#and there could have been More... in another timeline maybe...

[neosaidwhoa]

Q: "Why is there alot of official arts of them [Madara and Hashirama] drinking Sake?!"

A: I think you were asking this as a joke, but for anyone who wants to know the real answer to the question:

It's because to Madara and Hashirama, drinking together implies that you can be trusting and vulnerable with the other person with no risk of danger. To them, it personally symbolizes the achievement of their shared primary goal, which is to create a world where people can safely coexist . It's a symbol that they use in conversation with each other over the course of their lives, knowing the meaning it holds for them.

Madara is the first to bring up "drinking together" during their second encounter. Madara says to Hashirama that "If there were to be a way where neither side has to die, it'd be where both sides revealed their bellies, hid nothing from each other, and poured each other drinks and drank together like brothers." Madara then goes on to say that's impossible, but follows it up by admitting he's still always wishing for it and is "Hoping to find the way."

Hashirama thinks "So there was another foolish kid who thought as I did... to try to change this war-torn era. Rather than being shocked, I considered Madara a gift from the divine."

Before this conversation, Hashirama was shown getting punched in the face and yelled at by his father for saying that children shouldn't be sacrificed and made into shinobis, and for suggesting that they need to find a different solution to conflict than fighting "until the very last foe has been vanquished", as Hashirama's father put it. Hashirama and Madara found out that they shared the same goal and rare hope during their era. Their shared goal of achieving a systematic solution to end the cycles of violence is foundational to their relationship. Both Madara and Hashirama prioritize this goal above everything else in their life, even each other.

So we can see that for Madara and Hashirama, "drinking together" represents more than just reconciliation between two people. It represents the end of the war-torn era, the end of child shinobis, and the end of violence against fellow humans. It represents a world where peoples' loved ones are protected and little brothers get to grow up. A world where "kids won't have to kill each other" and "kids don't have to be sent into harsh battlefronts" as put by Hashirama.

Fast forwarding in the timeline, Hashirama says that in the early days of Konoha, it seemed to him at first as if he and Madara really had managed to create that world together. He said "Our dream had come true. Shinobi children got to know about learning and playing instead of battle... ...and started living long enough to know the taste of alcohol." Another nod to drinking as a symbol of an improved world in which children are protected.

Of course, Konoha not stay peaceful for long. Hashirama continues on to say that the village that he envisioned to protect children and make peace a reality, also gave rise to terrible violence and death such as with the Uchiha massacre. Hashirama says “Perhaps what Madara said was correct after all… maybe he had foreseen this very state of affairs.”

As Madara dies at the end of the Fourth Great Ninja War with Hashirama beside him, Madara says "I guess... neither you... nor I... could achieve what we wanted." They've both failed to fully accomplish their greatest goal. There are literally child shinobis “sent on harsh battlefronts” all around them, and they're in the immediate aftermath of having fought in a world war. Hashirama, always looking on the bright side of things, replies that all they could do was try their best while they were alive, and that the rest is for future generations.

And then there’s Madara and Hashirama's final words, which are to each other:

Hashirama: "When we were kids... ...you once said "We're Shinobi. We never know when we might die"... That for neither side to die, we'd both have to reveal our true intentions... ....and pour each other drinks to toast like brothers. But we're both about to die. Right now... ...we can drink as war buddies."

Madara: "War buddies... huh.... Well... I... ...guess... that's... ...okay... ...by.."

Added manga panels that I mentioned.

Side note: Some other recurring motifs of Madara and Hashirama's story are: skipping stones, two sides of the river/getting to the other side of the river, and feigning defeat to get the upper hand.

New official art!!! Why is there alot of official arts of them drinking Sake?! Do they get drunk and then bang or something?😭

[annabelle--cane]

just learned that the mechanisms song "frankenstein" was originally conceived as part of a set along with adaptations of dracula, dorian gray, and jekyll & hyde. don't try reaching me, I am in mourning for what could have been.

[vani-ash]

I'm just trying to make a timeline of Paradise Of Thorns for myself feel free to correct me if it sounds wrong. (Spoilers for the movie)

According to google it takes approximately 3-5 months to grow durian to ripe from when they first bloom, So the movie takes place roughly over 5 months if we go for the longest time.

Thongkam is a monk for about a month (again i just googled how long temple duties take and it said a month).

At the start when asked how long until the durians are ready to sell Thongkam says 4 months, so its been 1 month by himself before they move in.

And then I think when he gets back from being a monk, that's probably close to 4 months being done (he goes to do it 4 months in? based off 1 month by himself, 3 hospital visits )

Mae Saengs hospital visits are once a month, we only see 2, once at the start, and once when Thongkam buys her the wheelchair, but there is a third we don't see where Thongkam goes to sell the produce and tells them they have to take a taxi.

I think Jingna shows up around halfway through the second month.

The time between Sek and Thongkam finding their first durian bloom, getting married, Sek dying, and Seks funeral is unclear to me. I did think they got married, paid off the debt and Sek dying happened in a day but i think it'd make more sense to be like a week. (I thought a day cause Sek asks to marry and its like sunrise, then it cuts to them going to pay the debt, which i assume was already mostly paid off if they could do it this quickly, so like i assume Thongkam insisted on paying it that day instead of whenever he was scheduled to pay it, Sek leaves to do things, then comes back that night. But after trying to time line it i think a week or two sounds more realistic?)

So sometime within the first month all that happens, and then I've just been using the hospital visits to try and count how long each section takes.

-1 month alone/with sek -3 months with Mae Saeng, Mo and Jingna -1 month away at temple -1 month with Jingna (the durians arent fully done when he gets back so I'm adding 1 more month even though thats over 5)

I think Mo's wedding, and the rest of the ending all takes place on the same day/night. Also Sek / Thongkam been together 5+ years

Mo / Sek been together 20 years (?)

(Mo wanted to leave to work in bangkok 10 years ago but Sek convinced her to stay, so Thongkam/ Sek could be together more than 5 years as thats only how long hes been paying the debt?)

[cent-scratchnsniff]

More sketchy employee profile images. Mostly made to be able to replace the picrew I had in the template I made since I can draw. I did end up just putting it as back and white though but the color is just nice to have. I'm STILL trying to tweak the template since it is very finicky and there is an example of what it looks down below if you're interested. It is a lot. It will happen. I am just not the quickest

There are typos and inconsistencies I missed but in general it should be fine...

[burningcomputerpersona]

was getting a twelve pack of beer a bad idea? probably. am i enjoying it though? absolutely.

[arolesbianism]

Y'know I know I've said like a billion times I don't want to know shit abt Jackie's past but erm. Hi klei. Please just tell me if Josephine and Alan are her parents or some miscellaneous relative this is so important. Did Jackie seriously come from a household with a colonel and another person with a doctorate or does she just happen to be related to them this is so important for how I decide to move forward with my Jackie hcs and with my aus in general I need to know so bad tell me right fucking now

[hannieoftheyear]

After All This Time (kmg)

When you're asked to be on the wedding party of a long-lost friend, you get the chance to reconnect with former classmate Mingyu, but not without your old feelings and struggles resurfacing.

✧˖* pairing: groomsman!mingyu x bridesmaid!reader

✧˖* w.c: 18,7k

✧˖* genre: friends to lovers, fluff, smut, angst, it's another self-indulgent 'running away from your high school past' story from me.

🎧: still into you — paramore

check out my main masterlist ♡

✧˖* warnings: alcohol consumption, a lot of not standing up for oneself, kind of unrealistic wedding timeline (i've never been a bridesmaid so bare with me), mingyu has no flaws here because... im in love with him, this might be badly written I can't really tell anymore | smut: it's messy, and rough, face sitting, unprotected penetration (don't do this), multiple orgasms (f). lmk if im missing anything

The unopened letter stares at you from across the table. Trying to ignore it by doing your housekeeping chores is pointless. Scrubbing your toilet, doing your laundry, making your bed, and even cooking your meal preps for the entire week, nothing managed to take your head away from that stupid letter, wondering what could possibly be.

You and Olivia haven’t spoken properly since graduating high school many years ago. The last time you had a full-on conversation with her was when she told you she started seeing a new guy freshman year in college, someone who went to your same high school but never knew. Besides that, your only form of “communication” was liking each other's Instagram stories and the yearly happy birthday text. A letter from her addressed to you was the last thing you expected to see today, or ever.

Curiosity finally wins as you take it and inspect it up close. The pastel pink envelope with golden details feels sturdy in your hands, and the wax seal is stamped with two initials, O and T. The boyfriend’s name appears in your memory as the realization hits you. Olivia and Thomas.

This is a wedding invitation.

Opening the envelope just confirms your thoughts, but there’s more to it than just a mere invitation. Just below some details such as dress code and the plus one, there’s a part specifically addressed to you asking you to be one of Olivia’s bridesmaids. Your stomach turns, anxiety, and excitement battling it out in each of your organs. For one, it’s really heartwarming that she thought of you as a friend still and wants you to be a part of such a special day as her wedding. On the other side, it’ll be awkward to see everyone again after such a long time, because, weirdly enough, you never encountered anyone you knew ever again, even if you didn’t move away and still frequented same places as before.

Except, maybe that anxiety is just because of one person, who’s probably going to be more than involved in this wedding. Cassie, your other best friend.

Being a trio was never a problem. Actually, it’s probably the better friend group arrangement for you. The three of you got along immediately since the first day of middle school and never looked back. It was always fun and comfortable, you thought you had found your best friends for life. But something happened around the age when girls start noticing boys, when everyone starts going on dates, flirting, kissing, getting into relationships. That’s when you realized you and Cassie had the exact same type. It became almost like a routine: you’d notice a cute guy around school but didn’t say anything, and the next thing you know, at the next party Cassie would also notice him and hook up with him. You were sure you were in your very own Truman Show.

Was it partially your fault for not saying anything? Maybe, but did it have to happen with literally every single guy you were ever attracted to? It reached a point where you would constantly doubt yourself, compare yourself to her, was she cooler? Prettier? Smarter? Funnier?

In the end, it wasn’t her fault, and you’d never blame her for that, but for your own good and the wellness of your crumbling self-confidence, you had to get away from that situation. And you did. At least until now. But it’s been years, you’re not the same person you were back in high school, and hopefully, all of your self-doubting was also left in the past.

A sky-high, lavish building stands before you in all of its glory. You were no stranger to your old friend’s rich family, but her lifestyle always managed to take you by surprise.

Olivia wanted all the bridesmaids and groomsmen to meet and get comfortable with each other, so she and her fiancé arranged a little afternoon party at their apartment. Over the few texts you exchanged with Olivia, she failed to mention the other people on the wedding party. So during the elevator ride, you think of every possibility, who could be there that you know? With how many people from school has she kept in contact with? Will you know the groom’s friends?

The doorbell rings inside the busy apartment, and a few seconds later you’re welcomed by your old friend with a bright smile. You hug Olivia tightly, the weirdness of the situation fading away for a few seconds. Afterward, you greet everyone with a shy smile, recognizing some faces and encountering new ones. Some people are standing in groups of three or four, while others sit on the couch or a few scattered chairs, talking with each other comfortably.

“While we wait for the last people to arrive, I want to start telling you what I have planned.”

Olivia announces as you walk away slowly, and you find an empty wall by the hallway to rest against.

At least twenty minutes pass, in which Olivia doesn’t take one breath, her happiness and excitement showing through her endless words. The wedding plan is not really out of the ordinary, but the scale of things, that’s the impressive part. She has seven bridesmaids, including you, plus the maid of honor who hasn’t arrived yet, and her fiancé has the same number of grooms, plus the best man. Each of you will pair up throughout the days coming up to the ceremony, and on the big day, each pair will have matching outfits and even a dance scheduled after the couple’s first dance as a married couple. Her idea was essentially thought so no one would feel out of place and enjoy the ceremony, because it should be a happy day for everyone.

While she explains everything for the second time, you take your time to look around the big room full of people. Scanning every face, there isn’t really a lot of girls you know, but the groomsmen, on the other hand, all of them went to your same high school. It seems Olivia’s fiancé still hangs out with his same group of friends. One of them, in particular, sparks a little smile across your face.

Mingyu was the only other person you considered a real friend in school. As scary and anxiety inducing as it is to have classes without your small friend group, he made it more than bearable, enjoyable even. Becoming friends with the nerdy boy assigned as your lab partner is one of the things you remember fondly about those years of your life. He was like a breath of fresh air during all the turmoil. Would he remember you?

His eyes catch yours from across the room, and an instant smile forms across his lips. After all the years that passed, he still looks the same. He’s much more mature and fully over puberty now, his broad bulky frame being one of the more standing out new things about him, but you’d recognize that confused expression and toothy smile with fangs peeking out anywhere. Your mood rapidly improves as he mouths a ‘hi’ and waves his hand lightly at you, not wanting to interrupt the bride to be. You repeat his greeting with a growing grin, but your small interaction is cut short.

Your name catches your attention, and you turn to Olivia, “you and Mingyu will be our last pair. Is that okay?”

The relief is immediate. It might be a little awkward, but at least you’ll be with someone you know. You and Mingyu look at each other once again and then nod at her, but before she can continue with whatever she is saying, the entry door opens behind her.

“Hi everyone!” The familiar voice makes your stomach drop, “I’m sorry I’m late. My boss wouldn’t let me go.”

She looks the same too, only with longer hair and more mature features on her face. Her body language holds the same coolness, as sure of herself as she was when you were younger.

“It’s fine. It’s nothing the maid of honor hasn’t heard before.” Olivia replies to her with a chuckle.

“Oh my god! I haven’t seen you in so long!” When she greets you, you straighten your posture, put on your best smile, and hug her back. “How are you doing?”

“Hey Cassie, good, good, just working my life away!”

You joke and try to ease up your emotions. Your few words manage to satisfy her as she nods with a smile, walks away, and pecks one of the groomsmen – her boyfriend? – on the lips before sitting by his side.

The schedule is easy for Olivia to finish explaining it, so in no time, food starts rolling in, and conversations pop up between everyone, either catching up or normal everyday chats. Cassie starts telling a story about something that happened earlier at her job, but you don’t really understand it. You haven’t talked to them in so long, you don’t know what they do for a living, or where they work. You don’t know them anymore, and you’re too afraid to ask.

To the side, a couple of people over, Mingyu’s talking with the rest of the grooms' friends comfortably. You want to talk to him, but what would you say? It’s not like you were the closest of friends. You never hung out outside of the school, and your friend groups never actually interacted until now. Actually, you never told Olivia and Cassie about him. Maybe because you were afraid that if you introduced him to Cassie, he’d swoon over her like the rest of the guys you ever interacted with romantically.

An uneasy feeling creeps in on you as memories of your past fight to climb up on your memory. Feelings and thoughts you haven’t felt in years come back up, almost reliving everything in a matter of milliseconds. You need to talk to someone, take your mind off of your overthinking. Because this is not the time nor the place to get so gloomy.

You get to talk with the rest of the bridesmaids, and the anxiousness of it all starts bubbling down, and you’re much more comfortable. A couple of them are close family friends with Olivia, also as rich as her, but still really nice girls, even if a little airheaded, and the rest are friends from college.

Time passes by easily, and soon enough, the sun is already set.

On the ride back home, your mind starts spiraling again. Do you even fit in with all those people? An invite to her wedding would’ve been just fine, but a bridesmaid? You feel like a total stranger, someone from her past who’s meddling around trying to sneak into a place she purposely left behind. At least you won’t have to see anyone ever again after the wedding is over.

It is said that changing your usual routine helps improving your mood, taking another path home, shopping at a new place, sitting down at a different park, trying a new coffee order, changing the little things to feel more energized and be more productive. You wouldn’t know, because every task you complete as fast as possible to be back home quickly. So, after days of not being able to think about anything else but the upcoming wedding, it’s your only option left.

With the sky lit up with golden light, the grass and trees as green as ever, and a light breeze that prevents you from getting too hot, you walk around a park you’ve never been to before, with your new ‘hot girl walk’ playlist as a soundtrack. The kids running around the playground are the only sounds that get through your ears besides the music, maybe a bark or two as well, and the sun against your skin soothes all your worries. Damn. Going on a walk does fix your mood.

A hand grabbing your arm softly startles you, and you’re about to punch the mystery person when you recognize his face.

“Mingyu?”

His eyes are focused on your fist that was ready to hit him, and you lower it down, beginning to take out your airpods.

“Sorry! You scared me!” You erupt in a nervous laughter.

“I’m sorry! I called your name but you didn’t hear me.” He stands apologetic in front of you, looking down at his feet before daring to look back up. “How are you doing? We didn’t get to talk the other day.”

“Yeah! It’s good to see you! I didn’t expect you to be there, it was a nice surprise.” Is it too weird to say that? Well, it’s already done.

He gets the tiniest bit shy at your words, his ears turning a light shade of pink before disappearing quickly.

You notice a bicycle by his side, a cute pink helmet with glittery heart stickers hanging by the handle. He must’ve been biking when he saw you and took it off before calling your name.

“I didn’t know if you were still friends with Olivia, I didn’t know if I was going to see you either.”

You fixate on the first part of his sentence, ignoring your body’s reaction to him implying he wanted to see you.

“Oh, we’re not really that close anymore.” There’s a silence as you finish your words, as it wasn’t the reply he was expecting. “Life, you know? We just grew apart.”

It was you who stopped making an effort to talk to her, but even if it was still for your own good, you’re a little ashamed to admit it to Mingyu.

“She still asked you to be her bridesmaid. That must mean something.” Ever the positive guy, he tries to make you feel better after the sour comment.

“Yeah, it’s really nice of her.” The sun shining so bright prevents you from looking up at him, but you smile, hoping he can see it.

The slow steps you’ve been taking side by side turn awkward with silence. You wanted so badly to talk to him after the other day, but now that he’s here, in front of you, you can’t think of anything.

“It’s good that you still hang out with the guys.”

You don’t know what else to say, and the words spill out of your mouth. He doesn’t seem to notice the awkward atmosphere, his body as comfortable as ever walking by your side.

“Yeah, even though not as often as I’d like.” A regretful smile forms across his lips. “Our schedules haven’t been lining up, I met Olivia in person maybe a total of three times over the years.”

“What? There’s no way you didn’t share any classes in school?”

He shakes his head, chuckling at your surprise.

“I think I only ever shared one class with her, but I didn’t really care much about her crowd back then.”

“Wow, thanks for that.”

He means all the popular guys your friends would hang out with, and you know it, but there was always something so fun in teasing him and seeing him get so pouty.

"You know I don’t mean you.”

His shoulder pushes your body lightly to the side, and you chuckle together. It’s hard to prevent the red from rushing to your cheeks. Maybe he’ll mistake it for a faint sunburn.

“That’s a cute helmet you got there.” Your eyes point to it as a way to distract him.

“Oh, that?” He picks it up with what seems to be an embarrassed voice tone, but his actions quickly override it. He puts it on proudly and looks at you with his eyebrows raised, “my sister gave it to me when I bought the bike, gets all the ladies.”

“I'm sure it does.”

Attention from women he for sure gets, but probably not because of that thing. His tall, muscular body is enhanced by the tight blue t-shirt he's wearing. You didn’t get a proper look at him the other day, and now, standing next to him in broad daylight, you almost wish you could still live in the ignorance bliss of not knowing the exact height difference between you two.

“So, what are you doing around here?”

His words make you realize you’ve been staring for a few seconds, and you look ahead, hoping he didn’t notice. He forgets to remove the helmet, making you chuckle quietly before answering.

“I just got off from work and thought it would be nice to take a different route home.”

“That’s such a coincidence! I come here, like, almost every week to bike around.”

“Wow, It really is.”

For how long have you been avoiding this specific park for no reason? Pushing away your chance of meeting the one and only person you would’ve wanted to?

A ping from his phone alerts both of you, taking you out of your little bubble.

“Sorry I-" His expression falls as he reads the new text, “I have to get going, but it was really nice seeing you!”

"Oh, sure! I didn’t mean to hold you back.” It comes out quieter than you’d like. “Goodbye!” With a simple smile and a tiny wave at him, you turn around.

Right when he gets on his bicycle again, before he starts pedaling, he looks back at you, taking your first step in the opposite direction.

“Wait!” When you turn around, he’s taking his phone out of his front pocket, “Can I get your number?”

The both of you blush at his words, and you look up at him cautiously.

“So we can catch up and, you know, get comfortable with each other for the wedding.”

You had already forgotten about that. The reason you even met him again in the first place.

“Sure!”

Your hand trembles slightly when you take his phone, and you mentally beat yourself up for it. It’s just your number! It could mean nothing.

“I’ll text you later so you can save mine.”

And with a wink, he’s off to whatever he was late to.

Great. Now you’re not only re-living your high-school anxieties but also your high-school crushes.

During the following days, you find yourself checking your phone more often than ever, always with the hope that you’ll get a new message from Mingyu. Texting almost every day since the encounter at the park, the time when you’re both free to talk has become your favorite part of the day.

It started shyly, merely updating the other about your lives since finishing high school, your jobs, and hobbies. But as time passed, the never-ending conversation eased onto your daily routines. You’d wake up and text Mingyu, update him as you arrive at work. Lunch, break, evening, clocking out, dinner. Every little free time you got, you’d text each other back and forth.

A text notification cheers you up constantly, thinking that it could possibly be him again. But it’s not always the case, like this time.

It’s Olivia reminding you that, in exactly 29 minutes, you have the dance rehearsal with all the maids and grooms. Half an hour, and you live 1 hour away from the studio she rented. A little white lie never hurt anyone, so you tell her something came up and you'll be just a little late.

You love weddings, but if you had to choose one thing you don’t like about them, it would definitely be the dancing. You can’t dance for shit. You’d tell your right leg to move forward, and your left leg would move backwards, like your body can’t comprehend instructions when they’re related to dancing. Usually, you stay in your seat, choosing not to embarrass yourself in front of all the guests, but this time, you can’t get out of it. Poor Mingyu will leave the class with at least five bruises on his feet from you stepping on him.

The dance studio is part of a new, contemporary looking building on the exact geographic center of the city, a place you would always pass by but never thought you’ll get to enter. Standing at the front desk, over half an hour late, you feel too out of place. Your clothes are probably wrong, your hair is completely disheveled, you don’t remember on which floor is your class, and you don’t even know the name of the dance teacher.

After a long discussion with the receptionist, she finally understands what you’re here for and lets you go up to the 13th floor.

The walk from the elevator to the studio feels longer than it actually is. Three to four footsteps become long, slow turtle-like steps. But not even the infinite time you spend taking four steps prepare you for your stomach to drop down to the basement at the sight of Mingyu dancing with Cassie as soon as you open the door.

His hands on her waist, her arms around his neck, dancing slowly in circles, laughing about something she just said, you can almost hear something inside you break. After all this time, nothing really changed.

“Hey! You’re finally here!”

Olivia’s voice brings you back to earth.

“Hi! I’m really sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.” The dance teacher gives you a look, and you lower down your voice, “So how is this going?”

“We had to put them together,” she points the dreaded pair, directing your eyes to them once again, “because neither you or Tyler were here when we started, but after the song’s over you can join him and I’ll practice with Cassie, okay?”

You nod with the best spirit you can manage to express.

“Is Tyler the guy she was with the other day?”

You don’t forget to whisper so the class isn’t interrupted by your chatter.

“He’s the only one of Tom's friends who’s not from school, don’t worry, you didn’t erase him from your memory.”

You stifle a laugh before it gets loud.

“Good, I was starting to feel bad about not recognizing him.”

In reality, his existence doesn’t matter much to you either way, except for something. “Are him and Cassie a thing?”

“She says it’s something casual but, and don’t tell her about this, I paired them up together on purpose so they can finally realize that they like each other!”

Your lungs clear of air in an instant after hearing those words. She’s not available. She has a boyfriend, sort of. A boyfriend who you do not know nor have feelings for.

“Your secret's safe with me.”

“Mingyu's nice and all, but if he messes with my plan and charms her, I will personally revoke his invitation to the wedding.”

You both chuckle just as the song finally ends, yours quieter than hers. Both of them see you with Olivia, but only Cassie comes forward to say hi.

“Hey girls! Good to see you!” She gives you a little hug before directing to Olivia. “So… Tyler isn’t showing up, I assume.”

“He told me a few minutes ago that something came up and can’t come, sorry.”

Her hand flies to Cassie's shoulders to comfort her, but she doesn’t seem bummed by the news.

“Well, then, I have something to ask you.”

Her presence suddenly becomes overwhelming as she grins at you with a proposition in mind, seemingly all thought out.

“Are you close with Mingyu? Olivia told me you were classmates.”

How did she know? Maybe you did tell her about him after all.

“He used to be my lab partner. Why?”

“How did you not crush on him back then? He’s such a cutie.”

“I probably did, I don’t remember.” Lie.

“Could you find out if he has a girlfriend, pleeease?”

A buzzing sound is all you hear for a few seconds, like your brain forgets how to function. Words don’t come out, and you’re freezed in place as Cassie looks at you expectantly. To the side, Olivia looks just as puzzled by her request.

“W-why?”

“Because, he’s really hot and, if I need a quick rebound because of that other fucker, I need to know I’m not messing with a relationship.”

Silence is all you produce once again.

“I just need a tiny bit of info, and it’ll be weird if I ask him directly, so could you please try?”

“Sure… I’ll try, but I’m not promising anything.”

You’ve never sounded less excited about something in your whole life. You love some gossip and some drama, but not if it involves a genuinely nice guy like Mingyu being used. Or maybe it’s just because it’s him.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Cassie jumps excitedly and hugs you once again, just as the dance teacher calls for everyone to gather.

Mingyu’s hands slot carefully at the sides of your waist, guiding you swiftly and sparking goosebumps across your back. Your arms wrap awkwardly around his neck, making him crouch a bit so you can look properly at each other.

“Were you always this good? Or did you become a professional waltz dancer in the half hour I wasn’t here?”

You remember him telling you the other day, during your endless text conversations, that he, like you, wasn’t particularly excited about dancing.

“Let’s say, hypothetically, that I practiced before coming here, what would that say about me? Hypothetically.”

“It would say that,” you drown out a cackle before you can continue, “you take your duty as a groomsman very seriously, hypothetically.”

“Good, I wouldn’t want you to think I was a dork, hypothetically.”

“You’re too late, I already thought that.”

A pout forms on his mouth at your giggles, and he flashes the world's most menacing puppy eyes ever.

“I mean it in the best way possible!”

“Isn’t it embarrassing?”

“It’s cute!”

His face shifts with skepticism, sending enough signals saying he didn’t like your choice of words.

“It’s charming!”

The warmth his body emanates wraps around you fast. His expectant eyes looking down at you and the closeness of your bodies rises your temperature in record time, your cheeks pinking up furiously. You keep talking as the nervousness takes over you.

“At least it worked! You’re a really good dancer, I’m sorry I keep missing the beats.”

“You’re giving me too much credit. You’re not that bad.”

“Now you’re just lying. My limbs are physically unable to coordinate more than three steps. You’re guiding me through every single one!”

His hands tighten just the tiniest bit around your waist, like a confirmation for the both of you that they’re still there.

The teacher’s voice echoes all around you until it finally punctures your bubble, and you’re able to hear the class you’re here for. The steps she’s explaining for a second time make no sense in your head, too many turns and moves for you (and your body) to comprehend.

“I need all the pairs to practice the final steps again.”

Only her final words make sense on your mind, and when you look towards Mingyu, his hand left its place on your body and is extended at you, his eyes kind yet concentrated back on the dance. You nod, taking his hand with an electrifying rush going through your veins.

Mingyu guides you firmly but with care, moving along the beats of the waltz. With each step, your synchronization improves, and the moves flow along easily, your bodies understanding each other. You can’t help but smile as you look him in the eyes, a familiar warm feeling bubbling up inside you.

“You're doing a really good job.”

His eyes catch yours, a little wrinkle forming by each of their sides before he cracks a smile to match yours. There’s something in the way he looks like when paying attention to you, like a spell being casted on you, making you crave more.

“It’s because it’s comfortable with you.”

Your mouth betrays you and sends out the words without checking with your brain, but weirdly enough, you don’t fear his reaction. It’s just the truth.

“We’re more in synch than you thought.”

You swear you see a glimpse of a smirk before he spins you in his arms.

As you turn and move together through the song, you think your excitement isn't solely because of the rehearsal going well. It could be simply a wish, but a spark of something is definitely lighting up. The way Mingyu holds you, attentive and confident, you can't help to think he feels it too.

“You think we can be this good the day of the wedding?”

There’s more anticipation than curiosity in your voice, remembering you’ll keep meeting until then, you’ll keep seeing him.

Mingyu reaches closer until his warm breath fans your ear and his lips graze your cheek.

“We could meet a few days before and practice, like I hypothetically did today.”

“You think I need practice?” You tease to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks.

“Maybe it’s an excuse to see you again.”

A mix of shyness and giddiness overtakes you as you giggle at his proposition. But in the midst of your interaction, you skip a crucial move and begin to turn, stepping right on one of Mingyu’s feet and almost tripping over to the side. His hand secures you by the waist, the hem of your t-shirt raised just enough so his fingers brush your fiery bare skin.

“Ok, maybe I do need the practice too.”

The teacher talks to you on the background, but it’s hard to concentrate on anything other than Mingyu’s touch lighting fires across your body, his worried eyes over your ‘almost’ fall, and his smile when he realizes you’re laughing at your clumsiness.

The music starts over, and you only realize it because his hand is extended at you once again.

“Let’s give it another try.”

“So, you didn’t get to ask him?”

“I’m sorry, I forgot about it. I was so focused on learning the dance that it slipped my mind.”

Running into Cassie coming out of the subway was the last thing you expected (and wanted) right now. Trying on dresses is the one bridesmaid related thing you were least excited about. So many hours of putting clothes on and off, picking colors, showing the rest of the girls, giving your opinion on their dresses, and listening to their opinions on yours. It just sounds so exhausting. But your mental pep talk got interrupted when Cassie saw you walking up the stairs of the station heading to the bridal shop.

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

“He didn’t say anything that would imply he has one, if that helps.”

More than a helping hand to her, you're starting to hope he’s single too.

“That’s good to know, thank you.”

“I don’t really get why you wanted to know, though. I thought you had a boyfriend.”

“He’s not... I mean, it’s not like, official. I wanted him to get jealous, but I'm over that now.”

“Oh, so... you talked about it with him?"

“Kind of... he just explained why he couldn’t come to the rehearsal, and I just, couldn’t get mad at him simply for that, right?”

“Right...”

You know virtually nothing about their ‘relationship’, or about him for that matter, so it’s maybe for the best to stay out of their… thing.

“Anyway, about today, do you have something in mind for your dress?”

“Not really, I was just thinking of browsing through the store and seeing what they have.”

“Wow, really? You’re so chill about it. I have a pinterest board with all the styles and shapes I like. I even checked their online store to see what they have in stock beforehand.”

“That’s… actually really smart.”

“Nah, don’t be nice. Did you at least think of a color? Olivia wants all of us to be different colors, but in pastel, obviously. I personally didn’t really care about it, but I chose pink after some thought.”

“Oh, actually, I didn't know that.”

“It’s okay, you can decide when we get there.”

“Did the rest of the girls choose already?”

“Maybe? I haven’t had the chance to ask them.”

“I hope I don’t get green then, I don’t really like how it looks on me.”

“You’ll look amazing either way. Don’t let a simple color wear you down!”

Small talk with Cassie turns out to be quite nice in the short walk you have up to the store. It's a pretty shallow conversation, but not at all stressful like you thought.

The place is really fancy looking, tall glass windows and blinding white interior. It makes you take a breath just by looking at the displayed dresses. Relieved that Olivia said multiple times that she’ll take care of everything and not to worry about the prices, you and Cassie walk inside.

You didn’t expect every girl to be already there, and you especially didn’t expect the groomsmen to be also all there. The girls browse through racks and racks of different shaped and colored dresses, and the men are sitting back, talking with one another, waiting for their bridesmaid to ask for their opinion.

Cassie goes straight to greet Mingyu with a hug. Even if he isn’t the closest one to the door. Even if Tyler is there also. And you walk behind her, slowly, shy because of all the people aware of your arrival. You give Mingyu a shy smile as a greet, and he returns it warmly.

After the dance rehearsal all those days back, you’ve been hesitant about contacting him again. There’s nothing wrong with him. It’s quite the opposite, actually. He’s caring, attentive, and kind towards you. You just don’t want to fall in your black hole of a crush on him again. especially after Cassie made it clear to you that he’s caught her eye too. Sure, she just told you she made up with her boyfriend, but her actions are already contradicting her words.

Olivia sees you with Cassie and walks quickly towards you two with a smile on her face.

“Hey girls! How do you like the store?! Isn’t it huge?”

“It’s unbelievable! I’m gonna need at least two hours to look through all the dresses!”

Cassie answers, staring at the lengthy room in awe. You can feel Mingyu’s eyes on you. Or maybe on Cassie. Regardless, you’re in his line of sight, and it gives you chills.

“Well, you have all the time in the world today. I reserved the whole store for the entire day for all of us, and the staff is also here to help us if needed, so don’t worry about asking for help!”

“That’s amazing!” You both exclaim at the same time.

“Thank you!” Cassie doesn’t look back and goes straight to the racks of pink dresses. You’re about to go and walk around as well. Maybe try to find a color that suits you, but Olivia stops you before you can even take a step.

“Wait! I got the list of the available colors left for you,” she hands you a sheet of paper with almost everything on it crossed out, “I’m sorry, I know there isn’t much left.”

“Oh don’t worry, it’s fine. I should’ve picked it earlier. It’s not your fault.”

It’s disappointing to see that only two items aren’t crossed out. Light teal and pastel green. Green and teal aren’t ugly colors by any means, but you always feel awkward when wearing them, so you’ve learned to avoid them. The back of your throat itches to close as you think about looking ugly at the wedding, in front of so many people, in front of him.

