mochilatae

[mochilatae]

The bf energy is wild here. @worldwideseal

And this is our lives now. Sorry Namjoon and Tae stans. It's hard out there for those of us who get wrecked by these men.

RM, Jimin, and V at Hope on the Stage: FINAL in Goyang Stadium, South Korea on June 13th, 2025.

[mochilatae]

How's everyone holding up with the chaos that is every single member of BTS out of their service and back home, extra thick?

Personally, I'm in witness protection. I hardly know where to start when I comes to writing about them. It's just...so much.

[mochilatae]

跡継ぎの妻 – the heir’s wife

summary: you marry a stranger in silk—his lips stained with blood and tradition. what starts as a marriage of convenience between a yakuza heir and a public figure spirals into something neither of you were prepared for: protection that tastes like devotion, duty twisted with longing, and kisses that come too late to be innocent. in a world where bullets speak louder than hearts, love might be the most dangerous vow of all.

pairing: yakuza heir!yuta x model fem!reader

genre: mafia/yakuza au, arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, romance, family legacy, redemption arc, forbidden desire, emotional healing, found family, power couple dynamic, smut-heavy, character-driven.

warnings: blood, gun use, mentions of injury, dom/sub dynamics, power play, mature themes, violence, blood, weapons, grief, guilt, trauma processing, complex power dynamics, yakuza activity, arranged marriage, emotional manipulation, emotional dependency, toxic loyalty, gender roles, tattoos/irezumi, canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension, mention of lingerie photos, political manipulation, clan dynamics, betrayal, male dominance themes (non-toxic), smut in later chapters.

wc: 12,1k

notes: hellooo!! i'm so excited because i seriously loved the idea for this fic and i spent two whole days writing it nonstop hahaha💀 i have to confess that the story had so much potential that i ended up preparing a second chapter and an epilogue🥹 also, i'm taking the chance to celebrate hitting 1k followers!!🥳🎉 i'll be posting them soon so stay tuned!! leave a comment if you want to be added to the taglist 👇 thank you all so, so much for your support, i seriously adore you 😭🫶🏻 thank you for loving and enjoying my fics, i put so much love into them for you and it makes me so happy to know that you like them 🩷🩷

part ii. epilogue

taglist: special dedication to this anon.

@beestvng @bamtor1sss

osaka, japan — summer, 1995.

the streets of osaka never slept. even at midnight, they pulsed with a quiet rhythm — the flicker of neon lights, the hum of motorcycles in alleyways, the unspoken codes exchanged between men in tailored suits with tattoos hidden beneath white shirts. it was a city built on layers of tradition and violence, elegance and blood.

at the heart of it all stood nakamoto yuta.

he wasn’t supposed to be the head of the kansai syndicate. not yet. at twenty-eight, he was too young, too bold, too unpredictable in the eyes of the elders. but when his uncle — the revered oyabun — was assassinated in a dispute gone wrong, the family needed a name to rally behind. yuta had the bloodline. the legacy. and the audacity to wear the crown before it was polished for him.

his rise had been swift and ruthless.

they called him "the camellia snake" — beautiful, dangerous, impossible to read. he smiled with his mouth, not with his eyes. where his uncle led with honor and hierarchy, yuta ruled with precision and power. under him, the organization evolved. businesses bloomed. territories expanded. and those who doubted him learned to fear him.

but fear didn’t keep the police away.

by march, a whisper reached his ear: one of his shell companies — a modeling agency, ironically — had been flagged for financial inconsistencies. anonymous money transfers. duplicate bank accounts. income without origin. nothing damning yet, but close. too close. if the audit moved forward, questions would come. and yuta, for all his brilliance, had no clean answers.

the police weren’t idiots. they’d been watching. too young, too rich, too many homes, too many cars, too many women. they knew. they just needed a crack in the mirror.

“get married,” takuya said.

his second-in-command. older, level-headed. loyal since the days they’d fought with knives in parking lots. “marry a girl with a clean record. a civilian. preferably someone local. someone easy to explain.”

yuta stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “you want me to lie to the japanese government?”

takuya lit a cigarette, eyes narrowing through the smoke. “you’ve lied to worse.”

“i can handle this,” yuta muttered. “negotiate. bribe. threaten. same as always.”

but takuya didn’t flinch. “not this time. they’re smarter. they want to bury you, yuta. not just investigate you. a wife changes the story. you become a man protecting a family, not a criminal building an empire.”

he hated how logical it sounded.

it wasn’t about love. it wasn’t even about appearances. it was about strategy — the illusion of normalcy. the illusion that nakamoto yuta, feared oyabun of the kansai underground, was just a young man in love with his wife, running a few successful businesses to keep food on the table.

he refused, at first. of course he did. he didn’t do relationships, let alone legal ones. but then came the call — a low-level member, breathless, talking about his cousin. “she’s perfect,” he said. “twenty-three. a model. new in the industry. she needs exposure. you need a wife. she’ll agree if you ask.”

yuta didn’t answer. not immediately.

but that night, alone in his penthouse, staring out at the osaka skyline, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

a marriage of convenience. temporary. strategic. two strangers helping each other survive.

he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.

he’d be lying if he said the idea didn’t thrill him.

the studio smells like cigarettes and desperation masked with luxury perfume — the kind of place that pretends to be high fashion but rots from the inside. you’re standing in the middle of it, arms crossed over the thin silk robe they threw on you, jaw set like stone, fire smoldering in your eyes.

“i said no,” you bite, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “i’m not posing in fucking lingerie.”

people freeze. assistants pause mid-step, makeup artists exchange wary glances, and the photographer pretends to adjust his lens to avoid the tension thickening the air like fog. but they’re all waiting — for your manager to handle you.

hitoshi exhales the way someone does when they’re trying not to scream. “we already talked about this,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “it’s just lace. it’s not porn.”

you arch an eyebrow, slow, deliberate — the kind of look that used to make men melt and now makes them pray. “lace?” you echo with venom. “what part of ‘lace’ makes it okay to be half-naked on a cheap set so some sweaty assholes can jerk off to the catalog later?”

he flinches. good. but he doesn’t back down — you’ll give him that. he’s known you long enough to know you’re a storm, but he still walks into the rain.

“you signed a contract,” he reminds you, the words clipped and quiet. “we don’t have the money for legal shit, y/n. not now.”

you hate him for being right. hate the pit in your stomach, the taste of swallowing your pride. but most of all, you hate this world — the one where your beauty opens doors only to lead you into cages. you clench your jaw until it aches.

“fine,” you snap. “but if i see one of those photos on some sleazy magazine, i swear to god, hitoshi, i’ll make sure everyone in that room regrets being born.”

no one dares to breathe.

fifteen minutes later, you’re on set in nothing but black lace and stockings. your heels click against the floor as you move — slow, poised, deadly. you don’t pose, you dominate. your eyes burn through the camera lens like a challenge. they want sexy? they’ll get it. but not soft. not sweet. nothing about you is for free.

the next set is red. sheer bra, matching panties, white heels. you hate it. hate the way they look at you like you're a product. hate the heat under your skin that isn’t from the lights. you don’t even know where these photos will end up. probably sold to men with thick wallets and no self-control. the thought makes your stomach twist.

by the time you leave, your throat’s dry, your body aches, and your pride feels scraped raw. you slam the door of hitoshi’s beat-up toyota and fold your arms, staring out the window like it owes you something.

he doesn’t say anything. he knows better.

you came to osaka with nothing but a suitcase and fire in your blood. your parents were farmers in a dead-end village near nara — small, quiet, and too slow for someone like you. you always knew you were different. prettier. sharper. when the boys confessed their love at school, when the village chose you for beauty pageants, when you learned that your smile could buy things, you understood one thing: you were made for more.

so you left. for the city. for a future with lights and power and your name in people’s mouths. you stayed with your aunt — kind, clueless — and her son riku, who was trouble dressed in denim and secondhand cologne. only twenty-one and already tangled in shadows.

you never asked where the bruises on his knuckles came from. didn’t ask about the money he brought home, or the whispers on the phone late at night. his life wasn’t yours.

but that night changed everything.

you’d just slipped under your futon, the smell of setting powder and studio sweat still clinging to your hair. your body ached. your pride ached worse. you weren’t even sure what this was all for anymore — modeling? fame? the slow grind of selling yourself in pieces?

the knock at your door startled you.

sharp. insistent. not loud, but not calm either.

you sat up, frowning, crawling over to the sliding door and opening it just enough to peek out.

riku stood there. panting. pale. eyes wild.

“we need to talk,” he said.

your spine stiffened. you stared him down, unimpressed.

“what did you do?”

“nothing,” he lied too quickly. “just... just hear me out, okay?”

you didn’t move. your body was still. cold. waiting.

“someone wants to meet you,” he continued. “it’s important. serious. could change everything.”

you narrowed your eyes. “if this is about some fucking hostess job, i swear to god—”

“it’s not that,” he snapped. “this is... different. big. maybe dangerous.”

your stomach turned. not from fear — you don’t do fear — but from something colder. something real.

you didn’t say yes. not yet. but something shifted that night. something irreversible.

and you knew, deep down, that whatever was coming… it wouldn’t be something you could control.

not this time.

the room smelled of smoke, incense, and old leather — thick with heat from the summer bleeding through the cracked windowpanes. the shoji doors were shut, sealing the quiet inside, broken only by the soft sound of ice shifting in a glass and the subtle drag of a lighter sparking flame.

takuya stood with arms crossed, the rigid set of his shoulders mirrored in the furrow of his brow. yuta sat behind a lacquered black desk, half-shadowed by the golden glow of the hanging lamp above him. his red hair, slightly tousled, shimmered in the dim light — a harsh contrast to the dark ink crawling up his neck and arms, vanishing beneath the crisp sleeves of his black silk shirt, buttoned down just enough to glimpse the coils of dragons etched across his collarbones.

“we’re being watched,” takuya said, low and direct. “again.”

yuta didn’t look surprised. he never did.

he reached for the sake bottle near his elbow, poured into the small cup with graceful fingers tattooed in black kanji. the designs slithered with meaning, oaths made in blood. he drank slowly, as if considering the weight of every word that came next.

“and your genius solution,” he said, voice rough but eerily calm, “is for me to get married.”

before takuya could answer, riku stepped forward, his palms already sweating, his jacket too big, like a boy playing adult. he held something clutched in both hands — crumpled magazine pages, ripped roughly at the edges.

“not just anyone,” riku said, unfolding them with exaggerated care. “her.”

he laid them on the desk like an offering. photos of you — stretched in lace, seductive, sharp-eyed and radiant. black set first, your gaze commanding, then red — a different flavor of temptation. hair voluminous and curled, thighs wrapped in stockings, eyes cold and untouched. it wasn’t just sex appeal. it was danger wrapped in satin.

takuya blinked, barely disguising his surprise. he leaned forward slightly to examine the photos.

“where did you get these?” he asked.

“they’re from a catalog,” riku admitted, his voice too eager. “she just shot them a week ago. she’s my cousin. moved here from a town near nara, lives with my mom and me. she’s... she’s the most beautiful girl back home. people used to say she was blessed by the fox spirits. twenty-three, smart, proud... she’s probably still a virgin.”

yuta’s head turned — slow, deliberate.

his eyes, dark as a crow’s wing and twice as sharp, pinned riku like a nail to the floor.

“probably?” he echoed, voice like a blade.

riku swallowed, color draining from his face. “i... i just meant she’s not... she’s not like the others. she’s not easy.”

“watch your mouth,” yuta said, softly, but it landed heavier than a gunshot. riku bowed his head.

takuya cleared his throat and straightened his spine.

“i don’t think this is a joke,” he said. “the tip came from above the osaka division. someone’s pulling strings beyond our usual channels. if they open a formal audit, we’re fucked. this girl — a marriage — it makes you untouchable. at least for now. appearances matter. even in this world.”

yuta didn’t answer right away. he leaned back, eyes never leaving the photos, but unreadable behind the icy calm he wore like a second skin. the only movement was his thumb running across the edge of the page — just once — over the curve of your hip.

“and if she doesn’t agree?” he asked.

“she will,” riku blurted, then shrank under takuya’s glare. “i mean... she doesn’t know yet. but she will. she’s ambitious. proud as hell, yeah, but smart. she’ll see the opportunity.”

yuta tilted his head slightly.

“opportunity,” he repeated.

there was a silence then — long and thick. the kind that made men sweat and regret.

outside, a cicada screamed in the heat.

finally, yuta reached again for the sake. filled the cup. brought it to his lips.

“bring her tomorrow,” he said, setting it down. “at dusk.”

he looked up then — first at takuya, then at riku.

“and tell her to wear white.”

takuya nodded once. riku, visibly relieved, almost stumbled backward in his rush to bow.

as they left the room, the door sliding shut behind them, yuta looked back down at the photo still sitting on his desk. his fingers hovered over the image of you — red lace, pale thigh, that scowl on your face like you were ready to burn the world if it ever tried to touch you the wrong way.

he smiled — slow, dangerous.

“white,” he murmured to no one, then leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if trying to see the shape of fate through the plaster cracks.

the car wasn’t riku’s.

you knew it the second you saw it — black, polished, long, too luxurious for someone who still owed his mother rent. it looked like something out of a movie, the kind where people died halfway through and the boss never smiled.

you frowned as you slid into the passenger seat, the leather cold against your thighs, the hem of your short white dress riding up just enough to make you tug it down with nervous fingers.

“riku,” you asked, casting him a sidelong glance, “whose car is this?”

he didn’t meet your eyes. just gripped the wheel tighter, the metal of his cheap watch catching the evening sun.

“i’ll explain when we get there,” he said.

“you sound like someone in trouble.”

he didn’t laugh. that was your first clue.

the streets blurred past — familiar for a while, then increasingly foreign. houses turned to alleys, alleys to shadowed roads, until you found yourselves in a part of town you'd never even noticed on the map. old-fashioned, silent, wealthy in the kind of way that kept its secrets buried deep.

“ever heard of the nakamotos?” riku asked, voice low.

you shook your head. “no. who are they?”

he exhaled, like the name alone weighed something in his lungs.

“they’re... old blood. powerful. my uncle used to say they ran osaka before politicians even had names. people think they’re just a legend. but they’re not.”

“you’re talking about the mafia.”

“i’m talking about something older than that,” he corrected. “this isn’t like the shit you see in movies. they don’t wear suits and flash money in clubs. they wear silence. control. fear.”

you opened your mouth to ask him what the hell you were doing here when the car slowed.

he turned into a narrow stone path, flanked by perfectly trimmed hedges and lanterns that hadn’t lit up yet. at the end stood a traditional japanese house — wide, quiet, beautiful... and terrifying. the kind of place that wasn’t a home, but a domain.

the wooden gates opened without a word. two men stood guard — massive, bald, shirtless under their haori coats, with black ink swirling over their arms like sacred maps. their eyes followed the car without blinking.

your stomach tightened.

you knew those tattoos. old-style irezumi. yakuza.

riku parked, shifted the car into neutral. before you could ask anything, the door beside you swung open and his hand wrapped around your arm.

“come on,” he said, voice softer now. “and... don’t say anything unless spoken to.”

you stumbled out, the white heels you’d chosen digging slightly into the stone pathway before he hissed, “shoes off.”

quickly, you slipped them off, your bare feet meeting the cool wood of the engawa. your dress clung to your skin — tight, delicate, lace-trimmed with a little bow between your breasts. thin straps barely held it up, and the ruffled hem danced halfway down your thighs. it wasn’t the kind of thing you wore to meet strangers. especially not dangerous ones.

especially not him.

your curls spilled down your shoulders like a waterfall, wild and untamed. you felt their eyes on you — the men lounging inside, smoking in silence, watching you pass like a prize being paraded.

riku walked ahead, brought you before a closed shoji door, and then — without a word — dropped to his knees.

you blinked. “riku—”

he grabbed your wrist and tugged you down beside him.

“kneel,” he whispered.

your heart thudded hard as your knees touched the tatami.

the air inside felt heavier. sacred. strange.

riku cleared his throat. “nakamoto-san... i’ve brought her.”

a pause.

then a voice — low, smooth, commanding.

“enter.”

the doors slid open.

and there he was.

seated cross-legged behind a desk, bathed in golden light, red hair glinting like fire under the lamp. tattoos peeked out from the open collar of his black shirt, curling over the base of his throat like serpents. his eyes were the first thing you noticed — black, deep, emotionless. like looking into the sea at midnight.

he didn’t stand. didn’t smile. didn’t offer a single greeting.

he just looked at you.

like you were something being weighed.

and you — still on your knees, barefoot, trembling slightly in your white nightdress — felt it.

something shift.

like the world you knew had just ended at the doorstep, and whatever lay beyond was his to shape.

the room was quiet.

no clocks ticking, no voices murmuring beyond the walls. just the sound of your own breathing, unsteady and too loud in your ears, and the faint crackle of incense burning somewhere in the corner — sandalwood, rich and smoky.

he hadn’t said anything.

yuta sat there like a statue carved from shadow and fire, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to the elbows, revealing more of that swirling ink that marked him as untouchable. the tattoos weren’t flashy; they were traditional — dragons and chrysanthemums, waves crashing across his forearms like they were alive. his hair, a deep blood-red, was slicked back slightly, letting you see the clean, sharp line of his jaw, the slight scar on his brow, the disinterest in his eyes.

he looked at you like a man who didn’t waste time.

like someone used to getting exactly what he wanted.

and right now, his eyes were on you.

you sat on your knees, legs folded neatly under you just like riku had instructed. your white dress — thin, ribbed cotton that hugged your curves — felt suddenly far too revealing. the lace along the neckline dipped just low enough to expose a teasing amount of cleavage, delicate and feminine. a tiny satin bow rested between your breasts, and the hem of the dress stopped a few inches below your hips, ruffled and sheer at the edge. the room was warm, but your skin prickled.

your golden choker gleamed in the soft light, a simple band resting at the base of your throat like a brand.

and yuta noticed.

his gaze flicked to it, then back to your eyes.

you swallowed hard.

“you wore white,” he finally said, voice quiet but firm — the kind that made people listen the first time. “good.”

you glanced at riku, who kept his head bowed.

“stand,” yuta said.

your breath caught.

he wasn’t talking to riku.

you.

he meant you.

with shaky hands, you rose slowly, careful not to trip over the hem. your bare feet touched the cool tatami as you stood in front of him — exposed, nervous, but refusing to shrink.

yuta’s eyes roamed, slow and unapologetic. he took his time, letting the silence stretch as his gaze slid down your body — over the slope of your shoulders, the soft lines of your thighs, the little tremble in your fingers.

when his eyes finally returned to yours, something shifted in them. barely.

interest.

“turn around,” he said.

your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed.

you turned — slowly — letting him see the dip of your back, the way the thin straps clung to your skin, the curve of your ass under the short white dress. the silence behind you was heavy, and though he said nothing, you could feel his stare like heat down your spine.

then:

“enough.”

you turned back, your eyes meeting his once more. his expression hadn’t changed. unreadable. unreadable and yet so incredibly present, like he was already taking possession of something without needing to lift a finger.

“how old are you?” he asked.

“twenty-three,” you replied quietly.

his gaze narrowed slightly.

“virgin?”

your heart dropped. riku visibly tensed beside you, but didn’t say a word.

you didn’t answer.

yuta arched a brow.

“i asked you a question.”

you hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.

“yes.”

a pause.

yuta leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers wrapping around a ceramic cup of sake, lifting it to his lips. he drank slowly. thoughtfully. then set it down with a soft clink.

“good,” he murmured.

you didn’t know what that meant.

but you could feel it — your fate shifting under your feet.

“leave us,” he said.

just as riku began to bow his head to excuse himself, yuta raised his hand with a single flick of his fingers.

“call takuya,” he said, not taking his eyes off you.

riku froze for a second — like he’d forgotten something crucial. “yes, sir,” he mumbled, then bowed quickly and disappeared behind the sliding door.

and now you were alone.

alone with nakamoto yuta.

his eyes were darker now, more focused. he didn’t smile. didn’t move.

“come closer,” he said.

and something in you — something curious, frightened, and strangely drawn — obeyed.

as soon as the door slid shut behind riku, you exhaled, but it came out shaky — barely holding together the storm brewing inside you.

you turned toward yuta, cheeks burning. “what the hell was that question?” you blurted, voice tight and sharp, almost cracking.

he didn’t flinch.

he didn’t apologize either.

he simply looked at you like he was watching a child throw a harmless tantrum.

“i needed to know,” he said coolly, fingers tapping once against the rim of his sake cup. “that information changes things.”

your eyebrows shot up. “changes what?”

“your value,” he said, flat and emotionless.

the words hit you like a slap.

you blinked at him, stunned. “i’m not... some kind of—”

“i didn’t say you were,” he interrupted, still calm. still infuriatingly unbothered. “but where you’re going, who you’ll be playing... details matter.”

you pressed your lips together, heart pounding. his gaze was steady, unwavering. there was no cruelty in his tone — but also no softness. just facts. just business.

like you were already part of the machine.

“you’re here for a reason,” he said, sitting forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze locked on yours. “riku says you’re smart. obedient. pretty enough to catch a man’s attention, but not enough to be seen as a threat.”

you almost flinched again. almost.

he noticed.

