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iniquitousyearning · 8 months ago

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SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 28th. theodore nott. lorenzo berkshire — humiliation / degradation

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: never let enzo berkshire find out about one of your kinks. unless….

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, halloween ghostface costumes, threesome, fwb!theo, bestfriend!enzo, reader is involved in a bet unbeknownst to her, mask kink, humiliation on high, degradation, fingering, denied orgasm, oral m!rec, PIV, dirty talk, manipulation.

"Black cat mask?"

You shake your head, barely sparing the thing a glance.

"Mm, no. Too unoriginal."

"Right," Enzo sucks his teeth, tossing the mask back into the bin you're both half-heartedly rifling through. "Orange cat, then? That's far more fitting for you anyways."

"Enzo—no cats, please," you mutter, running a hand through your hair, staring down at the disheveled heap of plastic. None of it catches your eye, none of it sparks anything. "It's Halloween. I want something...scarier."

"Of course. Only day of the year you get to pretend you're as terrifying as me." He croons—half-laughing through the words. The tease itches in your mind, and you're halfway to some retort when he's already holding up another mask. "How about this one?"

You glance up, ready to dismiss whatever nonsense he's holding this time, but the sight of it stills the air in your lungs. A Ghostface mask. Stark white, hollow eyes staring back at you—it's grimace cast in a faded glow under tired shop lights. It's nothing—just a mask, just a piece of cheap plastic in Enzo’s hand—but your heart skips, stumbles, clutches at your ribs, and you can't look away.

And there's no goddamn reason for it, no logic—but you're already seeing it, aren't you? Your current fwb—Theo, standing over you; his face hidden, mask in place of those half-lidded eyes that you’ve learned to read so well. And you know—you know the thought is fucking absurd—yet, it knots something in your stomach, spreading heat like a fuse just lit.

"You alright there?" Enzo's teasing pulls you out of your thoughts, and you realize he'd been staring at you that entire time. "You're looking a little...hot."

Hot. Right. Of course he'd notice—of course your best friend would notice the way you went still, frozen in place as if someone struck you with Glacius. You're no good at lying to him, not even on a good day—and right now, your mind is in shambles, already too far gone into the fantasy and—

No. No more of this.

You tear away, fumbling for the edge of a cloak that suddenly seems like the most fascinating thing you've ever seen, your fingers tracing the fabric as if it can save you.

"It's...fine—it's nice," you blurt out, too quickly, too forced, the words tumbling over themselves. "Just—no, not really my thing."

But Enzo knows better. He can spot your lies from miles away. You hear him shift, the quiet rustle of the mask in his hands—and then, he's pulling it over his face, tilting his head just to spite you.

You don't have to look to know he's smirking behind it.

"Bullshit." He steps closer, casually closing the distance, but you know it's deliberate. "You're into this, aren't you?"

The warmth on your face feels like fire now, prickling heat across your skin. He shifts closer again, and for a moment you consider jinxing him—mind scattering into dark, unbidden places—filthy, wild things, flashing behind your eyes, too real. Enzo tilts his head the other way now, letting the mask catch the light, letting it grin.

"Should I get it?" He asks, as innocent as a serial killer. "For Nott, of course."

"No."

It scrapes out of your throat, barely audible, far too small to hold truth. You’re sure he can read you right now—all your depraved thoughts in the rasp of your voice, painfully transparent.

There’s a huff, a snort of sorts. "Are you sure? I think he'd love it."

Despite his insufferableness, he’s probably right. Theo has never shied away from indulging your kinks before. That’s what no strings is about. Maybe he would love it, you know you certainly would—gods how you’d love it—even if you’d rather die before admitting it.

The cloak—you focus on the deep purple velvet, the dark lace edging. "I'm sure. Put it back."

"You don't sound so sure." Gods, he's such an asshole—point only proved further as he takes another step closer. "Does this...does this turn you on?"

"Enzo—For Godric's sake, stop." The humiliation is suffocating. This is just a glimpse at your future should you ever decide to disclose this information to him. Relentless and bloody insufferable. "Let's just—pick something and go. Please?"

A pause, then, and you don't dare look up. The mask slips from his face with another soft, satisfied hum—you don't need to see him to feel the damage done. He knows.

"Sure, angel," he says, trailing as he turns. "Whatever you want."

————

"Matt—have you seen Theo?"

"Uh—not since earlier." Mattheo replies without even looking up, his focus on pouring another dangerous looking drink rather than on you. "He's probably just out for a smoke."

Yeah. Right. Forsure—because his smoke breaks last all bloody day. Doubt twists your stomach, but you nod anyway, grabbing your own drink—something bubbling, far too bright a green to be safe, but it burns down easy all the same. The room spins in a foggy haze, lights bleeding together over costumes, wizard and Muggle and something in between—and you struggle to tell who's who.

Theo had refused to tell you what he was dressing up as—claimed he wanted it to be a surprise. Now, that surprise is nowhere to be found.

"What are you supposed to be?" You raise a brow at Mattheo's striped inmate costume. “Your future?"

Riddle's eye flash as he pretends to be offended for about two seconds until his gaze drops to your own costume and his tongue darts over his lips, taking it in. Beer-maid, tight bodice, shorter than preferred. It's not what you were going for, not in the slightest, but it's all Pansy had in her closet to save you after you and Enzo failed to find anything interesting at the shop the other day.

"Maybe. But you definitely aren't dressed as yours." His attention shifts back to the crowd, a failed attempt at hiding his grin. "Way too much fabric."

You scoff, but that's just how Mattheo is—always a sly comment, always pushing. You roll your eyes and swat at him, but he sticks his tongue out at you and steps back, slipping off into the crowd with a final goodbye wink—and just as you lose track of him, Draco saddles up next to you, prattling on about something you don't care to listen to.

Great, that’s two annoying Slytherins accounted for. Where the fuck is Theo?

Five seconds into pretending to be interested in whatever Malfoy is babbling on about, you give up, turning back to the drink table and skimming over the options when someone new brushes up behind you—

"Enzo told me," the words barely register before you feel it—a hand settling low at your hip. "About your kink."

With lightening speed you twist your neck, glancing over your shoulder—only to fucking gasp at what you find there. That mask. The mask. The Ghostface one from the shop; the one Enzo hasn't let you forget, hasn't stopped teasing you about—you blink, your heart barrelling out of the room, fingers tightening around your cup until it hurts—

The mask tilts, just slightly. "Looks like he was right."

"Theo—"

"Go." His voice is muffled, but sweet Merlin—the sound of it makes your knees threaten to buckle right then and there. His hand slips lower, teasing against the ruffles of your dress. "Run, Bella. Let's play."

Your body locks up, muscles tense and poised on the edge of something feral. You can't look away. Can't think. Can't breathe. His fingers slip lower, lower, until you feel it—cold leather against the heat of your skin and your throat tightens, words dying dead on your tongue.

Run.

A slight lean, and the mask brushes your neck. "Now."

He steps back, a slow retreat, but it feels like he's tugging you with him. You spin to face him, smirking, your voice barely above a whisper—

"And when you catch me?"

"Find out." His head tilts toward the door. It's your cue.

Your feet move before your mind even catches up, slipping through the rowdy crowd, darting through the half-drunk revelers in their costumes—everything blurring into an afterthought as you push past the cobwebs, pumpkins, fake spiders, all the other Halloween decor filling the fogged ballroom. Your fingertips buzz from the adrenaline—pulse echoing in your ears as you dart down one hall after another, not quite sure where you're going, but knowing you need to keep moving.

Theo told you to run—so you run.

You sprint through the castle, the corridors empty save for your hurried footsteps and the scattered Halloween decorations lunging at you from the shadows. You round a corner, making for the dungeons. It's as good a place as any, right? Dark, quiet, somewhere to hide.

Few more minutes and you make it, lungs burning as you stumble into the dreary main hall. You realize the detention room is empty—and it's perfect. You take two steps inside, already thinking you'll be able to catch your breath when—

You slam headlong into something solid.

Head swirling, your vision barely refocuses before you feel a grip on your wrists, pulling you forward with enough force to make you gasp. Everything happens so fast you don't have enough time to process what's occurring before you're forced to focus on the thing you're seeing—ghostface. Staring down at you with those empty, gaping eyes. Unreadable.

It's then that you realize you're caught.

Something shifts behind the mask, an almost imperceptible movement of his head. You'd almost think you imagined it but given that there's nothing else to look at you know it's impossible. The silence is ballooning and you wonder if this is part of the game, if Theo is just savouring the moment, relishing in your reaction. The way you're trembling, your breath stuttering, the way you've gone still—waiting.

You swallow, throat drier than the Sahara, but something about this has you emboldened, the fact he's playing into your fantasy like this—so you decide to tease him, breaking the silence with a soft, breathless laugh as you pull one of your hands free from his grip.

He wanted to play. It's your turn to act the part.

"Looks like you caught me...Mr. Ghostface..." you purr—the silence sticks heavy, making the space between you feel thick, electric. All you can feel are his eyes devouring you. "And now...now that you've caught me...what are you gonna' do with me...hm?"

Gods—the thrill of this is so real, one your certain is more addictive than any drug. An adrenaline rush—not knowing what he's thinking, what he's about to do. Not being able to read him like you normally could. It makes your thighs quake—and there’s half a second where you wonder how much Enzo would pay to see this, how much he’d fucking taunt you for it.

But just as quickly as it came, you shake that thought—focused on Theo, you pull your bottom lip between your teeth and sink to your knees, fingertips teasing from his chest to his abdomen, tilting your head to look up at him through your lashes.

"...please don't punish me." You giggle—and the debauched absurdity of it all makes you nearly choke. "I'll be so good—I'll do anything, Theo—"

You feel him huff, tense, and when your fingers graze the front of his pants—just barely touching his crotch— his hand snaps down like a vice, gripping your wrist, stopping you dead in your tracks.

And then, you hear it. "Salazar sakes—shit—"

Your heart plummets. That voice—it's like being thrown into ice-cold water. No, that's not—it can't be—

"Enzo?"

Your voice cracks as you all but screech, your head whipping up so fast you feel dizzy. No, no, no—

Enzo, who you previously thought was Theo, pulls the mask off and all but verbally confirms it. Your nightmare born to life. Spooling to fruition right in front of you. He smiles, lips curled into something thoroughly entertained, and gods, how his eyes glint with pure assholery—you could fucking kill him.

"Enzo—" you stammer, horror flushing through you, burning through the mortification lodged in your throat. "Gods—what the fuck—"

"Surprise," he breathes, like this is the most casual thing in the world to him.

You scramble back, knees scraping against cold stone—mind spiralling in every direction at once—shame collides with shock and it all burns under your skin, the kind of heat that never settles. You know Theo's voice. You could never mistake it. You know for a fact that was him back at the party— but this, this makes no sense.

"What...what the hell-" your voice stumbles like you're trying to outrun the words. "Why would you—what were you—"

"Relax," he is all too fucking calm. "It was a prank."

"A prank?" You're still on the floor, and for some reason that makes everything worse. "You call that a prank? A—a funny little joke?"

"That's usually the definition—"

"No." You hiss between clenched teeth, anger strangling any hope for composure. "What were you doing in here? This— this isn't—you were trying to-"

"Trying to what?" He sounds so goddamn innocent but you know better. He's toying with you, making sure you know it. He's been your best friend since you were kids but you never said it was by choice. He steps closer. "I was trying to what, angel?"

Your blood boils, the heat spreading fast—pooling low in your core against all specks of your sanity. He's relishing this, drinking in your mortification like it's fine wine—and for some reason, it makes you weak.

"You—" words die with another one of his steps, the toes of his shoes brushing against your skin as he crouches down in front of you, elbows resting casually on his knees. You sit back, ass meeting cold stone. "Enzo—"

"Yeah?" He cocks an eyebrow. "You just gonna' parrot my name all night? Maybe you're too embarrassed to speak?"

The constant mocking feels like ice and you want to slap that smug look right off his face but instead your fucking thighs tense. You have nothing to say—can only stare at him, lungs seizing further as you notice the smirk fading from his lips, something darker replacing it—

"You didn't even know who was under that mask, and you were ready to suck me off," he's whispering, but he may as well be screaming. "You'd do anything for anyone with a mask, huh? I wish I knew about this kink of yours sooner."

He leans in closer, his knees pushing yours apart—you and Enzo had never been strangers to toying the line of friendship one too many times while drunk, but this—

You blink. Staring at him. "You...you're enjoying this way too much."

"Guilty as charged." His smile spreads wider, cockier, his eyes dipping to your lips, then lower. You shiver involuntarily. "I know I should have stopped you sooner, but seeing you on your knees...in front of me...I just..."

He shakes his head before he slowly stands back up—and his eyes flicker to your chest, lingering on your fucking tits and not even trying to be subtle about it.

Then, there’s a sound—the sound of the door creaking open.

You barely hear it, the faint shuffle of footsteps, but it's enough to pull the grin from Enzo's face as he looks up. You're not sure your heart can handle anymore of this—plummeting to the stone beneath you as Theo steps into the room, dressed just like Enzo—black robes, black gloves, Ghostface mask.

"Nott." Enzo's voice is too casual, too easy. "Great timing, mate."

Theo’s silent as he takes in the scene. You—still on the floor, dress hitched up, legs spread. Enzo standing over you, smug, unbothered. Theo's presence fills the room as he shuts the door behind him and locks it, stoking your humiliation into something even hotter, something impossible to escape.

Theo's voice is flat, his tone too even. "Looks like you got caught."

Wait—

"You—" your gaze jumps between them, a wild panic bubbling up inside you. You're so fucking confused. "What is this? You two—"

"Like I said, a prank." Enzo says as he steps toward Theo, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "A bet, really.”

Theo doesn't respond. He doesn't move. He doesn't look away from you.

"A bet?" You choke out, trying to piece everything together. "What bet?"

"Well, you see, angel," Enzo pushes away from Theo and slumps down into a chair just off to the side of you. You feel the dread rolling in like a storm. "I bet big Theo here you'd get so weak in the knees over the mask, you wouldn't even notice the switch. As usual, I was right."

Andddd, there’s the dread. Yup. As expected whenever Enzo is fucking involved in anything.

"Oh, wow—" you'd laugh if you weren't this utterly mortified by the entire situation. "You guys are—gods. You’re going after a whole new high score in the prick olympics, aren't you—"

"Oh, I don't know if you believe that, topolina...I think you're just being shy." Theo cuts through your rambling and you flinch at the sound of his voice. "It's clear this is a fantasy of yours."

Your head tilts up, eyes widening as they meet the empty, hollow eyes of the mask drawing closer.

"I bet you're just embarrassed," Theo's pressing—he's fucking pressing and you don’t think you’ve breathed since he walked in. "Embarrassed that you got on your knees for your best friend...or maybe you're afraid I'd be mad." He pauses, and his gaze sweeps down over you. "Which, to that I'd have to say, I'm far from."

You swallow hard, your mouth dry. "You're...you're not mad?"

Perhaps you were afraid of that—even if you and Theo are unofficial in every aspect.

His answer is instant. "No."

He crouches in front of you, gloved fingers finding your chin, tipping your head up so he can look at you— really look at you.

"In fact...I think you should let him watch..." his thumb ghosts over your lower lip, so soft, so slow—without thinking, your tongue flicks out, barely grazing the leather covered tip, and you hear the soft exhale he releases in response. "After all, this was his idea. He deserves some fun too, don't you think?"

Heat floods your cunt, your stomach tightening at the suggestion. You glance at Enzo, sitting back now with his mask on—legs spread wide, leather hands clasped, calm—you wanted to kill him five minutes ago, but now—

Oh gods—you're really losing it.

"Yeah," you whisper, barely managing the word. "He probably does."

Theo's hand slides down to your thigh, leather fingers curling into the soft skin, pulling your legs open further.

"Mhm." He mutters. "You like being watched, don't you?"

Your breath catches, your pulse thundering in your ears as you nod, your eyes glued to Enzo. "Yes..."

"Say it." His fingers trail higher, teasing the soft skin beneath your dress, fingertips grazing closer—too close—just below the lace hem of your panties.

Salazar save you.

You bite your lip, and the air between you feels like it's thickening, growing too dense to breathe in. That fucking mask. You've fantasized over it. And now, there's two of them. Two sets of eyes—faceless, emotionless, and watching you. It's like something out of your fucking dreams.

"I—I like being watched," you manage to whisper, voice breaking between building lust.

"Louder," Theo growls this time like he's pulling it from somewhere deep in his chest—it sends liquid heat spilling through you. "Louder, topolina. He can't hear you if you're whispering."

Your heart stutters in your chest, and Enzo—gods, Enzo is still watching—stays silent, the mask concealing whatever reaction he might have, but his posture speaks volumes. Stillness, dark fabric of his trousers tight across his thighs, a coiled tension that radiates off him, permeates the space between you.

"I—fuck—" a breathless moan cracks through your words as Theo's leather-clad fingers slip under your panties, grazing your slick slit. "—love it. I love being watched."

Theo hums, the sound vibrating low in his throat, and rewards you by pushing two fingers into your dripping heat. So slow, the pace of his strokes torturous—slick sounds of leather working you open filling the room, mingling with your quiet, shuddering breaths. His thumb brushes your clit, teasing over it until you moan—hard and shameless—

"So loud," Theo mocks, your spine arching into him as his fingers curl inside you. "Eager, filthy little thing. You love being on display, don't you?"

A whimper catches in your throat, your gaze still locked on Enzo, watching him watch you.

You're shaking. You're close. Too close.

Your voice cracks again, nothing more than a whisper caught in a moan. "Theo...fuck—"

"You're so wet, bellissima," Theo breathes behind the mask. You're burning, every nerve sizzling. "You want to cum, don't you?"

You can't speak. Words don't exist anymore, only the pressure—only the way Theo's fingers curl inside you, the way your thighs tremble and ache from holding yourself open, from being watched, from being this goddamn humiliated.

"Y-yes," you choke out, desperate. "Yes, please, I—"

"Ask him." Theo's cuts you off. "Ask Enzo to let you cum."

The room spins. The air thickens into something cloying.

Ask him. Ask Enzo—

You swallow hard, your eyes darting between the two masks. Enzo is silent, still motionless, but he tilts his head slightly, the only indication that he's heard. That he's waiting.

"Please, Enzo—" the humiliation is sickening but you force past it. It’s a broken prayer, vulnerability in verbal form. "Please...let me cum—please—"

Time stretches. It feels like hours, an eternity where nothing exists but the weight of their hidden eyes on you, the way Enzo's fingers twitch, curl over the thick ridge at his crotch, leather knuckles tensing as if he's restraining himself from something primal. You're being devoured whole by this moment—by the unbearable tension, by Theo's fingers inside you, relentless in their assault, and gods—you're going to die if they don't let you—

"Yeah," Enzo finally murmurs, breaking the silence. Theo's gaze flickers to him, waiting. "Yeah, you can cum, angel…”

But as he says it, he shakes his head, and Theo—the absolute bastard—pulls his fingers out without a word.

"…just not yet." Enzo finishes.

The sound that leaves your throat isn't even human, some guttural, helpless whine torn straight from your throbbing, empty cunt. Theo shushes you.

"You'll get to cum, Bella," he coos, standing up slowly. "It'll be soon."

They're toying with you, playing you like a goddamn puppet on strings and it's infuriating in its deliciousness. You've known these men for years, yet it's almost laughable—the way they feel so foreign, so terrifyingly new.

"Oh, Enzo," you sigh, feeling your arousal cool, your body suddenly aware of the icy stone beneath you, of the wet heat slicking down your thighs. "I'm going to kill you tomorrow."

Enzo snorts. "You're welcome to try."

Theo exhales a half-chuckle, helping you off the floor and onto a desk, his hands firm on your thighs as he spreads you open like he's done a hundred times within the last few months.

A moment passes before he moves to loosen his belt and you realize just how close Enzo is now—his chair right beside the desk, his hand palming the bulge in his pants, shameless in his observation. The sight makes you fucking dizzy with filth. Surely, you've lost your mind. This is madness. Every line between friendship and lust—between restraint and indulgence—has blurred and bled into something you can't define, and the thrill of it is intoxicating.

"This is insane," you hiss, breathless, feeling the way Theo's gloves scrape over your skin, two thick digits dragging in your slick. "You're both fucking insane."

"Too much talking," Theo mutters, so infuriatingly calm, even as he drags the head of his dick over your folds, teasing your clit. "So much attitude for someone dripping down their thighs. You want to stop?" The silence stretches, your eyes locked on his, and you can feel the smirk behind the mask. He nods. "That's what I thought. Now shut up and let me fuck this wet cunt."

His hands grip either side of the desk, his body looming over you—the scene from your fantasy you've envisioned a million times. Ghostface—dominant and rough—gods, you want it. So bad it fucking hurts.

Your head lolls to the side, eyes immediately finding Enzo's again—forgetting for half a second that he was even there. His jeans are unbuttoned now, his hand moving rhythmically beneath the denim, mask locked onto you with a single-minded focus that makes your breath stutter.

"Enz-ohhh—" you go to say something to him, but then Theo pushes into you—no warning, no slow build—just a deep, unforgiving thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs, and your voice cracks on his name, the syllables lost in the moan that spills out of you.

"Shit." Enzo groans in response. "Did you just—"

"She did," Theo snarls, his grip on your hips punishing as he slams into you again, harder this time. "The little slut just moaned your name."

There's cursing, from both of them, but it's all a blur in your ears, drowned out by the sound of Theo's hips slamming into yours, the fevered slap of skin on skin, the obscene sounds you can't help but make—

"Yeah, I noticed," Enzo mutters, and fuck, he sounds ruined, completely lost in the sight of you—his best friend, getting fucked by his other best friend. "Fuck."

Theo's hand finds your jaw, forcing your head back to face him, Ghostface mask looming above you like a delicious nightmare.

"Who's fucking you?" His voice is caught somewhere between a snarl and a purr. "Is it Enzo?"

"N-no—" you manage, trembling with every thrust.

"Of course it's not," Theo hisses, driving into you with punctual thrusts to make you feel him, making you cry out when he slams your cervix. "So why'd you moan his name? When it's—fuck—my cock inside you?"

"I—I didn't mean—" you whimper, eyes squeezed shut, but there's no escape. Not from the relentless pace of Theo's dick, not from the way Enzo's eyes never leave you, burning into you like fire. You can't form words.

"Mm—don't be shy now, topolina," Theo purrs, his voice thick with effort. His hips snap forward, and your back arches, a broken sound escaping you. "I think you just love having him in your mouth—his name, his—"

"Fuck, Nott, shut up," Enzo cuts in, his head thrown back, chest tense. "I don't want to hear your voice—"

You can hear the strain, the way he's barely holding it together—

"Look at him," Theo ignores Enzo's words. He lets go of your jaw. "He wants you. He's always wanted you."

Your eyes dart between them, head spinning, unable to form a coherent thought—Theo's fucking relentless, pushing you closer and closer to the edge—and every time you glance at Enzo, you see the way he's breaking, hand moving faster, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths—

"I never knew you were such a voyeur, Nott," Enzo spits, trying to sound casual. "Never took you for being such a filthy bastard."

"What can I say?" Theo groans in response, propping your legs up over his shoulders to drive into you deeper. "Just discovered a new interest, you should try it sometime."

They're still bantering, like this is some kind of fucked-up competition, like you're not about to shatter into a million fucking pieces while your best friend watches—after he got you here and humiliated you with a fucking bet—gods, you'd laugh if you weren't so utterly lost to the pleasure ripping through you.

"And watch you get off on it?" Enzo spits back, voice rough. "I'll—"

Theo snorts, cutting him off. "I think there's more than one person getting off on—"

"Shut the-fffuck up—please-" you manage to moan, the words barely intelligible. You look to Enzo, eyes wide and pleading. "Enz...come here."

"Yeah...?" Enzo breathes out, his voice catching, tipping his head back forward to look at you. “What?”

"Come here," you moan again, trembling, fraying under the pleasure that's building inside you from Theo’s insistent dick. "Let me help you."

For a moment, he hesitates, and you can’t tell what he’s thinking because the goddamn mask hides everything. He's always been the calm one between you—always stopping your drunk kisses, always refraining from taking things too far. But tonight, there’s no more of that calm left in him—

He stands.

Each step he takes feels like a lifetime, but when he's standing next to your head on the desk, towering above where you're laid out like a feast, you don't know whether it's the mask or the situation itself that has your pulse racing. Erotic and terrifying, the not-knowing—a power exchange in its purest form. Theo growls infront of you, his thrusts growing harder, more vicious, as you reach out to pull Enzo's hips closer.

You're already eyeing the throbbing bulge in his jeans, your mouth practically watering as you stare.

"Go on," you rasp, lips parting as you look up through your lashes. "Take it out."

The breath Enzo sucks in is sharp, a hitch in the darkness. His fingers tremble, just barely, as he pushes his pants down his thighs, and the noise that escapes him when his cock slips out and smacks his stomach—low, strangled—makes you moan and clench in response—he's huge.

Your breath catches, a soft exhale of, "oh, fuck."

And the words are barely out of your mouth before both Theo and Enzo respond—low growls and breathless groans that echo in the shadowed room, vibrating through you like electricity.

"Open your pretty mouth," Enzo whispers and you obey without hesitation, tongue slipping out, wanting, eager. His breath shudders, and you wish you could see his eyes. "Good girl."

And then he's pushing into you, sliding hot and thick over your tongue, and at that exact moment, Theo thrusts harder, deeper, and suddenly you're overwhelmed—both of them inside you, filling you, consuming every breath. Moans ripple through the dungeon air, a chorus of sin, and you shake with the sheer intensity of it all.

Theo's thumb finds your clit, starts swirling over it, and you keen—eyes rolling back in your head, Enzo’s leather hands in your hair to hold you still. Tears stream down your face as you gag, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth, but neither of them stop—if anything, they're both lost in it, in the wrecked, messy beauty of it all. Your hands claw at the desk, desperate for something to hold on to as the pleasure builds, tightens, spirals out of control.

Time collapses. It's been moments—it's been hours.

And then it happens—all three of you tipping over the edge at once, crashing into a release so fierce it shatters you. Your climax rips through you, violent, leaving you shaking, milking Theo until he's spent—until he's pouring his cum deep inside your cunt at the same time Enzo groans deep and spills his own over your tongue. A moment passes, and then Theo is the first to pull away, panting, tearing off his mask and dropping into the chair beside the desk, and Enzo follows, tugging his jeans back up before slumping into another chair, mask still on—

Both of them are sprawled there, utterly spent, just as wrecked as you.

And then, after a few long, tense moments, you hear it—the clink of Galleons exchanged. You don't even need to look up for it to register. Theo tosses the coins into Enzo’s greedy palm because he was the true fucking winner here. The sound cuts through the stillness, and with it, that smug, unmistakable sneer in Enzo's voice.

"Told you she'd love it."

Asshole.

You roll your eyes. Your limbs feel like they're moving through molasses as you stand, your hands mechanically fixing your costume, adjusting the fabric against your thighs.

"You know, Enzo, if you wanted to watch Theo fuck me that bad, all you had to do was ask."

"What can I say," he shrugs, lazy, like he's discussing the weather. "I enjoy a bit of gambling."

Theo snorts, adjusting his collar, as if none of this fazes him. His eyes flick from you to Enzo. "Next time you'll be paying me."

"Next time?" You cock an eyebrow. "How generous of you."

"There will be a next time," Enzo says, flipping one of the Galleons between his fingers, that same smirk playing on his lips. "And I'll get my turn."

Your pulse quickens at the sheer arrogance of it, the way he says it like it's not even up for debate. You hate how much you like this side of him.

"Maybe next time you should."

They nod, both of them wearing their smirks like crowns. "Until next time, then."

4K notes · View notes

wooyoungiewritings · 25 days ago

Text

A Spoonful of Trouble - Wooyoung x Reader

Summary: Three years of living with your best friend Wooyoung, and it’s all been chill… until a run-in with your old coworker, who’s dating your ex, forces you to lie. You tell her you’re in a relationship with Wooyoung, and now you both have to fake a relationship at a couples’ dinner. Wooyoung’s plan? Make your ex jealous. What starts as a harmless game soon sparks something you didn’t see coming.

Word count: 17.4K

Genre: Best-friend/Roomie Wooyoung, fake dating, comedy (it’s wooyoung, ofc its fun), friends-to-lovers, oneshot, smut

Warnings: Jealous undertones, Wooyoung with reader (fem pronouns), dom Wooyoung, he’s a tease, fingering, oral (fem receiving), choking and hair pulling, ass slaps and pussy slaps (lmao sorry) dirtytalk, unprotected sex, lmk if I missed anything!

A/N: I was requested a Wooyoung fanfic (preferably friends to lovers) and your wish is my command. Also, I haven't read this through, so I excuse if there are any mistakes!

This is all for fun and is not meant to represent Wooyoung in any way.

You didn’t know Wooyoung before you moved in with him.

It wasn’t some childhood-friends-to-roommates situation. It was a Facebook listing, a desperate rent situation, and a quick video call where he grinned and said, “I’m clean, I cook, and I only walk around shirtless on laundry days, deal?”

Your boyfriend had just cheated on you and you were too broke to be picky.

You moved in two weeks later.

That was three years ago.

When you first moved in, things were simple. Polite nods in the hallway, careful division of chores, messages like “Can I use your oat milk?” and “Trash day’s Thursday.” You were strangers learning how to coexist. He was respectful, charming, funny in a careful kind of way.

But that changed. Slowly. Naturally.

There was the night he knocked on your door with two bowls of ramen after hearing you cry through the wall. The time he fell asleep on your shoulder during a movie, and you let him stay there. The mornings where he started making two cups of coffee without asking, and the way he never forgot which mug was your favorite.

Little things, at first. But they stacked up.

Now he knows your coffee order and your worst ex’s name. He doesn’t knock anymore when your door is open. And you don’t bother pretending to be annoyed when he drapes himself across the couch you’re already sitting on, like there’s not an entire empty seat next to you. You know his favorite hoodie and the playlist he only listens to when he’s feeling off.

You don’t even remember when it happened. When “roommate” became “friend,” and “friend” slowly became “best friend”.

He’s the first person you turn to when something happens, good or bad. You’ve become so used to him and his playful, flirtatious nature, that it’s just... normal now.

This morning, you wake up to the sound of a pan sizzling.

It’s not unusual. Wooyoung does most of the cooking in the apartment, partly because he’s better at it, mostly because he refuses to eat anything bland. You’ve learned not to interfere when he’s in his element, your only job is to show up and eat.

Still, it’s early, and he’s making a bit too much noise for someone who claims to love you “platonically.”

You shuffle out of your room, hair a mess, socks mismatched. The kitchen smells like garlic and eggs, and you see him standing at the stove, completely in his zone. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, spatula in hand, flipping something with a finesse that makes it obvious he knows he looks good doing it.

“You’re showing off,” you mutter, leaning against the doorframe.

He doesn’t look away from the pan. “You’re welcome.”

You make a beeline for your favorite mug, the one he always pretends to hate but still washes carefully every time you leave it in the sink.

“I figured you’d sleep in,” he says. “You stayed up late.”

“Yea, because someone wasn’t leaving my room.” you send him a glare.

“I like hanging out with you! and don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy the story about the geek and the popular girl from my old highschool. That story is cute as hell.” he points the spatula with you like it’s a weapon.

You smirk behind the mug. “Okay, that one was kinda good.”

He grins, plating scrambled eggs and what looks like roasted vegetables. He slides the plate toward your usual spot at the counter like he’s done it a hundred times, because he has.

“How was your date?” you ask, poking your fork into a roasted tomato.

Wooyoung groans. “Disaster.”

“That bad?”

“She asked if I was in love with her halfway through the appetizer.”

