#and now there are questions of like. his father and legacy

[maeintree]

the crown keeps moving ₊˚⊹ ── l. laufeyson

when the heir to asgard starts pulling away, old tensions resurface. he's not ready. his father doesn’t care. and the crown keeps moving forward, with or without him.

pairing/s: loki x queen!reader (established) warnings: canon divergence (loki becomes king by abdication of thor), heavy dialogue, political intrigue, father-son conflict, royal court drama, legacy angst, arranged marriage, crown tension, jötunn lore, power imbalance, sharp language, emotional hurt/comfort author's note: i've been out of writing for so long because of so much stuff happening and i honestly just stopped because i felt insecure of how i wrote. but now, i really don't care. i hope to whoever this comes up to you, you enjoy it. xx. w/c: 6.4k

This was usually a shot in the dark.

Heimdall couldn’t (or, wouldn’t) find him. That alone said enough.

Your son had never been particularly fond of authority, least of all yours. And with Loki now seated on the throne after a stunning display of diplomacy and deceit that neither you nor the council had managed to fully unravel, your son had become increasingly difficult to track.

The boy was slipping. No, not slipping—choosing.

And now he was here. On Midgard.

You stepped over a gutter, already regretting the decision to wear these so-called boots—thick-soled, clunky things that trapped heat and bent your gait into something unnatural. The jeans itched at the seams. You missed your robes, your leathers. You missed breathing air that wasn’t full of fried meat and synthetic perfume and rubber.

You hated Midgard.

It wasn’t a realm. It was a mess. Everything was buzzing or blinking or yelling. There was no silence. No grace. No reverence for anything except money and men who exploded things for sport.

Maybe you just hated.. New York. 

But your son loved it. Or rather, he loved what he could be here. 

No expectations. No legacy trailing behind him. No one whispering his name like a question mark at the end of a bloodline.

Just a boy with magic in his veins and his father’s grin on his face. Free to disappear into the back rooms of smoke-filled clubs, or charm his way into the penthouses of politicians’ daughters, or start bar fights with rednecks who didn’t know any better.

He wasn’t here to learn. He wasn’t here to grow. He was here to feel. To touch. To indulge. And maybe to have more bastards than you might admit. 

You paused outside a building with red lighting in the windows. Music pulsed faintly from beneath its foundation, bass-heavy, numbing. A line of mortals waited to get inside, their bodies exposed to the night air in scraps of sequins and synthetic fabric. Why do they torture themselves like this? 

You felt eyes on you. The kind of stare that wasn’t admiration or threat, but confusion. You didn’t look like them. Not exactly. Your hair was too neat. Your posture too straight. Your face too still.

You ignored the stares.

He’d be somewhere like this. Not the popular clubs, not the polished, glossy rooftops the Avengers flocked to after a long day of “saving the world.” He’d go underground. Where there were shadows and soft mouths and quick hands. Somewhere he could vanish into sex and smoke and pretend, for a night, that he didn’t come from anything at all.

And the worst part?

You understood.

That’s what made it difficult. You understood the hunger he had, for anonymity, for freedom, for pleasure. For the kind of recklessness Loki had once worn like a cloak.

He was his father’s son.

Which meant he was not safe.

You glanced up.

No signage. No symbols. Just the thump of bass bleeding through brick, and a bouncer standing with arms crossed, watching you like he couldn’t decide whether to flirt or run.

You stepped forward, your chin lifting slightly. Composed. Unbothered by the sweat-thick heat rolling from the doors behind him.

“I’m looking for someone,” you said, calm, clipped, exact.

The bouncer didn’t even look up at first. “Yeah? So’s everybody. Keep it movin’, lady.”

You didn’t blink. “He’ll be the only one in there who doesn’t want to be found.”

That made him pause. Just for a second. Like the words hit somewhere deeper than he meant to let show.

He looked up at you fully then, brow raised. “You one of those?” 

You didn’t answer. Just stepped forward.

The bouncer leaned back, gave a low whistle through his teeth.

“Vali’s at the whorehouse,” he muttered, half amused, half pitying. “Good luck with that one.”

The heat hit first—humid, sticky, and loud.

Inside, the place was packed. Bodies everywhere. Sweat in the air. Music so loud it rattled in your chest, something electronic with a pop hook you couldn’t make out over the bass.

Strobe lights flashed hard and fast, cutting across the crowd like searchlights. Everyone was dancing, or grinding, or too drunk to know the difference.

From behind you, someone shouted—

“Hey, why does she get to go in? What about us?”

And somewhere in this chaos, your son was doing exactly what you feared.

Why on earth did you let Loki stay with him again? 

You stared at the clock on the club’s wall like it might start making sense if you glared hard enough.

It didn’t.

Some blinking digital mess of numbers—1:42 apparently—glowed red against fake wood paneling. 

You muttered under your breath, tugged the strap of your ridiculous “watch” one last time, and walked.

The hallway was dim, walls covered in fake velvet. A man at the end—some kind of bouncer—held up a hand. How many “bouncers” does this place need?

“Ma’am, those rooms are—”

You looked him in the eye, already too tired to argue.

He blinked once, stumbled slightly, then stepped aside like he’d changed his mind mid-thought.

You walked past.

The first door you opened, someone shrieked and threw a bottle. The second, there was too much movement to bother explaining. You closed it quickly.

By the time you reached the last room, you already knew.

The air reeked. The bass of some Midgardian music pulsed through the walls like a heartbeat in heat. You didn’t hesitate. No knocking. No warning.

You just turned the handle and walked in.

And there he was.

Váli.

Stretched carelessly across a bed that wasn’t his, like he owned the whole fucking building.

The sheet was tangled loosely around his hips—barely. His torso was exposed, pale skin marbled with shadow where the streetlight bled in through the half-open blinds. Muscle carved sharp across his shoulders, his abdomen lean, his collarbones dusted with faint blue veins like old ink. Scars dotted his left side—quiet things, healed-over and half-forgotten.

His arm was slung across his face, as if the light offended him. One leg hung off the edge of the bed, foot bare, the other bent at the knee. He looked like someone trying not to care.

And failing.

His raven-dark hair was a little longer than the last time you'd seen him. Mussed. A curl clung to his jaw.

Beside him, a girl sat up fast. Mascara smeared under her eyes, mouth still swollen from kissing. The sheet clutched to her chest like it could somehow shield her from the reality walking through the door.

“Who the fuck are you?” she snapped.

You didn’t look at her. You barely even blinked.

You reached—not for a weapon, not yet—but for the thread of seidr beneath your skin. It answered like breath to lungs, like it had been waiting.

The Midgardian clothes disappeared in a shimmer of silver and frost. The turtleneck, the jeans—they folded into nothing. Replaced by your leathers—Asgardian black, panel-stitched and trimmed in deep green, light but regal, sharp at the waist. The vambraces coiled up your arms. The air around you cooled a fraction. 

That felt amazing.

The girl gasped, grabbing her garments.

She didn’t argue. No one ever really did. She scrambled out without shoes.

Silence fell.

Váli finally moved, dragging his arm off his face.

And when he saw you, he blinked once. Not in shock—no, he was never that foolish—but in quiet, biting realization.

“Mother,” he said dryly, voice still sleep-hoarse. “What a surprise.”

You looked at your son. He still hadn’t moved. Just looked and squinted at you like you were interrupting something boring.

“Usually,” you said, stepping closer, “your father is the one who comes to collect you. And yet. Here I am.”

He didn’t reply.

You exhaled, short and sharp. “Thor returned from Vanaheim tonight.”

That got him to sit up, slowly, the sheet gathering around his hips.

“And?” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair.

“And,” you snapped, “Asgard is watching. Everyone is watching. And where is the heir? Where is the prince?”

You gestured around the room. It didn’t need explaining—used glasses, a wine bottle on its side, a discarded bra near the wall.

“Here,” you finished. “Sweating through mortal linen and pretending he’s not some god.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak. You kept going.

“There are more than enough brothels in Asgard. If that’s all you came for—fine. We have them. Discreet ones. Ones that don’t smell like damp carpet and desperation.”

He looked up at you, face unreadable. “I didn’t come here for sex.”

You stared at him for a beat.

“Then what?” you asked, voice low. “What is it this time? What exactly is so impossible about being home while your uncle—who hasn’t stepped foot in the golden city in two centuries—is welcomed back like a son? What’s so hard about being present for five hours of your immortal life?”

He looked away.

You stepped closer. “I had to leave a council meeting. I had to lie. And do you want to know the worst part?”

He didn’t respond.

You leaned in. “No one was surprised you weren’t there.”

That landed. His shoulders shifted, eyes falling to the floor.

You straightened. “Get dressed. You’ve got less than an hour. We’re leaving before dawn.”

You turned, hand already on the door.

“Why didn’t Father come?” he asked quietly.

You stopped.

“Because he’s king now,” you said. “And unlike you, he showed up for it.”

The flash of the Bifrost faded behind your heels, and the wind of Asgard hit your face like a balm—clean, thin, cold. A realm that remembered how to breathe properly. Finally.

Heimdall stood at the bridge, hands behind his back, gaze already locked on yours. Too calm. Too unreadable.

“Welcome back, My Queen,” he said, nodding. “And Prince Váli.”

Váli brushed past you in silence, walking ahead with the practiced indifference of someone who knew every eye was on him and chose not to care.

You didn’t follow immediately. You stepped toward Heimdall, kept your voice low, sharp.

“I don’t know what bet you two have,” you said, voice even but unmistakably sharp. “But I am your queen, Heimdall. And the next time my son disappears for two weeks and you conveniently can’t see him? You will tell me where he is.”

Heimdall’s jaw ticked. “It will not happen again, Your Majesty.”

You watched him for a beat longer, until his eyes dropped—just slightly—in guilt.

Then you turned and walked.

The palace doors opened before you like breath held too long. The guards lining the hall immediately dropped to one knee, hands over chests.

“My Queen. Prince Váli.”

The echo of your steps stretched across the floor like a quiet warning. Váli didn’t respond, didn’t even glance at them. You could feel the tension coming off him in waves.

You didn’t break stride. Through the gold doors and into the private dining room.

And there they were.

Loki lounged at the end of the table, a half-finished plate in front of him, sipping something dark from a silver cup. Your daughter—Idunn—sat beside him, legs tucked beneath her, a basket of sewing in her lap. Her fingers moved through green silk like it was second nature.

She looked up first.

“Ah,” she said with a grin. “Come back from Midgard, older brother? Did you have fun?”

Váli stopped walking.

His jaw clenched. “Fuck off.”

“Mind your tone,” you said calmly, without looking at him.

“Not in front of your sister,” Loki added lightly, not bothering to look up from his plate. “We do try to set a baseline of civility in this house.”

Váli ignored both of you, stepping around the table and dragging out a chair farthest from them all. He dropped into it like the weight of the Bifrost still clung to his boots.

Idunn raised a brow. “That bad?”

“Idunn,” you warned.

She held up her hands. “I’m just saying. He looks like he fell in a river.”

“I look fine,” Váli muttered, stabbing a piece of bread off a plate he hadn’t been invited to.

Loki finally looked up.

His eyes flicked to you, then to his son. “Were you difficult?”

Váli didn’t answer.

Loki sighed and set down his cup. “You know, when I vanished, it was at least interesting. You? You vanish and get caught in some back alley with mortals and no shoes on. Where’s the art in that?”

Váli glared at him. “Did you bring me back just to mock me?”

“Mock?” Loki echoed, mockingly. “Never. I’m concerned. That you’ve turned out so—” Loki chuckles “—predictable.”

“Enough.” You cut in before Váli could rise from his chair. “I didn’t drag him back for theatre.”

Loki tilted his head, then looked at Váli again—longer this time. “Thor’s here.”

Váli scoffed. “Great.”

“Try again,” you said.

“Great,” Váli repeated, flatter.

Idunn bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

Loki smirked, but it faded. “He asked about you. I told him you were… busy.”

“I was,” Váli said dryly. “Midgard’s women don’t seem to get bored.”

“Váli,” you said.

“No, let him talk,” Loki replied, voice still light but eyes harder now. “Let’s see how far the prince can dig.”

Váli shoved his chair back, standing. “You want to scold me? Fine. Scold me. Just stop pretending you care when all you really want is a puppet that behaves.”

Loki stood too, not quickly, but with purpose. “You think I don’t care? I know exactly what it’s like to have no one expect better of you. I’m trying to do better with you.”

“By humiliating me?”

“No,” Loki said, voice low now. “By not letting you rot. By making sure you don’t become what they always said I was.”

There was a pause.

Then Váli muttered, “Too late,” and turned for the door.

You caught his arm before he could pass.

“No.”

He stopped.

Your voice was calm. Quiet. But final.

“You don’t get to walk out. Not from me. Not from your father. Not from this.”

He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t pull away either.

“Sit,” you said.

And slowly, he did.

Loki watched you both, then sat again himself. Idunn went back to her sewing like nothing had happened.

The door creaked open before anyone could speak again, and you didn’t have to look to know who it was.

“Is that my favorite niece I hear giggling like a brook?” came Thor’s voice, loud and warm and far too cheery for the hour.

He was through the door in seconds—broader than ever, hair longer now and tied back in thick braids that swung over his shoulders as he strode in like a storm in summer. His armor was still dusted with Vanaheim soil, and the faint clink of his greaves echoed through the chamber like a heartbeat.

Idunn squealed with delight.

“Uncle Thor!”

She tossed her embroidery aside and ran to him. He didn’t hesitate—just scooped her into his arms and spun her around once, twice, her laughter ringing through the hall like music. Her feet barely hit the floor before she was tugging something from behind her ear.

“A flower crown,” she grinned, pulling a half-woven loop of pale yellow and green from her sewing basket. “It’s not finished, but you need something ridiculous.”

Thor laughed, huge and unbothered. “I am honored,” he said, bowing low as she placed it over his braids. It sat askew, too small for his head, but he wore it like a circlet of gold.

Loki looked like he might roll his eyes into the next realm.

“Váli,” Thor said, turning now, that same grin stretching across his face. “Still brooding, are we?”

Váli gave a sharp, reluctant nod of respect. “Uncle.”

“Why so uptight, hm?” Thor asked, walking to the table and clapping a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You look like someone told you the ale’s been watered down.”

“It has,” Loki murmured into his cup.

Thor chuckled, then looked between you all. “What’s happened? You all look like a trial just ended.”

You exhaled through your nose and sat again, not quite bothering to hide the weight in your posture. “He disappeared for two weeks on Midgard. Slipped Heimdall’s sight. Ended up in a brothel.”

Váli snapped upright, incredulous. “Really? Tell the entire nine realms, why don’t you?”

Thor’s hand dropped from his shoulder.

Loki sipped again, entirely unfazed. “She did.”

You looked at Váli calmly. “If you wanted it kept quiet, you should’ve kept yourself quiet.”

Idunn had taken her seat again but was watching intently now, the flower thread forgotten in her lap.

Váli muttered under his breath, “I didn’t ask to be dragged back like a criminal.”

“You’re not a criminal,” you said. “You’re a prince. Which makes this worse.”

Thor cleared his throat. “Is... this what I walked into, then?”

“Yes,” Loki said.

“No,” you said at the same time.

Thor blinked, slightly lost. “Should I—?”

“Sit down,” you told him gently.

He obeyed, flower crown still crooked, braid catching in the back of the chair.

Silence fell again—less tense now, more awkward. Thor cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “At least he’s back.”

“Mm,” you hummed. “For now.”

Váli didn’t say anything.

Thor had just finished gnawing on a heel of bread when Loki finally set his cup down.

“Well,” he said, drawing out the word. “There’s a feast in the works. The kitchens are full, the halls are being set, and apparently the musicians are rehearsing in the West Courtyard. All in honor of our prodigal brother’s return.”

Thor grinned. “You didn’t have to do that, brother.”

“I did,” Loki said. “It was the only way to keep the council from making you sit through three hours of policy updates on..” A sigh comes out. “Vanaheim trade routes.”

Thor laughed. “A feast is the better torture, I’ll admit.”

Loki tilted his head, that quiet, long-smile playing at his mouth. “A king suits you well, brother.”

“And you,” Thor said, catching his gaze across the table, “wear it more easily than I ever could’ve imagined.”

Loki raised a brow—and flicked a peanut at him.

Thor caught it in his mouth midair without blinking.

Idunn clapped her hands once. “Again!”

Loki ignored her. “We’ll eat in the eastern wing tonight. I want the royal court in green, nothing too stiff. We aren’t parading, we’re celebrating.”

You were already rising from your seat. “I’ll have my attendants meet us in the antechamber.”

Thor stood too. “I should see to my men.”

Idunn followed, pulling the tangled threads of her sewing basket into her arms. “If there’s music, I want to pick it.”

“You may,” Loki said, already waving her off, “if it’s not tragic and doesn’t last nine minutes per movement.”

You touched Váli’s shoulder lightly as you passed. “Come. We need to—”

“No,” Loki said, suddenly.

You stopped mid-step.

“He stays,” Loki said, voice even. “I’d like a moment with my son.”

You met his eyes—calm, unreadable—and after a beat, gave a small nod. Then turned and walked out with the others.

“Come now, my love,” you said gently, reaching for your daughter’s hand. “Shall we braid your hair—”

Your voice softened into a murmur just as the guards closed the door behind you.

Váli didn’t move, slouching in his chair, one leg lazily crossed. “So,” he muttered, “we’re doing the fatherly wisdom thing now?”

Loki didn’t answer.

He turned toward the servants at the edge of the room. “The tea,” he said. “Leave it. Then go.”

The servants bowed, placed the silver tray down, and slipped out without a sound.

The room was quiet again.

Loki took his time, pouring the tea into two matching cups.

“Sit properly,” he said without looking up.

Váli sighed dramatically and leaned forward.

Loki passed him the cup. “Drink it.”

“I’m not poisoned, you know.”

“If I wanted you dead, Váli,” Loki said with a dry smile, “you wouldn’t wake up in a brothel.”

That shut him up—for a second.

Loki settled back in his chair, watching him. “You need to stop stressing your mother out.”

“She’s fine.”

“She is not,” Loki said, sharper now. “And frankly, neither am I.”

Váli scoffed. “It was two weeks. I’m not a child.”

“No,” Loki agreed, “you are not. You are a prince. And despite your best efforts to behave like a stray cat with a drinking habit, you are being watched.”

Váli drank his tea, not looking at him. “Then maybe stop watching.”

“I don’t watch because I have to,” Loki said. “I watch because I know. I know what it’s like to vanish into the underbelly of a realm that doesn’t love you. I know what it’s like to think that pleasure will fill the void. But you are not me. You were raised in a palace, by two parents who did not lie about where you came from.”

“Must be nice,” Váli muttered.

“It was meant to be,” Loki said, more quiet now. “But you’ve taken that gift and twisted it into entitlement. If you want to run, then run. But do not expect silence when you return.”

Váli tapped the rim of his cup with his nail. “So, what, this is a royal guilt trip?”

“This is a royal warning,” Loki said. “You are not a boy anymore. If you want to disappear, I will let you. But next time you crawl back, do not expect your mother to find you before I do.”

Váli glanced up at that.

Loki leaned forward slightly.

“Do not think me soft, simply because I became a better man than the one who made me.”

Silence. The kind that weighed.

Váli finally looked down, quieter now. “It wasn’t just for fun.”

Loki didn’t blink. “What was it, then?”

“I don’t know,” Váli admitted. “I felt... restless. Like everything here is already decided for me. And Midgard... doesn’t care.”

“No,” Loki said, “it doesn’t. And that is not freedom. That is apathy.”

Váli didn’t respond.

Loki stood.

“We feast tonight,” he said, turning toward the window. “Show up like a prince, or don’t show up at all.”

He paused. “And cut your hair. You’re starting to look like your uncle.”

The feast was already underway when Váli reentered the great hall.

He stood in the archway for a moment, newly shorn hair brushing just under his ears, still damp from a rushed rinse. He was in his court tunic—green, like his father’s—and his boots had actually been polished. He looked younger without the length. Less wild. But also less certain of himself.

You spotted him instantly.

And your mouth tightened.

“What did you do to your hair?”

He walked past you without answering.

You didn’t let him get far. “Váli.”

He stopped, shoulders raised slightly like he already regretted coming back.

You stepped in front of him. “You didn’t need to listen to him. It was a jest.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

You looked at him harder. “You are not here to mirror anyone, least of all to prove something.”

“I’m here,” he said simply, “and I’m dressed. Isn’t that enough?”

He walked off before you could reply.

Behind you, the great doors thundered open again, and the crowd erupted into cheers.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Loki entered in his full regalia—robes cut in black and green, embroidered with gold threads so fine they caught the firelight like stars. His hair, usually left loose past his shoulders, was pulled back now into a neat knot, sharp and deliberate. The crown rested just above the bun, black metal woven with emerald detailing, not overly ornate, but unmistakable.

A king’s crown.

You stared at him from across the hall.

He walked toward you slowly, face calm, the weight of the room moving with him like gravity. Everyone was watching. Fandral, Volstagg, and the rest were already halfway into their cups, roaring about boar and song, but Loki's eyes were only on you.

“You let him cut it?” you asked quietly when he reached you.

“It was warm,” he said simply. “And I thought it might be nice to see his ears again.”

You stared at him.

“Don’t encourage him,” you said under your breath, glancing toward Váli across the room.

“I told him to cut it, not butcher it,” Loki muttered back, dry. “He took it as a divine command.”

You shook your head. “You are—”

“—remarkably attractive this evening?” he offered, smiling sideways.

You opened your mouth, ready to scold, but the look in his eyes made it falter. He wasn’t teasing—not entirely. The compliment was quiet, meant only for you.

Your gown shimmered in the torchlight—deep green velvet, your hair wound up in thin braids woven through with small silver fastenings. You’d worn your formal cuffs, too—symbols of your house, of your station. You looked every bit the queen you didn’t always have time to be.

Loki reached for your hand, brushing his lips over your knuckles. “You are... breathtaking.”

Before you could respond, Idunn reappeared between you.

“Ugh,” she said loudly. “Do you two have to be like this in public?”

You gave her a pointed look. “You’re not even supposed to be here. You should’ve stayed seated until—”

But she was already gone—darting off toward Thor, who caught her mid-run and swung her into the air again like she weighed nothing.

Loki let out a sigh through his nose. “At least one of our children knows how to enjoy a party.”

You turned toward Váli.

He hadn’t moved.

He sat near the end of the long table, posture too straight, fingers locked loosely around a goblet he hadn’t touched. Around him, Fandral was laughing loudly, red-faced, throwing back more ale while regaling someone with a tale that probably wasn’t true. Across from him, Hogun was nodding along, uninterested but polite.

Váli looked like he wasn’t even in the room.

You touched Loki’s arm. “He’s not well.”

“I know.”

“He’s trying.”

“I know that, too.”

“You could—”

“I am trying,” Loki said quietly, eyes still on him. “More than anyone ever tried for me.”

You both watched him for a moment longer.

Then Loki turned to the crowd, raised a hand, and the music swelled.

“Eat, drink, sing,” he called, voice carrying across the stone and silk. “Tonight, we are together. And that alone is reason to celebrate.”

The cheers answered back instantly, mugs raised and voices loud.

But Váli didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just sat there, while the world turned and the hall roared with life around him.

The hall outside your chambers was quiet now. The feast had died down hours ago. Even the laughter from the guards had faded into soft murmurs and echoing footsteps. It was the kind of silence you only got after wine, music, and exhaustion had finally let go of the palace.

Inside, Idunn was already fast asleep—curled up across the wide settee with one arm dangling off the edge, still half in her formal gown, her hair coming undone in tangled braids. You tucked a blanket around her shoulders, brushed a strand off her cheek.

“She didn’t even try,” you muttered, softly amused.

“She never does,” came Loki’s voice behind you. “Just like her mother.”

You left the room quiet, stepping into the adjoining chambers, where the wind from the open balcony fluttered through sheer curtains.

Váli stood outside alone, leaning on the edge of the stone balustrade, the dark sky washing his face pale blue. He wasn’t moving. Not in the way someone watched stars or took in the view. He was just there. Still. Contained.

You didn’t call to him.

You let him have it—whatever silence he needed.

You crossed to the opposite side of the room, into the cool air, standing near the open window. The sky stretched endlessly in front of you. Silver clouds. Thin stars.

The fabric of your nightgown shifted as Loki came up behind you, quiet as always. His hands slipped around your waist before you heard him speak. The way he touched you was slow—deliberate. Not rushed. Not playful. Familiar.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured into the curve of your shoulder. “Gods, I’ve been so busy.”

You felt his lips graze your skin—your shoulder, then up the side of your neck. His breath warmed your jaw.

“So busy,” he whispered. “From my queen.”

His hand slid lower, over the soft folds of your gown and down toward your thigh.

You reached back to stop him—gently—and turned your head just enough to catch his lips in a quiet, searching kiss.

When you pulled away, you kept your voice low.

“It’s time, isn’t it?”

Loki rested his forehead against yours.

There was a pause. Then a sigh.

“Thor spoke with me after the feast,” he said. “Vanaheim is... getting louder. Their nobles want assurance. One daughter. Eight brothers. No marriage alliance. It’s starting to look like an insult.”

You nodded once.

“And how exactly do we explain giving up our daughter to settle a kingdom’s temper?”

Loki drew in a slow breath. “We don’t.”

“What does that mean?”

“We shift focus.”

You stiffened slightly, pulling back enough to look at him.

He hesitated.

Then: “Váli.”

“No,” you said immediately, stepping away from his arms. “No. Loki, no.”

“Just listen—”

“He won’t do it,” you said. “He won’t.”

“He might.”

“He won’t.”

Loki’s voice stayed calm. “They’re asking for strength. They’ll respect bloodline, not temperament. And he’s still—”

“He’s barely holding together now,” you snapped. “You want to throw him into a marriage with a woman he doesn’t know, to keep Vanaheim calm? He can barely be in the same room with Thor without looking like he wants to disappear.”

“I know that,” Loki said. “But if it’s not him—”

“It’s not Idunn,” you said sharply, then quieter. “She’s too young. And too... her. She doesn’t know how to navigate court. She still talks to her embroidery, and Thor.."

“I know,” Loki said again, slower this time. “Which is why it has to be Váli.”

You exhaled, hard.

“And what happens when he finds out we’ve been discussing it without him?”

“He’ll hate it,” Loki said simply.

You turned to him. “And you’re fine with that?”

“No,” he said. “But I’m king. I don’t have the luxury of waiting for everyone to feel ready.”

The wind pushed against the curtains again.

Out on the balcony, Váli hadn’t moved.

“He’s not going to agree to this,” you said. “You know that.”

Loki walked toward you again, quieter now.

“He doesn’t have to agree,” he said. “He just has to show up.”

You stared at him for a long time.

Then whispered, “You sound like your father.”

Loki flinched. It wasn’t a wound, but it hit.

“I’m trying not to be,” he said softly. “I’m trying.”

You looked away again, out into the sky. The stars were still there. Distant. Quiet.

“How long do we have?”

“A week,” he said. “Maybe less.”

You exhaled.

And then, more quietly: “He’ll never forgive us.”

Loki stepped beside you, hand resting lightly against your back.

“No,” he said. “But maybe he’ll survive it.”

The council chamber was colder in the morning.

No fire. No wine. No servants. No distractions.

Just the two of you, adding to one. Who is currently late.

You stood near the long table, dressed in muted green court robes, your hands folded calmly even as your jaw clenched.

Loki sat at the head, crown already in place, dark robes tailored sharp as glass. His expression was unreadable. Controlled. As always.

The door opened with a dull thud.

Váli entered with slow steps, still tugging on the sleeve of his tunic. His jaw was tight, eyes a little bloodshot. He strided in confidently.

“Really?” he muttered, glancing around. “The council chamber? This feels dramatic.”

“Sit,” Loki said.

“I’d rather stand,” Váli replied without pause.

Loki didn’t blink. “It wasn’t a request.”

Váli gave a half-laugh, dry. “Oh, we’re doing that today.”

You took a breath, stepping forward slightly. “We brought you here because this isn’t something to discuss in front of others. This isn’t—”

“Let me guess,” Váli cut in. “Some realm needs a favor, some old king has a daughter, and now I’m the solution. I marry her, there’s a feast, some empty promises, and everyone’s happy.”

He continues. "Isn't this Idunn's job?"

"Do not speak ill of your sister, Váli." Loki grunts.

You hesitated. Just for a second.

That was enough.

He laughed once—ugly. Bitter.

“Oh, you’re kidding,” he said. “That’s really it? That’s why you came to Midgard yourself? Not because I was missing. Not because I could’ve been dead in a ditch. You dragged me out of that realm because I’ve got just the right face to whore out for political stability?”

“Watch your tongue,” Loki said sharply.

But Váli didn’t stop.

“No wonder you didn’t send guards,” he spat. “Would’ve been too cold. And you—” he turned to you suddenly, voice rising, “you woke me like you missed me. Like you gave a shit. The whole time, this was it?”

You took a step toward him. “Váli, that is enough—”

“No, it’s not,” he shouted. “Because this is a fucking pattern. I vanish for two weeks and you show up when it’s convenient. You don’t come to find me. You come to use me.”

“You will not speak to her that way,” Loki said, rising to his feet.

Váli turned on him. “Why not? You do.”

The words hit.

Your breath caught. Loki’s face didn’t change—but something shifted in the air.

“What did you say?” he said, voice low, tight.

“You treat her like she’s a piece of this fucking palace,” Váli snapped. “Something that serves a purpose. Like me. Like Idunn. You think that crown gives you the right to decide where we go, who we become—”

“I am your king,” Loki roared, stepping forward now, voice thunder through stone. “And she is your queen. You will not speak to us this way.”

Váli didn’t back down.

“No,” he growled. “You’re my father, and you barely know how to be that. You sit on that throne and pretend this family’s not breaking while you talk about strategy and bloodlines and positioning like it’s not tearing everyone apart.”

“You are not a victim,” Loki snapped, voice edged and rising. “You are not some lost boy wandering the woods, Váli. You are a prince. Spoken of in halls you’ve never even seen. You carry a name carved in realms beyond this one. Do you really believe this life is a punishment?”

Váli didn’t flinch. His jaw clenched. “It’s a fucking cage.”

Loki’s gaze turned cold. “It is a birthright.”

“Then you can have it,” Váli shouted, stepping forward, fire catching in his chest. “You wanted it so badly, didn’t you? The crown, the throne, the halls and titles—you burned the world for it. So take mine. Add it to yours. Wear both.”

Loki froze. For half a breath, the room stilled with him.

Then, lower—quieter, but far more dangerous:

“You think I wanted this?” he said. “Do not speak of crowns as if they are gifts. I bled for what I have. I was cast out for it. Mocked. Used.”

Váli shook his head, eyes sharp. “And now you do the same to me.”

“I am your father.”

“Then listen to me.”

They stood across from each other, fire and frost locked between them.

Loki’s stare didn’t break.

But Váli pressed forward, bitter now, his voice thinner, tighter: “You don’t listen. You never have. You speak like a king, but you hear nothing. You sit on a throne you once called a lie—and now you pass it on to me like it’s some kind of honor.”

“I am trying,” Loki said, low and steady, “to prepare you for what comes next.”

“No,” Váli cut in. “You’re preparing me to be you.”

There was a pause. Thick. Loaded.

And then—sharp and deliberate:

“You’re a coward.”

The word hit like iron.

Loki didn’t react. Not outwardly. Not a twitch. But behind his eyes, something shuttered. Quietly, violently.

Váli wasn’t finished.

“You always have been,” he said. “You ran from Odin. You lied to Mother." He chuckles bitterly, gesturing to you.

"You tore through realms because you couldn’t bear being smaller than Thor. You want me to inherit a throne, but the truth is—” he laughed once, bitter and breathless, “—you’ve never worn one without looking like it might swallow you whole.”

Still, Loki didn’t yell. Didn’t rise. He turned, slowly, walking to the tall window lining the council chamber, the silence deafening in his wake.

“I came here to speak with my son,” he said at last, voice calm and terrifying. “Instead I found a boy pretending to be a man.”

Váli’s chest heaved. His hands were clenched. But he didn’t speak.

And Loki didn’t turn.

“Leave, if that’s what you want.”

Silence.

“Go ahead.”

But Váli didn’t move.

Not yet.

That was when you stepped between them. Quiet. Controlled. But your voice shook—just enough to give yourself away.

“Váli,” you said. “Please.”

He looked at you.

And for just a moment, something cracked. Guilt flashed across his face—brief, aching. But it vanished just as fast.

“I’m not marrying some stranger because Vanaheim wants to play a kingdom,” he said. “I’m not putting on a smile and waving like this is normal. I won’t do it.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Loki said—still facing the window. Cold now. Absolute.

Váli blinked. “What?”

Loki turned back, slowly. “You will marry the girl they’ve chosen. You will secure the peace. And you will do it with pride.”

“I said no.”

“And I said,” Loki stepped forward, voice low, “you don’t have a choice.”

Váli’s eyes burned. “Then you’re not my father.”

A beat passed.

Loki’s face didn’t move, but his voice dropped.

“No,” he said. “Right now—I’m not.”

And with that, he sat again. No flourish. No order. Just one glance—dismissive, surgical.

It hit harder than any raised voice could have.

Váli looked at you again. One last time. There was something pleading in his eyes—like he was daring you to stop this. To choose.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

And then—he turned. And walked out.

The chamber doors closed behind him with a sound that echoed like finality.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. Neither did Loki.

He sat back in the chair, still crowned, still composed—but his hand flexed slightly against the polished wood of the table, like it took everything in him not to shatter something.

You crossed the space between you, slow and steady.

When you reached him, you didn’t speak. You didn’t accuse.

You just reached up, gently, and cupped his face.

He flinched—just slightly. Not from you. But from what he was holding back.

You took his face in both hands.

“Look at me,” you whispered.

He did.

And then, softly: “Is this really the right choice? Are you sure?”

There was a pause.

And Loki, steady, breathing through his nose, said: “Yes.”

You closed your eyes.

Exhaled.

And dropped your hands.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t plead. You stepped back.

One, two paces.

Then turned.

And left.

The great doors opened again, spilling in the cool Asgardian air. Your gown brushed the marble. Your footsteps echoed.

Behind you, Loki remained seated.

Crowned. Composed.

Alone.

i love the thought of loki being a stressed out king with kids. :)

[garden-variety-jumo]

Thinking about that man again.

[i-like-loserz]

honey, baby

synopsis: san needs your attention

pairing: husband!san x afab!reader

warnings: SMUT (18+), jealousy, handjob, begging, teasing, sub!san, dacryphilia, pet-names, house-wife!reader, messy endings, light marking kink, reader does not get off..., not proof-read :0

word count: 2.5k

note: i'm sorry, we all need some sub!san in our lives... right...

masterlist

How delicate his hand is, adorned handsomely with understated rings, pressing gently against the small of your back as he leads you through the room. Artificial chatter, decorated with an occasional bout of posh laughter, settles finely above the jazz playing in the background. 

Your heels click softly against the marble flooring, each step lining up perfectly with his. 

Together, you’re a vision of excellence. 

San is the man that everyone wants. The definition of a gentleman. He’s charming, polite, and patient. But also unbelievably beautiful. He comes from a background of old money, but his legacy never stopped him from looking elsewhere for love.

Then there’s you. A woman who can blend into any crowd, disarming even the most stuck-up aristocrat with an easy smile. No one knows where you came from, but they don’t really care – or rather, they stopped caring once they realized how easily San would drop them for bothering you. 

The two of you act as the personification of refined love. 

Modest, refined, and lovely. Rarely sharing even a single kiss in front of an audience. 

San nods to a few guests as he passes them, politely acknowledging their existence, but never making a move to engage with them. He exudes this aura of cool confidence – as if every breath he takes is calculated and perfected. This way, no one ever questions his decisions or fights his whims…not like you anyway.

The wine glass in your hand has a bare sip of red left in it. The rim is spotted with the seductive print of your lips, reflecting the small tastes you took throughout the night to keep yourself relatively sober.

You would have gone for another but a heated whisper, pressed exquisitely against the edge of your ear, drew away any thoughts of humoring your husband’s guests. You settle it gently on a counter, no longer needing the prop of a hostess. 

San’s leading hand presses more insistently against back with each step he takes. His breaths grow deeper, his body draws closer. 

Usually, he’s able to wait until the party ends – watching you with dark eyes as you see the last of the crowd off, thanking them for visiting with that polite smile you’ve perfected. You’re so good to him, putting up with the lifestyle he was born into and taking the role of the perfect housewife and hostess that pays attention to every need her guests have.  

But now, San needs your attention to be directed at him. 

—

He broke while you were in the middle of a conversation with somebody’s plus one. And San knows he was a plus one because he didn’t recognize the man…or his name…or his “successful tech” company. 

He’s not usually a jealous man, but something about this guy…

San was sitting next to you, charming yet another investor of his father’s business, when he heard a low voice speaking to his beautiful wife, “Please, call me Yunho, Mr. Jeong is my father.” 

It peeved him.

