

Great drive but this kid's clearly distracted. Pregnant girlfriend in the paddock at 15? Insane.

Piastri could be a serious talent. Shame he's going to have a kid to think about soon.

Imagine choosing fatherhood over your chance to get into Formula 1. Bet he'll be gone in two years.

She swallowed. Her stomach felt hollow.

Oscar hadn't noticed yet. He was watching some replay clips. Laughing occasionally.

She didn't want to ruin it. But her hand was gripping her laptop so hard her knuckles had gone white.

"...Harp?"

She didn't answer. Just tilted the screen so he could see.

His expression changed in slow motion. First confused, then wary, then flat.

He sat up. Took the laptop. Scrolled. Frowned. Clicked on a few replies.

"...Wow," he said finally. "Bit harsh."

Harper laughed — but it was brittle, bitter. "They think you've ruined your life."

"They're all middle-ages arseholes."

"They think I've ruined your life." She said again.

Oscar shut the laptop.

"Alright. First of all," he said, voice tight but trying for calm, "no more Twitter for you. Second, you have not, and will not, ruin anything."

As if summoned, Mark knocked on the adjoining door, then walked in without waiting for a response. He had a protein bar in one hand and a face like thunder.

"Piastri," he said, tossing his phone on the bed. "You seen this?"

"Yeah," Oscar said. "We were just looking."

Mark ran a hand through his hair. "Some knobhead ex-club driver started a whole thread about you being 'a warning to others'. Like you're a fucking cautionary tale."

Harper blinked. "Jesus."

"I know," Mark snapped. "I did ten years in F1. You want scandal? That sport invented it. Teen pregnancy is far from the craziest thing this sport has seen."

Oscar shrugged. "They'll forget in a week."

"They won't," Mark said bluntly. "They'll keep watching. Keep waiting for you to mess it up. But you're not going to."

Harper stayed quiet. Her throat felt tight.

Mark glanced at her, then back at Oscar.

"You know what they hate more than a scandal?" he said. "A happy ending."

Oscar looked confused. Harper blinked.

"They want the downfall," Mark said. "They want tears, breakups, chaos. Give them stability? A kid who knows what matters and still wins races?" He smiled grimly. "Boring as hell. That's when they'll move on."

Oscar leaned back against Harper. "Should be easy enough."

"Damn right," Mark muttered. "Now. Shut the laptop. Eat something. And get some sleep. We've got a long drive back to Haileybury in the morning."

Harper smiled weakly. Oscar reached over and twined their fingers together.

—

The media room was too warm. That annoying kind of hotel conference room warmth — recirculated air and instant coffee and the stink of fresh lanyards. Oscar sat in a folding chair between two cheap potted plants, fingers locked under his thigh to stop himself fidgeting.

The interviewer's name was Cal. Maybe Calum. He had a half-rolled sleeve and expensive trainers and a voice that sounded like it practiced banter in a mirror.

Oscar already hated him.

"So!" Cal beamed. "Oscar Piastri. Big weekend. Huge season ahead for you. People are saying you're the next big thing in motorsport."

Oscar blinked. "Okay."

Cal laughed. "Modest, huh? That an Aussie thing? You're a bit of an enigma to people. Quiet on socials. Not much media before now. First proper post-karts season. And now—" He leaned forward. "You've got a baby on the way?"

Oscar's jaw twitched. "Yep."

"That's... big, man. Most lads your age are just getting their first girlfriends, and you're going to be a dad. How does that feel?"

Oscar stared at him for a beat too long.

"I dunno," he said finally. "Feels like what it is. A big deal. Exciting."

"Right. And is that affecting how you train? I mean, balancing a championship with—"

"No."

Cal's eyebrows lifted.

"Right, right," he said. "But I mean — come on, be honest. There's gotta be some pressure. You've got the fans, the sponsors, and now you're about to start your own family. That's not a normal situation for a fifteen-year-old. Does it ever feel like... too much?"

Oscar shrugged. "I don't really think about it like that."

"Do you feel like people judge you for it?"

Oscar gave a small, unpleasant smile. "They judge me for everything. Winning. Not winning. What I wear. How I speak."

There was a brief silence. Cal glanced down at his notes, then back up again, brightening.

"And Harper — your girlfriend — is she here with you today?"

Oscar blinked once. "No. She's got an exam today."

"Ah. Fair enough. Does she follow your racing, though? Come to most of your events?"

"Yeah," Oscar said shortly. "When she can. She enjoys it."

"Was she with you after your debut this weekend?"

Oscar's voice was flat now. "Don't think that's your business, mate."

Cal laughed again — nervous this time. "Fair, fair. Just trying to paint the picture, y'know? Let fans in. They love a story. You two are young, expecting a baby — kind of a motorsport fairytale."

Oscar shifted in his seat. "It's not a fairytale."

"Okay. What is it, then?"

Oscar looked him dead in the eye. "It's just our life," he said.

Cal nodded. "Right. Okay, moving on—"

Mark was waiting outside the interview room with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched.

Oscar walked straight past him. "Didn't say anything stupid," he muttered.

Mark raised a brow. "No, but you scared the life out of that guy. He looked like he was about to piss himself."

Oscar shrugged. "He was trying to get a headline out of me. Didn't want to let that happen."

Mark gave a short, approving nod. "Good lad."

⸻

It went live that night.

Harper sat cross-legged on Jane's bed, flicking through it with a familiar sinking feeling in her chest.

Prodigy Piastri — How The Karting Star Made It To F4 at Fifteen

He might be young, but he's not here for the headlines. In an exclusive with Race Circuit Magazine, the 15-year-old rising star gave his first ever interview since being promoted — and made it clear that while his driving's for the public, his private life stays off-track.

"It's not a fairytale," Piastri said when asked about his highly publicised relationship with girlfriend Harper Whiatt and their pregnancy. "It's just our life."

Harper exhaled. Somewhere between proud and rattled and hungry (always hungry).

Jane peeked over her shoulder. "He's a bit scary, isn't he? In interviews."

"Yeah," Harper said softly. "He just — he doesn't like the drama of it all. He just wants to drive fast and win races."

Jane snorted. "Well. He's definitely not a media darling."

"No," Harper murmured. "He's not. But he's mine."

—

The email came through just after prep. She hadn't even opened it straight away — just stared at the subject line, stomach knotting.

GCSE Maths Mock Results - Personal Performance Review Requested

She knew.

Didn't need to read the rest.

Now she was sitting at the end of Oscar's bed with her knees pulled up and her hands under her thighs like she was holding herself together. Her phone lay face-down on the blanket beside her. The others were filtering in slowly, already clocking the atmosphere.

"Harper?" Oscar asked, closing the door behind him, gently.

She didn't look up.

"Failed it," she said, voice flat. "The maths mock."

Sam paused halfway through opening a bag of Frazzles. Jane, already cross-legged on the rug, stopped fiddling with her pens. Matt and Alfie came to a sort of unspoken halt in the doorway like they'd stepped into bad weather.

Oscar moved to sit beside her, quiet. "By how much?"

"Twenty-three percent." She gave a hollow laugh. "Didn't even make it past halfway. Even with the extra time."

No one said anything.

She hated the silence. Hated what she imagined they were all thinking — that it had been obvious, that it was coming, that she wasn't cut out for this. For school. For exams. For any of it.

"I'm just —" She rubbed her eyes hard. "I'm trying. I'm really fucking trying."

Oscar didn't say anything. He just leaned in and rested his forehead against her shoulder.

"We know you are," he said quietly.

Jane dragged her bag over and pulled out a Tesco meal deal she'd been saving. Wordlessly handed Harper the chocolate bar.

"I don't want pity snacks," Harper muttered.

"Tough. It's not pity. It's a twirl."

Sam flopped onto his bed with a dramatic groan. "Do you seriously think any of us are going to actually pass that exam? I sat next to a guy who drew a dick on his calculator and still scored higher than me."

Alfie shrugged. "I once wrote the word 'MATHS' in block capitals and then panicked and cried into the desk for fifteen minutes. Still got a D."

Matt snorted. "I actually studied and still failed. So clearly, revision's a scam."

Harper huffed a little through her nose. "You're all idiots."

"Exactly," Jane said. "And we still believe in you more than we believe in ourselves, so."

Oscar nudged her leg. "We'll keep revising. There's still two months until the real thing."

She knew. Couldn't forget it, could she? Not when her due-date was two weeks after the last scheduled exam.

"I know," she said quietly.

For a moment, they just sat like that. Six teenagers in one too-small room, surrounded by piles of clothes and textbooks and that weird leftover smell of the chicken super noodles that Sam had brought back from the common room.

It was stuffy and crowded and stupidly warm from the broken radiator that now refused to ever stop emitting heat, but no one moved.

No one told her it was all going to be okay. No one made big promises. No one tried to fix it.

They just sat with her. Like a net beneath a tightrope.

Harper curled slightly into Oscar's side. Let herself breathe.

"Just a shit day," she murmured.

"Yeah," Sam said, mouth full of Frazzles. "We have those a lot. That's why we have each other."

—

Harper sat on the crinkly white paper lining the little bed, legs swinging nervously. The room was too bright. Oscar sat beside her in one of the plastic chairs, biting at the skin on his thumb.

"You alright?" She asked, glancing at him.

"I'm not the one about to get poked and prodded," he muttered.

She frowned at him. "Osc. You look more nervous than me."

"Not nervous. Just—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Wish I could do something useful."

She snorted. "You brought me a Lucozade and remembered the stupid NHS letter."

Before he could reply, the door opened and the midwife breezed in — smiling, clipboard in hand, no-nonsense blonde bob.

"Hi, Harper. Hi, Oscar. Lovely to see you both again."

Oscar nodded awkwardly. Harper gave a small smile. "Hi, Rebecca."

"Alright then," Rebecca said, snapping on gloves. "We're just doing a very basic check-up today — nothing too scary. You're about twenty-three weeks, yeah?"

"Twenty-three and a half," Harper said, proud of how quickly it came out. "We had the anomaly scan — everything was good."

"Brilliant." Rebecca beamed. "Are you two finding out the sex, or keeping it a surprise?"

Oscar immediately busied himself with the bottle of hand sanitiser. Harper smirked. "We found out. It's a girl. Oscar told everyone."

Rebecca raised her eyebrows. "Ooh, exciting. Have you picked a name yet?"

"We're in committee with our friends," Harper said dryly. "It's not going well."

Oscar snorted. "Someone suggested 'Peach'."

Harper elbowed him.

"Alright," Rebecca laughed. "Well, let's have a little listen to baby's heartbeat today, yeah? Lie back for me."

Harper lay down carefully, tugging up her top and folding it beneath her chest. Her belly button had started to flatten out, which she hated. Oscar leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes trained on her stomach.

Rebecca warmed the Doppler gel in her hands, then pressed the wand to Harper's skin.

Static. Then a swoosh. Then— there. A rapid, rhythmic gallop.

"I like this part," Oscar said. Quietly. "Hearing her."

Harper smiled without looking at him. "Me too."

Rebecca nodded. "Strong as anything. Around 145 bpm — that's a very happy, very wiggly baby."

Oscar was still smiling. "She's always moving."

"That's a very good sign," Rebecca said, wiping off the gel. "You two are doing just fine."

Harper tugged her shirt back down over the little swell of her belly, the cool jelly from the Doppler still tacky on her skin. She wiped her hand on a tissue and glanced at Oscar, who was perched rigidly on the chair next to the midwife's desk, like he was afraid to breathe wrong in case he broke something.

"She has a personality already," Harper said, half-laughing, half-incredulous.

Rebecca, the midwife, raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh yeah?"

Harper nodded, smoothing her hand down her stomach like she was trying to pat the baby through layers of uniform and nerves. "She's quiet in the mornings. Proper grumpy. But always awake at night. Fidgety. She kicks the second I lie down. And she loves watching Oscar race," Harper added, casting him a look. "Goes absolutely bonkers every time the engines start."

Oscar smiled faintly. "My girl."

"And she was obsessed with blackcurrant squash for two straight weeks," Harper continued. "But now she turns her nose up at it. Hates orange squash. Like... violently. I had some last week and she full-on elbowed my kidney."

Rebecca chuckled, tapping notes into the screen. "Sounds like she's already a bit of a drama queen."

Oscar grinned. "She's also a big fan of chocolate-flavoured anything — mousse, milkshake, pudding — but actual chocolate gives Harper brutal heartburn. So that's fun."

"I had a KitKat and had to lie down for an hour," Harper muttered. "It's really annoying, honestly."

Rebecca smiled warmly, clearly used to this particular kind of hormonal chaos. "She's certainly making herself known."

She clicked through a few tabs on the computer, then stood and crossed to the counter. "Alright, let's do a quick blood draw, Harper. Just to check your vitamin levels and keep an eye on blood pressure and iron. And we'll check your markers for pre-eclampsia."

Oscar immediately went still, eyes flicking up from Harper's belly to Rebecca.

"Wait — what's that?" he asked, voice a little too loud. "That sounds scary."

Harper gave him a look like please chill, but he ignored it, leaning forward in his chair.

Rebecca turned back with a gentle calm only midwives seemed to have. "It's a condition where blood pressure can spike during pregnancy. It can be serious, yes, but that's why we monitor for it so closely. Headaches, blurred vision, swelling — if anything feels off, you just tell us, okay?"

Harper nodded, but Oscar still looked vaguely stricken.

"She's fine," Harper said under her breath, nudging him. "We're just checking. It's just a check-up. That's what they do. Check things."

Oscar cleared his throat and nodded quickly, slumping back into the chair like someone had punched all the air out of his lungs. "Yeah. Right. Sorry."

Rebecca offered a reassuring smile. "You're being a really good, supportive partner, Oscar. It's good that you ask. And it's normal to worry."

That shut him up completely. His ears went red.