“I saw some of the teal dresses earlier, and they’re all super cute! You’ll look amazing!”

“Oh, ok, I’ll go check them out. But, just in case, isn’t there any way for me to change colors?”

“You could ask someone to swap with you.”

Your mind instantly goes to Cassie. Earlier, she told you she didn’t care which color she wore, maybe she wouldn’t mind switching with you. You spot her easily on one corner, asking Mingyu about his opinion. She looks up at him with glittery eyes as one of her hands places itself on his arm. The sight turns your stomach upside down. You want to stop watching the scene as much as you want to break them apart.

Your legs make the decision for you and walk you to where they’re standing. They don’t notice you walking over to them until you speak up.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt you guys, but Cassie, could I ask you something?”

Mingyu’s the first one to look up at you, his face lighting up as you interrupt whatever Cassie was saying to him. She’s slower, making sure to hang the dress back on the rack before turning to face you.

“What do you need?”

There's very little annoyance on her tone, but you don’t miss the way her eyebrows arch and her eyes dart to Mingyu, signaling you that she wants some alone time.

“I wanted to ask if you, by any chance, were willing to switch colors with me?”

“What happened? Which ones are left?”

“Basically, just green.”

“Oh, that’s such a bummer.”

There’s a silence when she finishes talking. You wait for her to continue, blinking at her, but she just doesn’t. Her sentence ended there.

“Yeah, so, would you swap with me?”

“I…” Her body language turns awkward as she thinks of an answer, side-eyeing Mingyu, who’s also waiting for her, but with no context to what you’re asking her.

“I just, you said you didn’t really care about the color, so I thought you wouldn’t mind changing it.”

You huff, not helping the awkward atmosphere around the three of you. Your eyes connect with Mingyu’s, who's silently watching the interaction from the side. You hate that he’s seeing you in such a state, so... desperate for something that’s not that big of a deal anyway. You need this interaction to be over.

“You’re right, I did say that,” you can already see where this is going, “but, I kinda already put my mind to it, and it took a lot of convincing to get Tyler to match with me. He already bought his suit, and I don’t want to make him mad by changing everything so suddenly, I’m sorry.”

“Oh…”

You can feel your stomach contracting, your throat threatening to close, your eyes getting ready to be filled with tears. This is so stupid. It’s just a stupid color. It's a stupid dress you’ll never wear again. Why is it affecting you so much?

“Wait, I’m sure Tyler wouldn’t mind changing.”

Mingyu’s soft voice sounds closer to you, but you can’t really see much with your eyes trained to the ground and vision blurry from tearing up.

“No, it’s fine, let’s not bother him.”

Blinking away the tears is easy, but looking up and finding a concerned Mingyu makes you feel like jelly. Cassie’s long forgotten as you focus on him, his tall figure watching over you, his hand placed on your shoulder, squeezing lightly, silently comforting you.

“I’ll go try and find something I like.”

“I can look with you if you want.”

“No, it’s fine, you can go back to what you were doing.”

You walk away, leaving him standing there, still worried about your sudden reaction. Cassie is just behind him, waiting for the opportunity to get his attention back.

But you try not to think about him or her while browsing through the store. Trying your best to be positive, to not get dragged down by a simple color choice, or by a friend – if you can call her that – that couldn’t help you.

Hours go by, and it’s easier when you focus on other things. You help the other girls decide on their dresses, reacting and applauding, helping them find new ones if they aren’t satisfied. It’s fun, contrary to what you previously thought, it’s like playing a dress up game, except every now and then, it’s Cassie who comes out on the make-shift runway, and the first opinion she asks for is always Mingyu's.

At one point, everyone has already decided, and you’re the only one left. All the girls you helped come together to try and find you the best possible dress, bringing a new one to you with hopeful smiles on their faces every few minutes.

You try them on, eager to find one and be done with it. But, even if they look gorgeous when on the hanger, they always got something that doesn’t sit right with you when you put them on. And after trying dress after dress, you grow more discouraged.

Olivia notices how tired you are and tells you that you can come back another day, alone and less anxious, but then again, that would mean stretching the situation for longer than needed. You decide to try on one more dress, one that Olivia picked specifically for you, and if you’re not satisfied, you’ll come back with her the next day.

The store lady helps you put the dress on, her sweet smile never fading, even if it’s the tenth dress she helped you put on already. The pastel green silk fabric glides smoothly over your skin, hugging you in the right places as the lady zips it up. Your back’s facing the mirror, too afraid to look in it again and find another disappointing result.

“Sweetheart, I think this is the one.”

The kind woman’s voice startles you, but her honest smile makes you believe her words. You inhale deeply, calming yourself before turning around. But instead of looking at your reflection, you walk outside the changing room and onto the lobby.

Every pair of eyes is on you the moment you step out, your arms wrap around your torso in an effort to shield yourself, and you can feel your cheeks being painted a bright red color. A few gasps are heard, and when you look around, the girls who helped you are all covering their mouths, eyes wide as they watch you cautiously strolling forward.

At the back of the store, it’s like time stops for Mingyu. Whatever he was doing, forgotten at the sight of you. He was unaware of how much your appearance could affect him. His eyes are trained on you, allured by your figure, scanning you up and down like a piece of art worth studying.

Buzz erupts all around you, mumbles and praises about your dress and how you look in it, but it’s all background noise for you. Mingyu’s heavy stare finds yours, and his ears turn a faint shade of pink. The subtlest smirk begins to form on his lips, spreading the warm feeling on your tummy all across your body. He can’t seem to drive his eyes away from you, and you don’t want him to. Your arms relax under his gaze, disarming the protective shield around you and drop to hang by your sides.

But, in a matter of seconds, the girls swarm around you, blocking all 360 degrees around you. Their positive opinions flood your ears as they walk you back to the dressing room, trying to convince you to choose this dress. You can’t look back, but you’re sure all the groomsmen left together.

Doesn’t matter. You’re definitely getting this one.

After spending the whole day shopping together, it marvels you how these girls still want to spend time together. When they noticed all the boys left, they planned an impromptu girls' night at Olivia’s apartment.

It’s amazing how they can spend hours and hours talking with each other, a few drinks here and there, never running out of topics, entertaining you when you’re too tired to talk.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you sit back on your side of the couch to read the new text.

Mingyu: hey, how are you?

Mingyu: sorry i couldn’t stay today, they dragged me to a boys night

Everything that happened a few hours ago flashes through your mind, waking a giddy smile on your face as you reply.

You: why are you sorry?

You: the girls wanted to do a ‘boys free’ night, we’re at Olivia’s rn

Mingyu: i didnt want to leave before making sure you were okay

Oh.

You: im better now

You: it was fun helping the other girls, took my mind off of it

You: but thank you, you didnt have to worry

Mingyu: good to know :)

Mingyu: next time ill drive you home

You: drive me home? Will i sit on the bike's handlebar?

Mingyu: i was thinking more like a piggyback ride

You: hmm... ill have to think about it

You tune back to the conversation before anyone notices you not paying attention, having no idea what turns the topic has taken in the time you weren’t listening.

“I think he’s definitely seeing someone.”

The girls divided into two groups with different conversations going on, but sitting in front of Cassie, you can only hear her side of the table. They might be talking about Tyler and their “relationship” problems.

“I really don’t think he is. He didn’t use his plus one you know.”

A smile forms in your mouth when your phone vibrates in your hand once again.

Mingyu: can you believe the wedding’s so close already

You: times moving so fast

You: i cant believe its less than two weeks away

Mingyu: it feels like it was only yesterday that tom told me he was getting married

“But today, he didn’t seem at all interested, he was really out of it from the start.”

“Maybe seeing dresses all day is not his thing.”

“No but like, I tried every move on him, and he didn’t even bat an eye.”

Bits and pieces of the still going conversation manage to register on your mind, and you realize they’re talking about Mingyu, unaware of your current chat with him.

You: is the boys only hang out getting boring? Its not very polite to be on the phone you know

Mingyu: theyre all playing games, havent looked my way in over 30 mins

Mingyu: besides i much rather talk with you

You: well i wont argue with that

Mingyu: you seem bored too

You: you’re definitely helping me get through the night

“Maybe he’s just not interested in you.”

Olivia teases Cassie, even though her comment is more than just a joke. But why is Cassie so adamant on wooing Mingyu if, according to Olivia, she really likes Tyler?

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Mingyu: you know what I just realized

Mingyu: I forgot the dance routine already

You: omg me too

You: we might have to meet to practice like you said

Mingyu: we can do it at my place

Mingyu: you up for it?

You: i should ask you that

You: your feet are going to suffer because of me

Mingyu: that’s a risk im willing to take

Mingyu: but I gotta warn you, I take my practice very seriously

You: sure, you can carry me back to my apartment after we're done

Sitting on Mingyu’s couch, waiting for him to get back from the bathroom, you’re too tired to do anything else than looking around his living room. It’s so him. The warm and neutral colors make everything feel cozy, with pictures of him and his family hanging on the walls – no ambiguously romantic photos with unfamiliar girls, and everything is so tidy, not one pillow out of place, even after practicing for over an hour. Out the window, you can see the sun starting to set, and the buildings across the street start lighting up. You recognize all of them. 

All this time, he’s lived so close to you. His building barely a ten minute walk away from yours. You can’t help but wonder, what would’ve happened if you kept in touch, if you just walked two more minutes to the park he frequents, or sent him a follow request on Instagram the few times he popped up on your recommended. It comforts you that at least you have this chance to reconnect with him, to make things right. 

But sounding confident over text is easy, and now, you’ve only danced for the whole time you’ve been here, barely even talked about anything else. 

It’s conflicting, the guilt of meeting with Mingyu behind everyone’s back – even if it’s no one’s business –, the excitement of seeing him alone after weeks of only wedding related stuff, and the actual need to practice the dance so you don’t embarrass yourself, all colliding in your mind, making everything awkward for you. 

Like ten thousand spectators, the windows of every apartment watch you through the glass, just sitting, waiting. Mingyu left only a couple of minutes ago, but after the many times you stepped on him, you wonder if he’s actually hurt. 

“Are you okay? Tell me if I need to call a doctor for your feet!” 

You shout with your head looking towards the bathroom door. His chuckle travels all the way to your ears before he opens the door. 

“I’m fine, I swear.” 

As he comes out, your body tingles with nervousness once again. He sits beside you on the couch, unknowingly making your head spin. 

“You sure? I don’t think feet are supposed to withstand all of that.” 

“I’m okay, just tired, why don’t we rest for a bit?” 

They way he sits, on his side, facing you, and his arm resting on the back of the couch, your eyes can’t help but wander to where his arm muscles start showing. Every variation of the phrase “butterflies in your stomach" could describe the way you feel as he watches you, paying so much attention that you mumble your next sentence. 

“This couch is way too comfortable. It makes me want to just stay here the rest of the day.” 

“Let’s do it! We can even have dinner here. If we order take out, we can tell them to leave it at the door.” 

“That sounds nice, but one of us will have to go get it.” 

“When my roommate comes home, he’ll bring it inside for us.” 

“Oh my god, you have a roommate? When is he coming back? I don’t want to be a bother.” You look towards the entry hallway, like he’s about to come in and kick you out. 

You really don’t want to leave, Mingyu’s company is already becoming one of your favorites, but you hadn’t counted on being around another person, and in their home for that matter. You start to get up from where you’re sitting, worried about having overstayed your welcome, but Mingyu’s hand grabs yours softly and drags you back down. 

“I invited you here. It’s not like you’re trespassing.” 

“But I’ve been here for hours, is it not too much?” 

“I guess I don't want you to leave.” 

His hand hasn't let go of yours, his skin against yours waking up your whole nervous system. You like how it feels when he’s looking at you, but you can’t help feeling too observed under his gaze. 

“Should we practice one more time?” You get up as your other hand takes Mingyu’s free one to try and get him off the couch too. He doesn’t fight your push, but you still struggle to move him barely an inch. 

“Now that I think about it, my feet do really hurt.” 

When he stands up, your hands dreadly separate as you go press play on the song you had paused earlier. 

“You’re a big and strong man, you can handle one more dance.” 

The music starts slowly, and when you turn around to go where Mingyu’s standing, he’s quick to put his hands around your waist and bring you to him. 

Like that day in the dance class, your bodies are quickly coordinated. You’ve been over the same dance for over an hour now, so at this point, every step is engrained in your muscle memory forever. 

“Why don’t you take the lead on this one?” He might’ve felt your sudden confidence in the moves, but fails to realize it’s only because you’re doing it with him. 

“Do you have a death wish? The last time I tried to take the lead on a dance like this, it ended really badly.” 

“But you’re doing good now! I’m sure it couldn’t have been that bad.” 

“Don’t you remember the senior prom? When I made my date trip and he fell onto the chocolate fountain? He got completely covered in melted chocolate.” He shakes his head, making you more confused. “He dislocated his shoulder. You really don’t remember? 

“I don’t-” He chuckles at your story but stops his words when he realizes you don’t get what he wants to say, “We left early.” 

“Oh… I guess you had a good time with your date.” Thinking about him with someone else puts a bad taste in your mouth. 

“I didn’t have a date, I went with the guys.” Somehow, that’s less believable than you being a good dancer. 

“I vaguely remember seeing you dance with a girl. Is my memory failing me?” You remember because you hated it. 

“Maybe I did dance with someone, but I couldn’t score a real date.” 

“You can’t be serious.” 

“I am! Why don’t you believe me? 

“Because I knew at least ten girls who had a crush on you back then.” 

The dance is already forgotten. None of you make the effort to go over the moves. With your arms hanging around his neck and his hands holding on to your waist, you’re just going around in slow circles, eyes connected as your talk turns into something more. 

“Well, I wasn’t interested in them.” 

“But still, you could’ve easily gotten a date.” You could let the subject go, and maybe you should, but you really want to make your point. “I would’ve gone with you.” 

“Don’t say things you don’t mean.” 

“But I mean it.” 

“You wouldn’t have gone with me.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“Yes I do!” His tone gets serious, and it just makes you more desperate to make him understand. He needs to know he’s wrong. 

“No, you don’t! You would know if you had asked!” 

“I wanted to! 

You stop in your tracks, looking straight into his eyes, seeing little hints of shock on his face as he realizes what he said. If your bodies were closer, you’re afraid he could feel that you stopped breathing for a second. 

“Why didn’t you?” 

“Because I knew at least ten guys who had crushes on you back then,” you’re about to shut him off, but he continues, “and you did end up going with one of them.” 

“So, you did see me.” 

“Yeah, didn’t stay much after that."

None of you know what to say, as your minds work tirelessly to understand what this conversation means. 

“You really should’ve asked me.” There’s so much more you want to say, but you simply can’t. 

“You were kind of popular and, I don’t know… It messed with my head.” 

“I didn’t care about those stupid labels, and I thought you didn’t either.” 

“I know you didn’t, but I wasn’t a confident kid back then, I couldn’t just go up to the girl I liked and ask her out.” 

Your jaw reaches the floor after hearing those words. The girl he liked? 

Speechless for a few seconds, you can only look at him, trying to figure out if he meant to say those words specifically. He seems to be proud of what he said, showing no sign of regret. 

“So, now that you’re all grown up…” you dare to let your fingers caress the skin at the base of his neck, and his hands tighten around you at the touch. 

“One would think that, after so many years, things would’ve changed but-” 

“I don’t believe you’re not confident by now.” 

“That did change, but apparently, other things didn’t, even after growing up.” 

He tilts his head to the side cockily, his piercing gaze making you feel hot all over. 

“Maybe some things aren’t meant to change.” Like an adrenaline rush, it’s your turn to feel confident as one of your hands starts playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I'm starting to discover some things are not that different for me either.” 

“Could it be, perhaps, the same thing I’m talking about?” His arms wrap around your waist, bringing you closer to him little by little. 

“Hmm, I don’t know, you’re being very vague, I could be talking about still enjoying country music.” You joke so he doesn’t notice your heart beating twice as hard as normal. 

“I think you know what I mean.” His smirk is one new thing about him, not that you’ve never seen it before, but the reason behind it makes it way more thrilling to see now. 

“I want to hear you say it.” 

“You really didn’t know? I mean, back then, I always thought I made it obvious.” His chuckle sends shivers down your spine. 

“I wish I did.” You can’t help but think about how your life would be if you made a move on him all those years ago. “But I never said anything either, I was shy too.” 

“Good thing we can make up for the time we lost.”

His droopy eyes send you down a spiral you have a hard time coming back from, all your insides becoming putty, feeling his want through his embrace, but there’s still one more thing to get to. 

“You know… you say you’re so confident now and whatnot, but I still haven’t heard you say it.” The look you give him is all he needs 

“Fine, you win, I used to like you, and seeing you again made me realize I still kinda really do, I’m always eager to get your attention and to spend time with you.” He pauses to take the quickest breath ever, all while you’re losing yours. “I know we’re not the same people as back then, but if you want to, we can get to know each other, again, more mature and less stupid. I have my regrets about how I handled my feelings in the past, but I won’t make the same mistakes again. And I will ask you on a date after the wedding, just a heads up.” 

“Wow, I was fine with just an ‘I like you’, but it’s nice to see you’re just as down bad for me as I am for you.” You confess with a joke because, how can you possibly answer that? Your brain is barely receiving enough oxygen as it is. 

“And one last thing, I really, really, really, want to kiss you right now.” 

“Then why are you not doing it?” 

It takes a second for the words to register in his head. A second where you only look at each other, almost not believing what’s happening. The air around you gets so thick, so hot, almost unbearably heavy. And just when your hands begin to push his head your way, his lips attack yours.  

All the resurfacing feelings come to life, colliding like a thousand stars that have been running to meet for millions of years. His arms around you bring your body closer to his, forcing you on your tiptoes to follow his lead while his hair tangles between your fingers. 

It's surprisingly slow, yet hungry and desperate, making the other feel everything through the connection of your lips. You move along with him naturally, and when he bites your lower lip as a request for access, you don’t hesitate. His hands creep under your shirt just as his tongue dares to move past your lips, exploring your whole body to his liking. 

Your chests flush together, leaving little to no space between your bodies, and you can do nothing but melt in his embrace. Your hands wander around his arms and back, touching and feeling every muscle they encounter on their way. When his hands travel down your lower back and reach your ass, you sigh on his lips and immediately feel his smirk against you. 

A furious knock on the door makes you both jump and separate, leaving you looking at each other, breathless and with confused faces, until you hear a knock again, as strong as the first one. That’s when Mingyu decides to check his phone and sees it's his roommate, who had apparently forgotten his keys. Both a blessing and a curse. 

“Bro, what the hell? I’ve been calling you for about 15 minutes.” You hear the door opening, followed by a new, deep voice. 

“I told you I had company.” Their voices echo through the hallway. 

When they finally reach the living room where you’ve been awkwardly trying to make yourself look presentable, the roommate's face morphs into something, a mix of surprise and realization. You rush to gather your stuff after muttering some variation of ‘hello’ and 'goodbye' to him. Your heart still pumps twice as fast as normal, and you don’t trust you’ll be able to handle yourself if you stay for longer. 

“I’ll see you on the weekend?” Mingyu asks when you’ve both reached the entry, his hand on the handle, hesitant to unlock the door. 

You want to kiss him again so badly. His lips are parted, still swollen, calling to you to connect them with yours again. 

“Find me when you crash the bachelorette party.” You make your best effort to sound confident and not at all dizzy because of him.  

“You know about that?” 

“The bridesmaids know everything... It’s only a surprise for Olivia.” You peck him goodbye, like a promise for more. And the feeling of his lips on yours lasts all night.

It’s roughly around 1 am. when a high-pitched scream from Olivia announces to everyone at the bar that the bachelor party has officially arrived. 

The effects from all the alcohol you consumed in the last 4 hours are just starting to fade, only a little buzz left. But that doesn’t prevent you from seeing what’s happening all the way across the room. 

Mingyu standing with his hip resting on the barstool, listening to Cassie as she drunkenly asks him something. You want to stop looking, not wanting to let all your previous feelings resurface again, not after the recent development in your relationship with him. But just as soon as you’re about to turn your head the other way, Mingyu interrupts Cassie’s rumbling and tells her something, to which she doesn’t respond, nods awkwardly, and just walks away, leaving him standing there. 

That’s your signal to walk over to him. 

“Looks like I found you first.” 

“Damn, I wanted to get you a drink first.” 

The music and the people drunkenly signing and shouting makes it hard for your voices to reach the other, and Mingyu takes the opportunity to take a step closer to you. 

You stand against the bar as the room grows warmer and warmer the closer his body gets to yours. His height taunts you as he stands against the bar as well, forcing you to look up so you can see the smirk on his face. His fingers play with yours as the intensity of his stare increases. You don’t care that you’re in public, that anyone from the wedding can see you two. Maybe you want them to. 

“How’s your night going?” His hair tickles the side of your face. 

“It was really fun, I might be growing fond of the girls." You don’t remember much, just a vague memory of many different games you played to get drunk, and the feeling of being happy. “How about yours? Don’t tell me you went to a strip club or something like that.” 

“Actually, we did a drunk escape room, didn’t even know those existed until today.”

The closeness between you is getting more worrying by the second, mainly because if you hear his low chuckle next to your ear one more time, you might pass out. 

“That sounds horrible!” You chuckle away from his personal space, only to encounter his hungry eyes already looking at you. 

“It was fun, I wish you could’ve been there.” His honesty has a sultry tone to it that makes your lungs completely empty of air. 

“I’m not sure we would’ve made a good team.” 

“Why? You’re smart! Or at least you were back then.” 

“Hey! I still am!” 

“I really have to get to know this new you.”

The pink and blue lights reflect on his face, giving him the most beautiful sparkles on his eyes, directed at you. 

“It’s not that new, I’m still very introverted, don’t talk much when there’s a lot of people around.” 

“I like that, you’re observant, good thing to be while in a escape room.” 

“We’re still talking about that?” 

“Maybe, maybe not, I don’t really care, I just wanted to spend time with you.” 

“Are you drunk?” You can only ask with a smile plastered on your face, but he shakes his head. 

“You kinda make me feel like I’m a teenage boy again, I don’t know how to explain it.” 

“I think I get it.” You place your hand on his chest, feeling the beating of his heart under it, even harder than the music blasting out of the speakers. 

“You know, back then, every time I had a free period, I would make my friends walk past whatever class you had, just to get to see you, at least for a second.” Out of everything he’s drunkenly confessing, this may be the one that surprises you the most because you really never realized he felt the same. He notices you freezing in place. “Once they found out, I was relentlessly bullied by them.” 

“I sure hope it was worth it.” If the lighting was any better, he'd be able to see the cherry red covering your cheeks and ears. 

“Every second of it.” Everything around the two of you moves slower, like time’s stopping only for the outside world, and the muffled background noises do nothing to pierce the bubble around you. “I really want to take you on a date, a real one.” 

“I would very much like that.” 

You can see the gears turning through Mingyu’s eyes, and you move your eyes down to his lips so he can take the hint. But nothing happens as someone else enters your little world. 

Olivia’s aware that something’s going on, her eyes switching back and forth between the two of you before she speaks. 

“I need your help, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m getting worried about her.” 

“About who? What happened?” Mingyu stays behind you as you turn to Olivia, grabbing one of your hands, and his warmth gives you goosebumps. 

“It’s Cassie, she’s been sitting alone in the restroom for I don’t know how long, she's way too drunk and I can’t take care of her.”

You now realize she’s slurring her words, meaning she’s also too drunk and therefore can’t take care of another drunk person, leaving you no choice but to go help Cassie. You look back at Mingyu, who encourages you to go, even if it takes a little too long for his hand to let go of yours. 

The graffitied restroom provides you with a little more light than the rest of the place, and when you enter, you recognize Cassie sitting on the floor inside one of the stalls. Luckily there’s no one guarding the bathrooms because if she’s seen throwing up, it could potentially get you both kicked out. 

You sit on the dirty floor beside her without saying a word, letting her know you’re here to help without giving her a headache. Her forehead’s resting on top of her knees as she hugs her legs tightly. But after a minute or two of silence, you decide it’s best to check if she’s at least awake. 

“Cassie? Are you okay?” Your hand on her shoulder makes her look up at you. 

“I don’t feel so good, I just want to sit down for a while.” She sounds tired, her husky voice giving away all the talking and singing she’s been doing all night. 

“Do you need anything? I can get you a cup of water.” 

“No, please, just stay here a bit, I didn’t want anyone to see me but I don’t want to be alone.” 

“Ok, I’ll stay, let me know if you need something, anything.” 

Time passes by, the music making it easier for you to not get bored. A few people enter the restroom from time to time, too drunk or too in a hurry to notice you both sitting down. Olivia passes by the door a few times, hovering, checking if everything’s okay (and if you’re still in the same position as the previous time). You just smile and nod, letting her go back to her party time and time again. But at last, in one of her check-ins, she finally walks inside. 

“Hey, Mingyu’s looking for you!” Both you and Cassie look up at Olivia, but her eyes point at you. “What do I tell him?” 

You instinctively look to Cassie by your side, and her expression falls. 

“Don’t, don’t go with him.” She finds the strength to plead to you, but she seems more worried than anything. 

“Why? Did he do something? Is that why you’re hiding here?” Olivia asks, and you realize she didn’t leave after you didn’t answer her. 

“No, no, I mean, yes I’m hiding from him, but he didn't do anything, it was me, I embarrassed myself.” 

“Why are you telling me not to go with him then?” 

“Do you like him?” 

“I-” Wow, blunt question out of the blue. 

“You can be honest, it’s fine.” 

“Yeah, I do, I like him.”

Telling them, her, the truth feels kind of freeing. Finally admitting in front of them that you like someone, after not being able to for so many years, it’s like you can finally breathe. 

“Then, for your own good, don’t go with him, he’s seeing someone.” 

“What? How do you know?” That freedom lasts barely seconds before a new weight falls right on top of your lungs. 

“He told me, when the guys got here, he said that he’s been after a girl for years and they recently started going out.” 

“Are you sure? Did he use those words?” 

“I’m not saying it verbatim, I don’t remember it exactly word for word, but that’s what he meant.” 

Could he possibly be talking about you? How recent is ‘recently’ supposed to mean? You haven’t even started officially dating. Is confessing your feelings considered the start of dating? Is it supposed to be this confusing? Are you going to believe her? Not that Cassie’s a liar, but you don’t know the context nor the exact words he used, and she doesn’t know what happened between you and him either. 

“Should I go tell him something?” Olivia's already standing up, your silence not helping the situation. 

“Just-" You don’t want to push him away, but it’s not the time to resolve this. The whole thing is too confusing to be making desperate decisions at this hour of the night, “Tell him to go have fun with the guys, I’m getting Cassie home.” 

The loudest alarm you could’ve ever set up wakes you up with a jump. Your head hurts like your inside out emotions are building houses inside your skull. But the memories still hit you as soon as your eyelids burst open. Some decisions were definitely made the night before. Wrong ones? That’s to be seen today.

And thanks to the gods and Olivia’s always late waking family, you’re not supposed to be at the venue until 11 am. Only bad news, It’s on a luxury complex outside the city. You have time for a real breakfast and a shower, but all the thinking and feeling will have to wait.

You unlock your phone to find the last text conversation open and the messages you barely remember sending stare at you through the dim screen.

Mingyu: you left so suddenly

Mingyu: everything ok?

You: yeah

You: had to take Cass to her place, she wasn’t feeling well

Mingyu: that’s too bad, hope she feels better

Mingyu: you just got home?

You: yep, about to go to bed

Mingyu: great, just checking before i head to sleep

Mingyu: sleep well, big day tomorrow

Admittedly, you were a little dry. Cassie’s words were still lingering on your mind, making you doubt everything. One side of your brain telling you that he was probably talking about you, he explained what he felt and what he wanted and sounded sure and truthful. But, the other part of your brain, the still self-conscious and self-doubting side, also makes valid points. The void years in between your relationship weren’t mentioned in his confession, and you technically aren’t dating. He hasn’t even asked you out yet! It’s too conflicting. But you know you have to face both of them today. After the ceremony.

The taxi ride to the venue is not only long but full of traffic. The sun shining bright directly to your face, the light humming of the driver to the songs of the radio and the occasional car horn on the distance, somehow make it bearable, with all the thoughts about the previous night, switching sides between the he said she said, it’s nice to have something constant while your minds goes on a rollercoaster.

A rollercoaster that doesn’t stop even when you arrive. As soon as you step foot outside the car, Olivia’s mom rushes you upstairs to where the make-up artists set up. There’s no time to admire the beautiful countryside venue. You walk past the door to where the ceremony’s going to be held later, but rush up the stairs without even looking. The green dress already waiting for you at the door, an infinite echo of voices and even more people running around make the atmosphere feel dizzying.

Nothing slows down for even a second. Even when you’re sitting down having your make-up done, around you there’s only people rushing to do everything, stressing about the little details, people running into the room to tell Olivia or her mom about decorations, the wedding planner coming in and out constantly, checking everything’s in order. It’s kind of beautiful how all this mess has the sole purpose of making today the best day for the couple. Even if it doesn’t look like it, no one will remember the dress that wasn’t properly ironed, or the string of hair that had too much hairspray on it, or the too slippery shoes that made it a chore to walk on the tiled floor.

So much chaos happens between the hair and make-up, and then with the photoshoots, you don’t have time to talk to Mingyu. Your eyes would cross from time to time, but those milliseconds of him in a suit glaring at you from across the room are enough, and there’s so much of that you can take before an internal chain reaction begins.

The walk downstairs, after all the make-up retouches and fixes to any rebellious stray hair that didn’t want to stay in place, feels like the first calm and slow moment of the day. As the steps get closer and closer to the bottom floor, the red carpet muffling the clicking of your shoes, your insides feel fire-like when you see Mingyu waiting for you by the final step, an unknowing smile on his face. His eyes drill holes on your figure, scanning you up and down shamelessly.

“You chose this one, I like it.” He whispers by your ear as you walk to the door, where every pair is already waiting. A little smile shows on your face, but it fades when your eyes encounter Cassie’s, watching the two of you with a frown so little you only notice because she immediately relaxes her face.

The music starts before you can say anything to Mingyu, and one by one, each of the bridesmaids start walking down the aisle, arms linked with the groomsmen, gracefully walking forward as the eyes of every guest fall on them. Your arm tangled with his is the first touch you share since many days ago, and even with all the conflict making your mind a blur, your heart speeds up at the feeling of his muscles.

Nothing seems slow anymore, and the ceremony almost goes by without noticing. There isn’t one second where you don’t feel Mingyu’s eyes on you, making it impossible to focus – or pretend to focus – on what the priest is saying.

The moment your brain reconnects with your ears, Thomas delivers the most beautiful vows you’ve ever heard. You met the guy only once, never even spoken to him, but the way he speaks so fondly about Olivia makes your heart clutch in your chest, and your throat tries to fight it, but you end up bursting with tears. But you’re not the only one with a cascade of dramatic tears falling with seemingly no end. As the room fills with applause and even some whistles at the first kiss between the officially married couple, you see some people with tissues, quietly blowing their nose.

But the never-ending rush in time continues, everyone sprinting to sit at their tables for the reception. The last retouches of make-up get done quickly. The girls gossip to kill the time before the dance, because for them it’s moving so slowly, but in the blink of an eye, you’re going out the door once again, just as Cassie taps on your shoulder. You turn to her, expecting her to be angry, or at least to start speaking, but it looks like she’s still figuring out what to say.

“Thank you, for taking care of me last night, I’m sure you would’ve preferred to enjoy the party.”

“I wasn’t going to leave you alone, it’s fine, you don’t have to thank me. Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, I am! But actually, I wanted to apologize.” Your head spins, dizzy from the world suddenly stopping hearing her words. “I didn’t know there was something going on between you two.”

“There’s not- I mean, not much happened, I didn’t want to cause a fuzz over it.”

“But you should’ve told me you liked him, at least! If I knew about it, I wouldn’t have gone after him.” You see in her eyes nothing but honesty. “I know we’re not as close as before, but these are the things we need to tell each other. It’s the girl code.”

“I don’t really know why I didn’t, I know I should’ve, I didn’t know how.” You’ve now started to go downstairs to the reception, already the time to dance in pairs.

“Look, it’s okay if you’re not comfortable telling me this, but did something happen? Was he talking about you last night?”

You’ve reached where everyone is waiting, and you’re too embarrassed to look up and possibly find Mingyu standing there, leg-melting and breathtaking.

“I thought about it but I don’t know, maybe?”

Back at the reception, the music starts, signaling the newlyweds are about to begin their first dance, meaning in no time you’ll have to step in and dance around them.

“I’m going to ask you three questions and you just have to answer yes or no. There's no need for explanation, okay?”

“O…Kay?”

“So, you two knew each other in school, did you like him?” You nod shyly, not looking in her eyes, embarrassed to be talking about this so openly, “Did he like you?” You nod again, “And did something happen recently that would indicate that he would like to date you in the near future?”

You give her a final nod and finally look up at her. She sighs, taking your hand and squeezing it to make you pay attention.

“Then he meant you dummy! Go, talk to him. He’s been staring at you all day like a lost puppy.”

When you dare to look his way, where you just knew he was standing, he’s looking at you, a little smirk on his lips and subtly motioning he's ready to take your hand. You didn’t notice it was already time, and everyone around you stands in their position.

The pairs start entering one by one, and your smile trembles, feeling the eyes of every guest on you. Your fingers barely graze his, but they feel raw, like you can feel every particle of his hand below yours. The electric fire emerging from where your skin connects with his runs through your veins in record time.

But as soon as the music starts and Mingyu turns you so you’re looking at him, everything is forgotten. The steps come easily, his eyes calm but observing, his hand on your waist guiding you as he did every time you practiced.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” He whispers, not wanting to disrupt the moment, but knowing it’s the only time you’ll get alone.

“I swear I didn’t mean to.”