“Bold of her,” you say, chewing.

“And when I said no, she looked at me like I kicked her in the face. Then she told me I ‘give off commitment issues.’”

You grin. “You do give off commitment issues.”

He glares playfully. “Okay, rude. I’m extremely loyal.”

“To me.”

“Exactly. My loyalty quota is full. Sorry to the rest of the world.” he shoots you a wink, nothing dramatic, just one of those natural, easy gestures he does without thinking. You don’t blush. Not anymore.

You're used to it. In the beginning, back when you were still adjusting to living with someone who looks like that, who flirts with the air he breathes, who walks around shirtless and steals fries from your plate and calls you “babe” just to watch your reaction, it was different.

But now? Immunity.

Mostly.

It’s easy with him, always has been. Closeness that doesn’t need explanation. No boundaries, because you don’t need them. Not when you’ve seen each other through every version of a day.

He sits beside you at the counter instead of across, thigh brushing yours like it’s second nature.

Because it is.

***

“You know,” you say, pushing the cart down the cereal aisle, “you could just admit you have the taste buds of a hyperactive child.”

Wooyoung gasps, dramatically offended as he holds up a neon box of chocolate puffs. “This is not childish. This is elite. You wouldn’t understand the depth of this flavor profile.”

Grocery shopping with Wooyoung is basically a weekly ritual at this point. Not because you can’t go alone, but because he insists on it. Claims you’d forget half the list and come back with snacks and nothing else. Which, to be fair, is kind of true.

You’re halfway through the cereal aisle, walking behind the cart as Wooyoung wanders a few feet ahead, eyes locked on the shelf like he’s making a life-or-death decision between sugary clusters or chocolate swirls.

He’s in his element, mumbling ingredients under his breath, holding one box up to the light like he’s reading ancient scrolls. You smile to yourself, letting him do his thing as you slow down, scanning your phone for the rest of your shared grocery list.

And then, just your luck, you hear it.

“Oh my god, Y/N?”

You look up too slowly.

Hana.

You turn, putting on the most polite expression you can muster as she approaches, all bright eyes and perfect hair and the same aggressive enthusiasm she used to bring to Monday morning staff meetings.

“Hana,” you say, trying to sound surprised instead of resigned. “Wow. Hi.”

“I thought that was you! Oh my god, it’s been what, like, forever? You look so… Anyways, it’s so good to see you!” She eyes you, then glances down into your cart before you can respond. “Frozen dumplings, instant rice, oh my god I love those snacks, they’re so bad but soooo addictive, right? Wait-, this kimchi brand is the worst. You should try the one from Jihyun’s Market across town. It’s organic.”

You blink. “I... like this one.”

“Sure, sure. I mean, I just think it’s better to be picky with fermented stuff, you know? Especially when you’re eating it alone.”

You don’t answer right away. She doesn’t wait.

“Gosh, how are you? I remember how you were always the chill one at work. So responsible. So put together. Like, you were always the single one! We called you "The Independent Icon" behind your back. Not in a mean way!”

You hadn’t planned on staying single forever. But a few years ago, your boyfriend cheated on you while he was on vacation, called you from the airport like it was no big deal. After that, you decided you were done. No dating for a while, no more risks. It was easier to be alone than to be blindsided again. Eventually, people stopped asking. Then they started assuming.

Your stomach twists. You glance down the aisle. Wooyoung is still several feet away, crouched in front of a lower shelf now, examining cereal boxes like he’s an art critic. Totally out of earshot.

“Oh, I didn’t know people talked about that,” you say, trying to keep your tone neutral.

Hana waves a hand. “Only in admiration, really. I mean, you’ve never brought a guy to any of our dinners. I think Minji even thought you were secretly dating a girl for a while, totally cool if you are! No judgment! But I told her, no way. Y/N is just focused. Did I tell you I got married, by the way? I don’t think you ever met my husband. We got married last year, tiny ceremony, super last minute. Here-, he’s gonna kill me for showing this, but look how ridiculous he looks in this suit.”

She pulls out her phone, swipes once, then holds it up to you.

You freeze.

You know that face.

The sharp jawline. The dimple on his left cheek. The same stupid smile he had when he came back from that trip and told you, casually, like it was weather, that he’d slept with someone else. “It didn’t mean anything,” he said, “we were just having a rough patch, right?”

Your stomach drops.

“That’s him,” Hana says proudly. “Total goofball, but he’s the best. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d find someone like him. But don’t worry, you’ll find someone too some day!”

Hana is still talking but her words blur.

You could say nothing. You could just smile, nod, and escape with your overpriced kimchi and frozen dumplings. But you nod slowly, eyes darting to the end of the aisle again. Suddenly, you hear yourself say, voice too quick and too loud:

“Actually, I’m dating someone.”

Hana’s brows lift. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah.” You point down the aisle.

She turns.

Wooyoung, still crouched, is now reading the back of a cereal box, completely oblivious to your social spiral.

“Oh?” Hana’s eyes are practically sparkling now, thrilled by this newfound information. “Look at you! I know you had it in you!” she says, nudging your arm. “You have to bring him to dinner. We’re doing a little couples night this Friday. Just a few of us from work, old and new. Minji’s coming, and Jihyun, and my husband’s inviting one of his coworkers and their girlfriend. You two should come!”

You hesitate, already internally spiraling. “Oh, I don’t know-”

“Come on! It’ll be fun. I need someone there who doesn’t talk about babies every ten seconds. Please.”

She’s already taking your nod as confirmation before you’ve fully given it. “Perfect! I’ll text you the details, I still have your number. You better show up.”

Just as she’s about to walk away, Wooyoung returns, holding two cereal boxes and strolling up casually.

Hana’s face lights up again. “See you soon!” she says brightly to him, giving you both a final little wave before disappearing around the corner.

Wooyoung blinks after her, then looks at you, eyebrows raised. “...Why do I feel like I just missed something deeply important?”

You stare at him, trying to decide where to begin.

He holds up the cereal boxes, undeterred. “Okay. Fruity Loops or Cinnamon Sugar Swirls. One has slightly fewer chemicals. I won’t say which.”

You inhale slowly, exhale even slower. “So, remember when you left me alone for two minutes?”

“Tragically, yes.”

“Well… in those two minutes, I may have… sort of… told someone we’re dating.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Wooyoung blinks. “You what?”

You gesture weakly down the aisle. “That was Hana. Old coworker. She’s always been weirdly obsessed with the fact that I’m single. She was doing her usual thing, and I panicked, and I pointed at you, and now she thinks we’re together, and- surprise! We’re going to a couples dinner on Friday.”

Wooyoung looks at you. Then at the cereal. Then back at you.

And then he grins.

Like really grins.

“Oh my God,” he says, eyes wide with delight. “This is amazing.”

“Wooyoung.”

“We’re fake dating? We’re doing the thing? Like the romcoms?”

You press a hand to your face. “It gets worse.”

His grin somehow grows. “I’m listening.”

“She’s married to my ex.”

Wooyoung blinks. “The ex?”

You nod. “She showed me a wedding photo. It’s him. The one who cheated on me while he was on vacation. The reason I swore off dating for like, three years.”

Wooyoung’s jaw drops, then slowly morphs into something almost unhinged with glee.

“Oh my God,” he breathes. “This is so much better than I thought.”

“Why are you happy?”

“Because,” he says, absolutely glowing, “I get to sit across from the guy who cheated on my best friend and pretend to be the hot, attentive boyfriend who’s so in love with her he’d die for her. I’m going to be so annoying. I’m going to feed you food.”

“Wooyoung.”

“I’m going to wipe sauce off your mouth. I’m going to put my arm around your chair. I’m going to call you baby in front of him.”

You groan. “This is going to kill me.”

“This is going to heal you,” he says. “You know what, this counts for both of the cereals. Sweet childhood nostalgia and the one that turns milk radioactive pink.” He throws the cereals into the cart with dramatic flair. “This is the best grocery trip of my life.”

***

Friday morning

He’s already in the kitchen when you shuffle in, still half-asleep, arms wrapped around yourself. The smell of eggs and butter greets you first.

“Good morning, my beautiful fake girlfriend!” he beams.

You groan. “Please don’t start.”

“Too late,” he sings, doing a dramatic spin with the spatula. “Do you want toast with your lies or just plain guilt?”

You drop your head onto the counter with a sigh. “I’m not built for this level of energy before caffeine.”

He slides a mug your way, your mug, with your preferred coffee, made just right. “I knew you’d be a flight risk this morning.”

You mutter a thank-you and take a long sip. It helps. But not enough.

“I think I’m panicking,” you say into the mug.

He sets your breakfast in front of you and leans on the counter across from where you sit. “Hey. We’ve got this. All we have to do is show up, eat some overpriced cheese cubes, pretend we’re madly in love, make your ex suffer for being the biggest asshole known to man, and leave. Easy.”

“Madly in love,” you echo flatly.

“Yes, madly.” His smile grows. “Madly, stupidly in love. To the point where your ex is going to regret every single life choice he made after cheating on you. And enough to make Hana go, ‘oh wow, they’re so cute, maybe I am a terrible friend for shaming her for being single for the entire time I’ve known her.’”

You blink. “You really hate him, don’t you?”

“I’ve never even met him and I already hope he has the biggest receding hairline I’ve ever seen.”

You can’t help but laugh.

“And besides,” he adds, stealing a bite of your toast, “we got chemistry.”

You make a face.

“We do, though. We’re best friends. We’re comfortable. We finish each other’s-”

“Don’t.”

“-sentences.”

You hurl a piece of toast crust at him. He dodges it with a smirk.

But he’s right. You are comfortable. You already know what shirt he’s going to wear tonight and that he’s going to pretend he didn’t plan it. You know he’s going to be charming and make everyone laugh and completely forget he’s pretending.

And that’s the part that begins to make your stomach twist.

The day goes faster than you anticipated, and before you know it, you’re both getting ready for the dinner.

You’re halfway through checking your bag for the fourth time when he walks out of his room, and everything in you stills.

He’s adjusting the sleeves of his black button-down, casually rolling them up past his elbows. He tucks his phone into his back pocket, grabs a bottle of wine off the counter. He’s talking, saying something about the wine in his hands, but you don’t hear a word.

Because damn. He looks good.

His black hair is styled a little messier than usual, in that perfectly undone way that probably took way too much effort. He’s tucked his shirt into dark slacks that fit just right, and he’s wearing that silver chain he only brings out for “important” nights.

Like fake dates, apparently.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even look like he’s trying. He looks like this is just how he always looks. Like he doesn’t know that he’s the kind of guy women cross sidewalks for just to sneak a better glance.

And you should be used to that. You live with him. You see him fresh out of bed, half-asleep, shirtless and in the same ratty sweats every Sunday. But this is different.

You recover fast, mutter something closer to sounds than actual words and spin on your heel toward the bathroom.

You need a second. Maybe two.

You close the door behind you and lean against it, willing your heart to calm down. It's just Wooyoung. Your best friend. Your roommate. Your fake boyfriend for the night. Nothing to get flustered over.

You run a hand down your dress, fix your lipstick, try not to think about how the curve of his smile made your stomach flutter.

Then, without a sound, the door cracks open.

He leans casually against the doorframe, watching you through the reflection. “Hey.”

Your eyes meet in the mirror, and for a second, you forget what you’re doing, because his gaze isn’t neutral.

It drops. Lingers.

Slides down the line of your black dress, the way it hugs your hips, the bare skin of your shoulders. It’s not crude, not obvious, but you can feel it. Like a slow drag of heat over your body.

You blink. “You’re not allowed to just come in here.”

“I knocked.”

You glare.

He lifts his hands, innocent. “You just didn’t hear it. Selective hearing, maybe.”

You roll your eyes, but he doesn’t move. Just stay there, eyes trailing from your hair to your lips to the way you’re fidgeting with your rings.

“What’s up?” you ask, voice soft.

He tilts his head slightly, smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Funny,” he deadpans. Then after a beat, “I was wondering how much of a boyfriend I’m allowed to be tonight.”

Your stomach tightens.

He says it lightly, but there’s something in his voice, something teasing, but slower. More deliberate.

You meet his gaze in the mirror again. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he says, stepping a little further into the room, “can I hold your hand? Whisper something in your ear if it gets boring? Pull you in when he’s watching?”

You swallow. He’s close now, not too close, but close enough that the air feels warmer.

“Or maybe,” he continues, eyes flicking to your lips just for a second, “kiss your cheek. You know. If it feels natural. Just enough to make him wonder.” There’s something electric in his voice now, light, amused, but edged with something darker. He smiles, wider this time, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Actually… can I make your ex jealous as fuck? Is that allowed?”

“What do you want to do?” you ask, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.

“I mean… if you give me even a little room to play…” He leans in, just slightly, not touching. “I swear I’ll ruin his whole fucking night.”

You’re still staring when he backs away, grin wide, eyes too pleased.

“No pressure," he says, putting both of his hands up, he smiles again, but this time it’s softer. “I’ll do whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

Your mouth is dry.

“Do whatever you want,” you manage. “Just… don’t be weird.”

He grins. “I make no promises”

You’re smiling, even as you turn away to grab your perfume, trying not to let him see how warm your cheeks are.

And as he walks out, he says it over his shoulder.

“You didn’t say no to the kiss.”

***

The knock sounds louder than you expect. You suddenly feel overdressed, underprepared, and painfully aware of the fact that your hand is linked with Wooyoung’s.

You didn’t mean to hold hands.

It just sort of… happened. One second you were adjusting your sleeve, the next his fingers found yours, no hesitation, like they’d done it a thousand times. And now it’s too late to pull away without it being weird.

“Y/N! Oh my god, finally! Come in!” Hana screams as she opens the door. You’re barely stepping inside when she notices the man next to you, her eyes widening. “And this is…?”

“Wooyoung,” he says smoothly, offering the wine bottle with both charm and ease. “Nice to meet you.”

Hana takes it with a delighted hum, already ushering you both inside. You barely get a foot in before her voice lifts again. “Babe, come meet my old co-worker!”

And there he is.

Standing a few steps inside the hallway, one hand curled loosely around a drink. He turns at the sound and freezes. Just for a second, quick enough to pass for nothing, but not to you. You see it. His eyes widen slightly, and something flickers across his face. Confusion. Surprise. Like he wasn’t told. Like he wasn’t ready.

But you smile, smooth and pleasant. Step forward, extend your hand like you’ve never seen him before in your life.

“Hi,” you say. “Nice to meet you.”

You smile like it’s nothing. Like you don’t know him. Like he’s just another name you’ll forget by morning. There’s the barest pause before he sets the glass down and shakes your hand. “Yeah,” he says, guarded, eyes flicking to Wooyoung. “You too.”

Before you can say anything, Wooyoung steps forward smoothly, hand outstretched, “Hi,” he says, voice warm and a little too cheerful. “I’m Wooyoung. Her boyfriend.”

There’s a pause. One breath too long. Your ex shifts, not quite hiding the way his eyes flick to your still-joined hands.

“…Right,” he says finally, taking Wooyoung’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Hana, being the overly-excited host that she is, smiles at the situation. “Everyone’s in the kitchen. Come on, we’re just doing drinks and snacks before dinner.”

You glance toward the kitchen, grateful for the distraction, but not before you feel Wooyoung’s hand press gently against your lower back, guiding you forward.

As if to say: I’ve got you.

But also…

Watch me work.

The house is warm and golden-lit, filled with soft music and the quiet sounds of people mingling. Laughter drifts from the back, layered over the clink of glasses and the sizzle of something on the stove.

The kitchen is full, couples leaning against counters, clustered near the island, perched on stools. Everyone looks up when you enter, and Hana claps her hands once. “Everyone, this is Y/N and her boyfriend, Wooyoung.”

You swear the word echoes for a second. Boyfriend.

Wooyoung just nods with a relaxed smile, greeting the group like he’s done this a hundred times. He’s introduced to a few of the guys first, and within a minute he’s already laughing at something, fully immersed in conversation.

You hang back, trying not to fidget, trying to ignore how good he looks tonight, sleeves rolled, watch glinting, hair pushed back perfectly like he didn’t even try. And then, as if on cue, Hana pipes up from across the room, tossing the words over her shoulder like they’re harmless.

“I still can’t believe Y/N’s in a relationship now,” she says brightly, like it’s a funny little update. “I didn’t believe it at first, Y/N in a relationship? We all thought she was allergic to commitment!”

There’s a few laughs, light, not cruel. The kind of laugh that happens when people think they’re in on something. The moment the words leave Hana’s mouth, your ex looks up. His expression flickers with a hint of surprise.

You open your mouth, unsure what to say. But before you can speak, Wooyoung cuts in. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t even look particularly bothered. He just glances over at Hana with an easy, almost lazy kind of smile.

“If loving her is a commitment, then it’s the easiest type of commitment I’ve ever made.”

You blink.

Your ex doesn’t say anything. His lips press into a tight line, but his eyes narrow further, jaw clenching slightly as he watches Wooyoung.

But Wooyoung’s gaze never shifts away from you, his hand finding yours again, linking your fingers effortlessly. His smile is small, but there’s a touch of pride behind it. He’s enjoying this.

The women smile. A couple guys glance over like damn. And Hana? She laughs, charmed. “Wow, okay. You’re already winning points.”

You try to smile like your heart didn’t just skip an entire beat.

Hana insists on giving you and Wooyoung a quick tour before dinner. “It’s not huge,” she says, with a laugh that’s anything but modest. “We just really wanted something simple but tasteful. Natural light was a must. You know how it is.”

Wooyoung nods beside you like he deeply, deeply understands the weight of natural light, and you catch the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“And this-” Hana gestures grandly as she opens a set of double doors. “This is my favorite room. The light in here at golden hour? Unreal. We had the cushions custom made to match the ceiling beams. And the books are mostly for decoration, but it kind of gives the right mood, don’t you think?”

You nod along politely, half-listening, while Wooyoung leans down slightly, his voice warm and low against your ear.

“Do you think if I mention natural light three more times, we unlock a secret level of the tour?”

Your breath hitches with a soft laugh, and before you can stop yourself, you tilt your head slightly toward him, shoulder brushing his chest. His smile lingers like he’s proud of himself, but there’s something else behind it too, something quieter. The way your face lights up when you laugh, how you don’t pull away. It flickers in his chest and sits there, unexpected.

His hand lingers a little longer at the small of your back as you follow Hana to the next room.

The dinner table is lively, plates are passed around, and glasses are filled as casual conversation flows. Across the table, your ex is quiet. He hasn’t said much all night, just observed. His smile is polite, his presence steady, but you can feel his gaze on you every now and then, especially when Wooyoung leans in to refill your glass or casually touches your wrist while talking.

The group is in a comfortable rhythm, and just as you're about to take a bite of your food, one of the guests leans back in their chair with a curious smile.

“So how did you two meet each other?”

You freeze, your mind racing. And across from you, you swear you see your ex stiffen slightly, eyes narrowing just the tiniest bit.

Wooyoung notices immediately.

He smiles at you, that teasing, mischievous look in his eyes as he leans forward, taking the cue. He opens his mouth, and suddenly, his voice fills the room. Smooth, charming, and effortlessly natural.

"Oh, this one’s my favorite story," he says, his voice warm and playful, his eyes lighting up as if he's about to tell the most incredible tale.

He pauses for dramatic effect, glancing at you, making sure you’re paying attention. You give him a quick nod, still unsure of where he’s going with this.

“It was one of those nights you’re not even supposed to go out, you know? I almost canceled.” He lets out a soft laugh, glancing at you. “But then she walked in.”

Everyone leans in slightly, curious.

“She wasn’t supposed to be there either, actually. Our friend had to convince her. She was tired, had a long week,” He looks at you briefly, as if asking permission with his eyes, but his smile says he already knows you’ll let him go on.

“She came in late, a little out of breath, tucking her hair behind her ear, apologizing even though no one noticed. And I swear-” He leans back, that crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “-the second I saw her, I forgot what I was saying mid-sentence. Just totally lost it. My friend thought I was choking on my drink.”

Soft laughter bubbles around the table. Your cheeks warm.

“She sat right across from me, and I swear I didn’t hear a single thing anyone else said the whole night. I spent the night trying to make her laugh.”

It’s smooth, too smooth, but his tone is light, playful, like he’s just telling a fond memory, not spinning an elaborate lie. He continues, eyes sparkling.

“I asked for her number before we left, and she said no.”

A small gasp comes from someone at the table, and Wooyoung grins like he’s telling a bedtime story.

“She said I seemed like the kind of guy who flirts with everyone.” More laughter. Wooyoung presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Which-, okay, fair. But I wasn't flirting with her… or maybe I was, but I just wanted to keep talking to her. So I said, ‘If she doesn’t want to give it to me, fine, I’ll earn it.’ And I kept showing up whenever our friend invited people out. I'd always make sure to sit next to her. Always brought something small. Coffee, gum, dumb stuff, just to have an excuse to talk.”

He looks at you then. Really looks at you.

“And eventually… she let me walk her home.”

Someone lets out a little aww.

“I didn’t try anything,” he adds. “I just wanted to stretch out the moment as long as I could. I think we stood outside her door for half an hour just talking. I memorized the color of her front light. The chipped tile on her step. Her laugh.”

The table is completely silent.

“And the next time?” His smile curves wider. “She kissed me first. Which I will never let her forget.”

The table is enchanted.

For a moment after Wooyoung finishes, there’s a soft, stunned silence, like everyone’s holding their breath without realizing it. Then:

“Oh my God,” someone breathes.

The woman across from you nudges her partner. “You never chased me like that.”

“You didn’t run,” he deadpans.

“So you’re telling me you saw her once and just knew?” another friend adds, reaching for more wine.

“I told our mutual friend to introduce us, and he said ‘don’t bother.’” He stretches his arm along the back of your chair, fingers lightly brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. “So obviously I did the exact opposite.”

The table erupts with laughter. Real, full, warm.

“God, that sounds so like you,” Hana laughs, sending you a playful glance.

Laughter bubbles around the table, easy and entertained.

But not from everyone.

Across the table, your ex’s grip on his fork tightens, just for a moment. Not dramatic, not enough to draw attention from anyone else, but you see it. The twitch in his jaw. The way he shifts back in his chair like he needs space to breathe.

Wooyoung leans in slightly, hand still resting lightly behind your neck now, fingers brushing just enough to make it look natural. Intimate.

“And when she finally said yes,” he adds, voice lower now, more deliberate, “I knew I wasn’t gonna let her go.”

Your chest tightens.

The air feels heavier.

Meanwhile, you’re frozen in place, staring at your wine glass, heart racing as if you lived every second of that made-up story. You catch someone across the table watching you with a knowing smile, clearly convinced you're the luckiest girl alive.

And for a second, just one, you almost believe it too.

The rest of the dinner unfolds like a well-rehearsed play. Light laughter, wine refills, soft clinks of cutlery against porcelain. Conversation drifts easily between the couples, like they’ve all known each other forever, even if some only met tonight. And somehow, you and Wooyoung fall into it without trying.

After the dinner, the buzz of conversation in the living room fades as you step quietly down the hallway toward the bathroom. You need a second to breathe, just a minute alone after everything that’s happened tonight.

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it for a moment, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Wooyoung’s charming story about how you met still lingers in your mind, and the way everyone seemed so enchanted by him... it felt like something out of a movie. It had been easy to get swept up in it all, even though it was completely fabricated.

After a few moments, you open the bathroom door and nearly jump out of your skin.

Wooyoung is standing right there in the hallway, hands in his pockets like he’s just been casually waiting. His gaze flicks up to meet yours immediately, and a slow, knowing smile pulls at his lips.

He doesn’t say anything right away, just leans his shoulder against the doorframe, arms now crossed, like he’s settling in.

You swallow hard. “You scared me.”

“Did I?” His voice is low, soft. Like a secret passed between friends. “Sorry. You just disappeared.”

“I needed a second. Too many couples,” you say, attempting a light laugh that comes out a bit thin. “Too much… love.”

“So?” he murmurs beside you. “How am I doing?”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised.

“The fake boyfriend thing,” he adds with a sly grin. “Convincing enough for you?”

You shrug, but your smile gives you away. “I’ve seen worse performances.”

“Cold,” he mutters, holding a hand over his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Here I am, carrying the entire romance on my back.”

You laugh quietly, then shake your head, your voice dropping again. “Honestly, I think everyone at the table wants to date you now.”

“Jealous?” he says, all teeth and sparkle, but his voice is soft, teasing rather than cocky.

You roll your eyes, even as your stomach flips. “Please.”

Then he tilts his head, studying you. His tone shifts, still playful, but quieter. “You know, you’re still a little pink.”

You blink. “What?”

“Your cheeks,” he says, nodding toward them. “Blushing. Again.”

You cross your arms instinctively, heart picking up pace. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he whispers. He leans a little closer. “It’s kinda cute.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re insufferable,” you whisper, smiling despite yourself.

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

The moment hangs, just a little too long. You’re standing in the dim hallway, lights soft, voices muffled behind walls, and he’s looking at you like this is his favorite part of the night.

You clear your throat, trying to reset something in the air. “We should go back.”

“Yeah,” he says, straightening slowly. “Before someone thinks we’re sneaking off to make out.”

Wooyoung straightens just a little, the moment sliding away like water off skin. He gives you one last glance, a wink for good measure, then turns and walks toward the others. That leaves you standing in the hallway, heart racing, wondering why his lazy confidence always makes it hard to tell when he’s joking and when he isn’t.

You follow behind, still feeling the blush he called out.

You offer to help Hana out in the kitchen. Wooyoung is busy winning everybody’s hearts with his charm, so you aren’t concerned about him.

You rinse off a plate, hands moving on autopilot as you stack it neatly on the drying rack. Hana leans against the counter beside you, sipping the last of her wine, her smile still painted on from dinner. “Seriously though,” she says, nudging your hip with hers, “I wasn’t expecting you to show up with someone like that.”

You huff a laugh. “Like what?”

“Like… funny. Hot. Charismatic. The way he talks about you?” She raises a brow. “Unreal.”

You smile, tight-lipped. “Yeah. He’s something.”

“I mean…” She grins. “You glow around him. It’s wild. Like, he looks at you like he’s already picking out your wedding venue.”

You laugh, quiet, awkward. “He’s just… sweet.”

Hana raises her brows. “He’s obsessed. In a good way.” She tilts her head toward the hallway. “I’m gonna go grab the wine opener. Don’t let me forget it again. Be back in a sec.”

The back door clicks shut behind her, and silence settles again. It’s nice for a moment, just you, the clink of cutlery, the steam from the sink. You keep washing dishes, grateful for the moment alone.

But it doesn’t last.

You hear movement behind you. Slow. Hesitant.

You turn your head and freeze.

It’s him.

Your ex.

He stands just past the threshold, hands in his pockets, gaze locked on you. He steps in without saying anything at first. Just lingers a little too close to the kitchen island, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to figure out what he’s seeing.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says.

You dry your hands on a towel, steadying yourself. “Clearly.”

He takes a step in. Not too close, but enough to unsettle you.

His eyes flick around the room, then land back on you. “You look good.”

You sigh quietly, turning back to the sink. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m just saying.”

Another beat.

You hear him shift again, leaning slightly against the island behind you. You can feel his eyes on your back.

“That guy,” he says finally. “The one who came with you. Wooyoung.”

You don’t look at him. “What about him?”

He hesitates. Then, carefully: “Are you two… serious?”

You pause, then shrug. “That’s none of your business.”

He lets out a low breath. “So that’s a yes.”

You turn slowly, facing him now. “Why are you here, really?”

“In my own house?”

“No,” you say. “Why are you in this kitchen, right now?”

He stares at you. Silent.

“I fucked up,” he blurts, “Okay? I know I did. I’ve been thinking about it since-”

“Don’t,” you snap, but still keeping your voice down so the rest of the party won't hear. “You don’t get to come here, pretend we’re still something, and then act surprised that I moved on. You’re married.”

His mouth opens, then closes. He looks at you like you’ve just hit him.

“You moved on?” he repeats, like the words are bitter on his tongue. “With him?”

You step back. “You don’t know him.”

He scoffs. “I might not, but I can still see how insufferable he is.”

You stare at him, lips parted in disbelief. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

He takes another step forward, eyes sharper now. “I just don’t get it. After everything-”

“No,” you say firmly, holding your hand up. “You don’t get anything. You lost the right to have an opinion the second you slept with someone else.”

There’s a beat of silence. Your heart pounds in your ears.

And then…

“Everything okay in here?” Wooyoung’s voice is cold. Threatening almost.

You don’t need to look. You feel it, the air shifting, the way the atmosphere bends around his presence. But you still turn your head. And it steadies you instantly.

He’s leaning in the doorway. One hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks, the other hanging loose at his side. His posture is relaxed. His expression? Somewhere between nonchalance and interest.

But his eyes?

They’re fixed on your ex.

And they could kill.

Your ex straightens, caught off guard. “Uh-, yeah. We were just-”

Wooyoung steps fully into the room like he’s walking through water, unconcerned by the tension that’s thick enough to drown in. He nods once, a polite gesture with razor edges, then glances at you.

His voice lowers. Smooth, velvety. Unmistakably his.

“You okay, baby?”

The pet name slips out effortlessly. Like it belongs there. Like you belong to him. Then he closes the space between you and him, his hand brushing the small of your back with casual ownership.

Your breath stutters. “I’m fine.”

His gaze lingers on your ex, sharp enough to make the air hum.

“Then I’ll ask one more time,” he murmurs, voice dipped in steel, eyes locked on your ex. “Is there a problem?”

Your ex lets out a quiet scoff, trying to play it cool. “No problem at all.”

Wooyoung breathes in once, slow.

“Then I’ll make this simple,” he says, softly now. Dangerous soft. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.” He tilts his head, the barest shift of muscle. His smile is slight, almost gentle, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “If not…” His jaw tightens just once. “Walk away before you make me repeat myself.”

Your ex doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t look at you. Just leaves.

And Wooyoung watches every step. Tracks him with the kind of gaze that doesn’t flinch. It says everything he hasn’t:

Try it again. I dare you.

When it’s just the two of you again, Wooyoung’s fingers trace your spine once, barely there. A silent check-in.

Then, slowly, his focus shifts. Back to you.

His voice drops. Low. Controlled.

“You okay?”

You nod once, but it’s tight. Too tight. And he sees it.

His brows pinch just slightly. “Did he say something?”

“No,” you whisper, and it’s true, mostly. “He was just… being him.”

Wooyoung exhales slowly through his nose, jaw clenching. Like he’s trying not to say something that would ruin the whole night. But then he looks at you, really looks at you, and something in him softens. Just a little.

His hand slides from your back to your waist, anchoring you close. He studies your face for a moment, like he’s not fully convinced, but then he exhales and gives a small nod back.

“I didn’t want to step in too early,” he says, voice soft now. “You looked like you had it under control. You did.”

There’s something warm in your chest at that, that he trusted you to hold your own.

You meet his eyes.

He’s not angry.

He’s present.

“I know you don’t need anyone to defend you,” he says, quieter now. “But I’m here. If you ever want me to.”

That part lingers. A gentle offering.

You smile faintly. “Thanks.”

He leans just a little closer, his voice dipping like he doesn’t want to be overheard, even by the walls, and something wicked flickers at the corner of his mouth. “Guess I’ll have to make it clearer you’re taken.”

Your heart skips a beat.

His hand gives your waist the faintest squeeze, not possessive, just sure. Then he straightens up, tone lighter, a glint in his eye as he teases, “You ready to go back out there, or should we hide out in here a little longer?”

You smile. “Let’s go.”

Wooyoung laces his fingers with yours as you step out of the kitchen. He doesn’t say much. Just keeps his hand on you, sometimes at your back, sometimes curled around your fingers, like he doesn’t trust the room not to try and touch you.