You laughed politely, displaying your easy going nature by complying with his wish, repeating his first name before offering your own. San bristled at the sound of another man’s name coming from your lips. 

Who even is this guy? 

There were no Jeongs on the guestlist – and he would know, he’s the one who checks off on that stuff. This is a business party, not some get together that can be crashed so unpleasantly by an overnight millionaire like him.

The investor he was once trying to woo was getting pulled into a different conversation. And thank god for that. He wouldn’t have been much fun to talk to when he’s distracted like this anyway. 

San took that as an opportunity to turn his body toward yours. He watched intently as you continued your friendly interaction with a handsome stranger – who seems to be leaning closer with every pretty word you speak. 

You looked effortlessly beautiful as you rambled about the recent trip he took you on, excitedly describing your favorite restaurants with that familiar brightness in your eyes. He’s suddenly longing to hold your hand right then and there, to pull you onto his lap and nuzzle his face against the crook of your neck. 

His hand moved before he could think about it, gently brushing over your forearm to get your attention. When you turned to look at your husband, the man in front of you retreated from his slow shift into your space, suddenly uneasy by how San was staring him down. 

“Honey?”

At the sound of your voice, he shifted his attention from the offending man to you, the tension in his shoulders easing at the affectionate pet-name. San rounded his eyes innocently, softening his expression. 

“Baby…” He said timidly in a bare whisper, fully knowing that that name was strictly off-limits in public. You raise a questioning eyebrow, wondering what made your husband so needy all of the sudden.

“San.”

San leaned closer to you, a hand slowly shifting from the velvet couch to the top of your thigh. The guests continued to bustle around the two of you, unaware of the sudden tension settling between you. You let him push closer until his lips barely brush against ear.

“Pay attention to me…”

—

You’ve never left your own party early. You have actually trained yourself to have the same amount of energy greeting the guests as you do leading them out. The party doesn't end until you've seen everyone out.

So will anyone really notice a scant 15 minutes of your absence?

Well, you hope not. 

San couldn’t even make it to the bedroom. Instead, he pulled you into an oversized laundry room at the end of the hall, sliding the door shut before you could protest about being too close to the party.

“Sannie, wait.” 

Your words are lost to the air. 

He’s already pressing desperate, hot kisses against your throat. His broad body effectively pins you to the door as his hands, itching to undress you, drag over your soft curves covered by the fine fabric of your dress. Eager fingers grope over your tits before settling delicately around the base of your neck.

His suit jacket rests in a heap on the floor, leaving him in his unbuttoned vest and wrinkled dress shirt – a view you’d love to devour if not for the people who stand on the other side of the door. 

“Maybe we should stop –” 

“I can’t, I-I need you, baby.” He’s begging you – each word pathetically whined out from his pouty lips. “Need you close to me.”

“What if they notice that we’re both gone? What if they come looking?”

Pitiful moans are pressed onto your skin as he helplessly grasps at your body, scared that you’d leave him wanting and overwhelmed by his need to feel you against him.

At this point, San wouldn’t care if the whole party saw him fucking you against the dining table – least of all that Yunho guy. He doesn’t care if they can hear him whining for you, begging you to let him fill you up like he does every night. He wants to show you off, hold open your cum soaked thighs just to show them that you love him and he’s your good boy. 

But at the same time, letting anyone see you like that irks him like nothing else. You’re his and he’s yours.

“Please.” He implores, eyes glistening with a needy look. He gently takes your hand and leads it to where he needs you the most. You give in easily, pressing against his cock which strains against his perfectly tailored trousers. He’s already throbbing from the faint sensation of your touch. 

“Please…?” You tease under your breath, now fully gripping the shape of him through the layers of his clothes. He watches the way your hand moves over him with a dazed look, appreciating the way your small hand looks, fisting his clothed cock with glazed eyes.

You squeeze him abruptly, nudging him for an answer and he responds with a surprised whine, his hips jerking up against you from the intense sensation.  

“Please t-touch me.” 

“I am, baby.”

His dark eyebrows pinch in frustration, “You know what I mean.”

You hum understandingly, slowly unzipping his pants as you taunt him.

“You’re so needy…” 

He sighs as you pull down his briefs along with the restricting fabric of his pants. His thick cock slaps against his covered stomach, flushed prettily in a deep shade of pink, gently weeping pre-cum at the tip. Everything about San is pretty – especially the enamoured way he stares down at you with his signature pouty lips and flushed cheeks.

Eyes locked with his, you idly run a finger against his bare hip, so close to where he wants you to touch. He stutters out a shaky breath, his body shivering from the delicate sensation.

“K-kiss me.” He cups your jaw and moves impossibly closer to you. Your chest meets his as he holds you close, his hips pressing his hard cock against your body. He dips down to hover his soft lips over yours, “...Please.” He adds in a whisper – drenched in desperation. 

As if you could ever deny him.

“You’re cute…” You whisper back before pressing your lips onto his. 

You feel him immediately melt against you, his cock twitching eagerly against your stomach as he finally tastes you on his tongue. You hope he doesn't notice how you subtly rub your thighs together, an attempt to relieve the ache between them.

Your hands drift from resting on his chest to tangle in his hair, tugging gently at the ends, if only to hear that breathless whine that you adore. 

As you draw away for a breath, you notice a smear of red messily decorating his lips. He doesn’t seem to care though, looking down at a similar mess on your lips with a heated gaze.

You can tell that he’s imagining the same stain at the base of his cock. San has a thing for marks, especially because it’s you who’s leaving them. 

You lift up his dress shirt before pressing the palm of your hand against his aching erection, drawing a cute whimper from him. His stomach flexes from the sudden coolness of the air touching his heated skin.

Oh, how you want to lick over each defined ab, make him cry out from your teasing before biting into the firmness of his stupidly broad chest – but you don’t have time for that right now.

“Look at you,” You wrap your hand around him and slowly start to jerk him off, “almost about to cum from some kissing.” San bites his bottom lip to keep his moans down as your thumb repeatedly rubs over the edge of his sensitive tip. 

“C-can’t help it, you taste s-so good.” His hips thrust eagerly against your hand, cock generously leaking as he feels himself already approaching the edge.

Your wrist moves in quick, practiced motions, slick noises filling the space between you. You can't help but dip your other hand under his dress shirt, feeling up his perfect body with the edge of your nails to make him tremble.

“I'll let you taste more tonight if you cum for me like a good boy."

San nods eagerly, but you can tell by that hazy look in his eye that he'd agree to jump off from the second floor balcony if you asked him.

You can tell that he's getting close by the way he's bucking into your slippery fist, whines growing louder and more desperate. It almost looks like he's about to cry as he stares down at the way your hand is wrapped so perfectly around his throbbing cock.

“About to c-cum,” he pants, eyes glistening sweetly. "F-ffuck, baby… Y-you’re s-so good to me. Don’t want it to get on you, though, and ruin your pretty dress.”

"No?" You tease as you watch him struggle to move a mere inch away, hips still thrusting in want. How cute. His eyes squeeze shut at your honeyed tone, knowing you were going to make it harder for him to back away. "You don't want to see me covered in your pretty mess?"

"Nnghh~" You watch him scramble to hold off his orgasm, legs shaking as his hands grip your waist tightly to ground himself. "please -- !"

You finally let him make some space between you, finding it adorable that even in this state, he's worried about protecting you from the people outside.

You give him one last squeeze, fingers brushing over his dripping tip before whispering: "Okay, baby~ Cum for me."

And he does. Oh, how he makes a mess of himself.

His broad shoulders shake as he curls his body into himself, head dipped while spilling out the most pathetic breathy whines against the top of your shoulder.

His hips shake sporadically as each rope of cum covers your hand, dripping miraculously over his lap and onto his once perfectly-pressed pants. Somehow, he stayed true to his word. Not a drop touched your dress.

"Good boy..."

He groans as you milk him with a tight fist, body shuddering from the overstimulation. Your other hand soothes him, rubbing gently over his stomach as he moves through his high.

---

San's panting, leaning against the washing machine with a fucked-out look on his face. He pulled his briefs back on, opting to leave the pants unbuttoned and barely hanging onto his hips.

At this point, it would be better for him to change – his pants are stained with drops of cum, his shirt is wrinkled and stretched out, his hair has been fluffed into a mess. 

Maybe you should just tell everyone that he wasn’t feeling well…

You press a light peck to the side of his flushed neck before moving away from him in a hurry. You wash your hands in the small sink at the corner of the room and find a few tissues to take off your ruined lipstick and any residual sweat. 

You try to fix your hair to look decent – though there is no mirror to really check – and smooth out your dress. Thankfully, San only made a mess of himself (at least, visually). You were planning to slip into a bathroom on the way to the parlor anyway. 

“Ok, baby.” You throw the tissues away before turning back to your husband. His eyes are still half-lidded with lust, watching how easily you go back to being the refined woman from earlier this evening. “Clean yourself up, I’m going back out. I’ll tell them you’re feeling under the weather.” 

“You’re so beautiful.” His raspy voice is endearing. 

You feel your cheeks heating up at the compliment. You try to stamp it down, try to stay composed, but he always knows what to say to make you feel this way. 

“You are beautiful, baby.” You respond with a gentle smile, walking back to him to give him one last kiss. One turns into many. He shyly smiles back, his dimples deepening as you scatter more kisses around his face.

“Wish me luck out there.” You whisper, running your fingers through his hair to reduce the fluffiness. 

“Come back to me soon, okay?”

“Anything for you, my love.”

[spideyjimin]

Bloodlines entwined: II | jjk

⤷ having a baby alone was supposed to be easy. but an accidental twist of fate pulled you into a hidden world of werewolves, and ancient bloodlines. navigating your already complicated life becomes even harder as you uncover your past; one tied to a legacy you never knew existed. and in the middle of this chaos stands jungkook, the werewolf king… and the father of your child. 

—  pairing: werewolf!jungkook x female reader 

—  genre: strangers to lovers, parents-to-be au, royalty au, werewolves au, soulmates au, angst, fluff, and smut 

— rating: 18+ 

—  words: 6,210

—  warnings: mentions of grief, death, abortion, murder, breakup, and heartbreak, nervousness, and strong language

—  author’s note: soooo this second chapter is basically the base for all the upcoming chapters. you’ll that it implements many important points, and i’m actually very excited to see your reactions 😬 it wasn’t an easy one to write as i couldn’t reveal everything straight away. hope you’ll like it & thanks a lot for your support on this series 🫶🏼

taglist is closed!

Chapter II: hearts in conflict

SERIES MASTERLIST | previous | next

Jungkook paces back and forth in his living room.

Since he was informed of the clinic’s mistake, he’s been torn apart between his duty and his heart. He’s been desiring to become a father for a while now, and he’s been more desperate since he became a king.

Having a child is also part of his responsibility since he needs to ensure his bloodline. Consequently, he needs to have a child with a pure werewolf. The clinic had a list of the eggs they could use. It was simple.

Now, a human was fertilized by his material, and there’s a hybrid child on the way. As a king and a werewolf, he can’t have this child. Hybrids can’t exist; it’s the rule. Nobody will ever take him seriously if their king doesn’t even respect the rules.

His eyes then fall on a family picture. That picture was taken five years ago, when his father was still alive. Even if he passed away two years ago, it’s still extremely hard for Jungkook to deal with his grief. He got used to it, but it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.

Jungkook wonders what his father would have done if he was in this situation. Would he have pushed for the pregnancy’s termination? Would he have walked away? Or would he have stayed and raised the baby?  

Then, he remembers the one time when a werewolf fell in love with a human. The human got pregnant, and his father discovered it. He exceptionally showed mercy to the couple and spared them, but they had to terminate the pregnancy and part ways.

Jungkook’s father kept a close eye on them to ensure they wouldn’t get back together discreetly. Jungkook remembers how he felt back then; he thought that his father was way too nice. They should have been killed like it was done in the past.

His father then explained to him how things are never black and white. There are also grey areas. The werewolf in question was one of the best in the pack so killing him would mean putting the pack in danger. He had to make a decision, a difficult one. So, he decided to show some mercy. He knew that in return, the werewolf would be grateful.

His father was right. That werewolf never crossed the line again, but he also never got married or had any children. Deep down, Jungkook knows that he never stopped loving the human.

But if his father was in his shoes, he believes that he would have never accepted a hybrid to exist. Especially one that carries his blood.     

Jungkook rubs his hand on his face with frustration. Stepping away seems to be the right decision, but at the same time, it doesn’t feel like it. He’s not supposed to encourage you to keep the baby, and he’s also not supposed to desire to have this baby.

There has never been a hybrid.

Jungkook is also curious to see what a hybrid is like and how this kind of pregnancy goes. When a werewolf gets pregnant, all her abilities are enhanced. It’s like she gets even more powerful to give everything to her child. It’s really mind-blowing. He got to see it firsthand with his sister; she’s currently pregnant with her fourth child.  

But you’re a human and the baby won’t fully be a werewolf. So, everything will be different. He wonders if this baby will be born as a human and develop way later on their werewolf side. There are a lot of unknowns because people are always killed when this type of pregnancy is discovered.  

This entire situation is frustrating.

The man growls before shifting into a wolf and disappearing into the woods next to his house. Jungkook wants to escape his ‘human’ thoughts, he wants to forget that this is all happening.

Running in the woods has always been his escape. He adores the smell of nature, the air running through his face, the feeling of the soil under his paws, and the way his mind only focuses on that and nothing else.

Following his father’s passing, he disappeared into the woods for days. It helped him process this new reality; it gave him time to grieve his father in silence before endorsing the heavy role of being a king.

However, this time, even being a wolf doesn’t change anything. His mind pictures a little child running next to him; a child he’ll train to be a perfect wolf. This child is actually growing inside your stomach right now, but that kid can’t exist.

Jungkook is also aware that with time, wolves have this growing urge to have children. He has reached that peak, and it’s why he’s been going through this whole process of having a kid. There’s also the ‘natural’ aspect which means having sex, but he can contain that part for now.

On top of that, he’s also looking for his soulmate. The person with whom he’ll mate for life. In the werewolf community, when you choose your partner, you stay with them until your last breath. When you find them, apparently, you know it.

His parents and his sister have already described how they felt. When you meet your person, you instantly feel like you’re one person. You’re connected in all aspects. It seems weird, and until you don’t find that one person, you won’t ever understand it.   

Jungkook sometimes feels like he’s never going to find his person, and sometimes, it feels like a suffocating feeling. His community expects him to find his queen, to give a queen to the werewolves. But he wonders what will happen if he never finds her.

One thing is for sure, he’s single with a human child on the way. His life couldn’t be more chaotic than that.

Even though he won’t ever make part of his child's life, he’ll protect you no matter what decision you make in case anyone ever finds out about this.

Later in the day, his sister, Dohee appeared with her three children at his place. Since she’s in the last trimester of her pregnancy, she doesn’t do much, so she randomly shows up at her brother’s place as if he doesn’t have anything to do.

However, Jungkook adores to be around his nieces and nephew. He simply loves kids, and he would never mind being interrupted by children. He’ll never admit it, but he also loves to have his sister coming. They have a very strong bond.

“How’s the big wolfy king Jungkook doing?” she says while entering his office, and he rolls his eyes.

His sister never stops teasing him, but it’s the way she shows her love.

“Always making fun of me, wolfy princess,” he claps back.  

The kids run to hug him. Since they are small, they hug his legs.

“Uncle Kookie,” they scream with joy.

These three little humans are the only ones who have the right to call him ‘Kookie’. His other family members also have the right, but he’d prefer ‘Kook’. ‘Kookie’ sounds childish.

“Hey, monsters,” he greets his nieces and nephew while ruffling their hair.

His sister has two daughters, Hana and Yuri, and one boy, Hwan. She’s expecting a second boy, and she said it’d be the last kid she’ll have. Four pregnancies in seven years are more than enough, those are her words.

“Can we go to your garden?” Hana, the oldest asks him.

Jungkook nods and the kids disappear as rapidly as they stormed inside the room. They like to play around in what they call his garden. It actually is the woods, but if they want to call it ‘garden’, Jungkook will be the last person to correct them.

“So, mom told me about that surrogacy thing…” she takes a seat while caressing her pretty big bump. “Care to explain why I heard from her instead of you?”

Jungkook can see in his sister’s eyes how concerned and sad she is. He can only understand her; he’d be hurt if he discovered something this huge by their mother.

“Don’t know…” he whispers. “My mind has been all over the place lately.”

Dohee nods. “A lot has been going on,” she murmurs.

For sure, as a king, things aren’t easy. There are a lot of responsibilities, and whenever things get rough, he has to decide.  

“Yep,” he adds.

Jungkook sighs before falling on his desk’s chair. His fingers run through his hair while he closes his eyes. He’s already been thinking too much about your insemination.

As she sees her brother, Dohee now gets worried. The surrogacy journey should be a happy one; it’s one that’ll allow him to have a family. She knows how much he craves to become a father, and the council has also put a lot of pressure on him even if Jungkook will never admit it.

“What’s going on, Kook?” she asks with obvious concern.

Jungkook doesn’t know what to do. Does he reveal the truth to his sister? Or does he pretend that nothing is going on? For sure, he needs to vent to someone. His sister might be the one who could hear him without instantly bringing the “bloodline purity law”. She’ll see the problem for what it truly is.

“I sought the help of a well-known clinic that has helped a lot of werewolves,” he opens his eyes to face his sister’s gaze. “It was supposed to be simple; I chose the progenitor, gave them the sperm, and they only had to implant it in a human surrogate,” he explains.

Dohee carefully listens to her brother, very intrigued with what he has to say. She can see the despair in his eyes. It breaks her heart to see him like that.

“But they called me like five days ago to tell me they made a mistake…” he looks away, not able to reveal the truth while looking at her. “They swapped up the samples and they inseminated a human with my sperm.”

Her eyes widen at his words. That’s an unbelievable news! How can a fertility clinic make such a huge mistake?

“That’s a hell of a mistake!” she directly says.

“I know…” he whispers before looking again at his sister. “The thing is that the woman was there to have a baby on her own. I met her the other day to discuss this whole situation,” he tells her. “The clinic suggested to terminate the pregnancy if we desire it. I told that woman that I couldn’t have the baby and why I couldn’t.”

“You told her you’re a werewolf?” Dohee cuts him off.

“I couldn’t do otherwise! She was embarked in this world by a stupid mistake. She needed to know,” he almost screams at his sister.

“Tell me you convinced her to terminate the pregnancy,” she begs her brother with a firm tone.

When Dohee notices the non-reaction of her brother, she instantly understands the extent of the situation.

“Jungkook…” she says.

“I can’t tell her that, Dodo,” he says while closing his eyes. “I can’t force her to do that, it’s her body.”

Now, she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Her brother is in a hell of a situation. This is way too crazy!

“I told her I’d walk away if she keeps the baby,” he confesses. Both of them open their eyes to look at each other intensely. “But I don’t know if I can do that…” he admits.

She can understand her brother’s perspective; having a child is such a joyous thing. But there’s too much at stake, and she doesn’t want to have her brother killed because of this. It will only create chaos. Thankfully, they have two other brothers, and the Jeon family will remain as the ruling family. But their image will forever be destroyed. How could the other packs and even their own respect them anymore?

She’s scared of what this all could generate. Even if he walks away, a part of him will stay around. She knows her brother too well. Somebody will eventually discover about this hybrid kid, and the council will be informed right away. They will show no mercy to execute him, and their own pack will as well make sure a traitor is killed. The poor woman will face the same punishment, and she didn’t ask for any of this.

“She’s hesitating and she doesn’t know what to do yet,” he adds as he notices her sister doesn’t say anything.

“If you step out, you really need to,” she explains. “You can’t check her up nor this child to make sure nobody ever finds out about them.”

There’s a possibility that nobody ever finds out, but Jungkook has to completely walk away to truly protect them.

“This child can’t ever know who his biological father is otherwise they could claim the heir title due to being your firstborn.”

That’s an aspect Jungkook never considered. This child could indeed pretend to the throne if they wanted, even though it would never be accepted by the other packs.

“This is what I can advise you, big bro,” she adds.

“Thanks, Dodo,” he answers. “I really needed to speak about this with someone.”

She offers him a little smile before they change the conversation’s topic.  

A week has passed since Jungkook told you about his secret. Since then, you’ve been doing everything to not think about it. You’ve not even thought about what you’ll do with the child growing inside of you.

You don’t want to face the truth. There’s a werewolf universe; one that your child will be a part of. What will you do if you keep them? Will you be able to face their werewolf side? Will you ever reach out to Jungkook for help?

There are so many questions, but you don’t want to think about them. All you desire is to forget about all of this.

Today, you’re meeting Felix at a cozy café. It’s your usual Thursday meeting. It’s been like that since you moved out, and you’ve been grateful to have these moments with your father. However, for today’s meeting, you’re feeling kind of nervous. You know he’s going to raise questions about your pregnancy while you don’t even know what to do.

“Sweetheart,” Felix welcomes you with a hug.

You hold onto him like you’re holding on for dear life. Now that you have him in front of you, it reassures you beyond comprehension. It feels like you can let go of whatever is going on in your head.

“Are you okay, angel?” he asks.

He breaks the hug, takes one step back, and looks at you with evident concern.

“Not really,” you admit.

The two of you sit down; worry never leaving his eyes. Felix has noticed that you’ve been distant these past few days. He didn’t say anything because he thought that you needed time and space to deal with the pregnancy’s early days. He still remembers how his late wife was when she was pregnant with Lexi.   

Now, he realizes that there’s something more. He can tell it by the way you respond and how tired you look.

“What’s been going on?” he says the second you’re both sitting.

You bite your lower lip, deeply thinking about what you should say. There’s absolutely no way that you’ll reveal the werewolf universe, he’ll never believe you.

“The fertility clinic made a mistake,” you finally say.

He furrows his eyebrows.

“They swapped the donor sample with somebody else’s sample,” you continue. “That man turned to the clinic to have a child through surrogacy.”

So far, Felix doesn’t really understand where the problem is.   

“The thing is that the clinic contacted us both to inform us of the mistake, so I’ve met him, and it destroyed the entire plan,” you rub your face with your hands. “I felt like I lost control of my life all over again.”

Now, he understands everything. Since you’ve lost your parents, he’s seen how you’ve been trying to gain control over your life. But you’ve been struggling your entire life. This thing of being a mother alone felt like you were gaining control.

“They will refund the treatment and suggested we could terminate the pregnancy.”

Felix believes that it’s the least the clinic could do to compensate for their mistake.

“The father said he doesn’t want the child but doesn’t want to force me to abort, so it’s really up to me…” you feel like you’re about to cry.

The sixty years old man lets you speak without interrupting you.

“It’s such a difficult decision,” you admit. “I thought having a baby on my own would be simple… but nothing about this seems simple anymore. I’ve stepped into something I can’t control.”  

He nods, understanding your dilemma. All he can do right now is to reassure you, because he can’t choose for you. That decision is yours, and only yours. At least, that’s the thing you can control in this entire situation.

“You’ve always been strong, yn,” he says. “You’ve faced so much loss, but you’ve found a way forward. There’s no need to figure everything out today.”

You’d like to think that it’d be as easy as Felix makes it sound. There’s a legal limit for abortion; you can’t spend weeks wondering what to do.

“But time is running, and I can’t hesitate forever.”

Your father figure smiles at you while grabbing your hands.

“I know, but I trust you. I don’t doubt you’ll find the answer on time.”

You smile back at him. Even though his words are comforting, they don’t really help. You don’t know what to do with the life growing inside you. A life that you can hear and feel. A life half human and half werewolf.

“Sometimes I feel different,” you start saying with hesitation.

You can’t reveal the true nature of Jungkook, but you’d still like to speak a bit about it with Felix. Maybe he’ll be able to reassure you about it.

“Like there’s something beneath the surface that I can’t put into words,” you continue. “And it scares me.”

This entire situation scares the hell out of you. There are so many what-ifs…

“Whatever this is, yn, trust yourself. You’ve never been alone. Lexi and I have always been by your side through this entire process, and we’ll remain until the end,” he reminds you. “I’m sure you’ll find your way through this.”

You’ve always admired the way Felix trusts you and encourages you also to trust yourself. It has never been easy for the past twenty years, but he’s been the light guiding you through every tough moment. You’re lucky to have him, and you’ll forever be grateful that he took you over after the passing of your parents.

“You’ve inherited your parents’ strength; they left everything behind to offer you a proper life, and even though they didn’t get to see you become the woman you are today, you’ve grown far away from that family that never wanted you.”

Being reminded that your grandparents disapproved of your parents’ relationship and your existence breaks your heart. You would have loved that things were different. You would have loved to meet them. You don’t know anything about your family. You don’t even know where your parents originally are from.

You know Felix and your parents have been trying to protect you, but you’ve always wanted to discover the truth, to understand why your grandparents didn’t want your parents to be together. You ignore so many things, but you haven’t been able to discover anything about your parents’ past. Whatever happened, it’s like it was erased.

And you also are a hundred percent sure that your parents’ murder is related to this family story. You don’t know how, but you feel it in your guts. When you think about it, it sends shivers down your spine because there’s a tiny possibility that your grandparents killed your parents.

“Did you ever meet my grandparents?” you dare to ask.

Your entire life you’ve hesitated to question Felix about the family issues. It wasn’t his place to know about it and reveal it to you.

“No,” he answers. “I met your parents after they left their hometown.”

You nod although you aren’t fully convinced about that. You don’t say anything else. Your parents are a touchy subject with Felix; he lost his friends after all. It mustn’t have been easy for him too, especially since he took you over.

“Thanks, Felix for your support,” you smile at him.   

Felix squeezes your hands with a bright smile on his face. There’s no doubt that this moment has reassured and comforted you a lot. Now all you have to do is face the situation and really think about what you’ll do.

On your way back to your apartment, you could swear you felt Jungkook’s presence nearby. It’s not logical, not even remotely possible. However, every fiber of your being screams ‘he’s here’.  You walked slower as your eyes scanned every corner and alley, looking for someone that isn’t there.

You paused at a streetlight, slowly turning around. He’s here. You’re certain of it. But where? How? You pull your jacket tighter around you, shake your head, and start walking. Even though you’re getting closer to your apartment building, the feeling doesn’t fade. It clings to you like a second skin. You’re not scared, not really. If anything, you feel protected as if someone is watching over you.

As you step into the lobby of the complex building, the feeling slowly starts to fade away. But even as you stand in the elevator, you can’t shake the sensation. You felt him; you know you did. And it terrifies you just as much as it comforts you.

Once inside your apartment, you directly walk to your couch after removing your coat and shoes. You sink onto it as you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding back. Nothing really feels normal anymore. Everything is just different now.

You wrap your arms around yourself to kind of protect yourself. You must admit that you’re a bit scared of what the future might hold for you. There’s a baby growing inside you; one you deeply desire, but that baby is linked to a world you never knew existed two weeks ago. And it’s a baby whose father doesn’t want them.  

Your right hand snails down to your stomach as you think about this child. You’ve spent so much time dreaming about this. About holding a tiny life in your arms. About creating a family that felt yours. But this? This isn’t what you planned.

However, you can hear Felix’s words inside your head. He’ll be there for you; he’ll support you in whatever decision you make. You know that you won’t be alone in this process. You’ll have him and Lexi, and your friends too.

And there’s Jungkook…  

You shake the thought away. He was very clear; he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want you. You feel a bit sad for him. He wanted a child otherwise, he wouldn’t have sought the clinic’s help. And now, he has a child with a human which is completely forbidden in his world. It mustn’t be easy for him too.

As you caress your stomach, trying to comfort you and the baby, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you want to keep the baby. It’s not a definitive decision, not yet. You still doubt it, and there’s still some fear within you related to this whole werewolf thing.

But for the first time since the clinic’s mistake, you feel like you’re slowly leaning into a choice. It doesn’t feel like you’re still completely torn apart by the two choices. It’s still an uncertain choice. But it’s yours.

Tonight, it’s been hard for you to properly sleep. You’ve been turning in your bed, trying to find the right position to sleep. But none of them seems to be the right one. The city light picking through the curtains seems also not to help you. It feels like the world doesn’t want to let you sleep.

On top of that, when you close your eyes, your mind instantly goes to Jungkook. You relive again the moment he revealed his true nature; you see again his intense gaze on you and how his eyes turned red.

“Why can’t I stop thinking about him?” your voice is barely audible in the silence of the room.  

Your hands move down to your stomach for the millionth time today. Whenever you think about Jungkook, you’re reminded of the life growing inside you. A life that wouldn’t exist without him.

You end up giving up and sit up, your back leaning against the headboard. You look around, your room is a complete mess, just like your mind. A couple of weeks ago, while looking at your bedroom, you were thinking about how it would change once you become a mother.

Now, you’re facing a reality where werewolves exist. A reality where Jungkook rejected the baby. A reality where you still don’t know what to do. And it feels like it’s crushing you. It feels like all this constant thinking is suffocating you, like the city noise.

But then, subtly something changes.

A warmth starts spreading through your chest. It’s like when the sunlight breaks through the heavy grey clouds. It’s like receiving a hug from a loved person. It’s reassuring and comforting. You close your eyes, your eyebrows furrowing as you feel the same presence as earlier today. However, this time, it’s not physical, but it feels real.

It’s Jungkook.

You can’t explain it, but you know. You’d like to say that you’re going crazy, but it doesn’t feel like it. You feel his presence, and you don’t know how.

“Jungkook,” you whisper while opening your eyes.

From afar, Jungkook is sitting in his study, looking at the forest through a large window. His expression is tight, and his jaw is clenched. He’s been more than ever nervous and stressed.

Suddenly, a very faint whisper of his name brushes against his mind. His eyes widen slightly as he feels something, or should he say, someone. He then closes his eyes to feel this sudden connection.

For a brief moment, he swears he can feel you. He can feel your confusion, your exhaustion, but also your strength. He takes deep breaths, trying to push away whatever this is. He isn’t supposed to feel any of this with a human. He isn’t supposed to be connected to a human.

But it seems like nothing makes sense anymore.

There are many things that aren’t supposed to exist or to make sense, but everything shifted the second you came into his life.

As the sensation fades away, he runs a hand through his hair while you wonder what the heck just happened.

Jungkook’s eyes look at the moon peeking through the clouds. It’s a beautiful moon even though it’s not the full moon yet.

“Mister Jeon,” his footman enters the study room. “Yuna is waiting at the door, she’d like to speak with you. Do I let her in?”

The king hesitates for a couple of seconds, but then proceeds to let her in. He wonders what she’s doing here, and he’s very curious to know about it.  

Yuna, his ex-girlfriend arrives quite rapidly and with a lot of grace. She’s still as pretty as he remembers, it’s like she didn’t change in over a year. His heart starts pounding rapidly in his chest, making him wonder if he still loves her. Undoubtedly, he isn’t unaffected by her.  

Jungkook stands up and she bows to him once in front of him. “Your Majesty,” she says.

It’s weird to see her doing that; it’s the first time she ever does it. When he became a king, she was his girlfriend, and he refused to let her bow to him even though they weren’t equals. To him, it didn’t make any sense for all that. However, today, she represents nothing to him. She’s just a simple werewolf.   

“Yuna,” he firstly says. “What brings you here?”

“You’ve been avoiding me, Jungkook,” Yuna is draped in an elegant coat, and Jungkook can see a red dress beneath the coat.

Jungkook sits back down on the chair, rubbing his temple. Of course, he’s been avoiding her because she’s his ex. It wouldn’t make sense to run after her, especially when she’s the one who walked away in the first place.

“I’ve seen it at The Bloods’ gala, the council monthly meeting, and last full moon,” she adds.

The further he is from her, the better he feels. But it’s nearly impossible. She’s the descendant of one of the most ancient families of The Bloods’ pack. Her family is powerful, but definitely not as powerful as Jeon’s family. Both families share a history, but that’s it.

“What did you expect?” he asks.

A year ago, she walked away, and Jungkook didn’t fight for her. When he became a king, he had to navigate this entirely new role while coping with grief. Yuna was kind of obsessed with the possibility of her becoming the next queen and mother to the future heir. She wasn’t there when he needed her.

Instead of navigating this together, they isolated themselves. She was constantly complaining about the fact that he wasn’t paying any attention to her. She desired the power he could grant her, but she felt like she didn’t matter. She felt unloved and unfulfilled in the relationship.

So, she walked away, and he let her go.

Jungkook thought that it was for the best. It simply was too hard for him to deal with everything, and his role absorbed all the pain he felt when she left. It was a five-year-long relationship, he still loved her even though his love changed over time.

“Well, at least, a simple ‘hello’,” she answers before crossing her arms against her chest.

Yuna never imagined things would turn out like this when she left. She deeply regrets what she did, and she has been contemplating for a while to win her king back.

“Unless I have to, I’d never come to you to say ‘hello’,” he instantly snaps back.

Without asking for permission, she takes a seat on the couch near her. She seems infuriated but doesn’t let it break her shell.

“There are rumors…” she murmurs. “Saying that you’ve been busy, trying to secure the lineage.”

Over the past months, a lot of rumors have been circulating about him. Some are saying that he’s with someone, others that he’s engaged, and others stating the truth—that he’s been trying to have a child. As usual, he hasn’t said a damn thing.  

“Well, those are only rumors,” he answers, trying to hide away any expression that might betray him.

For a split second, his mind pictures you smiling. A smile he caused when he handed you the small box of pastries. Technically speaking, you’ve secured his lineage.

“I believe them,” she says. “I knew how much you wanted a child, and you’re a terrible liar,” she adds. “Now, I’m left wondering if you’re doing this through surrogacy or if you really got someone pregnant.”

“Yuna is definitely smart,” Jungkook mumbles to himself. It has always impressed him how intelligent she can be when something gets her attention. This seems to be a hot topic for her.

“And if someone is pregnant, it might mean that you’re seeing someone.”

A smile appears on his face, his eyes looking right through hers. She’s way too curious about this, and he definitely wants to leave her wondering even more. But this woman could find you if he leaves her in the dark, and that is something he can’t let happen. He has to protect you from his world.

“Maybe, it’s neither option,” he answers.

She narrows her eyes as if she’s trying to see which option is the correct one.

“If it’s none of them, then I can help you with that.”

Jungkook instantly laughs; this woman is beyond crazy. She can’t come back just like that. Their relationship died a year ago so there’s no turning back. Plus, making her the mother of his child would give her the power she tried to have when he became a king. Jungkook isn’t that stupid.

“You can keep it to yourself,” he says. “I don’t need it.”

If they were still together, they would most probably be expecting a baby. Or they would have already been parents.

“And if you only came to throw me that bullshit, you can leave,” he adds. “I’ve more important things to deal with.”

Those last words profoundly hurt her, but again, she doesn’t show it. She stands up and walks closer to him before bending down, her lips near his ear. Surprisingly, this closeness doesn’t make him shiver like it used to.

“It’s just the beginning, baby,” she whispers. “You won’t get rid of me so easily.”

She presses a kiss on his cheek before vanishing. Jungkook closes his eyes, a deep breath escaping his lips. This is the last thing he needs right now. He already has so much on his plate, and he doesn’t want to have to deal with his ex.

“What did I do to deserve all of this?” he whispers.

With his eyes closed, his mind gets lost in visions of your face. They appease him in an unexplainable way. Nobody has ever had such an effect on him—even less a human. He doesn’t really know what to do. Maybe for now, it’s best to simply ignore all of this.

However, he wants to make sure that you’re safe. He’s scared that Yuna might discover you and put your life in jeopardy. If she ever finds out about you, she’ll do everything in her power to give you the same treatment previous humans had in the same situation. Death.

Jungkook totally ignores your address, but he’s a king and a werewolf. He could find you by your smell or if he asks someone to look for you. Well, being honest, he has already done some research about you. He wanted to discover who you are. Wanted to know who the mother of his unborn child was.

He shifts into a wolf before running through the forest. He could have run through the city, but people would see him which is risky. Although some werewolves do that, he’s the king. He can’t make any reckless move. His world needs to be protected; he made an oath when he succeeded his father.  

Once he’s near your place, he shifts back to his human form and walks up until he’s near enough to see you through the window. Based on his research, this is the place of a certain Felix, a man who took you over after the passing of your parents. He’s the man that truly raised you.

His gaze finds you quite rapidly. It seems that you’re in a living room animatedly speaking with two men and a woman. One of the men seems to be in his fifties-sixties so he’d guess it’s Felix. The girl he’d say that it’s Lexi, Felix’s daughter; she looks a lot like him. The second man seems to be a complete stranger. Maybe a friend or something like that.

Jungkook checks the surroundings to make sure nobody— especially a werewolf— is around. As he realizes you’re safe, a strong wave of warmth crashes over him. He’s really scared that something might happen to you because of the little life growing inside you. A life whose little heartbeat he can hear.

Since he met you in the clinic for the first time, he’s been hearing that faint heartbeat. He’s also been able to scent the baby’s smell; it’s kind of human, but not entirely. He knew from the first second that it was his child, but he also knew there was something off. It wasn’t just about the baby, it was also about you. Your scent is different than any other human.

But the only thing he found strange about you is the fact that he couldn’t find anything about your parents. Outside their life here, there’s nothing from before. It’s like they never existed before. It’s definitely odd.