You panic. There was so much to do and so few words you could come up with to say to him that maybe you unconsciously avoided him by locking yourself up in the make-up room.

“Did I do something wrong?” He doesn’t sound hurt, but rather just plain curious, eager to work this out between you two.

“No! it was just a misunderstanding,” he waits for you to continue, but the part of your brain that makes sense starts crumbling, making it impossible to form a coherent argument, “I- can I ask you something? It might sound stupid, I’m warning you.”

“Go ahead.” He chuckles, his feet continuing to dance while you've already forgotten about it. One of your hands stays on his shoulder, while the other is being held by him, still in the air by your sides, reaching the height of your shoulders.

“You’re not dating anyone, are you?”

He doesn’t let the silence even come close to the two of you, chuckling quietly so you’re the only one who can hear it.

“I’m not, hard to believe I know, but I’m painfully single.”

“Great, I just wanted to make sure.”

“I remember telling you I want to take you on a date.”

“Y-yeah, of course I remember that too."

The pit of your stomach lights up at the remainder of that afternoon in his home, your bodies as close as they are at this moment.

“Then what made you think that?”

“You just, you said to Cassie last night that you started seeing someone recently and, I don’t know, we didn’t technically start dating, so I panicked.” Saying it out loud to him, it sounds ridiculous, but if he thinks that, he doesn’t show it.

“Oh that, yeah, I might’ve gotten ahead of myself, but hey, think of it as manifesting.” He’s so charming that you don’t care that he’s making no sense.

“Next time, don’t tell a drunk girl who’s flirting with you the wrong information. She might spread it around.”

The synchronized chuckle you let out makes you pay attention to the forgotten situation. You’re dancing and haven’t tripped once, like your muscles got a life of their own and remembered every single step. And you suddenly realize how close your body is to Mingyu’s. One hand down the small of your back, pressing just enough to hold you in his personal space, his face close enough that you could concentrate on his breathing and feel the light exhales on your face.

When the music ends, the applause makes you look around, and your cheeks feel warm immediately, noticing all the eyes on every one of you. But the attention is short-lived, as you and Mingyu walk quickly to your table so the couple can do the welcome toasts. You don't miss how he slides your chair closer to his before you sit down.

Sitting by your side, Mingyu’s body and yours are connected by an electric current, drawing you closer. His knee stays glued to yours, and the cut on the side of your dress allows your bare skin to brush against the fabric of his pants. A conversation takes place between everyone at the table, one of the guys telling a story about something funny that happened with Tom back in high-school, but it’s hard to pay any real attention when Mingyu’s fingers start tracing circles on your knee. He’s not even doing to be a tease. It seems like it’s a habit of his, one that you’re just discovering. You don’t stop your fingers from playing with his, and a subtle smirk forms on his lips at your action.

It’s not like you’re doing anything too flashy or indecent, but you do your best to mask your reactions to his touches, to try and keep the people of the table unaware of the not so innocent things going on under the fancy tablecloth. He only notices your changes because he’s paying attention to you. The way your chest rises just a tad bit more when his hand goes a little over your knee, or how you drink from your cold glass of water when he presses on the skin of your inner thigh, but when he’s about to move his hand off of you, you put yours on his to keep it in place. You also notice things throughout the night, for example, that Mingyu isn’t drinking a lot, restricting to one glass of champagne per serving. You do the same, wanting to remember this night in the future.

Mingyu stands up when the dancefloor opens again, turning down an offer to go to the bar for something stronger than sparkling wine. Instead, he reaches for your hand, silently inviting you to dance with him, to which you agree, with a smile and avoiding his eyes. Following behind him, he doesn’t let go of your hand, even when you’ve reached the spot he wanted. People join you on the dancefloor, drunkenly vibing to the dj set, surrounding you, and blocking you from anyone you know. It’s feels almost private. Whatever song is playing on the speakers, it doesn’t prevent you from following your own rhythm in your own world. Your arms wrap around Mingyu’s neck, and both of his hands hold your waist, mirroring the evening at his place.

“So, tell me, what other embarrassing things did you do when you liked me?”

He throws his head back in embarrassment, sighing with a smile before daring to look at you again. His ears turn a light shade of pink, and you swear you can feel his heartbeat between your bodies.

“I really told you that, did I? I was hoping you wouldn't remember.”

“Nope, I remember it very vividly actually.”

“Let’s leave the embarrassing stories for the future, I wasn’t in my best condition last night.”

“You’re making me too curious now, but how drunk did you get last night?”

“Honestly, I was just nervous about seeing you and about tonight.” He might be confessing another embarrassing thing, but behind his truthful tone, there’s something you can’t quite decipher.

“What’s there to be nervous about tonight?”

Your heels allow you to be in his line of sight, and your chests are too close. If you inhaled deeply, you’d be able to feel him on you. He takes advantage of your new height and forces your attention to go to his lips, smirking shamelessly as he thinks his next words.

“Did I tell you how pretty you look today?"

One hand comes close to your face, removes a strand of hair from blocking your view, and tucks it behind your ear.

“Oh, shut up.”

You can’t even think of a snarky response, your brain melting and showing just how much he affects you. Goosebumps spread all across your arms and back at the feel of his hand caressing your skin.

“I can’t, it’s all I’ve thinking about all day, you, this dress, and you in this dress.”

You instinctively hide your face on the crook of his neck, his cologne invading your senses. It’s hard to think of words when he’s looking at you like he wants to eat you whole.

“I got it because of you. Do you really like it?”

Not that you need any confirmation, since he’s told you twice already, but it wouldn’t hurt to hear it from him one more time. Your reveal makes his smirking lips graze your ear, sending shivers down your spine, and his voice drops an octave to answer.

“I love the dress, but I’ll love it more once I get it off you.”

“I hate you.”

You barely manage to say, your chest rising but breathless at the same time. Your body’s automatic reaction is to push him away, and your hands go straight to his chest to try, but of course it’s pointless. His hands catch yours, not letting you leave his personal space. He taunts you by spinning you around, and once you do a full twirl, he grabs you by the waist again and brings your body to his.

“You have no idea how hard it was for me that day when you stepped out, wearing this.” He gets closer to your ear with every word. You hate it and love it. For one, you can hide from his teasing eyes and blush in peace, but on the other hand, you are cheek to cheek with him, his breath fanning lightly on your side, and you can feel he’s still smirking. “You’re lucky there were other people in the room.”

A breath catches in your throat, and you swallow hard. You thank all the gods there are out there for being surrounded by drunk people. Because to anyone on their senses, your reaction to Mingyu's words would be too obvious.

“I really hate you right now.”

It’s getting harder and harder to ignore the heat growing at the pit of your stomach.

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“I think it’s quite the opposite actually.”

How are you supposed to play hard to get when his hands hold you like he wants to keep you forever?

“You think you know everything.”

You catch your voice about to tremble when his free hand starts going down the side of your arm, from your shoulder down until your hand, and interlocks his fingers with yours.

“If you hate me then, I can’t tell you the secret I’ve been keeping all night.”

“Have you been secretly writing an article about how to break someone’s heart in 10 days?”

“I love that movie, but it has been well over 10 days, I couldn’t make the deadline.”

“Rom-com connoisseur, noted.” You jokingly nod, but not forgetting what’s important. “Now tell me.”

“So, you know how they told us there were rooms available for anyone that couldn't drive home?” You nod, too enthusiastically. “I may or may not have booked one for tonight, and if you want to, there’s space for one more, we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to…” He keeps talking, something about you watching him do something, but you get lost in the way his lips move as he talks, so pink and fast and hypnotizing.

“Isn’t it rude to just leave?”

The question leaves your mouth more to tease him than anything else. You want to be alone with him so badly, feel his body all over yours, his hands everywhere he can reach, ripping this godforsaken dress off you.

Before the last food serving rolls out and everyone scatters to go back to their seat, you sneak out of the reception, but the drunk bodies are not making it easy. Mingyu leads the way with you grabbing his hand and walking behind him. You don’t know if you could’ve managed another teasing touching session under the table.

You take a left turn into the hallway just at the same time as one of Olivia's drunk uncles, a stranger to the both of you, who’s half asleep using the wall to steady himself as he walks. The music echoes through the walls, and you can only look at each other, half about to burst out laughing and half needing to take the others clothes off, as you walk as nonchalantly as possible past the man trying his best to open his door.

Giggling like teenagers, you finally reach your room at the end of the hallway, but the second you enter, the atmosphere changes. Standing by the closed door, shoes off, panting, and frozen in place, you only look at each other. Your breaths regulate, and your smiles slowly fade off your expressions as the realization hits. It’s real. He’s here, and you’re here, in a room just for the two of you. His eyes are bound to your parted lips, but you wouldn’t know, as yours are also unable to leave his.

Like magnets, brutally drawn to each other, your lips finally reconnect in a hungry, desperate kiss. After learning how sweet he tastes, how his lips glide over yours so easily, how he wraps his arms around you to keep you close to him, there was only so much time you could spend in abstinence.

No words needed, the want translating in the way your hands push him against you, his hands traveling across your back, touching and groping everywhere he can reach. After the long day testing your patience, neither of you can slow down.

His fang claws at your bottom lip, making you whimper against him. He drinks in any sound you make, his arms bringing your body impossibly closer to his, almost making you one. No one is in control, both of you just touching and grabbing anywhere you can, desperate for more.

Your mouths reluctantly separate as Mingyu starts leaving a trail of kisses down your neck and biting lightly on your sensitive skin, making you gasp. You can only thread your fingers on his hair, encouraging him to leave any marks he wishes to.

“Is this okay?”

His raspy voice travels to your ears, and you don’t trust yourself to not make unholy noises if you open your mouth to answer. But just as you’re humming, he digs his teeth just above your clavicle, turning your hum into a moan.

He slowly slides the straps of your dress down your shoulders, his fingers teasing your skin on the way down. His hand travels across your chest, only the silky green fabric in between your fiery skin and his teasing fingers. They go over your pointy hard nipples, feeling everything on its way, but not letting it stay anywhere for more than a second.

“Are you going to take it off?”

Your breathlessness makes him chuckle, smug and cocky as ever.

“Rushed?”

“Very. You’re the one that put the thought in my head, now take care of it!” His hands sneak up your back, playing with the zipper of your dress.

“Don’t act so innocent.” His tone goes straight to your core. The fabric around you loosens up as his hand runs down your spine, but he stops before it gets too loose to slip down. “You think I didn’t see the way you looked at me all day? You’re not slick.”

He takes a step back to take off his suit jacket, absentmindedly throwing it to the side without breaking eye contact. But you don't let yourself get shy.

“Who said I was trying to hide it?”

Your hands run from his shoulders to his chest, unbuttoning his shirt one by one as his breathing speeds up. The warmth of his body envelops your hands, your fingers barely grazing the skin above his pants, and his muscles tense at your touch before you slip his shirt off.

“Now who’s the one teasing?”

Pulling on the red tie around his neck, he swallows hard as you bring his head closer to yours, so close you unconsciously flutter your eyes closed. His bare chest rises against yours as you undo his tie slowly. You could tilt your chin up and break the tension once more, but something in you wants to keep teasing him.

A step back is all you need to have his lips chase you, and he opens his eyes, droopy and confused, to find you slipping your dress off. His stare turns surprised and hungry as you reveal yourself for him, but his body stays frozen in place.

“I’m supposed to do that.”

It’s your time to chuckle now, taking a step forward again. His hands slot on your waist instinctively, traveling to your stomach, enjoying the feeling of your soft skin against his hands.

“You’ll get to do it next time.” The sentence is almost left unfinished, a breath getting caught in your throat when his hands dare go up your chest. But they’re gone in a heartbeat, as they reach your face and tilt it so you can properly look at him.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” No teasing tone on his voice.

“I’m literally naked in front of you.” Your hands go back up to his neck, pushing his head slightly down, reaching a hypnotic closeness. “I want this, I want you Mingyu.”

Confirmation is all he needed to let loose, to let the want take over his body and soul. He connects your lips with force, and wastes no time. With his hands on your ass and his tongue working its way inside your mouth, he stumbles backwards until you both fall on the bed.

With you on top of Mingyu, your hands make their way across his chest, his golden skin glistening due to the sweat. You can feel his hard muscles tense under your touch, making him sigh on your mouth when you find his sensitive spots. His hands move to your hips and push you down on him, making you both moan un unison because of the first friction between your cores.

His growing hard grinds deliciously against you. Even with his pants still between you, you can feel how big he is, and the wet patch on your panties grows by the second. Your lips are still smashed together, a mess of saliva allowing your lips you glide faster and hungrier on his, your tongues becoming one, not wanting to separate ever again.

Your hands find their way down his abdomen, reaching where his pants hang on his hips. The absence of a belt makes it easier for you to unbutton them, and he takes the off expertly, all without ever taking his hands off you.

The second your hand sneaks under his underwear, he groans under you, disconnecting your mouths to take a look at you.

“Is it embarrassing to be already close?” His blood red lips are parted, breathing out his confession, and you almost moan, clenching around nothing because of the sight, or his confession, or maybe the whimper he fights when you wrap your hand around him.

“You’re so big, fuck.” You sigh, and the side of his mouth quirks up, but slowly disappears as you start sliding your hand down, smearing the precum on his length.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.”

His eyes have a mix of concern and lust on them, and your body doesn’t know how to react, your stomach flips, your hands tremble, and your underwear grows wetter.

“I know you won’t.”

You climb down on him, your eyesight reaching where his boxers begin to tent. His gaze follows you, like he can’t believe the reality of what’s happening. You take off the last piece of clothing left on his body, and his dick springs free, standing proud and angry red in front of your eyes. The throb on your throat makes you move forward, wrapping your lips around his leaking tip.

“Wait. Don’t.” You look up at him but he’s facing the ceiling, ears red and eyes closed. “I can’t.”

“I haven’t done anything.” You play innocent, and a smirk appears on your face when he finally looks at you, resting on his elbows.

“Exactly, that’s why I can’t, I need to have a little bit of pride left.”

“What do you suggest we do?” You slowly climb up on him again, his hands moving to your hips like they got a life of their own. One hand on his chest and one hand on his jaw, you kiss him softly, and he melts at your touch.

A soft moan is heard, could be from him, could be from you, but your mind is too clouded to care when he rolls his hips against yours, following the pace of your lazy kiss. A rush of arousal takes over your body when he presses you harder against him, his length sliding perfectly with your core, your wetness making it easier to reach every point that makes you gasp.

“I want,” his lips stop working on yours, but his arms keep you from separating. You feel his every breath, every gasp at the friction, and his lips graze yours when he speaks, “I want to taste you.”

“Fuck.” He might just be able to feel the new rush of wetness dampening your panties further and smearing around his hard below you. His hands push your hips up his body. He told you what he wants, and he’s showing you exactly how he wants it. “Are you sure? I don’t want to crush your skull.”

“I wouldn’t mind that, at least I’d die happy.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that if you want it.”

The chuckle he lets out reverberates from his chest up through your whole body. There’s not much you can do besides complying with his wants, especially with the way your body’s reacting to the sole idea of it and the way he’s moving you to where he wants.

His hands sneak under the strings of your underwear, and as you climb higher and higher, he removes them easily, leaving you bare on top of him.

“You’re so wet, shit.” Your pussy pulsates just above his face. You can’t see his reaction, but you for sure can hear it, “I would’ve done this sooner if I knew this was waiting for me.”

From your point of view, his whole face is covered, by you, on top of him, only his messy hair laying on the mattress can be seen. A view that’s dizzying and hypnotic at the same time, and you can’t think of any answer to give him. His breath on your wet core makes you shiver, but you’re afraid to sit down, afraid you’ll hurt him.

Mingyu senses your hesitation and gives you no more time to doubt. His head rises until his tongue meets your folds, flattening on you, desperate to make you feel good. The sudden stimulation makes your legs tremble, and you would've fell on his face if it wasn’t from his hands still holding your hips.

He starts making out with your cunt, moaning and groaning against it like this is also pleasurable for him. His tongue finds every place that makes you gasp, moan and whimper, and with every lap at your folds, a nasty wet sound accompanies it.

A shaky moan escapes out of you when he envelops your clit with his lips and sucks lightly, making you grab the headboard so you don’t fall on him.

You must’ve fully sit on his mouth in your search for support, because he moans louder against your pussy, and you can feel everything. His lips and tongue working to drink every drop of arousal that leaves you, discovering every sensitive spot you didn’t know about.

The tip of his nose bumps your clit just as his tongue finds its way inside your pulsing hole, and you instinctively move your hand down to pull at his hair. The action encourages him to go faster, harder, and when you grind on his face and he groans like he’s enjoying it, you let go.

Riding him, chasing your high, you’re using his tongue for your own pleasure. Your hand on his hair tightens, and you lose the little control you had of your throat. But the unfiltered sounds you make just push him harder. Every one of your senses is clouded. The wet sounds, the way he moans against you, his tongue already knowing where to go to make you squirm, everything culminates without warning.

You cum on his tongue faster than you have ever before. Your thighs tremble at either side of his head, and you realize you’re crushing him between them. But he doesn't let you get up. His tongue continues to work on you,

He cleans you up, drinking every last drop of arousal smeared on your skin. You spasm over him every time he –not so accidentally– flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue, starting to get you overstimulated.

You use the strength you have left to push his head back, and take advantage of his surprise to plop down on his side, your back on the mattress and your pussy finally away of his eager mouth.

“Are you okay?”

From the corner of your eye, while you try to recover, you see Mingyu doing his best to clean the lower side of his face.

“Yeah, fuck, that was a lot.” You manage to say in between breaths. “I need a second.”

“If you’re too tired, we can st- fuck.”

You don’t give time to overthink, quickly getting on top of him again, your swollen dripping cunt right on top of his still hard cock.

“Second's over.” Only a little smirk is the warning he gets before you’re grinding on top of him again. All of your juices mix as you slowly ride back and forth, his length sliding between your wet folds deliciously. “I’m clean, and on the pill, are you?”

“On the pill? Unfortunately not.” How he manages to make you laugh even on your horniest moments will forever remain a mystery. “But I’m clean, I’ve never had sex without a condom before.”

“Me neither. I guess this will be a new experience for the both of us.” The sole thought of it makes his dick twitch under you.

“Are you sure?” His hand cups the side of your face, and his eyes look at you with such care that you could melt in an instant.

“Yes, I don’t want to wait anymore. We’ve waited long enough.” That seems to relax him, his hands beginning to roam freely across your torso.

Sliding forward makes the veins of his cock drag along every sensitive spot and you both moan before his tip finally prods at your entrance. A loud hiss comes out of him as you align yourself with his length and push his tip in.

But before you can go any further, he wraps his arms around your waist and turns you around so your back is against the mattress. You gasp at the sudden change, and when he starts slowly sinking into you, filling every possible space inside you, you lose your breath.

His cock being covered by your fluids makes it easier, and when he finally bottoms out, so deep you feel him everywhere, you hear him trying to muffle a moan. Your gummy walls clamp around him, trying to get used to his size. The twitch of his length feels stronger while inside you, and you know he’s trying to resist the urge to pound into you.

“Move, please, I need you.” Your pathetic whimper triggers another smirk out of him, and as he moves down to give you a soft kiss, his eyes darken.

“Whatever my girl wants.”

The slow drag of his cock as he starts sliding it out almost make you delirious, but before his tip slips out, he snaps his full length right back in, making your body jolt upwards. You can't speak properly, a curse you can’t even hear leaves your mouth before he repeats the action, again and again.

“So deep, Mingyu, fuck.” The brutal pace he sets has him abusing every single sensitive spot inside you, even the ones you didn’t know about, hitting relentlessly where it makes you scream, and you’re seeing stars.

“You don’t say my name often,” his voice is raspy and deep, almost mirroring the way his cock pistons inside of you, “I like how it sounds coming out of you."

Your palms are against the headboard and you’re sure the bed hitting against the wall can be heard from other rooms, but when one of his hands sneak between your bodies and starts circling your clit, you stop caring all along.

The grinding of your hips matches his rhythm, accentuating everything as he drives you closer and closer. With his face just above yours, you can only look him in the eyes and let him watch your face contort in pleasure feeling every vein of his cock dragging inside of you. With any other person, you would be self-conscious, but as he finds that spot inside you that makes you squirm, you forget the world around you and focus on grabbing his strong arms for support.

His teeth find your neck again, biting and kissing on your soft skin, pushing you closer and closer to the edge, and he doesn’t stop drilling his hips into you. Somehow, you feel him deeper with every thrust, and the only thing you can do is claw your nails on his arms and back, encouraging him more and more.

“You’re so tight, shit.” His hips stutter when you clench hearing his voice. “Tell me you’re close, please, fuck, I don’t now how long I got."

“Yes! Yes, don’t stop.” You tighten impossibly harder around him when you feel him pinch one of your nipples. He’s literally everywhere, stimulating every spot to tip you over the edge.

Your arms and legs cage his body so close to yours that he has trouble keeping up with his pace, but that doesn't stop him from pounding hard. The sound of skin your skin hitting against his and his groans are like music to your ears.

It's when his thumb teases your clit again that you finally snap.

You tremble around him, moaning uncontrollably as he keeps pounding into you, prolonging your orgasm as he pleases and chasing his own. But he’s far gone too. Your sweet moans in his ear and your walls clenching around him so perfectly are enough to have him spilling inside you.

Sleepiness is about to get you when you feel him sliding out you and plopping by your side. Naturally, one of his arms slots under you as your head rests on the crook of his neck.

There’s silence while you both catch your breaths, his hand softly drawing circles on your back and yours on his chest. As reality sinks in, giddiness fills your entire body, and you can’t contain the smile growing against his golden skin.

“Did you do any embarrassing things back then?” The sudden interrogation makes your cheeks turn red.

“I’m guessing there’s no way out of this, right?” You avoid looking up at him to not make your shyness obvious, and you feel him shake his head as an answer. “Fine… you know… your fangs?”

“My fangs?!” Amusement and surprise mix on his voice.

“Fuck this is so embarrassing.” You’re caged between his arms but you manage to cover your face with your hands.

“You liked my fangs?”

“I still do, but yeah, I would just draw little fangs everywhere, I guess no one ever noticed because they looked more like vamp–"

“Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow?” He luckily interrupts your embarrassing rant with his pending question.

“Already? You want to see me again that badly?” You feel the chuckle on his chest before you hear it, and at that moment, it’s the best sound you’ve ever heard.

“I plan on taking you on dates at least three times a week. You’re never getting rid of me now.” He embraces you in his arms, chests flushed together, and when you tilt your head up, he’s already looking at you, expectant for your answer. “So, what do you say?”

“Yes, I would love to have dinner with you tomorrow.” The smile he gives you might be the most blinding smile you’ve ever seen. “But just so you know, I do not have sex on first dates.”

thank you so much for reading♥♥ sorry this took so long to finish

[mariasont]

JUST THE TIP(S) - A.H

aaron learns the hard way that upping your maintenance allowance has unexpected, explicit perks. especially when you insist on showcasing your newest investment while he's stuck miles away.

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, sexting, nsfw imagery, exhibitionism? (in the form of pictures), references to masturbation, workplace inappropriateness, power dyanmics (boss/employee), dirty talk, sugar daddy hotch vibes wc: 1.7k request: here!

Hotch attempts to read the file in front of him again, just to keep himself busy, but it starts to resemble gibberish somewhere between the countless victim timelines and his unwavering staring contest with the phone screen. 

Nothing. Still nothing. 

It’s been, he glances down for confirmation, thirty-nine minutes since he hit send. Not exactly long enough to panic. Yet here he is, panicking, because your replies normally land instantly, punctuated with frantic emojis, a parade of exclamation points, and nonsensical crises like:

i just made toast and almost caught my sleeve on fire but it’s ok now !!!! 🤭

So, yeah. Thirty-nine minutes feels like a small eternity.

Last week, he had upped your spending limit. You murmured something vague about having a bad day. You didn’t supply any specifics, no dramatics, just an innocent observation that he instantly took as an urgent call to action.

He logged into your account and adjusted your monthly extras, expanding that little safety net you didn’t even know he color-coded as you-time on his accounting spreadsheet. 

It wasn’t even remotely about the actual money. How could it be, when you were always giving pieces of yourself away — filling his silence with your easy chatter, kissing his frown lines, leaving perfume on his pillow (and everywhere else). So if a few extra hundred dollars meant more wellness appointments or a couple frivolous purchases that could help you feel more like yourself, it was the easiest, most obvious choice in the world. 

This is what he attributed your lack of response to. You’re probably out using that buffer right now.

He doesn’t need to spiral.

But he does anyway. Because when he’s not around, you have a tendency to forget to hydrate, to neglect to eat anything remotely nutritious, to lose yourself in shiny distractions, and his mind, unfortunately, never seems to shut off where you’re concerned.

He digs the heel of his hand into his forehead, trying not to jump to worst-case scenarios. He’s not clingy. Definitely not the kind of boyfriend who sends another text after less than an hour. 

Still, he nudges his phone a bit closer, strictly precautionary.

It takes exactly fifteen more agonizing, anxiety-inducing minutes — minutes shaped like big neon question marks — before the phone finally buzzes.

You: hi bossman !! miss ur grumpy face sooooo bad it’s criminal (arrest me??) how’s the case?

He exhales through his nose. His first thought is to correct you, to say that he’s definitely not grumpy, but his fingers pause, and he erases it instead. 

He is grumpy, though he’s fairly certain it’s directly correlated with how long it’s been since he’s since your face.

Hotch: Miss you too. Case is fine. Hopefully wrapping soon. Should be home late tomorrow. What did you do today? Everything okay?

You: yay !! can’t wait to see u ! got my nails done 🩷 they’re sparkly pink and sooo cute wanna see?

He snorts once, rubbing his thumb over the edge of his phone.

Hotch: Somehow I already know exactly what they look like.

He pauses, considers, then quickly adds,

Hotch: Send them anyway.

Hotch expects something wholesome, mundane even, manicure displayed prettily around a cup of overpriced coffee (a staple for you) or maybe the steering wheel of your car. 

What he receives instead is categorically, devastatingly the antithesis of wholesome. Completely unfit for polite company. His phone nearly plummets to the floor accordingly, eyebrows already halfway to his hairline.

Your new nails, as glittery as you advertised and innocent enough in isolation, become fully obscene in context, pussy spread wide, your fingertips highlighting slick, swollen folds and a flushed, glistening clit practically begging for attention. 

Hotch has always considered you beautiful — insanely, impossibly so — but this vision of you. A vision where you’re open, soaked with a brazen sweetness that borders on indecent, surpasses beauty entirely.

It’s sinful, artful perfection crafted with the sole intent of his demise. No matter how quickly he closes his eyes, the image is now seared permanently into his brain, burnt onto his retinas in dripping pixels.

Hotch never could fathom why anyone would willingly risk sending something so compromising. It spat in the face of good judgment and flagrantly ignored every articulated piece of advice he’d ever given. He’d lectured until your eyes glazed over about internet safety, how every text you send is stored indefinitely in some obscure digital archive, potentially retrieved at the most inopportune times. 

He was certain, perhaps arrogantly so, that you’d internalized his paranoia.

How wrong he had been.

Because he now stands staring at the evidence of your rebellion, humbly acknowledging that he himself has become precisely the sort of fool he’d warned you about, happily entrapped by the irreverence of a single photograph.

The only genuine risk Aaron can currently recognize is the frankly painful strain of his cock pressing against his zipper and the fact that you’re hundreds of miles away. 

He draws in a sharp, shaky breath through gritted teeth, silently pleading with unapologetically indifferent cosmos to grant him patience. 

Or teleportation.

Hotch: Gorgeous nails, sweetheart. Clever use of your resources, though next time save me the torture and just show me in person.

You: glad u like them 😇😇 maybe consider it motivation to hurry home faster?

Hotch: Duly noted. If I close this case in record time, you’ll know exactly why.

You: i can always send additional inspiration if it helps your productivity 🥰

He doesn’t remember making the conscious decision, and frankly, he doesn’t care enough to second-guess it now, because his palm is already moving, instinctively pressing down to relieve the unbearable tension straining his trousers.

He’s halfway through typing out his surrender (a blunt, undignified Yes. Now.) when a sudden, sharp knock jerks him brusquely back into a reality that pales considerably compared to what he’s just been forced to abandon.

His thumb stalls above the send button then pockets the phone, exhaling through his nose as he smooths the front of his tie with a touch more vigor than necessary.

If he were honest, and lately honesty seems unavoidable, another second spent alone with your message would inevitably lead him to doing something highly inappropriate beneath the desk, your name hissed quietly against clenched teeth.

By the time he reaches the door, Hotch has resigned a reasonable facsimile of composure.

At least from the waist up.

He cracks the door open cautiously, standing at an awkward, stiff angle, hoping that Rossi won’t notice the disarray happening beneath his belt.

“Local PD's still caught up arguing procedural technicalities,” Rossi drawls, seemingly unaware. “Apparently, nothing moves forward without our explicit approval.”

You’ll have to wait. And so will his dick.

The so-called procedural technicalities take three hours. Three. hours. One hundred and eighty increasingly insufferable minutes drowning in bureaucratic drudgery, combing through details Hotch is positive he could recite while heavily medicated. He pinches the bridge of his nose, attempting to fend off the migraine steadily encroaching.

He’d managed the polite, dutiful thing — a succinct, thoroughly unsatisfying reply to you about responsibility and paperwork, the kind of message that made his own eyes roll at its dreariness compared to your far more compelling offer.

And now, each monotonous signature is underscored by thoughts of you, each image progressively more not-safe-for-work than the last.

He pictures your nails, painted in that damned color you loved so much, wrapping firmly around his cock, stroking with leisurely hands. How good it would feel. How you would lean closer with thay look in your eyes, lips parted, whispering filthy words that would make the tips of his ears bleed red.

He loved spoiling you, sure, but secretly, selfishly, he knew the real reward came later, when your fingertips traced up and down each vein of his length.

His daydream splinters to pieces as another officer delivers a statement so inane, Hotch considers, with alarming sincerity, the merits of repeatedly banging his head against the wall.

Before he can fully commit to a public crisis of faith in his career choices, his phone vibrates in his pocket.

Stupidly, he sneaks a quick look,

You: bet that paperwork has you wound up tight. when u get home, feel free to fuck out all that frustration. im yours however u want me <3

Hotch snaps his phone off with such force he’s briefly amazed the device doesn’t shatter.

He redirects his gaze at the neat rows of law enforcement jargon before him, willing the flush spreading from his neck to his ears to retreat. He’s knows he’s past the age of blushing fits, but apparently, you delight in reminding him otherwise.

Hotch’s eyes briefly skim the room, double-checking that the rest of his team is sufficiently absorbed in their tasks.

Hotch: I sincerely hope you’re prepared to stand by that offer, he sends back, thumb tapping a bit faster. Because I fully intend to take advantage of your generosity. 

The familiar little bubbles of an incoming message appear almost immediately, punctuated seconds later by the ping of an attachment.

Hotch reopens the thread, only to be met with an image of your pretty hands cupping even prettier breasts.

Suddenly, he’s standing, brisk strides carrying him toward the hallway, a curt, excuse me tossed hastily behind him, already pressing your contact photo before the door swings fully shut behind him.

You answer on the first ring. “Hi there, handsome. Calling to check on me?”

Your voice, dripping with honeyed naivety, and the image of your tits still pulsing insistently behind his eyelids, sends an immediate rush of heat southward.

Hotch grits his teeth, resisting the temptation to flee toward the bathroom for a quick release.

“Do you really think you’re being fair to me? While I’m stuck here, of all places?”

“Fairness is subjective. Personally, I think it’s unfair you’re so far away when I clearly need your expert opinion on this manicure.”

“Expert opinions are usually best delivered in person. Very hands-on.”

Your giggle spills through the line, and Hotch is convinced it should be bottled and sold as medicine. How he managed to win the privilege of hearing it on demand is an eternal mystery.

“Aaron Hotchner,” you whisper, “is this how you typically behave at the office, or am I getting special treatment today?”

“You’re permanently on the receiving end of special treatment.”

Another giggle.

“Well, I fully intend to cash in on that privilege when you get home, and I advise your neighbors to consider getting some top-quality earplugs.”

He clears his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other to mask the fidgeting as purposeful adjustment. Unsuccessfully, of course. He can feel Morgan’s stare burning pointedly into the side of his head. Honestly, if roles were reversed, Aaron would probably be offering equally unsubtle judgment.

“Sweetheart,” he warns, lowering his voice, “you’re making it exceedingly difficult to pretend this call is work-related.”

“Fine, fine,” you say. “Go play nice with your friends and come home safely. I miss you.”

“I’ll be there as soon as humanly possible.” He inwardly rolls his eyes at his inability to maintain any credible authority with you. “Try to stay out of trouble until then.”

“No promises.” He can picture the smile on your face. “But I’ll do my best to keep your investment safe, these nails weren’t cheap, after all.”

“Careful. Because when I get home, I won’t be gentle enough to guarantee their safety.”

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[foolinafable]

your wildest dream, his nightmare

Five Hargreeves x Reader Synopsis: Walking into Max’s diner as a respite after you and Five are seemingly stuck you don’t think you could’ve imagined a better outcome surrounded by various versions of your lover. At the same time, for him it’s nothing more than a bad dream he hopes will end soon. Word count: 760 Tags: Fluff, Jealous Five, Crackfic Note: This small fic because it's funny to imagine jealous Five being jealous of himself

“Come on”

Five grabbed your hand as he led you out of the tube to, probably, another timeline. It must have been a few hours the two of you had been stuck in this place going station to station still with no idea how to get back. 

You turned left but instead of being greeted with the usual blankness for Five to scribble about in his notebook you instead were somewhat blinded by the light of a sign.

‘Max’s delicatessen.’ You made eye contact with Five to the side of you before tilting your head with a nod towards the building. He simply followed your lead before quickly grabbing the door to let you in first. 