The energy around him simmers low. Controlled. Patient.

But it’s there.

You feel it in the way his gaze lingers a little too long when you make eye contact The way his thumb brushes your skin when you pass your ex. Like a fuse waiting for flame.

The evening moves on. Laughter. Drinks. Music humming low in the background. But that energy never leaves him.

Then, after another drink, his palm slides against your waist as he leans in, murmuring just low enough for only you to hear. “Come outside with me for a sec?”

You glance up, surprised by the quiet invitation, but nod. “Yeah. Okay."

He takes your hand and leads you through the back door, into the cool hush of the backyard. String lights sway gently above. A few scattered chairs dot the patio, mostly empty.

He pulls you just far enough into the yard that you’re framed under the golden light, a sight impossible to miss. Then he stops just enough to pull you in close, his hands resting firmly on your waist. His breath brushes your neck as he leans in, voice low and a little teasing.

“Do you trust me?”

You meet his gaze, smiling without hesitation, but a little confused. “Of course.”

But before you can say anything more, he leans in, no warning, no hesitation, and his mouth finds your neck.

Slow. Deliberate. Unapologetically possessive.

His grip on your waist tightens, firm and grounding, like he's anchoring himself to you, or maybe keeping you exactly where he wants you.

Your fingers twitch, aching to clutch at his shirt, his shoulders, anything. But he doesn’t stop. His mouth keeps moving, tongue flicking, lips parting as he sucks softly at the spot just above your collarbone, lazy, indulgent, filthy in how intimate it feels.

You gasp, hips tilting forward instinctively, heat already pooling low and heavy in your belly. He doesn’t miss it, he hums against your throat like he felt it happen.

Wooyoung pulls back just enough to murmur, voice thick and close to your ear, “You weren’t expecting that, huh?”

His tone is teasing, pleased, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Then he leans back in, grazing your neck again, his nose brushing over the same spot he just kissed.

“Fake boyfriend of the year, right?” he adds, a low smirk in his voice.

It pulls a laugh from you, too real, too soft, and he chuckles under his breath like he lives for the sound.

And then he looks up.

Over your shoulder.

Still smiling.

You don’t turn. You don’t even realize why his gaze has sharpened. But Wooyoung knows. He’s known from the moment he stepped outside.

“Oh, hey,” he says, just loud enough, like the thought only now occurred to him. “Didn’t see you there.”

You blink, startled, then turn.

And there he is.

Your ex is sitting in the far corner of the backyard, posture stiff, one hand loosely holding a glass of something amber that he’s no longer drinking. He’s been watching, long enough, clearly. His eyes flick from your face to where Wooyoung’s hand rests against your hip like it was made to be there. His mouth is drawn in a line so tight it might split.

He’d been watching.

Wooyoung's arm wraps a little tighter around your waist. Not possessive. Not aggressive. Just… secure. Like he has every right to hold you like this. Like he dares anyone to question it.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Wooyoung says, cool and lazy.

Your ex stares, jaw tight.

Wooyoung doesn’t wait. His posture is casual, but there’s a glint in his eye that betrays him, too amused, too at-ease.

“Nice night, isn’t it?” he adds, like it’s nothing. “Stars out. Music inside. My girl tastes like sangria. Hard to complain.”

You stiffen slightly, but Wooyoung doesn’t flinch. He’s still smiling faintly, watching you with that unbothered, pretty-boy charm that somehow makes everything worse.

Your ex lifts his drink and mutters, “Some of us came out here to be alone.”

Wooyoung cocks his head. “Oh, totally fair. Should’ve said something.”

There’s a beat of silence, sharp enough to cut through. But he doesn’t move. He stays planted right there beside you, hand still snug on your waist like it belongs there.

Then he blinks, as if struck by a thought.

“Oh-, wait,” he says, voice still sweet. “You want us back inside?” He huffs a quiet laugh, almost apologetic. “Damn. That’s on me.”

Your ex sets his glass down with a soft clink on the stone railing. “You always this annoying?”

Wooyoung grins. “Only when I’m in a good mood.”

“Y/N! Wooyoung!”

Hana bursts out, loud and glowing, wine glass in one hand, joy practically spilling out of her. Her eyes land on you both and she lights up like the fourth of July.

“Oh my God, there you are!” she grins. “I was about to come get you, everyone keeps asking where the hot couple went!”

You see your ex stiffen. Wooyoung’s smile stretches.

“Hot couple,” he echoes, biting back a laugh.

Hana gasps dramatically. “Don’t act shy now! You two are disgusting. I love it.”

“I'm not mad about it. She’s got great taste,” Wooyoung teases with a little shrug, for a second glancing over at your ex. “Eventually.”

Your ex’s jaw tightens. He looks like he might speak.

But Wooyoung leans in one last time, whispering low into your ear, voice soft enough to make your skin spark:

"Success, baby"

He smirks before sliding his hand into yours, pulling you gently toward the house where Hana is waiting, oblivious to the tension left behind.

The night has mellowed. The lights are dim, the wine is flowing, and laughter has started to echo easier around the table. Someone’s passed around dessert, tiramisu in glass jars, and Wooyoung’s excused himself to the bathroom with that lazy, effortless vibe only he can pull off without trying. You’d felt his hand brush your shoulder as he left, and it still lingers there somehow, phantom-warm.

Hana’s had just enough wine to get bold. She sits across from you, grinning over the rim of her glass.

“Okay,” she says, loudly enough to cut across the overlapping chatter. “New question for the couples.”

The table quiets, interest piqued.

Her eyes land on you like a spotlight. “What’s your favorite physical thing about your partner?”

A few groans. Someone throws a napkin in her direction.

“Don’t roll your eyes,” she warns, laughing. “And no safe answers either. I don’t want to hear about how they ‘have a nice smile�� or ‘beautiful eyes’, everyone says that. I want the thing. The detail. The part of them that does it for you when you’re not even trying to look. The one that makes your brain short-circuit a little.”

You laugh, swallowing a little too quickly. The wine burns, and suddenly the air feels too warm.

“I’ll go last,” Hana says, clearly loving this. “Y/N, go.”

You freeze. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Her smile is practically villainous. “He’s not even here. You can be honest.”

Everyone chuckles. The pressure thickens.

You hesitate, lips parting, unsure. Your eyes flick toward the hallway where Wooyoung disappeared. As if he might walk in just in time to save you.

But he doesn’t.

You clear your throat and say, maybe a little too honestly, “His hands.”

“Ooh,” someone says. “That’s a good one.”

You glance down at the table, fingers curling around your wine glass. “They’re just… nice,” you say, not looking up. “He moves them a lot when he talks. And they’re always doing something. Tapping, pulling at a sleeve, playing with his rings or-, whatever. Just always… moving.”

Your voice quiets as the room listens. You feel exposed, like you said something too intimate.

You don’t realize the room has fallen silent. Until it hits you that no one’s said anything back.

And then...

“I should leave more often if this is what I get to come back to.”

And Wooyoung is standing just behind you, leaning lazily against the doorway, arms crossed, one brow raised in interest.

Your breath halts.

There’s laughter again around the table, but your throat goes dry. Hana’s grinning at the perfect timing. “There he is,” she says, wiggling her brows. “Right on cue. We’re playing favorites.”

Wooyoung raises a brow. “Favorites?”

“Favorite physical thing about each other,” she explains, eyes sparkling. “And no cop-outs like smile or eyes. We’re talking the thing. The detail that ruins you. Your turn”

He chuckles under his breath, clearly amused. He doesn’t hesitate.

“Her neck.”

A beat of silence. His voice is smooth but deliberate, like the words were waiting in his mouth.

You feel your body go still.

Then he moves, slowly, stepping closer behind your chair, his hand brushing your shoulder as he comes to a stop. You’re suddenly very aware of how exposed your skin is where your top dips to your collarbone, of how warm the air feels even though he hasn’t touched you.

“She’s got this curve,” he says, quieter now, like he’s letting everyone else fade out. “Right here," His fingers trace the slope where your neck meets your shoulder, so lightly it barely counts as a touch. “Right where her hair rests.”

Then his tone shifts, warmer, quieter. Real.

“In the mornings,” he says, like he’s letting the rest of the room fall away, “when she’s still half-asleep and pulls her hair up without thinking. Stretching, yawning, no makeup, nothing, this part’s just exposed. The light hits it, and I swear to God-” He cuts himself off with a low exhale, shaking his head with a crooked smile. “It makes it really hard to be on time for anything.”

The silence that follows is a different kind of hush. Not teasing. Not performative.

It’s weighted. Personal.

Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t making any of that up. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he pulls back, barely.

“Plus,” he adds, a lazy grin playing on his lips, “it’s really unfair that you smell the way you do.”

“Okay, damn,” someone says from across the table, but you can’t even register who.

Wooyoung finally moves, slipping back into the seat beside you. But he doesn’t lean back, doesn’t settle into comfort like before. He sits just a little closer than he needs to. His thigh brushes yours. Warm. Steady. You don’t move.

The game rolls on, Hana gesturing to the couple across from you with a flourish, their answer met with giggles and teasing. But the background fades, soft, foggy, because you feel it. The weight of Wooyoung’s stare.

When you finally turn your head, you find him already watching you.

And everything in his face is different.

Gone is the cocky smile, the playful glint in his eye. He’s quiet now. Studying you, like he’s not sure where the line is anymore. Like maybe he doesn’t want to know.

And then, another gaze.

You catch it from the corner of your eye: your ex, sitting stiff at the far end of the table, his expression unreadable. He’s watching Wooyoung like a hawk, jaw tight, mouth set in a firm line.

Wooyoung senses it. You can feel the shift in him, the small breath he takes. The flicker of heat in his chest, like he might respond, say something, smirk just to provoke.

But he doesn’t.

Because it’s not about him anymore.

After a few more rounds of the game, you step into the hallway and let your back hit the wall with a quiet sigh. The noise from the living room still hums faintly behind you, laughter, the clink of glasses, someone shuffling a deck of cards. It’s warm in there, but your skin feels too tight. You just need a minute.

You close your eyes.

Footsteps approach, soft, familiar.

Wooyoung slips into the hallway like he’s done it a hundred times, like he always knows when you need the space. He falls in beside you, close but not crowding, his shoulder hovering just shy of yours as he leans against the wall.

“You always vanish when it gets too loud,” he says, his voice low.

You keep your eyes forward, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I don’t vanish. I relocate.”

He hums. “Right. Into hallways. Or kitchen corners. Or that one time it was behind the couch.”

“That was one time.”

“It was still dramatic,” he teases, nudging your arm lightly. Your breath catches, just a little. It’s playful. It’s Wooyoung. But something about the way he talks makes your stomach flip.

“You look really pretty tonight.”

The words land like a spark, and your breath catches before you can help it. You blink up at him, startled.

“I-, what?”

He grins, slow and lopsided. “Just saying. I don’t think I told you earlier.”

You feel your face flush, warmth blooming across your cheeks, down your neck. You look away instantly, trying to mask it with a half-laugh.

“I’m honest,” he counters, still looking at you. You can feel it, the weight of his gaze, the way it lingers. “I mean, you always look good, but tonight…” His voice dips, softer now. “It’s kind of unfair.”

You glance away, suddenly hyperaware of how close he’s standing. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?” he asks, leaning just slightly toward you. “Is it that hard to believe? Do I need to be faking a relationship for you to believe it?”

You don’t answer. You’re not sure you can. Your heart’s already too loud in your ears.

He nudges your arm gently. “You know, for someone who lives with me, you’re really bad at accepting compliments.”

You try to play it off. “Maybe you just give too many.”

“Mm,” he muses. “Or maybe you’re just really easy to compliment.”

You let out a breathy sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, tucking your chin down in embarrassment. “Can you not?”

You finally glance at him, and he’s already watching you with that infuriatingly unreadable look, somewhere between playful and serious. Like he’s holding back.

He doesn’t say anything else for a second. He just looks at you.

And somehow, that says more than the rest.

You try not to smile. You fail.

Wooyoung pushes himself off the wall with a lazy stretch, then turns his body to face you, effectively placing his back toward the living room.

“Come back in when you’re ready,” he says softly, his voice carrying that usual teasing warmth. “You don’t have to rush. But I’ll be on my seat, being distractingly attractive… in case that helps.”

You almost laugh, but then your eyes drift past him.

Your stomach dips.

Your ex is standing just inside the living room, half-shadowed but unmistakably watching. His expression is unreadable, his eyes sharp and fixed directly on you.

“Wait,” you breathe, reaching out without thinking.

You grab Wooyoung’s shirt and pull him a little closer. He stumbles forward a step, surprised but not resisting. His brows furrow slightly in confusion as he looks down at you.

“Do you trust me?” you ask now, your voice quieter now. There’s a tremor in it, not fear, but urgency. Purpose.

Wooyoung’s expression shifts, softening. “Yes,” he says, instantly. “Of course.”

That’s all you need.

Your hands move quickly, one sliding up to the back of his neck, the other gripping the front of his shirt. You rise onto your toes and kiss him. Firm and deliberate. Lips meeting his in a way that leaves no room for questions. His mouth parts slightly in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in.

When you break the kiss just slightly, you don’t step back. You stay close, close enough that your lips graze his as you whisper, “He’s watchi-,”

You don’t get to finish. Wooyoung’s lips are on yours again before you even register, like they need to be. Like he doesn’t care about why you kissed him, or for who, but because he can’t stop now that you’ve let it happen.

This time it’s deeper. Hungrier.

You can’t help but deepen the kiss when he slides his tongue slightly into your mouth, and one of his hands slips down to your lower back, guiding you closer. The other lifts to your jaw, gentle but sure. l

You feel your back press lightly into the wall behind you as he moves with you, not rough, but insistent. The kind of kiss that drowns everything else out, conversation, footsteps, your ex’s presence across the room.

His lips part yours, his breath hot and heavy against your cheek between kisses. His grip tightens at your waist, grounding you. You respond instinctively, hands curling into his shirt, lips moving with his, matching every shift and tilt of his head.

It’s a performance. That’s how it started.

But it doesn’t feel like one anymore.

It feels like heat, like want, like a spark that caught fire the second you gave it permission. And he’s kissing you like he’s not planning to stop anytime soon.

And for just a second, you let yourself melt into it. Into him.

But then… it passes.

The air changes again.

You blink and glance over to the living room. Your ex is gone. Vanished back into the room. Wooyoung slows, then stops. His hands remain on you, his breath still a little uneven.

You pull back first, just enough to look at him.

His eyes are already on you. There’s something different there now, an emotion you haven’t seen from him before. Not just playfulness, not just comfort. Something heavier. Hungrier.

You force a small, awkward smile and drop your hands from his neck, stepping back just slightly. “Okay,” you say, clearing your throat. “I think that worked.”

Wooyoung doesn’t say anything for a second. He just studies you like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time. Then he nods, slow and unreadable, and finally, he smiles. But it’s not quite the same. Something about it is quieter. Almost reverent.

At the end of the night, shoes shuffle at the door. Coats rustle. The air is heavy with the kind of tired that follows too much wine and too much pretending.

“Get home safe, okay?” Hana says warmly, stepping toward you both as you’re about to leave. Her smile is soft, a little teasing. “You two are seriously adorable. Like… sickening. I love it.”

You laugh, a bit breathlessly, already halfway into your coat. But before you can say anything, Wooyoung’s arm snakes naturally around your waist, casual, confident. You feel his fingers press into your side, warm through the fabric.

“Thanks, Hana,” he says, flashing her a grin. “She keeps me in line.”

You roll your eyes and glance up at him, but the smile tugging at your lips is real, too real. “Barely,” you murmur, playing along.

His eyes flick to yours for a second. Just long enough to make your stomach twist.

Hana grins and gives you both a quick hug before stepping back into the house. “Bye, lovebirds.”

The door closes behind you.

The air outside bites cold against your skin.

And just like that, his arm drops from your waist. The performance ends.

Neither of you says a word as you walk to the curb. You don’t know if it’s the silence or the absence of his touch that makes the air feel heavier now, but it’s different.

The cab pulls up with a soft screech. He opens the door for you like always, waits for you to slide in, then follows without a word. The car is warm, too warm, and too quiet.

You're both staring straight ahead.

The streetlights flicker past, painting gold across his face. In the confined space, the silence between you buzzes, thick with something unspoken, something ignited hours ago that neither of you has dared to acknowledge.

The apartment door clicks shut behind you with a softness that feels far too loud in the quiet.

Coats are hung. Shoes are kicked off. The scent of his usual candle lingers in the air, citrus and something darker underneath. Normally comforting. Now it just makes your heart beat faster.

Wooyoung heads to the kitchen without a word. His shoulders are relaxed, but there’s something taut underneath it all. You hesitate in the hallway, watching him open the cabinet, sleeves pushed to his elbows, veins still prominent down his forearms from earlier, and you hate how you notice.

You drift into the kitchen slowly, lingering by the edge of the counter.

“So,” you offer, light and a little too bright, “that was fun, right? Peak acting performance. Someone give us Oscars.”

No answer. He fills the glass with water from the tap, moves with that same quiet ease, but doesn’t glance at you once.

You try again, a bit more playful. “Think we fooled them? I mean, your story about how we met really sold it. Ten out of ten commitment.”

He finally looks at you, just looks. And it’s a look that completely steals the breath from your chest. Calm, dark, unreadable. His eyes are locked on yours like he's waiting for you to crack first. And suddenly you're hyperaware of everything. How hot your cheeks feel, how your voice might've sounded too eager, how the silence seems to wrap around your body like a second skin.

You clear yours softly. “Anyway. Um. I’m gonna-, I think I’m just gonna head to bed.”

Still nothing from him.

You nod quickly. “Night.”

You turn, heart hammering now, and you’ve only made it a step or two down the hall when his voice floats to you, quiet, even.

“If you ever need a fake boyfriend again…”

You stop. Your fingers twitch at your side.

“…you know where to find me.”

You turn back toward him slowly. He’s still in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter, glass in hand, eyes unreadable, but fixed on you like he’s daring you to say something. To ask him what he means. To call him out.

You don’t.

You meet his gaze, and it’s only for a second, but something heavy passes between you, something weighty and unspoken that neither of you wants to name.

Then you nod.

Not a joking nod. Not one meant to brush things off. Just… quiet acknowledgement. You walk off with your heartbeat pounding in your ears, like your body knows something your mind hasn’t caught up with. You don’t look back, but you feel his eyes on you the whole way down the hall.

The door clicks softly shut behind you.

And for a long time, you just stand there in the silence of your room, pulse racing, breath held, trying to figure out what exactly that was.

You don’t even remember walking to your vanity. You’ve just been standing here, fingers curled loosely along the edge, eyes locked on your reflection like it might give you answers. But all it gives you is the echo of him. His words. His gaze. His lips on yours. The way your body reacted like it knew something you didn’t.

There’s a knock.

A soft one.

You straighten up fast, like you’re guilty of something. “Come in.”

The door creaks open behind you.

You meet his gaze through the mirror as he strolls in, easy and casual, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be here, in your space, late at night.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you.

You manage a breath. “Not tired?”

His shoulders lift in the faintest shrug. “Not really.”

Then silence again.

But it’s not awkward, it’s thick. Charged.

“I was thinking about something,” he finally says, his voice smooth, a little playful.

You glance at him in the mirror, trying not to let your pulse jump. “Yeah? About what?”

Wooyoung pushes off the frame, making his way toward you at an unhurried pace. “You’re better at this whole fake relationship thing than you give yourself credit for.”

You attempt a shrug. “Just playing along.”

A soft laugh leaves him. “Mm. Sure.”

He walks further into the room. Not quickly. Not even directly toward you. He slows as he passes by your bed, eyes roaming lazily over the space like he’s trying to memorize it. But you know that’s not what this is.

He’s letting the silence stretch.

He’s letting you squirm.

You glance at him through the mirror, just as he finally makes his way behind you.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

He stops right behind you, not touching, but close. You keep your eyes locked on the mirror, but it’s no use. He’s everywhere now. In your space. In your breath.

“And the things you said tonight,” he says, voice soft but pointed. “Those were part of the act too?”

You try to keep your tone even. “What things?”

He tilts his head. “The part where you said you like my hands. That you stare at them when I’m not looking.”

You freeze just slightly.

"I-, uhm... I dont-..." You glance down instinctively, suddenly very aware of your own hands fidgeting.

“Funny,” he says softly, “You think I haven’t noticed? When I’m cooking. When I’m fixing something around the apartment. You always get quiet.”

His hand lifts, fingertips brushing your hair gently off your shoulder. You shiver as he lowers his voice again.

“I meant what I said, by the way,” he says. “I do love your neck.”

You don’t answer, but he doesn’t need you to.

“In the mornings,” he murmurs. “When you’re in the kitchen, still half asleep, standing by the window. Your head tilts just a little. That soft little spot here,” he gestures near your collarbone, but still doesn’t touch. “barely covered.”

You’re not breathing properly now.

“And I try,” he continues, “I really try to keep it together, but you standing there like that…? That does something to me.”

You let out a slow, shaky breath, shoulders dropping ever so slightly.

His fingers trail lightly along the back of your neck, not quite touching skin yet, but enough to make you lean into it. He steps in fully now, his hands finding your waist, and you instinctively lean back into him.

And then, finally, his mouth brushes your neck. Gentle. Slow. A teasing press that turns into something deeper. You feel the smile against your skin as he kisses again, and again, lower this time, until your knees threaten to give.

You gasp, just a little, and he smiles against your throat.

“You know,” he starts, voice casual, “if this wasn’t fake…”

Your breath hitches.

“…I would’ve done a lot of things differently tonight.”

You swallow hard. “Like what?”

He trails one finger along your side, feather-light, just enough to make you squirm.

“If this wasn’t fake…” he begins, like it’s casual, like he’s not setting you on fire, “I wouldn’t have let you leave my side once tonight. I would’ve had my hand on you the whole dinner, your thigh, your back, the curve of your hip, just to remind you who you belong to.”

Your stomach tightens.

He brushes his fingers lightly along your sides, not quite ticklish, just maddeningly slow.

“I’d bring you home,” he continues, lips nearly brushing the shell of your ear, “take your hand, lead you to your room like I’ve been waiting to all night. And I wouldn’t rush it. No pretending, no performance. Just you. Me. And the dress I’ve been dying to take off you.”

He trails his knuckles lightly down your side, slow and reverent.

“I’d unzip it real slow…”

You hear the faintest shift of fabric.

“Let it slip off your shoulders while I kissed right here…” he presses a single, feather-light kiss to the side of your neck, “and here…” another just below your ear, “until you were shivering.”

Your eyes flutter closed, and he watches your reflection like he’s memorizing the moment.

“Do you want me to stop?” he whispers just below your ear.

You’re at a loss for words but you’re hungry for more. You shake your head as you swallow, but realise how dry your mouth is. His hands slide up your sides, warm, sure, with a smile on his face.

“If it hadn't been fake, I’d press you against this vanity,” he goes on, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Make you watch as I touched every inch of your skin.”

You can’t look away from the mirror, from the image of his hands exploring you, slow and confident, like he’s known this body forever.

“I’d hold your hips right here.” His hands grip you firmly, positioning your body with ease. “And I’d make sure the only thing you remembered from tonight was how I made you feel.”

"Yeah?" you manage to say, too invested in everything he's saying.

“If this wasn’t fake…” he murmurs, his hands still on you, tracing the curve of your body as if he owns it. “I’d make you see stars. I’d fuck you right here, make you forget you were ever pretending.”

You let out a light gasp, feeling your heart in your throat.

He presses against you, his hand finding its way to your neck, just enough to make you tilt your head back, exposing more of that sensitive skin. He breathes softly against it.

“You’d be mine. I’d make sure you knew it, every fucking inch of you.”

You’re a breath away from crumbling, your chest rising and falling in rapid succession as you realize how much you want him, how easily you’re giving into the fantasy.

His lips are still close to your ear, breath warm, voice impossibly soft.

“But then again…” he murmurs, the barest smile in his tone, “this is all fake… isn’t it?”

You stiffen.

He lets out a low chuckle, his nose skimming the line of your jaw as he continues, casually cruel in the way only he can be. “None of this would actually happen. I mean, why would it?”

"Why not?" you barely let out a whisper.

His fingers drag slowly down your sides, feather-light, torturously teasing. He’s pretending to think, pretending to be thoughtful, but he knows exactly what he’s doing. “You and me, coming home after a night like that, all dressed up, all tense and wired… and me just…” His hand glides over your hips. “Peeling you out of this dress and fucking you over your vanity?”

He hums, tilting his head. “Seems a little far-fetched, don’t you think?”

You inhale sharply, your body practically trembling from restraint.

He leans in again, lips just at your neck now. “You haven’t said much,” he whispers, his hand brushing lower, just enough to make you flinch. “Should I stop?” His fingers press gently into your thighs now, possessive even in their softness. “Because we’re faking it, right?” He lets out a slow, amused breath. “And I’d hate to make things confusing.”

You swallow hard, your mouth dry, your skin flushed everywhere.

“Unless you want me to keep going,” he murmurs, eyes locking with yours in the reflection, darker now, heavy with intent. “But you’d have to say it, sweetheart.”

His fingers trail between your legs, light as a threat.

You grip the edge of the vanity with white knuckles, heart pounding in your throat. “Wooyoung…”

His hand slides up, over your stomach, between your breasts, up to your throat, never squeezing, just there. Possessive. Protective. His lips trail along your shoulder, just above the strap of your dress, while the other hand finally finds the zipper.

“I’d take you like this,” he says lowly, kissing the back of your neck. “Make you look at yourself while I ruin you, slow… deep… mine.”

Your knees nearly give out.

He presses forward just a little more, breath ragged now against your skin. “But maybe we should stop.”

You whimper, actually whimper, and shake your head.

“No, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking apart like the last wall crumbling. "Don't stop."

His hands freeze for just a moment, then he smirks, low and satisfied.

“There she is.”

His smirk deepens, wicked, triumphant. He doesn’t say a word.

Then, with deliberate force, he turns you.

Your back meets the cool edge of the vanity. Before you can fully catch your breath, his veiny hand is already on your throat, firm but careful, guiding your head back just enough to look up at him.

You gasp from the way it makes your knees go weak, the way it makes your heart stutter in your chest.

His gaze drops to your lips. Then slowly, almost torturously, he leans in, breath brushing your mouth, letting you feel the heat of it before he claims you.

The kiss is devastating. Nothing sweet. Nothing soft.

His mouth crashes into yours like he’s starved for it, tongue, teeth, everything. He takes and takes, groaning low in his throat the moment you moan against him. That tiny, helpless sound makes his fingers tighten slightly on your neck, his other hand sliding possessively down your side to your hip.

“God, you sound so pretty when you do that,” he breathes between kisses, voice wrecked.

You melt under him, into him, letting him press you back against the vanity like he wants to fuse you to it. He breaks the kiss with a growl, breath hot against your lips, then suddenly, he spins you again.

You can’t speak. You can’t think. All you can do is feel his hands on your hips, feel the way his body aligns with yours so perfectly it’s almost cruel.

“Still pretending?” he asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Or can I finally touch you like I’ve wanted to all fucking night?”

You nod before he even finishes the sentence. "Yes-, yes please," you whimper, hips tilting back into his, head tipping to give him more of your neck.

He chuckles under his breath.

“Thought so.”

You don’t have a chance to respond before his hands are on you again, more urgent this time. His fingers find the zipper of your dress, and he pulls it down, letting you feel every inch of his focus on you.

The dress slides off your body, pooling at your feet, and he’s quick to step back just enough to take you in. His eyes rake over you like he’s starving. You stand there, vulnerable, under his gaze, and you can’t help the way your body reacts to him. The heat between your legs intensifies, the ache in your chest growing stronger.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes raking over you from behind. “You’re a goddamn dream.”

You gasp as he presses you into the vanity, your body trapped between the cool wood and the heat of him. His hands slide down to your thighs, pulling them apart slowly, giving him access, making sure you feel every moment of it. His voice drops to a velvet growl. “I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good, baby. Right here.” His lips press behind your ear again, “Tell me you want it,” he demands.

And you can’t hold back anymore. The tension in your body snaps, and you nod, your breath quickening. “I want it.”

He smirks, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Good girl.”

His hand presses firmly between your thighs, rubbing you through the soaked fabric with just enough pressure to make your legs weaken beneath you.

He chuckles against your skin when he feels you tremble. “Already this wet for me, baby?”

You nod helplessly, and his free hand slides up your back, tangling in your hair, pulling your head to the side to expose more of your neck.

His teeth graze your pulse point, and you moan again, louder this time. "Look in the mirror as I touch you."

Your breath stutters, lashes fluttering as your gaze locks on the reflection. “Fuck, Wooyoung…” you whisper, already unsteady, your thighs trembling under his stare alone.

Then, with no warning, he hooks a finger in the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs, letting them fall. Cool air brushes against your wetness, and your whole body jolts in response.

“Jesus-” you exhale, shivering.

His fingers slide through your slick folds, slow and deliberate, just enough pressure to make you twitch. You moan, sharp and helpless, eyes fluttering closed for a second until he tuts softly beside your ear.

“Eyes open, sweetheart. I said look.”

You obey, forcing your eyes to the mirror again, and the sight of you, glowing, needy, lips parted, legs trembling, draws a sound from deep in your throat.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing just below your ear. “Let me take care of you.”

Then, he pushes in, just one finger at first, thick and deliberate. He doesn’t rush. He presses in knuckle by knuckle, watching your face in the mirror as your lips part and your back arches. The way your body welcomes him makes his cock twitch under the fabrics.

“There we go,” he whispers, dark and pleased. “So fucking tight.”

He gives you a moment to adjust, curling that single finger just right, then pulls back, almost all the way, before pushing in again, deeper this time. You whimper, soft and broken.

“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs, dragging his lips along your jaw. “You let me in so easily.”

When he slides in a second finger, your knees nearly give out, but he catches you, pressing his chest to your back and flattening his palm over your belly.

You cry out, raw and desperate, body jerking in his arms.

“Right there,” you gasp. “Fuck, right there-, don’t stop, please don’t stop-”

His lips trace your jaw, voice molten.

“Good girl,” he whispers, moving his fingers just the way you need. “Let me hear you.”

And you do.

Loud, unfiltered, desperate for more.

Your hands grip the edge of the vanity. He watches in the mirror as your face twists in pleasure, breath shuddering every time he pumps into you. He doesn’t relent. His fingers are steady, coaxing, relentless, fucking you precisely, like he’s memorizing every reaction.

“Tell me how it feels,” he demands softly.

“So good,” you breathe. “It’s-, god, Wooyoung-”

“That’s right,” he cuts in, curling his fingers deeper. “Say my name like that.”

He shifts just slightly, just enough to hit the spot that sends stars bursting behind your eyes, and keeps that rhythm. Over and over.

“Come on,” he whispers against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “I can feel it. You’re right there, aren’t you?”

You nod, desperately, eyes fluttering shut.

But he doesn’t let you. His free hand curls around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, guiding you back to the mirror.

“No. Look,” he growls, his voice low and possessive. “I want you to see how good I make you feel. How pretty you look falling apart just for me.”

You force your eyes open, lips parted, eye makeup already smudged, breath shaking, and what you see unravels you: his body pressed to yours, his hand moving between your legs like he owns you, his gaze fixed entirely on your reflection.

The sight of it, the feeling of him everywhere, inside and around you, tips you over the edge.

You cry out, helpless and raw, as your body clenches hard around his fingers. He doesn’t slow. He works you through it, murmuring praise against your ear.

“That’s it,” he groans. “That’s my good girl. So fucking beautiful when you come for me.”

Your hips jerk, grinding into his palm as your orgasm pulses through you, long and overwhelming. When the waves finally ease, your body limp and trembling, he slowly withdraws his fingers, slick and shining.