Despite all of that, hearing his child’s heartbeat reassures him. Deep down, since the beginning, he’s been hoping you’d keep the baby. His baby.

Suddenly, you look out the window. Under a streetlamp, not too far away, you notice someone looking in your direction. For a very split second, you feel scared, but you’re suddenly reassured. Even though you can’t see the person’s face, you know who it is. You can feel his presence. It’s Jungkook.    

You get a confirmation when his eyes take a red wolf form. The exact same form when he partially shifted into a wolf.

Jungkook, on his side, can swear that he saw your eyes turned to a blue color. A deep blue with something wolfish about them. It happens so fast, but he knows what he saw. After all, it seems that you’re not human. You’re a werewolf. And it changes everything now.

please note that the taglist is closed!

[fvsm4x]

𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 - „I don‘t deserve someone like you“

—In an arranged marriage to the powerful sorcerer Gojo Satoru, you, a blind young woman from a noble family, quickly realize the harsh realities of your new life.

.contains blind fem. reader x gojo satoru, gojo is shitty, angsty, hurt no comfort, curse au, cheating, mistress, toxity, wc. 6.1k

The scent of jasmine filled the grand hall, its soft, almost cloying sweetness failing to mask the tension that lingered in the air. The wedding was beautiful, by all accounts—ornate chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting soft, golden light across the room. Tall vases overflowed with white lilies and roses, draped with vines that twined delicately around their stems. Everything was pristine, perfect, a vision of elegance and status befitting the union of two powerful families.

But beneath the surface, it all felt wrong.

The whispers of the guests were hushed, though not out of reverence or respect for the sacredness of the ceremony. They whispered because of you. They stared, eyes flickering between curiosity and pity, hidden behind false smiles and hollow words of congratulations. They pretended to celebrate, but you could hear it—the murmurs beneath their breath, the way their voices dipped just low enough that they thought you wouldn’t notice.

But you always noticed.

You stood still, hands folded in front of you, your posture impeccable as you’d been trained, listening as they spoke about the bride. The blind girl. The one without cursed techniques. The one Gojo Satoru—the Gojo Satoru—was marrying.

The ceremony had been just as silent, just as stifling, the weight of a hundred eyes pressing into you like needles. You had felt their gazes on your back as you walked down the aisle, guided by your father’s hand. Each step had felt heavier than the last, each footfall an echo in the vast room, but you held your head high, your expression calm and serene, as you had practiced countless times. The world around you was dark, as it always had been, but your senses were sharp, attuned to every shift in the atmosphere, every murmur, every movement.

No one questioned the marriage aloud, but everyone doubted it in private. The Gojo clan needed an heir, and you—born into a noble sorcerer family, though cursed with blindness and lacking any ability to fight—were chosen for the role. Not because of your power, not because of love, but because your bloodline was old and respected. Your family’s name still held weight in the jujutsu world, even if you did not. And Gojo… well, he was too important, too powerful, for anyone to refuse his family’s demands.

You could feel the tension in the room from the moment you entered. It rippled through the air like a current, crackling just beneath the surface of polite conversation. Your family had assured you this was the best course for both you and them. It was your duty, they’d said, to carry on the family’s legacy, even if you couldn’t do it the way your ancestors had. You would be a wife, a vessel for a future heir. That was your purpose now. You weren’t here to fight curses or stand beside him as an equal. You were here to bear the weight of an alliance and ensure the bloodlines remained pure and strong.

And he?

Gojo Satoru, the man you were now married to, had been as distant as the stars. Even during the brief ceremony, his presence felt like a cold wind brushing past your skin. He hadn’t said much—his voice, when he spoke the vows, had been flat and indifferent, devoid of the charm and magnetism that he was known for. His hand had touched yours only for the briefest moment, cool and detached, as though the act of taking your hand was more of an inconvenience than a gesture of unity.

There had been no tenderness, no sense of connection. It was as though he were performing an obligation, fulfilling a requirement, nothing more.

And now, as the ceremony gave way to the reception, he was nowhere to be found.

You stood alone in the grand hall, surrounded by the murmuring crowd, your fingers grazing the soft fabric of your wedding gown as you shifted your weight. The gown was heavy, draped in layers of delicate silk and lace that clung to your skin, a reminder of the weight of the expectations placed upon you. You could hear the soft rustle of the fabric as you moved, the sound barely audible over the hum of conversation and the gentle notes of the ceremonial band playing in the background.

The guests were mingling, their voices a blur of idle chatter and veiled judgment, and you were left to endure it all in silence.

"Such a shame," someone whispered, though you couldn’t tell who. Their voice was soft, yet the pity in it was sharp enough to cut. "A blind girl, no cursed energy…"

"Can she even fulfill her duties?" another voice added, the words tinged with disbelief. "Gojo must be furious."

Your heart tightened, but you kept your face composed, as you had been taught. You didn’t react. You didn’t turn toward the voices or acknowledge them in any way. You had long since learned that reacting only gave them power. So you stood still, hands clasped in front of you, listening as they judged you without hesitation.

“She must be so nervous,” a woman murmured to her companion, her tone laced with false sympathy. "I can’t imagine being so helpless."

Helpless.

You had heard that word so many times in your life. It clung to you like a second skin, a label that you could never quite shed, no matter how hard you tried. They saw your blindness and your lack of cursed energy, and they assumed that was all there was to you. A burden. An empty vessel.

It wasn’t just the guests who thought that. You could feel it in the way Gojo had treated you during the ceremony. His absence now was only confirmation of what you already knew—he didn’t care. To him, this marriage was just another arrangement, another responsibility to check off his list. You had been chosen for your lineage, not for yourself.

He wasn’t going to try, and neither were you.

It was only after what felt like an eternity of standing alone, the weight of the room pressing down on you, that you felt a shift. The atmosphere changed, a ripple of movement through the crowd, followed by the distinct sensation of someone approaching.

You knew who it was before he even spoke.

"Looking for me?"

His voice was smooth, casual, tinged with amusement that felt out of place in the solemnity of the occasion. It was the same voice he had used during the ceremony—bored, distant, with just a hint of arrogance. You had heard Gojo Satoru speak before, though never to you, and his voice was always laced with that same careless charm, as though everything and everyone around him were beneath him.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t turn toward him immediately, taking a moment to compose yourself, to control the surge of frustration that rose within you. When you finally spoke, your voice was quiet, calm.

"Where have you been?"

The question was simple, but it carried more weight than the words alone. Where had he been? On this day of all days, the day that was meant to unite you, however meaningless that union might be. You hadn’t expected warmth from him, but a part of you—buried deep—had hoped for something more than indifference.

"Busy," he replied, as though the question itself were a joke. He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t press him for details. He wouldn’t have given them, anyway. His voice was closer than expected, and you felt a subtle shift in the air as he moved closer. "This whole thing is exhausting. Don’t you agree?"

His words dripped with nonchalance, as though the day had been an inconvenience to him. Perhaps it had been. Perhaps the thought of being tied to someone like you—someone who couldn’t see, someone who couldn’t fight—was more than just a burden to him.

You remained still, though your fingers tightened slightly around the delicate fabric of your gown. "I suppose it is," you replied softly, your voice carefully neutral. "But it’s necessary."

Gojo laughed, the sound low and mocking, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on you, as though he were studying you, amused by your response.

"Necessary?" he echoed, his tone mocking. "I guess that’s one way to put it."

There was a pause, and you could feel the tension between you thickening, the space between you filled with unspoken words. You wanted to say something—something sharp, something that would cut through his arrogance—but you held your tongue. You had learned long ago that sharp words would do nothing here. Not with him.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice lowering as he leaned in slightly, “did you think this would be anything more than an arrangement?”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you didn’t let your expression falter. “I didn’t expect anything more than what was promised,” you answered carefully.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because that’s all it is. An arrangement. Nothing more.”

You could feel the cruel smirk tugging at his lips, even if you couldn’t see it. You didn’t need to see it. You could hear it in his voice, feel it in the way he stood too close, invading your space as if to remind you just how small, how insignificant, you were in comparison to him.

The room around you felt colder, even though the temperature had not changed.

“Don’t worry,” he said, stepping back as though to release you from his presence, “this’ll go much easier if you remember that.”

As Gojo disappeared back into the crowd, the warmth of his presence faded just as quickly as it had come, leaving behind an emptiness that settled deep in your chest. You kept your face composed, your expression serene, as you had been taught. The noise of the reception swirled around you, a cacophony of clinking glasses and laughter, but none of it reached you. It felt distant, muted—like you were standing in a world that wasn’t meant for you, a world that you could never fully inhabit.

You didn’t need to see to know what was happening around you. The guests would be watching him now, the great Gojo Satoru, as he moved effortlessly through the crowd, exchanging smiles and pleasantries with his admirers. They’d hang on his every word, laugh at his every joke, their attention glued to him like moths drawn to a flame. He was the star of this union, after all—the one everyone came to see. Not you.

You were nothing more than the shadow in his light.

A part of you wanted to slip away, to retreat into the safety of solitude where the weight of the expectations and the judgment wouldn’t suffocate you. But you knew better. Your place was here, standing still, enduring. You had learned long ago that this was your role in the world of sorcerers—a silent participant, always on the periphery, always observing but never truly part of the action.

“Are you all right, my dear?”

The voice was soft, tentative—your mother’s. You hadn’t heard her approach, but the gentle touch of her hand on your arm was familiar, grounding. She was the one who had guided you through this life of duty, the one who had taught you how to survive in a world that had never been kind to those like you.

“I’m fine,” you said, your voice steady. The lie slipped easily from your lips. It was a lie you had told so many times before that it felt almost like the truth now.

Your mother’s grip tightened slightly, her thumb brushing your arm in a subtle gesture of comfort. “He… he will come around,” she murmured, though even she didn’t sound convinced.

You resisted the urge to laugh at her words. Come around? Gojo Satoru? You had known, even before the wedding, that he wasn’t the type of man who could be swayed by something as simple as a bond of marriage. He was above all of that—above you. He was the strongest sorcerer alive, the most powerful, untouchable. And you? You were nothing more than the bride chosen for him because of your family’s name. A bride he could ignore without consequence.

“There’s no need for him to come around,” you replied softly. “This marriage is what it is.”

Your mother hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “You will find your place,” she said finally, though her voice wavered with uncertainty. “It may take time, but—”

“I know my place,” you interrupted, your tone sharper than you intended. You could feel her flinch, her hand withdrawing slightly, and a pang of guilt shot through you. She didn’t deserve your frustration. She had done what she thought was best for you, even if this life felt like a cage. “I’m sorry,” you added quietly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I understand,” your mother said gently, though you could hear the strain in her voice. “I know this isn’t easy. But… you must remember your duty. This is about more than just you or Satoru. It’s about the future of our family.”

Her words, though well-meaning, did little to comfort you. You had heard them countless times before—spoken by your father, by your uncles, by the elders who had decided your fate long before you had any say in it. Your family needed this marriage. It was a strategic alliance, a way to secure your family’s position in the jujutsu world, to ensure that their legacy would continue through the next generation. You were simply the vessel through which that legacy would be carried.

But what about you? What did you want?

Not that it mattered. In this world, your wants were irrelevant.

“I know,” you whispered, though the words felt heavy on your tongue. “I understand my duty.”

Your mother didn’t reply, but you could sense her reluctance, her uncertainty. Perhaps a part of her regretted the role she had played in this arrangement. Or perhaps she simply didn’t know how to help you, how to guide you through something she had never experienced herself.

After a moment, she squeezed your arm again, then quietly slipped away, leaving you alone once more in the sea of murmuring voices and clinking glasses.

-

The journey back to the Gojo estate was quiet and uncomfortable, much like the rest of the day had been. You had ridden alone, save for the driver and a house staff member assigned to assist you, a man whose presence was unobtrusive and respectful, though it did little to ease the weight in your chest. The noise of the reception was a distant memory now, replaced by the soft hum of the car engine and the occasional rattle of the road beneath the wheels.

When the car finally came to a halt, you felt the subtle shift in the air, the familiar scent of the estate reaching you through the open window. The door beside you opened with a soft creak, and you turned your head slightly, listening as the staff member stepped out and came to your side.

"Lady Gojo," he said quietly, his voice steady, "we’ve arrived. May I assist you?"

You nodded, grateful for his presence even if the formality of it felt strange. His hand found yours with a practiced gentleness, and you allowed him to guide you from the car, your feet sinking slightly into the gravel as you stepped onto the driveway. The estate was large, its grounds sprawling and ornate, though you had never seen it with your own eyes. You had been given descriptions, of course—told about the lush gardens, the grand architecture, the beautiful traditional touches that made the Gojo residence a place of prestige. But to you, it was simply a place. Another cage, perhaps larger and more opulent than the last, but a cage nonetheless.

The man guided you carefully, his pace slow and deliberate as you walked toward the main entrance. The stone path beneath your feet was smooth, the cool night air brushing against your skin as you moved. You focused on the sounds around you—the distant chirp of crickets, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the soft shuffle of your guide’s footsteps. It was a comfort in a way, grounding you in the present, keeping you from drifting too far into the overwhelming thoughts that threatened to consume you.

As you reached the doors to the estate, another figure emerged from inside—a woman, her footsteps lighter and quicker than the man’s. You could tell by the soft rustling of fabric and the light scent of jasmine that she was one of the house staff, perhaps the one assigned to assist you personally. She approached with the same quiet respect, her presence calm and unobtrusive.

"Lady Gojo," she greeted softly, her voice smooth and measured. "I am here to assist you with getting settled. Shall I help you to your chambers?"

"Yes," you replied quietly, your voice steady despite the turmoil within. "Thank you."

The man who had guided you this far bowed his head slightly, murmured a polite farewell, and took his leave. The woman stepped forward then, her hand resting lightly on your arm as she gently guided you through the grand entrance of the estate. The cool air inside the building was a sharp contrast to the warmth of the evening outside, the scent of incense and wood filling your senses as you walked.

You could hear the faint echo of your footsteps in the vast, empty halls, the sound a reminder of the sheer size of this place. It felt too big, too impersonal. The kind of space where someone could get lost—physically and emotionally.

As the woman led you through the winding corridors, she remained quiet, her touch firm but never forceful. She was practiced, you could tell, in the way she moved with you, guiding without pushing, always attentive to your pace. There was a quiet understanding in her actions, as though she knew that this day had been overwhelming, that words weren’t necessary right now.

When you finally reached the doors to your chambers, she opened them quietly and stepped inside with you. The room was cold, untouched, the air still and heavy. The silence hung between you both as she guided you toward the center of the room, stopping near the bed.

"Shall I help you with your gown, Lady Gojo?" the woman asked gently, her voice soft but professional.

"Yes, please," you answered, though a part of you hesitated. It felt strange, being undressed by another, but the gown was heavy, its intricate layers difficult to manage on your own, especially after such a long day. The weight of it felt unbearable now, pressing down on your shoulders, a physical reminder of everything this day had been.

The woman moved with care, her fingers deft as she began to undo the delicate clasps and ties of your wedding dress. You stood still, letting her work, the fabric of the gown slowly loosening and falling away from your body as she removed it piece by piece. The cool air brushed against your skin as each layer was peeled back, the heaviness gradually lifting, though the emotional weight remained.

Once the gown was fully removed, she folded it with precision, setting it aside on a nearby chair. You felt lighter, freer in a way, though the emptiness of the room and the absence of the man who was supposed to share it with you left a coldness in your chest.

"Would you like me to prepare anything else for you tonight, my lady?" the woman asked, her voice still calm and measured.

"No," you replied softly, shaking your head. "That will be all. Thank you."

With a quiet bow, she left the room, the soft click of the door closing behind her the only sound that remained. And then, you were alone.

Alone.

The word echoed in your mind, filling the empty space around you. You stood there for a long moment, the coldness of the room seeping into your skin, the emptiness of the house pressing down on you. This was your life now—a life of silence, of isolation. A life in which you were nothing more than a vessel for a future heir.

You hadn’t expected Gojo to be here, but even so, his absence stung in a way you hadn’t anticipated. He hadn’t cared enough to even pretend. This marriage, this life—it meant nothing to him. And to everyone else, you were just the blind girl. The one without cursed techniques. The one chosen not for her strength or power, but for her bloodline. A tool.

With a heavy sigh, you walked slowly to the bed, the soft rustle of the sheets the only sound in the quiet room. You crawled into bed, the cold fabric wrapping around you like a suffocating embrace. You stared into the darkness, your mind racing with thoughts you couldn’t quiet. Would it always be like this? Would this be your life—empty, cold, and filled with the constant reminder of your insignificance?

The cold sheets didn’t provide any comfort, nor did the quiet. The weight of the day pressed down on you, and despite your exhaustion, sleep didn’t come easily. Instead, you lay there, your thoughts swirling around in your mind, the reality of your new life sinking in.

-

The morning light filtered through the room’s large windows, though its warmth did nothing to chase away the cold that lingered in the air. You had hardly slept, the weight of the previous night pressing heavily on your chest. The events played over and over in your mind—the whispers, the ceremony, the emptiness. And now, waking up in this unfamiliar place, it was hard to shake the sense of displacement, of being trapped in a life that was not your own.

You sat up slowly, your body stiff from the restless night. The thin fabric of your nightgown offered little comfort against the morning chill, and for a moment, you remained still, unsure of what to do next. There was no routine here, no familiar rhythm to fall into. You had always known what your life would be—quiet, measured, controlled by duty—but now it felt as though the ground had been pulled out from under you, leaving you floating in a strange, empty space.

A knock at the door interrupted your thoughts, soft but insistent.

"Lady Gojo," came the familiar voice of the woman who had helped you the night before. "I’ve brought you tea. May I enter?"

"Yes," you replied, your voice quiet.

The door opened, and you heard her footsteps as she approached, the soft clinking of a tray as she set it down on the small table beside your bed.

"I’ve also brought a change of clothes," she continued, her tone respectful. "If you’d like, I can help you dress for the day."

You nodded, though the thought of dressing for the day felt strange. What was there to do? What purpose did this day hold for you? You didn’t belong in this world of sorcerers and cursed techniques, of power and prestige. You were just the blind girl, chosen to be Gojo’s wife for reasons that had nothing to do with who you were and everything to do with what your family name represented.

The woman helped you out of bed, her hands gentle as she guided you toward the wardrobe, where she had laid out a simple, elegant kimono. You could feel the delicate silk between your fingers as she draped it over your shoulders, her hands moving with practiced ease as she tied the obi around your waist.

"Do you know what your plans are for today, my lady?" she asked quietly, though there was no judgment in her voice, only politeness.

"I don’t," you admitted, the words feeling heavy. "I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do."

The woman paused for a moment, her hands resting lightly on your shoulders as she adjusted the fabric. "You may not have cursed techniques like the others, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing for you here. The Gojo estate is large, and there are many things to explore if you’d like. The gardens are beautiful, and the library is filled with books from all over the world. You don’t have to…"

Her voice trailed off as though she had realized she was speaking out of turn, but the kindness in her tone remained.

"I don’t have to what?" you asked softly, curious about what she had left unsaid.

"You don’t have to wait around," she finished, her voice gentler now. "You don’t have to wait for someone to tell you what to do. You’re Lady Gojo now, and this is your home too."

The words settled into you, though they felt foreign, like a suit of armor that didn’t quite fit. Could this place ever really be your home? Could you find your own way here, among people who saw you as nothing more than a blind girl married to a man who didn’t care about you?

When the woman finished dressing you, she stepped back, her hands folding neatly in front of her. "Is there anything else I can do for you this morning?"

"No," you replied, your voice soft. "Thank you."

She bowed slightly and left the room, leaving you standing there, dressed but feeling no more ready for the day than you had before.

The silence that filled the room after her departure was thick and suffocating. You could feel the weight of the emptiness pressing down on you, the quietness of the house a stark contrast to the chaotic noise that had filled your mind since the wedding. A part of you wanted to crawl back into bed, to hide under the covers and pretend that none of this was real. But the woman’s words lingered.

You don’t have to wait around.

You had spent your entire life waiting. Waiting for your cursed techniques to appear. Waiting for your family to tell you what your role would be. Waiting for this marriage to happen, knowing it was never really a choice. But now, as much as you felt out of place, there was a flicker of something inside you that wondered if she was right. Maybe there was more to this life than just waiting.

With slow, deliberate movements, you made your way to the door. Your hand found the handle, and you stepped out into the hallway, the quiet of the estate enveloping you. The corridors were long, and though you couldn’t see them, you could feel the vastness of the space around you—the echo of your footsteps against the smooth floors, the subtle shift in the air as you walked.

You didn’t know where you were going, but for the first time since you arrived, it didn’t matter. You just needed to move, to take a step forward, no matter how uncertain.

As you neared a door, the sounds from within grew unmistakable—soft murmurs, the rustle of fabric, and then a quiet, intimate sigh. The knot in your stomach tightened. You already knew what you would find if you dared to push the door open, and yet your feet carried you closer, your heart thundering in your chest as your hand instinctively brushed against the doorframe.

Inside, Gojo’s voice was low, playful, teasing in a way you had never heard from him before. It sent a shiver down your spine—not from the words themselves, but from the realization that this was a side of him he had reserved for someone else.

Through the small gap in the door, you heard her—a soft giggle, followed by a breathy gasp as Gojo’s voice dropped lower, too quiet for you to make out the words. The tone was unmistakable though, thick with seduction, as if he was savoring every moment of this forbidden encounter.

You stepped closer, the barely-there creak of the floor beneath you drowned out by the sounds inside the room. There was no mistaking what was happening now. Her quiet moan was unmistakable, and the soft, wet sound that followed made your breath catch in your throat. Your mind painted a picture you didn’t want to see—Gojo leaning in, his lips pressing against hers with a hunger that had never been directed toward you.

The dull thud of your heart in your ears drowned out almost everything else, but you couldn’t tear yourself away. You shouldn’t have been standing there, listening to your husband making out with another woman, but the pull of the moment kept you frozen in place.

A light gasp escaped her, followed by Gojo’s chuckle, and then you heard him kiss her again—longer this time, deeper. The sound of their lips parting, the soft exhale of pleasure from the woman, filled the room. It was like a physical blow, striking you with a force you hadn’t expected.

It was the kind of kiss you would never have. The kind of affection you would never receive from him.

You had always known it, deep down. Gojo had never promised you anything beyond the formalities of marriage, and you had accepted that, hadn’t you? But standing here, listening to him give someone else the affection you would never know, the truth of it stung in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

You pressed your palm against the cool wood of the doorframe, forcing yourself to breathe through the growing lump in your throat. The walls seemed to close in around you, the air too thick, too heavy. Your body screamed at you to turn away, to walk back to the safety of your solitude, but your feet felt anchored to the spot.

You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply this hurt, how thoroughly he had already broken the fragile illusion you had tried to build around this marriage. But as you stood there, every tender sound that came from inside the room seemed to chip away at whatever resolve you had left.

Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath, you pulled yourself away from the door. Your movements were slow, deliberate, as if each step was a battle against the weight of your own heart. You wouldn’t stay to hear the rest. You wouldn’t allow yourself to witness any more of Gojo’s betrayal.

Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? A betrayal.

It didn’t matter that this marriage had never been built on love, that it had been nothing more than a transaction between two powerful families. You had still given yourself to him, even if only in the way you had been told to, and now, he was giving parts of himself—parts you would never have—to someone else.

As you made your way back down the hall, you forced yourself to hold your head high, your face impassive, though inside, the ache that had started when you overheard their conversation had turned into a deep, gnawing hurt.

You wouldn’t confront him.

But even here, in the peacefulness of the garden, you couldn’t escape the nagging thought in the back of your mind—the knowledge that no matter how far you ran, you would always be trapped in a life that wasn’t yours.

And you weren’t sure if you could ever find a way out.

As you wandered through the garden, the air heavy with the scent of flowers, you couldn’t shake the hollow ache in your chest. The calmness of the space did little to ease the knot that had formed in your stomach, the knowledge of Gojo’s casual betrayal lingering in your mind like a bitter aftertaste. You tried to ignore it, to focus on the sensation of the soft breeze against your skin, but the conversation you had overheard replayed in your head.

And then, as if summoned by your thoughts, you heard his voice.

“Ah, there you are.”

The sound of Gojo’s voice cut through the stillness of the garden, light and casual, as if he hadn’t just been somewhere else, entertaining another woman. You stiffened, your back straightening instinctively, but you didn’t turn toward him. You didn’t need to see him to know that the easy smile was probably plastered across his face, his usual carefree attitude masking whatever true thoughts lay behind those bright blue eyes.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel path, growing closer until you could feel his presence beside you. He stopped, his hands probably in his pockets, his head likely tilted with that insufferable smirk still playing on his lips. The scent of his cologne, sharp and faintly sweet, filled the air around you, overwhelming the natural smell of the flowers.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, his voice carrying a note of casual curiosity. “I figured you’d still be sleeping off yesterday.”

You said nothing for a moment, your hands tightening slightly at your sides as you tried to maintain your composure. The silence stretched between you, and you could feel his gaze on you, even if you couldn’t see it. Finally, you spoke, your voice quiet but steady.

“Just walking,” you replied, your tone cool. “Isn’t that what people do in their own home?”

There was a beat of silence, and you could almost hear the grin spreading wider across his face.

“Right, right,” he said, amusement dancing in his voice. “Our home.”

The way he said the word “our” felt like a mockery, as if the very idea of this being your shared space was some kind of joke. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the wave of frustration that threatened to rise. This was your life now, tied to a man who didn’t care, bound by a duty you hadn’t asked for.

“You’re up early,” you continued, your voice steady but cold. “I thought you’d be… occupied.”

Gojo let out a soft chuckle, the sound low and almost teasing. “Ah, you heard that, huh?”

There was no apology in his tone, no trace of guilt. If anything, he sounded amused, as if the idea of you hearing him with another woman was nothing more than an inconvenience, a slight miscalculation on his part. You clenched your fists, your nails digging into your palms as you struggled to keep your composure.

“What does it matter?” he continued, his voice light and airy, as if this were all some kind of game. “You know what this is. You knew what this would be.”

His words hit you like a slap to the face, and for a moment, the air seemed to still around you. Of course, you had known. This marriage wasn’t built on love or trust; it was an arrangement, a union forged out of necessity and obligation. But hearing him say it so bluntly, with such casual disregard for your feelings, made the reality of it all the more painful.

You turned your head slightly in his direction, though your eyes remained unfocused, your gaze fixed somewhere in the distance.

“I know what this is,” you said softly, your voice carrying a quiet strength. “But that doesn’t mean it has to be so cruel.”

Gojo’s laughter rang out, sharp and biting, and you could feel the shift in his demeanor, his charm slipping just slightly to reveal the edge beneath.

“Cruel?” he echoed, the word rolling off his tongue like a taunt. “This is reality. You’re the one who agreed to this. You knew exactly what you were getting into. You can’t act surprised now.”

Your chest tightened, the frustration and hurt bubbling just beneath the surface. But you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break, of knowing just how deeply his words had cut. Instead, you drew in a steady breath, your voice calm despite the storm raging inside you.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you said quietly, the truth hanging between you like a heavy weight. “Neither of us did.”

For a moment, there was silence. You could feel his eyes on you, studying you, perhaps weighing the truth in your words. And then, with a soft exhale, Gojo’s tone shifted again, the sharpness receding as his usual nonchalant air returned.

“Yeah, well,” he said, his voice softer now but still distant, “that’s the way the world works, isn’t it?”

You didn’t respond, the quiet settling between you like a heavy fog. This was the man you had married—Gojo Satoru, the most powerful sorcerer alive, a man who wielded immense strength and influence but saw the world through a lens of detachment and indifference. He lived in a reality where emotions were weaknesses and connections were expendable. And now, you were a part of that world, tethered to him by duty and expectation.

But even as you stood there, feeling the weight of his presence beside you, a small flicker of resolve burned within you. You couldn’t change him, and you couldn’t change the circumstances that had brought you here. But maybe, just maybe, you could carve out something for yourself within this life. Something that wasn’t defined by him or by the expectations of others.

“I’ll leave you to your walk,” Gojo said suddenly, breaking the silence. “I’ve got things to do.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the distance as he left you standing alone in the garden. The emptiness he left behind was palpable, but you stood there for a long moment, the cool breeze brushing against your skin.

This was your life now—a life filled with silence and distance, with a husband who saw you as nothing more than a convenience, a vessel for an heir.

© fvsm4x 2023/4 : do not translate, plagiarise or steal my work.

[malfoysanctuary]

His, Without a Word

Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Summary: There was never a need for grand declarations, he said everything with the way he looked at her, touched her, held her like the world spun only when she breathed.

There were certain constants at Hogwarts.

The Black Lake shimmered like obsidian under the moonlight. The Great Hall always smelled faintly of parchment and pumpkin. And Mattheo Riddle always had one arm slung over the back of her chair.

Y/n had stopped questioning it months ago.

It was just… him. The way his presence fit around her like a favorite jumper—worn-in, comfortable, quietly claiming. His fingers would occasionally brush the ends of her hair, twirl a loose strand while he read over her shoulder or whispered dry sarcasm into her ear during Potions.

It didn’t matter that he rarely spoke about how he felt. He didn’t need to.

He said it in a million small ways.

Like how, at the Slytherin party that night, his eyes found her the second she stepped through the door. He was already sprawled across the dark green velvet couch like it belonged to him—legs stretched out, drink in hand, low laugh curling like smoke from his lips.

And then he saw her.

His drink hit the table. His expression didn’t change, not really—but the atmosphere did. People stepped aside. He held her gaze until she made her way over, unbothered by the stares.

She wasn’t two feet from him before his hand found her waist and pulled.

“Missed you,” he murmured against her temple, low enough for no one else to hear, as he guided her down onto his lap like it was second nature.

It was second nature now.

His arm curled around her middle, fingers splayed possessively across her stomach, and his lips ghosted a trail down her shoulder. She felt it in her bones—the way he softened around her, how his whole body leaned in like it had craved her all day.

“You saw me three hours ago,” she whispered, smiling despite herself as she rested her head on his chest.

“Too long,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

And somehow—it did.

Later, when the common room was littered with passed-out students and flickering candles, Mattheo still hadn’t let go.

They sat tucked into the corner of the couch, a half-empty bottle of Firewhisky on the table beside them. His thumb was tracing slow circles on her thigh. Her legs were draped over his lap, his cloak thrown over her shoulders.

“I like parties better like this,” she murmured. “Quiet. Just us.”

His hand paused.

Then he turned his face toward her, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his jaw, the softness in his eyes that only she ever saw.

“You make everything better,” he said, like it hurt. Like it terrified him how true it was.

Y/n blinked. Her heart stuttered.

“Mattheo…”

He cut her off with a kiss—gentle, slow, reverent. His fingers tangled in her hair, and she leaned into him like gravity wasn’t a choice anymore.

When they parted, his forehead rested against hers.

“I don’t say it much,” he whispered, “but I need you to know. I’m yours.”

She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for weeks.

“I know,” she said softly. “I’ve always known.”

But peace at Hogwarts never lasted.

Rumors had a way of crawling out of shadows. And the name Riddle always carried a legacy.

The next morning, Y/n found a torn scrap of paper on her bed.

Does he tell you what he does at night? Do you know what he’s capable of?

Her stomach turned.

Mattheo never hid his darker tendencies. There were things he didn’t talk about. Things whispered in corners—his father’s name, the power he inherited, the choices he’d made before her. But he wasn’t him. Not anymore.

Still, that seed of doubt twisted inside her.

By the time she reached the courtyard, the sky bruised with storm clouds, she found him sitting on the stone bench, cigarette between his fingers, jaw tight.

“You got one too, didn’t you?” he asked without looking up.

Y/n’s breath caught.

“Yes.”

Mattheo nodded slowly. “They want you to be afraid of me.”

Her heart cracked. “I’m not.”

His eyes finally met hers.

Haunted. Fragile, beneath the mask.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you were,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “I haven’t exactly earned the benefit of the doubt.”

Y/n crossed the space between them and knelt in front of him.

“You don’t have to earn something that’s already yours.”

He stared at her.

She took his hand and placed it over her heart. “You’re in here, Mattheo. All of you. The soft, the dark, the scared, the furious. You don’t have to deserve love to have it.”

His hand trembled. Just slightly.

Then he broke.

The cigarette dropped from his fingers as he pulled her into his lap, arms locking around her like a lifeline. His face buried in her shoulder.

And for the first time in a long time, Mattheo Riddle let himself be held.

That night, no one questioned why Mattheo had Y/n tucked so tightly against his chest in the common room. Why his hand never left her back. Why he kissed her temple every time someone looked at her too long.

He didn’t need to say anything.

She was his, and he was hers.

Even in the silence, they spoke a language only they understood.

And no one dared interrupt it.

[clemmmmmmmmmmmmmm]

“My little love,Mama’s got a lot to learn.”

Batboys x single mum reader

My little love by Adele makes me cry every time now that i have kid.Because what if im doing this all wrong.Buttt enjoy!

Bruce Wayne

• At first, Bruce is hesitant — not about you, but about whether he could be a good father figure for your child.

• Once he commits, he commits. He’s suddenly funding your child’s education, upgrading their stroller to a literal tank and reading parenting books at 3AM.

• Surprisingly good at bedtime stories — his deep voice makes fairy tales sound like epic adventures.

• He sometimes slips and calls your kid “ours.” You pretend not to notice, but your heart definitely does.

⸻

Dick Grayson

• Dick loves kids — he’s the type to immediately crouch down to their level and ask their name.

• He’s the fun “stepdad” type — trampoline parks, baking cookies (he burns them), and choreographed dance parties.

• Teaches your kid acrobatics and ends up making them his little sidekick-in-training.

• Loves you fiercely and constantly reassures you that you’re not in this alone anymore.

⸻

Jason Todd

• Jason is surprisingly protective — he softens a lot around your child, even if he still gives off a rough exterior to the world.

• Reads your kid classic literature and gritty detective novels — he says they need “culture,” but he skips the violent parts.

• Carries juice boxes in his jacket like he’s carrying ammo. Snacks on one side, weapons on the other.

• He never talks about being a good role model, but shows up for every school event and parent-teacher conference without fail.

⸻

Tim Drake

• Tim overthinks everything — he googled “how to bond with children” the minute he found out you were a single mum.

• Gets overwhelmed at first but eventually becomes your kid’s favorite nerdy uncle-type. Teaches them coding, chess, and gives them supervised access to the Batcomputer.

• Sleep-deprived bonding moments — your child once woke up from a nightmare and found Tim already awake researching ways to help.

• You once caught them both asleep in front of a monitor, drooling onto a pile of LEGOs and snack wrappers.

Damian Wayne (Angsty Edition)

• When you first meet, Damian is distant. He’s polite — in that blunt, vaguely condescending way — but he keeps emotional distance from both you and your child.

• It’s not personal. He’s terrified of failing. Of becoming like his mother. Of inheriting the worst of both legacies and ruining a child that isn’t even his.

• He watches from the sidelines — his expression unreadable as your child laughs, clutches your hand, calls out to him with easy affection. Something tightens in his chest every time.

• One day, your child gets hurt. Not seriously — just a scraped knee, a tumble. But Damian’s reaction is instant and furious — with himself. He cradles them gently, whispering in Arabic, not realizing he’s shaking.

• He tries to push you away afterward. “They deserve someone better,” he says. “You both do.”

• But your child draws him a picture of “Dami, Mum, and me.” It’s crudely drawn — your child has given him a sword and a heart.

• He keeps the drawing folded in his wallet. No one knows it’s there.

• Damian doesn’t say “I love you” easily — but he shows it in quiet acts. Fixing your child’s broken toy with surgical precision. Standing watch outside their door during storms. Holding you in the quiet moments and asking, “Are you sure you want this? Me?”

• He eventually starts calling your child “my son” or “my daughter.” Quietly. Fiercely. As if daring the world to question it.

[notsodelirious]

U write sub Jason so fucking good it's not even funny im foaming at the mouth and going feral

Can u write some body worship for him please the man could really use it

Addicted to the idea of making him kneel in front of a mirror for me while I grab his chest and thighs and make him watch how pretty he is when he blushes UGH

I fear this is just going to become my legacy now (jk I love writing sub Jason)

synopsis: Jason has a few choice words about himself and you’re not about to let somebody talk about your boyfriend like that

notes: NSFW MDNI, also, some of the tags look scary (eg. spanking, pet play) but genuinely just tagging them bc they’re featured but they’re in no way central

tags: anal fingering, masturbation, mirror sex, very minimal spanking, vague undertones of pet play (this wasn’t intentional), overstimulation, reader is a little mean but I promise they’re making a point, gn!reader, 1.7k words, no use of y/n

idk either, just enjoy — also, big boy Jason

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

You were sitting on the bed, waiting for Jason to change out of his clothes so he could finally join you. You didn’t mean to be a creep as you watched him undress, but the sight of his back muscles flexing when he pulled his shirt off made you wolf whistle and grin.

He blushed as he turned back to face you, a small frown on his face.

“The fuck are you whistling for?”

“Are you telling me you don’t know why people whistle?”

He rolled his eyes, as if offended you’d question his knowledge of anything.