Harper tried not to giggle as Rebecca swabbed her arm and slid the needle in. Oscar looked like he wanted to throw himself between her and the needle but was too polite to actually move.

"It's just blood," Harper said.

"It's still your blood," Oscar muttered. "Which is, like... my second-favourite part of you."

She blinked. "What's your first-favourite part of me?"

He hesitated. Then, after a beat, said, "All the parts that grows small humans."

Rebecca laughed.

—

The engines were thunder.

Harper stood just behind the pit wall, oversized headset clamped over her ears, Mark Webber on one side of her and a row of engineers yelling data into radios on the other. The wind off the circuit was brutal — whipping her hair into her eyes, tugging at her coat. But she barely felt it.

Her heart was somewhere in her throat.

It was the final lap. Final corner. And Oscar was in second position.

She could see the shape of him — black-and-white race suit, helmet tucked low, the car twitching under pressure as he took the inside line — sharp, aggressive, clean.

And then he passed him.

"Oh my God," she sucked in a breath, gripping Mark's arm without thinking.

The car in front — the RedSpeed junior — went wide. Oscar ducked under, tyres screeching, engine screaming as he pulled into the lead like it belonged to him.

And then it was the straight.

The chequered flag waved and entire pit lane exploded — Mark swearing gleefully, the engineers howling into radios, one of the mechanics pounding his hands together.

Oscar had won.

He'd actually bloody won.

Harper was grinning like an idiot before she could even process it. Adrenaline and pride and disbelief hit her in a wave so huge she had to step back from the wall, laughing in that dazed, stunned way people only do when something brilliant happens and they have no idea how to react to it.

Mark turned to her, his voice muffled through both their headsets. "He just fucking did that."

"I know!" she shouted back, heart pounding.

"Christ, he's a machine. That move at the hairpin—" He clapped her shoulder like they were both drunk on the win. "Your bloke's got ice in his veins."

The camera crews were already swarming toward the parc fermé, where Oscar was climbing out of the car, helmet off, curls plastered to his forehead, blinking like he'd just woken up from a long nap. He barely cracked a smile — just nodded once to the engineers, quiet, controlled. He always did this. Too stunned to celebrate properly. It was just how he was.

But when he saw her, standing behind the barrier, he smiled.

Not a grin. Not the shy little twitch of his mouth he gave to the cameras.

A real one. Like everything in him relaxed for just a second.

And then Harper did the very uncool thing of waving. Mark snorted beside her.

Oscar didn't wave back — too many people, too many eyes — but he dipped his head a fraction. Just enough.

She understood what it meant.

He'd won. And she'd been there to see it.

Someone near the press pen muttered, loud in ppl enough for her to hear. "Isn't that the girl? The pregnant one?"

Another voice. "Can you believe it? Fifteen."

But then the cameras and the attention turned again, as Oscar climbed up onto the podium, head down, hands behind his back, cheeks flushed with cold and quiet pride.

He didn't look at the cameras. Didn't wave. Didn't even really smile.

But when the national anthem started — just before the champagne — he looked across the track, through the fence, right at her.

And she'd never forget that smile.

NEXT CHAPTER

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noirscript · 4 months ago

Text

his silent script

Pairing: Yandere!Actor x Smut Writer!Reader Description: You never meant for your words to become real, but Dorian Shaw—celebrated actor, relentless shadow—has stepped straight out of your pages. He watches you like he knows you, like he’s living the life you created for him, and when he speaks, it’s with the certainty of a man who refuses to be just fiction. Warning/s: YANDERE | Stalking | Psychological Manipulation | Power Imbalance | Implied Coercion | Implied Threats | Note/s: Happy 900 followers! Actually, it already exceeded 900. I hope I can finish Sovereign's Reign on or before I reach 1,000 followers. ^^ Anyway, enjoy reading!

Masterlist | Dark Roast 50% OFF | Commission | Tip Jar

The first time you met him; it wasn’t with flashing cameras or red carpets. It was raining—of course it was raining—and the bookstore’s leaky ceiling made a steady plip-plip onto the laminate floor.

You’d come for peace. You found him instead.

He was in the back corner of the romance section, hood low over his brow, fingers grazing the spines like he was choosing a victim rather than a novel. Tall, still, silent. The kind of presence that made you aware of your own heartbeat.

You didn’t recognize him. Not really. Maybe you’d seen him once, in passing on some trailer auto-playing on your phone. But the name meant little. The face meant nothing. You weren’t in the business of idolizing men who wore fake faces for a living.

Still, you noticed the way his eyes lingered too long on the shelf where your name sat, your series nestled between glossier, brighter titles. You saw the slight twitch in his jaw when he picked up the second book in your “Sin & Silk” trilogy. And then—he smiled.

Not like a fan. Like a man who’d just found something he’d been missing.

“Is this one any good?” he asked, holding up the copy. His voice was deep—velvet laced with smoke—and you immediately felt heat crawl up your neck.

“I wouldn’t know,” you said, brushing past him to the counter. “Never read it.”

He laughed—just once. “Liar.”

You turned. He was still watching you.

“You’re her,” he said. “The author.”

Your stomach sank. “So?”

He didn’t answer. Just flipped the book open, letting the pages fan out beneath his fingers, stopping on a dog-eared chapter. You knew exactly which scene it was. Chapter 17. The one your editor almost didn’t let you keep. Too dark, too raw, too real.

But you’d fought for it. And won.

Now he was reading it. Slowly. Deliberately.

“This scene,” he murmured. “The way he talks to her. Makes her feel like she’s drowning even when she wants more.”

You stiffened. “You make it sound creepy.”

He smiled again. This time, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s not creepy if it’s real.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You didn’t think much of it. A strange encounter. A nameless man in a bookstore. A slightly unsettling comment.

Then a week later, your book shot up the charts.

Overnight, your inbox was flooded with messages. Your social media exploded. Edits. Fanart. BookTok girls screaming about the “Sin & Silk” trilogy, especially Chapter 17. You didn’t understand why—until you saw the video.

Him. The man from the bookstore.

Only now, the hood was off. The world’s most sought-after actor, Dorian Shaw, was staring into a camera, book in hand, reading your words.

“I couldn’t put it down,” he said in a quiet interview, caught between questions about his next thriller and a luxury brand endorsement. “There’s something real in this writing. Dark, yeah. But honest. Like she’s not afraid to tell the truth.”

Dorian Shaw. Award-winning. Obscenely handsome. A man with a face built for obsession and a voice that bent crowds.

And now, he was yours.

Your book, your name, your words—on his lips.

It should’ve been thrilling. You should’ve been grateful.

But when you watched that interview, it wasn’t his praise that stuck with you.

It was the way he looked at the camera.

Like he wasn’t just recommending your book.

Like he was speaking to you.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The next time you saw him; it was at your signing event. Your publicist was buzzing, hands fluttering as she arranged stacks of books and fixed your hair between signatures.

“He promoted you,” she whispered. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

You did. Your Amazon page had crashed. Pre-orders were climbing. But all you could think about was the way his fingers lingered on your words.

He showed up without fanfare. No entourage. No disguise. Just Dorian, dressed in dark tones, leaning against the end of the line like he belonged there.

People turned. Whispered. Phones clicked.

And still, he waited. Twenty-three minutes.

When he finally reached you, he didn’t hand you a book.

He slid a black envelope across the table.

“I read them all,” he said. “But I think you already know that.”

You stared at him. “Why are you here?”

His smile was slow. Purposeful.

“I want to talk. The real kind. About the man you wrote.”

“I write fiction.”

“You write truth in disguise.”

He stepped back, letting the crowd absorb him. But as he disappeared, he called over his shoulder:

“Open it when you’re alone.”

Inside the envelope was a script. Handwritten. Raw. A scene lifted straight from Chapter 17—but with differences. Subtle, unnerving ones.

The villain won.

The heroine didn’t run.

And at the bottom, scrawled in ink that had bled through the page:

You wrote him. I became him.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You tried to avoid it after that. Ignored the surge of followers. Declined interviews. Turned adaptation offers.

But Dorian was persistent.

He posted again. A black-and-white video of him reading a monologue from your latest release. The comments were chaos. His fans demanded a collab. Your sales doubled. Your publisher offered a new contract. Your name was trending.

And through it all, he watched.

At first, it was distant. A like. A repost. A subtle nod during his press tours.

Then he started commenting. Small things. Quotes from your work. Direct lines. No context.

Then came the invitations. A book panel he was hosting. A charity gala “in your honor.” He even showed up at a local café reading where you’d been assured anonymity.

You finally gave in at a networking event your agent guilted you into attending. He was there before you. Waiting at the bar.

“You never answered my messages,” he said as you approached, drink in hand.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“No,” he said. “But you created me.”

You shook your head. “You’re not him. He’s fiction.”

Dorian leaned in, voice lowering. “I’ve played gods, killers, kings. But none of them fit like him. None of them felt like me—until your story.”

You hated the way he said it. Like it was fate. Like he truly believed it.

“You don’t know me,” you said.

“I know you better than anyone who’s ever touched your skin,” he said, his voice almost reverent. “Because I’ve read the parts of you no one else dares to look at.”

You walked away.

But something tethered you there.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

And now, you were in the backseat of a car. One you didn’t remember getting into. Rain blurred the windows. Your hands were shaking.

The partition slid down.

Dorian looked back at you from the driver’s seat.

“You shouldn’t get in strange cars,” he said.

Your mouth went dry. “This isn’t my driver.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s mine.”

You reached for the handle. Locked.

“Please,” he said. “Just listen.”

You swallowed. “You stalked me.”

“I followed the story.”

“There is no story.”

“There is,and you know it.”

His voice was quiet, almost broken.

“You wrote me. I was fragments before you. Empty roles. Hollow scripts. But then I found your words. And I felt something. For the first time in years, I felt alive.”

He turned in his seat, eyes meeting yours.

“Don’t take that from me.”

The knife was beneath the seat. You knew it. He didn’t reach for it.

Instead, he took your book from his coat. Your first. The one that had started it all.

“Let me show you what this means to me,” he whispered. “Let me be him.”

Your heart pounded.

“I don’t want him.”

“Yes, you do,” he said. “You buried him in fiction. I’m digging him out.”

Silence sat between you like a second presence.

Then, softly: “Give me one scene. Just one. Let me prove I understand.”

And you, against everything rational, nodded.

He didn’t touch you.

But he looked at you like you were the final line of a monologue he’d rehearsed a thousand times.

And when it was over, you went home.

And picked up your pen.

And rewrote the ending.

This time, the villain stays.

TBC.

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger

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chloe-skywalker · 3 months ago

Text

You Know This Guy? - Bucky Barnes /Alexei

Bucky x Fem!Reader

Alexei x Daughter!Reader

Warnings: none

Word count: 659

Summary: Bucky called you to help manage these guys, he didn’t know Y/n would personally know Alexei.

Authors Note: Part 2 ? I wrote this before the movie came out so once I see the movie part 2 would be possible to write. Okay so I wrote this in february and didn’t find out till articles came out and said it in April but this fit almost the mental health theme of the movie. Definitely want to do a part 2.

Masterlist

Avengers Masterlist

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“Ah Y/n!” Alexei exclaimed in pure excitement at seeing the young woman enter the room with Barnes. Y/n and Bucky immediately looked towards the man in question and Y/n stood in shock and Bucky in confusion.

“You know this guy?” Bucky tilted his head towards Y/n but kept his eye’s on Alexei. Bucky didn’t trust anyone in this room, besides Y/n.

“A long time ago.” Y/n answered Bucky as well as copying him and keeping her eye’s on the man she hadn’t seen in a very long time. Not since she was a child.

“Oh my sweet, Y/n.” Alexei smiled as he approached her wrapping her up in his arms lifting her off the ground, hugging her to his chest.

“Okay, let me down.” Y/n squeezed out at how tight his hold was and she didn’t particularly like being lifted off the floor.

“I’m so happy your here. And you know Barnes!” Alexei put her back down on her feet moving his hands up to cup her cheeks, squishing them in the process.

“Yeah, yeah I know Barnes.” Y/n answered with a nod as she reached up grabbing his wrists to lower his hands from her face.

“Fantastic.” He clapped smiling looking between her and Bucky.

“May I talk to you for a sec?” Bucky asked placing a hand on Y/n’s lower back to get her attention, but to also provide her with comfort having noticed how tense she had become.

“Uh huh.” Y/n nodded leaning back into his hand as they left the room.

“How do you know this guy?” Bucky nodded back towards the room where they had left everyone else as he referred back to the burly man weathering a to tight suit. A suit neither one of them was sure ever really fit that man.

“I know pretty much all of the Bucky. John from when we helped Sam, Yelena from the Red Room-” Y/n started listing how she knew a couple of the people in the other room, but she was actively avoiding giving a straight answer to his question for as long as she could.

“How do you know Alexei?” Bucky clarified knowing her well enough to know she was stalling.

Y/n sighed, she didn’t like bringing up the past, especially this. “I was part of that undercover family with Nat and Yelena when we were kids.”

“Yeah you told me.” Bucky knew the story, she had told him before. It was the only family experince the 3 girls ever had for most of their lives.

“He was our undercover father.” Y/n stated biting her lip and let out a shaky breath.

Bucky’s eyes widened a she lifted his arm and pointed back to the other room in shock, needing extra comfirmation. “He was?”

“Yeah. A decent one to.” She nodded looking away, she didn’t like the feelings that were coming up when talking about it sure she told Bucky about this before, but not into to much detail.

“Are you going to be okay with this?” Bucky was worried with how being around Alexei could effect Y/n menatly and emtionally.

“Do I have a choice?” Y/n shrugged, it’s not like they really had a say in the matter.

Bucky hated that he felt helpless in this situation. “I don’t want you to feel-”

“We don’t have any say in the matter Bucky. I just have to. . . be okay with it.” Y/n cut him off shaking her head as she does so. There wasn’t anything they could do.

