arclviie

[arclviie]

omgomg, thank u for adding behind the seams to ur fics rec post ><

awhhh no worries, i loved it so much, keep going <33

[arclviie]

She’s insane and im loving it.

P: Werewolf Alpha!Heeseung X Fem!Reader (NSFW 18+)

Warnings: Predator/Prey Dynamics, Semi-Consensual Tension, Power Imbalance, Scent Kink, Rough Sex, Overstimulation, Chasing, Breeding Kink/ Impregnation Themes, Knotting, Dirty Talk, Dubious Aftercare, Rut Cycle, Marking/Biting, Size Difference, Mind Break, Belly Bulge, Inflation, Slight Body Worship, Mating Press, Obsession, Dacryphilia, (Monster Anatomy,) Sensory Overload, Dumbification, Subspace? Messy Head, Manhandling, Oral Fixation, Messy And Wet.

Synopsis: Each full moon, a sacrifice is left in the woods for the beast. This time, it’s you. But Heeseung doesn’t want your death. He wants your fear, your heat, your body—and he wants to chase you first. You run. He hunts. And when he catches you, he doesn’t stop until you’re knotted, claimed, and too wrecked to escape again.

Wordcount: 11k

a/n: one thing about me.. im a sucker for predator/prey dynamics :D reblogs and commentary are appreciated!

It’s always someone unmarried. Someone young. Someone untouched.

The beast, they say, likes innocence. But not in the holy sense. Not in the pure sense.

In the raw, untouched, untouched-by-anyone-but-him sense.

So he could spill the fresh blood. So he could touch unmarred, soft skin — the kind that bruises easily beneath claws, that parts sweetly under teeth, that shakes when it realizes this isn’t a sacrifice.

It’s a claiming.

You thought you wouldn’t be chosen. After all, there were plenty of sweet, unmarried women in the village. Girls softer than you. Girls who flushed easier. Girls who looked like they’d beg to be kept.

You weren’t one of them.

You were quiet. Tired. Too curious for your own good. You looked at the woods too long when no one else would. You didn’t tremble in fear when they whispered the beast’s name, you leaned closer. So when the knock came just before dusk, and you opened the door to find the village elders standing in shadow — one of them holding red silk…

You realized. You were chosen this time.

You spent the rest of the night staring at the ribbon. It sat on your table like a curse — or a promise. Rich red, soft to the touch, but too heavy in your hands. The kind of red that meant blood, or love, and in this village, the difference had long since blurred. You didn’t eat. You didn’t sleep. You just sat there, legs pulled to your chest, eyes never leaving the silk. It felt warm against your fingers. Or maybe that was your skin. Your fear. Your shame. Or something else.

When the wind howled through the cracks in your walls, you flinched. But that wasn’t the sound that froze you.

It was the other howl. The one farther off — too low, too deep to belong to any normal animal. The kind that crawled beneath your skin and pressed against your ribs.

The full moon was close. And he was already calling.

You curled tighter, burying your face in your knees. Like you could block it out. Like the walls would keep the howl from reaching your bones. But it wasn’t a sound anymore. 

It was a pull. Low. Heavy. Stretching down your spine, threading heat between your thighs, making your stomach knot in a way that wasn’t just fear.

Something was waking up inside you. Something that wanted to be caught.

You hated it. You hated the way your body responded — the way your skin prickled, the way your legs pressed together, trying to hide the pulse building there. But the howl had found its way beneath your skin.

You could still feel it echoing through the night. Feel him. Not a myth. Not a monster. A man, maybe. Once. Now something else entirely. Something older. Starved. And for whatever reason, something in him had decided you were his.

You didn't sleep. You didn't cry. You just listened. To the woods. To your heartbeat. To the distant sound of something big, something hungry, pacing the edge of the trees. Waiting.

The night of the full moon arrived faster than you could have imagined. One moment, you were sitting on your bed, knees pulled tight to your chest, panic blooming in your lungs— and the next, you were standing in the middle of the village, barefoot and silent, surrounded by eyes that wouldn’t meet yours.

Someone had knocked. Someone had spoken your name. You couldn’t remember how you got here—only that you were walking, and they were watching. You were brought to the house of the village healer. Not a single word was spoken as the women guided you inside. They moved around you like shadows—practiced, calm, like this wasn’t the first girl they’d stripped bare beneath the full moon.

Your shift fell to the floor in a hush, and warm hands guided you to sit on a woven mat. Then the oil came. Hot. Heavy. Fragrant.

It wasn’t just rubbed into your skin—it was poured, worked into every inch of you. Your thighs, your stomach, your chest. Behind your ears. Between your legs. They touched you like it was sacred. Like you were being anointed for slaughter or seduction.

The oil didn’t just sit on your skin. It clung. It sank in. It sweetened your scent into something ripe, something ripe and ready. It made you soft. Glowing. Touched by heat and jasmine and honey and sin.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t breathe too hard. Because if you did, you feared you might shatter.

Your hair was pulled into a tight braid—neat, elegant, nothing for him to grip unless he chose to. The gown they slid over your body was white, thin, and clung like second skin.

Then came the red silk.

First around your waist—low, tied like a ribbon that could be yanked loose with one tug. Then your thighs—soft, suggestive, as if framing what was his. And finally, your wrists—just tight enough to suggest surrender, just loose enough to invite escape.

You were wrapped like a gift. A gift in sin. A body made to be opened. Mouth parted in silence. Thighs shining with oil. You didn’t know what time it was. Didn’t know how long you had. You only knew the door would open soon. And they would lead you into the forest.

Into the clearing. Into the moonlight. Into his arms.

You were then guided to the outskirts of the woods. The gown clung to your thighs with every step, the red silk trailing behind you like a leash of blood. The women who walked beside you — your escorts, said nothing until the trees were close enough to cast long shadows across your path.

You tried not to cry, tried not to look back, but your fingers twitched in their bindings, and your breath hitched every time the trees got closer. They brought you to the very edge of the forest—where green meets black. Where warm air turns cool and damp and wrong. Where the roots rise from the ground like twisted fingers, waiting to snare.

That’s where they stopped and stepped back. One of them—a woman whose name you didn't know but whose hands had oiled your thighs—placed a palm to your back. “This is as far as we go.” Her voice was quiet, but not unkind. Like someone mourning you before the grave had been dug. “You keep walking now. You keep moving… for the safety of the village. For the sake of everything that keeps us alive.”

You swallowed hard. 

She stepped away. The other followed. And then… they left you. Alone. Standing at the threshold of something ancient. Wrapped in silk and soaked in sweetness, body soft and throat tight.

You stared at the path ahead. Dark. Endless. Whispering. And slowly, one trembling foot in front of the other, you stepped into the woods.

The air changed the moment the trees closed in behind you — from open breath to choking silence, from soft village winds to something colder, thicker, soaked in moss and memory and blood that had dried decades ago but still clung to the bark like a warning. The moonlight filtered through the branches in thin, shaking strips, painting your skin in silver and slicing the dark like blades, but even that light felt borrowed — hesitant, as though the moon itself feared what lay ahead. 

The path wasn’t marked, and yet you knew where to go. Your body moved as though pulled by thread, as though your feet remembered steps your mind had never taken, and still your chest ached like something sacred was being torn apart within it, not because you feared the thing waiting in the woods, but because some traitorous part of you, buried and starved, was beginning to ache for him.

The deeper you walked, the quieter everything became — no crickets, no leaves, not even the sound of your own breath. It was like the forest had swallowed your presence whole, as if it were holding itself still for the one who hunted within it.

And yet… you kept walking.

The red silk at your waist clung to your hips like a noose dressed in perfume, the oil on your skin still warm despite the cold, still clinging to you like it had been made not to protect you, but to make you softer, sweeter, easier to taste. And you could feel it now. The heat. Low and crawling between your thighs, humming in your blood, tightening your chest with every step closer. Not arousal, not yet — but the ghost of it. A hunger beginning to mirror the one you knew was already tracking you.

He was close.

You didn’t hear him. You didn’t see him. But your body knew. Knew the way prey always knows the shadow of the thing that’s about to claim it.

You bit your tongue and kept walking, and in the distance, deeper than your senses could reach, a low growl stirred. 

It slid beneath your skin like cold water. Instantly, your body obeyed a fear older than thought — stiffening, pausing mid-step, your bare foot sinking just slightly into the damp earth as if even the ground beneath you was warning you not to move. You turned your head slowly, eyes wide, straining to see through the thick dark, but the trees had closed in tighter than before, their trunks blackened, reaching, their branches whispering secrets in a language you couldn’t understand.

The growl had come from the left—low, guttural, not close, but not far. It hadn’t sounded like anything human, but it hadn’t sounded like a beast either.

It sounded like want.

Your eyes darted through the shadow-cloaked underbrush, searching for the shape that didn’t belong, the flash of gold, the shift of breath between the leaves.

But you saw nothing. Just the trees. Just the dark. Just the silent windless forest waiting like it knew what would happen next. Your heart thundered in your chest, so loud you wondered if he could hear it. If he could taste it. If he was listening.

Another rustle behind you—too fast to be the wind, too fluid to be prey.

You turned again. Nothing.

But you could feel him now. Not just near. Watching. Stalking.

Something about the way the woods wrapped around your skin made you realize you weren’t alone anymore. That you hadn’t been, not since your first step across the treeline. That he'd been there, somewhere, the whole time. And worse than that — worse than the fear crawling through your veins was the heat starting to bloom in your belly. A deep, steady ache, made worse by the silence. By the waiting. By the way your skin suddenly felt too tight, too exposed, like the oil on it had begun to glow beneath his gaze. Like he was already touching you — with nothing but hunger and heat.

You took another step, your breath shallow in your throat, the silk at your wrists brushing your thighs as your hands trembled slightly. You tried to tell yourself it was the cold. It wasn’t.

And then… the bushes in front of you moved.

Not a rustle. Not a breeze. But a deliberate parting, as though the forest itself made way.

You froze, mouth slightly open, heart slamming in your chest like it wanted to escape before you could.

Branches shifted. Leaves sighed.

And then— two golden eyes opened. Not glowing like fire, but burning like something alive — molten, endless, pinned to you like a blade to flesh. Watching. Unblinking. They hovered just above the ground, still shrouded in shadow, low and wild, and for one aching second, that was all there was.

Gold. Darkness. Him.

The forest didn’t breathe. Neither did you.

The eyes didn’t blink, but they moved, tilting slowly, tracking the rise and fall of your chest, the way your thighs pressed together, the way your lips parted around a breath you forgot to take.

He saw everything. And somehow… you knew he liked what he saw.

Then — another shift. The sound of something massive exhaling. 

A shape began to rise from the underbrush, towering and quiet, body moving with inhuman grace — tall, lean, the faintest shimmer of skin catching moonlight through the trees. Bare chest. Broad shoulders. Hair wild and dark. Something animal in the way he moved, in the way he stalked, slow and hungry, toward you.

But those eyes never left yours.

You didn’t move.

Because that wasn’t a man standing before you.

That was the thing the village feared. That was the beast they’d wrapped you up for. The myth, the monster, the god with blood beneath his nails. And he had found you.

He stepped into the light like he belonged to the night itself. Locked on you like you were already beneath him, chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate breaths, watching you the way a starving thing watches a plate it’s already decided is its last meal.

Your legs were locked, not by fear alone, but by the weight of his gaze, the heat in your belly, the bone-deep realization that whatever was standing there wanted you. Not as a sacrifice. Not as a fleeting thing. But as something to take. To keep.

And then he spoke.

Low. Rough. Velvet dragged over teeth. “You’re prettier than the last one.” The words hit your skin like heat, like shame, like hands you hadn’t earned but already ached to feel.

He took a step forward, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving yours. “They dressed you up nice,” he said, head tilting, voice like honey gone sour. “All that silk and oil… but that scent underneath? That’s you.” His nostrils flared slightly. His eyes darkened. “You smell like fear,” he whispered. “And something sweeter underneath it.” Another step. “Want.”

The air collapsed between you. Your lips parted, a soundless breath escaping, as if your body was trying to answer him before your mind could form a thought. 

Heeseung smiled. Not kind. Not cruel. Hungry. “Do you know what happens next?” he asked. You shook your head before you could stop yourself. Your voice had long since left you. He clicked his tongue once, softly, like he was disappointed — but not surprised. “You run.” Another step. “I chase.” He was close enough now that you could see the veins in his throat, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands flexed at his sides like he was holding himself back. “And if I catch you—” His voice dropped lower, almost a growl. “—you’re mine.”

The word settled into your chest like heat. Like a promise. Like a brand. “So go ahead,” he murmured, eyes gleaming. “Run.”

The second the command cut through the dark, you didn’t hesitate. You ran. 

Your feet tore through moss and damp leaves, lungs heaving, adrenaline screaming through your veins. The silk clung to your skin, tugged at your ankles, fluttered behind you like a flare — like a signal screaming here I am. Take me.

Branches scraped your bare arms, dirt coated your legs, your hair snagged in the low limbs overhead — but you didn’t stop.

If you slowed down, he’d catch you. And gods, what would he do then? 

But what you feared more—what sent a sharper pulse of panic through your chest—was that you couldn’t hear him.

No footfalls. No breath. No growling behind you. Just your own frantic gasps.

Until—

A thud. To your right.

You flinched, nearly twisting your ankle on a root, glancing toward the sound. Nothing. You ran harder, heart a war drum in your throat.

Then— a branch snapped directly to your left. You stumbled again, nearly losing balance, eyes wide and wet. Still nothing. And then you heard him laugh. Low. Smooth. Cruel. It echoed through the trees like it belonged here — like the forest itself bent to it. “You run so pretty,” he called. “Like you know it won’t matter.” 

You whipped your head around, eyes scanning the dark — too dark — trying to see anything. Trying to see him. 

Nothing.

But your body was already reacting. Your thighs were shaking. Your breath catching. Not just from exhaustion. From heat. The silk at your waist clung tighter, soaked through from sweat and oil and something worse — something needier.

“You're dripping,” his voice whispered again, this time behind you, close enough to taste. “And I haven’t even touched you yet.”

You cried out, a sound ripped from your throat, and broke into a faster sprint. You didn’t care where you went. You just needed distance. You needed to run.

The trees closed in around you, branches grabbing at your arms like they were helping him, not you. Your foot caught a root. You fell hard — palms slamming into earth, knees scraping, a whimper bursting from your lips as you scrambled back to your feet.

Then — a flash of movement. 

Too fast. Too low. Too close.

You screamed, turned again — and he was there, just far enough away to keep your panic sharp. Half-shadowed. Shirtless. Barefoot. Grinning. 

He didn’t run. He walked. Slow. Like a wolf circling prey already too tired to make it interesting. His eyes glowed with something dark and delighted. His chest rose slow, his tongue darting out once, wetting his lips as he drank in the sight of you. “Keep going,” he said, voice low and hot and dangerous. “I’m not done playing yet.”

You ran again. Tears blurred your vision now. Your breath was gone. Your legs barely held you. And still, you ran. But you weren’t fast anymore. You weren’t quiet.

And he was right behind you.

You heard his feet this time, heavy steps through the brush.

You pushed harder, tried to force your body to give more.

And then—

A blur.

Suddenly he was in front of you.

You screamed, skidding to a stop — but he didn’t touch you. He just smiled. Tilted his head. Eyes glowing like embers beneath the moonlight. “Go,” he whispered.

So you ran. Again. And again.

Every time you thought you could hide, he found you. Every time you thought you gained ground, he appeared ahead of you, toying with your direction, herding you where he wanted you. Until finally, your foot gave out and your body collapsed. You couldn’t go any farther.

You crawled a few feet, sobbing, trembling, dirt streaking your thighs.

And then—

A hand around your ankle.

“Caught you.”

You barely gasped before you were yanked backward, dragged through dirt and leaves with a strength that didn’t hesitate. He flipped you effortlessly and suddenly your back met the cold earth, bare thighs parted, red silk clinging to your skin like a second, sinful breath.

Dirt kissed your spine. Oil gleamed on your collarbones. And he was all over you. Knees planted on either side of your hips, body caging yours, forearms braced in the soil beside your head. His chest rose once, shuddering — not from exertion, but from restraint. His nostrils flared. His eyes locked to yours, pupils blown wide and burning gold.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice thick and low, like it hurt to speak. “You smell like heat and fear… and something sweeter I haven’t tasted yet.” His tongue slid over his bottom lip, slow, greedy. Then he dipped his head, brushing the tip of his nose down your throat, inhaling like your scent was something sacred. “Still going to pretend you didn’t want this?” he whispered, voice curling into your ear like smoke. “That you weren’t soaked the second you saw me?”

Your lips parted. To lie, maybe. To curse him. To scream. But you didn’t get the chance. Because his tongue was already on your skin. He licked a long stripe up your neck, groaning softly — not like a man, but something wilder, deeper, as though you’d just given him water in a desert. And while your body tensed beneath his, caught between panic and a heat you didn’t want to name—

His fingers slid between your thighs.

The silk there was soaked. You knew it. So did he.

His growl vibrated against your neck as he spread you open with a single hand, your legs falling wider without resistance. “You ran so well,” he breathed, dragging his mouth lower. “Now let me show you what you get for losing.” His fingers slipped beneath the red silk, slow at first, dragging the fabric up your thighs like he was unwrapping something he’d been starved for. Your skin burned under his touch, slick with sweat and oil and the heat pooling thick between your legs. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint. “Laid out for me like this… fuck, you’re shaking.” He smiled, not mockingly — adoringly. Like this was what he’d waited for. Like you were what he’d waited for. He pushed your legs wider. You whimpered, hips twitching, breath catching in your throat as the silk tightened around your wrists, pinned beneath you. “Don’t hide,” he growled softly. “Not after you ran so well.”

And then he went lower.

His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he leaned down until his breath was hot between your legs. He didn’t touch you yet. He just breathed you in, groaning like it hurt to wait. “God,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I can smell how badly you want me. Sweet little prey dripping all over herself, all for me.”

Your head tipped back, chest rising in quick, shallow bursts. His grip tightened as he pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh — gentle, almost loving — then another, higher, closer, teeth grazing but not biting. “I should make you beg,” he muttered. “Should make you cry for it.” Another kiss, right above your slick heat, tongue flicking out just to taste your skin. “But I’ve waited long enough.”

Then his mouth was on you.

Hot. Messy. Devoted.

He groaned the moment his tongue touched you — a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through your thighs as he licked a long, slow stripe through your folds, pressing his face in like he was starved.

He didn’t start gently. He didn’t give you time. 

He devoured you.

Tongue flicking, swirling, sucking your clit into his mouth with unholy precision, hands holding your thighs down as your body arched off the forest floor.

You sobbed, hips bucking. He didn’t budge. He growled low — warning you to stay still — and licked harder. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice thick with hunger between sucks. “Give it to me. Let me taste how pretty you sound when you break.”

Your legs twitched beneath his grip, and he only tightened his hold — pinning you down with strong hands on your thighs as his tongue dragged slow, deliberate strokes through your soaked folds, each one rougher, deeper, hungrier than the last.

You moaned, high and wrecked, trying to close your legs, trying to twist away, but he growled deep into your cunt and forced them wider.

“Don’t even think about it,” he rasped against your skin. “You ran. I caught you. Now you take what I give you.” His tongue pressed in again, swirling over your clit, flicking and sucking and teasing just enough to keep you aching, not letting you fall apart too soon — not yet.

Heeseung wanted you desperate.

You cried out again, breath catching in your throat, fingers clawing into the dirt. The silk at your wrists dug tighter into your skin as your body thrashed beneath him.

“That’s it,” he moaned, mouth slick against your cunt. “Squirm for me. Try to run with your legs shaking like that, see what happens.”

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. The pressure was building, sharp and hot, dragging you toward a climax that felt too heavy to survive.

“You’re gonna come,” he murmured, voice feral, tongue relentless. “I can feel it. I can fucking taste it.” He pressed his face harder between your thighs, his nose brushing against you, his moans vibrating through your clit until your vision blurred.

Your hips jerked. Your thighs clamped — or tried to.

He growled and shoved them wider, the sound vibrating through your whole core. “Come,” he snapped. “Now.”

And you did.

You shattered like glass under his mouth — body convulsing, breath punched from your lungs, tears in your eyes as pleasure crashed through you so hard it left you sobbing.

Heeseung didn’t pause, didn’t relent—not when your body shuddered through its climax, not when your thighs quaked uncontrollably, not when your voice splintered into desperate whimpers. His tongue, wicked and unrelenting, moved with a hunger that felt ancient, as if he’d been starving for you across lifetimes.

“So fucking sweet,” he growled, his voice raw and wrecked, pulling back just enough for the words to spill out. His jaw glistened with your arousal, his dark eyes glinting with feral satisfaction as they locked onto yours. “Dripping for me. Ruined already, and I haven’t even fucked you yet.” The crude edge of his words sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between your legs, your body betraying you with its eager response.

His tongue returned with devastating precision, lapping at your oversensitive folds, delving deep to taste every inch of you. Each stroke was deliberate, dragging through your slickness, teasing the edges of your entrance before plunging back in, curling against your walls in a way that made your hips buck involuntarily. His fangs—sharp, dangerous—grazed your tender flesh, the faint sting blending with pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. The sensation sent raw, primal need surging through your veins, your fingers scrabbling uselessly against the forest floor, desperate for something to hold onto.

With a sudden motion, Heeseung’s claws tore through the remnants of your gown, the delicate fabric shredding like paper under his strength. The red silk cinched around your waist and thighs followed, ripped away in one fluid motion, leaving you utterly bare to the cool night air. But there was no chill—his body was a furnace, radiating heat as he pressed himself closer, his broad shoulders forcing your thighs wider. His claws dug into the soft flesh of your legs, holding you open, vulnerable, and entirely at his mercy.

Heeseung’s mouth was a ravenous beast, devouring you with a focus that bordered on obsession. His tongue swirled around your clit, flicking and teasing before sucking it gently between his lips, the pressure sending white-hot sparks through your core. He alternated between soft, languid licks and firm, relentless suction, keeping you teetering on the edge of another climax. His growls vibrated against your skin, a primal symphony of hunger and possession that made your head spin. His ears, pressed flat against his head, signaled his singular focus—his world had narrowed to the taste, the scent, the feel of you.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he rasped, his voice a low rumble that seemed to shake the earth beneath you. He pulled back just enough to let his words sink in, his breath hot against your slick folds. “So fucking responsive. You were made for this, weren’t you? Made to be mine.” His fingers joined the assault, one thick digit sliding into you, curling against your walls as his tongue returned to your clit, lapping greedily. The stretch was slow, deliberate, his finger pumping in time with his licks, coaxing more slickness from your body until the obscene sound of your arousal filled the air.

Heeseung’s eyes never left yours, fierce and unyielding, drinking in every gasp, every shudder, every broken moan that spilled from your lips. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction as he added a second finger, scissoring them to stretch you further. “Dripping all over my hand, my face. You’re a fucking mess for me.” His thumb brushed your clit as his tongue dove back in, licking a slow, torturous path from your entrance to the sensitive bundle of nerves, savoring every drop of you.

The pleasure was overwhelming, building faster than you could process. Your thighs trembled, trying to close around his head, but his claws held you firmly in place, forcing you to take everything he gave. His fingers thrust deeper, curling just right, while his tongue flicked mercilessly, pushing you toward a precipice you couldn’t escape. “Come for me again,” he growled against your skin, the command laced with a primal edge. “Let me taste it. Let me feel you fall apart.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up, the coil in your core snapping as you came undone. A scream tore from your throat, your back arching off the ground as waves of pleasure crashed through you, your walls clenching around his fingers, your hips grinding against his face. Heeseung groaned, the sound almost pained, as he lapped up every pulse of your release, his tongue relentless, prolonging your climax until you were a trembling, whimpering mess beneath him.

Even as you shuddered through the aftershocks, he didn’t stop. His fingers slowed but didn’t withdraw, his tongue still teasing your oversensitive folds, drawing out every last tremor. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less possessive. “Give me everything, baby. You’re mine to ruin.”

Your hands pushed weakly at his shoulders, a desperate attempt to create some distance, to catch your breath, but he was immovable—a wall of heat and muscle pinning you to the mossy ground.

“Easy,” he murmured, his voice a rough caress that vibrated against your skin, sending shivers through your already trembling body. “I have to prepare you. You’re so fucking tight, and I need to be sure you can take me.” His words were both a promise and a threat, laced with a possessive edge that made your pulse race. His fingers pumped in and out, the slick sounds filling the air as he worked you open, stretching you with a precision that felt almost clinical yet devastatingly intimate.

Your gaze flickered downward, drawn by the sight of his hand moving between your thighs. His fingers glistened with your arousal, coated in a sheen that caught the faint moonlight filtering through the trees. The sight was obscene, undeniable, and it sent a fresh wave of heat flooding through you, your body clenching around him involuntarily. Your eyes drifted further, catching on the tattered remains of his jeans. The fabric was shredded, barely clinging to his powerful thighs, a testament to his wild, untamed nature—a creature of the forest, unbound and feral. But it was the bulge straining against the ruined denim that stole your breath, a thick, hard ridge that seemed impossibly large, promising both pleasure and pain in equal measure.

A gasp slipped from your lips, half shock, half anticipation, and Heeseung’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and knowing. “You see it, don’t you?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make sure you’re ready.” As if to punctuate his words, a third finger joined the first two, the sudden stretch making you moan—a sound caught between protest and pleasure. Your body arched off the ground, adjusting to the fuller invasion, your mind reeling as the sensation pushed you closer to the edge.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice a guttural snarl as he watched your reaction, his eyes glinting with feral satisfaction. “You’re so fucking tight. I don’t know if I can wait much longer.” His fingers moved faster now, plunging deeper, curling against your walls with a skill that made your thighs tremble. His thumb found your clit again, circling it with relentless pressure, the rhythm perfectly synced with the thrusts of his fingers. 

You pushed at him again, your hands weak and trembling, but he only pressed closer, his chest rumbling with a low growl as he licked a slow, deliberate path through your folds, savoring every drop of you. “Stop fighting it,” he rasped against your skin, his breath hot and teasing.

His weight pinned you down, a heavy, unyielding cage of muscle and heat that left no room for escape. His body was a furnace, radiating primal desire, marking you with every press of his skin against yours. His tongue traced a slow, deliberate path up your chest, drooling over the sweat and oil that glistened on your body, his lips leaving a trail of wet heat in their wake. He lapped at your skin, savoring every inch, his rough tongue dragging across your collarbone before dipping lower to tease the sensitive curve of your breast.

“Shit,” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through your core, making your thighs tremble. “You taste so fucking good. I could eat you up.” The words were raw, possessive, and they sent a fresh surge of arousal pooling between your legs, your body responding even as your mind struggled to keep up. His fingers never stopped, pumping in and out with relentless precision, curling against your walls to coax more slickness from you. The obscene wet sounds filled the air, mingling with your desperate whimpers and his guttural groans.

“Need to get you wet and ready for me,” he muttered, his voice thick with hunger, his breath hot against your skin. “Open you up so you can take every inch of me. So you can take my knot. So you can take my cum.” Each word was a promise, a claim, dripping with crude possessiveness that made your head spin. Your body betrayed you, clenching around his fingers, the tension in your belly coiling tighter, ready to snap. His thumb circled your clit with punishing accuracy, pushing you closer to the edge with every pass, your moans growing louder, more frantic, as the pressure built to an unbearable peak.

When it hit, it was cataclysmic. Your body convulsed, a broken sob tearing from your throat as waves of pleasure crashed through you, your nails digging into his shoulders, scraping against his skin as you clung to him for dear life. Your vision blurred, your walls pulsing around his fingers, slickness coating his hand as your release overwhelmed you. Tears streamed down your face, the intensity leaving you trembling, gasping, utterly undone beneath him.

But Heeseung wasn’t done—not by a long shot. His eyes darkened, a feral glint flashing as he watched you fall apart, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk. With a low, dangerous growl, he forced a fourth finger into you, the sudden stretch ripping a shriek from your throat. Your body arched off the ground, torn between protest and surrender as it adjusted to the overwhelming fullness. The sensation was too much, too intense, your mind reeling as your walls fluttered around the intrusion, struggling to accommodate him. “That’s it,” he rasped, his voice rough with need. “Take it. Open up for me, baby. You need to be ready for what’s next.”

His fingers moved faster now, relentless, stretching you further as his tongue returned to your clit, licking and sucking with a hunger that made your head spin. “You’re going to take me,” Heeseung growled, his voice a low, dangerous promise that sent shivers racing down your spine. “Every inch of me. And you’re going to love it.” His words hung heavy in the air, laced with a primal certainty that made your core clench despite the overwhelming sensations already consuming you. Your breath came in ragged gasps, your chest heaving as you nodded quickly, unable to form words. The night sky above was a distant blur of stars, their light faint and hazy, your world reduced to the man between your legs—the one who promised to ruin you in the best, most devastating way.

Your body was still trembling from the relentless onslaught of his fingers and tongue when he suddenly pulled his hand free, leaving you achingly empty. A whine of protest rose in your throat, but it died the moment his tongue returned, licking a long, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit. His spit mingled with your slick, soaking you further, the wet heat overwhelming as it coated your already sensitive folds. The sensation was too much, a heady mix of pleasure and pain that tore a shout from your lips, echoing into the empty forest air. Your body convulsed as another climax hit, unexpected and brutal, waves of pleasure crashing through you with such force that you screamed, your hands tangling in his hair, gripping tightly as you held on for dear life.

Your vision swam as you came down from the high, your body shuddering with aftershocks, your breath ragged and uneven. Blinking through the haze, you looked down at Heeseung, and a gasp caught in your throat. His face was a glistening mess, your release coating his lips, his chin, dripping down his jaw in an obscene display that sent a fresh wave of arousal pulsing through you. But it was his eyes that stopped your heart. Once sharp and golden, predatory in their intensity, they were now a deep, glowing red, like twin embers burning in the darkness. They locked onto you with a ferocity that was both thrilling and terrifying.

Heeseung’s lips curled into a slow, predatory smirk as he licked his lips, savoring the taste of you, his red eyes never leaving yours. “Look at you,” he rasped, his voice low and rough, almost unrecognizable in its primal edge. “Falling apart for me, screaming my name. You’re so cute, aren’t you?” His claws tightened on your thighs, keeping you spread open as he leaned in again, his tongue flicking out to tease your oversensitive clit, drawing a broken whimper from your lips. Your hands pushed weakly at his head, a futile attempt to slow him down, but he only growled, the sound vibrating against your skin, sending another jolt of pleasure through your trembling body.

He rose slightly, his massive form looming over you, the tattered remnants of his jeans barely clinging to his thighs. The bulge straining against the fabric was even more pronounced now, a thick, intimidating promise of what was to come. His hand moved to the waistband, claws tearing through the last of the shredded denim with a single, savage motion, freeing his cock. It sprang free, heavy and thick, the sight making your breath hitch, a mix of fear and anticipation twisting in your gut.

Your fingers clawed at the mossy ground, nails digging into the damp earth as you tried to crawl away, a desperate bid for a moment’s reprieve. But Heeseung was too quick, too strong, his reflexes honed by something far beyond human. His hands gripped your waist, claws sinking into your soft flesh just enough to sting, anchoring you in place. With a swift, fluid motion, he flipped you over, forcing you onto your knees and elbows. The cool forest air hit your exposed skin, your ass lifted high, vulnerable and trembling under his gaze. His hands moved with purpose, pulling your hips up to align you perfectly, positioning you exactly as he wanted—open, helpless, his.

A low growl rumbled from his chest as his hand pressed down on the back of your neck, pinning you to the ground with a strength that felt like iron shackles. The pressure was unyielding, your cheek pressed into the moss, the earthy scent filling your lungs as you gasped for breath. You could feel the blunt tip of his cock nudging at your entrance, the sheer size of him already stretching your slick folds, a mix of anticipation and fear knotting in your chest. Your body, still reeling from the relentless pleasure he’d wrung from you, trembled beneath him, caught between surrender and instinctual resistance.

“Wait,” you choked out, your voice a broken whisper, barely audible over the pounding of your own heartbeat. “Wait, please—” Your hands scrabbled at the moss, fingers curling around the soft green strands as if they could ground you, give you some semblance of control in the face of his overwhelming presence. But Heeseung only tightened his grip, his claws pricking your skin, a silent command to stay still.

“Shh, baby,” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr that sent shivers racing down your spine. His red eyes glowed in the darkness, fixed on you with a predatory intensity that made your heart stutter. “No waiting. You’re ready for me. You’re fucking made for me.” His free hand slid down your spine, tracing the curve of your back before gripping your hip, holding you steady as he pressed himself closer. The head of his cock pushed against your entrance, the stretch already intense, your body straining to accommodate his size even with the slickness coating your thighs.

You whimpered, your breath hitching as he began to push forward, slow but relentless, the thick length of him forcing its way inside. The burn was immediate, a sharp mix of pleasure and pain that made your vision blur, your fingers digging deeper into the moss. “Heeseung—too much—” you gasped, your voice breaking, but he only growled in response, his hand on your neck tightening just enough to keep you pinned, his hips inching forward with unyielding determination.

But your words were cut off as he slipped inside, the stretch overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain that left you screaming. But your scream was drowned out by the loud howl he let out. He kept pushing himself in, inch by agonizing inch, stretching you out fully and raw, your body adjusting to the invasion, your mind reeling from the sensation.

Heeseung’s relentless advance didn’t falter, his thick length pushing into you with a slow, unyielding determination that stretched you impossibly wide. The burn was searing, a dizzying blend of pleasure and pain that tore sobs from your throat, your vision blurring as tears spilled down your cheeks. Your fingers clawed deeper into the moss, the damp earth crumbling beneath your grip as you tried to squirm away, desperate for relief from the overwhelming fullness. “Heeseung—too much—” you gasped again, your voice fracturing, but his hand on your neck tightened, a low growl rumbling from his chest as he yanked you back, pinning you firmly beneath him.

“Mate,” he snarled, the single coherent word cutting through the haze of his feral sounds, heavy with possessive intent. His red eyes burned into you, glowing with an intensity that made your heart stutter, the beast within him fully in control. With one final, deliberate thrust, he sank fully inside you, the stretch so profound it stole your breath. You were so wet, slick with your own arousal and the precum that coated your insides, easing the way but doing little to dull the sensation of being utterly filled. The sheer size of him was beyond anything you’d ever experienced—no amount of his earlier preparation could have readied you for this.

A broken cry escaped your lips, your body trembling as it struggled to accommodate him, every nerve alight with the intensity of his claim. Heeseung was incoherent now, his growls and whines filling the air, raw and primal, his hips pressed flush against yours as he held himself still for a moment, letting you feel every inch of him. His claws dug into your hips, the faint sting grounding you even as your mind reeled, overwhelmed by the sensation of being so completely, impossibly full. You couldn’t blame him for losing himself—you weren’t faring much better, your sobs mingling with breathless moans, your body torn between surrender and the instinct to flee.

“Fuck… so tight,” he managed, his voice barely human, a guttural rasp as his head tipped back, his red eyes glinting in the moonlight. His hands tightened, one still pinning your neck, the other gripping your hip as he began to move, slow at first, each shallow thrust dragging against your walls, sending shocks of pleasure-pain through you. You whimpered, your body shuddering with every movement, the slickness making each slide easier but no less intense. His precum continued to spill inside you, warm and thick, adding to the overwhelming sensation, your core clenching around him involuntarily.

Your body was a trembling mess beneath Heeseung, every muscle slack and surrendered to the relentless onslaught of his thrusts. His hips snapped against yours with a brutal, unyielding force, each collision driving him deeper, stretching you to your limits. The wet, filthy squelch of your combined arousal filled the forest air, a lewd symphony that underscored his primal need. Your gasps had dissolved into broken whimpers, your mind lost in a haze of pleasure and pain, your senses consumed by the overwhelming presence of him. His nose pressed into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, as if your scent was the only thing tethering him to reality. “Mine,” he growled against your skin, the word a possessive mantra, his breath hot and ragged.

“Stop,” you gasped, your voice a frail whisper, barely audible over the pounding of your heart and the obscene sounds of your bodies. “Heeseung, slow down!” But your plea went unanswered. His tip kept slamming into your cervix, each thrust a mix of agony and ecstasy that left you hiccuping, your body convulsing with every punishing impact. You repeated the silent scream in your mind, begging for him to cum, to knot and finish, to end the overwhelming intensity. But Heeseung was lost to his instincts, his red eyes glinting in the moonlight, his growls and whines incoherent as he chased his release.

“More, more, more,” he grunted, his voice a guttural chant as his hips drove into you with a force that stole your breath. Your walls, slick and stretched, clung to him, making each thrust slippery yet impossibly intense. The pressure was unbearable, a constant stretch that kept you teetering on the edge of breaking. You tried to squirm, to ease the overwhelming fullness, but his claws dug into your hips, pinning you in place, his grip unyielding.

Then, abruptly, he pulled out, leaving you gaping and empty, the sudden void almost as excruciating as the fullness had been. A whine tore from your throat, your body aching with need despite the strain. Before you could process the loss, Heeseung’s hands gripped your thighs, flipping you onto your back with a swift, powerful motion. Your body, pliant and exhausted, complied without resistance, your legs falling open as he spread them wide, lifting them up, up, up until they were nearly pressed to your head. The burn in your thighs was sharp, the stretch of your muscles screaming, but it was nothing compared to the raw, pulsing need in your core.

Heeseung loomed over you, his red eyes locked onto your exposed, glistening pussy, the hunger in his gaze so feral it made you shiver. His tongue darted out, licking his lips, drool dripping down his chin in a blatant display of his arousal. “Mmmh so beautiful,” he muttered, his voice a low, guttural rumble as he stared at you, his cock twitching against his stomach, slick with your combined fluids. “So fucking perfect. All for me.” Without warning, he pushed back inside, the sudden fullness ripping a moan of relief from your lips. The stretch was immediate, your walls clenching around him as he filled you completely, the sensation grounding you even as it overwhelmed.

Your moan spurred him on, and he started thrusting without pause, his hips snapping against yours with a force that left you breathless. He leaned over, pressing your legs closer to your head, his full weight bearing down on you, caging you beneath him. The angle drove him deeper, his growing knot grinding against your walls with every thrust, sending shocks of pleasure-pain through your trembling body. “Fuck…” he growled, his voice thick with need. “Gonna knot you so full. You’re gonna carry my cubs, be so fucking big and round. Gonna be a good momma, my perfect mate.”

Your body went slack, every ounce of resistance drained as his words washed over you, crude and possessive, igniting a primal heat despite your exhaustion. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red welts, but the pain only seemed to drive him wilder. His hand slid to your stomach, pressing down firmly, as if he could already feel the swell he promised. “Feel that?” he rasped, his eyes dark and feral, locking onto yours. “That’s where I’m gonna fill you. Gonna stuff you so full, you’ll never forget who you belong to.”

The pressure built, unbearable and all-consuming, your body teetering on the edge of another climax despite the ache. His knot swelled further, catching at your entrance with every thrust, the stretch so intense it made you sob. “Heeseung—please,” you whimpered, unsure if you were begging for mercy or for more. His nose buried in your neck again, inhaling deeply, his growls vibrating against your skin. “Come on baby,” he snarled, his teeth grazing your throat, the threat of a bite sending a jolt through you. “Gonna breed you, keep you full of me.” The thought seemed to drive him wild, his hips grinding harder, more insistent, chasing that final connection, his knot swelling and catching with every movement.

But you were too far gone to process his words now, your world reduced to the overwhelming sensation of him. Your eyes rolled back, lids fluttering uselessly, your mouth slack and drooling as small, broken gasps spilled from your lips. Your body trembled beneath him, overstimulated and pliant, every nerve alight with the relentless rhythm of his thrusts. The room spun, your senses drowning in the heat of his skin, the weight of his body, the way he seemed to consume you entirely.

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, spilling over and streaking down your cheeks, a silent testament to the intensity that had you teetering on the edge of oblivion. You barely registered the shift in his movement until you felt the warm, rough slide of his tongue against your cheek, lapping at the tears with a guttural groan. His lips lingered on your skin, tasting the salt of your tears as his thrusts grew more erratic, his knot pressing harder against you, demanding entry. He was relentless, his groans vibrating against your face as he chased that final moment, his body shuddering with the effort. “Just a little more,” he growled, his teeth grazing your jaw. “You can take it, can’t you?”

You were too lost to answer him, your mind a blissful haze where nothing existed but him—his scent, his voice, his consuming presence. Shaking and trembling, your body was stuck in a limbo, every thrust pulling you deeper into euphoria. Your mouth hung open, drool pooling at the corner, your eyes half-lidded and unseeing as you surrendered to the sensation. Overstimulated beyond reason, your thighs quaked, slick with arousal that coated him, easing the tight slide of his knot as he worked it deeper. Tears streamed down your cheeks, not from pain but from the overwhelming intensity, and Heeseung kept lapping at them, his tongue warm against your skin. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasped. “Crying for me, taking me so well.”

Heeseung’s gaze roamed over you, dark and worshipful, as if you were a divine offering laid bare for him. “God, look at you,” he murmured, his hands tracing your trembling form, fingers splaying over the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist, before settling on your stomach. “So gorgeous, so wet for me. You’re dripping, baby, making it so easy for me to claim you.” 

His words stoked the fire in your core, your body responding with another gush of slick that made his knot catch, then slide fractionally deeper. He groaned, his forehead dropping to yours, sweat-slick and burning. “That’s it,” he whispered, his lips brushing your parted ones, stealing your broken gasps. “You’re perfect, so fucking mine.” Then, with a subtle shift, he changed his angle, his hips tilting just enough to drive himself deeper, the size of him stretching you impossibly further. The new angle made your belly bulge faintly with each thrust, a visible outline of his length pressing against your skin. Heeseung’s eyes darkened at the sight, a primal growl rumbling in his chest. “Oh, look at that,” he said, his voice low and reverent, one hand sliding down to trace the slight swell, his fingers pressing lightly against the bulge. “You’re so full of me, baby. So fucking stuffed.” The pressure of his hand intensified the sensation, sending a fresh wave of heat through you, your body clenching around him involuntarily.

Heeseung’s gaze stayed fixed on the faint bulge in your belly, his hand still pressing gently against it, feeling the way his length moved inside you. His other hand slid lower, his thumb finding your clit with deliberate precision. He circled it slowly at first, the pad of his thumb slick with your arousal, teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves until your hips bucked involuntarily.

“God, you’re so fucking wet for me,” he murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper that seemed to vibrate through your core. “Dripping all over me, taking me so deep. You love this, don’t you? Love being stretched out, stuffed full of my cock.” His thumb pressed harder, rubbing tighter circles, and the wet sound of your body responding filled the space, mingling with your ragged breaths. Your thighs trembled, slickness coating his hand as he coaxed more from you, his words unraveling you as much as his touch. “I can feel you squeezing me, baby. You’re gonna make me lose it.”

The heat built unbearably, your body alight with sensation as his thumb worked relentlessly and his thrusts grew deeper, more purposeful. Each stroke dragged against your walls, the overwhelming stretch making you gasp, your arousal slicking down your thighs. Heeseung’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, wild and hungry, his pupils blown wide. “You’re mine,” he growled, his voice primal. “Gonna knot you so much you’ll feel me for days.”

The promise sent a jolt through you, your body clenching around him instinctively. He hissed at the tightness, his pace faltering for a moment before he drove himself deeper, the base of his cock swelling more and more. “Fuck, it’s coming,” he rasped, his grip on your hips tightening, fingers digging into your skin. “You ready for it, baby? Ready to take my knot?”

Your head lolled back, a broken moan spilling from your lips as his thumb pressed down on your clit, sending you spiraling. “Yes, please,” you gasped, your body trembling on the edge. The knot caught at your entrance, teasing, not quite slipping in yet, and the anticipation made you whimper. Heeseung leaned forward, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot. “You’re gonna take it all, aren’t you? Let me lock you up, fill you till you’re dripping with me.”

With a final, deep thrust, the knot pushed past your entrance, stretching you impossibly wide before settling inside, locking you together. The sudden fullness ripped a scream from your throat, your body seizing as the sensation overwhelmed you. Heeseung threw his head back, a feral howl tearing from him, echoing into the night as he surrendered to the primal urge. His cock pulsed inside you, thick ropes of cum flooding your womb, the heat of it spreading through your core. Your own release crashed over you, your vision whiting out as you clenched around him, milking every drop, your body shuddering uncontrollably.

Heeseung’s howl faded into heavy pants, his forehead pressing against yours as he trembled above you, still locked tight inside. “Fuck… you’re perfect,” he whispered, voice raw, his hand sliding up to cradle your cheek. You could feel the knot holding firm, his cum still warm and heavy inside you, and the intimacy of it left you breathless, clinging to him as you both came down from the high.

Heeseung’s breaths were still heavy, his body pressed close as the knot held you locked together. Slowly, with a tenderness that contrasted the primal intensity of moments before, he eased your trembling legs down from where they’d been hooked around him. They fell limply to the ground, your muscles spent, your body pliant beneath his weight. He stayed close, his warmth enveloping you, his softened gaze tracing over your flushed skin as he began to care for you.

His rough tongue lapped gently at your skin, starting low on your abdomen, the texture sending a shiver through your oversensitive body. He moved upward, dragging his tongue along your chest, tasting the salt of your sweat. When he reached your nipples, he paused, his lips closing around one, suckling softly. The sensation pulled a pathetic whine from your lips, your fingers twitching weakly against the ground, too exhausted to do more than tremble under his touch. He hummed against your skin, the vibration intensifying the feeling, before releasing your nipple with a wet smack, the sound echoing in the quiet.

Heeseung’s nose brushed along your collarbone as he moved higher, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, savoring your scent, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “You smell so fucking good,” he murmured, his voice husky, reverent. The intimacy of it made your heart stutter, but before you could process the warmth of his words, his hand slid to your head, gently but firmly tilting it to the side, exposing the soft curve of your neck.

Without warning, his teeth sank into the tender flesh, sharp and possessive, the sting melding with a surge of pleasure as he ground his hips into you. The movement, sudden and deep, forced the knot to shift inside, pressing against your walls, and another hot spurt of his cum flooded your womb. You gasped, your body arching instinctively, a broken moan spilling from your lips as the sensation overwhelmed you again. His bite tightened briefly, marking you, before he released, licking the tender spot soothingly, his tongue rough yet careful.

Your body twitched lightly on the ground, a soft shudder running through you as the aftershocks of his bite and the knot still locking you together pulsed in your core. Heeseung’s eyes softened at the sight, but his instincts urged him to keep you close. With a gentle yet firm grip, he slid his arms beneath you, lifting you from the cool earth. The sudden movement jostled the knot inside you, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure-pain through your oversensitive walls. A gasp tore from your lips, your nails scraping against his chest as you instinctively clung to him, your head shaking back and forth in a futile attempt to ground yourself.

“Shh, baby, I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, vibrating against you as he settled you on his lap, your legs splayed weakly around his hips. His knot, still swollen and firm, pressed deeper with the new angle, making you whimper as your body trembled uncontrollably. Heeseung’s hands steadied you, one splayed across your lower back, the other cradling your neck as he dipped his head, his rough tongue finding your chest again. He licked slowly, deliberately, cleaning the sweat, dirt, and oil from your skin with long, warm strokes, the texture both comforting and overwhelming.

You whined, your gasps hitching as his tongue trailed higher, lapping at the hollow of your throat, tasting the salt of your exertion. Each swipe sent shivers down your spine, your hands gripping his shoulders weakly, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. “T-too much,” you stammered, voice broken, but he only hummed in response, his tongue unrelenting, soothing and claiming all at once. “You’re perfect like this,” he whispered against your skin, his breath hot, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below your jaw. “All mine, all messy and sweet.”

Heeseung’s words lingered, soft and possessive, his lips still grazing the sensitive skin below your jaw as he held you close. His knot, still locking you together, began to gradually shrink, the intense pressure inside you easing ever so slightly. The shift allowed you to catch your breath, your body slowly reclaiming sensation as the overwhelming haze started to clear. Your chest heaved with shallow pants, but as you tilted your head downward slightly, a strange realization hit—everything past your chest felt completely numb, save for an uncomfortable, heavy feeling stirring in your stomach.

Curiosity and unease compelled you to glance down, your eyes trailing over your body. What you saw made your breath catch in your throat, a wave of shock and horror washing over you. Your stomach was visibly bulging, swollen in a way that made you look pregnant already. The curve was unmistakable, taut and rounded, as if his release had filled you beyond capacity, leaving a surreal outline against your skin.

Your hands trembled as you instinctively reached down, fingers hovering over the swollen curve, afraid to touch it. “H-Heeseung…” you stammered, voice barely above a whisper, your wide eyes flicking up to meet his. He followed your gaze, his expression shifting from tender to something unreadable, a mix of awe and primal satisfaction. His hand slid down to rest lightly over the bulge, his touch warm but grounding, as if to reassure you.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent, though it did little to quell the panic rising in your chest. “So full of me… you’re holding everything I gave you.” His fingers traced the swell gently, almost worshipful, but the weight of his words and the sight of your distended stomach left you reeling, caught between disbelief and the undeniable reality of your body’s transformation.

Your heart pounded as you stared at the impossible bulge of your stomach, Heeseung’s hand still resting gently over it, his touch warm but doing little to ease the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. The knot had shrunk further now, enough that you could feel the subtle shift of his length inside, but the heavy, overstuffed sensation in your womb remained, amplified by the surreal sight before you. Your fingers twitched, finally daring to brush against the taut skin of your belly, the pressure beneath it foreign and overwhelming.

“W-what… what is this?” you whispered, voice trembling, your eyes locked on the swell as panic clawed at your chest. You felt stretched, claimed in a way that was both intimate and unnerving, the reality of being so visibly filled by him sinking in.

Heeseung’s gaze softened, though the primal glint in his eyes didn’t fade entirely. He leaned closer, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath steady as he spoke. “It’s me, baby,” he said, voice low and soothing, though it carried a possessive edge. “You took all of me, every drop. Your body’s just… showing it.” His hand moved in slow, comforting circles over your swollen stomach, as if to ease your shock, but the gesture only heightened your awareness of the unnatural fullness.

You shook your head slightly, a shaky breath escaping as you tried to process it. “It’s… too much,” you managed, voice cracking. The numbness below your chest was starting to fade, replaced by a dull ache that made the bulge feel even more pronounced. You shifted slightly in his lap, and the movement sent a ripple of sensation through you, the lingering slickness and warmth inside making you gasp softly.

Heeseung shushed you gently, his lips brushing your temple as he held you closer, his other hand cradling the back of your head. “You’re okay,” he murmured, his tone firm yet tender. “You’re perfect. So fucking strong for taking me like this.” His words were meant to comfort, but they stirred something else in you, a strange, reluctant pride at how your body had responded to him.

He shifted beneath you, careful not to jostle you too much, as he carefully shifted you both, easing you back onto the mossy ground. The cool, damp moss pressed against your overheated skin, grounding you in the moment even as your mind swirled with conflicting emotions. His knot had softened enough for him to move, but the trickle of warmth leaking from where you were still joined sent a flush of embarrassment burning through you. His words came low and steady, a soothing cadence laced with possessiveness. “You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmured, his hands guiding you with deliberate care. “You were made for this. For me. No one else gets this soft, messy little body. Ever.”

The words hit you hard, and a sob broke from your chest, raw and unbidden. The sensation of his cum shifting inside your swollen womb was overwhelming, a constant reminder of how deeply he’d claimed you. 

But as you lay there, trembling under his gaze, you noticed something else—Heeseung was still hard. Impossibly, undeniably hard, his length pulsing inside you, ready for more despite everything.

Panic surged, and your instincts kicked in. You squirmed, trying to pull away, desperate to put some distance between you and the overwhelming intensity of him. Your hands pushed weakly against his chest, your legs twitching as you tried to slip free before he could fully withdraw. But Heeseung was faster, stronger. His hands clamped down on your hips, pulling you back with a firm tug, keeping himself buried inside you. “Where we going, baby, hm?” he cooed, his voice dark and teasing, though there was an edge of warning beneath it. “Why do you wanna leave now? We aren’t done.”

You whimpered, shaking your head, but he only groaned, his hips grinding into you with a slow, deliberate motion that sent a fresh wave of sensation rippling through your oversensitive body. The stretch, the fullness, the way his cum sloshed inside you—it was too much, and a cry tore from your throat, sharp and broken. Heeseung’s hand shot up, gripping your chin firmly, forcing your tear-streaked face to meet his gaze. His eyes were wild, pupils blown, a predator’s intensity burning in them. “Eyes on me,” he growled, his voice low and commanding. “I want to see you break when I start again.”

Your sobs caught in your chest, your body trembling as he held you pinned, his grip unyielding. He leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “You’re all mine now, baby. Let me show you how much you belong to me.” With that, he began to move again, slow and deliberate, his hard length dragging against your walls, and your cries filled the air as he pushed you toward the edge once more, his gaze never leaving yours.

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[arclviie]

reblog if you’re a sick fuck

[arclviie]

Screaming, crying, bawling, this is so good !?

— sanctioned, nishimura riki

wc. 24.6k

pairing. yakuza husband! nishimura riki x reader

cw. my attempt at humor and comedy, aged up riki (24), mentions of knives and weaponry, eating and food, violence, kidnapping, psychological and emotional distress, organized crime stuff duh, mature language (sexual innuendos, cursing), our pairing are essentially best friends that got married love this for them, blood and injury, trauma, plot twist (dun dun dunnnn), hurt/comfort, riki's a lil unstable but he means well

synopsis. he told you no, luckily for you—that was never anything you were used to hearing. riki, your headache and your whole damn world didn’t even want you stepping foot into the chaotic sphere that he calls his home. however, you were done playing housewife. but in a world where info is power and an achilles heel simultaneously, love (and riki's sanity) may not be enough to survive what’s next.

author's note!

ciao!! i've been working on this for some time (since may omg). it's been on my mind for some time and it feels good to get it off. i'm very proud of this. i'm down to make this into a part two because i still feel like this could be more. lmkkkk anyways enjoy <333!! OH and @hoonieyun i love you to bits!

partially proofread which is progress for me!!

“No. Absolutely not.” 

“Please?”

“No.”

You followed Riki downstairs, skirt swishing and Mary Janes clacking indignantly against the marble. The long, oversized button-up you wore—his, tailored for you—was the same deep navy as the one he was currently wearing. You always matched. It wasn’t optional. It was a language. A silent message. He didn’t look back.

He never did when he was irritated. Just kept walking, tall and terrifyingly composed, descending the staircase like a man on a mission, still calm under pressure. Black slacks sharp enough to slice, the soft sheen of luxury dress shoes hitting the floor like a metronome. Even without saying a word, Riki made the entire house hold its breath.

Kaminari wasn’t just a name. It was thunder, etched into Tokyo’s underworld like a scar. His great-grandfather had built it from blood and ash in the wreckage after World War II—when the country was fractured and men like him learned to make an empire from silence. Each generation added its layer: first muscle, then money, then myth.

And now, Riki.

Youngest leader in the syndicate’s history. Raised in marble halls and taught to slit throats with one hand while sipping tea with the other. A businessman on paper. A storm in a suit. And your husband.

Riki and you had been married for one year now, dated for three. Granted, your marriage had shocked a lot of people seeing as you married so young, both of you were twenty-three. But you were—are—in love and there’s nothing that could come between the two of you. He was your soulmate and you were his. That, you both were sure of. So as you two walked to your kitchen, passing by staff and giving your maid—Clara—a kiss on the head and a ‘thank you’ as you both sat at the island to eat, you sighed in frustration. “Baby, please.”

Riki, eyes glued to his omelette as he settled into the seat. “I said no.” His dark hair fell over his forehead until he brushed it back—another small movement that looked like art. Now slicing into his food with the shiny utensils that had the family crest carved into them. “Riki, I’m not asking to get in the field and hold a gun. I just want to…be an informant almost. Like your Oracle.” You turned to him, crossing your legs—not even wanting to touch your food now. 

He furrowed his brow incredulously, “Oracle?” He muttered with a mouthful of eggs. 

You nodded with a smile, “Mhm! Like the girl from Batman.” 

“You’ve been watching too much TV, baby.” 

You throw your hands up in frustration. “Because you won’t let me do shit besides that!” You whined, desperate to prove a point.

Since marrying Riki, you have taken up the cushy, spoiled housewife role. And while there was nothing wrong with that, after a while you started to feel antsy. You had bought every bag, every shoe, every diamond, every car, watched every show, even rented out Disneyland for you and Riki to enjoy one day just because you only wanted to go on the Radiator Springs ride. Even the Chanel Private Client Services wasn’t enough.

While you acknowledged the pleasures of being able to spend so indifferently, you started to get restless. There was something about the fact that he was able to go out every single day, going to be productive in more ways than one that made you feel almost…useless. The staff around you stopped bustling, a bit shocked to hear your raise of voice. Even Clara paused, hands folded over a linen napkin, her gaze flicking to Riki like she wasn’t sure whether to intervene or bow out of the scene entirely.

Riki didn’t even blink. He just calmly chewed his omelette like your words bounced off that thick wall of stoicism he kept tightly bolted around anyone who wasn’t you. “I’m not telling you again.”

You didn’t care, you pressed further just because you knew you could. “I know I can do it.” You frowned, “I just wanna help. Most I’ll be doing is sitting at a desk and—”

His eyes looked ahead, nodding once at Clara after she slid him his poured glass of water. But you saw his fingers clamp around the glass. Paling, but his face wasn’t. Riki was calm, tempered as always. At least on the surface but he was patient with you. Something you took for granted. “You know what’s interesting about Oracle?” He said as he sipped his water. You didn’t answer verbally but nodded for him to continue.

“She’s sharp, stubborn, always ready and willing to help. A lot like you.” He gently stabbed the strawberry from the shared fruit bowl in the middle. “She helped Batman and Robin. An amazing partner, she was.” He chewed on the fruit.

You perked up, “See! Then I c—”

He calmly interjected, still not looking at you. But the vibrato of his voice verberated throughout the room. Bouncing off the walls, glass, and stainless steel. “But then one day, Joker shot her. Right in the back. And now she’s paralyzed.”

You blinked.

The sentence lingered in the air like smoke—harmless at first, until it filled your lungs. Riki still hadn’t looked at you. Still ate like nothing had shifted. But everything had. The room was silent. Not the type of silence that asks to be broken—the kind that warns you not to try.