“don’t take it personally,” he added. “the role needs someone forgettable. invisible, at first glance. someone no one would look at twice — until it’s too late.”

you didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.

you were still kneeling, toes curled into the tatami, your white satin dress clinging lightly to your thighs. the hem brushed against your skin every time you shifted, your bare shoulders cold beneath the dim lantern light. the gold choker around your neck felt heavier now, like a chain instead of an accessory.

you finally turned to look at him. “are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

yuta leaned back in his seat, the tattoos along his forearms catching the light where the sleeves of his dark yukata had slipped. he looked at you like he was reading something only he could see.

“there’s pressure from the police. not just local. national,” he said. “they’re watching us. they want to bring me down.”

you blinked. “so... what does that have to do with me?”

his voice didn’t change. still cold. still even.

“if i marry a civilian woman — someone clean, untouched by our business — it changes the narrative. i stop being the yakuza heir. i become a husband. a man trying to build a quiet life.”

you stared at him.

“you want to marry me.”

“i need to,” he corrected.

“and you expect me to just—”

before you could reply, a soft knock echoed from the other side of the room.

“enter,” yuta called.

the sliding door opened quietly, and in stepped a man in his mid-thirties, sharp as a blade in both posture and gaze. he wore a dark suit with no tie, and even though his arms were hidden, you could still feel the same kind of power rolling off him as the men outside.

“this is takuya,” yuta said without looking at him. “the one who came up with the plan.”

takuya bowed briefly, his eyes scanning you once. no reaction. just cold calculation.

“pleasure,” he said flatly, then got straight to it. “we're currently facing heat from law enforcement. not just the division — higher up. there's a task force building a case. they’re using the press, community outreach, whatever they can. they want to paint yakuza like common criminals. it’s not just raids anymore. they’re aiming for image. public perception.”

you swallowed.

takuya continued, unfazed. “they need something scandalous to latch onto. something to justify pushing deeper. but if we give them a distraction — a different narrative — the pressure dies.”

he looked you in the eye now.

“a marriage,” he said. “to a local girl. innocent. untouched by crime. beautiful, with roots in a quiet town. the kind of story the papers love. the kind of woman that turns a red-haired, tattooed leader into a ‘reformed’ man.”

your heart skipped a beat.

“you want me to marry him?”

yuta’s silence confirmed it before either of them spoke.

“the marriage will be legal,” he said, bluntly. “we’re filing the papers through a lawyer we trust. it’ll hold weight. that’s the point.”

your breath caught.

“we need legitimacy,” takuya went on. “you’re the key to that. the girl from the countryside. beautiful. clean. no record. no history. the media will eat it up — especially when they realize you’re marrying someone like him.”

you looked down, at your dress — soft white, with lace trim over the chest and a satin bow between your breasts. the kind of thing that screamed innocence. riku had made you wear it. said it was yuta’s favorite color on women.

your cheeks burned.

“and what do i get?”

“money, comfort, protection,” takuya said immediately. “you’ll live in comfort. you’ll be kept safe. no one will touch you. not the police. not enemies. not even our own men without permission.”

his gaze hardened. “money. more than your village’s mayor makes in a year. and attention. the kind you can use.”

you glanced at yuta, who was watching you with unreadable eyes. the flames of the oil lamp caught the glint of the gold chain around your neck and the soft shine of your white satin dress, making you look even more delicate — and out of place.

you were barefoot, knees pressing into the tatami, curls spilling down your back like ink on silk.

“so... i’m supposed to pretend to be your wife,” you said, eyes locked on yuta now. “while you do what, exactly?”

he finally spoke again.

“live,” he said. “lead. and make them believe i’ve changed.”

you weren’t sure if it was insane or brilliant.

but deep down, something about the idea — the promise of safety, of being wanted in such a specific, strategic way — pulled at a place inside you that you weren’t ready to name yet.

you didn’t look at takuya when he bowed out, only waited until the door slid shut behind him. silence fell again, thick like smoke in your lungs. you hated it — being spoken about like an asset. like a pawn on some expensive chessboard. like a clean little civilian girl they could dress in white and parade in front of the press.

you crossed your arms.

“you’re a fucking piece of work,” you said, eyes locked on him. “you don’t even ask. you just... tell me i’m getting married. to you. like i’m supposed to be flattered.”

yuta tilted his head. his eyes — those cruel, unreadable eyes — didn’t move from yours.

“if you weren’t angry,” he said slowly, “i’d be disappointed.”

“what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“it means i don’t need a quiet, obedient wife,” he said. “i need someone with fire. someone who doesn’t flinch when men like me enter a room.”

you scoffed. “so you want a wife or a weapon?”

he smirked — just barely. almost not at all.

“both.”

you stood, not bothering to hide the defiance in your posture. your dress flowed around your legs as you stepped closer, barefoot, jaw tight.

“i come from a farm in fucking wakayama,” you snapped. “my parents grow vegetables and wake up before the sun. i crawled out of that life by sheer force of will. i didn’t come to osaka to be anyone’s doll.”

he watched you with an unnerving calm. your temper didn’t faze him. if anything, he seemed... intrigued.

“then don’t be a doll,” he said. “be the woman who stood next to the devil and didn’t blink.”

your chest rose and fell. the white choker around your neck suddenly felt suffocating.

“and what do you get out of this?” you asked. “besides a pretty distraction.”

“peace,” he replied, finishing his sake. “for now.”

you stared at him, still furious — but your fury no longer felt out of place. it felt... necessary. expected. wanted.

he stood slowly, and you couldn’t help but notice the curve of muscle beneath the dark fabric of his yukata, the tattoos peeking out over his chest and wrists like whispered warnings. like stories he didn’t need to tell with words.

he came closer, and stopped just short of your space.

“tomorrow,” he said. “we’ll register the marriage. we’ll make it real.”

your heart thudded — not with fear, but with something heavier. something hotter.

“wear white again.”

“you’re a controlling asshole,” you muttered.

he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your temple.

“good. you’re learning.”

you didn't sleep the night before.

not from fear — you weren’t some trembling girl marrying her first crush. it was the sheer weight of it. the permanence. the fact that when you woke up the next morning, you would legally belong to the red-haired devil with tattoos snaking across his chest. the one who barely flinched when you cussed at him, who told you to wear white like it was some kind of silent power game.

riku arrived at dawn in a black car — another luxurious model that reeked of expensive leather and cigarettes. in the back seat was a garment bag, pristine and white, and a lacquered box wrapped in silk.

“these are from yuta,” he said, handing both over carefully. “he said to wear the western one for the ceremony.”

you pulled the zipper down.

the wedding gown inside looked like it had stepped out of a bridal magazine. dramatic off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, pearl buttons down the back, and a full, billowing skirt that would swallow your legs whole. the lace was delicate, vintage, almost royal. your fingers hesitated at the embroidery.

“jesus christ,” you muttered. “this must’ve cost a fortune.”

“probably did.” riku rubbed the back of his neck. “he doesn’t half-ass anything.”

you didn’t respond, only moved to open the silk-wrapped box next. inside: a traditional shiromuku kimono — heavy white silk with detailed cranes and chrysanthemums embroidered in silver thread. beneath it, folded with exact care, was a note in black ink.

you’ll wear this tonight. we need photos for the papers. — n. yuta

you rolled your eyes and slammed the lid shut.

the ceremony was held at a historic ryotei garden estate outside osaka. the kind of place used for tea ceremonies and old-money weddings. white lanterns floated on the koi pond, and flower arrangements shaped like clouds lined the stone walkway leading to the altar.

your heels clicked sharply against the path, dress trailing behind like a whisper. makeup perfect, lashes heavy, lips painted a soft cherry red. around your neck, a thin golden choker — delicate, expensive-looking, chosen by someone with taste. your hair was still curled and loose, spilling down your back in waves like the night before.

you held your head high. eyes straight ahead.

the photographers swarmed the entrance. local reporters lined the gate. and there he was — standing at the altar in a black montsuki haori, crimson hair tied loosely back, tattoos just barely visible where the robe dipped at the collar. yuta nakamoto looked like a villain out of a storybook. untouched. untouchable.

you stopped beside him, and only nodded once.

he didn’t smile. didn’t blink.

only said, “you look beautiful,” without moving his lips too much.

“you better,” you muttered, “after dropping this much cash.”

the ceremony was both legal and traditional. papers signed first, in front of witnesses — then the vows, recited with low, steady voices. you said them with a precision that almost sounded sarcastic. yuta repeated his in a tone that made the back of your neck tingle. like he was promising more than the words on the paper.

when the priest announced the kiss, you almost flinched. but the cameras were already flashing.

you turned.

you placed a hand on his chest.

and you pulled him in — slow, confident, unflinching. lips pressed to his with calculated pressure, just enough to look like passion, just enough to keep your pride intact.

he didn’t pull away. his mouth stayed still for a second longer than necessary. enough to make you feel heat bloom low in your stomach.

you stepped back first. wiped the edge of your lip with a fingertip. smirked like a queen who always won.

the reporters clapped. someone whistled. riku looked like he wanted to throw up.

you didn’t look at yuta again until after the ceremony, when he leaned in close during the photo op and said under his breath, “i knew you’d make it look good.”

you didn’t answer.

but part of you hated how your heartbeat stuttered anyway.

the reception was held back at the traditional house — the one you'd visited with riku only the day before. everything felt familiar, but colder now. more official. more yours.

the room smelled of sake, tobacco, and incense. a soft string quartet played somewhere in the background, a luxury reserved only for special occasions in this part of the country. long tables were filled with men in black suits, most of them tattooed beneath the fabric, their voices low and respectful. the atmosphere wasn’t celebratory — it was ceremonial. serious. like the birth of a deal.

you sat beside yuta on a low wooden bench, legs tucked beneath your heavy white kimono, the weight of the fabric grounding you. yuta had changed into a darker formal haori — simple, elegant, his hair still tied back, a few strands falling around his face. you tried not to glance at him too often. he didn’t speak much, only nodded at greetings, poured you a cup of tea when the cameras weren’t looking.

the group photo was taken near the engawa, under a blossom tree, everyone lined up behind you both — riku awkwardly stiff behind you, takuya beside him with arms crossed, unreadable. yuta’s hand rested lightly on your knee for the shot. your posture was perfect. expression unreadable.

then came the second photo — just the two of you. you stood side by side on the engawa, backs straight. he tilted his head just slightly toward you, eyes calm. you didn’t lean into him. not yet. but your hands brushed once.

you hated that your skin remembered it.

later that night, in the room they had prepared for you both — a wide, clean space with tatami floors and a low table still holding untouched tea — you sat at the edge of the futon, kimono folded neatly beside you, hair pinned up. your western dress had been carefully stored away. the silence stretched between you and yuta like a tight wire.

he stood by the window, back to you, sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal part of the ink on his forearm.

“you should tell your parents,” he said suddenly, voice calm. “so they don’t hear it from someone else.”

you blinked. “i will. but it’s not that easy.”

he turned slightly toward you. “why not?”

you gave him a tight smile. “you forget where i’m from, city boy. that town barely has working lights. my parents don’t have a landline.”

he paused. then, slowly, walked to a small desk in the corner and pulled out a set of paper, brush, and ink.

“write a letter. i’ll send someone to deliver it in person.”

that startled you more than anything.

“…seriously?”

“i don’t joke about family,” he said, gaze steady. “especially now.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. instead, you took the paper and sat cross-legged to write. your fingers trembled slightly at the start, but you found the words. told them you were safe. told them you were married. left out the politics.

you left out the man standing by the window again, quiet as a ghost.

after you sealed the envelope, yuta finally stepped closer. but he didn’t reach for you. didn’t touch you.

“you’ll sleep here,” he said, voice low. “i’ll take the room next door. just for tonight.”

you looked up at him, surprised.

“what, not going to consummate the deal?” you asked dryly.

his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. “you’re not a deal.”

you held his gaze a second too long. then turned away.

“…thanks,” you muttered.

he paused by the door, then added, “you looked strong today. people noticed.”

you snorted. “damn right they did.”

he left without another word.

you lay back, eyes wide open. married. protected. still you.

and for some reason, that scared you more than anything else.

you woke up to the smell of garlic and soy sauce.

it was a gentle aroma, not overwhelming, but enough to stir you from sleep as sunlight trickled through the wooden blinds. you stretched beneath the soft, white sheets, the unfamiliar futon beneath you barely creaking. your limbs were heavy with yesterday’s weight — the ceremony, the stares, the quiet glances exchanged in front of too many eyes.

slipping out of bed, you pulled the red silk robe from the edge of the futon, tying it lazily around your waist. it clung to you with that subtle sheen, smooth against your bare legs. your hair, still slightly tousled from sleep, was swept into a loose bun, a few strands curling at your nape. barefoot, you padded quietly down the hallway.

you found the chef in the kitchen — a tall, polite man with graying hair tied at the nape. he bowed when he saw you.

“good morning, miss. breakfast will be ready shortly.”

you blinked at the formality, then cleared your throat. “where’s yuta?”

he didn’t look up from the pot he was stirring. “the young master is in his office.”

of course he is.

you murmured a quiet thank you before turning and making your way down the same corridor from last night — where yuta had disappeared into quiet work and you had gone to bed alone.

you knocked once. no answer. you slid the door open.

yuta was seated behind a long wooden desk, papers laid out in front of him, a cigarette resting on a small tray by his elbow. he glanced up when he saw you — and something in his gaze caught, like a moment of surprise he didn’t know how to mask.

you were barely dressed for conversation. the robe hugged your waist too perfectly, a flash of your leg peeking out as you shifted your weight. your lashes curled softly above your half-lidded stare, arms crossed beneath your chest. you didn’t try to hide how comfortable you looked. or how dangerous that made you seem.

“i need to make a call,” you said simply. “it’s important.”

he nodded once, motioning toward the landline on the sideboard.

“go ahead.”

you paused. “can i have privacy?”

that earned you a look — half amusement, half disbelief. then, without a word, he stood and walked past you, sliding the door closed behind him.

as soon as the click echoed in the room, you exhaled. you opened the small leather agenda you always kept in your bag — fingers flipping to the back page where hitoshi’s number was scribbled in your handwriting.

you dialed. it rang twice.

“y/n?”

his voice was frantic, breathless. “where the hell have you been? i’ve been trying to reach you for days—i even came by your aunt's house. it’s empty. what the fuck is going on?”

you bit your lip. “…i got married.”

silence.

then—

“WHAT?”

you pulled the phone slightly away from your ear.

“what do you mean married? married to who?! when? are you even—y/n, are you conscious of what you’re doing?! you have a career, a whole future about to start. you can't just—”

you cut him off gently. “look at the news, hitoshi. or tomorrow’s papers. the answer’s there.”

“but—why?!”

you leaned against the wall, voice calm. “because it was necessary.”

he was pacing. you could hear it in the rhythm of his breath. “y/n, you have��contracts. endorsement deals pending. you know what the clauses say—you’re supposed to be single.”

you sighed. “don’t worry about the money. that’s not a problem anymore.”

his voice dropped. “what does that even mean?”

you didn’t answer that.

instead, you softened. “i’ll explain in person. let’s meet soon, yeah?”

after a beat, he agreed. you hung up quietly.

then, without turning, you said, “you can come back in.”

the door slid open slowly.

yuta stepped inside, eyes lingering on your silhouette — the curve of your hip, the smooth dip of your shoulder beneath the robe. your nails, painted white, contrasted sharply with the red fabric as you crossed your arms. you looked the part now. a dangerous, elegant wife. someone who belonged in a room like this — and maybe even someone who could command it.

his voice was lower this time. unreadable.

“who’s hitoshi?”

you raised an eyebrow. “what, jealous already?”

his jaw tightened. “just answer.”

“he’s my manager,” you said firmly. “and i needed to let him know about this situation.”

“you seemed close.”

“don’t start,” you warned, stepping forward, your tone sharp, impatient. “not everyone in my life is someone you need to size up. especially not him.”

he stared at you a moment longer.

and then, quietly — like it surprised even him — he said,

“…you look like you were made for this.”

you didn’t reply.

but you didn’t look away either.

you ate breakfast with your legs crossed under the wooden table, the silk of your red robe brushing softly against your thighs. the chef had prepared grilled fish, miso soup, rice, and a delicate tamagoyaki roll — a traditional spread that felt both luxurious and grounded, like something too refined for a newlywed girl still adjusting to this new life. you picked at your food in silence while the staff moved quietly around you.

yuta joined you ten minutes later, dressed in a dark pinstriped yukata, his sleeves loose, the scent of cologne and cigarettes lingering faintly as he sat across from you. he didn’t say much. didn’t need to. the silence between you wasn’t cold — not quite — but it felt suspended, like a string pulled tight between two people who hadn’t decided what this thing between them was going to be.

you finished eating first. he watched you dab at your lips with the napkin, watched the subtle way you moved, always confident, always so sure of your space in the room. you weren’t the type to wilt, not even under a house full of men who whispered your name like a warning.

“i’ll be in my office,” he murmured as he stood.

you only nodded.

the days passed with a strange kind of rhythm. mornings were quiet — breakfast, then long hours where you wandered the compound’s grounds or stayed in your room, reading, journaling, waiting. there were training sessions in the garden, men bowing to yuta like he was a god, and you saw it clearly now — what kind of man he really was. the way they followed him. the way even takuya never questioned a command. you were living in the center of something vast and ancient and quietly violent, and yet… you didn’t feel afraid.

not really.

yuta treated you with distance, but not cruelty. he gave you space, but not indifference. and in the quiet moments — a shared glance at dinner, the brush of his fingers when handing you a cup of tea — there was something else, something harder to define. tension, yes. desire, maybe. but also… possession. like he was slowly convincing himself that you weren’t just here for the show.

you noticed it most when riku came to inform you of your meeting with hitoshi.

“i’ll drive you there,” he said, pulling keys from his coat pocket. he led you outside to where a glossy black toyota century sat gleaming beneath the trees — a 1994 model, clearly imported with care. it looked like power and old money. when the door opened for you, you slipped inside with practiced ease, dressed in a simple black fitted skirt and a white blouse, minimal makeup, but still polished.

yuta stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching.

“she said he’s her manager,” takuya said from behind him, tone casual. he was smoking again, the end of the cigarette glowing orange in the dusk. “why are you so tense?”

yuta didn’t answer at first. his gaze stayed locked on the vehicle, unmoving.

takuya smirked. “don’t tell me it’s jealousy. i thought this was just a business arrangement.”

yuta’s jaw flexed.

“it’s not that.”

“hm,” takuya exhaled. “then what is it?”

“i’m a man,” yuta said simply, his voice low and firm. “and she belongs to me now. any man would hate the idea of someone else touching what’s his.”

takuya gave a short, quiet laugh. “you’re not very good at pretending, you know.”

the car pulled away.

inside, you kept your eyes forward, legs crossed, fingers resting lightly on the leather seat.

“are you nervous?” riku asked, his voice softer than usual.

“no,” you said simply. “but he might be.”

the meeting spot was a quiet café tucked in a side street near the train station. it was almost empty — just a few people scattered inside. you stepped out of the car and walked in like you owned the place.

hitoshi stood as soon as he saw you.

his expression was pure disbelief.

you sat down without a word.

“…you really went and did it,” he said eventually. “you married someone. just like that.”

“i told you,” you said, tilting your head. “you could’ve checked the papers.”

“oh, i did. believe me, i did.” he ran a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. “but nothing in those headlines explains why. or who. they only say that you married into the nakamoto family, and if you think i don’t know what that means—”

“you’re overreacting.”

“am i?” he leaned forward. “y/n, do you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into? these men aren’t just businessmen. they’re criminals. this… this is dangerous.”

you met his gaze evenly.

“i’m safe.”

he scoffed. “he’s got you brainwashed already.”

“hitoshi—”

“no,” he cut in. “you can’t just throw your career away for this. you had a film audition next month. a music contract on the table. i worked for those.”

your voice dropped. “i didn’t ask you to.”

his face froze.

you leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.

“you’re good at your job,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly. “but you don’t own me.”

he stared at you. your tone was cool, sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. it was the version of you he rarely saw — the version you hid beneath stage smiles and rehearsed charm. the version that came out when you were pushed.

he sat back.

“…so, what now?” he asked. “you going to disappear into his shadow forever?”

you smiled faintly.

“i don’t disappear, hitoshi.”

he watched you for a long moment.

“…i want you to be happy,” he said finally, quieter now. “but i just hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

“i do.”

he nodded.

then, reluctantly, “i’ll wait for you to call.”

you stood, and he didn’t try to follow.

when you returned to the car, riku opened the door for you again. the ride back was silent. you stared out the window, your reflection ghosting across the glass.

yuta was waiting when you arrived.

he didn’t speak right away.

but his eyes moved slowly over your figure — your blouse now slightly unbuttoned from the heat, the black skirt hugging your hips, your heels clicking softly against the wooden floor as you stepped inside. your hair was tied in a neat twist. you looked untouched. but not untouchable.

“how was it?” he asked at last.

“expected,” you said.

he didn’t respond.

so you turned, arms crossed, leveling him with a look.

“don’t look at me like that.”

his brow lifted. “like what?”

“like you think he’s more than what he is.”

“and what is he?”

you tilted your chin.

“not your problem.”

the corner of his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. not quite anything.

he stepped forward until you could smell his cologne again, feel the weight of his presence wrapping around you like gravity. you didn’t move.