“I know why people fucking do it. I’m asking what you’re whistling at me for?”

“What do you mean? You’re insanely hot.”

“No, I’m not.”

Your eyebrows shot up to your hairline as you regarded him, waiting for him to break character and laugh and tell you that he’s just pulling your leg and he didn’t mean it.

Because how dare he imply that your boyfriend wasn’t the hottest piece of ass alive.

“Come here,” you said, as you clambered off the bed and took his arm, leading him to the large full length mirror hung on your wall. Jason followed, very much reluctantly, like he was about to drag his feet like a toddler. “That-” you pointed to his reflection in the mirror as you came to a stop, “-is the hottest man I’ve ever known.”

Jason crossed his arms, a frown still tugging at his lips as he angled himself away from the reflection and towards you, “Okay, well when the only men you’ve ever known are me and your father, I sure hope I’m the hottest.”

Any other time, you would have laughed sarcastically, punched him in the arm and said something quippy back—but now an actual sadness settled in your gut, wrapped around your heart and lungs like thorns. That was the shit you couldn’t let slip and you’d be damned if you did nothing about it.

“Drop the sweatpants for me,” you said as you stepped back to give him a little more space. He raised an eyebrow, sceptical, but complied soon enough, dropping his pants, and then his underwear when you gestured him to do so. You beckoned him closer with a wave of your hand before gently nudging him to turn towards the mirror.

“The fuck are you playing at?”

“Proving to you that you’re hot as shit,” you said as you stood behind him, “On your knees.” He dropped to sit on his heels, legs almost nonchalantly spread as his soft dick hung between his thighs, hands rested on them.

“I don’t think I’m ugly,” he said as he looked up at you in the mirror as you stood over him, “I’m just not-“

You hushed him softly as you placed your hand against his mouth.

“Shut up,” you said kindly as you ran your other hand through his hair, raking your nails across his scalp softly, making him close his eyes and sigh, “You’re more than hot; you’re fucking gorgeous—got that?”

He didn’t answer, couldn’t, considering your hand was still placed over his mouth.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” you said as you tugged his hair back, bending his head back so he’d look up at you. You removed your hand from his face, smiling softly when you met his eager and tender gaze, “You’re going to jerk off, you’re not going to look away from the mirror—that’s all you need to worry about, yeah? You get to cum when I tell you so.”

He nodded as best he could considering you were still gripping his hair.

“Give me your right hand,” he obliged, reaching his right hand up for you—you leaned down to lick it, wetting his palm before you straightened up and let go of his hair, “Go for it, big boy.”

His wet fingers wrapped around his limp cock, making himself groan as he slowly began to pump his cock, making it stir to life beneath his own touch. A gentle blush bloomed across his cheeks: from your gaze or the sight of himself in the mirror, you couldn’t tell, but it didn’t matter—Jason kept to your word, eyes on his reflection as he touched himself.

You got down onto your knees behind him, making sure you could still see your reflections as you reached around his back to rest your hands on his chest. The touch was soft at first, almost innocent as you ran your hands across his skin, feeling him up, watching as his blush spread to the tip of ears down his neck.

“I love your tits,” you said against his ear as you kissed the shell of it, squeezing the pecs in question, pushing them together in a mock-cleavage.

“They aren’t-“

You pinched his nipples, tugging on them and rolling them between your fingers, effectively silencing him as he moaned in favour of talking.

“That’s not what you say when somebody compliments you,” you chastised softly as you continued to play with his nipples, watching him as he arched his back into your touch and quickened his hand, “You have nice tits,” you repeated.

“Th-thank you,” he stuttered out as he pushed his hips into his hand, matching his own pace with his thrusts.

“You’re welcome, big boy,” you cooed before your hands finally left his chest, freeing him from the soft torture. You trailed your hands downwards, brushing over his tummy, feeling muscles quieter under your touch: it wasn’t that he was unhealthy when you first met him, but two years into the relationship, he had gained a healthy layer of chub on his body from the meals you had shared together and there was quite literally nothing sexier.

You squeezed his waist, fingers dimpling his skin, before you shifted a little from behind him so you could comfortably dig your hands into his thighs.

“I really like these too,” you said as you rested your cheek on his shoulder, feeling the shift of his body with each stroke of his cock. You brushed your hand over his butt, groping him there too, “And your ass; both very fuckable.”

“I- I’m not-“

You knew he wasn’t expecting the harsh slap to his thigh from his startled yelp and his temporary pause.

“Try again,” you said as you knead his ass.

“Thank you,” he mumbled as he began to stroke his cock again, now slick from the pre-cum pearling from his tip, red and eager. You hummed, pulled your hands away from him before presenting him with your middle and ring finger, and pressed them to his lips. “Suck. Don’t stop touching yourself.”

He took you into his mouth comfortably, sucking and lapping at your fingers, moaning noisily. You met his gaze in the mirror, saw his eyes roam over his reflection, his desperate body and leaking cock and parted lips: he was a painting and he was gorgeous.

You finally pulled your fingers out of his mouth when you deemed them wet enough before brushing them across his asshole.

“Fuck…” His hand stuttered for a moment, like his brain couldn’t process both sensations at once. His fist around his cock tightened ever so slightly, likely not enough to hurt himself but enough to not cum on the spot.

“Ready?” You pushed the first finger in before getting a response and Jason tensed, a small strain keen leaving his mouth. “Relax, baby. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

It took him a minute to finally relax and you were able to push your entire finger into his rectum, thrusting in and out slowly to begin stretching him up.

“Keep touching yourself,” you reminded him softly—which he did, moaning a little louder as the dual stimulations pushed himself closer and closer to the edge.

“Please, please, I need to…”

“Do you need to cum, big boy?” you cooed softly as you thrust your fingers into him a little faster, making him whimper and writhe. His walls clenched around you, hot flesh trying to suck you in, keep you there. “You know, you’re so pretty when you beg.”

“Thank you,” he panted, “Thank you.”

“Good boy.”

Carefully, you introduced your second finger, still slick from his spit, forcing him open a little faster, brushing your fingers along his warm, tight walls, curling them into his prostate.

You laughed softly as he yelped, pressing down against his bundle of nerves again just to see him grow more agitated and needy again. His own hand picked up pace again, thighs quivering as he brought himself closer.

“Please?” he asked softly as he looked down at you, puppy eyes pleading and desperate. “Please, please, I’ve been good-”

“You have,” you acquiesced calmly as you nodded, “You’ve been so good for me, the prettiest boy I know.”

“Thank you, thank you, I-“

“Come for me, baby.”

He obliged, letting his orgasm slam into him full force. He came into his hand as you continued to finger him, dragging your fingers across his nerves over and over again, leaving him trembling and keening from pleasure and overstimulation. You kissed his shoulder as he finally fell limp.

“Good boy,” you cooed as you watched his entire frame wracked with shivers as you continued to pleasure him, even after his cock softened and he sank down on his haunches. “One more.”

“C-can’t,” he mumbled out as his breathing stuttered, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath but you wouldn’t physically let him. You moved to gripped his cock when he let go, using his cum as lubricant as you kept your fingers buried deep inside his ass, teasingly pressing down against his prostate.

“I know you can,” you kissed his cheek, his neck, his shoulder and he trembled beneath your lips, whining loudly as the overstimulation overcame him, with nowhere to flee. “Just one more.”

“Too much, too- ah!” The second orgasm caught him by surprise, his limp cock giving a valiant twitch as it spurted cum again, dribbling onto your palm, which you promptly licked up. His eyes followed your hand as he practically went limp, leaning his body weight against you. “Mmh, ah- baby, baby, enough, red.”

You’d had no plans of continuing after his second orgasm, but you thanked him softly for the use of his safeword as you pet his thigh.

You were kinder this time around when you pulled your fingers out of him, mumbling soft praises when he whimpered.

“Who’s a pretty boy?” you asked softly as you both admired the sight of his debauched body in the mirror.

“I am.”

•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•

a/n: I actually rewrote like 90% of it because I was so displeased with my original draft—I still don’t know if I did the prompt justice but I’m happier with this version

request are temporarily closed as I work through my current ones and start on my assignments (but the ask box is still open, refer to my pinned post or dm me if you have more questions)

[untitlzd]

rich boys call it love

top!yang jungwon x btm!male reader smut, angst

After the blog makes Y/n’s day unbearable, he disappears—just for a night. Somewhere quiet, somewhere gold-lit. Jungwon’s penthouse is warmer than it should be, his voice softer than Y/n remembers. There’s no pressure. No questions. Just a glass in his hand, the city far below, and a boy who swears he only wants to keep him safe.

a continuation of "rich boys don't lose."

warnings: elitism, power dynamics, degrading, rough sex, unprotected sex, no prep, drugs, manipulation, yandere jungwon, lowkey inspired by gossip girl

Y/n hadn’t expected to sleep. Not after everything. But morning came anyway—unforgiving and too bright, the kind of light that made everything feel exposed. There was no hiding from it, not even under the covers. Especially not from himself.

His body ached in ways he didn’t have names for. His head was heavy, fogged with too many thoughts and not enough answers. He showered in silence, dried off like muscle memory, stared at his reflection longer than he meant to. He couldn’t tell if he looked different. Maybe it was all in his eyes.

The guilt came in slow waves—quiet at first, then heavier the longer he sat with it.

He had walked into that firm. Willingly. Worn something clean, something decent, like he was doing something respectable. Like it wasn’t betrayal stitched into every step he took across that marble floor. He could still hear the way his father’s voice would’ve cracked if he ever found out—that kind of disappointment, the one that doesn’t need yelling to leave a scar.

And worse, he didn’t regret walking in.

Not in the beginning.

That was the part that stung the most. He went for revenge. For the thrill. For some stupid, short-lived taste of control. But he stayed for Jay. For the way Jay looked at him—like he already knew Y/n would fold. And then he did.

Y/n squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenching.

He’d been stupid. Naive. So fucking easy to read, and easier to use. And now, after everything, he didn’t even know if he hated Jay for what he did—or hated himself for not hating it more.

He sat at the edge of his bed in full uniform, hands limp between his knees, the collar of his shirt suddenly too tight. His stomach twisted.

It wasn’t the blog. Wasn’t the silence. Wasn’t even the fear of someone finding out.

It was the shame.

And not the kind people could see. The quiet kind. The kind that buried itself deep in your chest and echoed when no one else was around.

He had done something he swore he wouldn’t. With someone he swore he hated. In a place he never should’ve been.

And still… a part of him wanted to go back.

That was the worst of it.

By the time Y/n stepped onto campus, St. Augustine’s looked the same. Polished. Controlled. Unreal, in the way all expensive things feel just slightly detached from the world around them.

But something inside him had shifted.

It wasn’t dramatic. There were no fireworks, no breakdowns. Just a dull, persistent weight behind his ribs—like he’d swallowed guilt and it hadn’t dissolved.

His footsteps echoed in the south hallway. No one looked twice.

He passed groups huddled around notes, students half-laughing through their panic, and a few legacy kids too rich to care. His mind wandered through memories he didn’t ask for—Jay’s voice, Jay’s hands, the heat of that glass wall pressing into his cheek like it could swallow him whole.

He tried to shake it off.

Then he saw Jake.

Just outside the lecture hall, casually leaned against the wall, one hand in his pocket, the other spinning a pen between his fingers like he was born to make everything look easy. His hair was perfect. Smile half-there. People around him—two girls, one guy—were practically orbiting.

And yet, Jake was staring directly at him.

Not for long. Just a flicker. A glance that felt like it held too much weight and not enough care. Then Jake looked away.

He didn’t say hi. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t slide in close to whisper something suggestive like he usually did.

Y/n hated that it got to him.

Inside the building, Sunghoon was sitting on the windowsill near the library’s east wing. One leg crossed over the other, a hardcover resting on his lap like he might open it, though he clearly had no intention of doing so. His uniform was immaculate. Posture perfect. Not a single crease out of place.

He didn’t look up as Y/n passed. But he didn’t have to.

His stillness was enough.

Sunghoon didn’t need to speak to make you feel like you were being watched. Judged. Picked apart in silence.

Y/n walked faster.

He pushed open the classroom door, hoping to get to a seat unnoticed. He didn’t. Someone called his name—softly, politely—and when he turned, it was Jungwon.

Jungwon was always polite.

He had a smile that felt genuine. A warmth in his voice that didn’t seem rehearsed. There were rumors about his family—something about luxury hotels overseas, always in the best parts of the world—but Jungwon never bragged. Never even brought it up.

“Hey,” he said, nodding to the empty seat beside him. “Sit?”

Y/n blinked. Then nodded.

It wasn’t that they were close. They weren’t. But there was something calming about Jungwon’s presence—like he hadn’t yet learned how cruel people could be, or maybe he had and chose to ignore it.

“You okay?” Jungwon asked quietly, once Y/n was seated.

Y/n hesitated. “Just tired.”

Jungwon didn’t press.

Class began. Y/n tried to focus. Tried to listen. Tried to keep his hands steady and his breathing even and his thoughts anywhere but there.

But then—Jay walked in.

Late, of course. Always late.

His tie was loose. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to show collarbone. He wore arrogance like cologne—light, expensive, and unmistakable. He walked past the professor without flinching, slouched into a chair three rows ahead, and—without even turning—smirked.

Y/n didn’t need to see his face to know.

He could feel it.

And Jungwon, maybe sensing the shift, nudged Y/n gently beneath the desk. Not invasive. Just… present.

Y/n swallowed hard. Tried to nod. Tried to be grateful.

But all he could think about was the wall. The heat. The sound of Jay’s voice in his ear.

And how he had let it happen.

Y/n kept his eyes on the front of the room, but his mind refused to stay there. The words on the board blurred. The professor’s voice was distant, muted, like it was coming from behind glass. His pen tapped against the desk—not loud, but steady enough to annoy himself.

Then his phone buzzed.

Once. Twice. Then silence.

He didn’t check it immediately. Didn’t have to. He knew that kind of silence—the way the air shifted just slightly, the way people stopped pretending they weren’t scrolling through something they shouldn’t be reading.

Y/n reached for his phone slowly, already bracing for it.

New post. Fresh. Barely a minute old.

"Some people will do anything for attention. Even walk into buildings their fathers would rather set fire to."

"But it’s okay. No one saw, right?"

"Except the cameras." "And us."

"Hope it was worth it."

Below the caption was a photo. Grainy, but clear enough.

Y/n. Walking through the polished lobby of Park & Co. Head high. Shoulders back. Like he belonged there.

His stomach dropped.

The picture wasn’t incriminating. Not directly. There was no context, no timestamp, no tag. But St. Augustine didn’t need context. It needed implication—and the blog always knew exactly how to weaponize that.

Jungwon shifted beside him, glancing at his own screen. His brows knit, just barely. He didn’t say anything, but Y/n felt the weight of it anyway.

Three rows ahead, Jay didn’t move.

Not at first.

But then his head tilted—subtle, slow—and one hand rose to his mouth, like he was covering a laugh that never made it out.

Y/n’s ears burned.

He stared straight ahead, chest tight, fingers curling around the phone still resting in his lap.

He should’ve known.

Silence here was never peace. It was just the calm before your name turned into currency—passed between hands, whispered behind backs, traded in looks.

And his time was up.

The room hadn’t changed, but it felt like it had. The light overhead was too cold. The walls too still. Something about the air made his skin itch, like the oxygen itself had been replaced with attention.

He didn’t look around, but he didn’t need to. He could feel it. The shift. The pull. A flicker of someone’s eyes. The edge of a whisper barely concealed behind a hand. Fingers scrolling too quickly to be subtle. He could hear the rustle of screenshots being taken in silence.

Y/n’s jaw clenched, his fingers wrapped tight around the pen in his lap, like if he held it hard enough, it would anchor him. Like it could ground him through the rush of heat crawling up his neck.

He had known this would happen. Had felt it the second he stepped into that firm, the second the elevator doors shut behind him.

But knowing didn’t make it easier.

It wasn’t just the blog post. Not really. It was the weight of what it implied—what it didn’t say. Because that was always the most dangerous part. The blog never needed to state names or tell the whole story. It only had to point. And people would fill in the blanks with whatever version of you they wanted to believe.

Three rows ahead, Jay was lounging like he belonged to the room. Like the tension didn’t touch him. He hadn’t looked back once. He didn’t need to. The way his fingers tapped idly against the desk, the tiny tilt to his head—he was comfortable.

He was proud.

And Y/n hated him for it.

The class dragged on, the professor’s voice bleeding into white noise. Y/n didn’t catch a single sentence. His knee bounced under the desk. He kept his hands in his lap, trying not to scroll, not to re-read. But it was there anyway—the post, the photo, the words—that sick feeling in his gut that told him this wouldn’t go away in a day. Not like the others. Not like before.

And beside him, Jungwon sat quietly, shoulders still, eyes forward. He hadn’t said a word since class began, but Y/n felt the glance when the post dropped. He’d seen it too.

They all had.

When the class finally ended, the scraping of chairs sounded louder than usual. Y/n moved fast—shoving his things into his bag, movements stiff, mechanical. He just wanted out. He needed air. He needed—

“Hey,” Jungwon said softly. “Are you—”

“I’m fine.”

It came out too quick. Too sharp. He knew it the moment it hit the air.

Jungwon blinked, startled, but nodded once and said nothing else.

Y/n didn’t wait. He walked out with his head low and his heart somewhere behind his ribs, thudding against the bones like it wanted out.

He didn’t know where he was going. Just that he needed to not be seen for a second. To be alone.

But alone wasn’t something you got here.

Not after the blog had your name in its mouth.

The hallway was colder now. Or maybe Y/n was just noticing it—how the air curled under his collar like fingers brushing his spine. His steps echoed louder than usual, even though no one looked his way. He could feel eyes, though. Imagined or not. They pressed against his back the way shame sometimes did—soft at first, then unbearable.

He didn’t head to the dining hall. Didn’t head to the courtyard. Instead, he just… wandered. Let the corridors guide him, let his thoughts spill into the gaps between footsteps. And god, there were so many thoughts.

Jake. The way his hands always found Y/n’s thighs under tables. The way his voice dropped in empty hallways just to say things no one else should hear. He never asked, never warned—just touched, lingered, hovered. And yet… Y/n never pulled away. Jake knew that too. That’s what made it worse. There was something behind his gaze, something too focused to be casual. Something that clung to Y/n like heat.

Then there was Sunghoon. Cold. Controlled. Beautiful in that way porcelain is—untouchable, expensive, sharp when cracked. What happened between them hadn’t been warm, but it had left heat behind. A bruise blooming just beneath the skin, one Y/n kept pressing on. Sunghoon never asked for anything, just expected it. And Y/n gave it. Willingly. That was the part that rattled.

Jay… was different. Violent, almost. Not in action—at least not always—but in presence. He overwhelmed, consumed. Every word a taunt, every touch a dare. But it hadn’t been forced. That was the worst part. Y/n could’ve left. Could’ve said no. But he didn’t. Something about the way Jay pulled him apart made him stay. Something about being seen in all the wrong ways, and still wanted.

Except… none of them really wanted him. Not the way that mattered. He was a game piece. A distraction. A moment of entertainment before the next scandal rolled in. And he’d let himself be moved across their board like it didn’t hurt. Like it didn’t leave cracks.

“Hey.”

Jungwon’s voice broke through the fog—gentle, light, as if he hadn’t been following Y/n through the crowd, letting the space between them close slowly.

Y/n turned. He tried for a smile, but it felt thin, like a bandaid over something bleeding. Jungwon didn’t seem to mind. He stepped closer, eyes soft, searching.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said quietly, “but if you need to get away… I have a place.”

Y/n blinked. “A place?”

Jungwon nodded once, that same soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “My parents’ penthouse. Upper East Side. They’re gone until the weekend.”

Y/n hesitated. Not because of the offer, but because it sounded so… kind. So safe. No sharp edges. No expectations.

“No pressure,” Jungwon added, like he could read every hesitation as it formed. “Just thought you might want quiet. Real quiet.”

Y/n looked at him. Really looked. At the way Jungwon held himself—gentle, noninvasive. There was no glint of challenge in his gaze. No games. Just calm.

And yet, something about it didn’t feel small. It felt intentional.

Still, Y/n nodded. “Yeah… maybe.”

“Later tonight?”

“Okay.”

They stood there for a moment—neither moving, neither quite knowing what to say. Then Jungwon smiled again, said he’d text the address, and slipped away with all the grace of someone who didn’t need to be noticed to matter.

Y/n turned toward the gates, the end of the day pressing down on his shoulders. His driver would be waiting out front, same as always. He just needed to get there without running into—

“Y/n.”

The voice stopped him cold.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just… familiar.

He turned.

Jake stood beside the black car waiting at the curb, his own driver leaning against the hood, disinterested. Jake’s tie was loose again, blazer slung over his shoulder like it was an afterthought.

He didn’t smile. Just looked. Quiet. Intent.

And Y/n?

Y/n froze.

Because some things, no matter how far you run, find you again at the car door.

Jake didn’t say anything right away. He just leaned against the sleek black car like it was an extension of himself, hands in his pockets, posture loose but watchful. His eyes flicked over Y/n in a way that wasn’t sharp, but wasn’t soft either—just aware. Present. He looked like he was debating something, jaw tight, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek before he spoke.

“If you ever need anything…” Jake started, then paused. His gaze shifted away for a second, toward the other side of the street, like the sentence had slipped out before he could stop it. “I don’t know. Just—let me know.”

The words landed awkwardly between them. Not forced, but unpolished. Like Jake didn’t know how to be sincere unless he was three drinks deep or had you against a wall.

Y/n didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t hear him, but because he didn’t know what to do with it. His fingers twitched slightly at his side, like the impulse to respond physically—to shrug it off, to scoff, to pretend it hadn’t happened—was fighting with something else. Something that made his stomach twist.

Because for all the wrong things Jake had said to him, all the times he’d brushed fingers too low or let his hand linger too long, this felt… worse. Not cruel. Not manipulative. Just real. And Y/n didn’t know what to do with real.

Jake must’ve felt it too, that weird shift in the air between them, because he didn’t say anything else. Didn’t press. He just gave a single nod—tight, barely there—before pulling open the door to the car.

He climbed in without looking back.

The door shut with a dull click, the kind that echoed more than it should have.

Y/n stood on the curb, the breeze tugging lightly at the hem of his uniform. He caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the car’s tinted windows—half-there, distorted by the glare. He looked tired. Small. Like someone standing too close to something they didn’t understand.

And somehow, that felt exactly right.

He didn’t know what that moment with Jake meant. Didn’t know if it was an apology, or a warning, or just another loose thread waiting to unravel. But it scared him more than if Jake had smirked and said nothing. Because there was something worse than being used.

It was being seen.

The ride back to his building was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind that made you feel like your own thoughts were too loud, like they bounced off the inside of the car and came back sharper. Y/n didn’t even look at his phone. He didn’t want to know what else the world had to say about him today.

By the time he stepped into the penthouse, the silence followed.

Everything was exactly where it always was. Polished marble floors. Soft lights. Furniture picked for form, not comfort. He could still smell whatever the cook had prepared earlier, though no one had waited for him to eat. Not that he expected them to.

His father was probably still downtown—working late, making calls, pulling whatever strings were left to pull in a city that only respected you when you bled for it. He’d spent years trying to make their last name mean something. Not just money, but legacy. Respect. Something that couldn’t be whispered away in scandals or erased in blog posts.

His mother? Probably out again. Some charity dinner, some silent auction. She was always moving, always smiling, always just out of reach.

It was just him.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Y/n didn’t bother turning on more lights. The apartment was already dim, the Manhattan skyline stretching out behind the windows in a wash of steel and blue. The sky looked cold—muted grays bleeding into deeper ones. Not quite night, not quite day. That in-between hour where everything felt a little too honest.

He dropped his bag at the entrance, kicked his shoes off without care, and sank onto the edge of the couch like gravity had finally caught up to him.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy. Draining. Like the whole day had wrung him out and left him hollow.

His mind drifted—back to the classroom, the way Jungwon had looked at him. Not with pity. Not with amusement. Just… with presence. Like he didn’t want anything from him. Like he could hold space for what Y/n couldn’t say out loud.

And then, there was the offer.

“You should come by sometime,” Jungwon had said, casually. “My parents are out of town. It’s quiet. I think you’d like it.”

Upper East Side. A penthouse. Of course.

He hadn’t committed to it. Just nodded. Just said he’d think about it.

And now, with the apartment swallowing him whole, the echo of everything he’d done sitting too close to the surface, he found himself actually considering it.

Not because he wanted comfort. Not even because he thought Jungwon could give it.

But because he was tired.

So fucking tired of being alone in rooms that looked like they belonged in magazines. Tired of sitting in silence while the weight of Jake’s hands still burned on his hips, while Sunghoon’s gaze still lived on the back of his neck, while Jay’s voice still played like static in his ear.

They’d all touched him.

In different ways.

Jake with the softest cruelty—fingers brushing his thigh, tongue in his mouth, acting like it meant nothing and everything all at once. Like he was just collecting pieces of Y/n to keep in his pocket. And yet, somewhere in the space between Jake’s smirks and his silences, there was something else. Something darker. More possessive. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t kindness. But it was close enough to almost feel like care.

Sunghoon had been colder. More brutal. A storm in stillness. He never needed to say much—his hands had done the talking. Y/n remembered the way he was pinned to tile and marble, remembered the teeth, the hands, the demand. It should’ve made him feel small.

It didn’t.

It made him feel something he wasn’t proud of. Something deeper. Like maybe being wanted—even cruelly—was better than not being seen at all.

And Jay. Jay was chaos. Fire dressed in privilege. Y/n had walked into that office thinking he had the upper hand and left with handprints on his skin and a part of himself he didn’t know how to name. Jay hadn’t lied to him. Hadn’t hidden behind charm. He’d used him—completely, thoroughly—and Y/n had let him. Had wanted it.

That was the part that kept him up.

Because some fucked-up part of him liked it. The powerlessness. The control. The shame.

His fingers twitched in his lap.

He leaned forward, pressing his elbows to his knees, staring down at the silent city. Manhattan looked beautiful from up here—unreachable, indifferent. He hated it for that. He hated that it looked cleaner than he felt.

The invite from Jungwon sat in his mind like a soft light through a crack in the door.

He didn’t know what he expected from it. Maybe nothing. Maybe just a break from the noise. Or maybe the illusion of being wanted for something other than how easily he could be broken.

His phone buzzed again.

He picked it up.

Jungwon: Let me know when you’re on the way. Elevator will be open for you.

Y/n stared at the message, thumb hovering over the screen.

And for the first time all day, something in his chest shifted.

The hours passed in fragments.

Time didn’t move the way it usually did—no clean rhythm, no steady pull toward evening. It dragged. Slow. Sludgy. Like the day itself had gotten stuck somewhere and was refusing to end.

Y/n didn’t move much from the couch. Just shifted positions when the stiffness got too uncomfortable. Once onto his side, once back again. The TV played in the background—something muted, some show he wasn’t really watching. His phone lay face down on the coffee table. He hadn’t touched it in hours.

Every now and then, a housekeeper passed through the room—quiet, efficient, polite in the way expensive training taught you to be. They didn’t ask questions. Didn’t hover. One of them brought a tray with tea he hadn’t requested. Another adjusted the pillows near his feet, like that might help somehow.

He offered them a small nod, a quiet thank you, and they disappeared again.

It wasn’t pity. It was caution. They were trying to be kind without being noticed. Trying to make things feel normal without asking why he looked like a ghost in his own home.

He hated that it helped.

His eyes drifted to the edge of the coffee table, then to the phone.

He thought about Jake again.

About that moment outside the gates, the way he’d spoken—not teasing, not cruel, just… off. Like the words didn’t come naturally. Like he’d meant them more than he wanted to admit.

“Let me know if you need anything.”

Y/n had replayed it once. Then twice. The tone, the weight, the way Jake looked at him. It hadn’t felt fake. Not quite. But it hadn’t felt selfless either.

Nothing Jake did ever was.

He wondered if Jake actually cared. If that line was his version of concern—or just another way to keep Y/n tangled in his orbit. A soft leash instead of a hard grip. A hint that he still had a hold, even when he didn’t tug.

It didn’t matter.

He wasn’t going to text him. Not tonight.

Y/n turned his head to the windows. The sky was darker now, bleeding into the kind of purple that Manhattan wore well. Lights flickered on across the skyline like stars that cost too much.

He exhaled. Slow. Deep. Letting the weight settle again.

His eyes dropped back to his phone.

Jungwon.

He still hadn’t answered the message. Hadn’t confirmed anything. It would’ve been easy to stay right where he was, blame the mood, claim exhaustion. To not go. To disappear into his own silence.

But something about that didn’t sit right.

Jungwon hadn’t asked for anything. Hadn’t pushed. He’d just been… there. Present in a way that didn’t demand anything from him. Kind, but not performative. Soft, but not naïve.

It wasn’t the kind of comfort Y/n was used to. But maybe that’s why it stuck.

And maybe, after everything—after Jake’s cold looks, Sunghoon’s judgment, Jay’s cruel smirk—maybe he didn’t want to feel wanted.

Maybe he just wanted to feel normal.

Y/n pushed himself off the couch with a groan, limbs stiff from too long in one place. He stretched, rolled his shoulders, ran a hand through his hair and blinked at the weight behind his eyes.

Then he turned and made his way to the bathroom.

The water ran hot, almost scalding, but he didn’t flinch. He stepped in and let it soak into his skin, let it press the day out of his muscles, let it melt the stiffness from his limbs. The steam rose thick around him, curling against the mirror, fogging out the pieces of himself he didn’t want to see. He washed slowly, methodically, as if the warmth could erase everything that had happened—if only for a little while.

By the time he stepped out, the bathroom was a cloud. His skin was flushed, his breath calmer. Not whole, but clearer.

He dressed in something soft. Comfortable, but decent. Just enough to say I’m okay without having to lie.

He picked up his phone. Typed out a short reply.

Y/n: I’ll be there tonight.

No emoji. No extra words.

He didn’t need them.

It wasn’t about what Jungwon wanted. Or what the blog would say. Or what the others would assume.

It was just… something to do. Somewhere to go. A break in the noise.

He set the phone down and stood at the window for a while, watching the city flicker to life.

And somewhere beneath the shame, beneath the exhaustion, beneath the day that had drained him down to his bones—there was a flicker of something else.

Something small. Something quiet.

Maybe not hope.

But something close.

Y/n left the apartment just after nine.

The air outside bit against his skin in that early spring way—sharp, clean, tinged with the perfume of wet concrete and distant traffic. His driver stood by the car with the door already open, waiting in that familiar stillness that came with being paid well enough not to speak unless spoken to. Y/n nodded once in greeting and slid into the backseat. No words. No music. Just the thrum of tires on pavement and the way the city slid past the windows like a memory too fast to grasp.

He spent the ride thinking—not in full thoughts, but in fragments. Flashes. Jake’s face outside the gates. Sunghoon’s silence. Jay’s smirk in the classroom like he hadn’t done anything at all. It all blurred into a low ache in the back of his skull, quiet but insistent, pressing down with every block they passed.

The Upper East Side was different at night. Calmer. Richer. Less of the neon chaos of downtown and more of the kind of quiet that came with old money—money that didn’t have to announce itself because it had already bought the world twice over. The building Jungwon lived in was like that: tall, discreet, with doormen that didn’t look twice and an elevator that opened directly into the apartment with a soft chime.

Y/n stood there for a second. Just long enough to ask himself why he was doing this. Why, after the week he’d had, he was still showing up at someone else’s door—why he still wanted to be seen.

But the door opened before he could think himself out of it.

And there was Jungwon.

No shoes. A soft, oversized sweater hanging loose on his frame. His hair slightly mussed, like he’d been laying down a moment ago. “Hey,” he said, warm and simple, like he hadn’t been waiting but somehow still expected him. “Come in.”

The penthouse didn’t feel like most he’d seen. It wasn’t sterile or cold or dripping in sleek, impersonal design. It felt like someone lived there. Really lived. There were floor-to-ceiling windows, yes—but also heavy curtains, half-drawn. Plush armchairs. A shelf of records and another lined with books, not for show but for reading. A fireplace sat low and humming. A candle burned near the kitchen in a cut-glass jar, citrus and sage curling through the air like a soft reminder that this place had soul.

Jungwon didn’t offer a tour. He didn’t need to. Everything about the space felt natural—like an invitation already extended.

Y/n stepped inside slowly, scanning the room like it might vanish if he blinked too fast. A glass of water already sat on the edge of the counter. The lighting was low, golden, as if even the lamps understood that tonight required softness.

“How was your day?” Jungwon asked, voice barely above a murmur.

Y/n didn’t answer right away. He crossed to the window instead, gaze catching on the skyline—those too-bright towers stacked against a navy sky, everything shining and hollow. “It was loud,” he said after a beat. “Even when no one was speaking.”

Jungwon didn’t ask for more. Didn’t nod like he understood. He just stood beside him for a moment, shoulder not quite touching, and let the silence settle like dust between them.

They didn’t talk about the blog. Or Jay. Or the photo. Jungwon didn’t try to guess how it had felt to see his own shame stamped beneath a caption meant to humiliate. He didn’t ask what Y/n had expected when he’d walked into that firm, or why he hadn’t run the second things turned cruel.

Instead, he walked toward the couch and sat down with the kind of ease that invited company without needing to ask for it.

Y/n followed a moment later, sinking into the cushions with a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The fabric was soft against his skin. Everything was. The room, the air, the moment.

“Do you want music?” Jungwon asked, already reaching for the small remote on the coffee table.

Y/n shook his head. “It’s okay like this.”

And it was.

They sat in the hush together, the kind that didn’t press against your ribs. That didn’t require performance. For once, Y/n didn’t feel like a puzzle people were trying to solve. He wasn’t being picked apart, or pulled in two different directions.

He was just… here.

Jungwon leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely laced. “You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “Just stay. However long you need.”

Y/n nodded slowly, the movement more instinct than agreement.

Because he didn’t know how long he needed. He didn’t even know what he needed. But for the first time in days, something about this—about Jungwon’s quiet, about the way the penthouse held warmth without trying too hard—felt like enough.

He looked at Jungwon then, really looked. His profile in the light. The way his lashes shadowed his cheeks. The slight crease between his brows, like he was thinking too much but refusing to let it show.

There was something in Y/n’s chest that tugged a little.

Not want.

But comfort.

And maybe, for tonight, that was more important.

Y/n hadn’t meant to compare. But it happened anyway.

The moment his shoulders sank into Jungwon’s couch, his mind reached for the contrast—how his own penthouse, though taller, grander, and dressed in marble, felt like it belonged to someone else. His home was quiet in a different way: cold, vast, empty. Everything was curated, stylized, too pristine to be lived in. No warmth. No sound. Just a cavernous hush that echoed beneath his footsteps and swallowed them whole. A place meant to impress, not comfort.

Here, in Jungwon’s world, everything felt different.

The penthouse wasn’t any less luxurious—of course not. Y/n recognized the money in the bones of the place: in the dark oak floors, in the subtle weight of the linen curtains, in the hand-carved molding that held no need to be admired. This was old money, confident money—the kind passed down through bloodlines and black-tie legacies. But there was softness here, too. A lived-in warmth that money couldn’t buy. A kind of gentleness in the furniture, in the way the lamps cast golden halos on the walls, in the candle burning low on the coffee table, citrus and clove curling through the air like memory.

It wasn’t just a home. It was a haven. A place that had seen people cry and laugh and sit in silence without having to fill it.

And Jungwon matched it.

He was curled at the other end of the couch, sweater sleeves covering half his hands, his frame relaxed, gaze soft but unreadable. He didn’t push. Didn’t pry. He didn’t offer empty comforts or reach for Y/n’s wrist like he could fix the tension pulsing beneath his skin. He simply stayed. Steady. Present.

“Want a drink?” he asked eventually, voice barely above the sound of the record playing in the background.

Y/n nodded. “Yeah. I think I do.”

Jungwon returned from the kitchen with two glasses of red wine—deep and velvety, probably something that cost more than most weekend vacations. Y/n took his glass and drank. Slowly, at first. Then more. He wasn’t trying to get drunk. Just… quieter. Softer. He wanted the sting to fade. The thoughts to dull around the edges.

Halfway through the second glass, his cheeks felt warm. His limbs a little loose. The kind of floaty where you can feel your thoughts stretching out, soft and slow, like they’re underwater.

But Jungwon didn’t say anything about it. Just sipped his own wine, fingers curled gently around the stem, eyes occasionally drifting toward Y/n like he was checking on him—not watching. Not calculating. Just… there.

“You can stay the night,” Jungwon said eventually, like it had just occurred to him again. “The guest room’s ready.”

Y/n didn’t answer right away. He stared into the red sheen of his wineglass, then nodded. “Okay.”

“Come on. I’ll show you.”

The walk down the hall felt slower than it should have. Maybe it was the wine. Or maybe it was the way everything here felt too quiet. Too soft. Like walking through a museum after hours—velvet roped and glass cased, but humming underneath with something you couldn’t quite name.