You swallowed. “That’s fiction,” you muttered, softer this time. “That’s not real.”

“Neither is invincibility,” he replied simply. “Not even for people who think they’re behind the screen.”

Finally, he glanced up at you—dark eyes laced with something you couldn’t name. Something heavier than anger, deeper than fear. “You think I’m keeping you out because I don’t think you’re capable?” He chuckled once, dry and humorless. “I’ve seen you lie through your teeth and charm your way out of federal security checkpoints. You’re brilliant. I’d trust you to run the whole damn empire if I died tomorrow.”

Your heart skipped.

He set his fork down. “But I’m not dead yet.”

Then he rose. Just like that.

You expected him to storm off, to make a scene. He didn’t. That wasn’t Riki. He just straightened his cuffs, softly kissed your cheek, gave Clara another kiss on the forehead, and walked out of the kitchen and to the front door with the kind of quiet command that made everyone else shrink. “I love you, angel. Love you too, Claraboo.” The guards fell in around him, black suits rippling like shadows. “I love you too…” You whispered, but loud enough for him to hear it because you knew he wouldn’t leave until he heard you say it. And within seconds, the heavy front doors whispered shut, and the house exhaled a hush that felt a lot like defeat. You stared at the imprint his coffee cup had left on the wooden coaster. Inherited empire, inherited fears. Same old script.

A gentle hand touched your shoulder. Clara. Cinnamon‑and‑steel Clara, who’d watched him grow from toddler to tycoon.

“Tea?” she offered.

You shook your head softly, leaning on the marble with your shoulders slumped and frown etched onto your face. “No thank you, Clara.” The older woman had sort of become your best friend and aunt all rolled up in one over the last few years, sitting right where Riki did. She smiled bitterly as she rested her hand on your cheek. “Young master doesn’t mean to hurt you. Just doesn’t know how to let you help without feeling like he’s failing you.” You blinked up at her, lips parting, but she beat you to the thought. “He thinks protecting you means keeping you in the dark. It’s not fair. But it’s what he was taught. The men before him—his grandfather, his brother, his father at first—they didn’t marry for love. They married for legacy. You? You’re the first thing he ever chose.”

Her thumb brushed along your cheekbone before dropping back to her lap.

“He’s scared.” She said it like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t something Riki would ever say himself. “Not of the enemies. Of what happens to him if something happens to you.”

You exhaled through your nose, scoffing softly at the bitter twist in your chest. “He could just say that.”

Clara smiled gently. “He could. But you married a yakuza, babygirl. Not a poet.”

You cracked a smile—small, but real.

“He’ll come around. Just don’t mistake his silence for stubbornness. That boy listens. Always has.” Your eyes met hers, lashes trembling just a little, because you were tired. Not tired of him—never of him—but of what came with him. The silence. The walls. The feeling that even though you slept next to each other every night, there were parts of Riki that refused to come out from behind that iron curtain in his chest.

“He talks like someone who’s already buried a wife,” you muttered.

Clara sighs, “Because he’s seen it all of his life. Colleagues dying, their wives dying. His mother…” She trailed off. Riki’s mother had been shot and killed when he was two. He hadn’t had any memories of her, just the things that his family wanted him to remember. All of his life he had heard stories of his mother’s laugh, how fun she was, and that one time she accidentally overheated the soup in the kitchen and made the pot boil over and explode all over the counter. Riki had seen no point in being upset over it, he didn’t remember her. In his mind, there was no use mourning someone he never knew. She didn’t mean much to him until he brought you to meet his dad. While you were in the parlor, leg bouncing and nearly hyperventilating, Riki and Mr. Nishimura were speaking in the hallway. Riki would never forget. 

“Her laugh reminds me of your mother’s.”

That was all his father said. Stern and weathered, voice like gravel under boots, but his eyes softened for half a second—just one—as he looked past Riki into the parlor, where you sat nervously smoothing out your dress. Riki stood there frozen. Because in all the years of funerals and retellings, of whispered stories around the dinner table and framed photographs that never moved from the shrine, not once had anyone ever made her real. He’d never known her laugh. But apparently, you sounded like her when you did that thing—laugh with your whole chest, eyes squeezing shut, hands slapping his shoulder even when he barely cracked a joke.

That was the moment his mother became real—not a figment, not folklore.

And that was when fear sunk its teeth into him.

But Clara didn’t need to say anything. You knew. He knew. Everyone did and you couldn’t forget because he wasn’t going to let you. 

So you sat there, knowingly and sighed in resignation. “I just…I love him and I want him to see me as an equal.” You brushed your hair back, jewelry cold on your warm face. “He does, sweetie.” The elder nodded with an endearing smile. “He’s just a prideful and protective man raised by a lot of prideful and protective men. And sometimes that gets in the way. They’ll do anything to ensure the safety of each other. That’s how they were raised. You’re his world, don’t act like you don’t know.”

“I know,” you whispered as you stared down at your doll-like shoes. Rubbing them together lightly and creating a creaking sound with the coated leather.

Clara stood, brushing off her apron. “But if that’s not enough, then…just talk to him. Seriously,” she lightly pinched your cheek. “You know just like I do that he’ll listen.”

She left you with that, bowing before she went to go dust the living room. And you stayed there, heart heavy and at this point, you felt like that same frown was going to become permanent. But you just turned to eat your breakfast. 

Chewing on your omelette and it was cold and bitter, akin to what you thought battery acid could taste like. You frustratedly put the fork back on the plate, and just grabbed your apple juice. Leaving everything else in your wake.

—

Later that day

—

You lay in bed, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it owed you answers. The moonlight spilled through the blackout curtains, painting silver streaks across the sheets—cold and unforgiving. Riki moved around the room with his usual quiet precision, the soft click of his dress shoes replaced by the muted sound of him slipping out of his clothes. You didn’t say a word. Didn’t even flinch when he pulled back the covers and settled beside you in just his briefs. He liked sleeping this way.

He glanced over, catching the set of your jaw, the silent storm brewing behind your eyes. His voice was low, cautious—the kind reserved for moments when words had failed too many times already.

“You still upset?”

You stayed quiet.

Your husband sighed as he stared at you, a mixture of pity and frustration. “I just want you to be safe…” He leaned up on his side as he tilted his head. An idea came to his head as he smiled softly. “I have good news.”

You tightened your arms, still looking to the ceiling and staying silent.

But he kept talking, “While I was out, I got those chocolates you liked. I know you haven’t been able to find them for months. They’re downstairs…I can have Clara bring them up for you.” He said hopefully but you still didn’t dignify it. “And…tomorrow when I get back from work we can finally watch that show you’ve been wanting to. The Vampire Diaries you said?” He reached to lightly brush your cheek with the back of his hand, to which you almost fell for it then but you had more resolve. “I promise not to get jealous when you call that Klaus character sexy.” He smiled gently, hoping to make you laugh but to no avail.

“C’mon, my love.” Riki kissed your temple, “don’t be so mean to me.” He said with near desperation. 

Your eyes flicked toward him for a split second. Just one. That was all he got.

He saw it, too.

“I’m not being mean,” you muttered finally, voice flat. “I’m just tired.”

Riki stilled. His hand dropped back to the sheets.

“That’s not what this is about and you know it,” he said, his voice quieter now, more careful. “You’re punishing me.”

You looked at him, “You’re underestimating me.” He furrowed his brows, “I…no I’m not. I told you earlier. I have no doubts. I love you more than you could ever understand but…you’re naïve.” His gaze wavered for the first time you saw in him, fear. “A-And you get in over your head sometimes. I know you won’t be in direct danger but…it’s enough and that’s all I need to make me say no to you.”

You sat up, “I am not naïve!” 

Riki smiled gently, nodding as he moved his hand to your waist. “Yes, you are.”

“Name one time.”

Riki held your gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was debating whether or not to say it. “One time?” he said softly. “Alright.” He ran a hand through his hair, then let it fall to his lap. “That day you tried to drive yourself to Ryujin’s house across town because ‘it was just lunch.’ No guards. No heads-up.” He paused. “You didn’t notice the car that trailed you for ten blocks. You didn’t notice it double back when you stopped at the café. I did. Because I had someone watching.”

You blinked, jaw dropping in disbelief.

“You brushed it off when I brought it up. Said I was being paranoid. But that same car was on our street the next night.” He leaned in a little, voice lower now. “I didn’t tell you that part. Because I knew it would scare you. And I didn’t want you to feel guilty.”

He exhaled. “You’re amazing. Brave. Smarter than anyone I know. But baby…that’s what makes it worse. You think you can’t be touched.”

“Have you…been touched?” You whispered in defeat.

“Me?” He snorted, “Fuck no,” letting out a small laugh.

“Riki…” you whined as you leaned back onto the headboard with a pout.

“What?” He laughed, but quietly gathered himself for you. “I’m sorry, but no. I haven’t but that’s because this is something that I was born into?” He said it as if it was obvious—because it was. “You married into this life and this is just something you’d have to learn. But it’s been four years of me keeping you away from it and it will stay that way until we both croak over.” Riki nods affirmatively as he lays back down on his back. Eyes leering at the ceiling the same way you were. A beat of silence fell over you two. You hated to push him, but this was the last time you would. “Okay but…at least think about this. I married you because I love you.” You huffed, looking at the ceiling as well. “You, our union, this ring, our family name…it means the world—the universe and galaxy—to me. But I swore to love, honor, and respect you in sickness and health, for rich or poor. But…” You turned to him with gentleness in your eyes. “I promised to protect the integrity of the Nishimura name. That I wouldn’t shame this family, myself, or you. That by becoming Mrs. Nishimura, there’s tremendous responsibility and I’m ready for all of it.” You tenderly pecked his lips, to which he quickly reciprocated. “I love you, and if I ever do anything to make you think I cannot handle this…then pull me out. But don’t just say no if we haven’t even seen how I would do.” 

Riki didn’t respond right away. You watched his chest rise and fall, steady, like he was working through every word you’d just said.

Then, slowly, he turned his head toward you.

“…Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll think about it.”

You blinked, surprised he hadn’t shut it down completely. But before you could say anything, he leaned over and kissed your forehead—then your lips. It lingered this time. Less reflex, more emotion.

“Goodnight, baby,” he murmured against your mouth.

You nodded, brushing your fingers over his cheek. “Goodnight.”

He waited until your breathing evened out beside him. Waited until your hand slipped from his chest and onto the pillow.

Then, carefully, Riki slipped out of bed and into a silk robe.

He moved quietly, barely letting the bedroom door creak open before he was down the hall, bare feet silent against the marble.

—

The door clicked shut behind him. Clara glanced up from her desk, already halfway into her second espresso. She didn’t even look surprised.

“I figured you’d come,” she said, setting her cup down. “You only knock when it’s about her.”

Riki didn’t smile. Just stood there for a second.

Then: “What do I do?”

Clara smiled fondly, “What you think is best, son.” As she sipped her coffee. 

Riki sat down on the chair in front of her desk with a sigh. “But that’s why I came to ask you.” He gestured to the elder with an annoyed expression but quickly hid it as he actually had respect for her. “She made a good point. Too good. I just don’t want her to get taken advantage of. I don’t want her to lose her light the way so many of us did.” Clara laughed, “You still have your light, Riki.” She leaned back in her chair as she adjusted her glasses. “You didn’t always have it…but she gave it back to you.” He nodded with a firm look. “She did. She’s my light. She’s my—oh gosh—” Riki exhaled firmly as he buried his head in his hands, slightly shaking as he bounces his leg. Anxiety peeking through. “I can’t lose her. I won’t. I will not end up like my dad. I refuse to.” He shakes his head vehemently, his black hair falling in his face to which he swiftly pushes it back. 

“She’s strong. You’re even stronger. Use your strength to help her get there. She just wants you to meet her halfway. That’s all she needs from you.” Clara said softly. “She’s capable and you know it. I believe so.”

Riki looks up at her through hooded lids. “You think so?”

Clara nodded, “I know so.” She stood up and beckoned him to follow her. “Come on,” 

He complied and followed her to the east wing of the home—where his office resided. She used her key to open it and walked to his file cabinet and pulled out a black folder and handed it to him. “Here.”

The tall man scanned the folder and looked up at her. “What’s this for?”

“A test.” she said simply. “Start small. Give her something to handle. If she can carry it—then you talk.”

Riki stared at the folder, thumb brushing over the edge.

“You sure?”

Clara’s eyes didn’t waver. “I’ve never been more.”

—

You sat in the living room, watching another installment of some YouTube gameplay of a horror game. After last night, you had hope. Hope that something in the universe would change the mind of your vexingly stubborn husband. That for once he’d let you have a little more agency than he’d let you have any other day. Though, please don’t misunderstand. Riki wasn’t controlling by any means. He let you do and practically say whatever you wanted. You spent his money, were able to go out at your leisure (not without security), utilize…him as much as you wanted. But especially, he let you argue. Riki never let anyone argue. Being the man he was, prideful and a leader, his word was always going to be the last one. It was his way or no way, and this was the first time he had fought you so hard on something as this only made you want it more. You wanted to help, of course. But you just wanted to be more important to him than you already were. You knew that he loved you, you had never in the four years that you were together doubted the affection he held for you. You had just wished that he let you have a little more freedom. So you adjusted yourself on the couch, your shorts twisting and crop top riding up just a little but it didn’t matter because you had a throw blanket on. Riki entered the living room with something hidden behind his back. “Hello, my love.”

You furrowed your brows, “What are you doing?”

He shrugged as he padded over to the couch and plopped beside you with a knowing smirk. You turned off the TV and turned to face him, giving him your undivided attention. “I have to talk to you about something serious.”

You frowned, “If this is about yesterday then I—” He shook his head with a smile now, “Ancient history, passé.” 

Growing suspicious, you hugged the blanket close to you. “Okay?”

He revealed a black folder from behind him and flashed it with a smile. “Ta-da!”

You shrug, “A black folder. Wow…”

He smacked his teeth with a grunt. “Take it,” he said gently, smiling with tenderness. 

You grabbed the folder reluctantly, opening it to sift through it: three different color USBs, CCTV stills, ledger excerpts, and then a sealable, ivory envelope with a Kaminari recommendation card on it. 

Your heart dropped, tears welling up in your eyes as you looked at him. “No…”

He nodded, smiling, “Yes, but only if—” 

You cut him off by throwing yourself on top of him in excitement. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” The black folder behind you now and your legs tangled with his as you held his face between your hands, kissing him once, twice, a third time just to make sure this was real. Riki laughed into your lips, arms wrapped around your waist, holding you like the choice didn’t shake him a little too. Like giving you this meant everything would be fine. “Wait, woah slow down.” He smiled, “there’s something else too. Come with me.” He stroked your cheek as he helped you up and off of the couch, grabbing the folder. Without a word, you followed him to the east wing as if you were going to his office. But then you made a strong left. This house was so big that there were rooms you hadn’t even seen yet; and you’d been living here for two years. But he handed you a key to a door, the door being right down the hall from his. 

You took it without a word and unlocked the door to see an office of your own. A pink, girly office.

You stepped inside slowly, mouth parting in a silent gasp. It was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the room in soft morning light. White marble floors. Blush-toned walls. Shelves already stocked with delicate file boxes, soft leather notebooks, gold-trimmed pens, and what looked like a crystal lamp shaped like a cherry blossom. Then you looked around in the corner of the room, a plush carpet and loveseat with a mini-fridge. There was a glass desk in the center, wide and sleek, with your name engraved on a pink acrylic placard: Mrs. Nishimura—but underneath, in smaller script, it read:

Behavioral Intelligence Officer

Your knees buckled a little.

“Riki…” you breathed, turning around with trembling hands. “What is this?”

He stood at the doorframe like he wasn’t watching your entire soul ascend out of your body. His smile was slow, private. “This is where you’ll work from now on. The folder stays here. You get full clearance, unmonitored access, your own contact line with everyone, and burner accounts we’ll rotate weekly.”

You stared at him, absolutely speechless.

“You said you wanted to help,” he added softly. “But more than that…you wanted me to treat you like a partner. So here you go. This is me treating you like a partner.”

Tears filled your eyes again, but this time they didn’t sting. They shimmered.

“And I don’t have to…ask permission to come in here?” you asked, still stunned. Riki shook his head, stepping in and running his hands up your arms. “This is yours. It’s your space, your case, your decisions.” He paused. “I’ll still worry, and I’ll still protect you. That’s not up for debate. But this—” He looked around. “This is where I start learning how to let go a little.”

You threw your arms around his neck again, burying your face into his shoulder. “I’m gonna cry all over this expensive-ass marble.” He let out a breathy laugh as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “Don’t. I don’t want a slip and fall one day in.” Kissing your temple lovingly, his voice softening. “I love you, you’re Mrs. Nishimura. Not just in love, but in title and it’s time we all started acting like it.”

You peeled off and pulled him down a bit to lay your lips onto his. Resting your hands on his nape as you kissed him like it was the last thing you’d ever do. 

Riki, letting out a groan as he picked you up off of your feet, grabbing your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist. He smiled into the kiss as he massaged your ass in his large hands. “Should’ve done this sooner.”

“Mhm,” you hummed into the exchange as you tilted his head back to start showing his neck some attention.

Riki’s pulse thrummed beneath your lips, his head tipping back just enough for you to taste the faint salt of his skin and the trace of expensive cologne he only ever wore for you. His breath caught—low, rough, entirely at odds with the marble‑cold composure everyone else knew.

He shifted, pressing you against the edge of your new desk. The glass was cool, a soft contrast to the heat rolling off the two of you.

“Careful,” you whispered, teasing your teeth along his jaw. “That’s my desk now.”

He hummed, voice vibrating against your mouth. “Then I guess I’ll just have to get used to doing things your way.” His hands skimmed up the backs of your thighs, thumbs drawing lazy circles that made you shiver. The black folder still sat secure on the far corner—close enough to remind you why you were here, but far enough to keep from shattering the moment. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes—dark, dilated, a storm held only by sheer will. “Thank you,” you murmured. “For trusting me.”

He brushed a strand of hair from your face, thumb lingering at your cheek. “Thank you for demanding it.” The weight of those words settled between you—equal parts promise and permission. He leaned in again, slower this time, lips hovering at the shell of your ear.

“Lock the door, Officer,” he murmured, a smile in his voice. “We must discuss business.” You squealed in glee as you hopped off the desk and closed the door, clicking the lock and scampering to your desk chair to sit dramatically. Crossing your legs like this was your throne and you were about to speak to one of your subjects. “Behavioral Intelligence Officer speaking,”

Riki smiled at your corniness. “Woah there, Powerpuff Girl. We gotta lay down the ground rules first.” He leaned against your desk, half sitting—his long legs in his signature black slacks looked you in the eye.

Raising your brows in curiosity, you knew this was coming. “Rules?”

He nodded once, “Rules. There are quite a few.”

“What are these rules?” You grabbed the folder to open it but he quickly took it from you, barely leaning forward as his long arms made quick work. “Hey!” You tried to grab it back.

He held the folder out of reach and held his hand up. “Nope, I need your attention.”

You huffed in frustration and leaned back in your chair. “Okay, you got it.”

He nodded, something behind his eyes switching. That domestic, loving, caring husband disappeared and now thunder, cold, and firm boss made an appearance. This is how you know he was being totally serious. “Rule one: you never—and I mean ever—do anything without consulting me. You report to me, you run things by me, you address me. This goes for everyone in the organization. I am the boss, I am your leader, I will be respected as such.” Your eyes widen at his unyielding tone; unsure whether to find this scary or sexy. But you concede, “Okay. Number two?”

Riki nodded, “Number two: one-way door policy. Do you know what that means?” He tilted his head. 

You shook your head with wide eyes. “No,”

He smiled politely, “It means that whatever comes in here, stays here. That folder? Stays here. External drives, put it in the safe.” He points to the hidden safe behind the big picture frame of you two, the photo of him proposing to you in Cabo. “Don’t screenshot anything. Don’t even mention anything outside of here. The only other place that’s acceptable is my office. Understood?”

You nod, “That makes sense, I get it. Understood.”

“Good. Number three: when this button lights, pick up your phone. It means there’s an emergency and someone needs to get a hold of you.” He nods to the clear knob on your PC keyboard. “We haven’t had a situation where we’ve needed to do it for years. But it’s necessary. Simple.” He claps his hands as she slowly paces the room now. “Next rule: Every accusation needs proof. Time, place, motive. You can’t just say you have a gut feeling. I would believe you if you spat on me and told me it was rain. But here, we need proof. No baseless accusations. This goes for everyone, even me.” He put his hands in his pockets, as he looked at the marble floor. Letting himself think, doing that thing with his tongue-in-cheek. “Any questions thus far?” 

Even with receiving all of this information, you shook your head. “No, keep going.”

“Beautiful,” he half-smiles. “Number four, this is a special rule: mental health days for you. Brains work better when they’re not being fried. Take a day to decompress, all of our problems will be there when you get back. And you will stop working at midnight, every night. No exceptions—I’m not going to explain it.” He said firmly. “A few more rules.”

He stopped walking to look you in the eye. “You only break rules to save a life, not for curiosity. It’s cute in a mystery film but people’s lives are at stake everyday here, don’t just do shit for the fun of it.” He comes back to his slow pacing.

“Third to last rule: this,” He gestured around the room, “is all yours. But this position isn’t a sure thing—”

Your jaw dropped, “Riki—” you whined in protest, finding it to be unfair. 

“I’m speaking.” He held his finger up to silence you, to which you complied. Cowering in your seat as you looked at him with a pout.

“You’re going to be headed into this with little training. You’re not used to being under constant pressure, sometimes when you aren’t used to that…well…” He shrugged, “you can choke.” Riki sighed. 

“You think I’m gonna choke?” You applied pressure to your tone, tilting your head in confusion. “I thought you said I was capable.”

Riki’s jaw flexed, eyes flicking up to meet yours—and for a moment, the weight of all this vanished. He looked at you like he always did: like you were the sun wearing heels, a hurricane with heart. But even so, his voice stayed firm.

“I know you’re capable,” he corrected. “But being capable and being ready aren’t the same thing. This isn’t a trust fall, baby. If you fall, someone could die.”

You stared at him. The silence between you stretched just long enough to feel like a power shift. Like you weren’t his wife at that moment—you were his kobun, his chosen partner, sure. But still…new.

You swallowed your pride and gave a tight nod. “Alright. Next rule?”

He sighed again, knowing this one would damper you a little. “No pet names. No ‘baby,’ no ‘my love,’ no ‘babe,’ ‘babe-arsaurus.’” 

“Not babe-asaurus!” 

He gave you a flat look. “Especially not babe-asaurus. We’re not at home. You wanna call me something cute, you do it in the kitchen.”

You snorted, arms crossed as you leaned back in your chair. “So dramatic.”

“I’m serious.” He circled back behind your desk, hands coming to rest on the armrests as he leaned in close. “Pet names blur the lines. And here, we don’t blur lines.”

You blinked. “Okay, edgelord.”

He grinned against your cheek, voice dropping again into that teasing warning. “Keep it up and the next rule’s gonna be ‘no lip gloss if you’re gonna talk back.’”

You raised your brows, daring him. “You gonna confiscate it?”

He took your gloss right out of your shorts pocket like he knew exactly where it was. “First offense: warning. Second offense? I keep it. Third…” He leaned in and whispered against your jaw, “You come to my office to earn it back.”

“Ooh…” you smile as you nuzzle his neck then pull back. “Am I speaking to my husband or Kaminari?”

He smiled back, “Both…but I’m serious.” He raised his brows, “No names.”

You smacked your teeth, “Okay ba—I mean—sir.”

Riki smiled kneeling in front of your chair now. “That turns me on too, but final rule. And it’s the one I’ll break before I ever let you break it.”

He leaned forward, holding your face in his hands. His cool rings melted against your cheeks as he looked you in the eye. “No lying,” he said. “To me. Ever. If you’re scared, tell me. If you messed up, tell me. If you don’t know what to do, you come to me. We do not lie to each other.”

This was an unspoken rule, not only in your career but in your marriage too. The only lie that Riki had ever told you was that he was going to work but was going ring shopping instead. With the candor of his own family—meaning that Riki’s family physically never lied to each other—he saw that lying was the ultimate form of betrayal. The only time that lies were acceptable were under moments of extreme duress (e.g. his job). When you two had discussed deal breakers on your first date he had said ‘lying’ before the question even left your mouth. And funnily enough, he never lied to you. He just withheld things or simply never brought things up until you asked. He never spoke about work, and if you asked about his day then it was: “Today was shitty.” Or “It was good. Just work.” Or “Productive, fortunately.” He never wanted you to know anything because knowing means danger and danger means you die. And it’s not paranoia! No. Never. 

If you asked how a pair of jeans looked on you and he didn’t think they suited you then he’d give a simple “You’ve got better ones, my love.” Riki’s brand of honesty wasn’t mean—just wrapped in a velvet glove with iron beneath. Never cold, never cruel, never abrasive. He just valued the truth and gave it to you whether you liked it or not. Simply, he’d want the same thing from you. He’d rather you hurt his feelings with the truth now than hurt it even more with a lie if—and when—he found out. You never lied to him, even when the truth would hurt more. So now, as he knelt in front of you, thumbs brushing your cheekbones like you were made of glass and fire at the same time, it wasn’t just a rule. It was another vow. Not just for the sake of your marriage but your new dynamic. 

“Not even if it’ll hurt you?” You whispered, leaning your forehead on his.

He closed the gap a little, leaning to place a gentle kiss on your lips; letting it linger. “Especially then,”

“…Is this the part where I get my badge and cool-girl gun holster?” you mumbled against his mouth.

He snorted, pulling back. “You are so annoying.”

“Hot and annoying,” you corrected, poking his chest.

“Yeah, unfortunately,” he sighed, mock-disappointed, before grabbing the case file from the desk. “Alright, dude. Let’s ruin someone’s day.”

—

Riki sat on the edge of your desk again, this time with the folder open in his lap, flipping through it casually—composed as usual. “We have a leak,” he said simply.

Your brows pulled together. “Internal?”

He nodded once. “High-level. The kind of leak that gets people killed.”

You leaned forward in your chair, pulse ticking up. “What kind of intel got out?”

“Shipment logs. Safehouse rotations. Even a few agent profiles,” he said, tapping the page with the back of his ringed hand. “All routed through dead drops in Nishiyama territory. No digital trail. Clean. Old-school.”

You scoffed under your breath, “So we’re dealing with a professional.”

“We’re dealing with a mole.” His voice hardened like concrete setting. “Someone inside Kaminari is feeding information to the Nishiyama syndicate. Which means one of ours is playing both sides.”

You blinked. “A double agent?”

He met your gaze with a heavy look. “Exactly.”

You swallowed. This wasn’t just a briefing. This was serious. “You already have a suspect?”

“I’ve got three.” He flipped to the next tab. “Some important people. Social Liaison, Yuna. Logistics, Jo. Then Sohee, the Accountant. All had access to the stolen intel.”

You reached out, but Riki didn’t hand over the folder yet. “Your objective,” he said, his tone dropping into something deadly smooth, “is to make contact with all three. Casually. I want your read on them. Behavioral patterns. Speech tells. Any inconsistencies.”

You raised a brow. “You want me to profile them.”

“I want you to read them like a book, baby,” he said, before catching himself—then exhaling. “Sorry. Not on the job.”

You smiled a little. “Slipped out. I’ll allow it.”

He looked at you, seriously now. “You’re not just my wife here. You’re the only person I trust to do this clean. No bias, no noise. I don’t need proof yet. I need instinct. Which might contradict a rule but you aren’t making a move yet. That’s up to me…or maybe you depending on how this goes.”

“And if my gut tells me who the leak is?”

He nodded. “Then we build the case. Surveillance, comms trace, movement logs. But you’re the first step.”

You inhaled. “Understood. Where do I start?”

Riki handed you the folder at last.

“Page one. Then you come to the compound with me tomorrow morning.” He smiled, tilting his head. You stood with slight nervousness, shaking your hands as if the feeling was water and you needed to let it dry. “Tomorrow?” You muttered as you paced in front of him slowly. “I’m going tomorrow?”

Riki smiled at your demeanor, “Yes, you will be coming with me tomorrow.” 

“What? So like, do I go in a disguise or something?” You stopped and put your hands on your head dramatically, cropped shirt lifting just a tad to reveal the hem of your bra. Not that you cared, Riki had seen you as naked as the day you were born. Letting out a breathy laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners and that was enough to soothe you. Hearing him laugh. “Sure.” He crossed his arms. “Your disguise will be ‘my wife.’” Riki leaned off of the desk as he approached you. “You’re just going to talk to them. Like I said…read them. Point out red flags, assess a possible motive. But even then, you are not to engage further. No strong-arming. That’s my job.” 

“Because you’re mean to people.”

Riki snorted. “I’m not mean. I’m...assertive.”

You raised a brow. “You once threatened to staple someone’s tongue to a desk.”

He held up a finger. “Because he lied. With confidence. That’s worse.”

You blinked. “You smiled while doing it.”

“And I was right,” he replied, smug as hell.

You muttered something about psycho husbands under your breath and flipped open the folder anyway. Inside were three crisp profiles: one woman, two men. All clean-cut. All smiling in their ID photos. Like one of them could’ve handed someone a kill order and then gone out for ice cream after.

Your stomach twisted just a bit.

“You good?” Riki asked softly.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just a lot to take in.” He paused, reading you again like he always did—too carefully, too much like someone who knew every version of you. The tough one. The soft one. The one who panicked over brunch menus and the one who could lie on cue if called for it.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he said quietly. “To me. Or anyone else.”

Your eyes flicked up to his. “That’s funny. I thought this whole thing was a test.”

“Oh it is,” Riki pursed his lips. “And you do have something to prove, I just wanted to make you feel better.”

“Whatever happened to not lying?” You furrowed your brows, now getting irritated that he was making a joke of you.

Riki didn’t flinch. “I’m not lying. I’m softening the blow. Totally different.”

You scoffed, folding your arms. “Feels the same from where I’m standing.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your spine straighten. “If I didn’t think you could handle it, you wouldn’t be here. I don’t hand out assignments because of marriage certificates.”

You held his gaze, jaw tight.

“So yeah,” he continued, “it’s a test. But not of your worth. Of your readiness.” Your heart beat just a little harder at that. Not because you were scared—but because you hated how much you cared about passing. How much you wanted him to see you pass.

“…Still feels like lying,” you mumbled, avoiding his eyes.

“Then lie back,” he said, almost a whisper now, brushing a knuckle down your arm. “But I owe you a receipt, though.” Riki pouted his lips mockingly. 

“A receipt?” Your eyes flitted to the side for a moment in confusion.

“Mhm,” he hummed as he sharply pulled you in by your biceps, your chest meeting his upper abdomen as he towered over you. “Don’t think I forgot the tone you took with me yesterday morning.”

Your heart raced and the breath caught in your throat like it had something to lose. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was firm enough to remind you: Riki didn’t bluff.

“I had to assert myself,” you said, chin tipping up even as your voice dipped lower.

Riki smirked, eyes flickering between yours. “Oh, you asserted something, alright. Had me rethinking our marriage vows halfway through my eggs.”

“Should’ve read the fine print,” you quipped, trying to deflect the way your pulse was going off like sirens under your skin.

His smile widened just a bit—dangerous and sweet, like a dare in the dark. “Fine print said mutual respect,” he murmured. “And you disrespected your superior officer, baby.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Superior officer? That’s what we’re doing now? You get off on that?”

“I get off on putting you in your place.” He stroked your cheek with his knuckle as he leaned in, grazing his nose with yours. “I think you forgot who you married.” Something behind his eyes flickered, something dark, menacing, and slightly sinister. He leaned back as he scanned your body. “Go to our room,” he said, voice low and unshakable. “Lose the attitude—and the clothes. I want both off by the time I walk in.”

—

Getting ready the next morning at six ante meridiem was the hardest thing you’ve had to do in a very long time. You don’t know how Riki did it. If it was a solid nine then that was right up your alley. And considering the events of last night, your husband wasn’t exactly forgiving. You were sore as a bitch, with every part and limb aching. Nevermind your glorious dream about riding unicorns in the rain. It didn’t matter because it wasn’t rain, it was your despicable husband shaking his wet hair in your face as your wake up call.

“Grand rising, beloved!” He beamed with a boyish smile.

You jumped up, clenching the linen sheets to your bare chest and gasping for air. “Oh my God.” You grunted as you swung on him, hitting his bare arm. “You’re such an asshole! Fuck you, you scared the shit out of me!” You’re still spent for air as you fell back on the bed and he was towering over you from beside the bed, laughing from the pit of his gut. He grinned, completely unbothered by your assault. “Don’t be mad. You looked peaceful. Like Snow White, but, like...if Snow White had a felony record.”

You tossed a pillow at him, which he caught easily with one hand, the other holding his towel around his waist. “I’m not the one with the felony fucking record.” 

“Well technically I don’t. But if I did then I’ll add something else to my list if you don’t get up.” He tossed the pillow back at your face. You launched yourself at him like vengeance itself, arms wrapping around his neck as you tackled him backward. The towel slipped just enough to make it personal.

“I hate you,” you growled, even as laughter bubbled in your throat.

He caught you mid-flight with that irritatingly perfect upper-body strength, stumbling a little before regaining balance. “Lies,” he muttered against your shoulder. “You were just singing my praises last night.”

“That wasn’t singing, that was—” you cut yourself off, groaning as you buried your face in his collarbone. “I’m too tired for this. Let’s call in rich.”

“We are rich,” he said, smug. “But we’re also very much still showing up, because I’m not digging the ‘sore and cranky’ excuse from you today.”

You sighed and looked up at him, “I would kiss you but you pissed me off and I have morning breath.”

Riki smirked, unfazed, and leaned in anyway. “Lucky for you, I have a piss kink and no sense of smell.”

You smacked his chest, scandalized. “Riki!”

He just laughed, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Relax, I brushed my teeth for both of us.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not how hygiene works.”

“It is in marriage,” he said, already walking away like he didn’t just say the most obscene things before the Lord Himself was awake. “Now move it. We’ve got a mole to sniff out.”

You stared after him. “I swear, I’m calling HR.”

“I am HR.” he yelled from the bathroom. “You have two hours.”

God help you.

—

“Okay, so what’s the plan?” You exhaled shakily, trying to rub the sweat off of your palms and onto the leather seats of black car. 

“My love, you asked like twi—”

“I don’t care, I’m asking again.” You looked out of the car window, watching the trees turn to mush and blur as the car sped through the highway. “Three people, one woman: Jung Yuna. Two men: Asakura Jo, and Lee Sohee.” He said, carefully, as he soothed your nerves, gently massaging your thigh. “Leak. You’re going to talk to them, get a feel for their personalities. Just…get to know them. That’s all.” He pressed a tender kiss to your shoulder. 

“Okay,” you huffed. “Simple enough.”

Riki gave a soft hum. “Simple, yes. Easy?” He flicked his eyes toward you, a warning there. “Not even a little.”

You glanced at him. “What’s the catch?” He didn’t answer immediately, just adjusted his grip on your thigh and dropped his voice. “One of them’s working with a third-party buyer. We don’t know who. We don’t know why. But we know it’s internal.”

Your brows furrowed. “And they don’t know we know?”

“Exactly. As far as they’re concerned, I’m bringing my sweet, unassuming wife for a fun day at work. Yuna knows me. Jo doesn’t trust me. And Sohee…” he trailed off, pausing. “Sohee thinks he’s smarter than everyone in the room.”

You clicked your tongue. “So you want me to play dumb.”

Riki’s lip curled into that crooked smirk—the one that always meant trouble. “Not dumb. Charming. A little naïve, maybe. But observant. You’re not interrogating them. You’re studying them. I want your instincts, not your analysis.”

“So this is ‘vibes-based’ intel?” You made quotation marks with your fingers.

“This is you-based intel.” His hand slid up your thigh, fingers curling gently. “You see people. You’ve always seen me—even when I didn’t want you to. That’s your edge.”

You fell silent for a beat. “If I’m the edge, what are you?”

“The blade,” he said simply. “So keep it cute. I’ll do the cutting if we have to.”

You let out a breath, heart pounding as the trees blurred past faster now. “Okay. Let’s find our mole.”

—

You entered the expansive compound, smiling and waving at the different people. At times—and the very few times you’ve been here—you forget that this is an organized crime group and not an organization, a conglomerate even. And seeing Riki walk in here was like seeing a switch flip and the light turn on. Gone was your generous, funny, doting lover and now straight-faced, strict, articulate Komichō. It was slightly overwhelming to be able to see someone just turn themselves on and off like that.

So when he walked in, every person lined up to greet him. His kobun, bloodbound kobun. Trained, loyal, and unshakably his. They bowed—not out of introduction, but acknowledgment. You weren’t a stranger here, not technically. They knew your face. They��d watched you stand beside Riki in silk and gold, watched you kiss him with a thousand eyes on your back. But none of them knew you.

Not really.

So when you walked in today—no veil, no curated elegance, no fanfare—there was a shift. A flicker in the way some of them looked at you. You were here, which meant something had changed. You weren’t just the wife anymore. You were part of the inner workings now. At least you and Riki knew that. Still, he said nothing else. He didn’t need to. His presence was enough to quiet any question before it could rise. But the way his hand hovered at your back—subtle, protective, claiming—told the whole room that you weren’t just tagging along. You were trusted.

A few of them looked surprised.

One or two looked uneasy.

And at least one looked curious.

You kept your posture steady, offering a nod of acknowledgment. Cool. Collected. Just another day casually stepping into your husband’s criminal empire. Totally fine. Absolutely fine. Zero panic. Riki leaned in just enough to brush his lips against your temple. “They remember the wedding,” he murmured, “but they don’t know you.”

“Good,” you replied under your breath.

He smirked. “That’s my girl.”

—

You strolled into one of the lounges, making decent use of your time here. You were careful to not immediately get to work as you didn’t want to make yourself super obvious. So here you were, walking around, scaring Heeseung—head of operations—every now and then just because you could. But after about thirty minutes, you decided to pull the trigger on this. Your eyes found Sohee sitting at one of the many tables, tip-tapping away at something on his laptop. Presumably not work-related because this was considered a breakroom. But Riki wasn’t that strict, he didn’t care where the work got done—as long as it was in the building and nowhere else. 

Putting on a friendly smile, you approached the table with politeness. “Hi, Sohee. How are you?”

The guy looked up from his laptop, the blank stare turning to a smile that mirrored your own. “Okaasan, I’m doing fine. You?”

You waved him off with a smile, telling him to drop the formalities and that calling you by your name was more than fine. But he didn’t comply, stating that Riki insisted that they call you Mrs. Nishimura or Okaasan.

“No, I’m telling you to call me by my first name. Please, it’s okay.” Smiling, nodding your head to ensure he felt a little more comfortable in this exchange. Being on a first-name basis establishes comfort. If there’s that then the conversation won’t be so rigid. Sohee smiled gently, being slightly flustered at your friendliness. He hadn’t spoken to you ever and only knew you in passing. He was at the wedding like most of the group but besides that there were very little interactions between you and the other affiliates. No one knew about you aside from Riki’s close friends—some of whom were a part of the group and his groomsmen, and his family by the time of the ceremony. “Of course…” He rubbed his eyes, “But yeah, I haven’t seen you since the wedding. Tell me about married life, how’s it treating you?” You slid into the seat across from him, adjusting your blouse just slightly as you crossed one leg over the other. A friendly smile stayed on your lips, but your eyes had already started their sweep—watching his fingers, his posture, how fast he minimized whatever was on his screen.

“Oh, you know,” you started, tone breezy like the back patio of a brunch spot. “We argue about whether the AC should be at sixty-eight or seventy-two, and then he kisses me. Classic honeymoon phase stuff.”

Sohee laughed politely, but you noticed the slight tug at his lip—like he was trying to decide if it was okay to really laugh. That was good. You liked that.

“It’s different though,” you continued, tilting your head thoughtfully. “Being someone’s girlfriend, and then suddenly you’re…really a part of their life. Your world is one, I guess. Still getting used to the perks.”

He snorted at that, relaxing a little. “I mean, if by perks you mean the estate and a guy named Chan who opens your car door every morning—yeah, not bad.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Exactly. And the complimentary paranoia’s cute too.”

Sohee’s eyes flicked up at you, and for a second, you saw the calculation behind the smile. He was smart. They wouldn’t have put him over logistics if he wasn’t. “You say that like you weren’t built for this. I mean, most people around here kind of expected you to be the accessory. No offense.”

You smiled wider at that. “None taken. Accessories don’t walk themselves in here and sit across from the guy who tracks where all the money goes.”

He stilled—just barely—but you caught it. Bingo.

Before he could volley back, you softened your voice, brushing invisible lint off your sleeve. “Anyway. I’m not here to scare anyone. I’m here to get to know people. Riki’s always talking about how tight-knit the team is. Family, right?”

Sohee nodded slowly, and you could practically hear the mental gears clicking. “Yeah. Family.”

“And family talks,” you said lightly. “Even if it’s just about what’s stressing them out…or keeping them up at night.”

He leaned back slightly, tilting his head. “That’s a very specific way to phrase that.”

You looked at him with a half-smile. “Well. I’m a very specific kind of person. Plus, I spend his money, I gotta make sure it gets where it has to be right?” You try to break the subtle change in vibe with a joke. He bites, somewhat relieved that the woman who has the power to either put him on the unemployment line or in a body bag wasn’t taking him too seriously. 

Despite that, you took it for what it was and whatever he was giving you. Before either of you can stretch the silence too far, the door swings open.

“Heard there were pastries in here,” a voice calls out playfully, and in walks Yuna—light on her feet, dressed like her outfit alone had a LinkedIn profile, and confident like someone who always gets the last word.

Her gaze slides over the room, landing on you and Sohee.

“Oh,” she says, lips curving upward as she closes the distance. “Didn’t know this was a members only table.”

You gesture to the seat beside you. “Not at all. I was just catching up with Sohee. Join us.”

Sohee stands halfway out of his seat in reflex—a gentleman or a little afraid, who’s to say—before awkwardly sitting back down once Yuna waves him off. “So,” she says as she takes a seat, folding her arms on the table and angling herself toward you. “I haven’t seen you since the wedding. You were a vision by the way. I mean, the ceremony? You two could’ve had a Vogue cover, just stunning.”

You chuckle, nodding politely. “Thank you. It was a blur, but I do remember crying over my lashes right before walking down the aisle.”

Yuna laughs, then tilts her head a little. “So, married life? How’s it been? I imagine being Mrs. Nishimura is…an adjustment.”

The way she says it—like she’s biting into something sweet just to test the aftertaste—tells you she’s digging. Not cruelly. Just…curious. Or pretending to be. You tilt your head, mirroring her. “We were just talking about it.” You gesture to Sohee with a smile. “It’s been good.” You always loved to overshare, but it was no one’s business what consisted of your relationship. Namely how well your husband treated you. You had to learn that lesson better now than later.

Yuna hums. “Right. He’s always had that...edge. But seeing him soft for someone? Kind of wild, honestly.”

You smile, gentle but unmistakably proud. “It’s a side of him you have to earn.”

That lands. You see it in the way her jaw shifts just slightly, like the compliment doubled as a subtle door slam.

She nods slowly, playing it off. “Must be nice—being the one person who gets let into the inner sanctum. He doesn’t really do vulnerability.”

You rest your elbow on the table, your chin on your hand. “No, he doesn’t. Which is why I don’t take him for granted.” 

And that right there—that soft, unapologetic weight behind your words—is when the intimidation really hits.

Yuna smiles, but this one doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You make it look easy.”

Sohee clears his throat, trying to reroute the conversation back to safer shores. “You always had that energy, though,” he says. “Even at the wedding. People were talking more about you than the cake.”

You grin. “Then I hope they weren’t talking about the dress fitting too tight. I ate like four slices of that cake myself.”

“Bold,” Yuna murmurs, sipping her drink. “That cake was like five hundred a slice.”

You glance at her. “When you marry a man who owns the bank the baker owes a loan to, cake isn’t a concern.”

Sohee chokes on a laugh, half trying to hide it. “She’s not wrong.”

Yuna raises an eyebrow, lips twitching. “That sounds like something Komichō would say.”

“He’s rubbing off on me,” you say. 

“Definitely rubbing,” she mumbles beneath her breath as she sipped her tea again, you barely heard it but it was definitely loud enough for you to catch. Your ears perked up at the comment, “I’m sorry?” Tilting your head with a small smile, acting as if you didn’t really hear her. 

Yuna blinked, playing it off, though her smirk didn’t quite fade. “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

You let out a soft chuckle, resting your elbow on the table and your chin in your hand. “You should be careful doing that around here. People might think you’re losing it.”

Sohee glanced between the two of you, sensing the invisible knife sliding onto the table. “Right, well, I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear anything either.”

“No need,” you said smoothly, eyes still on Yuna. “I just thought I heard something interesting. Wouldn’t want to miss out.”

Yuna gave a small shrug, eyes cool. “Guess my mind wandered.”

“To Riki?” you asked lightly, no edge to your voice but every word precise.

Her lips parted like she might defend herself, but instead she laughed softly, shaking her head. “You’re good.”

You smiled wider. “I know I am.”

Sohee cleared his throat again—less out of nerves, more out of self-preservation. It seemed so with him, Riki said he always thinks like he’s the smartest in the room but it might not even be that. Maybe, but he shrinks beneath the gaze of someone bigger. Though, intelligence and bravery aren’t mutually exclusive in this case. Or any of them for that matter. But you didn’t break your gaze from Yuna, not just yet. “Don’t worry,” you finally said, sitting back in your seat with a gracious tilt of your head. “I don’t bite unless I’m hungry.” Your eyes glinted, like the once inquisitive look was suddenly demoted to annoyance. But you knew better than to let her get the best of you. Yuna lifted her tea, trying to cover the shift in her posture—the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw tightened for just a second. “Good thing I’m not on the menu.”

“Of course not,” you said sweetly. You stand, brushing off your skirt as you slide out of your seat. “I’ll be going now, guys. Thanks for hanging out with me.” 

“No problem,” Sohee said with a gentle smile as he stood up to shake your head. To which you nodded respectfully, returning the gesture. “Hopefully we’ll be seeing more of you around here.” You laughed with a nod, “For sure, I’ll definitely be around.” Glancing at Yuna, you smiled gently. “See you around, little one?” You reached out and rubbed her arm, to other eyes it was friendly. Between you two—and maybe Sohee if he squinted—it almost seemed like you were rubbing the metaphorical snot she sneezed onto you, back on her. Sonning her, ‘little girl-ing’ her.

Nonetheless, she smiled. She nodded. And just took it. “Yes, see you around.”

And off you were.

—

Speaking to Riki after that little exchange was definitely on your mind. Seriously it was, every aching part of you was determined to run down on him and question him until he physically choked on his every word. Because for real, what the fuck was that? Why was Yuna so comfortable speaking about your relationship and Riki in such a way? How has Riki made her so comfortable? When has he done that? How did it happen? Who even brought this up to her in the first place? As the five W’s were this close to the edge of your tongue, you decided to save it for later. Not now, no. And it’s not even like you were shy about your marriage. If one couldn’t tell by now, you took any and every opportunity to mention Riki. You swore to your friends that once you got married you would ‘my husband…’ the fuck out of them and everyone else around you. But you didn’t know Yuna, hardly even. You’d known her as one of the heavy hitters—essentially the PR for the group. The Social Liaison. She was delicate, yet biting. Subtle, yet direct. She was gorgeous and that’s exactly why she was appointed, because she was easy on the eyes and no one could dare turn away a beautiful woman. You didn’t feel inferior, there was no reason to. Yuna was Yuna and You were You. Both of you were beautiful young women in a field dominated by men no matter how you sliced it. So to see her be so combative when you didn’t do that to her made you feel like you lost a friend before you could even make one. So as you were on the hunt for Jo, passing through each hallway and scouring every nook and cranny for this guy. You peeped Riki a few feet away in the broad, wide-ranging room. Speaking so firmly to one of the kobun, not making eye contact but nodding along as he walked and they briefed him on something. They were too far for you to hear but he had noticed you, almost like he felt you from ten feet away. He didn’t stop what he was doing, didn’t pause, he was slick as always. Riki kept walking and as he was listening but he made eye contact with you. His gorgeous, alluring eyes followed you as you kept moving but he didn’t smile. He just poked his tongue out—quick, barely there, a flicker of his usual mischief. The kind of look that says I see you, and I know you see me, without saying a single word. It wasn’t apologetic. It felt more like a challenge. Like he was telling you to come find him. To press him. To demand what you wanted to know. At least to you because that’s what you felt like doing. But knowing him, he was just teasing. Letting you know that beneath the hard shell of the Komichō was your childish, teasing, yet loving husband. You held his gaze for a moment longer, then kept walking. Because no matter how much your fists itched to grab his collar and ask him what the hell Yuna meant by that, you had other business to handle. Logistics came first. And Jo—well, Jo was never easy to find. Which was kind of the point.

So you tucked Riki into your back pocket for now, like a loaded question you’d pull out later.

Jo was somewhere in this damn compound, likely holed up with blueprints, phone calls, and at least five burner devices. And if there was anyone (sans Riki) who could give you the real lay of the land—or shift it completely—it was him.

Riki could wait.

You pulled out your phone to shoot him a message, though:

thorn in my side: do yk where jo would be right abt now?

He replied back in a split second.

idiotbox: should be in his office. upstairs, 5th floor. 509.

thorn in my side: thanks

idiotbox: i love you

…

???

i said i love you

i love you baby ????

now girl…

You didn’t even care to respond, you were mad at him for something you only assumed he did and that was childish, of course. You were petty, but so was he and that was how you two worked so well. He’d pick up eventually, but you hated the fact that such a menial exchange had irritated you this badly. But you knew better than to put him in a bad mood at work.

thorn in my side: i love you more babe-asaurus

idiotbox: hm

we’ll talk later

You rolled your eyes at how easily he was able to read you even without seeing you. But whatever, you have a guy to find and Riki was close to your heart as always; but the least of your worries.

Taking the elevator was intense because you hoped that it would be slower, honestly. Like how much of a rush were these guys in? You reached the first to fifth floor in less than two seconds. Now, here you are, scanning the doors and you finally reached Jo’s appointed office and you politely knocked. Waiting for a ‘come in’ or ‘enter’ or ‘who is it’ literally anything. But nothing. You scanned the hallway, peering both ways up and down. No one was around, no one seemed to be passing through and you stepped forward a little bit to put your ear to the door. Also silence. 

Racking your brain, Riki’s words kept ringing in your mind: you are not to engage further.

You are not to engage further.

You are not to engage further. 

You are not—fuck it.

Without another thought you twisted the knob to Jo’s office and as fate would have it, the door was unlocked. You pushed through the door and peeked your head in.

Empty.

So as you slipped in, gently closing the door behind you before locking it, you reminded yourself of what you came here for. It was to get a hold on behavioral patterns, but there’s no harm in scanning. With a shaky exhale, your eyes followed through the space. Very minimal. Only necessary items here: desk, chair, file cabinet, desk lamp, simply essential office gadgets. But as you neared his desk, you spied a ton of papers scattering across it. You hovered, unsure whether you should touch them, but then again, Riki did say not to engage further. He didn’t say anything about observing. Which, in your opinion, made this a grey area. And what were grey areas for, if not you skating through them with barely plausible deniability? The first sheet that caught your eye was a layout of the compound—more detailed than the blueprints you’d seen before. Color-coded zones, timestamped patrol shifts, even ventilation system routes. Jo is definitely playing chess while the rest of these guys are just showing up to the board. The next paper underneath made your stomach pull a little tighter. It was a list. Names. Some you recognized, some you didn’t. Some were marked with symbols: asterisks, slashes, question marks. What you did know was that this was the definitive roster—essentially—for everyone in Thunder. 

Sans one other: Yuna.

Weird.

Then you saw it.

A manila folder tucked half underneath a blueprint sheet. You knew you shouldn’t, but girl—curiosity is a disease. You slid it out just an inch, enough to see the label written in Jo’s tight, deliberate handwriting:

“INCIDENT REPORT — LEAK”

Then another:

“NISHI — CONFIDENTIAL”

You didn’t let your initial shock cloud your common sense. Without another thought you grabbed the two files and shoved them inside of your shirt. Dumb decision, yes. Strange, absolutely. Just as you were heading to the door to make your graceful exit (you’ve been doing a lot of those lately it seemed), you heard footsteps and jingling keys right outside of the door. 

“Fuck!” You mouthed in panic and scanned the room. A sliding closet was your best bet so you took shelter there, squatting at the floor and hugging the cloth covered folders to your chest. Knowing better, you ensured your phone was on silent and not on the hard floor to make noise. 

And not a second too soon.

The lock clicked, the door swung open, and Jo entered—as leisurely as one can be. You watched through the thin slits in the closet door as he moved with practiced ease, the way only someone who expected to be alone did.

He muttered something under his breath, inaudible, as he tossed a USB onto the desk and rolled his chair out with a squeak. You swore your heart was doing parkour in your chest, beating a rhythm so loud you were sure he could hear it.

He started typing.

Clicking, clacking, clomping. Jo hands had left the keyboard to feel for his folders—the absent ones. 

His hands patted the desk once. Then again. Slower.

You could hear the moment he realized something was off.

Click, click.

Rustle.

Click.

Pause.

“…Huh.”

He stood up. You could see his silhouette shift through the closet slats. Jo leaned over the desk again, rifling through papers, lifting one corner of the blueprint like the folders might be playing hide and seek with him.

Another pause. Longer this time.

Then he muttered, low and sharp: “Motherfucker.”

Busted. Not completely, but the clock was officially ticking.

Jo paced once, then sat back down hard, fingers drumming against the desk in a rhythm that screamed calculating. You knew Jo very vaguely—this wasn’t confusion. This wasn’t panic.

This was inventory. This was war.

And you were right there in the middle of it, like a roach under a glass.

He pulled his phone out. Tapped. You didn’t hear the call ring—probably encrypted, burner-to-burner. Probably to someone way too important to be talking about two stolen folders and a potential mole crouched three feet away.

Still, his voice was ice when he finally spoke:

“They’re gone. Both of them. Yes. Both. Folders. No. Nobody else’s been in here.”

He huffed as he slammed the device down on the desk and left without another word. Closing the door behind him. 

You didn’t move for a full thirty seconds.

Just breathed.

Slow and shallow, trying not to make even your lungs betray you. Your heart was doing a drum solo in your chest, and the folders clutched to you suddenly felt like live explosives. Your knees were screaming. Your brain was screaming.

But Jo was gone.

And you were still here.

When you finally uncurled yourself and opened the closet door like it might squeak out a betrayal, the coast was still clear. The office was eerily quiet, save for the dull hum of whatever sinister programs Jo had left running on his screen.

You grabbed his phone too, along with the USBs. Leaving that behind, what a dummy. 

You crept out like a cat burglar in a heist movie, glancing around one more time before heading to the door.

No one.

No shadows.

You slid out and shut the door behind you, just as quietly as you came.

And then booked it.

—

Muscle memory had you headed there before you could even second-guess the idea. Ninth floor, west wing, room 920. You’d memorized it months ago without even meaning to—like the curve of his signature, or the way his voice dipped when he was serious. The folders were still tucked under your shirt like contraband, stabbing awkwardly against your ribs as you power-walked. You probably looked suspicious. Not that anyone was around to clock it—yet. But paranoia was creeping in like a slow leak. Any second now, you were sure alarms would start blaring.

You rounded the corner, heart racing. Riki’s door stood at the end of the hallway, clean and unassuming. You didn’t knock. Just turned the handle and slipped inside like a shadow.

He wasn’t at his desk.

He was standing at the window, back to you, hands in his pockets like some tortured antihero. Of course. Of course he was being dramatic today.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, without turning around.

You rolled your eyes and let the door click shut behind you. “This is where my man is, this is where I’m due. Thank you very much.”

He turned slowly, his expression unreadable until his eyes landed on your shirt—and what was very obviously not a very lumpy new bra.

“You didn’t,” he said flatly.

You didn’t say anything. Just reached under your shirt, pulled the folders and phone out like a magician producing a rabbit, and dropped them onto his desk with a soft thump.

Riki stared at them.

Then at you. “...You’re insane.”

“I love you.”

He pressed his fingers to his eyes, already visibly aging five years. “I love you too. But I told you not to engage.”

“Yeah, well.” You walked to his side of the desk as he sat. “I’m starting to think you only say that when you don’t wanna deal with the fallout.” You lifted yourself to sit atop his desk, folding your legs.

He didn’t argue because a part of him knew better. But he was going to ask questions.

“Before I open these, Oracle.” He smirked as he leaned back in his chair, rubbing your bare calves. “You are going to tell me how you got these.”

You tilted your head, half-smirking, half-daring him to press. “Before I tell you,” you said, voice sweet as poison, “you’re going to tell me who Nishi is.”

He paused, the playful squeeze he gave your leg faltering for just a second. Just enough for you to catch. Just enough to confirm that the name meant something. Something serious.

“That’s not how this works,” he said slowly, like he was weighing each word. “You first.”

You leaned back on your palms, eyes dragging lazily across the office like you were bored—like you weren’t high off adrenaline and one bad decision away from spiraling. “Door was unlocked. Papers were out. Your little friend Jo doesn’t have the cleanest filing system.”

“You broke into his office,” he said, amused but exasperated, like a teacher trying not to laugh while writing you up. “You hid in his closet.”

“And you told me not to engage, which is very different from telling me not to investigate,” you quipped. “And how do you even know I did that?”

His hands were warm against your skin again, this time steady. Grounding. He sighed, and there was something tired in it. Like this day had finally worn him down. “First off, you came in here winded. Which means you were running. Something you never do.” He nodded affirmatively, like he had seen this scenario a million times before. “Then you have extra padding in your bra like you don’t have enough going on there alrea—” 

You squinted at him, offended but mostly appalled. “Excuse me?”

Riki had the audacity to grin, all smug and unbothered, like he wasn’t skating on the thinnest ice imaginable. “What?” he said, lifting his hands in fake innocence. “I notice things. You weren’t exactly subtle and I’ve seen them enough to know what they do and don’t look like. The folders are poking out like a second set of ribs.”

You smacked his arm. “You are insufferable.”

“Observant,” he corrected, laughing under his breath. “And I know you. You only get this chaotic when you’re pissed or nosy. Or both.”