Bucky rubbed his none metal hand down his face not liking their lack of options. The only thing he could think of was to get their job done as fast as possible. “Let’s get this done fast so we can go back home.”

“Yeah.” Y/n agreed hoping they wouldn’t hit anymore snag’s so they could go home.

Taglist: @padawancat97 @maryvibess @gruffle1 @starkleila

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keithyp00 · 3 months ago

Text

When The Quiet Comes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Setting: Post-Endgame, Semi-rural town

Warnings/Tags: Healing, Trust, Emotional Intimacy, Soft Domesticity, Peaceful Slow-Burn Romance, Kissing

Word Count: 1,018

Author Note: Hey guys! This is my first time actually posting one of my writings on a platform (and this one is kinda silly and cringey) but I watched Thunderbolts* on Saturday and it actually launched me headfirst into by Bucky phase again so expect a lot of fanfics in like the next week. Anyways I hope you enjoy it <3

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

The town was too quiet.

That had been Bucky's first thought when he arrived- alone, bags over his shoulder, truck engine still cooling behind him. Not suspiciously quiet, not the kind of quiet that made his hand inch toward a weapon. Just... calm. Peaceful in a way he hadn't expected. He didn't know what to do with that new kind of quiet.

That was until you came along, carrying a stack of books that was definitely too heavy, as well as a grocery bag hung over your right shoulder- one that was tipping your bodies natural point of gravity so you couldn't quite walk straight. You rammed right into him on the sidewalk, the book tumbling onto the concrete with several soft thuds, and muttered apologies started flowing from your lips as well as an awkward laugh as you crouched to gather them.

"God, I'm so sorry. I didn't- are you okay?"

Bucky blinked. He had seen aliens. He had fought a metal man in a flying suit. He had stood toe to toe with Thanos. But he had never seen eyes like yours. Soft. Warm. Unafraid.

"...I'm fine," he'd said, voice hoarse from disuse.

"Good." You flashed a quick, sheepish smile. "First time I've hit someone with 'War and Peace'. I guess that counts for something."

He even surprised himself with the small laugh that bellowed from his chest as a response.

______________________________________________________________

You didn't recognize him.

That was the second thing that shocked him. You offered him coffee, not questions. Company, not curiosity. And slowly- so slowly he barely noticed- Bucky began to anchor himself around you.

You ran a bookstore on the corner. Lived above it in a cozy little apartment that smelled like cedar and ink. You wore knit sweaters, laughed at your own silly jokes, and had a tabby cat named Fig that liked to perch himself on your shoulder like a pirate's parrot. You talked to Bucky like he was just... a man. A grumpy, awkward, very handsome man with hair that some might deem tragic, but not you.

You didn't ask about his past.

You simply asked if he enjoyed lemon cake.

______________________________________________________________

Bucky came by the shop more often. At first, it was once a week. Then twice. Then almost daily under the excuse of "running errands" that suspiciously never seemed to produce groceries.

You noticed the way he looked at the world- as if it might slip out from under him at any second. The way he always sat facing the door. The way his jaw tightened when sirens howled, even faintly, in the distance.

You didn't push.

You simply made space.

"Sit," you told him one late afternoon. Rain tapped against the windows, and the power had flickered twice already. "I'll make tea. You can pretend you're a mysterious Victorian man recovering from a duel."

He blinked. "What?"

You gave a grin. "Just trust me. It's a vibe."

To your eternal surprise, he smiled. Not just a twitch of the lips- a real one- small and tired and a little crooked. But real.

______________________________________________________________

The first time he let you touch the metal arm, it wasn't planned.

You had tripped on the top step of the bookstore staircase, two books in hand and- of course- he caught you without hesitation.

Your hands gripped his forearms instinctively. One warm, flesh and bone. The other- cool vibranium. Your eyes flickered down, then up again, and you didn't move away.

"Sorry," you said, breathing a little harder than usual. "You always catch me when I fall."

His expression changed. You saw the flicker of something behind his eyes- something heavy.

"I didn't always," he replied softly.

You didn't ask what he meant. You didn't have to.

______________________________________________________________

It wasn't until winter that you kissed him.

You'd been putting up lights in the window and Bucky came to help, grumbling about how unnecessary it all was- but he brought you hot cider in a thermos anyway and adjusted the ladder every time it wobbled under the movement of your weight.

The lighted ended up not working.

You cursed under your breath, repeatedly flipping the switch back and forth beneath your fingers. And Bucky- sweet, quiet Bucky- reached over, tilted your chin toward him, and kissed you without a word.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't fire and teeth and desperation.

It was slow. Careful. Like he was memorizing something sacred.

"I've been thinking about doing that for a long time," he murmured, lips still brushed against yours.

"Then why wait?"

He hesitated. "Didn't think I deserved to."

You touched the side of his face, brushed your thumb along his cheek. "You deserve peace, Bucky. Even if you don't believe it yet- I do."

______________________________________________________________

Peace didn't come overnight.

Some days, Bucky still woke up gasping. Some nights, you found him on your fire escape, knees drawn close to his chest, eyes scanning the dark. The palm of his metal arm resting against his thigh, twitching like it remembered something he didn't want to.

But you never asked him to come back inside. You just joined him. A blanket wrapped around your shoulders, a cup of tea between your palms, silent unless he wanted words.

Sometimes he spoke. And sometimes- when the wind was soft and the town was asleep- he looked at you like he was terrified to admit that this, whatever it was between you, might be the only thing keeping him tethered.

So you stayed.

______________________________________________________________

The first time you heard him laugh in his sleep, you almost cried.

It was a soft sound. A breath of joy. His head nestled into the pillow beside yours, hair mussed, lips parted in a small, crooked grin.

You reached over and touched his cheek and he stirred under the brush of skin.

"What are you lookin' at?" He mumbled, voice like gravel.

"You," you whispered, smiling. "You were dreaming."

"Was I?" He blinked blearily. "About what?"

"I don't know," you smiled, brushing a strand of hair off his forehead. "But you were happy."

He was quiet for a long time. Then, voice low, he said, "You were in it."

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #james bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x yn #bucky barnes x reader fluff #bucky barnes x reader hurt/comfort #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes angst #james barnes x you #james barnes x y/n #james barnes x reader #bucky x yn #bucky x you #keithyp00

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faeyuh · 2 years ago

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day 1 of random dr flug headcanons:

can live longer than a normal human without food/water (he's literally a creature or something)

#copied and pasted straight from the notes app #autism #villainous #flug #dr flug #villainous flug #dr flugslys #headcanon #villainous headcanons

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mingiatz · 13 days ago

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When Y/N starts spending late nights at Halcyon to wait for her best friend, she never expects the charming bartender, San, to become her safe place. Between playful banter, soft moments, and a past she’s learning to heal from, she finds herself drawn into something tender, a little chaotic, and maybe—just maybe—worth falling for.

Pairing: Choi San x Reader

Trope: Friends to lovers, bartender AU, hurt/comfort, slow burn that turns soft and steamy

Genre: Romance, fluff, angst, smut, found family

Featuring: Protective but lovesick San, Reader with a shy streak and emotional growth, A chaotic supporting cast (ATEEZ), Wooyoung being a menace and endlessly flirting with Haneul, Soft kisses, playful teasing, and tender intimacy

⚠️ Trigger Warning: This story contains mentions of bullying (past, verbal/emotional), anxiety, panic attacks, and low self-esteem. There are also scenes of consensual sexual intimacy (soft smut). Reader discretion is advised.

💌 Author’s Note

This story means a lot to me—it’s one of those pieces that came straight from my heart. Writing it was both soft and healing in ist own way, and I truly hope it gives you a little comfort too. Thank you for reading, and I hope you’ll fall in love with San and Y/N’s world like I did.

Also thinking about creating a Taglist (I nearly reached 200 Followers 🤧), if you are interested let me know in the comments or drop a question.

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

You’d always liked quiet places.

Your apartment was proof of that—small but cozy, with soft cream walls and plants that thrived in the corner sunlight. A steaming mug of tea sat beside your laptop, a book half-open on the coffee table.

This was your sanctuary.

No loud voices, no crowded rooms. Just stillness.

And yet, here you were, sitting cross-legged on your couch, phone pressed to your ear as your best friend’s voice filled the room like a hurricane.

“Y/N, I swear if you don’t come out with me tonight, I’m staging an intervention.”

You laughed softly. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”

“I’m serious. You haven’t left your apartment all week.”

“I went to the store yesterday,” you protested weakly.

“To buy instant ramen.” She groaned. “Come on, it’s just one night. You’ll love the bar. It’s classy, not like those sticky-floored college dive bars. And the people? So nice. Plus…” She trailed off meaningfully.

“Plus?”

“They’re all ridiculously attractive. Eye candy everywhere. You’re welcome.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I don’t do well with strangers. You know that.”

“I know.” Her tone softened, losing ist teasing edge. “But I’ll be there the whole time. And if you’re uncomfortable, we can leave. Deal?”

You sighed. She knew you too well.

Since elementary school, she’d been the extrovert to your introvert—the one to pull you into games at recess when you’d rather sit with a book, the one to defend you when classmates whispered too loudly.

Even now, years later, she still looked out for you.

“Fine,” you mumbled. “But I’m not staying long.”

“Yes! I’ll pick you up at eight. Wear something cute.”

As you hung up, your eyes drifted to the stack of journals on your shelf—pages filled with memories you rarely revisited.

High school hadn’t been kind. You still heard the echoes of laughter from girls who thought whispering just loud enough for you to hear was funny. Still remembered the way a former friend had turned on you with cutting words when you stopped letting her copy your homework. Amd other crueler things.

And though years had passed, the wounds lingered. Even though you went to therapy, this timid side of you didn’t disappear. Even though you tried.

It wasn’t that you hated people. You just didn’t know how to trust them anymore.

But your best friend was different. She’d been your constant through it all—the one person who never made you feel like too much or not enough.

Maybe for her, you could try.

At 7:55, you stood in front of your mirror, tugging nervously at your sweater. It wasn’t anything special—just soft beige knit over a skirt—but anything more felt too much.

Your phone buzzed. “Outside. Don’t chicken out.”

You grabbed your bag and whispered to yourself, It’s just one night.

The air was warm as soon as you stepped through the heavy wooden door, a faint scent of citrus, aged wood, and something sweeter—vanilla?—wrapping around you like a second skin.

The place was dimly lit, amber light from hanging Edison bulbs casting soft shadows across polished tables and deep green walls. The music playing was low and steady, a bassline that seemed to vibrate faintly in your chest.

It was cozy… and terrifying.

You tugged at the sleeves of your sweater, thumbs hooking over the cuffs as your best friend practically bounced beside you.

“Okay, breathe, Y/N. You look like you’re walking into a horror movie.”

You gave her a weak smile, clutching your bag like it was a shield. “I’m breathing. I just… don’t really do bars, remember?”

“Exactly why you should.” She grinned and looped her arm through yours. “Trust me. You’re gonna love this place. And the people? Even better.”

You tried to relax as she guided you further inside, but the press of bodies, the clink of glass, and the bursts of laughter from corners of the room had your nerves crawling up your spine.

Your eyes flicked nervously toward the bar.

It stretched along the back wall, all gleaming wood and soft underlighting. Behind it, bottles of every shape and color lined the shelves like an art installation. And there—moving with fluid, precise motions—was him.

The bartender.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a black button-up rolled at the sleeves. His movements were quiet and efficient as he reached for bottles, shook mixers, poured liquids with ease. But it wasn’t his skill that caught you—it was his presence.

There was something about him that demanded attention. His sharp jawline, the faint furrow of his brow, the way his dark eyes scanned the room like he was sizing up every single person in it.

And then—those eyes caught yours.

For a moment, you froze.

It felt like he was looking straight through you. Like he could read every nervous thought spiraling in your head.

Your breath hitched, heat crawling up your neck, and you yanked your gaze to the floor as fast as humanly possible.

Your best friend didn’t notice.

“Guys!” she called out as you approached the bar. “This is Y/N—the best friend I’ve been telling you about.”

Four pairs of eyes turned your way.

The first to step forward was a man with delicate features and kind eyes. His hair was neatly styled, his black shirt crisp despite the late hour. “Hi, Y/N. I’m Seonghwa. Welcome to Halcyon.” His voice was warm, almost soothing.

Next was a shorter man with ash-blonde hair and a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Hongjoong,” he said, flashing a grin. “Manager-slash-chaos coordinator. Nice to finally meet you.”

The third—lean, with sharp features and a cool expression—only offered a small nod. “Yeosang.”

And then there was him.

He didn’t step forward. Didn’t smile. Didn’t even speak at first.

He just stood there behind the bar, polishing a glass with slow, deliberate motions. His dark eyes remained fixed on you.

You swore your knees felt weak.

“Don’t mind San,” Hongjoong said with a chuckle, noticing your hesitation. “He looks scary, but he only bites on Tuesdays.”

A quiet snort from Yeosang. Seonghwa shot Hongjoong a disapproving look.

The bartender’s—San’s—eyes flicked to Hongjoong for a split second before returning to you.

“San,” he said simply. His voice was low, rich, and smooth—like coffee on a rainy morning.

You managed a nervous smile. “Nice… nice to meet you.” Your words came out softer than you intended, barely audible over the music.

His gaze didn’t waver. You shifted uncomfortably, clutching your bag tighter.

Your best friend tugged you toward a corner booth near the bar, plopping down across from you. “See? Not so scary, right?”

You swallowed. “Sure.”

But your mind was racing.

Why had San looked at you like that? Was he annoyed you were there? Maybe he didn’t like strangers hanging around his workspace.

You peeked toward the bar again.

San was moving with quiet efficiency, his broad shoulders shifting under his black shirt as he reached for bottles. He wasn’t looking at you now—thankfully—but somehow that didn’t ease the tightness in your chest.

When your best friend left to help at a table, you were left alone in the booth.