You shiver, eyes fluttering shut as he presses his hips against you, the thick hardness of him pressing against your thighs.

He suddenly guides you forward, one hand on your back, he presses you down firmly, bending you over.

“Stay just like that,” he commands, stepping back slightly to admire the view, your ass pushed out, your eyes wide in the mirror, lips already parted. “Fuck. Look at you.”

Then you feel it, his hands on your thighs, spreading them, dragging his fingers slowly along your skin. His shirt hangs open, wrinkled and useless now, clinging to one shoulder, exposing his toned chest, flushed and rising with every harsh breath. His palm presses to the center of your back, bending you over the vanity with a firm, unyielding push.

“Stay like that,” he murmurs, voice low and dark. “I want you spread out. Pretty. Obedient.”

You obey without thinking, chest against the cool surface. Then, with excruciating slowness, he undoes his belt. The sound alone makes your breath hitch. He keeps his eyes locked on yours in the mirror as he pushes his pants down just enough and frees himself, fingers wrapping around his cock like he’s been aching for this.

And when you see him… you go still.

He’s thick, long, flushed and heavy in his hand, already glistening at the tip.

Your gasp escapes before you can stop it.

“Oh?” he smirks, stroking himself lazily, intentionally, letting your eyes drink in every inch. “Surprised?”

You hear the sound of him spitting in his hand, stroking himself once, twice, and then that thick, hard length is sliding between your folds, teasing your entrance.

His hand slides into your hair, not rough, but controlling, guiding your eyes back to the mirror.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he commands, hand fisting your hair just enough to lift your gaze. “You’re gonna watch what it looks like when your best friend finally fucks you.”

Then, with one slow, devastating thrust, he sinks into you.

Deep.

Possessive.

Claiming.

He groans behind you, head falling forward, one hand gripping your hip tight enough to bruise.

“God-, fuck, you’re big,” you gasp, hands scrambling to grip the edge of the vanity.

He pulls out halfway, then slams back in, hard enough to make the vanity rattle.

You gasp, fingers scrambling for the edge, and he laughs behind you, breathless.

“More,” you cry, pushing back into him, shaking. “Don’t stop-, fuck, please don’t stop.”

“You want more?” he hisses, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling your head up so you’re forced to look at yourself in the mirror. “Look at this mess. Look what I’m doing to you.”

He slams into you harder. Filthy. Relentless. His palm lands on your ass, then rubs over the sting like he owns every inch of your body.

Then he snaps, hips continually slamming into you with a rhythm that steals the breath from your lungs. Over and over again. The sound of skin against skin echoes, obscene and raw, as he pounds into you like he’s lost all restraint. He leans over you suddenly, chest pressing to your back. His breath fans hot across your skin as his lips find your shoulder.

He kisses it once. Then again, slower.

“You gonna come like this?” he demands, voice thick and breathless. “Bent over, ass red, stuffed full of me?”

“Yes-,”

But he doesn’t let you come.

Not yet.

Just when your body tenses, right on the edge, he pulls out halfway and stills.

You let out a sob, raw and desperate, collapsing onto your elbows against the vanity.

“No…” you whimper, voice trembling. “Why’d you stop?”

“Because I said so,” he growls behind you, breathing hard. “And if you’re mine now… you come when I let you.”

A sharp slap lands on your ass, the heat blooming instantly, making you cry out and he grins at the way your thighs twitch, how your body tries to grind back into him without thinking.

“Oh, you like that,” he mutters, dragging his palm over the curve of your ass, then gripping both cheeks hard, spreading you open as he groans. “Look at this view. Fucking perfect. So pretty and messy for me.”

His hand grabs your wrist, dragging you upright, spinning you to face him. His mouth crashes into yours in a messy, heated kiss, all teeth and tongue and breathless need. You barely have time to cling to him before he’s walking you backward toward the bed.

“You think I was gonna finish you over a vanity?” he growls against your lips. “Not a fucking chance.”

You fall back onto the mattress with a gasp, legs spread slightly, chest heaving, body already trembling from the way he’s used you, and he just stands there for a second, looking down at you like he’s never seen anything more perfect.

Then his eyes narrow.

“Spread your legs wider.”

You do, instantly.

His shirt is half off, a desperate tug of fabric, and as he pulls his pants fully down, he’s not wasting any time to let you get a full look at him. His cock stands heavy, dripping with need, leaking as he strokes himself with a low growl.

You open your mouth, but the words die as he moves closer, kneeling on the edge of the bed. His hand wraps around your ankle and drags you toward him, his grip firm, claiming. He leans over you, one hand planted beside your head, the other dragging slowly along your inner thigh.

“Tell me,” he demands, brushing his nose along your jaw. “Did it turn you on? Knowing he saw you with me? Knowing he saw how badly I wanted to rip that dress off you?”

“Yes,” you whisper, breath hitching.

Then he’s kissing you again, slower this time but just as possessive. His hand wraps behind your neck, holding you in place as he takes what he wants, savoring your reactions, feeding off every moan that escapes you.

“Look at this,” he mutters, gaze locked between your legs. “So swollen. So wet. All for me.”

His hand drags slowly down your stomach, the heat of his palm branding every inch of skin it touches. It’s not hurried, no, it’s maddeningly slow, his fingers grazing along the dip below your navel, making your muscles jump with anticipation.

Then his fingers reach your folds, gliding through your slickness, deliberately lazy. You twitch under his touch, hips tilting up instinctively.

And then-

He slaps your pussy. Open palm. Quick.

The sound cracks through the room, sharp and obscene. The sting hits you a second later, blooming heat across your center, and your whole body jolts, legs trembling.

“Fuck-!” you cry out, back arching off the bed. “Wooyoung-,”

He smirks down at you, all dark satisfaction. “Oh yeah,” he says, eyes heavy with lust. “You liked that.”

Before you can catch your breath, he does it again. A second slap, just as sharp. The impact makes your thighs jerk apart, a cry tearing from your throat.

He moans, actually moans at the sight of you coming undone. “God, you’re so fucking hot when you take it like that.”

Your body is pulsing, burning, begging.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, breath hot as he leans closer, dragging two fingers through your folds again. “Dripping. You get this wet from just my hand?”

He rubs your clit in tight, quick circles, pressure unforgiving but just right, sending sparks up your spine. The contrast of pain and pleasure makes your head spin.

Your hands grip the sheets hard enough to cramp. “Fuck, Wooyoung-, don’t stop-”

He chuckles low and hungry. “Didn’t plan on it.”

With one smooth motion, he shifts, settling between your thighs. His cock, thick, flushed, already leaking, presses against your entrance, the tip catching on your slick folds. He rubs himself through your arousal, slow and teasing, just enough to make your hips chase him.

You try to lift your hips, to take him in, but he pins you back down, eyes wild.

“No. I get to fuck you when I say so,” he growls, mouth crashing down onto yours, kissing you hard, deep, messy, like he’s starving. Like your mouth is the only thing that’s ever tasted good.

When he finally thrusts in, it’s a single, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt and knocking the air right out of your lungs.

“Fuck,-” you gasp, eyes rolling back.

He doesn’t give you a second to adjust before pulling back and slamming into you again, the force of it leaving you breathless.

He doesn’t stop. He grabs your wrists, pins them above your head, body caging you in like a predator. His mouth finds yours, kissing you like he’s drowning, messy and hot and desperate. Teeth, tongue, breathless moans between every clashing movement.

“Don’t you dare look away,” he growls against your lips. “Look at me while I fuck you.”

So you do.

His pupils are blown, his hair a mess, sweat on his brow, mouth parted. But it’s his eyes, the way he’s looking at you like you’re all he’s ever wanted, and that makes your heart slam against your ribs.

You’re gasping, crying out, and he swallows every sound, his kiss never softening, only growing more frenzied as his hips pound into you.

“You feel that?” he pants into your mouth. “That’s mine. This pussy’s mine.”

He lets go of your wrists just long enough to grab your thigh, throw your leg over his shoulder, driving deeper, angle harsher. His grip is punishing, like he needs to hold you down to keep from losing his mind.

“Shit-,” you sob, clinging to him now. “You’re so deep-, I can’t-,”

“You can,” he growls. “Oh, fuck, baby-, that’s it,” he smirks, sweat dripping down from his neck. “You feel so good-, so fucking tight, so wet, I could stay buried in this pussy forever.”

He drops his head to your neck, biting and sucking bruises into your skin, marking you as his hands move constantly, palming your breast, gripping your hip, dragging across your thigh, he can’t stop touching you.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let me make you feel so fucking good.”

You clench around him and he nearly loses it, thrusts getting sloppier, harder, messier. He grabs your jaw, forces your eyes to his.

“Please-, Wooyoung, I’m close-”

“Yeah? Let me hear you. Come for me. Come on my cock, baby, let me feel you.”

And it hits you, fast and deep, your whole body tensing as pleasure crashes through you like a wave you couldn’t stop even if you tried.

Wooyoung watches it take you, and it wrecks him.

“God, baby,” he growls, suddenly losing all rhythm, all control. “You feel so-, fuck, I’m not gonna last-,”

You reach up, grabbing his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you just like he did to you. “Don’t stop. Give it to me.”

That does it.

With a strangled moan of your name, he buries himself in you with a final, desperate thrust. His whole body tenses as he gives in, letting himself fall apart.

You can’t help but look at his face as that wave of pleasure overtakes him. His mouth is parted, lips trembling with the sounds he can’t hold back, brows drawn together in a tight knot like he’s fighting to stay grounded. The muscles in his jaw twitch, veins standing out along his neck and arms, his whole body straining as he spills everything into you.

When he finally exhales, it’s a ragged, shaky breath, and his body slowly relaxes, chest rising and falling heavily as he tries to come back down. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t say a word. He just lowers his weight over you gently, careful not to crush you, his face pressing into the crook of your neck.

You can still feel the warmth of him inside you, the lingering tension of release pulsing between your bodies.

Then he lifts his head, just barely, and looks down at you, really looks. His gaze roams over your flushed cheeks, kiss-bitten lips, the way you’re still dazed and boneless beneath him.

And then he grins. Slow, smug, wicked.

“God,” he says, voice low and pleased.

You blink up at him, heart stuttering. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just lets his eyes drag over you like he’s memorizing everything. The mess he’s made of you. The way you still haven’t caught your breath.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says simply, but it lands heavy in your chest. “Like… stupid beautiful.”

Heat rushes to your face. You instinctively turn your head, trying to hide the way your lips curl, the way you can’t even look at him right now.

But that just makes him laugh, low and breathless.

“Oh no,” he murmurs, fingers catching your chin, turning your face back to his. “don’t get all shy on me now. Not after the things I just did to you.”

“Wooyoung-“ you try to protest, flustered, but it’s useless.

He shifts suddenly, his hand pinning your wrist to the bed as he leans in, eyes blazing. “Nope,” he growls playfully.

When his mouth crashes into yours, it’s not sweet or teasing, it’s intense. Deep and all-consuming, like he’s starving for you. His tongue claims yours, every movement deliberate, dominant.

When he finally pulls back, barely an inch, his lips are swollen and his voice is wrecked.

“I’m never gonna get enough of you,” he murmurs against your lips. “Never.”

***

You wake up slowly, the soft light of the morning creeping into the room, bathing everything in a warm glow. His arm is still draped over you, his breath steady and calm. You shift gently, trying not to wake him, but you can’t help but linger for a moment, watching his peaceful expression. He looks so content, so relaxed, last night still feels like a dream.

Carefully, you lift his arm from your waist and slip out of bed. As you stand, you glance back at him. His face is soft, his black hair a little messy, and the sight of him, even in his sleep, makes your heart flutter. You try to suppress the smile that tugs at your lips, but you can’t help it.

Quietly, you make your way to the kitchen. The cool air of the morning greets you as you open the cabinet and pull out his cereal box.

You’re perched on the kitchen counter, bare legs dangling, quietly munching on a bowl of Wooyoung’s ridiculous neon-colored cereal. The box sits beside you, obnoxiously bright. You’d teased him for years about how awful it looked, and secretly craved it every time.

You hear the soft shuffle of feet before you see him.

Wooyoung emerges from the hallway, shirtless, his hair a messy halo of waves, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looks like a dream and somehow worse for your heart in the morning light. A familiar ache stirs in your chest. This is your best friend. Your roommate. The same guy who left his laundry in the hallway and screamed at horror games.

The same guy who had his hands all over you last night and made you come like no one else.

“Morning, roomie,” he mutters, voice low and rough, smirking when his eyes catch yours. They linger. “Is that my cereal?”

You nod, trying not to choke on it now that your mouth’s gone dry. “It was calling to me.”

He walks right up to you, stepping between your legs like he’s done it a thousand times. Only now, there’s nothing innocent about the way he crowds your space.

You glance down, gripping the bowl a little tighter. Your voice comes out quieter than you meant. “You, uh… want some?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just takes the spoon from your hand, still warm from your touch, and scoops up a bite like it’s nothing. His other hand settles on your thigh, casual but firm. You forget how to breathe.

He hums like it’s gourmet. “God, I love this shit.”

You try to roll your eyes, but it’s weak. He’s too close. Too warm. Too real.

And then, without warning, he leans in close, mouth brushing your ear.

“Good morning, beautiful,”

Before you can say anything else, before your heart can fully flip in your chest, he kisses you.

It’s soft at first, like he’s testing the waters, but then it deepens, and the world around you fades. There’s no rush, no frantic need, just the slow, steady push and pull of lips, the quiet hum of connection between you two, something that’s always been there but is only now being acknowledged.

His lips linger just long enough to make your stomach twist in the best way before he pulls back, barely.

You stare at him, still a little dazed. He smirks.

“What?” he says, all fake innocence. “You gonna yell at me for stealing your cereal or for kissing you?”

You eye him, lips twitching. “Still weighing my options.”

He shrugs, hands still warm where they’re resting on your thighs. “Take your time. I’ve got all morning.”

“You’re literally the most impatient person I know,” you mutter.

“Mm,” he hums, brushing his thumb just under the hem of your shorts, right where it makes your breath catch. “Not when it comes to you. I like watching you squirm too much.”

You exhale a laugh, trying not to give him the satisfaction. He just grins wider, enjoying seeing you like this.

It’s completely unfair, the way he looks so relaxed. Like this, you and him and whatever happened last night, isn’t a big deal. Like waking up tangled together, touching each other like that, was just the natural next step.

And maybe… maybe it was.

“You know,” he adds after a beat, glancing at your bowl again, “I thought about that last night.”

“What, the cereal?” you ask, trying to level your voice.

He nods, all faux-innocent. “Had this whole internal debate. Go finish the box or save you some.”

You squint at him. “You didn’t even eat any.”

“Exactly.” He grins. “Fell asleep. Dreamt about it. Woke up, and there you were. Stealing the first bowl like some greedy little gremlin.”

You scoff. “Wow. Rude.”

“And hungry,” he adds, stealing your spoon without looking. He takes another bite, still watching you, chewing like he’s thinking about sin. “Might be craving something a little messier, though.”

You scoff, but your thighs tense around his hips, pulling him in closer. He feels it. Of course he does.

You think that’s the end of it, but then he tilts his head a little, voice dropping. “Also, you were real cute sneaking around out here like I couldn’t hear you. Hair all messy. Wearing nothing but your-”

“Stop,” you cut in, already feeling the heat crawl up your neck.

He just laughs, clearly enjoying this way too much. “I’m just saying. Round two almost happened right then and there.”

You shoot him a look. “I was literally getting cereal.”

He leans in, lips brushing your cheek again before he murmurs, “Yeah, and you still looked hot.”

You go quiet, too aware of his mouth near yours and the fact that he’s still standing between your knees like he belongs there.

You open your mouth, no idea what you’re even going to say, but he’s already leaning in.

And then he kisses you again, easy, unhurried, like it’s just what he does now. Like kissing you is second nature.

And god, maybe it is.

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foreverdolly · 1 year ago

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ೃ࿔ SAVAGE BONDS part I 『 feyd rautha x atreides!reader 』

summary: destined to one another since conception, your very life belongs to feyd rautha. as a token of good will you are sent to the strange planet of giedi prime a week before your wedding ceremony, only to learn that it is far more hostile than you imagined it would be. a failed assassination attempt has tempers flaring and sparks flying when it is decided to be safer to sleep alongside feyd. you hate to admit it, but he has played the part of a "protector" better than the guards who were tasked to watch over you. whilst you have been dreading this union all of your life, feyd has been anticipating it. meeting you as children had left him awe-struck. . . and a bit obsessed.

warnings: !SMUT HEAVY IN FUTURE PARTS!, feyd is super overprotective in this fic and kills multiple people in your honor, blood and gore, it's a dark romance folks, political marriage, forced proximity, temporary unrequited love, a lil dubious consent in some scenes, there's a lot of talk about breeding, enemies to lovers (in your mind, not his), there's a "who did this to you" scene, knife play, blood kink, breeding kink heavy, lots of scent marking/marking. (needs to be edited, so please excuse any temporary errors!)

word count: 5.3k

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The ancient walls of Castle Caladan were a fortress, the long winding halls a labyrinth to those unfamiliar with its layout. You had tried feigning sleep when you had been made aware of the surprise guest’s arrival, a one “reverend mother”- as your mother referred to her. The cool air from the hallway nipped at your exposed arm, which currently hung limply over the side of the bed.

“She’s even smaller than your son, Jessica.” The voice sounded more like a wheeze- and it certainly didn’t belong to anyone you had ever met before.

“As I’ve already said, the Atreides are slow to grow.” Your mother’s tone didn’t hold even a semblance of a bite to it, not like you expected. She was usually fiercely protective of you and your brother.

Your finger twitched, causing the woman to stifle whatever disapproving comment she was about to make. Being caught eavesdropping like this certainly wasn’t ideal, but you found it impossible not to be curious.

“She really is just like her brother,” More like he was more like you. You’d always been the rowdy one of the two. Paul must have been listening in as well, and you imagined that he was more insulted at the comments of his lack of height and muscle than you were. “The little rascals.”

There was a beat of silence before the woman began to crone again. This time you opened your eyes just a sliver, staring into the dark abyss of your room so that you could make out the shapes of your mother and the stranger.

“Rest now. Both you and your brother need to be prepared to meet my Gom Jabbar.” The reason couldn’t be pinpointed, but there was something about her tone that filled you with dread.

Your mother woke you up the next morning, bright and early.

Not even the breathing exercises that your mother had taught you had been able to calm you down last night. The darkness had swallowed you whole, which resulted in a dreamless sleep that left you feeling just as unrested as you had felt the night before. Your mother noticed your hesitations, the skirts of her dress dragging against the stone floor as she moved in the direction of your closet. The dress that she picked out for you was one of your more official garments, the red hawk of the Atreides crest proudly sewn onto the right breast.

“Did you sleep well?” She questioned as she laid the dress neatly onto the edge of the bed, urging you to stand once her hands were free.

You blinked at her, nervously brushing your hands along the soft cotton of your nightdress. Your voice felt stuck in your throat, but you still managed to lie.

“Yes, of course.” Your tone was flat, and for once she didn’t question you on the reasoning. She knew exactly what had you feeling so uncomfortable in your own home.

Gom Jabbar. Gom Jabbar. Gom Jabbar.

What exactly did the old woman want from your family? Lady Jessica was a Bene Gesserit, which could only mean that this woman was a higher up, sent to pay you and your brother a visit. You knew nothing about any “coming of age” rituals.

Paul barged into the room, dressed in his finer clothes as well. He leaned against the wall of your room, lips pursed as if he was deep in thought. You tilted your head to the side, leveling him a worried glance. He simply shook his head, and you knew at once that he wasn’t trying to dismiss your worries.

‘Not here. Later.’ His expression told you, and for once you obeyed.

“The reverend mother is waiting on the both of you. Paul, get out of your sister’s room so she can get ready.” She commanded, her tone leaving no room for whining or disobedience.

He groaned, pushing himself off of the wall so that he could head back out and into the hall. You shrugged out of your dress quickly at the hurried insistence of your mother, allowing her to do up the clasps of the dress for you.

“Who is she?” You asked simply, brushing your hair to the side so that she could get a better grasp of the dress.

“She was my teacher at the Bene Gesserit school and now she is the Emperor’s Truthsayer.” Your mother sighed out your name, turning you quickly so that you were facing her. “You need to do exactly as she says. There is no room to be prideful today, do you understand?” Her eyes were pleading, and you knew that she had your best interests in mind.

You and your mother walked wordlessly out into the hall, catching up with your brother who was busy running his fingers along the uneven stone walls. You flashed a quick look at your mother before jogging to catch up with Paul, taking the hem of his sleeve into your hand.

“What do you know?” You whispered, turning your head so that you could look at your mother. Much to your surprise she seemed to be in no hurry to separate the two of you.

“I’ve had dreams about her before,” He whispered, and you had to pick up your pace to keep up with his strides. “And mother told me this morning that I have to tell her about my visions.”

Your mouth went a bit dry at the realization that this woman truly was here just for you and your brother. What is the Gom Jabbar and what did it entail? There was no telling.

“She’s in my morning room, you two.” She called out after you.

Jessica caught up, leveling the both of you a disapproving motherly look that had the two of you slowing your strides to match hers. She seemed a bit hesitant, eyes flickering between you and your brother and the closed door.

The “reverend mother” sat in one of the tapestried chairs, her arms perched on either side of the armrests as she watched the three of you come in. The view behind her was beautiful, the sprawling, green farmlands of the Atreides family holding on full display through the large windows behind her. You glanced at your brother, eyes widening when you realized that he was already looking at you. He bowed in her direction and you followed his lead.

“They are a cautious bundle, aren’t they?” The witch-like woman croaked, looking between the two of you.

“As they have been taught, your reverence.”

In this room, here in front of this woman, Jessica was no longer the Duke’s concubine nor your mother. She was reduced to that of a pupil in the face of her teacher. You kept yourself from fidgeting, clasping your hands in front of you. You fought the urge to reach out and grab your brother’s hand, as the two of you so often did when faced with anxiety as children. Fear hadn’t regressed you to that of a blubbering child in years.

Your mother also seemed to fear the woman before her. There was something in her tone that led you to believe that whatever she was here for, it surely wasn’t a pleasantry. Your brother was tense at your mother’s other side, jaw tense as he stared the reverend mother down.

“Teaching is one thing, but there are some things that cannot simply be taught,” Paul’s eyebrows furrowed as she spoke, and as if she was dismissing a servant of the castle, she waved your mother off with a flick of her wrist. “You and your daughter leave us. It will be her turn soon.”

For the first time that morning your mother hesitated, eyes softened as she looked upon her son.

“Your reverence, I-” She began, but was cut off before she could finish whatever it is she was going to say. Surely it was meant to be an objection.

“Jessica, you know that this must be done.” Her voice held a tone of finality. There was no room for your mother to try and wiggle the both of you two out of this trap.

“Yes. . . of course.” Your mother straightened, turning towards both of you.

“This test. . . It’s very important to me, you two.” She spoke in a hushed voice, eyes still fearful.

“Test?” The two of you questioned at the same time, looking at one another in concern. You were confused, even more so than you were before.

“Remember that you’re the duke’s son.” And with that your mother was grabbing your arm, pulling you in the direction of the door.

“I suppose that it is my turn?” Your voice shook with anger as you practically tore the door off of its hinges, anxious to take your brother’s place. His cries and whimpers did not go unheard, even with the thick wood separating the two of you.

Looking at him now, his right arm still shaking from the pain, was like being slapped across the face.

“Right you are, girl. Jessica, please escort your son out of the room.” There was a silvery glint in her bright eyes- a challenge. She could sense it in you.

Your mother didn’t interrupt this time, and without any words exchanged the door closed. Your brother was too shaken up by whatever had taken place in that room to fully comprehend that the same thing was going to happen to you. He tossed a terrified glance over his shoulder at you just before the heavy doors closed. The sound of it echoed around the room, pulsing in your chest as you tried to steady the adrenaline pumping through your veins.

“Your future. . . do you know what is expected of you?”

You eyed the black box that sat next to her as you began closing the distance between the two of you. The question she had asked. . . it was a touchy subject with you. Of course you knew. A day didn’t go by that you weren’t mortified by the prospect of your future. You only had three short years to live and enjoy before you would be forced to abandon your family to join hands with another one.

“Of course I do. It is my duty to marry.” Your voice had a bite to it, your eyes unwavering as you stared her veiled face down.

“It is your duty to marry a Harkonnen. It is an honor to be the only reason that these two great Houses are allies. Your heirs will be powerful beyond comprehension.” The way she spoke. . . she truly believed the shit she was spouting.

It was impossible to consider marrying Feyd an honor. It was an ever-present looming threat.

“Put your right hand in the box.” She commanded, nodding her head in it’s direction.

It seemed harmless enough, nothing more than a metal box. You bent your head ever-so-slightly, trying to have a look inside. It appeared to be a pitch black, endless void. No beginning or end in sight.

You did as you were told, biting the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from muttering anything too disrespectful under your breath. If Paul’s screams were anything to go off of then this was going to be painful. Still, you were shocked by how cold the box was. You wiggled your fingers a few times, feeling the metal encasing them. Slowly a tingling sensation began, almost as if they were falling asleep.

“You’ve heard of animals chewing off a leg to escape a trap? There’s an animal kind of trick. A human would remain in the trap, endure the pain, feigning death that he might kill the trapper and remove a threat to his kind.”

The tingling sensation somehow melded into. . . heat. No, not heat. Burning. It felt as though you had your hand held up to a bright flame. You flinched, but froze when you finally noticed that the reverend mother was holding something against your neck. Your eyes flickered the best that they could to her hand, not wanting to turn your head.

“What I hold at your neck is the Gom Jabbar. The tip of the needle is dipped in poison. Remove your hand from the box and I will plunge it into your neck.”

The palm of your free hand began to sweat, the gravity of the situation finally landing on your shoulders. You would be forced to endure the pain and there was nothing that anyone outside of the doors could do. No guards had come to protect your brother when it was his turn, and no matter how emotional your mother had gotten whilst hearing his screams she still hadn’t rushed in after him. You could truly die here in this room.

“Why are you doing this?” You urged, wincing again as the burning continued to worsen.

Now it felt as though you were almost touching a flame, fingers dancing dangerously close. It wasn’t just uncomfortable now but painful. “To determine if you’re human. Now be silent.”

Meant for greatness, yet stifled before her prime.

It was impossible for your clipped wings to take flight. The Bene Gesserit had instilled in you your purpose from a very young age, letting it be known that you were little more than cattle to be sold off to breed. The whole arrangement was dehumanizing, but this was the way of galactic high society. Every House had been developed by the close, watchful eye of the Bene Gesserit. Your mere existence was a result of a centuries long breeding program, so how could you ever expect for your own life to be any different?

Every child, especially in their naive youth, dreams of greatness. There was a point in time where you had hoped to mean something. There were differences to be made, rules to be broken, wars to be raged- but you would never be at the helm of any of it. But Paul. . . Paul was different.

“You know something that I don’t.” You weren’t asking Paul, rather telling him what you already knew.

Where you were used to your brother pulling no punches, he had been overly cautious with his treatment of you during training today. For a second he just stared ahead blankly at the wall, and you wondered whether he would try to lie. The older you’ve gotten, the stranger other people’s treatment of you has become. Women were little more than something to be owned. It was a hard lesson to learn and was one you were still grappling with.

Your femininity were the chains that bound you. And what of your ambition? It was currently acting as the flames licking at your boot heels. Soon you feared that it would fully engulf you; become your undoing.

“Tell me.” Your lovely features crumpled, and as childish as it was you found yourself giving his arm a slap.

He jumped at the sudden contact, eyes widening as he turned to face you after what felt like an eternity of prolonged silence between the two of you. The hard flooring felt cool beneath your legs as you stretched them out beneath you, and for a second you found it hard to keep yourself up in a sitting position. The world felt unsteady beneath you, both literally and figuratively.

Paul didn’t have to say anything at all. You looked, you saw, you felt, you understood. Your shared connection had nothing to do with your genes, rather it had to do with your likeness. Two bodies, two minds, but one soul. Your twin’s features crumpled, mirroring that of your own as he pushed a few strands of dark hair away from his face.

“So there is nothing I can do? My fate is sealed.” Your lips felt numb as you spoke.

Your brother’s visions were more frequent than they had ever been before. “Horrors”, he’d described them.

“If there was something I could do. . .” He started, turning quickly to face you, tucking one leg beneath himself. “My hands are tied. Mother and father’s hands are as well.”

Hiding you away or knowingly allowing you to escape your duties would be seen as an act of treason. You’d be putting your parents and their status in danger, and no matter how desperate you were to get out of any sort of marriage pact, it was far too late. Since the very moment you were conceived, this was what you were meant for.

“When will the orders come down, you think?” You pulled your legs up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them tightly.

You wished that you could stay like this forever, protected from the rest of the world. If only you hadn’t been born as twins at all. You wanted so badly to be like Paul.

But the galaxy didn’t work like that. You were not fortunate enough to get what you wanted.

“Soon.”

You felt comforted by the hand that he placed on your shoulder, and even more so when he kept it there until you felt as though you were able to stand up.

You were to marry into House Harkonnen. That was your purpose; to unite the feuding houses and birth powerful offspring. You had met Feyd once before, but only for a fleeting moment. It hadn’t been awkward- no, back then the two of you hadn’t cared enough to pay any mind to the looming threat that was your betrothal. You’d been too young back then to fully grasp the severity of the situation.

You remembered being shocked by his size. He towered over Paul, appearing to be years older than he really was. His hair had been dark back then, thick and slightly curly.

He had only just been taken under his uncle’s wing at the time. The environment of Giedi Prime had yet to fully sink into the young boy. The Harkonnen’s looks had always been startling to you, no matter how many times you’d been exposed to it. They were dark creatures, brooding, hairless with skin as pale as milk- not to mention violent.

The desperate way that Paul had clung to you was not lost on you. You let him squeeze you as tightly as he needed, your arms locking around his back. This meeting would change everything. In a matter of moments your life as you knew it would be taking a drastic turn, and not for the better.

You’d made that very same trek to the parlor room a million times. This was your ancestral home- had been in your family longer than you thought was conceivable, and yet this felt new to you. Wrong. The shadows from the windows were casting strange lights on the wall beside you, and your footsteps sounded muffled in your ears as your pounding heart nearly deafened you. Your father’s hand brushed against your palm a few times, his attempt at showing you physical comfort without causing any sort of scene. You knew that this was Feyd-Rautha’s right.

You were Feyd-Rautha’s right. That simple fact alone was enough to send you reeling, that morning's breakfast churning in your stomach.

“It will be fine.” Your mother’s fingers shaped the words at her side, a comforting and silent presence.

Your parents had always protected you. They had taught you well in all aspects of life. She was right. You had to trust yourself just as much as you trusted them. This will be fine. You will survive.

But god, you wanted to live.

Your worst fear was being locked up like a caged animal, only taken out to be played with or paraded around. You didn’t want to be somebody's little wife; you were no homemaker or bed warmer.

‘I am better than this.’ You thought to yourself, your hands balling into fists at your sides.

As the double doors began creeping open, you felt the sudden urge to run the opposite direction, your parents be damned. The feud between House Atreides and House Harkonnen would surely become deadly if you were to turn your back on the promise now, and that was the only thing that steeled your feet. You stood, back straight and hands clasped tightly at your front.

You looked to be a pillar of strength, but oh- you were so close to crumbling. Your father took a step past the threshold, eyes hard as he bowed his head respectfully in the Baron’s direction. There was still time to turn around. The door was right there, and you were sure that you could commandeer a ship. You’d piloted a few times before in your life, and while you weren’t the best, you were certain you could get yourself the hell off of Caladan. You shuffled your feet, eyes wide as you looked up and caught your mother’s gaze. Her lips were parted, and you could tell that she was trying to decipher your expression.