You turned back to smile in thanks when you noticed his shocked expression, head quickly turned back towards the diner at a call of your name to see the whole diner was made up of your lover. Looking back to Five, your Five, in bewilderment a shocked smile on your face.

The look on your face seemed to take him out of his stupor clearing his throat before leading you into the diner- trying to find an empty table for you to sit at. He was quickly stopped by another Five, one sat on his own, and gestured for the two of you to sit opposite him. Five begrudgingly agreed as he realised the restaurant was at max capacity. No spare table in sight.

You quickly shuffled onto the brown bench when the other Five spoke 

“It’s rare to see one of you around here” he smiled happy to see you

“Maybe this is not my typical scene” you rebutted a cheeky smile on your face that the Five opposite you seemed to enjoy, dimple now showing from smiling so wide

“Maybe” he breathed out in a laugh 

Before you could continue to speak with this version of Five another one appeared in front of you, this one not wearing a suit or vest. He quickly placed down a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich in front of your Five. He then turned to you placing a very familiar drink in front of you

“Your favourite” he declared when you looked confused  

“How did you know?” You smiled at him eyebrows furrowing as his cheeks went red

“We all know your favourites” he shrugged as if it was the most normal thing in the world

“Um- Thanks” you nodded your head in gratitude 

“Anything for the missus” he mumbled before leaving to go back to the kitchen 

You took a sip of your drink when your Five spoke irritated “What was that about?” a hand possessively stroking at your thigh 

“A lot of us having seen our version of her in a long time” the other Five spoke wistfully   

“How sad” you stated before turning around in your seat you waved and greeted the Fives around you who all became quite delighted at your attention all greeting you with a similar bravado.

“Okay.” Five declared “I think we are done here” he quickly at up pulling you up with him by grabbing hold of your hand once more 

“But we just got here, can’t we stay a little longer and rest?” you asked not wanting to leave. I mean why would you, surrounded by multiple versions of the man who loved you, say no to having his attention on you?

“No, we need to get back to my family in our timeline, come on. We are wasting time.” he rebutted practically pulling you away from the diner seemingly getting even more annoyed as the other Fives shouted goodbyes towards you.

“I didn’t realise I was so annoying, that was a nightmare” Five claimed as you sat on a train hopefully taking you back home

“Sure you weren’t jealous?” you quipped staring at him mischievously

“No” he grumbled arms crossing against his chest

“Then you won’t mind if I-” you spoke moving towards the doors to go back to the diner, quickly shutting up when Five grabbed your hands pulling you back onto the seat beside him. You simply smiled at his look of false ire towards you as the train started to move. Resting your head on his shoulder as he let a smile grace his features giving a kiss to the top of your head.

You hope that at some point you will get to return to the diner- a place you have just coined akin to heaven on earth.               

[reiding-writing]

What about a cold!reader where Spencer gets jealous this time?

Like they meet another police team and they also have a "Spencer" who's dorky and they don't really listen to his rambling so she's kind to him (in her own cold!reader way) Spencer is like "???? The fuck is this exactly?"

SILENT TREATMENT. /spencer reid/

spencer’s not sure if you made the right decision by choosing him. you know that you did.

s10!cold!reader 3.1k flangst series masterlist. main masterlist.

a/n | i fear i missed the ‘police team’ part of the first request and made spencer 2.0 a pathologist instead, oops-

The air in the precinct is heavy with stale coffee and tension. You stand at the whiteboard, arms crossed, eyes scanning the photographs pinned to it—victims, maps, timelines.

The others are seated around the table, all mid-discussion, but you’re quiet. Not checked out. Just… precise. Listening without indulging the noise.

You speak when necessary.

“Victim three deviates from the geographical pattern. If it was opportunistic, the UnSub’s comfort zone is widening. If it wasn’t—he’s accelerating.”

Rossi nods, pen tapping against the table. “Could be staging, too. Make it look random.”

“Could be.” You don’t elaborate. You don’t fill silences. You let them speak if they have something worth adding.

No one pushes for more. They know how you operate. They know you don’t soften things. Not for comfort, not for camaraderie. You’re professional, respected—and emotionally distant, even now, even years into working with them.

The only exception to that is sitting three feet away from you, pretending to read a file he’s already memorised twice.

Spencer is quiet. Quieter than usual. His gaze flicks to you every so often, like he’s trying to time something—his words, maybe. Your reactions. Your temperature. Whatever it is, he’s trying to gauge where you’re at without having to ask.

“Spencer,” you say without looking at him, “page twelve. The blood spatter analysis.”

He’s already on it, of course. He lifts his eyes quickly. “Right—uh, yeah. The cast-off patterns indicate repeated strikes from a blunt object, likely with some torque. There's arterial spray on the west wall, so the blow that killed her came from the left side.”

You give a small nod. “Thanks.”

That’s it. No warmth. No smile. But Spencer straightens a little like it meant something. Like he’s grateful for being asked.

Emily side-eyes the two of you, not subtle in the least. “Is it just me, or has Boy Wonder been extra clingy lately?”

Morgan grins over his coffee. “You noticed that too, huh? He’s been on her like a puppy. Following her around the crime scenes, sitting next to her at lunch, hanging on her every word…”

JJ chimes in, amused. “It’s kind of cute. He’s like one of those Victorian ghosts—you know, all sad eyes and emotional repression,”

“Hey,” Spencer protests, not quite looking at any of them. “I don’t—cling,”

You don’t react. You never do when they tease him. And Spencer doesn’t look to you for help either, but you can feel the tension in his shoulders beside you.

Still, they’re not wrong.

He’s been… off lately. Not in a way most people would notice, but you’re not most people. He’s always been close to you, but recently, he’s orbiting you in smaller, tighter circles. Sitting closer. Waiting longer when you speak, like he's hoping you'll say something more.

The team has picked up on it. Of course they have. But they don’t know. Not really. They just think he’s crushing harder than usual. No one suspects what’s actually going on—because you’ve made sure of that.

You and Spencer aren’t the kind of couple who touch hands under the table or exchange soft smiles across briefing rooms. You’re not a couple that does anything in front of people, really. You’re together, but that truth stays tucked away between you and him, guarded in the quiet moments that happen off the clock.

Moments no one else sees.

“You doing okay?” you ask him quietly as the others begin packing up for the next site visit.

Spencer looks startled. “Me?”

You don’t repeat yourself.

He nods, quickly. “Yeah. Just… yeah,”

You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary. A flicker of something passes between you. Reassurance, maybe. Or a silent understanding.

Morgan watches the exchange from the other side of the room, eyebrows lifting. “Okay, seriously, what is that?”

You ignore him. You grab your coat.

Hotch glances at his watch, then at you. “You and Reid head to the ME’s office. JJ, Emily, and Morgan—head to the victim’s apartment.”

Spencer immediately moves to follow, a bit too fast, a bit too eager.

Emily catches your arm on the way out, voice low. “You’d tell me, right?”

You pause. “Tell you what?”

She gives you a long look. “Never mind,”

—

The mortuary is colder than usual, the sterile, humming kind of cold that seeps through your coat and settles deep in your bones. You don’t shiver. You just pull on a pair of latex gloves and nod at the technician who leads you and Spencer toward the back.

The morgue table is already prepped, and the body is covered with a clean white sheet. It’s clinical. Organised. Efficient.

Spencer walks beside you in silence, his hands folded in front of him, shoulders set in that way that means he’s wound a little too tight. You don’t ask why. You already know. He’s been tense since yesterday—since you listened to the young tech at the crime scene rattle off chemical compositions and possible causes of decomp with the kind of enthusiasm Spencer usually reserves for classical literature and obscure physics.

Now, you’re both here again, about to meet another new person excited to talk about death.

The doors swing open, and in walks a man who can’t be older than twenty-eight. Blonde hair slightly ruffled, round glasses sliding down his nose, blue gloves snapped on too tight. He’s grinning before he even says hello.

“You must be the agents! I’m Tyler, the newest forensic pathologist on-site.” He says it like he’s giving a TED Talk. “Technically I’m still finishing my fellowship, but I’ve done two post-grads already, and I’ve been shadowing Dr. Karlsen for the last three months—”

Behind him, a woman in her sixties, presumably Dr. Karlsen, sighs audibly. “Tyler,”

“Right, right,” Tyler says, waving her off. “Back on track. Let’s begin,”

He peels back the sheet with a reverent kind of gentleness, like he’s revealing a masterpiece, not a victim of a homicide. You don’t react, not outwardly. You observe the bruising around the throat, the defensive wounds along the forearms, the way one wrist seems just slightly dislocated from the rest of the body’s alignment.

Spencer shifts beside you, already piecing things together.

Tyler claps once, low but excited. “So, cause of death was asphyxiation due to manual strangulation, but what’s really interesting is the laryngeal cartilage—you see here?” He gestures with tweezers, careful not to touch. “This fracture on the right side of the thyroid cartilage? It’s called a hyoid crush. Super rare, but it suggests a significant amount of pressure, possibly done from behind. Also—if you look just under here—”

Spencer speaks up, voice dry. “That damage could also occur post-mortem if the body was handled roughly during movement. Depending on the timeline, it’s not definitive,”

Tyler blinks. “Yes—true! Great point. But in this case, time of death aligns pretty tightly with the estimated bruising pattern, which I can show you in just a moment. And did you know—” He turns toward you now, eyes bright behind his glasses. “—that the thyroid cartilage, especially in females, doesn’t always ossify the way it does in males? That’s why injuries here can be harder to spot unless you’re really looking,”

You nod once. “Interesting.”

He beams, clearly encouraged. “Oh! And even cooler—well, not for the victim, obviously—but cool from a physiological standpoint—is that the arterial pressure around the carotid sinus can trigger something called a vagal response. It can actually kill a person instantly. That’s why sometimes you see victims with minimal signs of struggle. Their heart just… stops,”

You don’t interrupt. You just let him go on, standing still, arms crossed loosely over your chest. Your face is unreadable, but you’re listening. Not because you’re overly impressed—his information is nothing Spencer couldn’t rattle off half-asleep—but because it’s rare to see someone talk about this stuff with that kind of earnest joy. It’s not affection, not interest. It’s more like watching a dog with a brand-new toy. Mildly amusing. Harmless.

Spencer doesn’t see it that way.

He’s standing rigid beside you now, arms crossed, jaw set tight. You can practically feel the radiating jealousy off him like static. Tyler’s voice is all you can hear in the room, but Spencer’s silence is louder.

Dr. Karlsen cuts in after a minute, clearing her throat.

“Tyler. You’re wandering,”

“Right, right, sorry,” he mutters sheepishly. “Okay. So, other injuries: mild contusions to the upper back, inconsistent with the ligature pattern on the neck—suggests those came before the primary attack. Or from an external for e,”

Spencer murmurs, almost too low to be heard, “Or the UnSub simply pressed her down with a knee to control movement,”

You glance at him. His eyes aren’t on you—they’re locked on the mortician, unblinking.

Tyler continues without noticing. “I’ll upload full reports to the BAU’s system. But if you’d like to stay, I’ve got the next autopsy scheduled in twenty minutes. It’s unrelated, but the skull fracture’s really unusual—he fell into an industrial lathe, if you can believe that—”

“Thank you,” you interrupt, voice calm. “But we’ve got another scene to process.”

Tyler deflates a little but still smiles. “Of course. Good luck with the case,”

Spencer doesn’t say goodbye.

—

Back at the precinct, the team regroups. Photos scatter across the table, evidence logs updated, and reports uploaded. It’s a flurry of movement, conversation, caffeine.

Spencer stays quiet.

Even when Garcia calls in with a list of potential suspect matches, even when JJ reads off new victimology data—he’s present, but distant. Contributing, but subdued.

The turning point comes when you’re scanning Tyler’s preliminary report again, eyes catching on something he’d mentioned in passing—about the bruising pattern not matching the ligature marks.

You frown. “This doesn’t make sense.”

Hotch looks up. “What is it?”

You pull a photo closer. “The bruising on the victim’s upper back was dismissed as unrelated, but if the UnSub had control of her neck from behind, these could be from bracing his knee. Except the angles are wrong, which means she was restrained by someone else beforehand. Or there were multiple offenders.”

A beat.

Morgan leans in. “Multiple Unsubs? Are you sure?”

Reid is already flipping through crime scene notes, pulling up maps, rearranging the timeline.

But you know the shift started with something Tyler said. A stray, almost off-hand detail—one Spencer had dismissed. And now, it’s cracked the case wide open.

You glance over at him again.

His expression is neutral, but you know him. Know the set of his jaw, the small twitch of his fingers against the folder, the way he suddenly won’t meet your eyes.

He’s not okay.

And the silence keeps going.

And going.

Spencer doesn’t sit next to you at the precinct. He doesn’t offer up extra information unless someone asks directly. He doesn’t bring you your usual coffee without saying anything, doesn’t lean over your shoulder to glance at your notes, doesn’t linger when you leave the room.

At first, you don’t even notice. Not really. You’re used to space. You need space. Silence doesn’t alarm you—it comforts you. If he wants room, you’ll give it. That’s part of being with someone, right? Letting them breathe.

But then it starts to feel like something else.

Something heavier.

His eyes avoid yours. His steps fall behind the team, not beside you. His voice, when he speaks, sounds smaller. Not quieter. Smaller.

And the team—well, they notice.

They notice fast.

“What do you think happened?” JJ whispers, leaning toward Morgan at the conference table.

Morgan lifts a brow. “Between Doctor Genius and Miss Ice Bath?”

JJ nods. “They haven’t said more than five words to each other in two days,”

“Maybe they had a fight,”

“About what? Reid would agree the sky was red if she suggested it,”

“Exactly,” Morgan mutters, “maybe that’s the problem,”

JJ laughs under her breath. “Or maybe Spence is just tired,”

Morgan chuckles. “Either way, something is weird,”

—

You keep your head down. You do your work. And when Spencer doesn't sit beside you, you let him be.

Because you figure if he needed you, he'd say something.

He doesn’t.

Not until four nights into the case, in a borrowed office space at the local PD. It's late. The rest of the team has gone back to the hotel to get some sleep, but you stayed behind to finish typing up victimology reports. Spencer stayed too—though he hasn’t said more than three words to you all day.

You assumed he was just buried in research.

He isn’t.

He’s pacing now, just behind you, his arms crossed tight like he’s trying to hold himself together.

You finally look up.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He stops pacing, stares at the wall for a moment, then turns to you, blurting out in a rush:

“Do you want to be with me, or would you rather be with someone else who’s… easier to deal with?”

You blink, slow. “Excuse me?”

He exhales, harsh and shaky. “I—I’ve just been thinking about it, okay? Since the morgue. Since that guy.”

You’re still. Watching him carefully.

He keeps going, words unraveling fast.

“He was like me. He talks like me. He got excited about the same things I do, and you—you listened to him. You didn’t tune him out, you didn’t tell him to focus, or cut him off, or roll your eyes. You actually looked like you didn’t mind. Like you liked hearing him talk.”

“Okay—”

“And that’s fine, that’s—I get it, he’s younger, he’s less complicated, and I’m not trying to make this into something dramatic, I just—” He cuts himself off, swallows. “You could have someone like him. Someone who doesn’t have… all of the— baggage, that I come with,”

He gestures at himself. Like he is the problem. Like all the things that make him him are some burden you’ve quietly been carrying.

You stare at him for a long moment.

Then you speak, slowly.

“I have no idea what you’re on about.”

Spencer looks confused. “What?”

“I’m going to assume you’re talking about the ME, and tell you that you’re being ridiculous,” You stand, stepping closer to him. “I was focused on the case. On the victim. Not on whether the guy liked explaining arteries.”

“But you let him—”

“Because I let you talk like that,” you say. “So why would I shut someone else down for doing the same?”

He doesn’t say anything.

Your voice softens a fraction—not warm, but honest. Quiet. Careful.

“You’re who I’m with.”

His brows draw together. “That’s it?”

You nod. “Yes.”

He’s still not sure how to process that. “But I’m—difficult.”

“I know.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

You sigh, stepping just close enough that your knees brush his. “Yes*.*”

You pause.

Then, carefully, you lift your hand and rest it on his knee. Not possessive. Not performative.

Just steady.

It’s one of the few times you initiate touch. He notices. His eyes flicker down, then back up again, and something in his posture shifts—like the weight on his shoulders finally loses a fraction of its heaviness.

He’s still spiralling a little, you can tell, but you add, gently, “You spiral. You overthink. You get jealous. You shut down.”

A pause.

“And I don’t care.”

His throat bobs.

You reach up, fingers brushing lightly against the edge of his hairline, tucking it back behind his ear. He leans into it instinctively, even though he’s still blinking like he can’t believe what just happened.

You look at him flatly.

“If I didn’t want to be with you,” you say. “then I wouldn’t be here,”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a week.

Then, finally, he nods.

And for the first time in days, his fingers curl around yours.

—

The next morning, everything is back to normal.

Or, at least, it seems like it.

Spencer sits beside you again at the precinct. He hands you your coffee, shoulder brushing yours. He leans over your notepad to make a quiet joke about the new crime scene tech who mislabeled three evidence bags, and you give a low, dry chuckle that makes Morgan do a double-take.

Emily stares. JJ narrows her eyes.

Something’s changed.

But it’s subtle. Maddeningly subtle.

There’s no hand-holding. No long, longing stares. Just… a shift in air pressure.

“You feel that?” JJ murmurs to Morgan as you and Spencer walk out of the room together, shoulders aligned.

Morgan sips his coffee. “Pretty boy’s silent treatment didn’t last long,”

“No,” JJ says slowly, “apparently not,”

They both fall silent, watching you disappear down the hall with Spencer beside you.

“You think they’re—?” Morgan starts.

JJ shakes her head. “No idea.”

But they’ll keep guessing.

They always do.

And you?

You’ll keep things exactly the way you like them.

Quiet. Private.

Yours.

[bootsukki]

I think this is cute

It all started with a ring. A simple, band of silver wrapped around Tsukishima’s left ring finger. It wasn’t flashy but it looked particularly new.

His coworkers, Kento and Ran, at Sendai City Museum noticed it immediately, especially when he had to take it off to clean pieces or when he needed to wash his hands.

“Did you see it?” one whispered, leaning against the coffee machine.

“Of course I saw it. How could I not?” another one murmured back, eyes moving towards the tall figure of Tsukishima, who was typing something on his computer.

None of them dared to ask. They all knew Tsukishima well enough to understand prying would get them nowhere.

Why was he wearing a ring? He never wore jewelry, so that initial theory was quickly debunked. Family heirloom? Could be, but still, it looked pretty new and he wouldn’t wear it. Then of course, the most obvious: marriage.

But, to who? Not even one of his workmates knew that he was in a relationship!

Their best bet was to observe him in his natural habitat— the museum. Maybe they could catch a glimpse of his lock screen or some text message received from a significant other. But nothing.

Until a group of students came to visit the fossils exhibit. Tsukishima was always the one who prepared and guided the students around the exhibit and gift shop, but today, he was accompanied by his two coworkers, as new fossils had been added.

“And there is the gift shop. We offer replicas of the fossils and several other objects that you may find interesting.” Tsukishima tells the children and their respective teachers. “We have a more specific area with educational resources for class.”

“Thank you so much, Tsukishima-san.” One of the teachers bows, showing him her respect and gratitude. “We’ll have a look.”

Tsukishima’s gaze lingers on something else for a moment and one of his coworkers notices the direction is going to.

“It’s no problem. If you excuse me, I need to grab something.”

The teachers nod and Tsukishima leaves their side, walking towards the front desk of the gift shop. Kento swats Ran’s arm.

“Look!”

“Kei, you forgot your lunch again.”

Their eyes looked at the shopkeeper, the lovely, bubbly (Y/N).

She stood behind the counter, holding a neatly wrapped bento with a look of fondness. The taller man sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I didn’t forget it… Just to lazy to carry it…”

“Aha, of course…” (Y/N) rolled her eyes, stepping out from behind the counter, leaving the bento behind for a few seconds. Without any doubt nor hesitation, she reached up to fix Tsukishima’s sweater and lanyard. It looked like she had just done that for years—her touch almost familiar.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, a smile playing on her lips as she tapped a finger against his chest. A finger wearing an almost similar ring to Tsukishima’s, adorned with a small diamond.

Kento and Ran barely held back their gasps.

This was it. This was her. The mystery wife, the lovely (Y/N) that hang out with them, went to karaoke and went out for drinks on Fridays. How long had they been together? How on Earth did they not notice?

Hiding behind a postcard display, they started murmuring about possible timelines, shivers running throughout their bodies at the haze of Tsukishima’s golden eyes flicking in their direction.

“I can hear you, you know?”

Kento and Ran scattered instantly, but not before hearing (Y/N)’s laughter and noticing the playful little smile on Tsukishima’s face.

[augiewrites]

"valley reverie" - sebastian

summary: the timeline of sebastian and the farmer’s relationship based on canon dialogue

pairing: sdv sebastian x farmer

word count: 2.5K

a/n: this may be my magnum opus

The sun was beginning its descent behind the mountains when Sebastian emerged from the house for the first—and only—time that day.

He shot a glance to his mother and Demetrius, who were standing at the edge of their property, looking over the valley bathed in golden light. His mother sent a small smile back, followed by a pointed disappointed look at the carton of cigarettes held loosely in his hand. Demetruis didn’t acknowledge his existence.

Sebastian knew it was a nasty habit, but he spent most of his life with not much thought to the future—he was surprised he made it this far. Maybe his life would have been different if he had planned better; if he had considered for a moment that there was such a thing as life past sixteen, then eighteen, then twenty-one. He supposed he should start to consider a life past twenty-four, but quickly dropped the thought as he placed the cigarette between his lips and continued his stroll to the lake.

He saw it then, as his lighter sparked to life and helped the cigarette take eleven minutes off his.

Someone was sitting in his spot. A humanoid blob of denim focused intently on the bobber floating in the water.

He hesitated, then decided to keep moving—his trajectory now locked in past the stranger and across the rickety planks of wood to the smaller islands in the middle of the lake. His mother had been saying for years that she needed to build something more structurally sound, but had yet to get around to it.

As he got closer, he took in more of the scene. There was a muddy bucket next to the stranger, and he noticed a couple slimy carp flopping around inside. Whoever this was, they clearly didn’t have enough experience to catch the tricker creatures in the lake.

Just as he was about to slip past toward solitude, he locked eyes with the stranger. Their bored expression quickly turned to worry.

“Sorry, am I in your spot? Robin said it was okay for me to fish here.”

Recognition sparked in his brain—his mother had told him about the new resident of Pelican Town. The words she had used to describe them flashed behind his eyes: sweet, a little lost, cute. That last one was sent his way with an exaggerated wink and met with a scoff from him.

“Oh. You just moved in, right? Cool.”

The farmer didn’t respond, just looked on waiting for an answer to their question. Sebastian didn’t gratify them with a response, instead looking across the lake at the tree line and abandoned quarry.

“Out of all the places you could live, you chose Pelican Town?”

The farmer scrunched up their mouth slightly, beginning to reel in their line. There was nothing but a limp worm dangling from the hook. Sebastian took note of the grieving look flashing on their face before it was gone in a blink.

“Better than where I was.”

Sebastian didn’t bother responding as the farmer heaved up the bucket—they were a lot stronger than they looked—and walked away without another word.

Robin smiled at the farmer with a wave and shouted goodnight before sending another disapproving look to her son.

_________________________________________

Sebastian heaved open the door of the house, exhausted from band practice. Sam was his best friend, and he enjoyed spending time with him more than he would admit, but the newest addition to the band was definitely a hindrance.

He didn’t dislike Abigail, and he couldn’t deny that she was a talented drummer, but he had been hoping for years that her little crush on him would fade away. He could only take so much of puppy dog eyes and over exaggerated laughter at his quips that definitely aren’t that funny.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts on how to shake off the purple-haired girl—more importantly, how to shake her off without actual confrontation—that he didn’t notice the farmer leaning against the shop counter until their voice pierced through. His mother was nowhere to be seen, so they had to have been talking to him.

“What? I didn't hear you...I'm busy thinking about something. What do you want?”

The farmer narrowed their eyes at him, leveling him with a glare. “You know, I get that you’d rather be listening to My Chemical Romance and jerking off to Nietzsche than interacting with a human being, but you really need to work on your people skills.”

Well, he hadn’t been expecting that.

He expected avoidance from the farmer, based on their first meeting and subsequent run-ins where they gave him a nod of acknowledgement before going back to acting like he didn’t exist.

He realized that the farmer wasn’t as timid and one-dimensional as he let himself think.

The moment was saved by Robin entering the shop room and dropping a workbench on the floor with a heavy thud. “You’ll make better use of this than I have lately—it’s pretty old,” she looked up from the dusty bench, noticing her son frozen in the doorway, “oh, hi Sebby.”

“Sebby?” the farmer questioned with a smirk.

Sebastian rolled his eyes, brushing past his mother to get to his lair.

“Sorry about him,” he heard his mother as he descended the stairs.

“It’s fine,” the farmer laughed, “he’s cool.”

He couldn’t help the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. _________________________________________

Sebastian looked down at the frozen tear in his hand with a neutral expression on his face, though his heart was quickening its pace.

“Gunther told me it’s fabled to be the frozen tears of a yeti.”

He met the farmer’s grin with one of his own, “I really love this. How did you know?”

They shrugged, “Seemed like some emo shit you’d be into.”

A breathy laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “Well…thanks.”

“No prob. I’ll keep an eye out for more when I’m in the mines.”

“The mines?,” his brow furrowed, “how far down did you go?”

“Not super deep, I think I stopped at sixty since it was getting late.”

Sebastian gaped at the farmer—who he now realized he really misjudged—as they shouldered their backpack and turned toward the door.

“Oh,” they stopped just shy of the threshold, “your code is wrong, by the way. Third line down.”

He looked to the screen, baffled, seeing that there was, in fact, a mistake in his code.

He began to ask the farmer how they knew that, but they were gone. _________________________________________

The sun was setting on the valley, and Sebastian found himself sitting by the lake’s edge with the farmer, who was reeling in sturgeon and bass with ease.

“I’m sure the city’s different for other people, but it was corporate hell for me,” the farmer spoke softly as they baited their hook—it was different than any bait he had ever seen, and the farmer had informed him that the wild man living behind their house had taught them the recipe.

Sebastian hummed, “I guess that makes sense.”

“You guess?” the farmer teased him, flicking water at his face.

He blew a puff of smoke in their face.

The farmer coughed, then began to laugh as they fanned the smoke out of their face, “asshole.”

Sebastian grinned, leaning back on the palms of his hands and gazing across the water.

They sat in comfortable silence as the farmer cast out their line and half-heartedly focused on the bobber—they didn’t really need it anymore, but liked the safety net.

“You and Sam are probably my only friends in this town.” Sebastian broke the silence, but continued looking straight ahead.

“Well I am very likable.”

Sebastian knocked their shoulders together with a scoff.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” _________________________________________

Sebastian was indifferent—and sometimes loathful—toward most events held in their little town, but tonight was an exception. It was hard to not be in awe of the midnight jellies, and he was excited for the farmer to see them for the first time.

They were perched at the edge of the dock, along with Sam and Abigail, their feet dangling inches above the water.

It was a lot colder than expected, and the farmer was bundled in his black jacket. He couldn’t help but feel bad about the sad glances Abigail was sending their way.

The farmer looked content, and Sebastian recalled something they told him at the beginning of the season—the used to be terrified of the ocean before moving to the valley.

He nudged their shoulder with his own. It didn’t take much effort—they were sitting a lot closer than he realized. A light blush dusted his cheekbones.

“I thought I saw something moving in there…” he pointed to the void of the ocean and leaned closer to their ear, whispering, “something big, something dark.”

The farmer’s eyes widened as they looked across the vast darkness before they narrowed and turned to him.

“Just trying to scare you...” Sebastian laughed.

The farmer smiled, knocking their knee against his, muttering an all too familiar “asshole.”

It wasn’t too long before Lewis sent out the first lantern, and the water surrounding the docks was filled with glowing jellyfish.

“It’s beautiful,” the farmer breathed out as their head landed on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” his eyes landed on a glowing green jelly before looking down at the farmer, “it is.” _________________________________________

Sebastian never saw the farm in its full glory—before the farmer’s grandfather grew old and passed away—but he had been there plenty of times when it was overgrown and abandoned.

He had told the farmer this as they sat on the newly installed swinging bench on their porch. They joked that they would be suing him for trespassing, since it was technically their property at the time, even if they hadn’t known it.

It was a chilly fall day, but the farmer had made a pot of coffee to keep them warm.

“I thought this was your busy season,” Sebastian lit up a cigarette and moved the ashtray closer to where he sat. It was a newer addition to the farmer’s decor. He thought about the prideful look on their face as they held it up and told him that Leah let them use her pottery wheel. It was painted with little creatures that looked like the much happier cousins of the slimes living in the caves.

The farmer hummed, holding their mug close to their face, but not taking a sip, “Yeah…a lot busier than I thought it would be, actually.”

He grinned at them, “so, you’re slacking today, huh?”

The farmer laughed.

“I’d rather hang out with your sorry ass than work.” Despite the insult, the farmer’s tone was soft and earnest. Sebastian felt his cheeks heat up.

“Could you picture me living on a farm? It seems ridiculous, but I have been thinking about it lately.”

“If I could do it, then so could you,” the farmer linked their pinky with his, “it’s a lot more freeing than you’d think.” _________________________________________

Boxes filled with Sebastian’s things lined the walls of the farmhouse, but Sebastian and the farmer lay in bed, choosing to ignore them. 

They had all the time in the world.

The farmer was twirling the pendant dangling from Sebastian’s neck, “there’s steam coming out of your ears, Seb,” the farmer giggled and smoothed out the wrinkle between his brows with their finger.

“I’ve just been thinking,” Sebastian turned his attention from the ceiling to the farmer, “The older I get, the less I'm drawn to the city. It had a certain mystique to it, once. But it turns out that was just a romantic fantasy. The city's so busy, so full of people... I don't belong there. I'm a loner.”

A beat.

“Present company excluded, of course.”

The farmer laughed, “Well I would hope so,” they tugged gently on the pendant, pulling him closer, “because you’re stuck with me.” _________________________________________

Sebastian and the farmer had joined his family for dinner, and his mother had shooed them away with one hand as she cooed at the bundle held tightly in her other arm.

The valley was coming to life, but the ghost of a winter chill was in the air. They settled down by the lake despite the cold. It was no longer his spot, but theirs.

The farmer was skipping stones across the lake when he grumbled about how being in that spot made him want a smoke.

“No one’s stopping you,” the farmer laughed.

“I am.”

The farmer still held a loose smile as they raised their eyebrows at him, “oh?”

“I'm trying my best to quit smoking now that we're married…” He avoided their gaze and brushed some mud on the palm of his hand onto his jeans, “I don't wanna die on you. It's a bad habit. I want to have a future together.”

A baby cried in the distance. Sebastian and the farmer smiled at each other. _________________________________________

The farmer was surprised to find Sebastian’s side of the bed empty when they woke up. It wasn’t a rare occasion, as they usually found Sebastian in the kitchen after a restless sleep, but he was nowhere to be found.

They couldn’t help but worry a little bit as they pulled on their boots and opened the screen door. They paused out of instinct to let the dog run out before them only to realize that the dog wasn’t hot on their heels like usual.

They had only gotten two steps onto the porch before a mass of fur and slobber crashed into their legs.

“Oh hello baby,” they cooed down at the dog as it rolled onto its back, breathing heavily out of excitement, “good morning stink.”

“Good morning to you too.”

The farmer was so caught up in giving the dog attention that they hadn’t noticed Sebastian leaning against the porch railing.

They straightened from their crouch, smiling at him as the dog whined from the loss of affection.

“I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I went ahead and fed the animals,” he pushed off the railing and took a few steps forward to fix a rogue piece of the farmer’s hair, “one less thing for you to do.”

“Thanks, Seb,” the farmer said softly, suddenly bashful, “I’m going to check on the pumpkins. Thought I could make some soup tonight if any of them are ripe.”

They took a few steps off the porch, “feel like being a country boy today? Or did you get your fix?”

He smiled, leaning his forearms against the railing, “I'll just watch you from here. I enjoy watching you.” _________________________________________

Sebastian and the farmer found themselves sitting on the porch swing once again. It was a mild summer evening, and he was looking on as a toddler played with the dog in the yard.

He tore his attention away from the rowdy scene in front of him to look at the farmer, who was curled up at his side reading a book. He felt his heart swell.

“This is so different from my old life, but I'm really starting to like it. I feel like I really belong here.”

The farmer looked up from the book in their lap, smiling.

“I don't often show it, but I'm really happy that I'm your husband. Marrying you was the best decision I ever made.”

[writingwisterias]

To be kind

Leon Kennedy x AFAB! fem!Reader Role Reverse AU (Agent Reader x Civilian Leon) Warnings: SMUT, MDNI, Baby Trapping, Heavy Breeding Kink, Angst, Nightmares, Postpartum depression mentions, Trauma, Fears of motherhood/pregnancy, Manhandling, Mating press (he's gotta make sure he gets it in there), creampie, Dom!Leon, Needy Leon, Dilf!Leon Words: 3.4k

Summary: All you have ever wanted is to be kind and look where that's got you. It's only fair now that Leon is kind enough to give you another baby to stop you from getting hurt. After all he just wants to keep you safe. For you ♥️ ILY

All you wanted to do in life was to give and be there for others in a way that people weren't there for you. Now you often find yourself whispering the words of comfort that you wished to hear from others for them. Encouraging the people in your life to achieve their dreams just as you wanted others to do for you. You desired to be kind, something that took more effort than being cruel and twisted like everything else in the world, it already had enough of that. You knew that your kindness is what led you on this path. Going from being a simple rookie trying to help out their future workplace to landing yourself in a dead end job with the highest level of responsibilities. 