Your fingers fiddled with your sleeves as you stared at the table. The bar felt louder now, the laughter and clinking glasses pressing in on you like a weight.

And then—

A glass of water slid gently across the table.

You blinked, startled, and looked up.

San stood there, one hand still resting lightly on the table’s edge. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was fixed on you.

“You looked… thirsty,” he said simply.

His voice was quiet—barely audible over the music—but it still sent a strange warmth through your chest.

“Oh. Um. Th-thank you,” you stammered, wrapping your hands around the glass.

San gave a small nod, then turned and walked back to the bar without another word.

You let out a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

She looked like she wanted to disappear.

San had noticed her the second she walked in—clinging to her friend’s arm, eyes darting like a cornered rabbit. She radiated nervous energy, and for some reason, he couldn’t stop watching.

Not in a creepy way. He just… wondered what had made her so timid.

Her friend had been right—she was nothing like the usual crowd here. Too soft. Too delicate. Almost… out of place.

And yet, when her eyes had met his for that brief moment, it had sent a strange jolt through him.

She’d looked away instantly.

He sighed and set another glass on the bar.

“You’re scaring her,” Hongjoong’s voice said in his head.

San shook it off. He wasn’t trying to. He just didn’t know how to not look… like himself.

He glanced toward her booth again. She was tugging at her sleeves, staring down at the table like it held all the secrets of the universe.

Cute.

The clink of glass against wood echoed faintly in the empty bar. San wiped down the counter with slow, methodical movements, his thoughts elsewhere.

He hadn’t slept much last night.

Not because of noise—not the neighbor’s TV, not the rain tapping against his window.

It was her.

Y/N.

The quiet girl with wide eyes and hands tucked nervously into her sleeves.

He couldn’t stop seeing her sitting there in that corner booth, her posture small and folded in on itself. Every time her friend left her alone, she’d look like she was fighting not to bolt for the door.

She hadn’t said much. Barely a whisper when she greeted him. But San had heard it—soft and hesitant.

“Nice… nice to meet you.”

It wasn’t the first time someone had been shy around him. People often mistook his quietness for coldness, his resting face for irritation.

But this felt different.

She didn’t just seem shy. She seemed… guarded. Like someone who’d spent years building invisible walls.

And for some reason, he couldn’t get that out of his head.

The sound of the front door opening broke through his thoughts.

“Morning, San!” Seonghwa’s cheery voice rang out as he strode in, apron slung over his shoulder.

San nodded in greeting. “Morning.”

Seonghwa was followed closely by Haneul, chattering away about her latest Netflix binge. She stopped mid-sentence when she saw San.

“You’re early,” she said, smiling.

“Habit.” He began lining up the bottles for the evening rush.

Haneul tied her apron and hopped up onto a barstool. “I still can’t believe you actually got here before Hongjoong. That man is physically incapable of arriving on time.”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Hongjoong’s voice called from the back room.

Seonghwa chuckled and started folding napkins neatly into triangles.

“So,” Seonghwa began casually, “Haneul… your friend from last night—Y/N, right?”

San’s hands stilled briefly on a bottle before resuming their usual rhythm.

“Yeah, what about her?” Haneul asked, tying her apron tighter.

“She seemed… timid,” Seonghwa said gently. “I hope she wasn’t uncomfortable here.”

San kept his eyes down, polishing a glass with practiced care, but his ears were attuned to every word.

“She’s always been that way,” Haneul replied after a pause. “She’s quiet around new people. Crowds aren’t really her thing. But she’s… amazing. Smart, kind, so thoughtful.”

“She didn’t seem like she disliked us,” Seonghwa mused. “Just… like she was trying to disappear.”

San’s fingers tightened slightly around the glass.

“Yeah.” Haneul’s voice softened. “She’s been through a lot. But she doesn’t really talk about it. I think she feels safer keeping people at arm’s length.”

San placed the glass down gently, the sound barely audible over the music humming through the speakers.

It wasn’t his business. He barely knew her. But still, something about the way she’d sat there—trying to make herself invisible—had stuck in his head.

He could tell she wasn’t the kind of person who shared easily. Maybe that’s why he wanted to know more.

The door swung open again, letting in a burst of cool air.

“Hellooooo, my favorite people!”

Wooyoung. Of course.

He sauntered in, followed by Yunho, Mingi, and Jongho.

“You’re early,” Yeosang commented dryly as they settled into a booth.

“Can’t help it. We missed you guys,” Yunho grinned.

“Or you’re just avoiding cleaning your apartment again,” Mingi teased.

“Both,” Wooyoung admitted shamelessly.

Haneul laughed as she brought them menus.

“You weren’t working last night, right?” Wooyoung asked her. “I heard you brought a friend in.”

“Ah, yeah—Y/N,” Haneul said with a little grin. “She’s my best friend. The sweetest human alive.”

“Ohhh.” Wooyoung’s eyes lit up with mischief. “A new face? Is she cute?”

Haneul smirked. “Adorable. But she’s not your type, Woo. She’s shy. Like, painfully shy.”

“That just means I’d have to work harder to charm her.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

“Or you could leave her alone,” Jongho said firmly, earning a laugh from Yunho.

San said nothing.

But he could feel the weight of their words settling in his chest.

Later that night, as they cleaned up, Haneul pulled out her phone and typed quickly.

“The guys asked about you. You’re coming back tomorrow. No arguments. 😘”

San wiped down the counter in silence, his expression unreadable.

But when he heard the little “whoosh” of her message sending, he felt something stir.

And for some reason, he hoped Y/N would come.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

The soft click of the door echoed in your little apartment as Haneul stepped inside, shedding her jacket.

“Ugh. Your place is always so cozy,” she said, flopping onto your couch. “You light candles or something?”

“Just… vanilla wax melts.” You offered her a shy smile.

“Cute. You’re cute. Now, where’s the outfit pile?”

You hesitated. “I didn’t make one.”

Haneul sat up, mock scandalized. “Y/N! You’re going out tonight. You need options.”

You fiddled with the hem of your sweater. “Do I have to go?”

Haneul’s teasing smile softened. “Hey. Look at me.”

You did.

“I’m not dragging you somewhere scary, okay? Just Halcyon again. With me. Safe. Familiar.”

You nodded, but your fingers still curled tightly into your sleeves.

Haneul perched on your bed, scrolling through her phone as you rummaged in your closet.

“Here,” she said suddenly, tossing a soft blouse onto your bed. “This with your black skirt. You’ll look perfect.”

You picked it up gingerly. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

As you pulled the blouse over your head, Haneul’s voice softened. “You know… I hope you find someone someday. Someone who makes you feel as loved as you deserve.”

You blinked at her in the mirror.

“Not that anyone can love you as much as I already do,” she added with a grin.

You laughed quietly, though it sounded hollow even to your own ears.

“I don’t think love’s for me, Haneul.”

She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“I’m afraid of it,” you admitted softly.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

✦ Flashback –five years ago

The memory struck unbidden.

The bathroom tiles were cold beneath your knees. Laughter echoed off the walls—harsh, cruel.

“Smile for us, Baby.” His voice dripped with mock affection as he held up his phone.

You choked on a sob as one of the girls shoved you forward.

“Pathetic,” another sneered. “You really thought he liked you? That’s adorable.”

Your hands clawed at the edges of the porcelain as they pushed your face toward the toilet bowl.

The water was freezing against your skin. The smell made you gag.

“Bet she doesn’t feel so special now,” someone whispered.

When they finally left, your chest heaved with silent cries, your fingers shaking as you gripped the sink.

The boy you’d liked—trusted—had been part of it. A cruel prank. A joke to them all.

And you’d been the punchline.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

You blinked hard, shaking the memory away like water off your skin.

“Y/N…?” Haneul’s voice was soft now, cautious.

You forced a small smile. “Sorry. Zoned out for a second.”

Her brows knitted together, but she didn’t press. She never did.

“Well,” she said gently, “whoever you end up with—if you ever want to—you deserve someone who sees how incredible you are.”

You busied yourself smoothing the blouse over your skirt. “Thanks,

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

“She’s coming tonight. Be nice. (Not that you aren’t already, but… you know.)”

San read the message during a lull in the shift, his thumb hovering over the keyboard.

“Got it.”

But his mind drifted to the quiet girl with the shy smile and haunted eyes.

For some reason, he felt… protective.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

“You look perfect,” Haneul declared, clapping her hands together like a proud stylist.

You stared at your reflection, unconvinced. The cream blouse and black skirt felt… not quite like you. Too noticeable.

“Are you sure? Maybe I should change—”

“Don’t even think about it.” Haneul grabbed your shoulders and turned you toward her. “Trust me. You look amazing. Soft, approachable, cute. San won’t know what hit him.”

Your eyes went wide. “W-what does San have to do with this?”

Haneul smirked. “Nothing. Everything. Don’t worry about it.”

You tugged at your sleeves nervously. “I really don’t think this is a good idea, Han.”

“It’s the best idea. You’ll see.”

The bar was nearly empty when you arrived, just a few lingering customers nursing their drinks.

San was behind the counter, as precise and unreadable as ever. Seonghwa and Yeosang were cleaning up tables, while Hongjoong leaned lazily against the wall scrolling through his phone.

As the bell above the door chimed, San’s head turned slightly. For a second, his gaze caught yours. You looked down immediately, heat crawling up your neck.

“Hey! You made it!” Haneul grinned, tugging you forward like a proud older sister.

“Hi, Y/N.” Seonghwa’s warm voice greeted you. “Glad to see you again.”

You nodded shyly. “Hi.”

Yeosang offered a small smile. Hongjoong’s grin was far more mischievous.

“You came back. Brave girl.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out soft and awkward.

San said nothing. But when Haneul ordered drinks, he quietly prepared one for you without asking—water, with a slice of lemon.

When he set it down, you blinked at him.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

He nodded once and returned to wiping glasses.

By 9 PM, the last customers had left.

“I think we’re done for the night,” Seonghwa said cheerfully, untying his apron.

Before you could suggest heading out, the front door swung open.

“Yah! Did we miss the party?”

Four men strolled in like they owned the place.

Wooyoung—grinning, radiant trouble.

Mingi—tall, with a wide, easy smile.

Yunho—bright, golden retriever energy spilling out of him.

Jongho—calm, measured, eyes scanning the room.

“Ohhh,” Wooyoung said immediately, his eyes locking on you. “Is this her?”

You stiffened.

“Y/N, right?” Yunho asked warmly. “Haneul’s best friend?”

“Hi,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t be shy! We’re friendly,” Mingi said with a soft laugh.

“Friendly is a stretch,” Jongho teased under his breath.

You found yourself tucked into a corner booth, Haneul pressed reassuringly against your side. The group filled the space with easy laughter and overlapping conversations.

“So, Y/N,” Yunho leaned in slightly, “Haneul says you’re crazy smart. What do you do?”

“Oh… um… I work in cybersecurity.”

Mingi’s eyes went wide. “Whoa, like hacking and firewalls and stuff?”

You hesitated. “I… don’t really hack. I work on defense systems mostly.”

“That’s so cool,” Wooyoung said, grinning. “So you’re like… protecting us all from evil hackers?”

“I guess?” You fiddled with your sleeve.

“So basically,” Wooyoung continued smoothly, “if my heart got hacked by a beautiful woman, could you stop it?”

You blinked. “…Your heart?”

Haneul snorted. Yunho nearly spat out his drink laughing.

Wooyoung’s grin widened. “Yeah. Like if a certain shy girl sitting across from me stole it, could you hack it back?”

You tilted your head slightly. “…I don’t think that’s how cybersecurity works.”

The table exploded in laughter.

“She’s immune to your flirting, Wooyoung,” Jongho said with a smirk.

“She’s oblivious,” Haneul corrected.

You flushed crimson. “I—I’m not—”

San’s low voice cut through the noise from behind the bar. “Leave her alone, Wooyoung.”

His tone wasn’t sharp, but something in it made Wooyoung hold up his hands in surrender, laughing. “Alright, alright. Protective much?”

San didn’t answer, eyes back on the glass he was

As the group continued their chaotic banter, you shifted in your seat, tucking your hands under your thighs.

A moment later, a soft cushion slid onto the seat beside you.

You glanced up. San stood there, his expression neutral.

“For comfort,” he said simply.

“Oh. Th-thank you,” you whispered.

He gave a small nod and returned to the bar.

You swirled the straw in your glass absentmindedly as laughter rippled across the table.

Halcyon had become… familiar.

The low lighting no longer felt suffocating. The warm oak scent had woven itself into your memory. Even the group’s loud voices, once overwhelming, now brought a strange comfort.

“Earth to Y/N.” Haneul’s voice broke through your thoughts. She nudged your shoulder, grinning. “You’re zoning out again.”

“Sorry.” You offered a small smile.

Wooyoung leaned across the table with a dramatic sigh. “She’s probably daydreaming about her mysterious hacker life. Right? Tell us—do you wear sunglasses indoors? Do you type code in a dark room with green text flying past your screen?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “It’s not that glamorous.”

“Bet you’re secretly in the Matrix,” Mingi teased.

You shook your head again, but there was no edge of fear in your shyness now—just quiet amusement.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

It was two weeks ago.

You’d been sitting at the bar while Haneul helped close. The others were teasing San about something—you couldn’t quite catch what—when it happened.

He laughed.

A quiet, rich sound that made your head turn.

And then he smiled.

A real smile. Wide, dimpled. The sharpness of his features softened instantly, and you stared—too long—before looking away with heat creeping up your neck.

He had dimples.

San. The intimidating bartender with the piercing stare… had dimples.

Your gaze flicked toward San now. He was wiping down the bar, sleeves rolled up, his hair falling slightly into his eyes.

Not intimidating. Not really.

Last week.

You’d accidentally dropped your phone near San’s bag behind the bar. As you bent to pick it up, something small and round caught your eye.

A plushie.