You rolled your eyes and slipped off his desk, pacing a few steps to blow off steam. “Well, congrats. You know me. You want a medal or a map to Jo’s shitty closet?”

“I want you to tell me why you went looking for him,” he said, the smile in his voice gone now. “What made you dig?”

You paused, fiddling with the edge of a stray paper on his desk, not looking at him. “I was just making my way down the list.” You shrug with a slight pout. “I had already spoken with Yuna and Sohee. Conveniently they were both in the same room. Then I saw you enroute to Jo, knocked on his office. Nobody home. So I took it upon myself to find what he wasn’t there to tell me.” You sighed with a firm nod. “Who’s Nishi? Is it short for Nishimura? Or short for Nis—” You paused as something in your brain had clicked, the lights weren’t dim anymore. “The Nishiyama syndicate that you were speaking of.” Humming in understanding finally as you leaned against the desk. “Is that it?”

Riki’s then blank expression shifted to a smile, not devilish. But kind, almost…proud despite the weird situation. “Yeah, that’s it.”

Somehow you felt small beneath his gaze, so your eyes shifted to the files and phone. “Are you gonna open the files?”

The raven-haired man sighed, leaning back into his chair. He was entirely too cavalier for your liking but you kept your lips glued. This was his world, not yours. At least not yet. “No.” He shook his head gently. “You’re gonna read them and tell me what you find.”

You blinked. “Okay,”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” Riki leaned up and handed you a new notepad and pen. “Don’t write on his stuff. I’m sure he knows they’re missing.”

“He does,” you took the items with both hands. “Is he going to hurt me if—”

“Over my dead fucking body.”

Your breath caught—not because you didn’t believe him, but because of how fast he said it. Like it wasn’t a question. Like the very thought of Jo trying anything had flipped a switch in Riki’s brain that only lived between rage and devotion.

You stared at him. “That’s dramatic.”

“I mean it,” he said, and this time there was no smugness, no teasing. Just that low, steady tone that made your spine straighten and your chest feel way too small. “He touches you, he dies.”

Laughing him off, you waved your hand. “Again, dramatic.”

“There’s nothing dramatic about it. I have no problem putting anybody six feet under if it’s about you. I’m telling you now, I will kill him. Myself, with my bare hands.” He nods calmly. You nodded, lips pursed as this weird feeling of not believing him but absolutely believing him came over you. Now you aren’t stupid, there’s very few people in this life that have clean hands but since you never saw that side of Riki—it was hard to fully compute that. You were used to the version of him that bit you when he just found you cute. The one that whenever he ate french fries, he would put them in his mouth and act like he was a walrus. The part of him that whined whenever his food touched.

The Riki that kissed you like it was his first and last, everytime. When he made love to you it was passionate, like he cared. Savoring every part of your body and ravishing it like a starved man. And even though you’ve been together for as long as you have, he still makes you feel like you’re in high school. Both his and your inner child’s connect and that’s what makes every part of being with him so worth it. Hearing him talk about putting someone in the dirt for hurting you didn’t scare you. At all, if anything a depraved part of you loved that he was so ready and willing to take care of you. But because he had kept you so far from this life—to the point where you never saw him right when he came home from work. You only ever saw him after a shower when he got back. The house was big enough for him to avoid you and he didn’t want you to even see him in any other way aside from put-together or casual. He simply wants to keep your perception of him one way. Now he’s at the point where he doesn’t need to get his hands dirty, but he’s not above it. He knows he’s not but he doesn’t want you to know that. Maybe because you’re pure, the only clean thing in this world and he wants to honor that sanctity.

Thus you nod with a tight-lipped smile. “Aye-aye captain,”

Riki nodded curtly, “Thank you, now sit.”

“Can I take this home with me—oh wait, no, the rule.” I sighed as I sat down on his couch. 

He laughed, “Right, good, good. But…” He breezed past his desk to now sit beside you. “Why didn’t you tell me you loved me?” He leaned back against the back of the couch, crossing his arms as he peered at you with patient eyes. 

You furrowed your brows, snorting at his ridiculousness. “I tell you that multiple times an hour, Riki. I just said it when I came in. What are you talking about?”

“Babe—sorry—” He covers his mouth, trying to muffle a smile at the minor slip-up. 

You point at him, “Ah-ha! You broke your own rule, genius.” Laughing as you twirl the pen between your fingers.

Riki groaned dramatically, tipping his head back against the couch cushion like the weight of his love-induced hypocrisy had just crushed him. “God, I’m so weak,” he mumbled into the ceiling.

You giggled, nudging his leg with your knee. “You made a rule you couldn’t keep. Who does that?”

“A man in love,” he sighed, hand flopping over his heart. “A fool. A slave to your eyes and...whatever scented oil you’re wearing today. Beautiful gourmand.”

You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your past mistakes. “You suck so bad.”

He turned to look at you again, his playful expression softening slightly. “You didn’t say it earlier. In the texts. Well you did, but I just had to pull it out of you. Which is unusual because usually it happens easily. Like a nice, well-lubricated machine.”

You paused, the smile still on your lips but tinged now with something quieter. “I was annoyed.”

“I figured,” he said.

“And don’t use ‘well-lubricated’ like that ever again.” You laughed as you adjusted your position, kicking off your shoes just because you could. Placing your legs on his lap as he instinctively went to massaging your aching feet. 

Riki laughed beneath his breath, “Mmm, how else should I use it then…?” He trails his hand up your calf.

“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence,” you said, pointing the pen at him like it doubled as a taser. “I’m in work mode now. No nasty metaphors.”

Riki smirked, thumb dragging slow circles into your ankle like he was trying to hypnotize you. “You sure? I’ve got a whole glossary. Synonyms. Imagery. PowerPoint, even.”

“PowerPoint?” You quirked a brow. “Wow. And here I thought this organization was low-tech.”

“We save the advanced tech for seduction,” he deadpanned.

You threw your head back in a laugh, letting your legs go slack against him. “You are so lucky you’re cute.”

“I know.” He smiled proudly, then leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your knee. “But seriously...I knew something was bothering you. I felt it.”

You nodded, brushing a bit of lint from your lap like it was your own way of smoothing down your thoughts. “I didn’t like the way Yuna talked about you. Like she knew you. Knows you. I know it’s stupid—”

“It’s not,” he cut in gently. “Whatever it is, it’s not.”

You looked at him. “I didn’t want to make it a thing while you’re working, but...she got under my skin.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing really,” You shook your head as confusion plagued your expression. “Like she was just throwing jabs at our marriage. Like—”

“Do you want her gone?”

“Wait–damn! Can I at least tell you what happened?” You put your hands out in panic.

Riki blinked, caught between his gut reaction and your clearly not-yet-finished train of thought. “Right. Sorry.” He held up his hands, leaning back slightly. “Continue. Full dramatic reenactment, if you will.”

You gave him a flat look. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here I am. Devoted. Foot-rubbing. Ready to commit crimes in your honor.”

You fought back a smile, exhaling sharply before continuing. “She just said some things. Made it sound like she knew you in a way I didn’t. Nothing direct, but it was all…in the way she said it. Like she was watching me, waiting to see if I’d flinch.”

Riki’s jaw ticked just slightly, and his hand stilled again on your leg. “What did she say exactly?”

“She joked about you being soft for me. About how it must be wild seeing you like that. And then she muttered something under her breath—‘definitely rubbing’—after I said you were rubbing off on me.” You rolled your eyes. “While it was funny,” you smiled as you reflected on the moment. “It was just the tone she took, it was petty.”

His voice had that eerie calm again—the kind that made you picture storms on the horizon. “And do you want her gone?”

You hesitated. “I don’t want to make you cut people loose just because they annoy me.”

“Not just anyone,” he said slowly. “Her. You disrespect my wife, you disrespect me. End of discussion.”

You sighed. “I just didn’t like feeling like I was being tested. Like I had to prove I was worthy to be here. That I deserved you.”

“No. You don’t need to prove shit to anyone. She works for you, baby. Not the other way around.” He scoffs in irritation, not at you. Just at the situation.

“You think she wants you or something?” 

Riki rolls his eyes, “Please,” he waves off.

“No, I’m being serious.” 

He furrowed his brows, “That has nothing to do with me, I chose you. I love you. Yuna is just…Yuna.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, folding your arms across your chest as your legs stayed propped on his lap. “That is the vaguest, most non-answer answer I’ve ever heard.”

Riki groaned, tilting his head back like the ceiling was somehow responsible for your suspicion. “Baby, come on. You want me to what—spell out that she probably has some weird little crush from back in the day? Okay. Maybe. Possibly. Who wouldn’t? But that doesn’t matter. I don’t want her.”

You blinked, lips parting just slightly. “Weird little crush from back in the day?”

He froze. Froze frozen. Like someone had just hit pause on his entire soul.

Then slowly—painfully slowly—he sat up straighter and scratched the back of his neck like a man about to give a deposition. “...I mean, like…a crush she invented in her head. You know how people do. Delulu culture. She’s a millennial. Or—whatever she is.”

You gave him the most unimpressed stare humanly possible. One that could suck the air out of a room if you held it long enough.

“You’ve been avoiding answering straight for two full minutes,” you said, your voice sharp but cool. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He let out a deep sigh, eyes flicking briefly to your legs across his lap—like grounding himself with you physically would make the words come easier.

“Nothing happened,” he finally said, slow and careful, like laying down a live wire. “She flirted. Years ago. Once. I didn’t flirt back. I shut it down. It didn’t become a thing because I didn’t let it become a thing. Plus by that point, I had just started seeing you.”

You stared, not blinking, not speaking. Just letting the silence stretch until it felt like your heartbeat was echoing off the floors.

“And now?” you asked at last, voice like velvet over a blade.

His gaze lifted to meet yours, firm and unwavering. “Now she’s someone on payroll who will never get that close again. You have my name, my ring, everything. And if I could give you more of me, I would. She’s noise. Vapor.”

The words settled in your chest like something warm and weighted. The kind of thing that wasn’t just sweet, but true. You didn’t nod. You didn’t smile. You just breathed—and it came easier after that.

“Good,” you murmured.

“Good,” he echoed, reaching up to squeeze your ankle gently.

Riki had never given you any sort of reason to doubt his loyalty to you. But something about Yuna just made you feel some sort of insecure. And that’s never a good feeling. “Okay, so back to work on these thingies.” You sighed as you grabbed all of your things, the files and notepad. 

—

You settled deeper into the couch, the file balanced on your knees, pen in hand. Riki stayed quiet beside you, hands behind his head like he wasn’t five seconds away from snatching the folder and reading it himself. But this was your job now. He gave it to you. He trusted you. And trust in this world was rarer than sleep.

The first folder you opened was the one labeled:

“INCIDENT REPORT — LEAK”

Your eyes scanned the top page. Neat, efficient language. Jo’s writing was all business. But beneath that business tone… was tension. A lot of it.

Summary: On 05/23, it was confirmed that classified movement data regarding the Nishiyama holdings in the Shibuya district was compromised and intercepted by an unknown third party. The breach occurred between the hours of 03:00 and 05:00 JST.

Method of Leak: Evidence points to an internal device tap. Most likely wireless, planted within the logistics room (3rd floor).

Potential Suspect(s):

T. Nakamoto (denied access two weeks prior but showed up in building security logs 24 hours before the breach)

Sohee Lee (recent behavioral inconsistencies; requires further monitoring)

UNCONFIRMED: External syndicate involvement possible (see cross-file: “NISHI — CONFIDENTIAL”)

You sucked in a breath. “Sohee?” you said aloud, almost in disbelief.

Riki’s voice was low. “Keep going.”

You flipped to the second page—grainy black-and-white images from security footage. A figure moving at 4:12 AM through a hallway near the logistics room. Hood up. Face obscured. But the time stamp matched Jo’s report exactly.

You shook your head. “This is bad. Whoever this is knew where to go. No camera catch, no chatter, just straight infiltration. Like a ghost.”

Riki didn’t speak—his jaw was tight. He already knew this. He’d probably seen the footage himself.

You flipped to the next folder:

“NISHI — CONFIDENTIAL”

Your stomach clenched.

This one wasn’t a report. It was…a dossier.

A breakdown of an entire group.

The Nishiyama Syndicate. Or, as Riki had called them before—“Nishi.” A former rival organization that went dark years ago.

Overview: The Nishiyama Syndicate—presumed inactive by 2017—has begun resurfacing under new leadership. Not confirmed, but rumored to be operating under a splinter faction using legitimate business fronts. Possible laundering through offshore holdings (Monaco, Belize, Singapore).

Recent Activity:

Acquisition of real estate adjacent to Nishimura holdings.

Shadow-bidding on construction contracts connected to your family’s public-facing properties.

Unusual surveillance patterns noted around Nishimura residences.

Notable Names:

A. Nishiyama (deceased, patriarch)

M. Nishiyama (???) — identity redacted

“Subject N” — possible mole or double agent; suspected to have contact with active Nishimura staff. (PRIORITY)

You looked up at Riki. “This reads like they’re trying to move in. Slowly. Quietly.”

He nodded, lips pressed tight. “I think the breach might’ve come from a mole inside the building. Someone feeding info.”

Your pulse spiked. “Who do you think it is?”

He looked at you carefully. “I haven’t ruled anyone out. Neither has Jo. But everyone’s guilty until proven innocent.”

“It’s inno—”

He held his hand up, “I know what it is.”

You snorted as you looked back down at the file but then suddenly looked back to him. “Hey, did Jo call you at all today on one of the burners?”

He frowned in thought. “No, why?”

Your eyes widened in slight fear, feeling adrenaline pump through your veins. “His phone is on your desk.” Pointing to it with urgency. “He called someone earlier, letting them know the files were missing.”

You felt like the floor shifted under you.

Riki stood up and grabbed the phone, unlocking it as he sifted through it. “Go. Continue, let me do this.”

Then you flipped one last page in the NISHI folder—and your heart stopped.

REDACTED TARGET LIST [photo attached]

R. Nishimura (active)

“Okaasan” (active, unnamed spouse)

Status: Tracking active; no confirmed contact attempts. Maintain passive surveillance.

There was a picture.

Of you.

A candid photo. Leaving your favorite coffee shop. Hair in a bun. Not even looking at the camera.

They knew who you were.

They were watching.

“Oh my fucking…” You whispered as your hands started to shake. 

Riki didn’t look up—yet. He was still going through the burner phone, locked in, muttering something under his breath. But the second your voice cracked, just the edge of that whisper, he froze. Your hands were trembling around the paper, your breath shallow as if the photo alone had stolen the oxygen from your lungs. “They’re watching me, Riki,” you said quietly. “They know. They know who I am.”

That’s when he looked up.

His gaze flicked to your face first—then to the folder in your lap. You didn’t even have to show him. He crossed the room in three strides, dropped the phone without care, and snatched the folder from your lap with steady hands but a murderous edge in his jaw.

He saw it. The image. The note. The label: “Okaasan – Active, unnamed spouse.”

Your face. Your fucking face. On a watch list.

Riki’s breathing changed.

Not heavy. Not loud.

But measured. Controlled. The kind of breathing someone does right before they explode.

“No contact attempts,” he read aloud, barely above a whisper. “Passive surveillance. Maintain.” His jaw flexed once. Twice. “That means they’ve been watching. But not enough to tip me off. Or you.” You still couldn’t speak. Your mind was spiraling, thinking back—every time you thought someone was staring at you too long in the coffee shop. Every car that took a little too long to pull away. The time your key fob didn’t register on the first try and you swore you saw someone standing at the edge of the parking lot.

You knew. Felt it more than anything.

Riki stepped back, slowly. “You’re done,” he said, coldly.

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re done with this.” He gestured to the papers—everything. “I don’t want you involved anymore.”

“No—Riki—”

“I said you’re done.”

His voice wasn’t raised, but it was final.

You stood, breath catching again—not out of fear this time, but out of frustration. “You can’t just—”

“I can, and I will.” He looked at you, eyes flashing with something deeper than anger. “They put you on a list. A list with my name. They put a target on your back for being married to me.”

“You said you’d pull me out if I couldn’t handle it. I can and—”

“No. You said that,” he bit out. “Thank you so much for your interpretation of how you think this works. But I’m telling you now, sweetheart. You’re finished.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling rapidly. “So what, you’re just gonna hide me away like a secret? Lock me in the house?”

“If I have to,” he said without hesitation. “I’d rather you hate me than end up in a morgue. You think I give a fuck about being the bad guy in your story if it keeps you alive?”

And for the first time, you realized—he wasn’t just angry.

He was scared.

Riki Nishimura, the man who ran empires with a flick of his fingers, the one who made people disappear without batting an eye—was looking at you like he had already lost you. Like he was trying to stop the bleeding before the wound even opened.

And you didn’t know whether to fight him or fall apart.

—

Within the next hour, Riki sent you home. 

No yelling. No begging. No stomping down the hallway with your shoes in hand like you wanted to. Just a tight-lipped goodbye, a long look that said please don’t fight me on this, and the subtle pressure of his hand on the small of your back as he walked you to the elevator. Kissing your cheeks and temple as he guided you.

“I’ll be home later, I love you.” he said, eyes fixed on the elevator door as it closed, locking you in. Locking you out.

You didn’t say anything. You just nodded, chewing the inside of your cheek like it’d keep your heart from leaping up and making a scene.

And now here you are.

In the house. Your house. His too. That same massive, almost-too-silent house where the floors were spotless, the air always smelled faintly of clean linen and sandalwood, and the fridge was somehow always stocked but never truly full. You hadn’t even changed clothes. You hadn’t moved much. Just sat on the edge of the bed for a while, fingers interlaced, something so mundane like Riki’s silver watch still on the nightstand like it might grow teeth.

Because it could’ve been anyone.

Anyone watching you. Anyone taking that photo.

You didn’t even realize you’d started crying until you saw the wet spot on your blouse. And then more tears followed—not because you were scared. But because he had known. About the business. The threats. The danger.

And he kept you out of it. You were so proud. Marching into lounges. Reading body language. Toying with people like you were ten steps ahead. But the whole time, you were in a different game.

A different arena.

You weren’t playing chess. You were the queen piece. And someone had started planning your checkmate.

You wiped your face and reached for your phone.

Nothing from Riki yet. Of course. He needed time. To clean up. To cover tracks. To burn things down.

You opened your texts anyway. Clicked on the chat.

thorn in my side: i’m home

i love you, baby

Message delivered. No reply yet.

You stared at the phone until the screen went dark.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence in your house didn’t feel safe. It felt like someone else might be listening too.

—

Riki came home and the house was equally as silent. 

He’d come home to a quiet home almost everyday, nothing new. Most times you were in the bath, in the living room buried in a book, or on a good day—you’d already be in bed. And by this time, he’d shower before he came to greet you but the weird thing about being with someone for so long—you feel them everywhere. Your warmth, your mood, he feels it all. 

But this time he felt nothing. 

Immediately his mood dampened, the intuition that he had relied on so heavily over the last twenty-four years of his life already letting him know something was amiss. “Baby?” He called out as he slipped his shoes off. 

No response. 

He smacked his teeth, “My goodness, I shouldn’t have gotten her those fucking headphones.” He placed his jacket on the coat rack and skimmed the area. Your keys were by the door, as usual. The sweater you wore today, okay fine. Your Mary Janes—your favorite shoes that he always tripped over and threatened to throw away. Huh.

Again, that strange nagging feeling in Riki just never went away. He padded over to the kitchen, seeing dinner spread out on the table. Wrapped up and ready for yours and Riki’s consumption, there was a serving taken out of it which meant you ate something. Good.

But you weren’t in the kitchen. And you weren’t in the living room.

The staff not being around makes sense, he sent them home for the day. Clara wanted to spend time with her son so who was he to tell her no? 

And now, the fucking office that he had built with his own hands—empty.

This house was huge, humongous—but there would’ve been some way you heard him already.

He called your name firmly. Riki never says your name, that’s like the rule. Still, no response. He calls your phone because knowing you—it’s never too far. Straight to voicemail. 

“What the fuck.” Riki Nishimura doesn’t panic—but something cold and venomous slithered up his spine as he stood in the middle of that pristine kitchen as he now made his way back there, fists clenched, jaw ticking.

And then.

Then he saw the note.

Sitting prettily on the marble counter—in a little nook. Surprised he had missed it before. 

Simple. Clean. In all capital letters.

YOU WANTED HER OUT. SO WE TOOK HER OUT.

And on the back of the note was a photo of you. Gagged, tearful eyes, messy hair, scratched face. You had put up a fight that was for sure, it wouldn’t be you if you didn’t. 

The marble counter shattered first.

He slammed his fists down, hard enough to crack the stone. The note crumpled beneath him as he shouted, loud and hoarse, like it had been ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.

“FUCK!”

Everything after that was instinct. A storm. A full-blown implosion. He threw the nearest chair across the room. It smashed into the wall with a satisfying crack, splintering on impact. Plates followed next, flying off the table with a feral sweep of his arm. Food hit the cabinets, the fridge, the floor. A glass shattered under his heel. He didn’t even flinch.

“I told her to go home!” he roared. “I sent her home!”

His eyes were wild. Drenched in something between fear and fury. The kind of look no one ever saw and lived to describe.

He yanked open drawers. Punched the fridge. Tore the cabinet door clean off the hinge and hurled it across the room. A vase hit the floor and shattered—porcelain flowers slicing across the floor like confetti made of rage.

And then—his voice broke.

“Fuck—fuck, fuck—”

He grabbed the sink with both hands, chest heaving, eyes squeezing shut like maybe, if he tried hard enough, this would all vanish. That the note would disappear. That you’d walk out from your office and ask what the hell happened to the dining room. But all he heard was silence. All he felt was the absence of you. The kind of stillness that only existed in grief. He sank to the floor—only for a second—hands gripping his hair. And then the door creaked open.

Clara opened the door with glee, bags from the nearest arts and crafts store. “Riki—?”

She froze in place.

The kitchen looked like a warzone. Dinner ruined. Furniture destroyed. Her boss—on the floor, shaking, breathing like a wild animal trying to hold in a scream.

She didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t have to.

Because then she saw the note. 

The note.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my goodness.”

Riki slowly stood. There was a line of blood down his knuckles—he hadn’t even noticed. His breathing was low now. Tighter. Like someone was holding his lungs closed.

He didn’t look at her as he spoke.

“Tell everyone to get on the line. Now. I want every runner, every affiliate, every fucking rat with ears in this city looking.”

Clara nodded, frozen.

“If she’s not found by midnight—” He turned to her. Eyes glassy. Voice cold. As he stepped beside her, venom in his eyes as he looked down at her with nothing but truth in his eyes.

“—Everybody’s fucking dying, Clara. You included.”

Clara didn’t say a word. Just nodded, pale as a ghost, and scrambled to grab her phone. Riki didn’t even watch her leave. He turned on his heel and stormed toward his office, blood trailing faintly from his knuckles and dotting the floor like red ink.

He slammed the office door behind him so hard the glass panel trembled.

Without hesitation, he slammed the heel of his palm down on the black switch embedded into the side of his desk—an unmarked button that immediately turned the room red. Not metaphorically. The lights literally shifted into emergency mode, casting the entire office in a crimson hue. The kind of red that let every handler in his operation know: This is DEFCON 1. Life or death. Burn everything if you have to.His jaw clenched so tight you could hear the creak in his teeth. Then he yanked open the bottom drawer, reaching for the sleek matte tablet hidden beneath a stack of decoy files. With a swipe and a facial scan, he opened a security interface. His fingers flew across the screen.

“Tracker,” he muttered under his breath. “C’mon, c’mon…” He clicked into a discreet sub-menu, one labeled ‘PRIVATE ACCESS – VELOMY.’ The screen lit up, pulling a location from a hidden signal.

Riki’s chest stopped moving for a full beat. The blinking dot that represented you was there—active. 

“You’re still wearing the ring,” he whispered to himself. A dark smirk twisted his lips, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “You stubborn little thing…”

That ring. The one he gave you at the altar when he promised to you, his family, and yours that he would love you during your highs and lows. The ring that tethered you to him forever. 

He put a chip in it. Just to be straightforward.

Riki’s paranoia ran so deep that it became difficult for him not to. And funnily enough, he remembers he didn’t tell you that it was in there until your honeymoon. 

You both were lounging on your private beach in front of the newly bought property in the Maldives. Sun setting, breeze flowing through your hair as you both laid on your stomachs. Simply gut-laughing at any and everything, everything was funny at this moment. You’re newlyweds.Riki smiles as he plays with the ends of your hair, twirling the end of a braid. “You know,” he glances down at your left hand. “I’ll be able to find you anywhere now.” His smile settles into something soft, something more than just teasing. “What do you mean?” You tilt your head in confusion. The sun hitting your face at the perfect angle. 

He brought your hand to his lips, kissing the ring. “I put a little locator in your ring.” Riki’s heart raced, using your conjoined hands to cover his mouth as he nervously awaited your reaction. “See? You can’t even tell.” You brought your hand back to inspect the enormous rock and he’s right. You really can’t tell. And you weren’t going to ask why he put it there because you knew why. Again, you knew who you married. Plus you didn’t even have the energy to be mad at him right now. You couldn’t be mad after you just swore to forever with your best friend.

“Okay, but I still need privacy, Riki. I don’t just want to be a—”

He shook his head, “No, no, no. It’s not even activated. I just…in the event that something would happen to you—hopefully that’s never—but it gives me peace of mind that I can always find you, baby.” Riki smiled gently as he carefully caressed your cheek. “Only I can activate it. It just tells me where you’re positioned but it only works if you…” His chest caves slightly as his words tremble at the thought.

“If what?” You placed your hand on his shoulder, holding yourself up on your other arm.

“It only works if you have a pulse.”

“What if I take it off?”

Riki laughs.“You wouldn’t though, and I know you wouldn’t. There’s nothing you do that warrants taking it off.” He shrugs as he lays on his back and pulls you on top of him swiftly. 

You yelp at his almost reflexive motion, putting your hands on his chest to stabilize yourself. “You’re right. But it’s not like someone’s gonna want to snatch me up at the grocery store or something.”

Riki had laughed with you then.

Really laughed—head tilted back, his arms wrapping tight around your waist as if just the idea of losing you was so ridiculous, so farfetched it barely warranted a real thought.

But now?

Now that blinking dot on his screen was the only thing keeping him from collapsing into the marble floor of his office.

His hand hovered over the location map, the tracker still active. Still moving.

You were alive.

That was the only thing keeping the wrath at bay—barely. Because while the dot pulsed, it wasn’t close. It was on the far edge of the city, in one of the zones they rarely used. Industrial. Warehouses. A part of town they had all but erased from operations.

Which meant someone wanted you hidden. Not hurt. Not yet.

Still…the bloodlust was roaring now. In all of his life, he had never felt such an insatiable, primal urge to kill like he did now. It was truly like the spirit of the devil ran through his veins and possessed him. That thirst wasn’t going to be quenched until you were back in his arms. Riki stood from his desk, shoving his chair so hard it crashed against the wall. He pressed the emergency button again—just in case. Red lights flashed once in the corner of the ceiling. His hands moved on autopilot, grabbing his bulletproof vest to put on over his compression shirt, his sidearm, his second piece, and the long black blade he hadn’t used in years. The blade that had started it all. The blade they said made him infamous. The one he swore he’d never need again.

He strapped it to his back. Along with one of the embossed Kaminari guns.

Grabbed the note again from the kitchen and stuffed it in his pocket—not because he needed it, but because he wanted to burn it on whoever sent it. By now, Clara had rallied his top men. Jake was on standby, speaking through the comms with a strained voice—he had been yelling at people relentlessly within the last twenty minutes.

Riki didn’t even look at the others in the room as he walked toward the front entrance, eyes locked on the car waiting just outside.

He paused only once.

To grab a bottle of your favorite perfume.

He sprayed it twice across his collarbone, once across his wrist. Something grounding. Something to carry you with him while he burned everything else down.

As soon as he stepped outside, he made contact with the two security guards meant to get you back here. They stood at the base of the steps—nervous, unsure if they should speak first. Their eyes flicked from the tension in Riki’s jaw to the fine mist of blood still drying across his knuckles.

He didn’t blink as he approached them. “You were supposed to bring her home and ensure she was safe. I gave explicit instructions.” His voice was eerily calm, but it buzzed like a live wire underneath.

“We—we did, sir,” one of them stammered. “She went inside. We locked the door right behind her—”

“I don’t give a fuck what you did!” Riki stepped forward, face to face with the buff man that cowered in the face of his lean figure. “My wife is not in my fucking bedroom because you failed to do your job.” He leaned in now, nose hardly touching his—his cologne and your perfume clashing between their senses.

The other guard interjected, “Sir—”

Before he could utter another word, Riki placed the barrel to his forehead. Squeezing the trigger and letting a metal bullet ripple right through his brain. Watching his body fall to the ground with a thud.

The echo of the gunshot rang out like a death bell across the courtyard. Riki didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. His jaw tightened as he watched the second guard freeze, paralyzed by fear and disbelief. A splatter of red stained the granite steps, and he finally looked down—then calmly wiped the barrel of the gun with the hem of his shirt. No one moved. Not even the wind dared.

“Let this be the part where you realize,” he said slowly, eyes locked on the remaining guard, “that I don’t make idle threats. I don’t give second chances. And I don’t tolerate incompetence.” The man nodded furiously, hands trembling at his sides.

“Good. Now get your shit together and get in the fucking car. If she loses a single hair on her head, I’m putting a bullet in your mouth. Understand me?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Riki exhaled sharply through his nose, holstering his weapon. His knuckles were cracked and bleeding again from how tightly he’d gripped it. It didn’t matter. He turned back toward the house and grabbed your scent once more—letting it wrap around him like armor. The tension in his shoulders didn’t loosen; it hardened. Sharpened. Weaponized.

He climbed into the car.

Clara’s voice came through the comms again: “Riki. We’ve found the tunnel entrance. Sealed off, looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. But the tracker’s pinging beneath it.”

His fingers tapped against his thigh—once, twice—before he answered. “Good. Blow it open.”

“Already on it.”

Riki leaned his head back, eyes half-lidded. “And tell someone—I don’t care who it is—to get rid of what’s-his-name from in front of our door. I don’t want her seeing that when she gets back.”

—

The floor was frigid as ever. To which you didn’t understand, it was springtime. But Earth’s crust wasn’t something you took time to worry about. The left side of your head was throbbing and you were barefoot. Only your white nail polish is visible in this dark room. Your arms were bound to some wooden chair with…you jostled in the chair as best you could. Zip ties. Of course they were zip ties. Your feet too but your mouth wasn’t covered, big mistake on their end. 

You smelt of debris, cinders, and a bit of blood. But none of that mattered, you had to get the fuck out of here despite you not being able to see shit. Before you could concoct some sort of plan, the lights were turned on. Stinging your eyes as your pupils had to adjust to the new sensation. 

“Oh, babygirl. Are you okay? I know it’s been a long day.”

That voice. Sweet. Familiar. The kind that once called you baby while handing you fresh towels. The one that scolded Riki for forgetting to eat. The one you trusted.

Your blood ran like ice. 

“Clara?!”

It didn’t compute at first. Your brain tried to reroute it, convince you that maybe she’d been kidnapped too. Maybe she was checking on you. But then you saw her. Heels clicking across the concrete. Calm. Clean. Untouched.

Her hair was neatly pinned up, her blouse spotless, not a wrinkle in sight. She looked like she just came from brunch—not your kidnapping.

You blinked. “Clara?” you croaked. “What the hell—”

“Shhh.” She crouched down in front of you, cupping your chin like a parent checking a child for fever. “You poor thing. That gash on the head looks awful.”

You were too stunned to move but you quickly snapped out of it and jerked your head out of her grasp. “The fuck is this?”

The older lady stood up straight, towering over your torn figure. “This is retribution,” she gestured around the shithole bunker you were in. You stared up at her, heart pounding so loud it nearly drowned out her words. “Retribution?” you echoed, like your brain was lagging ten seconds behind. “Clara, are you out of your fucking mind?”

She chuckled softly. Not like a villain. Like a teacher. Like a mother. Like someone who believed she had the moral high ground. “Don’t worry, your knight in shining armor is on his way here. Right to where you’re sitting. I can’t wait to inform him of his wonderful test results.”

Clara’s voice lilted like she was presenting a prize at a company banquet—like this wasn’t some underground dungeon and you weren’t zip-tied like a prop in a cautionary tale.

You scoffed, full of disbelief and blood in your mouth. “You’re sick.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said with mock sympathy, “you’re not the first girl who thought she was special.”

She circled you slowly now, her heels echoing through the cold, damp space.

“You think I didn’t know about the tracker in your ring? You think I didn’t let him find you? This is about control, baby. Not chaos. I want him to come. I need him to.”

You snickered, “Yeah well, I like it when he does.” If nothing else, you were great at pissing people off.

Clara paused mid-step.

And then she laughed. But not in amusement—in disbelief. A short, sharp sound, like a knife testing the surface before a deeper plunge.

“You’re really going to joke?” she said, turning toward you slowly. “Tied up like a pig in a butcher’s shop, and you’re making sex jokes. You really think you matter that much?”

You leaned forward as far as the zip ties would allow, blood crusting against your temple and your vision still swimming slightly. But your smirk was solid as a rock.

“He’s killed for less, Clara.”

Her nostrils flared, but she kept her composure. Barely. There was a twitch in her jaw now. You’d landed a hit.

“He loved me first,” she hissed. “He respected me. I built him. I made him.”

“No,” you said calmly, with that lethal kind of clarity only someone truly protected by love can wield. “You trained him. I made him human.”

For a beat, the only sound was the hum of the overhead lights and the crackle of Clara’s rage simmering just below her ribcage.

Then she smiled, too wide.

“Let’s see how human he stays when he finds your body,” she said sweetly, almost like she was offering a bedtime story. But you didn’t flinch. You nodded for her to come closer. Closer. Now your nose was nearing hers. “I fucking dare you to touch me.”

Two of her personal goons come in behind her, standing on either side of the door Riki was due to come in through. Clara’s eyes flickered to the guards like a general surveying her troops—calm, collected, but every muscle ready to snap. She stepped back, smirking like she’d already won some invisible game.

“You’re bold, I’ll give you that,” she said, voice silky but dripping with menace. “But this is my battlefield.”

The two goons cracked their knuckles, eyes cold and hungry, shadows stretching long across the concrete floor. The tension in the room thickened like fog, suffocating and heavy. You kept your breath steady, every nerve screaming fight or flight—but you knew better. The fight wasn’t here. It was coming. And it was coming fast. Outside the heavy steel door, you could almost feel the air shift—the calm before a storm that would shake foundations and burn everything to ash.

Clara glanced toward the door, lips curling.“Tick tock, babe.”

The door exploded inward, steel shrieking on its hinges as Riki stormed through like a bullet—rage crackling in his bones like wildfire.

His eyes locked on you instantly, wide with fury and fear, scanning your face for injury. “Baby—”

“Riki, watch out!” you screamed, voice cracking.

But it was too late.

One goon came at him from the left, the other from behind. Riki ducked, twisted, managed to land a vicious punch to the first one’s jaw—crack—but the second was already swinging with a steel baton, catching him in the ribs with a sickening thud. Riki stumbled, grunting through clenched teeth, his fury barely contained. He went for the blade tucked in his boot—only for a third man, hidden just outside the door, to grab his arm and twist it savagely behind his back. Another punch came flying, this one straight to his jaw. The force knocked him to the floor.

You cried out, struggling against your bindings, your wrists screaming in protest.

Clara watched it all unfold with the elegance of a queen watching gladiators bleed for sport. “Tsk. You boys and your dramatics.”

“Don’t fucking touch him!” you yelled.

They did anyway. Stripping him of every weapon on him—blades, a small pistol, even the tracker cuff on his wrist. Riki didn’t stop fighting, even as they dragged him up and slammed him into the chair beside you. Blood was already trickling down the corner of his mouth, but his glare was wildfire—aimed directly at Clara.

One of the goons zip-tied his hands to the arms of the chair with force, tightening them until his skin burned red.

“I should kill you right now,” Riki growled through grit teeth, eyes trained on Clara like a blade.

She approached slowly, as if savoring his fury. “You’re not in a position to make threats, Riki.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” he snapped. “Touch her again and I swear to God—”

Clara only smiled sweetly. “Swear all you want, son. You’re both right where I want you.”

You turned to look at Riki, both of you battered, bound, but alive.

And somewhere beneath the weight of adrenaline and bruises, your fingers brushed the edge of his chair.

Even now—your pinky searching for his.

He found yours. Linked it. Tight. 

You were still here. And so was he.

Clara sent the men out with a wave of her hand as she pulled up a chair to sit down and face the both of you. After a few moments of silence between both of you, she finally spoke. “Wow, fine couple.”

“Bitch, shut the fuck up.” You spat out, rolling your eyes. “What are we doing here? What do you want? More money? We got that. Status, you have it. What more do you want?!”

The older woman smiled at your state. “I want Riki.”

You turned to Riki, who was so far removed from any place you’ve seen him. Your husband was right next to you but the troubled, anxious boy that he’s done such a good job at hiding was making an appearance. But you didn’t know which version of it was.

He bounced his knee up and down with extreme fervor, so fast that you had hardly even seen it moving. Hunched over, the top of his head facing Clara as he shook his head with his eyes glued shut. Lap dampening as what you could only perceive as angry tears misted his eyes and relentless, incessant thoughts bombarded his brain. Riki’s breath was shallow as ever and you could only hear him mutter threats that stemmed from that same fury. More to himself than anyone in the room.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you.” 

“You’re dead.”

“You fucking—”

“I swear on everything I love, I’m putting you in the fucking dirt.”

His voice cracked beneath the gravel, barely audible through the grind of his teeth. Every muscle in his arms strained against the zip ties, his body trembling like he was trying to hold back an earthquake. The air in the room grew thick, like the moment before a downpour—or an execution. You watched him, heart breaking and raging all at once. You’d never seen Riki like this. Not even close. The man beside you wasn’t your husband—not the one who made silly faces behind menus or kissed your shoulder every time he passed you in the kitchen. This was the version buried deep inside. The one he kept scrubbed clean and locked behind five layers of steel. The version built from years of betrayal and bloodshed. The boy no one ever loved right.

And Clara had dragged him out.

“I want Riki,” she repeated calmly, as if she were choosing an entrée off a menu. “Not the man you married. Not this polished little husband of yours. I want the real him. The one I raised. The one who knows how to destroy.”

“You didn’t raise him,” you snapped. “You groomed him.”

Her lips curled into a faint smile. “Tomato, tomahto.”

“Let her go,” Riki muttered, voice low and vibrating with rage. “Let her go, and I’ll give you what you want.”

You turned your head so fast it nearly gave you whiplash. “Riki—”

He still wouldn’t look at either of you. His shoulders trembled, breaths sharp and quick.

“Just let her go,” he said again, louder this time. “This isn’t her world. She doesn’t belong in it.”

Clara leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “Oh, honey. She entered this world the moment you put that ring on her finger. And now she’s in it until the end.”

Then she leaned forward slightly, that same maternal voice dripping venom: “Tell me, Riki…do you think your daddy would be proud of the little house pet you’ve become?”

That did it.

The room cracked open.

Riki lifted his head—slowly, deliberately—and his eyes found Clara’s with a fire that could level nations.

And for the first time since you met him, you were afraid of your husband.

You interjected quickly, “Seriously. Why are you doing this?”

Riki glanced at you with calmness behind his eyes momentarily, but something about hearing Clara’s voice sent the wrath of the scorned through him. 

“I want my son back.” She hummed as she folded her hands on her lap. 

Your brows furrowed, “He’s not your fucking son.”

Clara’s lips curled into a slow, venomous smile, like she was savoring every drop of poison she was about to pour.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she began, voice dripping with sickly sweetness, “you’ve been living a lie your entire life.”

She stood and paced slowly, every step echoing like a death knell in the cold room. “The woman you thought was your mother? The one who died when you were two? She was nothing but a convenient story.”

Your eyes locked on Riki’s, watching his jaw tighten, his entire body tense like a coiled spring.

Clara stopped just inches from him, voice low and deadly. “I am your mother. Your father’s mistress—the other woman. The one he never wanted you to know about.”

Riki’s fists clenched so tight the veins in his forearms pulsed visibly. “That’s a goddamn lie.”

“Is it?” Clara’s laugh was cold and bitter. “You want the truth? You’re my son, Riki.” She fished in her skirt pocket for a photo of her holding baby Riki as she had just delivered him. 

You swallowed hard, staring at the photo like it was some kind of sick puzzle piece finally clicking into place. The baby in Clara’s arms had the same sharp eyes and yes—the unmistakable mole just below his lips. “I was able to hold you for fifteen minutes before you were taken from me, son.”

His eyes screwed shut, “I’m not your son! I’m your child. I am not your fucking son! Oh my go—baby you better say something before I—” 

“What happened after? Why was Riki taken from you?” You chimed in, in an effort to calm your seething man. 

“Because, I was the mistress. In love with your father, wanted a future with him. But he was married. And…” 

Clara’s voice cracked just a little, the only crack in her otherwise steel mask.

“He made me promise to keep quiet, to stay in the shadows. But when my pregnancy came to light, everything exploded. The wife…she found out.” Her eyes darkened, haunted. “She made sure I lost you—took you away before I could even hold you properly again.” The more you looked at her, the more Riki favored her. The same mole, the same unwavering determination in their eyes. The eyes that can be kind when they want to be. “It was either I disappear from your life completely or I stick around as the help and swear to secrecy. And I couldn’t lose you again, Riki. Do you know how much it hurt me to see you call someone else ‘mama’ for the first two years of your life?” 

“I don’t give a fuck what hurts! It hurts that you had three big ass men jump me. It especially hurt that you had my wife taken from the safety of my fucking house—that I pay for you to live at—and lay a finger on her when you know how much she’s relied on you.” Clara’s eyes glazed over, “But you did too. I was like a mom. You came to me all the time, I was your Claraboo. Remember?” She shrugged as she resigned, tears in her eyes. “When Fumiko died, I thought it was a blessing in disguise.” She stood up. “But then you found her!” She gestured to you with unadulterated disgust. “Saying how great she was, wanting advice on how to dress for dates. So I thought, ‘Okay, this is his first time really taking someone seriously, it’s fleeting. No big deal.’ But then she started coming around. Family dinners, game nights. Then it became her spending the day, then sleepovers, then hearing you two go at it like rabbits when you thought no one could hear you. Fucking disgusting.” She snarled. 

You looked at Riki from the corner of your eye, as did he. Both of you purse your lips to refrain from laughter during this serious moment. Lives are at stake here. “Then, you got on one knee, Riki. At twenty-three, just throwing your best years away for one girl. And I kept thinking, ‘why does my son keep being taken from me? Why, why, fucking why?!” She grabbed one Riki’s pistol from a nearby table and whipped you with it. 

The crack of metal against your cheekbone rang out louder than your gasp. Your head whipped to the side, pain blooming instantly along your jaw, your vision fracturing for a second. But you didn’t scream. You didn’t give her that.

Riki did.

“NO!” His chair thrashed violently beneath him, muscles flexing so hard the wood creaked. “Don’t you fucking touch her! Clara, I will fucking gut you—DO YOU HEAR ME?!” His voice cracked with fury, something animalistic and unhinged bubbling up from his core.

You spat blood, your lip split open now, and still you turned to Clara and hissed, “You’re not a mother. You’re just some bitter bitch who couldn’t let go.” Clara’s hand trembled around the gun as she stepped back, her mask cracking further. “I raised him. I wiped his tears. I was the only one who gave a damn when he cried himself to sleep when his dad would be too hard on him. And you? You think your soft little hands and pretty smile can compare to that?”

Riki had stopped shaking. Now he was still—dangerously still. “You’re right,” he muttered. “You did raise me. Which is exactly why I know how to destroy you.”

Clara froze.

“You forget who you trained, Clara,” he said lowly. “You made me this way. You taught me how to survive. How to outsmart. How to kill.” And then he smiled. Sharp. Unforgiving. Blood drying on his lip.

“So congratulations,” Riki growled. “You just signed your own fucking death certificate. Maybe I really am your son.”

Clara blinked, eyes glassy. The gun trembled again in her hand. And then she raised it. But it wasn’t pointed at you. 

It was aimed at herself. 

You froze. So did Riki.

Clara’s finger hovered over the trigger, her eyes blank. “If I can’t have you,” she said softly, voice almost childlike, “then nobody will. Not her. Not the world. Not even you.”

“No.” Your voice dropped, pleading “Put the gun down.”

Riki sighed, looking down and mumbling to himself. “Damn bitch let me do the shit myself at least.” Rolling his eyes, knowing only you heard him and you refused to laugh at this moment. You clenched your jaw to keep the smile from betraying you, even as the absurdity of Riki’s comment floated in the air like a cracked window letting in too much cold. Clara’s hands trembled now. The gun shook between her fingers, and though it was aimed at her own temple, the tension in the room wrapped around all three of you like barbed wire.

“You think this is funny?” Clara snapped, eyes darting between you and Riki. “I’m baring my soul, and you’re making jokes?”

“Clara,” you said gently, the steel in your voice only thinly veiled by the concern beneath. “This isn’t the answer.”

“I gave up everything,” she whispered. “Everything. For him. For a son who looks at me like I’m a stranger—like I’m some monster.”

“You are some monster,” Riki muttered under his breath again, then louder, “but we don’t need a whole song and dance about it. Just...step away from the trigger, Broadway.”

You shot him a look this time. “Riki, please.”

Clara’s expression fractured—like a mirror that had been held together too long by spite alone. “I could’ve been someone,” she whispered, lip trembling. “I could’ve had a life with your father. With you. But I was the side note. The servant. Claraboo. Never mom.” Her voice broke. “You don’t understand what it’s like to watch someone else raise your baby. To be called help by the child you gave birth to.”

Silence. Then—

“I’m sorry,” Riki said quietly.

Clara froze.

“I’m sorry you went through that,” he continued, gaze steady. “I’m sorry you didn’t get the life you wanted. I’m sorry no one protected you when you needed it most. But this—” he nodded toward the gun, “—isn’t gonna bring any of that back.”

You took a breath. “Please,” you added. “Don’t make us leave here with another scar.”

You heard a low snap from your left where Riki was sitting, your eyes flitted that way. He had made free of the ties. Then, with every ounce of strength in his legs, jutted his calves out to free his legs. He slowly rose to his full height. Clara’s sobs only intensified, shaking as her eyes squeezed shut and pumped out tears. Her breathing shallow as she trembled, hardly able to even line the barrel up with her chin anymore. She pointed the gun at him mindlessly. Riki slowly edged to her, “Clara…please.” He nodded, “give it to me. I have a vest on, and I’m not going to let you do something you’ll regret.” His voice was low, steady—like a lifeline in the dark. Clara’s trembling hands faltered, the gun wobbled, and then, with a choked sob, she dropped it. The metallic clatter echoed in the cold room as it hit the floor.

You exhaled, relief crashing over you like a wave.

Riki quickly swooped up the gun as Clara plopped down on the chair in complete dejection. She looked up at her son, “are you going to kill me?”

He sighed, “I am,” he nodded with another smile he tried to smother.

She huffed out a laugh despite her tears and mucus, because if she taught Riki anything—it was that sometimes, survival meant knowing when to play the long game.

“Not today, son,” she whispered, voice raw but steady. “You’re smarter than me. You’ll make sure I pay in ways that cut deeper than a bullet ever could.”

Riki’s eyes flickered—half respect, half warning. “I’ll make sure you regret every breath you take until then.”

She nodded, somehow at peace with her fate. “Plus, if it makes you feel better—there was no real leak. I just used Yuna, Jo, and Sohee as pawns. Just distractions when I knew that Ms. Prada—” She nodded to you.

“Chanel.” You and Riki corrected simultaneously.

“...Whatever. But I knew that she was itching to get involved, I made you hyper aware of a leak. When there wasn’t anything to find. A perfect smokescreen to send you chasing ghosts while I set the real trap.” 

“So how does that explain their weird behavior?” You leaned forward despite your restraints. 

The older woman shrugs, “Sometimes people tell on themselves. But I did tell Jo to keep it from you. Said that you had other obligations and that if anyone got in the way you’d deal with them.”

Riki frowned, “Oh that pisses me off,” he pointed the gun lower and shot her kneecap. Eliciting a blood-curdling scream from the elder.

“Riki!” You yell, eyes wide as he just looks at you with humor in his eyes. “What’s wrong with you?!”

He waves you off, “Sorry,” he holsters his gun as he comes up behind you to free you. In oh-so-convenient timing, here comes Riki’s men down the bunker and into the room

The heavy metal door groaned open, and a squad of Riki’s men flooded in, their faces grim but ready. Flashlights cut through the dimness, illuminating the mess Clara had made trying to stall for time.

Riki didn’t waste a second—he tugged sharply at the zip ties binding your wrists, his hands steady but fierce. “You okay?” His voice was low, but laced with raw urgency.

You nodded, heart still hammering, eyes locked on Clara who was now clutching her injured knee, glaring daggers despite the pain. “Where were they?”

“The perimeter, you really thought I came solo?” He snickered, “I’m impulsive, not stupid.”

Riki’s men quickly secured the perimeter, eyes scanning every shadow. One of them whispered into a radio, “Target secured. Extraction ready.”

Riki glanced back at you, his expression softening just a fraction. “You’re safe now. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

You exhaled, relief flooding through you even as adrenaline kept you wired. Riki called out to all of them in the room as well as on the walkie-talkie he grabbed from one of the men. “Kobun! Clean up the mess. No loose ends. Take the old lady to the infirmary—alive. She’s got answers we’ll need later.”

He turned to you, voice low and steady, “You did good. Too good.” He brushed a stray hair from your face, the heat of his touch grounding you after the chaos. As the team moved efficiently, Riki’s eyes locked with yours—fierce, protective, and full of unspoken promises.

You smiled, “How did you break free?” 

Riki smirked, the tension easing just a fraction. He opened his mouth and lifted his tongue to reveal a tiny razor, glinting silver against the dark warmth of his mouth.

Your eyes widened. “You kept that in your mouth? What if you cut yourself?”

He shrugged, “Tongue is the fastest healing muscle. Plus, I’ve done it enough times to not get hurt.”

You blinked, “That’s not comforting.”

He took it out of his mouth and tossed it to the ground. “There. Let’s go home.” 

—

Later that night

—

The dust had settled a bit, the kitchen was still destroyed but that was tomorrow’s problem. You and Riki had been patched up on the way here. The moonlight spilled through the blackout curtains, painting silver streaks across the sheets—cold and unforgiving. Riki moved around the room with his usual quiet precision, the soft click of his boots replaced by the muted sound of him slipping out of his clothes. You didn’t say a word. Didn’t even flinch when he pulled back the covers and settled beside you in just his briefs. He liked sleeping this way.

But you didn’t let it simmer, you sat up. “Are you okay, my love?” You whispered in the still room—the still house.“Mhm, just another day at work.” He yawned as he turned to face you with a gentle smile. But you didn’t buy it. He always did this so he could be a big-bad-strong boyfriend, now he’s a big-bad-strong husband. 

“Riki, seriously?” You tilt your head in concern as you run your hand through his freshly washed hair.

He nodded, “Babe-asaurus, I’m cool as a cucumber.” 

You snorted softly, the nickname breaking through the tension like a warm breeze. “Cool as a cucumber? More like a slightly burnt pickle after today.” He chuckled, reaching out to tuck a stray strand behind your ear. “Yeah, maybe a little crispy around the edges. But I’m here. And you’re safe. That’s what matters.”

You purse your lips, you knew what he was doing. But you didn’t pry, you never liked to. “I love you.”

He sat up, pulling you in for a hug as he kissed your lips gently. “I love you more. You know I do.”

“I know,” You kissed his bare collarbone, nuzzling his smooth skin courtesy of the body scrub you made him use. 

“Let’s sleep, yeah?” He laid down on the smooth, clean linen.

You nodded against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat sync with your own. “Yeah. Sleep sounds good.”

—

But for some reason, cuddling wasn’t on the agenda. Subconsciously, you two had parted—but it wouldn’t be you or him if you didn’t touch at least. But somehow, you felt the bed tremble a bit—shaking and quivering in the midst of the silence of the room. You sat up, turning around with furrowed brows. Feeling a little groggy from the meds you were given but still cognizant enough to know what was happening around you. 

And with that, your husband is lying down with his back turned to you, on his right side. Chest caving in, breath shallow. You blinked, confusion curling into worry. That tremble wasn’t just from the meds—it was something else. Something deeper.

Riki’s shoulders shook slightly, the kind of subtle, silent tremor that only showed when no one was watching. Your heart tightened. The big-bad-strong husband was cracked open and raw underneath the armor you both pretended was unbreakable.

You reached out tentatively, fingertips brushing the edge of his arm. Before you could open your mouth, he turned around and fell right into your arms. Wrapping his arms tightly around you as he buried his face into your neck. Letting a sea of twenty-four years worth of pollution fall down your neck and onto your chest. 

Finally the dam broke, the iron curtain. The wall of stoicism was no more.

And this one time, you said nothing. You let him have it.

His bare skin pressed hot against yours, every tremble shaking through the thin sheets. The cold night air met the heat of his body, exposed and raw in nothing but his briefs—the armor stripped away, leaving only a man unraveling.

You felt the wetness against your neck before you saw it—the slick, hot tears silently tracing down his cheeks, the first you’d ever seen. His breaths hitched violently, chest rising and falling in ragged waves, his shoulders heaving with a grief he’d never let surface before.

He buried his face deeper, clinging to you like you were the last piece of solid ground. Your fingers trembled as they traced the curve of his spine, as if trying to stitch together the pieces of a broken man. You held your love through the quiet like you promised—the good, the bad, the ugly. And this was the worst of it and even then you’d rather die than give it up. Give him up.

You rubbed his back as you scooted back to lie down. Letting him put half of his weight on you as his grip didn’t relent. Not that you wanted it to. Your cold hands pressed against his warm body in effort to cool him down. But you couldn’t as seeing the strongest man in your life was at his weakest.

Tears pooled in your eyes.

You kissed the crown of his head, silent and steady—a quiet promise without words. The night held you both close, broken but unbroken, fragile yet fierce. And in that stillness, you understood something true: love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just holding on when everything else falls apart.

And you married a yakuza, but most importantly you married a man who lets you see the cracks—and still chooses to stay.

fin.

Copyright: © zorange13. 2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, copy, or distribute without permission.

[arclviie]

Everyone, I’m finally legal. 🤓☝🏻

[arclviie]

My finals start tomorrow :,) kinda nervous ngl… i just can’t wait to be done !

[arclviie]

STOP SLEEPING ON THIS GIRL’S TALENT FR !!!

P: PsycopathArtist!Ni-ki X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Dark Themes, Obsession, Psychological Manipulation, Isolation, Stalking, Artistic Objectification, Voyeuristic Undertones, Implied Murder, Body Horror, Body Worship, Suggestive Content, Drug Use, Slight Manhandling, Possessiveness, Power Imbalance, Noncon turned Dubcon, Humiliation & Degradation, Choking, Chasing, Emotional Coercion? Dead Dove: Do Not Eat!!

Synopsis: Getting accepted as the assistant to Ni-ki, the world’s most brilliant and reclusive artist, was the opportunity of a lifetime. But Ni-ki isn’t what you imagined. Cold. Attentive. The longer you stay, the more the outside world seems to disappear. Then you find the secret behind his hauntingly lifelike sculptures. The truth about his upcoming masterpiece. And now he’s not going to let his muse go. Not when you were always meant to be his.

Wordcount: 16,2k

a/n: Read at your own discretion!! (Requested by @arclviie & following the legacy of @faeyun brilliant sunghoons fic <3) Reblogs and comments are highly valued!

now playing: teeth by 5 seconds of summer | control by halsey | flesh by simon curtis

Since you were a child, you had always been drawn to the world of art, anything poetic, beautiful, or hauntingly expressive felt like home. You didn’t just enjoy it, you lived for it. Art wasn’t just a hobby, it was the path you chose, the identity you built. You dreamed of making a name for yourself, of having your work admired, remembered. But reality came fast — the art world was ruthless. Without the right connections, talent alone wasn't enough. So when you graduated from art school, hungry and hopeful, you didn’t hesitate to send your resume to every renowned artist you could find, desperate for a foot in the door.

With your flawless grades and growing portfolio, you received a handful of positive responses from established artists — some even eager to have you on board. It felt validating, thrilling even. But none of them quite compared to the letter that changed everything.

You hadn’t expected anything from Nishimura Riki.

You’d sent your resume to him half as a joke. He was a legend. A sculptor so brilliant and enigmatic that even critics tread carefully when speaking his name. Wealthy. Respected. A little feared. His works stirred controversy and awe in equal measure, and yet… he was a ghost to the public. Reclusive. Unreachable. He lived in seclusion behind the high iron gates of his estate, rarely seen, never interviewed.

So when his personal letter arrived — sealed, formal, and stamped with an elegant wax insignia, your were shocked.

An acceptance.

No interview. No phone call. Just a single line written in clean, precise ink: “You’ll begin at once. Instructions follow.”

You didn’t hesitate. The other offers were discarded without a second glance. This was Ni-ki. And if this was the door, you were already stepping through it.

It all happened fast after that. A black car arrived the next morning, exactly at 10:00 a.m., just like the instructions had said. The driver did not speak to you, no music was turned on. Just silence.

You watched quietly as the cities and endless stretches of forest and fog blurred past. The road wound like a ribbon of silence, until eventually, through the trees, you spotted it, wrought-iron gates taller than any you'd seen before, guarding the entrance to a grand, grey manor that looked more like a mausoleum than a home.

When the gates opened for you, it felt like a one-way passage. Like once you were in, you weren’t meant to leave.

Ni-ki didn’t greet you at the door. Instead, one of his staff, quiet, pale, and tight-lipped led you inside with a nod. The halls were filled with sculptures. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. All unnervingly lifelike. So much so that you could have sworn some of them were breathing.

You didn’t see him until hours later.

He appeared like a shadow, tall, graceful, wearing black like it was stitched to his skin. His gaze landed on you like a blade. He said nothing at first. Just studied you, like he was deciding whether to speak or sculpt.

“You’re the new assistant,” he said at last, voice smooth and cold as polished stone. Not a question. A confirmation. You nodded hesitantly.