The carpet muffled their steps. The lights burned a muted gold, like the whole penthouse had been dimmed to match a mood Y/n hadn’t known he needed.

Jungwon stopped in front of a door.

“This one,” he said, voice light, hand already on the knob.

And then he opened it.

Y/n took a step in.

And froze.

It didn’t hit him all at once. At first, the guest room looked… normal. Elegant, even. Wide bed, thick blankets, floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittering just outside. But something in the air shifted—an invisible pull dragging his eyes to the far wall.

His breath caught.

Photos.

Dozens. Maybe more.

Framed in black. Perfectly aligned. A full wall of surveillance.

All of them were of him.

At first, he thought he was mistaken. But then—

There he was. Head tilted, lip bitten, standing just outside Jake’s guest room door.

There again. Blurry. Reflected in a bathroom mirror. Sunghoon just out of frame.

Another—seated on the edge of a leather couch in Park & Co., one foot tucked behind the other, waiting.

Another—pressed against a glass wall. Jay’s shadow behind him.

The longer he looked, the clearer they became. All grainy. All distant. Some zoomed in just enough to catch the expression on his face. Some taken from angles no one should’ve been able to get.

And more—dozens more. Him walking alone. Looking over his shoulder. Standing too close to someone. Laughing when he thought no one saw.

He didn’t know how long he stood there.

Behind him, Jungwon didn’t move. He hadn’t even stepped fully into the room. Just leaned lightly against the doorframe, wine glass still in hand, as if none of it was strange. As if it was all just… decoration.

“As promised,” Jungwon said softly. “No one else uses it.”

Y/n didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. His throat felt dry. His skin buzzed like it wanted to peel off. But his feet—his feet stayed planted.

And behind him, Jungwon smiled. Still gentle. Still kind.

Like nothing was wrong at all.

Y/n’s breath caught, sharp and cold.

The kind of cold that didn’t come from the room, but from inside. From that place in your gut where your instincts live—where something ancient and primal whispers: run.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Because Jungwon was still there. Barefoot, calm, glass of wine dangling from his fingers like this was just a normal night. Like the wall behind Y/n wasn’t a collection of stolen moments and personal invasions. Like it wasn’t evidence.

And he still smiled.

That same soft, warm smile that made people trust him. That made Y/n trust him.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Jungwon said, taking another slow step forward. “It’s not what you think.”

Y/n’s throat was dry. He turned slightly, just enough to keep the wall in his periphery. “Then what is it?”

Jungwon didn’t answer at first.

He looked at the photos again, tilting his head as if he were admiring them. Like they were art. His voice was low when it came—measured, careful.

“I just wanted you to know how much I see you.”

He said it like it was a gift.

Y/n blinked, trying to process, but his thoughts were already moving faster than his body. He looked at the photos again—Sunghoon in the stall. Jake’s guest room. The glass wall at Park & Co. All places he thought had been private. All moments he thought were secrets.

The blog always knew.

And suddenly it clicked.

Not like a lightning strike. Not a dramatic gasp or world-shattering realization. Just… a slow, sick unfurling in the pit of his stomach.

Jungwon didn’t ask about the post because Jungwon knew about the post.

He knew before it went up.

He always knew.

The timestamps. The tone. The way the captions cut just deep enough to bleed but never named names. The way the blog always struck when Y/n felt safest—when he let his guard down for even a second.

Because Jungwon had been there the whole time.

Not watching.

Documenting.

He turned fully toward him now, slow and stiff, chest rising unevenly. His mouth moved before his brain could catch up.

“It’s you.”

Jungwon blinked, gaze flickering—but not in surprise. In acknowledgment.

“You’re the one running the blog.”

It wasn’t a question.

The air between them stretched thin. Too quiet. Too still.

And Jungwon… smiled.

Not wide. Not wicked. Just soft. Familiar. That same gentle curve of lips that had made Y/n feel safe for weeks.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said, voice low and calm. “Everything I wrote—it was for you. About you. I just wanted you to understand how important you are.”

Y/n felt like he was floating. Or drowning. He couldn’t tell the difference.

“This isn’t how people show that.”

Jungwon’s eyes flicked across his face, like he was memorizing it in real time. “People don’t see you the way I do,” he murmured. “Not Jake. Not Jay. Not Sunghoon. They touch you like you’re something temporary.”

He took another step forward. Y/n didn’t move.

“I don’t want to touch you,” Jungwon whispered. “I want to keep you.”

The words landed like ice.

And behind him, the photos watched.

Y/n’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. His limbs buzzed, not from the wine anymore—but from adrenaline. From the wrongness of it all.

And Jungwon just stood there. Close. Calm. Like this was love.

“Love doesn’t look like this,” Y/n whispered, eyes flicking to the wall again. His voice shook—not loud, but it was the first time he’d said the word. Love. He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe because part of him needed to believe that’s what this wasn’t.

Jungwon’s expression didn’t flicker.

He stepped closer. “No,” he agreed. “Not the kind you’re used to.”

Y/n swallowed hard, throat tight. “You shouldn’t have taken those.”

“I didn’t take them to expose you.” Jungwon’s voice was softer now, almost fragile. “I took them because no one ever sees you when it matters. I did. I do. I always will.”

His words weren’t sharp. They weren’t even defensive. They were tender, careful—delivered like an apology wrapped in silk.

And that, somehow, made it worse.

Y/n blinked at him, stunned into stillness. “Why me?”

Jungwon tilted his head, like he genuinely didn’t understand the question. “Because you’re not like them,” he said. “You walk around like you’re disposable. Like if people want you, it’s always for the wrong reasons. But I don’t want you like they do.”

His fingers barely lifted, brushing against the doorframe beside Y/n’s shoulder. Not touching—just near. Just close enough for Y/n to feel the presence of him.

“I don’t want to use you,” Jungwon said. “I want to keep you safe.”

Y/n’s breath hitched.

His mind told him this was too much. That he needed to walk. Call someone. Say something. But the room was warm. The wine still hummed in his blood. And Jungwon’s voice was so low, so gentle, that it almost sounded like love.

“I know it’s wrong,” Jungwon murmured. “I know how it looks. But I didn’t do any of it to scare you. I did it to hold onto you, even when I couldn’t have you.”

Y/n’s heart twisted.

He should’ve walked. He knew he should’ve. But his legs didn’t move.

And when Jungwon took one more step forward—carefully, slowly—Y/n didn’t stop him.

“I’ve seen you fall apart,” Jungwon whispered. “And I still want you.”

His hand lifted, hovering just near Y/n’s cheek. Not touching. Not yet.

“Not because you’re broken,” he added. “But because I know what it’s like to be alone in a room full of people who only want parts of you.”

Y/n’s eyes burned. Not with fear this time, but something closer to recognition. Or maybe exhaustion. He didn’t know what was worse.

“You shouldn’t be alone tonight,” Jungwon said. “Not with them in your head.”

And then, finally, his fingers brushed Y/n’s jaw—light, hesitant, like a question. Like he’d stop if Y/n flinched.

Y/n didn’t.

“I don’t want anything from you,” Jungwon said. “Just this.”

His other hand rose, cradling the side of Y/n’s neck.

And then, without force—without pressure—he leaned in.

And kissed him.

Soft. Unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world. Like he’d been dreaming of this and didn’t want to ruin it by rushing. His lips were warm. Familiar. Too careful.

Y/n stood frozen. Not kissing back. Not pulling away.

Just caught.

Because he wasn’t sure what scared him more—that Jungwon had kissed him.

Or that, somewhere deep in the part of him that always craved to be seen, he didn’t hate it.

The kiss ended with the gentlest pause—Jungwon’s lips lingering just long enough to leave a warmth behind, a tremble in its absence.

He didn’t pull away far.

Just enough to look at him.

Their foreheads hovered a breath apart. The air between them thinned, thick with unsaid things, and Jungwon didn’t fill the silence with reassurances. He didn’t need to.

His touch said enough.

Y/n stood still, eyes locked on the hollow of Jungwon’s throat, heart slamming too loudly in his chest. It wasn’t just the kiss. It wasn’t the photos, or the wine, or even the truth still echoing in his ears.

It was the terrifying calm in Jungwon’s voice.

The sincerity.

Like he believed it all—believed that love could look like surveillance. That devotion could look like control.

Y/n had always thought the worst thing someone could do was leave. But maybe this was worse. Maybe it was being held so tightly someone thought they were protecting you, even while they were bleeding you dry.

But still—

Still—

He hadn’t moved.

His body stayed rooted, his skin aching beneath Jungwon’s fingertips, not from fear but from the overwhelming tenderness of it. The kind that made you forget what danger felt like.

Jungwon’s thumb brushed gently against his cheekbone.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispered. “I know you’re tired.”

Y/n’s lashes fluttered. The wine buzzed faintly in his blood, warm and slow and traitorous. The ache in his chest was no longer sharp. It had dulled, melted into something heavier. Sadder.

And maybe that’s why he didn’t push Jungwon away.

Not yet.

Because it was easier to be held than questioned. Easier to feel someone’s breath on your skin than sit in a room alone with what they’d done.

“I know you,” Jungwon murmured, his voice almost reverent. “Even the parts you try to hide.”

Y/n blinked hard, eyes burning.

“I watched you disappear in places where you should’ve been seen,” Jungwon said, fingers slipping gently behind his neck. “I just wanted to prove I was watching. That I wouldn’t look away.”

It sounded so soft. Like a promise.

But promises from people like this were never clean.

Y/n let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. His limbs were too heavy to lift. His mouth too full of dust to speak.

He should leave.

He should tell Jungwon this wasn’t love. That obsession dressed in silk was still a cage. That seeing someone wasn’t the same as knowing them.

But when Jungwon kissed him again—slower this time, deeper—Y/n still didn’t pull away.

Because maybe being wanted like this, twisted and quiet and dangerous, still felt better than not being wanted at all.

And somewhere behind them, the wall of photos watched in silence.

The second kiss didn’t catch Y/n off guard.

This time, he didn’t stand frozen. He didn’t rationalize or fight or flinch. He just let it happen—let the heat press into him, let Jungwon’s mouth move against his like it belonged there. And when Y/n breathed in, he felt the weight of it: warm wine, low light, a hand still cradling the back of his neck like it was the most fragile part of him.

It should’ve scared him. The softness. The patience.

But it didn’t.

Not in that moment.

He kissed back—slowly, uncertainly, like testing the edge of something sharp. His lips parted beneath Jungwon’s, a small noise catching in the back of his throat, one he hadn’t meant to make. And it wasn’t just the kiss. It was everything beneath it. The wall of photos. The wine. The exhaustion in his bones. The fact that someone had been watching him, really watching him, and hadn’t looked away.

Maybe it should’ve been horrifying.

But it wasn’t.

Not yet.

Jungwon inhaled against his mouth—like the contact was something sacred—and his fingers tightened slightly, just enough for Y/n to feel the intention beneath the gentleness. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just there. Anchoring.

And Y/n let himself lean into it.

For a second, maybe two, he forgot how he got here. Forgot that he had come to this penthouse for air, for quiet, not for this. He forgot the wall behind him entirely, and focused instead on the way Jungwon’s thumb brushed just beneath his ear, trailing heat down the curve of his jaw.

“You feel that?” Jungwon whispered against his mouth, voice velvet-soft, eyes half-lidded and unreadable.

Y/n swallowed. His pulse was everywhere—neck, wrists, deep behind his ribs.

“I see you,” Jungwon continued, his other hand settling feather-light on Y/n’s waist, just above his hip. “Not like they do. Not like a game. I see the whole of you, even the parts you think no one should want.”

His hand didn’t move lower. Not yet. But the promise of it lived in the space between them.

Y/n didn’t pull away.

He hated himself a little for that.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he tilted his chin up slightly—just enough to close the distance again. Just enough to press his lips back to Jungwon’s, slower this time, deeper, until the kiss turned molten and something low sparked beneath his skin.

A hum slipped out of Jungwon’s throat—barely there. His thumb brushed across Y/n’s lower lip when they pulled apart, and he looked at him like he was already memorized.

“You don’t have to run anymore,” Jungwon murmured.

Y/n’s breath hitched. He wasn’t sure if it was from the words, or the way Jungwon’s fingers had ghosted beneath the hem of his shirt for half a second before returning to stillness.

Maybe it was both.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because his body had already leaned closer. Because his pulse hadn’t slowed. Because the heat building between them was no longer coming from the wine or the room.

And Jungwon just smiled, soft and patient, like he knew. Like he always had.

Jungwon didn’t kiss him again right away.

He just stayed there, close enough for Y/n to feel the warmth of his breath, his fingers still resting lightly at his waist—as if holding too tightly might shatter something between them. His touch wasn’t hungry. It was patient. Measured. The kind of patience that only someone with control could afford.

Y/n didn’t move. His breath was shallow. His limbs didn’t shake, but they felt heavy. Like all the exhaustion and confusion and guilt had settled into his bones.

And still, he didn’t pull away.

Jungwon’s hand drifted up slowly, brushing a strand of hair from Y/n’s face. The backs of his fingers skimmed down his jaw, over the column of his throat, light as static. Like he was learning him by touch. Memorizing.

“You’re always holding yourself so tight,” he murmured. “Like you’re afraid of taking up space.”

Y/n didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure how to. His head was spinning—not from the wine anymore, but from the closeness. From the soft, deliberate care of it all. From the way this moment felt suspended—like time had paused just for them.

Jungwon leaned in again. His lips grazed the corner of Y/n’s mouth first, soft, slow. A question, not a demand.

Y/n answered with a kiss of his own.

It wasn’t eager. It wasn’t even clear if it was a yes. But it was something—an anchor in the quiet. His hands slid forward, finding the fabric of Jungwon’s shirt and curling there, not pushing, just holding.

Jungwon deepened the kiss, just slightly. His hands settled on Y/n’s hips, not gripping, just resting. His mouth was warm, unhurried. It wasn’t about lust. Not yet. It was about presence. About claiming.

Y/n pulled back first. Just enough to breathe.

His chest rose and fell with a quiet rhythm, the room too still around them.

Jungwon’s fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, ghosting along his skin like a secret. He didn’t rush. When he moved to undress Y/n, it was careful, almost reverent. Like it mattered.

And Y/n let him.

He lifted his arms. Let the shirt fall.

The air kissed his skin, cool against the heat blooming beneath his ribs.

Jungwon’s gaze trailed down, slow and unreadable. He didn’t leer. He didn’t praise. He just looked—really looked—like he’d spent so long seeing him from a distance that now he couldn’t help but commit every line to memory.

Then Jungwon peeled his own sweater off, quiet as a breath.

Y/n didn’t stare. But he saw.

The pale curve of Jungwon’s waist. The way the shadows touched the hollows of his arms. How the lamplight settled over his chest in warm tones, softening every line. 

Their chests brushed when they moved closer again. Bare skin to bare skin—warm and real.

Y/n’s fingers pressed into Jungwon’s side. And when their mouths met this time, it wasn’t careful.

It was need.

Still slow, but heavier. Messier. Their hands started to move with more weight—finding waists, backs, the edges of zippers. Neither of them spoke.

Because this wasn’t about words.

It was about being wanted in a way that didn’t ask.

It was about being touched in a way that said: stay.

Jungwon’s mouth never left his for long.

Every time Y/n tried to catch his breath, Jungwon pulled him back in—kissing like it was something he’d earned, something he owned. Not rough. Not fast. Just… deep. Possessive. Each press of lips was slow and weighted, like he needed Y/n to feel it hours from now. Like he wanted the ghost of it to stain.

Their clothes came off in pieces.

Jungwon didn’t tear. He peeled. Tugged fabric down like unveiling something precious. His palms were warm as they dragged over skin—slow at first, then with more hunger. Like touch alone wasn’t enough. Like he needed Y/n beneath him. Needed him still and open and his.

When their hips met, it wasn’t clean. It wasn’t choreographed.

It was messy. Bare thighs brushing. Hands everywhere. Y/n gasped when Jungwon’s grip slid down, strong and certain, grounding him with one hand at the curve of his lower back, the other holding his jaw like it was glass.

“You don’t get it,” Jungwon whispered against his mouth. “They touched you like a secret. Like a sin.”

His lips trailed lower, down Y/n’s neck, biting just hard enough to leave a mark.

“I’ll touch you like you’re mine.”

Y/n’s head fell back with a low sound he didn’t recognize as his own. The air burned hot around them. Every nerve was awake, begging. He didn’t know what he wanted more—the release or the closeness or the comfort—but Jungwon gave him all three in fragments, pulling them from him like confessions.

“Pretty,” Jungwon murmured, dragging his teeth along Y/n’s collarbone. “You were always so fucking pretty like this. All those times they used you like a game—I watched. I waited. And now…”

His fingers tightened at Y/n’s waist.

“…now you’re here. Where you were always supposed to be.”

Y/n shivered, every inch of his skin hypersensitive, raw in ways that had nothing to do with touch. Jungwon’s voice was too calm, too smooth, threading through him like silk cut with wire. And still—still—he didn’t pull away.

He couldn’t.

Because a part of him liked it. Liked being seen. Liked being handled.

Liked being wanted so much it bordered on worship.

Jungwon pressed their foreheads together, breath ragged. “Say you want it.”

Y/n’s lips were swollen, trembling.

“…I want it.”

Jungwon smiled.

Dark. Soft. Like a promise sealed.

“Good.”

Jungwon’s breath hitched when Y/n said it.

Not because he was surprised—but because it confirmed something he’d already decided for himself. Something he had carried for months in silence. A truth so deep in his ribs it had become instinct.

Y/n wanted it.

Maybe not the way he was supposed to. Maybe not with clean lines and gentle promises. But want wasn’t always pure. And Jungwon had never asked him to be.

He leaned in, slow and sure, and kissed him again. This time with more weight. Less air.

Jungwon pulled back only far enough to look him in the eye.

“Come here,” he said—quiet, but firm.

He took Y/n’s hand and turned, guiding him toward the bed. The room shifted around them like it was holding its breath. The shadows stretched long across the floor, brushing their feet as they moved.

Y/n followed.

Not because he had to.

But because he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

The bed was already turned down—sheets smooth, corners folded. Jungwon let go only to pull them back with slow, practiced ease, then looked up again. His gaze held a question, but not uncertainty.

He waited.

And when Y/n stepped forward, Jungwon met him there.

The mattress dipped beneath their weight. They moved without choreography, knees brushing, hands fumbling for skin. Y/n wasn’t sure when his breathing had gotten so shallow, or when his pulse had started drumming behind his ears. All he knew was that Jungwon’s hands were back on his skin—skimming his ribs, sliding up his back, grounding him in heat and pressure.

No more speaking.

Only the sound of movement—of sheets shifting, of breath hitching, of mouths finding skin.

Jungwon touched him like he was something rare. Like the want was real. Like nothing about this moment was about control, even if it was.

And Y/n, for once, let himself be wanted.

Not as a symbol. Not as a mistake.

But as a person.

And it wasn’t gentle. Not entirely. But it was full. Full of attention. Full of hunger. Full of something that felt too much like devotion to be anything else.

The world outside that room didn’t matter.

Not when Jungwon pulled him closer again, and Y/n went willingly into the dark.

 Jungwon’s teeth sank into the meat of Y/n’s shoulder as he shoved him face-down into the mattress, the rip of fabric echoing as he tore his boxers free. He laughed, spit-slick fingers circling Y/n’s hole without warning, pressing in to the knuckle.

Y/n’s knees dug into the mattress, his chest pressed flat against the sheets as Jungwon loomed over him, one hand fisted in his hair to yank his head back. “Fuck—clenching around me already. You need it this bad?”

Y/n choked on a moan, hips jerking back instinctively, but Jungwon’s palm cracked against his ass—sharp, stinging—before gripping the swell hard enough to bruise. “Stay still.”

He didn’t. Couldn’t. Not when Jungwon’s cock slid heavy and insistent between his thighs, the thick head catching against his balls with every ragged thrust. Y/n’s own dick dripped onto the sheets, untouched, leaking as Jungwon rutted against him like an animal—all teeth and sweat and mine, mine, mine growled into his spine.

“J-Jungwon—”

“Shut up.” A hand fisted in his hair, yanking his head back as Jungwon’s other palm smeared precome down his shaft, stroking once, twice, painfully slow.

The mattress dipped dangerously as Jungwon pinned him down, his weight a delicious anchor. “You don’t get to beg. Not after letting them touch you.” He spat the words, hips snapping forward to grind his cock against Y/n’s ass, the tip catching at his rim. “This is what you wanted, right? To be used?”

Y/n’s sob caught in his throat as Jungwon shoved in—no prep, no mercy—stretching him raw on his cock. “Fuck—!”

“Tight,” Jungwon hissed, bottoming out with a groan, hips flush against Y/n’s ass. “Fucking—made for this. Made for me.” He didn’t wait, didn’t let Y/n adjust—just pulled out and slammed back in, setting a brutal pace that punched cries from Y/n’s chest with every thrust.

Y/n clawed at the sheets, tears blurring his vision as pleasure coiled viciously low, Jungwon’s cock dragging over his prostate with every snap of his hips. “S’too much—”

“No.” Jungwon leaned over him, biting the nape of his neck, fingers digging into his hips hard enough to leave marks. “You take it. Take all of me.” 

Jungwon’s hand fisted in Y/n’s hair, yanking his head back as he thrust up into him with a snarl, the slap of skin echoing off the walls lined with proof of his obsession. “Open your eyes,” he demanded, voice raw and ragged, hips pistoning mercilessly. “Look at what you let them do to you.”

Y/n’s tear-blurred gaze dragged across the gallery of his own shame—grainy stills of Jake’s hands under his shirt, Sunghoon’s teeth on his neck, Jay’s smirk as he’d bent him over that glass wall. Jungwon’s cock speared deeper, harder, as if punishing him for every captured moment. “Pathetic,” he hissed, fingers tightening in Y/n’s hair until his scalp burned. “Letting them use you like a common whore.”

“N-no—”

The denial died in a scream as Jungwon slammed him face-first against the wall without pulling off, the photos rattling under Y/n’s splayed palms. Cold glass bit into his skin, his reflection fractured across a dozen images of his own debasement. Jungwon’s breath scorched his ear, hips rolling in a cruel, grinding rhythm that dragged his cock over Y/n’s prostate. “Liar. You craved it.” He spat the words, one hand snaking around Y/n’s throat, squeezing just enough to make him dizzy. “Admit it. Admit you’re nothing but a cum dump for anyone with the guts to take you.”

Y/n’s moan cracked open, high and broken, as Jungwon’s thumb pressed down on his trachea. “Say it.”

“Y-yes—!”

“Louder.” Jungwon’s teeth closed on his shoulder, biting down as he fucked into him with short, brutal strokes. “Tell me what you are.”

“A whore—fuck—!” Y/n sobbed, hips jerking back onto Jungwon’s cock, shame and need twisting together until he couldn’t breathe. “Y-your whore—!”

Jungwon’s laugh was dark, triumphant. He released Y/n’s throat only to grab his jaw, forcing his head toward a particularly damning photo—Sunghoon’s ice-cold fingers between Y/n’s thighs in the locker room. “He ever make you come like this?” he purred, snapping his hips forward so hard Y/n’s knees buckled. “Ever fuck you so deep you forgot your own name?”

Y/n shook his head wildly, drool slicking his chin. “N-no—!”

“Liar.” Jungwon’s palm cracked against his ass, the sting blooming hot as he pinned Y/n tighter against the wall. “But I’ll fix that.” His free hand wrapped around Y/n’s neglected cock, stroking in time with his thrusts—too rough, too perfect. “Gonna ruin you for anyone else. Gonna make sure you dream about this cock.”

The dual assault shattered Y/n. His back arched, a broken scream tearing loose as he came untouched—again—spilling over Jungwon’s fist in ragged pulses. Jungwon growled, fucking him through it, relentless. “That’s it—drench me, you slut. Show me how bad you needed this.”

Y/n’s legs gave out, but Jungwon held him up, slamming into his oversensitive hole until his own release hit—a guttural snarl against Y/n’s spine as he filled him to the brim, hot and claiming.

They slumped against the wall, Jungwon’s teeth still buried in Y/n’s shoulder, the photos staring down in silent judgment. “Mine,” he panted, licking the salt from Y/n’s throat. “Every fucking inch.”

Y/n’s weak nod was all he could manage.

Jungwon smiled, tender and terrifying, as he turned Y/n’s face toward the largest photo—Jay’s handprint bruised into his hip. “Good boy. Now let’s burn them.”

The last thing Y/n remembered was Jungwon’s breath against his neck—warm, steady, anchoring him as his body finally, finally settled.

He didn’t know when sleep pulled him under. It must’ve been sometime after—the haze of touch still lingering in his chest, his limbs too heavy to move, Jungwon’s body curled close behind him like a second skin. The sheets were tangled around their legs, the heat between them softening into something quieter. Less charged. Almost peaceful.

Almost.

Because when he woke, the room was too quiet.

His eyes blinked open slowly, eyelashes heavy, breath still shallow with the weight of a night he hadn’t fully processed. Jungwon was asleep beside him, still. One arm resting over Y/n’s waist. His face was turned toward the pillow, peaceful in the dim gold light seeping in from behind the curtains.

It should’ve felt safe.

But when Y/n turned his head—just slightly—the photos were still there.

That wall.

Unmoving. Unchanged. Still watching.

The frames caught the morning light in jagged ways now, casting thin, angular shadows across the floorboards. And somehow, they looked different in daylight. Less romantic. Less intimate.

More invasive.

The one near the top corner was the first to hit him: the sliver of him in Jake’s bed, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded in something he hadn’t thought anyone else had seen.

And below it, the bathroom stall with Sunghoon. And then the one outside Jay’s father’s office. His back was to the camera in that one, but it still made his stomach twist.

He sat up slowly. Careful not to wake Jungwon.

He didn’t know what made his chest feel so tight. It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. It was something quieter. Like a bruise being pressed. Like knowing you’d given something away and only realizing too late how much of yourself it had cost.

He got out of bed with careful steps, each one muffled by the thick rug underfoot.

In the bathroom, he didn’t look at himself in the mirror. He let the water run hot until steam clouded the edges of the glass, until his skin flushed with the heat of it. He scrubbed gently, slowly, as if washing off something he couldn’t name.

Something invisible. But lingering.

When he stepped out, the towel stayed wrapped loosely at his hips as he moved through the room again. Jungwon hadn’t stirred. His face was still soft in sleep, one hand now curled into the space Y/n had left behind.

He dressed quietly.

The same clothes from yesterday, a little wrinkled now, but they’d do.

Y/n didn’t leave a note.

Didn’t make a sound.

He just slipped on his coat and walked out the door.

The elevator was quiet. Too quiet. The ride down felt longer than he remembered. And when he stepped out into the cold morning air, the Upper East Side had already begun to move—slow and polished, people in coats with coffee cups and clean shoes.

He walked.

Nowhere in particular.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and kept walking. Past the corner where a florist was opening. Past the café Jake liked. Past a bookstore that once reminded him of his mother.

He didn’t know why it hit him then.

Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the night catching up with him. Or the photographs burning in the back of his eyes.

But somewhere along 75th, with the wind cutting across his cheeks and the buildings towering overhead like they didn’t even notice he was there, something in him cracked.

And he started crying.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just—quiet tears. Slow. Hot. Falling without permission.

He wiped them away once. Then again. But they kept coming.

And he just kept walking.

The cold helped keep him upright. It stung just enough to make him feel present, like something real was touching him. But inside, everything was fraying. His chest was tight in that ugly, quiet way—like grief, but messier. He kept walking, hands jammed into his coat pockets, the air harsh against his face.

And then it started.

The thoughts.

Slow at first. Then faster. Like pieces being forced into place long after the puzzle should’ve been done.

It wasn’t just the photos. It was how perfectly timed they were. How Jungwon had always known when to be quiet. Where to stand. The angle of every frame suggested he’d been there. Close. Too close.

Y/n’s steps faltered.

The bathroom. Sunghoon.

That knock—the loud, too-rhythmic knock on the stall door. The water running. The way the silence cracked open in the middle of something that was never meant to be witnessed.

He’d thought it was a student. Just someone being annoying. Someone passing through.

But it wasn’t.

It was him.

Jungwon. Quiet and sweet and always too close without being seen.

And the party—Jake’s party. The first night it had all blurred. The first time he felt like his body wasn’t his own. He remembered the laughter, the glasses of wine that kept being replaced without question, the way the room had felt tilted even though he hadn’t drunk that much.

He’d blamed himself for that night. For the way his head spun. For the things he let Jake do. For the way his body responded before his mind caught up.

But it wasn’t him.

Jungwon had been there too. Somewhere in the background, tucked in a corner like furniture. Pouring drinks. Watching. Waiting. And now, it all made sense.

The warmth in his blood that hadn’t been wine.

The dizziness that hadn’t been guilt.

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, breath fogging the air, heart hammering.

He had never seen him—not really. Not back then.

But Jungwon had always seen him.

Y/n didn’t notice the car at first.

The morning air was raw against his skin, and each step felt heavier than the last. Y/n didn’t know where he was walking—just that he couldn’t stop. Not yet. His hands were deep in his pockets, breath shallow, face still warm from the quiet, embarrassing weight of crying in public. It was that kind of ache. The kind that lingered in the bones.

The car rolled up quietly beside him.

Black. Polished. Familiar in a way that made something in his chest twist. He didn’t need to look to know whose it was.

The back door eased open, and there was Jake—already outside, leaning against the car like it belonged to him. Like he belonged to it. His blazer hung off two fingers, and his shirt was wrinkled in that deliberate way, collar open, sleeves rolled. Hair neat. Posture loose but alert. He looked like the kind of tired you can’t name.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t ask if Y/n was okay. Didn’t tell him he looked like shit. Didn’t offer a joke to fill the silence.

He just looked.

And then—quietly, like it meant nothing—he stepped forward and draped the blazer over Y/n’s shoulders.

The fabric fell heavy and warm. It smelled like Jake: clean soap, woody, something expensive and muted, like a memory. Y/n didn’t flinch, but his breath caught in his throat.

Jake adjusted the lapels once, lightly. His fingers brushed against Y/n’s chest but didn’t linger. Then he pulled back and nodded toward the open car door.

Y/n didn’t argue.

He stepped inside.

The door shut behind them with a soft, final click. The city vanished—muted through tinted windows and thick leather. Inside, the warmth wrapped around him like the coat had.

Jake didn’t press. He sat beside him, silent, one arm resting loosely across the back of the seat. His eyes flicked toward Y/n once, then away. He didn’t try to talk.

And Y/n was grateful for that.

He turned toward the window, watching Manhattan blur past in streaks of glass and movement. His chest tightened again, throat thick. The streetlights bled gold onto the fogged glass. Somewhere between avenues, it happened.

The tears came back.

Quietly.

No sound. No shaking. Just hot, slow tears sliding down his cheek as he stared out, blinking hard but not fast enough to stop them.

He thought maybe Jake would ignore it. That he’d pretend not to notice. That would’ve been easier.

But Jake didn’t.

He reached over—not suddenly, not clumsily. Just reached. His fingers brushed over Y/n’s hand once before settling around it. His palm was warm. Steady.

He didn’t squeeze.

Not yet.

Just held.

Y/n’s shoulders tensed—briefly—before softening again. The weight of the moment pressed into his ribs, but Jake’s hand stayed. Anchoring. Real.

And then, with his thumb, Jake pressed gently into the back of Y/n’s hand. Just once. A small movement. A wordless gesture that said I see you.

It wasn’t like the touches from before.

Not sharp. Not flirtatious. Not claiming.

It was soft. Grounded.

A contrast so clear that it made Y/n’s chest twist again—but for another reason entirely.

Jake still didn’t say anything.

But maybe he didn’t have to.

Maybe, for once, his silence wasn’t about withholding.

Maybe it was his way of staying.

note: and just like that… the rich boys universe has reached its ending. at least for now. i honestly don’t even know how to begin this — this chapter was the biggest one i’ve ever written, and wrapping it all up felt surreal. i started this series on a whim, just playing around with dynamics and tension, never expecting it to grow the way it did. and now here we are, with jay, sunghoon, jake, jungwon, and y/n each having carved out their own space in this messy, chaotic, emotionally layered little world. i really wanted this final part to feel full — not just plot-wise, but emotionally too. every interaction, every choice, every glance was written with the intention of giving each the development they deserved. especially y/n, who’s carried so much without always realizing it. and jay, who’s rough around the edges but more fragile than he lets on. and jake and sunghoon with all their complicated silence. and jungwon... quietly dangerous in all the best ways. i wanted to give them all a moment to feel real. and i hope that came through. i’m endlessly grateful for the support you’ve all given this series. the comments, the asks, the wild reactions, the overanalyzing (which i loved) — it all made this process so much more fun and meaningful. writing this wasn’t always easy, especially with life and deadlines and blocks getting in the way, but knowing people were reading and caring? that pushed me to keep going every time. thank you for being here, for staying through the drama, the silence, the slow burn tension, and all the heartbreak in between. i hope this ending gave you something — closure, a little ache, a breath of relief. maybe all three. truly… thank you so much. i’m really proud of this one. and i hope you are too. with love, luke :)

[hoshifighting]

Stripper! Reader x Business Man! Lee Chan

— Synopsis: Workaholic Lee Chan's Friday night takes an unexpected turn when he joins friends at a strip club, only to find himself captivated by you, a dancer he can't seem to stay away from. Despite his reservations, Chan finds himself drawn to your company, booking time with you night after night. — WC: 8.8k — WARNINGS: Strangers to lovers, smut, mentions of alcohol, strip clubs, money throwing, booking, fluff, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, fingering, oral (f. receiving), riding, g'spot stimulation, clit stimulation, male sensitivity.

Lee Chan held the weight of being the CEO of the imperium that his dad left at a very young age. Frat parties, hanging out, late-night talks? Nah, not for him. He had to take care of the company and honor the inheritance that fell into his lap. His co-workers could remember very well the times that Chan walked around and around his office, shoulders tense as if he carried the world on them.

His days started early and ended late, filled with back-to-back meetings, strategy sessions, and endless paperwork. The once carefree and spirited young man had transformed into a focused and driven leader, his every move calculated to ensure the success and stability of the company.

Chan's office was a testament to his dedication—shelves lined with business books, awards, and framed photos of his father, a constant reminder of the legacy he was determined to uphold. The large windows offered a panoramic view of the city skyline, but Chan rarely had time to enjoy it. He was always too engrossed in his work, too preoccupied with the responsibilities that consumed his every waking moment.

Even though his life felt like being stuck in traffic on a rainy day, Chan couldn't deny that he loved the results of his hard work. He looked at the luxurious cars parked in his garage—sleek, powerful machines that represented the pinnacle of automotive engineering. 

His closet was a veritable treasure trove of sartorial excellence. Different types of watches, ties, suits, and shoes from every high-end brand imaginable filled the space, each piece carefully chosen to reflect his impeccable taste and status. The feel of finely crafted leather shoes, the weight of a bespoke suit on his shoulders, the precision of an intricate timepiece on his wrist—all these were constant reminders of what he had achieved.

Chan's wealth allowed him to indulge in the kind of extravagances most people could only dream of. He could spend an exaggerated amount of money in a matter of seconds on something completely futile, like a super shaver with a gold coating—exotic and utterly unnecessary.

The week was ending, and Chan listened to the fuss inside his friend group about hanging out this Friday. Jeonghan, seeing his colleagues leaving their desks, noticed Chan still at his desk, tapping his fingers on the glass table. With his bag slung over his shoulder, Jeonghan approached him.

"I know it's a stupid question, but will you come with us?" he asked. Chan was usually seen only at corporate events. Jeonghan couldn't remember the last time he enjoyed a beer with his friend.

Chan looked up, a hint of surprise flickering across his face. He opened his mouth to respond, the automatic refusal ready on his tongue, but something made him pause. He glanced around the office, now emptying out as people headed off to start their weekends. The thought of another solitary night of work made him feel a twinge of longing for something different.

"Come on, man," Jeonghan urged, sensing the hesitation. "Just one night. It’ll be fun. You need a break."

Chan sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew Jeonghan was right. The constant grind was wearing him down, and maybe, just maybe, a night out with friends was exactly what he needed.

"Alright," Chan finally said, a small smile playing on his lips. "I'll come."

Jeonghan's eyes widened in surprise. "Seriously?"

Chan nodded, standing up and grabbing his jacket. "Yeah, let's do it."

Jeonghan grinned, clapping him on the back. "That's the spirit! You won't regret it."

Before they left the building, Chan paused and asked, "Jeonghan?"

"Yes?" Jeonghan answered, turning to face him.

"Where are we going?" Chan inquired, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

Jeonghan just smiled, a mischievous glint in his eye. "You'll see," he said, leaving Chan to wonder what the night had in store for him.

[...]

"A strip club? You must be kidding me!" Chan exclaimed as he took in the sight of the half-dark establishment. Neon lights flickered and danced around the room, casting colorful glows on the walls. Music blasted from speakers, filling the air with a pulsating beat.

He could see several women with different curves, colors, and hairstyles, dressed in scanty outfits—or sometimes nothing at all. The atmosphere was electric, a stark contrast to the corporate environment he was used to.