A tiny, chubby fox with worn fabric and a slightly frayed ear.

“Don’t tell the others.”

You startled to find San watching you, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“I—I won’t,” you promised.

“Good.” He gently tucked the fox back into his bag.

You bit back a smile of your own.

You sipped your water, listening as Jongho and Yunho argued over movie plot holes.

“Y/N,” Seonghwa said suddenly, his voice warm. “You’re quiet tonight.”

“She’s always quiet,” Haneul teased. “That’s her charm.”

“She’s observant,” San added softly from the bar.

Everyone turned to him in surprise—even you.

His gaze didn’t waver. “It’s a good thing.”

You looked down quickly, trying to hide the heat rising in your cheeks.

A few days ago.

A little girl had wandered into Halcyon, tears streaming down her face as she looked for her mom.

San was the first to kneel beside her.

“Hey,” he said gently. “What’s your name?”

His voice had been so soft it surprised you. You watched as he offered her a glass of water and a napkin to wipe her face, then waited patiently until her mom arrived.

He’d even given the girl a tiny paper crane before she left.

“See? It’s magic,” he said, folding another at the bar later.

You watched his fingers move, quiet admiration blooming in your chest.

“You’ve been coming here a lot lately, Y/N,” Wooyoung said with a grin. “Pretty soon we’ll have to get you your own locker.”

“Or an honorary staff apron,” Yunho added.

“She could work security,” Mingi said. “Keep out cyber criminals.”

You shook your head, smiling faintly.

“She’s too sweet for security,” Wooyoung said, eyes twinkling. “But… maybe not too sweet for San.”

Your head snapped up. “What?”

“Nothing,” Haneul sang, her grin wicked.

“You like it here now, huh?” Haneul asked as you walked back to your apartment.

“…Yeah,” you admitted softly.

“You’re even warming up to San.”

You bit your lip, refusing to answer.

But you couldn’t deny the thought circling your mind as you replayed his quiet gestures and dimpled smiles:

Maybe I was wrong about him.

When it was finally time to leave, Haneul looped her arm through yours.

“You did amazing,” she whispered as you stepped into the cool night air.

“I just sat there,” you said softly.

“Exactly. You showed up. That’s enough.”

Behind the bar’s window, you caught a glimpse of San watching as you walked away.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

The air outside was cool as you tugged your sweater tighter around your shoulders. You checked your phone—9:45 PM.

Haneul’s text earlier had been breezy as ever:

“Movie’s at midnight. Come hang out at Halcyon while I finish my shift. San promised not to scare you 😉”

You’d rolled your eyes at the winking face, but here you were, standing in front of the bar’s familiar wooden door.

It felt different coming alone.

The soft chime of the bell announced your arrival. The warm scent of oak and citrus enveloped you, and your shoulders eased slightly. Halcyon wasn’t loud tonight—just the low murmur of conversation and the gentle clink of glasses.

San glanced up from behind the bar as you stepped in. His dark eyes flicked over you briefly, unreadable as ever.

“Hey, Y/N!” Haneul called, waving from where she was taking an order. “Sit! I’ll be done soon.”

You nodded and made your way to the bar. San was wiping down the counter, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. As you perched on a stool, he set down the rag and wordlessly placed a glass of water in front of you.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

He gave a small nod. “Long day?”

You blinked. Small talk wasn’t his usual style.

“Yeah… a bit.” You fiddled with your sleeves. “Haneul dragged me out again. We’re seeing a movie later.”

“Late showing?”

“Midnight.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, his hands moving to organize a tray of clean glasses. For a few moments, silence stretched between you—not uncomfortable, but quiet in a way that let your thoughts settle.

The door swung open with a burst of laughter.

“Ohhh, the gang’s all here,” Wooyoung announced dramatically as he strolled in with Yunho, Mingi, and Jongho close behind.

“Y/N!” Yunho beamed. “Didn’t know we’d get to see you tonight.”

“Hi,” you said shyly, offering a small wave.

Wooyoung slid onto the stool beside you, grinning. “You’re becoming a regular. Dangerous.”

“Or she just likes the company,” Mingi teased, earning a laugh from Yunho.

“Or maybe she likes San’s company,” Wooyoung added, his grin turning mischievous.

Your face heated instantly. “I—no, that’s not—”

“Leave her alone,” Jongho cut in, his calm tone carrying quiet authority. He gave you a reassuring smile. “Don’t mind them. They’re harmless.”

San’s voice was low but firm as he set down a bottle. “Enough.”

Wooyoung held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. No teasing.”

You ducked your head, hiding a small smile. The group’s dynamic was loud, chaotic even, but strangely… comforting.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

It was nearly 10:30 when the door opened again.

You didn’t look up at first, assuming it was another regular. But then a voice stopped you cold.

“Y/N?”

The sound was a knife slicing through the warm air. Your breath caught, your stomach twisting violently.

No. Not here.

Your head turned slowly, and there he was.

The boy from your nightmares. The one whose laughter still echoed in tiled bathroom walls of your memory. Older now, but with the same smirk curling his lips.

“Wow… it’s been years,” he said smoothly, strolling closer like nothing had ever happened. “Didn’t expect to see you in a place like this. You always were a bit uptight.”

You froze. Your fingers gripped your glass so tightly your knuckles whitened.

“Guess people change, huh? Or maybe you’re still that shy little thing from high school.” His eyes flicked over you. “Still cute, though. I mean, I always said you looked best with water on your face.”

Your chest constricted painfully. The sound of muffled laughter from years ago rang in your ears.

“Don’t.” Your voice was barely a whisper.

“What? Don’t joke? Come on, Baby. It wasn’t that serious. We were kids.” He leaned closer, his hand reaching out like he had every right to touch you.

The moment his fingers brushed your arm, you went still. Your body locked up, your heart thudding painfully in your chest. You hugged yourself instinctively, trying to shrink away.

“Hey,” he said with mock concern. “Don’t look so scared. I’m not gonna bite. Unless you want me to.”

The laughter and chatter around you had gone silent. You felt eyes on you—the guys, Haneul, San.

You wished the floor would swallow you whole. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

But your ex didn’t leave. He leaned casually against the bar, smirking like he owned the place. “You know, we should catch up sometime. I mean, no hard feelings, right?”

You stared at your glass, gripping it so tightly it threatened to crack.

He chuckled. “Still quiet, huh? Cute. I always did like that about you.”

The sound of chairs shifting told you the others were watching closely now, but no one spoke. Not yet.

You sat rigid on your stool, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, every muscle locked in place as his presence loomed beside you.

San had been wiping down glasses at the bar, eyes flicking now and then to where you sat quietly, shoulders hunched. The others’ banter filled the room like usual, but there was an undertone of watchfulness ever since that man walked in.

San had noticed the way your posture stiffened, how your hands wrapped tight around your glass, knuckles pale. He couldn’t hear every word from this distance, but fragments carried over the music.

“Still cute… water on your face…”

His jaw tightened. The tone was wrong. Too familiar. Too mocking.

San’s gaze narrowed as he watched the man lean closer. There was a flash of movement—fingers brushing your arm—and he saw the way you went still, shrinking into yourself.

Then the hand reached higher, knuckles grazing your cheek like a sick imitation of affection.

You flinched.

For the briefest second, your wide, terrified eyes flicked toward San before darting away. It was like you were seeing straight through him, a silent plea buried in your expression.

That was enough.

San set the glass down with deliberate care and stepped out from behind the bar. “Haneul,” he called softly.

But Haneul had already frozen, her tray clattering onto a nearby table as her eyes landed on the man’s face. Recognition flashed across her features—anger boiling up so quickly it startled even San.

“You—”

She was moving before anyone could stop her, fists clenched, but Jongho was faster. He caught her around the waist, holding her back with surprising strength as she struggled.

“Let me go, Jongho! He doesn’t get to talk to her!”

“Han, wait—” Jongho said firmly, his own expression darkening as realization hit him.

The rest of the group was already on their feet. Mingi’s hands curled into fists, Yunho’s grin gone, Wooyoung’s jaw tight as his usual playfulness evaporated.

San approached, his voice calm but edged with steel. “That’s enough.”

The man turned, smirking. “What’s this? The whole cavalry?”

“Step away from her,” San said evenly, his dark eyes fixed on the man. His stance was loose but ready, every line of his body screaming quiet authority.

The man’s smirk widened. “And if I don’t? She’s not saying anything. Maybe she likes the attention.”

San’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a dangerous glint in his eyes now. “She doesn’t. Move.”

Haneul’s voice cracked like a whip. “You don’t get to be here. Not after what you did.”

The man’s head snapped toward her, grin faltering. “Ah, Haneul. Always the protective friend. I see you still don’t mind your own business.”

“Business?!” Haneul’s voice rose, and she struggled harder against Jongho’s hold. “You humiliated her! You made her life hell! You think you can just show up and act like nothing happened?”

The man’s grin returned, colder now. “Oh come on, it was one stupid prank. A little water, some teasing… she made it out worse than it was.”

The words hit the room like a lightning strike.

San froze.

The others went still too, their faces hardening as realization seeped in.

Then the man’s tone turned mocking again as he looked at the group. “Didn’t she ever tell you? Y/N liked drinking out of the school toilets. Or maybe she was too busy keeping quiet for her precious boyfriend to notice.”

The air shifted violently.

San’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Wooyoung’s grin disappeared entirely, his voice sharp. “Say that again. I dare you.”

Mingi cracked his knuckles, his towering frame stepping forward. Yunho’s easy smile was long gone, replaced by an uncharacteristic glare.

Haneul screamed, thrashing in Jongho’s grip. “You piece of—LET ME GO!”

“Han, no,” Jongho gritted out, holding her firmly as he glared at the man with a fury that made his usually calm eyes glint dangerously.

San stepped fully into the man’s space, his voice low and edged with quiet menace. “You’re going to leave. Now. Or you’ll regret every second you stayed.”

The man faltered for the first time, the smirk slipping slightly under the collective weight of seven pairs of eyes glaring at him like sharpened blades.

“Whatever,” he muttered, trying for indifference. “Not worth it anyway.”

“Get out,” San ordered, his tone like ice.

This time, the man listened. He turned and strode to the door, but not without throwing a final smirk over his shoulder. “See you around, Baby.”

The bell chimed as the door shut behind him, the sound deafening in the tense silence that followed.

Your breath came in shallow pulls as you hugged yourself tightly, eyes fixed on the floor.

San’s voice broke the silence, softer now. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure you could.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

You couldn’t breathe.

The moment his hand had touched your cheek, the world blurred around you. You didn’t see Halcyon anymore—the warm amber lights, the polished wood, the faces of the people standing in silent fury. All you saw was white tile and cold water.

*“Smile for us, Baby.”*

The words echoed like a ghost in your mind.

You were sixteen again, knees pressed to the bathroom floor. Their laughter rang in your ears, sharp and cruel.

*“Pathetic. You really thought he liked you?”*

Hands had shoved you forward. Fingers gripping the back of your neck. Your reflection in the toilet water—broken, humiliated. The sound of a phone camera shutter clicking. Your own muffled sobs.

*“Bet she doesn’t feel so special now.”*

“Stop—” you whispered now, but it didn’t come out. Your throat felt locked, lungs burning. Your hands curled into your sleeves, nails digging into your palms.

*This isn’t real.*

You forced yourself to repeat the words silently, like your therapist had taught you.

*This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.*

You counted—four things you could see: the bar counter, San’s dark shirt, the glass in front of you, Haneul’s hands trembling where Jongho held her back.

Three things you could feel: the rough fabric of your sleeves, the cool surface of the bar under your fingers, your own nails biting into skin.

Two things you could hear: your shallow breaths, the faint clink of a glass being set down.

One thing you could smell: oak and citrus—Halcyon.

You clung to that scent like a lifeline.

Slowly, the bathroom tiles receded. The cruel laughter faded. The room around you sharpened back into focus.

San stood near, his posture tense but his eyes soft as they flicked toward you.

The others were still on edge, but no one spoke. The only sound was the faint jingle of the door as it closed.

You drew in a shaky breath. In. Out. In. Out. Just like the exercises.

*You’re safe. You’re here. You’re not sixteen anymore.*

Your arms wrapped around yourself tighter as you willed the tremors to stop.

San’s voice reached you, low and steady. “You okay?”

You swallowed hard. “I… I think so.”

But even you didn’t believe it.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

San leaned against the bar, arms crossed, watching silently as Haneul crouched in front of you. She cupped your hands, her voice a soothing murmur as she coaxed you to breathe.

“In and out, Y/N. Slow. You’re safe here, okay? Just me and the guys here. You’re not alone.”

You nodded shakily, focusing on the steady rise and fall of her breathing. The panic was still clawing at your chest, but the weight of Haneul’s presence and the quiet support around you eased it, little by little.

Wooyoung had sat on the edge of a nearby stool, watching with uncharacteristic stillness. “Hey,” he said softly, catching your gaze. “Do you… want us to stay?”

Your lips trembled. “Would that be okay? I… I think I need to tell you what happened. About him. About… everything.”

“Of course we’ll stay,” Yunho said without hesitation. Mingi nodded beside him, and even Jongho, still holding back a fuming Haneul moments earlier, gave you a reassuring look.

“And Han?” You turned hesitantly toward your best friend. “Would it be okay if we didn’t go to the movie tonight? I… don’t think I could sit through it right now.”

“Sweetheart, of course,” Haneul said, brushing her thumb over your knuckles. “I wasn’t about to drag you out after this anyway.”

“Good,” Wooyoung said firmly. “Because there’s nowhere else we’re going tonight.”

The bar had emptied out over the last half hour, leaving only the soft hum of the fridge and the faint creak of chairs shifting as the group settled closer. San moved around quietly, locking the door and dimming the lights to make the space feel smaller, safer.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, breathing a little steadier now. “Back then… I didn’t talk about it. Not even to Haneul for years. But I think… maybe I should now.”