He stepped closer — not rushed, but with a kind of slow purpose, like every movement was deliberate, choreographed.

“I don’t repeat myself,” he said. “You’ll listen. You’ll obey. You’ll keep quiet when told. Do that, and you’ll be useful to me.” Then, a pause. His eyes flicked down, then back up. “You’ll also stay on the east wing. Never the west. Understood?”

You tried to ask what was in the west wing, your curiosity nearly slipping out but his gaze cut the thought short.

“Questions waste time,” he said flatly. “And I don’t waste time.” With that, he turned and walked away, coat sweeping the floor like a shadow with its own life. You were left in the grand hallway, silent marble figures watching you from every corner. Their expressions were delicate. Too human. Too knowing.

You kept walkling around the manor, unsure if you were exploring or being quietly swallowed whole. The corridors twisted like they had no end, each lined with door after door, leading to God knows where. Some were locked, others slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of dim rooms with furniture or canvases.

There were sculptures tucked into every corner — some posed like they’d just turned their heads to look at you, others mid-motion, hands reaching for something unseen. Their details were so precise it felt like if you blinked, they’d move.

The walls were painted in deep tones of charcoal and wine, and though everything was pristine, (not a single speck of dust, not even a cobweb) the air felt heavy, like it had been holding its breath for years.

You passed paintings, too. Some abstract, a few were portraits, faces you didn’t recognize, but something about their eyes made you pause. A few looked young.

You hadn’t seen anyone since Ni-ki disappeared down the hall. Not since the silent staff member greeted you. Not another soul.

So when you inevitably got lost — which you knew had to happen in a place like this — there was no one to ask. The silence was total. Swallowing. The only sound was your footsteps, echoing too loudly on the polished floors.

You started opening doors — only the ones that weren’t locked. Room after room, each stranger than the last. Some were filled with blank canvases stacked against the walls, others with shelves of anatomy books and jars of charcoal, brushes, broken tools. One room had mirrors on every wall, all covered in sheer cloth. Another had a single chair in the center, surrounded by sketches scattered across the floor. But the more you looked at them, the more familiar they seemed.

You weren’t sure why it unsettled you so deeply.

But none of the doors led to the bedroom the staff had told you would be yours during your stay. And the longer you wandered, the more the corridors began to blur together, same wallpaper, same carved sconces, same hollow-eyed sculptures watching your every step.

Your skin began to prickle. As if the house was... aware of you. Rearranging itself. Making it harder to leave.

You tried to retrace your steps, but nothing looked the same anymore. The light felt dimmer. Your heartbeat a little too loud. You weren’t panicking — not yet — but something in your chest tightened with every wrong turn.

Then, at the end of yet another unfamiliar corridor you finally saw movement, the first sign of life since you’d arrived.

A figure stood quietly in the corner, dusting one of the many sculptures that lined the halls. They moved slowly, carefully, like touching something sacred. It was a woman — older, dressed in simple black, hair pulled into a tight braid.

Relief crashed over you, sharp and sudden. You rushed toward her, careful not to startle.

“Excuse me— I… I think I’m lost,” you said, voice slightly breathless.

She looked up, and the moment her eyes met yours, something about her expression made you falter. Not unkind. But cautious. Almost… apologetic.

“The house is easy to lose yourself in,” she said softly, barely above a whisper. Her voice was accented, gentle. “It does that. Especially to new ones.”

You weren’t sure what she meant by that, but before you could ask, she was already turning. “This way.” she said, beckoning silently with a nod of her head.

You followed, almost too quickly, desperate for the safety of something familiar. As you walked behind her, you glanced at the sculpture she had been dusting — a young man, mouth parted, eyes mournful. So lifelike. Too lifelike.

You followed the woman in silence, her footsteps nearly soundless against the long stretch of polished floors. The manor didn’t seem as cold with her leading the way, but the halls were still too quiet, too still.

After a few winding staircases and corridors that all looked exactly the same, she finally stopped at a tall wooden door with a brass handle.

“This is yours,” she said simply, then turned without another word, vanishing down the hallway before you could even thank her.

You stood there for a second, hesitant, almost unsure if you were dreaming. But then you opened the door, and the tightness in your chest eased.

Your suitcases were there, untouched, exactly where you'd left them that morning. The room was modest compared to the rest of the manor, but warm in its own way. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and shut the door behind you, locking it out of instinct.

The next hour passed in quiet relief. You unpacked slowly, taking your time while folding clothes into drawers, placing your sketchbooks on the desk. You even lit one of the little candles set beside the window, its flame dancing gently in the fading light.

And yet something lingered.

A faint feeling, like you were being watched, even though the door was locked and the curtains drawn. You chalked it up to exhaustion, nerves, and the strangeness of the day.

If only you’d looked a little closer. If only you’d paid attention to the massive painting hanging directly across from your bed.

At first glance, it was beautiful — dark and tragic. A man, draped in shadow, cradling a limp woman in his arms. Her head rested against his chest, her hair flowing like ink down his lap. It seemed romantic in a haunting sort of way, perfectly fitting for the manor's unsettling charm.

You didn’t question it. Just another piece of Ni-ki’s moody, masterful collection. But what you didn’t see was the truth just beneath the paint.

That the eye of the man in the portrait — the one shaded just enough to seem still — shifted. Only slightly. Just enough to blink.

If you had stood close enough, long enough, you might have noticed the faintest shimmer of reflection in that one painted eye. The way it followed you. Watched as you unpacked, as you wandered around the room barefoot, brushing your hair back from your face.

And behind that canvas, carefully cut into the plaster wall, was a small peephole. Perfectly placed. Perfectly hidden.

A narrow tunnel carved between the walls, just wide enough for someone to stand and watch. It smelled of dust and old wood, the scent of age clinging to the dark. Faint footsteps echoed now and then through its length, soft as breath, careful as hands tracing silk.

Still as a statue. Patient as death.

Ni-ki watched as you moved through the room unaware, touching things that now belonged to him simply because they had touched you. Your hands brushing over the fabric of the bedspread. Your body curling beneath the sheets. The way you chewed your lip when reading the instructions left on the desk.

You weren’t his assistant yet. Not really. You were still a visitor in the manor, naive and bright-eyed, thinking you’d been chosen for your resume.

But that wasn’t why he picked you.

He watched you brush your hair in the mirror, the way your fingers lingered at your throat when you were thinking. Watched as you changed clothes, unaware of how closely your silhouette was being memorized.

You hadn’t seen his private studio yet.

The one below the manor, hidden below locked floorboards and layers of lies. No one was allowed down there.

In fact, no one even knew it existed. Not the house staff, not the few art world elites who dared visit him in person. The studio upstairs — the one filled with scattered tools, a few unfinished sculptures, and just enough mess to look lived-in was a performance. A decoy.

His real studio was underground. A room kept cold on purpose, to preserve the materials. To keep things from decaying.

That was where his truest work began. Where obsession took form and marble met madness. And there, on a long wooden table stained with clay, laid the first sketches of his next masterpiece.

He had to perfect it. Perfect the lines. The shadows. The smallest, most delicate curves.

Eventually, you were called to dinner.

A quiet knock at your door startled you, and a soft-spoken staff member bowed politely before leading you down another winding corridor. The manor was endless, a maze of oil paintings, velvet-draped windows, and antique sconces that bathed everything in amber light.

When the grand dining room doors opened, the scent of roasted meats, herbs, and freshly baked bread washed over you like warmth after a long chill. The table was long. Ornate. Meant to seat a dozen, at least but only two places were set. One at each end. A strange, dramatic symmetry.

Ni-ki was already seated at the far end, his eyes lifted the moment you stepped inside, sharp and unreadable but they softened, just slightly, as they landed on you.

Then, to your surprise, he stood. A small, almost ritualistic gesture quiet respect, or something older. It made your breath catch.

You approached, hesitant and took your seat. The chair beneath you was velvet-lined, too comfortable. Your place setting was made of real silver.

“You finding everything satisfactory?” he asked, voice smooth like poured ink.

You nodded, unsure what to say. Unsure why your chest felt tight despite the warmth, the food, the civility of it all.

He sat again with a subtle motion, fingers folding neatly over the linen napkin beside his plate. His posture was perfect. Not rigid but sculpted, like the rest of him.

Then he smiled, faintly. “I trust you will sleep well.”

You forced a polite smile, reaching for the water. “As well as I could in a place like this.”

His head tilted, just slightly. “You’ll get used to it.”

After dinner, you excused yourself politely, offering Ni-ki a small nod of thanks before the same quiet staff member appeared at your side once more. Without a word, they led you back through the hushed corridors, your footsteps softened by thick rugs and velvet drapes that whispered as you passed.

When you reached your room. The staff bowed once, murmured a quiet, “Good night,” and disappeared down the hall like smoke.

You closed the door behind you and locked it with a soft click, not out of fear, you told yourself, just habit. The manor was old, unfamiliar. It made sense to take precautions.

The room looked the same as earlier. Lavishly furnished. Cold in a way no fire could chase away. That massive painting still hung on the wall across from your bed, its shadowy figures half-swallowed by the dim lighting. You didn’t look at it for long.

Changing into your pyjamas, you crawled under the heavy silk sheets. The bed was enormous, too soft, like sleeping in the center of a storm cloud. You pulled the covers up to your chin, letting your tired body sink into the warmth.

The silence pressed in, thick and absolute. But you were too exhausted to care.

Your thoughts faded — blurry shapes of dinner, of Ni-ki’s eyes, of the way his gaze lingered for a second too long on your mouth when you smiled. You didn’t see the shadow behind the wall shift. Didn’t hear the faintest creak of a floorboard. Didn’t notice the softest exhale from behind the door.

You only slept. Peaceful. Dreaming. Unaware. Breathing slow. Deep. Lost in sleep.

You didn’t hear the faint sound of the lock turning—not picked, but unlocked with a key that was never meant to be duplicated.

Didn’t stir when the door creaked open, just wide enough for a figure to slip in and disappear into the shadows of your room.

He moved like a ghost. Silent. Barefoot. Dressed in black that clung to him like a second skin. Ni-ki stood at the edge of the bed, watching you.

His eyes swept over you slowly, drinking in every detail — the way your lips parted with your breath, the delicate curve of your waist under the silk sheets, the way your hair had fanned out across the pillow like something from a painting.

He knelt beside the bed. Close. Too close. And with a touch so light it barely existed, his fingers hovered above your skin. A ghost of a trace. Along your arm. The curve of your shoulder. The edge of your jaw.

Memorizing. Mapping.

No sketch, no photo, no stolen glance could compare to this, to being right here, with you soft and vulnerable and his.

You shifted slightly, and he froze, breath caught.

But you didn’t wake.

He exhaled, slow and quiet.

He stood silently, casting one last look over you, eyes burning with something far too deep to name.

Then he turned, soundless as shadow, and vanished back into the darkness, the door clicking shut behind him.

You didn’t officially start as Ni-ki’s assistant until a whole week later.

Your tasks were simple — almost mundane for someone who had just landed a position under the most elusive artist in the world. You spent your mornings organizing scattered charcoal pencils and sketchbooks in his office, which somehow always felt untouched despite being full of things. You dusted the surfaces, replaced dulled blades and dried brushes, and signed off on the regular clay deliveries that arrived in massive crates.

Occasionally, you’d have to run into town to pick up special art supplies — imported pigments, rare resins, the kind of materials only someone like Ni-ki would use without blinking at the price. You never saw where most of it ended up. It disappeared somewhere within the manor’s locked corners.

In the evenings, you’d help the staff clean up after dinner, gathering the silverware and folding linen napkins with shaking hands not from fear, necessarily, but from how cold Ni-ki’s eyes could be across the table. Always watching, always polite, never lingering long enough to accuse.

You also began managing what few appointments he allowed. Rare, elite visitors — usually high-end artists or gallery curators — who came for private viewings. Most stayed for no more than an hour. None were ever allowed beyond the guest wing.

You were starstruck at first. Some of the artists were people you had studied in school, people whose work hung in the very museums you once dreamed of visiting. They shook your hand, complimented your diligence, even gave you autographs when you shyly asked. You kept them all tucked in a notebook, a small but glittering consolation for your strange new reality.

But even with the thrill of recognition, there was one glaring truth: You rarely saw Ni-ki. Only during dinner.

He didn’t appear at breakfast — not once — and the staff always claimed he was “working” or “resting” depending on the time of day. No one questioned it. No one even searched for him.

It was like he wasn’t part of the house at all — just a presence that appeared and vanished just like that.

And that made you watch the shadows just a little more closely. Listen for footsteps that weren’t there. Lock your door a little earlier each night. Even if you didn’t want to admit why.

So you didn’t expect it — not at all — when Ni-ki suddenly appeared from around the corner and stepped directly into your path. You had been on your way to the library, arms full of books you intended to study, mind elsewhere. His sudden presence was like slamming into a wall of ice.

You stopped just short of crashing into him, a startled breath escaping your lips as your body jerked to a halt. Your nose had nearly brushed his chest.

His height always caught you off guard. His gaze dropped to you — cool, unreadable — and he didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the near-collision.

“I need your help,” he said calmly, voice low and even. “To model.”

You blinked up at him, confused. “Model?”

He didn’t elaborate. Just turned and began walking without another word, fully expecting you to follow.

You hesitated for a heartbeat, your mind catching up with the moment. He wanted you to model for him? He’d never asked before, never even hinted at the idea. You were just the assistant. Just someone to dust his shelves and sign for his materials.

Still stunned, you trailed after him, quickening your pace to keep up with his long strides.

It was only when you glanced down at yourself that the embarrassment hit. You were wearing plain clothes — a soft, oversized sweater and fitted jeans. Comfortable, sure, but hardly anything you’d want the most famous sculptor in the world studying up close.

You cringed inwardly. Maybe he hadn’t meant a serious modeling session. Maybe it was just for a sketch. Just a pose reference.

But that hope withered the moment he led you down an unfamiliar corridor and stopped in front of a tall, iron-handled door. Without a word, he turned the knob and pushed it open, stepping aside to let you enter first.

You hesitated — just for a second — before stepping through.

The room beyond was cold and quiet, lit only by a few overhead bulbs and a tall window half-curtained by dark velvet. The air smelled of graphite and dusted charcoal, faintly metallic. You took one cautious step further in.

The walls were covered in sketches. Dozens of anatomical studies. Every page pinned or taped with precision, corners curling from age, some overlapping. Each figure was posed differently: arms stretched, torsos twisted, muscles flexed. Some bodies were mid-motion, others limp. A few had faces blurred or scratched out entirely. Latin terms were scribbled in the margins: sternocleidomastoid, scapula, carpi radialis. Dissected in ink, limb by limb.

Your eyes traced a particularly detailed back sketch, the shoulder blades shaded to look nearly real as Ni-ki walked past you.

At the center of the room stood a small pedestal. Simple. Circular. Clean. In front of it, a wide drawing board rested on a stand, stained from hours of use. He took his seat behind it and, without sparing you a glance, reached forward and tore the unfinished sketch taped to it from the page.

You flinched at the sound of paper ripping.

He crumpled it wordlessly, tossed it into a bin already filled with failed attempts. Then, looking up at you for the first time, he spoke with sharp clarity. “Take off your shirt.” A beat passed. “And stand on the pedestal.”

Your heart jumped, thudding somewhere uncomfortably behind your ribs. “Wait—what?”

His expression didn’t flicker. His tone was flat, but firm. “Your shirt. Off. I need the shape of your upper body.”

It wasn’t a request.

His hand hovered over a fresh page, pencil poised. “I don’t need your modesty,” he added coolly. “I need accuracy.”

You looked at the pedestal. Then back at him. Then down at yourself. The sweater you wore suddenly felt like a barrier but also a shield. You hadn’t signed up for this. Not really. But his eyes were fixed on you now, expectant, already studying the way the fabric clung to your frame like he could see through it.

And deep down, some part of you knew if you said no, he wouldn’t get angry. He’d just never ask again. He’d never look at you again. And somehow, that was worse.

Swallowing, you hesitated—just a moment—then reached down and slowly tugged the hem of your shirt up. The fabric slid over your arms and head, soft and reluctant, revealing the simple, comfortable bra you had underneath. The air hit your skin and prickled across your arms like a whisper of cold.

You folded the shirt neatly, more out of nervous habit than care, and set it on the nearby bench. Then, without looking at him, you walked to the pedestal. Your steps felt heavier than they should have. Like you were walking into something you didn’t fully understand.

When you stepped onto the pedestal and looked up, you found Ni-ki already watching. His gaze wasn’t casual. It wasn’t flustered, or polite. No, it was technical. Dissecting. His eyes roamed your exposed skin like they were measuring it, calculating every line, every hollow, every rise and fall of bone beneath flesh.

Like you were something to be solved.

“Now pose,” he said, voice low.

You blinked. “Pose… how?”

He didn’t answer right away. His pencil hovered over the page, his head tilted slightly.

Then, finally... “Turn slightly. Right shoulder forward. Arm loose. Chin up.” He gestured, sharp and precise. “Like you’re tired. But beautiful.”

You shifted. Adjusted. Tried to mimic what he wanted. It felt awkward, unfamiliar but the moment you moved, you felt his attention sharpen like a blade. The scratch of graphite began on paper almost immediately, fast and controlled.

He didn’t speak again for a while. Just sketched. The only sound in the room was the swift rasp of his pencil moving in sharp, confident strokes.

And all the while, you stood still, spine tense, skin burning under the weight of his gaze. You could feel it everywhere, like invisible fingers ghosting over your body. You tried not to shiver. You tried not to think about the way he looked at you like you were already his.

Not an assistant. But raw material.

The minutes bled into each other, and his commands came steady, low, always calm.

“Turn your head.”

“Raise your arm higher.”

“Arch your back—just slightly.”

“Hold that.”

Each time, you obeyed. You weren’t sure whether it was the sheer authority in his voice, the way his eyes flicked up to you like he expected you to follow without question, or the deep, uncomfortable desire to not disappoint him. Whatever it was, you moved. Posed. Shifted.

He sketched with feverish precision.

The pages piled up beside him, each one a version of you — sprawled, twisted, reaching, soft. You tried not to look at them, but you could feel them there. You could feel him looking at you through them, even when his eyes were on the page.

And the longer it went on, the more his gaze changed.

At first, it had been detached. Professional. Focused.

But now… now it lingered. It held too long. Followed the slope of your collarbone too slowly, paused on your ribs, your waist, the inside of your thighs. The scratch of the pencil slowed sometimes, like he was savoring it. Memorizing the view before translating it into lead.

You swallowed hard, your arms beginning to tremble from holding the same position too long.

“Still,” he said without looking up. “You’ll ruin the line.”

“I—I’m trying,” you whispered.

He paused. Lifted his eyes to you.

And for the first time, something like warmth crept into his voice. “You’re delicate,” he murmured, gaze dragging across your form. “Symmetrical. Do you know how rare that is?”

You didn’t answer.

He stood slowly, setting the sketch aside. Another finished piece. Another image of you.

“You shouldn’t ruin it by shaking.” He moved toward you, and instinctively, your breath hitched. You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

Then without warning his hands touched your hips. Firm. Slow. He guided your body like clay, tilting you slightly, adjusting your arms. His palms were large and warm, fingertips ghosting against your spine as he shifted the curve of it, just so.

“Better,” he said, almost to himself. His hands lingered. One on your waist. The other brushing your rib.

You could feel every point of contact, feel how close he was standing. His breath near your ear. The silence wrapped around you both like silk.

He stepped back only when satisfied. Then sat down again. And began sketching anew.

You stood frozen in the pose, heart pounding, skin burning under his touch long after it was gone.

The room was quiet except for the sound of pencil against paper. But it wasn’t soothing — not anymore. It scratched against your nerves, dragged over your spine like something invasive. You could feel the intensity pouring off of him in waves, concentrated on you like a predator watching prey hold still.

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.

Sketch after sketch. Page after page. You didn’t know how much time passed. At some point, your legs began to ache. Your shoulders trembled again, too tired to stay still. You shifted without thinking—just a fraction.

The pencil stopped.

You felt his stare return, cold and unblinking.

“I didn’t say move,” Ni-ki said softly, but there was no warmth this time.

“I—sorry, I—”

He stood.

Your breath hitched.

But he didn’t speak. He only walked toward you again. His fingers reached out and pressed lightly against your knee, guiding it back into place. Then your wrist, your chin. His touch wasn’t cruel but it wasn’t gentle either. It was clinical, like you were something he was adjusting into perfection.

When he finished, he didn’t move away. Instead, he stood there in front of you, too close. His eyes trailed over your face, your body, his gaze no longer masking the hunger behind it. Not artistic. Not curious. Possessive.

“You’re going to ruin everything if you keep trembling,” he murmured. His voice was low now, dark velvet. “You need to learn to be still.”

You swallowed.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.”

His thumb reached out, brushing just under your collarbone. The touch was featherlight, but it sent a shiver down your spine.

“But you will.”

He didn’t lower his hand. His gaze held yours, dark and unreadable, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “You don’t want to disappoint me, do you?”

You shook your head, barely a movement. “No…”

A faint smile curled at the corner of his lips, like he’d known your answer before you gave it. “Good.” His fingers ghosted down your sternum, tracing the hollow where your ribs met. “Because disappointment ruins the lines. The shape. That soft tension in your muscles when you’re trying to behave, trying to be still…” He breathed out. “That’s what makes you perfect.”

You couldn’t speak.

“You were made for this,” he continued, stepping back just enough to take you in again. “To be studied. To be captured. I’ve had muses before… brief ones. But none of them had your symmetry. Your stillness. Your potential.”

You could feel your knees threatening to give out, not just from standing too long but from the weight of his words. The way he looked at you like you weren’t a person, but a canvas with breath. A sculpture not yet carved.

“Be still,” he ordered softly, picking up his pencil again. “Be a good little muse.”

And like some invisible thread tied you to his voice, you obeyed. Not because you were told, but because you had to. Something about his gaze made it impossible to move, like he’d turned you to stone with a glance. Like Medusa, if she were a man with charcoal-stained hands and a voice that could whisper obedience into bone.

The pencil scratched again. He didn't speak for a long time. He just watched. Drew. Devoured you with his eyes.

Eventually, he pulled away from the sketchpad and studied his work in silence. You dared to lower your gaze for just a second, catching a glimpse of the latest page.

It was you — but not how you saw yourself. It was intimate. Obsessively detailed. You didn’t look like a person.

“I think that’s enough for today,” he said finally, standing and stretching his shoulders, the long lines of his body moving like something fluid. Predatory. “You can put your shirt back on.”

You reached for it slowly, your fingers trembling slightly as you slipped it over your arms. It felt almost wrong now, like covering up something he’d already claimed.

But as you turned to leave, his voice stopped you.

“You were beautiful today.”

You blinked, caught off-guard. “What?”

He looked up from cleaning his pencils, his expression unreadable. “I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he said flatly. “So don’t make me repeat myself.”

You opened your mouth to thank him, but he wasn’t done.

“Beauty isn’t permission,” he added, tone quieter now. “It’s responsibility. Mine to display.”

You froze.

He walked over to you, closing the space between you. His height, his presence, made everything else feel smaller. The air thinned when he was this close.

“I shaped the way I see you,” he murmured. “And now that I’ve started, you don’t get to hide that from me.” His hand lifted, just hovering beside your cheek, just enough for you to feel the heat of it. “If you walk into my studio, you belong to the art. To me. Understand?”

You nodded slowly, your throat tight.

“Good girl.” He turned away again, casual as ever, like he hadn’t just spoken words that branded themselves into you. “Now go. Rest. I need your body steady tomorrow.”

And you left silently, head spinning, unsure whether to feel fear or flattery.

The next morning came heavy with fog. Outside the manor windows, the world looked like it had been erased in soft ash.

You were summoned early. One of the staff gave you a short, unreadable nod before leading you to the studio again. You walked in to find Ni-ki already seated at the drawing board, sketchbook open, pencil poised.

Without looking at you, he said, “Shirt off.”

His voice wasn’t sharp, but it didn’t need to be. You moved automatically, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head. The chill of the room swept over your skin, but it was nothing compared to the way his eyes finally lifted to meet yours.

But then— “Pants too.”

You froze, your hands hovering near the waistband of your pants. “I—”

Still seated, he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as if your hesitation was more interesting than anything he could draw.

“I—” You swallowed. “I’d rather not.”

He stood, slowly. The stool creaked as it was pushed back. And with those soundless steps he was in front of you, tall, elegant, and cold like stone. But when he touched your jaw, it was gentle. Careful even. He bent slightly, lowering himself until your faces were nearly level. “Why not?” he asked, his tone soft. The sweetness in his voice rang hollow, a mimicry of care. “Are you embarrassed? Ashamed?”

You couldn’t answer. The way his eyes searched yours made your skin prickle.

“I see your body in sketches more than you see it in the mirror,” he whispered. “You forget that it already belongs to the art.”

Your silence stretched. You didn’t want to disobey him. Something inside you curled with heat and confusion, a reluctant thrill mixed with hesitation.

He sighed, the sound almost affectionate. “I won’t ask again. Take them off…” He stepped closer, gaze dark. “Or I will.”

The threat wasn’t cruel. It was calm. Controlled. He didn’t move to act on it, just waited, giving you the choice. The illusion of one, at least.

Your fingers shook as you pushed your sweatpants down, revealing your lacey underwear, a decision you regretted now, with how intently his gaze fixed on it.

He didn’t speak. Just hummed — pleased, satisfied. Then he turned from you, moving back to his seat, and gestured at the pedestal.

You climbed onto it, heart pounding.

But this time, he didn’t order a pose.

He approached again — and without a word, began to adjust your limbs himself. One hand on your wrist, another guiding your hips, his fingers surprisingly gentle but firm. The entire time, he didn’t meet your eyes. He was sculpting you in flesh, not marble.

And you stood there, breathing shallowly, caught somewhere between fear and fascination.

A muse. A masterpiece. A possession in progress.

The session stretched on, slow and deliberate. Ni-ki’s hands were everywhere — tracing, mapping, claiming. His huge palms moved over your skin like dark shadows, smudging the charcoal as he worked, staining you in the rawness of his art. Every curve, every line, was a secret only he knew now.

He was rough, but not careless, firm fingers pressing into your waist, sliding down your sides, pulling you closer when you tried to stiffen. His touch was an ownership you couldn’t deny. When he cupped your throat lightly, thumb grazing along your jawline, your breath hitched. He hummed as he made you meet his gaze. There was no kindness there, only a unyielding control that rooted you in place.

“You belong to this,” he murmured, voice dark and hypnotic. “To me.”

You wanted to pull away, but the truth was, part of you didn’t. The power he held over you, the way he commanded every movement, made your chest tighten.

Why did it feel so good to let go? To surrender?

Your heart hammered as he guided your hands to rest where he wanted, forced your body into impossible angles, sculpting you in ways you never imagined.

And every time you caught his eye, there was that same hum of approval, like he was marking you, claiming you beyond just the sketches.

Your mind spun, tangled in a web of desire and submission you weren’t sure you wanted to unravel.

Because even in the silence, under his dominating gaze, you realized you craved this. His control. His possession.

The charcoal was darker today. Maybe it was the way the light filtered in through the curtained windows, but everything felt heavier, as if the air itself had thickened.

You stood in your pose, eyes trained on a point on the far wall, spine held straight like Ni-ki had molded it himself. Your shirt and sweats had long since been discarded — a ritual by now. But today, he hadn’t even asked. He’d simply looked at you. That was enough. You peeled them off in silence.

You told yourself it was professionalism. That you were just doing your job. That all great artists were intense. But when he came toward you, large hands warm and steady, adjusting your hip with a possessive sort of patience, your heart skipped a beat. He didn’t ask for permission. He never did. He didn’t need to — not when he already knew you’d obey.

His fingers brushed along your collarbone, smudging your skin in gray as he adjusted the tilt of your chin. His thumb grazed your lower lip, staining it as if marking you with his signature. Every touch of his hands felt like both a threat and a worship.

“You hold tension in the wrong places,” he murmured, stepping back. “You’ll ruin the lines.”

“Sorry.. I’m really trying,” you said, voice low.

“Try less,” he said. “Just let me move you. That’s what muses do.”

Muse. Not partner. Not assistant. Not even person. Just a subject. A figure for his twisted devotion.

Still, you stayed. You always stayed.

Sometimes he touched you as though you were fragile marble, and other times like you were already his—shaped, claimed, carved into what he wanted. His fingers dragged across the slope of your waist, up the delicate curve of your spine. You told yourself it was part of the process. That it was art. That it didn’t mean anything.

But your breath still hitched every time.

He made you feel small, but not insignificant. Like something to be possessed. Like a masterpiece that only he could understand.

“You hold yourself well,” he said suddenly, gaze flicking up as his pencil paused. “But even strength has pressure points. Yours are just hidden deeper.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t dare. Not when his voice had dipped so low, like velvet laced with iron.

He tilted his head slightly, watching the way your chest rose and fell with your quiet restraint. “Tell me…” he asked, softly, “does it thrill you? Letting me see you like this?”

You swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

A slow smile curved on his lips, something knowing. “You do.”

Your nerves fired, tense and confused, your body caught in the contradiction of fear and fascination. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t what you came here for. You were supposed to gain experience. Make connections. Learn from a genius, not become his personal muse… or whatever this was.

And yet…

You hadn’t stopped him. You hadn’t even told him no. Why hadn’t you?

Because a part of you—buried deep and dark—thrilled at the attention. At the way his eyes never left you. At the way his hands could reduce you to breathless silence with just a touch. You’d always wanted to be seen, hadn’t you? Truly seen?

But this… this wasn’t being seen. This was being dissected.

Your logic screamed at you—this was wrong. This wasn’t mentorship. This was manipulation wrapped in artistry, control disguised as inspiration.

Still… your feet never moved from the pedestal.

You told yourself it was just the opportunity. That you couldn’t afford to lose this job. That this was temporary. But your body knew better.

You didn’t realize how much time had passed until Ni-ki stepped back, sliding his pencil down with a soft click on the edge of the desk.

“That’s enough for today,” he said. His voice was calm. Unbothered. As if the tension in the air hadn’t been choking you.

You didn’t dare look at what he’d drawn.

“Get dressed,” he added, already turning away, eyes focused on the fresh page he’d begun to sketch on—this one, not of you, but of something abstract. Something warped.

You gathered your clothes in silence, your hands trembling slightly. You held them close to your chest, clutching the fabric like it could somehow shield you. Your breath stayed shallow, unsure if you were holding it in out of tension… or shame. Your eyes lifted, almost unconsciously.

He was still at the drawing board, head bent, pencil dragging smoothly over the page. But then he stopped. He could feel your stare. Slowly, he looked up. His gaze met yours. Not harsh. Not cruel. Just… watching. As if he was still studying you. Still sketching you with his eyes.

The silence stretched between you like a pulled string. You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. You weren’t sure what you wanted from him. An explanation? An apology? Permission to hate him, or permission to stay?

But all he did was tilt his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. His voice came low, smooth. Dangerous only in how calm it was. “…Is there something you want to say, little muse?”

You swallowed thickly. The lump in your throat ached. Your mouth opened but nothing came out.

He smiled, faint and cold. “That’s what I thought.” Then he turned back to the paper, dismissing you like a scene he’d already memorized.

Your feet stayed planted for one more second. Then, without another word, you walked out of the studio, clothes still clutched to your chest, your skin still warm with the ghost of his hands. And your mind, still caught between the urge to run and the ache to be seen again. To be wanted. Even like that. Even if it breaks you.

Dinner was quiet. Too quiet.

You sat quietly at your end of the long, polished table, silverware clinking against porcelain in an almost rhythmic pattern, your eyes locked firmly on your plate. You hadn’t said a word since you sat down. You didn’t have to. His presence filled the room enough.

And you could feel it. The weight of his stare. Burning. Unrelenting. Even without looking, you knew. He was watching you. Not just with interest. Not with idle curiosity. With possession.

You picked at your food, your fingers tense around the fork. Every movement you made felt rehearsed, careful. Because you knew—if you lifted your gaze, if you so much as glanced up and met his eyes—you wouldn’t know what to do.

Would you flinch? Would you fold? Would you like it?

The thought made your skin prickle.

You’d never been looked at like this before. Never been sought out with this much… intensity. It wasn’t affection. It wasn’t even obsession. It was deeper than that, like he’d already claimed you in his mind, and now he was just waiting for you to fall into place.

And the worst part?

Some twisted, shameful part of you liked it. Liked the idea of being wanted that deeply. Of being important to someone—even if it was dangerous. Even if it was him.

You shifted in your seat, trying to push the thought away. Trying to keep your breathing even. You could still feel the way his hands had touched you earlier, how his voice had curled around your nerves like smoke. Your thighs clenched without meaning to.

Across the table, he took another slow sip of his wine. “Eat,” he said suddenly, quietly. A command.

You flinched, your fork freezing midair. And then, slowly, you obeyed. You didn’t look up. But you knew he was smiling.

The more time you spent in the manor, the stranger everything became.

At first, it was subtle. A missing face here or there—a maid who used to clean the sculptures, a gardener who always greeted you in the morning. You assumed they were on leave, maybe reassigned. But then there were fewer footsteps in the hall. Fewer voices. Until one day, you realized you hadn’t seen another staff member at all.

Only silence.

You still saw Ni-ki, though less and less. Sometimes not for days. He no longer joined you for dinner. Meals were brought to your room, quiet knocks left unanswered when you opened the door. The food always tasted fine, but you noticed how little you were eating. How your appetite had vanished.

And your strength along with it.

At first, you blamed it on burnout. On stress. It made sense—you were in a new place, around someone as intense and unpredictable as Ni-ki. Of course you’d feel exhausted.

But this wasn’t normal exhaustion. You would wake up feeling like you hadn’t slept at all. Your arms heavy. Legs like stone. You could barely climb out of bed some mornings, and when you did, you clung to the walls just to steady yourself. You even began skipping meals entirely, not out of choice, but because you simply couldn’t bring yourself to get up.

The worst part? Some part of you didn’t even mind. You almost liked it—the soft haze of your thoughts, the way time slipped like water between your fingers. How easy it was to just… stay in your room. Stay still. Stay good. You chalked it up to illness. Or nerves. Or something vague and harmless.

You didn’t question the way your dreams had started changing. Didn’t question when you would wake up feeling a phantom touch on your body. Fingertips trailing over your waist, a thumb brushing beneath your ribs. A pressure at your throat so delicate, it made you shiver in the dark. You’d lie there in the morning, heart pounding, eyes wide open. Paralyzed not by fear, but by the frightening familiarity of it.

Because you swore you knew those hands. You’d felt them before. Guiding your hips into poses. Lifting your chin with bruising care.

You told yourself it was your imagination. But you never checked the locks. You never asked yourself why the sheets always felt shifted when you woke up. Or why you never heard footsteps, and yet still felt watched.

Because deep down, something in you was…waiting. And worse.. something in you was craving.

Much more so now that Ni-ki had stopped calling you. No more orders to pose. No more hushed compliments spoken as if you weren’t meant to hear them. No more hands guiding your limbs into position like you were something fragile and precious.

And now that it was gone, the absence made you ache.

You told yourself you were fine. That this was what you wanted. Distance. Clarity. Space to think. But instead of clarity, you only felt emptier. Like you were made of glass and he had taken the light with him. You found yourself drifting through the manor like a ghost. Listening. Waiting. Hoping. You wandered past closed doors. Past the studio, where the light was always off now.

Your chest grew tight with a feeling you couldn’t name. You didn’t want to admit it — not even to yourself — but his silence was worse than his intensity. You missed being looked at. You missed being needed. You missed the way his attention wrapped around you like a net. Unnerving. Suffocating. Addictive.

And you hated how every hour that passed without him made you feel more forgotten. More irrelevant.

You began lingering near the halls he used to take. Sitting in the drawing room, half-hoping he’d appear. You wore softer clothes. Brushed your hair differently. You told yourself it was for comfort. But you knew better.

Eventually Ni-ki did end up calling for you.

The sound of your name spoken by one of the remaining staff jolted something alive in you. You didn’t hesitate. You barely breathed. You followed the familiar halls, heart tight in your chest, steps quiet but quick. The luxurious living room loomed ahead, gold-framed windows casting late afternoon light across the polished floor, as he stood there, tall and composed.

Your breath caught as you stepped in. But before you could speak, he simply said, “There’s a delivery coming. Accept it. I don’t want to be disturbed.” The words landed like stone. Cold. Distant.

You blinked, the tension in your chest unraveling into a slow, hollow ache. Still, you managed a nod, gaze dropping instinctively. “Of course,” you murmured, almost too quietly.

But before you could step back, fingers curled around your jaw, firm yet careful. Your face was tilted upward, gently and there he was again. Watching you. His gaze was too intense. Too knowing. Like he saw every thought you were too afraid to say aloud. “You wanted something else,” he said, voice low, unreadable.

You swallowed, unsure what answer was safe. His thumb brushed along the line of your cheekbone, too slow to be accidental. “It’s alright,” he added. “Desire isn’t shameful… not when it’s directed properly.”

Your pulse stuttered. You couldn’t breathe for a moment. Then he let go. Just like that before he stepped back.

“Be good and do as I asked,” he said without turning as he left.

And you stood there, touched and dismissed, heart racing, unsure if the weight in your chest was humiliation… or need.

The delivery arrived with the quiet rumble of heavy wheels against the polished floor.

Two large men, expressionless and efficient, wheeled in several crates, boxes, and bags stacked high with clay and other materials. Their presence was imposing, their movements methodical, no small talk, no smiles.

You stepped forward, clipboard in hand, ready to sign off on the delivery. As you checked the list, your eyes widened. The sheer volume was staggering, more crates than you’d ever seen delivered at once, enough clay to fill an entire studio several times over. You hesitated for a moment, heart flickering with an odd mix of curiosity and unease. Why so much? Was it for a massive project?

You signed your name with a steady hand, trying not to show your surprise.

The two men stacked the crates neatly before turning wordlessly toward the exit.

You stood frozen after they left, eyes locked on the stack of crates. They looked almost absurdly large in the opulence of the hallway, towering, sealed shut with thick nails, marked with labels you didn’t recognize. What could possibly require that much?

“Do they meet your standards?”

The voice came from just behind your ear — low, quiet, far too close.

You startled, breath catching in your throat as you instinctively stepped forward, spinning around. Ni-ki stood there, unbothered by your reaction. Calm as ever. His dark eyes held yours, unreadable. He wasn’t smiling, but he looked pleased.

“I—” you blinked, pulse still quick from the shock. “Yes. I mean—yes, everything’s here.”

He didn’t acknowledge your answer. Just stepped around you slowly, his gaze dragging across the crates before landing back on you. “I’ll begin soon,” he murmured. “Make sure no one touches these. Not the staff. Not even you.” His tone left no room for questioning.

And yet you did. “All of this… for one project?”

He tilted his head. “You ask too many questions.” The way he said it wasn’t harsh. It was almost… fond. But the message underneath was clear. Then, just before he turned to leave, he paused, his gaze flicking down your form and back up again. “It’ll be my best work yet,” he said softly. “You’ll see.” And with that, he disappeared back into the shadows of the corridor.

Too exhausted to even think, you shuffled away from the crates, your limbs heavy like soaked cloth. The ornate hallway blurred at the edges of your vision as you made your way to the living room.

You barely registered the plushness of the wide velvet sofa beneath you as you collapsed onto it, the weight of your body sinking deep into the cushions. With a flick of the remote, the television buzzed to life, lighting up the dim room with flickering colors. You didn’t even care what was playing. Some old movie. The voices were a distant murmur, a lullaby you weren’t listening to.

Your eyelids fluttered shut.

The tension you carried slowly melted into the silence, the low sound of the TV wrapping around you like a warm, blurry cocoon. Your breath evened out, limbs relaxing as sleep crept in faster than you could fight it. And before you knew it… you were gone. Curled into the sofa like a discarded doll, unaware of the flicker of movement at the edge of the doorway. Unaware of the soft creak of leather shoes against marble. Unaware of the eyes that never truly left you.

He didn’t rush.

He never did.

The soft flicker of the television painted your face in shades of light and shadow as Ni-ki stepped into the room, silent as a breath. You were asleep, deeply, peacefully, just as he’d intended. The slow rise and fall of your chest told him the dosage had been perfect. It always was. He was careful like that.

Cautious. Patient.

He inched closer, footsteps deliberate on the rug-covered floor, stopping just short of where your legs curled up beneath you on the couch. You looked so small like that. He admired how long it had taken to get you to this point, to stay this close, to stop questioning every strange thing, to grow used to the quiet.

You were doing well. So well.

Ni-ki tilted his head, watching the way your hand twitched in sleep, how your brows furrowed slightly perhaps from a dream, or maybe a memory trying to resurface. It didn’t matter. You wouldn’t wake up.

The medicine in your dinner was never strong enough to harm you, just enough to wear you down. Little by little. He didn’t want you broken all at once. That would be too easy. No, this was about shaping. About keeping you too tired to go wandering, too unfocused to question, too dependent to leave. Until staying felt natural. Until being close to him wasn’t a choice, but the only thing that made sense.

You were already so close.

He knelt beside the sofa, the fabric of his clothes rustling softly as he moved. For a moment, he simply stared, memorizing the shape of you under the gentle light of the television. Like a painting that finally made sense.

Then, slowly, he reached out.

His fingertips brushed your cheek—barely a touch, more like a breath of air. You didn’t stir. Not even the flutter of an eyelash. He watched the way your skin warmed under his hand, and a wave of calm washed through him. You were still. Exactly as he needed you.

His hand moved downward, tracing the line of your jaw, then to the soft curve of your neck. There, his palm rested for a moment, just feeling the steady thrum of your pulse beneath his fingers. Your body was quiet, pliant, unaware. And it soothed something deep, deep inside him.

He exhaled slowly, letting his thumb follow the line of your collarbone, never hurried, never harsh.

You didn’t move. You stayed asleep, still as marble.

He leaned closer, whispering—not loud enough to stir you, just enough to fill the space between you. “You’re almost ready,” he murmured, voice barely a breath. “You just don’t know it yet.”

And with that, he withdrew. Standing, stepping away, casting one last look at your sleeping form before vanishing again into the hush of the manor.

Waking up in the middle of the night was a heinous feeling for you. Like your body wasn’t fully yours, like you were drifting between layers of consciousness that refused to align. Your limbs felt heavy, sluggish, as though wrapped in lead. It took everything in you not to sink back into the couch, not to let yourself be pulled under again by the haze still weighing on your thoughts.

With a low groan, you rubbed at your eyes, the blurry glow of the television still flickering across the room. One glance at the ornate clock on the wall told you it was close to 2 a.m. You blinked hard, willing yourself awake, forcing your legs to move as you shuffled toward your bedroom.

The manor was quiet, unnaturally so. The air felt different. Still.

You moved on instinct, guided by routine—or at least, that’s what you thought. Until your eyes finally focused, and the hallway around you came into full clarity. Your breath caught in your throat.

This wasn’t the way to your room.

The corridor was darker here. The walls more ornate, with deep burgundy tones and gold-framed portraits you’d never seen before. The doors were carved with a different motif, heavier, older. There was no sign of the familiar sculptures or tapestries you usually passed. Everything was unfamiliar—yet unsettlingly pristine.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Your fingers curled slightly, your heart picking up speed as the realization settled in your chest like a weight. You’d wandered—somehow, unknowingly—to the forbidden wing of the manor. The one place you were told never to enter.

You wanted to find your way back to your bedroom, the safety of your familiar sheets, but the halls twisted around you like a maze you didn’t remember entering. Every turn led to another unfamiliar door, another passage that felt too long, too quiet.

The staff had left hours ago. That much you knew.

You tried to think. To reason. To piece together how you’d ended up here. But your thoughts were grains of sand in your palms—running, slipping, impossible to catch. You couldn’t focus. You couldn’t hold onto a single, solid idea. Disoriented and growing uneasy, you reached for the nearest door, fingers curling around the brass handle. The door creaked open slowly, revealing a large, dimly lit bedroom.

One look, and your stomach dropped. You knew exactly where you were.

This was his room.

Ni-ki’s private quarters.

The one door you were never meant to open.

But he wasn’t there. The massive bed sat undisturbed, the sheets smoothed to perfection. Not a wrinkle, not a trace of warmth or sleep. The pillows fluffed just right, untouched. It was eerie in its neatness, its museum-like stillness. It felt… staged. As if no one had slept in it for a long time. Or as if someone wanted it to appear that way.

You closed the door softly behind you, your hand lingering on the doorknob for a moment too long. You didn’t want to open another door. But you couldn’t stay still either.

Your feet carried you forward, cautious, slow, until you stopped in front of another tall door with a carved crest at the center. You hesitated only a moment before turning the handle.

This one wasn’t a bedroom. It was an office. Or something close to it.

The room was drenched in elegance, black wood panels lining the walls, golden inlays glinting in the soft light from the chandelier above. A towering bookshelf stood against one wall, filled with thick volumes. An antique globe sat in the corner, beside an ink-stained writing desk that looked like it belonged to someone centuries older.

Every item had its place. Nothing out of order. Nothing casual. Even the chair behind the desk sat perfectly aligned. Like no one had touched it in days. Or like it was only touched in precise, controlled moments.

You stepped inside, your fingers brushing the edge of the desk as your eyes swept over it. There were no scattered notes. No pens left askew. Just a closed journal resting dead center. You didn’t know why, maybe curiosity or instinct, but your hand moved before your thoughts could catch up.

The journal opened with a soft creak, the spine cracking like it had been opened regularly. The first page was filled edge to edge with clean sketches—anatomical references, the human body drawn in intricate precision. Muscles labeled in Latin. Bone structures dissected in obsessive detail.

You flipped to the next page. Then another. The sketches became more specific. More… familiar.

There were figures posed just like you had been. Knees bent. Arms curled. Spine arched. Every angle exact. Some were circled with notes in Ni-ki’s handwriting—measurements, proportions, tiny comments like “hold this longer” or “better lighting next time.”

Your chest tightened.

And then, the sketches began to change. There were still figures, but the anatomy began merging with something else, symbols, charts, and what looked like... chemical formulas. Equations scrawled in the margins. Molecular breakdowns. Dosage estimates.

You stared at a note scribbled along the bottom of one page: "Maintaining docility. Progressive doses. Natural compliance follows physical fatigue."

You froze.

The room didn’t feel elegant anymore. It felt clinical. Sterile. Like a controlled environment. A testing ground. You turned another page with trembling fingers. And there—you saw it. A sketch of your profile. Unmistakably you. Eyes closed. Mouth parted slightly. Sleeping.

Underneath, in his meticulous writing. “Nearly perfect now. Just a bit more.”

You closed the journal slowly, the metallic taste of nausea rising in your throat. Your back pressed hard against the cold bookshelf as you fought to steady your breath, the room spinning just enough to make your knees weak. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

Your eyes drifted over the rows of books—mostly anatomy, physiology, medical texts. Every spine a reminder of the cold precision with which Niki studied the human body.

Then, something else caught your eye.

A book that didn’t belong. A worn paperback with a cracked spine, its cover familiar. You’d read this one before, a twisted romance about a criminal and their captive, a story you’d even owned yourself at one point.

Curiosity ignited again despite the sick knot in your stomach. Your fingers brushed the cover, sliding it free from the shelf. As you did, a faint click echoed softly. Behind the book, pressed into the wooden frame of the shelf, was a small lever.

Your pulse quickened. Without fully thinking, you reached out and pulled it.

The entire bookshelf shuddered, then began to move aside, revealing a dark opening—a narrow staircase spiraling downward.

A hidden passage.

Your breath hitched.

Swallowing hard, you stepped forward, toes brushing the edge of the hidden stairwell. Cold air drifted upward, curling around your ankles like invisible fingers. It smelled faintly of dust and metal… and something else. Something more sterile. Like a hospital.

You hesitated—just for a second.

Then you took the first step.

Each creak of the wooden stairs echoed like a scream in the silence. You kept one hand on the wall, steadying yourself as you descended slowly, your heart pounding harder with each step into the dark.

The deeper you went, the colder it became.

And quieter.

So quiet that all you could hear was your own breathing and the faint rush of blood in your ears. It felt like descending into something ancient, something not meant to be found. The kind of silence that held its breath with you. That waited.

At the bottom, you reached a plain iron door. No lock. No handle. Just a smooth, seamless surface… and a faint hum behind it. Low and rhythmic. Your fingers hovered in the air, trembling, before you pushed.

The door gave way with surprising ease—opening into a room lit with a low light. And what you saw shocked you. Desks cluttered with countless sketches, each one capturing you in painstaking detail. Some hung pinned on the walls, delicate lines tracing every curve and shadow of your body in every angle, your expression caught mid-thought, your hands, your throat, the bend of your spine. There were even pieces focused solely on your mouth and your eyes.

In front of you, a narrow hallway stretched deeper into the shadows, disappearing into darkness. The faint glow of the light didn’t reach far, and an odd smell wafted from within—a strange chemical sharpness mixed with a cold, metallic tang that made your skin prickle, almost like.. blood.

You hesitated, heart pounding, but curiosity and something darker compelled you forward.

Step by step, you moved deeper into the unknown, every instinct screaming caution, every muscle taut with a mixture of dread and fascination.

The hallway ended in a chamber—vast, echoing, and ice-cold.

You froze.

Bags of clay were stacked in the corners, some torn open, their contents spilling out in thick, gray piles. A medical examination table stood in the center of the room, its sterile steel frame glinting under the dim light. Nearby, a wide board was pinned with tools—scalpels, chisels, bonesaws, forceps, even syringes each meticulously arranged. Graphs covered the walls, overlapping with torn pages from anatomy books and sketched outlines of muscle, bone, nerve.

Barrels stood in a row along the back wall, lids half-sealed.

And around the room… statues.

At first, they looked like masterpieces, unfinished busts and full-sized sculptures. But as you stepped closer, heart in your throat, you noticed something that made everything in you still.

Bones.. Protruding ever so slightly from beneath the layers of clay, ribs, fingers, fragments of a jaw. They weren’t statues.

They were vessels.

Your knees nearly gave out.

Then, a noise. A door, heavy and metallic, creaked open from the far end of the chamber.

You panicked.

On instinct, you ducked behind a large stone pillar, breath caught in your throat, chest heaving soundlessly. You dared a glance.

Someone entered.

Clad in a full white hazmat suit, faceless and quiet. They dragged a heavy black bag behind them, its bottom thudding dully against the concrete floor with each step.

A hand slipped out from the opening of the bag. Limp. Human.

You pressed a fist to your mouth to muffle the scream trying to escape.

The figure then moved with eerie precision. The hazmat suit was unzipped slowly, the thick material falling away with a rustle. You saw the glint of dark clothes underneath, and when the head covering came off, your heart all but stopped.

Ni-ki.

He slicked his hair back with one hand, looking unbothered, focused, as if this was just another day in a studio, not a nightmarish chamber hidden beneath the manor. His expression was calm, eyes sharp and calculating as he pulled on a pair of heavy-duty gloves. Then he reached for a pair of forceps on a sterilized tray.

Without hesitation, he walked to one of the barrels and pried the lid open. The scent hit even from your distance—chemical, acidic, and unmistakably foul.

You watched, paralyzed, as he plunged the forceps inside and carefully extracted what looked like bleached, cleaned bones. He placed them onto a nearby table, aligning each piece with chilling familiarity. Not like an artist admiring his work. But like a craftsman assembling it.

Then Ni-ki moved to what looked like a rack—like a drying line—and unclipped something from it with both hands. You strained to see through the dim light, squinting at the limp sheet of… something. And your stomach dropped.

It was skin.

Ni-ki laid it carefully on another table under the lamp. His gloved hands smoothed it out like fabric, inspecting every inch. And then, methodically, he lifted it and brought it to one of the unfinished busts. Clay, half-sculpted, stared back blankly.

He began melding the skin over it. Like a mask. A second layer. Covering something once living over something man-made.

You clung to the pillar, your knuckles white against the stone, heart thundering against your ribs so loud you were sure he’d hear it.

But he didn’t.

He just kept working. Carefully. Lovingly. And as the skin began to take shape over the bust, you finally understood. The realization hit like a crashing wave—drowning you in cold horror.

That was why his sculptures looked so lifelike. Why there was something uncanny in their eyes, their muscles, the very texture of their skin. It wasn’t just talent. It wasn’t just skill.

It was real.

Real bone, real skin, real people.

That was his secret.

You could barely breathe as you watched Ni-ki walk back to the bag he had dragged in earlier. With the same calm efficiency, he unzipped it further, then reached in and pulled out an arm.

Just an arm.

You pressed your fist harder to your mouth to stop the sound clawing its way up your throat.

With no ceremony, no hesitation, he carried it to the open barrel and dropped it in. A thick, wet slap echoed through the chamber, followed by the soft bubbling of whatever solution in the container.

Your stomach lurched.

You nearly doubled over, bile rising, but forced yourself to stay quiet. To stay still. You couldn’t be found.

He turned away from the barrel, casually wiping his gloves off with a cloth before walking back to his table, like this was just part of his nightly routine. Like he hadn’t just dismembered someone. Like this chamber of horrors wasn’t buried right beneath the place where you had laughed, eaten, slept.

You shrank tighter behind the stone pillar, your breath shaky, chest tight, heart hammering in your chest as Ni-ki’s movements continued. You dared not make a sound, barely dared to breathe as you watched him shape, mold, and assemble the pieces with an eerie devotion.

Then, unexpectedly, he moved to something draped with a heavy sheet in the corner of the chamber. Slowly he pulled it away.

Your breath caught, and you nearly collapsed against the pillar.

There, unfinished but hauntingly clear, stood a statue of you. The delicate curves of your lower body were carved with an unsettling precision, and beneath it, your name etched in cold stone.

But what froze you was what clung to that form.

A finished statue of Ni-ki, positioned below, looking up at where your face would be. The expression carved into his face was a tortured mixture of agony, love, and desperate desire.

His sculpted hands gripped your lower body so tightly the clay bent and creased under the pressure—an eternal hold, frozen between obsession and worship.

You swallowed hard, overwhelmed by the raw, obsessive devotion frozen in stone, both beautiful and terrifying. You wanted to look away. But something deeper, darker, rooted you in place.

The silence was suffocating, broken only by the faint drip of moisture somewhere deep in the chamber. You stayed frozen, eyes locked on the haunting statue of yourself until a voice cut through the stillness.

“Do you like it?”

The words hit you like a blow.

You whipped your gaze away from the cold stone figure to find Ni-ki standing a little away from the statue, his eyes intense, already fixed on you.

Your heart lurched in your chest—he had noticed you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there.

“I was wondering,” he said softly, voice like silk drawn over a blade, “how long it would take you to find this place.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to speak, maybe to scream—but nothing came out. Your thoughts were a jumbled blur, your body torn between flight and freeze.

Ni-ki tilted his head slightly, watching you like an artist does a subject, measuring every twitch in your jaw, every tremble in your hands. “You weren’t supposed to be here yet,” he added, almost as if he were disappointed. “But… maybe it’s better this way. No more pretending.”

You took a step back, but the stone wall was at your spine. Trapped. You swallowed hard, trying to steady your voice. “What… what is this?”

He glanced over at the statue like it was something sacred. “A masterpiece in progress,” he murmured. “Our final form. You and I, forever preserved.”

His eyes found yours again. “Don’t look so frightened,” he said, stepping toward you slowly, carefully, as if you might break. “You’ve already given me so much of yourself. Your time. Your trust. Your body… even if you didn’t realize it.”

You slowly inched backward, your breath catching in your throat, but he matched your every step, never breaking eye contact. His voice dropped to a low, almost hypnotic murmur as he continued.

“You think this is madness, don’t you? But it’s art—my art. You’re part of it now. Every curve, every line, every shadow of you is captured forever. You can’t escape what you’ve already become.”

His gaze bore into you, relentless, and you felt the weight of his obsession pressing down like a physical force. “You belong here—with me, in this creation. You don’t have to understand it all.. Just stay, help me finish..”

You shook your head, tears spilling down your cheeks, the weight of it all crashing over you. Your voice caught in your throat as silent sobs shook your frame.

But instead of softening, his voice grew even smoother, more insistent. “Shhh, don’t cry. It’s alright. You don’t have to be afraid. You’re safe here—with me.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a gentle whisper that barely masked the control behind his words. “You think you have a choice, but really… you’ve already given so much. And the more you resist, the more I need to protect you from yourself.” His hand reached out, brushing a tear from your cheek, his touch tender and possessive. “You don’t have to understand it now. Just trust me. Let me guide you.”

Too exhausted to resist, your body slumped against him as he gently pulled you closer. Your tears continued to fall, but his soft shushing and steady hands rubbing your back began to calm the storm inside you. The warmth of his body and the rich scent of his cologne, clouded your thoughts and muddled your senses.

Your vision blurred, the edges of the room fading as exhaustion overtook you, and before you fully realized it, you fainted, collapsing gently into his arms.

When you woke up, your body felt like lead—heavy and unresponsive. Moving felt impossible, so you didn’t even try. You just laid there, eyes half-closed, letting the silence wrap around you.

The door creaked open, and you watched as Ni-ki entered, carrying a tray of food. He moved toward you with that same quiet grace, his voice soft and low as he cooed, “Good girl… so patient, so still.”

His words made your chest tighten with comfort and unease.

He sat down beside you, gently setting the tray on the bed. Without waiting for your consent, he lifted a spoonful of food toward your lips.

You pulled back at first, shaking your head, but his voice dropped to a low, cold whisper. “Eat now.” His words cut through your defenses like a knife. Hesitating, tears beginning to blur your vision, you opened your mouth and took the food he offered.

As the tears slipped down your cheeks, he brushed them away with unexpected tenderness. “Don’t cry so much,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm. “It only puffs your eyes up. You need to look perfect for me.”

He kept feeding you slowly, praising every small bite you took. “So delicate… so perfect,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth. “You’re doing so well. I knew you’d be good for me.”

When the plate was finally empty, he leaned in close, his fingers gently brushing strands of your hair behind your ear. The warmth of his touch should have been comforting, but a strange wooziness was settling in your limbs, dulling your senses.

Your eyes drifted to the empty plate beside you, suspicion flickering like a shadow. Carefully, you lifted your arm, hesitant, only for Ni-ki to catch your wrist. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, “The medicine is starting to kick in now. Just relax… I’m here.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, a swirl of confusion and helplessness crashing through your foggy mind. The warmth of his fingers wrapped around yours felt like chains—gentle, but binding all the same.