“you’re mine,” he said simply, his voice low, almost soft. “whatever this started as… it doesn’t change that.”

you met his eyes without flinching.

“then act like it.”

you stepped past him, your heels clicking down the hallway like a challenge.

he watched you go — and for the first time in days, he didn’t know whether to follow or fall harder.

the soft knock on the door came just as you were adjusting the strap of your black dress in front of the mirror. the fabric clung to your body like it had been molded for you, emphasizing every curve, every subtle sway of your hips. lips painted red, a delicate gold chain around your neck, hair styled effortlessly to frame your cheekbones—you were the picture of elegance. the kind of elegance that didn't ask for attention, but demanded it nonetheless. when you opened the door, yuta stood there, his dark eyes sweeping over you with an unreadable expression. the faintest smirk curled on his lips.

“you’re ready,” he said, his voice deep, smooth like aged whiskey.

you nodded. “always.”

it was the first time you stood beside him like that—visibly, publicly, as his wife. the police visit had been scheduled days ago, supposedly a routine check. they had heard whispers, rumors about illegal movement, weapons, maybe more. but when the door opened to reveal you—immaculate, poised, clean as paper—their tone shifted. and when they saw the documents, the legal marriage certificate, your name listed as the new owner of multiple boutiques and cosmetic shops around the city, they exchanged glances.

“mrs. nakamoto?” the inspector had asked, uncertain, skeptical even.

you nodded politely. “yes. is there a problem?”

he glanced at the paper again, then at yuta, who remained calm, arms crossed, watching the interaction in silence. eventually, they left. the marriage had erased all suspicion, at least for now. your spotless reputation had become a shield, and yuta had used it like a blade.

that night, as you stood alone on the engawa of the traditional house—the same one you were brought to the first time—watching the moon dip behind the clouds, something inside you felt hollow. it wasn’t about the marriage. it wasn’t about the danger. it was the way he hadn’t come home.

you didn’t want to admit it, but his absence gnawed at your nerves. the house felt too quiet, too still. the shadows stretched in strange ways. your heartbeat was louder than the wind rattling the trees. you remained near the front, robe tied tightly around your waist, sandal-clad feet tapping restlessly against the wooden floor.

a screech of tires shattered the silence.

your body tensed, instinctively stepping toward the door. “yuta?” you called out, voice unsure.

“don’t turn on the lights,” he growled from the darkness, his voice uneven. strained. almost guttural.

you froze, your breath caught. “what—what happened?”

his silhouette appeared under the dim light of the porch. he stumbled, one hand pressed hard to his side, the other braced against the wall. he was bleeding. thick, dark liquid was spreading across his shirt, staining it in ominous blotches.

“yuta—oh my god.” you rushed forward, catching him as he lost balance. your arms wrapped around him, struggling to hold up his weight. something warm and wet seeped through your robe, making your skin crawl.

“it’s fine—just... just a scratch,” he muttered, clearly lying.

“shut up,” you hissed. your fingers trembled as you pressed them against the open wound. blood poured out over your hands, slippery and terrifying. you couldn’t see clearly. your head spun. you were shaking, overwhelmed, but you weren’t going to let him die here.

you pulled off your robe, leaving yourself in nothing but your underwear, and pressed the fabric hard against his abdomen. “stay with me, do you hear me? stay the fuck with me.”

his eyes moved to you, barely focused. but they lingered. his bloodied fingers brushed your arm, slow, reverent. “you look like a damn goddess,” he whispered, his breath hitching.

“you’re delirious,” you snapped, voice cracking.

you bolted into his office, found the notebook with contacts, and dialed takuya with shaky fingers. “it’s bad,” you said as soon as he picked up. “he’s hurt—stabbed—bleeding. hurry, please.”

minutes later, engines roared into the driveway. several men stormed inside. one, enormous, bald and covered in tattoos, barked orders. “get him in the car. now!”

you stood frozen, blood staining your legs, your stomach, your hands. you hadn’t even realized you were crying until takuya’s hand cupped your shoulder. “he’s gonna be fine. it’s not his first time.”

your head snapped toward him, anger flashing through your tears. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean? like that makes it okay?”

he sighed. “you married a yakuza boss, sweetheart. this... this is the life.”

they carried yuta out on a stretcher, still conscious, his eyes locked on you until the car doors slammed shut.

you ran to your room, changed into the nearest jeans and a sweatshirt, your skin sticky, heart pounding, nerves frayed. you were supposed to be used to this. you weren’t. you never would be.

but you’d made a choice. and for better or worse, this was your world now.

“you’re not coming with us,” takuya said firmly, standing between you and the door like a wall. “we don’t know if it’s safe. the ones who did this could still be out there.”

you clenched your jaw. “i don’t care.”

he sighed, exasperated. “you should. if something happens to you, he’ll lose his fucking mind. he’s already half-dead—don’t give him another reason to bleed out.”

just then, another man stepped inside the house, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black coat soaked at the hem. his eyes flicked briefly to you—blood still crusted on your arms—before turning to takuya.

“send a team,” the man said coldly. “find the ones responsible. they laid hands on the boss—i want heads rolling before sunrise.”

your heart skipped. the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. these men didn’t play. and neither did you.

takuya stepped aside, distracted by his phone. in that split second, you slipped past him and out the door.

your legs carried you before your fear could stop you. you flagged the first car outside and ordered the driver to take you to the hospital. he hesitated at first, but the blood on your body, the tremble in your voice, and the fire in your eyes convinced him otherwise.

the ride felt endless. your thoughts spiraled. images of yuta, pale and breathless, leaning on you like he had nothing left to give. the way his blood soaked your robe. his whisper: you look like a damn goddess. you pressed your hand to your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but it only made you more aware of the ache blooming inside.

the hospital was surrounded—unmarked cars parked along the curb, men in black stationed near the entrance like statues. you walked past them, eyes forward, not daring to look weak. no one stopped you. maybe they recognized you. maybe they just knew better.

when you reached the emergency wing, takuya was already there. he turned sharply when he saw you, brows drawn tight.

“you don’t fucking listen.”

“and you don’t get to keep me away from him,” you snapped. “i’m his wife, remember?”

he hesitated.

“where is he?” you demanded.

after a long pause, he pointed down the hall.

room 304.

you stepped in quietly. the lights were dim, the room cold and too clean. yuta lay in the bed, shirtless, wrapped in gauze, an IV attached to his arm. bruises spread like ink under his skin, and the bandage around his abdomen was already faintly stained.

he looked up when he heard the door click. his lashes fluttered, expression softening as he saw you.

“you’re here.”

“of course i’m here,” you said, voice cracking. “i wasn’t going to let you go through this alone.”

his head rolled slightly on the pillow. “told you not to come.”

you approached slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed. your fingers brushed his, and his hand immediately gripped yours, tight, desperate.

“they’re looking for them,” you whispered. “the ones who did this.”

he hummed. “i figured.”

you stared at him, really stared. even beaten and bruised, he was still beautiful. painfully so. his lips were cracked, his hair damp with sweat, and yet when he looked at you like that—like you were the only light in the room—something shifted in your chest.

“you could’ve died,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“i didn’t.”

“you’re not invincible, yuta.”

his thumb traced your knuckle, slow and deliberate. “i’ve survived worse.”

“doesn’t mean i want to watch you do it again.”

he blinked slowly. “are you worried about me?”

you looked away, ashamed by how quickly your throat closed up. “of course i fucking am.”

a silence settled between you, charged and heavy. then, softly, he tugged your hand.

“come here.”

you hesitated, then shifted closer until you sat beside his torso. his free arm moved, gently pulling you down, guiding your head to his shoulder. you melted into him, careful of the bandages, heart thudding wildly in your chest.

“you smell like blood,” he murmured against your temple.

“your blood.”

he exhaled, a sound between a laugh and a groan. “you shouldn’t have come.”

“shut up,” you whispered. “i couldn’t stay away.”

his hand slid up your back, slow and warm, fingers curling lightly at the nape of your neck. it wasn’t sexual—not yet—but it was intimate in a way that made your skin burn.

“you’re shaking,” he said, voice low.

“i’m not,” you lied.

he tilted his head slightly, enough to catch your eyes. “you were scared.”

you didn’t deny it.

then, so softly you almost missed it, he said, “i’m sorry.”

it knocked the breath out of you. not just because it was rare, but because it sounded real. raw. like he meant it.

you buried your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of saline and blood and yuta. “just... don’t make me lose you.”

his fingers tightened against your spine. “you won’t.”

and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. you just lay there—his body battered, yours tense, your heartbeats syncing in the quiet. his touch grew bolder, fingertips tracing the line of your waist where the sweatshirt had ridden up. not enough to be indecent, just enough to remind you that you were both alive, still tethered to this moment.

his lips brushed your forehead.

“thank you,” he whispered. “for disobeying.”

the days passed slowly, quietly, like smoke curling in still air. yuta remained in the hospital, recovering from the attack—each morning his color improved, each night you still woke up drenched in cold sweat, the memory of his blood staining your hands refusing to leave you.

you visited him every day, sometimes for hours, sometimes just to bring him something sweet from the bakery he liked. he hated the hospital food. tastes like regret, he’d mumbled once, wincing at the scrambled eggs.

you would laugh. he liked hearing your laugh. said it sounded like it didn’t belong in a world like his. too soft. too clean.

on the third morning, you received a call from hitoshi.

“i know it’s sudden,” he said, voice crackling with low urgency, “but they need you for the ad. the set’s already built. we’re behind schedule.”

you hesitated, looking over your shoulder at the clock. 8:42 a.m. visiting hours started at nine.

“it’s the commercial,” he added, softer this time. “the one with the energy drink. the ‘neon burn’ campaign.”

you exhaled, one hand gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. “i’ll be there.”

the shoot was loud, hectic, and full of neon lighting. they’d dressed you in a vibrant 80s-inspired athletic bodysuit—electric purple, turquoise, and hot pink, with high-cut sides. mesh leggings hugged your thighs, and scrunched leg warmers clung to your ankles. your hair was teased and pinned high, lips painted with a glossy coral shade, eyes framed by metallic blue shadow.

it was absurd.

and yet you killed it.

even with your heart split in two, you danced, posed, ran down the fake gym set and delivered your lines with energy that felt impossible to fake. the crew clapped. the director smiled. hitoshi looked almost proud.

but you heard them. behind the camera, behind the mirrors.

isn’t that the girl who married a nakamoto?

she’s still working? i thought she’d go into hiding after that shooting...

you didn’t flinch. not once. your back stayed straight, chin tilted, eyes cold and far away. you’d learned that from yuta—how to carry chaos like it was perfume on your skin.

when the shoot wrapped, you slid into hitoshi’s car, pulling off your earrings and tossing them into your bag.

“take me to the hospital,” you said quietly.

he didn’t argue, but he didn’t hide the concern in his tone either.

“you keep walking into fire,” he muttered, one hand on the wheel. “one of these days, you’ll get burned.”

you turned to look out the window, slipping on your sunglasses. “then i guess i’ll burn.”

by the time you arrived at the hospital, the sun had reached its peak. you wore a soft beige set—trousers that hugged your hips, a cropped blazer, and low nude heels. your makeup was subtle, elegant, and your dark glasses concealed the weariness in your eyes.

no one stopped you. they knew you by now.

room 304.

you entered without knocking.

yuta was sitting up in bed, finishing the last bite of toast. he wore a plain black shirt, one of the ones you brought from home, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, bandages still visible underneath. he looked better. less pale. a little annoyed.

“what’s with the shades?” he asked, swallowing.

you took them off and placed them on the windowsill. “blinding lights. needed protection.”

he eyed you, amused. “you look like you walked out of a magazine.”

you shrugged. “it was the commercial shoot. energy drink. eighties gymcore fantasy.”

“so you wore... what, a fluorescent leotard?”

“and leg warmers. don’t forget the leg warmers.”

he smirked. “should’ve been there.”

you smiled faintly, then crossed the room, pulling the chair closer to his bed. he watched you in silence, a hand resting loosely on his stomach.

“you okay?” you asked softly.

“better,” he said. “doc says maybe two more days.”

you nodded, fingers curling slightly over your knees.

“you really went to work in the middle of all this?” he asked, voice low.

“i didn’t want to,” you admitted. “but i needed to remember i still exist outside of this. outside of... bleeding walls and bodyguards and hospital beds.”

he looked at you, really looked. something in his eyes flickered—guilt, maybe. or admiration.

“i heard the crew talking,” you continued. “they think i’m crazy. marrying into this family. being seen with your name wrapped around my finger.”

“they’re not wrong,” he muttered.

you reached into your purse, pulling out a folded napkin. “i brought you something.”

he raised an eyebrow.

you handed him a pastry, soft and still warm. almond filling. his favorite.

“see?” you said, a little teasing. “not a complete mistake.”

he chuckled, biting into it. his shoulders relaxed. for a moment, he looked like any other man—wounded but human, soft around the edges.

“i missed this,” he said suddenly, voice quieter. “us. when it’s... normal.”

“this isn’t normal,” you whispered, eyes flicking to the IV, to the faint red stains on the gauze at his waist.

“no,” he agreed. “but it’s ours.”

you felt something catch in your chest.

“you scared me, yuta,” you said. “that night. i thought—i thought you were going to die in my arms.”

he swallowed. “i know.”

you reached for his hand. he let you.

“and it made me realize... it’s not just about the blood. or the danger. it’s you. it’s always been you.”

he stared at you for a long time, as if trying to memorize your face in this moment—sunlight casting gold along your cheekbones, shadows pooling at your collarbone.

“you were shaking,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “you wrapped your robe around me like it was the only thing holding me together.”

“it was.”

he leaned forward, slow, careful. his face inches from yours.

“i’ve had men take bullets for me. i’ve had people beg to die in my name. but no one’s ever looked at me the way you did that night.”

you exhaled shakily, heart hammering.

“how did i look at you?” you asked.

“like i was worth saving.”

you swallowed hard.

his fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face toward him. you saw the softness in his gaze war with the fire in his touch, that unspoken hunger blooming between you like a bruise. his lips brushed yours—not quite a kiss, not yet—but the weight of it stole the air from your lungs.

“i’m not letting you go,” he whispered. “not now. not after that.”

you didn’t reply.

you didn’t need to.

you just leaned in, lips brushing his again, as if sealing a quiet, dangerous promise.

he came home just as the cicadas began their evening song, the sky burning orange behind the high walls of the estate.

the front gates creaked open, and the commands were already lined up along the stone path, kneeling, backs straight, heads bowed in perfect silence.

the black car door opened. yuta stepped out slowly, his movements still deliberate, recovering. he wore a dark yukata, fabric loose at the collar, bandages still hidden beneath the folds. the sound of his geta against the stone echoed like a heartbeat.

“welcome home, young master,” they murmured in unison.

one of the higher officers stepped forward. “the men who orchestrated the attack have been dealt with. the one responsible… was eliminated last night.”

yuta said nothing at first. his eyes closed, head dipping just slightly, as if acknowledging not just the words but the weight of everything they carried.

you watched from the genkan, leaning lightly against the doorframe, arms crossed. your orange summer dress caught the dying light, soft fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, fluttering just below your knees. your hair was down, loose and warm like the air, and you felt his gaze linger on you even through his exhaustion.

you didn’t say anything. neither did he.

you didn’t have to.

he passed by you slowly, the smell of sandalwood and blood and quiet victory still clinging to him.

the house returned to stillness once he disappeared down the hall toward his room.

later, you stood barefoot in the kitchen, elbows propped on the counter, chatting aimlessly with the chef. he was old, bored, fond of telling stories that made no sense and pretending to hate you even though you knew he liked your company.

“you’re hovering again,” he muttered, chopping scallions. “what, worried i’ll poison him?”

“i just want it done right.”

“it is done right.”

“then let me take it.”

“you don’t need to—”

“he’s my husband,” you said sharply, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “i’ll take it.”

he blinked at you, then snorted. “possessive little thing.”

“i’m just not decorative,” you said, grabbing the tray.

on the wooden surface, you laid everything carefully: a bowl of miso soup, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and a small porcelain cup of green tea. nothing too heavy—he still hadn’t regained all his strength. you added a folded cloth napkin and a pair of dark chopsticks.

the corridor was quiet when you made your way toward his room. the sliding door stood closed, warm light flickering through the paper panels. a couple of his men were stationed outside, standing stiff as statues. they glanced at you as you knelt gently before the door.

“yuta” you said softly. “i’m coming in.”

their eyes widened slightly—you hadn’t waited for permission.

inside, yuta sat reclined on his futon, his yukata slightly loosened, revealing the smooth, pale line of his collarbone. his head rested on his hand, elbow propped on a cushion. he was absently tossing a temari ball into the air and catching it with lazy precision, the silk threads glinting in the warm lamplight.

when you entered, he caught the ball midair and raised a brow.

“is this what i get for nearly dying?” he said, voice rough but amused. “a pretty wife and a home-cooked meal?”

you stood, holding the tray. “don’t get used to it.”

“but i like this version of you.”

“the barefoot maid version?”

“the worried wife version.”

you walked over and set the tray in front of him. “you’ll be serving yourself the moment you can stand without wobbling.”

he chuckled low in his chest. “you’re all thorns tonight.”

you sat beside him on the tatami, tucking your legs under your body. he reached for the bowl of soup, pausing to inhale the scent.

“this smells like my mother’s,” he murmured.

you looked over. “really?”

“mm. not exact. hers was saltier. but close enough that it stings.”

your voice softened. “was she strict?”

he took a sip of tea before answering. “no. not with me. she was tired by the time i came along. my sister got most of her anger. i got the leftovers.”

“you don’t talk about them much,” you said, careful not to pry.

he rested the cup on the tray. “there’s not much to say. my parents are gone. my sister left years ago. changed her name. ran away from the family.”

“where did she go?”

“fukushima, maybe. i’m not sure anymore. she hasn’t contacted me since…” he paused. “six years.”

you went quiet. the weight of that silence filled the room, not heavy—but sharp, like the moment before a storm.

“sorry,” you said. “i didn’t mean to—”

“it doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, glancing at you. “i don’t need her.”

he picked up a piece of fish, chewing slowly before he added, “i have you now.”

you looked at him. his voice wasn’t teasing. there was no smirk, no game behind his words. just truth.

you smiled, faint but genuine. “we’re not really a family though, are we?”

he didn’t flinch.

“maybe not yet,” he said. “but marriages evolve. even the fake ones.”

you scoffed lightly, looking away. “you really think this can become something real?”

he shrugged, finishing his tea. “i’ve seen stranger things.”

you let the quiet settle between you again. somewhere outside, a wind chime jingled in the warm breeze.

you stood, brushing your dress down over your thighs. “i’ll let you rest.”

“you could stay.”

you looked over your shoulder.

he wasn’t smiling now.

just watching you, the temari ball still between his fingers.

“stay,” he repeated, softer. “we don’t have to talk. just sit.”

you hesitated, then walked back and sat near his futon, close enough that his hand brushed against the hem of your dress.

he didn’t move it.

neither did you.

you stayed like that until the tea cooled, until his breath evened out into sleep, until you felt the strange ache of something tender begin to bloom—soft, patient, dangerous.

you didn’t dare give it a name.

not yet.

[mochilatae]

Brat (Haechan x Fem Reader)

Word Count: 6.28k(ish)

Pairing: Haechan x Fem Reader (Y/n)

Rating: 18+/Mature/Explicit

Warnings: Unprotected sex, missionary sex, shower sex, talk about love/being in love, kissing (french and stuff), groping, squeezing (ass and breasts), nipple biting/sucking/licking, dirty talk, inappropriate work stuff (employee and contract wise), multiple orgasms (yours), sweet talk, low key arguing/teasing, bratty/jealous/pouty Haechan, brief fingering, references to and interactions with the other NCT Dream members--don't look for complex and well developed interpretations. They are far from here, folks.

If I forgot some, don't tell me.

Genre: Friends to lovers, coworkers to lovers, (light)Idol x fan to lovers, PwP.

AUs: Idol NCT Dream

Summary: Haechan is a brat. And jealous. And needy. He's determined to let you know, but not without hearing what he wants---the truth.

Author’s Note: Inspired by an NCT Dream song I've been into and watched a bunch. Haechan is putting me through it lately. He's trying hard to knock Renjun out of the bias spot. Some day the muse will see fit to give me the strength and energy to have a RenjunxHaechanxYn fic that will do me in, completely. Until now, I enjoyed this one and wrote it for no reason at all other than to fantasize about Haechan. I may or may not have been binging Nct Dream videos and did it to myself.

I really didn't proof read, I just wrote it. That's the most important thing.

If you took time to read this and liked it, thank you. If you feel like leaving a kudo reblogging, it's appreciated but never expected.

You stepped back and appraised your work with a broad smile. Jeno’s eyes followed you and Chenle matched your smile with his own bashful smirk.

The dress shirt didn't need much adjustment–a tug here and there–and you made it look so magical. That was so good every time. 

“Saving our asses again, Y/n.” Jeno wasn’t looking at you, preferring to study himself in the full length mirror you’d been blocking until a moment ago. Not that it was something you minded. Whenever you did anything for him, he was grateful, even if he didn’t exactly say it directly. ‘Thank you’ wasn’t exactly high in his vocabulary, but you knew he had a hard time now and then.