Holding many government ending secrets which plagued your mind like a curse; a back spot that you can never get rid of despite how hard you tried to wash it away. Those secrets held a reminder that you didn't deserve the privileges you gained from a quiet mouth and hard work. Especially not after the things you had done to get here, all the people you left behind in order to complete a mission. The same people that were brave enough to give up their life for you.

These were the same privileges that allowed you to create the perfect home life but you didn't get to live it, it wasn't for you. The universe wasn't kind enough for you to enjoy the large back garden or the summer breeze that drifted its way through the open windows. It was all for the man that lived in it and spent his spare time crafting it into the perfect home. You were just lucky. Lucky enough to have survived that night, to have survived anything you have been through and to be in the same lifetime to have met him. Leon, a partner sent from heaven. A regular boring cop with a heart of gold, who worked his way through the ranks just as you could have done. The shiny sheriff badge on his shoulder displays his achievements proudly. 

He held a reflection on what your life should have been. Maybe in another timeline, you would have worked together and become the ideal couple working through the system and rank today. Partners in crime as you brought people to justice. Just like Batman and Robin as he always jokes. At least he knew your favourite hero and was willing to play the sidekick in your life. No questions asked despite the lingering bruises and scrapes you sported when you come home cloaked in a dark cape and tragic backstory. 

Your nightmares were of a higher jurisdiction than he had access to, at least that you can be thankful of. He can't be plagued by the things you have seen. Leon worked hard at home to ensure you lived a dream, so that despite the endless missions the white picket fence was still an option for you. He didn't care about your responsibilities, about your devotion to the cause you fight for. How could he when you came home worse for wear every time? You killed and protected for this dream, he just didn't know it. Your responsibilities crushed it from flourishing without it even starting.

At least that's what you thought until the first set of pink lines happened. The distraction wasn't as welcome to you as it was to Leon, his hands splayed across your stomach with a large smile, his joy radiating off him for the rest of the day. Whilst your hands cradled it with dread, the worry and doubt filled your system early on as the bump formed. It was cute as his thumb would rub  small circles over the skin like he was expecting a response this early. 

You watched his behavior change as you got further along in the pregnancy, he made his demands for you to stay home vocal despite your love-hate relationship with the field. Your skill set was out there, not as a mother protecting a child from the monster under their bed. How could you lie to them and tell them it wasn't real when they were and you have seen them. You have the scars littering your skin as evidence of their existence as you fought against them. One across your heart, jagged and red, in response to the parasite a cult infected you with. A bullet wound now faded in its age, a reminder of your biggest betrayal on the night that started it all. Both come from experiences with monsters that should have stayed in the story books and not have been revived from the imaginations of a craved mad man looking for power. 

The child came along quickly but the bond that should have followed after the birth didn’t. Leon suited the role, was proud of the title as his undamaged hands cradled the bundle of light. You were scared to stain the white blanket red, to taint her with the blood on your hands as you carried her and the weight of the world on your shoulders. It was just a cause from postpartum, the doctors claimed as Leon dragged you to the appointments, no longer being able to bear looking at you carelessly cradling the bundle to your chest. Finding it heartbreaking to witness the rejection and worries towards a surprise you weren’t excited for, he didn't know what caused your panic or fears about motherhood. It was a horrible secret, something you could and wouldn't express to him. You would end up dimming the light that radiated off him as he slid into fatherhood with ease, nurturing both you and baby as if it was second nature. As if once again he always knew his life would turn out like this. 

The rejection you had against her didn’t last long, not when her smile would greet you in the mornings with unconditional love. Her tiny hands now more explorative than claiming, her fingers delicate against the scars as they traced them instead of their pinching and grabbing behavior before. You wonder what she thought of them, if they were pretty like Leon thought or told an ugly side to you like you imagined. 

Those types of thought didn't really matter in the end as it became evident that the family you had created with him was now finally healing you. The eye bags you wore now lightening as you gained as much sleep as you could with a crying baby,  your body fills out lightly again as you ate with Leon every night. A 6 month maternity leave was what you needed apparently, to heal and find yourself in something other than the weapons and skills you used to protect yourself. However, just as quick as it came the maternity leave ended and he watched you fall into the same cycle you had created before, the wall slowly building as you steeled yourself to face the harsh survival again. Your body is working hard to be able to shoulder all your burdens, the cold features returning as you walk through the door. 

He hated what they did to you, what they forced you to become as he just did idle work for the community. Helping old ladies cross the road whilst he was on patrol, chasing after meaningless kids before they ruined their futures. He was the station's favourite, as was the little girl you both created. Her eyes danced around with wonder as he carried her around, her little fist clutched against his shirt whilst her head rested on his shoulder. They asked about you, how the birth was, about the recovery after. Cooed over the shared ability you both had at creating cute babies, questions of another one spilling from their lips in curiosity about their favourite officers life. “It’s better to have them close in age, they’ll look after each other if something happens.” they would say.

He knew what they were on about, he always did. You, the dangers that you faced in the role displayed on your own shiny badge that remained tucked in a pocket compared to on your shoulder like him. A job that reminded him life was short and precious, that every moment he spent with his family he should be grateful for. 

Leon wanted nothing more than to plead and beg on the phone to them, just to let you rest. It had been years since you smiled truthfully, since the light in your eyes returned for more than just your wedding night. Your daughter and himself are now presented in your life as guardian angels, the people that help save you from yourself. Leon hated you leaving, not knowing if you were going to return or if he was going to be greeted with a half assed apology and an American flag being handed to him by two soldiers. He could never stand seeing the missing piece of the stupid key holder you got him for christmas. Forever waiting for your keychain to fill the missing piece of the puzzle, not only in the tacky key display but in the home itself. 

He’ll blame his coworkers for putting the idea in his head, the seed that implanted in his brain which formed into his current plan to keep you safe and at home, at least for a little bit longer. He watched you shower through the reflection of the bathroom mirror, the steam he had wiped away coming back just as quick. You were fading from him again, retreating into your shell of darkness like it was some kind of punishment. In the fogged glass he could see that you had a multitude of new scrapes and cuts, some that he knew would scar adding to your already intensive collection.

Your eyes met him through the fogged glass noticing how his stare was intense and lustful as he scoured every inch of your body. It had been a while since you were both together, the interruption of your toddler didn’t help. Neither did the aches and pains of your first few missions, he didn’t seem to mind though. He never did. Leon would deal with his desires in other ways, your hand or his work perfectly with some lube and dirty words. However, tonight his cock throbbed with the need to be as deep as he could go, to be able to feel the sweet kiss of your cervix as he bred you. You didn’t know this, his plans to empty what he had let build in his balls whilst you were gone. However, you would have assumed he was ovulating with how intense his stare was and perhaps a creampie would be a good distraction and stress reliever. 

A family friend had your daughter for a few days, as they always did when you got back. An agreement you had made with Leon in fear she would witness one of your possible nightmares. You were her strong mommy, a superhero that left to save people whilst Daddy stayed and helped the town. You hoped she would keep this idea and never witness what your superhero job did to you. 

“You look pretty tired sweetheart.” Leon spoke, his frame leaning against the counter. If the shower screen wasn’t so misted up you would have noticed the prominent display of his erection through the grey sweats he wore. His legs crossed slightly like he was doing it on purpose, to display the goods he hadn’t touched for you. “When am I not tired? I’ve only been back to work for a few weeks and I feel like I need a holiday.” You sighed, facing the stream to wash the lathered soap off. Watching as the murky colour washed down the drain. The taint of corruption disappearing from the household. 

“You look like you need a holiday.” Leon teased as he watched the suds flow off your breasts, now rounded and fuller since the first pregnancy, an unexpected but welcomed change. “Are you saying I look like shit? You wound me Kennedy.” You chuckled whilst turning the shower off and stepping out around the screen to finally see him face to face. “Oh darling, you look at anything but that.” 

Leon shifted himself, his hips jolting out first pressing his need towards you as he drew your attention to him. He smirked as it worked, your eyes lighting up at the display and promise of his unconditional love towards you. “I think you look rather stunning actually.” He continued. 

Leon stalked towards you, his hands landing on your hips rubbing his thumb along the skin in small tempting circles. The motion mimicking the same one he uses on your clit, soft, small infinity symbols, drawing them around your body like a spell. He knew your body like a map, understanding each small trigger to set you on fire, leaving you needy and desperate for him. Leon’s lips placed tempting kisses along your pulse point, sucking softly at a spot underneath your jawline as his fingers traced lower. He had a clear directive, a goal to be met as they finally teased your puffy lips. He gathered the arousal there, his clothes now damp as he tugged your body towards him. 

Leon’s heady scent infected you, his cock was hard and twitching against your bare pussy. “I feel like this is a little unfair. You can get me worked up while I’m naked but I have to suffer with the outline through some sweats and a compression shirt.” You pouted, a smirk creeping in slowly as he pulled you closer. Leon’s breath teased the shell of your ear as he whispered, “Let’s do something about that then.” 

He lifted you with ease, your thighs squeezing his hips as he walked you to the bedroom. Your kiss never broke until you landed on the bed. He groaned at the sight of your body in the dim lighting, droplets that still lingered on your skin making you glow. You watched as the fabric slipped over his head, showcasing his well maintained physic. Your eyes eagerly follow his happy trail to where his fingers now teased along the waistband of his sweatpants. Leon chuckled at the squirm you offered him as he exposed his impressive and needy length, the sight never getting any less arousing despite the years the two of you have been together. 

His tip was leaking pre cum, wasting the precious droplets on the sheets as he crawled above you. “I love how you are always so ready for me sweetheart.” He said as his tip ran along the length of your pussy, coating himself with your arousal. You whimpered at the feeling of him slotting himself between your lips, his tip catching your clit with slow teasing prods of stimulation. Your hands grasped at his forearms as your nails left your own marks along his untouched skin. The red trails fading in your memory as he notched himself at your entrance, sighing as he finally began to press his length inside. 

Each inch he gave you was glorious, stretching your cunt perfectly allowing you to lose your mind in his gentle rhythm. Leon was always good at helping you float away from your responsibilities. The horrors fade to the background of your mind as his pace increases. He loved the way you writhed beneath him, your arms now outstretching above your head gripping the sheets with an iron grip. Your chest arched towards him, displaying your perfect tits whilst whining as his lips made contact with them. He started sucking softly against your nipple as it peaked. His tongue circling it occasionally grazing his teeth against the sensitive flesh. Tender marks leaving in his wake, painting his own mark against the other spots that decorated over your skin. 

Leon worshiped you, every scar, every bump that you had to offer. All holding a story of your survival. His mind began to fill with his intentions, the primal drive to push himself further and further inside your warmth. He needed to flood your insides with himself so you had no other option but to take it. He would press himself as far as he needed for that to become possible. As his frame began to tower over you, he pressed your legs into your chest, folding your body in the perfect way to drill himself inside. You felt his thighs squeeze your hips, his were thrusts now deeper and harder, his length barely pulling out before he pressed it back in. Your eyes fluttered shut, allowing yourself to get lost in the feeling of him overpowering you. 

“Fuck sweetheart, doing such a good job at taking me so deep” He groaned, “I got to get it deeper though, think you can take it baby?”

Leon smiled at your small nod, your eyebrows pinching as his constant thrust brought you to overstimulation. He could feel your cunt squeeze him tightly, sucking him further inside. You needed this as much as him, your cunt practically begging to be creampied. He wondered if despite your initial protests of the first pregnancy that you would want this one as well, that maybe you loved being filled with his claim. His tightened balls slapped against your ass as he continued his grinding thrusts, your cunt screaming and gushing with your arousal as you finally lost yourself in the pleasure he gifted you. “I’ll keep you safe like this baby, keep you home and protected” He grunted, his thoughts unravelling as the internal chant to go deeper began. 

He obeyed his instincts, driving his cock head deeper and deeper inside, giving your cunt more than it could take of him. Your pelvis ached with his abuse, your clit screaming white hot pleasure as his wisps of hair teased it. “Leon–” You moaned, eyes fluttered back as you attempted to arch into him. His entire body prevented it, keeping you trapped in his methodic movements. His concentration never broke, his mind missing the announcement of your second orgasm as his cock twitched frantically inside you. 

Leon was painfully rigid, allowing your walls to feel every inch and vein he had to offer. His own release surprised him as he began to thrust it inside of you. Filling you to the brim whilst making a mess of it as it spilled out. “Fuck, gotta get it deeper, make sure it takes. It’s gotta take, to keep you home” he groaned, pushing his load further. The overspill didn’t matter, not when he would take advantage of the time alone you both had, spending every moment filling you so his goal was achieved. 

In your world he was powerless, he had nothing to stand on to keep you home, to ensure that you were healthy and happy. The government couldn’t stop your growing family, couldn’t send you out on the field whilst you were filled with him. “I’ll make sure it works, I’ll keep you happy baby…keep you safe”

You should have been more concerned with his words, as he admitted his overpowering thoughts on your body. Yet, as he eased you into the right mindset, the perfect one for thinking about nothing but the warmth that flooded through you, instead of your responsibilities in the world. 

The arousal lingered in your nerves, your aches of pain from battle being replaced with the ones he caused. “I love you, I need you safe” Leon whispered, pressing a kiss against your brows. He manoeuvred your conjoined bodies, not allowing his semi hard cock to slip from your pussy and allow his load to spill anymore than it already did. Your head moved with his heaving breaths, slowly slipping into a peaceful rest before he repeated his process. 

All he wanted was to keep you safe, you had done your part for the world. Your body is decorated in the marks that they caused, the history of whatever you had been through. Whilst he was inspired by your bravery he needed you here, like this, with him. “I love you too leon” You replied, your body becoming dead weight as you drifted off. His twitching cock keeps you plugged full, ensuring his desires become true and trapping you in the safety of the house he had built for the growing family he had planned. 

[sereia4skz]

I love the way you write for the boys.

Could you possibly write for maybe Han (or whoever you think fits this better) where the reader overhead him talking to another member about paying up for a bet involving her and she gets upset and they argue. But happy ending because the bet actually giving han a timeline to ask the reader out because he was too nervous and if he did it in the time limit the other member would pay for the first date.

If you don't want to write for this that's fine just ignore it lol -Nova 🩷

oneshot | bad bets? good intentions

pairing: han x reader

genre: angst to fluff

warnings: bets, chan pushing han to be brave, reader seems lowkey into han groveling

word count: 914

masterlist: A-Side (texts) | B-Side (written)

You weren’t supposed to hear. You were just packing up your things from Jeongin’s room. He’d passed out mid-movie, and you figured you’d grab your overnight bag and let yourself out quietly. The dorm was quiet, Chan and Jeongin’s shared place always got like this past midnight. You thought Chan was at the studio, but then you heard your name.

"Alright, I’ll pay up," came Chan's voice, half-laughing through the barely cracked door to the kitchen.

You breathed quietly, not to eavesdrop, just not wanting to bother the two.

"You asked her out, didn’t you?"

Silence. Then Jisung's voice, sheepish and soft, "Yeah, barely. You gave me a week, and I did it with like… what? Three hours left?"

Chan laughed, easy, pleased, "Barely counts. She said yes though, right?"

"Of course she did. I’ve been working up to this for months."

You blinked, your fingers froze on the zipper of your bag.

The ringing in your ears was overwhelming, blood pulsed hard against your temples.

Pay up? Week? A deadline?

You backed up before you could hear more. The apartment door was closer than the voices. You slipped your shoes on quietly and left without a sound.

Jisung didn’t hear from you for two days. Not after the goodnight texts. Not after the check-ins or the memes. Not even when he sent a voice note singing your favorite song in a dumb voice to make you laugh.

And the silence was driving him insane.

On the third night, he stood outside your apartment for a full five minutes before working up the nerve to knock. You opened the door halfway, eyes tired, expression unreadable.

His hoodie was rumpled, hair a mess from anxious tossing, and his phone was already in his hand, just in case he needed to show you something to prove he hadn’t completely screwed everything up.

“Hey,” he said, voice small. “Can you… can we talk? Please?”

You didn’t speak, but after a moment, you stepped aside. He exhaled as he stepped in, taking in the warm clutter of your apartment. It looked the same as always. His heart stuttered, noticing his absence had seemingly no impact on your routine. You stayed near the kitchen, arms folded tightly.

“I heard you,” you said. “At the dorm. You and Chan.”

His face went pale. “That’s… not what it sounded like.”

You cocked a brow. “It sounded like I was a deadline? A bet. A joke between you and your hyung.”

Jisung groaned, running his hands down his face. He sat down on your couch like the weight of it knocked the air from his lungs. “Please, let me explain.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. The silence stretched long enough that he took it as permission.

“I’ve liked you for so long. Like… since Jeongin first introduced us. And every time I tried to tell you, I choked. I’d plan what to say, but the second I saw you smile or say my name, my brain just evaporated.”

He laughed, bitter and breathless. “Chan got tired of watching me suffer, said it was pathetic that for all my lyrics I couldn't muster to ask you out. So he made a bet. He said I had one week to ask you out, and if I did, he’d pay for our first date. If I didn’t, I had to wear a dress and heels and do Britney Spears karaoke.”

Your mouth twitched. You didn’t want it to, but it did.

Jisung caught it, a flicker of hope lit behind his eyes. “It wasn’t about winning anything. It was about giving me a push. He knew I wouldn’t do it otherwise. And I didn’t want to waste more time pretending I wasn’t completely gone for you.”

He stood slowly, moving closer, voice softening. “It was real. Asking you out. Everything we’ve done since? before? It’s the most real thing I’ve ever had. I just… I didn’t think you’d say yes if I told you how scared I was.”

“You should’ve told me,” you said quietly.

“I know. I’m sorry. If I could go back, I’d do it differently. I’d say all the things I wanted to say from the start.” He stopped in front of you, hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you, but didn’t dare.

“But if this is where it ends… I’ll understand. I’ll hate it, but I’ll get it.”

You stared up at him. At the soft curve of his mouth, the nervous flick of his fingers, the ache written across his whole body.

“Do you still want that date?” you asked finally.

He blinked, nodded rapidly. “More than anything.”

“Good. Because if Chan’s paying, I’m ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.”

Jisung’s mouth fell open. “Wait! Does that mean?”

“I’m still mad,” you said, stepping into his space. “But I never said no.”

He breathed out a relieved laugh. “Fair. Yell at me all you want. Just… let me take you out."

You nodded, your expression finally softening. “One condition.”

“Name it.”

“No more dumb secrets.”

He raised his hand like a scout. “Swear. You can even make me wear the heels if I mess it up again.”

“Tempting,” you muttered.

Then, finally, finally, you let him hug you. 

Jisung buried his face in your shoulder and whispered, "I missed you like hell."

You rolled your eyes, but your hand slid into his hoodie pocket all the same.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“You won’t.”

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss

[thedensworld]

The Margin | J. Ww

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who was the stranger at the funeral?

Why was there no hint about what came next?

And most importantly — where were you now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, silence pressed against him like a heavy hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

And then — he met you.

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

He blinked. Not his house. Not the library.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You knew this face better than your own.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinked once. Twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t know at all.

*

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

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

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

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

He was too human to ignore.

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

They asked if you heard voices.

You said yes — his.

They scribbled notes you couldn’t read.

They gave you pills.

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

But sleep didn’t save you.

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

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

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

You could barely choke out an answer. It wasn’t the gun that broke you — it was the way his desperation bled through the barrel and sank into your bones.

It drove you mad.

He ate your sleep. He gnawed at your sanity, your drafts, your trust in your own hands. It was like watching your mind rot from the inside out — and you had made him this way.

So you did the only thing left that made sense to your splintering mind: you decided to kill him first.

Hansol would help you. Hansol, your poor righteous hero who had always deserved to bury the monster who made him suffer. It wasn’t the plot you’d started with — no, Wonwoo had been just another chess piece to deepen Hansol’s tragedy — but readers had twisted him into something you couldn’t control anymore. Something they worshipped more than the hero.

So you locked yourself away for three nights that blurred into one long, jagged heartbeat. You didn’t let Soonyoung touch a single panel. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t eat. You just drew — every drop of your fear and rage bleeding through your pen until the final stroke sealed your freedom.

Two stabs in the chest. Snow blooming red. A villain dying alone.

You uploaded the episode before your own hands could betray you. Before your fear could beg you to save him again.

And when the server confirmed the update, when Soonyoung’s panicked messages blinked unanswered on your phone, you sank to the floor under your desk and laughed — raw, exhausted, almost hysterical.

You had finally killed him.

You were free.

*

You woke up from a thin, drugged sleep — the kind where dreams and nightmares bleed into each other, where you half-believed you’d finally banished him for good.

But the scream that dragged you awake wasn’t yours.

At first, you thought it was just the pipes moaning through the walls, or maybe your own throat raw from nights spent mumbling his name like a curse. But then you heard it again — a choked, guttural rasp coming from your kitchen.

Your feet hit the cold floor before your brain caught up. You stumbled through the half-lit apartment, pills and papers crunching under your soles.

And then you saw him.

Jeon Wonwoo, sprawled in a mess of dark, glossy blood against your cabinet doors. Pale skin splotched crimson, shirt clinging wet to the ragged wounds carved right where your stylus had last touched the tablet: two deep stabs in his chest, red soaking the linoleum beneath him like spilled ink.

His eyes fluttered up at you — glassy, struggling to focus. But they were still his eyes: sharp even dulled by agony, beautiful even in ruin.

Your mouth opened, but your voice cracked like an old record.

“Oh my god, Is it real?” you whispered, the question trembling from your lips before you could stop it. You sank to your knees, heedless of the blood soaking into your sweatpants.

He coughed, a wet, rattling sound that made your skin crawl. His fingers twitched weakly, groping at the floor until they found the hem of your shirt — grasped it like a lifeline.

“Help me…” he rasped, the syllables bubbling through the blood at the corner of his mouth. His eyes locked on yours — not cruel now, not mocking. Just a man begging, like he’d never begged for anything before. “Save me. Please.”

And you — fool, creator, god trembling before your own monster — you pressed your shaking hands over the wounds you had given him. You felt the heat of his blood seep through your fingers, felt the heartbeat stuttering beneath your palms.

Your tears dripped onto his cheek, mixing with sweat and red and the last thread of whatever sanity you still had.

“I killed you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I killed you — why are you still here?”

Wonwoo’s lips parted, but no words came out — only a shuddering exhale that smelled of iron and loss. His grip on your shirt tightened, a pitiful strength for a man who once slit throats without flinching. Now he clung to you as if you were the only thing left tethering him to breath, to pain, to existing.

“Don’t… don’t let me go,” he gasped, the plea breaking apart in his throat. A violent tremor coursed through him, blood bubbling between your fingers as he tried to hold himself together by sheer will. His eyes searched yours, desperate and terrified — the look of a man meeting the void and wanting anything but its cold mercy.

You choked on a sob so raw it burned your lungs. This was wrong. This was so wrong. He was your nightmare, your villain — you had sculpted every cruel smirk, every crime, every unredeemable sin. He deserved this ending. You had given him this ending.

So why did it hurt like you were killing him again?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” You pressed harder, your hands slick with him, your voice shaking apart with each word. “You weren’t supposed to suffer this long, Wonwoo, you weren’t—”

His eyes rolled back for a second and you panicked, slapping his cheek lightly, your tears splattering on his ashen face. Your vision blurred. Your heartbeat pounded against the cage of your ribs like it would tear free to keep him alive if you failed.

You grabbed his clammy face between your shaking hands and pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling with the scent of metal and sweat and the ink of your own sins.

“I’ll fix it, Wonwoo. I swear to God, I’ll fix it. Just stay.”

Somewhere deep in him, past the pain, the violence, the villainy, you felt him believe you — just for a heartbeat. His eyes slipped shut, his lips moving in a ghost of a word you almost didn’t catch.

“...please.”

It was enough to break you. It was enough to make you crawl through hell again — for him, your monster, your fault, your unfinished prayer.

You remembered.

The stranger at his funeral — the faceless silhouette standing under the gray rain while everyone else turned away. You hadn’t named him, hadn’t given him lines, hadn’t even told Soonyoung who he was supposed to be. He was just there — a margin in the story, a whisper you’d meant to revisit but never did.

The Margin.

Your heart stuttered with something like hope — foolish, desperate hope — as you cradled Wonwoo’s head against your chest, your fingers trembling in his hair sticky with sweat.

Maybe they could help. Maybe the forgotten ones could fix what you broke.

With one arm wrapped around Wonwoo’s shaking shoulders, you fumbled for your laptop on the blood-slicked floor. Your palm left crimson smears across the touchpad as you dragged up your hidden folder — the one you never showed Soonyoung or the publisher. Drafts. Abandoned arcs. Ghosts with names you never spoke aloud.

You clicked The Margin.

The folder flickered open: dozens of half-finished files, lines of dialogue that led nowhere, silhouettes that waited to be drawn. Unused, unseen, but breathing in the dark corners of your mind.

You whispered like a prayer to the screen, to the hidden codes, to the characters you’d once left behind:

“Help me… please, help me save him…”

Wonwoo stirred in your lap, groaning weakly, blood pooling warmer under your thighs. His hand twitched near the laptop’s edge, as if even dying he was tethered to the story that birthed him.

And then — the cursor froze.

The screen dimmed.

A hiss of static crawled up your spine.

The light in your apartment flickered, once, twice — then darkness swallowed everything. Not the gentle dark of a power outage — but a pulling, as if the shadows under your bed had grown teeth and wanted you back.

Your breath caught in your throat. You clutched Wonwoo tighter as the chill pressed into your skin, dragging at your consciousness like greedy hands. The laptop fan whirred one last time — then died.

And before your scream could escape, the world folded in on itself.

*

You wake slowly — not with a jolt, but like drifting up from deep water.

At first, you feel warmth against your cheek, the faint scent of wild grass, the sound of leaves whispering overhead. You blink your eyes open to a sky so wide and blue it makes your chest ache.

You’re lying in a clearing beneath a canopy of ancient trees. Sunlight filters through branches heavy with wind-chimes made from broken pens and paper scraps — your paper scraps, you realize with a jolt, words you once threw away now dancing above you like blessings.

Around you, winding stone paths lead to mismatched wooden bookshelves, some leaning sideways under the weight of dusty tomes, others half-swallowed by flowering vines. Low stone benches circle each shelf like tiny reading shrines. It feels like a park built from every soft daydream you’ve ever had about books and second chances.

And the people—

Your breath hitches.

Scattered in the grass and along the benches, you see them: men and women, young and old, draped in half-familiar clothes. A girl in a yellow raincoat you never finished writing a storm for. A man with an eyepatch, reading aloud to a group of children that never made it past your old notebook margin. A boy with wild hair and a grin so sharp it cuts through your memory — Seungkwan, your trickster, alive here like a rumor the world forgot.

They pause, one by one, as if sensing your heartbeat quicken. Heads lift from open pages. Eyes lock on you — not with blame, but a solemn recognition. The ones you abandoned, the ones you swore you’d come back for but never did.

And then you remember —

You sit up so fast the world spins. Next to you, half-cradled in the curve of your body, lies Wonwoo. His head rests against your thigh, dark hair sticking to a forehead slick with sweat. His chest rises and falls in shallow, trembling breaths — but he’s breathing. Still warm. Still real.

You brush his cheek with shaking fingers. His lashes flutter, but he doesn’t wake.

When you look up again, the characters are closer now. Forming a quiet circle. Some carry books — your books. Others hold old sketches, pages you thought you lost forever. One by one, they study you and the bleeding villain in your lap.

Seungkwan steps forward first. Mischief flickers in his eyes, but this time, it’s tempered by something older, wiser — the part of him you always imagined but never wrote down.

“Well, look who crawled back to the margins,” he says, voice a soft laugh that drifts through the leaves. He flicks a glance at Wonwoo and then back at you, tilting his head.

“You’ve brought him.”

He nods at Wonwoo — your monster, your contradiction, your bloodstained fox under the oak tree.

Around you, the others murmur like turning pages, some curious, some wary, all impossibly alive.

The garden hushes again, waiting for your answer — the answer that might heal the bruised stories still breathing between these pages, and the villain in your arms who was never just bad or good, but something painfully, beautifully human.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out — only the raw scrape of your breath fighting through disbelief.

Seungkwan watches you patiently, like a cat waiting to see if its prey will bolt or beg. Behind him, more of them drift closer through the rustling garden paths: half-finished dreams wearing your words like borrowed skin.

Your heart stutters when you see him — Joshua. Not the angel, not the saint you meant to finish someday, but the tired, gentle father you once scribbled lines for on a rainy bus ride. He stands a little apart from the others, a little sad around the eyes. A small girl clings to his trouser leg, peeking shyly at you from behind his knee — the daughter you never got to name.

Your lips form his name before you can stop yourself.

“Joshua…”

He smiles at you, soft and forgiving. It guts you more than anger ever could. He rests a protective hand on his daughter’s hair but doesn’t come closer. He just nods, as if to say: I knew you’d find your way here, eventually.

Your gaze skitters past him — and snags on a figure leaning against an old iron lamppost, arms crossed, a familiar smirk playing at his mouth.

Kim Mingyu.

The vice captain you made too reckless, too golden, too big-hearted for his own good. His letterman jacket is unzipped, wind tugging at his hair, just like in the final match scene you never wrote. He lifts two fingers in a lazy salute when he catches your stare, but there’s a bruise blossoming under his eye — the fight you’d planned but never finished.

And beside a shelf blooming with lilacs, half-shadowed, you spot him: Jihoon.

The wizard who once studied charms in a castle built of your childhood wonder. His robes are dusty, ink stains his fingers, and a battered spellbook dangles from his wrist. His gaze is sharp, calculating, but when your eyes meet, there’s a softness there too — the forgiveness of someone who understands how many drafts a miracle can take.

You sink back on your heels, your hands trembling where they cradle Wonwoo’s sweat-damp hair. He groans faintly in your lap, dragging you back to the sick reality of flesh and blood and consequence.

The characters wait. So many shades of you. So many pieces that were never just light or shadow — always both, always alive in the margins.

You swallow, voice barely more than a cracked whisper.

“I don’t… I don’t understand. Why are you all here? Why is he—” you look down at Wonwoo, at the monster turned man, at your fear made helpless in your arms — “Why is he still bleeding? I killed him. I killed him.”

Seungkwan clicks his tongue, crouching so close his grin brushes your panic like a knife.

“No, darling. You wrote an end. That’s not the same as killing.”

Behind him, Joshua’s daughter giggles softly, clutching a flower she’s plucked from the grass. Mingyu tips his head back to watch the clouds drift like torn paper across the sky. Jihoon flips open his spellbook, murmuring under his breath — perhaps already plotting a charm to mend what you’ve broken.

Hansol’s eyes gleam as he leans in, nose almost touching yours.

“This place — the Margin — is where the unfinished things wait. Good, bad, broken, hopeful. Us. You. Him.” He flicks a glance at Wonwoo. “You gave him too much of yourself to truly die. You stitched kindness into his cruelty. You doubted him, and you loved him. And now — here he is. Asking you to decide which part of him gets to live.”

The wind stirs the pages on every shelf, like a thousand heartbeats holding their breath.

“Tell us, author…” Seungkwan purrs, voice warm and deadly all at once.

“Will you keep running from your monsters — or will you set them free?”

Wonwoo’s breath stirs weakly against your thigh, then catches on a soft, pained laugh. His eyelids flutter — heavy, reluctant — until they crack open enough to find you, blurry and bright and trembling above him.

His fingers curl in the fabric of your pants, gripping just enough to anchor him to something warm. His lips twitch into a shape that almost resembles a smile, ruined by a tremor of agony.

“Am I…” He coughs, the sound tearing at your chest. His voice is hoarse, but you can hear the ghost of that cruel lilt that once made your readers flinch — twisted now into something childishly fragile.

“Am I in heaven?” He drags in a ragged breath, eyes skimming the sun-dappled leaves above, the soft sway of books and petals drifting on the wind. The other characters — your half-forgotten children — watch him with an odd, quiet sorrow, like old ghosts paying respect.

“Do I… even deserve it?”

Your throat clamps shut around a sob. You want to say yes. You want to say no. You want to scream that this place is not heaven — it’s your fault, your punishment, your miracle.

So you do the only thing your broken creator’s heart can manage: You cradle his face in both palms, pressing your forehead to his. The warmth of him sears your tears clean.

Around you, the Margin seems to breathe — the other characters watching, waiting, their layered stories rustling through the trees like wind through an orchard of second chances.

And in your arms, your monster — your mercy — bleeds and breathes, daring you to decide what you truly believe in his endings.

*

You woke up with a dull ache pounding behind your eyes, the kind that made the ceiling blur and tilt before settling back into focus.

For a breathless moment, you didn’t dare move. You lay there, half-tangled in crisp linen sheets that smelled faintly of old wood and some expensive soap you’d never buy for yourself. A massive window spilled soft morning light across polished floors. Heavy curtains, carved panels — all too grand to be yours.

Your mind reeled, scrambling for something solid. The last thing you remembered was the Margin with Wonwoo.

Your eyes flew open. Wonwoo. Where was he? Was he still bleeding? Still clawing at his own existence?

You pushed yourself upright too fast, the world spinning so viciously you nearly collapsed back onto the pillows.

And then —

“Excuse me…”

The gentle voice startled you. A woman, perhaps in her forties, stood just inside the doorway. She bowed her head politely, her hands folded at her apron front. The soft lines around her eyes crinkled when she offered you a careful smile.

“I’m Mrs. Park,” she said, in a tone so calm it only made your heartbeat worse. “I’ll be the one to serve you while you’re staying here. At Jeon’s house.”

Jeon’s…

The words hit you like ice down your spine. You stared at her, your lips parting, mind skimming frantically through old drafts, background notes, family trees only you ever cared about.

Park… Hyungrim.

Daughter of Jung Seo — Wonwoo’s most loyal servant. A side character you’d named in a margin note, half-intending to give her a line or two someday.