You wanted to pull away, to scream, to run, but the heaviness in your limbs made every movement sluggish and distant. His voice, soft and commanding, echoed in your ears like a lullaby.

“Just let it take over,” he said quietly, almost tenderly. “You’re safe with me.”

You tried to find your voice, to protest, to push him away but the words caught in your throat. Before you could say anything, his hand closed firmly around your jaw, tilting your face up.

His lips crashed onto yours in a harsh, demanding kiss—leaving no room for refusal.

Your body tensed, caught between resistance and the strange, dizzying pull of surrender. The taste of him, the force of his kiss, stirred a chaotic storm inside you, one you didn’t understand but couldn’t quite escape.

Ni-ki groaned softly into the kiss, deepening it with a slow, intense pressure that overwhelmed your senses. Before you could fully process what was happening, he gently pulled you into his lap, holding you close.

Your breath hitched, caught between resistance and a strange, reluctant surrender. His hands rested firmly on your waist, steadying you, as if anchoring you to the moment. You wanted to pull away, but your body betrayed you, frozen under his touch.

Ni-ki’s voice was low, almost a whisper against your lips, “Just stay forever. With me.”

You whimpered softly, your voice barely more than a breath as Ni-ki’s lips traced a slow path down your jaw, then along your neck, where he pressed small, lingering kisses that quickly blossomed into dark, tender hickeys on your collarbones. Each mark was like a quiet claim, a reminder of the power he held in that moment.

You tried to pull away, heart pounding, but his large hand came up, curling gently yet firmly around your throat. It wasn’t enough to hurt, but just enough to catch your breath and make your pulse race. You gasped sharply, the sudden pressure sending a confusing rush through you.

Every time you moved or tried to resist, his hand tightened just enough to remind you who was in control, making your breath hitch with a panic and something darker you didn’t want to admit. But the moment you stayed still, obedient and silent, his grip would slacken, almost like a reward for your submission.

Slowly, your body went fully slack in his hold, the tension draining from your muscles as if you were sinking deeper into his control. Your skin was already marked, like bruised petals across your collarbones.

“Beautiful,” Ni-ki murmured, his voice low and filled with dark admiration. He leaned in again, capturing your lips in a messy, desperate kiss that made your breath catch. His groan rumbled softly against you, and you couldn’t help but whine—a soft, helpless sound that slipped from your lips despite the swirl of confusion inside you.

Counting the moments as the sun slipped below the horizon and the moon rose high, you realized with a numb shock that you had been trapped in that bedroom for nine full days. Nine days of being spoonfed by Ni-ki’s steady hands, nine days of the silent staff lady who came in without a word to clean you, bathe you, dress you in lavish gowns, and style your hair and makeup with meticulous care before she quietly took her leave.

You had no energy left to resist. Your body felt heavy, broken down piece by piece, but your mind clung to every detail of the routine. You memorized the sounds, the footsteps by your door, the way the quiet footsteps softened as they passed. You were figuring out an escape plan, slowly, desperately.

You needed to get out.

This couldn’t be your life. Could it?

One early morning, just before the sun began to rise, you did something you hadn’t done in a long time—you got out of bed on your own. Your legs wobbled beneath you as you stumbled toward the door, weak and unsure.

It was locked, as always, but your fingers found the small key you’d managed to nick from one of the staff who had come to change your sheets. With trembling hands, you slid it into the lock, and to your surprise, it turned. The door creaked open, and you stepped quietly into the dim hallway.

Leaning against the cool wall for support, you made your slow, careful way toward the manor’s front entrance. Your heart pounded as you found your shoes by the door, slipped them on, and unlocked the heavy front door. The moment it swung open, a rush of fresh air hit your face, sharp and clean, filling your lungs with hope.

You stumbled forward into the forest surrounding the estate, the dark trees whispering above you. The soft earth beneath your feet felt real—alive. With each shaky step, you moved closer to the front gate, to freedom, to everything you’d been craving.

By the time you reached the front gate, the first golden rays of sun were stretching across the sky. Your breath was ragged, your body aching with exhaustion, but you knew there wasn’t much time before Ni-ki would realize you were gone.

Without hesitation, you clung to the cold metal of the gate and hurriedly punched in the code for the small side door. It clicked open, and you stepped through, relief flooding you.

But then, a cold voice crackled through the gate speaker, stopping you in your tracks. It was Ni-ki’s voice, calm and chilling. “Running away?”

You looked up, eyes wide in panic, and muttered a sharp curse under your breath. You had completely forgotten about the cameras that were now trained on you, recording your every move. Your escape was no longer quiet or unseen.

Ni-ki’s voice came through the speaker, smooth but laced with cold disappointment. “Really, I expected more from you,” he said, each word slow and designed to cut deep. “I thought you’d understand your place by now.”

Your knees trembled, threatening to give out as you forced yourself to stay standing. You glanced up at the camera, feeling his gaze through the lens like a physical weight pressing down on you.

“Why don’t you wait right there,” he continued, voice darkening with cruel amusement, “like a good girl? I’ll come for you soon enough… and then, well… I can punish you properly.”

Your breath caught in your throat, every instinct screaming to run, but you froze, caught in the pull of his words and the fear curling deep in your chest.

"Yes, that’s good," Ni-ki’s voice purred through the speaker, calm but threatening. "Stay right there. Don’t anger me now."

You swallowed hard, tears slipping down your cheeks despite yourself. Slowly, you lowered your gaze to the long, winding road leading toward the town. By car, it would take an hour. By foot—especially in your fragile state—it felt impossible.

You glanced down at yourself. The white, lacy silk dress that barely reached above your knees, the delicate white bow tied in your hair, the sparkling diamonds resting at your neck felt all so out of place. The marks he had left on you—hickeys trailing from your throat to your collarbones, as well as the clearly visible ones on your thighs made the idea of being seen in public feel humiliating. Ridiculous. Vulnerable. And yet, you knew you couldn’t stay there.

With one sharp glance back at the camera, you started backing away, your heart hammering in your chest.

“What are you doing?” Ni-ki’s voice snapped through the speaker, sharp and angry.

You clenched your fists tightly, refusing to answer. Instead, you turned and sped away, your feet barely touching the ground as you broke into a run down the road.

Behind you, Ni-ki’s enraged voice echoed off the trees and pavement, calling after you with promises of terrible consequences. “You’re in so much trouble when I find you! No punishment in the world will be enough to make up for what I’ll do when I get you back!”

But you didn’t stop. You didn’t look back. All you could do was run. Your breath came in ragged gasps as your legs pumped harder, each step pounding against the cold, unforgiving road.

You stumbled and fell more than once, your palms and knees scraping raw against the harsh asphalt. Pain bloomed sharp and fierce, but exhaustion clawed harder at your muscles, threatening to drag you down. Each time you hit the ground, you fought the urge to stay there, forcing yourself up with trembling limbs.

When the road felt too exposed, you veered off, slipping into the shadowed forest beside it. The thick underbrush scraped at your arms, branches snagging your dress, but the dense trees felt safer than the open path. Here, you hoped, Ni-ki couldn’t find you so easily.

You finally reached the edge of the town, exhaustion and fear warring in your chest. Without hesitation, you shakily stepped into a nearby clothing store. You needed something real—something to hide the traces of your ordeal. Luckily, the shopkeepers recognized you and, without question, let you put the purchase on Ni-ki’s tab.

Dressed in plain clothes that made you feel invisible for the first time in days, you made your way to the train station. Your hands trembled as you bought a ticket to anywhere but here. You needed to get far away, to find space to think, to plan your next move.

But before you could gather your thoughts, you almost crashed into two men.

“There you are!” one said with a grin that made your blood run cold. “Mr. Nishimura has set out a search for you. Come with us and we’ll take you back to him.”

Your throat tightened as you looked up at them. Behind them, the train you had planned to take pulled into the station, its doors sliding open.

“Come on now, don’t do anything stupid, miss. You need to get back to him so he can take care of you,” the other warned, reaching out toward you.

“No... I can’t... I won’t...” you mumbled, shaking your head.

Before they could grab you, you slipped past their outstretched hands and stepped onto the train just as the doors closed. You pressed yourself against the glass, watching the furious expressions on their faces as the train started moving.

Relief swelled through you — you were finally moving away.

You sat on the train, your body still trembling from the adrenaline and fear. The events you’d just escaped felt unreal, like a nightmare you couldn’t fully wake from. But the truth was heavier than any nightmare.

No one would believe you. Ni-ki’s reputation was untouchable—his art, his charm, the carefully crafted image of a genius no one dared to question. If you tried to tell anyone, they’d call you crazy, maybe even have you committed. And even if someone did believe you, you knew how he worked. You’d seen it before—how he silenced rumors, crushed anyone who dared to speak out. Those people vanished without a trace, their voices erased before they could be heard.

You realized then you had no choice but to keep running. To survive, you needed to disappear, to live on the edges of a world that didn’t know you. Staying in the country was impossible. You needed out—far away where Ni-ki’s shadow couldn’t reach.

When you finally reached your home, you hurriedly packed everything you still had there—the few belongings you hadn’t brought with you when you first started working for Ni-ki. So much was lost forever, and regret twisted inside you as you glanced around the empty space. There were things you wished you could have back, but it was too late now.

You booked a plane ticket to another country, a flight leaving in just a few hours. You were almost ready to leave it all behind. But as you opened the front door, you froze.

There he was. Ni-ki, standing in the doorway, eyes wild and crazed. “You really were going to leave me, baby?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

You screamed and stumbled backward, giving him time to step inside, close and lock the door behind him.

“You can’t leave me,” he said, his tone low and trance-like. “I told you—you belong to the art, and the art belongs to me.”

He hit his chest, emphasizing every word. “That means you belong to me. Me! No one else!” He reached out to grab you, but you twisted away, shaking your head fiercely. “I don’t belong to you!” you shouted.

His voice dropped even lower, almost a warning. “Now, now… good girls don’t step out of line like that.”

You shivered, fear tightening your chest.

A crazed desperation sank through his voice as he stepped closer, towering over you. “You think you can just walk away?! After everything I’ve done?! After all the time, all the trust I forced you to give me?!” His breath was heavy, voice trembling with need and anger.

You shook your head, voice trembling but firm. “I don’t belong to you! I never did! You can’t control me!”

A twisted smile curled on his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Control? No, no, it’s not about control. It’s about us. About what we are. And you—you’re already mine, whether you admit it or not.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, almost pleading, “You can’t run from this. Not from me.”

You took a shaky step back, heart pounding, but your eyes never left his. “I’m not yours. I’m not anyone’s to own.”

His face twisted, the desperation bleeding into something darker. “You’ll see. You’ll understand. Eventually.” He loomed over you, the room closing in, his presence suffocating.

His voice softened, almost breaking, as he stepped even closer, his shadow swallowing you up. “Without you… I have nothing,” he whispered, stepping closer. “You think I’m strong. That I’m in control. But I’m hollow without you—like the statues, incomplete, useless!”

You felt your resolve flicker under the weight of his words, a strange pull tugging at your heart.

“You’re the only piece that makes me whole,” he said, voice low and almost pleading. “You’re the art, the muse, the life I can’t live without.”

Slowly, your strength began to wane, your breath catching in your throat as his words wrapped around you like chains—silent, invisible, but heavy.

He reached out, fingers barely grazing your arm, and whispered, “You belong with me. Not because I said so… but because without you, I’m nothing.”

You shook your head fiercely, voice trembling but firm. “No… you’re crazy! You’re a murderer!”

For a moment, his face twisted—hurt and fury mingling in his eyes. Then, his voice dropped to a cold, quiet threat. “Fine… if that’s how it’s going to be…”

Before you could react, he lunged at you. Your scream ripped through the air as he forced you down onto the ground. Your struggles were desperate but weak against his strength—your resistance barely registering as he manhandled you, holding you tightly, as he pulled a pair of cold, metal handcuffs from his pocket. Before you could fully process what was happening, he fastened them around your wrists with a harsh click.

You struggled, but the cuffs held firm, restricting your movements. Ni-ki leaned down, his voice low and chilling. “Now, you won’t be going anywhere.”

Pulling out a syringe, he popped the cap off. You screamed and writhed but nothing affected him, and before you could react, he pressed it into your arm. A sudden warmth spread through your body, and your vision began to blur, edges softening and spinning.

His voice echoed softly as you slipped away, “These clothes don’t fit you… You need something that shows your beauty.”

The last thing you felt was the heavy pull of unconsciousness, dragging you under.

Waking up, you found yourself lying in the same bed in the manor. Your body felt unbearably heavy, as if every ounce of strength had been drained away. Silent tears slipped down your cheeks, hot and bitter.

You were back. All your desperate attempts, all your hope—it had been for nothing. Who were you kidding, really? Ni-ki was too powerful, too wealthy, and far too obsessed to ever let you go. This was your life now.

So when the door creaked open and Ni-ki stepped inside, your body instinctively reached out, trembling and fragile. Your hands stretched toward him, desperate for something familiar, for something to hold onto in the heavy fog of your fear and exhaustion. The moment he saw your outstretched arms, his eyes lit up, and without hesitation, he closed the space between you in long strides, until he was standing right beside your bed.

You were barely able to keep yourself upright as he leaned down. The tears still streamed down your cheeks, your sobs shaking your entire body, and you clung to him weakly, your voice breaking as you poured out apologies. “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry... I won’t run away again. Please, I won’t... I swear.”

Ni-ki said nothing at first. Instead, he simply listened, holding you close as your apologies spilled out, his arms steady and unmoving around your trembling frame. His silence was almost unsettling as he let you have the space to pour your guilt and fear into words, absorbing every shaky breath and tearful whisper. Gradually, as your sobs slowed and your voice softened, he brushed your hair away from your face and leaned in close.

His voice dropped to a low, almost conspiratorial whisper against your ear. “I forgive you,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. “But you still owe me a punishment. Running away, disobeying me, you know I can’t let that go.”

You nodded slowly, your voice barely more than a whisper, “Yes, yes. I deserve it.”

Ni-ki’s smile curved into a smirk, and he leaned in closer, brushing his fingers gently against your cheek. “Yes, you do… and I’m going to make sure you never forget it.” His lips found yours softly at first, tender and warm, as he wiped away the tears that had been falling without control.

The kiss lingered, growing more intense as you instinctively leaned into him, your hands trembling as they reached up to rest against his chest.

When he finally pulled back, his breath mingled with yours. "Cause only good girls," he murmured, his voice thick with dark affection, "are good muses..."

You stared at him, your breath catching in your throat as his fingers traced the delicate curve of your lips, then slowly slid down to rest on your throat. The pressure of his hand tightened just enough to make you gasp, your chest rising and falling unevenly. You tried to speak, but your voice failed you completely—caught and swallowed by the lump of fear lodged deep in your throat. You felt yourself shrinking beneath his stare, powerless but utterly captivated.

“I’ll shape you, mold you… just like my art,” he whispered, a promise and a warning wrapped into one. “And every mark, every touch will be a part of the masterpiece only I can create.”

You tried to swallow, desperate to clear the tightness, but your throat rebelled, dry and uncooperative. Drool gathered at the corner of your mouth, and before you could try to wipe it away, it trickled down your chin in slow, warm rivulets. The sight, the sensation, should have embarrassed you, but it only left you feeling more fragile and exposed—completely at his mercy.

Ni-ki’s dark eyes flicked down briefly, noting the small trail of drool with a slow smile. It didn’t bother him at all. Instead, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow, messy kiss that swallowed every sound you wanted to make. His mouth was warm and demanding, his breath mingling with yours as he held you tightly against him.

The kiss was neither gentle nor rushed, it was full of raw, twisted affection that overwhelmed you. You felt your resistance slipping away, replaced by a dizzying mix of fear and a strange longing. When he finally pulled back, his lips were glistening, and his eyes shone with a dark triumph. “I will finish my artwork... and it will be perfect.”

You couldn’t answer him. Your throat still too tight, your body too weak, only able to gasp and shudder beneath his hold. If you were to disappear here, in his grasp, at least you’d be remembered.

Immortalized. Beautiful. Eternal.

a/n: oh good heavens. I am NOT okay.

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[arclviie]

Elika you’ll never fail to empress me 😞

Had like 3 heart attacks 💔 but SO SO SO WORTH IT !!!

P: Psycopath!Jungwon X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Dark Themes, Obsession, Mentioned Stalking, Psychological Manipulation, Yandere Behavior, Murder, Mental Instability, Dubious Content, Suggestive Content, Bondage.

Synopsis: You thought Jungwon was harmless, until people around you start vanishing. When you uncover the truth, it’s too late. He’s not just obsessed. He’s in love. And he’ll kill to prove it.

a/n: I pushed everything else away for this, but still feel its kinda rushed? (Requested by @chaerrysluv ) Reblogs and comments are highly valued!!

now playing: prom queen by insane clown posse | haunted by beyonce | two face by jake daniels | worship by ari abdul

A new start, that’s all you wanted.

Leaving behind the noise, the pressure, the mess you didn’t want to keep cleaning up. The small town you found was quiet, almost too quiet, but that’s what made it perfect. A place where no one knew your name, no one asked questions, and no one expected more than a smile and a polite nod.

Your house sat at the very edge of town, nestled near the woods and close enough to the lake that you could smell the water in the morning. It was old, with needed renovations and ivy climbing the porch railings, but it felt like something you could finally call your own. Peaceful. Private. Safe.

You enjoyed the silence that came with it, no more car horns, shouting neighbors, or blaring sirens. Just birdsong in the morning, wind brushing through the trees, and the occasional creak of the old house settling into itself. It was a kind of quiet that made you feel like you could finally breathe.

You had two neighbors, though you’d only officially met one—Minjae. Odd guy, always smelled like spices and coffee, but he was good at small talk, although he was an asshole. He’d mentioned your other neighbor once, in passing. Jungwon.

Apparently, Jungwon didn’t come out much during the day. Liked his solitude. Kept to himself.

Which explains why you hadn’t seen a hairstrand of him, and it had been over a week.

Minjae had laughed it off. Said something like, “He’s not the social type, don’t take it personally.”

You hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Some people just liked to be left alone.

But your curiosity still gnawed at you.

Jungwon’s house sat just a few trees away from your own, the rooftop visible through the gaps in the branches. And yet you never heard anything. Not the hum of a television. Not a door creaking open. Not even footsteps on the gravel path leading up to it.

It made you wonder if anyone even lived there at all.

There were no lights in the windows at night. The mailbox stayed empty, the yard overgrown but not quite wild. As if someone tended to it, just barely enough to keep up appearances.

Once or twice, you thought you saw movement behind the curtains, just a twitch, just a shift of shadow—but when you blinked, it was gone.

You tried to ignore it. Told yourself you were being dramatic.

After all, there had to be a reason Jungwon wasn’t so… well, social. Maybe he had anxiety, or health issues. Maybe he worked from home and liked his privacy. It wasn’t your business—people had their own lives, their own routines. Still, he’d have to leave the house eventually. For groceries, at least.

But every time you drove past his house on your way to the main road, the garage door was shut tight. The curtains stayed drawn. No porch lights flicked on, no signs of life behind the windows just stillness. As if the house had fallen asleep and never quite woken up again.

Sometimes you’d linger a second too long at the stop sign near his driveway, eyes scanning for movement.

Nothing.

and you tried not to think too hard about it.

Until… well, until you had to.

Because you saw him.

For the first time in a whole fucking month you caught sight of him.

It was late, the kind of late where the town felt like it didn’t exist. You couldn’t sleep, your head too full, so you decided on a walk to clear your mind. The air was cool, crisp, the scent of pine thick around you.

You hadn’t even looked toward his house at first. But something, some shift, some instinct made your eyes flick in that direction.

And there he was.

Standing just at the edge of his porch, his head was tilted slightly, like he was listening. Like he’d heard you coming. He wasn’t doing anything special. Just… standing. Watching with his eyes on you.

You froze.

For a second—less than that, really you wondered if he was sleepwalking. Or if he’d heard something outside. Maybe he’d just stepped out for air, like you.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t wave. Didn’t speak.

Just stood there, staring like you were the unusual thing here. Like you were the one being observed.

Your heart picked up.

You gave a tight nod, a polite gesture, and turned your feet back toward your driveway.

You didn’t go on that walk.

After that night, things changed. You started seeing Jungwon more and more. Never during the day—never when others were around. Only in fleeting moments, when the world was still and the street lay empty under the quiet hush of twilight. Sometimes it was random. A glimpse of him at the edge of the trees when you stepped out to water the garden. His figure crossing behind a window as you passed by on your evening run. Always distant. Always brief. Other times… it felt timed. Too perfectly timed. Like the moment you’d open your front door to leave for work, and there he’d be, standing just outside his garage, as if he’d been waiting. Not doing anything, not even pretending to look busy. Just there. Eyes meeting yours for a fraction too long before he'd turn and vanish inside again.

Or the night you came home late, headlights sweeping across his driveway and caught him sitting on his porch steps in the dark, staring down the road. He didn’t flinch at the light. Didn’t look away. You locked your doors extra tight that night. You told yourself it was coincidence. A weird neighbor with a weird schedule. Nothing more. But the sightings kept happening. And soon, you realized—you weren’t just noticing him. He was watching you notice him. And not once, not ever, did he smile.

It got harder to pretend it was just coincidence.

Especially when it kept happening. When your door creaked open for the mail and he was suddenly at his window. When you went to take out the trash and heard footsteps stop like someone had been walking and suddenly paused.

And it was always just too late to catch him in the act.

Until the night it wasn’t.

You’d been out late, visiting the small 24-hour market on the edge of town, grabbing tea and snacks to distract yourself from the way your nerves had been crawling lately. The streets were empty on your walk back, save for the steady crunch of gravel under your shoes.

You turned the corner to your street and nearly dropped the bag.

Jungwon was standing in front of your house.

Not near it. Not passing by.

In front of it.

Facing your door. Like he’d been knocking. Or about to.

But he didn’t flinch when he saw you. Didn’t seem startled at all. Instead, he turned to face you slowly, as if he’d known you were coming all along. And then, he smiled.

Not a small smile. Not a polite one.

A wide, bright grin that split his face in a way that was so perfect, with dimples creasing both cheeks so deep it made him look innocent.

That was the first thing you noticed—his dimples.

The second was how his eyes looked. Catlike. Slanted and sharp, like he was amused by something only he understood. His nose scrunched slightly as he spoke, voice light and pleasant.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, holding out a medium-sized box. “This was left on my porch this morning. Must’ve been delivered to the wrong house.”

You blinked, caught completely off guard. His tone was so casual. So normal.

“I figured I’d give it to you myself. Didn’t want it to get wet or anything,” he said, flashing another grin.

And just like that everything you’d suspected about him, the unease and the quiet dread… it all slipped quietly out the window.

Because how could someone with a smile like that be dangerous?

“Thank you,” you said quietly, reaching out to take the box from his hands.

Your fingers brushed his.

And for a second, you paused.

He wasn’t cold exactly, not like ice but there was a definite chill to him. Like he’d been standing outside far longer than you’d thought. Or.. like the warmth just didn’t quite reach his skin the way it should.

Still, he didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care.

“You always keep your lights on late,” he said, his voice softer now, like he was sharing a secret. “It makes the street look… nicer. Brighter.” His eyes flicked to your porch light, then back to you. “Makes it feel less lonely out here.”

You gave a small smile, unsure of what to say. Trying to steer the conversation somewhere more neutral, you asked, “Have you lived here long?”

He nodded. “Long enough,” he said easily. “I know this town like the back of my hand. Every street. Every shortcut. Every sound the woods make when the wind picks up.” Then, with another smile—this one smaller, more thoughtful he added, “I think I was here before most people on this block.”

There was something in the way he said it. Not proud. Just… certain.

Like this place was his long before it had ever been yours.

You held the box a little tighter to your chest, not out of fear, but instinct. There was something about Jungwon that kept you suspended between comfort and unease, it was like he balanced delicately on a wire stretched between charming and unknowable.

He didn’t move right away. Just stood there, eyes flicking between you and the soft glow coming from your windows. “I’m glad you moved here,” he said suddenly, voice lower this time, like it wasn’t meant to be heard too loudly. “It’s nice having someone new on the street.”

You offered a tight smile, nodding slightly. “Yeah… it’s been nice so far. Quiet.”

He hummed at that. “It’s always quiet. That’s why I like it.”

A pause.

Then, he took a single step back, giving you space.

“Well,” he said, dimples flashing again, “I’ll let you get back inside. Long day, I’m guessing.”

You gave a quiet “yeah,” not entirely trusting your voice.

He nodded once more, then walked towards his house without another word. He didn’t rush. Didn’t even glance back.

But you watched him the entire time until his figure disappeared into his house, where the lights seemingly never seemed to turn on.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Jungwon let out a slow breath and leaned back against it, eyes fluttering shut.

So pretty. So flawless. Smells good. So lovely. So unmarked. Can’t stop wanting. Need. Desire. I need. All mine.

The thoughts circled like vultures, silent and persistent, scratching at the corners of his mind. They’d come on strong the second your fingers brushed his, just one small touch, but it had burned into his skin like a brand. A delicate moment, but to him, it felt like the world tipping off its axis.

He dragged his hands down his face and clenched his fists tightly at his sides, nails digging crescents into his palms.

Resist.

His breath shuddered.

Don’t want to.

You were just so... warm. So real. The light from your door still echoed behind his eyes, the shape of your smile hauntingly clear.

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep grounded. Had to remind himself not to get carried away. But even then, the restraint was paper-thin.

Need. Must have.

He opened his eyes slowly.

Then rubbed his face with both hands, dragging them down with a muffled groan before tossing his head back to look up at the ceiling. “God,” he breathed, a strained laugh curling at the edge of his voice. “This is ridiculous.”

He groaned again, this time quieter, as if giving in to something he’d been fighting for too long. The thoughts were too loud tonight. Too vivid. You had been right there. Smiling. Talking. Trusting.

He let his hands fall to his sides, fingers twitching.

And then… he smiled.

Not from joy.

From surrender.

Because it was over now, any hope of pretending he didn’t want you. Of pretending this was something he could control.

You were close. Too close.

And that was all he needed.

Because in his mind, you belonged here. With him.

You weren’t much of a morning person. Waking up was always a slow, miserable process, each second before your alarm spent burrowed under warm covers, clinging to the last traces of sleep.

Although recently… sleep hadn’t been so kind.

You’d been plagued by dreams. Vivid ones. The kind that jolted you awake in the early hours, chest heaving, skin clammy, heart pounding like you’d sprinted through a nightmare, but they weren’t nightmares. Not exactly.

Because every time, it was the same.

Jungwon.

His face. Too close. Too clear. Smiling like he knew something you didn’t. Eyes dark and unreadable. His voice softer than usual, lower, like a whisper curling against your ear, warm and invasive, sending shivers down your spine. His hands… you didn’t even want to think about his hands. But you did.

Even now, you could feel the phantom sensation of them trailing along your arm, brushing your waist, resting against your throat like a promise.

And every time you closed your eyes, you saw it all again.

You hated how real it felt. Hated how your body reacted. Most of all… you hated how it left you wide awake, every damn night, staring at the ceiling in silence.

And you didn’t even know why you reacted like this.

You’d only had one real conversation with him—one—but your mind and body refused to let it go. It looped endlessly, the smile he gave you, the way his fingers brushed yours, the soft timbre of his voice as he spoke your name like he’d practiced it before. It wasn’t normal. None of this was normal.

But maybe that was on you.

Maybe it was your own fault for always falling for the morally grey characters in books and movies. For crushing on the charming villains. For feeling your heart skip a beat when the dangerous ones smirked from across the screen. You liked characters with sharp edges. Broken things. The ones that looked at the world like it was something they wanted to hold and tear apart all at once.

And Jungwon… well. He had that look.

The kind that made you wonder what he was thinking. What he wanted.

Even if he gave off a strange, unsettling vibe sometimes.

You really tried to put distance between yourself and Jungwon. It should’ve been easy right? After all, the guy was practically a ghost. Barely ever seen outside his house, silent as the shadows that clung to the edges of the street. You thought avoiding him would be simple. You told yourself it was just your imagination running wild, that the strange pull you felt wasn’t real.

But it wasn’t that simple.

Somehow, in the span of just a few days, you’d become a light and Jungwon the firefly, constantly drawn to you. The harder you tried to keep your distance, the closer he seemed to come. It was like the universe had conspired to make you the one person who could pull him out of the shadows.

You weren’t sure if it was just curiosity that kept making you look, kept making you wait just a little longer for the next chance encounter.

And no matter how much you told yourself to look away, to keep moving, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was exactly where he wanted to be, lingering just at the edge of your life, waiting for you to let him in.

You weren’t the only one who had noticed Jungwon’s strange behavior—or rather, his rare appearances. One afternoon, as you were closing the gate to your little house, Minjae’s car pulled up smoothly beside you. He rolled down the window with a friendly grin, starting up a conversation like he always did. It was lighthearted, normal chatter about the weather and how quiet the neighborhood had been lately.

Then, without warning, Minjae lifted his hand and waved toward something behind you. You turned around instinctively, following the direction of his motion, and your eyes locked onto a figure standing on the porch of the house next door.

Jungwon.

He was just standing there, still as a statue, but his eyes were fixed entirely on you. Not just glancing or casually watching, but staring, like he was trying to memorize every detail of your face. Your heart skipped a beat, and you found, almost against your will, that you couldn’t tear your gaze away from him.

It was Minjae’s voice that pulled you back to reality. “You know,” he said with a half-laugh, “you’re a miracle worker.”

You blinked, puzzled. “What?”

He nodded toward Jungwon again, still watching you from his porch. “I mean, look at him. He barely leaves the house, right? And now here he is, actually outside, and you’re the reason. You’ve somehow brought Jungwon out of his shell.”

You chuckled nervously, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “I don’t know about that. I’m just living my life.”

Minjae smirked, obviously not convinced. “Come on, tell me your secret. What did you do to make the impossible happen?”

You shrugged, trying to play it off, but Minjae was insistent. Then, with a casual ease that made you pause, he said, “Honestly, only someone as pretty as you could make that kind of miracle happen.”

The words hung in the air, but something about them felt… off.

It wasn’t like when Jungwon would call you pretty. That compliment was different, almost shy, like it came from a place of quiet admiration. The way he said it made you feel seen in a way that was almost tender.

Minjae’s words, on the other hand, felt like a label. Like an objectifying gaze, rather than genuine praise. It was as if he saw you as a prize or a tool, a way to coax Jungwon out, rather than a person in your own right.

You forced a smile, but inside, a little knot of discomfort tightened.

With Jungwon, you often found yourself wondering why he isolated himself from the world. When he was with you, he was warm, engaging even charming in that quiet way of his. He made you laugh, made you feel seen. There were times when you completely forgot he was ever the reclusive neighbor you’d only heard about from a distance. Around you, he seemed normal. Happy, even.

And maybe that was what made the contrast so jarring when you tried to leave.

It started small.

“Stay a little longer,” he’d say, voice quiet, hopeful. “Just until the rain lets up.” Even when there was barely a drizzle.

Or, “I made coffee. Your favorite,” even though you never actually told him what that was.

Little things. Little excuses. And the more time you spent with him, the more you began to realize that he didn’t want you to leave him.

He’d linger at your gate, walking you out only to hold onto your sleeve as you turned to go. His fingers would brush your wrist and he’d offer one more reason. “It gets so quiet when you’re gone.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that.

There was a neediness to it—not desperate, or dramatic but quietly intense. Like he wasn’t just fond of you, but dependent on your presence to stay grounded. You noticed how his shoulders drooped when you said goodbye, how his gaze followed you all the way until you disappeared from sight. How sometimes, when you didn’t come by, he’d appear at your door with some vague excuse, or a “hey, just checking in.”

He never said the words, but you could feel them lingering between you...

Please stay. Don’t go.

But you would never admit the fact that you kind of… liked the feeling. There was something about the way Jungwon looked at you, like you were the center of his universe. Like your presence alone kept his world spinning. He was a yearning man—and you were into it. Maybe it was a little twisted. Maybe it should’ve creeped you out. But it didn’t.

It made you feel wanted. Needed. Chosen.

And that quiet hunger in his eyes? It was hard to ignore. Harder not to feel a little thrill every time you caught it.

You were, in fact, so distracted by Jungwon the past week, your thoughts wrapped in the way he said your name, the way he smiled when you laughed that you hadn’t even noticed something else. Something small. Something strange.

You hadn’t seen Minjae.

Not once.

No casual waves as he passed by in his sportscar. No afternoon chit-chat over the fence. No light in his front window. The last time you remembered speaking to him was that day outside your gate. When Minjae had joked that you were a miracle worker for dragging Jungwon out of hiding. When he’d called you pretty.

That compliment still sat uncomfortably in your mind. Not because it was unwelcome, but because it felt... off. Too direct. Too aware of something you hadn’t even admitted to yourself yet. Something that made your skin itch under the surface.

You shook the thought off again.

Minjae was probably just busy. Or out of town. People had lives. You shouldn’t overthink it.

Still, you felt it was suspicious.

Minjae was the kind of neighbor who always made his presence known. Whether it was a wave from his porch, a casual comment over the fence, or him pulling up just to chat—he was there. Almost too often, sometimes. So for him to just vanish without so much as a goodbye? No lights on at night. No deliveries left on his doorstep. No sound from his side of the street.

It didn’t sit right with you.

You told yourself not to spiral, not to start imagining worst-case scenarios. You weren’t in a movie, and Minjae was probably just on vacation. People disappeared for a few days all the time. But something about the stillness around his house made your gut twist.

So when you finally gathered the courage to ask Jungwon—half-laughing, trying to keep it casual “Hey, have you seen Minjae around lately?”

He didn’t laugh with you.

He just looked at you for a moment too long, head tilting ever so slightly. Then that same soft smile returned to his face, and he said, “People like him tend to drift off when they’re not needed anymore.”

You blinked at him, unsure if you’d heard right. “What do you mean by that?” you asked, trying to sound casual. Curious, not alarmed. But there was an edge to your voice even you couldn’t mask.

Jungwon didn’t answer right away. He just kept smiling. That same soft, calm expression that had started to feel more and more like a mask. Like something carefully placed.

Finally, he shrugged lightly, looking off toward the trees lining the back of your neighborhood. “Some people... they like being in everyone’s business. Always asking questions. Watching. They forget their place.” He looked back at you then. “Eventually, they get bored. Or they bother the wrong person. And then they leave.”

His words were still gentle. His tone kind. But something about them felt heavy. Measured. Too intentional to be offhanded.

You laughed, nervous. “You say that like it happens often.”

Jungwon leaned a little closer, eyes gleaming like he knew something you didn’t. “In small towns,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “it happens more than you’d think.” Then he straightened again, brushing invisible dust from his sweater like nothing had happened. “Anyway,” he added brightly, “you’ll be fine. You’re not like him.”

You forced a tight smile. “Yeah?”

Jungwon nodded slowly, but his gaze shifted over your shoulder before he could answer. His eyes narrowed just a little, then lit up, like he’d spotted something that genuinely delighted him. “Oh—” he said suddenly, voice perking up. “You got new flowers for your porch!”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in tone. “Oh… yeah,” you said, turning to glance at the small planter box near your front step. “Picked them up yesterday. Thought the place needed some color.”

“They suit you,” Jungwon said warmly, stepping closer to peer at them like they were the most interesting thing he’d seen all day. “Bright. Soft. Kind of hard to ignore.”

You swallowed, unsure if he meant the flowers at this point or you.

He crouched down slightly, fingers brushing the edge of one bloom without picking it. “You’ve really made this place yours,” he murmured.

You looked at him, unsettled by the way his attention lingered on the petals like they were something precious. Fragile. “Did you… ever talk to the people who lived here before me?” you asked quietly.

Jungwon stood again, that easy smile back on his face. “No,” he said simply. “They weren’t worth getting to know.” And just like that, he turned to you again. “Want help watering them later this week? I’m good with plants.” His head tilted. “Or I could teach you.”

Your heart beat faster, but you nodded slowly, trying not to let it show.

“Sure,” you said. “Maybe.”

Jungwon’s smile widened. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

As time passed, the line between comfort and dependency blurred.

Jungwon had a way of filling your space without ever overwhelming it. A warm smile, a quiet presence, a helping hand before you even asked. He was always there when you needed something. A lightbulb fixed, a jar opened, a walk shared when you were feeling low. It felt natural. Easy.

You didn’t even notice how often you reached for your phone to text him before anyone else. You didn’t notice how you hadn’t seen Minjae or anyone else, really in weeks. It wasn’t like you meant to drift from the rest of the town. You were just busy. Focused. Comfortable.

Jungwon made it easy to forget.

He never told you to stop going into town. He never said you couldn’t visit others. But somehow, whenever you tried, something got in the way. Plans fell through. People stopped responding. Your car wouldn’t start. A “small accident” at the store left you rattled, and Jungwon was the only one who showed up to help.

“Coincidences,” he’d hum, brushing your hair back from your face. “This town’s weird sometimes, isn’t it?”

You’d nod, resting against him. Trusting him. Because he was safe. He was there.

You didn’t question why you always felt so tired when he wasn’t around. Why it felt wrong to laugh too loudly with anyone else.

Jungwon never rushed. Never forced.

He was a slow, calculated tide that wore down your edges until all that remained was his shape. His name on your lips. His hands that you reached for. His words that echoed in your head late at night.

You didn’t notice the strings he tied around you. Not until they were woven too deep to undo.

Because why would you?

Jungwon was your sweet, harmless, and totally normal (handsome) neighbor. The kind of guy who remembered your coffee order after hearing it once. Who fixed your mailbox without asking. Who brought you soup when you had a cold and stayed just long enough to make sure you took your meds. Who smiled like the sun only rose if you were there to see it.

Sure, there were tiny moments, flickering seconds where something darker peeked through. Like when his voice dropped just a little too low when someone else said your name. Or how his eyes didn’t follow the conversation, but followed you. How once, just once, you saw red stains on his sleeve, and he brushed it off with a laugh: “Cooking mishap, you know how clumsy I can be.”

You had blinked, hesitated and then smiled back. Because he was so normal about it, so casual, that you felt silly for even asking.

Because every time your instincts whispered run, Jungwon countered with warmth, with gentle words and soft chuckles. He smoothed over your worries like wrinkles in a bedsheet. Wrapped you in the illusion that you were safe, wanted, loved. And eventually, you stopped listening to that inner voice. Because it was easier. Safer, in a way. After all… it wasn’t like he was hurting you.

Right?

Just caring for you.

in his way.

And in fact, that was his downfall.

He had gotten too close. Too used to your warmth, your attention, your trust.

That’s why it didn’t feel wrong to surprise him. It felt sweet. Thoughtful. Just like all the little surprises he gave you. And after all, he hadn’t been feeling well lately, said he was tired, worn down. So you had baked him muffins, his favorite kind, warm and sweet with a hint of cinnamon. You even wrapped them in a cloth to keep them from getting cold.

Smiling to yourself, you made your way up his driveway, your breath puffing softly in the chilly evening air. The trees rustled around you, the old swing on his porch creaking slightly in the wind. You bent by the old tree stump and lifted the loose bark, retrieving the spare key he didn’t think you knew about. But of course you did. Jungwon always forgot how observant you could be.

You turned the lock and pushed open the door.

Darkness. As always.

The thick blackout curtains were drawn tight, swallowing all natural light. You stepped inside and closed the door gently behind you, the soft click echoing a bit too loudly for your liking. The air was still. Cool. That unnatural cold that clung to his house no matter the season. You had always teased him about it. "You live like a vampire, Won," but he’d just smiled and said your place was cozier anyway.

Balancing the plate of muffins in your hands, you bent to untie your shoes, calling out lightly, “Jungwon? I brought you something!”

Silence.

You straightened, furrowing your brows. That was odd. Usually by now, he’d be thundering down the stairs like an excited puppy, a grin on his face and the dimples you secretly adored showing.

But nothing.

Just quiet.

You stood still for a moment, letting your eyes adjust to the dimness. The only sound was the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen, and the faint creak of the house. You stepped further in, your socks brushing against the cool wood floors.

“Won?” you called again, voice a little softer this time. A little more cautious.

Still no answer.

Weird.

Your fingers curled tighter around the plate. Maybe he was asleep? Maybe he’d taken something for the headache he’d mentioned and was knocked out? That wouldn’t be unusual.

But even as you told yourself that, something felt… off.

You moved deeper into the house, past the living room where the furniture was always too clean, too untouched. Like it was for show, not use.

“Jungwon?” you called again, softer now, unsure if you wanted an answer. Confusion gnawed at you. He was always here. He always answered. Even when tired, he’d greet you with a smile. So where the hell was he?

You turned back toward the front door, heart picking up as you considered just going home and calling him later. But then—

Your eyes dropped to the floor.

Your steps faltered.

There, near the hallway that led toward the kitchen, a faint discoloration marred the wooden boards. Faint streaks that stood out starkly against the polished surface. You took a slow, cautious step forward and crouched down, squinting.

Stains.

Your brows furrowed. Wet-looking. Dark.

Your fingers twitched, tempted to reach out but you stopped yourself. That wasn’t juice. That wasn’t water. And Jungwon… Jungwon hated mess. He vacuumed twice a week. He color-coded his closet. He folded your hoodie when you left it on a chair once and jokingly called it “chaos.”

You stood, pulse quickening now, and looked further ahead. The stains didn’t stop there, they trailed forward in uneven drags. Like something had been pulled.

You followed, slow, careful steps guiding you past the silent kitchen. The stains eventually stopped at a door you hadn’t paid much attention to before.

A door with a padlock that was now hanging open.

You stared at it.

This was the basement.

You remembered him telling you offhandedly, once, that he didn’t like going down there. Said it was dusty, cluttered, not worth the trouble. And you’d believed him. Why wouldn’t you?

But now? Now as you stood with a clear head?

Now that excuse felt wrong. Off-key. Hollow.

Because how could someone like Jungwon, so meticulous leave a whole part of his house in disarray? Let it sit, untouched, messy? It didn’t add up. Not when everything else about him screamed control. Cleanliness. Perfection.

You reached out slowly, fingers brushing the cool metal of the doorknob. You hesitated, your heart thudding heavily in your chest. Something was wrong. You felt it. Knew it. But curiosity.. It had already sunk its teeth in.

Hesitantly, you fully opened the door, cringing at the sharp clang as the padlock slipped from its hook and hit the wooden floor. The sound echoed louder than expected, like it didn’t belong in the stillness of this place. You froze, ears straining.

Nothing. No footsteps. No sound of Jungwon calling out. Just silence.

You exhaled, slow and shaky, then leaned over to peer down the narrow staircase. It was steep, poorly lit, and the air wafting up from below hit you like a wall.

Metallic.

Old.

Foul.

You wrinkled your nose, instinctively covering it with your sleeve. “Jesus, Jungwon…” you muttered to yourself, trying to play off the chill climbing up your spine, “you seriously need to find the source of that smell. It’s atrocious.”

With the plate of muffins still awkwardly cradled in your arm, you gripped the banister and took your first step down. Each board creaked beneath your weight, announcing your presence. You moved slowly, not even sure why you were whispering your movements into the quiet.

The further you descended, the colder it became. Not the kind of cold that came from lack of heating but the kind that sank into your skin, heavy and unnatural.

Jesus, Jungwon really sets the basement mood, you thought bitterly, forcing a weak laugh that died in your throat as soon as it left your lips.

Your foot hit the cold concrete at the base of the stairs, and with trembling fingers, you reached up to tug the dangling string of a single bulb. The old lamp crackled, flickered once, and then sputtered to life with a low buzz.

The basement flooded in dim, yellow light and your breath caught in your throat.

You were going to be sick.

In the corner, a cluster of large black waste bags were stacked on top of each other like a grotesque sculpture. The floor beneath them was stained dark red, the sticky sheen of old blood glistening faintly in the light.

Your gaze jerked to the wall, where tools hung in a perfect, obsessive arrangement, neat and polished, despite the horror of their placement. But the table directly beneath them… that was a different story.

The tools there were used. Bloodied, dried chunks clinging to their edges. A bone saw. A scalpel. Pliers. Things no sane person kept in their basement.

Your knees nearly gave out as your eyes swept further across the room and that’s when you saw them.

Chains.

Heavy metal chains hanging from the ceiling, swaying slightly as if someone had moved them just moments ago. And in the far right corner, barely lit by the bulb, a man was hanging by his wrists. His head lolled forward, body limp. Blood soaked his shirt, streaked down his arms. You couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead.

Behind him, resting too casually on another worktable, was a chainsaw—massive, streaked in fresh crimson, its handle glistening.

You dropped the plate of muffins.

It shattered on the floor, ceramic and chocolate scattering across the bloodstained concrete like confetti at the world’s sickest celebration.

Your breath hitched, your pulse roaring in your ears.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real.

Your body was shaking, your head reeling. You didn’t know if you wanted to scream or throw up—or both. The sight before you was grotesque, a sickly distortion of everything you thought you knew. Your skin felt too tight for your body, your lungs too small for your breath. Panic buzzed like static under your skin, your heart pounding so violently in your chest you swore it would give out.

The air smelled like rust and rot. The kind of scent that clung to your clothes and hair.

You wanted to cry, but your body was in too much shock to produce tears. Your eyes just stung, dry and wide, unable to blink, unable to look away.

And then—your gaze lifted.

A cork board.

Right in front of you.

That’s what made you move. That’s what made your brain finally snap into place, as your body responded before your mind could even fully comprehend it. You stumbled back with a choked breath.

The cork board was covered in photos. All of you.

Some were recent—your walk to the grocery store last Thursday, when you thought you felt someone watching you. You sipping coffee on your porch. You closing your gate behind you. You in your kitchen window, tying your hair up. One of you sleeping... inside your bedroom.

Your knees gave out and you hit the floor, palms scraping against the concrete. A dry sob wracked through your chest.

They were pinned in perfect rows, marked with little notes scribbled underneath in tight, obsessive handwriting.

“Blue sweater. Pretty. Smiled at me today.” “Talked to Minjae. Upset.” “Slept at 2:43 AM. Dreaming again?” “Jealous. Looked too long at cashier.” “No one else but you”

And beneath the board, on a small table, a journal. You didn’t want to touch it, didn’t want to know, but your body moved on its own. You flipped it open, and it was pages and pages of more—more pictures, sketches, descriptions. Timelines.

You were being studied.

Stalked.

Catalogued like a beloved pet or a future possession.

You were so caught up in the horror you didn’t notice anything else until a soft giggle rang out behind you.

You whipped around so fast it made your vision blur, the motion jerking your whole body like a snap. Whiplash shot through your neck and shoulders, but it didn’t matter.

Because standing there… was Jungwon.

His clothes were spattered in red. His face, normally so calm and sweet, now twisted into something else. Something delighted. Like he was genuinely happy to see you.

And in his hands… was the chainsaw.

You glanced to your left. The one you’d just seen moments ago on the table. The same one. But he hadn’t passed you.. Hadn’t made a sound... How had he—

Jungwon giggled again, eyes raking over you from head to toe like you were his favorite thing in the world. His tongue peeked out to wet his lips, and then he tilted his head, speaking in that same gentle, lilting voice he always used when he dropped by your porch with tea or borrowed sugar.

“I told you not to come, didn’t I, baby?” he said, voice light and lilting. “Told you I didn’t want you catching whatever I have.”

He smiled again, wider this time.

Like this was all some elaborate joke. Like he wasn’t holding something meant for destruction. Like he hadn’t just shattered the thin glass of the world you thought you understood.

Your heart thudded so loudly it drowned out everything else. You didn’t know whether to run… Or scream. Or beg.

You tried to speak, but your throat tightened and your words caught in a choking sob. “Please… just leave me alone,” you managed to choke out, voice trembling and barely a whisper. “I don’t want.. I don’t want any of this. Just… go away.”

Jungwon didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He simply stood there, watching you with those cold, catlike eyes that seemed to pierce right through you before he let out a short, almost amused laugh. “That was… cute,” he said, tilting his head to the side like you were an interesting puzzle. “But no,” he whispered, his voice dropping into something softer, almost tender, but no less chilling. “I would never leave you alone. Not now. Not ever.” He stepped closer, the chainsaw forgotten at his side as his gaze locked onto yours. “You’re everything I need. Everything I want.”

Jungwon set the chainsaw down with unnerving gentleness, as his fingers found the thick, bloodied rope hanging from the handle and tightened it around his hands with slow movements, his gaze never once leaving you. His eyes were heavy-lidded and glassy, like he was somewhere far away, but still utterly focused on you.

“This won’t hurt at all, baby,” he said in a dazed, almost hypnotic tone, each word dripping with unsettling sweetness. “Just need you to stay still…”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, panic exploding inside your chest. Desperation drove your hand to the nearest object on the table: a heavy, cold wrench. You gripped it tightly and swung with everything you had, hoping to catch him off guard.

But Jungwon was faster. His hand shot out like a striking snake, wrapping around your wrist and halting your movement mid-air. A shock ran through you when you realized the wrench was stained with fresh, sticky blood—your fingers now coated in it, too. Your stomach turned violently, bile rising.

You let out a raw, terrified scream, the sound tearing through the heavy, silent air of the basement. You struggled, twisting and pulling to free yourself from his grip, but he only pressed you harder against the unforgiving surface of the table.

Jungwon’s lips parted in a chilling, high-pitched giggle as his voice dropped to a whisper, laced with cruel amusement “No one can hear you scream. I soundproofed the basement myself.”

Before you could fully register the weight of his words, he gripped the bloodied rope tightly in his hand. Without hesitation, he wrapped it swiftly around one of your wrists, the coarse fibers biting into your skin as he pulled it tight, securing the knot with a practiced hand. Your pulse raced, panic flooding your senses, and just as he reached for your other wrist to bind it as well, a sudden surge of desperation propelled you into action.

With every ounce of strength, you drove your knee sharply into his groin. The sound of his breath catching was almost as loud as your pounding heartbeat. Jungwon groaned, doubling over in pain, clutching himself, his grip on the rope loosening instantly.

The moment was yours.

You stumbled backward, adrenaline lending power to your legs, and pushed past him, your breath coming out in ragged gasps as you scrambled toward the stairs. Each step felt like it dragged you closer to freedom, even as your body screamed for relief.

When you reached the basement door, you threw yourself against it with everything you had. The door slammed open with a brutal crash, echoing off the walls as it violently hit the wall. You barely had a moment to catch your breath before scrambling upright, ignoring the sharp sting of the rope cutting into your left wrist as you moved.

Your mind was racing, heart hammering painfully against your ribs, drowning out Jungwon’s desperate shouts trailing behind you.

“Wait! Don’t leave me! Please! Come back!”

Panic surged through your veins, and you forced your legs to carry you faster, your bare feet slipping inside your damp socks as you stumbled out into the cold night air. The back door was just steps away, the only real chance for escape. Your fingers fumbled with the handle, finally wrenching it open as you spilled out into the wild darkness of the forest.

The trees stood tall and unyielding, shadows blending with the night sky, but you didn’t hesitate. Moss cushioned your frantic footsteps as you pushed forward, branches clawing at your arms and face, but you barely registered the scratches. Your entire focus was on putting distance between yourself and that suffocating basement.

Behind you, the dreadful sound started low at first, the unmistakable growl of a chainsaw revving to life. It cut through the stillness of the night like a predator’s roar, and terror twisted in your gut. Your breath came in ragged gasps, lungs burning as you pushed harder, every muscle screaming in protest.

The chainsaw’s roar grew louder, relentless, a nightmare chasing you through the forest’s tangled embrace. Your eyes darted around wildly, searching for any glimmer of safety, any break in the endless trees. But all you could do was run, run with every ounce of strength you had left because behind you, the nightmare was catching up.

Every time your foot caught on an exposed root or a patch of uneven earth, you hit the forest floor hard but every time, you pushed yourself back up. Dirt clung to your hands, leaves stuck to your clothes, and your knees throbbed from the falls. Still, you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

You cursed yourself silently. Running into the forest had been a mistake. The fear had taken over, and your only thought had been escape, an exit, any exit. In the rush, you’d completely forgotten the front door, the one that opened onto the street, onto people, onto safety. But now you were too deep. You couldn’t even see Jungwon’s house anymore, and turning back wasn’t an option.

The only thing keeping you from breaking down entirely was the quiet.

The chainsaw was gone.

The loud, gut-churning roar that had chased you through the trees had faded, leaving only the sound of your ragged breathing and the whisper of wind through the branches. You slowed to a stop near a cluster of tall pine trees, bracing yourself against one of them as you struggled to steady your breath. Your chest rose and fell in quick, sharp movements, heart still pounding in your ears.

The silence was eerie, but it was also the first chance you had to really think.

Maybe he gave up.

Maybe he couldn’t track you in here.

You let out a shaky exhale, closing your eyes. The rope still tied around your wrist felt heavier now, a bitter reminder.

Then— A breath.

Not yours.

It ghosted over your neck before a low, almost gentle voice said, “There you are.”

Your blood turned to ice.

Jungwon’s arms came around you like a lover’s embrace, one hand pressing over your mouth before you could scream. The other wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. He was warm. His heartbeat against your spine was steady. Calm. Unlike yours.

“You really made me chase you,” he whispered, sounding more amused than angry. “That was naughty, bunny.”

You shook your head, whimpering under his palm. He just chuckled, leaning closer so his breath brushed your ear.

“Did you really think you could run from me? After everything we’ve shared?” His voice dropped, coaxing. Mocking. “After all the time I spent making you mine?” He slowly pulled his hand away from your mouth, waiting to see if you’d scream. You didn’t. You couldn’t. Fear had strangled your voice.

“That’s what I thought,” he whispered sweetly, brushing your hair back with blood-stained fingers. “Let’s go home now.” His tone was gentle, coaxing… but behind it, there was iron. Finality. You could feel it in your bones.

You didn’t resist as he turned you in his arms. Not yet. Not now. But your mind was racing. Because if you were going to survive this, you’d need to be smarter. Smarter than him. Smarter than the sweet nightmare with a smile stitched in lies.

You let him lead you back—half pulled, half dragged—through the forest. Your wrists were bound tightly in front of you with the same rope he’d tried to use before, now knotted so expertly there was no hope of slipping free. The scratch of branches against your skin barely registered. Your mind was a blur of white noise and racing thoughts, flipping through options you didn’t have.

Jungwon didn’t speak as he walked. His grip on your arm was firm but not painful, almost like he thought this was normal. Like he believed this was still salvageable. You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. He looked content enough.

You needed a plan.

Something.

Anything.

That’s when you saw it up ahead—the ravine. It wasn’t huge, but the drop was enough to matter. The slope wasn’t a sheer cliff, but it was uneven, slick with moss and just far enough across that it might buy you time. If you could make it.

You had one shot.

You slowed your steps, carefully adjusting your breathing as if you were calming down, eyes softening when you glanced at Jungwon. “I’m sorry,” you murmured, just above a whisper, letting your voice tremble with fake vulnerability. “You scared me… that’s all.”

He stopped, blinking down at you like you’d just confessed something precious. His expression melted into something close to adoration, lips parting slightly.

“You don’t have to be scared of me,” he said, voice so soft it nearly caught in the breeze. “I just want to take care of you.”

That was your cue.

You leaned forward, lifting your bound hands like you were going to touch his face. He leaned in instinctively—lovesick and completely unaware.

Perfect.

With everything you had, you pulled your fists back and slammed them into his face.

His head snapped to the side, a startled grunt escaping his lips as he staggered, cussing out. Blood sprayed from his nose, and for the first time, his expression twisted, not in pain, but in disbelief.

You didn’t wait to see more.

You ran.

You sprinted full force toward the ravine, legs screaming, lungs burning. Your socks slipped on the mossy ground, but momentum carried you. You didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

And when you reached the edge, you leapt.

Your stomach dropped as you flew through the air, barely making it to the other side. Your knees hit first, hard, sending a jolt up your legs. You scrambled on all fours, digging your fingers into the earth, dragging yourself up over the edge.

Then you turned.

Jungwon was still on the other side.

His nose was bleeding, smeared red down to his chin. His chest rose and fell with short, rapid breaths. His hair was wild now, curling damply at his forehead from the sweat and heat of the chase. But it was his eyes that froze you in place, wide, crazed, and fixed on you like a predator denied its kill.

He didn’t shout.

He didn’t move.

He just stared, fists clenched at his sides, rage and obsession twisted into something inhuman across his face.

You stood, still shaking, backing away one slow step at a time. You didn’t blink.. You couldn’t. Not with Jungwon staring at you like that, chest heaving like he might leap across the ravine after you.

And then… something in him snapped.

His lips curled into a grin, and his head tilted, ever so slightly. “Oh, you bad bunny,” he called out, voice sing-song sweet and bone-deep wrong. “Running… hiding… making me chase you. Tsk, tsk. You know this is pointless, right?”

His smile widened, blood staining his teeth now. “You’re only prolonging the inevitable. But that’s okay. I like the thrill.”

You didn’t stay to hear the rest.

You turned and ran.

You finally burst through your front door, heart pounding wildly as if it might leap right out of your chest. Your legs trembled, but you forced yourself to keep moving, scrambling toward the kitchen, desperate to find something sharp to cut the ropes binding your wrists.

You rifled through drawer after drawer, panic making your hands clumsy.

A breath, close and warm suddenly brushed your ear.

“Caught you,” Jungwon murmured, voice low and dangerous yet oddly gentle. He moved quickly before you could comprehend anything, strong hands grabbing you and flipping you around before you could react. Your tied arms went over his head, and around his neck as his grip tightened, pulling you close until your chest pressed firmly against his.

He brushed the stray strands of hair away from your face with an almost tender touch, his fingers lingering on your cheek just long enough to send a shiver down your spine. “Making me lose control like that... bad bunny,” he whispered, his voice low and velvety, dripping with teasing warmth.

Before you could even find the words to respond, his lips pressed against yours, hard and shockingly electric. The suddenness of the kiss caught you completely off guard, your breath hitching as your body froze in surprise.

Taking the chance, Jungwon deepened the kiss, his lips parting slightly as he leaned closer, holding you tight against him. His hands tangled gently in your hair, pulling you just enough to claim your attention fully.