Jeonghan laughed, clapping Chan on the back. "Come on, man, loosen up! It's just for fun."

Chan hesitated, his eyes darting around the room. He felt a mix of discomfort and curiosity. "I don't know, Jeonghan..."

"Relax," Jeonghan said, guiding him further inside. "We all need a break sometimes. Just enjoy the night. You deserve it."

Chan took a deep breath, deciding to go along with it. Maybe Jeonghan was right—maybe he did need this. As they found a spot to sit, Chan tried to shake off his reservations.

His friends immediately ordered bottles and bottles of soju, beer, whiskey—whatever the bar had. Chan downed his whiskey in a single gulp, exclaiming, "If my dad knew I was here..."

Chan's eyes widened in surprise. "You're kidding."

"Nope," Jeonghan replied, pouring more whiskey into Chan's glass. "He said every hardworking man deserves a break. Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, huh?"

Chan couldn't help but laugh at that. The thought of his father, the man he idolized for his strict work ethic, letting loose in a place like this was almost too surreal. 

As some of his friends disappeared one by one, Chan found himself alone on the couch they had booked. "Great," he muttered under his breath, feeling a twinge of discomfort at being left alone in such a place.

Just as he was about to sink further into the cushions, the little stage that he hadn't even noticed until now suddenly lit up. A tall pole stood in the middle, and Chan tilted his head in curiosity.

Then, a pair of really, really high heels appeared, and Chan's throat went dry. You emerged onto the stage, your skin shining under the purple light. The outfit you wore was scandalous, barely covering anything, and Chan couldn't help but notice the little glitters spread on your skin, catching the light as you moved.

You took hold of the pole and began to dance around it, moving with a grace and confidence that left Chan mesmerized. Your movements were fluid and controlled, every sway of your hips and arch of your back drawing him in deeper. It was as if you were performing just for him, and Chan felt like he could get lost in the rhythm of your dance forever.

As you held yourself up on the pole like a pro, Chan couldn't tear his eyes away. He felt like he was being swallowed by the couch, completely captivated by the sight before him. In that moment, nothing else mattered but you and the hypnotic spell you cast over him with your dance.

As you made eye contact with Chan, a devilish smile played on your lips. He looked like a new piece of meat, a pretty young man who had never been seen before in the club. You got down from the stage, the sway of your hips drawing all eyes to you as you walked towards him.

"First time here, sweetie?" you asked, laying your hands on his shoulders. Chan felt like he couldn't breathe with the view of your tits practically in his face.

"My eyes are up here," you said, chuckling as you caught him ogling your chest.

Chan blinked, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. "Uh, yeah," he stammered, tearing his gaze away from your cleavage. "First time."

You chuckled, running a hand through your hair as you leaned in closer. "Well, lucky for you, you've got me to show you the ropes," you said, your voice low and sultry.

"You're tense," you observe, noticing the stiffness in Chan's shoulders. Without waiting for a response, you step behind him and begin to massage his shoulders, your fingers working their magic as you knead the tension away.

Chan lets out a sigh of relief, his muscles melting under your skilled touch. "Yeah," he admits, his voice soft. "Work's been... stressful lately."

You nod in understanding, continuing to work out the knots in his shoulders. "I get it," you say, your voice soothing. "But you're here now, and tonight is all about letting go of that stress and just enjoying yourself."

Chan leans back into your touch, closing his eyes as he relaxes into the sensation. "I guess you're right," he murmurs, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

You smile too, glad to see him starting to unwind. "That's better," you say, your fingers tracing soothing circles on his skin. "Just focus on the here and now. Forget about everything else for a while."

Chan nods.

You walk around Chan again, swaying your hips seductively in front of him. His mind races, unsure of what to do next, but before he can even think, you're sitting on his lap, circling your hips against his.

Chan smiles shyly, feeling the heat from your body as you move against him. He can't help but notice the money tucked into the sides of your little shorts, a reminder of where he is and what's expected of him.

It's exhilarating and nerve-wracking all at once, but there's something undeniably thrilling about having you so close, your body pressed against his.

As you continue to dance, Chan's hands hover uncertainly over your hips, unsure of where to touch or how to respond. He feels a flush of embarrassment at his own inexperience, but he's determined not to let it show. Instead, he focuses on the way your body moves against his.

And you smile knowingly, sensing his hesitation, and guide his hands to your waist, encouraging him.

Chan's hands move from your waist to your hips and then down to your thigh, his fingers grazing the soft skin as he explores the contours of your body. His pulse quickens as he feels the warmth of your thigh pressed against his pocket, and he can't resist the urge to reach into his wallet and retrieve a pouch of money.

With a mischievous grin, Chan brings his hand to the top of your head, letting the notes rain down on you like confetti. You laugh, delighted by the unexpected gesture, and give him a big smile.

"What's your name?" you ask, your voice playful.

"Chan," he replies, feeling a surge of confidence.

You lick your lips, your gaze lingering on his. "Nice to meet you, Channie," you purr, the nickname, and Chan blushes. 

[...]

The next Monday, Chan sat at his desk, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. His mind raced with a million thoughts, his thoughts still consumed by the events of that night. He was lost in his own thoughts, replaying every moment, every touch, every glance.

A knock on his door startled him out of his trance, and he quickly tried to compose himself, pretending to be engrossed in some papers spread out on his desk.

"Come in," Chan called, his voice slightly shaky.

The door opened, and Jeonghan stepped inside, giving Chan a knowing smile. "Hey there, sleepyhead," he teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Chan felt a flush of embarrassment heat his cheeks. "Oh, hey Jeonghan," he replied, trying to sound casual.

Jeonghan chuckled, walking over to Chan's desk and leaning against it casually. "So, how was your night?" he asked, his tone laced with amusement.

Chan shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his mind racing as he tried to come up with a suitable response. "Um, it was... interesting," he finally managed, his voice trailing off uncertainly.

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Interesting, huh?" he said, his tone teasing. "Well, if you ever need any pointers on how to navigate the world of strip clubs, you know who to ask."

Chan's cheeks burned even hotter, and he couldn't help but laugh at Jeonghan's playful teasing. "Thanks, but I think I'll pass," he said, relieved to have the topic of conversation shifted away from his night of unexpected adventure.

Chan spent the entire weekend consumed by thoughts of you, unable to shake the memories of your encounter at the club. As Monday rolled around, he found himself itching to see you again, the usual routine of work feeling dull and uninspired.

Deciding that today was not the day for extra hours at the office, Chan made his way to the club, a sense of anticipation building in his chest. He arrived at the club, his eyes scanning the room eagerly in search of you.

As he looked around, a receptionist approached him, sensing his lost expression. "Can I help you?" she asked, her voice polite and friendly.

Chan nodded, grateful for the assistance. "Yes, I'm looking for a girl with hair like this," he said, mimicking the length and curl of your hair with his hands.

The receptionist's eyes lit up with recognition. "Ah, you must be looking for Y/N," she said, a smile playing on her lips. "Follow me, I'll take you to her."

There you were, dancing around the pole with a big smile on your face, as if you were truly enjoying every second of it. Chan watched from the corner of the room, his arms crossed and a big smile on his face as he observed you.

The club was crowded, with many people gathered around you, admiring your performance. Chan felt a pang of jealousy as he watched others vying for your attention, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from you.

As the night wore on and people began to leave, Chan noticed you finally catching sight of him. Your eyes met his, and you gave him a playful wink, rolling your hips as you glanced at him over your shoulder.

Chan's heart skipped a beat at your playful gesture, and he couldn't help but grin back at you. Despite the crowd around you, it felt like you were dancing just for him, and in that moment, Chan felt a surge of warmth and connection unlike anything he had ever experienced before.

As you took a break from dancing, you bent down to pick up some notes from the stage floor. Before you could gather them all, Chan approached, leaning on the stage with a playful grin.

"Leave it on the ground," he said, extending a big wad of money towards you. "Take it."

You chuckled, shaking your head. "I didn't even have time for you today," you teased, raising an eyebrow.

"Did I ask?" Chan replied, his smile widening. "Take it."

You couldn't help but laugh at his playful response, taking the money from his hand. "You liked me that much, huh?" you asked, knowing full well the answer. You were well aware of the power you held.

"Hmm, I think I need to see more," Chan teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

You giggled, enjoying the banter between you. "Well, if you want me all to yourself, you'll have to book," you replied with a playful wink.

Chan's eyes lit up at the suggestion. "Can I book all of your agenda?" he asked eagerly.

You stood up, giving him a coy smile. "Don't be greedy, Channie," you teased, enjoying the way he looked at you with eager anticipation.

You glanced down at the wad of money in your hand, barely able to fit into your shorts, and then looked back up at Chan with a playful smile.

"Well, I think I can spare some time for you," you said, glancing over at the clock on the wall. "But just a little while."

Chan's face lit up with excitement as he nodded eagerly. "That's all I need," he replied, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

[...]

As Chan began appearing almost every day, he became a familiar face at the club, a quiet yet eager client of yours. The receptionist would often give you a knowing look, silently conveying that Chan had arrived and had booked time with you once again.

Of course, there were other loyal clients who frequented the club, but none seemed to hold the same level of fascination for you as Chan did. There was a certain shine in his eyes whenever he entered the club, a distinct aura of anticipation and eagerness that set him apart from the other customers.

You couldn't help but wonder why you had let him know about the option to book time with you. Perhaps it was the way he looked at you with such genuine interest and excitement, or maybe it was the thrill of having someone so captivated by your presence. Whatever the reason, you found yourself looking forward to his visits, eager to see where each encounter would lead.

You couldn't help but feel a pang of surprise when Chan didn't show up for his usual visit. It was as if a small piece of the excitement and anticipation that had become a part of your routine was suddenly missing. Without even realizing it, you found yourself scanning the crowd, searching for his familiar face.

Then, just as you were starting to wonder where he was, you spotted him entering the club. Your heart skipped a beat as you watched him make his way to his special seat, right in front of you. His genuine smile lit up his face, and you couldn't help but smile back, the warmth of his presence washing over you like a wave.

With renewed energy and enthusiasm, you danced with even more passion and heart than before. You knew that Chan was watching, appreciating every move, every moment. 

Over the following weeks, Chan's visits became a cherished routine. Each time he arrived, you could sense the anticipation in his eyes, the unspoken hope that maybe tonight would be different.

One evening, as you were finishing your performance and making your way to his table, he finally mustered the courage to ask. "Hey, would you like to grab a drink with me sometime? Outside of here, I mean," he said, his voice full of genuine warmth and a hint of nervousness.

You smiled softly, appreciating his boldness but knowing you had to set boundaries. "I'm flattered, Chan, but I don't hang out with customers outside of work," you replied, your tone gentle yet firm.

A few nights later, he tried again, this time with a different approach. "There's this amazing new restaurant that just opened up downtown. I'd love to take you there," he offered, his eyes hopeful.

You shook your head slightly, maintaining your friendly demeanor. "I appreciate the invite, but I have a policy about not mixing my work life with my personal life," you explained, hoping he would understand.

Undeterred, Chan continued to ask, each time finding new ways to express his interest. "There's a gallery opening this weekend. I thought it might be fun to check it out together," he suggested one night, his enthusiasm palpable.

Once again, you gently declined. "That sounds lovely, but I really can't. I have to keep things professional with my clients," you said, feeling a pang of regret at having to turn him down yet again.

Each time he asked, you could see the slight disappointment in his eyes, but he always respected your boundaries. And despite your refusals, he never stopped coming back, never stopped watching you with that same genuine admiration and respect.

Tonight, you made sure every detail was perfect. Your hair cascaded in flawless waves, and you wore your best outfit, accentuating every curve just right. You were eager to dance for Chan, feeling a flutter of excitement as you anticipated his arrival. Sure enough, Chan appeared, booking the rest of the night with you as he had been doing lately.

When he approached, you greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, a small gesture that had become part of your interactions. "Hey, Channie," you said with a playful smile. "So, what’s it gonna be tonight? Shorts or no shorts?"

Chan smiled warmly, a bit of that usual nervous energy in his eyes. "Actually," he began, his tone softer than usual, "I just want to talk tonight. I want to spend time with you."

You blinked, taken aback. No customer had ever asked for just your company before. "You... you just want to talk?" you repeated, making sure you heard him right.

He nodded, a sincere expression on his face. "Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love watching you dance. But tonight, I just want to get to know you better. You know, beyond all this," he gestured vaguely around the club.

Still processing his request, you motioned to the couch. "Alright, let's sit then." You both settled onto the plush seats, the atmosphere suddenly feeling more intimate and less transactional.

"So, what do you want to know?" you asked, trying to mask your nervousness with a casual tone.

Chan leaned forward slightly, his eyes earnest. "Everything. What's your favorite color? What's your dream vacation? What do you do when you're not here?" He paused, then added with a chuckle, "I know it sounds silly, but I really want to know the real you."

You smiled, touched by his genuine curiosity. "Well, my favorite color is …" you began, feeling a bit shy. "As for a dream vacation, I've always wanted to visit Santorini. The pictures look so beautiful, like a place out of a fairytale."

Chan listened intently, his focus unwavering. "Santorini sounds amazing. I can picture you there."

You chuckled, the image of you in Santorini bringing a warm feeling to your chest. "And when I'm not here, I love to paint. It's my way of unwinding, letting my creativity flow."

His eyes lit up. "Painting? That's incredible. What kind of things do you paint?"

You shrugged lightly, feeling more comfortable as the conversation flowed. "Mostly landscapes and abstract pieces. It's like putting a piece of my soul onto the canvas."

For a moment, there was a comfortable silence, both of you absorbing the depth of the conversation. Chan finally broke it, his voice soft. "You know, I've always admired how dedicated you are to what you do, I know it's now easy at all. But hearing about your passions and dreams, it makes me admire you even more."

Your cheeks warmed at his words, and you found yourself opening up more than you had with anyone in a long time. "Thank you, Chan. It means a lot to hear that."

He reached out, gently squeezing your hand. "Thank you for sharing with me. I know this isn’t what you usually do, but it means a lot to me."

Chan observed the small figurine on the table, curiosity lighting up his eyes. “Where do you get these?” he asked, leaning closer to get a better look.

You smiled, a bit shyly. “I make them myself,” you said, enjoying the surprise that flickered across his face.

“Really? That’s amazing,” he praised, his admiration evident. You shrugged modestly.

“It’s not that hard,” you replied, still smiling. “They’re always small.”

Chan chuckled, a warm sound that made you feel even more at ease. He started to remove his blazer, and before you knew it, he placed it gently around your shoulders, covering a good part of you. The gesture was so kind and considerate that it made you feel even more comfortable, despite usually feeling at ease in your usual skimpy outfits.

As you nestled into the blazer, you couldn’t help but notice how much more at ease you felt. Chan’s presence was different; it wasn’t just about the physical attraction or the lavish spending. There was a gentleness, a genuine care that made you feel safe and valued.

“I don’t usually do this,” you admitted, looking at him with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

Chan smiled back, his eyes soft. “It’s my pleasure. You deserve to feel comfortable.”

The conversation flowed easily as Chan began to share bits and pieces of his life. He spoke about his responsibilities as CEO, the pressure of living up to his father’s legacy, and the sacrifices he had to make. His words were carefully chosen, mindful of not coming across as boastful despite his affluent lifestyle. You could tell he was trying to be as honest as possible while downplaying the extravagance.

“And that’s pretty much my life,” Chan concluded with a slight sigh. “It’s demanding, but it’s what I have to do.”

You admired his humility, realizing how grounded he remained despite his wealth. “It sounds like a lot to handle,” you said softly, your eyes reflecting your newfound respect for him. “But you do it so well. It’s impressive.”

Chan’s expression softened, a mixture of gratitude and weariness in his eyes. “Thank you. It’s not always easy, but I try.”

“You’re more than just a pretty boy,” you teased lightly, wanting to lift the mood. “You’re a hardworking, humble man.”

He laughed, the sound filling the space between you with warmth. “And you’re not just a beautiful dancer. You’re talented and creative.”

[...]

The next morning, you were chatting with the girls—your coworkers—as they finished their hair for the night.

“And he just wanted to talk,” you said, a bit incredulously. “He even asked about my favorite color.”

The girls collectively let out a heartfelt “Awww,” their eyes wide with interest and affection.

“Seriously?” one of them, Mina, asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “That’s so sweet.”

“He seems different,” another added, giggling.

“Yeah,” you nodded, still a bit surprised yourself. “We just talked. It was...nice.”

Before the conversation could continue, the receptionist entered the room, a knowing smile on her face. “Ya! Y/N-nie! Your Channie is here,” she announced, her tone teasing.

It was unusual for any customer to visit on a Saturday morning, a time usually reserved for the staff to unwind and prepare for the week ahead. 

“It’s Saturday morning,” Mina whispered, nudging you playfully. “No customers come in unless they lost something.”

“Let him in,” you said, trying to keep your tone casual but feeling the flutter of anticipation.

As Chan walked in, he was met with a scene unlike the usual vibrant atmosphere of the club. The girls were dressed in comfortable clothes, some with bobs in their hair, others doing their nails or simply lounging around.

You were drying a glass behind the bar. He looked around, slightly surprised but smiling.

“Good morning, girls,” he greeted, his voice cheerful. "Good morning Y/N…" He says in a special and tender tone, just for you.

“Good morning,” the girls chimed back in unison, their eyes following his every move.

You put down the glass and walked over to him, a wide smile on your face. “Channie, what are you doing here?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“I wanted to see you,” he replied, his gaze soft and sincere. He seemed a bit out of place in the relaxed environment, but his presence was a welcome one. You could feel the girls watching the exchange with rapt attention, like they were watching an opera unfold.

Chan noticed that you didn’t have bobs in your hair like some of the other girls. Gesturing toward your hair, he asked, “No bobs for you today?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “It’s my day off. I’m not dancing today.”

The girls exchanged knowing looks, some stifling giggles. One of them, Lisa, leaned over and whispered loudly enough for you to hear, “Looks like someone’s here to see you even when you’re not performing.”

You blushed, glancing at Chan, who seemed equally flustered but amused by the comment. He recovered quickly, his smile returning.

Chan stood there, his eyes filled with hope and a hint of nervousness. "Would you like to spend the day with me?" he asked, his tone gentle and inviting.

You chuckled, a playful glint in your eye. "Hmm, I've already told you about hanging out with my customers," you teased, enjoying the banter.

Before Chan could respond, Mina chimed in from the background, her voice filled with encouragement. "Oh, come on! You should accept it!"

Chan seized the opportunity, smiling wider. "You’re not on your work schedule now, are you?"

That shut your mouth, leaving you momentarily speechless. The girls burst into giggles, clearly enjoying the exchange.

“Well, when you put it that way…” you trailed off, pretending to think it over.

Chan’s smile grew, sensing victory. “So, is that a yes?”

You sighed theatrically, then grinned. “Fine, you win. I’ll spend the day with you.”

“Great!” Chan said, visibly relieved and excited. “I promise it’ll be fun.”

You nodded, your smile widening. “Let me just finish up here, and we can go.”

As you gathered your things, the girls couldn’t resist a few more teasing comments, but it was all in good fun, as Chan waited patiently.

As the day unfolded, Chan took you to places you hadn't had the time to visit in years. You sipped coffee at a cozy café, strolled through the park, and even caught a movie at the cinema. With each passing moment, you found yourself enjoying his company more and more, feeling a sense of freedom and joy you hadn't experienced in a long time.

"This has been the best day off ever," you exclaimed, unable to contain your excitement as you walked side by side with Chan.

His heart swelled with happiness at your words, his smile growing wider. He could have taken you to a luxurious restaurant or shopping for designer labels, but he sensed that wasn't what you wanted. Instead, he decided to let you choose how to spend the rest of the day.

Careful to open doors for you and ensure your comfort, Chan drove you around in his luxurious car, enjoying each other's company and the simplicity of the moment. As he glanced at you from the driver's seat, he couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment wash over him.

"Where to next?" he asked, his voice filled with anticipation.

You playfully pretended to ponder your options, teasing him about having more surprises up his sleeve. Chan laughed, shrugging his shoulders as he drove. You noticed that you were nearing your apartment, and the idea popped into your head.

"How about we go to my place?" you suggested, surprising even yourself with the invitation.

Chan's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he quickly masked it with a smile. "Your place? Are you sure?"

You nodded, feeling a sense of excitement building in your chest. "Yeah, why not? I'd love for you to see where I live."

Chan couldn't hide his delight at your invitation, his curiosity piqued. He parked the car and walked with you to your apartment building, taking in the surroundings with interest.

Chan's eyes wandered around the apartment, taking in the details of your life that adorned the walls. He saw framed photographs capturing cherished memories – graduations, family gatherings, outings with friends. The images painted a picture of a life rich in experiences and relationships.

His gaze shifted to the plushies scattered across the couch, a playful and endearing touch that brought a smile to his face. It was clear to him that you had a warmth and sweetness that extended beyond the confines of the club where he first met you.

As you disappeared into the kitchen, Chan took a moment to soak in the atmosphere of your home. The tranquility of the space, combined with the personal touches that reflected your personality, made him feel strangely at ease.

In that moment, he realized that he was seeing a side of you that few others had the privilege of witnessing – the real you, beyond the glamorous facade of the club.

As you settled back onto the couch with snacks in hand, Chan joined you, his presence filling the space with warmth. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he began recounting his visit to the strip club earlier that day.

You listened intently, a soft chuckle escaping your lips as he shared the details of his adventure. When he mentioned Jeonghan's involvement, you couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude towards your friend for unknowingly setting this day in motion.

"Looks like I owe Jeonghan a big thank you," you said, your voice muffled as you took a bite of your snack. 

Chan raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "So, Jeonghan is the reason we met, huh?" he teased, leaning closer to you.

You chuckled, feeling a playful energy between you. "Looks like it," you replied, unable to suppress a smile.

Chan's teasing grin widened at your response, and he leaned in closer, his playful demeanor evident. "Oh, so you're thanking Jeonghan, but not me?" he teased, raising an eyebrow in mock indignation.

With a soft smile, you turned to Chan, gratitude evident in your eyes. "Thank you, Channie," you said, your voice sincere as you expressed your appreciation.

Chan returned your smile, his gaze warm as he listened to your words. "For what?" he asked, though he already had a feeling of what you meant.

You took a moment to gather your thoughts before replying. "For everything," you began, your tone heartfelt. "For the moments we've shared, the conversations we've had... Even on the nights you booked me, we talked more than danced," you admitted, a fondness evident in your voice.

Chan's smile widened at your words, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "Well, I guess I'm just a talkative guy," he joked, though there was a hint of sincerity in his tone.

Chan's touch was tender as he brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his gaze lingering on your lips with a mixture of hesitation and longing. You could feel the tension building between you, an unspoken desire hanging in the air.

When he spoke your name, you couldn't help but respond with a soft sound of acknowledgment, your heart fluttering with anticipation. His next words sent a shiver down your spine, his voice barely above a whisper as he confessed his thoughts.

"I know it's not allowed to kiss the dancers in the club," he began, his words laden with a sense of urgency, "but... we're not in the club right?"

His question hung in the air, heavy with possibility. In that moment, the boundaries that had separated you in the club seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, alone in the intimacy of your shared space.

You met Chan's gaze, your heart pounding in your chest as you considered his words. Despite the rules and restrictions that governed your interactions in the club, here, in this moment, you felt a freedom that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

With a hesitant smile, you leaned in closer to him, your breath mingling with his as you whispered, "No, we're not in the club." And in that simple acknowledgment, you gave voice to the unspoken truth that had been lingering between you all along.

Chan's hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as his lips crashed into yours. His tongue explored your mouth with a fervent passion, and you found yourself breathing hard, your fingers clutching the collar of his shirt to deepen the kiss.

The truth was, the more you refused Chan's invitations to dinner, the more you denied the gifts he insisted on giving you, the more you avoided his attempts to kiss you—his feelings for you only grew stronger. And now, seeing his insistence on simply having your company, and not just as the girl who would entertain him at night, made you feel all your girlhood feelings again.

Breaking the kiss for a moment, you looked into his eyes, your breath mingling with his. "Chan..." you whispered "Why do you keep coming back? Why do you keep trying so hard?"

He held your gaze, his eyes filled with a mix of determination and tenderness. "Because you matter to me, Y/N. More than just a dancer, more than just a pretty face. I see you, the real you, and I want to know you better."

Your heart swelled at his words, and you felt a rush of warmth and affection for this man who saw beyond the surface. "But I'm not used to this," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not used to someone caring this much."

Chan's grip on your neck tightened slightly, a comforting reassurance. "Then let me show you how it feels. Let me show you that you deserve to be cared for, to be cherished."

"Show me," you whisper, your eyes locked on Chan's lips. He captures your mouth in a passionate kiss, his lips trailing down to your neck. His hands find the hem of your shirt, and he pulls it over your head. You pull him closer, desperate to feel him, your hands sliding under his shirt to caress his warm skin.

His hands slide to your thighs, lifting you onto his lap, your breasts now level with his face. He glances at the pretty lace bra you’re wearing and lowers the cups, exposing your nipples. He kisses each one tenderly before sucking on one and pinching the other. You melt into him, your hips grinding against his automatically, drawing a groan from deep within his chest.

"Do you know how hard it was to control myself when you grinded on my cock like this?" he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with desire.

A wicked smile crosses your lips as you continue to grind against him, feeling his erection growing beneath you. "I could feel it, Chan," you purr, your voice dripping with seduction. "I could feel how much you wanted me. I wanted you just as badly."

His hands tighten on your hips, guiding your movements as he presses you harder against him. "God, Y/N, you drive me crazy," he groans, his eyes darkening with lust.

You lean in, your breath hot against his ear. "I want to feel you inside me, Chan. I want you to lose control. Show me how much you want me."

His control snaps, and he flips you onto your back, his body pressing you into the couch. "You don’t know what you’re asking for," he growls, his hand sliding down to unbutton your pants.

"I know exactly what I want," you whisper back, your eyes burning with the same desire. "I want you, all of you."

Chan's lips crash into yours again, more fiercely this time, as his hands work to remove the rest of your clothing.

In a blur of movement, clothes are discarded, and his skin is pressed against yours. He pauses to look into your eyes. "Tell me you want this," he demands, his voice rough with need.

"I want you, Chan," you breathe out, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him closer. 

Chan giggles softly, his breath hot against your skin. "Wait for me to prepare you," he whispers, his voice laced with anticipation. He opens your legs wide, his eyes dark with desire as he lowers himself between your thighs. His lips find your wet folds, kissing them gently before his tongue delves deeper.

The sensation sends shivers through your body, and you let out a soft moan. Chan's mouth works expertly, sucking on your clit while his tongue teases and explores. As you gasp his name, "Channie," he responds with a moan of his own, the vibrations adding to your pleasure.

His hand slides up your thigh, and you feel the gentle pressure of his finger at your entrance. He slips it inside you slowly, his finger curling to find that perfect spot. Your back arches off the couch, your hands gripping the cushions as he continues to worship your body with his mouth and fingers.

"Oh, Chan," you breathe, your voice quivering with need. The way his tongue moves, the way his finger pumps in and out of you—it's all too much. Your hips begin to move on their own, seeking more of the intense pleasure he's giving you.

He adds another finger, stretching you gently, and your moans grow louder. His mouth never leaves your clit, sucking and flicking it with his tongue in a rhythm that drives you wild. You can feel your orgasm building, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter inside you.

Chan's free hand comes up to hold your hip, steadying you as you writhe beneath him. He looks up at you, his eyes full of lust and admiration, and the sight of him between your legs pushes you closer to the edge.

"Channie, I’m so close," you manage to say, your voice barely a whisper.

He doubles his efforts, his fingers moving faster, his mouth more insistent on your clit. The world fades away, and all you can focus on is the overwhelming pleasure building within you.

With a final, deep moan, you come undone. Your body trembles, your muscles clench around his fingers, and a powerful wave of ecstasy crashes over you. Chan doesn't stop, drawing out your orgasm until you're completely spent, every nerve ending tingling with satisfaction.

Finally, he pulls away, his fingers and mouth glistening with your arousal. He looks up at you with a triumphant smile, his own need evident in his eyes. "You taste so good," he murmurs, crawling up your body to capture your lips in a heated kiss. You can taste yourself on his lips, and it only fuels the fire between you.

"Now," he says, positioning himself at your entrance, "I think you're ready."

You nod, wrapping your legs around his waist, and with one smooth thrust, he fills you completely. 

Your pussy was wet enough, spasming, welcoming him perfectly. Chan's eyes were closed, his face contorting as he tried to compose himself. You reached up and gently held his face, and he opened his eyes, scoffing softly, trying to pretend he didn't almost cum right then and there from the sensation of your sopping cunt wrapping so perfectly around him and the pornographic moan that just left your mouth.

"Fuck, Y/N," he breathed, his voice thick with lust. "You feel so good."

You smiled, your own arousal mirrored in his gaze. "Don't hold back, Channie," you whispered, your fingers brushing through his hair. "I want all of you."

He groaned, his hips starting to move, slowly at first, savoring the way you clenched around him with each thrust. The intensity in his eyes made your heart race, the connection between you deepening with every movement.

"You're so tight," he murmured, his hands gripping your hips as he picked up the pace. "So perfect for me."

You bit your lip, your body responding to his every word, his every touch. "Chan," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as he hit that sweet spot inside you, sending waves of pleasure through your body. "Don't stop."

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as he rolled his hips, stopping momentarily before hitting your g'spot with a sharp thrust. He repeated this motion, each thrust more deliberate, and the most sinful moans left your mouth. "Yes, Channie," you gasped, your voice trembling with pleasure, "fuck this pussy with that big fucking cock. Yes, yes!"

Chan groaned, the sound deep and guttural, spurred on by your words. "You like that? Hm?" he panted, his pace quickening as he watched the ecstasy play out on your face. "You like how I fuck you?"

"Yes," you moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders. "God, yes, I love it. I love how you fuck me– ah! Channie."

"So wet... all for me."

Your body arched beneath him, your hips moving to meet his thrusts, chasing the pleasure that was building to an overwhelming peak. "Only for you," you whispered, your voice breaking with a whimper as he drove you closer to the edge. "No one else, just you, Channie."

He growled, the possessiveness in your words igniting something primal in him. His thrusts became harder, faster, each one sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. "Say it again," he demanded, his breath hot against your ear. "Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours," you cried out, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. "I'm yours, Channie, only yours."

His hips snapped forward with even more intensity, and you could feel the coil tightening in your core, ready to snap. "Cum for me," he urged, his voice a low growl. "Cum all over my cock, baby."

Your pussy throbbed as the aftershocks of your orgasm rippled through you, your eyes closing tightly, mouth falling open in a silent scream. You wrapped your legs around Chan's waist, locking him in place as you rode out every wave of pleasure. Chan hissed, his abdomen trembling, signaling that he was on the brink of release but unable to escape your grip.

You opened your eyes to find Chan watching you intently, taking in every reaction. "Sit," you commanded, your voice breathless yet authoritative.

"Hm?" Chan responded, his expression a mix of curiosity and lingering pleasure.

"Sit," you repeated, firmer this time. He complied, a small laugh escaping his lips.

"Are you going to dom me?" he teased, scoffing lightly.

Instead of answering, you simply lowered yourself onto his cock, making him flinch and let out a whiny moan in your ear, your legs trembling from the intensity of your recent orgasm.

"Fuck," he groaned, his hands gripping your hips. 

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear. "You like that, Channie? You like when I take control?"

"Yes," he gasped, his breath hitching as you began to move, rolling your hips slowly at first. "God, yes."

You smirked, picking up the pace, each movement sending shivers of pleasure through both of you. "You look so good like this," you whispered, your voice low and sultry. "So desperate, so needy. You want to cum, don't you?"

"Yes," he admitted, his voice barely more than a whimper. "Please, let me cum."

You tightened your grip on his shoulders, riding him harder. "Not yet," you commanded, enjoying the power you held over him. "Not until I say so."

Chan's eyes fluttered closed, his body trembling as he tried to hold back. "Please," he begged, his voice raw with need. "I can't... I can't hold on much longer."

"Look at me," you ordered, your tone firm. His eyes snapped open, locking onto yours. "You’re going to cum when I tell you to, understand?"

"Yes," he panted, nodding eagerly. "Yes, I understand."

You imagined riding him since the moment he entered that club, young, hot, with his sleeves rolled up, the scent of masculine fragrance mingling with whiskey on his breath. Feeling this man, needy and sly, with his cock buried deep inside your pussy, spilling all that pre-cum, and fighting his demons not to cum, made you so horny.

 You licked your fingers, circling your clit to help yourself climax, making you clench around him again. A strangled moan escaped his mouth, his eyes were rolling back.

You leaned in close, your voice husky with desire. "You're so close, Channie," you whispered, your breath hot against his ear. "I can feel how badly you want to cum inside me. Do it, baby. Give it to me. Fill me up with your cum."

Chan's hips bucked against yours, his grip on your hips tightening. "Fuck," he groaned, his voice strained with pleasure. "I need to cum, please..."

You smirked, your fingers still working furiously on your clit. "You want to empty those balls for me, make me feel every drop of your cum inside me? Hm?"

Chan nodded frantically, his eyes glazed with lust. "Yes, god, yes. Please, let me cum. I can't hold on much longer."

With a wicked grin, you increased the pressure on your clit, feeling the tension building inside you. "Then cum for me, Channie," you urged, your voice a sultry whisper. "Cum deep inside my pussy."

Chan's entire body tensed, his breath hitching as he finally let go, his cum flooding you with warmth. You cried out in pleasure, feeling your own orgasm crashing over you in waves as you rode out the ecstasy together.

As you collapsed against his chest, Chan wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. You could feel your legs trembling in soreness, his cum still dripping from your pussy, and both of your bodies slick with sweat. Despite the exhaustion, Chan's embrace felt comforting and secure.

He ran his hands soothingly over your back, his touch gentle yet firm, as if trying to convey all his affection through his fingertips. You raised your head to meet his gaze, finding him looking back at you with a mixture of satisfaction and tenderness in his eyes.

You pressed a series of soft kisses to his lips, his cheeks, his jawline, savoring the warmth and intimacy of the moment. Chan smiled in response, his own lips curved upwards in a contented –fucked out– expression.

You summoned the last vestiges of your strength just to tease Chan, circling your hips ever so slightly, just enough to elicit a reaction from his sensitive body. 

"Wait, wait," Chan gasped, his voice strained with sensitivity. "I can't... I can't take it."

He held you firmly against him, his grip almost desperate as he tried to steady himself. The sensation of your hips circling against his heightened his arousal to a point where he felt like he might lose control at any moment.

You couldn't help but laugh at his reaction, a playful smirk dancing on your lips. Despite the exhaustion and the intensity of your encounter, you found his vulnerability endearing.

"Sorry," you chuckled softly, the sound mingling with his labored breaths. "I couldn't resist teasing you a little."

Chan let out a breathless laugh, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to regain his composure. He leaned in to press a gentle kiss against your forehead, his lips lingering against your skin for a moment before he spoke again.

"You're... you're something else, you know that?" he murmured, his voice filled with admiration. "I don't know how you do it."

You grinned up at him, feeling a surge of warmth at his words. Despite the intense physical connection between you, there was an undeniable emotional bond that had formed, deepening your connection even further.

"I guess I just have a way with you," you replied playfully, winking at him before snuggling closer into his embrace.

[stxrrkissed]

── ۶ৎ JEALOUSY JEALOUSY .ᐟ

꣑ꦌ chuck bass x fem!reader ৴ LENGTH 798

DESCRIPTION once another guy sets his eyes on you, chuck finds himself jealous.

CONTENT just fluff ꣑ jealous!chuck.

THOUGHTS my first chuck fic!! this was supposed to be out much earlier but something came up. i hope you guys like it.

𝒾. mlist 𝒾𝒾. previous fic 𝒾𝒾𝒾. prompts 𝒾𝓋. based on this ask

CHUCK BASS IS IMPORTANT. POISED. Full of unwavering self-confidence. He doesn't get jealous. He doesn't. He has no reason to. He's as confident in his relationship with you as he is in that he'll fulfill his father’s legacy one day. But this guy talking to you right now, thinking that he's entitled to you in any way... who the hell does he think he is?"

Chuck tried so hard not to let it bother him, trying to enjoy the party that you all attended, it’s thrown by a new elite person that has yet to show their face, he didn’t even want to come, he’d rather stay in bed, cuddle up next to you but you wanted to come because Blair and Serena was also going.

Chuck focuses his glare on the guy standing in front of you as he takes a sip out of the drink he’s been nursing for the past few minutes. His teeth grinding together as the guy stood so close to what was his, it’s not like you were entertaining him as you denied every one of his attempts but he isn’t letting up. “Are you there?” Nate questions as he notices he hasn’t been listening to anything he’s been saying for the past few minutes.

“You know I’m not. Don’t take it personal. Who is that guy?”

Nate rolls his eyes at his response before looking in the direction, Chuck is looking in. “Dude, that’s Jackson. This is his party, everyone’s talking about him, he’s gossip girl's new target.” Nate explains as Chuck sets his cup on the table beside them.