The others didn’t speak, just waited, their eyes on you—not with pity, but patient understanding.

“In high school, I was quiet. Shy. I thought it would keep me out of trouble, but it made me an easy target.” You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “There was a boy. He acted sweet, asked me out. I believed him.”

Your voice wavered, but Haneul squeezed your hand and nodded for you to continue.

“It was a prank. He took me to a party, and his friends cornered me. They shoved me down, laughed, and… they held me over a toilet. Made me… drink. They filmed it and spread it around school.”

You took a trembling breath. “But it didn’t stop there. That was only the beginning. The rest of high school became a living hell. They mocked me in the halls, left notes in my locker, made group chats to spread rumors. I couldn’t escape it.”

A collective tension settled over the group. Mingi’s fists clenched in his lap. Wooyoung’s jaw was tight, and Yunho sat perfectly still, his usual warmth replaced with a quiet, protective fury.

“I stopped eating in the cafeteria. I avoided everyone. Even Haneul at some point, eveb though she didn't let me. I felt like I didn’t exist except when they wanted to make me a joke. I didn’t tell anyone—not teachers, not my parents. I thought maybe I deserved it.”

“You didn’t,” San said quietly, his voice low but steady. “Not even a little.”

You looked down, tears welling but not falling. “I started therapy after graduation. It helped. I’m… better now. But I still have bad days. I still can’t always open up. Like tonight.”

“You opened up now,” Jongho said softly.

“Which takes a hell of a lot of strength,” Seonghwa added, his eyes kind but fierce. “Don’t minimize that.”

Haneul wrapped her arms around you, holding you close. The others stayed silent, their anger burning quietly—directed at the boy who had hurt you and the people who had let it happen.

And San—San kept his eyes on you, swearing to himself that he would never let you feel that helpless again.

The heavy silence in the bar had shifted. Where there had been anger and pain, now there was a soft hum of comfort as the group tried their best to lift the weight from your shoulders.

Wooyoung was the first to break the tension. “Okay, serious faces off. We can’t let the night end like this. Y/N, you ever seen Jongho dance?”

Jongho’s head whipped toward him. “What—no!”

“Don’t listen to him,” Jongho protested, but Yunho was already grinning. “Oh no, now she has to see.”

You let out a small laugh, covering your mouth instinctively, but Mingi caught it and grinned. “There it is. That’s better.”

Even Haneul joined in, tugging gently at your sleeve. “Come on, we’ve got to make you laugh for real.”

And then—completely out of nowhere—San spoke up.

“You know,” he said, his voice calm as always but with the faintest glint in his eyes, “Jongho once tried to moonwalk and nearly broke his ankle. True story.”

The room went still for a second before Wooyoung burst into laughter, Mingi clutching his stomach.

You blinked at San, surprised, and then a bright laugh broke out of you—genuine and unrestrained. Your hands covered your mouth, but the sound slipped through anyway.

San froze.

His dark eyes locked on you, and for a moment he couldn’t look away. You were laughing—soft and bright—and he could only think how cute you looked like this. The way your eyes crinkled, the faint blush in your cheeks, the sound spilling out of you like music.

He didn’t realize he was staring until Wooyoung nudged his shoulder with a smirk.

As the night wound down, Haneul checked her phone. “It’s late. We should get you home.”

You stood hesitantly, but San was already moving toward the door. “I’ll walk her.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said simply.

Haneul shot you a knowing look but said nothing.

The walk outside was quiet, the summer air cool against your skin. The two of you fell into step naturally.

“You live nearby?” you asked softly.

“Five minutes away,” San replied. “It’s no trouble.”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. The streetlights cast a soft glow over his sharp features, and yet there was something gentle in his expression.

For the first time all night, you felt the tightness in your chest ease just a little.

The air was cool as you and San walked side by side, your steps echoing softly in the quiet street. It felt strangely easy, being near him. The silence wasn’t heavy anymore—it felt gentle, like a blanket around your shoulders.

After a few minutes, San spoke, his voice low but certain. “You know… that guy back there? He was a loser. And not just for what he did to you—just… in general. Guys like that think they’re untouchable, but really? They’re pathetic.”

You blinked at his bluntness, surprised. Before you could respond, he glanced at you, his expression softening. “And I’m sure you were cute in high school too. If I’d gone to your school, I’d have been happy if you were my girlfriend.”

Your steps faltered as you stared at him. “Me? You probably were one of the cool kids, weren’t you?”

San let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Cool? Not even close. I was a total loser. Shy, awkward, always sketching in my notebooks instead of talking to people. You’d have been way out of my league.”

You felt a laugh bubble up, small but real. “I doubt that.”

He smiled faintly at your amusement, then added softly, “For what it’s worth… I think you’re cute now. That’s what I thought the first time I saw you.”

Your cheeks heated instantly, and you looked down at your shoes, not trusting yourself to respond.

When you reached your apartment building, you hesitated, gripping your keys tightly.

“I… I don’t know if I can sleep tonight,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

San watched you for a moment, then spoke gently. “Do you want to stay at my place? It’s five minutes from here. I’ve got a guest room—you can use it if that would make you feel safer.”

You looked up at him, startled by the offer. There was no pressure in his expression, only quiet sincerity.

“Are you sure?”

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he said with a small nod. “I don’t mind at all.”

You hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Okay… maybe I’d feel better that way.”

“Then let’s go,” San said softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he gestured for you to walk with him.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

San’s apartment was warm and inviting, bathed in a soft golden glow from the floor lamp in the living room. As you stepped inside, the faint scent of clean linen and green tea wrapped around you, comforting in a way you hadn’t expected. You slipped off your shoes at the door, fingers fiddling nervously with the hem of your borrowed shirt.

“Make yourself at home,” San said, his voice quiet but somehow grounding. He gestured toward the living room.

You followed him inside and froze. Your eyes widened in surprise as they swept over the space. It wasn’t the sleek, minimalist bachelor pad you had expected. Instead, the room was dotted with colorful plushies—lined along the back of the couch, stacked neatly in a basket near the TV, and even a small fox-shaped one perched precariously on the armrest like it owned the place.

“You… have a lot of plushies,” you said softly, your voice caught somewhere between curiosity and amusement. You tried to hide the small smile tugging at your lips but failed miserably.

San rubbed the back of his neck, his ears tinged faintly pink. “Ah… yeah. My niece visits a lot. Every time she comes over, she brings a new one and insists I keep it here so ‘it doesn’t get lonely.’”

The way his deep voice softened when he mimicked his niece’s words made you smile for real this time, warmth blooming in your chest. “That’s adorable.”

He cleared his throat, glancing away as if flustered by the compliment. “I’ll get you something to sleep in.”

Disappearing down the hall, San returned moments later holding a soft black t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants. “These might be a little big on you, but they should be comfortable.”

“Thank you.” You clutched the clothes against your chest and slipped into the bathroom to change.

The mirror reflected a version of you that felt both strange and comforting. The t-shirt fell nearly to your mid-thigh, sleeves hanging past your hands. The sweatpants had to be rolled at the waist twice to keep them from pooling at your ankles. You looked small—softened in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in years.

When you stepped out, barefoot and tugging at the oversized sleeves, San’s eyes lifted. He froze.

The sight of you—dwarfed by his clothes, hair slightly tousled, eyes shy—made his breath hitch almost imperceptibly. He quickly turned his gaze away, but not before a faint blush crept up to his ears.

“They… uh, they suit you,” he said, his voice lower than usual.

You felt your face warm as you murmured a quiet “Thanks” and followed him into the kitchen.

The space was cozy, with pale wood cabinets and a small round table tucked into the corner. San busied himself at the counter, setting out two mugs and reaching for a tin of tea leaves.

“Tea okay?” he asked, glancing at you over his shoulder.

“Perfect,” you replied softly, settling into one of the chairs and curling your legs underneath you.

The kettle hummed as steam began to rise, and you watched him move with quiet efficiency. It struck you then how unassuming he was in his own space—barefoot, sleeves pushed up, hair falling slightly into his eyes.

Gathering your courage, you spoke. “You know… when I first met you, you intimidated me.”

San stilled slightly before turning his head, a brow raised in mild surprise. “Me?”

You nodded, fingers tracing the rim of your mug. “You were so quiet. And your stare… I thought you didn’t like me.”

His lips tugged into a small smile, the kind that made your chest feel unreasonably tight. “I can see why you’d think that.”

“But now…” You hesitated, meeting his eyes. “I think you’re secretly a softie.”

San let out a soft laugh, the sound warm and unguarded. “You might be right.”

The tea steeped as silence fell again, but this time it felt comfortable. You sipped slowly, savoring the gentle floral notes while your shoulders relaxed for what felt like the first time all day.

After finishing, San showed you to the guest room. The small space was neatly kept, with fresh sheets and another plushie—a small, round penguin—resting at the foot of the bed.

“I’ll be just down the hall if you need anything,” he said, his voice still low, still gentle.

You paused in the doorway, clutching the oversized shirt around you. “Thank you… for everything.”

He shook his head, meeting your gaze. “You don’t have to thank me, Y/N. I’m glad you’re here.”

Once the door closed behind you, San lingered in the hallway for a moment. He let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back against the wall.

She thinks I’m a softie, he thought, a faint smile pulling at his lips. But his chest felt tight again, and this time he didn’t bother denying it.

It wasn’t just protectiveness anymore.

The weeks after that night had blended together, though San found himself noticing every little moment with a clarity he couldn’t shake. Y/N laughing softly at one of Wooyoung’s ridiculous jokes. Her quiet thank you when he handed her a cup of tea. The way her shoulders seemed to ease just slightly whenever she saw him.

It wasn’t subtle—not to him, and apparently not to anyone else either.

“Alright, San.”

Haneul’s voice cut through the hum of the staff room. She stood with her arms crossed, her gaze sharp enough to pin him to the chair. “What’s going on between you and Y/N?”

San blinked at her, caught off guard. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she pressed. “I see how you look at her. You’ve been going out of your way to check on her, staying past your shifts just to walk her home. What is this?”

Before San could answer, Wooyoung leaned in from the doorway, a grin stretching across his face. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. San, you’ve got it bad.”

San rubbed the back of his neck, a faint warmth creeping up his ears. He hated being called out like this. “She’s… important to me.”

Yunho, seated across from him, raised a brow. “Important how?”

San stared down into his tea. “She’s been through so much. I just want her to feel safe. To feel like she’s not alone anymore.”

“Sounds like more than that,” Wooyoung teased. “You’re totally gone for her.”

San let out a quiet sigh. “Maybe I am.”

Haneul’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Listen to me, Choi San. If you hurt her—if you even make her cry—I will personally castrate you. Got it?”

Wooyoung nearly choked on his laughter, while Yunho’s eyes went wide.

“But,” Haneul continued, her tone softening, “if you get her to like you back… you’ll have my support. She deserves someone who makes her smile like you do.”

San met her gaze, something steady settling in his chest. “I’d never want to hurt her.”

“Good.” Haneul uncrossed her arms, but her expression stayed stern. “Prove it.”

That evening, San stood in his apartment, staring at his phone. His thumb hovered over the screen before he finally sent the message: Movie night at my place? Got your favorite tea.

Her reply came seconds later. Only if you promise not to laugh if I cry at the sad parts.

No promises, he texted back, a small smile tugging at his lips.

As he waited for her to arrive, he moved around his apartment restlessly—straightening pillows, adjusting the playlist volume, checking the tea kettle unnecessarily. The thought of her being here again made his chest tighten in a way he was trying and failing to ignore.

Because he knew now. This wasn’t just protectiveness. It wasn’t just friendship.

He was falling for her.

⊹₊┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ✿ㆍ┈ㆍ┈ㆍ┈₊⊹

San’s apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of his playlist when the knock came. His heart gave an annoyingly hopeful lurch as he moved to open the door. There you were, clutching your bag, wearing an oversized hoodie and that shy smile that always seemed to make his chest tighten.

“Hey,” you said softly.

“Hey,” he replied, stepping aside. “Come in.”

You slipped off your shoes and wandered to the couch, your gaze flicking briefly to the lineup of plushies along the cushions. He’d thought about putting them away but decided against it at the last second.

“Same spot?” he asked, holding up two mugs of steaming tea.

You nodded, settling cross-legged on the couch. “You didn’t have to make tea for me every time, you know.”

“I don’t mind,” San said simply, handing you a mug. “Besides, it’s kind of our thing now, isn’t it?”

You smiled down at the tea, and something warm settled in his chest.

As the movie played, he risked a few glances at you from the corner of his eye. You were curled up in the corner of the couch, fingers wrapped around your mug, eyes glued to the screen. Every so often, you’d react—a soft laugh, a quiet sigh—and each sound tugged at him in ways he wasn’t sure how to explain.

Halfway through, during a lull in the dialogue, you spoke. “You know… I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend like you before. Well… besides Haneul.”

San blinked, caught off guard. “Like me?”

You nodded, staring at your hands. “Someone who checks in. Who… makes me feel like I’m not a burden. Like I can just exist and it’s okay.”

His lips curved into a faint smile, but a small, unbidden pang hit his chest at the word friend. He hid it well, taking a slow sip of his tea.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” he said softly. “You’re never a burden, Y/N. Not to me.”

Your eyes lifted to meet his, and for a fleeting second, he wondered if you could see right through him. See the part of him that wanted to be more than just your safe place. More than just a friend.

But he forced the thought down, masking it with a gentle smile.

“Thanks, San.” You shifted slightly closer, resting your head against the back of the couch. “I don’t think I’ve said it enough, but… I really appreciate you.”

His throat felt tight as he murmured, “You don’t have to thank me. I like being here for you.”

The rest of the movie passed in a comfortable quiet, but San’s thoughts wouldn’t stop spinning. Every small laugh, every soft sigh from you etched itself into his memory.