Your gaze flicked from her kind eyes to the unfamiliar grandeur pressing in from every wall. The high ceiling, the carved beams, the muted luxury that felt exactly — horribly — right.

You were in Wonwoo’s world. Inside the fiction. Inside him.

“Park Hyungrim…” you whispered her name aloud, more to prove you hadn’t lost your mind again.

She beamed, seemingly pleased. “Ah, so you do know me, Miss. Master Jeon will be pleased you’re awake. He instructed us not to disturb you until you’d rested properly.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Master Jeon. So polite, so proper — as if he hadn’t once pressed you to the floor with blood on his hands and yours.

You swallowed hard, voice a bare breath. “Where is he?”

Mrs. Park’s smile softened into something almost maternal. “Master Jeon is waiting for you in the study. He said you’d have much to discuss.”

And for the first time since you’d opened your eyes, your pounding head went quiet — replaced by a single, echoing thought that felt both terrifying and inevitable. You were in his world now. And there would be no running from the ending you owed him.

“How… how did I get here?” you croaked out, your voice still raw from sleep and disbelief. You clutched the blanket tighter around your waist, needing something — anything — to anchor you to the fact that this wasn’t another fever dream.

Mrs. Park stepped a little closer, lowering her voice as if sharing an intimate secret. “Master Wonwoo and you were found outside the main gate early this morning. It startled the entire household. Master said you… you saved him.”

Your heart stuttered painfully in your chest. Outside the gate. The Margin. The promise to find the end — did it fling you straight into the story’s spine?

“He was injured,” you whispered, your throat closing around the memory. Blood on your hands, his broken plea: Save me.

“Yes,” Mrs. Park nodded, her eyes shadowing with concern. “Badly hurt. But the doctor came at once. He’s resting well now, stronger than any of us could have hoped.” She hesitated, searching your face as if weighing how much truth to spill. “He insisted no one disturb you. He sat by your bed all night.”

You felt the floor tilt again, but this time it wasn’t the headache — it was the sheer absurd tenderness of it. Your villain, who once threatened to gut you like one of his victims, had guarded your sleep as if you were the fragile thing.

Your lips trembled around the question that slipped free despite yourself. “Why… why did he say I saved him?”

Mrs. Park tilted her head, confusion and gentle fondness mingling in her expression. “Perhaps, Miss… because for Master Jeon, being alive at all — that is your doing, isn’t it?”

You laughed then, an exhausted, broken sound that tasted too close to tears. Because of course. It always came back to you. His pain. His breath. His mercy — or lack of it — all crafted by your hand.

And now you were here. Trapped inside the fiction you’d stitched together.

And somewhere beyond this room, Jeon Wonwoo — the man you’d written to be both monster and tragedy — was awake, waiting, and wanting answers only you could give.

Mrs. Park bowed politely, stepping back to the door. “When you’re ready, Miss… the study is just down the corridor. Master Jeon is waiting for you.”

You padded barefoot down the hallway, trailing your fingertips along the walls — smooth polished wood, the carved crown moulding exactly as you’d drawn it, the embroidered runner soft beneath your feet. It all looked like your story, but living in it turned out to be a maze: corridors twisted into each other, doors you never bothered detailing led to entire wings you’d never planned.

You cursed under your breath when another turn ended in a dead end lined with framed calligraphy and a cold window staring at the courtyard.

“Great,” you muttered, pressing your palm to your forehead. God of this world, but can’t find the villain’s study to save your life.

Then behind you — low, rough, and unmistakable — came the sound of someone clearing their throat.

You spun so fast you nearly slipped on the rug.

Wonwoo stood half-shadowed at the intersection of the hall, leaning more heavily on the wall than he probably wanted you to see. His torso was tightly bandaged under an open black shirt that hung loose on his broad frame, fabric brushing his hips but baring the bruises you’d put there yourself.

His eyes — your undoing every time — locked onto yours, hungry for answers, flickering with relief and raw confusion.

“You’re hopeless,” he rasped, and the corner of his mouth twitched, like he was half-amused, half-pained. He pushed himself upright and nodded his head toward a door just behind him. “You walked past my study twice already.”

You opened your mouth, found nothing useful to say, and snapped it shut again.

Wonwoo’s eyes dragged over you slowly, taking in your disheveled hair, your wide stare, the tremor in your hands. His voice dropped, rough but softer now — maybe for you, maybe for himself.

“Come here. Before you get lost again.”

*

You sank deeper into the cushions, the plush velvet swallowing your shoulders while you watched him — Jeon Wonwoo, your beautiful nightmare — fuss with the buttons of a shirt that didn’t quite hide the bruises or the faint wince every time he moved.

He pulled the old corkboard closer, the squeak of the wheels dragging over the marble floor cutting through the heavy quiet.

Gone were the grainy photographs you’d pinned there for him — Hansol, his mark; that lover he’d used for leverage; the detective’s blurry license plate.

Now only jagged notes scrawled in black marker covered it. The Margin. Source Stream. Memory Loops. Control Points.

Wonwoo faced the board, but his eyes flicked to you in the glass reflection.

“You promised me an ending,” he said, voice calm, but the undercurrent rippled with a threat you couldn’t name. “That’s why we’re back.”

You flinched. Back. Not we’re home. Just back.

“You’re back,” you corrected under your breath, but he heard you, of course. He always heard everything.

Wonwoo’s fingers ghosted over the biggest word in the middle — MARGIN — underlined twice.

He spoke slowly, almost carefully, like testing the edges of a blade.

“We’re connected through The Margin. Because that’s where you pull it all from. The scraps. The lives you half-built. The truths you left unfinished — including me.”

His knuckles tapped the board once, too sharp, too close to anger.

“You sound smart,” you mumbled before you could stop yourself. Regret bloomed immediately.

But instead of snapping, Wonwoo let out a low, humorless laugh — one you’d written for him a hundred times, now bleeding through real lips.

“You made me smart,” he said simply. Then he turned, pinning you to the couch with that impossible, too-human stare.

“Now, creator — Y/n — tell me honestly.” His jaw flexed, the words grinding out like stone.

“What was the goal? Writing me.” 

Your mouth was dry. He waited, breathing ragged in the hush.

In that moment, he looked nothing like the neat lines on your tablet screen — just a man who realized he’d been caged in ink and was clawing for a door.

Your voice cracked at the edges — too much truth pressing out all at once, pushing past the fragile dam of guilt you’d built every time you put your pen down.

“You weren’t supposed to cross both worlds,” you said again, as if saying it twice might shrink the horror of it.

Wonwoo, standing by the board, went still. One hand flexed at his side, restless and half-curled like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or for your throat.

“But you…” Your breath hitched. Your eyes blurred at the memory — your dingy apartment lit by the flicker of your desk lamp, your own wrists bruised where he’d pinned you. His voice, a low growl in the dark: Tell me who I am.

“I thought it was all a dream,” you confessed, voice no louder than the rustle of papers drifting behind him. “You came to my place. You threatened me. You aimed a gun at my head. You haunted me. And I—”

You swallowed, shame sour on your tongue. “I thought I was crazy.”

Wonwoo’s jaw twitched, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. When he spoke, his tone was stripped bare of any monster’s snarl — only weary certainty: You’d written him too deep. You’d made him want more.

“That night,” you whispered, voice trembling as you looked at the neat bandage peeking from his open collar, “when I realized I’d lost control of you, I decided your end. I had to finish you — I had to end it…”

He tilted his head, eyes dark and searching, as if reading the unwritten pages still hiding behind your ribs.

“You always planned to kill me, didn’t you?” His tone was half-accusation, half plea.

“No — I never tried to kill you,” you blurted out, voice cracking as your hands clenched uselessly in your lap. “You were… you were there for Hansol. I needed you, Wonwoo. I needed you to break him, to build him, to—”

“But you were about to kill me, Y/n!”

Your name in his mouth tasted like rust and accusation, each syllable bitten off like he resented having to say it at all.

“Because you— you started to fight for your life!” you cried, the confession tumbling out raw. “You weren’t supposed to want it that badly. It scared me!”

His laugh came out sharp, cracked at the edges. “I scared you?”

There was something so small and so vicious in his eyes, the thing you’d written into him — a monster, but too human to accept that word quietly.

“You never did,” you whispered, shoulders sagging. “Not until that.”

A tense silence pooled between you. Wonwoo’s tongue darted to the corner of his lip, catching a drop of blood from where he’d bitten it. He looked at you like he might devour you or collapse at your feet — and he hated both options.

Then, in a sudden, tired gesture, he turned away, palm flattening on the board so hard the paper pinned beneath it crumpled.

“Enough. Let’s talk again tomorrow,” he said lowly, not looking back. 

You rose from the couch on unsteady legs, the taste of your name still burning on his tongue long after you slipped from the study’s doorway.

*

You woke up to the faint clink of porcelain and the soft rustle of fabric. Park Hyungrim stood by your bed, her hands folded politely in front of her apron as if she hadn’t just arranged half your breakfast and an entire boutique in your room.

“Good morning, Miss,” she said with a slight bow. Her voice was calm, gentle — the way you’d scripted her mother, Jung Seo, to soothe the monsters that haunted Wonwoo’s halls. Now the daughter did the same, but for you instead.

On your nightstand: toast still warm, a delicate cup of tea, fresh fruit you hadn’t seen since your last attempt at healthy living.

And beside your bed, servants flitted in and out, arranging a small forest of dresses, blouses, skirts, even shoes you’d never pick for yourself.

“Master Wonwoo had these prepared,” Hyungrim explained, her tone betraying neither judgment nor curiosity. “He also wishes for me to show you around the house once you’re ready.”

You sat up slowly, blinking at a cream silk blouse hanging from a carved oak rack — your reflection caught in the brass mirror behind it, hair a mess, hoodie collar stretched, sweatpants wrinkled at the knee.

Your life at home: instant ramen, half-finished scripts, coffee stains. This life now: gold-thread curtains, high windows, an entire wardrobe you never asked for.

A hollow laugh slipped past your lips before you could swallow it.

You made him — made all this — and now he wants to give you a tour like some polite landlord showing a clueless tenant around her own mind.

“Miss?” Hyungrim asked softly, eyes kind but too observant for comfort.

You dragged your eyes from the silk and forced a smile.

“Okay. I’ll get ready.”

And as you ran your fingers over fine cotton and delicate lace, one thought drummed under your ribs:

He’s more than what I wrote. And maybe… so is this world.

Hyungrim’s footsteps were soft but unhesitating on the polished floors, her voice steady as she guided you past rooms you half-recognized from your sketches and half-felt for the first time with your own skin.

Your mind, though, barely clung to her words about family portraits, study halls, and the greenhouse behind the east wing.

Instead, your thoughts drifted down familiar back alleys and precinct corridors in another part of this world — the threads you’d woven so carelessly late at night and left dangling because life, or heartbreak, or deadlines got in the way.

Hansol. Your reckless police officer hero who was more fists than caution tape, always coming home bruised but never beaten.

Dokyeom. Bright-eyed chief of Team 3, all warmth until he slipped on gloves. Sihye. Your breath caught on that name. Your sister’s eyes, your sister’s laugh — borrowed, resurrected as a gentle doctor tending to broken bones and broken men in a city that didn’t deserve her softness. 

You snapped back when Hyungrim stopped at the main doors, bowing lightly.

“Miss?”

You turned to her, your chest so tight it made your voice come out raw.

“Hyungrim, I need to go into town.”

Hyungrim didn’t flinch. She only dipped her head again — your unwavering servant in every version of this story.

“Yes, Master Wonwoo mentioned you might wish to explore. He has arranged a car and driver for your comfort and safety.”

You half-laughed, half-scoffed, words spilling fast. “But I need cash, Hyungrim — real money.”

Hyungrim nodded as if you’d asked for tea instead of freedom.

“I’ll prepare your bag immediately, Miss. Please wait here a moment.”

And as you stood by the carved doors of the Jeon estate — your own palace, your own cage — you wondered if your characters would even want to see you.

After all, what did you ever give them but unfinished endings and borrowed hope?

*

Wonwoo stepped out of the glass-walled dining lounge just as the midday sun dipped behind passing clouds, softening the sharp lines of the towering skyline that hemmed his empire in steel and secrets. He slipped on his sunglasses, ignoring the bowing host trailing behind him with murmured thanks.

Jun — his right hand since VEIN’s inception — matched his pace easily, a discreet file tucked under one arm and a subtle bulge of a sidearm under his jacket.

“Mr. Jeon,” Jun began as they passed the marble lobby’s silent fountains. “The board is satisfied with your agreement. The Ministry liaison will handle the new shipment from Busan.”

Wonwoo gave a curt nod, mind only half on the logistics of memory chip couriers and clinic expansions. He was already sifting through the next puzzle: you. His unexpected, stubborn guest still tucked away under his roof like a secret he couldn’t burn.

A discreet vibration against his palm drew him back — Jun handed over a slim phone. He flicked through the latest security update: your breakfast, your walk with Hyungrim, your request for money — and now, a note that you’d left in a black sedan headed toward the old river district.

“Curious little god,” he murmured to himself. What are you digging for this time?

Wonwoo’s eyes found Hansol instantly. Even in the gentle bustle of lunch hour crowds, Hansol looked like tension made flesh: clean blazer, faint holster imprint under the left arm, a restless glint that had never dulled despite his disgrace. A woman walked beside him, slim in a pale coat — Sihye, the doctor. Wonwoo’s jaw tensed around a crooked half-smile. You always gave him someone good to protect. Even if he had to bleed for it.

“That’s Officer Choi,” Jun repeated, voice low. “He… hasn’t given up, sir.”

Wonwoo adjusted his cuffs, then let his gaze linger on Hansol’s silhouette in the crowd.

“He was never written to give up,” he said simply — almost fond, almost pitying — before slipping into the waiting car, doors thudding shut like the click of a rifle bolt behind him.

The engine purred alive. Through the tinted window, Wonwoo allowed himself one more glance at the stubborn detective you loved so much — the loyal hound you’d set on his trail long before he himself knew he deserved to be hunted.

He closed his eyes as the city slid by. The day Wonwoo first felt the fracture in his own mind was the day he named his kingdom: VEIN — an unassuming biotech front woven tightly with a network of data brokers, black market pharma, and discreet clinics for the desperate rich and the dangerous sick. A perfect name, he thought. A lifeline and a chokehold.

He’d once believed every ambition in him was his own: the sleepless nights in overseas libraries, the charm he sharpened at law school roundtables, the hands he dirtied in Seoul’s neon alleys — all stepping stones for a man who wanted power to flow through him like blood through a vein.

But then there was that cop.

A routine nuisance at first — a mere local detective trying to pry open VEIN’s clinic back doors with cheap warrants and moral righteousness. A flick of Wonwoo’s finger could have erased him. One bullet, one whisper to a debt shark. Simple.

Yet he didn’t.

Instead, Wonwoo found himself sparring with the man, baiting him into dead ends, feeding him crumbs of false evidence, watching the frustration carve lines into the officer’s youthful face.

Choi Hansol. Young, tireless, irritatingly incorruptible. Wonwoo could have ended him a dozen times. But he didn’t. He didn’t even want to.

Instead, he played.

He toyed with the righteous dog long past reason, sabotaging raids only to leak hints later. He twisted Hansol’s life just enough to keep him close — but never close enough to break free.

And the strangest part? It made no sense. Wonwoo was never so indulgent. Never so sentimental. Never so careless. And yet, a hunger for this dance dug itself into his marrow, whispering “more.”

So when he first breached the boundary — stumbled through the shadow between his world and yours — he found the truth scrawled across an old sketch in your apartment. He was written that way. The ambition. The hunger. The odd fascination with a cop he should hate. The compulsive mercy that made no sense for a man like him.

He wasn’t a king at all. Just a creature on strings — greed stitched in by your pen, compassion dripped in when you were feeling soft.

VEIN had never been his alone. It was a monster’s dream borrowed from your sleepless nights. And every time Hansol’s stubborn eyes flashed with defiance, Wonwoo saw not just an enemy — but your favorite blade.

Jun, strapped in the front beside the driver, spoke with the hesitant tone he reserved for anything concerning you.

“Sir… it seems your guest has caused a scene.”

Wonwoo didn’t bother looking up from the report file in his lap.

“Main station confirmed: she attacked someone. They’re holding her for questioning.”

Wonwoo shut the folder gently. The slap of paper closing made Jun flinch more than any shout would have. Wonwoo’s mouth curled — but not into a smile. A cruel twist, more irritation than amusement.

“Drive to the station. Now.”

He leaned his head back against the seat, jaw tensing until it ached. Outside the tinted window, the river glittered in the distance — the same place where he first tested how far your invisible leash would stretch.

Now you were tangled in your own plot and Wonwoo wondered if you could survive him.

Wonwoo’s shoes clicked on the station’s cold tile floor, each step an echo loud enough to hush the low murmur of busy officers. Jun shadowed him, silent and sharp-eyed.

He didn’t bother greeting Hansol — only let his gaze sweep the scene: you, a mess of stubborn defiance and trembling wrists, seated across a metal table; Hansol and that same woman standing guard like a mismatched pair of guardian angels.

Wonwoo’s voice cut the tension like a scalpel.

“She’s my guest. My people will take care of this.”

Hansol stood immediately, his chair scraping back so hard it nearly toppled.

“This is a police station, Jeon. We do things under policy. She stays until this is settled properly.”

Wonwoo’s smirk was an insult and a promise in one curve of his mouth. He didn’t even spare Hansol a full glance — eyes flicking instead to you, assessing: your raw knuckles, your bitten lip, the manic shine barely hidden under that exhausted guilt.

“My person,” Wonwoo enunciated slowly, “will have it settled. Officer Choi.”

Hansol bristled, heat climbing his throat. The other officer — some senior detective — stepped in quickly, a hand on Hansol’s arm, voice placating:

“Hansol. Let it go. Sir Jeon, we’ll discuss this with your lawyer. Please have her stand up.”

You didn’t move. You stared at the floor — at the faint stain of your own drama playing out like spilled ink. But Hansol’s voice broke that moment of retreat. “She attacked Sihye!” His voice cracked.

Wonwoo’s steps were unhurried as he guided you out of the suffocating air of the station. Eyes darting for threats that didn’t dare appear while Wonwoo’s presence darkened the exit like a stormcloud.

Outside, the sun was sharp, the street too ordinary for the mess you’d caused inside.

But Hansol followed. Of course he did. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tight with barely caged defiance. He barked past you, straight to the man you’d written as his enemy.

“Are you his girlfriend?” His eyes cut to you, unblinking. “Do you know what he does?”

Wonwoo didn’t stop walking until he did — a single pivot on his heel, the sudden stillness more violent than any blow. The grin was small but lethal, a blade turned politely outward.

“You should know when to close your mouth, Officer Choi. I taught you plenty, didn’t I?” His head tilted slightly, an animal’s warning.

You hovered wordless by Wonwoo’s shoulder, the only sound of your quickened breathing. When Hansol stepped closer, you instinctively shrank behind Wonwoo’s broad back. Ironic — how the hero you’d made to save others now looked at you like you were a mistake, and the villain you’d built to ruin lives shielded you like a wall.

Hansol’s eyes flicked down to your shoes, up to the faint bruise near your collarbone. Each detail stoked the anger in his jawline.

“She doesn’t have an ID. No records, no prints — no one knows her. Another name to vanish under your rug, Jeon?”

At that, Wonwoo’s hand swept behind him, palm pressing against your hip to pull you closer into his shadow. A quiet, possessive gesture that made Hansol’s fists ball deep in his coat pockets.

“Let’s meet again — on real business, Officer Choi.” Wonwoo’s voice lowered into silk lined with iron. “Bring your gun next time. Maybe it’ll make a difference.”

He guided you toward the waiting black sedan, the tinted door swinging open as his driver slipped ahead to clear the path.

Behind you, Hansol’s voice cracked the air one last time, rough with something dangerously close to grief:

“I see she's yours, Jeon.”

Wonwoo didn’t answer. He only nudged you gently into the backseat — his monster’s promise warm at your shoulder, the door slamming shut between you and the world you’d written for him to devour.

He leaned one shoulder against your bedroom doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest — looking more at home than you ever did, though this was technically your mind made real, your words given walls and floors and furniture.

“First day here and you already managed to get yourself locked up in a police station.”

His voice was deceptively calm, dark amusement simmering beneath the chill. He clicked his tongue, a small, mocking laugh escaping him. “You really don’t know how to live a life, do you?”

You sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, legs tucked under the unfamiliar nightgown Hyungrim had laid out for you. The lace collar scratched your collarbone — too pretty for the way your chest felt tight and raw.

“You weren’t supposed to find out so soon,” you muttered, eyes darting to the floor. “Or Sihye, or Hansol— I didn’t plan—”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “That’s your excuse for everything, isn’t it?”

You flinched as he stopped before you, close enough to see the faint bruise blooming along the line of his bandages, where your betrayal still lived in his flesh.

“Why did you hug her?” he asked, quieter now — not the villain’s voice, but something more human, more disappointed. “The doctor.”

You squeezed your fists in your lap, nails digging half-moons into your palms. “She shouldn’t have looked that much like her. I — I panicked.”

A silence fell between you, heavy with everything you never intended to write. Wonwoo crouched down, knees cracking softly. He looked up at you from beneath dark lashes, eyes sharp yet weary — a predator forced to carry its wounded prey.

And then — softer, almost too soft for your chest to bear. “Rest. You’ll need it. Tomorrow, you’ll tell me exactly how you plan to end this story.”

He stood, the room suddenly emptier as his shadow slipped back to the door. Leaving you with the ache of every word you’d ever written that never learned how to stay safely on the page.

Your plan sounded logical — on paper, anyway. A neat conclusion, a redemption arc, a sacrifice to balance out all the blood and secrets you’d poured into him.

But the second the words left your mouth that morning in his study, you regretted them.

Wonwoo laughed. Not a quiet, amused laugh — but the kind that cracked through his teeth like glass under a boot. He tossed his pen aside and shoved away from his desk so hard the heavy chair scraped the floor like a threat.

In three strides he was before you, and you nearly flinched when the shadow of his frame fell over yours. His arms shot out — one hand slamming the wall beside your head, the other braced against the bookshelf behind you — boxing you in with the sharp scent of his cologne and the faint, metallic tang of wounds still healing beneath his shirt.

“This,” he hissed through clenched teeth, voice trembling at the edges of his rage, “this is your grand plan for my ending? I rot in a cell so your precious hero can stand above my grave and bathe in pity?”

He snapped his chin toward the coffee table where your folder lay, pages bleeding out like open veins. With a guttural snarl, he grabbed the whole thing and hurled it so hard the papers burst apart mid-air — drifting down behind the sofa like feathers, mockingly gentle against the storm in his chest.

“Fuck!”

He turned away, fingers clawing at his hair until the strands stood wild and jagged. You could see it — the tremor in his shoulders, the truth that fear mixed with fury when a monster realizes its own cage.

Your knees threatened to buckle, but you gripped the shelf at your back so you wouldn’t collapse under the weight of your own creation.

“You want me to surrender everything I crawled through blood for? The money, the power — the way they tremble when they whisper my name?” He stabbed a finger at the floor-to-ceiling window behind him, where the city glittered like prey under moonlight. “You want me to kneel so that bastard cop can stand over my corpse and call himself righteous?”

His laugh split the air again — brittle, a knife dragged over glass.

“Tell me, Creator — where in me did you ever write the word mercy?”

When he turned back, his eyes locked on you — sharp and wild and too human for something you’d crafted in a midnight draft.

Your breath snagged in your throat. You felt it — your heart drumming terror into your ribs because he was right. You’d made him a monster with a mind sharp enough to hate it.

“I don’t want you to break…” you whispered, your voice trembling like your hands.

He crowded closer, so close your back pressed deeper into the books. His forehead nearly touched yours; his next words were a threat and a plea wrapped in a confession of all he couldn’t control.

“Then write a better end, Y/n.” His breath ghosted your lips, hot and ragged.

“Or I’ll carve one myself — and you won’t get your happy ending this time.”

You returned to the Margin that night — or maybe it was dawn, or dusk. Time curled strangely there, bending to the flick of your desperation like pages warping under rain.

You stumbled past the familiar oak trees and scattered benches, your footsteps echoing over the soft grass. Here, characters who had once whispered secrets in your dreams paused to watch you. Some nodded in silent greeting, others simply kept reading, bound to their fates between covers you’d left half-shut.

You collapsed by the fountain near the center — the heart of your abandoned stories. Your fingers trembled as you tugged open the folder on your lap, pages yellowed by neglect but still humming with promise.

Title by title. Year by year. Notes scribbled in your tired college nights, outlines drafted on train rides, character sheets born in the blur between heartbreak and caffeine. You read them all — searching for loopholes you’d never written, prayers hidden in subplots you’d discarded.

Somewhere, you thought, you must have planted a seed for him.

Something good.

Then you found it.

*

You pressed your back into the old wooden chair in the library’s quietest corner, the smell of aging pages and dust grounding you more than the marble halls of Wonwoo’s estate ever could.

Myungho was probably still in the car, chain-smoking nervously because you’d threatened to fire him — a laughable bluff, considering he’d take Wonwoo’s word over yours any day. But at least he’d left you alone for now.

Your fingers traced the frayed spine of The Little Prince, that battered comfort you’d clung to as a kid when walls trembled with your parents’ anger, when love cracked apart in the dark and you had nowhere else to sleep but under your own thoughts.

You flipped to the chapter you always returned to — the fox and his quiet plea: “You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”

A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You never intended to tame Wonwoo. But you did.

Your thumb lingered on the delicate illustration, the tiny prince’s scarf flaring in a wind that had never been kind enough to you, either.

Somewhere between the sentences, the library’s hum softened to a hush so deep it pressed against your eardrums. The fluorescent lights flickered, warped into a golden dusk that wasn’t there before.

You knew this feeling.

The pull — not of this library, but the Library.

A door to the Margin within the real world.

You’d cracked it open before, half-asleep at your old studio desk.

And now it opened for you again.

The fox on the page seemed to lift its head. The paper prince turned slightly in your mind’s eye. And you felt yourself drawn under — not drowning, but drifting deeper into words you’d once written to save yourself.

You were back in your stories, hunting for another answer buried in the lines.

You closed your eyes against the library’s glow and whispered into the hush, “Show me another way to save him. Before he destroys everything… before he destroys me.”

And the fox — or the book — or the Margin itself — answered with the faint rustle of pages turning themselves.

You barely noticed how the chatter of the students nearby faded into a dull echo, how the dusty light filtering through the high windows blurred to a soft glow behind your lashes.

Your finger rested on the line you’d underlined years ago — “One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets oneself be tamed…”

A brittle laugh bubbled up your throat.

Isn’t that what you did to him?

Tamed a monster with half-baked mercy and lonely nights, then recoiled when he turned his fangs on you for answers.

Your vision pulsed — the black letters swimming — until the margin of the page bled outward, curling up at the edges like burned paper.

And then you were falling through it.

The musty library air thinned, replaced by the dry, warm hush of your own constructed nowhere — the Margin — infinite aisles of half-born ideas, boxed scenes, handwritten scraps you’d never shown anyone.

Your old apartment unit.

Inside, the air smelled like dust and stale instant noodles. Everything was exactly as you’d left it — the stack of dog-eared manuscripts on the tiny desk, the mug with three pens and a single dying highlighter, the sticky note on the mirror that read You owe them an ending.

Your throat tightened. You owe him an ending, you corrected yourself this time. You caught yourself on a shelf labeled VEIN — Early Drafts. Behind it: folders and loose pages, secrets too grim to publish, dreams too soft to stand in the real world. You dragged your fingertips over the binders until you hit one marked in your scribbled pen: Characters: Minor/Discarded. Your heart lurched.

This was where the overlooked lived. The side characters, the failed plot devices — the ones you’d promised next time.

You flipped through the folder so fast paper cuts stung your knuckles.

Behind you, the floorboard creaked. You froze, a cold current slicing down your spine. You didn’t dare turn — not until you heard that voice, low and almost gentle, yet heavy enough to press your heart flat against your ribs.

Your eyes met his in the reflection of your mirror: Jeon Wonwoo, leaning casually against your doorframe. Dressed in black again, hair still tousled from the car ride you didn’t know he’d taken right behind you.

He looked impossibly large for this room — for this part of your life that once felt too small for even yourself, let alone him.

Your voice cracked as you twisted to face him fully. “Wonwoo — how are you here? You… you shouldn’t be here. Not here—”

He tilted his head slightly, but this time there was no smirk — only the barest flicker of something unsettled behind his sharp eyes. He looked at you, then past you, as if the peeling wallpaper and flickering dorm light might offer an explanation he’d missed.

He stepped closer, slow but not deliberate this time — more like he was testing if the floor would hold him.

“Where are we?” he asked, voice lower than a whisper, and not for effect. He truly didn’t know. His hand reached for the edge of your desk, gripping it hard enough that your scattered notes trembled.

Your breath caught as you realized it. The monster was lost.

“Wonwoo… this is—” you started, but your throat closed up.

His eyes snapped back to yours, sharp again, though confusion still bled through the cracks.

“This isn’t my house,” he said, more to himself than you. “This smell… the hallway… it’s old. It’s…” He looked you up and down, taking in your clothes, your trembling hands, the ancient little prince book half-buried under a mess of scribbles.

“You dragged me here,” he accused — but it wasn’t the cold venom you knew. It was frustration. A flicker of fear under all that rage.

You shook your head, desperate to make sense of it too.

“I didn’t mean to! I just— I needed a place to think— to fix this—”

Wonwoo barked out a humorless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. The motion exposed the faint line of stitches on his temple — a reminder of your last attempt to control him.

“Fix this,” he echoed, almost mocking but more tired than cruel. He looked around again, at the tiny room that reeked of old anxiety and stale coffee and everything you’d once been.

His eyes found yours again, searching, pleading despite himself.

“What did you do, Y/n? Where did you take us? When did you take us?”

And for the first time since you’d ever written him, you realized he wasn’t your villain or your creation at all — he was a man who’d been dragged across stories and time without a map.

And he was just as scared as you.

You tried to steady your breathing, but the lump in your throat only grew.

“This is… my old studio,” you forced out. “Where I wrote most of you — the early drafts. The first scenes. All those nights when I—”

Your voice caught when his eyes flickered at the word wrote. He was still trying to piece it together. Still fighting it, even now.

“I was looking for answers, Wonwoo. I thought— I thought if I came back to the beginning, maybe I’d find a way to fix you. To fix this.” You gestured weakly around you: the faded curtains, the cracked plaster, the boxes of old manuscripts and half-dead pens you’d hoarded like talismans.

Wonwoo’s throat bobbed as he swallowed whatever curses or threats rattled inside him. He stepped back just enough to lean against your rickety bookshelf, arms crossed tight over his chest like he needed to hold himself together.

“I was in my office,” he said, voice low but clear — a confession forced through clenched teeth. “I had a meeting. Jun was reporting about you — how you were poking around an entertainment agency building. And then—”

He broke off, brow furrowing as if he could claw the memory back from the haze. His gaze flicked to the grimy window, the taped-up corner of your old laptop, the dog-eared books that made up the bones of who you used to be.

Wonwoo’s breath hitched as his hands planted on either side of you, caging you against the edge of your old desk. The tiny lamp buzzed between you, throwing his eyes into restless shadow and light.

His voice was low but ragged, scraped raw with a question too big for the peeling walls to contain.

“What did you do, Y/n?”

You flinched at your own name in his mouth — so human, so accusing.

“I— I didn’t mean to—”

He cut you off with a sharp, disbelieving laugh that died as quickly as it rose.

“I was in my office. I had control. I had my people, my rules—” His palm slammed the desk by your hip, rattling pens into your lap.

“And then I’m here. No power. No way back.”

You couldn’t help it — your voice cracked, trembling worse than your hands clutching the hem of your old sweater.

“I came here to find answers, Wonwoo. To fix you. I thought… maybe if I went back to where I made you, I could undo it — the blood, the killing, the— everything.”

His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped under the faint scar near his temple.

“So instead you dragged us both backwards.” He leaned in, forehead almost brushing yours, the heat of him wrapping around you like a noose.

“Is that it, Y/n? You wanted to rewrite my hell so badly you tore it all open? Time, place — me?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, a single tear slipping free before you could swallow it down.

“I didn’t know this would happen. I swear. I thought maybe— maybe the beginning could show me the way to give you a better ending. Or at least… save you.”

His laugh ghosted across your lips, bitter and helpless all at once.

“Save me? Or save yourself?”

His eyes bored into yours then — not your villain’s eyes, not your monster’s. Just a man’s. Furious, fractured, and terrifyingly real.

“What did you do to us, Y/n?” he breathed.

And for once, you had no line, no plan, no paper shield to hide behind. Only the truth that maybe you’d broken the lock on the very cage that made him yours.

*

You watched Wonwoo asleep on your bed, the floor around you littered with notes and scribbled timelines from every version of this mess you’d ever tried to control. Paper crumpled under your bare feet each time you shifted, but he didn’t stir — not until your stomach betrayed you with a low, sharp growl.

His eyes fluttered open, dark lashes brushing his cheekbones before they focused on you. You’d inched so close you were leaning over him, your head tilted at the edge of the mattress, just watching him breathe.

“You have money?” he rasped, voice rough from sleep, but his gaze flicked to the chaos on the floor like he already knew the answer.

You blinked, then remembered the stash of emergency cash you’d once hoarded for late-night ramen runs and rent you couldn’t pay on time.

“Let’s go out to eat,” you murmured, half a command, half a plea.

Oddly — maybe because he was too tired to argue, or maybe because in this world he had no empire to guard — he just nodded and swung his legs over the edge.

You pulled on an old oversized hoodie over your thin dress, the fabric swallowing you whole, and slipped into a pair of scuffed sneakers instead of your usual heels. Wonwoo’s eyes lingered on you, narrowed, curious — as if he was seeing a version of you he’d never been allowed to touch before.