Your mind raced, heart pounding like a wild drum in your chest. Every nerve seemed to ignite beneath his touch, caught between fear and something you couldn’t quite name. You wanted to pull away, in gact your instincts screamed at you to, but the strength of his hold and the kiss kept you rooted in place.

His breath mingled with yours, warm and heavy, as he slowly eased the pressure, giving you just enough space to catch your breath but not enough to break the hold. His eyes searched yours, dark and deep, like he was trying to read every hidden thought inside you.

“See?” Jungwon murmured softly, his voice a mixture of challenge and affection. “You don’t want to run away after all.”

He tilted your chin up gently, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line across your bottom lip. “Now be still,” he whispered, voice low and coaxing, “so I can give you exactly what you need, bunny…”

me now:

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@strawberrieswithchocolateo3o @honeybunnee @jjongstar111

@enhaprettystars @zorange13 @jiminie-08 @chocowonnie

@enhamonsterghoul @mrsjjongstby @bussolares @kiripimaspillow

@sumsumtingz @norucking @tunafishyfishylike @txnwvc

@jakeluvrrs @firstclassjaylee @xnatqq @arclviie @aussie-boys-wife

@vvenusoncasual @bamguetismee @cristy-101 @lynreiii

[arclviie]

me waiting for the big brained girlies to post their fics inspired by enha’s new comeback

[arclviie]

i miss tumblr so much, it’s been so long 😓

[arclviie]

Guess who accidentally refreshed her home page and lost the fic she was reading and already got halfway through, but didn’t think about liking it or checking the title or even the writer’s username ??? 😜😜

[arclviie]

THIS WAS SOOOO HDKDHDKD OMG !?

Every Move You Make, I See It - P.J

P: Dead By Daylight Killer!Jay X Survivor!Reader (recommended age 17+)

Warnings: Murder, Death, Stalking, Predator/Prey, Blood/Injury, Obsession, Suggestive Content, Feral Behaviour, Psychological Thriller, Graphic Descriptions, the endings a bit fucked up.

Synopsis: The Entity's favored killers are violent, but a new hunter has arrived—and it’s fixated on you. Man or beast, no one can tell. All you know is: you’re being hunted.

a/n: did heeseung, sooo why not jay as well? interested in heeseungs? -> heeseung

disclaimer! all the killers and survivors in this is in dbd the game. I do not own any of them. the idea of jay was a creative endeavour. for educational purposes: mori means killing and it takes two hits in the game before you are downed. And to avoid confusion: when he`s running, his weapon is on his back.

now playing: rock you like a hurricane -2011 by scorpions | daydream by enhypen | chase it by set it off

--

You hated the killers who weren't human or weren't human before they ended up in the Entity's realm. The Xenomorph, the Unknown, the Singularity, the Dredge, Nemesis, Pyramid Head (you weren't really sure about that one), and the Demogorgon—all of them were violent, sparing no survivors, relentless, and merciless. Anytime you found yourself in a trial and they were the killer, annoyance simmered within you because you knew the round would be painful.

Then there were the other killers who weren't human anymore, like the Hag, Freddy Krueger, the Blight, Pinhead and Chucky. You were kind of relieved when the new killer, the Houndmaster, turned out to be more humane—well, unlike her dog, but that didn’t matter.

So when the survivors of the latest trial came back and announced they had just gone up against a new killer, you didn’t think much of it. New killers weren’t exactly rare, and the Entity loved throwing curveballs your way. But then they said something that made the room pause.

“I’m not sure if it was a man or a beast. It looked… human, but it also moved like a wolf.”

Jake, sitting across the campfire with a brow quirked, asked the obvious question. “Like a werewolf?”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. Great. A creature killer. The worst kind.

“Are you serious?” you muttered, glaring at Nea as if this was somehow her fault. “So, what? We’re dealing with something that bites again!?”

Nea shrugged helplessly, her face still pale from the trial. “It howled. Loud. I swear I heard it from across the map, and… it was hunting me. Not chasing, hunting.”

That word made something twist in your gut—uncomfortable, sharp. You hated the killers who acted like monsters, but the ones who actually were monsters? They were a nightmare. There was no bargaining with them, no understanding their patterns, no telling yourself they were just people corrupted by the Entity. Killers like the Demogorgon didn’t stop. Didn’t waver. Didn’t quit.

Now, apparently, this new killer—a wolf, a man, something in between—was joining that list.

Jake, always too curious for his own good, looked over at you. “What do you think its power is?”

“I think I don’t care,” you shot back, sharper than you intended. “It’s probably something that’ll tear you apart limb by limb, Jake.”

They looked at you for a moment, your irritation lingering in the air, before turning to the others to explain.

“We’re calling it The Beast,” Nea said, voice low, as though speaking the name might summon it. “It manipulates the map, and it hunts with precision. I swear it knew where I was the entire time.”

A chill crept up your spine, but you crossed your arms tightly, trying not to let it show.

“It had wolf attributes,” she continued, glancing around at the rest of you. “Fangs. Claws. The whole package.” She hesitated before adding, “It’s fast, too. Faster than most killers I’ve seen. The way it moves… it doesn’t just chase. It stalks, like Myers and Ghostface. But it’s worse.”

“How can it be worse?” Lara muttered.

Cheryl swallowed. “Because it runs on all fours. One second you see it watching from a distance, and the next, it’s charging you—low to the ground, like an actual wolf.”

Your jaw clenched as you listened, the mental image piecing itself together in your mind. A hulking figure with glowing eyes, tearing through the map with unnatural speed. It wasn’t just a killer anymore; it was something primal. Something built to hunt.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath, looking away toward the shadows beyond the firelight. “Another killer that moves faster than us. Just what we needed.”

Feng, ever the optimist, tried to make light of it. “Well, maybe it’s like Huntress. You know—scary but manageable.”

“Manageable?” You shot her a look. “Did you not hear what they just said? It stalks. It runs like an animal. If it’s anything like Huntress, I’ll eat my boots.”

“I’m just saying,” she replied defensively, but you weren’t listening anymore.

Nea`s words echoed in your head: It knew where I was. That wasn’t normal. Killers had their tricks—perks, instinctual guesses—but this? This sounded like something worse. Like an instinct that couldn’t be evaded.

“So, what did you guys do?” Ada asked them. “Did you escape?”

They all looked at each other, and their expressions turned grim. “We didn’t.”

The group went quiet, everyone processing the meaning behind those words. You exhaled sharply through your nose and leaned forward, staring into the flames. Another killer to outwit, another trial that would leave you with scraped knees and shallow breaths if you were lucky.

But as much as you hated the creature killers—the ones who weren’t human anymore—you couldn’t deny the shiver of unease curling at the edge of your thoughts.

If The Beast hunted like a wolf, what did that make you? Prey.

It didn’t take long before you were face-to-face with The Beast. Three trials. Three exhausting rounds of barely escaping hooks and killers that felt almost predictable in comparison. You should’ve known your luck wouldn’t hold out forever.

The moment you entered the trial, you knew something was different. The forest was unfamiliar—not the usual suffocating realm of the Red Forest or Mother’s Dwelling. This was something worse. The trees were taller, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. The underbrush was thick with sharp brambles, and the fog was heavier than you’d ever seen, curling around your ankles like it was alive.

You huffed quietly as you adjusted the toolbox in your hands, crouching low as you moved forward. The leaves crunched softly beneath your boots, and your eyes flickered upward every time you passed a crow perched on a twisted branch. You weren’t about to let those bastards give you away.

Stick to the shadows. Avoid open paths. Survive.

But just as you turned a corner around a massive log, you froze. A distant shout cut through the silence, sharp and panicked. Then came a sound you weren’t expecting: bells. Not the sharp, haunting toll of the Wraith—no, this was something different. Rhythmic and unnerving, like chimes carried by the wind.

Without thinking, you bolted in the direction of the noise. Branches whipped against your arms and face as you ran, your heart pounding in your ears. The toolbox rattled in your grip, but you didn’t dare stop. When you burst through a thicket of thorny bushes, you saw her—Sable.

She was on the ground, her leg caught in a snare trap. But this wasn’t a normal trap. It wasn’t the crude, rusty bear traps you’d seen with the Trapper. No—this snare trap was made of barbed wire, coiled tight around her calf, digging into the skin. Blood dripped from the cuts, staining the ground beneath her, and her face was twisted in agony.

“Sable!” you hissed, dropping to your knees beside her.

“It—it’s a trap,” she whimpered, trying to pull her leg free. The movement only made the wire dig deeper. “It came out of nowhere. I didn’t even see it.”

“Stop moving,” you snapped, fumbling with the wire as you set the toolbox down. Your fingers trembled as you worked, trying to pry the barbed loops apart without hurting her more. The sharp metal bit into your hands, and you hissed through gritted teeth as you felt blood well up along your palms.

Keep going, you told yourself. Ignore it.

The bells rang again—closer this time. You stiffened, head snapping up as your eyes darted around the clearing. The forest was too dark, the fog too thick. You couldn’t see anything, but you could feel it.

Something was watching you.

“Hurry,” Sable whispered, panic creeping into her voice. “It’s coming. I know it’s coming.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. With one last twist, the wire gave way, and you yanked it off her leg. Sable gasped, clutching her bleeding calf, but there was no time to stop and tend to it. You grabbed her arm, pulling her up as gently as you could.

“Can you run?” you asked urgently.

She nodded shakily, wincing. “Yeah. I think so.”

The bells tolled again, louder this time—low and hollow, like they were reverberating through the earth. You felt the hair on the back of your neck stand up as the sound was followed by something worse: a low, guttural growl.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

“Move,” you ordered, shoving Sable forward as you both started running.

You didn’t get far before you heard it—a sound you’d only heard described before, but never experienced yourself. The heavy thud of something large hitting the ground, followed by the unmistakable sound of claws digging into soil.

It wasn’t chasing you. It was hunting you.

The Beast had found its prey.

You and Sable made the mistake of turning around as you ran—and the sight froze your blood.

The Beast stood at the edge of the clearing, partially shrouded in shadow and fog, but you could see enough.

It was a tall man—if you could even call him that anymore. His frame was draped in black, torn clothes, a cloak of thick fur resting over his shoulders, matted and dark with grime. In his right hand, he held a glaive, its curved blade coated with blood, the metal glinting faintly in the low light. But it was his body that made your stomach twist.

His left arm was no longer human. It was covered in coarse black fur, stretched unnaturally over muscle and ending in claws that could shred through bone. The same grotesque transformation had overtaken his legs, fur and sinew wrapped around animalistic joints.

But it was his face that rooted you in place.

Black hair hung wild and untamed around sharp, angular features. His yellow eyes burned like embers in the darkness, fixed unrelentingly on you and Sable. And when he parted his lips, fangs appeared. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Cause then he tilted his head back—and howled.

The sound was deafening, ripping through the trees and echoing in the fog. It wasn’t a human scream, nor was it the howl of an animal. It was something in between, guttural and monstrous, vibrating deep in your chest like a death knell.

Sable gasped sharply, stumbling against you as her hands flew to her ears. “Go! Go!” she screamed.

You didn’t need to be told twice. The Beast lowered his gaze, his lips pulling back into a feral snarl, and then he moved.

It was almost too fast to process. One moment he was standing still, his claws flexing—then he dropped to all fours and charged.

You ran harder than you ever had before, pulling Sable with you as the sound of claws and snapping branches grew louder behind you. Your lungs burned, your legs ached, but you didn’t dare slow down. Each thud of his movement felt like a countdown, and you knew if he caught you, it was over.

Don’t stop. Don’t look back.

But even as you sprinted through the forest, weaving between trees and leaping over roots, you could still hear him. The low growl, the heavy breath. He was toying with you—getting closer, letting you hear him hunt.

“Split up!” you shouted to Sable, shoving her forward as the two of you reached a fork in the path. She hesitated for a split second, fear painted across her face, but she nodded and darted left while you veered right.

It wasn’t long before you realized he had made his choice too.

The sounds of his pursuit didn’t fade into the distance. The thundering steps—furred limbs pounding against the earth—stayed close. Too close. You risked a glance over your shoulder and cursed under your breath. He was coming for you.

“Of course you’re following me!” you hissed through gritted teeth, adrenaline flooding your system. Your legs burned with effort, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Up ahead, salvation presented itself in the form of a wooden pallet propped precariously between two crates. A quick escape. You angled toward it, lungs screaming for air, and forced yourself to move faster. You could hear him gaining on you, his growl vibrating through the air like a warning.

As soon as you reached the pallet, you grabbed the edge and slammed it down with all your strength. The wood crashed onto the ground, kicking up dust, and you whipped around, a shaky smile breaking across your face as you realized you’d timed it perfectly.

You’d stunned him.

The Beast halted mid-pursuit, the heavy pallet pinning him momentarily. His claws curled against the wood, his lips pulling back in a feral snarl. You allowed yourself a triumphant exhale—until his eyes snapped up to meet yours.

Your blood ran cold.

His eyes were no longer yellow. They were crimson—deep and glowing, like freshly spilled blood. The shift was immediate, like something inside him had awakened. The low growl that rumbled from his chest sent shivers down your spine, and for the first time, you noticed something you’d missed before.

The collar.

Thick and black, it wrapped around his neck like a cruel shackle. And on the front—glinting faintly in the dim light—were small silver bells. The bells. That’s where the sound had come from. Every movement, every step, was punctuated by that unnerving chime.

Your breath hitched as realization struck. The bells weren’t just for sound. They were a warning.

“Shit,” you whispered, backing up instinctively.

He growled again, louder this time, the sound vibrating through your chest. Then, in a blur of motion, he brought his clawed arm down on the pallet with enough force to shatter it. Wood splintered and exploded outward, shards clattering against the ground as the remains of your so-called “safety” crumbled at his feet.

You didn’t wait to see what he would do next. You turned and ran.

Your heart pounded in your ears as you darted through the underbrush, branches snapping and whipping against your face. Behind you, you could hear him—close enough that you swore you could feel his breath against the back of your neck.

You didn’t make it far before you felt it.

The whoosh of air as something massive swung toward you. A sharp, burning pain exploded across your back, and you screamed as claws tore through your shirt and raked deep into your skin. The impact sent you stumbling forward, your legs nearly giving out from the shock, but you pushed through it.

Move. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.

Gritting your teeth through the pain, you spotted salvation up ahead: a small, rotting building with a open window. You sprinted toward it, ignoring the sticky warmth of blood seeping through your clothes.

As you reached the window, you grabbed the frame and vaulted over with everything you had, landing hard on the floor inside. The room was dim, filled with scattered debris, the smell of mold heavy in the air.

You turned, panting, your hand pressing instinctively against the wound on your back. Your heart sank when you saw him.

The Beast was already leaping after you.

His massive form vaulted the window with terrifying ease, the bells on his collar jingling faintly as he landed. His crimson eyes—still glowing like coals—locked onto you and didn’t waver. He wasn’t looking around. He wasn’t searching. He was focused, utterly and completely.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned, stumbling backward. “That’s gotta be a perk.”

It had to be. You’d seen this kind of precision before—Killers who always seemed to know where you were, whether it was through a heartbeat, scratch marks, or some cruel Entity-given power. But this? Those eyes were more than just for show. They were locked onto you like a heat-seeking missile.

There was no time to think.

You bolted for the door on the far side of the room, practically throwing yourself through it. You could hear him behind you, his footsteps heavy but fast, the sound of claws scraping against the wood.

As soon as you were outside, you didn’t stop—you started looping the building. It was a classic move, one every survivor knew by instinct. Buildings meant walls, walls meant obstacles, and obstacles meant a chance to survive.

You rounded the first corner, adrenaline surging through your veins. The pounding of his pursuit was right behind you, relentless. You glanced back just in time to see him skid around the corner, his glaive dragging through the dirt with a metallic scrape.

Keep moving.

The building’s loop wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to give you a sliver of breathing room. Every time you turned a corner or ducked through an opening, you’d gain a precious half-second before the sound of claws and bells filled the air again, signaling that he was still there. Still chasing.

You risked a quick glance behind you, just once, and instantly regretted it.

His red eyes were still locked onto you. Even as you looped him, even as you vaulted and sprinted, he hadn’t faltered. If anything, he looked… determined. Like the hunt was enjoyable.

“God, I hate creature Killers,” you growled under your breath as you rounded the building again, already trying to think of your next move.

You couldn’t loop forever. He was too fast, too precise. And worse, the burn of the slashes on your back was starting to slow you down. You needed a plan—and fast.

It wasn’t hard for him to catch up.

You’d pushed your body to the brink, but it wasn’t enough. Before you could make another desperate turn around the building, you felt the glaive swipe across your legs with brutal precision. Pain shot through you as your knees buckled, and you collapsed onto the ground with a groan.

Dust and dirt kicked up around you as you hit the earth hard. For a moment, you just lay there, dazed, trying to breathe through the pain. Your ears rang, your body felt heavy, but instinct kicked in—you had to move.

With trembling arms, you started crawling. You didn’t know where you were going, but anywhere was better than staying there.

Don’t stop, you thought, dragging yourself forward inch by inch. Your blood left a streak in the dirt as you moved, but it didn’t matter. You had to—

A shadow loomed over you.

You froze, your head snapping to the side as you caught sight of it—a massive, bloodied paw. It dug into the earth by your face, the claws curling into the dirt with a sickening scrape. They were long, black, and sharp enough to skewer you where you lay.

You turned onto your back with a shaky gasp, dread settling deep in your chest as you looked up—and up.

The Beast stood over you, towering and monstrous, his hulking form casting you in shadow. Up close, the details were even worse. Sharp jaw. Unnaturally long fangs, his nose perfectly straight but twitching faintly, as if he was smelling you. The red glow of his eyes had narrowed into thin slits, like a predator zeroing in on its prey. Drool hung from his parted mouth, dripping down to the dirt next to you.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

Your gasp caught in your throat when he leaned down.

Closer.

The world seemed to slow as he brought his face near yours, so close you could feel the heat of his breath. It fanned across your skin, hot and heavy, as though he was tasting the air around you. Then he inhaled—a long, deliberate breath that sent a shiver down your spine.

Somewhere deep in his chest, you heard it. A rumble. Low and resonant, like a growl—but there was something else in it. Something almost… pleased.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you stared up at him, wide-eyed, unable to look away.

Finally, he pulled back, just far enough for you to see the edges of his sharp grin. His lips curled as his gaze remained locked onto yours, and when he spoke, his voice rolled out in a deep, guttural tone—one that sounded as though it hadn’t been used in years.

“You… run well.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, your mind reeling. His voice was gravelly, rough around the edges, yet disturbingly clear. There was something undeniably human in the way he spoke—twisted and broken, but human all the same.

You blinked up at him, your throat dry, unable to form a response.

The Beast tilted his head slightly, his crimson eyes narrowing. “But you’re slow now.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t mocking. It was observational, like he was analyzing you, trying to figure you out. He crouched lower, his furred claws pressing deeper into the dirt, his bells jingling faintly with the movement.

You flinched as his glaive scraped against the ground beside you, the noise grating against your ears.

“What are you?” you croaked, your voice barely audible, trembling as the question left your lips.

The Beast’s grin widened, and the crimson glow in his eyes seemed to burn brighter.

“Hunter.”

And with that one word, he reached down. The moment his clawed hand wrapped around you, you knew what was coming.

“No, no!” you gasped, but it didn’t matter. With an unsettling ease, the Beast picked you up as though you weighed nothing and slung you over his shoulder. His grip was firm—too firm—and you felt the sharp edges of his claws pressing into your side, a silent warning not to squirm too much.

Like hell that was going to stop you.

You immediately started wiggling in his hold, kicking your legs and twisting your upper body, desperate to break free. You’d done this before—countless times. It was second nature to fight, to struggle, to buy yourself just a few more precious seconds. But this time, it was different.

Your movements barely fazed him.

The Beast huffed out a low growl, annoyed more than anything, like you were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. His bells chimed softly with every heavy step, each sound growing closer and closer to dread.

“Let go, you bastard!” you hissed, pounding a fist against his back. It was like hitting solid stone beneath that cloak of fur.

Before you could muster another attempt, you felt him stop. Your stomach dropped. You turned your head just enough to see it—the hook, rusty and towering.

“No—wait, wait—!”

You screamed as the sharp, unforgiving metal pierced into your shoulder, the pain blinding. Your body arched involuntarily as you were hoisted upward, the hook locking you in place like a gruesome marionette. Tears pricked at your eyes as you gasped for breath, the white-hot sting radiating through your arm and chest.

You forced yourself to look down through blurry vision, trying to center yourself despite the pain. That’s when you noticed it.

The Beast had turned away from you, his posture rigid. His yellow eyes—no longer the deep red from before—snapped toward something unseen, a faint snarl escaping his lips. It was subtle at first, just the twitch of his ear and a low growl that rattled through the air. Then, without warning, he took off.

Fast.

You barely had time to process it. One second, he was standing still, and the next, he was gone, his speed a blur that rivaled the Nurse when she blinked through the map. His bells jingled sharply, fading into the distance like some terrible alarm.

“Shit,” you muttered, panting as you hung from the hook. You had seen Killers leave quickly before—Michael Myers, Ghostface, even Wraith when they heard someone nearby—but this? This was different. His speed was unnatural, like he wasn’t just hunting—he was responding.

Someone had grabbed his attention.

Clenching your teeth, you scanned the area. The thick fog made it impossible to see much, but you knew better than to waste time. With shaky hands, you reached up and gripped the hook, biting back a scream as the movement sent pain jolting through your shoulder. You had to get down.

With one sharp tug, you gasped as you unhooked yourself. The motion sent you tumbling to the ground, your knees hitting the dirt hard as the metallic sting in your shoulder flared hot.

For a second, you didn’t move, staring at the ground in disbelief. You did it.

You turned your head, breathing heavily as you glanced upward, seeing the Entity’s claws frozen—hanging mid-air, its barbed talon twitching as though struggling against something unseen.

You scrambled to your feet, clutching your injured shoulder as you stumbled away from the hook. Pain pulsed with every step, but you pushed through it, dragging yourself behind two massive boulders just far enough from where you’d been hooked.

The moment you were hidden, you sagged to the ground, leaning against the cold stone. Your fingers shook as you fumbled for your med-kit, flipping it open and pulling out a roll of bandages. “C’mon, c’mon,” you muttered, forcing yourself to focus.

You could hear the forest around you, the eerie quiet broken only by the occasional whisper of wind and the faint creak of trees swaying in the fog. But just as you started wrapping your shoulder, the peace shattered.

A distant, loud howl cut through the silence.

You froze, the sound rumbling across the map like thunder. It was long and drawn-out, echoing ominously through the thick fog, sending chills racing down your spine.

Somewhere far off, a generator powered up with a loud hum. You flinched at the noise, your heart racing. The sound was like a signal, bright and sharp against the quiet, a neon sign for the killer to follow.

Then, almost immediately after, you heard it: two survivors screaming.

“Shit,” you whispered, yanking the bandages tight around your shoulder with a hiss. You ignored the sting, forcing yourself to finish patching up as quickly as possible. You couldn’t afford to waste time, not when the Beast was on the prowl.

Sliding the med-kit back into your belt, you pressed your back against the boulder and carefully peered around its edge.

He’s fast, you thought, replaying everything in your mind. Faster than most killers you’d faced. And those howls… they weren’t just for show. He was tracking you, tracking everyone.

And if he had heard those screams—if he was responding like he had with you—then two survivors were about to have a very bad time.

--

You crouched by the generator, your fingers working quickly to untangle wires and tighten bolts as the machine clunked and whirred under your touch. The hum of progress filled the tense silence, but your eyes never stopped darting to the treeline. You scanned the fog for any sign of movement—any flash of red eyes, any sound of bells.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

There were no growls. No howls. No heavy, animalistic breathing. For a brief moment, you let yourself believe you were safe.

Then, a distant scream pierced the stillness, sharp and panicked.

You froze, your hands hovering above the generator as you closed your eyes with a sigh. “Again?” you muttered under your breath. He was relentless—hunting like a wolf with no intention of letting up.

You shook your head and got back to work, forcing your hands to steady. There wasn’t much else you could do. The generator needed to be fixed, and the only way anyone was escaping this hellhole was through powered gates.

The next time you glanced up, you nearly jumped out of your skin.

Sable limped toward you, her form emerging from the fog like a ghost. She looked like she’d barely escaped—her clothes were torn, and fresh blood streaked down her leg from a deep gash. Her face was pale and damp with sweat, but she still managed to flash you a weak grin as she knelt beside the generator.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sable muttered, already reaching for the wires to help. Her voice wavered, but her hands moved with practiced precision. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” you shot back, though your brow furrowed as you spared her a quick glance. “But you look bad. Did he—”

“Caught me near the edge of the map. The bastard’s too fast, but…” She paused to take a sharp breath, wincing as she shifted her weight. “I got away. Barely.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. “He hooked you?”

“No, but it was close.” Sable’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I think he wanted me to get away.”

That made you pause. “What?”

She didn’t answer immediately, her hands fumbling with a stubborn wire. “I don’t know how to explain it. He had me. He could’ve downed me completely. But he just… watched me. Like he was testing me.”

You frowned, unsettled by the idea. “You sure he didn’t just screw up?”

Sable let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Not a chance. He’s too precise. The way he hunts, the way he moves—he knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s like…” She trailed off, biting her lip as the generator sparked briefly to life. “It’s like he’s playing with us.”

You tightened your grip on the wrench, trying to ignore the chill that crawled up your spine. You didn’t want to think about that. The Beast was already terrifying enough without the idea that he was toying with you.

“Let’s just get this gen done,” you muttered, shaking your head. “We can freak out later.”

Sable gave a small nod, both of you falling silent as you focused back on the task at hand. The generator rattled and sparked, the noise jarring in the quiet forest. You worked faster, both of you aware of how loud it was, how easy it would be for him to find you here.

Minutes stretched on, and you let yourself hope. Maybe you’d finish it. Maybe you’d—

A low, distant howl echoed through the fog.

You both froze.

“Shit,” Sable whispered, her face going pale.

The howl was closer this time, vibrating in your chest like the low growl of an engine. You heard the faint jingle of bells somewhere in the distance, growing louder—closer.

Your stomach dropped. He was coming.

The generator sparked again, and you and Sable flinched at the noise. Your hands were a blur, working faster now as dread crept up your spine. Every second counted. Every wire fixed, every bolt turned brought you closer to escape.

But then—

“That’s twice now,” a voice rumbled behind you. Low. Deep. Familiar. “You really ought to pay more attention to what’s around you.”

Your blood ran cold.

You and Sable froze mid-action, your breaths hitching in unison. Slowly—so slowly—you turned around, dread bubbling up like bile.

He was there.

Crouched in the shadows of the fog just a few meters away, half-hidden behind the curve of a tree. His yellow eyes were locked on the two of you, unblinking and unrelenting.

From this angle, you could see him clearer than before. His long glaive rested lazily in his normal hand, its blade still slick with fresh blood. His furred legs were bent as though ready to pounce at any second, his sharp claws digging into the dirt beneath him. And yet… he wasn’t rushing forward. Not yet.

Sable’s breath hitched beside you, her fingers curling tightly around a wrench as if it would do her any good. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…” she whispered.

The Beast tilted his head slightly, his yellow eyes narrowing as a low rumble vibrated in his chest. His gaze slid between the two of you like he was deciding which one to strike first.

“Run,” you whispered to Sable, not daring to break eye contact with him. “On three.”

“He’s too close,” she hissed back, her voice shaking.

“I don’t care—three!”

Before she could argue, you grabbed Sable’s wrist and yanked her with you as you bolted to the side, darting between the thick trees. A sharp, guttural growl erupted behind you, and you didn’t need to look back to know he was coming.

The bells. You heard the bells.

They rang in quick, chaotic bursts, each chime louder than the last as he pursued you. Leaves crunched and twigs snapped under his heavy, relentless strides, the sound too fast—too close.

“He’s on us!” Sable cried out, stumbling as she tried to keep pace.

You pushed her forward, urging her on. “Move!”

The forest blurred as you ran, your heartbeat roaring in your ears. You risked a quick glance over your shoulder, and your stomach dropped.

He was right there.

Running on all fours, his glaive held low, his yellow eyes locked directly on you, his movements unnervingly fluid—unnervingly natural.

He’s toying with us.

“Split up!” you shouted, veering sharply to the right.

Sable cursed but didn’t hesitate, darting left as you broke off in the opposite direction. You weaved through the dense trees, ducking under low-hanging branches and leaping over exposed roots. Your lungs burned, but you didn’t dare slow down.

The bells stopped.

You skidded to a halt behind a thick tree, pressing your back against its rough bark as you tried to catch your breath. Your chest rose and fell sharply, your shoulder aching where the hook had pierced you earlier.

Silence.

Where is he?

You froze when you heard Sable’s scream cut through the forest, sharp and gut-wrenching. You exhaled shakily, your fingers tightening around the edge of the tree as you processed what had just happened. He went after Sable. A pang of guilt flared in your chest, but it didn’t linger long—survival didn’t allow for much remorse. Sable knew the rules of the game as well as you did.

Without wasting another second, you turned back the way you came, darting quietly through the trees until you reached the half-finished generator. It sat there waiting, wires exposed and sparking faintly.

You crouched down and got back to work, your hands moving with a practiced urgency. Your ears were still on high alert, listening for the telltale jingling of bells or the rustle of something heavy moving through the fog.

Above you, the sky let out a deep, thunderous rumble, and the faint hum of the Entity’s claws slicing through the air echoed through the forest. Your stomach sank as you realized what that meant—Sable had been sacrificed.

Hooked twice already, you thought grimly, your expression tightening. I didn’t even realize.

You pushed the thought aside and focused on the task in front of you. There was no time to dwell.

"Sorry, Sable," you muttered under your breath, twisting a stubborn wire until it clicked into place. "Guess you’re out."

The generator sputtered, the sound growing louder as it inched closer to completion.

When the generator let out a loud, jolting clunk as the last bolt clicked into place. Sparks flew, and its lights blared to life, piercing through the thick fog.

You didn’t wait.

The second the generator roared to life, you took off running, your feet pounding against the forest floor. You knew better than to linger.

Two more. Just two more.

The thought became your mantra as you ducked low, weaving through the dense trees and tall grass. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, drowning out the sound of the forest around you.

You needed a new plan. The others were still out there somewhere, working—hopefully—on the last remaining generators. If you could find one, or them, you’d have a chance.

You slid into a crouch behind a massive log, taking a second to catch your breath and survey your surroundings.

Then you heard it.

A faint jingling.

Shit.

You stayed low, your pulse spiking as the sound of bells grew louder, each chime like nails scraping across your nerves. You scanned the trees, your eyes darting wildly, trying to catch any sign of movement.

A shadow.

You flinched when you saw it—a dark silhouette moving through the fog, slow and deliberate. He was hunting again, his glaive dragging faintly against the dirt as he moved.

You held your breath and stayed perfectly still, your body coiled tight like a spring. He hadn’t seen you yet. You could wait him out—let him pass.

The jingling slowed. Stopped.

You frowned.

Why did he stop?

Before you could react, a low growl rumbled behind you.

No. No, no, no—

You spun around just in time to see him emerging from the fog towards you, his yellow eyes locked directly on you. His glaive gleamed in the pale light, slick and ready, his sharp claws flexing at his side.

You didn’t think—you ran.

He was on you immediately, the bells ringing out in chaotic bursts as he gave chase. You zigzagged through the trees, vaulting over fallen logs and ducking under branches. Your lungs burned, but you didn’t stop—couldn’t stop.

In the distance, you spotted something—a structure. Another shack.

You darted toward it, adrenaline pushing you forward as the growls and bells got closer, louder. You risked a glance over your shoulder, and your stomach dropped.

He was gaining on you.

With a desperate burst of speed, you vaulted through the window of the shack, landing hard on the other side. You stumbled but kept moving, running for the exit on the far end.

A loud crash echoed behind you as the Beast vaulted through the same window, his crimson eyes locked on you once again.

“You’re fast,” he growled, his deep, unused voice vibrating through the air, “but not fast enough.”

You ignored him, barreling out of the shack and looping back around, trying to buy yourself time. You knew he was faster but you had experience. Loops. Pallets. Technique.

You screamed as the Beast’s claws suddenly sliced across your back, sharp and unrelenting. Pain exploded through you, white-hot and disorienting, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Gritting your teeth, you pushed through the agony and darted around the corner of some cages—rusted metal stacked haphazardly.

Your heart hammered as you sprinted, the sound of his heavy steps pounding behind you. You ran around as you desperately tried to put distance between you and him. Each turn felt like an eternity, every breath burning in your chest.

Finally, after what felt like forever, you skidded to a halt on one side of the cages, gasping for air.

The Beast stopped too.

You froze, your body tense as you watched him through the gaps in the rusted bars. He stood on the opposite side, unmoving. His yellow eyes, glowing faintly in the dark fog, stared directly into yours—sharp, unblinking, predatory.

And then, to your horror, he straightened up.

His hand reached over his shoulder, and you watched as he pulled his glaive from his back with a deliberate, almost casual motion. The blade gleamed darkly in the faint light as he spun it around his hand once—twice—with an unsettling ease.

The growl that followed was deep, rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest, but there was something else there. Amusement.

“Done running, little bunny?” His voice was low and rough, the words dripping with condescension.

Your blood ran cold. Little bunny.

“Shut up,” you spat, though your voice wavered.

He chuckled—he actually chuckled. The sound was dark, guttural, but far too human. It made your skin crawl.

“You’re a scrappy one, I’ll give you that,” he continued, tilting his head slightly as he dragged the glaive along the ground. “But you’ve been running for nothing.”

You frowned, your breath still coming in shallow gasps. “What?”

His eyes seemed to gleam as his lips pulled back into something halfway between a smirk and a snarl. “You haven’t noticed yet, have you?”

A sinking feeling settled in your stomach. “Noticed what?”

“You’re alone,” he said simply.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut.

“What—?”

He stepped closer to the cage wall, his gaze never leaving you. “You’re the last one left, little bunny. All your friends? Gone.”

You felt the ground shift beneath you, your pulse pounding in your ears. “You’re lying.”

Another rumbling chuckle. “Am I?”

The weight of his words crashed over you. The distant screams, the sound of the Entity rumbling in the sky—it all clicked into place. You hadn’t seen or heard anyone since Sable was taken. You thought someone else must still be working on the last generators, that maybe you had a chance.

But there was no one.

You were alone.

The Beast twirled his glaive again, the movement smooth and practiced. “You’ve fought well, but there’s nowhere left to run now.”

You tightened your grip on your side, wiping the sweat from your forehead as you met his predatory stare head-on. “Yeah?” you shot back, forcing your voice not to waver. “We’ll see about that.”

His grin widened, showing those gleaming fangs. “That’s the spirit.”

And then he moved.

You bolted the moment he lunged, the sharp whistle of his glaive cutting through the air as it missed you by mere inches. Your legs burned, your lungs screamed, but you pushed through, adrenaline surging through your veins. Run. Run. Run.

The Beast’s snarls echoed behind you, low and feral, punctuated by the pounding of his paws against the dirt. Every sound he made—growls, the snapping of his jaws, the guttural rumble of his breaths—sent chills racing down your spine.

You vaulted through a broken window of an old cabin, landing hard and stumbling but managing to stay upright. Without hesitation, you sprinted to the door on the other side, pushing it open and darting back out into the fog.

He’s still coming.

A heavy crash followed as he smashed through the window, unwilling to waste time following your path.

“Run faster, little bunny,” he growled from behind you, voice vibrating with dark amusement.

You hit a pallet, slamming it down just as he reached for you. The pallet struck his claws and chest with a loud crack, stopping him for a brief moment.

His red eyes snapped to you through the wooden slats, glowing with a furious intensity. Saliva dripped from his open jaws, long strings of it trailing to the ground as his chest heaved. With one clawed hand, he punched the pallet and crushed it into splinters.

You didn’t wait to see more—you ran.

Vaulting another window, you kept going, looping around the same structures, buying yourself time. He didn’t stop. No matter how many pallets you threw down, no matter how many windows you vaulted, the Beast was relentless.

You could hear him—feel him—close behind. The slap of his claws on the ground mixed with heavy breaths and the eerie jingling of the bells around his collar.

You passed through what looked like a slaughtered campsite—shredded tents, broken traps scattered across the dirt. A bloodied deer carcass laid limply on the ground, stomach ripped open. Nearby, a hunting lodge sat in decay, its walls splattered with claw marks. You didn’t slow, vaulting through the shattered lodge window.

As you looped through, your eyes darted across the environment.

A ruined jeep, long abandoned and covered in deep gashes. A pile of deer antlers stacked near an overturned trailer. Rusted cages lined with old bones—animal and human.

Everywhere you looked, the theme was clear. Hunting.

This was his map.

Everything—every structure, every grim detail—centered on the hunt. It was like you’d been dropped into his personal territory, a domain built to trap prey.

And right now, you were the prey.

You dashed between two more carcasses, your breathing ragged as you tried to keep moving. You could hear him still—too close, too fast.

“Run, little bunny.”

The words echoed in your head as you hit another pallet. You slammed it down just in time, hearing him growl as the wood cracked under his claws.

But this couldn’t last forever.

Your lungs were on fire, legs trembling as you stumbled around the thick trunk of a massive tree. His claws whistled through the air behind you, grazing your back just enough to tear the fabric of your shirt but leaving your skin intact.

And then you saw it.

The hatch.

It was nestled behind a massive fallen tree, partially hidden in the fog and decay, but there it was—your way out.

Your heart leapt in your chest as adrenaline surged through you. This was it.

You veered sharply to the right, pushing yourself faster than you thought possible. The fallen tree was a jagged mess of roots and splintered wood, but it didn’t matter. You scrambled up and over it, your hands scraping bark and dirt as you propelled yourself forward.

A deafening snarl erupted from behind you, so close it sent shivers crawling across your skin.

He’s right there.

But it didn’t matter—because you jumped.

You threw yourself toward the hatch, gravity pulling you down into its dark void. For a split second, you heard him—his enraged growl echoing through the trees, his claws slamming into the ground just inches too late.

And then you fell.

Everything went black for a heartbeat.

When you opened your eyes, you were back at the campfire.

The soft crackling of flames greeted you, warm and soothing compared to the oppressive silence of the fog. You landed on the damp ground in a heap, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.

You were okay.

You glanced around, the familiar sights of the survivor camp slowly coming into focus. The fire flickered, its glow dancing across the empty logs and scattered supplies.

Your hands shook as you pressed them to the ground beneath you, grounding yourself, your heart still racing.

You did it.

You survived.

The realization hit you like a wave, leaving you breathless all over again. You were the first to survive the Beast.

The first.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips as you sat back, wiping the sweat and dirt from your face.

--

After that trial, when you managed to crawl into one of the ramshackle tents at the survivor camp, exhaustion dragged you under almost instantly. Your body was drained, and the adrenaline crash left you hollow and heavy. Sleep overtook you like a wave pulling you down into the deep.

But rest didn’t come easily.

The dream came swiftly, vivid and all too real.

You were back in the forest—his forest. The trees loomed tall, twisted and unkind, the ground littered with sharp branches and the glimmer of moonlight cutting through the fog. You could hear him in the distance: the soft jingle of the bells, the heavy thump of his claws on the ground.

You ran.

Your lungs burned as you tore through the darkness, stumbling over roots and ducking beneath low branches. But no matter how fast you moved, he was always there—just behind you. You could feel his presence, the weight of his stare pressing into your back.

“Run, little bunny,” his voice rumbled, dark and teasing, drifting through the fog like smoke.

You glanced back—and there he was. The Beast.

His crimson eyes glowed in the darkness, locked on you with unwavering focus. He chased you on all fours, his sharp claws tearing into the earth as he moved with an unnatural grace. His glaive was gone, leaving him raw and feral, his fangs gleaming in the dim light.

You screamed, pushing yourself faster, your body aching with every step.

And then—he caught you.

It happened so suddenly, you barely had time to process it. A sharp weight hit you from behind, sending you tumbling to the ground. Before you could scramble away, his body pinned you down, trapping you beneath him.

You froze, chest heaving as you stared up at him. Up close, he looked even more terrifying—wild and untamed, his mouth parted just enough to reveal sharp fangs, his breath hot and heavy against your skin.

But then, something shifted.

He didn’t harm you.

Instead, he scooped you up effortlessly, cradling you in his clawed arms as though you weighed nothing. You tried to struggle, but it was no use—his grip was firm, unrelenting, and yet… gentle.

He carried you deeper into the forest, further into the unknown, until you reached a cave nestled within the hills. It was dark and cool inside, the air heavy with the smell of earth and stone. He set you down carefully on a soft pile of fur—furs like his cloak.

You pressed yourself against the cave wall, unsure whether to scream or cry, but he only crouched before you, his red eyes staring into yours.

“Mine,” he growled, the word rumbling deep in his chest like a purr. His voice was dark and heavy, yet strangely… soft.

You blinked up at him, trembling. “W-what?”

“Mine,” he repeated, his hand brushed your cheek with shocking gentleness. The way he touched you sent shivers down your spine.

He leaned closer, his face mere inches from yours, his breath warm as it ghosted over your skin. “My bunny. Mine to keep.”

The growls in his voice softened into something sweet, almost melodic, as though he were coaxing you to stay calm. It should have terrified you—it did terrify you—but there was something unsettlingly comforting about the way he spoke.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak.

And then you woke up.

You shot up in your makeshift bedroll, a strangled gasp escaping your throat as your heart pounded violently in your chest. Your hands gripped the thin blanket, sweat cooling on your skin.

You looked around frantically, the familiar interior of the cabin grounding you. It was just a dream. Just a dream.

But it felt so real.

You pressed a shaky hand to your forehead, trying to calm your racing heart.

It was just a dream…

A dream.

Sleep was out of the question after that. Every time you closed your eyes, you could see him—his crimson gaze, his claws brushing against your skin, his voice growling.

With a frustrated sigh, you kicked off the thin blanket and stood up, walking out of the cabin. Your thoughts were too loud, your body still tingling with the residual terror—and something else you didn’t want to name.

I need to clear my head.

You started walking, keeping close to the edges of the survivor camp but wandering far enough to feel alone. You let the quiet of the place settle around you, your boots crunching softly against the dirt.

Eventually, you found yourself near the invisible barrier that separated the survivors from them—the killers. You weren’t even sure why you wandered so close. Curiosity? Stupidity? Maybe you just needed to remind yourself where the line was drawn.

But then you froze.

Two figures stood just beyond the thin veil of fog.

The Trickster and Ghostface.

Their presence sent a cold shock through your chest, and you instinctively took a step back. But it was too late—they’d seen you. Trickster tilted his head, a grin already curling across his lips, and Ghostface’s mask turned to you.

“Well, well, well,” Trickster drawled, his voice dripping with wicked amusement. He leaned casually against a tree, his golden eyes practically glowing as he looked you over. “If it isn’t the Beast’s bunny.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

Ghostface let out a low, chuckling hum, his gloved hand tracing the edge of his knife as he stepped closer. “Oh, don’t play dumb. We know. You gave him quite the wild ride, sweetheart.”

You felt your face flush hot with anger and embarrassment. “Shut up,” you snapped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Trickster cackled, his laughter loud and sharp, the sound echoing eerily in the fog. “Oh, come on. He came back furious after your little escape. Threw a fit like I’ve never seen. It was delicious.”

Ghostface chimed in, his tone teasing but low. “You’re all he could talk about, too. It’s like you’re his personal obsession now.” He mimicked the Beast’s deep growl mockingly: ‘Bunny.’

Your heart hammered in your chest, and you clenched your fists at your sides. “I don’t care what he said.”

“Mm, but you do care, don’t you?” Trickster purred, his smile widening as he leaned closer to the invisible line that separated you. “I bet you’re wondering why you’re so special. Why he didn’t mori you when he had the chance.”

“Leave me alone,” you hissed, taking a step back.

Ghostface tilted his head, the white of his mask gleaming through the fog. “What’s the matter? Didn’t you like his attention? After all, he went easy on you. That doesn’t happen often, you know.”

Trickster tapped a clawed finger against his temple. “You should feel honored, little bunny. Not every survivor gets a pet name.”

You glared at them, your skin crawling under their relentless teasing. You wanted to scream at them, to tell them to go back to their side of the fog and leave you alone, but you knew better. Picking a fight with killers—even ones that couldn’t touch you here—was asking for trouble.

Instead, you turned on your heel and stalked away, their laughter following you like a shadow.

“Sweet dreams, bunny!” Trickster called out behind you, voice dripping with mockery.

You didn’t look back.

Your head spun as you walked further into the camp, their words replaying in your mind. The Beast’s bunny. His obsession. Why didn’t he mori you when he had the chance?

You pressed a shaky hand to your forehead, frustration and unease settling deep in your chest. Why didn’t he?

--

The drop into the trial was as dizzying as always—the world around you materializing in a disorienting rush of fog and cold air. You hit the ground with a stumble, steadying yourself with a sharp breath. But as soon as you looked up, your heart sank.

No.

No, no, no.

Tall, twisted trees loomed in every direction, their jagged silhouettes clawing at the sickly sky. Bushes dense enough to hide anything rustled faintly in the breeze, and the unmistakable scent of damp earth and decay filled your nose. Ahead, you spotted the broken remains of a hunting lodge, its rotting wood and shattered windows familiar. Then, a flash of metal caught your eye—the glint of a rusted, blood-streaked hunting trap half-buried in the dirt.

Your blood ran cold.

You were on his map.

“Damn it,” you muttered, your voice barely a whisper, but the words echoed loud in your head.

Your stomach twisted as you remembered the last trial, his relentless pursuit, the flash of red in his eyes, the scrape of his claws.

“Get a grip,” you whispered to yourself. You couldn’t afford to freeze up now—not here, not on his turf.

Taking a deep breath, you gripped your flashlight and started moving, staying low as you weaved between the trees. Every step you took felt heavier than the last, like the map itself knew you were here—like he knew.

The broken-down jeep came into view, its rusting shell half-buried in leaves. You recognized it instantly—another landmark of his hunting ground. Just past it, you spotted the faint silhouette of a generator.

Focus, you told yourself. Find the gens. Fix them. Get out.

You crept closer, crouched low and trying not to make a sound. As you reached the generator, you knelt down and set your flashlight beside you.

You swallowed and started to work, your hands shaking slightly as you connected wires and tightened bolts. The hum of the generator grew louder with every adjustment, breaking the oppressive silence just a little.

But then you heard it.

A low, deep rumble carried through the trees.

Your hands froze. You didn’t even breathe as you strained to listen. At first, it sounded distant—almost like thunder rolling in—but then it grew closer. A soft, rhythmic growl, paired with the faint jingle of…

Bells.

Your heart plummeted.

Slowly, you turned your head, your blood running ice-cold. Through the thin veil of fog, you saw him—The Beast.

He stood just at the edge of the clearing, partially obscured by the shadows of the trees. His black cloak swayed faintly in the breeze, the fur draping over his broad shoulders as if it were part of him.

But it was his eyes—those glowing crimson eyes—that locked onto you like a predator spotting prey.

You couldn’t move. For a moment, it was as if the entire world held its breath.

Then he tilted his head, and his lips curled into something too sharp to be called a smile.

“Found you, little bunny.”

The sound of his voice—deep, rough, and unnervingly calm—snapped you out of your frozen state.

Run.

You shot up to your feet, abandoning the half-finished generator. Sprinting through the trees, you heard the pounding of footsteps behind you—heavy and impossibly fast. The bells on his collar rang softly with each movement, a haunting counterpoint to the blood rushing in your ears.

You weaved around trees and over logs, your lungs burning as you pushed yourself to move faster. But no matter how hard you ran, the growls grew louder, closer.

He’s toying with you.

The thought made your chest tighten with panic. You darted past a deer carcass, its lifeless eyes staring blankly, and nearly tripped over a hunting trap concealed in the leaves. A quick glance over your shoulder made your blood freeze.

He was right there.

Running on all fours, his claws dug into the dirt with every step, his cloak billowing behind him like a shadow. Drool dripped from his snarling mouth, and those red eyes—those damn eyes—never left you.

You turned sharply, sprinting toward a cluster of old crates and barrels. The familiar sight of a pallet gave you hope, and you grabbed hold of it, shoving it down just as he lunged forward. The pallet crashed to the ground, momentarily blocking his path.

You didn’t wait to see what he’d do next.

Vaulting over a window in a broken shack, you stumbled inside, gasping for air. Your heart thundered in your chest, but you seized the moment. The shack was small and dark, its rotting walls barely holding together, but the row of lockers against one wall caught your eye. Hiding was risky, you knew that, but running blindly wouldn’t get you far—not against him.

Quickly, you slipped into one of the lockers, squeezing yourself into the cramped space. The door creaked softly as you pulled it shut, and you winced, holding your breath as you pressed your body back as far as it would go.

You put a trembling hand over your mouth, forcing yourself to stay silent. Through the thin gaps in the locker, you could see into the room—shadows cast from the broken windows danced across the splintered floor. For a few agonizing seconds, there was nothing but silence.

Then you heard it.

The faint clink of bells.

Your stomach dropped.

The door to the shack creaked as it swung open, and the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the room. Slow, deliberate steps—he wasn’t in a hurry. He knew you were here.

Through the locker’s slats, you caught glimpses of him. He prowled into view, hunched slightly forward as he sniffed the air, his claws scraping the wood with every step.

Then he stopped.

Right in the middle of the room.

You bit down on your hand, trying to control your ragged breathing as your chest rose and fell in frantic rhythm. His head tilted slightly, his crimson eyes sweeping the shack as though he could see through the walls. He growled—a low, vibrating sound that rattled in his chest.

“Little bunny,” he called softly, his voice rough and cruelly sweet.

You squeezed your eyes shut, praying he wouldn’t hear the pounding of your heart.

“I can smell you,” he continued, dragging out the words. “You ran so far… fought so hard… yet here you are. Hiding.”

His footsteps began again, the sound of bells chiming with each movement. You peeked through the slats and saw him move toward the lockers. Your blood turned to ice.

He stopped at the first locker.

The metal hinges creaked loudly as he tore the door open. Empty.

A low rumble escaped him—disappointed but patient.

Don’t open this one… don’t open this one, you thought frantically.

You watched as he moved to the second locker.

Your heart was in your throat, your entire body shaking as you clamped your hand harder over your mouth. He gripped the handle of the second locker door, then yanked it open with a growl.

Empty again.

He chuckled darkly, the sound making your skin crawl.

Then he turned to your locker.

You froze, every muscle in your body tensed as you stared through the gaps. His red eyes locked onto the locker door—onto you. You felt it.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, the glaive scraping against the floor as he moved. He was toying with you, savoring the fear that radiated off you in waves.

His clawed hand reached out, wrapping around the handle.

No, no, no—

Suddenly, the faint sound of a generator powering up echoed in the distance.

The Beast paused. His head snapped up, and his growl turned into a snarl. He hesitated for only a moment, then released the locker handle.

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.

With one last glare toward your hiding spot, he turned and stalked out of the shack, his bells jingling softly as he disappeared into the fog.

It wasn’t until you couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore that you dared to move.

Your hand fell away from your mouth as you gasped, air rushing into your lungs. You were shaking so badly you nearly fell out of the locker when you pushed the door open.

Slumping against the wall of the shack, you wiped sweat off your forehead and tried to steady your breathing.

That was too close.

“Get it together,” you whispered to yourself, standing up on wobbly legs.

You slipped out of the shack, your steps light as you crept toward the edge of the clearing. The cool air hit your face, but it did nothing to soothe the burn of exhaustion in your chest. Just as you were about to get your bearings, a blood-curdling scream cut through the silence.

Your stomach twisted at the sound of another survivor being hooked. You could almost feel their pain.

Shaking your head, you adjusted your grip on your flashlight and made your way back to the generator you’d started earlier.

The map was eerily quiet now, save for the faint hum of the Entity’s realm and the crunch of leaves beneath your feet.

You eventually spotted the generator up ahead, the same one you’d been working on before everything went sideways. It was tucked between two thick trees, its rusted frame bathed in the faint glow of moonlight.

Crouching down, you wasted no time. Your hands moved quickly, twisting bolts, reconnecting wires, and steadying sparking circuits. The generator let out small electric whines as you worked, and you winced every time it sounded too loud.

Your pulse quickened when you saw the progress bar fill just a little more. You were close—so close. The distant sounds of the map felt muffled as you zoned in on your work. Don’t mess up. Don’t mess up.

Then you heard it.

A growl.

Your hands froze mid-movement. You didn’t dare look up.

The sound was distant at first—like an echo carried by the fog—but it was unmistakable. Him.

“No,” you whispered to yourself, forcing your shaking hands to continue fixing the generator. If you stopped now, it’d all be for nothing.

You twisted one final bolt, and the generator sputtered before roaring to life. Its floodlights lit up the area, and the familiar blaring noise followed, announcing your progress to anyone listening.

Your breath hitched.

And that included him.

Somewhere close by, a howl ripped through the forest. Loud, guttural, and far too close for comfort.

Your eyes snapped up.

The fog shifted unnaturally ahead of you, parting like something monstrous had disturbed it. Through the haze, yellow eyes burned bright as they locked onto you.

Your heart dropped.

“Of course,” you muttered bitterly, turning on your heel and sprinting into the forest without a second thought.

The Beast roared in response, and you could hear the pounding of his claws against the dirt as he gave chase. The bells chimed in time with his steps, their sound twisted and distorted as they echoed behind you.

Trees blurred past you as you ran, leaping over roots and dodging branches that reached out like skeletal hands. You dared a glance over your shoulder and immediately regretted it—he was there, close enough for you to see the gleam of his fangs in the moonlight.

“Move, move, move!” you hissed to yourself, adrenaline pushing you forward as fast as your legs would carry you.

You felt it before you saw it—the sharp, searing pain of claws slicing across your back. The force of the blow sent you stumbling forward, your scream ripping through the fog as blood soaked into your shirt. The Beast snarled behind you, the sound a dark promise that he wasn’t done yet.

Move. Don’t stop.

Gritting your teeth through the pain, you spotted salvation up ahead: a pallet resting between two large trees. You pushed your legs to move faster, ignoring the burning sensation in your muscles as his heavy footsteps closed the distance.

With one final burst of speed, you reached the pallet, and in one fluid motion, you grabbed it and slammed it down with all the strength you had left.

The wood hit the ground with a satisfying thud just as he lunged, the pallet catching him mid-swing. He staggered for a moment, a low growl vibrating through the air as his red eyes locked onto you in fury.

But you weren’t done yet.

With shaky fingers, you flicked your flashlight on and aimed the beam directly at his face. The bright light pierced through the dark fog and hit him square in the eyes.

The Beast recoiled, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat as he jerked his head to the side, blinking furiously against the glare.

It worked.

You let out a shaky breath, a triumphant smile tugging at your lips despite the pain. The flashlight always works. He was blinded, even if just for a moment.

“Sorry, big guy,” you muttered under your breath, already turning on your heel and bolting away.

You didn’t have time to celebrate as you sprinted deeper into the forest, weaving between trees and broken fences.

The pounding of your footsteps against the dirt slowed as you spotted a faint glow through the trees—a generator, partially lit but still sputtering with effort. Relief rushed through you when you recognized three familiar figures huddled around it: Haddie, Ada, and Steve.

You stumbled toward them, blood still trickling from the slash on your back, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Hey!” Haddie called, her sharp gaze snapping to you. “Oh!”

“Jesus,” Steve muttered, already pulling out a med-kit and kneeling beside you. “Sit. You’re not gonna last like this.”

You hesitated for only a moment before sinking to the ground, letting Steve’s steady hands work on patching you up. The sting of antiseptic burned through the haze of adrenaline, but you bit your tongue, trying to focus on Ada and Haddie, who were whispering urgently to each other as they worked on the generator.

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words froze in your throat.

The sound came first. Faint, but clear.

Bells.

The soft, eerie jingle carried through the trees, distant at first… but quickly growing louder.

Steve stopped his hands mid-wrap, while Haddie’s and Ada’s both paused.

Slowly, all four of you turned to look behind you.

There, standing just at the edge of the clearing, was him.

His red eyes were glowing in the shadows, piercing through the fog like twin beacons. The glaive in his hand stained with blood, and his massive clawed arm twitched as though eager to tear into flesh again. He tilted his head, his stare locking onto all of you at once.

And then he spoke, his voice a deep, guttural rumble that made something in your stomach tickle.

“I can see you… all of you,” he drawled, his lips pulling back into a sharp grin that revealed rows of teeth. “When you’re together.”

Your heart stopped for a second.

“Oh, shit,” Haddie whispered.

Before anyone could move, the Beast lunged forward, his speed blinding.

“RUN!” Steve shouted, shoving you forward as he scrambled to his feet.

The air erupted in chaos.

You turned just in time to see the Beast barrel into the group, his glaive slashing outward. Haddie screamed as she was hit by the blade. Ada dove for cover behind the generator, her flashlight slipping from her grip.

Steve grabbed your arm, dragging you up as you stumbled.

“Go, go, go!” he yelled.

You bolted into the trees, your legs screaming in protest as pain flared through your back. From behind you, you could hear the heavy thud of the Beast’s footsteps and the ragged sound of his growls.

A scream echoed through the clearing—Haddie’s voice.

You glanced back for a split second and saw him standing over her, his claws raised, his red eyes flicking up to meet yours.

He’s looking at me.

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to keep running, Steve at your side as the two of you crashed through the brush. Branches whipped against your face, the fog curling thicker the deeper you went.

The sound of Haddie's scream suddenly cut through the fog like a blade, sending a shiver of dread through your body. You could barely register the sound of Ada's scream following shortly after.

Tears stung your eyes as the wind howled through the trees, but you blinked them away.

But then you heard it—snap.

The world tilted as a sharp, searing pain shot through your leg, and you collapsed to the ground with a scream.

"Shit!" you gasped, clutching your thigh.

Your hands trembled as you looked down, the panic rising in your chest. You’d stepped into a snare trap. The sharp sting was immediate, its barbed wire coiled tightly around your upper thigh, the more you moves, the more the wire tightened, digging deeper into your skin with every movement, the barbed edges cutting into you like they were meant to hold you there—forever.

“No, no, no,” you panted, struggling to pull yourself free, blood began to trickle down your leg, warm and sticky, as you gasped, the pain making your vision blur.

“Help,” you cried out hoarsely, your voice breaking.