That’s what you got for traveling with all the boys. Even if Haechan was your responsibility that didn’t stop any of the others from pleading and cajoling your assistance. They liked to say it saved the company money, but you knew there was another reason. The ‘vibe’ between you and them was always mellow— more sibling, but without the antagonism. 

Except for Haechan.

His furrowed stare was so very noticeable from behind Chenle, his body as low as his dark brows, hunkered deep into the loveseat. Beside him Renjun barely blinked at the open magazine on his lap. Haechan’s emotional state had stopped being pressing for anyone except for you.

“How’s mine look?” Chenle turned his back, checking his reflection as you studied his back, then gave a nod. 

“Still good. You look nice.” His smile was smaller and adorably shy as he half turned away. 

“Thanks. I think the food’ll be here in a few. Should we go wait by the door, Jeno?” It wasn’t so much a question but the softest hint possible. Subtle and polite was always Chenle’s first approach, but that was never what worked with Jeno. He was rough and tumble–liking the direct route. It wasn’t tactful at times, but you appreciated the ability to take bluntness without reacting too much. 

Jeno’s eyes were still on the view the mirror was providing. Your brow lifted and you nodded at him. He sure loved either the work you’d done or the stylists this tour. Hard to tell which. He’d never been embarrassed to sing his own praises, but at least he wasn’t a dick about it. 

“I think that’s a good idea.” You agreed with Chenle, making him brighten a bit as he approached Jeno, then tugged the nearer shirt sleeve. Like being splashed with cold water, Jeno snapped out of the admiring ‘mode’ he’d been looping through, then after a quick glance around he replied.

“What about Mark. He’s not busy. Make him do it..” 

Chenle’s lids dropped and he crossed his arms. “You know he’s busy reading the schedule. Plus he has rehearsals for the other group. He’s got less time than the rest of us.” 

“I forgot.” Jeno sneered. “The hardest working man in K-pop.” It wasn’t becoming of him and you glared. It was Haechan and Jeno sharing brat duties today. Lucky you. 

“He’s responsible. We all rely on that. Now go with Chenle and wait by the door or I’ll tattle and you DON’T want your manager on your ass. …Or Mark, do you? I bet the paps would love Jeno and Mark fighting, Part 2. It’s been a minute since they got those juicy photos.” You went there and it was a low blow, sometimes that was necessary. 

That earned a cringe as Jeno’s handsome mouth bent from a self adoring smirk to a frown. He shot a look, then turned and followed Chenle around the seating in the main living room space of the suite, both finally heading for the door. 

“I swear..” You whispered, eyes following each step to be sure until they stopped, leaning mutually against the door frame and wall respectively. “...Bunch of babies sometimes..” 

You felt like a glorified counselor, mediator and babysitter now and then. These were grown men– at the minimum legal by any standard. Well taken care of by the company’s fattening coffers. But you? Some days YOU weren’t being paid nearly enough. That was even more on your mind when you walked by and Renjun’s eyes raised from the page he’d been half nodding off over. 

“Y/n..” Even his sigh was angelic. Your chest warmed, but your smile stayed hidden. He was cute, dozy as could be right now. Still, you waved a hand and followed up with a quick “No”. HIs pout was just as sweet. Thank god you weren’t looking, well aware of the now radiating displeasure coming from the seat next to him. 

Haechan could just…sit in his feelings. You weren’t in the mood today. You hadn’t got much sleep thanks to his extra needy opening act of shaking you awake at 5AM all to complain about getting a very specific and very expensive coffee order. One that he couldn’t possibly leave the suite for–because..reasons. None of which mattered to you but included paparazzi, schedules and the manager. 

At the large table serving as the dining and planning base, you studied the explosion of paperwork spread around in some unknown order. Several heads bowed over the top with a mix of voices coinciding to a flurry of pointing fingers and moving pens. 

If they asked you to start handling this stuff too, you’d quit. No notice. No hesitation. So far the company was happy enough with you wrangling Haechan. It seemed you were the only one ‘suitable’ to make him listen and (mostly) obey. 

Of course today might challenge that description. You could still feel eyes on you and it was zero guess work who that stare belonged to. Pushing that feeling down, you smiled when Mark looked up at you, over the glasses he always donned for mental work. 

“Hey..” His smile was warm and wide. You appreciated that. 

“Hey..” You echoed, pointing at all this….paperwork. Just seeing it was overwhelming and had your stomach a little knotted. “...Making heads or tails of this stuff?” Mark looked down and pushed the paper he’d been writing on to the side, then pulled another paper–full of squares with impossibly small wording and numbers–into the space created. 

“Getting there. ..You doing okay?” 

“You’re always so kind, looking after me. Don’t you have enough to do?” 

“I’m not just checking on the guys. You’re part of this too, Y/n. I hate to think I’m the only one who checks on you, aside from manager.” 

“Well..” You began, then sighed. “...Thanks. I’m alright. Can I get you anything? Food’s coming soon. I think we got a little bit of everything–an around the world trip this time. Lots of options, whatever your mood.” 

Mark’s brows lifted. Pushing the glasses back up his nose, he straightened. “Well that’s news I like to hear. I’ll be fine, then.” 

“God you’re low maintenance. Thank you.” You said. Mark’s head lowered. He gave an easy chuckle from under his dark bangs and brows. His shape hidden fairly well in an oversized hoodie. 

“Don’t flatter me, Y/n. It’ll go to my head.” 

“It’s not flattery if it’s true.” 

“Stop.” He groaned. “You’ve got bigger problems.” His glance went exactly where you’d expected. Right beyond you, to Haechan and Renjun, heads bowed together, backs to you and whispering about something. 

“Great.” You sighed, stomach dropping. 

“God speed..” Mark hummed as you turned and headed back that way. You had to eventually talk to your friend, even if he was being a brat. Like the tide, it ebbed and flowed. He was talented and deserved the attention he got. You didn’t have time to wait out his moods, as mercurial as they could be. Tour time was even more regimented and finite. Directness was the smartest and most efficient route. 

That didn’t mean you couldn’t use a few tricks from your bag of ‘history’ with Haechan. And to get things back on track, you’d have to pull a few good ones out. 

----------------------------------------------

“I really appreciate this..” 

You passed the brush again through Renjun’s hair and smiled as he spoke. He was so close his eyes were really the only and best view. And he was choosing to keep his attention right on you, even if you were focused on the small patch of hair being stubborn enough to stick up just behind his right ear. 

You’d probably combed that damned section a million times and it just wouldn’t stay down. 

“Turn around.” You inhaled, watching him turn his back, standing in front of the mirror. Same dance, different song–this time the full length mirror was across the space. And the room was empty of all voices. All chaos. All but you and Renjun, there in front of the mirror mounted above a small side table pushed against the suite wall. It was the only table and space that bore zero evidence of the group staying here. 

“You see that? THAT is a gel situation Junnie.” 

Renjun tugged at, then smoothed the collective peak of strands against his scalp, then sighed when they popped back up defiantly. You stopped him from licking his fingers a moment later. 

“Y/n.” He pouted. “We don’t have gel here. The company—” 

“--Has gel in the dressing room at the arena. Which you’re going to. Now get downstairs. It’s the best we can do for now.” When he spun on you and leaned in, nose almost touching, you didn’t lean away. Both of you held back smiles, the hints of each wavering on your lips–mirroring each other. The silence went on for a few seconds.

Renjun broke first, a warm huff skirting your lips. “Fine. I’m bringing gel back with me this time. So next time? No excuse.” 

“It’s not my job–I'm an assistant to Haechan. And that’s enough in itself.” 

“Maybe. But you’re an assistant in general too. I read the job description.” 

“You didn’t read far enough. I’m SUPPOSED to be looking after one member and it isn’t you.” Nose wrinkling, you waved the brush in a vague threat. “Now…get going. We will NOT debate this now.” 

Renjun’s nose tipped up. “Pick it up later then. This isn’t over.” Before you could really pursue correcting him, Renjun was sailing towards the suite door, then disappeared from view as it closed. Although he hadn’t slammed the door, the sound moved through the large suite. 

Now and finally it was just you. For a couple seconds you looked around, surveying all the signs of life, starting from one end of the place to the other–enough to make you a bit concerned for the housekeeping that came each day. That allotted time would be soon enough and with Mark’s fervent study of schedules, floor plans and budgets still scattered across the large table, it meant they had a bit more on their plates. 

You took 5 minutes to do what you could there, trying to at least bring some semblance of organization to the paper tiger on the table, then moved onto the couches, arranging throw pillows in a pleasing way at each end. 

----------------------------------------------

You were in the middle of gathering a load of cups in your arms, walking with careful steps towards the kitchenette space when the door opened after the telltale ‘beep’ of the keycard lock on the other side. When it closed you were finally at the dual sink, sorting glasses into the depths.

“Why aren’t you at the arena?” Haechan sounded not surprised, in spite of his question. You glanced up, seeing his unbothered pose, arms crossed and leaning against the loveseat he’d occupied hours before. No less unhappy than he’d been then, either. 

Not right now, Hae hae.. You inhaled, bracing yourself for the cold water when you turned the faucet on, and the inevitable fallout when you replied “Why aren’t YOU? Your schedule has you there all day.” 

Haechan glanced around, as if he hadn’t heard your question. From the casual t-shirt and joggers, he wasn’t quiet in expressing nil interest in abiding by the company’s schedule. Some days he made life so easy. But days like this… When all he seemed to want to do was be the most difficult prince in the world…

His stroll was giving royal attitude. As you watched him heading for one of the hallways leading to any number of bedrooms, the smirk on his profile told you Haechan knew you would watch. You had to. Your role and duties gave you very few other options. 

“HAEHAE!” You shouted, losing the ‘don’t give a damn’ game he was always a master at playing. Unless you ignored the glaring leer you’d noticed talking to Chenle and Jeno earlier. At the end of the shadowed hallway, on the rightmost side, you noticed the slightly ajar door. The light inside and the sound of music. 

At the door you stopped, but he was carrying on–shaking out a sweatshirt held up appraisingly. The way those eyes gazed at a piece of material just loosely held in his gasp, you’d think he didn’t remember his purpose or job. And the schedule concept never even pinged his radar. This wasn’t a Saturday at home. This was a JOB.

You bristled, fingertips digging into the door frame as heat rushed up your neck. 

“Haechan. Let me try this again: you’re not at the arena. You should be.” 

Giving a flick of his wrists, Haechan snapped the sweatshirt with a quick flourish and glanced at you. His lips–still luxurious in a sneer. Even if it was part teasing and part defiance. 

“This isn’t about me. Your job is a performer…with a schedule… A very inflexible one. Now, get changed while I call a driver. We’re not going to do this.” 

“I’m not doing anything—-except relaxing. Schedules are frameworks.” 

God help this man. You came away from the door and pushed it open a bit harder than expected. The knob swung into the wall and the door bounced lightly. Haechan’s cocky expression fell into a moment of confusion. 

“When you’re paying as much as the company is putting into this whole tour, it’s a lot more than some rough suggestion for what to do. It’s a must.” You patted your jean pockets, missing the familiar shape of your phone in any pocket. Fuck. As you growled and returned empty handed, your friend was smiling again. Maybe a little less cocky, but content at your trouble. 

“What’s YOUR job then, Y/n?” 

“Keeping things running–keeping YOU on schedule.” 

A beat passed and Haechan dropped the sweatshirt half onto the chair he pulled it from and turned your way.

“Then why the hell are you filling your valuable ‘Haechan duty’ time with not-Haechan stuff.” 

“Like what? God I need to eat and sleep. Between your needs and my biological ones, I don’t have a moment’s peace.” 

His eyes narrowed and this time his shoulders hunched. “You had plenty of extra time to help Jeno. And Renjun–” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Haehae.” 

He didn’t move, head tilting down as if to say ‘I said what I said. What are YOU going to do about it?’. You knew exactly what you’d do: have none of it and not let this brat have his fit. This wasn’t time and you weren’t the one. 

“I’m not giving my attention to another girl.” 

“Maybe you should..” You scoffed, ignoring how his eyes darkened, then his fingers curled against the insides of both biceps. “You’re unreal. You had nothing going on. Jeno needed help and he doesn’t have an assistant for those kinds of things. And Renjun—”

“Can handle himself.” Haechan cut in. “Jeno just wanted you to look at him. And you fell for it. You KNOW he can dress himself. He doesn’t need ‘assistance’.” 

“What is this about? These are your friends and if you want to get technical about it–I belong to the company. NOT you.” 

“You’re MINE.” He snapped back, voice suddenly loud and ringing to the ceiling. “You’re MY friend. MY assistant. You do what I want and need.” 

You couldn’t help it, eyes popping. “I can’t believe you..” 

“Can’t believe me? I sat there waiting.” 

“For what? My attention? What did you need me to do that I didn’t do?” 

“Where do I start…” Haechan hissed. “I…” His lips worked and you watched the thoughts bottle necking in his mind. All fighting to get out at once. Eventually he blinked as shock cleared the jam, then spun around again.

After grabbing at a change of clothes, he brushed by, nearly pushing you back. In a blink he'd passed the threshold and slipped out of view. Another door opened, then slammed, the sound exploding as the door met frame. The hinges whined. The wood shuttered faintly as you leaned out to peek. 

These performers could be so...temperamental. You had two choices: grit your teeth and soldier on knowing time would cool Haechan’s hot head. Or quit. Make this the hill you die on.

The company might be achieving a lot but at what cost to you? Your friendship was falling into the distance as this whole situation jetted you the other direction–to becoming used-to-bes with the man behind the pride and talent. 

The loyalty was strong to Haechan. Underneath it all, you knew him. REALLY knew him. And you knew it couldn’t end here. Taking a deep, weary breath, you leaned into a walk that took you out of the room to follow the impression of his steps, deep in the plush carpet, leading you right to the door now closed on you. 

----------------------------------------------

Haechan’s form was there, a dark shape against the condensation layered shower glass. He wasn’t moving much–maybe just standing under the giant showerhead, pouting at the tiles.

Regardless, you called out, projecting enough to be heard above the white roar. 

“You can’t hide here. You think I won’t follow you?”

Nothing. Not a move. You exhaled, head feeling a little light with how much air whistled free from your lips. You continued. “Do you want me to apologize now or a couple days from now? What’s it take to make you happy again?” 

It wasn’t like you were caving. This was problem solving and crisis management at its finest. Some things you couldn’t go to school to learn and insider information was helpful to have in a case as fragile as this.  

The show door clicked open, steam slipping through the gap. His voice came shortly after. 

“I was hoping you would.” 

“Well…it worked. Now get out here.” 

“No. I have demands.” 

“Are you holding the greater good–the group peace hostage for demands? Wow, Haechan. That’s a new one, even for you.” 

“Y/n..” He snapped. “I’m trying to explain. Do you want to hear me or should I just do my whole body care routine? I’m sure a good hour to wait on me would change your mind, and I’m happy to do it. I could use a good sugar scrubbing, head to toe.” 

“You’re going to give me an ulcer, stressing me out. But, in the interest of decency, let's hear those demands.”

Was he really suggesting you take it all off and join him? When the door swayed lightly a touch wider and pelting droplets encroached on the tile beyond the shower floor, your stomach started twisting again. He WAS really doing this. 

He was quiet for a moment, then a few fingers pressed at the slightly open glass door. “Get in here.“

Cussing softly, you stripped off your top, bottom and everything underneath, piling it all into one of the empty sinks nearby. At the shower door you peeked through, skin prickling from the water peppering your face.

It was easy to forget the shock of that when you saw Haechan’s naked back and ass, fully in view and shining. Wet. Slick, water following his body lines, particularly over the dimples at the small of his back. 

“M..Move over.” You eased in and shut the shower door. Here went nothing–you and Haechan doing the furthest thing from what you should be doing right now. This could cost time needed to perfect his skills and maintain friendship harmonies. For you the risk was heavier and more …expensive.

“In the name of my sanity… Please.” You began. Haechan barely glanced back, then turned to face you. His hair slicked heavily against his scalp, lips dripping and pouted. Light muscles glossy and tight from chest to just below his navel. Below that the tension building in a way that was changing the shape of things. Rapidly from the quick glance you stole. 

Haechan’s hands gripped your hips and tugged until your belly bumped his and stayed there. Not even a hair could fit between you both. He seemed to like it, those pursed lips flexing into a wide smile. 

“Shut up babe.. You want my conditions or what?”

You tried to gasp, sputtering as water ran over your lips, then your chin. Followed your throat and trickled down between your breasts. Sometimes he could really make you forget whatever was going on–even being naked in the shower when you most certainly weren’t meant to be, else heads would roll.

“Tell me.” You managed. It was getting very hard to keep composure–not for being chest to chest with Haechan but for the thickness slowly elongating against your abdomen. 

“I want you to dote on me. I want the same attention they got today..” 

“--I…didn’t even do more than fix a shirt and use the word No, in Renjun’s case. You want that, I can pull on your clothes a little and tell you the same thing, with or without a smile. Your choice.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He countered. His jaw tightened and he swallowed, then gathered himself again and his hips nudged, adding pressure against your mound. You throbbed inside. Your lids shuddered.

“What did you mean?....Enlighten me.” 

“If you’re mine…I’m yours. Take care of me. Like old times? ..I need you, Y/n.” 

“Need me?” Although the water was pleasantly warm, the temperature inside your loins was crawling up faster than expected. Once the clench faded and you could exhale, you did. 

“Show me I mean the same to you. …That I mean more. You need me like I need you.” 

“Y…you’re a brat, Haehae.” You gasped, not retreating in the least when his head, angled just a little to the right, brought his mouth against your own. An open mouthed kiss devoured the low moan that came from your throat. You felt a vibration as Haechan echoed you. 

An arm slid around your natural waist. That hand began crawling. Grasping. Groping down your backside to cup a healthy palmful of your ass cheek. You swooned into him, but one hand found his bicep and gripped like a vice. 

That didn’t stop the kiss, as Haechan pulled a deep breath in through flared nostrils and redoubled his effort, tongue easing between your lips. Belly rolling a little, feet plodding a few steps forward until your back met inert, hot tile. 

“Can I be honest..?” He mused, searching along your cheekbone, then head down your neck, just on the right. Like he’d sussed out your jugular and was taking his time to travel along the lifeline. 

“Now is as good a time as any..” You quipped, biting your lip as your arousal swirled higher, like the rising of waves in a building storm. The grasp on your ass transitioned to a firm kneading. Like Haechan had all the expectation in the world that what was in his grasp was and always had been coming to him.

“I’m jealous of them. They get your attention. Your care. They’re close to you. I want it. I deserve it. I want to have you like they can’t.” 

“..What? What do you mean?” You knew damn well what was being driven at. The way Haechan’s lips found the center of your jugular, just between the bottom of the ear and top of a collarbone, he knew. His smile against your water soaked skin told you wordlessly. 

“I know you inside. Let me be where they can’t–inside you.” 

“Haehae—” You began, but all words stopped when the pressure as your front shifted, diving right between your thighs. The grip on your ass traveled, then stopped behind that knee. With a tug he brought it up along his hip. That narrow waist that you’d watched gyrating through practices lately. With an entire wall of mirrors on every side in rehearsals, it was hard to escape if you didn’t want to stare at your toes for hours.

“We did it that one time and Y/n..I can’t stop thinking about it. I want more. Give it and I’ll be a good boy again.” 

“You’re a brat..” You whined, then whined even louder a second time as lips ghosted the top of your breast. He hadn’t reached the nipple yet but already the point had tightened impossibly so, aching. Eager. More than ready. 

“Brat..” He snickered, then slurped at your nipple for a single, brutal second. It popped free and he added. ��..YOUR brat.” 

“We..don’t have time..” You threw out the first thought. But that was the last too. Haechan’s teeth sank into your skin and he tugged, then apologized with a long, slow swipe of the flat of his tongue. 

“..Always time to give me what I want. Mine..”

He didn’t want to discuss it more and filled his mouth with the other nipple, until your fingers slid along both temples and you gripped, twisting and arching into him with a backwards tug on his slick hair. 

Haechan growled but his eyes were barely open, a dreamy half smile creasing his lips. It was just a matter of time before he got free of your control. It was a place he stayed as he pleased, squirming free. Bending out of your ‘hold’ as it suited him and his mood dictated. As it had always been even as buddies back home. 

You couldn’t stop the return of those lips to your own, and the deep french kiss he unleashed. Kissing Haechan made a lot of the gossip rounds and discussion groups across the internet. And they were so far off from how good they imagined it felt. 

Faced with the real thing, the slippery heat between your legs made the shower water feel ice cold. These fans.. These girls could only HOPE to survive a whisper from his angelic lips. You were facing so much more and about to die.

By the time Haechan lifted you off your feet and pinned you against the wall it was a completely lost cause. The war had turned from your victory to a loss so complete and catastrophic it would live in your memory forever. 

“I’m yours..” He sang softly. In that dulcet, higher pitch you always bemoaned that had become his hallmark. His calling card. His target, to draw all your biggest desires and feelings, then absorb them without a single mark of effect. 

“Fuck..Haehae don’t talk like that..” You groaned, melting that much more. When he brushed along your folds with a few fingers, confirming the slick coated skin, parted just a little in anticipation, dizziness stole your breath. 

“But it’s true.. Jeno needs you. Wants you to touch him.. And Renjun–” He paused. When a finger dipped in and wiggled, exploring, you clenched. He stilled and giggled. “...He wants to do this.. I heard him.” 