“Oh I see what’s happening, you’re jealous,” Nate snickers, couldn’t believe his eyes as he watches Chuck roll his eyes at him. “You know (name) only has eyes for you,” he adds.

While Nate speaks the truth, it only falls on deaf ears. While he knows you wouldn’t entertain someone else, it has been quite a long time since someone dared to try to flirt with you knowing damn well you belonged to him and him only. He’s the only one that gets to stand as close to you as the guy is to you now.

“How about I take you out this weekend, is 8 fine for you?”

You exhale, letting go of a breath you didn’t know you were holding in. You had already let this guy know that you’re not interested in him and he still wasn’t budging, kept trying to find ways for you to say yes to his offer; you try to be nice as this was his party, you didn’t want to be rude.

No one could hold a candle to Chuck as no one made you feel the way you feel with him, he treats you with respect, a trait this guy obviously lacks.

You look around, searching through the crowd for your boyfriend, the only person besides the girls you want to be close to so you can get away from this dude.

A smile tugs at the corner of your lips once you lock eyes with him, watching as he walks up to you with confidence written all over him, a sight that always has you head over heels with him. “Um… hello? Did you hear what I said?” Jackson questions, snapping his fingers in your face enough to make you annoyed.

“I’m sorry but she’s with me,” Chuck states, placing his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him, just being his hold; you immediately melt in his touch as shock takes over Jackson's face “Incase, you didn’t know but she’s happily taken.”

You lay your head against his shoulder as he lays a soft kiss on your forehead, another thing that made your heart flutter about him.

“Whatever, call me when you break things off with him,” Jackson says, walking away as you roll your eyes briefly before giving your full attention to Chuck who had an angry expression on his face.

“Don’t listen to him babe, I would never leave you.” You comment, rubbing his chest, looking up into his eyes. “I know.” He responds but a smirk spreads across your face, knowing by the look on his face having seen it many times before in the beginning of your relationship although he always claims he never gets jealous but you always saw right through it.

“Oh my god, you are jealous.” you make eye contact with him, not being able to hold in the laughter that’s spilling out your mouth. “Now why would I be jealous? I’m Chuck Bass and no one can ever replace me.” He says proudly and you laugh more, holding onto him tightly.

“Come on, let's get home, I will have more fun there than here,” you say calmly, leading him to the exit as he raises an eyebrow, happy that he can finally go home and have you to himself, thinking about the day he’d finally marry you, claiming you as his wife to the world.

thank you for reading! © stxrrkissed 2025. all rights reserved — do not claim, copy, repost or translate.

[jon-sedai]

We don’t appreciate enough how GRRM made House Targaryen the poster children for his de/reconstruction of the fantasy chosen family trope, and we don’t appreciate how Jon and Dany are the main lens through which he does that. House Targaryen is fantasy on steroids—magic swords, magic look, magic lineage, perhaps the most magic pet one could have in the genre, and a magic destiny that’s specific to them and only them. There’s a foretold magical conflict and its main hero (as many would think), “the prince that was promised”, specifically has to be a Targaryen. This House’s history is so rich, but from a genre perspective, it is Aerys II’s reign and Robert’s Rebellion that’s the most interesting to analyze. Aerys isn’t special himself, but he is to sire the future savior of the world. Then Rhaegar is born and tragic as they are, all the signs point to him being the promised messiah. And Rhaegar becomes THE fantasy hero on steroids. He’s the perfect heir to House Targaryen’s legacy because not only is he to be the best of them, and many think he would have been had he lived, but he is the most perfect manifestation of House Targaryen as the personification of fantasy. There’s absolutely a point to him living and dying as the heir, the inheritor, the eternal symbol of what could have been of the Targaryen’s old glory.

Part of Rhaegar’s legacy extends to his son Aegon. Aegon had everything Rhaegar didn’t. A comet was seen at his conception—and this is an most important herald for the chosen one. So he is given a song, “the song of ice and fire”, and a king’s name to match his status as the new messiah. He didn’t live long but he inherited Rhaegar’s look in his youth too; the fantasy protagonist look. But Aegon died before he could be the hero.

You see Jon and Dany as chosen ones only works so well because of their House’s history, especially as (anti)parallels to Rhaegar and Aegon. They are the unexpected inheritors and challengers to their house’s legacy but in different ways.

Dany is the most immediate and obvious heir. There’s a beauty to her being the last of them and thus, the one bearing the entire house’s legacy. Dany is THE Targaryen. And in being that, she becomes THE hero. She’s got the hero’s look, the hero’s magic and destiny, and better yet, she got the hero’s sword and pet all in one. And, she’s legitimate! She is House Targaryen. But there’s a problem….shes a girl. And we all know House Targaryen’s history with girls.

Maester Aemon’s “no one ever looked for a girl” is quickly becoming my favorite Dany-related quote because it pretty much encapsulates her entire arc, especially as an inheritor to her house’s legacy. The hero they died knowing and expecting was the boy: first Rhaegar, then Aegon. But father and son are dead. Yet Daenerys lives. She inherits everything else they did and more! The Targaryens tried and failed to bring dragons back, but it was Dany who ultimately did it.

Now, Jon is Dany but flipped. From a meta point of view, he’s more fantasy protagonist than she is. He’s a boy, he’s got a big magic sword that he can swing about, and he’s perhaps fantasy’s most prolific trope in action—the magical hidden prince. But within this story, GRRM flips these two characters. Jon’s fantasy protag-ness doesn’t go away, it just morphs into something else. Unlike Dany, he may be a boy and he may have a sword, but he lacks literally everything else. He doesn’t have the look, his magic powers are from his other family, so is his magic pet, and his magic destiny has thus far developed outside his immediate association with House Targaryen. Dany is “what if Rhaegar was a girl?”, but we can’t even begin to ask these types of questions with Jon because there’s so much that precludes him from the fantasy hero role in story. He’s Rhaegar’s heir…but he doesn’t look like him…and he’s not even legitimate. So what do we do now?

GRRM destroyed his fantasy protag house and decided to build up again from the ground up, but did so by challenging the two most critical points—primogeniture and exceptionalism. With Dany, he makes a girl the Targaryen’s outward successor. This works really well because the Targaryens have a history of denying their female heirs. But now what’s left of them is a girl, and she is literally everything they could have hoped for. And she is a a reflection of her house, but her arc has at many times seen her be the antithesis of her ancestors. And I can’t help but think of the oncoming meta-textual showdown between her and Young Griff. On the surface Young Griff, a boy, is the preferred heir. But Dany is, in truth, the one.

Jon is interesting because, in my view, he challenges the Targaryen idea of exceptionalism. He’s easily the fantasy protagonist from the outside looking in. But he doesn’t have the Targaryen name, nor does he have the look. He has the blood, but what makes him special is that it is mixed with the other major fantasy protagonist house’s blood—he’s special in that he’s a hybrid. And this is interesting because if Aegon conquered the seven kingdoms because of a prophecy regarding him or one of his princely descendants, it’s quite the twist to have this messiah not even be a Targaryen prince (not in name anyway). That’s why all the hand wringing around “is Jon legitimate?” or “no one cares because he doesn’t look like Rhaegar” really isn’t the point. The point is for Jon to be the manifestation of the hero—the king—outside of that narrow framework. And if he succeeds, then GRRM would absolutely still be subverting prophecy and genre conventions.

There’s something to Jon and Dany being born as or after House Targaryen falls. House Targaryen has no crown, no throne, and their prophetic mandate has been usurped. But GRRM is so attached to them, and he certainly wants to rebuild them and hold fantasy to account. But to do so, everything we know about the Targaryens, everything the Targaryens knew about themselves, has to be challenged and put to the test by the personifications of all that a Targaryen hero couldn’t be: a girl, and a bastard.

[wh0reforcoriolanussnow]

All in your head || Young President!Coriolanus Snow x reader

A/n: love this request!

Warnings: r is implied to be young, manipulative, controlling Coryo, if there’s anything else lmk

Wc: 564

Divider by @firefly-graphics

The grand hall was adorned with opulent decorations, an extravagant celebration befitting the fifth wedding anniversary of you and Coriolanus Snow. The air was filled with the scent of delicate flowers, and the soft murmur of the Capitol's elite mingled with the distant hum of the city beyond.

It was a spectacle of extravagance, but behind the façade of smiles and enchanting music, your marriage to Coriolanus was nothing more than a carefully constructed arrangement.

"This is ridiculous," you mutter to yourself, hands toying with your necklace as you hear a deep sigh beside you.

"Yeah well, you have no choice," he mumbled, adjusting his cuffs, preparing to step out onto the balcony for an interview broadcasted to all of Panem.

"Let's get this over and done with then," you huffed, smoothing down your dress with practiced grace before the doors opened, and you summoned a well-trained fake smile. Coriolanus, in keeping with the façade of a blissful marriage, rested his hand on your waist, his smile equally forced.

As the camera lights focused on the two of you, the citizens of the Capitol eagerly tuned in to the live interview. Caesar Flickerman, the charismatic host, beamed as he addressed the couple. “Ladies and gentlemen of Panem, we are honored to have Mr. and Mrs. Snow with us tonight!”

Applause erupted as you and Coriolanus exchanged a glance, a look perceived by others as one of love, though the reality was starkly different.

"Y/n, it felt like only yesterday we saw you graduating from the Academy, and now here you are, as gorgeous and powerful as ever as First Lady," Caesar complimented, leaving you slightly off-kilter-a reminder of the day you learned of your impending marriage to Coriolanus.

"Time flies, doesn't it?" You gracefully replied with a polite smile as Caesar chuckled. "Five years of marital bliss, how does it feel?" He directed his question to both of you this time.

You and Coriolanus exchanged a fleeting glance, a practiced smile plastered on both of your faces. "It's been an incredible journey," you replied, your voice measured.

"We've grown together and learned a lot about each other."

Caesar leaned in with a glint in his eye. "Speaking of growth, the citizens of Panem are curious— are there any plans for a little Snow on the horizon? Perhaps an heir to the Snow legacy?"

The questions about children were not new, but the pressure had been mounting over the years. Your father, a powerful figure in Panem, had orchestrated this union to solidify his influence, disregarding any consideration for your personal desires or compatibility.

The marriage had left you with an ache in your heart, and the absence of genuine connection with Coriolanus was palpable. Behind closed doors, conversations between the two of you were few and far between.

tense silence filled the spacious chambers, with occasional glances that spoke volumes but went unaddressed. The thought of children had become a looming cloud, casting shadows over your fragile union.

A polite chuckle escaped Coriolanus's lips, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of discomfort. "Ah, well, we're enjoying our time together for now. The future is unpredictable, but we're taking things one step at a time."

As the interviews continued, the speculation about Coriolanus's fertility surfaced. The whispers in the Capitol's high-society gatherings grew louder, comparing the size of your family to the apparent lack of progeny from the Snow lineage. It became a matter of public curiosity, and the pressure to produce an heir was now a heavy burden on Coriolanus.

Lounging out on one of the day beds, sunglasses perched on your nose, and a book in hand, you felt a figure towering over you. Your eyes move from the words on your page to the figure.

"We need to talk," he declared, his voice firm, as he offers you your robe to which your gratefully take and slip it on your body. The air hung heavy with anticipation as you reluctantly nodded. "Alright." You follow Coriolanus to his study where he closes, and locks the door behind you.

Raising an eyebrow at his odd behaviour he sits down with a loud sigh. You silently sit at one of the seats in front of his desk. Coriolanus took a deep breath, his gaze intense.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, waiting for him to clarify. “How do you propose we do that?” His eyes bore into yours as he spoke, his words carrying an unusual urgency. “Let’s have a child.”

The weight of his statement hung in the air, and you couldn’t hide the surprise etched across your face. “What?” you stammered.

Coriolanus’s jaw tensed, his resolve unyielding. “I said, let’s have a—” “I heard you,” you interrupted with a snap, frustration bubbling to the surface. “But you can’t just decide that on a whim. It’s not that simple.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I understand that, but the longer we wait, the more the rumors will grow. I can’t bear the scrutiny any longer. We need to put an end to this speculation, for both our sakes.”

The cold reality of the situation hit you—the marriage, the façade, and now the pressure to bear a child for the sake of appearances. You couldn’t deny the logic in his words, but the emotional chasm between you and Coriolanus seemed insurmountable.

“I can’t just bring a child into this world for the sake of quelling rumors,” you protested, your voice trembling with emotion. Coriolanus scoffed, “You can, and you will.” His harsh comment made you gulp, your mother’s words ringing in the back of your mind. “Obey your husband,” “Do what pleases him,” and so you did.

It didn’t take long for you to get pregnant. On your sixth wedding anniversary, this time, you held your nearly one-year-old son in your lap, about to announce that you were expecting again.

[rafeobx]

THE GHOST BETWEEN US

MASTERLIST

ex!rafe x maybank!reader

plot: it’s been months since you ended things with rafe—ever since jj found out about your secret and gave you an ultimatum. everything’s different now: rafe’s with sofia, jj has kiara… and you? you’re alone. but everyone knows the truth — no matter who he’s with, rafe still loves you.

warnings: lots angst, jealousy, KOOK sofia

he’s with sofia now.

everyone knows it. she’s pretty. polished. safe. she wears white dresses and pearl earrings. she knows how to laugh at the right time, say the right thing, never ask too many questions. she’s from his world. the world that smells like old money and champagne on docks and names whispered like legacies.

she doesn’t come with war in her eyes and rebellion in her veins. she doesn’t come with the name maybank tangled in hers. she doesn’t make his father flinch when she walks into a room.

but everyone also knows that rafe still checks the old dock, still drives by the chateau late at night, lights off, heart clenching, still wears the chain you gave him that he keeps tucked under his shirt, hidden like a wound that never healed.

he moved on the way people do when they’re trying not to die—not because he stopped loving you.

and sofia isn’t blind,—she sees the way he stiffens when someone says your name, she sees how he zones out, staring at nothing, lost in a memory only he knows.

she kisses him, and he kisses her back but not like he kissed you.

never like you. he doesn’t say her name like it’s a prayer because she’s not you.

and no matter how many months pass — no matter how many pictures he lets her post, how many family dinners he shows up for, how many times she whispers i love you into the curve of his neck —his heart still belongs to the girl who walked away for blood, the girl who left to protect her brother, the girl who shattered both of them just to keep her world from burning even if it killed her, too.

the first time you saw him again was by accident.

midsummers. you weren’t even supposed to be there. kie had begged you to get out of your slump and jj promised they’d keep it chill and you thought, maybe, just maybe, if enough time had passed, it wouldn’t hurt anymore.

you were wrong.

he walked in with sofia at his side, tan and polished in his pressed white shirt and baby-blue tux, with that cruel kind of beauty that still made your lungs falter and your breath hitch.

he looked like a dream you weren’t allowed to touch anymore and when his eyes found yours across the crowd, he froze. everything around you blurred. you didn’t see sofia. you didn’t see the others staring between you and him. all you saw was him and the sea of distance between you.

you looked away, the ache in your chest spilled out of your ribs and onto the floor, deciding to leave before you could break. but rafe followed.

he always did.

you were standing out on the club stairs when you heard him behind you. neither of you spoke right away.

the ocean stretched out in front of you, but all you could feel was the air between you two—thick, electric, still alive.

“i tried,” you finally whispered, not turning around. “i tried to forget you.” his voice came slower. raw. honest. “so did i.” then you turned and there he was. the boy who tore through your world like a storm. you looked at each other like the pain had never left. because the truth was—it hadn't.

and in his eyes, you saw it all--the nights he stayed up thinking of you, the chain under his shirt, the truth he couldn’t say with sofia in his arms.

he still loved you and that was the cruelest part of all.

[dannyriccsystem]

oscar having a crush on his sister’s best friend and asking her out, only to find out she’s had a crush on him ever since they were young

WHY DON’T YOU SIT RIGHT DOWN AND STAY AWHILE?

FORMULA ONE DRIVER X READER

Summary: Hattie’s closest friend seems to have a crush on her brother ^^

Warnings: Pure fluff, not proofread, Y/N usage

Featuring: Oscar Piastri x Sister’s BFF!Reader

FIRST OSCAR REQUEST, WHO ELSE CHEERED!

Cracking down on my requests today… Y’all are geniuses.

It started when they were young— Like, really young. Y/N and Hattie were attached at the hip since grade one, a pair of best friends who were damn near inseparable. By the time Y/N was thirteen, she had gained a spare key to the Piastri house, and was told by Nicole herself that she was “welcome anytime.”

She was close with the whole family, except two of them. Oscar Piastri, and his father Chris. The two of them were always out on their own, focusing on the legacy that Chris had set in stone for his son. It could have been any of them, sure. Eddie, May, Hattie… But Oscar had potential, and his father easily recognized that.

Nicole always described her singular son as “heartless.” Not in the mean way, either, but in the way where he lacked emotion and expression. It wasn’t weird to see him laugh or smile occasionally, but it definitely seemed unnatural for him. His passion came out when he was karting, that’s when Oscar truly shined.

Y/N remembered the exact day it blossomed. January 26th, 2016. The summer break in Australia was just finally beginning to come to an end, and that pre-school season high was hitting. That feeling where you’re both dreading and yearning your classes— On one hand, it’s a time to reconnect with friends. On the other, it’s a time to learn. Boring.

She was spending her last few days with Hattie, enjoying the time they had left before they barely saw each other. School days limited their time together to the weekends, and the occasional long break. After running around all day, enjoying their time in the Australian sun, Y/N went inside to use the bathroom.

Rather miraculously, she ended up in the eldest Piastri child’s bedroom. Her haste caused a silly mistake with the two rooms being found side by side. She was met with a bewildered Oscar, who was perched before his bed that adorned an open suitcase, packed full of clothes and other knickknacks.

“Oh, are you going somewhere?” Now seemed an odd time for a vacation. Plus, Hattie would have surely told her about whatever adventure her family was going on.

“No,” He replied curtly. He seemed to disregard her now, continuing with his packing. His lips were drawn into that typical expression— Blank and devoid of emotion. He didn’t seem sad nor happy. Just… There. “My dad and I are moving to the UK.”

He said it so casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. For just a moment she could see past that nonchalant facade as he turned his head away, one hand lifted to wipe his face. His voice gave away nothing, but she could tell he was trying to keep it together.

“Oh…” Unsure of what to say, she stood there silently. After regaining his composure, he began to zip up the suitcase. Y/N took a deep breath, fidgeting with her hands behind her back. “Well, uhm. I’ll… Miss you?” She could certainly have sounded more sure about it. It was phrased like a question.

He understood. They had only ever interacted briefly, and it was never one-on-one. Hattie was always there to guide the conversation, and the chatter never consisted of Oscar’s voice. Just his ears as he quietly listened. Nonetheless, he offered her a little smile. “Thanks.”

A beat of silence.

“I’ll miss you too.”

Y/N couldn’t explain why if she tried, but she carried those words with her permanently. Even as he moved away, and she stayed right where she was with everything she knew growing up, she clung onto those last few words. I’ll miss you too.

What she didn’t realize was that he was doing the same. He grew into his personality, shifting from that careless kid into an adult with a good sense of compassion. He was charming and lovable, his career pushing him into the limelight of school. There were various opportunities to move on and build a new relationship. It seemed like every time he turned a corner there was someone waiting for him with a confession in hand. And it seemed that after every corner, he left someone heartbroken.

When Oscar came to visit, it was weird. Y/N was still there, of course, occupying the space she always had. He felt like he wasn’t going to fit back in, like maybe his family had grown so much without him that they had learned to fill the barren hole, but every single time he found himself welcomed with open arms.

Much like the rest of his family, Y/N was there to celebrate the move into F1. It was around then they decided to exchange numbers and socials, allowing themselves to reconnect once more. She supported him quietly from afar, offering gentle reassurance that he’d always have one fan out in the crowds. Even if she wasn’t physically there.

DECEMBER 18TH, 2024-

12:30 PM.

It was just a few more days until Hattie’s birthday, which had already been meticulously and extravagantly planned by Y/N and Hattie’s boyfriend. They rented out this beautiful restaurant by the lakeside, which would perfectly reflect the stars at night, and create a beautiful atmosphere for her twenty-second birthday. All of this complete with a small firework show approved by the city.

It also doubles as a celebration for their favorite racer.

Oscar had flown in as well, happy to be there to support his sister despite the fact the 2024 season had just come to an end, with promising results for both himself and Mclaren. Y/N picked him up from the airport, and after he dropped his things off at the childhood home his parents still occupied, they went out to the nearby mall for lunch, and to go dress shopping.

“Is there a certain color scheme?” He questioned as he shifted through various racks. Growing up with three younger sisters, Oscar would like to say he had decent fashion sense.

“No,” Y/N replied, her hand brushing against his as she reached to grab one of the dresses along the rack he was shuffling in. She felt a shiver run down her spine, but she rolled her shoulders and shrugged the sensation off. “It’s a birthday party, not a wedding.”

He snorted, softly shaking his head, “Well you’ve certainly put in the effort of a wedding. You crossed the line when you mentioned the fireworks.” Y/N playfully rolled her eyes, holding up the dress she selected whilst looking in the mirror that hung at the end of the rack. Too fancy.

“She’s been my best friend for years,” She hung the dress back up, sifting through them some more before selecting another. “I want it to be special.” Another dud. She hung it back up and sighed.

“How about this one?” Oscar questioned, holding a dress out to her. Y/N accepted it, tilting her head as she examined her reflection. Flattering, simple, pretty. “Looks good to me.”

“Perfect.”

DECEMBER 21ST, 2024-

7:45 PM.

The night had gone perfectly. It was a family and friend’s exclusive experience, featuring the Piastri family, some of their other friends, Hattie, and her boyfriend. They dined expensively and laughed over ridiculous jokes, letting the high class facade fall to enjoy a spectacular night with people they loved and cherished.

Once she was finished with the late dinner, Y/N excused herself for some air. It was an exciting night, but that made it just as overwhelming as any other party. She went out onto the balcony on the second story of the restaurant, the orchestral music and soft chatter of longtime friends fading into the background.

The fresh air hit her arms first, causing goosebumps to line her skin. She rested against the railing, looking out over the starry lake that shimmered with the beauty of the sky.

“I thought I’d find you up here,” She perked up at the familiar voice of Oscar, causing her to straighten up and turn to look at him. She couldn’t help the cheesy grin that tilted her lips upwards, one that he easily matched. He stepped forward until he was beside her, resting his arms against the railing himself. Their shoulders brushed together, but neither pulled away. “Why’re you here?”

“Why are you here?” She rebutted with a playful tone, both brows raised. Her eyes were pinned to the lake, but Oscar’s… His gaze never left her.

“I was looking for you.” Her attention faltered, and she found herself looking at him with an expression of confusion. “Lots of people I don’t know. Guess that’s what I get for living so far away,” He spoke softly, like a whisper.

Almost in sync, both of them looked away again. “Guess that just means you need to visit more often.” The moment drifted off into comfortable silence, both of them enjoying the presence of distant friends. Each yearned for more.

It was only broken by the bustling laughter from bellow. The dinner party had traveled outside in preparation for the surprise fireworks show, but with them came loud laughter. The music had died down now, leaving room for the crackle and explosion of bright lights, infecting the sky with neon colors.

Even with this blazing spectacle above him, Oscar couldn’t tear his gaze away from her. She was witnessing those fireworks firsthand, while he witnessed them through the reflection of her captivating eyes. “Wow,” She muttered under her breath, taken aback by just how beautiful they were.

“Wow.” He repeated, staring like a lovestruck fool. “Y/N,” he spoke firmly. It took her a moment, but she looked from the night sky to him, only to find him staring intently already.

“Yeah?” He leaned in, and at first she felt uncertain. But eventually, she followed his lead.

“I love you.”

Their lips pressed together in an electrifying manner, sparks flying just as the fireworks died down. When it was time to pull away, she felt her breath catch in her throat.

“I love you too.”

Even though they spent it alone, the rest of their night was filled with just as much laughter and mirth.

[zerocoded]

summary: your estranged grandmother left you exactly one thing in her will: a sprawling luxury apartment in the heart of seoul — the kind of place that could singlehandedly cover your entire college tuition if you ever decided to sell it. now you had a penthouse all to yourself, a pink-tiled kitchen you weirdly adored, and a hopeless, slow-burning crush on the absurdly attractive neighbor who barely looked your way.

authors note: here i am uploading this big ass story when i should be totally studying for my finals next week. well, i can't help but be obsessed with these vampire ahh cuties. stream desire unleashed everybody! it is a good ass album. i changed and this is the second prologue of the story. don't ask me why, but i think this one suits better as a prologue and not a chapter.

warnings and tags: sfw content but suggestive • niki is our bestie and i hope we're ok with that • dark themes such as depression, melancholy, killing • landlord!sunghoon x reader • vampire!sunghoon x collegestudent!reader • gore, mentions of violence and blood • description of violence• HEAVY ANGST • poor attempt at comedy • fluff if you squint • bad writing • reader's dad has cancer • complicated mom and daughter relationship • family drama.

word count: 10.2k (pls someone sedate me)

previous chapters: series masterlist.

you should’ve known this was exactly how your mother would reach out for the first time in seven months — not a call, not a text, not even a passive-aggressive emoji reaction to your instagram story — but a forwarded email from a lawyer with the subject line "regarding the inheritance of han ok-ja's estate."

no context. no greeting. just a pdf attachment and the words: "at least your grandmother left you something useful. don’t waste it."

that was it.

your mother, ever the poet.

and by good thing, of course, she meant a multi-million won apartment unit in seoul’s most absurdly exclusive building — a place you’d only ever seen from a bus window once during a high school trip, the kind of place you thought only politicians and pop idols lived in.

you hadn’t even known your grandmother owned an apartment in the city. hell, you hadn’t known she was still alive until she wasn’t anymore.

but that was the han family legacy, wasn’t it? generational silence, weaponized inheritance, and the occasional real estate windfall.

you grew up in boseong — land of green tea fields, gossiping neighbors, and a high school with a graduation rate that would make your seoul classmates flinch. your entire life had unfolded in two rooms above a butcher shop, where the ceiling leaked every spring and the walls knew too much about your parents’ divorce.

turns out college plans were ruined when you were only 12 and discovered your father had cancer — stage 3 colon cancer, to be exact.

you remember the way your mom said it like she was announcing a sale at the grocery store. no softness, no warning. just facts over kimchi stew. your dad, on the other hand, had tried to smile through it, like he was the one who should be comforting you.

you kind of always thought you would forever be taking care of him in boseong. after your parents’ divorce — at thirteen —, you knew no one else would be on your father’s side to fight cancer, so you only imagined that would be your legacy forever. no big dreams, no neon skylines, no designer buildings with their own saunas and private libraries. just him, you, and the rice cooker that only half-worked in the winter.

he was your best friend. he let you paint his nails when you were five and cried with you when your hamster died. he showed you how to ride a bike, how to swear in three different dialects, and how to make the best damn doenjang jjigae in the province. you would’ve done anything for him. and you did. you sacrificed your future before it even had a chance to form. quietly, without question. like it was just part of being alive — giving up everything for someone you loved.

and for years, he let you. even when the chemo worked, even when he got stronger, even when the worst passed and the only thing left was exhaustion and silence and the scent of hand sanitizer still soaked into the kitchen tiles — he let you stay.

but then you graduated high school, and he started asking. don’t you want to go? aren’t you curious about life beyond the fields? you’re too smart to stay here forever.

and by “smart” he meant that you had great communication skills and were part of the very small chess community of boseong — it consisted only of you and two old ladies.

you pretended not to hear him sometimes. because the truth was, you didn’t want to leave. not him. not your routine. not the only person who made life feel even slightly manageable.

it wasn’t until your mother’s email — short, cold, weaponized — that everything shifted. she hadn’t even mentioned the death, just the logistics. how your grandma died three months ago. how your mother and her brothers were waiting for legally open her will, how some of them took advantage, how they fought. and still, she had left something for you. her only granddaughter. 

and when you told your dad, expecting him to scoff or curse or at least roll his eyes, he’d only smiled. that soft, sad smile that meant he’d been waiting for this moment longer than you had.

“go,” he said. “your life isn’t here. it never was.”

at first, you fought. seoul was never your main goal, you never dreamed of getting out of boseong and going to college. you were content with your two part time jobs at the local bar and at the grocery store. you always had good grades in school, good relationship with your neighbors and a great money reserve. 

so you told him that you would never leave him and that you were content with your ok life in boseong. 

but one night you got weak and searched about college applications just right after your shift. you could say the curiosity got the best out of you, and there you were perching in your bed with your laptop in hands in your dirty waitress uniform and greasy hair. at first, you really didn’t found anything interesting, until you decided to search up the address of the building your mother sent you.

you were surprised, to say the least. and for someone who shared the same bathroom with your own father for 10 years and cleaned tables as a way of living, your temptation to got to seoul changed a bit after that.

on the same night, your father told you to go. to let him go. let boseong go and live a life. 

your life.

you talked to him all night, telling him about how you felt about studying topics you never heard of and living in a too spacious environment when all you have ever wanted was to take care of his sickness. he cursed at you so many times that night about your stupidity that you felt obligated to go and get a life beyond the fields.

so you packed. and cried. and pretended you weren’t terrified of being alone for the first time in your life. you moved into a stranger’s home — one who just happened to share your blood — in a building that felt like a five-star hotel married a haunted mansion.

seonghyeon jaega.

a building that at first made you feel too small, too out of place — all clean marble floors and echoing hallways and neighbors who looked like they’d stepped out of a luxury catalog. the hundreds of pictures of the place on the internet couldn’t get close to how the building was terrifyingly aesthetic inside and out.

and when you said terrifying, you meant it. 

the lobby alone had three chandeliers, a grand piano that no one touched and a concierge desk staffed by a man who looked like he hadn’t blinked since 2003. the elevator played classical music, but not in a comforting way — in a this-is-the-last-song-you-hear-before-disappearing kind of way.

there was a koi pond in the library for no reason at all, a fully operational greenhouse on the rooftop that smelled like lavender and secrets. the gym was nicer than most hospitals. the sauna had eucalyptus-infused steam and, somehow, free chilled grapes. and you swore one of the mirrors in the hallway moved half an inch every time you looked away.

luxurious, yes. but also deeply cursed. like a rich aunt who only gives you money if you promise not to ask what’s in the basement.

you were so scared your first night here that you called your dad before even unpacking, crouched on the pristine floor of the guest bathroom because it was the only place that didn’t echo like a murder documentary reenactment. he didn’t know how to work his phone most of the time — had once accidentally live-streamed himself peeling an orange for nine minutes — but somehow, that night, he figured it out. he stayed on the line with you until you fell asleep, whispering his arsenal of stupid dad jokes like it was a bedtime ritual.

“what’s a vampire’s favorite fruit?” he asked, barely holding in his own laughter. “a blood orange, obviously.”

you groaned. he continued. “why did the skeleton break up with the ghost? … because he could see right through her.”

“dad,” you warned.

“okay, okay, serious one. what’s dracula’s least favorite dentist?”

 “dad—”

 “you. because you’d stake him for his plaque.”

somewhere between his third and twelfth pun, you stopped noticing how unfamiliar the apartment smelled or how quiet the building had become after sunset. it was just his voice in your ear, warm and ridiculous, reminding you who you were when everything else felt too big, too expensive, too not-you.

he kept talking even after you stopped answering, just in case you were pretending to sleep but still needed to hear him. he told you a story about the time he got kicked out of a supermarket for trying to haggle over cabbages, then promised to teach you how to cook galbijjim in an electric pressure cooker “once you stop being a fancy city girl.”

he called you that — fancy city girl — like it was both an insult and a title you’d earned.

and eventually, in that bathroom that smelled like foreign air freshener and existential dread, you fell asleep to the sound of his voice calling you brave in between bad puns about ghosts with dental insurance.

you hated every second of your sleep that night until you started decorating the next morning. with unpacked bags, you left your clothes in a sad little pile of indecision and focused on the real priority: comfort. not survival comfort — emotional comfort. aesthetic comfort. petty, personal, i-will-make-this-haunted-barbie-dream-my-home kind of comfort.

you didn’t have much, but what you did have mattered. mismatched frames, old polaroids, that ugly rug your dad swore was a “family heirloom” (you were 90% sure it was from a garage sale in 2007), your chipped mug with the cartoon bear that looked perpetually anxious — each item slowly carved a space for you inside all the clean, terrifying luxury.

and then there was the kitchen. the pink-tiled kitchen.

you’d thought it was a visual hallucination at first. a fever dream from sleeping on marble and grief. but no — it was real. baby pink tiles from floor to ceiling, gold handles on every drawer, and a retro mint-green fridge that looked like it belonged in a movie about a rich housewife who poisons her husband with artisanal arsenic.

the oven was smarter than you. the faucet lit up in LED colors when you turned it. there was a built-in coffee machine you accidentally worshipped for three full minutes before realizing it also made espresso martinis.

you’d never had your own kitchen before. not really. in boseong, the stove had to be turned on with a butter knife and a prayer, and your dad’s idea of spice organization was “vaguely the same shelf.”

but here, in this edible-looking kitchen that screamed chaotic heiress with secrets, you felt something shift. you didn’t belong here — not even close — but you could pretend. you could make it yours.

starting with the bear mug. front and center. because if the ghosts were going to haunt you, they were going to have to look at his anxious little face first.

you didn’t know much about your grandmother — except that she hated your dad, apparently tolerated your mom, and once sent you a birthday card with your name spelled wrong and five thousand won tucked inside like a truce. growing up, she was more ghost story than family member. the kind of woman who existed only in bitter phone calls and family reunions no one ever enjoyed.

so the fact that this pink kitchen — this frosted, weaponized femininity — had belonged to her was confusing at best and mildly horrifying at worst. did she choose this aesthetic? were the gold swan-shaped drawer pulls intentional? did she wake up one day and think, “yes, i want my home to look like a macaron opened a credit line”?  and if so — who the hell was han ok-ja, really?

you were still staring at the gold-rimmed stovetop on your second night here, trying to decide if it made you feel rich or nauseous, when you heard it.

voices.

the first sound of life outside your apartment since moving in — and not the unsettling creak of old pipes or elevator music that sounded suspiciously like a dirge. actual human voices.

you froze, mug in hand, heart thudding like you were the one trespassing.

you crept toward the door and peeked through the peephole like a responsible citizen-slash-nosey neighbor. and there they were: two of them.

two men.

not delivery drivers. not maintenance workers. not the faceless ghosts you’d imagined floated through these halls at night. these guys looked like they’d walked off a K-drama set about billionaire assassins. tall, sharply dressed, effortlessly serious. one had that slicked-back hair that screamed “i own three nightclubs and a moral dilemma,” and the other looked like he could command a room without saying a word. they spoke low and fast — something about “containment” and “asking jake later” — before disappearing around the corner like this was all completely normal.

you didn’t breathe until the hallway was empty again. and even then, only because your bear mug was fogging up the peephole.

you didn’t know who they were. hell, you didn’t know anyone here. the one person who’d helped you move in was the doorman with serial killer energy and an unsettlingly strong grip — and even he disappeared the second your last box was through the door, like helping you was part of some cursed blood oath he had to fulfill.

your college classmates weren’t much better. your entire winter prep course so far had consisted of awkward breakout rooms, muted mics, and staring at floating letters in google classroom. no faces. just ominous little circles with initials like “K” and “Y,” as if you were being haunted by the world’s most boring ghost cult.

so yeah. no friends. no neighbors. no idea if anyone in this building was even real. and you were introduced to the concept of “other residents” in the most dramatic way possible — via hallway mafia cosplay and mysterious murmurs about something that definitely did not sound legal.

you did what any mentally stable person would do: took a shower. hot water. calm nerves. fake a sense of control.

four minutes in — conditioner still in your hair, face mid-existential crisis — the doorbell rang.

you stood there frozen, water dripping down your back, just staring at the tiled wall like maybe you’d imagined it. maybe the building was playing tricks. wouldn’t be the weirdest thing.

but it rang again. twice this time. like whoever it was had the audacity to be persistent.

so you grabbed a towel, cursed under your breath, and padded across the marble floor like the world's angriest wet ghost.

and when you opened the door —

sunghoon.

you didn’t know his name at the time. you only knew he looked like someone who didn’t need names. the kind of face that belonged on perfume billboards and moody vampire dramas. sharp jaw, colder eyes, all cheekbones and contempt. holding your mail like it had personally offended him.