Steve, who had been ahead of you, didn’t hesitate to come back after hearing your scream. He rushed back to your side, his face pale as he looked down at the trap.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he cursed under his breath, kneeling beside you. His hands were frantic as he assessed the trap. “It’s too tight.”

You bit back a groan, trying to hold yourself still, but every small movement made the pain shoot deeper.

“Hold on, just… just hold on, alright?” Steve's voice was steady, despite the panic in his eyes as he worked at the wire. His hands were shaking, but he didn’t stop, trying to loosen it around your leg.

His movements were careful, slow, and you could feel every second ticking by like a countdown. The Beast could be right on top of you, you didn’t know.

“Steve, hurry!” you begged, the tears you had been blinking away now threatening to fall freely.

“I’m trying,” Steve muttered, his teeth clenched as he twisted the snare, trying to get it loose. “You’ve got to stay still, alright? You’re making it worse moving.”

You nodded, fighting against the urge to scream, biting down on your lip as you did your best to remain still.

“I’ve got it,” Steve said finally, relief flooding his voice as the wire loosened just enough for him to work his hands under it and pull your leg free.

You gritted your teeth, ignoring the throbbing pain in your leg as Steve pulled you to your feet. Your muscles screamed in protest, but you couldn’t afford to stop now.

“We need to go—now!” Steve urged, his voice tight with urgency. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the fog, clearly sensing the Beast’s presence growing closer.

You nodded, swallowing the panic rising in your chest. The last thing you needed right now was to get caught. You limped, your leg barely holding up as you tried to keep pace with Steve, but every step sent a jolt of pain through you.

He kept his pace faster, glancing at you every few seconds to make sure you were still moving. “Just a bit further. We’ve got to make it to the generator—then we can heal, okay?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were focused entirely on the uneven ground beneath your feet.

And then, just as the rustle of movement caught your ear, Steve spun around, blocking your path. His face was tight with fear.

“He’s close,” he said breathlessly.

You nodded, trying to steady yourself against the pain in your leg, but it was getting harder to move. Every step felt like an eternity.

“Steve…” you whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t know how much longer I can…”

Before you could finish, a blood-curdling howl echoed through the air, the sound unmistakable. The Beast had caught your scent.

"Go! Run!" Steve shouted, urgency in his voice.

You stumbled, torn between the need to run and the instinct to stay with him. "What about you?" you asked, voice strained as the Beast’s growl grew louder.

Steve shot you a look, his expression grim. He didn’t have time to argue. “You heard what he said,” he panted, pulling away slightly. “He can see us when we’re together. We’re better off apart.”

You wanted to protest, to grab his arm and drag him with you, but his eyes were already scanning the fog, watching for any movement. His resolve was set.

He gave you a slight push, his voice soft but firm. “Go.”

Without another word, Steve turned and bolted in the opposite direction, breaking away from you. His footsteps disappeared into the thick fog.

You hesitated for only a moment before you took off running, forcing your legs to move despite the pain.

You were alone now.

You found a quiet place to heal, between two thick trees. The tension in your shoulders was unbearable as you worked, each slow, painful motion making the process feel like it took a lifetime.

But then, a scream.

Steve’s scream.

The sound tore through the fog, sharp and raw. Your heart clenched. The scream was cut short, but it was enough to stop you dead in your tracks.

Steve was on the hook.

Without wasting another second, you groaned as you pushed yourself to your feet, your leg screaming in protest. You couldn’t afford to leave Steve behind. You couldn’t. Not when he was still alive and needed you.

You looked around nervously, trying to get your bearings, but the dense fog made it almost impossible to see anything clearly. You limped toward the source of Steve’s scream, heart pounding, knowing you had to be quick.

You passed by broken trees and fallen branches, your breath quick and shallow. Each step was more painful than the last, but you pushed through it.

The sound of Steve’s struggles echoed faintly ahead, his voice barely audible but enough to urge you forward.

Hang on, Steve. Please hang on, you thought desperately.

When you reached the clearing where the scream had come from, you saw Steve struggling, dangling from a hook.

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know where Haddie was—if she was even still alive—but Ada? You weren’t sure.

All you knew was that you didn’t see him close by, and so you took the chance. You rushed forward, limping toward Steve, your heart pounding in your chest as you neared the hook.

But then, you heard his voice—a strained shout.

“Stop!” Steve yelled, his voice tight with fear.

You froze, mid-step. Your eyes locked with his, confusion rushing through you. He was staring at you with wide, frantic eyes, almost as if warning you.

You didn’t understand at first, but then you heard it—the subtle scrape of claws on the ground.

From behind the hook, he emerged, his body low to the ground, his yellow eyes fixed on you. His mouth was twisted in something between a snarl and... a smirk? It was unsettling. He wasn’t even trying to hide his hunger now. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Your heart skipped a beat as he crawled closer, his sharp claws scraping against the dirt. The bells jingled softly, but it felt like they were ringing in your ears, louder with every passing second.

Your eyes darted between Steve and the Beast. The decision was clear.

Without another thought, you spun on your heel and ran.

Every muscle screamed in protest, but adrenaline was the only thing fueling you now. Branches whipped past you, the fog pressing in around you, blurring your vision. The sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind you, each thundering step closer than the last.

You heard him, the low growl vibrating in the air, and then the unmistakable sound of his bells—ting-ting-ting. You thought you could feel the ground beneath your feet trembling, his pace quickening as he closed the distance. You tried to cut left, darting around trees in an attempt to break his line of sight, but he was still behind you.

In that moment, you realized the truth: he wasn’t chasing you to catch you. He was chasing you because he enjoyed it. He was savoring this. The thrill, the fear that radiated off you, the helplessness that grew with every passing second. You were his prey. And he was playing with you like a wolf with its catch—only, you weren’t meant to escape.

You felt the slash against your back, a sudden, agonizing pain raking across your side. The scream tore itself from your throat as you stumbled, falling to the ground in a heap. Blood welled up from the wound, pooling around you, but you barely noticed it, your mind too frantic to focus on anything but the Beast who loomed over you.

You turned your head, gasping for air, your vision swimming as you fought to stay conscious. The Beast stepped over you, his massive, clawed feet brushing the dirt, and for a moment, everything went still. He stood there, towering over you, his presence suffocating, making it feel like the world had closed in. His red eyes locked onto yours, glowing.

He didn’t move, just watched you, his expression unreadable. A low growl rumbled from deep in his chest, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath you. Your heart pounded, your breath shallow and ragged, but you couldn’t look away. His eyes were mesmerizing, wild and filled with hunger.

For a moment, it was as if time stood still, the forest around you fading away into nothing. There was no escape. No hope.

A slow, almost sinister smile spread across his face as he leaned down, his claws brushing against your cheek in a slow, deliberate motion. His breath was hot and heavy, and you could feel the weight of his gaze as if he were searching for something in you—something he wanted to claim. You shuddered under his touch, your body unable to move, paralyzed by fear.

"You're mine now," he murmured, his voice a guttural growl that sent shivers down your spine. His fangs gleamed in the low light, sharp and ready.

You couldn’t fight him. You were too weak, too broken, and all you could do was stare up at him, eyes wide with terror. The Beast crouched lower, his form blocking out the sky above you, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on your soul.

Then, without warning, he licked your cheek, his rough, warm tongue brushing against your skin like a dog's. It sent a shiver down your spine, and you instinctively recoiled, but there was nowhere to go. His hot breath fanned across your face as he sniffed at you, inhaling deeply as if savoring your scent, his gaze lingering on your every move.

You felt an uncomfortable twinge of vulnerability, but you couldn’t move fast enough to get away. His eyes darted downward, now focused on your leg, the one still bleeding from the snare trap. You hadn’t even noticed until now how much blood had soaked through your pants.

Before you could react, he suddenly ripped open the fabric of your pants, exposing the wound. The rough sound of tearing fabric filled the air as his claws made quick work of the material, revealing the injury beneath.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you watched him, confusion and fear flooding your mind. What was he doing?

You gasped when the Beast's rough tongue suddenly brushed against the open wound on your thigh, the sensation shocking you. It felt strange—like something was pulling at you from within, and you instinctively flinched.

"Stop..." you gasped, though the words came out weak, as you tried to crawl away, desperate to get some distance between you and him.

But before you could get far, his sharp claws sank into the soft flesh of your thigh, gripping and pulling you back to him. The pressure was intense, and you couldn’t move. He held you there, unyielding, as his tongue continued to lick at your wound, collecting the blood.

You whimpered, trying to push against his hold, but his grip was like iron, and no matter how hard you struggled, you couldn’t escape.

As the Beast continued, the warmth of his tongue against your skin became oddly less weird. The fear remained, but you couldn’t deny the strange sensation of being so completely under his control. His actions were relentless, but they were also slow, as though savoring something delicate.

Then, suddenly, he pulled back. You heard soft whines escape from him, and it sent a cold chill down your spine. You met his eyes again, and you could see the remnants of your blood, mixed with his saliva, dripping from the corners of his mouth. The sight made your stomach twist.

He slowly licked the blood from around his lips, his gaze never leaving you. His breathing was deep, his chest rising and falling with each inhale. He crawled closer again, his eyes intense, and for a moment, all you could hear was his heavy breathing.

Then, with a low growl, he spoke. “You smell so... good,” he murmured, his voice deep and gravelly. “You taste so sweet...”

The words sent a shiver down your spine. He seemed to be savoring them as much as he had savored the blood from your wound. His voice dropped even lower, his words tinged with something darker.

“You’ve had me going crazy ever since I first caught a scent of you. I can’t get you out of my mind.” His eyes gleamed, hungry and wanting.

He leaned closer, his breath hot against your mouth. “I crave you,” he repeated, his tone possessive, as though the very thought of you was driving him wild.

Fear mingled with something else in the pit of your stomach. You weren’t sure what it was, but his words were like a trap, a pull that made it hard to think clearly, harder to remember why you needed to escape.

His breath was hot against your skin, his presence overwhelming, and before you could react, the Beast leaned in, his face inches from yours. Your heart raced in your chest, fear and confusion coursing through you. Then, without warning, his lips pressed against yours.

The kiss was rough, urgent, as if he were trying to claim you. You froze, unable to process what was happening. His mouth was warm, and for a moment, everything seemed to disappear around you, your thoughts clouded by the shock of the moment.

You felt his hands, still strong and unyielding, keeping you in place as his lips moved against yours. It was unlike anything you had ever experienced, and the unexpectedness of it left you breathless, your mind unable to fully comprehend his actions.

For a long second, time seemed to slow. He pulled away just enough to gaze at you, his red eyes intense, searching for something in your expression. The kiss had left you disoriented, unsure of how to feel, and you could see the hunger in his eyes.

Before you could gather your thoughts, he whispered low, “My little bunny.”

His grip tightened for a moment, and you could feel the intensity of his words as they settled in your chest. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice low, but there was an unsettling tenderness to it. "But I have to kill you now."

Before you could react, he flipped you over with ease, pinning you beneath him. His paw pressed down on your back, the weight of it overwhelming as his gaze locked onto you.

You squirmed beneath him, trying to push against his hold, but it was useless. His strength was far beyond yours, and every attempt to free yourself only seemed to make his grip tighten.

"Please," you gasped, voice trembling as you struggled.

But he didn’t stop. His eyes were locked on yours with an intensity that sent a chill through you, and his body felt like a heavy weight, pressing you into the cold ground.

"Can you at least tell me your name?" you asked, your voice desperate. It was all you could think of to try to connect with him, to find some way to understand him.

He stopped for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he considered your words. There was a flicker of something—something almost human—in his gaze before he growled, a low rumble vibrating through his chest.

"Jay," he said simply, the sound of it rough but clear.

You repeated it softly to yourself, tasting the name on your lips. "Jay."

He paused again, almost as if surprised- "You're the first one to know it." A flicker of something—maybe amusement, flashed in his eyes.

But then, without warning, he threw his head back, releasing a haunting howl that echoed through the night. The sound seemed to reverberate through the very air, a chilling symphony of raw power and unbridled emotion.

As the echo faded, Jay lowered himself, his jaws parting slightly as he moved closer to you. There was no mercy in his eyes, no hesitation. With a swift motion, he sank his teeth into your neck. The pain was sharp and intense, but before you could even process it fully, darkness claimed you, and everything around you vanished.

You gasped as you fell back into the survivor camp, unharmed, alive, as if nothing had happened at all.

The others were going about their business, completely unaware of the nightmare you had just experienced. The tension in your body remained, though, a tight knot in your chest that wouldn't loosen.

You knew you couldn't tell anyone what had happened. No one would understand. They would think you had lost your mind.

Shaking the lingering thoughts from your head, you stood up, your legs a bit unsteady. The sharp, eerie silence that had enveloped the camp was suddenly pierced by the unmistakable howl from the direction of the killers' area. It echoed through the foggy air, loud and clear, that it made the other survivors nearby glance up in alarm.

The howl was different from the usual ones. It was the triumphant cry of a successful hunt—an announcement to the realm that the beast had claimed his prize.

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[arclviie]

Why is this still underrated ?? I enjoyed this story from start to end, i loved their interactions together and especially Jay’s pov omg !! It’s the perfect read for when you’re just craving something heartwarming and cute, i highly recommend it !! :3

my boyfriend's in a band - pjs

PAIRING: guitarist jay x cheerleader reader

SYNOPSIS: One second, you were telling a little lie to impress the cheerleaders, and the next, the whole school thought you were dating Park Jongseong—the cold, untouchable, and ridiculously hot guitarist. What started as a desperate move to boost your reputation took a wild turn when Jay decided to go along with it. Now, you’re caught up in nonstop gossip, awkward moments, and a fake relationship that feels a little too real—especially with Jay showing a surprisingly sweet side that no one, including you, saw coming.

contains: fake dating, lots of fluffs, comedy, slight angst, strangers to lovers, reader is in 11th grade while jay is in 12th, (but both of them are over the age of 18) reader is short, jay smokes vape in the middle of the story, jay hates everyone lol warning: profanities, mentions of sex, mild smut. WC: 14.7k

song used: same ground by kitchie nadal

A/N: thank you for the 95 followers!

You were a simple girl.

Simple, average, ordinary. Not the type to snag straight A's in every class, but not failing either. You were the kind of girl teachers barely noticed—just another name on the roll call, another face in the crowd.

You liked pink—just enough to keep it cute, but not the over-the-top glittery kind.

You didn't obsess over fandoms or have bags covered in pins and but you have figurines. Your style wasn't edgy or pastel chic or anything that made you stand out. You were... balanced. Plain. Normal.

Your high school life reflected that. Simple. Average. No exciting detours.

You weren't a sports star who got their name chanted in the bleachers. You weren't a science geek impressing everyone with your brainpower. You weren't a mean girl, a party kid, or a cheerleader.

Oh, but you wanted to be a cheerleader.

You wanted to wear that uniform, flip through the air, feel the rush of the crowd. You wanted the applause, the way everyone's eyes followed them when they walked the halls.

But no one cared about a normal girl trying out.

Reputation was everything in high school, and yours? Too simple. Too... forgettable.

You could cheer. You could dance. You could pull off a backflip, a split, the whole routine. You had the skills. What you didn't have was the image.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" one of the cheerleaders asked, her voice dismissive as you landed your final jump during tryouts. You stood there, panting, sweat dripping down your face after nailing the routine.

"A boyfriend?" you repeated, blinking, stunned. What did that have to do with anything?

"From football? Hockey? Maybe Math Olympiad?" she continued, her smirk curling like she already knew the answer.

You froze. Of course you didn't have a boyfriend. You were an NBSB—No Boyfriend Since Birth kind of girl. But how was that even relevant? You were here to cheer, not audition for a dating show.

"We'll let you know if you're accepted... or not," another cheerleader chimed in, her voice dripping with boredom. She wasn't even pretending to care about your performance.

You stood there for a moment, trying to steady your breathing, gripping your bag so tight your knuckles turned white. The sting of their indifference burned in your chest as you turned and walked out of the gym, sweaty and defeated.

Reputation doesn't matter, they always said. What a joke. High school was all about reputation—who you dated, who you were seen with, who you weren't.

And being a simple, average, normal girl? That just wasn't good enough.

It was a warm afternoon when you found yourself face-to-face with them again—the cheerleader tryouts.

So, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out:

"My boyfriend is Park Jongseong."

The world seemed to stop for a second. All the cheerleaders froze, wide-eyed, jaws dropping like a scene from a poorly-scripted teen drama.

"Wait—Park Jongseong?!" one of them shrieked, her voice climbing several octaves. "The hot guitarist in the band?"

You nodded, keeping your expression sweet and innocent, careful not to let your fabricated lie crumble.

"Oh my god!" Another cheerleader nearly jumped out of her skin. "He's, like, the hottest guy in school! And so... mysterious."

"He's so cold, though," another chimed in, tilting her head suspiciously. "How did you even—"

You cut her off, spinning your web of lies before she could unravel it. "Oh, it just... happened," you said with a casual shrug, as if it were no big deal.

"We met at this café off campus. He asked me about my drink order, and, well..." You let out a dreamy sigh, painting a picture so vivid you could almost convince yourself it was real.

"He's so sweet. He cares about me so much. Like, he cooks for me when I'm tired, aftercare after sex, kisses me goodbye every morning, and—" You leaned in conspiratorially, lowering your voice to a whisper. "He even lets me touch his guitar."

The gasps that followed were almost deafening.

"No way!" one of them shrieked, clutching her chest in disbelief. "Park Jongseong doesn't let anyone touch his guitar!"

You nodded solemnly, as if sharing a sacred truth. "Well, he lets me."

For a moment, you thought you'd pulled it off. You were a star in their eyes, a girl who'd managed to capture the unattainable Park Jongseong's heart.

But deep down, you knew the truth.

Park Jongseong hate everyone, especially you. And honestly? You didn't blame him.

The first time you'd crossed paths, it had been a disaster.

You'd been drinking water at your locker when he appeared out of nowhere, walking right past you. Startled by his sudden presence, you'd choked, spraying water directly into his face.

His jaw had clenched, his eyes shutting as he took a deep breath, clearly fighting the urge to lose his temper.

"Sorry!" you'd squeaked, your face burning with humiliation.

And then, like the socially awkward creature you were, you'd bolted down the hallway, leaving him dripping and furious.

Then there was the incident in the music room.

You'd been poking around the instruments out of boredom, your fingers grazing the strings of a random guitar when—CRASH. Your foot caught on something, and the stand holding his prized guitar tipped over, sending it sprawling to the floor.

Right at that moment, the door swung open, and in walked Park Jongseong.

You froze like a deer in headlights, your heart dropping to your stomach as his gaze landed on his guitar, then on you. His face was unreadable, but the tightness in his jaw told you everything you needed to know.

"Uh... sorry?" you muttered, holding up your hands in a weak peace sign. Before he could say anything, you darted out of the room. You ran away, again.

And who could forget the volleyball incident?

You'd been practicing serves in the gym when he and his friends walked in. Your focus wavered for a split second, and the ball sailed in the wrong direction—straight into his face.

You gasped as blood began dripping from his nose. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" you stammered, panicking as he grabbed his face, clearly in pain.

Without thinking (or, honestly, with too much thinking), you did what you always did. You ran, again.

And now, standing here, spinning lies about a romance that didn't exist, you had to fight to keep your composure.

"Wow," one of the cheerleaders gushed. "I can't believe you and Jongseong are, like... a thing!"

"Yeah," you said with a forced laugh, clutching your bag tightly to hide how sweaty your palms were. "He's... amazing."

But in the back of your mind, all you could think about was how Park Jongseong would react if he ever found out about this.

And...The story spread faster than you could have ever imagined.

One second, you were fabricating a harmless little lie to impress the cheerleaders, and the next, the entire school seemed to think you and Park Jongseong were soulmates—or worse, a thing.

And not just any kind of "thing." No. The rumors had grown legs, arms, and a whole personality.

"Is it true that Park Jongseong is... like, huge in bed?" one girl whispered as you passed her in the hallway, her eyes wide with curiosity.

You choked on absolutely nothing, gripping your bag as if it might save you from spontaneously combusting.

Another girl caught up to you, practically skipping alongside you. "Oh my God, how was it? You know, with him? Is he all intense and broody like he looks, or does he have a soft side?"

You stared at her, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

"He's... uh... great?" you stammered, mentally slapping yourself for sounding so unconvincing.

Her jaw dropped, and before you knew it, a crowd of girls—yes, the famous girls—was swarming you, each one louder and more persistent than the last.

"I can't believe you got him to date you!"

"Wait, wait, wait—did he really let you touch his guitar? Because I heard he doesn't even let his bandmates touch it."

"What's his favorite food? Does he let you steal his hoodies? Is he ticklish?"

"Is he actually the silent-in-public, wild-in-private type? Tell us everything!"

Your head was spinning. They were everywhere, and you couldn't escape. You tried smiling naturally, nodding here and there, but the panic bubbling inside you was threatening to explode.

"Oh my God, you're not even in the cheerleading pep squad yet? How dare they still not accept you!" one girl exclaimed dramatically. She flipped her hair with a loud scoff. "I mean, I saw your audition, and it was fucking amazing."

You blinked. She definitely had not seen your audition.

"Y-yeah, um... thanks," you muttered, clutching your bag tighter and taking a deep breath to steady yourself.

It was still early, but the hallway was packed. The questions kept coming, the voices growing louder, and you were just about ready to melt into the floor.

And then it happened.

You let out a tiny squeak as someone grabbed your arm, yanking you out of the circle of girls. You stumbled, blinking in shock, and turned to see who your savior—or captor—was.

Your heart nearly stopped.

It was him.

Park Jongseong!

Jaw sharp enough to cut glass, eyes darker than your worst nightmares, and hair falling messily across his forehead like he just stepped out of a photoshoot.

Except he didn't look like a model. No. He looked angry.

Like, furious.

Oh, you were so, so dead.

"S-see you later, girls!" you called out, your voice cracking as you tried to sound cheerful. You gripped his arm like your life depended on it, forcing a smile as he dragged you through the hallway.

The crowd erupted behind you.

"Oh my God, they're really together!"

"I knew it!"

"They're so cute! Look at how she holds onto him!"

Your face felt like it was on fire. You could feel every pair of eyes in the hallway locked on you as Jongseong stormed forward, his grip firm but not painful. You tried to match his pace, but his legs were longer, and you were practically jogging to keep up.

You tried to focus on breathing, but the more they talked, the more you wanted to just curl up and disappear.

Meanwhile, Jongseong hadn't said a single word. His jaw clenched, his eyes fixed straight ahead.

"Uh, Jongseong—"

Before you could finish, he yanked open the door to a small storage room, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind you with a loud click.

"Hey—what are you—"

"Shut up," he muttered, his voice low and sharp.

You blinked, startled. The room was small, cramped, and dimly lit by a single flickering bulb. Shelves stacked with cleaning supplies and dusty boxes surrounded you, and the air smelled faintly of bleach.

Jongseong leaned against the door, running a hand through his messy hair and letting out a frustrated sigh.

"What the hell?" he said finally, his voice laced with irritation.

You swallowed hard, gripping your bag like a shield. "I... I can explain?"

"Yeah, you'd better," he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes locked onto yours, and the intensity of his gaze made your knees feel like jelly.

"Why is everyone in this school convinced we're dating? And why," his voice dropped lower, "did I just hear someone asking if I'm good in bed?"

You winced. "Okay, so... it might've gotten a little out of hand."

He let out a bitter laugh, raising an eyebrow. "A little?"

You hesitated, trying to find the right words. "Look, I was just trying to impress the cheerleaders! They don't think I'm cool enough to make the squad, so I might've... um... made up a story."

His jaw tightened. "A story? About me?"

You gave him a weak, apologetic smile. "I didn't think it would blow up like this! I thought they'd just forget about it after tryouts!"

"Oh, yeah, because rumors about me always disappear quietly," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You bit your lip, your embarrassment growing by the second. "I'm really sorry. I'll fix it. I promise."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "How exactly do you plan to fix this? Everyone already thinks we're a couple. You should've thought about that before you opened your mouth."

"I know, I know!" you said, your voice rising slightly. "But I didn't think people would actually believe me! I mean, look at you! You're, like... you, and I'm just... me."

He stared at you, one eyebrow twitching. "What does that even mean?"

"It means no one would ever think you would date someone like me!" you blurted out.

There was a brief silence, Jongseong blinked, his expression unreadable.

"Wow," he said finally, his tone flat. "That's... depressing."

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. "I'm making this worse, aren't I?"

"Yeah," he said bluntly.

You peeked at him through your fingers, your voice small. "Can you... just not kill me, though?"

He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath. For a moment, he looked like he was considering throwing you out the door, but instead, he leaned back against it, running a hand down his face.

"Here's what's going to happen," he said finally. "You're going to go out there, tell everyone you lied, and make sure my name is out of their mouths by the end of the day."

Your eyes widened. "I can't do that! If I tell them the truth, I'll look like a total loser! They'll never let me on the squad!"

"Not my problem," he shot back.

"Please!" you pleaded, grabbing his arm in desperation. "Just... let me ride this out a little longer. I'll figure out a way to fix it without dragging your name through the mud, I promise!"

He stared at you for a long moment. He let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Do whatever you want," he said finally.

Your eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Don't make me regret this," he added,

"I'll do anything!" you said quickly, your relief overwhelming your sense of pride.

His eyes flicked back to yours, and you swore you saw a flicker of amusement in his expression. "Anything?"

You hesitated. "Uh... within reason?"

He smirked, shaking his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered, pushing off the door and opening it.

"Wait, where are you going?" you asked, panicked.

"Class," he said simply, walking out and leaving you standing there, still clutching your bag like it might protect you from the fallout.

"Oh my God, they just came out of the storage room together!" someone squealed.

Your blood froze as a wave of gasps and murmurs rippled down the hallway.

"No way! They're so freaky!"

"They couldn't even wait until after school? A quickie in the storage room?!"

"That's so wild!"

You bolted out of the storage room, your face burning so hot it was probably visible from space. "It's not what you think!" you stammered, waving your hands frantically. "Nothing happened! I swear!"

But your protests only seemed to make things worse.

"Did you see her face? She's totally guilty!"

"God, no wonder he's so obsessed with her. She's probably insane in bed."

"Wait, so does this mean she's, like, not lying about them being a couple?"

The crowd erupted into a chorus of giggles, whispers, and scandalized gasps, and you felt your soul leave your body.

At the end of the day, you got the news: you were officially part of the cheerleading pep squad.

This wasn't exactly how you pictured it, but hey, you'd finally made it. You thought practice would be all about jumps, flips, and cheers, but instead, it was questions. Endless questions.

All about your "boyfriend."

By the time practice ended, you were convinced the squad cared more about Park Jongseong than they cared about cheerleading. It was exhausting. They made him your whole personality.

Now, you stood outside the music room, foot tapping nervously as you psyched yourself up. You needed to talk to him. Jongseong—Jay—walked out with his guitar slung over his back, his expression colder than a freezer. His eyes landed on you, sharp and annoyed.

"Why are you here?" he asked, as blunt as ever.

You forced an awkward smile. "Hi! Because... you're my boyfriend?"

Jay scoffed, walking past you like you didn't exist. Panicked, you scrambled to catch up, nearly tripping over your own feet.

"H-hey! Wait!" you called, gripping the edge of his jacket. "I'm Y/N! Please, for the second time, just hear me out!"

He stopped, turned, and stared at you with the kind of look that could burn holes in concrete. "What do you want now?"

You fumbled with your bag, your cheeks burning. "I just... I wanted to talk about—"

"Fuck off," he snapped, making you flinch and throw your hands up like you were bracing for impact.

"I'm sorry!" you squeaked, your voice small.

Jay sighed, running a hand through his hair as he shifted his weight. For a second, his eyes softened—but not enough to let you relax.

"I already let you use my name. What else do you want from me?" he asked, voice low and sharp.

You bit your lip, tapping your foot nervously. You'd practiced this speech in your head a hundred times, but the words suddenly felt scrambled.

"I just... I got into the cheerleading squad, but they keep asking me questions about you, and—"

His glare deepened. "After you spilled water on me, crashed my guitar, and hit me in the face with a volleyball, what more do you want?"

You gasped, offended. "E-excuse me?! Those were accidents!" you said, emphasizing the word with dramatic hand gestures.

"I didn't spill water on you on purpose! And I didn't crash your guitar—it fell! And your nose? Total accident!"

Jay's expression didn't budge. "Right. Keep telling yourself that."

He turned to leave, but you panicked again, grabbing his arm and walking beside him as fast as your shorter legs could go.

"Please, just help me for a little while longer!" you pleaded.

He glanced at your hand on his arm, then at you, looking like he wanted to throw himself into the nearest trash can. "You got what you wanted. Tell them we broke up or something."

You shook your head frantically. "No, no, no! I know I'm a loser for using your name, but I need to keep this up for a few more months!"

Jay's jaw tightened. "What now?"

"I just... need some information about you," you said, your voice small. "Like, your favorite color, or your hobbies, or—"

He cut you off with a groan. "Just make something up. You're good at that."

"But it sounds fake!" you whined, stomping a little like a frustrated child.

Jay stopped walking and turned to glare at you again. "And the story about the café and me being good in bed doesn't sound fake?"

Your cheeks turned crimson. "I-I didn't say anything about you being good in bed!" you squeaked, waving your hands defensively. "I just said you were good at, uh, aftercare! They're the ones who assumed the rest!"

Jay stared at you, his face unreadable, but the way his lips twitched told you he was this close to laughing.

"So, you want more information about me so you can answer their next stupid questions?" he asked.

You nodded eagerly. "Yes! Exactly!"

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Like if I'm huge?"

Your brain short-circuited. "N-no!" you squealed, stepping back as your cheeks burned even hotter. "It's not like that!"

Jay smirked, adjusting the strap of his guitar as he stood up straight again. "Right," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Good luck with your cheerleading squad, girlfriend."

And with that, he totally walked away, leaving you standing there, red-faced and humiliated. But you weren't about to give up.

No way. You'd come too far and sacrificed too much pride to back down now. If groveling got you this far, then maybe going lower would get you what you needed.

So, you became... everywhere.

After his chemistry class, there you were, waiting outside the door with a bright smile and an awkward wave. "Hi! How was class? Did you learn anything interesting?"

He barely looked at you as he walked past, muttering, "I don't know, did you?"

At his band practice, you somehow sweet-talked your way in. His bandmates, thinking you were his girlfriend, welcomed you with open arms.

"Jay never told us you were so supportive," one of them said, grinning.

"Y-yeah! That's me! Super supportive!" you laughed nervously, while Jay sat in the corner, tuning his guitar, looking like he was plotting your demise.

But you stayed anyway, sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching him play with stars in your eyes. He was good—like, really good—and for a second, you almost forgot how much he hated you.

After practice, you walked out with him, chatting non-stop about your cheerleading routine. "So then Karina said I should try a - "

Jay, walking ahead of you, sighed heavily. "Do you ever stop talking?"

You froze for half a second before jogging to catch up. "Not really!" you said cheerfully, ignoring the withering glare he shot you.

During break time, you plopped down beside him in the cafeteria, chatting away about your practice. You didn't even realize you were rambling until he looked at you, his expression blank.

"Do you ever run out of words?" he asked, deadpan.

You blinked. "Uh... no?"

He groaned, rubbing his temples.

It wasn't long before your cheer squad started noticing things, too.

During one break, Yunjin leaned over, lazily plucking at her nails. "Your relationship seems so... one-sided," she said casually, enough to make your stomach drop.

"Eh?" you squeaked, your chest tightening with nerves. "W-what do you mean?"

Yunjin shrugged. "We never see you guys together. And when we do, he looks like he's about murdering someone."

You forced a laugh, your hands sweaty. "W-well, he's just... had a lot of bad days lately!"

"Jay's always having bad days when he's with you?" she shot back, raising an eyebrow.

"And you two don't even kiss in public," Karina added, leaning her chin on her hand.

Your throat went dry. "Uh, well, he doesn't like PDA," you said quickly.

The two of them exchanged looks but eventually shrugged, letting it go. You let out a quiet breath of relief, only to freeze when Karina clapped her hands.

"Y/N, you said you can do back handsprings, right?"

You nodded eagerly. "Yes! Do you need me to—"

"Great!" Karina stood, surveying the gym with a critical eye. "We need you to cover the entire formation during lifting. Can you do five in a row?"

Your eyes widened. "F-five?"

"Yeah, starting from over there." Karina gestured to the far side of the gym.

You forced a smile and walked to the starting position, nerves rattling in your chest. Everyone's eyes were on you.

You took a deep breath and started your back handsprings, nailing five in a row. When you landed, slightly dizzy, you raised your arms triumphantly.

"Hmm... it doesn't cover the right side," Karina said, tapping her chin. "Y/N, try seven this time."

Your smile faltered. "S-seven?"

They nodded.

You did as they asked, pushing through the dizziness, only to hear them call for more.

By the fourth round, you were practically collapsing mid-air. Ten was far too much, and by the end, your knees hit the floor hard, sending pain shooting up your legs.

"Oh, perfect!" Karina said, clapping her hands. "That covered the whole area. Great job, Y/N! But you need to work on your posture."

You winced, clutching your bruised knee as you shuffled to sit beside the others. The pain was sharp, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you forced a smile, trying to keep it together.

"I'm kind of craving boba tea," Karina said suddenly, standing up. "Who wants some?"

"Oh, me too!" Giselle chimed in, followed by the rest of the squad eagerly raising their hands.

"Perfect!" Karina said, pulling out a notepad. "Let's make a list."

A moment later, she shoved the list into your hands. "Here. And here's the money. You can go get it for us."

You stared at the list, dumbfounded. "Wait... me?"

"Yeah! Thanks, Y/N!" she said brightly, already turning to talk to Giselle about something else.

You blinked, standing stiffly as pain radiated from your knees. You didn't even have the energy to argue. Instead, you hobbled to the restroom first, tears spilling over as you washed your knees.

Violet bruises were already forming, and the cold water stung as it ran over the tender skin.

This wasn't what you'd imagined when you dreamed of joining the cheer squad.

You thought it would be glamorous—flipping in the air, cheering under bright lights, and finally belonging to something cool.

Instead, here you were, limping to a nearby boba shop with bruised knees and teary eyes.

Still, you told yourself it was okay. You were part of them now. You weren't just a simple girl anymore—you were a cheerleader. Their friend. It was normal to run errands and do things for your friends, right?

So why did it feel so awful?

As you stood in line, you checked the money Karina had handed you earlier, only to realize it was short. Way short.

You panicked for a moment, but what could you do? You had no choice but to pay for the rest out of your own pocket, all while swallowing the lump in your throat.

By the time you were walking back to school, holding a bunch of boba cups in flimsy plastic bags, you were crying. Pathetically.

Tears streaked your face, and your lips wobbled as you sniffled, trying not to let the world see how pitiful you looked.

But it wasn't their fault, you told yourself. They weren't bullying you. You were just having a sensitive day. Your knees hurt from all that back handspring practice, and the money situation had just been bad luck.

That's all.

You furiously wiped at your cheeks, determined to look normal before you made it back to the gym. But then, a voice startled you out of your thoughts.

"What happened to you?"

You nearly dropped the boba.

"Jay!" you yelped, turning to see him standing there with his guitar case slung over his back, his sharp gaze flicking from your tear-streaked face to the plastic bags in your hands—and then to your bruised, purple knees.

"I—uh—hi!" you stammered, forcing an awkward smile.

He didn't return it. "You didn't visit the music room today."

"Oh!" you exclaimed, caught off guard. "I was busy with practice. I completely forgot! I'm sorry!"

He didn't respond, just reached over and took the plastic boba bags from your hands.

You blinked at him, muttering a quiet "thank you" as he carried them down the hallway beside you.

"What happened to you?" he asked again, his tone firmer this time.

You scratched the back of your head, feigning cluelessness. "Uh, what do you mean?"

He gave you a look, and his voice dropped. "Why were you crying? And why do you have bruises all over your knees?"

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He was staring at you like he could see right through every lie you'd prepared.

"Uh, just... girl stuff!" you blurted, laughing awkwardly. "You know, sensitive day!"

"And your knees?" he asked flatly.

"Oh, that?" You waved a hand as if it were nothing. "They made me practice back handsprings today. I just, uh, had a bad landing. But I'm totally fine! See?" You gave him a shaky thumbs-up, forcing another smile.

Jay didn't look convinced. His gaze flickered back to your knees, then to your face.

"Why? Do you care about me?" you teased, lightly bumping his shoulder with yours.

He rolled his eyes, but you swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Without a word, he gestured toward the gym door.

"You first."

You laughed nervously, pushing the door open and walking inside.

"Oh, Y/N," Karina called out from across the gym. "Coach said we're not allowed to have boba anymore since she's strict about our diet. Did you already buy it?"

Your face fell. "Yes..."

"Oh crap!" Giselle smacked her forehead. "I texted you, but I guess it didn't go through!"

"But the boba? The money?" one of the girls asked, holding out her hand expectantly.

You hesitated, your voice caught in your throat. "I already bought it," you said quietly, glancing nervously at Jay.

Before you could say anything else, he walked past you, heading toward the bleachers. Without a word, he dropped the bags of boba onto the bench—hard. The cups jostled, some of the liquid spilling over the edges.

"J-Jongseong?!" Karina stammered, her confident tone faltering as she gulped nervously.

Jay stood there, his sharp glare slicing through the room. "Are you serious right now?" he said, his voice calm but dangerous.

Karina shifted uncomfortably, swallowing a lump in her throat. "W-we didn't mean for her to actually buy them—"

"Yeah?" he cut her off. "Because it looks like you had her running errands like your personal delivery service."

"Jay, it's not like that!" you blurted, defending them instinctively, though your voice wavered.

The room went silent. None of the girls dared to speak as Jay's gaze swept over them, so sharp.

"Is your practice over or something?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because none of you look like you're doing any cheers anymore."

Giselle quickly nodded, her voice high and nervous. "W-we're on a break!"

Jay's eyes narrowed slightly, making Giselle shrink under his gaze.

Finally, he turned to you, and his expression softened just enough to make your chest feel weird—like relief, or maybe something you couldn't quite place.

"Come on," he said, nodding toward the door.

"H-huh?" you stammered, blinking up at him.

"Let's go," he repeated, already turning away.

Before you could argue, he noticed the way you hesitated, the way you winced with every step. His eyes flicked down to your knees, bruised and swollen, and without a word, he leaned down and effortlessly scooped you up into his arms.

"W-what are you doing?!" you gasped, your face burning red as you scrambled to hold onto him.

The squad collectively let out a series of audible gasps behind you.

"Oh my God, she's not like, totally lying," Karina whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Jay didn't acknowledge them. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed ahead as he carried you out of the gym.

"Jay, I can walk!" you protested weakly, even though your knees were very much not in walking condition.

"Yeah, you're doing a great job of that," he muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he adjusted his grip on you.

You clung to him in stunned silence, trying to ignore the burning stares from the squad still watching as the door swung shut behind you.

Your heart raced, and whether it was from embarrassment or something else entirely, you didn't want to think about it.

"You're going to stop running around like this," Jay said firmly as he walked. "If they want boba, they can get it themselves."

"But I'm part of the team now," you mumbled, your voice small.

"You're not their errand girl," he shot back, his eyes flicking down to you.

You shut your mouth, letting him carry you to the clinic as the nurse tended to your bruised knees.

He leaned casually against the wall, watching the whole process like he was supervising. Every time you dared to glance his way, he raised an eyebrow, silently daring you to say something stupid. You wisely kept quiet.

The next day at practice, things hadn't gotten much better.

The girls were still bombarding you with questions—except now, Jay had inadvertently raised your popularity to new heights.

"He's sweet but terrifying," one of them whispered, watching you stretch. "Maybe you should get him to smile for once. He's always glaring."

"Yeah, but it's kind of hot," another one added, fanning herself dramatically. "It's like he hates everyone except her."

You snorted at that, almost choking on your own air. If only they knew the truth. But you couldn't even laugh properly because someone tapped your shoulder, pointing toward the gym doors.

"Y/N, look!"

You turned and nearly choked on your own spit. There he was—Jay—walking toward you.

The girls squealed, whispering loudly as they quickly backed away to give you "privacy."

Your stomach flipped as he approached, his dark eyes scanning the gym before locking on you. "What are you doing here?" you whispered, gripping the edge of the bleachers.

He ignored your question, dropping his bag and kneeling in front of you.

"How's your knee?" he asked, his tone softer this time as his eyes flicked to your legs.

"I'm fine! What are you doing here?" you repeated, feeling heat crawl up your neck as the gym filled with the sound of squeals and whispers.

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he rummaged through his bag and pulled out something.

"I bought you knee pads," he said simply, holding them up.

Your jaw dropped. "What—why?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he gently took your leg, his hands warm as he began securing the knee pad in place.

"He's so sweet!" one of the girls whispered loudly.

You tried to ignore the growing crowd of gossipers, your face burning as you stared down at him. "You really didn't have to—"

"Stop moving," he interrupted, his focus entirely on your knee as he adjusted the strap.

You sighed, crossing your arms. "Jay, seriously, what are you doing here?"

"I'll watch your routine," he said casually, moving to your other knee.

"What? No!" you exclaimed, flailing slightly. "What do you mean, you'll watch?"

He glanced up at you, a small, almost mischievous smile tugging at his lips. "You watch me practice at the music room. It's only fair I watch yours."

"That's different!" you sputtered, your face heating further.

"How is it different?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Because—because I'm not good at this yet!" you said, flustered. "What's your deal?"

"What do you mean?" he said, his voice light with amusement. "I just want to support my girlfriend."

You froze. Your brain short-circuited. Did he just—

"W-what did you just say?" you stammered, your voice cracking.

"Girlfriend," he repeated smoothly, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Isn't that what you keep telling everyone I am?"

You wanted to crawl into a hole and die. The giggles and gasps around you didn't help, either.

"You can't just—" you started, but he cut you off.

"Relax," he said, smirking as he turned to walk away. "Good luck with practice, babe. I'll be watching."

You watched him head toward the bleachers, still reeling from the fact that Park Jongseong, the untouchable cold Jay, just called you his girlfriend in front of everyone.

If you hadn't been blushing before, you were definitely on fire now.

The routine begins with a burst of synchronized cheers, the squad moving in perfect unison. You jump, spin, and dance, throwing in a split and a clean back handspring. When the lifting section comes, you step onto their hands with, you stick the landing, holding your pose as they lower you carefully.

You finish the routine without letting your bruised knees slow you down, your chest heaving as sweat drips down your temples.

The coach claps, giving feedback to the squad, but all you can think about is sitting down and catching your breath.

Unconsciously, you find yourself collapsing onto the bleachers—right next to Jay. He doesn't say anything, just pulls a water bottle and towel out of his bag, as if he'd been expecting you to need them.

"Here," he mutters, handing them over.

"Thanks," you say, too exhausted to overthink it. You take a long sip of water before draping the towel over your shoulders.

"How's the performance?" you ask him, still catching your breath.

"You're good," he replies simply.

You pause, blinking at him. "No, like... us. The cheering squad. How did we look?"

Jay shrugs, leaning back slightly on the bleachers, his gaze fixed ahead. "I don't know," he says, his tone casual. "I only had my eyes on you."

The water bottle in your hand almost slips from your grasp.

"W-what?" you stammer, turning to look at him.

He doesn't meet your gaze, his expression cool and indifferent, but there's a small twitch at the corner of his lips. "You heard me," he says, his voice even.

Your face heats up, and you're not sure if it's from the workout or his words. Before you can respond, one of your squadmates calls your name, pulling you back to reality.

"I—uh, thanks," you mumble, scrambling to stand.

"Don't fall," Jay says, glancing at your knees briefly before leaning back and pulling out his phone, as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb on you.

Your heart races as you jog back to the squad, Jay's words replaying in your mind. "I only had my eyes on you."

What was that supposed to mean?

Over the following weeks, something shifted. Jay did seem to like you—no, that would be too strong—but he definitely didn't hate you anymore. If anything, it felt like he had resigned himself to your presence.

Your schedules matched perfectly: you'd stop by the music room before your cheer practice, watching him play with quiet awe. After his practice ended, you'd walk together to the gym, where he'd drop you off with a gruff nod.

And during those walks, you talked. A lot.

Jay didn't interrupt or roll his eyes at your endless stream of words, but he didn't say much either. He'd let you ramble about random things—your favorite stories, songs, foods, or some obscure fact you'd read online.

One day, while rifling through your bag in frustration, you whined, "Crap, I always forget to bring an extra shirt!"

Jay didn't respond, just kept walking. You assumed he wasn't even listening.

But the next day, when you showed up for your routine walk to the gym, he handed you a neatly folded shirt.

"Here," he said, his tone flat, as though it wasn't a big deal.

You blinked, staring at it. "Wait, is this for me?"

"No, it's for the bench," he replied dryly. Then, seeing your expression, added, "You said you forget yours. Just take it."

Your heart skipped as you took the shirt, muttering a soft "thank you."

On another day, after practice, you grinned at him. "I really want a spicy ramen—like, with crab sticks and shrimp! Let's go get some!"

He raised an eyebrow. "That's a one-way ticket to high blood pressure," he deadpanned.

You pouted, whining dramatically. "Come on, Jay!"

Yet not long after, you found yourselves seated at a small ramen shop. You happily slurped your noodles, your feet swinging slightly under the table. Jay glanced down at your feet before looking up at you, finding you smiling as you focused on your bowl.

"What?" you asked, catching his gaze.

"Nothing," he muttered, shaking his head as he went back to his own noodles.

Spending time with Jay made you lose your guard in the best way.

You weren't as self-conscious anymore, and little things just felt... natural. Like the time you were walking together, mid-laugh, and he suddenly pulled your arm to stop you.

"Look both ways," he mumbled, his hand lingering on your arm as you gripped it instinctively.

You giggled, wrapping your hand around his. "Okay, Dad."

He didn't respond, but his lips twitched ever so slightly.

Another habit of his? Waiting for you after practice, leaning against his motorcycle with his usual nonchalant expression. He'd nod for you to hop on, offering you his spare helmet.

It felt normal now—holding onto him as he drove, the wind whipping around you as the city lights blurred by.

Sometimes, Jay and you didn't even talk. Like when you'd share a cup of ice cream on a bench after practice, the two of you just staring at nothing. He'd sit beside you, watching as you bit down on your spoon absentmindedly.

"You look dumb," he'd say eventually, breaking the silence.

You'd laugh and stick your tongue out at him. "Thanks, Jay. Love the confidence boost."

Jay's attention to small things surprised you most when it came to your ketchup obsession.

It started when you were both sitting at your usual fast-food joint—a chain with a bright red logo and the smell of fries and fried chicken wafting through the air.

You'd always order the same thing: chicken nuggets and fries. But what made you stand out (to Jay, at least) was how you hoarded ketchup packets.

You never even used them at the restaurant. Instead, you'd stuff them into your bag, mumbling something about "saving them for later." Jay didn't ask at first, but the mystery was solved when he saw you in their practice one day, pulling out one of those packets.

You ripped it open quietly, then tipped the packet to your mouth and slurped the ketchup straight out of it.

A week later, during a break, Jay casually handed you a small stack of ketchup packets.

"Where did you get these?" you squealed, your eyes sparkling as you grabbed them from his hand.

"My bandmates ordered fries," he said with a shrug. "They don't like ketchup, so I took them."

You stared at him, your heart doing an annoying little flip. "Jay, you get me," you said dramatically, clutching the packets to your chest like they were a bouquet of roses.

"Don't make this weird," he muttered, already turning away.

You ripped one open immediately, slurping the sweet and tangy ketchup with a grin. "Thanks, Jay!"

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched again—his almost-smile.

Then there was the time in the cafeteria when he handed you a tissue.

You stared at him, confused. "What's this for?"

"Your lip gloss," he said simply, his tone so casual it made your brain short-circuit.

You blinked, dumbfounded, as heat rose to your cheeks. How did he even notice that you always wiped off your lip gloss before eating?

You muttered a shy "thanks," taking the tissue as your heart thumped in your chest.

And then there were even smaller things.

Like how he bent down to tie your shoelaces without a word when they came undone during your walk.

Or how he fixed your hair once, brushing a stray strand behind your ear with a quick, almost annoyed motion.

Or how he straightened your uniform when it got wrinkled after a particularly rough practice, muttering something about how you looked like "a mess."

They weren't grand gestures. Jay wasn't the type for big declarations or sweeping acts of romance. But it was always the small things that left you breathless—the way he noticed you, the way he cared without saying much.

And maybe, just maybe, the cold, untouchable guitarist didn't hate you as much as he let on.

"That's Park Jongseong's girlfriend!"

"Park Jongseong's girl is so pretty!"

"I didn't know Park Jongseong's girlfriend is so good at dancing!"

But honestly? You weren't sure how to feel about it anymore.

People didn't want to know you. They wanted to know him. Even when someone started a conversation with you, it always led back to Jay.

"How did you two meet?"

"What does he do when he's bored?"

"Does he even smile around you?"

You started noticing how Jay wasn't immune, either. People would corner him in the halls, asking invasive questions about your "relationship," and he'd glare at them in that trademark way of his until they got the hint and left. He never complained, never said anything about it to you, but you could see it in the way his jaw clenched tighter these days.

You weren't cool. You weren't special.

You were just someone who had made a stupid, selfish decision to drag his name into your mess. And now? You weren't sure if you could keep it up any longer.

It was a quiet afternoon in the music room. Jay sat across from you, strumming his guitar in the golden light of sunset. Normally, this was when you'd ramble on about whatever random topic popped into your head, but today, the words felt too heavy to come out.

Instead, you pulled your knees to your chest, hugging them as you stared at the floor.

"I'm sorry if I always bother you," you said suddenly, your voice barely audible.

Jay's fingers stilled on the strings, his head tilting slightly as he glanced at you.

"I... I really don't have any friends," you admitted, resting your chin on your knees. "I think I'm too crazy for the good girls in my class, too dumb for the nerds, and way too soft for the mean girls."

He didn't say anything, but you felt his eyes on you.

"But, you know," you continued, your voice shaky, "you're the first person who's ever... tolerated me. And I really appreciate that."

You laughed weakly, even though it wasn't funny. "Thank you, Park Jongseong, for listening to me go on and on about dystopian movies. For putting up with me when I get loud and excited. For not judging my weird ketchup obsession."

Jay leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable, as you let out a long sigh.

"I thought dragging your name into the cheer squad thing would make me feel like I belonged somewhere," you said, your voice breaking. "But it hasn't. If anything, it's just made me feel worse. Like I'm not enough for them. Like I'll never be enough."

Your chest tightened as you fiddled with the hem of your shirt, unable to meet his gaze. "And... I feel like I've dumped all these responsibilities on you because of one stupid little lie I told. It's not fair to you."

Jay stayed silent, but you could feel his presence, heavy and quiet.

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "I think... I think it's time we break up."

Jay's hands froze on the guitar, his entire body going still. His gaze sharpened.

"Break up?" he repeated, his tone even but taut, like he was holding something back.

You nodded, your throat closing up. "Yeah. I've caused you enough trouble already. I think... I think it's better if we just end it. It'll be easier for you."

Jay's jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the edge of the guitar as he stared at you. "Is that what you want?" he asked, his tone calm but laced with something you couldn't place.

Your chest felt like it was caving in. You couldn't look at him, couldn't bring yourself to say what you really wanted to say. So instead, you nodded.

"Yes," you whispered, barely audible.

The silence that followed was unbearable. You expected him to agree, to maybe sigh in relief or tell you that you were right. But instead, he just stared at you, his gaze unreadable.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose, his voice low. "Alright."

Your heart sank at the word, even though it was what you'd asked for. You forced yourself to stand, forcing a shaky "thank you" past your lips as you made your way toward the door.

But just as you reached it, his voice stopped you in your tracks.

"But you should know," he said, "that if you think you're not enough, you're wrong."

You froze, your breath hitching. Slowly, you turned to face him.

He wasn't looking at you anymore. His gaze was fixed on his guitar, his fingers idly plucking at the strings, but there was a softness in his voice that you weren't used to.

"You don't have to try so hard to fit into their world," he said quietly. "You already stand out. You don't see it, but you do."

Your throat tightened as tears pricked at your eyes. "Jay..."

He looked up at you then, his dark eyes piercing but calm. "If you want to end it, I'll let you go," he said, his voice steady. "But don't do it because you think you're causing me trouble. That's just you overthinking, as usual."

The ache in your chest grew unbearable, and for a moment, you thought about staying. 

But the weight of your emotions felt too heavy, and you bolted, muttering a weak "thanks" as you ran out of the room, tears already spilling down your cheeks.

You didn't look back, but as you closed the door behind you, you swore you heard the faint sound of his guitar strings—soft, steady, and full of something you didn't quite understand.

By the time you reached the bathroom, you were a mess.

You locked yourself in a stall and let it all out, tears streaming down your cheeks as you tried—and failed—to convince yourself this was what you wanted.

"It's not even real," you muttered, your voice cracking. "We're not a thing. We were never a thing. Why am I crying like an idiot?"

But no amount of reasoning stopped the ugly sobs from wracking your chest. You clutched some toilet paper, blowing your nose dramatically and telling yourself to get it together.

When you showed up to practice later, your eyes were swollen and red, your nose a little too pink to hide what had happened.

"Y/N, are you okay?" Karina asked, looking concerned.

You forced a shaky smile. "I'm fine! Totally fine! Oh, by the way..." You paused, sniffling slightly. "Jay and I broke up."

The words felt like ripping off a Band-Aid, but you didn't have time to process them before the room erupted.

"What?!" Giselle gasped, clutching her water bottle.

"No way!" Yunjin exclaimed, already pulling out her phone.

Within hours, the news spread across the school faster than you thought possible. Everywhere you went, you could hear whispers and murmurs about the "breakup."

And Park Jongseong?

He was still Park Jongseong.

You spotted him in the hallway, his face set in stone, his jaw tight, his eyes sharp as ever.

He walked like he was on his way to commit murder, every step filled with tension. People gave him a wide berth, whispering things like, "He's even scarier than usual," and, "God, she must've really broken his heart."

But when your eyes met his for a split second, he looked away, his expression you can't read.

Your chest ached painfully every time you passed him. And when you were finally alone at night, you curled up in bed and cried yourself to sleep, the pain in your chest refusing to fade.

By the time your classmates dragged you to karaoke, you were on emotional autopilot. You didn't want to be there, but they'd insisted.

"It'll help you get over him!" Sunoo had said, practically shoving you into the room.

It wasn't helping. At all.

Sunoo grabbed the mic, singing passionately as the lyrics flashed across the screen. "That's why I don't understand... why I'm feeling so bad now, when I know it was my idea."

You froze, staring at the lyrics like they'd personally attacked you. Your lips twitched, but you refused to let the tears fall.

Ni-ki leaned forward, grabbing the mic dramatically. "I could've just denied the truth and lied... why am I the only one, standing, stranded on the same ground?!"

You let out a choked laugh, trying to brush off your growing emotions, but then Sunoo turned to you with wide, knowing eyes. "Oh my God, what happened to you?!"

"Shut up," you muttered, pulling your cardigan over your face to hide the tears forming in your eyes.

The room erupted as Ni-ki wrestled the mic away from Sunoo. "My love, it's been a long time since I cried and left you out of the blue." Ni-ki sang into the microphone.

You couldn't help it—the tears started spilling as you wiped them furiously with your sleeve, hoping no one would notice.

"It's hard leaving you that way... when I never wanted to!"

Your classmates were belting out the lyrics, screaming into the mic with way too much passion. And somehow, the chaos made it worse.

"Self-denial is a game!" Ni-ki shouted, practically falling to his knees. "It's strange, I never would've wanted it until there was you!"

You sniffled, wiping your cheeks again, but the tears wouldn't stop.

"Y/N, are you crying?!" Sunoo gasped dramatically, leaning closer, his voice high-pitched enough to rival a whistle.

"No!" you wailed, burying your face deeper into your cardigan. "It's just—the lyrics are so stupid!"

Jungwon, ever the responsible one, grabbed the remote and immediately switched the song. "Okay, we need a vibe shift. No more heartbreak songs."

The opening beat of Apple Bottom Jeans blasted through the room, and everyone burst into cheers and laughter.

You couldn't help but laugh, sniffing back the last of your tears as Ni-ki grabbed the mic and jumped onto the couch.

You felt a little lighter. Sure, your heart was still aching, but at least now, you now had friends who made it a little easier to breathe.

The next day, you were required to attend the university baseball game. Every student was, but as part of the cheerleading pep squad, you had absolutely no excuse to skip.

The stadium was packed with thousands of students from your university and the rival school, the energy buzzing in the air. You tugged at the hem of your uniform skirt, your face burning with embarrassment. "Is it really this short?!" you whined, glaring at Giselle.

She shushed you with a wave of her pom-poms. "Relax. It's normal!"

"You don't have to be awkward about it," Karina added, flipping her hair. "Your legs look great!"

Your coach, however, was far less delicate. "We're making it look longer because your legs are short," she said bluntly, not even looking up from her clipboard.

You gasped, utterly dumbfounded. "I—should I be offended, or...?"

The coach just shrugged, moving on with her notes.

Before the game officially began, your squad performed a short routine to hype up the crowd. The music blared through the speakers as you stepped forward, executing a clean front handspring. The crowd roared with approval, but your face burned as your skirt rode up mid-flip.

When the routine ended, you cringed, tugging your skirt back down as you returned to your seat at the front. You waved your pom-poms enthusiastically, shouting the university yell every time your team scored, even if you were still mortified from earlier.

When the game finally ended and the crowd began to thin out, you found yourself standing near the bleachers, clutching your pom-poms and phone. The cheer squad was preparing to take pictures, but you hung back for a moment, trying to catch your breath.

That's when someone approached you.

"Hi," a voice said, warm and slightly out of breath.

You turned to see a guy standing in front of you, wearing his baseball uniform. His dark hair was damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed from the game, and his smile was boyish and shy.

"I'm Heeseung," he introduced himself, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I just wanted to say your routine was really cool. And, uh... I was wondering if I could get your number?"

You blinked, your brain stalling. Wait, what?

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could say anything, a loud voice called out from across the field.

"Y/N! Hurry up!" Sunoo waved his arms dramatically, yelling over the crowd. "We're taking pictures!"

Your face turned even redder as you looked between Heeseung and Sunoo. Panicking, you muttered a quick, "Sorry, I've gotta go!" before rushing off toward your squad, clutching your pom-poms.