“What are you doing?” Her hand moved quickly at her side, the flowy gauze-like material of her skirts hiding her frantic movements from the visitor’s view.

Nothing. You were doing nothing. There were no options yet. If you fled then the insubordination would fall back on your parents. If you downright refused then the outcome would be the same. There was nothing you could do but keep your mouth shut and try not to show the Harkonnen even a semblance of vulnerability.

Disdain rolled off of you in waves as you breezed into the parlor, eyes locked on the side of your father’s face as he conversed with the baron. Tensions were high, even now. No pleasantries were being exchanged, that you were sure of. The Harkonnen’s stark black attire was a startling contrast to their pale skin. There, in the middle of two other men, whom you were sure were present for reasons of protection, was Feyd.

He looked the same as the rest of them. Hairless, blue eyes dripping with something that could only be described as malice. Gone was the curly haired child that you remembered. In his place stood someone unrecognizable to you. You wanted to question what the Baron had done to Feyd, but you already knew. Perfection was expected on Geidi Prime.

He had shaped Feyd into the very likeness of perfection. The once dark haired boy was now a walking, talking machine; not even a dead leaf echo of the boy you met all those years ago.

You tried to map out every single one of his microexpressions, searching desperately for any sign that he might disapprove of the predicament the both of you had found yourselves in. He tilted his head to the side, observing you with a horrifying level of concentration. The Baron began to speak, saying something that you didn’t care enough to listen to. You were too distracted by the terrifying man before you.

“She will come back home to Geidi Prime with us. No objections, correct?”

You were marrying him out of an obligation, this he was already privy to. He had seen the reluctance written plain across your face as you’d entered the room. You’d wanted to run. Away from him, away from your responsibilities- and he could not blame you for it. His understanding stopped there though, simply because this proposal wasn’t going against his own wishes.

“The wedding isn’t taking place for another week.” The Duke didn’t seem to like the idea of his unwed daughter leaving his side.

Feyd fought back a smile, having known that the Baron’s sudden request would have this effect on the Atreides family. He watched you squirm like a bug under a magnifying glass, your hand moving at your hip. For a second he thought that you might be tugging at the seam of your dress, writing it off as nothing but a nervous tick- but then he saw the way your mother’s eyes followed those movements.

The two of you were communicating.

“That may be so, however I think that it is only right that your daughter,” Baron Vladimir motioned in your direction. “Becomes better acquainted with Feyd. You don’t agree?”

His uncle decided that it was best to test the boundaries of this alliance. He was pushing the Duke, seeing how far he could get. Leto’s lips twitched, his eyes flickering thoughtfully towards you. Feyd was finding it hard to pay attention to anyone else other than you in the room. He’d spent years imagining what you would look like as an adult- dreamt about it. He’d eagerly been awaiting this moment, counting the days that he could finally be reunited with you.

It wasn’t just because he had been promised powerful heirs. It was the thought that someone was fated to marry him. Since before he was even conceived, you had always been promised to him. That idea had been put into his head since childhood. You were the constant topic in his mind, a person that was unavoidably meant to be in his life for the rest of his days.

In a strange way he had loved you since he was but a child.

Seeing you for that first time had been better than he had anticipated. You were a beautiful little girl, but now? The child that he had met all those years ago did not hold a candle to the grace and brilliance of the woman that stood before him. Nobody else could ever compare. You didn’t have to fall for him right now, he was content with that. Hell, you didn’t even have to tolerate him. He would find pleasure in wearing you down. He was going to make you love him.

I must not fear. Fear is the mind killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.

The adrenaline had run its way out of your system, leaving you cold and alone on a planet that was so incredibly alien to you, you weren’t sure how you’d ever be expected to adjust. Even the oxygen felt different in your lungs- the sweet, acrid smell of chemicals tinging the air around you. It was nothing like your home on Caladan. Your home was a stone castle, but this? This was a cold, black fortress.

You weren’t sure if it was meant to keep people out. . . or in.

You thought back to that fateful day with the reverend mother.

You couldn’t chew your leg off to be free of this. No, you had to lay in wait. Only then could you strike if the situation called for it.

“Striking” could wait until tomorrow though. For now you wanted to rid yourself of the anxiety. Sleep was the only cure you could think of.

“Is the room to your liking?” That husky voice of his was already grating on your nerves.

Feyd had only attempted to speak to you a few times and already you were sick and tired of his presence. He was a constant reminder that you would never know what it was like to be free. Then again, was anybody in the galaxy truly free? Feyd sure seemed to be carefree in his current position.

His tone felt off, like he was toying with you.

“I would be far more pleased about my new living quarters if you were to leave.” You said simply, pulling the slate gray blanket up and over your chin.

You weren’t sure if it was due to his ill-breeding, but he didn’t seem to care that you were in nothing but your night dress. He walked into the room in long-legged strikes, letting the door shut behind him. Never before had the two of you been alone together, not since you were children at least. If you were back in your family home you would feel safer during a moment like this.

You were in his territory now, meaning he had full reign over everything. Your father and family name couldn’t protect you on Geidi Prime.

“You’re in quite the rush to be rid of me,” He didn’t falter for even a second as he moved to sit down on the edge of the bed, leaning back against the plush mattress with a small sigh. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think that you didn’t like me.” He didn’t seem upset at the notion of you disliking him. In fact, there was a glint in his eyes. That same sort of silvery glint you’d seen in the reverend mother’s eyes all those years ago: a challenge.

This was nothing but a challenge to him. You were a conquest, and you detested that. Your stomach soured, your face becoming pinched as you glared at him. This was all too much too fast. You were in the comfort of your own home not even four hours ago, and now you were expected to make small talk with the source of your life-long discontent.

“And what of your concubines? Could you not pester them tonight and give me a moment's peace?”

“I dismissed them from their duties, permanently, weeks ago.” He said simply, his fingers running along the cotton of the comforter.

“What?” You’d never heard of such a thing.

“Spending time with them would be a waste.” His blue eyes flickered up to meet your eyes. “Acquiring concubines had just been a show of status.”

It took you a few moments to process what he was saying, the burning hatred you had felt just moments ago flickering out into a dull flame.

“Why would spending time with them be a waste? Am I expected to spend that much time with you?” A horror, truly. You had hoped that you’d be able to get away with spending a night or two a week with him, if only to achieve the Bene Gesserit’s goal of siring an heir.

“A waste of time. A waste of seed,” He looked at you pointedly, his lip pulling up into a smile that revealed more of his black teeth. “And both of those things are important to me.”

Your stomach hollowed out as you were once again reminded of what was expected of you. You had a week to prepare mentally for your wedding night, which you weren’t sure was enough.

“And what happened to the concubines? Are they still being housed here?”

“Why? Are you jealous?” He was smiling even wider than he was before.

A shiver ran through you as you noticed how predatory his body language was- you felt like prey under his haughty gaze. It was hard to believe that Feyd had been administered the Gom Jabbar test and passed.

This man was no human. He was an animal, that you were certain.

“Wickedly.” Your tone was flat and noncommittal. Even now, you never saw Feyd as a potential lover.

The man that was your so-called “destiny” was also your jailer.

“Well then you’ll be happy to know that they no longer live here. . . or anywhere, for that matter.” He sat up, rolling his shoulders back to stretch his broad muscles.

The blood drained from your face as you stared up at him from your spot on the bed. He must have felt the weight of your gaze and turned his head, his eyes alight with. . . pleasure. Violence was as ingrained in him as breathing was. It was his life. Standing before you was the prince of death- pale, striking and terrifying.

Animal, indeed.

I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

← previous chapter | next chapter →

please message me if you'd like to be added to my taglist!

A/N: this chapter was plot heavy, I know, however it was crucial to give you guys some background information so that I can better build tension. the beautiful dividers were created by @ kitsunecafe!

#feyd rautha #feyd x reader #feyd x you #feyd rautha x reader #dune part 2 #dune #austin butler #austin butler x reader #smut #dune smut #feyd rautha smut #feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha harkonnen #dune x reader #dune fanfiction #austin butler fic #feyd rautha fic

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thesecondhandwoman · 6 months ago

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can you make sevika having baby fever but is just so subtle about it because she doesnt want reader to find out? bonus if you'll also write about them finally having a baby in the end

BABY FEVER

Sevika x f!reader

Synopsis: Ever since you and Sevika had gone to the market and saw a small little bundle of joy, a tiny child, Sevika has been experiencing baby fever, but tried to hide as much as you tried to hide the fact you were pregnant.

Request: Anon 🤍

The bustling Undercity market was alive with energy, a chorus of voices rising and falling like a symphony Sevika had learned to navigate with ease. Stalls lined the cobblestone streets, hawking wares ranging from fresh produce to mechanical trinkets that sparked faintly in the dim light. You had begged her to accompany you here, and though Sevika wasn’t one to enjoy the chaos, she couldn’t deny you anything.

As you weaved through the crowd, her larger frame provided a shield against the jostling bodies. You stopped at a fruit stall, inspecting the goods and chatting with the vendor. Sevika stood close behind, her attention elsewhere—until she heard your soft, delighted laugh.

“Look at that baby, Sev!”

She followed your gaze and saw her: a chubby, gurgling baby nestled in her mother’s arms. The child cooed, her tiny hands reaching for her mother’s hair, and Sevika’s heart stuttered in her chest.

“She’s adorable,” you said, your voice tinged with that warm tone Sevika loved so much. You turned back to the vendor, but Sevika lingered, watching the baby with an intensity she couldn’t quite explain.

The rest of the day passed like any other, but something shifted in Sevika. She couldn’t stop thinking about the baby, the way you had looked at her with such soft admiration.

The change started subtly. Sevika wasn’t the kind of woman to wear her emotions on her sleeve, but she found herself lingering in certain moments more than usual. It began with your kitten, Smoky, a mischievous ball of gray fluff you’d taken in months ago.

“Sev, you’re spoiling her,” you teased one evening as Sevika sat on the couch, Smoky sprawled across her chest. She was gently stroking the kitten’s fur, her usual gruff expression softened into something unreadable.

“She likes it,” Sevika grunted, though her voice lacked its usual edge.

You tilted your head, watching her closely. Smoky purred loudly, oblivious to the unspoken shift between you and Sevika.

Then came the way she watched you, specifically your stomach. At first, you thought you were imagining it, but the lingering glances became impossible to ignore. She’d sit at the kitchen table, her eyes following you as you moved around the room, her gaze always flicking down to your midsection.

“Everything okay?” you asked one day, catching her in the act.

“Yeah,” she said quickly, looking away. “Just zoning out.”

Her tone was casual, but the faint blush dusting her cheeks told a different story.

Sevika also started spending more time near the market, a place she typically avoided unless absolutely necessary. She claimed it was for “supplies,” but you knew better. She’d linger by the square, watching the children playing with sticks and scraps, their laughter echoing through the streets.

What Sevika didn’t know was that you had a secret of your own. For weeks, you had been debating how to tell her, nervous and excited all at once. You were only a few months along, but the thought of becoming parents had filled you with a joy you couldn’t contain.

You noticed little changes in your body, like the way your clothes fit differently, the occasional bout of nausea that left you gripping the sink. Sevika, even as observant as she was, hadn’t seemed to catch on yet.

One afternoon, as you folded laundry in the bedroom, you found yourself holding one of Sevika’s shirts, her scent faint but familiar. You pressed it to your chest, imagining her holding your child, her strong arms cradling the tiny life you’d created together.

The thought had nearly brought tears to form in your eyes, and you knew it was time.

One evening, as you sat together in your small home, you decided it was time. Sevika was at the table, sharpening her prosthetic arm with practiced ease. Smoky was curled up in her usual spot by the fireplace.

“Sevika?” you called softly.

“Hm?” She didn’t look up, but her focus wavered, the sharpening tool pausing mid-stroke.

“I have something to tell you.”

Her brow furrowed, and she set the tool down, turning her full attention to you. “What’s up?”

You took a deep breath, your hands trembling slightly as you forced the words out of your mouth, “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, Sevika didn’t move. Her expression was unreadable, her dark eyes fixed on you as if trying to process your words. Then, slowly, her lips parted.

“You’re serious?” Her voice was quiet, almost disbelieving.

You nodded, a smile breaking across your face. “I found out a few weeks ago. I was waiting for the right time to tell you.”

Sevika stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. She crossed the room in two long strides and pulled you into her arms, holding you tightly.

“You’re amazing,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re so damn amazing.”

You laughed, tears welling in your eyes as you clung to her. “I was worried you’d be scared.”

“Scared?” She pulled back just enough to look at you, her hand resting gently on your stomach as tears began to form in her own eyes. “No. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, since that day at the market. I just didn’t know how to bring it up.”

“You had baby fever?” you teased, your grin widening.

“Shut up,” Sevika muttered, though the corner of her mouth twitched into a smirk. “Fuck, baby, we are gonna be parents.”

Months passed in a blur of preparations and quiet excitement. Sevika was by your side through everything, her rough exterior melting away in private moments. She’d talk to your growing belly, her voice soft and full of wonder, and she never missed a single appointment.

When the day finally came, it was nothing short of chaos. The birth was long and grueling, but Sevika was there every step of the way, her strong hand gripping yours as you brought your child into the world.

“She’s beautiful,” Sevika whispered, her voice trembling as she cradled your newborn daughter in her arms. The baby yawned, her tiny fingers curling around Sevika’s prosthetic thumb, the sight nearly causing her to cry again.

You leaned against Sevika, exhausted but filled with a profound sense of love. “She looks like you.”

Sevika chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Lucky kid.”

As you both sat there, your little family finally complete, Sevika realized she had never been happier.

A/N: I’m sorry this is so short, but I absolutely loved writing this cute, fluffy request.

#Sevika x reader #Sevika x you #Sevika fanfic #Sevika #Sevika arcane #arcane sevika #arcane fanfic #arcane #lesbian fanfic #lesbian #fluffy fanfic #fluff #comfort fanfic #comfort #fanfic #fanfic writing

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silkentine · 6 months ago

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Wha--?! Silk finally finished her fem Zoro design after (checks notes) literally 6 months since she made the canvas in procreate?

I'll break down design thoughts and share some fun bonus pics under the cut:

I LOVE long hair on Zoro, I think that was the first change I wanted to implement. Zoro in canon actually has a really interesting relationship with gender dynamics which (if for some reason you're reading this and you haven't watched One Piece) can seem out of left field for the "dumb brute" character. His rivalry with and reverence for Kuina suggests he doesn't adhere to the idea that women are weaker than men. Later on, however, during his confrontation with Monet and Tashigi during Punk Hazard, his hesitation to slash her down reveals that he's subconsciously over-protective of women because he thinks they're inherently weaker. I actually don't have any problem with this character trait, I think it makes him feel more real as a person and he obviously gets shit-talked enough about it in the story itself. But how did I want to reflect these beliefs if Zoro had been born a woman? Easy: internalized misogyny and applying value to herself via her appearance.

My version of Zoro grew up wanting to fight with swords but her only chance of entering the dojo was to work under the proprietress, Lady Shimotsuki to maintain the property, cook meals for the male students, and eventually be a good wife to the current heir, Kuina. She learns that, to get what she wants, she must be the ideal woman, even if she stays up all night training swordsmanship with Kuina when she isn't supposed to. He treats her love for swordplay seriously and treats her like an equal, which sparks a bond between them and eventually leads to Zoro's goal of becoming the world's greatest swordsman after his sudden, accidental death.

After years of intense training (now that Lady Shimotsuki admits that she'll need a new heir and Zoro is the closest thing she has) Zoro's finally old enough to leave and begin her journey. She starts letting go of the idea that she has to look pulled together to be taken seriously because she can just kill anyone who looks down on her. Her clothing falls into disrepair, she wears outfits that help her move in combat, and she starts tossing her hair up into messy, knotted buns under her bandana. Even so, she keeps her hair long like rolling hills of grass. (At least during pre-timeskip. She lops off her hair to prove to Mihawk that she's serious about being trained.)

I've put her in a thin sweater that she stitches (poorly) back together after her first interaction with Mihawk. (I kept one sleeve because I was inspired by the santoryuu Nami that Oda drew that one time.) I also wanted to girl-ify the ubiquitous haramaki so I picked leg warmers for her because I think they're sufficiently "dated" enough to be kinda analogous with his old man belly warmer. I also love gyaru fashion, sue me.

Here is a screenshot of her as a blonde:

And here is a sketch of her post-timeskip where she's fully embraced her butch nature:

Hubba hubba, am I right?

Check out my tag "girl piece original design" to see more of my genderbending art! Next post, I'll put all my East Blue Crew designs together! I can't believe it's taken this long but I AM SO HAPPPPPYYYYY

#one piece #one piece fanart #girl piece #roronoa zoro #zoro #fem zoro #shimotsuki kuina #shimotsuki koushirou #genderbend #character design #post timeskip #pre timeskip #girl piece original design

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noekawa · 1 year ago

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DOTING BOYFRIEND !

meal; oneshot

condiments; rambling, not pole winner post I just gotta share my love for him, Boyfriend! Katsuki Bakugo/reader

Katsuki Bakugo whose heart nearly bursts when he sees you walking into the dorm’s lobby with Eri in your arms, smiling so brightly as the little girl snuggled up and babbled to you about Aizawa. He snaps candid pictures and videos, ignoring the teasing from Mina and Sero.

“You’re acting like a proud father!” Mina jokes as she nudges his arm lightly.

He grumbles as he takes the secret photoshoot seriously, bending down slightly to get a perfect shot “I’ll make her my wife before that.”

Sero couldn’t help but be laugh “Woah? Dude has his priorities set!”

Kirishima butts in and a nervous drop of sweat goes down his neck “Bakubro your hands are making sparks..”

He only stops once nine rows in his gallery was filled with your pictures.

Katsuki Bakugo who usually goes to bed early, stays up just to learn how to help women deal with painful cramps after seeing you curled up and whining about the pain. The next day your desk is overflowing with chocolates and a thermos full of warm cranberry juice.

Katsuki Bakugo who gives a soft smile when he sees you on TV, answering stupid questions on a daily talk show. His eyes filled with adoration when you answered with his name when you were asked whose food you preferred the most.

Katsuki Bakugo who shamelessly answers with your name when a journalist asks what’s his secret to face danger head on.

Katsuki Bakugo who just melts into a pile of mush when seeing you do anything mundane, he’s too enamored by your existence.

Katsuki Bakugo who adds a brooch to his hero costume, which consisted of yours and his initials. Placing it proudly on his chest as a good luck charm.

Katsuki Bakugo who immediately covers your frame when a villain appears, refusing to even let them see you by using his taller structure to hide you. If they laid a hand on you they’d have burn marks lathering their stomach.

Katsuki Bakugo who holds you close to his chest at night as you were busy peppering kisses all over his face, he grins like crazy before letting out a lovesick sigh “Whatever you’re doing to me, I can’t even be mad about it.”

#bnha #mha #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugo #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader

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harmoonix · 16 days ago

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Early Summer - Short Astrology Observations🌴

🌴 If you have the risings signs with 2 rulers like pisces,scorpio, aquarius or your ruler planet has harsh aspects it's considered a complex chart due to more difficulties

🌴 If you have Chiron involved with your 7th house there can be a wound with relationships, you're either the hurt one or you hurt others

🌴 Your Mercury sign + the aspects highly talks about your music taste, for example in water signs can be more melancholic and sad while in air can be more synthwave

🌴 When Pluto is involved with Venus in your chart you might hesitate to let your heart out and to tell the other person that you love him/her

🌴Planets in the 12th house can isolate you. Mercury is with communication and community, Venus with love, Moon with detachment and Sun with disassociation

🌴Moon in the 8th house can struggle with their intense emotions, sometimes they might not know how to let them out

🌴 Facing harsh aspects between Sun - Moon makes it hard. It's like a fight between your feelings and personality and also an inner conflict with the inner child

🌴 Jupiter in the 9th house natives usually have wise elders around from where they can learn lots of things even from an early age - wise mysticism

🌴 Air and Fire Risings - You don't have to be photogenic to prove yourself that you're pretty! Daily affirmation!

🌴 Venusian Moons can go into stalking mode when they're obsessed with someone or have a deep crush on them! (And no..not the Hailey Baldwin type of stalking)

🌴 When you have Pluto or Neptune in the 1st, a lot of people find their insecurity in you so these people can be really projecting into you

🌴 Neptune in 10th house can hit with you a celebrity effect. Getting popular and known by others, call the paparazzi right now.

🌴 Leo Venus/5th/7th in Leo people want their partners to shine on them = wanting lots of attention and affection. Can be a love language of theirs

🌴 Aquarius/Sagittarius Venus/5th/7th most times are looking for a special spark in their relationships. They want their relationships to feel like the last sunset of summer

🌴 Moon - Pluto aspects can make a person unforgettable. And can happen also on the subconscious level

🌴 Neptune in the 7th house can struggle to be alone or maybe have a fear to be alone. This can manifest as addicted to be in a relationship

🌴 When a venus/moon dominant tells you that they'll you FOREVER..for them it really means FOREVER. Tell will make you understand what forever means

🌴 Men with pisces placements especially moon or venus are loverboys 100%. They feel like a good song you haven't heard in a while..the same feeling (depends on synastry guys...I have harsh synastry with pisces placements but I love them deeply)

🌴 I find it so cute when people date people with opposite signs like, Leo x Aquarius/Virgo x Pisces opposites attract each other but not in all cases

🌴 A 9th house moon or venus can be in love with places they never been before. Somehow this attraction to a place creates a satisfaction for them

🌴 be blessed 💚

With love harmoonix 💚🌴

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amirasainz · 7 months ago

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Hi queen. Can you please write for little alonso one, where she is still pretty young and mostly hanging out with the spanish speaking drivers (please include Franco♥️) and one of the others accidentally uses a english cuss word in front of her and she repeats it. Thank youuuuu.

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

-xoxo babygirl 💚

La Niña del Paddock

The Formula 1 paddock was always alive with energy, the hum of engines, and the chatter of mechanics filling the air. Today, however, it had an extra spark of excitement. Two-year-old Yn Alonso was in attendance, her tiny form dressed in a summer outfit and her hair in two braids.

Clinging to her father’s hand, Yn looked around the bustling paddock with wide eyes. She was shy, clutching tightly to Fernando's leg every time someone tried to say hello. Not that most of them could converse with her—she only spoke Spanish, and her vocabulary was still that of a toddler.

"Papá, quiero un jugo," she murmured, tugging at his hand. ("Papa, I want juice.")

Fernando crouched to her level, brushing her cheek with his thumb. "Después, mi amor. Ahora papá tiene que trabajar, ¿vale? Carlos te cuidará por un rato." ("Later, my love. Right now, papá has to work, okay? Carlos will look after you for a while.")

Yn pouted but nodded solemnly, her grip loosening as Carlos approached with a big grin. "¡Hola, princesa! ¿Lista para pasar un buen rato con el mejor babysitter del mundo?" ("Hello, princess! Ready to spend some time with the best babysitter in the world?")

Yn tilted her head, studying Carlos. “¿Eres mejor que Papá?” ("Are you better than Papa?")

Carlos laughed, scooping her up. "Por supuesto que no, pero soy el segundo mejor." ("Of course not, but I’m the second best.")

---

Carlos wasn’t alone in his efforts. Franco and Sergio often joined in, creating a small team of Spanish-speaking drivers who adored Yn. Today, as Carlos carried Yn through the paddock, they encountered Checo, who immediately lit up.

"¡Ahí está mi amiga pequeña! ¿Cómo estás, Yn?" ("There’s my little friend! How are you, Yn?")

"Quiero jugo," Yn replied seriously, causing both men to laugh. ("I want juice.")

“Ya veo que sabes lo que quieres,” Checo teased, ruffling her hair. "Ven, vamos a buscar uno." ("I see you know what you want. Come, let’s go find one.")

As they headed to the hospitality area, they ran into Charles, who, while not fluent in Spanish, had picked up a few phrases. He knelt to Yn’s level. "Hola, Yn. ¿Cómo… cómo estás?"

Yn hid her face in Carlos’s shoulder, making Charles frown.

"She is shy," Carlos explained with a shrug. "But you can try."

Charles smiled softly. "¿Quieres… jugo? ¿O… un helado?" ("Do you want… juice? Or… ice cream?")

At the mention of ice cream, Yn peeked out, nodding eagerly. "Helado."

“That was easy!" Charles laughed, standing up and joining the group as they searched for treats.

---

Other drivers began to notice how much time Yn spent with the Spanish-speaking contingent, sparking a mix of amusement and envy.

"Why does she never come to us?" Lando complained to Max, watching as Yn giggled in Franco’s arms.

"Maybe because she doesn’t understand you," Max replied with a smirk.

"But she’s so cute! Look at her little cheeks!” Lando exclaimed. “I want a turn."

“Good luck with that,” Max muttered, though he was secretly curious too.

---

Eventually, Yn’s circle expanded, and she found herself surrounded by other drivers who, despite the language barrier, adored her. George was attempting to teach her a clapping game, while Lewis showed her pictures of his dog Roscoe. Everything was going smoothly until Max stupped his toe and muttered a curse under his breath.

"Fuck," he said, slapping his thigh.

Yn, ever the sponge, tilted her head. "Fuck."

Silence fell over the group. George gasped, and Lewis froze mid-sentence.

"Max," Lando hissed. "What did you just do?"

“It wasn’t my fault!” Max said, panicking. “She’s too quick!”

"Fuck," Yn repeated, smiling as if she’d learned a new toy.

“Nonononono,” Charles said, rushing over. "Yn, don't say that. Es malo. Muy malo." (" It’s bad. Very bad.")

"¿Por qué?" Yn asked innocently, looking up at him. ("Why?")

Checo appeared just in time, his eyes wide as he realized what was happening. "What happened?"

“She heard Max swear,” George explained, flailing his arms.

Checo groaned. "¡Ay no! If Fernando finds out, we're dead."

---

Despite their frantic efforts to distract her with other words, Yn’s new phrase stuck. When Fernando finally returned from his duties, Yn ran to him, arms outstretched.

"¡Papá!"

"¡Mi niña! ¿Te portaste bien?" Fernando asked, lifting her into his arms. ("My girl! Were you well-behaved?")

Yn beamed at him, her tiny voice ringing out. "Fuck!"

Fernando froze. The drivers around them collectively held their breath, some looking ready to bolt.

Then Fernando threw his head back and laughed, a hearty sound that echoed through the paddock. "¡Eres toda una Alonso, mi amor!" ("You’re a true Alonso, my love!")

Checo wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. "We're saved…"

Fernando looked at the guilty group, smirking. "But if it happens again, you all will be to blame."

Yn, unaware of the chaos she had caused, snuggled into her father’s chest, content as ever. And the paddock? They had learned their lesson: don’t teach a toddler new words unless you’re ready to face the consequences.

#formula 1 #formula 1 x reader #xoxo babygirl 💋#little alonso #fernando alonso x alonso!reader #fernando alonso x daughter!reader #fernando alonso x reader #carlos sainz x reader #franco colapinto x reader #charles leclerc x reader #lando norris x reader #max verstappen x reader #dad!fernando alonso #alonso!reader

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dawngyu · 25 days ago

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₊ ˚ ⊹ ིྀ 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄

⠀˚⠀⠀♡⃕ㅤ pairing:ㅤㅤhusband choi beomgyu x wife reader

You haven’t spoken in days. You don’t even breathe loud anymore. Not since the night you saw what happens to those who do. The monsters don’t miss. The monsters come for sound like it’s blood in the water. One gasp. One sob. One accidental whisper and it’s over. Not just for you. It’s for the tiny life growing inside you. And if anything happens to you, you know. It’ll be the death of him, too.

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: a quiet place au, apocalypse!, established relationship, pregnancy, angst, romance, hurt/comfort, horror!, death!, descriptions of giving birth, subtle signs of postpartum!d. if any of the warnings above might be triggering for you, please step back. let me know if I missed anything. this is a work of fiction.

𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍-𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: MDNI, multiple-smut scenes, missionary, nipple-play, fingering, oral!fem receiving

𝗐𝖼: 22k — playlist.

𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌: thank you to my girl izzy, who made me watch a gameplay and unknowingly sparked the idea for this story. and a big thank you for my angel, cam — for sticking with me through everytime i got confused, scared, or just plain lost. i love you both.

“What?” you breathe out, with pretensing offense. You rest your head against his bicep, his arm curled around you, fingers gently combing through your hair. His other hand traces idle patterns on your skin, his thumb brushing your cheek, to the corner of your mouth, then down the column of your neck. “So you want me to die first?” you ask quietly.

He hums, nodding, a lopsided, boyish smile playing on his lips as you roll your eyes. He laughs under his breath, the sound warm, and shifts closer, his bare skin pressed to yours, “When we’re old,” he says, “so old everything’s white and wrinkled and slow…” He pauses to laugh again, eyes crinkling as they find yours, soft, because he’s seeing the softness on yours too. “If we die from just... being that old, I want you to go first.”

You blink, stunned for a second, and he continues, his voice gentler. “Because I can’t stand the thought of you being left behind. I’d rather stay just a little longer. To hold your hand through the end. To take care of you until your last breath. Until I know you don’t have to be alone.” His thumb brushes your cheek again, slower this time. “And when you can’t see me anymore… then I’ll go.”

They say marriage dulls love eventually. That over time, it settles into something quieter... less magic, more habit. Maybe that’s just how it goes. Maybe that’s what people mean when they call it normal. You see fewer families that are still whole. You meet more children who learned how to cope with absence before they ever learned how to tie their shoes.

You're lucky, they say, if your husband still comes home at night. Not even with flowers or apologies just... home. That’s what your mother always told you. Maybe because it was easier to say that than admit she was waiting for a man who rarely looked her in the eyes. Maybe she believed it, after enough nights of watching your father’s gaze follow women who weren’t her.

And as you got older, resentment took root. Maybe it wasn’t just men you started to hate. Maybe it was love itself or the idea of it. The way it demanded pieces of you and called it devotion. The way it asked you to wait, to bend, to stay small. You built walls. You spoke in sharp edges. You told yourself you were safer alone than ever being seen and still not chosen. You wanted nothing of it; none of that soft, foolish ache your mother carried in her eyes when she thought no one was looking.

No one really tells you that even the strongest walls don’t always hold. That storms, no matter how loud, eventually... settle. And that the sky doesn’t bloom with colour until the rain has had its say. You didn’t see it coming. How everything you once said you’d never need, never want, could begin to change. Almost without asking permission.

All because of one person.

You still remember the day you met your husband.

“Hey.”

You froze at the sound of Kai’s voice, jaw tightening as you continued folding flannels at the booth with your back still to him. Cold. Distant. And he knew exactly why.

He sighed, because yeah, he fucked up. And now you were icing him out, and rightfully so. He, along with Taehyun, had worked painstakingly to earn a place on your side. Now here he was, ruining it in one careless moment. “Y/N, I’m sorry, okay? I thought you already knew that — ”

“That what?” Your voice cut clean through the air, sharp. You finally turned to face him, and for a second, he almost wished you hadn’t. Your eyes weren’t tearful or hurt, they were hard. Disappointed.

You weren’t just anyone, you were the spine of this whole group. The one no one dared cross. The one everyone looked to when things got messy. Queen of the batch, they called you. And right now? He knew exactly how small he was beneath your gaze. Kai cleared his throat, suddenly unsure of where to put his hands, his guilt too loud in the silence between you. He glanced at Taehyun, desperate for backup, but Taehyun didn’t even look up. He kept shuffling papers like his life depended on it, like the tension in the room hadn’t tripled.

He wasn’t getting saved.