“your delivery,” he’d said.

two words. no emotion. no explanation. just a stack of envelopes addressed to han ok-ja and a stare that nearly short-circuited your brain.

you stammered. tried to say thank you. dropped your conditioner on the floor like a dramatic prop.

he didn’t flinch. didn’t blink. just placed the mail in your hands and turned around, disappearing down the hallway like a final boss retreating after a tutorial level.

you shut the door and immediately collapsed against it, half-naked, half-mortified, fully confused.

you told yourself it was just a fluke encounter. he probably didn’t even live on your floor. maybe he was visiting. maybe you hallucinated the whole thing and the envelopes were cursed.

but then you started hearing more voices in the next day. always calm, always composed — unnervingly so, like they were narrating a documentary or conducting a negotiation instead of, you know, talking like regular people. they were different voices, too. distinct. male. low. not loud enough to catch the words, just the rhythm. steady. practiced. like they knew someone might be listening.

they came from the only other apartment on your floor — the one directly across from yours, the only other unit tucked into this absurdly private corridor. at first, you thought it was just the acoustics messing with you, echoing from the floors above or below. but no. the timing was too perfect. the pauses too measured.

so you pieced it together: those voices, the ones that made your skin prickle and your heartbeat speed up for no logical reason, belonged to your neighbors.

whoever they were. whoever he was.

so, naturally, you started stalking him.

you called it “gathering intel,” but really it was just you loitering in the hallway and pretending to take out the trash three times a day. you even got fake-lost once, wandering to the rooftop and pretending to marvel at the view — only to find him elbow-deep in a planter box in the greenhouse.

you tried to play it cool. like you just happened to stumble upon this botanical mysteryland by accident. he didn’t buy it. you knew because he didn’t say a word. just looked at you, one eyebrow raised, dirt on his hands, like really?

and yes, really — you made yourself a fool. not even the endearing kind. the talks-to-flowers-to-fill-the-silence-while-your-hot-neighbor-ignores-you kind.

you replayed every second of that encounter at least seventy-two times on your walk back to the apartment.

you, standing like a lost sims character in his private garden. 

you, talking about hydrangeas like they personally offended you. 

you, saying “are you deaf?” to a man who could probably hear a moth sneeze through a concrete wall.

he’d told you his name. sunghoon. 

no last name. no polite small talk. just sunghoon — like it should’ve been obvious, like he assumed his name carried weight in ways you were too human to understand. and maybe it did. maybe that was why it stuck with you so easily.

after that, you told yourself you’d avoid him. let the awkwardness fade, let time cover the whole thing in dust like everything else in this building.

but curiosity’s a bitch.

and so were you, apparently, because you started noticing things.

all the other residents vanished during the day — ghost cars coming and going at strange hours, silent hallways, apartments that never flickered with light. seonghyeon was supposed to be the pinnacle of luxury, and yet sometimes it felt like a very expensive haunted house. a place for the rich and restless to disappear.

but his apartment — the penthouse — that one was never truly still.

the door was always closed, always locked, always giving you shall not pass energy. but something about it pulsed with life.

sometimes, if you stood still in the stairwell long enough (not that you did that on purpose), you could hear it — laughter. deep voices. music, faint and classical one day, low and thumping the next. the clink of glass against glass. sometimes even footsteps pacing, like someone arguing with the walls.

and they weren’t ghost sounds. they weren’t echoes. they were unmistakably human.

which confused the hell out of you.

sunghoon didn’t seem like the hosting type. he didn’t seem like the talking type, honestly. and yet… those voices.

you tried to rationalize it. maybe he had roommates. maybe he had a large, weirdly formal family. maybe he was running a strangely attractive cult and no one had noticed because they were all too hot to question anything.

you figured those two men from your second day here — the ones who looked like they belonged in a noir film or an underworld fashion spread — lived there too. the timing made too much sense. the way they moved, too — like the building was theirs.

and that made everything worse.

because, really — why were hot men living together in a penthouse?

not just hot. alarmingly hot. HD-ready, slow-motion-walk-through-the-smoke hot.

either they were in a boyband you’d never heard of, or something weird was going on. and the more you thought about it, the less it felt like a fantasy and the more it felt like the start of an expensive psychological thriller.

you’d moved here thinking the biggest threat was going to be loneliness. 

now you weren’t so sure.

between the mysterious roommates, the suspiciously symmetrical garden, and the fact that your neighbor might be the living embodiment of a victorian fever dream — things had shifted. subtly. quietly. but still.

which brings you to the present.

two weeks in. january air pressing sharp against your windows. your heating system suspiciously temperamental. your prep course schedule eating your sanity one unread syllabus at a time.

it was friday — the day after the greenhouse incident. or, as you now lovingly referred to it in your mind: the day you decided to mortify yourself in front of a hot cryptid.

you were doing your absolute best to pretend like it never happened. which was hard, considering the mental reruns your brain insisted on playing every time you so much as walked past a plant.

also, the silence. the kind of silence that felt too big, even for a place this large.

you missed your dad.

you missed the way he knocked on your door every morning even when you weren’t home. you missed how the house always smelled like burnt rice or old coffee.

here, everything smelled like luxury cleaning products and echoes.

you still didn’t know how to use the guest room bathtub.

you still hadn’t figured out which switch turned on the weird chandelier in the hallway.

you were still trying to remember what it felt like to not be new all the time.

which meant: staying indoors, drinking your weight in instant coffee, and trying to finish your college assignment like a normal, functioning member of society.

outside, seoul was a frozen postcard — january at its peak, all gray skies and the kind of wind that made your building moan like it was haunted (which, honestly, wasn’t out of the question). inside, you were wrapped in a giant hoodie, sitting cross-legged on your overpriced sofa, staring at a half-finished document titled “attachment styles and their long-term impact on adult relationships.”

it was due in four days. you’d written seven words. two of them were your name.

“jesus,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face as your laptop fan whined like it too wanted to give up.

your textbook lay open beside you, unread. you kept glancing at the clock, at your phone, at the kitchen — literally anywhere that wasn’t your word doc.

you’d already cleaned the counters. twice. rearranged the spice rack. googled “can someone have both avoidant and anxious attachment or am i just doomed.”

now you were debating whether “take a nap” qualified as productive.

and yet, no matter how hard you tried to focus, your brain kept looping back to one very specific visual: sunghoon. crouched in the dirt. sleeves rolled. that voice. those hands.

you groaned, flopping backwards like gravity owed you a favor.

this was a nightmare. or a romcom. except instead of falling in love you were just… spiraling. academically. emotionally. thermally, because your heater was already acting up again.

it was the end of your second week in seoul.

your father had called that morning, asking how you were adapting to the city’s temperature.

you hadn’t had the heart to say that you missed his jokes the most, that you felt embarrassingly late starting a winter prep course at twenty-three, and that you hadn’t made a single friend over winter break because you were too busy staying inside.

not studying. not exploring. just… existing.

you told him everything was fine. you laughed at his dumb pun about kimchi being your emotional support food. you pretended the loneliness didn’t cling to you like an oversized coat you couldn’t quite shake off.

you were about to post a photo of your aggressively pink mug sitting next to your aggressively pink kettle when the doorbell rang.

you froze.

not because doorbells were inherently threatening, but because in seonghyeon, they kind of were. no one visited you. no one should be visiting you.

you tiptoed to the door, peeked through the peephole — and blinked.

hoodie. messy hair. the boy who fixed your heater on your third day here.

niki.

leaning casually against your doorframe like this was his fifth reincarnation and he was bored of them all. black sweatshirt, slightly messy hair, and a lopsided grin that made your anxiety spike for no reason you were ready to admit.

“hey,” he said smoothly. “sorry for the weird drop-in, but… do you have a printer?”

you blinked. “what?”

“a printer.” he nodded toward your apartment like this was totally normal. “ours died. jake forgot to refill the toner and now it sounds like a dying cat every time we try to use it. i have to print something urgent for heeseung before he gets back from god-knows-where, or i’ll never hear the end of it.”

he gave you a sheepish smile, like he was just another poor man, a humble victim of modern technology. “you’d literally be saving a life. maybe mine.”

“you don’t have a backup printer?”

“we have centuries of accumulated knowledge,” he said, deadpan, “but apparently none of it covers basic office supplies.”

your brows lifted.

niki smiled like he was proud of himself — then added, “also, you kinda owe me. remember the tragic heater incident of last week? i saved your toes. seems only fair you save my social standing with heeseung.”

somehow, niki was the only neighbor who actually talked to you. he sometimes sounded oddly flirty, in that way that made you question if he was joking or just naturally like that, but still — he was the only constant you’d had all week.

like that first night in the elevator.

you’d gone out to take the trash in your sad-girl uniform (read: mismatched socks, your dad’s hoodie, and the kind of messy bun that was less “carefree” and more “actively falling apart”).

the elevator doors opened and there he was. leaning against the mirrored wall like the ride was a runway.

he looked at you, at your tragic ensemble, and without missing a beat said, “rough night or bold fashion statement?”

you almost dropped the trash bag.

then there was the gym.

which, in your defense, you thought would be empty at noon on a tuesday.

you walked in ready to attempt some kind of fake cardio — only to find niki mid-rep, shirtless, earbuds in, glistening with the kind of sweat that looked like it came with a lighting crew.

you stood frozen like you'd just walked in on a pagan ritual.

he noticed you instantly — of course he did — and pulled out one earbud with a grin.

“didn’t take you for a gym rat,” he said, not even out of breath. “what’s your workout plan? anxiety and instant noodles?”

you left seven minutes later, sweating from embarrassment.

another time, you tried to sneak out for a night walk — hoodie on, playlist blasting, full stealth mode — only for the lobby door to swing open and reveal niki… balancing a tray of banana milk, three convenience store bento boxes, and what appeared to be a single lemon.

he blinked at you.

you blinked back.

“don’t judge me,” he said, as if you were the one caught mid-snack run with a lemon like it owed him money.

you weren’t sure if he was teasing you or had the personality of a teen movie star.

but either way, he was a puzzle you couldn’t quite solve — half charming, half cryptic, entirely unpredictable.

and now he was standing at your door, asking for a printer, like that made perfect sense.

niki’s company wasn’t uninvited, just oddly strategic sometimes, like he’s been waiting for tou to open your apartment door for him to leave his. 

you raised an eyebrow as he leaned casually against your doorway, still holding the suspiciously printer cable he claimed had “glitched” on him. you stepped aside anyway, motioning him in with a sigh that was more performative than annoyed. 

not that you two were friends, exactly. but he made you feel comfortable — or at the very least, not like you were one bad decision away from becoming a true crime podcast episode. he seemed decent. normal-ish. like someone who held doors open and actually texted back.

so maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to give him a chance. you guys already had a decent amount of stupid hangouts. maybe he could be your friend in this giant, freezing city. maybe you wouldn’t have to do this whole alone-in-seoul thing completely alone.

so you let him in.

“you know, most people text before showing up,” you said, stepping aside.

of course, niki had asked for your number last week — for safety purposes, whatever that meant. so you weren’t crazy for demanding him an explanation of why he just didn’t text you first.

“most people don’t fix heaters for free,” he shot back without missing a beat.

“oh my god,” you muttered, closing the door behind him. “you’re gonna milk that forever, aren’t you?”

niki grinned like a fox. “absolutely. you gave me banana bread and now i’m emotionally invested.”

you gestured toward your sad little work desk in the corner, where your overpriced student printer sat in all its barely-functioning glory.

“knock yourself out. just don’t ask me for help if it starts blinking at you.”

“don’t worry, i know how to handle old tech.” he crouched down, already plugging things in like he’d done this a thousand times. probably had. you watched him for a second — black hoodie bunched at the elbows, dark hair falling into his eyes, expression a little too pleased with himself for someone who broke his own printer.

“so,” you said, arms crossed as you leaned against the kitchen counter. “what are you printing that’s so life or death?”

niki didn’t look up. “building schematics.”

“schematics,” you repeated. “for, like… a building?”

“yeah. stuff heeseung asked for.”

you blinked. “okay, wait. which one is heeseung again?”

niki whipped his head around like you’d just insulted his bloodline. “wow. wow. you’ve lived here two weeks and you still don’t know our names?”

you raised an eyebrow. “should i?”

he leaned back on his heels, hand over his heart like you’d wounded him. “unbelievable. and here i thought we had something special.”

you rolled your eyes. “you literally showed up at my door because your printer broke.”

“and you let me in,” he said, finger pointed dramatically. “which means something.”

“uh-huh.”

he turned back to the printer, smug and all too pleased with himself. “anyway. heeseung. red hair, tall, stares like he’s reading your thoughts. very expensive skincare routine. kind of terrifying if you don’t know he listens to city pop while painting model trains.”

you blinked again. “he dyed his hair red?”

niki snorted. “see? this is how i know you only remember my name. scandalous.”

you opened your mouth to argue — and promptly closed it, because… he wasn’t exactly wrong.

niki grinned wider. “it’s okay. i get it. i’m memorable.”

“you sound like we’re actually friends,” you said, eyeing him. “which we’re not, by the way. i barely know you. and i barely see your friends — they’re like never here. or they vanish when i’m around. which makes you suspicious, you know that? because the only one i always see is you.”

niki didn’t even flinch. just kept clicking through printer settings like you hadn’t just accused him of being a walking red flag.

“of course i’m the only one you see,” he said. “i’m the most charming. obviously.”

you opened your mouth, probably to insult him, but were cut off by the sudden whirr of your printer coming to life. he looked genuinely pleased, like he’d just hacked into nasa instead of hitting ctrl+P.

“and voilà,” he announced, as the first sheet fed out. “proof that i am both useful and handsome.”

you blinked. “wow. incredible. now take your stuff and go.”

but niki — who apparently had zero intention of leaving — wandered away from the desk like he owned the place.

“nice place,” he said, inspecting your sad plant in the corner. “what’s this one’s name? depression?”

“that’s literally a peace lily.”

“ironic.” he flopped onto your couch, limbs everywhere. “is this real leather or vegan sadness?”

“niki—”

“oh, are these cookies?” he reached for the half-eaten pack on your coffee table.

you lunged. “those are mine! you can’t just— you’re not even invited!”

“i was invited by the owner,” he said through a mouthful of cookie. “and also, by the universal law of ‘i fixed your heater.’”

“that is not— that’s not how anything works!”

he stretched out like a cat, one arm thrown dramatically over the back of the couch, like he was settling in for a netflix binge. “this is nice. i feel very welcomed.”

you stared at him. “you’re a menace.”

“a charming one.”

“i should start charging rent.”

“sure. just add it to the list of things you pretend you don’t want from me.”

you threw a pillow at his face.

niki smirked, returning to the printer like he hadn’t just gone through your entire life via interior design. “just doing my neighborly due diligence.”

you rolled your eyes. “do you talk like this with all of the other residents?”

“only the pretty ones who lend me banana bread and let me into their apartment without asking questions.”

you blinked at him. he didn’t flinch.

“you’re lucky my pepper spray’s buried in my tote bag.”

“you’re lucky i’m charming enough to take that risk.”

you shook your head, but your lips twitched despite yourself.

a few more pages printed.

“met any of the other neighbors yet?” he asked, still fully sprawled across your very recently cleaned sofa like he paid rent here.

you sighed. apparently, this was your night now — your other cute neighbor (not the one you preferably wished was in your home but still cute, unfortunately) lounging in your living room and asking you questions like this was some kind of casual interrogatory.

you dropped into the only other chair — the one beside the shelf where a TV should be, but you still hadn’t figured out how to afford one when you were barely making your ramen-to-days ratio work.

you glanced over at him and answered. “not unless you count the old woman on the third floor who yells at the mailman in jeolla dialect,” you said. “i think she has a shrine to her cat in the stairwell.”

niki laughed at that.

“ah, mrs. cho. the patron saint of passive aggression.”

you grinned. “and then there’s the guy with the black porsche. not korean. definitely not even asian. i swear to god i’ve seen him in a movie before.”

niki lifted a brow. “short, built like a villain, always wears sunglasses?”

“yes!”

“that’s theo.”

you blinked. “you know him?”

niki shrugged. “he owes me two shirts and a very expensive wine opener.”

“…you hang out with western celebrities and still have to print engineering data on your neighbor’s shitty printer?”

“i’m humble like that.”

you gave him a long look. “so what’s the deal? why is this building full of ghosts and runway models? i thought this was just gonna be me and a bunch of rich divorcees. picking from my late grandmother's profile, this place was supposed to be crawling with silver-haired women named eun-sook and their lapdogs.”

niki just grinned, the kind of grin that made it very clear he wasn’t going to give you a straightforward answer, but he was absolutely going to enjoy not giving it.

“maybe you’re just circulating in different areas,” he said, casual as ever. “there’s also mr. park on the 10th floor. passionate filmmaker. made millions in the '70s. he talks to plants and wears velvet robes. iconic, really.”

you blinked. “…he’s real?”

“very.”

you squinted at him. “and what are you, then? the building’s unofficial tour guide?”

“resident heartthrob,” he replied without missing a beat, smirking. “printer technician. heater fixer. emotional support neighbor.”

you gave him a dry look. “you’re impossible to age, you know that? your face screams ‘freshman orientation,’ but you talk like you’ve been through at least two divorces.”

niki leaned forward, propping his chin in his hand. “i’m twenty-two.”

the way he said it was too smooth. too clean. like it had been practiced.

you stared at him for a second too long. “…sure you are.”

“what, you don’t believe me?”

“i believe someone is twenty-two,” you muttered. “i’m just not sure it’s you.”

he laughed, and you sighed. god, you just wanted to finish your essay before your stomach started announcing its abandonment issues. you’d eaten nothing but cookies all day. even your blood sugar was judging you.

niki’s papers were finally done printing, but he made no move to leave. instead, he wandered back to your couch like this was a regular hangout — like you didn’t have academic deadlines and a deeply tragic pantry.

“do your roommates also pretend to live here,” you asked, “or is that just your thing?”

niki hummed, flopping onto the cushions again. “depends. jungwon’s usually busy running the world, sunoo only leaves for beauty products, jay’s emotionally allergic to sunlight, and heeseung…” he paused. “well, heeseung’s redecorating his room again. new hair, new furniture. guy’s going through his third identity arc this year.”

you blinked. “he really dyed it red?”

“like full villain arc. he stood in front of the mirror for two hours yesterday practicing his ‘you dare betray me’ face.”

you snorted. “i should’ve picked him to develop a weird crush on.”

niki looked at you slowly. then grinned. wide. evil.

you realized, too late.

did you just… fully expose your newly developing crush to a guy who lived with him? really? 

sure, niki wasn’t a stranger exactly. but he was also someone who very clearly lived off blackmail energy and chaos. someone who probably kept a mental folder labeled “leverage” with a subsection titled dumb stuff neighbor girl says.

and worse — he was sunghoon’s roommate. as in: shared a home. a kitchen. probably towels. probably saw him shirtless. daily.

your soul briefly tried to evacuate your body.

“you are very unique, you know that, right?” niki said, and for once, his voice wasn’t just joking. it was low, like he meant it. or at least like he was thinking about meaning it.

you raised an eyebrow, trying to play it off. “so you were the girl sunghoon-hyung was muttering about all morning. i thought i was going crazy.”

you blinked.

“what?”

niki didn’t move. didn’t even try to soften the blow. just looked at you like you were the one being slow.

“sunghoon. pale skin, cute moles, nice fashion sense. he was relentless this morning,” he repeated. “a lot, actually. and he doesn’t do that. ever. not unless something’s bothering him.”

you sat up straighter, suddenly hyper-aware of every heartbeat in your body. “and you… came here to print. not to spy. right?”

niki gave you a flat look. “i came here to confirm a theory.” he waved one of the printed pages like a prop. “the printing was just an excuse. i don’t actually care about heeseung’s floor plans. the guy’s redecorating again — it’s like watching a pinterest board have a breakdown.”

you stared. “so you think… sunghoon’s spiraling? and you came here to see if i was the reason?”

niki tilted his head. “he didn’t go out with the rest of us today. jay’s out. jungwon too. even jake finally left the building. which means whatever got him all twisted up happened here.”

you opened your mouth, but your brain hadn’t caught up yet.

niki crossed his arms. “so i asked myself: what changed yesterday? and then i remembered our neighbor,” he said, gesturing around your apartment like it was a crime scene. “who decided to play dumb in his private greenhouse.”

you groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “i didn’t decide anything. i got lost.”

niki raised both brows.

“sure.” he smiled. “you really thought he wouldn’t notice you wandering into his favorite place in the entire building?”

“i thought he was going to throw a rake at me.”

“nope. just internalized it and started spiraling like a man in a period drama.” niki leaned in slightly, eyes twinkling. “which, honestly, is kind of flattering. he usually skips the spiraling and goes straight to brooding.”

you buried your face in your hands. “i’m going to die. i’m going to be haunted by this for the rest of my life. tell no one.”

“too late,” niki said. “i’m emotionally invested now. this is my entertainment.”

“i was such a weirdo,” you groaned, hands still covering your face. “and—how do you even know? don’t tell me he’s the type to talk shit about women around his guy friends. please.”

niki scoffed. “sunghoon-hyung? no. he doesn’t talk bad about women. he doesn’t talk about women. or people. or, like, at all most days. that’s why when he started pacing the kitchen and cleaning the already cleaned counter like he was trying to hex himself, i paid attention.”

you peeked at him through your fingers.

“it wasn’t mean,” niki added. “just... restless. confused. like you short-circuited something in him and he couldn’t figure out why.”

you groaned again and let your head fall back against the chair. “great. amazing. so i’m haunting him.”

“you’re interesting,” niki corrected, sounding way too pleased about it.

you sat up, arms crossed. “okay. fine. i admit it. he got my attention on the first day. but i didn’t know anything about him, so i went up there to check. just... to see.”

niki raised an eyebrow. “and?”

“and i made a fool out of myself,” you muttered. “i insulted his hydrangeas. i accused him of spray-painting flowers. i basically loitered in his personal sanctuary like some floral cryptid. it was a disaster.”

niki was grinning. “a disaster he’s still thinking about, apparently.”

you glared at him.

“what?” he said innocently. “he spirals, you spiral. soulmates.”

“get out of my apartment.”

“rude. but fair.”

“i’m sure you’re wrong,” you said, waving a hand like that would physically shoo away the entire conversation. “he’s probably trying to figure out how to get me evicted. he looked very not thrilled to see someone new, now that i think about it.”

niki raised both brows but said nothing.

“actually,” you went on, like a woman possessed, “he’s so fine it’s probably safer for me to just move back to boseong. honestly. for my health. for public safety. i might actually die if i see him again.”

niki blinked. once. slowly.

then: “you’re unwell.”

you pointed at him. “you started it.”

“and i regret nothing,” he said, positively beaming now. “this is the best entertainment i’ve had all week. please spiral more. i’ll bring popcorn next time.”

you dropped your head onto the arm of the chair and groaned into the fabric. “please let the floor open and take me. right now. just swallow me whole. the guy i found cute is exposing my terrible flirting techniques with his roommates.”

niki reached for one of the last pages still sitting in the printer tray, casually flipping it over like you weren’t mid-self-destruction. “nah. sunghoon-hyung would probably just water your ghost like a houseplant.”

you didn’t even have the energy to respond.

“did you come here to see my suffering? okay, maybe i am crazy. i’m having a mental crisis over a neighbor i barely know and who doesn’t even know my name.”

niki didn’t blink. didn’t smirk. just looked at you, completely serious for once.

“oh, he does,” he said. “i told him.”

your brain short-circuited for a beat. “you what?”

he shrugged, standing to gather his pages like this was a totally normal development. “you were spiraling. he was spiraling. i connected the dots. you’re welcome.”

“you’re— you’re insane.”

“you say that like it’s news.”

he tucked the last paper under his arm, then glanced around your apartment like he was memorizing it — or maybe checking to see if he missed anything fun. “don’t overthink it too hard,” he added, turning toward the door. “it’s not like you’re the only human who’s ever made him spiral.”

you froze. “wait— the only what?”

niki paused with his hand on the doorknob. then smiled. slowly. too slowly.

“neighbor,” he said, completely deadpan. “human neighbor. obviously.”

he opened the door. “night, mystery girl.”

and then he left.

you stood there for a long moment, staring at the door, trying to decide if you were hallucinating or just missing something very obvious. your heart was still racing, though you weren’t sure if it was from embarrassment… or something else.

and maybe that was what made you do it. maybe that’s why, ten minutes later, you were zipping up your coat, stepping into your sneakers, and making your way back upstairs — toward the one place that still didn’t make sense.

the greenhouse.

you weren’t sure if you were looking for closure, dignity, or just proof that this sunghoon guy wasn’t currently chanting your name into his camellias. you just knew you had to go.

because something was off. and maybe, just maybe, you were finally ready to find out what.

——

you didn’t really have a plan. just your coat half-zipped, your phone shoved into your pocket, and a fuzzy memory of the stairwell leading to the rooftop.

by the time you reached the greenhouse, the wind had started howling louder, curling around the marble like it had claws. the door creaked as you pushed it open, hesitant — not quite sure what you were hoping to find. not even sure you wanted to be seen.

but no one was there. not yet.

instead, there was… stillness. eerie, clean stillness. the kind that didn’t feel empty, just waiting.

the lights were dimmed to that soft, golden low — like the whole place was stuck between late evening and a dream. the air was warmer here than in the rest of the building, humid and filled with the scent of damp earth, jasmine, and something vaguely sweet you couldn’t place. like something had just bloomed, or was about to.

you stepped forward carefully, eyes flicking from one corner to another. there were plants you couldn’t name — some domestic, some probably illegal, some tall enough to have a personality. there were shelves of tools that looked antique, a misting system that hissed like a sleeping cat every few minutes, and in the far back — the camellias.

you didn’t know much about flowers, but those had been the ones the cute neighbor was tending the last time you embarrassed yourself in here. they looked too perfect to be real now. which somehow only made you more nervous.

you walked slowly, brushing your fingers over a leaf here, a petal there. something about the place made your heartbeat slow down — not relax, but drag, like time was thicker here.

you reached the camellias. stared at them. quiet. then:

“if you start talking, i swear to god i’ll scream.”

no response. which was good. you weren’t ready for enchanted flora just yet.

you leaned against the nearest wooden post and let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

“i’m not crazy,” you told the flowers. “i mean, maybe a little. but he’s just a guy. a really… visually jarring guy. with plants. and beautiful hands. and maybe cult energy. but still. a guy.”

actually, now that you thought about it, your father would be losing it if he saw you right now — probably wheezing from laughter, maybe texting you articles about urban hallucinations, and definitely threatening to drag you back to boseong before you joined a handsome, plant-worshipping cult.

you never been in love before, hell, you only felt attraction through tv shows and social media platforms. boseong didn’t have actual boys your age to fantasize about. so you felt stupid for being so new to all this experience. hell, you only found him hot, it’s not like you have already fell for him.

or so that was what you were willing to admit right now.

and of course — because your life was a joke — that was exactly when the door creaked open behind you.

you turned. slowly.

sunghoon stood in the entrance, hoodie pulled over his head, face unreadable under the warm light.

he was dressed so casually compared to the last time you saw him — exactly here, probably twenty-four hours ago to the minute — when he looked like he’d stepped out of a noir film in that trench coat that probably cost more than your tuition and shoes you were too scared to breathe near.

now it was just a hoodie. black, like niki’s. sleeves pushed to the forearms. sneakers.

he looked… human. more human than yesterday.

still, hot as fuck.

but you controlled your thoughts. barely.

“sorry that i’m trespassing again,” was your first move — because, naturally, you led with self-incrimination.

great. amazing. full confession. this man was definitely going to start locking the place now. maybe even file a restraining order.

honestly, you wouldn’t blame him.

he didn’t answer right away. you could feel his gaze, though — heavy, unreadable, like he was trying to decide if you were a threat or just stupid.

your embarrassment arrived a second too late. you turned your back to him, pretending you weren’t mortified and that the night view just happened to be that interesting.

and to be fair, it kind of was. this part of the greenhouse stretched farther than you realized — glass walls curved outward, revealing the full sprawl of the city below. lights blinked like dying stars. rooftops dusted with frost. your own reflection faint in the glass, barely outlined by the soft yellow glow inside.

you exhaled.

“i hadn’t seen this part yesterday,” you said quietly to no one exactly. “was too busy making a fool of myself in the front.”

you didn’t turn around. just kept your eyes on the skyline. “it’s pretty,” you added. “i mean—i guess you know that. you live here. obviously.”

you heard movement behind you. quiet steps on stone. then his voice — calm, low.

“most people don’t notice this part. too bright during the day.”

you blinked. “well. i only trespass at night, apparently.”

there was a pause. not awkward — just… full.

“you can keep coming here, if you like,” he said finally, gaze fixed on the orchid. “it’s nice during winter.”

you blinked. “is this special treatment because i became friends with one of your roommates?”

he glanced at you. “are you talking about riki?”

“riki? i swear it was niki.”

he laughed. and you absolutely weren’t prepared.

it wasn’t loud — just a quiet, breathy sound, like something slipped out before he could stop it — but it lit across his face in this rare, startling way. his lips parted slightly. you caught the sharp glint of his canines.

and for one irrational second, you felt your blood run cold.

those were long ass canines, my lord.

“yes, niki,” he said, finally looking away. “he goes by that too, apparently. he’s… troublesome. don’t fall for his traps.”

you smiled before you could help it. “thanks for the concern, but i think it’s too late. he literally invaded my apartment earlier today.”

sunghoon raised a brow. 

“printer emergency,” you added, like that somehow justified it.

his mouth twitched. “sounds like him.”

you nodded, trying not to feel weirdly proud that this sunghoon guy didn’t seem annoyed. that he was still standing there. that he hadn’t told you to leave.

did niki say anything to him? god, if he did…

until then, sunghoon had kept a good distance between you both — a few careful feet, a plant or two, like the space between you was intentional. personal. you let it slide, thinking maybe he still thought you were unstable. (which, fair.)

still, you figured you shouldn’t push your luck. shouldn’t linger long enough to ruin the first actually peaceful moment you’d shared with him.

so, with slow steps, you began walking further into the greenhouse, fingers brushing gently over the edge of a planter, letting the silence settle.

the warmth of the space, the smell of wet soil and night-blooming flowers — it all pressed around you like a soft blanket. 

you let yourself breathe.

“do you all live here? for how long?” you couldn’t help but ask, voice low, like the plants might tattle.

sunghoon didn’t answer right away. you glanced back at him — he hadn’t moved from his spot, still half-shadowed by a curtain of ivy, the soft yellow light outlining the curve of his jaw.

“a while,” he said finally. vague. noncommittal. ancient-sounding.

you waited for more. didn’t get it.

“like... years?”

he tilted his head. “give or take.”

you squinted. “that’s not an answer.”

“it’s the only one you’re getting.”

you exhaled, half amused, half suspicious. so mysterious. so nonchalant. so suspiciously good at evading direct human timelines.

“you’re worse than niki at evading questions, god. are you all like this?”

sunghoon almost smiled — almost. just a flicker at the corner of his mouth, like he was debating whether you were worth the truth or just another nosy neighbor with too much curiosity and too little survival instinct.

“maybe it’s a roommate requirement,” he said.

you narrowed your eyes. “what, like a quiz? ‘how mysterious are you on a scale from 1 to dramatic rooftop monologue’?”

this time, he actually smiled. just a little. but it was there.

“you’d fail,” he said simply.

you gasped. “rude.”

“you talk too much.”

you grinned. “and you brood too much. balance.”

“actually, you’re the one who should be asking questions,” you shot back, turning to face him fully. “i got here first.”

sunghoon blinked, like he was momentarily stunned by your logic.

“trespassing doesn’t count as arrival,” he said flatly.

“semantics.” you waved a hand. “i was emotionally distressed. that grants me squatters’ rights.”

he let out a quiet breath — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh.

“you’re unbelievable.”

“and yet, here you are,” you said, gesturing between you. “still talking to me. maybe you’re the crazy one.”

he didn’t deny it. just glanced away, like maybe you were onto something.

“do you always go out with your pink phone case?”

you froze. blinked. stared. how did he—

“wait, you noticed that?”

sunghoon didn’t even blink. “hard to miss.”

your mouth opened, then closed. “it’s for the aesthetics. i like pink.”

he hummed, like he was storing the information away for later. or judging you. or both.

you crossed your arms. “don’t make that face.”

“i didn’t make a face.”

“you did. it was very i-expected-black-but-of-course-it’s-pink.”

he looked at you, gaze steady. “i expected lavender, actually.”

“do i give off lavender vibes?” you asked, genuinely confused.

sunghoon didn’t answer right away — just tilted his head slightly, eyes trailing over you in that unreadable way of his, like he was assessing your soul for color palette accuracy.

“sometimes,” he said. “but mostly… chaotic rose gold.”

you squinted. “that’s not a real vibe.”

“it is now.”

“you just made that up.”

“it’s a pretty color,” sunghoon said.

you blinked at him. “are you calling me pretty?”

“no.”

“that’s rude.”

“you should be at your apartment.”

you narrowed your eyes. “are you saying i’m ugly, then?”

he didn’t flinch. “beauty is about preferences. you can think a flower is pretty, but someone else might think it’s not the best.”

you stared. “are you a walking inspirational monologue coach? is that your side hustle? why are you always showing up late at night like some poetic batman?”

sunghoon looked off toward the glass ceiling like he was considering whether to dignify that with an answer.

“plants prefer quiet,” he said finally. “and so do i.”

you crossed your arms. “you’re so weird.”

and cute, you wanted to add, but decided against giving him that satisfaction. instead, you walked further into the greenhouse, letting the soft hum of warmth and the faint scent of soil wrap around you like a blanket.

you couldn’t believe you were actually talking to the cute neighbor. like really having a conversation, not just a one sided talk. you think you could count this as a good win for today.

the camellias were everywhere — climbing the trellises, tucked into carefully sculpted beds, blooming in quiet defiance of winter. pale pink, deep red, soft ivory. some petals curled like folded silk, others stretched wide like they had something to prove. you could tell someone tended to them with care. the kind of care that didn’t just water plants but listened to them.

tiny ceramic pots lined the shelves, holding herbs you didn’t recognize, some with tags written in what you swore wasn’t korean. there was a cluster of hanging plants near the center — spider plants, trailing vines, a few that looked carnivorous — and nestled between them, a tea set. just… sitting there. like someone had once hosted a garden party and forgot to clean up.

you weren’t sure how long you wandered, fingertips grazing leaves and petals, occasionally pausing to mutter something dumb like you guys get more affection than i do. it felt sacred in a way. not holy, but intentional. lived-in. like it had memories.

eventually, you saw him again.

sunghoon.

he was standing by the far end of the greenhouse now — in the same spot you had been earlier, overlooking the city through the large arched window. the skyline shimmered under the frostbitten night, a painting of silver and cold light. he was still. too still. hands in the pockets of his black hoodie, shoulders drawn back, head tilted just slightly, as if listening to something only he could hear.

you didn’t think. just moved. quietly, carefully, like your slippers might betray you.

he didn’t turn. he didn’t seem to notice you at all — until you got too close.

you were maybe two steps behind him when it happened.

his body stiffened. violently.

his shoulders tensed first, like he’d been punched in the spine, then his head turned just enough for you to see it: the way his eyes had gone wide, pupils blown open like ink on paper.

then the wince.

his nose twitched, and in the span of a single breath, he stumbled back.

three steps. four. too fast. like he’d touched fire.

his face wasn’t angry. it wasn’t surprised, either. it was… pained.

like something disgusted him. or worse — tempted him.

you stood frozen between the camellias and the windows, confused and small.

he was staring at you like you were the ghost.

you stepped back too, instinctively — as if your retreat might undo whatever invisible boundary you’d just crossed.

“are you okay?” you asked, voice soft, the question half-caught in your throat.

sunghoon didn’t answer right away. he was still staring. still breathing like he’d run here instead of just been standing still.

his jaw flexed once, then again. you could see it — the way he was trying to keep his composure, to collect himself into something human, but failing spectacularly.

his tongue darted out to wet his lips, slow, distracted, and for a second you could’ve sworn you saw it — the glint of a canine too long, too sharp.

his eyes, dark and wide, flashed. not red. not exactly. but something burned behind them, low and glowing.

he took another step back.

then another.

“you should go,” he said finally. voice low. hoarse. like the words scraped on the way out.

you blinked. “did i… do something wrong?”

he shut his eyes for a beat too long. shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

“no,” he said, forcing a breath through clenched teeth. “it’s not you.”

and then, quieter — barely audible, like a confession he didn’t mean for you to catch: 

“it’s me.”

you hesitated, your fingers curling slightly at your sides.

“do you want me to call niki? or a medic? are you sure you’re alright?”

his eyes snapped shut again. his voice was rough when it came out — like it hurt.

“please. you can leave already.”

you took a cautious step forward anyway. “should i go find one of your roommates?”

that’s when he flinched — visibly, violently.

“fuck—just stay right there. don’t move.”

it wasn’t anger. it was something else. desperation. restraint.

you froze.

his pupils were blown wide now, his chest rising and falling too fast. his hands trembled where they hung by his sides, like he was holding himself back from something.

“please,” he said again. this time quieter. almost a whisper. almost a plea.

you didn’t say anything. just nodded, slowly, and backed toward the door — one careful step at a time.

and the moment you were out, you heard it.

not footsteps.

not words.

just the slam of a side door somewhere deeper in the greenhouse.

like he needed distance. fast.

like he needed saving from something only he understood.

you didn’t look back.

but you didn’t stop thinking about it, either.

not even once.

author's note: i swear the more vampiric side of this story WILL GET HERE, just wait a bit more. i know this is fast paced, i know this is rushed and chaotic, but bear with my little time to plot everything and proofread it. i hope we see each other in the next chapter. send me a request • my masterpost