When the credits rolled and you stretched with a sleepy yawn, he forced a calm tone. “Want me to walk you home?”

You hesitated, then shook your head. “It’s late… I don’t mind staying in the guest room again, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” San said, standing to fetch you a blanket. “You know you’re always welcome here.”

As you disappeared down the hall, San sat back down on the couch, staring at the faint glow of the TV.

Friend.

He let out a quiet sigh, running a hand over his face.

Maybe for now, that was enough.

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

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vanteguccir · 10 months ago

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Hey i have a request if u have time and like ittt!!

So basically matts fucking you and chris is tired of all the noise, so he walks in to matts room casually. Proceeds to pick up ur panties from the floor and stuffs ur mouth. And sum hot idkkkkkkkk i aint a writer

Love ur fics tho girl

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤPANTIES IN MY MOUTH * MATT (AND CHRIS) STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Chris had had enough of Y/N's loud moans with his brother and shut her up with her panties... and she's a exhibitionist little shit

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader (and Chris)

WARNINGS　::　SMUT (mdni)

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

"Oh fuck- Matt-" Y/N gasped, her voice breaking with every breath.

She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t focus on anything but the overwhelming pleasure coursing through her veins. Her thighs - wet with her arousal - quivered uncontrollably, her toes curling against the bed as Matt thrust into her with raw, primal need.

But beneath them, Chris had had enough.

For the past thirty minutes, he had been subjected to the incessant banging of the bed against the wall and Y/N’s loud, unfiltered moans. He tried to block it out, putting a pillow over his head or playing random songs in the top volume on his headphones, but it was no use. The noise was relentless, invading every corner of his room, and his patience had finally snapped.

With a growl of frustration, Chris pushed back his blankets, stormed out of his room, and headed upstairs.

Y/N didn’t hear Chris’s footsteps approaching. Her mind too far gone in the pleasure coursing through her body. She moaned Matt’s name again, her voice loud and breathy, the sound echoing in the room as Matt quickened his pace, his own groans mixing with hers.

The door to Matt’s room suddenly burst open, and without warning, Chris strode in, his face a mask of annoyance. Y/N’s head was still buried in the mattress, her body still trembling as Matt froze mid-thrust, too shocked to react right away.

Chris, however, didn’t seem the least bit phased by the scene before him. He walked into the room far too casually, his eyes sweeping over the pair with a mixture of irritation and curiosity. His tongue slipped between his pink lips, wetting them while taking in the sight of Y/N’s completely naked form, her body bent over the bed, her fingers digging into the dark blue sheets, clutching them like a lifeline, and Matt’s shocked, wide-eyed expression.

"What the fuck, Chris?" Matt sputtered, his voice filled with disbelief as he finally reacted, trying to cover Y/N's boobs with his large hands and her ass with his own body, ignoring the loud whine that echoed from her with his movements. "Get out, man!"

But Chris ignored him. His gaze drifted down to the floor where Y/N’s discarded pink lacy panties lay. Without a word, Chris bent down, scooping it up, and then moved toward the bed. Y/N, still lost in the haze of pleasure, barely registered his presence until she felt slender fingers pressing her jaw with moderate strength, forcing her to open her mouth before something was stuffed against her tongue.

Her eyes widened in shock, muffled sounds of protest escaping her throat as she realized what had happened, her eyes meeting the blue ones that looked right back at hers.

Chris really had shoved her own panties into her mouth, effectively shutting her up. Her face burned with a mix of embarrassment and something darker, something that thrilled her in a way she hadn’t expected.

Matt, still in shock, didn’t know whether to laugh or be pissed off.

"Chris, what the hell is wrong with you?" He growled, though there was an underlying tension in his voice, the absurdity of the situation not lost on him as he searched for his brother's eyes.

Chris smirked, his gaze gleaming with mischief as he glanced between the two of them.

"If I’m going to be forced to listen to all this." He said smoothly, his voice low and teasing while his hands motioned from one to another. "The least I could do is shut her up. A guy needs his silent time, right?" He gave Y/N a pointed look, his lips curling into a smirk as he watched her squirm beneath his brother, her muffled whines filling the room with the feeling of Matt's dick moving only a bit inside her walls.

Y/N’s mind was racing, her body responding despite the embarrassment flooding her senses. The feel of her panties getting dump in saliva inside her mouth and the sheer absurdity of the situation had her heart racing in ways she hadn’t expected, causing her to press her face deeper against the mattress, trying to disappear.

Matt, however, was less amused. He shook his head, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

"You’re such an asshole." He muttered, though he couldn’t deny the tension in the room had only heightened after Chris’s interruption.

Chris chuckled, clearly pleased with himself as he straightened up and turned toward the door.

"Just keep it down next time." He said over his shoulder, throwing one last smirk at them before sauntering out of the room.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Chris, leaving Matt and Y/N in the heavy silence of the room, Y/N's body reacted almost immediately. Despite the absurdity of what had just happened - or maybe because of it - her hips pushed back instinctively, seeking more of Matt. Her body begged for him to continue, her mind still reeling from the humiliation and thrill of being caught.

Matt's eyes widened at first, surprised by her reaction, but then a dark chuckle escaped his lips as he felt her ass press insistently against him, almost fucking herself on his dick. Her whines, now muffled, were desperate, needy. She wanted more. She needed it.

"Fuck." Matt muttered under his breath, his voice taking on a darker, more commanding tone. "You liked that, didn't you?" He murmured, bending his upper body and pressing his chest firmly against her back, his breath hot against the nape of her neck. "Getting caught like that... having him see you like this. Like the little whore you're for me, yeah?"

Y/N whimpered again, her body responding eagerly as her hips pushed back against him harder, silently begging him to keep going. Her face was still pressed deep into the sheets, her muffled whines escaping through the makeshift gag Chris had left in her mouth. She was trembling, her body aching for more.

Matt’s hands gripped her hips tightly, his fingers digging into her skin as he laughed again, this time lower. He leaned his head, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered.

"You’re a dirty little thing, aren’t you? Letting him see you so exposed and open, and now... you can’t get enough, can you?"

Y/N moaned into the fabric, her eyes rolling up her skull with his talking and the fresh memory of Chris's eyes on her, the sound vibrating against the panties in her mouth. Her body was practically begging for Matt to move, to do something, to give her the release she so desperately needed.

Matt grinned wickedly, the dark amusement still dancing in his eyes as he tightened his grip on her hips, pulling her back against him before pushing her forward again, forcing her to fuck herself on his cock.

Her thighs trembled when she felt his tip brushing only a bit against her sweet spot, and she let out another muffled whine, her hips rocking back against him again, needing him right there. The feeling of her body pressed so tightly against him, her whimpers of need muffled and helpless, only served to ignite Matt’s desire further.

"Alright." Matt murmured darkly, his tone teasing as his hand slid down, fingers brushing the curve of her ass, squeezing the flesh hard. "You want it? You’ll get it, but you have to work for it."

He pressed his other hand on her small back, forcing her to bent her upper body even more - if that was even possible, searching the control he needed. With a slow, deliberate movement, he ground his hips against hers, teasing her, dragging out the moment as she squirmed beneath him, her muffled cries growing more frantic.

"Is this what you want, baby?" He taunted, his voice a low growl as he pressed himself harder against her. "Because I can feel how fucking wet you're." He let out another dark laugh, enjoying the power he had over her in this moment. "And all it took was Chris walking in on us for you to become this needy mess."

Y/N's muffled response was a mix of whimpers and "Matt's", her body trembling as she tried to raise her ass more in the air, searching for the friction her body was begging for.

Matt's grip on her waist tightened even more, his fingers digging into her skin as he finally snapped his hips against hers hard enough to make her thighs shake and her fingers dig into the sheets.

"Alright, baby." He whispered, his tone full of lust and dominance as he positioned himself, ready to turn her into a cock drunk mess. "Let’s see how loud you can be now... even with your mouth so fucking full."

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snail-day · 5 months ago

Text

A Hypothesis on You

Sum: You led on the nice guy, but they don't always finish last.

Yandere Nerd!Gojo x Reader

Next part: Gaslighting? Baby, I'm just lovebombing (not official title)

TW: Yandere Behaviors, murder, implied unprepped anal, toy mention, masturbation, kidnapping, noncon, brief gore/violence, forced discord kitten, mdni

WC: 3.6k

Satoru Gojo had arrived at a definitive conclusion, one backed by indisputable, empirical data collected through careful observation. The hypothesis? You were in love with him. And, naturally, upon evaluating this data, he had no choice but to reciprocate with an all-consuming, maddening adoration of his own.

The evidence was overwhelmingly positive.

Exhibit A: The Discord Calls

The instant the Discord ringtone reverberates through his headset, a low-frequency hum tickles his synapses. His heart rate accelerates - not in an alarming, fight-or-flight way, but in a perfectly measurable, dopamine-infused, love-induced response. He notes the variables at play: the sharp pang of anticipation, the compulsive need to fix his posture, the way his pupils dilate when he catches sight of your profile picture - just the default Discord logo, a bland, impersonal icon that only fuels his insatiable curiosity.

Who are you, really?

What do you do in your free time? What are your hobbies, your secret indulgences, your intricate thought processes? And most critically - what is your type?

He should be focusing on the study session, reviewing notes, optimizing memory retention, and running mental simulations of possible test questions. Instead, he’s staring at that stupid little logo, heart stuttering at the mere idea of your fingers brushing against your keyboard, your voice filling his ears any second now.

And there it is.

Your voice, chipper and bright, crackling through his headset like an electrical current straight to his nervous system. You ask to compare answers for the homework - again. How predictable. How utterly adorable. His lips quirk up, concealed behind a palm as a distinct warmth creeps up his pale face. He knows you’re copying his answers. He always has.

But isn’t that just another irrefutable piece of evidence?

You trust him. You rely on him. You need him.

The sound of frantic scribbling in the background doesn’t go unnoticed - oh no, his genius-level intellect catches every minor detail, every rushed stroke of your pen, every minuscule pause where your breath hitches as you struggle to keep up. A soft chuckle rumbles in his chest, but he keeps his tone light, unassuming.

“Your calculations must’ve been off again, huh? Silly girl.”

He could just give you the answers outright - he wants to, craves the idea of you depending on him, owing him. But it’s much more satisfying to hear the subtle, breathy giggle on the other end of the line, the quiet little “thank you, Gojo” that slips past your lips. An auditory reward.

Exhibit B: The Study Sessions

Oh, how he craves you when you ask him for help. It’s intoxicating, the way your voice, normally so light and confident, softens into something hesitant and uncertain as the test creeps closer. As if you’re nervous, as if the pressure is gnawing at you, sinking sharp little teeth into your resolve, and the only person who can fix it, the only one who can calm you, is him.

That realization? That knowledge that you need him, that you trust him enough to ask?

It sends something thick, honey-sweet, and deliriously suffocating curling low in his stomach, burrowing deep in his chest like a sickness - festering, spreading - one he never wants to recover from.

"Gojo, can we go over the Kreb’s cycle again?"

Your soft, saccharine voice makes his fingers tighten, twitch over his pen. His pink lips part, something between a smirk and a weak, aching sigh, a sound so pathetically fragile, so awed, it nearly makes him sick.

"Again?" he teases, tilting his head slightly as he leans closer to his mic, pretending as if he’s unaffected, as if his body isn’t trembling from the mere sound of you.

You huff, breathy and a little sheepish, like you hate admitting you need him. It’s adorable.

"Yeah… I just - ugh, I always get confused on this part. You explain it better than the professor, anyway."

Oh.

Oh, God.

His brain empties, whites out, dissolves into nothing but static and heat and throbbing, unbearable pleasure. You think he explains it better. Better than the professor. Better than the textbooks, the lectures, every single, mind-numbingly boring source of knowledge you could have gone to - yet you chose him.

He exhales slowly, carefully, forcing himself to stay composed, forcing his grin to stay teasing, lighthearted, like he isn’t about to collapse under the weight of your praise, your trust, your utter dependence on him.

"Well, since you asked so nicely, I guess I can help you out one more time."

He drawls it out, slow and syrupy, because he loves the way you laugh when he flirts - how it always sounds a little shy, a little uncertain, like you don’t know whether he’s joking or not. (He’s not.)

So, he guides you. Carefully. Methodically. Painstakingly.

(He could be a little more patient, but who cares about patience when you’re hanging onto his every word?)

His voice stays playful, painting each step of the process into your mind with such excruciating care, as if his words alone could wrap around you, cocoon you, pull you deeper into him.

And oh, the way you listen. So perfectly. So obediently. So helplessly.

Every little fact, every single note, all scribbled onto your cheat sheet, one you really should have written last night, but you didn’t. Because you needed him to explain it. Because he explains it better. When you finally repeat his words back to him - carefully, thoughtfully - your voice slipping into that sweet, focused lilt that makes his breath hitch, makes his vision blur and darken at the edges - his long, slender fingers twitch over his notes.

God, you sound so pretty when you’re focused. So adorably unsure of yourself, as if you’re afraid you’ll do something wrong. Baby, you don’t have to worry about that. You’ve got him wrapped so tightly around your fingers, he might as well be bound, gagged, and helpless at your mercy.

And yet, it’s him who keeps chasing the sound of your voice, his body betraying him like the sniveling, desperate wreck that he is. Heat begins to coil, low and tight and unbearable, an awful, cloying pressure building deep, deep in his gut, in his chest, in every aching, pathetic part of him that only responds to you.

He has to mute himself.

Has to slouch back in his chair, sucking in sharp, uneven breaths, as his hand - shaking, trembling, fevered and desperate - palms himself through his navy blue sweatpants, pressing against the unbearable, aching strain beneath the fabric.

He shouldn’t.

Really, he shouldn’t.

But your voice - soft and sweet and so fucking eager to learn from him - curls into his ears like a siren’s song, wrapping tight around his throat, unraveling him from the inside out. When you reach past the citric acid portion, stumbling just slightly, your voice breathy, triumphant, proud, it makes his body lock up.