When you stepped out of the tiny studio, the night air slapped your cheeks cold and real. You ducked your head low, hiding your face from the street’s indifferent glow, too busy bracing for a stranger’s glance to notice the way Wonwoo’s eyes followed every step you took.

You ended up in a modest restaurant you’d always passed by back then but never once stepped into — too clean for your student budget, too proper for your unwashed hair and all-nighter sweats back then. Now, at least, it gave you warmth and a moment’s pause to swallow real food for the first time in days.

Your fork froze halfway to your lips when the TV above the counter blared breaking news:

“A powerful earthquake struck Busan earlier this evening…”

You didn’t hear the rest. The numbers, the shaking towers, the headlines dissolving into a date that burned behind your eyelids:

10 August. Four days before Independence Day. The day you didn’t go home. The day you missed her funeral.

Your chair scraped back so hard it startled the couple beside you. Wonwoo’s hand shot out, catching the edge of the table before it tipped your plate to the floor.

“Where are you going?” His voice was too calm, too sure — but his eyes were locked on yours, searching for the storm he knew was coming.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Wonwoo dropped his fork, metal clattering against the ceramic plate, but he didn’t flinch. He just watched you — your back retreating through rows of still-eating strangers, head lowered under that oversized hoodie that did nothing to hide how shaken you were.

He stood, slower than you, ignoring the waitress’s startled “Sir, the bill—” as he followed. One hand slipped into his pocket, fingers brushing the folded cash you’d forgotten to take — the only anchor he had left from his world in this mess.

Outside, the late summer air hit harsh and humid. He found you half a block away, standing at a dusty bus stop sign that looked like it hadn’t been painted since the year you wrote him alive. You were hunched, arms tight around your middle like you were trying to hold something in. Or maybe keep something out.

“Y/n.”

His voice cut the buzz of cars and far-off traffic. You flinched, but didn’t turn.

He came closer, not stalking like your villain — not hunting. Just moving. Heavy, deliberate steps on cracked pavement.

“Where are you going?” he asked again, quieter now. No threat. Just the question — and something ragged underneath it, as if he hated needing to ask at all.

Your fingers dug into the hem of your hoodie.

“It’s August tenth,” you whispered. Your voice trembled worse than your shoulders. “That earthquake… I remember now. That day, my mother—”

Your breath hitched and your next words came out broken.

“I didn’t go home. I didn’t see her one last time. I stayed here. Writing you. I stayed here for you.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flickered. A pulse of understanding — and something colder — behind the confusion. He reached out, touched your wrist with fingers that could break bone but only rested there, too light, too human.

“Y/n.” He forced your gaze up, two wrecks caught in the glow of a flickering bus sign.

“You can’t change that,” he said. Not unkind. Not gentle either. Just brutal truth, shaped in the mouth of the man you’d once written to be invincible.

“You drag yourself back here, back then — but you can’t rewrite her. You can’t rewrite that.”

Your lip trembled. The truth slammed your ribs worse than any villain could.

“But if I could—”

He cut you off, firm fingers at your jaw, grounding you.

“You can’t.” His eyes narrowed, voice a hoarse whisper meant for no one but you. “You want to fix me. Fine. Fix your story. Fix the ending. But don’t lose yourself in the part that was never yours to hold.”

And as the old bus rattled up, brakes screeching through the sticky night air, you felt it — the choice pressing against your ribs like a knife: save him, save yourself, or bury it all under the ruins of your past you couldn’t dig up anymore.

You and Wonwoo stood at the edge of the crowd, half hidden behind a rusted iron gate and the old lilac tree your mother once planted in a cracked pot on the apartment balcony. Now it grew wild beside her coffin — a reminder she’d always loved beautiful things even when they died in her hands.

You pulled your hoodie tighter around your face, sleeves tugged over your fists like they could hold in the storm brewing under your ribs. Beside you, Wonwoo was silent, hands shoved in his coat pockets, his eyes flicking over the black-clad mourners with an unreadable coldness. To him, it must’ve looked like an irrelevant side plot, a scene he’d never been given to play in the margins of your draft.

You wondered if your old self was somewhere nearby — the you that never made it here, that stayed locked in a dorm room, scribbling villains and empires while the real world crumbled outside her locked door.

Wonwoo leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

A flicker of something crossed his eyes. Regret? Sympathy? Or just curiosity that the one who played god in his world could still be so painfully small in her own.

He shifted closer, enough that the cold wind couldn’t slip between your shoulders anymore.

He glanced back at the line of mourners, the hushed prayers, the echo of grief he could mimic in your pages but never feel like this.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured after a moment. One gloved hand brushed the edge of your sleeve. “Are you cold?”

You laughed, choked and watery. “No. I’m terrified.”

He didn’t say don’t be. He didn’t promise to protect you — that was never him. Instead, he stepped behind you, close enough that his coat brushed your hoodie.

*

Wonwoo’s steps halted when you veered off the narrow gravel path, deeper into the quieter rows of stone and framed photographs. He almost called your name — but the look on your face stole the word from his tongue.

You stopped in front of a headstone tucked between a wind-worn willow and an old brass lantern left by some devoted relative. There, pressed to the cold marble, was a photo he recognized instantly. A gentle smile. Sharp, kind eyes behind slim glasses. Ji Jihye.

Wonwoo’s pulse thudded in his ears.

“She’s in my world.”

His voice came out lower than he meant, brittle in the hushed air.

“The doctor. The one you…” He hesitated, thinking of that night — the trembling relief in your face when you clung to her like a drowning child to shore. In his world, she’d been the calm in his storms, a plot device he’d never questioned.

“The one you hugged that day.” You nodded, eyes fixed to the photograph as if you could fall into it and never come back.

“She’s my sister. She raised me when my mother—” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t bother hiding it. “When she couldn’t.”

Wonwoo’s jaw worked, silent words trapped behind his teeth. He glanced at the picture, at the name carved so neat and final: Ji Jihye.

He almost asked What happened to her there? — but the truth landed in his gut before you said it.

“Murder.”

You didn’t flinch when you said it. The word sat between you like a bloodstain no rain could wash off.

For a moment, the wind rattled the willow branches overhead. Wonwoo turned back to you — really looked at you, past the creator, past the coward who ran from funerals and folded reality when it didn’t obey. There it was: the child left behind, the sisterless girl who stitched monsters out of her grief.

Wonwoo didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Because suddenly all the twisted knots that made him — the rage, the power, the endless hunger for fear and control — trembled on a single question:

Was he really evil, or just a vessel for every wound you never mended?

His fingers curled, nails biting into his palms. He watched you, your eyes shimmering under the willow’s shadow, and for the first time since stepping from the pages into your fragile reality, he wondered:

What was he really for?

*

You and Wonwoo sat side by side on the dusty wooden floor of your old studio, knees brushing, backs pressed to the peeling wallpaper like you both needed it to hold you upright. Between you lay a scatter of papers — the same half-baked plot threads and character sheets you’d clung to for years like they were prayers that might save you.

Outside, the cicadas were singing — an old summer song that once made you feel small and safe at the same time. But inside, the silence between you and him was heavier than grief.

You picked at the edge of a yellowing notebook. “I wasn’t supposed to be here. I remember… I was supposed to be in Jeju. I ran away after my aunt texted me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t see her like that.”

You didn’t have to say your mother. The word was already a bruise in the room.

Wonwoo didn’t comment, didn’t pity you — he never did, never would. But the way his shoulder leaned just barely into yours was louder than a thousand sorrys.

He turned his head, watching you from the corner of his eye. “How did you come back? To this version of now?”

You laughed — a thin, breathless sound that made him frown. “I was reading. In the town library. I was trying to find another way to fix you. I thought maybe if I found my old ideas…”

He finished it for you, voice softer than you’d ever heard. “Was it The Little Prince?”

Your breath caught. You turned to him, eyes wide. “How did you know?”

Wonwoo dragged a hand through his hair — he looked almost embarrassed, if a man like him could be. “It sent me too. To your place. I was in my office. Then… there.” He gestured vaguely at the air, as if the whole universe was just an untrustworthy hallway you could slip through by accident.

Your lips parted, memories flickering: a child curled under a thin blanket, whispering to a paper prince to save her from doors slamming, from the crash of glass, from fists and broken promises. You’d written him to be your monster, but before that, you’d begged a little boy on an asteroid to protect you from adults.

And now here he was — no asteroid, no desert rose, just Wonwoo, an echo of every shadow you’d loved and feared.

“The Little Prince…” you murmured, almost to yourself. “It was my sanctuary. When they fought. When she cried. When I was too small to stop anything.”

Wonwoo let out a dry, near-silent laugh. “Mine too. It made me hate the king less.”

For a heartbeat, your monster and your child self sat together on that floor — two broken kingdoms connected by a single, fragile story about a boy too gentle for the world.

Wonwoo nudged your knee with his. “Maybe that’s it,” he said, half teasing, half serious. “Your prince keeps dragging us back when we run too far.”

Your laugh cracked open something in your chest. And you wondered, for the first time in years, if maybe neither of you was too far gone to come home.

*

You woke up tangled in warmth you didn’t remember climbing into — stiff sheets, a familiar weight against your side, and a scent that was unmistakably his: crisp, deep, edged with something dark like wet stone.

Blinking through the fuzz in your head, you shifted — and found Wonwoo half-asleep beside you, sprawled on his stomach, face turned toward you. His hair fell messily over his forehead, shadowing the faint scar at his temple.

He cracked one eye open, caught your startled stare, and groaned into the pillow.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and still a little rough. “Too tired to drag you to your room.”

Before you could answer, he let out a long breath and promptly buried his face in the pillow again, clearly intending to finish what little rest you’d stolen from each other all night.

You sat up so fast the blankets slipped to your lap. Your head spun. The familiar carved ceiling above you wasn’t the dorm’s cracked plaster — it was rich mahogany, polished and cold. His world’s air was heavier, scented faintly of cedar and the garden roses you knew he never watered himself.

Back. You were back.

You swung your legs off the bed and found your shoes still on. The hoodie swallowed you in its softness, a piece of the past now clinging stubbornly to your present. Carefully, you slipped from the bed — Wonwoo barely stirred, just an arm flung out to claim the empty space you’d left behind.

Padding to the heavy door, you cracked it open, peeking into the wide, sunlit hallway that could never belong to a cheap old dorm. Marble floors, oil paintings, hush of distant servants. His empire — real again.

You stepped out, only to freeze as a soft gasp broke the quiet.

Mrs. Jung stood there — sturdy, neatly dressed in the dark uniform of the household’s inner staff. Her hair was pinned tight and her eyes were sharp, though they widened when she saw your disheveled hoodie and bare feet peeking from beneath it.

Mrs. Jung. Hyungrim’s mother. The real iron backbone of Wonwoo’s household — the one who knew every secret passage and every lie.

She blinked once, took in your flushed face, the door cracked behind you, and gave the smallest bow, voice utterly neutral but her eyes curious as ever.

“Miss Y/n,” she said, smooth as tea poured into porcelain. “Good morning. Did you… rest well in the Master’s chamber?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then managed a strangle, “Yes. Thank you.”

Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched like she wanted to smile but had trained herself not to.

“Very good, Miss. Shall I prepare your room again? Or… would you prefer breakfast brought here?”

Behind you, Wonwoo’s sleepy grunt drifted from the bed — a muffled, lazy sound that somehow made your heart kick against your ribs.

You swallowed, tugging the hoodie tighter around yourself, suddenly feeling sixteen again and older than you’d ever been all at once.

“I— I’ll take breakfast here, thank you. And… Mrs. Jung?”

“Yes, Miss?”

You met her gaze — the mother of your villain’s most loyal man, standing in this world you’d spun from your grief and hunger for protection.

“Thank you for… looking after him..”

You sat stiffly on the edge of his leather couch, knees drawn together, the hoodie sleeves tugged down over your fists like a child’s security blanket. Outside the tall windows, the courtyard gardens basked under the late morning sun — a sight so distant from the cracked dorm ceiling that your head still ached trying to reconcile the leap.

Footsteps padded behind you — soft, slow, and unmistakably his.

Wonwoo dropped onto the couch beside you with all the lazy, fluid grace you hated to admit still made your chest tighten. He smelled freshly showered now, hair damp and pushed back, but his eyes were heavy-lidded with leftover sleep.

He slouched into the cushions, head rolling toward you until his sharp gaze pinned you like a bug on velvet.

“How we got back?” you asked before you could second-guess yourself. Your voice betrayed how raw your throat still felt, scratchy with exhaustion and words left unsaid at that graveyard.

Wonwoo’s mouth curved — not quite a grin, more a crooked slice of mischief through lingering fatigue.

“Myungho found you,” he said lazily, like recounting a half-remembered dream. “Passed out in the town library. I was too in m study.”

You blinked. “Passed out?”

Wonwoo lifted a brow, amused by your disbelief. He mimicked your tone under his breath: “‘Passed out?’ Yes, darling, that’s what happens when people rip holes in their heads, hopping worlds and time.”

You scowled at his mockery but he only hummed, ignoring it as he stretched out an arm behind you along the back of the couch — not touching, just there, like a bracket holding you in place.

You pressed on. “Then why was I in your room?”

At that, a real grin ghosted over his lips — fleeting, crooked, so achingly boyish it almost didn’t fit the monster you’d carved him into.

“I was too tired to carry you to yours. You passed out, remember?” He nudged your knee lightly with his own. “And don’t flatter yourself.”

You shoved his leg half-heartedly, heat crawling up your neck. “I wasn’t flattering myself. I just— it was surprising.”

Wonwoo laughed under his breath. A sound that, for once, held no threat. Only a secret understanding between the creator and her creation — two ghosts returned to the flesh, sharing the same borrowed couch in a world neither fully owned anymore.

His eyes softened just a fraction as he watched your face — as if daring you to ask the question that trembled behind your teeth: What now?

But for now, he didn’t press. He just tipped his head back against the cushion, eyelids drooping again, a king at rest beside the only storm that could shake him awake.

The quiet between you barely settled before the faintest knock, polite but firm, tapped at the door frame. You flinched, twisting just as Mrs. Jung stepped in carrying a tray balanced with more care than a royal offering.

She dipped her head first to Wonwoo — “Master,” she greeted with gentle respect — then turned her warm eyes to you.

“Breakfast, Master. And for your guest.” Her voice was steady as ever, but you caught the subtle flicker in her eyes when they lingered on your oversized hoodie and the way your bare feet tucked under you on the couch.

Wonwoo, half-slouched with his arm draped over the couch back, cracked one eye open, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“She demanded my share too, Mrs. Jung. Make sure she leaves me at least the fruit.”

Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched at his dry humor — she’d clearly survived it for years. She set the tray carefully on the low table in front of you, arranging the bowls and teacups with a grace that almost felt ceremonial.

“I’ll bring more tea if you wish, Master,” she said, her tone softening when she spoke to you too, kind but clear. “Please eat well, both of you — you need your strength after worrying us so.”

You mumbled a quiet thank you, cheeks warming under the hood as you avoided Wonwoo’s look — a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn’t read.

Mrs. Jung’s eyes lingered on you for another heartbeat, as if she wanted to say more but thought better of it. Then she bowed her head again, turned, and slipped out — the door closing with a gentle click behind her, leaving the scent of warm porridge and faint herbal steam curling around the room.

Wonwoo reached for a bowl and pushed it toward you, his knuckles brushing yours without apology.

“Eat,” he ordered, voice rough from sleep but softened by something like care. “If you faint again, I’m not dragging you next time. You’re heavier than you look.”

He claimed his own bowl, folding one knee up beside you as if this — a monster and his maker, side by side over breakfast — was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Outside, the courtyard glowed under a patient morning sun. Inside, for the first time in a long while, neither of you felt like running.

*

The sun was dipping low when Myungho knocked twice and stepped into Wonwoo’s office without waiting for permission — which was enough to make Jun look up from the couch, eyebrows raised. Wonwoo didn’t lift his eyes from the contract he was marking up, but the quiet knock alone had already put him on edge.

“Master,” Myungho said, voice tight. He didn’t bother with titles this time. “We have a problem.”

Wonwoo’s pen paused mid-sentence. He finally looked up. “Speak.”

Myungho’s throat bobbed. He shifted his weight like he didn’t want to say it at all.

“It’s Miss Y/n. She was at the town library. About an hour ago, witnesses say a black SUV pulled up. Two men forced her inside. One local vendor found her bag in the alley behind the bus stop.”

Jun sat up straight. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir. Her guards said she slipped them by going out the back gate. She didn’t want them trailing her that close — she told them she just wanted quiet.”

The room stilled. Wonwoo didn’t slam the desk or shout — but Jun, who’d known him long enough, saw the change immediately: the pen dropping soundlessly, the barely-there tremor in his knuckles before he curled them into a fist.

“Where was this? Which street?” Wonwoo asked. His voice wasn’t cold — just quiet, so quiet that Myungho almost preferred shouting.

“Near the east gate road, Master. Traffic cameras caught the SUV heading out of the old market district but we lost it near the industrial park.”

Wonwoo leaned back, eyes on the ceiling for a heartbeat — like he needed to keep the anger in check just to stay focused. Then he pushed up from the desk, methodical. He shrugged on his black coat, buttoning it with steady fingers that betrayed none of what tightened his throat.

“Start with the market CCTV. Block every road out of the district. Call the inspector directly, use my name if you have to — I want every exit checked. If they switched cars, trace every plate that left that zone in the last hour.”

Myungho nodded, halfway out the door already, phone in hand.

Jun stood, rolling his shoulders. “Sir—”

“I know,” Wonwoo cut in, voice softer, tired. His eyes flicked to Jun, a shadow of worry slipping through the usual steel. “She hates people trailing her. I should’ve—” He shook his head once, as if to snap himself out of it.

Wonwoo huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, but his jaw clenched right after. He grabbed his phone, already dialing, eyes distant but burning with a promise.

You owed him an end, but this isn't something he expected.

Wonwoo had barely made it down the marble steps when his phone vibrated in his coat pocket — just once, an unfamiliar number flashing on the screen. He answered it without thinking, half-expecting Myungho with an update.

But it wasn’t a call. It was a text.

“So you have a vulnerability?”

Attached below, a single photo loaded.

He stopped cold on the last step. Jun, coming up behind him, nearly collided with his shoulder.

“Sir?” Jun frowned, peering at the frozen look on Wonwoo’s face. “What is it?”

Wonwoo didn’t speak right away. His eyes traced the picture, the cheap motel wallpaper, the too-bright flash. The raw knot in his chest squeezed tighter at the sight of you — wrists bound to the headboard, head turned away, hair spilling across the pillow like you’d fought before they forced you still.

The phone trembled in his hand — barely. Just enough that Jun saw it.

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose. Slow. Measured. But when he looked up, the cold calm he always wore was gone. Something far more human burned through his irises — fury, yes, but beneath it, a helpless ache that scared Jun more than the rage ever could.

“They want me to panic,” Wonwoo said, almost to himself. He lifted his thumb, saving the photo to his files as if cataloging evidence, not an open wound. His other hand clenched the stair rail until the veins stood stark against his skin.

A second vibration buzzed through the silence. Another message:

“You want her alive? Come alone. Tonight. We’ll send the location soon.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flicked to the clock on the hall wall. Not nearly enough time to wait. Not nearly enough time to forgive himself for letting this happen.

Jun slipped the phone back into Wonwoo’s palm.

“I’ll have everyone track the signal. You’re not going alone., sir”

Wonwoo’s fingers closed tight around the phone — as if he could crush the message, the photo, the threat itself. He didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t care about pride or image or playing the perfect chess game.

*

In the stale half-light of the run-down motel room, the buzz of a flickering ceiling fan blended with the shallow rasp of your breathing. The rope bit cruelly into your wrists; your throat tasted of cotton and regret.

You barely registered the dip of the mattress until a familiar weight settled near your hip.

“Hey.”

You forced your heavy eyelids open. Blurred outlines resolved into a face you knew too well — Hansol. But not the Hansol who’d laughed through his meeting in the team 3 room, or muttered sleepy jokes behind stakeouts. His eyes now held something you couldn’t name, but you knew you never wrote it.

He watched you like a puzzle he’d half-solved. One corner of his mouth tugged upward, a smirk that made your pulse stutter for all the wrong reasons.

“You look smaller up close,” he said quietly, brushing a finger along your hairline. “Does he keep you hidden in that big old house? Or are you just too precious to show around?”

Your dry lips cracked when you tried to speak.

“H-Hansol…” you croaked. “Why… are you doing this?”

He clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment.

“You know, for someone Wonwoo goes soft over, you ask dumb questions.” He leaned closer, shadows carving sharper lines into his cheeks. “I don’t care about you, sweetheart. You’re just the leash. The king drops his crown when you scream — everyone knows that now.”

Behind him, two strangers — older, meaner — checked the window for the fifth time. One of them brandished your phone, the screen cracked from being snatched.

Hansol’s eyes flitted back to yours, studying the tremor in your lashes with unsettling patience.

“You really think he loves you, huh?” he murmured, voice dripping disbelief and something like envy twisted into contempt. “A man like him doesn’t love. He owns. And now… he’ll learn he can’t own everything.”

You winced as he thumbed your bruised cheek, tender as a lover.

“Tonight,” one of the men said gruffly, tossing Hansol your phone. “Drop sent. He comes alone, or she bleeds before dawn.”

Hansol pocketed the phone, then turned to you one last time — no warmth, no hate either. Just a wolf checking its trap.

“Try not to cry too much. Ruins the pretty face he likes so much.”

He stood and motioned for the others to tighten your bonds. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him — leaving you bound, dazed, and painfully awake to the fact that in this nightmare, you were nothing more than leverage for a man you’d created but could no longer control.

The click of the door echoed in your skull long after Hansol and his shadows vanished down the hallway. You lay motionless for a few heartbeats, letting your breathing even out, listening — first for footsteps, then for the hush of the old building settling into silence.

Don’t panic. That voice — your voice — the same one that used to narrate these horrors from behind a safe screen. It sounded so far away now.

Your wrists burned from the coarse rope. Every shift scraped skin raw, but you forced your elbows up anyway, testing how much slack they’d left in their arrogance. The knots weren’t perfect; Hansol was cocky, not careful.

Your eyes darted around the dingy room: a battered side table, an empty bottle on the floor, a lamp plugged into a wall socket hanging loose from age.

You flexed your fingers until blood stung the tips. Inch by inch, you curled your knees under you, testing the rope at your ankles — tighter than your wrists, but not unbreakable.

You tugged once. Twice. The headboard rattled softly. No footsteps. Good.

Next, you twisted your body to the side, forcing your bound hands against the jagged corner of the bedframe’s rusted hinge. Metal bit skin — you hissed through your teeth, the smell of iron blooming fresh.

Keep going.

Your breath hitched when you heard faint voices down the hall. Hansol’s laugh. A lighter flick. Then footsteps retreating toward the far end of the corridor.

You pressed harder. Back and forth, flesh tearing, fibers loosening.

A single rope strand gave way with a muted snap. Pain blurred your vision but you swallowed it down, gasping through grit teeth as you slipped one wrist out.

Free. Half-free.

Ignoring the sting, you scrambled to untie your ankles, each tug punctuated by the terror that any second the door could burst open. Finally, the rope fell to the floor with a soft thud.

Your legs trembled as you stood, barefoot, hoodie rumpled and sticky with sweat and blood. You scanned for anything useful — no phone, no weapon, just a creaky old lamp and your pounding heart.

You padded to the grimy window, praying it wasn’t painted shut. Your trembling fingers worked the rusted latch loose. You shoved. Once. Twice. The frame groaned in protest before giving way an inch at a time — a humid gust stung your cuts but tasted like salvation.

Below, a dirty alley sloped into shadows. No time for fear. You swung one leg over the sill, biting back a whimper when your scraped palms pressed into the peeling paint.

A voice shouted inside the room — too late. You pushed off, dropped into the night, knees buckling as you hit the gravel. Pain shot up your shins but you forced your feet to move.

One breath. One thought: Run.

You bolted down the alley, bare feet slapping against broken concrete and puddles that splashed up your legs. Behind you, shouts erupted — Hansol’s voice, furious and sharp, echoing like a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.

Your breath tore at your throat, each step a prayer to whatever cruel god still watched over you and the monsters you’d unleashed. You veered right, shoulders crashing against an overflowing dumpster, then stumbled out into a dim side street lit only by flickering neon signs.

A black car screeched to a halt at the curb just as you shot across the gutter — headlights blinding you, tires squealing against wet asphalt.

You froze. For half a second, the world stilled, your scraped hands trembling in the glare, your chest heaving, your heart a war drum.

Then the car's door slammed open.

“Y/n!”

Wonwoo’s voice — raw, frantic — cut through every other sound.

He was on you in two strides, one hand gripping your shoulder so tightly it almost hurt, the other brushing your hair back, searching your face as if to confirm you were real, whole, not just a vision conjured by rage and fear.

“Are you hurt?” he rasped, scanning you up and down. You tried to answer — your mouth opened — but over Wonwoo’s shoulder, another figure emerged from the shadows.

Hansol.

He slowed to a stop at the edge of the headlights, breath misting in the night air, his eyes locked not on you now but on Wonwoo — and whatever twisted history the margin had let grow between them.

Wonwoo didn’t turn, but you felt the tension coil through him, like a bow pulled so taut it could snap bone.

Hansol cocked his head, wiping a smear of blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. He didn’t look at you — you didn’t exist in his eyes anymore. Only Wonwoo did.

“So,” Hansol said, voice calm, almost amused, though his knuckles were white at his sides. “Seems you do have a soft spot after all, master.”

The word dripped with mockery, a dare.

Wonwoo’s hand slid from your shoulder to your waist, anchoring you behind him. His other hand curled into a fist. He didn’t answer Hansol — didn’t need to.

You could feel it in the way he shifted his weight: this wouldn’t end in words.

Wonwoo’s arm tensed across your stomach, pinning you back a step as Hansol lifted the gun — careless, casual, yet steady as stone. For a split second, you thought he was bluffing.

But the glint in his eyes wasn’t madness — it was something colder. Certain.

“Don’t,” Wonwoo warned lowly, voice a dangerous calm that made the men behind him — Jun, Myungho, a handful of guards in black — shift their stance, guns discreetly trained on Hansol’s head and chest.

Hansol laughed, almost gentle. His finger curled tighter on the trigger.

“Look at you, Wonwoo… playing hero for a woman.” His eyes flicked to you, just a flicker, then right back to Wonwoo’s.

“Did she soften you so well you forgot what you are?”

“Hansol,” Wonwoo growled, moving half a step forward — but Hansol’s aim never wavered. The muzzle of the gun aligned perfectly with your chest first, then flicked back to Wonwoo’s.

“Stay behind me,” Wonwoo murmured to you without looking — an order threaded through with something fragile.

Your breath caught.

“Hansol — stop this. You don’t have to—”

Hansol’s grin twitched. For a heartbeat, regret flickered across his sharp features — gone before you could name it.

“Too late.”

The gunshot cracked the night open.

Wonwoo jerked — a sound, not a scream but a punched-out breath, left his lips as his shoulder snapped back. His grip on you faltered but didn’t break; his weight leaned into you for half a heartbeat before he forced himself upright, staggering once but staying between you and the barrel that still smoked in Hansol’s hand.

Time splintered around you — guards shouting, Jun lunging, Myungho cursing as he tackled Hansol from behind, the gun clattering to the pavement.

“Y/n—” he rasped, his forehead brushing yours, breath warm despite the cold. “Stay… behind me…”

Time fractured.

Wonwoo’s weight sagged into you — warm, heavy, terrifyingly real — as a second gunshot cracked through the air, closer than the first, sharper, final.

Your head snapped up just in time to see Jun, breathless and stone-faced, lowering his pistol. Smoke curled from the muzzle. Hansol’s body lurched back, the force sending him sprawling to the filthy asphalt. His gun tumbled from lifeless fingers, skittering away until Myungho’s boot pinned it down with a crunch of gravel.

For a moment, no one breathed. Then the night erupted: boots slamming pavement, men shouting commands, two guards wrestling Hansol’s barely-conscious cronies to the curb. Somewhere in the chaos, a siren wailed — distant, irrelevant.

But all of that blurred when you looked down at Wonwoo. His eyes fluttered open just enough to find yours, a glassy stubbornness shining through the pain.

“Hey— hey, don’t—” You pressed your hand hard against his shoulder wound, the heat of blood seeping too fast between your fingers. “Wonwoo, stay with me. Please, just—”

A choked laugh rattled out of him, strained but real.

“Y/n..” he rasped, half a smirk ghosting his lips. “You don’t… order me…”

You wanted to scream at him to shut up, to save his strength — but all you could do was press harder, leaning over him as Jun dropped to his other side, barked something you barely registered to the guards about an ambulance and backup.

“Jun—” you gasped, your voice breaking.

“I know.” Jun’s eyes flicked to yours, softening only for a fraction of a second before hardening again at the sight of Hansol’s limp form a few feet away. “I got him. Focus on master. He’s going to make it — sir, you hear me?”

Wonwoo’s breathing hitched, then steadied, his lashes fluttering against your wrist as you held him.

In the periphery, Myungho’s voice rose over the chaos, sharp and venomous as he kicked Hansol’s gun away and helped bind the man’s wrists in blood-smeared plastic cuffs.

And in that chaos — asphalt, blood, the ruined echo of betrayal — all you could do was bow your head over Wonwoo’s chest, feel the stubborn pulse beneath your palms, and pray that this time, for once, your story would let him live.

*

When your eyelids finally fought their way open, the first thing you saw was the sterile white ceiling — too bright, too still — and the frantic blur of Soonyoung’s worried face leaning into your blurry vision.

“Y/N! Y/n — hey, look at me, look at me — Doc! She’s awake! She’s—” He turned his head and bellowed down the hallway, his voice cracking halfway between relief and panic.

You blinked hard, your tongue dry as you tried to form words. It felt like waking from a lifetime underwater.

“...S-Soonyoung…?”

He almost collapsed over your bedside rail, grabbing your hand so tight you felt it through the IV tape.

“Holy shit, don’t you ever— I mean— where the hell were you?! Do you know what—” He choked on a half-laugh, half-sob. “The whole country could’ve gone to war and you wouldn’t know, you— oh my god—”

A doctor brushed past him, checking your pupils with a penlight, mumbling something reassuring about dehydration and mild concussion. Soonyoung refused to let go of your hand the whole time, his thumb sweeping your knuckles like he needed to remind himself you were really there.

When the doctor finally stepped back, Soonyoung dropped his voice, fighting the tremble that made him sound ten years younger.

“You were gone for two weeks, Y/n. Two weeks! A farmer found you lying by the side road near the rice fields — said you were passed out in the dirt. Police brought you straight here. We—” His breath caught. “We thought—”

You squeezed his hand weakly, a reflex to hush the tremor in his voice.

A soft knock at the door cut through the haze — two plainclothes officers stepped in, polite but clearly exhausted. One flipped his notebook open, voice gentle but firm.

“Miss Y/n… we know you’ve just woken up, but can you tell us anything about what happened? Where you were? Anyone who might have—”

You stared at him. The white walls swam a little. Wonwoo’s blood, Hansol’s laugh, Jun’s voice telling you to hold on — all of it pressed like a bruise behind your ribs.

“I…” You wet your lips. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry. I don’t… remember anything.”

The older officer exchanged a glance with his partner, then nodded, jotting something down.

“That’s alright. When you’re stronger, maybe something will come back. Rest for now, Miss.”

When they stepped out, Soonyoung exhaled shakily, dropping into the chair by your bed again.

“You don’t remember, huh?” he whispered, searching your eyes for the truth you couldn’t say out loud.

You only shook your head.

Soonyoung didn’t let you drift back into that soft, dangerous haze of half-sleep — not when he’d waited two weeks and nearly lost his mind doing it. He perched on the edge of your hospital bed, his knees bouncing, hands flying everywhere as he retold everything in the only way Soonyoung knew how: animated, loud, and bursting at the seams.

“You should’ve seen it! I mean— no, you shouldn’t have seen it— it was terrifying! There was blood on your floor, your notes scattered like some horror movie— I thought you’d been murdered!” He smacked your pillow, startling you. “So I called the police immediately — and the landlord — and then the internet exploded, obviously. Everyone thought some stalker fan did it, or one of your haters, or— god, I don’t even know, people started fighting in your comment sections—”

He pressed his hand to his chest dramatically, catching his breath like he’d run laps around the hospital.

“Your name trended for days. Then the whole ‘#ComeBackY/N’ thing — people apologizing for leaving hate, people crying they’d misunderstood you — ugh, the drama. Half of them are still scared you’ll sue them for defamation now that it looks like an actual crime scene—”

You groaned softly, your dry throat protesting. “Soonyoung… please…”

He ignored you completely. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you sneaky genius — you finished the damn manuscript before you vanished! You sent it! The publisher called me to check if it was really you — I almost fainted—” He jabbed your forehead gently with a finger. “You didn’t even tell me the last chapters! How dare you wrap up his arc without me. It’s going live tomorrow, do you know that? Tomorrow! I’m your biggest fan and you didn’t even spoil me!”

Your tired chuckle cracked open past your dry lips. It hurt, but it felt good too.

“Sorry…” you rasped. “Had to… finish it before—”

Before everything bled over. Before you lost control completely.

Soonyoung softened then, all the noise melting into a fond grumble. He brushed your hair gently from your eyes, the way only an old friend could.

“Yeah, well. You’re finishing this first — getting better. Then you’re gonna tell me everything. Even the parts you swear you don’t remember. Deal?”

His pinky hovered near yours. You hooked it with yours, sealing a promise neither of you fully understood yet.

Outside your room, the sun was already setting. And tomorrow — tomorrow, the ending would finally belong to the world.