Even if he was bullshitting you, it was only stacking your arousal to impossible heights. You hadn’t really been prepared to think of and deal with your best friend like this but you sure as hell hadn’t been prepared to accept the others wanting you just like this–allowing themselves to think and talk about it–if you’d gotten a whole lifetime to prepare. 

But as usual, Haechan was eager to brew the drama tea early and unrequested. His life blood wasn’t just attention. It was being first, exclusively tied to some kind of big news or break. 

“A pretty big, popular singer who wants you. It’s usually the other way around and I’m like a fiend here, for you. You think that happens a lot? How much did I want to leave rehearsals and practices, swing by the apartment and pick you up? To touch you?” 

“Leave it to you to toot your own horn, Haehae.” 

“If I don't, how will I get the attention? I want it. You know I like it. Want YOURS most. When I sing or dance—wanna know you’re watching. You, watching. The note I hit. The move I made…Did it hit you right? Did it make you want me?” 

He didn’t give you room or time to respond, pulling you away from the wall to turn you both. Taking a knee on the floor, then set the other one down too, fully kneeling with you in his arms, then leaned over and laid you out on the files. Braced over you, it was a relief from the non-stop downpour from above. 

This time he slung the other leg over his shoulder and leaned down against you, pushing your thighs and hips wider, keeping you pinned under his weight. He wasn’t a beefy guy but he had enough density and muscle from his non-stop activity level. And it did exactly what nature dictated: made you throb inside as heat filled your pussy again, bringing with it a sweet pain you hadn’t felt since the last time he’d ventured into forbidden territory. A place forbidden by common sense and contracts. 

You strained and twisted again, flexing your spine, you cranked opposite directions with neck and waist. It didn’t do much to help you but did all to open you to Haechan’s wide tip. And the condition he’d put you in made it pathetic, the way you spread around him as his hips rocked slowly into you. He only stopped because his pelvis touched your mound. He was seated deep and complete, and there was zero retreat. 

Palms braced again, he stared down into your face–the side he could appreciate with your head turned into an immovable floor. You couldn’t even melt through it to escape. The only place you’d end up as pure liquid was this man’s cock. 

You managed to arrange your palms against his chest and pushed up faintly, feeling Haechan’s body roll. Lighting slid up your spine and sparkles moved from your eyebrows back to your nape.

Like he was the only one hearing a beat, his thrusts followed it, going in and out of you. The small tremble at your thighs became convulsive clamping when he changed angle. Or added force right at the last inch. Eventually the pace quickened. Your breasts danced and his face dove against your neck. He bit and nuzzled, fucking you harder. Sliding along the tile with you. Your shoulder rammed something impossible hard and pain shot through your shoulderblade. 

The sole of your foot slipped through puddled water, more drops painting your upturned face. Gathered in your open mouth. 

The foot hit a slightly blunt edged ridge and you braced there, for leverage. Haechan’s hand squeezed at the space between your neck and shoulder. The thrusts weren’t rough but they weren’t slow. He was going for whatever he heard in your guttural moan. Whatever he felt in the shaking of your voice forming his name. 

“I want you to help me look good and sound good.. Feel good, Y/n. My terms: let me make you cum..Tell me you want me. I miss hearing it.” 

He was going to do you in, from the mind outwards. Your body said it first, as the prewarning tightness and flutter milked up his shaft as he slid in again. He caught it, eyes going wide in pleased surprise. His eyes screwed shut, the next stroke stretching out gloriously slow. So, so long, going on forever. 

“Yes..baby. Don’t ever…EVER let them feel this. No one… Just ME. Mine..this is MINE.” 

“Mnnmmmmm.” You barely mewled, head lolling the other way as you found yourself coming. Like a slow car crash, coasting down hill just after hitting the pinnacle. The slow spiral down into complete, body numbing release was here and you were going into it with or without cooperation. 

But it felt so good, diving right into an impressively long orgasm that had you squeezing so long and needfully tight all over his buried cock. Even when the orgasm ebbed away, leaving just twitching, Haechan still took his time, thrusting just to the left. Right. Down. Up at just this angle and that. Feeling with his eyes closed, cock head learning you by feel. 

“Say it..Y/n..” Haechan’s pinked lips brushed your chin. Waited at your barely open mouth as your eyes fluttered open, fighting to stay that way from how heavy they felt. And how the shower battered their exposed surface just as steady as the rest of you not hidden by Haechan’s broad back. “Tell me, baby..” 

When he fucked a little faster the words bobbed, rising to your tongue and out in a hiccuped “..God I want you Hae—” You swallowed and caterwauled, womb opening up and seizing again. Something akin to “--C–chan…Please. Yours…”  barely escaped before you were back in the white out of a full blooming orgasm. 

His more-than-satisfied moan of release unfolded against your shoulder as he rammed himself deep a few more times, then stopped with a sharp gasp. Just in time he pulled out, leaving you empty. The thick cum strings splashing on your belly started to run, mixing with the splashing water running across your skin. 

It didn’t bother him. For a couple minutes Haechan had cock in hand, slowly squeezing up to the tip and working out a few last errant drops as his prideful gaze took you in. He looked relieved when you could focus to find his face again. 

Eventually you shielded your eyes. “Turning into a prune here.. A slutty prune.” You croaked. “Let’s please—” 

He got the hint, his grip pulling you to your feet. While you steadied yourself, he turned away and the water stopped a moment later. Moving you aside carefully, he opened the shower door and stepped out, then came back as it swung fully open, large white towel in hand. It was the largest towel you’d ever seen–and that was even allowing for post-sex distortion. The world didn’t just look brighter and feel more mellow when you were on the comedown. 

“Here, Y/n. C’mere.” You didn’t argue, stepping into the cooler air of the bathroom beyond the shower. It was abrupt enough but you needed the wake up call, however momentarily. Instead of wrapping you in the towel, Haechan lifted his arms, letting the towel hang behind him then lightly embraced you with a hug. The towel certainly did the job, enfolding you both in thick, terrycloth cotton whiteness brighter than the white lights overhead. 

It was a slow, careful walk as he moved you both to the large, slightly fogged bathroom mirrors across from the shower. You both looked small, the counter’s marble surface stretching far to the left and right. Haechan’s sultry gaze watched you from directly ahead. As you grasped onto the towel to catch it when he let go, his palms went to your hips and cradled. Somehow your nipples reacted, perking again. At least from behind the towel he wouldn’t see that, but even without the added visual he was inspired all over again. 

“You have a thing for hearing me say I want you.” 

“Maybe.” Haechan hummed. “Maybe I just have a thing for belonging to something bigger than me.” 

“Hmm?” 

“You belong to me…” When he paused to touch your chin and grip it to turn your face to his, peeking over your left shoulder, you geared up to do the sensible thing and remind him about his misunderstanding of the concept and the things he saw earlier. The prep was more than a waste as Haechan went on. 

“..And I’m yours..” He did it again–lightly and almost secret-like, singsonging. Each note–piercing your resolve. Your logical self. Your wall of protection around the love sick girl hidden away, to keep your job and heart intact.

“We’re friends..” 

“We’re more..” He insisted, eyes confessing he was completely serious and hanging a lot of hope on a long shot. Professionally and personally. You knew he was right—there was something there, how into you he was in the face of going past the professional limits.

“If this is gonna work out..you have to get a grip, Haehae. I have to be around the others. Talk with them. Help them, too. They’re your friends but they also work for the company. You told me you’d be good again—so do it. Show me you’ll respect that. You understand when it’s necessary.” 

Nosing your ear and kissing it, he was quiet. Eventually Haechan pulled away. “Fine.. I can put up with it. For now.” 

“Haechan..” You gritted, then dissolved. “H..haechan…” The second time was longer, more aroused surprise fused with longing, steeped in confusion. You couldn’t escape it if you ran across the world. Flew for hours–but it would all be moot on site or sound of this man. His potency was reaching full effect. With the fans it took a fraction of the time–but like anything else Haechan wouldn’t quit until he used his influence and skills to get whatever he wanted. 

Like only and especially you. 

“Brat..” He hotly teased. “Whatever you want to call me, just as long as it keeps me in your mind. Where I belong.” 

[mochilatae]

And if it's a fic full of back to back horny maker scenes? I'm all for it. Every scene is meaningful in the scheme of the writer. It's my job, as a reader, to enjoy it, not analyze it.

even if sex scenes did only exist to make you horny (a ridiculous take that only exists in the minds of those bereft of analytical skills when it comes to film) ... even if that WAS true

"horny" is still a real and legitimate human experience to invoke. "this scene is there to make the viewer horny" yeah, and? the scene after is there to make you sad. film is just a bunch of scenes trying manipulate your shriveled up heart into feeling emotions, just embrace it

[mochilatae]

Yes. Yes. YES.

If you don't like how something is written, write your own version ---that's the beauty of the fan fic world. There's freedom and flexibility. It's sacred.

Doing something like that does more damage to the writer who braved their fears to post something they took time, blood and tears to write. Don't abuse that vulnerability with unrequested opinions.

unless they specifically asked, you don’t get to tell a fanfic writer you think they mischaracterized the character by the way. because the second someone writes a fanfic about a character, that character becomes the writer’s own version of the character. canon is only a suggestion, but whether or not an author will follow it / how much of canon an author will take is entirely up to them. you don’t get to stick your nose in their world and tell them “hey this is not to my liking therefore I think you’re doing it wrong” when you can simply leave quietly and move on to something else you may enjoy

[mochilatae]

The Untying of the Red Fabric || Red Lace (2) || Jeon Jungkook

A story of when an artist falls in love with their muse.

Paring: Painter!Jk x muse reader

Summary: when you go to a live painting class, where you meet him, not knowing that he was an up and coming, anonymous painter, and you were about to become his muse.

Or

A story where two artists, in their own perspectives, fall in love, in a type of love that felt as if their hearts were tied together, by a red lace fabric.

Content: established relationship, romance, fluff, 4 year age gap, strangers to friends to lovers, he takes care of you, flirtatious teasing, red lace fabric, painting, university student reader, acts of service, muse reader

Warning: this series contains mature content, 18 +

Wc: 2.8k

Masterlist, Chapter 1

Tag list:@khadeeeeej, @tinnakitten , @joonsproperty , @parkinglot-nights , @lllucere , @bangtans-momma ,

@sexytholland

A low sizzling sound of the egg omelette being fried could be heard in the kitchen, as Jungkook stood there, wearing a pair of grey sweatpants while his upper body remained naked, his damp hair swept back, an indication for his recent shower. Oh god, how hot he looked, standing there lost in thoughts of his day at the beach with you yesterday, and the adventures he had with you in the car, causing a smile to naturally play on his lips.

You would have spent more time admiring his muscles and his broad back if it wasn’t for this burning fever that was causing you distress, a result of having to run back to the car in the heavy rain yesterday.

“Achoo,” the sound was heard, pulling Jungkook out of his trance. “Y/n–” Jungkook began, but trailed off as he took in your appearance. Your disoriented pyjamas, the blanket draped over your shoulders, nose red, eyes puffy while a tiredness visible in them, and handful of tissues at your side indicated everything he needed to know.

“Oh, baby,” Jungkook called, walking towards you with open arms, ready to engulf you into a big bear hug, however, you extended your arm straight out, making him pause at arms length. “I’m sick,” you declared. “Yes, I can see that. And?” he questioned, looking at you with furrowed brows. “So, don’t come near me, you’ll get sick as well” you asserted, maintaining the distance between both of you.

“And, I don’t really care,” he declared, giving you a ‘duh’ look before pulling you to him by your extended arm, and caging you within them. A whine of displeasure left your mouth, as you attempted to pry your way out of his hold, keeping your face as far away as possible. Seeing this, Jungkook held you even more tightly, his one hand making its way behind your head, bringing it to rest on his chest.

You wanted to resist, and push him away, but his warmth was what you needed right now, so you wrapped your hands around him and snuggled closer into his chest, as much as physically possible. Minutes passed, but you both remained in the same position, not wanting to leave each other’s comfort. Jungkook placed a small kiss on top of your hair, before lightly resting his chin on your head. “Go and rest in the bedroom, I'll bring you breakfast and some medicine. Hmm?” Jungkook explains softly.

You pull back, nodding slowly as Jungkook wraps the blanket securely around your shoulders, urging you to make your way to the bedroom. Once you were inside the room, you nestled inside a big, warm blanket, to try and get relief from the shivers that were going through your body due to the cold.

A little while later, Jungkook entered with a tray full of yours and his breakfast, along with the medicine for your cold. He sat in front of you, feeding you from one bowl, and himself from another. After ensuring that you had taken the medicine, Jungkook heads back to the kitchen, cleaning up everything quickly, so that he can spend time with you, while taking care of you.

When he entered the bedroom, he saw you bundled up in the blanket like a marshmallow, your eyes closed, as you sought relief from the ill feeling. With soft steps, Jungkook made his way to your side, lifting up the blanket gently, but your inquiry stopped him mid movement of laying down by your side. “Kookie? What are you doing?” You ask, though you already knew the answer, as you shook your head disapprovingly.

“Trying to cuddle with you,” he answers, giving you a puppy look, manipulating you with the cute face to allow him to carry on with his wish. “No, you can not! I don’t want you to get sick. Plus, don’t you have an important meeting tomorrow?” You exclaimed.

“Yes, but-” he tried to defend, while his shining doe eyes did their best to lure you to a yes. However, your glare made him give up his venture and oblige to your wish.

Letting the blanket fall onto the bed that he still had held in his hand, he stormed out of the room, not before giving you a very loud huff, to indicate that he wasn’t happy with this decision.

You once again took to the comfort of your blanket, feeling glad that he listened to your command, and wasn’t being stubborn. You would have loved to cuddle with him at this moment, however, his well being is your top priority, especially since he has important work coming up this week.

A shuffling sound broke your train of thought, as you turned your gaze to see Jungkook setting up a painting easel near your bed. He looked back at you, over his shoulder, “you can stop me from cuddling with you, but you can’t stop me from being in your presence,” he declared, giving you a cheeky smile, earning a chuckle from you.

You turned to your side to better admire your very handsome partner, as he went in and out of the bedroom to bring a canvas and his painting supplies from his art studio.

Your eyes followed the moments of his hands, as he performed his magic. Jungkook was an amazing painter, and his passion for the art form could be seen in his eyes, and in his body language, whenever you would engage in a conversation with him on the topic.

Your eyes would occasionally avert over to his toned body, admiring its every curve. Your eyes trailed the lines of his tattoos, while also studying the muscles underneath that were results for his love for going to the gym. Jungkook loved exercising, but what he loved more was dragging you along with him, to the gym. You were someone who likes to exercise more at home than going to the gym, however, in this case you didn’t mind much, as it gave you a chance to spend more time with him, between your busy schedules.

You continued to admire his body, before moving your eyes to his face, taking in his magnificent beauty. The little piercing on his brow moved slightly, as his brows furrowed in focus as he glided the paintbrush on the canvas. Your eyes made their way to his cheeks that you loved to kiss and at times playfully bit before trailing to his plump lips, that you so desperately wanted to feel against your own. Oh, how you wanted to pull him to yourself and make out with him right at this moment, only if it wasn’t for your cold.

“Enjoying the view, darling?” Jungkook teased, gazing at you mischievously from the corner of his eyes. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I, when there are such beautiful pieces of art right in front of me.” you declared with a lazy smile, as a small blush crept its way to his cheeks. Your smile turned into a one of joy, as it felt nice to see that you still had the same effect on him from years ago, like the one he maintained on you.

You continued to adore him while he worked on his craft, delving into the art form that first caused you to walk into his life. You slowly dozed off into a peaceful slumber as you reminisced over the memory of your first meeting.

8 years ago, late April

You entered the room, wearing a long, sleeveless sundress, accompanied by a red shoulder cardigan, while light blue and white patchwork tote bag, with a thick, red lace ribbon tied into a bow around the intersection of the straps and the body of the bag, hung over your shoulder.

The smell of paint and wood entered your nose as you took in a breath of air inside the space. Painting easels were set up around the centre of the room, where a clothed table was set up for the muse of today’s painting section.

As the exhausting second year of engineering came to an end, your friend suggested going to this live painting class that she had found, as a form of self-care after completing the semester. You couldn’t help but say yes, even though you much rather stay at home and just laze around in your bed during your days before your internship started, but painting was that one thing that ignited a passion, enlightened your soul, and freed you from the boredom of the eversame days.

“Aren’t you excited? We are finally doing something different than having a study date!” Your friend Danielle exclaimed, as she intertwined her arm with yours, pressing her face against your shoulder. You had met her in your first year of university, she approached you complimenting your outfit, and asking about the keychains on your bag, which were about an animated show that she also liked. The friendship blossomed on the basis of common interests, and strengthened over the mutual suffering experienced in your major: you both were in architectural engineering.

“Of course! I am glad to finally be somewhere that isn’t surrounded by books.” You replied with a scrunched face, memories of studying in the library for hours on end for your finals coming back to you. You and Danielle continued discussing the internships you both were doing over the summer, and other hangout plans, before the sound of a clap brought everyone’s attention to the front of the class.

A man with purple dyed hair, stood there with a gentle, welcoming smile, small hints of dimples appearing on his cheeks. “Hello everyone! I’m Kim Namjoon, and I’ll be the coordinator for today’s session” he introduced, his smile growing, making his dimples more prominent to the eyes.

“And, this is Jungkook, he will be our muse for today,” Namjoon explained, hands motioning to the figure that stood by his side. Your eye travelled to the man wearing a loose white shirt, along with the same coloured trousers. His right arm was embellished with ink, forming intricate patterns, symbolising different meanings, unknown to anyone but him. Your eyes gazed over his bare face; it was beautiful. However, it was those doe eyes that had catched your infatuation. Wispy bangs were scattered across his forehead, giving peaks at the skin beneath. Small strands were pushed behind his ears, reaching to his jaw. His hair followed the flow of his movements, as he turned his face to look around the room, waving at the people in the room, a quiet smile resting on his lips.

Both men were undeniably handsome, murmurs of their appearance going around the room. Namjoon cleared his throat, bringing everyone's attention back to him. “Everyone, get your canvas ready, and get the paints you need from the table in the corner. We will begin in 10 minutes” he relayed kindly.

Soon enough, everyone had their canvas situated, paints ready, and the session began. Starting with shades of yellow oil paint, you began working on the underpainting. You looked up, observing the view in front of you: Jungkook was seated on the table that was adorned with a dark purple cloth, his legs dangling from the side, while his body leaned on to his arms that were straightened out behind him, palms flat against the table.

The shines of the evening sun turning from spring to summer radiated through the room, casting a dreamy haze over the world. A honey-like glow gleaned over Jungkook, his hair flowed along with the breeze that made its way through the open window, making him appear ethereal.

As his eyes glanced around the room, they stopped on you, looking warmly into your eyes. He slightly tilted his head to the side, giving you a mellow smile, which you reciprocated, and went back to painting the figure.

In between painting the canvas, you would notice his eyes returning to you again and again. You wondered why, was there something on your face? You picked up your phone to check, but you saw nothing on it. Your eyes made their way back to him, his own already on you. You notice him giving a small, inaudible laugh at your action, earning a narrowed look from you. He gave you a cheeky smile, his eyes carrying a teasing glint.

You decided to disregard his actions, and continued focusing on your painting. His occasional stares at you continued throughout the session. Once the time was done, everyone put their paintings along the wall for them to dry, and to be picked up later this week. You placed the painting against a wall in the room, taking a step back to look at the process you made, and noting what details needed to be added.

“Oh, wow!” You heard a voice coming over your shoulder. You slightly turned your head, only to be met with his gorgeous side profile. He was leaning a bit, his face on the same height as yours, just above your shoulders, his arms crossed behind his back. “It is beautiful,” Jungkook commented, his gaze turning to look into your eyes that were already on him.

The painting was truly beautiful: it was done in a red colour scale, with hints of the yellow underpainting showing through, a gold like glow surrounding the figure, while white paint traced soft patterns across the skin.

“Are you saying that because you were the muse?” You inquired nonchalantly, turning to analyse the canvas once again.

A small laugh escaped his lips, as he moved back, while you turned your body to fully face him. “I mean, it does help when the muse is also handsome,” he asserted playfully, looking keenly into your eyes.

You were about to comment on his claim, but before you could, he spoke up again. “I’m just joking, but truely, you are a very good artist,” he claimed, giving you a genuine smile, while casually putting his hands into the pocket of his trousers.

“Thank you,” you replied, turning your head to look at the painting momentarily, before looking deeply back into his eyes. “And I agree, it does help when the figure you are painting is so pretty. It makes it more enjoyable,” you acknowledged, with a bit of teasing.

A light hue of red crept to his cheeks and ears, as his brows raised slightly and the sudden remark, his pupils enlarging. His shoulders faintly scrunching up, as he looked towards the painting due to his shyness, a gleaming smile threatening to break on his face.

He didn’t know why he was feeling like this over your indirect compliment. He had become used to hearing people talk about his beauty, but hearing it come from you felt different. It was because he had perceived you as an artist: someone who could observe the small and fine details of its subject, translating it to a form that was art.

“I should get going, my friend is waiting for me. It was nice meeting you,” you relayed, a tender smile on your lips, directed towards him.