Not this time. “Uh—”

“I told you to study for it, Huening Kai. Am I right?” The full name. Shit. Even he knows that’s when it’s bad. “So we could present together. And now you’re standing here telling me you didn’t even look at your assigned parts?”

“I forgot, okay?” he stammers, eyes wide and guilty. “There was band practice, and then—there was—”

“Stop. Talking.”

He snaps his mouth shut instantly, lips pressed together in a dramatic pout. “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles, like a kicked puppy trying to look cute.

You sigh, deep and tired. Not just at him but at yourself, for expecting better. For thinking this time he’d actually take it seriously. Your fingers press to your temples as you close your eyes briefly, grounding yourself before you say something worse. He’s looking at you like he’s one bad breath away from a full apology or running.

A year ago, you would’ve let the anger win. You would’ve said something that bite, just to feel like you still had control, but you now don't. Because now… now you’re learning to make space for the boy standing in front of you.

“Kai…” you start, softer now, “I didn’t ask for perfect. I just asked for effort. Fine, I'll do it.”

Kai’s about to open his mouth, probably to try another sorry excuse — when a loud laugh echoes across the auditorium, careless. You glance up instinctively. There they are; two seniors strolling in like the place was built for them. The taller one with deep dimples flashes a grin, saying something that makes the other throw his head back in a laugh that fills the space. He’s all hair and arrogance, long strands brushing the tops of his shoulders. Your eyes narrow, tracking him across the room.

Do they even realize this is an important event? Do they care? You roll your eyes, jaw clenched as irritation flares anew, like a match struck just a little too fast. Beside you, Kai quietly mutters another apology, but your attention has already shifted, redirected like a storm changing direction. You hate it, how easily they command the room. How everyone watches them. How they know they’re being watched. Just because they’re seniors.

Entitlement looks good on them, and that pisses you off even more.

“I hate that guy,” you mutter.

Taehyun follows your gaze. “Be specific,” he says, monotone. “There are two.”

“The loud one,” you snap. “One with the hair.”

Taehyun hums, unbothered. He knew why. “Of course.”

Kai leans in. “Be honest… is it hate, or is it hate-hate?”

You shoot him a glare so sharp he visibly leans back. “Okay. Hate it is,” he nods quickly.

Even as you turn away, your eyes flick once more to the boy with the laugh that somehow still echoes in your head.

You hate him.

You do.

The day moved in a blur. Fast at first, then agonizingly slow as your turn crept closer.

Most teams had two, sometimes three people standing up there together. You had no one. Alone behind the podium, trying to hold yourself upright on nothing but adrenaline and a little bit of pride. Still, you managed. You held your own. Answered every question crisply, clearly, almost like you’d rehearsed in your sleep. Everything was going fine. One of the panelists shifted in their seat, glanced down at their notes, then asked, “What do you think is the most important thing we should do for prospectives?”

It wasn’t a technical question. It wasn’t numbers or science or theory. It wasn’t anything you could calculate or memorize or recite.

You froze. Not because you didn’t care, but because that part of the project, that question was Kai’s. You stood there, blinking once, then twice. You could calculate a compound’s atomic behavior in a heartbeat, you could solve a formula blindfolded, but this? This felt like a punch to the gut in front of everyone. You focused on facts, ratio and numbers too much. It was so simple, so human, and you're giving silence.

You could feel it. eyes narrowing. Confusion settling. Their expectations hanging in the air like lead. Aren't you supposed to be the smart one? Is this all you are? Talk? No follow-through? You’re about to clear your throat, to say something, anything, to fill the itch clawing at your throat, when movement catches your eye.

In the very back, nearly hidden by rows of students, a hand lifts into the air. Not high. Not obvious. Almost like it wasn’t meant to be seen. No one else notices, except the boy next to him, who nudges him, brows raised. Your eyes stay locked on him.

Choi Beomgyu.

He doesn't speak, doesn't call out. He just forms a shape with his hands. Subtle, a quiet symbol drawn into the space between you.

A heart.

It feels louder than anything else in the room.

You look away. Swallow the lump rising in your throat. And when you turn back to the panelist, your voice finds itself. “Heart,” you say, “The most important thing is to reach the heart of your audience. Because if you don’t connect, nothing else will matter.”

A breath slips from your lungs the moment you catch the flicker of approval on the professor’s face.

Everything ended, hours pass and around you, the noise returns. Chairs scrape. Bags zip. Voices rise again like nothing happened. Kai and Taehyun are already across the table, heads down as they quietly gather the presentation materials.

You feel Kai’s eyes flick toward you, but not at you. Past you.

You turn. Choi Beomgyu stands just a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, watching you like he isn’t sure if you’ll stay or walk right past him.

You sigh, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder. “Alright,” you mutter, “It’s due, isn’t it? What do you want?”

Beomgyu blinks, caught off guard. His voice is quieter than you expect, almost like he wasn’t planning to speak at all. “…A thank you?”

“Thank you,” you mutter, barely meeting his eyes. Out of the corner of your vision, you catch Taehyun dragging a starry-eyed Kai away, literally pulling him by the elbow. A few students glance your way too, some whispering. You know why.

The two students, each known as the best in their own batch, now suddenly in the same frame.

“I know that’s probably not enough,” you sigh, folding your arms. “Men never really settle for just words, do they? What is it, food? A favor? Something for your class? Say it.”

He laughs softly. “I just think…” he starts, then trails off, scratching the back of his neck. “I just think you’re the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. Maybe that’s why I did it.”

You blink. Of all the things you expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them. He’s flushed now, stammering through the rest. “I, I mean — I’ve watched you since before. Not in a creepy way, I swear. But just… fuck, you could sell poison and I’d still line up for it.”

A laugh breaks from your chest before you can stop it. He grins, almost in disbelief, like he can’t believe he got you to laugh.

What you didn’t know back then, what no one could’ve told you, was that the same boy standing here, flushed and awkward and a little reckless with his heart, would be the one to melt it all away, would be your exception, and would be the one to stand at the end of an aisle, eyes shining, waiting to marry you.

They say marriage dulls love eventually, but as your eyes blur with tears from the way he looks at you, so full of awe, as if you’re still something he can’t believe he gets to hold, and as your heart pulls tight at the gentleness in his voice, you know they were wrong. If anything, he loves you more. As if every day, his heart just finds a new way to fall for you.

“I love you,” you whisper, it's small but he hears it. He doesn’t speak — he can’t. His mouth moves around the words I love you too, but his voice catches before it can reach you. His eyes shine, his throat tight, and all he can do is look at you.

It’s been six years since you first met your husband, Beomgyu. He pursued you like you were gravity itself. He waited for you outside your lectures, rain or shine, just to walk you back to your dorm. He brought you coffee before exams, left sticky notes on your textbooks, made it his mission to learn the things you loved, just so he could love them too.

Within months, you said yes. Not just to being his girlfriend, but to the rhythm of a life slowly intertwining with his. Breaks became your sacred hour. Homework turned into nights side by side, papers spread out like puzzle pieces, his laughter softening the cruelty of long days. You studied. You dreamed. And you fell, so deeply, so fully, it terrified you. By the time Beomgyu graduated, it wasn’t just your hearts that had found home in each other. Your families met and clicked as if the universe had been planning it all along.

While Beomgyu poured himself into his Biology degree, interning as a lab researcher with determination, you chased a harder dream. You wanted to become a general surgeon — something that demanded long hours, relentless focus, and years more schooling. You feared the distance your ambition might create, the strain it could put on, but Beomgyu never flinched. He adjusted, he waited, he stayed.

He carved his own path slowly, carefully, becoming a research specialist step by step, all while holding space for you to grow. He never made you choose. Instead, he became the steady presence who picked you up on your worst days and celebrated even your smallest wins.

And when the time was right, when you were still tired from hospital rotations, hair a mess, hands aching from studying; he knelt on one knee, ring in hand, eyes full of the same certainty he had when he first saw you.

It’s been two years since you said your vows; two years of being married, of building a life not just in promises, but in the everyday. You’re both in your late twenties now, older, a little more tired maybe, but grounded in something stronger than youth. You’re still studying, pushing through the final stretch of your residency, while he’s found his name with respect in the field he loves.

Beomgyu wakes up early with you, even when he doesn’t have to. He packs your lunch on days you forget, leaves notes on your coffee cup when you’re too bleary-eyed to speak. Some nights, he waits up just to reheat your dinner, just to ask how your shift went, even if your words are half-slurred with exhaustion.

And still, somehow, he looks at you like it’s the first time.

Every hard day ends with him. Every version of your future still starts with him. In all the chaos, he remains your calm. In all the movement, he remains your constant. You used to wonder if love could last, if love was real. Now you know — it is. It just takes someone who chooses you every single day, even when the days are long and the words are few.

Beomgyu never stopped choosing you.

"You’re free today, right?" your husband asks as he flips a pancake, his tone light but full of meaning. “I was thinking... we could just stay in bed all day. Cuddle. Make love. Just… be.”

You choke on your orange juice, sputtering as the sweetness burns down the wrong pipe. Even after all these years, he still manages to catch you off guard. “Y-Yeah,” you cough out, cheeks warming. “I don’t have anything today. I remembered you were off.”

He flashes that boyish grin, throwing both fists in the air. “Yes!” he whispers dramatically, the spatula still in one hand. You giggle at the sight, he’s always a little ridiculous when it’s just the two of you, and your heart aches with how much you love him like this. He sets the pancakes down with exaggerated care, and you help him plate the rest, moving around each other in that familiar, wordless rhythm. Now seated across from him, he digs into his food with satisfaction, and you take your first bite too.

He looks up between chews. “Wanna watch a movie later?”

You were just about to speak when something twisted deep in your stomach, a pressure climbed your throat. You barely had time to register the panic flashing across Beomgyu’s face before instinct took over.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quickly, half-rising from his seat. His voice trembled with concern as he watched you press a shaky hand over your mouth.

You couldn’t answer. The chair scraped loudly against the floor as you bolted upright, your body moving before your brain could catch up. You heard him call your name behind you, but the sound was already drowned out by the thudding of your heartbeat and the desperate rush of your footsteps toward the bathroom.

Your knees hit the cold tile just in time.

Everything came up in a rush — sour, bitter. You gagged again, pain wracking your stomach as it emptied itself. The bile scorched your throat, your eyes watering from the force of it. You clutched the edge of the sink with one hand, the other trembling against your abdomen. Pancakes. It had to be the pancakes, right? But… you loved those. You always had.

Everything hurt. Your stomach cramped with each heave, your throat burned, and your head spun like the room had tilted sideways. Every wave of nausea pulled you further under, like drowning in your own body. Everything feels horrible, everything is —

“Hey… breathe, baby. I’ve got you.”

Warm hands on your back. Beomgyu’s touch moved up and down your spine in soft, reassuring strokes. After a second, you felt him gently gather your hair, pulling it away from your face. His free hand found your knee, cupping it softly, a barrier between your trembling body and the cold, unyielding floor. “More?” he said, voice thick with worry.

You didn’t answer, not yet. The nausea had finally passed, but you still felt wrung out, hollowed. You reached blindly for the flush, the mechanical whirl of water echoing louder than it should have in the small room. “Are you okay? Something wrong with the food?”

“I… I don’t know,” you whisper, your voice hoarse, fragile. Your legs feel unsteady as you slowly rise to your feet, and Beomgyu is there in an instant, arms steadying you, eyes never leaving your face.

He follows you to the sink in silence. You grip the cool edges of the porcelain and glance up at your reflection, pale and drawn, but it’s not just your face you’re looking at; it’s his eyes in the mirror, still locked on you.

He looks scared.

You rinse your mouth, trying to rid yourself of the sourness. You reach automatically for the mouthwash but pause when your eyes catch your sealed box of tampons, untouched. Something tugs at your chest. Your breath stills.

When… when was the last time?

“Gyu,” you say softly. He hums in response, giving you space to find your words. You turn just enough to look at him, really look at him. His brows are knit in concern, lips parted like he’s already halfway to asking what’s wrong again. You swallow hard, voice barely a breath.

“You should buy me some pregnancy tests.”

It was the longest three minutes of your life.

You sat on the closed toilet lid, elbows on your knees, hands clutched tightly together. Your heart pounded like a warning bell, loud in your chest, loud in your ears. Across the small bathroom, Beomgyu paced like he couldn’t decide whether to breathe or break down.

"Shit, my heart is about to burst," he muttered, running a hand through his hair for the fifth time. His eyes kept darting toward the sink, where two pregnancy tests sat waiting. “Should we call your parents? My mom? What do we even need to buy, diapers? Vitamins? A crib? Wait, we don’t even know yet — ”

"Beomgyu." You said his name firmly, and he froze. His eyes snapped to yours, wild with thought, but something in your tone reeled him back in. “You’re more frantic than me,” you said softly.

He let out a shaky laugh, barely a breath, then crossed the room in two steps. He knelt in front of you, his hands warm as they cradled your face. His forehead met yours with the gentleness of a promise. "Whatever it is," he said, voice steady now. “Whatever the outcome… we’re okay. You and me.”

You nodded, pressing your eyes closed for a second, to hold the weight of this moment between your bodies. The fear, the hope, the fragile anticipation curling in your chest.

Your alarm goes off, Beomgyu grips your hand.

Two pink lines.

You didn’t know what happened in the next few seconds, it all blurred. You knew it wasn’t final, that a doctor’s confirmation still waited ahead, but none of that mattered, not when Beomgyu looked at you like you’d handed him the universe.

He lifted you with a laugh that cracked, arms wrapped around you like he never wanted to let go. His lips found yours again and again, messy, full of awe. You had to push him back just to breathe, only for him to chase after you, kissing you like his life depended on it. You started painting a picture behind your closed eyes.

A home. A life. Beomgyu. And your... child.

He carried you to the bed in a blur, laying you down, “You're carrying my baby,” he whispered, breath ragged, brushing your hair from your face. “God, I can’t believe, I love you, I love you so much—”

Then his mouth was on you again, trailing from your jaw to your collarbone, down to the curve of your breasts. He cupped them gently, thumbs brushing your nipples until they tightened beneath his fingers. He kissed every inch, like he was memorizing you anew, lips worshipping the swell of your chest, the softness of your stomach. When he slid your panties down, he did it slowly, eyes never leaving yours. His fingers parted you, tender at first, then more firm as you gasped beneath him, the heat of your body answering his touch instantly. “You feel so warm,” he murmured, voice almost breaking. “So perfect. Mine.”

His mouth followed, tongue tasting you slowly. Your back arched. His hands pressed your thighs open wider, and you cried out his name, your hands tangling in his hair. He climbed over you, his cock pressed hard and aching against your entrance, you reached for him. He moved slowly at first, savoring every inch of you, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you whispering between breaths. “I love you.”

His pace quickened as your moans filled the room, his hips snapping forward harder, deeper, one hand cupping your breast, the other finding your clit. But even then, his eyes never left yours, wide and glassy.

He came with your name on his lips, his body trembling above yours. He didn’t pull away. He just held you, panting against your skin, his hand sliding protectively over your stomach.

“I’ll give everything to you,” he whispered, “To both of you.”

It felt like the rest of your life had just opened its doors, and welcomed you home.

“Yeah, I’ll drive safely, I promise,” you say into the phone, balancing it between your shoulder and ear as you push the shopping cart forward. “The weather’s nice today, so I thought I’d swing by and visit Ryujin later too.”

“You should’ve waited for me to come home before going out,” Beomgyu grumbles on the other end, and even though it’s just a call, you can hear the pout in his voice.

You smile to yourself. “I couldn’t wait two more days, hun. Maybe it’s the hormones? I just really needed to get out of the house.”

You bow politely to an elderly couple who step aside for your cart. There’s a flutter in your chest, not just from the grocery run, but from the soft awareness that you’re not alone in your body anymore. He sighs, his voice softer now. “How’s the shopping? You still okay?”

“Yeah,” you reply, reaching for a box of cereal and dropping it into the cart. “I haven’t thrown up all morning, actually.”

“That’s good.” A pause. Then, “Work’s alright. Busy. The relocation is almost done, they’re giving me one more project before I get to be picky again.”

“Picky?”

“Yeah. I’ve got to be.” You hear a faint smile in his voice now. “My wife’s pregnant.”

“Beomgyu… you’ve been boasting about it to everyone, haven’t you?”

“Of course I have,” he says, without an ounce of shame. “I made it.”

You laugh, unable to help it. “Sir, it’s my body.”

“And I’m the co-founder. Are you trying to use science against me now?”

“Well,” you tease, biting back another grin, “if you only think that way…”

“Don’t.” He cuts you off with a playful groan, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Stop right now or I swear, I’ll drive home just to kiss that pretty mouth of yours.”

Your laugh slips out before you can stop it, light and full of something so easy, so whole. You hear his own laughter follow. For a moment, the world feels small. His voice in your ear. Your hand on your stomach. A swell of joy on your chest.

Everything had felt too perfect.

You turned down another aisle, cart wheels squeaking softly against the floor as you absently listened to Beomgyu's voice through the phone. He was moving around on the other end, probably getting ready to head back to work after spending his whole break talking to you.

Your hand reached for a bottle of ketchup when the ground shifted beneath you. It was so subtle at first you thought you imagined it, but then, another jolt. Harder. A low rumble filled the air, then the shelves trembled.

Screams erupted down the aisle,. Someone dropped a basket. Another shouted. The floor seemed to tilt and shudder, the metallic clatter of falling cans and shattering glass erupting around you like a storm. Your phone slipped from your hand.

“Shit,” you breathed, backing away instinctively, heart lurching to your throat. You let go of the cart and crouched low, one arm bracing against the shaking shelf, the other instinctively cradling your stomach.

You dropped to your knees, trying to stay steady as the floor trembled. Panic rose like bile in your throat. You scanned the store, heart hammering, searching desperately for an exit, but you were deep in the back. Trapped between rows of falling items, far from the doors, far from safety. As soon as the tremors stopped, you scrambled for your phone, fingers fumbling to grab it from where it had fallen. The screen was cracked, but still lit and his voice came through immediately.

“Baby? Are you okay?” Beomgyu’s voice was tight. “There was an earthquake. You need to get out of that store, now. Find open space. Keep me on the phone. Just hurry, but be careful.”

You exhaled shakily, heart pounding in your ears. “Okay,” you whispered, voice trembling. “I’m okay. I’m — ”

Your words froze. A scream ripped through the air, guttural. You turned instinctively toward the sound, but the aisle was empty. Your feet stilled. The grocery store, which had just been chaos, fell into a thick, sudden silence.

Too quiet.

You stepped forward slowly, eyes darting around, and saw a man at the far end of the aisle. He looked confused, his brows furrowed as if he too had heard it but didn’t understand. He looked at you, seeking answers you didn’t have.

You pressed the phone closer to your ear. “Beomgyu…” your voice was barely above a whisper, “something’s wrong.”

There was a beat of silence, then the sharp shuffle of movement on the other end. “Get out of there. Now,” he ordered, voice low but firm. “Don’t wait. Go home. I’m already on my way.”

“HELP! PLEASE, HELP!”

The scream shattered whatever silence was left. It wasn’t fear, it was terror. Pure, bone-deep terror.

Your breath caught in your throat as people started running, shouting over one another, shopping carts abandoned and crashing into shelves. Panic took over like a wave, and you ran with it, feet moving before your mind could catch up, heart hammering so violently you could barely breathe.

“What?” you gasped out loud, the word foreign and unreal in your mouth. “Was it the earthquake? What’s happening?”

You were seconds from reaching the crowd gathering near the store’s front exit when everything stopped.

Because through the tall glass panels, beyond the automatic doors, you saw it.

It wasn’t human. Its body was long, towering, its legs grotesquely jointed and thin like twisted branches. Its skin looked slick and dark, somewhere between rotted brown and black, like it had grown from the earth itself. And its head was massive, lopsided, glistening under the sun.

It was sprinting.

Right toward the entrance. Right toward you.

Your body moved on instinct, run. You turned, bolting in the opposite direction, the air thick with screams and the thundering of feet. Your hands were shaking so hard, your phone slipped from your grasp, hitting the floor without a sound. You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

You didn’t look back.

Thuds. Cracks. Wet. Tearing.

They're dying. You were moving too fast, too desperate. The screams behind you changed, twisting from fear to agony. It was killing them.

Run.

Your arms wrapped around your stomach like a shield, legs pushing you faster than they ever had before. You turned down an aisle blindly. More screaming. Another crash.

Your ears rang from the sounds. Your hands were shaking so hard you could barely keep yourself upright. The store, once so bright and dull and normal, was now a labyrinth of blood and chaos and shadows and you were running for your life through it. It wasn’t over.

Another one ripped through the grocery store’s left wall like paper, jagged limbs piercing through the broken frame, its massive head twitching unnaturally as it unfolded itself into the store. The sudden eruption sent you stumbling; you hit the floor hard, landing flat on your back, the breath knocked from your lungs. It was already inside. Long legs scraped against tile, too many joints bending in ways that made your stomach turn. It moved with intent, frenzied.

It was running towards a woman, five feet in front of you.

“Mommy!!” A child. No older than six. His tiny voice cut through, making the creature snapped its head around, twisting its body in a full.

You gasped. In less than a second, it lunged.

The boy didn’t even have time to move. One hideous limb lashed out, a blur of motion and then there was blood. His body hit the shelf behind him, crumpling like a doll, small hands twitching once before going still. The mother screamed. A scream that sounded like it broke something in her throat. She ran but not away. Toward him. Toward where her son used to be and the monster met her halfway.

You could only watch. Helpless. Paralyzed. The creature descended on her like a machine — limbs slashing, tearing. Her scream didn’t last long. The sound turned to wet gurgling, bones cracking beneath the weight of its strikes. Her blood painted the tiles in uneven splashes.

You pressed a hand to your mouth. You feel the burn in your eyes.

It should’ve gone for the woman. She was right in front of it —motionless, exposed. The obvious target. The child screamed. He was farther away, barely in its path. He just screamed for his mother, a sharp, panicked sound.

And that was all it took.

It turned. It moved. Not toward the closest body, but toward the sound. The child made a noise, and the monster struck. Then the mother screamed, and it went for her next. You glance at it. It’s not attacking you. Its head is smooth. Perfectly round. No eyes. No mouth. No face at all. It has no eyes. It hears. If your theory’s wrong, if it can see you — you’ll be dead.

You stay still, your body trembling against the cold floor. Every instinct screaming to run, to hide, to cry but you keep your mouth shut.

You don’t make a sound.

You could hear your heartbeat pounding in your ears. Your skin had turned ice-cold, and every hair on your body stood on end like a warning. It moved slowly at first, almost aimlessly, like it was feeling its way through the dark. Then, out of nowhere, a police siren shrieked past outside. The creature recoiled, let out a piercing, guttural scream, as if it had been set on fire. He went out, harsly running towards it's next target, leaving you alone.

Your legs are weak, but you forced yourself to stand. The store was dead silent now. Too silent. The smell hit you. Thick. Coppery. Blood.

Everyone's dead.

You didn’t dare speak. Not even a whisper, the sound might draw it back. Your feet moved on their own; slow, unsteady, barely touching the ground, every creak of the tile felt deafening. You were trying not to breathe too loudly.

You needed to get home. Home. Just get home.

You’d have to drive, but if you drove… they’d hear. They’d come. Just like they did when that police car screamed past, sirens blaring — the car was torn apart like it was nothing.

You swallowed hard. Your throat was dry. Your phone. Where was your phone?

Beomgyu.

His name hit you like a punch to the chest. Choi Beomgyu. He told you to go home. He said he was on his way. No. No no no no. He can’t come here. He can’t. Your breath caught. Panic bloomed sharp and fast, stealing the air from your lungs. You pressed a hand to your chest like it might hold you together.

You were supposed to scream. That’s how the body processes fear, but how do you let it out, when silence is the only thing keeping you alive?

You move through the store like a ghost, each step slow and deliberate as you make your way to the essentials section. Outside, the world is chaos. Screams slice through the air. The guttural shrieks of monsters rattle your bones. You flinch every time. Your hands tremble. But you don’t stop.

You can’t stop.

You have to do this. He’s waiting for you. You need to see your husband, just once more, even if it’s the last time.

You sling the backpack over your shoulder. You trade your shoes for boots — quieter, sturdier. Thank God you wore pants. Beomgyu’s sweatshirt still clings to your frame, carrying the faintest trace of him. You pull gloves over your hands, muffling every touch, every sound. The back door creaks when you open it. You freeze. Wait. Then move. It takes forever.

No matter how long it takes, no matter how many times your heart threatens to shatter, you're going home.

You’ve been walking for almost three hours.

You should’ve been home an hour ago, but your steps are slow, too slow. Every time a monster crosses your path, every time something horrific stares back at you from the shadows, your feet freeze. They root to the ground like they’d rather become stone than move forward.

You kept going. One more turn and you'd be home. You could already feel it. The warmth of your apartment, the way the hallway light flickers, the sound of his voice saying your name. You could almost see his face. You didn’t care what came next. Not the monsters. Not the sky falling. You just wanted to see him again.

You smelled it first. You saw it next.

It's on fire. Your building was on fire.

You almost stumble when you see them, multiple monsters gathered across the street, drawn like moths to the roaring flame consuming your home. The crackling fire must’ve called to them, like some kind of death song. You press yourself against the wall, heart pounding in your ears, eyes scanning the streets with desperate hope.

Is his car here? Is he? He drove. If he drove, he wouldn’t have made it back. Not through this hell. The realization sinks in like a knife twisting in your mind, cruel. You had hoped. Foolishly, stubbornly. Even without a phone, without power, without a single sign, your heart had held on to the idea of seeing him again.

Now you stand in front of a burning building and wonder what’s left to hold on to.

That morning flashes through your memory, so painfully clear now. The way he got up quietly, kissed your cheek, your forehead, your nose, over and over like he couldn’t bear to leave. You let sleep take you, too warm, too safe to stir. You didn’t even say goodbye.

If you had known…

If you had known, you would’ve woken up. You would’ve pulled him back into bed, wrapped yourself around him like it could stop time. You would’ve held him until the sun rose twice.

A piercing screech rips through the air, dragging you violently back to reality. Your breath hitches as your body flinches on instinct. You stagger back a step, your vision swimming, not from fear, but from the tears spilling freely down your cheeks.

You stare at the fire swallowing your building, and the truth finally settles, cold and merciless: He’s not here. He’s not coming back. The chance of finding him… it was impossible.

The fire devours everything you once called home, and in your mind’s eye, it scorches more than walls and furniture. Your college photos, where he smiled like the world was a little softer with you in it. Your wedding day, frozen in frames, dressed in love and laughter. The letters he wrote, the ones he hid in lunch boxes and slipped between pages of your books, always signed with too many hearts. All gone.

You're now a hollow shell with shaking legs and a heart left behind in a home that no longer exists. You start walking because there’s nothing else to do. You don’t know where you’re going. There’s nowhere left to go. No plan. No direction. You dreamed of years with him in that apartment — mornings, chaotic dinners, shared laughter in the kitchen. Your child one day, his eyes, your smile. You dreamed of life.

Everything that was his, everything that was yours, is now reduced to ash.

You’re curled up inside an abandoned house.

It’s not safe, but it’s hidden. You chose it because there’s less chance they’ll hear you here. You sit on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, trying to eat. Your hands move like they belong to someone else, raising food to your lips in slow, mechanical motions. Just two bites and your stomach twists violently, rejecting it. You press a hand to your mouth, fighting the urge to throw up.

And then it comes again, your tears. You don’t even try to stop them now. They slide down your face, soaking into your sleeves. Your throat tightens with a sob you can’t release because crying out loud would kill you.

You cry in silence, your body shaking, your chest heaving like you’re trying to breathe through water. Your heart hurts. Physically hurts. And for what?

What’s your purpose now?

You were supposed to be a doctor. You had plans, you spent years of studying, training, pushing your limits because you wanted to help. You lived with your hands busy, always reaching for someone else. You belonged in the noise, in the rush, in the healing. Now… there’s no one left to help. No one to save. Not even yourself.

The only peace you ever truly knew was in his arms, holding his hand, feeling his heartbeat next to yours. Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you wonder if it would be easier to just stop breathing. Should you give up?

Is this how it ends?

You run your hands over your head, fingers digging into your scalp like you’re trying to wake yourself from this nightmare. It made you feel your bracelet. Still there, wrapped around your wrist. His gift. His promise. A piece of him, holding on.

No. You can’t give up. What would he think if you did? Are you really going to leave him behind? Are you going to take your child with you into nothingness, before they even have a chance to live?

The thought slams into your chest like a hammer. You gasp, and your breath catches on guilt. Your hands fall to your stomach, shaking. Your eyes are dry, swollen, wide open; sleep hasn’t touched you since the last time he held you. The backpack presses into your spine like punishment. It’s heavy with food, with survival, but you refuse to take it off.

It's for you, for Beomgyu, and it’s for the tiny life growing inside you.

You’re going to find him. You have to.

Beomgyu is smart — brilliant in ways that always amazed you. Steady in a storm, the calm to your chaos. He thinks ahead, plans, protects. He wouldn't give up on you. He’s out there right now, searching, heart clenched just like yours, whispering your name.

You won’t let him search in vain. You press your hand over your stomach again, eyes burning with the fire that refused to die with your home. You’re going to find him.

In a world where sound means death, love — no matter what — will find a way to speak.

Your footsteps barely make a sound.

Stay quiet. Stay alive.

The earth bites at your bare feet, the pain is familiar now, it's almost a comfort. A week ago, you watched your home dissolve into flame and smoke, and it’s been a day since you last slept.

You remember those lectures, they taught you about ecosystems; how every life is woven into another, a perfect balance of give and take, but ever since that day, you are a creature of instinct, hiding from the eyes that stalk the dark. You are prey — breathing, moving, breaking beneath the weight of a world that no longer feels like it belongs to you.

Your stomach growls. It's been hours since your last bite, and now more than ever, you know you can't ignore it. You're not just feeding yourself anymore. You're eating for two.

A sharp sting shoots through your foot. You flinch, glancing down just long enough to spot a smear of red blooming beneath a piece of broken glass. You moved to remove it, slowly. You don't look back at it twice.

Up ahead, you see a grocery store, the sign hangs by a single hinge. You scan the street, abandoned cars, shattered windows, silence stretching thick around you. No movement. No monsters. Not yet.

You push the door open.

Inside, dust and decay hang in the air. Inside, two sets of eyes meet yours from across the aisle. Wide, startled. Human. Just like yours.

Just as afraid.

It’s hard; trying to learn names, to meet someone new, when none of you can speak. Everything will take effort, a will. A notebook and a pen.

The first one you came to know was Soobin. Tall, easily over six feet. His eyes are wide and searching, his hair tousled by the wind, and when he smiled, you noticed the dimples tucked into his cheeks, softening everything. Then there’s Yeonjun, the older one. Sharper features, eyes shaped like a fox, always watching. There’s a seriousness to him, still, he welcomed you the best he could, a nod, a shared look, a warmth that didn’t need sound. You learned they were roomates even before all of this happened, and they managed to stay together, something that made your chest ache.

Strangers were supposed to be dangerous, but something about these two…felt like you already knew them.

It’s your turn with the notebook.

You sit at the table, pen trembling slightly in your hand. Soobin and Yeonjun lean in just enough to read over your shoulder. They told you the store had already been picked clean — nothing left but dust and broken shelves.

So you write anyway. It’s all you can offer.

I'm Y/N. You pause, then press the pen harder. I'm looking for my husband, and I'm pregnant.

There it is, laid bare between the lines. You need them to understand that you're a risk. Your hand hesitates before writing the next part, the words scrape against something tender. If you think I'll be a problem, you can walk out that door, and I won't even look.

Your throat tightens, then you add, in a small, hurried scrawl — But… could you please help me get some food first?