The next morning, the hospital felt like it pulsed with a quiet hum — nurses at the station murmured about your trending name again, passing by your door with curious eyes. But you didn’t care about them. You were propped up in bed, blanket twisted around your legs, eyes glued to your phone screen.

Soonyoung sat on the recliner, scrolling too — at first pretending not to care, then stealing glances at your expression every other second.

You’d stayed up all night refreshing the publisher’s site, waiting for the final chapter to drop. You’d written the ending weeks ago: Wonwoo would die in winter’s first snow, tragic but poetic — the only way to end him before he devoured everything. Hansol was just a thread you’d never fully pulled tight; a side piece, never meant to bloom into a real threat.

Except now, you scrolled line by line in growing disbelief.

It wasn’t your ending.

In this ending, Wonwoo’s death was there — a single, startling moment in a half-frozen courtyard under falling snow — but it came like a dream: hazy, shifting, wrong. Instead of fading out, the chapter kept going.

Hansol rose out of the ashes you’d never planted. Darker, stranger — his voice split between what readers knew and an alter ego no one had guessed. Sihye — a minor guard you’d half-named once — appeared at his side like a shadow stitched to his heel, coiled and hungry for vengeance on Wonwoo’s ghost.

And you — you were gone. No trace of the girl who should have been kneeling in the snow, holding the monster she’d built. In this version, you’d been erased entirely, replaced by Hansol’s distorted memory of Wonwoo’s only weakness: a secret no reader could name but every line implied.

You exhaled a shaky laugh, the phone trembling in your palm.

Soonyoung jolted upright. “Why are you laughing like that? Don’t do that, you look possessed—”

“It’s not mine,” you said, voice cracking somewhere between relief and horror. “It’s… not my ending. He— he rewrote himself, Soonyoung. He rewrote himself.”

Your friend blinked, squinting at your screen as if the code behind the page might explain it better than you ever could.

“But you sent the final draft, right? Like… the publisher didn’t—?”

“They didn’t change it. Look at it.” You shoved your phone at him. “This is him. Wonwoo—Hansol— it’s them. I didn’t write this part. They— they finished their own story.”

Inside your ribs, your heart thudded at a truth too big to put into words: the monsters you’d made had crawled off the page — and somewhere, somehow, they were still writing the next chapter themselves.

Soonyoung stared at you, then at your phone screen again, then back at your wide, exhausted eyes. He let out a long, dramatic sigh — the kind he used when you forgot your umbrella on a rainy day or burned your rice three days in a row.

He reached out, gently pried the phone from your fingers, and tossed it onto the side table, ignoring your weak protest.

“Yah. Enough. You’re not going to fight fictional men and real-life trauma in the same week. Not on my watch.” He jabbed a finger at your forehead, like sealing an invisible button to shut you up.

“But, Soon—”

“No but. You’re still hooked up to an IV, you look like you time-traveled through a blender, and I swear if you refresh that page again I’ll eat your phone.” He plopped back into the recliner with a huff, arms crossed like an overworked guardian.

“Just rest. Sleep. Let them rewrite whatever they want — you’re alive. That’s all that matters, okay?”

His voice softened at the end, enough to blur your stubborn argument into a watery laugh. You nodded, letting your head sink back into the pillow as your body — traitorous and bone-deep tired — finally agreed with him.

Soonyoung mumbled as he pulled your blanket higher under your chin, “Next time you want drama, just watch Netflix. Less kidnapping, more popcorn.”

Outside your hospital window, the world kept turning — while inside, for the first time in days, you let yourself drift without chasing any more endings.

*

You kept your announcement short — a single post on your page, pinned right above the final episode that had broken the internet for all the wrong reasons:

Thank you for reading my work all these years. I’ve decided to take an indefinite hiatus from creating comics. Please keep supporting new artists and stories. I’ll always be grateful. — Y/n

No dramatic farewell, no live Q&A. Just a quiet bow at the end of a stage you’d clung to for too long.

By the time you clicked ‘post,’ the comments were already flooding in — Take care of yourself, Author-nim! We’re so sorry for what you went through! We’ll wait for your return! — but you only let yourself read a handful before shutting your laptop for good.

The studio that had become your makeshift bedroom was a battlefield of cold coffee cups, scribbled drafts, and stacks of half-finished illustrations. You rolled up old posters, boxed every pen and sketchbook that still worked, and tied up bundles of storyboards you no longer had the heart to burn but couldn’t look at either.

Your tiny apartment — neglected for months while you hid among ink and paper — felt foreign at first. Sunlight spilled onto the dusty floor as you pulled the curtains wide, a broom in one hand and resolve in the other. You scrubbed, sorted, folded. Every faded mug and wrinkled blanket was a piece of your old life you were willing to keep — everything else, you stuffed into black trash bags and left by the door.

When the rooms were finally empty of yesterday’s ghosts, you stood in the middle of it all — the hum of the fridge, the ticking wall clock, the warm breeze sneaking through the open window — and breathed.

No Wonwoo. No Hansol. No margins waiting to tear open.

Just you. And this chance, fragile but yours, to live outside the page.

You tied your hair up with an old scrunchie, sleeves rolled high as you dragged a ragged mop across the narrow kitchen floor. The scent of pine disinfectant mingled with the faint, stubborn smell of ink and dust that clung to your walls no matter how hard you scrubbed.

Every time you opened a cupboard, a bit of your past life fell out: old character sketches wedged behind the plates, a mug etched with World’s Best Artist from Soonyoung (he’d spelled artist wrong, on purpose). You smiled weakly, tossing it into the keep pile anyway.

Your phone buzzed, rattling against the counter. You ignored it. Today wasn’t for calls or comforting words. Today was for clearing out the ghosts.

In the bedroom, you stripped your bed to the bare mattress. Crumpled sheets went straight into a laundry bag, along with the hoodie you’d practically lived in through every late-night rewrite. When you caught your reflection in the wardrobe mirror — hair a mess, sweat trickling down your neck — you almost laughed. Human again, you thought. Not an author. Not a hostage to a world you’d lost control of. Just… you.

By evening, cardboard boxes lined the hallway. Some destined for donation, some for the trash, some — the ones too heavy with memory — tucked carefully into the closet. You’d decide what to do with those later.

You sank down on the now-bare floor, back against the freshly wiped wall, and let the quiet wrap around you.

No drafts to finish. No margin to cross. No monster waiting behind your mirror.

For the first time in too long, your biggest problem was what to have for dinner. And that felt like freedom.

You were half-dozing on the bare floor when the knock came — three quick raps, one heavy thump. Classic Soonyoung, no doorbell, just his whole personality at your doorstep.

You opened the door to find him balancing a large paper bag in one hand and a soda bottle under his arm, grinning like he owned the hallway.

“Survival rations for the hermit,” he declared, barging in before you could protest. He paused mid-step when he saw the cleared apartment — the boxes, the empty desk, the naked walls where your storyboard clippings used to be pinned with colorful tape.

“…Whoa.” He set the bag down on your tiny dining table. “It really looks like you’re quitting your entire life in one day.”

You shrugged, pulling out the takeout boxes one by one. Rice, spicy chicken, egg rolls — all comfort food, all too much for one person. Soonyoung was good like that. Always bringing more than you asked for, just in case you forgot to eat tomorrow too.

“I’m not quitting my life,” you said, opening the soda for him. “Just… changing it. For good.”

He flopped onto the floor next to you, cross-legged like a kid. “Yeah, yeah. You know, people online still think you were kidnapped by a deranged fan.” He gestured with a chopstick. “You could clear that up, you know.”

You pressed your lips together. “Let them think what they want. It’s over.”

He went quiet for a second, then reached out and flicked your forehead — not hard, just enough to snap you out of your thoughts.

“Eat first, dramatic later,” he said, voice soft despite the tease. He cracked open a container, waved it under your nose. “I gotta go after this — there’s a meeting with my editor tonight. But I didn’t want you spending your first free night with instant noodles.”

You laughed, the sound a little watery. Soonyoung bumped your shoulder with his, eyes twinkling like always.

“Next chapter’s gonna be your best, okay?” he said. “Even if there’s no drawing in it. Promise me.”

You clinked your chopsticks against his, a tiny toast in the middle of your nearly empty home.

“Promise.”

*

You were jolted awake by a dull thud — something heavy shifting, then a soft scrape against your living room floor. For a few disoriented seconds, you lay stiff under your blanket, eyes wide in the darkness, every childhood nightmare crawling back into your mind at once.

Half-dreaming, half-dreading, you wondered if this was finally it — the day the anonymous threats turned real, the day the masked words became hands around your throat.

Your throat tightened as you slid your feet to the cold floor, steadying your shaky breath. You bent down, groping blindly under your bed until your fingers curled around worn, familiar wood — the old baseball bat you’d kept since college, back when you thought monsters only lived in alleyways, not in your inbox.

You clutched the handle so tight your knuckles whitened. Each cautious step made the floor groan just enough to betray you, but you pressed on, every nerve on fire as you crept toward the faint slice of light spilling under your bedroom door.

The quiet outside was worse than any noise. You could almost hear your heartbeat echoing off the walls. You paused by the door, inhaled once, twice, then flicked the switch with trembling fingers.

The harsh hallway light flared to life, making your eyes sting — and in that moment, the bat fell limp in your grip.

He stood there in the middle of your living room, as if he belonged in the mundane mess of your reality: a man in a rain-damp coat, droplets dripping onto your floorboards, a battered copy of The Little Prince dangling loosely from his hand. He was brushing rain from his dark hair with the other hand, utterly unbothered by the way your entire world had just jolted awake with you.

Your throat worked around his name, hoarse and disbelieving. “Wonwoo…”

He turned slowly, dark eyes meeting yours under the harsh ceiling light. Something soft flickered there, ghostly warmth beneath the sharp lines of a man you once wrote as unyielding steel.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice deep and so achingly familiar that your grip on the bat finally failed you.

It hit the floor with a muted clatter — the only sound loud enough to remind you this wasn’t a dream, no matter how much your knees begged you to wake up.

Your mind reeled, lagging behind the sight of him standing there, flesh and bone and rain-soaked reality — not ink, not pixels, not a memory stitched into your pillow at 3 a.m.

You took a step forward before your legs betrayed you, buckling just enough that you grabbed the door frame for support.

“Y-You’re…” Your voice broke on the word, disbelief scraping your throat raw. “You’re alive.”

Wonwoo tilted his head at you, a faint crease between his brows as if he was gently puzzled by how fragile you sounded. He shifted the little book in his hand, like an absent gesture to ground himself in this place that wasn’t meant for him — your place, your clutter, your humdrum lightbulb humming above him.

“Of course I’m alive,” he said, and his tone held that soft reprimand you’d given him in all your drafts when he needed to remind people he was human first, ruthless second. “It takes more than a bullet to kill me, doesn’t it?”

You shook your head, eyes stinging, the rush of tears making your vision stutter like a broken film reel. 

“Wonwoo, I— I saw you—”

Before you could finish, he stepped forward, crossing the distance you couldn’t. His free hand, warm and real, cupped the side of your neck, thumb brushing your racing pulse. His touch made your heart lurch against your ribs, a startled bird in a too-small cage.

“You wrote an ending,” he murmured, voice lower now, nearer. “But you forgot something, didn’t you? I never really did what you told me to do, not completely.”

He lifted The Little Prince slightly, almost playful, like a conspirator showing you his secret.

“Wherever you put me,” he said, “I always find my way back to you.”

Your body moved before your mind could catch up as you stumbled forward and threw your arms around him.

“You’re alive…” you whispered, the words trembling out of you like a confession — like an apology for every night you’d cried over his death, for every version of him you’d buried in the drafts you never dared to reopen.

Wonwoo let out a soft grunt at the impact, but his arms wrapped around you without hesitation, steady and certain. He smelled like a cold wind and a trace of old paper — the way you’d always imagined his world to feel against your skin.

“I’m here,” he murmured into your hair, one hand splayed wide between your shoulder blades like he was anchoring you to him. “Look at you… You really thought you’d gotten rid of me?”

You laughed, a small, cracked sound muffled against his chest, your fingers fisting in the damp fabric of his coat. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, so solid and steady you almost sobbed from the relief of it.

“I thought—” you choked out, pulling back just enough to see his face. His dark eyes searched yours, calm even now, as if there was nothing more natural in the world than him standing in your hallway. “I thought you were gone. I thought you—”

He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath brushing your lips as he cut you off softly. “I’m not gone. You should know by now… I never die that easily.”

Your hands came up to frame his face, to prove to yourself this wasn’t another cruel dream. His skin was warm. His lashes fluttered when you touched his cheekbone with your thumb, like you were the fragile thing this time, not him.

His hand slipped from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a tenderness that contradicted the storm behind his eyes. Before you could answer, before you could even draw another breath to question him, Wonwoo closed the last inch between you and pressed his mouth to yours.

It wasn’t gentle — not really. It was the kind of kiss that said enough to every unfinished ending you’d ever written for him. His lips moved over yours like he was claiming lost time, like he needed to remind you he was flesh and blood, not a tragic line on a page you could erase.

Your knees nearly gave out. One hand clutched at his coat while the other fisted in his hair, and the bat you’d dropped rolled noiselessly across the floor behind you. The hallway light flickered above you, but you barely noticed. There was only his warmth, the taste of him — familiar and heartbreakingly real — and the soft rumble of his low groan against your mouth when you tugged him closer.

When he finally pulled back, your lips tingled, your breath stolen, your heart pounding so loud it drowned out every thought but he’s here, he’s here, he’s here.

Wonwoo didn’t step away. His forehead rested against yours, eyes half-lidded, voice rough when he spoke.

“Do you believe me now?” he murmured, the ghost of a smile brushing your swollen lips. “I’m alive. I’m not leaving you again.”

Your hands trembled where they clutched his coat, but you didn’t care — you didn’t want to care about anything except the taste of him and the warmth that bled through every inch where your bodies touched.

You tipped your chin up, breathless but hungry for more, and tugged him down to you again. This time the kiss was deeper, slower but impossibly warmer — no fear, no half-finished confessions, just you pouring every sleepless night and every secret wish into the press of your mouth against his.

Wonwoo made a sound you’d never heard before — half a groan, half a laugh muffled by your lips — as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real, too. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him until there was no room for the past, no room for doubt, just the frantic thrum of your pulse answering his.

When you finally pulled back for air, your lips were damp and your chest ached sweetly with relief. His eyes searched yours — dark, sharp, so alive — and softened when he saw the tears you didn’t even realize had slipped free.

“Again,” he whispered against your mouth, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Say it again.”

You breathed out the words like a vow, fingers curling into his hair.

“You’re alive. You’re here. With me.”

And this time, when he kissed you, it was softer — but it felt endless.

*

Soonyoung nearly choked on his iced coffee, eyes wide as saucers darting between you and the man beside you — the very real, very unbothered Jeon Wonwoo, who calmly stirred his latte like he hadn’t just upended everything Soonyoung thought he knew about you.

“Wait— wait,” Soonyoung sputtered, jabbing a finger accusingly at Wonwoo’s face. “You’re telling me… you— this— he’s real? And his name is actually Jeon Wonwoo?”

You pressed your lips together, trying to hide your laugh behind your palm. Wonwoo only raised an eyebrow, glancing at you with that faint, knowing smirk before returning his gaze to Soonyoung, unruffled as ever.

“Yes,” you said, voice light but betraying your thrill. “His name is really Jeon Wonwoo.”

Soonyoung gaped, looking like he was rethinking every midnight rant he’d ever heard from you about “that tragic idiot villain” you were rewriting for the hundredth time.

“Hold on— then all this time, the comic�� you were inspired by him?” He leaned in over the table, practically vibrating with secondhand scandal. “You built that entire icy bastard king based on your real boyfriend?”

Your gaze slipped to Wonwoo, your hand drifting unconsciously to his on the table. He didn’t pull away — instead, his thumb brushed yours, so soft it made your chest tighten all over again.

“Maybe…” you murmured, unable to hide the tiny smile. “He’s my muse, after all.”

Soonyoung groaned, dropping his head dramatically to the table with a loud thud.

“I knew it. I knew you were secretly romantic, but this is insane. Next you’ll tell me Hansol’s real too and wants to kill me.”

Wonwoo’s low chuckle rumbled beside you. “Don’t worry,” he said smoothly, eyes twinkling. “Hansol won’t bother you.”

Soonyoung just wailed into his arms. “I hate both of you. But also — I’m so happy for you, oh my god.”

The End.

[draxula]

oh, how i'd kill... | b. barnes

'...To see you again."

pairing: bucky barnes x blackwidow!reader

word count: 4.1k

warnings: mentions of torture and distress. canon typical violence. possible timeline errors with ca:tws. possible thunderbolts* spoiler at end if you haven’t seen it yet.

summary: a stolen widow tasked with accompanying the soldier, the two of you were together more than not. soft memories of a softer widow haunt his dreams. would he ever see you again?

author’s note: past memories in italics. another one thank u.

There were things that haunted him.

Anyone in his position would be followed down by their wrong doings. His actions and choices, even if not his own, would chase him to the ends of the Earth, not relenting until they had him by the throat. Or until the end of time. Till he took his very last breath.

One simply didn’t forget all the atrocities one committed - not in this lifetime and maybe not even in the next. At least not the extent of the ones he was guilty of. Blood soaked his hands. Even years after the mantle of the Winter Soldier had been striped, he felt he could never quite clean himself of it.

He could scrub and scrub until his hand went raw and his skin broke open. He would pick and clean between the plating of his replacement arm, searching for blood that once got caught between the divots. The action is rough and violent, the sturdy material of the plates being the only thing stopping him from ripping it to pieces.

He could never get clean enough. 

In the after hours of their latest mission, he can only find himself feeling disgusted.His metal digits flex once and then twice as if checking to see if it is still real. It feels heavy on the left side of his body, weighing him down both figuratively and literally.

Somewhere from down the hall, Walker calls for him. “Come on, man. We gotta debrief and I want to go to bed. You’re keeping us all up.”

-

“You’re going to break something if you keep doing it that way.” There’s a voice from his left. It continues to talk at him as it sits besides him. “And if you do, we’re both going to be in trouble.”

He pauses in the middle of what he had been doing, removing the knife from in between the platings of his arm. The weapon remains tightly locked between his fingers for a moment or two longer than it should before lowering it. Not a threat. At least not one to him.

And he can at least recognize that you are not one in some regards.

With an outstretched hand, you wait as patiently as you can for him to place his in your own. After a moment of staring, he relents, gently resting his left wrist in the palm of your hand. He’s mindful of the pressure and of the weight behind it. The metal limb was more than enough to throw his own center of gravity off. It would be more than enough to cause some discomfort to your hand, even with him simply resting on you.

“You should be more careful.” Your voice is heavy in his ear. Your accent doesn’t quite fit your face - almost as if even that has been indoctrinated into you as well. 

He’s not particularly listening to you. Even if he was, he does a decent enough job of looking uninterested. 

Careful wasn’t a word in his dictionary. He could be discreet. He could be stealthy. But he couldn’t afraid to be careful at times. As long as the job got done, it didn’t really matter how it came to be. A few bumps and bruises were going to little to deter him - besides he has been through far worse over his lifetime.

You fish through your pockets, bringing up a rag to begin wiping at the metal, carefully running the fabric between the grooves in his arm. The smell is a rotten one, a mixture of both dried blood and oil to keep his arm lubed. You try your best not to let your upper lip curl up in disgust, choking back a cough as you do so.

“Does that mask of yours have scent blockers?”

“No.”

That causes you to lift your gaze up, watching him with careful intent. It wasn’t like him to have a conversation with you - let alone acknowledge anything you had said. There were far and few time in between the two of you even shared words. It was always short and two the point. For some reason, one this day, he has chosen to humor your rather useless question.

“I know that they wouldn’t.” You say, continuing your work. “I don’t think they would spend that kind of money on you or me.”

The Winter Soldier isn’t sure what you expect from him. Do you want him to laugh and chuckle at your joke or just brush it off like you had said nothing to him. Not that he even thought himself capable of those emotions anymore. So instead, he opts to sit in silence, watching as you tend to your work.

The movements of your hands are uncharacteristically gentle for someone like you. He has seen those very hands break bones without much effort. He has seen them choke the life out of several people without much of a second thought. He has witness them drip with blood, only to be wiped clean as if nothing happened in the first place. 

The duality of your touch is not lost on him.

“There - all better.” You have cleaned him as well as you feel like you can. The cloth in your hand is practically drenched in both fresh and dried blood. There’s still a small crinkle to your nose, looking slightly disgusted by it, but you don’t have much else to say on the matter. 

None of this was his fault.

-

Yelena only brings back those bitter memories.

Her suit is different. Not the same stark black that he can vaguely make out in his more pleasant dreams. More of a merc than a true widow, there are still some differences and similarities. 

In those first few days of working together, he tried not to stare too much or too hard. Not that he really cared if anyone caught him. It would be far too easy to brush it off as him just being his usual grumpy self.

There are brief thoughts of if she knew you oe nor. Thought of if he brought you up, would she be able to confidently say she had any recollection of you. Then again you were a war prize for H.Y.D.R.A. Taken from a mission gone sour, you never returned to the Red Room. Their trackers were replaced with new ones. You were as effectively hidden as you could be.

Then there was the fact he could never bring himself to ask. Widows didn’t exactly live the most pleasant of lives. At least, he knew yours hadn’t been so the same had to go for everyone else.

Underneath it all are also the fears that you might not be alive after all. After that last mission had go horribly wrong, after his defection, he could only imagine that had not been kind to you. You would have been severely punished for your failure.

He knew what his own captors were capable of. He had vivid flashbacks to being held down, force to withstand torture. Forced to have his memory manipulated and replaced. 

It kept him up late into the night that he never went looking for you. Now when he thought back on it, he knew he should have. The one person who showed him the smallest shred of kindness in those dark times had been so easily forgotten and tossed to the side. 

He didn’t particularly enjoy lingering on those thoughts.

-

“Bucky.” His voice comes from somewhere to your side. 

Your head whips to face him, brows pinching down together in thought. “What?”

There’s a brief look of confusion, his eyes going misty as they flicker around. It’s clear he’s searching for something. Maybe not something tangible but something looked far away in the back of his mind. The look disappears just as quickly as it had appeared, shaking his head from side to side as if to rid himself of the thought.

You chew quietly on the inside of your cheek, trying to piece together the meaning behind his sudden outburst. Bucky was a name - that much you knew. A rather unique one you could say you had never heard before.

“Is that someone you know?”

The Winter Soldier doesn’t response, frozen in place. His attention is back forwards, watching the highway with his usual intensity. There’s a subtle twitch of his brows downward, unconsciously reacting to your questioning.

“Is that your name?” Is your next question.

Despite what little information you did have on him, you knew no one would be named Winter or Soldier. It was almost tacky to put those two together. As cruel as life had been to you, you expected no one in their right mind would name their child that. Or maybe they would. H.Y.D.R.A. hadn’t been setting high standards for your perception of others.

This time his head turns to face you again. There’s a look of recognition that crosses his face. Even with his mask on, you can tell his expression as shifted underneath it, looking at you expectantly.

“That’s your name.” You say it a bit more firmly this time.

His brows jump up in what can only be described as surprise. The recognition turns into something more. Familiarity is what you eventually settle on. The confirmation seems to do something for him. As if he has been doubting why that name has been stuck in his head for so long. Ever since his run in with the Captain.

“Bucky.” You say, trying the name out for yourself. As odd as it feels on your tongue, it sounds so much better than the other thins you have been stuck with calling him. It feels softer. Gentler. Not all that befitting of the man armed to the teeth beside you.

“You know I’ve never really liked calling you Soldier.” You say, shifting a bit so you’re lying a little more comfortable on your stomach.

He doesn’t make any signs that he’s acknowledge your comment. He merely shifts himself around as well, adjusting the butt of the rifle on his shoulders. He does take the smallest of moments to look at you out from the corner of his eye. You aren’t paying him attention anymore either, merely focusing your gaze through your binoculars. There’s a soft upturn to your smile. It’s a soft expression that fits so naturally on your face. 

“Bucky suits you.”

-

“Bucky.”

It takes him a moment before he’ll lift his head up from what he was reading. Mission reports of their last outing. Going over things helped keep his mind clear and his hands busy. “Yelena.”

“You’re going to owe me the favor of a lifetime.”

He feels his brows pinch together, unsure of what exactly she means by that. He couldn’t quite think of anything she could do that result in him owing her such a massive favor. If anything, it was more like she owed him one. 

Was it not him that drug her out from the last situation she was in? If it wasn’t for him, she would have been stuck crushed under fallen rubble, left to die from the pressure of it on her lungs.

“I’m not sure what there is I could owe you for.” He mutters, turning his attention back to the tablet in hand.

Not that he really wanted to owe anyone anything. It wasn’t a feeling he particularly enjoyed. He had spent the majority of his life having to answer to the whims of another. The Void had brought back those thoughts in full force (as much as he denied having any trauma rooms to wade through.) 

“You’ll see.”

-

“You’ll see.”

The Soldier lifts his head up, gaze flickering from the knife in his hand. He’s been quietly whittling away at a stick in his other, biding his time as the two of you wait. It’s always a grueling process. If the task had been given to anyone else, they might have split and left long ago.

The two of you had unfortunately been trained for things like this. Molded and formed into the definition of weapons. Patience wasn’t lost on neither you or him. Long days and nights could be spent hiding in the shadows and neither of you would have it in you to complain. Not that you had much of a choice. Biding your time was the better option, forced into keeping your opinions and thoughts to yourself.

He doesn’t make a move to acknowledge whatever it is you’re getting on about. For a widow, you were more talkative than he would have first imagined one to be. Whatever self thinking you have has yet to be beaten out of you. No matter how many times they tied you down, broke your fingers or ripped nails from their fleshy beds, you remind just as uncharacteristically vibrant as ever.

Compared to you, his own will felt weak at times. Like a caged dog beaten back into its corner, he found it baffling that you could stay so optimistic given your situation. Maybe you felt you couldn’t afford to completely bend the knee to the powers that be. They couldn’t strip you of everything you were worth. That would be giving them too much power over you.

Your gaze eventually meets his, giving him the softest of smiles. Your nose is a little more crooked then what he remembers. There’s signs of a healing bruises across the bridge of it, a scar following a jagged pattern across your flesh. Despite it, you still manage to give him the softest of looks, wincing ever so slightly as your skin stretches and pulls against itself.

The fingers on your one hand look a little more twisted as well. Two are bandaged tightly together in a makeshift splint, attempting to keep whatever inflammation there is down. Unsurprisingly, your dominant hand remains relatively untouched, mindful of the face it would be needed in order to complete the job placed at your feet.

“You sure do stare a lot.”

He quickly looks away, now staring down at his feet.

He does find himself curious to what it is your getting at. Though he doesn’t vocalize that in the slightest. A man of few words ever since the day the two of you had been paired together. You were less of a handler and more of a companion. Less of a companion and more of a failsafe if things ever got too out of hand. Someone to put the rapid dog down if he ever managed to tug too hard at his leash.

You recognize the look on his face to be wonder. There’s something almost childlike about him. A genuine curiosity for the world around him and specifically you.

“I just have this gut feeling is all.” You say. There wasn’t any need for you to explain it anymore. Not that you felt he was going to press you for any more.

Things did seem to be taking a rather interesting turn for him. 

That Captain America seemed to have woken up something long since dormant in the Soldier and that felt like nothing short of a step in the right direction for him. There were brief flashes of the man you liked to imagine he was before all of this. Before the wrong people got their hands on him. 

And if that meant you had to suffer in his place, you would opt for that. What did you have waiting out there for you?

-

“Bucky.” His name comes out so sweetly. It sounds like honey dripping.

He can feel his muscles tense up beneath his shirt, his legs freezing midstep. That voice. It would whisper to him softly in the middle of the night, between all the nightmares and horrid thought. A soft reminder that there had been some sort of light in all that darkness. Whatever that meant for someone like him

At first, he can’t bring himself to turn around. He’s sure he has to be imaging things. His head would do that too him every so often. It would bring up less than fond thoughts in the middle of the day, reminding him of things at the lowest point of his life. As much as he continued to heal and improve, there were still some things he couldn’t quite shake.

He felt it was just his imagination playing tricks on him again.

He’s put it off for as long as he can. After a baited breath, he finally manages to bring himself to turn on his heels. His gaze remains down at the floor for a moment before finally lifting up. And when he does? He feels as if his breath has been sucked right out of his lungs.

There you are, smiling at him.

It’s that same damn smile you flashed him time and time again. It looks gentler than it ever has before. You look as if you have finally found some sort of peace in your own life. Your shoulders don’t look nearly as heavy and your posture isn’t as tense as he remembers.

The widow jumpsuit is now replaced with every day clothing. You look comfortable. Relaxed even. It’s a look he can confidently say is deserving. Peace looked good on you.

The emotions he feels deep within his gut isn’t something he can find a word for at first. He eventually settles on relief. You are alive and well. No broken bones. No visible bruises. No major limbs are missing. You look to be in one piece. His gaze does eventually find the small scar across the bridge of your nose, crinkling his own up in a small subconscious response.

“Hey.”

It’s so stupid that a simple ‘hey’ is all he can bring himself to say. He wants to say how he’s happy to see you. That he’s thought about you almost every day since the last time he saw you. A widow that was far too soft and kind to him and for her own good. A widow who got herself in trouble for not keeping him on a tighter leash.

And then? You laugh at him. You laugh at him. It leaves him even more speechless than before. “That’s all you have to say to me?”

It’s around now that Bucky realizes the two of you have been surprisingly left alone. Yelena has opted to give the two of you some privacy. She has successfully manage to corral everyone else out of the room.

These sort of reunions were better to be done without the prying eyes of others. Especially the likes of John and Alexei. As much as she wanted to see how this all plated out, she could also recognize the importance of it. Later, she would give him hell for how his jaw partially dropped open at the sight of you. The way his shoulders visibly relaced. The soft breath of relief that left him at the time was laughable.

“You look…Good.”

You laugh even harder at him this time. The sound is enough to shake your body. “You’ve never been good at talking.”

He knew that was nothing short of the truth. In what memories he held of you, he had never done much of the talking. The mask prevented him for it at times. The muffled sounds he made didn’t make for much conversation and you opted to fill the silence with your own voice in his stead. Now that he has the free will to say whatever it is that he wants, he can’t quite find the words he’s searching for.

“You look good too, Bucky. You look healthy. Happy.” You say it with such sincerity. Like you are truly glad to see that he is in one piece and in as much peace as he could possibly be.

He takes a small step towards you and then takes one more. It’s a timid action. The movements are almost scarily unlike him in the way he approaches you. He treats it as if you are some fragile animal backed into a corner. Like you might tuck tail and run from him whenever the chance is presented to you.

Not that you had ever truly flinched away from him.

There had been a time or two where he lashed out at you, metal hand reaching for whatever clothing or hand it could get ahold of. There were far and few times you ever believed he would truly hurt you. Even in those moments as he held you down, as you fought back against him with every ounce of strength, you knew it wasn’t him talking. The Winter Soldier would win on some days.

Now you knew that you had little to fear from him. 

In what communication you had with Yelena, Bucky was as well rounded of a person as he could be. Even with all his trauma and his pain, he was functioning as best as he possibly could. Not that the standards were set very high. What sort of standard could be held for a former assassin.

“Oh, come on. Don’t look at me like that.”

Your voice snaps him out of his thoughts. He realizes he has been staring at you a little too long. But who could blame him? For all intents and purposes, it was easier for him to believe that he was just seeing things. That his mind was simply making up that you were truly standing in front of him.

He would never admit it to the others but those rooms in the Void, one of them held vivid memories of you. Your gentle smile suddenly turning sour. They way your eyes went wide as you forced yourself between him and your handlers. It was your fault, you would plead. There was no reason for him to take the blame - not this time.

In those days, it didn’t matter who’s shoulder the blame fell on as long as someone answered to it. 

That day, played over and over again by the Void, it had been you. You were snatched up under the arms, legs limp beneath you as you were dragged only but a few feet away from him. This would be a reminder. The first hit against you landed in the dead center of your face. It had been loud, the sound of cartilage snapping rang in his ears even days later. Despite the way blood ran down your face, you would nor waver or budge. You would take hit after hit without complaint.

“I’m sorry.”

“I am too.” You say back to him.

He can’t find what ever reason you would have to be apologizing to him. He should be the one begging for forgiveness. He didn’t go looking for you. Not that he was sure where to even begin looking for you. The one person that held some other type of control over him, other than his captors, was you. You would have been tucked somewhere far faraway from him. Had he gone looking, what would they have done. 

Perhaps you wouldn’t be standing in front of him.

“Yelena tells me you’re an Avenger now.” You say, this time taking a step towards him. “That’s a big promotion.”

He gives you a nervous smile. His best attempt at one anyway. “Someone has to do it.”

“And that job falls to you?”

“I’ve had worse.”

You let out another chuckle. “It’s definitely a step up. The pay has got to be better too.”

Bucky thinks to himself for a moment or two, tapping his food against the ground in quite contemplation. It’s an anxious action, trying to self soothe as he debates his choices. Yelena couldn’t have brought you all this way for nothing. Hell, he wasn’t even sure where you called home. There was not telling how far you had traveled just for him to stammer over his words.

“Are you hungry?” He asks. It’s a clumsy question. After the words leave his lips, he feels as if he has just asked something rhetorical.

“I could eat.”

“Want to go get dinner?”

“With you?”

“Yeah…Yeah, with me.”

You smile once more, your head lazily tilting to the side. The expression you wear is almost unsettling. That look shouldn’t be reserved for someone like him. Not for someone who has committed the crimes that he has. Not for someone that once pulled your hair and busted your lip out of an anger that was not his own. How could you afford to continue being so soft with him. 

“Yeah, I would love to.” You hold a hand out to him. “It would be nice to get to know this Bucky.”

And he, despite it all, despite all his failures and feelings, places his hand in your own.