He finally looked at you again, taking out his hands from his pockets, giving a small nod, before greeting you a bye with, “Yes, I hope to see you again,” a shining look in his eyes.

“For sure,” you agreed, looking at him one last time, before making your way past him. Jungkook stood there blankly, gazing at the spot where you stood moments ago, not wanting to look at your leaving figure. He could hear you talking to your friend behind him, when something caught his eyes.

He untangled the red fabric that was stuck to his watch, holding it in front of him. A sense of familiarisation came to his face, realising that it was the fabric of the bow that was tied to your bag that had likely come off when you walked past, getting stuck in his watch.

He turned around, seeing you leaving through the door. He could have caught up with you, giving the cloth back to you, but his feet had seemed to become stationary, frozen in place. Instead he just held it in his hand, looking blankly at the door.

“Kook, I have cleaned up the studio, let's head out now,” Namjoons voice rang through the now empty room, as he walked over to Jungkook, breaking him out of his trance. Jungkook just nodded, his mind still lingering on the thoughts of you, and a faint smile played at his lips.

“Oh, what’s this in your hand?” Namjoon inquired, as the item in his hand had come to his attention. Registering what it was, Namjoon questioned again, “where did you get it from?”

“Fate”

“What?” Namjoon asked, confusion clear on his face.

“Fate,” Jungkook replied nonchalantly, turning to him momentarily, before averting his gaze to where it was before. “Fate has landed this piece of red fabric in my hands,” he explained cryptically, heading towards the door, followed by his friend who was trying to decipher his words.

[mochilatae]

A Pierce through the Heart || Jeon Jungkook

When you go to get your nipple pierced, but something else gets pierced too (it’s a metaphor, if you know what I mean).

Paring: tattoo artist (& piercer) jk x reader

Warning: this story contains mature content, 18+

Content: smut, fluff, oral!f receiving, tit sucking, fingering, doggy style, missionary, squirting, love at first sight?, nipple piercing, unprotected sex, light dirty talk, eating out, after care, edging

Wc: 6k

It was past seven in the evening by the time you entered the tattoo shop, the cool ventilation of the air conditioner giving you relief from the hot summer weather, welcoming your way into the shop. The chilled environment sent tiny shivers down your body, a result of wearing a white tank top, accompanied by a flowy, black skirt with a red lace ribbon tied around your waist as a belt, and a tote bag hanging off your shoulder. All clothes that equipped you for the weather outside.

You glanced around the empty space, it was different from the typical tattoo shop. It felt more artistic than edgy as you would expect from a place like this. Pictures of tattoos done in different colours were hung on the walls accompanied by abstract paintings. Most odd of all, little bonsai trees, a lot of them decorated the brown and white interior alongside the casual furniture expected in a tattoo shop.

“Welcome. I’ll be right there with you in a moment,” an oddly familiar, low, melodious voice made its way to your ears. Turning your gaze to the source, you saw a man wearing a tank top, with washed denim jeans standing with his back to you, doing something on a table further into the shop. He was the only other person here.

Your eyebrows arched up, pupils enlarging as the man turned towards you, his face coming into view, a similar expression masking his face once he glanced upon you.

“Y/n,” a low whisper left his mouth, as he made his way to you, a shine displayed in his eyes. “A, hey! We met at the bar last week, I don’t know if you rem—,”

“I remember, Jungkook?” You cut him off, confirming that the memory of the encounter was still in your thoughts, before taking a pause and uttering his name in a way of looking for confirmation that you recalled correctly. He nodded with a small smile on his lips, having been glad to know you still remembered him.

Oh, you knew it was jungkook, a name of a person who had occupied your brain since the moment you met him last week. His voice still lingering in your ears while his pretty face became a beautiful scenery for your closed eyes.

It was a Friday evening, following a long and hectic week at work when you, along with your best friend, had decided to go to a jazz bar to relax and enjoy the day going into the weekend.

The bar was lit with rich and warm lighting, giving it a cosy environment, accompanied by a local band playing some tunes on the small stage. Some people danced, swaying to the music, letting go of the stresses of the week, while others enjoyed the delicious food and drinks offered at the place.

You and Yeri, your best friend, sat on the high stool tables placed along the border of the bar, as you both sipped away at your drinks, talking about all the random topics that came to mind.

“So basically, he allows them to take his brain cells and send them to space, in the trajectory of the coming aliens, so that they would seek out to capture the spaceship, and we will be closer to the aliens, and learn stuff about them,” you sloppily explain the plot of a recent sci-fi series you have been watching.

“But are a single clump of cells really a human, though?” Yeri asked, taking a sip of her drink. “Right, I don’t think so, but the aliens probably have some technology to rebuild the human, and maybe retain some information,” you tried to make the objective of this move clearer.

“That makes me wonder, though, the concept of having a soul, does it really exist? Or, for the fact where? Is it in your body?” You thought out loud to your friend, swirling the glass of wine in your hand, as your mind delved further on the concept. “I’m not sure, that’s a deep question,” Yeri acknowledged.

“Ya. It’s just that, a ‘soul’ just feels celestial, like the concepts of magic, or a god, rather than something so humanly connected to the body,” you completed your thought, receiving another hum in response, followed by a comfortable silenced engulfing the air around you both, as your minds swam in the ocean of your thoughts.

After a few minutes, Yeri’s voice broke you out of your trance, “wanna go dance, to loosen up a bit?” She suggested. “It’s okay, you go ahead, I’ll rest here for a bit,” you assured her with a small smile.

“Okay! I’ll be back in a while,” Yeri conveyed as she quickly gulped down her glass of alcohol and eagerly made her way to where others were enjoying the music.

You shook your head at your friends' actions, as a small laugh left your mouth. You knew exactly why she wanted to go dance; something or perhaps someone had caught her eyes.

You went back to playing with your glass, as your mind was ready to set forth on a journey of thoughts, but as soon as Yeri set out on her way, a melodious voice cut through the air, making its way to your ears.

“I agree with you. It truly does feel something celestial, something so magical,” the person voiced out their thought turning to lock their eyes with yours, confirming that they were, in fact talking to you. “The ‘soul,’ that is.”

Your breath almost hitched, as your eyes laid upon the man in front of you; god, he was gorgeous. The cute plump lips, where a small smile casted upon them, the bread like cheeks, that looked so soft, and those chocolatey brown eyes that shone as they gaze upon you behind those black, clear glasses, were just so captivating.

His soft wavy hair fell just below his jaw, slight hints of an undercut peeking through, while a few strands of hair strayed to his forehead. Your eyes travelled down his body; he was wearing a black leather jacket, opened to give a glimpse at the white compression shirt underneath that highlighted his muscular body even more. The trails of ink that travelled from beneath his jacket, caressing the skin of his slender hands, and the piercings that marked his body, the ones on his ears, and especially the one that traced under his shirt, just added to his already breathtaking beauty.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. It’s just that the topic you were discussing was so intriguing, I couldn’t help but to overhear,” he said, breaking you out of your trance of gawking at him. A worried smile masked his lips but yet a hopefulness sparked in his eyes.

“Oh, it’s all good. I love having conversations on such topics, and you said you found it intriguing, so, why don’t you tell me more of your thoughts on it?” You assured him invitingly, placing your elbow on the counter, leaning your head into the palm, giving him your undivided attention.

“Well…”

You didn’t know when an hour and half passed, as you got lost in the rhythm of his words, and the ocean of thought as you both bounced off of each other’s questions, travelling through topics, from space to philosophy, sharing your own intellects.

His way of words was so enchanting, continuing the conversation in a way that never let your attention deviate away from him. His presence was comfortable, as if talking to a friend you haven’t seen in a long time. His eyes were calm, making a safe space for you to share your opinions. In this small time you spent with him, you knew one thing for sure, you wanted to keep talking to him.

As you finished a passage to a point he had brought up, you laid your arm out on the table, causally in his direction, resting your head on your biceps, letting a soothing silence engulf the space, while the voices and music blurred in the background.

He took a sip of his drink to hydrate his throat that had become dry from all the talking, as he observed your movements from his peripheral vision. Once settling down his glass, he followed suit, resting his head on his arms on the counter.

You saw his hand gradually travelling to your hand, as his fingers intervened with yours, playing with them gently, caressing them in between. All the while his gaze remained deep into your eyes, displaying unsaid emotions clearly.

You closed your eyes, feeling his soft touches on your skin, his warmth feeling as if you were laying under the sun on a breezy summer day, his perfume adding to the image, as the citrusy, yet fresh smell painted a picture of a serene ocean in your mind with every deep breath you took.

As you were lost in the solace of the moment, another thought struck your mind; you didn’t know the name of this beautiful man in front of you.

“I’m sorry, all the while we were talking, I didn’t even bother asking your name,” you spoke out, opening your eyes to meet those that were still looking at you in the same manner as before. He observed the tiny frown tugging at the corner of your lips. “Jungkook, Jeon Jungkook,” he relayed with a tender smile. “And don’t be sorry, I didn’t have the courtesy to ask the name of such a beautiful woman either,” he conveyed with a small pout.

A small laugh escaped your lips, before you informed him of your name. “Y/n,” he repeated with such familiarity, as if the name was made specifically for his mouth. He parted his lips once more to say something, but was interrupted by Yeri’s voice, making you both sit up straight.

“Y/nie,” she cooed, circling her arms around your shoulders, resting her head against your back. She was drunk. You held on to her arms, worried about your friend, you inquired, “are you okay Yeri? Is everything alright?”

“Hmm, yess, yess, I just wanna go home,” she whined. You were used to this, as you were like the mother of your friend group, always taking care of everyone out of your love for them.

You guided her arms to unwrap around you, standing up, holding on to her arm to keep her steady. You turned to look at Jungkook, who was already gazing at you warmly, admiring the way you took care of your friend.

“I’m sorry, I’ll have to head out now,” you spoke out, your eyebrows creasing in slight displeasure as you still wanted to continue to talk to him. “Oh, it’s alright, but before you go, could I get—,” as jungkook was about to complete his sentence, Yeri began to drag you outside, and all you could do was look back at him with an apologetic expression, as he did his best to assure you with his smile, waving you bye.

You couldn’t help but smile at the memories of that night, and how Yeri kept apologising to you for her behaviour that night, and accidentally preventing you from getting his number. She felt so guilty, even trying to find him for you on social media platforms, but it was no use. However, you guaranteed her that it wasn’t her fault, and maybe that connection you felt with Jungkook that night wasn’t meant to be anything more, but who knew, you would run into him again like this.

You looked up to meet his eyes, that were busy admiring your look, travelling down your body, respectfully of course. You observed that he wasn’t wearing any pair of glasses today.

“I’m sorry, for leaving so abruptly that day,” you said, bringing his attention back to your face. “Oh, no no, I totally understand,” he shook his head to make his point, while a small blush crept on his cheeks, having been caught in the act of checking you out.

“So, how can I help you today?” He questioned, clearing his throat. “Oh, right, I had booked an appointment for a piercing,” you explained.

“Yes yes, you are my last appointment for the day. So, what type of piercing are you planning to get today?” He asked, recalling his schedule.

“A nipple piercing,” you said nonchalantly, tilting your head to the side a bit, as you gazed upon him.

His eyebrows slightly raised, pupils enlarging, as he visibly gulped, a slight red hue appeared on cheeks. He looked so cute with the nervous expression that masked his face, causing a mischievous look to play in your eyes.

“You do those, right?” you playfully inquired, acting as if you weren't fully sure, but you had already confirmed with a person on the phone earlier. “We do. Follow me this way,” he guided, slowly picking up on your teasing.

He led you to a back room, in which there was a tattooing chair situated beside a table with some tools, and a couch on the other side. The space still aligned with the overall warm and brown theme of the shop, while there were once again, small bonsai plants decorating the room.

You walked over to a table that stood beside the couch, adorned with the plant on top, observing it closely while you waited for Jungkook to come back from washing his hands.

“My business partner really loves nature, so he decorated the whole studio with these plants,” Jungkook explained, having seen you looking keenly at the plant while walking in. You hummed in response, turning to meet his eyes, which held eye contact with you for a moment, before turning to the equipment on the table.

“Please, take off your upper garments and lay comfortably on this chair,” he instructed, motioning towards the chair next to the table where he was standing, his eyes still directed towards the tools in his hands.

You began lifting up your tank top ever so slowly to tease him, knowing that he could see you from his peripheral vision. Unhooking your bar, you left it on the couch, along with your tank top. Following his instructions you got into a comfortable position on the chair. He made his way to you, taking a seat on the stool beside the tattooing chair.

“So, you want one piercing on the left side?” he questioned, to confirm once again, looking directly into your eyes. You gave him a small nod, his eyes travelling down to your chest, lingering there for a moment, before meeting your eyes once again.

“Hmm, the nipple needs to be erect when it is pierced, usually we use a clamp, which can be a bit painful, however, I have another method to make it erect,” jungkook informed, maintaining eye contact with you, while a small smirk rested on his lips. “You want to try that, y/n?” He asked, with a till of the head.

“Yes,” a low whisper left your lips, followed by his hand tracing down your neck to your left nipple, his index finger tracing circles around the areola. His face came closer to your chest, his breath fanning your upper boob, lips just inches from touching your skin.

His eyes turned up to meet yours, asking for permission with an arch of the eyebrow. With a small grin you indicate your interest, your hand travelling to the back of his neck, gently wrapping around it as he peeked out his tongue, licking from its bottom to top. He kept circling it around the nipple, licking it in between, causing a small whine to leave your mouth due to his teasing.

He finally latched his lips onto the now already hard nipple, sucking on it enticingly, rolling it around in between his teeth. His one hand went to the other one, gently rubbing it with his thumb. It felt good, low moans leaving your mouth. After a while, he pulled away, a string of saliva connected his lips to your boob.

He grabbed a tissue, cleaning the liquid, before grabbing an alcohol wipe to clean the nipple that was now prominent. He marked it as you had asked, grabbing a sterilized needle, and quickly piercing it, and inserting a small rod with a ball on one side through the hole, connecting another one on the other end.

“There you go, all done,” he declared, putting the supplies back on the table before turning back to you. Your eyes were on him, looking at him with intent and lust, indicating that you wanted something more, just like he did. He brought his face just inches away from yours, looking deep into your eyes, while a small, playful smile rested on his lips.

“Y/n, do you want this?” He questioned. You knew what he was insinuating, it made you a little annoyed that he was asking you such a question when he clearly knew the answer.

Your hand makes its way to his torso, feeling his toned abs hiding under his top, before walking your fingers to his chest, just above his heart. You probed around the area, playing with the piercing that was there for a moment, and then continuing your way to his shoulder. You gently wrapped your fingers around his neck, pulling him in closer as if to kiss him, but instead you glided your lips to his ears, leaving him a bit disappointed.

“I do, but do you?” You whisper into his ear. He snaked his arm around your waist, his grip tight as if he was scared that you would back out. “Oh, you don’t know,” his voice came out in a low whisper, a desperation lacing it. “I have wanted this since I first laid my eyes on you,” and as those words left his mouth, his lips were on your jaw, trailing sloppy kisses along the bone, exploring down to your neck and sucking on it passionately.

He guided your legs to wrap around his waist, picking you up and bringing you to the couch that was in the corner of the room, while being careful of your new piercing. Laying your body on the couch, he backed away from your neck, his hand going the waistband of your skirt, gliding them off your body, along with your panties and discarding them on the floor.

He made his way between your legs, taking a moment to admire your body that just looked so divine to his eyes. He wanted a taste so bad, he just couldn’t hold himself back anymore. He pinned your one arm above your head, going in to suck on your nipple that remained unpierced, while his free hand made its way to your clit, rubbing between the pussy lips in an up and down motion. A sound of satisfaction left your mouth, having gotten him where you needed the most.

He continued to make out with your tit in greed, before trailing warm kisses to your stomach, down to your pelvis. He pulled away, spreading your lips to look at your needy pussy. “So pretty, baby,” he commented, admiring it with a lustful gaze. “So wet for me already,” he teased, going in to devour all of you, causing a whine to leave your mouth.

His tongue rubbed circles around your clit, flicking the nerve in between, before his lips wrapped around it, sucking on it in hunger. He iterated on these motions, sending you into a bliss, and ohh, when he inserted his fingers into you, pumping them in and out, it drove you over the edge as your thighs squirmed around his head riding out the orgasm on his mouth.

He pulled away, sitting on his knees, in between your legs, gazing down at your body in adoration, satisfaction masking his face at the observation of the effects he had on you. Your chest raised up and down assisting the flow of your quick breaths, as you catched a breath after your high, while a tiny layer of sweat coated your forehead.

Your eyes remained fixed on him, as he brought his fingers, covered in your cum, to your lips, sticking his fingers in and exploring your mouth, pushing down on your tongue hitting the back of your throat. You gagged at the motion, sucking his fingers obediently not breaking eye contact. He pulled away and licked the rest up, devouring it clean. A hum of content left his mouth at the delicious taste produced by the both of you, all the while his eyes remained locked with yours, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

He brought his hand to the sides of his tank top, pulling it above his head and discarding them on the floor, along with your clothes. Your eyes now came in view of the Calvin Klein underwear that peeked from under his jeans, and that nipple piercing that had been teasing you for the longest, looked even better on him than you imagined. It was so vulgar, in the best way possible. You bit your lower lip, as the view made your insides feel even more warm.

He quickly followed by removing his lower garments, leaving you with the perfect view of his naked body. God damn— it was so hot and big…

“On your knees, babe,” Jungkook commanded, guiding you to your front with a hand on the hip. “I want to take you from the back,” he expressed, the words sounding so lewd as they came out of his mouth, causing a whimper to leave your mouth as his hand gripped your ass. His chest pressed against your back, as he left kisses on the base of your neck, before tracing his hand along your figure to your ass. He placed a playful slap against it, as your whine made its way to his ears, feeling you press your butt to his crotch. “Getting needy, aren’t we?” he teased, as he delivered another slap.

He’s acting as if he just didn’t eat you out like his life depended on it moments ago, you thought. “Why? Aren't you needy for me too?” you questioned, looking back at him with a pout, giving him the doe eyes. “If you don’t want this, then–” you teased him back, pretending to crawl away, but he didn’t let you as he gripped onto your hip, pulling you against him once more, bringing his face next to yours, over the shoulder. “Hey! You’re not going anywhere,” he groaned into your ear.

His fingers pushed your hair aside from your face, tucking them behind your ear and giving him a clear view of your gorgeous face. “Do you feel that?” he questioned, pressing his erect cock against your pussy, rubbing it against your slit, lubricating with your wetness. “Do you feel how hard it is?” he elaborated, placing a kiss on your jaw. “This is all your fault, you make me like this. You will help me with my problem, right babe?” he asked, giving you a curated pair of puppy eyes, as his lips protruded out, forming a small out pout.

You hum in response, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth, feeling the effect that you had on him. He trails a string of kisses along your neck, to your shoulder blade, leaving a soft bit mark against it. He guided his cock to align with your entrance, causing a hiss to leave your mouth at the burn of the stretch. “It's okay, darling. You can take it,” he encouraged, rubbing circles on your back in a soothing motion.

It was a tight fit. You hadn’t had such a stretch before, but it felt good, and full. “Is it better? Should I start moving now?” he asked, once his cock was fully nestled within you. You let out low ‘yes’, as he began to glide inside your walls.

At first the movements were more slow, and passionate, but they soon became more intense, aggressive, and lustfull, as his mind clouded with a hunger for you. But that wasn’t enough, you needed him even deeper than he was, causing you to push back onto his cock as he pounded into you. These movements added to the pleasure for both of you, not shying away from vocalising it, and neither did he, as your voices blended together, echoing through the room.

It became too much to handle, and soon enough you released the built up tension in your stomach. The walls of your pussy contracted around his cock, a low, moan of pleasure leaving his lips, sending him to a bliss, causing him to pull out, as you felt a warm, and moist liquid spray against your lower back.

Your legs give out, as you let your body fall on to the couch, trying to catch your breath after your second orgasm of the day. You felt him lay his body against your back, the sounds of his fastened breaths making their way to your ears. Just the feeling of the pulses of your pussy on his cock that pressed against your clit was so arousing to him that it didn’t take him long to become erect once again.

He pushed his body away from yours, pulling you to your front by your waist, gripping on to your thighs, spreading your legs apart, situating himself between your legs once again. “Round two?” he questioned, with an arch of a brow, while a sly grin played on his lips, causing a small laugh to leave your mouth.

He again aligned himself with your entrance, pushing in more easily, as he began moving into you, this time with a sloppish movement. Your hand drawed up his tattooed arm, gliding your way over his collarbone, and onto his piercing. You rubbed it between your fingers, before giving it a pinch, causing a groan to leave his mouth.

“Sensitive here, aren’t we?” you teased, as he gave you a narrowed look, causing a smirk to appear upon your lips. However, it didn’t remain there for long, as you moaned out in pleasure, as he picked up pace, his movements becoming more intense, fervent, and delightful.

You were getting close, close to your release. The in and out motion of his thrusts, his balls slapping against your skin, his cock grazing against the wet and silky walls of your pussy, his fingers rubbing circles on your clit, all these actions combined to serve you pleasure, sending you into ecstasy. Your body didn’t shy away from vocalising this, as the sound of satisfaction left your mouth ringing through the room, travelling to his ears, making him want to keep on hearing more.