You don’t look up. You’re too afraid of what you’ll see on their faces.

A gentle weight settles on your shoulder. You flinch before realizing it’s Soobin. His hand is steady, reassuring. When you look up, he meets your eyes and nods once, firm and certain.

Then he takes the pen. We'll help you find him, he writes.

You feel a solid in a world that’s been crumbling around you.

You turn to Yeonjun. He doesn't say anything but he jerks his chin toward the broken doorway, already slinging a pack over his shoulder. The look in his eyes is clear as daylight.

Come on, it says. We got you.

You’re not alone anymore.

You slipped easily into the space between Soobin and Yeonjun. It was reckless, you knew that. Three people moving together meant more noise, more danger, but being apart felt worse. As if, despite everything, people were meant to stay close.

Your thoughts snapped back to your husband. The ache didn’t just sit in your chest — it clawed at it, hollowing it out. You could still feel his fingers, ghostlike, curling around yours. His last touch. Your hand drifted to your stomach. A reflex. Yeonjun glanced over, catching the movement, but said nothing.

You searched. You searched everywhere. Every street, every shattered doorway, calling his name in your head even when your lips stayed shut. Was he ever here? Is he even alive? In a world this broken, how do two people ever find their way back?

A thought sparked, something like an idea, but it died just as fast. Your body had other priorities, hunger twisted through you like a threat. You needed food, you needed him, but you could only chase one at a time.

You glance over your shoulder, eyes catching the dull lettering of the grocery ahead, the next stop. Soobin raises two fingers, pointing left. A silent signal. He’ll cover that side. Yeonjun peels off toward the center aisles, moving like he’s done this a hundred times.

That leaves you with the right. Your steps are slow. Every possible creak of the old floor sounds too loud in your ears. You scan the shelves like it’s life or death, because it is. Empty. Empty. Crushed box. Broken glass. Then, cans.

Unopened. Untouched. Real food.

A breath nearly escapes your lips. Relief flutters in your chest, fragile and disbelieving. You move toward it, heart pounding. One hand reaches for the cans. The other tugs your backpack open, inch by inch, slow enough that the zipper barely whispers.

Then, a hand. Over your mouth.

It clamps down hard, cutting off your breath before the gasp can even rise. You freeze. Every muscle in your body locks.

“Don’t make a sound, unless you’re ready to die, sweetheart.”

His voice is so small, but it curls around your ear hot and foul. You flinch as his breath hits your skin, as the rough scrape of his beard grazes your neck. Your eyes sting. You could fight him, but deep down, you know what waits beyond the walls, things far worse than this man. You shift, just a fraction, and he feels it. Cold metal bites into your ribs. The blade doesn’t pierce, not yet. It just promises to.

You stop moving. You stop breathing. You surrender, not because you’re weak, but because survival, for now, means silence. If he hurt you, youu know the truth: there’s no hospital. No rescue. No safety coming. If this goes wrong, it ends here. His hand slips from your mouth only when he’s certain you won’t scream but it doesn't mean mercy. His grip just shifts, closing around your throat instead. Tighter. Controlling.

You can’t breathe. He drags you backward like you weigh nothing, your heels scraping the ground, until he throws you down hard. The floor is uneven and you catch yourself with shaking hands, terrified that even a whisper of sound might bring something worse.

Your mind is chaos. Screaming. Do you cry for help? Do you risk it? Do you die now or later?

Beomgyu.

You shut your eyes. Everything in you trembles. You feel him settle over you, heavy, disgusting, his breath rancid and far too close. It coats your skin like oil. You’d rather die than let this happen —

A sickening, wet gurgle cuts through the silence, and the weight on top of you vanishes. You gasp, chest heaving, and force your eyes open. The world swims for a second and then sharpens into something worse.

The man is on the floor now, thrashing. Yeonjun is on top of him. No hesitation. No mercy.

His right hand is clamped around the man’s throat, every tendon and vein in his arm straining with force, crushing down hard, precise, too precise to be chance. His other hand smothers the man’s mouth, muffling the sounds, denying him even the dignity of a scream. Yeonjun uses his entire body like a weapon, knees pinning limbs, muscles taut with pure intent.

You can’t move. You can’t breathe. You can’t stop watching. It's an execution, and he’s doing it for you, because of you.

Tears blur your vision as the man beneath Yeonjun convulses, still clinging to life. You don’t even know what’s happening anymore. Then you see Soobin, he’s moving toward the scene, eyes wide, taking it all in. His gaze lands on you.

He sees the disheveled mess of your hair, the way your pants are undone, your hand trembling where it’s pressed to your stomach. The tear tracks down your cheeks. The blood. And Yeonjun, Yeonjun is killing someone.

Soobin doesn’t hesitate. He rushes over, voice caught in his throat, and reaches for you slowly, carefully, like you might shatter. He pulls you into him, your sobs muffled against his shoulder, arms wrapping tight around you as if to hold the broken pieces together.

Choi Beomgyu gazed at the fading ink scattered across his atlas, a map once full of purpose, now a constellation of lost turns. His eyes wandered the streets around him, searching for a thread to lead him back to the place he used to call home.

He had barely lifted his foot when your face came back again. Your eyes, wide with something between wonder and warning. The way you tilted your head when you were about to say something you knew he’d carry for days. Not even an hour had gone by where you didn’t consume his thoughts, knocking the air from his lungs and paralyzing him for a moment. He missed you. Fuck he missed you terribly and it was enough to render him utterly immobile at points.

Slowly, he drew breath back into his lungs, as if your memory had knocked the wind from him again. Your smile lingered in his mind like a permanent mark, something carved so deeply it could never fade.

He didn’t regret much in his life. Not really. But there was one thing that still clung to him in the quiet: saying yes to this project. It had taken him so far away when everything began to fall apart, when the creatures first touched the earth and turned it into something unrecognizable.

He remembered the shape of you in his arms that morning. You were half-asleep, warm against him, head tucked beneath his chin. He had held you tightly, longer than usual, something in his gut whispering that he shouldn’t go. That he should stay.

You had been tender that week, more emotional than usual, your morning sickness growing worse by the day. You tried to wave it off, brushing his worry aside with a soft laugh, saying you could handle it. But he knew the truth without needing the words. He didn’t want to stay because you were fragile. He wanted to stay because he loved you. Because something in him already knew that those small moments beside you were more precious than anything the world could offer.

And now, as the world burned quietly behind him, all he could think about was how badly he wished he had listened to himself.

You were the one who gave his life direction. The one who turned his quiet ambitions into somewhere full of heart.

He still remembered the first time he really saw you, serious eyes behind the glasses you used to wear, walking across the college grounds like you belonged to another world. He noticed everything. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear. The soft shift in your lip gloss, from peach to plum.

You didn’t even know it, but you changed everything.

He started showing up in places he had no reason to be. Hallways, benches, classrooms that had nothing to do with his schedule. He didn’t care. If there was a chance of crossing your path, that was reason enough. He used to dream about doing big things, things that would make the world remember his name.

With you, he didn’t want to be remembered. He just wanted to matter.

Where is he now, without you by his side?

His chest tightens, another tear threatening to fall questions flash through his mind. Where are you? Are you safe? Are you eating well? How are you holding up? How could he have left you? Alone, pregnant, in the middle of all this ruin?

His body trembles, but he keeps his lips sealed. He wants to scream, to let the pain claw its way out, but he knows — if he does, if he lets himself fall apart, he may never find his way back to you.

He exhales shakily, eyes scanning his atlas again. He traces the route with his finger, committing it to memory, over and over, as if repetition alone might lead him back to you.

He opens his bag and spots the other notebook, the one he had been working on for days. On the nights he couldn’t sleep, he wrote. Plans. Escape routes out of the city. A way to get you out.

He dreamed of getting you onto a boat, finding an island. Somewhere the monsters wouldn’t follow, because he noticed they never touched the water. It became an obsession. He fell deep into it, mapping out every detail. He wrote about how to plant seeds, how to care for them, how to harvest and store food so it would last. He filled pages with water purification methods, survival skills, solar energy setups.

He wrote everything he could; every instruction, every method, every technical detail, even the tender, private things no one ever teaches you to write about. He couldn’t help it. When the nights stretched on too long and sleep wouldn't come, he found himself scribbling through the quiet, as if the act of planning could hold the world together.

He even wrote about how to deliver a child.

You’re going to be a doctor. He knows that. You’ve studied the science, memorized the steps, probably laughed at the outdated textbook he clung to like scripture. Still, he copied it all down, page after page. Not because you needed it. But because he needed it, needed to feel like he was doing something, anything, to be useful to you. To be ready for the moment he might never see.

He wanted so badly to be there. To hold your hand. To keep you steady through the pain. To see the first breath, the first cry. To help you bring life into a world that had done nothing but try to take it.

But he wasn’t sure life would give him that chance.

So he wrote as if he could carve a future into the pages. He planned for a life he might never live, for a child he might never hold, because loving you meant preparing for everything, even the parts he’d never get to share.

He did it because, without question, he would give his life for yours.

He starts walking with heavy heart.

He can't wait to see your face again.

You eat the cereal with your hands. It’s warm, soft on your palms.

"Did you check that spot too?" Soobin asks, his voice low as he takes another bite. "We should mark it before we forget."

"I did," Yeonjun answers, cradling his cup, "We could go further south if we push a little."

Soobin nods slowly, chewing the last of his food. Then he turns to you. "You want seconds?"

They always ask you that. They always wait for your answer, like they won’t take more unless you say no, as if your hunger matters more than theirs.

You shake your head. "No, I’m full. If I eat more, I’ll probably throw up again. Everything’s been... hitting harder lately."

Yeonjun watches you, something flickering in his eyes, he adjusts his backpack, but his attention doesn’t leave you. "You want me to bring you something? Anything?"

It’s been a month since you last saw them. Now, you’re almost three months along. Your belly is still small, but there’s a pressure growing beneath your skin. A heaviness that feels alive.

"I want to go," you say quietly. "I didn’t go yesterday."

Yeonjun lets out a breath and looks at Soobin. "Fine. You're sticking to Soobin."

Soobin reaches for your plate without a word and tosses it into the trash bag. The small gesture is gentle, almost second nature. You watch as the two of them move around the room, gathering what they need like it’s routine now; water, packs, weapons. You quietly sling your own bag over your shoulder, your eyes sweeping over the basement.

You’d only known them for a week when the three of you stumbled on this place. A half-flooded stairwell led you down into silence. Down here, everything is muffled. For a little while, it let you talk without fear. For a little while, it felt safe.

It was here you learned Yeonjun used to be in the military, an intelligence officer. The way he spoke about it was calm, detached, and it explained how he was able to kill the man who hurt you easily. It made sense now, how he moved, how he watched the world like he was still in a war.

Soobin was a journalist, once. You weren’t sure what kind of stories he used to tell, but something in his eyes said he’d seen more than he ever planned to write.

The three of you had your places in the old world. You belonged somewhere, back when society had a shape, but now you’re all pressed together in this dark, breathing basement. No roles, no titles. Three people trying to hold on, and somehow, even the ground feels like it could turn against you.

You tried to explore the city whenever you could. You wanted to believe you were helping, thay you were doing something for find your husband.

Yeonjun once told you, "If Beomgyu’s alive, he’ll come to you. To this city." And that was enough. Enough to keep you here. Enough to make you stay, even when everything in you wanted to run and search every corner of the world.

You still went with them most of the time — on supply runs, short recon trips, but the days were getting harder. Morning sickness hit you like a wave that never let up. Some mornings, you couldn’t even lift your head off the pillow. The room would spin, and your stomach would twist until you were dry heaving into whatever you could reach.

But when Yeonjun and Soobin left without you, and you're all alone, all you could think was; What if he’s out there right now? What if today was the day he came, and you weren’t there? What if he leaves again, thinking you’ve already gone?

It was unbearable.

You feel it rising in your throat again, the nausea curling sharp and bitter, but you force it down. You don’t have a photo of him. Nothing physical to hold onto. All you could offer Yeonjun was a description: long hair, brown eyes, a soft nose. His kind eyes.

You stand. Your body is begging you to rest, but you won’t.

You’re going to find him.

You walk slowly, every step careful. Soobin trails a step behind you, equally silent. Yeonjun moves ahead, eyes scanning the surroundings with his keen eyes. He’s always the first to enter, the first to clear the way. You’re nearing the place now, the one they thought might hold something useful.

You stop at the edge of the road, eyes sweeping the stretch ahead. There’s not a soul in sight. Just the skeletal remains of the world; empty cars rusting in place, glass glittering like ice on cracked pavement. A city caught mid-breath and never exhaled.

Yeonjun gives a signal. One hand raised, sharp and brief. Soobin nods and disappears inside with him. You stay outside.

You stand there alone, heart echoing against your ribs, eyes tracing the silence. You think of your mom. Wonder if she and her husband made it out. If they found shelter. If they’re warm. You think of Taehyun and Kai — how they promised to meet you, how you couldn’t wait to tell them the news. You wanted them to be godfathers. You pictured their stunned smiles, the way they’d tease each other about who the baby would love more.

Now you just hope they’re breathing.

Your throat tightens. Your eyes start to sting, and you blink too fast, hoping the tears will stay where they are. There’s a deep ache rising, slow and thick, like something caught in your chest that won’t move.

Are you giving up?

You turn your head.

To your right, there's a figure. It's still. Watching you.

Your breath snags in your chest. For a second, everything stops. Then your body moves before your mind can catch up, your feet carrying you forward, faster, harder. You feel a jagged stone bite into your heel, but you don’t care. You can’t stop.

You’re not even close yet, but he opens his arms.

That smile —so boyish, so heartbreakingly familiar — spreads across his face like sunlight cracking through storm clouds. His eyes full of disbelief and relief and something so painfully tender, it breaks you.

Choi Beomgyu catches you mid-sprint, arms locking around your body like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You clutch the fabric of his shirt, gripping it like a lifeline. His hands move over your back, your shoulders, your hair, as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again. His hands protectively settles on your stomach. His worry presses into your skin like a second heartbeat.

You feel him breath.

You’re home.

Two men inside the store stops to watch. In a world so cruel, so damned, there’s something hopeful in the way two lovers find each other again. In the ash of everything lost, something warm still flickers.

Beomgyu can’t stop touching you.

He hasn’t said a single word. None of you have. When Soobin and Yeonjun stepped out of the store and saw you still wrapped in his arms, it was like Beomgyu already knew everything.

He knew you’d been with them. He knew they kept you safe.

Now he walks beside you, never letting go of your hand. His fingers stay wrapped around yours, warm and steady, like he’s afraid you might disappear again if he loosens his grip. Every few steps, he squeezes your hand — three times. You remember what it means. His thumb keeps brushing over your palm. His eyes flick down often, scanning the ground ahead of you, making sure there’s nothing sharp or dangerous in your path. He’s guiding you, gently, without needing to say a thing.

As you neared the entrance to the basement, Yeonjun and Soobin wordlessly veered off toward another path. They didn’t need to say anything, it was clear they were giving you and Beomgyu a moment alone. Your heart swelled with gratitude.

You turned to look at them, eyes wide, a smile breaking across your face as if to say; I found him. It was written in every part of you, in the way your shoulders had softened, in the way your steps felt lighter, in the light blooming behind your eyes.

Soobin smiled back instantly, almost proudly, like he’d been waiting for this moment just as much.

Yeonjun's gaze held yours a second too long. Then it drifted to Beomgyu, to the way you leaned into him, glowing like the sun had finally returned to your skin. Slowly, Yeonjun offered a faint smile —small, almost careful. When you directed your blinding smile to him, he looked away as if he was burned, hands tightening just slightly around the strap of his bag, with one thought in his mind. You were no longer his to worry about.

You never really were.

“Be careful.” You freeze.

It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice again, echoing gently down the narrow stairwell. You’re halfway down, and Beomgyu is just below you, one step lower. His hand is wrapped around yours, steady, guiding, making sure you don’t rush the descent. He watches your footing, not because he doubts you, but because he can’t bear the thought of you falling — even now, even for a second.

When your feet finally reach the floor, your chest tightens and your breath breaks. Before he can say a word, you pull him into your arms, hard, your face burying into the space between his neck and shoulder. Your body clings like it remembers the shape of him better than your mind ever could.

He catches you with a quiet laugh, though you feel the way it shakes in his chest. “What is this?” he murmurs, arms wrapping tight around you. “I’m usually the clingy one.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, already crying. “I missed you so much. I can’t— I can’t believe you found me. I kept hoping but... I didn’t know if hoping was enough.”

You feel him breathe in, shakily, “I looked for you every day,” he says, his voice thick, barely keeping steady. “Every goddamn day. I didn’t care what was out there. I just… needed to find you.”

He pulls back only enough to see your face, to brush your tears away with trembling fingers. “I promised you, didn’t I?” he whispers.

His lips press to the crown of your head. His arms tighten around you like he’s trying to put you back together just by holding you. You close your eyes, and when he kisses you again — your hair, your temple, your cheek, something in you breaks open. The tears come fast and uncontrollable.

Every moment you had suffered alone fades under the warmth of him.

“I told you I’d find you,” his voice cracks. “I told you I’d get to you. I’d get you back.” His hands slide from your shoulders to cradle your face. His thumbs brush your tears.

“How’s my wife?” he continues, “Has it… has it all been too much? I’m so sorry. And the baby — ” his voice falters, eyes glistening. “How’s our baby?”

You guide one of his hands to your stomach. His eyes drop, and when his palm meets the curve of you, he stills. His breath catches like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“We’re okay,” you whisper. “I’ve managed. Somehow.” You let out a soft laugh through your tears, and he smiles, completely undone.

“I’m here now,” he says, his hand never leaving yours. His eyes find yours and hold there, “I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave you again. Not ever.”

You look into his eyes, and the world blurs around the edges.

In them, you see a thousand versions of the man you’ve loved. The boy with sleepy eyes and ink-stained fingers, laughing across a college hallway. The groom with trembling hands, choking back tears as he vowed to stay. And now, husband worn by distance, a father held together by hope. A man who found you through ruin because loving you never stopped being his compass.

You nod, and then your body moves on instinct, into his arms, into the only place that’s ever truly felt like home.

He catches you, like he always has.

It doesn’t undo the nights you slept with a hand on your belly and silence as your only lullaby. It doesn’t erase the fear, the ache, the long quiet suffering of missing someone like breath.

But as your tears spill freely, soaking into the space where his heartbeat thuds against yours, you know those days have ended.

You stir the pot with a soft smile, the warm scent of the soup rising around you. Beside you, Beomgyu quietly sets out the plates, his own smile lingering as he watches you in silence. Carefully, you begin to ladle the soup, dividing it evenly between four bowls.

“Perfect timing. I’m starving,” Soobin announces as he steps in from the basement entrance, Yeonjun close behind, dropping his bag with a thud.

Everyone started eating silently.

The fire had burned low, its soft embers glowing red in the center of the dark room. You sat close to Beomgyu, your knee brushing his. His hand hadn’t let go of yours since you all sat down. Beomgyu cleared his throat, making Yeonjun looked up from where he sat. Soobin turned his head slowly, his brows slightly raised.

Beomgyu didn’t look at them right away. His gaze was fixed on the floor, the firelight casting shadows across his face. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. What I’d say. How I’d say it. But I don’t think there’s a right way.”

He finally looked up, and when he did, there was something heavy behind his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, voice catching a little. “Yeonjun. Soobin. You didn’t have to take care of her. You didn’t owe me anything. But you did. You kept her safe. You made sure she had something to eat. A place to sleep. You looked out for her when I couldn’t.”

Yeonjun shook his head. “Of course we did.”

Beomgyu shook his head back, more firmly. “No. You don’t understand. You saved my family.” He swallowed hard. “That’s something I’ll never forget.”

Soobin’s jaw flexed, like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. Beomgyu took a breath. “But I didn’t come here just to say thank you. I found something and I think it’s our only chance.”

You looked at him, heart beginning to pound. His grip on your hand tightened slightly. “I watched the monster,” he said. “I got close enough to learn how it moves. What it wants. And I found out what it’s afraid of.”

Soobin leaned forward. “What?”

“Water,” Beomgyu said. “It won’t cross it. I tried. I led it toward the river. As soon as I stepped in, it stopped chasing me. Like it hit an invisible wall. I waited, and it never came closer.”

Yeonjun sat up straighter. “You’re sure?”

“I’d bet my life on it,” Beomgyu said. “Which is why I’m done hiding. I’m done letting it trap us in basements and shelters and holes in the ground.”

He turned to look at you, and for a second it was like you were the only two people in the room. “I want her to live. Really live. Not in fear. Not underground. I want her to breathe fresh air and feel sunlight without checking over her shoulder. I want a life with her. As my wife, with our child who can laugh freely. On our own terms.” You felt your throat tighten, his words sinking deep into your chest.

Beomgyu turned back to the others. “There’s an island. I found it a while ago in the map. It’s surrounded by water on all sides, and it’s untouched. It's safe, the monster won’t reach it. We could build something and start over.”

Soobin rubbed a hand over his face, thinking hard. “How far?”

“Two or three days’ travel, depending on how we move,” Beomgyu answered. “It’s not easy, but it’s not impossible either.”

“You really believe this’ll work?” It was Yeonjun.

“I have to,” Beomgyu said. “Because I’m not going to lock her in another basement and pretend it’s living. Not when I know there’s more out there.”

There was a silence. A deep, contemplative one. You could feel the shift in the air as the weight of his words landed. Soobin’s voice broke the quiet. “You’re right. We’ve been surviving for so long, I think we forgot what it means to hope for something better.”

Beomgyu looked between them, his chest rising with a shaky breath. “You’ll come?”

“We’re with you,” Soobin said.

“Let’s get out of here,” Yeonjun added, nodding his head.

Beomgyu turned to you again, eyes soft, voice barely above a whisper. “You ready?”

You nodded, your voice caught in your throat, but your hand in his said everything.

To live.

Your bare feet press into the cool earth as you quietly follow Beomgyu. His hands are warm, fingers gently wrapped around yours.

It’s late. When Beomgyu heard there was a river nearby, he didn’t hesitate, he brought you with him. A backpack rests against his back, packed with clothes you’re supposed to change into later. He stops at the riverbank, his hands giving yours a soft squeeze as he takes in the scene. You follow his gaze. The moonlight spills over everything, silver and soft, making the water shimmer.

All you can hear is the steady rush of the river and the beat of your own heart.

Beomgyu drops the bag with a quiet thud that still manages to startle you. You squeeze his hand to catch his attention. He turns to you, a tender, mischievous warmth flickering in his eyes.

I got you.

He helps you change, careful and quiet, his touch reverent like he’s handling something fragile. His eyes never leave you. They stay soft, full of something deeper than want. He watches you like he's trying to remember this forever, like every small shift of your body is something precious. You move, and he watches — not in hunger, but in awe. He leans in and kisses you, a small, delicate thing at first, like he couldn’t help himself. Then again. And again. Each kiss is a little longer, a little deeper, breaking the stillness of the night with something tender and aching.

Every time a piece of clothing falls away, his lips find a new place —your mouth, your jaw, the curve of your collarbone. His hands are slow but searching, both greedy and gentle, as though he’s trying to memorize you in the dark. The space around you is filled with breath, the whisper of fabric being pulled away, the quiet gasp of skin meeting night air. He takes his time — not because he has to, but because he wants to. The world has fallen away. There’s no fear.

You should feel exposed. Vulnerable. You should feel small out here, with nothing to hide behind but night and moonlight. Monsters do walk the earth. But right now, with his hands on your skin and his mouth pressed to your shoulder, none of that feels real.

All you feel is him. And all you feel is you're with him.

When you’re both down to your underwear, he laces his fingers with yours and gently pulls you toward the water. Your clothes lie scattered behind you, his backpack nearby, forgotten in the hush of it all.

You let out a quiet gasp the moment the water touches your skin. It’s colder than you expected, sharp enough to steal your breath. Beomgyu hears it and a boyish smile blooms on his face like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

You both begin to move, letting the river cling to your bodies. You dip your hands into it, run it through your hair, over your arms. Beomgyu steps in closer and helps you, brushing wet strands from your face, smoothing water over your shoulders with slow, open palms. He never stops smiling.

He's painfully, achingly beautiful.

You can't stop looking at him. Even like this — drenched, flushed, eyes shining, you couldn't believe he's here. With you.

Then, in the hush, his voice cuts through the air. “Do you know how much I love you?”

You freeze. Your heart kicks up, your body reacting before your mind can catch up. You snap your hand over his mouth, eyes wide, panic flooding your chest. He’s not supposed to speak. You both know that. Your breath quickens. His eyes search yours, calm even as yours fill with fear. Then, with both hands, he gently pulls yours away from his mouth. And shouts.

“I FUCKING LOVE YOU.”

You gasp, the sound sharp, almost wounded. It slips out before you can catch it. The fear floods you so fast it feels like drowning — your chest tightens, your eyes flick to every corner of the dark, waiting for something awful to rise from it.

But Beomgyu is already there.

His arms find you, pulling you close, wrapping around your body like he’s trying to shield you from the night itself. His voice is low, calm, pressed right against your ear. “Shh… baby, it’s okay,” he whispers, steady and warm, even as your heart races. “They won’t hear us. Not with the river this loud. I promise.”

You try to believe him, but your body won’t let go of the panic. Your eyes keep searching, flicking past him to the trees, the edges, the places where darkness pools. He sees it — every trace of it. His hands slide up to your face, cradling you gently, and he turns your gaze back to him.

“Look at me,” he says, quiet but firm. “Baby, look at me.”

He holds your face like it’s something breakable. Like you’re something precious. His eyes are full of everything, “I’m here,” he says, and his voice wavers. “You can speak here. With me. It’s safe.”

You didn’t expect those words to undo you.

But they do.

Tears rise fast, burning at the edges of your eyes before you can blink them away. Your chest caves in, your breath catching on a sob that doesn’t quite make it out, because it’s not just the fear — but it's the feel of safety. His lips press to your temple, over and over, slow and steady, like he’s kissing every thought away. Every fear. Every shadow.

“Beomgyu.” Of all the things you could’ve said, it's the only thing that makes out of your lips and he hears it. He holds you tighter, arms locking around you like he can feel the way you’re coming apart. Like he’s the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, barely audible. “I’ve always got you.”

And for the first time in a long time, you feel like the old you again.

Not the one shaped by fear. Not the one always looking over their shoulder, waiting for the world to crack open, but the version of you that could breathe without flinching. The one that could laugh without guilt. The one that still believed in softness, in safety, in being held without needing to run.

You think about his plan. You see him on that island. Sunlight in his hair. Laughter in his mouth. His hand still in yours. You see quiet mornings. Salt in the air. Your child running through the sand.

It surprises you — how quickly it comes back. How easily Beomgyu pulls it from wherever it’s been buried. Just by being here. Just by looking at you like you’re still whole. You rest your forehead against his, still trembling, still wet with tears, but lighter, like some part of you had been locked away and he just found the key without even trying.

His thumb brushes your cheek.

You rise onto your toes and kiss him lightly, a whisper against his mouth. He answers with a groan, his hands, already firm around your waist, tighten, drawing you closer. Your bodies press together, water running down your skin.

It all blurs after that.

You don’t remember how he led you out of the river, or when your feet touched dry earth again. All you know is the feeling of his mouth never straying far from yours, his hands guiding you with quiet urgency, his breath tangled with yours. You feel the soft fabric of your clothes beneath your back, a supposed anchor on the ground, but it’s him that keeps you from floating.

His kisses come fast, deep, like he’s afraid to stop. You try to pull back to catch your breath, your lips swollen and wet, but he finds you again instantly, like your mouth is the only place he knows how to go. You breathe through your nose, one hand on his shoulder, the other tangled in his hair, holding him close even as you try to steady yourself. It’s overwhelming — how much he wants you, how much he loves you, how much he means it.

“Beomgyu…” You moaned as you clenched your fist on his dark locks. His tongue was doing to your buds as his fingers part your wet folds. Your legs quivered as his tongue lapped at your entrance.

Beomgyu grunts as he hears your soft moans, sucking on your clit to hear more. Your taste in his mouth got him drunk as he shook his head from side to side, making your moans go higher as you moved your hips to grind your wetness on his tongue. "Hmm?"

He pulled back, replacing his tongue with his thumb, rubbing your wet clit as he kissed and sucked your inner thighs. Your eyes rolled back as your chest rose up and down, glistening with sweat.

You're fucking beautiful. Beomgyu thought as he looked up at you with hooded eyes. Your hooded eyes met his. The sight of your blushing cheeks, eyes asking for more with your lips between your teeth made Beomgyu slightly rut his hips on the bed.

“Out here?” You asked. He pumped a finger inside your pussy, curling it to hit your spot as he put his mouth back to work again, flattening his tongue over your swollen pearl before flicking it with the tip. You cried out in pleasure, throwing your head back. “Shit,”

“I’m so sorry, baby. I just couldn't help myself.” He begged as he doubled the finger inside your soaking cunt, making you cry out in pleasure as your hands gripped his steady shoulders. “I'll take care of you, okay?”

“I missed you.” He kissed your clit, making you whimper at the brief contact. He kissed your skin tracing everything. He kissed around your nipple before taking it into his mouth, moaning at the taste of you. He moved to your other nipple, lightly biting it while staring at your glossy eyes, making your breath hitch. He hummed as he sucked the pebbled flesh into his mouth, nibbling on it. Once satisfied, he pulls back, admiring your body as you panted. Your eyes are glistening, and so is your cunt. He groaned at the sight, pushing his hair back and palms his erected cock.

“Beomgyu, please…” You cried when Beomgyu started to rub his shaft on your slit. You're sensitive. Every time his head hits your bud, you let out a whimper, eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide as you look up at him.

Beomgyu took his time, grunting before pushing the tip inside. You gasped, feeling his length invade you. Your walls fluttered around his cock, making him let out low growls. His other hand began rubbing circles on your clit to ease the burn from the stretch.

Beomgyu kissed your bracelet when he was entirely in. You look gorgeous underneath him. Legs wide open,mouth slightly parted, and body glistening under the dim lights of the moon.

Beomgyu started moving slowly when you nod your head, careful to not give any pressure to your stomach, until your whimpers turned into moans. His name echoed in whispers, as you clawed on the skin of his back, leaving red marks. He was cradling your head, and his lips pressed on your ear. He was whispering the sweetest things to you.

“You’re made for me. You were made for me that I couldn't stop thinking about you everyday we were apart.” Beomgyu growled, kissing your ear lobes.

“Yes, yes, Beomgyu, please… I've missed you so much.” You begged as his hips started to thrust harder into you.

“Fuck, Y/N.” He groaned, feeling your walls clench around him. He could tell that you were both close. Your walls spasmed around him, and his thrust started to stutter.

“I love you. So fucking much.” He stared into your eyes, feeling your orgasm take over your body. His mouth reaches for your sweet lips, your toes curling as your legs wrap around his waist. Beomgyu spilled his load inside you.

The world feels soft.

Beomgyu laughs — just a breath of it, barely a sound. He’s looking at you, eyes warm and shining, hair a mess. There's a smile on your lips, one that you know wouldn't go away anytime soon. “I think we should probably wash again,”

You let out a shaky laugh of your own, nodding slowly. “Yeah… probably.”

He grins and leans over to kiss you again, quick and sweet this time, before pulling himself up and reaching for your hand. You take it, and he helps you stand. The grass sticks to your skin. You both look like a mess.

A beautiful, completely loved mess.

Beomgyu keeps close, brushing his hands over your back, your shoulders, helping you rinse off with the same kind of careful attention he always gives you. Even now, even after everything, he still wants to take care of you. You splash a bit of water at him, half on accident, half on purpose, and the way he laughs makes your chest ache. In the middle of a broken world, you found something that made you forget.