By the time you reached your squad, you were out of breath and flustered, feeling like the world's biggest idiot.

You grabbed your bag, rummaging through it in search of a shirt to change into. The crowd had mostly cleared out, and the stadium lights were dimming, but you were too busy muttering to yourself to notice.

Of course, you didn't have a spare shirt. Why would you?

You sighed heavily, dropping your pom-poms into the bag and staring at the empty space inside. Without thinking, you mumbled, "I miss Jay."

The words hung in the air, surprising even you. You froze for a second, realizing what you'd just said out loud.

It had been months since you'd ended things—or whatever it was you'd had—with Jay. And somehow, instead of feeling lighter, you felt worse.

The more you saw him in passing, the more you missed him. The more you craved him. The ache in your chest refused to fade, no matter how much time passed.

Sometimes, you still cried yourself to sleep, clutching your pillow as memories of him flooded your mind.

You hated how much you missed him.

And then there were moments when your body moved on its own, as if drawn to him.

You'd find yourself standing outside the music room, staring at the door like you were waiting for something—or someone—to pull you inside.

But you never went in. You just stood there, your heart heavy, before walking away again.

Or you'd sit at your favorite bench, the one where you used to share ice cream with him after practice. You'd sit there alone, biting the spoon absentmindedly and staring at nothing, replaying old conversations in your head.

It was during one of those quiet moments, as you sat with a half-melted scoop of vanilla in your hand, that the truth finally hit you.

You liked Jay.

No, you more than liked him. You missed him so much it hurt. And the worst part? You had no idea if he missed you, too.

You bit down harder on your spoon, frustration bubbling in your chest.

Why had you been so stupid? Why had you pushed him away when, deep down, he'd been the only one who ever made you feel seen?

Maybe you were too late. Maybe you'd ruined whatever connection you had with him.

But one thought kept circling in your mind, no matter how much you tried to shake it off.

What if you weren't too late?

"Do you party?" Sunoo asked casually, flopping onto your bed like it was his own.

You raised an eyebrow, not bothering to hide your skepticism. "Not really. I mean, I've been to a few, but it's not my thing. Why?"

"Let's go to a party this weekend! You know Sunghoon, right? The baseball player? He's hosting!"

You laughed, waving him off. "I'll think about it, but probably not."

Sunoo narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but you brushed him off, fully intending to stay home.

But when the weekend came, your plans to stay curled up in bed went out the window.

Sunoo, Jungwon, and Ni-ki just barged into your house.

"Why aren't you dressed?!" Sunoo exclaimed, throwing open your closet as Jungwon inspected your makeup drawer.

"What are you doing?!" you shrieked, clutching a pillow like it was a weapon.

"You are going to this party," Ni-ki said, arms crossed like he was your older brother instead of one year younger. "Get ready. Now."

With no way out, you reluctantly threw on a simple crop top and shorts, tying your hair into a ponytail and doing clean, light makeup.

When you arrived at the party, the atmosphere immediately overwhelmed you. The music was loud enough to shake the walls, the smell of sweat, alcohol, and something smoky lingering in the air.

You stuck close to Sunoo as he handed you a red cup with some drink you didn't recognize.

"Just take a sip!" he shouted over the music.

"Excuse me for a second," you said, escaping to the balcony.

The moment you stepped outside, you exhaled deeply, the fresh air calming your nerves. The cool night breeze felt like a blessing after the suffocating heat inside.

But then, you stiffened.

Sitting in one of the chairs was someone you hadn't expected to see—someone you hadn't seen up close in months.

Jay.

He sat with one foot tapping rhythmically against the ground, a vape in his hand. The dim light from the balcony highlighted his sharp jawline, his pointed nose, and the effortless way his hair slicked back. He wore a simple white shirt under a blue Nike jacket, but somehow, he looked stunning.

Your chest tightened painfully as his head turned, his dark eyes meeting yours.

"Oh," you said awkwardly, frozen in place.

He stared at you for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, taking a long drag from his vape.

Without knowing why, you found yourself walking over to him and sitting quietly beside him, your gaze fixed on the stars above.

"I didn't know you actually smoked," you said softly, breaking the silence.

He hummed, his head tilting slightly as he exhaled the smoke in the opposite direction, making a point to avoid letting any of it near you.

"I don't. Not usually. I don't smoke at school."

He shifted in his seat, sliding the vape into his pocket and straightening his posture.

"Why'd you stop just now?" you asked, glancing at him.

He didn't hesitate. "Your nose is sensitive to strong smells."

Your breath caught, his simple answer hitting you harder than you expected. That was Jay—always quiet, always watching, always knowing without making a big deal of it.

The ache in your chest grew unbearable.

"I'm sorry," the words came out from your mouth.

Jay's gaze snapped to yours, his expression neutral.

"For what?" he asked evenly.

"For just leaving," you said, your voice shaky. "For everything you've done for me, and then me just... walking away. I didn't know what I was feeling back then. I was hurt and scared because... you're you, and I'm just me. I'm not good enough for you—"

Jay didn't respond immediately. His gaze softened, though his expression remained guarded. "And what are you feeling now?"

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest.

"I... I miss you, Jay," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I miss everything about you. The small things, the way you cared, even if you acted like you didn't. I'm sorry for leaving you. I'm sorry for being stupid."

Jay looked at you for a long moment, his dark eyes searching yours.

"You're really stupid, aren't you?" he said, his voice calm but laced with a faint humor that made your heart ache.

You managed a weak laugh, wiping at the corner of your eye. "Yeah, I am."

Jay exhaled slowly, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile.

"I thought you'd like me and never break it off because that's what happens in those books you always talk about, right?" he said, his voice softening. "But somehow, I fell harder than I ever expected."

Your breath hitched as he let out a quiet laugh—so rare, so warm, it made your chest ache. He finally looked at you, his eyes glinting with something vulnerable.

"I've always waited for you," he admitted, his voice low. "Waited for you to stop standing outside the music room and just walk in. But you never did."

Your eyes widened, surprise flickering across your face.

"I saw you," he continued. "Every time you sat on that bench, on our place... I saw you at a distance, sitting there, staring at nothing. And I waited. I always waited for your eyes to look at me the way I was looking at you."

Tears began to swell in your eyes as you took in his words.

Jay leaned closer, his movements gentle.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "For being such a coward. For not walking up to you when I wanted to. I told myself I'd wait, but waiting just hurt more because all I could do was think about you. About us."

He reached out hesitantly, brushing his fingers against your cheek, his hand warm and grounding. "I'm hurting. I've been hurting since you left. Do you feel the same way?"

The tears spilled over, warm and slow, streaking down your cheeks. You placed your hand over his, leaning into his touch as you nodded. "I do, Jay. I've been hurting, too."

He watched you closely, his eyes softening as you smiled at him through your tears.

"You're crying," he murmured, brushing a stray tear away with his thumb.

"Yeah, well, that's your fault," you whispered, laughing through the tears.

Jay shook his head, his lips tugging into the faintest smile. "You're impossible," he muttered, his voice affectionate.

"And you're annoying," you shot back, your voice trembling with emotion.

But neither of you moved away.

The balcony felt smaller, quieter, as Jay's hand lingered on your cheek. His gaze flickered to your lips for a brief second, and your heart jumped, but he didn't move, waiting instead for you to close the gap.

So you did.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips softly to his, your heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. His lips were warm and hesitant at first, but then he shifted, tilting his head slightly as he kissed you back.

His hand slid into your hair, his fingers brushing lightly against your scalp as he pulled you closer. The kiss deepened, your lips moving in perfect sync.

When you pulled back just slightly to catch your breath, his forehead rested against yours, and his lips hovered mere inches away.

His voice was low, and soft as he whispered against your lips, "Don't ever think of yourself like that. You're more than enough."

His words struck you deep, and your eyes fluttered open to meet his. "But... you're you, and I'm just me," you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Jay didn't let you finish. His lips captured yours again, silencing your insecurities. When he pulled back, he looked at you with a gaze so intense it made your breath hitch.

"I like you for being you," he said simply.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening with emotion. "But you're like a big star," you said, holding up your fingers to make the shape of a small star, "and I'm just... a little star."

Jay's lips curved into the softest smile before he leaned forward again, kissing you gently.

His voice was tender when he murmured against your lips, "A little star that shines brightest in my eyes."

Your cheeks burned, and you couldn't help but let out a flustered laugh, lightly hitting his chest. "How come you always know how to get my heart?!"

Jay chuckled, kissing your forehead as he hugs you.

Jay just wanted to play guitar. That was all. He didn't ask for the reputation, the attention, or the corny nickname the school had slapped on him—the "cold, untouchable hot guitarist." God, how he hated that.

Every day felt the same: girls cornering him in the halls, asking for his number or accidentally brushing their hands against his arms or guitar case. His eyes would glare like knives as he gritted out, "Don't touch me."

He hated it—the fake admiration, the empty attention. Everyone seemed to care about him for all the wrong reasons. And when they annoyed him too much?

"Fuck off," he'd mutter, his tone so cold it practically froze people in their tracks.

But you? You were different.

Jay remembered the school festival three years ago. He'd been sitting in Jake's booth, tuning his guitar lazily while Jake served spicy noodles to an occasional brave (or dumb) soul willing to risk their stomach for the thrill.

It was supposed to be a chill afternoon, but then you showed up.

You were the only person who kept coming back to Jake's booth. Every hour.

"I swear, you're going to burn a hole in your stomach," Jake had told you, half-laughing as he handed you yet another bowl of his stupidly spicy noodles.

"Totally worth it," you'd chirped, your voice high-pitched and cheerful. "Do you have a permanent shop? I'd eat there every day!"

Jay had glanced up from his guitar, staring at you through the slits of the tent. You were completely oblivious to his presence, happily slurping noodles as Jake made small talk with you.

Later, Jake stormed into the tent, tossing his apron onto the chair. "We're sold out," he'd announced. "And it's her fault."

Jay had raised an eyebrow. "Her?"

Jake pointed outside. "The spicy noodle girl. She's been coming back all day. We sold out because of her."

Jay hadn't said anything, but his lips had twitched, the smallest hint of a smile forming before he went back to tuning his guitar.

Jay hated everyone. He hated how they tugged at him, how they fawned over him for no reason. But somehow, he couldn't bring himself to hate you.

He remembered the little things—moments that no one else seemed to notice.

Like the time you walked down the hallway with that cute little bag, the kind of bag that didn't really suit a high schooler but looked perfect on you.

It had a figurine hanging from it, neatly wrapped in a plastic pouch, and you carried it like it was your most prized possession.

Then, just days later, he'd found you outside the lost and found office, whining and crying. You'd lost the figurine, and you'd spent an entire lunch period pacing back and forth in front of the office, waiting for someone to turn it in.

Or the time he saw you clapping and cheering during a cheerleading pep squad performance, smiling so brightly that it felt contagious. You weren't even part of the squad back then, just a spectator, but you looked so genuinely happy that even he couldn't look away.

Then there was your PathFit (PE) class. Jay hadn't meant to stop by, but he'd found himself standing near the open door, his guitar case slung over his shoulder, as his eyes drifted toward you. You were on the floor, legs stretched into a perfect split, your forehead pressed to the ground as you stretched.

Jay once again noticed you searching frantically for a notebook you'd dropped in the hallway. You were crouched on the floor, mumbling to yourself, "This is why I can't have nice things."

He'd spotted the notebook a few feet away, picked it up, and placed it on the bench beside him.

When you found it moments later, you gasped, "Oh my God, it's a miracle!"

You always said you were just a simple girl. That no one really noticed you or cared about someone like you.

But in Jay's eyes, you were the opposite of invisible.

And every time he thought about you, he realized the same thing.

You stood out more than anyone else ever could.

When you'd spilled water all over his face.

His first reaction wasn't anger or annoyance, but something that surprised even him—he noticed how beautiful you looked up close.

Your wide eyes stared at him in shock, your pouty lips forming a small gasp as you muttered incoherent apologies. The faint, sweet floral scent of your perfume hit him, and for a second, he forgot the cold water dripping down his face.

Jay closed his eyes, his jaw clenching as he tried to take in more of that intoxicating scent, grounding himself. But before he could say anything, you bolted, muttering a quick "Sorry!" as you sprinted down the hallway.

He almost laughed when you tripped on your knees, scrambling awkwardly to escape. He stood there for a moment, wiping the water off his face with his sleeve.

The second interaction was you crashing out his guitar. He almost didn't notice his guitar on the floor because his eyes were locked on you.

Slowly, you raised two fingers in a peace sign, your expression a mix of guilt and panic.

"Uh... sorry?" you muttered before immediately backing out of the room.

Jay stood there, staring at the empty doorway, blinking in disbelief. He opened his mouth to say something, maybe even laugh, but the sound never left his throat. You were gone before he could even start a conversation.

And then there was the volleyball incident.

Jay didn't even see the ball coming. One second he was walking into the gym with his friends, and the next, a sharp pain hit him square on the nose.

"Shit," he hissed, dropping to the ground and clutching his face.

When he opened his eyes, you were hovering over him, your face inches from his. Your hair framed your face like a curtain, and there it was again—that scent. Sweet, light, floral.

He blinked up at you, stunned into silence. For a split second, he forgot about the pain, about the blood dripping from his nose. He was too focused on you—your soft features, your panicked expression, the way your lips trembled as you tried to form words.

Before he could open his mouth to tell you he was fine, the blood started pouring out of his nose.

"Crap!" you yelped, standing up quickly, flailing in panic. "I—I'll get help! I'm so sorry!"

And then you ran. Again.

Jay lay there, groaning as Jake handed him a tissue, snickering the entire time.

"Shut up," Jay muttered, even though Jake don't even say anything.

The breaking point came when Jay heard about the rumor that he was in a relationship.

He was furious. Annoyed didn't even begin to describe it. He hated how his name was constantly dragged into things, but this? A fake relationship? With some girl he didn't even know?

Storming through the hallways, he cornered one of the guys he'd overheard spreading the rumor. Grabbing the boy by the collar, he slammed him against the lockers.

"Tell me who started it," Jay demanded, his voice low and sharp. His jaw was clenched, his dark eyes boring into the boy's.

"I-I don't know! I swear!" the boy stammered, flinching under Jay's glare. "They said it was some girl—Y/N! Y/N told the cheerleaders about it!"

At the mention of your name, Jay froze. His grip loosened slightly.

For a moment, he couldn't believe it. Of all people, it was you.

Releasing the boy with a shove, Jay stepped back, his emotions in a whirlwind. He should've been angrier—should've been ready to confront you and demand answers. But instead, he found himself... curious.

He should've been irritated. He should've hated you for dragging his name into a mess.

But somehow, he didn't.

Instead, he felt something he couldn't quite place. And he wasn't sure what annoyed him more—the rumor itself or the fact that the thought of being tied to you didn't bother him as much as it should have.

“Oh my God, are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Did they just come back together?!”

Whispers followed the two of you as you walked hand in hand down the hallway. 

Jay’s tall frame dressed in his usual all-black outfit. His guitar case was slung over his back, the strap resting effortlessly against his shoulder, and his hand held yours with an ease that made your heart race.

Every head turned to look at you. It wasn’t just the sight of Jay—cold, untouchable, and intimidating—but the sight of him with you, a cheerful and bubbly cheerleader.

You leaned closer to him, lowering your voice as you whispered, “Do you think a guitarist and a cheerleader is a weird combination?”

Jay glanced down at you, one eyebrow raised, his expression softening. “No,” he said without hesitation, his voice steady. “You and me? We’re a perfect combination.”

You let out a laugh, lightly bumping your shoulder against his arm. “God, you’re so cheesy.”

He smirked faintly but didn’t respond, the corners of his lips tugging upward in amusement.

Park Jongseong as a fake boyfriend was good.

But Park Jongseong as a real boyfriend? He was so much better.

You used to think of him as just the guy with the sharp jawline, the deadpan expression, and those sharp, eagle-like eyes that seemed to shoot lasers at anyone who got too close. He was the “fuck off” and “shut up” guy, the untouchable guitarist who kept everyone at arm’s length.

But now, as you walked hand in hand with him, you realized how wrong you’d been.

Jay wasn’t just sweet—he was unbelievably sweet.

You remembered all the little lies you’d told about him when you were trying to fit in with the cheer squad.

“He’s so sweet,” you’d said back then, fabricating stories about how he’d treat you like a princess.

But now? Those stories felt laughable because the reality of being with Jay was so much better.

When you were tired, he’d carry your bag without a word.

“Let me take it,” he’d say simply, slipping the strap off your shoulder.

He opened doors for you—every single time. If you walked through a doorway together, you didn’t even have to reach for the handle because Jay would already be holding it open, waiting patiently for you to step through.

Once, when you were getting into a car, you’d bumped your head against the roof. From that moment on, Jay always, always put a hand over your head to make sure it didn’t happen again.

“Careful,” he’d murmur, voice low but gentle.

You’d joked about him cooking for you once, completely unaware of how true it would become.

One evening, after a particularly long practice, Jay had brought you to his house. “You’re tired,” he’d said. “Let me make you something.”

You hadn’t expected much—maybe instant ramen or a sandwich at most. But then you’d watched, wide-eyed, as he moved around the kitchen with surprising ease, chopping vegetables, seasoning meat, and sautéing everything.

“Do you cook often?” you’d asked, leaning against the counter as the delicious aroma filled the room.

“Sometimes,” he replied, glancing at you briefly. “Jake says my food is too good for him, though.”

You laughed, resting your chin on your hand as you watched him. Jay, the sharp-tongued guitarist, was making you a home-cooked meal. And it wasn’t just good—it was amazing. 

Then there were the kisses.

You’d made up a story once, saying, “He kisses me goodbye every morning.” You thought it was the perfect romantic lie to impress the cheerleaders.

But now? Jay had made it a reality.

Every morning before he left for his own class, he’d touch your cheek lightly, his fingers brushing against your skin.

Then, he’d lean in, his lips meeting yours in the gentlest, softest kiss.

“See you later,” he’d say, before turning and walking away.

Each time, your heart would flutter uncontrollably, your fingers brushing against your lips as you watched him go. 

"Aftercare after sex"

Except now, the real thing had turned out to be even better.

“Jay!” you whined, your hand gripping his hair as your hips moved uncontrollably against his mouth.

His tongue worked magic against your clit, circling and sucking gently while his long fingers moved inside you. His fingers curled just right, hitting your sweet spot effortlessly, and you gasped, your jaw going slack from the overwhelming sensation.

Your stomach tightened as the heat pooled low in your belly, and you felt yourself getting closer with each passing second.

Jay let out a low hum, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. His free hand moved up to intertwine with yours, grounding you even as you felt like you might fall apart.

“Feel so good,” you sobbed, your eyebrows furrowing together in pleasure. “Don’t want to stop.”

Jay pulled back just slightly, his lips glistening as he murmured, “Are you close, baby?”

You nodded frantically, your breathing erratic.

He leaned up, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. You tasted yourself on him, your tongue meeting his as the kiss grew messy and desperate. His fingers didn’t slow for a second, pumping relentlessly inside you as you gasped against his mouth.

When you broke the kiss, your eyes were teary, your chest heaving. Jay looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, his own breathing labored as he took in your flushed cheeks and swollen lips.

“Fuck,” he muttered, biting his lip as he moved back down between your legs. Without hesitation, he latched onto your clit again, sucking hard.

Your body jolted, your hands clutching at the sheets as you screamed his name. “Gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna cum—”

Jay hummed in approval, his tongue working in perfect sync with his fingers, coaxing you to the edge. His free hand squeezed yours gently, the small gesture making your heart flutter even as your hips bucked uncontrollably against his face.

“I love you,” you gasped, your voice breaking. “I love you, I love you—”

Your back arched as the tension inside you snapped, and your vision blurred with stars. You cried out, your body shaking as you came, the overwhelming pleasure leaving you breathless.

Jay stayed with you through it all, his tongue and fingers slowing to help you ride out the waves. When you finally slumped back against the bed, exhausted and trembling, he moved up beside you, brushing the hair from your face.

He kissed you softly, murmuring sweet nothings against your lips as he fixed your shirt and wiped you down with gentle care.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, soothing. “You did so good.”

Jay was definitely good at aftercare.

“Is it true that Park Jongseong is… like, huge in bed?”

You flushed instantly, your thoughts flashing to the one time you’d seen him fully exposed, when he’d let you take him in your hand.

Yeah, he was definitely huge.

"Did he really let you touch his guitar?"

You stared down at the sleek Stratocaster electric guitar now resting gently in your lap. Jay handed you a white marker, his eyes soft as he watched your expression shift from confusion to awe.

Your fingers lightly brushed over the strings and the smooth, glossy surface of the guitar’s body. “What’s this for?” you asked, holding up the white marker he had placed in your hand.

“I need you to sign your name on my guitar,” he said casually.

Your eyes widened as you looked between the guitar and Jay, who was now sitting beside you. “W-wait,” you stammered, your voice rising slightly. “Are you sure? I don’t want to ruin it—”

“Baby,” he interrupted, “you’re not ruining it.” He leaned closer, gently pointing at a spot near the edge of the guitar’s body. “Right there. That’s where I want it. Sign it for me, hmm?”

You swallowed hard, this wasn’t just any guitar—it was his guitar. The one he cherished.

“Okay,” you whispered, nodding as you carefully uncapped the marker.

You hovered the pen above the guitar for a moment, practicing your signature in the air as your nerves fluttered.

Jay chuckled softly beside you, his voice warm. “You’re acting like you’re signing a million-dollar contract.”

“This is more serious than that,” you shot back, your lips curving into a nervous smile.

Finally, with a deep breath, you pressed the tip of the marker to the glossy surface, your hand moving carefully as you signed your name. The white ink glided smoothly across the black body, and when you pulled the marker away, you stared at the result with wide eyes.

“Perfect,” Jay murmured.

You turned to look at him, your heart skipping a beat at the way his gaze lingered on the guitar. His usual sharp, stoic expression was replaced with something softer, his eyes shining as he traced your signature with his finger.

He looked up at you, his lips curving into a rare, genuine smile. “Thank you,” he said, his voice full of warmth. Then, leaning in, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder.

Your cheeks burned as you gripped the marker tightly, unsure of what to say.

Jay pulled back slightly, his smile still in place. “Now it’s perfect,” he said simply, taking the guitar from your lap and standing up.

You watched as he adjusted the strap and slung it over his shoulder. His fingers moved instinctively to the strings, testing a few chords, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes kept flickering to your signature.

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” he asked, his voice casual, but you could hear the pride beneath it.

“It does,” you said softly, your chest feeling warm and full.

It was the school festival again, and you couldn’t contain your excitement. Still wearing your cheerleading uniform from your earlier routine, you tugged at your cousin’s arm, practically dragging her through the bustling crowd. The stadium was alive with energy—students cheering, music blasting from nearby booths, and the smell of snacks wafting through the air.

“Come on, we’re going to miss it!” you squealed, your ponytail bouncing as you hurried forward, your pom-poms tucked under your arm.

Your cousin groaned dramatically, trailing behind you. “You’ve been talking about this all day. Who are we even going to see?”

“My boyfriend!” you said, grinning from ear to ear. “My boyfriend's in a band!”

“Boyfriend?” she repeated, narrowing her eyes. “Since when do you have a boyfriend?”

You turned to her with a mock gasp, clutching your chest like she’d insulted you. “Excuse you. I’ve had one for months now.”

Your cousin raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, then. Let’s see this mysterious boyfriend of yours.”

The two of you found seats near the front, and you craned your neck, scanning the stage as the band members set up. The noise of the crowd grew louder, students and visitors alike cheering as the festival program officially began.

And then he appeared.

Jay stepped onto the stage, standing out against the bright festival decorations. The strap of his guitar rested comfortably on his shoulder, the instrument gleaming under the stage lights—and there it was, your signature on its glossy surface.

Your heart thudded wildly in your chest, a giddy smile tugging at your lips as you clapped your hands together in excitement.

“Okay, but which one is your boyfriend?” your cousin asked, squinting at the stage as if trying to piece it together.

You didn’t even hesitate. Pointing toward Jay, you said proudly, “The guitarist. His name is Park Jongseong. That’s my boyfriend.”

Your attention was locked on Jay as he adjusted his guitar strap and tested a few chords. His sharp, eagle-like eyes scanned the crowd, his usual stoic expression giving him an air of effortless cool. But then, something changed.

His gaze stopped on you.

Jay’s piercing eyes softened, his lips curving into the faintest smile, the kind of smile he rarely let anyone see. It was small, barely noticeable to most, but you knew it was for you.

Your hand flew to your mouth, trying to hide the giddy grin that threatened to take over your face. Your cheeks burned, and your heart raced as he looked at you.

After a brief moment, Jay’s gaze dropped to his guitar. He adjusted the tuning, his fingers moving skillfully over the strings, but you could tell his mind wasn’t entirely on the music. He stole one last glance at you before focusing on his task, a quiet confidence radiating from him as he prepared to play. 

Your cousin, still in shock, nudged you. “Okay, he’s hot. How did you—like, how did you—end up with him?”

You laughed, brushing her off as you continued to watch Jay. “It’s a long story,” you said, your voice dreamy.

As the band began their set, the crowd’s cheers grew louder, and Jay’s fingers danced effortlessly over the strings. The sound was mesmerizing, and your chest swelled with pride as you watched him command the stage.

And as you sat there, smiling like an idiot, you realized once again how lucky you were to call him yours.

perm taglist: @fancypeacepersona, @immelissaaa

[arclviie]

Im not ready to face reality

No glue, no borax. Just please

[arclviie]

Obsessive possessive Jay >>>>

Note: Hello! Just posting this birthday fic before I start my journey to London! Happy birthday @ikeuverse !!! luv u bay boo <3 Hope you enjoy this dark fic as a present!

Warnings: Office au, Violence, Obsession, Suggestive Content, Needy Behaviour, Pet names, Blood, Choking, Crazy Man in Love, Murder

Synopsis: Jay prided himself on his ability to keep his emotions and impulses in check, even the ones dark enough to ruin his image. But every man has a breaking point, and his was you. You awaken something in him—something unstrained and dangerous.

Jay considered himself a patient man—steadfast, composed, and reliable in almost any situation. A colleague dumping extra workload on him? No problem, he could stay an extra hour to finish it. The coffee machine running out right before his turn? He’d refill it without complaint. His computer crashing, and IT dragging their feet to fix it? Fine, he could manage.

He could handle all of it.

But what he couldn’t handle—what made his patience snap like a dry twig—was seeing someone ruin your day.

You, the person who had his heart entirely, even if you didn’t know it yet.

The first day you’d walked into the office, he swore it was love at first sight. There was something about you—so effortlessly beautiful, so free yet reserved. You weren’t loud or attention-seeking like some of the others in the office. You simply came in, did your work and left.

And the fact that you didn’t talk to many of your colleagues? That you seemed to reserve most of your conversations for him?

That pleased him more than he’d care to admit.

Because the truth was, Jay wasn’t a good man. Not in the way people thought. He wore the mask of the perfect coworker, the dependable guy, the one you could always count on. But underneath, in the shadows of his mind, there were thoughts he’d never dare to voice. Things no one needed to know.

They didn’t need to know what he thought when he saw someone laughing too loudly near your desk, stealing your attention away from him. They didn’t need to know how his jaw tightened when another colleague asked you out for lunch, or how his stomach churned when you smiled politely but didn’t refuse.

And they definitely didn’t need to know what he imagined doing to the coworker who’d made you frown earlier today.

It wasn’t much—just a small comment, a careless remark about your work that Jay knew wasn’t fair. But he saw the way your shoulders slumped, the way your smile faltered for the rest of the day. It was enough to ignite something dangerous inside him, something he fought hard to suppress.

No one got to hurt you.

Jay’s hands flexed against the desk, his knuckles turning white. He took a slow, measured breath. No one had to know what was going on in his head. Not you, not the person who’d hurt you, no one.

No, no one could find out. And no one would find out.

Jay repeated that mantra in his head like a lifeline, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the desk as if the movement could ground him. If he just held his patience, if he kept his emotions under control, everything would be fine. He was good at hiding things, good at maintaining the mask of normalcy.

But he shouldn’t have underestimated how much his feelings for you overthrew his rational thinking.

It wasn’t just admiration or a harmless crush anymore. It was deeper, sharper, something that dug into his very being and left him restless. It consumed him, made him hyperaware of every glance you gave someone else, every moment you looked even the slightest bit upset.

And when he saw the person who’d hurt you walking past his desk, laughing as if they hadn’t just wrecked your mood, that feeling boiled over.

His fingers stilled, his jaw tightening. He didn’t know when he stood up or when he started walking. The rational part of his mind screamed at him to stop, to think this through, to sit back down before he did something he couldn’t take back. But that part of him was no match for the storm brewing in his chest.

He caught up to them in the hallway, his voice calm, measured, almost too controlled. “Hey.”

The coworker turned, their expression a mixture of confusion and faint unease. “Hey?”

Jay smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Got a minute?”

They hesitated, eyes narrowing slightly as if sensing something was off. Jay's smile didn't waver. "It's important," he added, voice still smooth but carrying an undertone that left little room for argument.

Reluctantly, they nodded, following him into one of the empty meeting rooms. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in a bubble of tense silence.

Jay leaned against the door casually, arms crossed, tilting his head as he studied them. "You know," he began, his tone deceptively light, "I noticed you had a lot to say to her today."

Confusion flickered in their eyes before it shifted into indifference. "What? It was just a comment. It’s not that serious."

Jay chuckled quietly, the sound low and cold. "Not serious to you, maybe."

"Look, man, if she’s upset, that’s not my problem." They moved as if to leave, but Jay didn’t budge.

His smile faded.

"See, that's where you're wrong." His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. "It is your problem now."

The coworker’s bravado faltered for a second.

Jay leaned in slightly, his eyes sharp and unblinking. "I’m going to give you a piece of advice—free of charge. You’re going to stay far away from her. No comments, no jokes, no anything. Understand?"

They scoffed, trying to mask their unease. "Are you threatening me?"

Jay’s lips curled into a slow smirk. "Threatening?" He let the word hang in the air. "No. I’m just making sure we understand each other."

The tension in the room thickened. Jay didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stared until the other man shifted uncomfortably.

"Fine. Whatever," they muttered, pushing past him. Jay let them go, listening to their hurried footsteps fade down the hall.

Slowly, he exhaled, rolling his shoulders back. The tightness in his chest eased, but only slightly.

That should be enough—for now.

But deep down, Jay knew this feeling wasn’t going away.

And to Jay's dismay, the warning didn’t stick.

The coworker didn’t stop.

Oh, they were smarter about it now—waiting until Jay wasn’t around to make their comments, keeping their voice low, making sure their jabs seemed like harmless jokes to anyone else. But Jay knew better.

Because Jay always knew.

He was always watching. Always listening.

Always watching you.

It wasn’t difficult. He knew your schedule, your habits, the way you tucked yourself into quieter corners of the office during breaks. He knew which paths you took to avoid unnecessary conversation, which meetings you hated sitting through, and which tasks weighed you down.

And he knew when something was wrong.

Like now.

Jay watched from across the office as that same coworker leaned in a little too close to you at the copier, their smirk too smug, their voice just low enough that no one else could catch the words.

But Jay could read your body language—the way you stiffened, how your eyes didn’t meet theirs, how your hands faltered as you shuffled papers.

That was enough.

Jay’s vision tunneled, the hum of the office dulling into static. His hands tightened into fists at his sides.

They thought they could get away with it, thought he wasn’t paying attention.

But Jay was always paying attention.

And now?

They’d crossed a line.

Without thinking, without hesitation, Jay was moving, his steps steady. He didn’t care about the people around him, didn’t care if anyone noticed the shift in his expression—cold, and dangerously calm.

This time, a warning wouldn’t be enough. No, this time Jay would make sure they understood.

Permanently.

His steps were silent as he closed the distance between you and the coworker.

He saw it—the subtle shift in their stance, the way their hand moved just slightly, as if they were about to reach out.

To touch you.

His.

Jay’s hand shot out, clapping down on the coworker’s shoulder with more force than necessary.

“Is there a problem here?” Jay’s voice was calm, smooth, but laced with something colder beneath the surface.

The coworker jolted slightly, caught off guard, and quickly shook their head. “No, no problem. Just talking.”

Jay’s grip didn’t loosen. His smile was polite, but his eyes were sharp, piercing. “Funny. It didn’t look like talking.”

The coworker shifted uncomfortably under his hold, glancing at you for some sort of support, but you said nothing. Jay noticed how you subtly moved closer to him, putting a few more inches of space between yourself and the other man.

Oh, how that pleased him.

Something dark and satisfied coiled deep within Jay’s chest.

You felt safe near him.

Exactly where you belonged.

Jay leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough for the coworker to hear. “I think it’s best if you get back to work. Before I decide to take this to HR. I’m sure they’d love to hear about how you’ve been treating your coworkers.”

The blood drained from the man’s face. “It’s not like that—”

Jay’s grip tightened, just for a second. “Now.”

The coworker stumbled back, muttering something under their breath before practically fleeing the area.

Jay let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders back, and turned his attention to you. His expression softened instantly, concern replacing the coldness in his eyes. “Are you okay?” he asked, voice gentler now.

You nodded slowly, still a bit shaken. “Yeah… thanks, Jay.”

That small, grateful smile you gave him nearly made his heart stop.

“Of course,” he murmured, resisting the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch you—your hand, your arm, anything. But the way you stayed close to him, the way you trusted him to handle it?

It was more than enough for now.

Jay would deal with the persistent coworker in due time.

He was a patient man, after all. He could bide his time, wait for the perfect moment—when there were no interruptions, no prying eyes, and no one to witness what he intended to do.

Because Jay hated repeating himself.

The coworker hadn’t heeded his warning, and now Jay had to escalate things. He didn’t want to resort to this, but they’d left him no choice.

For you, though? It was worth it.

It was always worth it.

Jay kept his routine flawless, his demeanor at work unbothered and professional. No one suspected a thing as he continued his tasks, chatting with colleagues, even offering his usual polite smile to you when you passed by his desk.

But beneath the surface, he was calculating.

When the time came, it was almost too easy.

The coworker stayed late one evening, likely trying to catch up on the workload they’d neglected while harassing others. Jay lingered too, casually packing his things, waiting for the office to empty out. When the last employee left and it was just the two of them, Jay approached. “Working late?” he asked, his tone friendly but his eyes sharp.

The coworker glanced up, startled, before nodding hesitantly. “Yeah, just finishing up.”

Jay nodded, stepping closer, his presence filling the room. “That’s good. Means we have a chance to chat without anyone interrupting.”

The coworker stiffened, the unease in their expression growing. “Look, if this is about previously—”

“Oh, it’s definitely about previously.” Jay’s voice dropped, losing any trace of friendliness. He leaned down, placing his hands flat on the desk. “I warned you, didn’t I?” His voice was quiet, almost conversational, but there was no mistaking the edge in his tone. “I told you to stay away from her. No comments. No games. Nothing.”

The coworker stammered, trying to explain, but Jay cut him off.

“And yet, you didn’t listen. You thought I was bluffing.” He straightened, his gaze cold and unyielding. “I never bluff.”

The coworker’s mouth moved, spitting out excuses—something about misunderstanding, about it being harmless—but Jay wasn’t listening.

Not really.

He only pretended to listen, his expression carefully composed, nodding faintly as if he was weighing the words.

But his eyes drifted, scanning the dim office. The quiet hum of machines in sleep mode filled the space. The hall was empty. The cleaning crew wouldn’t arrive for a few hours.

Perfect.

His hand moved slowly, deliberately, fingers curling around the cold metal of the stapler sitting carelessly on the edge of the desk. He gripped it tightly, feeling the weight of it, the solid heft pressing into his palm.

And his mind spiraled.

You.

You, who always greeted him first in the morning, your voice soft but warm.

You, who smiled at him every time he placed your favorite drink on your desk, pretending it was nothing.

You, who leaned in close to help him when the printer jammed, your fingers brushing his.

You, who tensed, shoulders rising when this man got too close, discomfort flashing in your eyes.

You. You. You.

Everything about Jay had become built around you.

Every thought. Every choice. Every breath.

And if making you happy meant eliminating what made you uncomfortable, what hurt you… then it was simple.

Jay’s grip on the stapler tightened.

Without hesitation, without a second thought, he swung.

The solid crack of metal against bone echoed in the empty office. The coworker barely had time to cry out before Jay brought the stapler down again. And again.

Each hit was harder than the last, fueled by something dark and burning inside him.

You.

Even when the coworker’s body slumped, weak and broken, Jay didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not until the coworker was nothing more than a twisted, crumpled body on the cold office floor—still, silent, and broken.

Jay slowly straightened up, his breathing steady, calm. The bloodied stapler slipped from his hand, hitting the ground with a dull, wet thud.

He ran a hand through his hair, sweeping it back casually, not caring about the smears of blood staining his skin or clothes.

His eyes stayed fixed on the body.

Unmoving. Silent.

Good.

His mind, once a storm of spiraling thoughts, was quiet now. Peaceful.

A slow, satisfied smile crept onto his lips.

This was right.

This was necessary.

He tilted his head slightly, admiring his work for a moment longer before pulling himself away.

No panic. No guilt.

Just clarity.

Because now, the problem was gone.

And you—sweet, perfect you—would never have to feel uncomfortable again.

Jay turned away, already thinking about how easily this would disappear.

He was careful. He was smart.

And most importantly, he was patient.

No one would know.

And tomorrow, when you smiled at him in the office, when you thanked him for the coffee, when you leaned close to help him with the printer—he would smile back.

Because this?

This was all for you.

And you would never need to know.

At least that was what he planned, until the sharp, broken sound of a gasp shattered the stillness.

Jay’s head snapped toward the sound.

There you were.

Frozen by the exit, your coat still on, bag slung over your shoulder—just as it had been when you left the office an hour ago.

But you hadn’t left.

Or maybe you had and come back.

Why?

Jay’s mind, so quiet a moment ago, now whirled with questions.

Why were you back?

How much had you seen?

How long had you been standing there?

Your wide, horrified eyes flicked between the mangled body on the floor and Jay’s bloodied figure.

His chest rose slowly with a deep, steady breath.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

For a fleeting second, Jay considered stepping forward, saying something—anything—but his feet remained planted.

The silence between you stretched painfully thin.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

Jay’s mind sharpened, cutting through the static.

He couldn’t let you be afraid of him.

Not you.

Slowly, deliberately, Jay raised his blood-streaked hands in front of him, palms out as if calming a startled animal. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and soft. “I can explain.”

But could he?

Could he explain that this was for you? That every swing of that stapler, every brutal hit, was to protect you?

Would you understand?

His heart beat steadily in his chest, not with panic—but with focus.

This was just another problem to solve.

Like the one lying cold and unmoving on the floor.

Jay’s eyes didn’t leave yours. He smiled. Slowly. Softly. “You weren’t supposed to see this,” he murmured.

Now, he had to decide what to do next. With you.

His jaw clenched as he prepared himself for the worst.

The scream.

The panic.

The rush for your phone to call the police.

He was ready to take it all.

If you ran, he wouldn’t chase.

If you screamed, he wouldn’t silence you.

Because he had done what needed to be done. He had removed the problem.

For you.

But then—

You did something he never expected.

Your bag slipped from your shoulder and hit the ground with a soft thud.

Slowly, cautiously, you stepped toward him.

Jay didn’t move.

Not when your trembling hands reached up. Not when your soft fingers cupped his blood-smeared cheeks.

Your eyes searched his, wide and filled with something between fear and disbelief. “Jay…” you whispered, barely audible. “What… what did you do?”

Jay blinked, his breath shallow under your touch. His lips parted, and the words spilled out. “I… I did it for you.” His voice was quiet. “He wouldn’t leave you alone. He didn’t listen. I… I had to stop him.”

The room seemed to freeze.

You didn’t recoil.

You didn’t scream.

You just stared, shocked, processing the weight of his words.

Jay searched your face, looking for disgust, horror—anything. But it wasn’t there. And that broke something inside him.

Before you could speak, before doubt could flicker in your eyes, Jay moved. His arms shot forward, wrapping tightly around your waist, pulling you flush against him. One hand slid up, cradling the back of your head, gently but firmly turning your face away from the mangled body on the floor.

“You shouldn’t look at that,” he murmured against your hair, his voice softer now but tinged with something.

Protective.

Possessive.

His grip tightened, holding you like you might slip away.

“I couldn’t let him hurt you,” Jay whispered, his thumb brushing against your temple. “You’re mine to protect. No one gets to make you uncomfortable. Not him. Not anyone.”

He held you close, his body warm and solid against yours, his gaze piercing as if he could see into the deepest parts of your soul. “You’re safe now,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “You don’t need to be scared.” He closed his eyes, savoring how perfectly you fit in his arms.

He’d do anything to keep you here.

Anything.

His hand slowly stroked the back of your head, a soothing motion that contrasted sharply with the violence that had just taken place. “I won’t hurt you,” he whispered.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t scream.

Didn’t run.

Jay’s grip tightened, his mind racing. Maybe you understood. Maybe deep down, you knew he had done this for you. “I… I couldn’t let him near you anymore,” he confessed, voice barely a whisper. “He didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as you.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t look away.

Jay’s hand, still cradling your head, slid down to gently cup your cheek—thumb brushing over your skin, leaving a faint smear of blood. “But it’s okay now,” he murmured, tilting his head. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.” His eyes searched yours, desperate for understanding, for acceptance.

And when you still didn’t pull away, when your body stayed close to his—Jay’s lips curved into a slow smile. “You believe me, don’t you?” he asked softly, almost childlike in tone. His fingers pressed just slightly against your skin, his need for reassurance growing heavier. “Tell me you believe me. Tell me you know I did this for you.”

The room seemed to close in, the silence suffocating. But Jay’s breath was steady, his hold firm.

He would wait.

He was patient.

But not forever.

Not with you.

Because now that you knew, now that you had seen this part of him, he couldn’t let you go.

And if you didn’t say what he needed to hear… Well.

Jay could be persuasive.

“I… I believe you,” you whispered eventually, the words shaky, barely holding together.

And that was enough.

Enough for Jay.

His eyes darkened, a flicker of something unhinged sparking within them.

A slow, shaky breath left his lips as a grin stretched across his face—wide, relieved, and far too dangerous. “That’s all I needed to hear,” he murmured.

In one slow, fluid motion, his blood-slicked hand slid to the side of your neck, fingers curling possessively around your throat. He then leaned in, so close that your noses brushed, his breath hot against your lips. “Say it again,” he whispered, voice cracking with need. “Please… say it again.”

You gasped softly, wide-eyed, frozen beneath the weight of his stare. But before you could form another word, Jay couldn’t wait anymore. His lips crashed into yours, desperate and unrelenting. It wasn’t a kiss meant to be sweet or careful—it was starving, as if he was finally taking something he’d been denied for far too long.

His other arm tightened around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, crushing you against him as he groaned into your mouth, the sound guttural, like he’d been holding it in for years.

You barely had a moment to catch your breath, your hands instinctively clutching at his shirt as his grip on your neck tightened—not to hurt, but to keep you there, to feel you.

His lips moved hungrily against yours, consuming, devouring, as if this kiss could erase everything else.

The blood on his hands smeared against your skin, staining you, marking you as his. And that thought—oh, that thought—made Jay shudder.

Finally, finally, you were his.

His lips moved to brush against your ear as he whispered, his voice heavy with desire. “You’ll never have to worry again, do you understand?”

You could feel the heat radiating from him, his chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. His hand, still resting on your neck, felt like a constant reminder of how much he owned this moment. How much he owned you.

You wanted to say something—anything—but the words caught in your throat, overwhelmed by his presence, and the weight of everything that had just happened.

And Jay noticed.

A flicker of understanding crossed his face, and his lips curled into a grin. “I know you’re shocked,” he said softly, his voice a low murmur. “I know. But you don’t have to be. Not anymore.” His thumb brushed over your lips, tracing the curve, as if memorizing every part of you. There was no room for doubt anymore. This was what he’d been working for. What he’d needed to do to make you his.

The thought of you, fully his, made him tremble.

And there was nothing left but the need to keep you close, to never let you go.

Jay gently pulled you back, guiding you until your back met the wall behind you. His lips found yours again—feverish, desperate. The kiss was a claim, a mark, an ownership. He wanted to feel you beneath him, to know that no one else would ever get to see you like this. His kiss deepened, growing rougher, more demanding, as though he could pour every dark thought and overwhelming need into you.

Jay wanted more.

No—he needed more.

The thought of anyone else seeing you like this, touching you, even looking at you—it made his grip tighten, made his breath grow heavier.

His mouth trailed down, kissing along your jaw, to the soft skin just below your ear. He lingered there, lips brushing your pulse, his teeth grazed your neck, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp. That sound—your gasp—ignited something in him.

He wanted to burn himself into you.

To make sure you would never forget.

Jay’s lips crashed back onto yours, fiercer, deeper, as if he could devour every breath you took.

“Mine,” he growled against your mouth, his voice low and rough. His hands were everywhere—one gripping your waist so tightly it almost hurt, the other wrapped firmly around your throat. “Baby…” he murmured between kisses, lips barely pulling away before claiming you again.

You gasped, trying to pull back, your hands pressing against his chest. “Jay—”

But his grip on your throat tightened, holding you in place as he swallowed your protest with another bruising kiss. “Shh, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice dripping with hunger. “Don’t say my name like that. Makes me crazy.” His lips dragged along your jaw, down to your neck, where he bit down—not too hard, but hard enough to make you whimper. “Good girl,” he breathed, lips curling into a dark smile against your skin.

You squirmed slightly, your hands trembling as they gripped his arms. “Jay...please—”

“Oh, princess, now you beg?” he chuckled darkly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hand still cradled your throat, his thumb brushing along your pulse. “You’re not going anywhere.” Then his mouth was on yours again, more desperate, more claiming. “My sweet girl,” he mumbled.

You tried to turn your head, tried to catch your breath, but Jay wouldn’t let you. His grip on your throat kept you exactly where he wanted you.“Don’t pull away,” he groaned, biting your lower lip before soothing it with his tongue.

“You belong here. With me.”

Another kiss.

“You understand that, don’t you, baby?” His hand flexed on your throat, a silent warning. His breath was ragged, lips swollen, eyes dark with obsession.

Jay wasn’t asking this time.

He was demanding.

And he wasn’t going to stop until you gave him what he wanted.

Until you surrendered.

Your breath hitched, eyes wide as Jay’s grip on your throat tightened just enough to make your pulse race. His thumb stroked your skin slowly, in stark contrast to the desperate, punishing kisses he pressed against your lips.

“Say it,” he murmured again, lips ghosting over yours. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You swallowed hard, the words tangled in your throat. “I`m—”

That was all you managed before his hand flexed. “No, baby,” he rasped, his tone unyielding. “Not like that.” His teeth grazed your bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth before soothing it with his tongue. “Say it like you mean it,” he whispered against your mouth. “Tell me you belong to me like you mean it.” Jay’s breath turned ragged, his grip trembling slightly as if even he was starting to lose control. "Please," he whispered, the word barely audible but heavy with desperation. His thumb brushed over your pulse point, feeling it quicken under his touch. "I need to hear it. Need you to say it."

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. The hesitation in your eyes made something in him crack.

"Baby," he breathed out shakily. "You're mine. Mine. I'll say it a thousand times, scream it until my throat bleeds if I have to." His voice was hoarse and strained. "But I need you to say it back. Just once. Please."

His lips ghosted over yours, softer now, but his hands trembled where they held you. "Tell me you belong to me. Tell me before I lose my mind." His lips pressed desperately against your jaw, your cheek, your lips—frantic, as if trying to draw the words from you. "I can't—" he choked, pulling back just enough to search your eyes. "I can't breathe without you. Just say it, baby. Please."

"Say you're mine."

Every time you tried to pull away, tried to catch your breath, Jay wouldn’t allow it. His grip on your throat anchored you, holding you exactly where he wanted you—his. “Come on, princess,” he murmured. “You know it’s true. You’ve always been mine.”

His lips brushed over your cheek, down to your ear.

“Mine to protect.”

Another kiss, softer this time.

“Mine to touch.”

His hand squeezed your hip, dragging you impossibly closer.

“Mine to love.”

The way he said it—love—sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t soft or sweet. It was dark, consuming.

You felt breathless, overwhelmed.

And yet… you didn’t speak.

Jay leaned back just enough to meet your eyes, his own burning with need. “I won’t ask again, baby,” he murmured, voice like velvet over steel. His thumb traced the corner of your mouth, smearing blood along your skin.

“Say it.”

And in that suffocating silence, with his grip steady and his eyes locked on yours, you knew you had no choice.

Not when he was looking at you like that.

Like he would burn the world down if you didn’t.

Your breath trembled, your mind spinning. Jay’s hand on your throat was firm, his body pressed so tightly against yours that there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

Say it.

His words echoed in your head, each one heavier than the last. And somehow, despite the fear, despite the chaos in your chest, your lips parted. “I…” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Jay’s grip tightened slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to make your pulse quicken. “Louder, sweetheart.” His voice was a low growl, his lips brushing against yours. “Say it so I know it’s real.”

Your chest heaved, and for a brief second, your gaze flickered to the dark stain on the floor behind him. The body. The blood.

But then Jay’s hand shifted, his thumb stroking along your jaw, pulling your attention back to him.

To the man who had done all of this for you.

To the man who would do it again.

And something inside you cracked.

“I’m yours,” you breathed.

Jay froze.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but silence between you.

Then, slowly, his lips pulled into a wicked, satisfied smile.

“That’s my girl.”

Before you could take another breath, his mouth was on yours again, brutal and hungry. His hand tightened in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss, his other hand still warm and solid around your throat.

“You don’t know what that does to me,” he muttered between kisses, voice rough and uneven. “Hearing you say it…fuck...” He kissed you again, harsher this time, as if the words you spoke had completely undone him.

Jay was losing control, and he didn’t care.

Because now you were his.

Completely.

Irrevocably.

His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him, making sure you felt every inch of his need. “Say it again,” he demanded, his lips brushing over your cheek, down to your neck. His teeth scraped against your skin, sending a shiver through you.

“Jay—”

He growled at the sound of his name, his hand around your throat flexing.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped.

Jay let out a shaky breath, his forehead resting against yours as he laughed—low, dark, and completely unhinged.

“That’s right, baby,” he whispered, “you’re mine.” His breath grew heavier, ragged against your skin.

Being this close—feeling you against him, hearing you say you were his—shattered whatever thread of control he had left.

His mind spiraled, drowning in the intoxicating thought that you belonged to him.

Only him.

His mouth smashed against yours again, bruising and desperate, like he was trying to crawl inside you, to erase any space that could ever exist between you.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not even close.

Jay broke the kiss with a sharp gasp, his hands roaming everywhere—gripping, pulling, needing. His lips found your jaw, your neck, biting and kissing until your skin bloomed with marks.

“You don’t understand what you do to me,” he growled, his teeth scraping along your throat. “I can’t think when I’m around you. I can’t fucking breathe without wanting to touch you.”

His hands gripped the fabric of your clothes so tightly they shook, like he might rip them off just to feel more of you. “Fuck, baby…” His voice cracked, breath ragged. “I need you. Right now.”

His mouth found yours again, messier this time, all teeth and tongue and need.

You whimpered, trying to turn your head, overwhelmed by how hard he was pressing you into the wall.

But Jay wasn’t having it.

His hand shot up, fingers tangling in your hair as he yanked your head back to meet his lips again. “Don’t pull away from me.” His voice was a warning, but there was something desperate beneath it. “You said you’re mine.”

He kissed you harder, punishing, needy.

“So act like it.”

His hand slid under your shirt, rough and fast, gripping your skin like he could mold you into him, his mind spinning with every sound you made, every shiver he felt under his hands.

And it still wasn’t enough.

“I want to ruin you for anyone else.”

“I want them to look at you and know they’ll never fucking have you.”

His grip on your waist tightened, his breathing quick and shallow.

“Because you’re mine.”

Jay’s lips crashed into yours again, wild and unrelenting, his hands gripping you like he’d fall apart if he let go.

And in that moment, you realized—

There was nothing left of Jay’s control.

Only you.

Only this.

And he would burn everything down to keep it.

...and the twisted part? You didn’t feel guilty. Not even a little.

The memory of that night lingered like smoke in the back of your mind, heavy and intoxicating. Jay’s wild energy, the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world—sent a shiver down your spine every time you thought about it.

The office had grown quieter since then. People whispered about the sudden disappearance of your colleague, speculating everything from a sudden transfer to something more sinister. You kept your head down, your lips sealed, and Jay? Jay acted like nothing had ever happened, except when it came to you.

You felt him everywhere. His gaze burned into you during meetings, his hand brushed yours at the coffee machine, his voice low and dangerous when he spoke your name. It was suffocating and addictive all at once.

“You’re distracted,” Jay murmured one afternoon, his voice startling you. He was leaning against your desk, his tie slightly loosened, looking every bit like the confident, composed professional everyone thought he was. But his eyes—they told a different story. They always did.

“I’m just tired,” you lied, trying to focus on your computer screen, though the heat of his presence made it impossible.

“Liar.” His voice was teasing, but there was an edge to it. He leaned closer, his fingers trailing along the edge of your desk. “You’re thinking about me, aren’t you?”

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening. He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t need one. Jay was good at reading you, too good.

“You should come by my place tonight,” he said casually, like he was suggesting something as mundane as grabbing a coffee. But there was nothing casual about the way his fingers brushed your wrist, the way his tone promised so much more than just conversation.

“Why?” you managed to ask, your voice steadier than you thought possible.

“Because,” he said, his lips curling into that devilish smirk that always sent your thoughts spiraling, “I like having you close. And you like it too, don’t you?”

There it was—Jay’s true colors, bold and unapologetic. He was dangerous, unrelenting, and completely unhinged. And yet, you couldn’t say no.

Because deep down, a part of you liked it. Maybe even loved it.

That night, you found yourself outside Jay’s apartment door, your heart pounding harder than you’d ever admit. You hadn’t even fully decided to come until your legs had taken you here on autopilot. Something about the way he consumed you, mind and soul, left no room for logical thought.

Before you could knock, the door swung open. Jay stood there, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a sliver of his chest, his hair slightly disheveled like he’d been running his hands through it.

“You’re late,” he said, leaning casually against the doorframe.

“You didn’t give me a time,” you shot back, feigning confidence you didn’t really feel.

He chuckled low, a sound that made your stomach flip. “Touché. Come in.”

You stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind you, the sound feeling heavier than it should have. His place was exactly what you expected—sleek, modern, and meticulously clean, but somehow it still felt like him. The air was warm, and the faint scent of his cologne lingered everywhere, pulling you further under his spell.

“Drink?” he offered, already heading toward the kitchen.

“No, I’m good,” you replied, shifting awkwardly on your feet.

He returned moments later, empty-handed, but his eyes were locked on you like a predator sizing up its prey. “You’re tense,” he observed, closing the space between you in a few long strides.

“I wonder why,” you said sarcastically, though your voice wavered.

Jay tilted his head, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. “What? Are you scared?”

Your breath hitched as he reached out, his fingers ghosting over your jaw before tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. “You don’t need to be,” he murmured, his voice soft. “I’d never hurt you.”

The way he said it, so certain and sincere, made your chest ache. It was the truth, but it was also a lie. Jay would never hurt you, no. But the lengths he’d go to for you? Those would destroy everything—and everyone—in his path.

“I should go,” you said, the words barely audible, even to yourself.

“But you won’t.” His hands were on your waist now, pulling you closer until you could feel the heat radiating off him. “Because you don’t want to.”

He was right. You didn’t want to leave. You didn’t want to run. You wanted him, in all his terrifying, obsessive glory.

“Jay—”

“Shh.” He silenced you with a kiss, his lips rough and demanding, stealing whatever protests you thought you had. His hands gripped you tighter, his body pressing yours against the wall as if he couldn’t stand even a fraction of space between you.

You let yourself melt into him, into the chaos and the fire. Because with Jay, that’s all there ever was—chaos and fire.

And, God help you, you craved it.

Jay’s kisses grew wilder, more desperate, like he was a man starved, and you were the only thing that could satisfy him. His grip on your waist tightened, almost bruising, and his body pressed you harder against the wall, leaving no room to breathe—not that you cared.

“It’s been too long,” he rasped against your lips, his voice raw with need. His hands roamed over you, searing through the fabric of your clothes. “So beautiful...”

Your response came out as a broken gasp when his teeth grazed your neck, followed by the soothing warmth of his tongue. His hands tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you arch into him, and his low growl sent shivers down your spine.

“Jay—” you managed to choke out, your hands clinging to his shoulders for balance as his lips trailed down your neck to your collarbone.

“I can’t stop,” he confessed, his voice strained like he was losing a battle with himself. “Not when it’s you. Never when it’s you.”

His words ignited something deep inside you, both fear and exhilaration that only Jay could elicit. He lifted you effortlessly as he carried you toward the couch, his eyes never leaving yours.

He laid you down gently, hovering over you, his hands braced on either side of your head, his lips brushing against yours as he whispered, “You don’t know what you’ve done to me.”

Your breath hitched as he leaned closer, his weight pressing you into the cushions, his lips trailing a path down your jawline.

“It’s been too long since I could touch you like this,” he murmured, his voice rough and shaky. “Too long since I could feel you, taste you, claim you.”

Your heart raced, and you couldn’t help the way your body responded to him, arching into his touch. His hand slid under your shirt, the warmth of his skin against yours making you shiver.

“Say you want this,” he demanded, his voice low but commanding. “Say you want me.”

“I do,” you whispered, the words barely audible but enough to send a dark smile curling his lips.

“That’s all I needed to hear,” he growled, and then he was kissing you again, harder, deeper, as if he was trying to consume every part of you.

And you let him, because in that moment, Jay was everything—your fire, your chaos, your undoing.

a/n: Happy birthday bayyy! Hope today goes amazing for you! Love yaaa <333

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[arclviie]

ATTENTION PLEASE !!!

hum so.. does anybody PLEASE have an enhypen royal au to recommend ? Any kind of trope and any member as long as it’s royal or fantasy.. im really desperate i’ve been searching since yesterday but nothing is satisfying me 😓

[arclviie]

Lowkey missing this era 😓

Red hair Jungwon because why not