The fingers that were on your clit, now glided up your stomach, the patterning of his cold fingertips sending shivers through your figure, yet your body burned from warmth. A faint, dewy trail of your juices was left behind, fading into the skin as his fingers reached your non-pierced tit. He circled his finger around the nipple, before pinching it and then twisting the bud around, causing a cry due to the arousement leaving your mouth, as your body squirmed to the side, though the grope of his hand on your boob prevented you from moving any further, forcing you to recline back to your original place.

“Relax, Babe,” Jungkook encouraged, rubbing patterns on your stomach, pressing on it gently. “I got you,” he cooed, gazing into your half open, dazy eyes, as he lowered the intensity of his thrusts, earning a whine of disapproval from you. However, he ignored it, and continued to deliver delightfull pressure to your pussy through a slow and passionate gliding motion.

Your hair was scattered on the surface of the couch around your head, while a few strands strayed to your forehead and cheek. Jungkook reached his hand forward and moved the pieces of hair away from your face and tucked them behind your ear. His fingers pursue to trace the side of your face, along your jawline, coming to a stop at the corner of your lips. His fingertip caressed your lips, feeling the soft texture, while the movements of his lower body gradually came to a stop, leaving himself buried inside of you.

A whiny cry left your throat at his tactic for getting what he desired. It was simple: you give him what he wants, and you get what you want. He wanted to kiss you, kiss those juicy lips of yours, feeling the softness against his own, while devouring you whole. You wanted him to please you more, to go harder, to let you have your release, and send you into a bliss. You knew that he wasn't going to fulfil your wish until you let him fulfil his need.

Jungkook rubbed his thumb against your lower lip, while his fingers caressed the sides of your cheek. His thumb came to a rest, as he looked into your eyes with burning intensity, asking permission to carry on with what he was thinking. In a swift motion, you pulled on his arm, bringing his face just inches away from yours. You cupped his face in your hands, fingers stretching to the sides of his neck, while your thumb pressed against his cheeks.

“Jungkook,” you whispered in a seductive tone, meeting his eyes with a craving, your breath fanning his skin, “please, fuck me. Fuck me harder.”

Just as those words left your mouth, Jungkook’s lips were locked with yours in a lustful kiss, tongues tangling together in the moist environment. There was hunger behind the kiss, an aggression to feel one another as close as possible.

Jungkook’s hand travelled to the nape of your neck, grabbing a hold of it and pulling you closer, as if you both weren’t already moulded together. Your arms snaked around his neck, pressing your bodies up to one another, as he began to drive into you once again, but this time with a much greater intensity. His speed continued to increase as you moaned into his mouth. He trailed kissing along your jaw and down your neck, leaving marks he will adore later.

“Mhm, you feel so good,” the words flowed out of your mouth in ecstasy, followed by a sting of moans. “Then cum for me, Darling. Show me how good I am making you feel,” he commanded, moving back to admire your disoriented state, in his eyes you were the most gorgeous being he had ever seen.

Soon enough you came, clenching around his cock, as your insides pulsed against his skin. However, he didn’t stop, he continued to pound your pussy, making loud sounds of pleasure leave your mouth. His eyes travelled down your body, to the place where your bodies connected. A few dribbles of squirt rained out of you due to the overstimulation.

“Fuck, you're so beautiful,” he declared, feeling himself close to his climax. With a few more strokes he pulled out, releasing over your stomach, leaving it a mess in his liquid.

He let his body relax, laying half of his body beside you, while the other half rested against you, as he laid his head on your chests, hugging your body close to him. Your arms wrapped around his shoulder, to feel his warmth around you, while you both regained your breathing. You both remained in this position, feeling a sense of calm in each other's presence, after that exhilarating session.

After a few minutes, Jungkook lifted up his body, his arms straight as he rested his palms on either side of your body, caging you within. He gave you a tender smile, before leaning in to kiss your cheek, whispering a ‘I’ll be right back into your ear. You gave him a lazy smile as he pulled out, getting off the couch, and leaving the room.

A while later, he walked back in, having cleaned himself up of the sticky substances. He made his way to where you were laying, and cleaned you up with a wet towel he had brought, before disposing of it.

“Here, put this on,” he said, while handing you a big white shirt. “Your tank top will rub on your piercing, causing irritation, so wear this to prevent it,” he explained. You already knew this information, that’s why you had carried a loose t-shirt in your bag when making your way here, but you didn’t tell him this and just took the piece of clothing from him.

Jungkook moved to collect his discarded clothes from earlier, as your eyes followed his every movement, while you sat up on the couch. He could feel your stares on him, so he made sure to look extra sexy for you, when putting his clothes back on.

Once finished, he moved back towards you, spreading your thighs apart slightly, before intervening his legs in between them. He gently grabbed the shirt from your hands, which you had done no effort to put on, and helped you wear it himself.

Once the fabric was settled on your body, he placed his arms around your neck, leaning in slightly to look into your eyes with an emotion that you couldn’t quite discern. You both remained in silence, just looking into the depths of each other's eyes, before you decided to speak up.

“So,” you began. “Do you give this special treatment to all your customers?” you teasingly inquired, keenly looking forward to his response.

“No,” he said bluntly, looking you dead in the eye. “It’s only for my future special someone,” he informed, as there was a shine in his eyes as the statement left his mouth.

His words left you confused, and a bit shocked, as you didn’t think he would think of this anything more than a hookup after how fast things progressed today.

“Y/n” he called, breaking you away from thinking further. “I want you. I want something more, and I’m not just saying this to get in bed with you again. I truly mean it. After meeting you at the bar last week, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and the conversation we shared. I want to have more deep talks like that, in the comfort of our own peace,” he explained, expressing his feeling.

You weren’t going to lie, you also held a similar feeling. After that meeting with him, you couldn’t stop thinking about him and the conversation you had with him. He listened to you, sharing his experiences and intellect along the way. You found a calm in his company, at the most odd place. You felt upset all this week at not having gotten his number, and at the possibility of never meeting him again, but seeing him today when you entered the shop gave you hope. A hope to get to know him better, but where today had led to made you think that your connection wasn’t meant to be something more. However, after hearing him now, a smile grew on your face. You hadn’t been the biggest believer of love at first sight before, now you just might be.

“I don’t want to put any pressure on you, I’m just saying that maybe we could try dating, go on a few dates,” he clarified, shyly averting his eyes from you, the same man that just fucked you with such intensity a while ago. Wow, the duality.

You wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your head on his torso. “Lets try it out” you replied, bringing his attention back to you. “I mean, who would be a fool enough to let go of the opportunity to potentially have such a handsome boyfriend,” you teased, looking up at him with a toothy smile, which he returned with his big bunny smile upon hearing your words.

“Then, since it's already late outside, do you want to get dinner together?” He asked.

“Let’s go,” you replied, giving a genuine smile, as you looked forward to possibilities of what lies ahead.

A/n: hey there! Hehe, I hope you enjoyed this! Your thoughts and feedback are always appreciated

[mochilatae]

Truth.

wips aren't meant to be finished. they're meant for you to proudly explain the idea behind them to everyone and then suddenly go silent when someone says "oh cool I'm so excited to see when you finish it!"

[mochilatae]

I was only joking when I made reference to how there were whole groups dedicated to this man's fingers/hands in my story. ...but the universe heard me and manifested.

haechan and his pretty hands..

[mochilatae]

“There’s always a little truth behind “just kidding”, a little knowledge behind “I don’t know”, a little emotion behind “I don’t care”, and a little pain behind “It’s okay”.”

— Unknown

[mochilatae]

HELLOOOOO??? THE HAECHAN FIC WAS SOOO GOOOD!!!!!

Thank you anon! I had a great time writing it. I'm sure I won't stop at two Haechan stories...they're too fun to write.

[mochilatae]

True.

I've never looked at a popsicle the same since.

I'm not allowed to write anything smut related rn. But my brain, as I ate a rocket pop for the first time in probably a decade: popsicle smut. Oh wait, @mochilatae already wrote that for us 😏

[mochilatae]

I've never wished harder to be a pair of leather pants in my life... ...except for Kitty Gang Jimin's pants.

happy monday ♡

[mochilatae]

Please. It hurts. He's so handsome.

happy friday ♡

[mochilatae]

Say My Name (Haechan x FemReader)

Word Count: 6.76k(ish)

Pairing: Haechan x Fem Reader(Y/n)

Rating: 18+/Mature/Explicit

Warnings: Flirting, kissing (tongue and soft), dirty talk, teasing, nipple sucking/licking, biting, oral sex (fem receiving), hand jobs, grinding, harassment (not aggro or scary), playful animosity, unprotected sex, orgasms (yours and his), noisy/intense sex, implied creampie, undressing (both), lusting after casual Haechan but playing cool/uninterested, seduction, loud Haechan, lots of Haechan with ego/cockiness, lying, smack/light shit talking.

If I forgot some, let it be.

Genre: Strangers to lovers, enemies (kinda) to lovers, PwP

AUs: None

Summary: Your neighbor across the hall has a real ego. In fact, he's made sure everyone on your floor knows it, in spite of how they might feel about it. When you confront him, you find out just how much he loves himself--starting with his name.

Author’s Note: I wanted another Haechan 'thing'. This was almost a Namjoon fic but I was tempted at the last minute by the captivating essence that is Haechan.

I tried to proof read, but it flowed out and I'll leave it at that. If you read it, thank you. If you like it and feel inspired to give a kudo, comment or reblog, they are all appreciated but never required.

All copyright and credit to the artist who made the photo used for my cover--I borrowed, and I'm grateful.

Tag List: None. If you want to be tagged in future Haechan fics, let me know!

“You don’t know what it’s like.” 

The same old complaint, once again on deaf ears. At least that’s what your friend’s barely interested side glance said when it came your way. Not a moment later she was back to the depths of her magazine, turning a page slowly. 

“Hmmph.” She yawned out, focusing on a particularly wordy entry in the ‘This one time..’ column–a section she always went to first and spent the most time rereading. 

“I’m serious.” You huffed, chin tucked into your palm as you stared at the part in her hair, while she scanned the new page. If she was trying to ignore you at this point, you didn’t care. She was here and that was enough to make her the perfect audience for this great and important grievance. 

“It’s the worst. I live across from the world’s most self centered guy. You’d think HE thinks this whole floor is empty. Why else would he do that?” 

Your friend turned a few more pages, then wearily her gaze lifted. “I don’t know.” A slow blink, then she glanced towards your apartment door. Her curiosity was reaching--past the chipped,painted door in the frame with the uppermost right corner splintering. Just beyond that---his door.

The biggest ego in the entire building. A building you and lots of others paid to live in just like he did. 

“For someone who doesn’t like the guy, you sure talk about him a lot. I’m sure he doesn’t spare any thought about you.” It stung, but your friend was right. After speaking she closed the magazine and pushed it closer to you. 

“Thanks.” You mumbled. Waving a hand towards the door, you went on anyway. She didn’t have to agree but by god she was going to hear you out one more time. Last night had been TOO much. “He woke me up! It wasn’t a party but apparently he doesn’t need more than 1 other person there to raise the roof.” 

“Did you tell the landlord?” Your friend ventured by rote and a little more weary, like the lines around her mouth at this moment. She was hiding a frown. Annoyance wasn’t something she was good at hiding, but you didn’t care. 

“Countless times. Know what that gets me?” 

Your friend stood up, pulling on her coat and you watched her, rising too. She sighed, shrugging into the sleeves. “Apparently nothing.” 

“An ‘I’ll take care of it’.” 

“Well…have they?” 

Your brows drew down. “If they had I wouldn’t be bitching to you right now–”

“--I wouldn’t be so sure. You really have to let it go. Apartment buildings suck. Mine sucks too. I have that group of college boys living in the unit above me and you know how much plaster I sweep up off my kitchen floor every weekend? Pick your battles, Y/n.”

“You just have a lot more tolerance than I do..” You followed in your friend’s wake until she stood at your apartment door, hand on the knob, taking up the space between the apartment and the hallway beyond. 

“Not tolerance. I just like cheap rent and sometimes we take a little salt with our sweetness. Life’s like that. Now.. I love you and I’m saying this as your friend: stop bitching about it. Complaining is bad for your complexion.” 

“Easy to say—” 

“I just said it. I’m leaving. If you ever want to see me again, you’ll drop it right now.” She smiled. This enduring friendship and her common sense approach to your wild swings of anxiety or blow ups at the peak of frustration had always just….worked. Deep down you knew she was right, eventually conceding. Your frown evened out, becoming a tentative smile. 

She patted your cheek, then tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Releasing the door knob, your friend stepped into the hallway, then turned towards the far end. You hung onto the door with a few fingers curled over the edge. 

“Does that mean you’ll be back?” Hope sprang eternal, in your much more passive tone. From the blustering mess you’d been earlier, this was a marked difference. It was like you’d ejected all the anger and annoyance–at least for now. 

“Yes. We have to finish that newest episode of Severance. Plus there’s a new flavor of Ben and Jerrys waiting for us. I don’t forget the promises we made.” 

“Thank god you keep us both on schedule.” 

“Some things never change. I’ll text you.” Your friend waved briefly, then started down the hall. You watched her form shrinking as she got closer and closer to the entry for the stairs. Right as she touched the rail, you shut the door and leaned against it. A thumping moved along your ceiling and your eyes followed. 

Apartment life was …something else. In the scheme of things, what someone else did shouldn’t matter. It’d been manageable for years. That shouldn’t change now. Reinvigorated by your released stress and pep talk, you nodded. No matter what, you were going to start anew and tonight would be a good one. 

------------------------------------------------------

All the prep and all the conversation from the afternoon was right out the door. Apartment door still swinging slowly after a sharp rebound against the wall you’d flung it open into, you knocked without much grace or patience on the door directly across the hall. 

Nothing happened. Your heart pounded in your throat. Pulsed in your neck–rising to your temples. Heat climbed the center between your breasts. You raised a fist to try again and missed when the door suddenly opened. 

There he was–light flushed face. Cheeky grin, revealing a row of perfect teeth. A sparkle at the temples. The wrinkled shirt, half tucked into his jeans. You took a quick glance and it was just enough to note the button of the waist undone. Zero doubt what he was doing in here. 

Same thing he did every Friday night. Every night that ended in ‘Y’, really. 

“Is there something wrong with you?” The words shot from your lips. Curt. Impolite. Demanding. 

“Me?” He looked at you, unphased,with his dark eyes narrowing. Finally a grin bloomed. It was a bit more than cocksureness and A LOT to do with some medicinal help. Or the liquid kind. He seemed to like both, based on the smells and sounds you heard regularly. 

“I’m not the one knocking on a stranger’s door. Especially on a Friday night.” 

You seethed and it was surprising how quickly the fire roiled in your belly. You knew it would bring the police if you rapped on his forehead the way your fist begged when you willed it down to your side. 

“Listen Haechan—” His brows lifted and you only lost a second of momentum seeing it. Just as quick you righted and leaned into the anger again. 

“You DO know my name.” As he was confirming, the words came formed through the smuggest of grins you’d ever witnessed. It might have been anger too, but you weren’t going to dissect it and be sure. It didn’t matter. 

“Who DOESN’T? You want everyone to know.” 

Haechan wasn’t bothered, even rolling his eyes. His attention moved to his shirt, brushing unseen something off a particularly wrinkled section at the area just above his navel. 

“Is there something wrong with that? I like hearing my name.” 

“There’s something really wrong with it when it’s you trying to make sure the entire floor hears your name repeated.” 

“It worked, didn’t it?” 

“Listen.. Just knock it off.” You leaned around him and looked into his place, well beyond one shoulder. It was hard to tell if anyone was really in there, as the music had only just started. You could have recited the lyrics through your own door, sitting on your couch. Which is exactly what was going to happen if you hadn’t gotten up and come across the hall. 

“I’m not a fan of having personal business broadcasted to the entire building, let alone our floor. You seem to forget there’s other people living here.” 

Haechan’s responding giggle made you swallow. The acidity climbing your throat was so sudden. His head rolled right as that dark gaze took you in from top to bottom and back again. Slowly. He was in no rush, in spite of how pressing this was for you.  

“Okay. There are people who DO like that in this world too. It’s an apartment building. That means lots of noise. You’ll have to deal with it. Do you pound on Gary’s door when he starts in with his video game sessions at 9pm on Sunday nights?” Gary, the avid, wannabe Twitch streamer with ambitions that didn’t match his current income demands. He was nice and kept to himself. It wasn’t him you had the problem with. 

“Gary isn’t shouting his own name.” You shot back, skin prickling.  

“Neither am I.” Haechan, raised a brow. He was splitting hairs and it worked to annoy you that much more. “Why is that any different than video games? Does what I’m doing really matter? Is the noise the issue?”

“Well…” You sputtered as heat found its way down your front, then pooled into a big, heavy ball that just sat in your stomach. You soldiered through it with a cough. “...It absolutely IS the issue. You have some..ego thing that you like hearing your name?” 

“Maybe.” Another slow smile. This one was a bit coy and a lot more lushly curious. Like somehow Haechan was seeing something in your eyes. Or the quiver in your lips that you thought was anger. 

“..Listen Miss—-”

“Y/n. It’s Y/n.” 

“Y/n..” Haechan’s furrowed brow belied a momentary solemness. “If that gives me a big ego to like hearing my name–” 

“It does.” You didn’t give a damn if it was rude cutting him off. But you had to put emphasis on how his assessment was correct. As correct as it had ever been and completely aligned with your own. 

“---Then I have a big ego. Fine. Is that really the issue?” 

“What do you mean? I just told you.” 

“Then it wouldn’t be a problem–this noise–if it wasn’t my name?” 

Feeling a moment of the world shifting to lilt a bit to one side, you shrugged. “N...No.”   

Haechan took another survey of you, standing there with clenched fists and shoulders to your ears. You stared back until his face was a soft collection of pale, pinkish and dark blobs. Eyes and hair, simmering just faintly in the hallway light. 

“Okay..” He spoke again, snapping your focus right back. Your toes sank into the soles of your slipper, clutching at the earth. “I’ll remember that. I’m sorry.” 

“Good.” You managed, chest banded by an invisible tightness you hadn’t noticed before. Rolling your neck you turned away. Taking one step, then another, you stopped when Haechan’s voice came again. 

“Y/n..” 

You didn’t look back. But how was it that right now you REALLY wanted to? Maybe he’d look smug. Maybe contrite. The unknown was clawing at you but you scraped every bit of self control and kept your eyes on your own door, still cracked and within one or two good steps. 

“What?” 

“I like it when you say my name..” 

“E..excuse me?” Head turned, you barely kept Haechan out of your peripherals. Eyes focused on the frayed carpet lining the dingy floorboards. If you followed, they’d easily take you right back to that door. 

“Thank you all the same..” Haechan was much clearer now. His voice, louder and more obvious. It was so assured you doubted–had you really heard the previous statement, or was it your befuddled mind? 

“..Don’t need thanks..just quiet. We ALL do..” You replied. A hum sailed your way–confirming and brimming with well wishes. You could imagine he nodded. A moment passed and you heard the door click. 

------------------------------------------------------

Pangs of conscience were a real bitch. They were worse than hunger pain. Both of them had found you here–again. At Haechan’s apartment door. Unlike before, you knocked politely. Maybe too quietly, hoping his attention was weaker than your resolve. 

You hadn’t done more than lower your hand after the first knock and this time the door opened slowly. Painfully slow. Haechan’s dark bangs came first, preceded by his nose and one eye, then the other, face turning into full view as he leaned around the door’s edge. 

There was an air of relaxation clinging to him. You vaguely recognized it, but didn’t comment. He didn’t say much either, after you watched his cursory glance around your form that eventually came to meet your stare. Steady but muted and a little mischievous, perhaps.

Without apology, you peeked over his shoulder again, into the opening space past the end of his short hall. Haechan never took his eyes off you–that much was clear when you looked into his stare again. You smiled.

He didn’t do more than raise a brow. When he looked at the large bag in your arms, his other brow went up too. Both hovered high up under his bangs for a few seconds. 

“I wanted to apologize..” You began, the bag only getting heavier than it felt back in your apartment. You hadn’t bought that much, but it was also a huge shot in the dark to guess what he might like. 

“Hmm?” He stepped away from the door frame and put a hand on his hip. Haechan was in the mood for a much more casual fit tonight–sweats sitting almost sinfully below his hips. It if weren’t for the long, loose white t-shirt, you might have gotten way more information about his waist size and more things than you’d ever hoped to know. 

“Are you looking at my crotch?” He interrupted your reverie with a chuckle. You tore your focus from there and directed it into the bag, overcome by an uneasiness at how the floor was suddenly uneven and sinking. 

You rallied, nodding at the bag’s contents. “I…was…bringing this to apologize.” 

“That’s not what I asked..” Haechan’s stance widened as he crossed his arms. Like a bouncer, blocking access to the hottest club in the city. Briefly you considered leaving the bag at his door if things went too far south. 

“..I wouldn’t do something like that.” You countered, grateful for the brown paper to hide most of your face. Except for your eyes, which stayed demurely focused on his face. “...Don’t be a creep. We’re neighbors.” 

“You know my name–” 

“I could take a poll and I’m sure everyone in the building knows it.” 