Keep going.

His thighs clench, his lips part soundlessly, a pathetic little whimper catching in his throat, his hand moving against himself without even thinking, mindlessly chasing the unbearable, excruciating bliss of you. Before he can stop himself, before you can even utter the words oxidative phosphorylation, he’s coming, thick, hot white ropes spilling messily over his hand, just picturing how pretty they’d look on your sweet, stunned face, those wide, innocent eyes looking up at him, dumb and pliant and utterly dependent on him.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

His head tips forward, cheek pressing against the desk, eyes glassy, unfocused, dazed, utterly shattered as the aftershocks rip through him.

The Discord call remains active.

"Gojo? Are you still there?"

Shit.

His nerves jolt, his hand jerks back from the mess in his lap, and he scrambles, wiping himself down with sharp, frantic movements, fingers shaking as he fumbles for the mouse.

Unmute. Breathe. Act normal.

He clears his throat, forces a lazy, almost airy chuckle past his lips, masking the remnants of his absolute, pitiful, all-consuming climax with that same easygoing drawl.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Just, y’know…" A pause, a slow grin curling at the edges of his mouth, voice dropping into something thick, teasing, syrupy smooth. "Kinda hard not to zone out when you sound that cute."

You scoff, exasperated, but flustered - just the way he expects, just the way he needs.

"Shut up, Gojo."

He just laughs. Because you don’t mean it. Because if you flunk, you won’t be able to take the next class with him.

That? That would be unacceptable. Because you need him. And he needs to hear that pretty little voice for much, much longer.

Exhibit C: The Messages

His texts are simple. Uncomplicated. Texts that linger unread, swallowed by the void of your notifications, responses so infrequent they might as well be artifacts of a bygone era. And yet, he is always at your beck and call. A constant. A fixed variable in the chaotic equation of your life.

Perhaps you’re just not a big texter. You’re cute like that. You probably prefer face-to-face interactions, don’t you? You want to see him, hear him, breathe the same air. Of course you do. It’s only natural.

Your response, as always, is frustratingly brief.

BlueEyesWhiteDragon: Hope you ate well today! There’s a new bakery nearby, want to check it out?

BlueEyesWhiteDragon: Test scores are out! Let’s celebrate! Drinks on me :3

You: Sorry Gojo! I’m busy :(

Ah. An anomaly. A deviation in the otherwise flawless data set that is you. That’s fine. He understands. Really. Truly.

…Except, no, he doesn’t.

Because then you waltz into class, oblivious and radiant, a walking contradiction wrapped in soft smiles and gentle warmth. You stop by his desk without hesitation, fingers barely grazing his as you press something into his palm - a Digimon (limited edition) pen. A relic from overseas, something rare, something treasured.

"I really appreciate you, Gojo." Soft words, spun from silk, weaving their way into the tangled web of his mind. His fingers tighten around the pen. Neural pathways ignite, synapses firing in a frenzied, luminous cascade. Patterns emerge, connections solidify, conclusions crystallize into absolute truth.

This is an offering. A token of devotion.

Penguins do this, scientifically speaking. They scour the earth for the perfect rock, presenting it to their chosen mate as a vow, a bond, a forever.

Is that what this is?

It has to be.

Because you always sit next to him. Because on test days, you arrive early, never too soon, never too late, just in time to secure the seat beside him. Because your leg brushes his, again and again, warmth seeping through the fabric, sinking into his skin.

Because you lean in, voice hushed, lips barely parting as you whisper, "I’m not looking at your paper, I promise."

But Satoru doesn’t need to analyze probability, doesn’t need statistical models to confirm the truth. The evidence is irrefutable.

You love him.

However, there is an inconsistency in the data. A variable unaccounted for. A contradiction in the flawless theorem that is: you + him = inevitability.

You rejected him.

The memory loops in his mind like a corrupted file, fragmented yet perfectly preserved. He remembers it all, every detail, every nuance, every pixel of your expression. The way his voice had been effortlessly light when he’d asked, his body leaning in, his grin the very picture of confidence as he peered over tinted glasses.

"C’mon, you owe me. How about we grab a meal together? Or, better yet, let’s hit up the arcade. I’ll win you a prize and everything." He had been prepared for many things. Flustered giggles. An exasperated but fond sigh. A teasing eye roll before you inevitably gave in, brushing off his boldness with a "Fine, but you better actually win me something good."

Instead. You hesitated.

Your fingers fidgeted at the hem of your sleeve. Your eyes flickered away. And your lips - so sweet, so cruel - curled into something fragile.

"I’m… I’m not really ready for a relationship right now."

Something fractured. A hairline crack, nearly imperceptible, but there. A fault in the foundation of his reality, small but damning.

"I just have a lot going on, but… maybe when I have some free time, we could… give it a shot?"

And then - then you reached for him. So gently. So thoughtlessly. Tugging at his sleeve in a fleeting, absentminded motion. A mere second of contact, but Satoru felt it everywhere. Your fingertips through the thin fabric of his navy sweater. The featherlight scrape of your nails before retreating. The way your gaze softened when it met his, hesitant, uncertain, but undeniably warm.

It should have pacified him. It should have soothed the sharp, gnawing tightness in his chest, the static buzz at the edges of his mind.

But it didn’t.

Instead, it confounded him.

Because if you truly weren’t ready, if you truly wanted distance, then why did you touch him like that?

Why was your voice so gentle?

Why leave the door open, just a crack, just a sliver of an invitation, just enough for him to slip through like a whisper on the wind?

It doesn’t make sense.

Which means: You’re scared.

Of course, you must be. It’s the only explanation. You’re utterly, helplessly terrified of how much you love him, of the sheer intensity of it, the unfathomable depth, the suffocating inevitability, the inescapable, all-consuming truth that binds you to him. You don’t understand it yet. You don’t see the full picture, don’t grasp the overwhelming magnitude of what you feel, the way it stretches into infinity.

But that’s okay. He can wait. Patience is a virtue he’s mastered. He can guide you - new things are daunting, unsettling, horrifying even. He understands; he was the same way with Suguru. A little hesitant. A little afraid. But love is a science, an immutable force, a precise and predictable phenomenon governed by distinct, repeatable patterns. And you - his perfect, brilliant girl - are simply a variable in need of proper calibration. A puzzle to be meticulously solved. An equation to be elegantly balanced.

Though Satoru wasn’t expecting to black out so soon. Not like this. Not from something so trivial, so insignificant, so utterly beneath him. There you were. Standing in that dimly lit hallway of the old lab building, facing away from him while that pathetic, insignificant little man faced him. There you were. Laughing. Twirling your hair. Tilting your chin up in a way that he has never been privy to, pretty eyes flickering with something playful, something forbidden.

Your lip caught between your teeth.

A smile you had never once given him.

Hiding.

Hiding everything.

Satoru blinked. When he opened his eyes again, he was somewhere else. His breath came in shallow, sharp gasps, the copper-tinged taste of adrenaline thick on his tongue. Those slender, pale fingers of his ached, stiff, strained, bloodied. Perfectly manicured nails were splintered. Jagged crescents of flesh wedged beneath them. He wasn’t sure when his hands had wrapped around the bastard’s throat, when he had squeezed until there was a crack, a wet, ugly sound that didn’t quite register until the body collapsed onto the flooring in a graceless, lifeless heap.

Not like the movies. There was no dramatic last words. No struggle. Just the light fading from the bastard's eyes and your screams.

Satoru exhaled, slow and even, watching the body twitch, watching the useless, pitiful sack of flesh that had touched you, looked at you, laughed with you, go still.

No witnesses. No evidence. No problem.

Satoru had paid someone to take care of it. It was just that simple. Blood money for blood stains. A phone call. A transfer. A sigh. A body gone. Clean. Efficient. Effortless. You - his sweet, little traitor - had been so easy to take after that.

Dragging you away was nothing. You were too shocked to fight, too stunned to understand. To light in his arms, even as you thrashed, kicked, screamed, all useless, all futile. He had shoved you into the car, tucked you so nicely into the back seat. Your muffled screams, your fists pounding against the door, such adorable resistance. All it took was a few words, a whispered warning, and your fight died.

"If you scream, kitten, someone else is gonna have to disappear tonight."

You were much more pliant after that, bounded, subdued. Perfectly still. Those pretty, glistening tears streamed down your horrified face, carving delicate, shimmering paths along your flushed, trembling skin. Satoru wiped the last crimson remnants from his hands, his mouth quirking into a lopsided, exhausted smile - lazy, almost affectionate.

“Sorry, kitten,” he murmured, his voice light, breathless, far too casual and sweet. A teasing lilt was buried beneath the softness, barely masked.

Like this was normal.

Like this was just another one of his usual flirtations.

“Sorry you had to wake up here,” he cooed, tilting his head as if in thought, his crystalline eyes gleaming with playfulness. “But you did kind of ask for it.”

Your throat bobbed with a silent, quivering sob, the gag muffling the fractured sound into something weak and helpless. Satoru studied you, his gaze lingering, indulgent. You did look so pretty like this, eyes blown wide, glossy with pitiful tears, frantic and pleading. Your lips, raw and swollen from desperate, futile struggles, clung helplessly to the gag, little muffled whimpers slipping through. Your body trembled in the sweetest, most delicate shakes, the shivers rippling down your spine, your chest rising and falling in frantic, uneven heaves, every panicked breath proof of your helplessness. So small. So utterly, exquisitely defenseless.

His eyes darkened, something wild and untamed curling deep in his gut, a primal, simmering heat coiling beneath his ribs.

"You lied to me." A slow quirk of his lips, his voice dipping into something softer, almost sing-song, a dangerous kind of amusement threading through the lilt of his words as he moved closer. Satoru crouched before you, knees bending with an almost lazy, effortless grace, one hand resting on his thigh, the other reaching for your tear-streaked face with an unsettling gentleness.

Your breath hitched.

You flinched away.

A mistake.

His fingers tightened instantly. Gripping your jaw, forcing you to meet his dull blue-eyed gaze - pressing, pressing, pressing - the tips of his bloodstained nails biting into the fragile skin of your cheeks. Tiny pinpricks of pressure. Your frantic, choked whimpers were music to him. A trembling, pitiful melody that sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine. A sharp inhale before dragging his thumb down the curve of your cheek, smearing the warmth of your tears with an almost devout reverence. Worshipful. Possessive.

"You called me pathetic," he murmured, light, conversational, as though this were nothing more than idle chatter. "A loser."

Your pupils dilated, wide and glassy, breaths coming in quick, shallow bursts, your chest rising and falling too fast, too erratic.

"You lied," Satoru continued, voice dipping lower, rougher, tinged with something ravenous. "Said you weren’t ready for a relationship. But I saw your phone, kitten. Saw all those little apps. Saw what you said about me." Your body shuddered beneath his grip, trembling like a fragile, wounded thing, and something deep in his chest thrummed - a slow, indulgent pulse of pleasure at your helplessness.

"I really just wanted you to be my girlfriend, you know?"

His tone was fond. Almost dreamy. A slow exhale, savoring the moment, fingers ghosting down the delicate curve of your jaw before dipping lower, feeling the erratic rhythm of your pulse, the delicious, frantic flutter of your heartbeat thrumming beneath his touch.

"But being my kitten…?" A soft sigh. "That could work too."

Your tears spilled, unchecked - hot, feverish, slipping down your cheeks in shimmering rivulets, a plea of sorts. One that will go unheard. Satoru hummed a quiet, pleased sound, dragging the pad of his thumb over your quivering bottom lip, feeling the tremble, the way you struggled to hold back the sobs choking your throat.

“I was saving this for our anniversary,” he mused, his voice light, conversational, as if this was nothing more than an offhand remark. His free hand moved, reaching beside him, fingers curling around a carefully bundled package. A costume. Soft velvet, delicate lace. Cat ears and a tail.

For you.

For his new kitten. One that he won't have to listen to on discord anymore. His smile widened as he held it up, tilting his head as if admiring his own thoughtfulness.

"I guess we’ll just have to celebrate early," he cooed, voice dripping with saccharine delight.

You screamed and thrashed as he shoved you down, face-first onto the cold, polished floor, his weight pressing down on you, a purr of amusement vibrating in his chest.

"Shhh, shhh, it's okay." Satoru ran his fingers through your hair, twisting tight at the roots - yanking your head up, forcing you to stare at the glossy, pristine poster in front of you.

Geto Suguru. Your favorite idol. One you would talk to Satoru in the lab about. A common interest between you to. Little did you know, he was a little closer to that interest of yours.

"I did promise you were going to meet him soon, didn’t I?" His breath was hot against your ear, lips curled into something stretched and unhinged. "Mommy is really going to like you."

Your broken, choked sobs filled the room, but he just hummed, smiling like he’d just gifted you something precious. Pressing his lips to your shaking temple. Your breath came in sharp, rapid gasps - panicked, broken, desperate - but Gojo Satoru sighed, twirling a loose strand of your hair between his fingers.

His voice dropped into something dark, low, and breathy. "Daddy is going to take such good care of you." Your body jerked, muscles pulsing with adrenaline. however, his grip tightened, ensuring you were safely in place. Satoru's bright, hungry blue eyes flicked toward the cat tail in his hand -the matching little ears tucked away for later. Lips stretching into something impossibly wide, impossibly giddy.

"Sorry, kitten." A mocking chuckle filled the room as he flipped up your skirt, dragging the steel along your clammy, fevered skin. "I was going to be gentle." Your eyes widened at the coldness, a soft sigh escaped his lips as he titled his head as if deep in thought, then continued to trace a slow, lingering touch over the goosebumps rising along your skin. "But you really, really broke my heart."

A pause.

"Don’t worry, though."

His breath was warm against your cheek, hot, feverish, as you felt his warm hand push your panties down.

"Mommy will be home soon to make everything better."

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