If you had known what the morning would bring, if you had even caught a glimpse of it, you would’ve clawed your way out and screamed for him to stop. You would’ve gripped his face in your hands and told him no.

You would’ve begged him to stay.

You're jolted awake by a rough, urgent shake.

A gasp escapes your lips as your eyes fly open, meeting Beomgyu’s — wide and panicked. He doesn’t say a word, just presses a finger to his mouth. You hear shuffling somewhere nearby, feet scuffing the floor. The sound drags you fully upright as Beomgyu hauls you to your feet.

Yeonjun’s voice cuts through the dark, you don’t catch the words, but the tension in his tone curls around your chest. You feel your heart pounding at your back, thudding like footsteps too close behind.

You’re confused. You’re supposed to be asleep. Supposed to wake up with the sun, gather your things, and head for the island like you planned. So why are you being woken up now?

“Hey,” Beomgyu whispers, leaning in close. “We need to move. Now. Stay right next to me. Don’t let go.” You nod, too scared to speak.

You slip out of the room, makeshift curtains brushing against your arms like ghosts. Your breath catches as your eyes land on a man standing at the entrance to the basement, someone you've never seen before.

An intruder.

His eyes are wide. There's dirt on his clothes, blood maybe, and in his shaking hand, he holds a gun. In one swift movement, Beomgyu steps in front of you, shielding you completely from view. His body becomes a wall.

"Leave now," the man growls. His voice is rough, edged with fear. "Or I’ll fucking shoot."

Soobin’s voice rises from somewhere to your right, “And bring every monster straight to us?” He takes a careful step forward. “We’ll leave. You can have this place, just put the gun down.”

“Where are you going?” the man demands, pointing the gun. “Tell me.” His voice is unsteady, laced with paranoia. His eyes flick from face to face, wild and unfocused. “Do I have to kill you all?” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’ll know I’m here. You’ll all know. Food, food’s making everyone lose their minds. I have to kill you.”

His finger twitches. The click of the gun being cocked cuts through the room like a blade.

“No!” Soobin shouts. In a flash, Yeonjun lunges forward, slamming into the man. They hit the ground hard, bodies twisting, the gun scraping against the floor.

“Fuck — stop it!” someone yells. It might be Beomgyu. It might be you. You don’t know. You’re shaking. Your legs won’t hold steady, all you know is Beomgyu grabbed your hand, pulling you back, pulling you away.

The gun goes off. For a moment, everything stops. The sound still ringing in your ears, but the basement has fallen into a dead, ringing silence.

The door is wide open. You don’t have to be told — they’re coming. They heard it.

You stumble to the side, eyes scanning the room. The stranger lies crumpled on the floor, a pool of blood spreading beneath him. Yeonjun’s hands are still pressed to the man’s neck, trembling. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Soobin—”

You turn and see Soobin clutching his thigh, blood seeping through his fingers. His face is pale, jaw clenched tight as he leans into the wall for support.

“They heard that,” you say. “The monsters. We need to move. Now.”

Beomgyu pulls you forward, stumbling through the basement entrance as the first screech slices through the night. It's not far. It's too close. Your chest feels like it might cave in. Behind you, Soobin’s limping, dragging his leg. Blood streaks down his thigh, every step a raw, gritted miracle. Yeonjun is practically holding him up, jaw clenched.

You turn to Beomgyu. “Help them.” He pauses, eyes locking with yours, hesitation written all over his face. Fear.

"Go," you whisper again, voice cracking. “Please.”

Soobin sees Beomgyu step in to help, “Fuck No,” he growls. “Don’t even fucking think about it. Take her and go.”

“You’re bleeding out,” Beomgyu fires back. “I’m not leaving you like this.”

“You will,” Soobin spits, swaying. “Y/N is the one who matters. You know that. We’re dead weight. If you stay, she dies too. They will die too.”

You want to scream at him. To punch him. To beg him to shut up and run, instead, your voice comes out hollow. “Don’t do this.”

“We’ll find you,” Yeonjun looks at you. “Just—keep going. If we’re not at the docks in thirty minutes…” He doesn’t finish.

The next screech tears through the trees.

Soobin pushes Beomgyu with what strength he has left. “GO! We'll die here.”

You shake your head, barely able to breathe as your body trembles beneath the weight of what’s happening. Beomgyu’s hand wraps around yours, tugging —pulling you away but your feet refuse to move.

Your eyes stay locked on them.

On the two people who’ve saved you more times than you can count. Who shielded you when the world was falling apart. Soobin is barely standing now, blood soaking through his pants, the stain growing darker with every step. You know what that means. Without help, without first aid, without a blood transfusion — he won’t make it.

You know it like a law of nature.

Yeonjun catches your stare. He holds your gaze, and in his eyes, you see no plan but one truth. He’s not letting Soobin die alone.

The tears come faster now, hot and aching, slipping down your face like they’re trying to carve the grief into your skin. You want to hold it in — to bite your tongue, to stay composed, to be the version of yourself they would’ve needed but something in you breaks.

You remember Soobin’s soft, tired smile as he passed you his last piece of bread. The way Yeonjun would nudge you during tense nights just to remind you he was still there. You remember the warmth of their presence when everything else was cold and cruel. You remember laughing with them once.

Would you have been friends if the world hadn’t ended? If you met in some ordinary place with clean air and normal lives? Would Soobin still have been loud and protective, would Yeonjun still have had that steadiness that made you feel safe? Would they still have chosen you?

Would you have been friends?

Your chest crumples, folding inward under the weight of guilt and sorrow you weren’t ready to carry. You hate yourself for it — for moving, for breathing, for leaving when all you want is to run back and hold onto them until the monsters take you too. How do you live with this? How do you keep going when you know the last thing they saw was you, walking away?

Beomgyu’s hand is still in yours. Tight. It was as if he could read your mind. He pulls you forward. You take one last look at the place that held the only people who made you feel safe.

They don't look at you.

The boat rocks beneath you, a fragile cradle adrift in an endless stretch of black water. It creaks softly, as though mourning its own presence in this place. All around, the lake swallows light and sound alike, vast and terrible. The moon hangs overhead; distant, cold, and half-hidden behind slow-moving clouds, offering only the faintest glow, just enough to paint a silver line across the rippling surface.

Beomgyu crouches near the motor, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. His fingers tremble as they fumble with the ignition. You see the way his shoulders curl inward, how his body fights the cold and the fear. Each breath he draws fogs the air like a whisper of everything unsaid between you.

A violent jerk. The motor snarls to life. A metallic scream that shatters the silence, ripping through the night like a wound torn open too fast.

From across the water, something shrieks. It’s high-pitched, keening, filled with something ancient and wrong. The sound claws at your spine, drags your heart into your throat. Beomgyu swears, as he slams the switch off. The motor stutters, dies. Silence crashes back down, heavier than before, suffocating.

He turns to you. His face is pale, eyes wide, wild, but not breaking. There’s something in his expression: an apology, a promise, a plea.

He’s scared.

Your throat closes. You shake your head, violently, as if you can shake away the sound, the cold, the truth. Tears burn hot as they spill down your cheeks, turning everything to watercolor — his face, the sky, the glint of water around you. “No,” you whisper, then louder. “No. No. No.”

He cups your face in both hands. His touch is gentle but urgent, like he’s trying to memorize you through his fingertips. His thumbs brush away the tears even as more fall. He leans in until his forehead rests against yours, his breath shallow, his voice barely a whisper.

“Listen to me,” he says, as if you’re the only thing left in the world worth speaking to. “The lighthouse. If I set off the alarm, they’ll come to it. All of them. It’s the only way.” His voice cracks, but he doesn’t pull back. “I promise I’ll come back to you. As soon as I can. Okay?”

You can’t breathe.

You’re drowning on dry land, lungs stuttering in your chest. Your hand flies to your mouth, stifling a sob that wants to tear its way free. Your shoulders shake, and you’re shaking your head, hard, as if denial could somehow become magic, could rewrite this moment, this choice. Could unmake the dark.

He grabs your shoulders now, steadying you, grounding you. You feel the strength in his grip, but it’s the fear underneath it that nearly undoes you.

“I’ll come back,” he says again, softer now. Like a lullaby meant to soothe a child before the storm hits. “I swear it. I’ll just set the alarm. That’s all. I’ll be fast. It’s only a monster or two, right?” He tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s loud enough — they’ll follow it. They always do.”

You’re gasping, shoulders heaving, eyes wide with terror. You reach for him, mouthing please, please, like a prayer torn from your soul, like the word alone could hold him here with you.

“Turn on the motor,” he says, voice barely above the sound of the water lapping against the boat. “Wait until I set it off. Then you go.”

Your breath catches in your throat, the word scraping out of you like glass. “No.” It’s barely a sound, a whimper with nothing behind it but pain. He leans in again, presses a trembling hand to your chest, right over your heart. You can feel the heat of him, the pulse in his palm, how human he is and how fragile.

“I’ll always come back to you,” he whispers, like it’s a truth that can live beyond this night. “I’ll always be with you.”

Then his voice breaks. Just for a moment. A single crack that shatters everything. “Do it for me. Do it for our child.” he says, eyes glistening now. “Please. Can you promise me that?”

You want to scream. You want to grab him, hold him, drag him back into the boat and never let go. You want to tear the sky open, to rage at whatever gods let this happen, but all you can do is shake.

Tears stream down your face, silent and relentless. Panic floods your lungs, thick and sharp, suffocating you from the inside.

It’s small. Weak. A terrified, shaking nod that you gave him.

It’s enough for him.

Beomgyu leans in, pressing a trembling kiss to your forehead. His hands come to rest on your stomach, fingers splayed, clinging to the shape of a future he’s terrified of losing. His breath stutters as he closes his eyes, trying to hold himself together, trying to find the courage to do what he must.

He thinks of you, every night you held him when the world felt too heavy, every morning he woke to your warmth, your voice, your smile. He thinks of the moment he first saw you, how everything shifted. And now, he thinks of the tiny heartbeat beneath his palms. His baby. The life you made together. His throat burns. He doesn’t want to go.

He doesn’t want to leave.

He doesn’t want to leave you.

When he looks at you again, his eyes are glassy, his jaw clenched like he's fighting something inside himself. For a second, he looks like he might undo it all. Like he might fall to his knees, beg forgiveness for even thinking of leaving. You see it in the way his mouth opens, closes. The way his fingers twitch against your skin.

He exhales, as if he was surrendering.

He runs.

His feet hit the dock, loud and jarring against the soaked wood. You watch his silhouette stretch, then blur, then vanish into the fog, swallowed whole by the night. Your body wanted to run after him.

The motor is silent, the water uncaring. Your sobs fill the space he left behind. You cover your mouth with both hands, curling in on yourself, choking on everything you can’t say.

Grief doesn’t care about survival.

Out in the distance, the lighthouse looms — a black tower against a blacker sky. A smudge of shadow, barely visible through the fog.

The siren starts.

It erupts without warning, a scream of metal and wind, a shriek that splits the night down its spine. It wails — long, unrelenting, merciless. A sound made to summon death.

The monsters answer.

You hear them first — screeches rising from the treeline and the water’s edge, inhuman and furious. Then you see them. Dozens. Maybe more. Crawling from the dark, leaping like shadows pulled by strings, limbs too long. They move toward the sound, toward the light.

Toward him.

Drawn like moths to flame.

You’re frozen. Paralyzed in the center of the rocking boat, breath locked in your lungs. The siren still echoes in your ears, though it's fading now — its afterimage seared into your mind like lightning behind your eyelids.

It stops.

The alarm cuts out mid-wail, a guillotine of silence. The absence of sound is deafening, unnatural. And you know.

You know what it means.

Your body doesn’t move, can’t move. Only your eyes, wide and glassy, locked on the lighthouse in the distance. Come on. Come out now. You can't even speak his name.

Dark shapes twist and writhe around it — shadows crawling over stone, blotting out the structure in violent waves. The creatures consumed. You watch helplessly as they pour over every surface, spilling like oil, thick and writhing, until the tower looks like it's bleeding darkness. Your heart stops.

Do it for me. Do it for our child.

Please. Can you promise me that?

Can you promise me that?

You kick the motor. Hard.

It roars to life with a scream like tearing metal. The boat lurches forward violently, cutting through the water. The fog whips past you, moonlight slicing in thin ribbons across the surface. Your sobs vanish in the sound. Swallowed by the engine, the waves, the night.

Why did you let him go? You knew this wouldn’t save him. You knew. So why? You should’ve held on tighter. You should’ve clung to him like your life depended on it because it did. You should’ve buried your face in his chest. Why did you let him go?

Tears stream down your face, hot and constant, your hands white-knuckled on the controls. You’re not steering toward hope, you’re fleeing from loss. From the truth that’s clawing through your chest like something trying to escape, because you weren’t just leaving the lighthouse. You were leaving your heart behind.

You were leaving him.

“Where were you?” you asked, reaching over to grab the strawberry from the basket on the kitchen table. Beomgyu’s chuckle filled the room. “I went drinking with Taehyun and Kai. Just a light drink,” he said casually, his hand brushing your shoulder as he passed behind you to grab a plate.

“Why? Did you miss your husband?” he teased, carefully plating the food before setting it down in front of you.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “You wish.”

He chuckled, handing you a spoon and fork before moving around the kitchen. A tall glass appeared on the table next to your plate and he poured you water.

“Did she miss me too?” Beomgyu’s voice was soft, almost tentative, drawing your gaze upward. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you were caught in the tenderness there. It made your heart ache in that way only he could.

“She?” You raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at your lips as you swallowed. “What makes you so sure it's a girl?” Your hand instinctively brushed over your stomach as a quiet smile softened your face. The thought of your little one—boy or girl—filled you with a warmth you couldn’t quite put into words.

“I just feel it,” A small smile flickered across his lips, “What if we get twins?”

You looked down, your thoughts wandering to tiny clothes, little shoes scattered across the floor, and pastel-painted walls filled with light and laughter. “That would be… amazing,” you murmured.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Beomgyu pulling out the chair beside you. He sat down at first, but then, almost as if drawn closer by some unseen force, he shifted. You felt his gaze before you saw him—soft, unwavering, and filled with a kind of awe that made your chest tighten.

“That sounds nice, two little you running around.” he breathed, his voice almost a whisper. His hand reached out slowly, brushing against your stomach. You set down your utensils, giving him a soft nod as you shifted slightly, allowing him more access.

Beomgyu lowered himself onto his knees in front of you, his large hands resting gently on either side of your growing belly. He glanced up at you, his eyes searching yours for a brief moment before he let out a long, steady breath. Then, with a tenderness that made your throat tighten, he leaned closer, pressing his forehead gently against your stomach.

“Daddy loves you,” he whispered, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. He sounded so vulnerable, so small. His lips pressed softly against your stomach. And then, without a word, he wrapped his arms around your waist and buried his face against you.

Your hand moved instinctively, threading through his soft hair with slow, soothing strokes. He pulled you closer, as though being near you could quiet the storm in his heart. Your fingers trailed down the back of his neck, over his shoulders, and down his back.

In your dream, you were cradling a baby to your chest, its tiny body safe in your arms. Beomgyu leaned down, smiling widely as you do.

You sat there, staring at nothing. Your face hollow, your eyes dry. You don’t know how long the boat’s been still, you only know it stopped. You must’ve reached the island, but you don’t care.

He's not here.

You don’t remember standing.

One minute you’re sitting there, still and silent, and the next your feet are moving — stiff, like they don’t belong to you. The dock creaks under you as you step off the boat, but even that sound feels distant, like it’s happening to someone else. Trees sway in the wind.

He’s not here.

The ground feels too solid, like it’s mocking you. You stare at your hands, like maybe they’ll stop shaking. You keep walking, because what else is there to do?

One foot in front of the other. The boat pulls away behind you.

He’s not here.

You spot a cabin ahead. A small, weathered thing nestled between the trees—and suddenly, you remember his hunches. He knew this place. He was right. He was always right.

You push the door open. It creaks under your hand. Inside, it’s cramped, barely furnished, but it’s enough. You exhale. For a moment, the silence almost feels like peace.

He’s not here.

“What am I supposed to do now?” The words escape you in a whisper before panic takes hold. Your breath catches, short and ragged, and soon you're gasping. Your chest convulses with sobs you can't control. A scream tears from your throat. You hurl your backpack to the ground. It thuds against the floor. Rage spills out in curses, flung at the walls, at the stillness, at the unbearable absence. You grip your hair, trembling, and begin to rock, trying to hold yourself together as everything else breaks apart.

“You told me…” The words tore from your throat, ragged and broken. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you screamed into the emptiness, hollowed out by the ache twisting through your chest. “You told me you’d come back.”

You cried, long after your voice gave out and your body folded in on itself. Arms wrapped tight around your ribs, as if holding yourself could keep you from falling apart entirely. Your face was hot and swollen, eyes raw from the endless wave of tears.

Again and again, you called his name.

The only sounds are your own ragged sobs and the shallow breaths you no longer want to take. Each inhale feels like a betrayal, each exhale a reminder that you’re the only one alive.

You curled into a fetal position, lost in the tide of your thoughts, barely noticing as the light fades. At some point, the sun slipped beneath the horizon. Now, darkness presses against the windows, and still, you haven’t stirred. The world outside continues on, but in here, time doesn’t move. You don’t move.

Your stomach growls, a hollow, aching sound that reminds you how long it’s been.

You shift to your right, slow and heavy, and your eyes land on your backpack — the one you threw in a fit of something you couldn’t name. It sits there, slouched and half-open, like it gave up, too.Things spill out from the top. Torn corners, bandages, small bottles rattling inside a plastic pouch.

Your chest tightens.

Beomgyu packed it. Every piece. He had gone over it with you more than once, made sure you understood; this is how you clean a wound, this is what you take when your fever spikes, this is what you plant when there’s nothing left. You swallow hard.

Something else is there. Tucked just beneath the flap, barely visible. Something you don’t remember. Something he never mentioned, and before you can even think about it, your body moves on its own. You’re already pushing yourself up, legs unsteady, heart in your throat. You open it, your hands trembling around the edges of a notebook you don’t remember packing.

The pages fall open easily, worn from use. Every single one is filled.

His handwriting. Small, uneven. Rushed, but careful in the way only Beomgyu could be when he was trying to pretend he wasn’t scared. Instructions. Notes. How to plant seeds. When to water them. How to tell when a crop’s gone bad. How to clean water when there’s nothing clean left. How to fish with a line or with nothing at all. How to start a fire even in the rain.

And then, childbirth.

You stare. The words blur. His cramped, chaotic scrawls turn into something wet and aching in your eyes. You let out a breath, shaky and cracked. “Idiot,” you whisper, choking on the sound. “As if you were waiting to die for me.”

The pages tremble as you turn them, one by one, until you reach the end.

The last page. The words there are scrambled, rushed, overlapping like he couldn’t write them fast enough. Your eyes scan them and then your breath catches.

hi, baby.

this might be stupid. really stupid but i couldn’t sleep and i kept thinking... what if? so i wrote this. not because i want you to read it. god, i hope you never do. but just in case. just in case

i’ve seen this kind of thing in movies. the husband leaves a letter, the wife reads it when he’s gone, and everyone cries. that’s not real, right? that’s just a story. …right? i hated it when the wife is alone and she cries alone.

it’s breaking my heart to even think about you reading this. to imagine you alone, holding this, looking for me and not finding me. but tonight, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking until i wrote it.

maybe you’ll need it. maybe something will happen. maybe i’m already gone.

and if i am, i’m so fucking sorry.

you have to know... it would have taken everything in me to walk away from you. if i left, it wasn’t because i wanted to. it was because i had no choice and even then, i wouldn’t have done it without thinking of you every single step. it's not because of you, it's because i wanted to do it for you. it's all me. it's all me okay?

you’ll cry. i know you will. and it kills me, it kills me to think of you hurting. i know how deeply you love. it’s one of the first things i ever adored about you. but please, don’t let it break you. don’t let it swallow you whole, because if i could see you now, if i could hold you one last time, i’d beg you to keep going.

i love you. i love you so much it hurts. i don’t know how to put it into words that feel big enough.

i hope you never need this letter. i hope this just ends up being some stupid, crumpled piece of paper you find years from now and laugh at. i hope i’m just being overdramatic, writing in the dark, because i miss you too much.

if not, if this is the last thing i ever give you.....

then know this: i have no regrets. you gave me a reason to live, and if i can’t be there anymore, you living will be the only reason i can rest.

i love you, wife. i will always, always love you.

and wherever i am, wherever you are — i’ll always be with you.

i swear it.

ps: don't cry too much, okay?

Your hands tremble as you finish reading the letter your husband left behind. Tears spill down your cheeks, stinging your swollen eyes. You clutch the letter to your chest like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, his words still echoing in your mind, sinking deeper with every breath you take. You can barely breathe. You whisper his name in broken sobs, your voice shaking.

“Beomgyu…” His name falls from your lips like a prayer. The words he wrote — those last, aching pieces of his heart — are now etched into yours, carved so deep they’ll never leave.

Choi Beomgyu had loved you until his very last breath.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words cracking in your throat. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, ‘Gyu…” You say it again and again, as if some god might hear. As if apologies might bend time and undo death.

As if loving him hard enough, hurting deeply enough, could bring him back to you.

You kneel in the dirt with hands blistered from days of digging. The morning sun is sharp, too bright, like it doesn’t know how much you’ve lost. But you let it burn your skin. It’s easier than thinking.

You unfold the notebook beside you, Beomgyu’s handwriting smudged from when your tears fell on it the first time. He had drawn a simple diagram, barely legible, labeled: Keep corn away from potatoes. A small, crooked heart was doodled at the corner. You stare at it a second too long.

Your hands move, almost automatically, scooping soil, pressing the seeds in just like he wrote. Cover. Water. Pray they grow. You do it again, and again. Row by row. Your knees ache. Your back screams. But you keep going, because he made sure you could.

Later, you find the animals.

Two pigs and a limping cow, left behind like forgotten ghosts. You lure them in with scraps, whisper soft apologies when they flinch. You build a pen from broken wood and wire, fingers bleeding, sweat mixing with dirt on your face. You name the cow Cloud. Beomgyu would’ve laughed at that.

The notebook stays tucked in your waistband now, always with you. You read the same page each morning like a prayer. You will make it. You will live.

So you do.

It’s always the same dream.

Beomgyu is humming. The soft kind he used to do when he didn’t know you were listening. His arms are around you. You feel him breathe against your neck, whispering words that don’t quite form.

Then you blink, and he’s not there.

You wake up choking on a sob. The world is pitch black around you, the fire long since burned out. Your chest rises and falls too fast. You curl into yourself, wrapping your arms around your belly, shaking.

“Beomgyu,” you whisper, barely a voice at all. “Please, just one more night.”

But only the wind answers. A bird calls from somewhere in the trees. You press your palm to where he was supposed sleep beside you, and the cold there is unbearable.

You cry until you forget why you started.

The pain starts at dawn.

You’re bent over the table sorting dried herbs when it hits — a sharp, deep wrenching that doubles you over. You gasp, grabbing the edge of the table, your breath coming fast.

You stagger to the bed. The mattress is lumpy, stuffed with straw and old cloth. You lie down, sweat slicking your forehead, trying to remember what Beomgyu wrote.

Breathe. Stay low to the ground. Keep clean towels nearby. Boil water.

You crawl to the pot. Heat the stove. Prepare, just like the notebook said. The hours stretch long and cruel. You scream once, twice. Bite down on cloth. You curse him for leaving you. You beg him to come back. The contractions come like waves, each one pulling you under.

Then, finally, a cry. So small. So soft.

You don’t realize you’re shaking until you hold them in your arms. The baby is warm. Real. Alive. You’re sobbing, loud and wild and cracked open. It's a girl, just like he predicted. Just like what he wanted.

You press your cheek to theirs, whispering over and over: We made it. We made it.

Outside, the sun begins to rise again.

The baby’s cries used to feel like thunder in your skull, loud and jarring, each sound a reminder that Beomgyu wasn’t here to hear them too.

Now, weeks later, you move before she even wakes fully. You don’t think. You just rise, gently lift her into your arms, press your nose into the wisps of hair that smell like earth and warmth and something clean. You hum to her, a tune you don’t remember learning.

You think Beomgyu might’ve hummed it first.

You still cry some nights, quietly. You talk to her, tell her about the day’s weather, the crops coming in slower than you hoped, the time the pig got loose and ran through the garden. Your voice cracks sometimes, but you speak anyway. You plant with her strapped to your chest. You sing while washing her clothes. You braid dried grass into little toys and pretend you're doing it just to pass time — though truthfully, you like watching her fingers wrap around them.

You’re not okay, but you’re not drowning anymore.

She’s almost a year now.

Not walking yet, but strong enough to push herself up and reach for things she shouldn’t. Her eyes are too familiar —s harp and round, framed by lashes that look exactly like Beomgyu’s. Her mouth even curves the same way when she cries.

You avoid looking at her for too long.

There’s a guilt that rises in your chest every time you hold her. Like you’re stealing a future Beomgyu never got to finish. Sometimes you hold her at a distance, like something fragile you don’t know how to care for. She doesn’t notice. Not yet. But you feel it. You feel it deeply.

That night, the dream returns. He’s there — Beomgyu. Sitting beside the old garden, barefoot, smiling like it never hurt. You fall into his arms and start sobbing without saying anything. He doesn’t say much either. Just rubs your back like he used to.

When you pull away, he points at something behind you.

You turn and there she is, your daughter. Looking right at you. Beomgyu kneels beside her and whispers something. You don’t hear the words, but when you look again, her name forms in your mouth.

Beomgyu loved sunlight.

You wake up gasping, cheeks soaked.

You stumble into the next room, where she’s sleeping curled in a blanket. You fall to your knees beside her, trembling. “Your name is… your name is Hayeon,” you whisper, like it’s the first truth you’ve spoken in months. “That’s what your father called you.”

And for the first time since she was born, you really see her. Your hands don’t shake this time when you touched her. You sob into her tiny shoulder, pressing your lips to her skin.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

The next morning, the sky is heavy with clouds, but no rain comes.

You sit on the step outside the cabin, Hayeon nestled in your lap. She babbles nonsense, pressing her palm to your chin and tugging at your collar like she owns you.

You let her.

“I didn’t know how to be your mom,” you say aloud, voice barely audible over the wind. “I didn’t know how to breathe without him. I didn’t know how to… look at you.” She doesn’t understand. Of course she doesn’t. But you say it anyway, because maybe you need to hear it.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, firmer this time. “For not being there. For looking away. You didn’t deserve that.”

You press your cheek to her temple. She laughs at nothing, and for a moment, your chest feels light. “You look just like him,” you whisper. “But I think your soul is yours.”

You started waking up with the will to do so.

“Hayeon, don’t go off too far,” you call, voice light but firm.

She doesn’t answer—at least not in words. Just a bright giggle, shrill and wild, carried on the wind. Her little boots slap against the dirt path as she chases a yellow butterfly between rows of sprouting greens. You see her leap over a patch of tomatoes, arms flailing, hair flying behind her like smoke in sunlight.

You watch her from the bench outside the cabin, your back resting against the worn wood. There’s a basin of laundry beside you, half-finished. The sun’s warm against your face. You let it linger.

You smile, quiet and soft, like it belongs to a version of you that’s finally starting to return.

He would’ve loved it here.

You think that more often these days. Not with the same ache. Not like a wound reopening. But like a truth. A gentle one. Beomgyu would’ve loved the garden coming to life, the way the wind combs through the trees, how the ocean hums just beyond the hills. He would’ve sat here beside you, probably building some dumb little scarecrow with Hayeon and naming it after something ridiculous.

He would’ve made her laugh until she hiccupped.

You imagine him crouched next to her, showing her how to water the seedlings without drowning them. Teaching her to whistle. Drawing shapes in the dirt just to see her copy them. You watch her fall onto her knees, gasping with laughter as the butterfly flutters out of reach. She claps her hands, delighted anyway. You feel your heart stretch with something like peace.

She’s safe. She’s growing. She’s happy.

You remember the first time she asked about him.

The stars are out tonight.

The sky’s painted in deep indigo, scattered with tiny, blinking lights. You’re sitting on the porch steps, your arms wrapped around Hayeon, who’s nestled against your side, thumb resting near her mouth the way she does when she’s tired but too curious to sleep. The wind is gentle, brushing through the trees, stirring the hem of your dress.

She’s quiet for a while. Just breathing, head resting on your shoulder, small chest rising and falling. You think she’s about to fall asleep.

Then softly, barely more than a murmur she says, “Mama… what was my dad like?”

The words land like a pebble in still water. Everything shifts. You don’t move at first. Your breath stills. It’s the question you’ve been waiting for. Slowly, you turn your head to look at her. Her eyes are open, wide and soft, glinting with the starlight.

You take a shaky breath.

“Your dad…” you begin, voice almost breaking. “He was kind. The kind of kind that made you feel safe just by being next to him.”

Hayeon listens silently, thumb dropping from her lips.

“He was funny, too. He used to make me laugh even when I didn’t want to. He’d do the dumbest impressions, or start dancing in the middle of nowhere, just to see me smile.” You close your eyes for a moment. You can see him again — arms flailing in the garden, lips pursed in mock seriousness, Hayeon’s laugh echoing over a memory that never got to exist.

“He was brave,” you whisper. “He stayed brave, even when the world was falling apart.”

A silence settles.

“Did he love me?” she asks.

You look at her fully now, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

“More than anything,” you say. “Even before you were born, he loved you. He wrote about you in his notebook. He dreamed about you. He… he wanted so badly to meet you.”

You feel tears rise, but you don’t let them fall. “He didn’t get to stay,” you say gently, “but he left everything he could so we could live. He gave me the strength to raise you. To keep going.”

Hayeon leans in closer, silent. Then, in the smallest voice, she whispers. “I miss him.”

You feel the bracelet around your wrist, worn smooth from time and touch. You don’t have a picture of him. No frame to hold against your chest, no smile captured in ink, but you have this.

And somehow, it’s enough.

You look at your daughter; her face lit by the amber dusk, eyes squinting as she plays in the tall grass, wind tugging at her hair. An image of him. The same jaw. The same shape of her hands. The same spark in her laugh when she runs.

She used to haunt you.

Now, she anchors you — pulls you back to earth when you wake up gasping, when you reach across the bed and feel only emptiness. She pulls you through the dark.

Someday, you’ll pass the bracelet on to her. So she’ll have a piece of him too. So she’ll know that he was real. That he loved so hard, it made life possible even after he was gone.

You're scared of forgetting him.

The sky looks softer now. The air is light. You close your eyes and breathe in deep.

Your voice shakes as you speak, “If you’re out there… are you out there?” You pause, tears catching on your lashes. “Just like you said you would be?”

Your fingers press gently to the bracelet, the metal warm against your skin. “I want you to know, we’re safe. Because of you.” You bite your lip. “Because you made it possible. It was all because of you.”

A long silence. A bird calls in the distance. Your daughter laughs again, far away. You smile, even as your voice breaks.

“I’ll see you again,” you whisper. “I can’t wait to see you again.”

The wind moves through the trees — soft, almost like a hand brushing your shoulder.

Almost like he heard you.

You'll be okay.

epilogue

The morning mist clings to the surface of the sea, curling around the shoreline like a secret not yet spoken. You wake to the sound of waves lapping against the dock but there’s something else, too. A low hum.

A boat.

Still half-asleep, you rise and step outside, the wood cool beneath your feet. The sky is pale, painted in hushed pastels. The sea stretches, but you spot it. Your breath catches.

There’s a figure on board.

He raises a hand, waving toward you with calm familiarity, as if he’s done it a thousand times before. There’s warmth in it.

Your lips curve into a wide smile. Your eyes burn.

The sea glitters between you, endless and wide.

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