“Fair.” Haechan laughed again, then narrowed his eyes at you. Eventually he turned to the side and stepped nearer to one side of the hallway. “..Bring it in, then. Whatever it is..I’m not one to turn down a gift—especially an apology one. Those tend to be pretty good.” 

“You’re smart too. The good lord didn’t short you in the confidence department, did he?” 

“Someone once told me I had a big ego. Maybe that’s part and parcel.” He mused. You didn’t miss the backward glance he gave as you followed him into the main living space of the apartment. 

Haechan’s place was most clear and sparse. A simple but nice couch with a few mismatched but undeniably soft looking pillows of competing patterns that were far too loud for your taste. He picked the nearer one at the end he chose and tossed it towards the middle. 

“Set it on the coffee table. Should I…get anything?” 

“You know what it is?” 

“It’s not hard to guess.” Haechan rounded the couch and at the back he leaned onto it, palms braced, boldly peeking over your shoulder when you lower onto the other end of the couch. “There isn’t much that could be in a paper bag these days and you don’t strike me as the type to drink that much alcohol. So that leaves very limited options..” 

You listened to his shuffling around behind you, realizing the soft pat on tile was his bare feet moving this way and that. Cabinets far behind you opened and closed. As Haechan picked out supplies, you unpacked the bag. It wasn’t much but it was a humble apology: two packs of double stuff oreos, some nutter butters and a sleeve of grasshopper cookies. The small cans of Coke were as wild a shot in the dark as you’d ever taken. 

When he came back, Haechan was easy but methodical, setting out cups and plates in front of you and his empty spot on the couch. “Looks good.” He noted. When his upper body brushed your shoulder as he leaned around you, your senses flow towards the mix of scent: lavender and creamy, sweet vanilla notes. 

You reached for a soda, working to open it as Haechan lowered into the couch by your side. Like he didn’t consider the middle of the couch a barrier. His knees widened enough there was a tacit pressure. The warmth was cloying too, where his out thigh aligned with yours. 

The crack and hiss of the can opening broke the silence. Haechan went for the Grasshoppers first, opening them with as much method and intention as he’d set the dining ware in place. It was fascinating. 

After eating 3, Haechan laid back and looked your way. He was still chewing but he moaned briefly. You liked the handsome shape to his nostrils, flaring as he boomed in pleasure from behind working lips.

“I hope a food apology isn’t too weird. I feel like I was a little…rude the other night.” You confessed, sipping down a half mouthful of Coke and hiding the sting as the bubbles went up your nose. 

“It’s a first. But I can’t argue with food. It’s expensive for pretty anything now.” 

“Yeah.” You plucked a cookie from the package he’d opened and took a delicate bite. You swallowed, then licked the errant crumbs off your lips, suddenly aware that Haechan was still staring. You offered a brief smirk. 

“You did good. I love all the stuff.” He announced. 

“Thanks.” You finished the rest of the cookie and washed it down with more Coke. Haechan was holding out another cookie and when you reached for it, his eyes darkened. Briefly his lips bent down. He glowered, tutting. 

“Don’t you dare... Just eat.” He wiggled the cookie as it neared your lips. When you opened your mouth he gently fed it in and pushed the last bit between your lips with the tips of two slender and silky looking fingertips. 

It was surreal, the way this sudden gesture had you separating from reality with big, confused eyes staring uncomprehendingly back at Haechan’s dark eyes, depthless behind lowered lids. Whatever it was pulsing inside you was spreading out, with tentacles of sensation, finding nerves and making them tingle in places you hadn’t expected. The silence also pulsed too. You took a deep breath, getting more lavender and minty sweet. 

Haechan shifted and the couch did the same, just a little. Subtle. Nuanced. He wasn’t moving away, just expanding his limbs in your direction. But you weren’t compelled to shrink yourself to give him more. Eventually he spoke, after more rustling of packages and the opening of a Coke, going from his hand and lips, to the coffee tabletop. 

“Is that why you came here—-to apologize?” 

“Yes.. Is that…weird?” Was he about to confess that yes, it was fucking strange for you, the neighbor across the hall, to show up at his door after dressing him down for being human in a place where many people lived with natural noises that invited? Maybe. You braced, sucking in a breath quietly. 

“I think it’s …cool. Never had someone do that.” 

You exhaled. “Glad to hear it..” 

“I’ve had girls at my place.” You couldn’t help it—the glance at Haechan’s lap. He’d left so much room between his thighs, the way his knees were just wide and bent enough. One foot barely touching the floor, the other planted just under the coffee table. Both bare. 

“You’re doing it again.” He chided, but it was so quiet. Maybe he’d whispered it. 

“What?” Fair enough, he’d caught you this time. 

Splayed and attractive as he was–you’d always thought so but didn’t open yourself to admit it until recently. It was his fault anyway, saying he had girls over… You knew what happened when girls came over to the other apartments on this floor. In this building. 

You saw the shy, befuddled smiles the next morning, passing them in the hall. The sleepy eyes, and smiles of relief slinking through the lobby to a waiting Uber idling at the curb outside. In the wrinkled shirt and misaligned skirt from the night before, heels looped over a finger.

That hadn’t been you. Ever. You weren’t a virgin but you were very selective. Haechan seemed to be more experimental and his palette enjoyed many, many more options based on the many ways you’d heard his name coming from under the apartment door. 

“You’re looking at my crotch.” 

“Excuse me..that’s…” Your worlds dropped off and you looked up from his lap. He sat up and shifted closer. Closer again. Close enough your knees moved towards each other as his upper body invaded your bubble. This close, his skin was smooth and flawless. An upper lip as plump and succulent as the bottom. You had never seen that before, in a man. 

That detail had your eyes trapped right there. This time staring at his lips, shaping each word he spoke, you listened. 

“It’s okay, Y/n. I like it.” 

“You do?” Your belly dropped. Weight was building in your pelvis now. Unexpected, sexy revelations did that to you. Whether it was in a book, a song, or the words of a handsome man. Like the living directly across from you, making his lucky partners say his name in such a kaleidoscope of ways. 

“Mnhmmm.” Haechan’s teeth sank against his lower lip, nibbled, then let go. “You really don’t like that I want to hear my name?” 

“No..” You swallowed, feeling the cushion under your ass sloping down as Haechan’s weight joined you there. The foam was collapsing more, under increasing pressure. Just like your resolve and modesty. 

A few heartbeats passed. You could see the slight gap between Haechan’s long neck lines and the loose collar hanging low away from it. Under his shirt had to be as smooth and tight as all the skin you’d seen so far. The fragrant darkness begged you to dive in and feel. Grope around with eyes closed, going by touch alone. 

Haechaen’s lips drew close, letting out a breathless “Y/n..” For you, the air was slowly being sucked out too. Inch by painful and murderous inch. Like the cushions. Like the band across your chest from the other night, but so much worse. Or so, so much better.

A slow blink, then you replied. “Hmm?”

“I want to hear you say my name.” 

“I did…” You were befuddled. Eyes heavy. Lids aching to close. Tempted to crush your lips against Haechan’s impossibly delicious mouth. Head dipping low, his laugh was quiet. Both shoulders shook, then he looked up again, head canted and an angle that was just enough. Your mouths aligned and his sigh tickled the end of your nose. 

“Not like that,baby.” 

“I don’t—” 

“There’s a certain way I want to hear it. It’s a moment, Y/n.” The sweet heat and sugar fumes rolled towards you again as Haechan leaned into you through the haze to continue. “..It’s just you and me here. Outside that door, it doesn’t exist. I don’t give a shit about any of that out there. No work. No school. No tomorrow. You down to let it go with me? It could do us both some good.” 

You thought beyond it all, for a moment: all the plans for tomorrow. All the worries and concerns–the kind of pressing things that would keep you awake tonight, staring at the ceiling until your eyes burned and your mind was pure white noise. You’d be a fool not to want to escape from that for one night.

If that was through someone else, so be it. If Haechan had a girl, he didn’t mention it. None of that meant anything. That was new and liberating. This could be his way of thank you–looking at it from the right angle. Haechan’s touch met your knee, then tapped at the roundest part. 

“Y/n…what do you say? Yes..or…–” 

“--Yes.” You blurted out. His lips unfurled into a pleased smile. Wider and warmer than you had ever encountered. A fully grown version of the friendly smile that passed in the hall or the flirty smirk when you’d join him on the elevator for a silent ride some mornings, when he was coming back and you were just leaving. 

“Let’s take it elsewhere…” His whisper ghosted the edge of your ear and you turned into the warmth, but found him standing. Over you, hand out, and it wasn’t much for him to bring you to your feet. 

------------------------------------------------------

Although his apartment was lit moderately, the shadows took over as he walked into the darkness of a hallway just across from the entry area. You trailed Haechan as he passed by the dark shapes of several closed doors until he reached the hall’s end and another closed door there. 

Inside this room the air was cooler. The curtains were half drawn, allowing you a peek at the sky beyond the sheer panel, but no further detail of exactly what the glowing points of light were worming slowly along the roads further below. It was a distant concern eventually, when Haechan pulled you close with a loop of his arm around your middle, then kicked a foot back at the door until it shut firmly. 

Slowly he moved each foot forward, forcing you to take equal steps back, at his pace. Perfectly mirrored. At the bed Haechan’s other arm circled your middle and he drew you tighter against his front.  Even if you couldn’t catch much of a full breath, it was a fair trade with such a firm, tight chest pressing your breasts.

You wanted to ask, the way your mind fired demands to stoke your curiosity: when you heard his name, sung and moaned far too many nights… was it from this space? From the living room? He nosed at your neck, then touched his lips just under your jaw. You wriggled and Haechan followed the line of your hip down, clutching at the outside of one thigh. 

“You like hearing your name? Y..you want me to say it?” 

“Mnnng..I love it. Call me an asshole. Call me cocky. Whatever you want to call me..I’ll get over it,but I need to hear it.

Everything inside twisted at the way Haechan was openly feening. It seemed he was hounded by tireleas desire to hear it. Not like in normal conversation. This went far beyond to a specific place. A specific time. A section of experience that was beyond ordinary. 

Clutching and squeezing at the back of your thigh, you let him grasp enough to pull that leg up over on hip before he lowered to one knee and began to tug at the waist of your jeans. Between the two of you, they came down, panties included, in record time. You could only have lost them faster if they’d been on fire.

He didn’t wait for you to kick them properly across the bedroom floor before he layered open mouthed kisses up the inside of your left thigh until he reached your center. It was hot and wet. Haechan nosed deep into the mess and moaned, then stabbed his tongue deep into the center and licked slowly. Hard. Lapping in ultra slow motion. So much your knees shook and you withered, grabbing at his hair. 

It wasn’t much of an apology in how you murmured nonsense, fingers gnarled through his dark curls, gripping with the most purchase possible. Once you had enough of a hold, your hips took over, rocking into his repeating licks. He wasn’t quiet about devouring you, enjoying the sticky mess greeting his tongue the more he stabbed that muscle dead center. 

You weren’t thinking about much more than how it felt to be floating in a great, vast ocean, head kicked back, eyes sightless and feeling the up and down undulations. “Y/n..” The gentle, repeating demand of your name from his lips trailed up, coinciding with the ebb of pleasure to a dull, distant tingle. 

Blinking into darkness you didn't register more than the faint shadows on the ceiling. Shapes from his bedroom where the light hadn’t entirely reached from the outside–the moon or an errant beam of starlight. 

“W…why did you stop?” You keened. Mournful. Confused. A wet chuckle against your hip, and he gave a push. A single hint. Lay back. No need to say: that firm shape against the back of both calves was the bed. And it felt like cloud soft bliss when you sat, then sprawled out against the cool sheets.

At the very minimum, whatever Haechan did in this bed, he was intentional enough to make it right again. Considering that kind of attention to detail pulled you between horny and impressed. 

Haechan mounted the bed with one foot on top of the sheets. The immodestly low sweats now robbed you of any wonder when he slipped them down to mid thigh, then stepped away from them. In no time they were an afterthought, piled on the bed just out of reach. 

After he situated his knees between your legs, he nudged them wider to gain more working space. Without a word, Haechan grasped at the back of his shirt, then hauled it off, then leaned into his palms and walked them in turn up the bed to crawl over you. Face to face over you, he stared down again.

“Wanna show me what’s under the shirt, Y/n? It’s only fair..since I’m naked.” You didn’t comment that he hadn’t worn anything under those sweats. It was more than fine, the biggest point of which swung down slightly above your belly, twitching as he waited, semi planked. 

Awash in shyness, you took some time to crumple the hem of your shirt in all 10 shaking fingers and bring it high enough, stopping at your neck and inhaling the floral hints of your laundry soap now hovering around your face. Haechan followed the view down and when he got to your bared upper body, he growled quietly. 

“Can I touch?” He inquired. 

“Please..Just…be gentle. I’m sensitive.” You wriggled.The overstimulation was real, and he hadn’t done more than brace over you. This didn’t bode well for your usual success. The bra came off and he flung it with aplomb, right into the dresser top nearby without any further concern. 

“I love that...” Head dipping, he cooed. The touch on your skin was undiluted, silky heat as his fingertips traced. Caressing slowly, Haechan was focused. When he rounded the outsides of both breasts and moved inwards to both nipples, you whined. When fingers pinched and rolled both nipples, then tugged testingly, you moaned open mouthed. 

“You are sensitive, Y/n… I want to make you feel so good..” His lips found one nipple, sucking deep and careful, pulling at the point until it ached. You didn’t even try to control the contortions twisting your body as his lips pulled. Pluck and sucked at puckering skin. He moved to the other nipple and did the same, leaving it glossy, aglow against the bits of moonlight straining through the curtains. 

“Won’t take much, will it?” He asked the space between your breasts. Kissed and moaned, then nuzzled and dragged the tip of his tongue up to your chin. You tilted down, trying to meet his mouth but as he’d done before, Haechan moved away. He was going to make you cry if he kept this up. 

“You…you’re not going to kiss me?” You bemoaned when the heat of his breath swirled over your neck. He was back there, deciding where to put kisses that got progressively more wet and sucking as he went up towards your ear. 

“Mmnnhmmm. Unless you want to kiss? I love it..” 

“I didn’t say I was against it..” You responded. It was important he got your clarity on it. You HAD to know what a kiss from this man’s lips was like or you’d die. No two ways about it. In spite of the dramatic angle your emotions took, Haechan continued on, undisturbed. Again at his own pace. Knowing exactly where he was going and dragging you through hell to get there. 

For a bit longer he tortured your nipples and when he finally came back up to the other side of your neck, you managed to work a hand down between your belly and his until you found the rigid shape, hot and full. Your fingers closed around and squeezed. Haechan gasped and mumbled against your cheek, encouraging with a gurgle of delight. 

He rutted slowly, finding a steady pace as your fingers rippled. His tip bubbled a few good strings of precum and it spread impossibly good in one stroke down his shaft. You gripped harder and tugged towards your spread legs. 

“Want me there, baby? Want it inside you? Is that what it takes?”

“Yes…god…please..” You crooned as he latched onto your neck and sucked harder, just below your ear. You clenched as he followed your guidance, aiming his tip until it rested into your tight opening. As frozen as those muscles felt, it was all buttery bliss when his cock slid into you. Haechan had himself right to the base in one heavenly stroke. 

Just enough force at the end and your body jostled. When he drew back and pushed again, your breasts jumped too. After that, the rhythm of his thrusts was steady. Cyclical and exquisite, how he opened your walls running deep into you and you collapsed when he pulled out. Over and over–you shrank and expanded around his pistoning cock. 

Soon you were losing touch with reality, arms following your hands, up his back and looping around his neck. Fingertips wandering the plane of his back. Nail sinking into some ridge of muscle that felt right. Holding on for life and the beautiful pressure rising in your guts. Rising deep in your pussy, where Haechan’s thrust kept punching without pause. 

The heavens listed in your mind. Your face rolled to one side, smothering in cottony, fresh coolness. You exhaled and the fabric went hot. So did your folds when Haechan sent you careening with a very focused and sudden pump. A few more and he had the sparks shining across your closed eyes. You arched and groaned, limbs flexing and stalling in whatever position they’d managed to cling. 

You could barely respond when Haechan’s lips slid in place over your barely open mouth. The warmth of his tongue working between your lips was just a cherry on top that washed your tongue in sweetness when you finally came vaguely back to earth, swaying into the bed in tempo with his still rolling hips. 

“Say it..” Haechan grunted. Repeated, in a deeper growl, swearing against your lips as he redoubled his effort and focused on driving his pelvis firmly, smacking your mound. It was as if your orgasm had informed him: go rougher. That’s the sign. Don’t hold back. 

“P..please..I’m—..” You murmured and he seized your lip. Tugged, then grumbled around the pinched flesh. 

“Y/n…Say it..” 

“Ha…HAECHAN!” You yelped. He roared ‘Yes’ against your breast and swiped at that exposed, perking tip, then sucked hard. Your knees pinched around his hips and Haechan gave a low moan. The intensity peaked as he fucked you up the bed. Your body and head, inched closer and closer to the headboard, one concerted thrust after another. 

He popped off that nipple and found your mouth again, making an ‘O’ with his lips, long enough to speak. “One more time baby. Louder…Let them know who did this. SAY IT.” 

Your eyes brimmed as heat rushed your lips. Fire lit up your scalp line. Ecstasy buzzed along your spine and rode every rail of nerve as a bigger high hit like a runaway train. You couldn’t escape it. No way around it. It was going through you and out the other side. You were stunned. So overwhelmed that the world went a pale grey as you screamed the syllables that came together to give him what he demanded with a final, savage stab of his powerful hips.

‘HAECHANNNN..” 

------------------------------------------------------

“Did you ever confront him?” Your friend stepped back, blinking a few times. She’d spent far too long with her eye nearly kissing that peephole in your door. No need to ask. You KNEW what she was referring to. Knew who ‘he’ was.

Pulling off your coat, you hung it without looking back, enjoying the sounds of her footsteps as she followed in step to your living room. 

From there it was snacks–leftover Oreos. Some grasshoppers–THOSE she really got excited over when she noticed. You didn’t have the heart to tell her where they’d come from but when pressed conceded you didn't go that far to get them. 

She grunted, falling onto the couch, then leaned back into the pillows. Remote in hand, she flipped through channels to her preferred show, then muted it and dropped the small remote nearby. 

She'd chosen her favorite show but  it was a pretense. Right now it was all about whatever she suspected, watching you nearby, sipping a tall glass of water. 

“Well? The longer it takes you to answer, the more I think you wimped out. You know he deserves it. It was a long time coming. What are you waiting for–the cops to show up?” 

“A little dramatic. I never said I didn't confront him.”

“And?!” She was full of exasperation, from the pinch between her brows to the purse of her lips. You enjoyed how her fingers clutched at a throw pillow and twisted it slowly. 

“We hashed it out.” No need for anything further. She'd have to dine on those crumbs. You weren't ready to say more –if that was even necessary. For you, there was a difference in the energy across the hall.

“I knew it. You tried and failed.” The weariness slowly gathered on her face and you knew from the slow intake of breath, she was winding up to give the speech. 

“Y/n you live here too. He'll get away with whatever you allow. That stuff wouldn't fly in MY apartment building.” She sank into the cushions, arms crossed. You stared at her profile as her nose wriggled. Finally done,she huffed. 

“You're giving him the satisfaction of talking about him. If you keep it up I'll go across the hall and let him know he has yet another admirer—”

She rounded on you, pulled to her feet by outrage and pointed a finger. “Don't you DARE. That's the last thing he needs. Can you imagine how bad he'd be if he knew someone who doesn't live here was talking about him?”

Your mouth stayed flush against the glass rim. “I can't imagine.” You brushed a few knuckles along your lips after another long sip. 

Your eyes followed your friend's gaze towards the door. You knew that look. The wonder, beyond the deadbolt and peephole. Across the carpet worn in the same familiar shapes right in front of Haechan’s locked door. It wouldn't stay dark or closed off for much longer. 

“You know he loves it. Just like he probably loves hearing his name. But he'll never get the satisfaction from me. ….From us.”

Your friend was right—about herself. .....But you? 

------------------------------------------------------

You...standing at Haechan's door with the hours and her affirmation far behind. That was then, this is now. 

You, fingertips touching the warped shape of your face in the brass door knob's concave surface.

You, eventually curling all five fingers, eyes peering into the opaque black bubble of the peephole. For just a moment some shifted across it, on the other side. 

And you smiled just a little. Lifting your hand, you inhaled, then knuckles met the door in 3 firm, quick knocks. Your lips parted, drawing in a breath as you waited. 

Your heart rose in your throat, pushing out the same breath, in the shape of a word. A name. 

“Haechan…”

[mochilatae]

I'm very honored my Joons make the list as a comfort character. You know it's always aimed at you.

starting a tag game!

favorite book:

favorite song:

favorite game:

favorite color:

favorite movie:

favorite tv show:

comfort character(s):

I’ll go first:

Hell followed with us by andrew joseph white

Body of years - mother mother

Slay the princess

Dark purple

legally blonde

gravity falls

blue diamond, kaito, cherry blossom

@chernobylcatfish09 @i-eat-asphalt @c0nstantlyscreaming @frenchfriesmotherfucker

@finleyforevermore @lord-enchantress @seraphinfestedqueer @whoops-all-neurodivergency @derangedcrowstuff @mast3rsw0rd @marigoldisinsane @anonymous-badger-238 @isthisadhdorautism